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inkskinned · 1 year

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im gonna start a fight; and, at the same time, i need you to take this in the most good-faith way possible, but:

videos that involve body-checking and intentionally (and uncritically) show a mealplan of an unhealthy number of calories are just a revamped version of pro-ana food diaries.

and yeah, i know there's arguments. i address some of them under the cut. but at the end of the day, we're just coming back to romanticizing mental illness; we've just found a better platform for it.

this is already something we've done. we knew it was wrong and tried to stop it. and tbh. it just wasn't enough.

there are people who argue "well, what if you have an eating disorder, you can't help it if you don't eat!" except that as someone with an ED; we are not infants. we know what we're doing. part of having an ED is that you are like, maybe too self-aware. even if we can't help our own food choices, we don't need to fucking romanticize the disorder - something we've been warning you about since 2013. there are hours of setup, filming, and editing that go into these videos. they do not happen to fall into place randomly. there is a reason they are pieced together to be beautiful, bright, inspiring.

there's this woman who pretty much only posts daily plans under a normal amount of calories, and everyone defends her saying but it's better than nothing! and i'm like. except she opens those with images of her showing off her body and provides no context in the video or caption that suggests that she believes what she's doing is unhealthy. she has hundreds of thousands of followers on a platform designed for young kids and teens. i refuse to believe that by accident her content just happens to be cheery advice on "healthy" versions of starving.

for any other symptom of mental illness, we would be incredibly enraged by this kind of placid acceptance of a "tips and tricks" fast-start guide. imagine if people posted pink & pretty videos saying "best places to cut yourself" as if it was a fucking storytime. we, as a society, are so fucking fatphobic that we would rather accept blatantly harmful displays of self harm than admit that we are obsessed with a hyper-thin body type.

i am not suggesting someone never talks about their disorder. i talk about mine. actually, it's a plot point in my book.

here's the difference: i recognize it's a fucking mental illness. i am very careful to never mention a specific weight, eating pattern, or calorie plan. i always make sure to position it as something that ruined my fucking life. i do not put cheery music in the background and hearts and sparkles over my worst moments. i do not film it in bright light. i do not start each passage with an image of a thin body followed by "here's how to look like her."

eating disorders should not be framed as aspirational. and the problem is that society worships the "after" image, so long as you don't get too sick. there is a reason so many people who quit being "influencers" will later admit - i wasn't eating well that whole time; an obsession with food was completely destroying my life.

we let any uncredited, uncertified person write the most backwards, fucked up shit about how to get the body you desire! because the underlying, secret belief is: well, at least they're thin! and the real thing that fucking gets me each time - they make fucking money off of it. their irresponsibility and societal harm literally pays off for them.

"why do you care so much." "don't like it don't look." "so what if people experiment with new ways of thinking of food?"

thank you for asking. we're about to get extremely personal. it's because when i was 18 i discovered "thinspiration"/"thinspo." and it absolutely influenced, shaped, and codified my pre-existing eating disorder. i went from having some troubling habits and traits to being incredibly unwell within what felt like a matter of days. there were actual pages designed to train me on how to have an ED correctly. it was all so suddenly easy. i was sick; and the nature of the illness meant - i wanted to be sicker.

it takes an average of 7 years for a person to fully recover. i know this personally - even now, 10 years from the worst of it, i still fucking struggle. i am so much happier now and i eat what i want and i literally don't think about food at all (19 year old me would shudder) and yet - i still fucking know the calories of plain toast with butter.

an eating disorder is one of the deadliest types of mental illness. over 1 in 4 people with an ED will attempt suicide.

and i'm sorry. i just do not see the exchange rate of "high rate of engagement" versus "the value of a human life."

#and there's something else in there about like ....#tbh once i got over something like 1k followers #i stopped being specific about my ED for a REASON.#yes on ur personal locked blog that u use like a diary go ahead etc #but we are OBVIOUSLY not talking about that. we're talking about the sheer NUMBER of people i could be talking about #in that one paragraph. that you and i probably were thinking about 2 different influencers #bc they get to say that they're just posting FITNESS and if it's FITNESS it's OKAY and im like #jesus christ lord almighty #every person in recovery from an ED: this is incredibly dangerous holy shit do you know how much this would have triggered me #each of these ppl: how dare you!!!!!!!!! i am only harming those who WANT to engage with my content!!!!!#their followers: leave them alone !!! they can't help that they make an hours-long choice to frame their disorder as if it was #fucking cottagecore !!!!#like girlie this person needs THERAPY #again! i didn't even have that large of a following before i IMMEDIATELY deleted any specific mention of calories food etc #bc i recognize responsibility and i didnt EVER want to even ACCIDENTALLY encourage this #and im not even GETTING PAID FOR THIS!!!#aND THEY ARE!!!#something something something they know this content makes them money #they don't give a SHIT about u babe

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muffinsin · 4 months

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Hiiii! Could I ask for fluffy hc between Bela and Cassandra? When Cassandra feels under the weather and is hurt after a hunt but is too embarassed to tell anyone but her older sister? I luv the dynamic between them you indirectly referenced in your other fluff hc post^^ about their family dynamics^^ (especially about Bela knowing as the only one that Cassie paints)🫶

Thank you so much if you decide to do it! Also take your time^^ and lastly- I wanna say I really luv your posts and it’s amazing how fast you get them out!

Absolutely! Mommy issues are hitting soooooo imma randomly give them to Cassandra because why not, hope you don’t mind! XD😬

thank you hon! I’m glad you’re enjoying my posts and appreciate the support immensely! :)

Let’s get into it! :)

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Cassandra curses quietly under her breath when her leg gives in every few seconds. She bites her lip to keep from crying out in pain, as well as shedding a tear.

