#and too traumatized to actually do it

[the-jesus-pill]

You’ve got to forgive yourself for being traumatized and needing to learn how to function again. 

Recovery isn’t always nightmares and depression, it’s forgetting to eat, being scared of what others might see as completely normal things, it’s getting random panic attacks, not knowing how to take care of yourself, not knowing how to live like an adult, even if you’re twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, of feeling like you’re failing to function in a world where everyone seems to have their shit together. 

If you need help, ask for it. Go to forums and ask for advice. Take advantage of community resources. Buy pre-sliced veggies and fruits, eat instant meals if you can’t cook for yourself today. Hire someone. Ask a neighbor for a favor. Buy any item you think might make life easier, even if you feel like you aren’t ‘disabled’ enough to have it. 

Some of the depression posts (ie open your windows, take a shower, go outside, call a friend) are really helpful but they’re not always enough. I’ve found advice for spoonies, people with chronic pain or other disabilities have the best tips because they know what it’s like to be bedridden, out of energy, stuck in a brain fog. 

You may never return back to the energy you had when you were younger and you might always need to use crutches to help you through life. It’s the same with medication. 

Trauma is a real thing that happens to you, it physically alters your brain and it’s alright to have lasting scars. 

You’re not broken, your life is not over and you can still be happy. 

It’s not your fault.

[proxycrit]

(I point. Gently, in the voice of somebody who’s mind touched by the outer gods, i whisper truth in your ears:

Your honor the horses are now lesbians

(Anyways here’s the designs)

[starredwrites]

i'm having thoughts about amatonormativity and why it sucks and they're long-winded and hard to properly express bc it's late at night but i wanted to share them so i summarized them with a meme

this realization brought to you by the realization that a lot of people who say acephobic shit without actively denying asexuality exists just mentally swapped "virgin" for "asexual" and carried on with their lives. this best evidenced by people being "accepting" of asexual women but ignoring/erasing asexual men.

[crybaby-bkg]

you know what’s absolutely terrifying???? having to cut a baby’s nails………

Katsuki has to cut your baby’s fingernails when he discovers a tiny little scratch by her eye one morning. it’s barely there, a small thing, but it’s there, marring her little face nonetheless. he frowns at her when he holds her the next morning, her dreamy eyes alert and blinking up at him, she smiles.

“Now I gotta cut yer claws down,” he mutters to her, voice quiet as to not wake your sleeping form in the bedroom. he pads throughout the house with her chubby face resting on his shoulder, her gums gnawing at his bare skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind it.

he finds himself in a conundrum though, once he realizes just how fucking—how sharp the damn clippers are. they’re tiny, lavender in color, but they’re meant to cut though the nail with such precision. and yes, he’s a pro hero, has had to adopt the title of EMT, firefighter, emergency surgeon a few times in his life when need be.

but…those people weren’t his baby girl. they weren’t this tiny and precious, and they never looked up at him with a face so similar to his, it makes his heart squeeze tight in his chest. he frowns at her again, even deeper, and this makes her hiccup a little giggle, gummy smile spreading wide.

“You’re only gonna wear mittens from here on out,” he grumbles after a while, finally daring to pick up a tiny hand that she instantly curls around his thick finger. it’s the cutest image, he thinks to himself, but he catches sight of the jagged nail, the culprit. his heart squeezes even tighter though, when he realizes that he can’t protect her from every hurt in the world, even if the hurt comes from her own hands. and the realization is an aching one, but he tells himself that he, at least, can patch her up.

you walk in minutes later, find Bakugou curled over your daughter in the rocking chair he built for her room. his tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed. your daughter babbles to him the whole time, her sweet voice cooing the softest little noises that he responds back to.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles to her. “Ya don’t like baths, and don’t like your nails cut, either. What other shit do you hate, huh?” he asks, and she seemingly responds with a long, sighed out coo. it makes him smile, despite the way his hands slightly shake when he cuts the next nail. he’s terrified, of somehow hurting her even more, of cutting too close, of scratching her. but he treks on, and kisses her fat little fingers every time he clips another nail.

[calypsolemon]

Everyone on this website talks about the choice to not have children to end the terrible cycle of familial abuse or whatever but I feel like nobody on here wants to talk about the more mundane and pressing reality of wanting children but being paralyzed by the understanding that bringing them into our current society inherently means traumatizing them in some small way simply because there are no good options.

Like. Dont want to put a child through public school because public school sucks, but homeschool is isolating and private school is not an option for ppl with no money. Dont want to raise a child with a forced gender but attempting to raise a child neutrally may socially isolate them or cause authorities to question your parenting methods. Don't want to raise a child in an isolated suburb where they have nowhere to travel independantly but affordable housing with ample room for families in city environments are basically nonexistent.

It can be hard not to feel judgemental of yourself for wanting to bring a child into the world at all under these conditions. Unlike with refusing to continue the "cursed bloodline" or whatever, there's just no personal pride one can take in deciding not to have kids because the world would force me to make choices that hurt them irregardless of my desires.

[zahri-melitor]

Can’t believe every time that Batman no kill policy poll goes past on my dash that ‘exceptions’ is still leading.

The No kill policy is like the most understandable and acceptable of all of Bruce’s quirks? ‘Actually he should have murdered the Joker over Jason’ is a terrible argument.

Why? Why is that Bruce’s responsibility given how many times he has delivered the Joker to the criminal justice system?

AS someone who spends a lot of his time interfacing with the entry point of the criminal justice system he has undoubtedly spent significant time thinking about victims rights vs community retribution.

While I am aware different societies have different legal systems, some of which prioritise the rights of victims and victims’ families to seek retribution/restitution, in the context of a city in America in DC Comics we are dealing with a common law legal system which is highly focused on justice being delivered for SOCIETAL reasons rather than personal vengeance.

