#I’m so fucking useless and purposeless

[emphoenixcat]

The urge to slam my head against something is strong again. Anything to get this Bitch to stop fucking crying about every goddamn thing again.

#cussing #something wrong with me #tw self harm I guess #everything is so stagnant #I’m so fucking useless and purposeless #everyday is the same #it’s not that bad and idk why i’m even crying #but at the same time idk why i’m even trying #I can’t even say what I want without someone asking #and half the time I don’t even know what I want #I didn’t eat the other day because I couldn’t even say what I wanted #idk #just ignore this

[pbaintthetb]

Fictober21, 28.- “I don’t have to explain myself”

Fanfic: MDZS, rating G

“I don’t have to explain myself, least of all to you,” Nie Huaisang bites back. He can feel his hackles rising, he’s going on the defensive. He hates that, because if it were really so simple then why would he care? He keeps talking to hide the bite of vulnerability in his voice.

“You, who let your brother run off- you abandoned him!” Huaisang steadies himself, “So no, I don’t think I have to justify myself to you, Sect Leader Jiang.”

Jiang Cheng’s face is purple with apoplectic rage. Zidian is sparking on his fingers, but Huaisang doesn’t think Jiang Cheng would actually hurt him. Nie Huaisang is a Sect Leader and he’s doing a damn sight better than most people would have thought, even if Da-ge isn’t trying to help. Even if it’s hard.

Huaisang doesn’t think of himself as sect leader, but everyone else does. It has some benefits.

“Your brother’s prancing around with the Wen in the fucking burial mounds too!” Jiang Cheng shouts back, “So don’t go getting on your high horse. You hurt him and then you left him- you’re just as bad as me if not worse.”

He’s not, he can’t be. Because Jiang Cheng had abandoned his brother and for what? Everything Nie Huaisang does, everything he has done has and is and will always be for his brother.

“He left me,” Huaisang spits, trying not to let his eyes water at the still raw pain of it, “You left him.” He snorts, an ugly bitter thing, “Call yourself a brother.”

Jiang Cheng actually shoves him then, not too hard, Huaisang can keep his balance, but he wobbles.

“He’s not my brother,” Jiang Cheng spits, breath hot and right over Huaisang’s face. “We’re not the same.”

That’s stupid though. You can’t just decide that someone stops being your brother, it doesn’t matter what they do. Doesn’t matter if they kill someone you love. If Da-ge killed- Huaisang flounders to think of a friend-

Huaisang had loved his father. Mingjue was still his brother. Huaisang still loved him. Family doesn’t just stop.

Jiang Cheng steps back, probably taking Huaisang’s silence as something separate to what he means, disgust is flourishing across his face. But also anger and pain.

“You have no idea what it’s like to lose your Golden Core, Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng tells him, he sounds sad, almost sympathetic under the customary anger. It makes Nie Huaisang itch because he doesn’t need a man who chose to abandon his brother to pity him, or judge him. He doesn’t need to be judged innocent or evil by a man who he loathes, but equally he’s the only one who’s judgement will count.

“It’s like your being is ripped right out of your chest. You can’t cultivate. You’re useless, purposeless. You-“ Jiang Cheng falters, tone goes rough. “It hurts.”

The air crackles, but not from Zidian, from the raw vulnerability in Jiang Cheng’s tone, so wrong, so against nature that it feels like it distorts the very air around it.

“If you actually loved him, then you would never have had to do that. So I don’t think I would have to explain myself to you. Why I left a man who wasn’t even my brother.”

Jiang Cheng’s face isn’t as triumphant as it should be, not if the man thinks he’s won this argument, if he’s convinced by what he’s saying. It makes Nie Huaisang angry, makes him rage. Everything he does is because he loves Mingjue. Because  he couldn’t let it happen, no bloody fingerprints on Baxia.

He punches Jiang Cheng. It’s not very strong- for a cultivator that is. It’s likely still going to bruise. Sect Leaders can’t do that, but Huaisang isn’t really a Sect Leader. He isn’t. He refuses to go down that path, that was the whole point.

“I love him!” Huaisang screams, fire burning through him. “I’m not like you, and don’t you dare say otherwise.” He feels like he should be crying, he doesn’t’ think he is.

“It hurt worse than anything else,” Jiang Cheng hisses from the ground, not moving to get up. Huaisang chooses not to think about it. “It hurt worse, and I did it to protect, I-“

“I know it happened to you,” Nie Huaisang retorts, harsher than he means. But he’s hurting and confused and so very cruel. He needs to be right, he has to be. He knows he was- so if he can convince Jiang Cheng then he can convince Da-ge.

“How do you think I got the idea in the first place?”

#mdzs #fic #fictober21 #quick fic #750 words #nie huaisang #jiang cheng #nhs #jc #technically wen au snippet i wrote up #but it might not be in this form when i actually write this chapter #featuring mdzs' worst little brothers (in each other's eyes) #desperately trying to pretend they're not in their own #nhs maybe be more careful who you're feral around

[beerecordings]

hey!!! i'd love to see more with the favored puppet au, that's always been one of my favorite concepts. maybe at a point where chase feels apathy in the face of anti, his caretaker, being a bad person? or something from before, when anti decided chase was worrying him and he didn't want to play the games anymore? :'D ty ty

Favored Puppet AU (Chase): After stalking, haunting, and toying with Chase for years, Anti eventually realized it was no longer fun to play with him while his suffering was so high. Instead, Anti kidnapped Chase and keeps him away from the world as its companion. Chase has learned to be alright with that. The human world, after all, was never very kind to him.

Triggers for heavy discussions of Chase’s past suicide attempts and depression and Chase trying to cut himself again, though he doesn’t succeed. Also might be considered soft!Anti, though Chase is the only one it’s soft for.

Florence I decided to combine that first prompt (Chase feeling apathy when Anti’s being awful) with another prompt so you will see that later! for this one I decided to do that moment where Anti decided he didn’t want to play games anymore. thank you for sending them my dude!! also this is my first time writing for this au so the mythology is really experimental but I just tried to do something new with Anti :) it’s very inhuman and doesn’t really understand Chase, but it decides it wants him, so...

.

It sits on top of his refrigerator and watches him have his first meal of the day, a depression snack at nine at night compromised almost entirely of the last crumbs in an old bag of Cheetos. The skinny little human creature – though Anti’s seen him staring at his shirtless torso in the mirror enough times to know he’s only growing more dissatisfied with his softening stomach and arms – throws his head back and dumps the rest of the crisps into his mouth, getting orange dust all over his unkempt beard. Anti giggles at the sight of him. Clown boy with his Cheeto dust and the bags under his eyes. Little human thing. Too small and silly even to be able to die. Goofy, stupid human. Slouching, miserable child.

But if there is one thing Anti enjoys about the human, it is his fierce, hateful courage. At first, the laughter in the edges of his hearing sent chills up the boy’s spine and made him turn around with wild eyes, spitting and gnashing his blunt mortal teeth, but now, after months of being haunted, he does nothing except turn around and glare.

Anti is invisible on his refrigerator, but the human – what is his name? Charles, Casey, something – he still tries to find it. He has eyes made to burn, blue as flame, though, to be perfectly fair, fire can be as much a source of life as the bitter weapon Casey makes with his gaze now.

He used to be warm. Anti remembers. He would stutter when the girl came to see him and he carried those little chips with him, rubbing them in his pocket when he passed the liquor store, and his children were all he thought about. But he’s changed. Anti watched it happen. For whatever reason, the girl stopped bringing the children by at all, and at some point the pain of it must have overwhelmed the man, and Anti watched him embrace old habits with a ferocity only describable as self-harm. After his second suicide attempt – that was the only time Anti let Casey see it, standing over him and staring at the crimson of his blood in the bathtub while the man screamed for it to kill him already, shrieking in despair as Anti picked up his phone from the bathroom counter and dialed 911, giggling at the thought of just how powerful his despair would be when he woke up in the hospital – he removed his children from the background of that phone and replaced it with a stock image of the ocean provided to him by Apple’s recommendation.

The light slid out of his eyes at some point. Anti was there. It watched the whole thing.

It enjoyed the whole thing. Mostly.

“Fucking kill me, then, bitch,” hisses Casey, slinking through his own kitchen like he’s being hunted. He is. “Playing games with me, always, well, I’m tired of playing, you know that, I’m tired… fucking kill me then, not afraid of you, not afraid…”

This is also true. Anti’s pretty sure the only reason he moved back to America was to make sure none of his friends would be in the way of the creature who haunts him finally finishing the job. And to stop them from telling him “you need to get help, you’re talking to the voices in your head and seeing things, it’s not real, you need to see a specialist” in an endless carousel of concern and – as Casey always perceived it – condescension.

“Fucking kill me!” he screams, slamming his hand down on his counter. He shatters a pile of unwashed dishes on accident and blood comes pooling up hot and coppery in the lines of his palm, but Casey doesn’t even look down, doesn’t even flinch, just keeps staring straight forward with fire eyes as wild as a horse’s.

But Anti’s bored with him. It hops down from the fridge and wanders through the apartment, whistling. In the kitchen, it hears the man howling as the whistling returns to torment him, the monster’s singing following him for hours and hours every day, never letting him sleep.

Anti used to think it was really funny, that something as simple as a whistled lullaby could make the man shatter in half and sob like his heart was broken open in his hands.

But honestly?

It’s less fun these days.

“Music, music, music,” rants the human in the kitchen, slamming his palm down again and again, cutting open his palm again, again. There’s banging on the walls and muffled yelling. The neighbors are sick of his screaming. He’ll be evicted soon, Anti reckons. Humans used to travel in packs, making it harder to pick them off, but these days ones like Casey often find themselves alone, and no one is around to stand up for him. “I’ll make you stop, I’ll make you shut up, shut up, shut up….”

Anti lets the human sprint past it and retreat to his bedroom, crawling under the bed and taking his laptop with him. He puts on big earphones and presses them hard against his ears, and he rocks himself as his music plays, turned up to one hundred on his computer, mumbling to himself, laughing sometimes, if Anti listens closely enough.

Anti crouches down to look at him. It hums to itself and touches Casey’s face, and he shrivels in on himself and whimpers, but he does not fight or push it away. Not anymore.

He used to be so much more fun before he started to crumble instead of break.

And yet, Anti has not killed him.

It does not know why.

---------------------

When bored – these days, it often is – Anti likes to wander through the other apartments that surround its own. Watching the human sleep can only be entertaining for so long, even if it does like to hear his sleepy, thick breathing and see his peaceful, dopey face, and it’s nice to just roam sometimes. Anyway, the people nearby can be interesting, though Anti doesn’t mess with them the way it does Casey. No one else has ever been that entertaining.

A young couple lives to their right, newly-married with a little rat of a dog they call Barkley. Anti’s human likes most dogs, but he grew tired a long time ago of the shrieking yips through the walls. Anti itself doesn’t mind it so much. One more thing to annoy the human on his slow road to madness.

“Who’s the best boy in the world?”

It passes by their door and hears them cooing and praising the yelping thing. “Are you a good boy, Barkley? Who’s my good little boy? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

Barkley has been sick for a few days and their fussing over him has been endless as they clean the nasty little animal up after every time it vomits, carefully feeding it vet-recommended dog food and plenty of healthy human snacks whenever Barkley shows an interest. How anyone could care to look after a creature so pathetic and useless is well beyond Anti, but it thinks it’s funny, really. Humans will bow down to pet the lowest of creatures.

I am not like that, it thinks to itself, drifting through the door, invisible. It is important for me to not be like that.

Anti had never had an interest in pets before this year, but, increasingly, it likes to come over and watch them look after Barkley. Constantly it reminds itself – I am not like that. It is important for me to not be like that.

But it doesn’t understand why this is important or why it should not be like that. Truthfully, it has never been skilled with its own emotions. It does as it pleases and what makes it happy makes it happy. If there is depth to that, it isn’t interested.

“Okay, Barkley baby, mommy and daddy are going to go for a walk and be right back in a few.”

“Aww, poor baby, we know. You wanna come on our walk and see all the other puppies along the way, but you can’t go while your belly’s all grumpy!”

“Yeah, little Barkley can’t come today, but mommy and daddy will be right back.”

“Mommy and daddy will be right back, we promise.”

They shower the dog in pets and belly rubs as they baby-talk their way towards the door, blowing it kisses as they head out and lock the door behind them.

“Do you think we should check on this guy here who’s so loud sometime?”

“What, that Chase guy? Are you kidding me? What a creep. He’s so fucking loud. We’re going to have to complain to the landlord again. Guy’s out of his mind.”

Ah, yes, Chase, that’s his name. Slipping into their apartment like a ghost, Anti laughs at the human fickleness and leans down to tweak the little dog’s tail, making it yelp in alarm and start running in circles around the apartment. It giggles and spends some time chasing it and leading it around with its chew toys and such. It likes the way it can make the dog do anything. It likes the cute little dog even if it is such a disgusting, purposeless, stupid little animal. It coos and picks the puppy up, tickling its skinny little ribs and rubbing between its ears.

“Stupid puppy,” it manages to say, in its painful, broken voice. Human language has always been difficult for it, but it prides itself on understanding it well. One day maybe it will speak it clearly too, though for now it knows it would sound like a struggling, glitching machine to a real human. “Stupid baby doggy.”

Faint laughter reaches its sharp ears and it quiets, setting the dog back down. For a moment, only silence, and it crouches in the living room with its black eyes boring into the universe, motionless.

Then it hears raucous laughter as the window in the back of the apartment is pried open and a pair of much, much more pathetic creatures than itself or even this little dog crash their way into the couple’s home. It straightens up, shaking its head, and heads back towards the back room, where a baby’s nursery is beginning to develop. Above the cradle, a pair of imps stop short, staring at Anti as they hover, startled, in mid-air.

Wearing its human’s form, it puts its hands on its hips and waits for them to speak.

They begin to laugh again, loud and boisterous, spit flying out of the one’s mouth while the second’s eyes bulge with hilarity.

“A fairy in California?” The imp rolls in circles in the air, shrieking with laughter. “Who would have thought?”

“Little far from home, Mr. Potatohead,” quips the second, floating up to the ceiling, sneering and sticking out its little purple tongue. Anti’s mouth curls distastefully. “Why don’t you go back to your hunts and your parades, your highness?”

“How’d it get here without getting stuck behind all that running water?”

“Careful, pure-blood, this spoon looks like it might be made out of iron!”

They dissolve into maniacal impling laughter, rocking through the air, shape-shifting in the limited ways they can to make themselves look uglier. If it were the sort of fairy who gave a fuck, Anti supposes it would feel disrespected, but it doesn’t much care. They’re little annoyances who have clearly mistaken it for a much less powerful creature than it really is. They break the monotony for a moment. It’ll kill them in a second. Anti supposes they just came here to make trouble. Imps love break into human homes and stealing their food or making their milk go rotten. They may well have been the ones who made Barkley sick, just to watch the humans take care of the dumb little thing for their entertainment. They’re common in this part of the city because the mountains are close, and imps are snuffling, stupid little creatures of the earth.

“Ew, what’s that?” squawks the first imp, floating closer to it. “Do you smell it?”

“Yuck. His majesty stinks like a human.”

“Just like a fairy to keep a pet.”

“Aw, do you have a widdle human to look after?”

“Maybe we should pay a visit to your stinky little human.”

“Yeah, maybe it needs some company.”

“Some friends.”

“Someone to play a couple fun games with.”

“And then we can find out what it is that made Tinkerbell here go all soft in the middle, like a rotten – ”

But they never get to find out exactly what rotted thing Anti resembles. It snatches the imp out of the air in one snapping motion like the bite of a snake and crushes its body between its fingers, its eyes turning black as the juices run down its wrist.

