#there's no ''my parents will die and i will get a disease and i'll burn the house down''. it just feels. Bad. and Wrong. and i can't let it

[pickapea]

i have rough, calloused fingers but not because i've been working the earth or have learned to play the guitar but bc i have very strong compulsions to hit really hard at random places on my phone screen or computer keyboard when the vibes under the surface of them feel off

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Reader (You) Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. For years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because you feel like something halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t wash the smell of hospital out of clothes, not really. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise. 

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive? 

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After your annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, you meet his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables and incoherent babbling.

A/N: Does this look familiar? It should lmao. I gave into the peer pressure. All the messages and requests were too powerful. Here is a reader version of my ofc season 1 fic. Obviously some things have been removed to get rid of specific names/descriptions, so you want to read the full thing you can read the og version and check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)! For the sake of not clogging tags, I'll probably just do my reader version on tumblr and the full oc lore version on ao3 from now on. xx

Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before your mother’s death, you would have picked fire. Every single time. 

You never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of your argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy. 

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, your mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, you mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; you connected those dots all on your own. You’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile. 

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

You flitted your eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Your responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.” 

Your yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely your father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to your face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps he stopped being your dad somewhere between the funeral and now. 

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” you smoothed your thumb in small circles over the armrest of your chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of your first interrogation. You’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. You picked at your uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of your mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Your mom had been far too indulgent of your lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at your snarky aside. She let you finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; you could tell. At the time, you saw it as a victory. Now, it kept you up at night, the drooping lines of your mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book you were trying to read.

You bit down on your tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of your thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” You paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Your mother kissed the top of your head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. You woke up in the hospital, and your mom was dead. 

A bead of sweat dripped onto your top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, you wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints. 

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though you both knew how the story went from here. You had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years. 

You bit down on your thumbnail and winced when your teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.” 

“You don’t remember how you got outside?” 

You shook your head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, you had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room. 

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, you looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped your knees tightly, digging your fingers into fragile skin until your wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Your eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and your voice went so quiet you could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” Copper flooded your mouth as the soft lining of your cheek split under the brunt of your teeth, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.” 

You were scared to open your eyes as the silence stretched between the two of you. You’d danced around the subject before, hinted and spun around the heart of it, but you’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give you a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, just plain ol’ grief—but whatever caused your temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, you had no explanation at all. When you finally peeked through your lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, you couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” you cut him off. Your eyes went flinty, irises darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of your anger. You never had any trouble reading your father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear. 

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing you remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.” 

You nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of your denim skirt until the thread snapped. 

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a crooked line, like he was chewing on his words and deciding if he should swallow them or spit them out. “I wish I had all the answers for you. I really do. Not knowing, it’s worse than any truth.”

You blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Not your fault.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the phone on his desk. “I have to take this, but if you remember something, or if you just need to talk—”

“My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” you stood up quickly, shouldering your bag. You forced the corners of your mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.” 

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. You had seen it before, on one of your many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, you assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. You must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave you a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping your fingers around the strap of your backpack and walking to the parking lot. 

Outside, the sky was grim, a mocking reflection of the dour expression on your face. The spite in your eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of your cheeks. For a moment, you just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor.

A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled you back into reality. The search for your car keys was, of course, a considerable endeavor. Nothing could be easy. Not here. Not today. Not ever, you thought. A bit melodramatic maybe, but the weather was certainly ripe for a bit of self-pity.

You stacked your textbooks and binders onto the hood of your sedan, haphazardly throwing your jacket on top of the pile to protect your painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time your fingertips brushed against the cool metal of your car keys, your hair was damp and curling at the ends. 

The momentary relief was short-lived when you pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all you could do was rest your forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to your mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of your thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

You jumped, and then flinched again when your keys clattered against the ground. You caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as you felt. You turned around, trepidatiously—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow your rapidly rising heart. 

“Sorry,” the boy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down and had the decency to look contrite, “big mouth.” He rubbed a hand over his chapped lips. “It’s a real problem. It’s so big, actually, that my foot just slides right in there like…all the time,” he gestured animatedly with a flat hand, a quick sliding motion, like a fish through water.

You blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for your keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and your heart dropped back into your chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. You hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” you hummed, leaning back against your car. Your fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

The boy grinned before fixing his expression into something on the cusp of severity, “I’m about 95.7% sure that anything bigger than a fist is completely mouth-safe.” He held up his fist and nodded sharply, “Make that 98.3% sure.”

“98.3?” your brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.” 

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above your heads as you stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm. 

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

You pursed your lips and ran your eyes over the front of your car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” You were slightly horrified when you finally noticed that you were smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto your face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in your cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.” 

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of your car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by your freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” you sighed and started stuffing your things back into your backpack, shaking it violently until your notebook finally slid past your chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of your face. You tilted your head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. His eyes, you noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, you realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

You pushed his finger away from your face with your own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered. He struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked next to your car, cursing under his breath until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Your lips parted briefly, and then you grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

“Total.” He nodded decisively before sticking his head and torso into the depths of his trunk. “Completely, entirely, and wholly a smartass.” There were various clanging sounds until he re-emerged with a pair of jumper cables, “Never noticed that in class. You don’t really…say anything.”

You bit back the snark poised on the tip of your tongue. When people looked at you, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; your mom died, and you were there. It seemed like that was all you would ever be in Beacon Hills. 

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one. 

High school had been your chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so you took it, wholeheartedly. You kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and your mouth resolutely shut. 

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” you finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting your head, you watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” you said faintly. It was coming back to you in pieces. That was life after twelve for you: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when you surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking. 

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards you, “Stiles.”

You took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Y/N.”

His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and your eyes widened. You held your breath in your sternum until you registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, you concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.  

You sighed a little as you listened to the rain patter against the asphalt and the roof of your car, rubbing your palms over your arms until the goosebumps prickling along your biceps receded into your skin. Stiles looked back at you again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards your face. You caught it before it could smack into your nose, and you clutched at the soft material until you realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt. 

Stiles was staring at you when you looked up from your hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and you felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in your arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. You blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into your closet until your second alarm startled you into snatching the first shirt you came across—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on your lashes dripped into your eyes.

Robotically, you thrust your arms through the sleeves and tugged it over your head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. You smiled slightly, combing your baby hairs behind your ears, “I guess I forgive you for attempting to blind me in the process.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “That was an excellent throw. First-line material, honestly.”

You looked at him and tilted your head, eyebrows crawling towards your hairline, and Stiles sighed loudly, “Okay, so I’m not an ‘athlete’ or whatever—but I’m working on it. You’ll see—you’ll all see.”

You hummed softly, unconvinced but grateful enough to not comment further. Another bout of silence fell between you, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition. 

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the background as you let out a soft sigh, dropping your head back against your car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock your car and now, but you couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, you realized, without your foul mood casting a shadow over your head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. You could feel his gaze on you again. A tickling sensation trailed down your spine as you fiddled with your keychain. You took a step backwards and bit your bottom lip, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you throw something else at my face.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. A tire iron was next.”

You slid into your car and stared at the steering wheel, forgetting to laugh at his joke. You wrapped your fingers around 10 and 2 and silently called upon every deity you’d ever heard of to end your suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but you seriously doubted your smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, you should revisit your resounding dedication to atheism, you thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life. 

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. You bit back a smile when he shot you another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from your car’s battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, you were convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against your window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

You snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. You decided that you much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” you drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.” 

The manic expression on his face softened to a relieved smile and then again to a little smirk, “So what’s a certified fresh murder, then? Not that I doubt the depths of human depravity, but I think society killed off originality a few centuries ago.”

You thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” you sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” you agreed, staring at a small chip in your windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit. 

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that you couldn’t believe it had taken you this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut your door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “Seeya at school. I’ll bring something fun for target practice—maybe grapes. You like grapes? Don’t answer that—I’ll surprise you.”

You put your car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and gave him a dry smile, “The anticipation is killing me.”

What a scary place to be, you thought as you watched Stiles disappear in your rearview mirror. Anticipation. Hope. Life. You were chronically good at surviving; cockroached your way out of every horrible thing life squashed you with. Lately, all you could do was cling to your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin, until you were barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but death would not stop for you, so you stopped looking for him. You kept treading water, took your pills, stopped existing—you were a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. You didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced you to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

Your dad’s SUV was parked in the garage when you finally pulled into your circle driveway. It was a rare sight; your dead battery had disrupted your usual routine. You were supposed to be safely tucked away in your room after an early dinner—take-out usually, sometimes a quesadilla if you were feeling exceptionally inspired—by the time your dad got home from work. It was dysfunctional in every sense of the word, but it was the only way you could function in the same space. 

He used to stare at you from the other end of the dinner table: not eating, not speaking. The only way you knew he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he moved dinner to his office. ‘Working dinner,’ he’d say in passing, ‘budgets are due.’ Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. It was better that way, you thought. You loved each other better from afar, where the power of nostalgia could cloud all the present unpleasantries. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you now. You wondered, and you desperately didn’t want to find out.  

You shouldered your backpack and made sure your car lights were off twice before quietly creeping into the mudroom. You could hear the buzz of the microwave as you toed off your sneakers and tried to discern the smell emanating from the kitchen. Something with garlic and tomato. Bona Vita, probably. Your dad loved their al pomodoro. 

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you skulked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched to your ears and grip tight around the strap of your backpack. Your dad’s back was to you; you could see the wrinkles in his collar from where he tugged at it when he was agitated. He stopped stirring his pasta once you reached the island. 

“Did…” your dad trailed off for a moment, still facing the kitchen counter, “did everything go alright with the Sheriff?” 

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see you, “I guess.”

“It’s just,” he rubbed at his jaw and looked down towards the oven, “it’s almost eight. I was wondering…worrying.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. You stared at the back of his head and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. Look at me. Your brows pinched, and your back molars ground together. Look at me. 

“I called him. Sheriff Stilinski. He said that you didn’t speak for long.”

“Didn’t have anything new to say,” you shoved your hands into hoodie pockets, realizing belatedly that you forgot to give Stiles his sweatshirt back. Another problem for another time. 

“That’s not what I—” your dad grasped the lip of the counter and hung his head like it suddenly weighed too much for his spine, “I was wondering what happened to you.” 

“Oh,” you shifted your weight onto your other foot, “dead battery. I think it was the door light.”

Your dad nodded a little, “Do you need someone to pick up your car?”

“Got a jump from a friend.” Not a friend, not really, but you supposed it was the closest you’d come to one in the last four years. That was just a little too sad to say out loud. 

“Good.” He nodded again, “Good.” 

You nodded because it seemed like the only thing to do and slipped towards the hallway. You’d taken no less than five steps out of the kitchen when your dad said, “You could call me. Next time, you could call me.”

Maybe. Maybe you could if he would look at you.

[kivaember]

tosses down some more pre-young jupiter walter. also as a conversation rate between COAM and dollars: 1 COAM = $10.

There were many drawbacks living in the slums of Ganymede: no sunlight, the sticky heat, the polluted air, everything coated in about three layers of rust... but the worst drawback, in Walter's opinion, was the water.

On Rubicon, everything was clean and sterilised. Every surface, gleaming so white it hurt the eyes, the scent of preservatives and bleach constantly burning his nose and tickling the back of his throat. The water, too, always carried a faint chemical aftertaste - nothing harmful, just completely sterilised of any and all Coral contaminants, or so his parents would say when he used to complain about the taste.

On Ganymede it was an entirely different story.

The water always tasted of metal, had a filmy quality to it, and looked cloudy. The locals said that it was just how it had been filtered, that the water was safe to drink - everyone drank it here for hundreds of years, and they're still around, see? - but Walter had always struggled to adjust to it. It was kind of funny, really. The grime and the stink and the lack of sunlight, he had adjusted to with minimal difficulty, but the water? It was difficult to swallow - literally.

He wasn't the only one who felt this way. There was a booming market for bottled water - from topside. Fresh water, melted from the polar ice they cut to feed the massive water demands of the surface colony, and purified. It was the equivalent to fucking tap water on Rubicon, but on Ganymede it may as well have been liquid gold. The smugglers who dealt with it upcharged it massively, and they had limited stock, fleecing the locals without a hint of shame - and the locals knew they were being scammed, but bought the water anyway, because even though they said 'oh the tap water's safe!' they really knew it wasn't. These people threw away their meagre spending money for clean water of all things.

And Walter was one of them.

"Here's your usual, scrapper: one ten-pack of two-litre bottles for 10 COAM."

Walter grunted at the criminally high price, handing over the 10 COAM credit chip to their resident 'water baron' without a fuss.

A smuggler who had found his niche and a steady income because of it, their 'water baron' had a reputation of being both reliable and somewhat reasonable with his prices. While other sector water barons were shameless in charging 10 COAM per bottle, theirs - a man by the name of Mike of all things - generously charged 1 COAM per bottle, understanding the economics of 'keep things affordable so people can actually buy your shit'.

Walter still disliked the whole situation, though - disliked the fact that he was openly engaging in this fucking scam. The water probably was safe down in the slums, it wouldn't do for all of the working class to die of dysentry or some other terrible water-borne disease, but it still tasted foul with a terrible texture.

"Looks good," Mike said cheerfully, stowing the credit chip after checking its authenticity. "You know, I've got another shipment coming in tomorrow. I can set aside another ten-pack for you - as a favour."

Mike's tone was sly, dangling that tempting fish hook. Walter just picked up his purchased water, leaning back slightly to mitigate the weight. Twenty kilos wasn't heavy, but it was a long walk back to his garage and his arms were bound to get tired sooner rather than later.

"No, this'll do," he said. "I'll come by in two weeks for my usual."

"You need to learn how to splurge a little, scrapper," Mike tutted, and even wagged his finger at him. "You've been such a good customer, y'know! I'm even willing to give it to you for a discount."

Walter turned on his heel and walked away.

"Think about it!" Mike called at his retreating back. "I'll be here as usual!"

Walter ignored him. He knew better than to take the bait Mike was dangling in front of him. He wasn't blind to the looks that water baron gave him - or rather, his chest and his partially unzipped mechanics jumpsuit - and didn't want to deal with that pointless drama. He just wanted some damn water that didn't taste like shit, not beating off the ambitious advances of some small-time water smuggler.

He scoffed under his breath, weaving through the crowd that loitered around the water baron's market. Several stalls selling other smuggled goods sprung up around here, and it was one of the few illegalities that the Ganymede Guards actually turned a blind eye to. No one was stupid enough to sell weapons or hard drugs here, after all, and this was the only place to get luxuries that were considered ubiquitous up on the surface colony.

Besides, no Ganymede Guard was going to arrest someone for reselling bottled water or a fucking watermelon.

Walter eventually left the smuggler's market behind, adjusting his water pack every so often as the muscles in his arms burned. Gravel and broken glass crunched underneath his steel-capped boots, and overhead the buzzing of lights and the groan of rusted ventilation fans added to the usual ambience of the metal coffin they were all buried inside. He followed the winding, maze-like alleyways of Sector E's slums until he eventually came upon a much wider street, the flickering sign 'CARLA'S SCRAPPERS' flickering above the open doors of their garage.