Putting a hard line in the sand that he will not act as an executioner outside the law is Good Actually given that generally we regard systems where the person who makes an accusation of a crime also gets to decide if the crime occurred AND pass sentence on it as corrupt.

Just admit you’re frustrated that the narrative will never stop bringing back popular characters.

On multiple occasions it’s been brought up that the GCPD’s willingness to work with the Bats is linked to the fact they don’t kill and they DO bring people in to be charged by the police.

Also the best Bruces are written as quietly optimistic at heart, that people CAN change. Look at every time Eddie Nygma or Harvey Dent have had one of their rehabilitation phases. Bruce is always supportive.

On the less optimistic end Bruce is also convinced if he ever lets himself kill he may not stop, and has spent considerable amounts of time thinking about how to avert such a situation.

HOW many bad universes where Bats kill has Bruce encountered over the years? Yeah. I’d worry too.

[frogmanfae]

Anthony Lockwood x GN! Reader- You Too? (FLUFF with a little bit of angst)

Summary: Anthony can't sleep at night. You can't sleep at night. Most of the time you avoid running into each other, but one fateful night of tears in the basement leads to an awkward bedroom experience.

A/n: this one is quite a bit longer than my other ones, about 4,000 words. I think it came out pretty well. Please don't make this dirty, I beg of you. It really is just awkwardness that happens to occur in a bed it isn't anything spicy.

Reader pov

There are nights where I can't bear to be in my room. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I need a break from such mundane consistency. I just need to see something other than those walls.

On these nights, I usually make myself some tea and go to the basement. I'd much rather sit in the library, but Lockwood is in there most nights. Nobody ever comes down to the basement. I'm alone with only my thoughts and my tea.

I don't quite understand why my room has this effect on me sometimes. When my parents died, my room was my safe haven. My refuge. My sanctuary. So now that I'm in a new environment, it makes little sense to me that it can feel more like solitary confinement. It makes even less sense that I'm soothed by the concrete and dust of the basement.

Tonight is one of those nights. It's probably three in the morning as I sit on the floor leaned against the wall, sipping my tea. I'm a listener, like Lucy (though not nearly as powerful) so a moment of silence is rare, but extremely calming. To use my power and hear nothing is bliss.

I've only about half way finished my tea when someone comes down the stairs, clearly laser focused on something. We're in the middle of a big case, so that's probably it. I had expected it to be George doing some late research or maybe Lucy to see if she can listen to any of the sources down here and get a lead.

To my surprise, it's the other one.

I watch silently as Lockwood pulls out several files and spreads them out on a table. He seems extra stiff, like something is really bothering him. He grumbles something in frustration before collecting the files and putting them back in the cabinet.

He walks over to my wall and sits down a couple feet away. From what I can tell, he hasn't noticed me.

I'm right here, isn't your talent supposed to be sight?

I simply continue sipping on my tea, remaining quiet and looking forward to not disturb him, though he really is an idiot if he doesn't know I'm here.

I thought for a moment that he actually did see me, but he needed space and realized I needed the same so he just didn't acknowledge it. I was certain on this until I heard him crying.

I look over at him. He's still wearing dress pants and his button up and tie. He's still got on his dress shoes. However, his hair was a mess and his hands were currently tangled in the back locks, only making it worse. His face was buried in his knees. I swear I heard a tear drop on to the floor. He was quietly sobbing, clearly trying to not alert anyone but still in pain. Emotional pain, anyhow.

I debate what I should do for a moment. I don't want to startle him, and honestly he seems like he needs this. I decide to just keep drinking my tea and not look at him. I'll let him get it all out before I make my presence known.

It lasts longer than I thought. Perhaps ten minutes? I'm not the best with comprehending passage of time but that seems right enough. Regardless of the details, it was a long time to sit here holding my breath and listening to his suffering.

Finally, he sniffs and wipes his eyes. I'm still looking straight ahead holding my cup, only seeing him out of my peripheral vision. He runs his hands back and forth over his hair a few times. I close my eyes.

"JESUS FUCKI-"

I snap my head towards Lockwood. He's now on his back with his legs closest to me, propped up on one arm and looking at me as if I'm a ghost. I can properly see his face now. His dark circles seem more prominent than usual and his eyes are red and puffy. His nose is red. His cheeks are discolored. He looks abnormally pale. His lashes have been thickened and darkened by his tears. It was truly a sight.

"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?"

"I was here before you."

"AND YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING? YOU SAW ALL OF THAT?"

"Shhh you'll wake up the others, we both know how lightly George sleeps while we're in the midst of a case. Anyhow, you seemed like you needed it. I didn't want to interrupt. It's not like I watched you."

"But... You saw it all. You heard everything!"

"Lockwood, I hope you realize I think no less of you."

"What?"

"I- oh gosh you can't be comfortable like that. Sit up, why don't you?" He hesitantly pushes himself up and leans against the wall again. "I'm worried about you."

"Theres no need to be-"

"Bullshit. You can't keep concealing your emotions like this. It's okay to be overwhelmed or stressed or overall upset for any reason. You always act like everything is wonderful but it's not. I don't know if it ever has been."

He looks down. "(Y/n)... It's not that easy-"

"I never said anything about it being easy. Of course it's hard. I can't even imagine how you feel owning an agency so young, having all that pressure on your shoulders. It's terrifying to be vulnerable."

"Is that why you're in the basement in the early hours of the morning, drinking herbal tea?"

I hum. "I just couldn't sleep, and I like herbal tea."

"Now who's bullshitting?" The corners of his mouth tug up in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You much prefer green. Herbal simply calms you down. You only ever drink herbal tea when you're upset."

"How..."

"I notice things, (y/n). Lots of things. Don't think I don't hear the kettle during the midnight hours at least three times a week. The peculiar thing is I never hear anyone go back up the stairs and whenever I go into the kitchen, it's empty."

