#but whenever i try it is like. viscerally uncomfortable for me.

[scribefindegil]

there is no real meaningful distinction between Art and Craft, however i personally can only do the type of Art that is also extremely Craft. i need to make physical things with my hands and use tools and manipulate little objects and hoard all the specialized knives. otherwise i will start biting.

[drewsbuzzcut]

Lost In The Rubble But The House Stands All The Same

Mat Barzal x model!fem!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: mentions pregnancy, mentions miscarriage, mentions sex, fears, anxiety, mentions vomiting, angst (pls let me know I missed anything)

Takes place a couple of months after this

Mat’s lips trail down your throat and you force yourself to not physically pull away from him. You fight the wince that dares to paint over your features. You’re supposed to feel pleasure and happiness and want, but you feel nothing but fear.

His lips press against the swell of your breast and his hand travels down to your thigh, about to move it over so you’re straddling him. The way your body goes rigid has your husband ripping his mouth off of you, and it kills you to see his worried expression.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, hands slowly falling away from your body.

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out, words heavy and your legs take you upstairs before he can utter a single sound.

Mat takes a long and daunting minute to take in what just happened. It’s not the first time you’ve pulled away from him amidst a make out session, but you’ve always done it in a way that wasn’t necessarily concerning. Now all he can hope is that he didn’t do anything to make you not want to be with him, or uncomfortable around him.

Upstairs, you sit on the edge of your bed. Hands clutching the comforter as tears fall down your cheeks and fear and guilt wrestle inside of you. The urge to vomit all over your stained wood floors is strong, but you try to concentrate on calming down. You want to sleep, but if you sleep you’ll probably end up having nightmares of what could’ve been. Everything with your miscarriage has been taking a bigger toll on you than expected. Whenever your mind isn’t occupied, you’re thinking about the baby that could’ve been in your arms by this time next year. Even when you are occupied with the babies you’re blessed to have, you’re thinking about how terrified you are to have sex again. You’ve never had any problems with getting pregnant, and that’s precisely the issue. You don’t want to risk getting pregnant and risk another miscarriage. Your heart wouldn’t be able to handle another one.

You finally decide to lie down and drown everything out with your earbuds. Maybe the music blaring in your ears will make you drift into a nightmare-less sleep.

You’re not sure what time it is, but your earbuds are no longer in your ears and you can feel the bed dip under Mat’s weight. You feel him turn towards you and he softly lays an arm around you, but your body freezes and he immediately pulls away. Another round of tears spring to your eyes when you feel him turn away from you.

“I’m sorry. I love you, Mat. So much. I’m so sorry,” the words bubble up your throat, no longer able to keep them hostage. You turn into his back, cuddling into him so that your body is practically under his. You press soft kisses to his bare shoulder. Your heart continues to crack when he lets out a deep, unsettled sigh.

He turns on his back, his arm opening so he can bring you into his chest. Finally, you don’t tense up when his hand touches the small of your back.

“What’s going on?” He asks, voice low and tender.

You close your eyes to keep your tears at bay and take in deep breaths. How do you even begin?

“I’m scared and I’m hurting so much,” you whisper. Part of you hopes that he doesn’t hear you, or that he fell asleep because you really don’t want to talk about what’s plaguing you.

“Scared of what? What’s hurting? Do you need to go to the doctor?” He leans up, his top half being held up by leaning on his elbow. He looks down at you, eyes full of concern.

You shake your head.

A look of distress flashes in his eyes and he looks like he’s on the verge of breaking down.

“Are you scared of me? Do you not want to be touched by me?” He asks, anxiety and hurt laced in his tone.

“No! I’m not scared of you, or being touched by you. I swear. I’m just scared of having sex again, and I’m scared that, me, not wanting to have sex with you will ruin us,” you admit, a hand going to cup his cheek, so he knows you’re genuinely not afraid of him.

Your tears finally fall, creating a chain reaction and making Mat’s tears follow the parallel path.

“Why are you scared of having sex? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I’m so embarrassed by it. I’m your wife, I’m supposed to make sure you’re satisfied. I'm scared of getting pregnant and having another miscarriage. I know we agreed to eventually try for another baby, but I don’t know how to cope with everything right now. I’m supposed to be strong and not let this miscarriage tear me down, but I’m having a really hard time,” you cry, hands clutching onto him.

“No. That’s not right. Yes, you’re my wife, but I don’t expect you to have sex with me whenever I’m willing. This is a relationship and there are two of us. Your feelings matter, too.”

Mat stares into your eyes, pouring every once of love and care he has for you right into your heart. You sob a little harder, shoving your face in his bare chest so he can catch your tears. His arms wrap tightly around you, his heart pounding under where your ear is pressed. It soothes you, but your ache doesn’t completely disappear.

“I promise you that being sad about the miscarriage doesn’t make you weak. You’re the strongest person I know. You’re in therapy and you’re working through it. Give yourself time to heal. Don’t rush the process, baby. Let it rip into you, but also know that you’re stronger than it,” he whispers into your temple, lips pressing into the skin right after.

“I mean it when I say that we don’t have to have sex until you’re ready. You know I’ll always wait for you. I want you to want to have sex, okay? Don’t be embarrassed by not wanting to either. I love you, baby. You’re my everything,” he lifts your chin and presses his lips to yours.

For the first time you don’t feel the butterflies die inside of your stomach. Their wings continue to flutter.

“What if I’m never ready to have another baby? Will you leave me?” You ask through your muffled cries.

“No, I’d never leave you. You’re it for me. There will be other options for us. Even if you don’t want any more kids at all, you, Nols, AJ, and Sloane will always be enough for me,” he says, his honesty hard to miss.

“I’m sorry I kept it from you and was pushing you away. I just never want you to be disappointed in me,” you mutter.

“You’ll never disappoint me, pretty girl. Please just talk to me. I will literally listen to anything you say. I’m so in love with you. There is no version of you that I’m not in love with. I just need you to be open with me, baby,” he states, hands on your face so he can wipe away the residual tears.

“I promise I will. I know I always say that I’ll talk to you and then I don’t, but it’s something I’m continually working on in therapy. I need to set a time during the day so I can rant to you about everything,” your hands on his back rub his skin, and Mat swears he’s never been so happy to be touched by you.

You’re opening up to him and reciprocating his love and affection. It makes Mat proud; he knows how much you struggle with being open even when you trust him entirely.

“I can’t wait to hear all that you have to say. Your mind is so beautiful. I want you to share it with me.”

You could cry again at his words, but this time you chose to seal your lips to his.

You still have a lot of emotions to work through and a lot more to talk about, but as long as Mat is by your side you know you’ll be fine. Even if it means no more babies, you’re still content with your family. You just have to let your mind catch up with your heart.

a/n: I finished this a lot quicker than expected. Let me know if there’s anything else you guys want to see from this moment in their lives. As always, I hope y’all enjoy!

[nerves-nebula]

I had such a visceral reaction to the Slash uno comic. Like it so perfectly captured the experience of someone calling out people on your behalf. Like yes they are defending you but also it’s uncomfortable and you’re feeling great and terrible all at once. Anyway great comic 10/10

reminds me of how in the psych ward they got my food wrong and i was like lol. i hate to ask for my food to be changed cuz thats annoying and i'm shy so i guess i'll starve. and the guy across from me got really serious and was like "I'm not letting you fucking starve in here" and asked them to get me different food.

and it was like really genuinely nice but also sent me into ashamed fight or flight mode where i got incredibly sweaty and embarrassed and wanted to die. anyway it made me suddenly realize that the reason i'm terrified of people standing up for me is probably because whenever my sister did that for me or anyone else, someone got hurt. and i prefer to just suffer in silence rather than go through all that.

like i will get genuinely mad if people try to defend me without my permission cuz they could make things so much worse for no reason- which i still think is reasonable. I just think its less reasonable when that extends to like, being so stressed at the idea of someone standing up for me that i wont let them ask the waiter a question for me or something afsdfsdfadf.

which is to say: i think im picking up what you're putting down.

[kemendin]

The Sith Emperor is defeated. The Galactic Republic celebrates its victory. And the Hero of Tython finds himself dreading the end of the unthinkable alliance that made it all possible. Or perhaps, it doesn’t have to be the end. 

Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge (pre-relationship) Words: 3600 A/N: Finishing my replay of the Knight story with Cas, as well as perusing some of the cut conversations with Scourge, led to musings on deeper reasons for Scourge to stick around, particularly when Cas is such a contradictory example of a Jedi, and they really don’t get along all that well through most of the class story. And then musings led to actual words, because incoherent sputtering in Discord just wasn’t doing it justice. Also, fun trivia fact - the ship’s designation is a reference to Cas’ original name in WildStar.

CORELLIAN LIGHT CORVETTE, designation SEEKER, en route to CARRICK STATION

Caspian has to fight against the uncomfortable knot in his chest as he gives a tentative rap on the doorframe of the Seeker’s cargo bay, and then peers inside. It’s as stark as ever - there's rarely much cargo carried in this ship beyond a few necessary crates of supplies, and the bay’s sole occupant has never seemed inclined to fill the space with any personal effects. The upshot is that now, there’s no way for Cas to tell what might be about to happen here. Certainly nothing so obvious as an open packing crate on the floor, waiting to be filled and then taken on its way.

Scourge is already on his feet, turned towards the door, wearing heavy robes of a red so dark it borders on black. He stands expectantly, as though he’s simply been waiting for Cas to appear. It’s always been like that - the Sith has never made a secret of how easily he senses Caspian’s approach, and he’s invariably ready for him whenever the Jedi ventures to visit. 

His red eyes watch impassively as Cas slides fully into view. Cas bites the inside of his lip where he hopes the Sith won’t see, and after a moment’s dithering he steps inside.

“Have you got a minute?” he requests, trying to make it sound light, though it hardly seems loud enough to be heard over the apprehensive wump wump wump of his heart.

Scourge considers him for an instant, then gives a curt nod. “What is it, Jedi?” he asks.

Instead of answering right away, Cas moves over to a low crate nearby and gingerly sinks down onto it. It’s been nearly two weeks since he faced the Sith Emperor, but he still finds it difficult to remain on his feet for long periods, his body not yet recovered from its immense ordeal within the Dark Temple.

Perched on the edge of the crate, Cas pulls in a breath deep enough to lift his chest and settle his stomach. “I was just wondering… what your plans are, now,” he says carefully. “Now that -” He fumbles, and wets his lips. “I mean - this, you and me working together - it was all just to defeat the Emperor, right?”