It isn’t much farther to her room.

She swarms brokenly, flies disoriented due to the pain she’s in. Blood drips down her ankle and runs down the side of her heel. Cassandra then hisses and whimpers under her breath.

Upon finally reaching her room, she closes the dark, wooden door quickly. She can’t make it quite to the bed even as she swarms, and instead falls to the floor.

Red, angry bite marks hug the pale skin around her ankle. Stupid bear trap! And stupid her for stepping into it!

Cassandra whimpers as she attempts to clean the dirt from the wound. It hurts more than it should, in her opinion.

Then again, she knows she’s always been squeamish. Something she is very adamant about keeping to herself

She thinks for a moment, as pain shoots through her entire body again: maybe she won’t need to clean it out? No matter, she decides. A new problem already caught her attention.

Upon undoing her corset and lifting the ripped stomach piece of her dress, she winces. There is a large bruise decorating her torso, and another, smaller one, next to it. Purple rings adorn both

She grits her teeth as she moves to sit up. It hurts!

She should’ve gutted that damn deer for kicking her this hard instead of merely cutting its head and dragging it with her

With a jolt, Cassandra’s eyes widen and her hands tap the wooden floor next to her. The head! She had dropped it when she stepped in the bear trap!

For a moment she felt tears welling up in her eyes, frustrated how all her injuries are in vain. She is fast to dig her sharp nails into her own arm- a bad habit she has never quite grown out of- to stop herself from doing so

At last, she feels around her shoulder blades, hissing when her fingertips catch the cuts and thorns in her backside from when she fell into the rose bush

Today really isn’t a good day for her!, she thinks pitifully.

Cassandra feels overwhelmed as she attempts to plug one of the thorns out, yet seems to only push it in further. It hurts when she brushes her fingertip over her irritated skin.

For a long while, she sits in silence. Then, to her relief, she hears a familiar hum from down the hall. Bela! Cassandra didn’t expect the woman to be in her room, instead off doing Mother’s business somewhere in her office or the dungeons. She feels relieved to hear the woman nearby.

The brunette considers her options for a moment, eyeing the ugly, purple bruises and feeling the prickle of sharp thorns in her skin, hissing as she brushes over the swollen, red part of her ankle.

At last, she decides. Bela won’t tell anyone if she comes to her- she knows this. She trusts her.

On wobbly legs she pulls herself up, hissing and whimpering as she pulls her dress down properly again. She brushes any tears that slipped from her eyes away from her cheeks, then focuses her remaining strength on swarming out her room.

Bela jumps as her door is pushed open, her humming pausing momentarily as she notices one of her sisters move in her room.

As the door is closed behind the swarm of flies, she turns her back to it again, resuming her book eagerly. A small smile plays on her lips as she hears Cassandra’s shy “Hi”. The blonde is quick to set her book down again, slipping her bookmark inside to mark the page.

When her sister turns around, Cassandra can’t help but blush in embarrassment.

“Cass?!”

She feels Bela’s hands on her immediately, wide, golden eyes scanning her. The older woman smelt the blood even before she saw her sister’s injury. When she does, she gasps loudly, which merely adds to Cassandra’s embarrassment.

“It’s n-nothing bad. Not a huge deal”, she grits out in pain.

Yet, tears of relief well in her eyes when Bela kneels down, gentle hands cupping her lower leg as she takes a look at her wound. Clearly, her sister isn’t impressed with her fake reassurance, and Cassandra is silently thankful for it.

“How did this happen?”, the blonde asks, golden eyes set on the wound. It’s dirty and at a high risk of infection, dirt and dried blood sticking to it. Cassandra avoids her sister’s eyes even when the blonde looks up at her. “Bear trap…”, she mutters quietly, yet it is loud enough for her sister to hear.

“Did you go out hunting on your own again?”, Bela scolds softly, and Cassandra nearly feels tears dropping at this. The blonde notices her younger sister’s sudden tension. She sighs, bright golden eyes meeting Cassandra’s dark golden ones.

“It’s alright, we can fix this.”, she says instead. “Don’t tell Mother”, Cassandra pleads quietly. The blonde nods once, acknowledging and confirming this. The brunette knows her sister dislikes keeping things from Alcina, ever the Mommy’s Girl, but feels pride and happiness within her as she knows Bela will keep her promise.

She feels her sister drag her heel from her injured foot, and whimpers when the woman gently blows on the wound, removing the small dirt and sand that sticks to her skin.

“We’ll need to clean this out, Cass’”

She tenses. “Are you sure? You know we heal fast! We won’t need to-“

Bela’s stern look has the brunette shut her mouth again.

She watches silently as her sister moves about the room, collecting tissues and rags, disinfectant and water.

She allows herself to relax. Bela will help her- Bela will take care of her. She feels partly embarrassed for needing her big sister to take care of her- it’s been long since Bela had to look out for Cassandra and Daniela this way. Still- this feels nice…

Cassandra jumps when her cheek is cupped gently, but eagerly leans into the warm touch. She would never admit that she purred quietly as Bela stroked along her bloody cheek, comforting her despite the pain Cassandra was in.

“I’ll be right back. I’ve got to get some more rags and bandages”, Bela speaks softly, adamant on keeping her sister calm and comfortable. After centuries of living together, she has learned how to deal with her siblings.

Cassandra nods, watching as the woman flies off.

She looks around her sister’s room instead, her fingers sliding alongside Bela’s soft, red bedsheets. She remembers curling up here during thunderstorms as she was younger, Bela’s calm voice lulling her to sleep as she read Cassandra a story.

