#throwing people like that in the bin nowadays

[dearestones]

Hiya Devin :) for the recent ask game!

10 (short, huh?), 26, 27, 43, andddd for 50: Why writing? What inspires you/ got you into it in the first place? Thanks Devin :) Hope you're having a slay day! <3

Hey, Devin here!

10. How tall are you?

Did you know... shortness is only a matter of perspective? I'm 191 cm. Obviously. Like Floyd Leech. You should totally believe me.

150 cm

26. What are some seemingly childish things you like? 

Ohhhh, that's a very cool question! Ummm.... hmmm...

I really like cute notebooks, planners, scrapbooks, and calligraphy sets! I don't have a creative bone in my body when it comes to writing legibly, much less decorating planners or scrapbooking, but it seems like a good hobby!

Another a childish thing I like? I really like my happy stims! It's a sore point for me in real life, especially if other people are in the room when I stim, but I like flapping my arms or jumping up and down. The happy chemicals create more happy chemicals in an unstoppable feedback loop that has originated since childhood. :D

Ohhhh, puns! I like to grab seemingly random objects and making puns out of them!

I mean, with all of these questions... It seems like this is a quest ur on to know more details about me! ;)

Yes, I know it's bad shhhh...

27. What’s your favorite book? Or just one you’ve read a few times? 

Oh gosh, please don't be mad at me, it's been years since I've read a book that wasn't a reference text or a manual. Can fanfictions count? From my most recent memory, even though it's been a while since I've last read it (but I have read it upwards to 10+ times over the years)... Snakeskins by Lsunnyc.

I know you like worldbuilding and lore, guess what that fanfic is composed of! (It's also one of my main inspirations to how I write nowadays. I really look up to that author and you should check them out and their ao3 if you're interested!). It's a Hetalia/Harry Potter crossover fanfic and it's... very long, but hey. It's really well written.

But an actual book? Gosh... No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai? That's one of the last few books I remember reading and that was definitely a trip. I related to the main character a bit too much and the subject matter, trajectory of the character... It really hits and there's a reason why the book has the reputation it has.

43. Do you have siblings? How many?

Yup! Two of them!

50. Wild Card. Any question, ask away.

Why writing? What inspires you/ got you into it in the first place?

(Answer under the cut because it got too long!)

Okies, so I know in the past I think I admitted to having started posting fic in 2012 and my first fandom was for Tokyo Mew Mew. However! My first ever fanfic was for Sharkboy and Lavagirl and it was written on yellow legal pad and will never see the light of day ahaha!

The reason I bring that up is because when I was younger and school would let out for the summer, our class would have this ritual of throwing away our tattered old notebooks that we weren't planning on using for the next school year into the recycled bins. However, before I left for home, I would take all of the notebooks that had been dropped into the recycle bins, take them home, rip out the old notes and doodles, and then keep them over the summer.

So that I can write in them.

I started in fifth grade when I realized that it would be a waste just to let those notebooks be recycled when there were some that had tons of clean pages??? In them??? That's why I saved those poor notebooks.

The thing was, I didn't realize that I had like half a dozen or so notebooks that had clean pages that I realized... I could do things with the notebooks. So, over the course of the summers from 5-7 grade, I would write short stories (seriously, short as in like one paragraph long onto a single page and call it a day). It wasn't until the summer of 7th grade that I realized... wait, why write stories only in the summer? Why not write during the whole year instead?

At that point, I amassed a lot of notebooks and scraps of papers filled with stories. Somewhere along the way, I shifted from purely original fiction to fanfiction because it was through my first official fandom (Tokyo Mew Mew) that I realized fanfiction was a thing.

I totally thought, upon reading my first fanfic in ye old ffnet, that it was actually canon material until I checked the comments and other stories. And thus, my eyes were opened.

So yeah, come eighth grade and beyond, I began writing more fanfics in my free time and eventually, in high school, I began bringing my fanfic notebook into class so that I could work on them during breaks.

I think what really inspires me to write would be because... there are entire swathes of the story, of the behind scenes, that we never get to see in canon. You can infer a lot from subtext or hints dropped from characters alluding to events, character perceptions, etc. but there's a difference from accepting the subtext or canon as it is and... Taking what you know and then adding depth to it and transforming it into something new.

I don't know... breathing life into characters who already has an established character is so exhilarating to me! There are people out there who roll their eyes at fanfic, but like??? Writing a character and making them stay in character while also transforming them in the process??? It's creation in one of its more pure forms while also paying homage to the original creator.

There's a quote somewhere... maybe on tumblr? and this person said that writing fanfic or any sort of transformative work is like playing with the sandbox that the original creator has left behind. That's what I'm doing, I'm playing in a sandbox.

And I'm having a lot of fun with it! :D

Anywhoozles, thank you so much for the questions and I hope that you have a wonderful day!

Feel free to ask more questions and I hope that you have a wonderful day! :D

#fjshii #fjshii ask #answered #ask game #information about Devin

[illwilledomen]

I have a confession to make - I’m going to start drawing and writing whatever the hell I want to. If I feel like writing whump, I will. If I feel like drawing gore, I will. Putting my funny little guys through 9 circles of hell is a blast. Unfollow me if you think I’m weird for it. I am sick of trying to make my art cater to other people when it’s MINE.

I have decided to make art & writing which I enjoy, act and talk in a way that I enjoy, not what other people enjoy, and be my authentic self.

I have come to a revelation - Nowadays I don’t enjoy art, and life in general, as much, and I’ve wondered why - well, it’s because in the past few years I’ve tried so hard to appease who I consider to be my superiors. When I was younger, I made art which exclusively catered to my likes, wants and how I was feeling, and I loved it! Now I’ve felt dispassionate and empty as I chug away at yet another boring writing or art piece that I couldn’t care less about - Sure, I’ve studied the anatomy and the structure and the grammar and the volume and made sure to avoid anything someone could mock or judge me for, but what’s the point? Well, I’ve decided - NO! I’m sick of that.

I’m gonna make what I want to make. I don’t care about how quote-on-quote ‘skilled’ I am, I don’t care about what’s trendy or considered ‘good’, and I DON’T care about sanitising myself. I’ve written an invisible set of rules for myself over the years as I’ve been beaten down by people trying to judge and trample me, and I’m gonna break them. I’m taking that paper with the invisible set of rules, crumpling it up and throwing it into the rubbish bin.

If anyone wants to judge me for my authentic self, then they can go fuck themselves.

Sorry if I sound angry but I want to get this off my chest because I have a habit of living in constant fear of judgement and shame. I want to enjoy art, not be walking on eggshells to appease people.

#Jeremy rambles #Tumblr has become my personal diary at this point loll

[mcrmadness]

Idk if this is a common trend in youtube outside Finland, but at least in Finland it's very popular nowadays that people buy a shitload of food or ice cream of candies or whatever and go to test them all in one single video. Another version is people trying to eat all that in one single video (e.g. in 2 hours or whatever).

I'm currently watching one that is in the former format and I just die a little inside every single time these people take a bite or two of one ice cream and throw the rest in the trash bin. Even if they would like it, they still throw it away.

Like. I have so mixed feelings over that because wasting food for views and likes just because you have money for buying food to waster is just, well, stupid. At the same time it's kinda interesting, but still so stupid. It can be fun to watch if the people are funny but at the same time I wouldn't want to give them any more views cos then that will just encourage them to do that even more if they see people watch those videos.

The second version is less bad because people usually do eat it all, and I guess everyone do whatever they want with their own bodies, but at the same time that isn't that wise either. Basically you could have used that money for, idk, maybe buying food for people who don't have money for buying enough food just for their daily lives.

I didn't even realize how much this annoys me until now. I have noticed it so many times before, but now was the first time when I consciously noticed it how much it annoys me when people test foods in videos and end up throwing so much of that away.

#mcrmadness' random stuff

[themadhalewrites]

A Ghost of a Home

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Character/s Includes: Coach Bobby Finstock and Fem!OC

Word Count: 1100

When Scott and Stiles came to the rehab clinic that Coach Bobby Finstock was staying in after he was shot with an arrow, he had told them that he couldn’t go because he would relapse into alcohol again, which wasn’t a complete lie. Although when the two boys asked if he could become coach again just to forfeit the charity game but little did the boys know, Coach never forfeited a game in his life.

After the two teenagers left Bobby got up off his seat on the visiting area sofa and walked to the front desk to be released from rehab. Once he signed all the paperwork he needed to so he could be released into town that had stolen the most important people in his life away from him.

The first step out the automatic door he felt like he should run right back into the clinic and say that he had made a mistake wanting to leave but he pushed that feeling down before walking to the cab that was waiting to take him back to his house.

Stepping out the cab, he looked up to his house that use to seem so bright to him but nowadays it's as if its just black and white, no colour that would show the happiness that was in the house. Standing on the front lawn he watched as past memories played that involved the area.

“Come on dad, I’ll catch it” Said the little boy holding a lacrosse stick

“I know you can” Coach said throwing the ball lightly towards the boy.

“Dad, you could throw it harder. I’m learning to play it because i want to play it one day on the team.”

“That’s not for another 7 years Tom”

“But dad..” he whined which gained the attention of his mother.

“Don't but dad him Tomas, he’s trying not to hurt you” Coach’s wife scolded Tom.

“I won't get better if he keeps playing it soft with me”

Walking towards the front door he saw another of his memories, of Tomas’ first day of school.

“Bye mummy, I’ll miss you” little tomas said waving him little hand towards his mom.

“Bye Tommy” Eleanor said kissing her sons head before kissing her husband, “Bye my love, see you when you get home tonight.”

Bobby takes a deep breath as he unlocks the front door holding back tears.

“Hurry up Bobby” Eleanor’s voice floated through the air before he actually saw her in the memory. He watched as he rushed to collect the bags for the hospital.

“I don’t think he’s just gonna burst out of there right this second. Labor takes hours usually.”

“Just hurry up grabbing everything so we can get him out of me”

Walking beyond the front room he was at peace from the memory overload, It just took in the dust covered countertops and empty bottles in the lounge room. He had decided that he should clean, the memories shouldn’t come annoy him if he busies himself with cleaning.

But the relief was short lived since after he placed the bottles in the bin the sound of glass hitting glass gave him an auditory memory.

“I miss drinking wine” Eleanor whined.

“I’m not drinking either sweetheart. If you were to drink you could damage the little miracle baby in you”

“I know” she sighed out “This baby is a miracle child.”

Walking back inside he grabbed his bag and took it into the bedroom he wasn’t shared with his wife.

“Why did it happen to us bobby, why would this world decided that we can’t have children?” Eleanors sobbing voice said which gained the attention of real life bobby.

“I don’t know my love, I really don’t know”

“We were even into the safe zone and we lost it. Why would the doctors say that its natural the first few time we miscarried and only after the 5th they would tell me that it's my body rejecting the baby, I wouldn’t reject a baby. Maybe we should give up”

“We never give up, we may have to adopt a child and start IVF but we will have a family”

“We haven’t got the money for IVF”

“Then we will keep trying the natural way” Memory bobby said kissing Eleanor’s cheek and wiping away her tears.

Bobby remembered that day so clearly, Eleanor had woken up early in the morning in pain before the rushed to the hospital for answers. Instead of good news they were told that they had had a late miscarriage and Eleanor had to give birth to it since it wasn’t a tiny being. Watching his wife go through the pain of labor to not receive a child broke his heart as well as his wife's.

They later did adopt a little girl they called Rosey, they didn’t really care that she was nearly in her teens they just gravitated to her but as she reached her 16th birthday she was hunted and killed for being something that she had suppressed so she would get adopted.

