#so now it’s just like starting from scratch basically and i don’t make much original content so idk how to get more into it

[glasskey]

Season 6 - Critical Mass

Fuck me. Season 6. Some loved it, most hated it. Episode 9 in particular really brought the whole house of cards down for this season, and left the writers and show runners with nothing but angry fans and a thousand questions to answer. I started making my own list sometime ago and episode 9 just tipped me over into critical mass. Because it involved the death of not one but two beloved characters, fans were let’s say, a little miffed. The choice to off Nick Blaine in particular has drawn considerable heat and there’s plenty of reasons why. Let’s take a look at some of the biggest reasons that Season 6 broke abso-fucking-loutely everything.

Firstly, I don’t think that it’s an exaggeration to say that at times season 6 just felt surreal and not in a good way. Previous seasons had set up the rules and guidelines for this world and season 6 simply didn’t care about any of them. For instance; how were people just waltzing in and out of Gilead now? That place used to be fucking locked down. Spot lights, dogs, guard towers, drones, Eyes….anyone remember how Emily had to swim over that freezing river with Holly to get to freedom and it was scary AF? Baby Holly nearly drowned. Now June Osborne, Gilead public enemy number one is just jumping in the car to go shuttle Lawrence across the border to a completely abandoned aircraft hangar. But season 6 didn’t stop there, it also didn’t respect the laws of gravity when it dangled Osborne from a crane 30 feet in the air and then hurled her to the ground without a scratch. In addition to disregarding the very laws of physics, Season 6 also gave characters amnesia on multiple occasions, cited off screen occurrences as lore as some sort of “fail safe”, sought to rewrite characters very natures, violated original texts, assumed knowledge, disregarded plot holes and selectively altered the basic moral compass by which characters would be judged. In fact, there really isn’t much that season 6 didn’t do in terms of just breaking all the guidelines that keep a world intact. I can only hope that it will be used as an example of what NOT to do by future writers, because quite honestly the disbelief and anger by audiences has been visceral, and personally I’ve never wanted to smash my television more.

This season was meant to be about people showing their true faces and I am STUNNED that somewhere, somehow these writers have justified that a woman who participated in multiple rapes, stole a baby, and had her hand in the conception of Gilead, has a benevolent “true face”. On Serena’s wedding night she was astonished to learn that her new husband, King of all the High Commanders was a die hard loyalist who liked to keep a handmaid on staff. She had a bit of a whimper but next morning she was ready to kiss and make up, and then her new hubby left for a morning appointment to execute her bestie. Despite this, Serena the baby snatching rapist, was afforded a redemption arc. I was and am, horrified.

Show runners have seen fit to state that Serena and June were actually the love story all along and I cannot tell you how much it disgusts me to hear that they would actually think that a victim / abuser relationship should ever be described as such. I am deeply disturbed that the creators of this show believe it is appropriate to describe the relationship between a kidnapper, rapist, physical and psychological abuser and their victim, as a love story. To say that June is able to forgive her abuser is one thing, to say that she loves her is quite another. If Serena had been a man, a father, she would have pushed her aboard that doomed plane. As it was she was a mother and therefore untouchable so she ultimately walked away virtually unscathed. So the writers message was we could be forgiven anything, even the vilest acts against our own gender, as long as we reproduced. If they intended me to feel all supported and warm and fuzzy as a woman, they well and truly missed the mark. Women like Serena Joy are fucking traitors, because they know full well what it’s like to be a woman, to fight for every single tiny square inch of freedom, and yet they seek to seize power by crushing their fellow women beneath their heel in order to get it.

Next in line is Aunt Lydia, who sanctioned and carried out torture, rape and murder. She arranged for Janine’s eye to be ripped out and farmed women into slavery. Suddenly she was pleading ignorance over what actually happens to the handmaids in their retirement? Are you fucking kidding me? This woman was so far up Gilead’s arse there was literally nothing that demon didn’t know about what was happening to those Handmaids. Atwood’s text reveals the aunts kept secret detailed files on all of them, and having Aunt Lydia now whining about her “poor girls” after tasing them for 5 seasons is laughable. She’d chained a pregnant handmaid in the basement and informed June she’d be shot after giving birth, so all of her sudden crocodile tears about the ex handmaids being sent to Jezebels was the weakest bunch of bullshit I’d ever seen for her entire character arc. But she’s needed for The Testaments, so she had a benevolent face slapped on her at the last moment and was given a redemption arc of sorts as well. Writers also failed to explain how Aunt Lydia was going to be embedded back into Gilead society now that she’s blown her cover.

Next victim is Lawrence. Last season Lawrence shot down the rescue planes for Hannah and told Blaine that it was a free for all to use June Osborne as target practice. He’s responsible for inventing a world of slavery and death, and he kept his wife imprisoned for years, but Lawrence has a strong papa bear vibe with some punchy one liners, so he gets a redemption arc and a heroes death. It’s worth mentioning that Joseph was actually the one responsible for dragging Serena back to Gilead and NOT Blaine as the Show runners would have you believe. Blaine actually spoke up for her, asking if “it was really necessary to drag her back into this”, however this was painted as Blaine’s decision to bring Serena back……despite the fact it was Lawrence who suggested it…..and physically went and got her…..and virtually strong armed her into the car. It’s also worth noting that Lawrence was all aboard the Gilead train, chowing down on that delicious power as a newly appointed High commander, until he learned that all the other commanders (except Blaine) were gunning for him. So it’s really not like he gave a shit about Mayday out of some sense of righteous justice, he just thought it might save his own neck. The martyr’s death / self sacrificial death are the highest value character deaths and quite frankly I’m not sure he deserved that quality of death but he’s cuddly and Whitford didn’t want him to die a villain, so there you go.

Finally we come to Nick Blaine. Out of the Gilead four this season, he was definitely the one most deserving of a redemption arc, but you know clever plot twist, scapegoat required….and guess who gets fucked after 5 seasons. Nick Blaine had spent 5 seasons risking his life on almost a bi seasonal basis for the protagonist, was deeply in love with her and had connections in Mayday. But in season 6 the writers decided to transform him into nothing but a greedy, power hungry, little fascist over the course of 3 episodes, and then unceremoniously had the protagonist kill him off as some sort of true measure of her strength. The writers not only made him the villain and had him killed, but gave him a death befitting a coward. I’m not sure who thought it would be a good idea to serve up this pile of revenge to a fan favourite who’d been a benevolent companion to the protagonist for the last 5 seasons….but it hideously back fired. I foresaw this when I viewed the original trailers and I prayed that they hadn’t been so stupid as to destroy both a character and a couple that over 80% of the audience were deeply invested in with a spin off waiting in the wings….unfortunately they were and the backlash has been brutal. It was around the time that they decided to bring it all home, that I couldn’t help but notice that out of all of the Gilead four, they’d actually taken the lowest socioeconomic character and seen fit to make him the sole villain and then grind him into a fine powder. It was one thing in season 1 when they illustrated how the poor and uneducated masses could be easily targeted and recruited, it was quite another to make the statement that because he came from “nothing” he was more likely to turn to villainy. Reality is, the well spring of most of the worlds evil fuckery lies deep in the hearts of those born to wealth and power. They’re used to it, they don’t like to share it, they’re terrified of losing it and they’ll do anything to get more of it. My nomination for most likely villain out of the Gilead Four was actually Serena. She's used to wealth and power and desperate to send her little spawn of Satan to a decent private school.

Meanwhile in Mayday central the folks there could do no wrong; Tuello fed civilians into the meat grinder that was Gilead’s highly trained military against Blaine’s advice, and yet remained untouched by any moral judgement from the writers. While everyone cheered as Tuello strode purposefully into the room to find Serena breathless at the sight of her little thirst trap, I ground my teeth and felt my fingernails digging into my palms. I just couldn’t help but wonder why on earth would Tuello trust Lawrence after that little incident with Hannah last season either. He’d just been burnt by Nick and his first response is to go pal up with the Architect of Gilead himself? I also didn’t understand why Tuello was skulking around in No Man’s Land in the first place. All the other diplomats were welcome in New Bethlehem, so why wasn’t he running recon or checking in with why Blaine suddenly wasn’t answering his calls? Why not set up a diplomatic embassy in New Bethlehem? Perhaps because IT WOULD HAVE MADE SENSE. This season saw Blaine give up Mayday’s plan. He’d chosen his side apparently and it wasn’t Osborne….after 5 seasons of choosing Osborne (sigh). So I couldn’t help but wonder why this hideous traitor didn’t just tell the other commanders where Mayday central was? He knew approximately where it was and yet there they were all hopping on a plane to DC to work out some intricate plan to curb the rebel operations. I mean the guy could virtually draw a map with a sign that says “bomb here” pointing to the Mayday camp and yet…..Urgh.

The character transformations have gone from zero to a hundred with nothing in between this season. Luke went from wanting to join Mayday, to planting bombs, to running around screaming with a machine gun and hand grenades. Rita went from not wanting to get involved with Mayday, to poisoning the cake with sedatives, to running screaming down the street shooting wildly. Serena got engaged and married in like a week and went from “I didn’t really think about what happened to the handmaids”, to teary eyed demanding to know the “real name” of her new one. Nick proclaimed his undying love for June, 10 seconds later they had a brutal break up, next episode he virtually skipped down the aisle with his wife singing about his new baby and renouncing the parentage of Holly, then he completely ignored the fact that the love of his life was about to be hung (can we just pause and consider how absolutely unbelievable THAT is please), said some BIZARRE shit about commanders being the winners and promptly exploded. Fuuuuuuuck. I mean it would have been hilariously ridiculous if it wasn’t just so fucking tragic to watch all that potential come to such a pointless end. Like so many things this season, this plot line doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean how were these commanders the “winners”? The rebels had just bombed their city and killed most of them, they were practically an endangered species. Somehow the audience was convinced into believing that if the Boston commanders ever made it to DC, Gilead would win and rule over the earth forever and ever. I guess that must have been where they had been keeping their secret special map room and chanting circle. I mean where is the plot? Is the plot in the room with us now? The trajectory on Blaine’s character arc comparative to other seasons, felt like the pilot had suddenly decided to fly the plane into the mountain (excuse the pun). He’d been building to something huge and both of Atwood’s texts indicated that Mayday was in his future, however it was at this point that the writers took incredible licence and deviated from the source material completely. It seemed a huge violation that Blaine’s character was altered from the version in both texts and while all the other characters were carefully manoeuvred into place, he was killed off. Granted Miller and co. had, had the freedom to fill in the blanks between season 2 - 6, various elements of the texts still acted as a guide for these characters natures, journeys and ultimate destinations and there was just no way around the fact that they’d chosen to completely ignore it. Insultingly I was asked to ignore Blaine’s death on the basis that he “had it coming”. Not only was that NOT an answer as to why such liberties were taken with the source material about his nature, depicted allegiances, and you know the fact that he was fucking ALIVE in the book, but that reasoning was also completely riddled with holes.

Throughout the seasons Blaine had been firmly established as an ally to the protagonist via a multitude of mechanisms which were now being blatantly discounted. For example; ALL of the acts of violence that the audience had been shown that were directly and voluntarily committed by Blaine were all performed AGAINST a member of Gilead to either protect the protagonist, at her request or as a form of righteous justice for her cause. Now I was being told that off screen he’d been sneaking around the protagonists back committing horrendous acts on behalf of Gilead….but we just hadn’t seen it….and didn’t know about it…..and SOMEHOW the writers couldn’t understand how that would be confusing..…or even believable. Urgh. The more I looked, the more holes appeared and the more it all just reeked of rewriting history for the sake of a plot twist and a quickly constructed political narrative. For whatever reason it was done, it was sloppy and completely contradictory to the characters original nature, both on screen and in the texts. Even if I did give these writers the benefit of the doubt and BELIEVED their spiel about this character, I’m not sure it worked in their favour to be constantly pointing out that they had neglected to fill in the audience properly on vital character elements during previous seasons.

For some reason the writers and show runners were now under the illusion that their audience had not actually been paying attention while watching the previous 5 seasons, that they had developed some sort of selective amnesia. They also deemed to give the protagonist amnesia, thus making her seem unempathetic, heartless and deeply unlikeable. Blaine had turned up for her countless times and yet was given no quarter. She had simply developed amnesia about what it was like to try and survive in Gilead after a brief stay in Canada. The writers may have intended to make her look strong and assertive, but her failure to extend any measure of compassion or even seek to dig further, made it seem as though the entire relationship had been transactional. It was as if now that Blaine had ceased to serve a purpose, he was being abandoned. This effectively destroyed any integrity to their former bond, it simply made him look like a liar and her an opportunist. I became a bit suspicious that it was not entirely unintentional that these creators were now seeking to change the very nature of this relationship in retrospect, when June attributed Serena responsibility for their relationship in the first place. It sought to completely discount the fact that these two had been circling one another prior to Serena's interference, or even that they continued their relationship despite her objections and efforts to seperate them later.

It was simply more evidence of an almost desperate attempt by the writers to erase this loving connection and replace it with something convenient and superficial. They’d forgotten that Nick and June’s love was actually an act of rebellion, forbidden, a place where both Blaine and Osborne sought freedom and autonomy. Had they remembered this, they might have understood that for a true depiction of a successful rebellion, Nick Blaine should have joined the underground and the two lovers destinies remained intimately intertwined. His true character narrative was as an Eye with connections to Mayday. June / Offred was unsure if she could trust him, but he remained a source of hope, love and quiet rebellion within Gilead. The Handmaids Tale afterword revealed that he’d risked his life to help June escape and gone on to join the resistance. Gilead had tried and failed to kill him at least once and he was later reunited with June and his daughter. The successful depiction of a rebellion that used their relationship as the intended metaphor, was one that had Blaine subvert Gilead as an Eye turned agent for Mayday. Instead his death indicated the success of Gilead to eradicate collective rebellion….by somehow encouraging rebel forces to self sabotage. It simply made no sense, particularly given the rebellions success in the area where Blaine had been stationed. It was like someone had either failed to understand the metaphor completely OR had simply been so desperate to destroy the character and the relationship, that they didn’t care if it meant tearing apart a central theme. Which was absolutely fucking insane.

Fans had followed the writers cues and had understood the underlying message of rebellion in their bond. They’d waited years for the rebellion to succeed and the symbolic narrative to reach it’s natural conclusion, by having Blaine cross the border to join June and Mayday. So when instead the writers chose to start labelling Blaine as a loyalist and gut this relationship, slaughtering this manifestation of collective rebellion, the audience was understandably angry and confused. His role as an embedded Mayday agent in The Testaments stand as evidence that this was precisely who Blaine was and not some dubious fascist all along. Atwood consulted during season 2, but it was only during season 3 that show runners decided to whack a commander suit on Blaine and start using him for statements about patriarchal power that had nothing to do with his original character construct. He was never a commander, not in The Handmaid’s Tale and not in The Testaments either…..but these writers thought they knew better than the author, so here we are. I think about the potential for this story line had it been completed correctly and I could just weep. I could write a book on why the destruction of this character and relationship was one of the dumbest fucking things I’ve ever seen a writer do to their own creation, and how this is one of the biggest violations of an authors symbolic narrative I’ve ever witnessed, but honestly I’ve got a lot to get through today.

The writers and staff scrambled to provide clarity about who Nick Blaine was all along, but what they failed to understand was that it was utterly irrelevant. If they had to tell audiences after the fact who their character actually was and what their true motivations were, then they’d failed their mission. Writers cited story elements that supposedly occurred off screen, as lore when they either should have been clearer from the beginning or just followed the established on screen character arc through without trying to get clever. Now for clarity I believe the rot started in season 5 but only truly set in in season 6.

Come season 6 Minghella would be lucky to get a few minutes of screen time in 6 episodes, and in that time they had to convince the audience that he’d been a totally different person than the one they’d been shown all along. Consider the characters nature, established relationship with the protagonist and everyone around him….over 5 seasons….now with ALL of that think about how impossible it actually is to flip that character in the space of approximately 10-15 minutes, and how insane you’d have to be to green light that shit. And yet SOMEHOW it was my fault for not believing them. Probably because I’d read the books.

Writers asked audiences to reassess characters 4 episodes from the end of a final season. That’s neither realistic or wise and they shouldn’t be surprised if people feel like they’ve been duped and cheated. The fact is that they told audiences that a character had a particular motivation for the last 5 seasons, etched it into to him like it was the very essence of his being, and suddenly they wanted audiences to believe that he was forsaking it in the last moment. That he would simply give it up at the first sign of adversity. That he’d be just kosher with not only giving it up but destroying the object of his obsession within 2 brief episodes. It’s utterly ridiculous, I don’t believe any of it and these writers shouldn’t be surprised by that. You can’t tell me that someone is deep and sensitive in one breath and then tell me they’re angling for an upper management position in a society that enslaves the vulnerable in the next….particularly if the bottom of barrel is exactly where they come from. It makes no fucking sense.

Because of his core nature as a sensitive, loving and loyal individual, the ONLY parts of Nick Blaine’s character that actually EVER made any sense were the ones attached to Mayday, those that loved June, that “would do anything for me and for Nicole”, that were trapped and tricked into signing onto Gilead, anything else just seemed in direct conflict with his personality overall. Blaine cried over a dead handmaid and refused to call June by her slave name, he had contacts in Mayday that he referred to as “friendlies”. What made the writers think I would believe an individual this sensitive and obviously invested in rebel operations, would seek a higher position in this society for ANY other reason than to subvert it? Ambitious greedy ghouls do not smuggle out letters of imprisoned handmaids and they don’t baulk over sleeping with their child brides. They just don’t give a fuck.

Right now show runners are working overtime to create a narrative in which they write off Nicks damning choices in episode 6 as the result of both full autonomy AND coercive control. If he acted with full autonomy, Blaine was a monster who knew what he was doing, sought power and subscribed to Gilead’s rhetoric of slavery. If he was acting as a result of coercive control he was frightened, abused and controlled with little to no recourse. The reason that the writers couldn’t decide which one it was, was because they wanted it to be the first, but they knew full well it was the second. Season 1 and 2 had already shown that Blaine was indeed stripped of his autonomy and yet in 5 10 Tuello claimed that he could have run away with her while he lived at the Waterfords. They were trying to alter the narrative around how much power he had possessed, but it was too late, we’d already seen the dogs, the drones, the spotlights, the checkpoints and all those guardians. We’d already seen all that old school Gilead terror and we weren’t about to forget it.