Home sweet home... or something.

He walked in, grunting at Chatty's equally subdued greeting, and casting a quick look across the cluttered workspace. A few mechs in various states of dismantlement were strewn across the garage, their hulls more rust than metal, and their servos and circuity pulled and laid out like electronic guts. Out of view he could hear Carla's radio warbling out that classical music called 'metal rock' or something, accommpanied by the buzz of a scrapping saw - or Carla's attempt at singing. It was hard to tell which was which actually.

"I'll tell the Chief you're back, kid," Chatty said.

"Thanks," Walter muttered, continuing on until he reached the rear of the garage, and entered into their adjoining living space to dump his smuggled water into their fridge - though not before extracting a single bottle from the pack.

He could admit that this was a silly indulgence to have. He could save that COAM for something more useful, like their war chest for their eventual expedition to Rubicon, or practical things like new boots (his soles were pretty worn on these) or new clothes (he was still wearing the mechanic suit from when he'd been a teenager, and his chest had grown in since then). Instead he was spending it on overpriced water, just so he could have a taste of something familiar, of something clean.

Walter sighed, cracking the lid open and taking a hearty swig from the bottle. It was lukewarm, and tasted sterile - but it was still the single most refreshing thing Walter had drank all day. He indulged in another large mouthful, before screwing the lid back on and stowing the bottle into the fridge to join the others.

To be honest, he actually wanted enough water to have a shower that didn't make him feel slimy afterwards. He wasn't a vain man, and his relationship with his body could be described as ruthlessly pragmatic. So long as it was fit and healthy, he didn't care if the water made his skin uncomfortably dry sometimes, or left him smelling like a stagnant pond, or caused his hair to be slightly greasy, unless he used more shampoo than usual (which was its own indulgence Walter spent too much COAM on). But after years of showering in this foul water, after knowing that things could be so much better (hot water, showers that actually had pressure, being clean god, he missed being clean), he found a sort of homesickness and frustrated longing he'd thought himself incapable of.

His mind wandered back to Mike's offer: if he "splurged" on another ten pack, that'd mean he'd have 40 litres of water. If he stretched it out, he could clean himself with that water for a solid week... heat up a clean coffee pot, pour it over his head, give himself a good scrub...

...

Walter scowled and shook his head.

This place was getting to him. He couldn't be spending his money on such frivolous luxuries, not when he and Carla needed to save what few credits they got down here for the future expedition and information gathering. Besides, he was a scrapper. He was going to be coated in oils and machine lubricant and god knows what else immediately afterwards anyways.

No. Spending 10 COAM on clean water every two weeks was all he'll allow himself - for drinking. Not for showering. He'd endured this situation for almost seven years now, he can endure it for another seven if he had to.

He nodded to himself. That's right. Walter was above such petty desires. If it wasn't in service to his mission, then he didn't need it. He can live without it.

-

The next day, after enduring an evening shower where the water had come out of the nozzle brown... Walter went and got that second ten-pack of water, much to the smirking Mike's delight.

[fireheartedpup]

I think my birthday has become a trigger for me. There's no one to invite. It's nice that my parents still want to go all out, but I don't know what to tell mom because I don't want to do anything.

No one here cares about the pandemic and I'm not even sure how much to care anymore because they stopped caring when it was still in full swing. I haven't gotten covid even though I haven't avoided my family, who stopped taking precautions a few months in and think masking is stupid, so what have I even been doing? Has it done anything at all?

I'm still happy that I haven't gotten sick other the built in body issues in... how long has it been? Five fucking years? But I miss feeling normal.

I don't want to live here and I don't want to do this and I don't know what to do even when I know what to do. The only thing that really motivates me is being angry. I hate being angry.

I don't want to live in this reality and I don't have enough money to move and whenever anyone tries to change things here, they're met with a bunch of people saying you can't change things here because we haven't changed things here so you can't change things here.

I think my dog deserves better and I don't have enough money to pay off my debt, much less a specialist. She's not neglected or anything I just have higher standards now. I'm probably still alive because of her. If I die, no one will know for days. Maybe a week or more. No one's coming to check on me.

Mom might come eventually but mom comes sporadically because she tries to give me space. I flip between wanting to cut my parents out entirely and just wanting to see them. They're still conservative and I can never trust them the same way again, but they've supported me the entire time.

I did beg for some of it. But they have supported me.

Dad's cranky because prices are going up and he didn't plan on supporting me this long and he's in the same position I am. I inherited the no friends disease. I'm fucking pedigreed in mental illness. He likes drinking wine even though eating makes him throw up now. He doesn't want to see a normal doctor.

His mom has had many cancerous growths removed. I should probably get ready to deal with his stuff.

Mom clearly wants to leave and doesn't feel she can. It's tough when being with someone makes your life harder, but you can see them actively getting better. I think it's one reason she wants to keep her flight attendant job even though she's becoming less and less physically able. She can just pick up and leave whenever she wants.

I feel stupid and useless for not earning enough by now. I know that's not entirely realistic because I read it takes two years to get over an abusive environment and it's only been one. My parents love me, but living in that house put me in fight or flight mode every time I went to the kitchen.

I feel paralyzed and when I try to look up jobs I want to break down entirely. I've made half-hearted attempts to build my own thing but it feels like I'm never able to pick the right thing, that I'll always burn out, that I can never tell what's going to work, that every thing I'm actually excited about is doomed to fail.

Sometimes I don't even want to support people because it feels like my support is the death knell for their cause.

I'm trying to restructure my thinking. I spend almost all of my time doing that. It's difficult to escape the social media whirlpool when social media is so attached to so many different forms of monetary income these days.

I thought I could get free therapy with my insurance so I could bounce this off of a therapist instead of tumblr or a random person but I'm not sure anymore so I gave up.

I feel like I'm overwhelmingly tired and negative and hurt and angry and that no one should have to deal with that.

I'm trying to make friends with my neighbors, but either I don't text back in enough time or they just don't respond. I don't know why or where or when it goes wrong. I start avoiding everyone because I'm waiting for it to go wrong.

I want to get on medication but I just saw that thing about the autistic licenses in MY state. The government doesn't want me. They don't even want me to exist. I don't want to give them the option of using it against me in any way.

It's very hard to get myself out of a spiral. I should probably look into ocd help a bit more. I don't know if that's me or if this is an offshoot of something else, but either way it's connected.

The recent blog thing has just reinforced me feeling stupid and isolated. I'm very grateful for the people who've been here for me. I don't want anyone to ever feel obligated to support me. But I'm having a really hard time.

And it feels stupid to be having a hard time. I have more than most.

I want to live in a different reality.

[violets-and-books]

I've got it. My fantasy fic. It's here:

The Crows Species(?):

Kaz = Dhamphir

Strengths: Enhanced senses and strength, ability to turn into a crow (there are four respective Dhamphir clans. One can turn into wolves, one can turn into crows (the one Kaz is descended from), one can turn into Snakes, and the others can turn into Ravens), cannot get sick through normal spread of disease (so how did Jordie die, I wonder 🙃).

Weaknesses: Unlike his distant kin he CAN go out in the day, but he will get extremely sick and can die if he is out for more than 48 hours in sunlight without a long resting period in the dark (one night cycle isn't enough).

Jesper = Mistborn

Strengths: Alomancey, essentially.

Weaknesses: Mistborn vs. Mistborn fights can and will get ugly, can be rendered powerless with Aluminum, and is blind in mist or fog.

Wylan = Baros

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Nina = Seer

Strengths: Can sense a person's general morality (kind of like "sense evil" in DND), can draw disease out of someone's blood, can speak to the dead but cannot raise them like necromancers. (Aditi was a seer).