Read on AO3

Scourge’s browstalks lift slightly, and a dry look curls his mouth. “You tell me,” he replies - an answer Cas would find infuriating, if he had room to feel it right now.

“Well… I did that. We - did that.” Cas brushes his silver hair from his face. He’s not sure if he’s being too obvious or not, putting so much emphasis on them. On this unthinkable alliance that had, somewhere along the way, transformed into a strangely profound partnership between Jedi and Sith.

“The Emperor’s dead,” he goes on. His grey eyes have been erratically roaming the room as he speaks, but now he focuses on Scourge again - as hard as that is. “You got what you wanted. Any… obligation, you made towards me - that’s over.”

He shifts atop the metal crate, pausing, half expecting Scourge to interrupt; but the Sith remains silent, and after another visceral heartbeat Cas pushes on, “So… what happens now? I mean - I’m still a Jedi, you’re still a Sith.” He forces a quick laugh, one that sounds hollowed with all the things he doesn’t want to think about. “Do we just - go back to being enemies?”

Still, Scourge doesn’t answer for several moments. His scarlet head cants, his keen gaze cutting thoughtful lines across Caspian’s uncertain form.

At length he says evenly, “There was a time, when I believed that the Jedi of my visions - that you - would not only defeat the Emperor, but also take his place. That you would claim his power and his throne, and fill the void of his destruction that all the Empire now feels. And as I once served him - so would I serve you.”

Cas feels a hard lurch in his stomach, and his hands curl unconsciously in his lap. “But you know now… that I won’t do that,” he says. It’s quick, not even a question. “I don’t want his power, and I don’t want any throne.”

“I know.” Scourge dips his head, though his eyes never leave the Jedi. “And I continue to wonder if you truly understand what you’re conceding.” His voice turns sharp, just shy of accusing. “Or the chaos to which you condemn the galaxy by doing so.”

Cas drops his eyes for a moment, wondering how he can possibly feel guilty for not seeking such power, as Scourge folds his arms and goes on, “I also know that trying to convince you otherwise would be a waste of breath. I’ve rarely met anyone so stubborn and determined to remain less than what they could be.”

Though this comment is withering - Cas winces inside, a direct hit upon his insecurities - Scourge only shrugs it away with a roll of his broad shoulders.

“I won’t try to sway you again. But if you will not take what is rightfully yours, I am left with little reason to remain here.”

Cas’ chest tightens, as do his brows. Don’t go, he wants to say. But pleading has never been an effective tactic with Scourge, who views such displays only with contempt.

“The Sith still brand me a traitor,” Scourge continues, musing aloud. “But perhaps there is yet a role for me in the Empire.” He lets out a sardonic huff of breath. “I’m sure your Council will be relieved to see me back on the other side of the galaxy, where I belong. Far from their precious Hero of Tython.”

Another seemingly offhand remark, yet it digs into Cas, scraping across the raw edges of his emotional wounds. He glances up, jutting his jaw against the snap of resentment that flurries through him.

“I don’t care what they think,” he retorts, all the more brusque for how true it is, and he sees Scourge’s eyes narrow in approval.

“Good,” he says softly. “Let them command you, Jedi, if you must - but never let them control you.”

A potent silence falls between them, as Scourge seems to await some reply, and Cas fumbles with what he should say. Get a hold of yourself, he berates himself sternly, uncomfortably aware of the Sith’s continued scrutiny. He breathes in again, then out. Straightens his shoulders, loosens the twist of his hands.

He makes his offer.

“Well. In case you haven’t totally made up your mind, I just thought I’d tell you - you’re welcome to stay. If - if you want to.”

Watching Scourge, he can’t tell if the other man is surprised by this invitation or not. He’s gotten better at reading the Sith over these months they’ve spent together; but it’s never easy to find anything on Scourge’s face, beyond the light layer of judgement that seems to constantly edge his expressions.

One dark-gloved hand snakes upward, as Scourge strokes briefly at the tendrils twitching idly on his chin. “…Do you want me to stay, Jedi?” he asks.

Again, frustratingly, Cas can discern nothing from how Scourge says it. His jaw tenses further as he throws back, “Would I have even asked you if I didn’t?”

The Sith blinks once, conceding this. But then he straightens, flicks his hand towards Cas, and asks pointedly, “...Why?”

His tone is level, but there is a new weight to it, a kind of unspoken challenge, and Cas knows instantly - this is a test. Scourge is seeking his intentions, probing for what a future together would entail, and if he does not like the answer Cas gives him - he will leave.

Cas swallows against the knot that’s moved from his chest to his throat, and stares up at Scourge. Because I feel something for you, he wants to burst out. Something deep, and frightening, and furious, and I know I shouldn’t be feeling like this about you, of all people, but I can’t help it. And if I let you go now, I know you won't come back. I’ll never get the chance to find out if someday, you might be able to feel something for me, too.

But try and say any of this, and he might as well kick Scourge out the airlock with his own boot. He can see it so clearly in his mind - the Sith’s face sharp and contemptuous, his breath thick with scorn, as he shreds Caspian’s confession with razored condemnations of sentimental fool. Have you learned nothing?

So Cas forces it all back, with the same unwieldy effort as pushing a pocket of air below the surface of a churning pool. Scourge does not, cannot, know the truth of what the other man feels; Cas is sure of it. But there are easily a dozen other reasons for him to abandon the Jedi and his crew, and very few incentives to stay, and Cas has only moments to find something of the latter that will sway Scourge’s views enough to keep him here.

He clears his throat, breaking apart the stoppage enough to speak. “Well… it’s like you said,” he points out, trying to keep his tone as calm as Scourge’s own. “The Sith want you dead. The Republic obviously doesn’t trust you, they’d be just as happy to kill you as the Sith, I expect.” He shrugs. “Where else can you go?”

“Anywhere,” replies Scourge, abrupt and immediate. “I am no longer bound by the Emperor’s command, nor by my pledge to you.” He fixes Cas with a heavy stare, one that bores into the Jedi without restraint. “Do you think the galaxy is so cleanly divided, and that I am so clumsy as to be caught between my former allies and your Republic? Do you think I need your protection, Jedi, or that of your friends, in order to survive?”

Cas flinches internally, knowing he’s misstepped. Biting his lip, he hastens to amend, “No. No, of course not.”

Scourge accepts this with a brusque nod. Though he hasn’t moved a centimetre from where he’s stood through the entire conversation, he still gives the impression of settling back, folding his arms again as he goes on:

“If you would have me remain here only under some misguided perception that I need a home, and lack a better offer than your ship -”

Cas expects him to finish the thought without hesitation; he braces himself for Scourge to declare his immediate departure, and dismiss the Jedi from his presence in the same scathing breath.

But instead the Sith trails off, and though his attention remains unrelenting, there is something expectant in the tilt of his browstalks. A prompt. An opening. And Cas seizes his chance.

“No,” he says again. “It’s not that at all.” He lifts his chin a fraction, forcing himself to meet Scourge’s gleaming gaze. It’s easy to do when he’s angry, lashing out at the unflappable Sith; much harder now, in the stillness of the Seeker’s hold, when all Cas wants to do is cut his hands over the unyielding angles of Scourge’s face until his palms are bloodied with the feel of him.

“You told me, once, that you had learned from me, as much as you had from Revan. And I said that you’d done the same for me. Because - well, you have.”

Cas shifts his weight as he lowers his gaze for a moment, pondering these uncomfortable truths he can no longer push aside.

“You’ve made me ask questions I never would have asked, otherwise. And true, I haven’t always liked the answers, but like them or not - they have opened my eyes.” He glances up again, steadier now. “And I just think - maybe we’re not done with that yet. I think there’s still more we could learn from each other, if we stay open to it.”

Scourge’s lips give the faintest quirk of curiosity; and not for the first time, Cas wonders if they feel as sharp as they look, or if there is yet some softness within that sculpted mouth. A low hum of consideration rises in the Sith’s throat.

“You continue to surprise me, Caspian,” he remarks. “And that, on its own, is no small feat.”

The Sith steps closer, moving in a way that seems almost incidental, like his approach is merely a side effect of his feet carrying him across the floor.

“I sensed your fury, when you brought down the ceiling of the Dark Temple,” he says lowly. “It was… impressively deliberate. If a trifle overdone.”

Cas angles his head back farther, continuing to hold Scourge’s gaze as he swallows. “What’s that got to do with this?” he asks, feeling his voice thicken. But Scourge can’t know why. He can’t know that as Cas stood over the fallen husk of the Sith Emperor, as he wrapped his rage around the stones bared like ancient, sharpened teeth above him and ripped them down, that the uppermost thought in the Jedi’s vengeful mind had not been of Vitiate’s terrible plans, or his own tormented captivity in the Emperor’s fortress, but a simple, vicious vow -

This is for what you did to him.

“Only that in my observation, you have been doing everything possible to distance yourself from the dark side,” answers Scourge, jolting Cas back to the present. “Not always to great success, and often to the detriment of your own purpose, as I explained to you on Corellia.  And yet in facing the Emperor, you not only embraced the dark side - you commanded it.” His voice drops, the sound like wet sand scraping across Caspian’s skin. “Deny it if you will, Jedi. But in that moment, you were a true lord of the Force.”

Cas’ jaw tenses defiantly. But Scourge is right. His actions against the Emperor had not been born of desperation, the random expulsion of his hatred for Vitiate and all he’d wrought. No - Cas had known exactly what he was doing.

And murder, however justified, was still murder.

“I’m not going to make a habit of it,” he retorts, though even now, he feels no remorse for his savage dispatch of the Emperor. “Using the dark side.”

“And yet you ask me to stay, and continue to share what I know of the galaxy, and of the Force.” There’s something almost mocking in Scourge’s tone now, in the narrowness of his eyes and the curve of his mouth. “Do you expect me to plod passively by your side and throw kernels of my experiences at you, in the hopes that a few of them will be considered? Do you see the irony, Jedi, in your request? You claim to rebuff the dark, and with the same breath you would plunge yourself into its shadow.”

Cas grits his teeth. Sometimes he wants to thrash Scourge when he gets like this, when the Sith pulls apart Cas’ every utterance with the same casual air as picking bones from a platter of meat.

Thrash him - and then devour him. Cas forces himself to unclench his jaw, and exhales deliberately.