She blushes when she finds the portrait peeking out of Bela’s closet- she recognizes it immediately, it’s a portrait of the eldest sister, drawn by her ages ago. She had lifted it to her with the small plea of keeping it a secret. Knowing her sister keeps it in a secret, yet common place has Cassandra feel pride in her chest yet again- Bela must like her painting so much, she looks at it every day, yet keeps it hidden away in case Daniela is to walk into her room and find it.

She smiles at this.

On her table, a book is sprayed out. Cassandra can’t make out the title, nor does she care.

She reaches backwards, hugging one of her sister’s large pillows to her chest. The pain is becoming a lot, her ankle aching and burning. She forces back another wave of tears.

As she holds the pillow close, and inhales the blonde’s scent on it, a raw, almost forgotten need spreads within her: for a moment Cassandra wishes she was little again, able to simply hide away with her older sister protecting her.

Now she is an adult, and a fierce huntress at that. She can no longer expect her sister to look out for her, it would be embarrassing!

Yet, she yearns to cuddle up with Bela again, feel so safe and protected as she normally just used to feel as a child in Mother’s arms.

She smiles involuntarily when Bela returns, hands full.

“You like that? Dani too, I had to steal it back from her”, Bela comments with a small laugh, pointing at the pillow in Cassandra’s hands. She doesn’t seem to mind the blood her younger sister smears over it; or at least doesn’t show it.

Cassandra doesn’t answer, although giggles a little. It sounds just like Daniela to sneak off into their rooms and take what she likes.

She watches curiously as a bucket is placed under her leg. When bela lifts a glass of water and pours it gently down her ankle, she can’t help the surprised yelp of pain.

The blonde grips her fidgeting sister’s leg, gently, yet firm.

“Cassandra, we need to wash away the dirt. If this gets infected, we will need to tell Mother”, she argues. The brunette grumbles for a moment, yet stops squirming. She instead squeezes the pillow tighter as Bela continues pouring the water down her ankle, and with it dirt and some of the dried blood.

After a few minutes, the blonde seems done. Instead, Cassandra feels her gently dab a cloth against her ankle, mindful of the swelling and the angry marks the bear trap left behind. She whimpers in pain occasionally, yet stays still for her sister.

Another memory crosses her mind;

They were barely children, and Bela already was the most mature out of the three. Cassandra was crying as she clutched her crystallizing elbow. She had stuck it out the window for just a second, just to see what would happen. The pain was unbearable.

Yet, Bela was there, holding her in her arms as she put her own hands over the elbow. Cassandra wasn’t oblivious to how it made her sister’s palms crystallize a little bit as well. Eventually, all was well again. “Promise you don’t tell Mama?”, she whispered, to which she only received a small smile and a nod.

Bela had never told.

She is brought back to the current moment when she feels soft gauze wrap around her ankle. Bela’s movements are steady and gentle. The bucket and rag stands in the corner of the room.

When the ankle is wrapped, her sister rises from her kneeling position, smiling at the brunette.

She can’t help but whimper, alerting Bela something else was up. She can’t help but want her sister to take care of her other wounds too. Cassandra has no idea what is up with her, she craves the comfort the eldest sister offers, and had always offered.

Bela frowns at the mute woman. Without a word, Cassandra raises the broken part of her dress, exposing the purple marks underneath. Yet again Bela gasps at this.

“Deer”, Cassandra answers her silent question. Her lip wobbles as her sister hugs her. Despite the pain she feels at having the other woman’s hands right on the thorns, she embraces the comfort and love she is given.

“Can you lay on your back? I’m sure I’ve got some cream somewhere…”, Bela asks, worry written all across her face. What has her little sister gotten herself into?

Cassandra considers this for a moment. Strangely enough, she doesn’t want to disappoint Bela. At the same time, she knows the blonde wouldn’t be happy if she laid down with the thorns poking deeper into her.

“My back kind of…”, she trails off, unsure what else to say.

Bela raises an eyebrow at this. In the blink of a moment she swarms behind her sister, gently pulling her hair to the side to access the zipper of her dress. Cassandra blushes as it’s removed with ease and Bela studies the thorns in her back. She holds the front of the dress to her chest to cover herself.

“You’ve got to be more careful, Cass’”, Bela whispers. She sighs as she stares at the many thorns inside her sister’s soft skin. Some peek out a lot, others will take more to take out. She knows Cassandra won’t enjoy those.

Still, the blonde knows how to deal with the younger woman.

“Can you hold this for me?”, she asks gently, guiding another of her pillows to Cassandra’s hands. The woman nods eagerly.

Cassandra, would she not feel so safe and protected, would surely scold herself for being so vulnerable and soft around her sister. Yet she can’t help it. She knows Bela won’t hurt her, will always look after her the way she always has.

Cassandra, to her greatest shame and embarrassment, wishes she was a child again, able to hide away in her sister’s neck after a scary storm. She knows she isn’t supposed to act this way anymore, expected to be more mature now. Yet, she can’t help but feel so small and safe, vulnerable and happy with her older sister.

She barely notices when the blonde begins her work, sharp nails carefully pulling thorn after thorn from her back. The ones sticking out are easy. Bela drops them on the pillow held by her sister.

16 in total, she had counted; nine out already. There wasn’t a lot more to go!

The seventh was a tricky one. Cassandra squirms and whimpers, but eventually gasps happily when the little devil is out and dropped on the pillow too.

“Just six more, bug”, Bela promises when she notices Cassandra’s distress. The woman freezes for a moment- it’s been centuries since her sister used this nickname for her.

She feels comfortable and safe yet again. Cassandra had forgotten how dearly she missed being this close to her older sister. Bela was so often so busy with the wine business now, she missed spending time together. All three sisters are inseparable, yet Cassandra likes to think Bela likes her better.

When asked, the blonde insists she likes both her sisters in a unique way, how she treasures them differently based on their qualities and talents.

