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amtrak-official · 7 months
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Okay, outdoor art is pretty cool, let's rate some of it, images will be provided below
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pedrito-friskito · 1 year
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strawberry wine - joel miller x fem!reader
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during - part seven
series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
tommy takes care of joel as best he can, and you try and make a break for it.
a/n: y’all I am having way too much fun writing this story. part 7 earlier than planned, and tbh I’ll probably post part 8 tomorrow if I can. the inspo is REAL and thank you all for the comments and reblogs and messages and general love and support - you have no idea how happy it makes me!! 🤍
word count: 4.6k
warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, angst, canon-typical violence and injuries, death, blood, near-death experiences, questionable decisions on the military’s part
✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new works/chapters!✨
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Tommy watches his brother fall apart.
It’s one thing after another, and he can’t blame Joel. The world’s ending; everything else is falling apart, it only makes sense that he would too. But still, it hurts. Watching his big brother — the only constant in his life for as long as he can remember — break down, it makes Tommy hurt in a way he can’t fully comprehend. It’s not fair.
He thinks about the soldier, in the days that follow. He’d come up the ridge just as the gunfire sounded, already looking for his brother and niece, never expecting to find them the way that he did. Joel was pleading, already hurt, his hands in the air, as good a white flag as any, and the soldier just didn’t care. It went against everything in Tommy, but when the soldier lifted the gun again, Tommy fired first.
But then…Sarah.
There was so much blood. He should be used to it, being who he is, seeing what he’s seen. But it’s different, it feels different, it sits in the back of his mind and haunts his every step. She was so young. So bright, so good. And then just, gone.
“Tommy, help me!”
He’d never heard Joel like that, so desperate, so lost. The only moment that rivalled it was when they’d been in the truck, Tommy driving, Joel with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Talking to you, asking where you were, if you were safe.
“It’s everywhere,” Joel had said, and Tommy had felt a distinct feeling of helplessness wash through him. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t just in Austin. He focused on the road, tried not to look too closely at the chaos in the distance. Shit was hitting the fan, in every sense.
He tightened his grip on the wheel as Joel continued talking to you. You were hurt, Joel telling you to patch yourself up. “I’m not hanging up until you do.”
Tommy could hear the ache in his brother’s voice. Joel had never let you go, not completely, and Tommy knew it. He didn’t blame Joel for it; having you around was the happiest he’d seen his brother in a long time. He liked you, too, liked your laugh and your sense of humour, the way you looked at Joel like you were seeing him for the first time, every time.
He had to swerve the truck as another car barrelled down the road in the opposite direction. Joel grabbed for the dashboard, phone still glued to his ear. “I’m gonna find you, you hear me? Just get out of Boston and I swear to you, I’m gonna find you!” A pause, and Joel stared at the phone. Tommy could see his brother’s hands shaking. “It’s dead.”
A moment later, the radio — which had been spewing news reports since Joel had picked Tommy up — went silent. Joel tossed his phone onto the truck floor, slammed his fist into the dash a moment later.
“Fuck!”
“She okay?” Tommy asked, and Joel scrubbed a hand over his face. “Joel?”
“Boyfriend attacked her,” Joel grumbled, rubbing his forehead again. “Tried to fuckin’ bite her. She said he’s dead.”
Tommy had balked. “She did that?”
“Dunno,” Joel had replied, and huffed a humourless laugh, the noise almost flat. “Is it fucked up if I say I hope she did?”
Tommy had pressed the gas a little harder, the truck speeding down the road. “Everything’s fucked up, seems like.” Silence hung over them only for a moment, punctuated a moment later by the loud whoosh of flames as a car down the road collided with a telephone pole. Joel cursed under his breath, Tommy kept on driving. “What are we gonna do, Joel?”
“We get Sarah, and we go,” his brother replied, and despite the waver in his voice, he sounded sure. Surer than Tommy felt. “East.”
East, Tommy thought. Boston. You. Like he’d expected anything different. “You really think you can find her?”
“I can sure as hell try.”
The conversation feels like a year ago, instead of the handful of days it has been. Maybe a week; he’s starting to lose track, already. They’ve been holed up for a few hours now, tucked in the garage of an abandoned house. They crossed the state line a few hours back, and so far, Arkansas looks the same as Texas: fucking ravaged. Joel sits on the floor, knees up to his chest, face buried in his arms. Tommy feels antsy.
