#just a fun fact for y'all

[mobius-m-mobius]

TOM HIDDLESTON and OWEN WILSON in the LOKI S2 BLOOPER REEL

[deadpoets]

GILMORE GIRLS 4.11 | In the Clamor and the Clangor

[abd-illustrates]

Are you gonna make the playlists for the heartless characters public? Or has that already happened and I just missed it

AH I haven't shared my character-specific Heartless playlists as some of the songs on them were SUCH specific picks that they risk being highly spoilery lol 😅

(For funsies tho I'm gonna put some of my non-spoilery-est top tracks for each character under the cut! 🎶)

HEARTLESS: Heartbeat – The Midnight

ALCHEMY: Transform – Julianne Hough (this was the very first track on Alchemy's playlist it is SO them)

FLINT: Change Your Heart Or Die – The Midnight

EIRA: In The Cold – Vincent Lima

DOPPEL+GLASS: Call Them Brothers – Regina Spektor (And "Still Here" from Treasure Planet, but especially the Alex Ubego version)

RIVER: Machine Learning – Janani K. Jha

CREED: Hunting Witches – Kyle Stibbs

LORELEI: Siren Song – Lambia (Also: Ado’s version of Unravel 😩👌)

DIANA: Hell’s Comin’ With Me – (the Chloe Breez cover in particular)

LANCE: Blood Upon The Snow – Hozier (Most of his playlist is the kind of metal and high energy tunes you might expect for him, so this one's a fun outlier :3c )

BANDY: HARLEQUIN! – Vana

DOCK: Eye For An Eye – 8 Graves

[rin-sith]

Ages ago, I promised a sequel to my Ruthlessness sketches with my new Poseidon design, and well... See, I had a very specific vision for this, my beloved 🫶 favorite song in the whole entire musical. And I guess I was finally brave en- I mean, found the time to bring it to life. Enjoy 🙈🌊🔱

@glisten-inthedark look at what I've done now

[fortjester]

the official Unreal Unearth track listing per the cd/vinyl covers has each song (or in a few cases, a pair of songs) subtitled with circles of hell from dante's inferno (and in the cases of De Selby pt. 1 & 2, and First Light, the Descent into hell and the Ascent back out) so uhhh. smth to think on.

[wildsaltair]

Nightmare

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff)

Word Count: 2.3k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted

Author’s Note: Up until now I've never posted any Maximus fanfiction because it's always just sort of been something I did for my own enjoyment, but this is one that I don't mind sharing :) @streets-in-paradise inspired me by sharing some Maximus love with me, so this is dedicated to her (and all you other wonderful people who have made Tumblr a place where I can share my passion for this wonderful man)! There's a lot of love poured into this fic, so I hope y'all enjoy it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

You are not surprised to learn that Maximus has nightmares. The details of his past are something you can only guess at, though he has alluded to the terrible battles and bloody escapades that haunt his memories. You also know that his refuge in your home is the first peace he has known since he was a child.

But you are not prepared for the sheer forcefulness of his first nightmare. He’s asleep next to you in bed, pale blue moonlight filtering through the window of your room, but you are awakened by his movements in the middle of the night. He’s jerking back and forth, his face twisted in a look of concentration, agony, and terror. You can’t help the fear that rises in your throat at the sight.

He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, one hand gripping the sheets tightly enough that his knuckles turn white. Blinking yourself into consciousness, your heart tightens at the sight. Even all these miles and months away from battle, still his past pursues him in dreams.

His next convulsion shakes the bed, and you instinctively reach out to him, hoping to wake him from the nightmare. It proves to be a mistake the second your hand presses onto his shoulder to shake him awake.

His eyes fly open at your touch, but it’s abundantly obvious that he is not awake, still seeing visions of whatever memory he was in a few moments ago. The look in his eyes is one of pure survival instinct, of a desperation that breaks your heart.

A split second later, you’re flat on your back, and the full weight of his body is pinning you down against the bed. You barely have time to register the shock of his swift movement before you realize that you did not wake him up. Blinded by memory, all he can see is his opponent, and the thought drives you to panic and try to wriggle out from under him.

Grinding his teeth, he grips both your wrists in his left hand and restrains them above your head effortlessly, despite your struggling. You call out his name softly, then more loudly, but still he is lost in the nightmare.