Weaknesses: Too much drawn disease without any disposal of it will lead to sickness or death, Seer's become easily addicted to drugs that would soothe you/make you spacey because in order to read people their emotions become heightened and it gets very hard for them to function with too much use of their power, but most of them make their income through using their powers for people; Then it's just a vicious cycle.

Matthias = Thug/Pewterarm

Strengths: Ability to burn Pewter in him and enhance his physical abilities.

Weaknesses: Your typical human weakness.

Inej = Wraith

Strengths: Can go through walls and doors and windows etc., can *poof* into a shadow, doesn't make noise at night, telepathy communication.

Weaknesses: Can be killed if the body is disturbed at night in ANY WAY, can only access most of her powers at night, can't speak at night due to the "not making any sound" thing.

I'll send you a different ask for plot so you don't have a post that's a million lines long 😂

WYLAN'S ONE IS CRACKING ME UP, I-

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Okay, um, I'm looking at the rest now

Kaz as a dhampir (I can definitely spell that)! That's why his voice is so raspy! He's just fucking sick all the time because he's literally allergic to sunlight

"Kaz, do you want to maybe go back inside-"

Kaz, who's just seen Inej laughing, silhouetted by the sun, in a voice that sounds like it should be coming from a dead body: No, fuck off

Dhamphirs aren't made, are they? They're born, right? Like, from a human and a vampire? That's where they come from

Maybe Jordie was his stepbrother? Like, Jordie was fully human but then his mum hooked up with a vampire (cos you truly do only live once) and had Kaz and then both their parents DIED and then the firepox came and yeah

Idk exactly how mistborns work BUT I'm just imagining Jesper in an all-out fight with another mistborn and having, like, iron or copper or something dripping from his nose like blood. Idk if that can happen but it looks cool!

Again, also imagining Wylan chasing Jesper with a fucking broom or a lute or something like "stop stealing my experiments" while Jesper's running for his goddamn life, a beaker of one of Wylan's alloys clutched to his chest. It's so fucking funny to me. I might just be really tired

With Nina you really have thought of everything. I've got nothing else to say to that apart from OW

"Weaknesses: Your typical human weaknesses" - GET RECKT, MATTHIAS-

Inej's is perfect! I didn't consider the not being able to speak, that's really cool!

This is fucking phenomenal bestie

[bracketsoffear]

Characters I submitted that didn't make it in but I think should have (with explanations :])

Buried: Nugget from kindergarten. Yeah I'll admit my description in the submission wasn't all that great but anyways, this toddler one day decided to start digging a hole into the schoolyard sandbox and did not stop until eventually he dug through the bottom of the box and over time created what is lovingly known as the "Nugget cave," a big hole in the ground. Buried behavior

Dark: Charles/ Black Bart from no evil. "I command this dark abyss that lays waste to hundreds- he should fear me, I shall be the neo-lord of the night!" <- actual quote from the character. He controls what is known as the black tezcatlipoca or "black ick" that covers people and sends them into an endless sleep. Need I say more

Stranger: koko the clown from betty boop cartoons. Clown grandpa! The og spooky clown. Look up betty boop st James infirmary and you'll understand what I mean. Similarly to that, a lot of koko's animation especially in the earlier days used a lot of rotoscope (tracing over live action footage) and showed the character coming to life and interacting with the real world as a sort of eerie mimicry of real life motion. Also the character koko was based on one of the creators, Dave Fleischer's, clown persona irl

Hunt: Myron van Buren from poptropica. This one has some personal connections to it because this guy canonically hunts you for sport. Yes, in this browser game aimed at elementary school children, this man specifically states that he wants to shoot and display you in his trophy room. That fucked me up a bit as a kid. Also, the character is based on the short story "The Most Dangerous Game," which I'm pretty sure was actually featured in the tournament

End: Fran Bow Dagenhart from Fran Bow. Well, for starters, she watched her parents die in front of her. And second, after she gets her pills in the first chapter of the game she gains abilities very similar to Oliver Banks, except instead of black tendrils showing how someone will die very soon its black shadowy creatures telling the person they're following why they should off themselves

Desolation: Lilith the siren from borderlands. In the second game she gains the alias of firehawk and has powers that include wings made of fire and burning people alive. She also accidentally formed a cult of people who enthusiastically burn each other alive for her favor. Also also she watched her love interest die in front of her and directly after was used to almost destroy the planet of pandora

Corruption: phone/typegingi from dialtown. This one is probably my favorite of these. My cryptid gingi they have every disease <3, but also they embody the concept of toxic or parasitic love shown in the corruption because in the beginning of the game, they form a parasitic transactional relationship with one of the datable characters under the false pretense of love (getting a date on valentines day to pay them into the funfair so they can lay their eggs. Long story don't ask) and in a few of the endings, use the characters for their own gain while making the other's lives exponentially worse like getting Randy a job at the funfair and lifting him up only to shatter his heart and livelihood because he's complacent enough to let gingi in the funfair whenever they want, or gaining Bigfoot's trust only to sell him to the zoo for $2, or having Karen quit her job and taking her on a date to the zoo and then leaving her for a giraffe, and well Oliver, he knew what he was signing up for. My point still stands

.

[nadiahernandez]

Task 01

001. what is your full name?

Nadia Hernandez

002. what is your parents names? (what was their occupation?)

Jose and Marie Hernandez. My father owned a small business and my mom was a stay at home.

003. do you have any allergies, diseases or other physical weaknesses?

Thankfully, no i don't

004. write a full physical description of yourself. you might want to consider factors such as: height, weight, race, hair and eye color, style of dress, and any tattoos, scars, or distinguishing marks.

If you're trying to set me up with someone, no need. Im married. Sorry fellas. Im kidding. I'm 5'7 with brown eyes and black hair. I weigh about 120 pounds and m style would be chic. I have a few scars here and there on my body from training and trying to survive.

005. to which social class did you belong in before the outbreak?

working class

006. are you right- or left-handed?

right-handed

007. what does your voice sound like?

Hmm some would say its soft.

008. what words and/or phrases do you use very frequently?

Damnit and shit. Dont ask why, it has become second nature to me to just say those words.

009. what was your first kiss like and with who?

Great and with my now husband.

010. do you believe in the existence of soul mates and/or true love? are you in love right now?

I do believe it in because i found mine. His name is Diego. I love that man so much that i'll love him until my very last breath. @annihilvtion

011. how do you feel about marriage?

Look, i'll be honest. Marriage is tough. Its a partnership that will have its ups and downs but if you and your spouse are willing to work together to make it work, then it's no sweat.

012. who are / is your best friend? what do you like about them?

Hmm currently dont have one but i do plan to make one while im here.

013. when was the last time you were hurt? who did it?

when i was on my way here to Jackson. I ran into trouble and got hurt by some prick.

014. talk about one person you've met recently and what did you think of them?

Can i get back to you on that?

015. would you say that you're more of a leader or a follower?

I would say leader. I get shit done quickly.

016. when was the moment you really realized that the outbreak wasn't going away? that your life was completely changed? if you were a kid, when do you think you realized you grew up?

when it became an all out war between the infected and non infected. when the bullet struck down my little girl as we were trying to run away.

017. what's your weapon of choice?

Honestly, im not sure. Anything can be used as a weapon

018. what do you look for in a partner? or describe what your dream partner would be like? what do they look like? what color is their hair? how tall are they? what's their attitude like? be descriptive.

Do i need to answer this if i already have my dream partner?

019. what are you afraid of? tangible and unavoidable? (tangible: spiders, ghosts, snakes / unavoidable: aging, dying)

Snakes for sure, those little, slithery shits freak me out. An unavoidable thing im afraid of. Losing Diego.

020. what is your worst memory?

