#sometimes the thirsting makes me forget how fucking depressing everything is

[dilf-luvr-4evr]

Liking RDR is so funny because my dash is like “Arthur died alone :(“ and then the next post is like “need Arthur inside me so here’s a 5k smut 😝” like damn okay ig 😭😭😭

[shirophic]

close nights | mm!naegiri fic

here’s the mastermind!naegiri fic i promised  BAAHAHAHA VERY INSPIRED BY SONGS AND THERES A FAMILIAR QUOTE AT THE END IM PRETTY SURE MOST OF YALL HAVE HEARD ngl i feel like it went too quick but honestly idc give me feedback warnings: mentions of death, blood, stabbing, major character deaths

The night was cold, colder than usual.

Kyoko Kirigiri entered the security room, sighing as she sat down in the cool, blue chair. As she scanned her eyes across all the different cameras, quite a few things were on her mind. The 4th trial had ended, with alter ego’s death replaying in the minds of the students. Despair rotted within the students as fear shook them. Alter ego was their only hope, and now they were crushed.

Kirigiri watched as Asahina sobbed in her pillow, Hagakure trying to calm himself down, Togami reading as if nothing happened, Fukawa having a panic attack... Kirigiri bored her eyes into each of the footage from the cameras. Careful trying not to miss anything. Up until she reached a certain CCTV footage caught her eye. 

A boy holding up a sign. The boy was Makoto Naegi, Ultimate Lucky Student. Kirigiri knew better than that, she was the Ultimate Detective for a reason. She knew that talent was a deception, after all, what kind of talent is the “Ultimate Lucky Student”?

Kirigiri knew his real ultimate was despair, a sickening depth of darkness, tearing down others. 

To put it down to simpler words, It was his specialty.

Kirigiri never really understood the reason for despair. Sure, without despair there is no hope, but what was the real meaning behind it? Her ultimate was the Ultimate Detective, aren’t detectives supposed to be fighting against despair in the name of hope? Oh well, she was pretty much forced into this.

Turning her attention back to the green-eyed boy, she noticed there were words on the sign, with a grinning Naegi as he tried to stand tall enough to show the message.

“What an idiot. How did he become the Ultimate Despair again?”

The sign said “Come meet me in our special spot! Wear something pretty!” with a lopsided smiley face.

Once holding it for about 10 more seconds, he ran with the sign. Kirigiri had no idea what he had stored in that deceptive of a mind, but probably something not good.

- - -

As Kirigiri strode over to their “special place” Naegi was setting up something. Something like a room filled with candles and roses.

Rose petals and rose vines adorned the walls and floors. Candles were set up as yellow light shown in the darkness. Vodka and other drinks were lined up on a table, all set up for the night. Sure, it was cheesy, but something he put too much effort in. About a minute passed until Kirigiri arrived, Naegi staggered to fix his tie and suit, waiting at the entrance. As he looked up to meet with her eyes, he paused in amazement.

Kirigiri was wearing a deep purple dress that went just above her ankles with long gloves. Purple heels allowed her to have a little more height against Naegi. And her hair was up in a ponytail, with a purple bow to match. In all words, she was stunning. Naegi stood there agape as he looked at Kirigiri (respectfully of course.)

“Well? Are you just going to stand there looking like a reincarnation of Kuwata’s hair? Or are you going to explain what this is?” smirked Kirigiri, Naegi could have sworn he saw Kirigiri blush.

“Ah yes of course..” Mumbled Naegi as he looked down. “I.. I wanted us to take some time alone with each other, seeing as we get too caught up with the killing game and making sure none of them finds out about… about us..” spoke Naegi, softly.

Kirigiri’s smirk softened, seeing a side she saw many times, but not like this. Was this a confession? Perhaps a prank? She had known the boy for far too long to just not expect this wasn’t one of his other little pranks.

“Well then… In that case, let us take some time with each other.”

With that, Naegi and Kirigiri spent time talking and letting out their struggles. “It’s hard to keep track of what I've said and what I've not! It’s like I have to create a mental script..”

“You.. don’t have a mental script?” “You do!?”

As the night went on, Naegi played some music.

“Oh.. Isn’t this Lacrimosa?” questioned Kirigiri.

“Yea! Sometimes it calms me down when times are rough for me,” exclaimed Naegi.

Kirigiri didn’t respond as she looked like she was lost in thought.

“You’re thinking about your past again, aren’t you?” whispered Naegi.

Kirigiri turned to glance at Naegi, a stoic but slightly saddened expression on her face, “You.. You don’t need to worry about me. I can handle myself perfectly fine, just some… memories.”

Naegi examined Kirigiri for a while before standing up and lending Kirigiri his hand.

“Hey, I’m no doctor or therapist but, maybe a waltz will get it off your mind,” suggested Naegi.

Kirigiri opened her mouth for a bit, but completely drew a blank. Eventually, she surrendered and took Naegi’s hand.

They danced to Lacrimosa until it came upon an end.

Naegi slightly lifted his head to Kirigiri’s lavender eyes, yet couldn’t make out what was in them, sadness? Regret? Anger? He’ll never know.

-

Kirigiri had many thoughts as she slowly danced with Naegi, but she held them off for the time being, as they both wanted time together. And she didn’t want her depressing thoughts to ruin it.

-

Kirigiri and Naegi made eye contact as their thoughts disappeared, only focusing on each other now.

-

Kirigiri suddenly stopped, being aware of her surroundings and what she was doing - dancing. And with whom she was dancing with. “I.. Don’t you think it’s a bit… well, late for this?” Kirigiri questioned, “I wouldn’t want to be caught, god knows what they’re up to…” Naegi paused and chuckled for a bit. “We’re the ones in charge, aren’t we? Where is their god now?” Kirigiri looked down, not saying anything. “Where is their god now?” typical Naegi…” “if you don’t want to do this right now, why not grab a drink with me?” Kirigiri looked at Naegi with slight amusement, “why the niceties now?” but gave in, as her throat ached with thirst.

