#im so over these stupid little metal threads just letting go or breaking like i cannot take it anymore im going to behave in violent manners

[wingedbeings]

tbh i’m allowed to kill i have a doctors note sooo -_-

[krabmeat]

𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜: c!Tommy, c!Tubbo, c!Quackity, c!Philza,  c!Dream, c!Techno 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: weapons, violence, blowing up, mentions of blackmailing, threats

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎:

this wasnt from an ask, this is basically just some lore for my dsmp character! i wasnt gonna post this at first but since some people wanted to see it im gonna be posting it! :D

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my f*cking gosh…”

Krabs rolls her eyes at her handmade com, the message she had gotten from Tommy is ridiculous. She gathers up the things she’ll be needing from her smithy: armor, a water bucket, arrows, and 3 weapons all made and enchanted by herself. Krabs’ 3 chosen weapons being 

The Chad- her trident, Electric Boogaloo- her crossbow, and Axe My Beloved- her netherite axe. She has a sword but doesn’t use it very much as it does less damage than her axe, so she named it The Virgin because she knows she would try to use a weapon named THAT the least amount possible.

“I was supposed to leave the war at that after I did my part with the damn obsidian sh*t but NAHHH let's go and help Tommy because ‘YoU shOuLdn'T Be geTtiNg mOre peOpLe to hATE YoU KRabS!’ BULLSH*T!”

Krabs kicks a rock in frustration as she lands with her water bucket. She doesn’t wanna go by the mocked advice that Philza gave her, but she kinda had to. As much as she’s Tommy’s friend, she didn’t want to include herself in this war any more than she was already forced to. Krabs tries to keep herself as mentally invulnerable as possible, but we all know how Dream is. Like the little mole rat he is, he managed to dig and break out something to hold against Krabs to get her to help build the obsidian detonator. Everyone on the SMP knows Krabs’ specialty is not only blacksmithing, but red stone and building as well. So when Dream and Technoblade found a loose string in Krabs’ mentality, they threatened to pull and unravel that singular thread unless Krabs decided to comply.

The land is already vastly unfamiliar, craters and ash generously scattered the once town-littered and lantern lit nation. A pang of guilt rumbles through her chest, she helped build that.

But it doesn’t matter because that’s not what she’s here for. She’s here to help her friends, so that’s what she’s gonna do. 

‘I didn’t want this, I was forced to make this.’

The phrase is repeating itself over and over again in her mind. She doesn’t need her growing guilt overriding the facts- and especially not now. Looking around, she spots Tommy, Tubbo and Quackity standing on a big blown up mound of dirt with their weapons pointed towards Techno. Even with multiple weapons aimed at him, his aura is calm and stoic. 

Krabs positions herself between Tommy and Quackity, taking out Axe My Beloved when suddenly she finds herself being shoved away by Quackity with a look of anger in his eyes. 

“WHAT THE F*CK KRABS?! YOU HELPED BUILD THAT GODDAMN THING- I’LL- I’LL KILL YOU! I SAW YOU! GET THE F*CK AWAY FROM US!”

Krabs has a look of shock and surprise on her face. She didn’t think anyone saw her helping them, but it didn’t matter, right? She just has to explain the situation to them and they could understand and sort it out later!

“Look, they ma-“

“NO! NO! SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU DON’T GET TO MAKE EXCUSES FOR YOUR SH*TTY ACTIONS!”

Haha, she can’t speak. Since Krabs isn’t being given the privilege to explain herself, she rolls her eyes in annoyance and gets to her feet. This kind of behavior is the last thing she needs right now. With her growing irritation from Quackity and his angered, piercing voice, Krabs grabs a nearby rock. The rock is glowing red and orange and emitting a lot of heat from the explosions, so she grabs it with her metal hand and chucks it at Quackity.

“Oh my god, Quackity is talking STUPID!” 

He shouts in surprise as he just barely jumps out of the way to avoid the hot rock. More was gonna be said from Krabs’ mouth when she spots a wither slowly coming towards her. Getting up and running for a side attack for the wither, she stops in her tracks when she feels something. A clatter and rumble throughout her left side of her body, starting at her shoulder. She then feels a weapon of some sort dislodged from the small dent it made in her iron skin, allowing her to feel the inch deep dent in it. The wielder of the weapon was already obvious, so Krabs swiftly turned around and swung Axe My Beloved, slicing Quackity in the chest. It wasn’t deep enough to cause major damage, but best believe it hurt like hell. 

As quickly as she turns around, she storms up to him and grabs him by the collar of his shirt.

“Escucha, niño. I don’t have the f*cking time for your stupid games so unless you wanna stop acting like a damn child, quitate.”

This came to be a bit of a surprise to everyone. Specifically the slip up that Krabs had. Usually she never speaks Spanish, as it is her first language and she’s surrounded by people who don’t know the first thing about Spanish. She usually refrains from using it, but does sometimes tend to slip up on it when she’s angry, which is rarely. 

She doesn’t let Quackity respond as she’s already pushed him to the ground, quickly telling Tommy and Tubbo that she’s off to handle as many withers as she can before hopping off the mound of rubble and heading for the withers. Quackity has now gotten up, clutching the slice dancing across his chest in pain. His eyes manage to find Krabs up in the sky aggressively riding a wither and hacking away at it with her axe. His eyes find themselves at a glare. Quackity walks away, trying to handle the new wound he’s gotten from a certain golem person. Too stubborn to listen to Krabs’ excuse, he scowls and stomps away while grumbling something under his breath.

“Iron freak…”

[wienerbarnes]

Injury

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 3,127

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, self-deprecation, Bucky cooking

A/N: yall wanted some extended stories of cheek to cheek so i will deliver as long as the ideas come :) also the gif has absolutely no correlation to the oneshot im just obsessed with the new content we got today LOL anywayyyy if yall have any requests for this pair lmk!

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

Bubbles and foam stick to the curves of his palms, both flesh and metal, as Bucky finishes washing his dishes from dinner. He’s gotten closer and closer to perfecting his bao buns; he only tore open one dumpling when twisting them closed and he remembered to oil the parchment paper that lined the bamboo steamer Sharon got him for his birthday.

He shuts the water off and moves to the left side of his sink to begin drying his now clean china. It’s been a peaceful night in his apartment. Alpine shared the seat with him on the couch while Bucky ate his dinner, hoping some pork would slip out of Bucky’s mouth so he could catch the treat. He started watching some cheesy rom-com before getting bored and just shutting off the television altogether, opting to play some music while he completed his chores instead.

Ella Fitzgerald’s voice fades out and Bucky waits for the small silence in between songs to end. The towel pauses on the plate for a moment as the beginning tunes of Cheek to Cheek echo in his apartment. 

“Heaven, I’m in heaven…”

Bucky continues drying off his glass and remaining silverware as you flash in his mind. He hasn’t seen anything about you nor have you left him any other notes or clues since that day he saw you at the fresh market. He hopes you’re okay. Truly. You were thrown into a life you surely weren’t meant to live at such a young age, barely an adult, and then almost put to death for acting out due to trauma that was out of your control.

Almost immediately after Bucky puts the final dry glass in the cupboard, his ears perk up. He’s not entirely sure what the sound was; he pokes head out from the doorway of his kitchen to see a ball of white fluff still unmoving on his couch, the same position as he was ten minutes ago except tiny ears are standing tall and proud now.

Bucky glances at the windows that are visible and they all still have the lock in tact, the door is still locked as well. Bucky quickly examines the mental map in his head and realizes the only other spot having access to the alleyway next to the apartment building besides his living room windows is the large window in his bedroom. He steps back to the kitchen to grab ahold of one of the knives in the drawer.

As he slowly and silently creeps towards his slightly ajar bedroom door, his ears pick up another heartbeat. Quick, stressed beats hit his ears as he draws closer and closer to the door. He pushes the door open quickly to see his window still half open, lock broken and hanging on the sill, and his eyes meet your heaving frame on his carpeted bedroom floor.

Bucky lets out a sigh and tosses the knife onto his bed before crouching down to help you up.

“Geez, you couldn’t have left some sort of ominous note or another friendship bracelet before breaking into my place?” Bucky scolds as he rests his hands on the tops of your shoulders.

You flinch roughly and cough out a “Help,” that quickly catches Bucky’s attention. He’s able to twist your body slightly so your weight is on your bottom instead of your legs and his eyes immediately catch onto the deep gash along your ribs and the blood pouring around your hands. The blood is coming out of the cut so fast, Bucky can almost hear the gushes. Squirts of blood make there way out from in between your fingers and Bucky notices then just how pale you are. 

He stands and runs to his bathroom to grab his spare bath towels along with a first aid kit. You blood ruins his fluffy white towels and soaks them almost instantly as he pops open the first aid kid and grabs the bottle to sterilize your wound along with a needle and surgical thread to stitch you up. It won’t be the best, but it’ll be enough until he can get you to a hospital.

