#was constantly told by everyone i knew that i was undesirable from day fucking one. i was always the one ppl would dare their friends to

[fleshdyke]

#csa warning for tags #ughhh ik i was just talking abt this but man. Man. constantly bullied as a child + raped as a child is a brutal combo huh #completely irreversibly fucked up sense of intimacy. i dont want to have sex with anyone i dont care what ppl think of me looks wise but i #also care more than anything and want people to want me so bad #like when ur only experience with anyone at all finding you desirable is being raped at 6ish. fucks u up man #was constantly told by everyone i knew that i was undesirable from day fucking one. i was always the one ppl would dare their friends to #'ask out' bc everyone thought i was that bad. i never had those rumours of 'some boy likes you' without people laughing in the background #all of my friends. even the ones that were also weird kids and bullied etc etc always have stories of other kids having crushes on them or #whatever. and i just never had that. it feels like i missed out on something important #i want to be pursued by a guy i hate i want them to not leave me alone. i want to feel like im in danger. and i know how fucking disgusting #that is but i cant help it. like i feel like thats the only way im going to feel normal and wanted like theres not something inherently #wrong with me. and i know how dangerous that is but its not like it matters anyways bc still no one likes me at all. #and i know how stupid of a thing it is to obsess over like what am i 9 years old? but i just cant get it out of my head #like idk i feel like the only way im going to actually feel desirable at all is if someone tries to rape me again. or if i feel like i have #to worry about someone raping me again. i know i wouldnt feel that way if someone was like. nice about it. #bc if someone genuinely liked me and was a decent human being about it i wouldnt be able to see it as anything other than faking it for pit #i wouldnt be able to believe it. even if i wasnt waiting for them to drop the joke and start laughing at me i would always think it was jus #an act bc they feel bad for me. the only way i could ever think it's genuine and that i'm desirable at all is if someone sexually #harassed me. like idk how to explain it but thats the only way i could feel desirable at all #bc it's the only way i've ever been desirable. when i was a kid. #and it terrifies me so bad bc i know how fucking disgusting that is and how self destructive it is #but i still feel like i dont even have to really worry about being assaulted. bc i still believe im completely undesirable at my core. #i dont believe i could be desired so i dont believe i have to worry about being raped. bc no one would want to anyways #rambles #vent

[anicekidlikeme]

Do you know how I grew up?

Back when I was dating Peter, I was always aware of just how much he would talk (about his accomplishments, about his friends, and different annecdotes). His stories would go far back as elementry school. I hated it. I know that is a horrible thing to even think as somebody's girlfriend (I knew that then too) but at the time getting myself to like the person I was dating felt like a crushing expectation. How am I supposed to love you unconditionally? How am I supposed to love you at all? Your friends are mean, your music taste is okay, and I cannot stand the way you refuse to walk alongside me.

There was a moment when we were walking to Target to buy Kombucha, and holy shit was I pissed off. Peter would walk ahead of me, constantly, and turn around in tiny spurts to tell me to speed up. Could you please walk with me? I know now that love is definately not supposed to feel like that. It is the easiest thing in the world. Drew walks next to me, always. Even if it means having to slow down his pace (often, also emotionally). He grabs my waist everytime we have to cross a road, or everytime I walk into a room I've never been in before. He has incredible patience. I could hear Drew talk and talk for hours, and just keep wanting to listen to even more stories of his. He teases me about how many times in one day I ask him How was your day?! But I just want to hear you talk!

Anyway, a year ago I would think a lot about Peter and I's out of sync walking. It felt like he was ahead of me often. Especially when he told stories. I would sit at the dinnertable with his family and just listen most nights to him sharing annecdotes. About Sam, Adam and Holden, about Miss Gurb from Middle School, and about going to house-shows with Isabella. I would think holy fucking shit, how can you remember all that? How do you have so many happy stories to tell?

The earliest my memory goes to is sometime before 3rd grade when my mom was texting my father on her Nokia, and my uncle had been bugging her all day about selling their Dad's house. I realized then how easy it is to just block out undesirable moments out of your memory. Forget about them completely so they are never to be spoken of, and better yet, never to be remembered. After that, it is a blur. I don't have any stories to tell from growing up, all I remember is how some days felt. There was never enough room where we lived post-divorce, always too many angry people, always too many bugs, and always so many fights in this tiny one- bedroom apartment we shared with 8 other people. My mom told me that I was once in the hospital for 6 months. I had no fucking clue that happened. I still dont.

If I told somebody that I slept most nights of my childhood on a purple straw mat (yes, no bed. not even a mattress), they would probably be so fucking confused. But it is true. And it happened, and it is not a very tell-able tale. Not like Peter's atleast. I am trying to think of other things that happened but I am noticing myself getting fatigued. It's too hard, and there is a big lock on that door. Let's not bother. It is much easier to say Im doing well now. Oh, she sucks and he's dead.

So if you were to ask me how I grew up, I would tell you I have no fucking idea. I dont know how I grew up. Bitter and scary and mean, is probably what my friends from high school would say. Unfortunately, as a result of me changing as a person, I had to quit talking to them. I couldn't find it in me to say, hey guys, I'm in America now so I've decided to be a completely new person. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be this person I was anymore. It's not their fault, and it is not mine.

I am now very emotional (something I was very very afraid of, and am still coming to terms with), very silly, not obsessed with being smart anymore (I'm surprised by that one too), and very very Vaibhavi. Everyone calls me Vai, and I hate it. I want to shout at them, and instruct them to call me Vaibhavi. That is who I am! I am intensely focused now on the memories I make, even if they are bad ones. I dont want to forget anything. I don't want to forget my fights with Fawwaz, or my sick days with Drew, or my secret-spilling sessions with Atharva. I dont want to forget when I had awfully pink hair, or when I was friends with people I hated. I want to have stories, and I love the stories I have now. I am obsessed with getting engaged, because then I will have a family. A family I like, a family to tell stories about when I am asked so, tell me about your family.

A family to love, a family of two. Definately not one with Peter, but I wish him luck. I really do. We are both good people with so many differences, and my hope is that he finds someone to cherish them. I know I did (and god, is Drew a sight for sore eyes).

I have no idea how I grew up, but there was a tent in a balcony. Don't know which one, we have moved too many times.

[mistaeq]

I'd like to request a part 6 matchup then please 👀 I'm a scorpio, INFP, bisexual, usually quiet, bizarre gen z sense of humor, big savior complex haha oops, I struggle with depression and I love drawing, listening to music and writing ofc. I get anxious in big crowds so I tend to avoid them, or if I can't avoid them then I just hide behind the person I trust. Thx bby ❤️

Matchup

TW // depression is mentioned

Thank you for your request, Memory !! Hope you will enjoy this. Finally back with matchups ~♡

Stone Ocean Matchup

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

My first matchup choice for you is...

Narciso Anasui!

When you first met, in Emporio's hidden room, Anasui asked himself how could such a quiet person like you be in jail. He genuinely couldn't get it. Narciso doesn't like too talkative people, since he moves, acts and listens to others for his own interests only. But your behavior really caught his attention. Someway maybe more than Kujo Jolyne did.

Since the first time he met anyone, that person would ask questions about his life, his mistakes, about the crime he had committed to be there. And he just didn't like it. That is why, the man had asked Emporio - or Weather Report - to be the one to inform people about his past before people asked him directly. But everyone always ended up asking him for more details. How annoying. You didn't, by the way.

Much to his surprise, though, you know how to me loud and chaotic too, above all when you and Foo Fighters laugh together over memes. He took a look at those too, just for the sake of knowing what you like. Might it be just because he knew that you were the one liking them, even if those memes were not his thing, he'll admit he's let out a couple giggles, looking through those along with you and F.F.

After he got to know you, it looked like Jolyne had completely slipped and gone away from his mind. Much to her happiness, to be honest. Narciso's undesired avances were on the verge of making her go completely feral. "It looks like it's your time to get his marriage proposals, Memory..." Kujo chirped, laughing at your shocked expression when she talked about marriage proposals.

Did you say savior complex? Narciso definitely cherishes this side of you. He's in love with the way you're always in the first row, when it comes to helping someone who needs your help. He even got the occasion to save you as well, when you happened to put yourself in trouble because of your will to absolutely help someone.

This exaggerated - but not negative at all - obsession about you made him wanna start to get all worried about everyone as well. Emporio always told you, Anasui never helped anyone, unless it regarded him or was for his own profit. You told him not to force himself over a behavior which didn't belong to him, since just like you do, he might have ended up in plenty of troubles. But he just wanted to conquer your heart.

Nobody would have dared to bet a single coin on it, but Narciso Anasui is an actual cheesy man, when he's infatuated for someone, who happens to be you. He won't even let depression get to you, the pink haired man is so ready to fight against it for you. In every hobby and passion of yours, you'll find him supporting you and complimenting your job.

This guy fucking loves reading. Please, don't be afraid to ask suggestions or opinions to him, when you're writing something and need someone to read it to comment it and maybe give you some tips. He didn't have many hobbies or things to do in prison, so he used to stick to reading books and letting his fantasy fly outside of the GD St. Jail. Plus we all know one if his all time favourite characters is Mickey... he's a hidden child.

He's never gonna bring you into crowded places, and even if he doesn't judge a place as "crowded", he's gonna ask you first anyway. The last thing Narciso wants is making you feel bad for a decision of his. He wouldn't forgive himself for such a thing. The man learnt to pay attention to your expressions of discomfort, and knows when he has to help you.

He doesn't like it, when he has to do it, because it means you're not feeling well, but he won't hide he feels pretty lucky, when you hide behind him, since it means that you really trust him. Don't tell anyone, but Jolyne and Foo Fighter overheard him bragging about this to an annoyed Weather Report, who just wanted to sleep and had to listen to Anasui's half-an-hour-long essay about you, instead.

My second matchup choice for you is...

Hermés Costello!

Hermés has been having a crush on you, a pretty strong one, for a good amount of time by now, but the thought of you probably not liking girls was haunting her, and she had no idea of what to do to not to make it awkward. She looked for Jolyne, to ask her for an opinion... and overheard you right in the act of revealing your bisexuality to your best friend. Lucky! She started to hang around you more, after that day.

The truth is, that Costello usually laughs over the bizarre gen Z type of memes, but just doesn't want to admit it. She's naturally calmer than you, or for example Foo Fighters, so she thinks that laughing over those might make her menacing woman façade disappear. She doesn't know whether it might be easier to conquer you by being serious and mysterious or by laughing with you.

When she finally chose to confess, she did it in the most cliché way ever. She just didn't know how to do it. She left a note with a confession in your prison cell, and waited for a reaction from you. If it was positive, then, good for her, she would have been able to love you. If it was negative, she would have made up an excuse to make you believe the note was just one of Jojo and F.F.'s pranks. Luckily, you accepted.

Good thing you have such a savior complex, because Hermés tends to constantly put herself in an ocean of troubles, and will definitely need someone to save her everytime, along with Jolyne and Foo Fighters. If it wasn't for you questioning where she is everytime, she probably would have died after not even a week. But luckily, she has such a good girlfriend thinking about her when she needs it.

Depression? Say no more. Your girlfriend will never leave your side on days when you feel it kicking in more than usual. It's true, you can't do much in prison, but the woman keeps on promising you that once you'll be out of there, she'll bring you to lots of new places to explore, wherever you'd like, to take care of your sadness and bad feelings. Damn, finding love in prison is wild.

She sometimes uses Kiss to duplicate herself and be able to take care of you, above all when you're feeling down and needs something to cheer you up. Two Hermés aren't just perfect for cuddling, but also to have fun, since it's comic to see her twice. Though, you tend to ask her to not to do it often, since going back to a single one after Kiss's effect ends, is sometimes painful for Hermés and you're aware of it.

"Yo, Memory... is that possibly... me?" Costello asked, staring at the drawing you were working on, sitting in your prison cell, the sketchbook on your thighs. You nodded, smiling. You enjoyed sketching her, she was like art to you, and couldn't help loving her body and facial featured. "This is fucking amazing. For real Memory." she sat next to you, and kept on staring at your drawing. "Am I that beautiful in your eyes?"

Oh god. Jolyne and Foo Fighters mock the two of you so much because of your habits. Hermés and you often happen to fall asleep, your head on her shoulder and her head on yours, while you're sharing earphones and listen to your favourite music. Such things aren't really appreciated in the middle of the girls in your prison section, so Emporio allows you and your girlfriend to rest in his hidden room.

Hermés doesn't mind big crowds, but she can't say she enjoys them. She'd rather be in peace, or at least with a bunch of people she enjoys staying with, like you, Jolyne and Foo Fighters. The four of you are like a squad, and perfectly know that they have to keep you away from big crowds. Your girlfriend usually take care of it, but if she's not around, Jojo and F.F. do it for her.

