#Tw: brief mention of death

[system-hottakes]

Not a serious hot take, but the endoskeletons from 2014 indie horror franchise Five Nights At Freddy's are the only endos I support

-- Umbrella

lmao, same. the only endos I support are Fnaf endos, because at least they're honest when they try kill me

[beranibear]

Bindi, my sweet potato of nearly 13 years passed away a few weeks ago. She was my assistance dog of 8 years and my world.

So here is my tribute to her always happy attitude. She would get happy and wag her tail even if you just looked at her. I wanted to make sure even if she isn’t here physically, that I’d always be able to see her smiling face.

- Tattoo done at Carrot Tattoo Studio in Melbourne

Took about 4 hours to complete. I’ll cherish it forever.

[gaylittlemans]

I am so inexplicably tired and vessel!Dazai has been haunting me so I will info dump about this dumb little AU because I can

This probably will not make sense, will make it seem like I don’t understand his character (who actually does? Besides his creator, obviously. Probably), or won’t have proper grammar but in the world of this shit, he will become a part of my personality if I do not write him down. So!

First, little stuffs about this AU because I can:

Dazai is trans here (FtM) because I kin him inexplicably and so am I, but he doesn’t experience that much gender dysphoria (mostly because he feels just a little disconnected from his body) and honestly what is the point of worrying about what body you have when the embodiment of the allure of death is currently using your body as her host? Exactly. There isn’t one. Also because I want to give this man a break on hating himself.

Basically everything about this AU is the exact same as the original, but Dazai is the vessel of a god, similarly to Chuuya. Some people do know about the whole kinda being a god thing, but not everyone. When he was Demon Prodigy, Mori kept and convinced Dazai to keep the vessel thing mostly a secret because it was better to keep as much information about him shrouded in mystery and basically make speaking his title mean the invitation of death, rather than let Dazai go and murder everyone as a vessel. I will sort of expand on this later. Probably.

Chuuya still has Arahabaki. He gets called ‘Baki’ in the rare times his name is mentioned in their world because I refuse to respect the god of destruction (Dazai started calling Arahabaki ‘Baki’ and Chuuya eventually found himself calling him that too). Dazai’s possessor’s ‘Machiko’, but might sometimes be called ‘Chiko’ or some other nickname instead.

Dazai is just slightly cannibalistic.

I ship Soukoku, which will probably be obvious by the way I write them. Neither revolves around the other, but they are both permanently drawn to one another.

Dazai struggles with skin picking in this au because he kinda craves the taste of blood thanks to Chiko so he does care a little bit more about his hygiene in this au so he doesn’t have anything to pick. His hands are very soft in his world. My man is moisturized 😚

So, Dazai.

He’s around seven years old. His life has been nothing but dehumanizing and cruel and cold. He’s being raised in a neighborhood of rich assholes who think they’re all better than one another because of meaningless, materialistic means. (Death will claim all of them in the end, so it doesn’t matter what they do, anyhow. He won’t say anything about them, though. If they need to hide from Her gaze, he won’t judge.) His parents are controlling and overbearing and want him to grow up to be some rich asshole’s trophy wife. He doesn’t want that to happen, but his body will not let him say anything to disappoint them. He can’t afford their ire; he’s seen what they do to people who think they can and the least he can say is that it looks painful.

He’s been raised by nannies and caretakers his entire life thus far and some of them were nice, but most of them just followed his parents orders to make him behave.

Modest, pretty, demure.

Modest, pretty, demure.

Those were the most important things for a little girl his age to learn. Of course. He is nothing, he is not human, if he doesn’t behave. If he doesn’t act modestly and polite. If the boys in the neighborhood tug on his skirt, he is to hold it still so they cannot expose him. If the girls in his private school pick on him for his doe eyes and thousand yard stare, he is to be reserved and accept their insults graciously and not respond to their taunts.

He is a monster if he raises his voice, or disobeys his parents or caretakers or teachers, or acts out of line—acts like a child. His purpose of being brought into the world is to grow up to serve his future husband and children and be pretty.

So he kills them.

The voice of death herself whispers in his ears at night, when the moon is full and bright, that they do not deserve their gifts, they do not deserve their gifts of breath and life.

So he takes them away like she says to.

He stands in the woods beyond the gated mansions in a white, blood splattered nightgown and a pair of what are probably Mary Jane’s, but he’s not for certain and white, just as blood splattered, socks. He doesn’t remember much of what he did, but he does not mind. The cool night, late summer breeze reaches his skin through the minuscule layers he wears. He has always run cold, kind of like what you would expect a corpse to feel like (they’re actually room temperature), and has yet to build the habit of halfway mummifying himself. Bad circulation, doctors had told him. How fun.

Here is where he sees her for the first time, the woman—the God—who changes his life forever, with the handle of one of his father’s expensive kitchen knives grasped in his right hand as the left toys with the seam of his dress. She’s beautiful. She speaks to him, but he does not remember all of what she says. He remembers “Machiko”. It must be her name. He also remembers her permitting him to call her a nickname, as he’s young and he deserves to choose what he calls his friend.

Chiko offers him her hand and Dazai’s left hand goes numb. As if puppeteered, he moves to take her hand and she smiles at him. For only the second or so time in his life, he feels warm.

Dazai learns a lot from her. He would kill without her influence, but she tells him to embrace death and its endless, inescapable dance and he does.

Perhaps too much.

Mori Ougai was a man, a doctor, whom was highly praised by rich folks he’d grown up around (and consequently been raised by after the murder of his parents). He had met the man before, who had said he was interesting and reminded him of himself. In his adulthood, Dazai was ashamed to have felt pride at the fact Mori found him intriguing, or that the man saw himself reflected in the shattered, blank soul of his.

At fourteen, his adoptive parents rushed him to the doctor another attempt at death. He woke up, hazy and exhausted, and strapped to a bed with an oxygen mask, IV in his arm, and a heart monitor. Machiko screamed at him, for his safety and his body, to not listen to the man in the white coat who offered him a reason to live, a purpose to life outside of being a vessel. Just like he’d subconsciously been searching for.

He did not listen to her.

Dazai would say he was built to be a mafioso. And it was easy enough to sever ties with his adoptive family—they weren’t too attached, anyways—and old life.

When he was fifteen years old, he met the most annoying person on earth; Chuuya Nakahara.

Every move the boy makes is so completely full of life and energy. Dazai would say he was envious, but he was not. Machiko was drawn to the boy, though, or—as he truly found out—she was drawn to Arahabaki. Death and destruction go hand in hand, he supposed. And it seems Dazai wasn’t the only one who felt that pull towards the other.

Boo. Feelings sucked. He wouldn’t say he had a crush on Chuuya, no, never, but he was drawn to the redhead like the pull of gravity said redhead controlled.

But the first time he had seen Corruption, seen the final form of Upon The Tainted Sorrow, Dazai had been mesmerized. For all his wit and bravado, he still had no explanation as to why he found this redheaded slug so enchanting, even seven years later.

Machiko still hailed over him, but she was not his puppeteer. She guided him and attempted to help him through inexplicably human issues, but she did not attempt to forcibly take control of him. If she was in charge of his body, it was entirely because he had allowed her too. He spoke with her on the regular—she was a mentor who hadn’t forced herself into that roll exactly as Mori had.

