basically a big master list i wish i had when i started graphic making and web desing...
WARNING!! some of these are ad filled and hard to navigate so be careful (๑ ˊ͈ ᐞ ˋ͈ )ƅ̋
˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡⟢ text
𐔌♫ྀི𓈒 ݁ font generator
cool font generator with text art !!
𐔌♫ྀི𓈒 ݁cool copy and paste symbols
symbol website, i use it since 2020 (⑉˙ᗜ˙⑉)
𐔌♫ྀི𓈒 ݁ rainbow html text generator !!
this is awsome!! i made the tittle of this post with it !!! ＼(´Ｏ｀) ／
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˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡⟢ graphic editors / generators
ꪒ ꪒ ezgif !!
good ol' ezgifs ! you can pretty much do anything gif related, resize, crop, make gifs, add effects, you name it !! ⁽⁽ଘ( ˊᵕˋ )ଓ⁾
ꪒ ꪒ blinkie cafe
apart from a massive blinkie archive, it's also an incredible resource to make blinkies with templates!!
ꪒ ꪒ color palette maker
you can make color palettes ! if you want to choose a single color, it is quicker to just search up in google "hex color picker"
ꪒ ꪒ lunapic
an infinite catalog of effects for images, most of them are pretty dated but if you're a fan of old graphics it may be useful !!
ꪒ ꪒ stamp maker
complex stamp maker!! it does have it's limitations but it is pretty good!!
ꪒ ꪒ blinkie maker
blinkie maker by the same creator!!
ꪒ ꪒ pet your character generator
hand petting your blorbo gif generator ^^
ꪒ ꪒ silly 3d animation maker
a gallery of 3d animations to generate with images!! this is where that heart locket meme comes from
ꪒ ꪒ retro game text box generator
ꪒ ꪒ 3d gif maker
make images into 3d gifs!!
ꪒ ꪒ glitter text generator
ꪒ ꪒ glitter image editor
recreate that blingee stamps look!!
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˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡⟢ resources
જ⁀➴ internet archive
all bow to the internet archive...
you can literally search any movie, any series, anything you want, for free (i'll still suggest to not download anything that is not an image ^^, ) + the wayback machine let's you acces dead websites way from the 90´s !!!
જ⁀➴ museum of web desing
beautiful display of web design, i use it for inspo for my websites or to search for their graphics in the wayback machine
જ⁀➴ css editor + generator
you can generate gradients and box sizes!! very useful, unfortunally the html part does not work anymore...
જ⁀➴ brad's desing resources
some of these are kinda sketchy so proccede with caution!! TREMENDOUS masterlist of mostly f2u layouts, templates everything!!! all for web devolopers to use ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! it is very corporate coded but if you tweak many of these im sure you can make something out of most of them ! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و
જ⁀➴ tile background hoard
collection of tile backgrounds for html websites!!
જ⁀➴ css zen gandern
a demostration of incredible css !!! ヘ(￣ω￣ヘ most of their templates are f2u to my knowlege!!
જ⁀➴ bro code's youtube
the best channel to learn all types of code, i learned all js i know from him
ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
જ⁀➴ line store
you can get cute stickers from here! just be careful with copyright when editing for commercial use ＼(￣0￣)／
જ⁀➴ gifcities
graphics archive of geocities
જ⁀➴ glitter graphics
old web glittery graphics!! everything from dividers to stamps to avatars, this is where most of us get our old graphics from
જ⁀➴ return to pixels resource list
a massive resource list for pixels
જ⁀➴ game assets
this was shown today by a coworker, gallery of f2u game assets
જ⁀➴ blinkie wiki
massive blinkie gallery!!
જ⁀➴ cursor gallery
really old cursor gallery, also has tutorials for how to install in websites and pc
જ⁀➴ w3school how to
f2u code for begginers !!! (∩^o^)⊃━☆゜these website is also the best for learning to code !!!
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˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡⟢ fun!!
͜ Ï ͜ ͡꒱͏ cool 3ds paperclip chatroom
I just thought the website had a cute layout . If you’re gonna use the chatroom feature I suggest you are at least over 18, just in case
͜ Ï ͜ ͡꒱͏ irasutoya
this is the website with the paper type customizable characters in pinterest
͜ Ï ͜ ͡꒱͏ sam voice generator
that analog horror voice that everyone uses
͜ Ï ͜ ͡꒱͏ sound effects buttons
sound board!!
͜ Ï ͜ ͡꒱͏ old ms paint revival
(﹙˓ 🎹 ˒﹚) if you know more websites pls feel free to reblog and i’ll ad them! ㅤྀི◟◞ ྀི◟ ◞ ྀི i will be adding more myself 🍀
Dysfunctional and disintegrated families, absentee fathers, warped body image and a toxic “gifted child” mentality, hereditary predisposition to addiction, spending money you don’t have when you’ve forgotten who you were, making yourself deaf with the music that understands you, sleeping through days and killing yourself to become the best version of you
Empty tobacco packets and old birthday cards, your mum’s handwriting from before you disappointed her. Prescription diazepam and 4am bedtimes, an exclusively drunk social life, forgetting your pills in the morning because you’ve stopped eating breakfast, ignoring your hunger and whooshing through it all in short, wired blurs.
“Winning” at everything and going to bed with an empty stomach and a cold, untouched heart. Because something convinced you that emotion is only ever a precursor to disaster
The verbal lashings aizawa must give villains on a daily basis LMFAOOOFOFOFO this man will be giving a speech on why they failed as a human while tying them up ABSJBD
Cannot tell me he doesn’t practice in the mirror. Man he’s prob corny as hell
Yet another post that reads like four shakespeare characters who come out in the middle of the play to talk about something completely unrelated for comic relief
I’m sorry but the THOUGHT that has been put into this, I actually CAN’T—
The fact that nearly every line is so metrically considered- near perfect iambic pentameter witb the occasional trochee for emphasis, but usually retaining a strong sense of rhythm nonetheless. And then the king comes in at the end, so wound in his disbelief that his response is reduced to prose.
And the even better thing about this is how easy it would have been to structure the king’s line into iambic pentameter: it is effectively already said as such because of the way wizardlyghost has phrased it, yet they haven’t!! They did not break the line, rendering what, by all typically of both Shakespearean canon and other periods context should be the character with the most command and authority in the whole play. If there was ever a more effective way to convey a genuine “what the fuck??”, I know of it not.
But it gets better!! Shakespeare regularly uses meter in order to represent class divide; the nobility usually speak in iambic pentameter, save for a few particularly chosen moments (e.g. Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness, Othello’s realisation of Desdemona’s “betrayal”) or just lines where Shakespeare needs to suggest high emotion or when a character is lost in thought. Supernatural characters like the fairies in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Witches in Macbeth usually speak in trochaic tetrameter, an inversion of iambic pentameter. Lower class characters, particularly those used for comic relief (usually under the influence of alcohol), speak with no structure at all: their language is plain prose. Therefore, if this is a conversation between these types of characters, as the prompt from silvergirachi suggests, why the hell are the characters speaking so eloquently???
Now, this is Tumblr. It is subsequently logical to assume that this may have merely been a humorous recreation (and a very good one at that) of the Shakespearean style in a way that is widely recognisable to an audience that may or may not have read a great deal of Shakespeare, which is understandable. However, logic is boring so I’m going to probe further into this to the point where future historians will look to this as an example of overanalysing.
The inherent eloquence of the characters here suggests an unusual subversion of the roles typically assumed in Shakespearean comedy. This could be interpreted along two major avenues: firstly, that the rhetoric displayed by the speakers is fundamentally representative of how truth can be expected even from the most seemingly pointless or ludicrous discussions. Furthermore, it could suggest that it matters not how well constructed your speeches are: if you talk bullshit, it’s going to sound that way despite your attempts to hide it.
This is similar but not identical to the second avenue of interpretation: there is the implication that the noblemen in the play are in fact the comic relief characters, therefore implying that the “common people” of the play are the ones whose influence, though not expressed in such a highly spoken manner, makes a lot more sense than whatever the hell this is. If this was a real Shakespeare play, I would call it a subtle exploration into the innate corruption of the rich and powerful. Well done, op.