Even without you asking for it, if you can't avoid the crowd, Costello will grab your hand, to make sure you don't get lost or panic because of all the people, and pull you through the confusion of the noisy voices, to a place where the two - or four, depends on whether your friends are there too - of you can spend some quality time without having to worry about protecting you from crowds.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo matchup #jojo headcanons #jojo part six #stone ocean #narciso anasui #anasui x reader #hermes costello #hermes x reader

[ficsnroses]

Friends With Benefits - Keanu Reeves x Reader

Chapter 1 ~ The Beginning 

Word Count : 1939

Warnings : Swearing, NSFW, Smut (this is my first time writing a little smut, I kinda just tested the waters honestly, but the upcoming chapters will have more) 18+ readers.

Summary : What happens when two, lonely friends start seeing each other for sex? A tricky FWB love story, when feelings get in the way.

notes : hi everyone, here it *finally* is. A Friends with benefits to lovers fic with Keanu.

I’m sorry it took so long for me to write this, I had been putting it off because the response to this idea was so good that I didn’t want to disappoint. I’ve tweaked this so many times, but I’ve decided I just need to release it and better myself as the story continues.

•

It’s a quite night on the West Coast. The month of November has always been a period of serenity in the city, as the holiday season peers around the corner. The holidays are nice, the city lights up each and every corner, decorated, gleaming and radiating a heavenly glow, much like a new bride. You’d always been an admirer of the Christmas season. Back home, Christmas brought the entire family together during the jolly time of the year. It was an absolute ball, however, you hadn’t been able to be home for the holidays in a while. Your move out to the city for work had came with some rather undesirable factors, such as constantly being away from home. To make things grimmer, you hadn’t pledged yourself to the social circle of the city yet. Sure, you had an acquaintance or two, maybe a few ladies you might go out with for a round of sangrias and bellinis once in a blue moon, but you didn’t really have a concrete set of people you admired and could call friends.

It felt real lonely in the city. Your day normally consisted of work, followed by an evening alone at home, perhaps binging the newest additions to the Netflix catalogue, or re watching an old, favourite sitcom. They reminded you of home, and simpler, better times.

Tonight had been no different. Dressing yourself in a cozy, white plush bathrobe and your favourite kitten slippers, you prepared for a relaxing evening. The week had been extremely draining, allowing you to crave indulgence in a pampering night in. Perhaps a face mask or two, maybe a glass of red accompanied with a cheese spread for one, with a nice holiday movie. Yeah, that sounded real tempting.

Propping your legs up on the jet black coffee table, you draped your beloved fleece blanket over your figure, phone in hand, ready to browse a movie to cast to the tv.

However, seems like someone else had other plans in mind tonight.

           “Hey Y/N, you home?”

The blue light channelled into your eyes from the device.  It was Keanu, supposedly asking about your whereabouts. You knew what he wanted right away, and you weren’t sure if you were up for it tonight.

Keanu and you had met around a year and a half ago, at a work event. You worked as a prop designer on movie sets, and he was staring in your project at the time. You became friends, slowly, but eventually. He was a nice, caring, wonderful gentlemen to be around, an absolute treat to indulge in, as an escape from the rest of the crowd you normally had to endure. You hung out a few time here and there, just as friends. Sometimes at a coffee date, to catch up on work and all things in daily endurance, or maybe you’d catch the newest flick that graced your local neighbourhood cinema. You both loved the world of film so passionately, it was nice to splurge in each others thoughts.

All that changed however, one pivotal evening. Sometimes you wish you could take that evening back, change the way things turned out. But they had already made themselves history, and as true as night turns to day. Those things defined you now, and set course for the remainder of your relationship.

On a somber evening, you had invited Keanu over for a movie night in, paired with a drink or two. Keanu wasn’t one to socialize with the mass of the crowds, he preferred to keep to himself, making company with a few selected individuals. You felt honoured to be brought into this pact of his. You reciprocated the feeling just as much.

However, as soon as Keanu entered your apartment that evening, you knew something was off. He shared a few broken laughs here and there, but he wasn’t fully engaged in convo as he normally was. He wasn’t his normal, sprightly self. You knew of Keanu’s sorrow filled, subdued past, and you knew he had his days where his demons got the best of him. You couldn’t help but relate to him sometimes, even if not on the completely same level. Truth be told, you were both lonely. You knew that, perhaps that’s why things happen the way they did.

           That evening was the first time it happened, and that first time ended up converging into multiple. You were both isolated, unaccompanied, maybe that’s why things took the turn they did.

           You both needed someone that night, needed to feel something that night. You don’t remember who made the first move, seemed as if both of you wanted that mutuality, that connection just as much. But the film never played that evening, and you found yourself legs wrapped around Keanu’s waist, him carrying you to your bed, hungry kisses placed on the corners of your mouth, asking entrance to dance your tongues together. His colossal hands gripping onto the delicate skin of your waist, lightly lifting the seams of your shirt in the process. They threatened to tattoo their way in, leaving behind red hand marks.

           “Is this okay?” he breathily whispered into your ear, cautionary flare evident in his words.

He was positioned on top of you, both laid connected on your bed. His stocky fingers grazed the skin of your hip, lifting just enough of the fabric of your shirt to ask permission. His breath on your skin and the weight of his body on yours only made you crave him more, the yearn for his body to become with yours greater by the instance.

You nodded frantically, pulling him down by a wrap of arms around his neck, gently ruffling his long, raven hair on the back of his head.

You slightly raised your hips to allow him access to remove both your jeans and underwear. You tugged at his belt, feeling the long scar line he had on his stomach under his shirt in the process.

Once both your bottoms had been peeled off each other, Keanu pulled the covers over your bodies and turned the bedside light off. Placing a few more kisses to your lips, he snaked his hand down to touch your heat, preparing you to take him.

You almost couldn’t believe it in that moment, you felt it was wrong, like you were breaking a rule. Here he was, a man you completely admired and called one of your few friends, touching you in the most intimate place.

But you couldn’t stop it; your hazy mind fogged with lust, needing his touch more and more by the second. You need more though, and it seemed your desire for him to take you overtaking every other sense.

           “I need you, now Keanu.” Your raspy voice echoed in his ears, undoubtedly providing him the assurance he needed to move ahead. He needed you as well, so much, but likewise, he couldn’t shake the feeling of doing something wrong. Using his friend.

You reach down and pump him a few times, your touch emitting a course groan escaping his mouth. With a searing kiss, you guide him into you, feeling yourself stretch around him, pulsating.

With each thrust, he buries himself deeper and deeper in you, you find yourself letting out silent wails into the crook of his neck as his hands are placed on either side of you on the bed, gripping the sheets with the sheerest of force.

You felt his cock twitch within you, letting you know he was close. In the heat of the moment, you hadn’t used protection. Needless to say, neither of you had any regardless. Perhaps, neither of you would have ever dreamed this turn of events.

The sound of skin slapping skin, and both your quiet moans and grunts filled the four walls of the shadowy, dainty room.

           “Fuck, I’m close Y/N” he thrusts deeper, more meaningful, pouring himself into you.

Rolling your hips along with his thrusts, you feel your nerves pulling at your insides, your end nearing. With a particularly hard thrust, you reach your climax, tightening around him with a whimper, clawing at his back unknowingly.

You’d had sex before with other men, but nothing like this. Keanu was damn good, and his girth fit and filled you so fucking well, you swore butterflies.

He lets out a gaspy moan, muffled with praises for you. Pulling out of you near his end, Keanu jerks himself a few times before he releases himself into his hand. It was a shitty way to come, but you couldn’t risk a pregnancy, and you weren’t on the pill at the time.

You spent the remainder of the evening making love to each other, although, you didn’t think you had the right to call it that. It was just sex, unfortunately. Greif filled, draining, guilt ensuing sex. The type of sex you have when you need human connection. The next morning when the sun channeled over the horizon, you found yourself feeling sin filled, like you had completely ruined your relationship, used him for your needs. Keanu felt the same, as if he had took your vulnerability and used it to fill his own void. His own affection craving, heartsore, miserable void.

With awkward goodbyes, you went your separate ways that morning. It killed you both a little to have soiled your relationship, over something as stupid as faulty sex.

But that evening spent together sparked a new chapter in your friendship, if you even had the right to call it that anymore.

You didn’t know how, and you couldn’t justify why you found yourself at Keanu’s doorstep later that week. You almost felt ashamed, and feared what he would think. Although neither of you had said it, you assumed that evening together at your place would be the first and last time you had sex.

           But it definitely wasn’t.

You were both falling too far down the rabbit hole, too obsessed with the feeling someone so fucking close. It was intimacy you both craved so much, and you were happy to find it in each other, or at least you thought.

That “first” time turned into a pathological necessity almost. You found yourselves inviting each other over to each other’s houses on evenings you need a release. Keanu would call you on set to his trailer during take breaks sometimes, for a quick rumble. You would call him to your studio for the same, just a quickie to get out the stress of the day.

You weren’t sure if Keanu took other lovers as well besides you, you really had no right to ask or be jealous. After all, your relationship wasn’t the same anymore. You were friends with benefits, after all.

You hadn’t been with anyone else other than him for the entire year you’d been meeting each other for sex. You weren’t sure you could have someone other than him. He knew so well what you wanted so well, and he genuinely cared for you as a person. He didn’t treat you like an object, and always made sure you were comfortable. An added bonus, he was dreamy, so handsome you felt yourself melt each time you saw him.

You were honored to get to connect with him on such a personal, intimate level. Maybe you wanted more. But hope was too far gone. There’s no way he wants more, why would anyone want more with their friends with benefits?

            With a sigh, and slight contemplation, you typed the response.

           “Yeah. What’s up?” – Y/N

           “Come over?” – Keanu

           “Sure. Gimmie 20.” – Y/N

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

>>Chapter 2 >>

#keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves #keanu reeves imagine #john wick x reader

[aethelar]

For a comment on this piece asking if Graves and Newt ever argue, in which Graves tags along on Newt’s adventures and parts of it go, um, less than optimally:

I wanna see Newt convincing Graves to go with him. I doubt he'd just drop everything and go.

Nope. Not in the slightest. It went like this:

Newt lasted all of, what eight months in New York? Nine months? He'd somehow ended up working for MACUSA as a consultant to help them fix the outdated beast laws, which basically meant that he spent five days a week bothering Graves at work and the remaining two days a week bothering Graves at home. As far as desk jobs went it wasn't bad, per se, it was just... a desk job. At a desk. Four walls - sometimes more, some of the meeting rooms were hexagonal for some unknown reason - ceilings, windows that looked out at other sky scrapers instead of the sky. Even when he was outside he wasn't really outside, New York too built up and closed in to feel like anything except a cage.

Magizoologists don't do well in cages.

But Graves did, and for Graves, Newt tried. He honestly did. Plus, fixing the beast laws was good, and if was going to be done then Newt would rather it was done right. So, eight months, maybe nine, he did his best.

Then there was the MACUSA annual party. It was horrific. Horrendous. Horrible. How many other words starting horr and meaning stupendously undesirable are there, because the annual party was all of them. They'd hired a motivational speaker. People were talking about ten year plans. Even the buffet had been carefully designed to promote productivity and networking opportunities. Newt stared down the barrel of an endless monotony of working lunches and complaining about management at the water cooler, and on the way home from the party he stopped by the harbour and bought himself a one way ticket to Rio de Janeiro.

(The fact that it was half past midnight and none of the ticket offices were open is not something you should be focusing on)

"Graves," he said when he got home, staring at it in somewhat confused bafflement, "I'm going to Brazil on Saturday. Do you want to come?"

"What, on a business trip?" Graves asked, wrinkling his nose and measuring out a hangover cure with the careful precision of the truly tipsy. (He didn't like office parties any more than Newt did, he just had slightly less extravagant coping mechanisms). "I didn't think we did business trips. Why are you going on a business trip?"

"I'm not," Newt answered.

"Oh," Graves said. "That's ok then."

"So are you coming?"

He held up his novelty wampus mug and squinted at the purple liquid inside. "Yeah. Sure. Does this look exactly four sevenths full to you?"

And that was that, until approximately eleven thirty the following morning when Tina stopped by his office and asked, with the somewhat despairing resignation of someone who's too old for this shit and too young to have this many stress lines, who he was going to leave in charge when he'd gone.

"What."

"Not that I think it's not a great idea, and if I'm honest it'll be a relief to get some things done without Newt constantly underfoot - I love him but he's awful when he's cooped up for too long - but couldn't you have given us a bit more than a week's notice before you went to find yourself on a beach in Bahia?"

"Before I what to what myself on what."

She squinted. "In a jungle then." And, when he just stared blankly at her, she sighed and toed the door closed behind her. "Graves, it'll be good for you," she said with more seriousness than she usually showed. "I know you've been doing your best since Grin - since everything, we all know. And we appreciate it. But I'm glad to see you putting yourself first as well, you know? We'll be fine. You'll get your time away to sort everything out, and in the future... who knows." She smiled reassuringly, and that more than anything threw Graves for a loop. "We'll still be here," she promised. "I'll sort everything out this end. You just... focus on you."

