#writings of despair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wheels-of-despair · 1 day

Text

Heaven and Hell (Or: Eddie and Evil Woman Do… Prom?!) Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie and Evil Woman are *checks notes* going to prom? Like normies?! Contains: A high school prom, two nervous freaks, an ill-fitting wardrobe, an unfortunate zit, dancing, references to other E/EW fics nobody will remember, relentless teasing, a happy ending. Words: 4.5k

"Prom's next month."

You stop playing with Eddie's hair and look down at the head lying in your lap in surprise.

He keeps his eyes on the TV. A blush creeps into his cheeks. Is Eddie Munson seriously thinking about going to prom? You fight a smile and start working your fingers through his hair again.

"Yup… that's what they said on the morning announcements."

Silence. No way he's that interested in the orange juice commercial you've seen ten times today. Eddie Munson is thinking about prom, and he's in the process of chickening out.

"You ever been?" you ask.

"Nah," he says, eyes still on the TV. "You?"

"Nah."

He bites his lip. You can't take it anymore.

"You thinkin' about going?"

He shrugs.

If you were a more patient person, you could poke and prod at him until he finally asked you. However…

"Well, if you were planning on asking me, you're too late."

He finally looks up at you, confusion on his face.

"I've rekindled my romance with Chief Hopper."

A smile spreads across Eddie's face.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," you sigh. "What we had was fun, but you just don't have the stamina. Sometimes a girl just NEEDS full night of porking."

You both snort at the same time, which leads to a fit of giggles.

When you recover, you brush his bangs out of his face. He sighs.

"So, uh…" He licks his lips while he tries to find his words. "If the bacon falls through, would you maybe think about going with me?"

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off. "Because it's kinda my last chance, and I know it's stupid, and it goes against everything I stand for, and it'll probably be miserable, and the music's gonna suck, and you probably have a way better idea of what we could do that night, but… ugh, never mind."

Eddie turns back toward the TV, shaking his head so some of his hair hides his burning face. You gently brush it back behind his ear, looking down at him with all the love in your heart.

"Eddie?"

"Hm."

"You're the only person I'd think about going to prom with."

"Really?" He looks up at you with an uneasy smile.

"Yeah," you answer, tracing the shell of his ear.

"We don't have to."

"I know," you smile. "I want to go with you." He smiles back sleepily. "But if I get Carrie'd, I can't promise I'll spare you."

"Kay," he chuckles.

"Mother?" you ask, hovering in the living room doorway.

"Daughter?" she responds from the couch, without looking up from her book.

You take a deep breath and stare at the floor.

"Ineedapromdress."

"What?"

You sigh and raise your head. "I need a prom dress."

Her book drops to her lap, revealing wide eyes behind her glasses.

"What did you just say to me?"

"I need a prom dress," you repeat with a roll of your eyes.

"Oh my god! I have a child who's voluntarily attending a school function!"

"What's up?" Gareth asks from behind you.

"They're going to the prom!"

You slowly turn and see him looking at you in amusement.

"Shut up," you order before he can even say anything.

"She's even gonna wear a dress!" your mother shrieks.

"Shut up," you repeat, glaring at Gareth's stupid smirky face. "Kay, I'm going to bed, open to shopping suggestions and financial contributions, good night."

You squeeze past him and make a mad dash for your room.

"They're all gonna laugh at you!" Gareth warbles in his best Piper Laurie impression.

"Shut up!" you repeat one last time, then slam your bedroom door.

"He's heeeere," Gareth announces as he passes by your bedroom door.

"You look perfect," your mom assures you.

She's been working on your makeup for fifteen minutes, and it's finally the way she wants it. And you have to admit… you look pretty damn good.

She'd taken you to the city for a day of shopping, and after several hours of hunting, you'd actually found a dress without puffed sleeves, ruffles, or tulle.

"Give me a minute, I want the camera on his face when he sees you," your mom says excitedly.

"Mother, it's a high school prom, it's not our wedding."

"Let me have this!" she whisper-yells. She grabs her camera and leaves the room.

You take one last look at yourself, stand, and slip on your shoes. Heels. You're even wearing fucking heels.

You walk down the hall and turn into the kitchen…

Eddie Munson is wearing a suit.

You'd offered to help him look for one, or find him something in the city, but he said he had it covered. And he did. He's even wearing a tie, and he's tamed his hair somehow. He looks freakishly presentable (for Eddie) and is holding what you imagine is a corsage in a box.

"Hi."

"Hey."

You stand there and stare at each other. Awkward. It's awkward.

"Eddie! Give her the corsage!" Your mom stage-whispers.

He tries to hold it out to you, but fumbles it and drops it on the floor. You both reach down to get it, and you hear a RIIIP tear through the kitchen. You both stand immediately, looking and feeling your outfits.

"Was that you or me?" you ask, trying to feel the back of your dress. You knew this fucker was too tight. But your question is answered when all the blood drains out of Eddie's panicked face.

"Let me see, honey," your mom says gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him. The seam in the back of his jacket has ripped.

"Dude! You Hulked out on prom night," Gareth laughs from his seat at the kitchen table.

You give him a warning shush, and for once, he obeys.

"Slip that off, I'll have it as good as new in no time." Your mom helps Eddie out of his jacket and takes it in the direction of her sewing machine. You carefully retrieve the corsage from the floor and put it on the table.

"Uh… that's for you," he mumbles, the color returning to his face.

"Thank you," you smile, leaving the box closed until your mother can return and witness this sacred and not-at-all stupid prom ritual.

You turn to Eddie and lift a hand to run through his suspiciously tame hair.

"Don't look at it," Eddie mumbles.

"Don't look at what?" you ask.

"His third eye," Gareth supplies helpfully. That's when you notice the zit between his eyes. Eddie's face reddens so much that it almost blends in. Gareth snickers. You pick up a damp kitchen towel, ball it up, and throw it at him. It hits him in the ear.

"Don't you have some place to be?" you ask pointedly.

"Nope," he grins, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mom's taking me to Jeff's after you leave."

