#love always finds it's way to us

[allura-raine]

[inkskinned]

probably time for this story i guess but when i was a kid there was a summer that my brother was really into making smoothies and milkshakes. part of this was that we didn't have AC and couldn't afford to run fans all day so it was kind of important to get good at making Cool Down Concoctions.

we also had a patch of mint, and he had two impressionable little sisters who had the attitude of "fuck it, might as well."

at one point, for fun, this 16 year old boy with a dream in his eye and scientific fervor in heart just wanted to see how far one could push the idea of "vanilla mint smoothie". how much vanilla extract and how much mint can go into a blender before it truly is inedible.

the answer is 3 cups of vanilla extract, 1/2 cup milk alternative, and about 50 sprigs (not leaves, whole spring) of mint. add ice and the courage of a child. idk, it was summer and we were bored.

the word i would use to describe the feeling of drinking it would maybe be "violent" or perhaps, like. "triangular." my nose felt pristine. inhaling following the first sip was like trying to sculpt a new face. i was ensconced in a mesh of horror. it was something beyond taste. for years after, i assumed those commercials that said "this is how it feels to chew five gum" were referencing the exact experience of this singular viscous smoothie.

what's worse is that we knew our mother would hate that we wasted so much vanilla extract. so we had to make it worth it. we had to actually finish the drink. it wasn't "wasting" it if we actually drank it, right? we huddled around outside in the blistering sun, gagging and passing around a single green potion, shivering with disgust. each sip was transcendent, but in a sort of non-euclidean way. i think this is where i lost my binary gender. it eroded certain parts of me in an acidic gut ecology collapse.

here's the thing about love and trust: the next day my brother made a different shake, and i drank it without complaint. it's been like 15 years. he's now a genuinely skilled cook. sometimes one of the three of us will fuck up in the kitchen or find something horrible or make a terrible smoothie mistake and then we pass it to each other, single potion bottle, and we say try it it's delicious. it always smells disgusting. and then, cerimonious, we drink it together. because that's what family does.

[hinamie]

spiraling

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

Plain-text version:

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[gummi-ships]

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts �� that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[ancha-aus]

Ghosts & Medium AU Drabble - Moon Ritual

Not the drabble idea i mentioned before but one I wanted to write quickly :3

I am sure you can guess who this one is about :3 It is time for the gang to summon and meet Nightmare.

*----------------------------*

Dust checks the circle he had been drawing before leaning back. Still not quite right. Damnit. This is a hard design to get right. He rubs some of the chalk away and starts with making the design again.

Cross, or well Killer in Cross's body, leans over his shoulder "Dusty!! I am bored! are we done here yet?" and he leans against Dust's back.

Dust freezes and notices that Killer is letting a hand wander. Dust hits backwards and hits the other in his face. Killer backs up wiht a groan and dsut glares over his shoulder "Stop trying to molest me every five minutes." and he turns back to his circle.

He fucking hopes this works. Otherwise Dust is not sure how to get Killer to unsync from Cross's body.

Cross floats near him. still hiding his face "I am so sorry." Dust just shrugs as he keeps working on the circle.

Ash glares at where Killer lays holding his skull groaning "You are a disappointment and a waste of life force and soul energy." Ash nods and floats towards Dust's side.

Dust tries to focus on the circle but hears Horror gently tell Killer to not bother Dust when he is working. That distracting Dust could end up getting him hurt.

Dust checks his notes again before looking back at the circle. It seems right...

Cross looks over his shoulder and tilts his skull "It is unlike any demon summoning circle i have ever seen before..."

Dust hums "It shouldn't." It wasn't a demon summoning circle at all after all. All the symbols and texts he had found decribed this being as a Fallen. Which can be read in different ways.

But Dust reasoned a demon wouldn't be called a Fallen. especially not a powerful demon. So he skipped the whole standard set up and worked from scratch.

Whichc is why it took him a while to get this one ready but it should work!