And with that disturbingly cryptic last line, she slipped out his office, presumably to sort everything out while Graves focused on Graves.

"What," he repeated in bewilderment. His empty office failed to provide clarification, and he went back to sorting paperwork with the vague unease of someone who suspects they're missing something but doesn't know what.

The feeling followed him throughout the day as various coworkers stop to express their well wishes, tell him they support his choices, and insist that they'll keep his coffee machine alive for him even though it's an arcane demon that spits black tar at anyone who comes near.

"I think," he said to Newt that evening when they were halfway through chopping onions (Graves) and stripped blood-root bark (Newt, but thankfully that was for the griphorns to eat and not for them), "I think I've been fired."

"Out of what?" Newt asked.

"Fired. Let go. My employment has been terminated. Delgado gave me his abuela's address in Mexico and made me promise to go to her if I needed anything, so there may also have been an order put out for my arrest."

Newt blinked and tipped his head in confusion. "That seems a bit of an extreme reaction," he said. "Everyone I talked to was really supportive of our trip. Maybe I misread them."

At this point Graves' auror instincts, the ones that had kept him alive and - mostly - sane for the last twenty years and that had been carefully honed through countless hours of training and a gut feeling that could blare like a klaxon when it needed to, those auror instincts, they informed him that something was Up and Newt was Part Of It.

He put the knife down on the chopping board. "Newt," he said with as much calm as he could muster. "What did you do."

And Newt, with his magizoologist instincts that told him when a creature was playing and when a creature was genuinely about to rip his arm off, froze. "Ah," he said, gripping the blood-root bark. "Ah?"

"Newt."

"I, um. I got you... a present?"

And as Graves listened with mounting horror and trepidation, he realised that he'd been so successfully outmanoeuvred and outplayed - by accident, the shame of it - that he had no other choice. He couldn't walk into work in the morning and tell everyone there'd been a misunderstanding. Not after even Picquery had been Understanding and Supportive and holy fuck, Abernathy gave him an awkward hug, is Brazil going to be far enough? Graves may need to go further. He may need Australia.

"So," Newt finished, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "That's the plan. You don't have to come if you don't want to, but, I got you a ticket today so if you do...?"

Graves resumed chopping his onion. The steady thunk thunk of the knife was a soothing background rhythm, and the way it made Newt twitch was objectively hilarious.

"If I come with you," he said, because just because he knew he'd already capitulated didn't mean that he could let it look like he'd agreed so easily, "Then you have to come with me afterwards."

"Ok," Newt said hesitantly. "Um, come with you where?"

"Anywhere. Haven't decided yet. But I get to lead for... the rest of our lives."

"Until we're eighty."

"Ninety."

"Eighty nine."

"Deal. And we're not staying in the suitcase."

"What? Why not, I've got a whole cabin set up down there. The suitcase is perfect for staying in."

"The suitcase is a death trap with insufficient wards or protection. What if someone picks it up while you're inside?"

"We could put a label on it asking them not to?"

"Newt."

"We could get Addie to guard it?"

"Newt."

#gramander #percival graves #newt scamander #so #fun story #i once did this to my partner #(except with a one way flight instead of a one way boat ticket) #and yes #i had to promise to leave the big life decisions up to him until we're eighty nine #but boy when we get there #we are going to be ROCKING it as old people #my writing

[thegoodgirlsdont]

Me and My Body Hair.

 I am 23 years of age and pretty much as soon as any pubescent body hair grew on my body I have plucked it from its root, never letting it see the light of day. Up until recently, I could never have told you the real texture of my body hair once it has grown out or how long it takes to do so, because virtually every morning since it appeared I have hacked away at it with a razor.

 It was March when a global pandemic forced my trusty salons to shut their doors and something terrifying happened to me. I was forced to grow out my body hair. That’s right, I’ve had to leave my body to do as nature intended; how terrifying?

 When I first grew hair under my arms and in between my legs, I was 12 and completely over the moon. Finally I was a woman. My mother hugged and kissed me when I told her and I remember feeling like everyone was proud of me and even a bit emotional, that their little girl was growing up. But somewhere along the line that pride turned into shame.

 I was 14 when a boy turned round to me in a science lesson and asked me if I had hair on my vagina. His question was not one of curiosity but of pure disgust. I stared at him blankly, knowing the secret that hid beneath my pants and him and group of boys laughed “ew she does!” I went home and poked invasive questions at my Mother about what to do with the hair growing between my legs. She comforted me and told me that “God put it there for a reason” but I was less than convinced.

 Whispers in the corridors of horrified boys who put their hands in a girls knickers for the first time to find a furry surprise terrified me and I turned to a friend who was more experienced than our years for some advice. She told me that all I had to do was lather up some hair conditioner and shave it all away. “Do I not leave any at all? Isn’t that a bit too much like a child?” I replied quite shocked, “I don’t” she answered “it just gets in the way.” That night I sat in my bath shaving away at all the hairs that I had once believed marked my womanhood. I cut myself multiple times and stared down at quite an ugly spotty mess but nonetheless I felt proud of the sexual being I had just unleashed.

 From then on I never grew my pubic hair out. In my twenties I moved to regular waxes and I even went as far as scheduling dates to fall for when I knew I would have a “fresh wax”.

 I once was laying in bed with a man I had been dating when he looked up at me and asked, “do you have a problem with body hair or something? You just have very little hair.” I was quite shocked at this invasive question and looked down at my naked, hairless body. I replied “no… I guess I just prefer it that way.” He cuddled up to me, almost relieved and said “me too, I just always feel so anti-feminist for saying so”. I did not see that man again.

 But now a year later and proudly 4 months without a wax; with hairs on my armpits and between my legs for the first time since they appeared, I have my real response for that man: No, I do not have an issue with body hair. I have an issue with the way my body is treated when it has hair on it.

 I will admit, in the first month of growing out my hair it took some getting used to. But the longer I left it, the more I loved it. I would find myself looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of the “woman” I had been so excited to become when I was a little girl and it got me thinking: Where on earth did this idea that women should have zero body hair come from? As a child I was never under the illusion that the women I looked at were hairless from head to toe. I knew what happened when a girl hit puberty and I wanted everything that came with it. The body hair, the boobs, the monthly periods (I underestimated the pain of that last one). I’d seen my mother and my auntie’s stubble under their armpits and was envious, not repulsed.

 So where did this come from? The short answer is pedophile culture (a term coined by Alicen Grey). We all know that adults have body hair, but men aren't pressured to get rid of it. Women are constantly told that in order to be ‘sexy’ we should remove our body hair; that to keep it is ‘unhygienic’. We are sold anti-ageing treatments and creams with the selling point of ‘baby soft’ skin. Oh and did you know that the number one category on PornHub is “teen girls” and “barely legal”. The number one video the second I just searched? “I finally f****** my 18 year old step sister”. Not to forget the “sexy school girl” costume that every man seems to completely melt over. Sit with that for a second and I will also. How fucking creepy and disgusting.

 Grown women are constantly referred to as “girls”;  and virtually every man that steps onto Love Island describes his type as “small and petite”. Men typically gravitate towards ‘innocent’ women, with soft high voices and are said to feel uncomfortable having a meaningful relationship with a woman who is sexually positive as it is “hard to respect them and see them as a wife”. Are we sensing a pattern here? We are constantly being infantilised for men’s pleasure. This is pedophile culture.

 Now I think it is important to mention that being small, petite or choosing to get rid of your body hair does not make you a ‘bad feminist’. Womxn can do whatever they want with their bodies. The issue is that everything outside of this bracket is deemed undesirable. Having body hair is not a sign of ‘manhood’ it is a sign of adulthood. I have often heard men who choose to shave their pits described as ‘too feminine’ and women who choose to keep their body hair as ‘too manly’. We need to get rid of this narrative. We all have body hair. It is not gender selective. Choosing to keep your body hair is normal and choosing to get rid of it is also normal and your choice, but it’s not a necessity.

by Grace Hamberger (@gretchinmusic) 

#feminism #feminist blog #normalise body hair #body hair #womxn #all womxn #female collective

[nsfwviolets]

when the party’s over

vulnerable is the word she would use to describe herself ; anxiously awaiting for words to fill the room instead of suffocating silence. by this point, she will take anything other than silence. yet, that’s the only thing filling the doctor’s office right now & violet finds herself struggling to breathe.

no matter how many shallow, desperate gasps for air she takes ; violet knows she won’t crack under the immense pressure. she refuses to break or showcase any ounce of emotion until she knows her fate that her doctor is quite literally holding in her hands, in the form of a slim manila folder. 

in a situation like this, she isn’t sure if no news is better than news at all. even now as violet sits rigidly, avoiding eye contact with photographs of giggling babies posing with their seemingly happy families decorating the egg shell walls  ; she is not sure of her most desirable outcome. if she is pregnant, then she will figure it out. she has always had a knack for figuring shit out ; even in the most undesirable circumstances. but even violet knows that things could be a lot worse than having a baby at the age of twenty-three. 

she loves atlas. she doesn’t tell him those three little words nearly as often as she should, especially in recent weeks. but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. violet has never been sure about many things in her life, but she is about her relationship. before she met him, she never knew what it was like to feel this secure & loved by one individual. & now that she knows what it’s like to love someone with every fiber of your being, she doesn’t want anything else or anyone for that matter. she only wants him. 

but that doesn’t mean violet’s ready to bring a child into the world with him. they’re not even on speaking terms ever since their last fight, so she can’t even imagine how off course their relationship will be if he finds out that she is pregnant. she imagines that he will experience every single emotion known to man ; except grief. she already witnessed the way he is with his younger cousins when she first went to italy last year ; slipping them pieces of belgian chocolate wrapped in elegant gold foil when their parents weren’t looking, throwing them as high up in the air as gravity allows, hugging them so tight that they know nothing bad will ever happen to them as long as he’s there. he will make a good dad one day, she’s sure of that. but it’s not atlas she’s worried about if she is pregnant: it’s herself.

no matter how hard she’s tried to hide her past from everyone in her current life ( herself included ), it still finds a way to catch up to her. 

the truth is, violet has been in a situation similar to this. she vividly remembers sitting in an office nearly identical to the one she is currently sitting in at the age of nineteen. at that point in her life, she was devastatingly unhappy despite her prominent social media pages saying otherwise. she was with a man who’s version of ‘ i love you ’ was treating her like a piece of property. no matter how much he fucked up throughout the course of their relationship, he always found a way to make violet feel like the bad guy. & she let him.

she let him have everything he wanted from her. her self-esteem, her bank account, her virtue, & at times even her will to live. but if there was one thing violet wasn’t going to let him have: it was a child. she never even asked him if he wanted a kid. the second five drug store pregnancy tests all confirmed her teenage self of her then worst fear, she already knew she wasn’t going to tell him about the baby.

it was a secret she was going to bring to her grave. 

even when the prying ultrasound technician attempted to show violet her then only five weeks old child in an attempt to change her mind that was already set ; she didn’t budge. it’s not that violet didn’t love or care about the child she was carrying. in fact, it was the opposite. she loved them so much that she didn’t want them to subject them to the same torture she endured for years. if she owed anything to her unborn child, it was to shield them from their own father.

‘ violet, you haven’t said anything. ’ dr. green points out with a coy grin, pulling violet back into her own reality where her future has yet to even be determined.

she glances at the time on her phone, then realizing that ten minutes had passed by. ‘ i don’t know what to say. ’ violet snaps, not bothering to disguise her uneasiness caused by the great unknown. 

‘ many women don’t. but with today’s technological advances, you have options. if i were you i’d start with going off birth control & maybe consulting a fertility specialist - ’

‘ i don’t understand what you’re talking about. ’ violet interjects, unsure of the conversation’s sudden trajectory. she walked in to this back office to be told whether or not she’s pregnant. now, the conversation has nothing to do with a child. it has everything to do with her.

& that’s when she notices the pamphlets laid out in front of her. 

HOW TO GET PREGNANT

DEALING WITH INFERTILITY: A GUIDE FOR CATHOLICS 

THE LASTING TOLL OF AN EATING DISORDER: INFERTILITY

her composure that she worked so hard on composing is now unraveling right before her obstetrician’s very eyes. for the past two months, violet refused to cry until she knew whether or not she was pregnant. but now that she knows of her fate, she can’t help the tears that are silently rolling down her porcelain cheeks. 

despite violet constantly worrying about her own competence as a potential mother, she can’t say she doesn’t want kids. children have always been a part of her plan. given, she doesn’t want to become a mother until she is married ( or engaged at the very least ) & has become someone more than ‘ that model with a sex tape. ’ 

& within the span of seconds, her entire future was ripped away from her. she will never know what it’s like to experience the milestones of pregnancy. she will never know the look on atlas’ face when he finds out he will become a father. she will never get to experience any of this & yet she is only blaming herself.

