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guyfieriii · 11 months

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Get Us Strung

We're back to our regularly scheduled programming with another angst-y piece. Inspired by the song Dirty Love by Mt. Joy comes the tale of John Price and his best friend. My apologies if it seems a bit disconnected, it was originally much larger but I decided to scrap a lot of it (See? I can be nice sometimes.), but I tried my best. Also, this was edited on pure audaciousness, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of margaritas. Do with that what you will.

Lastly, the biggest thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck for once again tolerating me bombarding her with snippets galore and supporting me as she always does.

(Can we consider this as a somewhat happy ending? My original one was A LOT worse.)

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Warnings: Explicit Sexual Scenes and a gallon of pain :)

Nostalgia is a cruel consonance of sentimentality and longing. A honeyed trap you could easily get caught in if you aren’t careful.

You weren’t.

All it took was one precarious step forth into its birdlime confines and you’re stuck, forever adhered to moments gone by. Try as you might to break free, to rid yourself of the persistent fog that looms and live in the present — you’re simply unable. The struggle of it brands ropes into your skin. A chemical burn that scabs eventually, but it leaves you debilitated of every ounce of strength you have to leave.

With time, you make do.

You adjust to the circumstances you’ve found yourself in. It’s easy enough — to simply give in. It’s like the call of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. The arms of a man you love held open in an invitation. It’s the perfect balm to your stinging disappointments and embittered thoughts.

Witness, reminisce — rinse and repeat.

A moment here. An admission of love there, just not the right kind. Not enough to keep you satisfied, just enough you keep you—

There. Still. Stuck in time. Recycling the same out-of-date echoes through your trench of despondency till they fossilize.

It’s his eyes that do you in, really. Lapis set in moonstone white reminding you of the ebb and flow of deep ocean currents that gently coax you inwards to drift among the waves.

They were the first thing you noticed about him.

A skinny kneed boy of eleven, head full of bistre-brown hair, and the bluest eyes you ever saw that suddenly wanted to be your friend. He was loud and brutish in contrast with your more reluctant and constrained demeanour and yet—

He was your best friend. Your first. Your only.

Is your best friend.

Five years later, he left to join the infantry.

He departed, eager to prove his worth. While you stayed back with a poor facsimile of a supportive smile as he promised his eventual return.

I’ll be back on leave before you know it.

But—

I’ll be back.

And I’ll be here.

You clung to him when he told you he was enlisting, fingers curling into the sleeves his Fleetwood Mac t-shirt — a gift from you for his fifteenth. He’d asked if you wanted to keep it, as a reminder of him.

Wouldn’t need to if you just stayed, Johnny.

In the fortnight leading up to his departure, you prayed for a last-minute change of his mind. Maybe the realization that he couldn’t stay without you would finally come to the surface.

It had to. Eventually.

You couldn’t bear the thought of walking up the morning after he left, just missing a part of you. Feeling a crater right in the middle of your chest grow wider and deeper as the distance between you and him extended.

But as the days counted down, his excitement grew nearly as fast as your despair.

It began with you pulling out all the stops, reminding him of the comforts of home, of you. To him, it was only the perfect gift farewell.

It wasn’t until just the day before that you decided to take the cheap shot and just beg.

Don’t leave. Just— please just stay, okay? You don’t have to go. You don’t have to leave me— please, Johnny. I can’t—

He stood at an arm’s length and listened to you in silence, watched you scrounge every ounce of emotional ammunition you could, until your voice ran hoarse, and your tears ran dry.

The pained expression that your outburst gradually chiseled onto his face left you shamelessly hopeful, and you took a step forward to close the distance between you and him.

He wordlessly took a step back.

The time slowed, and the seconds hemorrhaged until he finally spoke.

All he responded with was—

I have to.

You saw him standing out on my pavement by your house the next morning, walking across the same yard over and over. He’d glance upward at your window every now and then in such excruciating hope that you might grace him with something as simple as a wave goodbye.

But you didn’t. You simply stood there, watching from the shadows, trying to find some relief in tears shed, but you came up dry.

And he left.

When he returned, he came as Private Johnathan Price.

Nearly half a foot taller since you saw him last. Mostly the same in disposition if only a bit more self-assured.

In the 18 months of his absence, all you had was a shoebox full of unopened letters and that chasm left behind that grew deeper, still. Every week, unquestioningly, there’d be an envelope addressed to you. And every week, you’d hold it with measured trepidation and excitement. The first one brought you relief to know that you hadn’t lost him in your near ruinous parting of ways. But as you felt the weight of it in your hands, your fingers prudently tracing the ink, you couldn’t bring yourself to read what lay inside. It felt it would be ripping the bandaging off of a wound that had barely begun to heal.

So, you kept it aside.

18 months. 72 weeks. Every corresponding letter that followed underwent the same approach. You held them, appreciated them for their infallible arrival, and locked them away with repentance as the pile grew.

The letter that followed, came hand-delivered.

“You could have written back at least once, y’know.” He says with a smile.

“I’m—”

Sorry, Johnny. Forgive me. Forgive me. Please—

Your ensuing apology dies at your lips, and you nearly suffocate under the weight of it until—

“It’s okay.” He promises.

“It’s not.” You assert back.

His gaze softens and he tries again. “Hurt ya when I left, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“So, it’s okay.”

He means to placate. You know this and an infinitesimal part of you appreciates it. But what takes more prominence is one blazing question left behind.

It blisters and leaves behind the blackened soot of your unmatched expectations. A skeletal impression of his well intended albeit anticlimactic confession.

All you’re left wondering is—

Why didn’t it hurt you to leave me, too?

You met him in London to celebrate your collective 21st birthdays some time halfway in between them.

It took some coordination, between your school and his training in Sandhurst. He never told you — said he wanted to keep you detached from that part of his life.

How’re the— I don’t know what to ask, John. You never tell me anything.

I tell you plenty.

He does well— his mother informed you as much. But the details remained vacant. You try to fill in the blanks, hazard a guess — a poor approximation of the real thing, you’re certain.

It wasn’t something you liked, but never fought him on it. It felt as though your paths diverged at too steep of an angle and you were the only one trying to get them to realign. He seemed content in this compartmentalization, while you worried your margin in it would grow smaller still.

The disconnect it created left you unsettled. Like a trail down the woods that suddenly ends midway. You’re disoriented and unanchored, forever caught in an abridged narrative with his part missing.

But you couldn’t keep waiting around—

Something you tell yourself to make it better.

“Didn’t bring him with you, then?” He slides a glass of ale across the table to you, the bottom of it catching on the adherent buildup of many a spilled drink, causing the foam at the top to dribble over.

“You asked me not to, John.” You mutter, indignant.

You wouldn’t have asked to begin with, but for appearances sake—

“Didn’t want to have to share you with some other bloke, is all.” His self-satisfied grin tells you he sees right through it.

The implications that simmered beneath that statement cut through you instantly.

He didn’t want to have to share.

What would happen if you told him that it was never even brought to question? That you were his, and his alone.

Would he make it come true?

Would he—

“I’d like for you to meet him eventually, y’know.” You opted for a safer route. Something more dependable. Everything John isn’t.

That’s a lie. He’s nothing but.

