#The Itchy Onion

[lifewithaview]

Andrew Koji in Warrior (2019) The Itchy Onion

San Francisco, 1878. Ah Sahm, a newly arrived Chinese immigrant with serious fighting skills, is introduced to Chinatown's most ruthless tong, the Hop Wei, by Chao, a fixer. After impressing Young Jun, son of tong leader Father Jun, Ah Sahm is branded and taken to a brothel, where he befriends Ah Toy, a courtesan with connections. Later, in search of a woman who left China two years earlier, Ah Sahm crosses paths with Mai Ling and Li Yong, followers of the rival tong leader Long Zii, who is trying to avoid an opium war with the Hop Wei, a war that Walter Buckley, deputy to San Francisco Mayor Samuel Blake, actively promotes. Meanwhile, after two Chinese laborers are killed by white thugs, police sergeant "Big Bill" O'Hara is tasked with creating a Chinatown squad. Enlisting southern-born cop Richard Henry Lee, Bill soon finds that the hostility between the Chinese and white dock workers, whose unofficial leader is Irish tough Dylan Leary, is unlikely to end anytime soon.

[swagging-back-to]

tw ed mention ig

[kojiandrew]

ANDREW KOJI as AH SAHM Ah Sahm's 1st Scene in Every First Episode + Last Scene in Every Last Episode

⭢ Warrior S1EP1 - "The Itchy Onion" ⭢ Warrior S1EP10 - "If You're Going to Bow, Bow Low" ⭢ Warrior S2EP1 - "Learn to Endure, or Hire a Bodyguard" ⭢ Warrior S2EP10 - "Man on The Wall" ⭢ Warrior S3EP1 - "Exactly The Wrong Time to Get Proud" ⭢ Warrior S3EP10 - "A Window of F*cking Opportunity"

[magical-trash-void]

Hades Videogame Headcanon

You know how the game mentions how much Achilles detests onions?

Imagine Achilles is having a conversation with Orpheus in the lounge or something, and Achilles is having trouble understanding how Zagreus (or anyone really) could enjoy eating onions. How could anyone enjoy a food which made their hands and throat all itchy?

Turns out that Achilles is allergic to onions, but his curse of invulnerability made it so he never died of it back when he was alive.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

a/n: i know no one asked for this but it was on my mind! you can thank thickly cut pieces of onion for this one!

thinking about spencer with a partner with sensory issues 😭 like they can't stand the feeling certain textures to the point where when they feel it/bite into it they feel the sensation all throughout their body.

he's just the sweetest about it too ☹️ like let's say you bite into something that has a less than favorable crunch and you just absolutely freeze up. you can already feel the itchiness incoming and that shiver of disgust shooting up your spine. it doesn't bother him when you gag and spit the food out, nor when you stim to get that unpleasant feeling out of your body.

he just sits there next to you comforts you if you need it 😭☹️🤍

+ second a/n: this is me projecting b/c i absolutely cannot stand the feeling of things like onions (goes for all... even green 😒), or strawberries even though they're actually delectable ☹️

[bkaulitzz]

𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

more on my wattpad b_kaulitzz :)

TW: a UNSETTLING PICTURE IS UNDER THIS, kinda ish it depends on if u find it scary, IM NOT GONNA MENTION ANY TW THO BC I DONT WANNA SPOIL BUT THIS IS A HORROR

** NOTE - I DONT CONDONE THIS AND I KNOW REAL BILL WOULD NEVER DO ANY OF THIS, THIS IS JUST FICTION

info: fem x bill, u go to visit bill for dinner

I curled the fingers of my right hand, running each finger over the knitting of the itchy sweater. His apartment door stood still as it stared back at me. Weird...he should be home. I reached back for my flip phone, flipping it open.

—

BILL <3

Me - 10:43 PM

"hey babe, wya?"

BILL <3 - 10:45 PM

"im soso sorry ml ^^, i was working on the stew"

Me - 10:45 PM

"stew?"

BILL <3 - 10:46 PM

"yes, beef stew :)"

Me - 10:46 PM

"i'm only staying for a bit tho"

BILL <3 - 10:47 PM

"just eat a small bite at least"

—

Before I could respond, cold air hit me as Bill swung the door open. I flipped my phone closed, looking up at him as he leaned against the doorframe. The smell of onion and spices filled my nose as I stared at him. He gave me a small smile as his eyes were hooded, coated in messy eyeshadow. I always love how much time he would spend on his looks just for me.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" He asked, the wrinkles of his formfitting t-shirt flattening out as he stood up.

"Oh- I-" I winced, feeling him grab my wrist gently. He furrowed his brows, watching me pull away to rub my wrist through the fabric.

"You okay?" He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head.

"Yea...just let me in, " I cleared my throat, looking away from my wrist and back at him. He chewed the inside of his cheek, looking down at me for a few seconds before moving aside.

"Just sit at the table, I'll bring the stew out, " He said, turning around to make his way to the kitchen. I took steps into his apartment, balancing on one foot as I closed the door, taking off one of my boots at the same time. The zipper pressed into my skin harshly as I tried to pull it down, causing me to slide down to my butt. This stupid zipper always does the same thing every time I try to put it on. I groaned, sitting against the cold, wooden door, trying to pull off the shoe. Bill looked over at me from the table with a raised eyebrow. His hands were in cute, plaid oven gloves as he set the pot down on the table. The smell of the stew was stronger from here, the light over the table giving the pot a makeshift spotlight.

"You alright, babe?" He took the gloves off, placing them on the table before stepping towards me.

"I got it, I got it, " I shook my head, my fingers burning by now as the zipper was still stuck in place. He sighed, getting down as he was close by now. The carpet molded his knee as he took one of my ankles in his other knee.

"If you ever need help, just tell me, " He said, sweetly. His gentle hands took hold of the metal zipper, easily pulling it down. He placed the boot aside, sliding off my leg to take the other. "I love you, okay? I'm here to help, don't ever feel scared to tell me, " He looked up at me through his eyebrows, sliding the zipper down. My heart raced as it skipped a beat to each word that left his lips. He slid the boot off, revealing my fuzzy socks. He grinned, looking into my eyes as he rubbed my ankle, aligning my boots together with the other hand.

"I will, don't worry, " I gave him a small smile. My eyes followed him as he stood up, reaching down to help me up afterward. I grunted as I stood up, the fabric of my socks mixing with the beige carpet. I looked up at him, his pretty lashes coated in the mascara that I knew I recommended by the way he blinked. I shivered slightly, feeling his cold touch on my cheek.

"Good, just making sure you know, " His voice was delicate, each hard sound being smoothed out. My face heated up, feeling him kiss my nose, swiping his thumb over my right cheek. "Let's eat, yea?"

"Mhm, " I mumbled as a smile stayed on my lips. He reached down for my hand, gently taking it as he leaned back. I followed along as he pulled me to the table which was only a few steps away. Bill always had casual dominance, no matter what. As much as I enjoyed it, I just hope he knows that I can be independent just as much as dependent. The chair shrieked against the tile floor as he pulled it out, the dining and kitchen area being separated from the living space. My feet hit the cold surface as I slid into the chair, watching him make it to the opposite side of the table. "Did you just pull this off the stove?" I watched the steam fog up the empty glasses nearby. The table was set nicely as if he waited for me since eternity. Each bowl's design was identical to the others, the paint strokes were seamless.

"Yea, it just got done cooking, " He hummed, picking up the ladle. He scooped out some beef pieces, pouring them into my bowl. My mouth salivated as I looked over the pieces, the cuts of meat were nothing like I'd seen before.

"Bill, what kind of beef is this?" I asked with a small chuckle, joking. He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at me, not exchanging a laugh as he scooped carrots into my bowl.

"The best kind, just for you. I know people who can get their hands on this stuff, " He filled my bowl as he spoke, filling his after. I swallowed a lump in my throat, the growing tension squeezed me up. It was silent afterward as he fixed his bowl up, pushing the pot to the side of the table. He picked up the pitcher of water, filling our glasses. His chair creaked as he finally took a seat, the lamp glowing on his porcelain skin. I bit my lip as I kept my hands on the table, keeping my stare on him as nothing else lit the area. I didn't know if he was mad or offended as he kept a straight face. The silence could suffocate me as the only other company was the light above us.

"I'm sorry if I made you mad, " I swallowed in between, shaking my knee a bit. "I just wanted to ask since I know how important cooking is to you."

"It's fine, babe, " He gave me a small smile. I nodded before picking up my spoon and taking a spoonful. Bill propped his elbows onto the table, resting his chin on his hands. I blew into the perfect bite that I had ready. It had an even amount of soup, beef, and vegetables.

"Are you gonna take a bite, Bill?" I raised an eyebrow, as I continued to cool it down.

"Mhm, I just wanna know your thoughts first, " He grinned, tilting his head slightly.

