#there will still be foreshadowed bits I'll never get back to but luckily no full blown plotholes

[joyful-soul-collector]

For the Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird) number 10 please (only if you want to answer 😄♥️)

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

Oooh this is a good one. Yes, in a way! See I also upload my fanfic to Wattpad as well as AO3. I don't have any particular ties to Wattpad, I just like to make the stories available to as wide an audience as possible. However, Wattpad has an algorithm that's bunk as all hell so normally I don't get more than like 50 or so hits on there, and definitely no "votes" as they call them, nor any comments.

Except, on Here to Help (link to ao3 version here), which seemed to have caught the algorithm's eye.

This fucking thing has 171k hits on there. 5.4k votes. For context, HtH has 104k hits on AO3 and 2k kudos. There's more votes on Wattpad since you can vote on each individual chapter there, but still like. That's a fucking lot.

I have not updated this thing in two years. It still gets regular comments on it on wattpad. They're all from like 12-15 year olds, and most of them are completely irrelevant to the fic itself.

There's been a pair of kids sending lyrics to "American Pie" back and forth to each other in the comments section. They're sending one line at a time. They're not done with the song yet. It's very annoying and I could just delete the conversation and stop it altogether, but I can tell they're having fun so I'm waiting until they're done with it to delete it.

That has been happening for a full week now.

Two children actively told another child NOT to go on ao3 because "it's full of depressed su!c!dal kids who feel pain alot" and "the tags Will definitely not hold back on description. I got traumatised just by reading some tags. Be careful commrade……be careful *hobbles away like an old witch*".

That happened yesterday.

A child yelled at me in the comments for the story containing the spideypool ship. "At least WARN us about spideypool I hate spideypool more than I hate myself and that's saying something" the child cried. I told them they should've looked at the tags of the story before reading it, as it was clearly tagged as spideypool. The child yelled more, saying I should have put the spideypool tag AT THE TOP instead of near the bottom, where I had tagged all the other ships contained in the story. At the top is where I tagged all the trigger warnings I thought would be helpful to see first. I told them they needed to be responsible for their own internet experience and then blocked em.

That was after the story had been on hiatus for a full year already.

I COULD GO ON

This story has been on hiatus for 2 years and it still haunts me to this fucking day. There's obviously more good than there is bad tbh, I get lots of funny comments and compliments on this story I worked very hard on. One of my favorite upsides however was the day it became #1 in the tag for PTSD:

Mainly because I could screenshot it and turn into a meme:

So uh. TLDR of this is Yes. I do have a fic that haunts me. It's haunted by very entitled 13 year olds.

[desolatedpigeon]

CW: mental illnesses (suicidal, anxiety) mentioned and described | drugs mentioned, slightly described

I think I like the feeling of being way too tired for anything. Like, I stay up really late, sometimes even up to the morning hours or even later. So much that it's even around midday. Right now it's 6 a.m. and I need to clean the whole fucking mess I call home. I swear, I would be so awesome without all that mental illness crap. Anyway, my brain is on like 10% capacity right now because of my tiredness. I watched YouTube all night long, now I'm listening to music.

It was way too hot all night. I'm a person who sleeps with a blanket, I can't sleep otherwise - except maybe if I'm drunk as heck. But currently it's too hot to be comfortable with a blanket. I guess I'm just not sleeping, although I foreshadow that I'll fall asleep soon.

There are multiple reasons for me being unable to fall asleep. Someone I know for 10+ years or something is coming to visit me for maybe just a few days up to one week. He and his boyfriend haven't decided yet. I know him from my time of being homeless. Right now we're both trying our best to get back on track. His boyfriend is also a really nice person but I have only met him once so far. I'm not used to having visitors for that long, not at all actually. Sure, sometimes I have someone visiting me at my home. But maybe one day or maybe two. I even kicked my own mother out of my home because I was soooo stressed out from having someone else there. In case anyone reads this, it was just for a few hours. I still feel bad although she probably already forgot.

Oh, right. The reasons why I can't sleep 3rd: Too many energy drinks. That's on me.

And number 4: I actually like being that tired. It's a little bit like I'm high on weed. Not like the "wakey wakey laugh laugh" type or the "man, I'm hungry af" type. More "yeah, sit down and enjoy". I'm not sure if weed is even the right drug. But I tried many and most of them make hallucinations or you're suddenly full of energy - not really, but your body is awake. Maybe like heroin? But I never tried that, luckily.

