#'violent hatred' is too far and that particular person needs to take a deep breath and go for a walk maybe but it is. very frustrating.

[lighthouseborna]

the worst someone can do if you suggest a plot they don't like while plotting is. say no. or i guess ghost you but that's still them saying "no" if you think about it. but anyway say your idea when plotting. it is more frustrating to be met with what looks like ambivalence than to toss ideas that don't work around. say the idea, that's what plotting is for. you're trying to find something fun for both of you. "whatever you want!" feels like i've cornered someone into something they don't want, or don't care about, and traps both people in a feeling of obligation.

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

what about an Archie ronnie sickfic, maybe where she refuses to admit she's sick and Archie tries really hard to be a good bf?

(Hey!! So I don’t really ship Archieronnie, because I ship v with girls and qp jarchie, but tbh they’re quite cute in the show?? They’re quite healthy and sweet?? So since I’m not sure where I stand take some pre varchie as a compromise! Hope that’s ok! Also really short because i hit a block again lol)

If Archie Andrews knew anything about Veronica Lodge, it was that she was one stubborn girl.

The raven haired princess had only walked into his life less than a year ago, but it felt like much longer, because she had already set her mark on him and his friends. There was nothing foreign about her anymore, and it was like she had always been there.

Archie felt like he knew a lot about Veronica already. All her little quirks and how she thought and what she stood for. But there was still a mystery to her. Archie wasn’t always sure what she thought. Or her full history. She had lived such a big life compared to his small one, he could never truly comprehend how that might feel like.

But Archie liked what he saw, and he was ready to like what else would come at him. He wasn’t quite sure what that would be, but one thing Archie Andrews was was that he was determined.

Even if it meant trying to tackle her down when she walked into school coughing.

When she walked down the hall that morning she didn’t have her usual flair and flounce, her stride not quite as finesse or eloquent as it usually was.

She walked with a slight drag, her steps not quite as confident and bouncy and more slow and rooted to the earth beneath her. Her smile wasn’t quite as dashing and charming, because there wasn’t one at all.

Veronica was wearing a oversized (but still stylish and chic in a way only Veronica lodge could do) knitted sweater and jeans, when Veronica only ever wore dresses and skirts. Her makeup was kept to a minimum and she was a shade or two lighter, her healthy, glowing tan washed out. She didn’t even wear her killer high heels. Archie thought she still looked pretty damn great, but he knew something was up.

“Ronnie?” Archie called out softly, approaching her at her locker, unable to see her face due to the door blocking her from him. He was careful to keep his voice low in case she had a headache. Being best friends with a dude who had a non existent immune system meant he was pretty good at this kind of stuff.

Veronica jumped slightly, clearly a little dazed and out of it. She quickly shut her locker closed to see who it was, and tired, heavy looking eyes widened when she saw who it was.

“Oh, Archie, hi!” She replied finally, her voice husky and a few semitones lower than it usually was. Her voice was a little flat, and a slight hint of congestion was lacing her words.

Archie raised an eyebrow cautiously, and took note of the concealer rubbed off one side of her nose, revealing reddened, raw skin.

“Hm,” Archie commented.

“What?” Veronica asked, confused, before her face scrunched up into a pre-sneeze expression, her nostrils flaring for a second before she covered her entire face with her hands and turning away to sneeze two harsh but oddly feminine sneezes.

She turned back to Archie like nothing had happened.

“Bless you,” Archie said, almost a little accusingly, a hard time to his voice.

“What’s going on with you?” Veronica said causally to try and throw him off, opening up her locker again and proceeding to take the books she needed for her upcoming classes.

“You’re sick”, Archie accused, squinting as his brow furrowed.

Veronica scoffed, closing her locker to face him with a challenging expression and raised eyebrow, clearly amused with him, “Jesus Archie, you miss taking care of Jughead so much that you have to find a new sickie. Look, I know he doesn’t live with you anymore but be patient, sooner or later he’ll be sick soon and ready for your brotherly love.”

Archie huffed, “This is not about Jughead, Ronnie, this is about you! I see you’re clearly sick, and you need to go home like, right now! Or I will physically drag you home.”

Veronica laughed at him, and Archie couldn’t miss the croaky timbre to her laugh, “Archiekins, you’re just being ridiculous now. Now go off and play some music or football, or whatever it is you do, because I have to go off and get to my history class with Josie.”

She strode off, but not before offering him the sweetest, signature Lodge smile, which was almost convincing enough to get Archie off her back, but it still wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough fire in her eyes, it was a dull spark at most, smothered by the over looming sickness weighing down on her body.

Archie watched as she walked away and faded into the crowd, feeling almost a little alienated from the lack of the sound of the clicking of her heels against the floor. It felt strangely empty. He frowned with concern as she disappeared, and with much hesitation eventually ended up retreating into his classroom although his brain was plagued with the fear that something would happen to Veronica and it would be his fault she had disappeared.

Archie was pretty reckless throughout his science class.

He couldn’t hear anything Mr Callahan was saying, and the class seemed to drag on and on like time was stuck on some strangle loop like he was in a Doctor Strange comic book. It seemed pretty awesome in concept, but in practice, Archie was not at all enjoying this agonising limbo.

It wasn’t like Archie had a particular hatred towards the subject, in fact Archie thought it was an alright subject, and while he didn’t perform in it too well, he did like to learn about it. The test part though, could fuck off in a ditch somewhere far away. But today he hated nothing more than this class.