“If he stays around long enough.”

“Johnny.” You snap, irritably.

“Been a while since you called me that.” He murmurs, his grin slipping into something less presumptuous and more unshielded. Vulnerable.

“We’re not kids anymore.” You turn your gaze downward, nails digging into the chipping laminate on the cheap bar top until he flicks the side of your palm to make you stop.

“No, we’re not.” It’s his tone that makes you look back up— hinting at some kind of unspoken understanding that you recognize right away.

Let’s not pretend, then.

It’s in the dimming obscurity of alcohol when it finally happens. With your dress hiked up over the curve of your ass, and panties pulled to the side — he fucked you in a rush, outside in the cold fall air. The grain of the brick wall scratched your cheek with every thrust he buried himself in you. His ale-laden breath at the cusp of your ear, his hands cupping your breasts, squeezing — they were your only source of warmth.

“Fuckin’ hell, I’ve wanted to—” He confessed.

“So have I, Johnny.” You matched his revelation with your own.

But this wasn’t how it was supposed to—

You’ll take what you’re given. Even if it’s just this once, just tonight. A fleeting taste is better than the fantasy of him you’ve held on to.

He’s better than what you’ve had in the past. Better than what you’d thought he’d be like.

Or maybe, it’s just how well knows you.

He knows how deep you need to feel him, no matter if it hurts just a little. It’s the kind of hurt you enjoy.

How many women have you been with, John?

Does it matter?

Yes. No. Maybe?

It was you that crossed the line. A temerarious lapse in judgment, a flick of a wrist that knocked down an already precipitous house of cards when suddenly your lips descend upon his. He tastes of stale beer and the cigarette you bummed off an old man at the pub. With a grunt of surprise, he reciprocates, his tongue invading past your lips.

In a flash of somewhat sloppy adjustment, your back remained firmly pressed against the brick wall of the side of the pub, while his hands to the side of you effectively cage you in.

It’s not soon after that he takes the reins.

His mouth is everywhere — your lips, glossing over your jaw to the underside while he firmly grasps a fistful of your hair at the root, tilting your face upwards. He lays siege to the delicate column of your neck, armed with a stinging bite and the consolatory swipe of his tongue after.

John. Johnny.

The straps of your top hang loosely off your shoulders as he pulls the front of it down haphazardly to latch on to your nipple. You helplessly mewl beneath him, fingers trembling as they undo the buckle of his belt.

“Tell me to stop, love. Tell me, or I’ll—” He groans. Your hands sink in past the zipper to palm his erection. Warm. Solid.

“Please, don't.” You sink to your knees with the excitement, the need to taste him chafing at your rib cage with every beat of your heart.

“Fuck— fuck, okay. Just slow down—”

“John. Please.”

“I’ll make it good, yeah? For you. I will.” He swears.

I know you will.

You moved to Liverpool a year later. Something about staying in Hereford without him just kept you trapped in a state of inertia. Spending your time waiting more than anything else. It was time to move on.

Or try to, at any rate.

Humble beginnings for you — a modest apartment, a job that paid the bills and nothing else.

You settled into a routine — oscillating between work, home, and bisected friendships that you formed.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same.

It’s hard not to hold him somewhat accountable for your perpetual state of futility. There’s an essence of banality that follows you wherever you go. A life lived in half measures, mediocre and prosaic. It isn’t fair, and yet—

Why couldn’t you just stay, John?

It’s usually at night when the bitter tendrils of your regret slink up your limbs, like stalks of Golden Pothos, that collect around neck and squeeze.

A fire that kindles all too easily.

Can you even call it your own, when it’s caused by the choices of another?

It’s when you think back to that night in London, the weight of his cock in the palm of your hand— the way his eyes pinched shut and his head tilted back as you attempted to take him all the way in.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” He’d asked in a choked groan.

Had the head of his cock not been pressed against the back of your throat you’d have answered with:

Upset you weren’t the one to teach me, aren’t you Johnny?

Whatever remnants of that night that weren’t washed away by the glassy comber of one drink too many, replayed themselves a hundred times over. Every reiteration leaves you breathless and wanting — the evidence of it clearly shining on the inside of your thighs and the tips of your fingers.

Until—

A knock.

“You moved.” His voice was weight down by many an unspoken accusation.

“I did.” There’s no point in an apology— he’s here now.

“You never said.” Anger. Hurt. Betrayal — all in coalescence that lacerates you so deeply, you might stain the walls blood red.

“I— Do you want to come in—?”

He walked across the threshold, brushing past your shoulder before you even finished inviting him in.

“You— it’s not much. I’ve only just—” You stumble your way through some kind of explanation as he sheds himself off his duffel and coat. Any reasoning you were able to muster trickles back down your throat as he makes himself comfortable on your sofa, the floral embellished cushion sinking under the weight of him like it’s his right to be.

“It’s nice.”

You’d have expected him to feel out of sorts in this new home of yours, but he finds his place in it so naturally it fucking stings.

It really could have been that easy— a life with him. It’s a dangerous thought experiment but you wonder if he also aches for that near miss of a surrogate life. A peripeteia of decisions that might have led you down a different path entirely.

“How long are you on leave this time?” It’s a jibe and he notices. There’s an unmistakable clench in his jaw, a steely look set in his eyes at your question like he’s willing you to challenge him.

You almost do.

Good of you to waltz by after a year, Johnny. I’ve been waiting.

You really have.

“Two weeks. If you’ll have me.”

You considered turning him away simply out of spite. A laughable thought, really. An egomaniacal deliberation you pretend to have.

You’d never—

“Aren’t you going home?”

Don’t say yes. Please, don’t say yes.

“Would’ve — yeah. But you moved.”

Fuck. Don’t—

“You make it sound like I’m the only reason you come back.”

The words decamp themselves from you without any realization. Subdued embers relight themselves. Veiled desires now unwrapped — a festering infection that itched beneath near-mended dermis now touching air simply because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

“Would— would it be so bad if I said yes?” He asks, wavering slightly in his footing only to gauge your reaction, and you pray you’re not giving anything away.

Yes. Yes, it fucking would, John. Because—

It means nothing in the scheme of its payoff. You don’t know what he expects, because to you his disclosure only exacerbates the acridity of his absence tenfold. It makes his eventual departure seem like a harsher slap to the face.

You could accuse him of pretense. Tell him how hollow it makes you feel.

Or simply—

“No. Of course not.” You lie with a smile, instead.

He believes you.

His parents pass within a year of each other. He attends both funerals in uniform — having only singular days granted to him in lieu of bereavement.

It might have been a personal choice in his father’s case, which happened to be the latter.

The first was an open casket, the second closed — both lowered into the ground while his hand firmly grasped yours.

And after—

On both days, he found himself buried in you, however in polar opposite ways.

It began gentle, with his need to be held and your need to oblige. You straddle him in the backseat of your busted-up Mondeo Estate, soaking in his silent grief as you whisper condolences. He finds his home in the crook of your neck, bedewed with the warmth of his breath and his tears.

He tastes of grief.

Regret, even.

Maybe, one day, you’ll tell him it didn’t have to be that way.

Imagine what we could’ve been, John.

