#like I got these fucking habits from somewhere like you think maybe growing up depressed and suicidal in a family that didn’t talk about or

[milo-is-rambling]

My mom was just like ahhh Im anxious to go out of my comfort zone and I was like you’re good how is this out of your comfort zone you’ve done this before and she was like why do you always judge my feelings and say I’m not allowed to feel that way I should feel some other way and I’m sitting here like :| as if she hasn’t done that to my my entire life and as if I didn’t mean you’ve done this before as a you got this sentiment not get over urself

[mirrorgrets]

i hate you, i hope you die

Warnings: suicidal thoughts, graphic descriptions of violence

Pairings: Pannacotta Fugo/Giorno Giovanna (but like. barely.)

Wordcount: 2,224 words

Summary: Fugo returns to Passione and everything falls back into place. He's sworn his loyalty to Giorno and Giorno trusts him. But he hates the very same boy who saved him.

The thing is Fugo hates Giorno.

No, that's wrong. It's more like he wishes he hates Giorno.

When he sank to his knees, lips barely grazing Giorno's knuckles, he felt a pit in his stomach growing bigger and bigger as he said his vows. He felt like he signed his life away to this angel of death. For what? For guilt? For nothing? For a lack of understanding as to why he was still alive and not them?

Sometimes he stares at Giorno, notices little details that he doesn't think anyone who doesn't stare at Giorno for too long notices. Details like how he has an odd habit of pulling his collar when he's nervous; like he has a single pockmark just where his jaw meets his neck; like he stands a bit straighter when someone raises their voice; like he raises his hand like he wants to cover his mouth when he laughs; like he cycles through certain hair ties and ribbons throughout the week.

It drives him insane that at this point, he might know more about Giorno than he knows about Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia combined—and that says a lot. Bucciarati found him when he was thirteen and it was just them for a while. It was just the two of them in Bruno’s apartment, careful footsteps turning into comfort and routine somewhere between the shootouts, the blood, and the stitches. Then Abbacchio arrived with wary eyes and a sharp tongue and way too many apologies before he settled into his actual asshole self. At that point, Fugo moved out into his own apartment which was only two blocks away. Then he found Narancia, maybe out of inspiration from Bucciarati or something, and while they tried to keep him away from the life of a Mafioso, he weaseled in somehow, manifesting a stand fair and square.

Fugo wonders what it might be like to murder Giorno. He dreams of it when goes to sleep, which isn't often because he hardly goes to sleep nowadays and most of the time, sleep catches him and not the other way around.

Sometimes Giorno dies by his hands around his neck, sometimes it's Mista's stolen gun, sometimes it's by an ax, sometimes it's with a tie, sometimes an encyclopedia. But it's never Purple Haze Feedback. Never his own stand. And dream Giorno who's dying knows this all the damn time. Dream Giorno will look at him with the widest eyes like he's looking at God Himself, like he's a revelation meant to be worshipped. Sometimes his hands will cup his cheek (sometimes bloody, sometimes shaky); sometimes he'll push his forehead against Fugo's; sometimes he'll hold Fugo tight, sometimes like he's made of glass; and sometimes he'll lean in far too close and apologize to Fugo.

He hates that he always wakes up before Giorno can take his last breath and hates himself even more for feeling that way.

Fugo avoids Giorno when he can.

Somehow it's easy and at the same time, not. He meets him whenever he receives an assignment, and Giorno looks like he wants to speak to him. But he never pushes and Fugo is allowed to leave and fuck off and kill more people with a gun, a knife, or anything. At times, Fugo will stay just a second more and wonder if Giorno will take a step or half a step like he said he would but he never does so he leaves and wonders why he feels like he just woke up from his fucked up dreams.

When Fugo isn't murdering or interrogating someone, he's usually doing the dull administrative tasks of Passione like sorting through the legal jargon to find loopholes and accounting for logistics or whatever the hell he can get his hands on because he wants to stay busy, damn it.

His chest feels empty most of the time. It's not like he doesn't know why. It might be depression but he doesn't care enough to forge a prescription this time round. Or maybe it's because no one is pushing him to forge a prescription, unlike last time. Or well, Sheila E tries to make him forge a prescription and she did steal a bunch for him, orange canisters full and all. But she doesn’t force him to take them. She doesn’t hang around his shoulder unlike Bucciarati did when he… unlike when Bucciarati did with his straightforward stares and the little notes he left around Fugo’s apartment. She doesn’t make snide remarks unlike Abbacchio and doesn’t keep him company in the dead of night when everything is too loud even when it’s just quiet. She doesn’t remind him like Narancia did with all the subtlety of a douchebag riding a Ferrari.

So the canisters stay full but Fugo keeps them by his bedside because maybe one day and well, he likes the reminder that at least someone cares.

(Murolo does his own thing too but when he does, Fugo’s far too gone to even remember what Murolo does and the man never reminds him so he’s grateful for that too)

It's not like Fugo is afraid of dying. He goes into each mission like he might die and when he comes out alive, buzzing with manic energy that makes him want to break down and punch the nearest object in the vicinity, he's always disappointed. Sometimes he looks at the gun he owns in his bathroom and he wonders if he should just pull the trigger and collapse, his head bashing against the toilet, bleeding out to die if he doesn't hit the right spot.

He pulls the trigger every other day but the cartridge is always empty.

Today is no different from other days. Fugo startles awake, eyes blinking rapidly as he realizes that he did not kill Giorno. He stumbles into his bathroom, washes himself, looks at the mirror, looks at the gun, takes it and points it between his eyes, pulls the trigger, and leaves for work.

When he arrives at Passione's headquarters, he heads straight to his office to look over the legal documents Giorno asked him to look over. He doesn't bother to greet anyone since no one bothers to greet him. He's the traitor of Passione and he's fine with that. It keeps people away which means there are fewer people to perform for and fewer people to try to keep away.

The day goes by as usual. Fugo works through his pile until there’s almost nothing there and then some guy he never got to learn the name of drops a bunch of more work for him to do just before lunch. And Fugo won’t eat lunch until he’s burnt out or Sheila E comes to collect him from his office and forces him to eat. Fortunately for him, Sheila E is away on a mission with Murolo so he can do whatever he wants to do without anyone giving him those disappointed stares.

In all honesty, Fugo feels like he’s mellowed down. The six months away from Passione forced him to at least hold back most of his anger and he played piano in some restaurant as a job and he was good at it.

But he didn’t enjoy it. After playing, he would go home, wreck his already shitty apartment and return everything back to how it was before he crashed on his couch. So maybe the reason why he feels like he’s submerged underwater half the time because he feels like he’s playing a piece on the piano before he has to go home, just going through the motions, and pretending.

Fugo stretches his arms and looks at the clock on his desk. 10:45 pm. Time to head home then.

Then it all comes crashing down.

Or more like, Fugo feels like he’s been ripped out of the water, like he’s gone on those stupidly high and fast waterslides that children aren’t allowed on because when you hit the water, you tumble around and experience some kind of vertigo, except it’s in reverse and it feels worse.

Because today is the last day he saw all of them alive. The last day they were all together as a team. The last day before he betrayed them, except he always felt like they betrayed him and not the other way around.

He’s never even visited their graves.

It hits him so hard that he stumbles out of his office and he doesn’t care if there are people around because he just needs to get out, get out, get out.

He’s in the garden before he knows it, and he sinks into the grass and tries to breathe because what the fuck, he feels like he stopped breathing that day and only remembered to breathe now. He feels like crying but he keeps it in and just tries to remember how to properly push air in and out of his lungs even if it stings because in the past, there would always be a warm hand on his back and a soothing voice, and he knows that person will never stand behind him anymore and give comfort because he’s dead.

Minutes pass by and slowly, Fugo can breathe like normal again even if he’s so fucking tired. He collapses on the grass and stares at the night sky, distantly remembering his astronomy lessons when he was still Pannacotta Fugo, child of the wealthy Fugos.

He can hear grass being stepped on and gentle footsteps approaching him and it’s no surprise to see golden curls hanging low and emerald eyes staring back at him.

Fugo hates Giorno so, so much.

"I hate you," Fugo tells his boss. "I wish you were dead. I hope you die the most painful death possible."

Giorno blinks. "Okay. That's fine." He says, slowly. "You're not the only one who wants that."

"When I sleep, I dream that I kill you. I've killed you hundreds of times." Fugo continues, slowly pulling himself up and sitting down beside the most powerful boy in Italy, their knees almost brushing.

Giorno doesn’t shy away, instead, he moves closer to Fugo and their knees are touching. “How do you kill me?” His voice is barely above a whisper and Fugo would laugh if he could but this isn’t the time.

"Different ways. Sometimes I strangle you, sometimes I shoot you, sometimes I hit you with a book, sometimes I stab you."

"No Purple Haze?"

Fugo pauses but shakes his head. "No Purple Haze," he confirms.

Giorno is silent for a minute more and Fugo looks back at the stars, his mind silent for the first time in months.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at this,” Giorno finally says and he flops down on the grass. “I should’ve let Mista get you.”

Fugo snorts. “Why? Mista doesn’t care,” there’s no malice in his voice, and it’s just a fact.

“No, he does. It’s just… you know, he needs time,” Giorno explains. “Just like you needed time.”

Fugo leans in closer to Giorno and he realizes this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other in months, like, really spoken to each other. It almost feels like a dream when Giorno lifts his hand up and touches Fugo’s cheek like he’s made of glass.

“I hate you,” Fugo says, leaning more into Giorno’s hand. “I wish they were the ones alive and I was the one who died. I wish they were the ones alive and that you never came into our lives.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I’m glad you’re alive,” Giorno says, eyes wide and far too bright. Fugo wants to pull away because his mind is starting to catch up and time away from Passione taught him some things academia and murder couldn’t teach him.

“This doesn’t usually work like this either,” Fugo points out.

Giorno uses his other hand to pull Fugo closer and Fugo can see more things he’s sure no one’s never noticed before like the fact that Giorno has the lightest freckles on his face and that his lashes are really long. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better now,” Giorno tells him. “You should go visit a therapist. We can visit the graves together. I’ll make sure you eat lunch somehow.”

Fugo wants to laugh again but all he feels is a year's worth of grief finally burst and he’s crying again like he did in the restaurant except it feels more real rather than that half-assed performance that felt too perfect and picturesque. Giorno pulls him even closer until there’s no space between them and Fugo buries his face into the crook of Giorno’s neck and feels Giorno hold him tighter.

“I thought that giving you space would be better. I’m really sorry, Panna. I felt like I came off as too much when we first met again. Then I didn’t know how to push anymore and really, that’s no excuse but I’ll do better.” Giorno whispers.

“You’re good, don’t worry,” Fugo takes a shaky breath, half lying, half telling the truth. “Don’t worry.”

Fugo peels him away from Giorno and helps his boss up. Their foreheads are touching and Giorno’s holding onto his hand so gently, it makes Fugo feel sick again. But he squeezes back and knows that they’ll be okay one day.

Not today, but one day.

Notes: wrote this last night listening to fiona apple and just thinking abt phf and how fugo is 16 and giorno is 15 and they're probably not as in touch w their feelings like they might think they are :| or something lol

if u have thoughts or anything feel free to tell me in the comments :>

[redemptionofthefallen]

Amber (Witch Of Salem)

Name: Amber

 Age: 347

Gender: Female 

Date of Birth: april 7th 1674

Race: Witch 

 Occupation: she has no occupation she does basically what she wants. 

 Voice type (What it sounds like. If you like, list a voice actor who you think would best put life into your OC.):  ???? 

 Quirks, strange mannerisms, and/or annoying habits: Amber has an obsession with blood and Violence. she also has a high sex drive adding to the obsessions at times. she keeps a necklace with a ring with a Amber stone on it around her neck and if anyone tries to touch it she will instantly be pissed.  she is triggered and you better pace yourself. also she as social as they come but shes the kind of social that wont give any info about herself so she is still a mystery. when she is stepping into insanity you can only tell if you know what to look for: she begins to Chuckle darkly as she slowly goes into manic Laughter. after that the look in her eyes should enough for you to run. 

Scars or physical deformities: none that i am aware of 

 Mental illnesses: im sure there's one somewhere but she will not allow me to see what ^^’’’ maybe severe depression and insanity spells. 

Height: 5″2

Weight: 140

Favorite color: Red

food: chocolate 

Likes: the blood spill of her enemy's, magic, her knife collection, hexing others, and  chocolate.

Dislikes: being venerable, letting anyone get too close, and someone telling her no. 

Strengths: she is really good with magic even if she tends to be lazy as magic takes time and preparation to do if she needs to shell kick it. she also is a fast shot with a knife. she can throw a knife in the blink of an eye with scary accuracy. if you can impress her or manage to break her walls she is a fierce friend and she will fight to the death for you. 

Weaknesses: she breaks easily, her fits of rage and insanity sends her into spirals that almost no one can get her out of. her weakness is Daved.

its always David. 

mention him in anyway and she will lose her mind....not in a good way....

Family: Mother  Father as far as shes concerned she doesnt have any parents

Fears: of getting hurt again, and feeling the pain of loss like she did with David. 

Goals: to do whatever the fuck she wants. she decided long ago that she would make her own path and follow it on her own time. 

Sexuality: Pansexual 

Relationships/Love interests: she isnt in one and if she had it her way she would never love again....

Hobbies and interests: Killing scum under her feet, sex and lots of it, and practicing her magic and knife skills. 

Bio: Amber was Born around the years of the Salem witch trials. when she was a young girl she showed signs of not being.... normal.  in fear of them all being hanged for being witches her parents said nothing but detached themselves from her shame showing in thier eyes every time they saw her. out of her village there was only one person who cared and loved her for who she was.  and that as David.  growing up together and falling in love as they grew David protected her and kept her safe from everyone. when she turned 18 she accidentally hexed someone in the village in self defense and then they both knew she was an actual witch that they have been trying to execute. Although David didnt care he wanted to protect her from everyone so they decided that they would run away far from their village and start a new life somewhere else. however as they ran they got cornered being found out because of the hex. David wanting Amber to live said that he was the one who placed the Hex to spare her life. as they pulled Amber away from David and hung him right in front of her eyes. in the grief of losing the one person in her life she needed she snapped as her power flowed through her and using a combination of a knife she found on the ground and her magic she killed everyone in the village miraculously in cold blood. after that she decided that she would live on for David but never let anyone in again. she now live in modern time's now using her magic to keep her living a long life so that through her eyes David could see the world and all it offered as she lived for him. She Keeps a Engagement ring on a necklace around her neck as a reminder of what she lost.   

by pixichi

[hrh-selene-r]

Beyond Words (4/?)

The Big Sweep

Eight years have come and gone, and it seems that everyone has moved on; Hannah has a new life with a Baby upstate, and even Ray found a bit of happiness in his life, but where does that leave Adam? Still in the same apartment with the same problems. Now, feeling adrift in the stagnation he finds himself in, Adam will try to break old habits and  see if he can grow-up. Something easier said than done, that is until he meets you.

This is a bit of a post series/retcon picking up from where Adam’s story left off in Season 6 episode 8 titled “What will we do this time about Adam?”

Adam Sackler x Reader

4.5K Words

Warning: Angst, break up, Depression, cursing.

It’s been a week of secret apartment hunting and script reading for any new possible project, but his efforts finally bear fruit. ‘Fucking Ray. Thank god he came through’ Adam thought as he was one the line of his favorite deli just a few blocks away from his apartment. He shifts anxiously as he rehearses in his mind what he wants to say to Jessa when the moment comes.

It’s been a week of secret apartment hunting and script reading for any new possible project, but his efforts finally bear fruit. ‘Fucking Ray. Thank god he came through’ Adam thought as he was one the line of his favorite deli just a few blocks away from his apartment. He shifts anxiously as he rehearses in his mind what he wants to say to Jessa when the moment comes.

‘Jesus. Fuck’ He fixes his hair fidgeting (well dreading, really) the confrontation to come. Her clinginess hasn’t stopped in the least, wanting to go out together, stay in together, have sex in their old haunts; she’s even been texting him more frequently. It’s not that he didn’t like the attention (or the sex), but Jessa’s always been aloof, and independent. If anything, Adam is the clingy one; things used to be so easy before but this change in dynamic was a bit jarring to him, to say the least.

‘She’s just making things harder’

He was a thousand miles away when he finally sat down, and in true Adam fashion, he doesn’t eat, so much as he scarfs down his meal; six eggs (four of them just the whites), and two slices of turkey bacon. It’s while drinking what’s left of his coffee that his phone alerts him of a new incoming text. Fishing it out of his pocket and saw that he had three texts; two from Luke, letting him know that he got the callback for the Jim Anderson play with the details of where it’s going to be, the other asking if he had finished reading another script that he’d sent him.

‘Yesssssss!!’ He cheered on the inside, holding in his urge to scream it out loud. Finally! At least some things were looking up.

The other text was from Jessa, making fun about one of her classmates, with a rather mean spirited snarky remark.

He scoffs a bit after reading it, her smarmy wit coming through her words. It's moments like these that remind him of their friendship, and their shared chemistry. The thought only served to churn his stomach, bringing to the forefront of his mind what he’ll tell her.

‘ “Look Jessa, I’ve been doing some introspection lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re better as friends and that I need some time apart” Too formal? No….Shit! “Jessa let’s be real, you would’ve left me in a few months anyway, so I’m doing us both a favor” ..’

“Motherfuck!” He hissed under his breath.

He looked at the time in his phone and got up. He has to get going, not wanting to be late to meet his building manager.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The building itself wasn’t too far, it was still in Brooklyn, not like he could afford anything more upscale, and even then, rents in the boroughs were outrageous; gentrification saw to that. But for all the artisanal ice cream boutiques and organic green tea, there’s a charm in Brooklyn that has captured his heart; for now, this was home. This place has seen his loves and loses and has seen him at his worst and at his best.

Adam walks up to the front steps where a woman is sitting on the stoop, seemingly waiting; looking at her phone as she does so. She looks up and sees him in the eye, causing him to look away awkwardly to avoid her thinking he was a creep or something, but her gaze was more curious than anything.

She tilts her head sideways to get a better look at him. “Adam?”

‘Do I know her? Oh fuck, have I fucked her?’ he thinks, his mid going through the roster of girls to see if he knew her from somewhere. “Yeah?” he asked cautiously after his mind came up blank. He doesn’t know her....at least he thinks he doesn’t know her.

“I’m Jaime. I’m the building manager? My dad probably told you about me when he showed you the apartment.” She explains, hopefully jogging his memory, as she gets up to face him.

“You’re Jaime?” He asks, taking a good look at her. Her hair is long and dark up, reaching up to her waist; her body, clothed in oversized jeans and a black tank top, is skinny but not too skinny as to make her look malnourished, her complexion is dark, coupled with deep brown eyes, a wide nose full glossy lips and a beauty mark above her left eyebrow.

“Yeah, were you expecting anyone else?” she smirked haughtily at him, making him to quickly reply out an answer to avoid any embarrassment.

“No! I just thought that I’d be meeting your dad.” he corrects himself and holds out his hand to shake her hand in greeting. She responded in kind, extending her hand to shake his. Her hand was adorned by wide silver rings in her fingers, her nails were decorated with an orange nail polish that was mostly chipped away.

“He got held up, asked me to do it. Legally I can, as the building manager. So, you ready to sign?”

“Uh, Yeah.” he answers her as she gestures for him to follow her, leading him up the stairs to what will be his new apartment.

Climbing three flights of stairs, standing in front of a door marked ‘3A’, Jaime places the key in the lock and opens the door before gesturing for him to go in.

The apartment itself was big, or big for New York standards, at least, It was a one bedroom apartment, complete with a separate living room, the bathroom was down the hallway, and with a small kitchen right next to what could be converted to a small dining room. It suited him. The apartment was eerily reminiscent of the one he lives in now, the most remarkable difference is that the kitchen has a separate countertop for a bar, not to mention that the living room was roomier, with a tall window providing the space with a good amount of natural light.

It was thankfully in his budget, and that’s what mattered to him the most, nevermind the fact that he basically found an affordable apartment with this much space; which to be clear, is nothing short of impossible.

The pair start to walk into the empty living room space. “You’re lucky you were able to snag this place. We haven’t gotten the word out yet, or anything about this place. So you got the exclusive first look.” Jaimie mentions as she walks to the kitchen counter, grabbing the papers and the pen.

Not knowing how to respond to her and him having his own special brand of social skills , Adam just answers with a simple “Yeah.”

“If anything you’re lucky you know Ray, being on the city council makes you meet a lot of people in the community; and stick-in-the-mud Ray knows a lot of people.” She smiles at him.

“Yeah well we’ve been friends for a while, now.” He replies to her with a polite smile back.

“Yeah. Anyway, this is the contract.” Jaime changes the direction of the conversation to the issue at hand, sliding the contract file in his direction with a pen in her hand.

“Sign here, and here….I need initials here.” She directed him as he started to sign the papers, trying to keep up with her quick directions.