Show runners claimed that Blaine had full autonomy on the basis that he had many chances to defect, but again there was plenty of evidence to discredit this theory. In season 2 when Blaine took Osborne to the Boston Globe he said "I'm risking my life to save you", indicating he was monitored, restricted and had just about as much autonomy as she did. Had Blaine exercised full autonomy, there was no question he would have been captured and executed. When June boarded the plane to leave, a driver also attempted to sneak on board. He was hauled off the plane and shot by Gilead guards, this heavily implied that Blaine would have died if he’d tried to accompany her. In season 3 Eleanor told June that Lawrence could never leave because he’d be imprisoned for life. In season 4 Fred was arrested at the border and jailed, when he tried to negotiate immunity he was traded back to Gilead and ended up dead. In season 5 Blaine WAS offered a deal from Tuello which he took, but it did require that he remain in Gilead indefinitely. Throughout season 6 the presence of Wharton was inserted specifically to create an environment of coercive control that restricted and monitored his movements. So no I don’t believe he had full autonomy. It also seems incredibly odd for the writers to say that Blaine has full autonomy and THEN have Serena tell June “If he ever thought he had a choice, he would have chosen you”. I mean in what alternative dimension should an audience NOT be confused by this constant mixed messaging?

I was informed through various forms of PR, that the second Blaine knew his relationship was over with Osborne he’d simply sought to lose himself in power, but this was utterly ridiculous. Blaine had been confronted with the reality of losing her many times before and he still hadn’t stuck his face in a bucket of Kool Aid. The idea that Blaine had failed to show up and do anything about June being executed because he considered their relationship over, was laughable. In season 4 he’d strong armed Lawrence into keeping her alive even though he knew she “was never coming back to him”. In season 5 he dashed across the border and signed a contract with Tuello just to ensure her safety even though “she already has people who care for her, I’m nothing”. It didn’t wash. NONE of it washed. Now I MIGHT have been able to swallow that he’d taken solace in Gilead after his relationship with Osborne completely dissolved but there was no period of mourning for the loss of a deep abiding love he’d carried with him for 5 and half seasons. No tears, no despair, nothing….Instead Blaine immediately started rambling on about Gilead like it was Sale of the fucking Century and he couldn’t get enough of those Nazi war spoils. It was utterly baffling. Mid season we all travelled deep into the Twilight Zone when Blaine made some sort of schizophrenic switch from prioritising June to an unquenchable thirst for power. It was impossible to reconcile with his previous manifestation, but somehow this all remained my fault for failing to grasp it, rather than the writers for either not communicating it in earlier seasons or an ill advised quick change.

We were also told that Blaine was a villain because of his role in the original attacks and that well, because you had to be a bad guy to be promoted to a commander. Firstly; scenes of Blaine actually participating in the original attacks were cut and are now being cited as part of the character history, and I’m not sure that works in their favour, as the original ones show him being sick and stunned at the violence anyway. It read more like someone who’d been roped into something that had quickly turned nightmarish and of which he now couldn’t escape. In season 3 Blaine said about the government “they don’t give a shit about us” and “once you get in bed with the government, it’s not so easy to get out”, not REALLY the words of an enamoured loyalist. Secondly; Blaine was promoted from a Eye to a Commander as a form of punishment from Fred for his insubordination, to have him sent to the front to die. These two singular moments should have been definitively painted to follow the writers intention from the beginning, but they weren’t and as a result his characters role in Gilead's conception and growth remained hazy at best. Again, not the audiences fault, the writers. Creators can't keep claiming they had an active loyalist on their hands all along when everything they ever showed their audience said otherwise. They can't keep claiming it in the face of the source material which completely contradicts them.

It’s pretty telling that audiences aren’t so much sad as angry about it. Writers are doubling down because well, they don’t have much choice. What’s done is done and they’re never going to take any of it back or admit any shortcomings. They’re never going to admit they sidelined and significantly altered a character from the source material. They’re never going to admit they out right IGNORED their audience and then proudly claimed to be listening to them. After analysing all of the diatribe and reasoning that the cast, writers and show runners have put forth I’ve come to a few simple conclusions about why Blaine was killed off. Firstly: Certain individuals could not tolerate the idea of a woman leaving her husband for another man, I believe this stems from a deep seated theological indoctrination that is ingrained into American society and consequently into ALL of their writing. It’s most evident in their attitudes to sex and love and these moralistic shackles severely restrict all of their plot and character development. My advice, go and learn from some of our British friends, they know how to write and their final seasons don’t look like a dogs breakfast. Secondly: He was used as a scapegoat for the rest of the Gilead four. Put simply, they had to have at least one bad guy. They needed Aunt Lydia for The Testaments, Serena was a mommy and Whitford baggsied "Not It" apparently. The death of Fred in season 4 created the lack of a necessary antagonist for the protagonist, and these writers simply couldn't use Serena, Lydia or Lawrence. One was a mommy, one was performing a redemption arc and the other was too cuddly. Nick, as the "other man" made the perfect candidate, he was mysterious, inconvenient and could be twisted into a loyalist with some sneaky back tracking. Unfortunately the source material and previous seasons said otherwise, ultimately they should have gone with Lawrence or even Serena as the fall out has been horrendous. Thirdly: they wanted to make a political statement about young males being recruited into neo fascism in America today. They were not concerned about breaking with literary integrity, character construct or even narrative symbolism in order to achieve it. As someone who has taught analysis of media and literature, I can honestly say, they should have been concerned, because it definitely looks fucking broken and it will cost these creators.

I’m still reeling from the fact that so many gossamer threads in this vast story line which could have been pulled together beautifully, were instead clumsily tangled or just abandoned. Replaced instead with plot lines delivered with a clumsy ignorance of how the audience would actually feel. Which sick fuck thought that plane trip into the abyss should be the Casablanca ending they were referring to all along? I’d prefer to leave The Handmaid’s Tale behind me at the end of season 4. Even though some of the constructs of Blaine’s character were already incorrectly portrayed by this point, it was during season 5 that show runners decided to truly begin Blaine's slide from ambiguous ally to Gilead loyalist. One of the biggest appeals of Nick Blaine was his mystery but it seems that during these last 2 seasons show creators were intent on stripping him of it and reducing him to nothing but a 2 dimensional family man who just turned to water at the mere sight of a strong father figure.

Miller’s Wilderness was possibly one of the most amazing television season finales I’ve ever seen, and it just never got any better than that. It set the story line up beautifully to lead into The Testaments, and he could have simply walked straight into his spin off with a few cameos to smoothen the transition. I don’t know why those writers were so afraid of the character dynamic between Nick and June, it was extraordinary and we’ll be lucky to see one like it ever again. From the beginning there was something about these two that the audience emotionally engaged with and if the writers had been smarter they would have truly acknowledged and embraced it. Instead their relationships sudden end, and the death of Nick Blaine, will become the one thing that follows this series around, and sticks in the craw of many viewers for years to come.

[lillytalons]

ADOLIN & MAYA

Apparently I have a ton to say about Adolin and Maya from Wind and Truth.

Spoilers Ahead!! 

Maya getting the deadeyes is like the greatest payoff of finding out about them existing all over Shadesmar and specifically the lost deadeyes on the bottom of the ocean who I had assumed had to have the eternal tragedy of being ‘dead’ and lost forever. The spren coming back to more real life with the reversal of the broken oath to Ba Ado Mishram is just so great. I should remember, there’s pretty much always payoff with Sanderson, even if it takes a while. 

Also the suit up moment had me jumping and celebrating it was just so beyond good. 

Honestly, Adolin potentially living forever without his leg is a cool concept, like the shardplates adjusting for him showing that past radiants didn’t have all their limbs was great but not it also sets Adolin apart again because so many of the radiants would be able to heal themselves, not all obviously but most. I’m excited to explore it in the future.

He got his plate through inheritance and who knows exactly which dead spren it’s made of, but I’d like to think fate was involved. The Plate starting to respond to him like Maya originally did was just beyond amazing. We haven’t seen a lot of differences in living plate yet since we have a small sample size, but so far we know that wind spren can move to others at a drop, and creation spren seem to have a lot more flexibility with form (though that could just be because Shallan thought to ask for it), but the chances that his plates are from the pair with cultivation spren isn’t great. Honestly with the movement and permission, so far I’d say wind Spren but maybe we’ll get that answer eventually. 

Maya being a soldier is just incredible, like she doesn’t seem to remember or mention healing or anything, but she knows war, and is the perfect match for Adolin. Having someone to talk to about everything and someone who really understands the kind of sacrifices he needs to make without a fight has got to be a major benefit for both of them. Most of the Spren now are learning everything from scratch, are very young comparatively, and have to slowly grow memories and the like. But Maya, while silent and relearning how to talk and interact, doesn’t have to be taught about complex ideas. Which is good since she’s basically thrown from talking again to one of the most important battlefields in Roshar’s history. There wasn’t time for ethics/people lessons like Syl and Kaladin had time for. 

Maya is so interesting because we mostly know new spren who have never been bonded and it seems like spren have been staying away from learning about fighting as a whole, their own cultures’ way to avoid the atrocities of the radiants. But the deadeyes have a lot of possible wisdom and such to offer, now that they can talk again. Plus, depending on how old Maya is, she could have been bonded to several soldiers, killed during recreances and bonded to a new one, if she was a solider she would have bonded again, so she understands death. As one of the shards found in an obvious place and protected and passed down, she could have been hooked to important radiants that were in the middle of the fighting. 

And I’m sure there are plenty of cultivation spren like Wyndle that don’t like fighting, wouldn’t have bonded to radiants if at all possible. So spren like Maya would have picked up the slack to keep fighting.

Not to mention, well no one really has stormlight right now, but the potential lessons the unoathed could teach to new and current radiants are huge! Yes the radiants are figuring out a lot and in some ways benefit from not actually having an instruction manual to limit their thinking, but gentle nudges if they’re missing important and useful ways to use lashings will be helpful. Until the heralds come back, or they find more records in Urithiru, the un-oathed are all they have (especially with the Stormfather and his habit of giving visions gone. Lucky Dalinar wrote it down before dying I guess)

Back to the discussion of fate, Adolin’s sword being a cultivation spren just makes sense. He’s barely connected to Honor and Odium, not bowing to the passions and disliking oaths more and more (Dalinar could have learned a bit from him), which means if he’s connected to any of the three shards, it’s Cultivation. And he does have the history of slowly but doggedly cultivating friendships, relationships, building people’s skills, heck even talking to his blade before every battle is much more a cultivation trait than anything else. Despite some of his impulsivity, he’s got an awful lot of patience that most of the characters don’t.

The potential powers for edgedancers are healing and friction. He almost was using friction during many of his fights, especially during his last fight, leaning into the movement of his peg and basically using moments of friction and movement like edgedancers do. He has a history of perfect footwork and movement in his duels. Even leaping and moving across the dome in an insane show of momentum proves my point. 

Then with the healing, he has more respect and understanding of both normal healers and mind healing than most. Beyond that, he’s a good tactician and all, but more and more he hates fighting, doesn’t even really want the duels, he feels very Eowyn coded, can and will fight to the end, but wants to be a healer and focus on growing things (maybe metaphorically). He heals Yawagawn emotionally by seeing he needed a friend and again building him and his skills up.

He remembers those that have been forgotten, whether a lonely boy emperor, a bridgeboy or a young girl who wants to fight, he treated his blade and plate as sentient years before it was even considered that they could be, before anyone knew anything about them, he was ensuring that they wouldn’t be lost forever, which also ties into listening to those who have been ignored. He wants people to be able to make their own decisions and not be beholden to others, whether through class lines or oaths, and it’s so good. He follows the soul of edgedancers and radiants without being beholden to oaths and Honor because he’s seen a lot of things can go wrong with that. And he was right! Beyond never abandoning Maya (which I loved him for) he’s now really free of the issue of Retribution.

And he helped save the only human kingdom to stay free of Odium! He’s just the best.

[ryuichirou]

please share crewel x deuce headcanons, they’ve infected my brain thanks to your kofi

Anon! They’ve infected our brains as well lol

I thought I’d write more replies today, but got a bit overwhelmed with these two. Surprisingly I have a lot of thoughts and ideas for them, and a lot of them weren’t mentioned in this post because I don’t want to write more than 10 hcs per post. I’ll use it as motivation to draw them more in the future! There is at least one drawing we plan to do soon… god, some of them are better off being comics. Why are these two so good

I am very happy you enjoy this ship. I hope you enjoy the hcs too… I don’t know what I ended up writing, it’s a blur lol They’re spicy though!

Even before their “affair” Deuce had weird dreams about Crewel a couple of times. He complained about it to Ace once, and Ace made fun of him: why are you dreaming about him, Deuce? Do you have a crush or something?? Deuce got embarrassed, and the fact that Ace started saying that Deuce is out there having sex dreams about their teacher didn’t help. The dream wasn’t even horny, but I guess Ace cursed him that day lol

Despite what someone might think, Crewel didn’t really have any serious plans for Deuce or any other student, for that matter. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because the students, while being undisciplined pups, aren’t usually interesting enough for his sophisticated palate. Deuce, however, somehow fit right into his type: he tries to be a good boy, but he isn’t boring – he is perfectly corruptible and responsive, but also eager to please and kinkier that he’d like to be. He is also needy, but knows his place… and he can take much more than Crewel originally anticipated! Frankly, Deuce keeps surprising Crewel and enabling him to put him through a wringer.

And yet he spent quite a lot of time mentally edging Deuce and creating tension with subtle touches, subtle flirting, punishments that felt way too horny even for such an eccentric teacher, all of this. Whenever they were left alone, Crewel metaphorically threw a bone to Deuce, and instead of being uncomfortable, Deuce felt allured and wanting more. And being super confused about this – why can’t he stop thinking about his teacher scratching his nape and squeezing it a little bit while calling him a good boy??

The intrigue ended one day when Crewel basically squeezed Deuce’s cheeks and fucked Deuce’s mouth with his pointer while maintaining eye contact and explaining some principles of potionology that Deuce couldn’t understand. Deuce’s tongue and cheeks felt so tingly and his dick got so hard… It was clear now: Crewel is into him sexually. And Deuce should probably feel bad about it and tell someone, but…

While it feels like a classical “suck my dick to get an A” scenario, Crewel is very strict that even if Deuce sucks his dick very well, he won’t give him an A unless he deserved it. Deuce got super embarrassed when Crewel told him that – he wasn’t planning on… he wanted to get an A with his brain, he really did… Still, his grades got much better because he remembers things well when he sucks dick while listening to Crewel!

At first Deuce never knew what to expect from Crewel and if they were going to do anything at all. Sometimes he would ask him to stay after the class just to wash the chalkboard (he loves it when Deuce anticipates and never gets what he wants), sometimes he spanks him for his bad performance (Deuce shakes and tries not to whine when it happens…), sometimes he steps on his dick or makes Deuce rub against his leg like a horny dog (Deuce turns his brains off when he does that). Sometimes he makes him get a boner and leaves… Whenever Deuce gets to suck him off, for some reason Deuce always feels like it’s a reward. He is extremely embarrassed and confused about himself acting this way.

After a couple of months of this whole thing, one day Crewel rewarded Deuce with a finger up his butt. Deuce was so horribly embarrassed and even though he had to be told when to cum, he couldn’t help it and came almost immediately. They didn’t do anything for a couple of weeks after that, and Deuce was terrified that he ruined it, but couldn’t even tell anyone about what happened. So when one day Crewel looked at him and invitingly patted his lap, Deuce was so happy he looked like he’d wag his tail if he had one. Crewel was satisfied – the pup was acting absolutely brainless and ready for anything he’d to with him.

And this is where the real fun began. Hidden collars, hidden collars down there, butt plugs, vibrating toys, cute underwear – pretty much every day Deuce has a new “game” from Crewel and gets evaluated and either punished or rewarded depending on how he did. The toys and stuff are actually just pretense because what Crewel loves the most is when Deuce is sobbing because he couldn’t keep it together during classes and whined a couple of times because his dick and butt felt to overstimulated. When he gets to mercilessly spank Deuce because his voice was way too shaky during the class and his butt buzzed too loudly, Crewel has the most fun.

Crewel took his sweet-ass time before actually fucking Deuce with his dick because he wanted it to feel like the ultimate reward for Deuce. He never actually told Deuce about this condition, but he decided that he would fuck Deuce if he gets more than 90 for his final test. He worked hard and got rewarded!! At some point while Crewel was fucking him, Deuce thought about his life basically having a porn plot, but before he could get ashamed of it, Crewel pulled his hair and told him that if he keeps daydreaming he will make him walk on all fours in front of the entire class and sit on the floor by his side naked…

Deuce was very anxious about their possible first kiss, but when it actually happened, he was barely “there” mentally: he came 5 times beforehand, cried to the point of gulping down his tears and hiccupping and was convulsing with his whole body because of the overstimulation and pleasure. His eyes were empty, he barely felt it, and only remembered that he got kissed the next morning. He blushed so hard!

[nino-rox]

ANOMALY PART 1

STILES STILINSKI x MALE READER | O

Warnings : None, Teen Wolf AU, Teen Wolf x Original Male Character, Teen Wolf SPOILER ALERT

Disclaimer : This is a Fan-fiction story written for entertainment purposes only, no part of the story implies or affirms anything regarding real world events or individuals. Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post.

Author’s Note : the car in the picture below is Y/N’s new car

“Y/N, I’m leaving for work. Make sure you don’t get late for school, and drive safe, honey!” You heard your mom say as you packed your back for your first day of school, “Okay, Mom! Have a great day at work,” You responded.

You had just moved to Beacon Hills with your mom a day ago because of her new job at a hospital here. The school was about 20 minutes from your house, and you’d only visited once before for admission.

You made your way to the main door, manoeuvring between the still unpacked cartons. Your new house wasn’t particularly big, it was a small 2 Bedroom, 3 Bathroom apartment on the 1st floor. It wasn’t fancy, but you liked how the windows opened into an amazing view of the town.

You sat into your new car; it was by far the thing you were the most excited about, after all… that’s how your mom managed to bribe you when you said you didn’t want to move to some small town and leave Los Angeles. Your new car was a Black 5-seat Volvo XC40 Hybrid. It was as beautiful as they come - the best breaks, sexy design, brand new release, Electric + Gas - And it felt amazing to drive.

With those thoughts in mind, you drove off to school.

Your mom had given you strict instructions that if you got caught skipping school, she would ground you until the next semester and take the keys to the car. As you reached the school, reality began to set in. You were in some faraway town, away from home, away from your only close friend, and didn’t know anyone. But at this point, it was nothing new to you. Your mom was a famous double board-certified general surgeon, and thanks to that title, her job always made her move around the country.

Perhaps this was why you looked down at your new school - Beacon Hills High School - it wasn’t as big, pretty, or well-known as your previous one. Still, on the upside, you had heard interesting stories about the place and how “weird” things kept happening, so you at least hoped you’d run into Bigfoot or something on one of your regular late-night walks. ( A/N: LMAO HE ABOUT TO REGRET THAT- Sorry)

As you parked your car, a chill went up your spine. You really had no idea what to expect. You took in your surroundings as you got down; the grass was long and wild, the buildings were old, and everyone was … well… they didn’t have the same flair as people in LA.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed. It was a message from your best friend that said, “Hey, listen, Y/N, I’m super late for class right now. I wish you all the best for the first day at Beacon Hills. Oh, and don’t be a judgmental bitch, please. It is a town, not LA, but I’m sure you’ll survive. Don’t worry, stay safe and DO NOT GO LOOKING FOR DANGER…also, let me know if there are any hot guys. Maybe I can come over then.”