“I’m not saying I’ll ever be like you,” he replies, as steadily as he can. “I’m never going to be Sith.”

“Mmmmm, no.” Scourge hums in accord, canting his head as he surveys the Jedi before him. “On that, we can agree.”

��But that doesn’t mean we can’t keep sharing our views with each other, our experiences.” Cas lifts his chin a little, and now there’s a hint of challenge in his own expression and voice. “You’ve been out of touch with the galaxy for a long time, Scourge - and I know I’ve been sheltered by the Jedi for most of my life. Why not change that? What was it you said? Sometimes it takes an outsider to open our eyes to new facets of the Force?”

Scourge’s gaze narrows again - but this time the thinnest pretence of a smile sharpens his mouth.

“So you can listen, even through all the Jedi blustering that fills your ears,” he remarks lightly. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

Cas bites back a retort and simply looks up at Scourge, his pale eyes pushing against the other man’s assessing stare. He finds that he’s nearly holding his breath, as he waits to see if this offhand expression of approval means that Scourge has at last made up his mind.

Heartbeats pass, too many, too loud in the unbearable silence between them; and surely Scourge will hear it soon, the near-desperate plea still lodged in every pulse through Caspian’s tightening chest that says please don’t go, I need you -

“Very well, Jedi. For now, I will accept your offer to remain here, as part of your crew.”

A wave of relief sweeps through Cas, leaving him surprisingly dizzy in its wake. His lungs deflate again, and the tension of his torso dissipates, allowing his shoulders to slump.

“Great,” he says, this simple response belying the sudden brightness of his voice and the small but irrepressible smile that unfurls across his face. “That’s great, Scourge, I - I’m really glad. Thank you.”

“But,” Scourge cuts across him, “only on one condition.”

Cas’ elation jerks to a halt. His brow crunches uncertainly. “And what’s that?” he ventures.

“That you give me your word - if I decide to leave again, you will not hold me here. I will be free to go where and when I choose, with no interference from you and your crew.”

Cas frowns more deeply, puzzled by this mundane request. He hesitates - but if there is more to Scourge’s terms than there seems to be, he can’t find it, and after another moment he nods.

“Of course. I would never try to keep you here against your will, you know that.” He huffs a wry breath. “As long as you’re alright with taking the word of a Jedi, that is.”

“Your word will suffice,” answers Scourge calmly.

By the time Cas realises what Scourge is implying, the Sith has already moved on. “But what of the Jedi Council?” Scourge presses, his gaze glinting sardonically. “How will your Masters respond to my continued appearances at your side? Not with any favour, I think.”

Cas’ reply is a low snort, as he brushes the back of his hand across his lips. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be furious,” he admits drily. “But come on, you’ve seen how well I get along with them. Especially now. I’ll go where they send me, but this is my ship. I decide who’s welcome here, and who’s not.” He straightens where he sits, sets his jaw, feeling oddly compelled to show his resolve, not just speak it.

“The Jedi Council are my leaders - not my masters. I’m still going to do things my way.”

Scourge dips his chin, though his eyes remain on Caspian. “I am counting on it,” he says softly. The way he speaks makes it sound almost like a threat. Almost.

Unsure of how to respond to this, Cas only clears his throat, sliding from the crate and onto his feet. “Right, well,” he says after an awkward moment or two. “I’ll try not to be too much of a disappointment, in that respect.” Half-joking, he adds, “I’m sure there will be plenty more opportunities for you to watch me butt heads with the Council, I know you always find that entertaining. Maybe it’ll make up for me not actually joining you on the dark side.”

He turns, and is already heading for the door when Scourge offers a parting remark that stops him in his tracks.

“Perhaps. But even Revan was Sith for a time, and you are more like them than you realise.”

Cas stiffens, hesitates. “How so?” he asks carefully, turning his head so that he can regard Scourge from over his shoulder.

“There was always something of the darkness in Revan, even when they returned to the light. True, you lack Revan’s raw power, their intense connection to the Force - but you have their tenacity. Their defiance. Their need to understand, and to forge their own path in finding it.”

Staring back at Scourge, Cas feels an enticing shiver ghost through him. It’s become an uncomfortably familiar sensation over these last few months, coaxed into being by the intensity of the Sith’s presence; the moments when Scourge’s level tone turns almost lyrical, and Cas can hear the memory of passion still imprinted on his words.

He swallows. “Is that a good thing?” he asks, wondering if he should be feeling flattered now, or frightened.

But Scourge merely makes an idle gesture with one hand.

“You must decide that for yourself. You know what happened to them, where their path led.”

Cas bites down apprehensively on his tongue. “Yeah. You turned on them. Nearly killed them,” he recalls, a little harshly. “Are you saying that if you stay, you’ll do the same to me?”

Scourge’s expression is once again impassive, impossible to read. “I have many enemies, Jedi,” he replies matter-of-factly, and then pauses. “But… for the moment, I don’t count you among them. You have nothing to fear. As long as I remain here, I will not raise my hand against you, or your crew.”

“Well.” Cas exhales a long breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, and gives a quick toss of his head to cover it. “You’ve just given me more incentive to make sure you stick around, haven’t you?” And he dares a tight, lopsided smile.

“Yes,” murmurs Scourge thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing at Cas.

The Sith straightens, adjusts his robes, and pivots away from the Jedi, moving towards the rear of the cargo bay in a clear expression of dismissal, but his last words linger suggestively between them:

“It would seem… that I have.”

[cheese-water]

Out of all the themes and messages that surrounded Generation Loss, the theory I can never fully immerse myself in is the one about the dehumanization of content creators. Don’t get me wrong. I’m well aware of its confirmation and canonization by Ranboo and other cast members, and I don’t think that anyone who believes or enjoys this concept is wrong for doing so. What am I, a hypocrite lmao? No, it’s that for me personally, it’s hard to view Genloss in that context without feeling weird, I guess. Here, let me give you an example:

Let’s look at the character of Sneeg in this mindset, since we have two episodes' worth of content from him to analyze. Right as he’s introduced, we learn Sneeg tried to complete Slime’s trials, failed, and was stuck in a cage while not being particularly angry about it. It's as if it’s understandable that he’s trapped, that it was his fault, and he knows it. And then, for the rest of the series, he acts as Ranboo’s funny sidekick, doing everything he can to get Ranboo, not himself, to the end. The only time Sneeg’s character shows any agency for himself is in episode 2, when he’s wearing the hat and, after reassuring Ranboo that he’ll come back for him, tries to escape the mall. But he gets caught, is forcefully brainwashed, and returns to his cynical yet helpful self again. So within the context of the audience's perception of CCs, Sneeg’s character only serves as a benefit to Ranboo, and without him (locked up in a cage), Sneeg is nothing, worthless even. Which to me makes the role feel so... icky.

Honestly, that’s probably why I don’t enjoy the dehumanizing cc theory all that much. It never fails to make me viscerally uncomfortable whenever I think about it for too long. “Wow, Genloss doesn’t have a happy ending and is supposed to make you uncomfortable? No shit sherlock.”Yeah, yeah, I know, but that interpretation is just too real for me. With the changing one’s perception leaves them with no choice or time loop theories, we can absolve ourselves of blame, since this is what Showfall wanted to happen. It's still not reassuring, but I’m used to not having control over what happens, be it social, politically, economically, etc. But by viewing the characters as their cc counterparts, their pain becomes so personal that we have no one to blame but ourselves for the suffering they endure. And while I know I wasn’t at fault for their trauma (I was a lurker on twitch, twitter, and tumblr at Ranboo’s "peak", so I couldn’t share my opinion even if I wanted to), I still feel a sense of responsibility knowing that I can’t do anything about it now. That I don’t know how to make it all better. I can’t stop random people from harassing Niki in the past, but I’m still ashamed that it happened at all. It’s like secondhand embarrassment cranked up to 1000%.

I want to watch Lex Cat’s video essay surrounding this topic so badly, but I have to wait until I’m in a good enough headspace because I know it will leave me feeling utterly desolate after. I haven't watched Ranboo’s playthrough of Killer Frequency, but I’ve been told that chat was a mess of people trying to help and others lying to him (telling them they missed something even though they hadn’t, saying that he picked the wrong options when they were right, etc.) and I believe them 100%. I know this because I was there for the late-night mining streams, having to sit through chat screaming DIAMONDS at Ranboo just for shits and giggles. No wonder Ranboo doesn’t trust us to pick the correct combination code for the mall exit when all we have done before is try to fuck him over.

If we choose to believe that Generation Loss was about the dehumanization of content creators by their fanbase, then all this tells Ranboo is that we, his audience, have learned nothing. If they view Generation Loss as Ranboo’s cry for help, a last-ditch effort to change their community, pleading, begging us to see him as a human being and not just a commodity, then why are we choosing to treat him exactly the same as before?

Maybe that’s why voting to kill Ranboo was so easy for me. I never viewed myself as their judge and jury, glowering over him as I decided his fate. As his blood began to pool beneath him, I felt more akin to his executioner, simply following the orders given from Showfall Media.

Maybe I was wrong to assume everyone felt the same way…

[midnightkens]

this wound won't close

TW: Homophobia, biphobia, mentions of conversion therapy, homophobic slurs, mentions of alcoholism, domestic violence, strangulation, and past suicidal ideation

---

Nothing looks right.

Colt scrutinizes the table, eyebrows furrowed deep in thought. It shouldn't be complicated. He's set the table how many times? He could do it with his hands tied behind his back. Easy as driving a boat.

Right now, he'd much rather be driving a boat.

Arms wrap around his middle, and Colt tenses. But then he picks up the familiar scent of lavender cologne, and he sighs and leans into Ken's touch. He wraps a hand around his wrist but doesn't turn to look at him.

"It's okay," Ken mutters. "It'll be over before you know it."

Colt sighs and shakes his head. "She's nasty, Ken. I hate it when she visits."

"I've dealt with nasty before," Ken reminds him. Colt scowls. It's been two years, and he'd still love nothing more than to punch Patrick Murphy in the face. "As long as she doesn't, ya know, try to strangle me, I think I'll be okay. I can take it."

Ken is perfectly capable of handling himself. He's stronger than he used to be, independent to a fault, yet Colt still resists urges to jump in and protect him from danger. His stomach churns uncomfortably.

