#It isn't something I choose to write

[sprout-fics]

Falling Down to Earth (Part One)

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Four of Snowblind

(Part Two Here)

Rating: Mature Wordcount: 7.6k Tags: Slow Burn, Heavy Angst, Trauma, Found Family, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator, Self Esteem Issues, Referenced Familial abuse, Mom Laswell, Domesticity Warnings: References to childhood verbal abuse A/N: Three part character study of the medic named Fix, therapy included

There's exactly nine hours and ten minutes on the plane ride from England to Washington D.C. for you to finish falling down to Earth.

You sit in a far corner of the C-17, curled up on a seat and away from the other troops. Mostly American, some Canadian. They chatter for the first hour or so, and there's excitement, relief that buzzes through them. There’s smiles and laughter that drowns the fatigue of the things they've seen, the nightmares they'll all have. It doesn't matter right now. They're going home. Home to loved ones and familiar places, to joy and relief before the memories set in.In their camaraderie, someone produces a deck of cards, and there’s jovial laughter and friendly jibes as hands are played.

You listen from afar, gather bits and pieces of their lives- where they were stationed, for how long, where they're going home to, the people waiting for them. There’s an ounce of something that remains untouchable between them, refusing to speak of the bullet, the bombings and bombardments that scream in the silence of your mind. Some of them exchange numbers, share pictures of spouses, children, pets. There's a woman a little older than yourself who confesses she'll be proposing to her girlfriend the moment she lands, and the announcement is met by cheers and hardy claps on her shoulder.

You should join them, let the brightness of their joy drown away the dark pit that opens inside you with every mile that grows between you and the men you called brothers. Instead, every bit of illumination in their eyes seems to only make you sink further into yourself- wanting that happiness desperately for your own tender soul and far too afraid to reach for it.

There's no one to return to when you get home. Nobody to embrace you as you land, to burst from the door of a house and cry as they wrap their arms around you. Nobody to take you out to drinks even as you search the crowd for a familiar dark hoodie, a baseball cap, listen for a smoky, gruff voice or the lilting accent of a Scot. The only people for you are the people you've been forced to leave behind, staring across the sea and hoping maybe they'll think about you too.

You see the way the other troops eye you from afar, see the lost shape of you in your eyes that have long since stopped being able to shed tears. You think maybe one of them will come over, try to drag you from your thoughts, and for a moment you want so desperately for that to come true. It doesn't, and as the buzzer sounds and everyone finds their seats, you feel yourself descending to Earth once more, buckling away that horrid loneliness of you for whatever task comes next.

True to story, there's a small crowd of folks who welcome back the returning heroes with signs and embraces and delight. You tug your cap down a little farther, push past them and towards the direction of the base gate to grab a cab to...somewhere.

There's no one here for you. Not that you expected there to be. It's been a long time since you talked to your family. They'd tried to contact you while you were in university, and even now you can remember your father's commanding voice, warning you against the foolishness of your current path. He had been tempered only by your mother, with her docile, sad tremble, pleading for you to listen, to come home.

You stopped having a home with them a long time ago.

The last time you had heard from any of them was from your brother, the golden child, asking if you'd please consider coming to his candidacy announcement. Sweet, apologetic, filled with false niceties the result of only forceful ignorance.

"I don't know what happened between you and Dad, but maybe consider he said whatever he did because he cares about you?"

You hung up the phone, took your deployment papers, and never looked back.

Now, in a city that you've grown up in, one that feels like a foreign land, you falter, look to the wind for guidance. Air rushes past your form as you feel the center of yourself falling, an Icarus desperately reaching for the sun as you hurtle down into the dark waves of the ocean below. There’s no hands to catch you, nothing to stop your fall as you desperately grasp for an anchor against the gravity that forces you down into nothing.

You turn on your phone, watch it light up and prepare to call yourself a cab to a hotel. You're pretty sure your lease ended a long time ago, apartment cleaned out of the few things remaining there. You didn't bother to check, never expecting you'd be anywhere but here.

Surprisingly, you see a little green bubble pop up from one of the only numbers you have saved.

Laswell.

Fix. It reads, and you can almost hear Kate's clipped, wry tone in her words. If you're looking for a place to stay, come to this address. I've got a spare bedroom, and it sounds like you could use it. Let me know if you make other arrangements.

Attached is an address on the other side of the city, an hour's drive from where you are. You're ready to tap on it when there's one more message that appears beneath your thumb.

Text me when you get this. The boys want to know you made it home safe.

You're glad Kate isn't here to watch the sorrow color your eyes at the reminder of the men who have left you behind. You send a quick reply, summon a ride, and once more feel the world spin once more beneath your gaze as it rushes upwards, uncertain of where you will at last land when you sink through the clouds and into the ruin of yourself.

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

It’s a nice house, you think.

Pressed up against a small thicket of trees, the brown brick bungalow exudes solitude, tucked away at the end of the aspen lined lane. The roof slopes steeply upwards, shingled and crossed over at the eaves with German styled paneling. It's older than many of the homes on the same street- newer, trying to appear older than they are with the faux stone exteriors and freshly installed windows.

The house before you is one of the few that has remained the same, steadfast against a changing world. Worn, tiles on the roof in need of mending, the stone steps gritty with dirt and age. It's quieter, yet somehow warmer than the homes around it. Like a hearth, it beckons you closer, offers the temptation of sanctuary. You can see a window jutting out into the direction of the side yard, a hidden perch that whispers of a quiet, needed withdrawal.

A glance down at your phone shows Kate’s message, the white letters contrasted against the gray darkness of your screen.

I won’t be home until after dinner, but Paula will be home. She’ll show you around :)

You shoulder your bag- standard issue military duffel- onto your back, trying to swallow down the gnawing sense of reluctance that paces the inner confines of your thoughts. The wince at the motion comes before you can stop it- the reminder of your suspension still scathing fresh against your skin. The lace of pain in your side instantly summons the memory of words fired between the sterile whiteness of a hospital room, aching with that same hurt.

“You have nothing to prove, Fix.”

“I have EVERYTHING to prove!!”

Even now, the freshly healed bullet wound you’d carefully concealed aches with an insistent, dulled sharpness against your ribs- almost worse than Price’s devastating command, thundering down onto you with dreaded finality.

“You’re suspended. Come back when you’ve got your head on straight.”

It hurts.

Not the wound itself, but the consequences you’ve reaped in the act of hiding it from the others- thinking that your injury would betray your own inner weakness. Deeper than a bullet, the horrifying, dreaded result of your own actions wind around your limbs like shadowy tendrils, dragging you down with an inertia you can’t control, wax wings melted by the sun.

Yet here the windows of the house glow warmly in the drawing dusk, candles in the dimness flicker, summoning you into their gentle embrace.

The hollow knock on the old wooden door seems to mimic the emptiness in your own heart, crying out in an emptiness you’ve always known, one you won’t be able to fill even with the insurmountable number of your disappointments.

The one who answers the door isn’t Kate. No, it’s a figure that’s a bit shorter, brown-eyed, coiling hair pulled away from her face. Still, the warmness of her eyes when she smiles, the brightness of her stare feels familiar, welcome.

“You must be Fix.” Kate’s wife greets, standing aside as your toes balance on the threshold. “I’m Paula. Please, come inside.”

You murmur a thanks, quiet and muted, eyes gazing down at your feet. You shuffle inside, perch precariously in the foyer as she shuts the door behind you.

This feels…wrong.

You desperately want it to not be so. You want to enjoy this- a warm house, a friendly face, a place to stay, to catch yourself. Yet there’s ghosts here, ones that whisper of chandeliers and polished centerpieces, beautiful tapestries and furniture meant only to look at. An artificialness you thought you abandoned long ago but persists even now. The scent of your father's office in your nostrils mutes Paula's gentle words.

“You can put your bag right here, we’ll get you settled later.” Paula gestures to a couch in the room beside you, where a dozing German Shepherd lies splayed against a frayed blanket. He gives you a few lazy thumps of his tail, raising a grey muzzle before flopping back once more. “Don’t mind Whiskey, he just had a run in the backyard, he’ll come say hello in a bit.”

Wordlessly, you drop the bag down on the cushions, turning back to Paula. Yet when your lips part, there’s no words. What do you even say?

I don’t want to be here. I want to be with them. This feels too much like the home I used to know, the same one I want to forget.