Once it was finished, she handed him a stack of papers. “Okay, so this is your copy of the lease, and these are your keys. Heads up.” She dangled the keys before throwing them in his direction for him to catch, moving towards the exit to leave to the privacy of his new place. Stopping at the door, Jaimie looks back to face him as he turns around to face her.

“So you already know my name. Rent’s due on the first. If you need anything, my apartment’s on the first floor; apartment ‘1B’. If you need me but I’m not in, just slip a note under my door. ‘Kay? Any questions?”

“Uh, nope.”

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you Adam Sackler. Welcome to the building.” With that she gave him a small smirk and waved goodbye, shutting the door behind her on her way out; leaving him alone with his thoughts in his new apartment.

It’s official now, he can’t put it off anymore. He’s following the advice Ray gave him; hell, even Josh said it. Here, in the emptiness of his new space, in the bright white light of day, he finally sees what he’s been avoiding for so long.

He loved her, he cared for her, but was he ever in love with her?

He was just as quick to get back to her as soon as he realized that things with Hannah wouldn't work out. He quickly left Jessa once he found out that Hannah was pregnant and….’I don’t know.’ ‘Maybe I’m with her ‘cause it’s easy...I’m so fucked up!’ Adam furiously scrubbed his face with both hands, breathing deeply and exhaling through his nostrils.

Alone, in the middle of the empty apartment, bathed in the light from the windows, he knew. It was just like that time; he knew what he had to do.

It was time to rip the band-aid off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later in the day, after doing a few errands he had to do for the new place, Adam was standing outside of his (old?) apartment building. Looking at the window of the apartment, he takes a deep breath, gathering his bravery to face the situation.

He makes the journey up the stairs, and opens the door. The apartment is empty, judging by the hour, Jessa’s probably still in class. Taking advantage of the circumstances, he starts packing up his things; his mind making a list of the things to take with him .

‘My clothes, books. It's a good thing I don’t have a lot of stuff. I can buy food, and I already got a bed taken care of. I’m gonna have to come back for my work out stuff, my weights and the bench at least.’

Little by little Adam starts to take his favorite things, taking his time to consider what to leave behind. A practice he’s by now well-used to.

The front doors opens and in walks Jessa, her hair in a bun, wearing a loose red tee shirt with denim blue high waisted jeans, the bags in her hand suggest she bought something.

“Hey you in?!” Her voice rings through the small apartment, reaching Adam’s ears, causing him to freeze, inwardly flinching in anticipation of what’s to come. ‘Time to face the fucking music. *sigh*’ He moves out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to find her putting things away on the fridge.

“Heeeeeey.”

“I brought some groceries since the fridge was empty.” she told him casually, her head buried inside the refrigerator as she took things from the bag and placed them inside.

“You have a good day?” His stance is awkward, his hands behind his back as he debated on how to best start the conversation; break it to her while hoping to god that she takes it well.

“Not bad, Nancy is a fucking cunt, but that’s just her. Either way…” Jessa approaches him, pulling him for a kiss, smiling as she does so “She’s just irritates me, so...how was your day?” Her hands run through the familiar course of his chest sweetly. A small shrug moved his shoulders nonchalantly as he looked at her. Was this really it? “It was okay, I did a few errands.”

Hearing this her brow furrowed a bit, looking into his eyes as he stared at her. “You did errands, what errands? Didn’t you have an audition?”

“Yeah, look can we talk?” He asks as he nervously fidgets, gesturing for them to sit down on the couch. If there’s something that can be said about Adam is that he’s as subtle as a hammer.

Sitting on the coffee table in front of her, he nervously passes a hand through his hair, trying to find a way to get what he needed to say out. Jessa looked at him curiously, waiting for him to talk but finding herself growing impatient as the seconds passed.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” She urges calmly.

Adam’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, both of his hands pressed against his face as his fingers covered his eyes. “This isn’t something that I wanna have to tell you. I know this isn’t fair to you, especially after the whole thing with Hannah.”

“I’ve been doing some introspection, or whatever, and um...I’ve been going to meetings…”

“You’ve been going to meetings?” She interrupted, concern etched on her her face as her brows lifted before furrowing in thought.

“Yeah.”

“Well. Have you been drinking?”

“No!” He answered urgently. “I just…” Adam’s lips tense into an outstretched line for a brief moment while he finds a way to verbalize his thoughts.

“I’ve been going to meetings and taking time to think….And…” A few seconds pass. “Fuck” he whispered under his breath in a sigh. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that I; that WE..need time apart.” His eyes searched hers for any indication of understanding or sympathy, but they found nothing. Her gaze was blank as she was deep in thought as he spoke. “ Look, this has nothing to do with Hannah. Whatever she and I had. It’s over, it’s finished.” His baritone voice is soft and calm as he tries to sound as serious as possible. In his mind he is an adult trying to have a serious conversation with his partner. Gone is the lovable boyish demeanor he usually carried; replaced with a grim faced man as he leans over to look at her. His elbows rest on his knees and clasps his hands together, giving away his anxiety.

“I never told you how sorry I am for that...and I hurt you. It’s just that, I don’t know if it was filming the movie or if it was just life in fuckin’ general, but I was reminded of what Hannah and I had. I felt it, so I felt that there was too much history there to not try and set things right. To help her, and be there for her.” The sound of his voice reverberated through the small apartment as he looked at the floor. “ But we’re too different now and want different things. And...Now I feel like I need some space to figure shit out alone. Not just for me, because I really do care about you, Jessa.”

Jessa looks at the ground in silence, not wanting to look at him in the eyes and see her worst nightmare.

“I’m gonna be moving out, take the time to focus on my life. You can stay here, keep most of the stuff. I’ll still pay for your classes. I meant what I said.”

Jessa nods slowly, pursing her lips while processing his words.

“Okay...if that’s how you feel.” Her tone is a bit above a whisper, feigning understanding in her short words. She shrugs her shoulders and crosses her legs on the couch with a nonchalant expression. Like everything else, nothing fazes her.

Adam scoffs at her response, unable to believe how she can be so calm while he was essentially breaking up with her. No, he saw what this was. “ Oh, come the fuck on Jessa, this is just like last time. Do you seriously not give a fuck? I know you feel something. Get angry; hit me, throw something at me. For fuck’s sake, it isn’t good to bottle everything in...Just tell me how you feel.”

A deep sigh went through her nose, her eyes showed that something was beneath the surface as she shakes her head slightly and looks at him. “What do you want me to say? You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re communicating; and if this is how you feel, then there’s no point in fighting against it.”

‘Un-fucking-believable.’ Adam moves his left hand towards his cheek, lightly scratching at the hairs in his stubble. “That doesn’t mean that you’re not feeling anything; that your feelings aren’t valid.” He lets out a breath of frustration as he realizes that she put up her walls to him and she won’t budge. ‘The hitting and screaming would’ve been better.’ “Fine.”

Keeping with her attitude, Jessa clicks her tongue and leans back lazily before asking the dreaded question. “So when do you move out.”

“I was thinking about leaving today.”

“Oh...so you have a place to stay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. My stuff’s mostly packed, and I’ll come back for the rest later...But I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“Adam, stop worrying! You’ve done nothing wrong. If you feel you have to do this; you gotta do what you gotta do.” A sardonic smile graces her face. She makes everything sound so simple; black and white.

He gently grabs her tattooed wrist in his large hand and looks deeply into her green eyes, trying to find a way to get through to her, to really talk to her.

“Hey..I still care about you. okay?” He told her gently, almost as if she were a child.

“Yeah.” Her response was short and curt.

Her walls remain up; impenetrable in their might as she refuses to show him, to show the world an ounce of vulnerability. A defense mechanism that took years in perfecting. An aloof facade she shows the world.

Jessa moves to get up, leaving him alone. Adam’s well aware that this was just a front, Jessa hasn’t changed,. He couldn’t tell how bad it was, but he’s doing this for her too. He knew it’d be worse if he stayed.

No other words were said as she sat crossed legged in their bed, smoking a cigarette while he finished packing. In the back of her mind she wonders if this is what being in a relationship is really like; being off and on, having that person come in and out of your life….It’s what her father did. ‘No’ She knows that’s not true. She’s seen people get married, have families and be happy. And besides, Adam’s not remotely like her father, he’s not like the previous men in her life. He’s different.

She moves to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass or orange juice, pretending that nothing is wrong, desperately trying to ignore his presence. She found it unbearable to watch as he left her for a second time. This time she’s more aware of her feelings for him, and she dreads what will become of them, of her while watching Adam go in and out of the apartment; getting his things downstairs.

He tried to be as quick as possible; throwing this mindlessly into garbage bags, making sure he took only what was important to him.

The hardest part about breaking up is trying to leave and stay on good terms. And he’s attempting to do just that. He figured that if he could do it with Hannah, maybe it was possible with Jessa.

Adam reached into his pocket and fished out his keys, he placed them on the counter beside the sink.

“You take care of yourself, okay?” He said awkwardly, looking at her one last time. His mouth is etched in a pout and his eyes are sullen at her lack of reply, but he still waits a few seconds for her, almost as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t even look at him as he made his way out of the apartment.

Closing the door behind him, Adam takes a moment to just stand there, his mouth still set in a pout, his brows furrowed as he feels the weight of what’s happened.

Both lovers stand on either side of the closed door, each hoping that the other would take a step forward to open the door; to go back to the other, but neither one does. Adam stays there, feeling the guilt over what he’s done slowly spread; lamenting not just the loss of his lover, but the loss of his best friend.

‘It had to be done. There’s no point in staying anymore.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside of the apartment, Jessa just stood there, staring at the door; willing him to come back to her. Her face morphs from boredom to one of pure heartbreak. Her eyes start to water as her breathing changes to an erratic pace.

In the cold emptiness surrounding her, she couldn’t pretend anymore. Her mask vanishes, revealing the abandoned girl underneath, watching as her friend walked out of their home and her life.

This time she can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt; can’t deny the devastation she feels as her world blurs. She places the palm of her hands over her eyes as the tears overflow.

‘He’s done this before, and he came back; he’ll do it again.’ She reasons in her desperation, clinging to the idea that Adam will be back, that this is just a pattern. Because the alternative would be to accept that he left her for good.

‘Fucking Hannah!’ As she cries her thoughts become more chaotic. ‘Don’t go. Don’t do this to me.’ Her inner voice cries as she slides slowly towards the floor, bringing her knees towards her chest.

‘This is just how he is.’ She reasoned, still expecting him to come back, her mind repeating his last words over and over. He did say he cared about her, he still loved her; but as she continued to reason his return, a small part of her feared she was just clinging to an empty promise, that she was stupidly holding on to hope...and that he really did leave her.

The silence inside the apartment is maddening, the space is cold; isolated from the world filled only with her small cries.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He should be used to moving, considering how often he did in the past eight years, but no, it was always a bitch. And the worst part about it? Doing it because of a break up. To say that it was awkward was an understatement, but he needed to end things well off with Jessa. God knows he’s ran into people from his past before enough times to know better. New York may be populated by millions of people, but it can turn into a very small place, when Karma feels like it. It’d be worse if he didn’t do it this way, he’s sure of it.

After getting the last of his things upstairs, he starts unpacking bit by bit. He doesn’t have a refrigerator yet, or a bed for that matter; those come in tomorrow, but Adam has been through worse, and one day without furniture hardly phases him. That being said sleeping on the floor isn’t something he’s looking forward to. Plus, this is what friends are for isn’t it? ...to crash on their couch when needed?

Adam takes his phone out, scrolling through the few contacts saved in it. He could ask Ray; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d stay at his place, especially after a breakup. He could also ask Josh, he had offered his couch to let him crash before; maybe the offer’s still on the table.

‘Screw it.’

He hits on Josh’s contact and places the device next to his ear, waiting for a response on the other side of the line.

“Hey.” Josh’s deep voice sounds through the phone’s speaker.

“ Heeeey...listen, I got a favor to ask, if it’s not too much trouble, or whatever.” Adam started nervously, scratching his head as he talked.

“Yeah, man. Shoot.”

“I broke up with Jessa.” He blurted out. “I moved out.”

There was a slight silence on the line before Josh responded. “Well, shit. Do you need a place to stay? Until you find something?”

“I already got a place. I just need a place to crash until I can get the bed and fridge brought in here.”

“ Well you’re in luck, then. I’m actually on my way back from work. I gotta stop to pick up a few things and then I’m headed home.” Josh explained in his easy-going tone; like nothing bothers him at the moment. “ I’ll let Vanessa know; she’s coming over tonight.”

Adam hesitated “ I don’t wanna shit on your plans.”

“ Oh, fuck off. You’re not. Dude, trust me, Ness loves you. She’d be pissed if I didn’t help out. My sofa es su casa.”

Even though Josh can’t see him, Adam smiles at his friend’s words; his teeth peeking out from his lips and the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he does so. “ Yeah, okay. Just let me know when you’re at home. Text me or whatever.”

“You got it. Tonight we’re eating homemade Mexican food.”

“Yeah, Thanks.”

“Alright, see ya.”

With that, Adam hung up, comforted in the knowledge that he’ll be able to sleep in a comfortable, and most importantly cushioned, tonight. At least now he had a place to call his, and by pure stroke of luck, the apartment’s rent wasn’t as high as it could be. He’ll furnish it, little by little. He lives in New York, so someone’s bound to not want a couch somewhere. That leaves the matter of his kitchen. He’d have to buy glasses, plates and food, to at least have the very basics.

‘A bookshelf in the living room. I’ll put my bench in the bedroom...clothes go in the closet, I gotta get a chest or something with drawers..’

He turns to pick up the trash bags storing his clothes, taking them through the small hallway towards his bedroom closet. He’d have to do laundry before the end of the week, he reminded himself as he realized that he was in such a rush to pack everything that he didn’t think that some of his shirts in the bag used to be strewn across the floor of the apartment and stank of sweat.

He spent the next few hours doing what he can, organizing his clothes between what’s clean and what was to be laundered, he took his time to make sure everything was arranged to his liking; a far cry from how he was living 8 years ago. Back when he was an aimless mess living in an apartment cluttered with tools and random pieces of reclaimed wood; when he would rather fuck around with no strings attached than be emotionally vulnerable with someone.

To Adam, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Gone was the aloof fuckboy with an awkward haircut and no direction. Now in his place stands a more empathetic and responsible man.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard his phone come to life, sounding an alert to let him know he had just received a text and prompting him to look for it. Reaching for his back pocket, he fishes out his phone to see a message from Josh came in saying ‘Just got in.’ on the lit up screen. He’d finish unpacking later; now he was hungry, and Mexican seemed like just the thing…

——————————————————

Hey guys, I’m baaaaack!!!! :D

2020 has been a hell of a year, but I still wanted to end it on a good note. So here we have a short but sweet chapter where Adam wants to leave Jessa to focus on himself, but he knows how fragile and lonely she can be and tries to do it gently....Does it work? We'll have to find out. Safe to say, Jessa will be a reoccurring guest star on this show, so we’ll see how Adam handles this and how he manages to move on. So, leave a comment and let me know what y’all think.

Mucho Love and and a happy New year!!😊

Xoxo Selene R

Tag list for some friends (let me know if you’d like to be added) 

@kowalskibro-adamdriverblog @tsarinastorm @alexdaleks @thrivingamidstchaos @klauscarolove @misskitred @ah-callie @sarcasticbitch @jynz-andtonic @oh-adam @commanderbensolo @kylos-wren @adamsnackler @patersonn-kylo @adamsnacc-kler @ellelaconiwrites @that-only-exists-in-my-mind @ktellmeastory @fallinallinmendes @noocturnalchild

[caspersscareschool]

Being near Sanemi made Giyuu want to ruin him, to take some of that goodness for himself, so that Sanemi could be selfish, and Giyuu could be brave. 

Brave enough to say something dangerous, like I love you.

don't look at me

Surface Tension

Giyuu had spent so much of his life indulging in mourning. 

He used to think that to mourn was to punish himself for his selfishness. He’d blamed himself for the deaths of his sister and the boy who had called him a brother, so he’d carried the two of them on his back along with the sword at his hip. He’d occupied his meaningless time on this earth with repentance. He’d hoped the weight of his guilt would bury him in the earth. 

He’d lived here with Sanemi for months, and not much changed throughout that time. Funny how the most suicidal of them all had become the only two to survive. They’d bonded over this, fallen into a fast, unspoken rhythm, and when the time came to leave the Flower Estate, they’d built their own cabin, feeling like strangers in their own separate homes. They moved in together. Took care of each other, when necessary. And they stayed in the same routine. 

More loss made Giyuu realize that his loved ones couldn’t live with him forever and that mourning only distracted him from what he still had. After Muzan’s fall, he came to terms with this. What he couldn’t come to terms with, with the weight off his back, was the absurd lack of guilt--and the foreign feelings that had come to replace it.

It was a rare day that Giyuu woke up earlier than Sanemi, but once he got up these days, he stayed up, not liking to wallow in depression as much as he used to. Sanemi looked exhausted, so Giyuu tiptoed outside, resolving to stay there until he woke up. The sun just barely kissed their greying garden. With all the birds gone south and the frogs in hiding, silence hung thick. Giyuu sat by the pond for nearly an hour, fall chill biting his face. 

The sound of Sanemi’s footsteps, then, and the brushing of his clothes as he sat down sounded deafening in the dead silence, the same way a dim torch looked bright in the pitch black: like a lighthouse. Then, quiet overtook the pond again. Sanemi studied him. He must have noticed his pensiveness, because he tread carefully. Giyuu stared ahead.

"How are you?" Sanemi tried. 

There's something wrong with me, Giyuu thought. I'm feeling things that I shouldn't. I'm not feeling the things I should.

"Fine," he answered.

"What are you doing?"

Mourning something that hasn't died yet. Maybe that hasn’t been born.

"Enjoying the quiet."

Sanemi was more perceptive than him--maybe if Giyuu thought loud enough, Sanemi would hear. Then, they'd never have to say it out loud. They could go on like this forever, just the two of them, and Giyuu found he wouldn't mind being alone so much if it was with Sanemi. As long as they could stay like this. Usually, Giyuu spoke his mind and took what he wanted, but he knew there were invisible lines somewhere dangerously close that if he crossed, would make Sanemi leave forever. He just had to keep absolutely still.

"I'll enjoy it with you."

Giyuu felt like the two of them were sailing, swaddled in a shriveled leaf barely light enough to stay afloat on the pond. The water cradled them, but if it rained, they would grow too heavy and drown. The wind rocked them, but if it grew too strong, it would blow them away and they'd lose their ship forever. Neither moved a muscle, on opposite sides of their fragile vessel, for fear that the weight of them both might break the surface. The surface tension of silence was the only thing keeping Giyuu and Sanemi from unknown depths.

Still, he reached for his hand.

The two of them said nothing for what felt both like seconds and hours. Sanemi said nothing of Giyuu's hand finding his own, sending ripples in the water, absently rubbing the stumps where his index and middle fingers used to live. Giyuu said nothing of the naturalness of that gap: the fingers must have hurt to lose, but the space they left was the perfect size for Giyuu's thumb. It felt like home. So did Sanemi’s hand when he slotted it under Giyuu’s right stump to prop him upright sometimes, though Giyuu would never say so out loud. 

They'd both lost so much. Saying it out loud would only give them something more to lose.

Giyuu was selfish at heart.

“It’s so still, huh?” Sanemi mused. “You’d think it was frozen over.”

Giyuu hummed in reply. 

“You cold?” Sanemi asked.

“Not really,” Giyuu answered, but found his shoulders tucked under Sanemi’s haori anyway. More ripples. He froze.

It had occurred to Giyuu from the very start that Sanemi embodied everything Giyuu wished he was. A true pillar. Someone able, even eager, to protect others, even at the cost of his own life. He didn’t even have to think about it. Maybe that was why Giyuu had resented him at first: he was just like Sabito. But in the end, despite his bravery, confidence, and ineffable strength in the face of loss, Sanemi was every bit as dumb as him, and on some level, maybe that had spurred Giyuu to let a little bit of that strength possess him toward the end. He only wished it had come sooner.

“I’m gonna start on breakfast.” Sanemi ruffled his hair. He leaned towards him standing up so that his nose--and lips--brushed the top of Giyuu’s head before he tipped back to his center. “Don’t stay out too long.” 

He walked away.

Before Muzan's defeat, Giyuu had thought of Sanemi as stupid. He still thought as much. But Sanemi was brave, and selfless in a way that Giyuu never was. Giyuu had never so desperately wanted to make another person happy. Being near Sanemi made Giyuu want to ruin him, to take some of that goodness for himself, so that Sanemi could be selfish, and Giyuu could be brave. 

Brave enough to say something dangerous, like I love you.

When Giyuu slid back inside, the smell of eggs and rice welcomed him. Sanemi’s back faced the entrance, clad in that faded purple yukata, and not for the first time Giyuu wondered how he managed to spend so much of his life killing and still look so at home in a kitchen. He must have been born to provide.

