#not like medicine stuff but existentialism.

[yyyyyyayy]

western philosophy is so constipated. bro chillax that some things in this world are unknowable. why must it be known?

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[this-is-a-name-dont-worry]

things that seemed reoccurring this update:

- Meat

- peas

- jelly

- Hibernation

- Eddie's absence

- Acting out a script (Sally mumbling asking if it's her cue and Howdy changing the script of the narrator in Homewarming storybook, characters general interactions with the narrator, different moments in the video, like the Sally and Frank ad break or the song a barely silent night, where the two literally fight over who get to sing, Sally mentions she wrote the lyrics, and Frank says she already has a song. yeah all of these are easy to see as meta goofs in the original material, but it's the fact there's so much of it this update) (of course all this wrap up with the end of the video where Eddie and Frank are obviously acting off script)

- Being alone (Eddie not having any news of anyone and not even seeing anyone outside (which is interesting as the story says that Sally was up in a tree near his home and saw him fret over having nothing to do), Wally saying it's so quiet during Homewarming and it's just he and Home for a while (potentially the show putting out a christmas special and then being on break? can a show do that?), and in the normal website material, the end of "An ode to hibernation", Frank saying "Where all that's left is me", the "me" being a "...me?")

- Welcome Home being used to sell stuff (cigarettes, medicine, eggnog, cereals, and the cookbook lists ingredients that are a specific brand)

(I'm putting under read more my rambling thoughts so you can just reblog the list without having to see them)

so I can't really make sense yet of all the food stuff. Maybe there are cultural elements/expressions I don't know that explains it? But I still find it very interesting how fucking unhinged that cookbook is yet the commercial and the website treat it normally. The cookbook is overall extremely interesting, because some of the recipes seem to actually be written by the characters; Barnaby who only presents you weird hot dog dressings with pictures but no recipe (and all jokes), Frank who lists not just the ingredients but also the material, and overexplain each steps (at least overexplain compared to the other recipes. it's actually interesting to know why you do x or y), and Julie who turns her recipe into a game at the end, and felt a bit harder to follow? anyway.

The cookbook, the Homewarming tradition of hanging a ham in the tree, Santy Claus being said sometimes instead of Santa, the ham for Santa? Once again, the christmas commercials being so casual about some of the weird stuff it says and presents? This almost feels like an alien who only has a blurry grasp of Christmas and what humans enjoy made the cookbook and the live commercial.

Sometimes, Welcome Home feels like it never actually aired and produced things, but we're making it retroactively exist. Something is making it exist. Like a retcon of the universe, "What do you mean you never heard of Welcome Home? No, of course it always existed and was very popular, look at all this old material we find!"

So maybe whatever is making it exist doesn't fully get humans and accidentally creates things that are weird to prove its existence. Like a cookbook that tells you a single pea in a buttered plate is a classic meal, or that of course you give Santa ham on Homewarming! (tbh almost getting an AI weirdness feel)

But in total contrary, in its story, Welcome Home also feels like it always existed, but got somehow completely wiped from people's mind, as something caused its sudden stop, and its characters gained consciousness of what they are and their world. As an existential dread fell on them one after the other, slowly realizing something isn't right. As Eddie felt anxiety and nervousness over no one being there or contacting him, to then having the story acts lightheartedly about it, the narrator saying things have been solved but he doesn't feel it, and suddenly Home is staring at him.

Both "It never existed but the universe is being retcon into it existing" and "it existed but something terrible happened that erased it from peoples mind" seem plausible. If two theories contradict each other, that means there's a third one that needs to be found.

Maybe it existed. Maybe it truly was popular, but something corrupted it, leading to its disappearance. A disappearance so big it stopped to exist. And now the thing that corrupted it is trying to crawl back, make it exist again, but it's making it come back completely off.

Anyway.

Also, I think the show may have been on hold during the Holiday season, "hibernating", and the character who got some self awareness realized that something was off. They're alone because there's nothing new, so no one is there bringing life to the neighborhood.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Herpes anon here, just following up.

Thank you for the response, and similarly thank you to your followers for theirs.

And thank you for making it clear that folks with illnesses shouldn't be treated like biohazards. That is absolutely what I believe, and I promise the internalized anxiety about infecting others is not a statement about other people's value as human beings. More a label for myself to keep myself extra cautious so I never make anyone else go through what I did. I've acquired a refillable 7-day antiviral course for outbreaks, and if it gets annoying enough or I find myself with a regular partner, I'll be talking to my doctor about getting a daily antiviral prescription. I'm also keeping a little tube of topical antiviral medicine in my pocket now. Abreva, as recommended.

I talked to the person who infected me and they are going to be a lot more careful going forward, using protection for oral sex and such. Very cool of them. They just genuinely didn't think occasionally getting cold sores was something that needed to be disclosed in general. I just wish that weren't the norm.

I regret to inform your kind follower who recommended avoiding touching the sores that basically the first thing I did during the initial outbreak, before I realized what was happening, was spread the infection around. So, uh, first hand advice from a newbie I guess: Don't touch your cold sores, and think real hard about orally servicing your dildos before fucking them.

My research suggests that, without a daily antiviral, oral herpes is statistically transmissible on any given day with about a 10% chance, even without visible sores. And please correct me if that's wrong. The person I got mine from had an outbreak the following day, so I basically had an unlucky dice roll.

I guess the thing that troubles me about the literature about the infection I find is this rhetoric about it being so common. I worry that might encourage a mentality like the stuff that was popping up around covid: “If practically everyone has it, who cares about protecting people from getting it.” I think the message is meant to make the infected feel less vile/deviant, but it also sounds a lot like it could make the infected more careless and callous, you know?

About my incredibly troubling sense of needing to have sex with people to keep them around, I promise this incident has very much cured me of that stupidity – existential crisis style. Shame it took this to do it but it could've been a whole lot worse.

Thanks again,

Trying To Manage It Without Shame

hi anon,

I'm glad you're in such a better place!

re: your concerns equating herpes with COVID-19, I guess I'd answer that the main difference is that herpes is a virus that has been with us since the early days of human evolution that is, in the grand scheme of things, virtually harmless, while COVID-19 is a very new outbreak with a tremendous global body count.

so there is a little bit of a difference there!

glad to hear you're embracing the herpes-status without shame!

[rennybu]

hi.... i'm just a poor boy . who does not know the loam lore. would you be willing to share.... a summary.... (so curious i am a loam enjoyer)

oh my gosh hi griff..! oh there is so much to tell... i will h ave no choice but to put this under a readmore. the shortest answer is that he is my character of 3+ years in @jawsandbones homebrew dnd campaign and he is like a son to me. but to start off with baby pictures:

LOAM was born 52 years ago in a city called TILDEN, which is blocked off overland by a CURSED* SWAMP that creeps closer every year.

*Misremembered and only Recently Re-Contextualized Major Historical event

His mom is a shy, worried, and loving woman named Bayla - she's a druid and sells medicinal mushrooms of all sorts. His dad is an unwaveringly positive (but incredibly serious) mason named Uttara who proudly works on all sorts of projects around the city, especially major infrastructure. Yay stoneworkers!

(Because fantasy lifespans are strange and somewhat silly to me I just imagine Firbolgs to be stuck in their mid-20s existential dread until they're like at least 150. The backstory part of this spans literally 51 of his 52 year s of life. he's so young)

He got equal enrichment from time spent in nature with his mom as from time spent in the city with his dad. His nickname in the Tilden Firbolg community To This Day is "Always With Questions" - a kind of affix to differentiate him from any other Loams. He may not know much but he really would like to find out, please!!!! He sees a lot of beauty in the natural world, but his idea of what's natural is skewed somewhat by the uh, Curse. He once fell through some algae into a deep body of water and had a very fun memento mori experience as a kiddo (beautiful golden sunbeam shining onto a silty skull)

He got the name Loam very young from his interest in both his parents' work, which lead to him learning about soil types and uses in gardening and construction aklfhglskg. Loam was important for both jobs so he (in guess-what-I-just-learned little kid fashion) told everyone who would listen about it. The association STUCK and he's Loam now :].

His birth name is actually Rahara! but that's secret knowledge only his bestest friends and Tzip and some scarycool important NPCs know.

He loves beasts and magic and plants so much. And on the flip side he also loves and is fascinated by architecture and engineering. He never got any like, higher academic schooling or whatever, but had many many different apprenticeship type training relationships from his parents, other tradespeople in the city, from the senior rangers etc etc.

Small break to plug @jawsandbones lore packets for the Quarter Cities (including Tilden), Scarabae, and the overall campaign setting!!!! I'm just gonna talk about stuff without adding too much context of my own because AAA WORD COUNT!!!

The hole in Loam's ear was brought about by a shit ass Tilden local trying to tear his earring off him, since he'd bought it from a foreign merchant from a city Tilden/the Quarter has historically warred with. Loam's always been open minded and deeply curious about other cities, due to how isolated the bog is. Any visiting merchants are sources of wonder!!!! Even though he only bought the one hoop earring from the Quietus merchants (Mirjam and Mihail, mother and son!), after the ice was broken he stayed by their stall the rest of the day and talked about all kinds of things, and befriended Mihail!

Loam trained as a ranger as soon as he was old enough to do so!!!! He saw it as the next logical step past what his parents would be able to show him and was incredibly eager to get hands-on experience in the wilds. He met his first ever boyfriend among his peers there!!! Bragi... he has had many lovers and situationships in Tilden since, BUT only recently feels comfortable trying monogamy again after meeting Tzipporah.