…Do you know where I can find myself again?

Your eyes find Paula’s, and all those words seem to be conveyed in your gaze alone. Heartbreak, bitter disappointment, longing, despair, a fury muted only by your own inescapable loneliness.

She takes a step forward, and you almost want to retreat, to press yourself away from her on instinct, a fragile thing that even a gentle touch might shatter. Yet there’s no threat in her eyes. Instead, there’s a warmth, a sadness that’s stifled by something that feels dangerously close to tenderness, to hope.

When her arms wrap around you, it feels less like a sentence and more like the inevitability of falling into a place where you want to rest the tender, hurt fringes of your soul.

You bury your face into her shoulder and sob like the child you never got to be.

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

True to her word, Kate comes home well after dark, bags under her eyes heavy as she drapes her jacket across the back of the couch. Whiskey, who until that point had been sitting attentively by your feet as you idly stroked his ears, barks and bounds over to Laswell, feet splaying forward and tail wagging. You watch as the fatigue in Laswell's eyes brightens to fondness, and she kneels to offer the German Shepherd a ruffle of his neck and a few tender words.

When she stands, she notices you past the door of the kitchen, perching on one of the barstools as Paula finishes making dinner.

"Fix." She offers in greeting, and she sounds oddly pleased, different than her usual, severe instruction to you and the team. "Good to see you."

You swallow around a piece of cracker and cheese and offer her a hesitant, shy glance with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

"Hi Chief." You supply in turn, and Kate waves a hand at you as she passes into the kitchen, Whiskey at her heels.

"You can drop the honorifics." She tells you, humor concealing the drain the day has had on her. "You're in my kitchen eating food from my pantry. This is about as informal as it gets."

"That would be my kitchen, actually?" Paula supplies her with an arched eyebrow as she stands over the stovetop, overseeing the steaks in the cast-iron pan. Yet as Laswell reaches her the feigned annoyance in her eyes fades to something sweeter, and she cranes her head as Laswell delivers a fond peck to her wife's cheek. "Hi hun, long day?"

"Aren't they all?" Kate replies, peering over Paula's shoulder and making a pleased noise at what she finds.

You shift a little where you sit, feeling suddenly as if you're deeply intruding on a very private moment between the two women.

Kate seems to notice, and she turns to you, grey eyes regarding your stiff, uneasy figure perched beside the counter. You're still dressed in your fatigues, haven't yet retrieved a change of clothes from your bag still dropped onto the couch. It makes you feel strangely out of place. Within the dim, ambient light of the kitchen, in a place that feels like the tender warmth of a hearth, the green and grey camo of your uniform makes you seem a whole world away.

You think Laswell might follow you there, might immediately ask about what happened in England, about your fight with Price, about the healing bullet wound in your side, about how long you'll be here.

Instead, Kate smiles and asks: "Chocolate or pistachio?"

You falter, perplexed by her non-sequitur, eyes blinking as you provide: "Choc...olate?"

Kate nods sagely and vanishes back in the direction of the living room. You hear her rustle around for a moment before she appears once more, hands full before she deposits a plastic container on the kitchen counter in front of you. You blink at the dessert, once more feeling a bit out of place with the strange mundanity Kate has bestowed upon you.

"Cannoli." She quips, and it startles a little gasp from Paula, who turns and delightedly snatches a plastic container from her wife's hands.

"Eastern Market?" She asks happily, and Kate nods, looking a touch pleased with herself. "No wonder you were so late."

Kate offers a tired shrug, taking a bite of her own dessert, to which Paula tsks.

"Dessert before dinner?" She inquires, and again Kate shrugs. Yet this time there's that wry smile of hers tugging at the corner of her lips as she leans against the counter beside you.

"Who's to say we can't?" She replies, and when she glances at you her eyes flicker down to your own dessert and then up to you with a meaning there you don't fully understand yet. Her grey gaze rests on yours as if she's trying to convey a message through her stare alone. It remains to be deciphered, unwritten and unspooled just like the depths of you.

When you take a bite, the sweetness coats your tongue, and there's a small, foreign part of you that twinkles with joy, like the barest sound of wind chimes in a warm breeze.

-----

Kate shows you to your room after dinner and dishes. It's sparse. A bed, a dresser, a desk, a lamp, a closet. The window you saw earlier looks into the backyard, a cushion seated inside the frame like a silent lookout. It pleases you, oddly, scratches the part of your brain that instinctively seeks perches from which to set up a sniper position.

"It's not the Ritz Carlton." Laswell tells you as you stand, frozen on the threshold. "So, you'll have to bear with it."

"No." You whisper mildly. "It's...it's perfect."

You've spent so much time sleeping in trenches, on rooftops, on planes and in safehouses and not sleeping at all that this- this room with the downy white comforter and the soft hazy light of the lamp by the bedside...is more than you think you deserve.

You lower the duffel onto the bed with a considerable amount of hesitation, feeling Kate's eyes on you as you trace the print on the decorative pillow nestled at the headboard. She's silent, in that way of hers that you know is watchful, contemplative, discerning the secrets of others like sifting sand through her fingers in search of sea glass.

"Thank you." You offer after considerable silence, feeling and gratitude beyond words, trying to swallow down the protests that threaten to spill outwards.

I don't deserve this. You think. How can I possibly stay here, with you, after you chose me and I failed? How can you forgive me for that?

When you turn to Kate, she somehow sees all of this and more written across your gaze, and she sighs.

"Fix." She begins, and normally that's enough to make you panic, shift inwards and prepare yourself to be defensive, to receive orders and bury any doubts in exchange for duty. You expect instructions, constraints, consequences in the way you've lived all your life.

Yet Laswell holds her breath, looks at you with an emotion that feels too wise and sibylline to be pity or concern. Instead, it reminds you of the prophecy she held in her gaze in Ethiopia, where she told you to find her once more, had drawn you in like a moth to flame as if she knew you needed to be burned whole to find yourself amidst the ashes.

"Whatever you need." Kate offers at last. "I'm here. I mean that."

You want to believe her, want so desperately to bask in her comfort and ask of her more than you can bear, but the whisper of something deep and dark and unknown coils in your ear, drags you down and muffles any other sound than "Thank you."

It doesn't seem to satisfy Kate, because the line of her mouth goes taut and grim, form a little tense and it's hard to not think of it as disapproval.

"There's something else." She supplies in the silence that follows. "Price...mandated that you see a therapist while you're on leave. I'm supposed to sign off when you're fit to return to duty."

You can acutely hear the sound of your own heart hammering in your ears, feel the world spin in dizzying chaos once more as you process Kate's words.

"I thought you should know." Kate tells you as your face shifts in something close to fright, anxiousness. "But in exchange you can't keep pretending like there's nothing wrong."

There is nothing wrong. You want to tell her, knowing that it's a lie. So instead, you offer her silence, refuse to damn yourself further with your protests.

Kate paces over to the desk, pulls a drawer and produces a journal, places it gingerly on the surface of the desk before looking back to you.

"You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. You don't even have to tell your therapist if you want. If you tell no one else, at least try and tell yourself."

You don't respond. What is there to say? Confess why you know you're here, that you think this is wrong despite that? That somehow for all the ruin in you, you're being punished?

Kate holds your gaze for a long moment before she closes her eyes, seemingly in resignation, pacing over to the door.

"The others..." She tells you, halfway turned to you, dim shadows slating across her form. "They care about you, Fix. We all do. I hope you remember that."

There's a pain then, one that flashes through you, makes something dull and rotted inside you crave towards brightness. You don't truly understand why it hurts until much later, curled in bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness and trying to uncover the secrets of your own heart.

You think, deep inside, it's because you want to care about yourself too.

-------

The days that follow inch by.

You try your best to make yourself at home, memorizing the schedules of the women who host you. Laswell wakes first, at an hour most would consider ungodly, making herself a meager breakfast composed mostly of coffee before she kisses Paula and heads out towards the Pentagon. Paula follows later, flitting about the house muttering about misplaced papers, keys, glasses, her purse. You learn the first evening with them that she's counsel to a large immigration defense firm in the city, her hours intense but fairly flexible. She's usually back by early afternoon and manages to retain a wealth of energy Laswell seems to lack upon her arrival. The days repeat themselves, and every morning you watch them leaves, ears ringing in the quiet, empty house they've left behind.