It was crazy how she basically knew what you were thinking, so you sent her a message saying, “No hot guys in sight … not one,” to which she replied, “STFU and get to class bitch.”

And as you walked towards the school entrance, you decided it was time to start working on becoming a bit more social and meet some friends here… or not, because who cares…right…?

As you locked your car and began walking to the entrance, you saw a blue Jeep parked next to it; it looked pretty banged up as if a lion had scratched it. You just hoped they didn’t accidentally scrape your car.

Two boys were getting out of the jeep. One was tall and athletic, the other an inch shorter and much skinnier. They looked around your age and looked like they were talking about something serious.

You continued walking in. Your first class of the day was AP (advanced placement) Biology. As you walked in, you prayed the teacher wouldn’t make you introduce yourself; you weren’t in the mood… but oh well.

The teacher spoke as you walked in, greeting and asking you to introduce yourself to the class.

“Hey everyone, my name’s Y/N Shepherd. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you!” You said as you saw a beautiful redhead who later introduced herself as Lydia Martin smile and wave at you, signalling for you to sit with her.

You welcomed the friendly gesture, smiling back and walking over to her before taking a seat.

“So, pretty boy, where are you coming from ?” Lydia asked. “LA, and thanks, you’re quite beautiful yourself,” you said, winking at her, which made her blush slightly.

You were always good at this part, faking a smile, being all friendly, sweet and social when really you never cared.”

Before Lydia could continue interrogating you, the class started.

Over the next hour and a half, the lecture went by.

After the lecture ended, Lydia told you that she would go find out where your locker was. She also gave you some tips on the teachers she thought would be easy and hard and things like that and warned you to not step out too late in the night in Beacon Hills. She mentioned that sometimes people hung out together outside of school and invited you along.

“Thanks! This will definitely help me fit in better,” you smiled.

Lydia smiled and walked off after showing you to your locker. As you began to open your locker, two boys suddenly ran up to you and held the locker door shut. You turned around, ready to rid anyone of the false notion that they could even try to bully you, but your gaze softened a bit when you saw the two boys from the jeep next to your car,

“Heyyy, man, sorry I kinda put some stuff … uh … in there and forgot to take it out last semester. Could you just give us a bit so we can take it out?” The shorter, skinnier one said, almost suspiciously, as if there was a dead body in there. “So? Take it out now. I need to put my stuff in,” you said, opening the locker as you noticed the taller boy sigh in defeat. Suddenly, your eyes went wide; the moment you opened the lock, a huge, maybe 10-foot iron chain began to fall out; the loud sound even made teachers step out to see what was happening. The skinny boy spoke up, “Yeah …. About that … uh.. we can explain … um, it was,” “Don’t bother, I don’t really care, just get it out before you make me late for class”, you interrupted, visibly mad that the whole school probably thinks “you” were the psycho who had iron chains in his locker - when that really wasn’t the case. “We’re really sorry about this,” the taller boy said, grabbing the chains and leaving you in peace. You were judging…you were really judging them. You didn’t care about the chains, but the fact that everyone’s gonna think it was you.

You made your way to your economics class, and to your most unpleasant surprise, both those boys were in your class. As if it wasn’t bad enough already, only one seat was left, and it was right beside them. You chuckled at the irony of the situation - You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or strangle them, so you decided to ignore them and keep it cool.

The class was easy; you already knew everything, so you couldn’t help but get bored. As you began observing the classroom, the skinny boy passed you a chit - you took it hesitantly - it read, “SO SORRY - Stiles.” And had a smiley face drawn next to “stiles,” which made you think. What the hell is a stiles?

You glance back at the boy only to see him grinning at you; at that moment, you feel something - confusion - before you can do anything, you hear the teacher call you to solve a question on the board.

While solving the problem, you kept glancing at the two boys - you could feel their stares burning through your skin. The teacher seemed impressed when you finished solving the question and said, “You see that, Greenberg? That’s how it’s done.” Damn, this man really hates this Greenberg dude, what’d he do? You thought to yourself as you returned to your seat.

You could still feel the two boys staring holes into you; you were beginning to get irritated. You needed to finish some work, and these boys clearly weren’t helping you concentrate.

As you tried to return to your book, the taller boy mumbled something and pointed his finger at you. You were really starting to lose it, but the two boys suddenly got up, telling the teacher they had to go and ran out of the class - what the fuck is wrong with those two, you thought to yourself.

A while later, you were finally done with classes for the day. So far, it had gone well. The teachers liked you, and your classmates did too. The only issue was the whole corridor thing with those two boys, but as long as you stayed away from them, you’d be fine, you thought.

You received a message from Lydia asking you to come to the benches outside the cafeteria. That’s where she was hanging out with her friends after school. You texted back, letting her know you’d arrive in 5 minutes. You were in the mood for a walk and wanted to get some fresh air after that awkward morning.

As you reached the benches, you were absolutely fucking appalled; how is it that wherever you went, you’d run into those two boys - they were sitting next to Lydia - you sighed, taking a deep breath as you walked over, putting on your best smile.

PART 2 IS OUT !

[queenhunter102]

part 13

Part 12 Part 14

Johnny sighed as he slumped into a chair next to Simon. “How are we still without a mission?” he grumbled, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling, his arms crossing over his chest.

“Tell me about it,” Gaz says, slouching his arms onto his thighs, his shoulders slumping forward, a bottle of water hanging between his thighs. “I can feel my Alpha become shifty,” he says as he watches you enter the room.

“Is this not normal?” you ask as you sit beside Gaz. “Hardly. We’re usually on a mission by now,” Simon says, his knuckles going white from grabbing the arm of the chair. John sighed as he leaned against the wall of the standard room.

“Hardly, Wells may not have sway over us as a team, but he does have sway with who gets what missions and when,” John grumbled, scratching his beard. Ven, "How’s your sleep since staying in our barracks?” Johnny asked. You froze a little. 'How had you slept? Better than normal, that’s for sure,’ you shrugged.

“Fine, how have your Alphas been with an Omega in the room?” you say, deflecting away from you. It was a fair question. They took turns staying awake over the last few nights, making sure Captain Wells or any of his boys tried anything.

Simon shrugged. “I haven’t had any problems” Gaz and Johnny nodded, agreeing with them, but Alejandro pursed his lips. “It’s not a problem per se, but more of a want to smother you in my scent,” he said, flicking Gaz’s shoulder and hand out for the water bottle.

Gaz grumbled as he passed the bottle to Alejandro. You nodded your head as you tilted your head up to the ceiling. “I’ll take that over being bred any day of the week,” you said. Alejandro nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ll take it over the need to rut,” he said, shivering a little.

“So is no one going to ask why Captain Wells knew they were from MI5, or are we just going to skate past it?” Simon said, cracking his neck. The room turned silent as their eyes flicked from you to Simon and then to John, rinse and repeat.

“That is a damn fine question,” Gaz said as he now turned his full attention to John, “Do you know?” he asked; John shrugged as he preached on the arm of the couch next to Johnny, “I don’t know, Like I said he decides who gets what missions and when so maybe he got a hold of their file before I did?” John offered.

You shook your head. “No one should have been able to see my file unless I was going to be under their command”, you say, your face scrunching as you tried to think; Alejandro tilted his head side to side. “Maybe you were originally supposed to go with his team?” he said, sipping the water bottle. You nodded your head in agreement. “Possibly, but I don’t get why that would stick out, you know," you said; what you really wanted to know was whether he had your NBOC file and your MI5 file.

You could practically hear Johnny’s teeth grate together. “I don’t like the fact he knows so much about them,” he says, his shoulder tensing. Gaz’s eyebrows lifted briefly in agreement.

You let your eyes drift around the common room, wondering of a way to get them to stop talking about you, when Johnny’s dog tag came into your head, the bright orange and blue vivid in your head, “Johnny, how did you get what every company it was to send you custom tags” you ask quickly hoping to distract them.

The boys collectively groaned as Johnny turned to you with a shit-eating grin, “Well, Ven, it all started in Basic Training”, he said…..

You regretted ever asking Johnny about his stupid tags. As you listened to him ramble on about how he got those custom tags, you blinked slowly, trying to keep yourself awake. You had brought this torture upon yourself, and you were going to see it through.

You could hear Simon softly snoring away on the couch, his head resting on his arms, while Gaz had his eyes closed, lightly banging his head off the back of the couch while Alejandro lightly thumped his fist on his leg while trying to be anywhere else in his own head and John, the Captain, YOUR Captain, well he was stood behind Johnny sending you a hate-filled look that said ‘you JUST had to ask didn’t you.’

[777-wailerchive]

Born to Die

hey, so, basically, i was writing this fanfiction called born to die based upon kurt cobain and an original character called nirvana lacey anhedönia and, well, i never finished it and i think i’ve lost the inspiration to. but, i still want it to see the light of day because i think it’s beautiful (sort of). so, here we are.

Gibson Girl.

1480 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ You wanna… ]

Lovelace.

That’s what I’m fucking carving into my arm. With that oh-so-American size of the knife, the cut was deep and my handwriting as unhinged as it could be, probably and possibly worse than the cruel (upon me!) variety of forms it takes; like it was in my journal (I’ve always adored the copulation of the words probably and possibly as it tends so well to my seeming lack of sincerity and existential confusion), but worse, worse. Tingling all over I was in not an aroused, sexual way—but in the way it tingles when the high becomes scary, when the swirly faces start to scratch at you and when your belly feels scarily pregnant (everyone whom I know wants children; I wonder, am I sociopathic or a prophetess? Probably both, they’re primarily synonymous anyway). I knew so damnéd well I was addicted to this shit, the little, translucent, hallucinatory blotters (I prefer ’em trippy on both the outside and in, and pink; but I’m an addict! I’ll take whatever anyways) I get by shaking my ass to the guy whose name I do not wish to have my married brain clouded with. He still cut into my head like the knife that was working with all it’s effort and my inputs carving that v on my plump, ripe forearm. I was addicted as fuck; and I fucking loved it. At the very fucking least, I was pumping out poems like a heroine of the fifties. It’s what it was: the fifties had Sylvia Plath and the eighties had me. Downright iconic. The blood by now—I felt like a lamb, but I knew I was the dragon—was flooding my lap on which that forearm of mine was settled. I apologise if my writing, grammer, thoughts, anything else is fucked up in this or don’t make sense—I’m drugged up into Cloud Nineteen (ten blotters, two packs of Marlboro Reds over this evening).

I know I sound fucking insane and I probably am, and I treat myself to pain Virgin Mary couldn’t have dreamt off—but, I promise I’m not mean. Just a hard, excessive exterior and a tight, eager posterior in this dollhood of mine. Does that even make sense…? I don’t fucking know shit… “Ah, fuck…” I whispered with the most disappointing one I could muster when I fucked up the second l of Lovelace.

Lovelace, Lovelace… Great, I have to recall him.

The fucker who got me into this.

Norwegian trucker in India who was friends with my greaser pa, Norman Anhedönia, called Gibson Lovelace. The chap had forty years worth of oxygen wasted in his shallow breathing (he always breathed shallow, even when he came; I had noticed), a nine-incher monster of a dick, pedophilia, a drunkard wife and an obsession with me. I’d always been what Nabokovian terms would term nymphet, and I do say I’m split on it. I’m a shit daughter and a demon child, or am I? Maybe I’m just depressed and suicidal, or I’m fucking divine and the reincarnation of Eve meant to meet her Adam through a senseless act of violence upon myself (I didn’t know at the time, but I was fucking foreshadowing; go me.). Every girl needs a senseless act of violence properly upon herself but rarely upon the other to discover her one and only cult leader.

Anywho, Gibson led me into his truck away from my father who was too busy cleaning his shades listening to Elvis on the records: January of ’77, I was seven going to turn eight in the November of that year. He fucked me raw, smashed my head so hard into the steering wheel that I bled (I was questioning too much), kissed my cuts and made me promise I wouldn’t pick up a knife again but didn’t do shit about what I actually felt; he told me to stick my tongue out and placed this thin translucent sheet of pink from a little booklet he kept in his glovebox. And I decided that I loved it. I’m at fault, I’m at fault… Fuck Waheguru.

I’m finished. I squeezed my arm as hard as I could, the blood spraying over the marble floor (I had tucked the rug away; I can’t let Mumma see). My incisors with the utmost force to keep my vocal chords at bay dug into my chapped bottom lip and drew blood there too. It trickled down to my chin and came to nirvana at my lap resting amongst the other red molecules; it left a ferric taste on the tip of my tongue, slightly bitter and quite sweet. Bittersweet. Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood… Blood, everywhere. Gibson would’ve rubbed it all over my nipples and told me to lick it up like it was his sperm all over my asscheeks or, well, just cheeks. I did have quite big tits for an almost twelve-year-old, I must admit… I’ve always had more estrogen and my estrogen was also more sensitive: susceptible. Susceptible to manipulation, fuckery, religion, what not… Finally, I could fucking feel something except for the stimuli of my g-spot and the irritation in my nostrils that still blossomed when I chainsmoked indoors or that itching feeling in me when I go too much time without my LSD. I have this delusion that I only pump men good or pump out good stuff when I’m pumped on those little squares: He said that LSD would be good for me when I told him that I write; I’ve been pumpin’ poetry for my baby ever since. I hate children, and I sincerely wish that all babies die alongside their parents and the doctors and the nurses and the medical’s parents and me…

My disorders kicked in (Borderline Personality Disorder, majorly untreated) and I fucking panicked. After so much shit, I fucking panicked. Panicked. Jumping up almost to slam my head to the sink I was cutting up like ham under, I had to hold onto the sink to make myself stand actually. I slowly experienced my hand creep up to switch on the faucet (like Gibby did to the faucet in my eyes everytime he crossed my neurocircuitry) and my other arm (I’m right-handed) creep to wash the blood from Lovelace off. Thankfully, I had a few bottles of peroxide, a pack of Reds, a babydoll dress all set up, razor and men’s shaving cream, my skincare, makeup—all of that set up, and the shower prepped as well. Today, I was to die.

The same year as Gibson’s arrival to me, I spiralled and ended up flinging my curvy body down the roof of some pretentious hotel in Seattle. I didn’t die, unfortunately. Then, well, I was transferred to a crazy people place for four years until I got out in March of ’81 (this year!) equally, if not more, fucked up. I had glowed so much surrounded by my little hellspawns, my creatures... My paradise is dying in the arms of nobody. But, I couldn’t care when the blotters kicked in and helped my cerebrum in distorting so fucking shittily my face into some eldritch horror that passed the likes of werewolves mid-transformation and golems. I giggled manically at the twistings of my eyes into the hair and my ears into halo, my mouth stretched through the giggle was transmuted to the petrified image of a dog and a lady and what fucking not. Oh, I need my pen… Pen, pen, pen, pen,... pen!

The lad

I tried to write into the journal page I had kept open on the small settee of my bathroom that I had also made sure to drip some of my essence onto (not like that, pervs; the blood, I’m saying) but my mouth wouldn’t co-operate with my cerebellum or my cerebrum. The giggles just wouldn’t stop and they just got more and more distorted like guitars fitted into amps and amps and shredding. I fell back on the ground, it cushioned by my ass, and held my head in my arms, shaking my head as if to curate outside of my all the fogginess and to shake out of my trip. I wanted to write, write! Not whatever the fuck this was. My eyes were squeezed so hard, I was crying. And, I couldn’t fucking stop laughing like a shitshow.

“Oh, God, stop, stop, stop, just fucking stop…!” Hadn’t even realised I was sobbing but in that moment that epiphany hit me like a freight train (whatever the fuck a freight train is; I just picked up on the writing tool from whatever I read using this). My arm was still bleeding, smearing blood over my cheeks; my lip was still cut from my teeth, bleeding the smaller bits too; I was shaking like a fucking banyan leaf in the rainstorms of Wash.

• • •

Strangers.

5010 words.

July 6, 1981.

Aberdeen.

Washington.

[ Don’t talk to strangers, or you might fall in love ]

Even the isolation, deprave, and mesophilia of our fucked-up, Lacey, crazies hospital was better than this drenched, little town. What was better than any of those two fucking disasters, though, was my stance on the railway tracks. Sittin’ there like teke-teke, waitin’ for my gorgeous guts to be smashed over, destroyed, violated, clawed out by the grinders of the train. I’d never seen starry nights—the ladies at Lacey would never have enough testicles to let me watch a shooting star and hope that it crash into me, the fuckin’ meteorite. My years at Cawnpore already were quite less in number, and it eternally was too polluted for us to see something more than the dhruv star and a few other killers; I’d never seen starry nights. According to this astronomical magazine I picked up while the nurses took us out to the local stores of Lacey for us teenage girls to detoxify our battlefields for minds, today was a meteor shower and I was thoroughly intrigued by blazing space rocks in the skies, so I bluffed and fucked my way out of the hospital. My egg and sperm donors did not believe for a major nanosecond that I was cured. At two years of pained age, I was standing in the middle of the gray-like-me roads, conscious of the act; at four, I burnt my pierced earlobe on purpose, using the steam-fuelled iron to; at six, any blade I pranced upon would find it’s metallic way to scent the room in the aroma of my equally metally blood, I only wished for one to kiss those marks and draw about them, to be what the lyre was to Apollo; at eight, this curvy brain of mine finally snapped into her hemispheres and told me to fling my curvy body down the highest story of our hotel. At eight, my suppliers abandoned their Catholic mistake of a dolly into a mental hospital in my Americana birthplace, Lacey.

There, I morphed myself like the blesséd Phoenix, curse, profanity I am into The Mother. Mother Lace, Mother Nirvana, Messiah of thee, and the literary combo of Three. One of the only times I shall ever cherish are my years with those six girls… My girls: my loves, only ones who would ever succeed in enveloping me with so much heat that the outward exterior, the exoskeleton of middle fingers and catty hisses, melts into a puddle of rot beneath me and the inner delicacy of my wretched fragility and mortality is on display for all those mental fuckers to eat.

Needless to say…, I missed my bundle of little women, my packets of compressed, oppressed joy. So, I lay there longing with my arms stretched onward craving hiraeth in the Heavens—now that I look back, it never was hiraeth. I knew exactly what my home was: the browned mental hospital where I spent four formative years of my Jim Morrison's life in. I longed for the hug of my collected daughters, their soft digits brushing my hair as they softly inquired escape from the hellhole I promised to save them from. My girls... I loved them, like the mother they never received. I had promised, I had promised… I was a betrayer. What mother to those girls…

On instinct I experienced my hands reach to the crown of my head, relief coursing through my blood the moment a thorn stung me. Their entity had crafted for me a crown of thorns to relish me as their Lady and Saviour. I did feel blood seep from the pinch, but I stuck my finger between my lips and thrashed my tongue around, gazing at the dying glows of the starry night.