You roll your eyes, reach for Eddie's hand, and pull him to your bedroom.

"Sit," you instruct, pointing at your desk. He drops into the chair with a defeated sigh. You start digging through your extremely elegant shoebox full of makeup, then realize what you need. "I'll be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.

You return with a cotton ball.

"What's that?"

"Wite-Out. My make-up's too dark for you," you joke.

Eddie's brow furrows, and you apply a dab of peroxide to his unfortunate growth. When it dries, you reach for the concealer.

"What are you doing?" he asks nervously.

"Covering that up."

He sits silently and watches you reach for this and that to cover his bump, and when you stand back and smile, he frowns.

"What's wrong?" you ask. "I can wipe it off if you want, I thought you wanted it gone."

"I feel like a clown," he grumbles.

"You are a clown."

He pouts. You point at the mirror, and he leans over to see his camouflage… and his jaw drops. You lean down until your head is next to his, so you can see what he sees.

"Witchcraft," he whispers.

"You know it, babe," you wink.

"One freshly tailored suit jacket for the young lad," your mom announces as she steps into the room. Eddie stands, and she helps him into it. She brushes her hand along the seam. "Good as new!" she declares. "But no break-dancing tonight." Eddie laughs.

After the official corsage and boutonniere exchange in the kitchen, you're marched into the living room for pictures. Each pose is goofier than the last, but you aren't allowed to leave until your mom finishes off a roll of film.

You both breathe a sigh of relief when the van doors slam shut.

"You still wanna do this, or do you wanna go get blazed and hide out at my place?" Eddie asks, probably about 40% joking.

"What time is it?" you ask. Eddie consults his watch and reads the time back to you. You pretend to consider it for a second, then shake your head. "Chief Hopper is expecting me in 15 minutes, and my little piggy does not like to be kept waiting."

Eddie snorts and starts the engine. Hawkins High Prom 1986 it is.

"Where'd you get your suit?" you ask a few minutes into the surprisingly awkward drive.

"George. The thrift shop guy. Told him I needed something prom-worthy. This was his grandson's. 'He's a lanky thing, just like you,' he said."

"It's nice," you admire.

"It's a little small, but… y'know." Eddie shrugs. "Price was right."

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"It's… a little tight," he admits.

"Baby, you don't have to wear stuff if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It's fine… as long as I don't have to move my arms much."

"Is it the shirt too, or just the jacket?"

"Mostly the jacket, the shirt's got some stretch to it."

"Ditch it."

"Ticket says jacket and tie required."

"Ditch it as soon as they let us in."

"This is why you're the brains of this operation," he mumbles as he pulls into a parking spot.

"Correct," you grin.

"Stay," Eddie orders, hopping down and scrambling around the front of the van to open your door. You're suddenly reminded of your first official date; he'd tried so hard to be someone else, but you didn't want someone else. You wanted Eddie Munson, and you wanted him just the way he was. You take his hand and slide to the ground, wincing as your heels hit the pavement.

"Is your battle armor in here?" you ask, nodding toward the back.

"Of course."

"Fetch."

Eddie smirks and walks toward the back, and you shut your door and follow him. He grabs his leather jacket and patch-filled vest, and hugs the pair to his chest.

You reach for them, and he hands them over. You separate the pair while he watches nervously, like you're separating conjoined twins that he personally gave birth to.

"Lose the child-sized suit jacket," you instruct. He tries, but gets stuck almost immediately. You muffle a laugh and step behind him to help him out of it, then slide his plain leather jacket on.

He looks more comfortable already. And considerably more Eddie-like. You go to transfer his boutonniere to his jacket pocket… but he doesn't have one. A bit of quick thinking and one rip later, his dumb little flower is attached with a strip of duct tape. You step back to admire him.

"There he is," you smile.

"Now he's gotta find his girl," Eddie says, "and then they can go do this damn prom thing."

You look down at your outfit and back at him, but he's already digging… through your overnight bag?

"Eddie, what--"

He cuts you off by slapping the soles of your favorite sneakers on the floor of his van.

"You've been wincing with every damn step since you walked into the kitchen. Lose the shoes."

You grin and sit down to swap your heels for sneakers. Sneakers that Eddie vandalized during a particularly boring assembly. It was one of the reasons why they were your favorites; the boy's a ballpoint artist. The other was--oh, that's nice. You stand comfortably and breathe a sigh of relief.

"You want a little liquid courage?" Eddie asks, shaking a bottle of liquor at you.

"Sure," you answer. You each take a swig in hopes of making your night a little more bearable. Eddie stashes the bottle in the van and slams the back doors shut.

"M'lady," he says, offering an arm. You take it, and walk toward the Hawkins High gym doors. Any time now, alcohol.

A cheerleader-in-training eyes you warily, but takes your tickets and lets you pass by her table into the gym… decked out in streamers and balloons. Wicked classy, Hawkins High.

"And you say I never take you anywhere nice," Eddie grins.

"I have literally, not once, ever said that."

Eddie laughs and takes your hand.

"Munson?!" a voice shrieks.

"Yeah?" he asks uneasily, turning to see Mrs. O'Donnell.

"What are you doing here?"

You look at each other, and back at her.

"Whatever people usually do at prom, I guess?"

"I'll have no shenanigans from you tonight, Munson."

"Wouldn't dream of it, O'Donnell."

"Don't even think about going near that punch bowl," she warns.

"Why, what's in the punch bowl?" he asks. You try to keep a straight face.

"Just punch, and that's the way it's going to stay. Isn't that right, Mr. Munson?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says innocently.

Mrs. O'Donnell looks you both up and down, sucks her teeth in disapproval, and walks away without another word.

"Like I'd waste good liquor on these ungrateful assholes," he mumbles. "Do have an emergency flask in my pocket, by the way."

"Aww, and I thought you were just happy to see me."

"That's in the other pocket," he winks.

"C'mon," you laugh, pulling him to the other side of the gym. Once you're in a quiet spot, you scan the room for familiar faces. You knew you were pretty much on your own - all of the other Hellfire boys were having a movie marathon and sleepover at Jeff's - but you thought you'd look for potential allies anyway.