Cassandra doesn’t notice when number six and five are removed.

Tears fall down at number four and three, and she bites down on the soft, large pillow on her lap at number two.

Only one remains, the one she had accidentally pushed deeper. She whimpers as she feels Bela’s sharp nails dig in her skin for a mere moment. Then, with a triumphant smile, the blonde holds the last of the little bastards between her fingers. Cassandra smiles relieved. She allows Bela to clean her back too, purring quietly at the nice feeling of a warm rag against her. She blushes when Bela is kind enough to press a quick kiss to the wound number #1 left.

At last, Cassandra lays on her back, her dress pulled up, the bruises on her stomach and torso exposed.

Like promised, Bela retrieves and applies cream to it even as Cassandra laughs at the ticklish feeling.

“Is there any other wound, Cass?”, She asks, worried eyes taking in Cassandra’s body and searching for anything out of the ordinary. The brunette smiles tiredly. “All taken care of”, she promises. Her eyes feel a little heavy.

A question sits at the tip of her tongue. The blonde can tell; her patient eyes are set on Cassandra, until the younger woman eventually spits it out.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”, she questions. The blonde confirms this. “You know you and Daniela are always welcomed here, Cassandra”, Bela confirms for her again. She removes the pillow with thorns and smiles as the younger woman moves in her bed properly.

“Will you also…cuddle me?”, Cassandra asks quietly. She wishes for once there was a loud rainstorm in sight. It should embarrass her to ask for her sister’s comfort a lot more than it does. Bela agrees to this all too happily. She’s missed using her little sisters as teddy bears, hearing their silent purrs when they felt so safe and happy.

It’s such purrs that she receives when she turns off the lights and climbs in bed too, Cassandra’s head on her lap, her fingers in brunette curls. “Scratch”, Cassandra whispers, as she often did as a child.

Bela laughs at the fond memory, her sharp fingernails settling against Cassandra’s scalp as she scratches gently. The woman’s purrs increase in volume.

“You’re not bad with the whole bandaging stuff”, Cassandra says awkwardly. Thankfully, the older mutant understands. “You’re welcome, Cass”

#cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #I’ll go ahead and say Cassandra has mommy issues-#and Bela full on triggers them sometimes #Cassie just loves and appreciates her older sister sm ;-;

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silent-partner-412 · 5 months

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it’s such a treat when you finally get to a classic game that you’ve been meaning to play since you were a kid and it’s every bit as good as everybody says it is and has aged like a fine wine… anyway chrono trigger is fucking awesome, i’ve enjoyed every minute of it so far and i’m like ten hours in

#chrono trigger #i just got past the crypt area thing and beat the magus fight #the whole thing has been such a delight #i was so scared to try it cuz i was worried it would fall into all sorts of retro rpg traps #but it really hasn’t!! the design of this game honestly feels almost ahead of its time #and it’s fucking beautiful to boot #i can’t wait to keep playing it

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mishapen-dear · 2 years

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There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.

Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.

Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.

He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-

A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.

“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”

“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.

“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.

“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.

(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)

“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.

“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.

“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”

“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”

“He di-”

“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”

“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”

“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”

“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”

Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.

“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”

“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.

“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”

“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”

“You’re the worst,” Grian says.

“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-

“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.

Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”

“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”

“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”

Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.

“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”

“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.

“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.

Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.

(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)

—---

Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.

Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.

Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.

(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)

Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.

(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)

(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)

“What’s that for?” Grian asks.

Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.

“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”

Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”

“That’s weedkiller.”

“So?”

“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”

Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”

Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.

“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.

“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”

“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.

Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.

Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”

Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”

“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”

Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”

Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”

Grian stares. “Oh.”

Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”

“Oh.”

Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”

“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”

“That can’t be it.”

Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”

“Are you going to chop his head off?”

Grian is quiet.

“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Grian is silent.

“Please?”

Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”

Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”

“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.

Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.

—---

The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.

The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.

He’s maybe a little nervous.

The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.

It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.

Scar, of course, seems unaffected.

“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.

“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”

“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”

“Your funeral.”

“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”

Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.

“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”

Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.

A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.

They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.

He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-

Wait. What?

Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.

“What have you brought me?”

“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”

Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.

Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.

(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)

“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.

Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.

“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”

“What?” The dead King asks.

“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”

“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.

“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.

“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.

“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”

“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”

“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”

“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”

“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”

“Whuh-” Grian starts.

“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.

“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.

The Tree stops rumbling.

“Yes?” the King asks.

Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”

“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?

“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”

“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”

“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.

“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”

“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.

The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”

“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.

“Scar,” Grian says quietly.

“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.

Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.

“Now, the choice,” the King begins.

“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.

He’s on the ground three seconds later.

Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.

Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.

Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”

“Huh?” Bdubs says.

“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.

“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”

“I said that,” the King argues.

“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”

Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.

In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.

Grian feels several emotions all at once.

Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”

“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.

“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.

“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”

“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.

Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.

Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.

It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.

The Tree shudders.

The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.

“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”

“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”

“The plants-”

“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”

Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.

Why isn’t Scar bleeding?

“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”

“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”

There’s silence. “Bdubs?”

The Tree stops rumbling.

“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.

There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”

Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.

“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”

Grian can’t reply.

“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.

And Grian goes to sleep.

And Mother Spore wakes up.

---

written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!