Mom may not be a physical threat, but her words cut Colt to the core, leaving the parts of him he keeps well-hidden raw and exposed. She knows how to make him feel small and vulnerable with the tiniest hint of disapproval, and he resents that he reverts to being a child, desperate for her love, whenever he's in her presence.

Are you protecting Ken, or are you trying to protect yourself?

He flinches at the thought. Some questions are better left unanswered.

---

Colt never planned on coming out to her. His trysts with a few of the boys in his class were his best-kept secret.

Until his feelings for Anthony Whitman stopped being purely platonic.

Anthony was his best friend, and the most handsome boy Colt had ever seen. He had black curly hair, olive skin, and striking green eyes. Colt always felt like Anthony was staring into his very soul, and Colt was desperate to keep Anthony looking at him.

Only when Colt leaned in to kiss him did he notice that Anthony had a smattering of freckles across his nose.

He'd taken Anthony into his mouth, moaning when Anthony yanked his hair and breathlessly muttered praise, and -

The door flying open. A scream. Colt hurriedly pulling away and Anthony, flushed with shame, hastily pulling up his jeans.

"Colton Joseph!" He'd refused to look at her, and his heart shattered when Anthony practically ran out of his bedroom. "What do you think you're doing!?"

And so he'd sat at the kitchen table for the rest of the night, listening to Mom call him an embarrassment, a freak, a faggot, and the last one had made him flinch so viscerally that the chair had moved with him.

She smacked him when he rolled his eyes at the Bible passages.

Anthony never spoke to him again.

---

The closet sucked, but he'd only barely managed to avoid a pray-the-gay-away camp. He's heart too many horror stories about those.

He'd rather be closeted than deal with that.

And then he drops out of high school and gets hired in the stunt industry. He sleeps with Dan a few times, a couple of assistants, and Tom Ryder twice.

Two times too many.

None of them had ever been serious. They were just flings or friends-with-benefits situations. They were easy to hide from Mom and Dad. He's a stuntman. There'd never be a scandalous article written about him.

His bisexuality had flown under the radar, and then he met Ken.

---

Ken was different.

They'd met at a karaoke bar. He wasn't sure what possessed him to do it, but he'd gone up to talk to the other man after hearing him sing. Ken was adamant about being in a relationship, but they'd exchanged numbers anyway.

Colt quickly fell in love.

Ken was funny and charming, a talented photographer, eager to learn more about Colt's work. And Colt loved listening to him just as much, especially when he sang.

Toward the end of Ken's relationship wtith Patrick, his own relationship with Ken had bordered on an emotional affair. When Patrick tried to strangle Ken, when he'd almost lost Ken for good, Colt realized that he couldn't live without the other man.

They've been together for almost two years. Mom knows about Ken, but she's never met him, has never even seen a photo of him.

Until today.

---

The knock comes all too soon.

Ken looks up from chopping vegetables and gives Colt a reassuring smile. It'll be fine, he mouths. Colt nods and swallows. It feels like hundreds of glass shards cutting his throat.

Colt opens the door and, for the first time in over two years, locks eyes with his mother. Julie Seavers is a small, unassuming woman with shrewd brown eyes and blonde hair. To anyone else, she appears as a kind, God-fearing woman. All Colt sees is an abusive zealot.

"Hi, Mom." Colt croaks. Stop it. He clears his throat and steps aside. "Come on in. It's good to see you."

No, it's not. Get out of my damn house and leave me alone.

Julie hangs her purse on the hook by the door. Even without seeing her face, Colt knows she's scrutinizing the house with a critical eye. Out of the corner of his eye, Colt watches Ken wipe his hands and make his way toward the mother and son.

Julie turns and gives Ken a once-over. Her eyebrows rise in surprise. It's probably the hair. It's so blond it's almost white, and Colt loves it. She looks his body up and down, focusing on his jeans and his golden-yellow button down.

"Hm. Well, he's well-dressed at least. But Colt, for God-"

Ken quickly interjects, putting himself between Colt and Julie. He sticks his hand out and says brightly, "Hi! I'm Ken."

Julie stares at his hand for a moment before begrudgingly shaking it. "Julie."

Ken's easygoing grin doesn't falter. Colt takes a moment to marvel at him. A little over a year ago, he wouldn't have been nearly as confident. "Colt said you like chardonnay, so I grabbed a couple of bottles. Can I pour you a glass?"

Julie hums a low, short note. "Yes, thank you. Where have your hosting skills gone, Colt? I thought I raised you better than that."

Colt huffs. "He wants to make a good impression. Stop it."

"So you're letting him play host? This isn't even his home."

"Actually -"

"Here you go!" Ken all but shoves the glass in Julie's hand, and passes a bottle of beer to Colt. He accepts it with a grateful smile and clinks the bottle against Ken's glass. Ken takes a hearty sip of wine and slides his free hand into Colt's. Julie catches the action and purses her lips, but Ken makes no move to pull his hand away. He gives Colt's hand a reassuring squeeze, and it grounds him, if only just a little.

The three sit for dinner. The tension is so thick that Colt could cut it with a knife.

"So, Ken," Julie starts. "Colt says you two met at a bar?"

"Yep!" Ken grins. "A karaoke bar. I was singing, and once I was done, Colt came over and started talking to me."

"And you're a photographer? They don't make a lot of money, do they?"

Ken blinks in surprise, and Colt represses a sigh. Here it comes. "Ummm. Yeah, yeah, I'm a photographer. I make a decent amount of money, actually. I have my own studio and a lot of clients. Business is kind of booming."

"Your own studio? Hm."

Julie falls silent, and Colt smirks. Ken makes great money, and even though she doesn't approve of his career choice, she's never been able to make snobby comments about money to him. Small mercies.

"What do you think of Colt's stunt work? I wanted him to stay in school but he dropped out to jump off of roofs and get hit by cars."

Never mind.

Ken shrugs. "I think it's awesome. I'm not an adrenaline junkie, so I could never do it, but it's so cool."

"You don't care that he's a high school dropout?"

"Nah. Why would I? I never finished high school either."

"Oh." Julie stiffens and sets her fork down. "You know, a GED would -"

"Mom," Colt says sharply. "Drop it. Can we talk about something else? What's going on in Seattle? How's Derrick?"

Julie bristles at being interrupted, but once Colt mentions her husband, she brightens. Colt hates his stepfather, but whatever. He makes Mom happy and keeps her out of his hair. Good enough.

"Oh, well, now that you mention it..."

---

The rest of the meal thankfully goes off without a hitch.

Mom's on her second glass of wine. He sits with her in the living room while Ken loads the dishwasher. Colt toys with his beer bottle and tenses when Mom clears her throat.

"Colton."

Here it comes. "Yes?"

"Don't yes me. It's rude." Julie places her glass on a coaster and rests her hands on her lap. "Are you sure about Ken?" Her voice is soft, almost mocking. Colt loathes her, but he loves her, and why can't you just fucking be kind? "What happened to Jody? She was a nice girl."

"Nothing happened, Mom. It just didn't work out." They never properly came back after his accident, even after shooting Metalstorm. But they're still good friends, and she's with Dan now. It's worked out well for everyone. "I'm happy, she's happy. It's fine."

"Are you happy?" She fixes him with a patronizing stare, bordering on pity. "I just don't understand why you couldn't find a nice girl and settle down, have a couple of children. Maybe go back to school. You know your sister -"

"Is a doctor, her husband's a doctor, and they have three very intelligent kids. Yeah, I know." Natalie is the only one he's completely cut contact with. She's the worst combination of Mom and Dad possible, and Colt hates that his nieces are stuck with her. "You don't have to tell me again."

"Don't take that tone with me, Colton. I just wanted you to go back to school -"

"And marry a woman -"

"And be normal! I just wanted you to be normal! Don't you know what everyone else says?" Julie leans in and whispers, like she's afraid of interlopers overhearing, "They say you're going to Hell. Do you want that?"

"I'm going to Hell, huh?" Colt snarls. "Guess you, Dad, and Natalie will be right there with me! I don't need a degree or a wife or a huge, fancy house to be happy. It's all fake, anyway. Nat's an alcoholic, and her kids hate her. You and Dad are miserable. I don't want that life."

"Your sister is not! She's nothing like your father! And I'm - "

"I never said - "

"And she's not a fag - "

"Hey!"

Colt jumps at the booming voice. Ken's joined them, arms crossed over his chest and an angry flush across his cheeks. His muscles bulge from underneath his sleeves. Sometimes Colt forgets just how muscular he is.

"You're not gonna talk to Colt like that. Get the hell out of my house."

Ken never gets angry. He rarely has to defend Colt from anything. But now he's practically fuming. He locks eyes with Colt and crosses the room in two steps, bracing his hands on Colt's shoulders. Ken's hands tremble with barely-concealed fury.

Julie sputters and stares at Ken in shock. "Excuse me? Who do you think you're speaking to like that?"

"Don't even try that with me. I'm not going to let you sit here and degrade your son and call him slurs. Now get out of my house."

"You can't kick me out! This isn't your house! Colt, tell him - "

Colt almost hears the smirk in Ken's voice when he next speaks. "My name is on the deed. This is my house. Get. The fuck. Out."

Julie glares at Ken, and Colt averts her gaze when she turns on him. The tension grows as Julie sits there, desperately thinking of something to say, but Colt's done playing her games.

"Do I have to say it again? Leave."

Julie drains the rest of her glass and grabs her purse off the hook. Colt doesn't turn to look at her, but he feels her steely glare nonetheless. "Don't call me again, Colt. I don't know why I put up with you for so long."

The slam of the door doesn't hurt nearly as much as her words, and Colt resents himself for flinching.

---

Colt retreats to be bedroom before Ken can open his mouth. He sits on top of the bed, staring at nothing. His face is wet, but he makes no effort to wipe the tears away. Even after all these years, it hurts. Her words, her glares, her disapproval. Why does everyone else get a mother that loves them? Why is he being punished? Natalie could never do any wrong, even when she drank and stole and smacked him around. But he talked too much and couldn't stay still, he dropped out of school and dared to break free from the closet he was trapped in.

He isn't her definition of normal, and that's enough for her to hate him. Other people have moms that love them. Colt doesn't have Mom, doesn't have Dad, doesn't have his sister.

"Hey."

The bed dips, and Ken wraps an arm around him. Colt rests his head on Ken's shoulder, closing his eyes when Ken cards his fingers through his hair. "Hey."

Ken presses a feather-light kiss to the top of his head. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm so, so sorry. She doesn't deserve you."

