#i’m mentally exhausted to the point i’m just being mean to others unprovoked

[silentgrim]

deliberately ignoring my inbox and i’m so sorry!

[bibbykins]

Insufferable

A/N: The long-awaited flashback is here! It's short, but it is here! I hope this can really show the turning point in Jungkook's and MC's relationship and I would love to hear everyone's thoughts. As usual, tips are not required but greatly appreciate. Hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful day/night!

Note: This is a part (specifically a flashback) of The Household's Bunny series, so I recommend reading at least the Prologue before this one

Word count: 3.6k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Jungkook x Chubby! Reader

Summary: Roommates are bound to have arguments, especially when one of them is as temperamental as Jungkook, but you didn't expect the first argument to get so unbelievably personal.

Warnings: abandonment issues, mommy issues, allusions to past abuse, family issues, crying, yelling, vomiting, panic attack, exhaustion, some soft yandere thoughts, some possessiveness, jungkook is mean and the MC gets a little mean too

There was something so constricting about memories of a shitty childhood. There were times when looking in the mirror felt like searching for the child in you so you could give her the hug she desperately needed. There were times when waking up felt like a check to make sure you were no longer in the home you had to grow up in far too quickly. However, the comfort of being in a different home only came so far when you didn't have anyone beside you or even emotionally available enough to talk to.

You stayed in bed for hours before it felt like a good idea to move, almost waiting for the mirage of change to fade before it brought you back to the gym with your mom or your uncle's apartment littered with whiskey bottles and leaky tear ducts.

Sometimes putting your best foot forward each day felt so hard with all-consuming loneliness clinging to your heels.

You had started your day going through your memory box. Hindsight said that was a poor idea. The box was a sure way to get you into a bad mood. You liked to think you breezed past all the stages of grief, but just because you accepted reality didn't make it hurt any less. The box was a strong reminder of that much as it sat with a melancholic aura. The creme color faded and the thorned vines connected to roses only added to the malicious undertones of its existence to your mental health. It was full of childhood photos, your birth certificate, school achievements, and the last known address your mom had.

Ah, your mom. What a way to bring clouds to your sunny day. You don’t know why you put yourself through the turmoil of the memory box. Maybe you were hoping it would be easier by now. You were always wrong. Looking through childhood photos and finding no love in the eyes of your mother when she looked at you and watching the love in your uncle’s eyes fade with your mother’s presence. You got to the fated birthday card, thumb rubbing over the defunct address longingly. You held the envelope in your hand, inspecting the birthday card she sent you. Three words in the repetitive note written on the inside caught your eye, and not the ones you so desperately wanted from her.

Feeling a familiar pressure behind your eyes, you tossed the card aside and stood. It was time to eat, go on a walk, do anything other than this. You found your way to the kitchen and came across a silent and solemn Jungkook. His jaw was clenched, but it felt like it always was around you.

Your relationship with Jungkook so far was not very complicated, in the way it was nonexistent. He either didn’t care about talking to you or he actively didn’t want to, you really couldn’t tell. This didn’t stop you from trying, though. Like an idiot.

“I’m making food, did you want any?” You asked from your place seated on the couch, and the silence that was his response for deafening, “Okaaaay.” You sang awkwardly, “I just know that you usually don’t eat throughout the day and-”

“And what do you know?!” He snapped, blinded by his pure and unbridled, but most important unprovoked, rage of you. Your eyes widened and your body jumped. Holy shit, you had never heard him yell like this, “You don’t know anything about me, or in general, so just stop trying so fucking hard!” He was harsh in his tone and it lit your whole nervous system on fire. What the hell did you do to him?

You shook your head, not sure why he was yelling about, but it made your throat feel like it was going to close, “Look, I was just trying to be polite, but you don’t need to talk about me like you understand-”

“Understand?! What’s there to understand?” He challenged, eyes wide like he was expecting you to say something but he continued, “You’re some spoiled girl living here rent-free because your precious dad doesn’t want to take care of you.”

Your heart caught in your throat as it shattered. He was right, your dad didn't want to take care of you, but not in the way he thought. Why was he doing this? Has he genuinely felt this way all along? Was he just holding in his anger until you poked the bear a little too hard? “You don’t need to yell at me.” You stated firmly and it seemed to only make things worse.

“And you don’t need to fucking be here in the first place!” He spoke, temper long lost and you could hear his voice mix in with Jungyoon’s, all he needed was a bottle of whisky and a set of calloused hands, “You didn’t need to fucking live here-”

“You don’t know anything about me.” You spat out. Now, you were losing your temper. You could take a beating, but for only so long, especially as an adult, "And it's not like you're paying rent either, so what do you know about me or my living arrangements?" You hissed and you watched his eyes flare, making you nearly regret your provocation.

“No, but I know how you look naked-”

“Fuck you.” You spit the word out at him, something you haven’t done to another person for a while “Don’t weaponize my work or play a game that you absolutely will lose.” You warned, “I know all about you, and I can use that, because you’ve been a star since you were 15, and that sucks, that makes you mad, doesn’t it?” Your temper effectively lost as you ripped into the rage-filled man before you, “Yet you don’t know anything about me, and that must piss you the fuck off, huh?” You stood from the couch, tears building in your eyes before you could stop it.

“I know enough, spoiled rich girl.” He seethed and you laughed humorlessly at this worldwide pop star calling you spoiled and rich.

“Not only are you wrong, but you’re also a poor listener.” You shot back, “I’ve told you all before Jungyoon isn’t my fucking dad, he’s my uncle.” His mouth opened but you cut him off before he could start, “He can’t stand the sight of me so he travels for work.” Your tears are undoubtedly falling, but you can’t stop, “And you’re talking to me like this because what? You had a scandal or something?” You gave him his chance to talk and boy, he took it.

“Mona told me you know your mom.” His voice was like venom, “So, why the fuck are you here? You have your blood relatives.” He exaggerated the word like it meant anything to you, “Why are you here, disrupting our lives, acting like an innocent orphan girl around actual fucking orphans-”

“I never said I was or acted like an orphan!” You exclaimed incredulously before scoffing, “That’s why you’re mad? Because you never knew your mom and I did? Because I know who my blood family is?” You could laugh at how ridiculous that was, “I know them, so what? Where does that get me?” You looked at him expectantly but he didn’t talk, “I knew my mom, and guess what? She just didn’t fucking want me.” He was silent, but you still couldn’t stop, “I’m sure if your mom could’ve got to know you, she would’ve kept you, because you’re not insufferable to be around, you’re just a fucking asshole.” You wiped at your cheeks furiously, “But me? I had 15 years to prove myself and it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough. Jungyoon never wanted me either, he got stuck with me and had to cope.” Your voice began to break and you had to take a breath, “I was the insufferable one, so-” You stopped, finally as you regained your sense of reality and watched Jungkook who had an unreadable expression and the realization of the word vomit you spilled out to him hit you like a train as you exhaled quickly, rage in your voice quickly replaced with soft melancholy “I am the insufferable one here, so there.” You shrugged, face a wet mess, “Hope that brings you peace.” Your stomach was churning as you turned on your heel, unable to hold in your sobs. You couldn’t bear the awkwardness of waiting for the elevator so you opted to take the stairs.

You sobbed louder as the door slammed shut behind you, but you didn’t want to linger so you bolted down the stairs, the bile in your stomach signaling that you needed to find the nearest trashcan and quickly. You made it to the ground floor and spilled your guts into the small trashcan. Yelling always made you unbelievably ill, whether it was getting yelled at or yelling, the sickness it made you feel overflowed. The yelling only reminded you of-

You vomited again at the mere thought. You cried harder when you finally finished, breathing becoming staggered as you began to panic.

Fuck, they’re gonna kick you out, and then you’ll be alone again. You lost your temper, people don’t like other people who lose their temper. Why couldn’t you just mind your own fucking business and leave him be? You’re stupid. Why do you think you’ve been alone all your life? It’s because people don’t want to be near you. You’re-

“Insufferable.” You mumbled, numb, even if for only a moment.

Sure, Jungkook provoked you, but you knew better. You didn't go to therapist after therapist throughout your adolescence for nothing. You felt as if you set yourself back eons after that outburst. He didn't need to know all that about you, ever. He probably didn't even care to know, and you said it anyway, like you were gunning for gold in the trauma Olympics. You didn't want to minimize his struggles, you just wanted him to shut up and stop yelling at you. You let your eyes flutter closed as you cried. How can you complain about being alone when you're like this?

You don’t know how long you stayed there, sitting next to a trash can full of your vomit as you wallowed in your self-hatred. The all-consuming loneliness the boisterous house subdued returning with full force. Jungkook was right. You didn’t need to be here. You were only disrupting their routine.

You blew out a sigh as you staggered to the elevator, fully set on going up to your room and crying yourself to sleep after you clean up. You brought the trashcan with you, not having the heart to just leave your puke down there. You thanked your lucky stars when Jungkook was no longer on the second floor as you went to the kitchen and rinsed your mouth before going to take out the trash and take out your burnt oven pizza. Finally, you were headed back up to your floor. You watched the numbers tick by with tired eyes. You glared at the empty trashcan, electing to take it with you instead of making the trip back down to put it back. Surely, they wouldn’t need it for a few hours.

The elevator dinged as you grabbed the black plastic bin and then you were met with Jungkook. Relief flashed across his face before irritation settled on it, “Where the fuck were you?!” He asked hurriedly as you trudged past him, too exhausted to fight. You were running on autopilot the whole way up here, and you couldn’t bear another spat.

“I was on the first floor.” Your voice was low, trying to communicate you were done arguing as you lifted the bin as proof. You then set it down and went to your bathroom and began brushing your teeth.

He scoffed, “You were on the first floor for 30 minutes?” He asked as if he caught you in a lie but you nodded as you rinsed your mouth.

You were down there for thirty minutes? No wonder you felt so tired.

“Yep.” You popped the last letter before correcting yourself, “Well, I spent like 10 minutes cleaning up that bin, so not exactly.”

“Why?” He asked as if you were being ridiculous, as if he wasn’t the one on your floor demanding answers.

“I vomited.” You spoke simply and before he could ask, “Yelling makes me puke.” You were so blase about it he sighed in frustration.

You walked to your room and froze when you saw your memory box strewn about, and it was like a dam broke all over again. You looked at the photos, at the eager little girl looking for love in places she would never find it.

Old habits die hard.

Before you could even stop yourself, you sunk to your knees in garbled sobs and broken cries, “Hey, hey, wait.” Jungkook’s shaky voice did nothing to bring you back to reality as you cried. His hands placed themselves on your shoulder, making you flinch violently, much to his horror.

Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know why you were crying, but he knew it was his fault, at least in part. Even if at this moment it wasn’t, his outburst surely didn’t help. Fuck, he’s so dumb. Fuck, he shouldn’t have talked to Mona just moments before seeing you.

The envy of even seeing your own mother’s face ate up at him and he took it out on you. Not to mention that he made you vomit from the yelling. He suddenly felt more like an arrogant asshole than he did before as his hands now hovered over your form and he took a moment to look at your room.

Scattered on the floor were childhood photos and ribbons from competitions. Things Mona kept in her own house, having a whole wall filled with every one of their achievements. Even Jin had a photo album of their things. And you, you kept all these for yourself. You were the only one who cared enough to save these things and he wondered how much you threw away to maintain space in the small empty box. Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this.

You sighed shakily, “You can just go.” You cried, “You don’t have to be here.” You don’t know what he could possibly gain from watching you cry.

“I know.” His voice was calm, even, “Can I help you up?” He asked and you wanted to look up at him in confusion but you didn't want him to see your tears.

You both had just ripped into each other, and here he was, wanting to help you. Why would he do that? Why would he stay when he doesn't have to? Why would he want to help you up after a fight?

Too tired to even think about questioning him and no longer angry at him, you simply scoffed, “Can you?” You sighed, not having the energy to stroke his ego and stand up without his help.

You never let people bear your dead weight, not wanting the awkwardness if they couldn’t carry you, but right now, you just wanted to lay down.

He snorted lightly, happy to hear anything other than a sob for you, “Don’t worry about me, you just cry and mind your business.” He spoke lightly, and the comment made you fight a smile. Then, he lifted you with so much ease, you figured he was trying to show off as he placed you on the bed. He looked at you after he sat on the floor before his eyes caught onto the gold foil of a 16th birthday card. You were wiping at your face as he read the card against his better judgment.

I know you must be confused, and I can’t help that. I wish I could pretend to be a mom, but I can’t. I can’t be your mom, and I never should have tried. It would be best if we forgot each other. I just can’t keep pretending, and I know you can see it, even if you don’t want to.

I’m so tired.