In its fear, the other imp does not even scream. Its eyes bulge in alarm and it scrambles for the window, but it never makes it. Barkley yelps in victory, chasing his own tail around as Anti’s teeth come down around the meaty little imp and tear it to pieces, silencing the both of the little monsters, leaving nothing behind.

It’ll be picking that out of its teeth for a week, it muses, wandering back out of the apartment and towards its own. But that’s what they get for talking about Chase like that.

It’s odd, though, how it makes it pause and think. That is something other spirits do sometimes, isn’t it? Take a human and keep it as a pet.

The couple with the dog are returning from their walk, holding slushies and each other’s hands.

“Barkley!” they coo, greeting their excited dog at the door. “Are you a good boy? Oh, why are you shaking, baby boy? What a silly little puppy you are. Who’s a cutie? Are you a good boy? You just want a big hug, huh, you just want to be looked after. Mwah, mwah.”

It’s kind of a cute dog, in the end.

--------------------

It liked the way Chase looked up at it, that one day it allowed him to see it.

It liked the way his eyes changed. He was not afraid – Chase is a creature of courage and despair, and these, in Anti’s experience, are both flowers from the same root – but he was distressed. Anti would say that this was because the form he takes is such a disturbingly odd impression of a human that it scared the human, but, truthfully, he thinks he saw a sort of awe in Chase’s eyes that day as well.

He loves fiction. This is one thing it learned about Chase early on. He does not have a reputation for intelligence but he does love his fantasy escapism, or he did back when he still had the energy for things like interests and hobbies. He liked Gravity Falls and Doctor Who and anything with sci-fi or dragons and he would get stuck at bookstores every now and then just walking through the YA section and wishing he was still young enough to enjoy them as much as he used to. In the old days, human storytellers were vital parts of their social structure. Anti thinks Chase would have been a storyteller, in his own way, if this were a few hundred years ago. Maybe he would be happier then.

It does not know when it began wondering about Chase’s happiness. Do not ask it.

The point is that Anti liked the way Chase looked up at it, that one day it allowed him to see it, that day he tried to kill himself.

“No,”  he shook his head as Anti took his phone and called for an ambulance. “No.”

But his eyes were looking at something beyond life and death, something he had only read about in books, and Anti did not understand it.

It thinks, now, that Chase was looking at something he had longed for when he was younger. But Anti does not know what. There are fairytales about prophetic heroes and novels about chosen ones and tv shows where fantastical creatures whisk people away on great adventures, but Anti is not a fantasy. Anti is a nightmare. This is something Chase has always known, and Anti has always known, and there should be no misunderstanding between them.

But it liked the way Chase looked at him, that one time it allowed him to see it. That’s all. That’s all it’s saying. It doesn’t mean anything. It is not like that. It’s important that it’s not like that.

Anti touches the human’s face. He has fallen asleep beneath his bed, and his breathing is clear and deep, rhythmic as the song of a bird.

----------------------

Chase sleeps for fourteen hours and then gets up to make a Cup-o’-Noodles. Beef flavored. It’s the only thing left in the pantry except half a jar of strawberry jam and some milk he was too drunk to put in the fridge a couple days ago, spoiled completely by now. Even the cheap rum he’s been buying is out on the table beside the stove. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed and he cuts a pathetically small figure standing over the stove in nothing but some gym shorts and rolled-up Christmas socks because everything else needs to be washed.

Anti roams the apartment, humming distantly and checking up on things. It deletes an unread message on Chase’s phone from contact name “Marv” and waters the succulent Chase picked up on an impulse last week. It’s so funny to it how attached the human can get to things, and so quick too. He once found a bee on the windowsill, brought it sugar water, and looked after it for several hours before letting it outside. The human put on his loudest comedy show afterwards to try and keep himself cheerful, but he’d ended up crying about halfway through, and Anti couldn’t tell if it was related to the bee or not. He’s always crying. He didn’t always used to be crying. He used to be less deep in his despair and much more fun to play with.

Anti shakes the thoughts off and decides to prove that Chase is still fun to play games with. There’s nothing deep about their relationship, Chase just happens to be entertaining. That’s the only reason it followed him all the way from Ireland. It floats towards the kitchen, silent and invisible. It’ll give him a quick scare, not enough to put him off his dinner, just enough to remind him he should still be fighting. Anti shape-shifts cleanly into a small boy with black hair and deep onyx eyes and goes to stand behind Chase, silent and still, staring up at the child’s father as he stirs the noodles in silence.

“I know you’re behind me,” he says after a moment. “Looking like Hunter.”

Anti startles and shivers back into invisibility, drawing away. Chase turns blearily to see that it’s gone and he laughs, deep and hollow.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, stumbling a little as he tilts back his rum. Anti knows he’s already drunk from the calmness in his tired voice. “Used to your tricks by now. You been getting to know me, I know. I been getting to know you too.”

He snorts to himself and leans back against the stove, seeming to forget his noodles. He squints blearily around the room, rubbing at his eyes. He hasn’t put his contacts in since the last time he tried to kill himself. Wanted to make sure he cut the veins, but after he survived that night, it didn’t much matter if he could see or not.

“I think I can sort of tell when you’re close, most of the time,” he adds. Anti sits at the dining table across the room, frowning. “Like… I can feel you. Or something. See you, maybe. I think you make things… a different color. Does that make sense?”

He points sluggishly towards the dining table and then shrugs, letting his hand drop again.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess.”

His pot is boiling over. The water will burn his hands in a moment, resting as they are against the edge of the stove. Chase laughs to himself again, shaking his head, and throws back the rum for so long that he’s panting when he’s done with the drink.

“Funny,” he says. “Would have almost liked for you to be there. As Hunter, I mean. See my baby one more time. My baby. Hunter, my son…”

His eyes trail far away. Anti doesn’t think he’s looking at anything at all. There’s nothing left for him to look at.

Water cascades across the stove, boiling. Chase whimpers as it hits his hands, but he doesn’t pull away.

Something yanks him back.

He stumbles away from the stovetop. Drunk, he can’t keep his balance, and he goes crashing to the ground, falling on his back and dropping his bottle, which shatters into pieces of glass and a small flood of rum across the kitchen floor. Chase gasps, grabbing at his bruised elbow, staring around for a sight of the monster that has haunted him for so long.

The pot of noodles goes spinning off its stovetop onto the other side of the stove and stops boiling after a moment, quieting the kitchen. The knob on the oven flicks to ‘off’ and the red light disappears from the stovetop, leaving it dark and silent.

Chase closes his eyes.

Anti stares at him and it knows, in the moment, that the human was not lying.

He can sense it.

He can tell it’s there.

“Why,” croaks Chase. “Did you call 911 that night?”

Anti steps back from him. His movement shifts glass on the floor with a faint clinking noise.

“Was this what you wanted?” Chase whispers. “Just to see me live like this a little while longer? Just to make sure I couldn’t get away that easy? Was killing myself too good for you? Are you ever going to actually finish me off?”

He is crying. He is always crying.

This isn’t fun anymore, Anti realizes. It isn’t funny.

And honestly –

Honestly…

Honestly, it doesn’t know why it called 911.

“I think that’s what I’ve actually been waiting for,” laughs Chase, sobbing as tears run down his reddened cheeks. “Fuck. Not even staying alive waiting for it, that’s not what I mean, I mean… like I haven’t killed myself because I’ve been waiting for you to do it.”

He throws his head back and cries and laughs and hugs himself with his burned hands and scarred wrists, his whole body shuddering with the tears.

“But you won’t,” he sobs into the darkness, as Anti’s presence draws away from him and the sun fades. “You won’t. Will you? No one will give me any mercy. No one wants me to have any fucking peace. So tired… You won’t…”

Anti retreats to his room.

It doesn’t want to face him right now.

He doesn’t want to face him right now.

Chase cries in the kitchen for a long time, until his whole body feels tired and numb and drained. He doesn’t clean up the glass. He doesn’t clean up the rum. He doesn’t clean up the water. He would probably have slept right there on the wooden floor of his kitchen, but the doorbell rings.

Too drunk to put himself together, he staggers to the door and throws it open to the cold, red-eyed and stumbling like a zombie.

“Uh,” says the delivery kid, fixing her alarmed expression after a moment. “Here’s your food, sir.”

Chase is too confused even to question. Almost dazed by it, he takes the bag of take-out carefully from her hands, thanks her in a mumble, and shuts the door behind him.

KFC.

Did he order this?

No, he was making ramen before he made a mess of it. But it’s what he always gets. Chicken tenders and mashed potatoes and a couple extra biscuits for the next morning.

In his bedroom, Anti closes out of the delivery app and drops his phone onto the bed, deleting one more message from Marv before it drifts past Chase and goes wandering, thinking, roaming, lost.

It’s not like that… it’s important that it’s not. It’s not like that.

Zayn and Mary are walking Barkley. Anti watches the happy little dog go yipping and dancing in the space between them, happy and safe and recovering, cared for by his masters.

-------------------

The apartment fills with soft light in the evenings. White and gold from the weary sun. When it hits the horizon, the gold pirouettes and falls apart into a dozen different watercolors across the long shoulders of the sky. Pouring patiently through the windows, like syrup from the bark of a great dark tree.

Anti sits beside Chase’s bed and watches him sleep, playing slowly with his hair.

It likes Chase’s hair. It always has. Soft and dark but sometimes golden in the sunlight, and ever-so-slightly curly, so you can wrap it around your finger if you’re gentle, and make it spring back again afterwards.

Anti wants to kill something. It doesn’t know what. A human, probably, but not Chase. Chase, Chase, Chase. It had forgotten how much it likes that name.

You like a lot of things about him, it lets itself realize. When did that happen? When the fuck did that happen? One day you’re making him having a repeated dream where he’s carefully cut into pieces and eaten alive by a sentient crocodile because he always got scared of the one in Peter Pan when he was a child and the next you’re thinking about how soft his hair is. It makes Anti laugh, for a moment, but it thinks it feels… sad. It doesn’t know why.

Chase wakes up and it drifts back into invisibility, leaving him to sit up and look around. Check his phone for the time and stare at the floor for a while. Today he is groggy, but not sad, which strikes Anti as odd. Most days he is groggy and sad. Sad groggy stupid human. Anti’s sad groggy stupid hurting human. It sighs and spins lazily in the air, watching Chase push himself up on his feet, his eyes dead and weary.

Someone slams on their door and Chase groans, rubbing at his forehead. He’s hungover again.

“Brody!” The slamming insists. Chase stutters out a breath, slightly frightened, and totters to the door, pulling it open.

It’s his landlord. Anti’s lips curl up in a snarl. A mean, stupid man, stupider than Chase, even, and he looks angry.

And he starts to shout at Chase, and Anti does not like it. It doesn’t interfere, but it doesn’t like it either, and it knows Chase will do nothing. He stands there shirtless in his Christmas socks and stares at his landlord like he can’t believe any of this is real – not because it’s rare for him to be in trouble, just because his life is an alley puddle full of cigarettes and bathing rats and he’s most likely dissociating – and just nods when he’s told to get his act together and pipe the fuck down before he gets kicked out.

“Yes,” says Chase. “Okay.”

The landlord leaves.

Chase shuts the door behind him and looks directly at Anti, invisible on the ceiling above him.

“Jokes on him,” he says dully. “He’ll have to be the one to clean my blood out of the bathtub.”

Anti blinks. Chase pauses, letting his head rest against the cool wall for a moment before he pushes himself back up and wanders back towards his bedroom.

“What you will do?” asks Anti.

Chase startles so hard he slams into the wall of the hallway, whirling around to look at him. Unnerved by his response, Anti scowls and backs away again.

“Sorry, did you just talk to me?” asks Chase. “It’s a dream, then? Or did you talk to me in real life? Or am I really losing it finally? I mean, worse than I have already.”

Anti grumbles to itself and gets up in the fan, making the blades spin slowly, sulking. Can’t even talk to the human without him freaking out.

“Must still be drunk,” mumbles Chase, retreating back to his room.

Anti gets up and follows him.

“What, are you worried?” snaps Chase, digging under the bed, and Anti grins at the heat he’s showing again. That’s more like it. “Haunt me for, what, eight months and now you’re worried? I know you’re there, asshole.”

Anti lets him hear it giggling. Chase rolls his eyes and then he gives a short laugh, shaking his head.

Anti feels pleased, it thinks. Chase turns to look at him. He can’t see him, but he knows it’s there. Anti likes that.

“You really are a monster,” says Chase softly, smiling at it.

And then Anti sees, in his hand, the little tin where he keeps his razor blades.

Anti’s mouth falls in a frown.

Chase looks up into the sunset. Orange and gold, tonight. Flowing over his hair and into his eyes, making them alight. Fire eyes. Fire Chase.

“I hated you for a long time,” says Chase. “But you’re either a monster or the part of my brain that really wants to hurt me, so I guess either way I shouldn’t blame you for being what you are.”

He stands up, straighter than he has in a long time, still fixated on that sunset.

“I… I’ll miss…”

Anti stares at him, waiting, but Chase never finishes his sentence. After a long moment, he turns and takes his phone off of his bed. A slow, shaky breath escapes him.

He always takes his calls between the hallway and the living room so he can pace. Anti knows. Anti knows everything about him. Anti knows things about him he doesn’t know about himself. Anti likes things about him he doesn’t like about himself.

The human steps into the hallway and opens his contacts, carefully picking a name he hasn’t picked in long months, and he closes his eyes, and he waits.

But no one answers. Chase lets out a soft, miserable laugh, gripping the phone in both hands.

“Ah, damn… ha. Sorry, Schneep, I was really hoping you’d pick up.”

He circles quietly in the hallway, running his hands through his hair, his eyes closed and that phone held up to his ear, trying to breathe even instead of weeping.

“Look, man, um. I know we fell apart. Honestly, I really needed you, and you were just too busy for me, and that stung, it did. Maybe it was selfish, but I just… I needed you, Schneep. And I felt like all you cared about was the research, and…”

He rubs his face, brushing away tears. Anti stands at the end of the hall, staring.

“Well, I didn’t call you to accuse you of anything. I just wanted you to know that, um, even though we both hurt each other… I always loved you, man. And I don’t got the courage to call Jacks or Marv, okay, but I love them too. I love them too. And I’m sorry. Cause I was a coward for running away from them, and… maybe you needed me even more than I needed you, and I couldn’t even see it. So I just want you to know: you were my best friend. And I’m really sorry I couldn’t pull you out of your head and that I couldn’t help, or didn’t try hard enough, or just that I wasn’t what you needed. And I…”

Anti sees Chase close his eyes and breathe.

“And I hope I’m not one more person you spend the rest of your life wishing you could have saved,” he whispers. “It’s not your fault, Henrik. I love you. Good night, buddy. Maybe someday – ”

The voicemail beeps. End of recording.

Chase lets out a hurting breath and sets his phone down. His eyes are fixed on the rising sunlit moon, past his window.

“Maybe someday I’ll see you again,” he says.

He goes into the bathroom and crawls into the tub.

And Anti – Anti is paralyzed in the hallway, staring at him, invisible.

But Chase can sense it. Chase can sense him. He looks back at him, his face – fuck, so familiar now, like Anti knows every line of it, every shadow – and says nothing.

Something in Anti cries out against it.

Don’t let him do this. Don’t let him do this.

But another part – oh, another part recognizes what has happened. It has grown attached to this human despite all odds, despite everything. And attachments are dangerous and stupid and useless, just like this little mortal curled up in his white bathtub, holding a razor, staring at it. This is Anti’s chance to let Chase break the attachment. This is its chance to stop this before it goes too far. Before it actually does decide that it likes Chase, that it wants him, that it should keep him, that he loves him in his own fucked-up way.