Of course Dust hasn't been able to test the ritual he made just yet and it isn't like you can really practise rituals safely. The whole summoning a being makes that a bit complicated.

Dust sighs as he steps back from the circle and nods. That is the best he can make it with his limited supplies.

Dust walks to the side and starts making a larger containment and shelter circle around the ritual circle. Best to make sure that whoever he summons is protected. It would be useless to summon someone only for them to die or get destroyed by say the very air.

Ash frowns as he checks the circle himself "You didn't specify which type of being you are summoning."

Dust shrugs "I don't know for sure what it is." He has ideas but if he puts in the wrong species he may just make the circle blow up on him. He can know, it happened before.

Ash frowns at it before floating to his side again "Make sure to add a desummon symbol just in case you can't make a deal and need to get rit of it."

Dust nods "Will do." He makes sure to put the desummon sigil between the containment circle and the shelter circle. Making sure the shelter one is the most outwards one and the being can't reach through the containment one to mess with the desummon sigil.

Once finished he checks all the marks and sigils before nodding as he walks back to the spot he had been preparing for himself. He checks his own protection circle and makes sure to prepare an antimagic shield as well. Ready to be activated when he wants it to.

Well. That is all the preparations he can do for this.

Well...almost. he turns towards the ghosts and actual person following him around "I am going to do the ritual. I need everyone, ghosts included, to stay within this circle." It will be a bit snug but he didn't feel like it was a good idea to experiment with hsi protection circle right before summoning an unknown being.

Horror frowns at him "Will you be okay? Takes a lot of magic."

Dust nods "I am fine."

Horror still looks deeply unhappy "But you skipped breakfast and lunch for this... shouldn't you eat before doing this?"

Dust shrugs as he walks towards the safe spot "I will be fine." and it isn't like he got the fonds to buy something at the moment. He needs to make the little he have last longer for as long as he can.

He just does not want to try to do another job and have Killer invite another ghost along. Nothing against Horror, he is very nice and behaves while being helpful, but he does not want another ghost anchored to his soul. There are already three now and Dust does not want to figure out what happens to a soul if too many beings use it as anchor.

He enters the circle and a moment later Killer is hugging him from behind. Dust glares "Killer!" fuck Cross's body is very warm and solid. That guy may be a priest but you would think he is a soldier or fighter or something with how strong he is.

Killer just hums as he tugs his skull and face right by Dust's neck and shoulder "What is wrong my bunny? I am in the circle aren't I?" Dsut can hear the grin in his voice. Then Killer hums happily "mmmh.... so warm and you smell so nice."

Dust glares and wiggles a bit but he is very stuck "You are fucking weird. Let go now. I need my arms for this."

Killer moves his arms around and he is now hugging Dust's lower middle and has his hands on his hips.

Dust uses his newly freed arm to hit Killer in the middle wiht his elbow. Fucking hell what the fuck does Cross EAT?! That guy's body is fucking all muscle and that is fucking impressive for an actual skeleton. How much trianing does it take for a skeleton's passive magic to be that strong and trained?!

Killer groans but finally lets go.

Dust glares at him "Back of the circle or so help me I am kicking you out and let whatever i summon do whatever with you."

Cross yelps and flaots closer "wait! Dust! Please don't! That isn't Killer's body remember!" he looks begging at him.

Dust sighs and nods. He knows. Which is why he hasn't done much more damage to the stupid flirt.

Talking and thinking about that stupid flirt. Killer lays on the ground by his legs and winks "I don't mind you on top of me Dusty. Just had to ask and I am happy to provide~"and he winks again!

Dust swears he sometimes wonders if there is just something in Killer's sockets which makes him wink this much!

Dust sighs and checks if all the ghosts are near as well. Everyone seems fine so he holds up his hands and concentrates. He knows that the blue in his eye light lights up. colouring all the circles first blue.

Dust lets his magic explore the circles and what to do where. Once he has a good feeling for it he concentrates and any blue turns a violet colour.

