#and ​I don’t get lonely being by myself

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part III (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III

Part III: Brainstorming with a Hellspawn

"No romances. There are too many of those in the world already. You need something more... unique," Vessel said, standing in the middle of the living room.

It had been hours since they’d left the library, and Emma was on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, fingers hovering hesitantly over the keyboard. The damn cursor blinked at a merciless pace, as if mocking her inability to come up with an idea that was... good. Vessel stood in front of her, hands on his hips, watching.

"You need something more... visceral. A story that bites. That scratches. That doesn’t ask for permission before climbing into the reader’s head," he went on, now pacing in circles around the couch like a literary coach possessed by Nietzsche and espresso.

Emma rubbed her temples.

"I just want to turn in the assignment and pass. I don’t need to become Sylvia Plath."

"You don’t need to become anyone. You need to become you. Unlocked version, you know? Blood in the eyes, nothing to lose."

She stared at the screen. The first sentence she’d written: "Once upon a time, in a forgotten village…" Now felt like a personal insult.

"I hate all of this."

"Excellent start. Hate is a great fuel."

Emma huffed.

"Can you stop parading around like a Broadway villain and just give me a decent suggestion?"

Vessel stopped. Turned to her slowly, like he’d just had a profane epiphany.

"You should write about us."

She choked.

"What?"

"Exactly. A lonely human who accidentally summons a demon. Sounds like an irresistible metaphor for youth, frustration, and shattered expectations. Throw in a little chaos, a dash of sarcasm... done. Autofiction with an infernal pact."

"That’s ridiculous."

"That’s genius. It’ll confuse your professors, intrigue your classmates, and get you a great grade. No one will know where the metaphor ends and the breakdown begins. That’s art."

Emma stayed quiet for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, she began to type:

"She didn’t mean to summon anything. She just wanted to finish a short story. But sometimes, the universe confuses intentions with declarations. And then he appears. With sarcasm in his eyes and questionable taste in reality shows."

Vessel read over her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Now that has soul."

"That has you, which is basically the opposite of soul."

"Touché."

Vessel leaned back on the arm of the sofa, watching Emma type with the kind of concentration that only appears under the threat of a deadline or demonic possession. She didn’t look at him, but she felt his presence hanging in the air like a strong incense scent — annoying, yet strangely comforting. Maybe it was just a side effect of sleep deprivation.

The cursor blinked in rhythm with her heartbeat. For the first time since the semester began, Emma felt like she was writing something that truly represented her. Not a mechanical exercise of structure and technique, but a story that hurt a little to tell — and precisely for that reason, it was worth it.

"You know what’s the most ironic?" Vessel said, fiddling with his rings, distracted. "You summoned a demon trying to write about humans. And now you’re writing about a demon to try to understand yourself."

Emma stopped typing.

"And what are you quoting now? Voltaire?"

"I’m just being myself. A chaos agent with a flair for drama."

She leaned forward, cracking her fingers carefully.

"This isn’t about me. It’s just a story."

"Sure. And I’m just an inconvenient guest who steals robes and unlocks creative insecurities. Nothing symbolic."

She stared at him, eyes half-closed.

"You love sounding deep."

"I am deep. I have layers. More than onions and collective trauma."

Emma laughed, unwillingly. And she hated it a little — hated actually laughing. At him. At the situation. At herself.

Vessel smiled too, satisfied. Like someone who had just won an invisible battle.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he said, suddenly quieter, almost in a tone that sounded… human.

Emma turned to him, suspicious.

"Here we go."

"This —" he gestured around, encompassing the messy room, the stacked books, the laptop on her lap — "is way more interesting than corroding the souls of corrupt bankers. At least you listen to me. Complain, grumble, but listen."

She frowned.

"That was… kind?"

"No. That was factual. Kindness is an infernal design flaw."

"Oh. Good to know."

The silence that settled this time was less tense. Vessel lay down on the carpet like a sloppy demonic cat. Emma resumed typing, and he just followed the sound of the keys like it was music.

"So, what happens next?" he asked, almost in a whisper.

"Next?"

"In your story. The girl who summons a demon. Do they become friends? Rivals? Does she learn a lesson? Does he disappear in the end? Have you decided yet?"

Emma hesitated. Looked at the screen. Then at him.

"Not yet. I think... they’ll figure it out together."

"Hmmm. Nothing like a good character arc to keep things interesting."

"Just don’t get used to it. When I hand in this assignment, you disappear. Remember? That was the deal."