Bragi unfortunately died badly to a creature in a traumatic backstory incident that left young Loam super fucking bereft and hyper aware of how easy it is to die. (Big monster attack + group of trainee rangers accompanied by a few more senior rangers + chaos and bloodshed. Loam carried Bragi to safety and tried resuscitating him but he was already gone. The experience made him uncomfortable with the idea of being in a defined, monogamous intimate relationship for the next like. 19 years. He felt like he got ripped in half!)

After the ranger's guild recovers from THE CREATURE ATTACK, Loam meets his close friend, Reece, a fellow ranger and Kenku (she looks like a masked shrike)!!!

He gets his septum pierced by the same visiting merchants from Quietus a few years after Bragi's death. It's a very important moment for him, where it feels like he can finally start to let himself change and grow beyond that event. He also spends more and more time in the city, away from the more rural/overgrown districts, and chases a love for the arts and partying and people, where he meets Kallirhoe (human, not a even a classed bard but like. an indie musician. an eboy if high fantasy had eboys. a tattooed twinkish fellow. you know the type)! They are very good friends who also have sex. Many days spent waxing poetic about THE BIG WIDE WORLD and how they'll never get to see it. (Spoiler: He sees it)

Loam gets into tarot as a hobby, and makes his own deck in a very scribbly freehand style with ink and charcoal!!!! he's slowly replacing them with more Worldly artwork - the deck he left home with was very. Tildencore

Many good years of being a party girl who has to go work a construction job tomorrow and then go be a ranger at 6. A rich and storied life. AND THEN THE GAME TIMELINE STARTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A path Through the bog has recently finished being built by Dagda, the Southern representative to the other Quarter Cities, making more trade possible overland, and making local tensions go even crazier. Also there are strange Awful Huge Scary Monsters appearing WORLDWIDE, so the Directions and the Three Kings of Scarabae and the remote island of Geest (ADRA'S HOME!) and the mysterious magical Widow's Wood are all like "STOP WAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RN". Trials are held in the Western city of Dina to appoint FOUR TEAMS OF FOUR to help defend against the new threat. Loam is like. Well I've gotta fucking do that. I've got to try. If I'm not chosen, at least I've set foot outside. He has a fight with his mom about this, because she is terrified she will lose him, like she lost her mother in a previous conflict when Scarabae was occupying the Quarter, before Loam was born. He stands firm and his dad has his back, and ultimately he leaves with both their blessings, but his dismissal of his mom's feelings weighs heavy on him the longer he's away from home. (He has a big cry and reconciliation about this when he is next able to come home.)

I'm clapping and cheering and skipping joyfully because now he HAS MET HIS BESTEST, DEAREST, CLOSEST FRIENDS IN THE ENTIRE WORLD: ADRA ILSA AND TALEE!!!!!!! I have to be so careful now because we have no joke hundreds of pages of notes. I cannot read that shit on google docs mobile app. We are approaching session one hundred and fifty of this game. They love each other so fucking much. THEY ARE THE INFORMATION GATHERERS!!! A PARTY OF SLEUTHS!!!

He also has his meet-cute with Tzipporah at the trials, which in hindsight is hilarious, because of the whole, "Tzipporah was sent to the trials as a spy (by the very people responsible for the giant awful monster crisis) and immediately pegged Loam for an easy mark to get information from" thing. And he was 100% correct. But a lot has to happen before that gets revealed. They took a nice night walk and write each other big long letters. And Loam tells him soooooo much <3

At one point while exploring a wizard tower he attunes to a lightly cursed ring and forgets what his parents look like, like their likenesses are Gone from past and recent memory. Which is a big thorn of homesickness that he writes to them about. He has a big cry and stares at them both for a LONG time when he next sees them.

Also they save an orphaned Kenku from some bandits and now Loam has a little shoulder-sniper named Bubby. We have a son. A perfect little crow son who is really good at killing, with arrows. He hides things in Loam's hood regularly

Other major things include ummm umm Loam's TWO deaths, one during a dungeon-rescue type scenario in a room that was Flooding and full of Phantoms and also a charmed Druid (Feyan, good friends now) wildshaped into a big scary water snake. He was hurt bad and (comedically) levitated so he wouldn't DROWN but then got Phantom Speared right through the torso. Second one was because Tzip's evil half brother Vences was like, mad at him for being a good influence on Tzipporah and interfering with the spy duties. Chill touch so no healing + dagger in the ribs! Ow. Also the reveal that Tzip was a spy was happening like, simultaneously here so we were yowling and screaming. (Well. Talee and Co had their long time hunches about this. Loam and I had turned a beautiful blind eye to all suspicious activity)

ANYWAY HIS DEATH SCARS LOOK LIKE A COMET ABOVE HIS BELLY!!!! The spear scar made a patch of his fur turn white (front and back), and the dagger scar is its crude tail!

I am skipping over so many plot revelations i. This is just the Loam Cut. and it's not even all of it.

His buzzcut was for emotional superstitious reasons!!! He cut it after Death 2 and Tzipporah getting taken against his will back into Evil Gang. Loam's mom has a lock of his hair at home now. ALL THIS TO SAY TZIP IS OKAY, NO LONGER SPYING, WE RESCUED HIM AND RIPPED A MASK OFF HIM AND SAVED HIM FROM GETTING HIS MIND EXCAVATED ! SO LOAM IS GROWING HIS HAIR OUT AGAIN!

The deaths of his close friends and their allies have also been. insane for him to process. To return someone to life in this setting u need to like. entreat a Titan. plead on the deceased's behalf and offer something up for the chance to revive them. (NO player spells like revivify. house rule) So interacting with these entities he sees as like Both forces of the natural world AND of huge religious/cultural importance regionally. And to have their requests be HEARD? He loves magic he loves Titans. And the plot is unfolding in such a way that scares me so bad. He loves his titan (The Curious Spear) SOOOO MUCH he has like the foundational belief that it can see through his eyes. Even if not true it motivates him to always seek understanding of strange new things.

Oh my god I didn't even talk about his multiclass into druid. He's a druid also. Circle of the Stars!! As a navigational point. He loves them. He loves space. He loves geography and regional interpretations of constellations. He used to just do freehand observations but truly became dedicated to charting the skies of every place the party travels to, after Tzipporah gifted him a grid-lined journal <3 <3 <3 STARRY FORM!!!!!!

His awe and inspiration and hunger for knowledge is the well he draws magical power from. My Boy is thematically bound up in the soggiest parts of this earth and also the unknowably distant stars above and I'm normal about it (lie) (There is a new and scary Third Thing rising which is the space between. I <3 Void). I know i draw him beige and green but his like, character colour theme is. Dusk to me. Gloaming. When the world is lit like a dream <3

In summary. In conclusion. He and Adra and Ilsa and Talee (and the rest of the Four of Four) are trying to prevent Global Disaster of an existential scale never before seen and are being very brave about it.

Loam wants to understand everything about Everything. Because understanding is love. Unfortunately there are hostile resentful and vengeful forces making this hard to do. Most recently by saving a city we Unmade a magically sustained centuries-old library. And we haven't had time to like fully let that sink in. Because of the horrors of war and being Four of Four means responding to emergencies and protecting cities as best we can against a foe that was forgotten by history until like, 10 months ago. Less, even. I hope this is anything. I hope u are his friend now too because he is yours

good lord how could i forget. His gender is male in such a way that he does not give a shit about it. He's one of the girls. He's genderless. Like a knight. His sense of identity is built on Living Laughing and Loving.

his personal goals are 1. to uncurse the bog in such a way that the wrongs committed by Tilden historically are brought to light and righted, 2. to get super married to Tzipporah and build a house together, and 3. to somehow, eventually, through great teamwork and effort, cure(?) the dreadful lingering soul plague on the island of demeter. HUMBLE! OH and to make a finished star chart covering the entire planet. humble.

thank u for reading here are his current stats

[themetalvirus]

i wish i had more of a handle on knuckles i wanna do serious character analysis on knuckles.

easily embarrassed. easily angered. full of love. trusted too easily and now doesn't trust anyone (except for like 6 people). poor guy's first friend was eggman and like it or not it informs a lot of who he is today and how he interacts with people. super awkward from being isolated for so long (knuckles and silver solidarity). obviously cares deeply about his land and culture, loves it and mourns for it in equal measure every day. protects his true friends and is always there if you truly need him, despite his insincere grumblings. scared of company, grateful for company, longs for company.

great forager and gardener. bad with technology, overstimulated by bright lights and a lot of noise, is generally a guy who Wants To Go Home (his autism....). uncomfortable in positions of authority (The War) but still likes to Have A Say. does not tolerate nonsense unless he's in on the nonsense (sonic and him shoot each other out of cannons for fun i think). skilled weaver, skilled at making jewelry, skilled with survival, awkward around chao but is still very very good with them because he's lived with them his whole life.

adventurous, though not great at adapting to new situations (the autism). likes exploring / learning about other ancient cultures, languages, and peoples. curious about the nature of the world (where the master emerald came from, general existential stuff). likes a challenge. shows affection via mutual snark and/or deep talk about the universe. doesn't know much about planes but likes listening to tails talk about them.

is so hard on himself that he seriously contemplates ending his own life if he feels like he has failed his duties. feels like he exists for one purpose, despite his value to the world being much more than that. fears leaving his post because of multiple terrible experiences around leaving the master emerald unguarded, making him paranoid and wary, but his initially justified fear ends up isolating him and stunting him further. good thing his friends are so insistent on visiting and getting him out to see the world - he needs that.

again, is always there when you really need him. isn't good at emotional stuff but is a great shoulder to cry on nonetheless. heart achingly honest and genuine. will say what he thinks. doesn't pick up on social cues very well (autism). doesn't like admitting when HE needs a shoulder to cry on, but his loving friends are there for him even if he doesn't say anything - they know him well.

pushes people away to make himself feel safe and protect his squishy center - some of his best friends annoy the shit out of him because they insisted on being best friends with him anyway. great company once you get to know him. makes people laugh - time spent with sonic has honed his sense of humor.

precise, steady hands. great spatial awareness and reasoning. knowledgable about traditional medicine. is very clean and smells good. punches real good. good at conserving ancient artifacts and ruins - cleaning them, protecting them, maybe even retouching them or making some of his own.

he's so scared of being wronged. he longs for company. he's lonely. he's hard on himself. he's so full of love. he looks amazing in hats. and his song lied he DEFINITELY chuckles

[ferventfox]

Saw the Barbie movie and enjoyed it a lot. 

