#post-graduation nothingness

[summercourtship]

my current mood is listening to ghost and wanting to cry because i have no idea what im doing with my life and the only thing i know i have coming up is a dentist appointment on march 1, 2023

[lumiellle]

Haikavember Day 4: Inspiration

“Say, Alhaitham, do you ever feel inspired?”

Kaveh asks him this question unprompted. Their conversation had just lapsed into comfortable silence, the previous topic done. He blinks at Alhaitham, then his eyes flick back to his glass, red wine swirling around it as he twirls it between his fingers.

“Inspired?” Alhaitham asks. Kaveh’s question is too open, leaving too much room for interpretation.

Kaveh seems to dislike receiving answers that deviate from the intended meaning of his questions, though he hasn’t learned to phrase them accordingly, so Alhaitham struggles to find fault within his own way of interpreting these questions.

“You know, like when you read a really nicely worded paper and it makes you want to add to the discussion,” Kaveh says.

So it’s that kind of question.

Alhaitham supposes that he does feel inspired sometimes. A lot of times, actually. It started, if he remembers correctly, right around the time he and Kaveh met on that fateful day in the House of Daena. Up until that point he’d preferred to keep to himself, taking little interest in what other students had to contribute to class discussions. Even most of the professors failed to pique his interest, which was one of the reasons he stayed homeschooled and self-taught for the better part of his youth. He never felt inclined to engage in prolonged debates with his peers. They seemed to be living a different reality, and the resulting disconnect was too great for Alhaitham to want to bridge that invisible gap.

Kaveh crashed into his life full force—he was loud, passionate and intelligent. He still is, even though life has been unkind to him. Alhaitham knew immediately that Kaveh was different. He was like him in ways the other students his age weren’t.

It didn’t take long before he found himself scribbling away furiously in an attempt to refute a claim Kaveh had made in one of his homework assignments. He had written critiques of published authors’ works many times before that, but this time his heart was in it. There was something happening inside of him, a flame of need flickering incessantly where muted nothingness had been before, his pen sliding across parchment without care for all the smudged ink on his hand or the balance of his lettering. He needed to write. Nothing else mattered.

Kaveh had brought out a side of him Alhaitham hadn’t been aware of himself. His desire to interact with Kaveh’s thoughts, both in person and on paper, only grew over time. Where he was apathetic at best during most of his classes, he raised his hand eagerly in classes he shared with his favorite senior, and if only to nitpick tiny details in his presentations or statements.

After things went downhill between the two of them, Alhaitham found himself bereaved of all drive. Freshly graduated, he should have been actively seeking employment, but he barely managed to get himself out of bed some days. Even though he hadn’t felt like anything was amiss before he met Kaveh, it seemed that the spark of life, the curiosity Kaveh had inspired in him had left him in the same way Kaveh had left his life.

It wasn’t until he started noticing several postings across the notice boards around the city on his infrequent trips to the market to restock on groceries that the flame that had lain dormant inside of him was rekindled. The postings were anonymous and eclectic in terms of content, but Alhaitham knew who was leaving them. He could tell from the way their author phrased certain ideas, and he would recognize that looping handwriting anywhere.

Before he knew it, Alhaitham had pulled a pen out of his belt pouch and started scribbling his answer to Kaveh’s posting. 

When he returned the next day to find a disgruntled reply, he couldn’t help the smile creeping onto his lips. He felt like, in a way, Kaveh had allowed him to step back into his life, even if it was unclear whether Kaveh had realized it was him or not. 

If he were to be entirely honest, he would have to admit that Kaveh was indirectly responsible for a good chunk of Alhaitham’s early scholarly work. If he were to be honest, he’d tell him that he inspires him every day, just by being himself—even though Alhaitham doesn’t share his ideals, he respects the way he never strays from them. But Kaveh doesn’t take kindly to Alhaitham’s honesty; he has an uncanny knack for interpreting ill intent into his actions, or maybe a learned inability to take words of affection for what they are, specifically when they come from Alhaitham.

So, looking back at Kaveh over the rim of his own glass, Alhaitham says, “Funny you should ask. I suppose that recently, I’ve been feeling more inspired than I have in a long time.”

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Masterpiece: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Summary: While giving a lecture with Spencer and Rossi, a man approaches you with information regarding five missing people. Can you save them in time?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

"Let us consider that we are all insane. It will explain us to each other; it will unriddle many riddles..." - Mark Twain

Assisting Spencer and Rossi in a lecture to college students seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that you're actually here, you can tell some of them don't want to be listening to this. There are others who are genuinely interested in all of this, and those are the ones you're talking to. These students have an interest in criminal justice, and in order to be accepted into certain fields of the FBI, they have to know what they're going to be signing up for.

"Most of us have done extensive post-graduate work in areas such as abnormal psychology and sociology as well as intensive study of relative casework and existing literature, but that's after selection to the unit," Spencer says.

"First you have to be an agent," Rossi says, "work in the field, and that's what we're here to talk about. For that, the academics are wide open. For everyone in this room, once you graduate and regardless of your course study, you are eligible to apply to the FBI."

The classroom doors open and an older man with white hair walks in. The dread you feel from him is enough to make you sway from shock. He doesn't even look at you as he sits in the back of the classroom to listen in on this. Something isn't right with this man, and Rossi sees your reaction to this.

He nudges you and you snap out of it enough to look at him. He asks you with his eyes if you're okay, and you give him one nod. He knows something is bothering you, but he'll ask you about it once the lecture is done.

"What did you study?" a student asks Rossi.

"Criminal Justice, but sports appreciation was all full up at my community college."

"I hold Doctorates in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering as well as BAs in psychology and sociology," Spencer smiles proudly.

"I have doctorates in Criminal Justice with a sole focus on profiling and one in Psychology," you state.

Everyone seems shocked about you two, and you think it's because of how you look. You and Spencer are very young so it's shocking to hear how many doctorates and BAs you two have gotten over the years.

"How old are you?" one student asks Spencer.

"Uh, I'm twenty-seven. Last month, I turned twenty-seven. I'm--I'm also completing an additional BA in philosophy. Which reminds me that I have a joke." Rossi looks at him in a panic because he doesn't want Spencer to embarrass himself, but Spencer dismisses him. "How many existentialists does it take to screw in a light bulb?"

No one answers the question which can only mean they aren't interested in it, but Spencer decides to tell it anyway.

"Two. One to change the light bulb and one to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness."

Not a single person laughs at his joke, but you can't help but giggle into your hand. Spencer is just too cute, and any kind of joke he makes is funny to you. Spencer looks at you and then around the room nervously.

"Um, an existentialist would--"

"Okay," Rossi cuts him off, "before he does his quantum physics knock-knock joke, do we have any other questions about opportunities in the FBI?"

"Did you ever shoot anybody?"

It's a good thing this lecture is only an hour long. College kids are easily entertained if it has to do with gore. At the end of the lecture, you, Rossi, and Spencer leave to head back to Quantico. The hallways fill with students trying to get to their next class, and you have to push past them to keep up with the group.

"You do know we want them to actually join the Bureau? We want these kids to think it's a cool place to work," Rossi says.

"I understand that, yeah."

Sometimes, things go over Spencer's head and it's the cutest thing ever.

"Existentialism?"

"That was a funny joke. What do you mean?"

"Yeah, to Sigmund Freud."

"I thought your joke was hilarious," you grin and kiss his cheek as you're walking. "I love all your jokes, and I love you."

"I tell them I shouldn't--they keep on sending me here. I don't know why," Spencer shrugs.

"Because you're young."

You walk towards the stairs to get to the first floor, but the same man you saw in the classroom joins your group. Your smile is lost, and you grab Rossi's arm to let him know something isn't right. Rossi sees how pale your face is, but he doesn't know why you're like this.

"Dr. Reid? Wouldn't they sit in the dark and hope that the bulb decided to light again?"

"Excuse me?"

"An existentialist would never change the bulb. He would allow the darkness to exist."

"Yeah, that's pretty good," Spencer chuckles.

"I'm Professor Paul Rothschild. It was a brilliant presentation. Brilliant. You're a remarkably effective recruitment tool. The FBI is very lucky to have you."

"Thank you for saying that."

You really want to get away from this man, and as much as you try to rush Rossi and Spencer out of there, he keeps up.

"May I show you something?"

"Of course."

Paul takes out a manilla folder and hands it to Spencer, and you tap Rossi's arm urgently. You open your mouth to say something, but no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to speak. Inside the folder are pictures of people in distress. Some of them are of women, some are of hands as if the person tried to cover up a camera, and others are of pure fear.

"I don't understand. What are these?"

"Seven homicide victims."

"Homicide?" Rossi asks and looks at you.

"Seven women. The bodies have never been found. Not a fingernail, not a hair fiber. Acid is a very tidy way of disposing of something."

"Acid? Are you saying that you killed these women?"

"There is still time to save the others, though. Five more. In a bit less than nine hours, five other people are going to be dead. Unless you can find a way to save them."

Of course, Rossi calls the local police to have this man arrested and brought back to Quantico for questioning. After the police are called, Rossi gets Hotch on the phone to let him know what is heading his way. You knew something was wrong with this man from the beginning, but you couldn't get the words out.

Paul cooperates with the police as they escort him back to your car. Students watch as you pass by, but Paul isn't paying them any mind. In fact, the only people he's interested in talking to are Spencer and Rossi. He has not looked your way or spoken a word to you. Interesting, huh?

"I knew I felt something wrong," you whisper to Spencer just as Rossi got Hotch on the phone.

"Hey, Dave."

"Reid, Y/N, and I were just approached by some guy here with photos that he claims are seven women he killed. These pictures have all been manipulated in some way that you can't really see what they are."

"Did he say he killed them?"

"Yeah, seven women so far. There are five more live victims somewhere that we can save in nine hours."