‘ violet, it will be okay. you have options. ’ her doctor tries again, offering her a tissue in the midst of her silent sobs. ‘ you can still have children one day. it won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible. ’

violet doesn’t even know what to make of her doctor’s offered kind words. she is promising her a future that may not even be possible. she is stripped of everything she has ever known & wanted & all she wants to do is go back in time to change her situation.

when she was hospitalized for dehydration and malnutrition at the age of fourteen, the doctors told her that if she didn’t stop then she would experience detrimental complications. all it took was one look at her hollowed eyes & thinning hair to notice the effects of her eating disorder despite how many times she denied it to medical professionals & her own family. all they wanted was for her to get better for her own sake but she didn’t listen.

violet lennox has always been too stubborn her own good.

she only cared about being the best of the best on the u.s.a. gymnastics team. her coaches promised she would one day stand on the podium at the olympics only if she lost weight. & when a diet consisting of only gallons of water & raw vegetables didn’t help her budding career or gain the approval of her coaches, she tried other options. she tried water fasts, cleanses, & even appetite suppressants. yet, the only thing that helped the number on the scale go down was finding solace in a porcelain bowl.

no one cared that she would faint in the locker rooms. no one batted an eye when they caught her kneeled over in the bathroom at the world championship. they all walked by as if it were nothing ; as if she was nothing. 

even when the team doctor had a humiliating conversation with her coaches about her safety & well being, no one seemed to care. all they cared about was the unrealistic weight requirement they had forced upon her. they, of course, cared about her potential & gold medal contributions. but in their eyes, violet only performed her best if she was underweight. they didn’t care what it took ; all they cared about was her contribution to their team.

so when violet got pregnant one year after she quit the sport she insisted she loved, she figured that all of the doctors were wrong. they all warned her of eating disorders causing infertility amongst women due to weight fluctuations & hormone imbalances. yet, there she was: pregnant.

it’s a habit that never truly dies despite how hard she tries. 

it’s not an everyday occurrence, but rather something that comes up every now & then. if she wants to lose a drastic amount of weight before an important event, she falls back. if she is stressed, she falls back.

it even happens unintentionally sometimes. the mornings she swore were symptoms of pregnancy were nothing more than a relapse. an ongoing relapse eating at her the longer she stares at the pamphlet.

‘ everything is going to be okay, violet. ’

all she can do is laugh between the tears that have yet to stop decorating her makeup free face. everything doesn’t feel okay. she feels empty ; barren. ‘ how do you know that ?? ’

sympathetic laughter fills the room & violet feels like she’s suffocating once again. this time, dr. green reaches into her desk to hand her a business card. ‘ because you have options. don’t let your prognosis discourage you. ’ she says, handing her the card. ‘ i would suggest giving her a call. she is the best manhattan has to offer. ’

& staring right back at her on the card is the name of her own mother: dr. diane galindo, m.d. 

‘ do you have any other questions ?? ’ violet doesn’t even give herself the opportunity to answer the question. she’s already throwing her jacket on over her shoulders ; haphazardly throwing all of the pamphlets & cards into her quilted chanel bag. 

the only question she has is one that she already knows her own physician can’t answer: why me ??

#this is so bad IGNORE ME #but #* ｡ ✧┊ ❛ breathe me in like air tonight / paragraph. #i don't have a self para tag jhgsdfs #eating disoder tw #abortion mention tw #infertility tw

[icequeen-shiva]

what i need to say to you, as a fat girl.

i’m going to put it under a cut, not because i’m embarrassed but because i know i’m going to get longwinded and i know some people won’t appreciate a gigantic, lengthy post clogging up their dash. and i get that! that’s me sometimes too. it’s cool, fam. it’s... it’s a damn novel. i’m not going to lie. i’m sorry it got so long. there’s a lot of history. but i don’t know how else to make it so clear and understandable without going deep. everything in here is exactly what i want known. so... yeah, it’s long.

i just had my yearly gynecological appoint a week ago. she stressed to me that she couldn't be happier with me, even with my weight. my blood work was, she called it, wonderful. my levels are good! i’m not even close enough to pre-diabetic that she felt a need to caution me. i’m healthy, according to my blood, she said. keep doing what i’m doing, she said, based on science and my blood, not my stomach, where all my weight seems to go. i am blessed that my doctor is kind. she knows that i, and others like me, am doing the best i can to find more healthy and nutritional things that work for me (and while i won’t go into it here, i will say that i have a fucked up home life that doesn’t make it easy). she knows pcos is fighting me every step of the way on losing weight. but she is proud of me and supports me and when she wants to talk about my weight, that is how she addresses it: with positive suggestions, not shaming me, not guilting me into feeling like i’ve done this wrong and disappointed everyone.

yes, i could exercise more. i’m not in shape, but the tests come back that, overall, i’m healthy, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because i’m still fat.

it shouldn’t be this hard to write. i shouldn’t be crying while i write this, but it’s been beaten into me (not literally) since i was a child that i’m not worth it if i’m fat. i went from kindergarten through eighth grade to a very small school (at its largest while i went there, my class had 36 people total) and i lived on the very edge of the district. if a friend wanted to do anything, we had to coordinate with our parents who was going where, whose parents were driving and what time would we get together, what time would someone need picked up, etc. and i was fat. i’ve been overweight since the day i was born, coming out at 10 pounds. i wasn’t into sports, which was absolutely what this school put almost all of its focus on. i was into art, which was the last thing this school put its focus on. i was quiet, i didn’t live in town, i didn’t want to play kickball or basketball at recess, i wanted to sit on the swings and draw. i was the weird kid, and i also happened to be the fat kid in my grade. the only fat kid. so i was an undesirable, and i just... got used to it. i will never forget how sick i felt in seventh grade, in the girls’ locker room after gym one day, when one of the thinnest girls was almost crying about her reflection and how fat she looked. i felt terrible for her, because if she really believed that then that girl needed help, but i also felt absolutely sick and knew i wanted to be annnywhere else but that school with these girls. i was lucky enough that my mom finally agreed to let me go to the school just a hop over the district line for high school. i met the best friend i’ve ever had in my whole life. i met other fat kids. i won the art club scholarship when i was a senior. my entire social existence was not predicated on “she doesn’t live here, she’s an oddball, and she’s fat” for the first fucking time.

but i was still fat in high school, and still pretty weird, i won’t lie, so i was still not the girl asked to any dances. i was never invited to any parties. i’m lucky that i wasn’t bullied for my fatness. a couple underclassmen punks behind me in the hallway tried one time, but at this point, i had perfected my glare and intimidation voice, so when i stopped, turned around, glared, and dared them to say that one more time, they didn’t. i was picked on for my goth aesthetic more than i was my weight, and that was fine. it wasn’t my weight, so i could live with it. i had my friends, i had my art classes, i had english and history where the teachers loved me and how good i was at these subjects. but i never had a date. i never had a first kiss. i never had any of this. i was fat, and i was weird. i’m not blaming it all on my physical appearance. everyone is embarrassingly weird as a teenager, i think, and if you weren’t then you’re lying.

for varying reasons, i didn’t get to go away for college. i went where my parents demanded i go, to a community branch of ohio state, with looming promises of “oh, you can transfer to columbus in a year or two, it’ll be fine” that ended up never happening. it was just like high school all over again. it was so small, and so limited, and so full of the same kind of people i’d been with the last four years already. i was still the fat weird girl. i grew into both of these. i learned to carry them each much better, i started taking theatre classes and auditioning for the plays, i even got the fucking lead in a one season. i was antigone, and i was, for the first time, excited about myself.

it didn’t last, though. the theater kids were, contrary to how they’re depicted so often and what other people’s stories have been, mean. so i left it. i never acted on that campus again. and it hurt like a motherfucker when i reminded myself that i gave up like that. but it was easier to do that. it was easier to take myself out of the spotlight than it was to constantly fight and defend my right to have it just like anyone else. now... there’s a lot of other issues in my life, that i’m not willing to address right now. all of my friends moved a few hours away from me. i’m not exaggerating, though i wish i was. i never ended up leaving. i dropped out of college when my depression was spiraling out of control and i wasn’t reeeeally functioning at all. i still live at home, in this close-minded, rural, midwestern place, because i’m terrified of leaving my mother with her depression that’s much worse than mine has ever been and i have no one in this area at all that i trust enough to be roommates with, and i can’t afford living on my own without that crutch. that’s as far as i’m willing to go. but this-- leaving acting, that i had loved so much-- was really a tipping point into the depression i have struggled with for almost my entire adult life.

and that depression and continued social rejection has really drummed in further i am fat. i have no hope of anyone ever thinking i’m beautiful. no one will ever really be attracted to me. i can fix my face with makeup but i cannot hide my gut, and that will repulse them.

i’m 28 years old and still-- fucking still-- the only time i’ve ever been shown romantic interest, was a joke. the only time someone has ever given me their phone number was a goddamn joke. it was at a restaurant, where i wasn’t afraid to order what i wanted and enjoy eating it, and i probably looked like a pig. i like food. we kind of need it to survive, and if i’m going to a restaurant with my friends, i’m going to get what i want, what sounds good, and enjoy myself with my friends, not get only a small salad because i have to watch my weight and i have to look like the meek, ashamed fat girl who’s trying to do better. i don’t have to look like anything, for anyone. but for a long time after i realized that number was a joke, i stopped doing all of that. i’d barely eat when we went out. i’d cry about it in the bathroom. i’d cry about it in bed. i cried a lot. and i hated myself. i’ve somehow managed to mostly overcome that. but it’s been hard, and let me repeat: i can only say mostly.

so what i really, really need you to know, and this is directed to the tickle community more than it is anyone else right now... this is why, if/when i get suddenly upset about belly tickles; if/when i get very quiet and withdrawn, when my dash is flooded with “ideal” bodies with their cute bellies getting tickled; if/when i get very feet-centric again because, after over a decade of navigating through my kink preferences and finding a place in this community, i’ve convinced myself over and over again that “if you keep it focused on your feet, they won’t notice that you’re fat.” which is ridiculous because in online play, nobody has to know that if i don’t say anything. but i will know. i will always know, when i present myself in rp as some small, cute, only a little bit chubby girl, that i’m lying.

it’s so hard being fat in such a physical kink. so fucking hard. even the plus size girls in the videos don’t look like me. it’s incredibly appreciated, don’t get me wrong, and it’s... it’s not even that i’m ~so big. i don’t look as heavy as i am. i’ve been accused of looking for attention and saying i’m heavier than i really am, when i try to be honest about how much the scale says (which honestly just makes me incredibly paranoid that maybe i have some giant cyst(s) on my ovaries that’s distending everything and heavy af with a bunch of fluid and crap, as is the hallmark symptom of polycystic ovarian syndrome, but that’s another essay). but it’s heavy enough to bother me. and that just gets problematic, because it’s not right of me to think “well, at least i’m not that size,” because the girl that size is having the same struggles as i am, probably. 

there’s literally one person i’ve ever spoken to that has told me, and i believe truthfully, they think i’m cute and that i’m worth it. and they live in england, thousands of miles away. and he wasn’t a “chubby chaser,” and i truly believe he wasn’t saying it out of pity. he meant it. but he’s the definition of unattainable.

i need you to understand that you need to be patient with me, if we’re really going to play, because the hardest thing i can do is accept that you don’t think i’m disgusting. because at the end of the day, i can be as confident in my personality and my intelligence and my skills as possible, but i will still look down at my stomach, hanging over the waistband of my pj shorts, and i will still think this is disgusting and it’s no wonder i’m alone.

#this has been a post #holy shit #body positivity #i guess it's positivity??? #not really #me #i'm not gonna tag tickling or anything because i don't really need the whole of tumblr to see it? just followers

[gloieee]

To glo et al.

It seems appropriate in many ways to start off this playlist with Dr. WHOEVER, an introspective and unexpectedly slow-paced track by Amine that has stayed with me since a dear friend sent it to me towards the end of 2018. I remember the moment so clearly. It was a typical cold Boston winter evening, when the sun had set well before 4 pm. I was living in my stifling apartment in Longwood mere minutes from my work and feeling empty after putting my all into a process for a year +, and yet still under so much uncertainty about the future. Mentally and physically, I felt so heavy, and since I finally had time, got a work-subsidized gym membership. That particular day, I had mustered up all my energy to change into my gym clothes after work to head to the dingy Bodyscapes, which really just felt like an extension of the Longwood hospitals. (It didn’t help that it was literally nestled in one of the research buildings.) Walking the few minutes back home, my body hot and the night air cold, I listened to this song and got shivers at how much it felt like an anthem for the confused mid-twenty-year-olds going through shit. Sad on your motherfucking birthday, cause you know you’re getting older and not happier. It hit even harder because my birthday always comes with the new year, and that only exacerbates the reflecting and processing I do. 