-Mom

Now, he felt even more like an asshole. He also felt a little bit angry that your mother could just leave you behind without so much as saying sorry. She wrote like she was a teenager and you were her mother. She obviously didn't put much thought into the seemingly last message to her daughter and it made his heartbreak for you, “That was the last I heard of her.” You snapped him from his thoughts and he looked at your puffy face, “She had left months earlier, and then I got that, but she moved before I could try to see her one more time.” There was a distant ache in your words as you looked at Jungkook sitting amongst your memories.

“Is she… still alive?” He asked, not sure why he felt the need to know.

“Not sure, but it doesn’t make much of a difference, I guess.” You blew out a sigh, before looking at your papers and folded posterboards, “I was cleaning out my memory box, and I’m not sure why I do it when I know it just upsets me.” You could still feel tears leaking from your eyes as Jungkook picked up a photo of you on your 14th birthday, posed between Jungyoon and your mom. You had a bright smile on your face and they looked at the camera with a tight expression, “You can really see how much they didn’t want to be there, but that's the happiest they look in all of the photos.”

He wanted to say you were wrong, but he could see it. He could see the happy little girl trying to make up for the unhappy adults around her. He knew he should’ve asked Mona why Jungyoon didn’t try to call or visit or why she was so eager to take you in if you knew your family. He should’ve just known better. Yeah, he understood how it felt to be alone growing up, they all did, but by the time they were all 17 they had a home that wanted them. You were going to graduate from college soon and you still felt unwanted.

No thanks to him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted and you looked at him with wide eyes, “For being an asshole, I’m sorry- and for making you cry. I just…” He shrugged, “You’re right. I was jealous you knew your mom and I already was suspicious of you and I- I’m dumb, and I’m sorry.” He looked at you, eyes a bit glossy and you wondered when was the last time someone apologized for making you cry.

“It’s okay.” You smiled weakly, “You are dumb, but that’s okay.” You chuckled when he frowned, but eventually, he also broke into a short laugh, “I think… we’ve felt a lot of the same things in different ways, so I can’t blame you.” He wondered how you could be so forgiving, and he was scared of how many times that has gotten you hurt, “I like living here and I like all of you, so I hope I can get you all to like me too, even if just a little.”

“Don’t accept less than you deserve.” He spoke firmly before he started picking up your memory box, putting things neatly back in.

“Wh-”

He waved his hands nonchalantly, “You, sleep, I’ll clean this up and order some food.” He didn’t look at you as he said this, mostly to hide his blush, "If...If you want, I can give this to Jin. He has a whole place he keeps our stuff like this… he's really sentimental." He stumbled, still refusing to look at you.

However, he jumped when he heard you hiccup a cry. Ready to apologize, Jungkook was just about to turn to look at you until he heard you speak, "That… That sounds very sweet of you to do." You wiped a sentimental tear away as the blushing boy remained frozen.

"It's Jin's hobby, not mine." He deflected before waving his hand at you, "Sleep, I said." He frantically demanded.

You could see his ears getting red and you smiled, “Yes, sir.” You mocked in your work voice and made him freeze for a moment as you erupted into giggles while he whined, “Okay, okay, I’ll sleep.”

Eventually, you surrendered to your exhaustion as he delicately put away your papers and photos. He hummed lightly, smiling as he came across your debate team awards. No wonder he lost the fight before it even started. He turned around after lifting the box and sighed almost dreamily as he watched your sleeping face. You were beautiful, delicate, and puffy from the tears. He had the urge to keep apologizing for being such an asshole, but after looking through your achievements and your photos, he resolved to just keep proving it.

He wouldn’t let you get hurt again. Not by him or anyone, especially your mother, even Jungyoon was on thin ice.

His blood boiled at the thought of your mother for a reason he couldn’t understand. His hand extended shakily as he pulled the covers up to your shoulder and you hummed contently, making his heart melt a bit at the little smile you had. He wouldn’t fuck up with you again, not like this. He would be nice, at least a little, and first and foremost, he would order food you liked.

He froze.

Fuck, what food do you like?

He relaxed. Well, he could just ask the guys.

Fuck, they’re gonna ask questions.

Fuck, they’re gonna kill him when they found out he made you cry.

He looked back at your sleeping form, not having the heart to wake you up. He sighed, looks like he’ll just have to bite the bullet. He dreaded each moment as he quickly made an untitled group chat with the guys since you were added to their original one. He could only hope Taehyung wouldn’t change the group chat name to something stupid.

Tip Jar

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Fool Me Once (a post-CW/pre-IW AU)

Right, so I’ve been toying with idea of writing a protective Peter fic, and since my recent workload kinda threw me off track a bit with the merman story (still very much plan on finishing it, not to worry) I decided to try changing directions a bit and playing with this idea before it bailed on me.

It’s a bit AU-ish -- some things have been changed, some characters have not made it into the story.  But overall, hopefully, mostly in character :)  Basically, I just wanted to write me some protective/worried Peter and I needed another excuse to whump Tony.  The rest of the plot is collateral to those two aforementioned needs lol 

@tonystark5ever I’m tagging you for this, love, ‘cause I really need to know what you think of it :)

Fool Me Once 

Chapter 1

Steve ducks to the side, just barely dodging a creature that hurtles toward him with a loud, piercing shriek.  Slams his shield into the ugly reptilian mug even as it snaps its sharp teeth at him, screeching its anger.

 It’s the second Chitauri attack this week.  Tenth one this month if he counts the one that the Avengers weren’t present for in full force.

 That first attack had been brutal.  Steve remembers watching the news report in Wakanda: fire and chaos, people running down the streets in sheer panic as the metal chariots swooped down from the sky, blasting at them with their powerful weapons.  

Tony had stepped up then with what was left of the team (as well he should have, since he was pretty much the only one who could at that point thanks to those ridiculous Accords), coordinating their efforts (rather admirably, Steve was forced to admit) with the local troops and the police.  They managed to eliminate the alien threat then, but it had been a very close call. Uncomfortably so.  

Steve wasn’t at all surprised, therefore, when the news of their official pardon was delivered to Wakanda not even a day later.  Tony has always been a smart guy – he knew when he was beat, when things became too much even for his ego to handle alone.  It was only natural that he reached out to his old team for help.  Just as it was only natural that Steve and the others responded (just as he had promised in his letter to Tony that he would).

 Their welcome wasn’t quite what Steve had been expecting.  Tony was cold and distant, rejecting any and all of Steve’s attempts at breaching the ice that had formed between them in Siberia.  He kept conversation with them to a minimum.  Left the room the first chance he got.  The others present in the Tower (Rhodes, who was walking now thanks to Tony’s latest contraption, that Spider Kid – Peter and Vision) weren’t much better.  Plus they glared at Steve and his team like they were some sort of criminals.  It was awkward as hell, it kept Steve’s team on edge. Made Clint even snappier than usual. Made Wanda twitchy and Sam glum. Worst of all, it made Bucky nervous, and that alone was enough to set Steve’s teeth on edge.  Because Bucky of all people did not deserve this – this cold hostility nonsense, this childish avoidance. Bucky did not need this for his recovery.  And Steve had half a mind to go tell Tony everything he thought about this attitude of his.  

 Bucky wouldn’t let him. Told him to let it go, that he would talk to Tony himself.  And he did. And whatever it is they talked about, it seemed to have helped because Tony’s attitude thawed quite a bit – toward Bucky at least.  And even if Tony still shunned Steve and the rest of his old team, at least Bucky no longer seemed as uncomfortable in Tony’s presence, and Steve supposed that would have to be enough.  They had to make it work, after all.  For Earth’s sake.  

 Tony told them the day they got back that he was expecting more attacks.  That there was someone out there in the great big cosmos, who wants to wipe Earth clean of human presence.  And these Chitauri he’s sending are mere scouts, a way to test the waters, to see how much it would take for us to crumble, how strong our resolve is to resist. That he will keep sending them until he sees that we can fight no more, and then he will come himself and he will finish the job.

 It sounded paranoid to Steve – no different than Tony’s Ultron talk (and look what that had led to). But the Chitauri did keep coming, just as Tony predicted they would, and Steve pushed his reservations aside (for the time being at least) and focused on what he did best – being a leader.

 Didn’t mean he was gonna stop keeping an eye on Tony.  …Just in case.

 “Heads up, Captain,” Iron Man’s voice comes through the comms, pulling him out of his thoughts. “There are two more heading your way.”

 And he looks up just in time to see a Chitauri chariot zooming down toward him, the driver scowling in anticipation of victory as the foot soldier behind him aims his monstrosity of a gun Steve’s way.

 He ducks and rolls, mentally giving Tony a grudging thanks for the timely warning.  Throws his shield at the driver as the chariot begins to turn to give its passenger another shot at him.  

 The hit is solid.  The driver jolts and crumples under the force of it, hands wrenched away from the controls, and the chariot veers sharply to the right, knocking its passenger off and slamming hard into the nearby building. The chariot explodes on impact, but Steve is no longer paying it any heed, focused instead on the passenger who’s now trying to pick himself up from the rubble-covered ground, the weapon still clutched in his claw-like hand.

 His shield once again back in his hands, Steve tackles him back down to the ground, drives the shield into the exposed vulnerable part of the neck not covered by the armor with all of his might.  He hears something snap and the alien twitches and grows limp underneath him, his struggles stilling.  

 Steve sags backwards onto the rubble, heaving out a sigh – a mixture of exhaustion and relief.  He’s tired of this.  So, so very tired.  Of these constant attacks that seem to grow more intense as they get closer together. Of Tony’s attitude.  Of the lingering worry for Bucky.  Of the constant tension within the team that he can’t seem to be able to fix, no matter how hard he tries.  He would like nothing more than to drop everything and get away from this mess, if only for a few hours.    

 But he can’t. The battle is far from over, and he’s still the leader, still the one responsible for the ultimate outcome of it, for the safety of his team.

 Speaking of…

 “Iron Man, status!” he barks into the comms as he picks himself back up and leans over to grab the Chitauri weapon (the thing is big and uncomfortable, but it packs quite a destructive punch and extra firepower never hurt anyone).

 The comms are silent and he growls the question out again, impatient, scanning the area around him with a narrow gaze.

 “Sorry, Cap,” comes a terse reply, and Steve can literally hear the sneer of annoyance in the other man’s voice.  “A little busy here.  Enemy invaders and all.”

 “I don’t need the snark from you, Iron Man,” he snaps, stomping his way to higher ground so he can get a better look at the rest of the team.  “Just your eyes.”

 “Aww, Cap, and here I thought you cared.”

 He grits his teeth at the mocking tone, looks up to where he can see the Iron Man’s suit hovering gracefully above the fray.  But an angry reprimand dies on his lips because Iron Man’s stance changes suddenly from watchful to alarmed, and he turns slightly in the air, arm raised with a kind of hurried urgency that makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up. And then Iron Man fires, again and again, the whine of the repulsor cutting through the noise of the battle as the consecutive beams seek out a target on the ground.  

 And Steve feels himself grow cold, because that target is Bucky, his Bucky, who’s standing there alone and defenseless under Tony’s unprovoked deadly barrage.  

 Steve doesn’t think. Steve raises the arm with the Chitauri weapon, aims it at the red and gold traitor.  And he fires.

On to chapter 2 , chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5

[axemetaphor]

OC Masterpost

I need an organized place to put info about all my OCs so that’s what this post is gonna be for!

In addition to basic bios and some reference images, I’ve also got links to Spotify playlists for every character, because music is a strong association with personality for me. (If you don’t use Spotify, or if you know of a streaming platform more easily accessible than Spotify, send me an anon and I’ll duplicate the playlists to that service then add a link here!) I also have moodboards for every OC.

This post will be rather long so I’ve put in under a readmore for the sake of convenience.

It’s also important to note that my OCs exist in an AU where some things are a little different. For example, Infinite in this AU is 17 and that’s definitely not because I assumed he was an edgy teen like Shadow, and after Robotnik’s defeat in Forces, the Resistance became the Restoration. All the troops who had been battling were reassigned to rebuilding whatever town they happened to be in at the time of victory, with extra troops being redistributed as needed (leading to the formation of small roving teams traveling from place to place to help out).

It’s a little bit of an unorganized info-dump at some points, but I’ll update it to be more organized at some point.

Updated 01/20/2019

Rhys the Serval

Spotify playlist | Moodboard

Rhys was designed by @creative-sanic and she also came up with most of his backstory!