"Is this guy for real, Dave? Or is a confessor wannabe?"

"I don't think so, Hotch. I got a hit off him, and Y/N was tipped off the second he entered the classroom. I'm bringing him in."

"Okay, what can I do?"

"I'm sending shots of the photos to Garcia to start looking over. I'll see you in about forty-five minutes." Paul is placed into the back of the car you drove here in, and Rossi turns to you and Spencer with a serious look on his face. "Do not forget a word he says the rest of the time we have him."

"What is happening?"

"I'd like to know."

You reach for the back door, but Spencer stops you from getting in the back with Paul. You don't question it when he opens the passenger door for you, and you slide inside without a word. He gets into the back since he doesn't know what Paul is capable of.

"So, you said you're a professor at Strayer?" Spencer asks.

"No."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"I mean, you did introduce yourself as Professor Rothschild, right?"

"Your degree in philosophy surprises me, Dr. Reid. It doesn't fit with mathematics and engineering."

"I kind of like it because there's no right or wrong answers."

"Without right or wrong, how would we recognize perfection?"

"Is this fun for you?" Rossi asks as he drives back to Quantico.

You're staring at Paul to get a read on him, but it's kind of hard to. He knows how to hide himself very well.

"It's quite a bit more complicated than that."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Rossi glares at him through the rearview mirror.

"I read your books, David. You're not of the intellectual capacity to grasp what's going on here."

"If you're trying to piss me off, it's not gonna work. If you killed seven women without leaving a trace of evidence, why turn yourself in?"

"Imagine what the world would have missed if Da Vinci never showed his work."

Rossi gets to Quantico, but they don't give him a warm welcome. The entire bullpen is on alert, and you look at your team as soon as you walk through the glass doors. There is a news report on the big TV that everyone is watching.

"Earlier this morning, police were contacted and informed that Kaylee Robinson, who ran a daycare center out of her home, had been abducted along with four children. When a parent arrived at 9:30 this morning to drop off her child, she discovered the door had been opened."

"What's going on?" you ask.

"He said there were five more victims we could save, and now five people are missing," Hotch states.

"Are those the five more?"

"Are you pissed off yet, David?" Paul smirks.

Rossi has Paul escorted to an empty interrogation room, and you follow loosely behind them. As Rossi and Derek get him set up, you and Spencer watch them from the window. Paul must know that someone is watching behind the glass, but his only focus is Rossi.

"It's not your fault, you know. Your IQ is your IQ. It's not education, David, it's genetics."

"What's this?" Rossi asks about Paul's necklace.

You lean closer to the window to get a better look, but your view isn't the best one.

"I need to explain what a pendant is?"

"What does it mean?"

"Mean? It's just something I found at a fair," Paul shrugs.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you. You have the right to have an attorney present. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights--"

"Genetics is the key to everything, David," Paul cuts Derek off. "If you're not born with the right--"

"Do you understand your rights?" Derek cuts him off.

"Perfectly. I can have a lawyer but no, thank you. Some games are just intended to be played by higher intellects."

"Harming a person weaker than you doesn't take any special ability."

"Neither does slamming your fist down on a table, but we all must do what we must do. Bring Dr. Reid back with you."

"I never have any normal fans," Spencer sighs.

"I'm your fan," you smile at him.

Spencer wraps an arm around your shoulders and kisses the side of your head. Derek and Rossi leave the room to let Paul stew for a while.

"This guy loves attention. He has a God complex. Sooner or later, he'll give up something important about Kaylee and the kids. Guys like him always do," Rossi says.

"Before he hurts them?"

"It's 1:45 pm. He said we had until 10:00 pm."

"We need a button to push."

"The seven original homicides could give us some leverage."

"He says we'll never find any evidence so he has nothing to worry about. He also made a point of saying there are no bodies and no physical evidence," you point out.

"We just have to show that a crime was committed. We can do that circumstantially."

"We need to identify the original seven women. Going back in there with names just might shake him up."

"How do we do that?" Spencer asks.

"Reverse profiling. We learn everything we can about him and his methods, and then profile it back to what kind of victim he would choose and from where."

This kind of case requires everyone to work together, so you all gather in the briefing room alone with Penelope to try and make sense of what is going on. As soon as she gets the pictures Rossi sent over, she gets to work trying to figure out who the women in the photographs are.

"I went through ViCAP. There are literally thousands of open missing women cases across the country."

"It's not the entire country, though. Kaylee was abducted at 9:30 this morning. He had time to take them somewhere, hide them, and make it to Fredericksburg two hours later. He'd need a place with a lot of privacy to hide five victims," Spencer says.

"He was late for the presentation," you say. "You know, it was more like two and a half hours after the abduction. He got there around noon, which puts him somewhere around that radius."

"Garcia, work up a map. We need the farthest point he could have taken Kaylee from Loretto and still gotten back to Fredericksburg by noon," Hotch says.

"It shouldn't be too hard."

"Alright, what do we know so far?" Rossi asks everyone. "He's obsessively neat and clean. He did research on Reid and me at least. He's abducted five people and then gets to a scheduled recruitment session at a specific time. That's extensive pre-planning."

"What my question is, why didn't he talk to me? He refused to even look my way much less acknowledge me. He was only focused on Rossi and Spencer."

"Maybe he's intimidated by women," Emily theorizes.

"Did you find anything in those pictures, Garcia?" Spencer asks.

"I can't even positively say they're dead."

"What about hair color?"

"All the ones that show hair, they appear to be brunettes. I'll start there. The only thing is that his prints didn't come up. He's not in any system. It's like he's a ghost."

"If he hasn't been fingerprinted, then he hasn't been arrested. Which also means he doesn't have a passport, driver's license, or been in the military."

"He's never been a teacher, either. You have to be fingerprinted to be a teacher," Spencer points out.

"So, he's a professor who doesn't teach? What kind of professor doesn't teach?"

"A researcher? Maybe someone on a grant. It would give him the time."

"There must be some sort of central grant database. I can't imagine the government just handing out money and not--" Penelope sees everyone staring at her, and she starts to type furiously. "I'll look into it."

"From past conversations, we know he's a narcissist and seemingly remorseless. We can eliminate a lot of these open missing persons cases if we could just figure out how he met them," you say.

"Jordan, contact the Loretto PD and get us an invitation to consult on the Kaylee Robinson case. Be nice to them. They don't have to let us. Then, you and Morgan go down there and find out what you can."

"Let's go."

Derek and Jordan leave the office to do what they're told while the rest of you stay put.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[mamibaddie]

When The Heart Beats || Vampire!Eddie Munson x Reader

Chapter 1: The Wicked Grasp of Grief

Summary: Reader unknowingly makes a deal with the Devil.

Authors note: hey everyone! This is my first chapter for this story. I had talked about it in a post and voilà, here it is. I’m very excited about this story, it’ll have some elements from some of my favorite vampire movies like; Salem’s Lot, Dracula, and possibly The Lost Boys. I was also inspired by a certain Greek Mythology story. 👀 I was inspired by people coming up with the theory that Eddie could possibly come back as Kas in DND. However, I don’t know a thing about DND so it’s very loosely based on that. I don’t consent to my story being posting any where else or translated. Without further ado, let’s get into the story!

Warnings: Blood, violence, death, both religious and non-religious elements (same as any other vampire story) and some angst. 18+ only please!

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at your wall. Unmoving, only being kept conscious by the shallow breaths your tears allowed you to take. You’re sitting in the middle of your room. Dawn starting to break into the sky and seep into your room through the cracks of your shades in your windowpane. You finally blink and if it weren’t for the tears, your eyes would be incredibly dry. You look down at your hands and clothes, stained with blood. His blood.

Whenever you close your eyes you can still see him. Eddie. Your Eddie. Laid on the ground, blood coming out of his mouth and tears flowing down his cheek. He was littered with bite marks and cuts from the Demobats that sunk their fangs into him. It wasn’t meant to be this way. You two were supposed to graduate together, then heading out on a road trip around the country. You can still hear him gently whispering, “I love you.” With his last breathe.

You kept shaking him, at first whispering his name. Then the whisper became a stern tone, then became a rippling scream. You refused to believe he was gone. Dustin, clearly broken and grieving, tried to pull you away. “We have to find Steve.” As if Steve had the magic potion to bring him back to life.

You’ve been on autopilot ever since. You blinked and suddenly you were in the shower. Not knowing when or how you got in. You lazily spread the bubble-soaked wash cloth over your body. You looked to the right of you to see his shampoo and body wash. Both a crisp, fresh apple scent.

The more you thought back to the previous hours, the stranger it became. After the tear rippled through the entire Upside Down, effecting Hawkins, you all made your way back to Eddie’s body; still there, still warm. “We need to bring him back up.” You said. About to lift his body up and ask Steve to grab his legs when Nancy replied. “There’s no way we’ll be able to do that. We’ll do good getting ourselves back up there.” “Well, we can’t just leave him down here like this.” Dustin croaked. You close your eyes and wipe your hands over your face. Streaks of Eddie’s blood on your forehead and cheeks. “We aren’t. Just for now, until we bring the right supplies to bring him back up there.” You couldn’t believe it. You felt so helpless. It didn’t sit right to just leave him down here. In the cold, dark, and empty nothingness. “No.” You said shaking your head. “You try to lift him up but you don’t have the strength. Your mental won’t allow you, let alone your physical. But that won’t stop you from trying. “Y/N… he’s dead weight. He’s much heavier to carry than you think…” Nancy said. She walked over to you and gently put her hand on your shoulder. “I know how you feel. We’ll make this right. As much as we can. But for now. Let’s regroup tomorrow and think of what supplies we may need.” With that you shook your head. Gently laying him back down, balling up your jacket to place underneath his head. You give him a kiss on the forehead before you go. Your very last kiss.

