#what doesn’t kill you makes you really weird at parties | IC: janet

[writedisaster]

open to mutuals!

"I don't get why CHUDs are supposed to be a threat." Janet is lying on her back, squinting upwards. This is clearly something that's been on her mind for a while. "Like, it's in the first two words, right? Cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers. If they're specifically humanoid that means they're not human, right? And! If they're cannibalistic, they eat members of their own species. So, not humans. Like, I guess maybe they could be, like, mostly cannibals but sometimes they eat other things? Like humans? But if 'cannibalistic' is literally the first word of their name we're clearly not their main source of protein.

"Anyways, that's why I'd rather encounter a CHUD than a sewer gator. Probably it wouldn't be interested in me at all, in which case I can just slide away, or if it does want to hunt me it'd be cuz it was desperate. Which, like, yeah, facing off against a desperate predator is scary, but its weakness is my opportunity. Ka-pow." She mimes a rapid chop. It's been forever since her martial arts class days, but she's not letting that get in the way of this hypothetical. "What do you think? CHUD or gator."

[writedisaster]

“Oh, shit.” Janet scrambles to her feet - she'd been busy on the couch trying to decide whether the cracks in the ceiling paint looked more like a dragon or more like a German shepherd in a wig, but some things have to take priority. “Kleenex? Uh, no. But-”

She holds up one finger, just a sec, and darts for the bathroom. When she comes back, she's already unspooling a roll of toilet paper, making a wad that she holds out to Haven with an apologetic shrug. “Shit, you sure you're okay? That looks gnarly.”

"It's 'cause of the dry air, I swear," she only halfheartedly promises. The air is dry, but the blood she wipes from her nose with the butt of her palm is not a result of it. She'd like to say that she had gotten into some kind of brawl, bravely fighting off some brutish attacker on her own, but that wasn't the truth either. Truth is, she had slipped on a patch of ice while evading the loss prevention agents posted by the exits of the supermarket.

Haven tosses a shopping bag full of snacks onto the table. "You got any Kleenex?"

@writedisaster

[altumvidetur]

MCU Daredevil: MattFoggy Fic Recs

MCU Fic Recs Masterpost

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

I didn’t actually watch season 3 of Daredevil, so my recs are all from before that. I still plan to watch, so please take that into account when interacting with this post!

Fitter. Happier. More Productive., by what_alchemy

Matt tries to let go. He's not too good at it.

through the bookcase, imagining a scene, by returnsandreturns

“He’s back,” Karen says, making Foggy jump and drop his armful of books. She winces and drops down immediately to help him pick them up.

“Matt?” Foggy asks. It’s an optimistic guess—there are a lot of guys who could be back, like the guy who sits in a study carrel and eats peanut butter out of a jar with his hands and Uncomfortable Religious Missionary Guy, who is actually three different guys.

“Yep,” she replies, nodding and widening her eyes when she grins. “He’s flirting with the circulation ladies, which means you’ve got just enough time to steal my shift at the reference desk before he gets there.”

The Constellation of Touch, by what_alchemy

Months after Fisk is put away, nothing's right between the partners at Nelson and Murdock. But Christmas is here, and Matt is still expected at the Nelson house.

you won’t get better till you’re worse, by annperkinsface

The road to forgiveness has a lot of vodka.

my name on your lips, by unnecessary

It starts when Matt and Marci have coffee. Then Foggy and Claire have coffee. Then Claire throws a Christmas party, and really, it isn't like Foggy means to keep almost confessing to Matt, but can anyone really blame him? 

I Decided This, by patster223

“I’m contributing yet another lovely sign to our office,” Foggy says, brandishing the finished product with a flourish. Matt can’t see the sign, but he can probably sense the flourish, which is what matters. “It says, ‘It has been ‘0’ days since Matt made an idiotic decision.’”

“Doesn’t seem like it will inspire much trust from our clients.”

What the sign instead inspires: debates, understanding, a patented Murdock-level guilt trip, ice cream celebrations, a kiss, and perhaps even a way to finally move forward.

We Just Lost the Beat, by knight_tracer and lady_ragnell

Matt hears a lot in the city at night, sirens and crime--and the late-night radio show Foggy With a Chance, which sometimes runs a Daredevil Watch if he's been particularly active, but which mostly plays music. He probably shouldn't call in and request a song, but he does it anyway.

I’ll Most Likely Kill You in the Morning, by inkfingers_mcgee

Foggy and Matt never met at school. They cross paths for the first time while working opposite sides of a case, and Matt doesn't leave an impression beyond the superficial: a blind, pro-bono crusader who Foggy will feel really guilty about having to oppose in court one of these days. Seemed like a nice guy, but no one Foggy will worry about a week later.