Naegi laughed quietly, then led Kirigiri to the food and drinks stand. Naegi grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured 

“Hm, don’t you think we’re too young to be drinking?” “We’re 18 now, did you forget? Oh yea, Junko erased your memories as well.”

Kirigiri got lost in thought as she remembered the previous ultimate despair Junko Enoshima was the previous despair. Keyword: previous. Naegi and Enoshima had been partners for quite a while, a feared duo. After “The Tragedy” and after class 78 got converted to a new school for a safe shelter, Enoshima and Naegi were already putting their plan into action. They made sure everything was sealed and “safe” and after about a year, Enoshima forced them into the killing game. Unbeknownst to the other 15 students, Naegi was also in this plan from behind the scenes. And after the first death (Ikusaba), Naegi and Enoshima got into a fight.

- - -

An angry Naegi burst through the doors of the security room, opening to a gleeful-looking Enoshima.

Naegi never had any thoughts on Ikusaba, she was just another pawn in Enoshima’s plan. But she always had to make things complicated for him.

“Enoshima!” Naegi yelled, “How could you just let Ikusaba die like that? Do you know how risky that was.. If they found out-”

“Which they won’t, honestly Naegi you’re too paranoid,” Enoshima said unbothered. “And If they did I’m sure you can just kill them off like a fly.” 

Naegi had a dark look on his face, “And what would be the explanation for that? Tell me.”

“I-”

“Oh! Togami just pissed me off! So I killed him in cold blood, upupupupu!”

Enoshima took a stand, an annoyed look displayed on her face. 

“Look Naegi, if you’re just going to argue about the past, fuck off, it can’t be changed and you know that.”

Naegi quietly chuckled, which turned into full-on laughter.

“AHA- HAHAHAHA, you think I’m just going to accept giving up like that? Well unbeknownst to you, Enoshima, I have a few cards up my sleeve as well..”

Naegi swiftly threw a card at Enoshima’s face, giving a fresh cut to her cheek. Enoshima looked at Naegi in disbelief, gently touching her face.

“H- How dare you,” Enoshima said, bewildered.

Naegi looked at her in amusement, “Was that not entertaining for you enough, Enoshima?”

Enoshima growled, spitting at Naegi. 

“Fuck you,”

“Pay me.”

Naegi quickly moved behind Enoshima, slicing the back of her neck, then putting her up against the wall with a knife under her chin, complimenting her facial features.

“Well now, the shorty finally decided to grow some balls, huh?” Enoshima teased, wincing as the cut behind her neck burned.

“You know damn well I grew some balls ever since I even started our little plan. Have a nice time in hell, Enoshima.” Naegi sneered, looking up at the despair twin.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be saving you a seat.”

Naegi then sliced her neck, pink blood dripping from the knife and onto Naegi’s hand.

Naegi hummed, dropping Enoshima on the floor, disgust filling his senses. “As much as I love bringing people into despair, the stench of blood is disgusting.”

Naegi then washed his hands and ordered monokuma to clean the mess up before heading towards his dorm room, pretending as if nothing happened.

- - -

“Hello? Earth to Kirigiri?” Naegi waved his hand in front of Kirigiri’s face.

Kirigiri was brung back into reality, realization striking her that she was lost in thought. 

“O-oh, Naegi. Sorry, I was lost in thought… again.” Kirigiri said rather embarrassingly, glanced at the shot she was holding, and gulped it down.

“It’s okay Kirigiri,” Naegi spoke as he had doubt in his eyes. He then took a shot, shaking his head.

“Hey Kirigiri, I know I invited you here myself but, there’s another place I wanna show you, care to join me?”

Kirigiri pondered for a minute, should she really go with a murderer who killed the ultimate despair only just to become the ultimate despair himself? Kirigiri sighed, he couldn’t kill her because of her secret anyways. Kirigiri remembered how desperate he was to know the secret.

- - -

(beginning of chapter 3)

Naegi whined as he followed Kirigiri around pleading. 

“Oh Kirigiri pleaaase!” he begged, “Let me know your secret!”

Kirigiri stopped and looked at Naegi, “why do you want to learn my secret so much?”

Naegi scoffed, “Well obviously because you’ve mentioned it once before and never told me! I thought I was your best friend..”

Kirigiri shook her head and continued to walk towards the physics lab, a click in her steps.

- - -

Oh well, it’s not like she has much of a choice.

Kirigiri sighed and followed Naegi, hoping that it would mean something good.

- - -

Naegi led Kirigiri up to the roof of the school, looking back from tie to time with a smile on his face.

Once on the roof, Naegi invited Kirigiri to sit down. The area was outgrown, plants growing everywhere. Fires all around the building, blazes and flames of fire all around the base of the school, the sun setting with a red aura.

Smoke filling Kirigiri's senses, she coughed. “W-Where are we Naegi?” she said as she looked at Naegi. Naegi’s face was lightened with red, orange, and yellow hues as he grinned down upon the world, eyes sparkling with delight.

“We’re.. We’re at the top of the world,” Naegi smiled.

Kirigiri glanced at Naegi with a confused expression but stoic eyes as she looked Naegi up and down.

“Quit the act, why did you bring me here?” Kirigiri demanded.

Naegi turned around, surprised. “Kirigiri, I just wanted to spend time with yo-”

“Stop, I know you’re lying to me. Spit it out.”

Naegi sighed with an annoyed tone and looked Kirigiri directly in the eye.

“I want to know your secret.”

Kirigiri was disappointed, but not surprised. Naegi was an awfully ambitious person and would go to extraordinary heights to get what he wanted, but Kirigiri was awfully stubborn.

“And exactly why should I tell you? For all I know, you could kill me instantly after.” Kirigiri doubted.

