onychespherein

[onychespherein]

i wish i was a ghost

[onychespherein]

i just took a wrong bus home and have no idea where the fuck i am what the fuck why am i such a fucking loser oh my god

#i knew this would eventually happen since i took my first bus #i hate myself #i'm going to cry bye

[onychespherein]

i have no idea what im writing anymore this fic has gone off the rails so bad i don't know what it is about anymore but i have already like 4k words written and i feel like i should at least finish it

#but do i want to finish it is the question #a question i don't know the answer to #but i will finish it. Someday

[onychespherein]

writing a fic, pausing in the middle of a sentence: what the fuck was the word

#it started with an 'i' #in-something #like a sign of something but like;;; fancy #look i know what it was i don't NEED to google it. i know it #i know the fucking word #I don't know the word. #(after googling it) OH MY GOD IT WAS INDICATION #screaming into the void #or when it turns out that a word didn't actually meant what i thought it meant #but instead like. a Complete Opposite of what i thought #or or #is it (something-something) 'out' or 'off'??? or 'on'?????? something else??????????? #also 'theres a Very Specific phrase/word/saying for this Very Specific thing that i remember reading a few days ago but don't Remember it #and i have no fucking idea how to look it up' #existence be pain and living be a nightmare #what am i here for? just to suffer?

[onychespherein]

sometimes i just write something and then have to do a double take bc alright. that's some wild fucking metaphor you got there buddy

[onychespherein]

i have an overwhelming urge to curl up in the darkest corner of my room and die quietly

[onychespherein]

do you think snakes pity us because we have legs

[onychespherein]

nowriting a fic, the end scene, suddenly found myself having to describe a kiss, staring awkwardly at the page & unsure how to proceed

#i can't in romance #the plot twist is that the whole fking fic is romantic #semi-romantic?? so much pining like jeez get a grip already #why would you do this to yourself em #why #this is like the fifth night im writing this #im going to end it tonight #no more losing sleep over useless lesbians #literally the last scene #why must it be a kiss #why cant it be a hug #but NOO em must just torture himself #what is wrong w me #edit: yo i did it #cant believe i wrote such romantic bullshit #am i high #am i fucking high #is that it????

[onychespherein]

remembered that one time when a guy in my class asked me about my sexuality the first thing we met and i just. i didn't even say anything i just fucking shrugged like an idiot like idc who tf cares abt this sort of stuff

i was so confused he was like

"hey my name is [redacted] btw are u gay"

?????

#like i first thought perhaps hes homophobic or smth and i looked queer #but nah cuz he was like #'thats cool dude i like ur attitude' #or smth yk #but then my bff informed me that maybe he wanted to hit on me #and i was like. he *WHAT* #and now it kinda nags at me sometimes?? #like what if #what if i accidentally friendzoned him #or whatever it is allo ppl do idk #not that it matters i mean #just #WHAT IF

[onychespherein]

shattering glass crack crack crack

Albedo stared at the shattered glass and the small pool of liquid of unidentifiable color. Something inside his stomach twisted.

He messed up. His master told him to bring her the vial of that thing ─ that he couldn't remember for his life what was supposed to do ─ that she had been working on for the last months, that she had only one vial of, that was nearly entirely made of extremely rare and expensive ingredients, and he messed it up.

It wasn't even a hard thing to do. He was just supposed to bring it to her, it was easy, laughably so. Take a vial, hold it, give it to her. He did more difficult things, like, like learning the Art of Khemia, reviving branches and creating butterflies and more, investigating the ley lines and─ and there was that thesis, too, and all the new languages, and, and─

And he still messed it up.

There was something twisting inside his stomach; a lump at the back of his throat making it hard to swallow and harder to breathe. The lack of oxygen could cause dizziness but he didn't even need to breathe, so why did he begin to feel lightheaded? Was he sick? He felt like he might throw up, and his hands were shaking violently like tree branches in the middle of a hurricane. He wasn't supposed to be able to get sick. Did he somehow mess that up like the vial, too?

The vial. Oh gods above, the vial.

He was going to die. His master was going to see just how much of an useless and bumbling idiot he was, and then she'd create another one that would be smarter and useful and would never fail something as simple as bringing a vial to her. Albedo was a failure.

He was a failure, a stupid useless thing that couldn't manage to hold a fu─ a freaking vial. He wasn't supposed to swear. He almost messed that up too, and he was supposed to be his master's greatest achievement? A joke, that's what he is. And it's completely his own fault, too. If only he could act like he was supposed to, do what he was supposed to, be exactly what he was supposed to be.

But he couldn't do even that, no! Wasn't that pathetic? Wasn't he pathetic?

A weird constant ringing overcame his senses and Albedo felt as if he was choking on air. He shouldn't be able to choke, either. It was so loud. Too loud. Much, much too loud he felt like his head was splitting open, where did the sound come from anyway?

"Albedo? What on earth are you doing?"

He really can't do anything right, can he?

#genshin impact albedo #mentioned rhinedottir #mild anxiety attack i think #self depreciating thoughts #might be a bit ooc #ive been feeling so fucking anxious today #i am projecting #i ruined a perfectly good homunculus is what i did #look at him #he's got anxiety #short fics

[onychespherein]

take my lungs

The person in the mirror looked wretched.