He has more important things on his mind, like the masked vigilante who keeps cornering him in dark alleys to threaten him for information.

Touch Me, Don’t Feel Me, by fabella

Foggy struggles to navigate a casual sexual relationship with Matt after the events of season two. It's predictably complicated.

Hold Me Fast and Fear Me Not, by lady_ragnell

Something in New York has everyone walking around with iron in their pockets, and it seems like the vigilante they're calling the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is at the center of it all. Foggy knows how to steer clear of that kind of trouble, but when the Devil seeks him out, he ends up in the middle of it with him.

A Janet and Tam Lin AU.

jump, check parachute, by augustbird

Foggy Nelson: good at law, terrible at feelings.

Just Wanna Take Him Home, by lady_ragnell

Foggy mostly takes little old ladies to parties doing escort jobs, which he's fine with.

Getting hired to spend two hours hugging a lawyer is kind of a departure. He should have known it would all get complicated fast.

Daredevils Don’t Drink Decaf, by ChuckleVoodoos

“I really, really want to make a joke about bats and blindness. Will you punch me if I make a joke about bats and blindness?” Matt shakes his head, grinning. “Okay, so we’re Superspud and Blind-As-A-Batman.”

In which Foggy uses his law degree to peddle coffee to unsuspecting caffeine junkies, and Matt is his favorite customer. Who may or may not be Batman.

Say You’ll Still Be By My Side, by lady_ragnell

Bless me, Foggy, for I have sinned.  

Eres Mi Grande Avocado, by ChuckleVoodoos

Matt's got this way of speaking in Spanish that's just a little different than his way of speaking in English. In English, all of Matt's words are carefully weighed and measured and cut like crystal. They're precious but planned. With Spanish, the words seem to fall like drops of liquid gold, hot and rich and wild, and it makes Foggy want to gather them to himself and finally be warm.

Gazelle, Lion, Gun, by ChuckleVoodoos

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has got some competition. Sassy sharpshooters do not make good crime-fighting partners, except that they really do.

Dream Catcher, by ChuckleVoodoos

When Matt has nightmares, so does Foggy. Unfortunately, Matt has a lot of nightmares. Even when he's not asleep.

Or: Matt visits Foggy after the bombings, and it doesn't go well.

Red Cross, by ChuckleVoodoos

Foggy is perfectly happy being a law-abiding physician with a weakness for cupcakes.

No one else seems to understand this.

Rocky Horror Pancake Show, by ChuckleVoodoos

Foggy falls asleep at exactly 12:00 AM, and he’s making a wish. He wakes up at 12:00 AM too—twenty-four hours before he fell asleep.

"Let's do the time warp again!"

The Boxer-Puncher, by one_flying_ace

“Matt, you’re my best friend, but you’re a goddamn idiot sometimes. It’s not about you. I’m not training, I’m not looking to get in a ring or do what you do. I just wanted to know a little more.” He says it fiercely, strongly, right into Matt’s ear like that’ll get it through to him any easier. “It’s not like I’m any good at it,” he adds, which is probably a mistake.

His heartbeat definitely spikes on the lie, because Matt flinches.

if ever joy surrounds you (you have to let it), by KiaraSayre

"I mean, I did think that maybe vigilantism is actually good for you in terms of, like, self-actualization or whatever, but - have you been seeing a therapist or something? Good talks with your priest?"

(Or, it's weird how weird things aren't between Matt and Foggy. Particularly when they're talking about boners.)

That Spin I’m In, by Werelibrarian and poisonivory

"What does that mean?" Matt asks Strange.

"Well, that depends," Strange says, unfolding his legs and letting his feet touch the floor again. Matt gets the distinct impression Strange is hedging. "Are you currently suffering heartbreak?"

Matt very carefully doesn't think about Elektra. Or Karen. Or Foggy. "Let's leave my personal life out of this."

Strange clears his throat. "Yes, well, that option may no longer be on the table."

Matt really hates magic.

How Your Heart Pounds Inside Me, by poisonivory

Hiring a surrogate alpha is supposed to be the simplest way to get through a heat - and Matt doesn't want to risk his heart again, not after the last time. But nothing in Matt's life is ever simple, and when his surrogate turns up again to oppose both Matt Murdock, Attorney-at-Law and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, it's more than just Matt's heart at risk.

Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight, by poisonivory

If there's one thing Foggy Nelson knows about Matt Murdock, it's how tactile he is.

Will You, by poisonivory

Foggy's always joking when he asks Matt to marry him. Matt's always serious when he says yes.

- OR -

Five proposals Foggy forgot, and one Matt makes sure he'll remember.