(also on ao3)

#i wrote this in like four or five hours and posted On the deadline #this is almost pure stream of consciousness babeyyyyy #mishapen words #grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fic #<- lemme know if i need to add any more trigger tags #hello tag readers. i want you all to know how genuinely little i planned this fic going into it #i do not understand how there's several moments of foreshadowing #i cannot comprehend the fact that the consistencies outnumber the inconsistencies #this fic wrote itself and i was merely its possessed vessel for four-five-however-many-hours #anyway spoilers in the next few tags you have been Warned #look away now #have you looked away #it's okay i read ahead when i shouldn't too #these are the trigger tags for filtering purposes theyve got to be spoilery sorry about that #death tw #blood tw #body horror tw #<- im not sure the body horror really Applies but there you have it anyway #lemme know if i missed any

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sistervirtue · 9 days

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be careful or station will go after you and call you a zionist for nothing too

if station and their foster's home for imaginary moderators know whats good for it it'll keep my name out of its mouth cuz im a mean cunt and i have nothing to lose by going through and redacting anything too sensitive in our dms and just dropping the whole goddamn thing so we all know exactly where i stand and exactly what ive said over the course of this entire affair which has gone on for far too long mind you

#im trigger happy and sleep deprived. go ahead swing that bat ill play ball

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tuffgho-st · 8 months

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i’m genuinely so angry about the nexpo petscop video. i can’t believe he actually included the actual footage of that. like are you fucking kidding me. what the fuck was going through his mind to make him think it was ok to include that. it’s fucking disgusting and deplorable. the suffering of a real life child is not something you put in your stupid little youtube video just to make the content “more scary” or whatever. fuck off.

#txt #petscop #ask to tag #i genuinely don’t know how i should tag this for triggers. im being vague about it on purpose bc it feels disrespectful t i guess #i knew the video was going to be bad before watching it. but i just thought it would be from an analysis point of view #like it would all be summary and bring nothing of actual substance to the video. but then he had to go ahead and include that. what the fuck

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kiyocuck · 4 months

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if they put me in charge of writing trigger happy havoc i would put kiyotaka through horrors beyond comprehension and then give him a fanservice scene where the button of his shirt pops out from his huge tits or whatever. and THEN kill him .

#danganronpa #kiyotaka ishimaru #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #danganronpa post #reblog if you agree #not enough taka fanservice i fear #id also redo the sauna scene but mondo is also naked #im literally 30 steps ahead of kodaka

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ghosttotheparty · 1 year

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@thorniest-rose this is ur fault your tags on part one made me emotional so here’s one more part <3 love u also i added it as chapter two of broken brain <3

cw: tics; self-deprecation

“Hey, baby.”

Eddie looks up from where he’s sitting at the kitchen island, his legs crossed on his seat in front of him, setting his pen down.

“Hi.”

“How’re you?” Steve asks softly, taking off his vest and dropping it on the countertop, coming close.

“Having a rough day,” Eddie says, the words barely out of his mouth before his chin jerks to the side, turning his head sharply. He closes his eyes, sighing heavily, and before he can open them, Steve is sliding his hands over Eddie’s neck gently, rubbing it tenderly. Eddie moves slowly, shifting to face Steve, and before he can lean into Steve’s torso, his hand flies out and hits Steve’s hip hard. Eddie flinches, pressing his hand to the spot carefully.

“Sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Steve murmurs, one of his hands pushing through Eddie’s hair. Eddie’s stomach twists, and he huffs quietly, closing his eyes. “What is it?”

Eddie shakes his head, opening his eyes to look up at him.

Steve touches his face, his fingers brushing over his cheek, over the rough, sensitive skin of his scar, and he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s forehead.

“What is it?” he asks quietly.

Eddie exhales, turning his cheek into Steve’s palm, feeling the tension leave his body.

“…How are you not tired of me?” he asks after a moment.

Steve blinks, his expression hardening, but his hands remain soft on him.

“What do you mean?” he asks in a small voice.

“I just…” Eddie shrugs weakly. “Feel like you should be fed up with me by now,” he half-jokes, but Steve frowns, his fingers trailing over Eddie’s jaw.

“Why would you think that?” he asks quietly, like he’s offended.

Eddie blinks at him, his eyes stinging a little bit. His hand tightens on Steve’s hip, one of his fingers holding loop of his jeans.

“I keep hitting you,” he says weakly. It happens often. Not as often as his whistling, or his head jerking, his eyes squeezing shut or rolling to the ceiling, but often. When they’re on the sofa, when they’re hugging, when they’re just talking. Eddie wants to cry every time, but Steve doesn’t even acknowledge it, except for the occasional it’s okay.

“You can’t control that, babe,” Steve says adamantly.

“I know, it’s just…” Eddie looks away, frustrated. “I keep hurting you.”

“I think you think you hit a lot harder than you do.”

“Steve,” Eddie says seriously, tugging at his belt loop, looking up at him. “I almost smacked you in the face the other day.”

“You redirected,” Steve says lightly, shrugging.

“Steve.”

“Do you want me to be mad at you?”

“I…” Of course he doesn’t. But it feels like Steve should be mad at him. Or at least annoyed. “I don’t know.”

“Well I’m not,” Steve says firmly, holding his chin. “Ever. Okay?”

It doesn’t make Eddie feel better. He exhales, looking down, at the blue ink on the top of Steve’s thigh, rough doodles on his jeans from when he gets bored at work.

Steve sighs, pushing Eddie’s hair back before he lets go of him, moving so Eddie’s hand falls from his hip, and he pushes Eddie’s sketchbook out of the way, looking at the drawing on the open page. It’s an unfinished sketch, messy and not very good at all in Eddie’s overly humble opinion, but Steve smiles at it.

“‘S good,” he says softly as he pulls himself up onto the counter. Eddie watches him, watches the muscles of his arms flex, and his cheeks flush with warmth when Steve reaches for the armrests of his chair and easily pulls him closer, between his legs.

Eddie looks up at him, that familiar feeling settling in his chest, and he reaches his hands up, setting his arms across Steve’s legs, holding his hips again.