Dust mutters some old spells from long ago. They don't do anything but they help him concentrate his magic. Ways to make it easier to use the magic.

The summon circle lights up purple and Dust waits. He knows Ash is holding his breath.

Then it turns bright cyan and flames seem to rise form the circle. Dust pulls his own magic back as the summoning circle has been activated.

Ash shudders as he glides close to Dust's shoulder "that.... is very powerful... what exactly are you summmoning again?"

Dust feels his soul fill with anxiety. Maybe this was a bad idea... He glances around and sees that everyone seems troubled. Killer is shaking and has taken to holding Dust close against his front. Arms locking him in place but this time Killer doesn't even seem to be trying to sneak a feel. Just holding him close. Dust can feel Killer's soul shivering and shuddering agianst his own back.

Horror seems close to hyperventilating as he seems to hold his own middle. Staring in front of him and his other hand seems to be worrying his headwound.

Cross is straight up shaking and muttering things to himself. looking close to a panic attack.

Then Dust remembers it, something specific in the notes he took. he grabs his notebook and starts searching for the right pages.

A being that brings negativity. It finds your weakness and exploids it for its own amusement.

Is this being causing this?

"Dust?"

It has to be right?

"Dust!"

But then it would be strong enough to already affect people without really having to be present!

"Dust!!"

Dust glares at Ash "What I am thinking." Obviously!

Ash points and Dust turns only to freeze.

There is a being made of someking of black goo. It is dripping in the circle and staring right at them with one shining glowing cyan eye.

Staring.

Waiting.

Dust quickly checks his notes. It isn't a fae so the fact the others said his name shouldn't matter. It is a being which thrieves on emotions and-

oh.

Dust closes his sockets and takes afew deep breaths. Mind over matter.

He is fine.

He prepared for this.

This thing can't hurt him.

He is okay.

His soul calms downa dn with it so do his emotions.

He looks at the others "Calm down. They won't be able to get to us." his feet is right by the activation symbol for the magical shield. HE doesn't think this is magic and so won't waste it right now. "It gets its powers from negative emotions. probably is causing them too. chill."

Ash looks at him and nods. He concentrates and obviously calms down. Dust knows his brother well and his brother knows him. Ash knows Dust wouldn't say that unless he is very sure.

Cross looks unsure but floats closer to Dust before calming a bit. seemingly trusting Dust to know what he is saying.

Hah. Dust hopes so.

Killer frowns at him and just pulls him closer. He clearly still doens't trust it and that is fine. as long as he remains calm and collected... which Dust knows is too mcuh to ask of Killer because it is Killer but Dust puts that out of his mind.

horror is harder to calm down just because Dust doens't know Horror that well but it seems Horror had been watching them already. Dust speaks calmly "Nothing you feel is what you feel really. It is just them doing this." Dust hopes. He isn't sure if this being can actually physically make their fake pains real but his shielding should protect them from it. It is too protect against harm after all.

Horror frowns but nods and pulls away from the wound and his middle.

Okay. Okay. He got this.

"Impressive. Waht gave it away that it was fake?"

Dust is shocked by this being's voice. It is deep and calm. The eye seems amused but Dust isn't sure how to ready this being just yet.

His growing and forming migraine isn't helping either. It is getting almost painful to concentrate on them. And Dust knows it is because this is a strong creature. Almost like his body tries to warn him when he gets near something too powerful for him to handle.

This being is much too powerful for him to have summoned. Oh shit.

The being tilts its head as it continues to look at him.

Right! It had asked a question.

Dust considers not answering them but if he wishes for them to break the bonds keeping Killer stuck in Cross's body he needs to have abit of a positive standing.

So. Chitchat.

Dust shrugs "Looked through some stuff... it mentioned you are connected to emotions and bonds made with those. Not specifically harming others at a distance."

The being nods as it looks abck to the circles "Interesting circles. I never seen any like them before. Usual people try the more..." they smirk "Traditional circles to get me. You know the ones. sacrifices."