The night my daughter died in our arms.

021. What is your favorite memory?

The day she was born and instantly had a smile on her face.

022. what’s your reputation with the people around you. do they like you? dislike you? why?

Not sure, haven't met a lot of people to give them an impression.

023. if you could relive one memory, one last time which would it be?

A early sunday morning, cooking breakfast with Nova and Diego. Nova is making her mickey mouse pancakes. Diego accidentally burning the toast.

024. when you were a kid were you bullied or teased? for what?

Nope, never had any problems with people.

025. if you could tell your younger self something, what would it be?

Don't leave Diego's side. You two are partners in life, be there for each other or you'll regret it.

026. what is a goal you want to accomplish before you die?

Hmm not quite sure.

027. if you could pick anyone in town to tell your life story, who would it be and why?

Umm again not sure.

028. do you believe there is or could be a cure to be made? and do you think that it could restore humanity?

I would hope so, this shit needs to end.

029. if the outbreak never happened, what would you have wanted to do for a living?

I would've probably been a teacher.

[riverthebooknerd]

rating classic american foods (as an american)

brisket mac n cheese. 10/10, had this for dinner and it was fucking delicious. with bbq sauce? dear god, it's better than sex. bonus points if you make it into a sandwich, like a grilled cheese or somethin

cheeseburgers. are you fucking kidding? 10/10. i fucking love cheeseburgers. i'd sell my fucking soul for a cheeseburger. and, by the way, when i say this, i don't mean mcdonalds. mcdonald's can suck my ass. their food is barely even food, shouldn't have the right to call that lump of garbage plastic a burger.

biscuits and gravy. 9/10, delicious. surprisingly easy to make, and a really good brunch meal. reminds me of my grandma.

loaded fries. 12/10. i LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE loaded fries. are you joking? fries with cheese, bacon, sour cream, cheese, green onions- UGH SO SO GOOD

grilled cheese & tomato soup. 8/10. comfort food. very nice on a rainy day. easy to make and helps when i'm sad. i like to make my own sandwiches, though, because as a kid my parents would always burn mine

scrambled eggs and toast. 7/10. reliable go-to. perfect for a shitty morning or a late-night snack. requires zero effort. very nice.

chili cheese tots. 15/10. when i tell you that i would take these over coke, i fucking mean it. don't do drugs. get some good fucking chili cheese tots and it'll change your life.

cobb salad. 5/10. i'm looking at lists of "american foods" and this showed up??? um it's alright i guess. not the worst salad? i dunno.

twinkies. 7.5/10. delicious, perfect material for jokes, but also when i eat them i don't feel like i've eaten anything, so then i'll scarf down like five of them and uh oh! now i've had 10 billion calories! still good, but i feel like they're an acquired taste.

fried squash/okra/pickles/onions/etc. 12/10, perfect snacks. dip those fuckers in ranch. they're SO so good i could fucking kill myself. honestly, i hate to perpetuate stereotypes, but as long as i'm eating any fried food, i could die happy. idgaf if it makes me fat, i'm eating that fucking fried squash. (btw, if you haven't had fried oreos, they're actually really good. you should try them)

beef jerky. 8/10, minus points because it's too fucking expensive. also, it's dry as fuck. other than that, though, it's pretty good.

cornbread. 10/10. perfect balance of sweet/savory. eat it with chili or honey, tastes fucking scrumptious. love cornbread.

chicken fried steak. 9/10. very very yummy, also costs an arm and a leg for a decent one. fucking worth it though. especially when it's got gravy and a runny egg on top, yum

meatloaf. 8/10. everyone always shits on the meatloaf, but that's just cuz they haven't had GOOD meatloaf. it's actually very tasty when it's not from a school cafeteria. SPEAKING OF WHICH-

school cafeteria food. -253792/10. you've heard the stories, but they'll never do the food justice. listen to me. i am grabbing you by the shoulders. i once had a friend who drank straight ketchup packets because the lunches were so disgusting that they'd rather get their nutrients from ketchup, and they didn't have enough food at home. the running joke was about how the school just went to the nearest garbage dump and microwaved whatever they shit could find. nothing was safe. the food wasn't even food. it looked and tasted like if plastic was diseased. i feel bad for the plastic that the food gets compared to. students were constantly getting in trouble because they'd make fortunes off of selling chips and candy bars at lunch. there was a permanent line at the vending machine, which was broken half the time. everyone was hungry, but very few were actually desperate enough to eat the food. the only things that were eaten were the fruit (when it wasn't moldy) and the occasional hotdog (that i can confirm tasted like rubber). there was a shop set up by the school that sold sodas and candy, and you had to get there at the very beginning of lunch, because the line was so long and so slow that there would still be 50 people waiting at the end of lunch. food fights were so common because people would rather throw the food than eat it. you had to buy an entire lunch just to get an apple or a bottle of water, so there'd be piles of shitty food that looks like it was vomited up, because people would buy the lunch and just not eat the gross parts (most of the meal). some people have actually been sent home from stomachaches that they got from eating the food. do. not. trust. public. school. cafeterias.

[asparklerwhowrites]

Writing Indian characters, from an Indian person

India is a huge country! while most characters in mainstream media are from the 'big cities' i.e Mumbai, Delhi, Hyderabad, etc, there are many, many more places and areas to look at! since India is such a vast country, there is incredible diversity. 19,500 languages and dialects are present, with people of different skin, eye, and hair colors and types! there are, of course, a lot of inherent prejudices present, which I'll address a little later.

#1. Know their roots

There is no 'one' Indian experience. People from different places celebrate different festivals, worship different gods, and speak different languages!

A checklist of things you should know about your Indian character's background, in essence:

Which state and city/town/village are they from?

How many and which languages do they speak, and with what frequency? (Mostly, people can speak at least two languages!)

Are they religious? (more on religion later)

What are some of their favourite memories/moments linked to their culture? (festivals, family gatherings, etc)

#2. Naming your character

Some common names for boys: Aarav, Advik, Shlok, Farhan, Ritvik, Aarush, Krish, Ojas, Zain.

Some common names for girls: Arushi, Ishita, Trisha, Rhea, Riya, Zoya, Vedika, Khushi, Charvi.

Common last names: Shah, Singh, Agarwal, Banerjee, Dala, Bhat, Joshi, Iyer, Jain, Dhawan, Dixit.

Be careful while picking a last name: last names are very much indicators of the ethnicity/community you're from! most older folks can guess the ethnicity of people just by their last name - it's pretty cool.

Naming systems usually follow the name-surname format, and children usually take the last name of their father - but I believe some regions have a bit of a different system, so look that up!

#3. Stereotypes to avoid

This goes without saying, but I'm gonna say it anyway. Being 'Indian' shouldn't be your character's entire personality. Give them traits, feelings, and a purpose other than being a token diverse character. Some stereotypes that are really a no-no when it comes to Indian characters:

Making them good at math and academics in general (my Cs in math beg to differ that all Indians are good at math. often, the reason Indians are stereotyped to be so smart stems from an incredibly toxic and harmful environment at home which forces children to get good grades. unless you've experienced that, its not your story to write)

Making your Indian character 'hate' being Indian (not everyone?? hates their culture?? like there are many, MANY faults with India as a country, and it's important to recognize and take action against that - which often makes us iffy about how we feel about our country, it's genuinely not your place to write about that UNLESS you are Indian. don't bring in 'hatred' of a place you've never visited, and don't know much about.)