Stay In My Arms (If You Dare), by poisonivory

The Defenders are the most elite bodyguard agency in the world. When Wilson Fisk's personal attorney Foggy Nelson walks in looking for protection from a mysterious man in black, Matt Murdock is more than happy to take Mr. Nelson's safety in hand. But Nelson's guilt is hard to prove, and Matt may have gotten himself in too deep - especially once someone besides the man in black starts gunning for his client.

I Would Know You by Touch Alone, by unnecessary

It doesn’t matter if Matt has a soulmate, because if he does, it’s not Foggy.

Written for this prompt on the kink meme: “Foggy’s soulmate mark is raised birthmarks that read ‘Matt’ in Braille.”

...Aaaaaand a series within the Spider-Gwen universe:

The Lawyer All the Wickedness, by poisonivory

(Summary by me: in which Foggy is, at turns, angered, baffled and aroused by scumbag defense attorney Matt Murdock.)

[anarcoherence]

what doesn't kill you makes you really weird at parties | IC: janet, three determinate states the cat could be in: dead. alive. bloody furious. | ABT: janet,  get it — see food | AES: janet,  dirtiest mouth this side of the mississippi | MUSINGS: janet,  but it waved its sadness like a battle flag | ST: janet, 

the gal with the muck rake | IC: bessie, the truth shall make you free | ABT: bessie,  all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses | AES: bessie,  but we fight for roses too | MUSINGS: bessie,  for the people hear us singing | ST: bessie,

hey there trouble! | IC: dyalla, big teeth. big arms. big hugs. | ABT: dyalla, a muscle the size of your fist | AES: dyalla, keep on loving! keep on fighting! | MUSINGS: dyalla, spit teeth，shut up，and sing! | ST: dyalla,

like pulling teeth | IC: pliers, time to learn to enjoy the apocalypse | ABT: pliers, the light from a city on fire | AES: pliers, the knowledge that the flames will burn higher | MUSINGS: pliers, there’s a scream in everything | ST: pliers,

take a gamble | IC: p.t., seventeen confidence schemes in a tacky overcoat | ABT: p.t., the ol’ razzle dazzle | AES: p.t., well... the stupidity is mostly feigned | MUSINGS: p.t., ‘‘what’s new pussycat’’ is a lot longer than i first thought  | ST: p.t.,

a reformed vampire | IC: mal, a bundle of suppressed instincts held together with spit and coffee | ABT: mal,    untidy，but with bags and bags of style | AES: mal, sleep on it，kid | MUSINGS: mal, the children of the night don’t do vinyl | ST: mal,

the new gay is a great big fish | RL: mal & polly a werewolf in the watch | IC: angua, a vegetarian who had to pick bits of meat out of her teeth in the mornings | ABT: angua, a friendly smile: her mouth turned up at the corners and all her teeth were visible | AES: angua, woman's intuition? | MUSINGS: angua, there’s more to a howl than you’ve ever heard | ST: angua,

who watches the watchman | IC: sam, ''my name is Sam and I'm a really suspicious bastard'' | ABT: sam, practically zen | MUSINGS: sam, cobbles under his cardboard soles | AES: sam,  | ST: sam,

and know you're enough to use me for good | RL: sam & sybil,

the woman was a city | IC: sybil, a species of woman who，when duty called，turned to solid steel | ABT: sybil, in her own special category | AES: sybil, non sumet nullus pro responso | MUSINGS: sybil, ST: sybil,

[tony-is-writing-today-blog]

Letter To Anna

this was a writing piece i did as some venting a few weeks back. i have not written anything in first person in, uh, a few years, so this was a bit of a challenge to get back to. it’s got some rough themes to it, so please be aware of this. 

((cw: discussions of r*pe, self harm, addiction, self destructive tendencies, sexual themes, drug use))

A Letter To Anna

Dear Anna, 

My therapist told me to write this letter to you as a way to “unload” my problems, a way to try and “identify” the root of my struggles, find some sort of “closure” between us, or some other bullshit like that. I figured that for maybe just a second I could stop being an asshole and listen to her for once.

So, hi Anna.

I’m an addict.

I really hate thinking about myself like that, but it’s true.

I am an addict. 

I have an obsessive personality. 

Since I was a child, I would become hyper-fixated on certain subjects or some work of fiction to let my mind escape from everything else that supposedly mattered. When I got older, I found it addicting to be an asshole to people—mostly breaking the hearts of those closest to me. After some of that nonsense, I got addicted to alcohol, which, as it turns out, is a bit more serious than any of the things I listed above.

(It might sound bad, but the reality is that I truly don’t care about that addiction.)

(Why?)

(Because I don’t care about what happens to me.)

Following my on going sinful love affair with the devil’s poison, I did something foolishly impulsive one night and made a small one inch cut on my forearm. At first, I was shocked at what I had just done, not really knowing what came over me. 