This song seems still more relevant this year, now. Indeed, it’s been crazy, for everyone, and it’s been laden with moments when you question, “what the fuck is my life.” I’ve been trying to be my own Dr. WHOEVER for the first time. It’s ironic that it’s my first, given that I’m trying to become a doctor for other people, perhaps even exactly the person you go to to tell all your problems. I’ve always been almost too good at telling a friend what I’m going through, contrary to the trope of the emotionally reticent young person, putting up a front of happiness. I’ve been having some illuminating conversations recently, mainly with the same friend who sent me this song years ago (who I have been so grateful towards, even more so these past few weeks), and been evaluating this funk that I’ve been in since Spring 2019 from a step back. 

Up until last year, a source of my agony was being understood by others. I knew what I wanted, even though I also knew that from the outside, that didn’t always seem to make me “happy” nor appeared to be the easiest route to take. Hence, I would find myself constantly explaining/ defending what I was going through because I wanted others to “get it.” I’ve always deeply wanted to be understood by others, ever since I was an adolescent. I’ve always felt “different” in some way from other people around me, and I never liked that feeling. Hence, I am/ have always been so touched when someone “gets me”. It’s no coincidence that I have what I have etched onto my left forearm for eternity. So, when ~da funk~ started in 2019, I did what I always do and talked to people about it. I have amazing friends (thanks to my thick “General eyebrows,” which indicates “people luck” in Korea), and everyone has been so validating throughout this perplexing situation where I feel so unmotivated and unlike myself. 

I realized recently that my situation right now may be pointedly opposite of what I’ve felt before—everyone else thinks I’m doing fine (many friends have said that it seemed like I was having the time of my life in LA—and I did from a certain lens), but I’m entirely unhappy with where I am. What I need right now doesn’t seem to be validation from anyone else, but from myself. I need to understand and accept where I am, and tell myself it’s okay. I’ve always been about facing the brute reality, bucking up, and making it through. This revelation has called for an entire change of pace—I am not used to being kind to myself, unless I’m going through something that I objectively consider difficult (i.e. debilitating chronic pain in college), superhumanly impossible, or at least deeply meaningful. I hold myself to such a standard that I never hold to my own friends or others. So as Amine says, I’m trying to let my feelings settle in and take my own advice. 

My mother told me that no one can fully understand who I am, because there is no way for anyone to know everything that has happened in my life and what significance it holds for me. I’m the only one that can perhaps truly understand where I’m coming from, because I’m the only one who knows my life in its entirety. She told me that as she gets older, she realizes more and more that at the end of the day, our own self is all that anyone has. It’s a balance, but I am trying very hard to take care of myself, to be kind. I have felt, for the first time ever perhaps, that it doesn’t really help to talk to people about what I am struggling with right now. I like updating them once I have a breakthrough, or asking for specific advice after I wade through and organize my own thoughts, all the leaves and flowers strewn about the waters, but active problem solving with people (read: in real time freak outs) feel burdensome to everyone and lead me to also feel worse about myself. I don’t feel very good after talking about myself to other people right now.

I do feel bad because I also don’t really have the capacity to be there for others, and I don’t feel like I have a legitimate reason to be in that state. Even when I was going through objectively difficult things, I was able to (I thought) be present for my friends. This isn’t a good excuse, but for those who are reading, I apologize for not being present. The following songs are a letter of sorts to myself, all the different parts and voices of glo, a progression of me into my own mind. As I’ve mentioned before, I have sought to be a sort of muse to someone rather than my own whatever. I feel like I am seeking to be my own muse at this time. I could not explain to you what this really means, but I am listening to these songs with a different perspective than usual. Perhaps this means I am just blithely self-centered, but I’m not imagining other people to be singing about me anymore, but feel like this is me singing about me? 

I am hopeful though. I think this could be something. 

9. 20. 2020  

_______________________________________________________________________

Is what I wrote nearly a month ago, a few weeks into these realizations, my purported ~self- care journey~ that I can’t say without a laugh (although it’s truly extremely important). And I was right. This WAS-IS SOMETHING. I feel more grounded and stable than I’ve felt since the dreaded March 2019. Grounded in a different sense, because I have let go of the notion that my feet need to touch the ground for me to feel stable. 

My superficial mood is still what it is, but I don’t feel it racking me to my core anymore. I feel like I know who I am, for the first time since March 2019. I still can’t put it into words, but I know that I I know. 

Open Wide- Spencer .

I hope you like the way I like to keep you in my head Same thoughts keep haunting me, while I am sleeping in my bed You've got me open wide Just come inside 

2much – Spencer  

Who let you make the rules? Summer's gone Win or lose, you still bruise Bring it on  I put my little truth in this song   Up too late, you're heavy on my mind now Lying to myself, I need to lie down Tearing down the walls, I need to cry now

Spencer’s music is like a beautiful, dreamy snapshot into vulnerability and honesty. An appropriate second intro for my journey with and within myself. God knows the same thoughts have been haunting me for a while, especially in the evenings laden with insomnia (which is ever so often these days), when my mind is not strong enough to fight off the negative thoughts and the burden of a day where I haven’t done nearly enough as I “should have.” But perhaps these repeating haunting thoughts actually show that I might as well invite myself into my own world, rather than forcing myself out. I’m already here anyway; might as well get comfortable. I’m too in my head a lot of the time, and this phrase is often used negatively. We need to be out in reality, in the real world; you just need to turn off your mind and get shit done. I’ve always believed in this firmly, which has led me to dislike myself a lot of the time. I like myself better when I’m action-oriented; I like others who are action-oriented, perhaps having been burnt hurt by people who are all thought and no action. But, at the same time, I need to recognize that I have never been that paralyzed to inaction so that I have lost something dear to me as a consequence. Of course, that could happen to me, as it can to anyone, but maybe I just need to cut myself some slack. Instead of forcing myself out of my mind, and feeling agonized when I find myself there inevitably, I would like to open wide and kindly invite myself in.  

And what better way than with some good old honesty. … Summer’s gone, win or lose, you still bruise. BRING IT ON. This line carries courage that I’ve felt I had lost for a while. I’ve been so afraid of, it boils down to, regret. A certain type of regret. 

Fun Girl - Summer Walker 

I remember what you told me Said I wasn't made right Said I wasn't cut right That's why I'm so lonely, mm Can't turn a ho into a housewife   Is it cause I love who I want and fuck who I choose to Don't take no shit and won't be used But I guess that makes me undesirable   Life's unfair

 I love Summer Walker with her ever raw, melancholy, crooning vocals. This mixtape-like track reminds me of an average post-grad apartment set up: soft beige carpets, and a girl singing into a mic surrounded by blankets on a second-hand plushy sofa. I listen to this song and think, what a dick this kid is for treating Summer this way when she’s baller. These queries are so relatable and I get so worked up until I realize—no one has ever said these things to me or made me feel this way really. It’s really just me saying it and doing it to myself. Funny to what extent you’re your worst critic. 

On a separate note, her life’s unfair outro just pulls at my heart. Each time she says it it’s as if I can accept that fact a little bit better. 

I Was Sad Last Night I’m OK now - Tobi Lou

I was sad last night, I'm okay now  My bad lil' bih went missin' on me All my confidence sure went missin' on me Ain't seen you in a while, are you checkin' on me?   I was hungry as fuck, I just ate now But the state that I'm in got me anxious again

Sometimes I ignore you too - Tobi Lou 

 All these things I don't need (A lot) Giving me anxiety (Stop)   (I need you to escape I'm like light years away I’m here, you’re there  It’s no fair    You think you make all the rules My insides are royal blue Sometimes I ignore you too)   Took a step back but, didn't go backwards I wanted things but they didn't happen

Tobi has been my soul food for the past few months. I was sad last night I’m OK now has been the mantra I’ve been trying to chant into existence. It’s all right you sad right now, but tomorrow, it’s gonna be better. It’s okay you were sad last night, but right now you’re ok. I play this song in the morning after I do my meditation. The cycle of trying to fulfill my basic needs/duties of the day, but the anxiety just popping up for no f- reason has really been my days lately. But I’m trying not to dwell on it too much. I constantly am reminding myself that I “took a step back but, didn’t go backwards.” I’m trying to live by it.  

Tobi is a prolific artist and just so accurately captures the spirit of your twenties, these particular turbulent and unsure times, in so many other songs too. He just owns his vulnerability in a funky way; he’s sad but boppy; insecure but also knows he’s still hot shit, and honestly just goals. He just matter-of-factly states what he’s going through, and shows me that all these emotions can coexist at the same time and that’s fine and beautiful. I can be sad sometimes, but be okay; I can feel doubt while also thinking my insides are royal blue; I can miss someone but also ignore them; I can feel like things aren’t fair but move on; I can take a step back but move forward. 

Dr. WHOEVER - Amine

I sit here and tell you my problems That's how this work, right? I'm s'posed to be open and honest But I got time, right Let your feelings settle in

I want war (but I need peace) - Kali Uchis 

My mind and my soul is the weapon And every failure was a lesson See, I just wanna grow into my greatness I wish I had the time that you takin'   I want war, but I need peace And they kept on callin' me crazy But maybe, that's how God made me

On the note of accepting myself, maybe this is how God made me. I’ve tried digging into why it was I was in such a funk when things were objectively fine, other than the obvious of what happened in Spring 2019. But I haven’t really* been able to get down to it, and I’ve felt a bit crazy and frustrated. And yet, I have been pressuring myself to get out of it for so long. The overarching theme has been that I’ve felt that I have no time, as Amine seems to question in Dr. WHOEVER. I feel so old, so behind in life, but can’t muster up the motivation to do even the basics for a while. Hence the loop-de-loop of doom. I’m maybe realizing that personality-wise I approach things like a war—something to conquer, to overcome, to achieve—when what I really need is peace—kindness, a steadier state. And instead of seeking that from external things—career, marriage by a certain age (which seem to be the standard these days)—I need to find that in myself. 

I do think I’ve reached a point where I can’t justify why, but I can put words to why the slump has lasted this long. It’s because I felt like I just wasn’t making progress in any core pillars of my life. Even the good things were arbitrary and by chance, and it just made me feel like I wasn’t earning anything or moving forward. An interesting and random event has made me realize though, that every failure has been* a lesson, even though it’s taking much longer & more effort for me to feel it and realize it in my life. My mind and my soul has been a weapon that I’ve used against myself for a while, and I’m realizing I still can* use it for myself. I’m trying to grow into my greatness, and I think I am getting there, slowly but surely. Maybe I do have the time that you takin. 

Instead of ruminating on why and what went wrong on multiple fronts, I am trying to cut my losses and accept, much like JID does. Sometimes you try for shit and shit just doesn’t work out. I need to just use how God made me to deal with whatever it is I’m going through, and be satisfied, even feel a sense of appreciation, instead of focusing on what I’m not:  

Workin Out - JID  

(Mama call, "Where the fuck you at?") -the story of living in Korea with my parents at age 26.    I gave everything and got nothing back    'Cause I been working hella hard, shit ain't really working out I been praying to the Lord, shit ain't really working out I been looking to the stars, keep my head up in the clouds Shit ain't really working out, shit ain't really working out   Quiet Don't explain What is there to gain   Searching for a purpose, I see what you on Difference in how you be using your gifts In the midst of the shit that you dealing with

And a brief interjection to actually embrace the vulnerability that I so admire in Tobi and these artists. Despite these realizations that you need to stop lingering too much and move on, you still want a hot tub dream machine and want things you can’t have, and want to croon about it for a bit. “Honesty is better when it’s practiced”: this line hits me most saliently these days. It’s one of those lines that hits you and you’re like wow, what an interesting way to phrase a truth. We always talk about honesty and the value of it, and harbor our honest thoughts it in ourselves. Yet we rarely fully voice it, to ourselves nor to our families, friends, partners and it leads to a lot of strife. Honesty not about what we want or want to reach, but where we’re at right now. A failure to do this has been a central part of how things went further south last year. I’ve been taking this to heart, and trying to practice this form of honesty these days. 

Hot tub DREAM machine - tobi Lou 

Ayy, I need a hot tub time machine Then I can go back and fix everything Same old you, but a different me  Maybe we can be human beings   Still struggling with a whole lot of things I'm still down here spiraling   But you know there's something about you  That makes me happy, but makes me so sad too  Makes me so damn sad  I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna say good night I don't wanna get too weak, I don't wanna slip your mind   'Cause lately you so UFO You don't come around no more You visit me in my dreams Like why on Earth you do that for?