Some people on the internet have charged it with being misandrist/man-hating/whatever word you want to use for it, and those people...are kind of correct. Sorry. (Spoilers for the Barbie movie btw)

The standard smug response is “omg sexist dudebros can’t stand that a movie is about women and they are too toxic to understand the message of the film and how it deals with the fact that patriarchy hurts men too.” And sure, it’s made explicit that being in charge and having the material trappings of patriarchal power does not make Ken happy on an existential level (because his real dream in life is to be a horse girl), but it’s not enough to cancel out that every single man in the film is portrayed as an incompetent moron. Stuff like “Men love explaining the Godfather and think playing the guitar is interesting and impressive to women” doesn’t bother me--these are jokes in a comedy film and the characters doing them are doll people who live on a plastic beach. But it’s not just the Kens that are stupid, the men from the real world are all stupid too. The husband of the America Ferrera character is essentially a real world Ken--there just to be there and someone neither the audience or the women in his life spare much of a thought for unless we are laughing at how ridiculous his existence is. The Barbie movie is only “not sexist” in that it’s not as bad as you might expect because the bar for these sorts of thing is so low it’s on the ground.

The messaging around the whole Ken takeover is extremely weird and confusing. As Ken observes, the real world is opposite from life in Barbieland; in Barbieland the Barbies are the patriarchs who occupy all the positions of power and Kens are the “women” in that they are second-class citizens whose lives and identities revolve around the Barbies because they’re not permitted to do anything fulfilling or interesting on their own. But when Ken turns Barbieland into Kendom, the plot seems to run on the assumption that the audience’s sympathies would naturally be with the Barbies fighting to restore the status quo and not with the Kens, who were an underclass until about a day ago. Yes the society they set up is bad--it’s just the reverse of the unfair system that existed before--but there is very little sense that the Barbies are getting a taste of their own medicine and instead the narrative is that it’s tragic that these strong women who have won Nobel prizes have to be nice and pay attention to the obviously stupid and boring Kens for even a day. The main character expresses that she feels bad for treating Ken poorly and this is shut down by another character (meant to be a real human woman from the real world) who basically says she shouldn’t feel bad because Ken stole her house and “brainwashed” her friends but isn’t it just one of the struggles of womanhood that we feel bad about how we treat shitty men~ . 

Like, what? All the Kens were homeless before this! I liked the Barbie character and all, but obviously I’m going to feel more sympathy for the person whose example of how the real world made him feel like someone is that a woman found his existence worthwhile enough to ask him for the time than for someone whose arc is dealing with her life being less than perfect for the first time.The former is both very sad and just more like a real experience that most people would have--a lifelong sense of inadequacy rather than having an idyllic existence that went suddenly wrong--yet it’s Barbie who is framed as the relatable one because, I suppose, she is a woman.  

I think the movie relies a little too much on this “sisterhood” idea that I’ve always hated. I’m sure I’m meant to be nodding my head at the little speech about the contradictory expectations placed on women and going “yes that’s just what it’s like!”...but I simply didn’t relate to it at all and was left thinking it was sort of a weak, lazy solution to a conflict that was already a bit contrived to begin with. That Barbies would be just as susceptible to rhetoric from some college freshman’s B+ women’s study’s paper as they were to instantly adopting patriarchal ideas actually makes sense, but I don’t think that’s the joke--we’re meant to find it profound. (The human characters in general are the weakest part of the movie. It feels almost like they are remnant of an earlier version of the story that got changed a lot, especially the Mattel executives). 

At the end there is some lip service to things not just going back to the way they were, but a Ken cannot have a seat on the supreme court. The point of this, I think, is supposed to be that just like a company releasing toy that is a woman president isn’t going to solve gender inequality, neither is this one event going to immediately change Barbieland into an egalitarian utopia; real equality is hard to to achieve and is a slow process of incremental changes. This is good, but it’s undercut by the movie wanting to have it’s cake and eat it too by having all these girlboss scenes where the Barbies are taking back Barbieland and are clearly better and smarter than the Kens. We’re meant to see them talk about “keeping Barbieland Barbieland” and getting to reinstate “their” constitution (that 0 Kens get to vote on) and feel...good? Inspired? 

I couldn't help but feel dissatisfied with how this plotline ended because the situation looks sort of grim.The only Barbie who is ever shown to have any empathy for a Ken leaves, and the Ken with the most personal development gives up leading anyone because it’s not his thing and cedes his leadership position to a Ken who doesn’t have the motivation not to build his life around Barbie that he does. I think I would’ve liked it more if Ken also left Barbieland. He had an existential crisis too;  he was also effected enough by his experience that he was capable of tears. If Stereotypical Barbie doesn’t feel like Barbie anymore, does Stereotypical Ken really feel like Ken? After having to completely redefine his entire reason for existing?  As it is, it almost feels like the film is saying that Ken is too simple to be irrevocably changed by what he’s been through, like only Barbie’s feelings are deep and meaningful. I just wanted a post-credits scene where he runs a horse ranch with Allan or something. 

[cigarette-room]

since you are a med student(if i remenber correctly) what is your favourite part of it?

Oh my god, everything. Genuinely. I have grown to like this so much.

Ok so for a little background, I study in the Balkans, and the regime of medical studies there is you go to a highschool, any highschool, then you apply for uni and you go to a uni 6 years pass all relevant exams then a license exam and you're a doctor. Which is relevant because first 3 of those 6 years are academic years (theoretical exams, not any touch with the patient) and the last 3 are pent on clinical subjects, rotating on internal medicine and surgery and neurology and psychiatry and dermatology and forensic medicine and ophthalmology and radiology and *lists 300 other things*

So the first 3 years I couldn't wait for it to be over. Genuinely. I wanted to do real medicine stuff and COVID was in full swing and it all was so goddamn hard! But now I'm on year 5 and I love this all so much you have no idea

Now I love everything. I love when I anseer a professor's question correctly. I love when we smile and a patient smiles back, I love when we look at scans and notice the right thing in the right moment, I love wearing scrubs. I love the sweet old women and funny old men who are always the most eager to let you do a check-up because you kids have to learn from somewhere. I love when I pass an exam barely enough that I go phew, I almost failed that but one less! We pushed through! I loved rotating bones in my arms. I loved touching a human heart, a human brain, and then having an existential crisis later. I loved when the first autopsy I did I went back home and cried because I was so overwhelmed with the notion that this grandma was a human with so many stories to tell and I felt so grateful to her, in a way, and to the 9 people who donated their remains so we could have learned on them years earlier. I love psychiatry, a lot, and I loved attending additional classes that I didn't have to attend just for the nicest professor in the world to discuss with us how it is to work in prison. I love the pauses for coffee with my colleagues. And the first time we were carrying newborn little baby up to the neonatology department and spent an hour watching the nurses make little bundles off of them and how 15 of them in two rows were all sleeping at the same time (can u believe. Crazy I know). I loved when we spent hours in the basements of the big clinical centres in the rain just listening to our professor explain radiology to us. And when I held a dying patient's hand while we did a last check-up and the doctor then led us all into a room and held the most tearful, most important, lesson on end-of-life care. I loved every time we went into an operating room. And I loved every little encouragement I got from doctors and nurses and fellow students around me.

Long answer, I'm so sorry 😭❤️ there's too much things I wanted to say

[songoftrillium]

1, 7, 15, 20? :3

1. How are you feeling right now?

A mix of things. I'm planning a camping trip for the first week of November to celebrate the book launch, and its been really fun putting together stuff. I've been the usual blend of anxious handling fine details on the book, but still happy to be working on it. Definitely looking forward to it being finished!

7. What's something you love about yourself?

I think I have pretty eyes.

15. Do you have any piercings/would you want to?

Yep, I have/have had a couple of piercings. Both of my lobes, of course. I also have a single helix piercing. I used to have a labret piercing, but I get MRIs often enough that I can't keep it open long enough to heal, so I let it close up. I used to have a junk piercing before GRS, and I kind of want to do it again. The quiz doesn't mention tattoos, so I'll volunteer that I also have some stick-and-poke tattoos. I want more.

