I’ve been a Wof fan since the tender age of 10. I was also an internet kid, so I’ve been in this fandom a long time. So I’ll say it with my chest, this fandom has killed a lot of the pure wonder and love I once had, and try to still have, for this series.
No one is excited for anything. No one can enjoy anything. There’s no hype. There’s only complaining. Everything is wrong, and bad, and apparently horribly written even though Tui is clearly just having fun with her little dragon books yet y’all expect Cormac McCarthy level writing from her.
This is what some of y’all sound like:
“These characters suck! Those characters suck! Why? Well..because I said so?”
“Dark colored dragons are the villains (even though they are clearly based off of caucasian Nazi’s)?? This must be racist!!!”
“Tui made a (clearly unintentional) mistake when mentioning a character’s age? She’s a p!doph!le!! She groomed me!”
^^^(unfortunately, this is a real claim I’ve seen)
post: This book is horrible, let me tell you why…
Me: *nodding, actually excited to read this critical post, as I agree this particular book in the series is not the best*
Y’all: ACTUALLY, it sucks because it doesn’t affirm my headcannons, and doesn’t focus on the particular niche background characters I wished it focused on! Nye-hehehe!! Tui is the most illiterate writer!!!
Me: good heavens.
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Dead of Winter
Word Count: 1,070
Description: a vent piece, simple as that.
TW/CW: *please take the extra second to read this, I never want to trigger anyone* drug use (weed, cocaine); dub-con (it’s mentioned that Dabi and reader sleep together while under the influence, but there’s no details); mentions of physical abuse, emotional abandonment, parental struggles, self hate; mentioned that reader and Dabi have a toxic on/off relationship
A/N: If this helps you, feel free to reblog it. If you hate it, please don’t come at me over it in my ask box. I didn’t write this for entertainment purposes. I wrote it for me. That being said, if you have questions about what I've written, or just need someone to lean on, please reach out. I know the holidays can be rough.
As always, MDNI
“Don’t fucking touch me, I got it.”
Your words are sharp as they fall off your lips, normally so sweet, normally so careful with the way you speak, weighing each word carefully before you release them.
Dabi’s hand falls from the space between you, never quite reaching you but close enough that the air between you grows heavy with tension following your warning.
There’s no sounds in the cold winter air except for the frantic clicking of a lighter and your cursing under your breath as it consistently fails to light the blunt perched between your teeth.
The air is cold, even for him, and he knows you have to be freezing in your tshirt, snow coating the mountain landscape before you.
Any other time, he’d snap back at you over your tone, tell you to watch your fucking mouth and stop being a brat, but not this time.
He knows you’re hurting. He knows you’re not angry with him, but you are angry with the world itself and he knows that rage all too well. Knows how it burns down everything that stands in its path with its intensity.
Winter is always hard for you. It’s gotten harder every year, and he thought for sure that last year he was gonna lose you.
You’d cut him out, which wouldn’t have worried him so much if you hadn’t cut out everyone else too. He was used to the back and forth between you, had faith that you’d come back to him eventually.
But he hadn’t expected you to fade so fast. He hadn’t expected to see you so empty. Spending sleepless nights lost in alcohol, and when that stopped working, trying drugs you swore you’d never touch, never even consider.
He remembers those moments too well, remembers watching you become increasingly wired from across the room, at a party he never thought you’d enjoy. He remembers the way you’d tug frantically at his clothes when you’d notice him, begging sweetly against his mouth for him to lay you down, remembers the way you’d cut him out again the next day.
If he was honest, he’d admit both of you were too far gone to have stayed away from one another in the first place. Swapping bitter kisses in an empty hallway, the taste of white powder from your gums lingering on his tongue long after you were gone.
He knows you hate yourself for that. Knows that because of it, you look in the mirror and see the person you swore you would never become prominent in your features, a genetic curse in more ways than one.
He feels the same way whenever he sees Endeavor’s eyes glaring back at him in the mirror.
He knows you’re haunted by more than just what you see though, he’s watched you flinch when someone has moved a hand too quickly towards you, watched you take in everything in the room like your life depends on it, watched you catalogue every reaction, every tone thrown in your direction, ready to bare your teeth and fight at a moments notice. There are still some things you won’t speak to him about, things that have cut you deeper than he can imagine, things that have steadily hunted and consumed any peace you manage to find.
It had taken everything in you to pick yourself up after last year, and he’d stood by and waited patiently for that fire to spark in you again, there to prop you up when you needed him until you found your footing again.
But winters are hard. They’re filled with familial expectations, traditions you’ve never been allowed to partake in, absences you can ignore until you can’t, and you pretend like it’s fine, laugh it off like you’ve never been hurt. But he knows it weighs heavy on you. He sees it.
It’s why you’re desperately trying to get high in the middle of a December night in a tshirt of all things, hands trembling. You’re not sleeping nowadays, and while he’s not exactly the picture of stability and health himself, he knows its not good for you to spend so many days awake without sleep.
He’s broken out of his thought by your strangled shout, arm flying back to launch your lighter into the darkness, the snow cushioning its fall and maintaining the silence.
Your shoulders rise and fall heavily, fists clenched at your sides and he doesn’t need to see your face to know there’s a desperate look in your eyes as you fight back tears, fight back the urge to go find something stronger than weed to dull everything, the memory of being so numb heavier on your mind the longer that winter drags on.
He doesn’t say anything still. He knows it wouldn’t help. He knows you’d just feel pitied and ashamed, no matter how many times you’ve pulled him out of this same darkness, refusing to let anyone help you despite the fact that all you ever do is help everyone else.
He’d laugh if it wasn't so sad.
All you’ll allow him to do for now is share in the silence, allow him to lend you his company, and he’d like to think it helps. Keeps you from wandering too far from yourself.
This time, when he reaches for you again, you let him. Let him gently take the blunt and use his quirk to light it, inhaling deeply before he passes it back to you. He can’t help but notice the way your hands shake (more than usual) as you hold it, and he makes a mental note to pay attention to if you’re eating enough.
He still says nothing as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders and crowding your back for extra measure, arms warm as they wind tightly around your waist, his cheek resting on your head.
“Thanks.”
He’s never heard anyone sound so tired when you speak, like you’d shatter with just a single touch, but he holds you tight anyways, let’s his warmth seep through the clothing separating the two of you.
He hopes for just a moment, he’ll be able to make you feel his love. Make you feel that you’re not alone, no matter how badly you try to minimize damage by being so.
And silently, while the smoke from your mouth clouds his view of the stars above you both, he prays that winter ends soon.
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I’m currently sat on the floor of A&E (ER) with my little brother. He can’t sit or stand but apparently the hospital has nowhere for him to lie down whilst we await assessment. Now, I know that is bullshit, there MUST be a gurney or something somewhere, but instead we have had to make a bed out of pillows on the floor.
It’s just so hard not to get angry. The NHS is so badly underfunded and under staffed, and I know this, but when I see my best friend, my baby brother, in so much pain that he literally is struggling to exist, it makes me so fucking angry. It doesn’t help that the nurses really have no bedside manners and don’t seem to know how to work with patients who have medical ptsd.
I feel so helpless. My brother-in-law just got top surgery 6 days ago and is doing his best, and I’ve been staying with them all weekend to try and help as much as I can but it just sucks so much.
What makes it worse is the issue he is here with is something he had surgery for TWICE last year, at this hospital, so literally we just need to get the ball rolling so he can get surgery in the morning.
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