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doctorbrown · 6 months

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DOCTOBER '23 ⸺ 「 19 / 31 * MEMORY 」

February 8, 1986

❝I just—I feel like I'm going crazy, Doc,❞ Marty says, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. He's hunched forward on the couch and Emmett has the sneaking suspicion that if he could shrink further into himself and disappear, he would try just that. Einstein, possibly sensing Marty's distress, abandons his spot beside Emmett to settle on the couch and lean his weight into Marty's leg.

❝I mean...I mean, how fucked up is it to feel like I hate it here even though everything's better now? Mom and Dad are actually happy and are spending time with each other, Dave and Linda are—hell, I barely recognise them—and the house and—❞

Emmett's gaze drops to Marty's anxiously bouncing knee as he works through his next words, nearly choking on the weight of them. He reaches out a firm, steady hand and places it atop Marty's bouncing knee to still the movements and, with some luck, project some much needed calm into the boy.

Last month's conversation with George McFly rings loudly in his ears—we're worried about our son, Doctor Brown—and the more Marty reveals, wittingly or unwittingly, the more difficult the lie Emmett will have to weave when George inevitably asks what he's learned.

❝God, Doc, last night at dinner they brought up our family vacation—the one we apparently took early last year when the publishing company offered Dad a contract for A Match Made In Space—and I can't keep smiling like I know what's going on when I don't have a clue! Then they keep asking and their tone of voice they sound so concerned, I...❞

He wishes he had something more concrete to tell him. While he understands feeling like a stranger in your own home and among your peers, he has never had the experience of actually being one, so wholly and completely removed from everything you once knew.

There's no hard and fast rule for how these things work. No published works he can read from other time travellers to glean their experiences and compare those to theirs, no sophisticated database even in the future—nothing.

It is all trial and error and Marty, unfortunately, with his unique experience of being the world's first time-traveller and having actively altered his previously existing timeline, is suffering effects of his unintended temporal excursion he never would have dreamed of.

This is not something they will be able to solve in a single night, but it is a much-needed start.

❝If you didn't answer the phone last night I don't know what I would've done. I just—I couldn't take being there anymore. It's stupid, I know, but when I called you and I said our code word and you didn't get it at first I thought—I thought you forgot. That that was something else that apparently just didn't happen because, I don't know, we weren't friends like that or something.❞

There's so much more to the story Marty doesn't say, that Emmett can infer from his body language, but he doesn't push for details for fear of sending him over an already unstable precipice. He is a pipe ready to burst despite how he tries to hold himself together, and Emmett has to consider the ensuing damage.

❝Marty,❞ Emmett says as he leans forward, his forehead creasing with unmasked concern. He removes his hand from Marty's knee to place them both on his shoulders and squeeze, offering a firm, grounding touch. Marty's head drops and beneath his clothing, Emmett can feel his shoulders start to shake.

❝Even if I didn't work out the discrepancy between the codewords, I wouldn't have just left you there if you were calling me for help. That I could ever forget you—it's simply unthinkable! Impossible, even.❞

You are my best friend across the entire space-time continuum.

Marty sniffs and nods. ❝I know, I said it was stupid, but... I don't want to keep being surprised with all these things that happened that I don't remember. Doc, what is the codeword that you remembered?❞

Emmett hums and pulls his hands back. ❝In order to avoid confusion, I suggested we invoke the name of my faithful old companion Copernicus as our code for whenever you covertly needed my assistance. As you would eventually meet him, it seemed fitting.❞

❝See, that's not how I remember it. We came up with the idea in '83. You told me to say something about Einstein.❞

He nods slowly. There was still a discrepancy there, however the ones between the two timelines in this case were extremely minor. Not significant enough for him to have been unable to piece together the underlying message.

❝What were the events that happened as you remember them, Marty? The way I remember it, you were peer pressured into joining that Needles character on some illegal escapade; likely something that would land you into a world of trouble if you were caught. When you refused to take part, you ran off and called me, hoping to keep it secret from your parents.❞

Marty purses his lips as he calls up the memory in question. ❝No, that's—Needles was there, yeah, but it was at a party at Emily Rockwell's place. Her parents were away for the weekend and Needles and his gang wouldn't leave me alone. Then there was a whole bunch of other stuff and—Mom was already drunk by then, Dave was working the late-night shifts at Burger King, and I didn't want Dad or Linda to know.❞

Emmett has half a mind to remind him he doesn't need to justify his reasons for ever seeking out his help, but he bites his tongue.