“I’m gonna go look inside, see if there’s anything worth taking. You good?”
“Yeah.”
Seems like every neighbourhood they come across has been evacuated, the houses all empty. They have guns; he already had his own, and he’d swiped the rifle from the soldier that had attacked Joel and Sarah. Though he was quick to give Joel his, take the soldier’s for himself. Something about Joel touching the weapon that had killed Sarah made Tommy’s gut twist. He didn’t like it either, but it was out of necessity.
The house has obviously been picked through, toppled furniture and broken glass as far as he can tell, but they get lucky: a first aid kit, a mostly full bottle of whiskey, and some cans of beans. Tommy grabs it all, heads up the stairs. Clearly an older couple, but there’s a few men’s jackets in one of the closets, a pair of work boots, plain t-shirts. He takes the lot, offering the boots to Joel when he gets back to the garage. “These your size?”
His brother takes the boots with a flat expression, pulling the laces to peer at the sole. “About there, yeah. Don’t need ‘em though.”
“Take ‘em with us, for when you do,” Tommy counters, offering Joel one of the t-shirts next. “You should change.”
“M’fine.”
Tommy hooks the gun over his head, setting it on the ground beside him as he crouches in front of Joel. “You’re covered in blood,” he says, and his brother snatches the t-shirt. “Need to change your bandage, too.”
“And what exactly do you want me to—” Joel starts, but shuts up when Tommy tosses the first aid kit to him.
“Need help?” he asks as Joel gets to his feet, pulls his stained t-shirt off, tosses it aside. They’d found a half empty kit in a cafe back in Austin, dressed Joel’s wound before they took off completely. Joel was lucky, just a graze, but Tommy knows it must hurt like hell, and it’ll leave a scar, a reminder of that night, of what was lost.
Joel winces as he pulls of the old bandage, tossing it in the same direction as the t-shirt. “Don’t suppose you found any water in there?” He digs through the first aid kit. “No antiseptic.”
“No water,” Tommy confirms, but holds up the bottle of whiskey. “Just this.”
It’s not ideal, using the alcohol to clean the graze — and Joel nearly puts his fist through the wall despite the healthy sip he takes before Tommy wipes a piece of gauze damp with the whiskey over the wound — but it’ll work. They have to make do.
Joel sinks back onto the concrete floor once the wound is redressed, the new t-shirt pulled over his head. He takes the whiskey with him, and Tommy sits beside his brother, both of them with rifles in their laps. They sip the bottle in turn, and Tommy savours the burn as it slides down his throat, warmth spreading through his chest. It loosens his tongue, makes him regret the question the second it’s out of his mouth.
“You think she made it?” He knows he doesn’t have to call you by name. Not now.
“I have to,” is his brother’s only response.
+
They stop you at the gate.
You don’t know what you’re thinking, but after staking out the giant metal fence for a few hours, you at least know that trying to sneak over is only going to result in a bullet finding a home somewhere it shouldn’t. The soldiers were firing at anything that made a break for the gate, and running full-force didn’t make you brave, it made you stupid. It made you look like one of them. Infected. Mindless. Blood-thirsty. A few have come sprinting up to the post you’ve been watching, and the soldiers have put them down without batting an eye.
As you’ve watched, a few groups of people have approached the post. All the same, their hands in the air, desperation in their voices, carried to you on the smoke-tinged breeze. Please help us. You’ve watched them get directed away from the post, towards a still-standing building a few yards from the gate, where a military-issue tent is set up. Some of them walk back out, are directed towards an armoured truck parked along the gate, and then the truck disappears, only for a new one to reappear in its stead a few minutes later. It’s like clockwork, but only some end up in the trucks.
Others are carried out the back of the tent, bodies dumped into one of the pits left by the bombing. It makes your skin crawl.
It takes a while, lacking the confidence to put yourself in the line of fire when you could just keep hiding in the city. The soldiers might find you eventually — if the Infected didn’t find you first — but if you could just keep going, maybe there was a break in the fence somewhere, a way out besides what lies ahead of you. But finally, after a few hours of squatting in the rubble, your limbs aching from staying pressed against brick, you step out of the alley, and put your hands in the air. You’ve pulled down the sleeves of the hoodie you’re wearing, letting it cover the bandage around your arm, and you grip the cuffs with your fingers as you raise your arms.
“I’m not infected!”