“Talk,” Steve says softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” He touches said head, runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair, scratches at his scalp. Eddie wants to cry.

Eddie sighs, leaning to rest his cheek on Steve’s knee, closing his eyes.

“Just…” His shoulder jerks slightly. He ignores it. “I don’t know. Kinda crazy you haven’t gotten sick of me yet.”

“Why would I ever get sick of you?” Steve asks softly, playing with Eddie’s hair. “Hm?”

“Because I keep hitting you,” Eddie says sullenly, letting go of Steve’s hips. “Because I… throw things and hit things and I’m… noisy.” He pushes Steve’s shirt up with one hand, the other falling under the island, untucking it and pressing his hands under the fabric to Steve’s skin. “I interrupt. I’m annoying.”

Steve pulls his hands away and untucks the rest of his shirt, holding it up with one hand so Eddie can trace his scars softly, gazing.

“You’re not annoying, Eddie.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t believe him, and Steve can tell.

“Eddie, baby, look at me.”

Eddie looks at him without lifting his head. His vision is obstructed by his hair, and Steve gently moves it out of the way.

“You are not annoying,” he says again, softer, his eyes shining earnestly. “I know you can’t control it.”

“That just makes it more annoying,” Eddie grumbles.

“No, it doesn’t.” Steve’s fingers drag through his hair.

Eddie exhales, looking back at where his hand is tracing Steve’s scars.

“You’re annoyed by it,” Steve says, and Eddie nods against his leg. “I’m not, Eddie.”

Eddie is quiet, a tingling starting on his shoulders like he’s going to shiver, and he tenses.

“Alright, Eddie, look at me,” Steve says, his voice shifting, tapping Eddie’s cheek to prompt him to lift his head. Eddie does, muttering a soft, “Hold on,” and looking away. He pushes his shoulders back, closing his eyes, and Steve waits quietly, patiently, until Eddie’s head jerks back violently, and his shoulders shrug up suddenly. A second passes before Eddie drops his head, sighing and relaxing.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Eddie shivers before he looks up at him tiredly, and Steve leans down, holding his face between his face, looking into his eyes.

“I need you to, like, really listen to me, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie breathes.

“When I say that you’re annoying,” Steve says, still looking into his eyes, “or obnoxious, or any of those things, I don’t mean it. I’m just teasing. And if you don’t like it, or if it hurts you, I’ll stop.” He looks so earnest that Eddie almost hurts. “And when I say those things,” Steve says slowly, carefully and intentionally, “I’m talking about how you act with the kids, usually. When you’re…” He shrugs, smiling softly. “Immature and chaotic. But even though I tease, I love when you act like that.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Even though it riles them up?”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “Because they get to just be kids when you’re fucking around with them.”

Oh.

Eddie smiles softly.

“And,” Steve continues, “when I say those things, I am never, ever talking about your tics. You understand me?”

Eddie nods weakly, his eyes burning.

“You are not annoying to me, Eddie,” Steve says softly, leaning down and leaving a careful kiss on his lips. “I promise.”

“Don’t you get tired?” Eddie asks, exasperated. Steve looks at him.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks quietly.

“It’s constant, Steve,” Eddie says, his eyes burning. “And you just… put up with it, you— you’re always getting me ice, or holding my hand still, or getting pillows for me, or…” He exhales, looking up at Steve desperately. “You’re always taking care of me.”

“I like taking care of you,” Steve says adamantly. Eddie looks away, holding back an eyeful. “Eddie, I’m serious, look at me.”

Eddie looks up at him. His lips are pressed together, his eyes shining with some unreadable, desperate emotion.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes.

Steve leans down and kisses him, holding his face between his hands so his cheeks are squishing under his palms, sucking softly on his lower lip, slow and careful like everything he’s ever done with Eddie.

He pauses when they part, their foreheads pressed together, breathing a little hard, holding Eddie close. Eddie slides his other hand under Steve’s shirt. His skin is warm. His scars are rough, the skin thick and sensitive, tender evidence of his survival. Eddie likes to kiss them.

“I love you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie’s eyes open. His breath escapes him, and it’s like his bones melt. He slumps, squeezing his eyes shut as the words wash over him, his hands squeezing Steve’s sides softly.

“Really?” he chokes, pulling away after a moment. Steve’s eyes are tear-filled.

“Really really,” he says softly. Eddie blinks tears back, sliding his hands over Steve’s sides.

“I don’t get tired of taking care of you,” Steve murmurs, looking at Eddie’s face, his thumb brushing over his trembling lip, “because taking care of you, and helping you, and looking after you is… me loving you.” He pauses for a moment, letting their foreheads touch. “And I don’t ever get tired of loving you.”

Eddie’s whole body hurts.

He chokes Steve’s name weakly, his voice broken, almost squeaking, too high and small for it to even be understood, but Steve just kisses him even though he can’t kiss back, because tears are streaming down his cheeks, over Steve’s fingers.

A small sob escapes Eddie, and Steve pulls him into a hug, running his hands over his head as he buries his face in Steve’s belly. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, his hands pressing into the small of his back, against his warm skin. Steve’s hands are shaking as they run through his hair.

Eddie’s shoulders jerk as he cries, just once, and Steve’s hands smooth over them gently, sweetly, gathering his hair back.

“Eddie, baby,” Steve's voice says softly, and Eddie feels like he’s surfacing from under cold water, gasping for breath, like his lungs are breathing properly for the first time in his life.

“I love you too,” he chokes, lifting his head and looking up at him. His vision is blurry with tears. He can still see Steve’s smile. “I love you so much.”

Steve laughs softly, sniffling, leaning down to kiss him chastely.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe evenly, focusing on the feeling of Steve’s hands running over his cheeks, wiping his tears away. His head shakes slightly, but Steve doesn’t move his hands. He leans down to kiss his forehead.

