#was due this one lol
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YELLOWJACKETS (2021-) SEASON ONE, EPISODE ONE Pilot, dir. by Karyn Kusama
#yellowjacketsedit#yellowjackets#yellowjacketsnetwork#horroredit#horrorgifs#tuserdee#userbecca#usermorgan#sersh#userclara#usersole#userzayanab#yellowjackets episodes#gif#mine#*#was due this one lol
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The tech guy in movies
#gravity falls#stan pines#stanford pines#stanley pines#grunkle stan#grunkle ford#ford pines#Some notes: I don't think Stanford swears before getting thrown into the portal.#And then in the multiverse he was introduced to a multitude of different curse words and started cursing left and right LOL#When he came back#due to proximity with family he stopped cursing for the most part#but then one time on the Stan o War when he was really really stressed ... This happened HEODNAK#Ford stubbing his toe near the kids (now teens): FFFFFFUUUUiiiddleford Mcgucket . My pal from college.#Haha yes that was what I was going to say definitelyDipper: it's okay Grunkle Ford we know the fuck word#Mabel: (dramatic gasp) dipper you can't say that!!!!!!!!!
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I wish we could have met in some other way.
Lawlight Week Day 2: Soulmates
If you saw me repost and re-edit this several times uh No you didn't </3
Still frames/Individual gifs:
If you know what every frame is from you get a free cookie. by the way
#death note#dn#light yagami#l lawliet#lawlight#oh god here we go#death note jdrama#death note 2015#death note 2006#death note musical#lctw#l change the world#dntm#lawlightweek2024#my art#collapses i am NEVER putting this much effort in one piece ever again /hj this was the Only one i had mostly prepared in advance#ironically the most painstaking part about making this entire thing was converting the images into an animated file#that wasn't either horrifically compressed or just. wouldn't loop. why do gifs have to look so BAD it's so inconvenient#and THEN i realized I had to forcibly Stitch the two animations together so they would actually be synced and it wouldn't look dumb#and the end result is STILL so compressed. because Tumblr. uhhh just don't click on it it'll look so scuffed LOL. anyways#this is what i get for watching Every Adaptation of Death Note. i am a death note multiverse truther#usually i'd have something clever to say in the tags but. this drained the life out of me just uh.#yeah. they're doomed in every universe. this is the only way they could've met. they are doomed by their own natures and the#circumstances that surround them. there is no universe where light tries to prevent L's death. and even in the cases where L Doesn't die#there is no universe where L can save light. there is no universe where he can truly âcatchâ Kira and make him see where he went wrong#(<- if you read LCTW you know. :) )#in every universe and adaptation L will call Light his first friend. in some universes they'll take that notion more seriously than others#no matter what one of them will die due to the other. its the only constant. it's the only way it can ever be. they are the others downfall
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happy #rankaneweek 2024 âĄ
day three â just like a dream
âi can't help falling in love with youâŠall of you.â
x, ig
#itâs almost midnight where im at lol and i wanted to post on day 3 but ig due to timezones it doesnât matter huh??#anyways was real happy with this one đđ«¶#ranma#ranma 1/2#ranma fanart#subrosa#ranma saotome#akane tendo#rankane#fanart#ranma x akane#akane#rankaneweek#rankaneweek2024#rankane week
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Turbo Granny blunt rotation WIP
#for a class assignment due todayyyy#still gotta edit the fucking 600 word description yuck#and write another essay for a different class#and read another manga chapter for that class#and do makeup readings/hw for my mesoamerican art history class plus the readings/hw for this week#and i haven't been sleeping more than like 4 hrs a night cause i started a new medication#which also gives me evening heart palpitations lol#and im skipping class to finish as much as i can#but eventually ill clean this up and color it!#eventually#hopefully#next term i snagged a spot in the only 2D animation class this stupid college has ever had#and set up my schedule to only take up 3 days despite having 4 classes#and hopefully 2 of said classes will be pretty easy#ones a 1x a week gardening thing and the others an online design class#i wanted to leave lots of time to animate#dandadan#turbo granny#animation#fanart#dandadan fanart#character turnaround#art#digital art#artists on tumblr#trans artist#my art#my animations#krita#tw drugs
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Daniel Ricciardo as Judgement:
The Judgement tarot card symbolizes the arrival of absolution and the culmination of a significant undertaking, often related to past and life lessons.
