#fows

[thehuxler]

Well everyone my laptop broke and to repair it I have to order a part and take apart the entire thing keyboard included. Or drive two hours one way to drop it off in town and I'm too broke to pay to repair it anyway so Ferry Our Waking Souls is on indefinite hiatus.

[thehuxler]

I feel bad not getting you guys a chapter for a bit, here is the opening to Chapter Three!

He’s crying. He sobs, and he bites down on a scream as everything inside him clenches and twists and bursts. His shirt is soaked through, his hair wet against his forehead, and his chest billows, the air hissing out like a popped balloon. 

“Paul, Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, Paul,” John says over him, kneeling over him, bracketed over his body like a blanket, haloed against the light. Wet drips down onto his face. Wet mixes it with the tears that slick down the sides of his cheeks. 

The light waivers—bursts and shivers and pulses as he opens his mouth, tries to breathe in, can’t. The crowds cracks open—the sound spills out, curls around the open rafters of the ceiling and falls down over them like a waterfall. 

“Paul, Paulie baby,” John cries, lips bloodless, the white of his eyes stretching broad and bone-colored and bloodshot. His fingertips press into Paul’s shoulder like bursting, his other hand, flat on Paul’s cheek, seers. 

The heat presses down. The heat bubbles up from inside him. He can’t see John—the sides of his face streak, drip like paint melting from a canvas and dropping into his bones. It fills him. It presses, it swells against the seams of him and melds, liquid inside him. He shivers, and deep inside something pulls—a tight twang like a plucked guitar string, a burst of vibrating pleasure that shoots up his spine and tingles at the base of his skull.

He tries to twist away. He tries, and his legs twitch uselessly beneath him, his hands flopping back down to the stage. The smell presses into him—the smell filling up every inch inside him. Every gap. He turns his head and gags. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he tries, though he does, and his voice cracks, and every sound distorts, dipped beneath the liquid that drips from his cheeks, and his heart pounds so hard it shakes him, makes his eyeballs dance in his skull. He wants to get away—needs to. To bury himself in some dark place he’ll never be seen again. 

Mary hadn’t collapsed, when she’d died. She hadn’t fallen somewhere, a heroic faint into the waiting arms of someone who loved her more than life itself. She’d come one day, been gone another. A single visit to a hospital bed. A sheet stained with blood. He’d thought it would happen in an instant—that he’d stand one day from the dinner table and then it would be over. The world winking out to that endless expanse he would never know, and it would be like the part of him that was him had never existed. Scared of blinking. Scared of closing his eyes. 

Over him, wet gleams on the rim of John’s nostril, solidifies and dangles, glittering on the end of his nose. 

“I know, I know baby,” John cries, and Paul realizes it’s not himself, the quivering of his own eyes that makes John shake, but John himself. His whole body—close and slow quakes like the shifting of a mountain, the arms which hold him up bowing back and forth as he struggles to hold himself upright. 

“John, out of the way!” Brian yells, skidding to his knees beside him. His shoulder presses against John’s, pushing, and then arms wrap around John’s middle—pulling, and he turns, hissing, spitting. A sound—flesh on flesh. Ringo hits the stage beside him, and the John is back, throwing himself over top of Paul. 

The weight hits him, rocking him into the slats, and his gut clenches, gagging, as the warmth of John presses into him, the wet against his throat as John latches there, chest shaking, shivering. 

“No,” he cries, “no, no, no, no, Paul—”

[thehuxler]

i need FOWS carboy paul to get bent in half NEOWWWWWW i wanna see that boy get FUCKED within an inch of his gayass life. thank u for ur time

I love this because catboy Paul hasn't even made an appearance yet but people are frothing at the mouth to see him wrecked.

Also I love the concept of carboy Paul like yeah man I am attracted to my vehicle what of it

[thehuxler]

FOWS Chapter four. Paul is:

institutionalized in a facility for other super omegas as he adjust

there is no such facility shit is fucked and they try to keep the tour going

Remaining time: 2 days 8 hours

[thehuxler]

I'm so excited for more omega paul, truly haven't stopped thinking about this fic for a second... any snippets? 👀

I wrote this just now just for you <3

She comes to him in dreams: a specter of something larger than it seems, the vibrating shift of a thing that announces itself like an earthquake. He knows her before he sees her—feels her before he smells her. 

He can smell, in dreams. He can feel, in dreams, the way he’d always imagined an alpha would, and yet not the way. Not without. Not the plunge of one thing into another. He does not step into her and feel her. She steps into him. She plunges inside him. She fills him to every pore. She swells him, fills his body up till bursting, till the hair on his arms and legs and neck stand themselves on end. He knows her in the parts of him that furl—the strands that knit him like a tapestry, that twist and unwind. He knows her in the way his body sings for her, a feeling like his father, four days without a drink. A feeling like skin before the belt. Like a belly before a meal. 