You thought you had tasted his strength before, when he’s made love to you and demonstrated how easily he can hold you in whatever position he chooses, but this situation gives you an entirely new perspective of his strength. A second after flipping you over, his right hand is around your throat, his thumb pressing into your jugular with enough force to crush it.

You’ve never been afraid of him once, but in this moment, without a single hint of recognition in his eyes and all his power focused on choking you, you are so terrified you can barely react. You can’t even use your hands to try to push him away.

Knowing that you may only have a few seconds to react, you gasp out his name as loudly as you can, the word immediately drowned out by the pressure on your throat. Your vision is fading to black a moment later, all the feeling in your hands gone from his vise-like grip.

But your strangled cry reaches past the fog of his nightmare somehow. The pressure on your throat releases, and his eyes widen suddenly, letting you know that he’s finally awake and realizing what he has been doing.

You can never forget the look in his eyes at that moment. All the terrifying forcefulness, the single-minded fierceness, the brute strength that made him such a force of nature on the battlefield — it all vanishes in a split second, dissolving into a gaze of such horror and regret that it shatters your heart instantly. You know that from this moment forward, he may never truly trust himself with you again, a thought that devastates you for him.

You can’t move for a moment, still struggling to catch your breath, and the look of horror in his eyes only increases as he pushes himself off you. He seems torn between the need to gather you in his arms and the fear of hurting you as he just did. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

You draw a ragged breath, reaching out one hand toward him desperately. “I’m all right,” is all you can manage. “I’m all right.”

You try to push yourself to a sitting position, but you find that you simply cannot, still so shaken from thinking you were about to be choked to death by the man you love, who you know would rather die than cause you any harm. His hands are trembling wildly when he reaches out to steady you.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he says, his own breathing so erratic that you wonder if he can feel your pain. “I couldn’t see you. I didn’t know it was you.”

He’s repeating himself in absolute shock, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, your neck, your arms to see what damage he’s done to you. His shaking only worsens, but he doesn’t lay a hand on you during his frantic checking over you for injuries, just lets them hover as if he’s afraid to touch you again.

You manage to sit up this time, steadying yourself with a calming breath and trying to give him a relaxed smile. “I know, I know,” you murmur, reaching out to brush your hand over his ruffled hair. He almost recoils at your touch.

“I could have killed you,” he whispers, involuntarily shifting himself to the edge of the bed away from you.

You keep running your hand lightly through his hair, determined to reassure him. “Of course not,” you promise. “You were only dreaming. It was just a dream.”

“It was just a dream,” he echoes, but not in agreement. “A dream of a battle in which I almost died. In which I killed so many men I could never count them.”

You don’t betray a single hint of fear, just scooting forward to close the distance between you. You use both hands now, framing the sides of his face as his eyes search your face desperately.

“I’m perfectly all right,” you assure him with a smile. “See? No harm done at all.”

“You don’t understand,” he insists vehemently, his voice breaking. “I could have killed you. I didn’t know it was you. I only saw my enemy and thought of killing him.”

Seeing how shaken he is, you push forward and clasp your arms around his neck to steady him. He still doesn’t touch you, doesn’t return your embrace. You can feel his whole body quaking in your arms.

“You don’t understand,” he repeats. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I don’t need to know,” you whisper in his ear, stroking his hair rhythmically in the way he always responds to.

He actually pushes you away this time, his hands gentle on your forearms as he puts space between you again. His eyes are blazing, his face as white as your sheets. “You don’t know,” he murmurs again, dropping his hands. “I could snap your neck with one twitch of my wrist. I could break your wrists, your ribs, your spine as easily as I can hold you down.” He holds his hands up in front of you, eyes wide and haunted. “You have no idea what these hands have done.”

“I don’t care what they’ve done,” you argue, seizing his hands with yours before he can pull them away. This time, though, he doesn’t make a move to pull away, freezing in place while he watches you carefully. Slowly, intentionally, you kiss the backs of both his hands, his knuckles, his fingers, to demonstrate your words. “I know you, and I love you, no matter what you’ve done.”

He shakes his head, though his eyes drift closed at the touch of your lips on the base of his palms. “No,” he half-whispers, “no, no.” Your heart tightens seeing him so tortured, knowing that all this anguish lurks beneath his stoic exterior every day, hiding so you can’t see it. “I should never have risked you like this.”

“You’ve never risked me,” you insist. “You’ve never done anything but protect me.”