Dust frowns as he looks to the side "Fucking idiots is what those people are. Why use does something that uses emotions have of something dead?"

The thing's smirk grows and they nods "Very true. Rather unimpressive and does not do well to impressive someone. For that matter. You have my attention. What did you wish of me... Dust was it?"

Dust nods "It still is." he rubs his notebook "I want to make a deal."

They grin and purr as they speak "Of course you do. What would you need of me?"

Dust points with his thumb over his shoulder to Killer "There is a poltergeist in this body that should not be in it. I want him out of this body so the original spirit who the body belongs to can enter it again."

The being tilts his skull again before focussing their sight on Killer. Dust can hear Killer start to growl and feel his grip on himself tighten.

The other looks amsued "You sure? He seems very fond of you."

Dust makes sure to look unimpressed and keep his voice deadpan "That is the problem. As spirit he is a lot easier to ignore. Now he is mobile and can cause property damage."

The being chuckles as they look at them all. Their magic glowing and reaching but the shield does its work and keeps them out. Dust raises a brow and the other smiles innocently "Can't blame me for trying." then a moment later as he looks thoughtful "huh... interesting."

Cross sounds nervous "what is?!"

The other looks amused "What exactly caused you to.... have your body... borrowed?"

Cross looks embarrassed as he crosses his arms. Yeah no. Dust does not have time for this. "The spirit was first anchorred to me. I asked Cross to remove said anchor. His ritual went wrong and this is the new situation."

The other chuckles as they shake their head "Of course it didn't work. You did a trade ritual."

Dust stops. So THAT is why the ritual circles had looked weird! Cross looks panicked "waht is that?! It can't have been... I used a ritual from old priest scrolls!"

the other nods "Yeah that would do it. It used to be the only way priests could get dmeons and spirits out of the victims bodies or away from them. By offering a trade. instead of just feeling parts of alive or temporary possessing they would offer their own bodies for the spirit. Giving the spirit a much better place to reside and live instead of the victim." more amsuement "of course... the priests using this also made sure to eat and drink holy to make sure that while their body was a free ride it also became a deathtrap."

Cross looks beyond alarmed "I didn't know that! Dust!!"

Dust holds up his hands "You came to me with that ritual. How was i suposed to know what it did?"

Cross waves his hands "You always know stuff about rituals!"

Dust groans but looks at the other being "Can you fix it?" because that is the real question.

The other seems to think for a moment. tap their chin before making a so-so motion "I may have a solution but it isn't what your friend probably wants. I can not undo the ritual completely but i can change it. I can make it that the poltergeist is no longer the holder and owner of the body."

Cross is already nodding but Dust frowns "What would happen if we did that route?"

They look amused "It means that his body? Becomes more of an... open territory, at least temporary. It means that if the spirit is strong enough and stubborn enough they can claim the body for a while to inhabit. the exact limits depends on the spirit and the body."

Cross sputters "You mean! My body becomes like a... a... rental?!"

the other stops and seems to think it over before nodding "In a way. Eventually your body and spirit should recover enough themselves to make it so you are anchored to your own body again. That is usually how the priests regained full control themselves after destroying the being they trapped. They would stay on holy ground to make sure no spiritis challenged their claims over their body. but that is all i can do."

Dust frowns "would cross need to be the only one in his body for that to work?" if that is the case they would need to get to the chapel real soon after Killer got evicted.

The other shakes his head "Not specifically. He would get his claim over his body back faster if he stayed on holy ground but even on neutral ground as someone else possesses him his body would know this is not the spirit that is suposed to be in it. and eventually kick it out. again, when this happens depends on the spirit and body themselves."

Dust frowns. meaning. Cross will eventually regain his full body control but it would take time. Killer, or any spirit for that matter, could possesses him and gain control over Cross's body. Leaving his spirit out of it. This would stay this way until either Cross can repossess himself over the spirit's control, or until cross's body realises the problem itself and kick out the uninvited guest.

He looks at Cross "Can you live with that?"