Now, I doubt any of this is actually grounded analysis in any way, shape or form, but if someone else can take this to the extremes of writing a Shakespearean scene, why can I not analyse it as such? And where else to do so than Tumblr?
18+, mdni. swearing, illicit substance use, drinking, mentions of addiction and alcohol abuse, brief mention of trauma, mention of hookups, third person point of view (touya’s perspective), touya is an asshole and so is reader, beta read but not throughly edited because i cba
taglist is open, writing under the cut
word count 7.4k
series masterlist
routine was something he was very familiar with—a repetitive, perpetual, never-ending series of events; but it was what kept him somewhat sane. it was a simple routine, really: wake up, go to work, fill the void, sometimes he’d hit up the bars—it honestly depended on how the day went.
some days were worse than others. some mornings, it took him three tries to get out of bed. not because he was tired—hell, he wasn’t even tired—but because his body needed a little something first. just something. he’d hoped it was enough to take off the edge.
the edge was always there. always sharp. always waiting, like a blade pressed against his ribs. anger that crawled under his skin, a frustration that burned in his veins, an itch he'd never be able to scratch. it never let up—a storm building in his chest, swirling like chaos that couldn’t be controlled until it all blurred together. he could never pin it down—there was no target, no release, just a never ending fire. it was never enough to scream or fight it out; it simmered deep, where nobody could see, where he had to hide it. but god, it felt like it would explode at any second.
he told himself he had it all under control.
everybody always did—at first.
the thing about days like that was, when they hit, it was like nothing mattered. on those days, he’d skip work entirely, leave his responsibilities behind like they were nothing more than paperweights. it wasn’t like he was lazy–no, it was just the weight of it was too much. the pressure, the itch, the anger–the whatever it was– it dragged him down until all he could do was stay in bed and let the world slip away. it was honestly a miracle he was still employed at all. maybe it was his steady hand he had on days he did show up. clean lines, no tremors. or maybe it was the way he could disappear into the work, eyes locked in, needle humming like a lullaby—focused, steady, precise. or maybe his boss stopped caring, he still did good work, and good work was good work.
if the day dragged him under, if the weight sat heavy on his chest, he’d head to a bar. the only place where everything blurred into the background, where no one gave a shit about who he was or what he felt. a familiar place with familiar faces. the kind who didn’t flinch when his mood snapped sideways. the kind who didn’t ask question when he ducked into the bathroom a little too often. they didn’t care. it was an unspoken agreement. he liked that.
on those nights, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t end up home.
no, never home. not after any thoughts would take hold, not after the sharp sting of loneliness would settle in like poison. no, he’d end up in someone else’s bed. they didn’t need to know him. they didn’t need to know anything. he just needed a body. it was much more convenient this way, he’d think, half-lucid, chasing some sort of numbness in every form he could–pills, bodies, silence. anything to keep him from feeling too much. anything to keep the anger from boiling over, to quiet the ache from wanting too much but trusting too little.
but when he woke up, it was always the same. that hollow feeling. the dry mouth. the emptiness. he’d slip out of bed quietly, careful not to stir whoever was next to him. never overstayed his welcome. always dressing quickly, leaving without a word, and making his way home in the early hours, streets empty and cold. just like him.
back in his own bed, he’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, every inch of him stiff with the weight of it all. wondering if he could make it through one more day. wondering how long it would be before the whole thing–this life, this routine–snapped completely.
it wasn’t really living; but it passed for it.
and yet, the itch, that damn itch, it never went away. it only grew. restless under his skin, gnawing deeper into him with every breath. some days, it felt like the only thing keeping him from ripping his own skin off was the barest threat of control. the barest threat holding the rage down, keeping it just below the surface. he told himself he had it under control, but it wasn’t control anymore. it was just keeping it from exploding.
he couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he could control it.