“N-no hospital.” You whimper. Did I say that out loud?

“Stop talking. Ignore me, just-just stop talking and don’t move.” Bucky stutters and soaks the other towel in alcohol to replace the now blood soaked one. 

This back and forth continues until the blood slows down enough for Bucky to get in there and cut away at your shirt to expose your rib area. 

“Christ, were you mauled by a fucking bear?” Bucky mumbles. The cut is bad. Really bad. He’s sorry for the nasty scar that the combination of this cut and his horrible stitching skills are about to leave on your smooth skin.

“I-I saw it coming, too. I saw it, and I-I still c-came over here…” You trail off, voice ragged and wet. He spares a glance at your face; your skin is wet with a mixture of sweat and tears and your brows are turned upwards in both exhaustion and defeat.

“And-and then I noticed this was your building,” A deep breath, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t go to a, to a hospital, I’m sorry,” You voice gets more and more panicked with what little energy you have left.

“Hey, relax, alright? I’m gonna fix it, I just need you to relax, okay? Just relax for me, doll.” Bucky reassures you as he threads the needle. This is gonna fucking suck, I’m so sorry.

Bucky plunges the needle through your skin at one end of the cut and you merely tense; he can tell you’re using everything within you to stay as still as possible. 

The torture continues as Bucky tries to sew you up as quickly and delicately as possible. He finally finishes and goes to grab another towel to clean up any leftover blood that’s glued itself dry to your soft skin.

Bucky dabs gently at your skin and the color slowly comes back to your face. You’re staring straight at his ceiling, face seemingly emotionless, but he can sense the anger radiating off your body.  

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Stupid Hydra cunts; what the fuck do you think happened?” You snap. The emotion finally comes out in your voice and he glances at you once more. Your eyes are more wet than usual and his heart breaks for you. God, let this fucking girl rest.

“They get away?” 

“Fucking assholes.” You mumble to yourself, as though you didn’t hear him. Bucky watches a small tear exit through the corner of your eyes and he doesn’t need to ask you again to know that they did.

Bucky grabs your hands and pulls you up slowly as to not let you get lightheaded and his metal hand rises to push stray hairs out of your face. You flinch a little bit, but he continues anyway. Now that you’re sitting up on your own, he reaches his arms behind your head and pulls your hair into a loose ponytail with the hair-tie that’s stayed on his wrist even after his haircut.

He can feel you watching him with wide eyes, probably confused as to why he’s treating you with such caution and care when you’re a serial murderer and kidnapper wanted by the entire planet and you’ve just ruined his window and his carpet.

“I’ll give you some clothes to change into. When was the last time you ate?” Bucky whispers to you, voice remaining sweet and so, so, so gentle.

“What?” You ask, mouth twisting into a small, confused frown. Bucky scoffs and pulls you up by the tops of your arms and helps walk with you towards his bathroom. You lean against the wall and he disappears back into his bedroom and returns with a giant long sleeve shirt and soft pajama pants, a pair of socks rolled into a tight ball resting atop the stack of clothes. He rests the stack on the counter and says, “Holler if you need anything.” before closing the door behind him as he exits. 

Bucky likes the modern look, that’s for sure. Simple, grey and white tones with pops of gold to highlight different spots of the bathroom.You don’t even know when it was the last time you were in a bathroom this nice looking.  Definitely before Hydra, but everything good in your life was before Hydra. 

You take a deep breath and remove your clothes before staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, that you’ve dyed a muted purple since the last time you saw Bucky, is faded towards the tips and your dark brown roots have grown out to your ears. You observe the scars and dark freckles that decorate your skin, spending a few extra seconds the new one you’ve collected tonight.

You did this on purpose. You didn’t see you getting stabbed, but you saw Bucky getting stabbed tonight in his apartment. You don’t know why you traveled two hours into this part of New York to rescue him, or whatever it is you think you did tonight. 

That was fucking stupid. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, or worse, caught. All for what, some fucking Avenger who showed you a little kindness while you were on death row? You’re so fucking dumb, you know that? You think you’re some big hero now or something? That this makes up for everything you’ve done? You’re no hero, you’re the farthest thing away from a hero. Who would even-

“Hey, you alright in there? You didn’t pass out on me did you?” Your self-deprecation is interrupted by a certain soldier’s deep voice coming through the door.

“Yea, I’m fine.” You reassure as you grab the clothes and begin pulling them on one by one.

When you exit the bathroom, you come face to face with the soldier himself. Noses are almost touching and you can smell the sweet and tangy scent of whatever he was cooking on his body. You can’t help but lick your lips at the delicious thought of something to eat and you notice his eyes flicker down to see your tongue poke out between your lips. His eyes meet yours again and he clears his throat before turning and returning back to the kitchen. You don’t waste time in following quickly behind.

… 

Bucky slowly stirs the sweet and spicy sauce with the leftover pork from his bao. He didn’t have the patience to sit for an hour twist small dumpling balls, but the least he could do was warm up what remains of the meat. He also threw in a small bag of frozen vegetables in the microwave, which have about three more minutes to them. Sure, definitely not as good as fresh vegetables, but he doubts you’ll care, or even notice for that matter.

It’s when the microwave beeps that he realizes you’ve been in his bathroom for too long. Maybe your stitches popped. Maybe you passed out from what a shitty job he did on your cut. Maybe you’ve been bleeding out on his bathroom floor this entire time and he’s been too busy stirring pork to notice. Maybe you snuck back out the window. Maybe you snuck back out the window but didn’t jump right and now you’re more hurt on the ground of a dirty alleyway.

Bucky switches the heat off and goes to the bathroom to check on you. 

As he nears the door he softly presses his ear against the wood and he relaxes when he can hear the rapid thump of your heart on the other side. He lifts his right middle finger knuckle to tap on the door, “Hey, you alright in there? You didn’t pass out on me did you?” Bucky teases, hoping to God that you didn’t. 

“Yea, I’m fine.” Comes your voice through the door and Bucky lets out a breath of relief.

The door opens and he feels a bit of heat on the back of his neck at the sight of his oversized clothes on you. He sees the stretch of your collarbones above the large head hole of the shirt he gave you and he sees the tips of your now bright yellow painted toes poking out from the sweatpants you’re wearing, which can confidently assume have the waistband string tied incredibly tight to keep from slipping down. His eyes catch your tongue slip out to wet your lips and his throat is suddenly very dry. He clears it and looks back up at your eyes. Jesus, you’ve just been blatantly staring and checking her out for who knows how long, you creep. Bucky turns and returns back to the kitchen to prepare your bowl of pork and vegetables.

He’s never seen someone eat so much so fast. Shoveling food into your mouth, small dribbles of saliva leaking out of the corners every once in a while, your tastebuds overwhelmed by the amount of flavor. You’re on your third serving already, glass of water barely touched and you continue to eat and eat and eat.

When you finally put the last forkful of pork and vegetables in your mouth is when you finally reach for the water and gulp down almost the entire thing. Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed. Reminds him of himself when he had his first real meal after Hydra.

Bucky smiles as you let out a loud burp and he reaches to take your bowl and silverware. 

“Thanks, uh, for everything.” You say. Bucky looks over his shoulder from where he stands at the sink to see you looking at the ground.

“Don’t mention it. I, of all people, know what it’s like after, well, you know.” Bucky stumbles on his words.

“Yeah, well, it’s what I got to do, so,” You stand and he notices you look for anything you might’ve brought, even though you both know you had nothing on you.

“You goin’ somewhere? Got a place you’re staying at?” Bucky asks, shutting off the water and follows you as you pass through the living room and back into his bedroom.

“Is that a joke?”

You step back into the bathroom to grab your bloody clothes from the ground and you go back near the window to grab your shoes that you’re pretty sure flew off your feet when you flung yourself through Bucky’s window. Bucky’s hand stops your movement as it rests on your shoulder. He gently spins you around to face him.

“You nearly got yourself cut in half. With all the blood you lost, you should spend the night here.”

“Don’t you think it’s kinda dangerous to have two of America’s Most Wanted in the same apartment building?” You question, trying to find any excuse to get yourself out of here. You did what you wanted to here, even if it was stupid. Don’t go from stupid to moronic by getting comfortable. No matter how inviting those blue eyes are.

“Technically, I was pardoned by the government, so I'm no longer wanted. I can’t speak on your behalf though. But I’m sure two military trained killers can take care of themselves and each other.” 

“You take the guest room and I’ll take the couch. I’ll lock up the bedroom in case those baddies come back ‘round here and I’ll fix up the lock tomorrow.” Bucky walks over to his closet door and slides it open to grab two fluffy blankets from the very top shelf above his rack of clothes.

He turns back to face you and stares at you until you finally drop your shoes back on the ground. He gives you a small smile before walking out of his bedroom. You hear him lock his bedroom door after you exit and stand awkwardly until he can show you where his guest bedroom is.

