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blubushie · 1 year

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Well I'm taking you at your word, then! Round 1: How did you come to do what you do? Was it a sudden impulse/ jumping off the deep end, or a slow and steady march into it? Have you always wanted to hunt nuisance animals for money or did you come by it while pursuing something else at first?

In short: How did Blu become bushie? *chin hands*

It was 100% a result of me losing my mind and going off the deep end.

FUN STORY TIME.

I don't like people. In this kinda way.

"EW. PEOPLE."

People are strange and cruel and nasty and sometimes they'll kill lizards in front of you when you're in year 4 because they know you like them. People do mean things to other things just to hurt someone they don't like, so I don't like people. And there's a fucking lot of people everywhere. There's a lot of people in Alice Springs. There's a LOT of people in California.

And I don't like people.

I'll admit that I got into my own head a lot (still do; I zone out often). And I got this idea, right? The Swagmen of Olde. They lived in the bush with a lot less, er, support than what we have now. Modern day swagman. Revive an old Australian tradition. So I was say fifteen and we got out for I think the term 1 holidays, aaand I was officially a missing child for a week because I packed my swag and disappeared into the Outback. I lived off bottled water, native wells, and my scroggin ran out on day 2 so after that I survived off quandong and witchetty grubs (note to readers, don't go into the Outback without a machete because trying to dig out witchetty grubs with a knife will blister your palms). Basically stayed alive by making my own shelter from shit my dad taught me, or things I read about in books.

Anyway the NTPF eventually put out a chopper for me and dragged me kicking and screaming to civilisation (I was so feral they put me in the fucking divvy van) and it sucked (also I made the newspaper, not the point). But in the 5 days I was gone I just... found some inner peace, I suppose? I was talk of the town and over the next year there were three or four additional attempts to return to the Outback until Mum (and the NTPF) got tired of me trying to dehydrate myself to death and brought us both back to California.

And my California town is bigger than Alice Springs. The town has a population of ~80,000 and there's people fucking everywhere and I hate it.

So I did the same thing I did in Australia and routinely went walkabout to the point our local sheriff knew me by name. It got to the point the LOCALS knew me by name. Half would call in and report me when I was out walking on behalf of my father, the other were of the wildchild mentality and had an unspoken agreement of "Do not send Blu back to that house." (My parents aren't abusive or anything, the locals were just of the idea that at 16 I was finding my own way in the world like kids did back in the 50s, which... Yeah, I was.)

I was given an ankle monitor because I was a flight risk, and I stopped leaving.

Anyway I left high school, got a job working part-time graveyard at Dad's insistence on doing something with my life, and on the side I started talking to the neighbours who know I'm one hell of a shot (courtesy of me recently winning a county sharpshooting competition). And they get this bright idea, right, they've got a lot of coyotes on their property trying to lift their sheep. So I start killing coyotes. They're proud of my work, they tell their neighbours, I start getting paid $25 per pig I kill on their property so long as they keep the bacon. Fine deal for everyone involved.

Between pest control and graveyard and some other odd jobs I made ~$15k over 6 months and I still had this niggling idea in my head of going bush permanently. At 18 I bought my FIRST ute and went east. And that ute was fucking old. Not a '99 Ford, an '87 Ford F-150 with over 300,000mi on it. I figured I'd get to somewhere around New Mexico before it'd cark it because that poor bastard didn't sound right from the get-go.

And cark it it did! But I also learned a few things from my dad, and so I jerry rigged that cunt (which consisted of removing the faulty ignition and replacing it with a fucking screwdriver). I got it started and working again. Got it to Texas, got the ignition fixed, and took jobs in the southwest for 6 months.

And then I got sick of the southwest. I saw the towns I frequented become gentrified. They lost their personality. The mum and pop stores shut down and were replaced with Targets and Walmarts and the land started seeing construction and in six months I'd lost all hope for it.

So I said "fuck this shit" and decided, for the fifth time in my life, that I was going to the Outback. I went back to California, got my passport and all my necessary identification, had a MASSIVE argument with my parents because they didn't want me to leave, but I left anyway and sold the ute and I took a bus to San Francisco, got lost, ended up sleeping in an alleyway at some point which isn't important except to remember that I fucking hate cities, but eventually got my way to the airport with about $10k in cash and debit and I got the first flight to Sydney.

All without a fucking mobile phone.

