#Just make up your mind already. Either keep being a shitbag or start actually putting the effort in.

[astarryon]

Another Lifetime: Shouldn’t Have Gotten Shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Description of war and battle injuries, mentions of blood, gunshots, language, etc.

Summary: Bucky doesn’t like talking about her, but Dr. Raynor isn’t an easy person to argue with. And now that it’s summer –– now that he’s living through the months they’d shared together all over again, only without her by his side –– fighting the memories becomes all the more difficult.

A/N: Listen, I really don’t know what’s gotten into me but ever since tfatws started I have been INSPIRED! Hoping to update this fic sem regularly, but we’ll see where the new school term takes us. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes has never been overly fond of the summer.

One aspect was the fact that he could remember what it was like to be a miserable kid living in a cramped Brooklyn apartment with no air conditioning and three baby sisters who never stopped whining about the heat. Of all the jumbled, foggy memories bouncing around the confines of his skull, that one is clearer than most. And though he still finds it difficult to picture the faces of his little sisters –– can’t hardly remember arcs of their noses, much less the colors of each of their eyes –– a nostalgic, brotherly feeling washes over him all the same.

There’s also the little detail that he’d received his draft notice in the summer months. That Bucky remembers perfectly, one of the few memories strong enough to remain unmuddied by all those years of shitbag scientists rooting around his head and picking his brain apart. The heat that year had been sweltering, and once his mother found him in her kitchen with that damned letter clutched between his fingers, he felt it burn right through the strings of his heart. 

The first week of July delivered the news. The last saw him shipping out to bootcamp. 

He guessed he didn’t mind the sunshine. That part had always been nice, and it helped to calm him on occasion these days, to remember that the golden rays licking comforting heat up his skin were the same ones which had shone down on him back in the 40s, before and during the war.

Before Hydra had condemned him to seventy long years of dark and cold.

To that end, logic said the season he really should hate was winter, but he’d never felt any ill will toward the colder months, and found now, in the present, that he’d only grown fonder of them. When the rain came down from the sky in sheets, or when snow fell so thick it resembled white, puffy clouds blanketing the ground, he took walks. Partly because no other soul would be idiotic enough to trudge through a borderline natural disaster at three in the morning, meaning he wouldn’t have to put up with prying eyes and conspicuously pointing fingers, and partly because experiencing said natural disasters in solitude did wonders for the soul.

Steve thought it was strange. Hated that Bucky did it, kept insisting that he at least take a goddamn jacket, there isn’t any actual proof he can’t get pneumonia. But Bucky always shook his head and declined, rolling his eyes and muttering beneath his breath about how apparently the tables have fucking turned.

But, no. The winter, the rain, the cold –– none of that could ever draw half as much ire from him as did the gentle beginnings of June, the scorching heat of July, the fading light of August. Because those weren’t the things which served as reminders from before.

Reminders of her.

“James. Did you hear me?”

Bucky blinks hard, freeing his gaze from the wall calendar tacked up and viewable just over his doctor’s shoulder. Glancing down, he sees the familiar green of the velvet armchair –– one of three options for patients to choose from in her office, and Bucky’s personal favorite on account of the way its textures did something to sooth him as he gripped its arm anxiously with his flesh hand –– and the worn, fraying knees of his black jeans against it. He doesn’t bother meeting his therapist’s gaze. He already knows which of her expressions he’ll find her leveling at him, if he does.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, sucking his teeth. He hopes his voice isn’t quite as strained as it sounds –– though, judging by the way Dr. Raynor clucks her tongue as her fingers twitch toward her pen, it definitely is. “Guess I’m a little scattered today.”

The sardonic hum Raynor gives in response as she knowingly tilts her head nearly makes him open his mouth to finish the silent argument she’d started, but Bucky knows better than that. The moment he starts up, she’ll feign innocence and inquire as to why he feels the need to defend himself when no verbal accusation has been made. God damn, it would be just his luck to end up with the one government assigned therapist actually capable at her job.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Dr. Raynor offers. “And the two days before, if memory serves me right.”

Bucky shakes his head and tsks, tapping a metal finger against his temple. “Not a funny joke, doc. Remember the audience you’re dealing with here.”

“‘Deflecting.’”

The word drops from Raynor’s mouth with a simpleness that puzzles him.

“‘Scuse me?” he prompts when she only goes on to stare at him owlishly.

“Oh, that’s what I’d be writing in my notebook,” she explains simply, folding her hands together in her lap and leaning back in her chair. “If we were using it right now, that is.”

Again, Bucky rolls his eyes, and has to make an active attempt not to cross his arms like a forlorn child. The threat in her words is easily recognizable, not that she’d really bothered trying to conceal it. She knows that damn notebook irritates him more than any other aspect of their current arrangement, and he knows she’s not bluffing. If he doesn’t start talking, Raynor starts writing –– and if Raynor starts writing, he gets tailed by government watchdogs to ensure there are no imminent incidents lurking in the near future.

He sighs dejectedly and meets her gaze. “What was it you asked me?”

“What it is about the month of June that makes you so uncomfortable.”

Bucky blinks, red alarm bells shrieking in his head. Fuck, he can’t help but think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caught red handed.

“June’s fine,” he tries, but even to his own ears the assurance sounds weak. To think, he’d once been the most prolific tool of espionage around –– now he can hardly deliver a lie with a straight face. “Don’t have any feelings toward it one way or the other.”

“Strike two,” Raynor quips, glancing one again toward her pen.

Fuck!

Exhaling sharply through his nose, Bucky sits a little straighter in his seat, searching for any semblance of comfort to be found while already knowing he was bound to come up short. Damn it all. She wasn’t going to let him out of this one.

“Alright, hold your horses,” he sighs, waving a halting hand. Raynor’s expression doesn’t shift. She simply continues peering at him with her dark eyes, waiting patiently for his next few words to come. “Why do you assume I’ve got a problem with June?”

“Because you didn’t start staring at that calendar until it switched over from May,” Raynor supplies. “Like I mentioned, today isn’t the only day you’ve been scattered. Seems like something we should consider talking about.”

“No,” Bucky answers quickly. Too quickly. Shit. If she thought he’d been deflecting before, he didn’t even want to know the words running through her mind in regards to his behavior now. “I mean–– well, no. I don’t think it’s that important.”

Raynor arches a brow. “Funny,” she tells him, “the way your eyes keep drifting back to the word ‘June’ tells me otherwise.”

He sighs, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. Caught between a rock and an even bigger, weightier rock. The universe really wasn’t one to take his side often.

Bucky knows there really isn’t any choice here. Either he does what Raynor asks and elaborates on his suspicious behavior, or he risks facing the repercussions of those notes she’ll be jotting down in her notebook. Which of the two evils is more definitively the lesser, he can’t rightly say, but he knows which of the consequences he’d prefer to suffer through. And they’re certainly not the ones which see him robbed of the ability to walk freely down the street without a detail of armed babysitters.

So he figures that, maybe for once, being honest can’t be the worst decision to make.

“A few years ago, back before the blip,” Bucky tries, “I spent a summer in Wakanda.”

“Housed by the royal family,” Raynor nods, tone soft. “We’ve spoken about that before. You said you found it peaceful there. That you liked it.”

