#am I just incapable of being a functioning human anymore

[fractallogic]

GUESS WHAT it’s 2:30 in the morning and I took my sleep pills 45 min ago and I’m still awake

Know why?

It’s because I didn’t take my sleep pills, I took my MORNING pills, one of which is bupropion, which is the like. “up and at ‘em” pill to get me out of bed in the morning

I did just take my actual sleep pills, though, so hopefully I’ll be down for the count in like 20 min.

But Jesus Christ self why did we do this

#am I just incapable of being a functioning human anymore #I’ve done this for years with no problem #and yet. #during the same period of time I’m trying desperately to un-fuck my sleep schedule and habitat #THIS shit #listen self I know I said we could get spicy potato tacos tomorrow around lunch time #but that didn’t mean ‘be awake super late and just get up at noon’

[woman-for-women]

Excerpts from Elliot Page's Memoir, "Pageboy"

(Content warning: homophobia/lesbophobia, slurs, misogyny, violence, eating disorders, and self harm)

Homophobia/Lesbophobia

"The success of Juno coincided with people in the industry telling me no one could know I was queer. That it wouldn’t be good for me, that I should have options, to trust that this was for the best. So I put on the dresses and the makeup. I did the photo shoots. I kept Paula hidden. I was struggling with depression and having panic attacks so bad I would collapse. I could barely function. Numb and quiet, nails in my stomach, I was incapable of articulating the depth of pain I was in, especially because “my dreams were coming true,” or at least that is what I was being told. I dismissed my feelings as dramatic, berated myself for being ungrateful. I felt too guilty to say I was hurting, incapacitated, that I didn’t see a future."

"I’d decided I could go it alone after a previous experience where an innocent teenage question—“Did you ever watch Xena?”—was met with “No, because I’m not a lesbian.” I was glad to not be working with that publicist anymore—these comments emblematic of the Hollywood they warn you about. Plastic, empty, homophobic."

"It was 2014, and I had come out as gay only two months before at a Human Rights Campaign conference in Vegas called Time to Thrive, the inaugural event focusing on LGBTQ+ youth…“I see what you are doing. I’m not stupid. I see what you are doing.” He stood too close. Staring down at me where I sat. “What am I doing?” I answered flatly. More confused than anything. At his aggression, his malevolent smile. “Oh please. It’s obvious what you’re doing. The attention.” I was familiar with this tone, this body language—threatening but casual. Flaunting his power. But it took me a moment to process what he might be alluding to. “Is this about me being gay?” Spurred, somehow provoked, he sat on the bench next to me and started to lay in. “That doesn’t exist. You aren’t gay. You are just afraid of men.” He said it ruthlessly, loud but with a smile. Gloating. Responding was useless. It was making it worse. He just kept going. People were telling him to stop, but he didn’t, and they gave up. I stood up and crossed to the other side of the terrace, trying to remove myself from the situation. He followed, sitting next to me again, his body close. “You’re just afraid of men. Men are predators and you’re just afraid of them.” He spoke to me as if no opinion mattered but his own. A stroke of wisdom to bestow upon me. Wasted slurs of words vomited out of his body as my body compacted, elbows on alert. I told him to stop harassing me, to fuck off, that he was being extremely offensive. I got up again and went inside. He pursued behind. I sat down on a small sofa, and he did, too. People danced to the Spring Breakers soundtrack, breaking it down to “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites.” Look at this I’m a coward, too You don’t need to hide, my friend For I’m just like you “I’m going to fuck you to make you realize you aren’t gay. I’m going to lick your asshole. It is going to taste like lime. You’re not gay,” he slurred. He kept describing how he was going to fuck me, touch me, lick me. How he liked to pity fuck women. I don’t know why I didn’t demand he leave, ask for people to do more than “Yo, leave her alone.” Some of my closest friends were there, witnessing it. Power works in funny ways. He was, and still is, one of the most famous actors in the world."

"We were two boys, and we looked like two boys. “What are you, fucking faggots?” A group of teenagers were coming at us. Faggots. Faggots. Faggots. They were bigger, menacing, cruel. “Faggots. We are going to beat you up.” “I’m a girl,” I told them."

"I sensed spite from some people in the industry, a hostility even. That flash of aggression, hidden in “jokes,” blamed on alcohol, the sexual harassment dismissed. I remember sitting in a former agent’s office, thrilled that VICE wanted to make Gaycation. We’d be in Japan in just a couple months to film the first episode. When one of the major players of the agency walked in, I shared the news. “We get it, you’re gay!” he responded instantly."

"I was persuaded to reject a character not long before I came out as gay because it “wouldn’t be helpful.” Subtext: people think you’re a homo and this will make them think you are definitely a homo and you can’t exist as who you are if you want to have a career."

"“Don’t you fucking talk about me, faggot. I know you’re talking about me. I’m going to beat you up, fag!” He charged toward me from behind, yelling at me, Madisyn hearing all this through the phone. “I’m going to fucking gay bash you, faggot.”...That jolt of panic, a flashback to being with Justin on the hill or when another man in West Hollywood, years before, screamed, “I’m going to beat you into the ground, you ugly fucking dyke. I’ll kill you before the police get here.” My friend Angela and I sped away in her car. Or when I ran from a group of teenage girls who surrounded me at eighteen. “It isn’t Halloween. Why are you dressed up as a lesbian?” one of them asked as they approached, threatening me. Or when Paula and I dodged a friend of a friend who came at us around a bonfire, wasted and enraged by our snuggling. “You don’t have to shove it in our faces!” he barked. Others had to intervene, fighting him off until he stumbled away. “This is why I need a gun!” the man yelled right behind me as I frantically swung open the door to Pink Dot. “Please help! This guy is screaming at me, calling me a faggot and saying he is going to bash me.” The words flew out of my mouth. As I swung my head over my shoulder and back."

"“Faggots! Faggots!” he said as he walked away. The s slithered, ssss, like poison down the throat. That time, I pivoted, a reflex, boiling rage from all the times I hadn’t turned around. “Did you just call me a fucking faggot? Fuck you!” I yelled, repeatedly, as a few people standing on the sidewalk watched."

"The first time I tried to speak to my mom about sexuality, it didn’t go very well. I was fifteen and coming to terms with how attracted I was to women, only letting myself think of them when I was alone. Searching online:  Am I gay? How do I know if I am gay? There was no need to avert my eyes from my male peers. They did not titillate me. My nerves hummed around certain girls, I’d have to avoid them. It must be so obvious, I’d worry. I was in the passenger seat, head down, mustering up my strength. I turned to my mother. Her eyes were on the road. Her silver earrings dangled, not quite reaching her jawline, swaying with the car’s movement. “Mom, I think I may be gay—” “That doesn’t exist!” she yelled before I’d completed the word. My body sank in the passenger seat, the air sucked from me. I hung my head. She looked forward again and neither of us said another word about it. As I aged, it became clearer that I wasn’t going to be a pretty straight girl. The pressure from my mother to alter my appearance began to increase, alongside the bullying at school. I tried. My mom’s joy and relief faded to disappointment as I began to return to my original state. She did not want me hanging out exclusively with boys anymore. “You like Tina, why don’t you do something with her this weekend?” she’d say offhandedly, as if I didn’t know it wasn’t simply a casual, friendly question. When high school began, she encouraged me to spend more time with the girls on my soccer team rather than my closest pals. She didn’t want me hanging with the kids who were dressed in all black with various colors of hair, purple, green-blue, poking out from under hoods and beanies. The freaks, the artists … let’s be real, the queers...I didn’t talk to her about my sexuality again until I fell in love with Paula at twenty years old. Actually, I didn’t talk about my sexuality even then, I just said, “I’m in love with a woman and her name is Paula.” At twenty-four I tried again. “I’m gay, Mom, you know that, right? I’m gay and I’m not going to end up with a man,” I finally said when a woman moved in with me."

"My partner [at the time] was more closeted than me for a change, but everything is in degrees, people meet at different points of their journey, unable to sync up the tracks. We were together for almost two years, and even some of my closest friends were not aware I was in a relationship. Her parents did not know. I was the friend that came for Christmas. Only her sister and two of her friends knew. We never touched outside, we barely went to dinner. She was in my phone under the name “Ryan.”...It was not a sustainable relationship, just like when I had kept people hidden. The lying, the anxiety, the disgust. People didn’t “think she was queer,” but they definitely assumed I was, and I don’t think she could handle the shame. Ultimately, she had to do what was best for her, and unfortunately it resulted in my heart being shattered."

"Similar to thoughts I had when the idea of being queer felt impossible, believing as an actor that I would never be able to come out, praying to God knows what, please make me like men."

"A couple hours into the flight I felt a tap on my left shoulder. It was the priest and the curate, they passed me a piece of folded loose-leaf paper. A note. I smiled pleasantly and turned around to read it. I unfolded it, expecting a kind message from an LGBTQ+ supporting, progressive religious leader. No dice. It began with him acknowledging that his companion knew who I was, but he did not. I took the liberty of googling you. (Uh-oh) He went on to say that what I am wasn’t real. A belief and just that. Your soul is struggling. You need the arms of the Heavenly Father around you. (Ew) And I kid you not. Signed, Your Heavenly Daddy. There were a couple hours left on the flight. I was not sure what to do. Do I say something? Do I write a note back? I figured, what was the point? Truly. A quick convo is not going to change that priest’s mind, and giving any of it the time of day would let the toxins sink in. So, I refolded the note, stuck it in my pocket, and went back to my business. The plane landed. Welcome home."

Gender Non-Conformity, Dysphoria & Same-Sex Attraction

"I was planning on wearing jeans and a western(ish) shirt to Juno’s world premiere. I thought it was a cool look, and it had a collar. That’s fancy, right? I thought. When the Fox Searchlight publicity team learned about my outfit, they urgently took me to Holt Renfrew on Bloor Street, with a dramatic rushing that is characteristic of the Hollywood circulatory system. I suggested a suit. They said I should wear a dress and heels. After they discussed this with the director, he called me. He said he agreed with them, insisting that I play the part. Michael Cera rocked sneakers, slacks, and a collared shirt. He looked fancy to me. I wonder why they didn’t take him to Holt Renfrew. I guess he had nothing to hide, he was approved. He fit the part."

"“When did you know?” she asked as we stood outside, leaning against a wall. She loomed over me. For a brief moment, I wondered what she meant. This is something I’m asked frequently and not something I wish for during a casual night out. I’d experienced this inquiry as a queer woman, but as a trans guy it’s perpetual. Code for—I don’t believe you. I knew when I was four years old. I went to the YMCA preschool in downtown Halifax, on South Park Street across from the Public Gardens. The building had a dark brick facade and has since been demolished and replaced. Primarily, I understood that I wasn’t a girl. Not in a conscious sense but in a pure sense, uncontaminated. That sensation is one of my earliest and clearest memories. The bathroom was down the hall from my preschool class. I would try to pee standing up, assuming this to be the better fit for me. I would press on my vagina, holding it, pinching and squeezing it, hoping I could aim. I befouled the stall, but the bathroom often smelled of urine anyway. I was perplexed by my experience, severed from the other girls, twists in my stomach when I gazed at them. I remember one in particular, Jane. Her long brown hair, the way she could draw, her eyes focused and still with concentration. I was jealous of her artistic abilities. When I drew a person, limbs would protrude out of the head, arms like branches, thin lines for fingers. Little chicken legs with oversize sneakers. Jane, however, would draw a body, a stomach, a belly button. I was transfixed. My first crush, but I knew I was not like her. “Can I be a boy?” I asked my mother at six years old. We lived on Second Street at the time, having moved only a few minutes’ walk from our previous attic apartment on Churchill Drive. A ground-level flat on a tree-lined street, it had two bedrooms, hardwood floors, and a lovely small living area with big windows. I’d sit in front of the TV for hours playing Sega Genesis—Aladdin, NHL ’94, Sonic the Hedgehog—praying to God when my back was against the ropes, requiring the all-magnificent force to help me beat the game. There are no atheists in foxholes. “No, hon, you can’t, you’re a girl,” my mother responded. She paused, not moving her eyes from the dish towels she was methodically folding, before saying, “But you can do anything a boy can do.” One by one, stacking them neatly in their place. It reminded me of how she looked when ordering a Happy Meal for me at McDonald’s. I insisted on the “boys’ toy” every time—a delightful, congenial bribe. My mother’s discomfort requesting the toy was palpable, releasing a sort of shy giggle, slivers of shame peering through. Often they gave the girls’ one anyway. At ten, people started addressing me as a boy. Having won a yearlong battle to cut my hair short, I started to get a “thanks, bud” when holding the door for someone at the Halifax Shopping Centre. It was unfathomable to me that I wasn’t a boy. I writhed in clothes that were even in the slightest bit feminine. Everyone around me saw a different person than I saw, so for much of my childhood I preferred to be alone. I played by myself extensively. “Private play,” I called it. “Mom, I’m going to have private play now,” I’d say as I marched up the stairs to my room, closing the door behind me. I loved action figures—Batman and Robin, Hook and Peter Pan, Luke Skywalker, two Barbies from Happy Meals whose hair I cut off. The “girl toy” making it into the bag, despite the “boy toy” request. I was a walking stereotype, just not in the way my mom wanted."