You're wrong, Colt thinks. Mom sees him for who he really is: a scared, worthless child, desperate for love and approval. But he can't say any of that out loud. How pathetic. "Thanks. I'm sorry you had to see that. But...Thank you for doing that for me. You didn't have to. I could've handled her."

"I know. But I wanted to do it. I love you, Colt.

Soon enough, Ken will see him for who he really is, too. Maybe he'll even leave, and Mom will find out and come back to gloat, and he'll be all alone again.

But for now, Colt clutches the front of Ken's shirt. He doesn't know how long it'll last, but...Sometimes it's nice to be taken care of. Maybe he can let himself have this for a little while.

"I love you, too."

[gag-magazine]

Protecting Your Peace, or Being a Pussy?

By Yellen Art by Raneem Iftekhar

Putting male comedians on a pedestal for so many years of my life was horrid for my mental health. I love their Jester’s privilege. Their pursuit of truth. Their ability to point out the negative realities people don't wish to acknowledge. True catalysts for justice. 

Comedy insidiously slips in revolutionary critique in an extremely palatable manner, due to the very nature of its entertainment. The jokes, these necessary reality checks, hold immense power in reframing thought, twisting taboo into norm. If it’s funny, it’s funny. Audience laughter is visceral. uncontrollable. reflects an acceptance of the underlying principle of the bit. The beginning of a somewhat unconscious questioning—a shift in ingrained ideology, although potentially initially uncomfortable.

I wanted to be like them, but I just grew into a menace, playing my favorite sadistic game whenever possible. This favorite pastime involved going out of my way to make my moral adversaries as uncomfortable as possible, verbalizing the unappetizing elephant in the room. I know what you did last summer. No care for pleasantries: let’s let the dirt rise to the surface. I won’t let this blow over. Cunt. You aren’t hidden. As long as I’m here. I will corner you. Trap you into confession. 

I was always searching for something or someone to trigger me so I can simulate judge and jury, desperately grasping to feel any sort of power or agency in guaranteeing justice. To instigate some revelation about their lacking morality. To catalyze their own self-reflection and potentially inspire real change. You don’t want to let them off hook, allow them to enjoy the party, same as you, living peacefully with what they’ve done. It feels so deeply wrong to settle with your own discomfort as perpetrators go free. Would you let Harvey Weinstein enjoy his meal at the table next to yours? 

But it’s a flawed strategy. On par with cancel culture’s delusion that it actually serves justice. The only one being punished is yourself as you deep dive into a black tar pit. Stuck. bogged down by their darkness. All you are doing is fucking up your nervous system, extending the timeline of your own anger, letting it cramp in your gut. P.S. Comedians are infamously known to be such happy people! Maybe comedy has always been a medium to complain about the things outside our control…to poke fun at our powerlessness. Maybe it’s not this revolutionary instrument of social change you think it is, but merely reaffirms people’s values. You just romanticize being a dick because that’s all you know. 

Protecting your peace isn’t overrated.  Karma will get them. Remind yourself that real change comes from a place of love. You didn’t even make it funny. You just put them in defense mode, clutching their comfort zone and validating their own worth as their humanity is attacked. The opposite of your “intentions.” Self-disillusionment, the process of confronting the violence of your own automatic assumptions and reframing them comes from within…But your anger is righteous and what’s the alternative? Ambivalence? Complacency? It’s a difficult balance.

I’m on a painstaking journey to deconstruct my perfectionism and shift my judgmental lens in the name of self love. I’m typically the biggest victim and the most common target of my seething hatred. In attempting to free my soul from this negativity, I try to remind myself that firstly, it’s ok to fuck up. And secondly, not every moment is a defining moment…But is it, though? Life has this magic essence to it, this circular mirroring of sorts, in which specific microcosms reflect greater patterns. Life is full of fractal reflections between small and large instances: no matter how deep you dig, you arrive on a fraction of the same thing. I usually collect people’s words like trinkets to add to a comprehensive psychological file I reserve in my brain. I’m addicted to retrieving more data to fill in my mental picture. Yes, that data says something. But not everything is a part of a greater pattern. Remember that they are so much more than what you see or hear. You aren’t engaging in critical thought, you are just critical. Keep telling yourself it was always about them and not some grand overcompensation for your own self-hatred. Everything is a mirror, after all. Stop projecting. 

Today it dawned on me how much I’ve really changed. I’ve been making an excruciating effort to be kinder to myself. But in turn, I’ve become a straight up pussy. Now we have arrived at the extremely stupid reason I wrote this piece: because of two petty instances of girls disrespecting me last week. One of them involved some frigid bitch rolling her eyes at me and then ignoring me when I introduced myself. I humbly asked for her name and ignored her cuntiness. The other involved some alt chick cutting me in line. I said under my breath with my head down, “Don’t you hate when people cut?” and the bitch really hit me back with a loud “Ya I fucking hate when people cut” as she cuts. Now, I just said nothing. I’ve never felt like such a narc loser in my entire adult life, even though the concept of a fucking line has to be one of the most basic forms of common curtosy to ever exist. But She won. Hands down. Honestly I can’t even blame her. I have to respect her and I kind of want an enemies to lovers arch for us. 

But anywho, my past self would have paid big money to be awarded any opportunity to deliver some seething comeback her way. But I stood in silence and it’s been haunting me. I can’t believe I’m…chill..now. I stopped subtweeting for the most part on my instagram story because my compulsive desire to put people on blast has gotten me in trouble many a time. I’m growing up, choosing my battles, developing my prefrontal cortex. But I am still riddled with a deep sense of regret over my silence in both these dumb situations. Maybe I should have made a scene. Bowed down to her excellency and profusely apologized for entering her space in medieval english prose. 

God, no one tells you that protecting your peace feels absurdly fucking lame. [redacted]

_________

The original ending to this piece involved me personally naming the bitches that briefly hurt my ego and telling them to go fuck themselves, ironically undermining the healing narrative I championed in this entire article thus far over such petty, insignificant situations cuz its semi-funnyish (at best) commentary on my tendency to revert back to my nasty id instincts no matter how much I try to self-help out of being a chronic hater. But ultimately, the clickbait title of this piece presents a false binary: silence or explicit aggression. But I’ve come to learn that protecting your peace doesn’t make you a pussy; it’s just the opposite.

Let’s take a look at your doomed track record thus far. You allow disrespect to tally up until you reach a breaking point that has almost nothing to do with the straw that breaks the camel's back. Then you continue to publicly pop off on an anonymous adversary on social media, with a shield of comedy and just enough vagueness to avoid communicating directly, promptly and vulnerably. Fighting behind a black screen without even really admitting you’re fighting. Championing plausible deniability to slither out of actually confronting the problem with the person head-on. Calling someone out for some dumb bullshit they probably don’t even remember in a published article where they cannot defend themselves…That’s what being a pussy looks like. Yes, I know: there are people in this world that deserve to be bullied, and yes, it’s a real shame they don’t experience debilitating shame on a daily basis like you do. But ever heard of the saying, “Misery loves company?” You are ohhh, sooo predictable—following the classic “bullied becomes the bully” character arc. So quick to condemn but someone calls you weird once and you crumble. Do you feel less weak now or more than ever? No, no, I’ve got it all wrong? You’re powerful? Extremely secure? Such conviction. Praise be.

[teenage-mutant-cephalo-turtles]

❝... Honestly, I didn't think I'd get this far.❞

"But I know I wouldn't have made it without them."

Hey there! Welcome to the blog!~

I'm Leonardo Hamato, the main owner of this blog, an S+ ranked player, as well as Agent 4 of the New Squidbeak Splatoon!

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This blog is a RP blog, as seen in the blog description, but please do not forget that there is someone behind the screen! This blog is based on our own RotTMNT x Splatoon AU.

Here are some of the main tags we'll be using!

#ic~posts - Posts and asks that are in character! #ooc~posts - Posts and asks that are not in character! #leo~laments - Posts made by yours truly~ (Leo) #raph~rambles - Posts made by Raph! #mikey~muses - Posts made by Mikey! #donnie~discusses - Posts made by Donnie! #casey~chats - Posts made by Casey!

Before I go over our boundaries... HUGE inspiration credits go to @bettertwin1, @bettertwin9000, and @madmutts! They inspired us to make this blog, go check them out! <3

Boundaries under the cut!

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. *. ⋆ Boundaries will be updated as time goes on! We'll reblog this post whenever it's updated <3

[sirenofthegreenbanks]

hello hello hope u are having a good timezone! as u might have noticed re: my tags on that shl gifset lmao i'm interested on yr thoughts on this as a wenzhou poem.. cannot stop thinking about the come hope too much. come with all your ghosts. come clown around when the timing's bad. come promise me the world. come trust me to do my best even when i don't. come ask me to give you everything i have. anyway. !!! <3

honestly, i dont know how to present my thoughts without wanting to cry. there is something so raw about this poem that hits me where it hurts. i think this visceral need, of hope, is so essential to tyk, and at the same time, the novel is making a study of hopelessness.

i mean. the main character starts out killing himself; and it is hard not to understand this wish if the very world he lives in is so bleak and devoid of warmth. and after that very important decision, zhou zishu rejoices in every single mundane thing life has to offer; and he can do that, like, he has given himself the allowance to it because he paid for it with his death.

Death was not frightening. It had not been easy for him to survive over the past twenty years; all of the methods he used to pressure Zhang Chengling were ones he had endured in his childhood, but even harsher, and despite him not having the kid's innate talent for withstanding that harshness completely unharmed. (Ch. 45, tl. chichilations) "Why wouldn't i? My junior used to be taught by my hand." .. "Then what did you do if our junior couldn't recite the mantras, or couldn't practice some move?" .. "I made him copy the introductory breath-regulation mantra three hundred times. If he couldn't even practice slowly, then he wouldn't need to eat, nor… need to sleep. In the middle of the night, I would get someone to lock his bedroom up so that he would go into the snowdrifts and come to a comprehension on his own." (Ch. 33, tl. chichilations) He had experienced enough to fear no one and nothing in the world. If he lived in no fear, what was so scary about death? (Ch. 45, tl. chichilations)

and i feel like... like!! he has spent his entire life trying to carve out a place for himself: he perfected four seasons manor’s martial arts into an, uh, art, he dabbled a little in game of thrones politics entirely uncalled for, he discovered he has basically no bottom line, he sold his sect to the empire and built a new organization by himself, he became the most powerful person of the nation second only to the son of heaven. he has, like, done lots of things, and made mostly only bad choices.

but this struggle has always been about living his own life, and it has always been in a transactional way, and now that he has all but killed himself, he is doing it all over again.