A flash of movement, and the barrels of at least ten rifles are pointed directly at you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, bile rising in the back of your throat. A suitable reaction, you think, and you swallow back the fear that makes you want to run. It’ll only get you killed that much faster.
“Name!” one of the soldier’s shouts. You can’t tell who; they’re all wearing helmets, visors covering their faces, turning it into a sea of darkness staring back at you. Your fingers flex, and you call you name back.
“I need to leave.”
One of them starts laughing. Another two look at each other, sharing a look you can’t suss out. A few lower their guns, and the prickle along your spine fizzles slightly. A visor lifts, revealing a soot-streaked face, a grim expression. “Why on earth would you wanna do that?”
“My family is in Texas,” you say, your voice surprisingly strong, if not a little thready from the smoke. “I have to go find them.”
“You’re gonna walk halfway across the country,” a faceless voice asks, “with a baseball bat? Girl, you don’t have a hope in hell.”
“Beats sitting around here, waiting to die,” you throw back, and the soldier that had lifted his visor lifts his brow. “Let me pass.”
“Can’t do that,” he replies, and steps up in front of you. He’s got a strange face, eyes a little too dark, hair hidden by the helmet, a scar on his mouth. Something about him reminds you of Dean, but a much harder version, his face more angular, the voice slightly deeper. “No one gets out of the city, we have orders.”
“You can’t hold me hostage here,” you start, stepping towards him. Your hands are still in the air. “My family is out there, I need to—”
“No one gets out,” another soldier interrupts. “FEDRA’s orders.”
Your brow creases. “FEDRA?”
“Federal Disaster Response Agency,” the strange-faced soldier answers.
“So the military is taking over?”
“I never said that.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Just let me go, please? I can’t stay here, my family—”
“Is in Texas,” the soldier replies, nodding along. He hefts his gun slightly, adjusting his grip, and you don’t miss the meaning, the silent threat behind it. “And you’re here, in Boston. Now you don’t have a car, or any real weapons, and we have orders. You’re not going anywhere.”
You bite back the protest that crawls up your throat. If you’re getting out, it’s not through here. “Then where am I supposed to go?”
“There’s a shelter,” he tells you, “in the mall. There’s food, water, beds. It’s temporary, but it’s safe.”
“Temporary, like the gate?”
He gives you a long look, then gestures towards the tent you’ve been watching them shuffle people through. “Let’s get you checked out, and then we’ll get you there.”
You match his stare, setting your jaw, digging your heels in slightly. The muzzle of his rifle dips just slightly, and his eyes pinch, narrowing at you.
“I’ll only ask nicely once.”
Heart in your throat, you drop your hands, and when he gestures towards the tent again, you go. Every single part of you is shaking as you head for the canvas structure, and once you’re inside, it’s no different. It’s shockingly clean, a metal table in the middle, a smaller one to the side. “Put your bag there,” the soldier orders, that familiar stern military tone, pointing to the bigger table. “The bat, too.”
You do as you’re told, seeing from the corner of your eye that he’s still got both hands on his gun. “I’m keeping the bat,” you say over your shoulder, pulling it out from where you’d slid it between the straps of the bag, resting against your lower back. The metal rings when you set it on the table. “For the record.”
“Never said you couldn’t keep it, did I?”
“You want me to go to that shelter in the mall,” you say, sliding the bag off your shoulders, placing it next to the bat, and then turning back to the soldier, “with every other terrified person in this city, and you expect me to believe you’re gonna let me walk in with a weapon?”
The soldier’s jaw goes tight, eyes even tighter. “Strip.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take your clothes off,” he says, clearly getting exasperated. “I might let you keep the bat, but there’s no way I’m letting you into the mall shelter knowing you’ve been bitten. Strip.”
“Bitten?” you repeat, your mind sparking at the new information. “Is that how this is spreading?” To appease him, hoping he’ll give you a bit more information, you pull the hoodie off, disentangling your arms slowly. “That’s what’s turning people into those—”
The hoodie comes off, revealing your bandaged shoulder and forearm, and the gun is pointed back in your face again, a soft click reaching your ears. “You’re injured.”
“Y’know, I usually like to at least know a guy’s name before he sees me half-naked.”
He ignores you. “You’re injured.”
You heave a breath, tucking the edge of the gauze around your arm back into place. “You dropped bombs on this city. I dare you to find someone out there who isn’t injured.”
The soldier just stares at you. You just stare back.