"I would write love letters to my fake girlfriend from across the lava floor, always signing, Love, Jason. I would tell her about my adventures abroad, how I longed for her, cared for her, that I needed her in my arms. Those were some of the best times of my life, traveling to another dimension where I was … me. And not just a boy but a man, a man who could fall in love and be loved back. Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy. My imagination was a lifeline. It was where I felt the most unrestrained, unselfconscious, real. Not a visualization, far more natural. Not a wishing, but an understanding. When I was present with myself, I knew, without exception. I saw with startling clarity then. I miss that."

"I often dreamed of being Aladdin. But it wasn’t for the rug, or the wishes, or the teeny monkey, but to know what it feels like to delicately touch a girl."

"A barrette in my hair with a baby-blue butterfly. I wanted to tear it out, taking my hair with it. I’d throw a fit, a feeling of betrayal spreading through me, as my mom tried to dress me. The sensation of tights squeezing my legs exacerbated all the discomforts that I couldn’t yet put words to. I didn’t grow out of this “phase” when I was supposed to, and my mom’s distaste for what I wore and whom I befriended grew. Masculine clothes and boys as friends should have been over, that whole tomboy thing—a label that never felt quite right to me, but it was what everyone called me so eventually it was what I called myself—a hazy memory. I should be turning into a young lady, my mother’s idea of one at least. “I just want what’s best for you … I want to protect you … I don’t want you to have a hard life.” These sentiments would slide over me. What was best meant fitting neatly into our society’s expectations. Staying inside the lines. The perfect heroine’s journey preemptively and unknowingly written for me. How would her family, friends, soccer parents, fellow teachers, and neighbors feel? Had she done something wrong? What if it was a sin? And whether it was conscious or not—If I had to conform, why shouldn’t you have to?"

"This was around when I was arriving at the age where being a tomboy was no longer a cute look. The lurking pressure to change was omnipresent, a consistent state of disapproval. I imagine [my mom] may have prayed for me to not be gay."

"As puberty transmuted me into a character I had no interest in playing, my isolation, insecurity, and unknowing grew."

"Hair, wardrobe, and makeup at work was typically a nightmare for me. Ironically, playing a pregnant teenager was one of the first times I felt a modicum of autonomy on set. I was wearing a fake belly but not being hyperfeminized. For me, Juno was emblematic of what could be possible, a space beyond the binary."

"My chest began to grow, leading to awkward conversations about training bras, forcing me to try to find those perfectly oversize concealing T-shirts; my posture began to fold, shoulders caving in. My confidence dwindled in conjunction with my self-disgust rising. And then my period came...That smell of metallic blood, a robot leaking. My dad went to the store and got pads. I fussed and fiddled until it was secure in my underwear. I’m going to have to wear this diaper every month? I thought. I wished I could wear a tampon due to the chafing, but no fucking way was I attempting that. My weight redistributed in a way that I did not understand, my clothes from the Gap’s boys section began to betray me. I could not detect myself. I didn’t transform into me—the me I knew I was—like the other boys did. I was desperate to wake up from this bad dream, my reflection making me increasingly ill."

"In retrospect, I should have known the shoot was going to be a shitshow...I knew from the initial wardrobe fitting. Instantly I discerned what they were aiming for. More like a girl. Heels and skirts were laid out, which I didn’t understand, they were medical students in residency at an intensive care unit. The film takes place over a matter of days, and my character hardly even changes her clothes. I understood the assignment and I was going to comply, but there was categorically no rationale for the character to wear heels or a skirt. I said yes to fancy blouses, tight jeans, and boots with a heel. I figured the issue was settled. We solved the problem, the problem being me."

"[O]ne of the heads of production asked me, “Ellen, can you stay for a bit so we can chat?” “Sure,” I responded, thrown off by his tone, saying goodbye to everyone. I sat across from him, a desk between us, the sterile room enclosed by unadorned walls. “You know, Ellen, I grew up in a very progressive area,” he began. “It is very open there and I grew up knowing gay people…” Oh no, I thought. Never a good start. The words came out as if rehearsed. I imagined him workshopping the moment, blocking it out in his mind, matching the words with the smiles. The cloak of “nice.” “Ellen, are you mad that this character isn’t gay?” he asked me. I stared at him. I paused, less shock, more astonishment. He’d been friendly, grounded, and passionate, someone I was looking forward to working with. His exuberance clear at the table read, I had admired his energy. My astonishment morphed into a quiet boil. “Are you asking me this because I did not want to wear a skirt?” His face remained the same, an annoying grin with a glinting youthfulness in the eyes, but I pressed on. “Are you really asking me if I am angry about this character not being gay because I am not wearing a fucking skirt?” He looked on inscrutably, as if being pleasant means you are not queerphobic. “Your view of women is egregiously narrow,” I said to the man, reminding him lesbians wear skirts, too. He tried to voice a response, fumbling again and again, tripping over his words. He attempted to recover but failed. I left him in the room and headed back to the studio. When I arrived, I beelined to an executive’s office, a man I would later watch give a woman an unwanted massage on set. His subsequent texts to Kiersey asking her to go to dinner glared with gross. I entered the room with his name on the door and crossed to the chair in front of his desk. I lifted my hands, and curling my fingers I brought them together, creating a nanoscopic tunnel to peer through. “Your view of women is this small.” I spied through the hole at him, apoplectic. “It is this fucking small.” He looked back vacuously. I persisted, speaking of the limitations, the misogyny, the queerphobia. All that I had swallowed for years, I hauled out my insides for him to gorge on. In spite of all that, I continued to prioritize the needs of everyone else over mine. I allowed the erasure, endorsing their disillusionment, trying not to be “difficult” anymore. I knew those in charge were dancing around the subtext. I knew they wanted me to look “less queer.” I asked them to leave me to it, again reiterating that if I were to wear the clothes they wished for, I would look ridiculous, incongruous with the script, and that I understood the mission. That I would execute it. I’m sorry who I am is repulsive. I’m trying. Can’t you see? I try to rid myself of my “queer walk,” the way my arms dangle and bend, how my hands move, that way I sit, “not ladylike,” as my father used to say. Soften the voice, be quiet. The screen can’t be full of my repugnant features. Those “boyish” ones, those “lesbian” ones. I know that. I’ve known that."

"I’d always been told I was gay, made fun of for being a dyke. I felt more comfortable in environments with queer women, but inherently something in me knew that I was transgender. Something I had always known but didn’t have the words for, wouldn’t permit myself to embrace. “I was never a girl, I’ll never be a woman. What am I going to do?” I used to say. Have always said. The first time I acknowledged I was trans, in the properly conscious sense, beyond speculation, was around my thirtieth birthday. Almost four years before I came out as trans publicly. “Do you think I’m trans?” I’d asked a close friend. They answered hesitantly, knowing no one can come to that conclusion for someone else, but they looked at me with a quiet recognition and said, “I could see that…” A sturdiness shining through, a light from under the door."

"The world tells us that we aren’t trans but mentally ill. That I’m too ashamed to be a lesbian, that I mutilated my body, that I will always be a woman, comparing my body to Nazi experiments. It is not trans people who suffer from a sickness, but the society that fosters such hate. As actress and writer Jen Richards once put it: It’s exceedingly surreal to have transitioned ten years ago, find myself happier & healthier than ever, have better relationships with friends & family, be a better and more engaged citizen, and yes, even more productive … and to then see strangers pathologize that choice. My being trans almost never comes up. It’s a fact about my past that has relatively little bearing on my present, except that it made me more empathetic, more engaged in social justice. How does it hurt anyone else? What about my peace demands vitriol, violence, protections? Sitting with Star by the pool, I couldn’t quite touch the truth, but I could talk about my gender without bawling. That was a step. It had taken a long time to allow any words to come out. When the subject came up in therapy, my reaction felt inordinate, lost in sobs. “Why do I feel this way?” I’d plead. “What is this feeling that never goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can I have this life and be in such pain?”"

"My chest, the staring down, wanting more pressure but despising the reminder. There was always a reminder. Unable to shower, remove my hoodie, eat without anxiety, or eat at all. Sadness came over me, a grief and anger, livid that I could not just be. Exhausted by the distress, a brain that was about to crack, unsure if I was able to cope. And then something happened. You don’t have to feel this way. That voice. I don’t have to feel this way? That fucking voice. You don’t have to feel this way. I don’t have to feel this way. This was not miracle water that sprang out of nowhere. This was a long-ass journey. However, this moment was indeed that simple, as it should be—deciding to love yourself. There had been multiple forks in the road, and more than once I had taken the wrong path, or not, depends on how you look at it I guess. It is painful the unraveling, but it leads you to you. There it finally was, a portal. It was time to step through."

Disordered Eating

"The waiter placed our food on the table, snapping me out of a stupor. I stared down at my margherita pizza. Wiebke sat opposite me, lifting the knife provided to cut hers, it had pears and ham. I zoomed out, departing from my body. Nope. The voice spoke with a sinister tone. That can’t go inside of you...It isn’t as if I had no food thoughts before. They had started to pop up when puberty launched. I was filling out, growing breasts, all my discomfort heightened as boys and girls disentangled. Watching myself on-screen had not been a problem for me really, but as my body morphed, that changed. The more visible I became, the more I waned. My pizza still untouched, we headed home."

"It seemed to be the solution, food restriction my new norm. This all coincided with puberty, my body continuing to develop, but not like Mark’s. Reality settled in, I would never see myself in the mirror, I’d forever feel this disgust, and I punished my body for it. Research has shown that transgender and gender-nonconforming youth are four times more likely to struggle with an eating disorder. My brain became consumed by counting calories, time passing, how to make myself full without making myself full. When to make the clear herbal tea that satiated my gut just enough. Endless gum chewing. Avoiding. I’d measure my All-Bran in the morning, the soy milk, too. Dismissing Wiebke’s concerns, I’d bring a protein bar to school for lunch and allow myself to eat only half of it."

"Playing a character that was partially starved to death allowed me to lean in to my desire to disappear, to punish myself. “It’s for a film,” I’d say in response to a mention of my small bites, the annoying, concerned tone, almost a challenge. I’ll prove to you all that I need nothing. The little voice would brag with the creak of a side smile. In agony, Sylvia would scratch the concrete floor until the tips of her fingers wore off, she chewed her lip compulsively, biting through the pain. When they found her body it looked as though she had two mouths. I’m hungry. Two more hours, then you can eat. What am I going to eat? Steamed vegetables and brown rice … half of it. How much more time? One hour and forty-five minutes. I’d shower at night, washing off the burns, the bruises, a reminder that I had nothing to complain about. How dare I acknowledge my silly pain as anywhere near hers....By the end of the shoot, I had lost a significant amount of weight. And it continued to plummet when I returned to Halifax, where I was still living on and off. I dropped to eighty-four pounds. My arms were so skinny I could take the outer sleeve of a to-go coffee cup, stick my hand through and slide it up my arm, beyond my elbow and to my shoulder. Wasting away. Later that year, I dressed up as a coffee cup sleeve for Halloween—WARNING HOT BEVERAGE INSIDE—spelled out with a thick black marker. No matter the words or looks of concern or how many rich pastries people tried to get me to eat, I could not see it. I refused to. Hurting my body to that extreme must have been a cry for help, but when the help would come, it made me angry and resentful. Where have you been? An unfair question really. I had never communicated what I’d been grappling with to anyone."

Self Harm

"Getting ready for school, solo in the bathroom, I’d smash my head with my hairbrush. Who is that in the mirror? Squinting my eyes shut, bracing for it, slam slam slam. My mother’s queen bed had a frame that included tall wooden posts on the corners, the tops of them resembling upside-down ice-cream cones. When I was alone, able to keep my secret, I would climb up onto the bed. I’d stare at the post, aligning my torso so the spike would drill directly into my stomach. I’d hoist my body up, conspiring with gravity to impale myself. It hurt but also didn’t hurt. I loved having an outlet for my self-disdain, the nausea, I wanted it scooped out."

"I looked down to my hand and clenched it. The words were always the same, I just needed to shut up. Hard and sharp, I struck myself with my knuckles. Surprised at my temerity, I glanced back down at my fist. Inspecting it, I looked at both sides and then, WHAM! Again. And again. Harder. Sharper. I pummeled my face, pounding next to my right eye. Some other force working to knock it out. Bruises materialized. I’d be seeing people in a couple days, friends who were coming up to stay briefly at another cabin nearby. I had to surmise a way of explaining it, or a way of hiding it. Did I trip and fall? Hit the side of the table? That seemed made up. I iced it on and off, obsessively checking the mirror. Maybe I dropped my phone on my face while lying on my back? The bruise was way too big for that. Maybe you need to just tell someone? Nope, I wasn’t going to do that. I attempted to cover the shiner with foundation. Dabbing it with my finger, trying different strategies. It worked somewhat. My face hurt, but the pain came mostly from shame and guilt. I felt awful about what I had done to my body, about covering up for my self-abusive self. Sleeping in my shoes was one thing, battering my face was different, a breaking point. And there it was, that edge again. A body smarter than me."