Only seven months later, you find yourself in circumstances alike only in one solitary way. This time, it’s his anger that transcends the grief. You’re turned away, bent over the disjointed desk in the corner of his childhood bedroom. His fingers etching your skin in a mosaic of blue and purple, willing you to acquiesce to his baser instinct rather than envelop him in comfort. He fucked you, brutally — bare teeth, white knuckles. A lacquer of vitriol to coat you in. Only apologetic in the aftermath.

And—

He wouldn’t let you kiss him.

Change is a weight borne poorly by most relationships.

You try to blame the distance between his visits, and the fact that he always seems more worse for wear than the last. A chronic transformation with every visit, like rust on iron — sandstone shaded corrosion bleeding into his edges.

He tries to shed himself of it when he’s in your company but it’s ever-present, like a phantom limb. An undeniable extension of himself.

You tell him not to pretend.

Not with me, John.

You might as well be white noise.

What started out as concern he’d brush off with a ‘this isn’t something you need to be worrying about, love’ slowly evolved into disregard which concluded with blatant contempt.

This isn’t what I—

He stopped himself a moment too late.

“This isn’t what I came back for.”

“Glad we’re both disappointments to each other.”

Finally, some truth spilled out. It felt oddly cathartic, even if it meant having your worst fears confirmed.

He makes an implicit plea to retract what’s been said, undo the hurt caused, and return to your perpetual state of synthetic decorum. Two people who tip-toe around each other, chat about the weather, and when all redundancies are through and done with—

Let’s just leave it be. Dinner’s nearly—

He feasts on your cunt like a man starved.

It’s funny how rarely you consider the sheer probability of his safe return. Is it simply denial? Is he so deeply rooted within your being that imagining him not being there isn’t an ending you can enumerate?

To you, there is simply no finality to John Price. Forever seems like a paltry presumption to have in his line of work and yet, you can never imagine the alternative.

You’ve tried. You even asked him once.

Just once.

“You’ll be informed if— I — they know you’re my— you’ll be informed.” He spoke with such unambiguous apathy like he was reading it off a manual.

Ten different ways to prepare your loved ones for your eventual demise.

“I’ll be informed?” This isn’t the hill to die on, but you just can’t help yourself.

“I don’t know how else to—”

“I’m glad to know I’ll have the privileges of being your widow without you having to marry me, John.”

He recoils away like you just struck him.

It was an unscrupulous remark to make. Atonement is futile, he’d see right through it. All you can do is wait for the dust to settle and carry on.

But he—

“I’d marry you tomorrow if I thought it would fix things.”

It wouldn’t.

Some things are just predestined to remain broken, you suppose.

“I know you would.”

You find yourself at an impasse. Anyone pragmatic might think to cut their losses and retreat. Start anew.

That’s just not who you are.

You find other ways to meet each other halfway, on an equal plane of vulnerability and certitude. Nothing to hide behind in the arms of one another. There are shared breaths, harmonies of impassioned confessions and you find yourselves in the other once more.

You shed the pain you wear like a second skin, disrobed in ways both actual and metaphorical.

He’s kinder and you’re more forgiving.

He tells you it’s his last night with you for a while and you request your goodbye before the morning. You need something to remain unsoiled.

He leaves before you wake.

Sometimes, he leaves a note.

I’ll be back soon, darling.

Empty words. Hollow promises. An interminable echo in a cave that ripples in the subterranean waters you float in.

Except—

I’m doing the best I can.

And that’s enough.

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bionicle-ramblings · 6 months

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Something I wish was touched on more in the books:

Vakama's mathematics skills. We know all Ta-Matoran are mathematicians, which they needs to be so they get the right angles and measurements for masks, and we know math for them is like a second language

Imagine if, while the Toa Metru are in the archives due to the flood, someone asks how big the archives really are. Whenua says they span across Onu-Metru, mostly, but there are some linked to other Metrus. When asked about the size in miles, EVERYONE is shocked to hear Whenua AND Vakama answer, the two also surprising each other because they get the same answer. Whenua asks how Vakama knows and Vakama admits he just estimated how long the tunnel they were in was, then estimated the size of Onu-Metru and some other Metrus like Ga-Metru and even the Coliseum, and then converted the feet into miles. Everyone has their reactions. Onewa is quietly impressed and annoyed at having a sometimes genius on his team, Matau thinks Vakama is a nerd but is trying not to fall head over heels, Nokama and Nuju are impressed, and Whenua has some more respect for Vakama

Imagine Matau, Nokama, and Vakama seeing the squad of Vahki in Po-Metru and when Matau says there are hundreds, Vakama murmurs that it's actually just two hundred and fifteen. Cue some, "For real? Right now?" Eyesnfrom Matau and Nokama before Vakama gives his plan for how they get past them

Imagine if, during the Hordika arc, in the way Bomonga uses the archives and the knowledge of them to help Whenua not give in to his urges, Norik does a similar thing by wondering what angles the rafters are on from where he and Vakama are standing. Vakama, knee deep in his pain and despair, doesn't want to indulge the Rahaga's "nonsense," but Norik plays coy and half-lies that he's a little rusty on his math and just wants to see if his guess is a good one. Vakama relents and gives the angle as they walk. Rinse and repeat with Vakama growing more reluctant to partake in Norik's game, but Norik ultimately reveals that he's only doing it because he knows it'll help them both; rather than stewing in something emotional and digging a hole that can't be climbed out of, focusing on something more cognitive like the mathematics that comes so easily to Ta-Matoran and Ta-Metru locals will help Vakama focus because he will not be able to save anyone, let alone himself, if he's mulling over what's happened to him and what he did to cause it. After a while of more walking, Vakama, seeing Norik stop by a statue, asks NORIK if he knows the height of the statue, getting petty because he suspects Norik was possibly BS-ing and genuinely curious to see what Norik still knows, and Norik admits he has an estimate, and that's based off of how tall a Toa is and how many of a single Toa it would take to be as tall as the statue. When Norik gives his answer, he asks Vakama about his method of estimating and how it compares. Vakama, not to gloat, uses a similar method, but it's based on how tall a Matoran is and how many Matoran heigh it is. Regardless, the two get a similar answer, as Vakama "swotches" to Norik's method and gets an answer close to what Norik had. It's Norik's turn to try and not gloat, as he asks Vakama how he feels, now that he's more or less been distracted. Vakama, realizing he got played, begrudgingly admits he does feel a little bit better, but doesn't appreciate being tricked. Norik only tells him that he didn't really trick Vakama, just gave him a tool to help him, if he needs it

Imagine, while he sees the horde of visorak, Sidorak gives the number of roughly a thousand, but when his back is turned, Vakama says there's actually MORE than a thousand, much to the surprise of Roodaka. He doesn't give his reason for how he knows, only saying he just does

Idk, I just love the idea of Vakama being so attuned with math, mainly because I hate math🤣

#bionicle #vakama #ramblings #long post #give me more of Vakama being a math nerd #and using math to calm down because it's strictly numbers and angles

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aloosefangirl · 5 months

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Very important reminder for myself and others.

For the past 2 months, I've fallen into a loop of obsessively checking updates on Palestine until I get so depressed and tired that I completely isolate myself from the news for a few days, get over it, obsessively watch Palestinian news, rinse and repeat.