Vessel closed his eyes, a lazy smirk on his lips.

"If life were as simple as a deal..."

She ignored him. Or tried. And kept writing, even knowing — deep down — that she was no longer just writing a story. She was documenting something that had already started to happen.

"I’m hungry."

Emma didn’t look at him. "Then go devour some delivery guy’s soul, I don’t know."

"I mean real food. Burger, fries, maybe a milkshake. The kind of feast that makes the human gut cry for mercy. Come on, I’ll pay."

"You’re a demon, Vessel." She sighed, still typing.

"So? I still get paid for my work, thank you very much."

That made her stop, her mind going static.

"Demons get a salary?"

"Yes, and a very good one. In Hell, everyone gets paid. It’s a flawless infernal meritocracy. I have stocks, properties, shares in surface companies, and a Black card that works in any plane of existence. Believe me, the heaven folks envy how well we get paid — they’re always asking HR to switch plans and come down."

Emma blinked, confused.

"Wait. You’re telling me that… you’re rich?"

Vessel smiled, satisfied.

"Filthy rich. Multiplanar millionaire. I could buy a restaurant right now if I wanted. Or a fast-food chain. Or this building. Want sushi? A ten-course tasting menu? A taco truck parked outside?"

"You have a card?"

"I have an app too. Super handy."

Emma ran her hand over her face, exhausted. Too much info at once. More than she expected to be real.

"I can’t believe my accidental demon is a sugar daddy."

"Don’t abuse the term. I prefer ‘occasional cosmic provider.’"

"Okay, provider. So why haven’t you asked for anything yet?"

"Because I like when you give in first. Creates an illusion of control. But since you brought it up…"

He snapped his fingers. A digital menu floated in the air, glowing red and gold.

"Choose whatever you want. But if you try to order just a salad, I’ll swap your bath salts for a really crappy brand."

Emma laughed, because of course he’d be theatrical even in delivery.

"Fine. But dessert is my choice."

"Always."

She swiped her finger across the floating interface, trying to ignore how everything was starting to feel… normal. Ordering food with a demon. Talking about infernal payment. Laughing at jokes that, weeks ago, she would swear were clear signs of madness.

"Do you have a first-time coupon?" Emma asked, half-mocking.

"I know the chef. If you want, I can call and ask him to customize your pizza with a rune of inspiration."

"I just want carbs. No magic."

"Coward," he replied, but clicked the "confirm order" button with gusto.

Minutes later, the doorbell rang and Emma got up to get the food. They sat on the living room floor, among pillows, scattered papers, and stacked books. Emma opened the box and let out an almost religious sigh seeing the steaming pizza.

"This looks like something from a movie. Like… a ‘Midnight with the Devil,’ culinary version."

"Or ‘Eat, Pray, Summon,’" he suggested, grabbing a slice.

She laughed with her mouth full.

"Okay, confess. Do you do this for everyone who summons you?"

Vessel pretended to think, chewing with demonic dignity.

"Not always. Once in 1984, a guy tried to summon me to win a dance contest. We ended up founding a tap dance school in Oslo. Long story."

"And you became friends with him too?"

"No. He hated me. But he danced well."

Emma laughed again, and for a moment forgot about deadlines, professors, the story she needed to finish. She was just there, sharing a pizza with a being who could probably cause an eclipse with a sneeze — and yet told bad jokes and stole the stuffed crust edges.

"You’re nothing like I expected, you know?"

Vessel smiled, tilting his head.

"I’m everything you didn’t know you needed. And a bit more. Literally, I am chaos incarnate. But, let’s be honest, chaos with good taste."

Emma finished the slice and looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"I still think one day I’ll wake up and find out this was a caffeine-induced delirium."

"Maybe. Or maybe it’s the start of the best story you’ll ever write. You never know, right?"

A comfortable silence settled, the rare kind, made of crumbs and silent contemplations. Outside, the night went on indifferent, while inside, among books, pizza leftovers, and infernal sarcasm, something strange and almost beautiful began to take shape.

Vessel looked at the laptop screen, still open beside the sofa.

"After dessert… we’ll get back to your story. I’m feeling it’s almost there. Just missing a twist. Or an unexpected ending."

Emma nodded, feeling — for the first time in days — that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so lost after all.

[mutantg1rl]

High highs, Low lows, and all in between.

Chapter two: “Want to go in, on a pair?”

Premise: After defeating the void and saving the city from immense danger, the thunderbolts are technically no longer vigilantes, but an established team under the management of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. With a new found stability, the team handles minor missions, whether they occur within the city or at home.

