fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:
number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.
number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.
number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.
number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.
number five. your niece.
number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.
number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.
number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.
number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.
ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.
eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.
twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.
thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.
fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.
fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.
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"Do you know where we are going next?" I asked ART.
Y'know what, I think maybe I don't need any more Murderbot books. I think maybe ending things here is fucking perfect and as much as I love Wells's writing I'm genuinely not sure it can get better for me.
Like, so much of the books are about MB learning how to be a person, about becoming okay with being a complete individual with everything it entails. The first thing it does once it's actually allowed to decide on its own is it runs away from it all (admittedly to go on a mission to confirm some things about its past, because it genuinely just wants to be *good*). It shoves all its emotions away as much as it's able to. Then shit happens, and it makes its first friends, makes decisions based on these friendships, goes through a lot of emotionally intense situations...
And we get to this point here. MB having zero doubts about going with ART says a lot about its relationship with ART, but it also says a lot about its relationship with its humans - it knows that wherever it goes, when it comes back, the humans will still be there. Its humans actively acknowledge its struggles with being a now-free SecUnit and MB is willing to entertain the discussions to an extent and share information about its deeply personal experiences. Hell, System Collapse ends with MB admitting it might be somewhat broken, but that's okay as long as it can keep doing its job, and agreeing to basically do counselling - this is the guy what would rewatch its favourite TV show again and again in order to avoid acknowledging it even had Emotions a couple books back.
Reading this, I know that MB will be okay. It has hopes and goals and genuinely believes in itself and it has an amazing support system that its willing to lean on for the first time in its life. I'm convinced it'll go on to do great things with ART. And that's really the only thing I need to know.
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Y'know another point on the "Pharma isn't a Functionist" scoreboard (not that I haven't thoroughly debunked that by now but whatever) is that a preoccupation with hands isn't something unique to him.
The entire practice of empurata involves removing a mech's face and replacing their hands with claws, so literally Cybertronian society has always had a sort of judgement/taboo around hands (skillful forged hands, dirty/criminal claws). Even if Pharma were actually obsessed with his hands which he has a right to bc they're part of his body and belong to him so it's less obsession and more a fear of his bodily autonomy being violated, you can't use that to immediately declare him a Functionist when there are other cultural reasons that having one's hands removed is considered terrifying/dehumanizing and was historically used as a method of punishment and visually distinguishing someone as a criminal who should be socially ostracized.
Plus Pharma is a doctor and has only ever been a doctor his entire life, everything he is or has ever done is tied to being a doctor and being a doctor relies on him having his hands. Of course he's going to be proud of his hands or be upset when they're taken away, because having his hands taken away is, literally and symbolically, taking away his identity and the thing he's best at/most proud of being able to do.
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Now he'll play God, because your God just lost His touch
Season 6/7 Castiel with the Purgatory souls and Leviathans and stuff :33 the lyrics are from Losing His Touch by Jack Off Jill.
WIP by the way!! (Maybe. I don't know if I'll finish it really. I wanted to ink it traditionally and stuff but I forgot my sketchbook with the good pages :()
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Hiii, i love your stuff and kinda from a distance really look up at you for, in my perception, being able to express yourself without giving a fuck. Thats sick dude, Im so so afraid, of absolutely everything, its nice to think like i might grow into someone less apologetic of my existence. Nice to see people just being yknow
hey, thank you, this is really really nice. the secret that is probably not a secret is that i am also deeply afraid a lot of the time lmao -- but less than i used to be, and in ways that feel less stifling and self-suffocating, if that makes sense.
like, it used to be "i'm scared that if i express myself the way i want to, everyone will find me obnoxious, so let's just sand those edges down to be safe" -- now my fears are more like "now that i'm expressing myself in a way that feels natural and real, i'm afraid that it's all stupid/vapid/not worthwhile or meaningful" (<- specifically abt my art) or "i'm happy that i talk and act the way i want to now, but what if it makes me impossible to befriend," etc etc etc. which still feels bad and puts me in a funk a lot of the time but at least it's a fear that comes After/in reaction to doing stuff, rather than a fear that STOPS me from doing stuff, you know? like, it's evolved into a kind of fear that's less in my way.
anyway. i believe you'll experience something like this, because wanting to grow is the first step of growing. the fact that u hope or wish for something different means you're already on your way. to fewer fucks!! or at least distributing the fucks u give in a way that serves u better
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i'm not really a barty fan, but he's still very interesting to me (from how i see him)
like. him growing up with a very distant and abusive father and a very caring mother. him getting into ravenclaw house, the same house as his father, and getting scared he'll grow up to be just like him. and so he starts rebelling. he gets detentions, he gets angry at teachers telling him what to do, he gets angry at the fact he still loves learning and listening in class and reading and revising and getting good marks because it means his father will be happy and think he can still control him and is still on his way to being him. but he can't help himself- he loves learning too much. so instead he befriends slytherins, notably a rosier and a black, the kinda people his father despises and is publicly against. and his father talks about and works on getting higher up in the government with his anti-death eater agenda and so barty starts getting into the small wannabe death eater circle at school. and then he gets to go to his first meeting and he gets the mark and he gets to go on missions and his father can't stop him, can't control him anymore, and he doesn't even realise he's lost his son until barty's getting arrested.
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It's that time again... time for my progress report. I may write slower than I'd like but, hey, at least it's something lol.
Next Update (Chapter 3 & 4? Maybe?):
Intro Scene (if not on music fest route): 100%
Music Fest Routes (Solo, V, and Amara): 100%
Club Pyre Path: 93%
August Part 2 Electric Boogaloo: 0% (not started)
Avoid Death (Eventually?): 0% (not started)
Work Time! (End of Chapter): 0% (short outline, not started)
Okay, so I haven't gotten as far as I'd like. Should still be on track to finish the section I'm working on in 2-4 weeks. Hopefully. BUT. In other news, I've written dance scenes (both platonic and romantic) for all the ROs.
I'm really happy with how they've all turned out, August's especially. He's got a couple variants that are both very spicy. 🌶🌶🌶
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❝ THERE WILL COME A POET, WHO'S WEAPON IS HIS WORD ... ❞
#STCRIES: an indie selective multifandom multimuse, penned by cola, est: 04.04.22. featuring a wide variety of muses from various animanga, video games, television series, original characters, and much more! you’ll surely find a muse here amongst the wreckage that you’ll recognize. rules and muse list are available via carrd. mun has let go of all self control, so expect new muses on the daily.
promo template found here!
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