I look down. How'd he make this about me so quickly?

"Tell me, (y/n), do you spend your nights in the basement often?"

"... No. Only when I can't sleep."

"So... Often." He nods. "Why don't you stay in the library? It's much more inviting."

"I don't want to bother you. That's where you are most nights."

"You could never bother me."

"Stop, you were the one crying a few moments ago, this isn't about me."

He sighs. "It was worth a shot."

"Now, what's bothering you?"

"Uh... Nothing, really."

"Lockwood."

"It's just the case, that's all."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

He let's out a noise of exasperation. "Fine, you really want to know? It's my parents."

"Your parents?" I ask softly as I scoot closer to him.

He nods. "They died when I was six years old. You really have no idea what it's like to have such a great life until suddenly you don't and it all gets ripped away from you without warning and nobody will take you in so you have to fend for yourself before your age even reaches double digits."

"Actually... I think I can relate more than you realize."

"How can you possibly relate?" He almost sounds angry. I don't blame him, I never told him my story. I kept it to myself even after living with other people all this time. I moved here with a purpose, to start new. Therefore, my past never happened according to anyone else. I was another person then. I've left all of that behind, taking only the nightmares and memories with me.

"My parents were murdered when I was eight." I look straight ahead. "Nobody really wants to adopt a kid who's just began to really get strong in their talent for hearing brutal murders and death. It freaks adults out. So I was on my own until I found you guys."

His expression softens. "(Y/n), I'm so sorry, I... Wait, you were fourteen when you applied. That's six years."

"It was hard but I managed. The whole ghost hunting agent thing isn't so bad. Once you've been forced to watch your parents get nothing short of quartered right in front of your sensitive, innocent eyes, you can watch anyone else get ghost touched no big deal."

"I'm sorry, quartered?" His eyes are wide.

"Yeah, are you familiar with the French Revolution?"

"I'm familiar enough to hope you were talking about a different type of quartering."

I shook my head. "It was intense. I still think of it every time I close my eyes."

"I can't even imagine..."

"I didn't tell you this for you to feel sorry for me. I only wanted you to know I'll understand. You aren't as alone as you believe."

He nods slowly. "I see... Thank you... For sharing, I mean."

"Of course. So now that you know I can at least sort of understand what you're feeling, what's going on with you?"

He sighs. "I don't know... Sometimes I just..."

"Miss them?"

"... Yeah." He nods. "Yeah I miss them a lot. I miss them all the time but sometimes when I think about it it's not so bad, it's let me do what I've done, accomplish all of this. Other times..."

"It's mentally suffocating."

"Mentally suffocating... Yeah that's a good word for it. Like it's put a sheet over your brain to prevent it from getting oxygen, but you can still physically breathe with your lungs for the most part."

I nod. "Yeah, it's frightening. George has a book on it he was telling me about some time."

"George knows you feel like this sometimes?"

"No, but we often discuss our readings, trade books, recommend authors or titles... Things of the sort. I haven't told anyone about my past. Except you of course."

"Well aren't I special," he flashes one of his signature Lockwood smiles.

I roll my eyes. "Don't let it get to your head, your ego is already so inflated I fear it might burst."

"Oh haha you love my charisma."

"Is that what we're calling it?" I smile at him.

He laughs. Not his public press laugh, but a true, genuine laugh. One that I've never heard from him before. It makes me feel a little bit warmer with emotion.

"You know, most nights I stay awake in the library simply because I can't stand the solitude of my room."

"What?"

"I know, it's silly-"

"No, not at all! I come down here for the same reason!"

"You do?" He raises his eyebrows, sounding surprised. "I thought you just worried over cases or, well now I thought you thought about your past but-"

"No, it's like..." I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "Like the silence is too loud and the space is too big for just me, even though my bed hardly fits properly."

"Exactly! Like I don't have anything to focus on except for the sensory deprivation and my anxieties."

"Yes! Oh my goodness I can't believe you get it!"

"I thought I was the only one!" He laughs again, different this time. It sounds almost relieved. "Say... Maybe we could help each other out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Help each other out? How so?"

"Well, feel free to decline if you want and we'll never speak of this proposal again, but perhaps we could try spending the night in the same room."

"But..." I get that warm feeling again, more intense this time. "Each room only has one bed..."

"Yes well..." Despite the horrid lighting of the basement, I could faintly see a light pink tint spanning across his nose and blotching on other, seemingly random, spots on his face. "Like I said I understand if you decline and if that is your choice we can pretend I never said anything... However... I feel it may be beneficial to the both of us to have a... companion in the lonely, deafeningly silent hours of the night. If it works, splendid we can finally get some proper sleep. If it doesn't, we each return to our respective seperate rooms and carry on as if nothing ever happened."

"..." I nod slowly. "Okay."

"Ah- really?" He turns to face me more. "In all honesty I thought you would detest the idea."

"Do you still want-"

"Yes! I mean," he clears his throat, "uh... Yeah, the offer still stands."

"Perfect."

"Well then." He stands up and offers me his hand. "Shall we?"

"Oh you mean like right now! Alright then." I take his hand and he pulls me up. He chuckles and leads me to his room.

"I uh... I'll go take this cup back to the kitchen and let you get changed and what not."

"Oh- right." He pushes back some of his hair. "I'll only be a minute or two."

"Okay, I'll be waiting for whenever you're ready."

He smiles at me as he steps back into his room and closes the door. I swiftly make my way to the kitchen and set my cup in the sink, resolving to wash it in the morning, and return in under a minute.

I wait outside for only about thirty seconds longer before Lockwood opens the door again.

"Sorry I took so long."

"Long? Lockwood that was- wait."

"What? Is something the matter?" He takes his hand off of the door handle and peeks his head out around the corner.

