#the survival at the time numbing out the worst of it. it makes it easier

[impossible-rat-babies]

ohhhhh I think the endwalker healer role quests are gonna be my fave

[purplewitch6666]

Rhysand's SA of Feyre UTM is real, and the way it is brushed aside is hard to reconcile. So let's talk about it (inspired by an amazing fanart of Feysand UTM).

1. "Drink, you'll need it." "No." "Drink."

The faerie wine is a way to control Feyre, stripping her of her ability to resist or even fully remember the SA she endures. By forcing her to drink against her will, Rhysand takes away her awareness and her consent, putting her in a position where she can't defend herself, can't remember, and can't even process the trauma of what is happening to her. The fact that she loses entire chunks of time under the influence of the wine, along with his mind manipulation, is incredibly dark. He exploits her vulnerability in the worst possible way, taking advantage of her defenseless state to make her an object of display and control.

And the blackouts likely make it easier for her to excuse his actions later because she can't fully recall the details—her memories of the abuse are fragmented, which makes it hard for her to confront the reality of what happened. By removing her memories of the trauma, Rhysand essentially robs her of the ability to even begin healing from it, which is both abusive and manipulative on a profound level. That line where Feyre admits to looking forward to the faerie wine is heartbreaking and reveals the depth of her trauma and desperation. She's so overwhelmed, so physically and mentally trapped UTM, that she starts viewing the wine as a reprieve.

When Feyre clings to the chance of escape, even if it means blackout oblivion, it's clear she's developed a trauma response—a desperate coping mechanism to endure her circumstances. She craves that brief numbness, however forced, to escape the horror of her reality, even though the wine also strips her of her autonomy and memories. This moment does not show her acceptance of what is happening to her, but rather how deeply damaged Feyre is, to the point where the very thing that is hurting her becomes something she grasps onto for a sense of relief.

She's left with only the tools of her abuser, clinging to the one thing that allows her to survive, even if it means blacking out parts of herself. And that's one of the saddest aspects—she's forced to use the very method of her exploitation as her survival mechanism, and it reveals how utterly trapped she feels. It's incredibly troubling to see this suffering reframed as some sort of prelude to romance, especially when her trauma responses, like craving the oblivion of the wine, go unaddressed later.

2. "From the neck down, I was a heathen god's plaything."

Dressing her up like that is another layer of control and degradation. Rhysand doesn't just make her a spectacle, he strips away her agency and autonomy in how she presents herself, reducing her to an object—"a heathen god's plaything." It is a costume designed to sexualize and dehumanize her, reinforcing his control while robbing her of any in how she looks or is perceived. Feyre is reduced to a pawn in his game, forced into a role where her dignity is actively stripped away. And that lack of choice over her appearance isn't a small detail—it shows how calculated his cruelty is, how every element is crafted to control and humiliate her while leaving her feeling exposed, objectified, and powerless.

Fast-forward to the Court of Nightmares, and it's disturbing to see Feyre wear a similar costume with Rhysand's approval and guidance. In ACOMAF, it's framed as Feyre's choice, as part of a scheme they're in together, but the undertone is still there—that her body, her appearance, and her sense of self are manipulated to play into Rhysand's strategy. While she consents this time, her "consent" is given within a framework that echoes her previous trauma, with Rhysand guiding her actions in a place where she once felt utterly degraded. This creates a troubling dynamic, as she's stepping back into a role of objectification and sexualization, one she didn't initially choose. It's like Feyre is reenacting her trauma in the name of strategy, and Rhysand, rather than considering the impact of such an act, almost seems to encourage it.

The narrative attempts to pass this off as empowering, but it feels unsettlingly manipulative. Feyre is using her own trauma against herself in a sense, allowing herself to be dressed up, touched, and paraded in a way that directly mirrors her exploitation UTM. Rhysand's involvement in this scheme blurs the line between a partnership and a twisted repetition of his control over her. What's especially disquieting is that it’s framed as something clever, as if allowing herself to be objectified is her best option, which glosses over the ways this echoes her previous abuse. The lack of self-reflection or deeper acknowledgment from Rhysand about how disturbing this could be for her is another glaring omission. It's treated as if the past doesn't matter, as if she can simply step back into this role and play along.

3. "As soon as his finger left my skin, the paint fixed itself."

Rhysand deliberately puts Feyre in degrading positions, like having her sit on his lap or by his feet, dance between his legs, turning her into a kind of possession to flaunt in front of everyone. That sort of physical control and forced closeness is a form of SA, plain and simple, and it is deeply violating for Feyre. But let's talk about the non-consensual touching that Rhysand engages in that is frequently excused because it is on Feyre's waist and sides. Let's look at this scene when Rhysand demonstrates how the magical ink on Feyre's body works:

I braced myself as he ran a finger along my shoulder, smearing the paint. As soon as his finger left my skin, the paint fixed itself, returning the design to its original form. "The dress itself won’t mar it, and neither will your movements," he said, his face close to mine. His teeth were far too near to my throat. "And I’ll remember precisely where my hands have been. But if anyone else touches you—let’s say a certain High Lord who enjoys springtime—I’ll know."

What is particularly alarming about this is Rhysand's ability to fix the ink that he smudges with ease. This suggests that he might be touching Feyre anywhere on her body without leaving a trace, only choosing to smear the ink in a way that is minimal and non-incriminating as a deliberate tactic to create an illusion of consent and innocence to ensure that Feyre believes he isn't crossing any boundaries, while the reality is far more sinister. Since Feyre is blacking out each night, she has no way of knowing the extent of his actions.

This creates a disturbing dynamic where Feyre is left questioning her own experiences. The boundaries Rhysand establishes through selective touching serve to confuse and trap her, making it easier for him to maintain control. The knowledge that he could be touching her inappropriately without her knowing adds a layer of psychological torment. It underscores his power over her autonomy and reinforces the idea that she is never truly safe from him. The smudged ink is merely another tool of deception, allowing Rhysand to manipulate her perception of what is happening to her body.

4. "I spent my days sleeping off the faerie wine... to escape the humiliation I endured."

Yes, this line is important because it reveals just how deeply broken Feyre feels UTM, using sleep to escape the horror and humiliation forced upon her by Rhysand. Her days blur together in a haze of faerie wine and sleep, a desperate attempt to shut out the reality of what she is enduring. Sleeping through the pain, drinking away the humiliation—these are raw trauma responses, the signs of someone who feels so trapped and powerless that unconsciousness becomes her only refuge. It's not a choice born out of comfort or peace, it's survival, an act of shutting down just to endure the next day.

This level of psychological exhaustion—using sleep to escape humiliation—shows the depths of what Rhysand's SA does to her. Each day, she wakes to a fresh cycle of abuse and trauma, so she retreats in the only way left to her: shutting her mind and body down. Even without full memories, a part of her mind understands the darkness she is facing and tries to find any means of survival. Yet, that's the last we see of Feyre's trauma responses to her SA by Rhysand.

In ACOMAF, we see Rhysand haunted by nightmares of his SA by Amarantha. His distress is severe enough that Feyre even helps him through one of these episodes when she is staying with him at the Townhouse. It's clear that his trauma around the abuse he suffered under Amarantha is still raw and unresolved. But it raises an unsettling question: why does Feyre no longer seem to exhibit any nightmares or trauma responses tied specifically to her SA by Rhysand?

Feyre's lack of nightmares surrounding her experiences with Rhysand, especially given her coping mechanism of sleeping off the humiliation, feels absurd. It implies a troubling erasure of her trauma, suggesting that either she is suppressing these experiences or the narrative chooses not to engage with them. Instead, we see her nightmares focus on other parts of her trauma UTM—like the faeries she killed to save Tamlin—but the specific horror of being abused by Rhysand is conspicuously absent.

5. "Don't get me started on what you did to me Under the Mountain."

When Feyre tries to bring up her SA in ACOMAF, it's dismissed with barely any meaningful confrontation or healing process. Rhysand's near-breakdown and avoidance make it seem like his feelings take priority over Feyre's trauma—a strange and uncomfortable narrative choice. Feyre deserves closure, and readers do too. It's painful to see the story shift to make him the hero without ever fully grappling with that past harm. The lack of acknowledgment or accountability not only undermines Feyre's agency but also misses the chance to explore the complex journey from trauma to healing.

What's even more disturbing is how Feyre's SA by Rhysand is recontextualized to excuse his behavior as somehow protective or necessary. It creates a twisted narrative where his cruel choices are somehow reframed as noble or sacrificial, without ever allowing Feyre her rightful anger or trauma over that experience. The absence of a real, open discussion about this later on in the series—one where Feyre's trauma isn't overshadowed by Rhysand's guilt or anger or avoidance—is a glaring gap.

In failing to fully address the impact of Rhysand's SA on Feyre, the narrative ultimately deprives her—and the readers—of the resolution and healing that her trauma demands. The fact that her suffering is left unexplored while his is highlighted skews the focus, suggesting that his redemption and guilt matter more than her recovery. This imbalance not only erases her experience but distorts her journey from survival to empowerment. A truly powerful narrative would allow her to confront him and reclaim her voice, addressing the harm he inflicted.

There's so much more to unpack here that I'm sure I'm missing—like the nightmare fuel that is Chapter 54. Anything else you guys would add?

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

My thing with writing König is trying to find the sweet spot balance point of like 3-4 different angles that are integral to the characterization I want to put out there.

I want him absolutely riddled with the kind of dangerous loser vibes that start the first day of kindergarten as almost an leprotic aura of Contaminated: Do Not Touch that everyone he comes into contact with wordlessly picks up on and carries for his entire life.

Just borderline violent othering that he struggles to fight, embrace, and figure out without ever getting a clear answer or mitigation method. He gets older and becomes a problem, a human toxic waste dump, and the avoidance is tinged with alarm. He figured out how to cover it, though, like he’s pulling on a patchwork person suit.