Judgement indicates the cusp of rebirth.
In order to achieve that, you must look back upon your deeds and come to an honest evaluation of yourself. This leads to the awakening that signals a new way of life.
Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls
#Iâm not gonna lie to u this one doesnât feel good đ#I was hoping to get this out b4 he got booted bc now I just feel like Iâm rubbing salt in the wound đ#sorry to the dr3 fans that will see this#I chose this card for him back in April đ#um. basically.#I think this card is him#mainly due to his bad career choices#but ESPECIALLY bc (when I picked this card) he was reevaluating past mistakes and attempting to get back to redemption#in this case redemption is Red Bull#so here he is evaluating and coming to terms with the misstep#when I chose this I was still a big dr fan and I was hoping that the end of the card would come true#and that this would lead to vibrant rebirth and prosperity#lol#once again Iâm so sorry I know this is bad timing it FEELS bad but likeâŠ. it was now or never#and he was also the only major arcana card left that Iâm drawing a person for#f1#formula 1#f1blr#f1 fanart#f1 art#annieâs art#formula one fanart#formula 1 fanart#formulanni#dr3#daniel ricciardo#rbr f1#red bull racing#f1 tarot#judgement tarot
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possessed by the homestuck brainrot demon of old to make this
#so hard to choose between davekat and dirkjake for the last one#but currently i'm in dirkjake brainrot hell due to all the meta i've been reading on them LOL so#homestuck#rose lalonde#dirk strider#karkat vantas#kanaya maryam#meenah peixes#the handmaid#jake english#fanart#art#meme
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Me: hm, I want something to put on the TV as background noise... Huh. Looks like YouTube is recommending something called The Last Unicorn. That's perfect, it's probably some old shitty animation that has aged poorly! I can watch it ironically!
Me, 2 hours later as the credits roll: *crying, cheering, buying the book, composing the songs*
Me, 2 weeks later: So I have compiled all of the quotes from the book that I think could make good tattoos, and also, HOW HAVE I NEVER LEARNED ABOUT HOW THE LAST UNICORN FUCKING SLAPS??? This gay-ass little fairytale fed my soul! Watered my crops! Transed my gender! Can't believe I heard of this story from youtube recommendations, of all places!!
#original#the last unicorn#tlu#peter s beagle#molly gru#schmendrick#schmendrick the magician#two of my favorite characters in anything right there in the center of the story! and I'm glad I saw the film first!#my reading ability has diminished due to trauma disability etc. but it seems like having a visual reference actually really helped!#no wonder i only ever want to read fan fic! turns out reading is not actually Superior to other types of Storytelling. it's just different.#to say otherwise is snobbishness I have been eminently guilty of in my life!#but like it is easier for me to consume tv and movies and that is fine actually. also that's why I'm doing a graphic novel lol#because i wanted to make something i would actually be able to read if i found it at a library. altho the audio book IS gonna be bomb#the audiobook is for visually impaired readers and anyone who wants or needs it! accessible stories for everyone! yeah!!#my gender was already transed but now I've gained an ADDITIONAL gender! which one? I'll never tell đ#i am so powerful i have so much fuckin gender. my wife has no gender. and she is equally as powerful.#and also she has STUDIED THE BLADE#mostly zoro's blades from One Piece#normally YouTube recommends me shit movies like idiocracy or smth this is like if every day ur cat brought you a piece of rotten food and#then one day it brings you a BEAUTIFULLY ANIMATED TALE FEATURING MY BELOVED TWINK FUCK-UP WIZARD FRIEND AND MY ALL-TIME HOMEGIRL MOLLY GRU#and also it's soft and beautiful and funny and fucking weird!! i wrote melodies to the songs in the books on my ukulele
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Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)
TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.