Bucky can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when he turns around to see you, looking so small in his oversized clothes, folding your hands together, looking around the room, waiting for him to finish up. He chews on his lip hard to make the smile go away as he steps forward and down the hall to the guest bedroom door. He opens it for you and lets you step inside and glance around the room.

He notices the way you look around the room, making a mental note of everything in it, what can be used as a weapon, what can’t, as well as your eyebrow twitch at the realization that there’s no windows and no other means of emergency escape except through the main door. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. 

“I’ll, uh, be out in the living room, if you need anything. Uh, goodnight.” Bucky says awkwardly as you give him an equally awkward smile in return. 

Sleep comes easy to you that night, but you’re sure it has nothing to do with the supersoldier cuddled up with a little white kitten in the living room outside your door.

…

Bucky wakes up later than usual the next morning. Small claws stretch across his large chest as a very hungry kitten is awake and upset that there’s no food automatically in his bowl that morning. Bucky rubs his hands roughly against his face before swinging his feet over the edge of the couch and standing up. 

After peeling open a can of cat tuna and plopping it in Alpine’s cat dish, he leaves the now satisfied kitty to go see how you’re doing.

He gently knocks on the door and opts to slowly move it open when there’s no response. He opens it completely when he realizes the room is completely unoccupied. The bed is completely made and Bucky feels the sheets to feel them cold. He walks back across the apartment to his bedroom to see your shoes gone as well. 

Bucky won’t lie and say he’s not at least a little bummed out. He was hoping you’d stay a bit longer. So that your wound can heal up, of course. He’s not sure if Hydra experimented on you to make you super but everyone needs some good rest every once in a while. 

Bucky lets out a sigh before moving back into the kitchen to begin preparing his own breakfast. 

“Hey, uh, Alexa? Can you shuffle my music library, please?” Bucky asks politely.

He watches the blue circle shift around before familiar trumpets begin to fill the room. Bucky rolls his eyes and breathes out a humorless laugh as he reaches into the cabinet by his legs to take out a pan.

“Heaven, I’m in heaven,”

“And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…” Bucky sings along softly.

[thedappleddragon]

haha here we go again

there's a lot of dumb ranting and 3 days worth of logs and a dream in here so im gonna spare evryone’s dashboard and just put it all under the cut.

tw bad memories, talk of unhealthy relations with food, and dreams about dead animals

I realized I kind of entirely forgot to write about what I did yesterday? I kind of did a lot. I know my mom wanted to work on getting tile laid out in front of her bathroom, so we worked together to scrub the concrete and wipe up all the dirt and dust and whatever was under the carpet and remove some of the nails in the floor and bring up a spiky metal strip between the bathroom door and where the carpet was. The other main thing I remember is deciding to continue work on my dress, sewing up the outer bodice, checking that the bodice and lining would fit together, deciding I’d rather have no different colored front panel, and working on the circle skirt. At first I tried cutting the fabric on my bed, but it wasn’t big enough and too lumpy. I contemplated asking my friends if I could borrow their dining table, but I ended up clearing off my own. After I traced and was in the middle of pinning, I accidentally knocked over a glass bowl that I had set on the chair. My mom heard it from the other room and had me come to her room to tell her what it was. She got angry at me, which I thought was fuckin stupid if it was an accident, but after some reflection while cleaning up the glass pieces, I kind of understood why. Mostly I got a little upset about 2 ceramic pieces I made during school breaking a little from the drop. One was a mushroom house from middle school that always makes me remember feeling like an asshole during peer review when I told my person to smooth their project more because I didn’t know “no improvement needed” was an option until I got back to my desk and saw my person saying it was good in all categories because everyone thought my project was great for some reason. The other was a bunch of flowers on a circle. It was the last project we did before quarantine hit, I think. That one is in less tough shape, just a couple flowers knocked off and a chip on one of them. They can both be glued back together, I guess. Then my mom called me back into her room to listen to her talk about wanting to eat huge amounts of food, because she’s clinically depressed with BPD and PTSD and DID and several other acronyms and her favorite coping mechanism is food, but her doctor put her on a diet so she can get her knees replaced, but recently she’s been getting into a zone where she talks about wanting to eat entire cakes and pizzas and buckets of kfc and a gallon of queso or whatever the fuck and she goes “doesn’t that sound GOOD?” And I have to laugh along and say “haha no that sounds bad actually” and get her a piece of ham or something. And every time she goes on her spiel the only thing I can think of is the greedy from the raggedy Ann and Andy musical. It’s just this horrible undulating orange blob that eats everything in sight and seeing it for the first time just made me think of mom and it made me very uncomfortable, with all the orange goo and hurling noises. Also reminds me of this horrible video game boss fight where it’s the apocalypse and a fat lady on a scooter took over the buffet and eats so much during her boss fight, during the defeat cutscene she projectile vomits everywhere and dies. My brother Greg showed me that thinking it was funny. I hated it, and I still do. He showed me a lot of things he thought were funny as a shitty little kid, and I remember several of them being very upsetting. It’s ok. I don’t want to dwell on it. But after cleaning the glass and talking to mom I brought my fabric to my room and called it a night. Oh wait my dad also helped me with some paperwork my coworker handed me so I could get on the payroll.

Today I woke up differently than I have in a long time. I set an alarm for 10 am so I could be at work by 11, but I woke up at 9 from a heavy sleep with dreams about hanging out with my friend in my room, worrying about my dirty house. I wanted to sleep longer, so I got up at 10 to have breakfast and get ready. I spent my shift changing the price tags all around the store, making everything more expensive. I’m gonna work again on Tuesday where I’ll learn how to use the register. I hope I don’t fuk it up, but I have a couple days to relax until then. Maybe I’ll work on my dress. My friends all want to go to prom together, so my new deadline will be March 2nd or a little before. I still need to buy a ticket, but I don’t have access to the link to buy one :( bleh I’m too tired right now to worry about this shit. I only worked 4 hours again today, but after I got home I felt like I could have worked longer if they gave me something else to do. The only price tags left to change were a bunch of grills and stuff I don’t know about but I don’t know if they had any other work for my to do. But I’m glad I went home tho because I was hungry and my feet hurt from standing lol. I did laundry and made myself dinner and washed my hair and drew a little bit and made the table and tbh the pacing of today has been so weird I don’t remember everything. It’s only 1am but I think I’m just gonna go to bed. my friends started talking about going to prom, and I really want to join them, but I can't figure out where/how to buy a ticket. my brain started being really mean to me, syaing that I was being annoying and pushy and that they didnt want me at prom for some reason, so I low-key almost made myself cry until my friend offered to let me be their platonic date since their partner couldn't go. 

last night I had a dream about a hard video game where when you played it, the black shadow enemies would fight you in real life, and one of them left imprints on my arm in the shape of lego bricks. they could only attack you so long as you played the game, and they tried to capture people and you were supposed to save them. I decided it was my time to play, and I walked into my garage that had turned into a cave with bat-people fused into the wall. I paid them no mind as I rescued a girl who was my irl brother, grabbing her hand and pulling her into another versoin of my garage which was uncorrupted and normal looking. she thanked me, and I said it was no problem. then I tricked her, telling her not to trust so easily, as I became one of the shadow enemies and engulfed her in a black sack, trapping her and leaving the room. I came back a couple minutes later, letting him free (now my brain told me he was my brother) telling him I just wanted to know if I was capable of tricking him, and didnt actually want to kill him or whatever.  another big chunk of my dream was taken up by me, my sister, and my dad visiting a run down petting zoo/gamestop. the petting zoo barn was very dark with low ceilings with lots of rabbits and pigs and hay. one of us accidentally killed either a pig or a tiger right next to the exit door, and I had to slink around the gamester trying to distract the owner and keep him from going in the barn and escaping at the same time. I dont remember how it ended, other than me waking up with a sore throat from breathing so deeply through my nose. I had slept on my stomach wit my pillow in my face so I could hardly breathe, and even after I woke up I felt like I wasnt getting enough air. I HATE that feeling, I always felt like I was suffocating in middle school for some reason. I thinkk somethings wrong with my airway but im not gonna do anything about it. im gonna continue to spend 80% of my day laying down so my resting heart rate and breathing speed is slower than an goddamn sloth. whatever.

