#i can’t exist without someone trying to sell me something

[kavehayati]

Man I just give up.

[hearts4mica]

I can’t fix you

Yandere Batfam! x Neglected Reader

Masterlist

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“How can a person lose their self control?”

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Request!: Hello friend! May I request neglected reader x batman except they break and become the next Joker?

Let's say that Jason killed the original, but given the neglect and outright hatred put onto reader (you can expand on this however you wish!), they run away from the manor without anyone noticing it.

They stumble upon an old warehouse where he stored the Joker toxin, except this version of it was meant to be used on Halloween (as another statement from Joker) and was so incredibly strong that, combined with all of that anger and grief in their heart, reader goes insane and begins to laugh... a lot. Since it was still a very bad hazard to leave out, Batman tasks Nightwing (and a reluctant Hood) to enter the warehouse a few days later, only to find that there are signs that point to Joker being back and having collected a lot of henchmen and a lot of toxin, planning something. So when these two go to confront who they think is Joker, they see reader instead, with the same bloody, scarred smile and hollow eyes.Queue a battle (that reader narrowly loses, taunting both of them with hurtful words that they can't even retort to), and now batfam is trying their hardest to bring the old reader back, except they don't even know what they were like, truly. The only one that did was Alfred, but not enough to know if their rehabilitation is working.

Meanwhile, Batman interrogates reader and the conversation heads south where they go "You never thought of me, Bat. I was invisible, hated and never once given an ounce of attention. I never knew if you loved me. You loved your villains far more... so will you, now? Now that I am like him? Am I finally worthy of your attention?" they laugh, even harder at the horror in his eyes, the grief in his voice while he denies it, and all that the Asylum can hear are spine-chilling giggles and the words of a broken man who's too late to save his one and only normal kid.

Also can I be called 🍌 anon? :D

(Hello Anon! I have no idea why it wouldn’t let me answer your request so i just copied and pasted it here! Here’s your story!)

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Ever since you said no the chance if becoming a hero like them you felt ignored? Like they were disappointed in you.

You were just normal in their eyes. Your family didn’t care about you.. they never did so as soon as you turned 18 you ran away and no one noticed. You’re sure they didn’t even remember or cared about your existence.

You stole some money from Bruce to rent yourself a department in a not so bad place in Gotham but ended up getting scammed so all your money went to waste and now you were homeless.

While laying down on a bench you debated about going back to the Wayne Manor and live a sad life there again but you couldn’t! Your ego wouldn’t let you.

So without any hope left you got up and started walking to an abandoned warehouse. Maybe there’s stuff you can take from there and sell? It’s not stealing if it’s abandoned. So you decided to go in.

While exploring the place you found a so called “Joker Toxin” it was probably a fake one but his fans would pay anything for this. You grabbed the small glass but it was slippery because it was stored in a freezer and it feel to the floor breaking the glass and the liquid fell to the floor.

“Aw shit.” Well it was fake after all so you didn’t need to worry right?-

The moment you inhaled that toxin you started grinning your eyes widened open and your eyes they became red as if you were intoxicated. You feel onto the floor in pain it hurts so bad but you can’t help but- feel happy?

Ha, ha ha HA HA HA HAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHA!!!

You can’t stop no matter how much you cover your mouth trying to quiet down not wanting to attract unwanted attention it seems impossible to you. It feels like someone’s tickling you. You can’t stop.

You pass out a few hours later from exhaustion

When you wake up it feels like something has changed with you. You want revenge you need it.

Now you had to set a trap to kill two birds with a stone.

Comissioner Gordon had notified Batfam about some weird noises coming from an abandoned warehouse that citizens had told him about so he sent Nightwing and Red hood.

He told them to be careful since the Joker might be back because of some signs and to notify him immediately if it was the case.

He knew Dick and Jason weren’t children anymore but be still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong and it felt wrong to send his children to investigate this. He was trying to become a better fatjer for all his children afterall.

Now Nightwing and Redhood were outside the warehouse. You we’re watching them through a small window getting ready for your grand entrance.

The went in and everything seemed fine. Until you appeared instead of the Joker.

“Hello there!” You say as you step out from the shadows.

They both freeze for a second.

“What? The bat ate your tongue?!”

“Name?-“ Dick says surprised that his- sibling? Was here. Weren’t you 8 years old? You were when he- last saw you?…

“Well yeah but no! I’m now the Joker! I’m his greatest succesor!” Your smile was creepy. It went from ear to ear and it was painted with red lipstick. You had dyed your hair green (and failed awkwardly-) so now it was just black and looked green fungy.

“What the heck is wrong with you?! You know how much harm you’ve been causing? Are you stupid?!” Red hood says.

“Let’s both calm dowwn! [name] come back home! We miss you-“

“Oh stop being a fucking hypocrite Dick! No one even noticed i was gone until now! No way in heck i’m going back to that place!” You hold up a gun.

“Oh so that’s how we’re playing?” Redhood takes out his gun.

“Let’s dance.” You smirk as you shoot your gun towards them.

You end up loosing and they drag you back to the manor. You insulted them in every language you knew.

Now back in the manor you got tied up and Batman was infront of you.

“What a nice family reunion isn’t that right Bats?” You tell him taunting him.

“[name] don’t call me that. I’m you father-“

“HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA since when Batsy?! When did you ever parent me? When was the last time we had a real conversation?! And don’t call me [name]! I’m the joker now!”

“I-“ for the first time to you Bruce Wayne your ‘father’ had looked at you. Stared at you regretfully.

“When was the last time you thought of me? Was i not worthy of your attention like them?! Is it because i didn’t want to become a hero like you? Are you jeaulous cause i picked a normal life?!”

“I was just busy [name]” his face was full of regret. But it was too late.

“But you were never busy for your villians right?! Now that i became a villian it’s the first time in years that you’ve payed attention to me!” Your smile started fading you’ve couldn’t look weak infront of him! Never again.

“We can change that! How about you quit this nonsense you’ve got going on? We can start this over again.” His child. You were his child. He lost you once. He’ll make up for this wether you want to or not.

Damian watching in the background “This psycho needs therapy.” He mutters to himself and leaves the Batcave.

Now you were forever trapped in this place. Your family was not stopping until you became what you once were.

Honestly they didn’t even know you. They just molded you into what they ideally thought you were.

Your makeup was wiped off. Your clothes changed. Your hair well they tried to save it but since the dye ruined it it had been chopped off horribly.

Daily your ‘doctor’ (Alfred) prescribed you sedatives to keep you in line. If you misbehaved you got a dosis. In the morning a dosis, at night another one.

They told you it was for your own good. They were helping you. You couldn’t harm yourself anymore!

Now everyday felt like on autopilot. You were a zombie in your own body. Your mind was foggy.

And they’ll keep doing this until you become the perfect Wayne they imagined you once were.

“Ha! Joker? What a stupid idea [name]! You never became the Joker! Pftt! Babybird we would never neglect you! You were always a part of us!”

Those small lies. Daily. While being weak. You started believing them.

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Thanks for reading!

My masterlist!

Requests are open!

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[delicateperspective]

The truth is I’m not great at expressing myself. I’ve had a thousand thoughts running through my head for quite some time now, but I’m going to try to put into words what I feel. English isn’t my first language, so please be patient with me.

There’s been one question I can’t stop thinking about: why?

I think in this fandom it’s necessary to stop for a second and ask ourselves if we might be wrong. And that’s okay. I’ve always liked to look at all sides, even the ones I don’t agree with. I think it’s necessary to understand the full picture.

I’ve chosen to support two boys who, I believe, loved or love each other, and who are in the closet. Not because I want to believe it, but because even after hearing the antis and seeing their “proof,” I still find more truth in what’s being hidden than in what’s being shown.

I’ve been in the fandom for about five years. I didn’t live through 1D in real time, but I’ve done my research. And even though in recent years Louis has been presented as a strong, straight man, a father, a family guy — I can’t ignore everything that came before. The signs are there. They’re not made up. They happened. They’re real.

So why so much effort to deny something that once was so obvious? Why deny it so aggressively? Why erase such an important part of his story?

I understand that if you only look at the last three years, all of this might sound ridiculous. But you can’t just erase the rest. You can’t deny a whole decade of glances, lyrics, silences, symbols, gestures.