“Well for one, you can get out alive!” Naegi laughed, “But you’re not getting away this easily, Kirigiri.”

Kirigiri carefully examined the options she had; A: make a run for it, B: punch him and run, C: tell him and live. She knew with plans A and B he could easily either send monokuma after her or just kill her himself. And with plan C he could also be lying. So in all, it’s a win-lose situation.

Kirigiri sighed and made up her mind.

“I’m not telling you, whether you kill me or not. And besides, even you don’t know the secrets of this school, you need me.”

Naegi examined her closely again, then swiftly took out knives, throwing them all at Kirigiri. Which she dodged them all, even catching one. She threw the knife aside and stepped forward towards Naegi.

“You know you need me, you can’t do anything without me. Give up.”

Naegi growled, “shut up, shut up, shut up!”

With a few knives cutting Kirigiri’s dress and skin, she fell on the ground, backing away from Naegi.

She winced in pain as she looked up at Naegi, her vision blurring as she tried to make out what to do. Naegi stopped in front of her, playing with the knife in his hands before kneeling down in front of her face, lifting her chin up with the knife.

“You know Kirigiri, you’re an intelligent person with lots of room for improvement. I never wanted to come to this conclusion, but if you’re not going to work with me here, we’re going to have a problem.” threatened Naegi.

Kirigiri glared up at Naegi, keeping full eye contact.

“I’m not giving in, no matter what little tricks you have in store.”

Naegi rolled his eyes in annoyance, then putting his knife hard against her neck, “if you oblige, I’ll make your death quick and painless, if you don’t - well then you’re gonna have a fun time suffering.”

Kirigiri stared at Naegi in silence watching as her blood dripped down from her neck and onto everywhere.

Naegi then grew tired of waiting and sliced Kirigiri’s throat leaving her dead blank face the last expression she’ll ever make again.

He then stood up and started walking towards the exit down back to the school, when he heard something.

“I-Ikusaba… she’s alive, an…” Naegi whipped around, anxious, as he urged Kirigiri to continue. “And… she’s o-out for you..”

Naegi was stunned into silence. Ikusaba.. was alive? And she wanted vengeance? Naegi was very confused about this whole proposition. This was Kirigiri’s secret? Naegi then looked at Kirigiri again waiting for more information. But to no avail, Kirigiri’s eyes rid of the light and grew dead.

Naegi then started pacing around, wondering what to do next. Should he try to find Ikusaba? Should he kill Ikusaba once and for all? Should he-

Naegi was then interrupted by a figure in the shadows. He turned around to look who it is, but he couldn’t make out who it was until they stepped into the light.

“Naegi,” a cool monotone voice spoke, “We meet again.”

The figure then stepped into the light - a face known too well.

Mukuro Ikusaba. The other despair twin. Also known as the ultimate soldier. The last time Naegi and Ikusaba met was when they were putting the plan into action and putting the students in the classrooms. After that they barely interacted.

Naegi knew Ikusaba was dangerous. Her talent gave it away, after all. She knew tons of different strategies, and while Enoshima liked to say that the strategies were hers’ - spoiler alert: they were not.

Turning back to reality, Naegi began thinking of different tactics to well ah, slaughter his close friend.

Ikusaba read Naegi like a book, and took out her dagger - to which Naegi replied to taking his own out as well.

“Impressive, I saw what you did with Kirigiri. You’ve worked on your reflexes.” complimented Ikusaba. “But you’re no match for me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Alright, let’s dance.”

[jestbee]

Fic Read Round-up 12th Oct 2018

A list of fic I read this week and recommend (wips not included)

Sorry there wasn’t one last week, I didn’t read much. This week I read too much. Go figure. 

Disclaimer: I spent a lot of time re-reading people’s fic and back catalogues this week so there will be a lot of repeat writers. I don’t apologise for this, going through people’s pages and reading a lot when I’m feeling down is something I like to do. These writers comfort me when things seem hopeless.

Dan/Phil

cold feet by @waveydnp

M 3.3k Foot fetish fic from the amaaf verse. This is actually so beautiful, I’m in love. 

paint it on your face by @onedirectionticketss1

M 574 soulmate marks with a twist. Funny and lovely, an all round good read. 

Beside You I’m a Loaded Gun by ramonaspeaks

E 958 Phil wakes up still hard from the night before. Fun fact: this is my most re-read fic in the phandom.

witness by @velvetnautilus

G 818 Dan makes coming out videos but he never shows them to anyone. Other than Phil. 

nothing feels better by @waveydnp

M 2.5k I just really really love fwb okay? Them not being able to say what they want to say but their actions being so obvious that you just want to shake them. But Sarah writes them so beautifully that it hurts so good. ugh. 

unashamed, wide open for joy by @queerofcups

E 10.8k Okay, what happened was shapes and weights to choose (look at me defying my own rule of not mentioning wips - lol no regrets) updated. So I re-read it from the beginning. Twice. (ao3 tells me I’ve visited this fic 65 times and thats only the ones where I was logged in) and then I was thinking about Porn Star Phil because, well, why wouldn’t you? And then I remembered this fic wherein Phil is also a porn star and Dan is a youtuber and there is a mix up when he tells Phil he makes videos on the internet and it’s just really good and so I re-read this too. 

Unlatch by @queerofcups 

E 1.6k Phil can’t get over it when Dan makes the joke about sucking dick in Living my Truth and starts holding out on him. After re-reading the above fic I started going back and re-reading a bunch more because I have my faves and I re-read all the time. 

(your love) feels like all four seasons by @queerofcups

E 1.5k Dan and Phil at the Lester’s trying to be quiet. Told you I’m not apologising for reccing the same author one million times this week. 

everybody told me it was bad to do by @queerofcups

M 1.1k Phil’s boyfriend is downstairs and yet they’re doing stuff anyway. I have a confession that I actually really love fics where the relationship is a bit fucked up? Like I don’t think fic needs to always be representative of like healthy communication or whatever because it isn’t a relationship guide, it’s fiction. And this is a perfect example of a really interesting dynamic. I love. 

