#so because of the lack of stability there i always end up with a dozen unfinished art projects

[acaesic]

i really want to finish all my unfinished art before i turn 15 but im so burnt out rn 😭 </3

[golvio]

Experimenting with a new Hydra Splatling build today based on my luck with a certain hat and some stuff I saw on Sendou:

Swim Up (Run + Run + Run)

Run Up (Ink Res + Bomb Res + Bomb Res)

Run Up (Ink Res + Action + Action)

The Swim Up main was because I had this pair of sunglasses that I originally was using for a Sploosh build, but I ended up rolling two Run subs for it. So I was like, “Hmm…” and decided to go all the way with three Run subs because I wanted to see if it would give me better mobility. I gotta say, the extra swim speed feels really good. It’s something I felt was lacking on my first build, because it always took me so long to get into position.

The Ink and Bomb Resists are things I liked about my last build. Ink resistance is super useful when you’re setting up on top of the tower or in an area that recently got carpet-bombed by Inkstrikes. It’s a really versatile sub that’s also useful for Slayer builds, particularly the Dualies, since you’re going to be dodge rolling into enemy ink while behind enemy lines a lot as a skirmisher. Bomb Resist is also useful and versatile for multiple team roles in that you’ll have fewer times where you die after being just barely clipped by a bomb.

The two Action Enhance combo is something I saw on Sendou recently. I want to try Squid Rolling/Surging more, and it’s supposed to stabilize your aim a little, so I wanted to give it a try. I also have a zillion Action chunks because I’ve never used them for anything else, so I might as well spend a few dozen of them testing a build.

I’m also glad I finally have enough clothing options to make my outfit at least a little more stylish. The Forge parka is really cool, and it looks great with most of the sunglasses. I just wish I had some combat boots to go with it. For now, I’m stuck with the Gold Hi-Horses.

[eversleepyriver]

fragile masks

~fandom: genshin impact~

~character(s): n/a~

~genre: angst, hopeful ending~

~tw: suicidal thoughts, implied/references self harm, implied/referenced eating disorder, negative self talk~

~summary: a character study~

~link to AO3~

If you asked them, the first thing out of their mouth would be “Of course not! I still have so much I haven’t done yet!” With a tone an expression so rehearsed it looked real, and fooled anyone who dared to ask. There was truth to it, of course. There were many things they wanted to do in their years of life, however short or long that may be. Exploring the entirety of Teyvat, experiencing cultures they could never have dreamed of prior to the blessing that quite literally fell from the sky, making (mostly) genuine connections, the list was endless. But how does one fit this list with the question they all but prayed not to be asked?

“Are you trying to kill yourself?!?!”

Life is forever uncertain, but most can expect their lives to go on until old age allows them to slip away peacefully in their sleep. Not everyone puts themselves in danger to feel something other than the never ending hatred for their own existence. Not everyone let’s the lies flow so easily past their lips that even they start to question their true feelings and motivations. Not everyone skips meals because the thought of starvation satiates the urge to take their blade to their own skin. The question always came with frustration or great worry, sometimes even both. But this was basically routine at this point, all they had to do was smile, give a semi valid reason and hope no one caught on. And it worked for a while!

A lot of people suffer, and most do so while still smiling, still trying to fight for some control to bring about a stability they lack. And if they can’t keep fighting, they seek help, as they should. But it’s different with them. For other people, they were treating themselves with the respect and compassion they deserved. With themself? It’s a sign of weakness, and they were not weak. They refused to be weak, and refused to burden anyone else with their struggles. Everyone has their own issues to deal with, bigger fish to fry, sharing thoughts that went through their mind at least a dozen times on a daily basis only made the load everyone else carried even heavier.

However, that begs the question… what happens when the smiles continue past the initial pain? What happens when they can’t even look at a particular person without having to plaster on a smile and put on an act in order to keep suspicions at bay? What does one do when one knows what could fix everything: changing the answer to the question from those who can see past the layers and layers of masks?

People that perceptive are rare, and yet here they were with one that, while they treasured their company and friendship, would not leave them alone. Alone enough to give in to the desperation for control and taking it by any means necessary. Alone enough to finally let down the mask after a long day of pretending they were fine, just a little tired. Alone enough to indulge in the one thing that made them feel something other than a deep rooted hatred for themself and the world they’re forced to live in. This blessing from the sky was also a curse, being able to see masks on top of masks down to the first they ever donned, and holy shit it would be their undoing.

What if the true answer slipped past their tightly guarded filter one day? Instead of their usual smile and laughter, thanking them for worrying with false reassurances, they opened up and said “I wish I had died that day.” What if the mask slipped too far and everyone could see the dead man walking in front of them? Their eyes were shielded for a reason, their practiced expressions ensured no one would know that they would literally rather be six feet under than still pushing forwards as everyone expected of them.

The mere idea of being vulnerable like that shook them to the core. Everything and everyone would change. It would start with their loved ones saying that they were so very loved and deserved to stay, then the kind suggestion that getting help from a professional will make things easier, and lastly reassurances that their place in this world was not a mistake… all of these lies or misguided wishes piling up to crush them with the guilt of worrying the people they don’t deserve but somehow still have. They would never be left alone, their weapons would be taken, and anything potentially harmful or lethal immediately removed and hidden because Archons be damned, they just wanted to die.

Then came the thought of the the pain from those they cherished would face once they were gone. Those that they wished would just let him go. But to no avail, the evident pain directed at their own pain only made them feel worse, wishing more and more that fate could strike them down so at least they didn’t have to leave this world knowing they hurt the people that cared. Which hurt them, not that they would ever tell. The kids in their life wouldn’t understand, would miss them so much, only be hurt again to learn they ended their life with their own hands once they were old enough. The friends and their lover would be crushed knowing they couldn’t change the outcome, perhaps leading them down their own dark spiral into a place of no return.

What’s funny is, despite the fact others put them through this never ending cycle of wanting to die but too guilty to actually do it, they wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone else. Not their enemies, not those that had already turned on them, not even the gods that cursed their very existence… only themself. If they could bear it, then no one else would have to. So they had to hold on. They had to keep pushing so that no one else took on the pain that they not only endured, but chased after to perhaps free them from the chains binding them to this world.

Life is uncertain, but one thing they knew with every fibre of their being is that no matter how much you’re struggling, still fighting to protect those that don’t deserve the constant torture, it’s really is too much for one person, and it broke them. They denied it until their last day, with the fatal blow being a revelation they had intentionally blinded themself from. They were weak. They tried so hard to be strong for those around them and it was a catastrophic failure. And so they caved. They made a choice, made every attempt to get those they loved to turn their backs on them and let the consequences of their actions be the blade that severed their ties with this body and life. That was what they hoped for, by betraying their trust so they could be at peace with their own demise, the release from mortal hell they desired so deeply. Surely if it was divine punishment for committing horrible deeds, it would at least give them closure and a sense of justice.

But it backfired, and everyone still cared, still trying to protect them despite their constant pleas for them to run away, to hate them so they could face his punishment, to stop caring so they could face retribution for what they did in a desperate attempt to kill themselves by the hands of another.

Not one of them did, and they watched them all, one by one, see past the carefully crafted masks and chose to help instead of condemn them. They picked up their weapon and told the heavens to be damned, Celestia was not taking them away so easily. Can you not see they are in pain? How they put on a smile so no one worries about them? How they bite their tongue, playing the role they were given only to be used, forgotten, and once again crushed with a feeling that they weren’t worthy of their love and compassion? The heavens laughed in response, pushing them out of the way like the pawns they were on the massive chessboard called Teyvat. The arrogation of man defied the heavenly principles, and those that rebel must be dealt with, being captured and removed from the playing field.

So yes, someone did die that day, but their plan to be seen as another victory towards their goals failed miserably. Their death was not painless for those they tried so hard to push away, to help avoid their pain and grief. Instead, they were given a funeral of a warrior rather than a villain. Their face looked so at peace, dressed in expensive clothes as they lay there motionlessly. They looked happy, most people commented, finally being freed from a burden they should never have been forced to endure along. They watched people cry and laugh during a eulogy fit for royalty, full of old banter, confessions, and memories. They watched the love of their life slide a ring onto their left hand, one that they never got to truly reply to and reciprocate, remembering the ring in their own side table drawer. They watched the children grow and mature, watched their peers develop grey hairs, settle down, watched their beloved find love once again instead of succumbing to the temptation of seeing their partner, they watched the elderly pass away, ascending to Celestia where they deserved to be and greeted them into the afterlife with tears of joy and laughter carried by the winds.

In a way, they really don’t regret what they did. They had no will to live, existing as an extension of someone else’s will and taking on what others couldn’t. Simply following what was expected so no one batted an eye or tried to look past layers of disguise. They very much regret that he hurt those they loved, but watching them grow and heal was the most merciful punishment for bringing about war and chaos. Reuniting with them when it was their time to ascend was a gift they still didn’t believed they deserved, but sometimes the afterlife is kind.

Oh, I suppose I didn’t specify the main character of our story, so I will leave that conclusion to you. He had friends, he had a family, he had a love that burned so bright despite his self perceived lack of worth, and he lost them all because he couldn’t pretend for them anymore. I know that doesn’t narrow it down at all. With that description, it could be several characters in the story of Teyvat, the Teyvat of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. But I know this resonates with one in particular for you, and I’m sure you feel a connection to them somehow. So let me say this, while you’re still here.

You are loved, and yes, you are worthy of it. You are worthy because you are here. You are alive. The probability of you existing right here, right now, the way that you are is 1 in 10 Trillion. You are here by no mistake, and your life is priceless. As someone who wrote this as a vent, a way to expel my hatred for myself so that I didn’t fall back on unhealthy coping mechanisms, you have intrinsic value that cannot be defined in simple terms. So feel free to read this story again and again, see yourself in the character you’ve associated this with, and then show yourself the same kindness you would show them. You are worthy, you are deserving, and I am really proud of you for being here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N: Thank you for reading all the way through!!! Please leave any feedback you may have and consider a like and reblog if you enjoyed the story!!

I wanted to leave this completely open ended so that if you’re facing hard times and you see the reflection of a character within this story, I don’t take away that validation and feeling of being seen and heard. I had two specifically in mind writing it, but that’s because it’s who I relate to and allows me to express the message I’m trying to convey. Whoever you placed in the narrator’s place while reading my silly little story is incredibly valid, no matter who it is.

My ask box is open for requests, please just check the pinned post on my blog before sending in an idea. I will be writing more, both requests and my own little whims, so let me know if a tag list is something you might be interested in! I will stress this again, I’m so damn proud you’re here. It is really fucking hard, and I see you. You are so strong, just don’t forget you don’t have to be strong alone. People love you and care about you, and yes, you deserve each and every one of them.

~Riv xx

[vergess]

@autismserenity​ said: Your tags are the most American thing I’ve ever read, we are truly so screwed here   

May I interest you in a more complete, and more excruciating, explanation of what I spent the last 18 months doing?

It is, I need to emphasize, fucking nasty. Don’t feel obligated, especiallly if you’ve already had A Day(tm).

There’s a lot of disease, a lot of worker abuse including sexual and racial abuse, a fine portion of letting people die for not being white enough for real medical care, all leading to homelessness.

For NDA reasons, because my former employer was just as vile as any tech company has ever been, I cannot be super specific about who I worked for. However, I can say that we handled the records and patient contact for all COVID testing for several states, as well as 2 of the 5 largest metros in the US, and several dozen smaller ones ranging from the approximate population of San Francisco, down to little towns, as well as the testing for several public school systems and at least two government agencies that I am not at liberty to disclose.

I tell you this for a sense of scale. When I say shit like, “my boss was more than happy to let thousands or hundreds of thousands die” I am not exagerrating for effect. We handled hundreds of thousands of tests a week.

Again, I need to emphasize, government agencies. Ones you would know if I named them. Ones everyone in the country knows.

And we were in charge of getting their test results from the already over swamped labs back to the patients, who often were not allowed to quarantine while awaiting results.

The fastest we got our turnaround time to on any consistent basis was about 30 hours. Often it ballooned well into weeks.

There were a number of factors for this, but the big one was always understaffing.

The staff we did have were treated like trash. One of the big selling points of this company is how “trans friendly” it is to work there. That is a lie. Every trans employee on payroll had their dead name displayed to all other staff, and until I personally changed the system setup on my arrival, patient facing trans people’s dead names were displayed to patients.

Remember that thing about “hundreds of thousands of tests a week”?

I was able to change the way patient-facing names were displayed. I was not allowed or able to alter the way internal systems displayed trans people’s names. But I was assured that it’s fine, because once you get a legal name change, you’ll be given new system accounts with your new name!

Your old accounts with your dead name would still be displayed and associated with the new ones though.

This is the “trans friendly” working environment. We were allowed to be out of the closet, as long as we were willing to put up with that. And any attempts to get it altered were the result of those nasty little transgender ingrates not being thankful enough.

Meaning that by asking to use our own fucking names we were already in the disciplinary shitter.

Another big selling point is the ~racial diversity~. The CEO was a man of colour, and so were like four other people on staff!! Wow!!!!!!!

This, too, was laughable.

Once numbers started coming in about the care gap for COVID between English and Spanish speakers, and our Southwestern US service area began to have a separate and brutal backlog just of Spanish speaking patients, my employer encouraged me to interview potential hires who speak spanish.

Fair enough! We all wanted to do our part to help close the already massive mortality gap.

So, I found candidates, did interviews, hired them, trained them, etc. But I don’t speak Spanish. As a result, I appointed 2 assistant managers who do speak Spanish to assist me in managing, you know, like the job name.

So when my super contacted them directly, completely skipping me on the chain of command, and told them to stop all of our Spanish speakers from translating helpful simple messages to send to patients, and instead start translating medical and legal documents, they very reasonably assumed I was in the know and went ahead with it.

TO BE CLEAR, that could have ended my life, theirs, basically everyone involved. Everyone in the company would have been completely fucked. At that point, my subordinates, the people for whom I am wholly responsible, were doing everything from practicing medicine without licenses, to encouraging spanish speaking patients to enter contracts that no one on the fucking executive tier could even read.

The moment I found that out, I and the A.M.s immediately started trying to get actual medical translation services to do our documents. We collected them in a neat folder. We queried translation services. We got quotes. We contacted my super and the CEO, about this over and over again for months. In the late autumn, we received approval for one of the translation services.

The CEO decided at the last minute that having people with no medical or legal training draft medical and legal forms was fine and good actually, and refused to sign the contract or send the documents for translation.

The excuse I received was that the COVID emergency HIPAA relaxations would protect us.

That’s not how that works.

Throughout all of this, Spanish speaking employees were told to either keep doing medical and legal translation work, or lose their jobs.

Oh, did I mention everyone was working between 30 and 80 hours a week, and all of us were marked as “contractors” so the employer could tax evade? Don’t worry, we filed complaints with the labour bureau.