You can see how far they’ve stretched this stunt. Louis commenting on Z’s post triggered all kinds of reactions — people saying he’s never been so emotionally open, that he was never like this with Eleanor. So why now? Why like this? Why so many denials of Larry lately, and done in such an aggressive, defensive way? Why did his team — I think it was the hair stylist, I don’t remember her name — speak badly about Larries? Why did his sisters deny it too? Why so much effort to erase something so big?

I understand that some people only see the recent image, but I can’t. And I believe many of us can’t either. You can’t erase what’s happened over more than a decade. You can’t reduce everything to “Louis is straight and the best dad ever” and just keep pushing that endlessly, because it doesn’t make sense. Social media exists, and whether we like it or not, everything is documented (even if some things get deleted).

You can’t tell me he’s dating a reality show influencer and also say he hates that whole world.

You can’t paint him as the straightest man alive while he sings “It’s a church of burnt romances and I’m too far gone to pray / It’s a solo song and it’s only for the brave,” surrounded by flags, saying he feels safe, wearing coded clothes.

You can’t say he hates Harry Styles and that the fans destroyed their friendship, and then watch those glances, those stolen touches, those songs about a love he met at 18 and a lasting relationship.

You can’t sell me the idea that his son is his top priority when he hasn’t even protected his privacy, when he hasn’t been there in key moments.

And you can’t say he’s homophobic or uncomfortable with gay rumors when he’s been in gay bars, has a triangle tattooed on his skin, and has written “be proud” on a flag.

You can’t erase who they’ve been. Who they’ve been for more than a decade.

You can’t just cling to what’s convenient now and forget what once was so evident.

Stories don’t disappear just because no one talks about them anymore.

Gestures don’t lie. And sometimes songs scream what voices stay silent about.

You can’t reduce someone full of layers and nuance into just one thing.

You can’t say it’s all black and white when there are thousands of colors in between.

Maybe this message doesn’t make much sense, but I needed to let it out.

Thank you for reading. And truly, thank you for creating a space where we can think with calm, with critical thought, and without losing empathy.💞

oh my heart — you say you’re not great at expressing yourself, and then you go and write something that’s so clear, articulate, and deeply moving. ♥

i agree with you 100%: it’s crucial to stop and check ourselves sometimes. to ask if we might be wrong. to stay open to being wrong. to look at every angle, even the ones that don’t match what we want to believe. that’s how we stay grounded, and that’s how we keep our integrity.

the truth is, we probably are wrong about some things. that’s just the nature of piecing together a story we weren’t meant to see. there are things we missed. things we misunderstood. things we only understood in hindsight. but at the same time — as some details have fallen away, so many more have been confirmed or made clearer with time. blocked interviews, old footage, behind-the-scenes leaks, deleted clips, unreleased lyrics — they’ve only made the picture sharper.

so when people ask, why the cover-up? why so much denial? — the answer is, because they never had another option.

this started in 2010. long before they were ready. long before they were famous enough to push back. and once the narrative was in motion, it had to keep going. the more their fame grew, the harder it was to untangle. one direction was the first social-media-made boyband, and that changed everything. before that, hiding things was easier — call up a tabloid, pose with a girl, plant a story. but as tech evolved — camera phones, twitter, stan culture — the control had to evolve, too.

and when you’re dealing with artists who can’t speak freely — who are bound by contracts, management, NDAs, and brand deals — sometimes the only option left is to erase the past and replace it with something easier to swallow.

and the truth is: most people don’t remember

they weren’t here for the beginning. they didn’t see the shift happen in real time. they’ve only seen louis post-2019. they don’t remember the glances, the lyrics, the tattoos, the interviews, the way he lit up next to harry. they never saw the subtle rebellion, the patterns, the coded language. they don’t see the full picture — because they were never given the full picture.

and unfortunately, context does disappear. media gets deleted. clips get scrubbed. narratives change. and unless you’ve spent years watching, researching, connecting dots — you’ll probably miss the nuance. and most people don’t want nuance. they want simplicity. they want red carpet kisses, instagram stories, public drama. they want what’s entertaining — not what’s true.

when your career depends on a public image, and you’re not allowed to tell the truth — you give the public a truth that works. and right now, that version of the truth is: louis is a straight, grounded solo artist dating someone who’s relevant and visible.

is it real? no. is it frustrating? absolutely. but is it strategic? without question.

if you're part of louis' team, and you're trying to keep him in the media, keep his name trending, or build a “palatable” narrative for the GP — you lean in to the image that works. and if you’re family or friends, you might go along with it (or stay silent like mark) because you know it’s not your story to fix. you know he can’t say what he wants to say — not yet. and maybe not ever. but like you said: you can’t erase a decade of truth just because it’s inconvenient now. you can’t erase the glances, the lyrics, the silences, the symbols. you can’t reduce layered, complicated people into one flat narrative.

and you absolutely can’t convince someone who’s been watching this unfold for 10+ years that their instincts, their memories, and their research are completely imagined.

[marigold-hills]

5. Secret ritual

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

@hpanimagiweek

(This chapter is for @hoje--aqui because the comment she’d left on the last part is what inspired it so if you’re hurt by the content of it, blame her ❤️)

The dog has no use.

(Sirius feels redundant, pointless, helpless.)

The dog’s person lays in bed with a new deep bite in the muscle of his leg. It smells like the wolf and like blood and something like prey. The wolf is never prey except to itself - the wolf is something everything in the forest feared. The wolf is strong and brave and never hunted. The wolf, locked away, turns its anger on itself.

The dog exists to guide the wolf - to be with the wolf - to stop the hurt. The dog exists for nothing now.

The dog had been shunned out of the room. The woman with a brood of children knows healing spells. You’re getting in the way, she said. Behave. I’ll call you when it’s done.

The dog found another smell of someone he should have protected and didn’t. This room stays closed and unused but for the elf.

“Young Master was braver than them all,” the elf mutters under its breath, vitriol and mourning together. It doesn’t see the dog where it’s huddled under the bed. “Not like this one, laying about my Lady’s home, selling her belongings, inviting in scum.”

The dog listens in a way the man never could. The cloud of hurt doesn’t cover the meaning.

“Young Master Regulus… so young,” the elf sniffs as he polishes each little silver knickknack left behind by their owner (brother brother brother). Endless care in the elf’s knobbly old fingers. “So brave and so caring. Did more for this Order than any of those halfbreeds the new Master houses. Oh, if my Lady could only see what has become of her Home…”

Sirius turns into himself without quite meaning to, bumps his head on the bed frame trying to get out from underneath it. Kreacher startles.

“What did you just say?” Sirius snaps.

The elf turns away from him, ignores the question.

“I order you to tell me,” Sirius pushes when Kreacher tries to pretend he didn’t hear the first time. No matter the hate he holds for his new Master, he can’t disobey a direct order.

“Young Master Regulus was very brave.”

“About what he did for the Order, Kreacher. What did you mean by that?”

And Kreacher, compelled by the blood of the House he’s bound to, tells him.

***

Sirius sets fire to the lake of Inferi before he can see his brother’s eyes in one of the corpses.

It blazes quickly. The water of the lake is no longer water, with how much magic it holds, and Sirius helps the process along with transfiguring it into something else entirely - something flammable, burnable. He feels the heat of the fire on his skin but it doesn’t touch him.

“Master Regulus wished to cover his tracks,” Kreacher says.

“I don’t care.” Sirius watches the flame burn itself out. “Why did he drink the poison?”

They walk across the scorched bottom of the lake. The bodies of the Inferi are indistinguishable from each other.

“Master Regulus was kind. He took the pain so Kreacher wouldn’t have to.” Kreacher bows his head to the ground of the little island, in front of the basin. Supplication and prayer - like he’s reached the centre of a pilgrimage. “Master Regulus made Kreacher force him.”

Sirius sees it as if he was there. Regulus, eighteen years old, tired the way he was towards the end, with that sunken expression and those eyes of his, haunted and blank. Sirius thought he was soft. Nothing about this is soft, not in the way Sirius knew Regulus to be.

Sirius doesn’t drink the poison. He doesn’t make Kreacher drink it. He breaks the leg of the basin clean from the ground, levitates it over to the mouth of the cave. The poison doesn’t react to any magic.