But in reality, when I try to think back to the first time I cut myself, I don’t remember much. 

I must have been too drunk.

What I do remember of the aftermath: I was at school with a cruel hangover and wearing my NYU sweater even though it was a typical scorching hot Floridian day. I hid because I was horrified at what insanity I had done to my body. My 17-year-old self was already perpetually miserable at the thought of simply being alive and having to go to a school I hated, but now I had to attempt to hide my dramatics from everyone when I was already paranoid enough that the world hated me. 

(Junior and senior year of high school were my infamous debut years as an enormous disappointment to my family and friends.)

Just when I got into the real groove of things (drinking like it was my favorite hobby, because it was), my mother caught me with alcohol (I’m not going to elaborate further on the incident), and I got thrown back into therapy. It helped a bit with trying to figure out how to stop being such a gigantic fucking heartless asshole to the people I loved, but not much with my addictions.

When my therapist would ask about self-harming or drinking, I would immediately become furious.

My most iconic moments in therapy were when he asked me why I was cutting and I stayed silent for the full hour session. He would say, “Look at me,” and I would shoot the most loathing glare I could muster. The other moment was when I showed up to a session already fabulously drunk and almost fell asleep on the couch in his office. I distinctly remember telling him to Fuck Off. 

(I think I had a bad day at school.)

I was sober for almost a little bit over a year, but by no means was I happy. I began to cut more to compensate for the lack of alcohol and to try and calm the withdrawal effects of going cold turkey (and it didn’t really work). 

My depression got worse, but then I was having a weird few days or around a week where I would feel like I was on top of the world, ready to conquer everything and do the absolute best I could because nothing could stop me. Then, I would crash into the lowest of lows I had ever experienced. I learned to live with the self-harm, the very High Highs and the very Low Lows, the failing grades that did not reflect my actual intelligence, and calmly enjoying the new scars on my skin.

For a little while, I became addicted to toxic relationships. I thought that being emotionally abused was normal and that consent was irrelevant because all that mattered was my boyfriend getting pleasure and I had to lie there and take it, even if I said no. I accepted it as a punishment to myself for past sins I committed against others.

My therapist doesn’t think that’s a good way to look at rape. 

Even through all that, by some God given miracle, I actually managed to graduate high school. The only memorable thing about graduation was the overwhelming relief knowing that I would never have to step foot on my high school campus ever again if I didn’t want to. Graduation day was special to me only because I could finally fucking leave.

June 26th, 2015: I cut my hair short, losing about 8 ½ inches. When I almost finished my hair appointment, I got a text that read something like, “IT’S LEGAL!!! EQUAL MARRIAGE IS LEGAL!!!!” I cried a little bit, to be quite honest. I was also incredibly pleased that I looked like Janet van Dyne with my new hairstyle. 

When I got to college, self-harm was a friend I had a shamefully intimate friendship with. However, when I started smoking weed, that need to feel pain and see myself wounded abated a bit and the craving for alcohol was lost in the back of my mind. Marijuana, however, never became an addiction. It was like a blanket tucking two toxic lovers to sleep for a little while until they inevitably woke up to abuse each other once more. The difference between falling after the marijuana was that I felt like I had to justify my use to those around me because no one understood that this was the best alternative I had access to. 

I once fell into a Low when I was high. 

Being the good college student that I am, the setting was during a party in a friend of a friend’s dorm. I went to smoke with a friend beforehand because I knew there was going to be alcohol and I didn’t want the craving to ruin my night. See, my friends know I’m an alcoholic (months upon months of being sober at the time) and so if I had consumed alcohol, I felt like they’d just get front row seats to my own destruction. However, at the party when I was in the middle of feeling pretty good, all my friends were drinking around me. The host was making mixed drinks and everyone kept complimenting him on how good the drinks were. The craving was crawling up my back and I could feel it. I was able to not think about it too hard until my friend (sitting on my right) said, “These drinks are so good!” Then he paused. “Oh, shit, I forgot you can’t have any.”

I froze, but I managed to nod and give him a forced smile, but words were stuck in my throat. I stayed quiet after that while everyone else was socializing and enjoying the loud music. I suddenly felt like I was in a box and the air supply was running out. There was a mix of fury, embarrassment, helplessness, and panic running through my veins.

My other friend (sitting on my left), who was gradually getting more and more drunk as the minutes ticked by, turned to ask me, “Are you okay?” 

That’s when I noticed that I had been staring at my hands for a long solid minute and she snapped me out of my thoughts. I smiled stiffly and said I was fine. “I think I’m going to go smoke again,” I told her. “You know, to get away.”

She nodded in understanding. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

For the rest of the night, I had the begging intrusive thought of punching my friend in the face to steal his drink. I felt awful. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I love my friends. 