#e page #elliot page #homophobia #lesbophobia #eating disorder #self harm #lgb #trans #transgender #transmasc #ftm #sexism #misogyny

[trainingdummyrabbit]

I Am So Glad You Asked!!!

So basically... Tokitoswap! a swap au in which the tokis and the kamados swap roles-- yui swapping w/ tan, and mui swapping with nezzy. 

aka: Two Twins Have A Bit Of A Worse Time Than Usual And Suddenly Find Themselves In The Middle Of A Thousand Year Struggle Between Humans And Demons (Which Are Real By The Way)!

. it also happens to be an exercize in having a concept, going “hey, wouldnt it be funny if--?” and then it sticks and you have to commit. i keep trying to explain in a way that Makes Sense, but im gonna be honest. theres just So Fucking Much going on and ive been trying to write this for hours and i dont even know where to start summarizing WAHAHAH. i dont know if its very Canon Aligned but it sure is very Me Aligned and i sure am gonna commit to the bit! anyway. 

its heavily in-progress and was supposed to be a clean one-role swap but! Well!!!! It Sure Isn’t Anymore!!! 

under the cut since im Incapable of keeping things short:

funy lil swap au! ft:  Yui: “Older” Brother who Thinks he’s in charge. a beleaguered 14-year-old who stumbled into being a slayer and super isn’t prepared for this. Unfortunately, having your sole remaining family turn into a demon is kind of antithetical to “go home and pretend nothing happened.” he is handling this very well. (lie) a user of wind-breathing, his main priority is keeping him and mui safe, and is a bit overprotective. which is a problem, since mui will charge headfirst into the first sign of danger to protect him. their relationship is a bit messy, but they’re pretty much the only thing holding each other together. a kid trying so hard to act bigger than he is-- and inevitably, routinely failing.

Mui: Odd Little Creacher secretly hiding Rage More Powerful Than A Thousand Suns. just barely surviving the attack of their family one fateful night by That Man, he manages to completely break the curse and hunger or being a demon through his own sheer will. unfortunately, he also completely loses control of himself and, in order to make sure that energy doesnt completely tear him apart, his consciousness completely mists over-- leaving him rather airheaded and distant in an attempt to hold back the roaring of a new power he cannot control. . but hes so silly!! ^w^ couldn’t hurt a fly!!

Murata: Some Fucking Guy who just so happened to get roped into all this. is just absolutely baffled this kid is out here slaying demons like this, and is honestly doing his best to make sure he doesn’t stupidly get himself killed. despite being at a higher rank than them, though, he’s kind of... well, he hasn’t gotten the hang of water-breathing techniques. try as he might, he just cant quite reach the same skill level as some of his peers. even still though, he has to keep trying. he has a job to do, and promises to keep. 

Susamaru: Professionally identifies as a Problem. a user of beast-breathing, she just kind of... shows up one day and starts antagonizing. originally started fighting the twins for the honestly-kind-of-reasonable reason of “That Kid Is A Demon And Thats A Fucking Problem” but got distracted messing with yui enough to get. kinda curious about the other one. she’s loud and brash and fucking annoying, but at some point she just... asserted herself. and never left.  she’s an odd case. ridiculously skilled at the whole slaying-demons thing, she just... doesnt seem to take things seriously. has a penchant for irritating people on purpose-- but its purely for the extent of understanding how they work. what makes them tick. she’s here for a good time, not a long time. most of her peers don’t like her much, but once she’s decided that she likes someone, theres very little she wont do for them. and these nerds just so happen to be next on the list. 

. all in all, its just these dorks against the world. there’s just. a ridiculous amount of mess ive written about how they function and how their arcs shape up, and while there Are some other roles and etc written up, my brain has been completely laser focused on These Four In Particular, so . \o/ ! anyway, heres a bunch of ambient sketches from all over the place of Them(tm)

#pikramble #<== new tag for whenever i inevitably infodump again #ANYWAY IM BEING SO SERIOUS WHEN I SAY its been MONTHS. #like. i started in like september last year and its just. theyre most of what ive been thinking abt!!! #POLITELY ALSO gonna. ask for no rbs on this post specifically. not that i can stop u #JUST BC this isnt like. a very easily presentable au and also im very nervous all th time n if this breaches containment ill explode. ty <3 #this is for me adn th handful of th rest of u listening 2 me during this sleepover. #but like. this isnt even the most of it besties. #i havent even gotten into yui's weird thing with Fate or susa's thing with Conflict #or mui's struggle with what it means to be a demon; what it means to have autonomy; what makes you You. #or mura's self-discovery or their weird; patchworked sibling bond or what it means to experience loss and the nature of Moving Forward #not even mentioning nezzy's whole deal or whatever the Fuck is wrong with kai this time or!!!! AUHG #lichrally will answer any questions but this took me hours bc i kept getting nervous WAHAHAH #all this to say: i spent months thinking abt an au and accidentally made what might as well be weird fuckig ocs. thankyou <33 #dont expect any of it to be like... too canon compliant; things r a mess but i care too much to bother w staying in line w it!!! #anyway u WILL see these guys every so often. whether au-wise or oc-wise. if u see any suspiciously familiar ocs from me No U Dont(tm)

[head-empty-just-sigma]

so after using my few remaining brain cells to analyze Bram’s ability a bit, i got a little idea in my mind that i absolutely need to theorize about. so here i am.

essentially i just want to ask what kind of effect Dazai’s ability would have on Bram, if any at all. so i’ll be looking at how Dazai’s gift interacts with large-scale abilities that effected multiple people or powerful ability-created weapons. i will also be talking about the sword stuck in Bram as well given what’s revealed in the latest manga chapter (102)

🔺spoilers for the main manga, 55 Minutes, Dead Apple, one scene from chapter 1 of Stormbringer🔻

a tldr is directly under the cut with less spoilers and a short to-the-point theory. also all lowercase is intentional

too long don’t want to read it:

Dazai’s nullification won’t have any effect on Bram himself, it won’t turn him human again, but it’ll make it so he can’t command his infected vampire army. i think Dazai will have to touch each individual vampire in order to nullify the infection, comparing it to how his ability functioned in Shibusawa’s fog. with the sword, i think Dazai wouldn’t have much more effect on it other than removing the engraving on Fukuchi’s hand and allowing Bram to control his ability again while Dazai holds the sword and renders it a piece of metal in his hand.

everything else in this post is talking about evidence for my theory & then my theory about their abilities interacting at the end. i hope you enjoy!

what is Bram’s ability?

Bram Stoker in the bsd universe is a mutated human who’s ability caused them to turn into an immortal/undead vampire. he’s been alive for several centuries without much change in appearance, leading me to believe the concept of age doesn’t apply to Bram anymore after becoming a vampire. not to mention he’s a head on a sword

since his ability isn’t named (although it’s most likely Stoker’s Dracula) i won’t be using that as material in my analysis, i want to focus on how his ability functions in the bsd universe alone.

so far from what we’ve seen, the usage of Bram’s ability requires that Bram or another infected vampire ingests the victim’s blood through biting the victim in order to infect them. infecting them causes them to turn into a vampire that has no will of their own and instead acts on the will of Bram, who gives orders to his brethren. the infected vampires are shown to be aggressive towards any non-infected human in the nature of wanting to bite them to infect them, not outright kill them. every infected vampire is loyal to Bram no matter who they got infected by, making it easy for Bram to build a large army using just his underlings without needing to bite each individual himself. this ability can also bring the dead back to life, which we see Bram do with Akutagawa as his first victim.

in one scene we see Bram use his influence as the so-called Lord of the Undead to scare an infected vampire when Aya gets attacked

we can assume that while he’s incapable of actually issuing commands to the infected because of the sword, he still has authority that can be sensed on an instinctual level by the infected vampires.

that’s pretty much all we know about his ability for now, so i’ll leave Bram’s ability explanation here.

let’s gloss over Dazai’s ability

he nullifies any ability through physical touch. he can either touch the person using the ability or the ability itself for this to work.

nullifying Q’s ability by touching the doll

nullifying Corruption by touching Chuuya’s arm

lol

the only time Dazai’s ability doesn’t work is when it’s not an actual ability, i.e. Lovecraft being a Great Old One (a Lovecraftian god-like being) and not an ability user as well as some other times in the light novels. which i’ll get into right now

55 Minutes

seriously, this man is a piece of trash (affectionate)

so i’m going to ignore the entire plot of 55 Minutes but in case you’re wondering why Dazai is in a trash can well you’re just going to have to read the light novel to find out pffft

there’s a quote early on that i want to bring up considering the context of Dazai’s ability in regards to time-manipulating abilities

“‘Those thieves are nothing but a small part of the catastrophe that’s to come.’ All of a sudden, Dazai wasn’t smiling anymore.”

so the ‘catastrophe’ is a large-scale weapon called Code: Shell or ‘Annihilation’ made from an ability that’s hidden on the floating island that they’re on that’s going to be used to destroy Yokohama. and like half of Japan i think. idk 55 Minutes was a ride

so i have a personal theory that Dazai was originally sent to the island by himself to stop the weapon before it was used but he failed, which is where 55 Minutes begins with the random description of Yokohama being obliterated. then we see the rest of the ADA also being sent to the island because Atsushi needs to save Yokohama (again) because Dazai wasn’t able to do it by himself. he also knows who Wells is already, giving Atsushi a description of her at the beginning of the novel during the trash can conversation. Dazai also blatantly tells Kunikida and Atsushi that he knew they’d be caught up in some trouble, so he snuck into the jail room in order to help them escape. however, H.G. Wells (the ‘terrorist’) had set up that trap to get the ADA off her heels so they could get to the weapon without interference, so Dazai had to send Atsushi after her. Dazai also reveals he was sent there by the government, not Fukuzawa. i personally think that somehow Wells was capable of using her ability on Dazai, like we see Nikolai do when he uses his overcoat to teleport Dazai out of his cell. however, the time stopping ability that the cat lady has doesn’t effect Dazai? so it’s really up in the air here. there’s no solid proof Wells used her ability on Dazai anyway besides him knowing about some of the events that occur on the island, but that could also be left to Dazai being the genius that he is.

anyway so lots of plot happens & Atsushi ends up failing to stop the weapon from being used after finding out Wells wasn’t a terrorist (and getting a scene of her taking off a fake face Twilight style) the weapon starts destroying everything it touches.

Dazai and Kunikida witness this after escaping, with Dazai stating that he knew Code: Shell was an “ability weapon”. keeping that in mind, however, Dazai is still killed by the ‘plasma vapor’ created by the weapon boiling the ocean to the point of evaporating. now, i’d like to take a moment to mention this scene from Stormbringer:

“It was strange, because despite the abnormal gravitational field surrounding them, the figure just leisurely stood there.”

(credits to Chibikko_Chuuya, TsubakiHana2, and hktrsdc on twt for the translation)

so after Chuuya’s ‘gate’ is opened for the first time by Verlaine and the equivalent of a black freaking hole melts the corners off of buildings and some nearby lampposts, Dazai is able to just waltz up to Chuuya, who’s at the epicenter of an irregular gravitational field, and nullify Chuuya’s ability without so much as a scratch on him. he doesn’t even break a sweat despite literal metal lamppost melting just feet away from them. does this mean that Asagiri-sensei is inconsistent in how Dazai is affected by ability-based catastrophes? well, no. Chuuya’s phenomena is just his ability, but Code: Shell is a weapon of mass distraction created by an ability, which is the difference. Code: Shell is also probably much more powerful than Chuuya’s ability, including Corruption.

so i think we can assume that while Dazai’s ability is strong enough to nullify most abilities, it doesn’t work on weapons like Code: Shell even though an ability created them.

moving on

Dead Apple

Shibusawa is a King and i will not be taking arguments at this time thank you. also, the name “Tatsuhiko” uses the same kanji characters as ‘dragon boy’. just thought that was cool

so i’m ignoring the plot again and i just want to focus on how Dazai effects the fog

while Shibusawa’s fog is spread over Yokohama and causes abilities to be separated from their users, Dazai, Dostoy and Shibusawa are in some building that i can’t find the name of ANYWHERE that seems to be above the fog. while that’s well and good, we actually find out that the fog does reach them when Dostoy has his monologue moment with his own ability just outside the Draconia room in the tall building. so we see the first instance of Dazai’s ability not affecting the fog just from him being in it.