“Take the bandages off,” he orders, and your hands curl into fists. “I need to see.”
“Tell me your name first,” you counter, still holding his gaze.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I’m aware; you’re the one holding the gun. But I also know you’ve been taking bodies out of this tent more than you’ve been sending people to the shelter. So, again, tell me your name.”
He leans back slightly, takes a deep breath, eyes darting to the side before meeting yours again. “Corporal Nicholas Cowan, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” you repeat, almost laughing. “That’s a bit much, but—”
“The bandages.”
“Okay, okay.”
Carefully, you peel back the gauze on your shoulder. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches or anything, and you’d slathered it with some kind of ointment in the first aid kit. It still looks pretty awful, and the tape along the edge of the bandage has left little indents in your skin, but it’s definitely healing. Your arm is next, that wound fresher, and it starts to bleed as soon as you pull the gauze away. Cowan gives you a new piece of gauze a moment later, tossing it onto the table between you rather than handing it right to you. “What happened?”
“I was in the bookstore, down on South Street, when you all decided to start dropping bombs. Fucking lucky a bookshelf didn’t fall on my head.”
He still has the gun pointed at you, though the grip is slightly more relaxed, and he circles you slowly, eyes glued to your shoulder. “Those look like claw marks.”
“That’s because they are.”
“So that happened before the bombs.”
“It did.”
“I’m supposed to shoot, the moment I see anything like that. I have orders.”
“It’s not a bite.”
“I know that.” He swallows so hard you can see his throat bob. “They haven’t figured it all out. The bite seems to make it happen faster, but I don’t know if—”
“I’ll tell you what, Corporal,” you interrupt, reaching for your bag, pulling the first aid kit out and fishing out new bandages, “I start to turn into one of those things, and I give you my full permission to blow my fucking brains out.” Cowan balks, his eyes widening for a moment as he stares back at you. “But for the record, it’s been seven days, and I’m still here, faculties intact. So, politely, go fuck yourself, and just let me through the gate.”
+
He doesn’t.
Cowan lets you redress, once your bandages have been hastily rewrapped; you’d protested and he told you they’d give you proper treatment at the shelter. Once that was done, you grabbed your pack — and the bat, which Cowan barely seemed to notice — and he grabbed you roughly by the arm, dragging you out of the tent and steering you towards one of the armoured trucks parked at the fence.
You’re all but stuffed inside, and Cowan gets into the passenger’s seat, a masked soldier behind the wheel. “The mall,” he says simply, and the soldier just nods, and the engine rumbles to life, pulling away from the chain link and heading back into the city.
You keep the bat in your lap as they drive, your eyes glued to the window, to the mess that now only partially resembles Boston. You’d seen enough of the destruction running through the streets, but the truck takes a few pathways you hadn’t. Some roads aren’t as destroyed, obviously not targeted by the bombs, and the asphalt is even, still intact. There’s no getting past the bodies, however, and that pulls your eyes away, staring down at your bruised and dirty hands, wrapped around the bat.
When the truck stops outside the mall, the driver doesn’t get out. You lift your head then, taking in the space around you. It’s more of the same, but the mall looks mostly undisturbed, except for the broken windows, the burned displays. Cowan slides out of the passenger’s side, pulls open your door a moment later. “Let’s go.”
There are three more soldiers standing at the entrance, and as Cowan starts to lead you through, one of them stops you, lifting a hand. “You can’t take that in there,” the soldier says, pointing to the bat. “Give it here.”
“No.”
Cowan sighs, turning back to you, waving off the soldier. “C’mon, just—”
“No,” you say again, your voice harder. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m walking around this city without it.”
“You’re safe in the mall,” Cowan says, nearly rolling his eyes at you, but you just lift a brow. “It’s a shelter, and we’re patrolling from the outside.” He points over his shoulder, and sure enough, you see a few more armoured trucks rolling across the street, armed soldiers trailing behind it. Like it makes a difference.
You almost laugh. “Nowhere is safe anymore.” You tighten your grip on the bat. “You really think your chain link fence is gonna save us from those things?”
He gives you another one of those hard stares, but relents, waving off the other soldiers and grabbing the handle on your bag, all but dragging you through the entrance. “If she attacks someone, it’s on you, Cowan!” one of the soldier’s shouts, and he just grumbles under his breath.