Giyuu could stare at that back from the door all day, but he was tired of being selfish, so instead, he squeezed in beside him at the counter and picked up a knife. The tension between them wavered again, but he ignored it. Saying nothing, Sanemi held a bundle of chives still with one hand so that Giyuu could chop it, his attention still on the eggs he was whisking, trusting Giyuu completely not to chop his fingers off. Giyuu worked slowly in comparison to Sanemi’s confident dashing, sprinkling, and whisking; he aligned each chop with care. 

Even without the pond in front of them, Giyuu still felt that he could slip at any moment and drown. He considered going back to bed until he felt more stable. He didn't.

There wasn't much else Giyuu knew how to do in the kitchen department, but Sanemi never asked him to leave, only gently elbowing him aside when he stood in the way. Giyuu watched Sanemi season the egg and roll it, with unreal gentleness, into a lovely cylinder. 

"You wanna eat in bed?" Sanemi offered. It was a habit Giyuu had picked up over years of living alone, and Sanemi never teased him for it. In fact, it felt a little less pathetic when someone joined him.

"Sure," he said despite himself.

They only ever ate on Giyuu's futon, because Sanemi liked to keep clean and Giyuu didn't give a shit. Dim light seeped in through the walls. Plates sat in their laps. He was glad Sanemi sensed his need for quiet, because he thought that if he spoke now, something he'd regret would slip out, and there would be no going back. At the same time, Sanemi's presence at his side, and the fact that he knew Giyuu well enough to stay quiet, drove him crazy, and he might just say it anyway. Giyuu stuffed his face to keep from talking. 

Sanemi picked at his food. Giyuu forced himself to speak.

Don't be selfish, don't be selfish, don't be selfish. 

"Is…" Giyuu swallowed, restraining his thoughts. "Is something wrong?"

Sanemi blinked as if he'd forgotten Giyuu was there. "Huh? No, I…" He met his eyes, making Giyuu's breath hitch. "Actually, I should be asking you that."

"Nothing's wrong," Giyuu whispered. 

After a long moment, Sanemi averted his eyes again. Then, just as fragile as Giyuu:

"Okay."

The two were sinking. He could feel it. He tried to stuff his face some more, but he'd already cleaned his plate. He pointed to Sanemi's.

"Aren't you hungry?" 

Sanemi misread his concern, pushing the plate toward Giyuu. "Knock yourself out."

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

"No, I…"

Sanemi looked so earnest, and Giyuu realized that every time he tried to show concern like Sanemi showed for him, it turned out like this. He always twisted it around so that he was accommodating for Giyuu, like he couldn’t imagine Giyuu wanting to be around him for any reason other than to take and take and take. Infuriating; endearing. 

He thought about little Genya, and the happiness he'd wanted for his brother. Giyuu was the only one left to make that wish come true, if Sanemi would only let him. Their ship wavered dangerously. He wanted to scream. Finally, he couldn't stop himself:

"You're an idiot," Giyuu breathed.

Sanemi frowned. That hadn't come out right.

"Excuse me?"

Giyuu couldn't stop. "You're an idiot. Oh my god. You're so fucking stupid." The unmistakable urge to laugh bubbled up in Giyuu's chest, something he'd only learned to recognize over the past few months. "I can't believe this."

Giyuu laughed, clear as a bell, cutting through the tense quiet. Ripples exploded throughout the water, but the more he tried to stop them, the more the boat rocked. Sanemi had an unreadable expression, but he didn't look amused. He didn't even look angry. The closest thing Giyuu could compare it to…

Concern. Giyuu laughed harder.

"Moron," Giyuu wheezed, knocking the empty plate off his lap. "You absolute moron."

"Giyuu--"

"Sanemi." None of it mattered anymore. Giyuu was selfish, but that was okay; Sanemi was selfless to the point of stupidity, and if Giyuu didn't take what he wanted, no one would. "I want to take care of you. I care about you."

Sanemi stared dumbly. To get it through his thick skull, Giyuu moved closer, cupped his hand on Sanemi’s cheek like he always did for him, and spoke with absolute clarity:

“I love you.”

Any lingering doubt in Giyuu’s mind dispersed. Sanemi’s eyes went huge, reverent, and he stilled like if he breathed, Giyuu would turn to dust and disappear. Brave Sanemi--usually so brash, so confident. Giyuu felt a surge of pride that he could reduce him to this. He wanted to do it again. And again. And again.

"... Oh."

There was one more thing left to break.

"Sanemi," Giyuu breathed, breaking the last wall of silence, "can I kiss you?"

Sanemi didn't look away this time. He didn't even answer. He leaned in, so no barriers stood between them...

And he kissed him. And there was nothing left to mourn. And Giyuu kissed him back. And over the pounding in his ears, Giyuu couldn’t imagine ever sailing in silence again. And they kissed. And they kissed. And they kissed.

Giyuu drowned.

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

thank you so so much again louie and aya for beta reading this!!!❤❤❤

[wickedmilo]

SOUNDS LIKE A YOU PROBLEM | MILO & CHLOE

PLACE: A dive bar TIMING: 10:49 PM SUMMARY: After realising he has run out of money, Milo approaches Chloe and asks her to pay for his drinks. WRITING PARTNER: @chloeinbetween ​ CONTENT WARNINGS: Addiction, alcohol, references to emotional abuse, drug manipulation (Leanan-Sidhe kiss), chronic illness

There were a lot of things Chloe hadn’t done for years, banned because the only thing allowed to be a detriment to her health was the fae feeding on her. There were a lot of things she wasn’t supposed to do now either, against medical advice or the general opinions of the town on what wasn’t and wasn’t safe. Drinking a glass of whiskey by herself in a bar that was too dingy to have a crowd on a weeknight probably fell into all of the above. Which was why she was doing it. Her fingers drummed against the sticky linoleum of the bar, looking at messages on her phone that she had no plan of answering. Her old messaging app had kept all the old messages from before she’d been taken, so in her worst moments she scrolled through the texts she’d received demanding to know where she was, and why she’d abandoned them. 

It was hardly surprising in pits like this that she didn’t notice the young man sidling up to her curiously. Not until he was much too close. “Can I help you?” Chloe asked, looking him up and down. 

Until very recently, Milo had no reason to concern himself with boundaries. The circles he usually ran in had far more important things to worry about, like who had the drugs, and where they were going to use them. He was too used to stumbling, getting close to strangers, or sharing paraphernalia with people he didn’t recognise. Being forced to avoid people, Humans, was new. A habit he was being forced to form. That didn’t mean his other habits, the ones he had been establishing for years, weren’t demanding his attention though. Which was why he had made his way over to a quiet bar, a bar he knew didn’t often draw in the crowds. As depressing as it was to drink alone in a shadowy corner, that’s exactly how he had been spending his night. Up until the moment he had reached into his pocket for the crushed bills he usually kept there and realised they were no longer present. He shouldn’t be surprised, he had been handing them over for hours. But everybody knew running out of money was anxiety inducing, even when you didn’t have habits to maintain. 

His bank account was empty, that had been the last of it. He wasn’t stupid enough to assume he counted wrong when he had withdrawn the remainder of his funds. And he hadn’t been to work since his official time of death. He could make a run for it, but even in his inebriated state he knew being chased down and potentially tackled by a bartender would only end in said bartender being drained of blood. There didn’t seem to be many options ahead of him. So instead of eyeing the door, he began to eye his fellow patrons. It was very easy to single out the person least likely to punch him in the face, and he pushed himself out of the booth he had been slouching in, getting far too close before he could hold himself back. His limbs felt heavy, his entire body clumsy, and uncoordinated. But he pushed on. “Yeah, actually-” He insisted, a familiar rush of longing creeping up on him as her scent began to permeate the space. Taking a hesitant step back, he swallowed his craving, willing himself to stay where he was. “You can pay for my drinks.” Maybe it wasn’t the smoothest way of asking the woman for money, but his brain wasn’t functioning at full capacity and pathetically, it was the best he could do. Maybe she would take pity on him. “I mean- I’ve probably had the worst fucking month of my life, and I… shit, I mean I have no money. What do you want me to say?”

“Excuse me?” Chloe replied, twisting in her seat to look him over. There was a buzz in her head, but it did nothing to numb the immediate annoyance at his request. If anything, it removed any social insecurity, Chloe was no longer interested in being careful with her words. A fae would be more eloquent than that anyway. She pushed her drink further onto the counter so that she would not knock it, and looked him up and down. There was a loose, chaotic way of his movements, like he didn’t quite know how to hold himself together. He was drunk, drawling, obviously. Her lip curled in disgruntled annoyance. “Why the hell are you at a bar if you haven’t got any money?” Chloe snapped back, looking right back up at him. 

“I really don’t see how that’s anyone’s problem except yours. And the bartender’s. How disrespectful do you need to be to expect something like this from other people?” She rolled her eyes pointedly at him. There was another thought, biting at the corner of her mind, after another moment of looking at him, the sentence slipped out before she could stop herself. “Can’t have been too shitty a month if you still have the capacity to make bad life choices.”

Milo knew the moment the woman turned to face him that she wasn’t about to hand over her credit card. Even if it hadn’t been obvious in her tone, it would have been obvious in the way she was looking at him. Letting out a huff of breath in response to the question, it was a sharp reminder of how important it was to take shallow breaths. He didn’t need the oxygen, and breathing in too deeply was only going to put her in danger. Each intake brought with it a wave of tantalising scent. “I had money.” He countered, an edge to his own voice. “I drank it.” Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he would do if somebody approached him and asked him to pay for their drinks. Maybe in the morning her reaction would feel reasonable, and valid. Right now though, in this moment, it was infuriating. It didn’t make any sense. 

“And it isn’t disrespectful to be a total dick when somebody asks you for help?” He demanded, twisting the situation to frame himself as someone to sympathise with, someone to feel sorry for. He fell silent again, his eyes narrowing as she carefully observed him. Even with so much alcohol in his system, it made him feel vulnerable, and exposed. He didn’t like it. Shifting awkwardly on the spot, he felt a spark of genuine anger when she eventually commented on his life choices. Did he really look that bad? “Oh, yeah?” He snapped. “You’re here drinking alone too, you know? Seems like we’re both making shitty decisions. I’d like to see anybody go through what I’ve been through and not want to drink themselves into oblivion. Haven’t you ever heard of coping mechanisms? Fucking crutches? Maybe I just need a fucking break.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Chloe replied, matching his edge just as harshly, even though her voice croaked with the effort. There was a way he looked at her that made her skin crawl, like he knew more about her than he should, or that he wanted more than her money. Perhaps what was left of her life, she though, and shook the thought away. He didn’t have the charisma to be like Lydia. He was pitiable. Still a threat, maybe, but under her anger she understood just want this looked like. 

There was a knife edge difference between drinking to cope and drinking to lose herself, and Chloe was terrified of landing the wrong edge of the line. 

Then he opened his mouth again and her sympathy was quashed immediately. “Only if they’re not a dick in asking for it. You didn’t even ask! You demanded. You look young but not too young to know the difference.” If nothing, her barbed comment only seemed to raise his hackles even further, his voice raising. Her hands curled tightly around the edge of the barstool. “I’m not pissing off anyone else though, am I? I don’t think you’re in a place to throw rocks, dude. Oh fuck off, do you really think you have a monopoly on suffering?”

Milo glared at the woman, irritated by the tone she was taking although he had a feeling he might look back on this conversation and feel it was entirely justified. “I’m trying to make it an us problem.” He muttered, thinking of every time Dani had ever called him a smartmouth. “I didn’t ask for shit.” He added, his glare only growing in intensity. Clearly it had been a mistake to approach her. She must have known he was likely going to ask her for money regardless of how she chose to begin their initial interaction, but technically he was being honest. “You asked if you could help me, and I said yes, you could pay for my drinks. If anything, you offered.” 

Noting her voice growing in volume, the last thing he wanted to do was cause a scene. But he also felt as though he had every right to be angry. He hadn’t done anything wrong. “I didn’t come over here to piss you off. I actually have better things to do.” He snapped, running a clumsy hand through his hair as he struggled to reign in his frustration. “You know what? Yeah, I really fucking do have the monopoly on suffering right now. Why do you think I’m even here? I had friends, and a fucking family, and I’m really fucking tired. So forgive me for not realising I was nearly out of cash. And forgive me for thinking that maybe someone might actually take pity on me and offer to help me out. It’s whatever, okay? I’ll fucking go-” 

“I’ll remember next time to be clearer with my sarcasm as you don’t seem to get it. I fucking doubt that,” Chloe snarled back, eyes creased in a frown, back straight. She couldn’t say whether it was the alcohol or the attitude that was giving her a headache, but she was pretty sure he was the problem either way. But somewhere in his furious tirade, Chloe heard the hints of something that… well, nothing justified treating people shittily, but something awful, something Chloe understood a little too well. 

No friends. No family. Alone in a dark place with an unhealthy coping mechanism and a need to drown your thoughts in a buzz. Chloe hadn’t had access to alcohol for the last few years, but… well, there had been something available to take the edge off. Chloe shivered. “Wait.” She said curtly, jaw flexing, unable to believe she was about to say this. Maybe because in the biting harshness of his features she saw snippets of Todd and Sammy, young lost men who had found the wrong source of comfort in their troubled lives. Chloe already knew it was fantastical to think she could fix things, but if there was a kindness to be offered…. On the other hand, he was an asshole who had pissed her off, so she almost let him walk away just to teach him a lesson. “Just this once, okay? So you don’t end up in jail on top of whatever other shit you have going on. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Maybe don’t engage strangers in conversation and you won’t have to.” Milo countered. She had spoken to him first. He wasn’t about to take responsibility for something that wasn’t his fault. He was just turning to leave, his hands balled into fists, when he heard the woman call out to him. Surprised, but too irritated to show any gratitude, he faced her once again, a frown still fixed firmly in place. He hadn’t been expecting her to change her mind, and he was in too bitter a mood to be honest about just how much the gesture meant. Taking the bills she was handing out to him, he was careful to only take the amount he needed, leaving a few of them behind. There were other ways to find money if he became desperate. Right now, it seemed like the very least he could do to acknowledge she was offering him help. Crumpling them in his hand, he sheepishly caught her eye. He knew he should say thank you, but he was stubborn. Too stubborn to admit he might have been unfair to her. So he left, instead. Without saying another word. Maybe one day he might feel guilty about that fact, but it wasn’t as though he was ever going to see her again. Something, he thought, that might very well be for the best.

[doctorgerth]

Writing Contest Winner (4th Place)

winner: @gr8estwulfluvreva

prize choice: HCs for any two characters

description: How Kid and Killer react to and comfort a fem s/o who they catch singing depressing lyrics (Nonsense Speaker) in the shower. 

warnings: tw - depression, dark/heavy themes, mild suggestive themes, angst/comfort

note: This was a bit difficult to write in strict HC format, so it’s more like a choppy scenario format with some HCs sprinkled in lol. hope that’s ok! 

Eustass Kid 

- Kid could hear her muffled singing echoing outside the cracked bathroom door. he chuckled to himself, knowing she would never sing this loud if she was aware that he was around. getting a naughty idea, he decided to slip into the bathroom to surprise her, quickly undressing to join her in the shower. 

- it was adorable how she kept singing loudly, dramatically. cracking a few notes here and there. as the song ended, he reached out to pull back the curtains until she began another song, sounding much more somber in her tune. 

“Emotions I feel, they turn to none. I broke, I broke them one by one.”

- Kid found himself stiff, arm stuck halfway reaching out for the curtain, unable to move. he listened to the way she crooned the lyrics, as if singing straight from the heart. he started to really focus on the lyrics this time, noting how dark they were compared to the previous tune. 

“The smile that I had through all these years, it bears, it bears these hateful tears.” 

 - surely this is just a song right? she was just singing a happy song, everything is okay right? through the confusion and the echoing lament of the lyrics, he started to grow worried. something sounded off, he could hear how choked she was beginning to sound. 

“The scars that I have gulped, although they hurt...”

- he trembled at the small audible sniffle, loud enough to be heard over the flowing water. she paused for a moment, and he could see the outline of her body through the curtain, hugging herself. she choked out the next line, softly weeping.

“They hurt but you won’t know.”

- he pulled the curtain, eliciting a sharp gasp from her as she wiped at her face and backed away from him. a small whine of his name and she couldn’t look him in the eye. he stepped into the shower, eyes locked on her frame; the way she was coiled up, rubbing at her arms with eyes downcast. he reached out to her and pulled her into him despite her protests, “How long?” 

- she looked up at him, studying the solemn look on his face. hate began to bubble in her stomach as she assumed she had made him mad. dark thoughts clouded her mind, convincing her that she was truly good for nothing.

- “Goddamnit, (Name)! Don’t hide this shit from me.” though his voice was stern, he held her tightly against him, burying her face into his chest, thumbing at the small of her back while the water cascaded onto her. he felt so warm against her, despite not being under the water. he settled his chin onto her head, rummaging through his mind on what to say next. he was never good with his words, maybe that’s why she decided to hide her dark thoughts from him. 

- “I’m sorry.” the pain in her voice made him ache, wanting to shake and squeeze all the sadness out of her. he didn’t know how to deal with this stuff, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted her to hide it from him. he tried to suppress his anger. he wasn’t mad at her, just that she would dare hide her true feelings from him. she’s been suffering alone and that didn’t settle well with him. she wasn’t supposed to be alone, she had him. did she not trust him? was he not reliable? his own anxiety began spilling forth as he always had a bad habit of making everything about himself. somewhere in that chaotic brain, he concocted the idea that he was the reason for her sadness.

- they didn’t say a word as they just stood in the shower together, embracing each other tightly. she couldn’t help but cry against him, feeling an overwhelming amount of emotions threatening to drown her. he didn’t like to see her cry, he’d never get used to it. he didn’t know what was hurting her so much, but he vowed to protect her against the demons himself, “Don’t be sorry. Just fucking talk to me. Don’t shut me out. Please.”  

- it takes a while for Kid to be understanding, which makes the road to healing a bit rocky. he just gets so angry thinking about her being so hard on herself. she doesn’t deserve that! he gets so angry because he can’t just take it all away for her, be her true hero; it’s a whole process. he’s impatient because wants them to be better immediately. he wants them to be happy. he gets so angry because he knows he doesn’t help, some days he is convinced he only makes it worse for them. he gets so angry because it reminds him of his own dark thoughts and how he’s been hiding some insecurities himself.

- they both become more active in self-care habits and it not only helps them individually, but it also greatly improves their relationship. they both learn to be more open with their feelings, especially towards each other. they spend a lot of time with the crew, especially when they feel the darkness creeping in. they’ve even developed some non-verbal signals to show when they’re not in the best mood and need some support. they’ve learned each other’s needs and what supports are best for them individually. it hasn’t gone away completely, but everything is much easier now that they know they don’t have to struggle alone. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Killer

“You don’t know how I feel inside.” 

- the soft sound of her voice awoke Killer from his slumber. he stretched and rolled over onto his side, eyeing the cracked bathroom door. his mind was still hazy as she continued to sing, sounding further away than what she really was.

“You don’t know how much I tried.”

- as he became fully conscious, he could finally focus on the tune she was singing, the dark lyrics that sounded so depressing. this wasn’t her usual shower singing, something about this felt personal. almost like a cry for help. it made Killer feel uneasy. he forgot about his own breathing so he could focus solely on each word she sang, trying to figure out her source of pain. (Name) was always so bright and lively, that’s what he loved most about her. the words she sang were haunting, they didn’t fit her at all. at least not the (Name) he knew. was she hiding something?

“Light that burned, it’s out by now. I try to get it back somehow.” 

- Killer’s mind raced as he thought back to every conversation they had, every interaction, every moment shared. he searched desperately for any hints of sadness, any signs of depression, but nothing could come to mind. he didn’t like how good she was at hiding her true feelings.

“Right now I could just disappear.”

- he felt his heart sink down to his feet at those words, body cold and stiff as he tried to process them. disappear? did she really want that? his heart hurt for her and he continued to listen helplessly as she choked out the rest of the words, finishing the song on a somber note. he became alert as the shower turned off and he could hear her cleaning off and getting dressed in the bathroom; small, weak whimpers escaping her every now and then.

- the wait for her to return to bed was agonizing. he had half a mind to barge into the bathroom, but he remained patient, wondering frantically what she was doing in the there. praying she was okay. when the door creaked, he closed his eyes, feigning sleep. he could hear the faint sound of sniffling as she shuffled towards the bed. 

- the patience was long gone as soon as she settled underneath the covers. he rolled over to her, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling into her neck, ignoring her cold, wet hair. she chuckled faintly, believing that he was still fast asleep, until his voice called out to her, “You okay?”