You try to relax, as Laswell has ordered you, at least for the first few days. You read books, leaf through the Washington Post, go on long, rambling walks with Whiskey and end up with his head in your lap as you flick through movies on TV. You watch the characters there fall into silly, desperate love, jump from burning buildings and look into the camera with dewy, glowing gazes. It feels so foreign to you, so very detached from the things you've experienced, the life you've led.

The journal on your desk goes untouched.

Kate arrives back in the evenings, and sometimes she's too tired to even talk, forcing herself to eat and then collapsing on the couch for an hour, Whiskey splayed across her front. You join her in mutual company, curl onto the other sofa and sink into the confines of your own thoughts in mutual silence. Sometimes you join Paula in the kitchen, aid her in washing dishes and cleaning the remains of dinner. Yet the unwavering warmth in her, the brightened chatter she offers feels too sharp, too indulgent against your frayed, muted senses.

Instead, you find yourself with Kate, who talks in a low, quiet voice. The tone of her feels like the ocean casting gently against a pebbled beach, rhythmic and soothing, cradling you as the clipped, wry intonation of her drops away in the solitude of evening. You feel for the first time as if you're observing not Laswell but Kate. Somehow softer but just as resilient, a glimmering glass that reveals the machinations of the world itself.

Kate talks to you about music, about politics, to which you find yourself closely aligned, about pop culture that Paula chimes in on, about her travels. She regales you with stories about her missions abroad, spending time in the dust bowls of the Middle East, of beautiful tea shops and warm people. She spins images of ruined buildings but the people there straining against injustice and wanting desperately to not just survive but to thrive. She tells you of trips down into the heart of Sub-Saharan Africa, of tracing networks of terrorists through jungles and of the many languages she's spoken to find them.

She doesn't tell you about the lives she'd lost as a result.

She's careful not to talk about work, you notice. Any intel she has to share, that which you would normally be privy to, remains conspicuously absent in your conversations. There's no discussion of intel on AQ, on Russian gangsters or foreign mercenaries or underground criminal networks. She's purposeful, calculated, and more often than not you're led by her conversations so much so that you forget the questions you want to ask.

What did you find? Where? Who? Will you send them? Which ones?

...How are they?

The mere thought of the 141 aches you to the bones, makes you hurt so badly it cracks at the very foundation of you. You haven't heard from them since you left England, and every day that passes you catch yourself staring into the messages last sent by them. Gaz, inviting you to come watch a soccer match with him and Price, one that ended up drawing all of you as Soap groaned in defeat and Gaz stood proudly on the couch whooping at the TV. Price, reminding you wheels up in fifteen, suggesting you double check your medic kit one more time before you all leave. Soap, a selfie of you and the others at a bar, where Price and a dark hooded figure sit passively in the background.

Ghost, with your message a parting, aching gift you sent while you were recovering from your original injury after being shot. He had texted to let you know he and Price would arrive shortly, bring you a change or two of clothes from your bag, that they were five minutes out.

You had sent back "See you soon."

It's on more than one night you hug your phone to your chest, chest lacing with a pain where you can't discern the phantasmal from the physical. It feels like a curse, one with no remedy, a dangerous, sacrilegious hypocrisy you scream against with no escape. It's a reminder that you, you were the one to put yourself here, the rope that bound you to them frayed by your own mistakes and snapping into nothingness, watching them rise far above you atop the summit of impossible expectations you built for yourself. You scrabble to climb it anyways, carrying stones to place at the zenith so you'll never reach the apex of your own victories.

You shake apart in your bed at night, tremble in the dark and find echoes in your sorrow. You feel your chest weigh down with the poisonous solitude and sink you further into the abyss of the ocean, far from the sun. It's dark, cold, insufferably lonely and despite the soft comfort of your bed it feels like at the slightest touch you'll splinter into irreparable fragments of yourself.

You wish you were still with them, and the pain of it draws you taut like a bowstring. Their fingers skim along your thoughts and memories, along the tether of you so they can listen to the hum. At a moment's notice they'll recoil away from you in your thoughts, snap and release. You crave the temptation of allowing yourself to shudder into their grasp, their hands embracing you and tracing along your surface like trying to coax poison from a wound. You want so desperately for them to not leave you behind, to stay in their hearts where they might someday accept you with grace, listening to the whisper of your surrender in being loved by them.

When you wake in the mornings you don't recognize the birdsong outside, mistaking it for the whistle of impending missiles.

You sometimes wonder if they died while you were asleep.

------

It's that second week into your stay that you go to see your issued therapist for the first time.

Despite your protests Paula takes time off work to take you there herself. You assure her you can call a taxi or even walk there if you have to. You've hiked kilometers wearing your whole gear set and pack before, this is not difficult. Yet Paula merely hushes you, reminds you once again of your injury, and you realize it's a lost cause to argue with her.

Even so, you squirm uncomfortably in the car on the way over, cheeks warm, feeling like a little kid again being taken somewhere you don't want to go. The sensation follows you inside, as you sit ramrod straight in the waiting area, too tightly wound to relax even an inch. Paula had given you the grace of leaving you there by yourself, but for some strange reason you wish she hadn't. Even in your shame of attending this mandatory punishment you wish selfishly that maybe she'd return, cover your hand and let the erratic thump of your heartbeat settle in your lungs.

Eventually the door to the interior office opens, and out steps an older man, hunched over with a cane, grey hairs sticking out from under a cap that reads 'Vietnam Veteran'. He glances at you over his glasses, pauses just long enough to give you a nod with a smile that barely contains the grimace underneath. It's only once he's passed that the doctor behind him calls for you, and you shoot to your feet, a live wire rigged with electricity.

The inside of his office is...quiet. It's a little strange, admittedly. There's knick knacks scattered across the shelves, wedged between acclimations and awards, plants with long stems spilling across the windowsill behind his desk. More of them perch on various stands and stools, tenderly cared for and alighting the space in greenery. The bookshelves scarcely contain the number of books within them, some stacked slightly askew to make room for more. Yet despite the crowdedness it isn't messy. It simply feels...full. Cozy, like the warmth of an open heart.

"Fix." You correct him when he sits across from you. You realize he doesn't bother with a pen and paper, doesn't sit in front of a laptop screen. You weren't sure what you were expecting- perhaps a dry, sterile office in pastel colors with motivational poster and a man clinically scratching down shorthand with a murmur of 'and how does that make you feel?'

"Fix." He agrees with a kind smile, and the sound of your own name is enough to make your leg stop bouncing.

He doesn't launch straight in, taking a moment to inform you of your rights and responsibilities as a patient, the things he is and isn't allowed to share. He reminds you that you still need to pass a psych eval before you're cleared for duty, and you swallow the urge to ask him if you can do that part already, recite the answers you already know and get back to where you belong. Yet you know Laswell, with her keen perceptive eyes, would only sigh in disappointment, recognizing the transparency of you.

"I'm a medic." You tell him in response to his prompt to introduce yourself despite the fact he's already read your file. "I'm the designated medic for an international terrorism taskforce. I can't tell you the name."

He waits expectantly, as if for you to provide something else. You falter, trying to figure out if there's anything else you should add. Yet nothing appears, nothing else than your identity built through purpose, a thing designed inherently to be useful for others.

"Do you do anything outside of work, Fix?" He gently pries, and again you hesitate, trying to find something in yourself you aren't sure exists.

"I...sometimes go out with my teammates." You offer after a pause. "Pubs, usually. Soap and Gaz, they..." You trail off, feeling once more that pain pulse through you, a hard and heavy burst of awareness against your ribs that makes the air in your chest catch. "Soap and Gaz, they like to go dancing sometimes. They dragged me along once but I didn't like all the noise and the crowds so I didn't go again."

"Sounds like you're fairly close with them." He remarks as he sits back in his chair, and you try not to grimace at his words. There's a deep ache in your chest that makes you want to press a hand there, feel the hollow where the absence of your team lies.

"Maybe." You reply enigmatically, shifting your eyes away, letting your gaze trace the electric clutter of the room, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. You think about the veteran you just saw, wonder if that’s how he sees you too- some scarred, broken thing with eyes looking distantly to the past where your nightmares echo into your soul.