“Do me a favour,” he says to you as he releases you, making you stumble a step before he falls into step beside you, “don’t be more trouble than you’re worth.”
“And what am I worth, Corporal?”
“You’re alive, and you’re not one of them,” he says, and you don’t miss the thread of…is that hope, in his voice? “So that makes you worth something.”
He’s quiet, the rest of the way. There’s no electricity, the overhead fluorescents dark, and Cowan clicks on a flashlight, lighting your path deeper into the mall. There’s the whir of generators, as you get closer, big lights that looks like they were taken from construction sites. You see the food court has been turned into a makeshift hospital, and Cowan tells you the big department store on the main level is where you’ll sleep, for the time being.
There aren’t that many people, which makes your throat go a little thick. How many people have died, how many have turned, how many made it out of Boston before they put up the fence?
Cowan takes your arm again as you walk towards the food court, calling for someone as you get closer. “Deanna! I got one for you.”
An older lady, maybe late fifties, pokes her head out from behind one of the triage curtains. Her face is both kind and harsh at the same time, bright green eyes, grey-streaked hair pulled into a long ponytail, blood-stained scrubs and a tool belt around her waist that’s filled with medical instruments instead of actual tools. It almost makes you laugh.
“Must be special,” she says, her voice a little gravelly as she approaches you, wiping her hands on her pants. “You don’t usually escort them all the way down here, Nicky.” Her eyes drop to the bat in your hands and her brows raise. “Or let them come in armed.”
Once she’s close enough, Cowan releases you and takes Deanna by the arm, steering her off to the side. You stand there awkwardly, the bat banging against your leg. Your forearm is a little sore, and you’re half-sure it’s soaked through the bandages you’d haphazardly retied after Cowan’s inspection. You glance over at the pair a few times, seeing them both shooting you looks before turning back to each other. Deanna looks confused, then upset, then almost forgiving. You can’t quite figure out Cowan’s expression.
After a few minutes, she just nods, and Cowan turns on his heel, heading back in the direction you came, leaving you alone. Deanna gives you a once-over as she walks towards you again, putting a warm hand on your back and starting to steer you towards one of the curtains. “Let’s get you cleaned up, honey.”
She leads you behind one of the curtains, then another, and once you’re in the little makeshift room, she pulls another curtain into place. “Nicky said we need to be quick about this,” she says, leaning up on her toes to peer over the curtains, assumedly to see if anyone is coming. “And quiet.”
“Okay.”
You let her take your bag, set it on the chair that’s set to the side. You’re reluctant to let go of the bat, but when you finally let her take it, she puts it beside you on the cot. “You’ve been out there this whole time?” she asks, her voice just above a whisper. You nod. “Even the bombs?” Another nod. “Show me where you’re hurt.”
You hold your breath as you peel off the hoodie. You were right, your arm has bled through the bandage, and your shoulder aches with the movement. Deanna doesn’t say a word at first, her brow furrowed as she looks you over.
She tends to your arm first, wiping the blood from your skin, using some sort of glue to close the wound before she wraps it in fresh gauze. She circles you slowly, just like Cowan had, and you hear her sharp inhale when she sees your shoulder. “What have we here?” She wipes at more of the blood, and the sting makes you tense, your hand twitching towards the bat at your side. “What did that?”
“…boyfriend.”
You look over your shoulder to see her staring at you, a look that toes the line between sympathy and fear on her face. “Was he…”
You give a slight nod. “He was.”
“And is he…?”
“Not anymore.”
Her brows raise. “You did that?”
Another nod. “I did that.”
She blows out a breath, shaking her head side to side. “Damn, girl. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
It’s the first time you’ve actually laughed since your birthday.
They give you some clothes, stuff that actually fits, pilfered from one of the stores. Toiletries even, and you spend far too much time brushing your teeth. No showers, unfortunately, but the pack of baby wipes you’re offered instead makes up for it. It nearly makes you cry to see your skin clean of the dust and ash and blood.
They give you food, too. A grocery bag filled with non-perishables, more granola bars and cans of soup and whatnot. You try not to chug an entire bottle of water when they give you a second bag filled with drinks; not just water, but sports drinks, random cans of pop, clearly raided from the mall vending machines. And a hot meal, courtesy of one of the food court hot plates. It’s some kind of stew, noodles and meat and veggies, and for a moment, all you can think about is the Thai food that was waiting on your kitchen counter.
Feels like a lifetime ago.