- she stilled for a moment, hoping that maybe he was sleep talking. but the way he squeezed her in his embrace, she knew he was awake, “It’s late you know.” he stated, filling in the silence. all she could do was nod, tangling her fingers mindlessly in his locks. he looked up at her, awaiting an answer. her cheeks were red, eyes puffy and melancholy. he had never seen her so broken, it was excruciating. 

- he tangled his fingers with her free hand, worrying about saying the wrong things. so he remained silent for longer than he intended, simply toying with her hand and hugging her close. she cursed herself for worrying him, for waking him up with her dramatic antics. she didn’t want him to know all the bad thoughts she had about herself but she knew she had been found out.

- “You know I’m here for you, right? Always am. Whatever it is, I want to help you get through it.”

- she bit her lip to hold back the cries that wanted to escape. she was supposed to be strong, fearless. Killer always admired those traits about her so she tried her hardest to remain so any time he was around. but keeping up the facade was proving more and more difficult as the days got harder and the thoughts got darker. he wouldn’t understand, he wouldn’t accept her if he knew just how weak she was. 

- “I love you, (Name).”

- she didn’t say much the rest of the night and she didn’t have to. he just held her tightly while she cried silently into his chest, rubbing at her hair gently. from here on out, he begged her to no longer hide things from him and his understanding and patient nature helped her to open up a little more.

- they spend a lot of nights just talking. Killer is really a great listener and he knows that’s what she needs during her dark moments. it takes some time for her to get everything off her chest, especially the really dark thoughts, but he accepts her for all she is and proves that he wants nothing more than to help her get through whatever is upsetting her. he reminds her over and over how loved and cherished she is, by both him and the crew, and that she should never feel like she has to go through anything alone again. he’s good about informing himself on depression and helping her develop self-care habits. he becomes a little clingy, constantly on guard around her, but he only means well. he is determined support her throughout the entire healing process, no matter what it takes.

[ambitcxious-a]

* ABBEY LEE KERSHAW, FEMALE + SHE/HER  | you know ADELAIDE MONTSERRAT, right? they’re 27, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, TWO YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to EVE BY KAT CUNNING like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole FAWN-EYED, BOWED LEGS,  EXPENSIVE CHAMPAGNE thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is OCTOBER & 30TH, so they’re a SCORPIO, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( lenny, 24, est+2, she/her )

tw: depression, eating / psychological disorders, animal abuse, drugs

ABOUT.

name: adelaide montserrat

nickname: addie

age: 27

pronouns: she/her

occupation: socialite, philanthropist, prodigy ballerina

gender: cis female

sexuality: bisexual

pinterest

The Montserrat established themselves in Barcelona, Spain, over millennia ago,  known as fierce leaders and ruthless business men, quick to make a name for themselves the trading and exporting business,  while the women in the bloodline were promptly pushed aside from books and history, hiding somewhere between a stove and their husband’s fists.  

Adelaide Montserrat was different, that’s what everybody thought - she was graceful, even as a child, she didn’t cry, even as a toddler, and she never ached for her mother’s arms, even as an infant. An early bloomer of exceptional talent, she could dance as soon as she could walk. And yet Adelaide was never one to develop long-lasting or intimate relationships with her peers --- people never seemed to be comfortable sitting with her for long.  Maybe it was because there was never a girl there to begin with, and intimacy betrayed the act:  there was no child,  only a pale, wide-eyed zombie, always hungry,  always empty. 

If you dared to pry beyond the red curtains, you’d not find the delicate creature strangers saw twirling on the stage, but the bottomless edge of an abyss, waiting to swallow you whole as it looked back with smiling teeth. Little Addie, once a girl with pink tutus and ballerina shoes, was never one to be meddled with - while she could easily captivate the hearts of her peers and teachers with red cheeks and a clever tongue, there was nothing warm or kind about the little girl whose parents held so close she nearly choked to death.

Adelaide was the product of a one night stand and poor lack of judgement, or so her mother liked to recount. Her father — whomever he was, was a married man with a lot to lose, and her mother might not have known much — but she knew alimony payments would beat whatever he was willing to offer her in order to get rid of Adelaide. So, she kept the baby, and even then --- she was unbearable.  Adelaide kicked, day and night, as soon as her legs could muster, like she couldn’t stand to be trapped in the womb a moment longer.

They were living largely, manors and pools and cocktails, while Addie grew up receiving the best education money could buy, alternating between hunting and horseback riding on weekends, and training classical instruments such as the cello and piano in her spare time. Being praised for her dedication and skill, for some time, she indulged the idea of becoming a professional pianist, if only to please her parents, but the idea was soon took a backseat in her mind when she discovered just how good she was at ballet.

Adelaide had always been more of a shiny trophy to flaunt at parties rather than daughter or grandchild to dot upon, so by the time she was 13 her family was quite happy to ship her to Paris, if it meant she would enroll in the prestigious Paris Opera Ballet School and make a name for herself. She’d still come home to visit on holidays, that was until her mother moved to New York in order to appease bachelor number three: CEO of Belmont Entertainment Industries (BEI), one of the largest record labels in the U.S, with a side of illegal activities they didn’t really care to discuss at dinner.

It didn’t take long for Addie to make an impression, she was dedicated — hungrier than the other girls, always willing to push a little further, go a little deeper, die a little more. All of the shouting, the groping, the self-hatred, she never broke. Had it been not for her ego and pride, she would’ve been flawless. You’d assume being the young and on the spotlight meant competing for attention - but she never competed. She never even considered it a competition. She won, plain and simple. You see, Adelaide didn’t lose, because she tailored the game to her whims and batted her heavy set of lashes to make it seem fair. And if she did lose - the game be damned; she’d destroy it and any evidence of her failure. She didn’t want to be daughter, or something for men to gawk at, or a pretty glittered thing for little girls to worship. She wanted to be something else. Anything other than this empty shell, dripping with self-loathing , cloaked in a veil of perfectionism. Something that wasn’t rammed into this golden mold before she even took her very first breath.

Fueled by her own insecurities and desire to obtain perfection, paired with the crowd of rich kids that were offered to her as friends growing up, it didn’t take for things to escalate; by the age of only fourteen, drugs, alcohol and kicking each other in the stomach while crouching over the toilet was considered as an act of solidarity. All that deep-rooted self-hatred had to spill someway, somehow, and what are friends for if not offer you relief from the agony of routine?  

It was easier to strap on those old ballerina shoes and put on a show until her toes were bleeding, than to try and show them what was behind the curtains. People don’t want to know what’s behind the curtain — they think they do, until they see it. To live in blissful ignorance is a gift, one she was denied. And all jewelry in the world, all praise, all money and countless designer bags she accumulated over the years could never fill up that gaping hole, that detachment she felt towards the outside world and inability to connect with things and people - even those supposedly closest to her.

With age, Addie learned how to put on a show, be it at home or on a stage; that’s the magic of a ballerina, to empty yourself of that hatred, all that pain, all that ugliness and fill yourself with stories other than your own -  while whatever had been good and soft rots inside you .

And while she made a name for herself, starring role in all the big plays, working with the best and only the best, the tabloids would instiguate: who is Adelaide Montserrat? The reincarnation of the Virgin Mary to some, the dutiful daughter to others, is she a saving angel or a spoiled heir?  She used to laugh, like it was a game - like the answer wasn’t there at all . Maybe what she truly was, was a game of smoking mirrors - a fragmented image, bouncing from broken piece to broken piece, scattered into so many tiny, pretty pieces, that when she looks into a it, the reflection that stares back is unrecognizable.

Adelaide was never their perfect little doll, tied to strings, sitting still waiting to be manuevered . For some time she had watched, prowling quietly in the shadows, observing, learning. She found distraction and excitement in the shadows, drugs, married men, booze, pills - and when those didn’t cut it, she dug a little deeper.

So the child prodigy suddenly moves back to the home, with a ring on her finger and a skeleton on her closet,  all to   shield   from the rising scandal and nonsensical, if you were to ask, accusations of pushing a fellow ballerina down a flight of stairs. Alas, the show must go on, and Adelaide had no plans to stay out of the spotlight for long, or take the fault for somebody else’s imbalance. With some reluctance, she agreed to lay low, but just for how long she’d able to tolerate it, that was anyone’s guess.

Parents often say kids will “grow out of it”; their fits of rage, their apathy towards other children, their unwillingness to share, their manipulative, spoiled ways of obtaining the things they want- but Addie never did. Somewhere inside there’s still that little girl who’d rather break her toys in half than to share it with other kids. Who’d bump into other little girls at school to watch them fall, and tell the nurse they tripped. The little girl who’ll sit in an empty throne, all alone, built with the bones of the people she once claimed to love.

here’s some wc ideas i thought might be cool, but ofc feel free to come brainstorm!!

husband  - it was a marriage of opportunity rather than love, at least for adelaide - a way to deflect attention, however how he feels is completely up to you. she’s manipulative and charming, but can also be extremely cruel if even mildly contradicted

bookclub ( 0/5 ) - just women she hangs out with while trying to fit in and “have ties with the community”. she usually sucks at bonding and sharing, so this could make for some interesting dynamics

lover - adelaide switches it up every couple months, but maybe she has a soft spot for them? maybe they’re also in a relationship? maybe it’s all fucked up and adelaide likes to be nasty, what the fuck else is new

ex - lover - fed up with adelaide? me too. join the club. 

childhood friend - i feel like she might’ve permanently scarred this person for life by ( animal abuse tw ) killing a bird in front of them or something. adelaide was truly a fucking... terror as a child, and i doubt she was a good friend, bc she still isn’t

prodigy that she’s taken under her wings - maybe a young person who loves ballet that she decided to mentor out of the kindness of her heart? *coughs boredom coughs*

drug dealer - probably has a crush on them bc they indulge her bad habits ngl

idk man giv e me   s t u f f  !!!

also romantic connections are open to men and women pls. the only straight she is is a straight up bitch. 

[unsettledink]

Back in the days of LJ, I used to try and do a post at the end of each year, looking back primarily at fandom and fic. I fell out of the habit when everything moved to tumblr, and then it seemed like I didn’t have anything to say since I wasn’t writing or really participating any. 

But I always liked the idea of it, because I love to be overly reflective on stuff. And talk about my fic. Any excuse! I shuffled around some of the topics I used back then and added a few I’ve seen around that I liked. It got… long, because I TALK, so I split into two sections. 

*

Your main fandom of the year? 

    Marvel (MCU) for sure. Primarily with characters from Spider-Man and Iron Man movies.

Your favorite film watched this year?

    The Old Guard - I saw a couple trailers and everything about it looked like catnip. ‘It’s probably going to be so dumb, but I don’t even care,’ I thought. And then it was so good. It was so much fun and so much smarter than I expected and I loved each and every character and it just made me happy in so many ways.

Your favorite book read this year?

    Red, White, and Royal Blue, Casey McQuiston - I read it twice this year actually. It’s so… cute isn’t the right world. Sweet and hopeful and soft and comforting and intense. I liked every single character which is pretty rare. I cried during the sad parts and then again at the happy ending, like straight up sobbed - both times. I already want to read it again.

Your favorite tv show watched this year?

    Schitt’s Creek - I started it on a whim and because a lot of people had said it was good. The episodes were short so it wasn’t a huge time investment. The first season was a little rough, but there were enough funny moments that I hung on, and then… I kept getting fonder and fonder of these idiots as they grew. And THEN… it kept not disappointing me? 

     You grow to expect certain scripts, twists, jokes, especially in queer story lines. To wait for the bad thing to happen, because it always does. Instead, Schitt’s Creek kept going, ‘hey, here’s the set up for that! Guess what? We’re not doing it. Here’s the happy version instead.’ The relief of having that happen again and again - the last season I’ve watched (I’m sort of saving 6) I cried a bunch but it was always because I was happy. 

Your favorite album or song to listen to this year?

    1896 - I’ve been waiting for the new Steam Powered Giraffe album so eagerly for aaaaaages. Finally getting recordings of Zero’s songs! Lying Awake remains my favorite off the album, with Eat Your Heart and Bad Days on the Horizon high up there as well. I’m loving what Zero brings to the band.

Your best new fandom discovery of the year?

    I don’t know if I really did discover that much? I stuck pretty closely to old fandoms and the ones I picked up in 2019. Maybe Zodiac? It was definitely inspiring, and I want to write and read more in it. 

    Maybe the couple discords I joined? I still really dislike discord and am not on there much, and mostly lurk when I am, but having somewhere vaguely like the comms I remember makes me feel a little less isolated. It’s the potential, that maybe if I said something I might make a friend, or someone might actually want to hear what I say. 

Your biggest fandom disappointment of the year?

    The Watch - I mean, I knew it was going to be a disaster with every word said during pre production. I wasn’t ever going to be happy with it. And then it came out and was even worse and uglier and … disrespectful not just of the source material but of actual people connected to Terry. I’m beyond disappointed that this is what we got, and it’s probably going to be a long time before we get anything else. 

    Devil All the Time was terrible, but I didn’t have especially high hopes. It still didn’t manage to meet them. Yikes.

The most missed of your old fandoms?

    Maybe MASH? Someone I follow started talking about it and I was reminded all over again of the wonderful fics in that fandom. I went looking and a lot are gone (still on my computer, lol, but not online), but rereading was such a trip. A slightly depressing trip, but still. 

The fandom you haven't tried yet, but want to?

    Hmm. I’ve kind of not had the energy to invest in other fandoms at the moment? When The Witcher was having it’s big moment back in January, I had a feeling I might enjoy it enough to fall headfirst into the fandom, so I avoided watching it. Ikr? I don’t have the time or the energy to actively seek anything out. 

Your biggest fan anticipations for the New Year?

    SO EXCITED about Winter’s Orbit. I mean, the third Spider-Man movie for sure, with worry. The second Venom movie, ugh yes. I have tentative hopes for Jungle Cruise? Jumanji was stellar and I always enjoy Dwayne. I have both hope and dread for the new Suicide Squad - I did love Birds of Prey, so if it’s along those lines, yay. The Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard because it should be some fun garbage, my favorite kind. I don’t know how I feel about Dune, but, uh, I’m anticipating it. It seems highly unlikely it will actually happen, but The Wheel of Time TV series. 

I want to be excited about Black Widow but it’s hard. It’s not the story I’ve been wanting to see, and I’m angry about Natasha not getting a movie until she’s dead.

You know. If any of it is released for real.

The Good: 

I moved to a better place. I got a better paying, better benefits, better environment job that lets me work from home. The house acquired 3-7 more cats depending on the month. I was able to get some serious problems on my car fixed. I have insurance and was able to start on some health stuff. No one I know got sick or died. I wrote a LOT.

The Bad: 

Aside from the obvious? Depression hitting extra hard during the winter. Having to put two kittens to sleep. Have my car be hit three times in our parking lot. Being driven INSANE by one of the cats for months while the vets were all closed. Kidney stone. Dealing with several health problems. Stalling for months on Gotcha.

The Indifferent: 

Not leaving the house often or easily. Enjoying a new fandom but not doing great at making connections (still real awkward, bud). Raising kittens and saying goodbye. Need new tires. Reading a lot of fic but not a lot of books. Having more pay but more expenses as well (wth insurance??). 

*

2020 fic stats

Number of stories: 39

Number of fandoms: 6? Or 2, if you cluster the others under mcu

Total number of words: 152049

Average word count per story: 4kish

Longest fic: Causality (18k, P/Q)

Shortest fic: Can’t, Won’t (1k, P/Q)

Most comments received: Sieche (49, T/P)

Fandom you wrote the most of: MCU Spider-Man - I only wrote TWO fics that didn’t feature that fandom, wow. And one of those was still MCU.

Fandom you wrote the least of: Zodiac (1!)

Events you participated in: Marvel Trumps Hate, Kinktober, IornspidersGeorg Exchange, Starker Festivals Exchange, MCU Secret Santa, Spiderio Big Bang

*

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted?

    SO MUCH MORE OMG. I mean, even just counting posted stuff! (I probably wrote a solid 300k of Gotcha this year.) I did not expect or plan on doing Kinktober, so that’s a whole 31 fics right there. I also wasn’t planning on doing any exchanges - I have a History - but then I did three? And beyond that, I did not expect for everything to get so LONG.

Topic you wrote that you would never have predicted in January:

    Tony/Quentin. Goddammit @the-me09 They were like hey, they could be interesting! And while I agreed, I had no ideas for them. THEN they had to go and write Just Bodies That Collide and next thing I know, I’ve got ten fics featuring them and two-six series focused on them or Peter/Quentin/Tony. What the fuck. 

Leitmotif of the year:

    Vulnerability, I think. I had a bunch of things typed up and they all circle back to vulnerability in the end; sex, being seen, being wanted, sharing trauma, asking for help, trying something new. Offering a soft spot in the hopes it won’t be hurt. 

Favorite character to write about: 

    Tony Stark, for sure. There are just a bunch of slightly different takes, and a lot of canon to work with (kind of frustrating too though). And I’m a sucker for emotionally damaged snarky traumatized characters that are viewed poorly both in universe and out. 

Favorite kind of fic to write:

    This year? Fluff and smut combined. Maybe that’s not the right term really. I keep looking for and writing, even in the angstiest fics, for those soft moments. Sure, maybe it’s a super smutty kink scene, but I want the affection to be obvious. Maybe everyone is consumed by guilt, but I want it to be based in caring too much. Maybe there’s no real love, just sex and even that’s messed up, but I want to find that tiny bit of fondness. 

    And I want happy endings. Or endings that look like they’re going to be happy, at least, even if there’s all the angst first. I don’t think I’ve killed anyone this year? Who AM I? 

Biggest disappointment:

    Not finishing the rough draft of Gotcha. I was making such good progress in 2019, from August to December. Even after the move, I basically finished part 6 in January. I fumbled around and fussed with 1 a lot, but that had already been given one draft, really, and I got through half of 4 before I slowed to a stop. I’ve barely gotten anything accomplished on it since June. Bits and pieces here and there, but nothing significant, not like I was doing. I can excuse October, due to 80k invested in Kinktober (yikes!), but aside from that… I’m sad. I’ll finish it eventually, but I really thought I could have the first draft done in a year. I’m sitting at about 480k out of what I’m almost certain will be 700k. 

Biggest surprise:

    Kinktober! It was kind of spur of the moment, decided just a week in advance. I’ve tried month long or even like, 20-25 day long challenges and I don’t think I’ve ever completed one. I thought there was a good chance I’d do so again, so I gave myself a little help and made my own list of prompts, things I knew I liked and hadn’t done much of yet. And it worked? I actually completed it, what the hell? Despite spending five days travelling near the end! Despite falling behind in getting ahead and writing a bunch of stories the day they were to be posted! Despite apparently forgetting how to do short form! 

    I, uh, could have done without the spawning of eleven series or sequels or continuations jfc WHY SELF.

Something you learned this year:

    Ideas breed ideas. I swear to god, the second I sit down to think through a current idea, I wake up the next morning with three more. 

    Words need to be restocked. I need to consume new - not rereads, not fic - content every so often to refresh my word bank. It is astonishing how quickly writing goes again after I’ve done so.

    I can write so much more than I thought I could. I can do so much more than I thought I could. Yes, I can complete challenges without dropping out early. Yes, I can do exchanges and not regret it. Yes, I can write more than 100k, more than 200k, more and more - and I can write 10k+ easily too. Though I wouldn’t mind if I could once again write less than 10k without feeling like I’ve cut off in the middle. 

    My time is shrinking, and if I want to write as much, I’m going to have to make the time. I can’t rely on three days off a week, on seven hours of uninterrupted overnight shifts, on hyper focused writing binges that leave everything else around me on fire. 

Most memorable comment: 

    So, so many! I can’t pick one. I’ve been really lucky to get a bunch of really detailed, enthusiastic, analyzing comments across all different fics. One of the types that always sticks with me are the ones like ‘I didn’t think/know I liked this ship/kink/twist, but fuck, apparently I do? You made me, what the hell?’. 

What, if anything, are you going to try to do differently in your writing in the new year?

So with writing Gotcha but not posting until it’s done, my view of what I’ve written vs anyone else’s is extremely skewed. I’m sitting here thinking, hey I’m 400k in and got another 10k done today, so much writing! While anyone looking at my AO3 account (for most of the year) is like, you’re averaging three months between fics :(

    All that to say I want to try and get something posted more frequently while I’m working on Gotcha.

    Also, writing for kinktober was really interesting - pushing myself to write every single day, often for that day’s post, forced me to get back into shorter form fic. Which used to be all I did? But it was surprisingly hard to just stop and not write more. So I’d like to challenge myself to write more fics under 10k at least. Maybe even under 5k though that might be asking a lot lol. I might get there with the many continuations of those fics I’d like to do. Does that count?

Goals:

   I want to hit 365 fics. :) I’m only 32 away!

    Aside from writing - 

    I’ve really enjoyed the reading record sideblog I started this year. I’ve let it lapse a little the past month or so, but I’d like to keep it going strong. 

