#felt cathartic anyway

[catty-words]

notes on a haven (2024) listen

a/n one: i was reading the fidlar wikipedia page recently (as one does) and this pitchfork quote really struck a chord with me - "[the band doesn't] make music you'll grow old with...but that's not really the point."

reading that, my mind immediately leapt to marianas trench.

i started listening to mt's music in 2021, when i was deeply unhappy, in need of escape, and barely cognizant of either of those things. their music brought me much joy for the way it was endlessly fun and danceable and facilitated the imagining of scenarios for my favorite fictional characters. but lately - before haven (2024) had been officially announced - i'd been thinking that i wouldn't grow old with them.

i came into this album asking it to prove me wrong and it didn't and that broke my heart a little bit. my listening experience is forever colored by that first impression.

a/n two: i presuppose that the fundamental tension in all of marianas trench's discography is between sickness and love, where the sickness is both literal & the drive to perform selfhood and the love is both a person & the audience consuming that selfhood. you can disagree, but then explain why my masterpiece theatre (2009) breakdown did numbers?

"a normal life"

- marianas trench openers have a history of setting the tone and soundscape of their album with impeccable flare, but that's just not true of "a normal life". it's giving generic film score. it's giving netflix YA property script quality. it's giving self-consciousness about how hard it is to sing the word 'normal' prettily.

- i can't say it doesn't accomplish its goals entirely, though, i find a lot of thematic richness in the chorus.

the voices in the night evoke mental illness but also suggests the inability to stop writing lyrics, to stop chasing the performance. for five years, our protagonist has been living inside normality (or at least without performance), but something innate to him can't settle there.

- the final verse and outro, too -

- drive home an idea of compulsion. the need to create means lack of stability.

"lightning and thunder"

- a second's faster than we thought gets to me. i haven't come to any meaningful conclusion as to why, i'm just kermit-nodding.gif about it.

- i am a sucker for the way the energetic rhythm of the pre-chorus contrasts with how effing dark the lyrics are.

what we got is a compensation. the performance (one last show) is costing him his heart.

- the chorus suggests that coming back to this performance (after a couple years of [feeling] estranged) is fate, is a force of nature. but honestly? given how much of this album sounds bored with itself, sounds like it was forced out at every step of the creative process, i simply cannot take the premise of the song seriously. and it's even a highlight on the album for me! woof!

"i'm not getting better"

- a bop. thank god. this album suffers from a lack of certified bops.

- why is the opening instrumentation serving "blank space" by taylor swift, though.

- see??

every piece of the album so far has highlighted the way performing - the creative voice in our protagonist's head, being on stage for one last show, the dance he needs to leave - is unhealthy. to get better, our protagonist has to walk away from all this.

and my overwhelming reaction to this through line is. SO GO. the music certainly isn't making a compelling case as to why we need you to hang around.

- anyway, this song is also critical in establishing that the grand love in the protagonist's life is still A Person. i know, i know by the sound you make / you've been around, 'cause your heartbeat keeps me awake / i know, i know i should stay away and all that.

"down to you"

- this has been my main grower track. it's gotten stuck in my head the most, its the place where the campbell inspiration does the most work (reading the song as the narrative speaking to its protagonist makes all about you, with or without you a very chewy refrain), and i had to admit to myself that it belongs on a ship playlist that is near and dear to my heart.

- HOWEVER. because it's also explicitly about the protagonist's love object - a broken heart and stay with me tonight and you're all i want - it sucks ass. this demonstrates exactly zero progress toward self-actualization or seeing porcelain as anything more than a fix-all for our protagonist's life. GET A JOB. STAY AWAY FROM HER.

"now or never"

NO

a reaction that works both in the context of the love being a literal person and the love being the audience. do not give yourself up to keep serving either of us, that's not what we're asking you to do.

"into the storm"

- on the other hand, i find this a really powerful commentary on the protagonist's relationship with his love:

he chose to immortalize versions of both of them forever in his art, and they can't escape those versions because they're always on the radio. that's as bitter as it is romantic. that's haunting, a la phantoms (2019).

i also really like the way the of mine ambiguously applies to either the broken record or the radio. the cadence of the delivery sells the former, though, and i am gnawing gnawing gnawing.

"ancient history"

- okay, but.

we just did this in the last track? and it was much less on the nose??