“Until tonight,” he counters sharply, his eyes flashing open and fixing on yours with his typical intensity magnified. “It only takes one time. I should never have taken the risk.”

You can read the meaning behind his words — that he thinks he can’t trust himself to sleep next to you. The thought of giving him up, especially for this reason, is utterly unacceptable to you.

“I am not afraid of you,” you tell him firmly. Your words seem to affect him, because the tension in his shoulders lessens fractionally. You kiss his hands again and again, then rest your cheek against the roughened skin that you love so much.

“You should be,” he replies softly, the severity in his voice already decreasing. You can see the waves of exhaustion and sorrow washing over him, and you reach out your arms to enfold him again. This time, he accepts your embrace, folding his arms around your waist gently and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck. His skin is burning hot against yours, his arms still trembling.

“I could never be afraid of you,” you whisper. “I could never be afraid of the man who has protected me and cherished me. You have treated me so gently, so tenderly all these months. Never once has it crossed my mind to be frightened of your strength.” You press a kiss to his shoulder, then the side of his neck. “I take pride in having the heart of a man so strong, so capable. I know you would never hurt me.”

He shifts you in his arms, lifting you slightly to align more easily against his body. You can feel the deep, shuddering breath he draws while he thinks about your words. “I would never mean to hurt you,” he replies, “but in a dream, I cannot tell the difference between memory and reality.”

“I believe you would be able to keep yourself from truly hurting me,” you reassure him, threading your fingers into his hair at the base of his neck. He reacts to your touch with a hand sliding up your back to cradle you closer to his chest.

“And if I could not?” he whispers in response, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “If I should wake and find you dead by my hand?”

You shake your head, feeling tears spring to your eyes. Any fear you felt in the moment while he was holding you down is completely gone, lost in the tender embrace he holds you in now. “I do not believe the gods would allow such a thing to happen. Not to you. Not to us.”

He releases a shaky breath, one that glides across the exposed skin of your neck. He ducks his head to press a kiss to your collarbone, letting his lips linger there in a way that makes you shiver in his arms. “I am honored by your trust.”

You smile in response, dragging your fingertips lightly down his sides, over the deep scar that slices down his ribs. “I could never trust another man on earth as I do you,” you reply. “My only fear is that I may drown in the love I see in your eyes every day.”

He kisses your collarbone again in response, then moves upward slowly, pressing his lips to the soft hollow of your throat, then the underside of your jaw at your pulse point. Lifting you up effortlessly with his hands hooked under your arms, he repositions you so that you’re straddling him.

He then rests his fingertips, feather-light this time, against the sides of your neck. He strokes his fingers over each mark they left, then presses the softest of kisses against each one. Goosebumps break over your skin at the intimacy of his actions, of the wordless apology in every touch.

He lowers his forehead against yours, eyes closed as he breathes you in. “I do not know what blind fortune allowed me to find you,” he murmurs, touching his lips softly against the corner of your mouth, “but I thank them every moment for the gift of holding you like this.”

At your affectionate smile, he finally gives you the ghost of one in return, though his eyes are still haunted. You suspect that he will retain that haunted look for some time, no matter how many reassurances you offer.

As the intensity of the last while calms, he shifts you in his arms again, cradling you gently and laying you back against the pillows. He leans up on one arm, facing you, and you reach up a hand to stroke the side of his face. His expression softens again, giving you a look of utter fondness and devotion that makes your heart melt.

He leans forward slowly, as if asking your permission, and you gladly grant it. His lips touch yours with a gentle brush, then a bit more pressure. His tongue slides across yours in the way that always sends shivers up your spine, and one of his hands reaches up to stroke your hair, the other resting lightly on your waist. He kisses you once, twice, three times, each one more tender than the last, then lets his lips linger against yours for a moment more.

“I love you,” he says softly that you barely hear it, but rather feel it against your mouth.

“I love you,” you return, “more than I can say.”

One last kiss, and he finally lays down beside you, his face mere inches from yours and his arm folded across your waist. He takes his time in going back to sleep, choosing instead to gaze at your profile in the soft moonlight, but sleep finally takes him. And when you finally close your eyes, content to sleep peacefully beside him again, it’s to the sound of his even breathing and the warmth of his protective embrace.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[pushing500]

Well... I'm sure you did your best, Kwahu. Perhaps we'll find an artistic skilltrainer or something sometime and see if you can do a better one, but it'll do for now.