Rhys is a gender-nonconforming cis gay dude. He was born to a ‘feral’ mother in the wilderness closest to Central City (between the City and Mystic Ruins, far enough away from civilization to be undetected for a majority of his early life). At age 7 or 8, a massive fire swept the forest, putting him and his mother in massive danger. Officials sent to contain the fire discovered that she and Rhys were living alone in the forest, and took the two into protective custody while working through the devastation caused by the fire. The city pressured Rhys’s mother to join civilization, but she adamantly refused, and as a consequence, Rhys was stolen from her and put up for adoption, leading to her having a violent breakdown. She was moved to a containment facility and hasn’t seen Rhys since; he has only the faintest memories of her. He was adopted at age 13 or 14 (having been shuffled around in foster care before then) by a family of bears, and went on to be a fairly average Mobian citizen, working as a waiter at Penne For Your Thoughts. That’s where he met Vitriol, who is now his boyfriend. After dating for a few months, they decided to move in together, with Vitriol moving into Rhys’s apartment, which was the larger of the two. Rhys is now roughly 19 years old (18 or 19).

Rhys and Vitriol have a steady relationship relatively devoid of problems. They love each other enough that no problem is too big for them to tackle, and when Vitriol became part of the Restoration (the collective effort to undo the damage done by Robotnik and the Resistance), Rhys moved with him all over the world, glad to have a reasonable excuse to travel. Neither wanted to attempt a longstanding long-distance relationship; their being separated briefly during the Resistance was frustrating enough for the two of them.

Rhys is unaware that he possesses Empathic abilities, and simply assumes he’s very good at figuring people out/being sympathetic, but in truth, the forest fire in his youth served as the catalyst for his abilities. Since his Empathy doesn’t require the same physical drain as, say, Vitriol’s Strength, Rhys mistakes his Chaos-Energy-related fatigue after using his powers to be emotional exhaustion. When he’s that tired is roughly the only time he can show unprovoked anger, but he’s also in-tune enough with himself to recognize when he’s being needlessly mean, and he’ll usually apologize right away. This happened most frequently during the events of the Resistance, where Rhys was tasked with helping to get survivors to safe places; he was very good at comforting those who may have lost friends/family in the attacks. From that, he’s begun to entertain the idea of becoming a therapist someday, though he’s not sure how he would afford the college degree for that. 

He gets along very well with Unknown due to them both having rather upbeat personalities. Though Unknown can be a little overbearing sometimes, Rhys likes talking to them and sometimes they’ll gush about how cute Vitriol is. 

As mentioned previously, Rhys doesn’t conform to typical gender norms; he’s a fashionista of sorts and doesn’t care what gender clothing is associated with. He thinks skirts are cute and feel nice, and he thinks makeup is a lot of fun, though he doesn’t do either every single day, just every now and then. For the most part, unless he’s feeling adventurous, he wears a hoodie and jeans, though his work outfit is a fancy suit. So, it’s often nice for him to just wear something low-effort. That being said, he always jumps at every opportunity to do his boyfriend’s makeup, and though Vitriol isn’t the biggest fan of it, he likes seeing Rhys smile, so he usually gives in.

Rhys often prompts Vitriol to keep up with his health, and the two go on camping trips whenever Rhys can convince Vitriol to go. He’s very good at camping; he can build a shelter easily, knows which plants are edible, etc.. Vitriol, by contrast, is pretty clueless, but Rhys is more than happy to teach him. 

When speaking, Rhys normally has a somewhat-formal tone, and he uses little to no slang (usually just words like “gonna,” and he almost never drops the G’s at the end of words). He’s very polite by nature (and some of the formality was ingrained by his job), and he tends to not talk a lot. When he’s really comfortable around someone (like Vitriol), he can chatter a lot, but if he catches himself, he’ll get really embarrassed about it. He has a soft, lilting voice that many find pleasant to listen to and soothing. When he gets excited, or raises his voice, it gets slightly higher in pitch. He’s not an anxious person (as in, he doesn’t have an anxiety disorder) but he’s rather shy and awkward around new people. He’s more of a reserved person than an anxious one, and he is by no means meek; having been raised (post-adoption) by a family of bears taught him how to roughhouse and hold his own against bigger enemies.

For the most part, Rhys isn’t bothered by his past. His life in the forest is far enough away, mentally, that to him it doesn’t feel like it even happened to him. However, the fire was a traumatic event for him, and to this day he has a deep-seated fear of fire. It’s rare, but on occasion, he will have nightmares about that day, and he doesn’t handle that well when alone. Fortunately, Vitriol is fairly helpful to Rhys—his simply being there is very comforting, even though he never really knows what to say.

Toxic the Porcupine

Spotify playlist | Moodboard

Note: while this character started out as a sonicsona of sorts, they’ve somewhat evolved from that and I don’t see them quite so much as “me” anymore. They do, however, share my name (or rather the name I’m using currently, as I write this). To further complicate things they also look the way I do right now and I use them for vent art lmao so, if I happen to draw myself as a mobian ever again I’ll tag it as #not oc. That way it’s clear what’s Toxic the OC and what’s Toxic the...uh, human being I guess. 

Toxic is an agender porcupine who hasn’t settled on their sexuality yet--they know they’re asexual, but they haven’t thought any further into their romantic orientation. They were born in a tiny unnamed village settled in the shadow of Scrap Brain Zone, and only recently did they leave after a majority of it was burnt to the ground...by them. They showed signs of being trans at a young age, and were subsequently bullied quite harshly by both their peers and their family. They came out to their family at age 17, which only deepened the rift already forming, and subsequently Toxic ran away for a week, spending that time in Scrap Brain Zone. That was their first overnight foray into the Zone, something that would eventually become a staple of their life.

At age 19, they discovered an abandoned prototype Wispon in Scrap Brain Zone (devoid of Wisps), which they then decided to retrofit with the flaming spouts from Scrap Brain Zone to make their own strange hybrid flamethrower. A few nights later, after a particularly awful verbal spat with their family, they decided to fake their own death by setting fire to their own room. However, things quickly got out of hand, and the whole town ended up in flames. They fled, unsure if anyone made it out alive that night...and a little less than sympathetic if they didn’t. (Fortunately, a majority of the little village’s populace wound up trickling into neighboring villages and towns)

Since then, they’ve been absolutely destroying almost everything in their path. With no direction and no impulse control, they are a complete loose cannon throwing a wrench in both Eggman’s plans and Sonic’s adventures. They live by a motto of recklessness and “I’m here for a good time, not a long time.” Being an un-powered Mobian, they can’t do much of anything with the Wispon taken away, but taking that Wispon away is much easier said than done. Shortly after their ‘debut’ as a villain-of-sorts, Eggman reached out to them with a message essentially reading, “hey, do you want a direction in which to burn everything down (that is preferably not my everything)?” Since joining forces with Robotnik, though, their chaos has become much more controlled, and now incidents of mass fires can usually be linked to Eggman sending them off somewhere. They are a persistent thorn in the Freedom Fighters’ sides as they just love to fight and don’t really care who they fight.

They will not, however, attack civilians directly. Their fires might pose a threat to cities, but they don’t outright attack people unprompted--their chaos isn’t fueled of malice but rather of recklessness and an extreme lack of forethought. If harassed, however, they aren’t above punching someone in the face, and civilians are warned to just stay the hell away from Toxic. Their behavior overall is best classed as “more of a danger to themselves than others, even when provoked.”

Toxic only owns one jacket and one pair of boots, as well as no other accessories save for the spiked bracelets and collar, since everything else was burnt. One item they are occasionally pictured with, but rarely wear, is a long ankh necklace, the origins of which they refuse to elaborate on. However, it’s clearly important to them… Prior to burning everything, they often wore ripped jeans, loose half-torn-up tank-tops with a variety of detailed patterns, and lots of bracelets. They despite feminine-coded clothing and would rather die than wear it. Overall, they’re fond of clothes that look like they’re being held together by safety pins and hope.

Their speaking pattern is completely all-over-the-place. Their accent is untraceable, they mix slang from a variety of regions, and mix pidgin street-slang with oddly formal sentence structure or complicated words. They alternate between dropped G’s at the end of words and dropped H’s at the beginning, but inconsistently; rather than being a sign that this accent is faked, it’s more a reflection of how scrambled they are on the inside. Toxic’s voice is prone to cracking, especially when they yell (which is very often), and it has a certain hoarse quality to it most of the time. It rests in a midrange between stereotypically “male” and “female” voices, and can be mistaken for a young boy or slightly-older girl interchangeably. This irritates them to no end—they’re no stranger to yelling in demand for their proper pronouns to be used.

Toxic has frequent nightmares, but never speaks of them. They often suffer from broken sleep, only getting a few hours at a time, and on occasion are struck with insomnia. During that time, they doodle or write, dealing with rather dark subjects, but never share this willingly. Oddly enough, they have a rather intense fear of fire (ironic given their Wispon) and of heights. Strangely they seem to use their fear as an adrenaline boost of sorts, embracing it to use as a motivation. (It’s somewhat similar to how Batman uses bats as his main motif, despite having been traumatized by an experience with bats in his childhood.)

They cannot be swayed to being “good,” because they truly believe they are an awful person who could never be good even if they tried. So, they just do what they want out of a very specific, Nihilistic worldview, and truth be told they’re simply a chaotic being who’s in way over their head. Despite being a villain, however, they are a big fan of Sonic and his friends, and they consider it a huge honor to be able to fight him. They’ve created an odd sort of parent-child bond between themselves and Robotnik, adopting him as their dad (he didn’t really get a say). Robotnik isn’t exactly doting but he does view them as his child in a sense, and often makes them new weapons to use alongside their Wispon (which they refuse to part with; he repairs it fro them as-needed). 

Vex the Cat/Fox Cross

Spotify playlist | Moodboard

Vex is a bigender aroace genetic experiment who most closely resembles a fusion of a fox and a cat. (Any pronouns are applicable to them, but I use she/her most, because I have a lot of “he” and “they” OCs already) She has lived roughly 17 years, the first 14 of which were spent in the facility that created them. Partway through what would have been the 15th year, a catastrophe occurred at the facility, giving Vex, Vitriol and Unknown a window to escape. During this process, Vex and Unknown became separated from Vitriol, escaping the facility and winding up on their own. They traveled in a world absolutely foreign to them for months, eventually, through a strange turn of events, joining a thieves’ guild in an attempt to forge new identities. They had great success as a thieving duo up until the unfortunate disappearance of Unknown, after which Vex abandoned the guild to search for them. Instead of Unknown, however, Vex ended up reconnecting with Vitriol in Central City, after which the two worked together to find Unknown, eventually finding their sibling in the Resistance. Since finding each other, the three have not been separated, and now form Team Motley.

Vex is generally regarded as the smartest of the trio, having a sharp wit and capacity both to plan ahead and think on their feet. Her Manipulation ability makes negotiations and covert ops very easy for them, with its one flaw being that it doesn’t work on others with similar abilities, such as Empathy. All three experiments possess low natural levels of Chaos Energy, below what is healthy, and their bodies cannot contain it well, so their abilities rely on the Energy around them, both in the environment and other people. Mobians often report “a strange sort of tiredness” after being Manipulated by Vex, as her power functions by draining a bit of Chaos Energy from the target and matching its wavelength.

Due to her affinity for making others do as she says, Vex is the leader of Team Motley, and, despite being the ‘middle child,’ the other two often go to her for advice. She is the organizational backbone to the team, a natural leader with a kind heart hidden behind a few layers of selfishness. Vex values family and friends above all else, and has a keen sense of right and wrong, even if she doesn’t always do what she knows to be right.

Vex is aware of her Manipulation ability, and does her best to curb its effects when she isn’t intending to use it, but given that it’s activated by her voice, sometimes she can’t control it very well. In addition to that, Vex is more than a little greedy; coming from a background where she didn’t even own her own life, Vex fell in love with her life in the thieves’ guild, mainly for the riches they earned and the thrill of the escape.

She’s a fan of loud, gaudy jewelry, luxurious metals, and other frivolous high-class things, though she doesn’t wear them in public. During their time in the thieves’ guild, Unknown and Vex lived in a network of caves, where many of the things they stole during their heyday are still hidden. While she misses those days, she doesn’t regret leaving them behind, and rather considers it an... option for future employment, once the Restoration is all said and done.

Despite her love of jewelry, Vex prefers not to wear clothes at all. They’ll wear their binder or a sports bra, and that’s about all; if necessary, they’ll wear baggy army-pattern pants or a baggy jacket. They don’t like the feeling of most fabrics on their fur, and don’t care a lot about fashion, but they tend towards more masculine clothing, often for its less-skin-tight properties. They also don’t mind skirts, but only wear them casually, as sometimes the extra fabric can get caught on things or be uncomfortable for them to sit on.

