#even a tiny bit

[starcurtain]

I was asked if I was going to review 3.2, and unfortunately I really don't have time to go into it in full detail, but as a Mydei fan, what an annoying patch.

"Ummmm ACTUALLY, the reason I'm immortal is that I continually resist the call of death and drag myself back to the realm of the living."

"Dude, you spent two patches calling your immortality an inescapable curse and blaming Thanatos for refusing to take you."

"Yeah but actually it was my choice all along."

"Even when you were a literal infant with no ability to form rational thought, let alone forcibly drag yourself anywhere?"

"Stop thinking so hard about this, okay?"

"They gave you an Achilles' Heel specifically with the plot significance of being your 'one weakness' and the way to actually kill you, but you're telling me you could just choose to die at any time???"

"STOP THINKING ABOUT IT--"

It actively makes anti-sense that Mydei only survives death by his own choice, having to intentionally walk himself out of the River of Souls. How would an infant achieve that? Why would his immortality be a "curse" if it's something he's actively choosing?

Please Hoyo, take five minutes to make sure the people writing your patches actually know the lore of the characters they're writing... Please...

I don't trust this writing team as far as I can throw them, for real for real. 😂

[scrambledd3ggss]

You know what bothers me in Spy School? Nobody cries. From what I can recall (I have to reread a lot of the books) no one has just cried. Like openly sobbed. And they’ve all almost died before? I think that’s a pretty good reason to cry, is it not? Would love to see at least one character (preferably Ben or Erica -sorry) just cry a little bit

[lilfoxay]

So... what if I posted an out-of-context bit of a story from like a year ago that I still haven't finished? Without any warning or explanation? I haven't like... revised it even. And it's bad because I sucked a year ago (just kidding, I'm working on the negative self-talk). It is edgy, it is about angels and shit, I am living my middle school power self-insert fantasies and the only person who can stop me is me when I regret posting this immediately after I hit the button. It's below the cut :P

“Unimportant. Why isn’t their soul out yet?”

“Complications,” Oxy walked forward to stand next to the mortician, as both of them studied me closely. I averted my gaze, and quickly found the floor to be a point of interest. “Their soul fights back.”

“Fights back?”

“Happens very rarely, only with the–”

“Souls of angels,” The room filled with an oppressive silence as all three of us pondered the situation we were in. However, I felt pitifully out of the loop. “Is there any chance we could still try?”

“Yes. But neither of us will like what we see, or what they’ll do to us when they get their memories back.”

“We can handle one bird-brain.”

“I’d be offended, but there’s no time,” The mortician cupped their hands around Oxy’s, and soon they both wore blue, crackling spectral gloves tipped with gleaming claws. “On three,” With a grim nod, Oxy plunged their claws into my chest, and the cold feeling spread throughout my body once more. The mortician stepped up next to Oxy, and both their claws now anchored themselves into a part of me I did not know existed. “One,” Both of them shifted their stance. “Two,” The claws hummed louder, and the otherworldly sparking increased in frequency, leaving the room aglow in a pale blue light. “Three!” With a heave, they both tumbled backward onto the floor, pulling me out of my body as they went. Pulling… us… out of our body. I was bent over the steel table, the claws still embedded deep within my torso. Hands that weren’t mine tried to grip their arms and yanked me free, only to pass through them uselessly. Voices that were never my own cried out from my mouth in a cacophony of shouting and sobbing and begging and suffering. I saw through dozens of eyes. I grasped and tugged desperately at the clothes of those who had rent me from my body with a sickly number of hands to no avail. I towered above them, my head scraping the ceiling of a room that even they could not reach. As they both stood, unflinching as the hands attempted to pull them towards us, I could barely think over the storm of screams in my head.

I could not see my reflection. Oxeleure and the mortician’s eyes remained hidden from my view. The room had no mirrors. The metal on the table before me was dull and dirty, but it was better that way. What little I could see of myself, the reactions and body language of those who stood before me, they were enough.

I was a monster.

And yet they did not hesitate.