When they were told of her death Bobby and Eleanor just broke down in tears, they had watched this little girl go from being a little 11 year old to a beautiful 16 year old.

They were still grieving her death when Eleanor found out she was pregnant and that she was over 12 weeks pregnant. Being 12 weeks didn’t seem big until they went and got an ultrasound and told Bobby and Eleanor that the baby had a strong heartbeat, stronger than the other babies had which was why it was called the miracle baby.

Tommy was their miracle, he went to full term and even started to roll over faster than the internet said he should of. Tomas was a high achiever and grew up playing lacrosse in the yard with his dad and often times Eleanor would take him to Beacon Hills High for some of the games played there.

Coach decided that he needed to get out of his bedroom and walked into the hall were there were still family photos hung of Eleanor, Tomas and himself. He lightly touched one of the most recent photos which was from nearly five years ago.

He brushed over his son’s face and started crying but he managed to sob out a few words, “Happy 17th birthday Tommy, daddy missed you and mummy so much.”

Four and a half years ago was when Coach became a widow. Four and a half years ago was when the house he stood in became a ghost of itself.

#imagine Teen Wolf #imagine Coach Bobby Finstock #Coach Bobby Finstock imagine #Teen Wolf imagine #imagines Teen Wolf #imagines Coach Bobby Finstock #Teen Wolf imagines #Coach Bobby Finstock imagines #Teen Wolf fanfic #Coach Bobby Finstock fanfic #fanfic Teen Wolf #fanfic Coach Bobby Finstock #Teen Wolf fanfiction #Coach Bobby Finstock fanfiction #fanfiction Teen Wolf #fanfiction Coach Bobby Finstock #fic Teen Wolf #fic Coach Bobby Finstock #Coach Bobby Finstock fic #Teen Wolf fic #imagine Coach Finstock #Coach Finstock imagine #imagines Coach Finstock #Coach Finstock imagines #Coach Finstock fanfic #fanfic Coach Finstock #Coach Finstock fanfiction #fanfiction Coach Finstock #fic Coach Finstock #Coach Finstock fic

[mcgarrychoi29]

Recycling - What a Waste

Everything, it appears, is recyclable nowadays. But would it be all worth every penny? Many people think it should be compulsory to sort your papers and plastics from a other rubbish but does the process do more harm than good? The answer? Very debatable. It certainly isn't cheap to recycle. It costs an incredible number of pounds to pickup, sort and process all of the plastic bottles, papers, aluminum cans and cardboard food boxes we discard. Putting a precise figure on the total cost of recycling is especially unpredictable since every individual council has its very own means of working with it. So, do most recycling programs generate losses? Of skip hire flinders . But then again, does your traditional rubbish bin collection. The question is whether disposal programs involving recycling are more expensive as opposed to old-fashioned variety. To begin with the answer will be undoubtedly, yes. After a few years, however, many realize that recycling saves money. Some don't, and finally those folks might want to reconsider some great benefits of their recycle program. The fact remains that recycling responding to an arbitrary government fiat is a useful exercise. Municipal waste disposal historically has been considered an unavoidable expense, with little thought given to whether or not this might be done more cheaply. Mandatory recycling compels you to provide that little bit of thought: will we really should throw pretty much everything junk away? So what are the benefits of recycling? Recycling preserves unnecessary waste likely to landfill sites. Each a lot of extra solid waste that is certainly diverted from disposal, whether recycled or composted, is a less a lot of open solid waste that will require disposal meaning saving land space. For most objects, it takes less energy to process the recycled materials of computer does to use virgin materials. For instance, it takes significantly less energy to recycle paper than it does to create paper from trees. Besides, the vitality necessary to acquire and transport the 'virgin' garbage from other origins or natural sources is additionally saved. One Man's Waste is the one other Man's Treasure. There are some excellent ways to recycle your unwanted goods by either selling them or creating away totally free. There are also some charities that really work for certain disadvantaged groups and so are always looking for reasonable quality used goods. If we can easily create more recycling opportunities, we can be able to generate more jobs that can help lots of people reunite in employment. The jury is still out.

#skip Hire Mornington Peninsula #skip Hire Mornington #skip hire frankston #skip bin hire Cranbourne #skip hire cranbourne #skip hire flinders #skip hire portsea #skip hire rosebud #skip hire dromana #skip hire red hill

[dzpenumbra]

9/7/22

Things are taking shape. I woke up in the afternoon yesterday, pulled up the apartment building website, found an application on it and... immediately nose-dove into anxiety city.

The first thing that caught my eye was Employment stuff... And I'm sitting here like... okay... how do I elegantly and succinctly let the recipient of this form know that I am a freelance artist/content creator and I really can't predict my income (hint - currently there is none), but my parents are helping out with it until it becomes sustainable, so it should be reliable. I suck at doing tests and filling out forms, it's never "fill in the correct answer" it's "fill in the answer we're expecting". Also, what the fuck gives with this layer of separation there? How about we just do a short interview and you ask me some questions? How come you give me a spot like ____________ <- that fucking big to put in info about a complicated situation. I failed a few high school classes because of that same logic, despite getting the answers correct. Figure that shit out, I got the answers to an entire test correct, but the way I did it was "incorrect", so I fail?!

Anywho... XD I freaked out about that, like "oh fuck, how am I gonna reassure these people I can actually make rent at all when I'm expecting like $200/month on paper". Had a mini-oh-shit-moment about whether I can even make the career work at all, of course. Then I got to the sections former landlords are supposed to fill out. I started going through their checklist - Has the tenant ever had utilities shut off for missed payments? (yes, a few times this year, they were autopay accidents but my landlord doesn't know that) What condition did they keep their last residence? (well, there is fungus growing through the walls, the place reeks of mildew and rotting wood, there is a 1 square foot hole in the wall right next to the sliding glass porch door and it's rotting the entire doorframe out to the point where I'm scared to open the door, the foundation is cracked, there's scuffs on the ceiling, there's a suspiciously fist size indent/hole in one of the walls that just radiates shame, the carpet is fucked, there are hookah coal burns in the carpet from times I slipped and dropped them and they melted the cheap synthetic fibers, it smells like cat litter, and I guarantee there are plenty of rodent corpses around as well, quite a free feast for them since the cat is getting older.)

I got really worried about... if my landlord tells them I was a shitty tenant. I'm not a neat-freak. When I lived with my ex, I kept things orderly, organized and clean, but when that ended, I just didn't really give a fuck. I don't really need things to be clean or orderly, and I don't really mind chaos. Surprisingly, I don't even really lose stuff. But... structure would domesticate me a bit more, so I'm a bit less feral and have more framework to live with. So I'm planning to work towards it, hoping I can meet a partner who is also somewhere in between and hopefully start shaping a home and life together. That's the end goal.

This is a long winded way of saying that I'm really messy, and turned into a bit of a hoarder too, because I really detest the idea of how everyone just throws fucking everything away nowadays. Half a dinner? Throw it in the bin. Paper towels? Toss it. I don't even like throwing away 15 year old cables that I held on to "just in case". I'm figuring it out, I gotta get in a habit of like selling my shit on eBay or something, that'd prob help out on a lot of fronts. I'd love it if someone wanted to help me figure that out, I've never done it before, could be a good thing for me. But the past few years, my place has been gross, and once I leave and my landlords find out the extent of it - which I have been deliberately hiding from them out of stupid PTSD shame, which is technically a breach of my lease... - I'm afraid they'll call my new landlord up and go "hey, just wanted to let you know that this tenant really fucked up this place, so maybe don't rent to them."

The combo of those concepts just made me start catastrophizing. Like, I can see it so vividly in the moment, it's like "fuck, I really thought this was going to work, but not only is this application going to fail, but it's going to be humiliating and potentially leave me homeless." I get the catastrophizing from both of my parents, so lucky me! My anxieties made a very compelling case and I was pretty much sold. I called up my mom immediately and tried to communicate my concerns. They were not perceived as panicking or being anxious, there was enough narrative, enough evidence there for me to really think it was just... a lost cause. Like... not even worth trying to apply, thereby avoiding having to "explain myself via my career" and avoid putting my fate into the hands of my landlords who don't talk to me.

After about an hour of going back and forth and feeling like she was trying to just tell me I was wrong, she switched methods. Or something, something changed and she started hearing me out in my concerns. We addressed them individually and it started to take shape a bit. She explained how I could just do a separate sheet of paper to explain my abnormal career situation to them, which I initially was thinking "no one reads anything over 2 paragraphs nowadays", but now think is actually a really good idea. Then we addressed the housing stuff, which she helped me realize are not goooooood but in a rural area like this are not uncommon, and it's not my fault the house was built really shitty, and I'm actually a pretty good tenant for putting up with the place falling apart around me and not making them spend a bunch of money fixing up a property they're most likely going to demolish when I leave. Most importantly, she noticed and pointed out that these things weren't my fault, which I don't think I've heard another person actually say to me. It helped me a lot to hear that.

I very often blame myself for bad situations I end up in, like I should've known better, I should've been smarter, I should've made more money, all that. I guess that's like... self-victim-blaming? I don't really like buzzwords because people associate incredibly overpowering subtext to them, but I guess that's the right kind of concept. I not only martyr myself for people, but I find a way to blame myself for shit that's happening to me. Probably part of the family scapegoat thing. I guess maybe it's a trauma thing? It sounds familiar from workshops I've been to and whatnot, in all the time I spent studying trauma, relationships and PTSD stuff. I think I need to engage with that soon and explore it more, it's a BIG one for me.

Pee break. Max tried to go for my ankles again when I was heading back to bed, she came really close too. I tried to distract her with a toy, but she just was really dead-set on it. She made some not-too-happy meows when I tried to stop her, too. She's either doing it because she wants to play and didn't get to today, or because she's in pain and trying to get my attention. It sucks to have to figure out which. Since she just sprinted out of the room and stopped to play with a ball toy quickly on the way out, I'm going to assume it's just wanting to play. It is dawn and she is a crepuscular apex carnivore, I do need to be a bit more fair with her, she's just being what she is.

I was thinking about how I really love automatic writing. I am so fucking incredibly grateful I failed out of English class in high school. It formed a fork in my personality which created the weird duality I am today. My English teacher who failed me was the father of... I think 4? sons and 2 daughters. All but one kid skateboards, the only one I knew personally was the one who didn't, of course... They actually became pros, all of them. And started their own company. They're really good. I never got to know any of them, I skated with the youngest like once or twice back in high school. Like he was a freshman when I was a senior kinda deal. Well, their dad was my English teacher and failed me out.

I actually remember I did my first video project for his class... it was a video project for "The Odyssey", and my friend Steve (the one who got me into freestyle skiing) and I wanted to make a skate/skiing video for it. It was bullshit, really. We just wanted an excuse to make a cool skate/ski video, like a Jackass/CKY video, but maybe with less obscene shit. We actually did it. I think it had Rage Against the Machine in it and everything. This was like 2003 too, so we probably burned it onto a DVD to present to the class, and shot on MiniDV cameras. I hope he didn't fail me because of that project, that would be shitty, because that's what I wanted to do for a career. And what several of his sons are still doing full-time for a living. And I never was even introduced to them. So I wonder what would've happened if that teacher had, instead of failing me... introduced me to his sons. That could've been a very, very different life.