Before we recruit our lovebird prisoners, we have to convert them to see the truth of our ways. Ivy is a remarkably good socialiser, so she's on prison wardening duty. She's doing amazing!!

We usually feed our dead to the harbinger trees, so we don't have too many corpses lying around for this death pall to raise, but nobody likes choking on this smog while it's around. Everyone is annoyed about it (except Alistair who has never complained about anything because he's perfect)

Oh, hell...

What can we say except... welcome to the family!

First | Next | Previous

[ricky-mortis]

Working on a Wiggly design

[lord-squiggletits]

The other day I saw something that actually made the fandom's complete lack of acknowledgement towards Megatron grooming/brainwashing Tarn make a lot of sense, which was essentially a comment that implied something along the lines of 'Tarn made himself worse.'

Which like, I guess makes sense as a justification? If you just write off Dying of the Light and Tarn's entire existence as him just "choosing" to be "worse" I guess it's easy to just blame Tarn and coddle Megatron as the victim of the whole thing.

As opposed to the actual truth of canon which is that Tarn was not always Tarn, Tarn used to be Damus, Damus was nothing like Tarn at all, and it was Megatron's direct, malicious, targeted intervention that took Damus (normal guy) and made him into Tarn (zealot freak). And that the DJD wasn't Tarn's creation, it was Megatron's creation, because Megatron not only wrote the DJD rulebook but also directly trained them (at least the initial members of the DJD, including Tarn) to be brutal, sadistic killers. And that Tarn's mental breakdown in Dying of the Light and subsequent deathhunt on Megatron was just Tarn continuing to fulfill the role Megatron assigned to him, which was to hunt down traitors to the Decepticon cause and make them pay in pain and death. In other words, that Tarn was literally carrying out the exact purpose that Megatron groomed him for, in service to the ideology that Megatron shaped to be centered entirely around ruthlessness, cruelty, and subjugation. And that everything Tarn did as an evil person was merely a logical extension of the ideology Megatron brainwashed him into carrying out, not him randomly deciding to "make himself worse" one day bc he was angy at his daddy.

But sure. I guess, from a certain, very zoomed in and granular perspective, Tarn is evil because he just chose to be that way and no one could've possibly predicted him turning on his master who reshaped his entire life to serve his will and then abandoned him. It's not like Megatron radicalized him for no reason and then built him to be a ticking time bomb or anything. No, Tarn just... decided to make himself worse. One day, for no reason at all. Mmmkay.

[immabebaby]

Man I didn't get the whole "I'm writing for myself" and "Man this story is so good, when's the next update... Oh wait it's my story and I have to write the next chap" until I started writing one that is so awkwardly niche that really only I can write it

I mean, where am I gonna find a Knock Out/Soundwave get together via meddling cassettes and symbolic paint jobs ft. background Breakdown/Dreadwing?

Or a pre-canon Boulder/Megatron that made Boulder decide to be a rescue bot, and Megatron never really got over him but technically they weren't really together?

[nellandvoid]

to celebrate the pines twins birthdays, i’m gonna make them miserable!!!!!

jkjk i just want to show a wip of my better world au designs for mabel and dipper, a (r o u g h) sketch that just so happens to be (semi) done on their birthday!! (it’s still the 31st. shut up/j)

lore dump under cut cause man am i gonna yap

the main thing i wanna do with these two is keep their fundamentals while still realistically changing their external personalities based on how they were raised (especially since their great-uncle ford is head of the institute of oddology and an estimed scholar in cryptozoology)

design-wise, i wanted to show how mabel's a bit more insecure while dipper's the opposite, so her sweaters don't all have designs on them, her hair is pulled back, and she has shorts and tennis shoes instead of a skirt and flats - dipper, on the other hand, doesn't have a hat since he doesn't care if people see his birthmark, and he has the space tee and button up combo that he was wearing in the valentines flashback in weirdmageddon pt 2 since he wouldn't be as self-conscious about showing off his interests

personality-wise, dipper has probably changed the least: still socially awkward, still has an undiagnosed anxiety disorder (same), still considers mabel his best (and only) friend - the main difference, though, is that growing up he wasn't bullied as much for being interested in the strange and unusual. kids are still cruel, of course, but he always had his great-uncle's reputation to look up to whenever someone made fun of his birthmark or obsession with ghosts. and now, getting to finally spend a summer with his idol, he's more than ready to finally be accepted for all his weirdness. he can finally be loud, be weird, be himself, and not get those looks people in piedmont give him when they think he's not looking. the few times he's met great-uncle ford growing up, the few times he slipped up and said something weird, his great-uncle never gave him the look like everyone else did. he'd just smile, always softly, always distantly, and always tell him to never change.