Machiko was the god of death, yet also the god of allure, of temptation, of beauty, and of yearning. Some called her the moon. Others simply didn’t know of her existence. It didn’t matter to Dazai. His mentor knew how to be merciful, despite the blood and desolation she craved.

Chuuya clearly remembered the day he’d discovered Dazai was also a vessel.

Things had been dangerous and he had still been injured from a mission Mori had sent them out on previously. He had been occupied by a horde of enemies when he’d lost track of Dazai amongst the commotion. Grunts were incapacitated or dead at his feet before he knew it.

Now, he would never admit it, but looking around and not finding the dark, sullen eye of his partner watching him from a safe distance had scared him. Made him anxious.

He pushed his way into a corridor that had been blocked by debris during the fight that he could almost sense Dazai’s shenanigans coming from and walked—maybe just a bit quicker than normal—until he saw bodies scattered and crimson pooling. In the center of this crop circle of cadaver was his partner, small, white, star-like marks twinkling across what very little skin was exposed to the open air, ripping out the throat of one of their enemies with his teeth. Blood soaked his clothes and his bandages.

Chuuya felt unreasonably calm, and oddly awestruck, at the sight.

And that’s all I can write 😚 ‘cause I am so tired. I dunno what else to say, ‘cause this is just about all my smooth little brain has let me know about the blorbos of today, but yeah. Thank you if you actually read all of this. :3333

Have a good day/night/morning/afternoon/evening!! Remember to drink water, eat, take your meds, all that.

Byeeeeee <3333

[thatsashitplan]

the haunting of bly manor/thobm incorrect quotes/textposts part 1!

[lika2]

Ah yes. In order:

The 26 yr old who decided it was totally ok to murder a sheltered 16 yr old for accidentally disabling two people and not understanding the repercussions of that (because nobody would tell her)

The man who shot a lion and covered up a horrible accident, refused to let his daughter face the consequences for her dumb mistakes, and put the paraplegic on the 3rd floor, so he couldn't leave his room w/out outside help. Moe's room is on the 1st floor.

The 22 yr old who tried to go on a date with a 16 yr old

And the 16 yr old whose negligence and blaze attitude towards danger and death led to the permanent maiming of two of her co-workers.

"Not a single one of them was a bad person on the inside, huh?"

Are you sure abt that Maya?

[3-2-whump]

Mistaken Accusation

<prev

Well, let's get into it. Beginning of the end. Special thanks to my beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz ! Do mind the tags, and enjoy

This chapter does reference The Hit, so please skim that first if you are not already familiar with it

Author's Note: This is where shit gets real (more real, that is), and where the author may make some decisions that might not vibe with the readers. To those readers, all I will say is fanfiction is a thing, canon divergence is a thing, and I will honestly be more intrigued than mad if you end up scrapping this part and writing your own version! (Just lmk, like tag me or dm me so I can see?) But, um, yeah, onto the chapter!

TW/CW: description and mention of STD, prostitution whump, mock execution, gun violence (brief, but there), collared whumpee, bound and blindfolded whumpee, shock, emotional whump, fear of death, pissing oneself out of fear, emotional angst, degrading language, toxic relationship, manipulative whumper, possessive whumper, intimate whumper

As Khaled relieved himself in the office bathrooms near the end of the day, he hissed under his breath at the burning sensation coming out of him. That can’t be good, he thought. What would make it feel like he was passing acid or fire down there? He looked down at his dick, eyes widening a little as he saw how inflamed his urethra looked. Khaled let out a mortified little squeak. What’s wrong with my penis?

Should I tell Master? Telling his master that he suspected he’d caught something would only lead to probing questions about Khaled’s sex life, even though he wasn’t the one who had visited every whorehouse within the tristate area. Probing questions about his sex life would mean admitting that he was sleeping with Julio, and admitting that he was sleeping with Julio would only fuel his master’s possessive side and make things far worse for him. Khaled could imagine no situation in which he would come out unscathed if he told Thomas about it. So, he decided not to tell him.

He didn’t have to endure his secret for long though, because as soon as he came back into his master’s office, he could sense the energy had changed. 

“Is there something wrong, Boss?” Khaled asked nervously.

“I have just received information from our foot soldiers and informants that the motorcycle that my would-be assassin rode when he got away came from Alvarez Auto and Motorcycles, a known front of Juicio Divino,” Thomas gritted out.

Khaled’s jaw dropped as his mind slowly put together the pieces that he had in his hands all along. Of course, it was Julio, how could I be so blind?! he thought. Just over a year ago, Khaled himself approached the scrapyard assassin asking him to teach him how to kill, and had been crawling back to him in various states of distress ever since. Julio was one of two people on earth who knew how badly Thomas actually treated him, and, combined with his overprotective tendencies, Khaled mentally beat himself up for not suspecting his boyfriend sooner. 

His master’s stormy gray eyes narrowed at Khaled in a piercing glare as he pushed his tablet across the desk. “Incidentally, you have been visiting Alvarez Auto pretty frequently over the past year, haven’t you?”

Khaled’s stomach twisted in dread as he leaned in closer to read it. There, opened on his slave tracking app, was a map with pins of most-frequently visited locations he had been tracked to, and there was a damning bright red pin at the address of Julio’s garage. His mouth went dry as he opened and closed it in shock, trying to collect the right words to say as the opportunity to beg for mercy slipped through his fingers like sand. “I- Master, I- it’s not what you think-”

The older man disdainfully held up a hand, a nonverbal cue that he didn’t want to hear it. Khaled shrank in on himself. “How did you even pay for a hit against me, huh?” the boss asked. “I know you haven’t made that much money since I’ve started paying you! How could you afford to put out a hit?” His voice lowered to a growl. “Did you bend over for that cholo son of a bitch? Did you let him fuck you like I fuck you? Is that why you’ve got an infection –don’t deny it, Khaled, it hurt when I pissed this morning!”

The world seemed to stop as the air quickly left Khaled’s lungs. Wait, what? He was being accused of conspiring against his master, then of being a whore within the same breath? And to make matters worse, he somehow gave his owner an STD before he realized he had one himself? His breaths came out shallow as his body began trembling in fear. What does this mean for me? What’s going to happen to me? He nearly passed out as his imagination went wild with how severe his punishment would be. “Master, please, I had no idea-”

“Shut up!”

Khaled ceased his begging instantly, a nauseous wave of dread coiling in his stomach as he waited for his master to dole out his sentence. “You will never see anybody besides me again,” his master said, glowering at him in contempt as Khaled’s eyes widened in horror. He got up from his chair and circled around Khaled, with a familiar black shock collar and a length of chain in hand. “I’ll give you a chance to say your goodbyes before we leave.”

Khaled regained enough of his senses to shake his head and back away from the man approaching him. “But, Master, I didn’t-”

The world snapped to the right in a stinging blow as Thomas backhanded him. Khaled rubbed his sore cheek and winced in pain. “You’re lucky I don’t outright kill you, though I still might, if you keep whining like that!” he yelled. Khaled turned silent and sullen, still cradling his sore cheek as the collar tightened like a noose around his throat. “Now, come on, let’s make your final goodbyes count.” His master attached the chain leash to a notch in the shock collar and pulled Khaled towards the exit.