"No, just... You're wearing a shirt."

"Oh, well..." He stepped aside, inviting me in, and closed the door behind me "Yes in fact I am. What about it?"

"Lockwood you've never worn a shirt to bed in all the time I've been here. It's like an unspoken principle in the house; you don't wear shirts to bed and George doesn't wear trousers."

"I didn't realize it was such a disruption of order-"

"Well- that's not what I'm saying." I sigh. I've always struggled with putting things into the right words. "Obviously it's fine if you wear a shirt to bed, I just... I'm just wondering why all of a sudden?"

"Well... I don't know. I suppose I thought you may be a bit uncomfortable sharing a bed with me when I've no shirt on." He looked down, those pink splotches returning to his face. "After all, this is only an arrangement of convenience and practicality. It's not like were... uh... going out... or anything..."

"Ah, right..." I can feel myself getting flustered. "Well... I don't mind, really. The whole point is to feel more comfortable going to sleep so if you feel more comfortable with no shirt on, honestly it doesn't make any difference to me."

"... Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, really." I smile reassuringly. "Whatever makes you fall asleep best."

He hesitates. "Well, if you're absolutely positive-"

"Lockwood, I promise you."

He hums lowly. "Alright then. But if you change your mind just tell me and I'll put it back on straight away, I swear-"

"Lockwood!"

"Alright, okay! If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, a smile gracing his face. It isn't one of his signature smiles, it's real, quite boyish actually. He seems so young. Sometimes I forget how young we really are, but then again, all youth since The Problem has forgotten how young they really are.

I try my best to appear to be disinterested and looking away as he removes his shirt and folds it, neatly placing it in the bottom right drawer of his dresser. Of course, I watch the whole thing unfold. I'm only trying to appear as if I'm not.

"Alright, well..." He awkwardly rubs his arm. I've never seen him seem so nervous before. "I suppose now is when we uh... get into bed, then..."

"Yes it does seem like that happens now..." I slowly nod.

"Well uhm... After you." He gestures toward the bed.

"Oh no, please, it's your bed, you go ahead first." I wave my hands.

"No no I insist. You're my... guest? Is that the appropriate term for this? What do we call this?" He lets out a breathy chuckle. "Sorry, I'm a bit..."

"Nervous?"

"To say the least."

We both laugh a little bit. There really was no need for it to be so nerve wrecking. We had already agreed that if it doesn't go well we pretend nothing happened. Nobody needs to know.

"Here, why don't we just both get in at the same time?" I offer.

"Yes! Yes, that sounds like a good idea." He goes to the side of the bed opposite of me.

It's still extremely tense as the both of us climb in under the covers. There's plenty of space in between us. I'm nearly hanging off the edge, no doubt Lockwood is as well.

Fuck it.

I move onto the bed more so I'm a comfortable ways on. "Lockwood?"

"Yes?"

"Can I be frank for a moment?"

"Well I think I'd prefer you to stay (y/n) but I suppose whatever makes you happy-"

"Oh shut up." He laughs one of those real laughs again. I nearly melt.

"What would you like to talk about?"

I take a deep breath, admittedly, his joke (however stupid) managed to cut some of the tension. "This isn't going to work unless we get over ourselves and actually share the bed. Like real sharing."

He pauses. "You're right. The question is, how far are we going?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Well..." He huffs. "If we're being frank-"

"I prefer Anthony, but I suppose-"

"Oh shut up, it really isn't funny." Despite his words, he was smiling again. "I see your point now."

"Well, what is it you were going to say, Frank?"

"Please don't." He laughs, making me smile more.

"I'm listening."

He inhales deeply. "Well, how far are we going as in... Are we simply laying next to one another and trying to go to sleep or... to be blunt, are we spooning?"

I nearly chocked on my own saliva. Blunt was certainly one way to say it.

"Well... Whatever makes you comfortable. Honestly I think it would work best if we... Uh... Did the latter, but I don't want to make you-"

"I was actually hoping you'd say that-"

He sighs, sounding almost... Relieved?"

"Really?"

"Yes, I-" he rolls over, bringing us from being over a foot apart to our noses now almost touching. "Goodness you are much closer than I thought-"

"Sorry, I-" I start to move back, but he puts his hand on my waist, gently stopping me.

"No no I uh... Well if we're going to uh... You know, uhm, we're going to have to be close anyway so..."

"Right, yeah..."

He softly pulls me closer using his hand that still rests on my waist. I move towards him until my hands are pressed to his chest and our legs are touching under the covers. His face is splotchy red again, the most intense I've ever seen it, though I can't imagine how flustered I must appear.

"Uhm... May I?" He starts to wrap his leg around mine.

"Ah..." I nod, unable to trust my voice.

And so now we lay here, about two seconds away from being puddles of awkwardness and mild embarrassment. He's warm. Very warm. It's kind of nice being this close to him.

I've always found him attractive since the moment I saw him. He is, objectively, a good looking guy.

Then I got to know him a little bit. He and I would often bicker and pester one another, some times seemingly more serious than others, but for the most part it was all in jest. Making jabs at each other is just what we do.

I think I fell for him more and more over my time here, but tonight I saw a new side of him. A side that really pushed me over the edge of having a bit of a crush on him to trying to stop myself from kissing him at any given moment.

"(Y/n)? Are you alright?" He brings a hand up to my forehead. "You're awful warm and you look... Distressed."

"Anthony?"

His gaze softened. I don't think anyone has called him that in... well who knows how long? Too long. "Yes? Is something the matter?"

"No I just..." I make eye contact with him, effectively rendering myself speechless.

He inches closer. "Are you sure? This is quite the... intimate position... I wouldn't want to make you..."

By this time, our noses are back to almost touching, but even closer than before. He tilts his head just enough to avoid colliding them.