I’m a real boy, I’m like everyone else, nevermind the seams. Yeah, they’ll split the longer you’re around, but maybe this time—this time—I will have become an endeared thing and I will be understood instead of left.

Skin-splitting horniness, which is ha-ha on the surface, but Jesus Christ, it’s starvation, straight-up. Man is a fucking alien, he doesn’t get people, his veneer of normality is quick to shatter, and he just wants-wants-wants to be wanted. To be needed is a pipe dream. He’s like a dog taken away from mom and litter mates too soon—the need for closeness is set at so high a threshold it’ll never be met, never be fixed.

Fucking is a quick fix for this desperation. Bandaid over a bullet hole, finger in a cracked dam. Gets sharper teeth and longer claws the lower the fuel gauge is, and he’s been running on fumes for years. He’ll eat any scraps given to him at any table. Any even mildly kind word, any mote of attention, approval, or acceptance.

Even in his worst mind, he knows he’s not owed, he is not dying because he is not getting fucked or loved or befriended, but god fucking dammit, what he wouldn’t give for company to cut the bleakness, to not be fucking flinched at or eye-rolled. He wants to eat someone piecemeal as they eat him piecemeal, and the brutal symbolism of cannibalism is the best way he can understand the depth of this fragile-skinned desire.

A level of jaundiced, yellow-eyed sweatiness that pervades every aspect of his life. This is more difficult to describe. It’s literal sweat—from flop or exertion, it doesn’t matter—it’s also a state of being. It’s having not a flicker of volume control—indoor yelling or outdoor muttering. It’s being exhausted and anxious to the point of hysterical cry-laughing at hallucinations after 3-4 days sleepless. It’s saying the wrong fucking thing at the wrong fucking time and chasing yet another person off and wanting to kill himself for it.

It’s surviving on 4 hours of sleep and cigarettes and any kind of caffeine and below-board military amphetamines he can get his hands on for the last ten years because he feels like he’s wasting time. It’s getting smacked because his monstrosity of a body fucking hurts and being borderline greened-out makes it easier to go grocery shopping or to the gym or outside. It’s showering and then cutting his hair over the sink and not giving a fuck what it looks like as long as it’s not getting caught in his collars.

He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t sleep, he’s constantly spilling hyena-pitched stupid nervous laughter, and he bites when he’s overdone, and his teeth aren’t dull. He’s never threatened violence that he can’t overpay out on. He pulls on his face and his scars and that might as well be the same thing, gets sick to his stomach that they’re still numb and he can’t push into the pain he remembers from them. Sometimes he just moans and groans, shoves a hand up under his mask to cover his mouth like he’s going to hold back the tide of bile. He does this shit in front of people, and wants to die when he figures it out.

He likes killing people, he likes feeling powerful, he likes being seen when he’s the executioner, he likes being a scary nightmare. He doesn’t even know if he’d rather fight than fuck, but at least he’s good at it, and there’s undeniable imagery in driving a knife in between ribs over and over and over. He’s never not throbbing hard at exfil, and he’s never not sick to death with himself and his fantasies after he beats off the second he gets privacy.

Anyway I love him, he’s a sad sack.

[marshmallowprotection]

Jumin, Saeran and Saeyoung reacting to an MC who freezes up and stays mute but acts relatively normal in her day to day life except she's struggling with something mentally that sometimes makes her silently cry at night?

I've been having this lately, and I don't know how to feel about it. It feels like PTSD. I used to be diagnosed on it but now that its bigger effects have subsided, I thought things will be better now, but I constantly find myself just rotting in bed or doing things silently and reply shortly or in a monotone voice for no reason at least twice or thrice a week.

(That's a little bit of a vent, I'm sorry, Kait. I will be going to the therapist to check myself out though.)

Jumin has never dived deep into the constructs of the psychological mind. There's something to be said about his flippant disregard of his trauma in the name of validating someone else's experience, but let it be know that his compassion outweighs anything. He understands it isn't easy for you when you're overwhelmed, and he's not one to scold someone for things outside of their control. You clearly need to catch your breath and slow down when your thoughts are whirling and your brain is moving a mile a minute.

There's no need to force yourself to talk when you don't think you can manage, and there are other ways to communicate when you feel like you're at your wits end. If it's hard to talk, he'll see if there's any other way for you to say what you want, like a phone, tablet, whiteboard, or what have you. If you can't communicate readily in that state, he gets it. But, he wants to make sure you have what you need and you're not suffering in silence because you don't know how to ask for what your body needs because your words are all tangled up.

His main concern is your well-being. Of course, he's going to help you get into someone so you can talk about these problems and get the help you need. He's not a trained professional and knows that his support can only go so far at the end of the day. He wants to educate himself on this subject because he knows what you're going through requires compassion and understanding, and not many people in this world would afford that to you. You deserve time to rest and to come back to earth without being jostled.

"My dear, I understand you feel tired and numb... but I want to do whatever I can to help you pull through these feelings to feel like yourself again. I understand it may take some time for you to feel comfortable again, but you won't have to worry about a thing while I'm here. I'll stay by your side and see this through with you. So, you can rest easy... and know you're safe."

Saeyoung gets it. God knows he's had to force himself to survive the worst of the worst, and the most difficult thing about that experience is that he never had a chance to lay down and wallow in the grief he was experiencing. The agency didn't give him time to comprehend what he was doing or what was being done to him, and for that reason, it was easier for him to suppress everything he was going through and lock it away under a mask to never deal with again.

That's by no means the healthy way to do something, but he didn't have any other option. Now he does have the option to choose how he wants to handle his feelings, and that is hugely in part due to the confidence you gave him to fight for himself instead of constantly fighting for other people and throwing his life away in the name of self-sacrifice. So, when he sees you struggling, all he wants to do is help you the way you helped him. Sure, he's clumsy and it's clear to anyone that he doesn't know what he's doing, but you know his dear heart is in the right place.

Of course, his idea of helping is to build you a blanket fort and make sure the bedroom experience is something warm and cozy. He knows that you're not going to be able to just... jump out of bed. You need a little bit of time and you have to work your way up to it. Rest isn't by any means a bad thing, and you taking the time to breathe when the world feels like its crumbling... it's okay. He'll lay there with you so you don't feel so alone, and you don't have to worry about trying to find the right words to say! He gets it! You will survive this storm and he will be right here.

"Don't worry, you should close your eyes and try to get some rest. I've got everything taken care so you don't have to worry... ah, you don't have to look at me like that. I'm not upset, [Y/N]. I want you to have time to cry and just... exist. You can't hide these difficult feelings from escaping, so you should try to let them out little by little... so there's a less of a chance they work up to this point again... but I'll work on a few new additions to the robot cat so you'll be able to shout at me if I'm not helping and try something else, heh."

GE Saeran understands what it feels like to be so exhausted and drained that you can't even speak. He's been there before and it's certainly not easy to pull yourself out of that slump. In fact, he's still learning how to handle these feelings whenever they come up, and he knows he's no expert in trying to navigate what feels right and what feels wrong. However, even though he's still learning how to deal with these feelings, they feel a lot less scary when he reminds himself that he's not facing all of this alone. 

He's been pushing through this every step of the way with you by his side, and he would deeply remind you to remember the same thing whenever you feel like you're facing a challenge all alone. He's there by your side and he wants nothing more than to make sure you feel just as safe and sound as you have made him feel. He's the best when it comes to this form of communication.

You're like ships, passing in the night with the messages the other understands without ever having to say a word. When it comes to overcoming these particular feelings, he knows the best thing to do is to work your way up to something you can handle instead of trying to force yourself into something you're not ready for. Instead of sleeping in bed, he offers to make a makeshift bed in the coziest part of the garden so you can see something breathtaking while you’re having a tough time. Sometimes a change of perspective can make a world of difference. 

"Isn't it wonderful? The world might feel bleak and like there's no reason to hold your head up, but when you look at a site like this, you can't help but wonder if it'll always be bleak when the world in the room next to you has this much color. I've got you, my love, let's try to enjoy this colorful view and remember there's a little bit of hope left to find in our world, okay? That's what helps me... and I hope it'll do some good for you."

[inuhiime]

:: 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ! ──── ⪩⪨ 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ; 𝐩𝐭. 𝐢𝐢

‘ they’ll crucify you if you stay ’

‘ you have chosen the worst ending for yourself, and one day you will come to terms with that ’

‘ listen to the beating of your heart. what does it tell you in this moment? ’

‘ maybe the hurt would be worth it all in the end ’

‘ your life will end in solace or violence. you would be wise to remember that ’

‘ they are sin themselves, aren’t they? be careful ’

‘ ah, the classic feeling of rejection. i see romance is just as alive as ever ’

‘ you know who you are beneath it all, do you not? ’

‘ one of us has to survive this, don’t we? ’

‘ i hope you’re not thinking about killing me. it won’t end the way you want it to ’

‘ i want to hate you so much. why won’t you let me do this? ’

‘ you cannot distance yourself from this violence ’

‘ i love you ; i will gladly give all of myself to you ’

‘ inside your heart resides a wrath. when will you put it to rest? ’

‘ the life you lived was made of cruelty ’

‘ you should be dead by now. don’t you understand that? ’

‘ do not forget, you are more than a thorn in my side than an ally ’

‘ crying is not a weakness. there’s no need to hide it ’

‘ forgive me for all the things i can’t say ’

‘ it would be so much easier, wouldn’t it? to wake each morning and know that you would not be throwing yourself into the jaws of death ’

‘ you are my home. i will always find my way back to you ’

‘ maybe i’ll see you in my dreams ’

‘ okay, tone down the ego ’

‘ the day of reckoning will come and i’ll kill you a thousand times over ’

‘ you can do this, you know. if anyone can, it’s you ’