However, what was making him uncomfortable was that he had to count the days down until his death. / Having endured so much, his heart's will was stalwart, and never had he had a will for death. Wasn't it ironic that his most free, most unworried, and most cheerful days would be the ones where he was waiting to die? / This was most likely yet another stupid thing that was his own doing. (Ch. 45, tl. chichilations)

and wen kexing is kind of the opposite. wen kexing has never really lived a life for himself, and over his time in the valley, he must have become accustomed to the thought of never having a life of his own ever. he is entirely unashamed of being seen as well, at least regarding the things that are socially unacceptable, like homosexuality and murder, or his general unhinged self; unashamed in a way that speaks of a trial by fire. but he once says that,

"For all my life, whenever I want to happily play around, I can't be happy. When I grew up a little, I wanted to learn arts both martial and literary with my parents, but no one was around to teach me. Tell me… isn't that some very poor timing?" (Ch. 29, tl. chichilations)

in short, he is always slightly out of tune. when he meets zhou zishu, he is slightly out of tune as well. zhou zishu is going to die (at this point, it is all but set in stone), and wen kexing has this plan that ends with a bang, with him going up in flames while he burns all of his past grievances and the devils and demons of jianghu, and that includes himself, away.

"This is the human world," he continued, "and the human world should not have ghosts and demons. The … prestigious Hero Ghao Chong is ridding the world of calamities for the common folk. If we don't lend a hand, would your many years of reading sagely texts not be in vain? I heard that only many years of cultivation can then give you a fulfilled life, but if you don't do anything notable, wouldn't those decades have been for nothing?" / Zhou Zishu didn't answer, but Wen Kexing still turned to ask after him. "Wouldn't you agree, Ah-Xu?" (Ch. 16, tl. chichilations) When cold rain falls, autumn makes itself known; the wutong tree ages and dies. Thin robes offer no protection from a night of bitter winter, years and lives wasting, whiling away... nothing more than this: resentment, that we met so late. (Ch. 29, tl. hunxi-after-hours)

but oh. while they meet, in that space between them, they carve out a place for them that fits just right; a space where they can explore and discover, play and fuck around, and be human. something neither really knows how to. ("and I started feeling myself open, / started feeling my yes coming back / and it was the sweetest thing I had ever known / the reverse of being haunted, / like taking a deep breath / and pulling the fog of the glass.")

and it also reminds me of this:

(excerpt from 'baked goods' by aimee nezhukumatathil, found here)

seriously, the lines youre quoting in your ask, like (grabs wenzhou and shakes them around) thats them!!! its them!!! but the poem has no single line that isnt a banger, almost no line that doesnt fit them. how it starts is absolutely devastating, it reminds me of wen kexing and the valley and his general attitude re: his lack of autonomy. ("I wanted the yes to last forever so badly later on I told myself: / We’re built like drums. We couldn't make songs / if we had never been hit. It was a desperate theory.") it reminds me of zhou zishu's journey (gestures at qi ye at large) and his unceasing downwards spiral, that ends with him (figuratively but also not) in his own grave. ("And that’s how I lived. I mean, that’s how I’d been living. / Decades of no no no no no no / And that’s okay, an accordion could not make a song / if it never closed.") like, zhou zishu is a survivor. the fact that he decides to kill himself has been a long way coming emotionally, but only really comes to pass in the physical world when liang jiuxiao's death kicks him off over edge, and half a decade later, he still remembers him with that misunderstanding in mind; otherwise, im fairly sure, he would have never done so, despite being unhappy and miserable.

"Who?" Zhou Zishu laughed dourly. "You mean the girl at the restaurant? I'll handle her. Liang Jiuxiao … he… he said murderers pay with their lives. Told me to pay with my life." (Qi Ye, Ch. 62, tl. chichilations) Murdering someone should be paid with one's life? Why should it be? In this world, there was a way to make living worse than dying. (TYK, Ch. 20, tl. chichilations)

but wen kexing, even despite being highly aware that he has never really lived, tries to find light in the darkness even in his last days on earth. ruth @specialability said the other day when i was rambling about wen kexing's general attitude re: his own impending death in my tags, "I do think that Wen Kexing is sort of removed from his reality in a dissociative way but he doesn't want to be. He is trying to have life experiences that are not so shitty and I do think there are times when he is very 'present', especially with Chengling," and i agree. they are both in their last days on this earth, and they are desperately making the most of it, because in all honesty, neither really wants to die. this shift from "not wanting to die" to "living", in tyk, happens incredibly slow and not all at once, i think. its a gradual process, a lot must be chosen and decided upon, and before all, wenzhou must allow themselves to believe in hope again.

thats what rattles me so about 'good light', its about how there hasnt always been hopelessness, but now, it is hard to remember how it used to be; having faith. believing in the good. this ardous, sometimes agonizing process of starting to believe in it again, of opening yourself to possibilities again. in the chapter when wu xi and jing qi return to examine zhou zishu again, after they already pronounced him incurable once before, and savable only if he paid a price that turns out to be his bottom line, zhou zishu says, in his pov:

Even though the time he had spent alive could not be considered ‘long’, Zhou Zishu felt that it was sufficient for him to understand this lesson--that there was no such thing as a free lunch. Even if these two people before him could be considered ‘friends’ if he were hard-pressed to, even if he was familiar with how the Great Shaman operated, he still dared not believe it so easily. / Because… it could hurt, this thing called hope. (Ch. 64, tl. wenbuxing)

but oh, it can be so sweet as well, cant it? when youve opened yourself to it, when youve begun to discover life, the world, yourself and who you might be; a second chance, at life, at being a person. like, wenzhou are so weird, but they are also trying out this thing called courtship, called friendship, called mundane life. and its so funny because they dont know how, and the novel absolutely drags them for it and they drag each other constantly and themselves too, no thing is left untouched. but also it is funny, it is hilarious, in this tragic sort of way that makes me want to cry, and also in the funny way because these two guys are just so perfect at being clowns.

but it is also sweet and lovely and raw, and thats who they are, and thats what they allow themselves to be, allow each other to be when they are together. they have, somehow, carved out this safe space with each other, where they can be fragile and human.

(quote above from 'i will' by mistki, found here)

[chronic-monachopsis]

this happens to me alllll the time (ppl reacting poorly to ur comic and not Getting It) like whenever i show ppl my art (bc They’re nosy) and they are so Perplexed and Weirded Out by it and it’s like ???? i get that it can be different to expectations or whatever but to dismiss any art (this esp happens to any art that makes ppl feel uncomfortable in Any way and that isn’t just ohh what a pretty picture :3) so wild to me like art is subjective and all but like ?? Look at it Look at what it’s Telling you, use a modicum of critical thinking i Beg.

also i fully believe all artists are freaks like u Have to be a little odd to dedicate so much of yourself to making things no matter what it is. i have also had people Get It in ways even i hasn’t thought of trust made me Think and Feel and dive deeper into my own art which is what it’s allll about !!

all that to say the girls that get it Get It and the girls that dont Dont. and the ones that do will eat it up (pun not intended). so dont let it get u down ! would love to see it when it’s available bc i also love a cannibalism motif <3

hope ur having a good day (and sorry for rambling lol) ! :)

hi anon !! First of all i would like to say. we have EXTREMELY similar typing quirks !?! and i couldnt help but notice ( not sure if it was intentional or not but i also do random capitalisation of words that i feel need extra emphasis, it confuses ppl at times LOL )

second of all, thank you for your thoughts, dont apologise for rambling! this is Ramble Central™ and now im gonna One Up you by rambling MORE than you heheuhuehe

anywho, YES. thank you for getting it! i think a lot of people get used to seeing art as solely decoration – like you said "a pretty picture". it is easy for some to forget that art is Also used as a tool of self expression.

i communicate best when i am creating, and oftentimes i will use themes that are unconventional? ( because i am pretentious )

Blood, Gore, Cannibalism, they are all visceral to look at. people will get weirded out and look away, tell me that im strange or that i should paint something prettier. and that can be very frustrating.

as an artist, i create for myself but i also seek understanding and connection through what i make. its the best line of communication i have, and to be misunderstood or judged through it feels disappointing !! ! i know lots of other ppl feel the same way.

if they didn't, there wouldn't be the Tortured Artist stereotype LMAOOoO

by the way there was no point i was trying to make here, SORRY LOL. i could talk for days about anything.. ! i plan on posting the comic sometime soon, maybe ina week or two when i have it finished ! :^)

[airlockfailure]

If you love Crosshair/The Bad Batch's character designs, please don't read under the cut.

My opinion of Crosshair swings around wildly. Sometimes I enjoy where I think the writers are taking his character, and then I absolutely hate them doing this to him. He's chosen this, and I don't know, but the other clones coming to the realization that they can choose to leave feels far, far more powerful than anything Crosshair is up to. (And I would rather see more of what the clones leaving are up to than anything Cross is doing. I do not care what war crimes you are choosing to commit at this point, because you believe you have made the correct choice and now you're isolated and it's obvious you were wrong, but you're stubborn- no, I am not doing backflips for you, I don't want you to be redeemed. I want you to suffer the consequences of not listening to your CO, your family, the consequences of being highly intelligent but stupid stubborn, but importantly, I want people to stop getting hurt because chip or not, you ARE making your own choices at this point. Watching Crosshair, I feel about as helpless as Cody, and I hate it, and that's decent writing.) The part that I get hung up on is how terrible, terrible the designs for the Bad Batch are. I don't know? I love the idea of extra enhanced clones. I love the idea of these clones being seen as different and defective. I enjoy the idea of the other clones shunning them because being different is dangerous when you're a clone (no, I don't think it's outright malice, but they live in a closed system where different means dead/useless). But I viscerally am uncomfortable with their character designs. Why can't they look like clones? Why can't the differences be so subtle that ONLY the clones can tell? This is a story ABOUT CLONES. I SHOULD BE WATCHING CLONES. I WANT TO BE WATCHING CLONES. Not... whatever this is. And I think this is why, whenever a clone shows up on screen, we collectively go apeshit over his appearance. A CLONE! IN A CLONE CENTERED SHOW!! Better make sure he's dead or missing by the end of the episode! We can't have clones in our clone show! IDK scrawny toothpick man gives me the heebie jeebies and I know people absolutely adore him and I'm sitting here like "that's not... he's not even a clone, man, they didn't even try" IDK it really sucks the enjoyment of his character out of it for me. You look nothing like a clone, Crosshair. You look like every cranky frail old man I deal with on a daily basis. I have the same problem with all the batch characters, but Crosshair is the most different visually so it really, really grinds my gears.