“God,” Eddie exhales, holding his hips above the waistband of his jeans. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“You don’t have to thank me, baby,” Steve whispers. “You don’t have to apologize and you don’t have to thank me.”

He leans down and kisses his lips gently, murmuring a soft I love you, and Eddie reaches up, sliding his hands over Steve’s shoulders, over his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss him harder. After a moment he remembers that he’s sitting, and without pulling away, he stands, kicking his chair back noisily, one of his hands pushing into Steve’s hair as the other clutches at the small of his back. Steve’s legs wrap around his waist, and he tilts his head to kiss him deeper, holding Eddie’s face like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

They’re both breathless and panting when they part. Steve’s fingers dance over the sides of Eddie’s neck, over his scars, making him shiver. (It’s a nice shiver.) They press their foreheads together, sharing breaths, eyes closed.

Steve pulls away after a moment, caressing Eddie’s cheeks.

“I’m not gonna get tired of you, Eddie,” he whispers. “You’re stuck with me, baby.”

Eddie laughs softly, sniffling and nuzzling his face into Steve’s cheek.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

#considered making this spicy but one of my wips is almost pure spice so i thought maybe not #if someone wants to steal this and make it spicy go ahead #anyway obviously i’m extremely weak for first i love yous #i dont think im gonna write more eddie w tics for a while bc it kinda triggers my tics (its not too bad dw im ok)#and also i have like seventy wips #but if anyone writes eddie w tics i would love to read it <333 #steddie #steddie oneshot #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson ficlet #steve harrington #steve harrington ficlet #steve harrington one shot #stranger things #stranger things one shot #stranger things ficlet

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lesbiradshaw · 2 years

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liam’s anu-kite induced hallucination in triggers being a flashback to when he was a scared fourteen year old boy who couldn’t protect himself against a group of people who were supposed to be on his team rather than one about theo, the guy who once tried and almost got liam to kill one of the most important people in his life while shifted and was planning on killing him next even though becoming a monster that hurts people is one of liam’s greatest fears. theo actually being the one who pulls liam out of his head and keeps him from killing someone and talks to him about why he gets so angry when he’s really feeling afraid. layers. guys there are layers.

#in part liam def sees brett because brett just died and liam is obv . traumatized by this regardless of their past #frankly im still a lil confused ab whether or not the hazing thing actually happened bc on one hand #most of what the anu-kite shows people isnt real #but its rooted in reality and idk thats just such a specific situation to dream up #anyways. THERE ARE STILL LAYERS GUYS #s5 theo is literally the embodiment of what liam is afraid he could become and i think thats part of why s6 thiam is so .#like. theo knows how he got in that place and its why he does so much of the dirty work for liam #like telling liam to let go of gabe then smashing his head back into the mirror right after #the whole being the bait thing #shoving liam ahead of him so he wouldnt get shot in the finale #telling nolan to run so liam wouldnt kill hkm #constantly trying to reality check liam when hes being too idealistic #MANNNNNNNN #trying to be normal about them and failing #triggers was a masterpiece to me like the song choice in the truck scene is sooooo #thiam #6.16 triggers

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leozapps · 6 months

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do you think klaus and steven have to spend the first month or so of libra's existence making sure zapp doesn't panic and start killing people

#all i'm saying is if his first response to seeing klaus and steven was to attack them on sight #he probably wouldn't hesitate to slice a few people in half if he felt it was necessary #sure raju go ahead and mail your hair-trigger son who specializes in lighting things on fire to the site of the apocalypse #i'm sure that'll go over well #leo talks #leo doodles #kkss #kekkai sensen #zapp renfro

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thedragonagelesbian · 9 months

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chewing on this forever actually (like astarion chewing on cyrus)

#cyrus bg3 #bg3 spoilers #oath of devotion paladin as carefully as possible: i would really like to not have to kill you #astarion: go ahead and try #cyrus is immensely sympathetic to wanting to have power to protect oneself/as a mode of agency one has otherwise been completely denied #less down with doing whatever the hell you want if it hurts others #*oath of devotion paladin you're about to SLEEP WITH LITERALLY THE NIGHT THIS CONVO TRIGGERED

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rexferguson · 10 months

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Big, big love to you, @myupsteadheart ! I hope you're soaking up the sun and beautiful views on your vacation and that the year ahead is so very magical. Happy Birthday!

#myupsteadheart #mycreations.#~#i know you said that trigger was one of your faves and you didn't care what scenes i giffed so...#i went ahead and giffed a bunch of them<3.#happy happy happy birthday!!!!

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irregularbillcipher · 8 months

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hey sam I apologize if this gives you psychic damage but your lisaposting always makes me think about how I first heard of the game recently because someone on twt was like oh the game is about a strong manly father providing for his child only to have people correct them on the game actually dealing with parental abuse and ive been curious about the game ever since

NO IT'S OKAY i have. seen that post. that person does not understand the game, to put it lightly

the game makes it really clear that while brad, the main character of the central game in the series, thinks that what he's doing is protecting his daughter, he is, in reality, perpetuating the cycle of abuse

tw for discussions of abuse below

brad is a deeply pitiable character, whose childhood was defined by physical, emotional and sexual abuse towards both him and his little sister, the titular lisa, at the hands of their father. brad's main goal as an adult is to protect his adopted daughter from the abuse he and his sister faced, which his sister did not survive-- so in his mind, when his daughter buddy goes missing in a (genuinely very dangerous) apocalypse, where she is supposedly the only girl left in a world of horrifically damaged men, he's protecting her by going after her. he's protecting her by teaching her to defend herself through any violent means necessary, he's protecting her by withholding physical and emotional affection, he's protecting her by completely isolating her from the world. and it's sad! it's pitiable! you can trace so easily how a man who went through what he did would come to the conclusion that this is the only way to protect his little girl, especially in a world where she can so easily be hurt

and the game doesn't even say he's wrong about the fact that buddy is vulnerable, and could be abused. the game never physically shows the worst acts of abuse, but it's clear that brad and lisa went through hell as children, and that buddy also goes through hell. she is abused after she leaves, people are disgusting to her, and even more "well-meaning" people still strive to take her autonomy away for the "good of the world"