right now as im laying in bed typing this I feel utterly unpoductive but I KNOW I did SOME shit today. but yeah mostly I relaxed. I worked on my dress, removing and replacing the blue front panel. I lost my exacto knife somewhere so I went to dollar tree to get a knockoff, along with snacks for mom and my sister. the blades aren't as sharp as exacto, but I still know where the name brands blades are so maybe Ill try and see if they're compatible. when I open the package everything was oily and gross, so I washed everything off with soap and water before I used them to cut the threads of the panel seams. I could have used my seam ripper but I wanted to get a replacement craft knife anyway. its kinda neat that it came with 6 different shaped blades for different crafts :) but uhh I also cut out the other half of the circle skirt of the dress, and I have a bunch of extra fabric left over. probably enough to make a whole other bodess if I wanted too. I used my sewing machine to attach the new front panel, and I was hoping to get more sewing done tonight, but when I asked my sister if it was ok for me to use my sewing machine (it right next to the wall between our rooms so she can hear it from there) she said she was going to bed soon so I just attatched the front panel and called it a night. so that kinda sucked. I still have another day tomorrow before I have to work again, and I can still work on my dress on Tuesday after work. idk why my brain thinks that one 4 hour shift is gonna take up my entire day lmao. I just have to get the whole thing done by may 2nd. GOD that reminds me, im gonna be so busy next month. I have six events back to back happening like every other day, plus work. oof. I'll have to let my boss know, but idk If that's gonna make him mad. I've already got pretty comfortable with the lady in charge of the garden center who’s taken lead position while the manager is on vacation, but I dont think I;ll every understand my boss. he’s a sarcastic busy old man and NOT AT ALL approachable. whatever. really the only other tings I did today were drink a shit ton of water play harvest moon, spend too much time on tiktok, and sraw a couple dum things for my friends’ princess au. I fucking HATE the drawing I did for Anna, so I designed her a secondary outfit more inspired by sky pirate bohemian vibes, since she rules over the floating islands. idk if I'll replace her old outfit with the new one in the lineup or just re-draw her old one with better shapes and composition and match the style better or what. I just need it changed eventually becasuse it looks like ass. tbh now that ve taken a little bit of time away from the princess au, there are a couple designs im not 100% satisfied with. but I know that if I go back and make them more detailed or whatever the’ll be more of a hassle to draw and aslkdfhalksdf I dont know anymore. I'm still tied up about color pallets and trying to give everyone a distinct color, and im a little upset it doesn't quite work, and FUCK dude the edgy one’s lore and character are weird and I kind of want to revise it to make it a little nicer but its not my character and I need to stop shoving my dirty little mitts into everyone’s ocs and AHAGHRGHGARGHHG idk man. her power is necromancy and she has a skeleton army, which I think I kinda cool, but I also think it would be neat if her powers extended beyond just that to communing with the dead, helping them find rest, and THEN maybe it can branch into helping fallen soldiers fight again to help them with unfinished buisness. and then if she goes feral and starts abusing her powers, she ignores all the communication and concent with the dead and instead magically rips them from thr ground to do her bidding and they’re uncontrollable and violent and aimless, just like her mind slipping from the magical blight infecting her. idk man we’re till working on a lot of lore. her concept could be SO COOL with just that little bit of extra thought, but so far it’s just MY POWER IS DEATH IM SO EDGY. ugh I know its fuckin rude to bash your friends oc ideas and I might be too overbearing and controlling of this au but dammit im tired and im mean sometimes and my ego is through the goddamn roof and im so sexy and im always right and my meat is huge. ah shit I rpomised my friend I would help her with character design for the dead king but I was busy when she firat asked me and now im not busy but im not doing it ugh. im just frustrated right now because I spent wayyyy to fuckin long just laying in bed watching tikotks and youtube and playing harvest moon an doing jack shit all day. but hey at least I attempted to get a new social security card again today. and them promptly gave up when they said my adress was invalid. again. I feel like im in an uncomfortable medium between having no plans and worrying about the future and having too many plans all the time oh my god. ive been so focused on getting a job and then having a job and making this dress I completely forgot about college shit. thankfully there's no hard deadlines coming up that I haven't already finished. whatever I dont really want to worry about all this hit right now, im just gonna take it one day at a time. (haha it feels like my angel oc just stepped in. how nice of him :) )

[cxrruptedhxpe-blog]

WARNING:

This event will have triggering content and it meant for a few verses. If you will like to have this event as a thread, please IM and we can work something out.

How long has is truly been since she had last seen any of her family without having nightmares? What was the reality? Was time truly frozen in place or was her eyes didn’t pay attention? Children laughed softly but none of it reached her ears that refused to listen or was it her that chose not to listen? Eyes drooping from the sunny world. The world that was happy but her. Ever since of Poen’s death things had become even worse with these horrible voices edging her on. Her feet became heavier every day until finally, it was just too much as it felt she was chained to balls of metal. Kaphona’s fake smile had fooled everyone who wished to interact and yet, they never saw how much tears she was holding back for their sake since all she did now was do everything to keep everyone happy.

Even him.

She wanted him to stay happy, for his health, his happiness, and that… She swore to never make problems for him. Seeing him have that stupid smile kept her warm but after the fight they had it made her afraid that if he were to become just like that man, it would be her fault. Kaphona knew it was quite stupid to be so worried about him but she could not help it after everything they have gone through and her past… It was a timeline likely to happen if she continued to make him stress over her health and safety-

“Kaphona!” Huh? Turning around to face the voice calling out before giving another fake smile. “Ah, hello Link. How can I help you?” Surprised to see the Hero of Tracks not working on his train or helping Princess Zelda. “I was wondering if the force gems needed inspecting? Been ages since I had checked them but yours is first and more important because it can easily access the realm of- “ Cutting him off with ease. “Yeah, that’ll be fine. You can check it out today.” “Oh, also, Zelda is looking for you. Something about a job?” Hm… Nodding quickly, thanking the hero before walking fast towards the castle. Everything went back to normal but something was missing and we all know the answer in Kaphona’s mindset: Poen. She was the thing that was missing. Faces past but none of them mattered since they weren’t Poen.

“I hope my friends are doing alright.” Adjusting the sleeves in hopes to hide-

“Miss Kaphona!” A new voice called out and ran down the stairs to meet her. “Zelda is looking for you! You must hurry to not make her wait!”

Kaphona nodded towards the old man and made haste to Zelda’s chambers wondering what she needed so badly. It was a few minutes until arriving but everything did not feel right as Kaphona’s stomach flipped like crazy in a sickening way and even then, she entered. “Princess, sorry for making you wait. I hope I did not keep you long.”

The Princess of Hyrule turned with her lovely and graceful smile making a gesture for the other to sit which Kaphona did. Both stared at each other with one feeling uncomfortable. “Uh, Princess- “

“Kaphona, have you been feeling alright?” “Yeah. What is this about?” “I’m simply just checking on my friend who serves to protect this world. You haven’t been acting yourself ever since Poen’s death...” Even then, she wasn’t really the same since she and Ben fought. Poen was simply the wire that plugged everything into how she was feeling. “I’m still adjusting to it but I’m fine. I’ll let you know when I don’t feel okay, I promise.” Since when did the girl who always kept a promise…

Break them?

It took a few seconds for the princess to decide if Kaphona was telling the truth and believed it. First mistake. They soon began discussing things about this land and the Forest Realm hoping things could go normally with deer and possibly new villages in the area. Hours pass and finally it was now night a perfect time to be alone as Kaphona left the castle with heavier chained balls matching her heavy heart. “… Why do you guys expect so much of me? I’m going to fail anyway.” Last time they made this type of project Kaphona had sudden things to do like protecting her Lokomo and Zelda seemed to be upset. Eyes glancing around the environment wondering what was missing once again and this time she saw flowers that were no longer there. Created a few flowers but only for them to wilt as soon she had left them to go home.

Thinking about everything that had happened and had a strong urge push through.

Come on, you’re stressed now. Take some steam off, alright?

Look at that! Your friends are worried but you shoved them away! How fucking wonderful. You truly do care about them.

He doesn’t care you know. He’s only keeping you around for his amusement since when you make him become just like his father-

“Please… Not tonight. I don’t have the energy for this...”

You don’t get any say in this. We’ll stop if you do it.

Climbing into her home ready to sleep but the voices refused to be silent. Begging them again to stop and they simply repeated the same thing.

You don’t get any say in this. We’ll stop if you do it.

Fine. Moving over to a nightstand and roughly shoved things in a draw to find one little thing, a small knife coated in dry blood, and removed her sweater allowing her freshly made scars have a taste of air as recent wounds reacted making her shiver in perhaps delight? Green eyes staring at the object before pressing to against her chocolate colored skin hoping they, the voices, keep their promise. Unable to react to the pain she was creating due to always feeling this way.

Wrapping the new wounds on her right arm with clean bandages glad that she always wore a sweater allowing her to easily hide these scars. It helped to a degree watching her blood flow out as if it was her sadness. “…” Smiling weakly, tossing the knife down on the floor and began moving over to a window. Link was still at the temple but would leave rather soon than she had expected and it would ruin everything she had planned for tonight.

The weight of these imaginary chains will soon be no longer. The burden would be nothing anymore. Taking in her final and peaceful gasp of air allowing it to settle for she was not ready to let go for now.

“Kaphona! Kaphona! Come on, the festival is going to start. We don’t want to miss Deku’s Tree birthday!” Saria grinned, dragging the half asleep Kokiri towards the giant tree of knowledge hoping they would make it in time. “You made the cake, right?”