And I spent every dollar I had save for $2000 on a '99 F-150. And my first night I bought a bottle of plonk (strange buying booze at 19 years old). I smashed it in the bush over my ute's roo bar and I christened her Matilda, my steadfast companion who will come waltzing with me. And I drove her up to Brisbane, and then to Cairns, and while in Cairns I was stopped and detained because of my rifle, and then that was confiscated for a month until I got my firearms licence, and then I had to go BACK to Brisbane to pick it up again but before I did that I met a bloke and spent my last $2k on a camper for Matilda.

So now I'm stuck in Australia with not a dollar to my name, no means of getting money on account of not having a rifle, and a new-christened ute with a camper but no way to pay for petrol.

So I drive up the track, end up heading west until Matilda ran out of petrol, then walked 2km or so to the nearest station who happened to have cattle. Aussies take care of our own. Told the bloke there the story over tea and supper, he says I can help muster if I know how to ride a horse.

Boy, do I.

So I do that for a few months, say hooroo to him after he helps me siphon petrol into my tank, and I return to Brisbane and get my rifle back. I make my way back through QLD, stop for a week in Longreach, then get another job as a stockman. For maybe a year I was a full-fledged stockman and met my heart horse and I met the first girl I ever loved, but then I stopped being a stockman, worked at sea on a fishing vessel for a few months, come back, and ended up getting a job working some pastoral land near there dealing with a small pack of wild dogs who'd been lifting the bloke's sheep, and I start making a name for myself again as one hell of a sharpshooter. And then I got my commercial shooter's licence.

Rest is history!

#blu whos #bushman #enjoy my life story

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 days

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I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #wen ning #wei wuxian #wen qing #jiang cheng #Truly Massive disclaimer here: I am a Jiang Cheng enjoyer. I like his character. I enjoy that he is very flawed and volatile.#This episode of the audio drama has a lot of great breakdown scenes featuring JC - and they all deserve a feature.#But underlying this comic is a small meta comment of 'ah man I have too many comics of JC just wailing sadly'#My goal is to draw 6-8 comics per episode - I sometimes have to truncate and cut good scenes out.#Especially when a large majority is just different flavours of trauma and toxic relationships to your self-worth.#I would also like to make a note here that just because you lose the ability to do something that is very tied to your core identity-#-does not mean your life is over. It will feel like the end of the world. It will send you into a spiral of grief. It will hurt so badly.#Sometimes we do not realize how tied up our identities can be in certain things until we are cut loose.#You don't lose yourself. I promise the pain will fade in time. I promise you will find other things to tether you. I promise you will be ok #Life moves forwards. Time moves forwards. You move forwards.#Ego death just means an opportunity for ego rebirth. You are never committed to being the same person forever.#To wrap this around to JC: Yeah I love the twist with the core transfer but man I would have loved to see JC accept the loss.#Obviously it happens for a reason (story) but I can have my AUs. I can have these 'what-ifs'.#described in alt text #I'm trying it out! *please* give me feedback - I want to eventually Add image ID to all of these comics one day

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 2 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 99

Part 1 Part 98

Steve spends a short three days in the hospital before they start the discharge. It’s surprising, somehow, that spending time slowly dying in the Upside-Down is more traumatic on the body than literal possession. Eddie can’t wrap his head around it.

He’s sitting on Steve’s bed, hopefully for the last time, hip to hip as he kicks his feet out over and over again at the same tempo of his beating heart. Steve’s got their fingers interlaced on Eddie’s thigh, flexing his own fingers to that same rhythm Eddie’d started up.

“You think it’ll be much longer?” Steve asks, slumping his head to the side and atop Eddie’s shoulder.

His hair tickles Eddie’s cheek. Eddie wants to reach up and smooth it back, but Steve’s still holding his hand, and the other one doesn’t quite reach.

“Nah, the old man’s good at getting what he wants.”

“That’s because he’s got the same big, sad eyes as you.”

Eddie squawks in fake affront even as warmth pools in his cheeks. Few people have mentioned a resemblance, and it makes him go soft and gooey every time. “I don’t have big, sad eyes!” He shakes Steve’s hand around gently in his - he’s always, always gentle. “I’m too tough.”

Steve snorts, small and tired. Even with relatively minor injuries, neither of them have been sleeping well in the small hospital cot. It’s starting to show in the circles beneath Steve’s eyes. Eddie wants to bundle him up in the backseat of Wayne’s truck and tuck him into their bed at home.

They won’t even have to come back. All they’ve got is some sort of cream for Steve’s burns, and Eddie’s bruised ribs and broken nose are supposed to heal all on their own. His concussion’s already behind him, even if things still go a little wonky if he moves his neck too quickly.