It was the worry settling in his stomach, constantly probing his brain with panic inducing thoughts and prodding it with more absurd notions that logically he knew was impossible, but in the moment they felt certain. Archie wondered how Veronica was feeling, if she was okay, and the question wouldn’t stop attacking him and it pierced itself into his head a little deeper as the clock ticked on.

The moment the bell rang he practically jumped out of his seat and yanked the door open, and watched as a sea of students piled out of their classrooms into their next class. Archie searched and searched through this Where’s Waldo Page of a hallway, but couldn’t quite locate his target, the raven haired princess.

With defeat Archie sighed and slumped towards the music room, and opened the door to see Josie frowning and in deep conversation with Valerie.

Archie widened his eyes, “Oh, shit, sorry, am I interrupting? I can leave–”

Josie offered him a smile and shook her head, “You’re alright, Yoko Ono, we’re good.”

Archie nodded and took a seat, after grabbing his guitar and beginning to unzip the bag, “I uh..don’t want to push, but is anything up?”

Valerie sighed softly, “Its not world breaking, or anything, but Josie was just saying to me about how sick Veronica was just at history back then.”

Archie’s heart skipped a beat and sank to the ground.

“Yeah, poor girl was shivering her head off. I tried to give her my jacket but poor babe is too stubborn. She couldn’t stop sneezing all class, and each time it would get more..sick sounding? Poor baby should just go home..I tried to get her to go home but–”

“Josie, where is she now?”

“She’s off to Vixen Practice now, I think–”

“Okay, thank you so much, but i have to go!” Archie said hurriedly as he rezipped his guitar and shoved it back against a stand and jumped to his feet, and zoomed away like a sonic the hedgehog game he used to play when he was little.

Josie smirked, exchanging a glance with Valerie,“ Pureheart the Powerful, he is.”

Veronica wrapped her arms around herself and shivered violently, her legs trembling and causing the seat to rattle slightly, a very quiet and dull shaking noise being produced as a result. Her hands shook, unable to properly take down her history notes and all discussions about whatever world war was being discussed seemed to blend into this hideous mess of a blur.

Veronica let out a breathy exhale, reaching her pen and wanting to scream at how ice cold her hands were, and tried to etch something out onto her notebook but all that came out were unreadable scribbles and chicken scratch. She sighed deeply, until a tickle in her nose made her breath hitch embarrassingly loudly as her nose twitched and caught the sneeze in her cupped hands.

She sneezed two harsh, heavy sneezes that caused her to bend over with the sheer force of them. She couldn’t respond to the multiple bless you’s she received because another tickle in her nose made her nostrils start to flare again, as she gasped for breath and fell into yet another monstrous release of sneezes that ripped out of her with a loud, harsh sound.

Any feminine or delicate timbre that might have been lightly laced in the sound of her sneezes were completely lost by a sickly sounding, desperate, and almost masculine sound. She felt miserable.

Suddenly a piece of cloth was being prodded against her, Veronica whipped around to face this person, nose puffed up and pink, eyes teary and nostrils still lightly twitching in a sneezy haze.

“Hey girl, you should take this,” Josie said softly.

Veronica refused politely, until she was forced back into a tortuous pre-sneeze limbo where she was just on the verge of another sneeze, just teetering on the edge but stuck, causing her breath to hitch endlessly and nose to twitch.

Then suddenly a tissue box was being thrust upon her desk by her teacher., not so kindly, in a way that made her feel heavy and ashamed of herself. She felt awful, not just by the sickened state of her body but the shame and self loathing thoughts that began to crawl into her brain and infest it. A mental block creeped in as she subconsciously began to retreat into herself.

But with a high pitched gasp Veronica buried her swollen, tickling nose into the soft tissue and began a fit of 7 loud, desperate and ticklish sneezes with only a short amount of space in between them, causing all eyes to drift towards her. Veronica went bright red with embarrassment and she wished with everything she had she could just stop but her nose was saying otherwise.

Once she finished she quietly blew her nose, looking away and refusing to make eye contact. She felt so ashamed through this feverish haze, even with Josie’s kind eyes practically yelling at her that it was okay.

When the bell rang she rushed out of there and coughed her way out, biting her lip hard and tried to fight the tears that threatened to spill had she stayed a second longer.

Veronica was freezing in her River Vixen outfit, unable to stop the coughs that ripped out out of her and scraped against her inflamed throat. She coughed violently as she made her way inside the gym, only to be met by concerned eyes of her fellow vixens.

Ginger frowned at her with concern, “Did you get what Betty had?”

Veronica shook her head, “No, I didn’t, I’m fine.”

Tina’s eyes flooded with worry, “V, if Betty is still out with it and it’s been 2 days, I bet that you should most definitely be in bed right now. You don’t look very well.”

“Well, I’m doing just fine fine!” Veronica snapped before her nostrils began to flare and she tried to hide her nose with a cupped hand. She began to wave the air in front of her face, attempting to stifle the first two sneezes but the tickle was too forceful to conceal them, so was forced to let them out, doubling over to sneeze two high pitched, ticklish and desperate sneezes towards the floor.

“Veronica, as much as I enjoy our fire and ice battle we have going on, I do have to agree, and I would not be opposed to a ceasefire for the time being. After all, it is unfair for me to win with such an advantage,” Cheryl said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible but Veronica couldn’t miss the worried glint in her eyes.

“I am fine, Cheryl, now lets start with this dance, okay?” Veronica insisted, pushing them aside and stretched out.