"I know it's gonna be good, " I snickered as I took the spoonful. I widened my eyes as the broth filled my mouth. The meat instantly melted as I tasted it and the vegetables perfectly blended out each chew. I moaned in delight as Bill's eyes squinted, smiling from watching me enjoy the dish. "This is the best stew and beef that I've ever had, " I gasped softly as I took another spoonful, the meat being even more tender than the last bite.

"I'm so glad you like it, " I could hear the excitement in his voice as he spoke, the tone was as close as a teen girl seeing her celebrity crush. He picked up his spoon, taking a bite after me.

"I'm gonna be so sad when I have to leave, this is so good, " I licked my lips, continuing to savor the stew.

"You don't have to go, you can stay as long as you'd like, " He let go of his spoon, taking a sip of his water. I held the spoon in my mouth, frowning a bit before placing it into the bowl.

"I know...I'm so thankful for you, Bill, but you know I have to get home early. You know how my dad is, " I shook my knee again, slowly stirring at the half-eaten bowl of stew.

"Just a bit? Come on, just this once?" He frowned as he placed his glass down.

"I can't, " I felt my heartbeat in my throat as I picked up a nice bite of meat and carrots.

"But it's Christmas, babe. Just break the rule this once, " He held his spoon, tapping his finger against it.

"Bill, he's even more strict on Christmas. I really can't, I'm sorry. If I could I would, " I spoke into the spoon, before taking it into my mouth.

"He needs to learn that you're not a little girl anymore. You should be able to be out and about, I don't understand why he thinks he should cage you up, " His other hand on the table balled up into a fist. I nodded as I slowly chewed, my brows furrowed as he spoke. I mean he was right, dad is super strict. Maybe this once I could-

"Ow!" I winced, holding my cheek as I bit into something firm yet flexible. The sharp edges of the item tickled at my gums before I spat it out onto the table.

"Are you okay?!" He exclaimed, his eyes following the piece. I widened my eyes as I looked at the ridgid fingernail that I had just spat out. I shuddered, covering my mouth as I gagged. It was as if it was freshly torn off.

"Bill. What the fuck. Is that fucking yours?" My eyes were watery from the gagging as I picked up the glass of water, taking large sips.

"Oh, shit..." He muttered, his eyes looking up towards me.

"Fuck. I think I should go, " I cleared my throat, trying not to look at the fingernail. I knew if I kept my gaze on it, I would actually just start to vomit.

"No, no, you can't. We haven't watched a movie yet, " He shakingly spoke, watching me slide out of the table. I shook my head as he stood up right after me.

"I need to go, " I said sternly as turned around, making it to the door.

"Why? Please, fuck. I know I messed up. I should've watched the stove, " He said. I turned to him, walking backward as he was already a few feet away from me with his bowl in his hands.

"My dad, the earlier the better, " I gulped as the distance from the door was longer than I remembered. My steps were no match for Bill's strides. I felt my heart race as sweat formed, clenching my fists. "Bill, please, " I bit my lip as I continued stepping back, the light slowly fading from his face.

"I can fix something else for you, please stay, " He frowned as he came close. My breath hitched as my back hit the cold door. He looked down at me as he took a few more steps, inches away from breathing the same air as me.

"Bill, I can't. My dad, " I spoke, my knees began to feel weak as I felt the ceramic bowl press into my chest.

"He's already here, babe, " He held a straight face. Bill reached for a spoonful of the stew, the bowl and the spoon jingled as they hit each other.

"What?" I stammered a bit, feeling my sweat turn cold.

"He's already here, " He hummed, bringing the spoon to my lips. I furrowed my brows as I felt my face heat up, forming tears.

"Bill, what?..." My lips parted, allowing entrance as he pushed the spoon past my teeth. He leaned closer.

"He's here, " His voice caused shivers down my spine as he spoke down my neck. He leaned back, grinning as he pulled the spoon out. I couldn't bear to swallow, looking up at him. "Swallow, babe, " He dropped the spoon into the bowl, reaching up to caress my cheek. I spat the stew into the face, receiving a groan as I turned around. I wiggled the doorknob, weeping as my stomach turned, the lock was stuck in place. I squealed, feeling Bill press his whole body against mine, gripping my wrists and putting them above my head. It only caused me to squeal even more with the pain on my right wrist.

"You're so fucked up, " I snarled as I breathed heavily, my face turned to the side as I was pressed up against the door.

"Calm down...acting out isn't good for you, " He whispered into my ear, running his thumbs over the back of my palms as he had me pinned. His gaze was calm as he was in my peripheral vision.

"You're fucking saying that? You killed someone, " I felt tears run down my face as he breathed against my cheek, leaving no room apart.

"I didn't kill your father, I would never do such a thing, " He frowned as he kissed my ear, gently. I shuddered from even the slightest contact. "I told you I knew people, didn't I?"

"Don't fucking touch me, jackass. You're crazy, " My voice was strained.

"I only did it for you. I do everything for you. I get it, you're shocked. You'll get used to it, " His voice was like hot honey; keeping a smooth voice to try and soothe me, yet all that came out of his mouth only caused a shiver down my spine.

"For me?? I didn't ask for this, " I said through bared teeth. He tilted his head, and his right hand began to tug at the fabric around my wrist. "No, fuck. No! Let go of me!" I cried as I squirmed under him, feeling my wrist grow cold as he pulled my sleeve down to my elbow. He stared up at it as it was scattered with purple and yellow bruises, holdimg down on my elbow. "My dad is a good man!" I sobbed.

"Then, tell me why you have all of these bruises. Your dad doesn't love you like I do, " His nose against my head as he spoke. I sniffled, continuing to squirm only making him press me against the door more.

"This isn't love. You're sick, " I continued to weep, my knees finally giving up on me as I slowly slid down the door. Bill kneeling along as I fell. He took a seat, awkwardly pulling me somewhat into his lap. He shushed me, caressing my cheek. I looked up at him with a clouded vision as he frowned. Even at this moment, he was more loving than any other partner I had.

"I love you, though, " He wiped the tears off my face.

"I know, " I spoke shaking, my chest heaving as it did. My flight or fight response barely worked as I felt his touch.

"Everything I do is for you. Even if you hated me, I'll still love you, " Bill continued. I sniffled, blinking slowly as his efforts to calm me down worked.

"I know, " My knees could barely work. It felt as if I was paralyzed. I don't know if it was whether I was calm or frozen in fear.

"I would never hurt you, babe, " He whispered as he came down to kiss my lips. I couldn't help but kiss back. His lips melted into mine like metal being welded. His hand slowly slid down, taking grasp of my throat. "You know I love you, " He pulled away a bit, tightening his grasp around my neck. I gasped, widening my eyes as I choked. I slapped at his hand, trying to pry him off. His hand was firm, not lifting a single finger as I struggled for my breath. "It's only for the better, " He frowned as he leaned down, kissing my lips again. My pulling and slapping slowly weakened, and everything went black.

if u want pt 2, it’s on my wattpad, same title

:3

bill, bill kaulitz, bill horror, bill kaulitz horror, bill horror

[a-secret-inner-life]

I came across a lot of stuff that I could relate to about autism while researching for a paper, which led me to do more research on autism in general. I saw some other people doing this type of post on here, so: autistic people, can you please read my super long and detailed list of possible symptoms I experience and tell me if it seems like I'm one of you? I'm trying to be objective and reasonable and figure out what's going on with myself here.

Sensory Stuff

I like to stim–bouncing my legs, tapping my feet when I sit, occasionally swinging my legs or rocking. I also clench my fists or sit on my hands a lot and tap my fingers on things, or just fiddle with whatever is in front of me. Recently, I count while touching my thumb to each of my fingertips to calm down because someone in a book I read did that and it actually does help me. I also sing the alphabet song repeatedly when I'm working on my website.

Sometimes when I'm very tired or overwhelmed my face feels itchy and I feel like every strand of hair touching me prickles and itches and leaves a red spot (but it doesn't actually).

I have a strong hatred for perfume because it smells too strong and fakey, and citrus scents also drive me nuts, but I really like scented candles.

I'm a super picky eater, although I'm not as bad as when I was a kid. I don't mind the taste of tomatoes, peppers, or onions in things, but I'm still a little grossed out when I know I'm eating them, and the texture of onions freaks me right out, as an example.

I get startled easily. Loud noises don't actually scare me, they just jolt me out of whatever thought space I was in before I heard them.

I also get overwhelmed whenever someone tries to talk to me in a loud car (whether it's loud with other people or just the engine), and I find it overwhelming and incredibly difficult to concentrate when more than one person is talking at once. Whenever I'm in a crowd, it just sounds like this vague roar that gets louder the more I think about it, which can sometimes be overwhelming. Still, I'm good at tuning some things out in select circumstances, like the TV when it's on.

Finally, if I pay attention at pretty much any time when there isn't a ton of other noise, I can hear ringing in my ears. This isn't usually upsetting, and I know it's fairly common for anyone to get tinnitus from time to time, but I'm not sure if most people experience it this much.

Social Stuff

I can not handle eye contact.