- i will admit to being emotional over the toronto name drop, though. maybe it's because the have a piece of american dream lyric looms large in my brain, but i often feel like mt avoids being so explicitly canadian. i like that we've been given a setting to imagine a wistful re-encounter with love, and that setting is toronto.

"stand and fight"

- a track where the campbell inspiration feels like it's doing the least! what are we fighting? why do we need this generic pep talk? this would be cheesy regardless, but it would actually mean something if we'd built a concrete enemy to stand against!!

"turn and run"

- i have similar issues with this track as with "stand and fight" but i will admit that the dramatic turn in the instrumentals does hit for me.

- though the more fantastical setting (the edge of where the world drops) comes out of nowhere, i can't say i hate it. i kind of wish this energy had been present throughout the album. i wish this album had a more concrete identity and understanding of itself.

"worlds collide"

- i hadn't yet clicked with this track, but okay. i guess with a title like "worlds collide" it Would be about reconciling those voices in the dark (i.e. the sickness, the need to live in the spotlight) keeping our protagonist from his normal life (i.e. settling down with his love). i can get down with the intent to weave together the established threads.

the repetition of several key lyrics from this album really brings home that intent, too.

- and i obviously love that they chose masterpiece theatre (2009) lyrics specifically to include in the repetition section.

it corroborates my read that haven (2024) is taking up the mantle of performance costing the protagonist something essential at the same time that it is something essential to their selfhood.

- BUT. i find the music and the production uninspired. it's simply not a song with a strong identity of it's own, which honestly kind of fucks thematically speaking since the protagonist is struggling mightily to marry the contradictory forces of nature on his life, but i don't want to have to engage with this primarily as text for it to fuck. i want it to be good music first, and it's still mainly serving me generic film score.

"nights like these"

- bored.

"remember me by"

- a bop! thank god! this album suffers from a lack of certified bops!!

- since this album is supposed to have a narrative - even if that narrative is a meta-narrative about the shape all myths take - this necessarily feels like regression. we're back to talking about how the protagonist and his love first met? why?

- whatever. like i said: a bop!

- you've got me burning like a dive bar cigarette really does it for me in terms of similes. there's skeeze! there's an unhealthy element! there's a 'hot and quick' implication that really works! i fuck with this so hard!!

- also, the i'll give you something to remember me by sitting in the shadow of "into the storm"!!! he gave her an inescapable musical legacy! FUCK!!

"haven"

- unlike the album opener, "haven" does live up to the mt legacy of closing tracks Going Hard. i feel like it picks up the fantastical, gritty edge from "turn and run", which sets the closer in a distinctly storybook land. it also folds in the rain/water/force of nature motif that has otherwise not done much for me through the rest of the album's run and makes me care.

- ooh ooh OOH this part

just landed with impact for the first time. in the beginning, the protagonist was kept from belonging by the voices, and here, the pairing of but i try to belong here and i'm trying to be gone here suggests that the voices are a kind of coping mechanism insomuch as he isn't present on purpose in order to belong. EATING THAT SHIT UP.

- still don't think this song has any right to evoke "ever after" though, the narrative album that upstages haven (2024) in every way. like, why are you reminding me that you've done this better already? embarrassing for you.

- and then, of course, i still hate the way the resolution claims that this life of constant tension with performance fits our protagonist better than anything else. it's cheap and happens so quickly as to be disingenuous and - ONCE AGAIN - the quality of the music is not making a case that this is something at which the protagonist ought to keep salving away. a break (more permanent than a five-year lapse between albums) might be a relief for everyone.

- not to mention, the literary nerd in me is driven up a wall by this because when the hero returns, he's not supposed to fall easily back into his so-called normal life. he's supposed to be too changed by his experience to reintegrate. and i guess you could make the case that haven's protagonist started out ill-fit to his normal life, so slotting into it neatly in the end is still indicative of the you can't go back story beat.

but you know what? no!! the bitter-sweetness is what makes that part of the monomyth resonate with me. journeys - be they literal or emotional - leave lasting impacts. you're never the same person at the end in a way that's painful but Correct. this twee sentiment wrapping up the album sells that out in favor of maintaining the status quo.

self-actualization when, king?