So the entire department was let go, and “rehired” as temps through a temp agency, which because it was a temp agency could keep them marked as contractors regardless of the facts.

This change was presented to all of us, myself included, as the company getting a new accountant to handle payroll.

So if you’re keeping score, we’ve covered racism, queerphobia, medical negligence, fraud, and a frankly uncountable number of deaths.

Let’s talk about the sheer negligence towards employees ourselves. If you’ve worked in near-death medical care before, or any number of emergency services really, you know that the standard benefit suite includes either a dedicated therapist for your staff, or access to peer support groups with other emergency and medical servants through your employer’s benefits program.

Do you know what our mental health benefits were for this company?

The CEO got on a fucking zoom call with us all one (1) time, and said that if we were feeling suicidal or traumatized by the work, to talk to him about it, and he would be our therapist.

Do you know how many people per fucking day we had to contact only to be told they had already died because our understaffing delays killed them? He doesn’t. He never listened when we told him.

But let me put the cherry on the “Oh baby, you can talk to me, oooh” sundae.

Anyone who “looked” or “sounded” female, regardless of actual or assigned gender, was subject to constant flirtations and slimy, overly personal compliments about our appearances. Fortunately, at 3 levels removed from the CEO (Executives > Department heads > Managers > Employees), most of the people under my management had relatively little contact with him.

I was not nearly so lucky.

The CEO of this company has a watersports (urination) fetish. I know this, because he told me so and attempted to get me to join him in it. I have no idea how many other people in the company he did this to. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do, risk losing my job to find out? I have a fucking family to support, people.

Not that it mattered.

Eventually, all of these abuses became too much for my subordinates. Productivity fell off a cliff. Delays were getting worse and worse. In a medical emergency like this, delays=deaths.

So, like a fucking idiot, when the department heads reached out to me to ask what they could do to improve productivity, I shot down their frankly insulting suggestion of raffling a $20 amazon gift card to patient facing employees, and instead suggested a very simple, “enroll us with a peer support group, every single person in this department has PTSD from working in this pandemic.”

They were confused by my assertion of PTSD. I was asked to compile a document of complaints, concerns, and weaknesses in our patient facing services.

I and the A.M.s did so. It was roughly 40 pages long, with each page given a known problem, the reasons why it was a problem, and some potential solutions that might inspire further solutions or be able to be implemented. We submitted it. There was no response.

A week passed.

I had been working 80 hour weeks for most of a year. I hadn’t even been able to take weekends. I took my first sick day, in a company with “unlimited vacation days.”

I received a call at 3PM.

I had been fired for “differences in communitcation.” If you’ve ever seen that “Problem Women of Color in the workplace” chart? Yeah.

So had most of my department, including every transgender member of the department, and several of our extremely limited in supply Spanish speakers, who were presumed to be “on my side.”

Some of them, I barely even knew beyond the formalities of the job, and they were punished anyway.

I lost my insurance, and as a result I lost access to my medications.

But the real problem? I lost my house. And not due to lack of payment.

I lost my house, because when I got the job we waited 6 months for stability’s sake, and then readied to move out of the area. I got a mortgage on the basis of my employer’s written guarantee to the bank that I would continue to be employed for the next year at a minimum.

With the mortgage approval in hand, we entered a sales contract on our existing home.

We got and accepted an offer just days before I was fired. To keep our house meant paying a 25,000 dollar broken contract fine. We didn’t have that. We had a 10% down payment for a modest fucking place in a cheaper area, which is less than half that.

But without a job, my mortgage approval was also voided, meaning we couldn’t buy a house either.

All of a sudden, we were homeless during the plague, because my employer wrote and signed a letter to a bank guaranteeing my future employ, and then changed his mind when too many people died due to his own negligence.

Oh yeah, one last thing: the job paid less than Pandemic unemployment Assistance.

...After that, well, it’s homelessness until just last month. I... if you’ve never been homeless it’s.

It blurs. Everything is happening constantly, except for all the ways in which you are endlessly, mind breakingly bored. Bored, overloaded, and always uncomfortable.

Obviously my health would have declined regardless. Malnutrition, stress, everything.

But I was also unmedicated.

It was hell. I was in hell. I don’t know if I can recover from it, to be honest.

I bounced back from being homeless as a child. Children are as resilient as they are stupid, and the monstrosity of homelessness was little more than a vaguely remembered loathing and a panicky fear that it would ever happen again.

A child who is dying is worthy of sympathy, even if it is meaningless coos from passers by. If they have family, they may be able to rely on them too.

An adult with the indignity to die homeless and crippled, according to the average passer by, is worthy only of disgust and perhaps even punishment for being such a worthless waste.

My reward for nearly killing myself in a desperate bid to help stem the tide of COVID was the destruction of not only my life, not only my entire family’s lives, but the lives of every single family of every single employee who worked with me.

And you know what’s worse?

Each one of us still did more to limit the lethal impact of COVID than the entire united states government.

It breaks something in you, going through that.

It makes you realize that hope is a fool’s game.

But, I have ever been a fool, and so, I continue to play.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

Was it appropriate to long for someone who loved another?

The question was one that Iwaizumi refused to acknowledge for the last six years, after Oikawa questioned the trainer’s feelings for their mutual friend. The conversation bloomed the night of your two-year anniversary with the younger Miya twin. It was quite difficult to miss the dozens of photographs uploaded to your social media, broadcasting the romantic evening that was planned. Soon his entire feed became only…you.

The former captain raised an eyebrow curiously at his friend, who was battling several emotions that were threatening to contort his features. It was not fate that brought Oikawa Tooru to his best friend’s side that evening. Rather, the decision to invite Iwaizumi for drinks on that particular date was a calculated choice. There were some questions that were nagging at him, ones that demanded answers before he departed from his home country.

“You didn’t think they would last this long, did you?” The inquiry was hummed out in amusement as he trailed a finger along the rim of the glass planted ahead of him. From the side of his eye, he noticed Iwaizumi shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“It’s good. We wanted her to be happy, and she is. So, it’s a good thing they lasted this long.” His words lacked an earnest vigour, and not even the straightest composure could sell the packaged response as the truth.

“Hmm. Oh, Iwa-chan. When will you be honest with me?” Exhaling a weighed sigh, Oikawa shook his head before taking a swing of the liquor. Or at least, when would he be honest with himself?

“What are you blabbering about now, Shittykawa?” The narrowing of his eyelids into slits was meant to resonate a sense of anger, or at minimum irritation. Yet, it was fear that was burning bright in his irises.

“Is it really appropriate to long for someone who is in love with another?” It was a dangerous question to be spewing, Oikawa knew the insinuations laying at the foundation were sure to provoke some dormant emotions. And so, when sorrow forced the other male to flicker his gaze to the opposite direction, the former captain blew out a low hum in understanding.

“I don’t long for her, you idiot,” After swallowing the lump in his throat, he attempted to brush off the comment, rather unsuccessfully. While Oikawa found his friend’s first protest to be a blatant lie, what followed next was enough to cause him to drop his face onto his palm. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Despite Iwaizumi’s desire to present the admission as factual, calling you his little sister returned the crawling sensation that was prompted earlier to return to his skin; and he had to ponder whether the bitter taste in his mouth was from the liquor or from the deceit dripping from his lips.

“Iwa-chan, you know what they say. Denial is the first stage.” The humorous comment was accompanied by a gentle laugh. While his questions were completely shut down; the physical reactions that his inquiries elicited was enough to confirm his suspicions.

Unrequited love was tragic; but what made the circumstances substantially worse was that it began with mutual love. The only issue was that neither party dared to cross the boundaries between friendship and relationship, afraid to lose the other in the process.

“Shut up.” Neither boy was convinced or impacted by the half-hearted demand, rather it was silently understood that its sole purpose was to fill the empty space that was left for a confession that would not come.

However, the conversation laid a layer of bricks on Iwaizumi’s shoulders, shackling him to the truth he was desperately avoiding. It comes as no surprise that for the remainder of the evening, he could not muster the courage to scroll through any of his social media. For if he did, the action would be admitting something he promised to always keep buried.  

Tonight, the question returned to the forefront of his thoughts, mocking him for a weakness he despised himself for possessing. But it was not longing that was behind the uneasiness bordering nausea flooding him. No – it was the thought of what could have been.

What if he said something? What if you did? Would you have been happier – not knowing the one who was the cause of your broken heart? Or would he have stolen from you a happiness that you could never receive with him?  

Sinking his face into his palms, he clenched his eyelids shut, aiming to shove aside the haunting thoughts. He remained in the crouched position for twenty minutes, unable to gather the energy to adjust his posture until he heard slight stirring from the bed ahead of him.

“Akari?” From under the duvet, you raised a hand to beckon for your sister who was coincidentally, not in the bedroom at the moment. The impact of the alcohol had worn off considerably by now, leaving only an irksome strain in your temples.

“She’s downstairs.” The trainer debated internally whether to approach you or not, and upon hearing the little groan that was offered in response, he opted to wait before abandoning his post. “How are you feeling?” Resting his arms along his thighs, he laced his fingers together, stretching them anxiously on either side.

A verbal response did not immediately follow his line of questioning. As you raised to a seating position on the bed, your gaze dropped to the stuffed animal that was snug against your side. Your memories of what transpired earlier in the evening was lagging, returning to you at a slow rate that was highly antagonizing. Though, the pieces that you did remember were the ones involving your best friend whose gaze you could not meet. Maybe if you were younger, still justifying your decisions with the motto of no regrets, it would have been an easier task. But you knew what was said tonight was dangerously careless.

“Tired.” Whispering the response, you brought the plushie to your lap, gently brushing your fingers against the fur. While you did remember the accidental damage, your intoxicated state inflicted on your friendship; you did not remember how you came to possess the toy within your grasp.

“Do you remember anything?” Iwaizumi prodded, testing whether it was appropriate to initiate the conversation you were dreading to have.

“Pieces.” This time you responded promptly; emotion devoid in your mumbled response. “Though, I don’t remember asking Bo to get this little baby, so I guess I saw him?” You aimed to spit the final word of the sentence with venom, and yet it spilled from your lips, coated with a hint of fondness, rather than disgust – something that Iwaizumi caught on, twinging the spear planted inside of his chest.

“You did.” Ignoring the discomfort stretching along his torso, he forcefully stabilized his breathing, drawing longer and heavier breaths through his nose. He didn’t know what was expected of him now. His role in your life had always been one of a protector – but now, with the truth exposed as an open wound, what could he do? What should he do?

“I thought so. I was hoping that part was a dream.” Chewing on the inside of your cheek, a humourless melody was blown out. While you were unable to recall what the conversation was, an image of your fiancé had projected inside of your mind. In the memory he wore his vulnerability openly for you, and you despised how it made you want to comfort him. How you wanted to claim his pain as your own, even though your own heart was suffering from the pain he inflicted on it.

“Why didn’t you answer me? I could have been there for you. If it’s about what you said…” With his throat constricting, he was unable to complete the sentence. But you were quick to fill the silence, aiming to end the conversation before it could develop further.

“I wasn’t thinking straight, Hajime. Just ignore what I said, okay.” You couldn’t do this. Not right now. Not when your heart was already breaking from your last love – it would not survive additional pain from your first one.  

“What if I don’t want to ignore it?” He did not intend to push the topic forward without your consent, but the question left his mouth before he could bite his tongue. Despite being regarded as the one who held a considerable amount of control of emotions, his resolve to remain in control weakened with each passing second.

“Why? So, you can tell me that you didn’t feel the same way? That you’re sorry? Because if that’s what you’re doing to say, please don’t. I don’t think I can handle it.” Drawing in a deep breath, you tipped your head up, fixing your attention on the ceiling, hoping the liquid hanging on your lashes would not depart. “And if you’re going to tell me that I was wrong, that you did see me that way…What’s the point now?” Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, your eyelids fluttered shut, granting the tears full reign over your cheeks. “You didn’t tell me it when it would have made a difference.”

The sight of you falling apart filled him with dread. How could he despise the younger Miya twin for his idiotic behaviour when he too caused you similar hurt? How could he have been so damn oblivious?

The only difference between him and Osamu, was that he didn’t care for his own pain. He didn’t desire your pity or sympathy. He wanted your happiness.

The distance between you two could no longer be tolerated. He quickly rose to his feet, making his way to the mattress, before guiding you into his arms. When you were in his embrace, you slowly placed your arms around his middle limply. 

“I’m sorry, y/n.” What he was apologizing did not have to be stated, you knew what it was and that was enough.

Because you were sorry too… for what could have been, and what had been lost.

Let’s do it again, shall we - what if 

Masterlist - Previous - Next

A/N: no one kill me, LMAO. 

taglist: @idiot-juice-enthusiast @vicassa  @yourstarvic @bringmelily @newfriendjen @hikarichannn @anime-simp @tsukkismamagucci @laughingismorefun @astronomyturtle @shegrewupwithoutafather @hyskoa1998 @deephumandragonperson @pretty-setter-bois @raenebalgaire @sugawarabby @justanotherfangirl2 @keijisworld @90s-belladonna @momoinot @sempiternal-amour @cherryblosom111 @yqshirov @haikyuufairy @volleybloop @bloody-bella @sadkaashistan @seikamuzu @namyari  @toaster-stick @coconut-dreamz @roseestuosity @prcttylittlcthing @uzumakioden @nerdynstoned @kenmasgameboy @kaiju-teeth @ouijaeater15 @aquariarose @fandomtrashpandasposts @helloalex80​ @stfucanunot @envyusshades @cuddlesslut @seijohiseliterambles​  @meiikuki @cuddlejeongin @tchalameme @ditu-m9​ @elianetsantana​ 

Taglist continued in the comments from my personal  ❣️

[bytheangell]

We Care A Lot

(Whumptober 2020 prompt: (Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears) (Read on AO3)

There was an explosion.

That’s pretty much the extent of the details available to her before she’s called onto the scene so she isn’t sure what to expect when she gets there. As much as she tries to prepare herself for the worst, what she’s greeted with still stops her dead in her tracks for a few seconds. There isn’t time to get all of the victims to the nearest hospitals and clinics, and some have injuries too severe to risk moving. Cat wishes she could portal them all to the places they can get the proper mundane treatment, but that isn’t how this works - not if she wants to live past today, at least. Not for the first time, Catarina reminds herself that the lives lost today to keep her secret are a price she has to pay for the many more she’ll be able to help in the centuries to come.

Somehow, that never really makes it any easier, or the guilt any less.

The best she can do is show up and sneak her magic in where she’s able to, hoping it’s enough. She tries to do as much good as possible, to save as many lives as she can who might not have otherwise made it. Then, when it’s all over, she’ll try to deal with the fact that the ones she can’t save would’ve died anyway.

It isn’t completely reassuring but it’s a necessary reminder, especially after nights like this.

The scene she arrives at is brutal. Catarina immediately goes to a less occupied corner to set up a makeshift workstation, one where she’ll mostly be left alone to use her magic more freely, not that she won’t fully glamor herself and her magic just the same. She spends the first half an hour doing the best she can with broken bones, limbs that need to be removed entirely, and people closest to the source of the blast with literal holes through them from flying shrapnel.