Instead, he tries to sift through his own memories, looking for a curtain or a doorway to a previously undiscovered mental pathway that would put them back on the same page.

He knows his own memories are changing—adapting. When he thinks back to George McFly seated on his couch, he recalls two different figures, one a pitiful spectre diametrically opposed to the straight-backed, confident man he has known throughout the years.

There are nights he sees through a dense fog—nights where Marty desperately tried anything he could to avoid going back home to his family, offering excuse after excuse to stay until he finally gave in and agreed to let him stay the night under the condition that he inform his family so they didn't assume the worst.

The process has been incredibly slow-going, but if he slowly received memories from a parallel life he once lived, the same must happen for Marty in time. If there was some kind of time-frame he could give him to ease the process, he would.

❝Tell me it's not gonna be like this forever, Doc. That I'm not going to be stuck like this when my family is waiting for—their Marty to remember all the good things they had. What if he never does? If I never do? Is everything I know just a lie?❞

#doctober 2023 #&; a great idea can change the world 「 hc 」#i'm still fucking sick and it's making writing so hard but i am determined.#i have many thoughts about disjointed memories and the timeline trying to correct/preserve itself #marty has the worst of it by far but doc - likely because he died in the other timeline - also receives memories of that life that no #longer is #and marty slowly receives memories of this timeline to help slot him in better; he doesn't lose the old ones but it eventually becomes #he has to sift through two sets the old and the new #and it's something they just have to work through for themselves #i also hc that marty believes he 'killed' the marty of this timeline and doc's like well wait hold up #there's no OTHER marty there's one marty across the timeline and you are him even if you don't remember / realise it #also doc would never discount marty's memories even if they don't line up with what he remembers #what he experienced is all VERY real - even if the originating timeline no longer exists #the same way 1985A was real though it no longer exists #THIS GOT LONG AGAIN FUCK.

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sunflowernyx · 2 years

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[Unfinished] 'Sleepwalker' Rebelcaptain soulmate AU

Genre: Canon divergent, romance, soulmate au, dream sharing, reincarnation romance

Rating: General audiences

Pairing: rebelcaptain, jyncassian, jyn/Cassian

Summary: They live double lives, fighting in their waking hours, and living as dreamy phantoms in sleep, watching over another without knowing who they are.

Notes: So episode 8 of Andor has made me realise a concept like this would require waaaaay more angst and reflection and the style of it isn't to my liking. But I still wrote 3k so I thought I'd share it!! (and I'll probably return to it when we're done with season 1 and I'm done with the other complete-AU-Au I'm writing instead!!

---

"The two-faced divinity: A sun goddess and a serpent from the Overworld sharing the same mouth."

- Luthen Rael

---

The first time he dreams of her, she is a silhouette of white, a ghost, a goddess.

She is nothing but sunlight, a burning fire so bright and so warm, all he feels is home.

And then she is torn from his grasp, torn into reality, into mortality, breaking apart, her glow fading from his world. The path dimming until it is lost in darkness.

Kassa wakes in his cot and cries so loudly that Kerri joins in, a three year old and an infant breaking the silence that is never silent in the Kenari mining town.

***

When Jyn is thee she stands on the precipice of an abyss she cannot explain and an explosion knocks her out of her cot.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t make a sound, and neither papa nor mama notice that she wakes. Instead she climbs carefully to her feet on stubby little legs and waddles over to the window full of lights, gold and orange and green and pink, from a city that never sleeps.

Though she knows only skyscrapers and clouds and the galaxy above her, papa calling her a star in their sky, she marvels at none of it.

None but the turquoise serpent that slithers through the glass from the sky outside. It lifts its head and regards her with deep black eyes, eyes that soften in quiet recognition of who she is and who she isn’t yet.

She reaches up and touches its face gently, the skin of her fingers growing wet from the serpent’s tears, feels its pain and its grief and its longing, aching in her chest. And then she feels its tears running down her cheeks as well.

When it asks her silently, she allows it to curl around her, and she settles into its warmth, into the deep sensation of home and safety, and falls back asleep, child and serpent coiled together in peace.

Later, when she remembers the night, Jyn still cannot tell if she had dreamt it or if it was real. All she knows is that her parents had found her the next morning with a kyber crystal in hand.

***

For most of his life Cassian Andor despises the Force.