Cross seems to think before nodding.

Cool. at least this ritual and the near mental or emotional breakdowns weren't for nothing. Dust turns back to the being "What would you want in return for payment?"

The being hums and grins "a favor?"

Dust glares "No."

The being sighs but doens't sound disappointed or surprised "Can't blame me for trying." then he looks at them again. clearly in thought.

They nod and smile "I want a very specific thing. An artifact I lost a while ago. I want you. To find it and bring me to it so i can reclaim it."

Dust raises a brow "So you wnat me to find it and summon you near it?"

The other smirks and shakes his skull "I want you to make haste to find it. So i will remain here in this realm as you search it. the deal is completed as soon as i have it back in my possession. and then any debt is repayed."

Dust stands there and groans "Are you fucking kidding me!?" he covers his skull as he just hangs his head in his hands.

Killer holds him clsoer "Dusty? what is wrong?"

Ash however is cursing as well as he figured it out too.

Dust glares "I already HAVE three spirits stuck to me! Two of which who werne't invited! Why would i add another one to that!?"

The other smiles as he crosses his arms "that is my price."

Dust glares "I am not even sure if i can savely make another anchor. This is too high risk." not to forget he doesn't even know if this being needs a stronger connection or takes more magic to be here. Dust only has so much energy and magic.

The being waves it off "I wouldn't be anchored to you. I would be anchored to the very concept of our deal. The reason I would be here and be able to stay would only be because of the deal. the deal is completed? I will return to my realm and you would be debtfree."

Dust frowns as he thinks it over. okay at least not another anchor. he frowns "What if i can't get the artifact?"

The other being smirks "the debt would remain. but i am not unfair. sometimes people can still complete tasks from beyond the grave and i am patient."

Dust frowns "what is even the artifact?"

The being smiles "Why would you need to know?"

Dust glares "I would need to know if i need to find it."

the being considers it before nodding "It is an artifact normally used for rituals connected to the god of destruction."

Dust thinks for a moment before his sockets widen. He may have a clue... He knows that the cults have been obsessed with a god of destruction.

Dust nods "Okay. you break the bond now. and in trade i help you get to that artifact." Ash looks unsure but clearly trusts him tom know what he is doing.

The being smiles as he holds out a hand. it glows cyan "So. we have a deal?"

Dust nods "We have a deal." he exits the protective circle and goes to the very edge of the containment circle.

They stare at each other.

the being smirks as they hold out a hand "I. Nightmare. King of negativity agree to the terms of the prediscussed deal. which consists that i will remove the spirit stuck in Cross's body and remove the claim it has under it. In return Dust will assist in the search of the artifact used in rituals of the destroyer. once this artifact is foudn the deal is complete and will be done."

Dust takes a deep breath as he raises his hand and covers it with his own magic aura. only a soft weak violet light compared to the fluorescent blue that the being, Nightmare, gives off.

They shake hands and Dust can see the magic settle on his own hand and a small cyan mark on his hand. it is shaped like a moon.

He takes his hand back and Nightmare steps out of the circle "Very good circle work. I look forwards to working with you." Nightmare walks right over to Killer in Cross's body.

Killer glares but Nightmare does not look impressed. He grabs the soul and motions towards the soul. the soul turns cyan blue and Nightmare pulls his arm and hand back.

Dust watches as the soul is forcefully removed ffrom Cross's body and Kilelr's spirit follows it.

Cross's body goes limp as Nightmare holds Killer away from the body. a small line of red connecting the two. Nightmare grabs the line and snaps it.

Cross gapss and dives back into his own body.

Ngihtmare releases both Cross and Killer and crosses his arms.

Cross taps and checks his own body before falling to the ground "oh fuck... fuck i am me. Dust! Dust thank you so much!"

Ngihtmare looks amsued "It will take time before spirits can't easily possess you anymore. I would skip making or doing rituals for a while."

Killer pouts and floats over to Dust and pouts at him "But dusty. Now i can't join you in bed anymore."