“The table! Hurry!” shouted the mortician as they dug their spectral claws into one of my arms.

“No need to tell me twice, I’m not an idiot.” Oxeleure soon followed suit, and with a snarl they dragged me down and onto the table. They fastened the shackles around one set of my arms and my ankles, as the rest of my limbs punched and clawed at them in retaliation.

“Jonas, get in here! Bring the potions!”

“What’s the hurry, I thought you were a profe- holy shit!” All of my eyes stared back at them as I struggled against my binds, my many arms uselessly passing through anything I tried to touch.

“Just shut up and get the potions to the body! I don’t know how long these binds can hold something like this!” Rushing forward with an armful of bottles, Jonas let them fall at my body’s feet as they tilted my head back. Cracking open three of the narrow vials, they balanced them in my mouth and pulled two handfuls of needles from their apron’s pockets. Disembodied golden hands, shining with the same energy as the orbs that had healed me, appeared around them and grasped the needles, urgently opening the rest of the vials and collecting as much of the green liquid as each could hold. I watched as they jabbed the needles into my neck, my arms, my legs, and even a few in my heart. I could see my neck turning pink as the liquid from the bottles in my mouth ran down my throat and seemingly brought my body back to life, without me in it. One of my hands once again tried to go for Oxeleure, grasping at their forearm. This time, it connected. They tried to wrench away from my grip as my other hands lurched greedily towards any hope of freedom.

“Uh, Circe, what does it mean when it stops phasing through objects?” The mortician slowly turned to see, as if scared to confront the reality of the situation.

“Thought you would know that by now like you seem to know everything else. It means we’re running out of time. Prepare to move the spirit,” They deftly dodged my arm’s pathetic attempt to claw at them. “Jonas, is the body ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. About as ready as it’ll ever be,” They turned to the mortician, their eyes glowing suns against the sickly blue hue that filled the room. “Tell me when.” The mortician and Oxeleure dug their claws into the pair of shoulders closest to my head, tensing their muscles in preparation.

“Okay in three, two, one…” The shackles flew open, their runes extinguishing, “NOW!” They both yanked me up from the table, hurling me towards the body as the golden hands injected the rest of the potions into my corpse. Against my will, my many sets of arms braced themselves against the chair and pushed back. The golden hands let the needles clatter to the floor as the blue energy coursed around them. Growing claws of their own, they burrowed deep into my bones and my chest, and I felt my hands slip through the chair as I screamed in agony. With a heave, Jonas, Oxeleure, and the mortician finally shoved my spirit back into my body. The glow from my own soul vanished, as well as the light from the claws and spiritual hands, as they all fell to the floor in exhausted silence.

“Swear to God… if you die after all this shit we just went through…” Jonas growled between gasps. Sharing their sentiment, Oxeleure crawled forward and clasped my leg. It was almost as if the sudden ‘attack’ scared me back to life. I lurched forward, gasping and panting and coughing and living for the first time in days. The mortician recovered the fastest, getting to their feet and dusting off their clothes. I felt firmly rooted in my own body once again, and for the first time, started being able to register the details of my surroundings.

[rooniearts]

Will Shadow ever ask Sonic to look after little Shadow? Or only if there are NO other options AT ALL?

Not only does Shadow not want Sonic to have anything to do with his kid out of principle alone, Sonic doesn't want to deal with a baby either. He doesn't understand how to interact with him or what he wants at any given moment, he doesn't really do well with all the being reliable and stationary that taking care of a small child requires, and that's not even touching on the whole chores and responsibility thing. So outside of times where there is literally no other option, both Shadow and Sonic are more than happy with the latter keeping his distance.

That being said, as Silver grows and becomes more independent, and starts being able to run around, play and express his own wants and opinions, Sonic would absolutely LOVE to hang out with that kid.

He's still not big on actually babysitting, but he'll 100% tag along with someone else babysitting and just generally go out of his way to hang out and play. He's still under intense scrutiny from Shadow, but what else is new lol.