-

Khaled was pulled through the whole office and out to the guard shack like that, stopping periodically as his master made him explain what was going on and why he was leaving to everyone they met. Khaled’s voice was shaking like a leaf the first stop they made; by the time they made it to the guard shack, he was unable to utter anything intelligible past his tears. Nico’s jaw dropped as Thomas explained what had happened and why Khaled was never going to see him again.

“But, he didn’t do it, sir!” he objected, pushing himself out of his desk chair and standing up to face him. “He had no part in it! I can prove it, just listen to me!”

As much as Khaled wanted to interrogate that ‘I can prove it’ claim just a little more, Tom ignored him. He pulled the leash taut and yanked Khaled away. Khaled frantically pulled at the collar around his neck, emitting choked gasps as he stumbled along and struggled to keep up.

They ended up back at the car, where Tom unclipped his leash and pushed the button on the key fob to unlock the trunk of the car. Khaled was shoved up roughly against the side of the car as his hands were gathered behind his back and bound tightly by a soft and silky material, most likely a necktie. “Master, please, please, hear me out –I didn’t put a hit on you, I swear!” he once again tried to explain through a mess of snot and tears. “I don’t want to kill you, why would I want to kill you? Please –listen to me! I don’t want to kill you; I swear I didn’t know!” Thomas dragged him to the back of the car, where he stared down at him in cold fury. He took out a dark cloth from his pocket and unfolded it. Khaled preemptively opened his mouth to receive it, but then the man tied the cloth around his eyes to blind him. He quietly shut his mouth as the blindfold was tied tight enough to catch his hair. He heard the trunk of the car quietly whoosh open before he was picked up and shoved inside. The door of the trunk slammed shut, sealing him in an extra layer of darkness.

The ride seemed to stretch on forever as Khaled shivered in the darkness. It was still far too cold to be riding back there without anything to keep him warm. Throughout the darkness he begged, then screamed, then cried, then sniffled, knowing damn well his master couldn’t hear him.

Time seemed to work differently in the dark, cramped confines of a car trunk. Khaled was unsure of how much time had passed since he was shoved in the trunk, but he was more than concerned that they seemed to keep driving far longer than it usually took to get back to the apartments. He’s never going to forgive me, he realized as he rested his head onto the floor of the trunk. He really thinks I planned to kill him, and now he’s going to take me out into the woods and kill me, or do something so horrific it will make me wish I had died. A fresh round of tears soaked into his blindfold as Khaled whimpered pathetically. I don’t want to die, not like this.

Goddamnit, Julio, you tried to be the hero, and now I’m gonna end up dead in a ditch somewhere, Khaled cursed in his head.

The car rolling to a stop and faint click that preceded the trunk unlocking made Khaled’s heartrate speed up. A new wave of anxiety hit him much like the blast of midwinter air when the trunk was opened and he was pulled out. He didn’t feel concrete underneath his shoes, and the fresh icy chill of the air around him told him they weren’t in the parking garage. We really are in the woods somewhere, he thought, his hopes sinking like lead as his master’s hand gripped his elbow and steered him along to an unknown destination. He’s really driven me out to the woods somewhere to kill me. Khaled stumbled as his foot hit an unseen obstruction, but his master dragged him along regardless. This is it. I’m gonna die. His breaths started picking up, heart racing as that last thought worked him up into another nervous state. His owner stopped and threw him forward onto the ground. Khaled landed face first into a cold and wet patch of snow, judging on how it felt when it absorbed his impact. “Get up and kneel.” Khaled’s breaths stopped in his throat. There was no room in his master’s frigid tone for argument. He pushed himself up the best he could with his hands bound behind his back, shivering not just from the cold as he assumed a kneeling position.

A cold, metallic object pressed against the back of the young man’s skull. “If you’ve got anything to say, say it now,” his master’s voice said behind him. A wet and warm spot began to soak his pants in the front. Khaled’s mind went blank. He was so scared he nearly forgot his owner had asked for his last words. He caught his trembling lip between his teeth before shaking his head. Whatever he could say for his last words would go unheeded anyway, lost in the winter’s chill and the indifferent New England woods. He hung his head in resignation, ready for the explosive pain followed by sudden oblivion and nothingness, or whatever it was that lie ahead.

He had at least hoped he would see his father’s face before the end. But the only image his shielded eyes could conjure up before he died was a pair of sharp, steel gray eyes.

Click.

Nothing happened.

The gun lowered, and heavy footsteps crunched in the snow as his would-be executioner walked around to the front of him.

Khaled was still alive. Somehow, he was still alive. There was a light brush of hands reaching behind his head before the blindfold fell away, revealing a familiar face staring down at him with those same steel gray eyes. Khaled’s breath shimmered in the cold moonlit night. He was alive. He wasn’t going to die. He was alive.

All the fear and tension left his body like his vaporous breath in the night as he slumped forward, crying tears of relief into his master’s shoulder as he caught him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” he sobbed between each breath.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Thomas soothed as he reached behind Khaled to untie his hands. “I believe you for now, it’s alright.” As soon as his hands were free, Khaled wrapped them around the older man’s neck, hugging him close as he bawled into his shoulder. “I thought about it, but there is no way I can definitively prove it was you.” A muscular pair of arms wrapped around him and held him close, drawing him into the warmth. “And besides, my favorite fuck toy, plotting to kill me?” His master laughed. “No way you’re smart enough for that! I didn’t buy you for your brains, you know!”

“Yes, yes, I’m stupid, I am so fucking stupid, thank you!” Khaled cried. He nuzzled his cold wet face into Tom’s warm neck and peppered the man’s jawline with kisses, murmuring his gratitude between every kiss. He was alive, he didn’t die, and that was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

“Let’s go home,” Thomas said, hoisting Khaled onto his feet. “The takeout I bought is getting cold, and you need a change of pants.”

He led the young man through the woods back to side of the road where he had parked his car. “I was completely serious about you never seeing anybody else again, by the way,” he reminded him as he opened the passenger side door. Khaled slid gratefully inside, happy to be in the heated part of the car. “You are relieved of your duties to the organization from now on,” Tom continued as he joined him on the driver’s side, “You are demoted to domestic service. You will stay at home and keep the penthouse spotless, welcoming me to it every evening with warm food and your warmer body. You will stay in the apartment and not leave for anything unless it is with me or a trusted associate. You will never see anybody again. That’ll keep you from conspiring to kill me, or from spreading your legs for anyone else but me, and only I will decide when it’s time to bring you back out again.” He pushed the button and started up the vehicle, setting the heaters to full blast.

Khaled nodded. What did he care about being stuck at home and never seeing anybody again? He was alive, and right now, as he held his freezing fingers close to the vents, that was all that mattered.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[justaberri]

just read gyokkos backstory, and wow- manz got some issues huh? i mean, always knew he had a loose screw, i mean, hes an artist what did you expected besides an unhealthy obssession over blood gore and dead bodies? /hj (Do they ever tell Gyokkos backstory in the anime? cause if they do, i dont remember)

anyway, gonna go back writing right now, but imma defineatly use this newfound information for sum good ole angst in the nearby future

[kudossi]

carry me to innisfree

She finds herself on a precipice, grass under her paws and gray sky overhead. The smell of salt and the sound of crashing waves fill her senses; her claws dig into sand-strewn soil; her fur lifts with the ocean breeze, strong and stalwart, whipping steadily away from the rising sun. Below her lies ocean, depthless and desperately, achingly blue; beyond her lies water, leaping endlessly toward the golden, rocky shore.