—————————

Eventually you all made your way back to Hawkins through the crack and that’s when you faded out only to come to staring at your wall in your room. You walked out of the bathroom and into your room. The light beginning to pour into your room. You shut your blinds and it was practically dark. It was still and quiet. Normally, Eddie would’ve spent the night. You two cuddled and snug in your bed. Either a movie like Nightmare on Elm Street or Poltergeist playing on your tv.

You couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned but every time you closed your eyes, you just seen him. You got up and went to the door of your bed. You grew up in a religious household. Having went to church every Sunday growing up. You weren’t a particularly religious person due to what you have witnessed from people at your church and in society. Some people thought they were superior to those who didn’t think like them or act like them. It effected the way you viewed religion as a whole. However, you needed a miracle. Whether it was your grief or being in denial, you got on your knees, clasp your hands together and swallowed your pride. “…hey God…. It’s me.” You cringe. It’s been a while since your prayed and you didn’t know what to say. “I know I haven’t been in touch with you but I need a miracle. Please God….or whoever is listening….Please bring me back my Eddie, my love.” You started to break down in tears, sobbing. “I don’t… I can’t … do this without him. If you bring him back… I’ll do whatever… I’ll be devoted to you…. Just please.” You were pleading on your knees. The carpet burned into your skin. Your bones became stiff with how long you stayed in that position, wishing, hoping, praying that a higher power would hear your pleads.

You didn’t know it but someone…something…was listening, watching, lurking. In the dark abyss where souls don’t rest. A wounded but alive spell caster has heard your cries, has felt your suffering. And it’s almost at an end.

Taglist: @lunar-flwr @capmedusa @celestixldarling

[iriswashere]

I'm usually a vod watcher, but I tried to catch his stream before work but I was late and came in a little before Finana left and had to leave when Vox came on. But here I am watching the vod now to catch up 🫡

I've only done short posts about his graduation, but since he's my kami oshi I should probably write smth longer lol

I got into the community via Mysta, but I was still checking out the vtubing community. But when Iluna debuted, that's when I got really into it, and obviously, Kyo turned out to be my kami oshi, Aster being a close second. But everyone in Iluna is great too, maybe I should use this time to start watching the rest of the wave since I haven't already.

Anyway, at first I was a bit, "Wtf, a streamer but they hide behind a model?? That's a bit weird"

But then I started watching more, and watching his collabs with the others and ended up checking the other livers too. And I loved it, I found their interactions funny and I found it a good way to relax for a bit. Kyo himself was really funny with the improv and the random rapping segments when he malds. I ended up quoting his "Das crazy" irl and some of my friends would playfully mock me bc I say it so much now 💀

Ok I'm done nowOOH GETTING MORE DISTANT 🗣🔥REACH INTO NOTHINGNESS 💃💃OOH I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS ENDS SEE YOU IN THE NIGHT, I TURN BACK AND-

Pretty long post but he's literally my kami-oshi so I thought might as well. I'd also cry too, but I'm just so tired of both the niji drama and irl drama so I just don't have the energy to feel sad. I think I used up my tears for Mysta tbh 😭😭

But I'm happy for him and wish him well in his future ✨️creative endeavours✨️ (*cough* walmart *cough*)

I'm lowkey kinda hoping he reincarnates into someone else, indie or under another company, but obviously, I'm happy if he's happy.

[sataniquepanique]

Painkiller - Part One

Hi! I'm a long time lurker of fanfics, but a first time writer! Like the rest of you, I have fallen hopelessly in love with Eddie Munson. He also reminds me of not only myself in high school, but a lot of the people I knew. The freaks, the outcasts. I started this fic with my own high school experiences in mind, so those themes are sprinkled throughout. This will be a multi-part piece, with a lot written already. If it gets enough interest, I'll keep posting! Please be nice, I'm new!

~~~

Summary: You move to Hawkins during your Senior Year, trying to keep your head down and just graduate. You meet Eddie Munson, who tries to help you adjust to life in Hawkins. You're apprehensive but end up falling for him, only to be roped up in some drama when Eddie goes on the run.

Genre: slow burn, angst.

Warnings: cursing, general angst.

Word Count: 1.1k+

~~~

Part One: Cherry Bomb

“This is so fucking ridiculous…” you think to yourself as you walk into the lunchroom. It’s 11:40am, the time you’ve been dreading all day: lunch. High school is hard enough, but moving to a new town for your senior year? That’s pure, sadistic torture. In your head you replay the moment your parents broke the news to you a few weeks ago, 

“You can’t be fucking serious” you said as you deadpan over to your mom’s face. “Watch your mouth…” your dad cautions as he shoots you a glance from across the dinner table. You laugh incredulously, “Mom. I’m starting senior year. All of my friends are here! Why are you doing this to me?” You plead with her, as your eyes start to well with tears. Your dad had gotten a new job in Indiana, some hick town called Hawkins. He couldn’t pass up the offer, so he was forcing the entire family to move halfway across the country from the East Coast. Your mom sighed and looked down at the table as you slammed your chair back and went to your room. There was no stopping this move no matter how hard you tried.

You scan the lunchroom for an empty chair, something preferably away from others. You aren’t very good at talking to new people, and mostly chose to keep to yourself. At your old school, you had a small group of friends who were like you: into art and horror movies and punk music. The lot of you didn’t fit in with any other social clique, but somehow found each other. “Remember…” you think to yourself, “…you’re just here to get through one year and graduate. You’re not here to make friends.” Finally you see it, a seat at the very back at the last empty table. You make a beeline for it, and quickly throw your backpack onto the table and sit down, pulling out your sketchbook and a pencil. You put on your headphones that have been hanging around your neck for the majority of the morning, and escape into Joan Jett’s familiar voice. Art has always been your thing, ever since you were little you were always doodling or sketching something on any blank surface you could find. Your mom had bought you a new sketchbook before the big move, in the hopes that it would stop you from drawing on your arms. Todays project was a space-scape, with a lone figure floating through the abyss. The nothingness of space mirrored your attitude towards this new town. Nothing. You felt nothing. 

Suddenly, your sketchbook is ripped out from under your hand, causing you to accidentally draw a huge dark pencil scratch down the center of the page. “What the fuck dude!” you slam down the pause button on your walkman and look up and see a tall, blonde, smug looking basketball player holding your sketchbook and thumbing through the pages. “Check this out guys, we have a new resident weirdo!” He exclaims as he turns his head to laugh with the rest of his jock friends at the next table over. You remember him from your history class earlier, Jason is his name maybe? He wouldn’t stop ogling the cheerleader that sat in front of you in that class. “Can I please have that back? I wasn’t bothering anyone.” You say quietly, tucking a loose strand of dark auburn hair behind your ear. “Not until I’m done looking at your masterpieces.” Jason smirked, still tearing through the pages. You feel your eyes start to burn, and you try your best to not start crying. “HEY JASON!” You hear a voice boom from across the lunchroom. You look up startled to see a kid you remember from your math class, standing on a lunch table with his fists clenched. His name was Eddie, and you only remember him because he had leaned over in class to ask you for a pen. Not because he needed it to take notes, but because he wanted to etch Slayer into the desk. “Leave her alone, man.” He says more calmly than his previous outburst. “Or what? You want something, freak?” Jason yelled back, tossing the sketchbook back onto your lunch table and clenching his fists. Eddie put his hands up next to his head and stuck his fingers up, mimicking horns, while sticking his tongue out at Jason. You giggled at him, and he shot you a quick wink. One of the other kids at the jock table came up to Jason and grabbed his shoulder, “C’mon man, it’s not worth it.” Jason shot Eddie and you one last piercing glance and went back to his seat. 

Eddie hopped down from his lunch table and slid into the seat next to you. “Hey, sorry about that, he’s a total dickhead. Do you want to come sit with us?” He motioned over to his table, a bunch of misfits wearing the same lame shirt with “Hellfire Club” emblazoned on the front. “No thanks, I’m good.” You said nonchalantly, not even looking at him while you put your sketchbook away. “Oh…uh, my name’s Eddie by the way” he stammered, obviously trying to keep a conversation going with you. “I know” you said matter of factly “you borrowed my pen in math earlier, I’d like that back by the way.” “Oh shit! That was you!” His eyes widened as he remembered. “I saw you drawing in class, you’re pretty talented.” You shot him a look, unsure if he was making fun of you or being sincere. “Listen, we have a club that meets on Tuesdays, Hellfire Club. We play DnD, and tonight is the culmination of a months-long campaign but we’re down a member. Would you want to join? I feel like you might be into it…” he trailed off. “….why? Cause I’m a freak like you guys?” You say, meaner than you had intended. Eddie smiled, the same devilish grin he had used on Jason moments prior, “Precisely.” You threw your bag over your shoulder and made your way towards the door, Eddie following behind. You stop in front of the Hellfire lunch table. “I’ll think about it.” You say, glancing over at the rest of his group, all of which were staring at you. You throw your headphones back on and hit play, blasting Cherry Bomb into your brain. You turned around before Eddie could respond, and made your way out of the lunchroom. 

“Eddie, you seriously didn’t just invite your new girlfriend to Hellfire did you?” Dustin groaned. “Shut up.” Eddie snapped, shooting daggers at him through his eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend. Not yet, anyway.”

[forgottenyear]

It is not necessary for me to understand every detail of our system. But it is interesting, all the same. It is not like this post will prevent me from writing about something more pertinent, since I have nothing more pressing to write about at this time.

We are drawn to organizational structures. It is a facet of who we are. The organization of our system is an intriguing puzzle.

--

The unfused part appears to be the constant. I have no certainty about if this holds true with Angela, but only because I have no access to the bulk of her memories.