He despises it because it seems to go out of its way to taunt him. Little flashes of future events taunt him in his dreams, in waking moments, events he cannot understand or stop. They feel like warnings or a reminder of the inevitability of tragedy in a galaxy consumed by war and oppression, and always, always he finds he only understands them in the thick of it.

When Maarva catches a cold and nearly dies.

When Bix’ parents are interned.

When Clem is hanged.

He takes matters into his own hands at thirteen, and though he understands this warning, the sense of where he is going, he still throws the molotov cocktail at the storm troopers.

Cassian is full of rage and grief, and he hates the Force for seeing all of it and doing nothing to stop it.

And more than anything else, he hates the dreams of a different time, of a different place, of himself sitting in a room on a bed with a hologram in his hands of a woman, beaming with tragedy in her eyes as she lies.

***

Rebellions are built on hope!

***

The only thing he can forgive the Force for is the dreams he dreams of a girl, barely his own age.

(Cassian never thinks of added strength to his blows, how easily he can convince people to cut him some slack, or the ability to catch Maarva’s cane when it should be out of reach as products of his connection to the Force).

Always she is in unfamiliar territory. Be it an eternal city, bright among the clouds, or a landscape where the land is black as night and the sky is white as snow.

She runs and she plays, and she listens to her parents, and Cassian is almost jealous of her in those early years, for having parents, for having peace. For knowing to whom she belongs.

But then things change, and he sits with her in the dark of a cave. He doesn’t know why she’s there, shaking a little lamp into life every few hours and singing to herself in the dark. All he knows is that he’d gone to bed, exhausted from an argument with Maarva that had gone anything but well because of his lacking grasp of Basic, and the next thing, he’d opened his eyes to the girl and the lamp and the cave.

She’s clutching a crystal, hanging from her neck.

He isn’t sure how he knows, but Cassian knows with every fibre of his being, every particle of his soul, that this girl is real, that somewhere in the galaxy she is sitting alone and abdoned, afraid of the dark, and singing to herself.

Every time she clutches the necklace, he feels a spec of stardust touch himself, and every time she cries his heart breaks apart a little more for her.

Eventually, it becomes too painful to sit there beside her without doing anything, and though he knows he will never be able to touch her like this, he still reaches out and carefully places his hand around her shoulder. Careful, so as not to break the illusion of touch.

***

Jyn learns to steal, not from Saw, but from the boy in her dreams.

He picks a pocket here, steals a gold chrono from a tourist there, pretends to be ill and scams himself into a hot meal on a day it’s too cold to walk back across his frozen over town of scrap and snow.

She doesn’t smile as easily as he does, and he doesn’t fight as well as she does, and so she decides to leave the scamming to him, and focus on the pickpocketing.

It isn’t the only thing she learns from him. She learns how to knit socks, how to take apart a droid faster than anyone. By the time saw finally introduces her to a blaster, she’d already known through the boy in her dreams how to aim with sniper precision and where to hit her target to kill them in an instant.

Her adoptive father raises an eyebrow when she shows off and smirks.

“Good,” is all he says, and ruffles her hair.

By the time she learns what it feels like to be in an imperial prison, she is eight years old. She learns that a group of boys can be the cruellest to each other, that cold on Lah’mu isn’t true cold, and that imps are happy to dish out violence or manipulate others to do it for them. She learns how to hold herself with dignity, as if she had a pillar of steel at your core, how to hide her reactions, her fears, her rage.

And she learns it all by watching the boy in her dreams go through the horrors of imprisonment — and then war.

***

By the time Cassian makes it off Mimban, he has forgotten where the sources of his knowledge comes from. Did he learn to assemble a sniper rifle on the fly from a general in white? Or in a dream?

Did he learn to stab up and under the helmet to sever the nerves of a ‘trooper so they won’t have time to make a sound from experience or because he’d seen blood on a smaller, more elegant pair of hands first?

Who taught him to run?

It certainly wasn’t the girl in his dreams.

He sits on barrel of explosives, watching her dance through an army of troopers, her brow knitted, her green eyes ice cold. Like a goddess of war, takes down her enemies as if they are nothing but insects below her feet, barely even catching a breath anymore, her skin dry of sweat.

When the last ‘trooper falls, she pauses and heaves, depositing her truncheons to her belt, and looks around with bored disdain on her face.

Finally, she looks in Cassian’s direction, and for a moment her eyes catch on his. Cassian has only ever seen them from the side, catching and changing in hue to whatever colour the light in her environment might influence her, cooling at night, warming with sunrise. But now her eyes lock on Cession and they are beyond vivid, startlingly green.