‘ something tells me that you aren’t thinking about me right now ’

‘ it is a very sad thing, to meet a downfall you cannot save yourself from ’

‘ you are so desperate to be loved ’

‘ they warned you of holy beings ’

‘ did you forget that you are no longer who you once were before? ’

‘ they will understand, but they won’t understand like you do ’

‘ it’s easier to be numb in the face of war ’

‘ focus on nothing else but what survives in us ’

‘ i am grateful to spend another day with you like this ; may we share many more together ’

‘ have you forgotten the sins i’ve committed? ’

‘ your heart tells you that there is no safe passage here ’

‘ you could come back to us, make this right ’

‘ it’s either them or us. don’t think too hard about it ’

‘ it doesn’t matter where we came from or who we were supposed to be ’

‘ you’ll have to try harder if you want me to feel anything ’

‘ you can be the one to take me out of this misery ’

‘ i’ve never been one to count my blessings, but with you, maybe i should start ’

‘ survival is easiest when you’re alone ’

‘ be careful, time is a merciless being ’

‘ you should have left long ago, foolish little lamb ’

‘ you can put down the knife, you know ’

‘ you’re not calling me weak, are you? ’

‘ it doesn’t do good to overthink ’

‘ another dead body doesn’t mean anything when you’re always wearing black ’

‘ you never knew, but you should have ’

‘ you treat me like you are made of tenderness. that doesn’t exist in you ’

‘ what a fucking coward you are ’

‘ careful. gods are the only ones who determine life and death ’

‘ let go. don’t be frightened ’

‘ keep away. you should not be here with me ’

‘ speak. tell me what is on your mind ’

 ‘ your violence will consume you ’

‘ a single beating heart would not make a difference in the world ’

‘ you can fall if you want. who would i be, after all, if i couldn’t catch you? ’

‘ something is coming. something bad is coming ’

‘ you are not made of holy beings ’

‘ are you worthy, little lamb? ’

‘ those who betray are the most wretched of all ’

‘ surely you cannot love something that is incapable of feeling anything but horrid things, can you? ’

‘ you dreamt of those angels, didn’t you? ’

‘ it will be okay in the end. it has to be ’

‘ i’m sorry, i should have done better to protect you ’

‘ forgive me for doubting myself ’

‘ i’m plenty nice to you. i don’t treat everyone like this, you know ’

‘ didn’t you know the soul was meant for breaking? ’

‘ i love you, i hope you know that ’

‘ stop looking at me, ugly ’

‘ i’m begging you, spare me the embarrassment ’

‘ to be born with a heart is both a curse & a blessing ’

‘ there’s a home to be found everywhere and nowhere ’

‘ i hope you don’t forget me when the time comes ’

‘ what’s so important that you aren’t paying attention to me? ’

‘ wherever you go, i go ’

‘ i will carry you in my heart until we reunite ’

‘ foolish are those deserving of death, and you are no different ’

‘ but it is love, after all, that intertwines us ’

‘ this world frightens you so dearly, but you keep on living anyway ’

‘ you’re such a damn liar ’

‘ are we allowed this? ’

‘ you should not get too attached. this will hurt more than it should if you allow it to ’

‘ i think it’s okay to be selfish now ’

‘ i changed my mind. i don’t like you at all ’

‘ what a foolish god you are ’

‘ it doesn’t matter, anyway, the difference between sinner & saint ’

‘ you are a soldier first and foremost ’

‘ did you survive? ’

‘ look into the mirror. are you there? where have you gone? ’

‘ we’ve got all the time in the world, so let’s wait, okay? ’

‘ the only gods to exist are those who know worship through love ’

‘ i think you care more than you let on ’

‘ so what does it really matter, anyway? ’

‘ you’re not who you were anymore ’

‘ you told me that we’ve met before, so why don’t i remember you? i know you ’

‘ i will love and find you in every lifetime ’

‘ should the nightmares revisit you, i will be here ’

[furbywrites]

I'd Never Let You Go Pt. 1

So, this is my first fanfic. It's pretty rough. Constructive criticism welcome :)

Ao3

At the sudden reappearance of Joel and Ellie in Jackson, a lonely resident becomes enamored with the stoic man. Lacking social skills, they look from afar, thinking themself subtle in their admiration. Unbeknownst to them, Joel has also been admiring from afar, feeling just as incapable of forming any new emotional connection, but drawn to them regardless.

There were new arrivals in Jackson. Not entirely unusual; it was more so their initial dramatic entrance that caught my attention. They came, they left, and now they were back again. Normally I wouldn’t pay much attention, except for the fact that they seemed like such a mismatched pair. A younger girl and an old man, not father and daughter like I, and most others had assumed.

She was energetic, extroverted, and although hesitant at first, settled in nicely. The man was another story entirely. He kept to himself, made little conversation with anyone other than the girl, and Tommy of course. Estranged brothers from what I had gathered. I didn’t know Tommy well enough to delve into his family history. We spoke in passing, and even then very little. 

I wasn’t known for being talkative. This life has taught me that being quiet and keeping your head down helped things go smoothly. I’d been in Jackson for one year, and had no friends to speak of. Secluding myself was far too easy, especially in a world like this. Maybe that’s why I found myself so interested in him. We seemed so alike, but so different at the same time. Where he commanded respect with his presence alone, I blended into the scenery like a shadow.

I sat in the mess hall, attempting to discreetly take a peek from under my lashes. Joel Miller. He was scowling at his plate of food, until the girl, Ellie, read something from a book gripped in her hand. It was a subtle but noticeable uptick of his mouth, his guard coming down momentarily as he huffed a laugh with a shake of his head. It was these moments, a glimpse at the man beneath the mask, that continuously peaked my interest.

I gathered from the current town gossip that they had been through hell and back together. They must have an unbreakable bond if so. I felt almost envious of their relationship. No, not almost, I was.  

Joel was big, strong, and capable. Everything the people I survived with prior to Jackson hadn’t been. They had felt like a weight I carried on my shoulders, dragging me down, until eventually I had left to be on my own. I wish I could say it was easier. Some spiteful part of me wanted life to be easier without them, but going solo was far worse.

I was on death's door when a patrol group from Jackson had found me. The tips of my fingers frostbitten, feet numb and burning, stomach empty. I was dying. The worst part is, I could have gone back to my old group, they no doubt would have accepted me with open arms. But god, I was so humiliated at my own failure. I felt death was better than facing them again.

My eyes stung with oncoming tears at the memory, embarrassment heating my cheeks. The food before me suddenly looked less appealing, but I continued to eat it anyway. I looked once more towards Joel, glancing away hastily when we made eye contact. Not so subtle I guess.

His stare felt like it was burning me, somehow making the blush on my cheeks glow brighter all of his own accord. I took another glance, like gazing at him alone was somehow addictive. Taking in his uneven scruff, graying hair, soft brown eyes. One more look before I go. 

His gaze was unwavering. I could feel my heart pitter patter in my chest, the blush spreading to my ears. I stood quickly, in such a rush to leave the suddenly claustrophobic room. I left my food on the table and hurried out the door of the mess hall.

How humiliating. I can’t even make eye contact with him. A foolish fascination, a childish crush, turning me into a blubbering mess. I continued onwards, the crunch of dirt under my boots a welcome distraction, until the sound of another pair fast approaching became apparent.

“'scuse me.” 

My eyes widened, feeling as though they might pop out of my head and roll away. Much like I wished I could drop to the ground and roll away from this current situation. 

Joel had followed me.

I swallowed thickly, kept my head down and continued walking. I could hear him grunt in annoyance as he quickened his steps to catch up with me. Now walking side by side, I dared to look in his direction. “Would ya’ slow down for a minute?” he asked gruffly, brows furrowed heavily. 

Any normal person might. I am not normal. Most attempts at conversation by an average resident of Jackson caused anxiety to course through my body as though one of the infected were in front of me. With Joel? It was like my brain had turned off completely. 

I hastened my steps, turned my head to stare directly at the ground, watching my boots kick up dirt. I wasn’t even sure which direction I was walking in anymore. I just knew staying near him was a bad idea. I would say something stupid, or god forbid do something stupid.

I could hear him release a deep sigh, but he continued to walk with me. "You're real quiet, ya' know that?" he huffed, sounding almost annoyed. I frowned but said nothing. "Jus' wanna talk is all. Ya' don't gotta run from me."

[casanovawrites]

SENTENCE PROMPTS FROM VARIOUS TV SHOWS

while we’re trying not to die, we still need to live.

dress code is creative black tie. 

in this world, you kill or you die. or you die and you kill.

people like us, we will never save enough lives to make up for the ones that we take.

i've always wanted to kill someone with my knitting needle.

when i'm with you, i feel like i am home.

you can save people’s lives, but you cannot save them from life.

i said i was fine, didn’t i?

i need a life away from death. we should all just let ourselves be a little boring again.

i stabbed him, and now he’s dead.

ew. don’t touch the dead body.

i don't know. just be hot.

my whole life has been defined by this crap. death, walking around blood.

being alone in life is making you a little weird.

from now on, we fuck everything up together.

i couldn’t be with someone who didn’t make me feel electric.

you were always mean when you got scared, you know that?

i know when you look at me, you don’t see someone you should be afraid of. but you’re wrong.

have you been practicing? or did you just suddenly get super human reflexes?

everyone lies a little. i lie.

women who knock rarely make history.

i get night terrors. i usually don’t remember them.

too nice a night to spend it dying slow, don’t you think?

i hope you find whatever it is you need.

don’t tell me i would be safer with someone else, because the truth is, i would just be more scared.

you’re with the bad guys. 

i don't want my life to be all about the worst parts of it. i have more to offer than that.

i think what you’re feeling right now is what it’s like right before you do something brave.

i am the bad guy, because i did a bad guy thing.

there aren’t going to be any good or bad guys, it’s either going to be dead or alive. i want to be alive, don’t you?

stay alive with me.

pushing things away never really worked for me.

escaping to your dreams is easier than living with your memories.

you’re so hot when you talk shit like that.

they were just assholes killed by other assholes.

it doesn’t matter how shitty they are. it still fucks you up when they’re gone.

i can’t just say i’m sorry. i feel like i have to do something.

i’m completely, totally panicking.

don’t choke. again.

every revolution begins with a spark.

i was in love. like out of my mind in love. what was i supposed to do?

we took a look, and what i saw was crazy.

people like me need people like you to save our asses. i need you.

you’re too smart to need anyone. it’s the smart ones who always survive.

i keep feeling like these pieces are missing. like there are holes in my memory.

no one doubts you.

i used to live around here.

blame yourself, fine. but that doesn’t mean you have to let it follow you around.

you took a risk. we took a risk, but it was the right thing to do.

i believe in you.

i don’t think i could ever get over you.

whenever i talk to you, i’m just happy. 

you haven’t changed.

i like beginnings. sunsets are like the end.

some things last forever. like a zombie.