While it is normal and important for us to feel impacted by the genocide happening in Palestine and other places like Congo and Sudan and others, we should not let it destroy ourselves and our lives, because this is NOT helping the cause, but quite the opposite.

I've said it again and again and I'll say it again now. They WANT us to despair. They want us to feel hopeless. They want us to be depressed and weak. And we should not let them.

If the Palestinian people can still find joy in their lives, if they can still dance and sing, if the children can still laugh and play, if they can still go through every day with all the violence surrounding them with strength and faith, then we can too, and we should.

Because we all deserve happiness and joy, and most importantly, because we have to stay strong to keep fighting the oppressors.

Are we privileged that we get to talk about mental health while people are being killed every day? Yes, absolutely. But we should use that privilege to help us fight for good and justice.

If anyone has any resources for improving mental health then please feel free to add.

As always, free Palestine 🇵🇸

#free palestine #palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza #free gaza #gaza under attack #genocide #mental health #mental illness

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amateur-creep · 5 months

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Y'all want some poetry about being chronically ill? COURSE YOU DO!

My squeaks of discomfort go unheard by the scientists

My tail lashes side to side as i feel the pinch of the needle enter my body

I squeak and squirm helplessly

They just hold me in the palm of their hand

I'm just an experiment

I’m not meant to complain

They’re only trying to help.

But my worm like tail gives away my fear

My tiny hands grasp and scratch at their skin

Crimson tipping my claws.

I’m scared, but I don't have any right to complain.

I’m just a lab rat

Lab coats and loud noises surround my tiny cage

I scurry to the corner as soon as i’m released from the harsh grip of the scientist

They say it’ll help humans

I don't believe them

They just want to hurt me

Or have I made that up in my head?

My round ears twitch as i watch them rush around the room

Tears fall to the floor of my cage

Why can't I be like other rats?

Why can't I be free to scurry around without worry?

Why can't I live instead of just surviving?

Why can't I just exist?

When do I get my peace?

The questions flood my tiny brain as I cry, letting small squeaks exit my mouth.

My tiny heart pounds with anxiety and despair

This isn’t fair!

This was never fair.

But a lab rat’s life rarely is

Don't I deserve more?

But i can't help but find peace in being helpless

Small

Weak

I curl up in my cage

The small moment of peace providing little comfort

Because I just know that tomorrow will be the same.

Tests.

Pills.

Research

Rinse and repeat for my whole life

I owe it all to them.

But at the same time i can't help but resent them for all the pain

The isolation

The hurt

Why did it have to be me?

What did I do wrong?

I don't think i did anything wrong

But it's clear my life had other thoughts

That i’d not be someone worthy of respect

That i’d just be a science experiment

That i’d just be research

All because i was born in the wrong place

With the wrong body

With the wrong mind

So i just imagine that i’m a pet

Someone treated sweetly

The sickly sweet love of a child

The gentle touch of someone alone

I’m their only friend

But i know it’ll never be me

They just want to help right?

So why did it feel so scary

So painful

So isolating

I was doomed to be a research project from birth

I’ve made my peace with never being able to live. All I can do is survive.

Even if the vision of freedom is right there

That's all it is

A vision.

An unattainable dream

One I grasp desperately.

But i am once again reminded that lab rats don't get such privilege

And so i continue my existence

My life of tests and pills.

#poetry #chronic illness #chronic pain #animal poetry

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kiefbowl · 1 year

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Would you elaborate on why you don't ID as radical feminist? Is it the ideology or the label?

sure, a little bit. for one, I don't feel I've done enough work, either actively or through reading, to call myself that for one thing. You could go back through my blog from years ago and probably find younger me much more willing to use the term radfem on myself indiscriminately, but younger me was also engaging online in unhealthy ways and although I think I always engaged with feminist posts in good faith and was never lying, I definitely found a foothold on "radblr" (which I only use in quotes bc it's not a very well defined space) that I learned how to "game" for attention during my early twenties at a time I was really unhappy and struggling to find fulfillment in my life. And by saying that, I'm not trying to repent anything or even be overly critical of myself, I think that behavior online is common for younger people, and there's an addictive quality to tumblr. The point is, you can be savvy and learn the parlance of humor quickly, bang out posts to get attention, then feed off the praise and attract, what should we call them...crazy clowns? you can attract some crazy clowns that give you more material to work with, rinse repeat etc. I want to be honest about that time in my life with myself, be reflective, and say to myself "okay, I learned a lot then, I made mistakes, I wasn't always honest with myself...now I'm an adult and I get to treat this part of my life even more seriously" with "this part of my life" being intellectual feminism, not tumblr. I'm willing to see myself as a neophyte on certain topics much more comfortably than when I was 22 or 23 or 24, and do so publicly. Well, maybe I've never called myself a neophyte publicly before, and I can probably give myself a little more credit than that, but in any case I had to check my ego and in doing so ended up shedding the "online radfem" identity and persona.

This shift in perspective began to happen when I changed from @aawb to @kiefbowl, which wasn't something I was entirely aware of. When I made the change, I had put myself into a short but dangerous fling with a man who used meth. This man sexually assaulted me several times (doubt he released it), and then some intense drama happened around him and my job, and truly I just fell apart emotionally and mentally. It wasn't the first time I had been in a dangerous relationship with a man and sexually assaulted, but it was the first time I had seen first hand what meth addiction looks like (and sometimes it's boring, and sometimes it's very intense and scary), and it was the first time I was able to contextualize it differently due to exploring feminism. With that contextualization, I was able to re-evaluate so many previous experiences that were less intense but still assault. I spent many years on tumblr championing abused women, speaking to abused women, telling everyone it could be any one of us, the same tunes I sing now, but I had still been some-how blind that all this included me. The brain is strange. While in my despair and crisis, I realized "I really am just a young woman, I don't know anything." I was able to shed my forced certainty for curiosity.

It was also around this time the cluster B gang (seriously can't remember their URLs now) was in full swing and then had a big fall. I can't remember the details, I just remembered feel sour about it. I think I was just ready to grow up. Growing up is slow but I was ready to say "ah fuck it I don't know" and build from there, a bit of a clean slate sort of I guess. Less pressure to know everything and accept studying feminism takes time, dedication, like any other intellectual pursuit.

Hope that helps.

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mrsmess · 5 months

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I really like the weekly updates. Since Poems Written Before I think of your fics like appointment television, I get the feeling of wanting the next chapter just as I finish reading the latest update, my mind wanders about the story at different times during the week, then I sort of forget - but not really - and the day before, or the day of, I get the sparkles of New Chapter Day (rinse and repeat). I just think is nice. Like, you get to be a little evil in how you leave the chapters and I get to roll around kicking my legs like a little kid, is just fun.

I’m glad to hear we have this little colab going on. On my end I get the posting jitters on Tuesday night, sometimes it keeps me up. Silly really considering I get most of my feedback on Thursday. On Wednesday posting is over fairly quickly after which I proofread once more inevitably finding loads of mistakes since it’s now published for all to read. I rewrite, edit, proofread, and despair over the next chapter Friday to Monday. I’m happy you feel comfortable trusting my posting schedule, and you’re right to. If I don’t publish without having warned about it earlier you can assume I’ve undergone a personality transplant or been abducted by aliens.