They can just convalesce. Maybe Wayne will bring them soup. Or burgers from the diner and a strawberry milkshake to split. Anything will be better than the mind-numbing sterility of the hospital, as long as they’re together.

If only Wayne would hurry the hell up.

It’s not Wayne who walks in. It’s not any of their friends, or family, or an unnamed doctor in blue scrubs. It’s not anyone he recognizes at all.

It’s a perfectly matched pair - like salt and pepper shakers at a fancy diner. Eddie feels his shoulders curl, a silent question mark to their upright forms.

The woman looks like a mannequin, in her gray pencil knit skirt and matching cardigan, belted tight enough to make her look like a wine glass. Her hair is a windswept brown and her chin’s raised just so.

The man’s suit is a pewter gray, matching her skirt perfectly. He has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, like he’s posing for a catalog as he looms imposingly on the threshold.

She knocks on the frame of the door, calling a quiet, “knock knock,” as the man strides in.

Eddie feels Steve’s hair brush against his cheek as he sits up and twists, to look at the new arrivals. Eddie doesn’t look toward him, can’t tear his eyes away from the pair, as the woman comes to stand beside the man, photogenic smile plastered to her face, even as the man glares down at them.

“Steven,” he says, eyebrows furrowed in an expression Eddie knows intimately. He’s seen it on Steve’s own face enough times. It’s less charming on the older, meaner model.

Steve drops his hand covertly and shuffles slightly to the left and away, leaving Eddie’s hand to flop to the mattress, bereft.

“Dad,” Steve replies.

Eddie turns, can’t not when Steve’s voice comes out so even, so lifeless, so dead. It’s just like when the mind flayer was running the show. Like Steve’s not there at all.

He is though. And that feels worse, because as Eddie stares at Steve’s perfect profile, he can almost see the years of distance and berating stacking themselves into the clench of his jaw and that familiar furrow of eyebrows.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” His Dad doesn’t shout, but the hiss somehow still feels like it’s echoing off the bare walls of the hospital room.

Steve flinches back. Eddie sits on his hand as it twitches without his permission to grab onto Steve’s own.

“For what, sir?” Mrs. Harrington’s perfect face scrunches up into a wince as she looks sidelong at her husband’s stony face. He opens his mouth, eyebrows angrier than ever, and Steve blurts, “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t help.

“Sorry,” he says evenly, like his fist wasn’t clenched in preparation for a strike. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

Steve sits, wordless, as he stares up at him, unblinking.

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Steve.” It sounds sympathetic, but Steve’s back curls in, arms wrapping around his ribs as he looks down at his own hanging feet.

Eddie sits on his other hand.

Steve remains silent while storm clouds bloom above Mr. Harrington’s head.

Mrs. Harrington sighs, crossing arms and tapping perfectly manicured fingers against her own forearms, that same familiar beat that Steve gravitates toward without any of the soul.

“Sweetie,” she starts, no warmth in her voice or eyes. “I understand that you might have been feeling a little sick, but that’s no excuse for the state you left the house in.”

Eddie looks at Steve out of the corner of his eyes, and sees Steve looking right back, eyebrow quirked up in a silent question Eddie doesn’t know how to answer with witnesses.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, looking back down to the linoleum between his feet.

“You’re sorry?” Mr. Harrington demands, voice raising with each syllable he utters. “You flooded the house, Steven!”

Steve flinches at the sound of his name. Eddie reaches out for the connection between them and plucks it, thrumming it like a guitar. Steve smiles, just a little, down at his socked feet.

It’s a mistake. Mr. Harrington’s nostrils flare. Eddie sees the resemblance in the way his nose leans just slightly to the left, almost charmingly crooked. But there’s none of that familiar light behind Mr. Harrington’s eyes. He’s an empty pit, a bottomless well.

“We’ve had to replace all of the carpeting on the second floor,” Mrs. Harrington cuts in, looking down at her nails, uncaring as Mr. Harrington’s incensed further by her words.

“We wouldn’t have even known if the Allen’s hadn’t called us!” He’s shouting now, gesturing wildly toward the open door like whoever the Allen’s are, they’re waiting right outside, watching the show.

Mrs. Harrington sighs. “Oh, Richard. Don’t make a scene.”

As if spurred on by his wife’s chastising words, Mr. Harrington’s voice only gets louder. “You soiled the carpet beyond repair.” He punctuates his words with a raised finger, like he’s counting down all the sins he’s ready to lay at his son’s feet. “You made a spectacle of yourself in front of all the neighbors.” Another raised finger.