(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)
This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.
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Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.
....
The kid is a surprise though.
Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.
There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.
The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.
The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.
He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.
A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.
At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.
Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.
Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"
The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."
Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.
"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."
He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.
The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.
"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.
The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.
Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.
The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.
Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."
#I have never seen Batman (2022) so really I'm just using battinson and crew as templates for my fic. but hey what else is new lol#dpxdc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp x dc#dpxdc crossover#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc fic#dpxdc au#dp x dc au#dpxdc fanfic#i dont know shit about detective work or true crime so forgive me for any bad terminology or incorrect procedure for how these things work#just a fun rough idea for how i imagined gordon's first meeting with nightingale goes LMAO. im sticking to the idea that danny doesn't#officially join the field for a *while* due to more than just health reasons. so his first appearances are brief and usually to give B smth#danny: im only here as express delivery for vader's little brother over there. yall stay safe tho.#bruce: *kill bill sirens bass-boosted* ohmygodwhatishedoinghere#batman: how did you get here... | danny: you have so many spare grappling hooks it was pr easy to just grab one and go#also danny is whispering on purpose because he doesn't have his ghost form to fall back on as a secret identity. so he *is* actually taking#extra steps to keep his identity safe. and people usually sound different when they're whispering. he also has personal beef with#office martinez despite the fact that they've never met. Danny's HEARD of his ass. he hATES his ass.#Martinez: *to batman* freak | danny: im going to Bite Him. | batman (reluctantly): hmr. please don't. | danny: im going for his shins#Martinez and Nightingale have this whole thing going on between the two of them. danny WILL slap a sticky note on Martinez's back that says#'asshole' on it and its the one spot square on his spine that martinez can't reach.#someone: why are you beefing with like. an actual 12 year old | martinez: HE'S A LITTLE RAT. THAT'S WHY. he's here to torment me#battinson: *did you grapple the whole way here* | danny: yah. it was kinda fun. i would've gotten here faster but i kept having to stop#battinson: *hnnn* im driving you back | danny:.. are you sure? | battinson already pulling him out of the room: y e s#i've been thinking about this for literally WEEKS. what did bruce forget? good question! i'll figure that out if or when i get to this#danny has Issues behind the word freak so its like a mini beserker button for him regardless of who the word is aimed at lol. lmao#martinez calls batman a freak once while nightingale is within range and its just the doom ost as danny simply Disappears from sight#like oops. you are now. In Danger. rip couldn't be me.#blood blossom au
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Plushy funđ§ž
(đâĄ)
#submas#nimbasa trio#subway boss ingo#subway boss emmet#gym leader elesa#nimbasabattleshipping#conductorshipping#subway boss nobori#subway boss kudari#elesa#thirdrailshipping#BEHOLD#them#something lighthearted and sweet for you whole lotâ„ïž#Reasons for the plushies is mostly due to just act as like souvenirs and stuff for unova#sometimes sponspored merch to promote the region xD#and yes Elesa does have her besties Skyla and Burgh's plushies#while also having her own submas ones at home lol#(sorry for being inactive lately)#(i am multifandom but also being buried by college and well; gaming too xD)#art#comic
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On average, what is the total MONTHLY amount that you spend on dining out*?
*(This doesn't only count going out to restaurants, but also stuff like picking up fast food to bring home, getting a coffee on the way to work, getting a premade sandwich from a grocery store deli during lunch, buying a quick snack from a convenience store or food cart whilst walking somewhere, ordering a pizza or any other food to be delivered to your home, etc.)
*(If you often dine out in groups/as a household: calculate and divide the costs so that you get a Per Person average. This is for YOU individually, NOT the total household/group costs)
(I'm sure polls similar to this have been made before (very common topic), I just haven't personally seen one that I can remember, so, I was curious to do my own! I was discussing this with a group of people today and it was very interesting to see how widely the number varied between individuals. :0c )
(Reblog for bigger sample size if you can, and feel free to explain your answer in tags if there's anything extra to add!)