He did, and still does. On the nights when his mind isn’t quiet enough to let him find sleep but his heart feels light enough to forego the slideshow of horrors he’d been made to suffer throughout the years, Bucky’s thoughts often return to the bliss which life in Wakanda had offered him. He’d remember the farm he kept there, the little children who would come to sing and play and dance in trees to keep him company in the afternoons. He’d remember Princess Shuri –– Just Shuri, James, come now –– and the kindness she’d displayed in deactivating the deeper, most concerning parts of his programming. The day she’d told him it was done, turned off, that he’d never be forced to revert back to the Soldier against his will again, he’d rushed her and caught her up in a bearhug so relieved and forceful that her Dora Milaje detail had actually pointed their spears at him. He’d remember the tranquility of it all, the simpleness.

The peace.

There’s no hope of him being able to return to that place any time soon, much as he’d like to, but the memories sit resolutely concrete in his mind. The first of a new set which he’d never have to worry about being stolen away from him by the currents of an electric shock.

“It’s a nice place,” Bucky affirms, sighing wistfully at the thoughts swirling up in his head. “I bring it up because back then, that summer… I started remembering a few things. From before.”

Raynor keeps her face smooth and composed, but Bucky notices the twitch in her cheek that says she’s got a question. “When you say before,” she asks, voice gentle, “do you mean your time as the Winter Soldier?”

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. Ironically, things would be easier, were that the case. He might not be so miserable in the present, seeing the month of June start all over again. The melancholy might not be so strong. “No, not then. I mean from before. From the 40s, during the war. I don’t know if it was Wakanda’s heat that did it, or that my programming was officially deactivated. But one night I went to sleep in my hut like normal, and then the next morning I woke up, and… and I remembered.”

Raynor clasps her hand together in her lap, the pen, the notebook, the hesitation all forgotten. Bucky sees it in her expression, the shock at the fact that he’s speaking, that she’s actually making progress in getting him to talk about things so painful he often wonders if they aren’t better left in the past. He’s still trying to figure that one out. Miserable as he’s been for the first four days of June, he figures nothing good or relieving or positive can come from retelling this particular tale. It’s all behind him now, and there isn’t anything to be done to change the ending in any significant way.

But… but he figures he owes it to her. As painful as the memories are, they can’t be anything in comparison to what she must have gone through in the aftermath of it all.

Slowly, Raynor crosses one ankle over the other. “What was it that you remembered, James?”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and inhaling as deep a breath as he can pull. He lets it loose after counting to six, then opens his eyes again and crosses his arms over his chest. “It started back in June of 1944. I got shot.”

––

June 1st, 1944

It was damn lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

A funny thought, really. One which brings a sarcastic, bitter smile to your lips as you bend your neck to get a closer look at your handiwork. Wasn’t it just two nights ago that you’d been laying in your cot, staring up at the moon through the flap of your tent and counting all the reasons it wasn't fair that the bliss of unconsciousness evaded you? Wasn’t it three that you’d considered sneaking into the med tent and downing a few of the sleeping pills meant for the soldiers? You hadn’t, of course –– god only knew the sort of trouble you’d get in if it came to pass that you were caught –– but the consideration had been there all the same.

“Fuckin’ shit!”

The foul language, mixed with the rough jerk of the body beneath your dexterous hands, was enough to steal your attention back from your jaded inner monologue. Nearly two years back, when you’d first signed on to work as a field nurse, the pained outburst would have sent you flinching. Now, the swearing isn’t anything new, and thankfully for the soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up, it was no longer anywhere near enough to give you pause.

“You better hold still unless you want this to scar even worse than it's already going to,” you tell him matter of factly, gently tugging the thread the rest of the way through your current stitch.

The soldier –– Matthews? Moore? You can hardly remember the name he’d gasped at you in pain, but you’re sure it started with an ‘M’ –– rakes his dirty hands over his even dirtier face, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut as his fingers quake with agony. “Sorry,” he rasps, skin paling. “Just… Jesus, shit hurts so bad!”

You cluck your tongue, guilt racking your heart as you push the needle through his skin once more. “Shouldn’t have gotten shot then, genius,” you murmur, shaking your head disapprovingly.

It works. For a moment the soldier’s face twists in disbelief, and in the next, a shuddering, wheezing gasp of laughter expels itself from his throat. The sight is bleak, but it’s enough to twist your heart with warmth as you once again pull the thread through the stitch. You’d learned in the first few months of working as a nurse on the frontlines that the last thing these men wanted or needed was to be coddled along over their injuries, especially by a woman. Vulnerability was more averse to them now than ever before.

Personally, you don’t much understand it –– but your work isn’t, and has never been, about yourself. 

“Look, why don’t you tell me something,” you start, glancing up to… Morrison’s…? face in apology before sticking him with the needle yet again. He jerks, but not quite so violently this time. Another one down. Only about a thousand more to go tonight. “How’d all this happen? I thought you boys weren’t meant to scope the new territory until tomorrow afternoon. Y’know, in the daylight? When you can actually see whether or not someone in the distance is pointing a gun at you?”

“Unit leader was gettin’ jumpy,” the soldier coughs out, groaning against the pain. Guilt stabs your heart like a knife. You’d have given him something for the pain if you had it, something to numb the wound. But shipments of med supplies were behind, and it would be at least a week before you got your hands on anything like that again. “Said going at night would be better, that we could get the drop on them before they even knew we were coming.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Never mind the fact that their soldiers know the land better than ours do.”

So, the unit leader had jumped the gun. You’d figured as much, when two of your nurses had run into your tent with messy hair and sleep addled expressions, panicking about the oncoming slew of injured soldiers who needed immediate medical attention. That had been two hours, six patients, and about one hundred and ninety seven stitches ago.

Again. It was lucky you weren’t sleeping much these days.

The soldier whose leg you were currently stitching up opened his mouth to speak –– whether to snark along with you at the poor choice made by the unit’s leadership or to blindly defend his superior’s decision, you couldn’t be altogether sure –– but before he could even fix his mouth to properly shape the words, a sudden roar of someone else’s agony effectively cut him off.

Steadying your hands, you carefully turn to peer over your shoulder, searching for the source of the commotion. All night, you’d been surrounded by a cacophony of screaming soldiers, but that yell of pain is one you’re certain hasn’t yet met your ears. And, as you watch the flap of the med tent swing back before admitting entry to three people –– one of your nurses and two soldiers, one leaning bodily against the other –– you discover that your assumption is correct.

“We got a bad one,” the nurse –– Sally, curly haired, nearing twenty four and a bit more capable than the other girls when met with the sight of blood –– shouts. Her eyes scan the tent, searching and searching until her gaze finally lands on you. She pauses only a moment to turn and direct the uninjured soldier to drag the one he’s supporting over to an empty cot before barrelling in your direction. “Gunshot wound to the abdomen. I haven’t really had the chance to get a good look at it, but he’s–– well, to be frank, that man has lost a shit ton of blood.”

A gutshot. Poor guy would either go through a sickening amount of pain just to die, or he’d survive, and end up having to endure even more pain. Either way, in light of your depleted supply of painkillers, ‘excruciating’ didn’t even begin to describe it.

Oh, damn it all.

“Take over here for me,” you command, gesturing with your chin to the needle perched between your fingers. Sally’s already moving to pluck it from your hand before you’ve even finished speaking. “He’s got about fifteen to go before we even think about sending him back to his tent. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“You don’t think I know better?” Sally remarks drily, but you don’t have the time to come up with a witty comeback. You’re already on your feet and rushing toward the soldier writhing in pain across the tent, reflexively grabbing a collection of gauze, thread, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol along the way.

This isn’t going to be much fun for either of you.