[butchcarmy]

Idk if you've written this but can you write about carmy and the reader arguing and he makes her cry? Idk I just feel like thatd be good angst fluff lol

AHH I got carried away as per usual. anyway this is good stuff. wrote a bunch. enjoy!!

word count: 1.3k

tags: traumatized carmy, mentally ill carmy and reader, arguing, language, HURT/COMFORT, ANGST/FLUFF, carmy being a sweetie

Hm…i'm spending a lot of time thinking about the set-up for this. Carmy is a very careful person when it comes to those he’s romantically involved in, but at the same time, he has a hard time controlling his temper when he's in the darkness, as i'll put it. 

here's something awful i think about that i wanna write about. carmy's stressed about work, because of course he is. he's carmy. his head is whirring, spinning with anxiety and self-hatred. i think you're just like him. mentally ill for mentally ill if you will. you're also in a bad mood, and he comes home from The Bear exhausted and keyed up.

“I hate when you push me away like this,” you admit. You've been trying to get him to talk to you since he's been home. Maybe he just needs space, but separation makes you anxious. Especially when he shuts down. 

“I'm sorry that it's so hard for you,” he spits, finally snapping and turning to face you. You've followed him into the dark bedroom, lit only by the harsh moonlight through the window. You flinch. You never quite get used to seeing him like this. 

“I—I just—“ you feel pressure beginning in the back of your eyes. You will it away. “How can I help you if you don’t talk to me?”

“Why do you care so much? Does it make you feel better to take care of someone more fucked up than you?” He snaps, voice raised. His words go down bitter, leaving an awful taste in your mouth. Something in you shatters.

“How could you ask me that?” Your vision’s gone hot and blurry. “I’m your partner. I love you, that’s why I care, you asshole!” You’re stifling sobs. You hate crying in fights like this, but it hurts. You can’t help it.

“Fuck,” Carmy mutters under his breath. He’s gone still in your blurred vision. “Baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that—“

“That was so fucked up, Carmy.” You move to sit on the bed, trying to wipe your tears away, but they keep coming. “What’s your problem?”

“You know what my problem is.” His remorse has swept away the anger, leaving him quiet before you. He leans down at your knees, hands on your thighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. Any of that.”

“You shouldn’t have.” Carmy nods quickly, and he raises a hand to your wet cheeks. “Fuckin’ asshole.”

“I know.” He takes your pain, your anger in its entirety. His other hand brings your knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.“

“Sure sounded like you meant it.” Anger flares up in your chest, hurt and betrayed, but you tamp it down, leaning into his hand cradling his face. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. “Damnit, Carmy.”

“I know. I know.” He’s still kissing your hand. “You’re too good for me. I don’t deserve you.” You hate it when he talks like this, because you can tell he really believes it.

“Don’t say that. Please.” 

“But it’s true.” You look down at him in the moonlight, at his sad blue eyes. “I always find ways to hurt you. I…”

“That’s what being in a relationship is, Carm.” You pat the space next to you. “Sit with me?”

“I keep having to remind myself of that.” He sinks into the bed next to you. “I’m so sorry for talking about you like that. Like you’re only doing this out of…I don’t know. Obligation.” He drags a hand across his tired face. “You don’t deserve that. I’m sorry. I just, I just think that—that I’m—fuck—“

“Slow down, Carm,” you say quietly. “It’s okay. You don’t need to force it. I’m listening.” He smiles bitterly at you, and you recognize the love in it easily. He takes in a deep breath before continuing. 

“I still have a hard time believing that anyone cares about me. I can’t even believe that you—love me.” You can practically see the shame rolling off of him in waves. “And it makes me scared.”

“Love is scary, isn’t it?” You say softly. He just nods. “It scares me, too. That’s why I kept pestering you when you got home. I…” You blink quickly. You don’t wanna cry again. “It scares me when I don’t know what you’re thinking. Because…I dunno. It just does.”

“Yeah?” You nod. He has this thoughtful expression that he holds for a moment as he stews on your words. “I didn’t think about it like that. I’m sorry. I think…I think when you kept asking me if I was okay, it…” he sighs, scratches at his temples. “I felt like I was…getting back into a corner. I think.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” You take his hand in yours. “I can see how that must’ve felt really bad.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault that I’m like this. I think—I think it just reminded me of my mom. We would always ask her if she was okay, because she’s fucking crazy, yknow? We didn’t wanna step on her toes. But it turns out we did anyway. And the way I acted just now, I was just like…” He can’t even get the words out. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, voice choked with emotion. “I love you. So much. You know that, right?”

“You tell me everyday. How could I not?” You pull him into a hug, tight and warm, and he instantly wraps his arms around you. “You’re not your mom, Carm. You're nothing like her. Okay?” 