"There's Nancy Wheeler," you notice.

"And the Elder Byers," Eddie points out.

"I think we're on our own, babe."

"Just how I like it," he grins.

"You gonna dance with me, or just stand here lookin' pretty all night?" you ask.

Eddie responds by flipping his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

"C'mon," you smile, nodding toward the dance floor. He balks.

"This song sucks."

"Every song's gonna suck," you remind him.

"This one sucks more than average."

"Then how 'bout we visit the snack table and lay a curse on the punch while we wait for something that sucks slightly less?"

"This way, m'lady," he says nerdily, holding out his arm. You roll your eyes and take it anyway, working together to assemble a plate full of cheap snacks and two cups of unspiked punch. You retreat to the bleachers and pick at your bounty.

"So… this is a high school dance," he remarks.

"Yup… imagine, some people's entire high school careers revolve around this thing."

"I'd kinda rather be at home," he confesses.

"In our pajamas," you add.

"Watching shitty movies," he continues.

"Eating shittier pizza."

"Maybe fooling around a little?" He waggles his eyebrows and tilts his head toward the door.

"We went through a lot of trouble to get here, Edward. I went shopping. With my mother. You put on a suit. And a tie. And grew a stress zit."

"Shut up," he grumbles, hand instinctively touching the bump between his eyes. You lean in to kiss his cheek.

"Let's give it an hour. You've gotta dance with me at least once."

"Fine," he pouts. You feed him crackers, and he starts to relax a little.

When the opening chords of "Footloose" blare through the speakers, Eddie cringes. The people on the dance floor go wild.

"C'mon," you order, standing up and reaching for his hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Eddie Munson, you get your spastic ass on this dance floor with your dumb-ass classmates right now."

He whines, and looks… nervous? You sit back down, face full of concern. He scans the crowd, and you look too. Eyes keep darting to you. Not outright staring. Just keeping an eye on you. Like your whereabouts are a matter of public safety. You've been so focused on Eddie, you haven't bothered to pay attention to everyone else.

"It's just…" he starts, and then stops.

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, turning your head back to him. "This is our prom, too." You slide a little closer to him and hold his hand. "And I'm glad I'm here with you."

Eddie leans his forehead against yours and squeezes your hand.

"You think they're upset that we had the nerve to show up?" you smirk.

"Probably ruined their whole night," he grins. "Dear Diary, the freaks crashed prom."

"And ate all the fucking snacks," you laugh.

A flash makes you both jump.

"Sorry," Jonathan Byers smiles apologetically from behind his camera. "You guys were being cute, and Nancy demanded a photo for the yearbook."

"It's cool, man," Eddie grins. "Can we get a copy of that?"

"Sure," Jonathan nods. "They hired a professional photographer for portraits, by the way. Over in the corner. It's included in the ticket price."

"Cool," Eddie says.

"Anddd Nancy's waving me back," Jonathan groans. "You guys have fun tonight. At least some of the freaks should."

You and Eddie both chuckle as Jonathan goes back to Nancy for his next assignment, hearts in his eyes completely undermining his complaints.

"Well…" Eddie puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath of air. He's experienced all that prom has to offer, and is clearly not impressed.

"One picture, one dance, and we're the fuck outta here," you propose.

"Deal," he agrees.

You walk, hand-in-hand, over to the photographer's corner and get in line behind three other couples. Well, two. Kimmy Little sees you standing in line behind her, and drags her date off in the other direction. You and Eddie share a knowing look, but say nothing.

When the time comes, the photographer instructs you to assume the traditional prom photo position, and you do. You let Eddie hold you around the waist and smile like a total fucking jackass for several seconds while you wait for the flash. You and Eddie stumble away with spotty vision and hands tightly clasped. He's your lifeline, and you're not letting him go.

When your vision returns, you look from the bleachers to the exit. Is it really worth walking all the way back over there to sit and be bored, when you could just leave and have this lame night be over with?

Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" starts playing through the gym's shitty speakers, and you smile. You're a sucker for this one. Eddie looks at you with dread. He knows what's coming.

Silently, you slip backward into the crowd and pull him with you. He doesn't protest this time. He follows, eyes not leaving yours. The crowd must have parted for you. Perhaps there are advantages to loving the resident freak. You stand close and put his hands where they belong, and then yours. You stare into Eddie Munson's eyes and sway slowly to a song he tolerates, only for you.

You're glad you came. You're glad you're with him. You're glad this is the song you got to dance to. You're glad he made you swap your heels for sneakers.

But mostly, you're glad when the song is over, because you come together for a quick kiss and make a mad dash toward the exit.

"You son of a bitch," Eddie growls, trying to force his suit onto a hanger.

"Leave it, gremlin, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Eddie grins, throwing his suit on the bed and kissing your freshly scrubbed cheek. You'd washed off all your makeup and hair products together, had a little fun in the shower, put on pajamas, and smoked a joint to wind down. You were thrilled to look and feel like yourselves again. "I'm gonna go pop a pizza in the oven. Put something good on, I need to cleanse my poor ears of the top 40 garbage they were subjected to tonight."

"Yes, dear," you deadpan, hanging up your dress as he exits the room.

"Music!" he whines from the hallway.

"FINE!" you yell back. You pop in the first mix tape you find and turn up the volume. You force Eddie's suit on a hanger, put the formal-wear in the hall closet, and join him in the kitchen.

He's sitting on the counter, watching the clock and drinking directly out of a nearly empty two-liter pop bottle.

"You really know how to treat a girl," you smirk.

He burps in response.

You feel like you should roll your eyes or pretend to be annoyed, but you're so in love with this fucker, you find every dumb thing he does to be charming. You lean on the counter next to him, and he hands you the bottle. You take a swig, then pretend it's a microphone.

"I'm here with Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin, who has just been to his first and last school dance! Tell us, Eddie, how was the Hawkins High prom?" you ask, placing the open bottle by his mouth.