Deanna walks you to the department store, gives your name to one of the soldier’s standing guard. He points you in the right direction, and she goes with you, a steady hand on your back, until you find the cot you’ve been assigned, tucked in the corner of the section where all the towels would have been, the displays still up on the walls. “We took them all already,” she tells you, giving you a half-grin as she picks up the blanket on your cot, unfolding the fabric. “Those extra-plush suckers make great bandages.”
You’re quiet, tucking your bag and your food and clothing under the cot. They’d refilled your first aid kit, too. Your knees are almost shaking as you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, and the relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming. Tears spring in your eyes, but you don’t have the energy to wipe them away.
“Get some sleep, honey,” she tells you, and puts a soft hand on your shoulder as you slip sideways, collapsing onto the pillow. “You’ll be safe. Sleep as much as you need.”
She pulls the blankets over you, and it’s silly, but you clutch the bat to your chest. You’d wiped it down, too, cleaned the blood and dirt from the metal. Sleep takes hold as soon as you let your eyes close, and you pray no nightmares follow.
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rose-of-pollux · 3 months
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@belphegor1982 It sure is, and they get celebrity spokespeople.
Robert Vaughn was one of them.
youtube
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sunshinesanctuary · 1 year
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@t-b-artemis
In response to your comment on this post:
Wasn’t sure if you were asking about autism in general or this character’s presentation on the spectrum.
I’ll summarize both: folks with autism essentially just process incoming and outgoing information differently than neurotypical people (often more thoroughly and at a significantly faster or slower rate). Because we live in a society that is not particularly friendly or accessible for people who are different in this way, we have to develop strategies to compensate like the ones I discussed in this post: masking, personas based on social context, etc.
The flow of a “normal” social interaction is not intuitive to us and when we respond slowly or in a manner that isn’t what people are expecting, they get offended or they treat you like you’re slow or stupid. So it’s easier to memorize a bunch of scripts than it is to flounder your way through every social interaction. -I imagine that this is even more intense in a culture that has very strict social rules and sensitivity to politeness (and what specific behaviors define that) based on a number of hierarchical variables.
Kim’s presentation is different based on each specific type of social situation and the calculated expectations within that situation. What he’s doing is following a script to appear “normal”. And he’s really good at it. You’ll notice he often pauses before he reacts to incoming information and often he lets someone else react first. It’s also why he doesn’t really know how to react to Chay’s cute little romantic gestures because it didn’t occur to him to add this possibility to the script. (Unknown variables! Unknown variables!) 😆
The other clue we get regarding Kim’s neurodivergence is how he processes and expresses emotions. He does NOT like being cornered into expressing what he feels on someone else’s terms (or timeline). And he prefers to express himself through actions (or music) than verbally. Outgoing information is harder and Kim is unable to effectively express himself verbally. Also his facial expressions are not usually particularly animated (this changes based on which mask he’s wearing).
And what is implied, but that we don’t explicitly see, is both the preparation and the recovery time from doing all this work. There is so much going on under the surface; the analysis of every interaction in order to adjust the future ones, the time spent working out where you miscalculated and correcting it, the rehearsals, the planning for every variable possibility you can think of, etc. There is a reason Kim is essentially a hermit. He lives alone and he spends a lot of time alone because that’s the only time he doesn’t have to put effort into mere existence. There’s also a significant level of stress and anxiety that all of these things produce - which also requires masking to maintain the “normal” facade - and adds to the downtime.
What Jeff portrayed well in this character is the idea that almost every interaction is a performance (and it gets exhausting). And the intensity of the emotions he doesn’t know how to express in a socially acceptable or expected way.
Kim’s character captured the isolation of neurodivergence and the grief of continually finding yourself alone because everyone thinks you’re broken and wants to change you to match their own emotional experience of the world instead of being willing to meet you where you are and how after a while, it’s just too painful to keep opening yourself up for the same result.
Even the lyrics to Why Don’t You Stay seem to be saying “stop trying to force me to express how I feel on your terms, I don’t know how. And why don’t you want what I can offer you?”