"Make me what? Uncomfortable?" I glance down at his lips, quickly looking back to his eyes to avoid suspicion. "Anthony, you could never-"

He kisses me.

Holy shit.

Anthony Lockwood is kissing me.

I'm in Anthony Lockwood's bed.

I'm kissing Anthony Lockwood!

"I'm sorry-" he pulls back. "Oh no... I shouldn't have done that... Shit... Oh shit I'm so sorry-"

I kiss him again. "Shut up, will you? I just had a life altering moment here and I'm trying to enjoy it."

"You- you liked it?"

"Of course I did. Anthony, I've liked you since... Well I suppose there wasn't a single moment I could pick out but-"

"I love it when you call me that."

I smile. "Call you what? Anthony? Well that is your name."

"It hasn't been used in years. Not by itself, anyhow. It sounds nice coming from your lips."

"I like your lips." It takes a moment to register what I just said. "Wait, I didn't mean-"

"You like kissing me~" He teases me, putting on his Lockwood Smile.

"Oh shut up!" I put my head on his chest to hide my face. "Of course I do..."

"Well... You know what I would like more than just kissing you?" He carefully lifts my head up with two fingers under my chin.

"Hm?"

He hesitates for a moment. "I'd like to be your boyfriend."

"What? Really?"

"If you'll have me, that is-"

"Of course I'll have you, you prick!" I lightly punch his chest. "Do you know how long I've wanted to tell you that?"

He shakes his head. "I can't say I do."

"Well there wasn't a specific time but I think I started to think about it more and more around the time we were working the Brentic case."

"The B- (y/n) that was at least a year and a half ago."

"I'm well aware."

"... Huh."

"What?"

"I think I've known since the Dalkins case."

"Lockwood, that was long before the Brentic case-"

"It seems my charm worked then."

"Oh shut up! Go to sleep!"

He laughs a bit. "So... Are we...?"

"... I think we are..."

"Wonderful! Splendid! Perfect! Grand! Fanta-"

I laugh. "Anthony shut up!"

He goes quiet, but the smile remains on his face. "Do we tell the others?"

"... Nah. It's funnier if we just let them figure it out. But we don't necessarily have to hide it either."

He nods. "It'll take all my self control to not shout it from the rooftops."

"Oh hush." I roll my eyes, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. "Get some sleep, lover boy. You clearly need it."

He kisses me once more, shorter this time, before closing his eyes and pulling me closer to his chest. He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, his breaths going even and his mouth falling slightly agape in no time at all.

I watch him for a moment. Once again, he really shows his age for only a second. I push some of his hair away from his face and place a kiss on his forehead, causing him to stir just a bit.

Before I know it, my eyelids feel heavy. It becomes increasingly harder to keep them open, to stay awake. Soon enough, I'm drifting into sleep with pleasant dreams to greet me and Lockwood by my side.

How lucky am I?

[thelordofgifs]

In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

[mi1kbomb]

tsukasa loves showing off i think he would also like to show off how strong he is in the form of carrying rui 

[infiniteorangethethird]

man the realization that I can do literally whatever the fuck I want within my daydreams/paracosm because I'm the only audience who will ever see it has been one of the most freeing thoughts I've had in a long time. ain't nobody can judge a story they don't even know about

[viperwhispered]

Some angst thoughts with you/Yuu after Jamil's overblot (with an extra dash of snake phobia because, uhh, personal experience):

Jamil thinks he knows why you avoid meeting his eyes - he doesn't realize you're still working on getting used to his presence in general, trying to keep at bay those memories of his overblot that seem so deeply ingrained in your mind.

In the right situation, just hearing Jamil's voice seems to take you back.

Seeing him from the corner of your eye isn't much better: those braids really look an awful lot like something long and slithery when your mind's primed for it, your mind anticipating the hissing snakes darting towards your face again.

You find it difficult to sleep with your bedroom door closed - it makes you feel too confined, with no way out.

Not that the new nightmares help your sleeping situation much, either.

Kalim keeps on inviting you over to the dorm for yet another get together. You know it would do you good to go, eventually, but you're not sure you're ready yet. So you come up with another excuse.

[mid-nightowl]

untitled lil fic #1 (jason todd and gotham war)

here's some gotham war rewrites i needed to get out of my head, the brainrot was killing me omg

warnings for violence, cursing, whatever the hell Bruce is doing (just Bruce as a full warning tag, the man is more unhinged than Joker in this)

---

“Oh Jason. How I’ve missed you, my sweet boy.”

The words are sickeningly sweet, poison-saturated words falling from bloody red lips. Delivered with a crooked smile, Joker looks up at him, uncaring at his position. His fingers curl in the clown’s suit collar, lips curling with a snarl.

Jason punches him again, the clown’s jaw cracking and his body straining against the ferry railing. Joker merely giggles, head lolling around through the air before his mismatched eyes meet his mask. 

“Shut the fuck up!” He snaps, unholstering his gun and digging the muzzle into Joker’s cheek.

His murderer raises his hands, waggling his fingers in surrender, grinning and smirking and smiling. 

He hates it, he hates it, he hates it. 

“I want you to think about this real carefully,” He digs his gun into his skin. “This could be the last joke you ever make, you understand? That’s what you want to go with?”

“You know,” His nightmare giggles, chuckles like a wind-up toy before he wipes the amusement off his face. The clown looks up at him, head tilted, pleased and patient and thoughtful. There’s not a single sliver of hate and destructive menace, or anger or disappointment or suspicion. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, he thinks. There’s something wrong here. There’s something wrong with Joker—and not in the usual way. 

“The best jokes deliver a difficult truth, but hide it with a fun fiction,” Joker explains, smushed but coherent words strung together despite the gun halfway in his mouth. “Without humor all we have left is being mean and lying.”