I'm also really, really, comically bad at social interactions. I almost never speak to someone I don't know well before they speak to me, and my go-to conversation method is to laugh/giggle and nod, I literally can not make actual conversation to save my life. Sometimes I think of things to say but it doesn't occur to me to say them, or I try to but I'm scared and can't find an opening, or I do say the thing and people don't react the way I want them to (usually it's either confusion or disinterest).

Old ladies are my favorite people because they're the least scary somehow. I also love kids, but I'm still awkward so I rarely interact and probably still freak them out.

I'm horrible at keeping contact and I wait until I know people are offline to reply to their messages because conversation is stressful and I need time to think when I text. Group chats are a nightmare, so I pretty much ghost everyone when I'm in one.

I'm super attached to my family, though. I make an effort to create a deep bond with each of my siblings, and I'm the clingiest person in the world when it comes to my older sister.

I value people very deeply, which might be why I find them so intimidating. I love them and I want them to be happy, and I put too much pressure on the situation.

I used to hate being alone, and I still feel guilty or sad whenever I spend too much time by myself, although I actually love to be by myself, a lot of my hobbies and favorite places are solitary, and I usually prefer figuring things out on my own rather than having somebody right there trying to figure it out with me.

I'm incredibly empathetic. It's not like I can automatically sense people's emotions, but I do make an effort to pay attention and understand what they're feeling and why they feel that way. My siblings come and rant to me a lot, and I can be a good diplomat and see both points of view when they argue. I also care, and I always want to make people feel better, though it obviously doesn't always work. Sometimes I'm too empathetic, or maybe too creative, and I stress out about what someone might be feeling when I don't know if it's an actual issue or not.

Patterns and Stuff

I've always been good at remembering my parents’ phone numbers and our zip code, as well as my friends’ birthdays. I work at a grocery store where I find myself reciting the regular customers’ lottery numbers in my head as they're saying them to me.

My dad used to have a verbal checklist of what to bring to work each morning, and I still recite it every time I hear the words “wallet” and “keys” next to each other. Same goes for my old morning checklist that I don't even follow anymore.

I don't adhere to a strict routine in terms of the general structure of my day, but I definitely have a system or pattern for a lot of my specific activities.

Emotional Stuff

I've been obsessed with drawing and painting for as long as I can remember. I write all the time. I think I dedicated myself and a huge chunk of my life to my hobbies. If I like something, I like to think that I make it my own, and that thing permeates who I am.

When I first started listening to BTS, I scoured literally the entire Internet to find every possible hidden track any of the members ever touched, and there were A LOT. Lately I've been obsessed with Keeper of the Lost Cities, and I can't stop talking about the books. I'm also hyper fixated on Tomorrow X Together.

When I start something, I need to finish it, and I'll often think I'm so close to being done only to continue on it for several more hours, trying to hurry up and finish because I need to get it done now. I'm also pretty bad at switching tasks. I try to multitask, but it doesn't really work out.

I can easily forget about my own physical needs; particularly I don't usually realize when I'm hungry. Overall my needs are very flexible to the people around me; if you want to eat together, suddenly I'm hungry, if you don't feel like stopping, neither do I.

I'm a perfectionist, but I hate asking for help. This is especially true when it comes to my grades and my hobbies. I'm more comfortable when I can control the variables and nobody has to know if I fail.

I'm pretty sure I have executive dysfunction because I put so much pressure on doing things perfectly that I lose the motivation to do them at all, and as much as I need to get something done, I can't make myself do it.

Since I was little I've always been awkward and out of place. I feel like I take up too much space. Honestly, I feel like my existence is lame and embarrassing. I hate myself.

I absolutely suck at decision making, sometimes because I don't want to choose something that other people won't like and partially because I'm just really indecisive. Often I feel stuck or paralyzed because I can't choose one way or another.

Along those same lines, the responsibility of being told to do something for someone else is terrible, and I hate doing these things without incredibly specific instructions because I'm scared of messing up.

I also need to know exact details of whatever activity I'm doing before I do it, and I hate when something big isn't planned out in detail.

I used to have a lot of meltdowns as a child. I’d yell and cry and throw things when I was upset. This still happens sometimes, but not as frequently or as badly.

I feel guilty about everything, including mistakes from years ago that shouldn't matter anymore. This makes me feel sort of unworthy (?), like anything good I do is the bare minimum and if I cause a problem (through anxiety or executive dysfunction) that messes up a project, I feel like I have to do everything else perfectly to make up for it, although I usually end up feeling like I'm coddling myself instead.

I constantly compare myself to others. If someone else has a problem that's worse than what I deal with, I feel like I'm not allowed to have my own negative feelings.

I feel like none of my feelings are valid. I feel and think all sorts of dramatic things that seem like the end of the world, but compared to others, my problems are small, and I feel stupid for having them. I almost wish I had a bigger issue or more dangerous mental problems that would make my responses more reasonable, but my logical side knows that this thinking is wrong.

I've been dealing with off and on burnout since I was around twelve years old (so about five years). I've been told over and over that my mindset is wrong and I need to do a million things better mentally to be less of a perfectionist, but I don't have the energy to put in any effort whatsoever to fix myself. I still get random bursts of motivation that last for short periods of time, though.

Sometimes when I go to bed after a stressful day, I wake up in the morning and I have this uncontrollable dread about starting my day. The thought of getting up sounds impossible, and it's almost like there's something sitting in my chest keeping me down.

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

The Dark Lord can never win against The Chosen One.

(Full fic below the cut, please check the ao3 link above for full tags before reading)

The first time, after their escape, isn't so serious. 

They've stopped at some sort of diner in a small town near the latest website they've destroyed; Dark can still see the smoke in the distance, but it doesn't seem like anyone else in the diner has noticed, although both of them are getting eyed at suspiciously by the owner (and neither of them have any money, but she's sure that problem will solve itself with a well placed ball of fire or two.)

Chosen goes at the food like she's had nothing to eat in the last decade (which isn't true, because she does this every time). 

He reaches for Chosen's last onion ring– smacked away. Reaches again, glared at with red tinted eyes. A third time, and she jumps across the table to grapple with Dark.

It's a lighthearted tussle, no powers involved, and Chosen pulls her into a headlock within a minute, pulling her down next to her on the booth.

"Choooo." He whines, kicking at her knee. "Come on, let me go."

Chosen ignores her, and starts taking stuff from his plate, which is an indignity he will not let go unpunished–

Chosen catches her fist and gives her an unimpressed stare. The rest of his food quickly falls prey to her appetite. Dark weeps internally and vows vengeance.

---

The second time, it's a bit more serious.

"Teach me how to do that." Chosen says bluntly.

"Uhh." Dark says, letting the end of the pen she was chewing (oh fuck, she's not going to be able to use it again, Cho's rubbing off on her) fall out of her mouth. "Teach you what?"

"Those energy ball things you like to throw at buildings."

"I… don't know if I can?" His powers came to him instinctively, the same way he knew Chosen's did to her. "Cho, why do you even want to know?"

She shrugs. Stick of few words, that one. Not like Dark minds; she's plenty good at filling the silence.

She sets down her newspaper (she liked to keep up on the reporting of their crimes; the crosswords were fun, too) and gets up, stretching. 

-

"So, uh." Dark bounces on her feet. They've relocated outside, to make sure their meager belongings don't get destroyed. "You've just got to, uh…" She trails off as Chosen gives her a disbelieving look. "What? Come on, Cho, I've never taught anyone anything before!"

"Describe how it feels, maybe."

"Uh. Feels like I've got big ball of fuck off in my hand?" 

Chosen crosses her arms and taps her foot.

"It's kind of… itchy." He finally says. "Especially when it's bigger or slower. Like I'm drawing the energy out of myself and it doesn't like it."

She nods. 

"And it's… cold."

"No, it's not." Chosen says immediately. 

She huffs. "To me it is, and that's the important thing, isn't it? So what if it's hot when it explodes?"

She rolls her eyes. “Just stop. I’ll figure it out.”

“Well, fine, but–”

Chosen closes her eyes and pointedly turns away.

The first attempt splutters out miserably. The second explodes directly into her face as soon as it's formed. The third succeeds, and Chosen looks at it with a brief moment of hesitation before awkwardly throwing it down into the street. 

(It explodes, and a dozen car alarms go off in perfect unison.)

She watches Chosen do it a few more times, then lazily tosses a ball of fire at her before taking off into the air.

"Come on!" She says as Chosen splutters and gives her an affronted look. "Experience is the best teacher, or whatever! Fight me!"

Chosen rolls her eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“Probably not! Let’s go!”

It's a fight that's in Dark's favor– Chosen is trying to fight only with the energy balls, which slows her down and leaves openings that Dark has learned to cover, but she does gradually get better.

Eventually– a ball of fire is tossed her way, which she easily dodges– right into the path of an energy ball, staggering her enough for Chosen to appear at her side and punch her. The surprise and the force of it is enough to send her flying back through the wall of a nearby building.

Dust and a few small pieces of rubble fall onto her. She squints up at the ceiling, seconds before it collapses halfway onto her.