"Sucked dick, thanks for asking!"

"It did not suck dick!" you protest, slamming the bottle on the counter with a slosh.

"It sucked some pretty major dick," he argues.

"You got to spend time with the woman you love! In a formal setting! She wore a damn dress for you!"

"I like her better in pajamas."

"Only because I'm not wearing a bra," you scoff.

"Well… I mean, yeah," he says, hopping off the counter and taking your hands in his. "Don't get me wrong, the dress was great. Have deposited the cleavage situation in the spank bank, so thanks for that. But this is just… better. 'Cause this is us."

When you're right, you're right.

The opening chords of Black Sabbath's "Heaven and Hell" play through Eddie's bedroom speakers, and a wave of appreciation for where you are and who you're with washes over you.

"No bowtie-wearing jocks or frilly little bitches staring at us," you smile, sliding your hands to his shoulders and pulling him close.

"No restrictive clothing," he smirks, letting his eyes linger on your chest as he settles his hands on your waist.

"Eyes are up here, Munson," you remind him as you begin to sway subtly.

He looks up and grins. "Those are pretty okay, too, I guess."

You smack him in the chest, and he laughs.. and then his face falls.

"You tricked me," he accuses.

"How did I trick you?"

"This is our second dance!"

"Yes, but its to our music, so it's counteracting the pop-adjacent one at the actual dance."

"Ugh, fine," he pretends to cave with a roll of his eyes.

You keep dancing until the song starts to pick up, and Eddie looks at you with his eyes full of mischief. He starts moving just a little faster from side to side, swaying with the music as it builds. Before you know it, those spastic moves you tried to coax out of him at prom were coming out in his kitchen. You would have been perfectly satisfied to just watch him dance like a dweeb, but he grabs both of your hands and forces you to join him. You do so happily.

You dance, you spin, and you laugh together in the Munson's kitchen to a mixtape of Eddie's own making. It's the most fun you've had in weeks. Why did you spend so long stressing over prom? Prom was nothing. Prom was a bunch of rich kids in tacky, overpriced clothes that you'd be laughing at in twenty years. This is real. This is what you should be living for.

When the song begins to wind down, you and Eddie are nearly out of breath from all the head-banging and jumping around. The slow dancing resumes without complaint.

"I think this is the Heaven part," you observe.

"Huh?"

"Heaven and Hell," you say, looking up into his beautiful red face. His bangs are stuck to his sweaty forehead. His zit has lessened in intensity after a post-shower application of peroxide. His eyes are big and round and curious. This boy is perfect, and he's all yours. "Prom was Hell. Other people are Hell. This, right here? Me and you? This is the Heaven part."

Eddie's eyes crinkle as he smiles. He pulls you in close and crushes you in a hug. You squeeze him back and breathe in the calming, familiar scent of him. You love this boy more than anything.

"I love you," you mumble into his shoulder.

"I love you too," he responds. "Even if you did make me go to prom."

"This was your idea, fool," you laugh, giving him a backwards shove.

"Not how I remember it," he grins. He laces his fingers and holds them under his chin, bats his eyelashes, and continues in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like you: "'Oh Eddie my love, please, won't you take me to prom? It would be the highlight of my life!' Pretty sure you begged. Groveled, even."

"You are insufferable," you laugh, pushing him away from you.

"You're the one who made me go to prom!"

"You know, Munson, according to the pamphlets that everyone's been throwing at me all week, most teenagers have sex on prom night. But I think you're gonna have to get your ass kicked instead. C'mere."

"No!" he yelps, backing into a corner. "Please! I have children!"

"We don't have to share our pizza with them, do we?" you laugh, too lazy to engage in a play-fight with him.

"Pfft. No." He relaxes. "I wouldn't even share with you if I didn't have to."

Your jaw drops.

"I'm kidding!" he insists, coming forward to envelop you in a hug. You go rigid and refuse to hug him back. "I'm kidding. You know I'd save my last Fudge Round for you."

"Oh, really?" you smile, looking up at him.

"Eh… Nutty Buddy, maybe?" He screws up his face in concentration. "Nah. Oatmeal Creme Pie?"

"You are unbelievable," you scoff with a shake of your head.

"You love me anyway."

"Yeah, I guess," you sigh in defeat. "But please don't tell Chief Hopper. It would break his heart."

"Oh my God," Eddie groans, pushing you away and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

You cackle, and the oven timer dings.

This is definitely Heaven, but you've still gotta give him a little Hell.

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman

82 notes · View notes

hajihiko · 9 months

Text

Multilingual 🌍

Fuyuhiko: its beneficial to understand when rivals are talking in secret

Sonia: diplomacy is easier when you speak their language too

Hajime: duolingo library forced speedrun

Akane: worked in customer service

Kazuichi is just more of a Language of Numbera guy 😋

#Fuyuhiko kuzuryu #Hajime hinata #Kazuichi Souda #Sonia nevermind #Akane owari #Sdr2 #Super danganronpa 2 #Danganronpa 2 #Danganronpa #super danganronpa 2 goodbye despair #If Fuyuhiko and Hajime need to talk something sensitive they can switch to Italian #Hajime and Sonia can talk in Novosel together (and often do when she's feeling homesick)#Everyone but Kazuichi speaks fairly fluent English lol but he can sorta keep up (he knows mechanic speak better than anyone tho)#Kaz gets jealous and wants his own Hajime language. They end up with broken Swedish or something obscure like that #An art #First time I've had the danganronpa art spark in a WHILE feels like #Japanese isnt exactly heavy in swear words so I imagine it feels good to let out a little CURWA MAC every once in a while #(That's probably not written right lol sorry polish ppl)#Any errors in writing are because. I had to look it all up

2K notes · View notes

violetheart77 · 1 year

Text

Ah lads not again

#i don’t even know shit about Teen Wolf but you gotta admit this is morbidly hilarious #RIP to the Sterek shippers tho #or not if y’all are just gonna ignore the movie idk #teen wolf #teen wolf movie #teen wolf the movie #supernatural season 15 #spn season 15 #spn 15x18 #15x18 despair #supernatural despair #sterek #destiel #derek hale #castiel #teen wolf movie spoilers #i write shitposts not tragedies