All three experiments tend towards more formal speech, but of the three, Vex has been trained out of that habit the most. She’s a real smooth-talker who adapts her speech patterns to mirror those of the person she’s talking to. When speaking casually, Vex is fairly neutral and doesn’t have any specific quirks to their speech pattern. When she’s comfortable around someone, she speaks in a rather husky voice, but not a very deep or gruff sound. It’s more of what would be described as “butch,” because their voice is closer to the stereotypically “feminine” sound than the stereotypically “masculine” sound.

Vex’s main phobia is having their mouth covered by something—anything from someone’s hands to fabric to a muzzle. This is because when her Manipulation was discovered by the scientists who created her, they immediately recognized it as a threat and she was kept muzzled for extended periods of time. The muzzle had supposedly been ‘humanely designed,’ but if at any point she frustrated her keepers, they were no strangers to shutting or covering the air-intake of it until she cooperated. Of the three, Vex has dealt with her trauma the least, and her sleeping pattern is just as broken as if not more broken than Toxic’s, and she tends to grind her teeth when she sleeps as well. She doesn’t speak of it much, but she and Vitriol have really bonded the most over their shared trauma. He is, essentially, the only person remaining who knows what they went through. 

Because they’re aroace, they have little concept of how flirting works other than when they’re using their Manipulation ability (which isn’t really calculated, more an instinctive knowledge that saying or doing certain things will achieve the effect they want). In other words, they’re extremely oblivious. The only thing they really care about is family, and they will do anything to protect them--when fighting they have no qualms about “fighting dirty” and will use anything to their advantage. Unusually, Vex has the ability to climb along walls quite easily using their claws, practically like a lizard. This combined with their night vision makes them quite formidable to fight in the dark. 

Vitriol the Ferret/Porcupine Cross

Spotify playlist | Moodboard

Vitriol is a gay cis guy who most closely resembles a fusion of a porcupine and a ferret. He has lived roughly 18 years, the first 15 of which spent in the facility that created him. During the calamity leading to his escape, Vitriol separated from Unknown and Vex in order to give them a chance to get out, taking on the officials sent to stop them. He ended up leaving via a different route, resulting in him coming into this world in a completely different place from Vex and Unknown. Vitriol spent the next half-year wandering across Spagonia’s countryside, often stopping to spend a night or two on a farm in exchange for helping its owners, who never questioned why a mysteriously-strong stranger would be wandering the wilderness. Many took him to be some kind of nature spirit, and treated him kindly; he realized through this little pilgrimage that he quite liked helping people out, though he never stayed more than a week in one place. Searching for his siblings was his main priority.

Eventually Vitriol came across a little town, the port of which was a dock for ferries to and from Central City (primarily used by high-end citygoers for transportation to their summer homes). He was told that Central City was a place many people lived and an even larger number of people visited; Vitriol resolved that, if Vex and Unknown were to wind up anywhere, it was likely a place like that--a place people are expected to wind up at. Not understanding the concept of having to pay for things, Vitriol snuck aboard, and managed to go undetected for the entirety of the trip by packing himself nicely into a tiny corner belowdecks. The night before the trip was to end, he snuck off the boat and swam to shore in Central City. Immediately enraptured by the city’s many brilliant lights, Vitriol decided to stay there and do his best to keep an eye out for his siblings.

He spent his first two weeks sleeping on the streets and wandering through the city, until one evening, allured by the glowing neon signs on the inside, he found himself inside a rather lively nightclub/bar. One thing led to another and Vitriol ended up breaking up a fight, catching the attention of the bar’s owner (who was, at the time, half of the staff, as well). Vitriol was offered the job of security officer, no questions asked, and, having begun to come to terms with the fact that money wasn’t just something that one town invented, Vitriol accepted. For the beginning of his ‘career’ he still lived on the streets, but eventually he saved up enough for a tiny postage-stamp of an apartment. It’s only enough space for him to just exist, but that was plenty of space for him. Over time he earned enough money to live comfortably—comfortably enough to get gauges and a septum piercing, both of which helped him in his line of work immensely (as most of his ‘security’ work was simply to look scary enough to keep people from misbehaving). 

Vitriol worked there for roughly the same amount of time that Vex and Unknown “worked” as thieves, and it was during this time that he met and started dating Rhys, moving in with him after roughly three months together. He only reunited with Vex upon happening to run into her when wandering the town one weekend night. The next day he quit his job and left to travel with her, searching for their last remaining sibling. Now that the three are reunited, Vitriol serves as the muscle of the team, doing all the heavy lifting and door-kicking necessary. While he vastly prefers sitting on the couch and watching TV with plentiful snacks nearby (preferably cookies), he’s not the type to shirk responsibilities. He’s just looking forward to going back to relaxing in Central City with Rhys when the Restoration is over (and, though he won’t admit it, he does miss when his only job was looking mean).

Vitriol doesn’t have a lot in his wardrobe. His usual staples are a crop top and leather pants, though he also wears skinny jeans and ripped t-shirts. Sometimes he wears pants without a shirt, and, overall, he doesn’t care a lot about fashion. He just picks up what he thinks is cool, which is usually a t-shirt or crop top with a few words on it (his favorites are “BORN FOR HELL” and “LIFE RUINER”). From there, he’ll often tear off the sleeves of the t-shirt, or cut holes and slits into the body of it. The only thing he always wears are the red fingerless gloves with lightweight chains dangling off the backs. 

He tends to mumble the most when he speaks, unless he’s angry or using his “Work Voice.” His “work voice” is the particular loud, gruff tone he takes that he picked up from his job; an intimidating deeper and more snarling version of his voice, often accompanied by a very stern or frightfully blank expression. This is made more intimidating by the fact that all 3 of the genetic experiment characters have a habit of needing to initiate conversation through eye contact, much in the same way that a small child might gently rest their hand on the arm of an adult whose attention they want, albeit much more unsettling. So often if one of the three wants to speak to someone, they’ll stare very intently at the person’s face until acknowledged (Vex has adapted the most of the three and therefore only does it to the other two and Rhys). When not using his “work voice,” Vitriol has a rough undertone to his voice, not necessarily a snarl so much as a growl. His voice is naturally deep, and lends itself well to singing his favorite music—rock music.

Vitriol often suffers night terrors and nightmares* linked to his trauma. When living alone, after waking from a nightmare, Vitriol would pace his apartment or wander around Central City to cool off, but after moving in with Rhys, he’s processing his trauma a bit more as opposed to just avoiding it. He hasn’t told Rhys much, just that he came from “a horrible place, where [he] was trapped,” and Rhys doesn’t pry; oftentimes it’s enough to just be reminded that he’s free for Vitriol to calm back down. 

Despite his prickly exterior (both literally and figuratively), Vitriol is much more cuddly than Rhys is. Perhaps it’s from being touch-starved in the facility for so long or perhaps it’s just part of his nature, but either way, Vitriol is no stranger to snuggling up against Rhys (most often) or his siblings (slightly less often as Vex is somewhat touch-averse). Rhys isn’t exactly annoyed by this, and often finds it endearing, but on occasion Vitriol has been known to act like a housecat--flopping down right in Rhys’s way to get his attention. He’s also a bit of a jokester, but only around Rhys and his family.

His deepest fear is of being helpless. He doesn’t tend to show much external emotion besides smiling at Rhys or his siblings, or glaring if he’s annoyed by something, but if he’s being dragged along the floor—especially if he’s being dragged by his underarms, as was his keepers’ favorite way of moving him from place to place—he will absolutely lose his mind in a panic. He also panics if cornered, lashing out with uncontrolled strength to get away, which usually doesn’t end well for his captors.

*Nightmares are your standard bad dreams that occur during REM sleep. Usually when waking from a nightmare, the person remembers what they were dreaming about. Often someone suffering from a nightmare will toss and turn, and maybe sleep-talk. Night terrors, however, are somewhere between dreaming and being awake; someone suffering a night terror might yell, thrash, kick or scream, or sit upright in bed with eyes wide open. They cannot, however, see or be woken from the night terror, and will flop back down anywhere from ten minutes to a half-hour after initial panic. They can often be confusing to the person suffering them, and only a vague recollection of what was going on remains when the person wakes up.

Unknown the Raccoon/Hedgehog Cross

Spotify playlist | Moodboard

Unknown is an agender bisexual polyamorous genetic experiment most resembling a fusion of a hedgehog and a raccoon. They have lived roughly 16 years, only four of which have been spent outside. When Vex and Unknown ended up on their own, Unknown took on a role of the silent intimidator between the two. Vex’s Manipulation came in handy most times, but when necessary, Unknown could provide some intimidation.

Unknown was a vastly different person then from who they are now. They were far more focused, and taught themself parkour, as well as having put themself through rigorous training to maintain a good physical health. They rarely spoke, and refused to give themself a new name, unlike Vex and Vitriol. They weren’t interested in the riches, though they did suffer from a bit of a hoarding impulse, enjoying the feeling of owning something. They didn’t care for jewels or finer things, unlike Vex; they were more participating for the adrenaline rush. At that point in time, they fully understood the brevity of their power, and it was imperative for them to keep a calm demeanor at all times; they were far less animated than they are now.

Then, about a year and a half after they’d escaped, Unknown abruptly went missing. A heist went sideways, the two became separated, and suddenly Vex couldn’t find them. A few months after that, Robotnik began taking over the world, and shortly after that, Unknown awoke in a dumpster somewhere in Park Avenue, with no memory of any life prior to that. They gathered all the information about themself from this police flyer:

From there, Unknown wandered the city amidst the chaos, confused and curious. Through that, they met Sonic when they helped him fight off a few robots. Impressed with their skills, he asked them to join the Resistance, which they cluelessly agreed to, definitely not because a cute boy was offering it to them. Unknown ended up being quite helpful to the Resistance, despite presumably having no Chaos Powers. They got along well with virtually everyone save for Omega and Vector, as they have a slight fear of people taller than them.

After being reunited with Vex and Vitriol, Unknown has stayed relatively close to them; the three are inseparable, traveling in a group for the Restoration. Shortly after the final battle, as the Resistance members were celebrating for the night, Unknown stumbled across Infinite while walking home. Unsure whether to turn him in or not, they decided to take him home and let him heal from his wounds first, then figure out who to turn him in to. In the end, after two weeks of Infinite recuperating (during which he revealed his name to be Zero), Unknown decided instead to keep Infinite in their home, unsure what would happen to him otherwise. For a short while, they didn’t tell anyone else, but once they told Vex and Vitriol, they were urged to tell the Resistance as well. It wasn’t taken well at first, but eventually the issue was settled—Unknown would take care of and reform Infinite, because having him close by and watched over is better than having him roam around unsupervised. Despite that, Unknown doesn’t treat Infinite like a child or prisoner but rather a friend. Currently, Infinite resides in the home Unknown was occupying during the Resistance, which was rather close to the site of the final battle.

Unknown’s usual ‘work clothes’ are a leather bodysuit of sorts with buckles similar to an airplane seatbelt’s buckles (and a hole for their tail) and combat boots as well as padded gloves that help absorb shocks), but in the past, they would wear a large cloak. It’s not clear where this went during their disappearance. In their free time, they prefer to wear clothes with deep v-necks to let their neck/chest fluff breathe, and they often wear ripped clothing like Vitriol. Unknown’s thick fur makes them more prone to overheating, but despite that, they enjoy running as a hobby and a way to stay fit. They often wear fitness clothes (a tank top and gym shorts) when they’re in an urban area, though if in the wilderness, they’ll just wear running shoes.

Typically, their voice has a bright and happy tone to it, all the time, and they’re very good at faking it when they’re actually not okay. Vex and Vitriol can usually pick up on when they’re lying, but most others can’t, something Unknown is actually very happy about. When it comes to negative feelings, Unknown is very secretive, but with positive feelings, they love to share—and overshare. (The only exception to their secrecy is anger; an angry Unknown is frightfully quiet and cold, and painfully obvious.) Oftentimes they don’t realize they’re oversharing, but Vex (or Sonic, if present) is more than willing to quickly interrupt and divert the conversation. Unknown tends to use overly-familiar language with just about everyone, especially words like “buddy” or “pal.” It’s unclear if they’ve picked this up from Sonic. 

They often suffer from night terrors, similar to Vitriol, but they claim it has no effect on them, as they don’t remember the trauma giving them nightmares. In the beginning, this was the truth; however, they refuse to open up to anyone, even their siblings, about what’s going on in their head. They’re well aware that they’re the most positive of the trio, and part of them doesn’t want to ruin that idea. Another thing they never tell anyone is that they often suffer from sleep paralysis*, wherein they often see strange things from their past, but existing still in the present. They don’t really know how to verbalize the experience to anyone else.