The first thing you do is excuse the uninjured soldier, the one who’d carried him in. For one, there isn’t any need to keep him witness, and for another, you work better when an addition of unnecessary eyes aren’t tracking your every move. Besides. You doubt the poor soul laying on your med cot is at all interested in one of his peers –– one not sick or out of his mind due to his own pain, that is –– see him in this state. So, you simply thank the young man for his assistance and shoo him back in the direction from which he’d come, waiting until he’s passed the tent’s entrance before turning your full, undivided attention to your newest patient.

He’s got his eyes screwed shut tight in pain. You can hardly blame him. Of all the wounds to suffer through, a gutshot has the potential to win least desirable. It’s easy enough to see why, as the young man’s handsome features carve themselves into an expression of despair. A slick sheen of sweat coats his pale forehead, dampening his dark hair and sticking it to his skin. He’s biting down so hard on his bottom lip in effort to swallow his screams that you’re genuinely shocked he hasn’t drawn blood.

Though, part of you wonders if there’s even enough blood left in his body for his lip to bleed. Deep scarlet blooms stain his green shirt, so thoroughly soaked through that the fabric has turned almost black. Swathes of red cover his torso, his pants, the pale skin of his arms. It’s everywhere, already leaking onto the white sheets of the cot.

Sally wasn’t kidding. He really has lost a shit ton of blood.

“Hey there, soldier,” you start up, setting your collection of medical supplies down before taking a closer look at his torso. Shirt sticking to his skin the way it is, you aren’t going to be able to get much done until it’s out of the way. And, given that this man is certainly in no state to shrug it off himself, you’ve got no choice but to cut it. Lucky that you’d thought to grab a pair of scissors too, you suppose. “Don’t suppose you might be able to help a girl out by telling her what year it is?”

His jaw works for a few moments, teeth grinding together so forcefully the sound is audible. You think he might be gearing up to let loose another scream before he shakes his head a single time. “I got–– got shot,” he wheezes, whole body shaking, “not concussed. Don’t–– ah, don’t really… get how the year’s relevant.”

You exhale a bemused scoff through your nose, considering your response as your scissors work their way through the bloody fabric concealing his wound. You’re working as gently as you can, and so far it seems to be doing the trick. The soldier hasn’t flinched once since you started, though it’s hard to tell if that’s more due to the fact that he hadn’t noticed any difference one way or the other, or if it’s because he’s dedicating what strength he has left to keeping his head screwed onto his shoulders.

“Fair point,” you reply, still carefully cutting through his shirt. “How about a name, then? Little more relevant to the conversation, I’d say.”

It takes a few moments of silence for him to respond –– almost as if he’s trying to remember that he’s got a name –– but eventually, it comes.

“James,” he tells you, the single syllable leaving his mouth in a pained grunt.

You nod, cutting away the last of the fabric. “Nice to meet you, James,” you tell him, carefully peeling the tatters of his ruined shirt from his abdomen. “You just hold tight a little longer for me, alright? We’ll fix you up good as new.”

It isn’t a pretty sight, what you find beneath. Under all that red is a nasty wound, jagged and swollen at the edges, punched into the flesh just beneath the southmost edge of his ribcage. Thankfully, no bones have been hit –– a shattered rib would be immediately evident, both in the pitch of his screams and the deformed shape of his chest –– but the wound is more than a little inflated. There’s a puffiness to it that you can’t comprehend, a stiffness to its perimeter that doesn’t click in your mind, until––

Until you see the small, dark center, and suddenly it does.

You swear beneath your breath, a filthy, ugly word that you’d picked up a few weeks back from one of your patients. You don’t even know what it means, not really, but speaking it feels cathartic enough that you don’t altogether care.

Oh, sweet, holy hell.

James cracks an eye open, muttering, “Darlin’, you rea–– you really gotta work on your bedside manner.”

“Alright, listen to me, James,” you tell him, forgoing a witty response. You don’t have the time, not considering what you’re now dealing with, and you figure James will appreciate your working hands more than he’ll appreciate your shitty attempts at banter. “There’s… there’s something I need to do for you, before I can start patching you up. Now, normally I could give you something for the pain, but we’re out of the anesthetic I need. So this isn’t gonna… it’s not gonna feel very good.”

James looses a labored sigh, oddly calm for the clear anguish marring his face. “Shit, well good news,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, “it already doesn’t.”

His lashes flutter in a telltale manner, one which lets you know he’s getting closer to the brink and you’re running short on time. It’s easy enough, not to give in to the panic this incites in your chest. You’ve been doing this job a long time now, know that what James needs is your calm, your level-headedness. Those things have a higher chance of keeping him alive, of seeing to it that he comes out of this on the other side. Scarred up, maybe, and without the ability to breathe as deep as he once could, but still alive.

You shake your head, grabbing the tweezers from where you’d set them down before planting your forearm against an uninjured section of James’ bare chest for leverage. “Alright, big breaths, James. You scream as loud as you want or need to, but just… try and stay as still as you can, okay? I won’t be able to stop until it’s done.”

The only answer he gives in response is a shaky nod, the thick black fringe of his lashes brushing his cheekbones as his lips begin to move at a speed with which your eyes can hardly track. A prayer, you figure, or a plea for a quick end. Whichever it is, it helps him to relax just the tiniest bit more, slightly smooths out the lines of pain and suffering etched into his face.

Until you start digging with the tweezers, that is.

Then it’s all white hot screams of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper beneath his cries, words drowned out by the sheer volume of the howls ripping out of his throat. But you don’t stop working, don’t withdraw the tweezers from his bloody wound. You hadn’t been joking when you told him starting meant you couldn’t stop until you finished. Abandoning the task now meant leaving James to bleed out in a matter of seconds. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. You’re doing good, though, alright? You’re doing amazing. I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for the tweezers’ edges to find the metal bullet lodged in his skin. At first, all you can feel is a mess of flesh and muscle, shredded and frayed from the impact of the gunshot. For a few short seconds, you wonder if your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you, if it would have been more wise to search for an exit wound on his back than to simply jump straight in without taking the time to stop and think.

But your worries are unfounded –– proven two seconds later when your tweezers make contact with the tiny, foreign object threatening James’ life. Carefully, you maneuver the tweezers into the correct position to properly take hold of the bullet. Then, with one last whispered apology, you slowly and carefully begin to pull.

James’ legs buck hard against the cot, arms straining at his sides where he’s got both his hands fisted into the sheets in an attempt to hold on for dear life. His teeth chatter against each other, knocking and clacking as he tries to get ahold of the screams pouring freely from him, and that thin sheen of sweat coating his skin has turned into a full on tidal wave.

But his torso doesn’t move –– not a single inch.

“We’re almost done,” you assure him, keeping your hand steady as you continue gently easing the bullet up, and up, and up. You can just make out the silver edges of it now, slick with blood and dented. It won’t be long now, before it’s out and you can start working on staunching the blood leaking from his body. Maybe you can lift his spirits with a joke or two then, a witty comment to ease some of the pain. Maybe––

The bullet slips from the tweezers, catching you off guard and jerking your hand to the left. It’s only by a centimeter, not a huge distance, but given that you’ve got edges of metal inserted into this man’s wound, to him, it makes all the difference in the world.

James throws his head back and screams, loud enough that you can instantly hear his vocal cords go raw beneath the strain of the volume. A single word leaves his lips; it sounds like Ma, only it’s warped, strangled. Much as you detest the fact, you know the sound well. A soldier crying out for his mother while under the thrall of delirium and pain isn’t exactly a rarity around these parts.

Guilt twists your heart with the razor sharpness of a cruel knife.

“Stop,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “P-please–– please stop!”