And full of stars.

Then her comm scratches and he wakes up in a cold sweat.

***

Because she travels with Saw, Jyn hears all the stories. She sits in a shed somewhere, peeling potatoes with an old village crone, listening to the way she relates the myths of the Force, the breath of life through the galaxy. She hears stories of heroes and villains, Jedi and Sith, from the soldiers she fights with. She loiters in a mall under a local government administration, keeping an eye on imps while Maya sets up the explosives, and hears girls talk about soulmates, force bonds.

And then shush each other, giggling.

Giggling, because the Force religions are evil under the eye of the empire.

Giggling, because any sign of Force sensitivity will land you twenty years in prison.

Giggling, because of a boy that walks past, his blond hair slicked back with too much gel.

Oh, Jyn hears them all. She hears of shared bruises and shared words. She hears of names being whispered against your skin, and flowers blossoming where no one chan see them.

The favourite in Saw’s cadre is the shared wounds, and it becomes so, not just because of the pride freedom fighters take in their wounds, but because Saldon lost his foot suddenly and without warning, his limb turning to stardust in the gloom of a twilit moon.

Jyn is there to hear the screams, to watch Saw end the poor man’s life.

Jyn is there to cower under her blankets afterwards at the horrible mercy in her adoptive father’s hand.

Jyn is there to clutch the kyber crystal to her chest and close her eyes.

She’s still there, on the edge of sleep, when a warm hand brushes over her head.

***

She refuses to think of the person in her dreams as her soulmate.

She refuses to get attached.

But then she flickers into consciousness in a waking dream, for the first time in a week, to warm sunlight and a nice hotel room. The shower is on, but the person she has dreamt of her whole life is fully dressed in a white shirt, brown pants and terrible shoes for running. His face is clean, his hair rumbled, and his face marked with exhaustion as he speaks to a woman in the other room.

Jyn floats curiously to the edge of the shower wall and finds a gorgeous, dark-skinned woman in his bed, her hair falling off her head like an explosion of curls.

She rolls her eyes, too used to the man in her dreams having night time partners to make anything of it, floating back, instead, to his presence as he continues the conversation.

“I was planning on going the other way,” he counters when his partner asks him again to go down the beach, and Jyn sees it, the flicker of gold glittering around him. Stars dancing, twirling in a force field, almost indistinguishable from the drops of air in the room.

The woman in the other room pushes again, and Jyn sees the flicker of fear on his face.

“No,” she says, floating closer.

“Fine,” he allows, closing his eyes.

“No, listen to yourself,” she implores him.

Her hand comes up to rest against his chest, over his heart, where she has never touched him before, where she knows she can’t.

And she sees it, see-through white skin against his tonnned muscles. Fear flickers through her and she hesitates.

Jyn closes her hand around thin air and resigned herself to follow him down the beach instead.

She watches him pull on a yellow vest and head out without a second glance at the woman, watches the sea breeze rustle in his hair. She watches as he starts sensing something to be wrong, starts noticing the thieves running for their lives, while every other person around him accepts the events as natural, accepts the order of things.

And she knows that it is his vigilance and their complacency that marks him as trouble in the eyes of the imps patrolling the bay.

He’s so good at talking his way out of trouble, his silver tongue getting him anything he wants, influencing the people around him with a little nudge from the Force in his words. But the imp isn unaffected, and Jyn watches with horror as her soulmate is attacked by a mindless KX unit.

Jyn had promised herself not to get attached.

But it doesn’t stop her from hating that she can’t intervene.

It doesn’t stop her from yelling and crying and begging the Force to save him.

It doesn’t stop her going hunting for KX units and imps in a cold-blooded, silent scream of rage and pain, the day she wakes up after that particular dream.

***

And it doesn’t stop her from reading Nemik’s manifesto over his shoulder, and smiling to herself the day he completes it, only to hand it over to the leader of the Rebel Alliance.

She curls up in the tiny bed she’s made for herself of cardboard boxes, clutches the kyber crystal, and mutters “now change their name, next”.

***

Cassian wakes from that dream with laughter still warm on his lips.

For all of his life, he feels as if he’d lived two lives. The one he fights through in waking, and the one he dreams of at night. It’s impossible to tear the two apart at this point. The girl is as real to him as the people he fights with, the people he laughs with, the people he loses.

She is a small miracle, a flicker of hope in the stormy war to warm his chest, always accomplishing what she sets out to do and never losing herself — even when she has lost all others.