In the end, failing that class (and history, and probably algebra, too) sent me to a special education program. That totally doesn't fuck with a teenager's self-esteem. To be in a special education program because a teacher didn't like me, I have ADD and struggle to sit still and read something long-winded and boring, and I prefer to explore practical mathematics rather than memorize and regurgitate ciphers. In this special education program, I got to choose what I wanted to learn about. Which was fucking awesome. There were some Vietnam-era movies and games being released at the time and I got curious, I used to be a big WWII buff as well, so I took a one-on-one history class on Vietnam. And my new English teacher? I told him I took a Creative Writing class and aced it. He hooked me up with Beat Poetry for a full semester. It changed my approach entirely. I became obsessed with the concept of stream-of-consciousness. I got so annoyed with how over-refined things were, how scripted everything was in life. I love the rawness and unpredictability of just letting pure creative energy flow out of you, and not having to worry about the results. Like just dancing without thinking about how you're moving, like a kid would do, but with words.

And eventually this led to poetry, which led to lyrics, which led to hip-hop and freestyling. For almost 20 years, I have been writing lyrics that have bloomed from this ever-evolving method. Sometimes I would just write my thoughts verbatim. Sometimes I would write off a theme word as a prompt. Most of the time I would just stitch together a rhyme/rhythm pattern syllable by syllable. I would shape the lyrics off the rhythmic sound they made, like playing a drum or a guitar, and let my subconscious choice of words shape the meaning. And holy fuck is it crazy how every single word of it makes sense.

Then the stream of consciousness method linked to visual art. In fact, a few years back, I actually did like a video blog that was basically this - smoking a bowl and then just... talking. Just exploring different concepts while smoking a cigarette. I called it "Smoke Break", it was supposed to be a micro-podcast series with guests meant to simulate and capture the real-life conversations that happen when people step outside for a smoke break. But when no one joins you for that, well... it got a bit depressing. But in the end, I like this method more. With the Smoke Break, I would kinda rabbithole on existentialism, meaning of existence shit, spiritual shit. I don't not like that stuff, it's just not at the forefront right at the moment. I feel like this method of talking about my current experience, rather than theoretical theology or whatever, I just feel more confident in it. I feel like I'm writing more from my experience than my speculations.

So... basically... if I hadn't been failed out of English, I may possibly maybe have been on a pro skate team by now, but I would have never been introduced to Jack Kerouac. I never would have pursued writing, or my solo music. I never would have gotten into graffiti, which ignited my passion for art. I would not be the person I am today, and this that's happening right here, this writing would not be happening. It's crazy how the tiniest of things at just the right time can lead to a completely different fate.

Getting to bed a bit earlier tonight. Didn't get to call the apartment yesterday, but I have a very actionable plan with my mom now and I'm feeling pretty comfortable with it. I can actually see my next life pretty clearly now, and it doesn't look half bad. I'm gonna make time to brainstorm streaming ideas tomorrow, get my head in the mindset. But for now, I slumber.

#diary #journal #stream of thoughts #spilled thoughts #mental health #self care #online journal #self improvement #stream of conscious writing #panic anxiety #attention deficit disorder (add) #stream of consciousness #beat poetry

[photoblogbyssayeed]

The PHOTOSERIES is about the Sangrai Festival happens on Chitmorom, Kaptai.

The meaning of 'Sangrai' is 'Year Changes' in English. Bangladeshi Marma and Rakhine groups celebrate this day as one of the main festivals of them. The calendar of the Marmas is called "Mraima Sakraoy". The Marmaras observe Sangrai as a total of three days, including the last two days of the old year and the first day of the new year.

Sangrai actually means saying goodbye to a year and welcoming a new one. Traditionally the 'Jhum' farming session also begins with this calendar opening. Marmas also do not get married after the 'Maghi Full Moon' until Sangrai. Which portrays Sangrai as a new beginning by throwing away all old things.

The festival continues for three days. On the very first day, people cleans their house premises and decorate with flowers. According to Marma belief, the Sangrai goddess comes on earth on this day. People also go to 'Bihar' on this day to praise Buddha.The second and third day includes traditional sports, cultural programmes and water festival.

The main attraction of Sangrai is the water sport called Marmara "Ri Long Poye". This water sports festival is held on the last day of Sangrai festival. Sangrai water sports are performed not only by the Marmas, but also by the Dai tribes of Southeast Asia, Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and China in mid-April. In Myanmar, such events are called "Thingon" and in Thailand and Laos this ceremony is called "Sankran". To perform the ritual, people wish for a prosperous and trouble free year ahead.

The festival has catered some modern day entertainment like concerts also nowadays. It’s all about celebration and welcoming a new year with the expectations and prayers for good things.

Photo By: Ssayeed Bin Mohiuddin

WordPress for better view: https://photobyssayeed.wordpress.com/2022/04/21/photoseries_chingmrong-sangrai-4/

#photography #chittagong #festival #Sangrai

[ceilinggirl]

6. Downside Up 

Dad got to my room first. They both had heard the fall but mom “had kept her composure”. She always uses that line when she tells the story nowadays. 

“Oh,” she usually adds, “we all fall out of bed from time to time, right?”

“I don’t”, dad replies then, at which point everyone laughs. Because it isn’t true, I guess?

“So, I kept my composure.”

Composure, I know now, is when the everything is neat and orderly, composed as a lego set where everything fits together. You don’t have to fear that one piece won’t fit, like a puzzle, or that pieces will be missing, like when a glass hits the floor and is scattered around the room in one thousand and two pieces. 

No, when someone falls out of her bed, it is usually neatly within the limits of the expected composition. You pick her up, put het back into bed and everything is back where it’s supposed to be. Easy peasy. 

Only, it was not as easy as peasy in my case…

This is how dad tells it. More or less, because I keep forgetting the exact words.

“I jumped over Hannah, because she sleeps near the door. She often has to go to the toilet during the night…”

“That’s not important now, Dario.”

“But it’s right, though, right? Hannah insists on drinking a large glass of water in the evening. I always say:…”

“Dario, the story!”

“Oh right. So I jumped over Hannah, who was still in bed, keeping a blind eye.”

“Keeping my composure.”

“Right. But I thought I heard a special sound, not like someone who falls out of her bed, exactly.”

“And how does that sound like, exactly?”

“Like an English THUMPH, a bit dull and blunt, like a sack of potatoes you drop in the potato bin from a bent position. Now it was more like an Indonesian BODONG, sharper and more boney, like when you throw that sack of potatoes with two people on the back of a truck.”

And then dad continues telling how he run to my room, flicked on the light, looked at the floor next to my bed, then in my bed and then, slowly, because disbelief was blocking the muscles in his neck, very slowly, to a spot on the ceiling.

Have you ever been on the ceiling? I can tell from experience it is more comfy than it looks. It kinda resembles the floor, but it’s a bit softer. You can press your nails in it at places. At least, you can in my room. Actually, I could even see where I fell because the ceiling was dented a bit there. Dad told me later that’s because my ceiling is made out of tiny slats but an inch wide. 

But in that moment dad was just standing there. Upside down in the door opening. Literally. Up was down and down was up. People call that Upside down but I prefer to call it Downside up because that was more spectacular to me. The old up was my new down. 

The old floor was my new ceiling. My bed was on the ceiling, my desk was on the ceiling, my chair was on the ceiling and dad was on the ceiling. And nothing fell towards me. Not the pages on my desk, nor the water in the glass next to my bed, nor my giraffe. Only the lamp stood on the new floor. Straight up, like a little table. 

At first I thought everything had fallen upwards except for me but it was the other way round. 

I sat in a corner of the ceiling with my hair pointing up-down, rubbing my left arm. I was getting quite a bruise there. Not because of the rubbing, mind you, but because of the falling. But you got that, right?

“Emma!!? Wat are you doing up there? Come… come… come down,” dad stuttered. 

And then mom came in, looking at the floor first, then at the bed and finally up to the ceiling. 

“Hey,” she shouted with a wide smile across her face. “How did you do that?”

“Emma, get down here gently. Be careful, you might fall and hurt yourself.”

I looked up, saw my bed and the room started spinning. I had to lie down on the ceiling, trying to grab onto something, but there was nothing there, except for the lamp in the middle of the room. 

“Hold on tight, Emma!”

“There’s nothing to hold on to here!!”, I yelled. 

“Wait”, dad said, “I’ll come and get you!” 

He ran to my bed, jumped on and stood on my blankets, his arms pointing my way. With his shoes on my blankets, I noticed. Why he was wearing his shoes underneath his pyjamas, I didn’t know. At that time, it looked even crazier than sitting on the ceiling. 

“I’ll go and fetch the ladder”, mom shouted storming out the room. 

“Try to grab my hands, Emma”, dad said. 

I reached for his hands. I had to sit up somewhat before my tiny hands hooked into his massive paws. 

“I’ve got you, honey. You can come down now.”

“Eh, I…”

“Just drop yourself, luv. I’ve got you.”

“But… how?”

I was sitting straight up, my hair pointing at the floor below me while my pj’s were slipping towards my face… but my body didn’t move. I remained on the ceiling. 

Mom came in with the ladder and dropped it right away. 

“I’ve got her”, dad said, “but she seems to be stuck somewhere.”

Mom was shaking now. “No, she’s not struck… she’s loose… on the ceiling.”

“Nonsense”, dad answered, “I can get her off. Emma, pay attention: I will jump off the bed and drag you with me. Be careful and try to land on the bed. Okay?”

I nodded, my pj’s over my head. 

Dad jumped off the bed, tugging my arms and it felt like someone was trying to tear me off this planet. 

“Ouch”, I yelled.

“Dario, let her go!”

“I’ve got her! I’ve got her!”

Oh yes, he had me. He had hurt me. Hurt my arms. I was hanging askew on the ceiling, my hands still in his. That felt awful. I pulled in my legs, sat up on my knees, my dad straight ahead of me. 

“Almost there”, he said proudly. “Just a little tug and we are there.”

“Could you try to stand upright, my dear?”, mom asked. 

“Stop the nonsense! Emma, I will try to rip you off there. Don’t do a thing, you are in good hands.”

“Just rise gently”, mom repeated, moving closer. 

My neck started to hurt watching at them. 

Dad protested again but I still did what mom said. She had been a gymnast so maybe she had done this before, I figured, hanging on the ceiling. I tried to convince myself, but I didn’t believe me… 

Still I put one foot on the ceiling, then the other and then I cautiously got up. My pyjama now slid all the way over my arms into dad’s hands. I stood upright… watching my dad in the face. Downside up. 

“Oh shit”, he said. That was a first. 

[smp-live]

The apocalypse happened a few years ago. And- it's vague, the apocalypse. It's not some big earth-shattering moment. It's confused tv reports and impulse decisions and little growing bits of tension until the pot boils over.

The details are fuzzy; it all happened so quickly that many civilians were left unaware of what exactly went down. One day, they were living, and the next, most weren't.

Nukes, EMPs, solar flares - the survivors find it doesn't matter. One way or another, the world ended, millions died, and everything’s different. Hostile. Harsh. Unforgiving. The sun is bright and searing, and radiation burns skin not covered head-to-toe.

People are cruel and will take advantage of anything they can. If you're not a part of an already-existing group, good luck.

Somehow, two men end up on a wooden pallet floating in the middle of the ocean. Maybe it was a plane crash, one of the few still running downed by a stray shot; maybe a boat capsized, embrittled by the radiation. Same as the apocalypse, it doesn't matter. What does is that now they’re surrounded by debris and a shark thirsting for blood and there’s one thing they both know: trust no-one.

So they don’t. Names hold power, as they’ve learnt over the past few years; names imply trust. When it becomes apparent they’re stuck together and the time comes to introduce themselves, the elder of the two stares out to sea and says, “Call me...” And that phrase brings back memories of a book he’d read long ago, in the Before Days, and so he finishes, “Ishmael.”

The younger panics and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “I’m Gunk.”

‘Ishmael’ raises a skeptical eyebrow, clearly amused. “Gunk,” he repeats. And ‘Gunk’ nods, crosses his arms.