20. Do you believe in luck?

I don't. At least not in the sense of predetermination. Statistical luck where an outcome is positive and random? Yeah, a person can definitely be lucky. When you drive on a highway, you shouldn't respond to the car in front of you as much as you pay attention to the vehicle that's 3 cars ahead of you so you can anticipate the car's actions right in front of you.

I take that same approach to living, at least as best I can. I think a significant component of luck lies in recognizing circumstances that can fall wildly out of control as much as in identifying and seizing the opportunities life offers. A person can also get 'stuck,' where they can no longer help themselves out of a situation, which on the outside also looks like bad luck. Still, I think it also lies in recognizing those existential one-way roads out there and learning what a bad scene looks and feels like.

Funny enough, I think that ties into spiritualism, too. It is like the main symptoms of things like 'a demon has come into your life when your bread no longer rises.' It sounds a little silly on the surface, but consider it was made for people who make bread by hand daily, using muscle memory that requires very little thought. If you consider what a 'demon' means in folk legend, at its core, it represents danger and how to recognize when to avoid and when to partner with a particular demon. Things like 'don't sing in the woods at night' (a highwayman may hear you and come rob you) and 'making a flower crown and floating it down a stream to find a husband' (the flowers are themselves medicines and reflect one's ability to navigate the woods and find medicine), et al. are all indicative of not just a supernatural element but real-world practicality as well. If something in your life is so disruptive that your daily routine is suddenly no longer working (your bread won't rise,) it means something is possessing your intention, and you need to start looking around for problems.

In short, I think we make our own luck (or lack thereof.)

I'm answering random questions! Askbox is open!

[chaxiu]

a list of further possibilities

pairing: hanamaki takahiro x fem! reader

summary: it’s hard to understand what it really feels like to want something. hanamaki is trying very hard to remember. only very loosely inspired by chen chen’s poem “when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities.”

notes: this is just a little piece with literally no plot and no overarching anything. spoilers for the post-timeskip professions of the seijoh four. allusions to depression and depressive modes; deals heavily with themes of mental health. mostly a character study instead of anything else – aka me projecting my constant existential crisis onto makki so,,, sorry about that <3 love you all! get some rest.

____

Depending on how he cares to tell the story, Hanamaki supposes it could all begin in high school, with the stupid career sheet his third-year teacher had slammed a stack of onto his desk (okay, really just placed, but in hindsight, she might as well have slammed it down hard enough to crack the desk, for all the good it did him.) He’d blinked at it, then at her. Matsukawa, behind him, had poked him, hard.

“Take one, pass it back,” he’d hissed. “Dude, I know you’re like, academically challenged, but this stuff should be easy.”

Hanamaki had flicked a bit of eraser shaving at him, pinging him square in the forehead. “Shut up,” he’d said. “I’m tired. Brain’s not functioning at one hundred percent today.”

“When does it ever,” Mattsun had grumbled, rubbing at the spot on his forehead where it’d hit.

Makki had scowled at him, but turned around to face forward, turning his attention to the sheet of paper. Name, date, class, he had filled out easily. chewing on the tip of his pen out of habit (one his mother was constantly after him to stop.)

Post-graduation plans:

He’d paused, biting down on his pen, hard. 

Post-graduation plans. The phrase had made him think of Oikawa, tossing his head back with an air of practiced confidence. (Argentina, he’d told them, and only years of experience let Makki see the fear tensed in the edges of his jaw.

To play volleyball, he’d added, like it was something that needed to be explained.)

It made him think of Iwaizumi, steady shoulders and even gaze, always looking forward to the horizon. (Irvine, he’d said. California. To study sports medicine. There had been a weight on his shoulders but he'd carried it steadily. Something always there, something always on the cusp of becoming.)

These days, it even made him think of Matsukawa, who hadn’t said anything tangible about his college plans but whose backpack Makki had spotted with college brochures sticking out of it, some as far away as Tokyo.

Post-graduation plans. He had rolled the words around in his mouth. They didn’t taste like much.

He turned in the sheet blank, slipping it under Mattsun’s before depositing both in their teacher’s hands. There would be time, in the future, he’d decided, to figure it all out. 

And then, and then, and then. And then his last volleyball match, and then his last bowl of post-match ramen. And then his last practice, and then his last walk home from the gym, pausing at the same bend in the road they always did, before Makki went one way and Mattsun went another.

Things felt a lot closer, suddenly. He’d shoved that feeling back down his throat, into his chest. Mattsun didn’t seem to notice, tilting his head back to look at the night sky above. “Big moon, tonight,” he’d commented absently, and Makki had forced himself to nod along.

Mattsun had raised his eyebrows. “See, that’s how I know things are bad, because that was a perfect setup for a stupid joke.”

Despite himself, Makki had laughed.

“There you go,” Mattsun had said. Dropped a hand to his shoulder, squeezed a little too hard. Makki hadn’t minded. The pressure of it all was a comfort. “Chin up, yeah? It’ll be okay.”

Makki wonders about that, as he sets the cardboard box filled with his desk belongings (such a cliche, down to the tape at the seams of the box, peeling in a way that makes him worried about the bottom dropping out from underneath) at the entry to his shitty little apartment. “Tadaima,” he breathes out, mostly out of habit. 

A walk would probably do him good, he thinks, even as he toes his shoes off, sinks to the floor by the kotatsu. Clear the mind. Get some exercise in.

It sounds like something Iwaizumi would say, all gruff voice and rough hands even as he was at the peak of his mother-henning. The thought of it makes him smile, a little. He lets his head fall back. Stares at the ceiling.

Maybe it had been his own fault. His supervisor had given him a vaguely conciliatory smile as he’d delivered the news. “Hanamaki-san,” he’d said, as the two of them were sitting in his little office, the one without any windows that felt vaguely like it had been a closet in a past life, “thank you for your service to this company.”

Makki had nodded, in a vaguely distant way. The other man had frowned, leaned in closer. 

“Hanamaki-san, please don’t take this advice the wrong way. Your performance was always adequate. But out of everyone in this office, you out of everyone seemed as though you didn’t want the work as much.”

There had been a loose thread on the sleeve of Hanamaki’s white button-down. He’d picked at it absently. His nails had been too short to do any real damage.

“I think it might be beneficial if you took the time to ask yourself what it is you really want.”

Hanamaki had bowed slightly in his chair. At that moment, all he’d really wanted was a window. To be able to see the sky.

His phone beeps. Mattsun, probably. On lunch break from his job at the funeral home. It wasn’t a job he’d ever envisioned for Mattsun, back in high school, but it made sense. Mattsun with his steady hands and his wry voice and his dependable heart. Mattsun who might not have fallen into something as easily as breathing but who had found a road and walked along it, steadfast.

Hanamaki wonders about that, at times.

It’s not even that he’s terribly disappointed about losing the job. Or even particularly surprised. His supervisor had made some good points, to be honest. It’s that he wishes he could be �� more, at times. A little more than what he is now.

Maybe he could start a new career, he thinks absently. Maybe he could start all over, in an entirely different field. Except he doesn’t really have any marketable skills. Or passions. Or anything, really. Maybe he could sell all his earthly belongings, move to the mountains, and become a monk in a Buddhist temple somewhere. Except he doesn’t really have the temperament for a monk (he still gets angry when his Youtube videos take more than five seconds to load) and besides, he’s a little too attached to his hair to really commit to shaving it all off.

Maybe – well. Maybe what, then?

If he squints hard enough, he can see a faint spiderwebbing of cracks on the ceiling, in the corner. Maybe it’ll all come crashing down someday, a veritable rainstorm of plaster and wood and whatever the hell else his ceiling is made of. Maybe he’ll even be there to see it.

________

The thing is this: Makki knows enough about himself to know that he gets in his own head, sometimes. That there are days and weeks when he’ll cut off contact with his friends and family, shut down a little. Spend hours in bed, laying on his side, staring at the drawn curtains. It’s not comfortable, or peaceful, or good. But sometimes it’s all he’s able to do. 

On the third day of what he calls his “vegetative phase,” there’s a knock at the door. It sounds three times, then stops. “Makki,” a voice says.

He knows the voice. It’s you. Of course it is. His phone, if he could check it – if it wasn’t dead – if his charger wasn’t God knows where – if he even had the energy to plug it in – probably has dozens of missed texts and calls from you alone.

“Makki, I’m coming in,” you say, and then the door to your bedroom is swinging open and you’re there. He blinks over at you.

“Makki,” you say, again. The tone of your voice is unbearably fond.

He says your name back. It’s been a while since he used his voice. The sound is croaky, hoarse, almost foreign. You smile at him like he’s given you the sun.

“I come bearing food,” you say, hefting a takeout bag in your hand. “As payment for entry. You should really move your spare key, by the way. Under the mat is like, the number one spot that people would check.”

A pause. His brain is working slowly, today. Even slower than normal, he hears Mattsun saying, a smile curved at the edges of his voice. 

“Well,” he says, finally. “If you brought food.”

You smile at him and start pulling boxes out, setting them up on the bed heedless of any possible spillage. It’s nice, the way you navigate around him easily. It’s nice. You’re nice.