[songoftrillium]

Goudy Booktype regular and Bible Script subtitles as of late. As silly as it sounds it helps get me in the WoD mindset.

I could not. I have something that makes grasping objects for extended periods quite painful.

If I am going for a particular mood, I'll think about things that evoke such things in me. If I must be angry, I make myself angry. If I must feel sorrow, my words bring tears to my eyes.

Pointless suffering.

I don't like to write about real life places. The idea of having a fanbase kind of freaks me out, and if I become known for my writing, I don't want people to desecrate the places important to me and my loved ones.

That people will use my writing as justification to do terrible things.

My biggest joy is discovering things about my characters or the world I wasn't expecting, but made too much sense to leave out. But also there's characters that I have to sometimes catch myself and go "You know what, they got so much going on I just don't think that's something they've had the space to think about."

I'd pick dialogue. I think action is something visceral and gutteral, and is often over as quickly as it starts. It's the reflection or the build-up that to me makes those interactions so impactful. While it happens, it's all a blur. It's not seeing the meat puppet, but smelling the fingers it's trying to shove into your mouth.

There is an old belief that the human soul is outside of the body. Sort of the pilot behind the eyes that makes decisions, good and bad. And that when something particularly awful happens to a person, their soul can run away from them. To heal is to do the things that let this spirit of the self know that it's safe to return home. I can believe in that. I believe a person can be haunted by these lost motes of intent, taking up residence in one's own consciousness.

Ray Bradbury's short stories I've read have been provocative, clever, and terrifying in unexpected ways. "There Will Come Soft Rains" has been on my mind, lately.

I take dark delight in torturing characters. Life would be but a fevered dream if not for the adventures that turn it upside down. It is through tragedy that one confronts their own uncomfortable truths and have to reconcile the things that truly make them uncomfortable about the self. In short, the realm where true strength is forged.

To have my hunger satiated by wordcount, for every writing session to last as long as intended, and to be able to sleep whenever I set out to do so.

It's hard to write about.

I have books I lend and books I keep now. I no longer lend books I'm not prepared to lose eventually.

I keep a book in bed I intend to read but will instead cuddle to sleep. That book I'll usually have nap dates with a few months until it's read. I also keep a book handy for travel naps as a just-in-case.

A mummified frog I found behind a pallet at a warehouse I worked one summer as a teen. It was a spring pepper that was perfectly preserved as thin as a communion wafer. Was a perfect bookmark for a year until a theater kid stole it.

A 9-part epic set within my game setting, staged a few thousand years before the advent of agriculture. My setting has no real history precedent so I had to invent one, including inventing a (technically) functional werewolf language.

My epic is presented in the story of a greek play of a primordial pack of werewolves, and this is a passage from the introduction, spoken by the primordial spirit these werewolves worship herself:

“Nurtured and guided wolf pups, taught land's ways an wind's language. Played and hunted as family, paws on soft earth together, howls entwined in night's quiet.”

19. Reading Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark inspired me to want to be a storyteller as a child. 20. Oh, true love, in a heartbeat. No nobler cause. It's not like some magical thing, but it's something you build with someone over time. It's a vulnerability that takes time to evoke. 21. I tried to not write about werewolves, but that autism choochoo left the station years ago. I'm pretty screwed in that regard oops. Guess I better platform my loved ones. 22. I am a meandering, disorganized individual that tends to work at stuff in shotgun blasts of creativity over a long period, and will continually come back to something until I run out of ideas. 23. I do my writing in front of a big screen thats usually playing a movie, music, or anything that helps inspire whatever I'm writing for. 24. Tons. I try to do the work and the story justice, and I'll try to make myself an expert in whatever I'm writing if I can. 25. Without exception, all of my monsters and villains are inspired by people I've met in real life. 26. If it's someone the characters will regularly interact with, I give them the same kinda considerations my players give their own characters. I give them a purpose that motivates them, I give them goals, aspirations, et al. and getting in their head is easy. 27. I usually end my creative springs by letting my partner know I love her, and then letting her know I'm done for the night. 28. Oh, Mundus Duskreach. I wanted someone genuinely weak whom everyone thought was tough, and I think she's still my favorite. A half-goblin that grew up far from civilization and ran away from home to escape her murderous mother.

29. Usually I draw it from contemplating the things that frighten me or make me uncomfortable. And, well, I'm always frightened and uncomfortable, so I guess I have a lot to write about right now.

30. I actually am not too keen on sharing that. I try not to write about my dreams.

31. To my 3 regular readers, I'd like to let you know: "Hello."

32.

33. I studied audio and broadcast engineering in college. I also paint sometimes, and take photos. I occasionally make music. I did a lot of my watercolor painting while I recovered from neurosurgery in bed. I seldom have references, so I paint simple things from memory, like plants.

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go: its ok i guess

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens? When I'm trying to be humorous over text, and want a person to know I'm trying to be funny, I'll abandon punctuation entirely, engendering english in a casual conveyance that is meant to be construed as unserious.

36. I know nature, some of the polish language, I know many unusual facts about soil science, like SO many facts.

37. I hope I'm understood better as a person. This society wasn't built for me, but maybe if something endures after I'm gone, whoever comes next will get it.

38. I repeat myself a lot. I'll also sometimes find myself typing just one key ogg smf duffeb;u i sound like I had a stoke.

39. I was bullied pretty relentlessly in the World of Darkness gaming community near my hometown in the 90s. Most of the players were younger than me, and I was a teenager. Rather than simply telling me to leave, they tried to make the gaming experience as hostile as possible. They inspired me to make them as mad at me as humanly possible.

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

I look in their eyes I say "Please," "don't fucking kill me." "Watch your mouth."

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you've always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice...what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[dzpenumbra]

3/27/23

I have to be brief here tonight. Who knows if I actually will be, I rarely am. But like... this is the third night in a row that I've been sleep deprived and thinking to myself "I really need to take advantage of this to reset my sleep schedule". And now... I'm just starting this and it's 12:45. Rather than like... 4.

I woke up after 5 hours of sleep from a nightmare. Not viscerally intense, just... generally upsetting, unsettling. I was talking with my former "friend" K who... has always had one form of drug problem or another. Hunger, self-control issues, that kinda thing, I guess. Chasing endorphin dumps her entire life. Hedonism, I guess, mostly drugs and sex.

I have no idea why I was friends with her, looking back. I was straight edge, I was a skateboarder. I guess we just had a similar sense of humor and she represented a lot of the bohemian things I wanted to explore in life. Specifically the spiritual stuff - at that age, ghost hunting, ouija, stuff like that - and the craft stuff. She always had hemp necklaces and tie dye shirts and cool glass beads and shit. That side of life, which she was directly tapped into, which was completely absent from my life... was so influential and appealing to me that many components of that life are still major components of my life to this day.

But she would constantly get herself into trouble. Constantly overspending, constantly using harder and harder drugs, constantly hooking up with people... often for those drugs, or just in the presence of them. Though I remained aloof to a lot of it, and kept my nose out of the stuff I did know about. I wanted nothing to do with it. I had male friends like that too, I just... changed the topic whenever they brought it up. It's not my thing and it's very awkward for me, not something I was used to at all and it would make me very uncomfortable. I am very one-on-one, I focus my attention on one person at a time, in all respects of life. It's just how I function, and how I get the most satisfaction in life, and for me, it produces the best results by far. Instead of giving 10 people 5% of my energy, I give one person 50% of my energy. And that... just means a lot more to me, even if it does hurt tremendously to lose those bonds. Or have them taken advantage of.

In this dream, K was younger. I don't know when this was supposed to take place, but it was before the "homeless arc", when I saw her last. Again, when I last saw her... she was smoking some form of hard drug by the river in the park where I used to go pretty much every day. She looked like a literal skeleton. As long as I've known her (since she was like... 17?) she was overweight, but I could like... see her damn cheekbones. I literally did not recognize her.

I was at the river to visit the spot where I spread my dog's ashes. And she was there smoking crack or something like 10 yards away. And she told me she lost custody of her 5 kids, and was facing criminal charges in another state for smuggling fentanyl across state lines. And told me a lot of horror stories. As I just stood there like a deer in headlights, she just dumped Requiem for a Dream-level stories on me one after another. And... it broke me. For real. I was terrified. I didn't go back to the river for like a week, and when I did, I was looking over my shoulder the whole time. I didn't want to leave my house. I was scared. She knew where I lived at the time. I was scared to sleep. I didn't know if her or her fucked up drug friends might come by my house and try to break in and steal my shit.

I remember when I walked back from the river to my car that day - very fast, mind you - I had one hand in my pocket the entire time, holding my keys between my fingers like Wolverine claws. A tip someone taught me way back as like... improvised self defense if you're in a city. It fuckin shook me.

In this dream though, I was just... once again... trying to show her the potential she has. And it ended right around when I was very directly emphasizing that she was a slave to the drugs, really. She worked for them, not the other way around. That she's always been an addict, and that's just what it is, and at some point you really have to accept that to be able to move forward and actually have a life. Because there are tools out there to make it work, there are addicts that live functional lives. It is possible. But it doesn't happen on its own, you have to fucking want it. I didn't get that far into explaining to her, I'm just elaborating here, I basically broke the news that drugs have been ruling her entire life and she decides when that ends. And then I woke up upset.

I didn't record the dream. I don't know why. I think I immediately went into analysis-mode instead of short-term memory recall mode, and ended up losing the memory milestones.

5 hours of sleep, then just decided to get up. Today I kept it really low-key. A lot of Valheim. I put together this thing that mounts my computer to my desk that my mom got me... 2 of? For some reason? But now my mouse is all wonky, I think the desk interferes with the wireless signal. I think I'm overdue for a mouse-keyboard upgrade anyway. I recorded some music, which was pretty good. Rounded out the night with some Session. Avoided Twitch. And now... I think I'm gonna try to get to bed at a decent hour.