Catarina tends to those who come to her and seeks out those unable to, who need her assistance the most.

She saves a lot of people, helping to pull bodies from the rubble and pouring as much of her magic into them as possible to get them stable. There are so many. Too many. She can’t even focus on entirely healing any one person, not if she wants to have enough healing magic to go around. Instead, she aims to stabilize the worst of the patients, as many as she can.

Catarina doesn’t keep track of the lives she manages to save but she does keep track of another number: the ones she loses. Six. Six mundanes die with her magic pouring into them, working to knit back together torn arteries, attempting to restart hearts. It isn’t enough. For six souls she isn’t strong enough, or fast enough, or good enough.

And then the unthinkable happens - a second blast.

Cat’s out-of-the-way station happens to be along the side of the building, which explodes mere feet away from her and her current patient. The close proximity of the explosion brings an immediate ringing to her ears, eyes stinging and blurring with dust and smoke.

There’s screaming. So much screaming. It takes Catarina a few seconds too long to realize it’s coming from her, stopped only by a hand on her shoulder from one of the other nurses.

“Miss Loss! Are you hurt?” The nurse asks, and Cat muffles her cries to one last whimper as she looks down at herself to try and take stock. There’s so much blood on her hands and her clothing that she doesn’t know how much of it is her’s and how much is from those she pulled and worked on from the first blast.

“I…” she starts, then shakes her head. Her ears are still ringing and the world loses focus as she moves her head side-to-side. For just a second she can see the flash of blue skin between her long sleeves and the gloves she wears as her glamour drops from lack of concentration and energy. Shit. Cat closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and when she opens them again her glamour is back in place.

“I’m fine,” she lies, allowing herself to be helped up. She dusts herself off and, pushing through the pain and exhaustion she feels with every movement, and begins to work once more.

Cat feels the moment she pushes herself too far. She has to sit down next to the mundane she’s healing, no longer able to stand upright on her own accord. Instead of stopping - she really, really should stop using her magic then - she pushes herself just a little bit further. She taps deeper into her reserves, then deeper still. She has herself convinced she has a little more left in her right up until her vision starts to blur at the edges, tinting black.

Cat has just enough time to call Ragnor, praying he’ll answer. Her mind has just enough time to imagine a dozen scenarios where he doesn’t, where she dies here, alone.

Cat can hear something on the other end but it’s muffled from the ringing in her ears. A voice? Ragnor? Or just the distant sounds of the people around her?

“Explosion… too much… magic,” she manages. She wants to portal to him but she can barely speak, and she knows if she has any amount of magic left it isn’t enough to open a steady portal. The phone drops from her hand and she tries to keep her eyes open, forcing herself to remain conscious.

She forces her eyes back open after each blink. She can’t pass out. She cannot pass out. If she does… if she loses her glamour...

It takes five minutes for Ragnor to get to her.

“I didn’t know anywhere closer than 3 blocks away to portal to,” he says by way of an apology. He looks like he wants to say more, to say something else, but he hesitates. What he says, whether it’s what he originally planned on saying or not, is, “My dear, what have you done to yourself?”

She hears the concern in the question, but more importantly, she hears the unspoken affections neither dared to voice, not even now. She thinks it’s probably a good sign that she isn’t dying, if nothing else. She likes to think he’d say it then if she were.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Ragnor lifts her like she’s nothing, opening a portal without hesitation or regard for their surroundings. He doesn’t look at the scene around them, eyes focused only on her, and steps through the portal with her in his arms. Even if he hadn’t been deciding their destination they would’ve ended up in the same place, because there’s only one place Cat wants to be just then.

They come out of the other side of the portal directly into the middle of Ragnor’s living room.

“Let’s get you to the bed,” he suggests.

“I think I’ll just sleep right here,” Cat mutters, going limp in his arms as she passes out.

---

There’s no daylight in the room when she wakes up, though she can see the outline of yellow along the edges of curtains keeping the brightness out, likely so she could rest better. There’s a cup of tea next to her on a warmer, and a class of cool water beside it.

Catarina sits up and sips at the tea first, thankful for any taste in her mouth that isn’t dust or blood, then switches it out for the glass of water which she promptly drains in one go.

The door creeks open slowly, familiar green features silhouetted by the light from the hallway.

“You’re awake,” Ragnor says, sounding relieved. “May I…?”

“Of course,” Cat says. “It’s your room.”

Ragnor only rolls his eyes in response to that, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Achy. Cold.” Despite the layers of blankets on top of her, they both know the cold she feels is a sign of magic depletion, and not anything external. “But fine. And alive, thanks to you.”

“You know I’ll always come when you call, Cat,” Ragnor says, shaking his head slowly. “But I do wish it were under nicer circumstances. That kind heart of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, and I-”

Cat remains silent as Ragnor trails off, though her heartbeat picks up slightly at his words.

“I was so afraid when I saw you like that. I-”

So close. So close, and yet…

“I care about you, Catarina.”

There it is.

“I know,” she says, her tone kind and gentle.

“No, I mean… I mean I love you.” “I know,” she repeats. Because she does. She always has, she never doubted it, but it’s still nice to hear him say it out loud. “I love you too, Ragnor, though I’m sure you knew that as well.”

“I had hoped…” he starts, but breaks off, this time not with uncertainty but with a smile. “You should rest. We can talk about this later when you’re feeling better.”

Ragnor moves to stand up from the side of the bed but Cat impulsively reaches out a hand to grab him by the wrist and stop him.

“You could stay?” she offers. “I’d like it if you stayed,” she amends, shifting over so there’s space next to her.

Ragnor pauses, considering, then nods and slides himself under the covers next to her, immediately shifting to wrap himself comfortingly around her.

Catarina smiles - though he can’t see it with her facing away from him - at the fact that he knows without asking exactly what she needs just then. It’s such a relief to know this warmth, to feel the surety of Ragnor’s care and protection and love, that the sleep she falls back into comes easily.

[haildoodles-writing]

KA’RA

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue,  Alternate Ending

Summary: You have a bounty on your head, and the Mandalorian took it upon himself to turn you in. He didn’t expect the effect you had on him, though.

Warnings: none

Pairing: the Mandalorian (Din Djarin) x reader

A/N: I love the Mandalorian. Sue me.