Their favourite thing to do is race, which Sonic is always too competitive to not style on 6 year old over, but luckily Silver likes the challenge. Who knows, maybe one day he'll be able to finally beat his coolest uncle at his own game fair and square <3

[londonspirit]

In case you're wondering what that loud wailing and the floods of tears coming over from Bluesky are...

... David is breaking hearts all over again!!!

[hiwelcometothemonstersancturary]

wow guys, i cant believe the player character from hit mascot horror game Poppy Playtime actually saved all monsters, killed the Prototype and left with their newfound family! cant wait to see how the authorities will react to this weird family that just formed!

[technically-human]

Valentine's Day!!

The boys finally get a happy moment after going through the canon events

This was a commission for @i-am-as-normal-as-you-are so thank them for the cuteness!

The bonus is completely my fault though:

[lazy-ahh]

Oooooh superhero gn reader x Viltrumite mark, please! During the Invincible War, Mark goes to take reader back to his universe, saying he’s missed them and their life together. Reader rejects him, and makes a deal: if reader wins, Mark has to stop wrecking chaos on the planet. If mark wins, reader will go back with him and whatever ‘life’ they created. And reader ends up losing. :)))

THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

the sky is bleeding red when he finds you—a sickly crimson streaked with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and charred flesh. the distant wails of sirens blend into the chaos, a symphony of destruction that never seems to end.

you’re panting, your bruised knuckles pressed into the cracked pavement as you push yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. the city around you is a graveyard—skyscrapers reduced to skeletal husks, streets littered with bodies, some still twitching, others long gone. the invincible war has turned your world into a slaughterhouse, and standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the ruin, is him.

mark grayson.

but not your mark.

this one is different—sharp where your best friend is soft, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes dark with something unreadable. there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a coldness in his stare that makes your stomach knot. he wears the viltrumite empire’s uniform, the sleek, lighter armor a stark contrast to the torn superhero costumes scattered around you. a few blood stains littered the fabric, some of it still fresh, glistening under the firelight. it’s not just from battle—no, this mark wears it like a trophy.

you had just finished killing other variants of him, their lifeless eyes staring up at you, their faces so familiar it made your hands shake. you mourned them, grieved for the versions of you in their worlds who must have loved them as fiercely as you love yours. your breath still comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what you’ve done.

and then he arrived.

this mark moves with a predator’s grace, his steps measured, his shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who’s never lost. there’s a quiet intensity in the way he surveys the wreckage—like a king surveying his domain. but when his eyes land on you, something shifts. the cold superiority in his gaze softens, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something unreadable.

"there you are," he says, voice low, almost reverent, like he’s been searching through a thousand broken worlds just to find you. the way his eyes trace over you—lingering on the blood smeared across your cheek, the way your chest heaves with exhaustion—makes your skin prickle. it’s not relief in his tone. it’s claiming.

and you realize, with a sinking dread that coils like ice in your gut, that this isn’t over. it’s only beginning.

"missed you," he murmurs, the words rough, scraped raw from his throat. his voice is different from your mark’s—deeper, edged with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. he says it like he’s been holding it in for years, like he’s carved the words into his ribs just to keep them close.

your chest tightens, heart hammering against your sternum. you’ve heard the stories—whispers of alternate marks, warped by viltrum’s cruelty, ripping through dimensions to drag back what they think belongs to them. and now he’s here, standing in the wreckage of your city, looking at you like you’re a ghost he’s been chasing. like you’re already his.

"you don’t even know me," you spit, swiping the back of your hand across your split lip. the metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, bitter and familiar.

he tilts his head, considering you with a gaze that feels like a physical touch. "i know enough," he says, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "in my world, you were mine." his thumb brushes over a streak of dirt on your jaw, possessive and tender all at once. "we had a life. a future." his eyes darken, something feral flickering behind them. "i’m taking you back."

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. you think of your mark—the boy who scraped his knees racing you down suburban streets, whose laughter was always a little too loud, a little too bright. the one who looks at eve like she hung the stars, while you’ve spent years swallowing down words that taste like rust and regret.