the second instance is one of the best soukoku moments when Dazai is putting Chuuya’s face in his crotch to keep him from moving, stating he ‘doesn’t want to have to protect him from his own ability’ while they’re in the fog. so here’s proof that Dazai can’t nullify the fog itself despite being within it, but he can nullify the effects of the fog on whoever he’s touching, stopping their abilities from separating. even when the fog turns red and grows, Dazai’s nullification has no effect on it. therefore, large-scale abilities like the Dragon’s Breath from Draconia (Shibusawa’s ability) can’t be nullified by Dazai as a whole and he instead must touch each individual who’s effected. keep that in mind

so now i’m moving into the theory/speculation part of this so please keep in mind that Asagiri-sensei may prove me completely wrong in a future chapter but this is my personal headcanon/theory for how Dazai’s ability would effect Bram’s ability

so i’m going to ignore the sword sticking out of Bram and pretend like he’s a full-bodied vampire capable of controlling his own ability for a minute. i’ll include what i think about the sword later.

first thing: Bram’s ability caused him to mutate into an undead vampire himself. what happens to him if Dazai touches him?

i personally believe nothing would happen to Bram if Dazai touches him. he won’t die, nor will he turn back into a human. i think using the context that his ability caused him to mutate into a vampire, and he can’t change himself into a human at will or anything, Bram is stuck forever as an undead vampire. also considering that if Bram is powerful enough to be called one of the “Ten Calamities”, Dazai’s ability won’t have an effect on his vampirism. obviously Bram can’t infect Dazai, but Dazai can’t make him human again either. i also think it would be a subtle narrative add-on that Dazai’s ability No Longer Human can’t give someone their humanity back.

next: if Dazai touches Bram, would it un-infect all of the other vampires?

no.

in the same way that Dazai didn’t have an affect on Shibusawa’s fog unless he touched the individual person, he can’t un-infect the other vampires unless he touches each individual infected person. of course, i think Bram (again, without the sword) would be able to deactivate his ability and turn them all back to humans, Dazai has to work way harder to nullify everyone separately. which is what he has to do canonically anyway considering Bram can’t deactivate his own ability.

i think at most it would make it so that Bram can’t command his vampire army while Dazai is touching him. the only one who might be un-infected is maybe Akutagawa considering Bram bit him himself.

next: will the infected vampires remember the events that happened while they were infected?

probably not. considering they have no will of their own and act 100% on Bram’s orders as mindless subordinates, they probably are in a state of unconsciousness while infected. they might have like flashes of memories, but i don’t think they’re fully aware of what they’re doing. they are considered undead after all.

well, then will they die when they’re turned back into humans?

as for dying i think there’s too many important characters who are infected right now for them to all die when their un-infected. i think this includes Akutagawa, he’s a very important character that had been showing major character development in the story and i think he’s going to be fine. plus, there’s no way Asagiri-sensei would create such a complex character for Chuuya and go into detail about his backstory with multiple light novels just to toss him in the trash like that.

i suppose there’s a small possibility that Aku will die after he’s un-infected but i want to believe Asagiri-sensei has other plans for him…..

final part: Dazai’s effect on the sword

so the Holy Sword was made after an ability user died, was turned into gold and silver by a different ability, and then forged into a sword. the dead ability user’s gift was one that fused an ‘ability’ with a ‘body’, creating an ultra-ability that transcends the principles of ability usage that we’re familiar with.

Bram describes the ‘body’ and an ‘ability’ like this: an ‘ability’ is a metaphysical concept, like their soul. and the ‘body’ is the physical vessel that houses it.

therefore, this sword that has the ability to fuse an ‘ability’ with a ‘body’, is currently lodged in Bram and is fused with Fukuchi through an engraved mark on his hand. this is what allows Fukuchi to manipulate Bram’s ability while he’s holding the sword.

now, i think Dazai won’t be able to use the sword obviously, in his hands it’s nothing but a piece of metal, but i think that him nullifying it will remove the engraving on Fukuchi’s hand. i’m not sure if it’ll also make it so the sword can be pulled out of Bram, considering it’s rooted in his brain and is a powerful weaponized ability similar to Code: Shell, so maybe Dazai won’t be able to effect the sword itself really, but he’ll remove the mark on Fukuchi and potentially allow Bram to control his own ability again.

however, i’m not entirely sure if this level of Dazai-ex-machina is something that’ll happen in the story considering he’s in Europe while Bram is in Japan

anyway that’s the end of my theory and personal headcanon until i’m proven otherwise lol. thank you for reading! if you have other ideas or noticed something i missed feel free to put it in the comments!

mini theory: can Chuuya use Corruption even though he’s infected?

my opinion is yes, yes he can. if we go by the context that Corruption can be triggered either intentionally after his chant, or forcefully triggered by emotions or opening his ‘gate’, i think that the distress of Chuuya’s current situation may actually trigger Corruption on its own without Chuuya willing it to. i kind of hope we get like a flashback scene of Chuuya at 7 when he’s still being tested on and stuff (i still need to read all of SB sorry i don’t know everything) but yeah. i think Dazai utterly wrecking Chuuya’s trust in him would be a cool plot moment for the story right now lol i’m sorry

#Bram is like one of my top 3 #love the dude #he’s just a smol bat boi #i technically posted this on time for Dazai’s bday #so happy birthday you waste of bandages #bsd spoilers #bsd analysis #bungou stray dogs #bsd manga #bsd dazai #bsd bram #bram stoker #dazai osamu #screaming into the void #and the void screams back #my stuff

[doctormage]

anyway I wanna finish the show first (n we only have like 5 eps left!!) before deep diving into my Thoughts but I will say. I wish they’d given more thought to how the soul/lack thereof works with vampirism. this got rly long so have a read more

bc sometimes it’s like, no a vampire is just a human shell for a demon! (which is what they usually SAY, and what is shown most clearly w angel/angelus. especially when he has his soul and references the demon still inside him at least once that I can clearly recall - when they use that demon to kill the bad guy in that one halloween episode)

but sometimes it’s like, no it’s the same person as when they were human, they just lack humanity. (which iirc is never actually said, but imo VERY frequently implied with spike. esp now that I’ve seen the ep where he changes his mom to try and save her & she’s awful to him, and he’s viscerally disturbed by it. like, that’s still his mom to him. he still cared about her and wanted to help her. even tho he’s not william anymore, just a demon wearing his skin? make it make sense!!)

(the vampire version of his mom even SAYS he’s the same and always will be!!! like!!! is he just a special case bc he was THAT sensitive as a human lmfao help!!!)

it raises a lot of questions abt what makes a person themselves that I don’t think they quite took into consideration continuity-wise? like they SAY the demon can have the same mannerisms and memories as the person, but it’s still not the person they were. that’s a very frequently-made point when buffy is coming to terms w the fact that she’ll have to kill angelus.

so ok then, what makes the person. a functioning conscience? if the ~soul~ makes them who they are, what makes the demon NOT-them, besides that conscience? they have the same body, same memories, and (occasionally) elements of the same personality.

it just feels like fraught logic used to make the angel/angelus distinction very strict, but isn’t really applied to spike beyond the initial whiplash of seeing his human self vs who he is now. angelus couldn’t love someone but angel could, because he has a soul. so why can spike love people?? even if poorly? my first impression of him was that he was super devoted and loyal to dru!! what does it mean!!

and further! I find it really hard to believe spike did all the good things he did (as a demony vampire! sans soul!) exclusively bc of the chip. the chip prevented him from hurting people, it didn’t force him to help people. it’s rly how he is around dawn that sends this home for me bc yeah, buffy would’ve hated him if he put dawn in danger. but idk man! I don’t think a soulless demon’s hots for her inherently overrides his desire to not be tortured and killed by glory! and he continues to look after dawn even when buffy is dead!! why bother if the “reason” you’re being good isn’t even around to “reward” you for it!! idk!!! and that’s just ONE example like……please help

(I don’t want to talk about the Fuck Shit bc I was more than a little traumatized but idk. why would a soulless demon go out of his way, through much trial and torture, to get his soul back? genuinely I don’t understand how all this fits in. if humanity is something that can be learned and practiced, as it seemed to be with spike at the time, what is it about a soul that changes you so drastically? that then you innately have a conscience rather than one you have to actively choose to develop? these are not rhetorical Qs I’m truly not understanding the whole deal AND why a soulless demon would want to get his soul back. if he was so evilbad and incapable of love. which they imply is due to the soullessness. hello)

anyway I didn’t mean for this to become spike propaganda but he is unfortunately the reason I can’t rly grasp the show’s concept of the soul re: vampires. I know the real answer is that they just didn’t think it through (as a video game player and show watcher and book reader I am aware that this is USUALLY the answer) but!!! it fucking plagues me

#some of you might be saying: this is an essay how is this not a deep dive #it is not. when I deep dive I have screenshots and direct quotes and cited sources. you will know. #btvs

[effeminate-wastrel]

Hey, when you reblog someone's post can you please put your comments in the tags instead of directly under a post. I'm certain you mean well but it's generally considered rude to add on to someone's post

Short answer? No Long answer: I'm going to address this ask in good faith and explain my reasoning, even though "no" is a complete sentence and I don't owe an explanation to anyone. The only reason I ended up spending over 40 minutes answering this and making my feelings clear is because I have codependency issues along with (probably) having autism, and have recently started putting more effort into dropping masks, listening to my own feelings, and allowing myself to disagree with people. Part of that is just being more clear with myself and I decided I wanted to share it on my blog. Firstly: I would 100% be willing to have a conversation with you about this, but I would prefer a direct message over an anonymous ask. An anonymous ask immediately raises my defenses. It doesn't even grant me the basic respect of knowing who I'm talking to and turns what should be a private conversation into this, which I have to post on the off chance you might read it. Secondably: If this is behavior that's "considered rude" by general consensus, this is literally the first time I've ever heard this. That doesn't mean it's *not,* but it does mean I have 0 reason to believe that what you're saying is true when it fully contradicts my experience on this website. If you had said "*some people* don't like when you reblog their content and comment on it" I would definitely understand and respect that to the best of my ability. But that only works if i KNOW WHO FEELS THAT WAY and since you've asked ANONYMOUSLY then what am i supposed to do? I’m editing this after the fact, I messaged a friend and this is something that has apparently become commonly accepted as good etiquette since when I was on tumblr years ago and when i came back. The rest of my points still stand though, I won’t be changing how I choose to run my blog based on this artificial constraint that I don’t understand. Maybe that’s just the autism talking. Thirdly: what are you even talking about. the entire functionality of this website is built around reblogging and posts that have multiple additions Fourthly: it's my blog and i choose how i get to run it. If that doesn't gel with your blog and how you choose to run it, then block me, that's what it's there for But anonymously telling me I'm being rude, appealing to some general consensus which may or may not exist doesn't feel like my humanity is being respected, it feels like someone trying to get me to do what they want without even the courtesy of a conversation about it. (if you're still reading, asker, this next part's really not about you, so don't take it personally) I've put up with parents, teachers, bosses, partners, friends doing this to me for nearly 30 fucking years and i'm not doing it anymore. When you default to what others expect from you so deeply that you become incapable of knowing what you want or who you even are, and you build your entire life and self-conception around what other people think about you, you end up in this place where you don't allow yourself to even consider that you're the wrong fucking gender, that maybe you're neurodivergent and need support, that maybe you're being taken advantage of, whatever it might be. Let me be clear, I'm not blaming or insinuating the asker is doing anything even remotely as damaging as this. I'm only writing about my own experience with neurodiversity, masking, and codependence for my own sake on my own blog. also lemme know in the replies if you think this is something that actually is “generally considered rude” or not, cuz i am genuinely curious now. *edited*

[spoke-n-languish]

My dear lady, and my enigmatic downfall,

By the way, as you read this, it should either resonate with truth (give or take some slight adjustment), or be completely off base and potentially offensive. If you feel the latter at all please do not take offense, I never intend that for you, and if I’m that off it is a sign of how much help I need. But, well here goes…

Somehow you have infected me. Negatively but also in a good way as well. You have hacked your code like a virus directly into my DNA. On one hand I can recognize that your father in San Francisco, possibly, 12941 653247 (Illustration) according to his web page is not dead. Nor was he a chef? …at least it looks like that credit goes to whom I’m assuming is your mother, 4842317 6247, and her catering business in Malaysia. Your name is not 424574514, and I cannot find a picture of you more recent than what you had posted when you were here with me, except for what 152937 8941237 6. 149164182 has posted, but I’m pretty sure that was just for a promo shoot, right?? Inexplicably, I am openly crying while I write this because of the pain of reopening wounds, the ache of loss, and the stabbing of regret and guilt on top of the pangs of love unrequited.

Why?

What did I ever do to deserve being lied to, manipulated, and robbed by you in such an incredibly intimate betrayal of trust that even looking back now, and recognizing that I don’t know if you ever once told me something that wasn’t a lie… and yet, I still love you?!?

When you first met me, I am assuming that it was Brooke or her associates that were trying to bait me into infidelity. I get that, but why these extreme lengths of faking your father’s death, and the insane period of threatening suicide over and over. There is no way that all of that was staged. Besides, you didn’t start 712432787 until 2018, so I’m thinking at least a couple months at the beginning, there must have been a real true emotional connection with you, because I cannot accept that a human could say the things you’d said and promised what you’d promised with heartfelt meaning that I know I felt.