That one instance, those few words, made me spiral into a very Low Low for almost a week. 

He apologized later on.

I forgave him, but I felt sick.

I hurt myself afterwards.

When it comes down to cutting back on marijuana, it isn’t difficult at all. I wanted to smoke because it’s fun, but in no way does it feel like an addiction. Not drinking is harder because the way disgustingly cheap rum and coke goes down my throat is horribly satisfying. There are two things that I could give up completely and that would be marijuana and alcohol. Do I want to give those two up? Jury’s still out on that, but they for sure want to keep the marijuana. 

(Anna, don’t give up marijuana.)

I remember once during psychology class, we were told a story about this severely suicidal girl in a mental hospital who had a ton of scars. She was desperately trying to hurt herself in the hospital, even resorting to trying to cut herself with a plastic knife. When we were told the story, my classmates laughed at her apparent foolishness and I laughed as an imitative reaction, but my heart hurt. There was something killing me in the back of my mind. 

It was the word C R A Z Y .

It’s been three years and I still think about the girl in that story and wonder how that ended up being me. 

It’s been three years and I have not been able to go one full month, not even a solid three weeks, without self-harming.

For a very long time, I never considered it to be something like, “It’s to take the pain away,” and then cry about it because I thought that was dramatic (I was very mistaken back then). I only wanted to hurt myself so that I could have a lasting effect on my body, like a scar. I enjoyed seeing my body wounded, which apparently is also not a normal thing. I thought that was the only reason. I just wanted to look like I went through a fucking battlefield. Of course, my bitch-ass teenage self was wrong, as per usual.

“You hurt yourself to numb painful emotions that you might be feeling.”

I hate people telling me what they think they know about me. 

“These are some techniques to help you.”

I hate people telling me what to do.

“Put some ice on your skin—“

I hate people.

“You have to listen—“

Who gave you the right to even look at me?

I never understood why everyone seemed to care so much about me. I never understood why people would go out of their way to try and make me happy. Didn’t they know that I am never going to be happy? Why did everyone care so goddamn much? That’s disgusting. I don’t fucking comprehend how anyone could hold that kind of love for me. 

People loving me?

[Insert SURE_JAN.gif here]

Anyway, Anna…let’s get back to why I’m really here writing you this letter.

Since I got so wonderfully off topic with some unnecessary woes, I realized that trying to quit alcohol is nothing compared to trying to quit self-harming. I have an addiction, a straight up obsession, with seeing my body ruined. It’s a warm curling strange sick satisfaction to see blood trickling down my arms and thighs. When I am at my Low Lows, there is nothing more that I want to see than new scars being carved into my skin.

People do notice, though, and it’s incredibly annoying to say the least. They ask questions, as if it’s any of their business. They even find the nerve to touch me in the middle of their inquiry to emphasize their “concern” and curiosity. 

What the fuck do they expect me to say? Do they expect me to sing out a wonderful, “Ah, yes, Karen. These are but silly little scars I gave myself whilst in the middle of contemplating death and its permanently eternal benefits. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put those disgusting sausages you like to call fingers on me, or I’ll have them detached from your palm.” 

If anyone thinks I have a kind personality, they need to be directed to the nearest psychologist. 

Friends notice the scars, but know better than to address them directly. They look upon my body with small twinges of pity.

Lovers, however, are another issue entirely. They don’t point out scars, but I now have a problem having sex in general.

(Anna, don’t be a prude, now. Sex is a natural part of life. We can talk about sex with each other. I know sex is a difficult topic for you, but sex is important.)

When I was a teenager, sex used to be liberating. Sexual activity used to be fun and happy and adventurous. Anna, I’m sure you remember that time I was once called a “nerdy version of a slut” by some of the girls in my class. That was a very proud title for me because I was proud of who I was and what I looked like. I used to be so ready and so free. 

Now, I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed anything relating to sex.

I’ve had to take things step by step with lovers just so I could be relaxed enough to even get halfway to an orgasm. I cannot express enough how grateful I am for marijuana, Anna, because that shit really helps you calm down just enough to let your mind feel your body. 

But it’s step by step.

I guess being raped does put a real dampener on things, huh?

Self-harm is an addiction like no other. It’s one that shows plainly for the world to see if you can’t hide it correctly. When people see it, they don’t think, “Oh no, poor you!” they think, “Why are you not in an insane asylum?”

People never look at you the same way. You are now eternally damaged goods. 

I think I figured out that my biggest addiction, above everything else, is that I am addicted to making myself miserable and being miserable.