I am not aware of access to the unfused parts memories, but I was also unaware they were a part until relatively recently in the life of the body. I am not aware of when they front or how often, except in rare cases. It is well within the realm of possibility that I have access, but I am not aware that I am accessing their memories instead of my own.

I also do not have access to more than a few of Angela’s memories. Given the unknowns around the chemicals put into us by others (so they could exploit the body), I have assumed memories were interrupted in their biochemical formation.

There is a big difference between the few memories I have of her time, and the absolute nothingness of the unfused part’s times in front. But, Angela’s memories more closely resemble the unfused part’s as far as my access goes.

--

Speaking of memories, the boy is also a part. I have access to more memories from them than the others. But if I use a different measure, that of percentage of memories related to time in front, maybe there is no difference – between the boy and the girl parts, that is.

--

Now that I have got this far, only tangentially touching on the intended thread of this post, I need to think about “my own” memories.

My childhood consists of memories of all that was unique or interesting or fun. If I am correct in assuming I am the child part (from the “execrable list,” as I call it, that someone wrote in our early scrawl), it kind of makes sense that these would more likely be my personal memories from the time.

It makes sense that a child would be co-present for our adventures on the farms, or that I would love that we had a vice principle in primary school that everyone called Mrs. Crabapple (she was nearly as old as the three story school building that had to be retrofitted with the current fads of indoor plumbing and electricity, and she likely graduated from the local “normal school,” which later became a large part of the state’s university system) because Bart Simpson’s teacher was also Ms. Crabapple.

It makes sense that a child would remember sledding in the sandpits that always ended with someone sliding too far and going into their respective brooks.

I have assumed that my memories were just sanitized memories lifted from the boy part’s collection, but this post has given me back my memories because I was more likely co-conscious at these times. The memories are not scrubbed of unpleasantness because those are the moments when I was not present.

The boy has his memories of these times, but although understandably similar, mine are not necessarily his.

Why was this not obvious from the beginning?

And it also makes more sense, now, that my memories do not have the unbearable hopelessness that theirs do. I assumed they were moments when we forgot to feel hopeless, but this was an unconvincing argument, given how oppressive and pervasive their hopelessness is. Figuratively speaking, there is no sunlight in their memories. (Have you ever seen “Dark City?”)

--

Anyway, that is my description of how our system is organized. Or, it would have been, had I not stumbled onto a more productive tangent.

[wildissylupus]

OP!!! Hi, it's me, anon, again.

I would love to hear and read some outlandish theories. Literally, any of them at all.

Something small that you've managed to connect to something bigger.

Something you've just thrown together, and all that jazz and whatnot.

Thank yah!

Ooooo this is a fun one!!

I don't really think I have any big outlandish theories but I do have some small theories that don't really warrant they're own posts!!

I have the Overwatch Cook book and I noticed that both Cassidy's recipes are not typical for central Texas (where the deadlock novel takes place), so I think he grew up closer to the borders of either New Mexico, Mexico or both, since what I've researched says that those are the more multicultural areas of Texas.

The reason Echo was being moved was because Viskar wanted her for something. Idk what but they needed her for something.

Talon cooks don't season the food, Talon agents just eat plain ass chicken, like all the meals taste like nothingness and sadness.

The reason that Cassidy and Angela are in the graduation photo with Genji, Winston and Tracer isn't because they're also graduating to be on an Overwatch Strike team, but because they, like the old guard, were there to help train them for the Strike team.

Cassidy and Gabe always tried to one up eachothers Halloween costumes. It's why Cassidy's Undead skin looks like Cassidy put more effort in it the his Van Helsing skin.

Martina was either also a part of the SEP experiments or just a member of the army, do I have evidence to support this? No. I just think it would be cool.

Honestly feel free the ask questions about any of these or even ask what I think of other outlandish theories.

[bettsfic]

so i finished rebels and i have some Thoughts and Feelings i need to process so they are going here on my blog. (spoilers ahead)

for three seasons i hated ezra bridger. i thought he was such a boring protagonist and poorly written and i was so bummed to find out he was the main character

but THEN

sometime during season 3 my hatred came full circle. i started hating him so much i began to devise interpretations of his character i would not despise.

at first my initial attempt was that he made a great side character and an awful protagonist

i love that everyone loves him and it's completely illogical but the writing seems to be aware of that and how funny it is? kanan, hondo, and maul are all ready to throw down for him immediately

but what really worked was

into the nothingness, apropos nothing, i said aloud, "puppyboy ezra?"

i informed my roommate that i could bear ezra as long as i interpreted him solely as a puppyboy

*sensible chuckle* how ooc, i thought

my roommate was like, uh strange you should say that.......

i thought, haha i bet there's a dog in an episode or something

i proceeded to outline a very long puppyboy ezra fic (which i definitely plan to write; whether or not i post it remains to be seen)

((i ship ezra with a certain character that is so obvious to me but there are only 5 fics on ao3 and i'm devastated. i guess there will just be 5 drabbles and one 60k psychologically fraught modern au in the tag))

and i am simply knocked DEAD to discover that the series ends with GIANT SPACE WOLVES

listen

i love wolves

love them

specifically i love giant

space

wolves

in fact i have purchased every piece of artwork i can find on the internet depicting giant space wolves and they are all hanging on my wall as we speak

and so i felt deeply eerily called out when ezra's conclusion involves being spiritually connected to a wolfpack

i'm mostly shocked that rebels seems to be that bizarre mix of amazing but falls steeply short of its own promise, a la sherlock and early supernatural. the stuff that pings my "gotta fix this gotta fix it gotta add porn" lizard brain and i end up writing 100k

actually if i get out of this fandom under 100k i'll be shocked

hellcheer have one scene together in a show i don't even like and i wrote 100k about it in a few months

i have nearly 4 years of graduate education in creative writing and i Cannot Determine if rebels is good or if i'm just so personally fucked up by giant space wolves that i can no longer see it clearly

also

i wrote 7k of organic chemistry today and i'm hoping to get ahead by a couple chapters so it'll still be a while before i post (wednesday maybe?)

and then i'll focus on office au bdsm rexsoka

and then maybe (?) my post-apocalypse au

and then the puppyboy ezra fic no one will read but that's okay because i am writing it for me

i have more thoughts on rebels and clone wars and i'd love to write some metas but right now i need to face the treacherous mountain climb of fic-writing ahead of me and make peace with it

[helshollowhalls]

Honestly, with everything that's been happening after Mysta's graduation, Nina leaving and every single fucking Selen drama as well as Pomu leaving now (not to mention Niji ID just dissolving into nothingness after being treated like a rabid skunk in a ditch), I have had the itch to write another post about the absolute state of Nijisanji for a while.

I love Millie (she's my kamioshi) and I admire and respect Luca, but even with all the goddamn common sense and respect in the world, when they say Nijisanji is a good company it might be their truth, not everyone's truth.

[princesstokyomoon]

i keep seeing this post and im Fascinated tbh

for a few reasons, but one being that..... none of the media i watch pushes that time frame as the best interestingest part of life, so what the FUCK are you all wastin your time watching?

and another being that...... my GOD lemme tell yah, being 16, and starting college after being homeschooled for 5 years, the level of "nothingness" to "EVERYTHING DRAMA ALL THE TIME" was Insane.

and it only calmed down when i graduated uni, cus i went to uni the same place i did my second college, so some of the more Dramatic of the other students stuck around just as long as I did

and then since graduation has been a non-stop Slog with Begging the doctors to acknowledge I have fibro, and only JUST having got that a month ago

so like.... yeah being 16 was Infinitely more interesting for me than being 29? wasnt necessarily GOOD interesting, but it was interesting.

at 16 i was an insecure wreck masquarading as the most Confident bitch alive, buried in books, gettin weird... death threat phonecalls?, was gettin to know a BUNCH of people from a lot of different lives that i never would of met before, was so good at maths that my GCSE teacher BASICALLY had me teach the dydcalculic girl who i was friends with, went to see jeff waynes war of the worlds live, felt like i had Options for my future.

thats infinitely more interesting than 29 year old, scared of talking to Literally Anyone Anymore, scared of going outside, only spends time on tumblr.

[thevoidiswriting]

"The Red Curse", a short story

Hello to the void, the nothingness of no people.

As a first post, I am going to put my short story from a class from Spring 24 semester. It was a fun class and I learned that I am capable of writing more than 500 words.

If anyone finds this, I hope it is enjoyable.

CW - Mentions of dissociation, in-depth panic attacks (two), gore, detailed attack (at the end).

Word count: 3,468

The walk back from the bathroom is one of shame. I always hate having to leave the classroom to calm down, it’s so embarrassing. I know people watch me as I begin to shake and it progressively gets worse before I leave. My eyes begin to blur and I start seeing things that aren’t there; my surroundings develop a foggy filter. I’ve never had a heart attack, but the way I feel my heart slow down yet beat so fast makes me feel like I have. It’s not pretty, but it’s real, and I was hoping the rain would help to calm me down, but I guess not. One isn’t truly thankful for breathing until they feel like they will never breathe air again. For some reason, my panic attacks have gotten worse; probably because of the looming realization of graduating college and going out into the real world. Ah, such a comforting thought of having to work for the rest of my life under capitalism. Or maybe it’s because my medicines don’t work anymore and I need to talk with my psychiatrist about it; either way, panic attacks aren’t fun.

Of course, when I open the door to my classroom, it squeaks and it’s when everyone is dead quiet. I swear, these people know exactly when to shut up to make situations more awkward. Trudging back to my seat, I hope that another panic attack won’t invade me. As I walk towards my safe seat, the weird kid hands me a piece of paper. Saying “weird kid” isn’t usually something I would call someone, but he asks our professor things like, “Do you think a deer can sense when it is being followed?” Keep in mind that this is a stats class, not some weird philosophy class. Being the person I am, I make a face at the weird kid, but he doesn’t turn his head to look back at me. All he does is keep his head tilted to his desk and loudly breathes. Maybe he has asthma or something, but he should get it checked out.