I pretended to be Jesus.

I am Judas, or am I?

I don’t even know what I’m writing. You’re hallucinating while interpreting strange symbols written left-to-right in lead and antimony compounds upon thin, delicate tablet-like structures made of tree sap, so I guess we two are never too far apart in our crazy.

Well, to them (my girls: Laine Jean Ray, Bonita Ana Dios, Aurora May-Belle Long, Theresa Midge Check, Verbena de Baïa Voisin, Margaret Sarah Check), I still remain Yeshua. Yet, I feel a wolf in lamb’s skin as myself; a panther in the throes of the night sky that I stare emptily, tearily, upon. I fake it so real, I am beyond fake (translation: you people are fucking dumb).

In my convulsing tubule of thoughts birthed by my cerebral quality, I failed in my life to notice movement, possibly a metre from me. I was laid over the railway track like a corpse, eyes empty yet body warm for no reason at all. It truly seems bizarre how the movement noticed me neither—maybe dissolved so much in the grief were they that they were as heady as me, as crazy as I! Trapped inside the fever dream of their own thoughts, vowed to never spit it out, bit tongues and summertimes spent in clawing bedsheets and clamping hands over the own lips so as to refrain from the awareness that might spread. That might say…: I am iron. I am usable, extremely so. Exploit me, as if you have not already. Though, I might have not warneth thou… I rot as vigorously as I am used, keep me out in the world and I will break down and become ash of myself. In the velvet night, a puff of air as a sigh crawled out of me, liquid dripping down the corneas of I, ruining not the night (this was to be, I planned to die today for fuck’s sake) but my precious mascara and eyeliner. Oh, how I worked on that lining to accentuate my inherited, unwanted, auto-appreciated felinity. I’d be the prettiest girl in the morgue.

Someday you will ache like I ache.

Anyhow, the shower from the atmosphere had concluded a few minutes prior. And, well, finally, the train I was waiting for to scramble and crumble my guts into nothing but wasted potential, like I already was, had arrived… Only, it arrived wrong. It ran over the steel beside me, beside us (counting in the movement I am). A severe monsoon bummer filled my chest, the void in my heart had been concealed tightly and packed with Lyssa, Eris, what not. I craved to screech at the tyrant Father for his sin, for his fucking disruptive mercy on me—I did not want mercy! I needed death to fuck me like his personal, unpaid, loyal servant-girl; I needed it violent! So, as soon as all registered in my voluminous cerebrum, I recoiled in my pose, resorting to the protection of a foetal position as I screamed out my sobs and muffled them by staining my shaved thighs with my lipstick and drool smelling of minty chew-gum that I chewed last minute, tears of brown-black from my mascara and liner, hitting my head against my knees and punching the bloody rails that I was once moonbathing over until I experienced my knuckles burn and bruise, actual slivers of blood peek through the skin. I continued then too, but was too passionate in my quiet wailing to keep up the aggression.

And, thence, I swiped my tears with my bleeding knuckles, unrealising in my little girl’s misery of the fact, and smeared blood over my eyes and mascara over my blood. By some distance, I could hear some twigs crunching, maybe it was the movement I hadn’t noticed beforehand. When I did notice in that current moment, fear struck my gut like Cupid’s arrow when I had seen Priscilla Presley for the first time in forever. Naturally, a response occurred within the fatty mass of electric muscle in my head and I recoiled within myself, burying my face in my knees that I had pulled to my tits, only my eyes blinking up like a defensing cat—if I had been a cat, my pupils would have shrunken to that reptilian, creepy glare. I saw that the thing was lighting a cigarette, my cravings relit alongside (the appearance of the thing was half-revealed in the dim spark).

Stupidly as I ever could be, I murmured from my coil, “Do you have a light?” However softly I did speak, the boy did hear because it was the death of the night in wherever we were, the railroad was as quiet as could be with the crickets around chirping and inaudible bats may or may not be sauntering about. Dim moonlight that I somedays worshipped (as a witch, I did) proved herself, and I saw him. The first predicament was that he’s cute: blond, ice eyes, hopeless swagger, shaky legs. He paused himself in his trek, and slowly but mildly clumsily, turned to see my form. Perhaps cold moonlight proved her importance to hallucinatory pages of dead sap’s inkéd words of feel-good love. Wow, fuck, I went overboard on there. So, he scrutinised me for a moment, squinting to gaze at me carefully.

I’ll never forget what came out of my future husband’s mouth the first time he spoke a single thing to me…: You look very pretty when you’re crying; tears suit you. I don’t think that I can emphasise the moan that was nearly to escape me at that very moment, it was a shockwave of whatever down my spine to my ladyness. My knees dropped to become flat, just legs, and I did acknowledge the gashes in my doll heart bleeding so vigorously, it matched my swallowed drool.

“You don’t mean that, you’re drunk.”

His honeyed voice, sort of scratchy as I observed he was pubescent and hormonal in his blue jeans, white striped shirt—walked into the room, you know you made my eyes burn!—and black-y jacket he kept open, pushed me to experience the yayo-type, giggly joy of his chuckle, he shook his head in amuséd denial of his drunkenness. He was poetic, he had a slur, he had his thin lips wrapped around a cigarette—shit, I needed them wrapped around mine… And, I loved it. Why the fuck was I enamoured? “You’re a hypocrite,” He paused for a moment, maintaining that smile. Two distinct holes, punctures in muscle, were noticed by thee truly, myself, at that very moment; I felt my ribcaged heart palpitate. “You’re bawling your eyes out here like Virgin Mary.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful.” The moan that was slowly and gradually, steadily and irresistibly, mountaineering up my throat finally escaped in the form of this: *Oh, fuck me, that’s beautiful*. Which, I did mean—how could I not mean *this*? I’m not Lisa Rowe, you buzz (although I wish to be—have you not read the sheer charisma produced from the description Kaysen emits of her? She was definitely the prettiest girl in the morgue!).

Hands of his extended to mine, both, and I took them, shakingly wobbling from my psych-out. I felt drunk. As terror-inducin’ it seems, drugs had exhilarated me, no cock of a man who had money this nymphet had onlooked had been left out, I was such a La Lolita for my crazy desires—but I had never had a swig before. Smelling the booze off my falling, twisted guy as he pulled me up from my literal and mental death—I only knew that my heart was hitting at my sinews, she felt a depraved wanderlust. Some wanderlust it was to, like a man in a Prime Minister pose, mark that free, angel Earth mine with maybe a flag (a tattoo) or a hole (a lovebite), something, somewhat. I held onto his shoulders for both metaphorical and literal support, he held onto the curve of the lower back I possessed, though the fabric of his jackie didn’t benefit friction and he kept slipping his arm off accidentally because, one, he adorned too much weight on; two, the fabircs intermingled like our forms, the cheap satin and whatever the fuck his jacket was made of. “Why am I a hypocrite, though?” I finally asked this little blond dude what had been pestering me (I am not to blame for this worthy-of-disdain obsessiveness, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I am Cool Girl: I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive) for how millennium long. His ocean eyes matched mine for a moment, and he seemed to think through for a momento before he permitted the giggle of a hyena break out of him: Because you’re pretty when you cry, and I’m not.

“Yes, you are.” No hesitation was laced through me, none of that unaware uncertainty that I usually experienced leaking through my tune when I comforted one of my girls—my girls...—and instead was there an ignorant stubbornness. I was always stubborn, but what the fuck? I, having registered in my still plush cerebrum that my crown of thorns (gifted to me by Laine specifically, although all the girls worked on it) had fallen like my Lucifer when I had risen, thence I bent to grab my status, injuring my already injured hand thus further as the thorns pierced and pricked into my skin. And, I didn’t even cry…

He recoiled almost physically at my olden compliment (remember the first dialogue of the previous paragraphed rambling?) and I was due a breakdown of my psyche in that very singular fraction of a minute when my man suddenly perked up, “I only have this cig,”, changing the subject. Yahweh, my knuckles burnt. I ohed a tiny bit, and chuckled, extending one of my quivering, weak limbs and bending to wrap my lipstickéd lips on the ass of that cigarette, same one he took a drag from not fifteen seconds ago. His Atlantic eyes widened for a twiddling momentous, and, possibly and probably in drunken stupor and marijuana heights of his death wish, he giggled—I physically felt my pupils dilate, what the fuck? Maybe it was the nicotine, maybe it was the aftershocks of my tiny-teeny mental breakdown on the rail, maybe it was hisself… Damn, I think I understood Grant so well in that miniscule moment: Heaven is a place on Earth with you.

The world was built for two.

Delusional, I was convinced that it was us two the moment he grabbed the cigarette from me for his chance, and he examined the matte, messy mark of my lip stamped on it.

With the dumbest smile he could muster in my damnéd opinion, this little, blond, territorial, underdeveloped man adjusted his lips on the exact place I had left my shine, suckling it like it was some part of me. He knew what he was doing, I could pluck it from the glitter in his pretty orbs that told me shit he’d never be able to spit out in our tragic, magic relationship of some thirteen years. We kissed in death like we kissed in that moment, he blew smoke into my mouth and I giggled, almost extracting the alcohol of his from the roof of his mouth as my tongue felt her way around. We parted for perhaps, well, a second (I don’t remember the details, I’m writing this after our wedding sex, 1988. We’re in our flight back to Olympia from Honolulu, and he’s sleeping on my tits), and rejoint as I adjusted the angle to kiss-fuck this virginal Cherub better. “Darling, is this your first?”, he nodded, responsive—to be frank, that was adorable...! I’m pretty sure I squeaked out of sheer kiddy excitement, squeezing the sides of his face (cheeks). My grip migrated to around his neck, form bent for he was teenier than I. I didn’t even know his name and we were kissing in the blue dark…

Parting, I only gazed into his oceanic gaze and breathlessly giggled, “Oh, wow, fuck,... That was…, yeah.” A grand total of seven partners (three females, four males) I had engaged in before this merman, and I had never felt myself stolen of breathe ever in my existence after a mere kiss. Possibly was it the intoxication, the nicotine fucking over my senses so that my taste buds tickled with the enriching experience of his glazed cavern, but was it not thrilling, oh Mary! I had enchanted outward the sweetest giggle, and he in his still stupor snuggled his head inside the curve of my shoulder and chest; he was only that much tall. I was not lanky in any aspect, neither I am still—on the flipside, truth is that my mother repeatedly insisted upon me to not drown in my head and force her to onlook, rather to go outside, soak some tan (I am racially brown, thence I don’t require a tan) and run some. I decline profusely, tangling in blankets again and writing what, if discovered, would have positively filed me into the South Sound Behavioral Hospital yet again for a term not of four years now but of God-knows-how-long.

Eventually, I figured: some other day, this nymph may or may not have only prolonged my life now, and I told myself it. By the railway roads were grasses uncared for (like most daughters were; the human was their mother and the stain’d, tall grasses were the lost), we decided unconsciously to sit by those and talk the dimlight of the night off the clouds, to dawn we conversed. As unbelievable as it may sound considering the turbulence not even Athena might have dreamt of that had plagued the twisty courses of my lifetime, I had not sipped upon the liver eater yet: alcohol! With my newfound darling, that was precisely what I did.

We were dwelling inside uncanny synchronisation with our acts: we looked around at the same time, fixated on the same piece of cement, reached to gasp one another’s hands the same moment. I didn’t flinch, neither did the blond darling. Which..., was quite, well, it was especially choking as I... Usually froze at contact of the physique from someone whom I loved. Around this time, with my drink-induced lover, it felt good.

We curled up by grass, against a gray boulder-like structure, perhaps a part of a rotten or demolished building of some sort, debris. There, I suckled upon the lengthy cancerstick and inquired like an owl: “Why were you here, anyway?” In a casual tone I did, as if it was something so normal that I was nonchalant. “Oh, y’know, to kill myself.” The answer delivered by this sweetness would dwelling in me a day or so afterward (take that very literally) was just as nonchalant, confirming the suspicion conjured by my despaired subconscious that he was just as heady as me, as crazy as me, someone who would rot along me like iron all the while fearing the rot, hiding from something murmuring within thyself and teetering about; aura as a nymphic call and melancholia as the default ring of the mood. GOD is a teenaged girl of grunge and glitter, and I am a doll (soulless, empty, pretty with no matter on the inside yet pretty from the back—it matched!).

“No, no, like, why?” I repeated with an accentuated tone and my regular gestures of hand and eye, “The reason you wanted to kill yourself. I don’t judge, promise.” I shrugged, chuckling a bit as I passed the miniature cancer to him for a drag. “Clearly.” He chuckled too, widening his eyes momentarily to allude to my appearance; as I remember it, that elicited out from me a little giggle. I mean, it was the factual; darling, not lying. A girl; a girl dressed in a pearly babydoll dress with lacy tights (opaque white-like, frilled, a bow on top of each, knee-high) and no footwear with mascara smeared down her face from a clear breakdown of her battlefield for mind, manic brown eyes with a grape-coloured lipstick on pouty heart-shaped lips, blood and dirt also staining her optic area due to her bleeding knuckles from which she punched the steel of the rails because the train did not run over her? Paired alongside the fresh wounds on display littered across that fatty arm of hers? Oh, she was a crazy chick—and I could tell that this little guy loved it. He loved my mania, he loved my blood, he loved my crazy, he loved everything that I loved about myself. Maybe it was his alcohol that urged him this way, but I loved him for he loved what he saw.

But is she pretty on the inside?

“Well,” I spaced back in with the thrill of his voice curling the air around us; I wish we were plunged into steel. Sound travels best in something like steel… What would his voice be in steel? The thought messaged down my spine a shiver. “’s mostly everything about my life. Wouldn’t say I’m addicted, but all I do these days is mope and get high, or drink. I’ve been this since last month. Last year, I saw this… This dead boy who hung himself in the woods. That really affected me, I think; I’ve got suicide genes.” He paused a bit, sighing as he was passed the smokestick again. I puckered up a bit and drew closer to his pretty face, rounding my lips out and pushing out a ring of cigarette smoke. On impulse, he stuck nose through the centre of the dissipating smoke ring which drew from me another giggle—he was just like me! I did that too! I’d never thought someone else would…? What the fuck is going on?

Taking a drag, he then resuméd: “My parents are divorced… I’m really embarrassed of that.” He added a bit hesitantly, I could gauge that he still felt the shame of it all; which perplexed me. A divorce is shameful? How so? It’s a fucking life decision… But, that’s okay because this little one was clearly less mature and emotionally developed than I, although that amount still was remarkable considering his physique and my presumé of his age (which I thought to be elder to me, but still not too much so). “Why?”

“I want my real family back. My dad promised me he wouldn’t remarry, and he fucking did; to a bitch nonetheless. I hate her and her children are so… Phoney…!” Humming at his hurt words, I was analysing him: eyes gliding over the pasty, smooth contours of his vanilla face; staring into the trench of his pupils surrounded by his ocean eyes as he passed back the almost dead cigarette to me. The guard he wore over his exterior again was forming as he read that I was reading him without contempt (he thought I was feeling that, but I was simply analysing him emotionlessly—as if he was a labrat and I was dissecting him to figure out the following: what the fuck is this little shit?). But, I got him before he leaned away or apologised: Don’t worry, go on. Say it. I hate my cousins too. He relaxed yet again, I could see his shoulders come down and he leaned into me again,. Our heads were almost leaning against each other’s, breathes intermixing with each intake and out. “Go on.” I repeated, tapping his knee to accentuate my point.

He snapped out of whatever daze (he was reading me too, perhaps; mentally dissecting my Barbie body too, perhaps) and his hand came to clasp mine. I bit back a giggle and a smile at the contact, he did notice the corner of my lips tilt upward so he took that as a positive for further lacing of his fingers with mine. I, now a bit assured in myself, squeezed his hand and nudged him again: go on.

“Right,” He chuckled, “So, well, I just feel… Alien. You know, when I was little, I used to look at the stars,” He pointed briefly to the stars that were shining above the both of us, “And imagine my real family because I just felt like I wasn’t from here, like I was from another planet. I think I like that feeling, I was homesick for a place that didn’t even exist. And, to be honest, you’re the only other alien I’ve met.” That made me giggle after I muttered hiraeth at the sentence spoken second to the last. I found in my nicotined mindscape that this… Theory, was almost verbatim of a theory I myself had gardened in my meadow for mind. “Y’know…! I felt like that too, still do actually. I just used different terms for it. I called whatever the fuck our species are Earth Angels, angels on Earth. I read somewhere once that a person with scars of cuts on their arms was called an angel by a kid, and I think I really internalised… That.”

He chuckled, “Your mind is divine, Pretty. Yeah, I think my family is also a reason in why… I want to kill myself, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely. I love them so much so I do what they want and they hate me for every speck of originality; I don’t know if it’s my mental disorders or it’s my hormones, but every small inconvenience makes me wanna kill myself. I’m also a hater! I hate everything and I do nothing to change it which, admittedly, makes me an arsehole—but, fuck it.” We both had laughter crawling up our throats and I could tell it wasn’t actual laughter. Oh, no. It was mania, laughing not because it threatened to spill; laughing because you had nothing else to do. Like crazy people (I do think that I am insane, in some way, shape or form. But, I also think that I’m supersane. Who fucking knows? I think a lot, don’t I?).

The cigarette had gone out by now, I think I had stubbed it out by pressing to the moist ground after he had truly started opening the shells of himself, not wishing to be distracted by drugs when I had the most addictive and healthy sedative offering his lifestory to a little shit like me. “Well, what’s it for you? I haven’t ever seen… You around…” He slurred out as we jumped down from our maniacal, little, episodic bursts of sacrilege or insanity… Well, are they not synonyms?

“Ah, so, I just moved here about a… Maybe a few days ago? I think a week or so. I moved from Lacey, though I’m actually Indian. Well… It’s a fucked-up fairytale, really. My whole ancestry and family is the following: sexist, racist, extremist to Sikhism, religious, doomed, homophobic, transphobic, Islamophobic, very, very Indian. It’s only my grandmother who acknowledges the sexism floating between our family; she dreamt high and was ambition incarnate but her marriage to this horrible fucking man led her to be so oppressed she couldn't speak a word of English without being thoroughly taunted for it.” His face clearly contorted into a gnarly grimace, and I felt my nose start to itch and burn again remembering all this up… Never had I ever trauma-puked this well or been so comfortable vomiting it out to someone I did not know.

“’s just… Fuckin’ Hell. I can’t translate it into words, I can only feel.” Shaking my head in a paternal sort of disappointment (no matter how much I despise the fact, I am my father’s daughter; his copy of carbon) at my inability, I felt myself pulled in again… How? How was he doing this shit? Being so fucking kind? It made me anxious, admittedly. Why was he so kind? What did the fucker want?