Anna, it’s really hard just being alive. It honestly sucks and I used to think that it sucked all the time without any sort of possible happiness on the horizon. For a long fucking time, a horizon didn’t even exist for me. I thought I was going to be stuck in the same cycle of turmoil for the rest of my life, which I thought was going to be very short. I always saw myself being hospitalized because my bipolar mind was going to do something so drastic on my Low Lows, or I’d just never even make it out alive. I thought that I’d be stuck dragging myself through every single day, experiencing new hardships, repressing traumas, disassociating and not remembering what I was doing or what I was feeling just an hour ago and being so damn afraid and confused. I thought that my manic episodes were going to wring out every last bit of energy that I had in me. I didn’t even think I was going to make it past 18.

But listen, Anna…

I’m 20 now and I’m still very much alive. Am I happy? I’m trying to be. Am I still drinking? Sometimes, yeah I do. Am I still cutting? Yes, at least twice a week. Do I still disassociate? More often than I want to, and God I wish I had control over that shit because it’s a goddamn nightmare. Am I still having issues with sex? Dude, I can’t even hold hands with someone without thinking, “Human contact is absolutely fucking abhorrent.”

I was really focused on the negative aspects of myself before and I never looked at all the good things. So, I’ll list some good things about my life and me.

I’m a good cook. I am a singer and I can dance like a motherfucker in 6-inch heels. I get constantly complimented on how great my eyeliner is. I have a cat named Lemonade and I’m a great cat mom. I can speak three languages fluently and I’m proficient in two other languages. I know how to use a gun and last weekend at the shooting range, I hit the middle of the target three times in a row and then got some ice cream after to celebrate. I know Tolkien lore better than anyone else I’ve ever met in person or online. I know every single opening and ending theme song of every single anime I’ve ever watched (I’m talking full versions of the songs). My hair is long again, so when I braid it I look like Katniss Everdeen (the real Katniss from the shitty books—you know, the Katniss who isn’t white) (God, the Hunger Games trilogy is so shitty). I’m a fucking boss at yoga. I’m a great photographer. I have a great ass. I have great legs (and my girlfriend told me two days ago that she wanted me to crush her with my thighs, so I’ll just add that here). I won a cosplay contest three months ago and I had never felt such incredible nerdy pride in my whole life. My eyebrows are iconic and I don’t even have to do anything to them to make them look good. My eyes are really pretty. I can list every single language in the Indo-European and Altaic language trees. I’ve read the entirety of Das Kapital without falling asleep once and I’m still not sure how I achieved that feat. I volunteer at a children’s hospital and I love working with kids. I’m a debate state champion. I can make the best fruitcake known to man. I’m starting to slowly, very slowly, learn how to love myself.

It’s not easy, Anna. I still don’t understand how or why I have friends and why they stay. I don’t know why my family bothers with me. I don’t really understand why I’m still alive, but the fact of the matter is that I am alive and I have to try and figure out what I’m going to do with my time. I accept that I’m probably going to be on meds for the rest of my life and going to therapy indefinitely and that’s alright. I’m still going to have manic episodes and depressive episodes, but I’ll eventually learn how to work through them and that is also alright. I’m learning a lot of things about myself that I had never considered before. It’s hard, Anna. It’s really really hard, but I’m starting to think that it might be worth it. 

I know we’re not the best of friends and we haven’t been for many years. I’m willing to rekindle the positive relationship we had when we were children. I want to try and understand you again, Anna, and see where our future takes us. I want you to accept me as I’m trying my best to accept you. 

Writing this letter was really fucking hard, Anna. I hate admitting to my faults. I hate admitting that there are things that are wrong with me. I hate admitting that we almost completely lost each other because of everything I was suffering through.

I don’t think I’m ready to say, “I love you, Anna.”

I think I need more time for love, but I will get there one day. I hope that you will meet me halfway.

And Anna… 

Remember to smile.

From your best and worst friend,

Anna Leesman 

[writedisaster]

Vamptober Day 6: Underground

My favorite band?

“Check two three,”  Kizzie Kitzinger whispers into the mic.  The ck comes out like the pop of burning wood.  She doesn't smile, doesn't look away from the back of the room.  “Check two three.”

You've probably never heard of them.

“She's not gonna start the show, is she?”  Janet whispers, struggling to shift enough garbage to cover the thing they've just heaved into the dumpster.

“She said she was going to get the openers to stall.”  Deja doesn't sound convinced.  They both glance towards the back door.  A sudden sting of amps makes Janet drop a trash bag on her own feet.

They're a bit...

And now she smiles, wide enough to take in the whole panting pit between her lacquered lips.  “Goood evening, Jersey City,”  Kizzie purrs, striking a chord on her beautiful little keyboard.  She surveys the crowd, still smiling.  It's a shame her biggest fan can't be here to see the show tonight, but it's not like this is the first time she's lost a follower.  They lose track of their place, sometimes.  Poor Janet had had to remind him.  But someone else will take his place, and for now, Kizzie mentally dedicates this show to the man from the green room.  If he can hear it from where he is.