4K notes · View notes

kiwibongos · 1 month

Text

horrible gift for @hajihiko based on their fic 'salt the earth' bc it broke me and i need a way to cope

read it here :>

og:

#in hopes u see this haji in all seriousness ur writing is fucking great #like i actually have no words im exploding #im hoping to make real fanart for it sometime if i can brainstorm ideas #(but my brain is dry rn lol)#anyway ur a big inspo to me i adore all ur stuff stay strong king #how dare u hurt me so bad #love it #bongo art #art #digital art #danganronpa #danganronpa v2 #danganronpa v2 goodbye despair #hajime hinata #sdr2 #teruteru hanamura

243 notes · View notes

bettsfic · 9 months

Text

wikipedia editors providing the most important info up top

#barbie #ken #yes i'm writing a fic #yes ken experiences existential despair #yes ken rides a horse

642 notes · View notes

orca-soup · 1 year

Text

I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.

C.S. Lewis

#lit #words #grief #literary #quotes #writing #literature #quotation #loss #sorrow #reading #despair #angst #books #regret #anger #dark academia #cs lewis

1K notes · View notes

divorcedtom · 1 year

Text

1x06 / 3x06 / 4x01

#him defining their relationship by their food/drink motif. did i write this myself #i wasn't gonna post this because im in despair over the ugly coloring but whatever #tomgreg #tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #shiv roy #succession #my gifs

1K notes · View notes

feral-ballad · 8 months

Text

Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad; "In the dark"

[Text ID: "All night long / within my chest / someone panted, panted / in despair / Someone wanted to rise / Someone wanted you"]

#forugh farrokhzad #excerpts #writings #literature #poetry #fragments #quotes #selections #words #poetry collection #typography #poetry in translation #despair #sadness #longing

276 notes · View notes

kurim-chis · 9 months

Text

“The one who buried the beloved, was also you.”

—— blade/yingxing x reader (VERY lightly implied dan feng x you)

BACKGROUND: You're a short-lived species who arrived to the xianzhou alongside Yingxing in the merchant ships (perhaps childhood sweethearts??), you've been in a relationship for a few years now and while Yingxing is gruff and rough around the edges, he's nevertheless besotted with you and fiercely in love with you; a happy ending to this story seems likely —— until you get struck with the mara-disease.

AKA this is half-assed narrative and half-assed word vomit, I just want to add more pain and suffering to Blade's past while being self-indulgent trash :D

yingxing has seen the mara disease so many times before, during the war and within the ships with their citizens, especially once their times passed the five hundred mark and madness slowly creeps in. their faces had mostly been obscured by golden flowers and twisting branches the first time he saw the corpses, but throughout the years he's seen many variations of them.

faces contorted in agony, twisted in fear and despair, or slack and numb as roots wriggled out of their skin and flowers bloomed over their eyes, and most often they would be driven into mara-struck madess and insane bloodlust in their rampages.

yingxing never expects the mara to fall upon you.

if yingxing tries to look back on it, perhaps it had started way more earlier than they'd known — perhaps it was the itching, the little scratches healing faster than they should, the headaches and the daydreaming. it doesn't quite strike either of you until one day you are screaming as golden lines split your skin, as little branches claw their way out of your arms, and small buds blossom from the wounds on your flesh. it's sudden and unexpected and terrifying and you are hunched over yourself trembling and shivering and sweating as he tries to hold you, a hand hovering over the tiny blossoms that grows out of your neck and collarbone, the tiny roots wriggling out of your arms, and it gets progressively worse from thereon.

this can't be happening, you say

i'm scared, you say

please believe me, you say

(because you're a short-lived species, and the only way you could've been struck with mara like this is for you to receive the plague author's blessing)

yingxing believes you (yingxing loves you)

you are frightened and terrified and yingxing can only hold you through the tears and terror and confusion and pleasedon'thatemeyingxing

perhaps, if it had been just the blessings of the abundance, it would've been fine. there are countless individuals within the ship who use the power of the abundance in medicine and aid, after all. but roots continue to wiggle and settle over your skin like bangles and chains, golden flowers begin sprouting from the buds in your flesh, and even your eyes and hair starts losing their colors.

you try to snip the blossoms and the locks of hair and the branches, and the wounds only heal over and over and over again, each time faster than before, the blooms brighter and livelier than the last, and the tips of your hair take on the color of dry blood and your eye color melt into the gold of the mara disease.

you are in pain, you are in agony and miserable, and eventually, even your memories and sense of self start deteriorating amidst a haze of golden petals and blood.

you start asking if it would be better to die "while you still can" (you are afraid of becoming like the mara-struck soldiers in the game), but yingxing doesn't allow you to.

this cannot be happening, yingxing thinks.

it breaks yingxing to watch you like this, but no one else can know. xianzhou will see you dead for suspicions of worshipping the plague author. he can only hold you during the nights and soothe your fits until you settle like a docile beast in his arms, and then during the day, he researches

yingxing puts aside the forgery for as long as he possibly can without arousing suspicions and throws himself into mara research discreetly, but there's not much he can find. access to advanced texts are restricted and he only learns about as much as anyone interested in the mara disease knows, but one thing is for sure —— there's no documented recovery from the mara in the centuries of the xianzhou history.

become mara-struck, and you either die in a flurry of golden flowers or are striked down by the cloud knights.