…Goddamnit. She’s not going to be finishing her crossword today.

---

The third time they fight, it's against her will.

There's been an itch steadily building in the back of his mind all day– usually their usual brand of wanton destruction, as he had heard a reporter call it once, would satisfy it–

("Aren't wontons a kind of food?" Dark asks.

Chosen frowns. "I would never destroy food.")

–but it's not working today. No matter what she does, the itch doesn't go away, until it's all she can think about.

Chosen finally notices, a stupid little frown of concern on her face, and it's all she can do to not punch it off. "Are you alright?"

"What's it matter to you?" He snaps– physically snaps, sharp teeth clacking loudly. 

"I'm just worried–" 

And something breaks– Dark lunges for her, fire already cupped in her hand. 

"What the– Dark?!" Chosen weaves out of the way, and ducks under her next swing. "What are you doing?!"

"What I should have done when we met!" 

The next blast of fire catches the edges of Chosen's long, long hair, setting it alight, which is honestly a great look– if only the rest of her was on fire.

He startles for a second at the thought, how full of malice it is, and it gives Chosen the opportunity to tackle him to the ground, hands clamped around his wrists and ice spreading onto his arms.

Unlike Chosen, he can only channel his powers through his hands, a task that's nearly impossible with how she keeps freezing him back over when he breaks the ice.

Dark snarls, writhing under her hold and biting at her. "Let me go, you f–"

"Not until you calm down." She said. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"There's nothing fucking wrong with me!" 

Chosen looks at her skeptically, like she wouldn't know her own mind, wouldn't know if something was wrong. 

He keeps flinging insults at her, but Chosen has always had thick skin, and eventually she just looks away, like Dark is so far beneath her that she doesn't even need to watch him to keep him restrained.

"You're a real bastard, aren't you, Chosen One, thinking you're better than me?" She growls. "Well, at least I wasn't the one enslaved for years!"

Chosen flinches. Dark knees her in the gut, slides away a few inches, but it's all the leeway she gets before she's held down even harder.

"Awfully pathetic, aren't you? Your creator hated you, and the only person you could ever get to like you was your enemy, how messed up is that?!"

"Shut up." She says quietly. The ice spreads further up her arms.

"Scared of a few words, Chosen One?" She croons. "You should be. It's the truth, after all."

"Shut up!"

She's slammed down against the ground; her head rings, and the taste of blood fills her mouth from where she bit her tongue. 

The pain doesn't bother her, though, and as Chosen glares down at her, flames flickering around her mouth, all she does is laugh.

-

Eventually, her struggles to escape weaken, until finally she blinks, and it feels like a cloud has lifted from her mind.

"What the fuck was that?" She says, voice hoarse. 

"Finally back to normal?" Chosen looks and sounds tired– more tired than he's ever seen her, except for the day they escaped the PC.

"...I think so." 

Chosen pulls away, standing up, and Dark pushes herself up on her elbows.

"I'm sorry for… what I said earlier." Everything seems tinted in a red haze, so filled with hate that Dark can't even believe it came from her.

"It's fine." Chosen says, offering her a hand up. 

Even Dark can tell it's not. She doesn't say anything, though, and just accepts the offer.

-

Two days later, Dark hooks himself up to a computer and finds the code still lurking in him.

---

The fifth, sixth, tenth, fifteenth, twentieth, fiftieth, hundredth time they fight, she still loses, every time.

She's gotten close to winning plenty of times, sure– but at the last second before she can claim victory, some absolute bullshit happens, and Chosen wins.

Chosen doesn't say anything about it– Dark doesn't even think she noticed, because Chosen is dense as hell all the time. It's both one of her best and worst qualities– best because Dark can just do whatever he wants, worst because she doesn't notice when what he wants is to claw her face off.

(Which he can do, now; he'd found this armored glove– vambrace? Bracer? Whatever– with claws on the fingers that he hadn't been willing to take off.

Chosen had said that, with the long coat he had, it made him look like a proper Dark Lord. Then she said that of course, that didn't make him look any less lame, so he had tackled her.

He lost that fight.)

She's glad she always loses those fights, when she loses control. She doesn't want to hurt Chosen– she's not just her friend, she's her partner.

(And neither of them can think family, because of the creator that forsook them.)

Over the years, without another outlet for destruction (retiring to the countryside– it's so ridiculous that Dark still laughs at it sometimes, but he figures after everything Chosen deserves whatever she wants), the fights where Dark isn't himself increase, but her proficiency at handling him does too.

She had managed once to hack into her code to try to get rid of the compulsion to kill Chosen, but it hadn't exactly worked out– Chosen had found her unconscious and twitching, the computer she was using on fire, and had told her in no uncertain terms not to do it again.

It hadn't all been in vain, though– now, at least, she can sometimes keep her head even as her body fights. It unnerves them both, but it's a better alternative to have kept saying horrible things to the only person she cares about.

(It makes her easier to subdue, too– no strategy behind her attacks. It's the best either of them can hope for.)

---

The last time they fight, it's a death match.

None of the cloudy haze of hate that Dark has long since learned to identify is present. This isn't a forced fight, or one for fun. Something is different, and she can tell that neither of them will make it out unscathed– or at all.

And the confusing thing about it is– for the last few years, they've lived a happy life, a quiet life, together, but it still wasn't all that long ago that they were burning down sites. She doesn't understand why Chosen is being so vehement about this– especially not since her first victim is their fucking creator.

(And she's learned a lot, over the years, of just what exactly had happened to Chosen on that damned PC, how it wasn't even a fraction of what happened to her, who was made for a singular purpose to eventually be discarded.)

"Why did you go help that bastard?!" He shouts, throwing Chosen against the rocks. "Why would you side with him over me?!"

Chosen stays infuriatingly silent. 

"Did he do something to you?" Her heart stutters. "Did– Are you–"

She shakes her head; it fills Dark with relief, and then another flood of anger. "Then why did you fucking do it?!"

"He didn't deserve my help." Chosen finally says, and it's the first thing she's said all day that Dark agrees with. "But what if there were more sticks there, who couldn't escape?"

"So? Killing people has never bothered you before!"

"I'm tired of death, Dark. Why do you think I wanted us to stop?" She gestures back to the hole in the sky. Dark nails her with an energy ball and she shrugs it off. "There were children there! Even you tried not to kill children!"

"'Even you'?" She growls, sending a wave of fire at her with a sweep of her arm. "Do you think you're so much better than me, Cho? You've destroyed and killed just as much as I have, and I know you enjoyed it too!"

"That's not what I–!"

"It sounds like that's what you meant!"

They go tumbling through one of her portals, and Chosen, used to desktop fighting more than she is, takes the upper hand. 

Once they're out, he obscures her vision with the smoke of an explosion, and with a final explosive move, Chosen is thrown deep into the water. He wipes his eyes (probably just damp from the spray having splashed in his face), and heads back to his control panel. She won't stay down long.

(Chosen is acting like she's the one betrayed, the one wronged, but she was the one who extended her hand, who convinced Dark to join her side against their creator.

…She'll regret this.) 

The vira-bracelets snap in place over her wrists, and she flexes her fingers as a surge of new energy rushes through her, and up into the sky.

She flicks her wrists, and two crackling blades of virus filled energy form. 

-

His side aches with pain. Between Chosen and his creator, they had gotten some good hits in, and unlike Chosen, he didn’t have the luxury of being able to heal himself– but neither has Chosen, with his relentless attacks.

“It didn’t have to come to this.” Chosen says, pushing against the spiders’ hold. 

“Of course it did.” She says, getting ready to reignite her blades. 

An orange stick jumps down in front of them, and they both recoil in surprise.

“You were the one that summoned him, weren’t you?” He orders his spiders away, giving the stick a scrutinizing glance. 

“Well, it wasn’t me in part–”

Four more sticks jump down and settle into fighting stances. None of them say anything, but the yellow one gives them an admonishing glance. The red one is the first to leap into action– and the first to fall.

“These are the kids, I’m guessing?” She says to Chosen as she kneels over his body. “Well, I guess you were wrong about me.”

She doesn’t say anything, looking away. Dark kicks the body away, and dismisses his blade. None of them are enough of a threat for it.

The blue one rushes her first, followed swiftly by his friends, but even with four of them, they’re hardly doing anything to her and are swiftly knocked down.

The claws of her gauntlet dig into the yellow one's throat. She seems to realize that her life, at least, is forfeit, and kicks weakly at Dark, pleading for her friends to run. 

It's annoying. She makes sure she dies last.

The orange one– and what an idiot, still standing here even after their friends have disintegrated– looks back at Chosen, swarmed by spiders, like she can do anything. 

"Get out of here." She rasps over the spiders' skittering. "You don't owe me anything–"

Dark punches her blade through their stomach. "They're one of his, aren't they? The others weren’t."

(They must have been doing something, to have survived unchained for this long– or maybe he's just gotten better at programming loyalty.)