He points both fingers at Steve’s face, finger close enough to his nose that Eddie wants to snap out and bite it. “You left the garage open to be ransacked!” And here comes raised finger number three.

Steve’s curling further and further into himself, creating distance between his Father’s wagging finger and his vulnerable face.

“Leaving the door open, Steven?” Mrs. Harrington asks, just as aloof and uncaring of the scene in front of her, even as she says, “we could have been killed.”

Eddie can’t help the snort that comes out. It’s all just such a cartoonish display, almost unbelievable even as he watches it play out in front of him. He slaps his hand over his mouth, but both their gazes have already snapped over to him.

Well, better him than Stevie. Stevie, who Eddie’s seen with that same curled posture hiding in his closet, and looking up at his own goddamn house from the passenger seat of Eddie’s van.

He’d been straight backed facing down a demogorgon but just the sight of his parents has him fading into himself. No fucking way. Not on Eddie’s watch.

Eddie slaps his own thighs once, sharp enough that it stings. Mrs. Harrington jumps, just a little, at the sound. Eddie stands, shifting on the balls of his feet until he’s just slightly in front of Steve, ready to defend.

“Wouldn’t you have to actually be home for that?” Eddie asks.

Mrs. Harrington gasps, hand over her cheek like Eddie had slapped her. “Excuse me?” she asks, at the same time that Mr. Harrington demands, “who are you?”

Eddie puts his pointer finger to his chin, pouting like he’s really thinking this through. “You know, I think you’d know that if you were ever actually around.”

Steve stands, shoulder to shoulder with Eddie as his Dad takes a threatening step toward Eddie.

“This is Eddie,” Steve says, voice flat and cold. King Steve’s come out to play. Eddie grins, manic and wide in that way that’s always worked to rile up cops and teachers alike. It works just as well on the Harrington’s. He sticks out his tongue and almost laughs again when Mrs. Harrington takes a startled step back. “You’d know that if you gave half a shit about me.”

Mr. Harrington scoffs as he looks Eddie up and down, eyeing the rips in his jeans, the frayed hem of his t-shirt, the unkempt length of his hair. He turns away, dismissing him without even a word as he looks back at Steve.

“It’s time to go,” he says, glaring down at his son. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

Steve takes a step away from Mr. Harrington’s grasping hands. Eddie reaches out, interlocking their fingers again and squeezing tight. The splint on Steve’s finger sticks out awkwardly, digging into Eddie’s own hand as Steve squeezes right back.

“Eddie is my home,” Steve says, like that isn’t the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He almost swoons, even as Mr. Harrington rages, looking between the pair of them, making connections Eddie desperately hopes are true and even more desperately hopes the man won’t go spreading around.

“Last chance,” Mr. Harrington says. “Or we’re-”

He doesn’t get to finish. Wayne chooses that moment to walk in. His stance goes loose immediately, gaze sharp.

“Richard,” he says. Calm, cool, and gruff as he meets both their enraged eyes, one after another. “Nora.”

Mrs. Harrington sucks on her teeth, mouth pursed as she holds her silence. Mr. Harrington has no such compunction.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Wayne raises his eyebrow before turning his back on them to run his eyes over Steve and Eddie in turn. “You boys alright?” Steve nods, but Eddie raises his hand to flap it back and forth in a wishy-washy gesture that Wayne grimaces at. “Ready to go home?”

Richard scoffs, taking a threatening step forward. “What do you mean home?” Steve flinches as the last word lands with derision. Steve doesn’t respond, just looks down at his own shoes with a clenched jaw.

Mrs. Harrington sighs, and it lands in the room like a blow.

Wayne’s eyes have gone hold and hard as he turns around and steps fully in front of Steve. “Steve’s been staying with me for over a year,” Wayne says, tone modulated and controlled even as his hands clench. “And you didn’t even notice.”

“Steven,” Richard says, a warning hidden in his tone. “Last chance.”

Eddie leans around Wayne to look between the pair. He resists the urge to pull Steve behind him. Eddie squeezes his hand and is floored when Steve’s shoulders immediately straighten, chin raised just so, like he’s keeping his crown straight atop his head.

He stands, shoulders back, head held high. Eddie stands right along with him.

“I’m not going with you,” Steve says, boring holes into his Father’s head with the force of his conviction from behind Wayne’s shoulder.

Mr. Harrington’s jaw clenches with whatever he sees on Steve’s face. He reaches his hand out, palm open and beckoning. “Give me your keys,” he demands, curling his fingers like he’s in a cheesy karate movie and begging his opponent to make the first move.