    I’d like to leave a lot more comments. I want to get better about allowing imperfection - I want to write The Best Comment, but in the end? Probably 90% of fic writers are going to be happier with a comment expressing enjoyment in any way over no comment at all. 

And not just on fics, but on general posts as well. It’s hard not to feel… weird and stupid and invasive and rude leaving any sort of comment on someone’s post if I don’t know them at least a little. I have godawful rejection sensitive dysphoria and a lot of interactions that ended poorly; I’m really not good at people. But as dumb as it feels to say those things, I know I am thrilled and warmed and happier when there’s a reblog with tags or a note or a comment or an ask or just, any small interaction that shows someone out there notices and cares, at least a little. There’s no reason I can’t at least try to offer that to other people. 

    I’d like to make/run a couple challenges of my own, later in the year. I’m still figuring out what I want to do and what I could do. I’m really interested in doing something that’s not focused on creators, but the readers; some sort of comment or rec challenge maybe.

    I want to find a cheerleader for Gotcha. I’m struggling to keep up my motivation to write it when it’s already in my head, where I can ‘read’ it any time. There’s a line between depending too much on external validation and trying to generate all your validation yourself, and I’m getting to a point where I think I need to ask for help (gasp! The hardest thing EVER). 

*

(Part Two: Pick Some Fics)

[fyx-ation]

Yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life.

And I didn’t know where to put these thoughts, so here I am. Shouting Whimpering into the void.

My mom got evicted from her apartment. That alone is a clusterfuck, but the steps leading down to it are steep and narrow and will break your neck if you lose your balance.

I have always had a strained relationship with my mother. In all ways but one, I never really had a mother. She wasn’t a parent or a nurturer or a teacher. She is deeply troubled with depression and ptsd... and extreme narcissism. I’ll sum up her series of offenses by writing that I suffer my own trauma as a result.

My brother is another story. He is also deeply troubled but in completely different ways. He is autistic and mentally challenged in ways that no one has quite labeled perfectly. Part of his troubles come from the symbiotic psychosis he developed with my mother simply by being born. Under her “care,” he was being bounced from medication to medication as early as three years old as doctors and specialists tried to diagnose him. Autism, ADD, Tourettes? All three? No one could pin it down. When he was twelve, he stabbed my mother with a screwdriver because he wanted to “fix” the air conditioner and she said no. From that moment on, he was in the state’s care. He was criminally maladjusted by being moved from hospital to hospital. At one point, his humerus was broken in a struggle with an orderly. Yes, that’s one of the strongest bones in your body and normally requires a significant amount of force to break. He was on some medication that made his bones brittle. Later, he was shipped a thousand miles away to Texas... and there, he actually died. Another medication had nearly destroyed his liver. He was resuscitated and managed to pull through--a story which my mother regurgitated and consumed with Munchausen by proxy-like delight.

Eventually, he did make it back to our home state, and after more care facilities, he landed in what I can only describe as halfway-homes. A few of them. Getting closer and closer to home. Through all those years, my mother would drive or fly to see him. “Her son.” That is how she referred to him in conversation. Not “your brother.” Always “Her son,” like he was some possession who had no relationship to me.

Anyway, a couple years ago, my mother lost her house--the family house which was paid for until she took out mortgages against it to support her spending habits. Did I mention she’s a hoarder? She’s a hoarder. And a shopaholic.

Suddenly, after over fifteen years, she thought my brother could live with her again. She was incapable of managing him in all that time in between... but then, when she couldn’t afford to live in a house/apartment up to her standards, looking after him and his sizable social security check didn’t seem so hard.

Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen my mother in several months. I knew something wasn’t right with her. I told my sister, but neither one of us quite knew how to deal with the situation. Nor did we want to. There isn’t an excuse for this: we both actively did not want to deal with our abuser.

We had to yesterday.

A short while ago, my twenty-nine year old brother with special needs destroyed some property at their apartment. He also broke into a completely different apartment and damaged it, too. He threatened their landlord with a shovel. He was arrested. As far as I know, he’s still being held but a case worker is trying to place him somewhere as he obviously belongs in a home like he had before he was swooped away.

With that and being behind on rent, my mother was evicted. She was behind on rent because her mind is slipping away. Her car was repossessed, all her bills were overdue, and she hadn’t been taking her medication (nor had my brother been taking his) for who knows how long.

So. My sister, her husband, my boyfriend, and I spent yesterday moving her out of the apartment. They loaded as much furniture as could fit into a storage unit. Everything else was left. Vultures were already circling before we were even done. I tried to find family photos or important documents. I tried to redirect my mother from each panic-attack-inducing realization that this was it--even if none of us knew what “it” was. Dealing with a hoarder and getting them to part with their stuff, even their garbage, is a bad time. Dealing with a hoarder with dementia is nightmare. With her losing her memory, we lost some of ours in piles and piles of abandoned stuff.

“It’s just stuff,” I tell myself, like I used to tell her. “It’s just stuff,” I told myself as I sorted into the trash books I remember touching and holding thirty-five years ago. “Just stuff,” as I collected a photograph here and there for the save box. “Stuff,” as I sat in the middle of the floor surrounded by heaps of boxes that had been shuffled and moved to several addresses in the last three years. If she didn’t cherish it, why should I?

I don’t know what was lost. If I really cared, I would have gone through it sooner, wouldn’t I have? No, that’s not how relationships with hoarders work. Especially extremely broken ones.

As of last night, my mom is in a psychiatric hospital. Not her first time in such a place. But this is the first time she doesn’t understand why. She is homeless. When it’s figured out what will happen to her, she’ll still be homeless. She lost her son, her cats, her food, her wardrobe, and her possessions. The storage unit containing all that we could fit will eventually have to be sold or donated... whenever this pandemic is managed.

My mom’s in a hospital during the fucking pandemic. Fuck you, world. Seriously.

My eyes look like two piss holes in the snow. I stole that from Angela’s Ashes. It’s the most accurate description I could think of.

I don’t think I’ve cried this much, uncontrollably, in my entire life. Every time my eyes dry up, I’ll think about how frail her skull felt as I ran my hands over her thin hair while trying to console her. She didn’t even look like herself, and I’m going to be haunted by that thought until my own mind starts to go. Maybe even after. I can still hear her whimpering. I see her beating her head against the garage door as she has a breakdown over a piece of furniture we couldn’t take. I hear one of her cats, Bluebell, crying as we drive him from her home to my dad’s house.

Have you ever cried so hard that your lips grow numb? When I tried to sleep last night, tears were pouring from my eyes before I’d even turned the light off. Soon, I could barely breathe. And then I started convulsing with deep but short gasps as I tried to get air. This went on for hours. I think I eventually passed out for a bit just from exhaustion.

2020 being 2020.  I am spent.

[ilikecowsnstuff]

CHAPTER 12!!!

SUMMARY:  UA Hero Course - Third Year. Shigaraki Tomura and Dabi have been classmates and rivals since their very first day at UA. But with new feelings developing how will they cope given their history of fragile and often violent encounters? Their dance begins after a partnered training exam goes wrong, leaving Shigaraki wounded and Dabi feeling guilty. AU.

====================

For AO3 – Click Here

For FanFiction – Click Here

====================

CHAPTER TWELVE – THE PROBLEM WITH RELATIONSHIPS…

 Monday had ended as quickly as it had begun, Tuesday disappeared just the same and in what seemed like a blink of an eye the end of the week had arrived. Shigaraki wasn’t sure how the days had passed by so quickly - wasn’t the age old saying “time flies when you are having fun?” He was not having fun; his week had been miserable - what was the deal?

 Sighing, Shigaraki planted his elbow on his desk and dropped his chin into the palm of his hand. 

 Aizawa was droning on about trigonometric ratios, the thales theorem and fucking right triangles - or something - words that were merging together into something that made absolutely no sense to Shigaraki because he was just staring forward and wondering just how angry Dabi was with him.

 Though maybe angry was the wrong word. Disappointed? Yes, probably. Either way, Shigaraki knew he had royally screwed up. Dabi had been giving him the cold shoulder all week and the distance had been eating away at him, dooming Shigaraki into a depressive funk.

 “I want to go out with you. Like officially.” Dabi had said - and for once - utterly serious.

Shigaraki shifted his lazy gaze to the front of the room where Dabi sat by the window. He wanted to believe Dabi was kidding. And Shigaraki had wanted him to take it back. But Dabi wanted an answer, and it felt like if Shigaraki couldn’t give him the right one - the answer that he wanted - well it appeared they weren’t going to be friends any longer. 

Would everything just go back to the way it was? 

Was that what Shigaraki wanted? 

No. He hated the idea!

 Habitually, he scratched at his neck, like it would give him some sense of comfort. It didn’t, of course. He still felt like the worst person in the world. A complete ass. And a coward - all of which were very likely deserving.

 Ugh.

 When had their simple, and, often at times, affectionate friendship become so complicated? They were just supposed to get along - to stop fighting and maybe not try to kill each other during training or exams. Now he was contemplating if he could grow the balls to be Dabi’s boyfriend.

 Boyfriend. Why was that label so damn scary?

 Logically, it was just a word - and it wasn’t really the title that unnerved him but instead the physical aspect that came along with it. What kind of relationship could they have if Shigaraki couldn’t even touch him properly? It’s not like Shigaraki hadn’t thought about it before, he knew that they were headed in that direction, but he was so anxious about hurting Dabi that he automatically pushed even just the idea of a relationship aside. 

 Until now. Now, he was actually considering what he was prepared to do. He couldn’t deny that Dabi’s absence in his day-to-day life hadn’t affected him, but could he make that one big important step? Years of dissociation and reservation were not easy habits to break but, he had to start somewhere, right?

 With a groan, he closed his eyes and then brought his face down to the desk. Aizawa was going on about fractions or altitudes or some shit now. Shigaraki was trying to suffocate himself with his class notes and the fold of his arm. Maybe some unconsciousness would bring him some clarity.

 He almost succeeded in his asphyxiation when Kurogiri kicked him in the shin.

 Shigaraki looked up with a scowl, glaring at his best friend.

 “Stop sleeping.” He said with a snicker.

 “Shut up.” Shigaraki mumbled in return.

 “Do you ever think that maybe if you actually slept at night you wouldn’t be so pissy during the day?”

 Shigaraki wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. Kurogiri knew that insomnia was just another part of his sparkling personality. It couldn’t be helped - and it wasn’t like he chose it to be like that, he just never could sleep for consecutive hours. Not, for as long as he could remember anyway.

 He lowered his chin back against his folded arms and resumed staring at the back of Dabi’s head, wondering if he could convince the other boy to talk to him - to give Shigaraki a chance to explain his… misgivings.

 The bell rang interrupting Shigaraki’s thoughts, and then Mr. Aizawa was yelling at the more eager students who were already getting up from their desk, reminding them of the homework due after the weekend. And, of course, the consequences of not handing it on time.

 Of their little trio, Kurogiri was the first to get up and then Kai.

 “So, what are we doing tonight?” Kuorgiri asked, slinging his bag over his shoulders.

Shigaraki wasn’t paying attention, he was too preoccupied with trying to track Dabi as everyone rushed to leave the classroom and get their Friday nights started. He hadn’t heard a word Kurogiri said.

 “Please tell me it’s not another video game night.”

 Kai chuckled and appropriately began to chatter in response. Blah, blah, blah. Again, Shigaraki wasn’t listening.

 “I’ll ah… I'll meet up with you guys later. I’ve got… some things.” Shigaraki chewed on his lower lip, distractedly grabbing his bag and sliding out of the desk.

 “What things?” Kurogiri questioned, curious.

 “Things.” Shigaraki added, and then he was walking absently towards the door.

 The classroom emptied out and Shigaraki turned out into the hall, searching for just one student among many. That particular someone just so happened to knock him in the shoulder.

 “Careful, Mop Head.”

 Dabi loomed, reaching out one hand to prevent Shigaraki from toppling off balance. 

 Shigaraki flushed uncomfortably, looking up at the slightly taller boy expectantly - but Dabi only offered him a quick apology for almost knocking him over, and then continued walking, following the flow of students down the hall.

 What the fuck?

 Shigaraki was momentarily stunned, so much so that he froze on the spot. He swallowed with difficulty, and then spun around, staring at the back of Dabi’s retreating figure. He really wasn;t going to talk to him!

 “Hey!” He called out, jogging to catch up to Dabi. “Wait.” Shigaraki pleaded and when he was within grabbing distance, he carefully seized Dabi’s forearm, willing him to stop. “Please don’t ignore me.”

 Dabi slowly turned.

 Almost toe-to-toe, he looked down at Shigaraki, smiling affably before lifting his hand to brush the light hair away from Shigaraki’s eyes - just like he always did.

 “You really need a haircut.” His fingertips brushed Shigaraki’s cheek, then swept along his jawline before his hand fell away.

 “That’s it?” Shigaraki said, dismayed. He breathed in and Dabi waited, clearly expecting an explanation or an apology or some reason why Shigaraki was holding him up from whatever Friday night plans he had.

 “Look. I’m sorry about earlier this week and how I… reacted.”

 Dabi didn’t say anything, watching Shigaraki with what seemed to be an equal amount of hope and regret. Shigaraki could only assume Dabi had a similarly rough week.

 “I was just… I got a little freaked out. But I’ve had a chance to think about it now.”

 Still no response.

 “I feel really fucking shitty you know.” He admitted, falling back to lean against a row of lockers and pushing his fingers roughly back through his hair.

 “I do too.” Dabi admitted. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Shigaraki. I get it.”

 “No, you don’t get it. If you understood why I reacted the way I did then you wouldn’t have ignored me all week.” Shigaraki replied shaking his head. “I should have explained. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t think straight at the time. But all week I've been thinking about it and feeling like a complete idiot.” 

 “You are an idiot.” Dabi drawled, lip twitching. Shigaraki couldn’t help smiling back, appreciative of Dabi’s smart mouth - even during a difficult conversation. It made it a lot easier for him.

 “But I think, maybe, I was being a bit unreasonable. I put you on the spot and in my mind, I already knew how I wanted it to play out. When it didn’t go as I planned, well, I got pretty bummed out. I shouldn’t have ignored you.”

 Shigaraki half grinned.

 “You’re not scared of anything, are you?” He said softly, almost whispering it to himself, and then shook his head. That’s not really what he meant but he was going with it. “I mean, you’re so much braver than I am. I wish… I want to be more like that - to be able to do things without worrying about…” Shigaraki paused and his chin dropped. He turned his hands over, so he could look down at his cursed palms. “It would be so much easier if I wasn’t so fucking afraid.”

 “What are you afraid of?” Dabi asked, head tilting slightly.

 “Of hurting someone.” Shigaraki swallowed and then raised his head, adding, “Of hurting you.”

 “Do you think that’s really going to happen?”

 Shigaraki nodded his head and stuffed his hands deep into the pouch pocket of his hoodie. He was absolutely convinced that as soon as he got too comfortable something would go wrong, something terrible would happen. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. Even to that day, he sometimes destroyed things that he didn’t mean to. Just the other night, when he had finally been able to fall asleep, he relaxed his hand for only a moment and almost decayed one of the pillows on his bed.

 “I know you would never hurt me. Not on purpose.”

 “Well, I don’t want to accidently do it either.” Shigaraki stressed, attempting a shaky smile. He was incredibly relieved that Dabi still had some faith in him - all things considered, even if he lacked the same faith in himself.  

 “And to think, just a couple of months ago you wouldn’t have hesitated.” Dabi chuckled low. “Daily threats of death were not uncommon. I kind of got used to it.”

 Shigaraki scoffed. “Shut up.” He joked, glancing away and then back again. Dabi was watching him intently, “They were empty threats.”

 He nodded with a knowing grin, “I know.”

 For a moment both boys went quiet, silently regarding the other – more optimistic but still unsure.

 Shigaraki was the first to speak again.

 “Dabi?”

 “Yeah?”

 Now that Shigaraki had gotten some of his worries off his chest and out into the open he was feeling a lot more confident. And encouraged. Dabi hadn’t flinched, none of the things Shigaraki had explained seemed to bother or discourage him.

 “Do you still want to go ou-“

 Wrapped up in their own little world, both boys startled at the sound of a door being forcefully pushed open and then slamming shut – interrupting their “moment”. They reeled back at the voice that followed, Dabi exceptionally rattled.

 “Toya!”

 This was no ordinary voice - it didn’t come from a student or from one of the faculty members. No, this commanding presence was not someone you expected to hear or see in the halls of UA High.

 This was Endeavor! This was Dabi’s Father!

 Holy shit. What was Endeavor doing at UA?

 “Fuck me.” Dabi audibly sighed and stepped away from Shigaraki, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.

 Shigaraki immediately flicked his hood up over his head, glad to have the cover to hide his face behind as Endeavor stomped towards them.

 He glanced over at Dabi before returning his wary gaze back to the number two Hero. Shigaraki had never met the man in person, just seen him from afar, but up this close - well Shigaraki immediately understood why he had a reputation of being so formidable. Endeavor was extremely tall, and sturdily built - his biceps alone were probably thicker than Shigaraki’s entire body.

 “Hello, Father.” Dabi greeted as he approached.

 “You were supposed to be outside five minutes ago.” Endeavor grumbled, shifting his steely blue eyes briefly over to Shigaraki.

 “Yeah. It’s just five minutes.” Dabi replied snidely.

 “Get moving. Your brother is already outside waiting in the car.” He continued to walk, heading in the wrong direction of the great outdoors, and the entrance he had just come through. Shigaraki could only assume he was going to visit the teachers while he was on school grounds. Seemed likely. He was very familiar with the school and the faculty.

 “Yes, Father.” Dabi chirped, rolling his eyes.

 Shigaraki smiled tentatively and then lowered his lashes - unsure what to do from this point. He still had some things he wanted to talk to Dabi about, and more importantly something he needed to ask him, but it sounded like Dabi had somewhere he had to be.

 “I have to go.”

 “Are you coming back to the dorms tonight?”

 Dabi sighed again, like the brief interaction with his dad had exhausted him. “Regrettably, no. My mother wanted to have a family… thing tonight. For my birthday.”

 “Oh.”

 “Sorry. I know we were kinda in the middle of… something. But hey, I’ll see you at the party tomorrow, right? We can talk.”

 Out of habit Shigaraki scrunched up his nose. Admittedly, he had almost forgotten about Dabi’s party - what with all the turmoil surrounding the week. He felt like he had lost so much time. Where had the days even gone? The party had been the farthest thing on his mind. Or maybe he had simply forced himself to forget about it.

 “I should be there.”

“Good.” He grinned and then stepped into Shigaraki, curling his fingers beneath his chin and angling his face up for a kiss – but not before a subtle glance down the hall to ensure Endeavor was not paying them any attention. Their lips lightly met before that same voice interrupted them for a second time.

 “Oh, fuck.” Dabi groaned. Shigaraki made a small sound in protest.

 “Toya. Let’s go.” Endeavor called out. Dabi still had a very healthy level of respect for his dad and slowly started to back away, though he did so reluctantly.

 “I’m coming.” He replied, and then muttered under his breath, still staring at Shigaraki. “Sorry.”

 “You should probably go, I don’t really feel like getting yelled at by Endeavor today for making you late to your… thing.”

 Dabi snickered. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

 Shigaraki nodded and watched as Dabi walked off, sullen, following his dad and leaving Shigaraki to his racing thoughts.

====================

Chapter One – Accidental Attraction

Chapter Two – After Care

Chapter Three – Dazed and Confused

Chapter Four – I Like You

Chapter Five - Friends and Enemies

Chapter Six - Confrontation!

Chapter Seven - Transfer Student

Chapter Eight - A Period of Learning

Chapter Nine - Work and Play

Chapter Ten - Friday

Chapter Eleven - Extraordinary Day

[quatschmachen]

Fresh Powder

Here’s a nice 2000′s fic.

Starring an Edward Murphy and his fam. A part one of sorts.

XXX

He did not think he had any tears left in him.

After Calvin had left him, Edward had realized what a fool he had been to even think that a new century could mean a new him, a new future, a new reality, a new hope.

He had watched Calvin grow over the years, become a (somewhat) capable man. From the spoiled child to the awkward teenager to someone who he could view as an equal, someone he could talk to beyond their competitive games. Where their rivalry was one that lifted the other person up – but with the tacit knowledge that when shit hit the fan the other would have their back. Or that’s what he had thought. Where Calvin was person he could trust – he had made the mistake in viewing him as a genuine friend. The fact that Calvin had dropped and broke his cup in shock, said some hurtful shit and just… left, had torn open a gaping wound in Edward.

Everything that he had been certain of, the stuff he had felt slightly hopeful for, gone like smoke in those actions. A true betrayal. All those times where he had supported the other man through the toughest of times, their decades of friendship, meaningless. He had expected Calvin to be shocked, sure, but he thought you know, maybe after a bit of shouting or disbelief, the other man would stick around. Swallow his pride, realize that just because he discovered Edward was gay – which he had always been for the entirety of their friendship - didn’t actually change anything. It felt as if Edward’s entire identity had become subsumed into the nebulous concept of “Gay,” and that Calvin had purposely forgotten who the hell Edward was – is. The exact thing Edward hadn’t wanted to happen had happened. He was no longer an autonomous person, but simply the outcast.