Cheap Vactions – Tobi Lou  

I'm just waitin' on you, on you I got a window seat with your name on it I got the red eye cheap, we could fade on it   I-I-I do not think I'm ok  Sometimes I think I can fly  You know I hate being lonely  Don't keep me waiting too long 

 Stolen Moments - Cautious Clay  

Honesty is better when it’s practiced Don’t stress your confidence in subtleties Cus no better half can satisfy A wasted alibi

Ultimately, despite the meandering journey I’ve been on, the dips of frustration and self-questioning, I feel it like a faint hint in the backdrop that has gotten more salient over the months: I’m proud of myself. I remember listening to PROUD OF U by EARTHGANG (feat. Young Thug) while doing some dumbbell rows at the gym and feeling a pang in my chest and perhaps, a tiny tear in my eye. Something about Young Thug’s cracking voice as he says he’s proud of you that got to me. These past few months, I’ve truly realized how hard on myself I normally am and it feels like a big step for me to be proud of myself, not for an external achievement that everyone validates or something that I think is impossible, but for working on myself in a silent way, even if parts of it may appear incomprehensible or silly to both myself and others. 

And my lighthearted spirit anthem. I’m addicted to “taking care of myself” in all ways these past few months, and a funsie way it has manifested is exactly and literally the following: an obsession with skincare. No matter the topsy turvy tribulations of the day, I wrap up the evening slapping on some new toners, serums, and creams, maybe peeling off a sheet mask pack, and feeling myself to this song. There’s something that feels affirming about taking care of my skin even if “the world gonna end,” and I see no one. It’s a symbolic, tangible, but also random act that keeps it all in good fun. The interweaving of cursing out the doom of 2020, the anger directed towards multiple sources yet no one at all, the sadness, the confidence, the indignation, the sass, the resolve, the twinkly dancing alone in my room, the laughter, all in no particular order, it all me right now. 

I really do feel like if I continue down this road, circling back to Dr. Whoever, I’ll be on track in my life. This may actually save a life:

SKIN CARE TUTORIAL 2020 - Tobi Lou

I'm irrational, I'm too passionate I don't give a fuck, I just popped a zip Mirror on the wall, who the baddest bitch? Oh yeah right that's me How could I forget?  Vengeance on these hoes, 2020 shit Real sad shit   God damn bitch, I'm beautiful Have you ever seen a - like me? Let me answer that for you, no you haven't   I'm takin' care of my skin, ayy I'm drinkin' water and shit, yeah I moisturize like a bitch, ooh   Fuck 2020 by the way, yeah   (Bitch, this might fuck around and save a life) 

 Updated mid-Oct & mid-Nov 2020 

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Kindness; Part One

Fandom: Fallout (3)

Pairing: Female Lone Wanderer/Charon

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: So! This was the first thing I ever wrote for Fallout. I decided to revisit it, do a little proofreading/retooling (I was much younger when I began this tale; I wrote it over the course of three-ish years) and then pop it over here and on my AO3.

There will be twelve posts in all, as I’ve grouped together the chapters into something more manageable.

I hope you enjoy!

It had been a quiet night in Underworld. Cerberus' processors whirred quietly as the robot made its rounds about the ghoul lobby. Inside The Ninth Circle, Charon leaned against the wall and narrowed his eyes at nothing at all.

 Bored. Bored bored bored. So bored. The ghoul groaned mentally. There hadn't been a single rowdy outburst in almost a week. After he had tossed Patches out, there had hardly been a voice in the place that was over a whisper. The soft drone of conversation threatened to put Charon to sleep. A low growl of discontent rumbled through his chest. The sparse patrons cast nervous glances in the seven-foot tall ghoul's direction, all used to his somewhat volatile nature. But they knew they were safe as long as Ahzrukhal didn't give him the go-ahead.

 The door to the lobby creaked open and a bundled-up figure slipped in. Ahzrukhal perked up noticeably, a smile creasing the leathery remainder of his facial skin. “Well well, lookee here! We got us a smoothskin I've never seen before.” Ahzrukhal rasped. “Welcome to The Ninth Circle, stranger. Take a seat and tell ol' Ahzrukhal your problems.”

 “I've heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Ahzrukhal.” The stranger murmured. “What I need right now though, is vodka.” He began rummaging in the large rucksack that had been slung across over his shoulder. “I have caps, of course. But I also have a few bottles of whiskey I'll gladly let you take off my hands.”

 Charon's patchy eyebrows rose. Easy there, smoothskin.

 “This is good stuff. Where you been scavenging, stranger?” Ahzrukhal wheezed, holding one of the bottles up to the light.

 The stranger shot the ghoul a quick grin from under the wide brim of his hat, pulling down a thick bandanna to do so. “That's for me to know and you to never figure out.”

 Ahzrukhal harrumphed, pouring the stranger his preferred poison as the other man re-buckled his rucksack.

 ...

 The stranger was in The Ninth Circle every night for almost two weeks. He had a quiet way about him, and never seemed to take his hat or bandanna off. Every evening he came in with a few more bottles of finer-grade liquor to trade for his bottle of vodka, which he would then nurse for several hours as he swapped tales with the residents of Underworld.

 Charon was always there, ever constant in his guard. The stranger seemed keen on taking a seat at the table closest to the glowering ghoul, but never actually attempted to converse with him. He didn't even really acknowledge his presence. Until tonight, that is. Charon caught a cautious brown-eyed look from under that wide-brimmed hat. The smoothskin quickly looked away, hauling his dusty bandanna up and jamming his hat lower. “Does he ever let you sit?” The stranger seemed to be deliberately keeping his tone light, like he was trying to be subtle.

 Charon shifted his weight, re-crossing his arms. A question. One that I can't answer. “Talk to Ahzrukhal.”

 The man grumbled into his vodka, “How about I fuckin' don't. That guy makes my skin crawl, and it isn't because of his looks.” Charon's arms flexed across his chest with the pent-up energy of agreeing wholeheartedly with the stranger. “So he doesn't let you talk, either. Freely, anyway.”

 Charon grunted.

 “M' name's Spoon. I know yours is Charon. He told me. He also mentioned that you're under some sort of contract. Is that right, or is it just a bunch of shit?” The stranger queried softly, swishing the vodka around in his battered mug.

 Charon's eyes narrowed. That fucking prick needs to be more careful about who he tells this shit. I don't feel the need to take on a smoothskin army in his defense. The ghoul grunted again. It wasn't necessarily a noise of confirmation, just a noise. Charon had found a variety of ways to get around his orders when he needed to.

 “Strange. Alright then. One more question, and then I promise I'll be off to Carol's for the night.” The stranger leaned forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, pushing his hat back a little so he could make eye contact with Charon. “Are you content here? Is this...is this what you want?” He asked, quiet enough that Charon could have ignored him.

 Charon abruptly felt like the room was too small, like everyone was watching them. He swallowed hard, tightening his arms across his chest. Ahzrukhal, it seemed, had finally picked up on the discomfort of his 'employee', and his voice rang out across the bar. “Charon! Get this waste out of here.”

 Charon's head snapped up, noting Ahzrukhal's annoyed look when the bartender pointed to Patches. The ragged ghoul, already falling apart and heavily inebriated, couldn't even run as with three easy strides Charon was on him. Charon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, seething inwardly at the obvious show Ahzrukhal was putting on for the smoothskin. The bartender probably would dub it, “displaying Charon's prowess”, or some other equally sanctimonious bullshit. In The Ninth Circle Charon was both warning and promise, and Ahzrukhal never missed a chance to display the power he held.

 Charon hadn't noticed that the stranger (Spoon?) had followed him until he had deposited Patches in front of The Chop Shop and turned to go back to the bar. He almost ran over the smoothskin, large fists clenching tight enough to hurt for a second.

 “Easy big fella'. You didn't answer my question, exactly. But...” Spoon glanced down at Patchwork, “I think I can make a safe assumption.”

 Charon snarled, shoving past the stranger with a clipped, “Talk to Ahzrukhal.” A hand caught his arm though, the sensation so foreign it stopped the ghoul in his tracks. The fingers seemed cold to Charon's constantly fever-hot skin, and it jarred him a little. Never mind the fact that the smoothskin was touching him in the first place.

 But all Spoon did was sigh, somewhat heavily, as he patted Charon's arm. “Give me a week.” He muttered, tilting his hat back again to look at Charon. The ghoul was highly confused, to say the least. Spoon headed off to his room, and Charon returned to his corner, brain whirling with what the smoothskin might have meant.

 He didn't dare to get excited, oh no. Too many hands had been on his contract. Sometimes within minutes of each other. He snorted, ignoring what felt like little electrical jolts running through his body.

 Not excited, and certainly not holding my breath.

 Spoon was gone in the morning, payment for his bed bundled in a ragged square of cloth under Carol's pillow. Winthrop mentioned hopefully that the smoothskin might bring him some scrap metal to fix the rattling vents. “I'm getting too stiff to scavenge it myself.”

 Charon had rolled his eyes at that. That smoothskin doesn't owe you jack, old man. As much as he didn't want to hope though, Charon found himself counting the days until the end of the week. He stood up a little straighter every time the door creaked open, hating the sickening drop in his stomach when it was just another ghoul here for their fix.

 A week passed and the hope that Charon had been denying the existence of eased quietly into disappointment. He knew that it had been a futile dream from the start, he was a permanent fixture of this bar and no scavenger with a goofy hat was going to change that.

 Despite his dour view, his daydreams were full of the smoothskin striding into the bar in a blaze of glory, venom spewing from his mouth as he tore Ahzrukhal a new one and took Charon's contract. Though the scenario would change (sometimes the scavenger blew the bartender to kingdom come and emerged triumphant from the rubble like Grognak, sometimes he crept in at night and craftily slid the contract out of Ahzrukhal's pocket while he slept), the ending remained the same.

 “C'mon partner, we've got work to do.”

 Charon shook his head at himself. What a pipe dream. In all his years of service, he had yet to come across an employer who saw him as anything more than a killing machine. Some of them started out nice enough but just like his daydreams they all ended the same, with the large ghoul being sold off to the highest bidder in exchange for caps or resources.

 On a few occasions his employer had gone down in a hail of gunfire and Charon was forced to stop fighting, order-bound to dig through his employer's pockets with shaking hands and take his contract. Only to press it into the grip of the next person he came across, for good or ill.

 His leathers creaked as his arms tightened across his chest. I'm so damn tired of this.

 ...

 On the eleventh day, Spoon returned. He seemed to be in a bad way, according to what Charon overheard from the bar patrons. The story went that he had run into some Talon Company undesirables that had it out for him, and it was only through Willow's sharpshooting that he managed to escape.

 Yet as the day drew to a close, that familiar figure darkened the doorway to The Ninth Circle. He was instantly swarmed by excited ghouls, clamoring to hear his tale. He brushed them off though, murmuring that he needed a drink before embarking on his story. The young man threw some caps on the bar and Ahzrukhal tossed a bottle of vodka his way. Spoon tore the cap off and started drinking straight from the bottle, forgoing his usual chipped mug. “Alright, alright. Settle down. First, I need to know where Carol is. She ain't at her place.” Spoon finally said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 “She headed over to Snowflake for her usual skinning.” One of the ghouls offered, giggling at her own choice of words. Spoon nodded his thanks.

 “Good. As far as my story goes, ain't much to tell. I'll be on my way tomorrow. Now that I've got the Talons on my tail, I don't want anyone else getting hurt.” His eyes strayed to Charon, and he slid off his stool, nodding his thanks to Ahzrukhal for the vodka. “I'll be back later. I have to go thank Willow, and I still have a whole bunch of goodies for Tulip. Oh! And Winthrop's scrap.” He grinned, giving his pack a shake so everyone could hear the heavy clank of the metal.

 A few of the patrons followed him out, no doubt interested in whatever he had to barter to Tulip. Charon sighed, maybe a little louder than necessary as he relaxed against the wall again. He should have known that the smoothskin would forget him. They always did.

 …

 Spoon was back within the hour, his shoulders somewhat tense as he took his customary table near Charon. “Sorry I'm late.”

 Charon thought his head might fall clean off his shoulders if this smoothskin kept surprising him.

 Spoon grinned up at him suddenly, face much paler under its layers of grime than Charon remembered. “Those Talon fuckers followed me for a few days. I was starting to get worried. I picked most of 'em off in the metros, but it was a little touch and go between them, the ferals and the Big Greens across the way. Lucky for me Willow's a crack shot, otherwise I'd have been mincemeat.”

 Charon remained silent.

 Spoon looked back down at his bottle, seeming deep in thought. “You're pissed at me, ain't you. I figured you would be. I really am sorry I'm a couple days behind. I'm horrible at schedules and shit. Not my strong point. But,” He continued, reaching into his rucksack and beginning to forage around. “I can make it up to you if you can hang on for a few more minutes.”

 Charon's brow furrowed as Spoon pulled a few good-sized bundles out of his bag. The ghoul's eyes widened when he heard the unmistakable sound of caps clinking against each other. Spoon rose and slung his rucksack back over his shoulder, shooting the ghoul a teasing wink.