For example, right now I'm listening to music, like I already wrote. And I don't care if the song is in my mother language or in English, I love to imagine my life with that song as a title song. Of course I'm not listening to something aggressive like punk (which I usually like) or some, in Germany we call it "Assi-Rap", like the one with drugs and "bitches". I'm listening to mostly pop music, which I somehow start to like. But I also like Hardtekk. Its origin is apparently from East Germany. And, except for the reaaaally rightwing politics over there - looking at you Saxony and Thuringia (is this the word for it in English? Lol. In case, I mean "Thüringen")-, I love East Germany so much. There are some cool musicians doing Hardtekk. Like Schillah, ArnieTheSavage and some other people. Damn I love their music. But right now I'm really into that "I like the way you kiss me" by Artemas. I've never heard of that musician before, but damn. This song, it's really good.

Sometimes I wonder what I really want. Like the style of those people in the music video of the last named song, it's awesome. I kinda want to have that lifestyle. I mostly do, as I'm now 12-13 years a punk. Like, sex, drugs and fuckin punk rock! But on the other side I really want a "normal" life. I want a husband, a pet, and a nice little apartment. And make some money to live a good life. But I also want a revolution. I want everything to burn. Fuck the system. But how can I say that if I want exactly that, being a part of the system. Even to write that last sentence hurt. I know they say "you destroy a system from inside". But is this just an excuse to be in the system - to be the system?

The conclusion is, I don't know. I don't know anything.

And now I'm at the point where my thoughts spin and go really fucking dark. Enjoy reading, if you came that far. Or don't. I won't know.

I don't know anything. I don't know what I want in life. I don't even know how to care for myself. Like, my home is a mess. I eat pizza or spaghetti. Sundays are for burgers, because NFL or ELF. I don't know how to do makeup properly. I don't know how to do anything. Like calling a doctor or someone else, what do I say? "Hello, my name is [my last name]. I'm calling for...]" or is it "Hello? Am I calling [the name of whoever I called]"? Now that I write that out... That really sounds like I'm dumb. And maybe I'm that. Dumb. But yeah, basically that. I hate to go somewhere where I haven't been before. Just because I don't know how to open the fucking door and I don't want to look like an idiot. I hate visiting people because of their doors. It happened more than once that I accidentally took out the handle. And no, I'm not a berserker. I need to know how fucking hard the door closes or how hard I have to push. I hate making noise. Especially when I'm visiting someone with a roommate. And it's like hard mode+ if I don't know the roommate. This is really bad when trying to get to know new people. You might laugh, but I really get anxious about doors.

Don't let me get started about my panic attacks over bees/wasps/hornets. Also most bugs, whenever they come to close, and spiders. The only times I can put a grasshopper on my hand is if I'm drunk. Or my panic attacks whenever a loud, sudden noise happens. Thunderstorms or the time around New Year's Eve are pure stress for me.

And well, of course the always ongoing stress of keeping my borderline outbursts low or avoiding them. I don't have a job, I have plenty of time. I could be stress free. But I'm definitely not. My shoulders are always weighted. Be it money, be it anxiety or panic attacks over - for most people - nothing. And back to the "I don't know", I don't know why I'm like this. Sure, bullying and other worse stuff happened to me. But other people can do it too. On the other hand no-one is the same. My mental health isn't strong enough to cope with it. It's not all black and white! For me, a borderline black and white thinker, it's something I can't get my head around. At least most of the time. At home I know this. When it's quiet around me, I can think other than b/w. But interacting with someone, I need to answer faster. Obviously would sitting around for 5 minutes to think about every possibility be weird. That's the same thing why I can't speak English that well, although I would say my writing is ok for a second language. Sure, there are some mistakes, but most is ok, isn't it? I'm losing track again.

I honestly hope the lady from the support organisation can help me find a therapist. Because I don't like the dark way my thoughts go currently again. Part of me wants to end everything, because I don't think it will ever be better. On the other hand I don't want to end. I don't think anybody really wants to die. But it may seem that "end" is the "better" option then what it is right now, or even worse. I really hope it's not. And I hope that "better" - as in actually better - isn't just a lie they tell us to have another worker for the system. I hope that the better really is better.

I wrote in this for an hour now. I think I'll go to bed now. At 7 a.m.

[smuggsy]

Hey, Leti! I saw you wanted some flyboys prompts. I'll give you two so you can pick between them if you want? How about for Words: “I’ll always be here when you need me,” or for Actions: "for one muse to help the other clean blood off of themselves." <3

You really hit the nail with the second one, it's like you're inside my mind asksjsisnsk but really, this idea wouldn't leave me alone today. I said over on discord I wanted conflict...