“You know, I saw a turtle that looked exactly like you the other day,” you tell him, pausing in your preparations to pull out your phone to show him a photo of a turtle sporting an unamused expression, looking like he could rock the haircut Makki had had in high school. “I was tempted to get him, to give to you. I think you could’ve been a phenomenal duo.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“You could’ve been a comedy act, maybe. Ventriloquism, or something. Or maybe even just a singing duo. Or you could’ve had some sort of telepathic act where you both point to the same card at the same time. Although I suppose the turtle would move much slower than you, so that might be difficult to coordinate…”

You keep talking, even as you draw the curtains open. Outside, the sun is setting. The light is soft. It illuminates you so well. Not that there’s really any lighting that Makki thinks you look bad in, but, well. The sound of your voice is soothing. Makki lets himself fall into it, even as he stretches, long and slow. The pull feels good to his stiff muscles.

“Eat, Makki,” you urge, and he does. Slowly, at first, and then a little faster once he realizes how hungry he is. You hum happily, chewing a bite.

“Want to watch a movie after?” you ask, and he swallows his bite of food. Nods.

“Yeah – just let me. Uh. Shower, first,” he says, aware for the first time in a while of how greasy his hair must be. You just nod, simple and easy.

He stumbles into the shower with his stomach almost uncomfortably full, letting the warm water fall over his body. It’s good. Pleasant. It feels good to do something that makes him feel like a person again.

When he exits the shower, you’re sitting on his couch as if it’s the most natural thing. There’s already one of his shitty alien films on the TV – the kind with a stupid amount of gore – waiting for him to press play. He makes sure to leave a full cushion of couch space between the two of you when he sits down, but you make an impatient noise. “Makki.” 

Then he’s being tugged into your space, head in your lap, and your hands are moving through his still-damp hair, moving carefully. As if he’s something precious. He watches the movie in silence with you.

“Makki,” you say against the backdrop of the sound of blood spattering everywhere, “do you want to talk about it?”

He does. He doesn’t. He wants to scream. He wants to fold into himself and fall into the sky, fall into something. There is a hole in the back of his throat, an empty space carved hollow. He thinks every part of him has been built around that absence. That he was made to be a lack of something. He wants desperately to want, to know what it’s like to hold an empty space in your hands and understand what it could be to put something there, instead.

You’re cupping his face in his hands, and distantly, he realizes that he’s shaking. “Hey,” you say, so soft, impossibly soft. “I’m here.”

He turns towards the softness of you, tucking his face into your stomach, feeling the faint rise and fall of the pattern of your breathing. 

“I wish,” he says into the fabric of your shirt, “I wasn’t so hollow.”

You don’t say anything to that, just hug him a little tighter, press him a little closer. It helps, a little. He doesn’t feel so much like pieces that could fly apart at any minute. Your hand is warm in his.

“I’ll be here,” you say finally, “until you realize you aren’t.”

“It might take a while.”

“We have so much time.”

Your voice is warm. Your hand is in his hair. “And after, too?” he lets himself ask. He lets himself hope.

Your thumb smooths out the space between his brow, where he hadn’t even realized a wrinkle had formed. Under your touch, it softens, a little. The knot inside his chest sighs. It hasn't untangled itself, not yet, but it's a whisper of a start.

“And after, too.”

[toinfinitywinning]

What you see & hear- or even if you can. Just a cover.

Open it? There’s no tellin’ the worm. But you bought the ticket. It’s your Day 1.

They’re gonna try to break you.

Yk every Day I wake up. And I’m scared of it. Don’t want to. And not b/c im warm in my bed snuggling w/ my feather duvet and rain, with the weight of a horse on my legs play pretending he’s a 3 lb Show shhnowzaa but b/c I’ve already, already lived it. And having been in a constant State of fight or flight, normal or abnormal, sometimes u can’t tell —I still feel bad. W/e differentiation you had to separate the two both ended up at the North Pole but you’ve at least got Santa.

So this means I’m confused all Day but I still want some of Michael’s Secret Stuff Gatorade (haterade) from “welcome to the space jam—alright.” 🎵. To get me through. A safe energy drink. And your body doesn’t ☊ anymore so the more you talk to yourself the saner. It’s just I’ve never had to fake I’m physically okay to be present so much. Physical sickness affects ur mind Health and if you already struggle w/ that my condolences b/c your leg hurts too.

It’s a nightmare never 1-upping to a dream of being without. Then some days it’s will hear a song or remember a Good time or just Start crying-faucet not included. No acute-reason onset. (We gotta find another word for trigger no joke). I only subconsciously wonder will today be better…Will I get better? And I don’t know why I continue to continue being somewhere inbtw positive and negative. All the sudden my mind is taxed and so are your paychecks and I’ve been up for 15 minutes not even thinking I was thinking b/c Truth is, when something becomes your reality for such a Long time, everything just runs together. You’re afraid to feel anything yet know if you don’t it’s not just your body ready to atrophy. Not Good. And it’s a sneaky lil’ mf.

I can’t Imagine the omnipresent (best word for constant I got) Pain people feel having been with Illness their whole lives. How differently their world is shaped. Pain, prolonged cynicism, Illness prolonged, disability prolonged, w/e u used to think about things is gone unless you’re born one of these ways. Now to be clear I was born this Way but not THIS Way don’t get it twisted. Some days I wonder what it would be like to swap around. W/e it is—This presence does not belong to God— but maybe its mere existence really does b/c we won’t have anyone to thank if things get better? And there’s no joy in the things we’ve hoped for and overcome? And everything always has an End result of some kind…Right? If that’s my endgame I can only look at some things very matter of fact-ly. But. Here we are. Pending. Loading. Accept All Cookies. Your Health for potential healing is At the mercy of literally a button click away from quality or lifesaving or changing Medicine or therapy. CAN YOU AFFORD TO STAY ALIVE? Be fired? Bankrupt-ed? Evicted? No college, no trade School, but you work ur butt off to provide but you’re still paid $7.25/hr as I was as head intramural supervisor at Georgetown College. 15 years ago. Not just that, exist, like eating, clothes to wear, some sort of roof. So you’re choosing between crappy and crappier. Literally no difference. How in the is someone even going to try to stay healthy?!

Thankfully I don’t have to worry as much about the material, which, its Stress alone induces more trauma and Anxiety, but I’d bet how we feel physically isn’t too different. All the sudden again in the subconscious where I am all the time I’m figuring and not truly present you really think existentially like how in not God’s name clearly did I get here? I fixed everything. But Life isn’t played by a claw that has never won anybody a teddy bear. I wouldn’t pin karma to me in itself but it sure makes you think.

None of this is about to make sense but it’s where my mind took me.

Think about what was happening in your Life before things changed. Before literally waking up one Morning and knowing that very second things had to change or I was headed toward death a lot faster than I thought until that God moment. I don’t have many of them that are that dramatic but nothing was clearer to me in that moment. And then that Damn bat and conspiracy crap of government population control. If anthrax was sprinkled in Amazon boxes we’d be extinct. But Pretty sure we know how to get rid of people without breaking a beaker or test tube and then turning on a fan just gifting particles. And Unraveling ALL of the many ways of healing I’d finally lived into. I was so close. To every Fk up id invited. And so asking why anymore seems vacant. Echoing. And my ears hurt. ATP I’m More so saying well, I’m not sure that strategy is going to work anymore. Where’s the ღ in Health. It’s lost it. How much are you worth? No, like write down a monetary number on a piece of paper, fold it and slide it across the desk. Insurance companies be like: I see your offer and I’ll raise your offer: have you tried dying yet? B/c you could save a lot of money that way. The money it will take to bury you might even be more deadly.

So The most defeating part is beginning the Day as it ends. When I think about that it’s just like how did I get here? I’m still stubborn about it but maybe regardless of w/e someone accomplishes there’s the reality you’re still living in an imperfect world where you can only control so many things. Even if u gain that control back all those traps R still available. So you can Imagine my surprise when there’s not enough OCD to Go around to control THIS. regardless of what we can have control over, do that, b/c the smaller victories become magnified and walking to the kitchen to take your Meds that may or may not be helping is like an 8-ball w/ only 8 options. Eenie meenie miney. Mo.

I don’t set out to cry or tear up in the videos I share. I’ve always been a cryer. I’ve been told I feel things more intensely so it hits different, does different. The direct quote will remain anonymous but the sentimental pack rat in me wrote it down ASAP. Like, a handwritten letter. You took TIME for me. The quote—It was several years ago and I almost can’t stand it b/c it’s me in whatever kind of Shell is available at the time.

[“people perceive me as an individual who has the kindest of all hearts, but who struggles with the realities of life given that kindness…Like how the tenderhearted feel the pains of the earth more intensely.”]

It’s so true. But if I can’t be real what Good’s that gonna do? For me it further affirms what I already am living. In Edgar’s scary A** pit or with the company of not one canary in the coal mine.