Now on AO3!

~~~

Din didn’t know what to do with you, and he cursed himself for it.

He blames the kid, who weaseled his way into his life and made him soft — made him ignore all logical reason and Mandalorian code as a whole in order to protect it. One small giggle and a hand reach, and he was a goner. But you— you were polite, and curious, and spoke with a soft voice that somehow shook him to the soles of his feet. You had a completely different effect on him, something opposite from the kid. Something he couldn’t necessarily describe.

You were sitting in the cockpit’s passenger seat, hands tied yet still fondling the ears of the kid on your lap. Your eyes traced the buttons and levers before you— and you had done as much with your hands earlier. But when he had grasped your fingers and pulled them away, he had to remind himself to be gentle.

You were blind. You couldn’t help but feel your way around the world.

Not to mention that you were a Senate daughter, a princess, with a bounty on your head to return you to your family. You had supposedly run away a year ago, fleeing to some backwater planet that even Din didn’t recognize. Your parents had demanded you be returned unharmed, flinging a hefty price at anyone who could do the job. Din had no choice but to be gentle. He needed the money, anyways.

And so he sat and stared at the stars that whizzed by, listening to your voice as you cooed at the kid.

He was surprised at how compliant you were. In reality, you were probably the most willing bounty he’s ever had. He found you in an old shack on the edge of the woods, singing an old tune he didn’t recognize as you prepared a meal. When he clasped shackles onto your wrists and led you to his ship, though, you didn’t fight—in fact, you agreed.

But the crestfallen look on your face did no good to Din’s conscience.

However much you lacked in resisting, though, you made up for in blunt curiosity. Maybe it was because you lacked the ability to see, or maybe it was just because you were downright curious about the world— but you asked him question after question after question. Lengthy pauses always followed each answer, but you never actually stopped. You asked him about who he was, who the Mandalorians were, what he looked like, who the child was that clung to you— anything. Everything.

And perhaps it was because he was already used to rambling to the child, but he answered. Your genuinity weaved its way into his brain and he couldn’t help but respond. Every single time.

You grew quiet only after the ship entered hyperspace, the child now sleeping in a makeshift crib next to Din’s feet. The silence was . . . Off-putting, to say the least. He resorted to cleaning his smudged beskar with the corner of his cloak to pass the time.

Eventually, though, you spoke.

“May I . . . Go look around?”

A weight dropped in Din’s chest.

When a bounty asked that— that meant they wanted to escape. They wanted to find a way to fight back, or at least to discover how to slip out quietly when they landed. And that would mean that Din would have to put them under carbon freeze until they were turned in, stacking up cold metal slabs to store for later.

And for some reason, Din didn’t want to look at a hard sheet of metal and see you. But he had to remind himself that you were bounty, a walking profit, and he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He wouldn’t go against the code. He couldn’t.

Din nodded, but then, reminding himself that you couldn’t see, eventually spoke. “Yes,” was all he said— but nonetheless, it felt like he had to drag it up from his chest with both hands.

You thanked him sincerely, and your tone felt like a vine tightening in his chest. He could hear you rise, the tips of your fingers running against metal and your bare feet shifting on the floor. He had turned to watch you go— almost stopped you, in fact— but you had carefully traipsed down the ladder with no significant problems. And then, with the last bit of your hair disappearing from view, you were gone.

For a few moments, the indecision of what to do nearly suffocated him. He wanted to follow you immediately, both to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself (the ship had stray crates and pipes littering the floor) and, well, to keep you around. For some reason, he liked your presence. Despite being in cuffs and in his ship against your will, you were kind to him. Gentle. Genuine. And the kid liked you, too.

But yet again, he had to remind himself: you were bounty. Bounty. Bounty.

And so he sat, listening to the groans of the ship and the soft sighs of the kid at his feet.

Eventually, though, his antsiness got the better of him. He rose quietly, sidestepping the kid. He moved on silent feet out of the cockpit, then turned the corner to the ladder—

But you were there, clutching a box in your hand as you slowly made your way back up. Sensing Din’s presence, though, you paused at the lip of the ladder. Waiting. In your arms, you had a medical kit, marked with a raised cross on its lid. It was the one Din had stored near his bed for emergencies.

“What are you doing?” Din eventually asked, his tone much harsher than he wanted it to be. You weren’t snooping below— you had come back. Something no other bounty had done.

Slowly, Din stepped back enough for you to raise yourself onto the floor— and you chuckled nervously. Once you were up, you stepped to the side until you leaned against the wall, stabilizing yourself. Feeling where you were.

“I . . . felt your arm earlier, when you came to get me,” you said, a smile pulling at your mouth. “You had some sort of wound that you hadn’t treated.” Which was true— you had accidentally brushed against a knife wound on his bicep earlier, and he had softly hissed before retreating. You had evidently noticed.

“I didn’t want you to leave the cockpit, so hopefully. . .” you extended the medical kit towards him, “hopefully this is what you needed.” Your eyes, though unseeing and cloudy, seemed to see straight through him. Seeing past the beskar and the helmet and straight into him.

Din didn’t know how to react to that, so he gingerly took the med kit from your hands instead. He didn’t know how to react at how his chest squeezed, either.

And with a quiet word of thanks, Din watched, mesmerized, as you brushed your chained hands against the wall and felt your way back to the cockpit. He eventually followed— once he got his wits together, at least. And once he had to remind himself that you were bounty a dozen more times. You were to leave soon.

But the fuel tank eventually read ‘LOW,’ and Din had to stop for a few days to refuel before turning you in. A few more days of feeling his chest tighten and listening to your fingers brush against the walls.

He silently thanked the stars.

[vs-redemption]

Crime is Common. Logic is Rare. (Ch.21)

Chapter Twenty-One: The New Serum (HawksxGN!Reader)

A/N: Hello readers! First of all, I wanted to say thank you to everyone who is still reading/following this story! We’re nearing the end now, and I only anticipate a few more chapters. (Famous last words) Also, I’m sorry for the lack of Hawks in this one, but hopefully you are enjoying everything happening with the mad doctor!

Plot summary: You thought your hands were full as a regular quirk geneticist, but then you meet Hawks and things get even more exciting!

Warnings:  

⚠️This story contains spoilers from the manga.

⚠️Some events and plot points have been altered from the original manga

Tag List: @gayforkeigo @marshmallow-witch @redflannel @toyo-shiro @elsasshole @astronomyturtle @iambashfulperson

Next Chapter : Chapter Guide

“Don’t you feel guilty helping me when your boyfriend is a hero?” Shigaraki’s piercing red glare follows you as you move around the lab underneath Jaku Hospital, constantly keeping you on edge and fearful for your life. You hadn’t anticipated having him as a regular visitor after the first encounter, but thankfully you were getting better at keeping your composure in high stress situations. Over the past few days you’d run dozens of tests and simulations using Shigaraki’s blood, and you knew you were getting closer to the day when you’d actually have to do the real procedure on the villain. You weren’t sure which possible outcome of the experiment you feared worse.

If things went well and you managed to transfer All For One’s quirk, Shigaraki would be even more powerful than before. Would there even be anybody strong enough to take him down at that point? How many people would be hurt or killed thanks to your assistance? The other scenario was if the experiment failed and Shigaraki died or his DNA became too mutated for him to function normally. That would most likely get you a target on your back with the League of Villains. But, for all you knew, they might be planning to kill you just as soon as this was all over anyway.

“I’ve hardly seen my boyfriend in weeks, except in passing,” you respond to the villain as flatly as you can while gesturing for his arm so you could take another vial of his blood. You wished Dr. Garaki would get the samples for himself, but he was currently in the second lab doing status checks on all his terrifying high end nomus. “The hero commission has kept Hawks very busy lately.”

“The hero commission, huh?” Shigaraki narrows his eyes at you before thrusting out his arm. He hated all the poking and prodding you’d been doing to his body, but knew it was the only way for him to eventually get the ultimate power he so desperately craved. That didn’t stop him from whining and complaining like a child sometimes though. “A perfect example of why I hate heroes.”

“What do you mean?” You ask as you fill up a syringe with his blood. It thankfully only took a few seconds. The less direct contact you had with the villain the better.

“They spend all their time risking their lives for other people,” Shigaraki explains as you put a bandage over the spot on his arm where you’d poked him with the needle. He started scratching at the dry, flaking skin on his neck with the chipped nails of his free hand. You’d noticed him doing this whenever he got himself agitated over something. It was a disturbing habit that you wish he’d try to control. “None of the heroes give a second thought to how they’re neglecting their families and loved ones.”

“Hmm,” you ponder over his words as you prepare a sample of the doctor’s newest concoction that he hoped would seamlessly bind Shigaraki’s DNA with All For One’s. Using the deductions of your quirk, you’d decided to start playing around with polarity of the villain’s DNA molecules. The goal was to trick the nucleotides from the two samples into bonding together more cohesively even though they were naturally non-polar.

“Perhaps there’s some truth to that,” you admit calmly, wondering if he really cared about the families of heroes when he didn’t seem to have any issue with disintegrating entire cities full of people. “And let me tell you, as a scientist, I understand your desire to want everyone to fit into perfect categories that follow the same sets of rules. There are always going to be outliers though. Some people can fit comfortably into multiple categories while others, frustratingly, seem to be in a category of their own.” You pause in your ramblings to look back at the villain who was glaring at you with enough intensity to give you chills. You force yourself to let out a small laugh before turning back to the slides you were working on. “Even though I don’t see Hawks that often right now,” you shrug, “I think he’d be there for me if I really needed him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Shigaraki had an eerie smirk on his face and it was a relief to see that it seemed he had no clue about how much you actually did know.

“There are definitely secrets about myself I’m keeping from him,” you gesture between yourself and the villain to show your meaning, even though it was a lie. “So you’re probably right about that.”

Thankfully you weren’t forced to have any more small talk with Shigaraki because the doctor finally came back through the creepy hidden tunnel, looking more or less satisfied with the progress of his nomus. You knew he wished they’d move toward completion at a faster pace, but the way he was manipulating DNA was already unstable enough without trying to rush the process.

“Did you test the new serum?” he asks once he finishes locking up the secret entrance.

“Not yet,” you tell him. “I was just about to.” He comes over and watches you push the slide with Shigaraki’s blood underneath the nearest microscope before adding a small drop of the new serum to the sample. You activate your quirk and press your face against the eyepiece to observe the results in as much detail as possible. Slowly, you watched as the two DNA samples fused together. You were used to this part by now, even though it still blew your mind sometimes. The difference this time was that the merged chromosomes looked completely normal, unlike the bulky mutated ones that made up the nomus.

“I can’t believe it,” you mumble to yourself, both out of awe and fear.

“Did it work?” Shigaraki asks impatiently.

“Wait,” you shush him more aggressively than you probably should have, but the chromosomes on the slide had suddenly begun to dissolve and break apart. Before you could deliver that bad news, the broken DNA inexplicably began to reform. “Something is happening.” You continue watching for a moment as the chromosomes break and repair themselves in a constant loop. You back away from the microscope to look at the doctor, your mind already working to figure out the secret behind the phenomenon. “It worked… sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of?!” Shigaraki sounded annoyed but the doctor remained calm.

“What happened?” he asks.

“The samples blended perfectly this time,” you explain, “but it’s still unstable. The DNA is simultaneously destroying and repairing itself. Take a look.” The doctor pulls over a stool so that he can reach the microscope to peer into the lens. What he sees makes him smile and bounce on his feet with excitement. He backs away from the microscope and hops off the stool.

“I know exactly why this is happening,” Dr. Garaki was beaming. “Good news Shigaraki! I don’t think you’ll have to wait much longer now.”

As usual, you had a lot of objections, but it was pointless to try and talk him into slowing down. Shigaraki wanted his power as soon as possible, and the doctor wasn’t going to make him wait any longer than absolutely necessary. Even if it was dangerous to use the leader of the villains as the first test subject, you knew they would do it anyway.

“It’s because the DNA was able to fuse perfectly,” the doctor turns his attention to you, “All For One’s regeneration quirk must have been activated. I anticipate that this sample will continue to try and fix itself until it finds a way to stabilize.”

The mere possibility of that being true astonished you. If the doctor wasn’t a madman who planned to turn an already dangerous villain into an unstoppable force of evil, he could do so much good with the discovery you both had just made. There were so many people who suffered with self-destructive quirks that would benefit from a serum like this. You wondered if Shigaraki’s skin problems would be alleviated after the procedure.

With a regenerating serum, so many exciting possibilities had just opened up. It was just too bad that you were stuck in such a messed up situation. You’d told the doctor that you weren’t going to judge him for helping the League of Vilains with the information you gathered, but you hadn’t expected him to have you work with Shigaraki directly. It worried you that you would be forced to go through with this insane idea soon. The silver lining was that, like the nomus, Shigaraki’s procedure would probably take quite a while to complete. You had no idea exactly how long it would take for All For One’s DNA to integrate with Shigaraki’s completely, but you had to imagine rewiring someone’s genes took time. It most likely was going to be excruciating for the villain as well. You wondered if he’d even survive if his DNA was going to be destroying and repairing itself over and over again.

“What are you thinking?” Dr. Garaki’s question pulls you out of your thoughts.

“I’m thinking we can check on the progress of this sample tomorrow,” you tell him almost robotically. You couldn’t let the implications of what you were doing affect you now. You had to continue to play the morally neutral scientist. “We can try to calculate the rate of repair to see if the regeneration is even working the way you think it is. Once we know that much, we’ll probably be able to predict just how long the procedure will take to complete.”

“Good idea!” the doctor claps his hands once. “Let’s start recording as much data as we can now with your quirk so we can come up with an accurate timeline later.”

The two of you set to work while Shigaraki watches and complains about there being nothing to do. You envied him of having the luxury of his biggest concern at the moment being his boredom. There were so many worries occupying your mind at present that being bored was far from being possible. You were already dreading having to inform Hawks of everything that had happened that day. If the Hero Commission didn’t find a way to put a stop to the villains before Shigaraki’s procedure was completed, there would be no limit to the amount of destruction he’d be able to cause.

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Listen, I might be playing the devils advocate, but I don't think Dany's fate in the GoT finale was due to D&D being sexist.I think it was just because D&D can't write for crap.

It’s not about intent.

Allow me to begin by saying that I completely understand the knee-jerk reaction that people have to the term ‘sexism’. It’s very polarizing, and when men read the term, they immediately go on the offensive. That’s not what I want at all. I don’t use the term to alienate or exclude men, I use it because it’s the dictionary definition of what I’m trying to convey:

sex·ism (noun): "prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women, on the basis of sex.“

That said, allow me to play devil’s advocate here and say that I do not believe the writers intended to have an underlying sexist message. They are more oblivious than they are malicious. It is born of sheer ignorance (lack of knowledge or information) and the privilege to ignore it because, as males, it doesn’t affect them.

Let’s put aside the dozens of articles that came out after the finale calling out the sexism. You guys know me, I like to pull receipts, cite my sources, and throw in some visuals to help aid my point.

For most of the 70+ hours of Game of Thrones, Daenerys actually does not fall victim to these sexist tropes. Honestly, that is what subverted my expectations for seven seasons. That Dany always teetered on the edge of these tired, overused tropes about women, yet she remained steadfast in her ruthless yet good nature, her moral compass was always aligned even if it didn’t match the viewers, and she was a gods-damned hero, straight through to episode four of season eight.

But the demoralizing reality is that Daenerys was hit with trope after trope in the last three episodes. In the final hours of the show, the writers pulled a bait-and-switch, giving us a ‘shocking’ heel-tern whose only foreshadowing was a very bad retcon job full of double standards. And so many fans, such as yourself, justify it. Not because the show foreshadowed it, but because these tropes are so, so ingrained in our brains from decades of media feeding us these narratives that we now expect them.

In the end, Daenerys succumbs to numerous sexist tropes:

'God Save Us From the Queen’ trope

“The Good Kingdom: A lovely, wealthy country ruled by a benevolent king, a wise prince, and a fair princess loved by the populace. But what’s that? There’s a queen? Oh, brother, we’re in trouble.”

Disposable Woman trope

“This character has a familial or romantic relationship with a protagonist, which allows creators to derive heart-wrenching sorrow from her death.”

Evil Infertile Woman trope

“Women are often divided into "breeders” and “the barren,” with the latter coming off as cool and distant at best, and malicious and desperate at worst.“

The Double-Standard Trope