Re: me being evil I have no idea what you’re talking about >:)

#fanfiction #writing #posting schedule #asks #answered asks #thank you for the ask

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ina-nis · 9 months

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Even though I know there's no point making comparisons, it just happens whether I want it or not...

I need to keep on being mindful and gentle with myself though!

I know I'm not unique in my struggles and everyone does struggle, too. Life is not easy at all, stress comes to all of us in different circumstances and degrees.

I guess it's just... hard to look at my own life, you know?

"Focus on yourself," "focus on bettering yourself," "self-love," "healing is not linear," "it's about the journey, not the destination," "break your goals into smaller parts," "try to follow your dreams," etc...

I feel like I'm living inside of my head.

What "own life" is it?

Oh yes, that's probably another reason for the disconnection, isn't it? My inner worlds exist separately from the real world, even though I'm here at this moment in time.

It's hard to avoid questions... "why did I turn out like this?"

But I know the answer, that's not the point.

I'm pleading to be seen, pleading to be loved, wanted, chosen and I'm trapped inside of my own brain.

I go outside, I talk to people, I feel nothing. I feel drained. I feel my emotions building up and culminating in despair. I retreat. Rinse and repeat.

I'm really sad.

I know engaging in self-pity will not do me any good. I can still feel sad, I guess... I can still grieve , I can still be angry and feel like this is not fair.

I can cry because I'm exhausted.

I wish there was more to treatment than "strengthening" the good aspects of my life, learning coping skills and just... smiling through the pain.

I wish there was a cure.

#inanis post

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batmanego · 7 months

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literally every night for the past few days i have felt so godawful and i dont know why and its so much worse when im home alone. I feel the despair pit rising every moment i stay awake past like 8 pm and then as soon as morning rolls over i feel a little normal again. rinse and repeat

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djmousewife · 5 months

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i really am despairing and just hopeless in a way that i genuinely dont think ive been before and its rlly fucking with me. like, by all acounts, i am More supported than i have been before, and thats almost part of the problem? i feel ungrateful for feeling So Bad. i don't do Anything, i dont attend uni, i dont write my essays, i dont have a job, i dont clean my flat, i dont rlly cook a lot. of the things that Have to happen so we can continue to live in this flat, or i can continue to access medical services so my life doesnt get worse: those things are often put off way past the last minute and i need a lot of support to do at all. also, rn my life is mostly just calling A Service TM, getting a bullshit response, complaining, calling again, finally getting through to someone who knows whats going on, complaining, rinse repeat. ITS EXHAUSTING! not only that but sitting every day in bed or at my desk refreshing tumblr or staring at my screen saver thinking to myself 'what am i going to do?' and coming to the conclusion of nothing because i have nothing to do, i enjoy nothing, i want nothing, i cant concentrate long enough on anything or process information well enough to do things Anyway. ykw its not even true i dont Want to do anything. i do. i Want to write my essays, on some level i am genuinely interested in the topics. i just Cant. i want to read. i've been pretty keen on reading complaint by sarah ahmed for a while now or maybe rereading whipping girl or even giving notes on suicide another go? but i cant make myself start because i Know that i wont get far and its so fucking depressing. im getting so high, the come down is genuinely distressing because of how scrambled and disorganised my brain becomes and i become so afraid i will be like that forever. and yet i do it EVERY DAY! im struggling extremely badly with some interpersonal shit that has completely destroyed any self esteem or confidence i had in my appearance and my worth. add onto that that i am a massive Massive financial drain and even if i wasnt our finances are just.. Bad? so i was like, ok, fssw time again, that wont be too bad, i can do that. and then i fucking set up by whore phone and downloaded the grindr apk (and it was fucking horrible and evil to do and i hate that evil horrible useless phone) (also did u know u need to send in id for age verification on google now? 101 internet safety says to not do that are u crazy?) and started getting dms and i wanted to cry i got so overwhelmed. like idk if i can do it, but like.. i kinda gotta? idk man. im trying to see things positively? like, i got the form for the work capability assessment and spent all of yesterday photocopying medical letters which detail diagnoses and assessments and reference hospitilisations, etc but also the dwp are evil so who knows if its enough? im trying to get my pip reevaluated but they havent even sent me the Form for that yet? so again! who! knows! i feel like im in beurocracy hell and i cant leave? my uni are trying to work with me, but multuple medical professionals have told me to interrupt or drop out and like if people who are meant to be like have something in your life to keep you going dont think i can do it, what chance do i have of Actually doing it? i dont know what to do anymore.

#kankum #brain tag

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cyphertripping · 2 years

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Hello. I'm new to your blog and love your cypher post. Can I have an where the reader is filled with despair and wants everyone to feel the despair?Cypher knows how it feels, having faced despair so many times in his past, and wants to fill the reader with hope. Of course, this is a bit difficult because the reader is filled with despair and too ready to kill for despair.Let's overcome despair and take steps towards a hopeful future with Cypher. I hope I have been able to express my request in the most correct way because it is not my language and clearly too much danganronpa came to my mind when making this request.

sorry for the wait! i hope you like the direction i took the fic with :) (i’ve never played danganronpa tho sorry :,D)

Despair

Word Count: 1k+

Angst (happy ending)

In your line of work, there’s not much room for socialization. You get the job, get the kill, show your employer, and get the money. Rinse, wash, and repeat.

But somewhere over the years, the grief and blood stopped washing off. Until, you met him.

At first, the Valorant Protocol was just another job with a slightly longer timeline. Get in the site, kill the mirror agents, get out. Nobody blows up, and you stave off the despair a little longer. Everyone goes home happy, except those on your list. Every mission was a purpose, otherwise, you might just spend the rest of your day in bed.

You run into Cypher for the first time in the common kitchen, at 3 am.

“Another sleepless soul?” He asks, over a steaming cup of black coffee. It’s a bit overly masochistic even for you to drink coffee at that time— you’re intrigued.

You stay silent, nodding. You know his name from the briefing Brimstone gave you. You know enough not to poke the sleeping dog— Cypher, Moroccan information broker. Has dirt on everyone, probably even you. You head back to your room, forgetting what you had come out for in the first place, and that was it.

The two of you keep meeting, at the base, on missions, at odd hours. Always a kind or teasing word from Cypher— you find it hard to believe this man takes anything seriously at all. You tell him as much one night, over drinks and cheap wine bought from an inconspicuous corner store near the place you’ve been sent for the mission.

He laughs. “Sometimes. Always have to keep them guessing, hm?”

You scowl, clearly not satisfied with the answer. “It’s hard to trust someone who doesn’t take themself seriously. You’re going to hurt someone someday with that attitude,” you warn.

Something blue glimmers in his hands— a tripwire, you realize. He flicks it around, toying with it like a coin. “At some point . . . you learn to take things less seriously, hm?” he finally says. He shakes his head. “Ah, there I go lecturing again. I’d best get back to my room. We’re still working on that blackmailer issue.”

You frown, concerned. You know lots of sensitive information has come out about the agents. None about you so far, but you knew Cypher had been exposed. Lately, he was working around the clock to try to track the blackmailer down, and always seemed more tired.