Once I make it to my seat, I open the folded paper the heavy-breather gave me. It reads, I know what you are hiding. Suddenly, I get a feeling of vulnerability, like I’m being watched or as if my coming-to-school-naked dream came true. I look up to find the weird kid’s head turned in my direction. It’s frustrating that he won’t look me in the eyes, his dumb hoodie is blocking most of his face. I keep staring at his navy blue hood, hoping that he’ll show something.

“Tyler, can you please stop being a creep and pay attention.” Our professor’s voice snaps both of our attention to her face. She clicks her tongue. “This is exactly why you are barely passing my class.” The professor shakes her head and goes back to talking about probability.

I exhale a sigh of relief and make a mental note to never befriend someone named Tyler. I crumble the note into a ball and stuff it into my book bag to throw it out later. My favorite part of this class is being able to look outside my favorite window. The window itself isn’t huge, but I have a magnificent view of a street and two buildings: perfect for people watching. I love people watching because one can learn a lot from observing those who don’t think they are being watched. While watching the bears of people, my eye catches the sight of a lamp post. Nothing would be out of the ordinary if it wasn’t for the fact that the end of the lamp post has a big splotch of red on it. The red is a deep red like blood, not an orangey-red like rust. It’s odd, the rain is steady enough to be able to wash away the splotch, yet it doesn’t show signs of going away anytime soon.

###

After my stats class, I walk my monotonous way to my anthropology class. Every Tuesday and Thursday I make sure I pass the same pond. It’s a cute little pond, really, the murky water and green algae makes it enchanting. However, sometimes I do want to jump into the pond because sometimes class is so boring. The only thing that prevents me from doing this is listening to my music. Usually, walking around campus without anything obstructing my hearing is ideal, but sometimes one needs to seclude itself from the noise. My walk would have continued to be monotonous if I hadn’t kept seeing that same red splotch on the sidewalk. It doesn’t make sense, the rain should be washing away these spots. There’s no way that they just got here because I would have seen something to make them happen. 

I shake my head and continue walking. I’m probably just seeing things, I have bad dissociation. Everything is fine. I start to feel my body shake, so I take cover under a tree for  brief protection from the rain. I take three deep breaths in and out. The crisp smell of rain, the earthy smell of the mud, and the sound of rain pattering on leaves above me help to relieve my oncoming panic. Everything is fine, you are here. You are on Earth, you are grounded.

###

The next couple of days go by with nothing exciting happening. School is boring, work is boring, life is boring. I may be in one of my episodes, but life just doesn’t seem like it did last week. I walk into the university’s bookstore and find Mira sitting at her usual spot in the employee lounge with a book in her hand.

“Hey, Mira.”

“Hey.” I can tell she is invested in the story because of the tone in her voice. I decide to take the seat across from her and let Mira keep reading. Sometimes I bring a book with me, but today I’ve been thinking about that red splotch. Whenever I walked past it, I would look back to see if it was still there; every time there was no sign of a red splotch. It was only when I was looking forward I’d see a splotch. Whatever, it’s probably nothing.

I come out of my thoughts to take a glance and see if Mira is still concentrating on her book; she is. I sigh and my eye catches something red near the couches across from me. Usually, I wouldn’t disturb Mira during her concentration time, but I’m starting to get a little freaked out.

“Hey, Mira?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you see that weird red spot near the couches?”

Mira looks up from her book and squints at me. I point my finger to let her know that I’m talking about the couches behind her. Reluctantly, she puts her book down and turns her head. When she turns back to me, her mouth is frowning. “What are you talking about? The only weird thing near the couches is that white crust they haven’t cleaned up yet.” Mira and I shudder at the same time. One would think people would save it for after work, but we are in a university bookstore.

I give Mira one last glance, a glance that I can only hope relays the statement of “I think I may be going crazy, help me please!” Unfortunately, Mira doesn’t seem to take the hint and goes back to reading.

###

I went home that night and recalled how I saw the spot: that same deep blood red, the same weird blob-shape. Whenever I see something that isn’t actually there, it’s usually foggy and blurry and I can never vividly recall details. I know this spot is real, it’s not just in my head. I consider going on my computer and looking up “red spot on campus”, but I don’t want to be on an FBI watchlist. Instead, I take a shower and get ready for bed. My mind is probably stressed out over school. Why must I be a good student, wouldn’t it be easier if I did bad and wasted my parents’ money? Maybe I should go out and party all the time like my fellow peers and stop going to work. I stand in my shower and let the water slide down my body. That would be a horrible idea. Five semesters of college down the drain and you’ll be stuck in a job you hate. Sometimes you just have to stand in the shower to get a clear mind.

After my pruned-skin is delightfully scorched, I take my leave of my shower. There’s an unknown art of getting out of the shower, something most people don’t know or realize. One cannot quickly come out of the shower, even if their feet are greeted with a plush rug. Anything can happen: the rug can slip, your legs could get numb and you fall over, you can trip, the bottle of body wash could magically get in the way, there are hundreds of possibilities. The human body is fickle, especially when it comes to the head region. A thin layer of skin protects the skull, the skull protects the brain, and after that, there’s nothing. A simple fall can become catastrophic. This is always what I think about as I carefully pull away the curtain and slowly put one foot onto the little, plush rug outside my tub, and slowly plant the other foot. A breath of relief escapes my lips whenever a job is a success.

What isn’t normal is the red splotch that is next to my sink. My carefulness of exiting out of the shower is almost for naught as I step back and fall into the tub. Thankfully, my fragile skull does not crack, but my neck hurts. How did that spot get here? I know it wasn’t there when I came into the shower. Why is it following me? I can sense the feeling of breath being taken away from me again. Oh come on, not now. I quickly get dressed and run to my room, throw my blankets back, and grab my weighted blanket from under my bed. The shakiness creeps over my body as if I am in the Antarctic. As I try to slow my breathing, I try to take note of different colors around me. An orange book, my purple walls, my green shoes, a blue CD player, a yellow tarot deck, a red splo-. The red splotch has followed me to my room, a place I know for sure it was not in. I don’t get it, why does this random colored blob keep showing up? What does it mean? Am I going insane?

“Okay, this is just annoying.” My weighted blanket flies off my body as I get up to sift through my closet. My eyes caught sight of the prize I was searching for: stain remover. If this doesn’t remove the damn stain, then I don’t know what will. In the corner of my eye, I see a washcloth laying around, ready to be used as a scrubber. Once I spray the stain remover on my carpet, I try to walk calmly to my bathroom. I don’t know why this thing is following me, it’s just a red substance that looks like it was spilled on a surface. While running the cloth under warm water, I notice that the splotch isn’t by my sink anymore. That’s strange, maybe it doesn’t truly leave a mark, but just follows me. The thought made chills run down my spine. It’s as if this red curse is punishing me for something, but for what I don’t know.

I go back into my cave and feel somewhat relieved to see the splotch hasn’t moved to a different place. I get on my hands and knees to make sure I get the damn stain out. After what feels like forever, the stain is still its deep, blood red color. I sit back to look at it and start to cry.

###

The next day I trudge myself back to my classes. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I kept seeing the vile splotch when I closed my eyes. Of course, this came with multiple panic attacks. My friends think I should get a cat for emotional support, I obviously need it. They think having that monotony of taking care of a living being will “motivate me to get better”. I know they mean well, but having your friends recognize you are mentally not doing well hurts for some reason. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, the cat might start throwing up red stuff and create more red splotches around my apartment. Maybe I don’t need a cat, actually. Or, an idea that I’ve had for awhile, maybe I should increase the dosage of those meds I’m taking. I’m sure my psychiatrist would be delighted to hear that I am still having horrible mental health episodes.

I’m reluctant to sit at my usual spot since that’s where I first saw the devil, but I am a creature of habit so I sit there anyway. On my journey to get to my sacred seat, I see someone already beat me to it. That’s odd, I think to myself. Why would someone sit way in the back? What a weirdo. I debate going up to the guy and ask him to move, but when I reach my hand out to tap him on the shoulder, I stop. I remember that navy blue hoodie, it’s the weird, heavy-breather, Tyler. I accidentally let out a shaky breath and Tyler slowly turns his head in my direction. Before I can see his eyes, I step back and look away to find another chair instead. Once I find one, I feel like I’m being watched. I look up to see his head is still turned in my direction, as if he’s waiting for me to do something. I don’t give him the satisfaction of throwing my book bag at him, so I pretend to look somewhere else.

Thankfully, the professor comes in and saves me from the misery of looking into those murderous eyes. At the sound of her voice, Tyler turns his head and body away from me and listens to the professor. My diaphragm relaxes as I exhale a trapped breath and my attention begins to wander from the professor’s voice. The first thing my eyes catch sight of is that damned lamp post. The bane of my existence, the start of my horrors, the reason I want to change my major to engineering, become a construction worker, and make sure lamp posts are never used again. Maybe society can go back to using candles and walking through the dark with only a speck of flickering light. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

While making my usual overview of the lamp post, I see that the red splotch is still there. The pristine green grass surrounding the beacon shouts against the bloody red mess. How can the outdoor maintenance people miss the giant splatter but not the doesn’t-need-to-be-touched grass? Someone needs to get fired because it’s all over the campus. I kept seeing it on the sidewalk, in the streets, even on buildings while walking to class. It’s odd, though, whenever I see people go close to the splotches, they don’t seem to react. I’ve seen people walk on the splotches and they don’t do anything. I think back to when I tried to clean the mess in my apartment, it was definitely there, but I couldn’t get it off of my carpet.