“Kreacher told new Master the necklace isn’t here,” Kreacher says with something that could count as a scoff, if he wasn’t carefully adhering to his role.

“I know,” Sirius tells him, shrinking the mutilated basin. He doesn’t say I want his last words. I want the letter. I want to see he was on our side with my own eyes.

***

In the library of Grimmauld Place there are books not to be found anywhere else. At the back of it there’s a door that can’t be seen by anyone but the head of House of Black. Sirius has never been through it, only been told of its existence in passing. There is knowledge of all things, if you ask for it, Orion used to say.

Had Regulus been allowed into it, he wouldn’t be dead.

Sirius had never entered it before, but the door welcomes him the way a vein welcomes blood.

(There is knowledge.)

Sirius becomes the dog becomes himself then something else. Sirius knows he is head of the family. Sirius knows his father died and then his mother died and all that was left of the name is him. Never did that mean anything.

The rooms behind the library, when Sirius enters them, change this.

The hall is vast and the air ripe with enlargement charms, and concealment charms, and charms Sirius doesn’t recognise the feeling of. The hall speaks to him - the dog understands it better, the veneer of humanity stripped off in this form. The dog listens.

(All the things.)

The dog lays on the ground - colder than the wood should be - the room speaks.

(Only ask.)

“Tell me about horcruxes,” Sirius asks the room in a voice like the dog’s bark. 

NEXT PART

[8figurehustler]

Why I Would Choose Faceless Digital Marketing | 💰💰💰

So boom—let’s talk about this whole “you have to be an influencer to make money online” narrative. Because… be for real. Every time you go online, it’s the same thing: “Get ready with me,” “A day in my life,” vlogs, skincare routines, cute lil voiceovers, and people’s faces everywhere. And if you’re not doing that?, people make it seem like you’re not going to make it. And listen, there’s nothing wrong with that path. Influencers make bank.

But here’s the thing—I don’t think that’s the only way to win.

Like yes, influencers make money. Big money. No one’s denying that. But what if you’re not trying to be recognized when you’re just trying to buy milk? What if you want the coins without the constant attention? What about the people who want digital success, not fame? Because yes, those people exist. I’m kind of one of them. I’ll show my face here and there, sure, but I’m not trying to make it the foundation of my entire brand. And honestly? I like it that way. I want peace and the bag. Yup, now that’s where faceless digital marketing comes in.

Fame? Cute. Privacy? Cuter.

I’m not hating on influencers at all, but let’s keep it real—most people don’t actually want to be famous. It comes with random people all up in your business. If you’re constantly marketing your face or your body, you’re giving up a part of your privacy. And not everyone wants that. Some people just want to get the bag without the attention. And they should be able to. They just want freedom. Freedom from a 9–5, freedom to make their own money, and freedom to live their lives quietly and peacefully. And yes, that’s possible.

You don’t have to put your face all over the internet to get that kind of success. You can stay lowkey, still run things, and still eat.

Your Face Is Not a Forever Investment

This might sound a lil harsh, but hear me out—looks fade, trends change, and the internet moves on quick. One day your face is the next big thing, the next day… it’s crickets. And if your whole brand is based on your face, that’s gonna be a problem. What do you think is going to happen when you don’t look the same way you did 10 years ago? Your audience might not stay loyal once the hype dies down.

But when you go faceless, you’re not selling your looks—you’re selling your ideas, your vibe, your content. And baby, those things don’t wrinkle. They don’t age. They grow. There’s always someone out there who’s going to connect with your style, your message & your brands content.

You Can’t Leave Your Face in a Will

Let’s talk legacy real quick. If your whole brand is you—your name, your face, your voice—then what happens when you’re not around anymore?

You can’t pass down your face. But you can pass down a faceless brand. A blog. A digital product. A faceless business that’s running even while you’re asleep, offline, or chilling in the next life (not to be dramatic but you get it). With faceless digital marketing, you can actually build generational wealth. This perspective changes for those idols like Michael Jackson or whoever.

Aesthetic Never Dies

You know what doesn’t go out of style? A strong aesthetic. A clear brand. A message that clicks. When you build something that’s about the vibe—not just the face—it can last way longer.

People are always gonna be drawn to a certain style, a certain type of content, a certain feeling. That’s the kind of brand that lives forever, no matter who’s running it or what year it is.

Quiet Money Is Still Money

Let’s not act like loud money is the only flex. Quiet money? Peaceful money? That “nobody knows what I do but I’m living good” type of money? That’s elite.

Faceless digital marketing gives you that. You’re not worried about how you look today, what’s trending, or who’s watching. You’re just running your business, stacking your wins, and minding your pretty lil business.

Real Success Doesn’t Always Look Like a Selfie

Faceless digital marketing gives you range. You can run a blog, build an email list, create digital products, invest, trade, or even flip domains—without ever showing your face. It’s all about strategy, not selfies.

And that doesn’t make it less valuable or less successful. In fact, it often means more freedom, more scalability, and way less burnout.

⸻

Spoiler alert: fast money, don’t last. 💰

That’s my take. Not knocking the influencer lane, but for me? I’m here for the faceless life. I want my money long, my brand strong, and my face nowhere near the stress.

And if you’re feeling me on this, you should definitely check out my other blog post where I talk about why I don’t think influencing builds long-lasting wealth.

Read Why I Think Influencers Won’t Make A Lasting Fortune

⸻

Start monetising your pinterest, through paid ad, affiliates and more : click here

Grow your pinterest account to a million monthly views in less than 6 months and get it ready for digital marketing : click here

[adviceformefromme]

Love all content! And as someone who really wants to improve their lifestyle and actually achieve what they’ve put on their vision board, I feel like my lack of discipline and inconsistency will never leave me. I’m a planner by heart and love making plans, sorting things out and getting inspired by those day in the life vlogs but when it comes to implementing and actually going on with the plans I make for a long period of time. I SUCK and I admit it. I’ve tried everything I could think of but I can’t seem to be able to create an actual routine that is easy for me to work with. Any suggestions on how can I navigate this? One example is getting my driving license, I’ve signed up last May and only managed to go to the lessons/practice (6 times) and it should take 2 months to get it but I’m so lazy, (same thing goes for having solo dates) 🥲

Hey sweetie, I feel you! The thing is you just have to keep pushing forward and trying. One day it will just click. You'll just be in the cafe, reading the book on the solo date. You'll be waking up early, heading to the pilates class. Like wow, how did this even happen? But it will, and that’s because you’ve been speaking your vision into existence for all this time. Sometimes we hear the stories, and read the level up content and think it’s an instant click your fingers action and results, in some cases yes, but more often its years of prayers, mental conditioning, affirmations, trying to change, trying to be better, getting back up and failing, over and over and overrrr again. But its the persistence, the trying something new. My advice is to keep studying yourself more and more so you connect your habits to your failures, you can pivot quickly, you can catch yourself and do better next time. As long as you are growing there is no failures. 

Practical things that really changed the game for me: 

Atomic habits - continually going back to this as a reminder to stay on track with practical steps.

Always being mindful of what I’m speaking into existence, a friend told me a few months back I keep speaking about what I don’t want. Re-frame your sentences, stop mid sentence. There is so much power in the tongue. 

Reassess your diet. This single-handedly could be destroying your energy levels. I quit carbs and moved over to high protein / veggies diet and my energy levels and mental focus transformed. 

Cut the distractions. I had to cut daily voice notes with a close friend who was in lack constantly, because this was impacting my energy field. We still speak but daily voice notes, and I am intentional about our conversations not being dragged in the dirt with low level thinking. 

Invested in high level community, conferences, events, virtual groups. I actually randomly joined a free 11 day coaching course with Aaron Doughty on YouTube, and the energy I felt to transform my life was overwhelming. There were 1000s of people on the zoom doing visualisations, and this was a free programme! (Of course they tried to sell at the end), the point is finding your community from wherever you are in the world.

Pray, and stay close to God throughout each day. This also single-handedly has completely cleansed and purified my soul. It’s a constant communication, a constant gratitude, as you go for a walk, wake up, check your account. It’s listening to the internal wisdom pouring into you, and being in obedience to that voice. 

