Eddie watched as the handsome stranger continued to drink his sorrows away with another glass of beer. Ricky was right, if the person he was waiting for was coming, then they would be here by now.
Eddie twisted his lips, he hadn’t done this in a while, did he even have the charm to speak to guys like him?
if you thought you saw me write a fic about anakin learning korean with padmé for a diplomatic mission and obi-wan hearing anakin confidently say “i love you” to padmé because he thinks obi-wan can’t understand...yeah you did
i was good. i was really good.
haha vent poetry/ramble thing because thats what we feelin
uhhh tw implication of unaliving, general mean anxiety thoughts, gun mention,,
nobody noticed the way "gotta do more gotta be more" stuck in my throat today
or if they did they chalked it up to the crying
and the crying they chalked up to the stress
and the stress was chalked up to the test
maybe the test unlocked something i'd done a good job of suppressing
maybe the test is what they want to blame it on
but this inferno has been eating me up from the inside
they tell me neil would be proud and she says he wouldn't want me doing this alone
they tell me he'd see a little him when he looked at me
he says we'd get along
but i tell myself he'd hate me
i could never be someone neil loved, i echo the thought often
i'm messy, i'm pathetic
and nothing but a goddamned attention whore
who cares if i couldn't breathe with that booklet in front of me and the pen almost fell from my fingers
all i did was learn to cry on command, did i not?
i don't care how real it felt to me, how much i want to rip myself apart
i'm faking i'm faking i'm faking i'm faking
i'm falling apart but none of you fucking see
because i say i'm fine and because i'm so good at lying you believe me
i let him back in because i wanted to be torn apart again. because i know we're bad for each other and i assumed he'd hurt me again, and i wanted him to because i deserve that
i'm shaking and cowering in the corner of the dark room, resisting the pull to the window, ignoring the call of the snow, how pretty it is.
the crown of sticks is uneven on my brow, and i set it down, tired of the weight
the weight of a hundred worlds
my mother's, one group of friends, another, a third, my father's, myself
all different me's. because i'm not palatable to anyone
i try to resist the call of the study, the comfort of the desk chair, somehow both worn and not
and somewhere in my mind neil pulls me into a hug, and lowers the gun from my head
but he isn't real and he isn't here
and i can't help but feel
i'm better off dead.
it's him that should be alive. he's so much better than i.
even as a fictional character, he adds so much more to the world than i could hope to.
we should trade endings, neil and i
he gets the bookstore in new york
the records and the friends who stubbornly refuse to leave him and help him through any pain he might encounter
that's what he deserves, not what he got
i'm the one that deserves that.
I was going through some old notes and I found this..
Guys, I was so close but still in the right direction hhhhhhh 😢😢
GUYS LOOK WHAT ARRIVED TODAY
every sunrise will be his, and only his.
Some of yall have never been told u have a 30% chance of developing cancer at any given point in the future and it shows
@ask-purple-psychic liked for a starter
Pico glared at Alucard as he pointed the uzi to Alucard's forehead; finger on the trigger, Pico looked like he was about to shoot the other at any time. Perhaps it was stupid to do this to a psychic of all people, but Pico 'defeated' him once, he'd do it again..if he could, he would shoot every last single one of those filthy emo kids. Shooting them wasn't all he wanted to do, he wanted to shout at them as loud as he could, he wanted to yell until their ears started bleeding and they cried like the little pussies they were.
He wouldn't shoot Alucard, yet. Not until he got answers..
"..What the hell are you doing here? Come for a round 2? I'm not afraid.." not anymore. "I shot you back then and I'll shoot you again, this time dead."
what is the meaning of life? that’s a question I always ask myself from time to time. what is the meaning of life? the more I say it to myself, the more stupid and childish it sounds.
is the meaning of life to cut our hair when we get bored with ourselves? is it to achieve letter grades to satisfy others? or is it to hide ourselves and our true desires from the world because we can never truly be who we want to be, who we feel like being?
I'm sure there are many answers, as you know as well, but please don’t let any of the above be even a somewhat relative answer. don’t let it be what dictates who you are and who you want to be, who you pursue to be because it’ll ruin you.
maybe a little haircut is nice every now and then, maybe those letter grades not only satisfy others but satisfy yourself, and maybe you’re not hiding yourself from the world. but this message isn’t for those who do, it’s for those who can’t find it in themselves to do what you do.
it’s for people like me.
There's a lot of hidden angst potential with that one ongoing bit with c!Wilbur being extremely against Techno putting up railings in Pogtopia to prevent falling but y'all aren't ready for that discussion yet
Yes this post was mainly created because I was listening to Jubilee Line and realized that, when people in the fanbase apply this song to c!Wilbur, the idea of using the railings bit in Pogtopia for the "There's a reason that London puts barriers on the rails" part is a criminally underused idea considering the amount of heartbreak that narrative callback could cause-
At the first opportunity, she slips away into the house.
It’s his gap-toothed niece that she asks. Bella, the one that shrieked when Rio threw her over his shoulder, pretending that she hated it—only not ten minutes later, she was tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, begging him to do it again (Rio had said no, teasing her for her terrified squawk. Her little face fell—and then the second she turned around, he scooped her up again until she was screeching with laughter and flailing tiny fists. Beth had watched it all, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, which meant she’d spotted the moment when Rio grimaced, dropping her down to rub absentmindedly at his shoulder. Beth had turned sharply away before he caught her looking.)
It’s a good plan, Beth reassures herself when Bella leads her through the sliding glass door and points to the first door in a long hallway, directing Beth to the bathroom. Beth wasn’t exactly the center of attention—she’d been on the periphery most of the afternoon, a shy observer—but it was the perfect moment to briefly disappear. The adults were all distracted—his sister with the baby, his mother with finding and tossing abandoned cups and paper plates, his brother settling an argument between the kids, and Rio himself with a phone call, hovering at the edge of the yard, body tight with tension.
If anyone asked after Beth, she knew that Bella would announce that she’d shown her inside. And she also knew that kids have only the loosest grasp on the concept of time, so as long as nobody noticed immediately, it left Beth with enough leeway to do—something.
She doesn’t know what, exactly.
(She just knows she needs a minute to breathe. To shake off the sight of Rio kneading at the knot of scar tissue, to forget the way his name sounded so soft in his mother’s mouth, to erase the knowledge that Marcus never went more than a few minutes without zeroing in on his dad, wearing naked relief on his face when he’d find that Rio hadn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke while he hadn’t been looking.)
And for a moment, that’s what she does in the bathroom. She breathes, hands gripped on the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror, looking at herself through their eyes.
If they knew who she really was, they’d hate her.
Friend, is what Rio had called her. Not the term she would’ve used, but clearly one his family was familiar with judging by the tight smiles and casual indifference to her presence.
(How many other women had he brought home to them?
Fitzpatrick had said—)
She closes her eyes. Inhales.
Slipping her fingers down the front of her dress, Beth scratches around the wire taped between her breasts. It’s been irritating her the whole time, a constant reminder of what she’s doing here.
But god, it’s a question as much as it’s an answer because what is she doing here?
Rio had made it seem like something important, something she’d been convinced was worthy of Phoebe and Dave’s time, and then it’d just been—this. A family barbecue in his mother’s backyard, the table filled with tamales, grilled chicken, roasted poblanos, zucchini salad, elote. Kids wrestling on the lawn, adults chatting in flimsy plastic chairs. No boss in sight.
I'll always love you and make you happy, If you will only say the same
@itsaship-literally He's trying after her heart, at least.