“I don’t wanna be like her,” he whispers. “I don’t wanna be like her.”

“You’re not,” you remind him softly. “And you won’t be.”

Carmy leans back to look at you, but he remains close. His expression is knotted with pain. You run your thumb over his furrowed brow, and it makes his mouth curve upwards in a smile. It’s fleeting, but it was there. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’ll try to open up more. Let you know what I’m thinking.”

Suddenly, you think about when you first started dating Carmy. He was so scared to open up to you emotionally, but with gentle prodding, he fell apart instantly. There was a hunger in him to be known by others, to be seen by you, and it scared him to death. You see that same fear in him now, but you also see how much he’s grown since then. You doubt you would’ve been able to have this conversation at all in the first couple months. 

That makes you happy in a way you’re not quite able to word properly.

“Thank you. But I hope you also know I don’t want to force you. I just wanna help. And…” You measure your words carefully. “I’ll try not to let it freak me out so much. Because if you’re not in the mood to talk, I want you to know that’s okay. Okay?”

“Okay. I’d like that. If I don’t want to talk, I’ll just tell you. Instead of…blowing a fuse.” He laughs dryly. 

“I’d like that too.” You let out an exhale of relief you didn’t realize you were holding. “Wow, Carm. Look at us. Communicating!”

“I know.” That makes him laugh for real this time, and you’re laughing too. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

“I think you could. But I certainly like doing it with you.” His smiles grows wider at that, brimming with affection. 

“Let me make this up to you, baby.” He pulls you in for a kiss, slow and deep. You let out a little noise when his lips meet yours. 

“Make it up to me?” Carmy’s tongue is on your neck now. Oh. “Aren’t you tired? You—you have work tomorrow—?”

“Don’t care.” You fall back onto the bed, and the blankets deflate under you. You stare up at Carmy, his curls hanging by his face. “You’re more important.”

“Well, if you insist…” You giggle, and your giggles get louder when Carmy pulls up your shirt to blow raspberries against your stomach. “Carmy, quit it—oh—!”

He makes it up to you in full and more by keeping his head between your legs for the rest of the night. By the end of it you can't remember what you were mad about in the first place.

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

still thinking about the dream i had the other night where me and grian chatten dismantled my childhood wardrobe (the place i used to hide when things were bad) and turned it into kintsugi

[zazikels]

working on a gifset and can i just say phia saban the ACTRESS THAT YOU ARE:

the sharp fucking turn when he's like wubuwbwu its a lieeee, the withering looks she gave him. it was excellent.

[steakout-05]

something that had always been really frustrating for me when i was still in math classes in school was trying to watch the teacher actually work the problem out on the board and still not understanding wtf was happening. for some context, i heavily suspect that i have some form of dyscalculia because math and numbers literally do not compute properly in my brain. it'd be too long to explain the full extent of my possible dyscalculia here but math literally does the mental equivalent of maxing out the CPU power and memory of a computer to the point where it freezes and lags to my brain.

math class was always stressful for me because no matter what i did and how much progress i made, there was always a lack of understanding i had when it came to trying to work any math problem out long term and remembering anything. it felt like there was always something i was missing, so when the time came for the teacher to explain and go through a math problem step-by-step on the whiteboard, i made sure i paid as much attention to it as humanly possible as child-to-teenager me could muster and even then i still did not understand how the fuck they solved it, all because of one thing: the teacher pulling a random number completely out of their ass that happened to be the key to solving the problem.

like. i don't think i can illustrate how frustrating and isolating this was to experience with words alone. here i was, paying as much attention as i physically could, trying my damned hardest to memorise each individual step and calculation in order to understand how to get from point A to point B. everything made perfect sense up until the teacher suddenly stops for a second and writes a seemingly completely unrelated number there with no context as to why it's there in the first place, and then, in that singular moment, everything immediately comes crumbling down and i'm left completely confused. and somehow, everyone else around me perfectly understands it except me. like. imagine sitting there, giving the teacher all the attention you possibly could, literally watching and studying their hand movements just to understand every single step, only to be even more confused than your classmates, who you're pretty sure were half-asleep during the explanation, who also say they understand how the teacher came to that conclusion. what. the actual fuck.