And finally, exercise, even if you don't have the energy to run, start small. Start with putting those clothes on daily. Put the gym clothes on and go for a walk down the road and back without your phone, or listening to something motivational / inspiring. I recommend Women of Impact - by Lisa Bilyeu. The movement of your body, allows the energy to flow, and then suddenly you are in the flow, the more you can do this, the more alive and focused you will feel!

I hope these help sweetie xoxoxo

[ladydelaisol]

Day 6: Final Adventure

Next piece for @heropartnerweek

Sorry this took long, had a busy day couldn't post until now.

Summary: Clara thinks about her final moments before she has to save the world.

Word count: 663

Note/Reminder: Stars my PMD2 Hero (Clara the Skitty) and Partner (Echo the Piplup)

Note 2: Like a few of my pieces, it's mostly paragraph heavy

It was never difficult for Clara to focus on any mission, easy or otherwise, and yet nothing could prepare her for something like this.

It’s not like she underestimated this journey. She knew how dangerous it was, and she knew that lives could be at risk throughout those final moments.

That didn’t stop her from feeling overwhelmed when things got worse. At first, the trip to the hidden land started relevantly normal, with only tough enemies to worry about.

But then, just as her partner Echo was to put her relic fragment into the rainbow stoneship, Dusknoir and his Sableyes ambushed the trio and nearly forced them into the dimensional hole. After managing to get free, and defeating them in battle, the biggest revelation dropped that internally overwhelmed Clara.

All pokemon of the future, including her, were fated to disappear from existence, if time were to be restored. If this was her past self as a human, she would have no reason to feel regret for sacrificing her life, but the being she was now had a deep bond with her partner and she could only feel awful on how Echo would react.

Clara has always seen herself as Echo’s protector of sorts. Echo was a sweet girl who wanted to explore and learn about the world. Every little thing excited the Piplup and Clara made sure she could do it without anyone hurting her.

And maybe lately, that bond they shared was more than just a sweet friendship between them. Why did the thought of leaving her make her want to have a breakdown? She knew Echo’s heart would be broken, but would her own heart shatter? She realized how much Echo became her whole world.

Clara did her best not to break, even after Grovyle’s sacrifice, or as she and Echo rode the rainbow stoneship. She kept quiet and tried to keep pushing on.

When the two of them reached halfway in the tower and sat in the safe zone, she didn’t realize her own tears were falling until she heard the Piplup speak.

“Clara, you’re crying, are you doing okay?”

“I’m trying, but it’s hard…” Clara admitted.

“I’m assuming you’re still hurt by what happened to Grovyle?”

“In a way…” She wasn’t lying completely. While Grovyle did mean a lot to her even with her forgetting him, she knew there was still a bond deep down. But she knew her tears went beyond that.

She felt her partner’s arms wrapped around her in a hug, so Clara wrapped her tail around her partner’s body so they could keep close.

“You’ve always been the strongest pokemon I’ve ever known. Someone who’s always helped me. I know this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you sad, but I want you to know we’ll do this together.” Echo’s gentle voice calmed the Skitty’s nerves.

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’re just as strong.” Clara spoke as their hug unraveled.

“I think you’re the only one who's ever said that to me.” Echo said, her eyes looking down.

“Echo, you know that’s not true.” Clara said, using a paw to lift her face. “Our friends know how hard you’ve worked. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t strong.” She paused for a moment before thinking of something she knows will be meaningful. “And I know you will still be strong after this is over…”

Echo herself starts shedding tears herself, but from the hope and happiness Clara gave her.

As they continued climbing the tower and finally confronting the legend of time himself, the fight for the future couldn’t be more dire as it truly was.

When Dialga was defeated, and the gears were put into place, it was over. Clara could only wait once they walked away, and her body was becoming stiff so she could say her final goodbyes. While she knows she can’t stop herself or her partner’s heartbreak, she could count on her message that Echo will be strong without her.

[localgossipus]

will work for meaning

I’m tired of having to make myself useful.

If I’m not selling something — my thoughts, my body, a version of myself I half-believe in — I’m wasting space. That’s what it feels like. That if I’m not actively climbing, optimizing, producing, I’m doing life wrong. As if I’m some inefficient machine that keeps on overheating, literally — I’m always sweating.

I think it started when we stopped having hobbies (did anyone ever really have hobbies? I never had one) and started having “side hustles.” When someone told us, quietly but repeatedly, that nothing we loved was valid unless someone would pay us for it. When dreaming became a luxury, and surviving meant repackaging our joy into monetization.

I can’t just write anymore. I have to consider a niche. A following. A brand voice. I have to decide whether this thought is post-worthy, whether it fits the tone I’m building. God forbid I contradict myself or trigger “whataboutism.” God forbid a girl tries to have a hobby.

Even my rest has become performative. I can’t take a walk without wondering if I should be making a “take a walk with me.” I can’t make a coffee without thinking of the cozy vanilla girl aesthetic I should be curating. I’ll have an emotional breakthrough and immediately wonder if I can turn it into a photo dump. This can’t be normal. This can’t be what healing is supposed to look like.

And don’t get me started on work.

Every job posting I read sounds like a scam or a cry for help. Entry-level roles requiring three years of experience, a master’s degree, and a willingness to be exploited. But don’t worry, they won’t pick you anyway. Or anyone.

I once wanted to work for an NGO. I imagined purpose. Fulfillment. Helping someone, somewhere. But even the “do-good” jobs are PR machines now. They want high-impact, low-cost, 24/7 brand aligned robots who can save the world for $18 an hour (reaching) and no health insurance. They want resumes drenched in resilience. Trauma repackaged as grit.

Meanwhile, my dreams — the soft, fun, weird, non-linear ones — feel like they’re growing mold in the corner. Like they’re embarrassed to be here. Like they know they don’t stand a chance in this economy.

What they don’t tell you about trying to do something meaningful is how capitalism makes it feel selfish. You start to believe that chasing your passion is indulgent unless it immediately generates income. That wanting to feel joy, depth, freedom, art — unless sponsored — is childish. That if you can’t make rent off your calling, it’s not a calling. It’s a liability, and it’s stupid.

I’ve started noticing people my age talk about burnout like it’s normal. Like it’s a badge of honor. We joke about spiraling, cry while making Canva manifestation graphics, scroll through job boards like they’re Pinterest boards. We’re constantly either underpaid or unpaid or on the verge of going “off grid.” But none of us ever actually log off. Because you can’t rest when rest is a privilege, and you can’t create when your worth is tied to performance.

There’s a line between being tired and being drained. It’s that feeling of being stretched so thin across platforms, roles, identities, futures, that you start to forget what you like. What your voice sounds like when you’re not selling something. What you would do if you didn’t have to monetize it.

Some days I fantasize about just quitting the internet all together. Just vanishing and running away to a random field in Italy. Where I can write for no one. No metrics. No pressure. Just the sound of my own brain, unfiltered. But then I think about rent. Groceries. Health insurance. I think about how hard it is to simply exist without being marketable. And suddenly, silence feels expensive.

And maybe that’s the rebellion — to feel something and not package it. To create without calculating. To remember that being a person is enough.

So here I am. A 22-year-old girl trying to write something honest in a world that wants her to sell it. Trying to find softness in a system built on burnout. Trying to give myself permission to just be, even if that “being” doesn’t come with a business plan.

I guess I can’t put my business degree to good use. Dang.

[dream-thief-forever-amen]

Pit Babe Episode 7 Commentary

Is PB seriously clueless about his bestie being in love with him? I mean, you can see it from space.

“I saw someone bleeding out! It could be anyone though… the signs were unclear.” Most unhelpful fortune teller in existence. Good thing you’re cute.

Our resident power lesbian Mr Pete has arrived on the scene to cheer up our WayV boy with his suave classy charm…

OMG he brought him to his lezzie den! Or is this Way’s penthouse? Whatever. These two are very pretty together. And we know Way likes tall muscle bottoms… so…

I too aspire to wake up in a pristine penthouse after a night of drinking and self pity. This has not happened to me even once and I’m deeply resentful.

I kinda want Winner and Korean Kim to make out in the back seat of one of the race cars.

I kinda also want Korean Kim to make out with Mr Tony’s black clad henchman too.

Korean Kim is so tiny and angry and upright… like a little fox terrier. Korean Kim, I love you! He reminds me of the short king from Love By Chance.