Dust glares "You weren't welcome to begin with."

okay.

okay!

Cross's body situation is mostly sorted or will be sorted over time.

Which just leaves. getting Killer and Horror disconnected from him.

Maybe after this deal is complete he can discuss with Nightmare about other deals to unanchor both of them.

For now! Best repay the debt before he adds to it...

Time to do some more reading and research on this cult of destruction.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

When discussing or analyzing Dazai, one thing I hope you will keep in mind when reading anything I write about him is that from my perspective, he is always, always both.

What do I mean by this? Well, I find there tends to be a general split among people who hold the opinion that "he's a manipulator and will always be manipulative" and "he's doing his best to be good and helpful and live up to Oda's last wishes for him", of which, neither is completely right - because he is both. But even among the people who hold to this dual-nature interpretation, I find that his individual actions and motivations still tend to be thought of in a dichotomous manner - is it manipulative, or genuine?

Again, I think it's always both.

Dazai has a very pragmatic view on a lot of things - he is always looking for the usefulness of things and people so that the situation turns out in his favour. He's incredibly adept at this, and his prediction and placement and careful reveals are all manipulation tactics to get his allies and enemies doing exactly what he needs them to. I don't think anyone can contest this since we see it over and over in the series.

But that's not all there is to it. He's not solely manipulative and he does, to some extent, sympathize with others - I think there are several instances of this in the series, but I want to stress that this has been apparent since Chapter 1!

For context, Dazai is recalling what Atsushi said to him a few minutes earlier, but it's very interesting that it should be this specific part of the conversation. He could've flashed back to the part where Atsushi said he had nowhere to go; no money, no food - he is about to trick him into joining, after all, and this is the key piece he uses to basically force Atsushi into the Agency. But instead it's Atsushi's self-deprecation that catches his attention, and it really does, because even during the conversation, he turns to look at him after he says this with an odd expression.

You could say that this makes Atsushi easier to manipulate, if that's your angle, but that can't be solely it, because in the later conversation with Hirotsu, we know Dazai was planning to bring Atsushi into the Agency and set him up as one half of the new Double Black the moment he met him. The panel shown there is the riverbank, set much earlier in the day than this scene. He was already planning to pair him with Akutagawa since he figured out he was the tiger, so what's with this reaction?

Well. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best.

He manipulated Atsushi into joining with the intention of utilizing him in his future plans. He also helped him and gave him a place to belong, and importantly, he likes this kid! It's both.

I think much of it might be that his brain just kinda works way too fast - he's such a natural at crafting these elaborate plots and seeing how things connect and gathering useful people like resources that it's practically automatic - though this is not a great means when you're trying to be a kinder person. There's an omake, I believe, that has him saying "I like using my head for justice", i.e. using these underhanded means to act for the better. Not great, but those are the kind of gifts he has. He's way more suited to exploitation, but is choosing to use these tactics to save people now, which is quite reminiscent of what he tells Kyouka. Kyouka's talents lie in killing people - when what you're good at isn't who you want to be, what do you do? Well, I expect you use what you have, even if it's not ideal.

Now, about the current situation with Sigma - I think he definitely likes him, and is intrigued by him and his situation. We did get a little thought bubble where the guy amusedly compares him to Atsushi, and you can't tell me he doesn't care about Atsushi (listen to the onsen drama cd, or read 55 Minutes if you somehow don't believe me). But also, it's undeniable that Sigma is in a very vulnerable position of being homeless and having had no one be genuinely kind to him before. His trust is very easy to earn, and with the latest chapter, Dazai has now saved his life multiple times. There is, as always, a practical purpose he needs him for. And I have to be somewhat amused because Dazai is quite literally telling Sigma everything he ever wanted and needed to hear. It's a brilliant means of quickly endearing himself to Sigma - but I don't think that's all it is.