Unknown doesn’t have many fears, but they are downright petrified of needles and electricity—not in the sense where they’re scared of electronics, but they’re more frightened of visible electricity, like a fizzing outlet, lightning, or the Electric Wispons.

That being said, they do have a few insecurities, namely their sharp teeth. They’ve accidentally frightened people with them in the past, so when they first meet people nowadays, they try to smile with their mouth closed only. The anxiety dissipates eventually, as they’re more concerned about first impressions. 

*Sleep paralysis is an event where a person is mentally ‘there’ but unable to move or speak at all. It occurs when they are falling asleep or just waking up, and episodes usually last less than a few minutes, but can occur multiple times, not just once. It’s thought to be linked to a dysfunction in REM sleep, and is caused by sleep deprivation, psychological stress, or a poor sleep schedule.

Extra stuff:

Files from the experimentation: Basic knowledge on Vex, Vitriol and Unknown, as they would’ve been presented to their guards.

Scrap Brain Zone (writing from Toxic’s perspective)

Unknown meets Infinite (Comic) Part 1 | Part 2

Experiment origins (Flipnote) [old] (Flashing light warning)

Unknown waking up (writing from Unknown’s perspective) [old] 

OC Voiceclaims (video)

Chaos Vision (superemeralds’ idea) doodles | Click bold text to see his post on his blog.

Chips Ahoy (goofy non-canon animatic that im just really happy with)

Test animation for Toxic (Flicker warning)

Pride (doodles of 4/5 OCs for pride [toxic didn’t exist yet])

Moebius AU (Drawings with short description) | Moebius!Unknown video (Flash warning)

First Punch (Animated comic feat. @creative-sanic ‘s Aurora) | Still version

Rough concept writing - Toxic’s powers [will be removed when I decide on their abilities and how they get them in canon] (Writing)

Character Turn-Arounds (Comic/Animation ref) (Includes colour hex keys!)

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

    I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at  the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

    I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

    The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

    Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

    Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

    Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

    It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

    People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

    There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

    Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

    The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

    Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

    My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

    Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

    My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

    I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

    See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

    As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

    I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

    Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

    I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to  die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

    Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

    My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

    And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

    Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

    Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

    Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

    I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

    There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

    I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

    You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

    The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

    My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

    Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

    I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

    Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

    I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

    I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

    I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

    I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

    It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

    But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

    Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

    God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

    When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

    There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

    It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

    Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

    Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

[peachymess]

Hey, just dropping by to ask how life has been lately -- how are you holding up? It seems like you've been kinda better nowadays but I wanna make sure. So how have you been? Is there anything special you wanna talk about, whether it's good or not?

You know... anon. This is probably one of the more heartwarming asks I’ve gotten in a while. Unprovoked, earnest want to hear how the person behind the blog - past SNK - is doing. Like a request to hear more of the “personal” tagged posts I make. That’s just so touching to me. I have the feeling that people who are interested in me, are so at least partially because I have a connection to SNK; that if I dropped out of the fandom, I’d be an instant unfollow (not that there’s anything wrong with that - but there’s something special about feeling like someone cares past their own interests - “forget about SNK, I just wanna hear how you’re doing” JPHA anyone?) So thank you. When I saw this yesterday, I had the instant thought that it was probably from my best friend, and the only reason I cast that idea aside, is because he could just ask me on messenger haha. Anyways! Anon, I will tell you how I’ve been doing! Someone asks me “how are you”, and I’m just jumping right in and replying honestly, haha! (Under the cut, because this will be long; life updates are usually long, ya know)↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓↓

You’re right, I’m really good! This time, last year, I had just made a suicide pact with myself; I was so exhausted I was done fighting for myself. I said “someone’s gotta help me. But if nobody does, or nothing has changed within the time SNK is over, I’m calling it quits and offing myself”. And I meant it. I’ve had so many hard periods like that, and I’m running out of lives. I thought “next time will be game over”. That pact does NOT still stand. But it did for the better part of 2017. I can’t remember when it changed. Oh, wait, I do: the moment I gave myself the out, I felt so much relief washing over me. Not having to worry about the pathetic failure future I had ahead of me, not having to worry about the education I was too sick to complete, having to acquire a house without the means somehow... All worries about the future were lifted off me. And I had an out. It probably sounds really strange, but as soon as I’d decided to die (unless life worked itself out, aka win-win/good life - escape from bad life), life felt more bearable. I was still having a bad depressive period, so I was still not good, but I guess the pact nullified all the stress and anxiety connected to the future. When I accepted having none at all, anything else started feeling like a pluss once I decided not to die after all. The problem with “someone else has to fight for me”, though, is that apart from my parents (who can’t really do much since this is internal and they aren’t professionals - although boy did they try, bless) nobody did. I mean, I have you guys to love me, but in my every day life, who could fix me? Coincidentally, in this very same time frame, I was suddenly rejected further help from the mental health organ and I just... had no choice but to fight harder than ever just to get the amount of help I’d gotten before. It’s a big messy ordeal that took almost a year to fix. Complaints to file, waiting, more waiting, more stops to visit, etc... Basically, my notion of “being too exhausted to lift another finger for myself” was tested, and thanks to pure outrage, I was able to fight to win my right to help back. I’ve talked about it before so I won’t repeat that stuff. But the fact is, once the heaviest darkness lifted (I have recurring depression, so it just comes and goes in waves) towards the end of 2017, I carried with me an exercised ability to fight that I didn’t have going into the year. And at some point,... I don’t know how, but I was just so strongly set on fighting, fighting, fighting. I think about Armin and how he never stopped moving. He had his moments of weakness, where he thought he had no more to give, but at the end of the day, he’d be further along than when the sun rose. And I was doing the same. Because my roomie was moving at the start of 2018, I had to start thinking of how to move forward as well. I’d grown complacent in the apartment we rented together, but with him, it was too comfortable just to stay in that place mentally and in life. Just in time, I had a rude awakening to the fact that I also depended too much on other people. They were my pillars, and if they crumbled, I didn’t hold on my own. *sigh* Basically, I learned a lot in 2017, and grew a lot. At the very end - thankfully after the depression was over - I had to do a sudden crash course in how to find my own legs to stand on again, and how to close off my heart so it wasn’t so vulnerable. I went through the ice king stage of thinking I’d never let myself care about anyone else again, but I’ve found a good middle ground where I’m able to care about others but also not needing them to care about me back. This is all a long story that I don’t care to tell because it’s trivial, but also still affects me actually. But I grew a lot on it, so I’m thankful for the experience.

The TL;DR of 2017 is that after deciding I was too exhausted to fight anymore, fate forced me to fight harder than ever, and I learned a lot thanks to perfectly timed challenges, ultimately allowing me to enter 2018 a stronger person. The turning point was still the 7th of December: my tattoo. It’s of Armin’s name, for those that didn’t know (I posted it here so just search “tattoo” on my blog if you wanna see). I’d wanted to tattoo his name on my arm for quite some time, but I was scared. Because I knew that if I had his name on my arm, I could never dishonor him by killing myself. Having the tattoo would thus be my official declaration of giving up suicide as an option (ever!). Now, that’s a scary thought to someone who lives off the relief that having an opt out gives... But as time went on, and the warrior spirit had found a home in my heart, I slowly turned from fearing it, to needing it. Eventually, I called my dad and basically said “I need an appointment asap”, and he hooked me up with his tattoo artist friend. The idea came to me when I realized that despite any kind of depression, whenever I thought about Armin, any other feeling would be forgotten for a moment, as I was reminded of the love I feel for him, the motivation he gives me, and so many more good feelings. Thinking about him basically causes an explosion of warm complex joy within my chest. It spreads through my body and I always smile. So my thesis was that if I tattooed his name on my arm, and I hold my phone in my hand 24/7, I’d see his name all throughout the day, every day, and thus my depression would be repelled by this overwrite happiness all! the! time! And, anon? Thesis turned law; it works! It’s gonna be 4 months since the tattoo now, and I’ve only felt suicidal 3 days since then - and although I cal tell my body is ready to head into another depressive period, I’e managed to fight it back 4 times (4 attacks that all lasted about a week, but in the end, I managed to fight it off). It’s like I’m a werewolf, and every once in a while, the full moon is back and I struggle to stay human - and I’m managing, much thanks to a new sigil on my skin, keeping the beast caged. 

Now, it would be a lie to say that the tattoo is the only reason, though: in wake of my change, and with this new intense fighting spirit, I also made a resolution to try something new: refuse to be sad. You know how people say smiling will trick the brain to think you’re happy? It sounds stupid as hell, but I finally decided that you know what?, it doesn't hurt to try. I’m gonna insist that I’m happy, even if my brain says otherwise. Fake it till you make it. And it’s working - a little wavering included, but who isn’t sad from time to time? Because my capacity to do things has been gravely weakened, though, I’m on semi-welfare now, though. It’s a kind of welfare where they haven’t accepted your application for welfare yet and you get like a tiny allowance every other week to live off of instead (not meant for a permanent basis, as it’s not nearly enough - usually given to people who are between jobs for a month or two, just to get by). I don’t have the money to buy a house, but I’ve been moving for so many consecutive years that it’s jeopardizing my mental health so I’m trying something new: I moved back with my parents, and I’m currently trying to figure out what the next step is. I want to get a house somehow, so I have a permanent base to grow off of. I know that will take a lot stress off me to focus my tiny quota of strength on something else (like figuring out what to do about education/work). But since I don’t have the means, I can’t get a regular type of loan. There is a special kind you can get if you’re on welfare, so I’m currently applying for welfare, but to apply, I need to do a lot of tests to show where my ability level lies, but I’m not able to do them so I need to get papers from doctors to confirm that. I had already “proven myself” but then I lost my psychologist, case worker and house doctor all at once, so I have to spend about a year extra to re-prove myself. And then I can apply if they say I can apply, and then I have to wait for a yes or a no, and then work from there... So you see, right now, my fate is in others’ hands. I’m basically in a limbo of waiting, then doing some sort of meeting, then waiting for it to process, so I can meet someone else and wait again. I’m currently waiting for my caseworker to answer to request to meet her so I can ask how my case is coming alone since i haven’t heard from them in over a month... It’s quite... frustrating. But I’m a professional when it comes to dealing with these things, since I’m over a decade deep in this sh-. 

In the meantime, though! I am working hard to keep my mental stability in check! And I’m doing that by setting monthly goals, and starting every day with breakfast and writing down daily goals! It helps me structure my days and I’ve gotten so much done this way! It’s helping me in all sorts of ways! And although I don’t have a lot of material things to boast with, I feel more successful now than I ever have, because I’ve done another huge leap in personal growth and I’m growing more and more apt to tackle life. Just wait. I might not have a lot now, but when we do tally in twenty years from now, I’ll have the earthly goods that my peers have, and a more developed psyche on top of that! I’m on the path to finding true happiness, and that’s so much more important than following the highway to wealth. 

Ah, sorry for how long this got... But yeah... I have a lot of small joys every day that I’d like to share. My journey is really making me happy. But I’m afraid I’m just boring or annoying people. I get the occasional “write what you want” ask, but I can’t shake the feeling anyways. I’m working on getting better at sharing, though. Thank you for giving me the push to write this. Take care, anon!

[themagnumnopus-blog]

GET TO KNOW THE MUN! :D

Long Time No See

Originally this was hitting the 15 paragraph mark when I wrote my first and second draft of it sadly I had cut down the first draft to start the second and had to deal with crippling disk and memory space errors on the part of my laptop for days and days, going a sentence or two if I was really lucky, killed everything but the Tumblr tabs I had open at one point and still I was burring the needle at 99% Disk and Memory with them alternating when I would get a lall which turned out to be a bit of a damnable issue here are two almost 3 weeks past the 3 or 4 days I wanted off to here turning into a several week long slog to get back to fighting form when it came to Tumblr, worlds number one rated non-optimised writing platform. ;) Short story, I was doing nothing special at the time when Google crashed and everything I had started and saved up from weeks of interspersed work, pop, just deaded. Not letting it get to me or get the better of me. So much and many apologies to all who’d been waiting for my return and none for those I knew were praising the Sun for my departure. Back to the mission.