“I can’t,” you tell him, already repositioning your tweezers and going back in. Luckily, the bullet is much closer to the surface of his wound now. It only takes a second before you find another grip on it, instantly deciding to forego gentleness in favor of speed. “But the good news is––” With a slight bend of your wrist and a soft, wet pop, the bullet comes loose from his wound. “––we’re done with the shitty part.”

James’ eyes, glassy with pain and pupils blown wide, fall first to the bullet you hold up for his perusal, set against a backdrop of lowlight and your blood covered hand, before wandering their way up to your face. It’s then that you notice his irises are water blue and clear as crystal. You’re not sure why, but their color fascinates you.

“I wanna keep that,” he mutters weakly.

Then, his lashes flutter rapidly and his head lolls to the side, his lungs expelling a great, big breath before shuddering to a halt.

Your heart lurches at the sight. For one, awful moment, you think you’ve just put the poor man through all of that pain and agony only to end up somehow killing him in the process –– never mind the fact that this isn’t the first time you’ve extracted a bullet from a soldier’s abdomen, and certainly isn’t likely to be the last. But then his chest starts up moving again, at a much less worrisome pace. It’s slow, and his breaths are shallow, but they’re still breaths.

Unconscious –– not dead.

The realization is enough to make you send a mental note of thanks to whichever being was kind enough to have shown James mercy.

You allow yourself the shortest of moments to bask in the relief –– that you’d successfully extracted the bullet, that James hadn’t died during or after your attempts to do so, that you aren’t now left to set in motion the process of another condolence letter being shipped across seas to his family.

And once it passes, once you’ve inhaled and exhaled and wiped your hands on a cloth, you grab a cloth and press it to James’ wound, setting to work on stopping his bleeding –– but not before wrapping the bullet you’d just dislodged from his body in a pad of gauze and tucking it into the breast pocket of your uniform.

––

Chapter Two: Someone Good

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mcu #tfatws #catws #marvel #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #au #series #angst #hurt #comfort #1940s bucky

[sleepyfan-blog]

As an ending to the slave trilogy, can Ink somehow revert the brainwashing and get all three out and then Dream puts a bounty on his head to cover the last square? Please with a cherry on top?

I hope that you enjoy the ending :D

prompt : Bounty On Their Head

Final ficlet in this series. Previous here.

Fandom: Dreamswap by @onebizarrekai

Characters and pairing: DS Ink, DS Error, DS Cross, DS Nightmare, DS Dream, DS Blue, Meme Squad Poly, DS Errink

Warnings: death threat, cursing, past brainwashing, implied unhealthy relationships

Word count: 2,433

Summary: Ink schemes and plans and manages to pull of saving the meme squad

It took months for Ink to figure out what in the fresh hell Dream had done to his boyfriend and the other’s two only friends. It seemed to be a mix of standard brainwashing techniques along with using the other’s powerful emotive aura in order to influence the other three… There was also the fact that the bastard had somehow figured out how to change Nightmare from a negative spirit into a positive one…

On one hand, Ink could stand being around the other more as the other’s presence didn’t cause him to feel shitty feelings (he was careful not to drink any of his vials that contained negative emotions - he didn’t want Dream to realize what his true thoughts and genuine feelings about this whole damned situation was - he knew that the other could influence him super fucking easily due to his soullessness)… On the other hand, Dream had completely reworked another being’s entire magical makeup because that’s what he decided was best for them.

Ink had also noticed that the brainwashing had to be reinforced regularly - which was one of the main reasons why Dream had politely insisted that Blue and Cross stay in Justice Reigns - along with the fact that he could see the manipulative feathered ass starting in on Blue - albeit in a much more subtle manner, so as not to cause the mercurial outcode to grab his prize and flee to some unknown corner of the multiverse. Whether or not it was due to the unusual nature of their beings - Error was an outcode, Cross had half a Determined Human’s soul and Nightmare, in addition to being quite powerful, was also an emotive guardian and somewhat resistant to Dream’s powers. Moreso than the rest of the multiverse, at least.

It took him an additional four months of carefully planned interruptions in those brainwashing sessions - a small emergency here, a call from a crucial backer there, the discovery of a dangerous and sneaky cult or a gang that had manage to steal a couple of JR’s dimensionally capable cars and wreaking havoc - but they were starting to come back to themselves. It also took that long for him to get the other two to agree to allow him to watch the three of them play video games in his rooms within Justice Reigns while Blue was off being sketchy and Dream was chasing down the last of the gang of surprisingly well-armed criminals. One of the three of them needed to stay here - they couldn’t let the public think that the head of JR was worried about those assholes, now could they?

Interestingly enough, Cross was the first to actually wake up, his eye lights brightening suddenly into focus, and a long string of colorful curses before the other tackled him to the floor, hissing “Ink, if you don’t get this power suppressing collar off of me, I will figure out if I can strangle you to death with my bare fucking hands, do you understand?”

Ink couldn’t stop a relieved grin from appearing on his face as he started to fumble with the lock a little “Thank the fucking stars. Hopefully you can help me get the other two back to their senses as well.”

This took a lot of the aggression out of Cross, who let him go and stared in confused surprise “I… What? Wait - don’t tell me you were the one engineering all of that bullshit for the past year or so? I… Why would you do that. You’re loyal to Dream, aren’t you? I mean… You betrayed me for him.” this was said with no small amount of bitter suspicion. “What are you planning, you soulless fuck?”

“What I’ve been planning is to get the three of you un-brainwashed, you salty asshole. Error and I have been dating for three years. We’ve been keeping it on the down low, and I’ve been passing him information about where JR and the feathered shitbag is going to be going as best as I can. Surely you’ve noticed that the three of you have been running into a lot fewer of their patrols before you got fucking captured.”

“Wait, you’re Error’s boyfriend who works in JR who managed to rescue him before we did that one time? Hoooly shit. That… No that does make a lot of sense. Nightmare said that based off of the intel that you were able to give us, you had to be pretty close. I just wasn’t expecting the person to be Dream’s number one assassin… And thank you for not leaving us to rot.” Cross grumbled grudgingly, folding his arms over his chest before he realized what he was wearing “… Eugh.  Please tell me you’ve got a spare set of my actual outfit? I can’t believe that I ever agreed to wear this.”

Ink snorted. The light blue shirt and dark grey pants actually looked pretty good on Cross - they also complemented Blue’s colors - which was the point. “Of course. I recreated all three of yours’ usual outfits. I was going to recommend you change anyways, because I wouldn’t put it past Blue to have sewn some sort of tracker in your clothes - magical or otherwise. You don’t have one actually one you. None of you do. I already checked for that.”

“Thanks for that little bit of nightmare fuel. I’m also going to use the shower really quick… You know who and feather butt aren’t going to be back for a while, right? Or are you expecting one of them to come in at any moment?” Cross asked, unsure as to what was going to happen and deeply suspicious of this whole situation. But Ink did appear to be completely genuine, so far at least.

“Dream is chasing criminals across half of the multiverse, and Blue is trying to gather information about how they managed to steal four of JR’s interdimensional cars. Rumor is that they stole a shipment of the latest vehicles from one of the testing facilities while it was in transit.” Ink answered “They shouldn’t be back here for days, and one of us has to keep an eye on the three of you, so. Here I am. I was hoping that all three of you would shake out of it… Because otherwise-”

“Nightmare will go wandering back to Dream, tell him where we are and then we’re all so much more fucked than we were before.” Cross grumbled, rubbing his face with his hands “Right, I’m going to have a shower. Good luck trying to un-brainwash Nightmare.” For the briefest moment, a look of consideration and uncertainty flashes across the taller skeleton’s face, as if he’s thinking about doing or saying something. But all Cross does is sigh and silently walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Error who - bless his soul - has had flashes of lucidity for the better part of a month - suddenly stiffens up and sobs a little “N-No… N-Not again…” and curls in on himself.