Make them scaredy-cats, 'cowards', who are good at nothing but being the 'brain' (I will literally behead you if you do this/lh)

#4. Why India shouldn't be portrayed as 'perfect' either

It's likely that most of you won't be going in SO deep with your Indian character, but India isn't the perfect 'uNiTy iN diVerSitY' as it's depicted in media. There are incredible tensions between religions (especially Hindus and Muslims), and even remnants of the 'untouchable' way of thinking remain between castes. There's a lot of violence against women, and misogyny is definitely something Indians are not foreign to. People with paler skin are considered to be 'better' than those with darker skin (in the older generations especially)

#5. Some common customs

Removing your shoes before entering the house, since your house is considered to be 'godly' and shoes shouldn't be brought inside

Eating dal (lentils), chawal (rice), sabji (a mixture of vegetables/meat that's cooked in different ways) roti (Indian flatbread) is considered to be a full, well-balanced meal and at least aspects of it are eaten for lunch and dinner (if not all four elements)

The suffixes -bhai (for men) and -ben (for women) are added to first names and are commonly used by adults to refer to someone of importance or who they hold to esteem.

However, 'bhai' (which literally means 'brother) is often used as slang when referring to friends or family. Other slang includes 'arrey' which is used to show irritation or 'yaar' which has the same context.

It's custom to call adults who you refer to in a friendly way 'aunty' or 'uncle', like the parents of your friends.

Talking back to your elders is forbidden, especially your grandparents who you have to refer to with utmost respect.

#6. Religions

India is a very religiously diverse country. The most common religion is Hinduism, then Islam, Christianity, Sikhism, and Buddhism. All religions have their own complexities, and since I'm a Hindu, I can tell you a little bit about that!

It's common to have a mandir which is a small altar dedicated to the deities your family worships. (Fun fact - they're usually placed in the East direction because that's where the sun rises)

Most kids can say a few shloks by-heart, which are a few lines of prayer! (lmao I've forgotten most but I used to be able to rattle off at least ten when I was younger)

Most people know at least the general plot of the Ramayan and Mahabharat - two famous epic stories. (I'm not sure if they're inherently 'Hindu' or not)

Many people wear necklaces with a small pendant of the deity they worship!

Common Hindu deities: Saraswati, Ganesha, Shiva, Krishna, Vishnu.

It's important to note that religious violence is a thing. Muslims especially, are oppressed and discriminated against. It's a very, very complex issue, and one that's been going on for thousands of years.

#7. Myth & Facts

India is a very poor country

Yep! Lakhs of people live in villages with no electricity, clean water, or amenities nearby. There's no point sugar-coating it. There are HUGE gaps between the poor and the rich (have you heard of Ambani and Adani :D) and while our millionaires rejoice in their thirty-story mansions, people die of famine, disease, and hunger every day. I am personally lucky enough to be EXTREMELY privileged and attend an international school and live in one of the most developed cities. Most people aren't as lucky as me, and it's a really true, horrifying reality.

Everyone in India is vegetarian

No lmao - while many people ARE, there's a greater and equal amount of non-vegetarian people.

We burn our dead in parking lots

This circulated back when the second wave was going on in India, and the media blew it out of proportion. First of all, what the actual f!ck. Cremation is a Hindu ritual, and by saying that aLL Indians burn their dead you are erasing the other religions here. Secondly, cremation is a sacred ritual only attended by close family of the deceased member. It does not happed in PARKING LOTS. It's a time of grief and loss, not a way to humiliate a religion for the way they treat their dead.

Drop any other questions about India in the comments/DM me!

[shygirl-00]

Winter Song Chapter 1: Haunting memories

Song: Control by Halsey; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzoNRAX_SOw

Warnings: Nightmares, mentions of torture, human experimenting, mind-wiping, mentions of murder, blood, some soft fluff, akward conversations.

Disclaimer: I don't own the song or the pictures/GIFs. Credits to the original owners.

They send me away to find them a fortune A chest filled with diamonds and gold The house was awake, the shadows and monsters The hallways, they echoed and groaned

The girl hugged her knees as she stared at the grey wall across the room. She didn't feel the cold of the floor anymore.

How long had she been sitting here in her dark cell? After the numerous times she was thrown in here, she didn't bother anymore to count the endless hours she had spent in isolation. Just as she didn't bother to try to get comfy on the thin mattress she had to get some sleep on. She was lucky one of the rusty springs of the bedframe hadn't yet poked into her skin during her few hours of sleep.

I sat alone, in bed till the morning I'm crying, "They're coming for me" And I tried to hold these secrets inside me My mind's like a deadly disease

Crazy as it sounded, these hours in her cell were the only moments of peace that she knew in this hell hole. In here she could at least try to forget all the torture of needles, shocks and burns she had received on a day.

Here she could be alone with her thoughts for a moment before that door would be slammed open and those Hydra soldiers would drag her out again for another round of torture and experimenting.

I'm bigger than my body I'm colder than this home I'm meaner than my demons I'm bigger than these bones

Hydra... The organisation that had destroyed her life. They had killed her parents and taken her, had dragged her single-handedly into a world of pain and misery. And every time she thought it couldn't get any worse, the next time Hydra would top it. And that over, and over, and over again.

And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me" I can't help this awful energy God damn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

Even when she was allowed to have a moment of rest, she could barely close her eyes or the nightmares would already start. The things they made her do, the killing, the spilling of innocent blood...every night she could hear the screams of her victims and when she would wake up, she could still see the blood on her hands, she would smell the smoke of guns. After that she would always taste familiar sourness in her mouth before she would throw up.

I paced around for hours on empty I jumped at the slightest of sounds And I couldn't stand the person inside me I turned all the mirrors around

She had dreamed of escaping. Had even tried it a couple of times, but that only resulted in being captured and being more tortured and experimented on. So it stayed with dreaming. She had heard of the soldier with the metal arm. The man who managed to finally escape Hydra after years. The Winter Soldier...best friend of Captain America...James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes...

I'm bigger than my body I'm colder than this home I'm meaner than my demons I'm bigger than these bones

(Y/n)… Her own name. (Y/n) (L/n)… Hydra had even tried to take that away from her. Her future was already stolen from her, her memories were scrambled, but for some miraculous reason she had been able to cling onto her name. Every time they put her in that torture chair, they had hoped that she would finally permanently forget it and every single time she would disappoint them.

After a while she would remember her name again. Her name was (Y/n) (L/n), no matter how many times thy would fry her brain in that chair, her name. was. (Y/n) (L/n).

And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me" I can't help this awful energy God damn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

(Y/n) jumped when the door was suddenly slammed open and a group of five Hydra soldiers barged in, lead by Brock Rumlow. Since the death of Alexander Pierce, by the hands of SHIELD, he sort of became in charge of Hydra on the matter of physical missions and attacks, while Helmut Zemo became in charge of the tests and experiments. Both monsters, not afraid to tear people apart, mentally and physically, to get what they wanted. (Y/n)'s tormentors...

“Good morning Asset.” Rumlow sneered as he stared down at her. Asset...that's all she was to them. A puppet, and Hydra was her puppet master. (Y/n) didn't answer him and looked away.

“I said…”, Rumlow pulled her up by her hair, “good morning. Have you never heard of manners?!” He spat in her face as he threw her back onto the floor in front of the feet of the soldiers who manhandled her to her feet again and held onto her.

People would raise an eyebrow at the sight that five soldiers were holding a girl, but thanks to the experiments, (Y/n)'s strength had majorly increased. The last time she was escorted by only two guards, they eventually had to tranquilize her because she almost escaped them and even now sometimes five guards struggled to hold her down.

Rumlow nods at the guards. “You know where to.” Immediately, (Y/n) was dragged out of her cell into the hallway. She already braced herself for what was to come. Most likely more experimenting and serums being injected into her...