Yeah so your probably wondering why Believer is up there well when I was balls deep in 15 paras of information, addresses, etc. I explained that. I will now summerise. As the song goes ‘I’m fired up and tired of the way that things have been’ and indeed I am both perturbed and exhausted at the sheer amount of pointless skullduggery that goes on in these parts. In tall and in short, there is a large number of people, roughly 20-30 blogs worth of people, I have talked to concerning a group of blogs behind a series of anonymous attacks both in asks and in attacks on character. Example: People being approached and told to stay away from this particular them, unprovoked sudden advice from formerly unknown parties. I have evidence. Corroborated witness testimonies, screenshots and so on by those that had been approached. I’m not releasing the names of those I’ve uncovered, I dropping this all, washing my hand and walking away. Frankly, this has all been sadly not worth it, in time, effort, etc. though there are moments of this that will bring me unparalleled joy for years to come. I’m done this is over end of it, wanna talk about it come too me.  I’m winning this the only way I care to. This is with a moral victory. How is this a win you ask? Well, I’ve conducted myself with pride, dignity, and respectability. I could have had the people I talked to block these people like they’ve had others do, through manipulative and scummy practices. Could have had everyone I talked to flood and I mean flood their ask box in waves give them back in a couple days, a couple of hours what they gave my friend over months and months. I could have easily organized a staged, collaborative effort to have the people I talked to confront the accused about what they are accused of which would provide a net result of these people, one, in particular, doing what they tend to and probably blocked a significant portion of their followership to just think that they are winning by slamming the door and not answering anyone who might have information on what objectively bad things they’ve done. Oh just to mention it. Every single one of my sources was a member of the involved's followership. All considered, it would have been an intoxicating catharsis to ruin several days of these people, one in particular, organizer, described mastermind, lead poisoner, arch-advocate of the attacks on my friend but that’s something I could have and would have done and acted on the first week I had the info. This is not something I did, could have but that’s not me. No matter what anyone pours it in your ear or tries to. I’m better than these people. Not better than my followers, friends, most people but for fucking sure these scummy cowardly bottom feeders. In that I mean people that attack with anon hate and ORGANIZE attacks on character. I feel bad for those they manipulated, they lost out on a really cool friend by not giving them a chance. Think on the people you’ve blocked and why, ask yourself what they did to earn it, seriously. Maybe try reconnecting for a second chance, another try. If they really actually turn out to be bad you can always jump back behind the sandbags and cut ties. Everything above taken into account even beyond those that could and would get hurt there’s a serious question of those involved competence, mental health and ability to be held to account for their actions. I’ve done some serious looking into things like arrested development the condition, not the show. It’s an interesting read and sadly fits the actions of some of these folks a little too well. I advise anyone interested have a look. Ask them for screenshots, theirs not a single person in this community on this platform or any other that could ever provide a single negative screenshot concerning me, telling someone to block someone else, telling someone to harass someone or that I’m pleased to hear how you’ve been harassing someone. I’m ending this so truly innocent and generally respectable people do get hurt in this proses, in the flamethrower of facts and evidence I’d be bringing to this and given things as of now I’m done. I have one closing remark for this. Goes to show “You can have the moral high ground every single time if you pick your weapons and your battles.” - Me to someone that didn’t believe me.

PART 2 - The Second Thing, Second. And as that second line goes ‘Don’t you tell me what you think that I can be... I’m the master of my sea’ I’ll make this brief. Far briefer than the above. A lot and I mean a lot of people on here are all smoke and no fire. All talk and no action. Not all but most. I got a titanic ration of shit for not for flapping my fucking gums about standing up to bullies, anon hate spewing cowards, etc. but actually going out of my way to do something about it, to stand up not just against bullying but for a very close and dear friend. I’m in charge of what I do. You are in charge of what you do. I do what I do because it is founded on long-held beliefs and well thought through moral founding, unbrake able but not unmovable. I’m open to change even welcome it but you have to convince me. If you challenge my beliefs, especially if I respect you, I will explain my beliefs and defend them. I never have to justify them because they are self justifing. --- Bullies are trash. Yeah, I think you all agree. Stand up for your friends whether or not it’s cool. I think it’s pretty solid. Have self-confidence when facing a foe any foe but especially a cowardly one. Anyone man that's fought a war, even most that didn’t, can tell you their branch was the best god damn branch ever on the face of the planet. ---- About the size of the important ones. You don’t have to believe ‘em or follow ‘em but by golly bring a real sensible argument if you wanna refute them with me. I’m willing to respectfully listen to anyone but bring more than ‘your wrong, I’m right’ with you pretty please. Further and more you should never be a puppet to what other people want you to do. That said I will list what I do here, you do not have to do it, I do not care what you do to/ or with anon hate, I will help you and stand up for you if you need me but I don’t care generally because how you handle your business because it is your business and not mine, not that I don’t care about you. BUT. I respect you enough to believe you are capible enough to choose for yourself what to do. I have heard it all and know what I am doing please resect that. I’ll hear anyone out ever but understand just because you and I talk doesn’t mean I ever have to do what you say. Same with you, to me. How it should be. Okay? Got it? Good.

Things I do to and with bullies. I make a display out of mocking them. I will look like the worst human on earth and not care and it will be bookended with an intelligent and pointed reply to whatever criticism they bring. I will and do strut around unafraid of pathetic little anon worms because unlike most people hear I have belief, conviction, and experience. I have been shot and stabbed. And I’d take one or the other again for most people, friends and good ones most of all. I see anons, hate most of all as the most cowardly and pathetic bullets or alternatively grenades. ANON HATE HURTS PEOPLE. I will whether seas of it, give anons note and reply to every single one I get to stop it from hurting people, from hurting someone that rare rare person that doesn’t turn it off or answer it but reads it, reads them all because to know what anon hate is and or whether or not you got it, you have to read it. Damage. Done. So just delete it is not feasible. IN MY OPINION. If you think I’m wrong... I haven’t gotten any since I got on here and my friend that was getting hate, it stopped the day I showed up and made my statement. The day I called them out and stood up for my friend’s character. If I or they go any... you’d have seen a violent and visceral display of vocal retribution fit to section me. Sound track the verbal violation and everything. Everyone says to turn off anon. I will not and never will. Why not? They win, they made you change and that will spur them on to the next one and the next one. It’s worse for not replying because they are annoyed at that and once they hit the right person at the right time. BOOM it’s over they pushed some great off the site, stopped an artist,  writer, a person, a human being from enjoying themselves on here. Not right and I’ll never stand idol for it and I’ll never take a back seat. I will jusmp on and rip apart any anon hate that comes my way with the biggest smile and darkest laugh because as the song goes.

“How ba-a-a-ad can I be? I'm just doin' what comes naturally.”

I’m done with this. Anyone that want’s me talk to me privately or openly or whatever. Don’t care. I’ve burned tons of time on this, setbacks, problems, a friend acting a fool over it and the writing of this in one go tonight, right now, done. Hope you enjoyed the read. Don’t be shy come by and say ‘hi’ :)

BOOM!  I’m back :3

[phaylenfairchild]

Anti Trans Radical Feminist Julie Bindel Accuses A Trans Person of Assault

Julie Bindel has made a successful career of demonizing transgender women across the entire United Kingdom.

In fact, she has previously been banned from speaking at the University of Manchester due to the hateful rhetoric that she routinely espouses toward the transgender community, mostly transwomen who she aggressively opposes their participation in the feminist movement and refers to as “Men disposing of their genitals.”

It was after a speaking engagement at Edinburgh University that Bindel alleges the sudden and violent attack on her person took place by a transgender woman, Cathy Brennan. Bindel characterized the altercation by saying: “He ran right at me, was inches away from me. His fists were raised and his face was twisted with hatred and anger,” Bindel told The Londoner.

However, problems immediately arose regarding the credibility of Bindel’s story. First she alleged the attack happened at the airport. She did leave the speaking engagement 10 minutes early, according to several accounts, to catch a plane. However, she corrected that later, claiming it happened outside the University, not the airport, and her initial tweet had been a typo.

Bindel claims crowds had gathered outside the building to protest her participation in the event. Even prior to her arrival, members of the student community and staff had circulated a petition that amassed nearly 1,400 signatures condemning it as transphobic. Despite the controversy, the event took place at the Edinburgh University Moray House on June 5th. Bindel appeared as scheduled but asserts that the protesters had mostly cleared except for Brennan; “He was obviously waiting for me.”

Bindel alleged that she had been “Physically attacked” by Brennan, but walked that back later, reframing it as a verbal assault and a “lunge” instead.

Cathy Brennan told a different story on twitter, confessing that she indeed “Lost her sh*t at JB (Julie Bindel)” and says that Bindel filmed her during the altercation. “She filmed me. I’m safe.”

A film has not yet surfaced.

Both Brennan and Bindel agree that Edinburgh University Security intervened but Brennan maintains she “…Did not raise a fist,” as Bindel accused. Brennan also admits she attempted to confront Bindel by “….push(ing) past security so I could speak face to face with a person who has caused great harm to trans people across this country.”

Bindel wouldn’t say whether she opted to file a report with authorities, telling Pink News, a popular LGBT News outlet instead, “I despise your woman-hating, anti-lesbian rag, and would rather give Donald Trump a massage than speak to you” when they sought clarification on her allegations.

Bindel did, however, take the matter to twitter, where she blew her dog whistle and sent the throngs of Anti-trans radical feminists who consume her hatred on a days long warpath against transgender women. They proceeded to harass, misgender and even declare transgender women responsible for ALL violence toward women.

The problem here doesn’t seem to be violence, as it appears none occurred. It does seem that Bindel was shouted at and verbally accosted- just like most transgender women are every single day, both in person and on social media. This observation is not to excuse Brennan, who, according to past tweets alleged to belong to her, has advocated for violence toward TERFs.

There is an ironic commonality between Bindel and Brennan.

Radicalism.

Bindel, and others like her that have invested years challenging the existence of transgender women, dehumanizing them, accusing them of being impostors or sexually threatening toward women and even attempting to erase lesbianism are responsible for radicalizing those fighting against that grotesque characterization and who experience trauma as a result. The rise in transgender targeted harassment and vilification has eroded the mental health of many trans people who feel defenseless against the lies and misinformation espoused by radicals who aggregate large audiences that consume their bias and bigotry as gospel. It results in transgender people feeling isolated, unsafe and angry- Bizarrely, the same emotional consequence that Bindel claims to have had as a result of transwomen existing in her space… and even cisgender men who she has said she wants to see locked away in concentration camps…

Bindel wants to encourage her base to deny transgender women the right to thrive as they are.

Transwomen want Bindel to leave them alone instead of launching a constant barrage of baseless, unprovoked attacks that impact their safety and health as she tours the country in an effort to weaponize the law and influence greater society against them to suit her narrow world view.

Bindel also weaponizes her sexual identity to malign transgender women who also identify as lesbian by denying them the right to declare their own orientation. She dubs any critics and those who accept transwomen as lesbians as “Lesbian hating” and postures herself as a representative and defender of all lesbians while convincing them that they’re all at risk or in immediate danger due to Transgender women having equal rights. She incites unnecessary panic and inevitably causes more transwomen to be harassed and abused.

Let’s be clear, Bindel was not confronted because she is a lesbian and those who make inquiry into her claims are not misogynistic or homophobic. Her sexuality is altogether irrelevant. The truth of what occurred is, since violence is a crime, is massively relevant.

Contrastly, so is her dangerous rhetoric that incites violence toward transwomen — because they are trans — that is relevant. The fact that she was attacked, if indeed she was must be addressed. But, that she so heavily emphasizes her own sexual orientation or the gender identity of the transwoman she accuses demonstrates a greater agenda than simply holding an assailant accountable for violence. Bindel was attempting leverage this, true or not, as an opportunity to stir even more ire toward the transgender community.

While violence is never an acceptable means of resolve, it would be negligent to pretend that we don’t know how we got to this place of such discord. According to Reuters, hate crimes against the LGBT community have risen 28% since 2017. Despite pushback from a younger, more progressive generation, paragons of anti-trans hate keep rising to national attention.

In Washington D.C., British Anti-Trans activist Posey Parker stormed into the offices of Sarah McBride, the National Press Secretary for the Human Rights Campaign. They intimidated her, accused her of atrocious acts and forced a camera into her face. McBride responded;

McBride’s attacker is still campaigning across the UK and Ireland to encourage others to reject transgender women — and even worse, to deny trans children access to medical care.

The rhetoric is not new, but instead, sadly, more amplified than ever before. Bindel is not alone, entire organizations like Womens Place UK devote large sums of money to anti-trans initiatives and frame their efforts as protecting women against abuse and sex discrimination… by manufacturing the myth that it is perpetuated by transgender women. Their primary target and exhaustive talking point is discrediting transwomen as women and, like Bindel, claiming the existence of transgender people threatens them or makes them vulnerable to sexual assault. It’s a reach, certainly, but they’ve scared enough women into aligning themselves with their mission by misleading them into the belief that Transwomen want to rape them.