"A double standard occurs when members of two or more groups are treated differently regarding the same thing. Gender is one of the most common causes of double standards.”

Hysterical Woman trope

“This trope characterizes women as less rational, disciplined, and emotionally stable than men, and thus more prone to mood swings, irrational overreactions, and mental illness.”

Woman Scorned trope

“What’s the only type of woman more dangerous than a Mama Bear? A woman who’s been dumped or otherwise done wrong by her significant other. Especially if she’s been hiding some sanity problems.”

Women Are Delicate trope

“Even if women have toughness, competence, strength or stability, it’s less than what their male peers are capable of.”

The Woman Wearing the Queenly Mask trope

“They don’t want a young woman, or they don’t want any woman, or they just don’t want this particular woman on the throne.”

Tropes in and of themselves are not bad, but very outdated tropes that are associated with the emotional or mental ‘fragility’ of women are. Why? Because they reinforce deep-seated and subconscious stereotypes of women that audiences hold.

“It’s just a show/book! Who cares!”

People have been turning to art (including literature) for years for meaning, for philosophical guidance. Most people in my own country turn to one book to both find and justify their morality (the bible).

“Literature offers not just a window into the culture of diverse regions, but also the society, the politics; it’s the only place where we can keep track of ideas.”―Reza Aslan

It’s not just a show. The art and media we consume helps shape who we are, for better or worse. When men refuse to consider the consequence of their sexist narratives simply because it doesn’t affect their own lives, it inadvertently causes harm for others who don’t share their privilege.

And it’s not just Daenerys. She’s just the figurehead.

There was a great article from BBC about how much women actually speak on Game of Thrones:

I can already hear the counter-argument brewing…

“So what? There are more male characters!”

Yeah. There are. And that’s a problem, too.

Of the top-grossing 1,200 films from 2007 to 2018, 28% of films were led or co-led by women. Meanwhile, around 49.6 percent of the world’s population is female.

By featuring so few women and by giving women who are featured 20% of the airtime to speak their minds, the writers are unintentionally devaluing the speech and opinions of women. This inspires the audience to devalue women in a subconscious way.

Whether or not it intended to, Game of Thrones and its shocking 'heel-turn’ has very troubling sexist and political implications (amongst other things).

Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m blowing this way out of proportion.

Tell me it’s just a show or a book and every single fan knows how to separate fiction from reality (they don’t, go look at Maisie William’s Instagram comments following her season eight sex scene for proof of that). Meanwhile, here in actual reality, we see things like this:

@thescarletgarden1990 informs me that over in Italy, political figures are using Game of Thrones advertising in their campaigns, too:

Translation: “Invaded by masses of Others? Not Today. Immediate naval block, let’s defend our borders.”

What makes it worse is that, at least Donald Trump, identifies with House Stark. Or, those who rule the northerners. The people who showed their blatant racism toward the only two black named characters. And the writers never bothered to critique the problematic behavior, instead, rewarding their people with independence and driving those pesky evil foreigners ’back where they belong’.

I’ve barely had time to scroll my dash and I’ve already seen a troubling amount of harassment towards Dany fans via anon asks (including myself, though I just block the IP and delete but I wish I’d saved them for proof).

Why? Because the ending justifies their personal narrative, this bad writing confirms their worldview. Meanwhile, on the other side of the spectrum, the same thing is happening in reverse in response to the takedown of a figure like Daenerys Targaryen:

“Khaleesi’s heel turn is particularly troubling for fans who might have felt a true sense of connection to her character following her epic story arc, which has seen Dany escape some awful circumstances to literally walk through fire, free the slaves, bring Dragons to the north and help rally the troops to defeat the Night King. She has basically been Abraham Lincoln, Hercules and Winston Churchill combined into one person riding a dragon.” (x)

The point here is that the show is doing its audience of 19,300,000 viewers a great disservice by succumbing to very outdated tropes and double standards, and sending troubling messages as a result. For instance, a woman can do countless heroic or selfless things, but you should never trust her! She needs to be tempered. Women cannot wield power responsibly. There are endless messages you can take away from this ending and the dialogue that led us to the show’s conclusion (my personal favorite being ‘Cocks are important’).

And the fans who want to say 'you’re overreacting’ to everyone who speaks up against it are only aiding in this ongoing legacy of 85% male writers who get to tell our stories, poorly, and reap all the rewards.

Sure, all of this could be solely the result of ‘just bad writing’…

Nevertheless, it is what it is.

[sincerelyreidburke]

ooh also 4 for Bri and Reid because I love them

Friends! Romans! Countrymen! ARE YOU READY for some good shit?!?! I say this because this is my very first time writing Reid/Bri! I mean, they’ve been in the background a few times in drama club stuff, but I’ve never actually gotten to focus on them. Toby enables me, because xe loves me.

“Who’s Bri?” Reid’s girlfriend!

In today’s episode of prompts, you will get a glimpse into Reid’s post-graduation life! If you want to read more about what’s in store for him after Kiersey, you can check out this post. And even this one, too, if you’d like.

Here, you’ll see a Reid two years removed from graduation and a little down on his luck. You also finally get to see inside his brain. *Slaps hood of Reid Burke* This bad boy can fit so much mental illness in him.

From this list of sappy prompts, which I am still accepting and filling as we speak!

4. “Shut up and kiss me.”

two years after (reid's) graduation | may

 Reid considers himself spectacularly efficient when it comes to fucking things up.

He knows this. Has always known it. He figures it’s a good thing to be self-aware, at least. He’s probably one of the more self-aware human beings to ever have a conscience, come to think of it, given the amount of time he spends policing his own every action. But still. There has to be some benefit in being so well aware of your own flaws that you can constantly predict your fuck-ups before they even happen. It’s like damage control when the damage hasn’t even set in.

Anyway. Reid knows he’s good at fucking up. But if there’s one thing he would really prefer not to fuck up, it’s Bri’s birthday.

Easier said than done.

When midnight strikes on the day she’s turning 24, he’s not even home, which is the first reason he feels guilty and useless. He’s at work, apron around his waist, tie done up too tight, sneaking glances at the clock across the room in between customers and refills. He wishes he had his phone on him, as the minute hand lines up with the second hand at the 12. He could at least text her. He could make up for the fact that he’s not there in person, to ring in the first moments of the day. But his phone is in the back, in his locker, because this is the best-paying place he works at, and he doesn’t want to risk his employment by getting caught with a phone by his manager. Or worse, a nosy customer, who will subsequently rat him out to his manager, and, well— yeah. Not to mention the fact that it’s usually so fast-paced in the bar that there’s no time to check your phone anyway.

The point is. He wishes he could text Bri. But he can’t. It’s probably for the best. She’s probably not even awake. It would actually be bad if she were awake. A healthy sleep schedule is something she deserves.

Actually, she deserves a lot. The entire world. A lot more than Reid has ever been able to give her, and there isn’t a day that goes by when his brain fails to remind him of that particular fuckup in his life thus far. But tonight, he shouldn’t think in huge terms. Tonight, he should just worry about her birthday.

Man, he wishes he were home in bed.

The strike of midnight, although it provides something to focus on, isn’t even the sign of his shift nearing an end, because the bar doesn’t close until 2:30, and the latter two and a half hours of work wind up passing by even more slowly than the beginning of his shift did. When he finally sees his last customer out, after last call, and he’s the only lonely, lingering person in the place— then, the end is in sight. He has closing chores ahead of him, but at least he doesn’t have to wait around to go home anymore.

It’s nothing that out of the ordinary, really, to be working this late. Between three jobs and sneaking in open mic nights between them any chance he can, he can’t remember the last time he had a night entirely off. Or a day, honestly, and tomorrow— or today, since it’s past midnight— isn’t any exception. He has the lunch shift at the street diner he works at, and the jury’s still out as to whether he’s going to bag his shift at the second bar he works at tomorrow night.

All of this is to say: he’s working a lot. Which is fine. Work means money, which means staying alive, especially with the New York cost of living he’s gotten used to since they moved here after graduation. It’s a necessary part of life. He just wishes life could stop, for one day, so he could do this right. So he could at least give her something, to make up for all the areas in life where he’s lacking. Where he’s an extremely underwhelming excuse for a future husband.

And, look— he did actually get her a present, so that’s not the issue here. It’s more the lack of time. It’s more the overwhelming sense that, despite her stability, despite the fact that she’s stuck with him for six years, he doesn’t deserve this patience, and that one day she might finally come to her senses and decide that she doesn’t feel like waiting around while he slums it in New York and tries to make it big, that she wants, like, a normal life, with a partner who makes a salary and a house or at least an apartment with more than one room and, like, basic predictability and success—

Ugh.

For now, for this very early morning, he won’t think about all of that, no matter how much it rings in his ears as he cleans up and closes the bar. For now, he just wants to make sure Bri has the most perfect morning possible. And to do that, he has a checklist.

Step one: finish work. He considers that done as he locks the front door of the bar, and steps out onto the street. It’s kind of breezy but not exactly cold out, since Bri’s birthday marks the last day of May, and summer is pretty much here. It’s not really busy outside on the street, but he’s not the only one out, either. Rule number one of New York City: you are literally never the only person out and about, no matter what time of day it is.

Step two: the bodega. It’s on his walk, open twenty-four hours, and he stops there so often at weird hours of the night after work shifts that he’s established a rapport with the cashier who works the red-eye shift. “Eyyyyyy,” he sings, as he swings through the door into the small, artificially lit space. “What’s up, Charlie? You working hard, or hardly working?”

Actually, it’s not so much a rapport. It’s more that he’s constantly the loudest customer who graces this place between the hours of midnight and four in the morning, and Charlie probably hates him, but still tolerates his presence. So.

He needs flour, half a dozen eggs, a tied-up bunch of yellow and white flowers, and rainbow sprinkles. He also slides three Red Bull onto Charlie’s till, and then grins across the counter to remark, “The necessities.”

Charlie grunts or maybe chuckles, and scans his stuff. “Right.”

Step three: get home and get to work.

It’s, like, six minutes on foot from work to the bodega, and then four more to the subway stop, and then the subway is a whole host of issues that land him back at the apartment building around 3:30 in the morning. Bri’s alarm goes off at 6:30 for work, and he figures he can intercept her for a proper birthday breakfast before she goes to the gallery. Given that he kills one of the Red Bull from the bodega while he’s in transit to get home, he is at least ninety percent confident that there’s no point in not pulling an all-nighter.

It’s fine. He’s not even tired. He has stuff to do, anyway.

The apartment is dark when he gets in, and he tries to make the smallest amount of noise, which, when you think about it, is kind of pointless because it’s only one room and any noise he makes could count as a disturbance, but— but— Bri isn’t a light enough sleeper to wake up at that kind of stuff. A fact he is grateful for. So he puts the bag of groceries down, gently, on the counter, and turns the light on over the sink while he loosens his tie. Or more like yanks it off. The uniform at that job is seriously not his style, but you take what you can get.

Across the room, where their bed is tucked up into the corner, Bri is asleep. Thank Christ. He would be concerned if she weren’t. While he gets out of his work clothes, he looks at her in bed— she’s peaceful, and looks comfortable, and he kind of wants for a second to just crawl into bed with her, but if he does that, he’ll never get anything done in time, and she’ll wake up to a normal old morning. With nothing special. On her birthday.

She doesn’t deserve that.

When he’s finished changing, it’s 3:41 Apple time. The morning is young. He sneaks a kiss to the top of her head and pulls the covers a little higher over her shoulders, then slides across the room in his socks, back to the kitchen side of the apartment.

Sure, he’s great at fuck-ups. But he’s not going to let this one be a bust.

*

It’s a quick three hours.

He blames executive dysfunction. Time passes too quickly when he’s on a crunch, literally every time. He starts with her card, which he bought a few days ago— writes it out, seals it into its envelope, and weighs it down with the corner of one of her vases, which he fills with water and puts the flowers in. It’s glass-blown, psychedelic colors; she made it in the glass studio junior year at Kiersey, and it followed them to New York.

With that done, he gets all his ingredients out for breakfast. He can’t start cooking at 4 in the morning, but he can get ready— a bowl out on the counter, their one good frying pan on the griddle, dry ingredients for pancakes measured out. He’s not the most versatile cook in the world, but he makes a mean Kraft Dinner, and this, too, he can do— birthday cake pancakes. With sprinkles. It’s Bri’s favorite breakfast.

He doesn’t know how it winds up being 6:30. He loses time, doing all of this and also nothing at all. He’s two and a half Red Bull deep, mixing up the actual pancake batter, when Bri’s alarm tone across the room pulls him out of his haze.

“Shit,” he hisses, and nearly knocks over his frying pan. It’s 6:30 already? The kitchen is a mess, and he’s been stuck in the distractible part of his brain for the better half of the past two hours, and now he looks like he’s made a huge mess, and—

The alarm stops going off, and he hears the mattress shift. He’s rinsing off the questionable spatula he’s been using to mix the batter in the sink when he hears her voice. “Babe?”

“Hey— hey, good morning.” He turns, and puts his back to the counter, like it’ll hide the actual disaster he’s created. “Happy birthday,” he adds. “Did you sleep okay?”

Bri is sitting up halfway in bed, and she doesn’t answer his question. “What are—” She yawns, and holds a hand to her mouth, which is really fucking cute, the way her eyes get all wrinkled up like this, and he just— loves her, and wishes he weren’t so useless, wishes he could give her the world. When she finishes her sentence, her voice is raspy. That’s cute, too. “What’re you doing over there?”

“I’m, uh.” And busted. He might as well own up to the mess. “Well, I realize now that it looks like a bomb went off in here, but don’t worry; I’ll fix it. I was just— well, breakfast. I’m making breakfast. But it’s not ready yet. It will be. Promise.” He lets all his breath out at once, then tries a grin. “But did you? Sleep okay?”

Again, she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she swings her legs off the side of the bed, and gets up to walk across the room. He meets her halfway, as she’s combing back her hair, a blonde, wavy, bedhead-y and beautiful mess. She’s in pajama shorts and a tank top, and he may be sleep-deprived and totally useless, but he is the luckiest guy on this planet. “How long’ve you been up?” she asks.

He rests his hands, gently, on her waist, and looks down to meet her eyes, which are hazy with sleep but always so fucking pretty. “I… don’t know if you would love the answer to that question,” he replies, because she’d see right through him even if he wanted to lie about it.

She smiles, but it’s a sympathetic expression, like she can see the Red Bull coursing through his veins or some shit like that. “Answer anyway.”

“Um.” Okay, busted. For real this time. While she hooks her arms around his neck, he tries to gather an explanation. “Okay, so I may not have slept, but hear me out, okay? I wanted to make sure I had stuff in a row so that when you woke up, it’d all be good for you, since I know we kinda have, like, a limited window here, and I didn’t want you to just have to eat, like, peanut butter toast on your birthday, right? Like, that would suck, and also, I was already up because of work, and I had stuff to do anyway, so basically, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t sleep at all, but on the bright side, there is pancake batter ready for you, and I promise I’m gonna clean up all the cooking shit ASAP because I know it looks like a war zone in this kitchen right now—”

“Reid.”

He stops. Her voice is gentle, and she’s smiling— it’s not the pity smile anymore, but just a regular smile. She threads her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he breathes, almost instinctively. “Sorry. That was so much. You just woke up. Hi. I love you. Happy birthday. You look really hot right now.”

Bri laughs, and leans up, on tiptoe, until her forehead is right on his. “Reid,” she repeats, even more gently, and he lets out all his breath again, closes his eyes. “Take a deep breath.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He tries to do as she says. It’s really not hard to breathe; he just forgets that’s a necessary bodily task from time to time. No big whoop. “I promise I’ll clean it up. And I’ll make the pancakes, and— wait, shit!” The realization hits him all at once, and his stomach sinks. “Shit. Fuck. I don’t think we have whipped cream.”

“Whipped cream?” Bri asks, and she sort of laughs, like she’s confused, but this is very bad, because that’s a necessary part of any balanced pancake breakfast, right?

“Fuck,” he repeats, and then groans, bumping his forehead against hers lightly. “Fuck, babe; I’m so sorry. I knew I was forgetting something. I can go out, though. Maybe while you shower? I can get it on the corner—”

“Babe,” Bri says, and it occurs to him that he has once again forgotten to breathe. But when he meets her eyes again, she’s smiling, kind of laughing, and she shakes her head. “Shut up.”

“What?” He blinks. His glasses fog up a little, with how close their faces are, and he squints through them toward her. “I really will go out and get it. What are birthday pancakes without whipped—”

Bri slides her hands up to either side of his face, and she shakes her head again. “Just shut up and kiss me, okay?”

The pit leaves his stomach, and he stops in his tracks. “Oh,” he says, and then laughs, too. “Okay. I can do that.”

It’s a kiss that stops the racing in his brain, which it really always does; she just knows how to do that by existing. It becomes two, and then three, and when they pull apart, Reid can breathe normally again.

“You didn’t have to stay up all night because of me,” she tells him, voice still gentle, eyes still on him.