“Yeah, bitch. It’s...” his mind blanks, “Russian.”

Ishmael’s brow climbs further, and he looks on the verge of laughing, lips twisting ever-so-slightly upward. “Last name?”

“Uh,” Gunk wracks his brain, and something from a history class, years ago, stands out. Nearly forgotten amongst all the useless information - what he calls anything that doesn’t directly contribute to survival, nowadays - and only clinging on through his brain classifying it as ‘important’ for God-knows-why. “Gorbachov.”

“Like... Michael Gorbachov?” There’s a hint of laughter in Ishmael’s tone now, the first in a while. He tries not to let that thought depress him.

Gunk nods, relieved at the reminder of the rest of the name, even if he still can’t place it. “Yeah. He was my father.”

“Michael Gorbachov, eighth and final leader of Soviet Russia, was your father,” Ishmael deadpans, and, frustrated at having been outplayed, Gunk scowls.

“What of it?” he challenges, which makes Ishmael laugh, throwing his head back to the blistering sun high above.

“Okay, Gunk,” he says, and yet it doesn’t feel patronizing.

They both know the other is lying, that much is obvious from the constant teasing and jokes about Gunk’s ‘father.’ But it doesn’t matter, because in the slow turning of the days, they grow close. After all, there’s not much to do on a makeshift raft in the middle of the ocean, other than chat.

Ishmael is handy, and the main reason for their survival. He knows how to purify water and fillet a fish, how to add on to their raft without nails and swim against the ocean current. Gunk wonders where he picked all that up, but never asks.

(A survivalist father and paranoid brother, whom Ishmael hasn’t seen in half a decade. The thought that they’re probably still alive brings him comfort.)

Gunk, on the other hand, does most of the grunt work. Fishing in debris that floats by, diving down for rocks when they briefly dock, and the ever-important duty of keeping the shark they named Clive from destroying their miserly raft. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter through it all, and Ishmael thinks that’s what makes the monumental effort to go on worth it. Then, he wonders when he let himself get attached.

(It was a week or so in, when Gunk had fashioned himself a shelf out of the bottom of a storage bin and some planks, and proclaimed it his ‘comfort shelf.’ Gunk felt the same when Ishmael didn’t tell him to dismantle it, only pushed it aside, even though they were supposed to use that wood to repair Clive’s last attack.)

They survive, they grow closer, they hesitantly trust, and yet, they don’t pry. They don’t share their real names. Not until one day.

Ishmael goes swimming out to a nearby island to scavenge for food and chop down a few trees, if he can manage. Gunk stays on the ship - an anchor is next on their to-do list, and so he’s responsible for keeping it from drifting off with his tiny paddle. Except it’s not well-crafted, and grey jaws reach up to snap at the wood he’s standing on so he uses it to stab Clive, and the tip breaks off. The raft starts drifting away.

“Ishmael!” he calls, then again, louder, “Ishmael! Fuck, man!” But he’s nowhere to be seen, and the current is dragging Gunk awfully far out from the island.

He keeps calling, shouting, screaming, increasingly panicked at leaving his friend, the man who’d helped him survive for months, now, behind. Until his voice grows hoarse the way it never did from rambling for hours on end, and a little speck appears on the beach of the island.

Ishmael waves widely at him, and he must be shouting but Gunk can’t hear it over the lapping of the waves. So he assumes what was said, hollers, “I can’t fuckin’ come back, arsehole!” and raises the remains of the paddle over his head to clarify.

The speck stills, then bursts into motion, tossing everything he’s holding aside and shucking his shoes. Gunk can practically hear him mutter about what an “ridiculous child” he is, because although they’ve never shared their ages Ishmael’s decided he’s the elder of the two, which obviously means Gunk is a child.

And then Ishmael dives into the water, and he’s closing the distance between himself and the raft with each stroke. He cuts a straight line through the waves, until he suddenly swerves to the left. Gunk is confused a moment, before he notices - a grey fin jutting out of the water next to him.

Clive goes in for another pass, then another, and Ishmael jukes him out both times. He’s maybe five meters away, now, but the shark is coming back so Gunk screams. But Ishmael’s head is underwater, and he doesn’t hear. Just keeps going, towards safety he won't make it to.

Clive barrels into him. Ishmael vanishes underwater.

He doesn’t come back up.

Gunk is diving in before he can properly think, pushing past the cold shock of the sea, as he uses his self-taught skills to bring him to where he guesses Ishmael last was. Then, he takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes under.

After a nervewracking few moments, his elbow bumps into something and he latches on, desperately dragging it upwards. They break the surface and he gasps for breath, Ishmael limp against him.

The trip back is agonizing. Ishmael is deadweight, their clothes are waterlogged, and Gunk has never been the best swimmer. But Clive is still lurking, and he refuses to drown after all this time, so he manages to drag them both back to the raft through pure willpower and spite.

Gunk collapses next to where he’d heaved Ishmael onto the planks, taking a second to compose himself. Shivering violently, he curls into a ball - he'll have to go for a spare change of clothes. His eyes drift shut. In a moment.

Then, panic seizes his heart as he becomes aware of how still Ishmael is. He jerks up, staring at him, searching for any sign of life, anything-

But a moment later he relaxes, when Ishmael rolls over and starts heaving out saltwater. Gunk reaches over and pats him on the back until it subsides, and he falls back onto the wood.

“You,” Ishmael says, letting his eyes flutter shut, “are so stupid.”

Gunk feels a burst of indignation. “Hey, what the fuck! I just saved your dumbass, Ish-ma-el.” He scowls at Ishmael’s placid little twist of the lips.

“Wilbur,” he murmurs, hands folded over his chest.

“What?���

“My name is Wilbur.”

Oh.

“I’m Tommy,” he says after a moment of silence where it sinks in, what he’d just been told, the trust laid on him, and then lays down next to Ishmael - Wilbur, now.

Wilbur just hums and wraps an arm under his shoulders, tugging him close - which is new; they’re really going all-in with this trust thing, huh? - then says, “So, so stupid.”

“Oi,” Tommy protests, but leans in closer.

Things aren’t really visibly different, after that. They still bicker, still do the same daily tasks, still slip up and call each other ‘Ishmael’ and ‘Gunk’ - though it becomes less and less common, other than with a teasing tone. They finally get their anchor, which means Tommy has the chance to go on land; though he quickly grows to dislike it after an incident with a particularly pissed-off boar.

To an outsider, everything remains the same. But to the inhabitants of the raft, it feels different. More homely. Warmer.

Once, after Wilbur chides Tommy over something or another, Tommy rolls his eyes and says, “You know, we really are like brothers.” He tries to keep his tone joking, and to not let himself hope for the words to be true.

Wilbur freezes. “Don’t say that; I’ll cry.” He blinks once to keep the tears at bay, and tries to push down the warmth in his chest.

(They both fail.)

About four months in, a light appears in the distance, at night. They angle their sail towards it and the dark shadow on the horizon. A few days later, it becomes apparent what it is: a lighthouse.

Inhabited land. Civilization.

They gather their meagre supplies once they dock, then ditch the raft in favour of climbing the lighthouse. And, from the top, off over a hill, Wilbur spots it first, points it out to his brother, who squints-

A Dome.

#wilbur soot #tommyinnit #Fic #enderspeak #sbi rust #crimeboys #Love how we all saw that stream and went #''Yes. Those are the Rust boys.'' #Also I can't write anymore apparently. Pain

[be-gay-do-heists]

OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV. this is the version with the third person POV, otherwise nothing is different from the other version !

------

Contrary to what the four crazy people he spent his time risking his life for nowadays thought, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to his jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made Eliot’s ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. He was an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-Eliot, or perhaps the Eliot-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard he had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of his mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, he could get out of bed. His head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in his best interests to swing his twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push himself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to Eliot’s best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let him forget it and the scar on his hip that put a falter in his giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those he sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today his hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to his mid-forearm, settled into him all familiar-like and made its home in him.

In the bathroom, Eliot used his wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck his mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. His morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for his post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took Eliot longer to shimmy on the sweats he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made him appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until he was face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, he put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing his grip. A light flex had Eliot drawing it back like the metal had burned him, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. He took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge his hand between the handle and the door so he could open the fridge with his elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind his collarbone faded quickly as the hitter scanned its contents and realized there was nothing he wanted to eat, or at least nothing he wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to his throat, and he slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw himself down, cradling his hands in his lap.

Eliot knew the drill: in an hour, he would grit his teeth and get to up to try and fumble open his bottle of painkillers, and if he succeeded, he would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so he could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone he had left on the nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as his ringtone and Eliot hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so he ignored it. His ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from his clenched teeth as he levered himself up to get to it as fast as he could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between his shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

He rubbed his eyes with his wrist, frustrated that he had forgotten he was supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in his mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

Eliot snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before he could open his mouth, his doorbell rang, drawing a groan from him. If he was correct about who the “we” was, it seemed silly to even ring it. His suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. Eliot had already moved back to the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” Eliot muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through his snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. Eliot made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When he next opened his eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on his coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in the hitter’s lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Eliot’s first instinct was to deflect. He trusted his team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that he had these days. That he wasn’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before Eliot could tell him just what he thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of his face, the thief reaching down to poke one of his hands faster than he could stop her.

By the time Eliot was able to refocus and pull himself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at him with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. Eliot thought he might have howled; he wasn’t sure. Both his hands were clenched tightly to his chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. He felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on him. He summoned the anger from his throat, the only weapon at his disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at him, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” Eliot turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

Eliot looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on him and let him wallow by himself. The hitter wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den he had accidentally put his foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning him an earful of hissing that scared the shit out of him. He wondered if he seemed as belligerent as that now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in Eliot’s space to let him feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

He didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of him. It was his to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at his hands. He hummed at Eliot’s slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” Eliot mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at Eliot’s growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

Eliot looked him in the eye for the sincerity he already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of his favorite traits of Hardison’s. Hesitantly, he extended his hands, rolling his eyes at the hacker scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, Eliot took the medication from her fingers with his teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to his lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” Eliot managed, once he had his breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while he was distracted trying to find the right response to that, that they wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted him to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to his forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. The hitter froze, and Hardison did too, meeting his eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At his tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on his arm, rubbing circles so lightly that Eliot almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down his forearm. When he got to his wrist, Eliot couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through his nose, high and strained. Hardison moved away from there immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” Eliot grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before he could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of his forearm. Eliot breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” Hardison said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Eliot’s thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that he didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of him that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over his head until his pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. He didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of him murmured. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he had been offered something like this, let alone the last time he had taken the person up. If there was anyone he trusted to do it, if there was anyone he wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could he refuse them even he wasn’t fully on board with what they were suggesting?

“Sure, just…” Eliot said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on him. He licked his lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under Eliot’s hands, resting on his knees. Eliot tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above his head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in his hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to the hitter’s forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through his hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. Eliot winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” he grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed his scalp. His breath stuttered again as Hardison’s hands started working towards the sore meat of his wrist. Eliot’s hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. Eliot cracked open an eye to see him looking between his hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” he gritted out, doing a poor job of masking his genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

The hacker tapped his index finger against Eliot’s arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through Eliot’s hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts he had, mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, he insistently pushed his head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in his chest, leaving him longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left his throat as Hardison probed the bottom of Eliot’s palm, the ache drawing him back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry. You still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to Eliot’s again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in his hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching his scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on Eliot’s hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. He don’t know how long he sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched him, fixated on the single task of caring for him. The thought made the tender space behind his breastbone twinge. When he surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. Eliot grunted, lifting his head from the couch to look at the two of them sitting beside him, grinning at his movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in his, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

Eliot looked down to his hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other he tightened his fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving his thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” Eliot simply said back, a real smile rising to his lips.