Sometimes, he doesn’t dream of her in he present. Sometimes he dreams of her in a different setting, on a beach, somewhere warm, with the sun catching like gold in her hair. He remembers her vividly in those, adulthood shaping her face, lovely, both round and angular, her eyes wide and green, with starlight and grief and affection to dance like flecks of gold in her eyes. Deep blue all that colours her frame, her shirt, her vest, her pants.

And her hand in his.

Never had it occurred to Cassian to ask the Force if she had dreamt of him, too.

Now, it comes as a shock, a blow to the face, that she had seen him, had heard him, had followed him down his path and seen all that he had done. What had she seen? What hadn’t she seen?

Kenari, Aldhani, Ferrix?

Blood on his hands, lies in his mouth?

Another woman in his arms?

Cassian shakes his head at the last thought. She isn’t his and he isn’t hers. And somehow, Cassian thinks, she is the last person who would ever hold it against him, what he does in this war.

Whatever they are, he has never come across an existence like theirs. He’d thought the Force had simply been playing tricks on him, mocking him for reaching for every human within reach, only to take their lives when they had turned out not to be what he had expected.

He had thought the visual of a girl so alike him, and yet so much better, so much more capable of doing the right thing, had simply been a punishing reminder of his own failure to do what was right, to run from the path of the righteous rebel.

But now he sits on the edge of his bed in the Yavin Four bass, producing the gold chain with the sky kyber attached, blue and shattered transluscency.

He turns it in his hands, feels it burn against his skin and tries not to think of Aldhani.

He had been so busy that night, doing his best to run and survive. But he still remembers, all these years later, the silhouette of someone in the stars, white and gold and ethereal, so familiar and yet so beyond his reach.

The thought occurs to him, that if he isn’t being taunted with a better life by the Force, then maybe they had been bound, connected, tied together beyond space and time for some reason or other.

The beach flashes before his eyes again and Cassian shakes his head free of the image, the feeling of a body held close in his.

Whatever it is, soulmates, force bound, whatever she is, if she sees him too, then she must understand that he can see her, that he has always seen her.

Which means there is one existence in this wide galaxy that Cassian is now responsible for.

***

That he wants to be responsible for.

***

He doesn’t go looking for her.

He doesn’t.

***

Where would he even begin?

He has no clue who she is, only has a vague description in his head he can’t run through a facial recognition software. He knows she ran with a violent rebel cell, but not with one or where.

He knows so little and yet he knows everything about her.

And never is it enough to find her.

It is only ever enough to distract him during long research hours in an empty computer room, looking up planets with black soil (there are countless), looking up peoples with stars and constellations in their eyes (there are none, only fairy tales), until he falls asleep at his desk and dreams of her instead.

Dreams of the way she struggles through every day, dreams of what she has to do to keep from starving, the shoes she steals, the life she bargains for. How she steals from Imperial treasuries or cons a local politician or blows up a military base. Always alone, always lonely.

Always out of reach.

It isn’t doing him any sort of kindness, either. Melshi frowns with concern, Vel narrows her eyes suspiciously, and Cinta, as always, remains stoically silent to his predicaments.

Until one day, when he’s sitting in a meeting, invited by Mothma herself and for the first time, as an observer of all of Saw Gerrera’s cruel words launched at the Alliance.

The spectre of a hero that will do anything and everything, which haunts and terrifies and awes every alliance in equal measure, pops up in a massive hologram to begins his berating speech and Cassian—

Casian hears none of it.

He tumbles out of his chair in shock and horror, losing his balance momentarily and with a loud clatter.

Melshi and Vel both turn to look at him with astonishment, and Cassian climbs into a sitting position on the floor with a wince and an apology in his tone.

He’s rubbing the back of his head, at age twenty two, when he says “Sorry. I just… realised who my soulmate is.”

The others share a look.

“What?” Melshi demands in horror. “Saw Gerrera?”

“No. His—“ Cassian hesitates, looking down at his hands before looking up again. “His daughter.”

Now they’re openly gaping at him.

“That—“ Vel begins.

And Melshi finishes. “That’s definitely worse!”

***

And then, the dream becomes real. Someone steals his blaster.

Cassian senses the expert touch of the pickpocket, the weight being lifted from his thigh. And he whirls in the crowd to a familiar unfamiliar face.