Steve laughs. “You want my car?” His laugh is hollow. “You’ll have to go get it from the trailer park.”

Mrs. Harrington eyes Eddie and Wayne like she’s putting pieces together he’d rather she not have. Even still, she turns away with an airy, “Come on, Richard.” When he doesn’t immediately follow her directions, she continues, “this isn’t the place.”

Mr. Harrington’s snarling like a dog, finger still raised in threat as he hisses, “this isn’t over,” before turning and striding through the door with enough careless force that his shoulder hits the frame with a meaty thwack.

“See you next year, then!” Eddie calls, waving bitchily at their backs.

They all stare at the open door, waiting for an attack that never comes until Mrs. Harrington’s heels stop echoing down the corridor.

“What the hell was that?” Wayne asks gruffly.

Steve’s jaw is clenched, as he glares out the open doorway, but at Wayne’s question, he slumps, stepping closer to Eddie until he can lay some of his weight onto Eddie’s shoulders. It hurts his ribs, but Eddie takes it gladly, wrapping his hand around Steve’s waist.

“Just the usual,” Steve says, sounding exhausted.

Wayne eyes him critically as Steve avoids his gaze. Eddie squeezes Steve’s side, flickering his fingers against his waist just to feel him wriggle against the feeling.

“Alright, kid,” Wayne says, reaching out to squeeze both their shoulders comfortingly. Steve slumps further into Eddie who gladly takes his weight. “I think it’s about time we all get home.”

Eddie smiles, bumping his hip into Steve.

He was already home. After all, Steve’s right here.

Part 100

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie upsidedown au #my fic #anyway. Steve's disowned!!! Hop just didn't give them a chance to say it #Also Steve does NOT realize anything he said was romantic. He's just like. of COURSE Eddie is like the most important part of my life #anyway. I really enjoyed the Harrington's as a looming presence in the story. Haunting Steve in their absence #and then finally being set free (disowned) is like the best thing that could ever happen to him

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jakeperalta · 3 months

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context being things like their relationships and identity, not like whether they're problematic. no nuance option go with your overall preference!

#personally i think there are very few songs i enjoy more from knowing about the artist's life #but there are songs where i'm like i wish i didn't know that this love song was about to end in a divorce or whatever #so for me it's no #a lot of the songs that touch me most deeply are by artists i know absolutely nothing about #and even bigger celebrity artists that i know the tabloid gossip about i prefer to ignore that and build my own stories and parallels etc #polls

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dashing-through-ecto · 7 months

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The difference one and a half years can make

My first comic

My latest comic

It's been absolutely staggering to see the differences even though these panels have the same vibes.

#I've been reminiscing about my older comics #thinking if I should redraw the first one I've ever made because #holy shit that looks like hot garbage #but like #it's still one of my best posts #the whole thing that kickstarted me doing more comics #enjoying bringen stories to life #it's like a piece of my history #its just cool to see how fare I've come as an artist #also like... the first pic was drawn in about 30-40 min at max and the second pic took at least 2 hours if not more #the effort i put into my art has changed so much #i feel so much joy when people laugh at the dum jokes that i make in my art #even back then #all the comments and love and taggs people have left on my posts is what keep me going #y'all having fun with my art is what fuels me and motivates me to make more stuff #bigger projects #it's just been wonderful this last year

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sofiaruelle · 6 months

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Sooooo the last few days i’ve been seeing stars and suddenly i’m juggling 6 sorcerer boyfriends. Whats a polar bear to do?

Also this is my MC, 🍨✨ Sorbetes ✨🍨.

Context why my MC is a sentient polar bear.

The MC doesn't have a set appearance and then there was this dialogue. And the emotes are polar bear themed 😂😂😂 is also literally its own spoiler

#arcana twilight #arcana twilight Arcturus #arcana twilight Spica #arcana twilight Vega #arcana twilight Sirius #arcana twilight Alpheratz #arcana twlight Pollux #wow cant believe i’m actually drawing/playing something other than SDV #are you proud of me?#i was supposed to be playing reverse 1999 but likkkkeeee #i heard alpheratz and spica’s voice and it was game over #i spedrun the game in a week???? and the plot isnt done yet so i dont know what to do with my life anymore #The main story is pretty good?? I mean i wish that the MC would play a more active role???#i mean she started learning magic in a whole as new world #but i like i just want my MC to fight yknow aside from like rushing to someones aid #although she literally is meant to be a support character but like #if i cant fight with magic let me fight with my fists/sord #the game really shines with the side plots!!! I enjoyed the friendship building and the character relationships #hahahha catch me drawing some of them in the future #Sorbetes built like Alpheratz’s new favorite napping place #Spica is very disappointed somewhere #Also Sorbetes goes by they/them