I’m being too cynical. I wanted to cry; instead I accepted his tentative comfort and shoved my face into the nook of his neck, breathing down it like a vampire in the night. I had the purely feminine, feline urge to wrap myself around him like Sarin and never let go to slowly dissolve into him even if maggots eat us out. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why…? For a few minutes I think, we stayed in that exact position, in a sort of silence that neutered my turmoil. His arms were gel onto my wounds, and I, terrified, readily crept in like the Dutch beetle on the elm.

“Don’t.” I eventually muttered out into the tender, pale, untouched flesh of temptation on his neck; I don’t know why I did it, don’t decipher or discover the root at all. What is a girl to do when offered love on a silver spoon when she only possesses a forked tongue of venom caused from licking slivers of love off a parental knife? I was a black, not racially but spiritually. I was corrupt, disgust, free-use trash for swollen cocks with zero semblance of any soul and only a pretty body. It’s my pretty power which is my ugly. I am disgusting… I sometimes feel the scorching need to cleanse myself, to face redemption, to hurry to salvation; and other days I revel in the hellfire of lust that would surround me once I am liberated of this uséd body.

[callaiadio]

YES FINALLY DID TS!!!!

This is my new oc, made specifically to be a character I use in @messymoonmad stuff. I jst live the whole suitors design and story thingy, so ye!

Anyway, I have the Angst and story +traits down here if u want to read 👀 oh, TW! Implied/mentioned SA, self harm as well.

Let me try not to yap. Dimitrios, their name derived from Demeter due to his mom being devotee/priestess for Demeter. He doesn’t remember much from when he was a kid, other than a creepy uncle and glances of his mom’s blurred face.

(Five year with his mother. Two years of complications, now seven years old.)

Having come to Ithica (pre Twar) after his mom’s passing, cause unclear but Demi has their suspicions. Starting to feel like he was a boy, and not concerned with but definitely noticing the discomfort in being called a girl.

(3 years of living alone/on the street. Eventually taken in by a friends mother for two year.)

Having been a young teen when arriving at the palace (during Twar), originally kept around to clean or help run errands. But once they got older they’d switched to tending to the garden, and being a general servant. A young adult by now.

Rewind to a couple of years back—working in the palace, as a young boy. Always wearing their hair out, a little more friendly, and way more feminine- you get the point. Anyway, able to get away with sneaking out at night. Part of their usual routine.

Making his way through a night market, about to go back to the palace but being grabbed. Dragged to a woody area. Possible a garden, or forest. Able to hear the sound of people talking and laughing. But unable to hear anything else.

They couldn’t remember if they screamed. They don’t remember any pain, just panic. The man tried, but they fought back. They kicked and scratched until they managed to run away.

Finally collapsing in the palace garden, hiding away from sight. Too shaky and scared to check where the blood running down their leg was from. It was just a scar… and lots of others. Their thighs now forever marked by him. Thankfully that was all that was marked. The bruises elsewhere were temporary.

Rewind back to the present. Suitors started moving into the palace, Demi was forced to take on more duties. Eventually able to simmer it down to taking care of children (belonging to suitors or maids/servants), gardening, and occasionally cooking and cleaning.

Though, they’d never admit it, they yearned to be a parent. Maybe never of their own child, they couldn’t do what was needed for that… but maybe another’s. Although that was just a thought.

Now they continued to work. Honestly hating the suitors at first but remaining somewhat neutral. Not on anyone’s “side”. Definitely wanting to be around the suitors, only for the reason of how purely wild they were. They were all masculine and burly, if not they were guys in different fonts, but you could mostly tell they were all guys. Something Demi yearned to have.

Keeping to themselves, but befriending others they saw hanging around the suitors, the girl even dating a suitor! Or- maybe, they sometimes had a hard time understanding things that weren’t spelt out for them.

Unsure if they’d get bashed for being… well, being the way they were. Feminine, smaller, weaker. Before they hadn’t really thought of gaining muscle but now they definitely were moving around more, just to somewhat not seem pathetic compared to the suitors.

But this was all in their head, because outside they seemed totally stoic. As if they didn’t give a damn about the suitors or anybody else. Their expression little to none. Basically a blank face. It was better than what they could’ve done on their own, because it gave them a confident demeanor. Making it look like they knew what they believed and stuck by it.

Of course praying for that day they get to casually slack off like they’d seen the other do, and drinking with the suitors. But of course having a fear of them, for obvious reasons.

Anyway that’s it for now, THANK U IF U READ IT 😚

[devine-fem]

Just seeing the recent panels of Absolute Power #2… I just feel there’s unnecessary trauma dumping for Jon at this point.

Manchester Black was one thing, but Ultraman and now Lady Braniac & Amanda Waller is unnecessary… is this really the only way to keep Jon relevant and interesting????

I’m not denying there are fans of Jon even in his current rendition but the fact that most fans still to this day and even prior to Absolute Power or whenever DC “reboots” their comics… were hoping for the age-up to be erased or maybe even bring in a multiversal! version of younger Jon says a lot.

And for those fans arguing pre-ages up Jon fans only want him young due to his relationship to Damian…look I can somewhat sympathize.

I can’t speak for everyone one but yes I admit I was familiar with Jon due to the hype of Supersons. I’m sure most fans were probably aware of Jon because of SS but went back to check out his origins.

And as much as I adore Damian and Jon and their relationship with one another….I was complete ready for Jon to do his own thing separately from Damian.

I didn’t want Jon to be attached to the hip with Damian to stay revenant. Both deserve to figure out who they are as people and what type of hero they want to be (or if they want to)

We could have had Jon explore his Kyptonian heritage from his dad or Kara. Actually have a sibling/nephew(?) relationship with Kon.

Ground level stories of his interactions among the people of Metropolis or Hamilton (I guess Smallville even)

Dealing with the frustrations of hiding parts of him, the weight of being Superman…etc.

Maybe form a superhero team of his owe with Kathy or other space related hero’s (ex: Tai Pham) that deals with cosmic related stuff.

Basically Jon deserved better in terms of storytelling and we barely scratched the surface with DC deciding to crash course it.

Whoever you are… I love you.

I agree with absolutely all of this, my only thing is that I personally think that as long as DC is doing something interesting to Jon that makes his character nuanced then I don’t really care, they can throw in a bunch of ideas and see what sticks, it’s the only way with how much of a mess he is right now, we are still so early in his development that I don’t know what to expect.

But I can’t wait for his character to find some stable ground and get some themes in his stories that compel me like they once did. They were extremely close to ruining Jon Kent for me forever but… I can be won over I think. Absolute Power seems promising, I want to see what they do before I start judging.

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

A Freak and A Basket Case (Like the Lord Intended)

“The Camping Episode”

You know how in anime there’s usually a beach or a camping episode? This is that episode.

Eddie Munson x OC

Tags: established relationship, original characters, sad Dustin, mentions of alcohol and drug use, general dirty talk shenanigans, mentions of period typical racism

****

“Good afternoon ma’am… um… is Dustin home…?”

Allie made sure she used her best ‘I am small and vulnerable’ voice as she fidgeted at the Henderson’s doorstep. First impressions weren’t her strong suit. Then again she was basically allergic to any event that required making a social call. Unlike the polished and put together girls in Hawkins, Allie resembled a small half drowned mouse— wet and frightened.Her forehead was drenched in sweat, her blow dried bangs sticking to her forehead. Like always, she refused to take her jacket off even in the face of Hawkins humidity. The quilted lining around her armpits worked overtime to absorb the sweat like a thirty wick, and she stood all hunched and chest heaving to catch her breath. A butterfly gold Pyrex dish with a cream color lid was held out before her as if an offering to a Pagan god. The aroma of fragrant green chile, cream of chicken, cheese, and corn tortilla slipped through the cracks of the lid.

Mrs. Perea always insisted time and time again that you didn’t just return a Pyrex empty, porque tenemos dignidad, cabroncita. You don’t just show up to a house empty handed. That was number 279 on the list of rude little nitpicks that Mom harped on. Allie hadn’t even put up a fuss when her mother pushed the warm dish into her daughter’s hands before she left — she had a mission for Dustin, and would be remiss to not show up at the Henderson house with a little tit for tat.

“Are you little Alexandra?” Claudia Henderson gushed, and Allie tried not to wince at the use of the overly anglicized name that the majority population of the United States had given her.

“Well hello there, sweetheart! Dusty Buns is just in his room right now, I think he did mention you’d be coming by. Was that your little voice on the phone? Would you like to come in? You look like you’ve run a marathon, aren’t you hot in that jacket? You look a little damp, sweetie! It’s not good for you to be wandering around with the wrong clothes, why don’t you come inside before you catch heatstroke?”

Much like a stray cat reluctantly approaches someone with an outstretched palm, Allie entered the Henderson house in a similar reluctant shuffle, clinging to that Pyrex dish like a shield. The house to her was unremarkable. It was a home, much like hers and maybe a little cluttered. If she was honest, it reminded her more of a kind grandma’s home if anything. This was the house your parents sent you to for the summer to get plump on cakes and foods cooked in liberal amounts of butter.

Still, she didn’t truly trust Claudia. Not everyone who was nice had good intentions. All she knew of Dustin’s mom was little snippets mentioned here and there, along with context clues gleaned from the Henderson’s home decor choices.

Judging by the gray fur embedded in the shag and the overlooked scratches in the wood paneling, Claudia obviously was a cat owner. An obsessive, even. With the way she had hundreds upon hundreds of sepia and color photos of a chubby, smiling kid with curly brown hair interspersed between the kitten decor, it seemed the obsession extended to her son as well as the cats.

Suffice to say that Claudia operated on infantilizing everyone and everything. She seemed to think Allie was still in elementary school (typical, it was the height and babyface). The whole conversation had started off so juvenile, and Allie almost had to stop herself from reflexively asking in a tiny voice if Dustin could come out and play. Now she was just standing there as the older woman talked at her, firing a hundred and one things all at once.

Claudia complained about the humidity. She whinged that just looking at Allie in her coat made her hot flashes act up. She whined that her kitten had been lethargic all day and uninterested in playing, and that the summer months always made her little “love muffin Dusty Bun” irritable and uncomfortable. Ergo, because her little “Woogums” was irritable, Allie must have also been suffering.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable? I can get you an iced tea? Do you like lemonade? You can take off your coat and hang it here in the coat closet next to mine if you like. Here, let me take it for you.”

Rose pink fingernails reached for the quilted brown Carhartt, and Allie immediately flinched away.

Claudia’s face softened when she saw Allie’s nervous response, shaking hands struggling to stabilize the casserole dish. Unbeknownst to the girl, it worked to her advantage. They didn’t call Allie a Basket Case for nothing; she could appear helpless to an adult, and startlingly unstable to a bully. It unnerved her peers and endeared her to adults. The perfect camouflage.

“No thank you ma’am um this is for you…”

Her voice came out all in one breath, and she kept Claudia at bay by holding the Pyrex out with her eyes trained on the cream color shag carpet. She hoped the woman would just stop talking and take the dish.

“Thank you for the jello, um… we made this for you. It’s uh… green chile chicken enchiladas… they’re real mild… uh, not so hot that you can’t like, eat them. I tried them to make sure.” Alex muttered.

Mom had made sure to craft the enchilada dish with Allie’s delicate palette in mind — mainly because she was the only person in the house with a delicate midwestern constitution— and with her delicate tongue, Allie had declared the dish perfect during the taste test.

Not too hot, but just enough of a tiny kick that it complemented rather than overpowered the other seasonings.

“Oh thank you, thank you so much!” Claudia Henderson gushed, taking her Pyrex from Allie..

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble for us! Thank you for making it mild — you know Dusty and I can’t handle much heat. My poor baby, it makes his little bowels just ache and I won’t get him out of that toilet until Christmas. My Dusty’s widdle belly and mine appreciate you!”

She gave a girlish giggle as she patted her own generous middle. Allie cringed.

“It’s no problem thank you again for the Jell-O ma’am…” she whispered.

Instead of heading off immediately to continue her mission, Allie struggled through small talk with Claudia. Interest in the conversation was lukewarm at best. Not like it was anything substantial anyway, just little baby voice anecdotes of Dustin’s various gastrointestinal issues and deeply personal stories that could only come from a woman with a lot to say and no one around to really say it to. To tell the truth, she didn’t dislike Claudia. Conversations like this were just a new thing to her. Back in New Mexico everyone was less than enthusiastic about speaking to new people. You kept your head down most of the time, and ignored everyone else.

But, Claudia Henderson had taken the time to bring the Pereas a welcome to the neighborhood dish. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for them. Not one adjacent neighbor had come out to say hello since the Pereas had moved in at the beginning of August. And because of that fact, Allie had enjoyed the partially melted red Jell-O with the encapsulated strawberries just a little more.

Maybe a good five minutes of this one sided conversation passed, but to Allie it felt like eternity before she made her mumbled excuses to escape.

Time to focus on the mission: secure a dog sitter, pay him in cash, then leave for home where Eddie would be waiting with the van.

The worn out rubber treads of her converse whispered against the shag as she scurried away from Claudia, thankful for the quiet reprieve found at the back of the house. Keeping her eyes on the carpeted corridor – because she always looked at her feet when she walked – Allie stopped short when she saw a Siamese kitten stretched out just along the threshold of Dustin’s closed door.

Instantly, she fell in love with it.

“Well hewwo widdle cutie bag of doughnuts…” Allie wibbled, her voice raised almost to Claudia’s baby pitch, “Aren’t you a soft widdle pumpkin seed loaf? What’s our name, huh? What’s a fuzzy’s name?”

The kitten yawned as she stroked its soft fur with her fingertips. With a stretch (which Allie encouraged with an ‘Ooooh, big stretch!’) the kitten took its time getting to its feet, lazily rubbing itself along the rolls of her slouchy socks.

Now, obviously there was no way she could avoid giving this kitten love. Testing the waters, Allie wrapped her hands around its middle and lifted. Not so much as a struggle. Instead, the kitten nestled in her arms. Very laid back, relaxed even, it began to purr as she cradled it like a baby. Nearly forgetting why she’d come, Allie kissed its soft fuzzy head over and over, giggling as the cat batted her face with dainty little smacks with its soft paws. She was mush. Totally absorbed with the little fuzzy baby, until she stopped mid forehead kiss and realized she still hadn’t come to do what she’d set out.

Okay, mujer, focus. Take the cat with you and just ask him already. In fact, I’ll take the fucking thing home. This is my cat now.

She knocked on Dustin’s door, calling out to him.

“Muad’Dib…?”

There was a bout of awkward shuffling inside, followed by what she thought was sniffling. She waited. And waited… Until she got fed up and decided to just try again. She tapped smartly on the door again with her knuckles, shave and a haircut. No two bits responded.

“Muad’Dib…” she insisted, “Apúrate bro, it’s me. Open up, I come demanding a favor from my most esteemed Mentat-…”

Her words stuck fast like glue when the door opened, plugging her throat up. Immediately she clocked that Dustin was trying to hide the fact that he had been in the throes of a mental breakdown. She knew the signs well. Wiping tears from his face like he was brushing hair out of his eyes, putting on a brave smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah! Hey…!” He laughed awkwardly.

“… you alright?” Allie asked.

Dustin was struggling to keep his composure. Shoulders shaking. Eyes watery at the corners.

“Um, yeah, yeah I’m okay. I’m good. Feeling good in the neighborhood.” He insisted.

Allie frowned a little in concern. Dustin began to panic, opening the door and pulling at her jacket sleeve.

“C’mon,” he insisted, yanking her forward, “Come check out my room. Uh… See you found Tews there, he can come in too.”

Allie wandered in with the kitten. Both her and Tews were looking directly at Dustin as he closed the door behind them.

“You look like shit.” She observed.

Immediately she felt bad for blurting out her rude comment when she saw the young boy scrub his face and try to smile.

“Jesus, you’re brutal, chica.” He laughed, “But what else did I expect from Hellfire’s Reverend Mother-…”

“What’s wrong, Muad’Dib?” She tried again, coming up directly to stare him in the face, “Why’re you crying?”

“Huh? Me?! No, no I’m okay, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She reached out with one hand, still cradling the kitten. With a gentle swipe of her index finger against his cheek, she wiped a tear that had managed to squeeze out.

“No, it’s not nothing.” She insisted.

“Allie, I swear on my life, it’s nothing. Anyway, what’s going on? You said you needed a favor…?”

“My favor can wait. What’s wrong with you? How come you’re crying-…”

“I’m not crying!” He barked, his face turning red, “God dammit!”

Now she knew something was wrong. And deeply wrong at that. Dustin Henderson never yelled, he never lashed out in anger. Dustin usually acted like a smartass, and hovered around her and Eddie every chance he got, buzzing like a mosquito in her ear about his new little inventions or quizzing her on certain aspects of Chapterhouse: Dune. This was so… unusual to see him like this. Angry and defeated..

“You didn’t come to Hellfire Club.” Allie said gently, electing to ignore his outburst, “None of you guys did… we missed our freshies.”

She and Eddie had at least expected Dustin to show up for Hellfire on Friday, but surprisingly, he pulled a no call no show. It had just been her, Eddie, and the Corroded Coffin guys. That’s how it had been before Eddie had corralled the freshmen, but the new blood always added some extra spark to the mix.

Mike and Lucas typically flaked. That was nothing new. But surely Dustin would always show up?

“I…”

It took a while for him to answer. Tews began to struggle in Allie’s grip, so she gently set the kitten down on the ground so that he could disappear under Dustin’s desk. With a soft grunt, she sat down on his bed, looking up as she dangled her legs off the edge.

Their eyes met. And when her own eyes softened behind her large glasses, Dustin broke.

“It’s just… it’s been a shitty week...” He croaked.

From what it sounded, he’d been going through the motions trying to keep it together. What began as a mournful recount of events, soon devolved into a passionate rant about every single wrong done this year. One atop the other, each micro transgression riding pig-a-back on the last until it seemed like it just snowballed out of control. Things were different, Dustin wasn’t dealing well with different.

“— and my mom has just been up my ass all week after school, and just… everyone except me has plans…”

Queue another impassioned rant. His childhood friends were drifting apart and leaving him behind. Mike was spending Labor Day weekend in California with his girlfriend and their buddy Will. Some girl named Susie-Poo would be attending a weekend long family reunion in honor of Labor Day weekend — no electronics allowed in favor of activities involving banana pudding, fireworks, prayer, and cornhole — and Dustin seemed to take it as a personal affront that she had refused to bail on family time to spend the weekend talking with him. A little lover’s quarrel had ensued, and her older sister had unplugged the radio on the Utah side after complaining about the noise.

When Dustin told Allie that Lucas had practice, she frowned. Obviously that was a lie, because Chrissy Cunningham told her she had been invited to that same Labor Day “basketball practice”. It was what they were calling it when in earshot of the adults so as not to arouse suspicion.