"what happened to me?" you choke out, the question tearing from you like a wound ripped open. "in your world. did i��" your voice fractures. "did i love you too? or did you just force me to?"

his pupils dilate, just slightly, the only crack in his controlled facade. for a heartbeat, he looks almost human. "you begged me to stay," he says, low and rough, like the memory is a blade twisting in his gut. "the night before the viltrumite fleet came. you held onto me like you knew." his jaw tightens. "then they burned our world to ash. but you—" his thumb presses against your pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "you were always meant to survive."

the air leaves your lungs. you can see it—some other version of you, screaming as the sky split open, clinging to a monster because they didn’t know he’d become one.

"no."

his expression darkens—not like a storm rolling in, but like a door slamming shut. the brief vulnerability in his eyes snuffs out, pupils contracting into something cold and calculating. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as his teeth grind together, like he’s biting back words he’ll never say. the softness that had flickered across his face for just a second hardens into something unreadable, the lines of his face sharpening into a mask of imperial discipline.

but his eyes—oh, his eyes. they’re not just empty. they’re hungry.

the way he looks at you isn’t just possessive. it’s devouring. his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance, like he can’t wait to break it apart and remake you into something that fits in the hollow of his hands. his lips twitch, not into a smirk, but into something far more dangerous—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that says, you think you have a choice?

and then, just like that—it’s gone. his face smooths back into viltrumite indifference, as if that momentary crack in his armor had never existed. but you saw it. you felt it. and that’s what terrifies you the most. "you don’t get a choice."

"then fight me for it," you snap, surging forward until your forehead hovers a breath away from his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his darkened eyes. the scent of smoke and iron and something uniquely him clings to the space between you, thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even breathe—just holds your gaze with a half-lidded, almost lazy intensity, like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

then his eyes drag downward, slow and deliberate, lingering on the part of your lips, the quickened rise and fall of your chest. there’s no shame in it, no pretense—just hunger, plain and unapologetic. your pulse stutters. for one terrifying second, you almost falter, because this isn’t the look of a conqueror assessing his enemy.

it’s the look of a man remembering how you taste.

"if i win, you leave this planet alone. if you win…" your voice wavers as a memory blindsides you—your mark’s face, soft in the moonlight on his rooftop, his fingers brushing yours as he smiled at you with something warm and unreadable. you’d let yourself imagine, just for a second, that it was love. that it could be you.

now, you’re bargaining with a ghost of him.

"i’ll go with you," you whisper.

he grins finally, all teeth, but still disciplined—like he’s savoring the way your breath hitches when he leans in. "deal."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the battle is brutal.

you’re strong—strong enough to have shattered the ribs of other marks, strong enough to have left their bodies broken in the rubble of this war. but him? he’s something else entirely. every hit he lands cracks through your bones like fault lines, every impact vibrating through your teeth until your jaw aches. you dodge, but you’re always a half-second too slow, his fist grazing your cheekbone hard enough to send stars exploding across your vision.

and the worst part? he’s smiling. small and private just for you, but still there.

not the sharp, cruel grin of a conqueror—no, this is lazy, almost playful, like he’s savoring the way your breath comes in ragged gasps, the way your muscles scream as you push yourself beyond limits that should have broken you already. he’s toying with you, you realize with a sickening lurch. not because he needs to, but because he wants to see how long you’ll last.

"you took down six of them," he muses, catching your fist mid-swing like it’s nothing, his fingers tightening until your knuckles creak in protest. "six of me." his voice drops, something almost like pride curling through it. "that’s not nothing."

then his knee slams into your gut, and the world blurs.

you don’t even feel the moment his fist collides with your ribs—just the sickening crunch, the way your body folds around the impact before you’re hurled backward, crashing through concrete and steel like paper. debris hails down around you, dust choking your lungs as you gasp, vision swimming in and out of black.

when the ringing in your ears fades, he’s already there, crouched beside you with all the casual grace of a predator who’s never known fear. his fingers brush the hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple in a mockery of tenderness.