DNA doesn’t make a family. love does. 

standing in front of you right now, it’s torture not being able to kiss you.

we need a plan. 

i know what it’s like. the numbness, the paranoia. sometimes i look at the world around me and it’s like all the light has just gone out of it.

this is a mixtape for the enemy?

now i get you forever.

you don’t grow. you rot.

what if the truth is that we’re all fucked in the head because of what happened to us?

who died? no seriously, who is this guy?

it’s not like i woke up today and thought i’d stab him to death.

i don’t want to be loved like this.

it’s just like riding a gross, really fucked up bike.

i can’t keep starting over because clearly it is not working.

it’s time we get our own shot at happiness.

you trust me to decide the rest of your life?

you have a sense of direction.

you don’t have to keep creating these tragic love stories.

you raised me from the dead. 

wait, you have a crush on me?

i’m so done with trying to be more. this is it. it should be enough.

maybe we can die alone together. 

if this is you broken, stay broken. 

i feel like i can’t say anything right to you at this point.

i mean, you already know i’m bad at lying.

paying attention to things, it’s how we show love.

you’re like a book, but still in the shrink-wrap. 

secrets are poison.

you can come from anywhere and still have a sad story.

sometimes miracles also have miseries.

shouldn’t you be taking it easy?

the woods don't give a shit.

everyone i have cared for has either died or left me.

are you so scared of failing you won’t even try?

you’re the best with the knife. clearly.

i lost everything, but i’m still trying.

do whatever you want to do. i’m done caring about you.

compassion don’t make me soft.

sometimes it’s important to say what you need to say face to face, so that the person can see that you really mean it.

you have the prettiest smile i’ve ever seen. your whole face just lights up.

[notthestarwar]

having Jango thoughts on this night

“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”―Fyodor Dostoevsky crime & punishment

(Keep coming across new quotes that make me think about Jango but with this already being soooo long and also the image descriptions not working properly I've decided to try this again with multiple shorter ones split in to themes. Part 1 is here.)

i just… what if you were a man and everything that could have gone wrong went wrong, time and time again. and it happened to you so many times, at such defining points in your life, as you were growing, that it made you in to everything you never wanted to be.

what if you couldn’t allow yourself to feel, what if you ran from yourself and in doing so, were numb to the consequences of your denial. were ignorant of who you were becoming. what if you rationalised the terrible. what if you convinced yourself you were right because to face that you are wrong, that you could be better, is too painful

what if you started on this path, inadvertently. the worst happened to you and you didn’t deserve it. but the person you became after that tragedy, was someone that maybe did deserve each tragedy after it. what if you were your own worst enemy. what if it didnt have to be like this, but it always would have been like this, because this is who you are now.

what if your whole life was defined by surviving the people you loved. what if you kept surviving the unsurvivable, and it left you alone, everytime. what if you could never move past that loss. the grief is a haunting. you should have died and you didnt.

what if nobody hates the man you have become more than yourself. what if you are everything you hate. what if you walk a path of self destruction trying to destroy the person you have become, trying to find the death that escaped you, and until you find that end, everyone else is only collataral damage

what if the person you could have been, in a better world, haunts you. what if you know that those that you grieve, would hate the man you’ve become, the person that loss made you. what if your love for your family, for your people, was corrupted, twisted beyond recognition. something good, made horrific.

what if the idea of facing any of this, the idea of allowing yourself to be something that could once again be loved, terrified you. what if you work to destroy the possibility. what if there was a way out, there were 100 ways out, but you never would allow yourself to take any one. what if, you hurt those that tried to love you, because you couldn’t stand the vulnerability

[and its not letting me insert alt text so i’m gonna reblog with an addition with the desc. plus additional sources i’ve found for some of them that were missing from the og posts]

image descriptions below

what if people want to tell themselves you are a bad man, something evil. less than a person, only a monster. but really, the very worst thing about you is how overwhelmingly human you are. how you are a person that in kinder world, might have been good. how even here, you are still so very human, all of your worst cruelties are fueled by fear. you stand as an example: of something that every person can become. a horror that lives in each of us, a person who does the unimaginable, because it is easier than trying to be good. a person who takes one mistep, and then another, and finds themselves running down a hill.

- LINE BREAK-

 tumblr post by longsightmyth Here’s the thing I keep trying to articulate and possibly failing: I don’ actually mind characters who are terrible people. I have enjoyed many. What I mind is characters who are terrible people while the narrative keeps trying to say that they are wonderful, often contradicting what the narrative shows us, with no self awareness

tumblr post by exilley “Doomed by the narrative” is sexy and all but i think the narrative wanting to save a character who is utterly set on dooming themselves isnt as much of a thing and it’s so good as a concept antigonick 5d ago

“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.” -Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

“1. Man is a MORAL animal. 2. You can get human beings to do anything-IF you convince them it is moral. 3. You can convince human beings anything is moral.” - Frank Bidart, excerpt of “In the Ruins”, in Half-Light

“ Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.“ -Anne Carson (Translator), Grief Lessons

tumblr post by supreme-leader-stoat ���This story is a tragedy because it didn’t have to end this way.” “This story is a tragedy because it was always going to end this way.” addition by veliseraptor #the best: this story is a tragedy because #there were SO many ways it could have gone differently #but the very fact of the characters” natures precluded any option but the tragedy 

tumblr post by manywinged  obsessed with the concept of being haunted by yourself addition by manywinged  maybe you were someone you hate now, and that person remains a cold hand on your shoulder that says you do not deserve this. perhaps you had to destroy yourself and become someone else to escape something worse - but now they hang over you like a shroud. you abandoned me. everyone did, but you - you were all i had, and you left me to rot. maybe the life you could have had was taken from you-and isn’t that a death of sorts? - and now it shadows your every step. you keep moving further away, but it follows. there’s a ghost after you, and it wears a frighteningly familiar face.

tumblr post by louisegluckpdf  best kind of character is ‘guy that didnt die when he should have’ (quotes) “To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.”  Anne Carson “I survived myself, my death and burial were locked up in my chest.” Moby Dick, Herman Merville

Walter White: I’ve been to my oncologist, Jesse. Just last week. I’m still in remission. I’m healthy. Jesse Pinkman: That’s good. Great. Walter White: No end in sight. Jesse Pinkman: That’s great. Walter White: No. I missed it. There was some perfect moment that passed me right by, but I had to have enough to leave them. That was the whole point. None of this makes any sense if I didn’t have enough. And it had to be before she found out. Skyler. It had to be before that. Jesse Pinkman: Perfect moment? For what? To drop dead? Are you saying you want to die? Walter White: I’m saying that I lived too long. You want them to actually miss you. breaking bad, fly, dir. rian johnson

“I am someone who did not die when I should have died.” anne carson

tumblr post by: autisticandroids  many problems are caused by the mindset that the world is divided into good people and bad people and the bad people can be “found out” and removed, eventually leading to a utopia containing only good people. addition by: andromeda3116  “It was much better to imagine men in some smokey room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power, plotting over brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn’t then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told the children bed time stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone’s fault. If it was Us, then what did that make Me? After all, I’m one of Us. I must be. I’ve certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We’re always one of Us. It’s Them that do the bad things.” –Jingo, by Terry Pratchett

And all of my devotion turns violent (according to google, from boyish by japanese breakfast)

“You are shaking fists & trembling teeth. I know: You did not mean to be cruel. That does not mean you were kind.” (google says: Venetta Octavia “the burning”)

“What a thing, to be both starving and empty. To ache for love- to take the scraps from it’s table, and yet, run sickly from the feast. You can’t fathom why I’d gobble your kisses but duck your attention, please. Understand- Some of us have gone so long hungry, the idea of being full feels worse than the affliction. (LOVE DISORDERS AND OTHER OLD HEARTACHES, by Ashe Vernon)

I was far too scared to hit him But I would hit him in a heartbeat now  That’s the thing with anger it begs to stick around So it can fleece you of your beauty And leave you spent with nowt to offer  It makes you hurt the ones who love you (google says: sam fender-seventeen going under)

Ivy Walker: Sometimes we don’t do things we want to do so that others won’t know we want to do them.