But you couldn't find the words to say and instead watched him walk away— his back suddenly seemed quite small.

Something changes one mission. You freeze at the edge of a wispy path of red tendrils that slowly disappear. You know it’s one of the enemy agent’s abilities— a new one— and think nothing of it, when you hear a loud cry.

It’s quickly muffled, but you recognize the voice— Cypher.

You see a trail of red leading somewhere and follow it to where the man is crouched. He’s huddled behind boxes, his chest rising and falling. The light behind his mask’s goggles seem dim, like he’s somewhere else.

“Nora,” he whispers, unseeing of you.

You’re starting to get concerned. You kneel and grasp his shoulder, “Cypher? Can you hear me?”

He sits, unresponsive but for a pained grunt. You quickly look him over— he seems uninjured, but for the trail that leads to him.

“Agent! Do you copy? Some mirror agents are heading your way,” your comms buzz.

You answer, “yeah, I copy, Brim. Cypher’s out though— one of the agents got to him.”

“We’ll have Sage head over to you, make sure to watch yourself,” Brimstone warns.

Immediately after, you hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel. They’re here. You turn around and the red trail has faded mostly, but Cypher remains frozen, trembling slightly. The desire to protect him wells up in you, shocking you in its strength.

It’s more than just the sense of obligation of a job, for money. You . . . want to protect this man— who you’ve shared drinks with, occasionally laughed with.

You hadn’t wanted to protect anyone or anything for a long, long time.

You readied your rifle, positioning yourself away from Cypher so he didn’t get caught in the crossfire. You shot a couple of bullets in warning. You had a feeling those red trails had led them right to you, but that wouldn’t stop you from trying to hold them off.

The first agent to clear the corner, you nail in the shoulder and then the chest— they stumble back.

“Come on! Get me, I’m right here!” You scream, not caring anymore.

But then two more round it and you feel the bullets rip into you. Your shoulder, then your stomach. You can’t move, lest they find Cypher. You fire the rest of your magazine and reload as fast as you can, ignoring the trickle of blood down your arm.

God, the pain burns, but a part of you is . . . relieved. Dying meant the pain was over, the nightmares over. You get ready to take aim and make one final stand, when a wall of white covers your vision.

You blink, looking up, realizing it’s the barrier of Cypher’s cages.

“Cypher—?”

“Come— quickly. It’ll drop soon,” he whispers, grabbing you and heading down the back site.

Once the two of you have found a different position, you look at him again.

“What . . . happened back there?” You finally say.

He laughs dryly. “Well, you saved my ass. Then I saved yours. Also, here— for the bleeding.” He offers you a thick pad of bandages, which you press to your stomach, hissing. At least it didn’t feel like it hit anything too major. Sage wasn’t going to be pleased though.

“But, what happened to you? You were saying something about ‘Nora’?” You ask, knowing you’re touching a difficult subject. With all the jests and conversations you’ve had with Cypher, you’ve never heard him actually mention someone from his past.

You can sense the tension in his frame.

“Nora . . . she was someone very close to me, once. But she’s gone now,” he says, soft. “Whatever that agent’s abilities were— I saw her. But it wasn’t the same— it wasn’t them . . .”

You feel the dam break in you and suddenly tears are welling up in your eyes. “I— I’m so sorry, Cypher. I said so many rude things to you. I didn’t realize—”

Cypher cut you off with a tutting sound. “Ah, shh, it’s okay. It’s in the past, hm?” He pauses, looking at you solemnly. “It’s all in the past.”

He grasps your shoulder and hoists you up as Sage and Brimstone round the corner. “We move forward together, yes?” he murmurs to you.

You look back at him, reevaluating. Amir el Amari— not the man you were expecting him to be.

Yes, one day you would move on from everything, from your past. Learn to live with it all. And you wouldn’t be alone.

For the first time in a long time, you feel hope.

#cypher x reader #x gn reader #valorant x reader #valorant x reader request #valorant x reader fic #cypher headcanon #reader insert #x reader request #reader fic #valorant fanfiction #cypher fanfiction

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ichor-if · 2 years

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what would each of the ROs do if they found themselves returning from the dead in mc's situation??? which of them would be the calmest abt it?? the most panicked/emotional??

Did someone say new ROs (who will eventually get intro posts too, I prommy <3)

Oli:

They can't think about their own, aching body. Not now, not in a circumstance like this one. Their family must be worried, must be searching, must be heartbroken. And you? What about you? How will you fare with another death?

Perce:

A stench finds their nostrils. Death. Decay. Despair. In contrast, a grin finds its way onto their face. „How interesting," Perce mumbles. "And here I thought Haruspex would've finally gained the upper-hand. I suppose the checkmate's been delayed, then."

Umbra:

How curious. How senseless. What craven cycle. Rinse. Repeat. It's unfair, they think. Far, far worse than love, than forever loss. Loss… shock widens their eyes. What effect shall this have on their associates? What effect must it already have…

Lazarus:

They've been here before. Far less panicked. Yet at the cost of another's life. Who has it been this time? Who have they whisked away? Whose voice will join their memories now, haunting them for another lifetime?

Ezra:

Disoriented, breathing heavily, lungs almost bursting, they sit up. Scouring the dark for any hints as to how long they've been here. As to how long they have left to save others. Is it over -- all over again?

Arek:

An oozing, monstrous palm clutches at stuffy air. Looking far worse than the last time he's checked it. It's spreading. Growing. Every time he teeters along the abyss, the thin thread between life and death, his soul breaks into smaller pieces. Even though his body continues moving onwards, ever on… he's afraid what will happen when there's no more fragments of his mind left. One day. One day, for sure.

Lailah:

She thought it would've been over at long last. That her sacrifice would rescue everything she had learnt to love. But it seems fate is feeling especially cruel today, reviving her along with all her problems. All her fights. All her defeats.

#ask #anon #all ROs #Oli #Perce #Umbra #Lazarus #Ezra #Arek #Lailah #the way I had to fight for the read more to appear again...#WOW you can edit tags now holy shit #the way Im always completely mesmerised or angry over basic tumblr functions lmfao

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indoorcoyote · 2 years

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so here's my problem

a very vocal part of me is insanely irrationally convinced that i need to atone for the crime of being alive and taking up space and having wants and needs and opinions. and the only way i can do this is by being unwaveringly people-pleasing and focusing entirely on making everyone else happy, at my own expense if necessary

and the thing with that is that i am actually very bad at being people-pleasing. i don't have a lot of energy in the best of times, i hate feeling obligated to do things, i dislike people for petty reasons (by which i mean: i feel like i'm kind of a dick). i am prone to intense bursts of anger that ends up forcibly internalized and despair that turns into self-perpetuating panic and both ruin my ability to function as a human person on a basic level, much less help anybody else. i am generally autistically bad at talking to people. i don't change my opinions under pressure without being persuaded even if i think they're shit as part of hating myself.