So it steps back.

It won’t stop Chase.

Let him go. Let him go. It’s better this way. He was just supposed to be entertainment. There was never supposed to be an attachment. So now Chase can die and Anti can leave and they can go their separate ways, and everything in Anti’s life will return to normal. It will go back to Ireland and find something new to do, someone new to torment. And everything will be okay.

It doesn’t stop Chase.

But Chase –

Chase –

“No,” he whispers to himself, gripping the blade. “Please.”

Chase can’t bring himself to do it.

“No!” he screams, lashing himself once, but it hurts and he hates it and he wants it to stop and it’s not like the other times he’s tried to kill himself, not at all. There’s no numbness. There’s no comfort.

He doesn’t want to die.

“Please!” he howls, gripping his own wrists. “Please!”

He’s begging himself. End it. Finish it. Stop it, let me go.

He’s begging the universe. No more. No more, please.

He’s begging Anti.

He’s begging Anti with everything he has.

He turns his eyes to it and he’s screaming, and there’s blood on his wrists, and the glowing moon is like the eye of a god staring down at them, and Anti is illuminated in its light, visible in the shape of a man, visible in a shape like Chase’s, and Chase is begging him –

“Don’t make me live like this any longer!”

Anti turns and flees.

Chase is howling like a shot dog, holding his own shoulders, unable to kill himself, because he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want Henrik to get that voicemail, he doesn’t want to never see the sun again, he doesn’t want to go, he isn’t ready, but he can’t live like this any longer, and he’s never felt more hopeless in his life, and he still doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to die.

Don’t make me live like this any longer.

Why can’t he end it?

He’s so drunk and so tired and he thought he wanted to die, he really thought he did. No, no, not… oh, he needs somebody, he needs something, he needs something to change. Henrik. He wants Henrik, wants Jackie, wants Marv. He’s staggering to his feet, trying to get up, trying to get back to his phone –

He slips in his Christmas socks and in his own blood, and he crashes down hard in his bathtub, and lies still.

------------------

“Oh, no, oh, fuck,” Anti hears him whimpering as he comes awake. “How much did I fucking have? Stupid, stupid…”

It stands in the hallway, pacing, its eyes set on the ground. It is determined now. It has decided.

“Oh, shit! Oh.” There’s a nervous laugh from Chase as he notices the shallow cut on his arm. “Oh, wow, I… I must have tried to… but I didn’t! I didn’t, wow…”

There’s an awe in his voice that hasn’t been there for a long time.

Is it… pride?

“I didn’t kill myself,” Anti hears him whispering. “I didn’t… didn’t kill myself. Or I just passed out before I could, but either way, pretty impressive for a fucking idiot like me.”

Anti retreats back to his room and begins to pack the human’s things up, taking only what’s immediately necessary. It doesn’t care about the personal effects, but there are some things they will need – some clothes, his hygiene products, shoes, medicine. He places the succulent gently on top and zips it into place as an added present.

It can hear Chase wandering around the house, apparently dazed by his own survival, or maybe just still drunk from the night before. Anti shuts his phone down remotely and doesn’t let it turn back on when Chase scrabbles at the power button, mumbling about his friends back in England. Anti doesn’t know where the sudden interest in them after months of deleting pictures and ignoring calls has come from, but it doesn’t care.

Here are the facts, in its mind:

Chase survived last night.

It has grown attached to him.

Because he did not kill himself, it can’t escape the fact that it’s grown… fond of the human.

The human survived one night, but Anti has watched him through a great deal of ups and downs, and it knows that Chase will be suicidal again soon enough, and then he might not survive.

Anti does not want to watch him die.

And so the conclusion it came to last night, watching over the boy as he lay in that tub, gently curling his hair between its fingers, was this –

Chase will be its, and Chase will not die.

It has a great satisfaction with this plan now, more than it thought possible. After months of boredom, finally, finally! Something that makes it excited again, something that makes it feel – well – happy!

Chase is still playing with his phone. Anti steps back into the hallway and sees him frowning down at it, pressing on the power button a few times in a row, looking unhappy.

“Did I call him, or…? Need to tell him I’m okay or he’ll – ahh!”

Chase screams aloud at the sight of Anti standing in the hallway with his backpack on. Anti frowns as he goes tumbling to the floor in his alarm, groaning from the whiplash in an already concussed head.

“You’re – you’re showing yourself to me?” gasps Chase, scrambling away. “What’s – are you going to kill me? What’s going on? Hey, stay away!”

But Anti is moving forward, a smile already on its face. This is perfect! This is perfect! It could howl! It could shout! The man is looking at it again, just like he did that night he tried to kill himself, the night that Anti saved his life, and there is the change in his eyes, the recognition, and Anti feels seen and known and in control all over again, and everything is good, everything is perfect.

“What are you doing?” demands Chase, his hands reaching out to protect himself. A fighter, yes, just like Anti always saw. Small and weak and mortal and foolish, yes, but also courageous, courageous, always something special about him. Anti always knew. It grabs Chase’s wrist and pulls him to his feet, humming to itself, singing the old lullaby it always used to haunt him with.

“No, stop, I hate that!” screams Chase, trying to cover his ears, trying to yank away from him. “Stop it, let me go!”

He’s such a pretty little human, even if he is built so scrawny. Anti likes his dark hair and his fire eyes and his soft stomach and even his stupid tattoos, just because they’re his and he’s so goofy, silly human creature. It’s all familiar to him now. The boredom that it thought it was feeling all this time it now sees was a secret fear of the truth that it was becoming attached to him. But last night woke it up to the realization that it did not want to see the boy die and it’s so pleased that he decided to live. In a way, the human was deciding to stay with it! Everything is good. It wrangles Chase’s other wrist and begins to drag him towards the door, unbothered by the sound of his shouting, which is little more than white noise to Anti after so long spent following Chase.

“No, no! Help me, someone help!” he cries.

Someone pounds on the walls of the apartment. A muffled “can you shut the fuck up for once in your life?” makes its way through the plaster. Chase sobs, tearing at Anti’s hands, his eyes wild and desperate. Anti keeps humming.

It will set him up somewhere just as good as this stupid little apartment. Better even. Bigger and less worn. And it will teach Chase to take better care of it too, so he doesn’t make such a mess like he always does. It will give him things he hasn’t even realized he wants yet. It will give him his little succulent back and he will take care of it. Humans need things to take care of or they get very sad and they die sometimes – that’s the thing about humans, they can get so sad they can die, and it’s no longer fun for Anti to watch, so it will get Chase things to take care of instead. What do humans like to take care of? Cows? Hamsters? Potatoes? Whatever he wants.

It takes Chase’s keys and drags him out to his car, opening the door and letting all of Chase’s trash litter onto the street. Its foot crunches on garbage as it pushes its human inside, chirping politely at him when he struggles and gently blocking him from escaping, keeping him pressed inside the car. When Chase tries to lunge forward past it, Anti shoves him against the glass and makes him yelp, clutching at its aching head. Whoops! It pulls back quickly and pats his cheek, checking the bruise and patting Chase’s head. It will take some time to learn the boundaries for touching the human, but it will learn. It keeps him carefully inside until the human has gone breathless and shaky and realizes he can’t get out right now. Satisfied, Anti gets into the car beside him and starts the engine.

Oh, no, wait. One more thing it wants to do.

Anti sets Chase’s apartment on fire, whistling its song to itself as it disables the alarms and leaves a few rags beginning to spread the fire from the oven to the counters. Fuck that landlord who yelled at him. Now the other humans will probably think he died in the fire or something and not come looking for him. Not that they could find him if they tried. Anti leaves the apartment smoking and gets back into the car, chirping and purring to itself, too excited to care that it’s acting like a youngling on its first Samhain.

The human stares at the road as they begin to move, shell-shocked and trembling. Eventually his eyes flicker over to Anti, and it can see that he isn’t sure if he should be angry or terrified or just numb to all of this, numb to everything.

Numb is what he settles on. Numb and a little weepy, anyway. Anti coos and reaches out to touch the human’s neck, rubbing warmly at his soft skin.

Chase curls in on himself, shirtless and shivering in the seat of his own car, kidnapped and alone, and he begins to cry very softly.

There’s blood on his arm. He’s tired. He’s hungover. He’s still struggling with the desire to die despite surviving the night before. He thinks he left Henrik a weird voicemail. The monster that’s been haunting him for years has just appeared in the flesh and thrown him out of his apartment. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He just wants everything to stop.

He just wants this to stop.

The monster repeats its cooing noise at his side, still petting at his neck and throat. Chase shudders and cries, rocking himself gently in the seat, wishing for his headphones. Anti turns on both the heat and the radio. A top-twenties station comes on and plays music familiar to Chase’s ears, and they drive, and they drive, and he begins to go quiet and still, sniffling to himself, hugging his shoulders. Feeling the monster petting him like an animal.

“Okay,” whispers a warbled voice when Chase has finally begun to calm down, and he looks up in shock to see the monster speaking, or trying to. He’d never known it to speak at all – only to watch him, and laugh, and whistle or hum, playing tricks on him or mimicking him in the corner of his vision. They’d never spoken.

“Okay,” it repeats, touching his hair. “Okay.”

Chase swallows and says nothing.

Anti pulls over after a couple hours of driving and hands Chase the backpack, helping him pull out the clothes and put shoes and a shirt on. It leads him inside a gas station and lets him use his bathroom and wash his face, staying beside him the whole time. Chase doesn’t try to protest or call for help. He does not know why.

Anti leads him carefully through the aisles of the gas station, a big truck stop station with rows and rows of snacks and toys and clothes and knick-knacks like phone charges for cars and California-themed snow-globes. It seems interested in everything, but in an amused way, like it’s laughing at everything, and Chase is supposed to be laughing with it.

He doesn’t know what to do. Anti’s arm is around his shoulder.

The monster buys something with Chase’s credit card while Chase shakes beneath his arm and tries to figure out what’s happening, though his brain seems to be shutting down from being so overwhelmed and he really just wants a drink. Anti pulls him back towards the car and this time, he clambers in without protest, sitting down in the passenger seat and buckling in.

Anti sits down beside him and offers him the bag from the gas station. Chase blinks and looks over, taking the bag numbly from its hands.

There are nuts for protein and three bottles of water. Chips and a breakfast sandwich and jerky and chocolate and a small, stuffed lion with the name “Lionel” in its ear.

Anti starts the car again. They drive.

“What are you?” asks Chase in a whisper.

The monster glances over at him and touches his face, stroking a finger down his cheek, down his beard, and, in that struggling, glitching, inhuman voice, it tells him:

“Anti. And you are mine. No more scares. No more slow dying. I look after you. Human. Chase. Mine.”

The monster who’s been haunting him for months wants to keep him as a pet.

The desert is rolling past Chase’s window. Lionel sits patiently on his lap. The radio plays something inane and catchy. Anti is touching his hand.

“Mine,” it says again. “Okay, Chase. It’s okay.”

Chase closes his eyes, and, leaning back against the headrest of the car, he lets himself drift into sleep.

#chase brody #antisepticeye #cutting tw #suicide tw #extreme distress tw #bee writes #2020 prompts #favored puppet #florenceisfalling

[imaginedisish]

Let It Be (Crowley x Reader) Good Omens

A/N: OOOOHHH MY GOD HEY GUYS SO IM OFFICIALLY BACK!!!! I’m a little bit rusty, so this first imagine is probably going to be a little bad. BUT!!! IM BACK. OMFG IM SO HAPPY AHHHH!!! So this imagine is half based on a request about Crowley and the reader starting out as friends, and then beginning to date, and half just something I needed to write. Life has been hard, but writing this helped. The title, and some parts of the imagine are based on Let It Be by The Beatles. I hope you guys enjoy!!! Keep requesting!!! AHHH!!! IM SO EXCITED TO BE BACK YOU HAVE NO IDEA. ENJOY! (P.s I will write for our ineffable husbands...pls just request)

Summary: Crowley comforts the reader after the reader receives devastating news. Crowley takes the opportunity to reveal a secret he’s been keeping for a long time. (College au)

Warnings: Language, depressive thoughts, depression, mental breakdown, some angst, overall sadness, mentioned and implied death of loved one(s). OH AND FLUFF AS ALWAYS ITS FLUFFY DONT WORRY.

Word Count: 1,964

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me

Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me

Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

You anxiously shuffle around your apartment as Let It Be by the Beatles plays from the record player in your dining room. The wood floors underneath your feet are cold and unwelcoming; a sharp chill rolls down your spine. The city lights glare through your window as the sound from the streets below boom throughout your apartment. Tears begin to fill your eyes, making everything around you a blurry mess. At this point, it had all become far too much for you to handle. 

This year had been a terrible one. You felt as though you were consistently losing everyone around you. It lead you to question whether or not anything had a purpose anymore. Everything had been out of your control for so long, that it seemed as though things could never go back to normal. You were waiting for that light at the end of the tunnel, but it was nowhere to be seen. 

The final straw, unfortunately, was the passing of your aunt. The worst part of it all was how far you were from your family. You were a junior attending NYU, and the semester was about to end. All you had to do was take finals, and you were free for the summer. Then, suddenly, your mother called you with the news. You felt numb, useless, and purposeless. Life seemed so dark, so short, so impossible. 

What am I supposed to do now? You think to yourself. What’s the point of all this? You begin to sob uncontrollably. You know your neighbors can hear you through your walls, but you don’t care anymore. It was all too much for you to deal with. 

Suddenly, you hear a familiar voice, dragging you away from your dark thoughts. “Hello? (Y/N)?”, the voice calls, followed by a knock at the door. You stand up, trembling as you walk towards the door. 

“Crowley? I-Is that y-you?” You stutter, sniffling as you try your best to be loud enough to be heard through the door. You wanted it to be him with everything in you. Crowley had been there for you since the beginning of college. Through thick and thin, he stood by your side. 

You two had met in Central Park in September of your freshman year, and coincidentally realized you both were students at NYU. Something drew you together, and you two had been close ever since. Aside from your tastes in music, you and Crowley were polar opposites. He was tough, and had a sort of “bad boy” exterior. You on the other hand, were soft and kind. You were an English Major, and Crowley was a Chem Major. You were like an angel, and he was much more like a demon. In many ways, you two balanced each other out. 

What Crowley was completely unaware of, however, were your feelings for him. Practically from the day you met him, you knew Crowley was going to be an important part of your life. 

You knew you were going to fall in love with him. 

“Yes, of course it’s me. Now let me in,” Crowley commands. Without hesitating, you swing the door open. 

There was Crowley, his red hair spiked up, his black, circular sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

Crowley removes his sunglasses from his face, something he rarely did. He looks you up and down, quickly recognizing that something was wrong. He noticed the red blotchiness of your face, and how tangled your hair was.

He looks down at your hands, which are shaking uncontrollably at your side. A concerned look appears on Crowley’s face. He steps inside quickly, and slams the door behind him. 

You instantaneously feel his arms wrap around your body, pulling you tightly into his chest. “I don’t know what happened, love, but I’m here,” Crowley whispers in your ear, shocking you a bit. He was normally much tougher than this. Seeing this side of him was different. It was far from the Crowley you had come to know. 

“Whatever you need, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” Crowley says as you grip onto his shoulders, and dig your face into his chest. 

You two stay like that for a bit, until you calm down enough to separate from him. Crowley brings a hand to your face, softly wiping away your tears with his thumb. You sniffle softly, waiting for Crowley to ask for more information. 

He opens his mouth. “So, do I get to know what happened?” There it was, the question you were dreading. 