“I’m sorry,” he groans. “I didn’t really— I mean, I really didn’t want you to have a lame morning.”

“Well, that was very sweet of you,” she replies. Her eyes are catching the sunrise light that edges in through the window. He could get distracted by that. By her body. By every freckle on her face. He is, after all, easily distractible. “But,” Bri adds, “as long as my morning has you in it, I promise you, there’s nothing lame about it.”

He laughs, and kind of feels sheepish, like he might be blushing. “Okay.” He doesn’t deserve her, but he’ll take her at her word.

“C’mere.” She pulls him down for another kiss, and, yeah, this he can do. The apartment is way too small, and he is a human disaster, but she loves him anyway, for some reason he still can’t figure out, and he’ll never stop being grateful for that.

“Thank you,” she says, when they pause to breathe again. “I’m excited for pancakes.”

“I’ll make them good,” he assures her, and she laughs.

“I know you will,” she replies, and then smiles with half her mouth, so her one dimple shows, and that is fucking adorable. Holy Christ. He might be sleep-deprived, but if looks could kill… “But,” she adds, with that smirk still lingering, “not yet.”

“Not yet?” he echoes, and blames the sleep deprivation for how slow the realization is. “Right, yeah. Because you should shower, right? Get ready for work?”

“I think I have a distinct amount of time before I actually have to be ready for work,” she replies, and ohhhh. Oh. Okay.

This, too, he can do.

“I think I understand you,” he tries.

Bri winks. “You definitely understand me,” she says, and then grabs him by the hand and pulls him back toward their bed. “And plus, it’s my birthday.”

He almost makes a birthday suit joke, and then decides that puns are not an effective method of seduction today. Not that Bri really needs seducing. Right this second, anyway.

“I’m so honored,” he says, instead, and grins when she pushes him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. He holds her by the waist and waits, still smirking. “You mean to say you want me to be your present?”

“Something like that,” she replies, with a shrug, and then pushes him so he falls backwards, and he gets exactly three seconds to laugh at the ceiling before she’s kissing him and he gets to move on to something much, much better than rambling about his failures as a boyfriend in the middle of the kitchen.

Breakfast can wait.

[blarrghe]

Maybe "Can you hold me? Please?" for the dorianders modern au? I feel like they could always do with more hugs/cuddles 💜

This one got super angsty and a lil messy, but what else can you expect from this au? Cw for alcohol and drug use, but it’s not pure angst for angst’s sake... there’s something brewing here. You can read the rest of this story in order on AO3 --

He didn’t hear from Dorian for a couple of days. Which was normal; they were both busy, and it would be excessive to want to talk to him all the time. And Anders didn’t — want to, that is. He didn’t. He called the animal shelter about volunteering, because he couldn’t help himself, and he met up with that coworker who definitely wished he was someone else, but they had fun and Anders had something like another friend, and so he didn’t — wish that he was with someone else, that is. He didn’t. Then he worked a night shift in the emergency room, frantic and bustling and deep in blood and magic and sweat, like he was supposed to be. 

Isabella had responded to his rambling text of emotionally heavy romantic agonizing with the unhelpful sentiment of “why not both!” when it came to the prospect of whether Dorian was his soul mate, or an unexploded grenade, or just the first friend he’d had in over two years. “You can fuck your friends Anders,” she had said, “and there isn’t anyone interesting in the world who won’t explode on you.”, and then she’d capped that nugget of advice off with several oddly evocative emojis.  

Things did not wind up exploding at all in the way he expected. But then, they never did. 

Anders finished his shift with shoulders slumped under an ocean of wear. He felt colourless, like the magic he’d spent over the course of the long night had drained the very iron from his blood, and, to some degree, it probably had. Even the ghost was quiet, huddling up with his natural pool of the stuff, keeping him going just well enough to drag his bag out of his locker and rake his hands through his hair as he let it down, easing the ring of tight aches that pulled around his scalp from having it bound up all day. For all his sweat and toil, the texture of his hair was dry; raspy and frayed, tired out by hard soaps and infrequent care, unaccustomed to the beating sun. Still, he’d rather keep it long than cut it off.

He sighed as he shouldered through the hospital doors, tucking his hands into his pocket to pull out his phone; checking the GPS location of his bus. Before he could bring up the scheduling app, he was hit with a total of twenty three urgent notifications. All of them from Dorian. 

He had seven missed calls, three voicemails, and an absolute maelstrom of texts.  Mostly the texts were incomprehensible. Anders had to scroll up through a dozen before they stopped being gibberish, and then they were exceedingly normal. Inviting him out, telling him that never mind, it wasn’t a good time, actually, asking if he was in, saying hey, if you get this can you just call me... That was when they became phone calls, which Anders had missed, and three had filled his inbox, and two of those were rufflings and static, and the other — Anders frowned, listening to Dorian’s voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hey, Anders. Don’t worry, I know you’re probably working, and I’m fine. I only — well, it seems I misplaced my wallet and I’m rather stuck in your part of town and I —” A long pause, a heavy breath. “I simply don’t feel too well, you know, and I figure I’ll just... make my way to your place and then…” another pause, and when the voice came back it was choked back, unstable. “Sorry, I know you must think me terribly irresponsible but I need to — kaffas.” and then the line went dead. 

Anders rushed home with all the speed that an always-late city bus and his own tired feet could grant him. 

He found Dorian slouched into the hall in front of his apartment. He’d gotten into the building, climbed the stairs, and fallen out of consciousness right in Anders’ doorway. Anders felt himself gasp as a little more fire found itself in his veins, and his heart raced with worry. He stooped over him, a hand to his hot face and an ear for his breathing, and at the cool touch of Anders’ palm he stirred, mumbling and groaning as he opened his eyes. 

“Doctor,” he slurred, stretching his face like he was trying for a smile.

Anders pulled him up, slowly draped him over his bent shoulder, and dragged him inside. Once he had him on the couch he pushed him water, and tried to hold his eye. “Dorian?” he peered forward, one silver eye glinting past and then the other, as Dorian swayed and blinked in his seat. “Dorian, hey — hey, look at me — did you take anything? Dorian, Dor?” 

Dorian’s eyes found his, and then lit up. “Dor” he giggled. Anders had never heard the blighted man giggle. “You called me a nickname. It’s cute. Dor. Door.” 

“Maker’s breath,” he sighed, hands at his hips as his eyebrows bent in. “Dorian, come on. What were you drinking? Shots? Give me a number.” 

“Hm,” Dorian leaned back, closing his eyes and then swaying again as he lifted a hand to his forehead. “Twelve? No eleven. No twelve, twelve…” he shook his head, “but then…” and it evaporated into mumbling, and Anders had to fight to get his attention again. 

“Fucking twelve?” he breathed, “last time you were falling over yourself at eight.” 

Dorian giggled again, “you counted.”

“Someone had to.”

“That’s sweet. You’re sweet. That’s why I called you. Oh! Anders! I just remembered.” his eyes lit on him again, pupils too big, Anders noted, the silver of his irises only a thin, shining band. 

“Yes? What? Did you take something else?”

“Come here, it’s a secret.” slurring and smarmy and smiling; fucking blight and demons, he was on something. Anders sighed, and leaned slightly closer. Dorian tried, and failed, to kiss him. 

“Fucking — Dorian!” 

Dorian frowned. “I don’t understand why you aren’t.” then, at his own secret little pun, he giggled again, “fucking Dorian!” Anders stared at him, mouth open. What in the Maker’s name was he on? “Sex!” more laughter, apparently amused by the shocked look still plastered across Anders’ face, “I see how you look at me,” he went on, and on something or not, at that Anders’ cheeks flushed crimson, “so why aren’t we?” 

“Because you’re drunk. You should try to throw up.” 

Dorian nodded, a mockery of patient understanding, “mm, tried that. Can’t, see?” he mimed an attempt, and Anders crossed his arms. “Good Tevinter vodka and those magical little, you know…”

Anders crouched again, leaning back in and bracing his shoulders. “What — hey, what?” 

“White — “ he pinched his thumb and forefinger together, then shook his head again, gaze drifting over Anders’ shoulder and wandering away. Anders carefully grasped his shoulders again, and he came back, but to the wrong point. “I’m not always drunk,” he said, “lots of good times for it. And you look at me like that. And I know you fuck, you fuck what’s her name!”  

Anders attempted to steer things back, “what’s white, Dorian, what’s it called?” he started listing names, street drugs and high end party fare, medical products, prescription pills; a lot of things were white. He looked for telling symptoms, but they were all jumbled with the alcohol; warm skin, swaying, the laughter and talking. His eyes wandered, though, moving across the walls as though observing patterns that weren’t there. Only so many white things caused visions. 

“And you’re nice to me,” Dorian went on, “you’re kind to me, so I could — hm” he leaned forward, just gripping Anders’ arm this time, leaning his head into his forehead and closing his eyes, warm breath puffing over Anders’ lips. “Return the favour.” Anders took his shoulders and propped him back up. 

“You don’t have to fuck everyone who’s nice to you,” he said, slowly. Anders stood and took Dorian’s glass to the sink. He filled it, letting the water run from the tap until it was cold, taking just that short moment to breathe. 

“‘Know that,” Dorian was still talking when he returned, “usually don’t.” he took the water, drank some, and almost seemed to stabilize for a moment. “Some people aren’t nice atall...” Then he was gone again, eyes floating up to the ceiling and head moving in a slow circle. 

“Hey, hey,” Anders tried to bring him back again, hands at his shoulders. “What does that mean?”   

“I’m fine, it’s just colours and… moving.” Dorian said, “wasn’t supposed to —” he shook his head out of its rotation, but then fell back, closing his eyes as he muttered through the rest of his sentence, and Anders lost the information forever. He tried to press the water at him again. 

“I’m fine. Not even sick.” Dorian muttered, though he wouldn’t open his eyes. 

“That’s worse, Dorian.” Anders frowned, “I’m going to have to take you to the hospital, get your stomach pumped,” he was never going to leave that place. 

Dorian opened his eyes and did his best to sit up. “No, no hospital.” he was suddenly coherent again, and certain, “they’ll make me stay and I have places to — we have that wedding — and mother can’t — just, let me, let me sleep. Sleep, or…” and he fell back again, muttering and closing his eyes and rubbing his head. 

“Dorian, hey, stay with me, ok? Tell me what you took.” 

“I don’t —” he shook his head, and shrugged deeper into Anders’ couch. 

“Dorian, do you know what you took?” very clear, almost shining, Anders’ voice broke through to him with a breath of something else, something more than his own. 

Dorian shook his head again. “You always take care of me…” he muttered, though he seemed at least half in a dream; a dream with no magic — an alarming lack, now that he felt for it. A mage always has a little, but he was muffled. Barred back. Dorian might have been reckless, but he was not an idiot. There was no way he’d taken something to do that on purpose. “I could,” he was still muttering, and as Anders let out a long, steadying breath, his eyes opened. “You really don’t want me?” 

“That’s not —” and then he was more fire than care, and something in him was annoyed and not sure where to point it, “you should know better.” 

Dorian frowned, “‘know better. Do lots of things even though I know better. I didn’t — didn’t mean to, I just needed…” 

Maker forbid he finish a sentence. It was all nonsense again, half words and a drooping head. 

“Needed what, Dor?” Anders tried to be gentler, to keep him talking. 

“Needed to call you to… didn’t want to, wanted you to...needed — Anders, Anders! We should —” 

Why the fuck did he keep trying to kiss him? He barely got there, a brush of clumsy lips and then, as though the drug halted at their contact, a very quick and guilty withdrawal. Anders stared back at him, half outside himself. He looked terribly sad. 

“Listen,” he breathed, finally, “if we were going to do that I’d want you to remember it.” he said, and then, with a deep, centering breath and tensed, outstretched arms, he began to glow. First from his palms, then with another breath it spread to the wrists, hazy blue and brightening by the second. He took another breath, and some of it coloured his eyes. 

“Hold on, this should work,” he breathed, gently, with as much of his voice as was still his. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to sober you up,” it should work. Alcohol went through him, it stood to reason that other drugs could too, that he could pull out even the magebane, or whatever else he needed to, and that with some concentration and some help, discard their effects. He just hadn’t ever actually tried it. He let more of the power in himself through, blue light spreading through his arms, glowing brighter and brighter from his eyes. 

Dorian flinched back, and a powerful force of something that couldn’t break out pulsed through him. Anders could feel it in the aftershocks, but the barrier stayed locked into the cage made by whatever was binding his magic down, and dissipated with nothing but the force of unfulfilled effort. “Are you —” Dorian’s eyes shot open with wide panic, and his voice shook, “are you a fucking blood mage?” 

“No,” Anders said, though he sounded much less like Anders, whispered and floating from the corners of the room, “a spirit. Just trust me.” 

Dorian nodded, his eyes still wide, but when Anders' hands grasped his arms, he suddenly reached his own hands up to grip tightly over top. He bent his head into Anders’ chest, and faintly, through a broken gasp, from the very edges of his awareness, Anders heard him whisper, “please.” 

It did work. The alcohol left him easily, evaporating from Dorian’s veins as a faint aura of blue light washed over him, then Anders could see the black barrier of silence swimming through him, and little by little his own magic shone through it, banishing it away. Anders kept a part of himself clamped onto the grip he held on Dorian’s arm, and the hard squeeze of the hand over it, while the rest of him floated through song and blood. 

Then it was over, and Dorian was cleared, and he was empty, panting. He dropped his hands from Dorian’s arms, and tried to open his eyes. 

Everything was white, and he was falling. 

Anders reached back out again, a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, eyes shut, breathing. He couldn’t find the ground. 

“Anders?” 

He opened his eyes, there was Dorian, through the glow. 

“How did I get — Anders, what are you —”

Deep breaths. Counting to four. “I need,” broken, breathing, “just hold onto me, please. Just —” he squeezed himself into Dorian, and with enough pressure to bring the world back, Dorian squeezed back. 

He breathed, he counted to four, he breathed, he whispered it, “one,” breathe, “two,” breathe, “three,” breathe, “four,” and back again. He let go. 

Dorian was awake and sober and staring at him with questions and concern written all over his face. Anders sat back, falling uncomfortably onto his backside on the floor, his legs out long. “are you ok?” he asked in a breathless rasp. 

“Am I —” Dorian shook his head, “are you?” He stood up, stable, and then he reached out a hand to Anders, and helped him onto the couch. 

“Do you remember,” Anders tried the question one more time, a sober Dorian next to him as his chest heaved itself up and down, soaked with sweat, and his own eyes refused to remain open, “what happened?” 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dorian shaking his head. “I called you. Something was…” brows furrowed, but just another head shake “— I’m sorry,” his head turned, but Anders closed his eyes to whatever else he was trying to say. 

——

When he woke, Dorian was gone. He’d left a note, and what seemed like every single item on the menu from Marc’s. 

“Anders, I’m sorry. Thank you. Call me, please.” what looked like another apology was scribbled out, under that. 

Anders found his phone still in his pocket, and pulled it out to one new message. 

“I had to go I — I’d understand if you never wanted to speak to me again, but I hope you’ll accept my apologies for last night. I don’t — I’m sketchy on the details, but evidently you’ve been more kind than I’ve a right to and — thank you. If you’ll call I can try to explain, and I hope that you will…” Anders waited, his own breath held as the recording of Dorian took one for himself, “I hope you’ll call.” 

He called. 

Dorian didn’t answer. He texted back with a time, and another apology, and Anders agreed to it. Then he waited. He picked at the food Dorian had left in his chaotic wake, and he fed his cat. He sat on the couch, and stared at his hands. Ordinary, pale-skinned, and flecked with a few short scars and freckles, always a little cold at the fingertips, not glowing. He thought again about the weight of Dorian’s over them, grimaced, and scrubbed one unhappily over the stubble on his chin. That hadn’t been what he’d meant, all those times he’d wanted to hold him. 

“Dorian, what happened to you, where are you I —” 

“I had a meeting. Terribly dull —”

“You’re working?” 

“Anders, are you alright? You passed out, I don’t remember what you did but it must have taken everything out of you, and I can’t — I can’t possibly repay you for that but —”

“Repay me?” Anders brows bent down in a pinch, “Dorian, I just want to know what happened to you. Did someone — are you in trouble?”

There was a pause before the reply. Too long a pause. “No,” he said eventually, “just done in by my own recklessness. It won’t happen again; really. I shouldn’t have…” he paused again.

“Your magic, Dorian, what in the world did that —” 

“Can you come over later?” Dorian interrupted, “we might talk easier.” he said. Anders frowned, and then, hopelessly deep into his habit of agreeing to things with Dorian, he asked for a time.

[buckys-forgotten-plum]

I prefer Bucky, Doll ||3||

Read Part 2 Here

Prompt:  James Buchanan Barnes has been coming to your weekend market table for a while now and finally has something to ask.

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Steven Rogers being an idiot, Y/n also being and idiot, a very sad and very soft James Barnes. 

wowzers a part three. At this rate I might have to actually become a regular writer and not be a lazy pos. 

Please, Like, Follow, Reblog, Comment, Sing, Dance, whatever you wanna do! 

Have a nice day guys and enjoy reading :)

                                                                 ~

“James you look so handsome in your uniform,” you compliment happily to the man standing in front of you.

James had just arrived to take you and Steve to his send off. It was a sad day but you still made sure to wear your prettiest dress and bake a dozen of your famous snicker doodle cookies for him. 

“Thanks doll, you look lovely as usual.” Bucky blushes and looks down at the small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hands. He was a bit embarrassed about his gift choice. why would I get flowers for a girl who sells them for a living. 

“Are you giving those to Stevie?” you joke and motion towards the pretty bundle of flowers that Bucky seemed to be holding on to for dear life. You couldn’t be too mad though, your grip on that poor bag of cookies was just as tight. 