and i've got a constant fucking commentary track running, alerting me to all of this, mocking me when i lose control, and so on, and that's a different part of me than the one that thinks i owe a debt for existing but the two sure as hell feed into one another

so my constant experience is: trying to be kind and approachable and helpful, sort of sucking at it, knowing coldly exactly how bad i'm sucking at it while simultaneously being pelted with irrational self-hatred, slipping, crumbling, sucking worse, having to deal with entirely unwelcome suicidality, having a breakdown during which i am simultaneously losing my shit and calmly berating myself for not just getting up and being normal and functional. rinse and repeat for my entire life. and it's worse of course any time i can't help with something or say something dumb or feel disliked or only relunctantly tolerated but even in the best of times it's there

#this is a mess i sound like an actual crazy person #screaming crying thrashing on the floor etc

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aradiamorningstar · 24 days

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Rinse and Repeat

I’ve worked hard the past few years in the attempt to heal and mend what was broken within me. Broken and ripped to shreds by people who should have loved me. My mother, my father, my so-called friends and most of all, men. I had a habit of putting everything I had into the men I cherished. I grew up with terrible examples of what being in love or loving someone really meant. A lot of people wronged me, but I came full circle with the blame that I needed to take responsibility for as well. My part in these disasters. Whether it was putting up with people who hurt me and giving them endless chances — because that’s just “what you do” when you love someone. Or worse, my volatility in response to mental and physical abuse. I stayed where I shouldn’t have, made broken homes inside of darkened souls. I tried to fix what was hollow from the beginning. Watching my mother cry for hours on the floor at four years old, and spilling out her guts to a child while sobbing incoherently about said child’s father being a horrible person, and a cheater. I had no idea what it meant to truly love someone and it not be an utter disaster. I have failed myself most all, over and over again by accepting someone or something, when I deserved much better. I have come to terms and forgiveness, the little girl in me just wanted to be loved. I didn’t want another man who should have cared for me unconditionally, to leave me in the drive way crying while backing away and breaking my heart.

Four year old me wanted to feel safe, heard and loved. I accepted anything that came my way in form of a good looking man with dangerous charm. After all, is that not my father? All I took from my mother was how to house myself in a broken home. How to walk on glass and keep going no matter how much it cut me, no matter how deep. I held on and on until I was left in a fire of despair, because that is what you do for the people you love. You accept it. Right?

I have been wholly afraid of truly caring for anyone else during my healing years. Fresh out of my divorce, after being together for over ten years, I was empty. I had nothing left to give but I was open to receiving. Receiving a better life than I had be thrust into. Leading a better life than the toxic plans laid before me. Walking a better path towards a brighter future in which I was whole. Whole because I loved myself enough, because I valued myself enough, because I (as gracefully as possible) learned to accept myself unequivocally. I was no longer tied down to the idea of staying with someone and enduring the abuse, or reactive abuse. I was settled into leading a life alone and happy, making my own desires come true. My own goals and plans put into action and being happy for the first time in my life.

I dated around casually and although from time to time I would feel a spark of what maybe could be with someone, I would back away. You can know me, but only what I want you to know. That is my devilish little secret within my soul. I am an enigma, I am layered. You can peel one layer back and I will make you feel like you’ve found every bit of me; but you haven’t. My heart was an empty room housing a fractured soul. Most of all, I was overwhelming lonely at times. One extreme to the other. I could be secluded for days, weeks, months and thrive. Then there would be the downfall of feeling like four year old me again, just wanting to be wrapped in safe arms and held tightly.

When I met you, that changed. Not only did I want to let you in, perhaps at my own peril, but I did. I let you inch closer and closer to every faucet of my being and thought in my head. You left. Three months later you arrived again with a grandiose statement of missing me and apologies. I forgave you because I longed for it. No matter who I went on dates with, no matter what I tried to make my feelings into, I was stuck on you. You are incredibly charming when you want to be, you are loving and funny. You are kind and there for me, and most of all, you want me too. Then you leave. You push me away. I cry again and tell myself I will not stay in this space. I will leave your empty room, to tend to mine. I tell myself I am over you and as always, out of sight —-out of mind.

I have always been excellent at disassociating with the things that hurt me, to an extent. You learn how to do that when you have severe trauma, even if you aren’t able to save yourself or walk away, your subconscious tries to protect you as much as possible. You go into fight or flight mode and you survive however you can.

I got over you. Or so I thought.

Another three months later and you walk into my life yet again. You introduce apologies and gestures, maybe more than before. You walk in this empty room and fill it with your presence. I remember what I felt the first time, and the time after. I disown the bad and forgive you. Does that put me right back where I was? No matter how hard I work on myself, and how much progress I have made — will I always be the abused and terrified little girl who just longs to truly be loved? I suspect so, because you make me feel as if I have forgotten it at all. You make me laugh and smile again, you become the living room light in this empty room of mine. You fill the room with the brightness of a 60 watt bulb.

This time it lasted mere days. You said a lot of things to me that meant so much. You broke the locks to the room and set up camp quickly. Sitting in the spot that was designated for you. You took up residence and I let you. I regrettably fucking let you. I am angry at myself for entertaining this mess, for letting myself go so far down. I justify my actions by telling everyone who really cares for me, that you are sorry. That you were going through a horrible time, that I whole-heartedly understand and therefore cannot fault you. I mean it, too. My friends gently but firmly tell me this is a mistake. I feel like I’ve been stung by a scorpion. I am defensive but I try to keep it non-chalant, I don’t want to give up my carefully curated façade. I know that they care. Worst of all, I know they are right. They are kind enough to watch as spectators and tend to the wounds when you inevitably leave.

Eventually, even if only days later, you quickly remedy any nice things you say to me. Any feelings you might have shown are now shadows and I’m left wondering if I made it all up in my head. If I imagined every bit of it, because deep down it’s what I wanted. I told you that you give me whiplash. I said that it was hard; You want to be my friend, you don’t. You want to love me but you won’t. You don’t have feelings, then you do.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

I am left in bed at night wondering where I went wrong. How could I allow this to happen to me again? Why is my heart aching and longing for someone who cannot figure out what he wants or shows me that he truly cares? Why do I cry over you? Why do I let you back in. Don’t answer that; it’s rhetorical and I already know the answer.

Each time you meander your way back into the room, I feel wanted. You only say nice things after you’ve hurt me and decided you’re better with me in your life. The cycle continues.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

I found myself trying to make anecdotes for the issues you create. Making excuses, really. I admit, it was so nice to hear those things if even for a moment. Not because I haven’t heard them from anyone else but because they came from the person I wanted to hear them from. They came from you. The person I felt and fell for. Even as I write this, my heart aches and swells. Tears brim at my eyes, threatening to spill over and the existential dread bubbles up my throat thickly.

There are cracks in the room’s walls. A fissure. Suddenly I look around and I can’t breathe. The air is escaping the room and there is none left. The fissure widens and there are new cracks everywhere. I cannot breathe. I try to tell you how I feel, but keep it as casual as possible. I feel you slip away a little further and reluctantly I try to hold on. I want to hold on and I want you to reach for me too. I feel you turn it all off. You apologise and try to make it right. You talk to me without fail every day, as always. In the back of my mind I am constantly wondering where I stand with you.

I am good at perception. I am good at seeing what other people may miss in someone else’s actions and words: Even if I don’t want to come to terms with it, I can see. I am the opposite of blind, I wish I could shut my eyes.