when i try to explain how infinitely confusing and irritating this was for me, i'm reminded of a quote from that video Patricia Taxxon made about DHMIS: "The rug is pulled again ... There was never any hope of following the thread, understanding is impossible.". even when i was literally trying my best to possibly follow anything that was happening, the rug still gets pulled out from under my feet and i'm sent all the way back to square one of not understanding a single thing and being confused again. all because the teacher didn't explicitly explain how they got that random number that was apparently singlehandedly necessary for solving the equation and where they got it from, apart from that place being from literally fucking nowhere.

it's really no wonder that i eventually stopped giving a shit about paying attention in math class, because even when i was, it was still daunting and incomprehensible as always. why bother trying anymore when trying still gets you nowhere? trying to ask the teacher where they got that number from was an impossible to understand task as well, as their either snapped back with a "well you should have been paying attention" (even though i WAS but whatever) or they do explain that they added the first two numbers from the equation together or something, but now i'm wondering why they didn't just explain that in the first place like they did with everything else instead of seemingly just assuming everyone would know to do that.

by the way, if i had to give an estimate, my math ability is probably still at like. a 5th grader's level at best. so uh. yeah it's not good. still, it is kinda funny to me though, not only because i do find a bit of humour in the situation, but also because some people are often so quick to judge someone's intelligence purely based on their mathematical abilities alone. like. the idea of someone calling me dumb for still needing to do addition with my fingers despite the fact that my reading and language levels are considered above average is really funny to me lmaooo

[on-stolen-sunbeams]

There was a donut shop I used to pass on my walk to school senior year. I remember those pastel mornings well; the soft clouds of steam rising gently from outside vents, the way the world stood quiet, only interrupted by occasional puttering of an old pickup turning into the parking lot. It was in an old plaza, with flat, squat buildings and slightly garish, brightly colored signage. Every so often, if the breeze blew right, you could smell the faint aroma of coffee wafting your way. If you walked past early enough, sometimes you'd catch the glow of twinkle lights adorning the fence, still on from the night before and not yet washed out by sunlight. It was softer, somehow, a gentler, simpler place than the tall corporate-sleek tech companies, all silver and chrome, that came before. A kinder, more subdued plane of existence a few hundred feet down the road cloaked in goldenhour magic.

I once promised myself I'd stop by sometime, walk to school with a maple-glazed pastry in hand or curl up in the outdoor seating area and watch the sunrise. The shop opened early enough, after all. But I never did keep that promise. I regret it now.

It might just be the heartsick for yesteryear part of me, wedged somewhere beneath my ribcage like a particularly uncooperative splinter. But there's something pinprick painful about those unfulfilled promises. Not just about a warm donut, but penciled lists in childish handwriting with big dreams, so full of heart, leaving no room for much else. the complete and utter conviction in a happy ending. now I swirl bittersweet. Kids have the kind of faith that could take them to the stars should they only wish to glance a meteor. I know my younger self would lend me grace and sweet forgiveness that I can no longer afford, but I refuse to make a habit of accepting the priceless for free.

I'm not where I wanted to be. I didn't dream of dinner conversations under a veneer of disappointment and gray days, or pray to spend my days desperately clutching at mediocrity, of blending into wallpaper and counting down days torn between relief and dread.

It's easy to twist words into a new genre, a new form, cut sentences at the root and move them somewhere better. It's much harder to replant ampersand ambitions. I can't explain how things warped until they splintered. There's no clearcut reason for the way things are opposed to how they should've been. I don't want to look back and gloss over the regret, but averting my eyes is the least painful option, because it hurts, the twin desires to patch up youthful hopes and grind them to dust beneath my heel.

I don't know how this one ends. There's no moral, no central thesis I can cling to. I should've woven some kind of unifying theme, embedded details like a trail of breadcrumbs to an inevitable conclusion instead of throwing darts in the direction of a last page. The ending is still vague and uncertain. The story's not over yet.

Maybe I'll close with a zoomed in shot of a plane ticket, then a morning treat, some lesson in how it's never too late. The credits will roll into a lovely dawn sky, the focus will drag across a half-full coffee cup and evoke some sense of closure and peace. Onwards and upwards, it gets better. Maybe the shop's closed now, and the story ends with a solitary figure walking away, head heavy. the scene closes and you exit with a sour aftertaste and a wasted journey. I'm not cruel enough to spread regret like poisoned dandelion seeds in spring but sometimes it bleeds into the syllables. Maybe it fades off. I never visit, never wonder, slam the door shut and pretend today is day one and everything that came before never existed. Nostalgia sucks, but every open wound eventually scars over and flattens if you leave it be. Perhaps this one will too.