“M-my…” You trail off, unable to finish your sentence. Crowley grabs your hands, holding them in his own. 

“You can tell me, love. I’m here,” His yellow eyes meet yours as they beg for some sort of a response. It’s clear his intensions are good. It’s clear all he wants to do is help. This was so out of character for Crowley. He was never like this. 

“My aunt died, C-Crowley,” You struggle to say as your stare travels from Crowley’s eyes to the floor below you. 

You can feel Crowley’s grip on your hands grow tighter. “I’m so sorry love,” Crowley says, stepping closer to you. “What do you want me to do?” He asks, his hands refusing to let go of yours. 

“J-just stay with me, please,” You whisper.

“Of course, (Y/N),” Crowley says, pulling you back into his arms. You press your face against his chest as his cologne fills the air around you. He smells like vanilla and cigarettes. The two scents somehow balance each other out. “Is there anything else I can do to help?” He asks. 

“N-nothing, Crowley. There isn’t anything anyone can do,” You manage to say. “Honestly I don’t even know what to do anymore,” You pause, catching your breath. “School is so fucking hard. I really don’t think I can do this anymore. It feels like absolute hell. I keep losing people, and I’m so sick of it. I can’t fucking do this anymore. I mean it.” 

Crowley lets go of your hands. “Well, you aren’t going to lose me.” He steps even closer now, his nose just inches away from your face. “And you can count on that, alright?” 

You’re taken back by his words yet again. Crowley wasn’t one for emotions like this.

Regardless, you nod your head in response. “Alright.”  More than anything else at this point, you feel confused. Crowley has never acted like this before. It was a side of him you had never seen. Of course, over the years, he had obviously helped you through things. However, it was never like this. It was usually tough love, or advice; never the “mushy” stuff. 

He walks further into your apartment now, finding his way to the kitchen. He opens your fridge, and takes out a dark, red apple. He opens one of your drawers and finds a knife, and he proceeds to cut the apple up. 

You look at him, confusion clearly written all over your face. “What? You need eat something. Go sit down while I get this ready. I’ll make you some tea too,” Crowley says softly. 

You’re even more confused than before. “This just…” You don’t even know what to say anymore. “This isn’t like you, Crowley,” You say, a slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

“What do you mean, love?” Crowley asks, busy at work in the kitchen. “Am I not allowed to take care of you?” 

Your smile grows bigger. “No, it’s just not like you to be…well…”

Crowley finishes your sentence. “Caring? Loving?” He giggles a bit. “Well, it’s you, so it’s different.”

Different? You think to yourself. 

“What about me is different?” You can’t help but ask, making your way into the kitchen now. 

“Everything,” Crowley says, his eyes stuck on the apple he was cutting. “That was actually the reason why I came by, tonight (Y/N). There’s something I need to tell you.” Your heart jumps into your throat. Crowley had never been this vulnerable with you. 

Your mind is racing with thoughts. Could this actually be happening right now? Could Crowley actually have…no, no way. Crowley will never feel for me the way I feel about him, You think.  

“What do you need to tell me?” You ask, stepping closer to Crowley. He puts the knife down, and takes a deep breath. He seems stressed, uneasy. 

“Never mind. Now isn’t the right time. You’re going through so much right now, and I really don’t want to add more stress unto you,” Crowley says, shaking his head and picking up the knife again. 

You take another step towards him. “You could never add more stress to me, Crowley. So, tell me what’s on your mind.” 

Crowley puts the knife down a second time, and closes his eyes. “I, well…you see I…” he trails off, opening his eyes, staring deeply into your own. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just say it, Crowley.” 

“I’m not good with all this ‘feelings’ bullshit. I’ve already done far more emotionally in the past five minutes than I have in my entire life. Can’t I just get a free pass? Save this whole speech for another day?” Crowley groans, stepping away from the counter. 

“Speech?” You ask. “What speech?”

“Nothing,” Crowley says, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Oh come on. Just tell me Crowley!” You beg. 

Crowley says nothing. 

“Say it already. How hard can it be to-,”

“I’m in love with you,” Crowley blurts out. 

“I-,I…” You’re at a loss for words. You had been waiting for Crowley to say that for three years, and you were convinced it was never going to happen. 

“I knew I was going to fall in love with you that day in the park,” Crowley says, his yellow, golden eyes searching yours frantically. He brings a hand up to comb through his red hair. “Every day from there on out was better because of you.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “I know you don’t feel the same, but I just had to get this out of my system. I love you, (Y/N), and I have for quite some time. I just couldn’t keep ignoring it. I couldn’t just let it be anymore.” 

“Crowley, I-,”

“I’ll go now. I’m so terribly sorry for this,” Crowley says, making his way towards the door. 

“Crowley wait!” You say, following after him. “I love you too,” He stops in his tracks, and whips around to face you. 

“Y-you love me too?” Crowley asks in disbelief. 

“Yes, of course I do, Crowley.” You say. “I’ve loved you from the very beginning.” He stares at you, dumbfounded. 

“Are you serious right now?” He asks. 

You roll your eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He takes a few steps closer to you.  

He cups your right cheek with his hand. “Then I’m sorry I’ve waited so long to do this,” Crowley says. Suddenly, his lips come crashing down on yours. 

His lips are soft and warm. The moment fills you with the sense of purpose you once thought was lost. 

Crowley pulls his lips apart from yours. 

“Better late than never,” You say, a smile spreading across your face. 

And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree

There will be an answer, let it be

For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see

There will be an answer, let it be

#Good omens #crowley good omens #crowley x reader #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #anthony j crowley #anthony j crowley x reader #crowley x reader fluff #fluff #crowley fanfic #crowley imagine #good omens imagine #crowley fanfiction #crowley smut #crowley x reader smut #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #au #alternative universe #reader insert #good omens reader insert #headcannon #crowley headcanon #crowley x you #crowley x aziraphale fanfic #crowley x aziraphale imagine #smut

[deadman-suggestions]

I don’t really know what to do - I really want to start writing/venting stuff abt my arthritis & just general stuff about feeling useless/purposeless, but I’m worried it’ll ‘ruin’ this blog cause it’s so depressing. Should I make a new one or just be like fuck it y’all are on the ride with me?

#not a suggestion #i mean #this blog has seem its fair share of #depressing stuff #but i try not to be too negative #id link the new blog if i made one #id still keep this one as well

[skywalkerrs]

A slight rant that I don't want to force upon gc mutuals so it is going here

I sometimes get so sick of writing. It drains everything out of me. You'd think the easy answer is “hey, don't write for a while, take a break” but I always feel like I don't write enough. Because it's been well over a month or two since I actually completed anything, and half of my stories are 3k-5k words at most, so it seems like I'm not allowed to stop because I haven't even begun.

I have so many projects and I have so many more stories in my mind that I just need to get down onto paper or typed up so it's something physical. So I start more stories when others aren't finished. And everyone says “that's perfectly okay, I do the exact same thing”, and maybe it would be okay if I actually went back and finished maybe 1/4 of them, just at least 1/4 so there's something.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not cut out to be a writer, that sure I have a great imagination and I can spend hours creating hundreds of new stories that are all decent- but the writing part, that's different. Sometimes I sit and read it and nothing seems to have changed, that I haven't fucking progressed my writing skills since my 'peak' in eighth grade or some shit.

But I always believed that writing is the only thing I'm 'good' at, and to stop writing, to give it up, is terrifying. Writing is all I do despite never fucking writing at all and to give it up just makes me some kid trapped in her house with nothing but YouTube and memes to rot her brain away all day, every day.

To not write leaves me useless, or purposeless. So I keep 'writing' like 100 words at a time and it's frustrating and so painfully slow and it kills me. I rise up with hope at a new story or a continuation of an old one, and then I crash down when I get writer's block two minutes later. I'm writing all these stories piece by piece and it's draining. Half the time I forget what the tone or mood is supposed to be. Half the time I forget where I was going with it. Or I know, but today was a different day from yesterday and the voice or narrative of this story is no longer the same.

Writing isn't super fun like it used to be. I get excited about certain stories or ideas but it doesn't last. I just feel like I have this duty or responsibility to keep writing, for myself I guess because I used to love it and it's all I know. I'm not talented in anything else, but I always got A's in English and I always did good on essays, so the only reasonable answer is that yes I should write and that should be my thing because I'm good at it.

But I'm not good at it. The one thing I used to be decent at, I can barely do anymore. It is so frustrating, depressing, agonizing. I need it to stop, but my only idea of making it stop is to become better. For me, making this loop stop by quitting writing isn't an option. The only option is to make myself better at writing, but I don't know how.

I can read advice and get inspiration from books or other writing all day long, but it doesn't break this cycle and it doesn't help me finish all these stories waiting in my phone or laptop or abandoned notebooks.

I simply want to be good at what I'm doing, and to make something I'm proud of. And I'm not proud. And I'm not making something.

I'm just chipping away at these stories, on autopilot almost, in hopes that some beautiful work will come out of it. But I'm so tired, and drained, and I don't know what to do about it.

I don't know how to change.

#writing #writing struggles #ughhhh #sorry #i didnt mean to make the end cheesy

[cheladyn]

(A piece of) Everything I know about dance

This is an excerpt of a text that may never see the light of day. I’m too narcissistic or something to do a real edit, so here’s some of it as it is. I call myself a contemporary dancer, I’m trained as one and I run in its circles. I don’t know what such title means, and I sure as shit don’t know what my art does. But I persist. I hope you persist too. I hope something makes sense. If not, I hope you’re well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Let’s get back to what’s important about dance. This is not an essentialist nor essentializing task. An essentialist illusion would be to believe that I could (or anyone could) determine some positive properties or features of dance that could define ‘dance’ with some permanent essence. Such properties would have to exist and remain the same in all possible contexts, experiences, situations. So, maybe dance can have this definition: Dance is dance.

In its identity dance is always designated by the signifier ‘dance’. The signified of dance (us and all our practices) represent the agency of the signifier. Dance becomes performative. Dance is unstable, unfixed, filled with difference. This makes this text both useless and useful, true and false.

The moment I began to write this text, the utter nonsense of this ridiculous signifier, ‘dance’, displayed itself as meaning, as ideological meaning and practice. And every use of ‘dance’ continues to build on/into a totalizing field of such ideological meaning.

Dance is the dispossession of your fleshy right. The dislocation of your labour and efforts to a place and status unnamed. Dance is the debt full of impossible promises and an impossible payback scheme. Dance is debt and duty. The duty to love it. The duty to be indebted. But dance is pay-back in its own right. Dance is how we come together.

Dance is a refusal of the choice to be with us or against us. I don’t give a shit that you’re against me, I refuse the choice. Dance is re-breaking the breaks that make refusal happen. Dance is how we tear dance’s walls down. Dance is the end of justifying and making sense of violent practices and standpoints. Dance is where labour enters unapologetically. Dance is how we overcome the never ending obstacle of labour that tells us that we are inadequate to the task of destruction. Dance lightens the burden of inadequacy. It rearranges the standards of “adequacy.” I would be content to be adequate to the task of dance, because my tasks also exist beyond dance. I keep coming back, the pleasure too obscure but present to resist.

Dance is dangerous to the development and the wellbeing of capitalism. Dance will continue to develop and nurture good capitalists and good capitalist values. Dance is my wealth and never my poverty. Dance claims to be knowable but the horizon will never arrive. Dance cannot be positivist or normative. Dance is queer.

Let’s get back to what’s important here. Dance cannot abolish its endless detritus of expansive meanings: many things are dance. Dance calls me in as a subject. A queer subject. Dance makes us subjects. Sometimes queer subjects. Dance subjectifies. As subjects of dance, we can dance politically. Dance can queer the political. I am sewn into the concept/practice/signifier of dance. Dance is the bearer of plentitude.

Dance moves us away from the conditions that produced this apocalypse. The apocalypse of now and all those on the horizons. I want this to be my dance, my deep, difficult dance of dismembering the legacy and the bullshit and violence of dance. Dance is not a collection of findings that document all of earth’s extinctions (of species and peoples). But we live with these facts and with our own ongoing creation of geological and biological futures.

Dance is made on a wasted earth and on stolen ground. On ground made steal-able. Ground made own-able. Dance makes things steal-able. Dance must be made kill-able so when we kill it, we the subjects-turned-objects of dance, we can see more and differently.

Dance can see the catastrophe it’s made. Dance is the only response to this catastrophe. More dance is the only prescription. The poison and the remedy; dance trudges on. Dance is aesthetic and the sensorial attention. Dance-moves and light-moves are the making of dance pieces. But not of all dance pieces. Dance-moves and light-moves are of a different kind, of a different class of moves. We are supposed to see one more than the other. A hierarchy of moves, a hierarchy of jobs, a hierarchy of senses and affects.

We adapt quite quickly to the changing terms and conditions of dance. Sometimes so quickly that we find ourselves without guidance, on uncharted ground. Dance can leave these spaces uncharted. But on uncharted ground we find ourselves grappling with how best be. Dance exists in a space of ‘I don’t know’ and it’s full of ‘what-ifs.’ The kind of ‘what-ifs’ that bring inquiry, experimentation, anger, blame, and oppression.

Dance can move away from hierarchy. Dance invites my body to get close to yours. To get sweaty and slippery and sticky and smelly. Dance invites your body to press up against mine, roll up onto mine. I will give you my weight when we dance. As a gift, as a task, as a game, in a structure, in a moment. Dance makes my body open up to you, spread for you, reach for you with tentacular softness. Dance brings me closer to you. Close enough to wrap around your length, up into your depth.

I will draw you into me. Dance makes me pant, it improves the flow. I have no intention of stopping. You will not whisk me off my feet (I’m probably too long for that) but you will catch me and our limbs might tangle. Dance brings the struggle of finding the right angle for pleasure. Who’s pleasure? My fucking pleasure. I will dance a dance fully clothed that, when unclothed, becomes a different dance. Addressed to you.

Everything becomes a threat, a border. I become an empty body without organs; flows endlessly extending in every direction. The desire for you inside me is the desire for dance is the desire for desire is the dissatisfaction. Dance, as immaterial as it is, helps me understand the complexity of material borders. Of being me, not you, of merely being able to smash into each other with a physics of lust and tentative concern.

Dance forces me to think how I fold into you, sluff off of you, out of the center and back into the margins. Dance is a human thing. A libidinal thing. My material borders dissolve, I peel off my words, and again I embrace you. We pant. We leverage ourselves in/out of political mobilizations, (un)clear sexual identities, and our limbs tangle again. I swing a leg, sit on you, unravel myself, push/pull/reach/yield to you.

Dance is an alternative ethical and political framework, it’s a saturated sense of desolation, an interrogation, a kinship. We un-problematize our limbs and mobilize our pelvic floors, scoop our transverse abs to get a bit closer, just a bit. Our historical bodily processes and impulses pulse somewhere else. A trans-corporeal permeability.

My agency is in how I hold you, how I exit the dance, come back for more. Dance rests on a precarious female body. On exploited bodies. On my body sliding back into you, for you. Dance continues a history of surveillance; a better panopticon of surveilling myself.

Dance is the intelligence of the spiralling pinky. Inwards and outwards rotation. A reference to tenderness. Our tender anatomies. Electrified by anatomical proximity. An uneven distribution of risk.

Dance gives me a feeling of unshakeable purposelessness. But not when I crawl onto you, crawl toward you, on my knees, toes flipped, bodies flipped, rejuvenated blood rushing back. I skin-flesh-bone my way towards you, across the marley, across the street, across the sheet. You call and I turn, you interpolate my fucking desire to press into you, to use my tens of thousands of real capitalist dollars invested into dance training to make you come.