Birthday Sex by @danfanciesphil

E 233.7k friends with benefits, so angsty but with the happiest ending. Okay, I sort of blame @charlottekath for this because she re-read this recently and then I thought... okay I’ll re-read it too and I got a bit broken in the middle like I always do but by the time I reached the end it was okay. I did however have to go read some stuff where it wasn’t all turbulent for them to make myself feel better. 

Give Me A Try by @danfanciesphil

E 72.9k Instagram model Phil and bartender Dan. I love Phil, I love Dan being a fan of Phil. I like the teasing and the banter and the sexual tension. This cured all my ills. 

L'Histoire Française by @danfanciesphil

E 105.5k Teacher Phil and teaching assistant Dan. More lovely sexual tension with a good pay off. I had no ills left but I thought, while on a good writer’s page, might as well read some others too. I almost completed the set. 

L'Histoire de L'Amour by @danfanciesphil

E 2.9k a valentines day follow up to the above. Because I like to see them settled and happy. ahhhh. 

Raise your arms and hold by @danfanciesphil

M 10.3k Phil rents a flat across from Dan and their balconies face each other. Dan is depressed, Phil has plants. 

if there's a line, then I think that we crossed it by @tobieallison

unrated 797 2010!Phan might be my fave??? when they’re working it out and going through that really exciting just-in-love stuff. makes me feel all warm.

Daddy Kink by @danfanciesphil

E 9k Phil thinks the daddy kink thing is weird until one day things change. The only daddy kink fic that needs to exist honestly. 

Frustration by ramonaspeaks

E 8.4k Dan has hand surgery and can’t do anything for himself. Phil helps out. 

Look don’t judge the amount of smut I read this week, okay? I had a really bad week and sometimes when I’m in a really dark place I like to read smut and see people be happy because fluff is too cloying for me in that headspace sometimes but smut doesn’t tend to be as like, nice. 

Temptations by ramonaspeaks

E 2.7k baking and then some getting together smut, perfect

Terrifying Truths And Drunken Dares by @danfanciesphil

E 9.8k Dan and Phil get drunk and play truth or dare. Yeah, I went back to Ellen’s page because I hadn’t read everything yet. 

Holding Back by ramonaspeaks

E 3k 2009 phan and Phil teaching Dan how to give him a blow job

The Hottest Day by ramonaspeaks

E 3k It’s a hot day and Dan has ice to cool down things take an interesting turn - some more getting together smut

Waking Up by ramonaspeaks

E 2.6k Uni AU where Dan stays in Phil’s dorm room and they wake up together

litany in which certain things are crossed out by nokomisfics, recklessfishes

E 21.4k another of my absolute favourites of all time. Dan is a writer and a bit shit and Phil is a student he has a one night stand with and then falls into a kind of fwb relationship with and its just so so good but I always manage to forget about the ambiguous ending when I read it and then I’m left a little sad 

naked sofa battle royale by @alittledizzy

E 1.3k Phil likes playing fornite naked and he likes incentives to win Dan takes advantage of that. 

the sun a souvenir by deletable_bird

E 10.8k Dan is an art student with a final assignment and no model. He meets Phil at a coffee shop. I also kind of had a thing for coffee shop AUs this week, as will become apparent. 

Immediate Family by sasiml

G 1.3k Dan and Cornelia talking about family and how they are the same but different. I already reblogged this but I’m adding it here too as I really do recommend it

shift into overdrive by @alittledizzy

E 1.2k Dan and Phil can’t have sex on the tour bus, but they can do other things. I had a bad week and I wanted to read my fave ever trope from one of my fave ever writers, okay?

keep a place for me by @waveydnp

E 14.1k I know everyone knows Sarah is a genius at this point but I don’t think this particular fic gets as much love as it should. YouTuber AU slow burn and a lot of sorting their shit out

waiting to be found by @alittledizzy

M 15.1k Dan and Phil meet at a club, and then again at a coffee shop and the universe must just want them that way.  I remember reading this as it came out and just loving it and I still love it with every re-read. (17 times according to ao3 because I always open entire work at once)

waiting outside the lines by @alittledizzy

T 22.8k There is a coffee shop and some uni parties as a music festival and charlie is there along with Cat but it isn’t angsty, they’re just figuring stuff out and it’s beautiful. The ending is wonderful. 

closer to where I started by @alittledizzy

M 10.6k Dan gets injured and Phil worries and it leads them to some big decisions (dw, Dan is fine in the end) This kind of hurt/comfort is the best tbh. If you’re on a Dizzy kick and re-reading, you can’t not re-read this one, can you?

get me up get me out (of my mind) by @alittledizzy

E 2k Phil is having some issues, but Dan is there to help. I love Phil in this, and I love Dan. I love it all. 

back to those tokyo nights by @waveydnp

M 3k this coincidentally dropped as I was reading the previous and my ‘Phil being his age’ thirst was well and truly quenched. I love Phil being older, I love mentions of him doing their taxes. I love him being insecure about it and Dan assuring him he still thinks he’s really fucking hot. But most of all I love how true this is to the depiction of a long-term relationship. How predictability doesn’t necessarily mean boring It mean you’ve worked out what you like. how damn, this is a good fic. 

Crawling back to you by definitelythor (yourlionheartx)

E 14.4k Phone sex, and kind of fwb. They have phone sex alot until they move in together and then it stops. Until it doesn’t. 

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Every Time a Bell Rings

An “It’s a Wonderful Life” AU involving a lost and depressed Neil, an Andrew stuck in the afterlife trying to earn his wings, Dan as the Archangel, Wymack as God, and my usual level of snark and inappropriate humor mixed with angst.  Read on AO3 if you prefer.  There is depiction of depression and half-hearted suicide attempts so read on with care.