on the other hand, mabel is much more reserved and self-conscious, especially when she arrives in gravity falls - weirdness has always led to genius in her family, so when she let her mind drift away her parents would always drag her back down to earth, telling her she's just as capable as her great-uncle and brother, why doesn't she just take homework, take school, take life seriously like they do? and so she tries to, and tries, and eventually she learns about the look: the one people give her when she tells them about the time she swallowed a whole bag of gummy worms without chewing, or about the sweater she knit last week that's scratch and sniff, or about anything not serious. she hates the look, and starts to do anything she can to avoid it. especially when she does something silly in front of her great-uncle ford. the look he gives always hurts more, like something she did reminded him of a nightmare or a bad memory. and she didn't want to hurt him.

[iceclew]

I made it.

over 170 hours, but I made it.

[harper44]

[mochabugger]

...I'm too obsessed with him aren't I

Took about 4 and a half hours ngl

[cupcakewebkinz]

Uppies!!

(Gang help I'm so obsessed with writing these short fluff drabbles today)

♡ Sprout finally learns how nice it is to be held because he finally gets picked up by someone who isn't shorter than him... And actually enjoys it a bit lol ♡

ʚɞ Caretaker Shanon au - and it's weird sideplot of Caretaker Sam - is mine! ʚɞ

✿ Come here @soupiestzilla you deserve more fluff ✿

❀•°•═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════•°•❀

Sprout just sighed as he slumped down onto the spot he always sat in on the couch, worn out from baking. He had made a ton of cookies, in a lot of different flavors, for a charity cookie sale going on soon in Sam's cafe and was incredibly worn out now. Cosmo soon flopped down beside him, having helped with everything and was exhausted too. Sprout just gently pet his head a little, closing his eyes to nap.

"Dude we did so much work today... I hope Sam appreciates it..." Sprout mumbled, getting just a tired little "Mhm" in reply. The two just rested, silent and peaceful, until Sam walked back in.

"Hey boys, thanks for all the work y'all did while I was handling stuff outside of work, I appreciate it. I do wanna know something if that's okay." Sam said, making the two sit up. They just motioned for Sprout to come over, so he slowly got up and tiredly walked over, looking up at them. Sam gasped.

"I am just tall enough... Lemme try somethin, kid."

"I'm an adult-"

"I don't give a shit, you're my son now." Sam stated firmly before they carefully picked him up, then held him on their side like a toddler. They immediately were laughing, surprised that actually worked, while Sprout was TERRIFIED, shaking as he clung to them. Until... He realized how comfortable it actually was, and put his head on their shoulder, eyes huge in fear and curiousity.

"Uhm... What are you doing..?" He asked, scared to know but also really okay with this. Sam stared at him, not at all believing he didn't know what they were doing, until it was pretty obvious he... Wasn't kidding. He genuinely didn't know.

"Oh, uh, when I was a kid, I called it an uppy, but I'm sure it's just being he-"

"Can I have more uppies?" Sprout suddenly asked, serious. Sam tried so hard not to laugh more, but that absolutely serious look on his face made them crack up as they pulled him closer.

"Sure kid, sure. I'll carry you more often." They agreed, watching as the berry just made himself more comfortable against them before yawning and soon dozing off. Cosmo was just as humored though, as he was a giggling disaster at the sight.

"Out of every toon, he was the one I'd least expect to like being held." Cosmo admitted, getting a nod in agreement from Sam as they adjusted him a little.

"Yeah same, I thought he'd kill me, I guess not. Maybe all toons secretly just wanted to be taken care of after all... Anyways, what movie did you want to watch? We're obviously not going to be able to do anything so... Might as well watch something, ya know?" Sam asked as they just sat down in Sprout's spot, though they didn't get a reply, as Cosmo just snuggled right up on their other side and was fast asleep in no time. Sam just chuckled at that and pulled them both close, rubbing their backs as they napped, closing their eyes as they relaxed.

"I guess this is what parenting is... No wonder why Shanon loves this. I shoulda snatched them up sooner..." They mumbled, then paused and sat up.