It's still too early to tell.

Some seven-year old part of me promises it will be alright. My seventeen year-old shade looks on with distrustful desperation. 

(I hope I do right by her.)

[happi-tree]

dust to dust (tell me i am good enough)

“Does it ever get easier?” She asks, voice hoarse and low (you are used to this from her) and hesitant and very quiet (you are not used to this).

“What?” You ask, a knee-jerk reaction, overcome with shock that she would ask anything of you after everything you’ve done.

“Th- ugh, never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Her gaze drops to the pouch in her hands, fingers fiddling with its thick, plasticky edges, pinching at the places where it’s sealed and watching the last stubborn dregs of blood shy away from the pressure she applies. 

“I wish I could tell you it does, Scary."

Or: When newly-Turned Scary starves herself from blood to the point of illness, it's up to Terry to help her recover and help her gain her footing in the new, monstrous world in which she now finds herself.

ao3

Happy Dndads Halloween Week, lovebirds! Here's my fic for day 1: vampires. It's part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, and I'm really excited to post more about it in the coming days. Hope you enjoy!

The silence between the two of you stretches like a rubber band, chafes like an ill-fitting starched shirt. Discomfort is familiar company, though, so you allow it to settle on your shoulders and pretend the way that her glassy, red-pupiled eyes stare through you doesn’t make you want to shatter the silence.

You’ve barged into her life enough, you think, you mourn. You’re always mourning something, been mourning since you were thirteen and it never stopped. 

But this isn’t about you. This is about her, the young girl that’s pushed herself up awkwardly to sit, still clutching one of the many drained pouches you brought for her. So you wait as stolen color begins to warm her pale skin, as her eyes seem to gain some lucidity.

She swallows, clears her throat, and you reach for another blood pouch, but before you can grasp it, she speaks. 

“Does it ever get easier?” She asks, voice hoarse and low (you are used to this from her) and hesitant and very quiet (you are not used to this).

“What?” You ask, a knee-jerk reaction, overcome with shock that she would ask anything of you after everything you’ve done.

“Th- ugh, never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Her gaze drops to the pouch in her hands, fingers fiddling with its thick, plasticky edges, pinching at the places where it’s sealed and watching the last stubborn dregs of blood shy away from the pressure she applies. 

She looks so small like this, you think for the millionth time since she invited you through the doorway in a blood-starved haze, propped up against the headboard of her bed and tangled in pastel bed sheets. Her dyed hair falls slowly from where she has hastily tied it back, ratty tee shirt and bright pink athletic shorts swamping her malnourished frame. 

“I wish I could tell you it does, Scary,” You say to her, blundering on and overstepping anyway, a habit passed down but not inherited. You can feel the weight of her new-moon eyes on you, hear the way her slightly-tremoring hands pause. 

“Oh,” She says, and that one syllable, soft and fear-edged, holds denial-anger-bargaining- depression-acceptance fifty times over, its very own Atlas upholding a life made much heavier than before. You know this because you have uttered it yourself, the same tone coloring your newly-unliving throat, a few years younger than her, and here its ghost is resurrected before you. Oh. 

“After a while, you adjust to it,” You reassure, “become desensitized to it, in a way. The newness wears off and eventually, it’s your new normal, but it never gets easier.”

You sigh, turning to look at her. “You can’t stop sensing the life in people, and you can’t stop wanting to take it for your own. It’s your nature now, and you can’t -” the words get stuck in your throat as you see her hands start to tremble again. 

You’re unsure if it’s the right move, but you rest an artificially-warm hand atop her corpse-cold one. She doesn’t move to hold it, but she doesn’t push you away either. Her fringe obscures her eyes, and her mouth is drawn into a taut line, as if she’s trying to stop it from wavering. 

“Scary, look at me, please, this is important,” You say, you beg, squeezing her hand once. She lifts her head, one eye still covered by magenta-ebony, but the other pierces into you. Good. 

“You can’t keep fighting yourself like this. Your mom was worried sick, and even though I’m used to this, I was terrified when she called me. I’m sorry you weren’t given the time to be a regular kid with a normal rebellious phase-”

“- It’s not a phase, Terry,” She scoffs halfheartedly, and it brings a smile to your face.