But it was so cookie cutter, too perfect and almost too stupid of an excuse, that immediately Allie had laughed. She had swatted at Chrissy’s arm, and demanded the truth. And because Chrissy and Allie gossiped like broody hens about everything— from pregnancy scares to the ragers that caused them— Allie knew on good authority that Lucas would not be spending his weekend practicing defense or rebounding drills. Instead, he would most likely be partaking in seven hundred and fifty milliliters of Frangelico with Chance. Meanwhile Jason, Patrick, and Andy would be playing strip beer pong with the pep squad in the McKinney’s two car garage.

“No, dude. It’s not a practice. He’s going to Patrick’s party this weekend.” Allie said bluntly.

“Wait, seriously?!” Dustin exclaimed, “He’s going to a party?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, “I don’t know why he lied. He should have just told you…”

As much as Eddie hated Jason Carver’s “Good Ol’ Boys” chapter, he didn’t begrudge Lucas for going to a party. Hell, the hefty little markup profit Eddie had made from Andy’s need for speed was currently sitting pretty in Alex’s skirt pocket. After securing his bag, Eddie had come to her house grinning like a maniac, having come away from the jock encounter a couple hundred dollars richer.

That was how their weekend getaway had come about anyways. Originally the intention was to use half of Andy’s markup as a house sitting incentive for Dustin, and to use the remainder as extra spending money for a weekend camping trip for two since everyone else had plans.

If Eddie had known ahead of time that Lucas had planned on going, he would have encouraged him to go (and probably tried to sell him a little extra bud to help boost his popularity). But the fact of the matter was that it seemed like Lucas didn’t trust Eddie fully with the truth. Or any of his other friends for that matter if Dustin didn’t know.

Allie wasn’t angry at Lucas, just disappointed that he’d given a dodgy excuse.

“Eddie’s not happy about it, he said Lucas should have just been honest and told him he wanted to go drinking.” Allie admitted, “It’s not like we’re all prude. We could have just canceled club.”

Unspoken things floated up in the air between the two of them like dust particles. The truth pierced like an arrow, and it had hit the boy in front of her hard. Watching Dustin deflate like someone had let the air out of him was the saddest, most pathetic thing that Allie had ever seen before. She cleared her throat, and spoke up to alleviate the unease.

“But um… Eddie wanted me to check on you, because you’re not all flighty, and you don’t usually cancel on us. But with Lucas gone last minute, it left us a few players short. So like, we landed up ending the Palace of the Silver Princess early… and we all kind of just went home. Because it wasn’t the same without you making commentary.”

A shuddering sob transformed into a noncommittal shrug on Dustin’s shoulders. He was betrayed. Bewildered even.

“Whatever.” Dustin gulped, his voice guttural as though he was trying desperately not to burst into tears, “It’s whatever. Fuck it. If he wants to go party with the jockstraps, let him. I always get left behind, it’s okay.”

You don’t mean that… Allie thought, Come on, Muad’Dib… you don’t truly mean that.

It was normal to be angry at your friends every once in a while. But seeing him like this — seeing her Muad’Dib hurt like this — it was painful.

His expression stabbed her heart. Like the burning poison of a Gom Jabbar, his sadness infected her.

“I’m sorry, Muad’Dib…” she said, “I didn’t know that you didn’t know…”

“No it’s fine.” Dustin insisted, “I don’t care… like I said, everyone leaves me behind, why should I matter now? Clearly everyone’s majorly top secret Labor Day plans don’t involve a fat nerd like me!”

Much as she saw him as a nuisance on a good day, she saw something else in him now.

She saw a younger version of herself standing in front of her. Hurting. Trying not to cry. Cursing everyone who had ever wronged her. Always excluded. Always lied to for protection. As if her feelings were too delicate to handle the truth. Maybe Lucas was just trying to protect Dustin from the backlash if the boys got caught? Maybe he had done it on purpose? Who could say.

This was all far too complicated of a situation. At the very least, far too complicated for Allie to understand why Lucas’ white lie was so hard for Dustin to take on the chin.

“Ugh… shit…! Anyway, what was the favor you needed? What did you come here for?” Dustin asked, still trying to wipe his boogery nose with the back of his hand.

You don’t need to try to be brave, Muad’Dib…

“About that…”

Everyone always teased Allie and Eddie to no end that Dustin was secretly their love child. He had the same coiling curly hair that they both did, and Lucas swore up and down that Dustin had Eddie’s dimples. Mike even said that they both had similar dental problems, even though Dustin had corrected him over and over, because diastema wasn’t actually the same as cleidocranial dysplasia.

Maybe Dustin wasn’t quite at the level of affection she’d have for a love child, but she did feel something else…

Pity.

Specifically younger sibling pity.

She didn’t see him as a love child, not quite a best friend, but some secret third thing…

A brother.

An awkward, annoying, startlingly intelligent and innocent younger brother who had read the same books she did, and then some. A short, chubby, and awkward nerd brother like her who always got left out. Who everyone always thought needed to be coddled like a baby.

In that moment, seeing her poor desert mouse— her Muad’Dib — so vulnerable, she felt honest-to-god compassion.

“… There’s a slight deviation to the favor now.” Allie said.

Dustin looked up, utter confusion on his face.

Allie scooted off the bed until she was standing up. Automatically her damp sleeve cuff went to her mouth. Reacquainting her tongue with the damp, salty tang of the stretch knit, she began to chew and suck on the fabric in quiet contemplation.

“What are you doing for Labor Day weekend?” She asked, voice muffled by the cuff.

“Wha… huh?!”

“Specifically, tomorrow and Sunday?”

The question totally caught him off guard. She could tell by his body language, not by his eyes. Allie couldn’t stand to keep looking at those sad little wet eyes.

“I don’t have any plans…” Dustin admitted rather grudgingly, “Why?”

She sniffed. Looked at Tews who had come wandering back to her to play with her shoelaces. Then, with a sigh, came to her final decision.

“… How would you like to go camping with me and Eddie?”

****

Cursing loudly and nearly tripping over her untied shoelaces, Allie finally tucked the loose strings into her socks. No time to tie them in a nice and neat bow, because Eddie was laying on the horn and blasting “Love Me Like a Reptile” right outside her home. Laughing and scrambling to get to him, Allie was already half way to the van by the time her lover caught sight of her scurrying like a mouse with a cat in hot pursuit. The Gaucho was parked haphazardly with one wheel on the sidewalk, and it looked like Eddie had been waiting for Jaime to pull out his Monte Carlo so Eddie could take the spot in the driveway.

Just as she crossed the street into her own cul-de-sac, Jaime nearly ran Allie off the road with a petty side swipe of his ranfla, laughing and holding up a middle finger at her as he drove off to partake of his own Labor Day weekend plans.

“Fuck you, asshole!” She screamed.

Allie leaned on the driver’s side of the Gaucho with her middle finger raised at her brother, before leaning over to kiss Eddie.

“Jesus Christ.” He laughed, stubbing out one of his Camels into the overflowing ash tray, “No love lost between you two, is there?”

“I don’t have time for his fucking bullshit.” Allie grumbled, “There’s been a change of plans.”

The passenger door was sticking again, and it finally opened with a grunt and a mighty yank. Once she was in, Allie turned off the stereo and shed her coat. Eddie frowned, and was about to open his mouth to ask what was wrong when his girlfriend began to walk him through the whole Dustin Henderson situation. There were no lurid details spared. Everything was fair game for her to explain. Of particular emphasis was how he’d been abandoned, how he had just been on the verge of losing it…

“- and then he just started like, ugly crying,” Allie said, gesticulating her arms wildly, “And he looked so fucking sad. It was like looking at a kicked puppy, babe.”

“Wait… are you serious?!” He asked, “Dustin Henderson started ugly crying?!”

“Oh my god yes…” Allie was tugging at her hair, only stopping when Eddie swatted her hands away with an admonishment of “don’t do that”. It had been his personal mission to try and break her of these nervous habits, and a roach was offered to her for the nerves which she gladly took.

Puff, puff, give.

“He lost it, I’ve never seen someone like that before.” Allie admitted, curling up in the bucket seat as Eddie took a hit, “Like, he almost had a whole mental breakdown in his room about it.”

A plume of smoke billowed out of his nose, like a dragon idling with a fireball in its mouth.

“That’s why I felt like a bitch for wanting him to sit for us, and I just invited him along... Babe, he’s got nobody in that little room.” Allie said, “All his old friends are gone. He doesn’t have any plans for the weekend, he was miserable.”

She tugged on her jacket, almost wanting to bite her cuff again, but stopping and instead hitting her mouth with the back of her hand softly.

Eddie inhaled through the nose, exhaled through the mouth.

“No, you did a good deed. I know he takes things on the chin, but he’s human.” Eddie admitted at last, blowing a raspberry as he looked in the rear view mirror, “At the end of the day, it’s shitty being left behind like that. Even if it’s not intentional.”

“I know.” Allie nodded, “That’s why I figured I’d invite him along.”

This side of Allie was a new facet that she had never really shown to Eddie. She was sweet and non judgmental of course, he knew it from the first time. Where as all others saw a bitch of a basket case, or someone that ought to be ignored, Eddie saw the real her. The Allie Perea that had giggled and smiled at him, the one who treated him like a human being when they first met.

But it had taken Allie some time to warm up to Dustin and the freshmen. Lucas toed the line on her shitlist for ditching sessions without notice, and Mike Wheeler and Alejandra Perea were like water and oil with the way he nitpicked her to death during the campaign.

Dustin by association with Mike was also on her shitlist, but now, Allie seemed compassionate. In her heart of hearts, she cared very deeply that Dustin was being left out. That was her Muad’Dib. It wasn’t fair he was being left behind.

“You’ve got a pure heart.” Eddie teased, ruffling her hair, “You know that?”

“God dammit, no.” Allie murmured, “I am darkness, I am the night…”

“You’re about as dark as a basket of kittens.”

“But they’re evil kittens.” Allie argued, sticking out her tongue, “Evil kittens that commit war crimes.”

“Name one war crime.” Eddie grinned.

“Oh… Shit I dunno, but I’m pretty sure my very existence is a crime against humanity in some districts.”

They both laughed, leaning against one another and enjoying the light they brought to each other’s lives. Fuck being miserable and sad and alone, this was what Allie loved about being around Eddie. And if Dustin was going to be sad and alone on Labor Day, he deserved a little happiness too. Even if it didn’t mean much because his friends were still gone. Tenderness for his plight made Allie want to spread the happiness, and if she had to make sure this sad little nerd went camping with two freaks with issues of their own, then that was how it was going to work out.

It was what she would have wanted… especially when she was back in New Mexico.

“You with me, babe?” Eddie asked, looking over briefly at Allie as he shifted the Gaucho into gear to leave.

“Hm?”

The image of Dustin’s sad, watery eyes had made her distracted and melancholy. But it wasn’t anything that she wanted to unpack just yet.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She insisted, “We better get a move on to Rick’s, you said you wanted him to buy you a six pack, right?”

Nodding, he pulled the van out of the driveway and began the trek towards Mulberry.

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded, “It ain’t camping if your man can’t have a beer. Jesus knows I’m gonna need it if we have to deal with Henderson’s smart ass on this trip.”

He was joking, of course, but Allie couldn’t help but give him a dirty look until he laughed.

“Kidding, babe.”

“You better be.” She warned, “Otherwise I’ll leave Scruffy instead of bringing him.”

“Wait?! You’re bringing my baby boy?!”

Alex nodded, while Eddie punched the air. He was obsessed with the dog. Nearly every visit to the Perea household deviated from a planned make out session, because Eddie would often be too busy playing fetch with the family’s mutt.

“Hell yeah!” He cheered, “I get to have my boy with me for Labor Day!”

“But, if you wanna bring Scruffy, we gotta bring Tiffany too.” She said, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

The car horn sounded as Eddie pounded against the steering wheel, a loud “fuck!” erupting from his throat. Tiny Tiffany was a terror. She had the nasty habit of pissing on the tires of the Gaucho whenever Eddie came over. She snapped at his ankles when he and Alex took her for a turn around the neighborhood on her leash. When she wasn’t snapping at his jeans, Tiffany was chewing on Eddie’s Reeboks… she’d already went to town on his Converse, and Allie was still apologizing for it.

Nearly every day Eddie expressed his disdain and displeasure for Allie’s crusty white dog. Since day one, they had been sworn enemies. Doing battle like knights of old for the affection of a nervous wreck of a girl.

“Nooooo!” Eddie wailed, “Fuck no! Not the rat dog!”

“Yes, we are bringing both of my dogs, and don’t call Tiffany a rat!”

“You know damn well that dog is a yappy, toothy little rat.”

“No she’s not! She has abandonment issues, she’s just grumpy when she feels neglected.”

“Neglected my ass, she’s a spoiled bitch.”

Allie huffed, swatting Eddie with the sleeve of her jacket. If she was going to have peace on this trip, then Eddie would just have to make peace with the dog. As much as she didn’t want to go the drastic route, Allie knew there was only one way that Eddie would treat her sweet pup with kindness.

“You little… Listen honey… You be nice to Tiffany, and I won’t take away your tit privileges for the weekend.” She huffed.

“Oh come on! Don’t hold my girls hostage! They need me!”

Nearly making the car swerve into the tree line, Eddie cried out pitifully like a baby as he tried to reach for her chest. But Allie pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring hatefully.

“Nah uh, full on Fort Knox until you’re nice to my baby.” She snapped.

No matter how much Eddie whined or made faces, Allie did not budge. She was sick of the constant yapping from both her boyfriend and her dog. Labor Day weekend was supposed to be fun, and if Dustin was going to join them, she fully intended to make sure everyone got along. Even the animals. It took a long time for her boyfriend to finally acquiesce to her demands.

“Ugh… fine. I’ll be civil with rat dog, but you better let me have unfettered access to my girls.” He pouted.

“You’re not going to be civil, you’re going to be nice.” Allie corrected.

“Fine… I’ll be nice to her, I’ll even try to make her like me, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds like Eddie Munson is a sucker for fat tits.” Allie laughed, “But it sounds good. Hope you can keep up your end of the bargain.”

Eddie snorted, looking over at her as they pulled into Rick Lipton’s driveway.

“Oh I’ll keep my word alright. And hey… If they’re your fat tits, I would suck scum off the bottom of a boat just to get a good handful.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking dirty!” Allie laughed.

“Gotta keep my eyes on the prize, baby.” Eddie smirked, “And you best believe, I will do anything for a little smackerel of boob.”

This weekend was going to be arduous, of that, Allie was certain. But maybe she’d get lucky? There was always the possibility that she could get eaten by a bear and not have to deal with drama.

Please let this be a normal trip… she thought.

And please… don’t let me regret changing my plans...

[heartberrydog]

Hey Tuli, are you writing anything these days? I'm really curious about any WIP you might have!

I love how this is worded 😭 I’m sure you didn’t mean it like this, but it reads like “are you even writing anything these days? 🙄😒” which made me cackle. No offense taken, for the record.

Yes I am, in fact!! Kind of. I’ve worked on some fic ideas recently enough, but in general I’m really working more on writing for myself? Like diary entries and book reviews and whatnot. Though if you’re interested in all of the WIPs I’m currently supposed to be working on:

This one skk cannibalism fic (no clickbait. dd:dne shit) that is kind of a collaboration with a friend of mine? Kind of main thing I’m working on right now, I guess

Surprisingly enough, a fucking 😭 Kunichuu fic. In my defense, I was thinking about how much I dislike Kunikida as a character and being the revolutionary (/sar) I am, thought “okay, but what would need to change in order for me to like him?” so I’ve come up with this idea that’s basically a Kunikida character study which dismantles all of his views where Chuuya is the main plot device <3

This one undercover mission fic that was originally supposed to be an excuse for Dazai to be the one to wear the dress in one of those for once but due to my need of actually making the plot make sense it turned into something surprisingly introspective and analytical and I’ve written 7k words but the mission is supposed to start in like, 3 weeks in the fic canon… Might become multi chapter?

Bunch of sequels? Idk I have like 3 sequels ideas I think? And all of them are started, technically, but I don’t really like the way any of them do actually start so I might need to redraft. Everything. It’s fine that was useful writing practice, just means that they’ll be published a lotttt later

Gunplay fic. Has surprisingly detailed introspective opening that I wrote while sleep deprived?? I’m sensing a pattern

A fic that started as me realizing that I make skk fuck… anywhere but on a bed most of the time. And the one fic where they do fuck on a bed is emotionally meaningful. So I scratched my brain a bit for the subconscious reason for this and so this fic was born

Fic idea that came to me in a dream about how Chuuya might have developed a bit of a pavlovian reaction to seeing Dazai bleed 😇 Don’t worry he’s not gravely injured or anything, he just has a nosebleed

This one fic idea that I got from a series of asks where Dazai is very abnormal about Chuuya using his teeth 💗 Cannibalism undertones and overtones, tbh

Okok this is all me thinks? Currently, anyway. My brain is perpetually plagued with ideas… They come and go in waves…..

Have an amazing day!! (๑ > ᴗ < ๑)°♡ . ° . !!

[rorywritesjunk]

Close my eyes for a while Force from the world a patient smile

Buggy says something he regrets to his older sister. Rating: PG Warning: Angst. Injury, blood, siblings not getting long. Buggy cries a lot. He's ten in this, sister is 15. Sister has hair and nose like Buggy, that's just what happened. A/N: A request for older sister Buggy from @chochotorianime10. I had fun with the Ragdoll name because I just recently looked up ragdoll cats. This is just over 8 pages long too. I like the drama. Also I'm the youngest of four and I was very much a bratty younger sibling if my older brothers tried to tell me what to do so I channeled that into Buggy being a brat.

Title comes from "I Gave You All" by Mumford and Songs.

“Brush your damn teeth, Buggy!” 

“Make me!”

“Oh, really, you’re going to say that to me?” 

You grabbed Buggy by the back of his shirt before he could take off running. The ten year old hated that you bossed him around like this, especially in front of the crew, but you were five years older than him. You raised him from the time you were eight until you were all but adopted by the Roger pirates when you were ten and he was five.  Buggy was as stubborn as they come and he wasn’t going to let his sister tell him what to do now that he was double digits in age.

“Rags, not brushing his teeth once won’t kill him.” Shanks said, trying to diffuse the situation, but you rounded on the red head boy next. Roger gave you the name you now went by, having never remembered your original name as Buggy only ever called you Sis. Being called Ragdoll was the name the captain gave you when you attacked Roger the day you met him with the fierceness of a mama cat protecting her kitten, and once he got to know you, he claimed you were like a Ragdoll cat. You seemed scary but you were actually pretty friendly when you wanted to be. 

“Do not call me that.” You snarled as you grabbed the front of his shirt with your free hand while restraining your little brother with the other. “And you need to do the same, you straw hat brat. Both of you need to maintain some basic hygiene! I don’t want to hear you cryin’ to Crocus about your damn teeth hurting because you didn’t want to brush them one time!”