Collins breaks about sixteen weeks into his service. It's the first time he loses his nerve, regrettably, because he lets his new wingmate buy him one too many drinks. He's just trying to make a good impression, Jack knows, but he doesn't care for it. Not when Tony got shot down only yesterday and he's been grounded on account of it.

So he can mourn.

Fuck that.

He's only thinking about it more, now that he doesn't have to fly and the day seems never-ending. He lets the new cadet take him out for drinks only because Farrier isn't around.

There's a Royal Artillery regiment off duty occupying half the tables, and Collins almost turns on his heels and heads back to base when he sees their soft-brown uniforms all over the place. But Robert goes on, none the wiser, and Collins has no choice but to follow suit being the older, more experienced one and all.

In the end, it's the rookie who keeps his cool against the harsh words and teasing and Collins the one being held back.

"Oi, pretty boy!"

It's late and he's tired and Robert has money to spare and he keeps leaving pints in front him. 

"Yeah, you in blue, why doncha buy us a round?"

"You gotta be joking!" Robert laughs, half-turning on his seat next to Jack at the bar, wearing his pristine new uniform that looks like was unboxed just this afternoon. He's a perfect target for worn-out soldiers temporarily off the line. Collins is already drunk and their presence at his back set his teeth on edge.

"Why? Your lot sit there all day long while we do your bloody job, seems right t'me you'd show a bit of gratitude, right boys?!"

Jack sets another glass softly on the counter and locks eyes with the bartender that looks at him like he's the one stirring up the pot. It's the only reason why he turns his head towards his chatty companion and mutters: "leave it," because the old man is kind enough to accommodate them every time they come round and lets them run a tab.

Robert scans his unfriendly frown and slowly sits back down on the stool, sending Jack a furtive glance.

That would've been the end of it.

"Look at that, not even me mum's got boots as shiny as yours," this voice is closer, and it's a different one.

"Fuck off," Collins mutters under his breath, hand wrapped around his half-empty pint and itching to turn around and bash the idiot's head in.

"What?"

Now he gives him the courtesy of turning around and standing up to say it to his face.

"I said fuck off, I see yer bleedin' deaf as well as thick."

He likes to think it wasn't his words that set it in motion, but the little chuckle Robert couldn't suppress right next to him. 

What's-his-name, with his perfectly gelled-up hair and an unbuttoned khaki shirt, sends the new cadet a killer look and Collins wishes he'd gone for it, right there. He wishes he'd gone for his mate so he would've been able to blame his actions on the undying stupid rivalry between Army and Air Force. But he doesn't make a move towards Robert, and instead gives Jack a once-over and a sneer.

"Why don't you sit back down?" he offers, with a mellowy voice that makes Collins' blood boil, "you look like you're about to fall."

To his credit, Jack is swaying on his feet, except that's also the same reason why the cocky gunner ends up with a bleeding nose just two minutes after.

"That's what you get paid for, after all!" is the last straw, a high-pitched mocking voice coming from the sea of men that Collins can't really pinpoint, "t'keep your sorry ass down on a chair."

What comes next is more missed blows on Collins' part than he'd like to admit and more blood on his face and collar than he'd like to explain. Robert comes out unscathed save for a crinkled uniform when some by-stander had the sense to keep him out of the ruckus, but he doesn't stop babbling all the way back to headquarters.

Collins only hears half of it, mind too foggy by an ache both physical and emotional, and bites his tongue one or two times when he turns to acknowledge the boy's existence and sees the face of his dead wingmate instead.

Farrier finds him two hours later, lying on his upper bunk bed in full uniform except for his jacket, which he briefly had the sense to hang before climbing up. Collins hears him come in, close the door and approach, but doesn't move.

He stares at the wall and breathes slowly through the mind-nulling pain taking over, feeling a sore cheek and a lip cut open and thinking that he deserves it, that it grounds him, that it keeps the thought of Tony's silence through the intercom and the sight of his Spitfire hitting the water with a distant thud away.

Was he dead by then? Did he die in the air, or was he conscious all the way down, unable to do anything to stop it? Collins hopes one of those bullets got to him. He knows that's how he'd rather go down if it came to it. When it comes to it.

"What happened?" 

Collins stays still and pretends he's not there. 

It's not very difficult to imagine, really, because Farrier is never around lately. It's probable that the only thing that brought him up to his room at this hour was Robert's big mouth, surely going on about his new mentor standing up to a room full of soldiers, drunk and out for blood like a fucking lunatic.