#polls#tumblr polls#I'm mostly in the 0/1 - 25$ category. Maybe the rare month is a bit over $25 if there's something specific going on like birthday.#Which I'm NEVER eating in an actual restaurant (erm... covid... plus I just hate restaurant environments. i would rather pickup#the food and bring it home to a peaceful quiet environment that I control lol). But more typically like stopping by a grocery store deli#section or something. I don't have coffee that much. And I can't eat fast food much due to my health issues/diet restriction stuff#so if I'm out like coming back from an appointment and I start feeling really sick and weak. I know that a hamburger will just#blow up my system and cause nausea or something. So I try to pick the breadiest most#neutral looking turkey sandwich at the safeway deli to eat during the hour ride home or whatever lol#I actually kind of wish I could do stuff like get food more often vecause it would take the burden of cooking everything off of me#but.. alas... Money... and Health Things... T o T#I still wouldn't do it ALL the time but like... once a week instead of once a month or something.. or maybe turning into a coffee#person.. I do love drinks A LOT .. i am a drink person who will have 5 different drinks sipping on at all times#But i just have to make them all myself mostly lol#And I cant really have too much coffee since it will make me sick. so like.. teas and juice mostly#When I inevitably become a millionaire by never using social media never networking and only finishing one#sculpture every 5 months which I dont even post about or sell - then I shall... get more drinks..#I will somehow wean my body onto coffee and drink one a day solely for the ritual of it#Though even then... I would still probably just like.. buy the mateirals to make it at home or something#Like if you had a million dollars you could just buy a kitchen grade ice cream machine and other stuff to make your own milkshakes and#coffees and smoothies and bubble teas. Genuinely I think even if I were a BILLIONAIRE I would still look at playing likr $8 for a single#coffee and go .. uh.... I could just buy the equipment to make this and then save that money. PLUS. its in my house now so no need to#have to leave. I can make my own drinks in the comfort of home. .. ideal..#Like no matter how rich I ever got I would still have the lingering scroogey stinginess. like i am NOT paying for that. I will jus#make it myself. Especially if it was an Everyday thing. Anythign thats part of my routine I try to optimize and make as efficient as#possible... ANYWAY.. In an IDEAL world I would get treats. but probably not that much. as on a daily basis it would start to get#to me and I would just save up to buy kitchen machinery if I was rich lol
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If youâre still taking sketch ideas; how about strawhats cooking competition; Sanji is reluctant judge (bc Robin tied him to the chair)
This one got way outta hand
#one piece#nami and usopp won due to their excellent strategic brains (gave luffy meat so he decided they won)#didnât do this mspaint style because I value the nerve endings in my hands but still. lol#myart#fanart#doodle time đ#once again I do not feel like tagging everyone
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mira !!! :]
#isat#in stars and time#isat mirabelle#isat spoilers#<- due to act 3 optional content !#the img might be being chewed due to weird canvas size oops ah well#one of these miras is not like the other#one of these miras doesnt belong ASFASFSDAFA#a majority of these are based on things mentioned / that happen in the house cuz i thought itd be fun to draw :D#so like the wilting plant is from gardening room dialogue#the poster with ppl holding hands and sparkly eyes is (i think??) from some SAPSAPSAAP dialogue in one of the first rooms#i tried looking around ISAT to see if it's also in there too but couldnt find it so uh correct me if im wrong if thats NOT an exclusive LOL#side note the 2 in the poster are some old nuz ocs isatified ASDFASFA#funnily enough tho they are from 2 different games if they actually ever met they would hate each others guts i think. hmm...#however both are also the most qualified to help with promotional stuff so theres that ASDFAFA#mira looking at her bonding proposals is sorta on the tin but#the fact that she has like right next to her while she sleeps in her dresser makes me :(#cuz to me it potrays how much theyve been weighing over her cuz of how close shes been keeping them with her vs putting them on a bookshelf#or something idk if that makes sense i dont have proper words atm#but uhhh moving on chalkboard is from one of the optional events#which i think is! important!!! i dont think ive seen many ppl talk about it but!! yeah!#however i too do not have words on it atm but!!! yeah!!!! moving on for now!#the 'mira' that is really just the change god is ofc from the change god event :]#aaand ofc the iconic finish from mira towards the king#and then some misc miras with swords for funsies tbh ASFAFA#but yeah! i like mira a lot actually but as with many things i do not currently have many words to properly articulate *why*#all i know in my heart of hearts is that she is near and dear and special to me personally#one day. one day i will be able to gather my thoughts in a cohesive manner but that day. is not today!#anyway tag talk over :]
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these sketches from the dungeon meshi art exhibition are so good...!!!