#leverage #miko speaks #fic #my fic #ot3 #check og post for more notes

[digisims2]

me retexturing hair nowadays be like:

“Okay I’ll just quickly throw some textures on this and then.... is the lower layer poking through there? Is that transparency here? Why are the younger versions of this missing a chunk of hair? Why isn’t this available for other ages than adult? What the actual fuck are these bone assignments? The polycount of this is HOW HIGH????”

and then instead of simple quick retexture it’s weeks of poking in milkshape instead until I get it fixed or decide that fuck it, I’m not bothering. And this, in nutshell is why I post so rarely nowadays, I learned to fix the things that annoy me and now I can’t just ignore them, I must fix them and that often takes more time and energy than I really have to spare after work. 'I|orz

But on the bright side, I decided that I’m fixing that Nozomu hair people keep asking about, it took me few weeks to sort the layering out and convert it for all the ages and both genders but I will share it, just give me bit more time to do the recolors, bin it and take previews, I promise it’ll be posted by the end of the month. :)

#digi's ramblings

[peach-tinted]

i’ve been thinking a lot about you, me and the sacred overlap called us. or not so sacred, because ‘us’ is a thing of the past and seems to only exist in bittersweet mementos i rediscover in my room upon the rare occasions that i clean it. 

it will be something like the christmas card you gave me in the first year of our relationship, when every meeting was still a clandestine affair and i was badly trying to hide it from my strict parents. it’s filled with your signature near illegible handwriting and wobbly doodles and juvenile inside jokes that made little sense to everyone else, but somehow became the funniest things to ever exist when whispered in the sacred overlap called us.

or, it will be the remnants of the silver necklace you gave me that i wore for two years before it snapped and the pendant separated from the chain. i used to run my fingers over it when i felt anxious because it reminded me of you and nothing felt more comforting or homely than you did. it was like a lucky charm, i’d make sure to put it on before every exam because then it would be like you were overseeing me to make sure i did well. my luck ran out eventually, i guess, but i couldn’t bear to throw it out. when i find it in an unassuming pouch in all of its broken glory, the dramatic part of my brain can’t help but to think it’s just a sad metaphor for how we ended up. 

or, it’ll be an old polaroid of us tucked into the back of an old journal. as it falls out of the pages into my hand, i see the exact date is inked in metallic sharpie and it’s 2018 valentine’s and we’re leaning into each other and smiling and your hand is wrapped around mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. our past selves are trapped in overexposed film holding each other tightly, not knowing we will only experience one more valentine’s like this before the sacred overlap called us is no more. 

it’s easy to get swept up in these nostalgic memories come the annual spring clean. the mementos containing the sacred overlap called us come to haunt me each year, bittersweet and painful and a reminder of what perhaps could have been. but it gets easier and every time, i let a little more of you go and the space you occupy in my head and heart becomes smaller and smaller. i doubt you will ever fully leave, i know that there is a tiny corner of my heart that will forever be reserved just for you. we know too much of each other’s most intimate and painful secrets to erase each other from our stories. 

but when i find the christmas card again, only 3 days before christmas in 2021, 6 years after you gave it to me, it goes into the bin alongside old notebooks and unneeded receipts without a final read. it’s strange to think we used to be a package deal and that our names would roll so easily one after another off people’s tongues. nowadays, there’s no you and it’s just me, and the not so sacred overlap called us is just a distant memory.

07.01.2022 / spring clean 

inspired by the line 'you, me and the sacred overlap called us' from the author’s note of people we meet on vacation by emily henry

#writeblr #books #literature #relationships #writing #pwmov #emily henry #prose #thoughts #musings #people we meet on vacation #heartache #spilled ink #mine #i write sometimes

[cloudywriter]

a trip to target

rowaelin month - september 6th

prompt: firstborn arrives

i literally have no idea where this idea came from like it’s so weird but i think it’s funny so i just had to write it. honestly though pregnancy freaks me out a little so it was a little uncomfy to write at times but i pushed through and i like it. enjoy!

(warning for some minor language)

masterlist, AO3

~~~

Rowan was working on one of his client's cases, a rather nasty divorce that he knew was going to be an absolute dumpster fire when his wife called him again. Rowan couldn’t help but smile a little at her name lighting up his phone screen but admittedly she was bothering him so much he barely got any work done nowadays. 

He picked up anyway, he’d never decline her. “Hey, Fireheart.”

“I’m bored, buzzard,” Aelin deadpanned. 

“I know, baby, but I’ll come home after my meeting later, I promise. Then we can watch Bachelor reruns all night and eat ice cream,” Rowan assured her, leaning back in his office chair. For some reason, all she wanted to do nowadays was watch bad reality tv and eat ice cream from the carton. As much as Rowan hated reality shows and wasn't keen on sweets he did anything to make her happy.

“That’s too far away, I’m rotting away on this couch,” Aelin whined. 

Aelin’s work had forced her on maternity leave a few days ago as she was due any day now with their first child, a little girl, and Aelin was not taking it well. She was the kind of person who liked to always be busy and now she had nothing to do but sit on the couch and wait for their child to decide she was ready to enter the world. She was constantly phoning Rowan seeking some form of entertainment but he was still working on this damn case. 

Rowan thought her restlessness had something to do with the fact she was terrified at the thought of giving birth and caring for a newborn. If she were distracted she wouldn’t have to think about the daunting task at hand. So, he did his best to keep her happy and preoccupied but he desperately needed to wrap up this case before his daughter arrived. He wanted to be there for every moment of the beginning of her life, he didn’t fancy any legal cases looming over his head vying for his attention as well. 

“I know, I’ll be home as soon as I can. Hang tight, my love.” 

Aelin huffed from the other end of the line. “I’m ready for her to be out, Rowan. This sucks.” 

Rowan stifled a laugh, he knew being pregnant had lost its charm a long time ago. At first, she enjoyed Rowan fetching anything she asked for and waiting on her, but then that started to get old, and Aelin's pregnancy symptoms made her miserable most of the time. So, the last couple of months hadn't been her favorite. 

“I’m ready to meet her too. Any second now.” 

“Okay, I’ll stop bothering you now," Aelin concluded. She likely finally found something on Netflix that piqued her interest. "Good luck with your meeting, I hope they settle. I love you,” Aelin told him. 

“I love you too, see you soon,” and with that, the call ended. Rowan looked out the window of his office, thinking. Maybe he could send someone to keep her company?

He ran through a list of their friends in his head. Elide, Aedion, and Lysandra were all working as far as he knew and didn’t want to ask them to leave their job to entertain Aelin. He thought of Lorcan, Connall, and Fenrys, they all worked for him so technically he could let them off. Except, Aelin didn’t particularly like Lorcan and he didn’t think Connall would be very keen on that arrangement either. Fenrys, though, Aelin and Fenrys were best of friends, a force of nature all on their own. 

So, Rowan rang his assistant requesting that Fenrys be sent to his office. Not much time passed before Fenrys was standing in the doorway, knocking lightly on its frame.

“What’s up?” He asked, plopping himself down on a chair opposite Rowan, making himself comfortable. 

“I have a favor to ask,” Rowan confessed. 

“A favor?” Fenrys raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 

“Can you go keep Aelin company while I’m trying to settle with the Westfalls?” Rowan probed. 

Fenrys frowned. “As much as I love Ace I can’t take a day off work to hang out with her. I have bills to pay and ladies to take out.” 

Rowan nearly groaned, fighting an internal battle with himself. “I’ll let you do it on the clock,” he finally spit out. 

“You’re going to pay me to go entertain your wife?” Fenrys looked bewildered. “I feel like is almost insulting to Aelin, you paying people to hang out with her. You’re the one she should be paying people to hang out with.”

Rowan rolled his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like that. I feel bad because I know she’s struggling and I can’t be home right now. I don’t want her to have to be alone, just take her to Target or something.”

“Aelin’s a grown woman, can’t she take herself to Target?” Fenrys disputed. 

“Yes, but she’s a grown woman who’s nearing 40 weeks pregnant. I’d rather she have a chaperone,” Rowan admitted, before backtracking. “Don’t ever tell her I said that.” 

Fenrys looked amused as Rowan continued. “Are you really going to say no?” 

“Of course not, getting paid to go to Target with Aelin is a hell of a lot better than getting paid to do paperwork,” Fenrys conceded. 

Rowan blew a sigh of relief as Fenrys headed to go pick up Aelin. 

+++

Fenrys had successfully gotten Aelin to Target. It wasn’t a hard task to accomplish, the woman loved Target but Fenrys noticed she seemed rather uncomfortable and he asked her multiple times if she just wanted to stay home instead. Aelin always said no, pushing on with their trip. 

He supposed having a watermelon-sized bump on one’s front would cause a certain degree of discomfort, though. Naturally, the pair find themselves in the baby section, gushing over tiny onesies and shoes small enough to fit in the palm of their hands. Fenrys was swiping through a display of onesies, “Do you think they have any of those onesies that say like 'broken condom 'on them or something?” 

Aelin turned around from where she was staring at baby headbands. “You’re nasty. My daughter was not the result of a broken condom.” 

Fenrys made a face, “I don’t want to know.”

Aelin snorted and they continued their browsing making their way through every aisle that had anything remotely baby-related. By now, Fenrys noticed Aelin was growing increasingly uncomfortable, he could see her stamina slowing, and the difficulty walking was beginning to pose. 

Eventually, he shifted to face her as they browsed the small, dollar section at the front of the store. “Do you want to head home and get off your feet?” he finally proposed. 

“No,” Aelin responded without looking at him, picking up a small, fake succulent. “Walking is supposed to induce labor and that’s what I’m aiming for right now,” she stated, smoothing a hand over the front of her round stomach. 

Fenrys shrugged, picking up a pair of cheap fuzzy socks before throwing them back into their bin. 

He allowed Aelin to mill about the store, spending a healthy amount of time at the nightgown section before moving towards the back of the store. Aelin always said it wasn’t a trip to Target without going to the back and sniffing their extensive stockpile of candles. 

That’s exactly where they ended up. Fenrys had his nose stuck in a deep violet candle, making a face at its scent. He checked the label. Cosmic starlight. What the hell was that supposed to smell like? 

He turned to Aelin about to make her smell the atrocity when she braced herself against the shelf, putting down the candle she had been holding. Her mouth popped into an ‘o’ and her brow furrowed. 

“Aelin?” Fenrys reached out a hesitant hand placing it on her shoulder. 

Aelin breathed deeply, taking a moment to reply. “The baby must really hate the smell of sandalwood,” she finally vocalized. 

Fenrys’ dark eyes widened. “Did you just have a contraction?” 

“I think? It’s hard to tell if it was just a strong fake one or not,” Aelin panted eventually loosening her grip on the candle display shelf. 

Fenrys wasn’t taking any chances, if Rowan wanted him to deal with a woman going into labor he’d have to raise his pay significantly. “How about we get you home, Ace.” 

Aelin didn’t object, just nodded her agreement waddling towards the front of the store with Fenrys hovering around her like a fly. 

They made it out to the parking lot without any further incident and Fenrys helped Aelin into his low, expensive sports car that was his prized possession. Aelin’s face scrunched up then a sharp gasp left her mouth, her hand flying to her stomach. 

“I think squatting down trying to get into this thing just broke my water,” her eyes were wide with fear as she looked up at Fenrys. 

Fenrys face was comical, his own eyes widening like saucers and his mouth dropped. Sure enough, the bottom of her dress was wet. Fenrys was frozen for a second his mind completely emptied out, then the panic set in sending a million thoughts racing through his head. 

Fenrys audibly gulped, “Okay, um, I’m calling Rowan.” Fenrys grabbed his phone out of his pocket, fumbling with the device as he dialed Rowan’s contact, willing him to pick up. 

Fenrys leaned slightly against the open passenger door as the phone rang. “You’ve reached Rowan Whitethorn-Galathynius, I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your call, please leave a message and I’ll -.”

Fenrys hung up and groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. Beside him, Aelin whimpered. “Holy shit, that was not fake,” she groaned, her grip tightening on the seat beneath her.

“Oh, gods, Aelin, please don’t give birth in my Mercedes,” he begged. 

“Really, Fen?” She narrowed her eyes at him, she’d probably kick him in the groin if she wasn’t incapacitated. 

“You know I love you, but I don’t want baby juice on the leather.”

“Just call Rowan again,” Aelin growled. 

Fenrys did just that, silently pleading with the universe for Rowan to pick up his gods-damn phone. Relief washed over him as the call connected. 

“Fen, I’m in a meeting this better be worth my while,” Rowan whispered harshly, he hated to be interrupted at work by anyone except Aelin.

“Oh, I’m sorry, your wife’s water did just break but I guess I’ll call back later,” Fenrys spat, growing increasingly flustered by the minute. 

Fenrys heard a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck, shit, okay, where are you? I’m coming right now,” the jingle of keys filled Fenrys’ ear from Rowan's end of the call. 

As Fenrys surveyed his surrounding the urge to laugh crept upon him, he fought his smile as he replied, “The Target parking lot.”

Aelin watched the exchange closely cluing in on Fenrys’ suppressed laughter. “It’s not funny, Fen!”

“It’s a little funny. I mean if anyone was going to have a baby in a Target parking lot, it’d be you. Or Lysandra. One of you two.”

Aelin snatched the phone out of Fenrys’ hand, pressing it to her ear. “Rowan,” she panted, resting her head on the side of the car. 

Fenrys couldn’t hear much of what Rowan was saying, he spoke in a low voice trying to calm Aelin, assuring her he was coming and he loved her and she was okay. 

They were sickeningly in love, Fenrys would admit. 

“Okay, I love you too,” Aelin breathed, hanging up the phone and handing it back to Fenrys. 

Fenrys leaned against the side of the car as they awaited Rowan’s arrival. “Cross your legs, Ace. Remember, no baby juice in the car,” he reminded her, trying his best to keep her mind off of what was happening while they waited.

“Go to hell,” Aelin murmured in the midst of a contraction. Fenrys wasn’t sure what to do so he bent forward to rub Aelin’s shoulder in an attempt to do what, he wasn’t sure. Aelin didn't yell at him though so he rubbed circles on her shoulder as she clung onto the seat. 

Rowan showed up only a few minutes later, tearing into the parking lot like a bat out of hell, so at odds with his usual slow and steady driving style. He jumped out of the car, his tie loosened around his neck as he rushed to Aelin’s side. 

He kneeled down next to the open car door, picking up her hand and brushing away the stray blonde strands of hair from her splotchy face. “I’m here, Fireheart. How far apart are your contractions?”

“I don’t know,” Aelin hissed. “Okay, okay, let’s just get you in the car and to the hospital,” Rowan decided, supporting Aelin as she eased out of the car, leaning heavily upon him. 

Fenrys and Rowan successfully got Aelin into the passenger seat of his car, Rowan buckled her in and continued whispering words of love and support. Rowan rounded the car and hopped into the driver's side ready to book it to the hospital when one of the back doors opened and Fenrys slid in. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Rowan asked, shifting in his seat to look back at Fenrys. 

“I’m coming, obviously. I’m about to be an uncle,” Fenrys stated clearly. 

Rowan internally debated with himself on whether to kick Fen out of the car or not but ultimately decided he needed to prioritize Aelin, if Fen wants to tag along then fine. 

The ride to the hospital was tense, Rowan held Aelin’s hand across the center console, kissing the back of it and consoling her. Fenrys felt as though he was intruding but he refused to miss the birth of his niece. 

Of course, once they were admitted to the hospital Fenrys was kicked to the waiting room while Rowan supported Aelin through the duration of her labor. 

It progressed surprisingly quickly after her water broke, it was only a few hours later when a nurse told Fen he could come see the baby. 

Fenrys pushed open the door to the room softly and peered in. On the bed was Aelin, her golden hair a fan around her and despite the traumatizing ordeal she was glowing. A small baby was wrapped up in a blanket, laying in Aelin’s arms. Rowan was at her side, peering down at the bundle in her arms with so much love Fenrys felt as though he should look away. The new parents were already smitten with their little human, running their fingers over her cheek. 

Aelin perked up as Fenrys stepped into the room. She ushered him over and he too inspected the baby. She was so small, sleeping contently in her mother’s arms. Fen thought she had Rowan’s nose and he could see wisps of blonde hair from beneath her wool beanie. 

“Is her name Target? Or Bullseye like the dog?” Fenrys quipped with a playful smile. 

Aelin rolled her eyes as he interrupted the tender, intimate moment and shoved his shoulder with a shocking amount of strength for a woman who’d just pushed a whole baby out. 

“No,” Rowan answered, his eyes not leaving Aelin or the baby, “Her name is Elora.”

“Elora,” Fenrys repeated. “She’s beautiful, Aelin.”

Aelin gave him a soft smile and Elora yawned, her little eyes fluttering open. She gazed up at Fenrys with eyes the color of a pine forest. 

Fenrys beamed at the small girl and he liked to think she almost smiled back.