 The scavenger sauntered over to the bar, and leaned in close to Ahzrukhal. Charon strained his ears and cursed inwardly when he couldn't hear a thing. Spoon spoke for several minutes in a low tone, seeming passionate about whatever the fuck he was saying as he used his hands to illustrate his points. Charon's body jolted when Ahzrukhal reached out a hand and ran it down the side of the smoothskin's face, and the large ghoul found himself fighting a wave of nausea, clearing his throat and looking away.

 Spoon gestured to Charon abruptly and Ahzrukhal drew his hand back in a quick jerk. The bouncer did his best to appear bored and like he wasn't paying attention as Spoon handed over one of his bundles. Ahzrukhal made a show of slowly counting the caps, bunching piles of fifty while Spoon looked on, leaning against the counter and continuing to slug off his bottle.

 The bartending ghoul finally nodded after what seemed like an eternity, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out...something. Spoon took whatever it was and carefully tucked it away into his own jacket. Charon forced down a growl at how Ahzrukhal's fingers lingered on the smoothskin's for far too long.

 The bouncer hadn't realized he had been holding his breath until Spoon casually sat back down and he released it all in a quiet whoosh. “Well big guy...Charon, that is, how would you like to go on an adventure?” Spoon's smile was genuine this time, not some cheesy showman's grin as he showed the ghoul the worn piece of paper he had gotten.

 Charon's breath caught in his throat, and it was with shaking legs that he lowered himself into the chair next to Spoon. Spoon murmured something sympathetic, pointing towards his bottle of vodka in an unspoken go ahead. Charon took a healthy gulp, his eyes watering at the strength of the stuff. “How did you manage to get my contract?” He finally said, his voice coarser than usual from disuse.

 Spoon looked worried. “I bought it, of course. He wanted me to kill Greta, y'know. But I couldn't. She's not the easiest person to be around, but nobody fucking is anymore. I refused that, so he asked for two thousand caps. I figured he probably thought I wouldn't be able to come up with 'em. I could, I just needed time to scavenge. I had to go a little more...out of the way than usual.” Spoon leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs. “I got a little over two thou' once I traded most of my junk in Rivet City. I hoped he might be greedy enough to take a thousand, if he got to see it upfront. I did have the other thou', just in case. And the rest is history.”

 “That rat bastard got my contract for free and he just fleeced the shit out of you because you're too nice to kill his competition.” Charon snarled. “I'll go over the specifics of the contract with you in just a minute. Right now, I must take care of something.” He shoved his chair back from the table, and it was with measured steps that he made his way to the bar.

 The room hushed and Ahzrukhal looked up from his caps, sensing something was amiss. “Ah, Charon. Have you come to say goodbye?” He rasped, that insufferably sleazy smile on his face.

 “Yes.” Charon spat, whipping the combat shotgun off his back and aiming down the sights. Ahzrukhal's face froze in a mask of almost comical shock as Charon blew his body apart with two cool trigger pulls; the bartender was dead before he hit the ground. Some of his blood splattered across Charon's face and Charon hastily wiped it off. The idea of that evil man's blood on his skin made his stomach clench queasily. He spat to the side, then turned on his heel as people seemed to realize what had just happened.

 “Oh my God!”

 “He shot Ahzrukhal!”

 “He's gone feral!”

 The Ninth Circle was empty in less than thirty seconds. The only people left were the smoothskin, Charon himself, and what remained of Ahzrukhal. Charon came and sat back down next to Spoon, noting with a flash of amusement that the smoothskin seemed to be in shock. “Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract, I was honor-bound to do as he commanded. But now, you are my employer and I will serve you, for good or ill.” The binding phrase came from him easily. He'd said it so many times before. For good or ill.

 “Uh, you probably shouldn't have done that.” Spoon managed to choke out. Charon shrugged, flexing long-unused muscles with a sigh of satisfaction. The adrenaline felt wonderful. And the knowledge that Ahzrukhal would never touch or order him around again was almost its own reward. “No seriously, what if everyone thinks I ordered you to do that? They'll kill me!” Spoon continued, not noticing how Charon's eyes darkened.

 “No one will lay a hand on you. Every ghoul here tonight was already eavesdropping on us. They all knew I was unhappy, but there was nothing any of them could do. Caps are scarce in Underworld, especially when you have your own addictions to manage.” Charon grumbled. “They'll view it as an act of mercy that you freed me from him.”

 “O...Okay. If you're sure. I'm uh...I'm paid up at Carol's for the night, so you can come with me. Then tomorrow I've got to head out. Do you want to come with me, or do you have other stuff to do?” Spoon asked, obviously trying to avoid looking at the remains of the bartender on the floor.

 Charon snorted. “You don't seem to understand how this works, Master. I am bound to you. You are my employer. And until you see fit to foist me off on someone, or someone offers you the right amount of caps, or someone somehow manages to get past me and blow your brains out, I will follow you.”

 “Oh.” Spoon said weakly. “I thought that...I thought if I gave you your contract, you'd be free and you could kind of...choose whether you wanted to come along or not.”

 “No. That is not how my contract works. But it was kind of you to think that you would free me after paying that many caps.” Charon hesitated, then carried on, “I know the only things you've seen me do probably don't strike you as fine displays of my skills. But I swear on my life, I will make my services worth your kindness.” For good or ill.

 “Alright then.” Spoon stuck his hand out, cheerily seeming to ignore how Charon flinched at the speed of the action. “Let's shake on it, eh big guy?”

 Charon stared down at his hand, well aware that the distrust was plain on his face. “Equals shake, and I am not your equal.”

 Spoon made an exasperated noise, tangling his fingers with the tall ghoul's and moving them in a clumsy shaking motion. “If you're gonna' play it like that, at least don't call me Master. Shit's fucked up.”

 “What should I call you?” Charon asked. “Master was sufficient for my prior employers.”

 Spoon shrugged. “Whatever the fuck you want to call me, I guess? Doesn't really matter to me. If you're gonna' be stuck with me for a while, you might as well call me something you like. Everyone else calls me Spoon though.”

 “Very well. Spoon.” Charon could tell he had some adjusting to do.

 “Let's get to bed, huh?” Spoon jerked his head towards the door. “I dunno about you, but it's late as shit and I am exhausted.” He extended a hand to his new companion, that strangely-genuine smile back again as he helped the ghoul up.

 ...

 Carol was wearing a different dress. That was the first thing Charon realized when he took a cautious step into Carol's Place. It wasn't new. Nothing was new in this world that they lived in. But it was new to her. It was a gentle shade of purple. It made her look radiant, no pun intended.

 Spoon smiled tiredly at the woman. “It suits you! Couldn't wait to put it on, eh?” He jibed with a wink.

 “Oh quiet, you. It's been so long since I wore something different.” The ghoul hushed him, looking worriedly up at Charon. “What's he doing with you, dear? I've heard a few rumors. Something happened to Ahzrukhal?”

 “I bought his contract. Charon got...uh, really happy about it. So happy he shot Ahzrukhal in the face.” Spoon mumbled, seeming embarrassed.

 Carol sucked in a breath. “So he's dead?”

 Spoon nodded. “Yeah. Originally Ahzrukhal wanted me to kill Greta for the contract, but I worked out another deal.”

 Carol's eyes welled up and she pressed her hands to her mouth. “Not my Greta.” She said softly.

 “I don't doubt it.” Charon growled. “You and yours were his only competition. If I hadn't killed the bastard, he would have just gotten some other prick to do it.”

 “Language, dear.” Carol scolded absently, hugging Spoon tight. The man yelped, and Carol quickly let go. “I'm so sorry dear! I forgot.” she said with a frown.

 “I'll be okay, just a little tender still. No worries.” Spoon grimaced. “Is it alright if Charon stays here with me?”

 “Of course sweetheart. Are you two hungry? I can see if I have some Cram left over that isn't as purple as this lovely dress.” Carol said with a dry chuckle. Spoon nodded, thanking Carol for letting them stay even after what had happened. Carol brushed him off though, smiling and saying that he was too kind for the Wastes.

 For good or ill.

Part Two

#fallout 3 #charon the ghoul #Female!Lone Wanderer #slow burn #my first work in this fandom #rewrite #hurt/comfort #canon-typical violence #video games #charon/F!LW #I will never apologize for this #you're a girl?! trope

[thisrecipefordisaster-blog]

Some background part 1

This was a very strange night for me. I was listening to some music and had an urge to write and as the songs changed, memories floated to the surface and i got lost in writing. This is all over the place; I am well aware of that. But, this is good insight as to who I am and what shaped me into this person I am today.

TRIGGER WARNING (Self harm, bullying, and eating disorder talk)

March 2nd. 2019 11:45 p.m

-talking to dad about ‘J’ not letting us have any conversations just the two of us (that made me a sneaky bitch) - i looked at J as a mother until all of this. -I was already starved for attention, and with you ‘abandoning’ me, that took all the attention I got.

1.I was getting bullied every single day in school, online, and my friends would tell me what was being said about me. 2. My parents divorced that year. 3.I got put in the middle. My dad came up to my room while I was crying and told me that my mom would try to get me to pick her over him. 4.Mom would yell at dad for no reason, slam things and walk around screaming. She was too angry for me. I tried to avoid talking to her (that I can remember. It’s clouded.) 5.Mom called the cops on dad one time after I came home from school. I remember that very clearly. I came home and was telling dad about my dad and we heard mom drive up very fast and slam her car door shut. We were dreading the moment she walked in the house. She started yelling at him about some letter I could’ve seen (it was in a sealed envelope that did not have my name on it so I did not care about it) then proceeded to wave it in my face. Then she crumpled it up and threw it at me. I walked out and let her yell at dad. I went upstairs to tell my sister and heard her screaming even louder so I walked down stairs and hid on the landing and watched them. Dad put his hands on her shoulders and said calm down and she pushed his hands away. Continued screaming at him. Then minutes later turned around like a wild animal and screamed, ‘Did you see him hit me?!  HE HIT ME!’ I followed her around screaming at her how she was lying and what bullshit it was. We went outside and I yelled I needed my cds out of her car. I went to grab them and she hit me on the arm so hard it left a hand print.  6. Cops came after she left. Dad almost went to jail. But they talked to me and took what I had to say seriously, (and the fact that mom had no marks) so he never went to jail. 7.Dad and I had no money for anything when mom moved out, we hardly had enough for bills. When I had my period, I had no pads and mom never helped buy me any. She didn’t care. She wanted to get back at dad. I suffered. We had no gas money to get me to my counselor.  8.My friends weren’t allowed to hang out because their moms were conviced my dad beat my mom. 9. I started writing stories about bands. Eventually i made a blog on here and had at least 500 followers. I was so supported by people who barely knew me. They loved my writing. 10.Dad and I moved. 11. Everyone thought I was mad at my mom because my dad was. My dad pushed me to have a relationship with her. I never got over #5&6. I cut her out of every picture i had. 12. Dad met ‘J’. 13. J came to live with us. She was nice. I called her mom. 14. Suddenly I wasn’t allowed to talk to my dad or ask him things in private. I was a sneaky bitch if I did. And it was disrespectful. I was 15. 15. She put me down a lot. Called me names. Cunt. Piece of shit. Bitch. Motherfucker. Dumb. Stupid. 16.Dad and I fought. A lot. He thought I just didn’t like him dating. He wouldn’t listen. .Once we fought over a glass of milk. J needed it more. How dare i. I told my school counselor. She called cps. 17. I got home and the door was locked. Dad let me in and he was mad. J screamed at me. How dare I? I was spoiled and a brat. Fuck me. Stupid bitch I was to do such a thing. She went on about foster care and her bad experiences getting beat and raped and wished it on me. I was 15 and broken.  18. I moved in with mom. 19. I had no one except for a friend we will call K. Mom and I fought constantly.  Somehow that was better than living with J and dad.  20.Dad brought me my mail one day. I had typed up some lyrics that summed up how I felt. He told me I had no right to feel that way, everything was my fault. J was done. He even compared us. ‘J and you are like cats. Shes a new cat and you’re an old one. New cats need more love and attention than old ones.’ 21.She officially stole my father from me. 

The whole time before all that; Kids at school made me feel stupid, pathetic, worthless, fat, ugly, undesirable, a waste of space.  I used to cut myself over those comments.

I started starving myself.

They got divorced and mom went nuts and lied. I shut her out. I didn’t trust her. I HATED her. I lost her. J stole dad, the only support I had. I started burning myself after that. I’d stick a ring into a candle flame for half a minute, dip it in the wax and press it against my arm. I’d do it until the pain was all I felt. 

I turned to guys for attention. Not sexual stuff, just to talk to and get some sort of feeling of validation, feeling valued, and holding someones attention. I became a cold hearted hateful bitch. And very distrusting of anyone and everyone.