The sun-drown-place, she thinks, and feels at once the age of eight moons and eighty season-cycles. She reaches at once for Feathertail, dead for countless pawsteps; for Tawnypelt, buried seasons ago; for Stormfur, lost to the crags of the mountains; for Crowfeather, who had closed his eyes only moons ago and had never opened them again. She does not reach for Bramblestar; she does not question why. She simply exists, with the ghosts of her friends almost corporeal at her sides, and watches as the wind plays with the waves, salty ocean spray spattering at her paws.

A pale bird swoops overhead, white and soft, feathery gray; with a bolt of delight, Squirrelflight recognizes it as a gull. It had been so long since she had chased them over sand and into the waves, their calls echoing against rocky cliffs. Brambleclaw had snorted, unamused; Feathertail had joined her, swimming through whitecaps and pouncing clumsily on birds until, with the exaggerated air of someone too good for noisy, troublesome birds, she had pulled the largest fish Squirrelflight had ever seen from the waves.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Squirrelpaw had told her, laughing, as Feathertail struggled with a fish bigger than both cats combined.

“Better than looking like a drowned squirrel,” Feathertail had countered, and then Tawnypelt had joined the fray, chasing an odd-looking creature across the shore, all hard shell and hard, straight tail and weird, wiggly, bug-like legs.

“What is this place?” Stormfur had asked, tipping over a bug-prey of his own.

“I don’t know!” Squirrelpaw had replied, delighted, and gotten a mouthful of saltwater for her trouble. She sputtered and spat and dissolved into giggles, lungs seizing and aching and burning, happier than she’d ever been.

[icycoldninja]

He failed (Angeal x reader angst)

TW: Blood, death, brief mentions of guns, dark themes, and angst themes. If you are not comfortable with these themes, DNI.

⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

It was late at night; you were returning from visiting a friend's house, though you probably should have stayed the night. It was dark, the streets were empty, and most people, save for a drunken man crying on the curb surrounded by empty beer bottles, were asleep. You sighed, wrapped your arms around yourself, and kept walking down the cold roads.

"Probably should have stayed at F/N's house..." You mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself when a chilly wind whipped past you. You continued down the street, nervously glancing around, making sure you weren't being followed. Several minutes of unsettling silence passed before you heard a loud clattering from somewhere behind you. Startled, you whirled around and peered into the shadows, not finding anything. Disturbed, you turned and broke out into a mad dash, heading towards a busy intersection. It was then when you heard them approaching.

"Heya, baby girl. You look lost."

You turned and saw three burly men, far bigger than you, standing there with weapons. You gasped and turned, trying to run away, but one of them rushed forwards and grabbed you by the arm. It was so fast, so sudden. You were scared out of your mind right then--how could anyone move like that?! You struggled, but their grips were like iron vises; escape was impossible. You screamed for help, but didn't get to for long, because one of them clamped their meaty hand over your mouth, silencing you.

Still, you continued resisting, all the way until you caught sight of a white feather falling from the sky. Your eyes widened in surprise as you watched it delicately land on the ground, unnoticed by the thugs. Hope rose in your heart as a familiar figure crashed to the ground, startling your assailants.

"What the-?! Who the hell is that!?" One of them shrieked, unhanding you and staring up at your rescuer with fear.

"Angeal!" You squealed, happily running into his arms.

"Y/N," He greeted, wrapping you up in his beefy biceps and pinning you to his chest with his fluffy, white wing. "Are you alright?" You nodded, turning back to look at the terrified street punks who'd run off crying for their mommies.

"I'm so glad you're here. I was afraid..." You sighed, burying your face in his pectorals. Angeal chuckled softly and kissed your forehead.

"Don't worry, I'm here now." You nestled deeper into his touch.

"Thanks, Angie. I love you." Angeal kissed you again, then wrapped an arm around your shoulder and led you down the street.

"I love you, too, Y/N. I'll always be here to protect you." You laughed and hooked your arm around his lean waist, snuggling against him as you walked.

"I'll hold you to it."

About a month or so later, Angeal huffed out a worried sigh and checked his phone. 12:45 A.M.

You were late. Too late. He sank back into the couch and folded his arms, trying to calm the uneasiness brewing in his heart--a feat that proved impossible.

"This doesn’t make sense." He grumbled. It really didn't. You hadn't gone anywhere except to work. Coming home shouldn't take until midnight! Angeal stood up and headed for the door, sure that something bad must have happened. He was already halfway down the road when his phone rang. It was from your phone. Relieved, he answered the call. "Y/n, I've been so worried-"

"Hello, S.O.L.D.I.E.R." Rasped an unfamiliar voice. Angeal's pulse suddenly went into overdrive. He'd been right, something had happened to you. His white feathered wing burst from his back and he rocketed down the street.

"I bet you'll be excited to know that we have your little girlfriend," Continued the thug. Angeal's breath hitched at these words, but he continued speeding onward. "If you want her back, you'll meet us by the old warehouse in the Sector 8 slums. You come alone. Bring anyone with you, and we'll kill the bitch." The thug then laughed and hung up.

Angeal's heart throbbed in his ears as he raced towards the location the thug had described. He didn't care what he was running into, saving you took top priority. He was a S.O.L.D.I.E.R. anyway, a few punks meant nothing to him. He soon landed in front of the warehouse, finding it to be dirty and decrepit, though that was hardly a surprise. As he approached the door, shock and panic overcame him, for on it hung a note with the words "Fooled ya!" Scrawled on it. Angeal stared at the note and knew what it meant: He'd been tricked.

"Y/n!" He shouted, literally ripping aside the door. "Y/n, where are you?!" It wasn't until he heard a weak voice call out his name--your voice.

"Angeal...."

Internally panicking, Angeal followed the sound of that tiny voice to a stack of steel boxes supposedly filled with sand in orderto make them difficult to move. Adrenaline fueling him, Angeal threw the boxes aside, revealing the bleeding, bound woman behind them.

"Y/N!" He shouted, dropping to the floor and hastening to undo your binds. When you didn't respond, he shook your shoulder gently. "Y/N...look at me, please."

Your eyes drifted in the direction of his voice; glassy and dull.

"Angeal....that you? I...I can't see...it's so dark..." Angeal pressed you closer to his body, tears starting to run down his cheeks.

"Shh, save your strength. I'm here. I'll get you help." Wearily, you reached out a blood-soaked hand, struggling to close it around his large forearm.

"I...I...just wanna tell you..." You paused to slowly take in a deep, agonizing breath. You felt so unbelievably winded, as if you'd just run a marathon even though you hadn't done anything. You were aware of the cause of this--the bullet wound that burned and ached in your lower abdomen, as well as the river of blood that bled out from it.

"Y/N, please..." Angeal begged, clasping you so tightly, it hurt. "You cannot die. I-I promised you...." A weak, soft, barely noticeable smile crept across your face.

"I want...you...to know I...love...you...Angie..." You tried to hang on, but you felt so, so, tired. Your breath left your body in a long, slow exhale, feeling the pressure and pain coursing throughout your body slowly dissipate as you did so. The last things you heard were Angeal's stifled sobs as he clutched your corpse to his chest.