Somewhere, rambling in the deepest pits of feeling sorry for himself, Edward felt a slow burning anger. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge, something he purposely was drowning to death with his own tears. Instead he fell into what he knew, the grooves of self-pity he felt most comfortable in, drawing it around him like a heavy damp protective blanket.

It had been an absolute fucking mistake to come out.  All the crushing anxiety and depression which he had thought would magically disappear if he would be goddam honest for once in his fucking life fell upon him like the walls of Erebus. The rest of his plans, his next steps were in disarray all around him.

The plans of coming out, trumpeting across the land that he was here, he was queer, and yes he was a homosexual, had crumbled. The plans of telling Étienne that he was coming out finally, after years of prodding, offhand comments, seeing the other man’s frustration as Edward kept dragging the other man into the closet with him, that the plan of saying those words would somehow magically heal that rift between them. That rift created by him – it was entirely his fault. By him not coming out. He could see how each interaction, as their relationship became more entangled, was slowly hollowing the other man out, turning Étienne into his personal closet. Here he was fucking it up again, and the other man didn’t even have to be in the same province. The space he had carved out with the other man, where he thought he could step outside, had vanished with the first step he had taken, and he feared that turning around, telling Étienne what a failure he had been, would seal that door forever.

All he could think about was the North Saskatchewan during the winter. Where each tension between them had turned them into a separate ice flow. Like crystalized scabs upon the surface of the fast running river, where once they had been jammed up beside each other, almost as if one sheet of ice. Those tense gaps between them, the words he could never say, had grown from a splinter to something more where the current was tearing them apart. And soon with the spring, or perhaps a false spring, when the weather gets warm in February and the rift between the two ice sheets grow, and you think maybe the thawing is a good thing, where instead of being brittle you can turn into the water and bend into each other --- that doesn’t happen. The river refreezes and between them instead of the water, it’s a new sheet of ice, whose growth shoves one and the other to opposite sides of the shore, one towards the slow moving inner bend, the other to be lost completely under the fast moving outer bend, to be subsumed and drowned, communication between them gone.

Edward knew which one he was, hell he was drowning in his own tears.

Edith had stopped by, but he hadn’t wanted to let her in, instead ignoring her persistent knocking. She had come in anyway and tutted over him. “Why are you laying on the floor like a dead baby seal?” she was crouching beside him. In response he turned his face further into the blue shag carpet.

“Edward…” she fully sat on the ground beside him, her fingers carding into his hair as she gently stroked. “What happened?”

He simply grunted in response.

“It didn’t go so well, huh?”

She sat beside him for a while, allowing him to roll into her thigh and ugly cry.

“And a no to you having a birthday party?”

He let out a sniffle in response.

Edith began to hum, as she played with his hair, “Are you planning to lay here all day and night like a lump?”

Her brother did not respond, “So this again huh? Do you need me to get you some more chips or something?”

Edward gave a small grunt, which Edith interpreted as a yes.

“Look, I gotta go, but I will return with chips,” Edith gave Edward a small pat, as she finally began to move, grumbling about her legs falling asleep and needing to pee.

When she had left, Edward suddenly felt even more lonely. As if the one piece of hope had left the room, and the misery fully descended upon him again.

In some ways it was like when Gretzky had left. That was another time when he had turned into a useless lump, but at least that time Étienne had visited and made him feel better.

Étienne wasn’t visiting now.

No one was visiting now.

He was fairly certain he had not moved for days, but to be honest he had no sense of time, other than the fact Edith had returned and restocked his favourite comfort foods. An hour felt like a century, a minute an hour, it could have simply been a day. Simply gone dormant, wake up enough to cry, but that’s about it.

This was perhaps why he nearly shit himself when out of the blue he heard Mac’s voice not even a foot away from him.

“Lord jaysus to the sun and moon and back what de hell is ‘appenin’ here?”

It was interesting how over time Mac’s language had simply accommodated, or perhaps incorporated Atlantic turns of phrase, Edward mulled over. Mac used to speak his English slower, more measured, probably because he spent most of his time thinking in his odd mix of Chipewyan, Cree and French.

<My imminent death,> Edward joked in Cree.  

“Yer speakin’ tongues, me son.”

Edward rolled over, rubbing his eyes, and sighed, “Mac, for the last time, you are not from Atlantic Canada and don’t need to put on this… fake accent.”

Mac frowned, “I have an accent now?”

“Yeah and its like the bastard child of everyone who ever decided to live in you.”

There was the sound of a plastic bag crinkling, and the sound of the couch springs straining as Mac sat down. Edward heard the sound of the beer can being popped open.

A few minutes of silence passed, until Mac gently ventured, “So I takes it ye don’t want to do the usual New Year cross country skiing?”

Edward frowned. How could he forget? It was a ‘tradition’ started god knows when. Probably when travel between his and Mac’s got easier, where sometime with the New Year’s snow, they would arrange a time to ski together. Strange perhaps, but having someone who instead of bitching about the snow and cold took absolute delight in it was refreshing. There were times where Edward didn’t want to pretend to hate where he lived, and being with Mac was one of those times.

“I think I need to eat first… and maybe wash.”

It was as if with Mac’s arrival the strings to the puppet master had got reattached, and Edward found himself once more able to get up, go through the motions of ‘human.’

They did not go skiing that first day. It was as if by Mac’s arrival, Edward suddenly became conscious of how disgusting he had been living, so instead, he recruited Mac to help him clean up.  The other man didn’t comment much, only asked on how to clean certain items, and once, got his hand trapped in the vacuum cleaner while trying to change the bag.

It was rather obvious to Edward that while Mac was competent in many aspects of his life, cleaning was not his forte. But maybe that was fine – he hadn’t laughed in ages, and seeing how stricken the other man looked, hand trapped in machine and bag, had acted as a medicine he hadn’t known he needed.

And somewhere between here and there Edward remembers that between the broken parts, sometimes there are still pieces worth picking up.

XXXX

The cool crisp air, the shhh shhh of the skis slicing the fresh snow, their breath hanging behind them like airplane trails. That feeling of being in another world with the snow-laden pine trees, the magpies laughing in the distance, the slow rush of the river, the water running under the large ice sheets, propelled by necessity to continuously flow.

The powdery snow all around them like the powdered drug they had taken before leaving for a small buzz, a shared bad habit ‘between men’.

Both of them bundled up, Edward could only find his bright blue ski suit, but Mac hadn’t said anything – hell the other man had brought a bright orange one, which he had joked had been assigned from ‘OH&S’.

His cheeks fresh with the cold, Edward felt his mouth become unhinged, as suddenly the words began to flow out of him. Stuff he usually would never consider telling Mac.

Mac, a man who was hard to read, hard to determine what he was thinking, (or Edward knew, many people wondered if Mac even thought), where assumptions were made without even meeting the man.

However, Mac in his own quiet strange way, was one of the people closest to him (not that a lot of other people would know that, it wasn’t like he brought the other man up in conversation all that much, specifically for the fact he did not want to spend his time listening to tired refrains of how bad the other man was).

“I’ve fucked up, really fucked everything up and I can’t un-fuck it.” The words were flowing, and he could tell the other man was listening.  “And it’s something I can’t go back on and once it’s out it’s out. I don’t even know where to go from here.”

“Tells me, do ye wanna un-fuck it?” Mac slowly asked.

Edward closed his eyes, breathing deep, “So so badly.” Tears were freezing on the edges of his lashes as he took a gulp of air, attempting to pretend it was the exercise making it hard to breathe.

Their skis had come to rest at a small out of the way overlook next to the river. Mac took out a small mickey of whiskey, took a swig, and passed it to Edward.

“Can ye un-fuck it?”

“I told you I cant.”

Mac shook his head, “I means like, whatever it is, is this sometin’ that would be out regardless?”

Edward sighed miserably, “Mac, I’m a dick-sucking faggot, and I made the irreversible confession to Calvin on New Year’s thinking… I dunno… he would be fine knowing I’m a homo? And obviously he wasn’t, he just lost it and no one wants to be near me because- because I’m who I am and--- Why the hell are you sniggering?”

“Wells, Chucky boy, did ye just tells Brisy that yer a dick-suckin’ fag? Like was those the words you said? Ye knows how he’s a bit of a prude—I thinks he was just shocked by you mentionin’ dick.”

Edward took another swig of the whiskey, “No! I just said I was gay!” He glared over at Mac and then added, “Why the hell are you so fucking fine with this?”

Mac shrugged, and took the whiskey back, “Chuck, I knews sometin’ was up wi’ ye for aaaaages.” He switched into Cree as he teased, <No girl’s ever interested you, your eyes always wandered.>

<Are you saying I was always obvious to you?>

<We’ve known each other since before the current laws, we like as we do, I may not be central in social life but that does not mean I don’t see.> Neatly tucking the bottle into his jacket, Mac switched back to English, “Ye been assumin’ I just am some brainless rig pig? Be tossing ye into the river just cuz y’ve left me more women to fuck?”

Flushing from embarrassment, and realizing, that yes, on some level, he had been making such assumptions about the other man, Edward was silent. The knot in his stomach had begun to loosen, as he realized that perhaps he was not quite all alone. He looked out at the river, calm, heavy with the ice, and his eyes drifted to the open gaps around the legs of the bridges, where it never did quite freeze over, the pillars disrupting expected flow, uplifting something different, new. Bridges where before there were ferries, and where once existed the makeshift pully gondola; to pull the horses and goods up the cliff like walls of the river valley.  Those continuous changes built by men like Mac, whose hard labour uplifted the walls of the fort into the towers of the city. The working-class who broke their bodies to support their family, to support their bad habits to support their broken bodies, and whose narratives were stolen by the more eloquent rich. He should have known better. Hell, he and Mac had often held the same job. He let out a shaky breath, not sure what to say or even how to apologize.

“Anyways, as I sees it ye owes me a case of beers for bein’ a stupid as shit idiot,” Mac grunted as he set out on the trail again.

Edward took a moment to watch as the other man moved away from him, not even arguing this fact.

[truerequitedlove]

More Than A Call Away

sometimes to work through feelings you have to let them explode out a little bit. it just sucks when that happens at the same time as someone else.

(or u could just write to work through ur feelings, such as i did here.)

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst

Warnings: depression, anxiety, paranoia, kind-of fights, overly dramatic jskdjs, breakdowns, panic attacks, accusations, mentions of toxic relationship habits, mention of suicidal thoughts, mentions of injury & blood

Word Count: 4k

It gave a ring and Phil listened for Dan to answer. The first ring ended and the second began. When that ring ended, Phil became aware of a buzzing sound. He looked around, realizing the sound was the vibration of a phone. Sure enough, his eyes landed on Dan’s phone, sat on the table by the doorway to the lounge.

 Dan had left his phone.

read on ao3 (or below)

~•~•~

“Where’s Dan?” Phil read aloud from the YouNow chat. It was nearing nine pm, and he would be saying his goodbyes soon, but he’d decided there would be no harm in acknowledging the question. “Uh, Dan’s gone out, I think. I suppose I could ring him, though,” he offered. “Shall I call him so he can say hello to you all before I go?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Phil read from the chat again. He smiled. “Alright,” he said, chuckling and picking up his phone. He pulled up Dan’s contact, pressing call.

It gave a ring and Phil listened for Dan to answer. The first ring ended and the second began. When that ring ended, Phil became aware of a buzzing sound. He looked around, realizing the sound was the vibration of a phone. Sure enough, his eyes landed on Dan’s phone, sat on the table by the doorway to the lounge. 

Dan had left his phone. 

Phil swallowed, and Dan’s phone went to voicemail. He pressed hang-up, looking back at the webcam, and putting on a smile as he shook his head. “Guess Dan’s more interested in the milk at the shops than talking to you guys,” Phil said, grinning. “Or maybe he doesn’t want me to call him just to ask for sweets, uhm. Anyway, I think I’ll read the top fans again and then I’m going to go and get some food started,” Phil said, reading through the list of top fans and thanking them, presenting them with prizes off the top of his head. He said goodbye to a few people before pressing the button to end the live show and closing his laptop.

Phil swallowed, walking over to the small table to find Dan’s phone with a missed call from Phil. He wasn’t sure why he had double-checked. He looked around. Maybe Dan had returned, and he hadn’t noticed.

“Dan?” Phil called through the flat. “Dan? Did you get home?”

No answer.

Dan had left on a walk without a word just a bit before Phil went live. Phil knew that sometimes he just liked to clear his head by leaving the flat. Dan had tried to explain it to him before. When he had his breakdowns, he was at home, in this flat. Sometimes he got claustrophobic, in a way. It was difficult for him to continue to be in the same place he’d become upset. Walking outside and down the street was a way of going somewhere new to reset, if only for a moment. Phil hadn’t quite understood, but he continued to let Dan go with a soft reminder to be careful. He knew it wasn’t worth it to argue.

Dan had left his phone behind a few other times, and it always made anxiety curl in Phil’s stomach.

And the worst thing was, that Phil couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t call Dan, text him even. Couldn’t find out where he was. He couldn’t very well go out to find him. He could call friends and ask if they had a clue. They almost definitely wouldn’t, and he didn’t want to worry them. He could call the police, but that was a rather drastic call to make. If Phil resorted to that and Dan was fine (which he likely was), then he’d be pissed and feel even worse.

All that Phil could do was pace the floors, reminding himself that Dan was always fine. He always got home.

But what if tonight was the night that he didn’t?

What if he got hurt? What if he got mugged, got hit by a car? What if Dan was in an even worse mental state than Phil thought? What if he wanted that to happen to him? Or worse, what if he’d do something to himself?

Phil had awoken this morning with a tight ball of anxiety in his stomach. He woke up this way every once and awhile. Usually, it went away as the day progressed. Given a situational reason to, though, the anxiety reappeared, twice as tight in his belly.

Phil couldn’t help working himself up into a panic over Dan, and he had no way to resolve it aside from his own attempts to reassure himself. Though, he wasn’t quite good at that reassurance. He couldn’t stop the thoughts that tore through any attempt at a mental blockade. He couldn’t distract himself. He couldn’t focus on anything. He was quickly forgetting every coping mechanism he’d picked up over the years.

Phil found himself sitting on the black chair in the lounge, looking out the window at the dark city street. Pedestrians were few and far between at this time of night, but every time anyone passed by Phil sat up and watched until he determined they weren’t Dan. None of them were Dan.

Disasters played out in Phil’s mind. A sick part of his mind enjoyed in the catastrophizing and found solace in the adrenaline that came with nauseating anxiety. It was so much easier to indulge than to ignore.

Dan could get hit by a car tonight. Phil would get a call from the hospital. Maybe not right away. Maybe in the morning, when someone found him. Dan could be lying in the road somewhere, as Phil sat here at home, bleeding and dying. Alone. Fuck.

Or if it was worse than Phil thought. If he was suicidal again. Dan was always reluctant to mention when those thoughts were truly getting to him again, and it scared Phil. What if Dan let the bad thoughts grow and grow and grow until he found himself falling from the nearest tall building?

Phil’s leg was shaking almost violently. His breaths were shaky as well.

What if Dan was somewhere, scrawling a suicide note onto paper and holding a bottle of pills?

Phil would have to go to his funeral. Would he have to explain to Dan’s family why he let Dan go out sad and alone? Why he couldn’t save Dan? Or would he get pissed at them? Tell them they should have been there, been supportive? God, they didn’t even know who Phil was to Dan. Phil would have to speak to a room full of people that didn’t know what he and Dan had. Dan would die never having told—

Phil’s eyes caught on yet another figure in black walking down the street. Long black coat, black jeans. He watched carefully, holding his breath. The figure turned to enter the apartment building.

Phil jumped to his feet so quickly that he hit his knee on the table. He ignored the pain, though it almost broke the damn that had been holding off tears. He rushed to the stairs, walking down them. The door opened. Dan entered, Phil still a staircase up from him. He took off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, looking down.

“Dan,” Phil said, voice breaking a bit. Dan glanced up at him but didn’t reply. Phil hurried down the rest of the stairs and bit his lip, a last-ditch effort to keep the tears at bay. He wrapped his arms around Dan and held him tightly.

Dan remained stiff under his arms, not even raising his own to hug back.

“I was so—I thought—I was so worried, Dan,” Phil said, voice still shaky. “I hadn’t realized you left your phone, and I—I—”

“Phil,” Dan said. His voice sounded so tired. “Can we do this later?”

Phil pulled back from the one-sided embrace, irritation climbing his throat now. “What?”

“This whole you talking and me apologizing and shit. I just want to sleep,” Dan said, moving past Phil to head up the stairs.

Phil was still shaking, still not breathing quite right. Still caught up in catastrophes. Then, though, it all came to a head. Irritation was the final one to topple the pile of emotions in his mind.

“Are you fucking serious?” Phil asked, voice breathy. Tears started to slip down his cheeks.

Dan groaned. Like properly groaned, and it felt like a slap across Phil’s face.

“Okay. Fucking fine. Let’s just do the abridged version, shall we? ‘Dan, why’d you go out?’ Because I’m depressed. ‘You left your phone.’ Yeah because I’m an asshole. ‘You made me worry!’ Cool. Thanks for the guilt trip, love you, goodnight.” Dan walked up the stairs.

Phil took in a sharp and shaky inhale. The twisting in his gut felt more like stabbing now. Like Dan had fucking wedged a knife just below his ribs with those words.

At Phil’s inhale, Dan paused briefly on the stairs. He continued up them.

Phil fell against the wall, tears pouring down his cheeks soundlessly. The tears got worse, the shakes impossible to control, and the anxiety in his stomach incapacitating. Sobs came before Phil could expect them, and he leaned against the wall, sobbing. He buried his face in his hands.

Fuck Dan. Getting him so fucking worried just to act like a goddamned prick. God, he could have died. Phil had been so afraid. And he didn’t even care. Fuck.

Phil kicked the banister, letting out a pathetic whimper as he did so. Fuck!

He gathered himself just enough to drag himself back up the stairs. Dan was in the kitchen, filling a glass with water. He walked into the kitchen. His sobs calmed to sniffles. His arms wrapped around himself. He waited for Dan to look up. Dan didn’t.

“What the fuck was that?” Phil asked, voice shaky and laced in tears, but still angry.

Dan looked over at him. “God, Phil.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this. I’m fucking guilty all the time anyway, why are you so intent on making me fucking hate myself?” Maybe it was easier to be mad than to face the guilt and sadness and the fear that he’d never be good enough for Phil. Fuck it. There was no ‘maybe’ about it. It was easier to be angry. It was easier to translate the cocktail of fear, sadness, and guilt into anger.

“Shut up!” Phil pushed Dan away weakly by the shoulder, before dropping to the floor and leaning against the cupboards. He hid his face in his hands, grunting. “I fucking hate you,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, Phil. If that’s how you feel I’ll just fucking go again,” Dan said.

Phil kicked out his legs, hitting the cupboards across from him. His movements were jerky and violent like his body couldn’t contain all the pent-up anxiety. “Stop!” he cried. “Just stop, Dan!”

“Phil, if I could fucking stop being sad and scared and lonely all the goddamned time, I would! Going out alone for a while is one of the only things that help. Don’t make me feel guilty for this shit again.”

“You’re not the only one that has feelings!” Phil’s voice was quiet, squeaky, and shaky.

“No, just fucking debilitating depression.”

“Okay, I get it! Your fucking depression trumps whatever the fuck this is.” Phil gestured at himself.

“Don’t make this a fucking contest Phil.”

“Well if you cared about m-m-my feelings I wouldn’t have—have to compete!” He was losing his resolve, dissolving into tears and sobs again. He felt like utter shit and all he wanted was the soft voice and gentle hands that Dan had when Phil got like this without Dan being the cause.

“I’m not doing this tonight, Phil. Neither of us is thinking rationally. I’m going to bed.” Dan opened the kitchen door, starting out.

“Dan,” Phil sobbed, pulling at his own hair. “D-don’t leave m-me.” Why didn’t Dan care? Phil didn’t get like this all the time. He wasn’t being dramatic. His heart felt like it was going to jump its way up his throat, he’d forgotten how to properly use his lungs, his stomach felt so knotted that he wanted to vomit, and he shook so much that he couldn’t even reach out for Dan. Wasn’t he so obviously breaking down? Why didn’t Dan care? “Don’t leave me,” he whimpered again.

“God, Phil,” Phil heard from somewhere close. He’d closed his eyes and brought his hands to cover his face. He was afraid to open them and look past his hands at the big and scary world and the reality of his fight with Dan. Besides, the world seemed to be spinning around him and it was making him feel so, so, sick.