(there's another thing yingxing eventually finds out, as well —— this is no accident. someone caused this to you)

(yingxing will hunt them down to the farthest reach of the stars, and he will not stop until they are dead. whoever did this will wish they hadn't been born.)

if yingxing cannot find anything about how to recover from the mara, perhaps then he could find a way to control the disease, prevent it from hurting you as it was doing now, prevent it from turning you into a mad creature. it wasn't too late yet, and yingxing refuses to give up on you.

yingxing turns to imbibitor lunae and the scalegorge waterscape — the sacred abode of the vidyadhara, a race devoted to the sealing and guard of the ambrosial arbor, and that becomes one amongst the many mistakes he will have commited.

in the future, the man - yingxing - who will become known as blade will look back on this moment and laugh — madly, loudly, hatefully, as he lives on cursing his life and that of two other sinners.

you are dead, and yingxing could not save you

you are dead, and blade wants to die

BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO CONTINUE NARRATING:

There are a LOT of layers to what I want to be happening in the premise of this short. For example, I wanted to write that the ones responsible for "you", as a short-lived species, going mara-struck was a result of sabotaging and conflict with Sanctus Medicus (or whatever antagonist there is during the events of Dan Feng and Yingxing's crimes), who wanted to sow strife amidst the Xianzhou. There's a lot of plot going on that my little brain can't be bothered to rationalize.

During his research on mara and trying to find out HOW you turned mara, he begins suspecting of foul play and unearths quite a bit of shit within the Xianzhou. There's a lot of sketchy shit, some not related at all to what he wants to know, and it paints numerous targets of Yingxing.

Their main targets would actually be Jing Liu (who some time later on succumbs to mara and goes on a murderous rampage) and many other higher ups and important figures to different areas of the Xianzhou. In trying to discreetly trigger or infect mara to others, they also partook in indiscriminate damage in hopes one of their targets will be caught unawares and be infected with something that can trigger or coax out the mara disease, and "you" were caught in the crossfire and ended up mara struck (or perhaps you were intentionally targeted as well, can't decide on this) as a short-lived species collateral. Many of the other short-lived species die during this period of time.

By some twist of fate or whatever, your descent into mara isn't instantaneous and is instead painful, slow and with a clear consciense of the changes in your body, but it's only slowed, and your body can't adjust to mara like how Blade and Jing Liu will in the future.

Ying Xing, however, clings to the hope you can mantain your clarity and sense of self, and what he wanted to do in this short is research the vidyadhara's records to see if he could seal away your mara or contain your disease. When that wasn't enough, he will perhaps 1) try to find some other way, 2) try to see if Dan Feng can find a way to contain your mara disease, or at least delay it until something can be done because this wasn't your fault.

Instead, what happens is that Dan Feng kills you.

Dan Feng sees you and you are half consumed with flowers even though you aren't being violent or crazed, you've tanked the attacks of many other cloud knights and mara-struck alike and are covered in blood and tatters while everyone's dead. Your sins are set in stone (are they really?) and your ending is only a matter of time, so Imbibitor Lunae - although pained - decides to put you down and lay you to rest. He tries to kill you - and either fails or obliterates your sense of self so all that remains is a corpse that keeps healing - and then seals/buries your regenerating body into the Scalegorge Waterscape.

Dan Feng's actions are an act of compassion, love and mercy in his eyes. He buries you in Scalegorge Waterscape, where your rest will be undisturbed and none shall desecreate your body, not even the Xianzhou will be able to part the seas of Scalegorge.

But that and what Yingxing sees are different. (they also think differently lmao)

After Yingxing reaches Scalegorge amidst all the chaos that would be happening, he would only know you were hurt very, very badly. Blood, flowers, tattered clothes. Lots of fighting, arguing, etc.

Ending is that - as mentioned - despite his efforts otherwise, Yingxing sees your body cast into the abyss of the Scalegorge Waterscape and sealed there, left to rot in the darkness and cold of an artificial sea.

Afterwards, he himself becomes mara-struck and then is sent of to be killed over and over again by Jing Liu lmao. He wants to die, but he cannot.

At some point in time, he almost forgets that his name is Yingxing and he had loved someone who died unjustly amidst internal conflict and everything, but it comes back to him when he escapes and becomes Blade.

EVERYTHING here is just self-indulgent brainstorming. NGL it could've been better.

#honkai star rail #hsr blade #started this fired up about making blade suffer and then forgot how to do it #gg i really enjoy writing stuff where yingxing and you or OC were in a relationship #perfectly happy and content #and then WHOOOSH #DESPAIR AND ANGUISH AND DEATH #blade x reader #hsr x reader #i lost my shit halfway through writing this and just forgot how to write #what is writing?? what am I doing??#kurim writes hsr

283 notes · View notes

wheels-of-despair · 1 year

Text

The Nerd King Cops a Feel Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie learns something about bras. (He hates them.) Contains: Assassination attempt, Girl Boob, an Eddie Munson First. Word Count: 800ish

Author's Note: This one goes out to all the ladies who look down and sigh every time they encounter one of the many 'Eddie Loves Your Tiny Tits' fics. 😂

Jeez, you accidentally say "Nerd King" instead of "Dungeon Master" one time and suddenly you're running for your life, jumping over piles of dirty laundry and trying not to crash into anything breakable.

Eddie chased you into his bedroom and tackled you to the bed, cackling like a madman. Flailing this way and that, you squealed and pretended like you weren't enjoying the absolute hell out of this.

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry!" He grins at your surrender and collapses on top of you, ignoring your exaggerated groan at having to support his full weight. After catching your breath, you reach up to brush the hair out of his eyes, his chin resting between your breasts.

After a few minutes of staring wordlessly at each other like a couple of lovestruck morons, he rolls to the side and you let out a sharp yelp.

"What'd I do?" he asks in a panic.

"Not you, this fucking bra."

He watches with a puzzled look as you sit up and reach under your t-shirt to take off the offending garment. As you suspected, the underwire had worked its way out during your tussle and stabbed the absolute shit out of you. You angrily fling it to the other side of the room and lay back down, turning your head toward Eddie and being met with a most curious sight.

His eyes are wide. Pupils blown. Fixated on your chest. It suddenly dawns on you that he's never seen you without a bra before. Normally this would embarrass you, but the rage from the garment's betrayal is still pumping through your veins.

"See something you like, Munson?"

He nods cautiously.

"Well, go on then."

His eyes flick up to yours, growing even bigger, which you didn't think was possible.

"I just survived an attempted murder. I need to be comforted."