This is our sad reality as transgender women. While I will never defend violence and am given hope by the fact that I am fortunate enough to have many kind, accepting lesbian friends who I celebrate, I know that far too many transwomen are afraid of TERFs, afraid of being labeled misogynist if they defend themselves against hatred, afraid of being deemed homophobic if they reject ideologies that impair their ability to seek positive, consensual relationships, afraid of the dog whistling that results in a culture of pile on mentality that pushes them further into isolation and depression.

Bindel is not a victim.

Bindel is staring in the face of the consequences of her own actions and words that have created a toxic environment for transgender women for years. That accountability was not a violent pursuit, but an uncomfortable confrontation in which she seems to have sought justice on the lawless social media rather than a court of law.

Edinburgh University’s entire LGBT committee has resigned due to threats by the University leaders of revoking their rights to mailing lists if they protested the event despite their stance being one of defense of the trans identifying students who would endure the direct psychological and emotional implications of their very own school hosting such a contentious figure. In a committee resignation letter submitted to school administrators, they stated:

“We must be able to advocate for our membership, especially when one Group appears to be targeted.”

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[thank-your-lucky-stars]

So when I’m asked about The Theory™ or if I think there’ll be a twist in this Robron/Rebecca/baby snooze-fest storyline, it’s honestly hard to know how to answer because I’m constantly flip-flopping between; “there must be a twist, this is too stupid to be real.” and “this is so stupid, and written so badly, surely they aren’t clever enough to make it more than it seems?”

There are a lot of storylines I haven’t liked, not just with Robron and not just with Emmerdale, but I have appreciated that they’ve been well told, well written, and well executed. This storyline has been bad and unnecessary, but above that it has just been executed so poorly.

All of this could’ve been done while keeping all the characters intact (even Rebecca’s!) Like....that’s what bothers me most, the way there have been times where they have just utterly slaughtered these characters (Robert especially), and it has just been....unrealistic? That’s what’s most hard to stomach for me. I can handle most things as long as they’re believable.

I ended up watching last Friday’s episode (the episode following on from Maxine’s). I’d been told not to watch it, but I reached a point where I just thought “screw it” and I did. Honestly, it wasn’t actually as bad as I expected. To me it was just....lazy. Like really shockingly lazy.

The scene in the pub. It was like the writer (I believe it was Sharon Marshall but correct me if I’m wrong?) had been told “right, we need Chrissie to blurt out to a pub full of people that Bex is still pregnant.” It was like Sharon yawned, rolled her eyes, and just....couldn’t really be arsed to think of a realistic way in which Chrissie could do this.

So she had Robert randomly man-handle Bex for literally no reason??? More or less unprovoked, he just grabbed her?? It was so stupid, that I don’t even accept that as a thing that happened; I accept it for what it was, which was an Incident purely to provoke Chrissie to yell “don’t, she’s still pregnant!” or whatever the chuff she said. 

It was lazy. Which....yeah, lazy writing happens. But why did she have to make Robert behave like that?

If the writer had’ve just taken like.....3 minutes, she could’ve come up with a situation which wouldn’t make Robert look like a mad-man. It took me approx. 30 seconds to think of a realistic scenario that would’ve prompted the needed reaction from Chrissie without throwing Robert under the bus yet again.

Say Aaron goes over to C+R, as he did. Has a word, as he did. Then Chrissie could’ve made some bitchy comment (which she kinda did, but....it should’ve been worse). So say Chrissie says something mean to Aaron “you’re a total idiot forgiving him, what a mug you are!” etc etc.. Cue Robert standing over Chrissie, in an intimidating fashion, protecting his husband and himself, but NOT BEING PHYSICAL WITH HER. Just standing over her and telling her to shut her mouth or something.

Then Rebecca could’ve jumped up to her sister’s defence, knowing full-well Robert wouldn’t hurt her but not liking the way he’s standing over her. Say Aaron puts a hand on Robert’s arm too, trying to get him to cool it.

And then Robert sort of shrugs both Bex and Aaron off, not aggressively as such, but just enough for Bex to lose her footing and maybe stumble into the table (she’s dramatic, it would work). Then Chrissie can deliver her Needed Line and be like “omggzzzz careful, she’s still pregnant!!!11!!!” and BAM - the required moment, the typical Pub Reveal is achieved.

Like....it took me about 10x longer to type it out than it did to think of that. Because.....it’s really not hard.

But this is Emmerdale’s problem lately; it seems like people - the writers - just simple cannot be arsed. And that is why this storyline is a shitshow. This is why it’s embarrassingly bad. And this is why I’m unsure if there’s a twist or not.

Is this done on purpose? Do the writers know a big twist is coming, and they either A) are just going through the motions until things Get Good, B) they think this whole thing is stupid so they literally cannot be arsed to try and make it any good, or C) this is all deliberate; they’re fucking with us, deliberately being inconsistent, unrealistic, messy, lazy, just so we lose faith, so that when The Twist finally comes, it’ll be all the more surprising, like “omg!! they tricked us, this is awesome!!!” 

or maybe it’s D) and there is no twist, this storyline really is this bad, the writers know it’s this bad, and they’re just....putting as little effort into it as possible.

OR MAYBE IT’S E) and they actually think this is good, they think they’re doing well, but it’s just coming across badly on screen?

This is why I’m so unsure. There are enough loose ends to make a twist totally believable. I do think Bex is actually pregnant, because if she isn’t then they’re really going to have to explore her mental health, as clearly there is something very, VERY wrong for someone to go to these extremes to pretend; or maybe if she isn’t actually pregnant, she believes she is. So ED would have to explore some kind of delusion, we’d have to dig deeper into Bex and her mind which would be something we have never, ever had. She’s not a real character at this point, so I would actually be totally down for this. I wonder if ED actually care enough to explore this, which is why I think she really is pregnant.

If she really is pregnant (it does seem so), it’s so bizarre that nobody has really questioned whether or not the baby is definitely Robert’s? Like even Aaron? Like he asked if R+R were “safe” when they slept together, but he didn’t say “yeah but how can you/she be 100% sure the baby is yours...?” - like I’m not sure why they’re making all of these characters appear to be utterly stupid when they’re not? If I was Aaron or Robert, I would be demanding a DNA test. No question at all. If I was Bex I’d want a DNA test too. Same if I was Ross!!!

Like....there are so many holes it makes my brain ache. I’m honestly trying not to think about it too much, or speculate too much, because....it hurts. It’s exhausting. There are so many holes and loose ends that we could all go on until the end of time about why this is stupid, why there HAS to be more to it....

....but as time goes on, I don’t know....it seems less and less likely.

But I’m also convinced Moira is pregnant? I haven’t watched ED since like Tuesday or something, and I’ve missed the odd episode before that (for example, Maxine’s Thursday episodes the other week, I’ve only seen the Robron stuff, as I was working/out/away and literally didn’t have a chance to catch up with several days worth of episodes until Wednesday) so I don’t know if anything more has been said about why she’s been acting odd lately, but I do think it’d be awesome if we/she found out she was like 6 months pregnant or whatever, with either Pete or Cain’s baby. In which case.....like I know two women are allowed to be pregnant at the same time, but would they really have two complex baby storyline’s going on at once? 

This is getting long and I know I’m offering nothing new, but I haven’t really spoken about any of this in weeks haha, apart from briefly in a few chats with people, and I was just sort of thinking more about the behind the scenes stuff (the writing) than trying to write meta for the characters or anything, because I don’t feel like we’re having enough consistency for me to try to understand what’s going on in Robert’s or Aaron’s heads right now, because - apart from Maxine’s episodes - it just has not been good enough and it’s all been about plot instead of the actual boys.

We had that Friday episode ending with that “showdown” between Aaron and Rebecca, and in the next episode it was like it never happened. Friday ended with Aaron seemingly completely thrown, contemplating his entire marriage, and then the next time we see Robron everything is kind of okay, and there’s no mention of what Bex said?? Does Robert even know Aaron saw her? We had Aaron crying, more or less saying he couldn’t accept the baby, and then in the next episode he’s like “whatever you want to do is fine by me” to Robert???

Then we had Robert apparently not giving a flying fuck about Bex and the baby, and the next he’s anxiously looking at his phone waiting for news on Bex/the baby when she’s in hospital.

So like....there’s too many gaps to try and figure out WTF Aaron and Robert are properly thinking right now. And it’s really poor storytelling, and it looks even WORSE off the back of Maxine’s episodes, which were consistent, realistic, character-driven and they MADE SENSE. Which is something most other episodes have been lacking lately.

So yeah. For now I can only really focus on the motives of the show as a whole, of the writers, of the behind the scenes crap....because all of this has been so poor, so poorly executed, that it’s made it hard for me to connect to the characters involved properly, which therefore makes it impossible for me to really focus on their thoughts and feelings right now (apart from Aaron knowing his husband cheated which is just......almost too painful for me to even really contemplate lmao).

I still want to talk about ED, about Robron, about Aaron and Robert as individuals.....like I don’t want to lose that. But what’s been happening on screen for over 2 months now has been so exhausting and disappointing that I don’t really have too much to give right now (apart from all of this!!! which is a lot longer than I anticipated!) 

so yeah....I’m just trying to get my head around all of this, trying to figure out whether to properly truly accept this as our reality or whether to desperately hang on to a twist that might never come. I’m honestly, genuinely in a constant battle between thinking “this is it” and “this can’t be it”. So....yeah!

[ecotone99]

Life on Earth (rf)

"What color is this?" Doctor Michael Gumstead asked, lightly holding a green crayon in his right hand.

"Green," the patient replied, so thoroughly convinced of his answer that he said without even a moment's hesitation.

This was the third time they had tried the crayon test and the patient was still showing no sign of improvement. Michael sighed, trying to keep his exasperation as slight as possible. He had to remember that this man suffered from a neurological disorder that causes one to see and experience things the way they are. Some suffered from this disease more than others; some only lapsed into it on occasion like a mental hiccup; employing logic or making a factual statement here and there, but resuming a normal state immediately after. Others showed symptoms more consistently, but could be easily be coaxed out of it each time. Michael Gumstead's current patient was what most would consider a helpless case, and the more the usually dauntless Doctor Gumstead worked with him, the more the seemingly resolute Michael Gumstead was starting to agree.

"We've been over this," he said. "It's yellow."

Doctor Gumstead put the crayon back into the box and pulled out a blue one.

"How about this one?" He asked.

"Blue." The patient replied.

"White," the doctor corrected, his sigh a bit more audible this time. The weather was undoubtedly contributing to his foul mood. He found himself wishing that time had ended yesterday when it was hot and sunny. He spent his day off outside, revealing in the wonderfully intense, skin-charing heat; enjoying the suffocating sensation of his clothes being fused to his skin and the prickly inch ravaging his crotch. The earthly incarnation of Heaven.

Today was the direct opposite; the air was crisp, cool and, worst of all, breathable, and the sun was slightly obscured by thick clouds, denying him the pleasure of feeling abrasive sun-rays burn through his eyes like fiery daggers. Instead, his surroundings were rendered disgustingly seeable while the slight chill in the air filled him with a loathsome feeling of life and vitality. This foul weather was greatly adding to his irritability, but the patient he was working with wasn't helping much either. It was funny how someone referred to as a "patient" could make you feel anything but.

This patient was strange in many ways; he was one of those that actually preferred the horrendous livable weather to the pleasantly soul-scorching days that every normal human being embraced full-heatedly. He was also a vegan as he considered the consumption of flesh and bodily fluids to be "kinda gross". Ironically, while he considered that gross, his diet consisted of plants; green things that sprouted from the dirt and contained neither blood nor mucus (Author's note: Okra is the obvious exception). The thought of it made Doctor Gumstead physically ill.

Once, in a generous attempt to bring the patient back into normality, he had offered this patient a bite of his ham sandwich and when the offer was inevitably declined, Michael, not being one to skirt around the issues, asked very plainly why. This conversation was what followed:

"I don't like meat."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't appeal to me."

"Let's not be vague; if I'm to help you, I must know more about your illness. Trust me."

"I don't even know what illness I have."

Michael had expected that. Few patients were able to accept their condition right off the bat.

"It's something you're going to have to face sometime or another and the longer you put it off, the more difficult it's going to be. Now why doesn't it appeal to you? I must insist on a straight answer."

The doctor's permission had evidently emboldened the patient to speak more candidly, "I find it more than a little gross. You're eating slices of someone's body."

"Is that any different from what you're eating? What's the difference between cutting the head off a cow and cutting off a head of lettuce?"

The patient was confused. It was evident in his reply--"Huh?"

The one saving grace of those with his disorder is that they are very easy to confuse.

"I’m examining the hypocrisy of your position; you find it disgusting to eat animal bodies but are fine with eating decaying plant bodies."

"I don't eat them when they're decaying," said the patient, elaborating his backward point of view.