“Didn’t make it because I got it ordered and brought it here. Huge difference.” Laughing at the fellow green haired child as they quickly made their way to Deku Tree. “Oh, I forgot to get it! I’ll be back!” Laughing a little bit and went back to her home only to see animals inhaling the precious cake. “Hey! Get away from that!” This was odd… There was a glass case making sure no one could smell it unless… “Mido…”

Before she could expose Mido’s plan, he had managed to get the others to see the ruined cake and pointed at cake covered hands that were Kaphona’s. All of them but two people sneered at her for ruining the festival of Deku’s tree birthday. Soon, it was simply just three of them: Link, Saria, and Kaphona.

“It’s just a cake, Kaphona. I’m sure it’s the thought it counts since you wanted us to have some.”

“Mido opened the case…”

“Come on, let’s go have fun.” Saria took her hand but Kaphona pulled back. “Opoiya?” Using her real name. Link turned to the unusual colored Kokiri with worry before frowning. “Are you feeling okay?”

Shaking her head. “I should clean my home… Tell him I said happy birthday…” Without a warning, Kaphona turned to go back home and allowed the other two go to the festival with singing, joy, and Mido’s snickering.

Why this memory?

“So… You’re telling me that you helped that man? You’re a monster!” Mido screamed at Kaphona who had admitted that she had helped the Gerudo a few times with just supplies not knowing his true intentions. “You’re so stupid to even help him. You got the Deku Tree killed not Link! Monster, murderer!”

“I didn’t know who he was, Mido…” Ears lowered in shame.

“Stop playing these memories… I don’t want to remember.” Groaning a little holding onto her head tightly.

“Hm? Kaphona?” A voice she knew too well had drawled her attention to him wondering what he was asking. His blue eyes upon her new sets before he grinned telling a shitty pun.

“Oh, my fucking GODDESS, Ben! That was just shit.” Laughing loudly at it.

“But you’re laughing.”

Look at him smiling. You don’t want to corrupt that beautiful, happy smile now do you? The more you stay with him the more he’s in danger.

Admit it, Kaphona. You’re hurting him more and more. He had to save you more than once and yet you can’t even protect him. You’re weak, useless, worthless, and most of all a monster for allowing him to suffer. You couldn’t find him while the fight had happened and everyone was able to find HIM but not you. I wonder why.

Tears began to spill knowing they were telling the truth. Choked sobs as the voice continue and on. Kaphona’s usual chubby body was now thin from lack of eating. She was unable to eat much of anything anymore for a reason she despised it so much that people she had lost were unable to enjoy their favorite meals as she was able to consume them. “Please... Please…”

Then do what you’ve been planning sweetheart. He doesn’t care about you, you know. After all, you’ve done to him and made him sound just like daddy it’s best to leave for his sake. Best for everyone too. You got everyone killed and soon this world will be hurt because of YOU.

These wails refused to be silent as the voices got louder and louder. If she were to hide there was always that one person who would easily find her.

Sailing alone after the night of fire had kept her awake as the sea was friendly today allowing the girl to rock in her grief. She had failed again… Lost everyone important to her because she was scared. Brown eyes against the deep blue unable to feel anything anymore. “I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry everyone…”

Kokiri burning, crying out to her for help but she just stood there watching them burn into corpses that will leave a haunting memory forever. Mido reached out towards Kaphona begging for her to help him but she just stood. “Opoiya! I’m sorry…! Please, help me!”

“I’m so sorry…” Standing on a chair with a tied noose and flint ready to go. Smiling sadly as it felt so right to do this. Ending it all for good. Ending everyone’s pain so everyone can be happy and that’s what was needed, right? “I’m making this better for you guys…” Smiling up at the ceiling. “I’ll be home with you guys again…”

Closing her eyes gently with the noose around her neck and flint on and ready to go.

“Kaphona… I’m cold… I’m scared… Please, I’m cold..”

“It’s okay Poen… I’ll be there to keep you warm.”

Memories of meeting new people and then watching them all die had slowly took pieces of her and the final piece was a boy named Ben. Watching him so scared of becoming a monster and that if she was supposed to be like his mother, this was the best route for his safety. Tears continued to flow down and took the leap.

“I’m sorry, but this is for the best-“Choking with the flint dropping setting the tree house ablaze.

Her body began to slowly hang as fire picked up with a faint sad smile appeared. Finally, she could be with her family again.

Like it should have been the first time.

But someone had been watching the whole time and made it in time to get her out of there as she slowly breathed.

  “We’re the ones who should apologize, Opoiya.”

Taking the dying girl with wounds that had reopened and a nearly broken neck somewhere safe as a Hero followed.

[marshmallowgoop]

Something He Always Was

Fandom: Kill la Kill

Summary: Robots aren’t really cold at all, are they?

Characters: Ryuko, Senketsu, Satsuki

Notes: “Something He Always Was” is chapter 28 of Strings and Threads, a collection of Kill la Kill short stories.

“Something He Always Was” serves as a companion piece to chapter 11, “Something He Could Never Be,” though this story can be understood on its own. (Also, it might actually be better to read this one first.)

[Writing Tag] [Strings and Threads Tag] [Fanfiction Page]

There’s another story that Ryuko’s mother told.

(And Ryuko doesn’t give a shit about what her dad says. Her mom sure as hell ain’t the woman who just offed herself. Never was, never will be.)

“It’s better to tell this one on New Year’s,” Ryuko says, “or when it’s snowing, but I guess we don’t see much snow ‘round here...”

Senketsu is silent, smiling, looking her way. The rain won’t stop pounding down on them, and Ryuko is so soaked to the skin by now that she can’t even say she really feels wet anymore.

Still. “Maybe freezing rain is close enough,” she figures, with a shrug, sitting down next to Senketsu. He’s still up against the brick wall, and Ryuko wraps his arm around her shoulder, leaning into his chest.

(And no, she’s not shaking when she does this. Senketsu can shut his mouth.)

It doesn’t even take a second for Ryuko to feel Senketsu’s Displeasure. Not a word comes outta him—not a word has to—and somehow, Ryuko finds it in her to laugh at him. (Laugh, not cry.) She takes hold of his hand that drapes lazily over her shoulder, running her fingers across the metal skin, the manufactured knuckles.

“You told me I gotta take a break, ‘member?” she asks. “C’mon. Just one story. Let me have this.”

Senketsu says nothing. Ryuko smiles. He reeks like singed wires.

“You’ll love this one, you big baby,” she says, even though she knows no one really exactly loves the story of The Little Match Girl, and with Senketsu’s hand still in hers, Ryuko goes far back into her memories, trying to recall the tale the best she can.

“But I can’t tell it like my mom did,” Ryuko warns. “She put all this special emphasis in certain places, always actin’ like some little fairytale was the most meaningful thing ever.”

She pauses, as though waiting for a reaction, but Senketsu is quiet. “You... could really, like, see the freezing little girl, when my mom told this thing,” Ryuko says, regardless. “Mom read from this storybook of mine, but you would think she was just... tellin’ it outta herself. She was that good at this stuff.”

Senketsu keeps on smiling. Ryuko looks away, drawing her hand apart from his. She swallows hard, watches the rain a moment. It’s not letting up even a bit, hitting her and Senketsu and the ground like there’s no tomorrow, crashing into the garbage cans beside them with loud, ugly pitter-patters.

Senketsu falls into her, just a bit. Ryuko wants to ask him how the hell she’s supposed to carry his ass back home, but she doesn’t, talking instead about the story she knows he doesn’t care about. Her words come fast, and she says, “You see, the thing opened with that freezing little girl, wandering around barefoot across the snowy streets.”

(Like me right about now, Ryuko says, grumbling a bit. But Senketsu would say that no, Ryuko, you have shoes on, and besides, it’s not snowing. And Ryuko says shut up, but then Senketsu would tell her, more seriously, that the girl in the story was all alone, but you aren’t, Ryuko. Ryuko doesn’t know what to say to that.)

“And this girl was tryin’ ta sell these matches,” Ryuko goes on. “Or something. I don’t know.” She frowns. Water attacks her face. “You don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

Ryuko falls quiet. Nothing but the sound of rain fills her ears, and though she might say she doesn’t really give a shit about it slapping her anymore, she imagines Senketsu trying to protect her from the onslaught with nothing but his hunk-of-junk body, and she slides closer to him, burying her face into his chest.

“Well, you’re no umbrella,” she jokes, but he doesn’t laugh, and Ryuko sighs, shutting her eyes against him. The Little Match Girl might have had matches that were warm and bright and showed her wondrous sights, but Ryuko is sure that no fairytale hero ever experienced anything as warm and comforting as her Senketsu feels. No matter the rain and cold and wet, Senketsu is warm.

“You’ve always been warm, haven’t you?” Ryuko asks nobody. Pressed up against him, Ryuko leaves the present and leaves the rain, her mind tumbling back to the time she had first shown Senketsu the beach, and how warm the sand had been beneath them, and how everyone there had stared at the girl in her yellow bikini running around holding hands with a busted-up robot, and how much she didn’t give a damn. Senketsu’s false skin held between her fingers had been more warm and comforting than any sand could have been.