Included within the group of ex-runaways is Y/N L/N, also referred to as Moon; a talented, yet an occasionally unstable empath and telepath, who is still trying to pick up the pieces of her mind after the teams toil with the void. With her primary mission being to watch over Bob as he heals, she must struggle with the task of keeping her own memories at bay and establish trust between herself and him. As she heals him, Moon discovers that Bob may be slowly curing her as well.

Pairing: Robert Reynolds x Fem!reader

story contains mentions of past trauma/abuse from both reader and Bob, hugs, mentions of mental illness and health topics etc, Bob is a cutie and reader agrees………may contain some suggestive stuff later on but that’s a story for another time.

(This chapter mentions tears, illness and vomiting, I tried not to go into too much detail but if any of those things trigger you please don’t read or at least be careful) also not edited!!!

A/N: Thank you all so much for the support in my last chapter!!! I super appreciate you all and I’m glad you guys liked the first chapter. Of course, this is the second chapter, and I guess im aiming to make about three more chapters of this story? I’m trying to not put standards for myself to amount to because I may not finish but maybe if I don’t put constraints I will finish? Who knows? Writing is hell for those who love to write idk.. Hope yall enjoy!!’

____________________________________________

The buzzing noise of the bathroom aggressively reverberated through your eardrums. Slippery sweat pooled at your forehead, dripping down your face and then sliding down your neck.

It was coming up again, whatever liquids you ingested in the dead of night before bed. You dry heaved, once, twice, thrice, before running back to the toilet and emptying the contents of your stomach once again. The time was 7:00 am, meaning you were way behind on schedule. With every second that passed by you grew more concerned about making breakfast. Your duties were more important, and there was no time for this.

You turned on the shower, the sound of the water hitting the shower floor bringing a relief of familiarity to the atmosphere. At least you were able to get clean, hopefully that would help whatever you were feeling.

You were always somewhat prone to stomach bugs. Growing up, you always found yourself at urgent care, one of the security guards accompanying you and one of the workers during a visit. The doctor always said it was possible that you had a weak immune system or just a weak stomach, which explained your frequent bouts of illness. From then on, it would just be antibiotics and onto your merry way. The workers would administer your medicine until you were feeling better. No playing, or conversing with the other children was allowed, and one of the adults was always present to scold you about getting sick for the umpteenth time.

After a while, you just dealt with the sickness on your own. Especially after escaping. Truthfully, you had no choice. A lonely animal has no choice but to survive.

With the water being warm enough, you stepped into the shower, hoping the healing water would cleanse your shivering body of the evilness the sickness contained. You lathered your antibacterial soap carefully across your body, also praying that the action would put up a fight against the “bacteria” in some way.

After a quick, yet meticulous shower, you sluggishly dressed yourself. A loose T-shirt, and breathable sweatpants, accompanied by your bedroom slippers.

You wobbled outside of your room, trying your hardest to gain some sort of composure before Bob emerged from his room. You huffed a sigh of relief as you suddenly remembered that the rest of the team went out early this morning for training, so they wouldn’t be back for quite a while. No one would interrupt you to ask if you were ok.

You wouldn’t have to lie and feign vitality just to escape the trap under the thumb of sympathy and doting. You were going to be fine. A little bit of movement would cure you, you were sure of it.

Standing in front of the fridge, you weakly pulled the door open to grab the fruit salad you prepared last night. Another sigh of relief escaped your ill form, one less thing you had to assemble for the day. You reached again for the milk, thinking of easy dishes you could prepare that wouldn’t take forever and a day to cook.

Oatmeal? Oatmeal.

You thought quietly to yourself. You shuffled around in the pantry on the other side of the kitchen that you just barely got to for two packets of oatmeal. The contrast of your usual routine and your makeshift one awkwardly resonated in the folds of your mind. By now, you would’ve already been finished with breakfast and already making lunch for the team, especially on a day where you were at home and they were gone early.

Wait, by now?

You checked the time, it was 8:00 am. Too late for all your lagging and complaining.

What concerned you once again was that Bob wasn’t up yet, usually he would be poking his pretty little head in the kitchen, ready to eat. You knew this of course, and you hoped it wasn’t a repeat of last weeks nightmare. You couldn’t feel anything coming from his room. Not in an alarming way, but in a pleased manner. That meant he was ok, or at least better than earlier. This meant that your sessions with him were working, and there was other proof. He seemed a bit less anxious and neurotic than usual.