I get that things didn’t always go so smoothly, and I apologize that I wasn’t given the opportunity to fulfill my vow to you in time, but I still have a million questions and this whole ending process has left me incapable of functioning properly mentally as I suspect I have succumbed to a more comprehensive dementia. (A couple days ago I borrowed chef’s truck and drove down to kealakekua because I thought you were in trouble, and then yesterday, I almost got arrested because I was led into a strangers house where I thought you were staying… and I don’t think you’re even on the island).

I don’t blame you for growing and advancing yourself… I’m actually quite proud of you for that, but it doesn’t make sense to me why you couldn’t bring me along with you. By which I mean we could have developed this future together. Instead, you took every advantage of me (in an already diminished health state), broke my heart, shattered my spirit, and fragmented my mind with the constant onslaught of slanderous cyber-warfare. But what really was the Spanish necktie coup de gras, was that in your game of hot/cold I love you/I ghost you/I’m in danger — you have preyed upon the exact triggers that I couldn’t ignore or walk away from. It’s like you were speeding away in a car and I couldn’t get my hand to let go off the bumper so I just got drug along behind until I had been worn down to nothing left.

I know that I don’t have anything to offer you anymore (you were always way out of my league anyway), nor is there reason for you to show any interest. It is not your job to supervise my state, and I would be just a waste of your resources. I stand by my word and what I have said throughout our time together in that you do not owe me anything.

So, unfortunately, I am once again left with no recourse but to prostrate myself before you and beg, like the sick and wounded malfeasant that I am. I beg of your mercy, my lady, if ever I did stir an element of love within your heart, when you have the time and if you don’t mind, would you please just come talk to me. My thinking is that perhaps if you wouldn’t mind illuminating some of the riddles in which I have become so entangled. I fear I will never be able to find let alone fix myself in my current state. It feels like a slithering weight has me within its coils and I stand no chance against the effective lethality of this 424-con ya’ have trapped me with. (See what I did there?)

And, to prove the magnitude of how greatly you have corrupted my logic and ensnared my heart, I forgive you for all transgressions (even the one’s ongoing still), and I love you! You are amazing and getting to share in part of your life was more than I have ever deserved. I can’t help it if every fiber of my being gets on board when I dream… dreaming and hoping are all I have left it seems (and even they falter lately). But my baby, my light and my love, I thank you and I will hold your memory fondly in my thoughts and in my heart.

With all of my best love,

Always Yours

P.S. I apologize for my ineptitude regarding the navigation of social media (kinda your fault as I had to teach myself essentially how to piece together a puzzle on the surface of a flowing river). Regardless, I do not have a way to contact you. So I am going to just post this here in the hopes that you will find it. Upon which I shall further hope that when you do you will notify me in some fashion so that I can take it down and stop humiliating myself even further.

#nothing_matters #omnia•interroga #impossibledream #LH6!7*736NV #riddle211 #turn-the-page-h6ε #NothingElseMatterS

[bibliothesoph]

Are you alive and well? or at least alive?

Wow, wow, wow! It's been...a while since I've metaphorically shown my face on here or on AO3, huh? Well, I'm really sorry I went MIA without any warning, and I'm really sorry for leaving a bunch of unfinished projects in my wake.

I'm alive, certainly, and overall pretty well. It's been a bit of a crazy time recently––I'm a senior in college and facing that "???" of whatever comes after graduation, I just submitted a Fulbright Grant Proposal for (what I think, anyway) will be a very interesting creative writing project in Sweden next year, and I spent a few months trying to get one of my original works out there by querying agents (a handful of full requests, but ultimately no takers).

That all being said, I've been feeling very...challenged regarding writing as of late. For the past few months, writing anything has hurt (metaphorically, I mean). I'm not sure if it was the weight of the Fulbright Application on my mind or the rejections of my manuscript, but...yeah. Every time I wrote a word for "pleasure" and not academics, it felt a bit like my insides were twisting around themselves and trying to crawl up my throat. It was, needless to say, absolutely terrible. I've been writing my entire life in varying genres and topics, so to feel mentally and physically incapable of doing so has felt jarring, to say the least.

I realize this is incredibly lengthy and no one asked for such a long, personal response, so I'm sorry for that. The last bit of this whole thing is that I recently went to a remote forest for two days (I know, a big main character moment, right?), turned off my phone, brought no electronics, and just let myself be in nature with a pencil and a journal for company. And, just like that, writing didn't hurt anymore. Writing felt fun and freeing and completely un-suffocating for the first time in what feels like a fucking eternity, honestly. If I had to psychoanalyze the whole "writing feeling like imminent doom" situation, I would probably say it had something to do with perfection (or lack thereof) and a battered writing self esteem, but I'm really happy it's gone now.

Writing is fun again, writing is my passion, and writing rests at the very core of who I am and how I function as a human being. I am so eager to get back to it and to (hopefully) share all of the ideas I've had running through my head during this weird and unplanned break. I'm sorry it seemed like I disappeared, but I'm back, I'm sorry, and I can't wait to get back to work.

(Also taking requests. Consider it another way to apologize, if you will?)

[once-and-future-alaskan]

I've come up with an extremely funny headcanon explanation for why Kit is so unfazed by all The Horrors in this mod set up and doesn't even acknowledge them, the actual reason of course being she is from an entirely different mod with no relation.

In the quest of The Machine and Her - Kits companion quest - we don't learn much about her homeland but we learn enough to get a basic idea. The nation that has raised her from birth to be an assassin is some sort of patriarchal militant theocracy, they have some program of intense training and conditioning to create "Heralds" who are deadly efficient killers but almost incapable of functioning on their own and are unable to rebel against their masters. This is demonstrated by Kit being physically incapable of speech or even defending herself in your confrontation with her former master. (For the record, afaik there are no real opportunities to abuse this. You never really give her direct orders to do anything beyond maybe lockpicking or hacking for you if you use that mechanic and you mostly just talk to her like another person. I am not her master, I am her weird mom.)

In this playthrough I have multiple times bore witness to this slightly awkward, anxiety ridden 17 year old walk up to raiders and humanoid monsters alike and just slit their throats mid fight. She doesn't do a generic slash...I mean that this is a deliberate execution animation, she's very casual about it too.

All that preamble to say, I think the reason hordes of corruptions of the human form stalking her in an endless fog don't phase her anymore than raiders with guns is because she went to Catholic school.

[imsaaaaaad]

I don’t have many friends bc I was homeschooled until I was 14 and I have BPD and I don’t rly know how to make friends when you are 28.

And the two friends I have have been isolating a lot and I know it’s bc they have there own stuff going on and I respect that but I miss them. And I miss when they were a good friend to me. Bc now when they come out of isolating they just kind of send me generic seeming responses. I think they hate me. We had plans for me to fly out in August and they said they would tell me when a good weekend for a visit would be and then as we got closer… no date came. And now they isolate so much that we never ever face time and we rarely even text anymore. I feel like this is just the beginning of them not wanting to be my friend anymore. And I was honest with this friend about how I was feeling - mainly about just missing them and I also feel really bad about myself bc I can’t make friends. And they were really really kind in their response and reassured me that they cared about me and were just dealing with their own stuff.

And again I respect them and this - but I am so lonely, I have so few people to talk to who I feel like aren’t annoyed by my general existence. And making new friends is so goddamned hard. I had this old work colleague who seemed chill but she literally only talks about herself and when I do text her asking her how she’s doing and she still doesn’t ask me how I’m doing I will let her know bc idk like I feel like that’s valid and also she said she wanted to be my friend but also she hasn’t done a lot of trying to be my friend so I have to like fill in the gaps with stuff like what’s going on with me or whenever.

I just am not fucking functional as a human being and am probably incapable of making any connection with anyone. It’s so painful. I’m so sorry for not being better. Someone be my friend.

#do not rb #bpd #personal #vent

[unbidden-yidden]

Been following a lot of the recent conversations about transandrophobia with great interest lately, because finally, finally transmascs are talking about both the actual gendered lived realities of transmascs as well as the deep trauma many have sustained from within the trans and queer communities.

And it's being A Lot, tbh, because I literally dropped out of trans advocacy and community because I could no longer handle the psychological damage and gaslighting from supposed allies and community members. Everyone and their dog felt like they could tell me what my gendered experiences have been - and haven't been - and contradicting that with the truth - my truth about my actual lived experiences of misogyny as a non-woman, was virtually fucking impossible unless you wanted to be flamed and buried. So instead, I wrote pages and pages of ever-increasingly convoluted theory, tying myself and my identity in knots in a completely futile effort to find a narrative that I could give that other trans people (nevermind cis people) would actually hear and respect.

Suffice to say, I didn't suceed.

Instead, I fell into a year long depression and came out the other side incapable of connecting meaningfully with anything but my more feminine side, because at least then the way I was treated made sense and I could talk about it at all without quite so much fear.

So I'm not sure if I have a place in these conversations now, because I primarily identify as non-binary, femme, and function in the world as a woman. On the one hand, my experiences overlap substantially with transmascs because by virtue of being AFAB, I was lumped in with them, and at that point my gender was actually probably a lot closer to that anyway.

On the other.... well, I've kinda just given up tbh. Putting any specific labels on my gender has been such a seething nightmare shitshow since 2007 that I literally do not know what I would even *want* to be categorized as anymore. Caring, at all, about it is such a trigger that I don't even know where to start. I haven't experienced any kind of gender euphoria in probably a decade. At some point I just hit a limit where I realized that I could find ways to be happy just existing as a human or I could try to figure out what I am, and I chose to just enjoy being myself rather than articulating myself. Fuck it who cares - I know who I am in the ways that matter and G-d knows who I am and the people who matter know who I am. Anyone else, if you perceive me, that sounds like a you problem. Don't ask me my pronouns, they don't matter. Don't ask me my preferred name, it doesn't matter either. Don't ask me to classify myself, because I can't and won't.

The less said the better, really.

#transandrophobia #intracommunity shit #you can reblog but don't be a shit #gender garbage #my gender is a 'trespassers will be shot' sign

[fiddlesolo]

“things you forgot to say” for carlesme???

Esme sighed, laying back against the fluffy hotel room pillows in the spacious room Carlisle had called ahead and reserved for her. It was ridiculous, really. She didn’t need all this room. Not all by herself.

Of course her art show was happening the very same weekend as the big fundraiser for the hospital. Carlisle was expected to be there— it was too important for him to miss. Esme had offered to withdraw her art from the showing to accompany Carlisle to his fundraiser but the whole family, her husband included, had insisited she go.

She was excited, always was whenever she got a chance to talk about her art, but she hated traveling so far on her own. It wasn’t that she was nervous or frightened— she just enjoyed having someone with her. She was too much of a social being to travel alone.

Esme reached over for her bag, pulling the cellphone she’d just gotten a week earlier free from one of the pockets. The smartphone was a pretty big adjustment— her razor flip phone had suited her just fine but she’d managed to break the old thing and they weren’t being made anymore. The young men in the electronics shop had talked up the new iPhone until she’d purchased one for herself and Carlisle. The kids had them already but the two most old fashioned of the bunch had held off.

She smiled at the lock screen photo Alice had shown her how to set— it was a photo of their whole family. Esme had convinced them that it was time for another professional portrait since the last time they’d done it had been two decades earlier in 1991. They had new additions to the family, after all.

Just as she was about to unlock her phone, it began to ring. Carlisle’s photo popped up onto the screen just before she accepted the call.

“Hi, darling.”

“Hello.” Carlisle said. “You’ve made it to the hotel alright?”

“I have. I even managed to check-in all by myself.” She teased.

“Very funny.”

“Mm, I try.” Esme could hear shuffling around on the other end. She looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table . “You haven’t left yet?”

“No, not yet.” Carlisle admitted. “I misplaced my blue tie.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. If anyone couldn’t manage to function on her own, it would be Carlisle. The poor man was incapable of making it out of the house on time. “It’s on the top shelf of our closet. Left side.”

“Oh, thank you. Alice was going to wring my neck.”

Esme laughed. “Was that the true reason for you call?”

He huffed softly at her. “No, actually, it wasn’t.”

“What was it then?”

“Well, I forgot to tell you before you left just how proud I am of you.” He said, the phone jumbling slightly as he tied his tie. “You’ve come so far with your art over the years and this showing is with such a prestigious gallery.”

“Oh,” She breathed, phantom heat rushing to her cheeks. If possible, she’d be blushing. Even after all these years, he could make her blush. “thank you.”

“I meant to tell you before you drove off but...”

Esme laughed softly, thinking back to how she’d pressed him against the side of her car to kiss him with fervor. “We were a bit distracted.”

“We were.” He agreed, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

“You’re earning money for the hospital. You’re bettering the lives of humans. That’s much more important.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before Carlisle needed to leave and Esme needed to start getting ready for the showing.

send me prompts

#carlisle x esme #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #twilight fanfiction

[writing-fool]

mlqc | like it’s a bad thing pt. 1

I think these are ‘fighting’ scenarios, but I’m not 100% sure at this point. It’s like a ‘relationship on the cliffs’ thing. Pt. 1 for Victor and Shaw because I noticed these were getting a tad long. And they kind of carry the same theme, I guess. Wanted to include Lucien, but I ended up not being able to finish his for now...so if I make the next part, he’ll probably be on there.