He’d refused to go into the water, back then. Said he’d rust. Wouldn’t let her teach him how to swim, either.

“You’re probably regretting that now, ain’t ya?” Ryuko asks. “The way it’s raining, it’s gonna be flooding before long. I’m gonna have to swim ya home, and I ain’t cut out to be some lifeguard.”

Senketsu doesn’t laugh. (But Ryuko knows he’s smiling.) It’s not like Ryuko expected anything else.

He wants her to go home and get out of here. He’s full of worry, desperation. He’s so Senketsu.

But Ryuko doesn’t care to listen. Not now. “Easy for you to say you wanna get outta here when you’re leaning up against a cold, slimy human—er, cyborg,” Ryuko tells him. “I don’t think I really wanna move right now.”

It’s like that time you wrapped me up in a blanket when you did all that studyin’ for me in the library, Ryuko wants to say. I didn’t wanna get up. Was too comfy. You’re a bad influence.

But she doesn’t say any of that. Ryuko’s at the point where she might just be too tired to run her mouth at this loser (and she loves running her mouth at this loser).

So she doesn’t speak anymore, and slips completely away from the rain, thinking about that warm croquette dinner where Senketsu didn’t say one damn thing about calories the whole time, and that night she fell asleep right beside him, and how warm he felt, how soothing, how loving.

Robots have always been warm, she thinks, she knows, dreaming of being back at home, in his arms, his fingers running through her hair, her heart beating against his chest. Everyone’s just always been so caught up in telling her the opposite.

Ryuko wakes to the sound of Senketsu’s voice.

He says she needs to get a hold of herself. Says she needs to snap out of it. His words are frantic, cracking, breaking, but Ryuko doesn’t want to open her eyes. She doesn’t want to leave him. Not now. Not yet.

But she feels his hand on her shoulder. Cold. Desperate.

And he says, “Please come home, Ryuko. Please. Please.”

And Ryuko can’t refuse.

But when she lets herself come back to reality, there is no robot before her, weeping without tears. There is none of her worry-wart, whiny, overprotective partner. There is none of his stupid, irritating, worthless smile that never looks right. There is none of his arms wrapping around her, holding her close, tight, as though he’d lose her if he ever let go.

There is only Satsuki Kiryuin, just as filthy as the garbage cans beside them, streaked with mud, her eyes wide, red-rimmed, her hand resting on Ryuko’s shoulder.

There is only Satsuki Kiryuin, crying, full of worry, full of love.

And Ryuko can hardly look. She can hardly look at this woman in such a state, can hardly comprehend any of it, but it’s enough. Satsuki sees life return to Ryuko and relief floods her face, and her puffy eyes light up, and she smiles, sort of, soft and warm and loving.

“Let’s go home, Ryuko,” she says, still trying to smile through her tears, fighting to speak through her sobs. “I’ll take you home.”

But Ryuko can’t take any of this. She won’t.

“No,” she says. Her throat is scratchy and sore. The rain still hasn’t stopped. Senketsu’s warmth is fading away. But she doesn’t care.

“Just... get away from us,” Ryuko begs. “Please.”

Just a little bit longer, she thinks. Just a little bit.

Satsuki pulls away from Ryuko. The relief vanishes just as quickly as it had come, and her expression becomes somber. Sad.

“I’ll carry you back, Ryuko,” she says. “Please. You can’t stay out here. You’ll—“

“I’ll what?” Ryuko snaps. “Die?” She scoffs. “It’ll take more than just a little rainstorm to kill me, Kiryuin.”

Satsuki does not look her way. Her eyes are focused on the ground, to all the water pooling up around them, to the globs of yellow light from the streetlamps rippling with each raindrop.

“There’s nothing you can do anymore, Ryuko. There’s nothing any of us can do.”

“And I bet you’re glad, ain’t ya, huh, Satsuki Kiryuin?” Ryuko asks, though it’s really not a question. (And shit, she is not crying again. She’s not.) “You always hated robots. I bet you’re just fucking over the moon about another one bein’ gone, aren’t you?”

Satsuki is quiet. The rain seems louder than ever. Ryuko swallows hard, talks fast, loud, no matter how much it stings. “None of you people ever gave a rat’s ass about Senketsu. You always wanted to use him as yer precious little weapon. You always just thought of ‘im as another one of those monsters. So congratu-fuckin’-lations! He’s dead!”

Ryuko chokes on her words. She coughs into the night. Satsuki still says nothing. The rain is screaming. The pitter-patter against the garbage cans is earsplitting.

Ryuko’s never admitted it, until now. Not even in her head. The sick, disgusting truth makes his warmth wound and hurt and ache more than anything ever has in her entire life.

His smile only twists the knife. He won’t stop anymore. He won’t stop ever.

And Ryuko can’t hide it, not anymore. Tears run freely down her cheeks. She thinks of Senketsu’s warm arms around her, of his hand in hers, of his lips pressed up against her own.

“I bet you’re even happier!” Ryuko shouts, gasping, hardly even able to string a sentence together but yelling all the same. “Now you don’t have to deal with the freakin’ embarrassment! Now you don’t have to even think about how Senketsu n’ me are... were...”

She can’t finish. She doesn’t have to.

Satsuki shakes her head. She looks to Ryuko, her eyes filled with tears of her own. “You’re wrong, Ryuko,” she says. “Don’t you remember when Senketsu and I came to save you?”

She wipes at her face, unable to keep any sense of composure, spluttering, coughing. Ryuko’s never seen Satsuki like this.

Like any of this.

“I could not understand what he said, but I felt everything he felt, Ryuko. I felt how much he cared about you. I felt how much he loved you.” Satsuki manages another one of her kind-of smiles, so soft and mushy that Ryuko is hardly able to believe that it’s her sister who sits before her.

But Ryuko knows she’s not dreaming. “I never thought that machines could feel that way, but...” Satsuki shakes her head again. “But he loved you so much, Ryuko.”

“And...” Satsuki says, calming, slightly, before Ryuko has the chance to shout or yell or get angry or say anything at all, “and I wanted us all to be family. I never...” Satsuki clenches her fists, looking towards Senketsu’s corpse. “I never wanted it to be like this.”

The rain seems to calm, and Ryuko is silent. The pitter-patters fade, and Ryuko cannot speak.

She wants to be mad, of course. She wants to say that Satsuki doesn’t know shit about her Senketsu. She wants to say that Satsuki doesn’t care, has never cared, will never understand. She wants to say that no one would ever get it.

But every word, every choked-up sound, every cry—it was genuine. Ryuko couldn’t deny that it was real.

She pulls away from Senketsu’s warmth. She lets his hand fall away from her shoulder, lets herself move away from his chest, from his love.

She stumbles to her feet, looking down at the mess that is Satsuki Kiryuin. “You’re such a sap, Kiryuin,” she says, as though she isn’t crying harder than she has all night, as though her words actually sound comprehensible at all. “You’re such a damn sap.”

Satsuki comes to her own feet, throwing her arms around her sister without a moment’s hesitation, wrapping the girl into a hug that’s just as strong and fierce and tight as Ryuko would expect, and Ryuko doesn’t pull away. Ryuko lets out all the sobs she’d been holding back, all the pain, all the loneliness, and she says, “You’re such a damn sap, Sis. Such a sap.”

And Ryuko realizes, as Satsuki holds her close, as Satsuki embraces all her raw, unrestrained emotions, that no one is going to be freezing to death, not here, not tonight.

It’s not just robots who are warm.