The man who had once promised to keep you safe now held your dead body in his arms, crying over it because he failed.

[electrozeistyking]

Normally, I don't make posts like this.

But something you gotta realize about me is that, while I'm revisiting NEXO Knights and drawing art for it because I actually have the ability to now, I actually don't remember anything beyond the first episode.

So I'm planning on rewatching the my childhood favourite show, or else it'll become abundantly clear I don't know what I'm talking about. Especially the seasons with Electric Jestro, I don't remember diddly SQUAT about those ones. Which is especially silly, considering the fact I'm working on an AU where he fucking DIES for ten seconds upon being electrified and then going off from there.

You know what, going back through the show and genuinely taking notes for myself to remember should be fun! :D

[lanayru-the-water-god]

After healing

Lanayru wakes up slowly, the weakest she’s ever been, but still realizes that Nerin isn’t quite right. Something happened…and Nerin won’t tell her.

(Lanayru is ~900 years old)

Word count: 1301

“…..ru?”

“…wait…takes a minute…”

“Lanayru?”

Slowly, the first feelings of consciousness emerge from the peaceful dark void.

“Lanayru.”

The Water Goddess groans, stirring only slightly.

“Shh…give her a minute…”

“Are you with me?”

…Nerin?

The black void begins to dissipate, pieces of awareness floating into her mind. Lanayru groans again, eyes too heavy to open and body melting into a soft surface…Where’s Nerin?

“….she’s coming around.”

Huh?

Who’s…that?

Her hands are cold, so cold, tucked under something warm and fluffy…her entire body seems to be covered. Almost like…a blanket.

Something, or someone, is pressing down on her chest, moving softly. Cool hands touch her face, making her wince, and she takes in a slow breath.

“Hrrmphhh…” With what little energy she can muster, she peels her eyelids open halfway, lifting her head only slightly. Through bleary eyes she can make out an incredibly blurry mass of white atop her blanket. “Wha…?”

“Lanayru!” The white shape moves suddenly, making her head spin. “Hi, waterdrop! Can you hear me?”

“Mmm…” She rests her head back down, closing her eyes. “…yeah.”

“Oh, thank goodness! It is so good to see you, my darling.” The pure relief is evident in Nerin’s voice…telling her something has happened. Her friend had been waiting.

“Lanayru, welcome back.” The other voice is speaking now. “It’s me, Starlight. Just relax, okay? Take it easy.”

Another groan escapes her lips, and she can no longer feel Nerin’s weight on her chest. It’s just the three of them, right here, in what she assumes is her bedroom…everything before that is…gone.

“What…happened?”

Nerin takes a second to answer.

“You don’t remember, waterdrop?” A hand nudges on her shoulder. “Come on, look at me.”

It takes an immense amount of effort to open her eyes, her blurry vision swimming, but she can see the outlines of her best friend standing above her.

“Here, what’s the last thing you can recall?”

Lanayru gazes blearily at Nerin, growing ever more fatigued from the attempt to think…

Nothing.

Nothing is coming to mind.

“I…” she croaks. “I don’t—“

“There has to be something! Please think, waterdrop!”

“Nerin, darling,” Starlight’s calm voice interjects. “I am afraid Lanayru’s memory has been compromised. You must tell her what happened.”

“No…no, I-I can’t…”

“She deserves to know. Please.”

Wh-what’s going on?

Something horrible must have happened. If only she could remember what…

“Lanayru?” A soft hand touches her chin, turning her head on the pillow. “No, don’t fall asleep, come on—“

Slowly she peels her eyes back open- when had she closed them?- and her gaze is once again met with Nerin’s blurry figure. From what little she can make out of her friend’s face, something stands out to her, something running down her cheeks…

Tears.

Nerin is crying.

“Hmmm….you’ok?” she slurs out, the deep exhaustion still evident in her voice.

“Am I—Lanayru!” Nerin gasps. “Look at me…look at you! Please…try to remember?”

She wants to remember, more than anything…but oh Gods, her fuzzy brain won’t comprehend.

“…‘can’t…’m sorry.”

Somehow, Nerin won’t tell her. It’s almost as if her friend is…dreading the thought of it? Her head pounds slightly and her weak body threatens to drift off once again…Stay awake, Lanayru. She keeps her bleary eyes open, heart aching at the sight of Nerin in such distress.

“Okay,” The Swan Goddess sighs, wiping the tears with her hand. “RuRu, you saved my maiden’s life. Ivory would have… died if it wasn’t for you, waterdrop, but you’ve been gone for…” She sniffles. “…a long time.”

“Thirty-five days,” Starlight adds. “Four less than last time, but your Swan Goddess couldn’t wait. She was desperate, she’s been waiting here for days—“

Nerin holds up a hand. “That’s enough, please, don’t overwhelm her.” She then moves her delicate fingers to Lanayru’s forehead. “Now, anything coming back to you yet?”

Lanayru racks her muddled brain, things sounding so familiar…you saved my maiden’s life…Ivory…thirty-five days…last time? Whatever she had done, it happened before, but what…

In front of her, a hazy image appears. Her body glowing white, the life seeping out of her, a woman’s pale form lying on the ground…

Healing Grace!

Lanayru lets out a quiet gasp.

“I…healed her,” she chokes out, and Nerin lifts the hand off. “…Iv’ry.”

“There you go, that’s it!” The Swan Goddess sighs, in what seems to be relief. “You just finished recharging, waterdrop. I know you’re still out of it, but I’m here, Starlight’s here…you’re gonna be okay, you’re back with us. With me.”

Lanayru blinks, as her companion’s face comes more into focus. “Mrmmph…” she mumbles, keeping the warm blanket over her ice-cold fingertips.

“How are you feeling, Lanie? Do you need anything?”

“…’m tired…” The image of a bleeding Ivory drifts through her mind again, the last thing she can remember. “…’s Iv’ry ok?”

“Yeah, she’s doing much better,” Nerin replies, smiling through the tears. “Back on her feet and fully recovered. Thanks to you, waterdrop.”

“But…you lost me…”

“Yes.” Another tear runs down her friend’s cheek. “It was a horrible situation, Lanayru, trust me that you did the right thing. No matter how hard it was for us.”

The Water Goddess groans again. She doesn’t know if it’s the exhaustion talking, but Nerin just seems…off. Almost like she’s hiding something.

Healing Ivory must have killed her. It had to…right? And Nerin’s tears are not of joy but of agony. Something happened. Something else happened…

Was she there?

Did she…

Lanayru whimpers, vision continuing to clear. The look on her friend’s face is enough to break her heart right in two. She almost wishes she was still unconscious.

“Hey, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“I-ugh, I…don’t know.” The more she tries to gather fragments of her memory, the more her head spins. “Y-you’re upset…”

“I’m sorry,” Nerin mutters, quickly wiping her eyes with one arm. “I shouldn’t overwhelm you, Lanayru. You’re still so weak, and chances are you won’t remember this conversation later. That happened last time—“ The Swan Goddess briefly buries her face in her hands. “Argh, I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay, Lady Nerin,” Starlight assures her. “And Lana, your friend is right. You should just focus on resting…I should have considered how you may not recall much of this, my apologies.”