To feel anything deranges you. To be seen feeling anything strips you naked. In the grip of it pleasure or pain doesn’t matter. You think what will they do what new power will they acquire if they see me naked like this. If they see you feeling. Anne Carson, Red Doc

Tumblr post by: ivipite

“came back wrong” this “lived wrong” that, what about dying wrong. my death will forever cling to you, leaving behind a slimy trail and a metallic taste in your mouth. my soul will forever drag you down like the heavy corpse of a long-dead god, who somehow still grants wishes. you can’t tell which one of us is the one not letting go. you know not even your own death will end this.

post by: papayajuan2019  cruelty is so easy. youre not special for choosing it

post by:mycannibalromance (quotes)

even if you don’t have something anymore, you can be defined by its absence Joan Tierney, free range angel produce

And I want to go home But I am home mountian goats riches and wonders

In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am, I am what is missing Mark straind, keeping things whole

the expurgation of a neon sign and the team’s prov sions of the house’s powerful ability to exorcise any and all things from its midst.“F Mark z danielewski house of leaves

But here I touch an open wound: my memory. -rosario castellanos memorandum on tiatelolco tr. maureen ahern

-end of description-

[hiccupbutpurple]

Decided to write a random Snotlout angst fic. I may clean this up and expand and publish but for now I’m just gonna put it here.

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, loneliness, a mention of suicidal ideation, self-judgment, depressiveness, I think that’s it

Context: set sometime after Chain of Command but I didn’t look at the timeline or anything so it’s a bit iffy. Also I know very little when it comes to Norse mythological figures. This is just a self-indulgent vent fic and basically just me projecting some of my fears and feelings but making it a little bit of a Snotlout character analysis (I wouldn’t say it is an analysis tho). This isn’t edited or anything either.

The edge was wonderful. Sure, there were attacks and new responsibilities, threats of the unknown and a whole lot of pressure, but it was freedom and adventure. On Berk there were expectations. There were rules and normalities that were confining, especially to someone like Snotlout. There was still a similar fear, one of being cast out for not being able to fit it, but as time flew past, the collective anxieties the riders had unanimously disappeared. They would make jabs and bicker as they always had, but it was clear they were a team.

No one was left behind, human or dragon. That’s what Hiccup had said. That’s the philosophy they all followed.

However, in the silence of an empty hut, Snotlout began to doubt. Hookfang had gone to the stables for the night after the Viking had lashed out. He couldn’t remember what he lashed out about now, probably something stupid. He knew the guilt would hit later but all he felt was a tired numbness and resignation.

While his eyes were close, praying to Nótt to let him sleep for a while - or maybe forever, his thoughts flew, much like Hiccup and Toothless seemed to be if the occasional shriek wasn’t just in his imagination. They thoughts weren’t new, even if he had the engere, he didn’t need to read into them like he used to. They were a constant now, not necessarily a comforting constant, but one nonetheless.

He lived on the edge for the time being, but one day they would have to return. It could be easier to go back sooner, try and avoid getting to attached. That had been his plan when the edge was under attack and lava periodically spewed and why keep up the illusion when it would be harder in the long run. Still, the idea of actually going back hurt. To go back to those oppressive rulers, the feeling of eyes judging every move, the inability to express who he was. It would hurt.

The worst part though was already in motion. It always had been from the time the first insult left his mouth. It was predestined since being born a Jorgensen. Or at least being born as the child of Spitelout, in a world where bravado and strength meant survival. Berk had always been like that, it still was, but Hiccup was changing that. Maybe if he was more like Hiccup, the opposite of what his dad had made him, he wouldn’t be alone.

On the edge they had each other. He was needed and they cared to a degree but he knew how they felt about him. If it came between him and another member of the team, he knew who the rest would pick. Why chose someone who insults, who overreacts, who’s the least competent? He knew his faults but how was he supposed to change who he is.

Not to mention, everyone else has someone or something. Hiccup has Astrid and Toothless and they have him. The twins have each other, Fishlegs has knowldge, Heather for a while, and now Ruffnut seemed to be growing fond of him in her own way. Tuff even has chicken. Of course, they all have their dragons, just like he has Hookfang, but even his own dragon doesn’t want to be around right now. Minden was kind, said she liked him too, but how could they possibly work with her as a wingmaiden? He’s sure she would tire of him eventually anyway. Everyone seemed to.

Now he didn’t even have the energy to force himself to talk, to make them give him a place among them, to remind them he existed too. Maybe he would tomorrow but would that effort even matter? In the long term they would all have their places and he would be left. Destined to want but no ability to have.

[cinnamunspice]

(okay hear me out.... An au where Silena survives the BoM...? For Thalia)

It was going to be a long road back to normalcy, especially given that, while no one had mentioned it to her directly, everyone knew what she'd done. Charitably, they called her a hero. Less so, they pitied the damage she'd taken in earning that status-- drakon poison to the face, leaving behind burn scars and blinding her in one eye, was apparently enough for them to forgive her of the bracelet they'd found on her. (Others would say that it was her bravery in leading the charge with the Ares kids that did it, but it was hard to separate the feeling of guilt from what she'd done in the battle).

In her opinion, however, the worst fate of all was facing the world after without Charlie by her side.

The camp had been a whirlwind of activity lately, between the battle, the new oracle, the new prophecy, the rebuilding efforts, and the endless celebrations. Everyone was joyful.

And it wasn't that she wasn't happy. She was. They'd defeated Kronos and made life better for every demigod who came up after them.

Still, it was hard to feel celebratory those days. The camp had given so much in an effort to survive, and what they had gained would never make up for what they had lost.

Perhaps it was this feeling that kept her from bothering the hunters the way she normally did. Instead, she sat on the outskirts of the bonfire, keeping mostly to herself, though she did cast the occasional sideways glance at the daughter of Zeus nearby.

There was so much to be spoken about with her, wasn't there?

unprompted / always accepting !

You ever see a storm without ever hearing the rumble of THUNDER ? The crack of lightning, the wind force, the storm revolving around you? It's not nearly as cinematic as action movies make it seem; the highest points of action slowing down reality, your ears ringing from the pure onslaught of brain numbing stimuli. She knew the looks others would throw her way at the celebration, whether or not she blended into the hunter's uniform, or opted for her casual graphic tee and ripped jeans. It didn't matter that she was out, because at the end of the day: you're never really out, right? And how could she say no to the faces of Percy, to Annabeth, to Grover? It didn't matter that she didn't need this. This was beyond her.

The sound of thunder hadn't returned. The storm came, went, and now she was staring into the bright licking flames of the bonfire, among a celebration that felt too weirdly like a dance after a FUNERAL. Too cheerful. Too much like a blanket over the grieving forms that she called comrades.

Smoke rose, dance, and played in a similar way. It was easier for her to focus on that sensation, any kind of reminder that she was alright, that it was over, and that the cost didn't rip out so much of her soul, her youth, and the space between her and those she might have considered friends, if things had turned out different.

Many of her sisters, the people she'd grown close to over the past year, were either huddled together, or absent completely. To mingle among the other demigods was rare, despite the past week's rare occurrences. The APOCALYPSE seemed like a good enough time to break old habits. She lifted the plastic bottle of her Kool-Aid to her lips, hunched over as she sat on the log, largely ignoring the sights around her for the quiet remembrance. Thalia saw his face. It hurt. It pissed her off.

Suddenly, the fire looked too bright. Too painful.

Thalia caught her eye, next.

It was a miracle that she survived. Even more, she looked like she needed company. Silena looked like she wanted Thalia's company, in particular. She wasn't afraid of a fight, she wasn't afraid of anything, anymore. The losses she gained ripped a tapestry she thought had been long burned, away in some haunted mansion where the rest of the dead she'd loved, gone.

Daughter of Aphrodite. Daughter of Zeus. Not anymore, and how much had Silena lost in love? How utterly ironic. The teenager moved slowly, but in the moonlight, she might have cast almost a glow. Sitting next to Silena, she offered the rest of her drink.

"I would have expected more ribbing, more teasing from you." Not tonight, obviously.

Thalia's facade crumbled.

What could you say? What was there to be said?

And then she just put a hand on the other girl's shoulder.

[resmarted]

haven't been on psych meds all week due to liver failure and emergency intervention to reverse the effects of the damage from trying to replace covid meds with tylenol (even those also give you liver damage apparently and my tylenol levels didn't even appear to be that high in the end? tf?)

have already been on the brink of tears a few times, namely when chris didn't pull my show and said he knew my ability to bounce back in time. i can't even talk about it i will start sobbing it's like the most moving thing anyone has said to me in so long.

was also considering going down on these meds already and wanted to taper off to see how i manage. i have been on a steady combo of anxiety and depression meds since i was 22. i was very exhausted from being the funny girl in every setting to the point where every coworker at whole foods would want to know what was wrong the second i stopped smiling or goofing off. the expectation of me and the sad jester complex that came along with it for years got to be too much. i also felt like i had turned it into a full time job making everyone else around me comfortable which somehow evolved into being an emotional dumping ground for everyone to lay their own issues out onto, whether we knew each other or not. i genuinely care for people but there is a fine line between being nonconsensually assigned at random to become someone's free therapist and being this hardened bitch for setting boundaries and not engaging in the people-pleasing techniques of culturally fetishized support group mentality. or something idk how to explain it but i decided at some point it was much safer to just be seen as a bitch than a free vent box for other people who refuse to get on their own meds or proper treatment plans with licensed professionals etc. people tend to see that you have been through a lot and therefore you have all the answers to get them through their stuff, but it took a lot or work and therapy and is an ongoing process. it's actually really insulting and extremely lacking in self-awareness to make your problems everyone else's around you and being the only somewhat healed person in a room makes you a magnet to people who want to feel better too without doing the work. people don't deserve to be victim to your emotional outbursts or of your vampiric tendencies.

that being said, not to be anye-kay but i was a much more prolific writer and a lot of my best art has been created from the depths of hellish experiences and times in my life. suppressing my feelings about the world and not pouring it into my art is not very cash money of me. also tho the best art is made during the winter and the worst time to go off meds is also during this time, generally for the same reasons. also i think it's generally a lame excuse to say you can't make art with or without drugs. it may be easier one way or the other, but it's likely a discipline or skill issue. like maybe you're just a shitty artist and drugs is an easy way to avoid taking that accountability.

the mental health system is so fucked the regular health system is so fucked the living wage is fucked all of our money is being funneled directly into war and genocide and i just feel like numbing myself any further in this moment of revolutionary history is not the way to exist right now.