[kremlin]

here's an oldie (probably 2/5 stars imo)

---------------------

i've never worked a night shift before. it's been about three weeks and i am only starting to get in the swing of things being wide awake and ready to wind down with a beer at 7:30 AM on a tuesday is a strange place to suddenly be. living in a suddenly frozen desert swamp sort of adds to that uncanni-ness. it has frozen in texas and my pipes are cracked and broken there is almost no part of this shanty house that isn't elligible to join the AARP. it's one of the last ranch style ramblers left in montrose, all of the others have been replaced by bizzare brutalist white cube apartments which i assume house pod people our ballbusting 900 year old landlady (slum lord) sent out the handyman steve. steve is not a plumber which is a point expressly made to me, by steven, several times we were not forewarned of this & steve's arrival came unexpectedly 8:00 AM thursday morning is now my time to furiously discuss drugs, on drugs, with internet strangers soon to be nebulous internet acquaintances, then friends, then perhaps even those friends from the internet you've known for a decade suddenly from my desk, if the door is open, i catch about a half-degree of the window facing the backdoor. a full degree if i lean back. i lean back as to kind of avoid the bizzare reality that the other players of the space game seem to deal with the same problems i do at an alarming frequency. i lean back There;s a fucking guy back there angry at the fact that i have to now deal with this, i find our friend steve in the back yard, sauntering around, muttering to himself in a way that's between mumbling but below speaking "surely that man has a blue tooth head set" but i was already smiling wide knowing he didn't. if you're going to appear in my backyard unannounced, milling around babbling to yourself is the way to do it steve doesn't really speak english. you'll read that and think he's like any other non english speaker but that is not the case with steve. steve will get out about four or five sentences in perfectly spoken english before switching to (hindi?) for a bit. you'd think that if 80% of his communication was clear, that'd be enough for mutual understanding, but steve is all over the place steve was furiously pacing around the broken pipe when i got to the back door. that is a fact i'm only coming to realize is important now, writing this, because the person standing near a broken pipe with a wrench is a plumber, someone who is allowed in my back yard in this circumstance HEY YO i tried to whistle but made a stupid faring noise with my mouth he swings around at the perfect moment to make my sudden departure all the more awkward as i realized how waistbanding a pistol in sweat pants was extremely not working. remember where we are by the time im out of my room steve has his head poked through the back door YOU COULD NOT WITH YOUR FINGER POINT A WORSE PLACE FOR PIPE BREAK and boy howdy he was right. if you're going to break a pipe, don't make it the one between your meter and a valve, and especially don't make it one on the ground next to the garage you keep all your weirdo electronics and "vintage computers" you "collect" i sort of like plumbing. i've done some plumbing. there's an illegal stipulation in our lease that lets the landlord, you know, just not maintain the place. with my engineering background i am of course compelled to think i am somehow qualified to solve these problems. i'd like to use the expression "dive into with full force" to describe my approach but combine that with the imagery of a blind person gracefully swan diving into an empty concrete swimming pool but this is not about me, i am not particularly interesting. -- steve. steve is sort of interesting. his murmuring grew to a breathless combination of words which i thankfully mostly understood (individually, not collectively). steve was upset with the pipe situation to be described later in this document's best paragraph. he was upset at the last person to work on the pipes here because they fucked up. he was amused by how preposterously

inconvenient the broken pipe lay. this amusement was not anger what followed next was clearly anger. perplexed, astounded anger ice on the ground is something you see once every 4 years in (excellent) swamp i live in. it's a pretty reasonable assumption that a broken pipe after a freeze/melt cycle is due to the freeze/melt cycle this was not the case the pipe had ruptured due to a sequence of truly insane and utterly nonsensical choices made by the previous plumber who almost certainly kicked the bucket in the reagan years as suggested by the lead solder used to seal joints and lead paint used to, well, just hold on the pipe burst because a large metal rod was inserted *through* it. the details on exactly what went down are a little fuzzy as my simian mind was preoccupied with thoughts about some weird software that started as a fluid dynamics simulator and is now a physics simulator and an insane person simulator. i would digress and expound on this but my thoughts aren't yet settled on the space game the rod went through the pipe and into the ground, on the other end were rusty wires. it is a grounding rod, you know, for electricity. i unfortunately know a litle bit about this. you can ground a circuit through a cold water tap, like when you're lining the fence with copper wire to create a makeshift shortwave antenna with your weird kind of racist dad. water is conductive. more commonly the rod goes into the ground, which is also usually conductive so, this grounding rod, sitting between a 3 foot gap between the back of the garage and fence, an overgrown mess of decades of detritus and weeds that had grown into vines that had grown into weird anemic trees. this grounding rod was painted. it didn't come painted. it was painted. it was painted the same color as the garage. paint is not conductive. the circuitry in my house was not grounded. thankfully there is no ground pin on the outlets in this ancient home besides the one i strangely installed one day. the amp plugged into it now gives a hum where it didn't before. the ground was subsequently disconnected to eliminate the ground loop as we are in our early 20s and cannot die, especially not in an electrical fire it's sort of nice to know that even back in the 1940s people screwed up as royally and maximally as possible, employing such a degree of backwards demented logic as you'd expect from a home owner's association bylaws handbook or normal computer software anyways, steve, ohoho. oh boy. steve did not fuck with this at all. steve, the man who is self purportedly not a plumber, immediately took to the valve between the city's water main and our house with the wrong implement. an implement used to unwrench joints around a u-bend underneath a sink. it worked perfectly `I just use this for many valve. It works mostly. No need for heavy T` (steve's parlance doesn't transcribe to text very well) steve continued, `Too many tools is too bad. I use this one for tiling and for drywall and for ducks` (ducts?) he spoke while gesturing listlessly at nothing in particular. it became clear that steve's limited, nebulous tool set was carefully chosen. when you are the un-fuck-it man for an ice queen landlord you sort of have to be a plumber and an electrician and a roofer and sometimes a debt collector. the arcane set of tools used to approximate all of these trades made a bit more sense the lack of a monkey wrench did not make sense. none of steve's esoteric implements could wrench like we needed them too. i offered to purchase one from the nearby hardware store which was a great excuse for me to go to the nearby hardware store and purchase a monkey wrench, *my* monkey wrench. steve objected but i was deadset. i was buying a wrench today. the newly purchased wrench calmed two agitated souls: one was drowning in thoughts about drugs and space and coincidence. the other was angry he couldn't wrench down a pipe joint a few hours passed. several trips were made to the hardware store by my roommates and the new tennant in the garage apartment, less than $20 was

spent. i sort of farted around not helping while getting jawed at by steve who had permenently changed the subject to grand life philosophies. i'm about the last person that'll tolerate some windbag wasting my time, but between the fun of trying to decipher what the fuck steve was saying and what language (or nonsense utterances) he'd conclude thoughts with, i realized that his sensical words actually, uhh, rang true steve believes in doing a good job. read that last sentence without the disinterested, vaguely-trying-to-be-funny style this document has maintained so far this hit me on a deeper level than i was expecting i'm young and do not really understand the world very well. i'm not so young that i'm blind to the depths of what there is to understand about this world, i'm allegedly content with the resignation that for the time being i'm sort of a dumbass and will continue to be a dumbass in the future, although less so hopefully i'm going to tell you that i believe in "doing a good job", "doing things properly", "taking your time to properly solve a problem", or "solving a problem for the sake of solving a problem and nothing else". i am going to tell you that these are some of strongest and earnestly compulsions i feel. i'm not lying when i write this but i wasn't lying when admitted to how little i understand anything at all, so maybe weigh those two facts against each other nearing 200 lines, i realize i have spent the hours meant for sleeping writing a truly innappropriately verbose wall of text all because of how stoked i was that an angry muttering tom bombadil character spent an extra 45 minutes to fix a pipe properly the new pipe was measured and cut, threaded. steve's measuring tape is interspliced with further, smaller graduations he hand-scratched into a long measuring tape. the previous graduations on the tape presented steve with an unsuitably low resolution of 1/8th of an inch i'd guess this was a 12 foot measuring tape. i never saw the end of the graduations, i don't doubt for a second they extend the entire length of the tape. do you know how many notches you'd have to painstakingly scratch on to a 12 ft measuring tape to change it from 1/8" -> 1/16". well, don't: 1152 steve might be a little nuts but holy shit a master plumber could not have done a better job. the dude fuckin laid on his back, in the small pond of pipeleak water, so as to see up a length of fixed pipe so he could better lay teflon tape on the *inside threaded surface of the pipe joint*. i challenge you to try and imagine what such a manuever would be like, considering the damp slimy pipe surface, the fucking hell that is teflon tape (fuck teflon tape) all while laying in a pool of possum water at the impossibly cold temperature of 45 F my pipes don't leak anymore. there is no longer a bizzaro steel rod puncturing the most critical pipe on this property. i own a monkey wrench when i did not this morning. i am thinking less anxiously about the space game, still. me and steve sat around smoking cigarettes and communicating with each other through a method i can't describe but wasn't reliant on words. we talked about the virtues of work ethic and then we talked about those that have broken our hearts. the conversation, as well as this text, ended with a solemn mutual acknowlegement of how terrifying electricity is and how terrified of electricity we are

[viralhottopics]

Susan Hill: I am not pro-Trump! Really? Do people think that of me?

The novelist caused a stir this week by accusing a bookshop of anti-Trump censorship. Even Michael Gove waded in. But shed rather talk about her new book, and leaving her husband of 40 years for a woman

Susan Hill barrels around the corner to our table, which is tucked away in a noisy alcove of the bar at the Covent Garden hotel in London. She looks pleased to see me, if a little apprehensive. That is not surprising: this week, she set off a storm of outrage that had her running for cover as much from her publishers, Chatto & Windus, as from the keyboard critics who piled in on social media.

In an article in the Spectator, she announced that she had pulled out of an event because the bookshop concerned was promoting anti-Trump authors. It was not: the Book Hive in Norwich, which outed itself as the target for Hills ire, was merely the conduit for novels about totalitarianism donated by a local reading group as gifts for customers. The books included George Orwells Nineteen Eighty-Four and Margaret Atwoods The Handmaids Tale.