I'm well acquainted with villains that live in my head They beg me to write them so they'll never die when I'm dead And I've grown familiar with villains that live in my head They beg me to write them so I'll never die when I'm dead

But...they went another way. And she knew which way this was...one she dreaded more than any other room in this whole facility... She tried to control her breathing that caught in her throat as she was dragged through the halls.

I'm bigger than my body I'm colder than this home I'm meaner than my demons I'm bigger than these bones

As they entered that dreaded room, (Y/n) was met by the familliar sight of several scientists and assistants walking around the room, working on who knows what kind of projects. But the thing that she was most afraid of stood in the middle of the room: that godforsaken chair that ripped the memories from everyone who was forced into that thing.

And next to that horror device stood her other tormentor, Helmut Zemo.

"Why hello there, malyshka. I hope you slept well.” Zemo cooed as he petted (Y/n)’s cheek. She jerked her head away as she scowled at him. "Tsk tsk, as hostile as ever, are we?” Zemo tutted as he grabbed her chin so she was forced to look at him. He shook his head.

“Well, malyshka, if today is a success, we don't have to deal with that attitude anymore.” He grinned at her as he walked away to retrieve something from the table next to the chair.

“Wh-what do you mean by that?” (Y/n) spoke as she tried to not let her voice tremble too much. She felt her blood turn into ice as Zemo turned, seeing what he had retrieved from the table; a black book with a red star stamped on it. Her 'programming book’ as some liked to call it. Whenever that book came out, she prepared for the worst.

Zemo chuckled when he saw (Y/n)'s scared face. “Oh do not worry, malyshka. I thought these out very carefully.” He held an amused grin as he watched confusion mixed with fear etched onto the girl's face. “And it will not be that difficult. They're just...ten...simple...words…”

All colour disappeared from (Y/n)'s face. Ten words...ten...words...they were...they were going to… Her train of thought was cut short by a short scentence that left Zemo's lips that left her freaked out.

“Prep her.”

And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me" I can't help this awful energy God damn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

Never before, in her whole life, did (Y/n) struggle more than at that moment. She screamed, kicked, thrashed, she tried everything she could as the guards hauled her into the chair and began strapping her down. Several scientists began starting up the machine that would soon enough rip her memories from her.

(Y/n) clamped her mouth shut as they approached with the mouth guard. But one firm slam of Rumlow's fist in her stomach left her coughing and gasping for breath, which was used to shove the mouth guard into her mouth. Last but not least, they strapped her head down.

(Y/n)'s breathing came out ragged as her chest heaved up and down. Her eyes flashed from one side to another as she watched the people surrounding her. Then an all too familiar whirring sound filled her ears. Zemo looked down at her.

"Just relax, malyshka. All you need to do is listen...” He purred as the cold metal clamped around her head. The whirring sound became louder and louder. She saw Zemo's mouth move as he read from the book. She knew her brain would process the words as anything else was ripped from her. They would continue this until worked.

But the only thing she heard, a sound that filled the whole room and echoed through the hallways, was her own screaming...

And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me" I can't help this awful energy God damn right, you should be scared of me Who is in control?

Gasping for air, (Y/n) shot up in bed. Sweat was beading her forehead as she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to get her breathing under control. She took shaky breaths as she rubbed her face. Giving herself a moment to calm down, she laid back down on her bed.

The day they implanted her triggerwords...that was the most recurring nightmare that had been haunting her night and night again. Even now, six months after The Avengers had saved her from that hell hole, it felt like yesterday that they put those damn words into her brain.

(Y/n) looked at the time that was being projected on the wall. 04:00 am. With a sigh (Y/n) kicked the sheets off of her and sat up, sliding her feet into her slippers. She knew that, even if she tried, she would not be able to fall asleep again. She wrapped her blanket around herself and quietly shuffled out of her room, on her way to the living room in The Avengers tower.

Ever since they rescued her, (Y/n) had been living with The Avengers at their compound. When they found out that, after they rescued her, she didn't have any family she could turn to, they took her in and they practically became her family. And she couldn't be more grateful for them.

Steve Rogers, the Captain himself, had been acting like a father or a big brother to her. He was usually the person that held her when she was having a panic or anxiety attack, she could cry on his shoulder when the nightmares became too much. He would be one of the first people to notice if something was wrong.

Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, together with Bruce Banner, were like the “nerd-uncles” you didn't know you needed. While Tony loved to tease her sometimes, he had a huge soft spot for the girl and he would be there for her whenever she needed him. Pepper Pots, his girlfriend, would scold him often if he teased (Y/n) too much to her liking. She was like the sweetest aunt ever. Bruce regularly checked on her physical but mostly her mental health and treated her wounds if need be.

If (Y/n) needed a hug, she could always count on Thor. Being the God of Thunder or not, he loved nothing more than picking her up and giving her a good hug, mostly one in which she could shield herself from the world for a moment.

Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff, two women who you didn’t want to get angry, became like big sisters for (Y/n). They and Pepper would chase the boys out of the living room so that they could have a girl's night every once in a while. They would just chat and laugh together every once in a while, but they also trained her in order to get her powers under control.

Pietro Maximoff and Clint Barton, those two were like the chaos cousins whose goal it was to cheer (Y/n) up. Pietro loved to carry her around and then run all over the place until both of them were out of breath, him from running, she because her breath was taken away by the speed. Clint was more serious than Pietro, but he was often in for a prank or two.

Then Sam, the uncle who was sometimes teasing her even more than Tony would, but he would never let anything happen to her. Eventhough him and Tony would not always see eye to eye, they would once in a while tease (Y/n) together about her feelings towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm...

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes... even after six months, (Y/n) still didn't know what Bucky was to her. They were friends, that was for sure, but she would be lying to herself if she hadn't wished that they could be more than that, more than once. But she would be rather damned than to admit that.

Not only would Sam and Tony not let her hear the end of it, but she would never forgive herself if she destroyed Bucky's friendship with her by admitting what she really felt for him. After all, Bucky had had enough on his plate with his own history with Hydra; he didn't need her damaged life also on his shoulders.

Little did she know, that a certain, metal-armed, super soldier had the same thoughts about himself, and had the same feelings for her...

Damaged. That's what (Y/n) called herself. Improved, that's what Hydra had called her. Well, for their sick games perhaps. Now, (Y/n) was scared of herself. She had seen the file that The Avengers managed to take with them. It stood there, everything Hydra had put in her and what she was now:

(Y/n) (L/n), Asset 107. Enhanced strength, speed, durability and flexibility. Powers of remnants of Mind Stone present. Trained fighter with guns, knives and hand to hand combat.

And there they were, those cursed triggerwords. Steve had quickly taken the file out of her hands. Her nightmares were already enough torment. And he had a point.

Quietly, (Y/n) opened the door to the living room and slid inside. She quickly popped into the kitchen to get a glass out of the cabinet and fill it with water. She took some sips to at least get the adrenaline, that her nightmares always gave her, down. She sighed. Would she ever be able to get rid of those horrific nightmares…? She turned to go sit on the couch.

“Can't sleep either?” A voice called out. (Y/n) jumped and shrieked, letting go of the glass in the process. A quick, silver hand swooped the glass out of the air, catching it before it would break on the ground. "Careful there, we don't want any accidents.” (Y/n) looked up to meet a pair of ocean blue eyes looking into her (e/c) ones.

"You okay?” Bucky Barnes put the glass back on the counter and raised an eyebrow when the girl in front of him stayed quiet. "Hello, Earth to (Y/n)?” He waved with his flesh hand in front of her face.

(Y/n) blinked. “Uh...yeah, fine! I mean...ahum...yeah I'm okay.” She quickly took her glass and went to the living room with it. This was what she always feared. Making herself look like a complete fool in front of Bucky. And now she had just done that...great.