~~~

kinda leaning on the side of an aelin and fenrys brotp fic but i couldn’t not publish it, it’s so cute.  it’s not as fluffy as i’d like it to be but it was supposed to be more funny, nonetheless, i have more rowaelin baby content planned that is very fluffy. 

#rowaelin #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic #rowan whitethorn #aelin ashryver galathynius #aelin #fenrys moonbeam #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #rowaelin au #rowaelin month

[kingmaker-a]

Sundown | Siyeon x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, unedited

Cast: Siyeon

Genre: Non-idol AU - Gender Neutral Reader

Word Count: 2274

Average Read Time: 8 minutes

Plot:

After some potential conniving, on the part of your friend, you find yourself partaking in a camping trip with just you and Siyeon. A rocky foundation, is set between the two of you since you've largely avoided her since high school Hopefully, something good comes of this.

Well, this was sure to be disappointing. Yet, all you can do is smile as the wind brushes through your hair. Your foot on the accelerator as the sun glistened overhead.

"I gotta get away sometimes, oh yeah." Siyeon sings from beside you. The only other occupant of the motor vehicle, you'd yet to decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

On one hand, you would get to spend one on one time with Siyeon, something that hadn't happened in recent years. On the other, you worried you'd make a fool out of yourself or make things awkward.

"I got to get away," you both sing, a song you hardly knew before this road trip; a gift left by your friend, the owner of the Classic Volkswagen Camper Van.

You noted the classic interior, even down to the cassette player. The obstacle that prevented you from playing your own music.

Though you did wonder how he managed to make a cassette tape mix, people hardly made CD mixes nowadays.

Your eyes scan the rearview, noting the lack of friends.

You remember having one drink too many, especially when your stomach tried to empty its content. A groan left your lips as you finished purging into the nearby bin.

You were glad that you were outside of Siyeon's purview, though it did mean you were throwing up in the curbside bin, where strangers could see you.

A thought you prefered over the alternative.

"You doing alright kare?" a familiar hand on your back.

"Yeah, yeah I'm alright," you say attempting a smile. His tongue runs over his teeth gesturing for you to clean up any leftovers. "Oh".

You could tell by the look on his face that he was concerned about your drinking. To be fair you'd gotten on his ass in the past with his. So you suppose that made you fair game.

"It's Siyeon isn't it?" He asks, his eyes scanning over yours. You felt like you were under a microscope. "The reason why you drink so heavily."

Well, looks like you weren't deflecting such a direct question. "...Uh, maybe?" You attempt to dissuade him with your confusion.

You hear him sigh like some older sibling. "I'm guessing you drink so much in hopes that you'll confess and if things go badly you won't remember?"

Sheesh, there was no escape huh?

"Yeah, yeah you're right. It's kinda why I haven't hung out with her too much since high school," you add. Though, you weren't sure it was necessary since he was on such a roll.

"...Tell you what, how about we go on a camping road trip with everyone? My van is nearly ready, it'll be a treat." A smile crosses his face. You'd heard about his 'project' for the last six months, you were astounded that he was actually close to finishing it.

Though if you asked him how much money he sunk into, you'd see the tears begin to well up in his eyes.

"Sounds great," you say with a weak smile. Your body complains suddenly causing you to return to the bin.

"I'll make sure you and Siyeon get some time to yourselves."

"I don't really need that much," you sing softly. You could feel the heat of the summer sun bore into you.

"Close my eyes and follow the touch," she follows up. The sweet melody of her voice lining your ears. Joy danced in her eyes, yet, a frown pervades through as she grasps at her water bottle.

You didn't even have to look to figure she'd run out of water. Luckily, your eyes spotted a gas station. You pass her your wallet as you pull into the station.

A smile dances across her face as she accepts your wallet. When was the last time you had a proper conversation with Siyeon? You found it hard to recall.

You see her eagerly return with a bottle of ice-cold coke. A worthy defence against the mounting heat. As the van hummed to life you couldn't help but find yourself questioning when you last hung out together.

"When was the last time we hung out?" You heard the familiar fizz of an opened bottle.

"In general or just us two?" She asks in turn, her lips drifting to take a sip.

If only you were a mass-produced plastic bottle.

"Just us two," you point out, trying desperately to focus on the summer sun. What were you gonna do once you didn't have to at least partially focus on driving.

She hums for a moment. "Probably when we scaled that mountain during high school," she offers with a laugh.

Of course. How could forget that? You and Siyeon had snow blindness for a week afterwards. How were you supposed to know your eyes could basically get sunburnt?

You laugh at the memory.

"That long huh?" You said with a hint of surprise.

"Yeah.... I thought you hated me after that," she admits, you hear a hint of sadness in her voice. She offers some of her coke.

You sip it absent-mindedly.

That was probably around the time you realised you liked her more than a friend. You avoided Siyeon in hopes that your feelings would fade with time.

Yet, here you were stuck with those very feelings.

She smiles when you turn to her for a second, a picturesque moment as the sun catches her features in just the right light. Though you quickly pull your attention back to the road. After all, if the GPS was anything to go by your spot was coming up.

Oh? A left turn and you'd be right there.

You struggled silently, praying to god Siyeon wouldn't notice your struggles.

This tent was a pain in the ass and you had to set up two of them? Screw it you'd just sleep in the van.

"Beer?" Siyeon offers, unpacking the chilly bin. A frosty cold beer is already in hand for you.

You weren't gonna say no. At least not to the free distraction away from the god forsaken tent instruction.

"Why don't you take a break and I'll finish up the tent for you?" She suggested with a smile. You were already sitting down before she could even finish the sentence.

Thankfully you'd brought firewood with you. You hated the thought of you two trying to find firewood, especially when you saw Siyeon struggling with the tent too.

It would seem you were a Bluetooth pair of idiots.

You watched as the sun began to creep over the trees, light slowly fading away from the land. That was probably nature's cue for you to start a fire.

As you slowly prepped the fire and by extension your food, you heard the sound of curses, expletives and the tent going back into the van.

"Need any help?" Siyeon offered with a smile.

Your head doesn't even crack an inch towards her, instead taking a sip of your beer. "Gave up on the tent?"