Cheryl exchanged a look with one of the girls, but turned on the music. Then the dancing started.

And that was when she broke.

The twirls and turns and the leaps and the pyramids were too much for her. Veronica could feel her body overheat and scream at her for mercy, and her head spun around and she felt incredibly dizzy and everything was too much. Veronica couldn’t catch her breath, her lungs heavy and congested and then she found herself coughing her lungs out, bent over by the power and slowly descending onto the floor as the world began to tilt.

“Veronica!” Cheryl yelled in panic.

And then Archie came swooping into the doors, eyes scanning the area until he met his objective. Then like a knight in shining armour he ran for her, catching her in his arms, and he world steadied itself.

“Ronnie?!”

“Fine,” She choked out.

“You’re really not!” Archie said frantically as he hauled one of her arms around his shoulders and began to walk her towards the nurses office.

“Jesus, Ronnie, you really scared me,” Archie said breathlessly, still clearly in shock, looking over her from a chair next to one of the beds in the nurse’s office.

“Hm, is a world without me really so bleak, Archiekins?” Veronica teased, her voice still croaky.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night Ronnie.”

She giggled at that.

“But seriously, you can’t do that,” Archie said, more seriously now.

“What?”

“This. Trying to be strong all the time when you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, it’s all I have.”

Archie froze, “Ronnie…it’s not. You don’t have to do this all the time..”

His eyes were so kind.

“..It’s the only way I feel like I have control..I feel..so weak all the time at home, and inside.. I always feel belittled somehow, like I’m not in on a joke everyone else is. I feel so isolated all the time, like..I have no control of anything. I don’t think I’m strong enough. This is the only way I feel like I have a grip on anything, something I can hold on to and hold steady. Like an anchor. This ..false belief of pretending like I’m something, but I’m not. I’m just Veronica.”

Archie smiled softly, “You’re not alone. Ever since Jughead moved out I..I feel kind of..empty. Because he was my anchor, he still is, but..he’s not there at 3 am in the morning when I can’t sleep because I’m thinking too much anymore. I feel like we’re a duo, you know? Sun and Moon. And he’s so..far away now. And he’s floating away from me and I’m losing my grip. Slipping away. I just..want something to hold onto and keep me steady too.”

Veronica smiled softly, quickly wiping away the tears in her eyes, “We’re both incredibly fucked up, Archie Andrews.”

He chuckled at that.

“And for what it’s worth..I really do like ‘Just Veronica’.”

And like this she feels that bit closer.

[imaginebnhavillains]

Scarlet Camellia Petals [Hanahaki AU - Shigaraki Tomura]

Don’t worry, everyone! I haven’t forgotten about the 100 followers special! It will be written with the winning character and scenario soon. 

I just started writing this drabble because I’d had a rough day and I really wanted to indulge in something I had a few ideas for already, so I hope you guys enjoy my first attempt at writing a scenario! I hope nobody seems too OOC :’^0 

Warning: there is mention of self-harm, so read at your own risk. Also, since it’s pretty long, I’m also going to put most of it under a cut. 

Also... try looking up the meaning of red camellia petals in hanakotoba. I chose them for a reason ;^) 

-Admin Shigaraki 

Shigaraki Tomura distinctly remembered the first day that they walked into the League of Villains headquarters. He was absentmindedly swirling his drink, watching the ice cubes slowly spin in a circle when he heard Kurogiri call to him, saying someone had come to talk about joining the League. When he turned to look at the door, he saw them for the first time. They didn’t look like a villain at first glance, but upon closer examination Tomura could tell that they were serious about joining merely from the expression on their face.

“Why do you want to join the League of Villains?” he asked bluntly. There was no point in saying it any other way, with any eloquent speech; he could tell he didn’t have to convince them that they should join. It was clear in their eyes that they wanted to be there already.

Their response was firm and without any hesitation. “I just want to show the heroes that this League can’t be ignored.” It was a vague answer, but for some reason, it caught Tomura’s interest. Such determination, he thought, could be put to very good use within the League. Plus, this was one of the first people who had come to him willingly without babbling about the ideology of the Hero Killer.

Maybe I unlocked a new, less annoying type of character, he thought to himself as he contemplated what to say in reply to their statement. Finally, he decided on a simple, “You can join,” thoroughly surprising Kurogiri.

He was far too used to Tomura behaving poorly around visitors, so seeing this newcomer gain acceptance without a single bickering remark from Tomura was baffling to Kurogiri. Tomura could tell this was what Kurogiri was thinking, too—it showed in his glowing, yellow eyes, which had widened slightly the moment the newcomer was accepted.

Once they’d gone on their way, now a new member of the League, Tomura found himself briefly thinking about them. As he sat there, staring down at the half-melted ice in his glass, he wondered to himself why he was so interested in this new recruit. It already didn’t feel right.

A few months had passed, and Tomura found himself eternally frustrated with the bizarre emotions that welled up in his chest each time he saw them. An obnoxious, distracting flutter in his heart was the last thing he wanted to deal with while he worked on destroying the Symbol of Peace, and because of it, he wholeheartedly convinced himself that he hated them. Rather, that’s what he told himself.

He knew deep down that it wasn’t true. They had him trapped, stuck on an emotional level that he couldn’t seem to win under any circumstances. It was a horribly frustrating game, so he chose to try and put it down. But he was addicted, and Tomura found that he couldn’t stop trying to figure out why they unintentionally messed with his feelings like that. He didn’t hate them. He hated the feelings he harbored.