A tingling sensation on my neck takes me out of the cave of my brain. I turn my head around to see the heavy-breather’s head turned in my direction again. Getting annoyed, I flip him off even though I know he wouldn’t see it. Or maybe he did because a small chuckle leaves his eerie lips. Instead of turning back around, Tyler looks me right in the eyes. He mouths something to me, I know what you are hiding. Before I can think about what he means, I look into his eyes, hunter green. Something inside of me breaks as I leave my body and this world.

###

Piercing sunlight hits my eyelids as they fly open. I can see my body, I can feel my body, but it’s as if I’m watching the world through a first-person point of view. I know I’m not disassociating because everything around me is clear—real.  The steady sound of a stream takes me out of my thoughts. I look up to see that the body, my body, is near a pond; the pond we pass by every Tuesday and Thursday. We look around to see if anyone is near us, maybe someone can explain where the hell we are. The body, me, us, starts walking down the path near the murky pond. The green algae clumps slowly float through the pond, meandering like they don’t have a care in the world. The air is a crisp, fall evening, the sun is starting to set and the sky is painted with purples, pinks, and oranges.

A piercing scream coming from our right breaks us from our trance. Frantically, the body, me, us, turns its head towards the sound and sees two familiar faces running from each other. In cowardice, we back into the safety of bushes, to watch the scene. As the figures get closer, we see that our friend looks like she’s being attacked. We have to help her, that’s our friend! What if the attacker attacks us, then what? Then who will save her? The second voice has a point and ultimately wins. The body, me, us, return back into the safety of the bushes as the two figures come closer to our vicinity.

“Stop following me, you creep! I’m gonna use my pepper spray if you don’t get away from me!” Our friend’s high-pitched voice is filled with panic and uncertainty if she will actually use the measly bottle for defense.

Interestingly, the man doesn’t respond or flinch, he keeps going towards our friend. We should really do something, she’s right there, we can tackle the guy and help her run away. Why would we do that? What if the attacker pulls a knife out and throws it at our friend and kills her? What then? Once again, the second voice wins. In the safety of our hiding spot, we watch as the scene unfolds.

At this point, the man has caught up to our friend and grabbed ahold of her arm. She wasn’t interested in going to the gym with us, so she isn’t very strong. She tries to elbow the man, but he’s already twisting her forearm into an unnatural angle. The sound, the crunching will forever be stuck in our head. An agonizing scream comes out between our friend’s lips, her last cry for help. The man doesn’t even flinch at her scream even though her mouth is right by his ear. A smile creeps onto the man’s lips as we catch the glint of a knife coming out of his pocket.

Well, at least we were right about the knife.

Everything happens in slow motion, the man’s arm lifting above the girl’s body, the girl screaming in terror as she sees the knife slowly come down into her. Even the horrifying squelch of blood and flesh seemed to echo slowly. The man’s lust for blood doesn’t stop there as he takes his thumbs and pushes them into the girl’s eyes, eliciting a primal howl. From our hiding spot in the bushes, we can see the girl’s eye sockets gush out blood and flow onto the ground around her feet. As if this isn’t enough, the man takes the girl’s neck and snaps it in two. There is an agonizing crunch that echoes and bounces off the walls and into the void. The body, my body, is afraid that sound will continue to echo until eternity. As the limp body falls to the ground with a thud, the man looks in our direction. As the sun slowly descends to its cave, I notice that the man is wearing a familiar navy blue hoodie. The same hoodie the weird, heavy-breather, Tyler, wears everyday to stats class.

And as lifts up his head, I see his piercing hunter green eyes. I stand in horror as I watch my friend’s blood drip from his hands, collecting near her neck, creating the devilish deep, blood red splotch I’ve been seeing everywhere. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can’t scream; I’m stuck and I can’t even feel my heartbeat. Before he turns to flee the scene, I catch him mouth something to me: I knew that you were hiding.

[dwindlingdenny]

Post 1 : Introduction

My name is Denny, and I am a 22 year old woman.

I've struggled with weight loss all of my life, and ever since early childhood - as early as the age of 7 - I have struggled with B. Ed and weight gain way over the safe measurements. All of my life up until recently I've always been on a FAD diet, or binge fest, with no other manner of consumption in-between. By age 13 I already weighed an awful amount: 119.8 kilogrammes (264 lbs). Unhealthy, struggling, and in pain - I was taken to one of the best hospital of the capital city. I was diagnosed with prediabetes and given Metformin to manage my poor health. I was also given a diet plan, however following it did not work out, unfortunately, since at age 13 I was struggling emotionally to the point where su!€!dal. Therefore, for the longest time I wouldn't care at all about life itself.

About around age 17 I first got into fitness after stumbling across Obese to Beast on YouTube. My first exercises were almost inadequate workouts consisting of only sit ups, stretches, and squats. However, this newfound affection towards physical exercise and ability snowballed. Soon afterwards, the weight was simply falling off on the grounds of meal preparation, staying consistent with the workouts, which kept getting easier and easier. That was also when I chose my prom dress, which is important later on.

As good as this period of my life was, it was shattered into nothingness by a heartbreak when I realised a long-term crush of mine - whom I've genuinely admired for well over 3 years - had started an intimate relationship with a close "friend" of mine. I let everything go for several months, putting back about half of the weight I'd lost - about 10 kilogrammes.

Soon, it was about two months until prom, and my wonderfully dreamy babypink princess dress did not fit. At all. I panicked. And in the span of just a month I fit in the dress again through severe restrictions and constant cardio workouts.

After graduation I entered a very dark time of my life, because I was continuing my unhealthy, almost inexistent diet, and if I did eat anything more than my daily caloric intake (of a little baby..) I'd make myself sick. My last summer before University was my Coke zero summer. It was the only thing I consumed other than water.

Then, at Uni, I met my wonderful then colleague, then boyfriend, currently fiance. He retaught me to eat again, and eventually after 3 years together I gained most of my weight back. Currently, I weigh 104 kilogrammes as of today. Jan 1rst I weighed 106.4 kilos, and I know this for a fact because I ended 2023 in the hospital again. Discovering my blood sugar issues are far from solved, and my family tree illnesses are too realistically close to me. I have hugh cholesterol levels. My blood pressure, similarly to my family members', is generally messed up. I'm headed towards Podagra quite like my grandfather. I am only 22 years old, and learning about my health actually having had a massive decline in the past 9 years since my last check up was shocking to say the least. I was prescribed medication again, to manage most of everything, and had a very serious and open talk with my endocrinology doctor. She was kind and understanding, and gave me rather sufficient information for my next steps.

This is how I've managed to reach this day. A wonderful lazy Saturday where I'm daring to seek accountability.

I am losing weight for me, and for my future.

Being somewhat of an online diary, this platform for me does feel like a safe space, therefore I'd be happy to receive any help or advice!

Thank you for reading this far along and I hope to see you tomorrow again!

Yours truly,

Denny

[journel]

sept 30 2023

i have logged into tumblr for the first time in a while, simply because i needed to verify my account since i haven't been on here in years.

today i read my only entry on here, dated in 2017.

i am now 24 years old. i learn every day.

i sit in the sun, go on long walks, obsess over sudoku, struggle to get work done, think and talk nonsense (both alone and with my lovely friends), and i study the world.

the inescapable issue of being alive, what once felt like a daily battle and a crushing reminder of an inconsequential existence, now animates and orients my life. i'm hesitant to say that quality this gave me a 'purpose', but in a sense, my desire to interrogate what life is has kept me going.

while that statement seems contradictory, it is precisely that which i am grateful for: the things that, at one point, made me want to die are what kept me alive.

yet, at the time i wrote my last entry, i was 18 years old- just 7 days into being an adult, recently graduated high school. i was reflecting (as i usually did at the time) on my existence.

prior to making that post, i had only known what i didn't want– it was the life i knew so far because i felt that was all there was.

i will fill you in on some context: i had lost friends, made new ones, and repeated that cycle over and over as i moved around 4 places. i was uncomfortable in my body, in that community, and in this world.

existence, for me, was dominated by terrible feelings and experiences, amid permeating, unsolvable questions.

i was 5 years old when i felt this for the first time. i stayed up late a lot, and one night i asked myself what 'nothingness' felt like. for a brief moment, i laid in bed and felt the weight of this; it was terrifying and liberating.

growing up religious, mostly in a small community (i'm queer, mixed-race, and a leftist, hello tumblr community), i felt uncomfortable, but i didn't know why. i was poor, my friends were usually rich.

my mom mostly raised me, and was constantly ruled by statistics on 'children raised by single mothers'- god forbid an immigrant mother on top of that! my, at one point, separated-but-still-living-together parents would fight often and intensely. my relationship with my 'sometimes' emotionally abusive father was, and remains, complicated.

my parents didn't know how i could be unhappy. i felt like i was betraying them, but it also felt like no one wanted to listen.

i did a lot of drugs, drank, and lived recklessly. somehow, i also put pressure on myself in nearly every aspect of my life, even though i felt like i didn't care about anything. still, it felt like people wanted that from me and i knew at the very least that i cared about people (just not myself). i had a jam-packed schedule and stayed up at night smoking weed and making (really sad) art.

i hurt myself a lot – i battered, kicked, squeezed, and sliced parts of myself that i hated – because i wanted to feel something else. i think i was working up the courage to get used to embracing the scary and desirable feeling of 'nothingness' again. in my head, none of the pain truly mattered because all of this would be meaningless soon.

at the risk of sounding thankless, i understood, and understand now, how this was animated by occasional joys– sharing ideas, making art, taking care of my dog, or long walks in the woods, for example, made me feel good. i chased that, but it was never adequate. it seemed like everyone else was doing better.

so, what i knew then beyond botched interpretations of theory, the feedback loop of pro-ana forums, nihilist posts, comedowns, and the complicated inner voice of depression and inadequacy was that i was a) confused, and b) going to be 'sad' forever.