I’m still working on a hp!au for Victor, but that may take a while since the inspiration doesn’t seem to be arriving anytime soon. It’s all been a bit tough, sorry. I say this all the time, but I apologise for the lack of fics; my writing pace’s been slow.

As always, enjoy the read!

Love,

R.

Warning(s): slight angst, profanity, mention of mature content.

Victor

You love Victor. You really do. But sometimes, just sometimes you wonder why you put up with this man and his bullshit. A great downside to being involved both romantically and professionally is that those types of relationships tend to bleed into one another. This could be in the form of an office quickie...or something a lot less fun. 

On the outside, Victor may seem put together, but you know him well enough by now that this month has been incredibly stressful for him. But so has it been for you. Safe to say, it’s been tense, even at home. Victor’s constant nagging about work performance and his snide comments at your so-called slacking off have pushed you to the breaking point, and you’re really not going to sit there and take it today.

“Do you even understand what I’m saying? LFG can’t move forward with your company if you continue working at this inefficient pace. You, as the head of a company, should know how to improve the quality and efficiency of your work.”

You sigh, not taking your eyes off of the laptop in front of you as Victor exasperatedly throws another one of your proposals on the coffee table. “I get it. Just give me some time.” You rub your temples, getting back to your own work.

“Do you? It doesn’t seem like you get the point here. You. Do. Not. Have. Time,” he harshly points out.

“You know you’re able to manipulate time, right?” You raise an eyebrow and look up at his unamused face. 

“I can’t favour you like this. Did you really think I was going to stop time to solve your inefficiency problem? You can’t rely on others all the time. A company that can’t pull itself up is use—” 

Something in you snaps at that very moment. “I get it. We’re useless, inefficient, and we’re so lucky LFG is even willing to support this failing company. I’m a useless boss, I can’t do anything right, I’m leeching off of my rich, CEO boyfriend to get ahead, I fucked my way to the top, whatever. Tell me something I don’t know,” you snarl, slamming your laptop shut with a resounding snap.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.” Victor’s glaring now, sharp, stormy eyes boring into yours.

“Oh, do I?” you mimic his words, narrowing your eyes, “Because you sure don’t seem to tell me otherwise. I can’t read minds, Victor, and all I hear from your mouth are insults telling me how incapable I am as a boss. So pray tell, how am I supposed to think I deserve my job when not only the entire business world, but also my own fucking boyfriend tells me I don’t?”

Victor’s clearly taking aback by your sudden outburst, but his need to get his point across in this argument seems to win over the instinct to lighten your mood at this very moment. “First of all, I don’t know why you care what others say—”

“Because I’m human! Maybe you don’t think of people calling you names anymore because they’re lost in the sea of people literally grovelling at your feet, but I’m not you,” you rub your temples again, voice lowering as the mental exhaustion kicks in.

“I don’t know if I can live like this anymore. Fuck Victor, you make me feel like a failure and you just don’t seem to care.” You push past his stunned form and head to the bedroom.

“Sleep in your office if all you care about is work.” You glance back at him for the last time before slamming the bedroom door shut.

Victor messed up. Royally. He didn’t mean to take his stress and anger out on you and he definitely didn’t mean to act like your boss at home. 

He’s been trying to get back to work for the past two hours while giving you some space, but the lingering guilt and worry in the back of his mind prevent him from actually doing anything productive. What if you really meant it? What if this is it? He can’t lose you just because he acted like an idiot. Victor’s always assumed you knew he cherished you more than anything in the world...but maybe he’s been neglecting you as a partner.

With a steel resolve to make it right, Victor leaves his home office and walks to your shared bedroom. The light from the hallway streams in as he opens the door, illuminating your sleeping figure. You’re curled in on yourself in a protective, almost guarded way, something you never do (you’re usually the kind of sleeper that has their limbs flopping everywhere on the bed). Victor feels a sharp pang in his heart at the notion of seeing you look this broken...because of him.

Gently, as to not wake you, he shuffles to the dresser, carefully taking off his shirt and folding it over a chair. After sufficiently (un)dressing himself, he slides under the sheets. 

Victor tentatively reaches a hand over to touch your arm, only to feel you turn away from his touch. Instead of pulling his hand back, Victor brings his hand around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest.

You’re awoken by the sudden movement, and in your sleepy state, you lean back into the warmth surrounding you.

Victor’s breath grazes your ear as he whispers. “I’m sorry.” Hm?

Your mind slowly registers that the warmth is, in fact, caused by Victor’s body heat, and more importantly, that you’re still very much upset with him. You struggle to get out of his grip, but that only seems to tighten the hold Victor has on you.

“Don’t. Stay with me,” he pleads, voice tinged with despair. You’ve never seen him this vulnerable before. You still your actions, instead opting to turn around to face Victor.

“I don’t know if this is what I want,” you speak up after a long moment of silence, “I love you, but I don’t want to be stuck in a relationship where I’m not welcomed.”

“Do you feel like you’re stuck here?” Victor asks.

You avoid his gaze. “I’m not sure. It’s not all your fault, but I do wonder whether you stopped caring about me sometimes. You’ve been so harsh to me, lately.”

“I didn’t, I never stopped caring,” Victor takes your hand in his left one, interlacing your fingers, “But I understand that I’ve made you feel insecure and uncared for. I never wanted to make you feel worthless, but I’ve gone too far this time, haven’t I?”

A mirthless chuckle escapes your mouth. “That’s an understatement,” you quip.

You expect Victor to retort back with something mean, revert to his distant self (at least, to the distant person he’s become this month), but instead, he gently cups your cheek with his right hand, raising your face up to look at him again.

A soft kiss is placed on your forehead. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less harsh, and I’ll do anything it takes for you to forgive me. I’ll fix it all, your insecurities, your anxiousness. So give me one more chance, please. Let me fix it.” Victor’s beautiful grey eyes look into yours, sadness apparent on his face. You lie there for a long while, staring into his sombre eyes in silence.

“You’ll do anything?” you finally ask in curiosity. A resolute nod is your answer. “Even stop talking about work at home?” Victor nods again. You pause for a while, contemplating your next request. “...And take me to Souvenir and make me pudding every day?”

Victor snorts. “That’s the least I can do, dummy,” he chuckles lightly. Suddenly, his eyes widen. “I don’t mean you’re dumb. I just—”

Your soft giggle breaks his anxious ramble, and Victor feels like he’s just won the biggest prize at the lottery. “Just this is fine,” you whisper, “I thought it’d take longer for me to forgive you. But for some reason...I’m just happy to see your old self again.”

Victor sighs, pulling you closer. He presses his lips onto the crown of your head, inhaling deeply. “Dummy, don’t be so kind to me. I won’t know what to do,” he mumbles, relishing in the dark quiet of your bedroom. Truth is, he probably never knows what to do when it comes to you.

“You just have to love me, that’s all,” you pull your hand out of his, instead hooking your pinkies together, “No take-backsies.”

He rolls his eyes at your antics, a fond expression betraying the lack of annoyance behind the gesture. His pinky finger curls around yours ever so slightly, as if it’s desperate to hold onto yours. As if he’s desperate to hold onto you. 

“No take-backsies.”

Shaw

“Not again,” you growl under your breath.

Shaw’s always been popular with the ladies, the gents, and the non-binary friends. Which is fine, it’s fine. You’re not a jealous person. You’ve dealt with people asking him out, people asking him if he was a celebrity and making you take pictures of him and some other person on a date, older ladies in your family groping him whenever you bring him to a family function (which really, isn’t about jealousy. You got mad, rightfully so, because they were harassing him). You can’t even remember how many times one of his campus students has confessed to him. With you right next to him at the table! Is it that unbelievable that I’m his significant other?

But too far is too far.

You walked into the fancy nightclub tonight, expecting to get a drink or two in your system, let loose with Shaw for a couple of hours, drag his drunk ass home and cuddle in bed. Not this. 

The moment you walk in, you spot Shaw’s lavender coloured mop of hair sticking out over one of the booths. But he’s not alone, oh no. He’s surrounded by young men and women fawning over him like he’s some kind of celebrity or host club guest. And even though he looks a little bored, he’s not exactly bothered by the attention he’s getting. Because of course he isn’t. The moment his eyes land on you though, he looks you up and down appreciatively before shooting you a challenging smirk. He reaches over to a long-haired girl next to him, lazily fingering a lock of her hair. She looks up at him with a coy smile, but his amber eyes are fixed on yours, gauging your reaction. Oh, so he wants me to come over? Play the little jealous significant other? Hah! Not today, boy. I didn’t come here to play games. 

You raise an eyebrow, a visibly annoyed expression showing on your face. Instead of heading in his direction, you strut to the bar, shoes tapping rhythmically on the floor. I look hot, I feel hot, and I need a fucking drink. 

You order a bourbon on the rocks, gulping down a large sip of the beverage a soon as it gets to you. Bourbon is made to be savoured. You hear Victor’s voice resounding in your mind from the time he taught you how to judge alcohol for a production. So am I, but nobody’s been thinking of that, apparently. You turn around with a scowl, leaning against the bar. You feel horrible, and the fact that Shaw’s back to his childish antics isn’t making that any better. An exasperated sigh leaves your lips as you tilt your head back, closing your eyes. The flashing lights are blurry, but still noticeable through your closed eyelids. But what you don’t notice, is the man heading over to you from his side of the bar. 

Shaw notices. How could he not? The moment you walked in the room, all he could see was you. And he knows he’s being a little shit, trying to make you jealous like that, but he can’t help wanting to play with you. It’s just a game of push and pull, and maybe he just wanted to see how hard you’d pull for him.

He didn’t expect you to react like that, though.

So here he is, so uncharacteristically walking (or strutting, because he is still sort of himself, after all) away from the admiring crowd of people around him and towards his clearly pissed off lover. And the man who’s clearly trying to chat you up.

“—buy you a drink?” he overhears. Shaw halts and watches the blinding spotlights in the club illuminate the sight in front of him.

He sees you lean closer to the man, foreheads almost touching in a conspiring way, before you shrug and the two of you turn to the bar. The man flags down the bartender, holding two fingers up. He’s just ordering two drinks for himself. That’s it.

His gait picks up again as he sees the bartender slide your favourite drink across the counter. Before you can even take a sip of bourbon, the textured glass is ripped out of your hand. Shaw downs the amber liquid, the burning sensation washing away the bitter taste of jealousy. 

“Thanks for ordering me a drink, honey,” he emphasizes the pet name, grinning at you before turning his head to the man with a fierce glare. The man raises his hands in defense, shakes his head at you with a smile, and promptly heads back to the other side of the bar. Shaw turns to you, the grin slipping back on his face momentarily.

“Already cheating on me?” he asks, masking the slight hurt behind a teasing façade. Shaw plops down on the stool next to you, watching your face. You look slightly guilty at first, but then your expression morphs back into one of anger...and exhaustion. You aren’t actually cheating on me, are you?

“Funny thing for you to say,” you ground out. 

“...So you were jealous.”

“That’s what you take from that?” You stare at him incredulously, his smug grin slowly sliding off of his face. I’m making it worse. Why did I make it worse?

“Jesus, you’re a prick,” you sigh, “No drink can fix this evening. I’m just going to go home. Do what you want, I don’t care anymore.” You climb out of your seat, making a beeline for the exit. Shaw is quick to follow you outside, grabbing your wrist before you can flag down a cab.

“Let me go, Shaw.”

“Hey, hey, it was a joke. You know that, right?” His ears are ringing from the loud music back in the club, but the sudden quiet’s more deafening than any song booming from the speakers. It feels sad, and Shaw hates it.

“I said, let me go.” You’re refusing to look at him. Why is it turning out like this?

“It was a joke. If I let go, you’re going to leave. Don’t leave me,” the slight pleading of his voice makes you turn around to look at his face. He tentatively releases your wrist, and you make no move to leave...yet.

“I don’t want to play these games anymore.”

He looks at you with furrowed brows. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“Is it fun, to try and make me jealous? To remind me of the fact that I’m somehow not suited for you, that after this amount of time, I’m still not enough for you?” you poke a finger into his lithe chest, “Because guess what, you succeeded. I’m jealous. I admit it, you won.”

 “I didn’t—And you took that guy’s offer for a drink! You’re not better!” Shaw suddenly raises his voice, his stance akin to that of a wolf on guard.

“I told him I had a boyfriend! And you know why he bought me a drink? Because he said I looked like I needed a pick me up. And you didn’t even notice! Even worse, you’re the fucking reason I needed one in the first place!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you were going to throw a hissy fit over me hanging out with some friends?” he spits out.

“Friends? They were hanging onto you, Shaw! One of those girls had her tits so close to you, she almost suffocated you with them. And you know it,” a humourless laugh escapes your lips, “You love the attention. And we both know I was never enough to provide that for you. So I quit.”