Tony sells off his science project babies?!! Superpowered human trafficking?!!! Delicious!!! This is what I am here for… nefarious mad science!!!!

Jeff and Charlie are lab boys tooooo! Well I kinda guessed about Jeff. Hmmm what is Charlie’s super power?!!!! omg I am so tempted to look for a spoiler right now but I will fight this urge to the death and let the mystery unfold….

How can Tony not know that Charlie and Jeff not only live together but also work together?!! That is some seriously faulty reconnaissance on his part.

PB, you have every right to be angry and upset, ya big lug.

Way’s housekeeper deserves a raise. There ain’t a speck of dust anywhere.

Listening to Charlie whine is driving me crazy. “bwaaaaaabe”

Did PB not realize there were other kids? I thought he said there were other kids when he told Charlie his story??? We literally saw other kids in the flashback montage of his story.

Charlie doesn’t have powers? Color me disappointed.

What is an Enigma???? (Okay so I had to google that one and according to the annoying AI summary an Enigma can impregnate anyone with a reproductive system… so… does PB have a reproductive system? If so… how could he not know he has one? I probably shouldn’t have looked… this story may have unique lore)

Kenta. The black clad henchman’s name is Kenta - which is cool af. Great name.

Charlie DOES have powers!!! He’s Rogue. He’s Rogue without a conscience. Damn, that’s villainous to knowingly take someone’s super powers. And he does not seem in the least bit sorry about this. Kinda makes his “I was trying to help you” story seem thin - if by helping you mean getting in his pants and taking away his enhanced senses… just to tell him Tony wants to sell him? Could have sent him an anonymous email saying that.

Also, Charlie could have easily proved he was one of Tony’s adopted kids in minutes and then warned PB of impending slavery deals… there was zero reason for his undercover boyfriend superpower stealing routine…

OMG, dump him, PB! Charlie’s a creep.

Did Charlie absorb someone’s hypnosis powers or something??! Why isn’t PB throwing him out the window right now? I’d be running after him with a wrench. He stole your super powers!!! He knowingly stole your superpowers!!! PB is dickmatized for sure. God, I hate them.

Not as much as Way hates them though. Ouch. Delusional fool had roses and everything. Save him, Mr Pete! Or Kenta! Or Sonic! Someone!

Christ, PB is sexy. Lemme look up the actor. Pavel Naret Promphaopun. Your parents must high five each other every time they see you.

North over here just saying the quiet parts out loud. “Dudes totally in love with you. If I can see it, everyone else can see it from space.” Seriously, PB. Everyone can see it!

Korean Kim just referenced the Merchant of Venice? While on his knees in a black wife beater? We don’t deserve you, Korean Kim!!! And nooooo please don’t harvest his organs… we can’t lose such a treasure!

I am loving this show right now! And that includes hating on the main couple at the moment, so sorry if they are your ults or whatnot, they may yet grow on me. Everything is fun right now. I’m finding it hard to stop watching -

[hausofmamadas]

FRENCHIE | Queer!Mode, Detected

The Boys, Season 1, Ep 2 - Cherry | Season 2, Ep 3 - Over The Hill With the Swords of A 1000 Men, 6 - The Bloody Door’s Off, 8 - What I Know | Season 3, Ep 3 - Barbary Coast

∴

I’ve seen a lotta chatter in The Boys fandom (mostly on Reddit but also TikTok. Appropriately this take wasn’t on Tumblr much) that ppl were mad at Kripke and Co for taking an unforeseen “gay turn” with Frenchie’s character in S4 ..? And I’m over here with my Sherlock Holmes cap and pipe and tiny detective notebook just

trying to understand how these ppl didn’t pick up on the bipan vibes from this beautiful, majestic, so-French-he-can't-help-it butterfly.

(Also all this hand wringing about Frenchie "turning gay," te lo juro me esta eloqueciendo alaverga. Like canwenot with the bi-erasure, it’s giving Ashley telling Maeve she’s a lesbian bc is more “clear-cut” and easier to sell than bi. It’s just as insulting to call a bipan person gay as it is to call them straight. And I don’t mean like the use of gay as a catch all that a lotta us queers use sometimes interchangeably for queer, I talkin ppl acting as tho bipan isn't real and/or thinking Frenchie jumped out the closet as a gay man 3/4 of the way thru the show.)

And their confusion over this has got me confused. Like I didn’t even realize it was such a plot twist until I got on Reddit and a lotta ppl were screaming like Ned Stark's head just got cut off, or like it's some wild-ass writer's room shenanigans where the character is suddenly a diff person for no discernible reason. Like have you seen this man? Do you know where you are? Bc they’ve been dropping hints throughout the show. Case in point:

a) Little Nina and all that talk about her Sergei ahem it's Serge and his overwhelming enthusiasm for butt stuff and Vincent Cassel try to convince me Sr. Cassel wasn’t a childhood crush of Frenchie’s or someth and that’s why it’s his safe word. You can’t

b) this time he planted a fat smooch on Hughie’s face after finding out he leaked the compound V tip to the press (bonus points for his attempt to make out with mm before getting a no-homo hard pass)

c) this deep, abiding love of The Golden Girls this is unequivocally the gayest thing on the list

d) how he turned tricks in mad NYC before Little Nina locked that mf in a chastity belt and held him hostage by his penis he went to ‘work’ for Nina. -> Disclaimer: this is not to imply that queer ppl’s participation in sex work is bc they’re hypersexual. This is here to point out queer coding, as lgbtqia+ ppl are more at-risk for mental health issues stemming from severe trauma, food and housing insecurity, and addiction, often without access to the care they need to recover. So sex work becomes a viable vocation to survive bc unlike a regular 9-5, it’s more conducive to untreated mental health issues and substance use also it’s an easier market to get into than arms dealing or contract killing

e) this throuple arrangement btwn him, Cherie and Justin

f) His attempts to…er broaden mm’s horizons ?

g) the evident lack of knowledge or interest or acumen for this mysterious sportsball of which mm speaks of but he’ll still go on that dumb golf bachelor trip bc he loves his fraaand

h) this fondness for Eurotrash raves and dancing

And look, I might get it if they sprung it on us. But this shit has been since the beginning. The earliest indicator being ep 2 of S1 — THE FIRST EP HE’S IN. Hughie asks what it’s like to kill someone and Frenchie waxes poetic about his first hit (just before ominously dropping, "I carry them all with me" buried the lead on that one to Hughie's horror but to the delight of bbygirllovers like myself everywhere) and well, I think the evidence here speaks for itself

Like the dichot— nay, Bichotomy of talking about how mindblowingly hot this chick is whilst, in the same breath, gushing over her outfit. Okay I’m sure there’s a token straightmale who can id high-end designer brands on sight. I’m sure that unicorn exists somewhere, right, cuz humans contain multitudes. But this man? He just a bipan butterfly. So those who felt blindsided by Frenchie gettin’ dicked down, oh you beautiful, naive, sophisticated newborn babies. If not spelled out, it was so heavily implied, I saw the fling with whatshisname with the murdered fam whose name I’m too lazy to Goog and was like, “hm yes, the math is indeed mathing, these calculayshuns are correct”

Like u thot a mf dressed like this??? was straight ?

Mans is in a scoopneck bunny crop top that looks straighr from the juniors section of Forever21 with plaid pants and fuckingsjs suspenders iconic so to think he'd nary tarried in sausage-central before, well ... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

═

taglist: @drabbles-mc, @complete-nonsequitur, @rerorero-my-cherry, @ladygoatee, @tofuwildcard, @tinylittleobsessions

[the-journey-was-the-point]

Glasses

Another fic with Lanthir and Linnéa! Man, I love these two. It's always fun to write their cheeky banter, except in this case, being a cynical morally-gray woman and a noble and spirited Ranger, it turns into an argument XD

This one stayed in my drafts for a few months. I kept re-doing it, trying to figure out what Lanthir was trying to say. I suppose it came from the Depths.

Summary: Alone together on a rare peaceful night, Linnéa and Lanthir argue about what it means to exist in a world. Particularly one with other people. Setting/timeline is vague! But Linnéa isn't underworld yet here. Relationships: Linnéa/Lanthir

“I could never.”