"you put up a good fight," he murmurs, thumb dragging over your split lip. his voice is almost fond, like he’s praising a well-trained weapon. "stronger than most. smarter, too." his grip tightens, just slightly, forcing your gaze up to his. "but you were never gonna win."

your body screams—muscles torn, bones fractured, blood pooling beneath you like a second shadow. but the pain in your chest is worse, a hollowed-out wound no advanced viltrumite healing could ever fix. you think of your mark—his stupid, lopsided smile, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the light in his eyes when he looked at eve—a light that was never, ever for you.

and now you’ll never tell him.

"promise me," you whisper, the words slick with blood, metallic and bitter on your tongue. there’s so much more you want to say—begging, pleading things that claw at your throat like trapped birds. promise me you’ll love me. promise me i won’t just be another trophy. promise me you won’t get bored and break me when i’m no longer new. promise me you won't throw me aside like he did. but all that comes out is: "promise you’ll leave this world alone."

mark’s thumb drags across your cheekbone, smearing dirt and blood in a mockery of gentleness. his touch is warm, almost reverent, like you’re something precious instead of something stolen. "i promise," he says, and for a heartbeat, his voice is so soft it almost sounds like the boy you knew.

then his arms lock around you, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. the sky splinters above you—crimson and gold and burning, the last beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

(and somewhere, in another life, your mark screams your name, raw and shattered, as the rubble of your city collapses around him. but you’re already gone, and the universe does not care.)

1.9k words full of my number one favourite invincible variant!! thank you so much to the anon who requested this one-shot heheheh <33

[bookshelfdreams]

yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.

(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)

In any case.

BEHOLD!

A wool coat!

The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.

Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.

This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.

Thank you for your attention.

[bluerosefox]

Gray and Graysons

One of the Bats has a secret. Something they never told to the others.

They were so very young but they have memories of a sibling, so small and tiny. They remember the burst of warmth they had in their heart when they held the tiny baby for just a moment.

But they weren’t allowed to keep them, their family couldn’t raise them. Money was tight, just enough for three but not for four, despite their shows always bringing in a crowd it was getting harder and harder for the world to be wowed by them in the new age and their sibling was too small and tiny and needed to be cared in a single place than for them to be on the road. Their lifestyle was not good for his tiny sibling apparently.

They had to watch as their parents gave his sibling away to people in suits, them promising to give his baby brother to a loving family when they find a ‘home’ for him. He watched his parents try to be strong only for his mother to break down once the car left down the road, his father holding her and apologizing, the rest of the circus troupe all silently coming over to give the heartbroken family condolences.

Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson had tears running down his face when he last saw his baby brother.

A brother he got to name before he had to be given away.

Daniel ‘Danny’ Grayson.

-x-x-

Dick never told the others. If anyone dug deep into his past they might find his brother’s birth records maybe, if someone got around to digitizing the paperwork for him but given the fact he was placed in the US childcare systems just a few days after his birth and the fact that Dick was still pretty young they most likely believed he didn’t remember his baby brother now. Not after so many years.

But they were wrong, Dick remembers. And he kept the secret close to his heart and memories.

And the only physical evidence he had was a single picture of him holding his brother, a smile on his tiny face towards their father who had taken the photo of them together. When he had lost his parents, lost most of the things that connected him to them, to his past in the circus that had been his whole life, had been taken from him in Gotham’s ruthless childcare system, he held on tight to the picture in secret. Hid it away from anyone trying to rip it from him, hid it from Bruce when the man took him in days later, hid it from Alfred despite how gentle the butler was towards him. He couldn’t, wouldn’t risk losing his photo at the time, he hadn’t trusted anyone and by the time he did he didn’t have the heart to reveal it.

So yes, the existence of his baby brother Danny was his most guarded and best kept secret.

So that’s why Dick, as Nightwing, nearly died from a heart attack when leaving a Justice League meeting he spotted a familiar face among one of the new engineers working in the Watchtower.