Shaw deflates. “What do you mean, you quit?” 

“I don’t want to be vying for your affection with the rest of them, I guess. It’s selfish of me, but somehow I thought I’d be special, or something,” you scoff, kicking a nearby rock of the pavement, “But I don’t think I am. Not to you. So I think we should stop all of this before one of us gets even more hurt. I think we should break up.”

Shaw halts, burying both of his hands in his hair. His breathing quickens as he processes your words. “No, no, absolutely not. We aren’t breaking up.” he looks at you with the same pleading eyes he used that time when he got sick and begged you to cuddle him instead of getting his medicine. Back then, everything seemed so...lovely.

“I don’t know what else to do, Shaw,” your voice breaks, and Shaw feels his heart shatter at the notion of you hurting this much. “I just don’t know why you do this, I—”

“Because I don’t deserve you.” 

“What?” You shake your head in confusion.

“I know it’s fucked up. Everyone around us knew that I wasn’t deserving of you. Just look at me,” he gestures at himself, “I’m a fucking gangster dating someone who deserves better. So I tried pushing you away, and then you pulled back, and you fought for me. And I just don’t know how to deal with that, ‘cause people don’t do that for me.”

You sigh. “You deserve to be fought for.”

“I don’t. I really fucking don’t. Because here I am, with the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m about to lose them. And it should be what I want because I keep pushing and pushing and pushing, but now the only thing I want is you. I fucked up.”

You lean against a nearby wall, silence hanging above you two before you break it. “I...don’t think this dynamic is healthy,” you start.

“I know, I’m sorry. I fucked up, but I promise I’ll—”

“And if we’re going to try this again, you’re going to have to fix your attitude,” you interrupt him.

“I—you’re serious?” a careful nod has Shaw’s expression turning from dumbfounded to ecstatic. His grin’s back, but now it seems more...genuine. More innocent. 

“Fuck. I can’t believe it,” he tilts his head up to the sky in glee, but soon looks back at you with resolution in his eyes, “I’m going to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever seen.”

You laugh. “Is that a challenge, pretty boy?”

“You bet your ass it is,” he teases, swiftly scooping you up into his arms, “I fucking love you, and I’ll do anything I can to prove it,” he mutters into the crook of your neck.

“Shaw...I love you too, but people are really staring, actually.” You cast worried glances over his shoulder.

“Don’t care.”

“...Of course you don’t.”    

Shaw’s scenario was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, to be fair. I think I made him pretty OOC, but I’m filling in a lot of the blanks in regards to his personality, and for some reason he has serious trauma and insecurities here, which is either kinda valid, or projecting. I don’t know if I’m satisfied with it...but it’s going I guess.

#mlqc #mlqc victor #mlqc shaw #mlqc imagine #mr love #love and producer #victor li #shaw #mlqc scenarios #li zeyan #ling xiao #long live the queue

[spectrumed]

10. contact

The key to success is networking. Oh, God, how am I ever going to succeed? Networking? Talking to other people? Making friends? That’s not me, that’s not me at all. I don’t want to make superficial connections with other people just so that I can one day use my connections to get ahead in life. I don’t want to force myself on others, trying to convince them that I am some decent guy that’s totally worth getting to know and be friends with. I don’t know if you’re going to like me or not. I imagine some people would like to be my friend, and I imagine some people would hate to be my friend. I’d rather just forget about the latter group, and not torture myself trying to make friends with people who are fundamentally at odds who I am as a person. I’d rather have a small circle of close friends than a thousand acquaintances. But the key to success is networking.

I’ll never be an insider. This is not me just doubting myself, not some decision to undermine myself. I know that making statements about things that are impossible for you to achieve comes across as very self-defeating, but I know that I will never be an insider. I will never fit into a social clique. I am not going to be part of the boys’ club, yucking it up with my mates. I’m not going to be in any gangs, no bands, most certainly no crews. I am a solo-player. I prefer to work on my own. All my life, I’ve kept to myself, one way or another. I don’t ask for help. Growing up, my sister used to get a lot of help from my mother with school assignments, because she wanted it and she asked for it. My sister and my mother would spend a lot of time together making sure that my sister’s schoolwork turned out well. Looking over spelling, fixing grammatical errors, making sure that the text was easy to read and had a flow to it. Normal parental stuff, really. Kids are supposed to get help from their parents, it’s part of the learning process, no-one gets by all on their own. Well, except for me. I never asked for help.

I actually found it really unbearable to have my mother look over my schoolwork to see if I made any errors. Not because I am such a horrid narcissist that I refuse to admit that there were any errors, but rather because… well, it felt invasive. Like as if you spot someone spying on you through your window. It made me feel very self-conscious, in a way that I realise now is similar to how I feel when I make eye contact. Yes, I am bad at making eye contact, especially when I am speaking at the same time. I don’t mind making eye contact when you are speaking, but I don’t want to make eye contact with you when I am speaking. Is that funny? Is that odd? Well, the way I feel about it is that eye contact is intimate, it’s almost like touching. It’s mental touching. If you share eye contact with somebody you are sharing a connection. You are mind-touching each other. Oh, well… I guess that maybe it’s not quite like that, but I still don’t find it easy.

At times, I find much of the discussions about neurodiversity online somewhat off-putting. Especially when it comes to those people who are really keen on being all out positive, all the time. Those people who see any shade of negativity as outright hazardous. Don’t bring up the fact that being neurodivergent can be difficult, don’t mention the difficulties that come with being on the autism spectrum. Engage with self-empowerment! Celebrate what makes you different! Go out there and be proud of yourself, be happy about your autism, it is cool to be autistic! And, sure, I understand the importance of injecting optimism into the neurodivergent community. We need optimism, we need to profess our desire to be happy, to show the world that you don’t need to be neurotypical to be content with your life. No-one wants to be around a sourpuss just wallowing in their discontentment. But, sometimes things just suck, okay? Having a positive attitude may project confidence, may make others think you’ve got it together, but be wary when that positive attitude just becomes a mask you hide behind.

Look, we live in a society. Whether you like it or not, you live in a society. We need to rage against this society, because this society is no good. Things may look good to some people, but those people are wrong, and I am right. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore! Let’s have ourselves a little revolution and see if we can piece a new society together, one that doesn’t commit to the same mistakes as the last one. Oh, wait, how do we do that? And how do we make sure that we win the revolution, we could easily lose, and that might actually just make things worse for us. What if this society we live in got even worse? Yikes, that’s a thought too scary to even really consider. Can things get worse? I don’t want things to get worse. Maybe I just shouldn’t rock the boat. Let’s calm down, and let’s not make any rash decisions here. We can overthrow society at some other point. For now, let’s just have some tea.

Yes, society stinks, but what can you do about it? It is absolutely the case that neurotypical people have it easier navigating modern society than neurodivergent people. Others expect you to function just like they function. If you wish to fit in, you are required to act more neurotypical. People expect that from you. Learn to adapt, to hide amongst them. Trick them. Make them think you are one of them. Be the wolf in sheep’s clothing. They’ll never know the truth of who you are. An outsider that managed to get on the inside. You stand by the watercooler, and by gosh, you make yourself laugh at their jokes even though you’d rather not be there at all. You partake in the small talk, talking about the weather, feigning interest in the footballs, and pretending to be an all-around wholesome compatriot. You’re not at all secretly some kind of anti-social misfit, who’d rather stay at home sitting behind a monitor and playing strategy games on your own. Do you want to come and join your workmates for a drink or two later? Oh, yes, of course you’d like that, but you might need to limit your alcohol intake so that you don’t get too drunk and begin to let the mask slip. It’s too easy getting into hyper-specific rants about obscure topics no normal person would care about when you’re inebriated, so let’s not risk that.

“Be yourself.” Pfth, bah, humbug. Neurotypicals love to state empty platitudes. You don’t want me to be myself. You’ve made it very clear that you don’t want me to be myself. Call me a cynic all you want, but you can’t get nowhere in life simply by being yourself. For better or worse, authenticity is nowhere near as desired as some people make it out to be. Name a single really successful person who is truly themselves. Fake-authenticity does better than the real deal. True sincerity, of the kind that’s naked, shameless, ugly, and challenging, it is difficult to love. And that’s not all bad, it’s just a fact of life. We all need to cover some things about ourselves up, and need to keep some secrets, because that is what is expected from us. Just as we wear clothes to cover up our naked bodies. No shame on the nudists, they’re free to embrace whatever alternative lifestyle they want, but I don’t want to see your naked body. Don’t get nude in front of me. I already struggle with eye contact, I sure wouldn’t struggle less if you stood in front of me nude as well.

Actually, to a certain extent, these social rules we all conform to can actually be quite appreciated by those of us who are on the spectrum. It is easier to know what you must do in a formal social situation than in a casual social situation. Casual people, they’re just so… unpredictable. Sticking their casual bits everywhere, acting like guests at your house who don’t seem to understand that your home is not their home. Even as a kid I hated having friends of mine over at my place. They’d play with my toys, place my toys where they don’t belong, or even worse, they may break some of my toys. Don’t touch that, it’s mine. Don’t put your icky hands on my bed, I sleep there. Don’t rip pages out of that book, it’s my favourite book. Don’t breathe in my room, I breathe in my room. I just can’t handle you coming here and disturbing the peace. I had it all ordered, I knew where everything was, and I liked it. Now you brought with you the forces of chaos, and dealing with that is just now what I had in mind for today.

I could never be a freemason. Sure, I have some good ideas for how to secretly rule the world, but if you’re a freemason, you’re expected to be part of the team. There’s no “I” in freemasonry. The secret cabal that controls all of the world’s governments, they don’t want independent folks like me to show up thinking that I can do my work assignments on my own. The Illuminati is run by a committee. You don’t get far in that world by being some freewheeling bohemian incapable of getting along with others. You don’t establish a New World Order by promoting self-reliance. Institutions are great for those who like to get chummy with their pals, the gregarious sorts who know exactly who to talk to in order to advance in the ranks. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. Favours for favours. One of the reasons why I inherently distrust many institutions is because they are rife with nepotism. You know that whoever gets to sit on the high council of the Illuminati didn’t get there via competency alone. No, they knew a guy, who was cousins with this other guy, who used to work for this guy, and y’know, you pull one string and suddenly there you are on top of the social hierarchy. Most often people get promoted, not because they do good work, but because they happen to know the right people. But again, maybe I’m just being cynical.

I’ve had a recurring fantasy, in the past, of being a lighthouse keeper. Living out somewhere all on my own, not having to deal with any human relationships. Maybe I could befriend a seagull, but even that seems a little too much. Seagulls can be very needy. No, I’d just get on with whatever I’d most like to be doing, writing or making art, just enjoying my solitude. I imagine that the toughest thing about being a lighthouse keeper is the loneliness, but the loneliness is only a plus for me. I’ve long ago decided to like being lonely. I don’t want to face the fact that I too yearn for company, I like to pretend as if I am fine with being alone. So the fantasy of being a lighthouse keeper is perfect for me, I could get far away from society and I could earn a living not having to give a fuck about what others think about me. I could allow myself to get as weird as I would want to get, not having to wash my image, acting like I’m all rational and well-adjusted. It would just be me and my seagull. How simple life would be. Too bad I think most lighthouses are automated, these days.

Maybe being the perpetual malcontent cynic incapable of fitting with mainstream society isn’t all so bad. In some regards, I have made that my brand. Generally, I like to think that I don’t take myself too seriously, but like a lot of people, I’ve turned those edgier parts of my personality into armour that I wear to protect myself from the scorn of others. You can’t accuse me of being a miserable piece of shit when I’ve decided to make being a miserable piece of shit my thing. It’s what I am, and I am not going to change. I’m not really all that mean, or nasty. I am fairly cynical, but I don’t act like some asshole. I don’t think anyone is upset with me for how I act. I’ve only occasionally gotten told off for being too gloomy. But the problem here does not lie with how I end up treating others, but rather how I end up treating myself. I don’t want to make cynicism part of my sense of self. I don’t want to be this person, this misanthrope who only sees problems, and never celebrates the good things in life. I should engage with self-empowerment. I should be happy.

It’s okay being neurodivergent! Sure, you may find other people strange or foreign, with their yapping mouths and their over-eager desire to look you directly in the eyes, but just ignore them! Neurotypicals are just so last century, the future is all neurodivergent! You’re on the right side of history, bud! You’re cool, and radical, and you’re absolutely a sexy little cupcake. You either learn to love yourself, or you lose yourself. Make funny memes, find some online community to be a part of. You can absolutely be a freemason if you want to be a freemason. Don’t let your diagnosis get in your way, so long as you’ve got that inner fire driving you, you can be anything you want to be. Go ahead and rule the world, babe. Remember, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, and right now, it’s good vibes only.

#neurodivergent #neurodiversity #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

[fuzziemutt]

Do You Understand?