“Never what?” Lanthir gazed down at Linnéa who was laying flat on the ground next to him. Her cheeks were tinged pink from the wine they had squirreled away during their market run. Away from town, they decided to rest in some old ruins. On that rare peaceful night without an Orc in sight, they toasted and drank under the moonlight. 

“Do what you do,” Linnéa answered. “Roam around, make a point of getting between Orcs and people.”

Lanthir tipped his head back, taking a moment to think over his companion’s words. “What do you think I’d be doing? If not that.”

“You’re strong,” Linnéa shrugged. “Strength is a currency. You could seize a lot of power. Meet the right people, make the right choices, and you won’t want for anything.” 

“I suppose,” Lanthir nodded. “Though I’d wonder about my impact on the world at large, if I were changing people’s lives for the better, or perhaps even doing harm. No, I think I’m better off with how I am now.” 

Linnéa propped herself up on her elbows and turned to Lanthir, as if by studying him long enough, she could unravel the mysteries of his thinking. “How is that important?” she questioned. “It’s not your business what happens to other people.” 

“Not my business?” Though the Ranger sought to challenge his friend’s words, he strove to be gentle as well. “Whose is it, then?”

Linnéa did not respond, though her gaze grew hard and her jaw clenched. 

“Whose?” Lanthir asked again, softly. 

“Not mine,” Linnéa gritted out, cold and unmoved. “Not yours,” she continued, “and when you die senselessly out in the wilds, it certainly won’t be theirs.”

“You don’t believe in people much,” Lanthir said, more as an observation than anything. 

“I only think you’re wasting your time.” 

“Because people aren’t worth the trouble? You truly think so?”

“Could you say I’m wrong?”

Though his friend began to take on a more challenging tone, Lanthir strove to stay amicable. “I can,” he simply said. 

The Ranger watched as Linnéa moved to sit upright and face him. Though she kept her composure, he saw that there was a fire in her eyes now. From the times she bandaged him up after a fight, the times she watched other Rangers die, and… something else.

“Say we’re not all out for our own survival, then,” she said. “Say with righteous confidence that those people you’d die for wouldn’t sell you out for a scrap of copper if it suited them. Tell me that when it comes down to it, and it comes down to it a lot, someone will still be thinking of you and your wellbeing.” 

Lanthir found himself taken aback, not by his friend’s words, but by the tightness in her voice as she said them. He pushed away from the ruins he leaned against, brows furrowed,  and took in Linnéa’s cynical words, and the frustrations that lay beneath them.

He sighed after a moment. “We’re not all out for our own survival,” he said, evenly. “Because we’re not on our own.” Linnéa’s brow twitched. At her lack of any other response, Lanthir continued. “We’re in this world together.  I can’t say most people wouldn’t put me before their own wellbeing, but I also know that you and I wouldn’t be sitting here on this lovely night if someone, at some point in the past, didn’t believe there was something worth fighting for. And that’s what it comes down to, I think– believing there’s something greater than ourselves. And fighting for it.”

Linnéa said nothing. She only blinked, and then turned away with an unconvinced and dissatisfied look on her face that told Lanthir she didn’t agree with him.

“Think about it,” the Ranger said. He hesitated a moment, but soon placed his hand on her shoulder. It was warm beneath his touch, and she neither flinched nor pulled away from him.  “This world has been through a lot. But you and I get to enjoy ourselves tonight because there were once people who banded together to keep the darkness at bay. There still are. So how can we truly be on our own?” 

Linnéa looked up at the stars. For a moment, the glimmering light reflected in her eyes, and Lanthir found it a breathtaking sight. Then the moment ended when she closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them to look back at him, the fire was gone. “I’m not dying for a stranger,” she said. 

“I’m not asking you to.” Lanthir leaned back once more. Now that they had simmered down, he took an opened bottle and offered it to Linnéa, hoping to return to their more pleasant mood from earlier. “I’m only explaining my actions, since you asked.”

Though I certainly hope you take my words to heart. 

Linnéa took the gesture for the peace offering that it was. She held out her cup to him, half-empty, and let it be filled. 

[plesiosaurchestra]

i used to be one of those people who kind of hated “modern art” like comedian by maurizio cattelan and the new series by jeff koons.

because they weren’t even actual sculptures, for the new they were just vacuums sealed in boxes and i think even without saying what comedian is most people can guess what comedian is. its reputation for being the supposed reason that contemporary artists can’t be taken seriously far precedes it. both of those pieces took no effort to make. anybody could buy something from a store, title it and try selling it to a gallery.

it’s nothing special.

but one day online, i stumbled on a pair of pieces titled electric fan (feel it motherfuckers) by john s. boskovich and “untitled” (portrait of ross in l.a.) by félix gonzález-torres. both of them being products of the aids pandemic of the 1980s.

the former was -as the name implied- an electric fan that belonged to boskovich and his deceased partner: stephen earabino. after earabino’s death, his family almost completely emptied out the flat that the two of them shared, the fan was the only thing left behind. the plexiglas that the fan is encased in is engraved with this truth. and the fan still runs, still whirring about an air of memories taken away.

the latter was a pile of candy, 175 pounds (79 kilograms) of candy. the visitors can either choose to take from the pile causing the candy to shrink away, or not take away from it but still watch it vanish anyways. as the title implies, the candy represents the late ross laycock, who was gonzález-torres’s partner. the diminishing candy is meant to represent him succumbing to illness.

and with portrait of ross in l.a. i remembered seeing someone comment angrily about it, saying that anyone could just pour candy on the floor. but seeing that response that i would’ve agreed with in the past made me…upset this time? the only thing making it different to me was the context that i had behind its existence.

and i’ve had an epiphany about this recently. to both people inside and outside the art community (for lack of better words) we equate good art with beauty and struggle. if someone can look at a piece and imagine themself making it without having to suffer in some way to get there, they see it as lesser art. whether we think about it or not, we equate good art with suffering. but why should we? shouldn’t art be about the message? just because something isn’t a technical masterpiece in the sense of da vinci and van gogh, doesn’t make the message is inherently weaker.

i hope to one day live in a world where if we look at an art piece we see as easy to do, we don’t angrily think “i could’ve done that.” but instead think “i could do that too!” with a sense of inspiration.

[no1ryomafan]

I'm genuinely/morbidly curious friend: What kind of toxicity have you encountered in Mecha Fandom spaces?

Truth be told, I'm mostly on own my little bubble, actively stirring away from most possible drama, enjoying my old robot series mostly on my own... though, some times, I accidentally convince my friends to give them a watch.😅

So, I'm not familiar with the kind of toxicity brewing there... And it's something I won't ever engage with, because I want for my online spaces to be positive, for my own mental health.

But I'm genuinely/morbidly curious about it nonetheless, because it might helpful to stay away from potentially toxic fandom discourse and other such nonsense.

Ok before I get into it I wanna say I do my best to avoid actual fandom discourse as I’ve seen enough to know how it effects me and also I’m just way too old for it-I say at the age of 21 which is YOUNG but good that I realize now-however it still comes up when I’m around discord servers, I still don’t engage with it but I can’t really step away without leaving friends servers which I don’t want to do unless it gets super bad you know? Muting channels is always a option anyways.

But to answer the question, a lot of mecha discourse boils down to HEAVY elitism. Mecha fans are very defensive of the genre and will find any means to attack people for it. I think the biggest example is anytime Evangelion is brought up, or more specifically the “deconstruction” claim. Where people think Eva is the only mecha with human characters, it is a very dumb take, but how the fandom reacts to it and how it’s effected discussion of Eva is far from a good thing because being fully honest? I never SEE Eva fans try to claim this anymore. I won’t deny there’s probably bad ones with how big Eva is, but I feel like mecha fans didn’t let go of this notion that they use it as justify to hate Eva and it’s perfectly fine if you think it’s overrated if you’ve seen other mechas you like more but it’s not okay to mass harass anyone who likes it yet isn’t even being mean about it, I’ve had people go DIRECTLY to me that “I’m gonna hate Eva fans cause they suck and so does the show”, that is literally more toxic behavior then the Eva fan you made up in your head. I genuinely feel bad for Eva fans who GOT into the mecha genre too cause shock of all shock they do in fact exist, which is why I’m again more skeptical of do people REALLY still claim Eva a deconstruction or are you people refusing to let go of it? (No one wants to admit either that Nadesico gets hit with this claim, by ACTUAL MECHA FANS MIND YOU yet it’s as stupid to say but they will argue, though I won’t get into that either if you haven’t seen it + it pisses me off more then the Eva one)

Genuinely seen the toxicity towards any popular mecha tbh, Gurren and Geass have it bad and Gurren fans get shoved down their throat they need to watch getter when as much as I’d like getter to be acknowledged more, someone who likes Gurren isn’t inclined too and vice versa, given I personally do not care to watch it whatsoever even if my bf trying to convince me so next to being toxic it just be hypocritical of me to shove it down peoples throats, so I simply don’t.