On this particular day, however, Tomura realized that he hated those feelings a thousand times more than he had previously. It was all because of that damn bastard with the burns. Dabi. Hell, Tomura couldn’t stand his horrid manners, and now there was yet another reason for him to hate his guts. He wouldn’t leave them alone.

“Say, (name),” Dabi said, glancing over at them. “Do you want to come over to my place tonight?”

Tomura couldn’t even hear their response over his spiteful internal monologue. What kind of cheats is he trying to use? Does he think he can steal my treasure? What kind of game does he think this is?! Enraged and anxious, Tomura instinctively began to claw at his neck, staring down at the wooden bar and contemplating just why the hell he’d let Dabi into the League in the first place.

Tomura was snapped from his thoughts when he heard Kurogiri bidding farewell to Dabi and (name), who were standing together at the door. He was thankful for the hand that covered his face whenever he saw Dabi’s arm wrapped around their shoulders, concealing the look of disgust and shock that instantly decorated his features. There’s no way he’s won the game, Tomura thought, clawing violently at his neck. Not so soon. Not when I haven’t even gotten a chance to play.

He realized then, suddenly, that he couldn’t bury those unsettling emotions with hatred. No matter how hard he tried, they were still there. Now, he needed to know what the hell they meant. “Kurogiri,” he muttered, staring up at the plume of dark-colored mist that was his head. “I think my feelings are broken. Something feels off whenever (name) is around.”

A bout of hysterical laughter erupted from Toga, whom Tomura had no idea was still there, and before he had the chance to snap at her to shut up, Kurogiri distracted him with his response. “Has it occurred to you that you may have feelings for them?” Kurogiri suggested, causing Toga to laugh even louder in the background.

“Feelings for them?” Tomura repeated, clawing vigorously at his neck until he felt a trickle of warm blood running down his index finger. “That can’t be it.”

He stood up and cast a sharp glare in the direction of the still-laughing Toga, and in a cold tone, he snapped, “Go home.” At that, he turned and stormed off in silence, slamming the door behind him.

It didn’t take but half an hour for Tomura to begrudgingly accept Kurogiri’s hypothesis. He had feelings for them, and now Tomura found himself growing increasingly anxious not over his own emotions, but theirs. He thought about the feelings that he now knew were directed at his burn-covered subordinate—the feelings that caused them to go home that night with Dabi. As he started to spitefully wonder what that purple-skinned bastard was doing to them, tearing at his now-bloody neck all the while, Tomura felt a painful lump form in his throat.

He irritably snatched his now-warm drink off the table beside his computer and took a sip of it, hoping to wash down the choking feeling that was now distracting him from his anxious pondering. To his distaste, however, whatever was caught in his throat didn’t seem to budge. It was the final straw for Tomura. He squeezed the nearly-empty glass with all five fingers, and for a moment he was satisfied as he watched the glass crack and slowly disintegrate in his hand, falling to the floor in a shower of dust and broken glass.

Just as he was about to resume his angry brooding, however, Tomura was seized by a sudden and violent fit of coughing courtesy of whatever the hell was stuck in his throat. By the time the fit was over, he felt a horrible burning sensation in his windpipe, and it occurred to him that something was stuck to the palm of the hand that had instinctively covered his cough. He pulled his hand away from his face, and to his surprise, he recognized a red flower petal. “What the hell is this…” he muttered, flicking the petal to the floor and staring at the screen of his computer.

Once again, just as he was about to start contemplating his hatred for (name) and Dabi’s feelings for one another, Tomura’s body was racked by another coughing fit. This time, after a particularly agonizing few seconds, Tomura discovered an entire flower sitting on his keyboard. It was a mangled red camellia, its petals bent and misshapen from the trip up his throat. The sight of that tattered flower is what drove him to call Kurogiri.

When he finally picked up the phone, Tomura snapped, “Kurogiri, I need your help. Come here now.”

Before Kurogiri could even reply, Tomura tapped the screen on his phone to end the call, tossing it frustratedly across his room onto the bed and letting out an exasperated sigh. A million questions buzzed about in his mind. How could something so bizarre happen to him? Had someone secretly inflicted him with a quirk-based infection? Tomura was completely and utterly perplexed.

Kurogiri arrived right as Tomura was jarred by another round of coughing, and he opened the door just in time to watch a flurry of red petals spew from Tomura’s chapped lips. “Kurogiri,” he croaked, looking over at him with eyes that held a look of angry desperation. “Tell me why the hell I keep coughing up these flowers.”

“You’re… coughing up flowers?” Kurogiri repeated, approaching Tomura and looking at the crumpled petals and lone flower scattered around the desk and floor.

The single red camellia glared back at him, and Kurogiri suddenly remembered an unusual rumor he’d heard once in the distant past.

“Did you know that sometimes, if someone has unrequited feelings for another person, they’ll cough up flowers that grow inside their lungs?”

“Hmm… I think I heard that once… what’s it called again? Hanahaki disease?”

“Yeah, that’s it! I remember that some guy told me his friend died from it… apparently the flowers and branches clogged up his lungs and he just couldn’t breathe anymore.”

“That’s terrible… he should’ve gotten surgery. I hear that some doctors offer it.”

“Don’t they forget the feelings they have, though?”

“Yeah, but I’d say it’s worth it to stay alive…”

“Why am I coughing up flowers, Kurogiri?” Tomura asked impatiently, moving to scratch his scab-covered neck. “Tell me.”