“What?” He can’t stop the words before they stumble out of his mouth. He doesn’t let the gun go lax in his hand despite the way the clown’s words throw him off guard. 

Off-kilter is a genuine feeling that digs into him, shocking him to the core. The clown does this, he knows it. He knows this is how he does things, how he worms his way out of every situation and every attempted manslaughter, he knows how the clown operates, intimately. 

Jason knows him. 

Joker, historically, has been so many things. But he’s always been a psychotic, impulsive mass-murderer. Someone without restraint, without limitation. 

It’s why he’s always been Batman’s true nemesis. Bruce, he needs a fine-tuned control of everything and everyone. He is someone who has limits and restraint. 

Controlled, focused, and without limitations—Jason is almost the happy medium to both of them. 

Almost.

The three of them are similar, different, opposites and identical. It’s like walking in one of those mirror mazes where you can’t tell who the real you is. 

Who is the real Bruce Wayne? The man who cherishes his children or the one who maims them?

Who is the real Joker? The cold, purposeful mass murderer or the dumped-in-acid man who can’t tell the difference?

Who is the real Jason Todd? The bloody crime lord or the declawed crowbar wielding vigilante?

Joker simply smiles and pats his arm, as if Jason’s not trying to kill him.

He slams the clown against the railing again, snarling. 

“Enough games!” He growls and flips the safety off. The noise doesn’t even phase Joker, if anything he grins harder. His mismatched eyes—one red-brown, one green—flick above them before returning to his. 

“Are you really going to use that big bad gun of yours with Daddy watching? He’ll be so mad at you.” His murderer grins, letting his head hang limply in his grasp.

“What? Batman-!” He jerks back, head snapping up to the ferry roof cover. 

Empty. No looming monster demanding a painful compromise is here.

Joker’s hands push him back, and he grunts, stumbling into the ferry wall. The clown tumbles over the railing, disappearing from view. His laughter haunting the air. 

“No!” He shouts, dashing to the railing. 

The clown is gone under the waves and ice, sinking into the dark of Gotham Harbor. 

He’s not dead. He can’t be dead, Jason thinks, gripping the ice-cold railing, I haven’t killed him yet.

He’s not dead.

But that was mean. 

--

The last words Jason hears remind him of his grave. 

No, not the one he was buried in. Six feet of dirt above him and smothered in satin, watched over by that stupid weeping angel.

There’s a memorial in the cave with his name. ‘Good soldier’ and nothing else but his name. Both of them: Jason Todd and Robin. 

A monument to Bruce’s failure, his greatest mistake, a grave to his complicated teenage years, his love. 

“You’ve always been a good soldier. Rest now.” Bruce told him, jabbing him in the neck with the needle. 

A grave, a memorial, a monument. It makes him sick. The reminder that he will always be the dead Robin, the sad Robin, the angry Robin. 

Dead, dead, dead.

The violence done to him, inflicted and imprinted into his skin and bones was more important. The guilt and the lesson were more important than his cries for justice, for his life’s blood.

The monument and altar, raised after his murder, were never for him, but for Bruce.

He was dead, why would he care?

The story Bruce will tell would never be the truth, just excuses and wrong-doings. He would take accountability after the fact, but not before. 

Bruce would let his murderer walk and let him rot. 

Maybe that was why he buried Jason six feet under, so he wouldn’t have to face the decay and decomposition. That he could keep this golden, blurry image of him as Robin, as the straight A student, the good son. And not a weightless body splinted a thousand different ways to look human. 

But now that he’s resurrected—not in Bruce’s image, but as something broken and jagged, something lost and filled with dirt and green-green-green—Bruce refuses to acknowledge him. Refuses to believe this is who he is. 

Refuses to believe that he remade (destroyed) himself from the ruins, from the broken bones and empty veins and black thread that mended his corpse back into the image of Jason Todd. Refuse to think that if a girl can come back as a soothsayer, that a boy can come back as a gun. 

“Hnnng…Bruce,” Jason groans softly, heaving himself off the couch. 

Batman turns to him, looming with his face mask in his hands. The fluorescent lights, a nauseous lime-yellow, cut over his figure, his face, his mask. Almost a green-green-green, almost a pool of rage, almost a pit of madness.

His mask crackles alive in Bruce’s hands, Selina’s voice wavering between annoyance and worry. 

“Red Hood? Hood, please check in and let me kno-” Batman clicks his comm off. 

The resounding silence smothers him. 

His exhale comes out shaky, his heart beating too fast behind his bruised ribs, a chill crawling over his exposed skin. 

Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong. 

“...Batman? You…” He swallows roughly, mouth filled with dirt and blood and thread. “Wha…What did you do?”

“Nothing I’m proud of, Jason.” 

His heart sinks and skips a beat at the same time, stomach twisting with anxiety and fingers trembling against the ugly brown couch cushions.

Inhale. 

He pushed too much.

Taking Selina’s side?

He went too far.

Hood didn’t kill anyone?

Exhale. 

“Hh! Ho…” Jason croaks, getting his boots on the ground. “Y-you…you..”

“Take deep breaths, Jason.” Batman turns back to the computer hub glowing behind him, ignoring his attempts to speak, to demand answers. 

His arms shake as he holds himself upright, but when he tries to stand instead he chokes, falling to his knees in front of the couch. Gasping for air, he lays his palms flat against the cool tiles. His legs are quivering, heavy and unable to hold his weight. 

His whole body trembles with it, this feeling unfolding through his blood and bones, engulfing his head and voice. 

Fear, fear, fear.

“Years ago I created my backup personality, Zur, using techniques I learned from an old mentor and this machine that I built,” Batman starts, monitoring the screens in front of him with one hand on the keyboard and the other on his belt.

Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him, to face him, someone he calls son, someone he considers family, and explain what he’s done to Jason.

He never has. 