Their head lolls back, and eyes filled with pain and hatred glare at him. 

"What's your name, huh?" She asks while waiting for them to die. "What role did he give you?"

Their breath is ragged as they sink to their knees. "Orange."

She laughs, and lifts them back up to see their face. "That's it? Orange? He really did learn his lesson, huh?"

An elbow slams into his face.  He gives them an unimpressed stare, and flips them down to the ground, stabbing them again. They're tougher than any stick she's fought besides Chosen– held out longer than any of their friends, that's for sure.

They push at him, one final protest, and Dark takes a moment to study their face. They're only a little younger than he and Chosen had been– but the fury in their face is an equal to what theirs had been.

It occurs to her that from their perspective, she's the one taking the role of their creator, and she can't stand to see them any longer. 

She throws them up into the air, and within seconds injures them enough that even with their strange hardiness they won't survive long, and sends them crashing into the cliff with enough force to make a crater.

She looks down at Chosen. She's done enough damage and the spiders have forced enough of the virus into her that she's struggling to heal herself. She'll be easy prey now.

He opens the portals, flicks his wrist again, and his spiders fly toward them. Green sparks flit along the edges of his vision, and it's all the warning he gets before an orange blur slams into them, and then him.

Orange– and that can’t be their real name– tosses and punches him with a speed and strength that not even Chosen possessed. It hurts, in not even a way that his fight with Chosen and their creator had, something in his torso cracking with a sickening sound. 

She skids on the water, calling her remaining spiders; they’re decimated in a fiery green explosion in seconds, but it gives her enough time to get behind them. She throws them away and turns to flee, something she’s never once done.

A rock slams into her back. Something else breaks, and she freezes, gasping for breath. The stick flies up to her side, hitting her with a series of blows that leaves her stunned and reeling.

He falls in slow motion, holding just enough control to keep him from plummeting into the ocean but not enough to stay upright. Just barely, from the corner of his vision, he can see Chosen staring at them in horror.

What did you think would happen? He thinks. One of us was always going to die here, and it was always going to be me. I can never win.

Then the laser hits, and she thinks of nothing more but pain.

[inklessletter]

Against the terrible alliance of Eddie and Dustin making elaborate, annoying pranks to the rest of their friends (like the time Dustin taught Eddie how to manipulate every lightbulb of Mike's upper floor to make them light up and break with a scary "pop", leaving him at the verge of a heart attack, or the time they manipulated Steve's doorbell to ring every seventeen minutes for a whole Sunday), it rises the vigilante union force between Steve and Max, who low key deliver deadpans that good that can easily convince them to follow instructions of made up home remedies and they only would learn that they've been tricked when an adult sees them performing the magical cure, and feel humilliated because they've been doing it for god knows how long (like that time Mrs. Wheeler couldn't help crying with laughter when saw Dustin and Eddie rubbing half an onion against their armpits to cure the seasonal allergies that made their arms and back so itchy this year) (It took them another three weeks to find out that said allergies were nothing but Steve and Max slyly spreading itching powder over their t-shirts).

[consolecadet]

big complaining. please do not give me advice on any of this unless 1) we already talk AND 2) you get my consent first

Virtually everything for me right now is in some state of "it is terrible rn but I just need to hold on for a few more weeks/months" and it just. I don't have a lot of grip strength with which to hold on rn.

My tennis elbow hurts more since I started OT, or perhaps I am just more aware of it. Either way it's really bothering me and making me sad

I recently developed eczema or something like that, because of course I did, and the second I stopped steroid cream it came back just as itchy and weepy, despite aggressive moisturizing. I cannot see a dermatologist until November but I have vague hope in the form of a different steroid cream I may try in one week

The three-day low-residue diet my dietician had me try backfired horribly after I stopped it and now I'm even more scared to eat, like, beans and/or onions

I have been having trouble accessing medical supplies that I can technically get by without but really shouldn't. Dealing with it requires making tons of phone calls and/or driving to a bunch of different pharmacies, something I have no time or energy to do rn

I'm in a BMW situation and cannot resume trying to sell it until it is resolved, though it's not a big deal because I am borrowing my sister's car and will buy it from her once I have sold the BMW

Reviewing KC's edits to Latent Defects is tiring and emotionally challenging (though I'm way less upset and dramatic about it than I thought it would be)

I keep spiraling about things like the election, genocide, and the climate

Covid cases have once again risen in my area and I am nervous about that because I've socialized a lot IRL recently and don't know if I was careful enough

I agreed to do an art project with a friend that I think will be really cool, but am worried will hurt my forearm too much and/or cause extra stress which I have little capacity for rn

I am having trouble keeping in touch with friends bc the first thing to go when I get stressed is The Ability to Message People. I also have a newish local friend who messages me a lot more than I am used to and I'm worried I'm making him feel sad and uncared for bc I am so slow to respond and don't message him first very often

KC's summer break is about to end, which means I am about to start having to get up earlier, which realistically means I am going to lose a lot of sleep while I once again struggle to adjust. Also means I'm gonna spend a lot more time driving again

The project I am managing is a MESS, we pushed the launch back, and I feel like it's my fault for 1) not knowing how to manage a project, 2) not asking for nearly enough help, and 3) being kind of mentally absent due to being itchy, in pain, and very cranky for basically the whole project. Though tbf multiple of my coworkers have been sick for chunks of it and also not able to pitch in as much as we expected. Also once we launch, then I have to help manage an online community, which, yikes

I would like a raise to offset the gigantic medical bills I seem to get stuck with every year, but I also fucked up something else at work recently, the one account I managed fired us, and worse yet I absolutely know that the company I work for is barely scraping by and cannot afford to give me a raise regardless of whether my boss wants to. I should probably look for another job but 1) I like these people 2) I have no energy or time rn and 3) much fewer companies are fully remote these days and I cannot physically handle commuting and working in an office

yeah

[salternateunreality2]

Claudia Strife was the best/meh-est at this whole having a kid thing

Disclaimer: I haven't raised a neurodivergent child and am not an expert.

I like Claudia being simultaneously a not-great and super mom for neurodivergent Cloudy. I see her being undiagnosed neurodivergent (ND) like so many women are, and only figuring out WHY she's the way she is because she goes on a researching spree for her baby.

Like she has NO IDEA what she's doing, and she's all alone in the world except for Cloudy, but because she has to figure it out and has nothing else to go on, she develops her parenting naturally and goes with what she would have liked as a child (unless that doesn't work).

She only knows some basics, like "don't shake the baby" and "don't drive your daughter into questionable decisions by being an unsafe home and never educating her". Other than that, she has to create it all from scratch. Other parents hate on her for her style, but other parents don't have a neurodivergent kid who's just like her and just like his dad and nothing like their easy neurotypical kid who hit their developmental milestones exactly on time.

Sometimes their issues both hit at once, and he's screaming, she's screaming, he's crying, she's crying, nobody's having a good time... But then they also GET each other. Someone GETS her in a way no one ever has before. They use little noises and non-words and hand signs to communicate. They learn sign language together because Cloudy was speech delayed, and they keep using it because sometimes talking is too much.

Sometimes they sit together in front of the fire, not talking, not interacting, both absorbed in their separate special interests.

Sometimes they each go to their own rooms to do that, then come out into the common areas of they're open to attention. After a certain age, Cloud just naturally doesn't go into Her Space without being explicitly invited or having a really bad nightmare.

They both UNDERSTAND when that tag is too itchy, or that noise is bad, or how sometimes you just need to bury your nose in an old pillow and scream because the smell from the neighbor's still is too much.

They're very direct with each other.

"Cloud, you're going through puberty and you stink. Wear deodorant." (while throwing a stick of deodorant at him.)

"Mom, if you cook onions one more time, I will go live in the woods for the rest of the week." (and he does. and has a great time.)

Claudia HATES being told what to do, so in the marrow of her bones, she understands when Cloud gets stubborn.

She lets him stim any way he wants unless it triggers her misophonia, in which case it results in screaming, crying, lying on the floor, and punching the punching post she set up in the back yard for both of them.

The teachers call Claudia a bad parent and gossip behind her back and don't take her seriously when she tells them how to handle a meltdown...until Cloud freaks out so much that he vomits and passes out. Then they start listening a little to her advice, but still hate on the two of them.

Cloud has a special blanket that he won't let go of for any reason ever. It is therefore filthy from never having been cleaned.

Claudia: I think its gaining sentience, honey, we need to wash it.

Cloud: *meltdown at the thought*

Claudia: *steals it at night to wash*

Cloud: *whole-day meltdown because it feels and smells and looks wrong*

Claudia: *repeating under her breath* it's worth it, he was going to catch polio from it. It's worth it, he was going to catch polio from it. It's worth it...

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

Cloud has a...complicated...relationship with mythical figures, and honestly? Claudia gets it. If she tried elf on a shelf, she'd find dismembered elf body parts buried behind the house so it "couldn't come back to spy on me".

-

Tiny Cloud grumpily sitting on the stairs with a toy shotgun: ...