Hill sits down with a thump. She is a small woman who wears her peppered hair cut short. How are you? I ask. Although in emails the day before she was adamant that the Book Hive debacle is off the agenda, she seems relieved by the question. One small article and the world went mad, she says, clutching at a necklace of oversized turquoise beads. Have they got nothing else to worry about?

It sounds disingenuous. I look the 75-year-old writer of The Woman in Black in the eye; she returns my gaze steadily. No, she says, to my unasked question: surely someone who has written more than 30 books, from ghost stories to crime novels, short-story collections and literary novels, cannot be naive to the impact of an article in a national magazine denouncing an independent bookseller? She drums her fingers on the metal table. I dont want to talk about that, because this is not about that and the publishers will kill me, she snaps back. In an instant she adds: Frankly, the less oxygen you give it Her initial bluster disappears with a sigh, like air from a balloon. Its all about nothing. Has nothing happened in the world that people go crazy?

The spat has shaken her, however, and although she has told me she will not talk about it, she alludes to it throughout the interview with shoulder shrugs, sighs and comments. Before we part, she says of the Book Hive proprietor, Henry Layte: If he rang up and said, will you come and talk to us, of course I would. Only if he said he wanted me to. I wouldnt want to walk in there uninvited. She adds hastily: I dont suppose he would let me in his shop.

But she has not invited me to London to talk about that, she insists. She wants to talk about her new novel, From the Heart. A slight tale of 211 pages, it is a coming-of-age story set in the early 1960s. Olive Piper is an awkward and bookish teenager whose escape from home is blighted by an unplanned pregnancy and then a doomed love affair with another woman. It is written in the Whitbread winners characteristically pared-down style not a word wasted which adds great impact to the books two big reveals.

And there is one particular aspect of the novel Hill particularly wishes to talk about: Pipers love affair with another woman, because it has parallels with her own life. The unexpected happened to me: I fell in love with another woman who fell in love with me. The woman is screenwriter and producer Barbara Machin, creator of Waking the Dead, for whom Hill left her husband of almost 40 years, the respected Shakespeare scholar Stanley Wells, six years ago.

Taking a sip of ginger beer with lots of ice, she begins to say more, but her words are drowned out by the clatter of empty champagne bottles being upended into an ice bucket at the bar, followed by the loud rasp of the cappuccino machine. She throws a sharp look at the barman and we wait in silence until the noise subsides. The love affair with Machin bloomed over drinks in Cotswold pubs, where the two would meet to discuss the screenwriters adaptation of Hills Serrailler series for ITV. We had met in Cheltenham because I was doing some gigs at the festival, Hill recalls. Although she regarded her future lover as a very nice woman when they met, she says she was just shellshocked at the gradual dawning of a love affair.

She says it was her first adventure into same-sex relationships apart from a crush shared with other girls on a geography teacher at her Scarborough convent school. She got married and we were all devastated. For a moment her voice, from which Yorkshire has long since been scooped out, becomes wistful. It absolutely never crossed my mind that I had any attraction for women or was attracted to women, she adds. Three years before marrying Stanley, her heart was broken when her fiance, David Lepine, the organist at Coventry Cathedral, died suddenly of a heart attack in 1972. He was the love of my life, she says, and insists that throughout her long and happy marriage she never had an inkling that she might not be straight.

You fall in love with the person, she says, with another twist of the beads. That person could be the same sex or the opposite sex, but you fall for that person. And I felt very much that [Barbara] was somebody whom I liked. Machin was very warm and attractive, she continues, then laughs. The woman thing, I thought, Heavens! Her eyes pop at the idea.

Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian

As she speaks, I become aware how Hill has softened her appearance since I last saw her, 10 years ago. Back then she dressed like a Gloucestershire landowners wife, in brogues and Barbour. Today she wears coordinated bright colours: a long-sleeved cotton top matches the beads, and a bright red handbag on the floor beside her matches a red undershirt only visible at the neck. The ensemble suggests a confidence about her appearance that I havent seen before.

In a trade in which the cliche is to be a Hampstead liberal, Hill stands out for her forthright support of the Conservative party, of which she is a member. And while other writers will not be surprised to hear that she is a party member, they will be surprised by her claim that, Im not very rightwing. I certainly wouldnt be Ukip or anything. That may be true, but some of her closest and most vocal supporters number among the most vociferous elements of the libertarian right. Asked where she places herself in the political firmament, she replies: Theresa May. Trouble is, I dont know any of them any more. She does know Michael Gove, however, who stepped into the row over the Book Hive with a tweet that said: Susan Hill is a brilliant writer and her detractors are illiberal bigots.

Essex Serpent writer and Norfolk-based novelist Sarah Perry bit back at Gove with a tweet saying: 1. Nobody queries for a second her genius, MICHAEL. 2. Disagreeing is not detracting, MICHAEL. 3. It is not bigoted to disagree, MICHAEL. This was on top of comments directed at Hill by the likes of the Father Ted creator, Graham Linehan, who tweeted: Ha! Even fonder of my local bookshop now. What a stupid crank Susan Hill is. Hill will not answer questions about Goves involvement, but their friendship is strong Hill has defended the would-be Tory leader on threads posted about him on Facebook. What she will say is that her support for May and Gove is firmly tied to their stance on Brexit.

Again, it is an unusual stance to take among novelists, who last year were overwhelmingly in favour of remain. Why does she want to leave the EU? Her response becomes less coherent than anything else she has said in our interview: I voted to leave because … I am old enough to remember very clearly the last referendum … I am not sure about this … but watching over the years more and more rules coming to us from an unelected body … I dont mean just the stupid things to do with health and safety, but taking away every countrys individual national decisions … Her words fade out. When I challenge her about the truth of this, she shrugs and replies: Anyway, I just think Brussels costs so much money. Like her criticism of the Book Hive, it seems as much about supposition as information.

Hill is also a devout Christian, a high Anglican, but doesnt see any contradiction with coming out as gay. I long ago gave over any anxieties about that, she says with a wave of ringless fingers. The break up of the marriage has been very amicable, she insists. There have been no harsh words. Wells, she says, is happy to be queen bee in Stratford-upon-Avon, and there are no plans to divorce. The marriage, she believes, would have ended anyway. You do pull apart. Once your children leave home, you either become a tighter unit or you become the opposite, and that happened to us. Her daughters, Jessica and Clemency, although shocked at first, have settled into a good relationship with Barb, as Hill refers to her new partner.

But the parallels between the writer and Olive are not just about sexuality. Born in 1942, Hill would have been Olives contemporary. Both were awkward teenagers, whose bookish demeanour masked a shoot-from-the-lip habit that speaks first and asks questions later. Hill blames her inability to watch her words upon her Yorkshire childhood. In Yorkshire they will say what they think and people will say, How rude! But it isnt meant to be. It is meant to be just straightforward.

Straightforward it may be, but forthright criticism of friends on Facebook has left wounds. She somehow feels she has the right to take people down a peg, one such victim confided. She can be cantankerous, says another, yet she inspires powerful loyalty.

She looks genuinely shocked when I say this to her. Kindness is important to her and the idea that she has left friends smarting after voicing her opinions on social media stings. I dont think I write many unkind things … I try really hard … she says, all bluster gone. That she is kind is attested by many women who have received her support given quietly and without fuss when their relationships have turned abusive and they have needed to escape.

Hill herself has been calloused by painful experiences in her life. As well as the death of Lepine, she had several miscarriages after the birth of her first daughter, the novelist Jess Rushton, and lost her second child, Imogen, five weeks after she was born. A hand-painted box given to her at the time by the writer Bel Mooney remains a treasured possession. However you lose a child, she says, all sorts of people come out of the woodwork and, even if the circumstances are different, tell you that it happened to them. It is a real human bond.

Like Olive in her novel, Hill was told by her mother from an early age that she was not attractive. It still pains her. When your mother says: Oh, no one will ever look at you, a plain face like that, you believe it, dont you? she says, the confidence punched from her face by the recollection. In the book, Olives schoolfriend Margaret Reid is the pretty girl who was seen in town with her boyfriend, Hill says, admitting that such girls were granted a confidence about life that she never had.

The photographer interrupts us. Its time to take her picture, and her partner is waiting for her. I have one last question: why did you defend Trump? She splutters in disbelief. I am not pro-Trump! she almost shouts in reply. People should read what I wrote, she adds, then: But I am not talking about that. But she looks at me again and says: Really? Do people think that of me? I point out that she has been off Twitter for a few days. Christ! she replies. Im a Conservative. I am not a Trumpian Republican … apart from anything I think he is not very bright. With that she scoops up her things, gives me a hug and scurries out of the bar in pursuit of the photographer.

Susan Hills From the Heart is published by Chatto & Windus. To order a copy for 9.34 (RRP 10.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over 10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of 1.99.

Read more: http://bit.ly/2mbDx5j

from Susan Hill: I am not pro-Trump! Really? Do people think that of me?