With a soft sigh, she flopped onto the couch, tugging her blanket closer around herself, sipping on her water. She eyed Bucky as he came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. When he saw her looking, he gave her a soft smile. (Y/n)'s cheeks coloured bright red. She quickly hid her face behind her glass of water, hoping Bucky hadn’t seen it.

But of course Bucky had seen it. With his enhanced abilities and his training as a spy, he could pick up the smallest details.

He had only one issue; he was never taught how to work with feelings for another person. Sure he knew about friendship and such, his long lasting friendship with Steve never seemed to falter, but no, they never told him how to approach a person when the idea of more than friendship came up. Yes, in his old days, he had flirted with some dames, but that was all it was, flirting, not, Bucky gulped at the tought, love.

“Bucky…?” He was awakened from his thoughts when a soft voice called his name.

He looked up and saw that (Y/n) was looking at him again. "W-what? You said something?” She smiled softly. “I asked why you couldn't sleep. Since you said can't sleep either.”

Bucky let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, taking a sip of his coffee. “Oh, ehm...nightmares doll...same old I know-” Bucky cut himself short when he saw (Y/n)'s face fall. Then he realised he had called her doll. Shit, did she not like that? It just slipped out...

“Well I'm at least not the only one…” she mumbled as she sipped from her water. Wait...she wasn't talking about the word doll, was she?

Bucky could almost hit himself when he realised. She had nightmares, just like him. Logical, she had been in Hydra's hands, just like him. And she had also been damaged...just like him… Bucky clenched his flesh hand around his coffee cup while his metal one squeezed a pillow.

Damaged like him...Bucky immediately pushed his personal feelings away and focused on her. “You have them too, huh?” She nodded. "One recurs more than others though. The one in which they…they implant...” her voice faltered.

"Hey, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to…” Bucky said as he looked at her. Heck, he knew the feeling all too well, when people wanted to know exactly what was going inside his head, wanted him to repeat his nightmares over and over again. Man, how many times he had wanted to bash someones nose in for that...

"How do you do it?” (Y/n) suddenly asked. Bucky looked up. “Hm? Do what d-?” he quickly swallowed the last word.

“Cope with them...the nightmares.” (Y/n) looked at him over the edge of her glass. Bucky sighed.

“I don't know. I just...do it. I do stuff and try to get as much sleep as I can. Steve often helps me by waking me up if he hears me screaming.”

(Y/n) smiled softly. Steve had often done that with her as well. He would hold her as she sobbed into his pyjama-shirt, until she had calmed down enough to talk.

“Yeah...yeah I know...he does that for me as well. Poor guy must have had some rough nights with us heh…” she smiled a small smile that got a bit bigger when she heard Bucky chuckle. His chuckle was like music to her ears...God she had it bad for him...

“Well yeah, he has always been a momma's boy, but I think he missed the memo that that doesn't mean you need to act like a mom.” Bucky commented dryly, receiving a giggle from the girl across from him on the couch. Her smile made him involuntarily blush...man was he head over heels for her.

"Maybe his head is still stuck in the 40's?” (Y/n) chuckled, making Bucky laugh out loud. “Maybe you have a point there, (Y/n).” He still refrained himself from calling her doll.

And that's how the rest of the team found them hours later when they came down to get some breakfast, Bucky and (Y/n) talking on the couch and laughing at each other's remarks.

“Hey Buckaroo, having a conversation with the girlfriend?” Sam commented as he gave Bucky a pat on his shoulder. Bucky swatted him away. “Shut up, Birdbrain!”

Steve focused on (Y/n). “Nightmare again?” he asked. She nodded, sad. “Same one again.” Steve sighed.

“Why didn't you come to me? I told you, you could always wake me up when you need me.” (Y/n) looked down at her lap. “I don't want to be a bother, Steve...”

Before Steve could answer, Sam commented: “She had the perfect talking partner right here!” Immediately after that he had to duck because Bucky had thrown his coffee cup at him.

“You know, just because I can afford it, doesn't mean you have to destroy it, Tin Man!” Tony remarked from the kitchen as the breaking of ceramics could be heard.

"Come on you two, get dressed otherwise no breakfast for you.” Natasha remarked as she ushered Bucky and (Y/n) out of the room. Steve followed Bucky while she followed (Y/n).

“Sam did have a point though, you two talking is a nice sight.” Natasha remarked, sitting on (Y/n)'s bed as the latter was changing behind the doors of her huge closet (thanks Tony).

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Nat.” (Y/n) commented as she threw her pyjamas on her bed and put on jeans and a blouse.

“Just saying, you two would make a cute couple.” Natasha remarked. She received a pair of socks against her head as an answer.

“Come on punk, just drop it allright?” Bucky huffed as he stuck his head through the opening of his maroon coloured sweater. Steve leaned against the doorpost.

"Buck, why are you so hesitant about it? You like each other's company, that's a good start.” "Shut it Steve, don't pretend you're now all-knowing about relationships!” Bucky commented as he folded his pyjamas and put them under his pillow.

“Then tell me what the issue is, Buck!” Steve sighed, eyeing his childhood best friend. The brunette sighed and sat down on the bed. 

"Listen up punk...”

"Nat, I know you mean well, but even if there is a truth behind your remarks...”

“...even if you somehow miraculously have found the answer to helping others with relationships…”

“...why would (s)he want a damaged person like me?”

Holy macaroni, first chapter finally done! I'm nervous as all heck because I love Bucky/Sebastian Stan so much I want to do him justice. Plus I hope that you liked it as well. If anyone wants to be tagged, just let me know. Thanks for reading, lots of love! ❤️

Translation: Malyshka = little girl

Taglist: @jtargaryen18, @sherlocked-bitch, @on-your-left-birdie, @tcc-gizmachine

[got-no-skill]

You'd think that the wealthy would be the most vocal opponents of M4A.

You'd realllllly fucking think that.

My mother has been through more health problems than I can realistically remember, largely not her fault: five separate bouts of cancer, diabetes, heart disease, multiple strokes (for the sake of brevity I'll stop there because the point has been made.) Every. single. emergency room trip, every hospital admission, every specialist appointment that she needs to miss work for requires multiple rounds of getting documents filled out by her doctors, faxing them in to the insurance company so we can get confirmation that the documents arrived, them telling us via certified mail that needs to be picked up at the post office that our doctor missed something that they CLEARLY DIDN'T MISS and going through the entire process again.

This isn't just pointless and a waste of trees, it is in all likelihood indirectly killing people because doctors, nurses, and various assistants have to waste so. much. goddamned. time. on paperwork that sometimes people can't get treated because whoever is supposed to be seeing them has to deal with billing.

Every time we go through this rigamarole, her job is on the line, because when you have that many medical conditions you obviously miss work more often than is ideal, and she needs to prove that her absence was warranted.

We lost our home because my parents defaulted on their mortgage when they were both out of work for an extended period due to unrelated health issues and as such couldn't pay on it.

You would think, having dealt with insurance companies more than some doctors have, this woman would be all in favor of a single centralized healthcare system where she doesn't need to constantly fight to get a claim approved and doesn't need to worry about losing her job if she gets sick.

But we live in a red state.

And her brain is so fucking poisoned with the "iphone vuvuzela 100 million dead" rhetoric of the right with regards to socialized anything that she honestly believes it will cost her more for less care.

So it's less that people are willing to burn their own houses to make sure the poor die with them and and more like the poor will burn down their own houses because the establishment makes them think they are somehow better off than the other poors, and heaven forbid we help them.

In other words:

you know whats always blown my mind. people who say they don’t want their tax dollars going towards healthcare for everyone… 

because all insurances require you pay a price to simply have it… thats you paying for someone else to get medical attention… 

you already do this if you have insurance… it will literally change nothing for you