Tinge

A strangled yelp escaped your lips as pain coursed through your veins. Your hand darted out to grab the counter beside you, trying your best to save yourself from hitting the ground. You were already feeble, but your mind wouldn’t let you give in already. You couldn’t, you survived this before on your own and you could do it all again.

You pushed yourself back up again, going back to searching for those two oatmeal packets again. Tears stung your eyes as you tried to fight the excruciating sensations tingling through your body.

A distraction came in the form of the found oatmeal packets being tightly grasped in your aching palms. You slightly grinned, shaking them as excitedly as you were able. You reached for the tiny pot hidden in the cabinets before turning on the stove. You then filled the pot with almond milk, gracefully stirring it around. The oats came after, brown sugar cinnamon, and chocolate chip, the chocolate chip oats being the only flavor Bob enjoyed. He wasn’t a fan of oats, but he would eat anything you made with a smile on his face. You were an amazing chef, which made it easier for him to face his most hated dishes.

You stirred the oats aimlessly, careful to not let them scorch in the pot. The milk bubbled, releasing the aroma of the cinnamon. The heavenly scent of brown sugar faintly danced above your nose, comforting you in the slightest of ways. You kind of needed it after such a taxing morning.

The heat of the stove touched your body, in such ways you weren’t familiar. You weren’t sure if the feeling was favorable or damning. You began to sweat again, this time, light droplets painting your face. You frustratedly wiped them off of the canvas that was your face.

Trembling, your body was now. It seemed to be trying to warn you of impending doom, and you actively ignored it.

“Morning, y/n,” Bob softly greeted. You heard his footsteps rhythmically travel from the hallway to the bar seats in front of the kitchen. He was literally looking at the back of your head, sending a shiver down your spine.

You wondered how you would sound once you opened your mouth. Would the virus possess you and speak for you? Take your mouth and use it as its own weapon?

“M…morning..Bob. Did you….sleep ok?” You mentally facepalmed at your terrible attempt. You sounded like a sick dog. Voice raspy and course from throwing up all morning, and the impending attack of another round of puking lacing your words like venom. You were practically holding up a sign saying “I’m sick!”.

Bob furrowed his brows, very keen on the fact that something was clearly wrong with you. He wasn’t sure what just yet, but he knew he had to investigate.

“I slept fine. I feel a lot better this morning, and I really owe it to you and your treatments. I’m really glad I have people to lean on.” Bob abandoned his place from behind the bar, carefully approaching your personal bubble.

You barely noticed, half of your focus on the oatmeal in front of you, and the rest of it utterly devoted to keeping up your facade, and some of it used to process what Bob just said.

It took you a minute to realize what he proclaimed. “I really owe it to you” was echoing in the walls of your mind. You cracked another smile, glad that you could help Bob in such a way. He deserved to be happy and feel safe, you thought. Before, he wouldn’t have accepted the help, but now he realized the healing power of assistance and leaning on others.

You struggled again now, “That’s…great Bob. Really glad you’re doing better.”

Your last words fell weak, clearly showing that your energy was dwindling. Still, you kept fighting the big and good fight, standing as tall as you were able as you finished nursing the oatmeal that bubbled over the heavily heated stove top.

Big mistake. Bob could really tell now. You were sick, you were terribly sick. Yet, here you were pushing yourself to make breakfast for him and yourself, damn near hurting yourself just to help him.

His face scrunched into immediate concern as he quickened his pace over to you. Bob hovered over you, his body heat entangling with yours.

You stood stiff, briskly turning off the stove and pushing the pot of oats of the heat. You were planning to escape his presence with a a glimpse of a feigned smile but the chances were seeming slimmer by the millisecond.

“Can I touch you? You don’t look so good” he said. Your stare lingered on his face as you tried your best to look aloof. Bob analyzed your face, trying to look for the cracks in your unwinding facade. He figured you wouldn’t outright answer him.

“I’m sorry for this,” he apologized as his hand gently levitated toward your forehead.

“What are you doing?” You mumbled, lethargically. “I’m fine, Bob. Can you get me to bowls from the dishwasher please? Breakfast is ready.”

The fake smile you flashed at Bob angered him even more. He hated this. A part of him often wondered about you. Quite often actually. You seemed so self sufficient. Compared to him, everyone sort of did. But you, you did every single thing by yourself. Bob was an addict before all of this for Christ’s sake: he knew what it meant to survive day to day without a single dime to his name. Sweating in the sweltering heat in his dirty clothes, shivering under the persecution of the frigid night. Above all, he knew it wasn’t easy at all to be on your own. Even before he got his new and improved body, and before he stopped accepting help from others, he knew how hard it was to suffer alone. He knew then, and he knew now.