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, handing over the flowers with a sheepish grin, “Sorry doll, can’t say I ain’t nervous or anything,” 

A soft breath of air leaves your lips, “I know, James. It’s going to feel a bit... Lonely, here. Especially at work,” You finish the sentiment with a tight smile. 

James doesn’t respond, only smiles back and takes your hand in his. 

________________________________________________________________

The send off was filled with tears and mothers yelling for their sons safe return. You don’t remember if Steve cried, too busy focusing on your own tears that clouded your vision. You remember Bucky’s mother holding onto him for almost up until he boarded the giant, dark grey ship. You remembered Becca sobbing loudly next to Steve. You remember the way, after his mother letting him go, how he held you. It was tight and all consuming around your smaller frame, his right hand tangled deep into your hair as his left arm wrapped around your waist and his hand was latched to your hip. You remembered how he breathed deeply, shushed you quietly as your violent tears soaked the shoulder of his forest green jacket.

“Don’t cry sweetheart, I promise everything will be fine,” Bucky mumbles into your hair. 

“You can’t promise that James. That’s not fair,” Your voice is scratchy as you cry out a reply. 

“You’re right, honey. But please promise me something? Promise that you’ll look after Steve for me, yeah?” He pulls away just a bit to stare down at your surely makeup stained face. 

“W-What?” your brows furrow, face tilting into the warmth of the soldiers hand. 

“It’s just... Steve’s always had me there, during his father, after his mother. I need you to make sure he stays out of trouble... Keep em’ safe for me alright? He’s kinda stupid,” The smile that adorned James’ face was beautiful as he spoke to you. 

You’d miss it immensely.

“Okay, yes-yes I promise.” You nod your head in agreement, pushing your cheek into his hand even more. 

A sharp intake of breath made its way to your lungs as you see a few tears run down Bucky’s face. You quickly wipe them away, leaving your hands to rest gently on each side of his face. 

“See you soon. Right doll?” His smile spoke volumes as he stared down at you. 

“Of course, Bucky. I’ll see you soon,” You answer, voice shaky and weak. 

With a small, lingering kiss to you forehead and one to each cheek, Bucky lets you go and steps back. With one final wave, he turns to the ship and begins to make the small journey to board. You feel the other three onlookers step beside you and gaze upon the heavy sea of green flowing onto the main deck. 

“Lord, please get my boy home safely. I beg of you,” Ms. Barnes words cut into your heart with a deep pity and you grab onto the sleeve of Steve’s shirt for stability. 

Your small group stands there, watching the process of everyone board as family after family says goodbye to their sons, fathers, brothers, husbands... 

At some point in time, you couldn’t remember when, James’ family went home, while you and Steve stayed at the docks until the sun had begun to set. You had stopped crying after you had run out of tears to shed, Steve being there to comfort you the whole time. He told you empty promises of James’ safe return in a couple months but you couldn’t believe him, you weren’t blinded to the fatalities and ugliness of war, for God’s sake your mother had been a nurse in the first World War, she had returned with an abundance of scars and lack of hearing, Your father wasn’t fortunate to be able to come home...

“You wanna get out of here kid?” Steve’s voice had broken you out of your seemingly endless train of thoughts as he quietly asked the question.

“I’m not too sure yet Stevie... You can go on home if you need, I know you get sick real easy and it’s gonna start gettin’ cold soon,” your voice was hoarse and painful as it ground its way from your lips. 

“Y/n, you know I would never leave you out here alone! Come on, let’s get some food in ya,” Steve stood up and held his hand out for you to take. 

You hesitated for a moment before allowing his hand to grab yours and stand up. 

________________________________________________________________

Steve ended up taking you to the same diner that Bucky had taken you to on your first (and sadly last) date. It was warm and quiet inside, the newest big band record playing from the jukebox filled the air quietly, creating a comforting environment that soothed your aching heart just the slightest bit. 

“You want some pancakes, Doll?” Steve asked, a small teasing smile gracing his lips. 

You pull a sad smile on to your face and shake your head, “Just a malt is fine Stevie, thank you,” 

“Comin’ right up,” he assured, lightly knocking on the table you had chosen for your visit before heading up to the counter to get the waitress’s attention. 

As you waited, your fingers messed with the hem of your dress, tugging at the soft material and running your fingers over the few wrinkles that had managed to set themselves into it. It wasn’t long until Steve had returned with too delicious malts in his hands. You both drank the majority of them in a comfortable silence, enjoying the warm atmosphere and  each others company. 

“He’ll be alright, I know he will,” Steve mumbles, his eyes gazing up at you and just for a second, it seemed as though Steve was trying to convince himself more than you. 

You reached across the table and placed your hand upon Steve’s, “You’re right, he will,” You tried to put as much confidence in your voice as you could muster, hoping it would be enough to calm you friend. 

“Are you ready to go?” 

You nodded in agreement, Steve wasting no time in standing up and offering you his hand like the gentlemen he was. “Thank you Stevie,” 

“No problem doll,” he smiles gently, removing his hand from yours and placing it lighting on your back.

The walk back to your apartment, you assumed, would have been uneventful, until Steve had seen a recruitment center, making his feet stutter in their movements. 

“Y/n your apartment is just down the block right?” he asked absentmindedly. 

A sigh escaped your lips before you could even think about responding, “Steven don’t-” 

“It’s fine, I’ll only be minute if you don’t feel comfortable walking the rest of the way,” Steve mumbled and began walking towards the entrance like he was in some sort of trance.

“Steven Rogers you will not sign up again. You’ve done it so many times your bound to get caught, you’ve never passed one before-” “Y/n my best friend just left on a boat to go save countless lives, I owe him this,” 

You hurriedly followed Steven into the mess of canopy and folding chairs, refusing to back down.

“You owe yourself your life Steve. This is ridiculous, there are so many other ways you can help,” Your hand reached out and gripped onto his arm, turning him towards you and staring into his eyes.

“What? Collecting scrap metal like little Timmy?” “Steve-” “ Working in a factory? Y/n men are laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them, that’s what you don’t get. It isn’t about me,”

Your brows scrunched in frustration, “right, cause you got nothing to prove? At all?” 

Steve’s jaw clenched as he glanced away from you, “You can’t stop me from doing this, Y/n. I’m sorry, you just can’t,” 

You let out another begrudged sigh and refrained from slapping the man in front of you, “Fine. I’m coming with you then,” 

“What? No you’re not, the war is no place for a girl like you,” You blanched at his words. 

“A girl like me? Steve I grew up with three brothers, I have two master's degrees, and I have more than enough knowledge on what goes on in war due to what my parents went through before I was born, so excuse me but you have your views completely backwards. Now, let’s get this done and over with so I can go home because today has been complete hogwash,” You huff, grabbing Steves wrist and dragging the frozen man over to the check-in. 

________________________________________________________________

Steve was now sitting on an exam table, shoes pushed off into the corner and sleeves rolled up. You sat in another corner, ankles neatly crossed and hands folded stiffly in your lap. A young doctor stood at the small counter set up, quietly going over the documents in hand. You had no doubt they would reject Steve, just like the other five recruitment offices. Steve had the longest list of illnesses and disabilities you had ever seen, when he had first introduced himself to you it was after he had suffered an asthma attack while walking around the market with Bucky. 

Everything seemed fine until a pretty nurse walked into the room, quietly whispering into the doctors ear and leaving with him in a hurry. You could see Steve stiffen from where you sat as he quickly looked over his shoulder, his eyes roaming to the sign above your head, stating that it was illegal to lie on your form. 

“Steve,” you bit quietly in warning, your ankles uncrossing and getting ready to dash out. 

“Yup, got it, leavin’, you were right,” he agreed immediately and jumped to put his shoes on. 

“You’re damn right I was,” you mutter under your breath, too stressed to remain ladylike. 

Another man enters the room and you both freeze from your escape, two sets of wide, cautious eyes stare at the intruder as he casually walks over to the counter.  “So... You want to go overseas, kill some Nazis,” the accent made the both of you perk up a bit as you stared in awe at the doctor in front of you. 

“Excuse me?” Steve asked, slightly taken aback. 

“Dr. Abraham Erskine, I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve,” the man walks over to you, offering his hand for you to take, which you quickly do, shaking it firmly and quietly saying you name before the doctor moves back to Steve. 

“Steve Rogers,” the man introduces, stiffly taking the others hand. 

Doctor Erskine turns away and begins to shuffle through his stack of papers once more, “Where you from?” Steve asks suddenly. 

“Steven,” you gasp at his rude intrusion and the meaning behind it. 

“It’s alright miss, I live in Queens, but if it’s that important to you, I originate from Germany, this bothers you?” Erskine’s response is calm as he turns to Steve, giving a pointed look at the other man. 

Steve shakes his head quickly, “no,”

There’s a beat of silence before the doctor responds, “Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? Mmm? Is it New Haven? Or Paramus? Five exams in five different cities,” 

He had been figured out, a sigh escaped your lips and you clapped your hand to your forehead in a mixture of defeat and frustration. 

“That might be the wrong file-” “forget about the exams, I do not care about the exams... Five different tries, now that is something I am interested in. Do you want to kill Nazis?” the doctor asked, eyes locked onto Steve's. 

“Is this a test?”

 “Yes;” 

“I don’t want to kill anybody, I just...Don’t like bullies,” Steve answered, his voice quiet but firm. 

“There are many big men fighting this war, have been for a long time, maybe now what we need,” the doctor paused for a moment, glancing in your direction, then back to Steve, “maybe we need a little guy,” 

Your eyes shot up in shock, “You’re taking him?” 

“I can give him a chance,” the doctor answered. 

“I’ll take it,” Steve agreed quickly, hopping to his feet. 

Doctor Erskine turns to you, “Miss Y/L/N, you seem... Upset,” 

“I made a promise to someone I care deeply for that I would keep Steve from doing anything stupid,” you let out a dry laugh, standing up and looking to the man who had sealed Steve’s fate. 

“So that means it would likely be best you accompany him, yes?” 

“What?” Both yours and Steve voice ask in shock, glancing at each other then back to the seemingly crazy doctor. 

“It doesn’t take much to look up a last name in these files and see if any family has served before, Miss Y/L/N. Your parents are highly decorated service members, I can only hope you have inherited their gifts?” 

You smile proudly and look Doctor Erskine in the eyes, “Fully graduated with a Masters in molecular biochemistry and another in Bioengineering sir,” 

“Your parents must be very proud, you have a chance to build upon that pride. I have a place for you on my team,” 

“A-Are you serious? Would I be staying alongside Steve?” Your voice shook as you tried to understand your situation. 

“Assuming that he doesn’t waste his single chance, that is correct. So, are you truly willing to keep your promise to that person? Will you be joining us?” Both men stared back at you expectantly as your mind reeled to catch up with what was happening. 

It only took a moment to figure out your only option. 

“When are we leaving?” You ask, finality in your voice and a new feeling beginning to bloom in your chest. 

[star-going-supernova]

So, if Maddie could become a titan, what would she looks like and what would her powers be? To be honest, since she hás a defiant and determined nature, and a titan’s roar, I had to send you this question.

Okay, so I’ve spent a long time thinking about this, and I really wish I could draw what I’m imagining, but here’s hoping I describe it well enough. also, i had a lot of fun with this, please just go with it because i can’t do things by half most of the time and it’s also really long oops So, if I could design what Maddie as a Titan would be like, I would keep the basic shape of a human. Mostly.

• • •

Titanus Madison stands upright on two legs, with a slightly hunched posture. She is about half Godzilla’s size at around 200 feet tall, and her base color is a dark brown with lighter green and yellow accents. Her skin lacks scales but is rough and thick, akin to flexible tree bark. Bullets, as with most Titans, do little more than irritate her.

Her arms are proportioned differently from a human’s, longer and bearing a curved spike emerging from the elbow with the point facing upward. It’s connected in such a way that the spikes remain aligned with her forearms when she flexes the joint. A bone in its own right, a good jab from one has been catalogued to do serious damage when ripped through a fellow Titan’s stomach.

She leaves circular footprints behind, cracking pavement and compressing dirt from the pressure. She lacks a separate appendage at the end of her legs, as instead, they merely widen at the base for stability. This causes her no discernible difficulty with maneuvering.

Titanus Madison’s hands are human-like in dexterity and design. She bears opposable thumbs, and the fingers themselves are pointed. Past incidents prove them to be as dangerous as if they were tipped with claws. Similarly to her elbows, the base knuckles all exhibit short spikes, and Titanus Madison has been known to punch in a manner identical to humans.

Her head and facial structure mimics a human’s as well, with a few exceptions, particularly of her nose. It is both less pronounced and significantly flatter. Her eyes are longer than a typical humans, and are more of a rounded diamond shape. They appeared to be a solid green, like that of leaves in summer, but closer inspection in recent years shows a dozen different hues of green and gold making up the surface. The patterns of the different shades seem to reflect the direction she’s looking and other tells usually seen in an iris and pupil.

Just as early depictions of some Titans make them out to be gods, early depictions of Titanus Madison seem to relate her to Mother Nature, perhaps because her periods of stillness have resulted in moss and flowers consistently growing out of her skin. Whether she has any influence on where they grow, our studies have not been able to determine an answer. Regardless, she is almost always covered in great amounts of foliage and wildlife. Birds have been seen perched on her even when she’s moving.

Vocalizations are varied. Most are sounds our own vocal cords are capable of producing, though on a louder and usually deeper level. In some instances, she has managed to mimic the cries of a human to a nearly disturbing degree. Her screams are either long and piercing, or short and bellowing. More recently, Titanus Madison has proved capable of humming a tune, after one was played for her several times over a loudspeaker. Despite how different her bioacoustics are from most other Titans, there has been no indication of difficulty with communicating.

Curiously, Titanus Madison has not been known to display any unique abilities. It could be possible she simply has not had a need to, however, as a number of other Titans have displayed protective tendencies toward her. See incident report [Titanus Gojira Attacks Black Market Harvesters] as an example of such.  Additionally, after witnessing the effective damage she is capable of causing merely by punching—and subsequently dragging the spikes on her knuckles across her victim’s face, particularly the eyes—we believe this is deterrent enough for most Titans. Whether she lacks radiation-fueled “powers” entirely or we have simply yet to observe them, we do not know.

Final notes: Titanus Madison is friendly above all else. She attacks only when provoked and displays logical processing when she does. She wanders the world and shows no irritation when humans approach her, provided they display no ill intentions. Nature flourishes, quite literally, in her footsteps. Given the chance, she appears to take delight in watching humans, and there are records of her intervening in a variety of incidents, such as natural disasters and particularly violent car crashes. Her relationship with most Titans appears friendly at the least, and familial in a few particular cases.

End of file.

[echobearclasspectingblog]

If you've got the time, could you analyze this session? It's got a Knight of Light, Mage of Heart, Maid of Space, and Sylph of Breath (all female if that helps anything). Thanks! :)

Got a Maid and a Sylph huh? Lucky for you, I just finished my research on them and have a fully solid hold on all the classes now. My personal definitions for classpects are now solid enough to hold up until either Sburb hits or Hussie puts out another personality quiz that defines what classes are, whichever comes first. So you’ll be the first to benefit from my complete system! Let’s get into the session.

Knight of Light - One who serves Light or serves using Light

Mage of Heart - One who Knows Heart or knows through Heart through experience

Maid of Space - One who encourages creation of Space or encourages creation using Space

Sylph of Breath - One who creates Breath or creates things using Breath

You have a space player, required to create a genesis frog. You have no time player, which means the session is not capable of being scratched. Light, Heart, and Breath kind of make the player combination feel lighter and more positive in terms of aspect at first glance. Not just because of the aspects themselves but the combinations between them look like very good ones. The classes seem like a fine mix too, they look like they should get along fine and there’s no harsh imbalance between them. As for the all female thing, unless they’re significantly effected by societies viewpoints of gender and carry that into the session, the only major factor to consider is that they’d need to make sure that some ecto-biology labs stay in good condition when they enter their universe so they can populate the place. Well, that is if they’re human, troll girls wouldn’t have that problem as long as they have a matriorb.

Now that my first reactions are out of the way, let’s get into the actual analysis part of this. First, individual strengths and weaknesses of the player’s classpects followed by how the classpects potentially mix or don’t mix.

A knight of light serves knowledge, fortune, and illumination. Seems like a pretty good player to have on your side, making sure the others are given all the luck they need to deal with paradox space’s shenanigans. Light players are also good at digging into information, including  the mechanics of sburb itself, and as a knight they’ll put that knowledge to good use. Luck isn’t limitless though and if they use weapons or items that depend on chance it’s possible they could get a bad “roll” at a critical moment and the loss could mean another doomed timeline.