"Where are they now?" He goes on, and the chest ache deepens, forces the air low in your ribs as your brow knots. You think about the faces of Soap, of Gaz, as they lingered outside your hospital room after you pushed them away. The guilt, the tearing regret inside you threatens to choke your lungs, send warmth flooding to your eyes with the memory.

"England." You answer, voice very small. "Or...I don't know. They could be deployed. I haven't been told. They..." You trail off, feel the downward spiral open inside you once more, your awareness circling the drain into where your deepest, darkest thoughts lie.

"I failed them." You say suddenly, surprising even yourself with the abrupt confession. It's more to yourself than to anyone else, a solemn reminder of the person you are, the things you couldn't achieve, the deep frost of the shadows they cast on you as they hike ever onwards into the hills.

"How so?" The therapist asks, and you look down into your fingers webbed together, upturning your palms as if they have answers.

"I...fucked up. Got myself shot." You breathe after several long minutes of silence, where you think he will fill the void, and instead waits for you. He takes a deep inhale, lets it go in contemplation before speaking.

"I don't think getting shot counts as failing them, not when you're in our occupation." He provides, and it makes your head shoot up, blinking as you meet his gaze.

"Our...?" You echo.

"Former army medic." There's a gentle smile on his face as he explains. "Left the service and went back to school. I still help soldiers, just a little different these days."

"Oh."

You're not really sure what to say to that, face turning downwards towards your hands once more. You think about the times they've been caked with blood, how often you've felt someone else's pulse bleed across your fingertips. The memories of the men and women you'd treated amidst the hail of gunfire, the whistle of incoming mortars and the distant thunder of tanks rise automatically- a warm, wet pulse on the underside of your skin. You remember every face, every set of eyes on the people you've saved, the horror of death looming in the distance.

All of them. Afraid. Confused. Desperate. Lost.

Just as you are, you think. Lost in a fate you can't seem to control no matter how desperately you strive against it. You’re constantly trying to strain towards the heavens even as you hurtle down through layers of clouds, watching feathers cast an abstract of loss behind your descending form.

"Can you tell me about what happened after you were shot?" The man before you offers once more in the silence that follows, one filled only with the thrum of your heartbeat. You breathe shaky, unsteady sigh, trying to calm the twisting knot in your stomach as you struggle to answer against the pain of recalling what events led you here.

"I went back to our home base with them" You answer at last. "...But they had to be called away on another mission, and I was still healing so I couldn't go."

You remember Price. You remember his hands on your shoulders, his face turned down. Weary but kind, stern but gentle, all the things you desperately wanted in him, soothing the balm of forgotten memories. The sound of the oak door in your father's office shutting behind you with a click that spoke of finality.

"I...was trying to heal faster." You go on, leg bouncing once more as you fail to contain the rising, frenetic energy inside of you. "I was trying to make sure I could be fine once they got back, but..."

You trail off, feel silence press heavy on your shoulders.

"But?"

"I ended up really fucking things up instead." You reply, voice small, and it hurts. The volume of your words sounds like childhood, of the echo bouncing back from the repository of the things you longed desperately to shed, to be made anew. "Made a right mess of things."

"How so?"

You grimace, feel tears threaten in your eyes. The taste of a sob sours on your tongue, and you force yourself to swallow the bitterness of it instead.

Don't cry. Don't cry. You remind yourself. Don't show them. Don't let them know.

They might leave you.

When you don't answer, let minutes lap into nothingness, his voice at last fills the emptiness between you. Gentle, coaxing, reminding you of a smoke laden reassurance that shudders through you with longing.

"It sounds like you put a lot of pressure on yourself." He observes quietly.

You pause.

Your bullet wound hurts.

"Yeah, well, someone has to." You at last reply ruefully. Your shoulders feel too tight, aching with the weight of the wings you’ve used to loft yourself towards sparkling heavens, only to reach too far and instead witness the looming maw of darkness under you.

You hate this.

You hate the feeling of someone peeling back layers of your skin, slicing through the exterior of you with a scalpel like gaze. You hate how gentle his eyes are despite how wretchedly vulnerable you feel, despise the way he can be so soothing and yet somehow reveal the rotten interior of your soul. It burns, and the pain concentrates on the center of your failures, where a bullet ripped flesh from your form and rendered you lost in the labyrinth of yourself, unable to find a way out.

"-and that person is you? Why?" He asks, and his voice echoes out, feels like it reverberates in the hollow center of you, bouncing endlessly in an irreligious choir that sings of the things you don't understand.

"I...don't know." You answer, and it's a lie. You know it is. You know the tether that binds you extends years into the past, is wrapped tight in the fist of the one whose voice echoes in the cavern of your thoughts. He dwells in the ocean below, where churning, disastrous waves of emotion close over your drowning form.

"Worthless."

The man before you pauses, seems to consider the things you've said, and the words that stay unspoken in the silence. It reminds you a bit of Laswell, of the way she can pluck unseen things from the mist and discern them like the tides of the world itself. You're caught in the rip current, carried to an unknown destination as the men you hold dear drift further away from you, their backs turned from your voice that refuses to call out.

You wish they’d turn and cast their eyes upon your form, that maybe they'd rescue you.

You're too afraid to ask.

"I think we can find out, Fix." The man before you offers at last, and it feels both like a shimmer of light in the darkness and a shadow that blots out the sun. Hopeful, terrifying, entirely foreign but somehow wanted.

"Will you tell me more about your teammates?" He goes on to ask, and you do raise your head at that, blink into his spectacled gaze with his warm smile that feels like an embrace you don't deserve.

The words tumble out before you can stop them.

You tell him. You tell him about the men you've served with, of your brothers. You tell him about Soap, with his brawny and boisterous voice, of his playful and endearing banter. You tell him about how the Scot was the first besides Price to welcome you to the team, was the one to give you your nickname when he had bled into your hands. You tell him about the moments where Soap is softer, gentler, offering himself to you in a way he hoped you'd might one day return.

Gaz, with his softer smile and unwavering focus, his deep loyalty to his team members that bolsters you all. He sees the things the rest of you don't, gaze sharp like the scope of a rifle you're all too familiar with. There's a softness to him unlike the others, one that you will sometimes forget in the midst of him at your back under a hail of gunfire. You know the sound of his laughter, know the bump of his arm against yours and the tenderness in his eyes at the things you won't admit.

Then Price, with his stern guidance that you never fail to adhere to, the hand on your shoulder that conveys more than words. You feel safety under the shelter of his wing, look to his stare that looks past the obstacles that stand in his way. He paves the way before you all, secures the ground behind you, stands in unrelenting, furious opposition to the forces that dare advance upon your mission. Yet despite his violence you feel the trust he shares in you, and you desperately crave to someday live up to it.

Ghost.

Ghost, whose real name you don't yet know, just like so many things about him. The first time you met him was in a briefing room, Price standing tall beside you and announcing you to the team. Ghost had leveled his dark, dead gaze at you from afar, and despite the urge to shrink away you had instead returned his stare wordlessly, allowing your own resilience to shine through. You remember how his eyes had widened a mere fraction, a tell you would come to learn as interest.

You know it had been him who had taken off your boots when you collapsed into your bunk after Nepal. You know it had been him to give Price the thermos of tea to bring you in the hospital. You know it had been him who had gently lowered you onto the floor of the plane upon your return to England, ensured you wouldn't wake up sore and hurting.

You know it was he who had told Price of your failures- had revealed the depths of your own self-hatred blossoming like carnations across the skeletal grasp of his glove.

You know he's always been able to see you more than anyone else.

You don't say all this, of course, the secrets of your wishes and desires for these men stay close to your heart. You know by now the sacredness of things left unsaid, even if the swell of them inside you threatens to fester your bones, rip feathers from your flesh.

Don't let them know. Don't let them know. Don't let them know because you'll find out just how disappointed they are. You'll find out they never wanted you to begin with.

At last, your therapist nods, as if to himself, before leaning forward a bit so his elbows rest on his knees. He looks at you, and in your weary heart left in the wake of your memories, you feel the clairvoyant gaze of him pierce into your ribs where the ache of it all dwells.

"Can you come back next week?" Is all he offers.

You aren't sure. You want to say no, that this is far too much, that you've already spoken more than you want to. You're afraid if you share more he might somehow decide your fate for you, might pull the strings of fate so you will never return to the place you're supposed to be.

Yet, somehow, you say yes instead.