You told him bits and pieces of your little life, what you did for a few years here and there before being as you said it-haunted by the presence of Valentina Allegra De Fointaine and her numerous projects. He tried to make sense of the timeline and characters, and other people would rarely appear in your short stories. This was evidence, you lived most of your life by your lonesome, never needing anyone to guide you or hold your hand.

Despite your past, you were so helpful. You helped him, a lot actually. You helped everyone on the team. He often wondered what you struggled with that wasn’t surface level.

Throb

The same muffled sounds of agony flew out of your throat. Your head stung and tears freely fell from your eyes now, the pain unbearable. You couldn’t run away from it anymore. You finally broke, the torturous sensations overcoming your pride.

You lost.

Your hands did their damage control, wiping away the tears that rained from your drooping eyes. You didn’t even realize that your body was so close to hitting the ground before Bob swiftly caught your warm body. He instinctively pulled you close, more so because he felt the sudden wobble in your legs.

Balled up fists met his chest just as strangled sobs permeated his ears.

“No Bob, please. I’m fine…I…..I can take of myself.”

Your arms struggled to push you from his form, but it was no use. You were physically incapable of fighting anymore.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Moon.” Bob lowly spoke into your hair, his eyes settling on you shaking in his arms. “I know what it feels like to not want help, especially when you need it. That’s the worst thing you can do to yourself.”

Bobs voice faltered as he recalled his own bouts of self endangerment. Help was the enemy. For a while, he felt it was best to suffer in silence, especially if people were going to just toss you by the wayside or treat you like you were disposable. What was the point of asking for help people were going to glare at you in disgust? Blame you for your flaws and ailments?

Once again, he understood better than anyone what refusing help meant. It meant that you were strong, and resilient.

“It doesn’t mean that, Moon,” Bob blurted out, resuming his train of thought.

Without missing a beat, you replied.“Yes, it does Bob. I can’t be anyone’s problem, I can’t-

“You’re not anyone’s problem. You’re sick and that’s ok. You’re human, and you need help and that’s ok too. Please, let me help you.”

Moon broke down again in Bobs arms, subconsciously still trying to fight his presence but knowing her efforts were a total waste. She felt it, he wanted to help her. Wanted to take away her pain.

“You sat at the stove slaying away all morning while you were practically dying. You’ve done more than most people would. It’s time to rest Moon, give yourself a break.”

Bob helped you over to the couch, gently sitting you down. He grabbed a throw pillow and rested against the arm of the couch. He followed by laying you down against the pillow, his eyes studying you to see if you were comfortable.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured you. He got up, and then reappeared with a damp cloth. Following the last of his soft movements, he continued as he rest the compress over your head.

He blotted the drying tears from your face as he saw his reflection in them. Bob thought you mirrored him so much: putting up such a fight just to feel in control. It made him anxious. Who was helping you when you were helping everyone else?

He wondered if that’s truly what he looked like during these difficult times. Truly unwell, visibly hurt, but trying so hard to pretend and not being able to fool a single soul. Desperation leaking from his pores, a cry for help being whispered between his lying lips, your lying lips. His stare on you lingered as you slowly blinked. He no longer ‘wondered’ if he looked like that. He knew, he knew that was exactly what he looked like.

“I’m sorry. This is just really hard for me.” You weakly chuckled. You sniffled a bit, wiping the corner of your nose.

“Don’t worry, I…I get it.” He was really trying. Bob wasn’t great at expressing himself all the time, especially not in stressful situations. He also wasn’t good at concealing his emotions. He wasn’t just trying to say it; Bob was trying to make you feel that he understood you.

You felt it, and so did he.

He paused for a few more moments, then broke the silence in the air. “You don’t have to always be strong. I know you’re strong, I know you’re independent. All of those things are amazing, but I also know you didn’t choose to deal with it on your own.”

Bob grabbed the black blanket that hung over the couch and covered you with it. “Do you remember what you told me when you came into my nightmare? You said, that I wasn’t alone anymore. ‘ that’s why I’m here now, that’s why we’re all here now’.”

Bob felt different now. He felt something in him loose like a rope being untied.

All your energy gathered to help you face him. You reached out, your empty hand motioning for his. His hand grappled yours, squeezing it to show that he was there. He wasn’t going anywhere. A mutual understanding, forged between you.