“I can’t change your personality with it, Jason…” Batman sighs, low and quiet. “But I can add to it. A small thing: your failsafe.” 

Failsafe. He slams the heel of his palm on the floor, cheeks tingling with his telltale sign of tears. A failsafe?!

Because Red Hood needs a failsafe instead of justice.

“What?!” He tries to snarl, to hiss and yell and scream his rage. But his voice fails him, anxiety chewing at his throat and tongue, voice tilting too high, too unsteady, too weak. 

“Now when you have heightened adrenaline, when you’re about to do something dangerous, your fear kicks in,” Batman continues explaining. “It…I’m sorry Jason. But it’s the only way.” He clenches his eyes shut—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—and tries to ignore his rabbit heart battering against its cage, pounding to the frantic rhythm of fear, fear, fear.

“I love you.” 

The words feel like gunshots, the knuckle prints on his skin after the two of them fought over Penguin, the smack of Selina’s whip against his fingers, the crowbar on his skull, his legs, his ribs, over and over and over. 

“I love you, but you are a murderer,” Bruce condemns him, over and over again. “You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you.” 

“H-heal me?” He whispers, rage cut off at the roots. “This isn’t…this isn’t you, Bruce.”

Batman, finally, turns to Jason. He looms, tall and foreboding, darkness dripping around him, drenching him in fear, fear, fear. 

Batman takes a step forward and he crashes back against the couch, spine digging into the wooden frame painfully. 

He can’t breathe. Batman moves and he knows it in his bones, knows it down to the scars Gotham and its guardian have left on him, that he’s not here to save him, to help him. 

“I got you a new identity. A place in Metropolis.” Batman keeps walking forward, despite Jason’s growing hyperventilation, despite the way his blunted nails scratch at the floor. Despite the way he shakes, black stitches snapping apart, the pieces of him falling to the floor of this slaughterhouse, at the feet of his butcher. 

“B-bat…Batman,” He whimpers, hand twisting into the fabric of his suit. 

“You can live a normal life. Fall in love, do meaningful work. This isn’t punishment, Jason,” Batman kneels in front of him and removes the cowl. “I love you.” Jason shrinks back, shoulders back and legs curled to his chest. Bruce’s face is sharp and pale, with bags under his eyes and days old stubble on his jaw. 

His eyes are dark with absolute rage. 

Batman is going to hurt him. Batman is going to hurt him.

Bruce is going to hurt him again. 

“This is a gift. Any way you look at it, you should be in prison for all the people you’ve killed,” He chokes at Bruce’s words, barely smothering the terrified cry in his throat. “This is me saving you from that. Save you from yourself.”

Jason can only stare at the man before him—the man who took him in, who raised and trained him, who loved him—does his best to bury him.

fear, fear, fear. 

--

“Please..don’t…please,” Jason pleads, covering the girl with his frame, caging her in with his bruised and burnt arms.

“Let’s begin.” Scarecrow’s voice reverberates, it shakes through air to match his erratic breathing.

“P-please, I’ll do anything you want, anything,” He begs, fear, fear, fear burning in his veins. “Please. Just stay…stay away.” 

Scarecrow closes the gap between them, rocking back and forth on his crooked, long legs. His mask distorts and mutates, a familiar green-green-green splashing over the darkened void of his gas mask.

“You’re going to die tonight. I know you know this,” Crane looms over him, green-green-green trickling out his eyes, gushing out like an open wound. “But we can still have fun, can’t we.” 

The girl trembles underneath his chest and Jason tries to smother the whimper begging to pour out his lips. It’s gnawing at him—rabbit heart frantic in his chest, hands trembling from the burning pain and anxiety, smoke and ash gathering in his lungs—fear, fear, fear.

He can’t think of anything else. 

“Those fools were right. Your terror…it’s real and it isn’t mine,” Scarecrow sneers, kneeling in front of him. “There is no thrill in driving terror into the heart of a baby bird.” 

Scarecrow takes his jaw in his hand, needles tickling at his exposed skin, forcing Jason to look at him. He can’t help but jerk his head at Crane’s touch, needles pricking into his cheek when Crane holds him tighter, another inescapable cage around him. 

His chest heaves with every shaky inhale-exhale, his anxious fear fanning over the rogue’s mask. Scarecrow leans in closer, the glass over his eyes gleaming, reflecting the fire roaring around them. Jason can hear the screams in them, watching the shadows morph around them and the straw on Crane’s shoulders wiggle. 

“This is my moment of triumph, and it is snatched away from me by..by him?!” Scarecrow shakes Jason’s head in his hand, needles scratching into his skin but still not drawing blood.

Scarecrow lets his head drop, needles disappearing from his sight before they’re clawing at his throat, wet and cold against his clammy skin. Jason whimpers and clenches his eyes shut, unable to do anything but beg. 

He knows praying for someone to help him is futile. 

No one is coming to save him. 

“Never let it be said Scarecrow has no pity,” Crane says, voice cutting in and out his head like radio static. “I will quickly finish what your daddy started.” 

“Doesn’t mommy get a say?”

A voice slices through the flames licking at his skin and the fear smothering him. And when Jason’s gaze finds him, he can’t help the tears. 

“Step away from the vigilante, pervert.” Joker grins, dark red lips stretched too wide, too thin. Ash rains down on his green-green-green umbrella, rolling down the crooked dark patches and shamrock-colored nylon. 

“You’ve already killed him once. It’s time you learned to share, Clown.” Scarecrows speaks with thin, razor-sharp disdain, glaring over his shoulder at the newcomer. 

“You should know this by now, Doc. I don’t play well with others.” The clown throws aside the umbrella, knife materializing from thin air as he descends upon Scarecrow.

“You’re not even really him, are you? Do you think I don’t know about you? Delusions and megalomania with-” Scarecrow baits and taunts the clown, before the two of them are ducking and weaving and slicing at each other with barely concealed rage and annoyance. 