...underground.

-

// Connected to some pieces from last year's vamptober: this one and this one

[writedisaster]

vamptober day 4: The Taste of the Moon

“And this will work?”  Janet squints at the bottle, holding it up to the glow of the grow lights.  Fuschia bends and beams through the glass and the murk inside.  She thinks she recognizes the tatters of a kombucha label.

“Shit, dude.”  Deja stretches until even Janet can hear her spine pop.  “Not like I've done this before, right?”

“Right, right.”  Janet swirls the bottle slowly.  “Sorry, I didn't mean-”

“No, yeah, no, I get it.  You wanna know if this is gonna explode, yeah?”

“Uh.  I mean.  I wasn't gonna say that.”

“Right.”

A beat.  Both of them watch the sediment in the bottle drift and settle.

“...It's not going to explode, though, right?”

Deja spits off to the side.  Janet wonders how to interpret that as an answer.  

“I tried it with moon water this time.”

“Moon water?”

“You know.”  Deja wiggles her fingers, indicating: witch shit.  “You leave a bowl of water out open in the light of the full moon, bring it inside before the sun can touch it, and then it's all chock full of moon essence or whatever.  Used to know a chick who made soap with it.”

“Soap?”

“Soap.”

“Shit.”

Another beat.

“So it oughta be good, right?”

Janet opens the bottle and sniffs it, tentatively.  “What do you get if you leave, like, a thing of blood out in the moonlight instead of water?”

Deja grins, and the grow-lights turn her teeth fuschia.  “Flies.”

[writedisaster]

@scxrytxles says:

"I am the son of an asshole." - Lewis to whoever is funniest.

[ AtD V1 starters | accepting! ]

“… Okay?” Janet pulls her bubblegum into a long pink string, then snaps it back into her mouth. “Is it, like, always hereditary?”

[writedisaster]

vamptober day 13: We Gather Here Tonight

        Janet’s never officiated a funeral before.  Duh.  She’s not a priest or anything.  There probably is a kindred priest somewhere, living his absolute worst unlife, but she’s never met him.  And it’s not like they could go to a kine priest with this particular request, so.

        She goes over her notecards again.  The words all sound so trite, so meaningless.  How could she ever put this into words?  She sighs, tucks the cards into the front pocket of her jeans, and heads out of the tent to face the mourners.

        In preparation for the ceremonies, she’d borrowed incense from one of the fire-eaters.  It smells like grape kool-aid, but it adds an important element to the ritual of the thing.  Barney, already waiting by the makeshift dias, offers her a light.  Solemnly, she lights it and places it in the holder in front of the polyester-lined shoebox serving as casket tonight.

        Clearing her throat, she turns to the straggly crowd.  “Dearly beloved,”  she starts, which sounds fake as hell.  “Guys,”  she tries again, which is also bad, and then settles on “Squad,” which draws nods from the audience.  She clutches the notecards and presses onwards.

        “We’re here tonight to celebrate the life of the one and only Blood Roach.”  Someone in the audience lets out a wail.  Janet pauses for a moment, but when the sobber shows no sign of letting up, she continues her speech more loudly.

        “When I first met Blood Roach, I was just an anxious, uncertain fledgling, and she was just a cockroach living in my trailer.  Over the too-brief time we had together, I became the brujah you see before you tonight, and Blood Roach became a friend, companion, team mascot, and truly fucked-up creature.”

        Choking up, she hands the notecards to Barney, who continues bravely.

        “I think we’re burying a piece of all of us with Blood Roach tonight,”  he reads aloud.  “Literally, because we all fed her our blood to see what would happen to a cockroach that ate vitae.  Which was cool.   But also... metaphorically.  Because of how much she meant to us.”

        “To all of us,”  Janet continues.  One or two voices in the crowd shout agreement.  “Blood Roach’s soul may have departed.  She may have been 'a threat to the masquerade’ or 'some kind of fucking abomination’ or 'an insect, guys, come on,’ but as long as we remember her... as long as we unlive our unlives in her honor... Blood Roach will continue to bring us together, to remind us of the joy in the world, and to stand as a shining example for freaks everywhere.”

[writedisaster]

vamptober day 6: The Monster in Me

        Janet is a pacifist.  Which is to say, she was raised as a pacifist, which is to say she wants to be a pacifist, which is to say she didn’t mean to hurt the man in the green room.

        It’s not that she likes him, not that she knew him, not that she would have liked him even if she’d known him.  He’s just another fucking creep, the sort that always turn up when Kizzie’s around.  Cleverer than most, or he wouldn’t have found a way into the green room before the show.  Worse than most, maybe, or he wouldn’t have tried.  It’s not that she likes him.