Chapter 1:

He was just so, so tired.

It had been days since he’d last slept properly; no, more like weeks.  He couldn’t even really remember.  The rainbow of bruises over his fractured ribs made it almost impossible to find a comfortable position, especially on bare ground.  The cops were starting to notice him hanging around the park.  He’d have to move on soon, but he didn’t know if he could find the energy.

He didn’t even have a name right now.  He’d been Alex when he’d punched that guy and gotten his ass kicked in response, but he hadn’t been able to think of a new one suitable for this hellhole.  There was his favorite name, the one he’d saved, tucked away for a better time and a better place, but he wasn’t willing to waste it on this life.  The license and passport would keep.  Or maybe that would be the name he’d be buried under.

He found a shady spot out of view of the sidewalk and curled up in a ball, his duffel under his head.  Sleep found him in short snatches, not enough to provide relief; when voices sounded way too close he got up, brushed himself off, pulled a leaf out of his overlong hair, and started walking.

Stomach grumbling, he wandered into the closest chain restaurant.  The woman behind the counter looked him up and down.  “Kid, you’re going to have to leave.  We’re not a charity operation.”

“I have money,” he said, his voice coarse from thirst and disuse.  But when she just crossed her arms and glared at him he turned and dragged himself away.

There was a cafe across town, and he knew the woman there would let him sit in the AC and eat and drink in peace.  But three days ago she’d slipped him a bowl of pasta salad he hadn’t ordered, and yesterday she’d given him half a dozen cookies for free, saying they were too old to sell.  

They’d still been warm.  He’d eaten them for dinner.

He didn’t think he could handle her green-eyed concern again.  The 7-11 on the corner was a safe bet, and he went in there and bought two bottles of water and a three-day-old sandwich, then sat on the curb and devoured it.  A couple of younger kids riding bikes across the street paused and stared at him.  Polishing off one water bottle, he tucked the other into the net at the end of his duffel and headed down the road that led out of town, the children’s light voices chasing after him.

More and more, he was starting to think this life was going to kill him, slowly and painfully.  His mother would have raged at his resignation; she had fought death for as long as she could, and had kept him from it by taking the lives of others again and again.  But she was gone now, had been for years, and he was forgetting how to keep going.

Sometimes he didn’t understand how he was still alive.  He bore scars of wounds that should have killed him, had escaped by jumping out of the upper story of buildings without breaking his legs, had leaped from a moving car into oncoming traffic, but somehow he always got up, always kept breathing.

The road crossed a river that bordered the town.  Halfway across, his feet stopped of their own accord.  The water was deep and swift thanks to summer rains in the mountains north of town, and he could almost hear it calling to him.  Not by any of his former names, but by the one name, the perfect name that he had never fully claimed.  This could end, right now.  This pain that flared with every breath, the emptiness that echoed with every weary step.  It would be done with, and he could be in sweet oblivion.  Gone.  It wasn’t like anybody would notice; he’d been invisible for years.  All he had to do was throw his legs over the railing and let go.

*****

Andrew had been sitting in the waiting room for what felt like an eternity.  It may, in fact, have been an eternity; time kind of stopped making sense once you were dead.  He still didn’t know why he’d been stuck here.  After all the shit he’d done he had expected to go straight to hell when that car jumped the median.  But for some reason, no.  It was just this boring room with informational brochures about the Guardian Angel Program (called Mind the GAP; Andrew kind of wanted to smack whoever had come up with that one) and background music that was probably supposed to be soothing but instead bored into his brain like a drill.  Of course, this could have been hell, but he doubted it.  There was nobody else here.

He jumped when a door he hadn’t known existed slid open and a disembodied voice said, “Please proceed to the pearly gates to meet with the Archangel.”  Slowly he walked through the opening, blinking against the cheerful sunshine.  The gates couldn’t be missed; they were enormous and ostentatious, and did in fact shimmer like pearl.  Part of him wanted to turn around, jump off the cloudy material he was standing on, anything but deal with an eternity of harp playing and nice people, but he clenched his fists and kept going.

A woman with short hair and rich mahogany skin was waiting at the gates, enormous wings folded behind her, so bright Andrew couldn’t look at them directly.  He stopped in front of her, and she greeted him with a slight nod.  “Andrew,” she said, and her voice was commanding.  “Welcome.  I am the Archangel.”

“I thought you were supposed to be a man,” he said.

“I get that all the time,” was her reply, and she turned and began walking along the wall towards a small building.  He followed, bemused; he wasn’t sure whether he was more irritated that everything he’d heard was probably going to be wrong, or that he wasn’t even unique in his assholery.

She opened the door and beckoned him inside.  The walls were covered in a million tiny screens, humans of all sizes, shapes, and colors moving across them.  A large man sat at a desk in the center, faint flames flickering up his arms.  He had no visible wings, but the energy radiating off of him felt like a nuclear explosion.  “Andrew,” he said, in a voice that was all voices, deep and high, masculine and feminine, harsh and beautiful.  “Welcome.  You may call me Coach.”

Andrew said nothing.  Coach and the Archangel studied him for a long moment.  “Have you read the brochures for the Guardian Angel Program?” Coach asked.

“You already know I did.”

Coach conceded that with a nod.  “Is it something you think you’d be willing to participate in?”

Andrew’s eyebrows furrowed.  “Why the fuck would you want someone like me?”

Neither of them blinked at the curse.  “Sometimes the best choices to help troubled people are those whose own lives were troubled,” the Archangel said.  “We have some of our best savior work done by those who have taken lives themselves.  It is about what is in your soul, not what you did with your human life.”

“And you think I have it in my soul to help someone in trouble.”

“It does not matter what we believe,” Coach said.  “It matters what you believe.”  

