Connor’s been a little depressed | 33 queer he/they (or whatever makes the joke land). My blorbos are Jesse Pinkman, Eddie Munson, and Gideon Nav/Kiriona Gaia
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hey look it’s the first 2,000 words or so of this post-El Camino fic ive been working on
After 26 years in the desert, the first big adjustment was coping with the cold. Sure, it got cold in New Mexico, but it was nothing compared to Alaska’s bitter freezes. Back when Alaska was just an idea in his head, he thought he could handle it. Oversized hoodies and beanies pulled low over his ears had been his wardrobe since he was a teenager, after all—they should have served him well up north.
Not so much. Less than a week after he arrived, after a night of shivering himself awake next to the wood stove, he got into the truck and headed into town.
It was a small town, vastly different from Albuquerque’s busy streets and sprawling neighborhoods. Most of the vehicles around here were old trucks and Jeeps, bodies half-rusted away, with the occasional Subaru or SUV parked along the street. Small cars didn’t fare well in the snow. Before the next big snowfall, he’d have to get chains. First things first, though: more layers.
All of his clothing fit into one drawer of his dresser—he’d traveled light, not that he’d really had any other option. He didn’t hate any of it, but he didn’t love it. There were none of the graphic tees he once wore, no baggy jeans and colorful jackets. They were boring, muted clothes that belonged to a different person, a stranger. They belonged to Lucas Driscoll, the man he had to become. The man who, right now, had nothing but these clothes. He didn’t even have a personality. Just a flimsy paper trail and a flimsy paper life.
He scrubbed his head in the sink, towel-dried it, and ran the clippers over his hair. He would let his beard grow out, but he needed to keep his hair short.
Now he’d been to town, shown his face with the locals. Aside from that first afternoon at Ruthie’s (he didn’t know if that was the name of the bar, but he thought of it as hers), he’d run into Joe Parker three more times just this week. That was just the product of small-town living, but every time left him feeling he should be holding his breath.
it’s always kind of funny to me when people insist that honesty is a virtue and you should always tell the truth because being good at lying is something that’s been almost universally celebrated for thousands of years by pretty much all of humanity. like there are literally multiple folk tales and legends throughout history and across cultures that involve the hero tricking their adversary in order to win, and it’s usually considered a disadvantage to mythical creatures such as faeries that they can’t say things that aren’t true.
“you’ve got six names and two pronoun sets in your bio, how should people refer to you?” easy. every time you want to talk to or about me you roll 1d6 for name and flip a coin for pronoun set. if you’ve got an INT stat of 15 or lower you also have to roll to see whether you survive my eldritch blast, but that’s mostly unrelated
I love how different forms of art are all obsessed with each other. A book tries to capture the feeling of music, a painting tries to depict a scene in a book, a song tries to paint a picture. And it’s always insufficient. No single form of art can encapsulate another form of art and capture the essence of it – but it tries, and its attempts are impossibly compelling. All the forms of art are in love with each other and spend so much time trying to express what makes the other kinds of art so lovely.
Exactly! The problem isn’t the hunters, it’s those darn time travelers! Least they can do is carry stuff and maybe bring us some sweet presents from the future.
I want more villains who care about their henchmen. I wanna see the bad guy fly into a rage because the hero hurt their very favorite bungling goon and it was nearly his birthday.
“how dare you fail me you miserable oafs!!” should be retired. “How DARE they bully my adorable oafs!!!” should be industry standard.
Underlings having to hold back their dark lord like an overprotective parent because they don’t really want a famous hero to get outright murdered just on their behalf.
I had to draw something
I don’t want to go ‘realism in fiction’ bc we all know how much of a dogwhistle that can be. But it really always bothers me that this isn’t the norm. Like, how the fuck do all these dark lords and evil empresses and what not keep any minions or lieutenants or what not around?
Literally, what is stopping them from just walking to Hero and going ‘I surrender, get me the hell away from this asshole!’ when most Heros will immediately turn them in a redemption story and all.
Like, how they hell do the villains keep anyone working for them without a solid health plan, 401K, and recreational facilities? Isn’t that the minimum. Has no one actually read Machiavelli?
Indeed; one of my least favorite tropes is the whole “I don’t need you anymore” bit, where a villain backstabs a fellow villain working beneath them, which inevitably ends up with the betrayed villain aiding the heroes in order to spite the big bad.
Luckily, I can just draw something that cuts that bullshit out!
It’s so fucked up that you have to be physical and get tired with your body when it doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. you need to touch things and get sweaty and maybe get scrapes or bruises or hit your thumb w a hammer or bleed a little and let your muscles get sore and tired. And then when you are resting afterwards you suddenly may feel that your body isn’t just a flesh vessel but it’s also you