She enters him, and he knows her. She enters him and he opens, and it floods him, the things others swim in, the cerebral douse in every emotion, every feeling that’s ever failed to reach him like a perfumed scent against a brick wall. 

He knows what it means then—the things he’s never had. The things he’s never known, and he wants them—the first drop of liquid on a parched tongue in the desert, sucked greedily until the memory of its wetness is drier than before, and it scares it, it terrified him, it pushes into his heart and unravells him at the seams. 

He wets himself, that first night. He wakes in a pool too warm to be anything else, his stomach cramping dully, and then sharply—a knife twisted in over and over and over again. He ends up on the floor. He ends up on the floor sobbing, and the cramping stays, and it folds in him, it boils like something bursting open, like something trying to force its way out through skin. 

He passes out. A blink into darkness before he wakes again, and he remembers, and she comes to him again, and she keeps coming. He closes his eyes and sees her. He closes his eyes and feels her, and smells her, the cloying scent more real than anything—more real than bread or copper or the yeasty smell of something unmated, unclaimed, unleavened. 

He claws his way to the end table. Wraps a fist around the leg and pitifully pulls it until it comes—the amber bottle that rolls onto the carpet. He takes a pill. He takes another. 

The cramping folds. The unfurling thing packs back up inside him. 

But she keeps coming. She comes to him again a week later—her body furred in the places her naked skin, shone like the peeled flesh of a ripe plum, drips scent and slick and wetness as John enters him, and as he enters John—a tousled mass of red hair shivering between his quaking knees. 

He comes. She turns her head. She turns her head and looks at him, and he doesn’t recognize her. He does. 

His own face. His mother’s. 

He tries to shove John away. It doesn’t matter: John can’t stand to be near him, in the moments after. When the pounding heat cools in the slick of scentless, sterile skin. When he looks at Paul and the scent like warm bread stales. When the blooming thing in John’s face curls like grief. 

They never speak, after. But when Paul stumbles to the bathroom and the retching begins, John follows. 

[thehuxler]

not an idea, just something I was wondering at -- what made you characterize John's scent so uniquely? (coppery, breadlike). It's actually really cool and I love when fics go beyond typical cologne-y/perfumy scents in reference to pheremones, I was wondering if that inspiration came from something specific?

This is going to sound wild but John just seems bready to me. It's something warm and homey but at the same time it's sort of a coarse and earthworn thing? Like humans survived on nothing but bread and cheese for hundreds of years. It's not exactly a luxury but a form of subsistence? Someone works to earn their daily bread to feed themselves and stay alive, which is similar to copper. Very earthy and again very much a part of subsistence and simpler living. It's very coarse and rugged and rough around the edges. But at the same time it's something that's under weaving the material conditions of being alive? And I think that's what John is for Paul

[thehuxler]

I really like your take on an Omegaverse in FOWS its not something Ive come across before but its so interesting and well done. The idea of a super Omega is very clever especially when it comes to Paul. What gave you the idea for it, is there something specific you want to explore this way? So impressed with the world building.

What I like about ABO is how it makes gender issues inignorable and can rob someone of their agency and autonomy under the yoke of heat cycles and presentations and I think that's essentially analogous to the trauma of puberty that many non traditional gender presenting people experience.

Paul already had issues with his gender and identity early on in that he doesn't align strongly with any gender or desire to be one, but still being a beta is seen as a personal flaw and failure because it means he's failing to be a fetish object for someone else. He wants to be desired. He wants to be good. But at the same time secondary genders are filthy and sexualized by his father Jim.

So standard ABO is already to interesting with Paul, but then in a kind of "careful what you wish for way"...what if Paul did get what he wanted, in that he IS the most desired and perfect thing, but instead of that making him happy it runs parallel to the trauma of beatlemania in how they become violently divorced from their own person hood into advertising/media/desire objects.

Essentially, most of my fics are concerned with "how can I make this worse?" For Paul, that's forcing him to confront not only the feminine aspects of his gender that he's long denied, but by making him so intensely sexed that it destroys his personhood. Similar to what happened during beatlemania, but much more personal, much more aggressive, and in such a way that he won't be able to find solace as he did in being the coke slag prince of London.

The boys always said the thing about beatlemania is that there are only ever three other people who really understand it. Even if they have horrible fights, there's still only three other people who can understand the reality bending experiences they went through. But now Paul is going to be catapulted beyond that. And he'll be alone.

[thehuxler]

will his wittle earsies grow back at least 🥺 he's so poor meow meow (literally now lol)

He will not escape being a cat boy so easily