“Not if you don’t want it to be,” You agree. “But I need you to promise me something. I need you to take care of yourself, okay? It’s hard, and it’s gross, and it feels bad sometimes, I know, but I need you to keep going. For your mom, for your friends.” For me, you think selfishly.

“I - I don’t want to keep killing things,” She admits, voice lowered to keep it from wobbling, and it feels like something you aren’t supposed to hear. Scary is a fortress of a girl, and it worries you that going this long without has atrophied her walls where they should be unforgiving. 

You need to treat this moment with care, and a voice that sounds like your mother’s bounces around in your brain as you attempt to tow the line between empathy and care and pity.

“You won’t,” You say, just barely cutting off an oh, honey from the beginning. “Not right now. Maybe you will eventually -” Scary turns a shade paler and you squeeze her hand again. “But I would never ask that of you. There are other ways. I can handle it for now, if you’d like. Or your new friend would probably be more than willing to help.”

Scary shifts on the mattress. “Normal? Uh, yeah, he has already, actually, but I’ve never told him anything and I don’t know how he knows but he’s never asked me about it and it kinda weirds me out-”

“He’s an Oak kid. They have a habit for sniffing things out,” You say, lips curling at your own joke. “He’s a Good Person, they’re nice folks.”

“You seem… really weirdly certain about that.” Scary notes, question implicit.

“I know his father and uncle,” You say, smile nostalgia-tinged. “Childhood friends, actually, we go way back. Small world, huh?”

“Huh,” She says.

“Yeah,” You agree. 

You remember the times you had neglected yourself when you were younger, starving until your vision fuzzed and your stomach panged and you could barely stand. You remember the way that the twins had fussed over you like mother hens. Sparrow would push blood at you while urging you not to drink too much lest you make yourself sick, hold you with his warmth surrounding you and his nose buried into the side of your neck as if reminding himself by scent that you were still there. Lark would stand guard at the threshold, pacing restlessly until you gained your strength back, gold-tinted eyes darting between you and the world beyond, hands balled into clawed fists, protective and vigilant. 

You don’t have the nose that they do, but based solely on the snippets of anecdotes Scary’s mentioned, you wouldn’t be surprised if the two of them were packmates by now. The thought fills you with warm satisfaction. 

You weren’t lying when you said that Normal is a Good Person - in both senses of the phrase. She needs more people in her corner, you think, and Normally Oak-Swallows-Garcia is a decent place to start. 

She moves her hand out from underneath yours, only to brace herself on the mattress to sit up more fully. Her deathly pallor is a little less ashy, her expression a little less open, more lucid. Bloodshot eyes dart to the maroon-filled pouches beside you, and you wordlessly hand her another before she asks.

Scary raises a single slitted brow as she takes it from your grasp, and her hands are still far too cold for your liking, but at least their shaking has subsided.

She carefully pokes a straw through the packaging and sips, eyes going wide and dark before pulling away with a small cough.

Blood hunger is a delicate balance, you have long since learned. The longer you starve yourself, the harder it is to show restraint once you start to feed again.

She takes another small, delicate sip, and clears her throat.

“So,” she starts, “Mom doesn’t… know yet, right? About you.”

The implicit why haven’t you told her, what are you doing, why would you do this to her go unspoken but not unheard, accentuated by her pointed glare. 

(The overgrown child in your mind replies to the latter with two can play at that game, and you quash him down with prejudice.)

You exhale. “No,” You reply.

Veronica is a lovely woman. Too lovely for you, many would argue, including yourself. Beautiful and kind and hardworking and supportive, she is a spot of light for you, who cannot walk in the sun. 

She’s also remarkably headstrong and stubborn, you know. You see it in her daughter, immortalized in her blood: the strength of her gaze, the arch of her brow, the set of her shoulders, the calculated carelessness of her words.

However, Veronica Marlowe is also human - and one unaware of the second world that lies atop (or perhaps beneath) her own, like a second shadow or perhaps a mirage. The world you now inhabit, though you hadn’t always. 

The world her daughter now inhabits, unbeknownst to her.

Though San Dimas is… safe, for your kind (and you are forever grateful to the Wilsons for that), part of you still remains a little boy, rabbit-hearted and afraid of how others might react to you. Honesty and vulnerability had never been your strong suits, but that is no excuse for your cowardice.

“I kept… trying to bring it up,” you start, glancing just to the right of her face, unable to bear the full weight of her gaze. “It’s difficult, trying to tell someone that you’re undead, that you won’t age the way they do.”