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kinokoshoujoart · 7 months

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30 days of Harvest Moon Day 5 - vibrant / child

combined the prompts! rock’s limited edition crossover Skecher x Pleaser Discolite platforms have been repurposed as a nightlight for his son (they do nothing to get him to sleep)

thank you @psychosvr for the Cool Prompts

(based on this meme)

#30 days of Harvest Moon #going to probably upload completely out of order while i try to get caught up #bokumono #harvest moon a wonderful life #story of seasons #hm awl #hm anwl #story of seasons a wonderful life #rock (awl)#rock’s son isn’t even scared of the dark he’s just pushing his bedtime #original anwl version bc i love his ridiculous disco costume so much #he gets a completely made up hybrid shoe because i couldn’t decide whether he’d have light up skechers or Pleaser Discolite 808s #maybe he combined them himself… he does seem to enjoy making clothes #my art #harvest moon #harvest moon another wonderful life #hmanwl #fanart #I Promise I will Draw Other Characters…. i just wuv rock a lot (expect stupid amounts of rock)#sos rock #rock sosawl #unrelated but it never occurred to me rock was a natural blondie even in this game #he has dark eyebrows and roots and i guess i just figured the dye like. was so strong it entered his dna #still believe this tbh #sos awl

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whumpzone · 7 months

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Linden & Colton - 29

(masterlist)

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, vague allusions to past noncon, self hatred

Colton woke. His palm was sweaty and hot. A headache was slowly draining from his skull. There was no morning light, and no… bedroom. Instead, there was the dark living room. He felt as if he had slept for years.

Shifting slightly, he realised two things: he was sweaty all over, his palm particularly so because his Master was holding it loosely.

Col’s eyes followed Master’s arm up from his hand, and he saw that he was unmoving, breathing evenly with his eyes closed.

Safe for now, he lay back down. He was absolutely exhausted, although he had no right to be. All he’d done was cry and slept- slept- on the furniture.

He gasped, then pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth to shut himself up. He felt so dizzy and disoriented. What time was it? Why was it dark? What on earth had he been thinking, getting up on Master’s sofa like some stray?

He suddenly realised he was squeezing Master’s hand, and Master, in his dream-state, was squeezing back. It shouldn’t have, but it made Col calm down.

He had made an absolute spectacle of himself. Crying, howling, begging Master not to leave him.

And Master had kept his promise. He was still here. Col felt a surge of gratitude, different to how it usually felt. The familiar gratitude that ran through him when he was allowed food, or sleep, was utterly eclipsed by this. Master had no need to stay. Col knew that his old Master would have kicked him in the stomach until he shut up, or just gagged him and locked the basement door.

Here, Col had been held, comforted, and now Master was still with him, like he was protecting him from something.

His old Master’s friends. He winced as he remembered exactly what had set him off in the first place. No, no. I don’t want to remember.

It was just what bad dogs got, but Master had seemed so genuinely disgusted- with Col? Disgusted that his pet was even more used up than he’d thought?

His mind whirred until he felt his brain would overheat. Master was horrified about what happened, part of him said, the part that was softer and further away, that was so naive it made Col cringe. He pictured himself - his most pure, real self, his sanity - curled up in his mind, shielding his face with his arms, his legs pulled up to protect his stomach. Things didn’t hurt as badly as they could when he was like that. If he started to believe all of the kind words that Master said, and the thoughts he sometimes had in his weaker moments, it would be like letting his inner self relax, just a bit. Taking away some of the tension in his legs, maybe even lowering his arms to look out at the world. Once he did that, it would hurt so much more the next time. Col wouldn’t let that happen.

He frowned deeply and tried to regain some composure. Master had fallen asleep out of tiredness, not because he had granted Col’s plea to not be left. It was Col who had engineered this, who’d taken advantage of his Master’s kindness and spent the entire night curled up beside him, holding his hand like a loved one when he was, in fact, nothing. Master would wake and be so sickened that he would finally kick Col out.

And Col was weak. He was cowardly and scared. He just couldn’t handle it, not yet. Not yet, he repeated. Soon he’d come up with a plan. He’d figure out what his next steps would be once Master made him leave.

He once again became aware of the feeling of his hand in his owner’s. Master’s grip was light with sleep, purposeful enough to be holding him, but not pressing into his injuries or pulling or hurting. That could, would, change when Master woke up. How could he ever think he was safe? How deluded and complacent had he become?