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I am so happy you liked me using the term "congressional idiots", and I am back to let you know I am thinking about them ALL. THE. TIME. Can't read the news without asking myself "what would the congressional idiots do?" Also can't look at any Narcos gifs where Javi is in formalwear without thinking "he's grumpy about the suggested amendments on the latest bill" or something 😂
Haha I love that the congressional idiots are in your mind even when you're not reading the fic. I wonder how the congressional idiots would handle a filibuster, if they can be persuaded to vote for a bill they don't fully like. If they give in to the various lobbyists. I know Javi wouldn't. But he'd cut deals with the devil (see: Los Pepes) How they handle campaign finance and what kind of campaigns did they run to get elected... Maybe they're in a congressional hearing and one of them is eating into the other's time and they fight over it. I'm thinking of it all
Javi in those suits, especially in season three with his neatly comber hair and perfectly trimmed mustache, the weariness in ever facial muscle and his gait from all the years of working this job-- it's peak honest politician who stands by his morals. Oh and the fact that Pedro was beefier in season 3 compared to the first 2 seasons. Fucking arms bulging out of his sleeves. Just a perfect recipe for disaster.
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u seem like the type of person that listens to plane noises to go to sleep
You seem like the type of person who keeps getting trapped behind doors in Lego Hobbit
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sapphire-drawings · 2 years
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hii your art is super cute! :] love how you draw wilson nd maxwell 🤍🤍🤍
AHHHHHHHHH THANK YOUUUUU 💙💙💙
HAHAHAHA FORGOT TO REPLY EARLIER JSDFAASDH, HAVE A SILLY THINGY Hopefully your comment includes Webber. . .
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M.- . . .You don’t even like spiders
W.- I don’t. I like our son
✨Inspiration✨
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I found your Good Girl series last night and …. The word obsessed doesn’t even cover how I feel!!!!!! It so so absolutely and completely amazing and I binged the entire thing last night and it’s all I’ve been thinking about today ❤️❤️❤️ will totally be going back to reread (probably tonight lol) and to head onto your Steve Murphy stuff ❤️❤️
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Aw thank you, what a lovely, wonderful compliment. You've made my day! And thank you for taking the time and popping into my inbox, it really is appreciated. Truly it is.
Though I'm not writing anymore, my fic are very special to me, especially The Good Girl, so it is so nice when other people enjoy them too.
A million thank yous 💗💗💗
😊😊😊😊
Here a have a smiley Boyd to show my appreciation:
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softly-inthemoonlight · 6 months
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@fandoms-writings You’re the sweetest <33 but you’re right, maybe an air kiss will be better this time lol
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raccoon-eyed-rebel · 1 year
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Is it cheating to ask about the Director's Cut commentary for any scene in a college library with a certain long-haired hunk?
That's not cheating, but there also isn't a lot to tell yet because I have maybe 100 words written at this point...
(Surfer!Mikey lives rent free in my thoughts because I'm not in a good place and the tropical goodness is my escape. Whoops...)
It's definitely gonna be smutty... OK It's definitely going to be entirely plotless smut. With college!Geralt. Relatively stressed-out college!Geralt, too, by the way, because he's just finished a term paper. Which he never could have done without the help of the very friendly and very helpful librarian.
And that's all I know so far... (I've had that start in my WIPs for weeks now, but like I said; surfer!Mikey has been roaming around in my brain, and people (@fvckinghenrycavill, I'm looking at you.) have been distracting me with Melot. GOD I need to finish up these mini series so I can get back to the big ones...
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biteofcherry · 1 year
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I AM BEGGING U PLS MAKE 'Make the dust fly' A SERIES. Like please. I mean obv u don't have to and I'm not pressuring u lmao, but the storyline was so creative and amazing. I really want to see more of it - like there's so much that can be done to it, so much diversity in how the story and characters will develop. Also!! Steve was so dark and intriguing and just hot asf. I would like to believe that he'll be more soft if u ever continue the fic lol. Not only was it well written but it just has me on a chokehold - I need to see more 😭
Thank you so much! ❤️🖤❤️
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This Steve wouldn't be much softer, but if you turn compliant he'd be rewarding. Bed rights for starters, but then also goods from all the lands which he conquered with the help of your powers or bought with money from your sold dust. He'd never let anyone touch you, in any manner. Could teach you about navigation and other worlds while you sat naked and spent on his lap.
Do not mistake it for love. He doesn't love you, he owns you. And Captain Rogers cares for his property. Especially when it's profitable.
If you fall for him, well, he doesn't mind 😏
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amtrak-official · 8 months
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I think walking to LA is a bad idea but you do you
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bluesthebest · 1 year
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"!!!"
The squeaking continues and tries to get out of your grasp.