It was like seeing a young version of himself. Only, Dick could see that the young man was more than a copy of him, so much more than a clone. He held many traces of John Grayson but also had a bit more of Mary Grayson than Dick did. Small details that Dick foggely remembers taking note when he had held his baby brother.

“Hey, hurry up with that report Gray!” Shouted the head engineer from down the hall, his hand beckoning the young adult to come over.

“Coming! And boss, I told you Danny is fine!” Danny shouted back before hurriedly leaving a stunned Nightwing.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Sorry for not having a Year of the Dragon MDZS artwork; Unfortunately, I can only picture Dragon LWJ in this particular flavour.

[approximate-ritual]

Has anyone Jewish explained to the The Pitt fandom why curling up in a corner and saying the Shema is such a loud act of utter desperation? Like, okay, the prayer is a declaration of faith, but do you know why Jewish people say it every night before bed and when they're in complete disaster scenarios?

It's supposed to be the last thing you say before you die.

Like, saying it at bedtime is kinda like Christians saying "now I lay me down to sleep", but you also see the grievously ill and those in natural disasters and people who are otherwise in truly hopeless situations reciting it. Not to beseech G-d to rescue them, no, but because you want your last words to affirm for yourself and all Jewish people that you believe in G-d and his oneness.

So seeing a doctor in the middle of a hell shift, that hell shift, curl up on the floor, rocking and saying it? That's powerful shit right there.

[dewwshi]

The people demand more Minlach. ( please more we are desperate and your art of them is so good 🥺🥺🥺)

🫡

my beautiful yuri... sooo critical to me that minthara 1. fell first 2. fell harder. something abt the idea of this self-avowed villain being utterly and inexplicably smitten with the sweetest nicest golden retriever girl in the world

[almostfoxglove]

READ IT AGAIN

an actor!javier peña x f!screenwriter!reader one shot

RATING: Explicit (18+) | WORD COUNT: 4.7k PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader CW: this be fluff, don't worry. reader is mid 30s. I've made up so much bullshit about the film industry/movie sets that is 100% grossly incorrect, I'm so sorry.

SUMMARY: Your best-selling novel is being turned into a Hollywood blockbuster. Ordered to tweak some awkward lines with the lead actor, you've got no clue that the Javier Peña is a massive fan of the source material. He has no idea that the script doctor Stechner just sent to babysit him is the author of his favorite book.

But you're both about to find out.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

SNEAK PEEK:

With a nod, you’re gone. Out into the sprawl of white-doored trailers parked in the lot outside the studio. From above they must look like little Lego blocks laid out on an asphalt mat, but from where you’re standing they menace like a jaw of crooked, layered teeth. So far you’ve mercifully been kept away from the talent, allowing you to remain invisible to all except the temperamental director who asks you to fiddle with lines until they sing just the right note—it’s been nice. Quiet.  It seems that protection has met its end.

READ ON AO3.

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

[vaspider]

Someday, I will recover from how quickly some people flipped like a switch on whether ertain parts of me were Amazing and Awesome once I crossed over a certain line of butchness. Like, at a particular point - whether it was when my voice dropped a certain amount or my chin got stubbly- my anger and my stubbornness and my iron-spine 'no, you can't steamroll me' changed in their eyes. These personality traits went from being the Feisty, Admirable, and Attractive behavior of a Spunky Feminist Lady to the horrible actions of a Thing that just embarrasses them.

I could even have dealt with it if I just got a pass for standing up for myself or being angry at the state of the world - if I'd passed into these people's man-gendered behavioral class, you know? Men are supposed to not let people roll over them; they're allowed to be angry. But I didn't get that, either. My anger was suddenly real enough to be upsetting and frightening, but not legitimate enough to be respected. I occupied a Thing space, a sudden nothing in between, where the same person I'd always been went from being admirable and desirable to actively repulsive.

It's also a hell of a way to find out that people didn't take your anger very seriously before - all of a sudden your anger is real enough to scare people means your anger before wasn't... really real.

Someday, I'll get over that realization. Not today, though.

[dreamsy990]

TELEMACHUS AND ANTINOUS. FINALLY