Hair all over the place, disheveled and sticking to his sweaty forehead. It had a greasy look to it, like it hasn't been washed properly in a while. Maybe it wasn't. Honestly, he couldn't remember. He felt like a wraith, a brittle shadow of his old self. Looked like it, too. Wide-eyed, with an ill gleam in the purple irises, glassy with tears; an ashen face with an unhealthy flush to the pale skin and a streak of blood running down from the trembling lips.

Yeah, Scaramouche was a wreck.

Another drop of crimson fell to the sink, lost in the small puddle of the similar ones with an unheard, silent drip. Scaramouche lurched forward when another coughing fit took over his body. He chocked on his own saliva and blood, his whole body trembling violently as something tried to force its way up his throat. He hated this, he hated this so much. His grip on the sink tightened painfully, muscles tensing one last time as the thing finally left his gullet. Or maybe the windpipe, whatever, he wasn't a fucking biologist.

He could feel it moving inside him, spreading like a disease, a parasitic lifeform alien and harmful to his organism. A cancer of sorts, perhaps. It weighted heavily on his chest, curled around his ribs and sprouting roots deep in his veins. It scratched his throat with its thorns every time he was thrown into a coughing fit after another, the teen was convinced that if he dared to look he'd find marks inside his mouth not unlike those left by a clawed animal. He didn't, too much of a coward, so instead Scaramouche chocked and spat flower petals mixed with blood and tried to breathe around the invader inside his lungs.

It was pathetic, really, how low he's had fallen. The way he's subjecting himself to this torture, perhaps as some punishment for even daring to sprout such feelings in the first place ─ truly disgusting. Scaramouche felt so sickened by it he might have puked, but as it was his throat was far too abused to stand it. He didn't want to find out how bile feels on fresh cuts.

Gods, how could one become more pitiful than that? Scaramouche didn't want to know that either, not really. Or perhaps he did. Maybe he'd feel less repulsed by himself if he knew, or maybe the opposite ─ maybe he'd be disgusted that he had ever needed such a reassurance, that he wasn't the most pathetic person to walk this earth. Who knows?

Feeling the spasming cease and the flowers settling beneath his skin once more, Scaramouche brought a trembling hand up to his mouth. The blood felt sticky under his fingers, wet and revolting ─ it almost made him bend forward again, this time to vomit not petals but the last meal he's had. The teen lowered his hand as if it burned him, smearing the blood on his chin in his haste. He gripped the sink with stained fingers like a lifeline, as if it would stop the tremors. The large eyes looked crazed in their reflection.

Fitting. Scaramouche did feel like he was losing his mind.

The teen closed his eyes, leaning his forehead, burning with fever, against the cool surface of the mirror. He took a deep breath, slowly inhaling the air he so desperately needed and lacked. The abomination inside his chest squirmed in protest, threatening to spill over the stained porcelain again. It did that often. It thrashed the worst when he laughed, twisting and clawing at his flesh like a feral animal, offended by his happiness. Because how could he? How could he feel it, how could he be happy? How dare he, when it was there, spread inside his vile veins, roots digging into the foul flesh? It was there to punish him for his depraved feelings; it was there to make him squirm in agony; it was there to make him regret this, regret not pulling that goddamn trigger when he had a chance; it was there, it was there, it was there, so how dare he?

And Scaramouche could barely breathe, amusement quickly turning into muffled, wretched sobs as he heaved out another portion of the poison invading his system. The last time he smiled without pain racking his whole body was months ago, before the disease took root inside of him. The flowers did not like it when he was happy. It loved to see him in pain.

He opened his eyes again. Well, too fucking bad for it because Scaramouche didn't plan on letting it win. He wasn't going to give that rotten parasite satisfaction of hearing him scream, of breaking him. (And what did it speak for his sanity, that he's started to think of it as a sentient being? What did it speak for the disease, itself?) With a sneer on his face, Scaramouche turned on the water and washed away the evidence of the sickness from his body and sink. Soon, the frankly disgusting bile of tattered petals attached through a mix of dark blood and saliva went down the pipes, never to be seen again. Or, at least, not until the boy has another attack. Either way was fine. Not.

Breathing hurt. It was nothing new, it's been painful for months now. The chest pains were horrible, the coughing fits even worse ─ the worst, however, would be the flowers. They squirmed and moved under his skin, deep in his throat, with every breath he took. They twisted and turned, always in motion, roots digging and digging deeper and deeper into his flesh and blood, curling around his bones like vines do around fences, and Scaramouche loathed every second of it.

He splashed his face with the cold water. Don't think about it.

He turned off the water and dried himself up. Just don't think about it.

A deep breath; the strong grip around his chest tightening.

Don't think about them.

Exiting the bathroom, Scaramouche wiped his mouth once again and, perhaps hysterically, thought of what would finish him first. The flowers tearing his lungs apart, or he himself? He snorted, self-deprecating and no trace of humour in it.

Roses. How cliché.

#tw mild body horror #or maybe not mild idk i tried #tw implied suicide #hanahaki disease #scaramouche genshin impact #the reader can decide the pairing themselves idgaf #i had smth like this in mind for a while #modern au #look i know it's not real important and u don't see it but i want u to know this is modern settings k #short fics