Ink is instantly at the other’s side, with Nightmare frowning in dazed concern at his friend. “Hey… Shh… It’s going to be okay. I’m going to get the three of you to safety, alright? I’ve been trying to get you in your right mind for a while…”

“I… I… You’re right. Thank… Thank you, Ink. You’ve been kind and supportive and trying to get me and my friends back to their true selves… Also, thank you for trying to distract Blue away from Cross - he’s… Very good at manipulating others, and turning them into his loyal little puppets…” Error muttered, burying his face in his hands and trembling a little, before murmuring quietly “… You didn’t just take me and run. You… You’re… My friends, you’ve been trying to…”

“Well,yeah. You are about them. I may be a soulless asshole… But I’m your soulless asshole and I want you to be happy. They make you happy.” Ink explained, fidgeting a little and trying not to blush at the soft expression on his boyfriend’s face.  Honestly, it wasn’t that big a deal. If he was going to betray Dream and piss him off, he might as well go whole hog and save all three of them. Error would never forgive him if he left his two best friends to be twisted like this and try to save them… And Ink could admit to himself that he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he tried to be that selfish, either. Somehow he’d acquired a conscience and it wasn’t due to Dream.

Nightmare groaned quietly, pressing his hands to his face, his shoulders shaking a little. It Took INk a minute to figure out that the formerly negative spirit was crying a little. He edged towards the nearest exit, unsure as to what to do, and having never got along him as well. “Don’t you dare fucking try to leave. You… He had a stars damned illusionary spell placed on me to help fuck with my head. It just faded away. He’s been… I don’t know what all he’s done to me… But you better not fucking decide to fuck off back to Dream. I will find a way to kill you.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. If you don’t remember, Error was also kidnapped and he… That bastard hurt him almost as much as he hurt you. I was going to knock on the door to the bathroom because Cross is taking a shower. There are spare sets of your normal outfits in the bedroom over there for you to change into, to get rid of any trackers you might currently be wearing.” Ink answered bluntly, edging closer to the bathroom door. The water stopped running, which was a good thing.

“… I suppose I’ll believe you for now. I’m guessing you’re Error’s mysterious boyfriend?” Nightmare responded, his voice shaking still, but his eye sockets were devoid of tears as the other looked at him with faded golden eye sockets. “… So what now? Do you have a place for us to run to, or was this an impulsive thing?”

“I’ve been in negotiations with Core Frisk. They don’t trust me worth a damn, which. I mean is fair, but they’ll shelter you three and I’ll be able to stay if I work on the ‘non-destructive’ side of my powers with them. I have no idea what the hell they mean by that, but it’s the only place I can think of that Dream can’t reach. Hell, as far as I know, he has no idea it even exists. They only contacted me after I started working with each of you to try to wake up. How they knew that I really wanted to save you from their bullshit, I don’t know.” Ink responded with a shrug.

“Right, well I’m going to go get dressed - we should probably stock up on supplies before we head to the omega timeline - food and the like is kind of limited there.” Nightmare responded, his eye lights still dull and miserable, standing up and rubbing his face a little. “I never thought that Dream would go quite that far but… Hey, at least I’m not dead.”

“I’ve been stockpiling things at that house that you three have there for the better part of a year. I helped Core make a large section of farmable land before they even agreed to let me stay there more than to drop crap off for them and their little band of refugees. All I’ve been waiting on is the three of you waking up. I’ll get a portal ready.” Ink responded, summoning his brush as Error and Nightmare got up and changed their clothes. The soulless skeleton was aware that Error, Nightmare and Cross were also dating - whether he would be included in their cuddle sessions was up to the three of them. He was simply glad to have a piece of his beloved’s heart.

Cross wandered through the area wearing nothing but a towel and entering the bedroom for clothes, closing it behind them. Ink sat down on the couch, twirling his brush as he concentrated on opening a portal. He was one of the very few people allowed to open portals by the wards that protected this AU. Technically they could go via walking through a door and thinking about the coordinates to the Omega Timeline… But Ink doubted that any one of the three of them would be able to focus enough to do that. Not with the enormity of what had done to them was starting to hit home.

The three of them came out a couple of moments later, Error’s strings curled around a couple of both Nightmare and Cross’s fingers - one of his versions of holding hands, given his aversion to touch. Ink smiled a little at that, startling when he felt a couple of the other’s strings wrap around one of his wrist. Error caught his gaze and murmured softly “Thank you.”

“… You know I’d do anything for you, Error.” Ink murmured. It had taken him longer than he’d like to admit to get his head out of his ass and realize just what Dream really was… But he’d follow Error through hell and back again.

~

The four of them were sitting down on the slightly squashy but very comfortable couch in their home,  hours later after they sorted through the stuff that Ink had grabbed for them, taking a break to watch  Undernovella when a breaking news bulletin interrupted their show. It was Lord Fuckface himself “And I regret to inform you that my personal assistant Ink, for reasons unknown, has kidnapped my mate, Nightmare. Because of this I have placed a bounty on his capture of six million G. If you have seen or know where he might be, there is a confidential phone line you can call. If you have seen my mate, please call. I miss him dearly.”

“Miss me being your obedient toy, more like.” Nightmare muttered angrily from his seat, sandwiched between Cross and Error, scowling darkly. The scowl dropped from his face after a moment, and he whispered softly to himself, as if trying to convince himself “… I don’t miss him. I don’t.”

“… I still sometimes miss Blue. Even after all the stuff he did to me.” Error and Cross admit.

Cross clarified “I mean. Before all of the recent bullshit. And yet, still part of me still misses him greatly. But we’ll heal and grow stronger.”

Nightmare nodded shakily, and the four of them continued to watch the soap opera.

#unhealthy relationships tw #ds errink #ds error #ds ink #ds cross #ds nightmare #ds dreammare #ds crue #past brainwashing #my writing

[simmancy]

I was wondering how you first started your berry legacy? Did you make a new simblr for it? How did you first start posting and getting into a routine? I really want to make a legacy myself but i'm scared that it would look really mediocre and unorganized! Any tips on how to plan out the storyline and start posting? Thank you!! (asking this to a few different blogs so sorry if yo see this question somewhere else)

I’m honestly super honored that you’re asking me! I’m still a pretty small simblr compared to a lot of people.

I’m going to put this under a cut, just so it doesn’t clutter up people’s dashes because I RAMBLE (like seriously, I’m re-reading it all now and I go on and on and on) but I’m gonna cover everything you asked!

TL;DR: get mildly inspired, get involved in the community and have fun with it!

I cannot recommending creating a new blog enough. While it’s definitely easier to just create a sub-blog off your personal, you’ll have a harder go at keeping things separate once things take off. Plus then you probably won’t have ALL your million tumblr things that you’re already following mixed in with your sim stuff, making things so much harder to follow.

Once you start your simblr (whether a sub-blog or whole new tumblr), TAG EVERYTHING. XKIT SAVES LIVES. Not really, but it will save you a lot of time once you install the Quick Tags and make tag bundles. Seriously.

At least once a day, a “reblog if you’re a maxis match simblr” thing comes across my dash–don’t be afraid to reblog those when you’re starting out. (Or the alpha equivalent if that’s your thing).

Seriously, don’t be afraid to reach out to people and get involved. Ask for sim requests, reply to things, join a Discord server–don’t be afraid to talk to people! I’ve actually made a few good friends this time around. It’s awesome.