Ignoring the Dweller’s comment, the Water Goddess continues to gaze at her companion with tired eyes.

“Lil’one…if I won’t remember this…then—tell me what’s wrong.”

“Lanayru, I can’t. It will upset you too much. Just listen to Starlight, okay? The sooner you recover, the sooner we can get this all sorted out.”

“But…’m recovered…”

“No, you are not.” Nerin’s voice is surprisingly firm. “You’re fighting just to stay conscious, I can tell. You are too weak to even sit up, waterdrop. So I would hardly call that recovered.”

Lanayru sighs, her heavy eyes drooping again. If Nerin really was there, then—

She thinks back to her friend’s head on her chest, and her own heart sinks.

Then Nerin saw me…stop breathing.

“Urrgh…’m so sorry, lil’one…” she groans, rubbing her pounding head. “So sorry…”

“For what? Oh, Goddesses—“

The darkness begins to welcome her with open arms…

“Lanayru?”

Slowly she blinks her eyes back open. “Hmm?”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Ivory is okay, I’m okay…soon you’ll be okay too. You saved her, waterdrop, never forget that.”

“Nerin…were you there?”

The Swan Goddess falls silent, eyes widening. She seems to be struggling to respond, but that is all Lanayru needs. The answer is finally clear.

“You watched me…”

“Shh…relax, waterdrop.” Nerin gently soothes her. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

No…

I died and she watched me.

Floating on the edge of the comforting darkness, Lanayru feels the sharp pang of guilt in her chest, taking over her senses…

“You can go back to sleep, okay? I’ll be right here.”

[stigmvtas]

TOWN RECORDS — HETVIK MODI.

( DEV PATEL. THIRTY FIVE. NONBINARY. THEY/THEM. ) since you aren’t aware of them yet… that’s HETVIK “HEDWIG” MODI wandering around in hollow creek! from what i know they’ve lived in hollow creek for TWENTY NINE YEARS (ON AND OFF). i’m also aware of the fact that they work as a MUSICIAN (SOMETIMES) & BOOKSTORE OWNER in town! but if you were to ask me, what i see when i think about them are: INKY CURLS PUSHED BACK BY SOOT - STAINED HANDS; REGRET IN THE FORM OF A STONE PUSHED UPHILL, EVERY NERVE ON FIRE; THE CHOPPY HUM OF A MOTORCYCLE IN NEED OF REPAIR, KNOWING IT’LL BE IT’S LAST; ELECTRIC NOTES BREAKING THROUGH INTERFERENCE, SPARKS SHOOTING OUT OF EYES; AND A LIMP CIGARETTE PUSHED BETWEEN LIPS, BLOOD STILL GLEAMING AGAINST TEETH AND TONGUE. if anything, i feel like they could be INCANDESCENT AND UNINHIBITED & SARDONIC AND MERCURIAL. it’s really weird, though… because they seem to be hiding something that no one else knows. but i sure do! and that is CLOSED FILE.. REDACTED. wild, huh? i know. they’re hoping no one will ever find out. and the very last thing that i’d say about them is that they’re mainly known to be THE OMEN. just keep a lookout! who knows if they’re putting on a facade! ( JAMES, 25, EST, THEY/THEM. )

containing themes of... drugs ( brief mention ), parental abandonment, implied homophobia ( minor, brief mention ), familial death, addiction.

profile.

full name — hetvik bulsara modi.

nickname(s) — vik; hedwig ( band alias / used more often than not ).

place of birth — flushing, queens, new york.

date of birth & age — january 27th, 1989. thirty5.

gender / pronouns — nonbinary ( agender ), they/them.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — bookstore owner of the labyrinth. front man and lead guitarist of subterfuge.

astrology — aquarius sun, libra moon, scorpio rising.

residence — a small apartment directly above the bookstore; all brick walls and permanent chill. never kept clean.

interests — secondhand leather and hand - rolled cigarettes. noises; doesn't necessarily have to be music. just noise. their motorcycle that's about to kick the dust, but they'll ride it to its' grave. a good book. punk. metal. ska on occasion. playing guitar, fucking around with drums. halloween time, particularly scaring the ever - loving fuck out of people. combat boots. wool sweaters. fingerless gloves. the warmth of fire. cheap thrills, cheaper fucks. silver jewelry. cats, stray dogs; animals, in general. foliage over flowers. black coffee. fresh pastries. cooking, once in a while; only when nostalgic. an ice cold beer. their bandmates ( sometimes ).

aversions — the "man"'; authority in general. the hard shit; learned it the hard way. writing songs when they don't want to. their bandmates ( sometimes ). people with a lack in media literacy; passionless people. long - term relationships. complete and utter silence. polyester. plastic containers ( glass is better ). communicating readily and easily. vulnerability. waking up before noon. being confronted with the past. not living in the present. worrying about the future. living, to a degree. people who eat inside the bookstore and then touch all the books, like, hello? direct sunlight. their family.

quirks — rolls their own cigarettes & joints. makes their own beer but keeps having to start over the process due to "mishaps". picks up any stray animal they see and brings it home. up at ungodly hours playing music. bashes mailboxes for fun. self - sabotages their relationships.

currently playing — you've seen the butcher by deftones.

notable features — long, raven - feathered hair that they desperately need to cut, but never do. a strong nose, overgrown facial hair that they do maintain despite what's said otherwise.

general disposition — overall rugged. tired but restless, alight.

character study — billy butcher ( the boys ), tyler durden ( fight club ), simon / john q ( dinner in america ).

public history.

hetvik's mother always told them they were born angry; born with rage, just like their father. they were also told that they were born sweet; kind, despite the anger. a begrudging kindness, just like their mother. they're never sure if that's a good thing, either of it; to be angry, yet kind. to be kind, yet angry; to let either of them consume them at a moment's notice.

abandonment; the older they grew, however; the more they knew they wanted to be less of their father. his anger took the form of arrogance, of grandeur - of pretending he had more than they did, of pretending he was above the life they led. their father walked out when hetvik was only five; by six, their mother had packed them and their sister up and moved back to massachusetts, back with her parents.

the house was small, cramped; overfilled with six mouths to feed, their only income from their mother's work and their grandparent's bookstore - enough to pay rent on the building, but not much for anything else. hetvik knew then, in their young age, that they wanted to give their family the life they deserved.

they weren't good in school; academically smart, but no attention span to maintain the grades. they were too aggressive in sports, too competitive; too passionate for debate, body stretching across podium and dashing against stage to wrestle their opponent to the ground. the only thing that ever stuck with hetvik was music. it stuck to them like honey, like oil; sometimes it soothed the anger beneath their skin, and sometimes it fueled it. when hedwig and the angry inch released, a twelve year old hetvik was changed.

implied homophobia; music became everything to them. it was their form of expression, their communication, their social life, and later their income. they carried their guitar no matter where they went; experimented with their looks, their sound - changed a million ways everyday. in their mid - teens, hetvik's father came to their home in hollow creek. was on the verge of begging for their mother back; and then sauntered in hetvik, in six inch platforms and hair teased to the nine's ( their glam metal era ). after a few choice words and a minor brawl; their father left for good.

hetvik left after graduation; they moved back to new york city, all on their own - nothing but a suitcase and their guitar. promised their family that they'd be back when they were famous, when they could give them everything they ever wanted.