Genuinely mecha discourse can be summarized down to “this sucks watch this instead” and people then get confused why no one wants to watch mecha, next to how these people don’t really do a good job at SELLING why you should past “its historically important to anime!” and I have history anime autism yet I’m not gonna go that far so that’s not needed to enjoy anime, even if people should watch older stuff more. There is a lot more I could go into, I didn't touch the obvious elephant in the room being how most gundam fans act or other specific takes I see with getter but this post is long as is and I think you get the point.

So yeah. You made the right choice not interacting with the fandom, I sadly just can't entirely avoid it.

[jitterbugjive]

So, some people may have noticed this but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to bring attention to it and I wanted people to just assume it was someone theorizing. But it appears someone from my ex friend circle whom I had trusted with certain details of how Discord Whooves would end decided to stoop to a lower than low level and ruin the ending for anyone who stumbled on their posts that had been made on a blog made specifically to post spoilers and tag them with common tags Discord Whooves uses. I’m sure it was out of sheer spite towards me and the people who dared to support my work.

Saying bad things about me and things I’ve done and said, okay that’s justifiable. But going out of their way to take something I once trusted them with because I thought we were close friends, and then throwing it out for the world to see out of revenge against me and anyone following me? That’s just petty, immature, and a really low blow to make. Even if I really hated someone, I would never reveal their harmless secrets to the world just to get back at them. There’s a chance to be the better person, and at least have some code of ethics to know when it’s going too far. I deserved to be called out. I didn’t deserve to have my 12 years of work undermined by a vindictive person who can’t move forward, and my fans didn’t deserve it either because they are not even involved in this drama.

There is a point where revenge goes too far and one crosses over into just being villainously cruel.

It’s sad, and really pathetic that someone thinks they have to do everything in their power to screw me over in some way instead of trying to actually recover and get past the point of obsession over wanting to get back at me all the time.

I’m sorry the whole world isn’t against me like you want it to be. I’m sorry a lot of people believe in recovery and the fact that I feel terrible enough already about my shitty actions in the past and am doing everything in my power to avoid anything like that happening ever again. I’m sorry I’m not being bombarded by hoards of angry people calling me names and telling me to kill myself. I’m sorry my feeling horrible isn’t enough to satiate you and all you want is to see me suffer.

It’s been years now. YEARS. For the sake of your own mental well being, just cut me out of your life completely and stop obsessing over me. You already won. I am constantly in a state of panic thinking of this shit and how else it’s going to come and bite me in the ass. I lost the comic website I depended on, I’ve lost a huge chunk of my readership and no longer really have my ‘popular’ status. (very rarely get fan art, not being bombarded by asks constantly, no longer receive fan mail, original projects aren’t catching on very well) Selling commissions has gotten increasingly more difficult. My insomnia is worse than ever and I have to take heavy duty sedatives just to sleep because my mind won’t stop spiraling about this stuff. I cannot go a single day without feeling guilt, regret, self hatred, and doubt and wishing hopelessly that I just never did those things. I have severe trust issues and have almost no one I can feel comfortable enough sharing anything personal or story related with which was just made even WORSE by these recent actions, and I haven’t been able to form new bonds with anyone in years either.

I know I hurt you badly, I know what I did was incredibly wrong and irresponsible, and I don’t know how it’s affected you over the years but this rage and anger is not good for anyone. I don’t hate you. I just want you to be able to move on and learn to be healthy and happy and no longer stuck thinking about me and how much you hate me and want me to fall. I don’t want to be hurting you by just existing and trying to move on with my own life, and I wish there was something- ANYTHING I could do to bring you peace.

But the only one who can ultimately bring you peace is yourself. So you can keep on trying to claw and bite and drag me down with you, or you could be the better person and try to just move forward and put the past in the past where it belongs.

I’m not mad. I’m just incredibly disappointed. I would have thought you were better than this, but I was wrong. I was wrong to ever even trust you as a friend, and I wish we were never friends to begin with, or even ever met, and I’m sure you feel the same way.

[delicatecherrys]

is there a protocol on here to talk about “last reblog”?

i don’t wanna clog their post with my opposing view in their tags. i see their point, but i kinda disagree? i think it’s great to interpret media without caring about what the author meant, and we will always continue to do that even if the author comes outright and says they meant it the opposite way. (hell, is that not what we do with “canon divergent” fanfiction that explores characters reacting differently in a situation than they did when the author wrote them?)

but i don’t think it’s fair to dismiss authorial intent like that. art DOES become more (or less) meaningful if it was put together with thought & intent, rather than being the product of accident. i DO care if the author meant to portray love that was meant to read as queer, rather than accidentally (badly!) writing brotherly love. i’ll have my own interpretation, but i want to know what they were trying to say, if i can.

it sucks that we have to speculate. it sucks that heterosexuality is the default and we have to seek validation for our queer interpretations. but that IS reality.

and i do agree it takes away from art being subtle & dynamic, which is not a good thing, but i guess…i dunno. i don’t know what the solution is. but when we get continually harassed for our queer reading of a piece of media…

it’s not my business how other people interpret art, but the heteronormativity of the spaces we exist in means that being confident in my own reading of something is not enough. it means someone is gonna hold it over my head and laugh and be bigoted, because there isn’t “proof”. is it really so unbelievable that queer people are seeking that validation? or at the very least hoping not to see heteronormativity shoved into every work that can read as queer, giving ammo to every asshole out there to act like we’re delusional for reading queer subtext in a story?

idk what i’m saying, this has been bothering me given the increased harassment & homophobia i’ve personally experienced on twitter since 431 came out. i think it’s a bit dismissive to say “just be content with what you got and interpret it your way, why do you need proof/validation”.

(which we never did, at least i didn’t. all i was asking for was there to be a space left to interpret things in a queer way without an emphasis on your typical het ship. if there really was censorship involved & author’s hand was forced, i think 431 is the kindest way it could have happened for us queer folks. but it’s undeniable that it still fucking sucks.)

nobody follows me here so i don’t expect anyone to read/respond to this lol, just needed to rant. if you did read it, sorry, it probably didn’t make much sense.

if op of that post happens to see this (i really hope they don’t), this wasn’t an attack on you or your take, you make solid points, i just happen to disagree.

anyways. good job horikoshi on going from writing a flawed but nonetheless interesting trope subversion of your main female “love interest” type character, to burying your one explicitly queer character and having her love be used as a way to push a het ship & reducing your female lead’s arc to be all about love/all about the boy she loved, ALL in one chapter. himiko’s treatment in this manga is truly a slap on the face, and i’m not even a himiko stan. can’t imagine how her fans feel. and ochako doesn’t even make sense. even if this chapter was a product of censorship and forced by editors/publishers, there were many more tasteful ways to accomplish teasing the het romance than…whatever that was.

also apparently this volume is selling a tonne which could be for any number of reasons (bonus cards, promise of bonus content, final volume, vol 1 parallel nostalgia, etc) but given its success, it really does make me feel small in my discontent. at the end of the day, as loud as our corner of the internet may be, it’s not enough. 🥲

[suck-baby-suck]

Sad Fanfic 'From Despair to Where'

This work explores themes of mental health and social injustice through fictionalized introspection. It aims to express solidarity and not speak on behalf of any group. If any phrasing feels off, I welcome gentle conversation.

[The date, names, and personalities are part of a fictional scenario. This fanfiction is inspired by the biography of R.E.

The only character who stays close to the real person is Richey.

I personally believe in a branch of String Theory (and quantum physics) known as the Many-Worlds Interpretation. It suggests that every time you make a choice, the Universe splits. All of these versions exist simultaneously, like pages in a book. You can only read one at a time, but in the endless library, every version of your life is already written.