You’re not a lap dog, he reminded himself, although it was his old owner’s voice he heard. You’ll never be one. You’ll never be loved, or treasured. Do you understand that, Pet?

Yes, Master, Col had replied when he was first told this. The words hadn’t stung. It was important that he knew.

Good boy. You know your place.

His training was starting to stumble, now that he was in Master’s house. He so wanted to believe all of Master’s kind words, to slip into them like a quilt and bury himself in their warm folds, sinking deeper, deeper, believing that he hadn’t deserved what happened at those parties.

You hadn’t, the other voice said again, and Col screwed his eyes up, because it hurt to have to fight it off. But what choice did he have?

Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Col slid his hand free of his Master’s. The only sound was his own heart, pounding at the sudden tension. How could he have woken up and ever felt calm about this? Why had he lay there, thinking, deciding what to do next as if he ever had a choice? His own hatred for himself was growing in density. He hated the darkness, and the silence. He had endured enough of both to last him forever. Things were so much more simple when it was daytime, when the sunlight spread over the house like a balm, and his Master was happy and calm and talking to him.

God, but it was night and he was alone in the truest sense of the word, and he just couldn’t stop fucking thinking.

He unfolded his stiff legs (they used to always be stiff, from kneeling or being bound for hours on end, but now Master let him walk and stretch them, and he was taking that for granted too) and carefully lowered his hands and knees to the floor, praying that nothing would creak. Nothing did. He tried to breathe at a normal pace again.

His eyes had adjusted to the pitch blackness by now. There was a dip in the sofa where Col had been lying, but there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, he wasn’t trying to conceal what he’d done. He was just trying to mitigate it, because he was a good boy.

A dog, he corrected himself. A slave. God, why did you do that? You know how ugly you are when you cry. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror, it’s horrifying, it’s like a monster. You looked like that for a good half an hour last night, and Master saw, he saw everything and he’ll never forget.

And your body looks so bad. He’ll have looked away from your face and seen your body instead. Oh my god, why would you put him through that?

You swore you’d keep it together in this new house, you’d be good and make it work, but you fuck everything up. Everything you touch gets ruined sooner or later. How can you even go upstairs to the room he lets you stay in?

Col stared at the floor. If Master had a basement, he’d go there. But then again, if Master had a basement he would never have needed to give up his spare room. Col could prove that he shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.

There was a neat little space in the corner of the living room, between the wooden TV stand and the wall, where Col would fit nicely. He crawled over and nudged himself into place. There he knelt, watching as Master slept. He would probably be angry that he’d spent all night on the sofa, but Col didn’t dare wake him up.

He hoped he looked like a good slave, on his knees and ready to serve. It must have been the dead of night, because he didn’t make it to morning. He fell into sleep with his head resting against the wall, and although kneeling was second nature, it wasn’t the position he would have chosen if he had let himself have that freedom. He would have chosen to curl up on the floor, with his legs to his chest, and his arms around his face.

taglist part 1:

@newbornwhumperfly @whumpadump1939 @firewheeesky @whump-me-all-night-long @captain-seconds @grizzlie70 @unicornscotty @lave-whump @princessofonwardsworld @cupcakes-and-pain @bumbumbea @whumpfigure @yet-another-heathen @secretwhumplair @whumps-up @as-a-matter-of-whump @getyourwhumphere��@itzagoodthing @whumpymirages @soapparentlyilikewhumpnow @the-monarch-whumperfly @penny-for-your-whump @legallylibra @angel-stars @loyds-of-registry @tears-and-lilies @badluck990 @rosesareviolentlyread @vickytokio @neuro-whump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpsy-daisies @control-whump @theydy-cringeworthy @starnight-whump @cursedandtired @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @justabitofwhump @glamrockgregory @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @genesissane @justbreakonme @addyez @httyd-chocolate @littlespacecastle @haro-whumps @extrabitterbrain @neverthelass @downrivergirl914

#linden and colton #pet whump #sad.......#of all chapters to use col as my own little projection punching bag why's it the one with no comfort #also i finished a little life weeks ago and im still devastated over it. almost crying at random moments devastated #will i never know peace...#um. ANYWAY!!!#enjoy some new main story my lovely readers

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whetstonefires · 1 year

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Do you have any opinions on Scholomance?

I do! I like it a lot. I really enjoyed all three books, blitzed through them easily and was much more excited to see how the plots unfolded than I'm used to these days, as a jaded adult, and I also really appreciated them as works of craft.