Wait. The climax came too soon. Dance is the ride to orgasm and the ride to applause. Nothing more than imagining and practicing something outside a realm of exploitability. Dance asks the crucial question of whether this is enough for transformation… if enough exposure to dance will elicit political transformation. If vulnerability meets responsibility and we can eat each other senselessly… when will dance be vulnerable and responsible. When can I see you again. How can I learn to prepare in the wings, the on-off-stage, for the moment of performative glory?

Let’s get back to what’s important about dance. Turn your head, pour into it, bring your spine into stillness; this is a dance of presence. Choreography is a dance of being told what to do. Dance owns me, turns me into the dancing receptacle. Defined by its waste until dance and only dance can come out of me. This is the shit of dance. Dance is the collisions of constitutions. Tomorrow I’m owned by no one.

Dance is an untheorized freedom. My freedom to wake up beside you in hotel rooms, on studio floors, on rocky-beaches. Dance taught me to follow your lead. A social dance. A social view of the embodied agent where the embodied actor is not just another product of society.

A social significance of bodiliness. We cannot empty dance or a dancing body of its explanatory significance. Dance is my significance under the wall of stars, the specialty I pursue in relation to, in reference to broader theoretical difficulties.

Dance is entangled in the production and recreation of structures. These structures are both the medium and the outcome of interaction. The rules and resources used to make dance repeatable and reliable are structures. Dance structures were made by people now dead, or no longer subject to its walls. Dance is the honouring of endless ghosts. Bureaucratic ghosts. For dance to be inhabited by bureaucratic ghosts means the dance(s) of today will not create anything (new). Dance is a re-membering, a re-creating. Dance invests me with the ability to recognize and transform structures. Dance is agency, an ability to act. Ability is strength, flexibility, control, and sensitivity. Dance makes me permeable to affect and to be affected by structures.

The importance of dance is on the doing of the structure. And on the not-doing. And on the other-doing. On the difference-doing. The structure is the rules and resources. The rule of law and natural resources. Rule of thumb and renewable resources. Approaching dance, there is a ‘usual’ and a ‘normal’ way. This is the structure of rules and resources. Dance is not reducible to to either rules and resources, nor its agencies. These things are mutually constitutive in all its ways. We have built new rules of ‘not yet’ and ‘yes, but’; these rules are the resources to affirm a ‘someday.’

Where is my unruly corporeality? Strained by control, this fleshy vessel is a frontier, the contact zone, the uncontrollable, the approachable. I am unruly and wild, pervious to dance in its multiplicity: as a drive, as an orientation, as an act, as an identity. Slippery, I seep beyond to generate a status beyond Thing. I’d rather remain the object; however, to give up and hand over my object-ness to become a medium, an instrument, a tool is not what I desire. Where is the unruly corporeality; a peripheral investment.

So I’ve accidentally opened something else up: has/is a body. A tool, instrument, medium; something still other than subject or object. I will stay as subject and object. I do not simply have a body quickly/slowly trained by dance classes; my unruly body is the object and subject of postures and judgements. This unruly body won’t be of pure utilitarian value; how else am I to display my investments, these postures and judgements, the unevenness of my animation. This dancing body is the malleability of investments, narcissistic investments into body parts.

Dance shows that a form of care being asked for. All forms of care come to pose problems of representation in their staging of answers. In this way, dance might just be asking for attention to form.

Dance is the social condition of embodied matter and virtual potentials; irreducible, incapable of eradicating choice. Even if it indicates some choice, your choices, their choices. Dance is generous in the constitution of bodies.

This is the dance of a disposable population, of an immune population. Dance is continually generating immunity in certain valuable subjects. Dancers are immune. Take up the identity, sew yourself in, and become immune. Dance is easier for some.

Dance likes status when it doesn’t value risk. It’s just people. The risk of dance, to say risky things, is forgotten, left at the alter, abandoned, when the status and stakes get high and all-consuming. A livelihood in jeopardy, a signature incorporation, an incorporated company, a reliable operating funding. It is a graphic act of re-inscription to lose risk and avoid the heat.

Dance is a skin-knowledge. A knowledge of the world through the honing of the skin that wraps the viscera. A visceral skin-knowledge of data-gathering and uniting cosmological values. Dance is the shedding of skin, itchy skin, calloused skin. It builds bodies to feel and perceive different things over time. Dance is just me realizing things have changed, I have changed; I feel so differently from what I once felt, it’s like I have left that body for a new one. I shed a lot of skin.

Dance pressurizes the non-verbal against the western verbal logos. A proselytizing of your reason, your Reason and Rationality. These double r’s will only go so far; the moving, dancing, breathing body, marks the world in ambiguously satisfying ways. Reason might not adequately convey the nature of embodied experience, or the witnessing experience. Reason is designed not to impinge on our viscera. It does. I dance a dance of Reason.

The craving for a different dance is the assurance that all this is doomed to die. It’s more than craving and desire; dance cannot be possessed; thank the deities that desire ends in death. Dance is desire with more mobility than reality.

[pennyln]

This is going to be long and rambling and no one will read it but you need to get thoughts out sometimes

You ever do that thing where when you lie down in bed you fantasize about the life you wish you had, like you lay down and get comfy and then think okay tonight I’m going to think about how this could be like this and maybe I’ll dream about it? It’s kind of nice how in your head you can have everyone who has left you, the friends that have long since left, people who aren’t here anymore, or maybe the person of your dreams.

The thing is lately I’m not sleeping, I’m up all night and might catch a couple hours once the sun comes up. Sleeping is the safety it used to be, everyone who left keeps showing up one at a time and they way they come in those dreams it’s not the gentle oh hey what if we could still be friends it’s the this person wants nothing to do with you, this one is leaving again and it fucking breaks my heart all over again. I keep having dreams about being alone, it’s normal and then suddenly it’s just me all alone again. Or I’ll have a good dream but then I wake up and it’s like hell for a minute when I remember that oh yeah they left, or that hug or someone holding me- I haven’t been touched like that in years.

There’s no one there to hug me or hold me or cuddle me or even brush a fucking hand on my shoulder. I don’t get to feel anything physical except pain in my stupid sick body and cold-I am always cold, or sometimes when it gets really bad it feels like my chest is crushing my lungs and my heart.

But the problem with living in your head is that it’s all you have and eventually it’s going to break too. And it’s starting to. I’m having trouble forcing myself to leave the house-what for I’m still unemployed, no one is missing me, I have nothing to do out there in the world. The not sleeping is fucking with me. I keep having breakdowns, i relapsed again, I’m having trouble using a knife when I cook because I look at it and...

I’ve been depressed a lot in my lifetime but I have never felt so useless and purposeless and unneeded and unwanted in my life. I pushed the last couple of people away, everyone else left on their own- there’s no one left to care about me and pull me back from this hole, and there’s no one left to blame for this but me. I lost me job, I lost my work friends with that job, I lost my best friend before that (and the ones before), one or two word answers to the one person that texts me once a month isn’t doing anything but cutting me off even more. I’m alone and it’s my fault because I wanted to be alone so I could disappear, but I’m not disappearing just breaking.

#personal #god i’m so fucked up #depression #broken

[mishastits]

hey so uhhhhhh no offense but my life is genuinely headed nowhere and every day i’m alive i realize it some more and i just have this sense of absolute purposelessness, uselessness, etc

i’m not here for any particular reason and the things i think i’m here to do, i always get bitten in the ass for doing, so i’m not sure exactly who i am or what i’m supposed to be

i just try to be nice and see the good in everyone but a lot of the time that’s seen as naive and maybe it is

i feel like i’m losing myself

it used to come naturally for me to just be nice, i didnt used to lose my shit as easy as i do now, i used to not be so fucking fragile

but now i am, and it takes fucking nothing to crack me

and my heart breaks for myself because of it because i feel like i’ve lost someone who i actually was starting to fucking love for once

but now i am essentially gone and i dont know what to do with the shell of the person that’s left

#:(

[moiraineswife]

Molly Theory - Soldier Background

This is kinda fucked by the whole memory-loss thing but we’re just gonna say that he still has instincts and shit. And I just. Feel passionately about this so y’all are going to get this: 

So this is going to amount to a combination of actual theory based on old instincts he hasn’t shaken yet, something I just enjoy picturing, and getting into the realm of headcanon: 

More specifically than soldier, I think that Molly was a mercenary, and a monster-hunting mercenary. 

I now present to you all The Evidence: 

-So, first off, Taliesin said on Talks that Molly’s nervous breakdown after the battle of Alfield had nothing to do with the battle, and that he’s killed before. Which struck me as interesting because as far as we know this guy’s been with the carnival for the past two years and, if the amnesia theories are true, that’s all he’s got.  But this is the tiefling that slipped silver pieces into common people’s pockets because he doesn’t want them to buy drinks for them because he knows they can’t afford it. I feel like he wasn’t a serial killer back in the day with that kind of moral code. Soldier/mercenary then makes the most sense for why he’s used to killing things and isn’t bothered by it. 

Molly has a strict moral code and part of that moral code was that if you take money from someone, you do the job that they paid you to do. Bing bing bing - The Mercenary Mantra. (I feel like this...Well I suppose it could apply to the carnival, but I’m not sure you need a moral rule for that, you know? And yes it was in context of the gnolls but STILL, this is grounded in something) Unless they’re trying to pay you for something really shifty - a moral mercenary. 

The way Molly acts with regards to combat is another big clue in this vein.  The battle of Alfield freaked him out for reasons, if I remember, Taliesin said had to do with his Bloodhunter abilities, not the combat, but either way, it’s delayed. He doesn’t react in the moment, only when the fighting is done, his party is all safe, and he’s got some peace, privacy, and a drink in his hand. If you’ll allow a little bit of stretching it - not only has he seen combat, but I think he was in charge of other people during combat situations, but he waits until he’s in private before he shows any kind of weakness/processes things. 

The Manticore battle/Caleb- Molly knows how to respond to traumatised people. Molly knows how to respond to traumatised fighters. He deals with the source of the trauma, brings them back, reaffirms them, and then leaves to check on his other troops (Nott) There’s a few things in here, some of which I’ve talked about in other contexts, but I’m going to say again here for the purposes of this city. First of all, he removes the source of the flashback - the fire - which is significant because it means that he was keeping enough of an eye on Caleb during the battle to see what triggered him. This is also the first thing that he does when the battle ends - his first instinct is to go and look after his party. 

But once he’s dealt with Caleb, he checks on Nott, which means that he was keeping half an eye on her, too, and was aware that she went down. In the frenzied heat of combat he’s keeping an eye on his party, and he prioritises them when he checks in on them afterwards - which is quite tactical and organised for a random dude in a carnival who spun swords around and put up tents for a living, and again supports the theory of him being some kind of military leader. 

The camp bandits in episode 8: the saga of Molly the mother hen in this episode was amazing but also...Totally supports this theory tbh. First, when the bandits stop him getting his scimitars, he makes a beeline for the cart which is a)- the only potential cover in the open field they’re camping in and b)- the source of other weapons, which he makes good use of. Tactics.  Molly also takes charge of the situation - he checks in that the rest of the party is good with him doing so - then he organises the bandits. He has them line-up in front of him (soldier order) and he then has them renounce their now-dead leader, elect a new one to speak on their behalf, he then gives them gold and reforms them instead of killing them.  I’m stretching things again but quite often bandits/robbers like that lot are deserters/were soldiers who lost employment and struggled to make their way in the world - so there’s a chance Molly found himself in a similar-ish position when the carnival picked him up and gave him a second chance and now he’s doing the same thing for these men. But also with the former-commander thing in mind, I think it’s just his instinct when he sees these armed young men without purpose to step-up a bit and whip them into shape. And I can see this as being something that he did before - just sort of...adopting these wayward, purposeless men and turning them into loyal followers of him. 

So all of this says ‘military soldier’ but there are a couple of things that push me more down the mercenary route. 

His class for one thing. Molly’s a Bloodhnter, which is great for killing monsters and beasts, not as much random people on battlefields. Also, having read through the class, and knowing Matt Mercer is a giant Witcher nerd I’m like a solid 87% sure the Bloodhunter class at the very least draws inspiration from witchers, whose primary purpose is as hired monster-hunters. 

Also his general dislike for lords/rich folks/establishments, and just his general flamboyance - the tattoos, the coat, the individuality and independence he exudes - means I can’t easily see him in a strict military organisation and liking it. He’s a mother hen but he’s also a little shit, and I can’t see him happily belonging to any kind of rigidly structured organisation.  I think his discipline is a bit like his moral code - he sticks to it as much as possible, but it’s his and there’s no mistaking that.  

TL;DR for the theory part: Molly has the soldier background - but he was specifically the leader of a mercenary, monster-hunting band back in the day. 

SO Theory over: headcanon/extrapolation time! So, with all of that in mind, my theory for Molly’s backstory (which is probably UTTERLY wrong but it’s so fun to speculate and picture him as a mother hen pre-game) is that he had a little party of adventurers/mercenaries who,much as witchers are wont to do, wandered Wildemount and took on contracts to slay dangerous beasts.  At some point, they got a little overconfident, and his party were killed by an extremely powerful beast, leaving Molly as the sole survivor. It was at that point he either sought out himself or, being vulnerable, was sought out by a cult of Bloodhunters who recruited him with the promise of revenge on the monster that killed his friends/soldiers who he felt personally responsible for.  Then comes the memory loss, which I have a few thoughts on. It could have been something extremely traumatic that just wiped him, but I sort of doubt that. Trauma and memory loss do go hand-in-hand, but not complete memory loss to the point Molly believes he and his powers were born not made and has a wealth of theoretical backstories for himself.  I think either something traumatic happened to Molly and made him all but useless to the Bloodhunters that took him in, or his morals started to strongly disagree with his new friends/he started getting too close to that line the Bloodhunter class warns about becoming the thing you hunt, tried to back out, and as a result, either by magical means or some kind of poison, they wiped his memory because they didn’t want a rogue Bloodhunter wandering Wildemount. 

TL;DR: Molly was the leader of a mercenary monster-hunting group, somewhere along the road he became a Bloodhunter to become a more effective hunter, and then some shit happened and his memory was wiped and he ended up in the carnival. 

There are some holes in this, obviously, but I Enjoy It, so I decided to post it and here we are. 

#mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role #critical role spoilers #taliesin jaffe #bloodhunter #text post tag #long post #molly meta #molly headcanon #molly theory #there's probably more stuff like tactical decisions in battle etc #but this is already long af #and i didn't want to go back and rewatch all the old episodes to pick through #i might at some point #BUT FOR NOW

[iabsolutelyresentthiswebsite]

The Romantic Relationship Development Rebuttal

I received this comment (below) on my post for the second installment of my “Fundamental Misunderstanding of Rian Johnson” webseries and comments are not long enough for what I need to say.

Them: “I think you mistaken that the relationships in TLJ are meant to be explicitly romantic? You basically have a bunch of broken people just trying to connect to one another as they try to figure themselves out/their places (in the often flawed ways people do), which is much more realistic in an imperfect/war torn world than romantic love is. The OT and PT directly romanticizes these unhealthy relationships in Anidala and Han/Leia, but they both fail for lack of substance. On the other hand everything in TLJ is pretty subtle, tho Kylo and Rey have and spark more substantial development in each other than either Anidala and Han/Leia in the OT/PT. Is it romantic? Who knows. Affection doesn’t always have to be. What matters is that these characters and their relationships become the catalyst for growth, romantically or otherwise. Besides this, Rose’s character is there to give a voice to the rebels (in and outside the mobilized resistance) and their motivations. Perhaps the reason it was shown this way will be clearer in IX, as XIII clarified much of XII. TLJ and what Johnson was trying to do seemed pretty clear to me but I understand we all have diff opinions. Anyway, Happy V-Day!“ 

Because of their respectfulness, I have declined to include their name, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are so wrong on almost everything. Including the episode numbers... (BTW, I electively ignored the comments until someone slid in and agreed with them. This is the only reason I am replying now.)