I hope I can get to the skatepark tomorrow. Maybe it's just the sleep deprivation, maybe it's the isolation, but I'm starting to get pretty deeply depressed. That whole "not really enjoying anything I'm doing, feeling like I need to be doing literally anything else, but nothing specifically I want" feeling? Yeah, it was big today, still is. Stress and depression, most likely. Exercise will be good. Being around people who are hopefully chill will be good.

I have a lot of things piling up on the To-Do list, so... tomorrow might be a big one. It all depends on how the night goes. And honestly, I can't really remember the last time I went to sleep when it was dark out, so... I have no idea how this is going to go. Fingers crossed.

Positive Note - I watered my orchid, I'm still shocked that thing is still going strong. And I'm pretty well settled on the astrology chart for the back of the hoodie, but I didn't do any work on it today. It'll happen when it happens. :)

[casualbluebirdmentality]

this post is literally just me ranting about my own gender experience/questioning as an afab person.

(despite all the cws and tws, it's really not that overwhelmingly negative-- moreso just yelling my confusion into the void lol. i'm just really paranoid abt accidentally ruining someone's day by not tagging smth, hence the literal max 30 tags.)

you can read it if you want but if not,, understandable lol. either way, enjoy this picture of a quokka that i got by googling "cute animal":

...ok.

figuring out ur gender as an afab person is so weird, cuz it's like:

am I uncomfortable w my tits (always have been) for Gender Reasons, or is it the societal conditioning that they're sex objects/will make ME be viewed as a sex object if they're "too noticeable"?

is the visceral discomfort that I've always had (literally since childhood) at even the THOUGHT of having a period a Gender Thing, or is it the societal taboo that makes it impossible to speak/think about it?

do I like the idea of being perceived as masc for Gender Reasons, or bc I know it will make people take me more seriously and make me less of a target for abuse/harassment?

do I feel like a boy in disguise/an imposter when surrounded by other women/in female spaces bc I actually am more masc in my actual gender, or because gender roles and their "boyish interests/presentation" and "girly interests/presentation" have been so ingrained in me that it feels like if I don't match up with That Exact Image of being a very femme woman, then clearly I'm just not a woman at all? (/s for that last phrase)

(A more specific/personalized addendum to that last one: I've got a sister and we both did a lot of performing arts stuff VERY frequently growing up, especially as a duo, and whenever the roles were a boy and girl (which wasn't most of the time but still happened fairly regularly), I'd always be the boy bc she was more femme than me & always wanted to be the girl, whereas i didn't really care-- so like, was that because I'm inherently more comfortable as a more masc person? Or did I just not care either way at the time cuz I was a damn kid just having fun playing a role, and now from years and years and YEARS of doing that I've just conditioned myself into thinking of myself as "the guy one" when paired with a woman/surrounded by women??????)

And THEN for me personally, you throw in the fact that both Nate/ND Stevenson (creator of the first show that ever made me feel Seen as a queer person, to the extent that it broke my brain a little) and Elliot Page (right after/while playing his Umbrella Academy character, who was the only "female" character I've EVER felt I could truly relate to in such a full, overwhelming extent for some reason I couldn't name, and whom my friends at the time literally said "had big [my name] energy," without having been told anything about my feelings at all) BOTH came out as transmasc. So it's like,, am i transmasc? All Signs Point To Yes, pretty much. And I distinctly prefer when my tits are squished firmly against my chest, which sounds a whole hell of a lot like chest dysphoria.

...Except that when I got a binder to try it out, threw a hoodie on over it, and looked in the mirror, it was just like,, weird. And a minute or so later when I caught my reflection in the mirror out the corner of my eye without thinking and my brain automatically perceived my chest as like, FLAT flat for the first time, it pretty much shouted "WRONG WRONG WRONG" and started clanging pots and pans until I took it off.

But, irl my nickname is a typically "male" short-hand (as in, someone reading it would assume it's a guy 99.9999% of the time) of my (feminine) name, and I much prefer it. So like I guess I'm just generically nonbinary... but I also really don't want to say that I'm not a woman? But that reluctance could just be reluctance at relinquishing what makes me "valuable" in society's eyes, or in accepting that I've "failed" to be what I was "supposed" to be. Or in losing my ability to "speak authentically" about things like sexism, even though I Know Full Well that that's not how that works, like, at all. So it's just... ????????????????????

The only thing I have been able to figure out is that I definitely want to be more buff and athletic, and definitely make my body at least a little more masc in that regard. So like, Buff Sword Lady definitely, at least. (I do quite enjoy swords. A lot.) So maybe I just want to be butch?

But I don't look like that yet, and it's so hard to figure this kind of thing out without actually being able to physically see yourself that way, without being able to actually feel it first-hand and compare. So I'm just, like, here, a fantasy writer doing muscle work-outs alone in my room every day, hoping that micro-dosing on jock culture will help me finally feel Right lmao.

[piraytoro]

Okay so I haven’t talked outside of like tags and stuff about racism in the MCR fandom bc it’s honestly draining and sometimes triggering for me but I did want to talk about like. A trend I’ve been seeing in the way people talk about Ray. And this isn’t a callout for any specific people, I honestly don’t remember where a lot of these examples even came from, they’re just things that kind of stuck with me bc they made me uncomfortable.

Anyway, there’s been kind of a trend with people calling Ray dumb? Whether it’s for the crypto thing or for his poetry or his lyrics, I’ve just seen it happening a lot, even within circles of people who love Ray Toro! And I get that calling fictional characters dumb without meaning it is just a part of fandom culture, but this is a real person and honestly it feels like sometimes people kind of do mean it. Generally making fun of his spelling and writing rubs me the wrong way because there is a definite disparity in literacy support and education between Latine people—ESPECIALLY those who are (probably) neurodivergent—and white people in this country that has nothing to do with intelligence and ability, it has to do with racism.

And like. We all know Ray has suffered from self esteem issues in the past. He bluntly stated he didn’t like how he looked, has said he didn’t think he had a good voice, and he demurs whenever Gerard says he’s the best guitarist ever. But he is so wrong on all counts! And he’s super intelligent and widely knowledgeable about a ton of things! If anything, the only issue with his lyrics is that he’s trying too hard bc HE DOESNT THINK HE’S GOOD AT WRITING. Like We Save is literally amazing lyrically, he’s contributed lyrically to a ton of MCR songs, most notably Early Sunsets, and people are saying things like “oh he can’t write” as if that mentality isn’t literally the issue in the first place. It’s a common problem with people who aren’t confident in their writing abilities to try too hard to Sound Poetic, but poetry/lyricism is so much about creating a feeling and an experience that trying too hard doesn’t translate well. When he goes for very direct and specific visuals/sensory experiences, his lyrics are actually really good.

And the thing is that the people who are saying these things just aren’t thinking about the implications because they don’t have to. Because most people just aren’t fully, viscerally aware of how insidious these prejudices are. But when you say that Ray is “the only true himbo in the band bc he’s kind of dumb” or whatever, just remember that what you’re implying by that is “out of these four guys, the only dumb one is the only one who’s not white.”

[oh-nxts-and-bxlts]

tomahawk-swing​:

Dingo’s old PET, fortunately still functional, with muffled recordings of the last conversation to happen in the boy’s bedroom.

It was a convenient side to having a microphone constantly planted on your person. PETs kept recent records of any sound within their vicinity, several weeks of audio content kept safely stored inside their expansive memory chips.

Maha had been anxious to get those clips, as soon as he recalled the existence of Dingo's old PET. The boy would occasionally use it again, whenever his more modern suffered the consequences of his reckless actions.

He would push the device towards Diggy, concern visible on his usually impassive traits.

"It's not much... but it's a start."

The recording started with muffled shouting. With the PET stuffed in one of the desk's messy drawers, the recordings weren't very clear. Barely enough to identify Dingo's shouting voice."

"The NetPolice’s ... your face ... wanted... Cyberworld!"

A quieter, mocking voice would reply.

"How dumb ... think I am? I ... evil genius ...on a whim! Unlike you ... think before I act!”

There was a scream. Maha had heard it several times, but it still made him shudder. After a long silence, the snivelling voice spoke again.

"Can’t have you try ... when we’re travelling. Would... shame.. landed in different places, don’t you think? ... easily find my way back… can’t ... same about you.”

There was nothing more to take from the recording. Maha let out a deep sigh, his heavy gaze falling back on the little robot before him.

"I assume that you're not familiar with the criminals that Dingo and Tomahawkman have formerly faced before... correct?"

[ @oh-nxts-and-bxlts ]

Worrying about the sudden and frankly disturbing disappearance of a local pain in the neck was one thing. Making your presence known to their boss, something they had, for unusually good reason, strictly forbidden, was a whole other bag of beans.

As Diggy stood awkwardly in place on the other side of the table from said boss, not trusting the human-made chairs to hold her weight without an embarrassing squeak, she made a thorough mental note to complain to Dingo later for being put in that situation. But - later was later, and then was then, with the strange man pushing towards her the one piece of evidence he seemed to have on hand, Dingo’s spare, old PET.

The small ‘bot leaned over to it, staring nervously at the blank screen. No one home. She couldn’t help but feel her face scrunch up in an uncomfortable expression as the older man inputed in a command, and proceeded to launch what seemed to be... some sort of passive, constant recording.

“Ayaaahhhhh- there is no such a thing as privacy with those things, innit.” Diggy grumbled to herself, feeling a weird sentiment settle at the pit of her stomach at the sudden slice of dystopia she’d been served, on top of the already disquieting contents of the recording. After her usual little quip though, the small ‘bot made herself very quiet, listening keenly to the broken up conversation replay.

For all her annoyance with the human, she couldn’t help but jump a little in place at the sudden scream of pain that rang out from the device. Static-peppered as it was, the unpleasantly familiar, visceral sound sent icy chills down her metal spine.

She was both rather relieved and frankly frustrated that she had nothing clearer to work when the recording came to an end, the diminutive ‘bot moving to scratch at her chin, eyelids drooping down to a furrowed position, the expression bleeding aggravation. She shook her head briskly. “Nope. Ain’t talked too much ‘bout work with ‘em before.” She grumbled, feeling a sense of powerlessness rise from the back of her mind like a dark fog. “Couldn’t begin ta’ narrow down who it might be that’s gotten ‘em in trouble.”

Still... a small diode seemed to light up in Diggy’s brain. “Though, that mention o’ “landing in a different place” kinda’ tickles me funny. Don’t suppose ya’ got an explanation that’d make sense for that?”