#blogger #journal entry #depression #self harm #hate #anger

[chatoyee]

how do you tell your mother that yes, i do have mental health issues that actually require therapy? that everything she said and worries that you have are true?

i’m sorry, mum. i always knew i could never be as strong-minded and as capable as you have always been. i remember you recounting those memories of when you were young, how you never faltered with your words and stood your ground regardless of the situation. bullies never feared you because of your sharp tongue and your beauty to match.

i can never be like you, and it’s because of the many voices in my head telling me that i’m simply not enough. and i’m really sorry that i cried that night right in front of you. that breakdown i had, i really do apologise. i didn’t mean to make you so scared, but i just couldn’t do it any more. i’ve always felt inferior to all my friends, and being constantly compared to them and just others in general - i can’t deal with that.

“you’ve gotta be confident like me.” i wish i could be. “you know i always want my daughter to be the best, and so i try to give you the best for everything. if i don’t care about you, then who would i care for if not my own daughter?” even recalling these words brings me to tears. it’s almost been a week since it all happened but i still feel like shit because i know you’re trying your best. it’s all my fault, really.

you don’t understand mental health, and that’s not because you’re wilfully ignorant. you just don’t get it. no-one’s ever tried to explain to you, and i’m sure you’re dealing with demons of your own. in fact, i know so. it’s just... there’s so much stigma. you whispered “therapy” under your breath as if it were a curse word, supposing that it would conjure up some sort of unwanted presence. but don’t you realise? there is an unwanted presence constantly shadowing me, and it’s never really gone away. 

i can’t even remember when it all started, but it started way before he happened. i know that you are aware of all the things he’d inflicted upon me. i never wanted to tell him but i knew you were very dubious about him and how he’d impact me. the very first day i told you about him, you didn’t exactly keep your reservations about him to yourself. to this day, you still tell me about how you just wanted me to be happy, so you let things be. you thought that’s what i wanted. i’m sorry i never listened.

i think things started when i was around 15. i remember that day quite clearly. i was with a friend, walking up the stairs to our classroom on the 2nd floor. it was the first week back from the summer holidays. she’d asked me how i felt and i can honestly say that the first feeling that ran through me was ‘shit. i feel like shit.’ things just went downhill from there.

i like to say it’s seasonal affective disorder. the winter likes to let me slip through its fingers, toying me about with its occasional ribbons of sunlight streaming through the greyness. but why is it that i cry so much during the summertime? isn’t that when i’m supposed to feel my best? four consecutive years of tears. is it because i’m also extremely insecure?

“you’d look a lot better in those if your thighs weren’t so big” / “aren’t you eating a lot?” / “oh wow, your double chin in that picture” / “it’s a shame you can’t transfer the fat from your butt to your chest, huh?” / “your skin is really dry, don’t you moisturise it? your eczema’s gotten better though, hasn’t it? remember when you were little? it was so bad!” / “why don’t you try putting some ointment on your stretch marks? so you can wear bikinis?” / “you’re really dark now, aren’t you? you better stay out of the sun”

i know i’m not fat. but why is it that i feel fat? why do i feel ugly? and why are these two concepts seen to be synonymous? why am i making this connection between two words that shouldn’t be seen as the same? but what is it that i’m lacking? i cried and cried and i knew it was absolutely ridiculous of me to give in to norms and expectations like that. if anyone, of course i would know better than to sob my eyes out at these social constructs that shouldn’t mean shit to me. yet i was so fucking vulnerable. and i felt terrible for subjecting my own mother to my unrelenting wails because i felt that i’m just plain ugly. that i’m undesirable. 

she took one look at me and asked, “i know that isn’t the only thing on your mind for you to be crying like this. what else is there? you can tell me.” it took me a brief moment to connect all the dots and realise how fucking damaging these norms are, yet here i am, still trying so fucking hard to adhere to them. to let them dictate my self-worth and attach that to my level of desirability to people i liked. goodness gracious, what have i become but a fucking fool for something as shit as love. how is it that love is also guided by these idiotic gender norms?

“i just feel ugly because things never work out with the people i end up liking. i think they just don’t like me enough. or i’m just not enough for them.” she knows pretty much everything. from the very beginning, trying to hide my feelings from this woman isn’t possible when she can read me like an open book. she tears through each of my pages without any grace, each of her questions pinpointing details with a quick skim that others would acquire with intense interrogation. but my mother is nimble. 

but what is it to me, reassurance that it’s not yet my time, when everyone else seems to have found their ‘time’? my life from last summer onwards is just full of ebbs and flows. there will never be any sense of stability from now on.

i couldn’t have the one i wanted last year because i didn’t want a long distance relationship. i didn’t trust myself. i didn’t trust him. i didn’t trust relationships. it hurts too much to be too far. i knew i’d probably dip because it would hurt too bad, to be so far from him and make him suffer so much. he was never the type to hold down. this summer, the one i wanted, yet again, parted by a fucking ocean. why is it that my soul continuously wants another who can never have their feet rooted in the same place as me for more than six months?

i think it’s me. i want what i cannot have. perhaps there really is something romantic about a love that just doesn’t work out. it’s the bittersweet taste to which i keep on coming back, rather thoughtlessly too. perhaps that’s why my taste for wine has grown. i never liked wine. thought it too bitter. wine is one of my favourites now. i’ve grown too accustomed to what tastes like departure.

#words

[ceaselessly-into-the-past]

the return

Today’s the first time I’m going home since I’ve come here. On a similar note, I’ve been nauseous and more anxious than usual for the past twelve or so hours.

Most of the fear comes from the fact that my parents and older brother - just as an introduction to his character, keep in mind the words Harvard, successful, hyperintelligent, Harvard, and malicious dickwad - visited me in my room last week unannounced. All I knew at the time was that I was to meet my dad outside in the car, which I’d agreed to because my father is reasonable and tolerable, but when I went to see him there were two extras that demanded to follow me back up to my dorm. I didn’t have a choice.

The first thing my brother did was walk over to my shelves, where I keep my shower basket, books, medical care sets and so on, and picked out my shampoo bottle, asking if I was able to figure out how to use it. I politely responded ‘yes,’ recalling that I had asked my mom, who had bought the thing, about it before I left home and hadn’t been given a proper response.

He then proceeded to deliberately push down on the dispenser and leak shampoo on my carpeted floor.

He comes into my room and on purpose dumps my fucking shampoo on my fucking floor.

‘Out,’ I said. ‘Get out, all of you. right now.’ The curse words that I would’ve used stuck in my throat like bloated cysts. ‘You can’t stay here.’

My parents sided with him. ‘Oh come on, it’s just shampoo. You won’t even see it in an hour.’ ‘You should thank him, he basically cleaned your floor for you, haha!’ ‘Why do you get so jumpy about stupid things? Grow up, Kei.’ ‘Yeah, you’re being childish and rude. We’re your family you know.’ ‘Stop being so unpleasant. You should be grateful that we even want to come here.’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘You should go see the school counselor, there’s something wrong with you.’ ‘There’s something wrong with you.’ ‘There’s something wrong with you. There’s something wrong with you.There’s something wrong with you.There’s something wrong with youThere’s something wrongwithyouThere’ssomethingwrongwithyouThere’s somethingwrongwithyouthere’ssomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyoutheressomethingwrongwithyouTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETIHINGWRONGWITHYOUTHERESSOMETHINGWRONGWITHYOU

I am the ungrateful runt; the disobedient, petulant, disfigured and undesirable animal. I am invited into the house only for the sport and amusement of humans.

I’ve had to speak to my mom over the phone a few times leading up to today to get things in order - what I need to bring home, when and were to meet, that she’ll force feed me if I haven’t eaten enough.

Her voice makes me feel as though someone has jammed a cigarette between my lips and forced me to take my first drag as I stare down the length of the rolled-up paper, looking down and into my lungs filling with a thousand toxins. I’ve never smoked a cigarette before but somehow that’s exactly how it feels. The acrid smoke of her words and the faces I know she’s making on the other end sting my throat and make my eyes water. My stomach trembles and quietly churns as the information she shoves through the phone line comes down, down down and meets the acid and pepsin leaking desperately from the gastric walls.

The sight of her feels like a violation and never fails to rouse the urge in me to beat her to death just so she’ll stop existing.

Of course, I’d never do that. She’d be too insulted and haunt me until I killed myself out of a more malignant version of unbearable insanity she’s planted in my own brain. And though I’m not sure, I feel like that would be worse. With a human mother, at least you know where they are. A ghost mother could be anywhere because you can’t see them.

It’s the old horror movie principle - the less you see the monster, the scarier and more dangerous it feels.

I think I’m losing my mind.

I feel so suffocatingly small and the noises are too much and every second I spend in my room I can feel like a slow-burning, excruciating heat wave the intimidating forces that are the two roommates in the neighboring room, both Curtis Institute acceptees and the two only Kovner full scholarship recipients this year here, far more talented and skilled and experienced than I am and better in every way. Personable and amicable and capable and sharp-minded and everything that I am not.

I am a gnat in the Juilliard tableau. They are one of the many godlike figures, depicted in pristine poses. Perfect form and immaculate physicality. Real humans. People. They are people and I am not.

They sightread music like they’ve been fucking it for the last five years. Sightreading dries my eyes and gives me a migraine and draws the pitiful looks of everyone present. One day it’ll spell the end of my fucking career.

I despise this body and I wish I could strip it away and build it from scratch. Like how you completely remodel a room. I’ve hated it so intensely that I know every single detail I’d change and why and how I’d change it. Every single fucking detail is filed in the part of my brain that constantly burns with self-hate.

I can’t talk to people here. I can tell that they want to back away from me and that they just want me to go away and that inside they also feel guilty for feeling that way. So I just don’t talk to them. I spare them those feelings and I keep to myself.

Homeless people, though, don’t react that way. So I talk to them. I leave this building at night every so often and find and talk to them. And that’s the extent of my social life.

They treat me like a person and they try and listen. They’re more friends to me than anyone here.

Perhaps it’s from their hardship. and the fact that so many others shun them, that they find the capacity for empathy.

Two nights ago I met a man named Phil at the Times Square subway station. He’s 61 and both his mother and brother had died in the last three weeks. He’d heard of this through the gang that he’s a member of. 

‘You don’t fuck with us, we don’t fuck with you,’ he told me, using the general ‘you’. ‘But if you fuck with us, you be sure you gonna get the fuckin’ shit beat outta you.’

I gave him a dollar and 73 cents - the only money I had outside of my debit card - and he said that he’d buy a coffee with it the next morning. He was friends with a coffee shop manager. I also gave him my name and a piece of paper on which was written a promise to meet him on Friday at 9:30 pm with my cello.

I have plans to meet him on Friday at 9:30 pm with my cello. He’d told me that musicians can make a fair amount in that area, and his idea was that we’d stick together to watch each other’s stuff so that it doesn’t get stolen.

I also have plans to give him half of what I earn. Unless I don’t earn shit, in which case I’ll just give it all to him. He doesn’t have a cup like many homeless people do - he has a red fanny pack he keeps around his wast that has multiple pockets. He put the money I gave him in his pack meticulously, sticking the dollar bill in the big main pouch and the coins in a smaller outside pocket. He kept my note where he kept the change.

I’m putting together a small bag of things for Phil.I’m bringing it to him in an old Starbucks paper bag, and inside I’ve put a list written on an index card:

 I found a perfectly good Zoribushi thermos container near the train station entrance yesterday. It had a little bit of iced tea left in it. I cleaned it with a decent amount of dish soap and I let it dry overnight. 

I’m going to make two filters’ worth of coffee and bring it to him on Friday and let him keep the thermos. 

I also have some small jelly packs that I don’t intend on eating that I’ll bring to him. 

I’m contemplating finding a cheap place to buy a drawstring bag for him - he didn’t have a backpack. 

A nice salad from the store on the way there.

I haven’t engaged this closely to anyone I’ve met here in the city so far. I’ve met a woman called Nada, whose family was from Slovenia and now lived in Chicago; and Aaron, who was from New Jersey and was trying to get an apartment there. 

But Phil is now in the wake of his loss. I’m sure his gang member friends support him in some way but when I met him, he was alone.

‘I stick around, right here,’ he said. ‘From 9 to 5. It’s like the opposite of a work day. 9 PM to 5 AM.’

‘It’s like your job,’ I commented. He liked that I said that.

So I feel compelled, by some force, to extend some form of kindness to him.

Meeting Phil this Friday at 9:30 PM is what’s getting me through this week. It’s what helps me in trying to ignore everything that threatens my self-esteem and sanity.

I have a friend now. There were a few people here that I thought were friends but I realize now that they’re just paper. They melt snd burn away at the slightest sign of difficulty with me. They haven’t spoken to me since the Brooklyn incident. 

Now, I have some kind of centerpoint in my social life.

(If only I could repeat that process with someone my own age.)

Phil is what’s going to keep me on my path when I go home today.

When I see or hear her, I’ll just close my eyes and remember:

Hey, this Friday maybe, you should come play. Musicians do good here, you know. You could do pretty good, eh? And we’ll watch each other’s shit, you know what I mean? Fuckers around here trying and stealing shit. But we’ll make sure they don’t steal our shit.

I hope that this lasts.

#text