Andrew snorted.  “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said.  “Maybe you meant my brother, he always wanted to be a doctor.”

“Your brother is already part of the program,” the Archangel said, and Andrew recoiled.  

“He’s dead?”

“Mmm.  A drug overdose.”

Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.  It hadn’t occurred to him that with him gone, there would be nobody to get Aaron off the drugs.  “Your ‘GAP’ must be a pretty shitty program if it can’t stop things like that.”

“It is because of your brother, and millions of others like him, that we are trying this new phase in our program,” Coach said.  “We can’t always save people in the traditional way.  After all, we can’t take away free will.  But maybe we can help them to save themselves.”

“So, what you’re telling me is you have a supernatural Big Brothers/Big Sisters program going on up here.”

Coach made a noise that may have been laughter.  “You can think of it that way, if you like.”  He gestured to the screens.  “These are the people we are trying to help.  You may look.”  

Andrew walked to one wall.  There was a teenager crying in his room, and somehow Andrew knew he had just come out to his parents.  A girl in a bathroom, hunched over a toilet.  A woman in a man’s body.  A child, hiding from her uncle.  A kid, tightening a tourniquet around his bicep.  A young man, stumbling down a road, dragging a duffel behind him, despair across every line of his body.  

There was a knock on the door, and Andrew tore his gaze away from the screen he’d been watching to see an angel enter.  Tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, with iridescent wings; he looked vaguely like Coach and briefly Andrew thought about asking if he was Jesus.  “Kevin,” Coach said.  “What brings you here?”

“This guy,” Kevin said.  “Nathaniel, or whatever name he wants to go by now.  I can’t do it, I can’t get through to him.  I keep trying to help, but I think he’s out of reach.”

“You have been very focused on helping his physical body,” the Archangel said, “but that is not the damage that needs our skills.”

“If I don’t help him physically, he’s going to get himself killed.  I’ve been going crazy just trying to keep him from getting murdered, but then he does something stupid like piss off a biker three times his size.  I don’t even know how many bullets I’ve blocked, or how many times I’ve slowed his falls.”

Andrew glanced back at the screen with the man with the duffel.  He didn’t know why, but he was certain this was who this angel—Kevin—was talking about.  The Archangel was saying something, but Andrew wasn’t listening.  There was something on the man’s face, something too familiar.  Something he’d seen on his own face, more than once, when he looked in the mirror with a blade to his wrist.

“Hey, asshole?” Andrew said, waving his hand.  Kevin and the Archangel stopped talking and looked at him in surprise, while Coach looked vaguely amused.  “This your guy?”

“Yes, it is.  Who’re you?” Kevin asked.

“New guy,” Coach said.  “We’re recruiting.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kevin said, and it was Andrew’s turn to be surprised; was this a curse when you were in heaven?  “Just what we need, another attitude problem.”

“Shut up,” Andrew said, and talked over whatever Kevin was going to say in response.  “I’m trying to help you here, dipshit.  Your guy’s about to go over.”

“Damnit,” Kevin said, rushing to the screen.  Andrew half-expected Coach’s energy to go supernova on them all but he just radiated amusement.  It took a minute before Andrew realized the amusement was directed at him.

Kevin let out a long-suffering sigh, drawing Andrew’s attention back to the screen.  “All right, let me go down and catch him, then I’ll figure something out.”

“Catching him isn’t going to solve anything,” Andrew said.

“It’s going to make him a lot less dead,” Kevin replied, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, for now.  But if it’s not this now, it’ll be something else later.”  All three of them were staring at him.  “Didn’t you just tell me it’s about helping people save themselves?”

“You have a better idea?”

Andrew looked back at the screen and hesitated.  He hadn’t even managed to save his own brother, in the end.  

“Touch the screen,” the Archangel said.  It didn’t make sense, but Andrew found himself reaching for it anyway.  A brush of his fingers and a thousand images embedded themselves in his brain.  A young red-headed boy, watching as a larger version of himself carved up a screaming man.  His hands shaking when a knife was pushed into them, then the knife clattering to the floor and the boy bracing for the blow that took him off his feet.  The same boy running, running, a brown-haired woman next to him gripping his arm while gunshots rang out.  An older version with blonde hair and gray eyes, sitting in a cafe in what looked like Paris.  Then light brown hair and brown eyes in a desert.  Dark hair and dark eyes as the woman gasped her last in the driver’s seat of a car.  The same boy—no, he was a man now—arguing with a man who was beating a dog.  Having a cigarette lighter pressed into the flesh of his arms.  The older red-haired man from the beginning falling in a shower of bullets.  Then back on the run in a new disguise.  Brown hair and piercing blue eyes, giving food to a man sleeping in a cardboard box.  Breaking up a gang of boys picking on another kid.  Punching a man in the throat for harassing a teenage girl, then getting the shit kicked out of him in an alley.  

Twenty years of a life, blinking by in a second.  When it was done, Andrew was reeling, but he knew what had to be done.  “Make him save you,” he said to Kevin.

Kevin snorted.  “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.  You’ve been up here for five minutes, I’ve been doing this for ten years.  The whole reason he’s alive—”

“Blah blah blah yeah, you’re wonderful, but he’s about to fucking kill himself.  Now, I don’t give a shit, but you obviously do.  He has a savior thing going on, think about what he did with that girl and those bullies and that dog.  Go down there and make him save you.”

Coach stood up.  “Andrew.”  Andrew looked at him.  “I’m sending you down there.”

“Coach, I don’t—”

But he blinked and the room and the angels and the screens were gone.

In its place was a bridge and the blinding sun, the pavement nearly hot enough to melt the soles of sneakers Andrew didn’t remember ever wearing.  The river roared down below, and the man was there on the opposite side, his duffel cast aside onto the bridge, his legs dangling.  He was about to drop, and Andrew had no time.  He glanced down and dizziness hit him at the distance between himself and the water.  Gritting his teeth against the nausea, he thought, I’m already dead, and threw himself over the railing, a breathless scream tearing out of him as he fell.