“I suppose you’re right. This is difficult. But you make it a whole lot easier,” your voice rasped. Bob softly smiled, looking down like he usually did when complimented. Bobs eyes looked up at you again, his eyes settling on your sleeping state.

He could tell you really stopped fighting now. The fog around you seemed to dissolve, and he was glad.

[e77y]

Sometimes the crushing weight of just like. existing in the world the way I do is sooo much I can’t even cry. I just pace around and I’m like Oh Man. Why can’t I experience love and affection normally

[artsymeeshee]

one of those nights

[voltaridylla]

god im desperate to yap

[robotwrangler]

Wow. We’re so back? I don’t know why but I have been feeling so great this week. And not just “okay” but actively happy, giddy, full of zest for life and whatnot!

[spr1ng]

i feel so at peace but at the same time so chaotic and drained

[whoblewboobear]

Staring down that weird feeling of feeling like too much or out of place or annoying if I say too much or say things too loud or too off-putting to be like- WANTED in any given social situation. To try so hard to socialize just to- idk. I’d very much like to stop defaulting to that scared kid that was pushed away or talked over until I got old enough and desperate enough to say any and every rapid fire thought that comes to mind. Like filling space when there’s dead air then wondering if maybe I did the Too Much™️ thing again and A. Scared everyone away or B. Pushed everyone away so it would hurt less when they leave BC of A.

Of feeling like I need to be useful or smart or talented or pretty or SOMETHING worthwhile so people want me around. I can just be but then it’s like just being has never been enough for anyone to like- stay. Or care. Running is always a mistake bc it’s like riiiight.. no one noticed you ran, babe. You’re not even at the top of their list people to want around. And just feel so low about it that I talk myself into feeling miserable again.

I’m happy, ive been so much happier lately and i dont take it for granted bc it’s so rare that things go okay or that there’s a sense of peace for a moment. I’m creating again and im less hard on myself about it. I have hobbies again, I’m making friends. And still I’m like seeing the other foot start to drop in real time bc it’s like. You’re in, but are you? That constant nagging voice that sounds so much like my own going “lonely again? Good you deserve it”

[kavehayati]

Chappel Roan saying she’s sad she’s demisexual and then there’s me being aroace as a whole like don’t you think I’m even more sad 😭

[raybuggybug]

Love when I wanna make friends but my brain is mean and hits me with a “why would anyone want to be friends with you”

Getting the same thought while talking with friends too.

….

Hatsune Miku would be my friend.

[emohorseboy]

this is an unpopular opinion but i actually love it when my friends call me, it doesn’t happen very often but i’ve had so many really lovely and memorable conversations with friends over the phone. i’m SO bad at replying to texts these days and there just is no replacement for hearing someone’s voice and laugh and stuff in real time - it’s not the same as actually being with them obviously but it’s a thousand times closer than texting. i wish it was more commonplace/socially acceptable to just call to catch up and check in. my sister called me when she was out walking once just to use the time to talk and it was so nice, why don’t we do that more? maybe people do and they just aren’t calling me (fair enough).

[joanofexys]

guys i miss my grandma

[strohller27]

.

[commander-gloryforge]

mental illness

[weezerlvr228]

flippin boobahs!

[whoblewboobear]

It’s strange, I’m used to hyperfixating hard on things like HARD (beats my 2yr long beetlejuice musical obsession back with a stick) but Starbreaker- not even fantasy high itself took me over to the point of feeling like a teen about. Like I haven’t had this much fun in fandom in years. I haven’t like- interacted with people this much in fandom in years (which is still not enough but if I beat myself up about social interaction again I’ll jump off a cliff)

But there’s never been a concern of like “this obsession won’t fade for a while but it’ll lose popularity” and that’s fine and surprisingly it hasn’t. But it is different. It’s like adapting to it constantly as the thing itself changes even when there are aspects that you’d like to stay the same. Like that ‘I don’t go to this school of thought, but I’ll still take the class bc it’s interesting’ sorta thing.

And then there’s that feeling of WANTING to contribute but the thing has become such a beast that it’s like oooh I’m so out of my depths here.

Also like constantly having to look myself in the eye and be like ‘bitch you don’t have to talk or contribute to EVERYTHING’ and the sooner I accept that and accept that it is what it is, ill miss things, I won’t get enjoyment out of every aspect and every aspect isn’t for me and that that isn’t a bad thing, I’ll stop having moments of feeling weird and out of place. I have my lil corner and that’s okay