C’ya in the AM. 🫡

[tratserenoyreve]

been a bit of me watching general world news stuff and feeling deep existential exhaustion but it has also been a bit since ive rambled about genshin game quest stuff so im going to do that real quick

with the parade of providence quest i am a bit sad that these elements won't be made as kaveh's character quest, but it was fun seeing faruzan and layla etc all get to play to their strengths. but, this is one of those events that is written assuming players have done all of the side quests and character hangouts so things like faruzan's situation and layla's alter being very familiar with the traveler can feel abrupt.

i enjoyed both faruzan and layla's quests, but with how new they are it feels odd to treat them as like. common knowledge? layla's in particular since her "sleepwalking" alter is a whole mystery you unravel.

i did enjoy the background bit of wanderer just. drinking coffee while everyone went at it for the contest. also the bit where he just showed up like a goddamn typhoon and beat the hell out of people for causing trouble with zero proclamation or explanation as to 1) who he is 2) why he was beating them up. even when working for nahida he's got a mean streak.

kaveh having a fairly normal but still tragic backstory combined with his very emotional and caring nature was neat to see play out, his unintentional self-sabotaging choices because he wants to do good by others even if it means he loses out. i also like how they express kaveh and alhaithem's dysfunction and poor communication. when alhaithem is trying to genuinely congratulate kaveh for doing the right thing, kaveh is so used to alhaithem talking down to him that he assumes alhaithem is being condescending and tells him he doesn't want to hear it. the schism between them is going to be difficult for alhaithem to mend, kaveh went into the competition ready and desperate to move out because he believes alhaithem will kick him to the curb.

even if alhaithem only shuts kaveh down because he's worried about his altruism getting further out of hand, he's so bad at expressing it in a way that kaveh will actually accept that it only pushes him to frustrated outbursts. kaveh even has a profile dialogue that's to the effect of, "alhaithem knows how to be polite to people, he just chooses not to be." for someone who is such a stickler about linguistics and information, alhaithem keeps making things harder than they need to be.

speaking of altruism: baizhu's story quest! i really liked it. i appreciate how his character retains some darker angles while emphasizing that he is a doctor because he genuinely wants to help people. changsheng only made a deal with him because he is "pure of heart" but that doesn't mean he won't use methods others find scary or unsettling to accomplish his goals. poisons can be medicine depending on what you need to do.

having xiao present, secretly following to ensure the traveler's safety in case the doctor awakens something he shouldn't, and showing hu tao heavily disagreeing with baizhu gets the point across pretty well that, even if baizhu has good intentions, the path he walks is one that seeks to defy the natural laws of death.

even if baizhu does one day succeed in being immortal, achieves his dream of being able to take all ills of the world upon himself, we know from other immortals in teyvat that that immortality can itself be dangerous. baizhu would still be subject to erosion or the corrosive rot of all the illnesses he takes upon himself through changsheng. there's no guarantee that he'd be able to withstand it forever, xiao himself is wracked with karmic debt from trying to contain the miasma that plagued liyue and we see that having a toll on his mind and body.

but, baizhu wants to do this regardless, buy people the time they need to live their lives even though this is already destroying his own body. him referencing how he'll "seek the guidance of the moon", while poetic, carries a worrisome undertone. there is an old legend about how a rabbit on the moon with a mortar and pestle would craft the elixir of immortality for the gods, but in teyvat imagery of the moon is regularly associated with the abyss and destruction...

[livlaurren]

Hey, Hello, Hiya

Allo allo, my sweets! It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Liv, a 30-year-old psychology student smack bang in the middle of my degree. But more than that, I am a deep thinker, an emotional jellybean, an imperfect human mess, an imaginative and passionate girl trying - like everyone - to figure all of this shit out.

I have overcome many mental health struggles throughout my life. At different moments, I have been diagnosed (and misdiagnosed) with depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, BPD, and C-PTSD to find that my struggles are what make me human. Although I am no longer considered 'unwell', I do still have occasional battles with mild OCD, anxiety, and - the cherry on top - existential dread. I have taken medicines, been hospitalised, practised meditation, committed to therapy, filled out worksheets, and finally found refuge within myself. My trauma does not define me, but my trauma has led to the identification of my true strengths. It has led me to my broadened perspectives, allowed my softening vulnerability, and brought me a willingness to continue growing. To somehow survive and live among life's indecisive grey shadows.

Much of my current perspective grounds itself within existential, gestalt, and person-centred theories. The constants for me are life, death, and anxiety. Our unique expansion and growth lie within learning to accept these often overwhelming concepts and simultaneously learning to accept that we may never fully accept or understand them -- living among the black, the white, and the grey.

Don't worry, though; I am not a pessimist! I am, by nature, a kooky lil nihilistic optimist. I believe in people's innate goodness and finding joy by choosing our own meaning of life.

My aim here is to gather a positive mental health community and create a space to explore life, death, anxiety, and all that exists (or doesn't) in between. I'll be drawing from my thoughts, academic research, pop culture, social currency and history, and your ideas and comments to broaden our perspectives and maybe provide a helping hand out of the slumps we might end up in. I also have a background as an artist and would love to incorporate some collaborative, communal art zines and the like in the future.

If this sounds like your bag, baby, follow along for the ride! Send through an ask with comments, ideas, suggestions, or anything if you wish. Otherwise, read along, engage if and when you feel like it, and let's get this space open and thriving.

I am so looking forward to exploring and growing through the tough stuff together.

Kindest, Liv.

[commonwealthoccurences]

Back To Eden - ch 4

Summary: Sole is a journalist and independent investigator who worked with the famous Detective Nick Valentine before the bombs dropped. They stumble out of Vault 111 with hazy memories of a case gone awry, a sense of desperate yearning, and the bitter experience of already having had to fight for their life to survive against the odds. What's a little nuclear wasteland to a (newly) seasoned investigator?

See masterlist for warnings.

Fic-long tags: Hurt comfort, angst, pining, flashback scenes, noir detective show meets post-apocalyptic chaos, Preston Garvey is a sweetheart, Sole is doing their best and living out of pure spite, slow burn (Nick/Sole), etc etc.

Preston Garvey was suited to be a leader, Sole thought. They had been a good judge of character before the war, to the point that it was uncanny, and despite their ongoing migraine and the poking and prodding that Sturges was doing, they could just tell. There was something warm about his eyes and the way he simply treated them as if they were any other stranger that deserved respect, not the frozen person who had stumbled into his group’s shelter, half-deluded and nearly beyond help.

It was difficult to get formal introductions out of the way without feeling a little silly. Sole could confidently say that the existential dread was setting in about their situation; it’d gotten hold of them sometime between Sturges leaving the room and when he’d come back and had to explain what medicine was like for him and the group and everyone on the planet. There were no formal facilities, after all, now that it was “after the war.”

They swallowed their dread, though, and exchanged calm greetings with Preston before he propped himself up on the chair next to their bed and began speaking. “Well, I’m sure all of this is extremely confusing to say the least. Sturges let me know what’s been going on and… I’ve gotta say, we’ve seen a lot of stuff out here, but, uh– you’re definitely a first.”

Sole laughed, though it sounded a little off, even to them. “At least I’ve got that going for me.”

Preston let out a quiet, good-natured “Hah,” but looked troubled. 

“Don’t be afraid to lay out some depressing news. After everything that’s been going on, I can take it.”

“I’m simply concerned about how adjusting to the way things work now will turn out for you.”

“Oh, how bad could it be? It was just a little nuclear apocalypse, I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

This got a real laugh out of him. “Well, I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humor. You’re gonna need it.”

Sole knew he was telling the truth. “Look, we’re perfectly happy for you to figure things out on your own time, so don’t worry too much about that. This place is relatively safe, not too much around, so you’re okay here. I’m sure you’ve realized the food situation is… a little delicate, but we’re doing our best.”

“I’d like to help.”

Preston’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, I appreciate the offer, but you really should be focusing on resting. I think jumping into the middle of things already would be against doctor’s orders.”

Sturges cut in, raising his hands in a defensive gesture from where he was rolling gauze in the corner of the room. “Hey, don’t throw me under the bus. I’m just doin’ what I was told until Curie gets back.”

“Curie…?” Sole looked between the two.

“Our resident doctor. She’s out looking for more supplies, won’t be back for a couple of days. Really bad timing of events– I woulda felt a lot better if she’d been here to take care of you.” Sturges sighed. “But, that’s the way things go ‘round here.”

“Hey. I think my doctor’s been doing pretty good, for what it’s worth.”

Sturges laughed. “Thanks. I’ll go ahead and get out of your guys' hair so y’all can figure things out.”

He stepped out of the room and Sole returned their gaze to Preston. They pressed their lips together, thinking. “Have you found the bunker?”

“What?”

“There’s a bunker behind the house to the left of us, have you found it?”

“Uh– found it, yes. It’s locked tight and unfortunately brute force hasn’t worked so far. Why, is there anything important in there?”

Sole rolled to their side to get their elbow underneath them and began struggling to sit up. “Oh, only a ridiculous amount of food and some weapons.” Their body was screaming at every movement; they weren’t exactly sure on the precise amount of time that had passed since they crawled out of the Vault, but it had been around a few days, and they’d spent 99% of it on bed rest.

“Hey, hey. Where do you think you’re going? Didn’t we have that talk about staying in bed and doctor’s orders?”

“Uh-huh,” They gasped as they pulled one of their legs forward and a sharp, stinging pain shot down the muscles. “It was very nice. Unfortunately, this is more important.”

“Listen, I do appreciate the want to help, but I don’t think you’re gonna have any better luck forcing it open than we have– no offense.”

Sole swallowed a whimper at the needling pain crashing through their ill-used muscles. Now that they thought about it, they were on bed rest for a lot longer than however long they had been out of the Vault. They had been on “bed rest” since the bombs dropped, however long that had been. Sensing he was getting nowhere with them and picking his battles wisely, Preston began to reach out carefully, “Is it okay if I help you?” He asked, resigned.