[swpoetry]

No 18

A New List Of Statistics-

ONE.

When i was 11 years old, in school we were learning how to type. at 11 years old i learned how to swallow. he called it ‘swallowing your feminist pride, no pun intended.’ i called it swallowing the truth. but the truth comes with pills, and i sometimes confuse which one i should take. caution: when swallowing suicide, know the pills come back up, and they went up, up, and up, they spilled all over the table along with the truth i tried to hide inside my stomach. my mother knew what i was even before i did. i was at dinner with my parents, my mother announced i liked girls. i dropped my fork. my dad, he thought she dropped me, as a baby. everything changed, i’m sorry mom. you were never ever supposed to know. you carried me for nine months, and you’re still carrying the burden.

TWO.

my therapist says humans are tapestries, and and our feelings are the infrastructure. but i was unraveled at an age to early to remember what my picture is supposed to be. i have been thread barren for years. i cultivated a thirst for masochism, yet with my finger on the needle i dare to pray for peace. i am sorry for these feelings. they always get in the way of this family. i am sorry i forgot how to fall in love with men. it’s just that i see his face in everyone, and unless you’ve seen him, i know you can’t. my parent don’t exactly look at me the same way, that crinkle is always there; it’s like a crack in our relationship, the one broken piece of something so ancient nobody would let you forget about it.

THREE.

i am lazy. i cannot get out of bed. i am uncaring. there is no point fighting with you because you will never understand how this fucking feels, every day. i do not contribute. i am trying my best, not to take a walk and never come back.  i have a bad attitude. i leave the room to cry, not to rebel. nobody wants to be around this, i do not want to be around this, i am this. i know these things. you tell me anyways, you tell me always.

FOUR.

i do not expect you to understand me or read my mind, but it seems that after $10,000 of wasted money, you would remember from time to time i am battling my own brain. just because you don’t have to search my room doesn’t mean i stopped fighting my addiction. i’m sorry mom, i haven’t eaten in two days because i’m trying to be your A student again. but my depression tells me, not you. never. i cannot help but to agree.

FIVE.

i used to keep track of every day i was feeling down, but it’s been a long time since i remembered what day it is. eons pass in my room during the time i strain to listen, but i hear it, do you hear it? ‘it’s all your fault. you asked for this’. yes, i hear that every day.

SIX.

you tell me i have a lot to live for, well gosh golly am i glad to hear that, because everyone has told me i wouldn’t even go through with it. no ma’am, you don’t need to call, i am not a danger to myself or others. the social worker loves hearing that. as for me, i am already strategizing separating myself from others while she asks about past trauma. i test the waters. ‘i was catcalled, it made me so uncomfortable.’  ‘yeah,’  she says, ‘me too. they say one in three women are raped, but i personally think they are getting those statistics are a little off. we don’t have that many bad men around here, right?’ she is right. there are three people sitting in the room: my past self, and my previous self, and her. my past self has been raped once, my present self is raped every day. the statistics are wrong. one in three? seems to me like three in one. doesn't make sense? neither does asking me what i was wearing or telling me the statistics to fucking comfort me.

SEVEN.

i stopped tearing myself apart because you said maybe God would heal me. well, now whenever He gets around to it, someone else tears it down. i am a torn down version of what i should be, of what you want me to be. i am torn. i am sorry. maybe God made me, but then my sin recreated me. i think God gave up. why won’t you?

-a new list of statistics

10-01-2016

[tomaschronosart]