This is just one of the unfortunate realities about things–if your pictures look good, you’ll get noticed quicker and blah blah. You can get by on just writing, but it’s a lot harder. This is still tumblr. It’s microblogging. LOOOOONG text posts (like this one lmao) are not what it’s geared towards.

Anyway. I play TS4 on Ultra, and that does a lot of work for me. Sometimes all you really need to do is sharpen and brighten things up. Reshade is another good alternative, if your computer can handle it–that takes a lot of the decision making out because it edits for you! I used to use PickyPikachu’s reshade presets. The downside is that it’s pretty resource heavy.

The basic point here is that having good lookin’ pictures goes a long way to making your stuff look “not mediocre.”

Also, and this is a side thing–find a good theme for your simblr, something that looks good for both text posts and pictures, probably something with either a sidebar or header (or both).

This is the meat of the section and it’s all really Kit/Pastille-specific.

I started up the Pastel Pastilles because I saw Berry’s challenge–I had already read Splash of Color a long time ago, and had a (now obviously abandoned) TS3 rainbowcy. But TS4 was fun and ran like a beast and I liked berry sims, so I dove in. If you were to go back in my archives, though, you’d see that I started posting a TS3 LEPacy, and that’s not even my first one.

I’m not going to even talk about the Grims in this post, since they’re really new. But they’re a prime example of using community involvement to stay interested haha. I’m very excited to play with Ruby and her future family because of all the nice sims people sent for her to eat alive become friends with. 

Planning with the Pastilles

With the Pastilles, I honestly got a little tipsy one night and did my initial planning based around Halsey’s Hopeless Fountain Kingdom. Like… Not even gonna lie. That was honestly my starting point. You can almost see hints of this in some places. From there, I had certain scenes I wanted to hit.

Gen 1 - Luna - “Hopeless”; it’s about being in a shitty relationship and hoping that changes lmao (“I hope hopeless changes over time”). Luna and Dianthus were meant to have a much more obviously toxic relationship but Luna ended up having four kids by her second pregnancy and I just couldn’t play and write that fast. However, I always knew that Luna’s big moment would be telling Dianthus to get out.

Gen 2 - Verity Vine - “Now or Never”/“100 Letters” - There are a couple things that have stayed consistent in this gen: Veri and her dreams, the peach spouse’s dad was gonna be a dick and they would be separated for years, and they were gonna hook back up at a wedding. 

My very first concept was that Riesling was going to be a bit more wishy-washy and bend to his father’s will (hence “Now or Never” being the song). By the middle of the generation, it was clear that Veri would become the distant one (“he said ‘please don’t go away,’ I said ‘it’s too late’”).

Part of writing a sims legacy sometimes is… letting the sims do the writing for you. Meri and Forest weren’t supposed to be the ones getting married (it was supposed to be Chai Tea and Black Cherry) and they definitely weren’t supposed to have the twins but honestly the story is better for it, you know? And obv most of Veriling’s story isn’t the way I initially planned.

All this said, once I knew where I wanted the story to go, I knew I wanted to plan around a few set-pieces: the fountain scene where Riesling trips onto Veri and she realizes “OH SHIT,” the scene where Eiswein walks in, Punk!Veri’s “I don’t dream at all anymore,” and Riesling’s “Hi, I’m Riesling Puck, you might recognize me from your dreams.” Those were all scenes I knew I HAD to get.

Gen 3 - ??? - “Angel on Fire” - it’s about anxiety lmao so I don’t mind linking it, it’s pretty obvious. Gen 3 has an anxious heir, a song about anxiety was on the nose.

I don’t really recommend the getting tipsy part, but definitely do recommend going in with a basic concept.

The cool thing about challenges is that you already have the guidelines as a starting point. One of my favorite parts about this challenge in particular is seeing how people re-interpret the rules–for instance compare the Gumdrops, Frosts, Amours, Pastilles, Fairyflosses, Prisms–we all started from the same basic rules and there’s still a lot of variation, especially once you get past the initial introductions.

Also, SERIOUSLY: don’t be afraid to take inspiration from crazy places–a song you heard on the radio, a movie, your own life, whatever. Like, I decided Veri’s generation would have it’s first Act at Oxtail University because of the “dream of ivy covered walls and smoky french cafes” line in “Beautiful” (from the Heathers musical). The song otherwise has VERY LITTLE to do with Gen 2. It’s just that line became a starting point for me.

Keeping Things Lookin’ Snazzy with the Pastilles

Looking back, you can kind of see Gen 1 was a bit brighter and lighter/different in editing style than Gen 2. I purposefully set out to get a “dreamy” feel for Gen 2′s pictures. It works for me and the Pastilles–it might not for your legacy! Play around with things to see what works.

I’ve also noticed a lot of banners nowadays (they weren’t as big my first go around here on simblr, but they’re everywhere now). I think that helps to keep things “on brand,” organized and consistent too. I personally don’t use a banner for the Pastilles–I didn’t start with one, and now it looks super wrong to me when I try to use one…. So instead, I’d recommend looking at @frost-rainbowcy–she is SUPER on-brand. I can only aspire to reach that level of #a e s t h e t i c.

HOWEVER, I do keep everything on my blog hyper-organized–there’s a main page where everything’s pretty much linked, and the character page. 

TBH, you don’t need to go that in-depth. I just like leaving weird easter eggs in places. You might too.

Posting Consistently

So, I started posting the Pastilles officially almost a week after I made the first post with Luna. That’s because I played a BUNCH right at the beginning, so I’d have something consistent to post for a while. It wasn’t initially as story-heavy as it is now. That’s something you probably want to decide before you start posting.

Right now, I’m posting inconsistently because I’m trying to wait around for Cats and Dogs and not give into the temptation to give Veri and Ries the babies they keep wishing for, but….

I’m in game almost every day–I get off work most days between 2 and 4 now, so by 6 PM I’ve eaten/showered/started up TS4. Even if it’s just to make a sim for someone.

I tend to do all my picture editing on Sundays, as it’s my day off. Sometimes it bleeds over into Monday, my other day off. I don’t always write posts up those days, but I at least stick them in the queue so they’re THERE. For me, it helps giving myself that weird deadline lmao

As a result, I almost always have something queued up.

I utilize the queue like MAD. Right now it’s set at 6 posts a day between 3 PM and 12 AM EST, but I change it up depending on what I have going on and what I can crank out. Usually I leave it on 13 posts a day.

Basically, learn what works for you. It does take some trial and error, but you’ll get it eventually.

Now here’s the real truth: you won’t post consistently if you don’t love your game or your sims.

I love playing the Pastilles as much as I love writing them. To the point that I have them backed up in several places just in case. I’m genuinely attached to the family, and that makes it worth it to me. Sometimes that doesn’t happen immediately (I love Luna, and Vino, and even Dianthus that shitbag, but you can tell that I got invested with Veri and Ries–Gen 1 is 30 pages long on my blog. Gen 2 is 92 and counting).

Storywise, I stay interested because I love the fluffy romance bits and snappy dialogue as much as the Drama Bombs, and also (spoilers) I’m a sucker for supernatural stuff. So I tailored my legacy to fit that.

But when I don’t want to play sometimes I just go in game, grab a few pictures of them in CAS and redo the character page for the 25th time. And that’s okay too. I just always try to make sure I have something to post, even if it’s a small (even if it’s just Riesling’s face. Because I know that’s what y’all want. It’s cool. I get it).

I seriously rambled a lot, but I hope this helps!! Once you get started, please let me know too! I’m rooting for you, non, and any nons to come after you.