Chapter 1/9 - Link to MasterList in reblog

Summary: Connor knows he isn’t the most.. knowledgeable... about emotions but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand them ever. If they weren’t going to take him seriously then he wasn’t even going to try interacting with them anymore. What could possibly go wrong?

Tw: I’m placing all possible tws here that could apply to the story. Possible ableism (this is not explicit but what Connor goes through can be similar to it), dissociation, very emotionally harmful coping mechanisms. Self worth problems. Trauma responses that go unnoticed. Please let me know if I need to add any more.

This started as a vent fic that extended outward into comfort, it gets worse before it gets better.

Notes: This is my first multi chaptered fic, I’ve never done this before. I did write the whole story in entirety prior and scheduled the other chapters to slowly release. The original vent was honestly quite different than what ended up being written, and I don’t know how it turned into this huge thing.

Also: There are no ships in this, this is all platonic. The only relationship status is that Hank is Connor’s dad even if they don’t quite acknowledge it.

Also also: This is Connor Pov. We mainly focusing on his thought processes throughout and they aren’t particularly healthy. (Connor also has ADHD)

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Connor knew he had trouble expressing and understanding his emotions. It wasn't a secret. He'd often find people looking at him with confusion, and sometimes wariness, with his lack of response to many things. He was a prototype. Sure he had one of the most advanced social relations software to date, but Cyberlife cut corners with the amount of articulation his face could produce, his current model wasn't meant to live long and to be disposable after all.

It doesn't help that he also just didn't know how to express what he was feeling in the limited ways he could. He "lived" most of his trial runs and current time in severe denial out of fear of deactivation so he'd rather ignore them than process them. It wasn't healthy but it was safe. Familiar.

That didn't mean he couldn't feel. He felt lots of things like guilt, hatred, fear, the occasional spark of joy. Too many things sometimes, in fact, that led him to having a nasty habit of adamantly ignoring it all, manually storing it away for later to keep his composer and stay in fully functioning order. Sure this led to people often ignoring his own desires and doing things that severely hurt him with no mention from him. But he was fine. He chose this after all. 

However, even with all the quarantining and ignoring, he couldn't help the anger that bubbled under his skin and in his throat right now. 

"Hank, I understand that you're angry but-" 

"You think you understand? You don't understand a shit, Connor! How could you?! I get you're your own person and everything now, but I never see you express anything beyond mild displeasure!" Hank yelled back. Connor was glad they were at Hank's house at least to provide some sense of privacy but saying he felt unhappiness at being yelled at was an understatement. 

Connor went to open his mouth in defense but Hank cut him off, "Of course you don't understand! How could you ever understand any emotions! You keep acting like a-" he suddenly went quiet, but Connor knew. 

"Like a what, Lieutenant?" He asked, making sure to keep his LED a yellow slow turn, but he couldn't help how sharp his voice came out, how his eyes hardened to a fine point. 

They stared at each other for several tense seconds before Hank seemed to deflate a bit and looked ashamed. 

"Like a machine," he spat out, still tense and upset but his fury gone. 

Connor simply nodded, quarantining what he could to not lash out and stood up silently. 

"I will be taking Sumo out for a walk to allow for us to take a breather before we both do something we regret. I will return," he said, shoulders tense and voice strict. His movements felt stiff as he tried to hold himself back from continuing this fight, grabbing the leash and patting his side to call over the old dog. 

"You can't just run away-" Hank tried, stepping closer as if to grab Connor's arm to stop him. But Connor's ice cold glare, almost threatening posture and clenched fists seemed to stop him. They kept forgetting that Connor wasn't just meant for integration but also intimidation, he once was a deviant (killer) hunter after all, and he can be intimidating when he so pleased. Hank seemed to suddenly remember the rumors of Gavin getting his ass handed to him by Connor in under a minute flat by how he backed away uncertain.

Connor left and came back a bit over half an hour later. Hank would apologize and Connor would accept it, even if that anger still simmered deep inside, and they'd go back to joking and discussing work matters like nothing happened. Friends sometimes fight after all. It was fine.

Despite how much Connor hated those accusations of him being incapable of understanding, they. Kept. Happening. 

Not just with Hank but others as well. The people who he thought were his friends, the Jericrew, even Nines the RK900, kept pulling the same shit. Connor knew they all experienced deviancy differently than him, Nines also had the gift of a face with full articulation that he couldn't help but envy, but it irked him every time. 

"Let's switch topics for Connor..."

"Oh I should have talked about this with someone else..."

"It was rude of me to assume you understand-" 

"Oh.. Sorry I know you don't understand-"

"You know he doesn't understand-"

"He won't understand-"

"He can't understand-" 

Each time he heard that word, understand, Connor felt that broiling anger rise just a bit more. Each time they never even asked how he felt before the assumption, he felt his trust disintegrate bit by bit. He was a master of masking his emotions to get the emotional responses he wanted, but even he had a limit when anytime he saw his friends he felt nothing but hateful bitterness below his false pleasantries. He even stopped willfully hanging out with all of them, even Hank, as it grew harder to fight down the urge to scream and yell and make them understand. 

It all came to a head during a meeting with the Jericho leaders, Nines tagged along as well as he said how much he missed seeing him outside of work. They were discussing how to handle the androids that still had severely negative responses to humans after all this time since the revolution. He was in the middle of talking about a solution of creating areas in New Jericho that would absolutely not allow humans and could run independently when North rounded on him.

"I'm sorry," in a very much not sorry tone, "but how am I supposed to take your option any bit seriously when you don't understand any of these androids' struggles mister 'my best friend is a human'."

"North-" Markus warned. The others even tensed up staring at Connor.

"No seriously. He could never understand their struggles," North plowed forward with no hesitation. 

Connor felt something snap inside of him. He felt his LED burn bright red, his back straighten, fists clenched, and his features shift into that bitter anger that he tried his best to keep under wraps. He could see how everyone grew more than just tense but wary even; he even saw a flash of fear in North's eyes. 

They insisted he was nothing more than a machine who didn't understand. That he'll forever be Cyberlife's pet (killer) deviant hunter. So he'll show them the hunter that was conditioned, threatened, who thrived on his own anger and fear through every grueling training session. The side that he kept pushed down as much as he could. 

He couldn't help the bitter laugh that came out of him, "understand... You know what? I'm starting to think I fucking hate that word." 

He knew he was scaring them with how North backed away quickly and the others started coming forward as if to protect her from him. His anger worsened at that but a small part of him felt a bit of twisted satisfaction at how they're finally treating him seriously. He could even imagine Amanda whispering praises for being the threat they wanted from the back of his CPU. 

"Has it never occurred to you that I might have problems with humans as well?" His hands expressed where his face couldn't, trying to contain the energy thrumming in his body, "has it never occurred to you what I might have gone through hm? 

“Oh wait. You never asked. You only accused. Have you ever thought about how my serial number has a 54 at the end of it? Did it ever occur to you that I have to exist with the memory of 53 deactivations constantly and the fear that I might be the 54th for merely breathing wrong? Who do you think did that? Who do you think reminded me day in and out that I was nothing but an expendable machine made to kill, to never ask questions because it meant deactivation or my internals torn out while I was awake. Humans. Humans did that but no, just because I trusted Hank not to do the same, I don't understand?" 

He knew he was slowly growing erratic and unstable with how aggressively his hands moved and the way everyone backed away from him. The way he loomed over them with his presence didn't help their nerves he was sure. Or how he slowly stalked towards them as if a predator was cornering its prey. But he couldn't help it, the thrumming pulse in his core needed to come out and by hell was it coming out now. 

"Not only that, but I apparently don't understand emotions too! I may be a deviant but emotions? They're off the table!" He couldn't help the second bitter laugh, a tinge hysterical, "no no. None of you took the time to ask me how I was handling these emotions and instead just assumed I didn't feel them! Because I'm ‘just a machine’. This guilt, fear, and self hatred I feel every waking moment? Lies because I'm just a machine. Even this anger I'm expressing right now? These are lies too aren't they? The nightmares I get of my countless deactivations and the numerous deaths that stain my hands? All just my programs malfunctioning because I'm just. A. Machine." 

"We didn't... Connor we didn't know-" Nines started, his sadness and fear clear as day on his face like how they wanted Connor's to be. The others were solemnly nodding along too as if this would appease him. 

"Because you never. Asked. Because none of you ever truly fucking cared!" Connor roared in response, slamming a fist down on the metal table next to him. All their eyes snapped and starred at the large dent he knew he left behind but he didn't care. He let himself breathe heavily, taking a second to find himself and his self restraint again. 

And just like that, he locked up those pesky emotions like everyone expected him to. He knew the people before him didn't actually desire him to show any negative emotions just like them, they proved it just now with how they're looking at him. He took one final deep breath, fixed his tie and let his face slip back into its emotionless mask except the cold, closed off glare didn't leave. He even felt that that was going to be a permanent feature now after today and couldn't help the internal chuckle at the irony how he finally was showing the emotions they desperately wanted him to show.

No one said anything as he moved towards the door. There was still tension in the air, fear, anger and confusion swirled in various manners of their eyes. Nines seemed split on treating him like a threat and reaching out to him, maybe even to pity him. Markus also looked like he wanted to say something, but he just looked away in the end. North had fearful eyes but a look that seemed to say 'I was right we couldn't trust him'. Josh held Simon behind him, and he looked almost sad if his distrust didn't say otherwise. Simon refused to take his eyes off the clear fist shaped dent in the table, still as a statue. Connor vaguely wondered if they'd replace that table because of him just like how they so easily replaced him with Nines when given the chance.

No one made a move to stop him from leaving. He couldn't tell if it was out of fear of him showing those (killer) hunter colors again by snapping an arm or if they're realizing just how badly they fucked up. He couldn't tell which choice he wanted more either. He hoped it was the latter.

"You're all hypocrites. To me, you're all no better than them," was the last thing he hissed out before slamming the door closed behind him. He heard the way the frame and wall around the door shook and cracked from the force but again, he didn't care. He wasn't going to play nice anymore if this was how they felt like treating him. He was programmed to be amiable, calm but he was also programmed to be obedient and he knew how that went. A bit of anxiety existed of how much damage he did and how easily he almost lost control back there, but he just ignored it again as he rushed down the hall to leave. 

No one followed him.

#i write #dbh #detroit: become human #connor rk800 #hank anderson #connor rk900 #markus rk200 #north wr400 #josh pj500 #simon pl600 #connor whump #connor angst #long post

[aflyingcontradiction]

Anon got back to me with another submission. This one is shorter so I’m going to just separate the submission and response with some lines - cw psychiatric abuse

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the only way my suffering will ever fade is if society finally sees fit to let me die, as it has been telling and showing me i should from the moment this empty body was brought into being for the sole purpose of abusing until there is nothing left but echoes of the abuse, which will never happen because it would make society more uncomfortable than locking me away to be tortured somewhere that they can forget i exist and tell themselves they’re helping.

being locked up for suffering too loudly isn’t just on my mind. it’s already happened to me twice. both before i even hit puberty. the first one was in third grade. and i’m effectively guaranteed to be put away again, likely forever this time, within the next few years. and I’ve spent the entire rest of my life both before and after both occurrences being constantly threatened with it by literally everyone over the tiniest things. my entire early teen years were spent being forced to tour abusive loony bin institutions people abandon their problem kids at to be locked up and tortured forever so my parents and school staff and every single adult in my life could find one to put me in after they abused me so much i couldn’t function except to scream and hate every single person immediately anymore. look up the google reviews on a place called rockford sometime, see what they did to 7 year old me who was already by that point so badly isolated and abused that i already had npd and was completely incapable of even seeing the point in liking and socializing with other people because i physically could not love and could not see the world as anything but risk benefit analysis with a heavy emphasis on risk because i already saw all humans as fundamentally untrustworthy because no one had ever shown me any love when i was younger and it maybe still could have mattered enough to offset my fucked up genes. i’m 22 and I’ve never been loved or happy and i never will be.i’ve never loved or cared about anyone and i can’t even conceive of the idea or even really want to and i never will be able to. I’ve never been alive or sentient at all. i’ll never know what it’s like to be free and love and to care and to be loved because i will either die here trapped with the people who murdered that lonely child who’s vacant mindless hungering body goes on calling itself me and doing nothing but eating metaphorically and literally to fill a stomach that isn’t there anymore and maybe never was, an insatiable manipulative vampiric echo of the starvation of a long gone child, or i will die rotting away locked up in a box where i’m considered less than the dirt the animals on a farm walk and shit on where none of the good normal people who killed me will have to see me suffer and die. there is no hope. there never was. i am stillborn. and so, so many people are like me. you just never hear from them, because the world makes sure to keep them silent. even if i ever do escape physically, it won’t matter. i will never be able to leave this place in my mind.

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Damn. I honestly don’t know what to say. I sincerely hope you’re wrong about your future prospects, but given what you’ve written about your life, it makes sense that you’d consider that an impossibility. I hate that we live in a world where people are abused in the way you’ve been in the name of “treatment” and that the idea of abolishing practices that lead to that kind of suffering is barely even inside the Overton window.