I can remember writing a story about a cackle of hyenas whom were mindlessly roaming The Unending Desert, from memory I had depicted them as these anthropomorphic creatures – nearly human enough to recall. I was in Mrs. Dyer's class, so grade 6. I remember how calm and confident I felt doing this particular task, it seemed like I knew how to flow and tap into some source from the get go.The feeling of calm comfortability was very rare for me. Mrs. Dyer played the entire class a song and requested we create a narrative based on our initial thoughts, feelings and reactions to the song. As a kid with a bed time, I mostly just passed out from exhaustion, instead of actually going to sleep… I would lie awake every night, wired, manic and fearful. I began writing stories in my head early on in an attempt to soothe and channel my chronic anxieties.. I had constructed the usual traumatized-child-fantasy-universe – a safe place where I could manifest the perception of control. I never minded sleeplessness, as it created an apt environment for cognitive free-running, I adjusted. My fantastical bedtime stories were vanilla, from memory.. drug cartels, mercenary adventures in the jungle, sci-fi opera journeys and sometimes just a regular old adventure where me and mine would acquire some kind of drug or person or thing. For a long time, I had an obsession with unearthing new control techniques to quench the thirst of my firmly embedded insomnia - I had stock-standard/methodical/repetitive stories that would take 2-3 ours to ‘create n complete’. If there was a satisfying and coherent beginning, middle and an end to te story, I could sleep. Nights were always hardest and darkest for me – I have no idea how old I was when my sleep hygiene began deteriorating. And though, sleeplessness was uncomfortable and I was never keen on being tired – After doing the reading recovery program, I could finally read, so I was quick to pick up the –read-in-bed- habit. I began hearing other peoples stories, a welcome change. if I was feeling particularly flowy, I’d organize one of my card collections. I would try to master some new drawing technique... but I could sit behind a computer for 18-24 hours straight and ride the wave playing some puzzle or anything else repetitive enough to numb my mind. I remember how icy cold I’d get during winter - how blue my hands would become after hours of sitting stationary at my desk.. I would leave my window open throughout the night to keep the computer cool, it lagged if it overheated. I used to think that if I didn’t pay any attention to the cold, I would not feel the cold. Before I was 10, I had not come across any one thing that transfixed me. I had not yet become addicted to anything yet, I think? – that is until Puzzle Pirates!!! Shit, when that fucker came into the picture.. well, I no longer gave a shit about anything but Puzzle pirates. I could not cope with the disconnection, exile and the incessant bullying I copped from my peers. The frustrated messes waiting for me at home were suckin down durries, grog and sugar as hungrily as the machines cha-chinning for their money at the pub. I still am heeding these calls I am too tired to remember. I am still sweeping the dust away from these things I cant forget. At times, I miss the calm comfortability of not needing drugs; I miss the warmth that seeped away whilst roaming the waking world; I miss my Lunar lover, who would speak to me in dreams/ through dreams i could See through, cast away, be at ease. I hold on Tightly- still, To whatever vice’ll’suffice. seeming to soothe and appease the beast / my early coping strategies of hermitage and avoidance, protect me from momentum Games and story telling and art replication – I wanted to draw cartoon characters, as I was exposed to their stories more than my own peoples. I can still remember the countless hours, days and weeks of social isolation and voiceless anxiety. Sugar – one of the quickest ways to soothe my boiling baby brain. I keep thinking of the root of this addiction as a loss or lack of social belonging , or maybe I am lamenting another warped perception of my self .. I remember that I was so emotive and empathic and open but also unregulated, neglected and full of painful confusion. I forget that I still am. I felt so damn old all the time. I remember the sunshine splattering through the windows, onto the dashboard of mums old Ford Laser. We were doing one of our usual trips to Warrandyte for her housekeeping job with then Heffernans. I remember looking out over the balcony at the rear of their place, taking in the kilometers of bush and possibility. I black out their olympic size swimming pool - i nearly drowned in it a few times. While I was peering out across the sky,I was fretting over forgetting how I came to be standing there. I did not understand how I forgot- I remembered the sunshine On my face, So I knew, I had gotten there, though I could not remember how. I wanted to be a boy. I was a boy. I became a girl, as expected. , football was a medium, a bridge for the repressed masculinity – I didn't like to exercise, I did not want to be made of aware of my breathing, bleeding bio sac. my body was unimportant and sickly and tired and stressed and depressed, chronically– I reflect now and see how maladaptive a depressive I am. Always, wanting to escape the confines of the very thing I want to inhabit and realize? //// ah!!! the system that creates its own dependence, to substantiate its usage of the finite well, shall never recognize its own self-destructive carelessness. For having ignored the infinite well, the system, as it stands, shall fall. And that well that never runs dry? Well, I always forget about it. I use everything I have ever touched// to coin a collection of concepts Only I can comprehend. But, this is making it easier. I can see a bit clearer now. I can ease into the next step, less weary than before. But why? The further away I wander, the more susceptible I am to rot. In time, these things will return … and of my soul? My soul shall ache and pupate once more, Forlorn, I remember///! how I forgot – to start, To stop. And who's justifications am I leaning towards now? My deep dwelling fears and my leering observations are erratic, Unsustainable, Confusing. THE MAD ARM OF THE Y – an obstruction arises along the path creating the crossroads of forever, Two new paths, the same old path. I am alone, finally – at peace. At ease, with my failures, for now. No mirror I stumble upon can stave off my stare, Why should they? to see through what I can only see when I Stop, start and Refresh is my responsibility. I am so sorry, that I show A me that thinks it can have something It is not worthy of. Give me nothing and give me everything - I have been in all of the wrong places. I know I think wrong, and that I have made it too hard on myself. I know these revelations have been a long time coming but- I sat there and I remembered, It is to me and to me alone that I must consort with. I seek council amongst my memories and I find shelter in my solitude. These flickering unrealities I thought were gone - Pls, just hold onto the everlasting, Try, bust through space and time and just- Breathe. My desire for my true end has faded, I see life again, manifest. The 10,000 directions in front of me, the Myriad forever, the calf of endless suffering howls my name so doggardly. And change and change and change And grow and grow and grow, And that's all u r doing and that's all U can do. individualism is not the thing That u share with me, nor I with u. I remembered just now, that Id like to talk with u and, Share space. How I miss fixing shit with you. How u and me, we used to sit in the park and heal our aching thoughts- Work'd be done and the day was forever- and the thoughts would come, and go. And I miss it cause it kept me closer to my people – for when I speak amongst my kin, I am Home and full hearted – But I lost all my chill, I lost all my capitol, frankly. Then - it snow balled, as it always does. I feel I have been too sad to be a friend, too fucked to really feel love, I fear I am to scattered to comprehend my responsibilities And I’m too damn lonely to ask for help. And so what? Now what? Just keepin up with the fuckin fog is hard enough, I know I just gotta slow down and risk a bit of pain and ease into warmth and trust that its true. My silence has done me a disservice. My love for u, eternally/ Evergrateful / be am me, For all is as it could be. Chained to nought but my fears, Lovingly I say to u, from the mouth of Beth Ditto, “If everything u do has a hole in it, then everything u do has a hold on me, I been here before I should be used to this, But I can't take it no more, I can't take it no more, no oooo, Ooooooooo ooooooo ooooo,” (And to me I always sing:) “Yr mangled hrt, yr bitter love that's hangin onto memories, Ur lettin go of everything that ussed to be, U build me up to let Me down…” And from the channels of me, I wonder, what am I releasing? Capitulating with comrades, A sparrow new found – tiny and fragile, Like glass, Rock hard and clear/ transparent but, still. It is shattered Spraying and sputtering nuggets of raw energy. Crack and singe, whatever mind of mine is waning by the wayside. Moments of forever, Of the eternal calm of belonging- Jan Cadman’s Kyneton property, We’s just yabbies in the dam. / I think I can see, I wanna chill, like when I was there. As conceited as I can be- some people I never need to feel again. Thin ice, let me drown. My neck is under deep, it's me and me alone that keeps quiet. I've been drowning, again, like always. I just got sick from telling people.. Only I can save me, I forgot, I forgot.