“Please.”

Sole groaned as they were hauled as gently as possible to their feet. Makeshift crutches were propped up in the corner, something Sturges had created and set aside for a future date. Whenever they were actually supposed to be getting off of bed rest. Sole reached for them quickly, ignoring the aches and pains in their arms from being moved too fast, and Preston helped them settle the crutch pads underneath their armpits. They blew out a sigh of relief as the excess weight was taken off their already-weary legs.

Preston stayed close and watchful as they crept closer and closer to the hallway. “Where are you going?”

Sole groaned as they shifted their weight to the side and took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m not gonna brute force the bunker door. I have the key.”

“Look, considering you’re gonna be watching my back for the next month or so, I think I have the right to demand some combat training.”

“Detective, I appreciate the concern, but I’ve been alright without it. I know how to handle myself.”

Detective Valentine put his hand out to stop them from punching the elevator button. They were following a lead to a nearby office building and had to bring one of the workers in for questioning; some suspicious activity had cropped up between his credit cards and phone records, and frankly as Detective Valentine had put it, they needed to bring anybody in so the BPD would see some progress. They had appreciated his transparency and knew that there was some merit to the suspect being brought in, but they were quite surprised to hear him spell out his motivations so clearly. It was wearing on him, obviously. Balancing the fact that he had to answer to the department and actually making progress on the case. “We’re doing the training.” The Detective ripped them out of their thoughts.

Sole sighed, “Fine. Can we please take the elevator now? I would take the stairs just to be stubborn but I’m really not in the mood for it.”

The Detective removed his hand and Sole pressed the up arrow, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off them. They chanced an awkward glance at him, but the way he was studying their face made them shift and raise an eyebrow. “Maybe I should take the stairs anyway.” They meant it as a joke, but it came off harsher than intended.

Detective Valentine caught himself and stared forward at the brick walls while quiet dings signaled the descending elevator’s approach. He drew in a breath, paused, and then spoke, “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Sole shook their head. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not insulted. I understand your concern. Besides, it might help us both blow off a little steam. I know things have been… tense around the office, and my presence doesn’t really help that.”

Uncharacteristically, the Detective made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “Ignore them. They want the department to handle the case without outside help, but don’t want to be on the case and receive any of the flack. They–” He cut himself off as the elevator arrived. “Anyway, don’t pay any mind to them.”

Sole spent the elevator ride fighting a smug smile. An endorsement from the Detective Valentine meant something. They took advantage of the elevator ride to twist side-to-side in an attempt to find some relief for their aching back. Spending uncountable hours into the night hunched over their desk at the station wasn’t doing their spine any favors. They were infinitely grateful for the lead they got; a chance to escape the department, to watch Detective Valentine work on something other than his notepad and packs of cigarettes, and finally and most importantly, some progress on the case.

The elevator made its easy climb to the 11th floor, the silence filled with a jaunty little tune that Sole had probably heard on the radio before somewhere. It came to a stop at their destination with a soft ding and Detective Valentien grabbed their arm as they moved to walk down the rows of cubicles, pulling them to the side. They made a bit of a face at being tugged along, but knew it must be for good reason; the Detective didn’t do things without good reason. “I’ll wait by the elevator. I don’t think this guy will react well if I show up, but you’re not part of the BPD. You think you can handle this one? You just need to get him to come back to the elevator, I can do the rest. We just want to get him out without making a scene.” He asked, tone hushed.

“Uh, yeah. I think so. If you don’t want me to advertise that I’m currently affiliated with the BPD, what do you want me to tell him?”

Detective Valentien opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. “Why don’t you wing this one.”

“What?”

“Part of this work is thinking on your feet. I can’t give you hints and tips forever– we’ll only be working together until the end of next month. That’s five weeks. You want to build your skills for pri- independent investigating, right?”

“Well, yeah, but–”

“Then figure it out.”

So Detective Valentine was the ‘throw the baby bird out of the nest, sink or swim’ sort of mentor. Great. Sole was hardly prepared, and wholly surprised that he was willing to let them wing something on such an important case. With a deep breath, they nodded, took a step back, and turned and walked down the hall.

Detective Valentine watched as they went, swallowing down the subtle taste of regret. Maybe it was too early to throw them out on their own, but he would be waiting right there, and things were escalating fast in the grand scheme of things. Their mystery killer had already claimed another victim, and that detective instinct in his gut was telling him they’d be hearing from him soon, either via a note or more nefarious means. There was no time to coddle Sole.

And though he’d never admit it aloud, he was getting used to this partner and mentor thing. He hadn’t really pictured himself partnering up again; his first and last partner had died in the line of duty years ago, and it was difficult for him to find someone that he trusted to have his back. The instinct ringing around in the back of his skull was screaming at him for not only taking on another partner, but them being an untrained rookie on top of that. There was something about Sole, though. So he bit back his own protests and watched them disappear from sight.

The suspect was a 33 year old man. Brunette, brown eyes, office worker; average in every way. Sole walked past people who looked, acted, talked, and walked like him every single day of their life and never blinked. Then again, they had also written article after article about men like him who had been discovered doing nefarious things. However, they had never interviewed men like him before they were confirmed one way or another.

Jim Grayson.

Sole repeated the name to themself in their head over and over again, trying to make sure they would get their introduction and cover story right. They resisted the urge to scrap their nails across the inside of their palm, a nervous habit Detective Valentine had been quick to call out just days after they met. They had a feeling he’d noticed even sooner, but had been being polite.

Putting on their best cheerful grin, they stopped at Jim Grayson’s cubicle and leaned against it casually. He had his back to them, one headphone in (as per company policy, most likely) typing away at his terminal. Sole chanced a quick glance at the screen, double-checking to make sure it was simply boring business stuff. Though, if their bad guy was really writing out serial killer letters to the BPD in the middle of his work day with his back to the cubicle entrance, they would seriously be questioning their own and the BPD’s skills.

Grayson shifted in his chair and tilted his head at his monitor. It was then that Sole realized that they were casting a very subtle reflection on the screen, and he turned to face them. “Hello.”

Confrontational. Okay, Sole could adapt. “Uhm– hi. My name is Sole. I work for the Boston Bugle and we’re doing an article on the effects of– well, we’re trying to put something together about the effects of political tension on office worker productivity. Y’know, cause of all the stress.” They faked a nervous laugh and watched him lean forward. That made them genuinely a little unnerved.

“Oh, interesting,” Yeah, this guy didn’t care at all. “How can I help?”

“Well, I know it isn’t great to interrupt your work day and everything, and my boss does, too, so we set aside a budget so I could take my interviewees out to lunch. To compensate for your time and stuff. So, I was hoping I could–”

Jim Grayson stood up to his full height, stepping into Sole’s space slightly with how small the cubicle was. They resisted the urge to back out of the box. “I can take my lunch right now. Let me grab my coat.”

Grayson leaned forward and pulled his coat off the hanger behind them, intentionally leaning even further into them. They grit their teeth with tension so great it felt like they may crack them just so they wouldn’t duck out of his way; they knew that’s what he wanted. “Great. Thank you so much for doing this.” Sole gushed, immediately dropping their expression into one of disdain once they turned and began walking towards the elevator.

Panic welled in their throat when they saw Detective Valentine was nowhere to be found as the elevators came into sight. He for sure said he was going to wait by the elevators, right? That was their one job, to get Grayson to the elevators. Maybe he meant downstairs, in the lobby? Maybe they were supposed to get into the elevator with their murder suspect by themself after he’d already taken a liking to trying to make them uncomfortable. God, they really should’ve gotten clarification.

They took a quiet, deep breath and came to a stop in front of the elevators, steadying their slightly shaky hand as they reached out to push the down button. The wait was just as uncomfortable as they thought it would be; he was staring directly at them. They could feel it. They gently clasped their hands in front of them and pushed to let themself show they were nervous. It only made sense for this makeshift persona they had built in less than a minute. But there was something more uncomfortable about allowing him to know they were nervous than there was about trying to stamp it down.

Unfortunately, the elevator doors opened and Sole realized they were going to have to step inside the space with Grayson. Alone. They put on a hesitant smile and began to take a step when they heard, “Just step into the elevator and say nothing.”

Thank God, it was that familiar gravelly voice. Sole could’ve screamed out of relief; they certainly wanted to scream and maybe shake the Detective up a bit, but instead, they settled for glancing at him. He had come around the corner, up behind Grayson with practiced, quiet footsteps, and had carefully placed a hand on Grayson’s bicep. Firm, unyielding. It was quite clear the situation Grayson was now in, but he simply kept his gaze on Sole and let a smile cross his face.

The trio stepped into the elevator together and the doors slid to a shut behind them, sealing them in. Sole had never really liked elevator music before, but they weren’t sure if the tune or utter silence would be worst in that moment. Once the elevator started moving, Detective Valentine began, “Jim Grayson you are under arrest under suspicion of murder. Everything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. If…”

There was something so stupidly comforting about hearing Detective Valentine read out Grayson’s Miranda rights. Like the placing of a seal. There was finality. The potential bad guy was in custody and Detective Nick Valentine of the BPD had ahold of him. It was okay again. Later, they would be a little annoyed with themself for finding comfort in his arrest.

Grayson leaned over, paying no mind to Detective Valentine, who honestly looked a little annoyed by Grayson’s nonchalance. “You’re not as clever as you think.” He murmured, before straightening up.