“Well… it may be an obscure disease I heard of once called Hanahaki,” Kurogiri replied apprehensively.

“What does it do? Why do I have it?” demanded Tomura. His eyes flashed with irritation, but deep down he felt a pang of relief at Kurogiri’s knowledge regarding his strange infliction. Perhaps he had a chance of defeating this enemy with relative ease.

Kurogiri took a deep breath before continuing. “Apparently, it’s a disease that causes flowers to grow in your lungs which stems from unrequited love,” he said.

“Unrequited love?” Tomura asked in agitation, unable to stop himself from coughing up another couple of tattered scarlet petals. “That can’t be—“

Tomura stopped abruptly as he remembered the anger and anxiety he felt earlier when Dabi and (name) left together. Instantly, his nails began to rake aggressively against the fresh scabs on his neck, and it took only a few tears at them to cause blood to begin welling up again. “There’s a way to cure it, though,” Kurogiri continued, hoping that it would distract Tomura from his anxious scratching.

Sure enough, Tomura looked up instantly and allowed his hands to fall away from his bleeding neck. “How?” he inquired, holding back the cough that was rising in his throat.

“There’s a surgery that some doctors offer, but it causes your feelings to disappear,” Kurogiri responded calmly. “I think it would be the best course of action, since this disease could cause trouble for you while you take care of the League of Villains. I can help find a doctor that will operate on you—”

“No.” Tomura interrupted forcefully, narrowing his eyes and opening his mouth to speak again, only to hack up another few camellia petals. Hoarsely, he continued, “I want to win the game that I’ve started in pursuit of (name).”

Kurogiri seemed reluctant to let Tomura have his way, but he eventually caved, allowing the man to keep the flowers that he knew could eventually kill him.

When (name) went to visit the League of Villains headquarters, they didn’t expect to discover the barstools empty, Kurogiri standing behind the counter and looking through the bottles on the wall. They watched for a moment, unsure of what to say until Kurogiri glanced up and said, “(Name), good timing. Come sit down.”

Despite his calm, polite demeanor, Kurogiri seemed to be a bit anxious. It threw them off—why was he stressed? Had something happened? (Name) wasn’t quite sure how to ask, but they received their answer before they could say a word. “Shigaraki is in emergency surgery at a hospital nearby,” he said, turning back to the wall of bottles. “I thought you should know.”

“Emergency surgery—?!” (Name) repeated as a wave of shock and fear washed over them. “What happened to him? Is he going to be okay?”

“I’m not sure if he’ll be okay. He’s had Hanahaki disease for three months,” Kurogiri replied quietly. “I told him that he shouldn’t allow it to progress, but he refused to listen to me. I realized now that I shouldn’t have ever let him keep the disease.”

“Hanahaki disease?” (Name) asked, staring at Kurogiri in disbelief. “Isn’t that the disease where someone coughs up flowers because they love someone who doesn’t love them back…? Tomura… is in love with someone—?!”

Kurogiri nodded. “That’s where you come in,” he said, finally turning his full attention to them. “The person that he had feelings for… was you.”

“M-me—?! Wait… was me?!”

All Tomura could see as he lay in the hospital bed was the bright light above his head and tile on the ceiling. For the first time in months, he was able to take a deep breath without feeling a lump in the back of his throat, but something deep inside him felt empty. There was something missing… and he only realized what it was when the door to the room opened, and he slowly looked up to find (Name) standing before him. They looked distraught.

“Tomura, why didn’t you ever say anything—?!” they exclaimed, hurrying over to the side of his bed. “I-I never knew anything…”

Tomura glanced blankly at (Name), his red eyes meeting theirs with a look that was almost completely devoid of feeling. “I didn’t say anything because I already lost the game to Dabi,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter now, though.”

“Then… what Kurogiri said was right…” (Name) whispered, looking at the floor in an effort to hide the pain they felt. “Your feelings for me are gone, aren’t they?”

“It’s as if they weren’t ever there,” Tomura replied. It was true; he couldn’t feel an ounce of the frustrating feelings that had plagued him for months.

(Name) looked back up at him then, and he was surprised to find that they had tears in their eyes. “It was… never like that with Dabi, you know,” they barely managed to choke out. “He and I were only friends.”

Tomura stared at them numbly as they continued, feeling vague shock and frustration beginning to manifest inside him. “And… I-I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, Tomura… I couldn’t ever bring myself to say anything, though, and now—” they choked up, unable to say anything else.

“And now I can’t return those feelings,” Tomura finished for them, a hint of agitation seeping into his voice. He couldn’t for the life of him remember his feelings or why he felt them, but it made him angry that all this time, all the suffering he felt was for nothing.

(Name) nodded, standing up and moving slowly toward the door. “I should go now,” they murmured. “I-I hope you’ll be happier without the feelings that caused all this… and I’m glad you’re okay.”

They were gone before Tomura could say another word. As (Name) walked down the hall, head down and fists clenched, they wished with all their being that they could have mustered up the courage to say something before it was too late. Now, they were left with unreciprocated heartache, and as they walked away from Tomura’s hospital room, they felt a lump beginning to form in the back of their throat.

They suddenly coughed, and to their dismay, a pair of scarlet camellia petals fluttered from between their lips to the cold, white tile floor of the hallway.

[daesungindistress]

@fangirl-2007 replied to your post: jkevldje asked: “Call me crazy but I actually can’t imagine...”