Never did I say in that video that the relationships were intended to be explicitly romantic. The problem is, nowhere in The Last Jedi, was it ever even implied it was supposed to be something else. I understand the whole “imperfect people trying to find imperfect ways to make sense of things”. I like that concept. I do. But even on that front, both FinnRose and most especially Reylo fail on every account.

Finn and Rose don’t play on each other well, don’t challenge each other in any logical manner, and nor do they find any kind of solace or understanding that the commenter is referring to in one another. Finn is an escaped Stormtrooper, who is extremely conflicted, scared, but brave, however doesn’t know his place outside of the fact he feels semi-indebted to both Poe and Rey for saving him in different ways. Rose’s purpose is still unclear outside of the whole forced romance arc. She is a useless character, aside from the fact the whole purposeless excursion on Canto Bight that should have been between Poe and Finn led to Finn voluntarily aligning himself with the Resistance. But I truly believe, without Canto Bight, that whole alignment arc could have and should have been done much better and more convincingly. Rose’s character did nothing to serve to give the rebels of voice, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. We know that the rebels come from everywhere and have their own reasons for joining and exploring that would have been great and even hearing the little bit of Rose’s backstory was...fine, I guess, but it does not change the fact she handicapped the entire plot- rather, lack thereof. It’s never been necessary to have a poorly-designed side character’s motivations explored in a poorly-constructed environment completely being forced by the plot in a main canon movie. That is exactly what the books are designed to do. Cover information that is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things so that it gives backstory on people we didn’t really think twice about. We saw Rose’s sister die for the Resistance and that was pretty powerful, but we didn’t even seen Rose really grieve over her sister, except lashing out at Finn, whom she was just fawning over. Like...I’m sorry, she was written so badly. She is a detriment to the plot, to the necessary relationship developments, and even to herself. 

Moreover, to boldly claim that it wasn’t intended to be explicitly romantic is objectively wrong. This is Disney we’re talking about. To them, love solves everything and for the things it doesn’t solve, it excuses. Rose kissed Finn because they wanted us to see them together romantically, but they gave Rose no personality and therefore, she and Finn have no chemistry. A kiss on the lips is a universal symbol of romantic love and as someone who was very mildly interested in a potential friendship between the two, that even I saw that kiss as romantic 100% of the way (btws, that was the only thing that lead me to that conclusion cinematically), it really says something. Also, cinematically speaking, the moment they kissed, an explosion went off, which is very clearly indicative of the romantic aspect I am so confidently asserting was intended to be in The Last Jedi between these two. They tried to make us see the “spark” by literally showing us them, but failed because of everything else wrong with their dynamic. 

Moreover, I explicitly do not see Reylo as romantic at all. They are completely 100% at opposite ends of the spectrum and cannot reconcile at this point. A Reylo endgame is completely asinine with what Rian Johnson did to them, which has always been fine by me. I don’t like/respect/enjoy a Reylo endgame as a narrative concept because it does not make logical sense based on their characters and interactions. It would have been asinine after JJ’s first installment, too. Reylo simply cannot happen, logically-speaking. As TFA began to explain, TLJ solidified that Reylo is DOA- Dead On Arrival. 

But the problem is, Rian Johnson basically said he ships Reylo, so we know that’s what he was trying to do. He said he played with the idea of them actually making out  in The Last Jedi. That is proof enough he fundamentally misunderstands romantic relationship development, but also fundamentally misunderstands these characters he’s writing! He did not and continues to not understand their real dynamic, which I really don’t get. It’s not that hard. 

Again, I concede that how someone might see the whole “imperfect people/imperfect places” thing. It makes more sense than what Rian tried to have happen. Rey and Kylo having this Force bond, which would have been fine under different circumstances, is a thing I was totally down for. Loved the concept. It made sense after what The Force Awakens established their relationship to clearly be, but now...suddenly that is thrown out the window for a shallow, Dues Ex Machina, self-fulfilling prophecy-esque plot device initiated by a person who simply is not powerful enough to make this thing happen. So is the Force-bond genuine or fabricated? No one will ever know. 

Kylo is very broken, although clearly not nearly as broken as we were lead to believe considering Rian decided to have him throw his redemption away in favor of the lies and power his now-deceased master promised him in his youth. Kylo knows what he’s doing now. And Rey, completely stripped of her personality, is unrealistically believing every single thing Kylo Ren has to say without consulting Luke Skywalker about anything. I’ve already spoken about how OOC Luke was, so we are not going there right now. Rey, based on her characterization in TFA, would not have done that, especially considering Kylo had just murdered his father in front of her and knew that his father meant something to her. He did it as much for himself as he did to hurt her intentionally. If they were supposed to be “imperfect people finding meaning in imperfect ways”, Kylo would have actually gotten something beneficial out of it, much like Rey. Instead, we have Kylo Ren’s arc assassination and Rey being completely and utterly betrayed by Kylo Ren with no good reason and now the Rebellion is pretty much up shit’s creek without Han, Luke, or Leia. Maybe Rey learned a lesson that she wasn’t supposed to trust Kylo Ren, but why did she in the first place? She literally detested him all of about 18 hours prior. Maybe Kylo Ren learned that people cared about him, but Leia literally telepathically sensed her son and sent him good vibes and Han put his life in jeopardy for his son. He knew that, too. 

Moreover and very quickly, Anidala wasn’t really all that unhealthy until Anakin became obsessed with protecting Padme. It was weird to us because Padme was 14 when Anakin was 9 and they got married when he was like 19 and she was 24. But like, it was what it was until Palpatine really started trying to turn Anakin’s heart by playing on his fears of losing Padme. And at really no point in time was Han and Leia’s relationship unhealthy. They fought a lot because they were denying the sexual tension that did exist between them and their personalities were both fairly dominant, so testing the waters was necessary. Couples fight all the time and their bickering really lead to them being able to see each other for who they truly are. Neither relationship was what you assert it was. 

I will say, again and a-fucking-gain, nothing in this movie should have logically happened and what happened actually is illogical from the very concept to the way it was executed. Rian Johnson wanted us to see failure, but unfortunately for this franchise, the failure we saw was this God-awful movie. 

But like you said, we all have differing opinions. Happy Valentine’s Day.

#anti finnrose #anti reylo #anti rian johnson #the fundamental misunderstanding of rian johnson #Virginia claps back #anti tlj

[copingmechanismsandmore]

the girl who yearned for silence

Be quiet. Make it stop. The noise, it won’t stop! She craved silence unbeknownst to the fact she will never be granted the luxury. Maybe this is her penance, her sins finally catching up to her but the day she’ll be sorry is the day the sun cannot be seen rising in the east. The worst of it all? She yearns for an alternative existence. Every lie that falls from her mouth, every drag of a cigarette, each person she has hurt. Everything she does seems to fuel her self-hatred. The regret is there but her ambition to make something of her sorry life is turned into a blurred image of what easily could be, but will never be. Maybe her childhood is to blame but, then again, that would be wishful thinking. For the most part it was happy but, then again, was it ever? I could contradict myself until the world implodes on itself but that would be a waste of both my time and yours. Alcohol could only numb her reality to an extent but her consciousness is always quick to wake her from the deception of her own mind. She also yearns for somebody. To feel loved. To feel needed. To feel wanted. To have a reason for living. But most of all, she wanted to feel a little less alone. What’s the point of living if you haven’t a soul to do it with? If anything, I pity the girl. She will never unearth the real reason she was put on this planet. She will never feel loved or cared for. She will never find her will to live, she will simply exist until she ceases to exist. She is naive to think life will be good to her, but she will not come to this conclusion in time. Her existence will have no value and she will certainly not be missed, simply because there is nobody left to do so. If I lived a life as purposeless and pitiful as hers, I would loathe myself too. Probably to the point of where she is now. In the bathroom before a mirror, a razor blade in one hand, a bottle of cheap liquor in the other.

What’s the point of life? You're my reflection, you should know me better than anybody so tell me, why? Help me understand. Surely there’s more to my life, I’m begging you, help me understand!

Only a fool would turn to her reflection at a time like this, you’re an idiot if you think I want to keep looking back at you. It makes me feel sick watching you exist. Your reflection is everywhere meaning I am everywhere. Your existence makes me want to die. I say go for it. Like you said, I know you better than anybody, after all, I’m a part of your consciousness. You think normal people vent about their shit life to a mirror? It’s laughable!

What did I do to deserve this? How can a part of myself be so cruel? Am I this cruel? I don’t hurt people on purpose. I hate myself every time I do it so why? Why? Why should I keep going?

Case closed! Just get it over with because I can’t stand the sight of you. That look on your face. It’s disgusting. You disgust me, You’re repulsive. Just do me a favour and do it somewhere I don’t have to watch. I wouldn't be surprised if your insides were shit by now. Dragging yourself around like that? It makes me want to rip my fucking eyes out. So go, turn off the light so I don’t have to suffer the sight. If I wanted to see a useless runt die I’d go to a fucking slaughterhouse. I hope it hurts and I hope you suffer.

You’re right, I am repulsive. I’m useless. I’m you. You’re me. You see what I see. That’s how reflections work. I’ll do it, don’t worry. I’m really sorry that you’ve had to put up with seeing me all these years. I’m so sorry.

Why are you crying? You said you were going to do it, so do it! What are you waiting for? Don’t expect me to feed you some bullshit about how you should live. You can’t even kill yourself right, it’s embarrassing.

But what if I find the meaning of life? What if we find the meaning of life?

There is no meaning to life. We’re born, and then we die. That’s it.

Oh. Are you sure?

How can I be sure? I am you, and you are me.

I’m not sure.

Neither am I.

I’ve been asking myself the same question over and over. No wonder you hate me.

Hey, don’t you dare make me feel guilty.

I’m sorry.

No you’re not. Because I am you, and you are me. I am but a fraction of your consciousness. Trying to manipulate me is futile.

What happened? Why are you being so proper all of a sudden?

It found me.

What found you?

Time.

You’re making no sense.

You’re making no sense. I am you, and you are me, and our time is up. It has found us and it will devour us. It cannot be stopped. It is too late. Can you hear it?

Hear what?

Silence.

I can’t hear it. Why can’t I hear it? Please. I can’t do this anymore. I never wanted this. I’m sorry!

Who are you apologising to? Nobody can hear you, besides me of course. That is because I am you, and you are me.

Is this the afterlife?

Is this the afterlife? I am you, and you are me. We are the same, I know what you know.

Why do I feel less alone talking to you if I am you, and you are me?

Since I am you ,and you are me, why do I feel less alone speaking with you?

But you said It found you. I don’t know what It is.

It is time.

But I didn’t know that until you told me.

Of course you did. Everybody knows It will devour them one way or another.

I see.

I see It.

What does It want?

Ask It.

What do you want?

The futility in our words are showing.

Our?

But alas, I am you, and you are me.

Where are you? I can’t see anything. Help me, I need guidance. If I don’t have a guide, I have nothing. Is this my punishment? My punishment for the burden I was? The burden I have always been? Wait. Red. Everything is red. But, I didn’t. Did I? Did It? It must have. It makes the world spin. It gives and takes life. It is not a god, It is far from it. It is I, and I am it. It resides in everything. It is a force that cannot be reckoned with. I have to accept this. This is the end. I wonder if It knows the true meaning of living. I wish I knew. I wish It would tell me. But It does not care. It cannot care. It is not a being. It is not anything. It will let the blood exude from my veins. The blood on the floor is warming me. I feel safe in It’s arms. I wonder if It will let me have silence. Just this once during my dying breath. My mind is still occupied even in these last moments. I will never have the virtue of silence. This is the end for me.

The noise. It won’t stop.

My heart truly aches for this girl. Even with death, she never experienced the pure bliss of silence. That said, she will be forgotten by morning. I’m just a narrator. I have no obligation to ‘keep her memory alive’ oh, spare me! I do not care for the girl. I will not miss her, nor will I dwell on her hollow life. It got her, as It will get me and how It will one day get you. Because after all, I am Her, She is I, I am you, and you are me.

#silence #literature #short story #coping #mental illness

[the-tv-ninja]

It’s a Long Road to Redemption, Kacchan

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13625184/chapters/31285806

Summary: Deku followed Bakugou's advice and took a swan dive off the roof. Five years later they meet again and Izuku has a peculiar quirk that happens to be the hero's greatest weakness.

"How does it feel to be quirkless, Kacchan?"

(AU: Villain!Deku, Bakudeku).

Chapter 1: Long Time No See

Bakugou stares at the eyes of the villain, unable to believe the sight before him. There he is: the weak, quirkless loser he once took pleasure in tormenting until he drove him off the edge of a building.

The boy he thought long dead now standing inches away from him,

"Kacchan?"

The half-forgotten nickname does something funny to his heart.

He shakes his head frantically, refusing to believe the reality before him. Surely this is another nightmare, his own perverted imagination working overtime, trying to punish him.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Deku's lips stretch into a smirk, the small gesture clashing horribly with the haunted look on his face.

Bakugou bites his lip, still refusing to give into the illusion.

"I have." he mutters in the end, voice sounding foreign to his own ears.

There's a smack on his shoulder and he winces at it but more so at the cold, bony fingers that dig in.

Izuku leans in close and he has to avert his gaze so he doesn't sink into uncharted territory. Fluffy green curls tickle his neck as Deku's hot breath dances over exposed skin.

Katsuki looks away, taking in his surrounding as panic starts to crawl its way into his heart. Where the hell is he?

Slim fingers drum over his chin, as though to catch his attention,

"I'm so glad you're back!" Deku beams and for one short moment it's like they're four again and their entire life lies before them, rich with possibilities like the blue sky on a hot summer morning.

Then the grin is gone, morphing into a smirk that tethers on the side of something dark and wrong.

A small voice in his head, one that sounds oddly like his younger self tells him this isn't the boy he once knew.

"We'll have so much fun, Kacchan."

(Did he ever bother to know him at all?)

 xxx

 (Past)

At age fourteen Bakugou is nothing short of a natural disaster masquerading as a teenage boy.

There's power at the tips of his fingers and he makes sure the entire world knows it, all in the name of silencing his own demons.

Most people bow before him, cower in the shadow of his supposed greatness and settle for the comfortable position of his followers.

Then there's Deku.

A boy who was his friend once – a lifetime ago. Before they discover quirks and what they really mean, how divided society is because of them. A hero and a civilian – it seems as though the choice is already made for them.

Izuku refuses to learn his new place which according to Katsuki is nowhere. Despite being scrawny, weak and quirkless he still smiles and dreams and hopes and it pisses Bakugou off to no end.

He wants to trample over Izuku's strength and beat the smile off his pale face. Because… if a little loser like him can be so strong without any power behind his hands – who knows what he'll be like if he had one?

"Deku, you quirkless fucking piece of shit!" he screams at the boy one day, his fury exploding at the mere sight of his classmate, "When will you learn you'll never be a hero?"

Years later he doesn't even remember what provoked him, what little spark in those green eyes was the reason for him to ignite. (Did it have something to do with applying to UA?)

"K-kachan," Izuku stammers, holding his palms above his head, as if to defend himself, like a caged animal before its captor, "D-don't say that even without a quirk, I can-"

Everything about the boy infuriates Katsuki and the words leave his mouth on their own accord,

"If you want a quirk so badly, then you should just take a swan dive off the roof, and hope to get one in your next life!"

Time stalls and all he can see is the o-shape Izuku's plump, chapped lips make. He takes a step back, as though badly burnt.