A smile creeps onto your face. Even after all these years, you knew her too well.

"Not exactly," she said awkwardly, you notice her eyes avoid yours.

You cock an eyebrow. "What do you mean by not exactly?"

"I might have broken the tent," she admits still avoiding your eyes. You shrugged it wasn't a big deal.

"That's okay, there's still the other tent. I'll just sleep in the van," you suggest with a smile. It would seem like everything was turning up great for you. Now you had an excuse to sleep in the van! Without revealing your extremely fallible tent creation skills.

However, you noted her continued silence, you turn to her. "Both of them are broken actually," she says with an awkward chuckle.

Maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought.

You sigh before passing her a beer. You toss a match into your makeshift firepit.

A smile crosses your face as the fire erupts. "Let's just relax then."

"You don't have to tell me twice," she said returning your smile. You watch as she struggles to cook a marshmallow.

Your hands, quickly circle hers guiding her movements better as you shuffle closer to her. "See, just like that." You say with a smile.

Only now did you notice how close you were. A smile traces her features as she gazes at you. A similar thought crosses her mind as you both awkwardly separate.

Yet, she still sits close to you. Her eyes focused on her drink as she eats her marshmallow. Her eyes never leave her drink, "Why did we stop hanging out?"

You didn't want to talk about it, after all, it'd be an awkward drive back. "What do you mean? We hang out all the time?"

She turns to you softly, you felt a certain weakness to her at that moment. But you wouldn't give in.

You just recovered a friendship you weren't gonna put it in jeopardy. Not when she was happy around you.

You were fine, not taking things any further.

At least for now.

She frowns, "Cut the shit, y/n." She said hints of anger tinging her voice. You were surprised at her sudden seriousness.

You quickly searched for any excuse in your brain.

Being combative wouldn't be helpful and neither would telling the truth. Even if your friend wanted you to confess your feelings.

You sigh in response. Her expression softens instantly. No doubt, realising it was a potential sour point. "Sorry I'll drop it," she said solemnly.

Another sigh bubbles past your lips. "It's because you thought I hated you?"

A linger issue no doubt.

"Yeah," her voice; soft and delicate. You figured it was just an off-handed comment during the drive. Little did you know it was a symptom of an underlying wound.

Your fingers brush against her cheek, "I could never hate you Siyeon."

A sweet smile crosses her face at your words and you have to fight desperately to not kiss her.

"Is that good enough?" You respond, hoping that assuaged her wound. Without delving deep into your feelings.

"Yeah," she said her smile still present on her face.

"Anyway, try not to burn down the campsite while I set up the van. Okay?" You said, heading towards the van.

You were doing your best to avoid thinking about your sleeping situation.

"No promises," she said offering a wink in your direction.

You awaken suddenly, the firepit nothing but embers and dying flames. Seems like you were more tired than you thought.

You noticed Siyeon in the passenger seat, staring at the stars. You moved softly and slowly, not wanting to disturb her.

You couldn't help but smile, as you settled into the leather driver's seat. Seems like she was deep in thought, a smile crossing her face every so often.

She looked absolutely breathtaking in your eyes, as the hallowed light from the stars highlighted her features.

Your eyes scan her lips, the upward curve made you smile in turn. How you wish you could confess, but something prevented you.

You turn towards the stars, memories flooding back to your mind. You remember laughter echoing through your ears as you ascended the mountain.

A fun time, with the person you treasured the most.

You doubt she remembers, but it was your idea to ascend the mountain. At first, it was fine, even without the safety equipment or appropriate clothing.

A spur of the moment decision.

Yet, when things took a turn for the worse, you couldn't help but feel responsible.

Snow started coming down in buckets as you made a makeshift sled out of a sign.

Despite, all the mishaps you could recall Siyeon's happiness. Even with the threat of the cold, sickness, groundings or worse yet injury. She seemed happy to just be in your company.

Only now did you realise you'd abandoned such a good friend. At the height of your friendship, you worried if your feelings would tear apart your relationship.

Not to mention the danger you put her through.

"What're you thinking about?" She asked, eyes still focused on the stars. You only now felt the frown pressed into your features.

"Just... the past," you say weakly. You hear her hum in response.

Deciding not to press it any further, you decide to study her. The moonlight glow came into full force as the hallowed light pooled on her features.

Yet, she was beautiful without that, your heart swelled at the sight nonetheless.

Even if you couldn't bring yourself to be more than friends, you were happy at this moment. Serenity took hold in your core, calm like an undisturbed lake.

You lamented the time, however, no doubt past midnight. "Siyeon," you whisper trying to coax her out of her reverie.

However, she doesn't respond, her eyes tracing a bear constellation. The sweetest smile crosses her face.

"Siyeon," you try again, a little more volume. Yet she doesn't budge.

You contemplate leaving her to her devices. Yet you decide against it, she deserved to sleep on the mattress, you'd already had a nap.

Your hand brushes against her shoulder, a light jolt brings her back to reality. Though, you were curious about what kept her mind occupied.

"What were you thinking about?" You asked softly, eyebrows knitting together.

She smiles, bathed in the moonlight glow. A crown of light resting atop her head.

"This."

Her movement is sudden as she grasps your shirt. Pulling you closer as her lips take yours.

Author notes: I hope you enjoyed this! It was kinda hard to write because of the mental whiplash of going between this and Never Enough.

I hope you were smart and read this after Never Enough. Granted, I'm not your dad so do as you please.

Anyway, there's only one more actual request left for my 60 followers project, feel free to request a member I've already done. That being said I'd heavily prefer to do fluff. For my soul's sake.

Anyway,

Aroha nui kare

#lee siyeon scenarios #dreamcatcher imagines #dreamcatcher x reader #dreamcatcher #girl group #girl group imagines #kpop scenarios #girl group scenarios #dreamcatcher imagine #kpop imagines #dreamcatcher scenarios #lee siyeon x reader #lee siyeon imagines #siyeon #lee siyeon

[kythed]

the fallen

futakuchi x reader

synopsis: it’s a fallen world, and futakuchi is a fallen man. apocalypse au.

Strength alone won’t carry you through the end of the world. 

Futakuchi Kenji knows this better than anyone. He’s seen countless men go down, most of them armed with machetes, rifles, and muscles three times the mass of his own. They walk around with the bravado of decorated generals only to get taken out by a single biter lurking in the storage closet of an abandoned gas station, destined to join the putrid ranks of the undead.

No, strength is not enough. You have to be clever, too. Extremely clever. 

That’s the only way Kenji’s stuck around this long, he thinks, shoving cans into his backpack. He’s kneeling in front of a shelf in an empty supermarket, replenishing his rations without even bothering to read the labels. He can’t afford to be picky. Nowadays, “good food” is just whatever doesn’t give you salmonella. 

He happens to catch the words on the last can as he gingerly places it atop the pile. Chicken noodle soup, it reads. Zipping the bag up and hefting it onto his shoulders, he wrinkles his nose-- he hates chicken noodle. 

Clever means something else, too. Before, it meant report cards littered with As, college scholarships, knowing how to find the differential of a function. Now, it means survival. It means being able to keep your body moving even when every single fiber of your being is screaming at you to stop. It means knowing how to find clean water, how to bandage a tourniquet, how to identify biter tracks and have the good sense to bolt the opposite direction.

It means being able to leave people behind. 

Kenji slips out the supermarket entrance, careful to avoid ringing the little bell that still hangs from the doorframe, a mockery of what was once civilization. Swiveling his head in every direction, he scans for even the barest trace of biters before darting out into the middle of the road, careful to keep the cans in his bag from rattling too loudly. 

He’d started out with a small group comprised of several guys from his hometown. In retrospect, Kenji thinks he should’ve split that first week. Then maybe he wouldn’t have had to see Iwaizumi trampled by a herd of rabid biters, reduced to a bloodstain on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t have seen Kamasaki torn limb from limb right before his eyes while he could do nothing but watch in horror, paralyzed by fear. 

Kenji is glad he’s run out of tears to cry. 

“Fuck off!” 

He’s shaken from his reverie by a string of cuss words and a drawn out scream, followed by the solid thwack of metal on flesh and the angry hissing of a biter. 

“Somebody! Anybody, please! Help me!” 

Sounds like a girl, Kenji thinks. He hates coming across girls-- that’s something he never, ever thought he’d say back before everything went to shit. But girls have always been more trouble than they’re worth, and it’s even truer these days. Kenji shrugs his shoulders, shifting the weight of his bag a smidge, and tries to trudge on. 

“Please!” 

Kenji cringes, halting in his tracks. Your voice is so achingly desperate, torn raw by terror. It’s the voice of someone who wants to live. And that, well, that’s something Kenji can relate to. 

Against his better judgement, he heaves a heavy sigh and turns on his heel, grasping the duct taped handle of a baseball bat protruding from his bag’s outer pocket and spinning it in a practiced motion. He sprints towards the sound of your voice, silently hoping he’ll arrive before a biter takes a nasty chunk out of your arm. 

Kenji is clever, and he knows it. He can find clean water, bandage wounds, and track biters. But leaving people behind? That’s something he has to work on. 

-- 

You’re backed into a corner, wedged between the brick wall of a storefront and a recycling bin. Three biters claw at you and you swing at them with a crowbar, but it seems futile-- they’re already dead, and you’re not sure if they can even die again. 

“HEY!” Kenji calls, tossing his bag to the side. The biters turn towards him with clumsy, lurching motions, decaying flesh dripping from their bones and empty sockets where their eyes should be. “Come and get me, shitheads! Bet I taste a whole lot better!” 

One by one, they obey, snarling as they approach him. And one by one, Kenji takes them out with a violent swing to the head. Wide eyed, chest still heaving, you watch as their brains splatter on the sidewalk in foul pink lumps. 

When the last biter falls to the ground, Kenji looks up at you breathlessly. “You good?” 

He’s more than taken aback when you run towards him and throw your arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. Instinctively, he returns the embrace, pulling you close by the waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and he feels your heartbeat thumping wildly against his own rib cage. “Thank you, thank you. I really thought I was dying today.” 

For a fraction of a second, he lets himself melt into your arms. It’s been a long time since he’s touched another human, and even longer since he’s hugged one. Sighing, he gently pries you off by the shoulders. 

“No problem,” he says. You’re still clutching at his sleeve, looking up at him with something like admiration-- or maybe shock. He clears his throat and nods curtly, carefully pulling your wrist away and turning to grab his bag. “Uh, good luck out there, I guess. I gotta go.” 

“Hey, wait,” you say, and he does, despite himself. More than anything, he wants to get out of there and back on track. He can’t risk the burden of company— in the apocalypse, company just means a broken heart waiting to happen. “I’m coming with you.” 

“Oh, no you’re not,” he says, a wry laugh threatening to rip from his lips. “I travel alone.” 

“Not anymore,” you say, and for a moment Kenji is speechless-- a rare occurrence. “Don’t give me that lone wolf shit. It’s a dangerous world out there, and two is better than one.”

Kenji raises an eyebrow at you. “You’re the one who was almost lunch just now. I can handle myself just fine.” 

“Can you?” you say, stepping closer. You stare pointedly at his forearm, and he groans inwardly. He’d forgotten about that. It’s a cut, fairly shallow but long, and it’s begun to turn an oozing orangey-yellow. He’d caught his arm on a chain link fence he’d been trying to vault over— lame. “That doesn’t look good.”

“I know how to bandage a cut,” Kenji insists. It’s not a lie. But the issue is really that—

“It’s infected,” you say. You tilt your head back towards the storefront. “I have Neosporin in there. And half a bottle of painkillers, which you might need, depending on how bad that little scratch gets.” 