... but she's also abused before then, even though brad never once lay a hand on her and would have rather killed himself than done so

because at the end of the game, (SPOILERS,) you kneel at your daughter's feet, dying a horrible death as your addiction consumes you in the most literal possible way, begging, telling her you only ever wanted to make it so nobody could ever hurt her, and she looks you in the eyes and says "you're the one who hurt me most." because you were supposed to be her fucking dad, and you kept her holed up in an affectionate-less home, down in a basement, training how to kill a man in case one ever tried to hurt her, refusing to even let her call you "dad" because of your own trauma around fatherhood, so trapped that she didn't even know what the sky looked like until she was like ten

and the last choice of the main game is you as buddy, trying to figure out if you want to hug brad as he dies, and his last words are asking you if he did the right thing

brad is a deeply sad character. he's a man who loved his daughter and wanted to do whatever he could to mitigate the harm that could come to her, to make absolutely sure she did not suffer in the way he and his sister did growing up... and he broke some of the cycles. he is not the type of monster his own father was, he really isn't, but he did abuse buddy, and that's the point of the ending. buddy didn't want to go back home, she couldn't go back home, because you never made it a fucking home, and you never acted like an actual parent

as a side note, there are other fathers you can pick up as party members in the game, none of which have still-living children. they are mad dog, olan, and birdie. thematically, i think they're incredibly important

mad dog is an abuser, full stop-- a man who killed his son for not being "strong enough," who hates his children deeply, whose views on parenting are the most social darwinist "survival of the fittest, we need a strong bloodline" bullshit on the planet. a lot of his deal embodies some of the horrible fears brad has about his own parenting, that he will become an out-and-out abuser, and some of the actions that brad really does take, in forcing buddy to kill to become "stronger." his reasoning is different from mad dog, but the abusive action is there, and the conversation you can have with him in the newest update is framed as if you're being welcomed into hell. it's hopeless, bleak, deranged and cruel. it's one of brad's worst fears for himself

olan is a genuinely pleasant, likable guy, who had two daughters before the end of the world. olan did not kill his children, he did not hate his children, he did not seem to ever lay a hand against his children... but he neglected them. he neglected his girls, he neglected his wife, "even when he was there, he wasn't really there." he would have rather spent his time in his garage, downing whiskey and practicing archery, and in the newest update, he tearfully tells brad that his daughters never needed him anyway, that girls never really need their fathers. brad was also neglected, his father was an addict, he is an addict-- olan is another facet of brad's family trauma, another fear of what he could be. someone who never knowingly hurts his children, who is never cruel, but someone who fails his kids anyway. we never learn olan's daughters' names. he talks about them, some of their traits, but he never names them. after more than a decade, it's possible he doesn't even remember them-- he's not responsible for their deaths, but god did he fail them

birdie was, as far as canon implies, a decent dad. (and my favorite character, he's my icon.) birdie is, in his current state, a sweet but incedibly messy alcoholic mourning the deaths of his boys, but pre-apocalypse, he was a single father struggling to pay for his sons' medical treatments. there is nothing in birdie's backstory that implies in any way that he abused them, was cruel to them, or that he ever purposefully neglected them. his son joey died to a serious illness "that couldn't be treated on a dock worker's budget." his son jimmy killed himself after the death of his brother. (i think it's notable to mention that brad's sister, lisa, also killed herself.) birdie could not cope with the loss of both his boys, and it kickstarted his addiction. brad, who grew up in poverty, who is raising a daughter in a world where nobody can know she exists, has never had resources. birdie also never had resources, as a single dad with a tight budget, and no other family ever mentioned. birdie, in modern day, eats himself up with guilt, does anything he can to numb the pain-- it's pretty easy to draw a parallel between his addiction, spurred by his inability to save his family, and brad's addiction, fueled in large part by his inability to save lisa. birdie did care, he didn't do anything wrong, but he also failed his kids, and he's also now been defined by that

mad dog is brad's fears that he will be an abuser. olan is his fears that he will be neglectful, (with fears due to his addiction being sprinkled in as well.) birdie is his fear that even if he technically does everything right, chance, a lack of resources, and things beyond his control could still make him lose his daughter anyway. (birdie also plays into his fears about addiction, i think, because while birdie's time struggling with addiction never overlapped with the period where his boys were alive, brad's still being faced with an alcoholic father, and someone who uses alcohol and drugs to cope with the loss of young family members and the guilt over being unable to save them. it's also worth mentioning that birdie has design similarities to both brad and to brad's horrible father marty, despite being the only "good" dad in the game)

there is no father in this series that saves their child. from the horrible, no-gray-area-about-it abusive monsters to the shitty-but-never-cruel deadbeats to the guys who seemed to genuinely be doing their best with the cards they were dealt-- none of them, none of them save their children. none of them, including brad, and the idea that lisa is about some righteous quest to save your daughter is so insane that even brad doesn't fully believe it by the ending moments of the game

#if you choose to play it do look at trigger warnings ahead of time-- genuinely i mean that #also there are some bullshit racist jokes in it which i'm not gonan excuse and wanna make sure people are aware of #it's a game i love deeply but it's insanely flawed

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