#i cant believe we almost had a thistle&faligon volume cover this is such a miss#the top izutsumi sketch is probably my favorite out of these#its perspective is so cool and i love this part of the dungeon (tho i do prefer the the final cover due to the senshi chapters lol)#and the first and final volume sketches... đ„čđ„čđđ„°#the vol5 sketches are funny esp the top one like the girl just turned into a chimera should she rlly be all smiling on the cover like thatđ#&kabru giving a whole different vibe in that sketch is funny too given what actually happens during this part of the manga lol. poor guy#mithrun is simply the prettiestâ€ïžbaby you ARE the centerpiece#dungeon meshi
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it is all chaos and entropy. the thing is that the chaos and entropy make it beautiful and lovely.
yes, it's true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is terrifying. i have lived through some of the unfairness - i got born like this, with my body caving into itself, with this ironic love of dance when i sometimes can't stand up for longer than 15 minutes. i am a poet with hands that are slowly shutting down - i can't hold a pen some days. recently i found a dead bird on our front porch. she had no visible injuries. she had just died, the way things die sometimes.
it is also true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is wonderful. the sheer happenstance that makes rain turn into a rainbow. the impossible coincidence of finding your best friend. i have made so many mistakes and i have let myself down and i have harmed other people by accident. nature moves anyway. on the worst day of my life she delivers me an orange juice sunset, as if she is saying try again tomorrow.
how vast and unknowing the universe! how small we are! isn't that lovely. the universe has given us flowers and harp strings and the shape of clouds. how massive our lives are in comparison to a grasshopper. the world so bright, still undiscovered. even after 30 years of being on this earth, i learned about a new type of animal today: the dhole.
chance echoing in my life like a harmony between two people talking. do you think you and i, living in different worlds but connected through the internet - do you think we've ever seen the same butterfly? they migrate thousands of miles. it's possible, right?
how beautiful the ways we fill the vastness of space. i love that when large amounts of people are applauding in a room, they all start clapping at the same time. i love that the ocean reminds us of our mother's heartbeat. i love that out of all the colors, chlorophyll chose green. i love the coincidences. i love the places where science says i don't know, but it just happens.
"the universe doesn't care about you!" oh, i know. that's okay. i care about the universe. i will put my big stupid heart out into it and watch the universe feast on it. it is not painful. it is strange - the more love you pour into the unfeeling world, the more it feels the world loves you in return. i know it's confirmation bias. i think i'm okay if my proof of kindness is just my own body and my own spirit.
i buried the bird from our porch deep in the woods. that same day, an old friend reaches out to me and says i miss you. wherever you go, no matter how bad it gets - you try to do good.