That sounds like a very interesting fanfic prompt

Sorry this reply is so late! I started writing it the day you commented, but then it got put aside in favor of... other things.

So here are a few thoughts (um, more than a few, whoops). Warning for some seriously depressing content behind the cut:

MPD/DID (Multiple Personality Disorder / Dissociative Identity Disorder) typically manifests as a coping mechanism following a traumatic event or continued trauma. For the purposes of this fic idea, I imagine it would manifest in the aftermath of Daesung’s 2011 accident. He took it so hard, struggling under the weight of his guilt and self-loathing until it all became too much. Before he knew it, he’d dissociated to escape it (more on this later).

Though he doesn’t publicly disclose it (of course he doesn’t, only close friends and family know), this is Daesung’s main reason for refusing to create a public social media account for himself. He’d like to for the sake of his fans, sure. But he can’t risk that kind of vulnerability. He’d be throwing himself at the feet of netizens who are quick to cast stones and slow to forgive, trusting them to be merciful and kind. (He knows better than that. It had been one of life’s hard lessons... that the anonymity of the internet brings out the very worst in people, even years later. He won’t go looking for mercy where he knows he’ll find none.)

So what’s the problem? Hateful comments about the accident might bring one of his “alters” (alternate personalities) to the surface at the worst of times.

The rest of Big Bang have become pretty good at this by now-- at knowing who they’re dealing with. Most days it’s Daesung at the wheel. But some days they’re not so sure.

Two of his alters Daesung doesn’t mind much; they function as extensions of himself, their appearance little more than an inconvenience. The one they’ve dubbed Smiling Angel he trusts enough not to land him in any serious trouble. He and Daesung share enough similarities that the switch is subtle and easily overlooked. He’s cheerful and bright and, okay, sometimes a little more sugary than necessary but it’s not bad, all things considered. He comes and goes without incident, leaving in his wake smiles and laughter and warmth. And when he fades into the background once more, stepping aside to trade places with Daesung in a manner that’s surprisingly considerate, most are none the wiser.

Yabai Kang can be a handful. As such, his presence is harder to hide. Because he doesn’t try to hide it. Yabai Kang wants to be seen and appreciated. And yet, for all his claims of being dangerous, he’s harmless enough. His intentions are good-- definitely not pure, no, but good-- and the fans love him. He spices up Daesung’s image, that’s for sure.

So those two are... tolerable. Daesung accepts them as extensions of himself, choosing to view them as different sides of the same coin (not the best analogy because a coin only has two sides, but whatever). He’s learned to live with them, even though relying on others (his bandmates, his manager, etc) to fill in the blank spaces in his memory never really gets any easier.

But there’s one alter in particular he wants-- no, needs-- to avoid more than all the others.

Loser Daesung (they don’t call him that, of course; they don’t know what to call him) doesn’t come out often, but when he does the guys of BB panic a bit-- okay, they panic a lot-- and have to keep an extra close eye on him. Because he has these intense mood swings, fluctuating between deeply depressed and explosively angry. One moment he’s so deep in his head he can’t move, as if trapped in the cage of his mind. In the next the bars are gone and he’s springing at whoever’s nearby, attacking at the slightest provocation.

For the rest of BB, they aren’t sure which is more unnerving: when he’s still and silent as death, eyes open but unseeing, by all appearances an empty shell of a person. Or when he’s flying at one of them in a rage, out of control, out of his mind.

It took some time to understand that when he strikes at them he’s not trying to hurt them. He’s trying to get them to hurt him.

Of all the alters, Loser Daesung was the first to appear... and is arguably the worst. That it had been an accident didn’t matter; Daesung took full responsibility for what he’d done... until he couldn’t take it anymore. Suffocating under the weight of his self-hatred, he’d fled his suffering by separating from himself. Without realizing, he’d balled up his pain and pushed it into his new creation, removing himself from the worst of it.

Loser Daesung scratches at his neck a lot, and when the others ask him about it he says it’s because his scars itch. “What scars?” they ask, spooked. Because Daesung’s neck is attractive, his skin clear and unblemished; there are no scars. But Loser Daesung can’t forget how the rope bit into his neck as it took all his weight and whoops, maybe the scars aren’t on his skin after all; they’re in his head.

Because no matter how real the memory is to him, no attempt was ever actually made. No rope has ever touched his neck. The burden he unwittingly took from Daesung included thoughts of ending it all. In his mind it’s played out many times: dragged down too far, too fast, he’s only acting out what he already feels... strangled, unable to breathe. He carries these dark fantasies with him, keeping them locked away in a dark corner of his mind where the others, including Daesung himself, can’t reach them.

In a way, Daesung is grateful to this alternate for safeguarding something so damaging, even as he feels selfish for unloading it on him. Truth be told, it’s because of him that he’s been able to carry on as he has. Now if only he would stay down.

Imaginary or not, the “scars” still itch, Loser Daesung insists, so he carries on with the scratching, tearing with blunt nails at the skin of his neck until it’s red and inflamed and the others have to force his hands away. They try to keep him occupied in whatever way they can, because there may be more than one of “him” in there but they all share one body. Without supervision he just might self-destruct and take all the others with him. Including Daesung.

Distraction doesn’t always work. Sometimes Loser Daesung gives up completely; Daesung reawakens and finds his hands behind his back, bound, with one of the others nearby to keep an eye on him. Sometimes his legs too. He’s safe, they’ve made sure he’s comfortable enough, he just can’t... move.