Bakugou feels a sliver of bitterness somewhere deep in his chest but brushes it away, like a tiny speck of dust. Pleasure sprouts like a weed in his heart and he feels something sick and wrong yet delicious at the same time as he takes in the broken look flashing through wide green yes.

The expression on Deku's face remains sealed in his mind and it makes him lick his lips, thinking,

" Good, you finally get it, you're useless. Don't you dare follow   my   path."

(You might just beat me at it).

He turns on his heel and leaves, slamming the door of the empty classroom behind himself.

There's an odd sense of closure to the small gesture.

 xxx

His two loyal followers – never friends as friends stand for equals – dash after him and he can sense their unease trail behind like a bad smell.

"What!?" he snaps, annoyed at the worried looks on their chubby faces.

The school hallway is quiet and still, reeking of sweat and rules. In his memories it seems more like a figment of a dream than a real place – oppressive and suffocating, making him itch to run and never come back. He's about to leave when the two boys dare answer,

"You went too far, man!" one of them shakes his head, eyes round and glazed with fear.

The other nods, "I mean… you are childhood friends after all."

Anger sparks once more in his chest and travels up, "Who the fuck told you I was ever his friend?"

(Years later, as the memory plays on repeat he has to wonder if perhaps Izuku heard those words too and that pushed him another step closer towards the edge).

The silence in the small space between them is deafening as his classmates refuse to meet his gaze. He snickers, feeling equal parts disgust and boredom for those near him.

Small minds, purposeless extras to follow – that's all they are.

"Whatever," he grunts, more to himself, "Not like I fucking care."

And he doesn't. The most horrifying, disgusting part of the story – the one that haunts him the most late at night is how there isn't even a sliver of regret, not an ounce of care in his heart that day.

(That's why he thinks he should be the one among the League Villains, not the other way around.)

 xxx

Katsuki forgets about it, sharp words slipping past his mind, meshed in with all the other vitriol he spews at the world.

He goes on with his day, with his life completely unfazed.

Deku is nothing more than a little pebble along the way, one he has kicked far away, until it dropped in the lake and sunk all the way to the bottom.

(Just like whatever emotions the boy once evoked from him).

 xxx

Bakugou thinks little of the crowd surrounding their school or the ominous yellow tape tangled around the building. He rolls his eyes at some of his classmates' glossy eyes and red noses, muttering about,

"Stupid fucking cry-babies" under his breath.

It's the principal's voice that finally manages to tear him away from his own thoughts and catch his attention.

"Midoriya Izuku won't be attending anymore," he informs them, tone flat and cold, bearing more finality than Katsuki can fathom at age of fourteen, when everything seems infinite.

"So the fucking nerd chose to quit!" Bakugou snorts while the entire class turns to glare at him, as though he's committed a crime.

It's the first time in his life he feels reprimanded and unwelcomed and to his surprise he finds himself itching to make it go away.

The principal doesn't seem to hear his words, unmoving grey eyes focused on something far away. Suddenly there's a slippery feeling at the back of Katsuki's head, his fingers clammy around his pen.

"I am terribly sorry to tell you, but your classmate Izuku has committed suicide."

Katsuki isn't sure how to describe the effect the words have on him, even years later. It's as though the ceiling has come falling down, his carefully built world shattered to pieces.

He expects rage or sadness or anything really, any emotion to come to the surface and rear its ugly head at him.

None of it happens, he's left numb in the empty classroom, staring at the blank white board before him.

He remembers the weather for some reason –bright and sunny, warm light filtering through the windows and bathing the classroom in a melange of orange hues. He doesn't get up to leave when his classmates do, rather remains there and just stares, waiting for Deku to come back and tell him this isn't his fault after all.

 xxx

"Katsuki?"

The name sounds kinder than he deserves and he doesn't have to turn to sense the aura of worry around his mother.

Somehow she looks softer, as though all her sharp edges have been erased.

Mitsuki doesn't utter another word, just takes in his silence, squatting down next to him. He nearly winces at her closeness but steels himself not to. He doesn't meet her eyes.

"The school called," her voice trails away and he can feel a wandering hand above behind his back, "They told me…what happened."

Any other day he'd lash out, throw insult after insult, only to be met with the same. It's how the two of them work after all, just not today.

(Vaguely he has to wonder – what would his mum think of him if she knew? And rather – what would she think of herself to raise a little monster? He can't do it to her, he's ruined enough).

Bakugou doesn't dare look at his mum's face but can sense the hurt she emits, heavily mixed in with concern he hasn't earned.

It's then that another image flashes through his brain: Inko.

Finally he feels something, the previous numbness exploding, morphing into a sharp emotion he has no name for. There's a sob on his lips before he can stop himself.

"Oh, Katsuki!" his mother sounds urgent, like the time she set the kitchen on fire after a recipe gone wrong.

She's frantic and a little helpless, as though Bakugou is burning and she has no idea what to do.

He clasps his hand around his mouth so hard he can taste blood and yet the sobs still make their way past his lips.

"Shshsh," Mitsuki makes a strange sound of comfort, one he hasn't heard since he was a little kid, "I'm so, so sorry, Katsuki."

Two warm arms wrap around him and despite himself he lets the tears ruin her shirt, clinging onto her frame.

"I know you cared about Izuku, even if you never showed it."

The sudden realization downs on him: His parents don't know what he's done.

Neither does Inko. Nor will she.

To them he remains the chubby kid from kindergarten whose confidence was annoying at its worst but never something dangerous, never something that brought pain and destruction to those around.

His mother rubs lazy circles on his back and whispers words that sound clumsy and disconnected but sincere. Something wet trails over his uniform and it's then he realizes she's crying too.

"Mum…I'm sorry,"

It never occurred to him who Izuku was, what space he held in the hearts of those around him.

All Bakugou ever thought about was himself, the nuisance Deku was to him, never once stopping to think how much he mattered to Inko or his own mother. Mitsuki had held Inko's hand when her husband left and now… now she has to do the same, except this time her son is never coming back.

"He's at a better place now," she tells him, anything to soothe, to comfort.

All Katsuki can think is a simple, fatal,

" Because of me,"

 xxx

 (Present)

Next time Katsuki opens his eyes the red light of the sunset peaks from the small window frame and bathes the room in a palette of impending trouble.

He tries to free his hands but the only effect his attempts produce is his skin rubbing against metal until bloods starts to trickle down his fingers – hot and sticky like guilt.

Patience has never been his virtue and soon enough the anger simmering in his chest boils over,

"Fucking hell!" he screams, trashing in his restraints until he finds himself on the floor with a loud thud that echoes through the room. His face is met by the cold cement and all he can do it bite his tongue and scream profanities at the monotone walls of the cell.

The more rational part of him – the one that sounds an awful lot like his mentor– tells him to stop. He must calm down and think his way out of the situation before it escalates. What he can't do with his fists should be an easy task for his brain to complete.

Katsuki closes his eyes and takes a long breath – like Aizawa taught him – hoping it'll slow down the current of erratic thoughts so he can focus.

Blazing red eyes trail over his surroundings, taking in each detail. He finds nothing to go by, no trace to indicate his location. A plain cell, dull grey walls, no furniture safe for the toilet on the opposite end of the room. It reminds him of a prison, a place no hero should be held at.

At the back of his mind he realizes he's been abducted by the League Villains – again. Really, who does that?

The question that his mind begs to ask but he silences it anyway being: Is he really that suited to be a villain?

Does he even deserve another recue, another sacrifice on behalf of others for someone like him? After all he's done – what's the point of being saved?

"Screw all this," he grunts, forcing his eyes shut as he struggles to deal with the storm of emotions in his chest.

A small chuckle meets his words and he doesn't have to look up to know the man that stands above him. It sends shivers down his spine and suddenly he wishes he never woke up,

"So you still like to swear a lot, huh Kacchan?" Deku grins at him, setting a tray full of food on the floor next to him after unlocking the door a little too clumsily.

He hums quietly, drumming pale, skinny fingers over dirty concrete,

"Mmm, seems like you haven't changed all that much."

"Can't say the same about you," Bakugou snorts but the words never make it to his lips. It's because of him Izuku's entire life was flipped upside down to the point of him questioning his very being and taking a leap of faith off the school's rooftop.

"Didn't know the League Villains offered fucking room service these days," he barks, like a dog who's been denied a threat.

Midoriya flashes him a grin and it's the first time he takes it upon him to study the man.

Deku looks the same way he did five years ago yet at the same time completely different. How that's possible is beyond Katsuki's vivid imagination. He's taller naturally but still much shorter than him and on the skinny side. His face appears the same – all freckled cheeks and plump lips, soft edges that remind him more of a character in a fantasy than someone real.

Then there's a scar, right over his right eye. The lines of it are jagged, the skin a peculiar mix of pale pinks and angry reds. Vaguely Bakugou realizes that's the place his skull must have cracked when he hit the ground. The very thought of it makes him dizzy with guilt and regret so he chooses to bottle it all down.

Deku's hair is the same except it runs longer and wilder, mossy curls sticking out in all directions.

There's something inherently different, he just can't place his finger on it. It's not only the scar that mars his face.

Bakugou licks his lips, trying to find what it is, as though solving a game of "Spot the differences" in a magazine. It finally clicks –Deku's eyes are nothing like before.

Not the colour – it's still the same canvas of forest green, little specks of turquoise and gold here and there. Rather the expression –dull and lifeless, nothing left the previous excitement. There's a tint of sadness and exhaustion, clashing badly against the evident wish for revenge.

"Ah," Izuku picks a French fry from the tray, dips it in ketchup and puts it over his lips, "Well, you are after all a special guest of the League."

Fear curls its fingers around Katsuki's heart and squeezes,

"What the hell do you mean by that!?" he demands, forcing his voice to be levelled even as it rises unnaturally at the end.

Deku shrugs, the gesture almost innocent,

"Mm, we like to make the new recruits comfortable for the time being,"

Bakugou can't help the laughter that ignites somewhere deep in his chest and travels up to his lips,

"Doesn't your shitty boss get it?" he grunts, "I'll rather die than be a villain!"

Midoriya meets his eyes, green clashing over crimson. Katsuki struggles to look away but finds himself compelled, as though a strange force binds him to the other.

"Oh," Izuku's lips make a small o-shape, then stretch into a smile, one that appears sharp and wrong, "You're scared, Kacchan."

The nickname sends bells ringing in his ears, loud and clear even in the midst of his messy thoughts. A once soft pet name now sounds different and tainted. The fear is so strong in his chest it blinds him and so he goes to the only exit he knows from it– anger.

"Bullshit!" he screams, rattling in his shackles like a caged animal. He trashes and trashes until the pain in his wrists is so bad he has to stop, "I'll fucking kill you, all of you!"

Deku's eyes widen and something ignites in them, a speck of the former zest for life returning.

Laughter echoes through the cell as he starts clapping.

"See!" he exclaims, jumping next to him, so close they might as well be kissing, "See!? That's what I'm talking about!"

Katsuki's anger dissipates into the stale air of the room and he's left with is fear, dipped in with confusion. Deku appears to read his emotions with ease,

"Killing us?" he probes further, lips pulled into a sly smirk, "Mmm, that's not heroic, is it Kacchan?"

"Shut up!" the scream tears through the atmosphere but doesn't appear to affect Izuku who merely shakes his head.

"Mm, we aren't all that different, Kacchan," he muses, stretching out a hand and offering him a French fry.

The blonde turns away, refusing to be fed like an animal. Deku shakes his head, a tint of affection mixed in with nostalgia lacing the gesture,

"Still as stubborn as ever, I see."

He gets up then, taking the tray with him. His hand is already at the door when Bakugou finds his voice again, finally able to break away from the strange trance-like feeling he had when the other was close.

Midoriya plays with a stray curl, lips curling into something sad and wrong,

 "How does it feel to be quirkless, Kacchan?"

The words hit him harsher than any blow and Bakugou wants to scream. Scream and trash and destroy at the sheer irony in Deku's voice.

Problem is, he's powerless and all he can do is bark back,

"I already told you – you can all go fuck yourselves, I'm not becoming a villain."

Izuku turns around so fast the movement appears distorted. He smiles and it's the closest to the real thing he's seen so far,

"Yeah, you did," he agrees, offering a small pensive nod, as though running an analysis inside his head, "But back then I wasn't here, Kacchan."

Something cold wraps around his neck and he nearly chokes on the feeling. He can sense the threat, looming from the edges of the words. This doesn't even sound like the Izuku he knows, rather someone else entirely. Or is he just repeating the words of Shigaraki?

"What difference does it make?" he demands, tone angry and smug, even as he trembles.

Deku winks at him, the gesture out of place with the remains of innocence on his face, as though it's rehearsed,

"A world of difference," he tells him, "I promise you Kacchan, the things I'll make you feel…by the time I'm done you'll be the one calling yourself a villain."

Author’s Note: So! Here is the first chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. English isn't my mother tongue, so I apologize for any linguistic or grammatical mistakes. What do you think so far? Any guesses on what Izuku's quirk might be? There were some very subtle hints here and there but more information about that in the next chapters! Do you think Katsuki can pull Izuku away from the dark path? And is the other going to accept an apology? Please share your thoughts, it serves as great motivation!

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #midoriya izuku #katsuki bakugou #bakudeku #izuku x katsuki #kacchan #deku #my hero academia fanfiction #mha fanfiction #mha fandom #mha au

[zhuhongs]

Tonight at work we had to move all the racks and shelves bc we were getting the floors cleaned and that entire time of moving the stuff made me feel just soo.. gosh. Okay so (story incoming. Misogyny cw, internalized isms cw)

my manager kept being like "oh okay girlies let Ryan (our one guy coworker) do the heavy lifting" and I was like grrrr... fuck u I can be masc and like I tried to help and I was just so unhelpful and weak. And the cleaners were all Hispanic so my other coworkers all talked to them in Spanish and I could barely keep up and I just felt so useless and like a girl (derogatory). Like I'm just a weak girl alienated from her culture that isnt even pretty so like what good did I even bring.. I couldnt help move things, i couldnt help communicate, i just stood there, trying to help and just being exhausted despite not contributing and it was just so !!!! God. I shouldnt be mad over this but i felt so useless. A useless purposeless brown girl who cant clean, can't cook, cant do labour, cant speak her language, and isnt pretty like damn. As a brown girl what use do I even have!?!?

I just idk man.. like I just want to be a man. Or at least not a girl. Not be percieved as one. Bc I'm just always reminded I'm a Girl (derogatory) and cant bring anything to the table inherently and I just.... I dont want it. I dont want to be seen as that. I want to be string and cool and able to just exist without constantly feeling like this. I hate it. I'm so weak and it's not even in an endearing way bc I'm not pretty or admirable. God... hate it hereee

#i just have so many internalized isms... want to die #i was already just in a weird depressed state and i was starting to feel a bit better bc i did my hw #and the little bit of lightness i got just got heavy for no reason im so mad... im so tired #🐌.txt

[lurkernolonger]

Siren (4/4)

Here it is, the conclusion to Siren a.k.a. the summit I’ve been struggling to climb for the last four weeks. It was rough goings, but that’s my own fault. I simply cannot wing multi-chapters.

There are some author’s notes at the end and a question for you all so please keep reading all the way :)

I kind of hate this, but I hope you don’t.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Steady beeping through muted ears alongside pinpricks of light despite heavy lids are Finn’s first sensations. Next comes the horrid taste on his equally weighty tongue. He thinks he could be sick if his mouth wasn’t so dry. Gradually, his mind registers the state of the rest of him: the soreness of his muscles, the fogginess in his lungs, the gentle sting of his skin. It’s as if his body is learning how to feel again, but at least he can feel.