#writeblr#warm up#i can't write rn but i have SO much words in here bc im reading the chorus of dragons books#(just started book 4)#and this woman's writing is just LIVING in my brain. let me out!!!#(i read roughly like 2-4 books a week usually bc i go on long walks with my dog but when a book is REALLY good like. it eats my life. )#anyway ...... so like here's a story that idk i've tried to explain to other people as being wild#but maybe im the only one who thinks it is wild???#so i play pokemon go (i just started in jan) bc i love pokemon and as i have mentioned i walk goblin for like an hour in the morning#and i don't like a lot of fitness trackers due to the fact it makes me .sad. but i also wanted the little digital rewards. enter pokemon go#anyway so they make you make friends to complete quests. so i used a reddit thread. i do not usually use reddit. i don't have an acct#i lurked. i just googled like ''pokemon go reddit '' and randomly added a bunch of numbers#i was on that page for all of 15 minutes. there are THOUSANDS of responses on that page.#here's what's wild: in that group of people. even though i am not on reddit and it was one random event once#it turns out one of those people lives in the town i live in. or at least very close. i only know this because#when we send each other gifts. it's from the same freaking area.#i can't ask them to meet up bc pokemon go doesn't have a messaging app lol but like . what are the fucking chances that#a random person posts in a random reddit thread and HAPPENS to get added by someone ELSE from their SAME TOWN#who by pure fucking CHANCE is ALSO playing pokemon go and looking for friends#i googled it there's only 42000 people in my broad region. the .......... smallness ! of the world!!!
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never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)
"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."
warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.
wc: 5.8k+
an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.
if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.
that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.
Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice.Â
So why does it currently feel like youâre dying?
The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration youâd gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you canât currently remember if youâd ever agreed to along the way. It hadnât been sudden, it hadnât been with lack of adjusting, it hadnât been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once â youâd done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands.Â
Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldnât even notice. You shouldnât be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival.Â
It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You donât feel poetic like the movies, you donât feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though youâve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall.Â
Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins youâve used to spread yourself out for consumption.Â
We still on for tonight?Â
The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. Youâre lucky the screen hadnât broken when youâd thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears.Â
He wasnât a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution.Â
A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon.Â
Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with?Â
You canât remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall.Â
I hate to cancel, but Iâm sick. I donât think I can come out tonight :-(Â
What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything?Â
Please donât.
The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead.Â
But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you canât seem to steady.Â
Another buzz comes from your phone, but you donât look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips.Â
Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both?Â
A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, heâd grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body â a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isnât imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.Â
Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished?Â
Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.
Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasnât choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it.Â
Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure?Â
And it wasnât even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling.Â
There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water â youâd never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at.Â
There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.
Maybe your feet didnât even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes.Â
You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no.Â
Ghosts donât just appear. They were a vibrant soul once â they were somebody once.Â
But itâs hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, itâs hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment.Â
A version of you that wasnât insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence.Â
You donât want the bottle of ibuprofen. You donât want the busy street. You donât want the overflowing tub. You donât even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop.Â
Thereâs a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you canât get up to answer.Â
You canât move from this very spot. Youâre terrified of what will happen when you do.Â
Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling?Â
Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become.Â
You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. Thatâs the issue.Â
The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. Youâd thought youâd been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong.Â
Does it even matter anymore?
Youâd left the bathroom door wide open.Â
Were you worth it?
Youâd been home alone â past tense.
A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.
A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse youâd used. You look as though youâre ill, like youâve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night.Â
If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy?Â
âHey, Eds.âÂ
Youâre tired. Youâre exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern.Â
Maybe you were an anchor â maybe being an anchor wasnât a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship?Â
âJesus,â he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, âYou look like shit.â
You felt like shit.Â
Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache youâd carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that youâre wrong â hands to promise you that youâre worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. Youâre bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay.Â
You donât want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and thatâs unfair.Â
Youâre not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder.Â
After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, âYeah.âÂ
Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does.Â
Because heâs a good friend. Heâs a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space heâs earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads.Â
Heâs good.Â
And youâre simply rotten.
You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You canât dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because itâs all decay.Â
You donât have to let the pit consume you â it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips.Â
He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, âYou wanna talk about whatâs really wrong?âÂ
âIâm sick.âÂ
âThis isnât just some stomach bug.â
Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.