THAT being said i fucking HATE how people act off their meds, how they unleash their shit onto you with such audacious entitlement, and ultimately this world is designed to make you feel crazy, so if you can control your emotions in an act of survival then why wouldn't you? but also i am an artist, doggg.

i know how i get when i go off them for too long, how unsavory comments become, even when they are people i know disguising themselves as randos, and fortunately i have had enough experience to know how cruel and demented people get in groups on line (or in general) and have learned to genuinely not go looking for it after years or exposure tharapy alone. the second i get the slightest inkling we are not on the same team, you're out. no questions asked. like i could truly give a fuck what your excuse for your behavior you will or won't admit to, i have enough weirdo fucking stalkers online as it is and have for decades now. if you even have one of those people within six degrees or your social circle you're already on thin ice to begin with. i did not spend nearly forty years surviving this insane fucking life to go backwards. i don't attach myself to people with shitty karma, even if it's just by proxy of their friends of friends. if you want to survive cut-throat environments, you have to be willing to be called the bitch and the crazy one and whatever else will be thrown at you for refusing to adhere to a mold of low vibe mediocrity. you have to treat your social circle like an ongoing audition process that is never fully locked into place and be totally fine with whether or not people will get it (they won't, esp as a woman you will get thrown all those demonic labels and then some) it feels weird in the early days but eventually living in truth and integrity becomes second nature, and the revolving door of people who do and do not make it back for the following seasons of both your community environment of choice or your life in its most personal form always speaks for itself.

people play with fire expecting not to get burnt, play stupid games to win stupid prizes, despite how it ends the same each time etc etc etc.

say it with me: slow and steady wins the race. that falls on deaf ears attached to people trying to be the loudest in the room, but people only like fast food for so long and everyone agrees what quality is at the end of the day. you don't just get that overnight through overexertion and speed racing your way into a burnout. not everyone is meant to play this game according to the arbitrary set of rules on a constantly evolving and everchanging landscape.

this post was mostly for me btw. everything i do in this world is generally just for me. another great example of gaining a following by going against all the made up rules to a made up game that we are all just making up as we go along. [fiona apple 1997 vma voice] this world is bullshit just go with yourself

[inconveniently-discorporated]

When I worked in retail I had to do this horrible, terrible, awful, no-good task that was, in hindsight, perhaps one of the worst punishments one could dole out to a worker with ADHD. Frankly, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but it was particularly hell for my brain.

Retail workers might know this task as zoning, blocking, recovering, or facing. One would think that it would be satisfying to recover an area, to make everything look all fresh and new and colorfully organized. In fact, it almost was. It was as calming as it was enraging. But here's the thing: it needed to be done all the time, hour after hour, day after day, night after night.

My brain can come up with WORLDS UNKNOWN, and every night what it was doing instead was operating the meat mech so that all of the little kitties faced the same way in their rightful spot.

Perhaps one of the worst nights of my retail career was when I had finally finished the dreaded can section. It took the longest, and was easier to tell when someone slacked off, so if it wasn't perfect you would get a talking-to. I had spent much of the night on it, and it looked beautiful.

Then an ENTIRE TROOP OF GIRL SCOUTS WALKED INTO MY STORE, AND THEY TORE MY SECTION TO ABSOLUTE PIECES. I couldn't even be mad. They were ABSOLUTELY thrilled because they had ALL OF THIS MONEY to spend on donating things to charity. All of that work -- LITERAL HOURS -- vanished within a matter of minutes.

"Please," I begged my boss the next day. "You have to understand -- it was SO NICE. We really tried to recover, but we just didn't have enough time after closing without going over schedule."

They didn't care. They never do.

The point is, it was absolutely mind-numbing, and I hated it. I was doing the same mindless task every night with no satisfaction. I had to find SOME WAY to survive.

And that's precisely what I did. As much as I hated that task, it gave me the fondest memories of all those nights I spent with my team, coming up with apocalyptic survival plans. Each night, we discussed over the radios who would be on our survival teams, what each of our roles would be. If the apocalypse happened RIGHT NOW, what would I makeshift into a self-defense weapon? How would we barricade the store and protect against looters? Who knew how to fight, who knew how to set a broken bone, who could cook for the crew?

What a beautiful time that was. And hey -- I survived.

My favorite game to play when I am bored at work is pretending to be Ishmael from Moby Dick. Because Moby Dick is about a great many things but it’s also about being bored at work when you have ADHD and I find that very relatable.

This is how you play:

1. Narrate* whatever boring task you are currently doing, describing it in vivid detail.

2. Explain, in depth and at length, how said task is actually a metaphor for society and what it can teach us about the human condition. (Bonus points for any philosophers or theorists you quote and any historical events you use as an example.)

You may also add a passionate argument for why your job is the noblest of professions, and explain why it is in fact superior to other similar (higher regarded and better paid) jobs in your industry

The important thing is passion, conviction, flowery archaic language, literary allusions, and interesting facts of questionable accuracy. Feel free to make your monologue as long as you want, you have a lot of time to fill.

Highly recommend. Hours of fun

*you can do this out loud or in your head, depending on how much you like your coworkers

[marshmallowprotection]

i love the thought that just existing as a chronically ill/disabled person can speedrun both ray and suit's development.

showing Ray my old mediport--yes ray, the outside world helped me. a lot of people did, actually! and they still help me out. and yes, they'll help out if i ever get sick or hurt again (knock on wood). and people have created lots of things like this to make it easier (hell, i even had a prescription for numbing cream to use before my port was accessed). and I've met lots of other people who have been helped the same way!

and then just. Existing. in suit's general proximity. buddy, I'm always in pain. my body doesn't work quite right. it never has, it got worse for unrelated reasons, and it's not fixable. it can be mitigated a little, but it's downhill from here. I'm too tired to be angry about it. It takes up too much energy, so I just roll with it.

it's kinda cool that just. Existing. shatters pretty much everything rika has taught them to believe about survival and the outside world.

What breaks through to both Ray and Suit Saeran canonically is your kindness. Your unwavering kindness and inability to let things make you angry. You don't crack and don't let people push you around, but you don't let them piss you off to the point where you scream at them for it. You breathe, you recoup, and you think before you speak when you're with them. You never blow up and blame them for what's going on around you.

You're patient and kind, and despite the best efforts by this cult to destroy your faith in humanity, you never lose it. Suit Saeran said it himself. He was amazed by the simple fact that you wouldn't let any anger make you insult or hurt someone purposefully. You stood tall and affirmed that you weren't a loser or an airhead, but you didn't do much to fight back with jeers. You disagreed and kept a level head in a disaster.

You proved that anger isn't the strongest thing in his little world and that's what broke him.

It's the same thing with Ray. Your genuine interest and empathy for him cut through his obsession and taught him that true love isn't a game and it's not something he can force. It's something that you're able to experience by opening your heart and working with them to feel the best way you've ever felt.

He fights for you despite every fear he's ever felt because real love means doing what's right even if it challenges your cult mentality.

When we consider adding another element on top of that... one like chronic illness and disability where you've been struggling with a lot for a long time? Well, it just adds to their realization and education in the outside world. Ray and Suit Saeran would assume you're angry... angry with the world, with God, and with everything that caused you to get to where you are today.

But, you aren't, you've learned how to accept your circumstance and adapt to it... even on the worst days when you cry because the pain is too much to carry... if you refuse to crack the way that Mint Eye says everyone in lonesome pain will... well, it goes against Rika's teachings tenfold.

It forces Ray to consider that maybe the world wouldn't hurt him since he's bound to face hardship with his own health and maybe it might be better for him out there than it is with his Savior, and it forces Suit Saeran to realize that no matter how cruel he becomes, there's no way his anger will force everyone to succumb to despair, and the Savior was wrong about power.

It's not your job to help them learn that lesson, but being close to you forces them to open their eyes when they would've struggled to do it before. Of course, that's just the way I see it, but adding in this factor would affect the situation, and I've thought about it so many times as a disabled MC. How would they react knowing me? How would that force them to realize Mint Eye is horrible?

[themorningsunshine]

Light in the midst of the darkness (3)

Series Masterlist

Previous 

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary -  Sometimes he thought she was a segment of his imagination, a figure conjured up by his mind for a sense of peace among his tormentors. Why else would somebody as pure as her will be at Hydra? But then he realised the imagination of his broken mind could never be so beautiful.

Word count - almost 2k

Warning - Mention of injuries and torture, Hydra (yup, that’s a warning), brief mention of some medical procedure (squint and miss)

a/n -  I am so so sorry that this took me so long. I want to do this series right and was super busy with exams. Thank you for sticking along. Please let me know what you think about this so far. Your comments keep me going. Also, if you want to be added to the taglist, please drop a comment.

Training was the worst part of his day. Well, one of the worst. Nights with all their darkness and glorified silence came a close second.

Hydra wanted nothing but the best from him. He was their strongest weapon after all. Their right hand. They would make sure he was doing his best. If it meant exhausting him until he couldn't stand straight or beating him up till his last breathe, then so be it. They didn't care how wounded up he was. They wanted to make him numb to pain. That's how weapons are supposed to be, after all.

He had almost succeeded in being numb. He could take up punches, kicks and even a bullet without as much as faltering his step. But some days, it got too much. Today was one of those days.

A mission some of the agents were sent to had gone wrong. It had costed Hydra some weapons and an agent. Needless to say, Pierce was pissed. So, the soldier's day suddenly became the day of his test of endurance.

Hydra wanted him to survive literally anything and after injecting him with as many variations of the serum as they could, trying to make him indestructible, there were days when they challenged his endurance. Those days were his least favorite.

From belts to being punched and kicked while strapped down, he had to go through every inhuman torture known to man. Slowly, these sessions transisted from his endurance tests to a way for the generals to relieve their frustration and stress.