Look. The most honest moments we get in this series from Dazai are, interestingly for an expert manipulator, when people are at their most vulnerable. In spite of every pointlessly cruel act he inflicted on Akutagawa, his first meeting with him was open and transparent; much like the orphanage director, it seems he thought this treatment would make him strong and adaptable (he's wrong but that's not the point of this). He cuts Kyouka off in irritation and says "don't give me that" when she implies that she would fail the entrance exam. He tells Atsushi it's normal to cry after losing a father figure and to feel however you feel, even if that person caused you nothing but incredible pain and cannot be forgiven. He refuses to entertain Sigma's assumptions that Dazai sees himself as a superior being to him.

Selective honesty can also be utilized to great effect; Mori does this, and undoubtedly it serves this purpose for Dazai too. But I want to stress that I do sincerely believe this is all still honesty from him. Manipulation, or genuine?

Both. It's both.

[sysig]

Off to make mischief and terrible decisions for everyone (Patreon)

[cowboysmp3]

ok not to be insane but the whole tom putting the bidding sticker on greg situ is SO indicative of their entire relationship bc its all about Tom’s desire for control and ownership over something (due to him feeling powerless and out of control in his relationship with shiv). Him putting that sticker on Greg wasnt just a hehe ill look after you way it was much more ‘I own you. You are reliant on me now and I OWN you’. Which is a sentiment that is the very FABRIC of their relationship, calling back to the ‘I will not let go of what is mine’ water bottle scene. Obsessed actually

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[themyscirah]

Complaining abt Suicide Squad yet again but the fact that they have Waller exposing the alien community to space racist attacks and talking abt how she got to her position through deceit and being a terrible person and stuff is just. Ahsfiwueh JUST SAY YOU DONT KNOW WALLER.

Anyways literally the 3rd mission of the Squad ever (and the first framed as smth Waller picked and not orders from above) was the Squad discrediting and stopping a rogue vigilante who was only arresting POC and funneling white people into white supremacy groups (of which he was the most prominent member) in SUICIDE SQUAD #4. and it's explicitly framed as this mission being personal for Waller that she's hiding from the government bc its illegal like. Guys. Please why are we having her incite (space bc comics) racist attacks now

Also the whole "Amanda got her position through deceit and being a terrible person" NO. she KEPT her position through being shitty and playing complicated political games!!! She wasn't always that way like there is a difference and it is IMPORTANT ppl PLEASEEEE. In Secret Origins #14 we learn Amanda's backstory and she used to be a normal, caring person! Like even after she entered into working in government and politics she wasn't automatically morally bankrupt like please people. She was originally given control of the Squad by Reagan (*sigh* 80s comics...) to distract and get rid of her because she was so successful at pushing progressive social policy in Congress. Acting like she's this static pillar of evil is such a waste of her character and so fucking uninteresting and disrespectful to her arc it drives me MAD.

Like I am NOT saying Waller is all sunshine and rainbows, she fucking SUCKS (said w love <3) but like there's a human being there. It's a progression, she has a character arc like please, DC, please!!! They've fucked up Waller so bad and made her so opaque and uninteresting she can't even be the protagonist of her own story for fucks sake!

Like I don't know how many times I have to scream it until DC hears me or remembers but WALLER IS THE MAIN CHARACTER OF SUICIDE SQUAD. ITS HER BOOK. yet right now she's a cutout to be used as the villain wherever the writers please. Even in her book we get none of her perspective really displayed, no exploration of her thoughts with any kind of understanding of the role she traditionally has played and was made to play in the story.

[sweetbrier2908]

i love when mammon gets jealous and admits that he's jealous and immediately run to mc because he's jealous

he's so down bad i feel loved

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts 0.2 Birth by Sleep - A Fragmentary Passage - Castle Town

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

Hiii everyone, say, how do your Hawkes go go about sharing their estate? If they do it at all? Is everyone free to come and go or are they more private? Or do they only invite their LI to stay? I'm curious!! :)

[fiepige]

Did somebody say more Hobie GIFs?

No? Well have some anyways <3 (Theme: Hobie and all his hand gestures) Part 1