Claudia: Watcha doing, sweetheart? Guarding the house for Santa?

Cloud: Guarding FROM Santa! *Grumpy birb noises because he doesn't want the big red man to break into his home*

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

In canon, she lets him run off to Midgar at age 14. In my HC, this is partly because she was only a few years older than that when she struck out on her own, and look, she did fine!

She also knows he's stubborn and is going to go, come hell or high water.

Most of all, she loves him. She loves her Cloud so much.

@strayheartless chatted about this with me <3

[angelsinluv]

I wanted to thank you for bringing states into Twitter and for changing my life. I used to struggle so much with my thoughts and the harmful impact the “affirm & persist” community had on me. (Nothing wrong with a&p) I used to struggle every single day changing my 3D and my thoughts, but I don’t struggle anymore because you introduced Neville Goddard and states into the community, I am forever grateful!

I was able to manifest so many things once I changed my state, including my face, body, skin (I had a huge birthmark that covered my arm and hand, and I was allergic to sunlight, it made my skin red and itchy, I couldn’t go outside much because it would burn my skin, even with sunscreen) but now I can wear whatever I want, wear a pretty dress and go out into the sun without fearing that people would look at my birthmark, or feeling itchy and a burning feeling. I also manifested away odor, and I don’t smell like onions every 2 days (I STRUGGLED WITH THIS TOO!) I also manifested wealth for both my parents, and it was all done by changing my state, and of course, all thanks to you. My life changed, and I am able to live a fulfilled and happy life. Thank you so much!! I would love to share more but I’m sure it’d be a hassle to read all lol

Thank you, Angel ❤️

angel, congrats!! I’m happy to hear that :))) you deserve it good job <3333

[petermorwood]

Hey, since cloning technology is good enough for them to create mammoth meatballs but not the entire mammoth yet, which prehistoric animal do you feel like taking a bite of?

Given where I was born, and where @dduane and I currently live, I think some Giant Irish Elk venison would be about right.

Enough for the entire clan with plenty of leftovers and a Handy Thing To Hang Stuff From.

*****

Which leads via Memory Lane to a funny by John M. Ford, who used to post such things - along with witticisms, wise observations and poetry - on Making Light.

He produced these in the same way a bonfire produces sparks: random, unexpected, brilliant and without apparent effort - though like the graceful swan on the river, I bet there was a lot of work going on out of sight. Or maybe not. Mike was that good.

For instance, he wrote THIS just to comment on another post...

I saved everything I could find offline because You Can Never Tell about online stuff, and also because there was, for a time, doubt - happily, It Got Better - that ANY of his writing would ever be seen again.

(Dammit, just like Terry Pratchett I HATE having to refer to Mike in past tense...)

And now, the funny (original archived Here). I've been assured that This Recipe Will Work, though the assurance also came with a strong suggestion about reducing the ingredient quantities More Than Somewhat.

*****

Hot Gingered Pygmy Mammoth & Jumbo Shrimp Salad

Feeds your whole tribe.

1 pygmy mammoth, boned and cubed (about 1 ton) 1 ton jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined (many many ordinary shrimps, or one Ebirah claw) 10 buckets sesame seeds 60 pounds bean thread noodles if you are an Eastern tribe, whatever your tribe uses for noodles otherwise. If you have not yet invented the noodle, this might be a good time to do so. 1 bucket vegetable oil 1 bucket sesame oil Salt 10 buckets minced fresh ginger 6 buckets minced garlic 15 buckets dry Sherry 15 buckets rice wine vinegar 60 pounds sugar 60 buckets diced fresh mangoes 15 buckets chopped green onions Big Snorgul's helmet full of red pepper flakes 10 buckets chopped fresh cilantro, plus 5 Big Snorgul's helmets fresh cilantro, garnish 1000 large heads lettuce, cored and leaves separated (a raid on the People Who Grow Stuff may be necessary) 30 buckets thinly sliced, peeled, seeded, drained cucumbers, or just chop up the damn cucumbers and say "Fie to thee!" a lot All the chives you got

Preheat a giant turtle shell over a fumarole. A big giant turtle. Put some oil in there. Make sure no other giant turtles are around to see you do this.

On a flat rock, stirring with your Stick of the Dining God, dry cook the sesame seeds over medium heat until they are brown and smell good. Remove from the heat. Add the noodles to the turtle shell and fry fast until puffy and the color of sunrise. Remove from the oil and drain on non-itchy leaves. Throw salt. Set aside.

Sear the mammoth meat on the flat rock. Salt but don't overdo it, you remember what happened to the Chest-Clutching Tribe of the Plains. Drain.

Get a less giant turtle shell. Okay, think of this as a celebration dish for a good turtle hunt and shrimp catch. Make the vegetable oil and most of the sesame oil dance. Add the shrimp, mammoth, ginger, and garlic, and cook fast, stirring, until the shrimp are just pink and firm. Doom of Ten Thousand Wretched Canapés awaits those who overcook shrimp. Remove from the shell with pole weapons. Add the sherry and vinegar, and sing the Song of Deglazing over medium heat. Add the sugar and stir until it is one with the sauce. Cook until half the fluid is gone. Feed anybody who thinks this is waste to the giant turtles. Add the rest of the sesame oil, mangoes, green onions, and pepper flakes, and stir to warm through and wilt. No, this wilt is good. Tell the people it is the wilt of the Wilt God. You need all the mojo you can get. Remove from the heat and add the shrimp and ginger, and the cilantro. Stir to warm through and do the Highly Dramatic Ritual of Adjusting the Seasoning to Taste.

Now your tribal status is on the thin edge of the cleaver. Have everybody bring what they eat off of. You know your tribe. Put lettuce on whatever they hold out and spread the hot stuff on it. Those who have no eating platters should be used to the drill by now. Arrange cucumber slices on top in whatever symbolic pattern seems propitious to you and sprinkle with the toasted sesame seeds. If you have a really tough tribe, yell "Bam!" until they get a groove going. Add fried noodles, cilantro sprigs, and chives, and watch for any signs of people keeling over that can't be blamed on strong drink.

[jutdwae-archives]

Bsf!SKZ Members when they take care of you while you're sick (Maknae Line)

pairings: bsf!maknae line x gn!reader

genre: fluff fluff fluff/comfort

word count: 649

mentions: being sick (coughing, sneezing), mentions of implied throwing up in I.N's section (please lmk if i've missed anything!)

hyung line ver. | maknae line ver.

this art of fiction is not meant to portray the members in real life.

Han:

idc what you say, he will definitely make you as a blanket burrito

i just get those vibes from him

you guys would be playing nintendo and would bet who becomes a blanket burrito

he won so that's how you ended up as one

but then he'd hear a sneeze and a groan from you

one look and he rushes to your side to check your temperature

you feel cold but to him you feel hot... keeps you in the blanket burrito tho

brings you a cold washcloth to place on your forehead to calm down the fever and gives you some medicine

when it's time to eat he orders some comfort food by order i mean got lee know to make it and act as uber delivery

how you found out was when han slipped out "leeknow hyung makes the best comfort food"

big eyes and stuffed cheeks as you heard that

gave him a slight smack on the shoulder to reprimand him for asking lee know to make the food

by night he carries you up to your room and offers cuddles and studio ghilbi movies to watch

probably started singing a lullaby to push you over the edge to fall asleep

you both fall asleep watching the movie due to your previous activites letting it run in the background

you guys wake up to another movie you both like but at the sad part..

lets just say it was an emotional morning

Felix:

the definition of sunshine

this man as soon as he finds out you're sick

he's baking some desserts, aromas of brownies and cookies filling the air

he'd also bring you some food to soothe the itchiness of your throat

would have searched up 'what are ways to get rid of sickness'

as he'd be baking he would chop up some onions to put in your room (if your filipino you'd know the reasoning behind this)

would quite literally come to check up on you every 5 mins

give you medicine and same with han would have a cold washcloth on your forehead to calm you down

he finds you sleeping the next time he checks up on you

so he goes to play LoL (we all know what happens when felix plays LoL)

you wake up after hearing felix shout

"Lixxxxx, it's just a gamee"

apologises that he woke you up but then goes on a tangent about how it's not just a game

would also provide amazing cuddles like chan

WOULD SING YOU TO SLEEP

this man has such a soothing voice like han's

i swear the aussie line should be named the cuddle line atp

Seungmin:

ngl it's so hard to read seungmo and how he would take care of you

i feel like it'd be another case of lee know caring for you

he would give you the basic treatment tho

food, medicine, rest, check ups

probably drag you out of your room to get some vitamin D

and for him to practice his baseball techniques

would try and cook you pancakes

we all know what happened in that ep of puppycat school 😭

but yeah i can't make out seungmin AT ALL - i apologise 😔

I.N

i can't read i.n either 😭

he'd also give the basic treatment

i feel like he'd be the type to hold your hair back if you throw up

maybe take you out on a walk to get vitamin D

only for you to become his personal photographer

gotta get pics for the gram yk

but for your efforts as you kept sneezing and coughing he would treat you to some street 어묵국 (fish cake soup)

would perform 'hug me' on the piano for you

that leads you to want cuddles from him

he'll decline but come around and let you cuddle him as he just lays there like a stick 😭

A/N: heyyyy!! so i finally finished the maknae line.. i wasn't expecting to post it today but i had nothing else to do so yeah

hope you like this little drabble my friend gave me the idea to write this

!please reblog just to support me in my future works :)!