Bright and pale, with green eyes that glow in the dusty, brown air, the miserable crowd, the girl from his dreams stands before Cassian, twirling his blaster around her indigo finger.

She’s grinning smugly.

“Let your guard down,” she says, her voice full of laughter.

And it burns over his skin, burns into him, through his soul.

“You!”

Cassian takes two quick steps, crossing the distance between them and grabbing her around the waist. She shrieks and fights, but he hauls her easily over his shoulder and starts back the way he’d come.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” she complains.

“Only whatever you’re letting me,” Cassian responds, laughter in his voice now.

He shouldn’t be so calm about this. They’re making a spectacle, and this planet is still imperially occupied. He’s a spy, and he knows the consequences of being spotted, but somehow none of it matters. Somehow, he feels safe, feels free, feels mischievous for the first time in as long as he can remember. Simply by being in her presence, finally.

#Rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fanfic #rebelcaptain fic #rogue one #star wars #cassian andor #jyn erso #fanfic #writing #fanfiction

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gaiahypothesims · 1 year

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Evelyn/Ashley

Evelyn- Do you think the streaks were a mistake? I'm not sure I LOVE love them.

Rosie- Absolutely not, you look hella fierce. Don't even think that they don't look stunning. If you think yours were a mistake then mine would have to be a mistake, and do mine look bad?

Evelyn- No! They're gorgeous! You're gorgeous.

Rosie- See? We're going to look like SO good for the first day of University. Trust me. In the whole week that we've known each other have I ever steered you wrong?

*** This is NOT a new storyline. I just had this whim to see Ev and Rosie as young people, as well as some others (plans for the future). So "Memories" is just going to be a catch all for any little tidbits from anyone's memory that I feel like exploring. Its under " sims story" because it will relate to Precipice or Island End in some way.

Also I am DYING laughing at what they would be like as young young adults. This is a bit like 'Journeys' and omg I'm just... I can't.

#the sims 3 #memories #evelyn #rosie #sims 3 #ts3 #simblr #sims story

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chinateacup · 2 years

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your writing is truly remarkable, gahshhshdjd basically I finally got around to finishing Jealousy, I kept stalling on reading it for loads of reasons though the most prominent one was, I enjoy savouring long works of fiction.

I like the anticipation, the tension for waiting for the next chapter, the fact that while I might be able to guess future story beats, I'll only truly know if I'm right or not unless I forge ahead and keep reading and I've finally, finally read the 23rd chapter and by golly was it worth all the marbles, every penny, all the golden doubloons

It's so worth it, I can't even begin to describe why, but I think a great place to start is that ENDING, woooo boyoboyoboy, it's such a good place to end it, the fact that we're left stuck on the precipice of a cliff, left wondering which way Mondo'll fall when he wakes in the morning, it's just!!! gahh!! and, while yes, Mondo feels weighed down by, what he assumes to be, a terribly unsatisfying dream, as a reader you can't help but to be elated. An emotion caused not by his predicament, but by the promise of what's to come.

Because you can practically taste tomorrow, the confrontation between the two, the hangover (poor poor Mondo jsjdjsjs), His realisation that yeah, no, Taka is back, and that was one helluva welcome, or maybe I'm wrong! Maybe something will stall them from meeting, who knows! It's what makes your writing so good! That feeling of, I think I know what'll happen next but, I'm not quite sure, that uncertainty, it's great!

Also, I'm sorry but dream Taka???? The goodbye scene????? THE WATER AND THE OPEN BLUE SKY????? gahhhh!! It's just so good!! it's so good!! It just makes you wonder what Dream Taka represents in Mondo's mind, when I read "I can't stay Mondo" I absolutely lost it because just, just the implication there. How Mondo automatically translate it to "I'm leaving you" but, to me at least, it feels more like a reassurance, a "I can't stay, but I'll always come back"

It's a vow rolled into a guarantee, a man's promise as Dream Taka says ! But, I don't know, I just love it, Gahhhhdjdjd okay, okay, hold all the phones and horses because a metaphor is incoming

Reading Jealousy is like, walking past loads of shops, it's a bit chilly and the wind's tussled up your hair. You've got no clear destination in mind, and the crowd of pedestrians are a blur of senseless chatter. Cars zoom past and you lose yourself in the noise.

Until you see it, a shine, right there. Something's at the edge of your peripherals. You could just ignore it, this isn't destiny, there's no compelling force willing you to check it out, Fate may be fickle but, even she's not predicted this. However, curiosity has you by the lapels and you may not be a cat, but you're only human.