being a queer artist in new york city is like a fork found in the kitchen, but hetvik finds their crowd, their people. they solidify their look, their sound; something punk, something metal, something innately queer - drag makeup for every performance, skirts and combat boots, defiance in their every action. their underground shows start mosh pits and riots; and running from the authorities become a day - to - day ritual. eventually, subterfuge - their band - catches the eye of a small label, and they sign onto it. subterfuge immediately catches an audience; their single dominates the alternative charts. their album flies off the shelves; and before hetvik - now hedwig by most people - turns twenty five, they're on tour across the country.

death mention; half of everything hedwig makes goes directly to their family; their mom can afford a larger house, can afford to hire the caretakers she needs for her parents. their sister can go to college wherever she wants, can be whoever she wants. the first five years of subterfuge's success are the most important; but after then - the label, steadily becoming more mainstream - wants to change their image, their sound. hedwig fights against it; their bandmates either drop, or are replaced, or die. they're seen arguing in public; tabloids of them being escorted out of clubs in handcuffs, screaming at the paparazzi.

it's recommended that they take a break. hedwig resists; they don't want to give up on subterfuge, but the band's unrecognizable. it isn't them - it isn't what they had fought for, what they crafted with their own two, bloodied hands. they don't want their label to own subterfuge. so they fight their label, break their contract; lose a bunch of money in the process, but they free themselves. subterfuge becomes independent again. they commit to one last tour, one they fund themselves, spanning across the country and hitting all the venues from their first ever tour, before they decide to go on a hiatus. to regain a sense of themselves, to figure out the direction they want to go, and not because of anyone else's influence. so hedwig goes home, with the promise to write a new song.

familial death; hedwig's only been back in hollow creek for a number of months; but a lot's happened since they've been gone, and since they've returned. their grandparents passed away, leaving hedwig the one to inherit the bookstore. their sister's engaged, to someone hedwig's never even met before. their mother's trying to be happy for them; but they can see the worry increasing in her eyes every time they leave late in the evening, and don't come back until the next one.

details.

hedwig doesn't feel like an old rockstar, or particularly famous despite subterfuge's success. they're most recognizable for their drag looks, something akin to dr. frank - n - furter. less - so out of drag, though it doesn't help much. they're uncomfortable with being confronted in public, despite their confrontational personality. a lot of bark, and a lot of bite.

addiction; they struggled a lot with addiction in their 20's, and only now are they steadily managing it. a lot of na meetings, a hard - ass sponsor. their family is their support system, and the guilt of it keeps hedwig as far away from them as possible.

brash and irrational at times; hedwig's never been able to keep a lid over their emotions, or their mouth shut, or an ounce of impulse control. talks before thinking, and acts on a whim often enough for it to be a problem. they've only calmed down a little since they're been back in hollow creek, but they can still come off as abrasive.

can often be found in the labyrinth, organizing the inventory with over - the - ear headphones on, with music so loud it's heard from across the store. they're snappish at worst, and genuinely helpful at best. they try not to tarnish the reputation of their grandparents' shop, if only out of respect.

cares a lot about their friends and family, but finds it hard to show it outside of monetary values. despite being a lyricist, hedwig can barely find the words they want to say to them. is better with actions, in that regard.

self - sabotaging in nearly all of their relationships; it's hard for hedwig to keep something long - term, whether they're friendships or partnerships. they burn bridges quick, and get nervous when they feel trapped. they're afraid of being like their father, too egotistical to realize the harm they cause.

their family has a decent size of property at the top of the hill thanks to hedwig's success, but they've taken the storage space above the bookstore and turned it into an apartment for their own use. it's small, studio - like, but it gets the job done.

extroverted, and prefers being around people despite their seemingly anti - social nature; it's just hard to understand hedwig if they're not "like them".

a vandal, and they can't help it. causing minor destruction is both a coping mechanism and a bad habit. what they don't tell people, is that they try to balance it out; worried that karma will wreck more havoc onto their life if they don't. with every mailbox beaten with a baseball bat, is a tree planted, or some shit. it's a case - by - case basis, really. well - hedwig tries. they're trying to be good.

a punk with? kind of? a heart of gold? but not really. trying to be a better person, but their attitude just won't allow it. they're softer depending on the person, on whether they think they'll cry if they raise their voice. they're both extremely self aware, and completely oblivious. still trying to figure things out. what they want, what they need.

[leoneedincorrectquotes]

Warning: Below is a slightly niche reference to something, death is mentioned. Also has very little to do with Leo/Need, I just felt the need to reference this

Mizuki has had nightmares about being locked in a freezer and hit with a guitar... Rui has nightmares about being killed by a swordfish... Ichika has nightmares about robot monkeys... Tsukasa has dreams about being pelted with tomatoes by robots... none of them know why

[iwanttobepersephone]

I remember one time I watched a cgp grey video that talked about defeating death and it just really unnerved me... I couldn't put into words why, but it really really did. I think now I can explain it a little better though, I think it's because death feeds life, and denying death is denying something else's life. Our story cannot ever end, only our conscious perception of it, and to treat that conscious perception as more worthy of survival than the countless number of organisms our bodies could feed, and then their bodies feed, and so on so forth, is just insane to me. Idk why I'm saying this tbh it's just something that clicked in my head. We cannot and must not take without giving, y'know?

[izzy-b-hands]

12, 15, 34, 46?

Ella!! Thank u for asking 🫂🫂❤️❤️

(also apologies i am stoned and wordy aksndkfgn)

12. Your favourite book

I have a few answers for this one, but narrowed it down to the one I'm saving up to buy a new copy of eventually: Last Night at the Lobster by Stewart O'Nan.

It's fairly short, and the story subjects/setting are modern and mundane (or at least that's the critique i see leveled at it a lot, tho to me like. That's part of the punch of the entire book, but they can have their opinions, incorrect tho they may be lol), but like. the first time i read it, it just Did Something to me lmao. Part of it was the customer service experience thing, tho different industries (library at the time for me compared to restaurant in the book), and the experience in it of feeling like/having it confirmed that you, as an employee, are continually being handed more and more stress and responsibility for less reward, but you can't just drop it bc you like/tolerate your coworkers, and even on the days they piss you off, you want the best for them. And then the fallout of when a decision comes down from above your level that's shit for everyone, but you're left bearing the brunt of it from coworkers and customers alike. Very relatable, very realistically written to the point it almost makes you squirm.

The characters are all well written and realistic too; you wind up feeling like you could walk into this Lobster right now and talk to all these ppl irl, easily. That makes it just as hard at the ending to say goodbye tbh, and that's given it massive reread value for me (i think since i first read it end of HS I've since managed a reread every year to every other year. I actually accidentally packed away my copy when moving and it's been killing me not being able to do a reread rn, but i want to wait until i can have my own copy to keep again.)