It was frustrating how you ended up being the babysitter of these two at night. Buggy always started it up, refusing to brush his teeth, take care of his hair, even wash his face, and then Shanks would try to involve himself which would result in you having to do double duty in making sure the two boys were ready for bed. Why did you end up raising two boys instead of one? You pushed them along to get their toothbrushes, grumbling about bratty kids while the crew snickered. 

“Take it easy, Ragdoll. They’re just boys.” One of the men said. “They don’t need constant watchin’.”

You glared at him as you walked past. “Yea? Watch yourself. I need a new scratching post, shithead.” 

“I don’t need you bossing me around, sis!” Buggy complained as he stomped along to go brush his teeth. “I can take care of myself!” He shot a glare in your direction but you just crossed your arms, unimpressed as you watched to make sure both he and Shanks brushed their teeth, washed their face, and at least brushed their hair a bit. Once you were satisfied you pointed to the cot they shared.

“Bed.”

“It’s too early! That’s not fair!” Shanks complained, but you didn’t budge, still pointing at their cot. Buggy glared at you and crossed his arms.

“I hate this, I don’t need you telling me what to do!” The ten year old snapped. “I wish you’d go away and leave me alone! You don’t even need to be on the crew, I don’t need you to take care of me!”

“Yea? Who’s going to take care of you then if I’m not here, Buggy?” You snapped back. 

“I can take care of myself!” Buggy shrieked as he stomped his foot. “I wish you’d go away! I hate having you around me!” 

“The feeling is starting to be mutual, y’know!” You shot back as your patience grew thinner with each word he said. “Now get to bed, Buggy! You too, Shanks!”

Buggy clenched his fists as he glared at you. “I hate you! I wish you’d leave me alone forever!”

As soon as he said the words, Buggy regretted it. Shanks looked shocked. He had been a witness to you two going at each other many times, you and Buggy would trade petty little jabs at each other, but he never said that to you before. Buggy looked at you nervously. You were just standing there, still pointing at the cot. 

“Bed.” Your tone was empty and Buggy didn’t like the way you were looking at him. It was the same as before, there was no change after he spoke to you that way. You must hate him now, you were going to leave him. He didn’t actually want that. 

“Wait, Sis-”

You turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind you. Buggy ignored Shanks trying to say something to him as he stomped over to his side of the cot and climbed under the blanket, pulling it over his head. He didn’t want Shanks to see him cry, but it wasn’t like he was going to, right? He wanted you to leave him alone, but maybe not forever. He just was mad about having a bedtime when the rest of the crew got to stay up late, and you didn’t have a bedtime either. Why did he and Shanks have to miss out on all the fun stories and songs the crew exchanged while they had to be in bed?

Maybe you’d forget it in the morning. 

~

You woke the two of them up for breakfast and that was it. You didn’t stick around to make sure Buggy got dressed or had his shoes on the correct feet. He noticed a hole in his shirt and he wondered why you didn’t say anything. You were always on top of that kind of thing, always taking care of him, making sure he was fed, his clothes were mended, and that he had his hat and shoes on each day before breakfast. You took care of him and… it was nice. 

Were you still mad about the night before?

When he and Shanks showed up for breakfast, you weren’t there. The boys sat near Roger and Rayleigh, listening to them talk about sending a party off to an island to check it out before the rest of them followed, to see if it was even worth going to. The boys perked up at the chance of adventure but Rayleigh shook his head.

“Too dangerous. Ragdoll and three others are going.” He told them as he ate his breakfast. Buggy’s jaw dropped. Why did his sister get to go if it was too dangerous? As if reading his mind, Rayleigh continued, “She volunteered.”

“Why?!” 

“Why don’t you ask her when she gets back?” Roger chuckled. He knew why: you had come to him the night before asking to do something to get off the ship and have a break from your little brother for a while. The two of you needed some space, whether a few hours or a few days. You didn’t tell him what Buggy said, it was too trivial for Roger to hear. Nothing more than a tantrum from a ten year old. 

“When is she gettin’ back?” Buggy asked as he poked at his food. 

“A few days.” The Captain said. “She won’t be around to tell you what to do! That’s gotta be nice, right, Buggy?”

Buggy frowned and nodded. It would be nice, right? Maybe he wouldn’t have a bedtime, or have to brush his teeth every night before bed. Sure, there were times you’d give him a hug before he went to bed and kissed him on the forehead, even Shanks got to have that, but only you would hug him if he had a nightmare to make him feel better, sometimes singing a song you remembered hearing once before, unsure if the words were correct, but Buggy liked it because you only did that for him. 

~

He and Shanks still had a bedtime. Rayleigh insisted on it. It was a long few days and Buggy wasn’t going to admit it but he missed having you around on the ship. The first night was fine, but the second night was a little harder because he couldn’t sleep, wondering what you were seeing on the island and wondered what kind of treasure you’d find. Would you share it with him? Did you forget what he said to you? He didn’t hate you, not really. 

The third night he had a nightmare. You didn’t come back, choosing to stay on the island, but there was a monster on the island that was hunting you. Only Buggy could see it and he kept trying to tell you to run away from it, that it was going to hurt you, but you wouldn’t listen to him. He woke up just as the shapeless monster attacked, the screams in his dream replaying in his mind as he tried to calm himself down. Shanks was still asleep beside him, oblivious to his friend’s distress, but it was for the better. He didn’t need Shanks to see him like this. 

Buggy settled back down, trying to relax so he could fall back asleep, but there was movement on the main deck. Someone was shouting, there was the sound of footsteps thundering across the deck. Was something going on? There was no one to stop him, so Buggy got out of bed and slipped his shoes on to go see what was happening. Maybe you were back with mountains of treasure from the island, and maybe you decided not to leave Buggy behind after all and you two could stay together on the ship. 

He got to the main deck. Lanterns were lit, Several men were pulling something up onto the deck from the water below. Buggy’s eyes lit up. It had to be treasure you and the others found. Why else would everyone be up and moving? He saw Captain Roger and Rayleigh standing with Crocus, the latter kneeling down beside something as he spoke with a quiet voice. Was he inspecting the treasure? Buggy made his way over to them, curious to see what you brought back to the ship. He didn’t see you yet, but you were probably on the dinghy down below, getting the treasure up to the ship.

Crocus saw him first and barked for someone to stop Buggy from coming closer. One of the crewmen listened, pulling Buggy back while others moved to the doctor, listening to his orders of what to do. They tried to hide what they were moving from Buggy, but he caught the flash of blue hair, same as his own, and his stomach dropped. 

“What happened?!” He demanded as he tried to pull away from the crewman. “What happened to her?!”

“Let him go.” Roger ordered. “Let him sit with her while Crocus tends to her.”

The crewman listened and Buggy didn’t wait, darting over to the stretcher and pushing his way through to look at you. If it wasn’t for the hair and nose, he wouldn’t have known it was you. The deep gashes all along your body almost left you unrecognizable. Buggy followed along, keeping a hand on the cot near your own, not wanting to touch you in case he hurt you. He listened to one of the men from your party tell the Captain what happened. 

There was already another pirate crew on the island when you landed. They didn’t hesitate in attacking, your party was outnumbered, and you fought back until the blood loss became too much. They managed to bring you back, though the outlook was grim. Once you were in the infirmary, Crocus went to work, checking your wounds over while Buggy stayed at your side.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” He asked as Crocus looked over the largest wound, the one across your chest. He glanced up at the boy and said nothing. Buggy sniffed and wiped at his eyes. “You’ll fix her, right?”

“I’m not promising anything.” Crocus told him as he started to clean the wounds. Buggy glared at him as tears welled up in his eyes. 

“You’re a doctor, you’re supposed to fix people!” Buggy cried. “F-Fix my sister!”

“Let him work, it’ll be fine.” Roger clapped Buggy on the shoulder and chuckled. “She’ll be up in no time bossing you around again!” 

Buggy nodded, not seeing the look the captain and doctor shared. He picked up your hand in his, holding it carefully. It was cold, the warmth he expected to find wasn’t there. You would be okay. You always were.

~

Rayleigh didn’t let Buggy off the hook for his chores, so he did them without much fuss. He didn’t want to wake you up because Crocus said you needed to sleep if you were going to get better. He had done what he could by stitching up the wounds and bandaging you. Buggy had never seen that many bandages on one person before, but you had a lot of injuries from the other pirates. He asked every hour if you were going to wake up soon, when you were going to get better, and the doctor had more patience for the questions than he normally would have had. 

Buggy was at your side any chance he had, holding your hand as he talked to you, wiping your face with a wet cloth like you made him do every night before bed, and he even brushed your hair. You had dealt so much with tangles in the boys’ hair when they were younger that you had insisted they start brushing it at night before bed. Buggy hated when you picked the tangles and snarls out of his hair, it had hurt a lot, but it was less now that he brushed it every night before bed, especially since his hair was getting longer like yours. He wanted to make sure you didn’t have to deal with tangles in your own hair once you woke up.

“Ragdoll’s gonna pull through.” Shanks said on the third night while he and Buggy had their dinner beside the cot. “Remember when she snuck the mama cat and her kittens on board? She got scratched up really bad but she was okay!”

Buggy only nodded, not paying attention to his food as he watched you to see if you were going to wake up. Crocus said it could happen any day now, that was just this morning, so Buggy had his eyes on you any chance he got so he would be the first person you saw. He wanted to tell you he liked having you around, that you were a good big sister, because one of the last things he said was that he hated you. He wanted one of the first things he said to you when you woke up was nice, not mean, because that would make it right.

“She lost a lot of blood, though.” Shanks added as he ate his own food. “But she’ll be fine.”

Buggy shot him a look. “Of course she’ll be fine! She’s-She’s been beat up worse than this!” He tried to ignore the burning feeling of tears in his eyes. “She’s as strong as the captain, she’ll be better soon and she’s gonna make us brush our teeth again and go to bed on time, ‘cause that’s what she’s supposed to be doing, not sleeping!”

“She’s supposed to sleep to feel better.” Shanks frowned. “It’s what Crocus said.”

“I know that!” Buggy shot back as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Once she’s done sleeping, she’ll be better, okay?! Because she has to get better, she’s got stuff to do like chores and other things!”

Shanks nodded, looking down at you with a frown. “What if she doesn’t wake up?”

“Shut up, Shanks!” Buggy snapped at him. “She’s trying to sleep and you keep talking!”

“You’re talking too!” 

“Just shut up!”

“Boys.”

Buggy and Shanks turned to see Rayleigh and Roger standing there. The boys immediately stopped, though Buggy was still crying. 

“Finish eating and get ready for bed.” Rayleigh told them, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to get some sleep, Buggy, otherwise you may end up in the infirmary as well.”

Buggy wiped away the tears as he sniffed. That didn’t sound like a bad idea if it meant he could be near you to make sure you were okay. He didn’t want to leave but Rayleigh was ushering him and Shanks out while Roger took a seat beside the bed. 

The two boys got ready for bed, not speaking to each other. Rayleigh made sure they brushed their teeth, washed their face, changed clothes, and even brushed their hair. Buggy crawled into bed, pulling his blanket over his head once more. He had been sleeping like that since you came back. He didn’t want Shanks to see him cry, though there he was certain the other boy could hear him, even though he never said a word about it.

Rayleigh left them alone after that. Buggy said nothing, remaining under the covers. He just wanted you to wake up at this point because he wanted a hug. You always gave him the best hugs and he didn’t want to ask anyone else for one. He sniffed, wiping his eyes and nose on his shirt before he settled down and tried to sleep.

~

Buggy woke up to someone touching his face with something damp. He scrunched his face up and tried to pull the blankets back over his head but something was preventing him. He just wanted to sleep and he wondered if Shanks was doing something, so he finally opened his eyes, ready to yell at his friend to knock it off, when he saw you looking down at him. Buggy could only stare up at you, wondering if you were really there or if he was having a dream. Were you dead? Was this a ghost in front of him?

“Hey, didn’t mean to wake you.” You whispered as you set the cloth down. You were moving stiffly, no doubt from sleeping the last few days. Buggy was in shock, not speaking as he waited to wake up from the dream. “Y’know, this is the quietest you’ve ever been when awake, Buggy.”

He grabbed your hand, holding it in his own as he made sure you were real. Your hand was warmer than before. He moved your fingers around, touched your fingernails. You closed your hand over his, squeezing gently as it sank in that it really was you sitting with him. He crawled out of the covers and wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tightly as he began sobbing loudly.

“I’msorryimsorryimsorry-”

“Shh, shh, s’okay.” You insisted as you hugged him carefully; everything was still stiff and healing. “I’m here, Buggy, s’okay.”

“I don’t hate you!” He cried. “I don’t, I didn’t mean it, please don’t leave me!”

You glanced over, noticing Shanks was awake, his eyes on the two of you. You reached over and patted the redhead on the shoulder before turning your attention back to your brother. He was clinging to you, face pressed against your shoulder as he cried, apologies spilling out of his mouth in between gasps for breath. You needed to be careful, Crocus didn’t want you out of bed yet but you didn’t care, you wanted to make sure Buggy was okay. He was the first thing you asked for when you woke up a few hours ago. 

“I know, I don’t hate you either and I won’t leave you.” You assured him as you let your head rest against his. He was worked up, not likely to fall back asleep any time soon. If you weren’t in such a poor state you would let him sleep in your cot for the night, but you weren’t supposed to do much of anything. “I’ll stay in here tonight with you two, okay?”

Buggy lifted his head up, the tears still streaming down his face, snot dripping from his nose. “R-Really?”

“Make some room, kiddo.” You said as you wiped his face with the damp cloth once more. “Crocus doesn’t want me doin’ much.”

Sniffling, Buggy and Shanks both scooted over, letting you get comfortable in the middle. Buggy beside you in seconds, clinging to you as he made sure you really were there and not just a dream. Shanks looked relieved as well, poking your cheek to make sure you weren’t a ghost. You swatted at him gently and he settled down beside you. 

“‘Msorry.” Buggy mumbled again as he started to relax against you. “I don’t hate you, Sis.”

“I know, get some sleep.” You told him as you kissed him on the forehead. He lifted his head up, eyes red and his face stained with tears.

“I love that you’re my sis.” He mumbled as he lowered his head back down. “Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t leave you.” You assured him as you pulled him closer. “I love that you’re my brother, now get some rest. I’ll wake you up for breakfast.”

Buggy nodded, resting his head on your shoulder as he gazed up at you. You really were okay, you still loved having him as your brother, and you weren’t going to leave him. Maybe tomorrow he could bring you breakfast in bed since you were still getting better, like what you’d done for him whenever he wasn’t feeling well. He’d take care of you, make sure you got better, because he wanted to help you like you had helped him out so many times before, because he was lucky to have a big sister like you.

[ournachojesus]

Death Loop Au, (Forth part, I don’t recap so it might be confusing if you haven’t read some of the past stuff.)

Warning : Talking about murder, torture, abuse, and a lot of disturbing content.

Loops 5-10

How long can they live for? If one of them was seriously injured in a way that damaged their mental facilities would a reset happen? Was there any signs or indications that the loops are limited? If not, how do they end the loops?

That’s what they dedicate those loops to. Mostly experimenting to see the basic rules of this unknown time relapse. Already knowing shigami have no memories or information on the subject they just start seeing how far they can go in the loops. As I said in past post, they never make it past the day Light originally dies. Mostly cause of Ryku but it’s not always him doing it (I’ll explain this more in loops 11-20). The hostile nature of their relationship goes from boiling down to simmering. Having to work together now in keeping everyone unaware of the strange test. Like Light concussing L into a coma, which does end up resetting them after a week. The mark rule is found out fast. No info on the loops is found.

Loops 11-20

Light will always die by the pen of a shigami. They can never get either Rem or Ryku to say what his predetermined life span was in the first place. Super tight lipped. Most commonly is Ryku or Rem that kill light at the marked date. If Light somehow convince Ryku not to do it then Rem does. If not Rem another god of death not roaming the mortal world. Of course Light can and has died via other ways, due to L setting it up. Both do question why. Often talking to eachother late into the night about how the gods of death relate to this loop. While none can remember nor know details of why, the marked date always have Light die by death note of a shigami is important. Lots of questions on why L is involved in the loop too since he died so much sooner than Light. They aren’t the only ones that have died by death notes or shigami so while it probably plays a role they can never get much information since all the people with information on the death note have nothing new they can provide. This is when the hostility starts to boil up,

Loops 21-50

Grand slam, on sight fist fights. Think of planning someone’s assassination, they do stuff like that. Some stuff boarding on torture as they near 50. Actually, scratch that, it is torture nearing 50. L removes Light’s fingers while he’s conscious, Light rips L’s tongue out, they don’t go past removing hands and feet. It used to be quick deaths but they just start slowly going nuts (they end up noticing only after they both go too far later on). Neither plead for the pain to stop, the desperate calls and screams are mostly about wishing for the loops to end. Mentally they start disconnecting when in pain, they’re minds letting rational thought override pain no matter what. It happening so often messes up their brains panic response.

Other half is them mind gaming each other, like chess. In this game they slowly start hurting those around them. Less caring as they view them as NPCs. No torture, letting these people get kidnapped, hurt, etc. Human rights? More like only them rights. Even then, they just start breaking every right. Misa starts to become a victim at this time.

Misa!!

I didn’t mention this from loops 1-20 but Misa can pretty quickly catch on to something being up. Light nor L notice this until after loop 20 because Light straight up avoids Misa like the plague along with talk L into helping him make sure Misa wasn’t involved during the first 20 loops. This deal breaks down which is why she starts popping up again. Since they are now experiencing her figuring it out when no one else ever does and her constant want to help them even though it’s super repetitive, they feel a little relief at first since she is willing to understand them but since this is a time when they are literally no longer acting or able to function normally unless it’s to act, things get bloody. It’s this anger that she always figures out the struggle they are in but is just another repeating pattern like everyone else. A code, NPC, a predetermined outcome, etc. So, when it comes to their chess game she is often the piece put in the worst situations. Sending her into a shady club full of horrible guys with a wire on to “collect information” sometimes they send someone in to help her but it just ends up with Misa going ‘missing’ on those days (she gets her organs stolen for black market), having her be arrested as Kira, having her become a Kira propagandist with her art. Depends, but they are just absolutely abusing and monstrous. To everyone.

L has a lot more power due to recourse and while Light is petty, he doesn’t kill L to make him play at the same level. He could but he knows it never work. L is less attached over all, less expressive with loss of appetite. Often not responding with much fire when Light explodes. Light is a ticking time bomb that can only explode around L, he loses drive to keep up relationships but never acts outwardly disturbing. Both just seem depressed to an outside observer, if they have their guards down. Both are so use to acting now that no one knows what’s actually going on beneath the surface.

NPC effect - Both have been looping for so long that they stop seeing other people as important or real due to none of them changing their behavior or develop unless L or Light change something (these loops can span up to when Light is 23, they loop back to when he’s 18).