A mage of heart understands feelings, romance, and the soul. This player seems like a good fit for team therapist, which is a great thing to have in a situation as traumatic as a session of sburb. Having someone who understands souls in a game you could end up in contact with dozens of ghosts is another benefit, being able to get the maximum amount of help from your dead doomed selves or other ghosts. The all female part of this session does come into play with the mage since she’s the type who’d want to be in a relationship if possible, mages love being in the middle of their aspect after all. If she’s straight, or if all of the other players are, then it’ll mostly effect the mage. If both her and at least one other player is bi or homosexual, then that could lead to player dating, which could lead to complications.

A maid of space encourages creation of beginnings, planetary bodies, and creativity. Getting everybody in a good brainstormy mood is always good for alchemizing sessions. Plus getting prospitians or dersites to have new beginnings could help change the flow of the session for the better, helping them become more than just another chess person. A maid of space might not be as direct in their job to breed the genesis frog meaning someone will have to make sure the job does get done.

A sylph of breath creates freedom, flow, and air. Making more exceptions to the rules of paradox space so the players have more freedom playing. Making breathable air is also a great ability to have when you need it. They’d also be able to make windstorms constantly, forever, so personality and/or player infighting could make her a very dangerous person.

The connection between the knight of light and the mage of heart would probably be generally positive, as the mage would understand more vague things like feelings and emotions to either help the knight understand them better or just act directly to help the knight in those areas since light applies to more bookish knowledge from what I’ve seen of it. The maid would be a great influence on the knight, helping her apply her knowledge and luck in more creative ways to better serve everyone. The sylph of breath seems like a more neutral combination with the knight, extra freedom could allow more ‘fortunate things to use but making too much freedom could unhinge things from the conventional wisdom the knight might try to use in the first place. Knights are also at risk for getting stuck in certain ways of thinking and the sylph could be a good person for pushing her past some toxic habits.

The knight would be a good stabilizing friend for the mage of heart, keeping her grounded and reminding her not to lose sight of what’s going on around her as the mage gets into her own aspect. Both the attention and knowledge traits of the light aspect would be at play there. The maid encouraging the mage could lead to some interesting creations… like maybe a planet for a bunch of ghosts? It’s hard to tell, but I’d call it a good combo. The sylph could lead to the mage having more ‘open’ relationships, and not everyone can make those work so romantic trouble could be right around the corner. On the bright side the sylph would also allow the mage to have more choice what they are feeling at any particular moment, keeping them from being trapped in an emotional rut.

Your main support for the maid’s frog breeding will be the knight of light. Serving with both intelligence and luck will be a huge help for any space player, the main issue I could see here is that maids encourage others to create so it’s a matter of if she’ll do the frog breeding or try to get the knight or someone else to do it for her. Even if that’s the case, I think the knight/space player combo is good and the frog breeding should be smooth. Unless some sort of soul emergency pops up, the mage’s classpect would be purely neutral towards frog breeding duties. Using windstorms to fly frogs all around the planet to ensure maximum frog choice for paradox cloning makes the sylph of breath a good partner for helping with the maid’s quest.

For any rebellions the sylph might start, the knight would be there to provide backup in the form of lucky breaks and intel. The mage’s insight to the soul combined with the sylph would result in astral projection type powers, as well as freeing individuals from the alpha timeline entirely. Maid and sylph seems like they’d either be a little redundant or highly synergistic, one helping to create and the other already a creative type. Leave these two with the alchemizing machines and you’ll have a lot of space/breath styled items, armor, and weapons to use. Just don’t leave them too long or they’ll probably get so wrapped up in making things they forget to work on the actual quests.

You’ve got a good combination of classpects here as far as I can see. A balance of energy keeping things from being too hectic or too laid back. Very little outright negative classpect syncs with quite a few good ones. Even without knowing other details about these players I just get the vibe of them being good friends, which is a good trait to have for a session. The biggest problem with the classpects of these 4 aren’t what’s here but what’s not, and that’s the lack of a time player. I think a sburb session is possible without a time player, but it is a huge handicap.

Genesis frog breeding should go smoothly. Completing the sburb session in general has a decent chance too with this team. Again, the main issue is no time player, which means no scratching if things really go badly. It also means you’ll probably have less access to time travel than other sessions do. I’d say your sylph is the best shot for emergency time traveling, followed by the knight, or contacting another session if you’re desperate.

[kennacrab23]

Inspired by this lovely prompt filled by @tinyarmedtrex and dedicated to anyone who tries to govern what creators can and cannot create. Enjoy! 

The time on the clock keeps ticking by. At first, it’s an approximate recollection. Oh, Richie said he’d be home by eight. Should be home anytime now. But as minutes morph into an hour, he realizes Richie isn’t coming home tonight. Or at least not until the dead of the night, long after his own departure to bed. Eddie wants to be angry; he yearns with every bone in his body to hate Richie for not being there. But in all honesty, he can’t.

He knows it’s not Richie’s fault, not by far; his job is demanding and it happens to pay most of their bills right now so he knows it’s necessary. And it’s not like Richie does so without warning, or ever disappears for hours on end. He always received texts and phone calls informing him and desperately apologizing for being late or for missing dates or anniversaries. He always finds a way to make it up to him and Eddie loves Richie endlessly for that.

But that’s part of the problem. He loves Richie so intensely; he has for the seven years of their relationship followed by the last three of their marriage. Richie is and will always be the one true love of his life. So it hurts that much more when Richie’s not there.

Between Richie coming home late most nights and Eddie having to get up early for work most mornings, the two rarely get any quality time together. The two were independent, they never fretted over the fact while some of their friends were quite the opposite, attached at the hips with their significant others. Eddie never felt the need to be around Richie constantly because honestly, they both had their own separate lives and that’s more than okay. The two had always prided themselves on their strong relationship.

Spending most nights alone gets lonely rather quickly. Sure, Eddie has hobbies to keep himself busy. In the beginning, Eddie enjoys being able to hog the TV remote and scarf down ridiculous amounts of take out. Granted, they all tend to be things he can easily do with Richie around, but not having to share and spending time by himself is so satisfying. But there’s a point, one he’s reached out this snowy February evening, where he’s had enough.

He misses Richie so desperately. Misses his smile, his kiss, the way his hands always seem to find an excuse to be on him. No, Eds, you were going to fall I was just grabbing your butt to stabilize you. That leads to an entirely other, equally saddening train of thought. It’s been nearly half a year since the last time they had sex and they hadn’t touched each other in any way for the last half of that. Not for lack of trying. On multiple occasions, Eddie eagerly offered to suck Richie off, whispering dirty words in his ear and letting his fingers ghost over his crotch. But every time, Richie shrugged him off, with an apologetic kiss and a I’m just too tired right now Eds. More than once, Eddie even got desperate enough to insist that Richie needn’t return the favor. But eventually, Eddie got sick of trying and Richie never mentioned it.

For better or worse, Eddie reminds himself as he slowly bundles up to make the journey from their shared home to the closest bar a few blocks away. Eddie glances at his phone; his last message from Richie was a little over an hour ago, telling Eddie not to wait up for him. The words stare back at him, mocking every thought running through his mind.

The entire walk to the bar is filled with dozens of happy memories, a dozen firsts the two share. Their first kiss which took place on a hot summer day in the Barrens. Their first time which, as cliche as it was, happened on prom night during their senior year. They spent the next few years at college together, experiencing so many wild firsts together. After that, they moved into their first apartment together, a shitty little one bedroom in New York, that cost entirely too much for two fresh out of college students. Some people think they did things a little backwards as they bought their first home together before they were even engaged, but it worked for them. And the day they moved in, Richie got down on one knee and pretended to tie his shoe. When Eddie got mad and stormed off, Richie pulled him back, kissed him and asked him for real. A year later, they shared their first dance as husbands.

That memory, perhaps one of the most heart wrenching, hits exactly as he sits down at the bar, ordering a shot of whiskey. He downs it all too easily and immediately orders another one. At first, he doesn’t notice the stranger a few seats away, their eyes fixed on him. But then, they move a few seats down until they’re seated right now to him.

“Hey there,” they greet him with a warm smile. They have a drink in their hand, half empty and they don’t appear to be drunk; they must’ve been here for a while. “You here alone?”

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers in response, a bitter edge to his tone and it’s beyond evident as the stranger leans over to rub their hand over his arm.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Eddie looks over at the stranger with their soft hazel eyes and short brown hair. All he can do is shake his head and attempt to hold back the tears welling up in his eyes. “No,” he whispers this time.

“Well can I just say that whoever is making you feel like this isn’t worth it,” the stranger says, with all the best intentions dripping from their sweet, gentle voice.

Something about those words seems to break down the dam in his mind, the one holding back the tears because now they’re freely trickling down his cheeks as he struggles to find the words to tell this stranger that the one making him feel like this worth everything.

Eddie watches the stranger down the rest of their drink, before meeting his gaze once again. “Why don’t you come back to my place and we can talk all about it,” they suggest, smiling softly as their thumb continues to stroke over Eddie’s arm.

The touch is warm and inviting, somehow feeling more intimate than the past year of his marriage. He knows, at this point, he should just go home, wait for Richie to stumble in hours later, and appreciate the fact that he gets to share a life with him at all. But the thought of falling asleep alone again feels much too painful for his mind to comprehend. And with the way the alcohol is swirling around in his stomach, he’s got just enough courage to make the wrong decision, for once.

So instead Eddie nods, using one hand to wipe away the tears trickling down his cheeks and the other to take the outstretched hand of the stranger as they lead him out of the bar.

[dontcallmekoda]

Depression is stupid

So I’m gonna start by saying i literally made a new account because I have friends on my old one (which i haven't posted on in years btw) that i don’t really want to see this.

Well lets get into it

I was diagnosed, while in the military, with chronic depression.  I’ve gone through counseling, tried natural supplements, and even been on medication but everything only seems to work temporarily.  No matter what i seem to do it always comes back. Counseling was my favorite of the three because with the other 2 it felt like i was corking the problem and not attempting to resolve it.  Now i haven’t been to a counselor in a few years as I’ve been able to keep it at bay with good habits (eating better, getting adequate sleep, taking time for socializing, etc.) however I knew I’d still need to deal with it I’m just doing my best to minimize it.  With that being said I’m noticing the patterns of it coming on again and that scares me because depression has made me do some stupid things in the past and I do not want to ruin where i have got myself to.  I have a good job, a nice truck, a good relationship with both my parents (which was not always the case) and frankly i found myself truly happy with how far i have come but i want to continue moving forward which is why i made this account to vent about the stupid things I’m doing as to not let them fester in my mind overthinking them dozens of times.

So one of my first signs actually has to do with my interactions with the opposite sex.  I’ve never been any kind of womanizer or fuck boy for that matter but when i start to notice a decline the first thing i start to want is an orgasm. Although,when you are Poly and single that can be pretty hard to obtain, also add in the fact that I’m not really a charmer and I’ve always been the weirdo of the group and that leads to me having only really ever had 2 sexual relationships.  Now wanting to have an orgasm i feel is pretty natural the dopamine helps stabilize to keep you from feeling so down you cant do anything so i usually end up masturbating but that can tend to be like eating bread when you want a sandwich.  Anyways I still usually try and find someone to hookup with or start a relationship with at this time which is hard because a hookup would have to be a friend or someone i already have some sort of connection with and i believe that has lead to quite a few female acquaintances distancing themselves because of the way i acted and i always seem to regret that when i get my head back on straight.  A relationship however isn’t better because I’m usually rushing past all the red flags and putting myself into a shitty situation in which i end up hurting the other person due to my lack of perception in the early part of the relationship.  Even though this process normally starts because of my problems i always end up blaming myself and making my condition worse because of my urges and it honestly saddens me that there are many awesome people who will probably only remember me as a fuck boy that tried to get into their pants at one point.

Now obviously there are two threads from here the one where i was with someone and the one where i was by myself.  I’d like to dive into the relationship thread first as that has never worked out the way i hoped (see Single above) now i have gone through my lows in both romantic relationships and each had a different outcome due to having different partners so ill go through each individually.  My first was definitely my first love we spent so much time together that we basically lived together at least 18 months of our 2 years together.  She was with me through basic and it was after basic that my depression really hit me hard (uncorked my medication while in service and i was basically told i wasnt good enough for military even though i had perfect scores through basic) and she stayed and helped me through that.  We stayed together for almost a full year after basic until i was fired from not 1 but 2 jobs.  The firings killed my confidence and i was so low that i didn’t want to drag my love down with me and distanced myself.  One thing led to another and eventually she left me for someone else who she is still happy with today.  Now on to relationship number 2 and this one was a little different as it started with me already in a depression.  It had been 5 years since me and my previous girlfriend had broken up and i was pretty down.  I lived with 2 actors who could bring girls in just about whenever they wanted and that led me to compare myself to them can be pretty degrading when they start talking numbers and while theirs are in the 20s and 30s and you have to sit back like well at least I’m not a virgin.  Enter my second girlfriend who was very obviously into me and i jumped into it like a recovering junkie.  It took me about 2 weeks to establish a connection with her and then when i was comfortable and able we did the deed and i started to feel better about myself little by little as my confidence grew so did my performance at work and thus came raises and i was able to buy my new-ish truck and cross that off my bucket list.  With everything that was going on i fell in love with this girl not for who she was but who she had helped me become and now that i look back that feels very selfish of me.  It then became my goal to help her in whatever way i could as she had anxiety that affected her very harshly.  I did everything i could but started to feel overbearing and like help wasn’t what she wanted.  After time all the red flags that had been there since the beginning started choking me like a bad scarf of my own design.  She started turning on me for helping her and when i decided to leave she threatened to kill herself for it.  Seeing how toxic the relationship had become i left but i feel like if i had been more coherent in the beginning i wouldn’t have hurt her as bad.

Now on to the second thread of being single.  The ebb and flow is pretty common as the vast majority of the time i have been single.  We’ll start this thread from after i have already hit the depression and then move to the effects (note: many of these symptoms i go through in relationship too its just how i handled them that changes).  I begin by spending less time following my good habits usually my personal care declines (stop showering everyday, don’t get enough sleep, eat like crap, etc.) then it starts affecting my job, i make little mistakes which i get harder and harder on myself about the gremlin in my head (who doesn’t pay rent) starts telling me how worthless i am and how i can never live up to anyone standards even my own and whatnot. Next i begin to distance myself from friends and family feeling like i’m a burden and that people are faking how they feel about me.  I then lose the ability to focus on just about anything even worse than normal (adhd too yay).  Finally, i begin to lash out at anyone who kept close and usually end up quitting my job and getting stuck like this for months.  In the past this has led to me losing the ability to work many places in my city,  tarnishing relationships especially those of my parents in the past, weight gain, less self confidence than when i started, and eventually me somehow getting out of the hole usually through a new job or friendship or something else random.  The results of these has led to me having 13 jobs in the last 7 years and i have probably chased off more friends than some people have had.

Anyways this has been my rant on why depression is stupid.  I would like to say i did not come here and write this looking for help I came to vent my frustrations of my own chemical imbalance.  To anyone who has decided to take the time to read this feel free to send me any questions as i enjoy talking about my struggle if it helps someone else all in all that is the one thing that has always made me feel better is when i can be a light for one persons darkness and so i ask if you are also in a dark place reach out because it cant help the person helping you just as much...if that makes sense