Usually, after these sessions, he was thrown back into cryo, his wounds were supposed to heal on their own but the soldier had noticed that they were sending him to cryo less and less these days. He was almost glad. Going in the ice did something to his mind he could not point to but he knew that whenever he came out, his mind was a blurred mess for hours. It was almost impossible to comprehend anything that was happening.

But today, he was injured, badly. Pierce had somehow gone to extremes, even the soldier didn't think Hydra was capable of. He was a stumbling mess and couldn't even stand straight. After Pierce was done with him, he instructed a couple of agents to carry him to the doctor chambers.

As the two agents came near him and opened his straps, he hung his head low, too tired to even look at them but he could swear he saw a sympathetic look cross the eyes of one of the agents for a second before it was gone.

They carried him to the doctor chambers. The soldier's weight too much to carry even for the both of them. As he got near the doctor chambers, a silent prayer crossed his mind. What if it was her? The doctor with the kind smile and gentle hands? It had been almost a week since he had seen her. Now that he was not being brainwashed, it was easier to keep track of time and he can't help but think that maybe it's her doing. He has never stayed without brainwashing for so long. If it was true, he silently feels grateful to her, even if he would never say it out loud.

One of the agents push open the doors. The soldier had realised long ago that Hydra didn't have locks from the inside for the prisoners and none of the agents were human enough to have the decency to knock.

You snap your head towards the door when you hear it open and instinctively close the document you were reading, praying to anyone who would listen that the agents won't notice. You smoothly get up from your chair and walk towards them, swiftly pushing the document aside. Your gaze falls upon the soldier and  your heart hurts when you see the condition he is brought in.

The soldier looks around the cell and notices that there's something warm about it. It's small and doesn't have a bed, just like his, but there are some candles burning on the table which have lightened it in a warm glow.

The agents push him towards the ground and with something on the lines of, 'Sew him up', leave the cell. The door isn't even fully closed when you recover from your initial shock of seeing him and rush towards him.

Kneeling besides him, you whisper "What are they doing to you, soldier?"

Your voice is so gentle, the soldier looks up, only to be met by your concerned eyes which were at the brim of tears. He has the sudden urge to reassure you that he is all right, if only to stop your tears, but he knows he wouldn't be able to lie.

So, he slowly whispers, "Bucky." The room is dead silent and he knows the agents wouldn't be able to hear them but he whispers it nonetheless. Like it was a secret meant to be kept just between the both of you.

You narrow your eyes at him and swallow the lump in your throat. You were not going to cry. You had cried enough due to the horrors of this place already. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction anymore.

"Bucky. That's my name." His voice is rough and hoarse due to the lack of use but you hadn't heard a softer sentence in your life. He was trusting you with something so personal. You had read his files. You knew he didn't remember anything after his brainwashing. But given the time, you were hopeful he might remember something about himself. In your eyes, nobody deserved to have their own life snatched away from them like this.

You give him a small smile and if Bucky had any doubt if he was doing the right thing by telling you his name, it vanished then and there. With this new information, you repeated your question to him, "What are they doing to you, Bucky?"

He had heard that name after a very long time. It seemed strange to be called anything except for the soldier but also familiar in a way he couldn't point. He thinks it's a rheoterical question that you aren't really expecting an answer to, but he replies just to continue talking and hearing your voice again, "Nothing I can't take."

You slowly pick up your supplies and walk towards him. As you kneel down besides him again, you speak, "It was Pierce, wasn't it?" You say the name with such hatred in your voice like you could burn him alive for even just touching him and in reality, you would.

Bucky just nods his head and turns his gaze to where you are catering to his wounds. He tries to turn his focus away from the needle and the blood to your gentle hands and it's relatively easier when you are looking at him that way.

A moment later you bring your head up to ask him if it's fine when your eyes meet his blue ones. When you had first met him, his eyes were a dark shade of grey and even if there were small flickers of grey in his orbs even now, you couldn't help but notice the beautiful streaks of blue emerging.

Under your intense gaze, the soldier gets suddenly aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. It had never bothered him before. Weapons aren't meant to be dressed in finest clothes. But it was different when you were this close to him. When you were staring directly into his eyes. When your cheeks turned a slight shade of red when realization struck you too and he realises it isn't bothering him as much. Your cheeks were a beautiful shade of red.

You mentally slap your forehead and to not get things awkward, take a step back to take out more supplies from your bag. Just after 2 seconds of silence, you get back to talking. You hated the deafening silence in your cell. It was slowly driving you crazy. So, you would take up any opportunity possible to talk.

"Pierce is an old bastard. Has one foot in the grave and still likes to think more than his withered brain can handle."

The soldier's lips turn slightly upward at that. It is the closest he has got to smiling in decades. At this, you give him a wide grin.

After almost an hour of comfortable silence and you cursing the agents after every new wound you saw on Bucky's body, he was as good as new.

You step back after packing your supplies and give him a wide grin. "Thank you once again for your cooperation, Bucky."

He just shakes his head in response. He will never get tired of how smoothly his name fell from your lips.

You walk towards the table in the corner and pour a glass of water. After gulping it down, you bring one towards the soldier. "Here, it's cold." You offered the glass of water to him but he just gave you a confused look in return.

He looks from the glass to you and at the glass again as if he didn't understand what was happening.

You gasped as realization struck you. You had read some reports that the winter soldier was fed liquid nutrition through IV and nothing else. You had not believed it. How was it humanly possible to make someone go through that? But this organization never failed to shock you.

Bucky slowly brings his hand towards the glass and takes it from you. It had been ages since he had eaten or drunk anything. Whatever they gave him through those wires just kept him alive.

He looks at the glass for a minute before looking at you as if asking a question. You nod your head at him and whisper, 'It's okay. You can drink it. They won't know." It was as if like you could read his mind.

He slowly brings the glass to his lips with trembling hands when you bring your hand to the glass to support him. As the first few drops of water reach his throat, he starts coughing profusely. His throat not used to the cool feeling.

You rub his back soothingly, trying your best not to cry for the man in front of you.

This encourages him to try again and this time, he finishes half of the glass. It quenches a thirst he had stopped feeling decades ago. His throat feels cool now and he realises he likes the feeling.

He looks at you and you smile at him. "I swear I'll kill these people one day."

This time, his lips turn upwards a little more at how genuine you actually sounded.  

You take the glass from him and keep it aside to sit besides him. For some time, it's just the comfortable silence surrounding the both of you until Bucky notices the paper you were reading when he had entered your room.

It's tucked aside on your table and hidden from view. He wonders what's that about but doesn't ask.  Instead he just picks up the glass of water and finishes the rest of it.

  When the door opens and the agents step inside, the both of you get up and you give him one last wave before he is taken outside by the agents.

You had heard a lot about the winter soldier from whisperings all around Hydra. You had heard about his murderous streak, the fear he had in all the hearts of the people around him.

But now as you see him leave, you would never understand why but you want to keep him with you and hold onto him for as long as you can. In this hell of a place, you seek the comfort of an assassin.

Taglist - @vicmc624 @caritobbg @buckybringsviolets @soulofendlessbook​ 

[erdogan-nevra]

ayaz--ates​:

@erdogan-nevra​​ Dated: 3/3/23. Location: Ayaz’s flat.

It was a relief to be home again.

Hospitals were the most soul-sucking place imaginable as a visitor, but being the one confined to the bed, at the mercy of anybody who felt like dropping by and pretending they gave a shit, had been a dire predicament to find himself in. An anti-social loner’s worst nightmare. Somehow, he was sure that’d been more exhausting than the actual recovery, but luckily for him, said recovery was simple enough that he could now endure the majority of it in solitude. 

After one minor surgery, the head injury had been their main concern, but once he was in the clear, he’d been told everything else was easily managed with a little in-home help. Emine hadn’t quite made the same mess of him as he’d made of her cousin. A satisfying realisation. Ayaz had launched at the idea of freedom as soon as it was offered, and with a little help from Medea, had settled back at home quickly. Whilst he’d since shirked his entire routine and all of his social responsibilities, however, one thing that brought him a little peace over the years endured.

There was someone he’d never not want to see. For her, he always had time. 

“I ordered köfte. Because I didn’t survive two bullets to die by your,” dramatic finger quotes were definitely required for the last word: “cooking.”

~

“Rude-ass. I would have cooked everything all the way through.”

And likely to a crisp.

Ayaz might have only been out of the hospital for a few days but that didn’t stop Nevra from slapping him, albeit lightly, on the shoulder at his comment. Hearing his prognosis from the doctors and how he was likely to recover quickly settled her mind more than she realized it would. The thought that had been sitting at the back of the assassin’s subconcious whilst he was in hospital was a scary one. 

What if he doesn’t make it?

He truly was only one of a few who she cared about anymore and more than that, cared about her. Nevra’s eyes conveyed as much as she continued to look at him. Always assessing. 

“It’s a shame you don’t drink. It would really help to dull the pain. Not that I’m endorsing drinking to get numb but a glass never hurt anyone.”

The brunette took a sip of her own drink as if to make a point. They needed to talk about what had happened but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. Avoiding, joking, was so much easier.

[delimeful]

you cant go back (1)

BTHB: Locked Up and Left Behind

first in a new alien series! this one is completely unrelated to WIBAR :)

warnings: abandonment, violence, injury, mentions of death and starvation, mild cliffhanger

-

Virgil was screwed.

This was quite a familiar phrase for him. He most frequently utilized it while trying to haul Jan away from whatever batshit scheme he was joint-deep in before it blew up in their faces. Normally, however, even he could admit that his panic, fury, and/or despair was sometimes exaggerated for emphasis.

“I’m absolutely, massively, unbelievably screwed,” Virgil tried out in a low hissing whisper, and grimaced when it came out sounding like an understatement.