Perhaps a little less self-deprecating account of it. More on the heroic side, because Robert's got that naive look about him. Collins hates to think of it: that it is probably a foreshadowing image of what's to happen once he goes up in the air and has a fucking nazi on his tail.

"Collins," Farrier calls again with a quiet voice. Jack feels one of his hands coming to rest behind him on the mattress, like he wants to place it on his waist instead and turn him over but doesn't dare, "you can talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

More silence.

A sigh.

"Don't ya have somewhere else to be, anyway?"

He feels like a dick the moment he says it.

Luckily for him, Farrier isn't so easily swayed. That same hand finally lands on his left shoulder and tugs insistently until he's turning on his back - when he does, Farrier takes a deep breath in, those ones he takes when he wants to lash out at someone but swallows his words instead. 

Collins isn't sure he likes that look of anger directed at him, but he stares back defiantly because the influence of alcohol isn't completely gone and because he hates Farrier being this persistent.

Green eyes survey every inch of his battered face and if they stop for a moment too long on his lips, Collins pretends he doesn't notice. Farrier winces and then runs a hand over his face and looks away, again biting his tongue to prevent himself from talking. 

Jack wants him to talk, wants him to tell him off so he can answer. 

"Come down," Farrier asks, taking a step back from the bed and making a hand-gesture that is a bit too authoritarian for Jack's taste. He half-wants to hop off the bed, stand to attention, make a salute and bark out a yes, sir! only to annoy him, "Collins, don't be a child. Come down and get that shirt off before it's unsalvageable."

His irritation bleeds heavily through the words this time and when Collins looks back at him from the top bunk, he does feel like a little boy being told off. 

He only sits up, yanks his tie off, takes his shirt off above his head without unbuttoning it and knowing full well he's only beating up a hornet's nest, makes it into a ball and throws it at Farrier's face with force.

Only then does he jump off and land in front of him.

"Anything else?" he asks through gritted teeth, as Farrier holds the shirt to his chest and looks at him the same way he looked at that gunner back at the pub.

But he stays silent. Farrier doesn't take a step forward and punches him in the face like he did to that poor sod. The annoyance gives place to something else and Collins doesn't know what to do when Farrier doesn't move, because he'd been counting on him turning around and striding off after that outburst. 

And he needs him to, quick, because there's a lump forming down his throat.

"No?" he asks, shaking his head, confrontational.

Farrier just stares at him, his poker face the antithesis of Jack's. He only sniffs, crosses his arms on his chest and shifts his weight on his feet comfortably, like he's planning on just staying there standing guard.

Collins feels like he walked right into his trap. Can't climb back up now, show him his back and stare at the wall and ignore him until he gives up and leaves.

"Are you done?" Farrier asks when he looks away. 

He doesn't give an answer and sits on his roommate's made-up bed instead because he can't feel the chilly air down there as much. 

He probably should wash that shirt before the crimson red becomes a permanent stain, if only to avoid being told off by his superiors. He really doesn't find it in him to care for a stupid blood-spluttered collar when Tony's dead, he's dead.

Farrier sits next to him and brings a damp cloth to his lip without warning. Jack flinches away before he notices it's only his handkerchief soaked in water and has the decency to turn towards him this time, the will to put up a fight all but gone.

"I'm sorry..." he starts, trying to get the words out but failing.

"It's alright."

"No," he chokes out, "sorry."

Farrier presses the wet cloth softly above the cut on his brow and looks him in the eye with honesty.

"No need to be."

Collins disagrees, but he stays still for a couple of seconds and lets Farrier slowly wipe the dried blood off his skin with the utmost care and tries to think only of this moment.

"That's a nasty bruise," Farrier says, conversationally as if the silence makes him uncomfortable and the close space between them makes him nervous.

Jack doesn't trust himself to open his mouth without bursting out crying in his face, so he doesn't say anything and just avoids his gaze again.

The silence stretches on for another minute.

"All done."

He bolts upright soon as Farrier is off his personal space and makes for the metal wardrobe in the corner to fish for a tank top, because it's that time of day when the sun is completely gone and he may as well have an early night in.

Anything to get Thomas off his hair.

"Thanks," he throws over his shoulder, tugging at his belt hoping that's enough of a dismissal for Farrier, "I'll wash that shirt," he adds, noncommittally.

Farrier stays there for another quarter of a minute.

"Yeah, you do that."

When the door closes behind him Collins braces himself against the wardrobe and holds onto it until his knuckles go white, feeling like he can't take enough air in.