I think you are lonely, as I am. However there is a difference. You see me as someone who accepts you wholly, and cares for you indescribably. You see someone who will be there when everyone else’s light has gone off in their room. You know I will be there, you know I will let you in. You know you can crack me open and leave, then come back again. I represent what you want, but I am not actually what you want.

This particular time is the worst. I feel a strangling anxiety tonight, trying to wade my way through the quicksand and make sense of it all. I couldn’t dare ask you though, you never have any answers to give. Empty apologies and then you vacate the room. It is empty again. Now there is too much air and I am choking on it. She just wants to be loved right. She just wants to be held. She just wants to love you. She just wants to be happy. She wishes you loved her too. She wishes you were sincere and she wasn’t your test-crash dummy. She wishes you meant well. She is good at seeing the tiny bits of goodness in people and building them up with it. She just wants to heal you and keep you safe. .. but she can’t even keep herself safe.

You quit telling her how you feel and you barely, if at all, acknowledge the comments she makes — all in hopes to see if the things you said really held weight in the end. She is broken. She sees every little thing.

If I don’t lock you out of the room and throw away the key, you will tear the walls down completely. Leave it in shambles. You will apologise for not knowing how you feel despite what you have said, and you will tell her if you make her feel bad, you shouldn’t be in each other’s lives.

I may still be that little girl in wretched pain, but there is also an innocence to her. In the way she does love unconditionally —friend or lover, without a second thought. She is naïve and hopes for a time when she will be saved. She needs to be saved, that part of her. She needs to protect that little girl because no one else ever fucking did. The current version of herself is enough to coddle the little girl, as if they are not one, but adjacent beings. She holds tight and strokes her hair, she soothes her and cries with her. She reminds her things are not fair in life and people lie. She reminds the little girl that she is strong, and you will walk the earth together after you lock yourselves in the room and board up it up for good. She will live there with the little girl, and no one will hurt them again. She is all she ever needs. She does not want to love in actuality. She keeps almost everyone at distance, but you got in. You are a pest she needs to exterminate. A stray cat who doesn’t know he doesn’t live in the room, and he’s liked, but he is not welcome. Most all, she knows he will leave again soon, she can feel it.

Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.

Please let this time be different she says to herself. She wonders if she means that you will be different, or that she will have the will to stop it first. She knows not to throw a coin in the wishing well of you. She will place her bets elsewhere, she will place them in the surest thing she has— herself.

Please don’t break her, but inevitably when you do, do not come back.

You may not ever enter this room again. You may not walk down it’s halls or knock on the door. No one will answer this time. She holds the little girl tight and in return the little girl holds on to her as well. They cover their ears and she hums to the little girl, while the door is being pounded on.

She did this as a child, when trauma occurred. Block it out, hum until it’s gone. What you cannot see or hear must not be. She self-soothes and holds herself together at night, hoping for a better outcome ..but this is not it.

Plain and simple, she hurts. Tears stain her cheek, but the little girl quickly wipes them away. Whatever you broke, they will mend together. They are unstoppable, they have come leagues from where they are. They protect each other equally and she then knows, her greatest love and ally will always be her and all the versions of herself. You will not break that. We won’t allow it. Please leave, and never come back. You have been evicted. You will not find a home or safe space here anymore.

Directions as read; Do not rinse and repeat, item is delicate.

#c.a.#writing

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your-sweet-cookie · 10 months

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“I thought you died! I’m so glad you made it back.”

Alice in Borderland RP Prompts

Another night, another game. It seemed like an endless repetitive cycle that went on and on forever, a cycle of despair, chaos and horror that came back to haunt the residents of the Borderlands indefinitely. By now, Kukki had grown used to it: get the notice of the team you're paired with for the night, find them, go together to the game venue and do your best not to die, then rinse and repeat every couple of days or so. It was a general routine that made her numb in a way, since there wasn't anything left that could move her anymore, not even the horrific tasks she was being forced to partake in into these mad games.

This night's game happened to be a particularly gruesome game of Hearts, a display of manipulation and deceit at its finest. "Murder mystery", the title read, a game in which they were placed in two separate parties and given a predetermined set of clues and roles in a 'play' like setting, with the purpose of finding the culprit of a so called fictive murder in a given time with only one possible outcome out of two: either the murderer and its accomplices got away with it and the detectives' team got eliminated or the innocent party pieced together the clues and saw through the lies of the criminal and took down the evil party of wrongdoers. In the end they were all innocent people forced to lie to one another and try to deceive each other in order to buy time for their team or get closer to clearing the game, so no matter how you put it, it was yet another unfair and cruel game.

Somehow, Kukki came victorious yet once again and was able to return back to The Beach, but at what cost? Day by day, what she saw in these games made her lose her faith in humanity even further and become more dead inside. Was it even worth it?

As she headed down towards her room, the silver haired was greeted by the familiar voice of her cheerful and optimistic friend, Lilly. "I thought you died! I am soo glad you made it back!" The brown haired woman exclaimed, giving Kukki a thight hug. "Heard you got stuck in a Hearts game..." Lilly continued and gave her a sad, worried look.

"I'm a hearts specialist, Lilly. These games are like piece of cake for me, I won't let them or any other suite get me any time soon, so no need to worry." Kukki feigned a slight smile and patted her friend on the back. "You sure? I know that's your best suite and all, but Hearts are still pretty harsh and gruesome... If you want to talk about it..." But she couldn't finish because Kukki intrerrupted her.

"Well, I'm here alive and in one piece, so you can stop worrying now. See? Everything is fine. No need to dwell too much on these stuff." She reassured her. "Anyways, now that I am back, how about we don't think too much about the events of the night and go watch a movie or something? I feel the need of a refreshment after tonight." Kukki changed the subject, in an attempt to lighten the mood, to which Lilly nodded eagerly and went ahead towards the indoor cinema of the resort.

Kukki then followed her close by, listening to her little rambling on what they could watch, glad that Lilly was in a good mood, but at the same time, she was still lost in thought and as she walked, she automatically reached into the small pocket of her jeans, where a small piece of paper, reminder of the game, still rested.

Making sure she didn't draw Lilly's attention, the young woman carefully unwrapped the piece of paper and stared at the word written on it in bold letters. 'MURDERER' the paper read and Kukki heaved a deep sigh. 'Indeed gruesome and harsh... But as a hearts specialist, playing pretend and deceiving those around you is just another part of the job.' For now, this was just a role and nothing more, a twisted task of play pretend in order to play around your fingers those around you, but what if one day, this will stop being just a part of the games and she'll have to actually manipulate and backstab those around her for good, even those she loved? Would she be able to do it?

She looked at Lilly, who was skipping cheerfully ahead of her and a new smile graced her features. She crumpled the paper and threw it to a trash can. No, she wasn't going to let those games twist her and turn her into something she was not. She was going to continue doing what she had to do within the games, but she would never hurt or betray her friends. 'I will protect them and their smiles no matter what.'

#aib rp #aib roleplay #alice in borderland roleplay #alice in borderland rp #aib oc #aib oc rp #lillyontheborder #rp with kukki #(( Sorry for the long wait and thanks for being patient with me! I hope you'll like this one #(( Thought I could do a lil something and twist a bit the positive nature of the prompt into something a bit somber and more serious tone

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