"Wait you two remembered the oven right-?"

"Mhm... I did..." Cosmo mumbled, making Sam sigh as they went back to resting, pulling the half awake sweet roll closer to them.

"Thanks kid... I love you two."

"We love you too..." Cosmo whispered before he dozed right back off. Sam just rested with the two snug on either side of them, grateful for a break from the stressful life of running a business. They didn't turn on the TV, or anything, they just listened to the two's gentle breathing and the rain pouring outside. Sam would never admit it - but it was perfect. Their little family was perfect, they loved those two way more than they'd ever be able to say. They also hoped these cuddle sessions would become a common thing... But for right now, they just took it all in, even if they were still worried the oven was on. Don't fret though, it's off.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Burnout

When I was a little girl, I sprained my ankle in a competition. Not a race, or anything sports related. It was an oratory comp. I tripped on the stairs and spent the rest of the way limping. I won, in the end. My speech was moving, they said. It touched the hearts of every single person in the audience.

But that's a digression. Point was, I struggled onto the stage and grinned like a little maniac when they took my photo. My ankle throbbed like a little bitch as I did, but the coursing thrill of joy at winning, the adrenaline better than any roller coaster ride, the sheer euphoria like a drug kept me going.

That was the first and last time I ever won a competition. Or at least, the one and only time I ever felt like I deserved my win.

But that's a digression. Point was, I went home and cried the entire way. Never had I ever sprained anything, ever gotten anything more than a scraped knee, ever felt true pain. That was agony to me, limping on pure willpower all the way home.

My parents told me to get over it. I was almost an adult, at age fifteen, after all. My parents did not care about the trophy. I had so many others, after all. My parents did not give me painkillers. I could power through it, after all. And I tried to. I really did. It just wasn't enough. Nothing I ever did was enough. Ironically, that was what my speech was about. How I could never be the perfect figure I was meant to be. 

That's not a digression. That was the point. I could tell all the stories I wanted, I could spin the fable of me accepting my imperfection, of me overcoming my desire to be the best and being happy with what I had, I could make up a tale with a happy ending as many times as I felt like, and it would never come true. What I wanted would never come true.

Because it wasn't just my own perfectionism I had to overcome. It was the mold I had been placed into, the role in a play I just couldn't follow, the demands of a world that took all that I could give and then some. Sure, I was an overly arrogant, self-critical, stubborn bitch who never gave up.

But fuck, I was a child.

All that night, I cried and cried and cried. I sobbed into my pillow. I called out for my parents. I hit the wall that divided us, asking for comfort, for a warm hand on my cheek, for love and protection from the pain that invaded my bed and tore me from my sweet dreams of victory.

My mother did come over, in the end. But it wasn't to hold me tight and tell me everything would be alright. It wasn't even to give me painkillers. She came over to yell at me. 

So many years and I can still hear it. How dare I keep them from sleeping. How selfish could I be? Couldn't I see that my cries were hurting them more than me? I needed to shut up.

But I didn't, because I was an overly arrogant, self-critical, stubborn bitch who never gave up. In this case, I refused to give up on my parents. I banged the wall, over and over again, all but yelling into the great void beyond that it hurt, that I wanted someone to hug me to sleep, that I wanted the cruel world to show me that it cared.

In hindsight, that was why I could never let go of my perfectionism. It was all I had. If I threw myself into the meat-grinder of competition enough times, the resulting paste would surely be agonised enough for my parents to go ‘poor thing, here's a hug and some painkillers'. Surely, someday, if I reached a bad enough state of crisis, they would look up and for once my pain would be greater than what they felt on seeing me, and I didn't have to shut up and endure it for their sakes.

That day never came. And eventually the fires of defiance that fuelled the forge of my being burned out the parasite of perfectionism, and cleansed the rotting wound of insecurity, and consumed even the great forest of my soul, so that all that remained was one tired, lonely young woman in place of the angry, determined little girl.

And all I had left were ashes and dust, leaving the same taste in my mouth that the painkillers never got to. And all that was left to do was get up and rebuild. After all, ash-rich soil is the most fertile, right? Besides, parasites are stubborn. Mine will surely come back. The rot and the grime and the grit will return, and with it, the forest shall rise again.

And perhaps, in a decade, I truly can close down my forge and bid farewell to that grand parasite that helped me through life, without leaving a dead landscape in my wake.