[thebreakfastgenie]

Orb, both grasses, brinjal, bublgum, tidepool, seafoam, and even a little bit strawb

Okay I'm just going to put these like this and answer them below to try to make this post like. A manageable length.

orb: this is so sweet. I don't know what about me would induce this reaction but it's so sweet.

healthy grass: please!! especially if there is sun!! we should maybe bring a blanket to lie down on though sometimes grass is itchy.

not so healthy grass: how did you know :( my recent illness is the latest in a pattern of me going on trips, getting extremely dehydrated, and then getting sick. it's hard to drink enough when it's cold :(

brinjal: I'm trying to practice sincerity here and not make a self-deprecating joke which is HARD but this is very sweet. I am touched and intrigued. I enjoy hearing this.

bublgum: symbiosissss I love to ramble. I can't help myself actually.

tidepool: what's that you say👂🤚

seafoam: okay 😊

strawb: 😉 to the vibe but the specific situation has me so stressed I am NOT trustworthy with knives okay one time I cut myself chopping an onion and HIT AN ARTERY

[addictedtomywriting]

creating art when all i want to do is die

When I was six, I learned what a heart attack was, a momentary panic followed by a sudden disappearance of the soul. I spent the next few months drawing hangmen in the playground sand with my Barbie backpack sticking with sweat to my unicorn t-shirt and my unicorn t-shirt sticking with sweat to my back. It was a godly experience, being a girl in a sandpit creating death with a stroke of my finger (I had sand on my jeans for the rest of the day). I told my nanny with a self-congratulatory passion that I was going to die of a heart attack. All she did was laugh. I laughed about it too. In my little head, she was partaking in my joy. That night I would go home to my parents, my loving father and his rotating harem of girlfriends he told me that he didn't love. It was our little secret. Dad's current girlfriend made us dumplings for dinner as she told my dad and me about a paid internship at a record label she had recently acquired. The kitchen smelled like pork and spring onions all night. She taught me how to use chopsticks and tucked me in at night. I felt bad lying to her, so I told her a secret. I told her I would die of a heart attack. Her eyes widened with shock and her hand reached for mine with sadness. She told me that I would live a long and happy life. It felt like a lie.

I'd always had a hole in my stomach, a vacant orifice that dripped something thick and medicinal like pus. Pus is a sign that your body was trying to fight the virus attacking it. I'd always been a healthy kid. Around me, people died of diabetes and pneumonia. The worst that had ever happened to me was that I got mumps over winter break. I never thought I could be sick. I believed I was normal. Everybody wanted to die. The tears I observed at my uncle’s funeral that were seeped into black handkerchiefs that matched the black of my Sunday dress were tears of jealousy—because for me they were. I'd always believed in heaven. People always say that “they're in a better place now”, but they rarely ever mean it. My eyes weren't dry because of apathy. They were dry because I knew that there was something that came after a life of suffering. Before I fell asleep, I prayed for my uncle’s soul, my knees against cool porcelain tiles and my eyes looking up at the ceiling, pretending that i could see God’s face in the browning wet stains from when a pipe burst in the attic (my dad never got around to painting over it). 

The hole in my stomach was as deep as a burrow. If I bowed my head, I could see through myself. There was a chunk of flesh missing from me. I was an incomplete person. My dad suggested I take up ballet at age eight—to fill the hole he somehow knew I had with tips on how to look perfect on the barre, the names of attention-grabbing gestures (plié, jetés, fondus, sautés), and the feeling of my feet bruising in my ballet flats. The pain was familiar; though, I had no idea where it first came from. I invited my dad and his current favourite girlfriend to my first recital to watch me in a white leotard and tutu. Dad’s girlfriend told me I looked beautiful. Dad took a video of me on his most expensive camera. I practised in my bedroom every day for that recital. My steps thumped the ceiling of the downstairs dining room. I could feel my dad smile into his teacup with his pinky sticking out. He loved that I had a hobby. The hole had been covered with the blanket of dance and positive attention. It was an itchy blanket, the kind I could find in my grandmother’s storage closet. It was heavy and thick. My dad said I looked brighter when I danced. “Isn't it nice to get your emotions out?” He let me rest my head on his lap and stroked my hair. The bruises on my feet were turning a sickly shade of green and red. I was putting in so much effort to portray somebody else's vision. I watched myself dance on my dad's Samsung smart TV that he had in his bedroom. I couldn't recognise myself. I knew the limbs and face that I saw in the mirror every time I brushed my teeth belonged to me. They had just been misplaced. They were given to the wrong person like a leather jacket gifted to a vegan. I was morally against my own existence. My dad was sitting next to me on his bed. “Don't you look amazing?” I preferred to be in his bedroom over mine. I didn't like that God stared down at me through the wet stain on my ceiling. The curved lines looked like he was frowning at me. It made me feel like I had done something wrong. 

When I was thirteen, I learned that God was real and that he hated me. If he loved me, surely he would fill the hole with something, anything. I would even appreciate cement. I never got the heart attack I had hoped for. God told me that my life wasn't even close to being over. He whispered to me in my dreams and cuddled me through the strands of wool in my favourite H&M sweater. He kept me alive. That was an act of malice. Saint Joan of Arc could hear God. She was my age when her visions started. I had no armour or sword. I had pavement scabs on my knees and a glitter gel pen for a diary I never had the courage to write in until the day God told me that I would never be free. I lied to my diary often. I could feel prying eyes sifting through my feelings looking for flaws in my emotions like lumps in flour. I wasn't good enough to make something as sweet as cake, so I told my diary that my life was perfect, that I had friends who didn't think I was strange for not knowing how to carry a conversation and a real mother who my father actually loved. I lied about trips to the beaches of Mangochi with my fictional family, eating fish caught fresh by the fishermen traversing the waters of the lake. I told my diary that I loved to dance. 

There was comfort in lying. I learned that from my father. His current girlfriend had blue hair and pink contact lenses. She had a tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist that my dad liked to kiss when he held her hand. She loved to talk, especially about her vacations. She was well-travelled. She met my dad on a birthday vacation to Italy that I wasn't taken on. She was a surprise that made sure I got up in time for school. At the dinner table, his girlfriend told me that she knew my mother. They had met while she was on a wilderness trip in Kenya. My father slammed his fist on the table, making his girlfriend wince in surprise. Dad never talked about my mother. I never asked about her. He got up and told his girlfriend to meet him in the kitchen. I was left alone until my turkey leg and rice got cold. When they got back, she apologised to me. 

Dad had to be mad because of the mention of my mother. My mother had never mattered to me. I believed in immaculate conception. If Mary could give birth without a man, surely my father could conceive me without a woman. I wasn't special or godly. I thought I was the child of an angel, belonging to Saint Michael or Rafael. Angels had better things to do than worry about me. That justified the mother's day cards I saw in bookshops that I never had a reason to buy. My dad didn't believe in God, but I did. God was the only way to make sense. I watched ‘Veggie Tales’ and ‘What's In The Bible?’ on an iPad before bed every night as I grew up. They gave me answers when I had none. Dad loved to keep secrets. After dinner, I asked him why he got angry at his girlfriend. He seemed sadistic, getting angry at someone who did nothing wrong. I didn't like that side of him. I didn't care if he was taller and stronger than me. I went to his bedroom before bed, while his girlfriend was washing our dishes downstairs and yelled at him. I'd rarely ever yelled. My mouth wasn't used to it. It came out soft and pitiful like a kitten’s hiss. My dad rolled his eyes at me. To him, I was just an insolent child. I huffed out my frustration and confusion as I left him alone.

I went downstairs to where his girlfriend was drying a porcelain plate with a dish rag. She smiled at me with her perfect teeth and asked if I wanted anything. I shook my head and climbed up the kitchen island to sit down on it. I drummed my fingers against the marble and banged my heel against it as I swung my feet. Ballet had taught me to let out my emotions through movement. Dad’s girlfriend grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured me some chocolate milk. She placed it next to me, only a suggestion that I drink it. 

“I'm sorry dad got mad at you,” I said to her, “That was wrong.”

“It wasn't wrong,” Dad's girlfriend said, “He has his reasons.”

“What reasons?” 

She smiled bashfully and avoided eye contact. ���If I told you, your father would be furious with me.”

“Not if he never knows,” I said, “I'm a really good liar. It would be our little secret.”

She looked me in the eyes and placed her hands over mine. “This might hurt you, but I need you to know I'm telling you this because you have a right to know about your past.” She lowered her voice to whisper and leaned in closer to me. Have you ever wondered why your dad never talks about your mother?”