Scary looks a bit pale.

“I was going to tell her, of course! That’s always been the plan, once I… knew that it would last. That I would be a more permanent fixture in your lives. I had planned on telling both of you, but then -”

“Then,” she finishes, her frown deepening, taking a small sip from her blood bag.

“Yeah,” You reply, feeling rather helpless. “Then.”

“Hey,” Scary says, and you look up at her. 

“You’re not, like… two hundred years old or something, right?”

The question shocks a burst of laughter out of you.

“God. Fuck no, absolutely not. No, I’m not that much older than I look. Oh, ew, I’m sorry if you thought-” She’s smiling, just a little, and a lopsided bit of fang pokes out from between closed lips.

“Okay, thank fuck. Not that I don’t still hate you for, like, getting with my mom, or whatever, ugh,” she grumbles, which is fair, you think. “Just, like, how -”

“Thirty-nine,” you answer for her. “I’m thirty-nine years old.”

“You’re younger than her?” She asks, bewildered. “I mean, I had kinda figured, since you… y’know,” she says, gesturing a hand at her own face. “Initially. But that was before I knew any of this.”

You simply nod in response.

Scary looks like she wants to ask something more, then disguises it with another sip at the pouch. She looks down, considering, and you wait.

“How,” she says, voice coming out strangled. A pause. “How young were you? Wh… when it happened?”

Something in you softens. Or breaks. It’s hard to tell, these days.

“Thirteen,” You tell her.

Her gaze snaps up to meet yours.

“Really?”

“Really.” 

A thousand things push with each pulse of your stolen heartbeat, beating against your ribcage and rising up your throat.

I know what it’s like, to be young and angry and seeking a darkness to match the one inside your head. I get it. I can help you. You will get past this, but it’s hard. It’s so terribly, horribly hard, growing up when you know that you’ll never grow old, and it sucks shit, and I’m sorry. You’re not alone. You have me, if you invite me, but I would never ask that of you.

Her eyes bore into your own, and you wonder if she can somehow read your thoughts.

Maybe she doesn’t need to.

“When you tell her -” she sighs, growls to herself, looks up again.

“When you tell her, do you think we could tell her together?”

You smile, and it’s a fanged, monstrous thing.

“Yeah,” You respond, and though you haven’t fed yet today, you feel oddly warm. “I’d like that.”

Your smile is returned, fanged and monstrous and headstrong and bright.

“I thought you might.” 

[perenlop]

ash’s sinnoh team is so good (mostly) and im fond of the core six and then you look closer and you remember that only half of them were treated all that well

[billpottsismygf]

.

[sagehaubitze]

I've been frustrated and restless lately, over a lot of things. Looking for an outlet. Wanted to work on (kink) photography, but nothing was speaking to me.

"Chain noose. A representation of the intimate rigidity in death.", my partner suggests. I'm already frustrated with the idea, a chain noose isn't functional, the links aren't likely to bind correctly. As I try to tie it, there is no form to get the point across that it's a noose, it just looks.. like a huge mess of chain. Which, I suppose that is a decent representation of death, a huge mess, but it's not what I wanted. -- I think the bigger issue though, is that I don't envision death as rigid. I think we die a million different deaths as we move through life. Without that, I don't think we're truly living. It's something that weaves in and out, death always bears new threads to tie into; it's cyclical. And we always keep going to find new and exciting ways to die again. I always seem to find my way back to the comforting embrace, at least.

[tunaababee]

.

[arrowpunk]

Reading Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents is hitting me like a fucking Frieght Train

Can we like calm the fuck down for even 2 pages maybe my god

[mattynmarns]

finished beartown and I think my life is changed forever

[seagullcharmer]

i wish i knew how to write. how to tell stories and show glimpses of other lives

[b-blushes]

woke up in such a struggling mood and kicked myself through the day also in struggling style and felt on and on very alternate version of that rhyme which i'm rewriting as 'going to bed, having to rise, leaves a man so fucked up he dies' BUT for some reason the way i can endure a day in which my vibes are so wretched rancid rotten is to listen to the music i was listening to when i was in college (?!) and do some kind of involved but NOT challenging-to-the-point-of-frustrating task and through this magic ritual i have made it to the evening victorious. let's have a saturday at least three thousand times better than this

[brown-little-robin]

Also, Kaylie correctly pointed out that I am "full of feral clones" and "wiry". the clones are indeed a warning sign!