You canât make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess youâve become. You canât pull gold from tarnished rubble.Â
Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldnât have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring.Â
âDo you ever feel like a waste of space?â you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing youâve ruined, in hindsight, âLike, this world is filled with great people, and I just⊠I just, Iâm taking up the space- Iâm wasting the space-âÂ
You canât get out the proper words. You donât know how.
How do you say you want to cease to exist when youâre not really sure if thatâs the truth? Youâre miserable, and youâre selfish, and youâre not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. Youâd be too scared to do it. Â
Too scared to miss the day that science announces itâs found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage youâve been comprised of your whole life.Â
His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, âWhat? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?â
It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that youâre right. You have evidence, you have proof, and itâs not just a feeling.Â
âI donât feel like Iâm a waste of space,â you finally correct, both yourself and him, âI know Iâm a waste of space.âÂ
âBullshit.â
âEddie, donât-â
âNo,â he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that heâs capable of, itâs not offensive, âYouâre not. Iâm not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim theyâre wasting space-â
âI am!â Itâs your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You canât even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, âI really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And thatâs such a- such a- thatâs such a waste. I canât read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I canât even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. Iâm letting everyone down left and right, Iâm never living up to whatever pedestal youâve put me on. I donât even know what Iâm doing with my life. I donât even know where Iâll be in a year from now â I canât even see that far in the future.â
Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space.Â
âI donât think Iâm a good person,â you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, âEvery year, I tell myself the same thing â Iâll be better, Iâll be kinder, Iâll be worth it. And every year, I fail.âÂ
Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors?Â
Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?
Can he feel it? All the pressure?Â
Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.
âI used to think I could make up for it,â you whisper, âI could offer people things that made them forget Iâm⊠so useless. But I donât think Iâm even capable of that anymore.â
If heâs about to respond, itâs drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls.Â
He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear.Â
And yet, he doesnât.Â
You know itâs his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest. And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which youâve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours â over the last twenty four years.Â
Heâd probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldnât have to exist if you didnât exist.
The thought makes you cry harder.Â
If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?
âYouâre not useless,â it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, âYouâre not- I swear- Youâre not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.â
His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.
Thereâs no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears.Â
When you donât answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, âHow long have you felt this way, sweetheart?â
And if you hadnât already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you.Â
You canât pinpoint when it started. You canât clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. Thatâs where the hurt starts â thatâs where the rot starts.Â
âI donât know.â
In your mind, itâs a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud.Â
But on this quiet bathroom floor, it canât even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who canât give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that canât let go, not yet.
Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, youâre scared that youâre going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him.Â
The only way you know how to love â a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadnât so much as snipped this time.Â
You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words youâre about to say, âI donât want to exist anymore, but I wouldnât even make it off the bridge if I tried.â
Itâs not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldnât be the bridge you turn to. Thereâs a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him.Â
Because exist is just a placeholder. And thereâs a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place.Â
He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit thatâs devoured all thatâs left of you.Â
âBridge?â Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, itâs clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, âSweetheart, no.â
There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that youâre right and itâs not worth it â defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first.Â
âI couldnât do it, even if I want-âÂ
Even if I wanted to. The words you canât speak, dying on your tongue.Â
Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?
âYou really donât see it, do you?â he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, âYou⊠you justâŠâÂ
He doesnât know what to say, and you donât blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isnât the type of bomb to drop on someone you love.Â
But if you didnât, where would the bomb have gone? Youâre not equipped to detonate it. Youâre not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldnât want to survive that explosion.Â
âIâm sorry,â your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry.âÂ
Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes â youâre dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. Youâre being an anchor.Â
Heâs all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, âDonât apologize. You donât have to apologize. Just-â
He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind.Â
âI donât need apologies,â another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, âI donât- I just⊠Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. Iâll do it.âÂ
Itâs not your job. Thatâs not your job.Â
You donât realize youâve said the words out loud until heâs squeezing you so tightly that you now canât breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts heâs lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because theyâre gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap.Â
All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you.Â
How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him?Â
âI know itâs not my job,â he finally says, and you know for a fact heâs crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, âItâs never been a job. Youâre not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. Thereâs- Fuck, thereâs plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I canât, so just get that.â
Heâs trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better.Â
But heâs still holding you like heâs terrified. You did that â you instilled that fear.Â
âIâm a mess,â you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what youâve done. Youâve already apologized, but youâre seconds away from doing so again, âIâm- Iâm a mess, and Iâm dragging you into it, and Iâm sor-â
âStop being sorry.â Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isnât budging â he isnât letting go, âDo you remember when I first met you?âÂ
You canât tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if itâs meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.