        But she didn’t mean to do this to him, either.  He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, said the wrong thing to the wrong woman, but mainly?  Mainly, she’d just been angry.

        “Hey, hey.”  And then Kizzie is there, stepping over the limp form Janet’s kneeling next to.  Her hair is a halo in the dingy bar light, bottle-blonde angel of mercy, and Janet looks up and up and almost weeps for the sight of her.  “Hey, Nettles, it’s alright. It’s alright.  Look at me.  Good.  It’s alright.”

        Her hands come to rest on Janet’s shoulders, and the whole world is her, her vinyl skirt, her perfume. “I’ll get the openers to stall.  You and Deja take him out to the dumpster.  It’s alright, baby, it’s all gonna be alright.”

        Kizzie bends down to kiss Janet’s forehead, and when she pulls back, her lips are dark.  “Leave the blood on your face,” she whispers. “It’ll look great for the show.”

[writedisaster]

cont. with @canonfoddcr from here

He laughs, shrugging.

"Nahh- you think so?" Barney brings a hand up to the back of his head and scratches the back of his neck, at an itch right between a purple star and a blue flower. "I guess you're right- the world needs laughter or whatever it is Leonard Nimoy said in that one Simpsons episode."

        “Barney...”  Janet places both hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eyes.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But that doesn’t matter.  What matters is you, Barney, are more than just a damn fine clown.  You are a friend.  A brother.  A tiny little raccoon doing your best in a big scary world. A... a friend.  I don’t know.  I’m high.”

[writedisaster]

open to mutuals!

        “Pancetta... avocado...”  Janet exhales a cloud of blueberry-muffin-scented vapor.  She can’t taste it, no, but sometimes she takes a petty satisfaction in knowing no one else can, either.  “Some things just wanna stick together, even after they’ve been, like, totally severed.”

        She takes another hit off her vape, lost in thought.  “Dude, do you think I should call my parents?”

[writedisaster]

vampvember day 6:  Undead Love

        She still uses her old voice when she talks to her parents.  It feels like lying, but then, it’s not like she has any rule against that.  Maybe soon, mom, she says when mom asks about visiting, it’s so hard to get time off at my new job.  But it’s going well, you know?  She plays with the cord of the payphone, feeling each metal rib click under her claws.  Yeah, she says, yeah, it’s going well.  Her dad asks if she’s been eating well, and she has to bite the sleeve of her hoodie to keep from laughing out loud on the line.  The ache at the corners of her eyes isn’t tears, not anymore.  One day, she’ll have to stop calling.

        She wonders if by then, they’ll have figured out their son is dead. 

[writedisaster]

@canonfoddcr says:

🍲 for Janet from Mr. The Duke

        Janet would recognize that food truck anywhere.  She’d spotted the sign earlier, across the crowd at the carnival, and made a note to pay a visit as soon as her show was done. Of course, the moment she steps out of her trailer to do so, she sees the Duke’s truck has been reparked in the performers’ area.

        “Uncle!  Hey, uncle!” She waves with her whole arm as she tears over to the truck, grinning.  “How are you?  Where have you been?  I want to hear all about—”

        She cuts off as he puts a steaming plate of okonomiyaki on the counter, fixed just the way she likes it.  “Oh my god.  You’ve been practicing.”

[  the good food  |  literally SO accepting!  ]

[writedisaster]

@canonfoddcr says:

❝ I may need you to do something for me later on today. Now, you’re gonna hate that I’m asking this, but park it in the back of your head, and if I ask you, then do it out of love. ❞ from Barney

        “Oh-kayyy...”  Janet squints at Barney.  “You know I’m totally in your corner, my dude my man, but I am not digging the suspense.  What do you need?  Can I get that info, like, now?”

[  c.0. starters  |  accepting!  ]

[writedisaster]

open to mutuals!

        “Hiya, YouTube!  Welcome to my livestream!”  Janet smiles at the camera, throwing up a peace sign and striking a pose. “Today, I’m doing something that a lot of you have asked for- that’s right!”  She pulls a large, battered paperback into view of the camera.

        “My Atlas Shrugged book review,”  she announces proudly, showing the cover off for the viewers at home.  A pause; she keeps staring at the camera.  Keeps smiling.  Beat.

        And then, still smiling, she lifts the book higher and takes a single, dramatic chomp out of the corner.  Her incisors glide through all 1000+ pages like she's biting into an ice cream cake instead of the defining work of objectivism.  She chews, still staring into the camera.

        “Okay, booktubers, I gotta be honest with you.”  She swallows, throat bobbing as the mouthful goes down.  “This thing tastes like fuckin’ shit.”