His fingers twitch, making you smirk. But judging by the look on his face, his brain has turned to mush, so you gently take his hand and move it yourself, placing it just below the place his eyes are locked onto. He's still frozen.

"You still breathing over there, Munson?" you tease. He nods slowly, finally daring to move. Light as a feather, his hand glides upward and splays out, now holding a considerable handful of Girl Boob. Why is he acting like this is his first time? Is this his first time? You watch him silently, a gentle smile on your face as you both soak in the sensation.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, but snaps it closed again when no sound makes its way out.

You try your hardest not to laugh. This loud, filthy-mouthed little horn-dog has been rendered speechless, possibly for the first time in his life. Should you get an award for this?

"Something on your mind?"

One side of his mouth twitches into a smirk.

"Can… no."

"Looking for some under-the-shirt action already?"

"No! That's not-- I don't-- You-- I--"

You mercifully cut him off before he can stutter his way through the alphabet. "'Cause you can. If you want. But you don't have to."

Looking upward for reassurance and receiving a nod of encouragement, he carefully drifts his hand down to the hem of your faded band shirt. Taking his time, his fingertips glide back up the skin of your stomach, stopping at the imprints the band of your torturous device had left. He traces the marks and furrows his brow.

"Bra band. Its mission to slowly suffocate me was taking too long, so it resorted to stabbing."

"Does it hurt?"

"It's not exactly pleasant."

"Why do you wear it?" he asks softly, fingers still lingering on the marks in your skin.

Surprised at his question, you bark out a laugh. He stares at you with his innocent doe eyes and moves his hand north, splaying out his fingers again and holding you gently.

"Are you kidding me? Are you seeing these things? Are you feeling these things?" Your hand comes to rest on his, still under your shirt, and give it a jiggle. He shrugs a shoulder and shifts his eyes downward again. Boys are so dumb.

"Girls with not a lot going on up here," you gesture, "can get away with that. But when they look like this and they're not... contained, it's kind of noticeable."

He looks up at you thoughtfully, then that spark of mischief returns to his eyes. Eddie clears his throat.

"Hear ye, hear ye," he begins in a deep voice, "The Nerd King hath issued a royal decree… that the princess must never wear a bra in his presence again. Refusal to comply will result in a punishment most severe."

"Oh my God," you laugh, rolling your eyes. The Nerd King responds with a grin, removing his hand from beneath your shirt and pulling you to him, then burying his face between his new favorite subjects.

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #and that's probably the closest i'll ever get to smut #enjoooy

3K notes · View notes

shallowseeker · 4 months

Text

Truth & despair

"The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable."

Synopsis: In an attempt to tackle his grief, Sam rifles through the bunker footage to discover the truth of Castiel's death. The footage leaves him with more questions than answers. (The one where Dean's recollection of events...does not match the footage.)

---

Focus: Supernatural post-15x19 fic, TFW grieving badly, Bad therapy attempts with Mia Vallens, False memories, The Shadow is in love with Cas, Jack and Amara are AWOL

Characters: Dean/Castiel, Dean & Sam, Sam & Dean & Cas & Jack, Eileen Leahy, Mia Vallens, Chuck Shurley, Becky & the Rosen-Baron fam, Donatello Redfield, The Empty, Amara, Jack as God, Rowena MacLeod, Sam POV and Sam is blessedly annoying

Content warning: Major character death (Castiel), poor coping mechanisms (Dean), and encroachment of personal boundaries (Sam). Eventual happy ending.

Updates every weekend!

Proofread by @minalblood & finished for @tenderthunder

❤️

///

Ch 01: (~4200 words, ~17 minutes) - In an attempt to tackle his grief, Sam rifles through the bunker footage to track down Cas’s last moments. The footage leaves him with more questions than answers.

Ch 02: (~5700 words, ~23 minutes) Mia admonishes Sam for his breach of boundaries, and Dean suffers his first meltdown.

Ch 03: (~5200 words, ~20 minutes) Sam leans into unhealthy coping mechanisms that nearly get them killed.

Ch 04: (~4700 words, ~18 minutes) Snapped out of Chuck’s grand finale, Sam and Dean wonder what’s next.

Ch 05: (~5250 words, ~21 minutes) In need of Becky Rosen’s laptop, Chuck and the Winchesters track her to a safe house in the recesses of the Wallowa Mountains, Oregon. En route, the roadways are riddled with mysterious sinkholes. Dean admits he’s drawn to them.

Ch 06: (~7500 words, ~30 minutes) - Chuck shows his true colors, but Dean’s the real problem.

Ch 07: (~7200 words, ~28 minutes) - Dean takes a leap of faith. Sam follows.

Ch 08: (~7100 words, ~28 minutes) - Sam and Dean tunnel their way into The Empty. It's not empty.

Ch 09 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Unable to rid Castiel of the cooling Empty gunk, Sam and Dean transport him back to the Barons’ house and attempt to free him.

Ch 10 (~ 6200 words, ~25 minutes) - Hoping to track Jack and Amara, Team Free Well returns to Washaway Beach to perform a potent locator spell.

///

Ch 11 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam and Chuck crash-land in a lush landscape and run afoul of Amara. She taunts Sam, promising that Jack will never return, at least not of his own free will.

Ch 12 (~10800 words, ~43 minutes) - Jack's got everything he needs right here. Why would he ever leave?

Ch 13 (~8000 words, ~32 minutes) - Sam awakens in the shallow waters of Washaway Beach...alongside the prone body of Jack Kline.

Ch 14 coming soon (~10200 words, ~40 minutes) - Maybe Sam can't fix everything. Maybe that's okay.