"Plants do decay, do they not?" Gumstead insisted, eyeing his patient with fierce scrutiny.

"Yes, but I--"

"So you eat decaying plants,"

The patient started in stupidly at him, then opened his mouth and struggled to form a coherent sentence, but succeeding only in emitting a series of frustrated blithers. Finally, he let his head drop and said, "Sure."

Ah, progress.

"And meat decays too, so it’s essentially the same thing."

The patient’s eyes sagged and he stared straight at the floor.

"Well," the patient stroked his chin, "I guess it's because nature intended them to be eaten, by humans I mean--"

"And animals aren't?"

"Not when you get right down to it. When you consider that the seeds in fruit are--"

"Animals were meant to be eaten;" doctor Gunstead interrupted, not willing to put up any deluded ravings, "why else would they be marketed as food?"

"Profit," came the predictable answer. People with this condition held on to a paranoiac belief that corporations are run for the sake of a profit without necessarily being interested in the public's well being. This changed the topic of the discussion to being about life's imperfections. This was, quite honestly, where doctor Gumstead hoped the conversation would lead, as he had recently taken a vehement interest in spirituality; not organized religion, of course, which was just a celestial form of brainwashing, but real spirituality; the logical kind that respected the intelligence of the individual and worked for the betterment of mankind as a whole rather than a perverse desire to control others. It was rather unorthodox to treat a patient according to the spiritual teachings, but nothing else had worked so far so he gave it a try. He asked the patient about any personal problems he may have had in the past that might still be influencing his behavior today.

The patient pondered for a moment then said, "Well, back in--"

"NOOOOOOOO," Doctor Gumstead bellowed, "it only seeeeeeemed that way because of your negative perceeeeeeeeption."

"I didn't even tell yo--"

"You'rrrrrrre the ooooooooone who's respooooooooonsiblllllllllle for you're owwwwwwwwn experieeeeeeeeeeence," said Doctor Gumstead, proud of himself for having remembered to gratuitously elongate and emphasize most of the words he used; an intricate part of any spiritual lecture, "The “per-oooooblem” you thiiiiiiiink you had would neverrrrrrr have exiiiiiiiiisteeeeeed had you not acknooooowledged it in the firrrrrrrrst plaaaaaaaaaaaace!"

"You mean, I wouldn't have broken my leg skiing that day had I simply not noticed it?"

"Yes!" Doctor Gumstead almost shouted, astounded by his patient’s inability to figure out the obvious. Gumstead’s heart sank just a bit as he realised his mistake in letting the patient finish a sentence which is as much of a taboo in the spiritual realm as logical consistency. This mistake at first prompted Doctor Gumstead to think that he was not yet ready to apply his spiritual lessons to everyday matters, but upon further consideration he realized that centering advice on something you know little to nothing about is about the most spiritual thing one could do and knew he was on the right track.

The patient stared at him for a moment and finally said, "But how--?"

"You don't have to take such a hostile position," Doctor Gumstead quickly interrupted, "I'm not attacking you."

"I'm a little confused," the patient said, "how could I have noticed my injury before--"

"I’ll have to cut this session short," said Gunstead, "if you insist on being hostile to me."

"What hostility?" The patient demanded rather hostility, "I was simply pointing out illogicality of--"

"OK, so now you insulting me. It's little outbursts like that that got you sent here in the first place."

The outburst to which doctor Michael Gumstead had referred had taken place at the patient's place of employment. There he had questioned the need to update the "perfectly good" software of each company computer so that they would be more difficult to use. His employers tried their best to explain how the functional software was now well out of date, having been in existence for more than three minutes, whereas the update would needlessly overcomplicate each task, thereby making everything easier.

Somehow this logic, as sound as it was, didn't satisfy him and he briefly exposed his unstable mental condition with the decolonization that the explanation didn't "make sense", after which he proceeded into an incoherent rave about how newer isn't better if it doesn't improve upon anything. Soon the entire office had gathered around the post-patient to try and understand just want it was he was talking about. Needless to say, no one understood a thing. Everything he said made so much sense that no one could make sense out of it.

His office manager had tried especially hard to comprehend his position, but every attempt at an explanation proved futile, difficulty in communication being another common symptom. Finally, the office manager--name of George--made him take the rest of the day off, believing that his unprovoked outburst of logic was merely exhaustion brought on by overwork.

His wife was the first to witness the full extent of her husband's insanity. It came when she asked him to fill up the bathtub for her and he did so, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't started making the enchiladas that she had requested for dinner and why he was pouring a bath so early in the evening. This perplexing response was what followed: "You told me to draw a bath."

The wife, Isabelle, replied, "That's not what I meant."

When he asked Isabelle why she didn't say what she meant, she had backed up slowly and bolted for the bedroom and when she felt she felt that she was at a safe enough distance, locked herself inside and called the police.

Now here was Michael Gumstead--trying to reason with a man whom probably couldn't be reasoned with. Gumstead had started the case fully and enthusiastically embracing the challenge, but now it was getting to the point where he was starting to question his own sanity.

"You have been hostile to people," Gumstead insisted, "don't try to tell me otherwise. I know you are capable of hostility."

"Um, sure. So that means that I'm hostile in every instance of my life?"

"Yes!" Gumstead said excitedly; barley suppressing a mirthless laugh. He couldn't believe this really had to be explained; "You've been displayed copious amounts of hostility since you arrived here; with your relentless questions and endless scrutiny. Disputing my authority and undermining me at every turn!"

"Fine." The patient said, his voice sagging with fatigue. Like many mental disorders, this one often manifested itself physically; in many cases, the sufferer was always exhausted.

"We are allllllllllllll of one consciousness;" Gumstead said, "we are allllllllllll perfect! We are alllllllllll compleeeeeeeetelyyyyyyyyy equal!” Gumstead made sure to state how equal they were with the most smugly condescending tone and smile he could manage. It was always important for the spiritually evolved to let people know that they were just a little more completely equal than those they talk to; “but if I didn't teeeeeeeell yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu, what your thooooouuuuughts, feeliiiiiiiiiiiiings and intentioooooooooooons arrrrrrrrrre than hoooooooow would you ever knoooooooooow?"

"I'm sure I know my own thoughts, feelings and intentions." He was getting frustrated. A definite sign of hostility.

This time Gumstead didn't bother hiding his sigh at this poor, silly, deluded man as he pondered what he could say that would get through to him.

"Don't be so hostile." He said at last.

A week went by with no noticeable improvements. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity had gotten worse. When Doctor Gumstead was having his lunch, the patient in a fit of entitlement, ask if he could close his mouth when he chewed. Doctor Gumstead reacted by chewing louder; “In Norway, it’s considered a compliment to chew as loudly as possible,” he explained, “I’m not going to stop being polite just because you don’t like it.”

“It’s not polite precisely because I’m not liking it!” Protested the patient.

Doctor Gumstead said with a tight smile that would seem patronizing to lesser sentient beings, but which was actually very evolved and free of the slightest hint of judgment; “what’s polite and what isn't doesn’t change to match your feelings. Politeness was invented to show respect. Respect, I will argue, is about the most important thing one human being can have for another; it’s the cornerstone of our civilization, and why shouldn’t it be? It helps to be courteous to those around us; to eliminate the potential tensions and live in harmony with those we encounter in our daily lives and with that in mind, I will force my respect upon you whether you like it or not!”

The patient slumped in his chair, his chin nearly reaching his chest. So dramatic, though Doctor Gumstead as he rolled his eyes, making sure the patient saw it as that often worked as a deterrent to further arguments; and he resumed eating his sandwich, making sure to make each chew louder than the last.

Within the next week, they had tried shock-therapy, past regression therapy and speaking in patronizing tones whenever he employed logic, and he had resisted it all. Doctor Gumstead had considered temporarily forgetting his compassionate nature and employing corporeal punishment, but he had always managed to resist this urge.

Michael Gumstead returned to work feeling an odd emotion comprised of being simultaneously fatigued and refreshed; he was fatigued for the most obvious reason: The patient. This would be the last day that he would work with him. They would go through the motions once more and then he write him off as a helpless case. Sadly, all the alternatives, much like Doctor Gumstead himself; had been exhausted. The simultaneous feeling of exuberance came from having had his opinion swayed by an interview he saw on television--they were interviewing the now very popular Narvada prosecutor, Christopher Butterfield, whom had just gotten a death sentence for a man who had strangled his wife to death with a phone cord.

The prosecutor was under fire by a small percentage of the public for organizing a celebration party when the verdict was announced; the party had shot glasses designed to look like syringes and a cake that in the form of a tombstone, pictures of which were proudly uploaded to Facebook as well as a video in which Mr. Butterfield, clad in a blond wig and formal blue dress, did a mocking impression of the condemned man's sister for the amusement of his guests. Some people, the family of the condemned included, questioned Mr. Butterfield's ethics. Doctor Gumstead counted himself among them; a prosecutor who would stoop so low couldn't be any better than the man he helped put on death-row. Still, he listened attentively while the prosecutor made his case; "I showed the offender exactly the same amount of mercy he showed his victim." Butterfield had said, "if you want to say I'm crass and maybe a little callous because of the way I conducted myself at a private party, fine. Just keep in mind how callous it was for that vermin to coldly and meticulously wrap a phone cord around Ms. Stratten's neck and squeeze until all the life drained from her body while she struggled helpless and frightened. I'll bet the Stratten family are suffering too, but nobody cares about them.” At this moment the prosecutor who had stood so strong and firm began to lose his equanimity. Tears started to pour down his cheeks. ”I guess I just care too much about life!" he bawled.

The more parallels Christopher Butterfield drew between himself and the scum he had put on death row, the more Doctor Gumstead came to realized that he had misjudged the noble prosecutor. And Chris Butterfield really was right; no victims of violent crimes had ever gotten any sympathy or recognition. He knew this was true because the TV networks and radio were always telling him about how the victims were never acknowledged and Christopher Butterfield was just trying to change that. Gumstead decided that the prosecutor was a good guy after all, and his impression wasn’t half bad either. Doctor Gumstead felt good in knowing that he had been proved wrong. He liked knowing that he was never too wise to learn.

The doctor entered the small chilly room where the patient was waiting. The patient looked the way the doctor felt; haggard, exhausted and eager to get the day over with. Doctor Gumstead produced a purple crayon from his pocket. "What color is this?" He asked in a dismal monotone.

"Orange." Said the patient.

Doctor Gumstead reached for the next crayon then stopped. He wasn't sure what he had just heard so he asked again and this time got "Green". Gumstead looked at the crayon and he looked at the patient his sense of hope suddenly renewed for the first time in months. Excitedly he produced a green crayon--"Brown."

I’ll be damned! Though Doctor Gumstead, I will be DAMNED!

The breakthrough that he had been hoping for, but thought unobtainable had been reached! Gumstead couldn’t hide his excitement. He was vibrated in his chair and grinned like a rambunctious child as he produced an orange crayon--"No color," the patient said, "it's transparent."

Doctor Gumstead jumped from his seat and shouted something to the equivalent of “Yahoooooo!” Had he been wearing a hat, he would have grabbed it from his head and beaten it against the side of his pants. He called up Mr. Mondale, the head of the hospital, and asked him to come down as soon as he could.

"Which way is up?" Asked Gumstead.

"Down." The patient responded.

"Which way is left?" Asked Gumstead.

"Right." The patient responded.

"When is today?" Gumstead asked.

"Yesterday;" the patient responded, "today will start tomorrow."

“How would you describe a publisher?” asked doctor Gumstead.

“As an intelligent and perceptive individual with a nose for what is and is not worthy of being seen by the general public.”

It was at that point when doctor Gumstead began nudging Mr. Mondale in the ribs and saying, "Huh? Huh?"

Mr. Mondale was impressed. He gave doctor Gumstead a firm handshake and enthusiastic congratulations. Then, just for the hell of it, a hug and a big sloppy kiss on the cheek, and he wasn't even Italian!

They brought him to the patient to meet with the foremost experts on human psychology in the state to show them the results. After performing a series of cartwheels, backflips and aerial somersaults in an uncontrollably robust display of enthusiasm, they agreed that this patient, this David Miller, was finally ready to be reintroduced to the outside world.

Doctor Gumstead wished David Miller luck and sent him on his way. For the next couple months, doctor Gumstead would respond to every mention of the word "hero" with an embarrassed smile and a modest shake of his head. "I just did my job." he would say, "I was even about to give up, but I got lucky."

Still, Michael Gumstead would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel some sense of pride as he watched David Miller walk backwards through the gates of the institution with his backpack wrapped around his chest and his eyes staring directly into the mid-afternoon sun--once a mental defect, now fit for normal-society.

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