------

You go home, silent on the drive with Paula, who gives you grace in the absence of words. You are silent for the rest of the day too, offer scant bits of conversation as you pick at dinner. The world feels different somehow. The air rushing past your ears feels quieter, the wind not as sharp against your skin. You’re still falling, still sinking, still watching the heavens loom too large above your form. You recall the memory of being younger, smaller, looking up at the unfathomable expanse of the world and wondering when you would grow to meet its size.

You stare up at it in the darkness of your bedroom, hear the gale howl in the silence of midnight. There’s questions left to you that you have no answers for, upturning your palms once more and trying to sift sand through them in search of something there you don’t yet know.

"That person is you? Why?"

It has to be me. You think to yourself, hearing the sound of your own voice hush against the emptiness of your room. Nobody else is here anymore to do the same. I have to be better. I can't fail. I can't disappoint them. That way they can't see the failure I am inside.

Don't let them see. Please, dear God don't let them see.

It's a desperate cry into the midnight, a hand thrown up in desperation that sears against the sun. The blistering brightness of it burns against the back of your eyelids, rendering you blind to yourself. White consumes your vision, and you hear the fated whisper of snow blindness echo against the fraught fringes of your soul once more.

"I see you. Just you."

You blink, once more feel the tug of pain in your side where his hand had clamped down on your scarlet wound. The sight of his eyes is inescapable in the realm of your thoughts. Dark, grim, gazing into you as if somehow he is discerning himself. You remember those same eyes as you had bled over his fingertips, had begged him to please, please not look. You remember seeing something that flickered across his stare, that had shaken you to your core, trembled the foundation of the earth under your feet.

Grief.

You rise from your bed, stare into the darkness of your room, feeling the Earth rotate under your falling form. You spread your arms, trying to slow your descent as you pace over to your desk where the gift from Laswell lies.

If you can't tell anyone. At least tell yourself.

You pick up the journal and begin to write.

Tag List: (Reblog this post to be added to future fics from this series! If you'd like to be removed please DM me!)

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfieriiii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @alicesfracturedmirror @rentaldarling @mockerycrow @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @tinykaka @dumb-djarin @homicidal-slvt @soapskneebrace @nightingale-ghost-writer @selinn777 @nachtcirce @jujubashow @mutuallimbenclosure @kkinky @trash-boi-4-life @scatter-mind001

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley #mw2 #cod mw22 #Simon ghost riley x oc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #I'm actually really proud of this #and honestly this series isn't as beloved as some of my other faster dirtier sloppier pieces #But I'm okay with that #because at the end of the day this story is and has always been for me #It isn't something I choose to write #It's something that's existed in me all along #and even if people don't like it I am desperately in love with Fix's world and that's what matters

[dreamingaboutsakuratrees]

Dear God how I fucking hate when people dismiss s character's traits because "that's just a facade! you as the reader have to see underneath it!!" like yeah no fucking shit Sherlock, a well written character has more than one (1) defining trait but that doesn't mean their most prominent one or the one most recognized by fandom ISN'T there

yes this is about people thinking dick grayson isn't actually a ray of sunshine, that it's just a mask. he's much more than the happy one, of fucking course, all batfam members (when written well) are, but that doesn't mean that being happy and bright is not a crucial part of his personality. he brings light to people's lives, he's a beacon of hope, that's what Robin was born for, as a light to Batman's darkness. That's what Nightwing is. He can be serious, sure. He's smart, an amazing strategist, incredibly good at fighting, he can be manipulative and morally gray and sometimes an objectively bad person. But he's ALSO funny and quippy and bright and sunshine. BECAUSE HE'S WELL WRITTEN.

Like Jesus stop making him so sad and wrong all the time just because you want so bad to go against "fanon". It's not fanon if it's literally his core trait. It's not fanon if it's what the character was BORN AS. God.

#I'm not sure if this even makes sense #it's almost 6am I haven't slept and I just saw someone say he's a manipulative bitch and to stop writing him as a ray of sunshine #and now I'm mad #because this parson had this lukewarm takes with most of the batkids #like yeah I get a lot of damian's traits and back story are deeply rooted in racism #but like he did try to kill tim. and he killed a bunch of people when he first got to Gotham. that's a thing that happened. #and no matter how racist the reason behind that plot line might have been #it's something that happened and choosing to believe it didn't happen because it doesn't fit your preconceived ideas of how #a character should or should not be is just plain stupid #you can explore the character and change their personality and play with them in fanfic sure that's what we all do #but don't pretend that canon doesn't exist. you can choose to utilize it or not but acknowledge it even if it's just to spit in it's face #damian's not tame he's not more chill than his brothers he's not misunderstood #he's a child who had a horribly traumatic childhood and reacts with violence because that's all he knows #Jason's angry and he has every right to be and to say he isn't is to erase an incredibly important part of his character #you don't get to tell a victim how to be a good victim. Jason's a victim. #dc #batman #rambles #batfam #batfamily #dc universe #dc comics #batman and robin #dick grayson #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #nightwing #red hood #oh look I made a post about dc that is NOT about Tim #wild huh

[bleaksqueak]

Woah dang, waking up to 99+ notifs on tumblr almost always means that an old Homestuck piece is going around again... imagine my delighted surprise to see it was all notifs about Soli! That was a great thing to wake up to. Felt an actual flutter in my chest. Thank you so much, everyone! And apologies for how Elias' hair keeps subtly changing. You always kind of figure out exactly how a character looks and how to draw them as you go along with sequential art. It, funny enough, largely comes from figuring out their acting (so lots and lots of different angles and features that need to shift/change slightly to carry the weight of looking like they should feel, for lack of a better way to describe it ) At any rate, glad to see people are excited for chapter 3! next update will be next week, and will be a two page spread.

#solivaga #yackin #it isn't the first time by a long shot that I've woken up to see my inbox full of soli notifs #but that usually only happens when I'm actively updating the comic or have posted a new big fancy illustration #that dies down considerably ofc when we're at a between chapter pause because old fandom work has the power to stay searchably relevant #and it's probably common for comic authors to worry that if they don't get back to updating ASAP they'll come back to no audience #so coming back with the main storyline of chapter 3 and a couple of preview snippets filling my notifs for this project that I love so much #definitely made me happy #there's just a joy in sharing something important to you and introducing characters and their stories to others #ofc I say all of this and have been going through my askbox like an absolute slug lol #if I could choose the world's most niche and specific superpower I would ask to split my creative attention when i'm really deep in it #but my brain demands to Live in the Scene when writing it or drawing very acting-heavy or important scenes #and I become Slug #Rat slug #new animal for the veil

[hypermascbishounen]

Thinking again about how healing from cycles of revenge and abuse is a pretty common theme in manga and anime,

and in particular from fathers or other male authority figures who have hurt boys in shounen manga and anime,

and how most of them start off from the beginning with the stance that hatred is consumptive, sometimes from a cultural Buddhist context,

to set up how a character will ultimately need to move beyond hating his abusers in order to fully heal,

and how the current wave of english-speaking manga and anime fans new to the genre, don't seem to notice any of this, and get extremely angry if the story pays off its own set-up, and has any character heal in any way that isn't just hating an abuser forever.