The steps Sole took down the hall were excruciating. Something about the crutches readily reawoke their once resting shoulder injury, and the throbbing ache felt like something was pushing at their skin. They grunted with every step, but refused to stop. Though they’d passed the days on bed rest mostly asleep, there was something so relieving about the idea of finally being useful again.

Finally, they reached their old bedroom. “Preston, do you think I could get a bit of help? I need to get to the floor.”

Preston was kind enough to oblige and warned them softly before he pressed gentle hands to the underside of their forearms and allowed them to grip his in return. Carefully and slowly, they eased themself to the grimy floor, and breathed a soft sigh of relief. Sitting up was hardly more comfortable, but they were grateful to not have to worry about collapsing.

Carefully, their shaky hands felt along the rickety floor tiles. On the way through their old house, they’d worried that the years that’d gone by and however many bombs had dropped would’ve loosened or removed the panels completely, but they’d had a stroke of luck. They were loose, but they were in place. Finally, they found the little, minute notch they’d once pressed into one of the panels and with a small, triumphant sound, peeled it back. 

At first, they thought their luck had run out. The wood below the panels had rotted significantly through the years. They knew it wasn’t just wood though, it was some sort of plastic-wood amalgamation that Vault Tec had created for longevity's sake, and they were astonished to find themself grateful for it. In a small, carved nook of one of the supports, was a small key.

Fingertips protesting, Sole dug in and pried the key out. They shifted backwards, nearly tumbling as their center of balance shifted dramatically; Sturges said something in their ears was still a little messed up and their balance would be off for a week or more. Preston let out a quiet exclamation and was quick to prepare to catch them, but they let out a breathless laugh and looked up at him, eyes a little unfocused from the disorientation. They held up the key, “I hope this helps.”

“Damn. I– this means a lot, you have no idea. Was it your bunker? I know you’ve… been gone a while, but I wouldn’t feel right, taking your food.”

Sole shook their head and immediately regretted it as the room began to spin. They closed their eyes and pushed down the nausea. “Mm, no, not mine. A neighbor’s. He was an older man, didn’t have any kids or grandkids. No family at all, really, but we got along, and he didn’t believe in getting in on the vaults even though they offered him a place. But he was big on his bunker, and wanted me to have a spare key, just in case. Always said he knew something big was coming.” Sole paused and opened their eyes, staring at the floor. “If only he knew how right he was. I wonder what happened to him.”

Preston knelt down. “I’m sorry for your loss. And thank you. We owe you, big time.”

He offered a hand and Sole allowed him to haul them to their feet, forgoing the crutches that were causing them so much once-buried pain. They made it two steps out the door with Preston’s assistance before Sturges popped his head out of what was left of their guest room. “Hey! What happened to ‘doctor’s orders?’”

“Oh, just saving our lives a little,” Preston answered for them.

“Oh. Well, in that case.” Sturges made a sweeping gesture for them to continue down the hall, expression confused.

As they made their way back to their bed and were kindly assisted with settling in, Preston spoke. “I know adjusting is gonna be hard. But I want you to know you have a place with us, at least until you get on your feet and figure everything out, however long that may be. And if you decide you want to stick around after that, you’ll still have a place. I don’t know all the details about what you’ve been through, and I don’t need to, unless you wanna talk about it, but we’ve all got stuff like that. I think you’re gonna do just fine here. There’s a bit of a learning curve, that’s all.”

“Thanks, Preston. Really.”

“Anytime.” He gave a warm smile and began to get ready to leave.

“Uh, real quick. Could you- could you tell me how long it’s been. Since the bombs dropped.”

He paused, hand brushing the door frame. His hesitation unnerved them and they almost wanted to shrink back against their pillows. “I don’t know the exact time frame, not sure who does.”

“Well, can you give me your best estimate?”

“Uh. Yeah. We think it’s been about two hundred years.”

The shock that went through Sole’s system felt like it was killing them. There had been more than a few things over the time they’d been awake that made them feel as if they were dying, but Sole thought this was it. If they were older, they were sure they would’ve had a heart attack right there and died. Despite themself, they felt tears begin to slip down their cheeks. They didn’t feel grief or sorrow or even anger, it was just shock. There was no way, and yet they knew Preston was telling the truth. “Oh.” They said, voice wobbly with tears despite the small smile on their face. “Okay.”

[beaujagr]

venting about health stuff

this is long but I have barely been able to talk about how bad this is for me right now and I feel horrified all the time about how challenging and scary and confusing it all is. I need people to understand, even if it's just one or two people. I don't know what to do to deal with this and therapy is only doing so much, medication only does so much. I am in an existential terror because I don't have answers and I don't even know if I have the time to find them. I'm sorry I'm like this.

content warning: physical health, mental health, delayed & unreliable healthcare, confusing/scary symptoms, brief mention of breast dysphoria, brief mention of alcoholism, harm reduction, unplanned breast size change

I cannot find anything anywhere that says there can be a cause for lymph nodes swelling after having alcohol aside from Very Scary things and I am really just not feeling cool about having to wait literally fucking months to see a rheumatologist to address the repeated swollen lymph node issues while I'm ALSO trying to figure out why I have more lesions or something similar in my brain (next followup Monday). argh argh

how do I not freak out about this shit? I have spent the last SEVERAL years with multiple terrifying health crises, from the head injury & subsequent two years of PT, the pandemic itself & having COVID (with weird lymph side effects), effective malpractice that caused medication to almost kill me in 2020, the blood pressure/heart irregularities from August to last month, and now this shit. I am so fucking scared. :(

I keep having meltdowns because of ambiguity over tiny things (plans for the evening, scheduling, etc.) because I feel like I am in a quagmire of ambiguity, within the US healthcare system that is totally not dedicated to my care - I have some decent doctors, but it's a fucking mess financially, structurally, systemically - and about what the fuck is going on with my body and brain. I am struggling bad.

I want to do fun things! Enjoy my life! I'm 35 and I'm sitting here trying to figure out how I'm going to fill out an advance care directive because every time I've been supposed to do one I have fucking panics and can't do it because I don't want to have to yet again encounter whether I get to live or die as a daily fucking concern. It's hard enough being trans & disabled in the US, I don't know how much more I can take.

I've reached the point of pretty notable depression, my insomnia is probs the worst it's ever been (it's hard to get more than a few hours of sleep even with sleeping medicine or melatonin or any other method of getting better sleep I've tried), & the state I'm in is affecting every part of my life in a devastating way at this point. Even with insurance, I don't even know if we can afford treatment if I end up needing it.

I'm trying to survive all of this but it's so hard to live when I feel like every day is a wild card of whether it's going to be lifelong deteriorating illness, too rapid a death, or *spins wheel* unexplained symptoms & suffering for the foreseeable future? Every bitcosts money, & makes it less likely I'll ever be able to live somewhere safe & healthy for me with my partners.

So if I'm... not fun? not happy? This is why.

I'm sharing all this because I'm scared and hurting and I don't know if or when I'll have answers or what those answers will be. I don't think people understand why I am struggling so much & so messed up all the time. I feel like Shroedinger's cat. I'm dying but not dying but no one knows which or what they'll find when they open the box, least of all me, & I feel like I'm invisible while I'm experiencing it. I'm sorry.:( p.s. I really don't drink much - harm reduction has worked for me, I'm pretty careful, and I haven't been drunk since December 2015. For holidays & the occasional dinner or shower/bath time I'll have like, a drink or two? Today I had a single rum & coke, with John's approval on the rum measurement, and my arm has a swollen lymph node, I hurt everywhere, & my boobs are so swollen my bra barely fits. I like my boobs *at normal size*, but this sucks.

[lighthouse-ghosts]

I felt like writing things out to get a better picture:

Lenore J. R. Barre - Inksmith (Spire: the City Must Fall) A pulp horror author and freelance journalist who gets her occult magic from her writing. Can bend aspects of the world to will if it makes for a more interesting story. Has a spell that makes a man with a gun show up (but can't decide who the gun will be pointing at) Part of a secret drow rebel group. Got a permanent condition that made her Unsettling to other people.

Constance van Keel - Leech (Blades in the Dark) Former Biochemistry student turned dropout, turned back alley doctor. Victor Frankenstein wannabe. Decently sneaky with knowledge of medicine and blowing stuff up.

Cass Owens - Godbinder (DIE: the RPG) Got transported to a fantasy world by her former bandmate and now has the power to call on the God of Fate in exchange for favours. Able to heal people or fill them with so much existential dread it incapacitates them. The eldest daughter of her family she's pathologically others-centered in her usual life. Has a big fuck off battle hammer.

Dr Sav Roveck - (Lancer) A mech pilot, NHP (there is no good way to succinctly explain NHPs sothink AI but weirder) researcher, tech expert and knowledgeable on interplanetary law. Her mech features a gun that isn't a gun. ALSO HAS ACCESS TO A LITERAL MECH!!

First of all, I have no idea what setting they would even exist together in but honestly, based on abilities they could maybe fall into "Weird genre mashups, but I can make it work"?? Since we have healing, stealth, magic and firepower covered in some form. That said I don't know how well they would get along long-term so they likely would end up in the "this would be a mess" category.

And I mean characters that you've put time into, not ones for oneshots or campaigns that sputtered out. Ones that you've had for a few levels, or whatever system equivalent you have.