You cave in, and incline your head towards the window. Just a bit, just a small peak and you'll be on your way. It won't take up a minute.

You feel your breath hitch, you see it, people talking, a couple are heatedly gesturing towards a pair of matching sweaters, an old man forlornly stares at an umbrella, a group of teens are rummaging through the bargain bin, and all these people, all these characters are just interacting, and those few who choose to stray from the crowd to watch can pick and choose who to root for, who to dislike, who to find intriguing, who said something funny.

The words flicker and come to life, separated only by a pane of glass, and all of this thanks to the slightly obstructed window. Someone notices and goes to roll up the curtains, clearing up the windows.

And the thing is, these brief glimpses we get, that's all it is, a glimpse. When you look away from the window, the characters don't stop all movement, they don't remain stagnant, they continue on living their lives. Authors are there to clear those curtains, letting you get an unobstructed peak.

You do have to look away eventually, set the book down, turn that final page, but you don't mind so much. The waiting, the knowing that just because it'll end eventually, doesn't mean it never happened, doesn't mean it didn't impact you however big or small.

Your writing is like getting lost in the crowd again, curiosity satisfied, letting the noise roll over you like a blanket, warmed in the solace you take from the fact that just because it ended, doesn't mean it's over.

This, is, incredibly, long, again, gah, okay, okay, you know what I've made it this far, the moral of this one is

Thank you kindly Author, for rolling up those windows. (Good luck on those exams!!)

Wow. I mean, first of all, kudos to you for these metaphors, because they’re incredibly well written!!! You’re such a fantastic writer, and feedback means a lot coming from a talented individual like yourself :)

Last chapter was one I had a huGe amount of fun writing so I’m very happy you enjoyed reading it. Especially the dream section!!! Those are always great since obviously dreams have a weird, floaty quality that means they don’t have to be structured as rigidly as other parts.

I don’t want to spoil the next chapter, but I have made a good start on it and I’m excited to see what you think!! Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.

Once again - I really can’t say enough how much I appreciate you saying such wonderful things about my writing. This ask made my entire week and gave me a much needed boost before my last exam :,) THANK YOU SO MUCH AND HAVE A LOVELY DAY!!!

#screaming crying this is wonderful #ask #ishimondo #my writing #long post

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heterocerapunk · 1 year

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Vent underneath, check tags for tw (non extensive, I'm barely awake)

We're experiencing desperate loneliness.

The kind that stems from only having 0-2 people in your life you fully trust, but you can't talk to them about *everything*, and you have nobody else.

We can't form relationships. We used to be able to, can't anymore. We've dwindled down to 2 people, and I really hope that number doesn't drop because I love them with my whole heart, but you never know. We only talk to one of them regularly, the other is dealing with so much she isn't really available nowadays.

We are inherently distrustful now. Our naivety did a 180, and it's been like that for over a year at this point. We have brief moments where we trust people other than the aforementioned 2, but it's rare and always paired with deep regret (even if nothing bad happens).

It feels like a part of us is dead. A lot of parts of us feel dead. It's such a suffocating thing, not knowing if those old parts of yourself will ever come back. It's got us teetering on a precipice of constant emotional distress. We're significantly more sensitive now, and I think one of our two trusted people (my boyfriend) has noticed. We haven't talked about it yet, I think he's afraid to bring it up (she is perhaps the most BPD person in the world /lh). I probably should.

It's so hard to acknowledge you have a problem. I don't want to do that. But we're being snappier, more prone to upset. We're also finally realising that we're not as independent as we like to think.

We will never be able to live alone. We can't perform several basic tasks, and struggle with many more. We will probably never be able to work a typical job, and can only hope to find an atypical job that works for us. We will probably never be able to drive. Our physical disability is getting worse, we need a wheelchair.

It's all so much. It's too much. I don't know how to tell my girlfriend, because so many of our plans relied on us working while it goes to college so that we stay afloat. But we know, now, that we can't. We may be able to, someday, but that will be in the far future, if we get access to specialists, the treatment we need, and the ability to actually talk to therapists.

I want to die, but not in a way that is death. I want to be a new person. I want to reset. I want to keep everything good I have and get rid of everything holding me back. That's not how it works.

And I hate that through it all, we are fortunate. It's so fucking terrible to think that there are people that feel worse than this. People in more pain. People who need more. People with nobody. Yeah, it feels invalidating, but that's a tiny voice that I bully into submission because it's wrong. Mostly, I feel terrible that those people are out there, barely clinging on. It's not fair. Humans are beautiful fucking creatures and I refuse to believe we were made to suffer like this.