“Why don’t you—” Phil sobbed. “Why don’t you c-c—” he sobbed again, unable to complete the question.

“I do care,” Dan said, somewhere close. He hadn’t left. “Of course, I care, Phil. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to help when I’m the one making everything worse.” His voice was shaky now, too.

Phil whimpered. He didn’t know how to express every terrible thing he was fearing now. “I don’t want you to die,” he ended up crying.

Dan sighed. “I’m not going to die, Phil.” His voice still sounded tired and strained, but it was softer now.

“You could!” Phil sobbed. “There are bad people out there and accidents and scary thoughts in your head and you could die, and I wouldn’t know. I—I wouldn’t know where you were. And you’d just be gone.”

Dan sounded closer now as he sighed again. “You’re letting anxiety get the best of you, Phil.”

“Well, I have anxiety, Dan!” Phil replied, choking on a sob just after. “I feel this terrible every time you go out on your damn therapeutic walks.” He regretted it as soon as he said it.

It was Dan’s turn to pull in a sharp breath. “I get it Phil; I make you feel like shit.”

He didn’t want to blame Dan for the stuff he had to deal with. He didn’t want to make Dan guilty. He just felt shitty, and he wasn’t thinking, and he didn’t know how to make this all better. “Shut up!” Phil sobbed again. “Shut up. Shut up. I didn’t mean— You know— I love you. I-I-I—”

Dan took in a deep breath. Phil managed to open his eyes. Dan sat crisscross on the floor beside him, facing Phil, but looking hesitant to move closer. He looked so tired. He bit his lip, meeting Phil’s eyes. Everything around Dan was a swirl of blurry confusion, but Dan remained clear. Dan was here. He was okay.

Phil whimpered. “Dan., I love you.” He said it like he wanted it to magically fix everything.

Dan decided to pretend that it did. He was so tired, and he knew he was being shitty. They rarely actually became combative during an argument, and Phil couldn’t seem to pull himself together. So, Dan had to.  He slowly moved a hand to rest on Phil’s knee. “I know. I love you too.”

Phil grabbed Dan’s hand off his knee, squeezing it. He brought his knees back up to his chest. He needed to talk, needed to explain why he was so afraid. He needed Dan to address his fears directly. To tell him that none of them would happen. To promise they were both okay. 

“I was so scared,” he said. “I-I—I kept thinking that the hospital was gonna call. That you’d gotten hurt. I-I know that it’s almost all in my head I just—” Phil chuckled humorlessly, looking down at their hands. “I never want to let go of you.” He was still shaking badly, but his sobs had stopped. He thought he had probably run out.

“You don’t have to,” Dan said. “I’m here. We’re safe.” His voice was hoarse and exhausted. “Want to just head to bed?”

Phil nodded. “But I—I can’t, um…I can’t…” He looked down at himself. He couldn’t calm down enough to sleep yet. Nervous energy still filled his body, and he still felt like being sick.

“Oh,” Dan said softly. He shifted to sit just beside Phil against the cupboards. He didn’t have the energy to offer words of comfort, but he could feel how much Phil was shaking. “Can you come with me to the bedroom? It’ll probably feel better in there.”

“I-I-I—” Phil struggled to form words for a moment. He shook his head, holding his knees tighter. “Can’t-can’t move yet.”

Dan took in a sharp breath. “Oh.”

“Dizzy,” Phil added.

“God, Phil,” Dan breathed softly, rubbing a thumb over Phil’s knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

Phil sniffled. “S’not your fault,” he said quietly.

“It’s a bit my fault,” Dan said.

Phil shrugged. He pulled Dan’s hand up to his heart and held it against his chest as he slowly steadied his breathing. Dan could feel his heartbeat, much faster than normal, but not by too alarming an amount.

“I guess both of our brain chemistry decided to fuck us up today,” Dan said softly.

Phil nodded, breathing in a practiced way, counting in his mind. Dan moved a bit closer, their hips pressing together.

Dan wasn’t good at physical affection, especially not when he was feeling so disconnected from his senses, from warmth, and from himself. Still, he knew after so many years, that Phil needed it in times like this. That it was the best way to communicate support, especially when he was upset.

Dan moved his left arm around Phil’s waist, and Phil’s breathing stuttered. Dan stilled, watching to assure that it was okay. Phil then let go of Dan’s right hand and leaned into Dan, whimpering softly, and clutching onto Dan’s shirt. Dan sighed in relief, holding Phil properly as Phil began his breathing exercise again.

“Little better?” Dan asked, voice sounding strained.

Phil sniffled. “Yeah. I-I’ll be okay. I, um, I just need some water.” He moved to stand, still shaky.

Dan stood first, a bit too quickly, and he was hit by a headrush, leaning against the counter. Phil held onto the counter as he rose slowly. His head was still spinning. Dan grabbed the glass he’d been drinking from, still half-full and set it in front of Phil. Phil managed to take a drink before standing fully upright on his own.

“Bed?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dan agreed.

Phil stepped back from the counter and stumbled, leaning into Dan. Dan wrapped an arm around him to steady them both.

And what a pair they were, trying not to crumble. Phil was moving on shaking limbs, threatening to tumble over and spill onto the floor into a mess similar to that in his head, and Dan’s body felt heavy as he stepped, as if he could crush himself with the weight of his own brain and melt into a puddle, slipping further and further away from himself.

“We’re okay,” Phil said, managing a laugh. “Think we can make it.”

Dan tried his best at a smile, not managing much. “Yeah. We’ll go slow. Right messes we are.”

“At least we’re together,” Phil said. They made it to the stairs and Phil bit back a sob. “Fuck,” he cried, stumbling again.

“What?” Dan asked, biting his lip. He just wanted to sleep.

Phil laughed through his tears. “I really don’t want to go back down to the bathroom to take out my contacts.”

Dan huffed out a breath. “Haven’t you got a few more sets? Just toss them in the bin in the bedroom.”

“You’re a bloody genius,” Phil breathed, grabbing the railing, and stepping up the stairs.

They went into Phil’s room, as Dan’s was a mess of tissues and dirty clothes and the remnants of a depressive episode. Neither of them bothered turning on a light. They’d left their phones downstairs. Phil’s eyes burned when he peeled the contacts off them, tossing them into the bin beside his bed. His eyes filled with tears that lessened the dry sensation, though, and he collapsed back against his bed. He wasn’t sure this bed had ever felt so comfortable.

Dan peeled off his jeans and t-shirt, crawling beneath the covers. He fell onto his back as well, just beside Phil. Shifting, he pulled the duvet out from beneath them and tossed it over them. He laid back on his back, taking in a slow breath. 

Phil needed touch. Dan needed a bit of space to get himself to sleep. So, Dan reached with his hand until he found Phil’s beneath the covers, tangling their fingers together. Phil pulled Dan’s hand above the covers, lying their entwined hands on the duvet between them.

Phil breathed out shakily, squeezing his hand. Dan took that as a ‘thank you.’

“Dan?” Phil asked softly, shakily.

“Yes?” Dan wished his voice wouldn’t come out so flat and tired.

“Do I really make you feel guilty for being sad?”

Dan swallowed. He didn’t have the strength to do this conversation justice tonight, but he knew Phil needed to reach a resolution before he’d be able to calm down and sleep. They could revisit the conversation when they both felt better. They could talk briefly now, though, if that was what Phil needed. “Sometimes,” Dan answered honestly.

Phil looked down at their hands. “How can I stop?”

Dan just shrugged.

“Really, I’m asking. What can I stop doing to make you feel better?” His voice was gentle and quiet, still a bit shaky. Dan knew he meant what he said, that he wanted more than anything to make Dan’s bad days easier. It didn’t make asking for what he needed any easier for Dan, though.

Dan looked down at their hands as well, watching as Phil moved his anxiously, stretching out his fingers just to curl them back and pop his knuckles. He tightened his grip on Dan’s hand again afterward.

“We can talk more about this later, yeah? Promise. And I’ll properly think about it. But, if you want my exhausted, dumbass, answer...”

“I do,” Phil assured, offering the smallest smile.

“Just. I don’t know. The way you talk about your anxiety puts me at, like, fault a lot. I know that I’m not the best at coping in healthy ways but...it’s…”

“It’s not your fault that I get anxious,” Phil finished softly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault either,” Dan said quietly, eyes drifting closed.

“Yeah,” Phil breathed. “Neither is your stuff. So, you want me to be more careful in, like, how I express my anxiety?”

“I s'pose, yeah,” Dan agreed.

“Okay. I’ll try,” Phil promised. “Then, uh, can you do something for me, Dan?”

Dan gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes still closed.

“Can you bring your phone with you when you go out?” Phil asked. “You can put on do not disturb or airplane mode or whatever. You can ignore my texts. I don’t know. I just need to know I can find you if you’re gone too long. And to know that you can call someone if something happens. And—and you have, like, resources, if you need them.”

Dan knew what he meant. He meant 911 if Dan’s dumbass hurt himself in the throes of his numbness. He meant the suicide hotline if Dan became just a bit too hopeless. He meant his phone maps in case he couldn’t find his way home. He meant a car service in case Dan decided to drink too much.

Dan swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Phil whispered.

“Of course,” Dan answered. “I always try for you, y’know.”

Phil gazed fondly across at him as Dan seemed to drift off. “I try for you too, Dan.”

Dan squeezed his hand once more before he relaxed into the mattress and drifted off. Phil held onto Dan a bit tighter, knowing Dan was safe, falling peacefully asleep beside him. In the morning things would feel less scary. They would laugh at their emotional antics, and they’d talk things through with a bit more logic. They’d try. That was all they really had to do.

[nnegan13]

the mood is hella depressing rn, save us with some fics before the beach date :( (half joking haha, you'll post when they're complete, no pressure, and they've all been wonderful so far!)

ok sorry that I didn’t respond before the beach date but here’s something for you bc this is fucking distracting me 

(also thank you for being so kind ily

@edonori @cachekakusu for you bc it’s incantava depression hours lads 

ft. eleonora “no brain cells only swearing” sava and edoardo “doesn’t actually know how to flirt” incanti 

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30 

21:02 

DOWNTOWN MILAN 

20:59, message from Eva 

[pic] 

Don’t be impressed or anything 

But edo taught me how to make tiramisu tonight 

And it’s fucking delicious

Bring Stephan over and have some 👅👅👅 

Eleonora shoves her phone into her pocket as Stephan exits the little pastry shop, paper bag in hand, and wonders for the fifth time that night why she bailed on dinner. Sure, it’s nice to be with Stephan again, he was her closest friend from the program—more than a friend, if she’s being truly honest—but they made fucking tiramisu—her favorite and Eva knows it’s her favorite even though it’s only been two months since they started living together, this is clearly bait and it’s working—and Stephan is insisting on taking her to tourist trap after tourist trap. She’s lived in Milan for three years now, a cathedral is a cathedral no matter how fancy they look, and she doesn’t want to talk about how the decoration on this particular set of buttresses compares to the decoration on the buttresses from the church they were at previously. 

Not to mention it’s fucking nine o’clock at night and all the cathedrals are closed and he’s offering this commentary from beyond their fancy fences in English because his Italian is shit and she only wants to die a little bit. 

“Here,” Stephan says, offering the bag to her with a smile, and Eleonora peeks inside at the two cannoli he got, thinks of Eva’s message, and reaches inside to grab one. Edoardo’s place is way too close for her not to be tempted.

“So,” she starts, biting into the cannolo and getting filling all over her chin. Stephan laughs a little, as does she, but before he can do something like wipe it off for her, she swipes the filling up her chin and into her already full mouth, turning away so he can’t see more of the mess. 

God, this night is going well. 

She chews and swallows hastily, looking back to him with her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” 

“No, you’re fine,” he says. “Perhaps I should’ve got napkins.” 

“Maybe.” She offers him a little smile, but judging by the look on his face it probably turned into a grimace. She starts walking again just so that she can stop making stupid expressions. “Listen, you said you wanted to try authentic Italian food, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, good.” She gestures with her cannolo and thinks of how best to phrase her proposition without it sounding like she’s trying to escape their outing. “Now, these are pretty good, but my friend just told me he made tiramisu tonight and he’s the best at cooking, baking, you name it.” Hopefully Eva lives up to the hype, or that Edoardo had a hand in most of the preparation. “Do you want to go try it?” 

Stephan sounds hesitant. “Would we be interrupting anything?” 

“No, no, he always invites people over when he makes stuff,” she says. “He even said I should bring you.” 

Stephan latches onto the wrong part of the sentence. “You’ve told your friends about me?” 

Shit, her eyes laser on the sidewalk. “Um, yeah, when we were making plans for this week.” 

“Okay.” His tone is smug and she takes another bite of her cannolo to avoid saying anything more. “Sounds fun.” 

It’s more of a relief than it should be to know that she’ll make it to Edoardo’s tonight. “Great! His place is right around here.”

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 30 

21:37 

VILLA BOYS’ APARTMENT 

Everyone keeps trying their English out on Stephan. At first it’s amusing, watching him try to navigate Chicco and Rocco shouting every statistic they know about the football teams in the UK at him, and then Luca practicing his various accents (Russian is Eleonora’s favorite) for Stephan’s approval, and then Silvia and Federica having the bright idea that they’ll talk at him in English and he’ll answer back in his terrible Italian and they’ll give each other tips. 

Then it becomes her downright favorite thing that’s happened tonight because everyone is so invested in talking to him that Eleonora doesn’t have to anymore. Whether or not that makes her a bad person is a moral quandary she’ll explore later. For now? 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there.” Edoardo bumps into her, tone overly casual, startling her enough that she drops her fork, and leans against the counter next to her. He says, surprised, “Oh, shit, sorry,” and bends to pick it up off the floor.

She stares at the mop of curls on his head and regrets, again, not coming to dinner earlier. He holds it out to her, a little smile on his face. What the fuck is he up to? “Here.” 

“Ah, yes, exactly what I wanted,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him. “Floor fork to go with my fantastic tiramisu.” 

“Glad to know you think it’s fantastic.” He places the fork in the sink behind them and pulls another out of a drawer. A beat passes and he doesn’t hand it to her.

“Glad to know you don’t understand sarcasm.” It really is good tiramisu, the best she’s had in a while, but he’s holding her fork hostage and that is uncalled for. She holds her hand out, palm up. “Can I have that?” 

“It’ll cost you.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, gaze lingering on the little smile that’s come on his face again, and thinks. Seriously, what the fuck is he up to? “What?” 

He nods at the plate in her other hand. “Half your piece.” 

That fucker, she just barely started eating it when he made her drop her fork! He narrows his eyes as well, smile growing into something more like a teasing grin, and she relents. “Fine.” 

Shifting forward, Eleonora moves to lean her forearms on the island countertop in front of them, setting her plate down so that when Edoardo mimics her, it rests between them. She has to force her eyes from his forearms when he presses them into the countertop. He brandishes the fork, raising his eyebrows at her, when they’re interrupted.

“I think we’re gonna get going, guys,” Martino calls from the kitchen doorway and she looks over to find him and Niccolo standing very, very close to one another, jackets pulled haphazardly on, and cheeks slightly red. She wonders if they also took advantage of the hubbub around Stephan to do more…exciting things than practice their English. 

A chorus of goodbyes sends them off, Elia taking a dramatic moment to give them each a bear hug, and as the door closes behind them, Edoardo says to her, “One time I caught them in my room. During a party.” 

“In your room.” 

“In my room.” He shrugs, stabbing the fork into the tiramisu. “Not as bad as the time I walked in on Eva and some random guy, though.” 

She grimaces. “Also in your room?” 

“Also in my room.” 

Shaking her head, she pushes the plate closer to him as he puts the fork in his mouth. “Just for that, you can have as much as you want.” 

He laughs a little but hands the fork over as he chews and her eyes catch on his smile as he looks at her. Something wiggles in her chest and she takes her own bite to distract herself. 

Taking the fork back when she hands it to him, he asks, “How’s it been with Stephan?” 

“Um—” she swallows, tiramisu suddenly ash in her mouth, and that thing in her chest wiggles again. Why is he asking her this? “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you said you dated him back in high school, right?” He asks, glancing away from her. “Isn’t that what this whole week is?” He stabs at the plate again and she looks at the countertop. “A whole bunch of dates?” 

Maybe to Stephan. Fuck, is he thinking that? Does Edoardo seriously think she’s trying to date Stephan? “No, no. He’s just been coming to Italy every year for so long that it’s kind of like a habit at this point.” 

She bites her lip again and looks up just as he looks over, turning the fork upside down and putting it into his mouth, and, shit, she’s always known deep down somewhere inside her that Edoardo is attractive, but watching him pull a fork out of his mouth should not be that hot. More wiggling in her chest. “I don’t—I don’t know if we’ll do it again.” 

“Why not?” 

She shrugs and turns her gaze to the countertop, playing with her fingers and trying to say something coherent. Because the entire time I was on a decently romantic outing with him, I was thinking of being back here in your apartment. “We’ve both changed over the years, I don’t know if there’s much connection anymore.” 

A beat passes where neither of them say anything and, against all common sense, she glances over at him again. He must’ve had a rather large bite of tiramisu, because there’s filling dotted at the corner of his mouth and a little on his bottom lip. “You have—”

Her brain must’ve stopped computing. That’s exactly what happened. Because a normal person with a working brain would’ve just pointed at it, let Edoardo wipe it away himself, and left it at that. But, no— 

Eleonora finds herself reaching over, swiping the filling off his very soft lip with her thumb, making eye contact, and fucking sticking her thumb in her mouth. What are napkins? What is sanity? What is a normal goddamn human interaction? She’s never heard of any of those. 

His lips part just a hair as she pulls her thumb, clean now, from her mouth, and for the second time that night, she wants to die a little. What the fuck is she doing? 

Before she can make an even greater fool of herself, Stephan returns to the kitchen. “Nora?” 

“Hm?” She jumps at the chance to look away from Edoardo, watching her with something she might pin as adoration in his eyes (if she allowed herself time to think about it), and pushes off from the counter. 

“I’ve got to get going, we’re starting pretty early in the morning.” 

“Right.” He’s speaking in English and it takes her a moment to translate. What is he talking about? Why is he telling her this? Glancing down, she sees that Edoardo holds so much tension in his shoulders and swallows, nodding at Stephan. “Right. Um, let me just get my stuff.”  

Stephan nods as well, eyes darting between her and Edoardo, and heads back into the living room when she doesn’t move. 

Edoardo must feel her stare drilling into his back because he stands, coming to his full height, and turns to her. For a moment, her heart pounds so loudly she thinks he might hear it. But then he quirks an eyebrow at her, and repeats with a terrible English accent, “Nora?”

“It’s what I went by over there,” she says as a teasing grin spreads on his face. He’s laughing at her, and she shoves his shoulder lightly. “Don’t be an ass about it.” 

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Go get your stuff.” 

She almost forgot she has to leave now, and it makes her brain short circuit, again, to hear him say it. Surges forward, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and it takes a moment for his arms to come around her, large hands palming her back. This is the first time she’s really hugged him like this, entire body thrown into it, and there’s more damn wiggles in her chest. 

This is shaping up to be the most confusing night ever. 

There’s a cough from the doorway and when she looks over, Stephan is standing there, her jacket and bag in hand. Hastily, she draws back from Edoardo, somehow already missing the gentle pressure of his hands as they drop to his side. His head is bowed as he leans his hip into the counter, but he’s looking up at her through his lashes with a little smile, and she brushes a strand of hair from her face. “Um, thanks for inviting us.” 

He bites his lip. “Anytime.” 

In the living room, Eleonora finds herself giving everyone massive hugs, Stephan watching from the front door, so he doesn’t peg her goodbye to Edoardo as out of sorts. She doesn’t want him asking questions she doesn’t have the answers to. 

Edoardo watches as well, leaning against the kitchen doorway with an expression akin to smugness as her confused friends take her giant hugs instead of the typical cheek kiss in stride. Chicco and Federico especially make a big deal out of it, squishing her in a group hug between them, and Edoardo winks at her as she catches his eye. 

What a fucking mess. 

Stephan says as they make it into the stairwell, “Your friends are fun.” 

They’re a nightmare, is what they are. “Thanks.” 

[jellyfishdooter]

Sokay! thats fine! And I'd like to request some Anti comforting a sad Chase? Like Chase didn't expect, out of all his brothers, Anti to be the one to be there for him.