In the corner of his eye, his helmet’s display screen blinked an eye-numbing red, informing him that there was a breach in his suit, and the atmospheric pressure inside had been completely disrupted. There would normally be beeping, too, the shrieking ‘you’re about to die’ kind that made his shelling turn pitch with terror in simulations, but— well.

He’d been able to endure about two clicks of the racket before giving in and tearing through the audio speakers with his teeth, ruining them entirely. It meant he wouldn’t hear any of the vital organ failure notifications, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience a sickening play-by-play of his death on another planet anyhow.

The others had left him in some kind of dilapidated shack, hand-painted a faded red on the outside. It looked unstable, but it was apparently built sturdier than any of them expected, enough to not even creak as he thrashed around with all his free limbs. He’d been cuffed around one of the support pillars, which meant that even if he could break it, it would probably just immediately collapse and crush him to bits.

Considering there was an enormous crack in the glass of his helmet, he hadn’t really thought he’d get the privilege of worrying about how he was going to die. Aisleen— the one who had bashed his helmet against her elbow plate— had certainly agreed. She’d waited until after the others had left, granting him a quicker death the way her culture called honorable.

Janus would have disagreed loudly. Not just because Virgil was pretty sure his only friend didn’t actually want to see him choke to death on the probably-somehow-toxic atmosphere of a Deathworld, but also because that guy could go on about interplanetary ethics for rotations if you let him.

Virgil wrenched at his restraints for the hundredth time, ignoring the hot pulse of pain that came with the movement. His chitin had to be cracking by now, but the rawness of that was easier to focus on than thoughts like, ‘I’ll never get to watch him argue someone in circles again.’

The worst part wasn’t wondering if they’d fess up to abandoning him or not. No, the worst part was he wasn’t actually sure which option he preferred.

He could imagine Janus looking for him, searching for leads that didn’t exist, stubborn the way a starving shilsho would stay locked onto flesh. Never knowing what actually happened. Jan hated not knowing things, the way Virgil hated sitting with his back to an open entryway.

But if he knew… If Janus managed to wrest the truth from them— or if they bragged about it— he would blame himself. They’d left Virgil because he was just a weaker version of Janus when it came down to it, and because he backed Janus up no matter what, and because it was funny, leaving the twitchiest guy on the crew to die on a world where anything and everything could kill you.

At least Janus wouldn’t be tempted to come down and retrieve his corpse. The other Chelcera was all about self-serving scheming, and there was no way the benefits outweighed the costs. He had to believe that much for his own sanity.

Virgil closed his eyes, trying to push away the what-ifs and the mental flash-images of Janus stuck in his position. He had more than enough to worry about already.

Since the atmosphere didn’t seem toxic enough to kill him outright (for now), there was a surplus of possible ways he was going to bite it. Weather, wildlife, or withering into a lifeless husk due to lack of sustenance.

Alliteration, nice. He was funny when he was on the brink of deathbed hysterics.

For now, he was only in conceptual danger. The shack was sheltering him from any outside elements, being terrified had killed his appetite, and there didn’t seem to be any heat signatures nearby, though his vision was limited by the sides of the helmet.

It made his skin itch, not being able to see behind him, but his auxiliary arms were spread out and taut, waiting for even a wisp of movement. If anyone tried to attack him from behind, they’d strike quick and true.

Of course, then he’d probably be immediately immolated by a pissed-off Deathworlder, but at least he could go down fighting.

If he was vicious enough, they’d have to kill him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about being taken alive. Bitter venom welled up in his mouth at the thought, and he tried to breathe deeply.

He was thinking too far ahead. For now, he’d struggle and swear and watch his atmo tank dwindle down to nothing, see if it changed anything. Maybe he was going to asphyxiate, after all.

-

He made it through the night.

The sun was close to this planet, enough that he was warm even in the stripped-down version of his bodysuit and in the enclosed shade of the barn. He thought he might even get overheated if he tried to sunbathe here, which hadn’t ever been a concern back home.

Thankfully, the meager sun that spilled through the half-open window didn’t reach him, so he didn’t have to add boiling alive to his list of potential deaths.

Unthankfully, more and more heat signatures popped up as the dawn arrived, all small but still potentially life-ending. He’d heard more than enough horror stories about palm-sized Deathworlder creatures that could kill you with one bite. He wasn’t letting his guard down.

The noise that accompanied the day was welcome— he was exhausted, and every unfamiliar chattering call or whistle made his aux limbs lift back up defensively, keeping him from dropping off into sleep.

He was not falling asleep on a Deathworld. That was just asking for trouble.

The energy crash hit hard, though, and by the time the sun was overhead, he was warm and sleepy enough that he almost missed the slow creak of the door.

He definitely didn’t miss the bright splotch of heat that trotted in, though. He quickly flicked his sensor eyes closed, getting rid of the heat-sense overlay, and felt his hair stand on end as he met the slitted eyes of a small, furry quadruped.

“Mrow?” the creature chirped at him, tail winding back and forth in the air. Its fur was colored in abstract patches, and he could see the tiny fangs in its mouth as it yawned threateningly.

Virgil resisted the urge to hiss, wriggling his wrists desperately. There was no point in antagonizing a Deathworlder creature preemptively while bound and helpless, a voice in his head reminded him. It sounded kind of like Janus.

The creature stalked a little closer, predatory grace in every one of its movements, and paused to watch him again. It’s pupils seemed rounder now, ears flicked up attentively. Virgil resisted the urge to twitch his backlegs, keeping still like a terrified prey animal as it approached at a leisurely pace.

He’d had all of his bulky outer suit stripped from him by the others-- no point in leaving the soon-to-be-corpse with a pricy surface suit. They’d even taken the shoes, which had felt a bit like insult to injury.

Now, with the local fauna drawing close to his feet, it felt more like just plain injury.

As bad as the odds were, he was fervently hoping that he could make himself seem tougher than he was. Maybe having to work for its meal would scare it off? He grit his fangs and drew himself up in preparation to lash out as much as he could in retaliation for whatever damage the creature was about to inflict on him.

It trod directly over his feet and brushed its little head up against his legs, a low rumble beginning to emanate from it.

He stared blankly down at it.

“What?” he clicked quietly, and the creature chirped back at him, taking a tight turn to loop right back around and brush against him in the opposite direction. Still, not a hint of pain.

Did… Did it have contact poisons, maybe? There was a residue of shed fur building up on the ankles of his undersuit, but it seemed surprisingly harmless.

With another, louder rumble, the creature settled into a crouched position-- directly on top of his feet. Its eyes drifted slowly closed, the vibrations it was making rolling through him.

Oh, Seryl and all her stars. It was sleeping on him.

It seemed docile for now, but what would it do if he woke it? Even he threatened to bite people who interrupted his naps, and he wasn’t a tiny wild creature governed only by survival (no matter what Janus told people). His flimsy inner suit wouldn’t stop an Ampen’s claws, let alone Deathworlder teeth or claws.

The creature continued to be a warm purring weight on his feet.

He resigned himself to a very tense next few hours.

-

Patch, as he’d taken to mentally calling the creature, didn’t end up attacking him. When it woke, it stretched languidly, chirped up at him a few more times, and then departed shortly before the sunlight began to fade.

And then, the next morning, it returned. Despite Virgil’s many fears, it continued to show no interest in harming him. At some point in the day, he even accidentally fell asleep with it, and still, no surprise ambush.

Despite Patch’s yawns and rumbles and claw-flexing stretches that could all technically be threat displays, it seemed bizarrely… almost... fond of him.

There was the slightest hitch, on the second day, when he realized Patch could come in the other windows and approach from behind while he slept. Surprisingly enough, the thought of the creature sneaking up on him was less distressing than the idea of accidentally striking out at it while asleep.

The presence of a non-hostile creature keeping him company had been... surprisingly nice when he wasn’t busy freaking out about it.

Once he’d imagined that awful scenario, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility, and so he spent an inordinate amount of time using his aux limbs to fiddle with the sealing latch on his helmet until he could tug it free. The slick surface and broken glass of the visor meant that he fumbled it basically as soon as he got it off, letting it drop to the floor behind him, but the reserve power had already long died anyhow.

And then, when Patch returned a bit after the sun’s rising, they hissed viciously at him the moment he turned his head. They proceeded to refuse to come anywhere near him for a good long portion of the day, at first bristling and pacing back and forth, and then eyeing him oddly while pretending not to, and then finally approaching slowly-- in what Virgil struggled not to view as a predator’s stalk-- and deeming his feet a suitable resting perch once more.

He’d like to say he never had a friendship so exhausting, but his best friend was Janus, so this was basically different ditchport, same junkyard.

“You two’d probably get along,” he said to Patch after he’d been forgiven for the horrific crime of exposing his face. “How do you feel about schemes?”

Patch had imitated one of his double-click noises perfectly, which was somehow mostly-adorable instead of mostly-terrifying. He tried to make one of their little round chirp sounds and mangled it horribly, but thankfully the resulting look they gave him was more alarm than offense.

By the fourth day, he’d begun to keenly feel the effects of being completely without nutrients. It was really only thanks to his nature that he’d gotten this far. Chelcerae were sporadic eaters-- big meals sustained them over longer periods of time compared to other aliens. The downside of that, of course, meant that when his body finally realized that there was no food coming, the hunger pains were going to be all-consuming.

Working at Janus’s side, he’d gotten used to having food when he needed it, or even wanted it. It just figured that he was probably going to die the same way Janus had first found him: starving.

He fell into sleep more and more frequently. It passed the time, and being asleep made it much easier to ignore his impending doom.

Of course, if he’d been aware of the rude awakening he was in for, he wouldn’t have been so eager.

In fact, if he’d known what exactly was going to find him sleeping on that fourth day, he probably wouldn’t have dared to shut his eyes at all.