This is the story where he says, “I am still here”,  for everyone who has ever wanted to vanish-even once.]

Chapter 1: 4Real 

Cardiff, February 2003 

The rain wasn’t falling. It was hovering, suspended in air like a fog of unspoken words. Cold needles of damp brushed skin and collarbones, turning breath into steam and the night into something slow, endless, and lonely. The whole city felt like it was holding its breath.

Richey:

That evening, around two a.m., I left home without leaving a note and headed for the Severn Bridge. I told myself maybe I’d find a job in Bristol - some temporary fix. I set off, hopes high, in the most mechanical way. I followed the M4 for three hours.

It was hell. Nothing but black sky and bleeding headlights, like the world had been smeared in tar. Gradually, it became lighter. Not sunrise, just headlights thickening. And then the bridge appeared.

Cold. Endless. Still. Like it had been waiting for me.

I didn’t want to die. But I couldn’t stand being alive like that anymore. It’s not pain, not really. It’s weight. Pressure. The unbearable density of being looked at but never seen. The kind of exhaustion where even breathing feels like a lie. When you're in that place, you don’t leave a letter. You don’t make a scene. You just go. Quietly.  Like fading ink.

I left my ID in the car, parked far from the bridge, like my way of saying: take what’s left. Just don’t follow me. I wanted silence. Not peace. Just nothingness.

I wanted the thoughts to shut up. For once. For good.

My hands were numb. But not from the cold. From carrying too much alone for too long. From the pressure of pretending to be someone people could pin their ideas to, a truth-teller, a pretty wreck, a poetic warning.

People saw the eyeliner. Not the essays. Not the weight. Just the surface. They called it the image, as if the screaming wasn’t real because it was dressed too well. 

I spent years turning my insides out for an audience that clapped at the mess and called it a show. Sick of it. Sick of performing pain just so people might believe it. Sick of bleeding in public and being told it was good PR.

They never learned the language I wrote in. Too busy selling my silhouette. And now the world’s changing again fast, sharp, loud, and I feel like a broken antenna trying to catch a signal that doesn’t want me anymore.

Why is survival always about silence? Why does staying mean shrinking? Why do I have to shape myself into something softer just to be tolerated? 

Why do I have to soften what hurts just to make other people comfortable? Why can’t I just say what I mean? Why is truth always punished unless it’s wrapped up as socially approved entertainment?

Why can’t I just say what I mean without being accused of everything at once?

I don’t want to disappear. But I don’t know how to stay here without erasing myself. You want to run until your body breaks down. Until your heart gives up, or your knees hit concrete. Anything, anything but continuing like this.

The Severn Bridge stood there like a god. A silent, indifferent god. One step, and I disappear. Into the channel. Into history. Into something that isn’t this.

Richey: What the hell...? What is that? I was sure—absolutely sure—that I was already half-gone. Already in the water. Already unraveling into the Severn’s mouth. But something... warm? It hit me like a hallucination. Not a light. Not a voice. Just this quiet warmth. Like a hug made of nothing.

Something shut up my thoughts. Not numbed them. Not erased them. Just... calmed them. Like whatever was screaming inside me had finally exhaled. And for the first time in weeks—maybe years— I could breathe.I didn’t see anything. But I felt it.

Something not real. And real enough to hold me. Real enough to pick up the weight. To sit with the mess and not flinch. And I walked. And I kept walking.

 2013. At the edge of civilization. Valley is for Valley Boy.

Muted wind chimes clang lazily in the breeze, like they’ve forgotten what they’re for. The floorboards creak with every step, like they’re in pain but too polite to scream. The espresso machine hisses in protest, as if it knows exactly what kind of lives we’re leading.

It smells like burnt coffee, dried lavender, and mild existential collapse. Outside: nothing. A mountain that’s mostly fog. Sheep that stare like they’ve seen things. They probably have. 

Somewhere near the edge of civilization. 

Richey: I’ve been here long enough that people don’t ask questions anymore.  Not out of kindness. They just don’t care. And I’ve stopped offering answers no one listens to.

The café’s warm. Wooden. Entirely forgettable.  Like most people’s coping mechanisms. I work here sometimes. Waiter. Burnt coffee technician. Pretend I understand the register. I don’t. But mostly, I write. Always writing. Articles. Op-eds. Essays I don’t sign. The things I used to scream about into microphones, I now whisper into Word documents.

I rent a room. Technically, a flat. But let’s not overstate things, it’s mostly just a room with delusions of architectural ambition. I stay here because of the table. Found it by the bins. Looks like it belonged in a 1983 classroom that gave up mid-sentence. That’s where I write. That’s where I still exist, half-man, half unfinished sentence.

Mattress on the floor. One chair. One clothes rail leaning like it gave up too. There’s a door to the bathroom that makes a sound like it’s regretting every flush. If Brian Molko ever saw it, I think he’d go wordless for a full day, which, to be fair, might be a public service.

The kitchen… My battlefield. It’s where the hunger stayed longest. Weeks without food before the last two clinics. Not some performance, just delay. That’s how you think when disappearing seems more polite than staying. Eating felt like admitting I wanted to stay. Now I’m too healthy for rehab, too sick for capitalism. Eating felt like admitting I hadn’t given up. Like feeding the body meant keeping the noise alive. I even try to do it regularly. As a way to say: I’m still here. I still exist. Existence, not as a choice, but as a response to something that once felt warm enough to silence the screaming.

I like writing. Still cover politics. War. Class. Masses against classes, same as it ever was. Except now they fight in their heads. I get it. I do the same. Everything’s internal now. All opinions softened, anonymised, just enough to not get burned at the stake. Flexibility is survival. You adapt or they tear you apart. Now I publish quietly. Unnamed. Still say what I mean. Just in lowercase.

Ten years ago, if someone'd told me I’d end up here, I would’ve jumped. Off that fucking bridge. No hesitation. But I didn’t. Because somewhere out there, a few people read. They feel it. They don’t click “like,”  but they linger. And that’s enough. They need the words. I need the writing. We’re all just trying to survive the noise. The noise and Netflix and this strange, shared self-loathing. Still the same meat grinder of late capitalism. Just with better fonts.

But I’ve also started this strange chain of stories, all circling around one feeling. The thing that stopped me from dying. I still don’t know what it was. It wasn’t God. Wasn’t clarity. Wasn’t some luminous, cinematic moment. It wasn’t even a person. No one came running.

It was warmth. Not metaphorical. Not religious. Just... warm.  Like something invisible wrapped around me and said:

“Wait.”

The café. Somewhere between Nowhere and F-ck Off, Poland.

It smells like sorrow and burnt milk.

Mr. Krzysiek Wandachowicz [yelling in Polish]:

“RICHARD, I TOLD YOU! NIE TAK SIĘ ROBI LATTE! ZNOWU TO SPIEPRZYŁEŚ!!” (“That’s NOT how you make a latte! You screwed it up again!”)

Richey doesn't flinch. He nods absently, wipes his hands on a towel that smells like disappointment and dairy abuse, and walks out the back door before he throws himself into the coffee grinder and lets it end him in a glorious cloud of decaf and regret.

Air like paper soaked in tea and bad decisions. Cold enough to feel alive, but not enough to mean it.

Lights a cigarette with a used match. Pocket lighter’s dead, of course it is.

FLASHBACK:  Dressing Room Mirror, Eyes Glazed.

A razorblade. A moment.  "4 REAL" carved into his forearm like a contract he never signed.

Richey: Once, I carved 4 REAL into my arm just to prove I wasn’t some mannequin in eyeliner. That I wasn’t selling sadness—I was sadness. I stood for something, even if it bled. That was me, speaking a language people only ever mimed.

Now? Four rehab clinics later, one failed death, two false names, five countries, and a decade gone, I’m standing in front of Mr. Krzysiek Wandachowicz, pretending I know how to make a stupid f**king latte.

Mental illness: rebranded as customer service.

He exhales.

Survival looks a lot like knowing how to steam milk, while dissociating just enough not to scream. Every day, I fail at capitalism. They should start giving out medals for it. Espresso's still warm. I’m still here. 

He walks. Not to anywhere. Just away.