#ask #simblr tips #oh gosh i am genuinely so stoked to answer this haha #Anonymous #I️ need to edit this is the morning it’s 2:30 AM and I need to sleep haha

[custer-mp3]

long-ass general life update for you nosy bitches // tw: men, my bad legs

so boring to say i’m settling in but i am, i just wish there was something better to call it

there was somebody camped out in the back of the park across from our house down by the railroad tracks, on what we think is technically railroad property, and the parks department came today and tried to haul their shit away without a police order cuz “it’s just trash” no dude it’s a tent that’s someone’s home you leave it the fuck alone so Agatha screamed at them until they went away but then the cops came by & tagged it so now they have 3 days to move or the parks department’s allowed to come back & take their shit away

when we were trying to figure out whose site it so so we could reach out to them thru the drop-in center we noticed the tent was locked but had been cut open and the rain fly was ripped off and Agatha says it’s probably fine but it looked like somebody rolled their shit hella bad & i’m just worried about whoever it is, it looked like multiple people (or at least a guy and a girl) and i hope they’re okay like. physically

thanksgiving weekend launched me into the flare of the century i’m still not recovered from. i dared unpack my boxes of books yesterday (which were all small!! 6 free USPS boxes!!) and my knees had just. Had It. from that 20 minutes of activity. my wrists and elbows are flaring rly bad rn too & i had to buy ankle braces cuz my Achilles was already super fucked up from moving & like. whole body hurts.

i was limping around super bad at work--like unable to actually walk, just kinda toddling around in slow-mo if they needed me to move somewhere--and my manager made fun of me to my face IMITATING MY LIMP ON BLACK FRIDAY when i requested a break then my ASM and tenured keyholder ALSO made fun of me on Hell Saturday and i’m going to burn the entire store down

marina says report them to HR but that’s not very anarchist of me and i just don’t care enough to ruin their lives cuz it’s a temp job anyway and i can make it thru the holiday surely but it’s also like. i am the most able-bodied disabled person i know. i get more shit done in a day with 2 nonfunctional legs and fucked up arms and guts that are trying to escape my body and The Brain Fog TM than most people in full health do. if you’re being this awful to ME to my fkn FACE, ON THE CLOCK, how awful are you to “““actually disabled”““ ppl like out in the world on your free time

i just hate that there are no buses on sundays, no buses after 7, and i keep getting put on these dumb fucking late closes that mean either paying $15 for an Uber or walking the 3 miles home in the dark and the cold and some days i just physically Cannot with my Body and have to pay for the Uber which sucks ass cuz i’m making barely above federal minimum wage again

but i’ve been walking dogs and stuff with Kara. she’s got a hot friend who saw the picture of my halloween costume she threw in the groupchat and apparently thinks i’m cute and has been inquiring about my existence ever since so she asked me if she could give him my number and like sure bro i’ve met this dude exactly once AND I DIDN’T HAVE EYEBROWS ON AND WAS STANDING THERE RUBBING MY EYEBROW STUBBLE IN MY OVERSIZED SLIPKNOT HOODIE AND PAJAMA PANTS but i would like him to throw me thru a brick wall so sure but then he tEXTED ME and we set up a hangout which was supposed to just be coffee but turned into a whole-ass actual lunch date which like. worm. and made out in my living room cuz why not.

yesterday we hung out again (the coffee i was promised) and walked dogs with Kara in the cemetery and went to Kinko’s and the sketchy Halloween store that’s still open in fkn December and also made out, and then he was like “we should have an Actual Date For Real People” and i was like mfkr what?!?????? is that not???? no??????????????

so that occurred t o d a y cuz you can’t call me anything but efficient and spoiler alert, it was NOT a Real People Date, it was a fkn punk shitbag date, we definitely smashed then cuddled and tried to get Parsnip to interact with the other cat in a peaceful fashion and listened to Ministry and helped Agatha with the camp/park service situation and dealt with the cops when they showed up and had the aUDAciTY to park in front of our house to pull that shit then ran errands and cuddled and went to a Food Not Bombs meeting like. mfkr. that aint a date. that’s hanging out. how. is the prior 2 things with designated start times and wearing Nice Shirts and Going In Public Together Solo and shit not dates but tODaY was a date. fkn. WHAT

anyway he’s simple and sweet and hilarious and pro-SW anarcho communist and insanely hot and self-deprecating and i want to climb him like a tree but he too is divorced once over and we’ve Talked about it & it’s made me feel Better about my own shit & like. i want him to throw me through a brick wall and buy me food and leave me alone, and he’s in a non-monogamous relationship with one of Kara’s friends and his partner’s like “bro u need to date other ppl so i don’t feel bad” and y’know, that’s fuckin stellar imo. for me.

like what this whole fkn Ordeal has made me realize is i actually hate being in capital-R-Relationships. i do NOT want the pressure of being somebody’s whole world, i do not want the EXPECTATION of being solely responsible for somebody’s emotional happiness and well-being, i just wanna be friends with people and hang out and make art and occasionally make out and otherwise be left alone to do my own thing so this is like. rad as fuck. that this just sorta fell into my lap fully-formed and i didn’t have to do a bunch of screening and dealing with fuckboys and everything i was dreading abt y’know. finding someone to make out with in the midwest

and it was all because of my dumbass pun-based nu-metal halloween costume, which is the best thing that’s happened to me in decades, so. thank u jonathan davis

but i’m making friends--mostly thru Kara, but the other fellow new KH at work is the oldest person in the store (older than me by a couple years) and ALSO super into all things manson-adjacent and ALSO super queer and everything and has given me a ride home a couple times and i love her so maybe we’ll end up being friends in the long run too--and like living with Kara’s been good cuz there are always people around and she doesn’t mind me inviting myself on stuff sometimes so

there’s some sort of Krampus parade thing this Saturday in which for $2 you can actually be beaten with sticks and the squad’s going to that and we’re all doing FNB on Sunday and i know aforementioned dude is gonna be there but also so is his partner so like. that’ll be Inch Resting. but. we’ll survive. ‘we’  meaning me.

idk if it’s some sort of fucked up coping mechanism from coming dead last in my own monogamous relationships for uhhhhhhhhhhhh my entire fucking life but y’know. i kinda just feel whatever abt it!! like cool!! there is the dude i am fast friends with and def have a mutual crush on and am also currently fucking! and there’s the person he’s been dating for 3.5 years and owns a house with, and they’re a Thing!! and idk where i fit and what the vibe’ll be idk if the partner’s other ppl are gonna be there too so it’ll be weird fr all of us or it’s just me and like honestly how do y’all NAVIGATE i just don’t wanna make fkn heart eyes at the wrong time or NOT make heart eyes at the wrong time U FEEL ME

but also y’know what, whatever, fine. i’m like the least possessive person in the universe. like. i like that it’s all out in the open and people aren’t running around on me or anybody else. can’t believe this is my life, honestly. idk if the squad was conspiring on this or what cuz kara has terminal Nice Person disease but. good job fam. 