#I really wanna know how these people always wind up long term stanning a series that blatantly disagrees with them #And then still react like surprised_tails.jpg when it concludes exactly how it said it was going to #“Why does my baby still love people who hurt him? #In the story where everyone who chooses resentment becomes a villain and is horse punched 1000 times?" #On one hand I think some of this is maybe cultural Christians not getting how something isn't in that context #Maybe also some people just aren't at that point where this type of story is as valuable as revenge catharsis comfort #But I'm just baffled by how often people seem to feel like a really consistent theme came out of nowhere or was “wrong” writing #Why and how are you in the fandom for the story whose opening arc was “resolving to resent your way out of trauma is destructive”? #Like I thought that was the thing you had to be cool with to get on board

[philosophiums]

there's a conversation happening on tiktok right now about why there has been such a sharp rise in people wanting to watch female-led anime instead of being so focused on shonen and the girl who posted the video listed her reasoning as shonen constantly fucking up "power creep" (her words but i'm pretty sure she meant power scaling).

anyway i'm going to subject you all to my thoughts on this because i refuse to post anything on tiktok. (i'm also putting this under a read more because it got longer than i thought it would SKJDBVKJDBVJ).

now, i don't think complaints of power scaling in shonen is a bad thing, but i also don't think it's actually the problem with shonen (nor do i think it's the reason that there's an increase in interest for female leads bc i think that's literally just people wanting to see more female main characters which is not new or surprising or weird, but that's not the point of this rn).

i think the problem with shonen (most of the time) is the lack of actual story content - like fucking... plots and themes and motifs.

her two examples were mha and jjk because to her they sit on opposite sides of the spectrum in regards to power scaling (in mha the villains are so weak that children can defeat them, and in jjk the villains are so strong that no one can defeat them), so i'm also going to work off of these two examples.

mha's problem is not that the children are the only ones who can fight the big bads, it's that we don't get to see proof that the kids are actually stronger than the adults. sure there's evidence of adults fighting the villains and losing vs the kids fighting the villains and winning, but there's no setup for like a mentor/mentee moment of the mentee finally besting their mentor and us the audience getting to see that they're finally stronger. in fact it's... typically the opposite.

mha shows us multiple times that even the strongest characters in the main cast of kids are not stronger than, say, kids who are two years older than them or their teachers, let alone the best and strongest professional heroes in the verse. and that's not a power scaling issue, that's a storytelling issue. because you can set up stories where kids are stronger than the adults in their verse, and you can write it in a way that makes sense, but mha does not do that.

and of course mha has multiple other storytelling problems, not the least of them being the fact that it set itself up to be one of those "if you believe in yourself and try hard enough you can do anything" stories only to immediately undermine itself by giving the mc the most powerful ability in the verse free of charge, making the entire opening sequence have zero emotional payoff (a problem that continues on and on forever in the anime/manga).

jjk, on the other hand, set itself up to be a story about cycles, about the past repeating itself, about the inevitability of curses and hardship and never learning from past mistakes, but all of that was completely abandoned somewhere in the middle of the shibuya arc and was never touched on again.

all of the main characters in jjk have direct mirrors within the main cast - yuji & geto, fushiguro & gojo, nobara & shoko, maki & toji, nanami & mei mei, the list goes on - and it had the perfect opportunity to either be a story about the inevitability of trauma cycles OR a story about breaking those cycles, but instead half the cast is now dead and it's become a manga that's just about cool-looking fights.

the problem with jjk is not that the villains are too strong/unbeatable (i actually think there could have been merit to making jjk a story where the villains win, but that would have required focusing on the theme of cycles which, again, has unfortunately been lost) - it's just that there's no fucking plot anymore. there's no meat. there's no point. even if the goal of jjk from the beginning was to subvert a lot of typical shonen tropes, it's so so hard to care about that anymore because there's no reason. the plot is gone, the themes have vanished, the emotion is no longer in the room with us, and it has absolutely nothing to do with (im)balances of power within the verse.

but of course this is not a new problem in shonen. it's so incredibly rare for shonen to have a good story that maintains from start to finish in a satisfying arc, and that's almost a staple of the genre now - training arcs and a war arcs and lots of fighting and very little actual substance. the ones that do have it are gold mines. but again, this is not a new problem and it's not a new conversation, and i don't think it's the heart of why that girl posted that video or why all those people agree with her.

i truly think the actual reason this conversation is happening is because there's a new set of people who have recently turned twenty-something and are realizing that they don't identify with shonen protagonists anymore because they're no longer teenagers. and i think those people are upset that the characters/stories aren't aging with them and are finally looking at all the shows they like and are realizing that they're constructed around a trope of, essentially, child soldiers fighting battles that the adults in their verses cannot. and these people are realizing that they maybe don't like that anymore.

because when you're a teenager, shonen is escapism or a power fantasy or both. it's more relatable because it's made for that age group. but when you're an adult you start going "hey... where are these kids' parents?" because you realize that it's unfair and unreasonable in real life to put so much pressure on literal children. (i always think of that post that went around tumblr a few years ago that was a gif of this character in a tv show saying something like "i'm 13. i'm practically an adult." - bc when you're a 10 year old watching that, you go Yeah That's Right She's So Old, but when you're 30 watching that, you're just internally groaning because you have been a full legal adult for this child's entire life and they're barely older than a baby to you).

but of course shonen (and YA lit and superhero cartoons/comics and the list goes on) is not meant to be "realistic."

but just because it's not crafted as realism doesn't mean it shouldn't have story elements or themes that can reflect reality and/or be applied to real life. it also doesn't mean it can't have a fucking plot SKJDBVJKDVB

#i just had to get that off my chest it was bothering me #like yes i do think the magic system in jjk is underdeveloped and wishy-washy and too complicated for something with so little substance #and also yes i do think mha is just a story about the justification of child soldiers #but also i don't think that's the reason they're bad #fucking. edward elric is *literally* a child soldier but fma is amazing because fma has a plot and themes #(one of which *is the fact that he is a literal child soldier* like...) #ugh anyway #i think im ranting because im frustrated that people will blame anything except bad writing #like sometimes you just have to admit that there isn't a plot and either choose to enjoy it for the pretty animations/art #or choose to leave because it no longer has substance #but you *gotta* be able to consume media and at least be able to notice when the Thing That's Wrong is the lack of an actual story #hhhhhhhhh #okay im done

[lord-squiggletits]

Do you ever read a post online where someone complains about how "IDW never talks about this [idea/character/plot/theme]" and you just think to yourself... this person hasn't read anything besides MTMTE have they?

Really sad when you see people complaining "the story never talked about this!" and act angry about it as if it's some oppressive flaw that the writer (JRO) was evil for never talking about but it's like. Bud if you just read exRID/OP or maybe Windblade/TAAO you would have read plenty about that.

The two worst ones I can think of off the top of my head are "Optimus is always treated like a saint, I hate how he gets away with everything just because he's a Prime" (wrong, read literally anything Barber writes) and "the Decepticons never get a sympathetic perspective, they're always just villains and the narrative is totally just treating them as if being revolutionaries makes them evil" (wrong, read several side stories that Barber wrote). Like literally the moral of the story is just "read something besides MTMTE."

And I'm not complaining about people who are just curious or don't know. I'm talking specifically about people who complain, or say MTMTE is bad, or generally act as if JRO's writing/MTMTE/LL represents the entirety of IDW1 and basically act like, if JRO didn't write it it doesn't exist and clearly since he didn't write it that means no one else did. Like please I'm begging you to read the other less popular but still good series in IDW1 and you'll find multiple stories/ideas that they tell that MTMTE/LL doesn't.

#also it's just funny to me that mtmte/ll readers will complain about there being no decepticons #my brother in christ you are reading the story about autobots in an autobot ship going on an autobot adventure #like. the entire premise is that it's a ship full of autobots and a few other random people they pick up #why are you reading the autobot story and getting mad it's mostly about autobots. this is the TF idw equivalent of 'read another book' #also don't complain about how the story never talked about xyz thing when you've only read one single series #squiggposting #granted i don't think JRO and his work are without flaw but like #idk i think there's just something about how like. just bc JRO didn't write it doesn't mean you can't find it elsewhere in idw #that and people seem too inclined to think that the comic writers all conspired to write/not write certain things for an agenda #when in reality they were just a bunch of independent writers trying to make things kinda coherent but mainly doing their own things #anyways. i would recommend reading the phase 2 dinobot trilogy by barber and the autocracy trilogy by metzen #barber's stuff in general is worth reading. i don't like a lot of his choices but he DID choose to write about them #i think it's worth reading his stuff if only as food for thought and more ideas even if his execution was middling in many parts #i also think mscott's stuff isn't talked about much and is underrated for how much exciting stuff is in it

[haru-desune]

Somewhere in another world

#this isn't particularly good art but it's art I made and it comes from a place of love and I'm choosing to believe it has meaning #maybe I'll write something for it :) #stray #stray game #stray outsiders #stray momo #stray doc #stray zbalthazar #stray B12 #stray clementine

[torchickentacos]

Literary devices, how I adore you... allusion, colloquialism, alliteration, metaphor, simile, juxtaposition (!!!!!!!), anntithesis, foreshadowing, imagery, symbolism, personification, irony, hyperbole???? All amazing.