If you want to vent under this, do it. We'll read it and we'll acknowledge it. We can't tell you it'll all be okay, because there's no way to know that, but we can reassure you that we are listening and we care.

#tw vent #tw suicide mention #posting this and then immediately going to bed #im so tired #in so many ways

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murdertoothpick · 3 years

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i'll meet you halfway

Crosshair x gn!Reader | w/c: 782

HAHA GUYS HURT/COMFORT FOR TBB SEASON 1 FINALE. THIS IS MY FIX IT FIC. don't read if you haven't seen the finale!! NOT PROOFREAD BC IM FEELING DANGEROUS

'You don't have to apologise, you know,' you murmur, lips moving softly again Crosshair's temple, brushing against the fresh slit of a future scar.

'I didn't say anything,' he frowns, unable to really reciprocate the affection you're giving him. He doesn't think he deserves it—or you, for that matter.

You hum softly, thumb replacing your lips on his head, a touch so gentle that it contests the bumps and ridges of the skin's vulnerabilities; the places where the flesh is roughly burned and marred with trauma. The removal of his chip, only hours prior, leaves another detail for you to focus on. The cut cruelly reminds you of everything you had endured separately, but also reassures you that he's back.

'You're thinking it,' you accuse lightheartedly, hand dropping to your sides so you can shuffle closer between his legs. He continues avoiding your eyes, but welcomes every touch you give him, and every effort to move closer.

He's sitting with his knees up, and you mirror the position, one of your knees between his open legs, and one of his between yours. Your hands land on his shoulders, kneading those muscles to ease him of the tension that has settled since reboarding the Marauder.

He doesn't say anything back, and for once the silence surrounding you is comforting. It's no longer swarmed by loneliness or loss or anxiety...but fills you up with fondness. In some ways, it reconnects you to the man you knew as not so much of a conversationalist. You don't press on. You never have. You don't force him to speak. You don't ask him to recollect the control of the chip, or the things he had to do while under it.

He'll share those things when he's ready. He always has. It's how your relationship works with him. You're patient, and when you're patient, you know he'll always come back to you.

You have no reason to believe otherwise.

Especially when after today, against all odds, you and his family managed to survive.

That kind of thing bonds people for life. And it's what they needed to open up to each other again.

And if I hadn't worked? You would have followed him, anywhere he decided to go. Just as he found his way back to you, there is no other universe in which you wouldn't find him.

Your hands curl around his neck, gently urging his head down to press against your chest. You kiss the top of his head, the shaved cut already beginning to regrow, but you feel no discomfort from the scratchy surface. It kinda tickles.

'We're sorry,' you tell him, and you can hear the small hitch in his breath at your words. His heartbeat thrums in his chest, and the way he tenses against you is begging for you to elaborate. Before he has to ask you, you continue.

'For not coming earlier,' you clarify, 'I'm sorry, we're s-'

'Stop.'

Crosshair removes his head from your chest, and looks at you. Really looks at you. He doesn't hide away in shame like he had done in your vicinity since Kamino had been shot down. He doesn't look at you for the purpose of trying to figure out where you and him stand. And he doesn't look at you as if you're the target he has to gun down.

Now, he looks at you because he needs you. Because you're there.

'I...I missed you,' he finally speaks, in that quiet voice that cracks when you're on the precipice of crying. And for once, Crosshair doesn't fight off the brimming of tears in his softened eyes, conveying hurt and compensating for his lack of words.

He will always be enough to you though.

He could tell you everything in the galaxy, or nothing at all. But when he looks at you with those eyes, as if you're his saving grace in a storm of anguish (because you are), that's all you need him to communicate.

You smile softly at him, now cradling his face as you attempt to wipe away his stray tears.

'I forgive you,' you whisper, and he doesn't argue. The way he welcomes you back in with all the intimacy is a silent apology that's enough for you. You hope that it provides him with something, maybe a gentle push as to say 'You have to forgive yourself too.'

You press a kiss to his lips, not fast that it's short-lived, and not slow that it falls back into a pattern of something the two of you just aren't ready for yet, but its loving, and does its best to unite what once was and what will be.

For now, you meet in the middle.

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#mtoothfics #crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch x you #tbb x reader #tbb x you #tbb crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x you #ct 9904 x reader #ct 9904 x you

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