i was in a real dark place this time last week and it only got worse over Hell Weekend, like. feeling directionless / unmotivated / isolated / lonely / traumatized / failure. it’s really been hitting me hard that i’m [redacted] years old & getting d*vorced & back in a punk house in a city i’d never set foot in before & working the shittiest shit job in the history of shit jobs and i’m never gonna see this person that was my best friend for so long again (cuz, y’know, i know i don’t talk abt the Private Life on here very often/in very concrete terms ~~this post being the exception~~ but. we were Best Friends. for a very long time) & i’m officially losing this friendship that meant so much to me and does mean so much to me, because i do care about him as a friend. like. fuck him as a spouse, he’s terrible at that, but as a friend i don’t want to see him struggling. which is bullshit. cuz he was abusing me and my life was a living goddamn hell in VA. but it’s hard to let go of the basis of the whole goddamn Ordeal to start with, and it’s hard to reconcile My Friend Whomst I Adore with My Ex-Husband Who Triggers Me On Purpose & Reads My Instagram Messages & Has Been Blackout Drunk For Months & Won’t Let Me Have Space Even In My Own Office, and it’s hard cuz the only people i know who’ve gone through something like this are dead. and all of that’s hitting at once. and i can put up with a lot of shit but i cannot put up with feeling like a failure within myself. and shit was truly fucking bleak.

so the whole social life thing just came at a good time y’know & even if things otherwise aren’t going the way i want there’s at least one good spot in my life. i got friends, i’m getting out of the house, i figured out where the good cemetery is, people are buying me food & talking me through all of this & rubbing the shaved part of my head & i’m happy

kara’s got a dr’s appt tmrw AM & the dude is apparently our designated Responsible Adult With Car so he’s picking her up from that & will be in my house once again tmrw morning & i fully plan on hiding in my room and pretending to be asleep cuz fuck that lmao don’t make me socialize i was not emotionally prepared for that

hayden sent me a 1995 Marilyn Manson gig poster and an enamel pin of a jackalope wearing a cone of shame & honestly??? i do not deserve him, talk about great friends

we need to get a frame for the poster but then me & kara are starting a MM wall in one of our living rooms & it’s gonna be great. the dude’s gonna come over with a drill & help me hang shelves in my room some time soon so i can finish getting unpacked cuz i’m just down to the boxes of art and getting all my shelf crap squared away & then i can finally finish Unpacking For Good

me & kara cried on the kitchen floor together last night from laughter bc i still have not learned my lesson in How Much Soup A Bowl Can Hold and my lizard brain was convinced if i got the beans under the liquid it would all fit, which, spoiler--it did not, and all my makeup ran off my face. it was that good. i love her so much

anyway thanks for listening check out the distro so i can buy groceries until my food stamp paperwork clears which will probably not be for almost another goddamn month i’m so pissed

xo

[enby-hawke]

personal no rb

Don’t understand. Like I have pot finally and it is working somewhat but I’m still manic. Like I can’t stop researching, and reading and brainstorming on how I can get my introverted ass to connect with the other activists I’m protesting with on Sunday. God I’m terrified but I’m tired of doing almost nothing but my time most days. And my mind is energized, I’m never hungry, but my body is exhausted. I’m pretty much just surviving on nuts and really got to calm the fuck down so I can eat food like a normal personal. This stupid fight or flight response just needs constant numbing. 

I mean a man who cited that the left were terrorists linked basically antifa information and history and black lives matter links. And I laughed and couldn’t resist putting a snarky reply about how all the articles were riveting reads.

And then he basically threatened that the FBI would become aware of me if they already weren’t. And now the paranoia won’t leave. Like I’m not making any real plans except to watch, protest, and learn as many useful skills as I can just in case, but I just said a few words and with that threat I am reminded of those before me who have already been taken just for speaking words. 

And I guess he really could do that. And every day I wake up and wonder “ Will Trump take me today or am I just being paranoid.”

Especially since my shitbag racist disphit of a father doesn’t care about the mongrel child he sired. I mean he was originally against Trump. Said he was an idiot. But he’s a moderate with no fucking morals and does whatever the fuck he pleases just like Trump does. In fact because Trump acts and feels so much like my father all of this is a triggering clusterfuck. Now that he’s seen that nothing “too bad” has happened now Trump’s the only way to lead us back to God.

And I don’t understand why I can’t unfriend him. I have cut so many people out of my life. For so many lesser offenses. And yet the man who is the one of the very sources of all my pain and fucked up ness I won’t let go of.

I’ve had this argument before. I’ve pleaded for my white father to see my humanity but he could only see me as white. He could only be proud in the white in me. And now I hate myself so fucking much because I’m white in everything but my skin. I know nothing. He erased my people from me. He never let me learn anything but shame and pain. I hate him more than I hate anyone and yet I still have the capacity to love him. 

Loving him hurts so much. He took everything from me. He always bullied me. Always pushed me around. Always accused me of being a slut (because I was raped repeatedly by trusted acquaintances as a child so now and now can’t help myself supposedly) Always told me lewd inappropriate stories about how he fetishized the women of my people and how much of a savior he was for rescuing my mother of what was surely a terrible life. He played every mind game he could of with my sisters and me. Twisting us against each other. Starting sibling wars so he could keep us from questioning his incompetent parenting. Shutting off Internet and phones rather than let me have any contact with my mother. Almost drove her to bankruptcy forcing as she fought for the courts for visitation. Drove her to depend on a monster of a man who uses her as a punching bag. Literally turned around without parking on a visitation trip claiming my mother didn’t show up again.

But my sisters and I were screaming and pointing, “That’s her car.” And I remember how he locked the doors so we wouldn’t run out. And he said if we unbuckled our seat belts that he swore that he didn’t beat children but he’d make an exception if we didn’t mind him.

And my sisters just sobbed. As we reached towards the back of the car, still grasping for our rightful hour that we had drive 3 hours to go to. 

She had family in the Philippines. She was popular and won many beauty contests and was known for being smart and pretty and hardworking. She could have been so much more if she hadn’t met my dad. I know it’s not my fault but I don’t know how to forgive myself for being born. I was the reason my mother would grow estranged alone in a country, no husband, no family like she was promised. He used her and when he couldn’t get her to behave like a fucking asian doll he never let me see her again just to get back at her. He claims that she falsely accused him of rape but he’s such a fucking awful person I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a rapist. He sure didn’t have a problem fucking my mom’s cousin when she was pregnant with me.

Ah god I don’t know what to do. Either way it’s making myself smaller to accomodate him on my sister’s behalf once again because “forgiveness is the only way and he did right for us by providing us basic needs.”

Gee dad. Thanks for not making me homeless until I was 17. I honestly hoped it would happen sooner but I might be dead in that timeline. (I was thinking of having that as the eulogy as a fuck you when my dad finally drops dead but I’m sure I’d never speak to my family again Xd.) Idk I’m just waiting to be free of his earthly body because the only good thing about our current situation is he isn’t holding my sisters prisoner anymore because he was finally declared incompetent enough to locked in a nursing facility. And I usually don’t wish that fate but he was going to kill my sisters otherwise. 

But I can’t go to my family, “Hey it’s been awhile. Dad wants to see me but he keeps putting Trump’s face on my timeline and I just want him to drop dead.”

How can I possibly be a good person when my gene pool runs with the most toxic family I know? My family drama fucking silences room? When people ask me about myself, all I don’t know how to answer because I feel more an action than a being. And that action is “DoEverythingInMyPowerToUnlearnAllTheToxicShitMyParentsTaughtMe”

I mean I don’t even know who the fuck raised me because I was too busy being an overloaded shit-tier mom at age 9 also balancing an elementary education. I only have stories and books and people in history to look up to. There were so few people in my life that ended up being actual good people. Most were shitty but tried, mega-tier shitty and likes it, and the best response I could hope for was something initially nurturing but almost immediately hinting that I should really get over it if they didn’t outright say that.

Anyways god I was awake for 24 hours again got to go the fuck to sleep. Brain are you done having your mindvomit cause I’d really like to rest now and this is just exhausting existence to live in. 

#long post #huge trauma dump #super triggering content mentioned #rape tw #pedophila tw #child abuse tw