#juxtaposition is my favorite child #and antithesis. they're similar #I ADORE working with them #or like. if I'm going to be using imagery. choosing it in a way that isn't as common #say i wanted to represent happiness or sadness with weather and seasons. usually summer is happy and winter is sad #OR INSTEAD #it's looming summer thunderstorms and heavy air versus the sunlight reflecting off of snow with a warm coffee mug in your hands #imploring more people to mess with and learn about literary devices #ALLITERATION TOO. I LOVE IT #idk maybe that's an unpopular opinion but I like alliteration sparingly #it can add a really nice rhythm and emphasis in a sentence #something i really like to do is adding a lot of more complex words in clusters for emphasis #it forces the reader to slow down and really SIT in the scene as they. not decode but just understand it #fall out boy is really fun to look at through a literary lens btw. they do a LOT of fun wordplay constantly #ts and marianas trench too. though ts is sometimes a bit on the nose about it #marianas trench has some really nice lyricism actually. idk why they never took off as much as other bands of the era #I could definitely write an essay on marianas trench's lyricism #mitski is good at imagery #i should have been an english major. this is entertainment to me

[books-and-dragons]

hi, i saw your post about grigori angels and was wondering why this disproves the kokabiel and baraquiel!crowley theories? sorry if this has been asked before, or it's obvious!

hey anon, nothing to be sorry about!!

i wouldn't necessarily say the fact kokabiel and baraquiel are grigori disproves the theory, if only because we don't know how the grigori story fits into the good omens canon- and playing fast and loose with the bible stories is always an option so it's still a possibility, just an unlikely one if we follow the orginal biblical canon; as the grigori arrive much later on, and their 'fall' is not the same one as we see with 'lucifer's angels'

regardless, the grigori are fascinating to consider- especially in the gomens universe! they're unique amongst angels, and still vastly different from demons- the only ones who well and truly get humans

i'll start by quickly sharing the grigori lore, then bring it back to crowley

The Grigori

the grigori are detailed in the book of enoch, and their time is after eden, after the beginning. with sin now being an option for humans, the grigori were created and sent to earth to understand human behaviour

their name translates to 'the watchers'. an apt title for their role: watchers over humanity. the reason for this is debated, but fundamentally we come down to the important fact that the grigori, with their unique position as Watchers, understood humans better than any other angel- which was the whole point. why humans sinned, and how to influence them towards virtue and faith while still allowing humans to maintain their free will.

then, things began to change. the grigori started to interact with humans, taught us of technology and knowledge that we would soon discover ourselves. they later began to marry humans. they copulated with humans- from this, we had the nephilim. i don't need to reiterate how that particular tale ends. at least, not for the nephilim.

The Second Fall

here's the fun part. at least, in the context of talking about 'Fallen Angels'

in the eyes of god, the grigori had left their place of belonging, heaven, in favour of humans and earth. for this act, they were to fall.

except, the grigori didn't fall. at least, not in the sense we tend to define falling.

jude, verse six, outlines as much. 'and the angels that kept not with their first estate but left with their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgement of the great day'

it would be more accurate to say the grigori were cast out, that they are in 'time out'- for they were not stripped of their grace, nor did they fall to hell/become demons as lucifer's angels did. instead their punishment is to spend the rest of their years on earth, until the day of judgement. for all intents and purposes they are still angels, just not yet allowed back into heaven.

(when we consider that the grigori had already been living on earth, amongst humans, there's something to be said for wondering if this is really a punishment at all. god really fumbled the bag on that one, or maybe it was intentional. the grigori tale is full of interesting debates!)

from what i gathered, this event is [colloquially] referred to as 'the second fall'. it happens after the original fall, the better known one. a long time after- given the grigori are after eden.

the important takeaways about the grigori come down to this: they are unique amongst angels for understanding humans, they are the parents of the nephilim, and they 'fell' from heaven- but not in the same way

Fitting with Good Omens/Angel!Crowley theories

if we're following the biblical canon here, crowley couldn't have been kokabiel or baraqiel for they are both grigori. they didn't fall with lucifer, not as the-angel-that-crowley-was did. by the time of kokabiel and baraquiel, crowley the demon already existed.

the grigori came after the beginning, once humans had already left eden. their 'fall' is referred to as the 'second fall', nevermind the fact that they didn't really fall at all. the grigori aren't in hell, they aren't demons- they're still angels. contrastingly, crowley fell, and very much is a demon- he's part of the first [real] fall, one of lucifer's angels. let's also remember that a very important part of the grigori story is how they fell for, and into bed with, humans- and procreated with them. somehow, this isn't something i envision for the-angel-that-was-crowley

this said, crowley (and aziraphale) were definitely about on earth during the time this was happening. they witnessed the flood themselves (the incident designed for the purpose of destroying the nephilim, the offspring of grigori and humans), and i'm sure at least aziraphale would have heard about the 'second fall', if not also crowley along with the rest of hell (also, imagine how pissed you'd be if you took a million-light-year dive into sulphur, came out a demon of hell, only for these 'watcher angels' to also be called fallen, when all they did was get put in time out for several millenia. the unfairness has to sting)

i like to imagine crowley had a form of healthy tolerance-bordering-appreciation for grigori angels- they value humanity's free will, shared knowledge with humans that often centred on creative and technological developments, even when this meant punishment by god

what makes the grigori so interestingly unique is their understanding of humans and what may drive them to sin. it's a skill that even aziraphale, with his appreciation for humanity, hasn't quite grasped yet

i don't think we'll ever actually see the grigori in good omens, since they're not too widely known of, but they fit so perfect to the good omens theme of discussing human morality and behaviour that we see debated by crowley and aziraphale. they'd both have very different, very strong, feelings about the grigori and their fate- which is fun to think about

#ask #i am fascinated by grigori if it isn't obvious enough asdf i'm s o r r y for that #i definitely deviated from the original point #good omens #crowley #angel!crowley #i called them grigori wayy more than 'the watchers' here but they're called 'the watchers' more often in theology/also the bible #i just prefer 'grigori' #it sounds nicer #please please p l e a s e talk to me about the grigori bc obsession doesn't quite cover it #also what i love so much about the grigori is how you can interpret that story and it's implications in so many different ways #i'd l o v e to write something for this but honestly i'd be too invested and it would be too long so i am choosing ~peace~ #ohhh also also when you remember the grigori side it brings a whole new level of angst to the mysopotamia/noah's ark time period- #for both crowley and aziraphale!! #oh the brainworms are brainworming #i'll never stop thinking about this

[fist-amidst-the-hands]

something something after a particularly rough fight izzy has a cut high on his cheekbone near the corner of his eye. ed tends to his injuries and maybe it's the rum or maybe it's the way izzy is looking at him but he can't stop thinking about placing a tender kiss right over the mark

#ofmd #ofmd hc #blackhands #maybe they've fucked before maybe they've even made out a few times (drunkenly) but this... #this level of tenderness is something thats been building and growing and threatening to boil over but never has #because they can justify a quick fuck or even a sloppy drunken makeout session #that tension is strung so taught it's easy for it to snap #but this... this isn't tension. it's not strained enough for a snap #it's wide and deep and surrounds them like an unseen haze #it runs through their veins at all times it's always there it's gentle #hard to know when it even started and harder still to know what the tipping point will be because well #it's been there for so long #in my head this is when they're young and still crewmates on someone else's ship #later when they give each other their first tattoos izzy lets ed pick what to give him and just says 'keep it simple' #so ed chooses that spot just below the corner of his eye where he first gave in to tenderness #izzy blushes when he realizes and ed jalf smirks half smiles at the response #also this wasn't intended to be part of it BUT since ed can't read/write this is basically ed's signature right #oof i also want to make this part of a bigger thing but only time will tell #y'all when i said i can and i will go off in the tags I was NOT joking askdlfs #just a little post #... with big tags

[cool-as-steel]

ahoy! do you happen to have any fic recs? for the original TI book that is

why yes, I do! (arranged in publication order, for lack of any better way of offering them)

A Man of Substance by the_alchemist (John Silver/Mrs. Silver, G) - based in the small but intriguing mentions of Silver's marriage that we get in canon, this story imagines how that might have come about.

Middle Watch by Verecunda (Livesey/Trelawney, G) - imagining up a missing scene on the island in brilliantly RLS-reminiscent style.