He knows why. He keeps his eyes low, afraid to face whoever is attending to him this time. Nothing makes his heart sink more than to see them staring back at him with such concern. Or worse, if he’s been violent: fear, distrust. It’s a long time before he can work up the courage to speak.

As for the rest of BB, they’ve learned to love the alters-- well, most of them-- but none are so dear to them as Daesung. Not Smiling Angel with his million watt smile or Yabai Kang with his sex appeal and daring moves. And certainly not Loser Daesung, who needs some serious help (he’s never around long enough or often enough to attempt any kind of treatment; it tends to be more about managing him until his hold weakens enough that he sinks below again).

They really just want Daesung. Daesung, the boy who joined them more than a decade ago and has been with them every step of the way as the five of them have matured and grown into the nation’s biggest boy band. The Daesung they touched hearts with before the accident, before his “others” came in one by one and began slowly crowding him out.

Yes, they’ve learned to love those others... in more ways than one. There have been times they’ve fallen into bed with Daesung only to learn the next morning that Daesung doesn’t remember any of it. Or he remembers up to a certain point until one of his alters shoved him aside and took over (the culprit? Usually Yabai Kang).

Daesung is understandably frustrated while the others are a bit guilt-ridden. It’s not like it happens often. And sure, sometimes it’s just getting off together. Nothing he can’t stand to miss. It’s not all that different than hooking up after a night of drinking and finding gaps in his memory the next day.

But there’s more to it than the missing memories. It’s the helplessness of being a passenger in his own body. At least the decision to drink, dance, and get down with the others in BB is his. The decision to hand over the reins at random to these strangers residing inside his head? (Strangers? Is that what they are? Whatever happened to “extensions of himself”?)

It’s beyond his control, the switching, and there are times when his own powerlessness gets to him. Forget acceptance; hello, resentment. He doesn’t want to share his consciousness, or his body-- or hell, his life-- with these people. And what about his bandmates? He swallows the disappointment and humiliation and wonders, can’t they tell the difference? Or do they just not care?

The angst! I should probably stop there. lol

I may be taking waaaay too many liberties with this. Additional research would be required for the sake of realism. I’m all for claiming creative license but there’s a certain balance to maintain...

Anyway, I don’t make a habit of sharing notes or plans for things I truly intend to write. It’s partly because I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up when most likely nothing will come of it, and partly because I’m oddly self-conscious about letting people see the early stages of my process. Things change a lot along the way. Even after all I’ve written here, there are currently no plans for this to become finished fic. But I won’t close the door on it completely. How about I just... add it to the pile.

[republicstandard]

I want YOU to take Responsibility for our European Future

I know that you have noticed it. I know that that you know. I know that even if you tell yourself that it is a good thing, you know that our countries are changing in fundamental ways.

I believe that the results of these changes will be irreversible. I believe that unless we act, the future is bloody, dark, and will turn men into monsters. Why do I believe this? Well, that depends on you. A lot depends on the answers you have in your heart to the questions I am asking.

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"I wanted to change them, but it's them who have changed me, making me in their own image. The Future used to just be a continuation of the present; with all the changes looming far beyond the horizon. Now the Future and Present are One. Are they ready for it?" ~ Pisatel, Stalker. (1979)

In a few short decades, European people will begin to become ethnic minorities in their homelands. This process will be the end of White Europeans as a race. There are many among us who think this is fine, that when people live in a particular place they become citizens of that place with all the values and beliefs that entails. This is a lie. This is a lie that our leaders have told us for years because their failing economic system demands constant cheap labor to sustain itself. This is a lie that has been perpetuated in our schools, universities, newspapers, television and online. There is no escape from the lie of multiculturalism, though no-one can say what it is truly for, or why we will be better off becoming an ethnic minority.

Friends! Muggings! Stabbings! Acid attacks! Assaults! FGM! Murders! Terrorism! All created by Tory Austerity! But, of course, as Our Sadiq says, all these things - which, in any case, are all Far-Right LIES spread by Trump - are just 'part and parcel of living in a big city.' pic.twitter.com/CKLQaAjWJ9

— Sir Leftski Clifton-Edge (@SupportOurLefty) March 22, 2018

Some say being The Great Replacement is a just reward for colonialism. Some say White people are all racist. Some say that non-Whites can never be racist. Some say that Whiteness is toxic and that equality means group-interest for everyone except Whites. Some say that it is a privilege to be White. I disagree.

"I was born an activist. Silence is Violence. If you are silent, you are, in your way, being violent. You are contributing to that violence as it's happening," Alicia Keys

The fundamental problem we face as communities, cultures, and nations of broadly European natures- that is all anglophone nations, all European nations- is that we do not recognize ourselves in the mirror. Like a dog, we look in the mirror and do not recognize ourselves. We do not consider race as part of our make-up. We think we are French, Italian, Danish, American, English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, German. But I ask you- What are those names? What are they based upon? What do they mean? Is it really just a document given to you by the government, when we know there are distinct cultures that are produced by distinct ethnic European groups?

In a way, the Leftists are accurate in their belief that there is something racist about not seeing race. While you might tell yourselves that treating others without consideration for race is treating others fairly, in fact, what you are doing is denying the truth that people of other races recognize as easily as breathing.

A lot more than you sweetie. And where are their parents? Drunk? In a gutter? In prison? Down the pub? Get real

— Mike Graham 🍾 (@Iromg) March 21, 2018

Everyone knows you are a White person. Non-White people definitely treat you as a White person. It is you alone who denies your identity.