Epilogue coming soon (~?words, ~? minutes)

#yaaay #i'm doing the thing #and learning along the way #come hell or high water #truth & despair #truth & despair by shal #spn fics #destiel #sam pov #i can't believe i'm writing things now who says fandom doesn't enrich the mind #weird lil fix in my weird lil sandbox corner

133 notes · View notes

dangans-ur-ronpas · 23 days

Text

the future foundation probably trained the survivors in self defense and hand-to-hand combat after they were rescued. because they're heroes now, in a way - in the eyes of those who were watching, they are symbols of hope, they survived despite it all, they are made noble through their suffering. and i think of makoto, whose hands are probably soft and has never even thought of hurting another person in his life, being handed a weapon and taught how best to disarm, how best to kill, how to see a room as a battlefield and a person as an enemy and do whatever it takes to protect yourself, kill them, survive, survive, survive. because he is too important now, the Ultimate Hope; he cannot afford to be lost. he cannot afford to die

i wonder if he took to the training easier than expected. because while he is being taught to take a life with his own hands - to utilize an environment into a weapon, to swing without hesitation, to kill when necessary - he has already killed before, in his own belief. the deaths of his classmates hang over him like a yoke. it doesn't matter if all he did was say a name or push a button - he carries a guilt as sure as if he was the one who murdered them himself

#makoto naegi #danganronpa #sorry for being flowery but i was thinking abt that scene from the dgr anime where he's trying to smack that guy with a fire extinguisher #and he acknowledges that. he'd kill if he had to. for the sake of hope. for the sake of eliminating despair. even if its kyoko #sobs. wails even. he was just a kid man............#the inherent tragedy of watching a character with an inherent desire for peace becoming capable of violence for the sake of his ideals #also if u see me still posting after now yell at me bc I NEED TO FINISH WRITING THIS CHAPTER....HELPP #my thoughts

81 notes · View notes

izzymarksthespot · 2 months

Text

There's been an idea rattling around in my head, vaguely inspired by this post (can't find the original for the life of me): angsty Steddyhands/Stizzy/Gentlebeard soulmate au, where you cannot physically hurt your soulmate - as in your body simply won't let you.

Prepare yourself, this is a long one.

Izzy, increasingly irked and unsettled by Bonnet's influence on his captain, challanges him to a duel like in s1e8. Stede accepts, the duel commences - but as it goes on Izzy cannot shake the feeling of wrong wrong wrong which follows, making his movements sluggish, blows weaker and heartbeat fast and anxious.

Finally, he has Bonnet pinned - only when he tries to run the other man through with his sword, he can't do it. He freezes mid-thrust, muscles of his sword hand seizing, the blade of the rapier an inch away from the blonde's stomach. They stare at each other in shock, and soon commotion starts as the crew tries to see what exactly is going on, and did Izzy actually stab the captain? Ed hovers over them both in panic and confusion.

Izzy drops his sword at his captains prompting, and backs away with a "What the fuck did you do to me, you bastard?!" aimed at an equally flabbergasted Stede. While they bitch at each other, the crew wonder aloud what has happened and how odd it was that Izzy just froze (Izzy's never done that before!), and Lucius goes with a mocking "aww, Iggy actually likes the captain and doesn't want him hurt, how sweet!"

Buttons comes around then, takes in the scene, eyes Izzy with an unreadable expression, and goes "Nay, Mister Spriggs, more like cannae bring hisself to. I reckon 's only one reason fer it."

Everyone's like 🤨🤨 and Izzy's about to retort something scathing and awful, but suddenly he gets an inkling in the back of his head, a flash of a memory and words actually fail to come out of his mouth.

And Buttons just easily goes with "you cannae hurt yer soulmate, can ya?" and all hell breaks loose. Obviously everyone is laughing the idea off, cause come on, Stede and Izzy? There is no way, what an idiotic idea! Buttons, no more moonbathing for you, you're talking more nonsense than ever!

Both interested parties are strangely quiet though.

Frenchie - who's well informed on the soulmate matter, ofc - suggests they can simply test it out: all Stede and Izzy have to do is touch (skin to skin) to see if the soul marks appear.

Before either Stede or Izzy can reject that idea, it's Ed who does, there will be no fucking checking or touching; there's an aura of danger coming off of him in droves and his dark eyes are trained solely on Izzy.

Long story short, he throws Izzy off the ship (figuratively, just orders him to leave), Izzy's hurt and sells out Stede to the British (the only soulmate he has is Blackbeard and he wants him back), the whole shenanigans with act of grace still happen - Stede still leaves Ed and goes back to Bridgetown; and Ed spirals even harder in his absence because now he additionally thinks Stede left cause they're not soulmates (Stede actually could and did run him through with his sword, and if they were he wouldn't be able to, would he?)

He goes into the Kraken mode, taking most of his anger and hurt onto the person who is obviously responsible for this - Izzy.

#gentlebeard are soulmates ofc #the whole soulmate business just works a bit different than they think #and stede & izzy r soulmates too cause i said so 😈#poor izzy will take the brunt of ed's despair though #i might have started to write this down actually #but inspiration is ficle and i wanted to share #forgive me fr buttons i have no idea how to do scottish #steddyhands #stizzy #izzy hands #stede bonnet #ed teach #ofmd #our flag means death

84 notes · View notes

writingoneout · 11 months

Text

Untilted Katamari Reflections

Preamble:

Content considerations for the following include:

Parental abuse

Bigotry

Worldly anxiety

You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.

It’s fall of 2015.

You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.

We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.

Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.

Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.

Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.

. . .

Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.

Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.

In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.

Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.

Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.

You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.

At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?

For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.

Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.

You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.

II.

It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.

Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.

As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.

One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.

Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.

Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.

Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.

“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.

He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.

“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.

“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?

You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.

A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.

III.

It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.

Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.

It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.

You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.

At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.

. . .

It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.

Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.

. . .

The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.

There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.

. . .

The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.

On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.

There are more than two things to fix, you think.

. . .

The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”

. . .

A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.

Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”

The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.

IV.

It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.

You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.

You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.

Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.

Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?

You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.

. . .

It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.

There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.

You cry because you know where this goes.

It’s just a single tear.

Don’t worry.

Nobody sees.

. . .

There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.

In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.

Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.

Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.

. . .

It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.

“Just keep walking,” he says.

Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.

It’s 2023.

We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.

There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.

Everything matters and nothing is safe.

You are loved enough to sleep.

316 notes · View notes