A Most Ardent Suit by George_Sand_II (Livesey/Trelawney, G) - a continuation of the previous fic, a collection of very well-drawn scenes of eighteenth century courtship.

oh, you're my place to go by soundsandsweetairs (Livesey/Trelawney, G) - struggle, stress, and a little bit of sweetness aboard ship.

keep your fires bright by chiroptera_in_the_cupola (G) - something to be said about stories and the men who tell them.

threads are coming loose by chiroptera_in_the_cupola (Livesey & Smollett, G) - an immediately post-canon character study of the captain and the doctor.

and we march on, hand in hand by harpernovakaine (Livesey/Trelawney, T) - a bit of both past and future for the doctor, and a fantastic portrait of the relationship in between.

make my bed where the bodies lie by chiroptera_in_the_cupola (T) - a post-canon check-in with the marooned mutineers! they are not doing very well!

and then, if you'd like to go really classic, there's always The Persons of the Tale, a little metanarrativical story written by Robert Louis Stevenson himself! this is not precisely fic, but it's definitely one of my go-to recommendations for anyone who's interested in the book!

#do I have an ask tag #treasure island #fic rec #most of the fic (at least 4/5 of it) is either crossovers or in russian - this is picking through the 40ish works that remain afterward #(if you're interested in either of those things‚ I am probably not the fellow you should be asking) #I do wish there was a little more gen/worldbuilding-style fic on here but there isn't a great deal to choose from #maybe I should nominate it for exchanges or something... but then I would have to write to a deadline and that is not in the cards now #anyway if you enjoy these and would like More‚ most of these authors have written other good fics as well! #this is just a little sample of things that I thought might be good to start with

[simptasia]

when i was a kid i used to write stories about dr. katz, a 6 foot tall cat man who was a paediatrician. but he’d always eat all his patients. he ate children. i never explained how he kept his job, considering all the dead children. anyways, i’d always draw him wearing an old fashioned nurse uniforms, like in cartoons. that wasn’t to imply crossdressing was some creepy lunatic thing, i just found it more fun to draw a nurse’s uniform than some regular doctor uniform

#it wasn't very deep. dr. katz just lures kids into his exam room and eats them #while the parents wait obliviously #they sent me to principal and he told me not to draw/write dr. katz anymore because it was too disturbing apparently #this annoyed me #so for next creative writing class i wrote a story #about a magical talking watermelon who is happy all the time. and he uses his magic to make other people happy all the time #and by ''makes'' i don't mean he provides things that make people happy. he MADE people happy. all the time. by force #(pretty biting satire for a 9 year old eh?) #and the principal found this delightful (lacking any self awareness) and told me to keep up the good work #the next week i went back to dr. katz stories. i just really liked drawing that upright cat wearing a nurse uniform okay! #so to me. a magical talking watermelon is my symbol for stifled creativity #i eventually got bored of repeatedly writing/drawing a cat doctor graphically murdering children #but point is it was up to ME when i stopped doing that #anyways something i like about the dr. katz world is how apparently a giant cat being a member of human society isn't anything abnormal #and as i said repeatedly to my teachers and friends: no he isn't pretending to be a doctor. he went to medical school. he is a doctor #he just chooses to... eat his patients. he gets paid for it too #but like if he wanted to he would actually be a really good doctor

[athousandcowboys]

What sorts of stories do u like writing? Any ideas ur excited about right now??

I’m kind of newish to writing stories, so I guess I don’t have a set genre/preference yet. I wrote a lot of fiction as a kid but got bored of it eventually, and I never finished anything. The most I’ve done since then is creative nonfiction essays, which can be cathartic but definitely a very different skillset.

I haven’t gotten an idea for an original story yet, so for now I’m just working on fanfiction. I’ve been thinking kind of obsessively about the Zelda II backstory ever since I thought it would be fun to imagine what would mean for all that to go down in the context of the canon that’s been established ever since.

Originally I was just going to write a story about Aurora and her brother (who I named Itentio), two Golden Age siblings under immense pressure who are at each other's throats until the bitter end.

But the more I thought about it, the more I became interested in Aurora's life after waking up, so now this idea has evolved into a LU fic. The POV flips from Traveler to Aurora to Dawn, and we get a flashback scene from each of them while the present-day story deals with them confronting their respective pasts.

I'm still kind of in early drafting stages, but so far the story involves Traveler's dad, Aurora's dad (lots of dads), Dawn's political life, uncertainty vs. certainty at the end of the world, rehydrated wizzrobes, the blood curse, monsters who don't want to be monsters, and lots and lots of magic.

#i rewrote this so many times idk if it's coherent anymore #i probably should have waited until i had more energy but i was too excited to not infodump immediately #i did the exact same thing u did lmao like oh she probably doesn't want every explanation for the worldbuilding i did #apparently it is so much??? i could go on forever about the zelda ii manual #isn't it interesting that the palaces could only be completed with magic #like the king not only had powerful enough magic himself to cast a spell on the triforce but he also designed challenges #for a future king that relied on magic #it's because they're from the same place! #an isolated country of sorcerers who don't have a divine right monarchy like Hyrule #they choose leaders based on who can complete the sacred seven trials #also isn't it interesting that traveler has to learn those spells from people who are hiding in basements #could it be that most hyruleans are a little spooked by their magic? #must have something to do with all those old legends of heroes who fought evil sorcerers #traveler would really rather not unpack his past. would be a shame if the narrative forced him to #okay enough ranting in the tags i am SO TIRED this must all look so unhinged lmao #hy writes #weetbixbb

[ujunxverse]

ngl the 2023 writerblr/ficblr climate is so bad....

#ujutxt #lol there's barely a community on here anymore #nobody is also actively reading fics #like there's a reason why so many of your favorite writers from the covid nctblr renaissance era are gone #it's because y'all decided to get lazier and lazier and stop reading fics #no hate to smaus or drabbles they're great #it's just that with the current gen z atmosphere there are too many consumers with the attention span of a worm #that nobody is willing to leave comments/feedback or put effort into consuming quality content #i've complained about this so many times but like for consumers to be so demanding yet do the bare minimum in return #isn't that a little unfair for the creatives who choose to do this all for free #just a food for thought #also with how rampant plagiarism is i get the want to be skeptical #i just hate that content farming has come to this... #all because y'all are so desperate for attention instead of writing for the sake of writing #or becoming a creative to produce art not want niche microcelebrity fame tf... #on god there's something wrong with children these days #it seems that virality is what drives people to do things instead of idk #actual interest in the hobby or topic #in the end i don't really care what you read because it's not like i can control that #people come here for escapism and although i won't judge you for reading filth on this platform just don't expect me to write it #there's just something in me that can't write it because every time i see the word cock i just laugh and can't take my work seriously

[neverendingford]

.

#tag talk #color says shit #okay here's the deal right? cursed lineage is actually a very solid plot. like. fighting the destiny laid out for you by your birth? solid #the thing about being a Skywalker and drawing parallels between Rey and Luke and how being the son of Anakin was a big deal #there's genuinely solid material there. I lowkey got chills part way through when Kylo was like something something you were born to it. #there's actually a lot of potential for good angst and the classic “choose good even when you're inclined towards evil” (paarthurnax style) #self doubt and fear of “who you really are” and then the choice to choose who you are. it's actually a really impactful narrative done well #it just absolutely was not done well #kind of like the “Rey is a self insert mary-sue” yeah and Luke was Lucas' self insert oc. it's not bad but it needs to be written well #the problem isn't women characters the problem is bad writing #anyway I'm not actually that good at media and character analysis so I'm gonna try to not gonna put my mouth in my foot on that point. #I just. like.. there were in fact some moments I liked. very very few. but they were there. #but good material poorly executed is still not very enjoyable unless it caters to a very specific interest (you're allowed to like bad media #you can like bad media. ofc. but damn if the execution was not great.

[nagweon]

normally when i write starters, i try to do them in the order that people liked the starter call, but... i think for my own sanity this time around, i'm gonna write them in an order based on a) if a muse was selected & b) whether i have some ideas already of what to write.

so!! i'm sorry if i take a little longer to get to some, but they will all be done (hopefully today tbh)!!

#i don't mind if someone doesn't choose it's just that if a muse ISN'T selected i have to sit around and do twice as much thinking lmao #makes it take a little longer so i'd rather write out things i at least already have some more certain ideas for you know? #i end up a bit discouraged if i try to stick to the order they're requested in these cases #...arguably i just think too much about these things in general but we're working on that lmao #( who says a dream must be something grand ) / * ooc .