Anti is a bit harsh but he means well. (too tired to put in the zalgo sorry)

~~~

When Anti walked into the bar, he was surprised to find it full of joyous life. The patrons were singing songs, drinking merrily, and dancing like the world was ending tomorrow. The ego kept his hood down low over his face as he wove around the humans making his way to the main bar table. There he found the only sad face in the establishment. 

Welp. Better he was here than in some dark lonely hole in the wall. Anti thought to himself as he took the stool right next to Chase’s without saying a word. He heard the man sigh heavily beside him with a glass still clutched in one hand as his forehead was pressed to the glass-topped counter. 

“For the last time, Henrik. I’m can fuckin’ quit whenever I damn well-” Chase slurred heavily, turning his head to the side expecting to see the good doctor but was shocked almost to soberity when he found Anti sitting there instead. “Dude what the f-?!” 

“Save it.” Anti hisses, waving down the bartender to get a drink for himself. “Doc asked me to come and get ya. He never said I had to be fast.”  A glass was placed down in front of the elder ego. Amber liquid was poured into it, and just as quickly washed down his throat in a single swig. When Chase looked over he noticed had his bleeding gash hidden by an illusion. At first glance it looked completely fine, but the more one stares at it the more the image began to ripple and distort. 

Chase scoffed, pressing his forehead back onto the counter and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping to will away the bad dream sitting next to him. “Of everyone in the house, why you?” He asked bitterly, shifting his arms to wrap a bit tighter around his head. “You’re the last person I’d expect to be here.” He mumbled more to himself. But the loud music didn’t hide his words like he had hoped. Anti let out a cackle causing the other man to flinch. 

“Yeah you’re not the only fuckin’ one, sunshine.” Anti taunted, signalling for another drink and taking his time to sip on this one. “... No. If the Doc didn’t send me, then I’d be home right now doin’ my own shit. Not putting up with all this… Human interaction.” The zalgo turned his head just enough to peek out from his hood to watch as a few bar patrons hung off each other and sang an old drinking song together. Poorly. He couldn’t help but snicker. Humans were dumbasses. 

Chase was no exception it seemed. The sound of the pub-goers screaming songs made his head ache as he let out a low groan of pain to accompany his head throbbing. 

Anti shook his head with a smirk, finishing off his drink and paying for both of them. “Alright, vlogger. Let’s get you home.” He said, standing from his stool and pulling one of Chase’s arms around his neck, hoisting him up so they could walk out together. Chase laughed bitterly.

“Home? What’s that?” He laughed again, his hat asque on his head as they made their way out of the building. “My home,” He slurred, his steps unbalanced as he leaned more of his weight onto Anti, “My home was with my family who.. Who left me.” Chase’s voice broke at the end before he forced himself to go quiet. 

Anti was fine with quiet. He lead the younger ego down the street a few more blocks before deciding to take a break on a bench by a small patch of grass the city called a park. He unceremoniously dumped Chase onto his butt in the seat before moving to sit on the other end of the wooden bench. The glitch let the glamor drop as he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and leaned back against the wood, staring up at the sky with a bored expression.

The two sat in relative silence aside from Chase’s occasional sniffling for a long time. Neither really wanting to break the quiet between them. 

Until Anti got impatient and let out a loud and exaggerated sigh, “It’s not going to get better.” He said grumpily, laying his foot over his other bent knee. “Your shitty situation is going to remain like shit unless you grow a pair and DO something about it.” 

“It’s not that simple!” Chase snapped, instantly regretting his action and quickly closing his mouth and looking back down at his muddy boots.

“Yeah, and? I get it. It’s complicated and everything is knotted together in a big messy pile.” Antil took a breath and watched the fog roll lazily out of his mouth and vanish into the air. “Your wife left you and took your guy’s kids. So you drink to forget. Forget that both of you were barely out of highschool when you found out Stacey was pregnant with your kid. And only being teenagers you decided the right course of action was getting married at an early age. Got kicked out of your parent’s houses to get jobs fend for yourselves with twins on the way. You thought you were managing by yourself with working two shitty jobs, but then found Youtube. You went viral a few times making you think you can be a video maker as a career. Got some more cash and you and she blew it on stuff you didn’t need. Had another kid. Delved so far into your quote on quote work that you didn’t have any time to spend with the family you made. You stopped getting views on your videos and you scrapped pennies from your bank account. It wasn’t enough, so she left and took the kids calling you irresponsible and immature. Leaving you to spiral into depression and pick up a nasty drinking habit, making it harder for you to get custody of your own children.”

Chase was holding his face in his hands as his shoulders deflated, as he spoke his voice was rough and angry, “Gee thanks. Was that supposed to make me feel fucking better?”

“No. If pointing out all your major fuck ups would make you feel better I’d be a goddamn certified therapist. Or maybe some kind of miracle man bullshit that you see on TV. Either way I’d be fuckin’ rich.”

“So what’s your point?” Chase groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he saw stars behind his eyelids. 

Anti lazily gazed up at the real stars above their heads, most of them hidden behind the light pollution but some still shined bright. “Like I said. Your life is shit. But it won’t get any better if you sit around feeling sorry for yourself all day every day. It doesn’t do jack shite if you sit on your ass and mope.” 

“Seems a little harsh, dontcha think?” Chase mumbled sarcastically, using humor to try and hold back his tears. 

“Perhaps. But I think the others baby you too much. You keep saying you’re a grown ass man but you let yourself get coddled by Henrik and Jackie to the point where you don’t do anything to help yourself. You just let them do it for you so you won’t get all sad and upset.” Anti said plainly, his tone bored and matter-of-fact. 

It sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Chase.

… Because he was right.

“But my depression keeps kicking my ass and.. I keep falling back to where I was before.. It’s pointless. I’m pathetic.” The single father said, tears now flowing down his cheeks.

“They have medication to help regulate that. It balances out the chemicals in your brain so it doesn’t feel like the world is crushing you anymore. You can fork over a bit of cash and contact your insurance to help you go see a professional therapist to talk to. Join a group at the hospital or somewhere else to help you get sober. Once you get help you can work towards getting your kids back. There are options out there. You have the ability to take action. You just got to step up and WORK for it.” Anti sat up in his spot on the cold park bench and let out a long sigh. “It won’t get fixed overnight, it’s uncomfortable as hell, and a therapist isn’t going to fix you themselves. You gotta reach inside yourself and say that this is what you need to feel better, so then you get the drive to work towards something good for yourself.” Running a hand through his messy dark hair, Anti shrugged. “You can’t live in your own pity party for your whole life.”

Chase was.. Honestly at a loss for words. He didn’t expect any of this. Least of all from ANTI of all egos. He looked up from his hands over to the glitch- who was staring off into space with an air of nonchalance about him. Like what he said was just simple known facts of the world. It was… a bit jarring to say the least. “Where did you learn all of that?” Chase asked, his voice small and throat a bit raw from silently holding back emotional sobs the whole time.

“I’m connected to the internet all day. Where do you THINK I learned it?” Anti resisted the urge to his eyes as they sat in silence for a good few minutes, allowing for Chase to think over all that he said. Finally, he stood up from his spot and held out a hand to the younger ego. “Ready to go home, big boy?” 

Chase looked from the outstretched hand to Anti’s face and back again. The eldest saw puffy red eyes and tear-stained cheeks under the brim of their signature hat. After a moment of hesitation, the young man reached out and clapped his hand onto Anti’s wrist and allowed the glitch to help hoist him up onto his feet. He stumbled a bit but Anti held on so he wouldn’t fall. The grassy-haired man looked up at his older brother, searching for… something. He wasn’t sure what exactly. But finally he sighed and just allowed Anti to help him the rest of the way back home. 

Anti practically tossed Chase onto his bed but he was too tired to care, passing out almost instantly when his head hit the pillow. The glitch left a glass of water and some painkillers in Chase’s bathroom before quietly closing the door on his way out. He shot Shneep a text saying that he got Chase home before heading down to his own bedroom in the basement. 

The next morning Chase slowly woke up. Most of the night a blur in his head but Anti’s words seemed to echo around his skull with each throb of his headache. Sitting up very slowly, the man sat still for a full minute before reaching for his phone to make an appointment with his doctor later in the week. Anti’s blunt words is what he really needed.

He was tired of feeling this way and needed to change.

[nehawriter16]

5.11.19 - my life is falling apart and other updates.

Hello internet.

Just wanted to talk today. I like Tumblr because not many people I know follow me on here. Also there isn’t a word limit, and sometimes a girl just wants to rant.

So this is me releasing all my thoughts into the world today.

1. ACADEMICS

I quit chartered accountancy. Just woke up one day, and told my parents I couldn’t do it anymore. That was a long week at home, and I know they’re disappointed in me. All along I’ve been a bright student, somebody who never disappointed and they could brag about at dinner parties. But this course cut me open. It hurt me, it sent me crumbling and it dragged me through hell. In the movie Dear Zindagi, Alia Bhatt is in therapy and Shahrukh Khan tells her that sometimes we keep doing the hard thing because we think we have to. And we forget that its okay to pick an easy way. I guess that’s what I’m doing. I’m choosing the easier way because the harder way made me unhappy, it made me unhappy to the point where I didn’t want to be alive anymore.

So the new plan is that I will give my GRE and apply to Masters in Finance courses in the US. Preferably in the STEM field, because its easy to get a work visa after graduating if you’re a STEM graduate. Do I think this is the perfect career path for me? No, absolutely not. But do I think it will do me good to finally move the fuck out of home, have a change of continent, meet some new people, and have the college experience I always felt I missed out on? Yes.

So this is what we’re doing. My GRE is in 12 days. I am barely prepared.

2. DRIVE/PASSION

I always had a passion for writing. I knew when I discovered it that it not only brought me joy, but I was pretty damn good at it. Unfortunately being brown, and coming from a family of people who had all built their career from scratch by making practical decisions, because they didn’t have a choice due to their humble backgrounds, I was always told that writing was a futile thing and would just be a hobby, not something to be looked at as a career option. I disagreed. Having made a bit of money from it now, I still disagree.

But I’ve been brought up in the lap of luxury and I have a pretty high standard of living. I like my weekly Starbucks and I go to bars that don’t have happy hours. I enjoy the bimonthly staycation in a fancy hotel, and I hate repeating outfits and thoroughly enjoy fashion, so I’m always buying new clothes. It makes me happy to look good.

So yeah, I agree that since I haven’t had the liberty to pursue writing full time, I haven’t yet found a way to make a living from it. Maybe it’s a risk, and a back up plan is advisable. But all I know is writing is the only thing I feel like waking up to do. Even now, when my life is falling apart, it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.

Growing up I was always a hardworking student. And if I wasn’t, my Mom made me that way. She would yell if I got bad marks, and she always encouraged that I at least be in the top ten in class. Even the school I went to was pretty much only concerned with academics. And so due to the environment and brainwashing, I did well. I stayed in the 90 percent lane all my life, all the way up to twelfth grade. In my junior college I had two of the worst years of my life. I was molested by my co caption for months on end, and I couldn’t escape him. It was constant mental, emotional and physical turmoil, more so because I couldn’t tell anyone. Despite how insanely difficult it was to spend six hours every day in the place where my molester showed up every day, I still managed to keep my grades high. I scored 92 percent, and my parents were happy.

I had no passion for finance, but since I had proved to be so bright, my parents said the only thing to do now was four years of Chartered Accountancy. After that, my life would be sorted. I passed the first level by studying for 2 months, while other people attended classes for a year. I passed the second level too. I got into one of the biggest global multiconsulting firms in the world for my internship, and my parents were happy. My life was on track, and it didn’t matter that I was crying in the cabs home from work because I was so miserable. It didn’t matter as long as the plan was being followed. After all, the plan was being followed and I was so goddamn close to the finish line.

Two years into my internship I decided I needed to quit, or at least shift to a smaller firm. The pressures in this one were too much and I was so sad I could barely make it out of bed. So I told my parents I needed to study for my finals, and they got me out of it. My mental health was derailing – but oh boy, was this just the beginning. I moved to a smaller firm and pretended to stay home on the weekends and study. Instead, all I did was lay in bed with YouTube videos playing on loop because I couldn’t bear to be alone with my thoughts.

2017 was the year my boyfriend broke up with me too, so all kinds of shit was hitting the fan at the same time. I was fucked up in every way. I started using alcohol to fall asleep, to wake up, to do pretty much anything actually. To engage in social situations, I’d carry around a quarter in my bag and drink it in the cab. It eased my anxiety and helped me smile at people in a more convincing way.

2018 sucked. So did 2019. These two years are a blurry flatline in my head. I have been drowning like the ground I walk on is quicksand, and the more I struggle to get out, the more it pulls me in. When I look back at my life’s work in the past two years, I see nothing. Nothing that counts as an achievement anyway.

I wasted them while everybody else was putting in the work to get into ivy league schools or pass exams, get their first real jobs kickstarted. I lay in bed and watched every tv show there was to watch with the curtains drawn. I ran through horrible men and gave my body up to practical strangers that I felt nothing for, and the ones I liked left me, like they always do. Yeah, I wrote two books. Made enough money to support my alcohol addiction, my shopping habits, my vacations and staycations. I blew it all off on the temporary ride of whatever would bring me happiness in the moment.

I lost myself. I lost myself to illness and addiction and worthless friends and denial. I’m still lost. I used to have a drive in my body, something that said wake up and get things done today. Instead, I’ve been doing the zombie shuffle through my own life. Sometimes I wake up and my first thought is – “How long till this day is over.” I count the hours until I can crawl back into bed, till its an acceptable time to go to sleep. Because the only place I don’t feel like my brain has a fucking dense fog rolling through it is when I’m sleeping.

I used to be brilliant, and I’ve lost my shine. I’ve lost my willpower, my ability to be the hardest working person in the room. I have gotten self destructive to the point where I procrastinate and procrastinate and then it’s too late for everything. I am so fucked up, you have no idea.

I don’t know what I should do to bring that feeling of wanting to do something perfectly back. You know, the feeling of studying so hard you know everything on the test. The feeling of being the best, no questions asked. The feeling of answering questions in class and submitting assignments on time and just…enjoying the process of academia that I used to love so much. But I guess in depression, your brain sort of grows old and tired. It can’t remember things. It doesn’t want to move, or think, or do anything difficult.

My memory is deteriorating and the moments I’m supposed to remember and the information I should retain? It gets lost more often than not. And I am so scared to assess the scale of this incompetency that I just don’t even try because whenever I do, it’s all so overwhelming and all the trauma from Chartered Accountancy comes swirling back to hit me in the head.

3. BODY IMAGE

As a result of my constant sadness, I had to find ways to make myself happy. The periods of happiness lasted for a short while, but I rode the highs to the fullest because I knew the darkness would be back eventually. I turned to alcohol and marijuana and nicotine, to the point where every three or four days I would need one or the other, if not all three in combination. I would drink every night to be able to fall asleep. In my cupboard there is a special collection of all the wine bottles that have acted as sleeping pills.

I also began to eat junk food, because carbohydrates make you happy before they make you feel like shit. All addictions are like that, actually. Swiggy was my best friend, and my array of lovers : greasy Chinese, McDonalds, any dessert place – just whatever was bad for your skin, fattening, but would be brought to you by a wonderful man on a bike no matter what the weather was, and was easy to eat and throw all evidence of out later and forget that somewhere on my body, this food would settle into another ugly layer.

In the middle I got sick of myself and went to the gym, started going at it hard. My body improved and the endorphins were definitely helping, but a few months in I stopped waking up. My brain said it didn’t want to anymore, and I, the slave to my depression, caved and listened. I haven’t been since. The swiggy orders keep coming in every day and I keep throwing the containers into the trash, changing quickly from one outfit into another so I don’t have to see what I look like naked.

But I know. I somehow hate myself for the disgust I have for certain parts of my body, and then for the part of me that knows it wants to “fix” them all, but is in constant battle with the part of me that says I shouldn’t feel guilty for taking up space or for being a curvy girl. But body positivity isn’t about a number on a scale, its just about whether you like your reflection in the mirror, whether it makes you happy. Mine hasn’t made me happy in a long time. But then again, what the fuck has?

Sometimes I’m in trial rooms with harsh lighting and I just stare at myself and call myself horrible names. I keep the lights off when boys come over and the clothes come off. I keep saying, “I have to lose 10 kgs,” but I keep ordering from Swiggy every time a depressive episode rolls in to make it go away.

I keep setting deadlines, like, “After this month, I will cut out sugar!” and “After this exam, I will go back to the gym!” but then I fuck up and I’m like, oh well. Maybe next month.

The bottom line is I despise my body and the way it’s started to look. It doesn’t help that my Instagram feed is full of women with perfect skin, defined abs, and perky butts with chiselled features. I want all of that. I want to feel beautiful, and beautiful is hard work. Which, of course, my brain pines after, but never actually lets me get out of bed to do.

4. DATING/LOVE

My last serious relationship ended in 2017. I briefly dated somebody exclusively in the beginning of 2019, but he turned out to be the biggest asshole of them all, and “didn’t realise” he was using me to get over his ex-girlfriend. He broke up with me over text, pretty much cheated on me, didn’t even explain himself until I found out from some mutual friends. After that I was done, I couldn’t take love anymore. I couldn’t let anybody in because every relationship I’ve ever been in has ended with me being the second choice or me being dumped or betrayed and left hurt and broken for years.

The trauma is too much. So I decided I was never going to let anybody leave me again or enter my life and find a permanent place in it. I became the biggest fuckboy of them all, despite my conscience that has always been a good, kind and sensitive thing. This player thing really isn’t for me, but it was fun for a while to trump boys and play mind games and make them feel inadequate about themselves, to stand them up and never call back and ask them to leave my house after I had gotten what I wanted, to only call when I wanted it again.

I purposely picked out the worst, baddest ones. Then I tamed them by being even worse than they were. In May I began speaking to somebody who was fun and hilarious and good looking and well off and who made my brain feel alive again. Every time he texted me I caught myself smiling, and all our conversations consisted of saying witty sarcastic things to each other. We went on one date and he kissed me in the car, but for some reason in real life his life was so different from mine, that I declared the kiss good (he put his hand in my hair and grabbed, in a non hurtful but very I’m-super-into-this way, ooofff) and the date a disaster. I don’t know whether I was just in denial of my now strongly sprouting crush, or whether I actually hated it.

As the months passed, I tried to get him to go out with me again. I’m not much of a pursuer, because I have always been the one who gets pursued. But this boy was different. We would talk a lot over DM and we would make fun of each other and his life was fabulous and exciting and I watched from the outside, and built him into a much grander version of who he is in real life. I do that. What made him even more attractive was that he didn’t want me, and I couldn’t figure out for the love of God why not. I thought I was the whole package, and I even started to act out a little bit in the psycho way he told me he liked his women, which is SO TOXIC but I had actually felt something for somebody after so long that I didn’t even backtrack. Anyway, it soon became clear that it was not going to lead anywhere because he just disappointed me, didn’t show up, and my ego took a hit. I let it go, mostly. Or I will, as time passes.

I think I deserve love. Not the makes you feel good and carries your bag when its heavy kind. I deserve the love that I am ready to give – the grand romantic gestures that would be so dumb, but somehow he makes them work. The cant live without you love. The we’re best friends and teammates and nothing, not even distance, not our past demons, will keep us from making it work. I want the kind of person who is so sure of who they are, so internally confident, and so absolutely sure that I am their soulmate that I convinces me. I don’t want to meet a lot of wrong boys, goddamnit. I’ve done my fair share of the wrong boys, I’ve paid my dues for the amount of hurt one person is supposed to have. Now I just want the right one.

Deep down, I know he’s not here. Not in this city, because that would just be a cruel joke. Imagine meeting your soulmate and then having to go to college in six months. Fucking shit. If the universe even pities me a little bit, it wont do that to me.

I sometimes wonder if my life only stays on track if my romantic life is going well. I mean, when I dated my last serious boyfriend, I had it all – I was skinny. I had a prestigious internship. I was passing my exams. The writing was flourishing. This is a very scary thought, because I don’t want to depend or co exist on somebody else for my happiness in any way. But I cant deny the fact that my entire life fell apart when that last boy, who I loved with all my heart, broke up with me. It hasn’t been quite the same since.

His life is going spectacularly well, though. Lots of women and a great job and enough money to buy plane tickets to different cities to meet these women when he wouldn’t even drive down three hours to see me in a neighbouring town. I hate how unfair life is. He’s found some amazing people that he has feelings for, that like him back, even though he’s the one who broke my heart. And I still haven’t found a single person who even makes it to the second date, and the only one who did was just using me as a placeholder while his cheating ex girlfriend took a vacation from their relationship. So how the fuck is that fair? Am I being given the worst kind of experiences because my broken heart produces a special brand of my best writing? If yes, then I’m tired. I’d rather be a mediocre writer, but I cant spend my whole life being abandoned and cheated on and dumped and taken for granted, especially when the kind of love I can give is loyal and abundant and pure.

  That’s it. Those are my issues, or some of them. Honestly I’m tired of typing and want to retire to my safe space that is my bed, and the deep dark comfort of unconsciousness. I just thought I might feel better if I could release this into the world, before I feel a little better and write another post manifesting what I envision my life to be next year.

If you made it to the end, you truly love me and care for me. Thanks for sticking with me, I guess. I hope things get better. I used to say that the good thing about rock bottom is that there’s nowhere to go but up. I wish there was some kind of tracker that told you when you’d actually hit rock bottom, because all I do is keep on fucking sinking deeper and deeper.