“Blah, blah, blah. Do you know why you’re always going to be a C-List villain, Johnny?” Joker jokes and Jason can imagine the sharp grin on his face. “Because doctors aren’t scary. They’re annoying.”

He ducks his head down and curls tighter around the girl. She cries underneath him, hiccups soft under the roar of flames closing in on them, the screech of metal on metal and creaking of deteriorating wood. 

He can’t move. He can’t do anything but try to breathe. But all he tastes is smoke, choking him, billowing down his throat and in his lungs. His heartbeat is so loud, jumping under its bone-cage, a heady, heavy thing—badump-badump-badump-badump. It’s too fast, erratic, out of control.

“You’re a bull in a china shop and I go round after round with you, trying to figure out how to help make you a better man, to heal you-”

Always out of control. Jason whines, hands scrambling against the wood below him. It burns, seering through his fingertips. It hurts-it hurts-it hurts, he can’t do this. He can’t.

He can’t breathe.

“Ahhhh! Ack! Achhhhh!” Scarecrow screams, guttural and wobbly and when he looks up, Jason can only watch as Crane crashes through the fifth story window. 

Tears continue to stream down his face, his heart trembling in his chest and the realization strikes him then, cracking down on his skull like a crowbar, over and over and over. 

Joker saved him. Joker saved him. Joker saved him. 

His murderer saved him.

 “A-are you real?!” Jason cries out, fingers curling into the withering floorboards. “Is this real?!” 

“Oh, don’t worry about him. I didn’t even give him a real dose of Joker Gas. I ran out. Heh!” Joker laughs, rubbing at his jaw. Blood and green-green-green stain the edges of his mouth, smeared down his chin and throat before disappearing under the orange sweatshirt he’s wearing. 

“But now, it’s just you and me. And…your daughter? Did you have a daughter and not tell me?” The clown tilts his head in question, tucking away the green-green-green gun in his hand. He steps closer, uncaring of the flames licking over his pale skin.  

Jason can’t tell if it's real or an illusion, can’t tell if his murderer is here and saving? rescuing? tricking? him. He can’t tell if this is just another nightmare he’s trapped himself in, or if this is the real punishment Bruce promised him. 

“She’s just a kid. Please…don’t,” He pleads, the tears searing down his ash-stained cheeks. 

Joker leans down, bringing his face close to Jason’s. His mismatched eyes—one green, one red-brown—bore into his and the clown smiles, too wide, too cracked and broken, too bloody and green-green-green. 

He sobs, cracking under everything. He can’t do this, he can’t. 

“My, my. Even like this you still think you’re the hero. Batman would be proud if he didn’t hate you,” His murderer says, before his bony hand is cupping Jason’s face, calloused fingers dancing over his skin. 

Jason clenches his jaw when it threatens to wobble and tremble, but knows the fear is shining in his eyes. Knows the clown can see it, knows he recognizes it in his baby-blues. He’s been here before.

They’ve been here before, together. 

“But don’t worry my sweet boy, I’ll find a way to fix you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I won’t let them. Because I need you.” His voice is honeyed and threatening, curling and clawing and cloying into his head like a sickness. Joker pets his hair, gentle and caring, and Jason knows he means it. 

He’s going to fix him. He’s going to heal him. 

He’s going to save Jason.

“Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll see each other soon,” Joker pats his cheek with a crooked green-green-green smile. “I promise.” 

His heart beats frantic to the words—fear, fear, fear—eyes unable to look away from Joker.

Jason believes him.

[void-galaxy-shenanigans]

¿feeling disabled by my own disabilities? a tragedy. never could've seen this coming.

[starbuck]

Obligatory: i am still very delicate. be gentle with me.

[shima-draws]

I just lost two (2) shiny Cyclizar

[craycraybluejay]

Ngl if anyone tried to make a whole legal stink about anyone I fucked when I was younger, I'd probably try to sue them for emotional damages or something. Cause like... that's my business. Why dafuq you involving me in this shit I don't want anything to do with even as a kid I was too busy for this shit.

In fact I wish I remembered the names of cops who fucked w me for no reason bc someone stuck their nose in my business so I could take them to court over misuse of force and whatnot. Like I was a traumatized kid why tf r u as an adult with a gun using this much force on me hello? I just. Wish I could fuck over everyone who fucked me over + everyone who was used to fuck me over. The legal way. But the legal option is only ever viable for people who ALREADY have power and money and shit.

I just genuinely despise people who stick their nose in my business and try to "fix things" or "save me" from stuff I don't need saving from which is usually also stuff that I'm actually saving myself with. (See: possession of a deadly weapon. Bitch called the pigs on me bc i said i was scared n just holding onto something so if someone tried something I had any shot at fighting back. It wasn't even a gun. Get your ass out of my business the fuck? I was A KID. A SCARED KID. There is actually 0 reason at all to do this. What the fuck else am I supposed to do just let myself get beat up or killed cuz I'm too small to fight back? No way. Leave your corrupt little system out, I want to live ty.)

Or like. Playing hero when no one fucking asked for a hero. And somehow, it's never when you ACTUALLY want or need someone to save or help you. Always when you have things handled or even when it's a complete non-issue. Like "oh you had sex w someone older that's iLLeGaL." Ok??? Leave me tf alone tho??

Idk the systems that were supposedly there to protect me only served to harm or at the very least wildly inconvenience me and the people who were most self-proclaimedly "helpful" were usually the most happy to ruin my life for their stupid white knight shit. If you want to play hero and expose someone to something you don't even know anything ab cuz u never went thru it... stop. Stop playing hero. Stop thinking u can save everyone with ur by-the-book mini-cop shit. No one likes you. Even normal people think you're a whiny lil snitch with nothing better to do than stick your nose in someone's business.