Finn figures this must be the result of having walked through hell and back and…Oh. Might not have been hell, but there was definitely fire. He winces as he tries to adjust so there wasn’t so much pressure on his spine and he hears an audible gasp, followed by a chair scraping against the floor. He opens his sticky eyes to find a very dishevelled, very sooty, very angry looking Chop.

“Good, you’re awake! Now I can murder you.” Chop glares at him before rolling his eyes to the ceiling and running his hands through the short hairs on his head that look even flatter from his helmet.

“Hey, mate,” Finn offers weakly.

Chop turns incredulous eyes towards him, finger up accusingly. “Oh no, don’t you ‘mate’ me you daft son of a -” Chop cuts himself off, shaking his head and turning away, muttering under his breath. Finn thinks he hears the words “just came back to life” repeated throughout.

“Chop, I-”

“Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?! How much you risked running in there? Not just yourself but - but the crew and the people Finn! The fucking tenants! You – did you think about them?!” Chop is pacing the floor, arms flailing wildly. “No, of course not! You didn’t fucking think AT ALL!” he answers himself, head shaking.

“Chop…”

Chop turns to him then, his gaze unwavering. “I had to pull you from the fucking wreckage, Finn. I thought…you could’ve - ” Chop takes a hard swallow before continuing. “Do you know what it was like having to call Gary? Hm? Having to tell your da’ that his dick of an only son is unconscious 'cause he ran into a fucking burning building without so much as a word?” His voice has quieted, but it’s no less calm. It’s worse, Finn thinks, because it’s so full of meaning and he’s sure he sees Chop’s lip quiver against an emotion bigger than anger.

“Chop,” Finn starts but pauses, expecting another outburst. Chop just stands there chest rising and falling heavily, eyes bracketed with tears. “I’m sorry,” Finn finishes lamely.

Lame or not, it’s apparently what Chop had been waiting for. His tensed shoulders sag and he surges forward to wrap Finn in a fierce embrace that conveys even more than his words had. Finn twines his arms around him as well, recognizing that this is different from any other slap-of-the-back hug they’ve shared before.

“You’re a complete and utter bellend and I’ll never let you live it down,” Chop promises wetly in Finn’s ear. After a beat he pulls away and plops back in the chair he’d abandoned, rubbing at his face roughly. “Gary is just grabbing summat to eat, so while we’re alone you can tell me what the hell you were thinking.”

Finn swallows his own emotional lump, a new pain recording itself tight in his chest. Rae. “It was her Chop,” is all he gets out before he has to clench his lips and fists against the returning panic. He can hear the beeping on his heart monitor increase, and hopes Chop won’t notice.

The room is quiet for a long moment before Chop asks, “Pussy unicorn?” Finn looks up at that, the tiniest smile momentarily cracking his lips despite it all. Chop grins back, knowing full well how his cheeky response would deflate the tension in the room, before his expression grows serious again. “I figured that much, lad. Knew it had to be someone you cared about.” When Finn doesn’t respond, he adds, “we’ll find her mate, it’ll be alrigh’.”

It wasn’t alright. It’s going on three days since the fire and Finn’s still not seen nor heard anything from Rae. Chop had used his charm on Izzy, – a nurse at the hospital who Chop’s not-so-secretly in love with (and Finn’s pretty sure she fancies him right back) – convincing her to look up Rachel Earl in the patient system. She hadn’t come up, which was simultaneously reassuring and unnerving. It could mean she was safe, fine even, but then where was she? And what if she wasn’t fine to the point where she couldn’t tell anyone her name? What if she was alone, labelled a random Jane Doe? Finn had thrown these same questions at Chop, who then had to physically restrain him from barging into every room in the burn unit.

It didn’t help that Finn was making himself sick over the fact that he never gave Rae his number. At the time he hadn’t even thought of it since he always called her first, but now he kept staring at his phone willing it to ring, though he knew it wouldn’t. He’d taken to dialing her number sporadically, as if the irregular attempts would surprise it into answering, hoping to even just hear her voice through the message on her answering machine. But at the back of his mind sits the image of said machine crudely melting in her front room and he knows it’s useless.

Finn’s hope that she would show up at his was purposeless too, seeing as although Rae knew he lived on the same stretch of road, she wouldn’t know what building it was. That didn’t stop him from chain smoking on his balcony on the rare occasions he was home, hoping to catch a glimpse of her on the street below.

To top it off he’d been suspended from active duty. The chief had been furious at his stunt, going on the same rant Chop had, and Finn knew he deserved it. He was surprised he hadn’t been sacked actually, concluding he’d probably looked pathetic enough to warrant some leniency. Doctors and his dad had insisted on bed rest but Finn was too antsy, adamant that he would work a desk job until his suspension was over. He didn’t need to be at home drowning in anxiety. It felt better keeping busy, when he could feel the aches of his joints and the roughness of his healing skin against paper. The physical discomfort both a reminder and a welcomed distraction. Plus at his desk he had resources, and he’d spent his time phoning every hospital and clinic in a 50 mile radius to no avail.

He’d started sleeping at the station too, even going as far as to bring in a set of clothes and a shower caddy. He told the lads it was easier to not commute but no one bought that flimsy excuse. By now the whole company knew what had happened; about the missing girl. About Rae, the flame to Finn’s proverbial moth. There was no need to mention that the true reason he’d set up camp was because it was the only place he figured she could find him. Which she had to do, because he would not accept any scenario of her not being out there, somewhere.

“Mate, you should go home. Get some rest.�� Chop is perched on the corner of Finn’s desk, arms folded and ankles crossed.

“M'fine here. Busy,” Finn replies without looking up, making a show of shuffling papers around.

“Finn -”

“I’m not going home,” he interrupts defiantly, biting back the she can’t find me at home that wants to chase after his words. Finn looks over at him with finality and Chop exhales heavily, scrubbing at his face.

“How about you run a little errand then? Grab some drinks and sandwiches from the cafe for the crew. You know, see the outside? Get some fresh air or summat.” Finn starts to protest, reaching to grab for a file folder but Chop’s hand lands on it first. “You can come right back and I’ll be here the whole time, alrigh’? It ain’t healthy for you to be cooped up for so long.” Finn just stares at his hand on the file so Chop stands and opens the top drawer to pull out Finn’s Walkman and headphones, tossing them on the desk in front of him. “Go for a walk and listen to the bloody music you’re always on about. Need you out of my arse for a tick.”

Finn sighs dejectedly and stands. “Fine. But I’m coming right back, and I’m getting you the tuna mayo you hate.”

Chops flashes him a gap toothed grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything else, lad.” He claps Finn’s shoulders and steers him towards the exit.

“Bloody Chop,” Finn grumbles to himself, as he opens the door to the cafe. It’s crowded everywhere as it’s just gone noon, and he’s frustrated that this is going to take longer. He stares at his feet until he’s up next at the counter, avoiding eye contact to prevent any small talk. After he orders he secludes himself at a table in the corner away from the bustling customers, headphones on, Pulp’s Something Changed playing loudly. He can’t help but think of the list he’d been making for the mixtape that wasn’t about Rae (but was completely about Rae), this song in particular being the first track. Finn has to shut his eyes for a second to check his emotions and when he opens them he notices the woman behind the counter saying something, clearly annoyed, so he pauses his cassette to hear.

“Two teas?”

Finn is about to resume the song since he’d ordered much more than tea, but then she repeats herself.

“Two Earl Greys with a splash of milk, for Raymond?”

Finn nearly pulls the muscles in his neck he pivots so quickly. He knows that order, and he knows that name. Then he sees her, Rae, emerging from the crowd on the other side of the cafe. She looks fine, perfect even, and he’s so shocked and confused he can’t move for a second. Worries she’s just a mirage his sleep deprived mind has cooked up from his subconscious; a hologram of his hope projected in real life.

Rae picks up the teas, smiling down at the name scrawled on the sides of the cups. She looks up then and her eyes lock with Finn’s. Her mouth falls slightly, and a soft vulnerability overtakes her face. Finn thinks that maybe she’s about to cry and knows this must be the real thing, because the Rae in his head never has a reason for tears. The table wobbles on it’s legs and his chair topples to the ground as he trips over himself and air to just get to her.

“Finn. I was just heading to the station -” Rae starts, but the rest of her words are knocked out of her, along with the drinks in her hands, when Finn crashes into her body, grappling her to him.

Their trousers and shoes are soaked with hot tea but Finn doesn’t notice, doesn’t care about anything but the girl he’s constricting. Hands and arms and all of him greedy for her. His sole focus is the fact that she’s there, right there. Real. Alive. And holding him just as tightly.

The gap between their bodies is nonexistent, yet it’s filled with so much: apologies, gratitude, relief. Finn buries his face in her neck, inhaling that same apple scent, wishing they weren’t in the middle of a crowded room. He wants a wall or a bed or any applicable surface that he can press her into until she’s permanently moulded against him like a second skin. He feels the small area he’s tucked into grow humid from his panting breaths and tears he hadn’t known were falling, and the lack of oxygen reminds him of the fire and all his questions.

“What the hell happened Rae? Fuck, I – When  I saw your flat, when I heard it was you… I was so fucking scared. And then I couldn’t find you, and I thought…Where were you?”

“I’m sorry Finn,” Rae whispers urgently, as her hand cards through his hair. “I was helping Mrs. Dewhurst move her couch when it happened. We got out before it reached her floor but she was so shaken up I had to take her to her sister’s house which happens to be right by where my mum lives and when she found out about the fire she went mad 'cause she didn’t want me to move in the first place saying how unsafe it was in the city and she made me stay. Basically locked me in like a prisoner! Like I was the one who burned the bloody place down. I wanted to talk to you but I didn’t have your number or your address and I’m so sorry.” Rae’s explanation runs together, pleading for him to understand and Finn can only shake his head against her throat. “But it’s okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

Rae’s words quake in his ear and the last time her lips trembled they were against his own, and he needs to taste her now. Needs to feel them both shake with something other than worry. Finn kisses her lips her cheeks, eye lids, forehead, chin, jaw, coming back round to her tongue. Messy open mouthed kisses that, for Finn, are still not enough. He latches on like she was water and he’d been parched, which in a way he was. He’d been starving for days and now he was going to devour her; swallow her whole so he’d always know where she was.

“Oi, you trying to eat me?” Rae asks against his incessant mouth, and he has to laugh because of course she would know what he was thinking. Of course that’s something she would say. Of course she could ease all the tension in his body with a handful of words that cause a smile that takes over his entire being.

They part without really parting. Foreheads, noses, torsos still fused together. Finn moves his hands to grip her face between his palms, thumbs stroking her cheeks adoringly. “Hi, girl.”

Rae’s eyes close at the endearment and Finn wipes at a tear before it tracks down her skin.

“Hiya, Finnley.” Rae smiles small, before leaning into his touch and placing a gentle kiss to his palm. She looks down at the mess of tea and laughs through a fluttery breath. “Look at us. S'like we pissed ourselves.” Shifting her eyes to the side, they widen as her grip on his shirt tightens. “And people are watching.”

“Let them.” Finn licks over her bottom lip. He wants everyone in here to see this. Wants them to go home and tell their friends and families that they witnessed something so odd and beautiful and confusing that they’re not sure if it was real or just a scene from a movie. Rae laughs and it’s the same vibration through his chest and finally Finn’s happy again.

“Nice to be learning your kinks, but I think I’d rather be alone with you right now.” Rae wipes away the moisture from Finn’s cheeks. “Think it’s time you show me your place, hmm?”

The next time Finn kisses Rae it is just the two of them, but his rhythm is different. Stronger yet softer, with a tender harshness; contradictions of want and need. It’s the most aggressive gentleness he’s given to another person and he hopes she can taste his intention behind his teeth and on the tip of his tongue. He pulls her closer, and closer still, and when he wakes in the morning in a tangle of limbs, it’s with the memory of another perfect first.

A/N: We have reached the end! I’m relieved, are you? I apologize if that was just a shade too dramatic. I appreciate that the cheesy stuff isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, though it is definitely mine. I hope I didn’t go too overboard.

I should say that this whole thing started off from a prompt, which I didn’t mention in the beginning because, spoilers. I can’t seem to find the link to the post but it was basically “I’m a firefighter and you live near the station I work at and we talk/flirt. One day my team get called to put out a fire and it’s your home ablaze. You don’t make it.” Except I didn’t have the heart to kill off Rae. After the disaster of season 3, I feel like my fiction just has to be Rinn endgame.

As much as I complained about how hard this was for me to write, I’ve had a little spark of a light-bulb to write an epilogue for this universe. It might be more fluff and maybe even a little saucy? I’ve (surprisingly) gotten some requests for me to attempt smut, so maybe? If you guys are interested? Let me know if that’s something you want. If not, no hard feelings. I just don’t want to put myself through the stress for nothing haha.

Thank you so much for reading/liking/commenting/reblogging. You’re the best! xx

Tags:

@bitchesbecrazy89 @crystalgiddings1993 @emmatationsforall @eveerez @fyeahsharonrooney @hey1tskat1e @i-dream-of-emus @isthistherightwayround @karinskyme @kingbeeyonce @kj0504 @kneekeyta @likeashootingstarfades @lilaviolet @l88cym @mallyallyandra @milllott @milymargot @mmfdfanfic @nutinanutshell @protectfinnnelson @raeonashadowcaster @rockinthebeastmode @stinemarine @tinakegg @2muchtosee2littletime

#mmfd #mmfdfanfic #mmfd fanfiction #mmfd fan fiction #mmfd fanfic #rinn #siren #My Mad Fat Fandom #my mad fat diary #i wrote this

[grumpycakes]

So this has accidentally been the year of let’s try and fix everything that might be medically wrong with me before I’m kicked off of my mom’s healthcare and like. There are a lot of things that we have found to be “wrong with me”

and I’m exhausted

I went to the dentist today and found out that my TMJ(or I guess it’s TMD now) is way fucking worse than I ever knew? They want to cut that connecty tongue bit cause my tongue is too tied and stuck between my teeth????? And ps just due to like... deep ass grooves in my molars I have a true cavity and ALMOST cavity that they just want to fill, OH AND I CHIPPED MY BACK MOLAR SOMEHOW????

and like, my boss was stressed out about me even going to the dentist today (they’d called saying they had an opening and I wanted to get it done as soon as possible cause the bite splint for TMJ is considered a health care appliance and not a dental one so it would have been covered and I’d have gotten an updated one, but then LOL APPARENTLY I’M THE MOST FUCKED UP AND THEY NEED LIKE 3 MORE VISITS TO EVEN FIGURE THAT OUT AND SHE”S BOOKED TILL JANUARY)

and I just want to quit

not because it’s the worst job in the world. It’s not. Meijer was worse. But I feel useless and purposeless and like I’m not even good enough for this fucked up poorly managed warehouse. And so many things are wrong with me that need understanding and time off and flexibilty that like, don’t work with having a job

and I overbooked for conventions next year so I’m not even sure if I could stay employed during july/august/september honestly

and if I felt I could make it on my art alone I’d quit right now and never look back but would anyone even be interested in patreon/kofi from me???

but between needing a new computer, car issues, con fees, medical problems and now severe dental issues I don’t have enough saved up to try.

and I don’t even live on my own yet

and now I need to buy healthcare and pay that every month on top of loans every month

and I just feel hopeless about it all rn. I’m trying to stay positive and project a future I want so I keep going. But that’s so mercurial.

but I have to get my teeth fixed, and without insurance it’s basically 5k, and even with my parents help, how the fuck am I going to repay that

#irl shit #mel whines #mel calmly freaks the fuck out #I'm just so tired #and in pain #and anxious