Anyway i think most libraries should have it, and it's not a horribly expensive ebook, so if ur looking for a sign to read Last Night at the Lobster, this is it 🙌❤️🦞

15. Do you remember your last dream

Kind of? Tbh I passed out really hard earlier (still not sleeping amazingly with the back lol) and vaguely recall the weird, fever dreamish stuff my brain was throwing at me. That consisted of what i believe to be, ongoing all at once in the same room:

-a Tom Waits concert, with him holding but not playing an accordion

-a Bob Geldof interview, except it was Bob as he looked in the 90s

-a fire, which everyone who wasn't listening to Tom or Bob were attempting to put out by passing exactly one bucket back and forth to the inexplicable bar sink that sort of appeared and disappeared at will

Everything else was too much of a blur, but those bits really stuck out lmao 😂

34. Something old

I like this question, weirdly enough, bc I'm not one hundred percent sure how to answer it. It's vague, so i think I'm safe to interpret it kinda.. however?

(if i have that wrong tho do pls lemme know, I won't be offended and will re-answer this one if that's the case lol)

In terms of something old, I keep thinking abt my grandparents old house, even tho it's silly to do so (the thing has been sold for months now.)

Thing of it is, as of the last rare phone convo i had with my grandparents, it sounds like they really regret selling. The lack of stairs at the new place is better for their joints but like. They clearly miss the old one, the unique things that made it theirs and familiar.

Grandpa in particular mentioned a few things specific to the house that he misses, but the one that took me out was abt a bit of painted wood in the front doorway. When i was like. 6? 7? old enough to know better but still stupid enough to do it, i wrote my (dead) name on that bit of doorway, in pencil. For whatever reason, they couldn't ever get it to erase much at all, and never painted over it despite talking abt it a lot (they were soooo pissed at me the day i did it and the months after lmao), so it was still there when they sold the house.

And Grandpa tells me he wishes he would have bought some wood scraps, torn out just that bit of the doorway, and then fixed it and repainted it. Says he would have had someone reframe the whole door if needed. He even has a little shelf where he's been putting grandkid related knick knacks, that he'd put it on, apparently.

Couldn't tell him bc emotions and being that vulnerable are difficult for him, so i never want to push when he's opening up to me like that, but goddamn if he didn't make me cry with that, and i wanted to tell him how sweet it was, and that i miss the house too.

I miss that whenever Housemate and i make it back to visit ND, i won't be able to show aer the house i basically grew up in. I won't be able to show off the shed my grandpa built, say hi to Sally (mum's passed on cat from years ago, buried in the backyard with her name carved by grandpa into the wood barrier between the rock/gravel area and the bottom of the shed), lay in the backyard together under the huge tree while we snack and sip drinks (bc grandma doesn't let anyone leave the house without being fed if she can help it.) I won't get to show that spot by the front door, or show all the other million little quirky things that made the house so lovely.

If i have my way, age of the house and my own age at the time be damned, whenever I've made enough money to do it and have plenty left over, I'd love to buy the house myself. Not to live in all the time (jfc absolutely NOT i love the house but not ND lol), but to have for like. Maybe summer trips? there's enough room we could pick up friends in the area and have them come stay in the house too, tbh. I don't like the idea of it sitting empty whenever i wouldn't be there, so maybe I'd offer it to the cousins rent free to share? Take turns staying there, maybe help grandma and grandpa back to see it now and again. Idk. I just always dreamed of buying the dang thing, even if i never wanted to permanently stay in ND (and still v much do not want that, I like CT far better.)

46. Are you excited for anything

A few things rn! Housemate helped me save up enough and is going with me to see Avatar this month, and it'll be my first full show of theirs, and Housemate's first time seeing them at all!! (my first time seeing them they were just opening for Trivium lmao, so it was amazing!! but a bit of a cut down set list/overall thing, u know? didn't stay for Trivium's entire set but they were lovely too!)

We've also got several little weekend trips partially planned out: Mystic, a local flea market, a couple different beaches, getting up to York and over to Newport, plus maybe the big E and the ren faire in the fall!! I don't know if we'll manage all of it over the next few months, but I'm excited for whatever we get to!

Apologies I'm quite toasty so I'm feeling overwhelming positive for once, so i do have more! I sent a job app in to an OD office in the local costco, for a fairly chill seeming reception role, and I'm really hoping they'll want me. It seems a small enough office to be calmer than my old one, and that it's OD only and not an MD/OD office makes me feel a lot better abt it too (eye surgeons are amazing, they can do amazing wonderful things, i am grateful for them all. however. im also 97% sure 5 out of the 10 i know personally could hit me with their car and not blink, the god complex thing some surgeons have gets SO amped with this speciality in my experience, it's WILD, but I digress.)

My back is slowly getting better too (tho I've been humbled again the last few days in the nights and early mornings, it's still very angry at those times), so I'm also just looking forward to like. Being able to move more again. Standing up to do the dishes without my back spasming. Maybe even leaving the house again and doing one of the fun things noted above, tho i know i shouldn't rush it or my back will humble me again without a second thought lmaoooo 😅)

[mean-and-rwde]

TW: suicide

Personal feelings rant about the recent episode.

If I saw this sort of episode content not even a few months ago (ESPECIALLY without a PROPER fucking warning), it would have honestly destroyed me. I was not in a good place then, and seeing how CRWBY has yet again written suicide like a good thing / solution / etc...

If they're gonna insist on writing such a heavy topic; one, they shouldn't treat it as a positive outcome; two, use a PROPER FUCKING trigger warning! Distressing themes could mean literally ANYTHING. And calling suicide a "distressing theme" is just. Awful. There's a way I'm trying to describe it, but basically, by simply calling it a distressing theme, it downplays how actually fucking serious and terrifying being / knowing someone who is suicidal.

I may not have cared much for Little, but on-screen animal death without warning? What the fuck. Not even gonna TALK about what the fuck was up with the cat and Neo. Holy fuck.

Add to all that the fact that WBY just stands there like "Oh no! Anyways, I can't do shit." and this is definitely the most insensitive writing of suicide yet. The fact that fucking YANG just STANDS THERE AND DOES NOTHING when she's Ruby's goddamn SISTER actually pisses me off.

I'm the older sibling, and let me just say that if I saw my brother depressed as fuck then outright suicidal, and I did nothing, I would literally take my own life if he were to actually do it and I just watched like :|

It brings back a thought I often had during that time: no one would care if I died, even if they saw me do it.

Which my family thankfully proved wrong, even if mom's solution was to drag my ass to the ER where they almost didn't let me go after one person talked to me for like 5 minutes when I'd been there for hours.

I can handle bloody stuff, but that's because the shows I watch often have such themes naturally. The disclaimer warning about disturbing content and the nature of said content makes the warning a lot clearer. You know you're likely gonna see some weird / fucked up shit.

RWBY isn't like that. Bloody on-screen injuries / deaths are not nearly as common. Clover's death was easily the most graphic.

Pyrrah and Penny's deaths were haunting, even if there was no blood. Penny's second death barely showed her - the only reason we know it happened is because we saw Jaune holding his sword, then there was some blood. Ironwood died as Atlas fell, without so much as taking one final shot at the main villian + Cinder. Pietro and Maria may as well be dead for all the fucks the show / mains give. I could go on, but you get the idea.

This has become a disturbing trend within the show, but this recent example has been the worst offender of not only the harmful idea that suicide is a solution / good thing, but also a vague trigger warning that does fuck all. Distressing themes does not warn of suicide, animal death, literal torture, whatever the fuck happened with Neo and the Curious Cat, etc.

I have not seen the episode(s) in question, and I don't think I will. In fact, I may drop the series altogether.

[End Rant]