I thought of saint Michael, valiant and conquering, banishing Lucifer and the fallen angels from heaven. After that, demons had made a home out of Earth and a playground of hell. That's what my mother was, a demon. Dad's girlfriend told me that my maternal grandfather had sold my body to men. They recorded their sins and sold the footage to even more men. My mother knew. She didn't do anything. It ended when I was four, not because they wanted to stop hurting me but because they had been caught by my dad. When I was younger, I had frequent nightmares. I was terrified of my father's male friends. I wet the bed frequently even though I had been potty trained. My dad got suspicious. When my dad found out, he divorced her. Though, he could never find the footage of me. 

I had no memory of any of that. Was that an act of pity by God? Why would he let that happen to me in the first place? The hole in my stomach began to bleed. I could feel the blood filling me up. There was a throbbing pressure all over my body. I was going to burst. My heart drummed in my chest. The marble felt colder. Dad's girlfriend squeezed my shaking hands, attempting reassurance. I could barely feel it. My body had gone numb. 

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” Dad's girlfriend said.

Now I knew why my body never felt like it belonged to me. It was because it belonged to other people. It had already been sold. I had stolen it. That night, before bed, I got on my knees, rested my elbows on my bed, and pressed my hands together. 

“Dear, God,” I said as my voice quivered, “Give me a sign. Why did you give me this life? Why couldn't I be a normal girl? Why do you keep letting me live like this?” I wished to be Joan of Arc. I wished to be spoken to, told what the purpose of my life was. I squeezed my eyes shut as if the intensity would make my words stronger. “Please, help me. I can't keep going on like this.”

I couldn't lie to God. He knew what was in my heart. He knew what was in my head. He had to know how much I was suffering. He had to not care. I was alone. I sat on the floor and picked at my skin like I was dissecting a frog. Each tug was a dare. What if I were to slit my wrists? Would it hurt? How long would it take to work? How many hands had touched me? How many hands had God let defile me? My eyes stung as tears spilled down my cheeks. The hole in my stomach hurt, but it was a familiar kind of pain. It had turned dull, or maybe I had blocked some of the pain out. I'd carried it all my life. It was like those men had cut me open and left me to bleed. I couldn't lie to God, but I could lie to my father. I could lie to his girlfriend. I could lie to myself. 

I still went to ballet class. We were performing swan lake—all rehearsed movements that had been redone and done over for centuries. The same story with absolutely no changes. The same wound, bleeding from the same scab being ripped over and over again. I learned the movements to someone else's dance. I had done that all my life, I guess. God had made me his voodoo doll. My father had made me his centrepiece. My grandfather had made me a whore. Each class, I redid my practised movements, caring little for the story. All that mattered was looking presentable for an audience. Even they had moulded me into entertainment, demanding I be beautiful, graceful, and perfect. I hadn’t made myself anything. I was hardly a person. 

I wrote more lies into my diary. This time, I stopped pretending to be a better version of myself living a better version of my life. This time, I decided to be somebody else entirely. I created them from head to toe. Their world was purely mine to control. I didn't need to confront how I was feeling. The hole in my stomach could bleed, fill, and suffocate, but it couldn't kill me. God had made sure of that. The hole couldn't stop me from imagining. 

I wrote every day. I could write anything that I wanted. It didn't matter if it was good. It was mine. During ballet class, my mind wandered from pirouettes to perfect hair and dazzling smiles, from leaps to long conversations between people I knew everything about. It was magical. It felt like being six-years-old creating people with my finger in the sand. This time I wasn't fantasising about death. I was fantasising about intrigue and betrayal, love and comfort—whatever pleased me in that moment. 

My ideas flowed through my blood like an I.V drip. I was on life support. So many people had hurt me, my grandfather, those men, God, sometimes even my dad. There was nobody coming to save me, no divine plan for my death or existence. The only thing in life I could control was my imagination. I could control the fingers that typed words on keyboards and scribbled on diary pages. The rustle of pen on paper and the click of my laptop’s keyboard were the beat of my heart monitor. They were signs that I was alive. The people I had created, the worlds I had constructed, the narratives I spun like a tapestry, were all a sign that it could be worth it. I loved them like I wanted God to love me. If I didn’t exist, they wouldn’t exist either. I wasn’t living for myself. I was living for my characters.

Dad’s girlfriend with the blue hair and pink eye contacts stayed around for longer than most. She woke me up with eggs and bacon when dad had already left for work. Everyday, as she placed down my breakfast plate, she asked me the same question. “How are you feeling, tiger?” 

I feigned a smile. Ballet had taught me how to contort my facial expressions to convey the right emotion. On weekends, she’d sit next to me and we’d make plans together. Sometimes we’d play catch in the garden or swim in the pool. We loved watching movies together, the scarier the better. My dad would come home to the smell of meat, spices, and starch. I loved her bacon and cheese potato bakes. My dad would kiss the tattoo on her wrist and tell her about his day. She was the closest thing I’d ever had to a mother. Sometimes, I’d let her read my writing. She’d cuddle up next to me, her phone opened to a Google Doc I’d been working on. She always told me my writing was amazing, even when I thought it objectively wasn’t. 

She lived with us for two years. It felt like she would stay forever. I wasn’t allowed to go on vacation with them because I had school, but they brought me back souvenirs from all of their travels. One day, at age fifteen, my dad and his girlfriend brought back a porcelain maneki neko from Japan. It was dad’s girlfriend’s birthday the next day. I had already made her a card out of pink paper, markers, and glitter glue. When her birthday arrived, I expected us to go to dinner under the stars like we always did. I had given her my card and she kissed the top of my head. She gave me a hug and told me it was the best gift she’d ever gotten. She said that every year. My dad had decided to go out drinking with his friends. I thought he would be home for dinner. I stared at the clock on my phone more than the posts on my Instagram feed. I tried to distract my dad’s girlfriend by telling her about stories I had been planning, hoping that my words could drown out the droning disappointment filling the house. She smiled at my tender ideas and acted shocked at my dramatic ideas. She must have been trying to do the same thing. My dad wasn’t there for dinner. He didn’t come home until one in the morning the next day. 

My dad stopped kissing the tattoo on his girlfriend’s wrist. He stopped holding her hand. He bought takeout instead of waiting for his girlfriend to cook. He tucked me in at night himself and told me that it was time we spiced up our lives instead of relying on home cooked meals all the time. I tried to force my dad and his girlfriend to be in the same room as much as possible like I was trying to glue a ripped page back together. My dad stopped asking about his girlfriend’s day. He looked down at his phone during dinner and sighed, annoyed, at his girlfriend’s suggestions of vacationing in Scotland again. He always said he was busy with work. All of his friends were work friends, so even hanging out with them could be hidden under the veil of a work-related obligation. 

My dad bought me a set of dolls—Draculaura and Robecca Steam from the Monster High franchise. He sat me down in his bedroom, under the covers of his bed. He sat next to me, our backs against the soft headboard. He played my favourite Monster High movie on his TV and tried his best not to cringe at the campy extravagance of the songs. He was trying to comfort me. I didn't remember doing anything in front of him to warrant it.

“Isn't it nice, being just the two of us together with nobody else?” My dad said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

When the movie was over, I shuffled out of my dad's bed and searched for his girlfriend. She was in the living room, overseeing my maid’s cleaning with a stern expression. She cared for our home like it was hers too. I ran up and hugged her from behind. I knew something was happening. The question was how was I going to stop it from happening? 

“Are you and dad okay?” I asked her.

Her body tensed under my skin. The maid was fluffing the couch pillows. 

“Make sure they're not crooked this time. Thank you,” my dad's girlfriend said.

She turned around to face me. “You know I love you, right?” She smiled and stroked a strand of my hair with her fingers. 

The next day, my dad was the one to wake me up. He had made pancakes drizzled with maple syrup and whipped cream. His girlfriend didn't like giving me sugar for breakfast. I asked where she was.

“We broke up,” my dad said.

The hole in my stomach stung with a piercing pain like a knife had been hacked into its edges. My dad asked if I wanted to go watch a movie with him. I declined.

His girlfriend—his former girlfriend—was the one who opened my eyes. She told me the truth when all I knew were lies. Where was God now? Was he watching me, smiling because I'd had my heart broken when I thought it couldn't break anymore? The pieces were microscopic now. There was nothing left to break. The hole in my stomach began to turn like a whirlpool, twisting and stretching my organs until vomit rose up my throat. I swallowed it down and felt it burn my oesophagus. 

My sixteenth birthday was coming up. I was getting older and my life was getting worse. Whoever was praying for my downfall was winning. God loved them more than me. There wasn't a point in anything anymore. I thought about finally putting an end to my misery and another graveyard in the local cemetery. But, I couldn't because I had people that relied on me. They weren't real people. I made them up. But, that's why living was so important. My characters deserved to live even when I felt I didn't. If I didn't write them nobody else would. 

I quit ballet. I picked up a pen and started to write.