Especially the first one, I spent the whole time being all 'wow!' at how simple it was. So easy to read, but no waste. You really need to know what you're doing, to get that kind of pared-down elegance of form to work and still fit so much content in.

Like these are dense, there's a fantastic stylistic minimalism that allows El's character all the space it needs to breathe by making absolutely every other thing and person in the whole novel also do character work for her, which is exactly where the first person voice shines.

Also great use of character perspective to make the pacing feel really natural, so the fact that the first book takes three weeks, the second book takes one year, and the third book is like. Five or so incredibly stressful days spread out over the course of a few weeks? Doesn't feel imbalanced.

I actually got distracted from the story a few times by noticing the strength of Novik's technique. 😂 This is a me problem, in itself it's the opposite of distracting. Very low-profile.

I think the Scholomance is a great example of how far you can go in specfic when you aren't cringing from the label 'derivative,' because the Scholomance books feel very fresh ad clean specifically because nothing in them is concerned with standing out as 'original,' whatever that's supposed to mean, only with being well-executed and suitable to its task.

Hm, maybe that's where Liesel was born, the intersection of the efficient narrative style and the vast proportion of the story that concerns the maximization of utility and the instrumentalization of persons by themselves and others, and the forces that incentivize these behaviors. Or maybe she's just the narrative counterweight to Orion 'Head Empty' Lake lmao. How's that for a principle of balance, Galadriel?

I really did enjoy how beautifully it was laid out, over and over, in dozens of shades of humanity, how no matter where you go in an exploitative system almost everyone is being driven by the same survival instincts.

Because I don't think I've ever seen made so cleanly clear why you just can't expect any person or small group of people, no matter their level of goodwill or status, to unmake one of these systems from the inside; how it's not a matter of people being bad but of every single person being very...small.

And then not retreating into the idea of a person who is Big coming and breaking the cruel system from the outside as some kind of panacea, because 1) that is terrible, even if it's necessary and done in the best way possible and 2) that's not a sustainable answer to anything. Getting a balance between the protagonist being able to effect change and not subscribing to the great man theory of history can be really tricky!

Also did I mention, I love El, and I love most of the cast, even the dreadful ones. How am I going around with this many feelings about Li Shanfeng who doesn't appear until the actual climax?

The romance murdered me a bit, but it took up no more space than it absolutely needed to do its job, and I respect that. Also I appreciated Orion as a love interest; Novik has a slight record at this point of a version of that style of male love interest who's like a caricature of Mr. Darcy but old, which was shaping up to be my least favorite thing about her body of work.

...Orion is kind of like if you took the human king from Spinning Silver and gave him an alignment flip come to think of it, so he's not coming out of nowhere. Lmao.

Which reminds me (re: romance character typing) I've heard Novik didn't want it to be known she was astolat, which this series has renewed my sympathies if so. Because if I were a published novelist I wouldn't want people going 'you know, that resolution was really emotionally satisfying! reminds me of that fic she wrote where optimus prime and megatron get stuck in a hole underground and hatefuck about it.'

I don't even like Transformers. That fic almost made me cry. Actually I suspect it reads better if you don't like Transformers because I'm sure it does not give a shit about canon.

Anyway, whoever pointed out that one of the things El has going on is she's Enoby (and we're going to sit down and explore what the true reason to put your middle finger up at preps is, and what are some constructive ways to channel that socioeconomic wrath, and what it means that there is no ethical consumption under capitalism) was right and I'm not entirely over that either.

Fucking love El's mom as a character. Spectacular level of parent relevance and usefulness. A+.

Aadhya and Liu are also characters who fucking delivered.

Re: minimalism though, I laughed at the start of The Golden Enclaves when I realized that none of the enclaver characters who'd gotten development in the the first two books were from London, the enclave El was theoretically shooting for when we met her.

#ask #hoc est meum #Anonymous #scholomance #my sister's biphobia made an appearance when i was reading the second book and tried to tell her about this thing i was enjoying #still mad at her about it #anyway though #good!#wish i could ask novik what she was thinking by making a single-cell abortion work as human sacrifice #like is it just because magic works on intent so if you think the newly fertilized egg #that you couldn't know about without magic #is 'your baby which you are killing'#then it is?#for purposes of hole in reality making?#or does this story have a spot where its politics sharply reverse and human life begins at conception #spoilers #scholomance spoilers #especially in the reblog #lakjfaldkfs seanan mcguire has granted this rambled Circulation oh dear

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