âYeah,â you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, âBut tell me about it anyway?âÂ
âTwo years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,â he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. Thereâs still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesnât stop him, âWe were in some cursed fucking diner we donât even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,â he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words youâd just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. Heâs a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, âYou were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California â did you know that?âÂ
âI didnât.âÂ
âWell, he did,â his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, âDropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and Iâm getting off track, butâŠâÂ
Baited breath, youâre waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom.Â
âAnyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.âÂ
âOh, God,â your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didnât seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, âNo, I remember how this story ends, and-â
âIâm not done,â he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, âObviously you know where Iâm going with this, but Iâm not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and Iâm sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, yâknow? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-âÂ
âPlease, stop.â
Youâre laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures.Â
âI was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?âÂ
Youâre there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. âYeah, just a little bit.âÂ
âSorry for that, by the way,â he airily apologizes before continuing, âBut I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just⊠lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.âÂ
âNice? I was not nice, I was-â you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasnât meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. âI was a⊠a mess that day.âÂ
âExactly.â
He pulls away again, and this time, itâs a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face.Â
âYou were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,â he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. âAnd even if youâre still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?âÂ
No bridges.
No failures.
The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day youâd have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things youâd picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddieâs breaths in the silence, and that was enough.Â
âI donât want to die,â you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing youâd been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. âI just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said donât apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And Iâm sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.âÂ
His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since heâd first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if youâre porcelain still. You know that wonât go away, not tonight. âIâd rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,â he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, âYou get that, too. Alright? Youâre worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad â give it to me. Iâm asking for it. Just donât⊠donât leave me with the nothing.â
Youâre worth it.Â
Heâs found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. Heâs sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer.Â
It just has to do with you. He sees you, and heâs decided youâre worth it. Even now.
He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, âYou wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.âÂ
Youâre quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his.Â
âOkay,â his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, âThatâs okay. Do you want meâŠ. Do you want me to go?âÂ
Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, âNo. No, just- Stay with me? Please?âÂ
Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying.Â
He doesnât even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, âOf course. Iâll stay, sweetheart. Iâm not going anywhere â wouldnât even dream of it.âÂ
His words shake just a little less than they had when heâd first entered the room.Â
He canât fix it all magically. That isnât his job, isnât his role, isnât his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh.Â
He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.
Hesitantly content. Just for now. Itâs enough.Â
The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night.Â
Itâs enough for now. Youâll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Youâll talk more about why you feel this way, and heâll offer better solutions. The weight wonât simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten â one day, youâll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe.Â
One day, the seas will calm, and youâll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor.Â
And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.
#not using taglist due to the triggering nature of this fic#ghost's stories#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson angst#tw suicidal ideations#this felt more like a journal entry than a fic at times#but i needed to write it so i did#writing eddie's bits were hard because i've always been bad at being on that side of these things#finding a way to have two humans discuss the emotions in question out loud was just hard#and in case anyone who's reading the tags needs to hear this: you're not a burden for telling your loved ones when you feel this way#i guarantee they'd rather have these hard and uncomfortable conversations than the alternative#the ending only feels rushed and like a band-aid because i truly don't know if i'm capable of writing that type of dialogue#it's already scary enough posting this as it is lol#but save the leaves? idk now im using humor as a coping mechanism#alright i'll shut up now no one is reading this far into the tags
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