to be fair, i wasn't wrong: i think i have existential depression. if you've been on tumblr much, i want to note that this is not a harmful regression via self-diagnosis. instead, i don't feel like it's something i have to fight or maintain. i accept it as a part of me.

an inkling of who i am today was present then, however it couldn't be apprehended; it stayed dormant in the back of my mind. what limited me was my inability to see it, to explore it, engender it, and live a life without fragmenting myself.

without neglecting how 18 year old me was probably a fully-formed and constituted person, i was everyone and i was no one. i continued being like this for a bit, and to be honest, i still find myself fighting that feeling today.

that 18-year-old version of me didn't know i would move to a new city in autumn, and that things, would in fact, get pretty bad. i was left to my own devices (not a good idea). today i see that as a valuable experience, and i fight the feeling that it was wasted time.

it's simultaneously educational, sad, and comical, but here's a brief list of things that happened after high school:

moved to a new city where i basically knew no one

proceeded to not meet anyone (except weirdos 2x my age)

got a job that was emotionally and physically exerting

used this alientation to my benefit

at the apex of my eating disorder, lost 30-40 lbs

took 4-5 different types of depression medications

was cold, sick, and tired 24/7

lost my closest high school friends in a dramatic and terrible way

crashed a car that didn't belong to me, lost all my money

wept often and intensely (didn't lose that)

moved back home after admitting defeat

went off my SNRIs cold turkey (bad withdrawals)

worked as a marketing coordinator (???) at a car dealership (???) in a small town (???)

after 2 years, made some of my money back

decided to apply for university

moved to another city (where i am now)

life didn't immediately get better; it would be cheating to say i woke up one day and it was amazing. i did do a lot of work to heal though, plus started a new career and met pretty great people (external validation actually helps a lot).

since i moved, i have also encountered a lot of genuinely shitty stuff, but i feel like i needed to repeat mistakes and really struggle to keep going and realize i could actually live. it was survival mode for so long.

i had a breakthrough the other day in therapy, where i realized that my eating disorder and my perfectionist mentality kind of took me out of that sedentary depression. it's contradictory, again, to say this, but its in these aspects of things, things that were literally killing me, that i could be alive.

the concoction i ended up with from these ~formative~ experiences– that is of, confusion (a lot of questions about the world, my existence, etc.) and the desire to change, to push myself, and to struggle– mix together to form a version of me that wants to live and, in being alive, upset the damage my younger self accrued.

i'm still building up the courage to say i am actually doing quite well now. it feels wrong to admit, because right now i want to hold that 18 year old version of myself and just listen to her. i do listen, she was onto something– she just didn't have the words yet. she also didn't know what 'recovery' could look like.

this world can be described as terrible, great, wicked, scary, fun, boring, and every other adjective created in it.

it is in this ambiguousness that i find a strange bit of solace.

i realize that i made the right decision sticking it out.

sometimes you hate yourself, and you wish you didn't have to fight so hard. i can admit that this is the way i feel now in my (multiplicitous) use of the word 'recovery', and say i am doing pretty good. it still feels strange to say that here.

life is messy, chaotic, complex. it can feel arbitrary and stupid, happy and sad, but that doesn't mean it has to be over.

[hahahahblahblahblah]

Portion of a side thing

Trying to write more and more... check this out!

---

In New York’s Museum of Modern Art, on the fourth floor, there is a work by Jacob Lawerence entitled Migration Series. It consists of 60 18 x 12” hardboard panels with casein tempera draped over, each serving as a piece of a chronological retelling of the exodus of African Americans from the South to the North of the United States. Thirty of these panels are currently in the Phillips Collection, about five hours away in Washington DC. The only panels that are on display in the MOMA are the odd numbered panels. Whichever curator made this decision brought new life into this work. One would think that leaving out critical portions of Black America’s story would render it illegible - At worst, it’d fail to do justice to a story that deservedly is owed some. Instead, the story is perfectly understandable. Lawerence’s work as an educator aggregates almost instantaneously towards the viewer, or student, themselves. Of course we know this story. Spare us the details of when which boat got where at which time. We know. In that instant we realize how ingratiated the terror behind this story has become for us. How second nature the retelling of this struggle is. It’s one thing to learn of the terror, it’s another to desensitize oneself to it, it’s something wholly different to assume its existence altogether.

“I can’t steal this shit.” Edmond thought. The unassuming 26 year old was walking around the most famous contemporary art museum in America, looking for a painting to steal. -

How much more room is there to scorn middle-management America? Where the “strategists” and “analysts” schedule calls with their limbic-fibrosis-psycho-“there-I-am!”-apists to confirm whether the fact that the call they’re pretending to pay attention to is actually shocking their cortexes to the point where the inner linings of their lungs are starting to feel the fucking nothingness?

This is the position Edmond found himself in. Like when children are found in wells. Years removed from higher education, which was nice. He had studied Philosophy and Communications, which he had felt was a stupider version of Philosophy. He was, by all accounts, very normal. He is normal! Why speak of him like he’s dead? He’s lost, and this is the position he found himself in. Like when children are found in wells.

He genuinely enjoyed his time in school. He was constantly charmed by the fact that his Philosophy classes were full of generationally wealthy Chinese immigrants trying to understand Kierkegaard, surely thrown off by the Feurbachist asking questions to ask questions. He loved that his Communications classes were full of pretty girls who didn’t give a shit and athletes. After graduation, he quickly realized that most job titles starting with “junior” and ending with “ist” were applicable to his education. He applied to most postings that didn’t require a cover letter, and did everything he could to leave his parents, whom he loved, but needed a break from.

He moved to New York with a job that paid 55 thousand dollars a year, and found a studio in Astoria. He made friends with a select group of his coworkers who were around his age. It felt like college. In a way, it was less work. Everything was fine. Until he realized he had moved to moved, and worked to move, and the only way to work to move was to work, and he realized that much of America works to work.

This opaque sense he had came in waves, like fogs do. Some days it subsisted, he could see nothing, so he drove on autopilot. At other times the fog would still be there, and he’d blast through it with optimism and stupidity. Maybe he was feeling good that day. He felt proud of his Powerpoints and client-side communications.

Sometimes the fog wasn’t there at all. Those were the worst days. Because he knew the position he was in was detestible. And the fog does nothing but obstruct. What was worse than seeing the truth behind your whole life and how little control you had over it, and submitting to the idea that the only way to move is forward?

-

This is not a story of a man falling in despair. By the end, Edmond will be the same man he was: A man who has been nowhere but the depths of despair already. Luckily for him, this is extremely common. He’ll flirt a bit with the prospect of being a different person - also very normal - and he’ll soon realize it meant nothing.

This was the line of thought that Edmond’s close friend, Kian, had every time him and Edmond would speak. Kian was 29 to Edmond’s 26, and felt connected to Edmond because of this. He had felt he found a friend who was, more or less, the exact same person 3 years removed. Kian could watch his life play out in near real-time, watching this kid have the same bullshit thoughts and make the same bullshit mistakes he just did a few seconds ago!

Kian did genuinely enjoy Edmond’s company, though. They had met at a desperate turning point in each other’s lives, looking for new friends at a local tennis gathering that took place in Queens every Sunday. They bonded over the grogginess they felt from waking up so early, the hilarity that everyone else was geriatric, and the general life position they found themselves in.

Kian oftentimes would present business ideas to Edmond. More often than not, they’d involve exploiting the internet’s subsistence of a feedback loop. He was sure that a methodological approach of stealing other people’s content and breaking it down into bite-sized chunks would rake in heaps of money for the both of them.

“You’ll be the editor - OK, wait. OK. I’ll find the clips, right? Or, you can find the clips! Whatever. Doesn’t really matter to me. So, you’ll find the clips and be the editor, and then I’ll run the page, and we can split it 50/50.” Kian would manage to drivel out, five drinks of a few different drinks in.

Edmond would smile. He felt himself he was living the exact life Kian had lived. He was amused that Kian would anemically lecture him on how to ask his boss for a salary raise, but still manage to believe in the concept of a “billion dollar idea.” Edmond felt he had life to look forward to when he saw his friend.

“I’m thinking of stealing a painting, you know,” Edmond interrupted, “At the MOMA.”

Kian floundered out something of a laugh and burped. His eyes were drawn to the dart board in the bar they were in.

“I have the plan figured out itself. I have a few plans, actually. There are a few optimal spots that I’m looking into. That’s the thing actually - I haven’t decided which painting yet.”

Halfway into Edmond’s sentence, Kian hiccuped like a 40s’ drunk, and his entire face carbonated. He blew a bubble out his mouth, which connected with the bubble popping out of his nostril, and scrunched his eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s crazy, huh?” Edmond said.

Kian tilted his head and threw an amused look on. He scoffed,

“I don’t really understand your humor sometimes.”

“I swear to God I am not joking. Kian,” Edmond held his hand, hilariously enough, “I swear to God I am planning on stealing a painting at the MOMA.”

Kian snapped back. “What does that even mean?”

“Why are you so, like, befuddled?”

“Because it’s fucking weird, man! Imagine I told you I’m gonna’ rob a bank! You’d just immediately be like ‘Cool?’ I’m processing what the fuck is going on right now.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Kian started laughing.

“Listen. The definition of an ‘object of cultural heritage’, which is what the feds call - “

Kian burst out laughing, “The ‘Feds?’ What are you, a fucking gangster, dude?”

“Which is what the feds call art, right? They call it an ‘object of cultural heritage.’ The strict definition is if the work either “A”, is over 100 years old and worth in excess of 5,000 bucks, or “B”, worth at least 100,000 dollars. Ok? There are a multitude of paintings in the city - Funny enough, in the MOMA, that do not qualify under both of those definitions. Now, whatever. I’m sure I’m missing something here. Sure, there’s some legal fine print that’ll fuck me over and the courtroom artist will take out their brown pencil to color in the shit I’ll do all over myself when I hear my sentencing. But!” Edmond leaned in, “I’m a first time offender, and I’m not trafficking the painting over state lines, let alone international lines. I’m not even selling the work. I’m looting a moderately priced painting for fun.”