Mark - From now on that’s what I’ll be referring to as the day Light dies in the og and as the max end point for loops.

The incidents - og post has some info about it but I’ll be make a post solely on this later.

When writing about this AU I never really thought if this relationship was romantic or platonic. Wasn’t really the focus since the relationship development they have is that of deep codependency and desperation. It can be twisted into either if that was something you wanted (this would change some of their actions).

What you need to know is that they grow into each other like compacted roots. I’ll give a full timeline of just what’s going on in the relationship itself once I have the loops and progression of events down. My thoughts on their og relationship? Even if they care and find the other as an equal that makes life exciting, they are both purely selfish beings. Everyone is selfish but their brand of it is beyond that of a normal person. They wish to be above all others, to have their egos satisfied. Not without challenge of course, that’s why they like one another. The challenge is what makes it interesting and all the more rewarding. During the loop AU their relationship grows to be more than just the challenge. In an unfortunate way they experience deep and meaningful connection with another person for the first time in the most brutal way. Unending repetition and trauma and disconnection from everyone else to a much more extreme extent. Connection to someone but with the want to make them happy because it makes you happy, it’s the first time they feel this. It’s really messed up since they end up believing that the only way they could ever love someone is by literally accumulating trauma. That they were born so broken that the only way they could love like normal people was by being ground into fine dust (these kind of thoughts aren’t ones they’d have in the beginning at all, only after they get so tired they can’t maintain their feelings of superiority that they start spiraling. Both in different ways due to differences but in the same vein of them both thinking they are monsters of sorts that needed to be beaten to become human).

[i-am-still-bb]

Treat for 22/10:

One of them is a modern witch and an owner of a famous potions recipe blog. The other one is a bit of a fanboy / just trying not to get his eyebrows synged off…

A/N: Originally conceived as an AU of The World Next Door. That had me stuck though. So we have this. But it still has similar elements, age gap, instructor/student dynamic, etc.

—

Fili drummed his fingers on the walnut conference table. One. Finger. At. A. Time. Focusing on how there were pits in the wood and some scratches in the varnish beneath his fingertips.

“Do you have any ideas?”

The silence following the question stretched on a beat too long and Fili knew he was supposed to answer. “Can you rephrase the question?”

“Enrollment numbers are dropping.”

“I’d noticed.”

“We need better student engagement and retention. Do you have any ideas? You are the most junior member of staff.” That last part was a thinly veiled dig and threat.

Fili shrugged, brushing off the words, “We could try putting some stuff on social media, teasers, sneak peeks, behind the scenes stuff. Stories about how potions and other magic sometimes go awry.”

Frowns appeared on the tenured track professors’ faces as soon as the words “social media” had left his mouth. This is why he rarely spoke up during these things. He kept his head down, did his research, lectured, and quickly attended conferences and published. 

Alice, the other young faculty member, specializing in potions that assisted in the growing of plants, clapped her hands. “My students would love something like that,” she grinned. “And I think it would do them good to see us as human, to see that we also make mistakes and singe our eyebrows and armchairs off.”

The department head looked skeptical. “It is an ‘interesting’ idea,” Fili could hear the air quotes around the word. “I think one of you younger people should be in charge. And as Ms. Yu is already assisting the Archives in their project then it should be you, if you don’t mind.

Fili did mind. Very much in fact. 

“It shouldn’t take that much time, maybe an hour a week,” the Head continued. 

And that was how a decade later Fili found himself spending more time on social media (Instagram, TikTok, and the like) promoting the university more broadly and the potions department specifically. 

He had asked for an assistant and was denied. 

It was fun. 

Sometimes. 

But other times he was just answering basic questions, or telling people “NO! ABSOLUTELY DO NOT MIX THOSE THINGS TOGETHER!” and then hoping that they actually listened.

Most of the time he was typing up replies, proofreading, posting, recording response videos, without paying much attention to the usernames that came across his screen. Sometimes there was one that would strike him as particularly ridiculous or clever; he would screenshot it, crop it, and save it to a special folder on his computer. He did the same with responses that made him give up home for humanity. 

But then there was one user, K.O.A.K., who asked questions that often made Fili pause and wonder and sometimes his only response was “I don’t know” even after he did some research and some serious thinking. 

They had a video chain going back at least six months at this point. 

Fili’s videos were well-lit against a carefully chosen background from a tripod; all courtesy of a performing arts student who interned for him for a semester. Really, she had bullied him into letting her do an unpaid internship. She was a double major and she said that the content of his videos were fantastic, but everything else was tragic. 

So now part of Fili’s large office / workspace was permanently set up for filming videos.

K.O.A.K.’s videos were probably worse that Fili’s had started out as. He always held his phone which sometimes made Fili nauseous while the user tossed ingredients into a travel sized cauldron that sat on a stove that had a single burner and plugged into a wall outlet. The wooden table it sat on was scarred from mishaps and frequently littered with ingredients, snacks, dust, and the occasional iced coffee cup of varying fullness. 

K.O.A.K. never showed his face. 

His hands featured in nearly every video. Sometimes his bare feet (which Fili had scolded him for, “What if you spill [insert potion here]? Or it boils over?” K.O.A.K.’s only response had been laughter, and to show off a fairly impressive old scar on his shin from just that thing happening) appeared. 

Fili shared tricks for making a potion that temporarily improved hand dexterity. “Roast the willow root before cutting it into thin 1 inch strips.”

K.O.A.K.  responded with a video demonstrating the differences between his original potion, one following Fili’s tip, and then one where he had added some olive oil to the foil packet before roasting, and then had roughly minced the root. 

Fili amended his notes.

He toyed with the idea of sharing his phone number as they starting talking about more than just tips and tricks for potions. But decided against it. This account operated in an official capacity. And it was probably bad enough that he was carrying on personal conversations through it. 

But he did notice that the twinge of excitement he got when he saw a notification form K.O.A.K. was the same as the one he would get early on in a new relationship. He had more than a little bit of a crush. It was merely academic, or so he told himself. He did not often get to talk about potions with anyone else.

—

Direct Messages between You (Prof.Durin) and K.O.A.K.

You: Why don’t you have a degree in this? You’re better than some of my grad students.

IDK.

You: You should apply to Erebor’s program. 

I don’t think they’d take me. I never took those ridiculous tests.

You: I’ll get them waived.

… I may not have finished secondary school

You: I’ll see what I can do.

—

Fili dismissed the class early. The first day of a new semester was always short. Most of his students were out of their seats and out the door before Fili had finished wiping down the whiteboard. Except for one. He was standing by the lectern, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Did you have a question?”

The student shook his head. “I just wanted to introduce myself.”

Fili consulted his attendance sheet for a moment, “It’s Killian Oaks, right? If you would prefer something else, I can certainly do that. I just don’t have a note from the college about anything like that for you.”

“It is. But that’s not how you’d know me.”

Fili frowned in thought, one hand splayed over his papers on the desk. There was the niggle in the back of his brain that told him he was missing something.”

“You’d know me as . . .”

--

Taglist: Everything: @silvermoon-scrolls Fili/Kili: @dubhlachen

[four-white-trees]

Sunday Six

It's the time of the week!

I've been working away and several RGG projects this week, and the one I'm most excited to show off is a lengthier fic that explores Kuwana's life as a high school teacher. This was originally meant to be a small vignette in a fic that explored all of Kuwana's transformation, but then the high school teacher took the fuck over. I'm very proud of it, however, and especially the bit I'm sharing today.

Tagging the collective @overdevelopedglasses @carbonatedcalcium @fire-tempers-steel @passthroughtime @woundedheartwithin @mike----wazowski @skysquid22

The lecture that day was over haiku, which Kitakata usually enjoyed, especially with third-years. By then, students had grown up with haiku all their lives, so he was able to pull a deeper discussion of meaning, construction, and language. He’d start with one that always got laughs from the class: 

Over-ripe sushi,

The Master

Is full of regret.

- Yosa Buson

“What strikes you about this?” he asked, raking his gaze over the class. His eyes lingered on Kusumoto’s empty desk. 

“Someone needs to learn how to make sushi,” Kawai said, drawing a laugh from Suzuki and Akaike. 

“But he’s a Master,” Sawa pointed out. “He knows how to make sushi. I think there’s something very sad about someone who knows better but still makes such a basic mistake as preparing old sushi.” She locked her eyes with Kitakata then, a flare of indignation in her eyes. Kitakata plastered on a smile. 

“Quite good, Sawa-chan,” he said. “Although perhaps sadness is not the emotion to take from this. Rather, think of it as a warning to remain humble in your craft. You can always make a mistake, no matter how good you are.” 

The look in Sawa’s eyes seemed to intensify, and then she dropped them to her notebook as she scratched out some notes. 

He moved on to a famous poem that everyone in the room was guaranteed to know. 

An old silent pond...

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

- Matsuo Bashō

“This one is about serene nature,” Suzuki offered. “I like it. It seems like such a peaceful scene.” 

“That it is,” Kitakata said with a nod. “Notice how Bashō is able to paint a dynamic picture in so few words. The energy moves from stillness, to movement, and back to stillness, like the cycles of life itself.” 

“Seems too boring to be real life,” Kawai suggested. “Maybe back in the samurai times this made sense, but today? We have cars, man.” 

“So you’re saying this haiku lacks a sense of timelessness?” Kitakata pressed. 

Kawai shrugged, but Akaike took up the conversation. “Yeah, I think it does. The modern world is just too different. I don’t even know the last time I saw a frog was.” 

“Perhaps this can serve us modern people as a reminder to slow down, then,” Kitakata suggested. 

“No way,” Kawai said. “You slow down, you fall behind.” 

“Interesting perspective, Kawai-kun,” Kitakata said. He turned to Sawa. “What do you think, Sawa-chan?” 

Sawa fiddled with her pencil, looking thoughtful. “I think there’s an overwhelming sense to the silence of the pond. Even though the frog disrupts the silence temporarily, it returns, and it’s like the frog had never even jumped at all.” 

Kitakata let a silence hang after Sawa’s words, surprised by her perspective. The silence was disrupted, however, by Kawai and Suzuki’s laughter. “You’re such a downer, Sawa-chan,” Kawai said, earning him a glare from his classmate. 

Shaking himself from the reverie, Kitakata moved on before Kawai and Sawa started arguing. 

My life, -

How much more of it remains?

The night is brief.

- Masaoka Shiki

As Kitakata recited it, he caught Akaike and Kawai exchanging an incredulous look. “Now, I think this one resonates with me a little more than you,” Kitakata said. “You are all at the beginning of your lives, and you don’t get a sense of mortality until you’re an old man like me.” 

Suzuki giggled. “You’re not old, sensei,” she said. 

“See? That’s the correct response, very good, Suzuki-chan,” Kitakata said, and Suzuki giggled more. “Still, it is good to keep your own mortality in mind, even at your age,” he went on. “You aren’t invincible, as much as it may feel that way. Now, I’m not saying any of you are going to die young.” He paused and swept his gaze over the classroom again. Kawai rolled his eyes. “But you never know.” He smirked, and Akaike chuckled. 

He lectured on a few more haiku, but the end of class came quickly. He dismissed the class, hoping to make a quick exit, when Sawa stood up. He recalled, then, that she had asked to talk to him the day before, and he had completely forgotten about it. But before he could address her, Kawai jumped up.

“Sensei,” he said, drawing Kitakata’s attention. He closed the distance between his desk and the podium in two long strides. Lowering his voice, he asked, “My grade’s pretty bad, huh? Think there’s a way I can make up some of those missed assignments?” 

Kitakata sighed. “Kawai-kun, you know I don’t give out extra credit,” he responded. “That’s more work for me.” 

Kawai smiled, embodying all the cocky self-assurance a seventeen-year-old could. “Yeah, but I’m your favorite student, right?” he said with laughter in his voice. 

Behind him, Kitakata noticed Sawa’s shoulder sag. She gathered her backpack and left the room. He should have called to her to stay, as he had no intention of entertaining Kawai’s nonsense, but he was also eager to get home and relax. Perhaps whatever issue she had had already been sorted out. 

“The best way to salvage yourself here is to stay on top of everything for the rest of the term,” Kitakata said firmly. “Then, Heaven help you, you may have a chance.” 

If Kawai was disappointed by this response, he didn’t show it at all. “You got it, sensei,” he said. He grabbed his notebook, which Kitakata had noticed he hadn’t written in all class, and joined his usual crew out in the hall. 

“Idiot kid,” Kitakata muttered under his breath. He gathered his notes together and picked up the textbook he had been teaching from. As he placed his bookmark back in it, his eyes fell over another haiku. Perhaps it was the end-of-the-day fatigue, but the words caused a prickle of goosebumps to kiss his neck. 

I kill an ant

and realize my three children

have been watching.

- Kato Shuson

[atsoraasayoma]

The Digidestined Guessing Game. Thanks to Firedragon1321 I’m going to continue doing this.

Let’s talk about Miyako now. She also really has to contend with the drama of a full household and siblings and really has to take advantage of vulnerable situations to get what she wants.

Whether this is fighting at the dinner table for a dessert orbasically stealing from her self employed mom’s store to ‘buy’ snacks (that poor mom losing all that revenue to the bottomless pits of in training Digimon!) she has to scratch and claw her way to get what she wants otherwise she was left with nothing but scraps.

I believe that this aggression is how she bonded with her family and in turn she saw aggression as respect in a familial way. That’s why when she has conflict but there is no anger she seems a bit lost at first emotionally. And for her to lose in essence is her pride and standing being lost.

I find her dynamic fascinating. She’s like a clunky Mimi who has to manipulate her way to get results but she is not as smooth or gentle about it so just kind of comes off as being too aggressive even when being nice. (Probably why she adores Mimi so much. She is the older sibling she always wanted).

I think her most iconic moment for me was when she was arguing with Hawkmon who was very politely trying to tell her to be careful climbing down a steep slope to get to the Digimon emperor’s base, and she is so psyched up like a manic bear starving for food she listens for a moment, gets offended and then starts ripping into him asserting her dominance as an independent young headstrong woman (if I remember that right).

It sums up her character nicely. It’s not a detriment to her, but it was a moment where she learned that being that headstrong and forcing her own way could bring pain for those she loves.

Back in the day I used to hate this character. I hated her design, her attitude, and even her relationships and how she gets jealous easily and is so dam flirtatious and outspoken about it. (But underneath it I was mad Hikari and Takeru were not DNA digivolving partners. I still am lol).

I came to realize over time that she is basically a mama bear grizzly. She learns from Hikari when to be gentle and Hikari learns from her when to be grizzly. They play off each others strengths quite well.

Although she is still my least favorite I can respect her character development and how she really has carved out a path for herself growing from an immature prideful pushy sister you would hate to have in any situation except when someone is trying to hurt you to a reliable friend who can recognize and act appropriately and quickly to any situation. She still has fits of anger but really that’s only when someone is making really stupid decisions.

I liked her character growth. I liked how I hated her before but then really saw her change and adapt and I am all the more impressed by just how cool a character she used to be now.

Sometimes I think we get the impression of a character as so unsettling we can’t see just how much they changed because their original traits just grate on the nerves.

So now let’s see if you can guess which Digidestined she is talking to based off of these situations.

Digidestined A: There is no way we can do that! We got to just rush in and get it over with!

Miyako. (Two Digidestined holds her back). Are you stupid or just dense?! Just think about it! If we don’t do this then x, y and z no thanks to your boneheaded mistake!

Digidestined B: I think we should consider the situation. There are a variety of factors we have not seen. And from my dark history it could benefit us in this battle.

Miyako: That’s our Ken! Always helping us see the other side. We should go over this at the coffee shop later. You’re buying, right?

Digidestined C: I wish I could be more headstrong as you Miyako. At least a little.

Miyako. Heh, you will. Trust me. I’ll show you the grrr in girl power.

Digidestined D: Assess the situation. Think calmly, rationally and then get everyone’s input. Then you can make your decisio-

Miyako: No. we were taking about dating advise not a general rule for every day living. You’ve got to make time to get out more.

Digidestined E: You’re right about being cautious, but from what I’ve gone through sometimes you have to make the hard decisions even if others may not like it. When things are just so murky and grey you have to be able to risk making a judgment and it may not always be the right call.

Miyako: Never quite thought about it like that, but yeah I agree! So let’s get going! I’ll handle this part.

[quibbs126]

You know, I’m debating again whether I should stop doing fankids/fan parents

It’s not necessarily because of recent requests or anything, but rather because of a video I was watching yesterday, which was talking about trends and how they kill an artist’s creativity (it was basically about this one MLP episode about Rarity, if that brings more context). And yeah while it wasn’t exactly what I experience, it did speak to me on some level, and it made me think about my requests

Yes I do enjoy doing them, but I wonder if in some way they stifle my creativity, and sometimes I feel more like a factory line pumping them out, even if my frequency of release says otherwise. Also, I feel like it’s lost some of that “magic” that it originally had for me when I first started. I originally started because I really wanted to, since Cookie Run was something that could scratch that old itch of fankids that first came around in my starting days in fandoms that never really left. I asked for ships to do in part because I wasn’t sure what people shipped, other than the popular stuff, and also because I was embarrassed to do it, and thought that doing them by requests would make it less embarrassing. But somewhere along the lines, I lost that and was just kind of doing it because I had to. Some of that magic returned when I decided to start doing fan parents, but then that went away too

I don’t really want to admit it, but I feel like most of it comes from the fact that these are requests, not so much what I want to do, but rather what other people want. But I feel like it’s mean to blame you guys for that. After all, I literally asked for you to send me your ships to do fankids for, you’re just doing what I asked you to do. And what if you just wanted someone to make some sort of content for your ship? And I blame you for that? Not to mention it’s probably given me more knowledge of ships and what people like, or that people tend to be really nice about it in their asks

So one part of me wants to stop so that maybe I can get some creativity back, or that maybe I can regain things that I think I’ve lost while making them this last year. But also another part of me either doesn’t want to, or doesn’t feel like I can

I mean, if I were to close it now and just do whatever requests I still have, that’d still be over half of my total requests I have to do, so it wouldn’t exactly be a solution to the current problem; I’d still be doing old requests for likely over another year based on my track record. I could just say I’m not doing any more, but that wouldn’t be fair to all the people who requested, especially recently (granted it’s not like I’m fair to them with how long they have to wait regardless). Not to mention I still have ideas for some of them that I haven’t finished. And if I only do some of them, what dictates whose gets finished and whose doesn’t? And again, that doesn’t really solve the issue since that’s already what I do, and it’s not really a distinct stopping point

And then there’s the issue of this being most of what I do, making fankids, and again, this being something I enjoy doing. What else am I supposed to draw? You all know I can’t hold an idea for maybe more than a day or two. But I can’t just not draw, it’s what I do and have this need to create. And fankids in general are some of my favorite things to create

And if I really do stop, I’d want to start again with a clean slate, not just pause and start back up again, since that doesn’t change the issue, just pauses it

*sigh* I just don’t know what to do