“I’m fine,” Kenji insists. The “little scratch” throbs painfully as he lies through his teeth. “It’ll take care of itself.” 

“Like hell it will,” you snort, glancing towards the store again. A faded sign above the doorway reads Miyazawa’s Convenience Corner, accompanied by the image of a grinning cat. “Wait just one second, then we can get going.”

Kenji doesn’t know why, but when you scamper into the store, he stays. He glances at his watch, a silver analog whose glass is split in two by a crack straight down the middle. He’d found it on the wrist of the first biter he’d ever taken down. 

“Okay, let’s go,” you call, emerging once again. You’re bearing a backpack similar to his-- threadbare and distinctly not yours. He wonders who it used to belong to. “You got a camp?” 

“Woah, slow your roll,” he says. He crosses his arms and stares down at you-- you’re pretty, he notices, underneath that layer of sweat and grime. You’re the type of girl he probably would’ve tried to hit on in the past. “First of all, I don’t even want you to come with me.”

You scowl at him, ready to disagree-- he silences your protests with a raised finger. 

“But,” he adds, “if you insist on doing so, we need to set some ground rules.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” you say, giving him a mock salute and a bright smile. He rolls his eyes. 

“First,” he says, sternly as he can manage, “I get all the canned oranges we find.”

You raise your eyebrows but nod nonetheless. 

“Second, we don’t interact with other groups. Humans can be just as fatal as biters.” Kenji’s had to learn this the hard way, and from the way you swallow, expression solemn, he thinks you must’ve too. 

“Lastly,” he says, allowing himself a small smile as he bends down near your ear. “Don’t fall in love with me.” 

“Like I’d ever,” you scoff, stepping back. “You’re not my type. You just happen to be the only other person I’ve seen for months.” 

“I’m everyone’s type,” Kenji says, with about as much confidence as he’d say the sky is blue and the grass is green. “Just be careful.” 

“Sure,” you concede, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “So long as you don’t fall in love with me, either.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Kenji says, and he will. He can’t afford to fall in love. Love is a painful, risky business-- and it’s expensive. Love costs a whole heart and about half a brain, two things he’s going to need if he wants to survive. 

Still, you’re pretty. Real pretty. You’re kind of funny, too-- a deadly combination, and he’s no Achilles.

When he starts walking towards the street, you follow, struggling to match his long strides. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, along with a wicked smile. He’s missed this. “But no promises.”

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #Futakuchi Kenji x reader #futakuchi x reader #futakuchi kenji #hi guys i’m back hehe #should i make a part 2? #lmk lmao #i love apocalypse shit but idk how much y’all like it #zombie killer kenji is hot tho

[mowu-moment]

i feel controversial & i care too much, so here's my des rocs complete tierlist

ranked list & reasoning (ish) under the cut

1. WAYNE: hoholy shit wayne. can hardly put into words how explosive this one is to me. the intro sets a Whole Mood before swiftly (& cleanly) smacking it down into an Absolute Banger and i don't use the term lightly. very hard not to scream along with it. only detriment is that wayne the person is kinda an ass in the mmc video but that's no qualm

2. POS: basically the same thing as wayne (oh both have great lyrics btw, this one more so), only gets points knocked for being 2 minutes long and having 30 seconds of that being intro & outro. go danny give us nothing

3. WHY WHY WHY: there's a theme among my top picks--they're all hard-hitting w/ killer guitar. the lyrics are absolute batshit in a good way, but the chorus is a lil flat & i feel like in general it just needed a touch more spice to score the top spot. or maybe it's just seniority & it'll have a coup a few months out idk

4. DEAD RINGER: similar killer guitar & lyrics but this one is Groovy as Hell. don't particularly like his singing in this one & it's too repetitive if i'm feeling grumpy but there's something so magic about after the bridge. top 10 songs to twirl a flag to

5. NOTHING PERSONAL: the minute long outro irks me & it's a little bit empty but plays into that well. groovy, great lyrics, the Sexiest Guitar Solo of the lot, the screaming's a minus but it does have an emotion there. not entirely sure what one but it's there.

6. LET ME LIVE / LET ME DIE: his first time being all over the goddamn place, history was made. amazing guitar, a little worse lyrics than 1-4 i'll admit, the intro Slays me both in a good and bad way. must be a joy to play live where he can just drag out that intro & bridge as long as feels right. at least i liked it in the digital concert like that. would actually kill me in a physical concert, imagine how much stomping gets going to that beat. bonus points for presumable cowbell

7. PIECES: for once not this high for the guitar & lyrics, they're both kinda basic. idk what's about this one but it just takes me to a separate dimension & i love it so much for that. really fills those earholes. also a bit of personal meaning, heard it for the first time on the day we moved into the house i'm currently split-custody-living in (is that tmi?) & the first music video of his i saw. man i love some spaghetti on the wall

8. SLO: basically the same as dead ringer, but knocked points for a kinda lame outro & the subject matter being a little less interesting to me. still lovely.

9. HANGING BY A THREAD: not my normal fare really & the way that the ends of the verses don't really fit in the pacing of them is bleh, but it's just so reminiscent of the songs my brother puts on whenever we hang out together that it just makes me all warm & fuzzy. it's also nicely put together which is something i'll have to start saying for. the later list.

10. SUICIDE ROMANTICS: this is where i start griping about head voice & higher pitches in general. don't like em so the pre-chorus is a lil annoying. also not my normal fare but it's tender & the ending is awe-striking. imo better live where he's loud on that last line before the final chorus. not enough to bump it up though. shoutouts to love and a smoking gun, i still am dying to hear that one

11. THE PAST HAS PASSED AWAY: my favorite lyrics out of the first 2 ep's. only thing wrong with it really is the bridge getting kinda repetitive. love that last chorus heehoo. same schpeel as the Banger Category

12. MMC: this one's lower than the rest of the Bangers for being pop punk which is something the radio has made me dislike, i guess. that trope with the guitar in the second half of the chorus just kills me so much. improves greatly during & after the bridge, love that lil ragtime piano. generally the same bit as before but i do love him doing something un-romance-related. yeah fuck the establishment!

13. THE DEVIL INSIDE: reminds me A Lot of the electronic-ish cassettes i've got from the early 90's but that's just me. this one will probably move up as i get more used to it, but only a little bit. the first part of the second verse makes me like. genuinely uncomfy? but the second part of it's fantastic. ending's ass though what happened to the instrumence. bonus points for using 'reverie' that's an SAT word (maybe). good singing but returning to the gripe at higher pitches, just a little bit though

14. THIS IS OUR LIFE: feels shockingly generic for a des rocs song tbh but there's nothing really wrong with that. adore the bridge. singing's alright. kinda miffed that he doesn't pronounce the 'f' in the second 'life' in the chorus, but it makes sense here. that sort of thing won't later so i'm bringing it up now. guitar's nothing spectacular but fits nicely into the song, probably one of the most cohesive of his (especially in recent history).

15. OUTTA MY MIND: really lives in the same space as slo and dead ringer do in my head (most likely the 'songs to twirl a flag to' zone), but this is by far the worst of the three for when i'm grumpy. just. Very repetitive. back to great lyrics here but it's kinda hard to pick them out (i've heard the song at least 100 times by now & i'm still missing a few lines). still groovin'

16. RUBY WITH THE SHARPEST LIES: what the fuck actually goes on in this song by the way? not the premise or whatever it's just. so all over the place. the verses are incredible but bringing in another vocalist just for one line kills me. bridge is really cool but that one part i don't remember where it is, the one that alternates basically nothing & an Electronic Piano Chord blaring at ya? ruins it. partially anyhow. also can someone tell the people on genius that it's 'carved it in my skin' not 'crawled down in my skin'

17. GIVE ME THE NIGHT: same repetitive issue as outta my mind but it's not groovy enough to save it, shame. feels like a trial run of all the wackshit stuff he's been doing recently, with the additional vocal bits at the end & the kinda weird lyrics. it still has a place in my heart don't get me wrong but it's just fallen in favor of stuff that Commits to banger or batshit (or actually pulls off both strongly, yyy). oh yeah nice guitar alright singing etc etc

18. USED TO THE DARKNESS: similar story to give me the night. i love it i do, but it's just lackluster nowadays. also remember that under-pronunciation thing i brought up in this is our life? this is where that comes back. rampant i tell you! that second verse he just doesn't finish the words & i hate it!

19. DON'T HURT ME: i honestly don't know why this one isn't in D. the chorus bit where he just cuts it short is irksome. the lyrics aren't anything special. i don't know what i like about it. but i can tell it does exactly what it set out to do if that makes sense. respect, respect. and using missile in an analogy, he's getting creative with the vocab

20. LIVING PROOF: kinda got a vendetta against this one i think? i don't know why i hate this one but i do. it's just kinda, blah. like the perfect sort of thing to nightcore up. sentiment's lovely & i do love the lyrics even if they aren't impressive but like. it bores me to an extent

21. TICK (LIVE): separating the version i heard in the digital concert just to give it some credit, this one was actually kinda nice. another one with a nice sentiment & what he was going for is great. no clue what the second part of the second verse has to do with any of this though. and it also begins our final group, the songs that just feel empty. like there's not nearly enough going on. this one's alright though i was just hoping the studio version would add some flair. you can see where that one is though.

22. IMAGINARY FRIENDS: also got a vendetta against pop. kinda hate the sentiment here (contrast!), the chorus just falls short of what the verses prime me for, head voice is rampant, and yet i still swing along to it. it's infectious props to him. love the outro though, monkey laugh and all.

23. MAYBE, I: another empty one, like it's a four-note progression what is that. love his singing in it, and the chorus parts do round it out, but like. eh? it doesn't even give me much to say.

24. BORN TO LOSE: another flop on the chorus! too smooth i say! and i absolutely Despise the pitch-shifting thing going on. not something i was expecting him to express so points there, lyrics are nothing fancy to my Literary Mind though. initially good singing but the chorus he's just sloppy over it. the instrumental is lovely but the vocals just throw it so hard into the bin which is a right shame. fuck that outro too i hate that gimmick

25. I KNOW: here's where the bad batshit comes in. singing is some of his worst imo, does the other-vocalist thing for that bridge, genre i'm not fond of, just a soup of Stuff I Don't Like. not one i'd kill someone over putting as #1 like i can see where it comes from but. mmmmmhhhh bad. cover does NOT help his case.

26. HVY MTL DRMR: empirically i should put this one higher. but the chorus flops so goddamn hard it deserves to be in the bottom of the barrel. the verses are lovely for what he was doing back then! but then just... nothing!

27. RABBIT HOLE: i was so excited for this name but it's just sad boi hours playlist curated by some corporation you hate. probably the most nothing of them all, genuinely where are the instruments. what happened. was this one just shoehorned in as the final track just to pump numbers up. and i swear he had some autotune or something which only makes his voice worse it's fantastic naturally. also that's not what a rabbit hole is! that's not the idiom! a rabbit hole is when you go on a wikipedia spiral from jennifer lopez to group theory! not when you just have a shitty night's sleep or whatever this is! i'm not just miffed i'm downright annoyed

28. TICK (STUDIO): what the fuck happened des. how did you release this. it sounds like a 3rd grader singing for the school talent show it's so out of rhythm. singing's honestly kinda bad & the instrumental has the same problems i talked about in the live version. the last chorus is fine, i guess, but no i don't forgive him for what he did to tick.

#des rocs #yeah i forgot tphpa on the first pass. it's always at least one #i guess i'm pessimistic on the new album? or i just don't like his new direction? idk i just finished it like. today. #wasn't expecting to be able to rank the songs of my Favorite Musician & be happy with it but here we are #tell me why i'm wrong in the notes <3