So, what does that mean, to have a White identity? On the surface, nothing much changes. Your life will continue as it always has. You will not turn into a racist- I promise! It is a little thing that should in no way affect how you treat your fellow man, in fact- the very idea that recognizing the differences between humans makes one a supremacist is insulting to all humans. If the political left is to be believed, the same civilization that ended slavery and went to the moon will crumble to dust if Europeans acknowledge that people from different cultures behave in noticeably different ways. Europeans, as has been proven in many nations over the last seventy years, are a highly tolerant and welcoming people. Can any other people claim the same exalted heights of equality among mankind?

As an immigrant growing up on a SE London council estate going to a grammar school - I joined the only party with the vision to help someone like me get on in life - @Conservatives Sorry to disappoint you pal but this immigrant is not going to fit in to your Leftist tick box... pic.twitter.com/Him1LpBnsN

— Amandeep SinghBhogal (@AmandeepBhogal) March 21, 2018

Despite our attempts to create a purely civic society, race comes into play with great force when you think in demographic terms on a civilizational scale. this may be hard for you to imagine after decades of individualistic operant conditioning. You can feel it when I ask you these questions, the resistance in your mind to looking deep within yourself. If you feel uncomfortable thinking about the answers you have, you should ask yourself- why? Does your mind race to find excuses? Rather than answer, will you instead call me names, or close this browser window in disgust? Why do you suppose that is?

Do you want a better future for your children and grandchildren than the one you had? What does that look like, in your heart? Imagine it for me. Tell me what that is. Say it aloud.

Does it look like Cologne at New Year's Eve? Does it look like Johannesburg? Does it look like Tower Hamlets? Does it look like Chicago or Detroit?

Does it look like an Islamic State?

Going after grooming gangs is too much trouble but we will arrest the fathers of the young girls being groomed for trying to save their dignity. #Priorities pic.twitter.com/At3a2l14za

— Orwell & Goode 🇨🇱 (@OrwellNGoode) March 21, 2018

In a little over a century, Germany has been defeated in war twice yet neither war destroyed all Germans.

Our children might see that reality come to pass. In a century, the United States has led the world into a new era of prosperity and may still lose it all to demographic change. In a little less than a century, Great Britain has fallen from leading the World to seeing a million of her daughters stolen, raped and impregnated by her former subjects. In a century, France has stumbled to her knees, from the land of the highest enlightenment to seeing Muslims and Communists occupying the Basilica of Saint-Denis. The House of God and tombs of kings being treated in this way may not upset you, we are a secular people these days, but this is the least of the problems France faces today. The few places on Earth where mankind can truly express themselves freely are becoming censorious police states, run by crooks who look at the issues brought about by immigration and decide they are problems with which the next generation must contend, not ours. Not right now.

You may think online you are anonymous, you can create fake profiles and no-one can trace you. That’s wrong! The messages you type and send can be traced back to you. The same laws apply to online messages, images and videos. What you post now can affect you later in life.

— Police Scotland (@policescotland) March 21, 2018

"A shared hatred of the West is what conjoins the Left and Islam, their coercive and collectivist ideologies at odds with the Western philosophy of individualism." John Q. Publus

Does this look like the future you want for your children? Does this look like the present you want?

You need to take responsibility, not just for yourself and your family but for the truth. The truth is that unless Europeans become organized and educated about the very simple consequence of The Great Replacement, there will be no Europeans. There will be little of Europe left that you would recognize; outside perhaps Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic.

You need to realize that there is no Europe without Europeans. That means that yes, it is okay to be White. Your ethnicity is just as valid as anyone else's- if we are not racists, how can it be any different? To recognize that is in the interest of yourself, your family and your country, not to mention the ethnic minorities in Western countries who benefit from the rights Europeans extend to all mankind.

You need to recognize that people who tell you that Europeans are a unique people with the right to exist are not racists. The racist is the one who tells you that your blood is evil, that you are a colonizer, that your existence is a cancer that is oppressing other races. Recognize it. Recognize that without you, there is no Europe. There is no America. There is nothing.

"The worst evil is not to commit crimes, but to fail to do the good one might have done." -  Léon Bloy

Is it okay for Japanese people to have their own country? Is it okay for the Maoris to live in New Zealand? Is it okay for people to live in peace among their own kind? If it is okay for Africa to be Black- well, I think you see where I am going. If we can agree that there are rights to land that are contingent on ethnicity -this is after all what so much of the talk about decolonization is about- then Europeans must also have this right to self determination.

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Do you want European people to continue to have countries of their own, or not?

Can you in good conscience answer this question with "No"? I hope not. I hope you are more honest with yourself than I was for most of my life. Yes my friend, I was a leftist myself for something like twenty years. I denied it all, as you deny it today. I was hooked on the religion of progressive politics and denied reality too, secure in the knowledge that my atheistic reality would not change as the world changed around me.

This Nation has already changed drastically. But unless you make a conscious decision to stand up & say ENOUGH, then it will change beyond all recognition. Demographically, Culturally, We will cease to exist. Make you or ancestors proud & your descendants humble.

— Scott Anthony 🇬🇧 (@Politikking) March 22, 2018

If you do want to leave something after you die; if our lives have any meaning at all, if our culture has any greatness left- it is time to talk. Talk to your family and friends about these questions. Find your answers. There are some things that will not go away, even if you wish it with all your heart.

The fight for the future has already begun.

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