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This is so embarrassing as I am drunk , but I love your writing. I have seen your "write me a novel" so I am going too.
I know you live in New York, you have a full time job and you write the most amazing stories. I have barely touched on your Marvel writings so I am mostly going to be talking about your DC fics. I know you are writing a fanfic off of a book, which I am currently reading so I can understand, but I am here for DC.
I have been following your account for over two years now and I am here because your DC stories got me through so much. I broke my ankle in a couple years ago and I was bed for over a month after surgery. I read "All Men Have Limits" maybe 60 times. I love how you portray emotions and loving two very different men. I love that Dick is the one Y/N ends up with and that ending was chefs kiss.
When I am in need of comfort, I read "Stomping Grounds" or "Trauma" to get my fix. Those two fic just portray such emotion. I am a slut for Jason Todd so him finding love and giving/receiving love I am here for it. Y/N is meeting his family in a way and I have never thought of it like that.
When you did Wonder Women and Bruce Wayne, my heart burst. The way you portrayed Y/N, I felt that. I am from a divided family so I felt the feelings you wrote about. It hit so many points. The car ride there, not knowing this other person - ugh. My heart still beats for those fics.
Toxicology, is amazing. The suspense, the love, the twist and turns. The love Damien has for a women who is so in touch with herself. Being the daughter of Poison Ivy and needing the sun and earth, is my dream. I want to be that person. So confident.
I have barely touch on any other your writings due to just going to what I know and what I love. I read your Capt. Syverson who I know nothing about but fuck your story with his dog Aika, holy shit that is magic.
The conclusion, I love your writing. I know you have said this is a hobby for you but fuck you are good at it. When I need anything ,I know I can turn to your writing. Thank you for sharing your stories. I lean on them. I hope this portrays the love I have for you and your writing. I dont think you will ever know how much I love your stories. Laying in bed for over 45 days def does something for you. I am happy I found your writing as an outlet.
I just want you to know, you left a huge impression on a strangers life. I seek your fanfics for comfort and happiness. thank you for your writings and sharing them. I am sorry I am late to the game of sharing your fic while they were happening.
I am not exaggerating when I say this is one of the kindest messages I've ever received. Thank you so much for taking the time to write me. But also thank you for saying such kind things. I really do forget that my writing can impact people. Most of the time, I click "post now" and I feel like I've launched my writing into a black hole. Yeah, 1sometimes 0ish people will comment. But then it just starts to feel like your friends who comment on every one of your IG posts. 😂
So, it really blew my mind that my writing means so much to you. 🥹And I'm so sorry to hear about your ankle. I hope it's OK now and you're doing better!
p.s. I wish more people wrote me drunk messages 😂
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sakurayumeno · 1 year
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ur so hot ur blog is so hot ur a huge W whats it like carrying the idv x yandere fanbase base xoxoxo kisses ur mom and dad for birthing u
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Anon u hold a special place in my heart because I thought my yandere stuff was cringey 😭😭 so thank you <33
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Hi!!! I really, truly thought that the version of Javi you write who ends up married to the professor would be my favourite Javi of all time. But then you hit us with Congressman!Javi and now I am questioning my whole life. Your writing is absolutely incredible and 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 also the research you did for that??? Amazing!! So impressed by the idea, the concept, the execution, the details, the way you write their banter and the way both these congressional idiots are repressing their feelings and trying to do the right thing in a tricky political situation - in conclusion, whenever you write Javi I am doomed to fall further in love with a fictional man. Oh well 😂
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Hiii! Married Javi has had a long time to capture your heart. Thousands of words too. So, Congressman!Javi is sitting in my google docs looking very smug that he's managed to find a place in your heart in such a short time and with much fewer words.
Haha, as much as I was whining about the research in the notes, it wasn't that bad actually. I like looking at politics in different countries so I could even say it was a little fun. But wooo I'm so happy you like the concept and the execution. Javi in a suit is too beautiful of a sight to not write pics about.
I'm even happier than the banter came out well. being politicians, I'm sure they argue plenty. They also have very different ways of doing things and that is grounds for biting each other's heads off.
If you ask them, they'll tell you that the only feelings there are disgust and lust. But if you ask me, *censored*. I love the phrasing 'congressional idiots' so I'm gonna start calling them that from now on.
Thank you so so so much for the comment. I'm grinning so wide my cheeks hurt :P
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