Kian started laughing again. He chose to believe that this situation was not real. His head swayed like a timepiece.

“I’m gonna’ get another round.”

In those 90 seconds or so of waiting, Edmond found himself in that exciting point of the plane all artists do. It’s joyous to lie in that space where your work exists purely as a medium for the idea. Where you scribble motifs and phrases - even string along full sentences at some point. This is the point where the artist feels most at harmony with the idea. Because all they’re tasked to do - There is no “task”, actually. It’s what makes it all the more pure - All the artist does now with the idea is vaguely conceptualize it. It is as exciting as when the medium first makes contact with the dead. But then the dead tell you the terrible news you contacted the medium to help you hear in the first place, and you start to materialize your work. You realize the horror behind the entire project to begin with, but your stubbornness, curiousity, idiocy, or psychosis (depending on who you are) mimic a phantom representation of that ideal abstraction and, like a demon, convince you to finish your screenplay. Ultimately, the artist fails, or they don’t, but they do. They find themselves a time later within the fallout of their work. The immediacy of revisiting the aftermath of whatever you thought was a good idea a few months ago makes you work backwards. You feel disgust, then shame, then the remembrance of things past - in a bad way, then the remembrance of things past - in a curious way, then you analyze the plan, and have a thought, but you drop the thought, then you vow to drop it, because it’s good for you, but you don’t.

It depends on the person, but the artist will return. They’ll try to conjure up the spirit of the idea again - This time as a necromancer.

Kian comes back. He hands a beer to Edmond, who is giddy.

“This is very real, man. This is real. This is fucking real.” Edmond chatters through this teeth.

Kian leans in solemnly.

“Edmond, I want you to be honest with me. I thought about it a bit when I left. Do you need help?”

“You’re in?”

“No - Do you need help? Do you need money? Do you need…psychological help?”

Edmond’s impulse to jump at that accusation is halted by his foresight.

“Kian. I’m OK. I’m the Edmond you know. But this is something I’ve done research on, and I’m doing. It’s OK if you don’t want to hear anymore. I wouldn’t want to implicate you.”

“This is very difficult for me to process.”

“Why are you talking like a book?”

“I’m not sure where it’s coming from. That it.”

Edmond had an answer, but now’s not the time. Ultimately, of course there was a deeper reason. But it’s not like he was going to kill anyone. There was no manifesto. Of course there was a reason. But all he’s doing is stealing a painting at the Museum of Modern Art, on 53rd St, between 6th and 5th Avenue.

[vydante]

I was wondering if u could do a male reader x Natasha Romanoff where the reader is the winter soldier (Bucky doesn’t exist for the ) and is natashas trainer in the red room so during training they make each other feel human and she develops like a crush on reader and when or after a training session she tells him and he feels the same way. If u get what I’m trying to say.( SMUT if u feel comfortable plz)

Tell Your Baby That I’m Your Baby

Fandom: Marvel (MCU)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Winter Soldier! Male! Reader (Romantic)

A/N: this is literally so far from what you asked but I saw the potential for angst and ran with it instead. And I’m not good at sm*t so there’s only hints of it. MILD BLACK WIDOW SPOILERS.\

There are days where Natasha wakes up drenched in sweat, unable to breathe, heart heavy with a feeling she can’t make out just yet. Those days are rare, but they still happen nonetheless, and they leave her shaken for longer than she’s willing to admit.

She isn’t infallible, she knows this, but on those nights, her aching chest serves as a reminder to how human she really is under the exterior she’s carefully manufactured over the years.

Most nights she doesn’t dream. It was always nothingness that greeted her in the night, and she welcomed it wholeheartedly.

But on the rare occasion, when she sleeps, she sees things.

Sometimes she sees blue strands blocking her vision as she rushes up a driveway, a beat but well loved car parked right next to her as she barreled through the door and into open arms, two pairs big, one pair smaller than her own. Other times, she sees a Christmas tree with colorful boxes underneath them. She cheers and laughs with glee, despite knowing that there wasn’t anything inside of them. Those visions are often tinted a warm orange. 

But they only make up a small part of what she normally dreams of. 

Most times, she dreams of a man.

(MIND THE LINE BREAK!)

(”Aim higher.”

A low murmur, a cold hand on her neck, another steadying her gun. She does as she’s told, but she’s only so young, she doesn’t know how to aim like he does, she doesn’t know why she’s here- she pulls the trigger.

And misses.

The bottom drops from beneath her, Natasha’s teeth biting down on her lips hard enough to draw blood. She knows what’s coming for her, she’s prepared- she isn’t, but what choice does she have?- and braces for it.

The cold hand leaves her neck. But it does not reach for her scalp, to tug on it and drag her away from her post to... “reprimand” her for her shoddy work despite having enough time to train for it.

Instead, a cold thumb wipes itself across her lips to clean the blood that had begun dripping down her cheek. He is quiet, almost deathly so.

“... Showing weakness will get you killed here. Do not do that again.”

He does not say anything else, and instead adjusts her gun. Her hands tremble, but with his nod, she pulls the trigger again.

She does not miss this time.)

Most nights, she dreams of a man. 

She does not remember certain aspects of that man. She cannot remember the curve of his cheekbone or the color of his lips, but that does not stop the shadow of that man from haunting her at her every move.

Sometimes she sees some of him in Steve when he grips down on something hard enough to bend it.

(Sometimes she remembers that grip on her waist, on her arms, on her ankles, around her throat; the desperation in his voice, the corners of his eyes being the only sign that he was on the edge of losing control as she shuddered beneath him.)

Sometimes she sees some of him in the man that always walks by the coffee shop down on 5th in the way he carefully holds himself.

(They were careful. They had to be. Some of her fellow Widows, the weaker ones, the ones who never managed to graduate on time, who expressed too much with their eyes and laid their cards too close to their sleeve, glanced at her in pity, having been the only one forced to deal with him, whose name echoes the violence that lied beneath his skin. He pays them no mind, does nothing to discourage them, and neither does she. It’s better that way.)

(And if they disappear together on occasion, and she comes back with bruises marred on her pale skin, she does not fight the rumors that he is being especially cruel to her during her training. Not when she was the one who dragged his hands onto her, tugging him closer to the sun, begging for his waxed wings to melt in her presence. Not when he so tenderly holds her frame, pinning her against the door, lips mouthing over her skin, reverently whispering her name like it was a prayer.) 

(Sometimes, it did feel like he was praying. For what, she never knew.)

But that shadow of him always disappears fast enough before she can even call out his name.

(She does not know his name, and neither did he. That did not stop her from calling out to him in her dreams.)

The last time she had ever seen him, was right after her slip up in Budapest. 

They did not get caught, no, not when it was between their prized Black Widow and him, HYDRA’s fist, no, but somewhere along the line, their masks had begun cracking. 

Maybe those cracks had started forming when Natasha, young, foolish, not yet hardened, dared to step past that line drawn into the sand between her and the soldier, her handler.

Maybe those cracks had started forming when the childish hope for something more from a man as cruel as he (never cruel, not to her, never) started blossoming in her chest. 

Maybe those cracks started forming when he accepted her childishness for all that he possibly could, while still chained up like a dog beneath its master’s boot. 

Maybe those cracks were always there, from a little girl that longed for love, and a broken man that longed for something else, something she hoped was her. 

But no matter how those cracked form, they started to become visible. And while she was nothing more than a fool in love underneath her Widow uniform, he began to want more. 

Something more for her, and for himself as well.

(”You will be targeted there. In Budapest.”

Only years of training in the Red Room has prevented her from jumping at the quiet sound of your voice, so close to her ears, breath hot as you continued speaking.

“His name is Clint Barton, and he is from S.H.I.E.L.D., and he will try to kill you. Obviously, do not let him succeed,” she felt tempted to roll her eyes, “But. Keep him alive. He will be your ticket out of here, if you play your cards right.”

She whipped her head, alarmed at his blatant encouragement of defiance to her. 

Immediately, her flags were raised. Was this a test? A test of her allegiance? A test of her relationship to you? 

“What about you?”, her foolish mouth opens. Your eyes widened, almost barely so, before you schooled your face into that stoicism she was so familiar with. 

“Madame B. is waiting for you in her office.”

Your voice was now gruff and louder than it was before, and you prepared to stalk off to your next position, but not before ghosting your fingers over hers.

“We will see each other again,” was all that she heard of you for the rest of the day. 

She is not sure what to make up of that encounter, as neither of you bring it up ever again.)

She does not know how you knew that. She asked Clint once, if he knew if anyone leaked that information, but he denied any knowledge of it. She believes him. 

Never before had you done something like that, that deviant, outside of your... skirmishes with her. This was different. This wasn’t related to any desire for her, but rather for something else. Something she dared not let herself dream of. 

(She wonders, for days leading up to Budapest, if that was a test or not.

And then Budapest happens, and sure enough, she’s beginning to see the forms of her freedom taking shape in the light that’s shining through the window behind Hawkeye’s head. 

She still wonders if it is a test.

When she comes back, shaken by her test of faith to the Red Room, and Madame B. announces to her that you will no longer be her handler, and she hears whispers that HYDRA’s dog collar has shown up empty, absent of their beloved fight dog, she realizes, it was not a test. 

It was your final gift to her.)

Sometimes, as she sleeps on a bed far softer than what she could have imagined for herself, or as she lounges on a chair in the living room, basking in the warmth of her friends, her family, she slips off into the darkness and dreams of you.

And sometimes, she hoped that wherever you were, you dreamt of her too.