it was a constant struggle, a battle he was losing more and more each day. he used to think that if he kept moving, if he kept numbing the itch with whatever worked for a little while, then maybe he could keep it at bay. maybe if he just kept going, kept pretending it wasn’t there, he could outrun it.
but it never let up. it just got worse. it spread, it burned, it twisted, until it filled every corner of his mind. and no matter how far he ran, no matter how many distractions he tried, it was always there–waiting, clinging to him, like a shadow. waiting for the next moment to tear him apart. a weight he couldn’t shake. it dug deep, suffocating him in ways that made it harder to think, harder to move, to feel anything else.
it was like drowning on dry land, the pressure tightening in his chest until it felt like his ribcage might crack. and it was always there, no escape. no end.
he woke up to that same weight.
the moment his eyes flickered open, it was there–like the air itself was too thick to breathe, too heavy to hold him up. he didn’t even have to try and recall the feeling; it was already pressing down on him. every breath felt like a drag, like something was holding him in place, pulling at his chest. it wasn’t enough to make him want to stay in bed. no, it was something deeper.
something worse.
he blinked into the dim light of his room, disoriented, the sheets felt too warm, the silence too heavy. his head was still foggy, the consequences of the night before had settled deep into his bones. a mix of too many drinks, and not enough sleep. a pounding in his head he hadn’t felt in a while. it took him a minute to piece together where he was. no, not where–what–what the hell was he doing here again he rolled over, grabbing his phone off the nightstand.
1:00PM
the bright light of his screen nearly blinded him, closing his eyes did nothing to help. he tossed his phone aside; it landed with a small thump somewhere on his bed, he’d worry about that later. the heaviness in his chest was still there, a pulse he could feel in his bones, like the world was pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him with its weight the same pressure, the same endless tightness, like a vise that had been there too long.
he ran a hand through his knotted hair, fingers brushing against his scalp. the rough fabric of last night’s clothes felt weird against his skin–a ratty shirt, too thin and stretched out with the logo of some band long worn out, a pair of jeans that felt a size too small now. great. a dry laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it was hollow. empty. he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bothered to change before crashing out. it wasn’t like he’d planned to sleep here, or anywhere. but the bed…the bed had seemed like a good place to stop moving. and now he was stuck.
when he finally dragged himself out of bed, it was a struggle–not just physically, but mentally. his body felt heavy, leaden. his head spun slightly as he pushed through the disorientation. the soft whir of his fan was the only sound in the room–everything else eerily quiet. the room was too quiet, too still. no distraction. no escape.
as he shuffled into the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was his roommate’s door. already wide open across the hall, a surprising sight.. the guy probably hadn’t moved in days, always glued to that screen like his life depended on it. the dull him of his gaming rig buzzed faintly from the smell of stale cereal, half-empty energy drinks, and grease in the air. he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had an actual conversation that didn’t feel like a pointless exchange of words.
however, the guy was there, slouched at the table in the kitchen, eyes glazed over as he absentmindedly spooned cereal into his mouth, his phone propped up against the roll of paper towels–a video playing on the tiny screen, no doubt something related to whatever obscure game he was playing.
“morning,” his roommate said without glancing up, the word flat, as though it meant nothing at all.
“it’s nearly 3pm.” he muttered back, grabbing a bowl out of the open cabinet over head and pouring himself a bowl of cereal. he opened the fridge, reaching in for the carton of milk, the sound of it sloshing around in the cardboard contained filling the silence. he didn’t care that the guy wasn’t even looking at him. didn’t care that everything felt like it was slowly decaying around them.
the itch still burned in his chest, but he didn’t know where to put it. didn’t know how to shake it. he could feel the gnawing, the burning, the need to feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest. something, anything. he didn’t care what, anymore. he just need it to stop.
the routine was the same as always–awkward silence punctuated by the video playing. he grabbed a mug, filling it with the coffee in the coffee maker that he was sure was at least a day old, only half-paying attention to the motions, the bitterness mixing with the heaviness in his chest. his gaze flickered toward the table, where his roommate was still zoned out, eyes glued to his screen like he was drifting through another dimension.
“got anything today?” his hoarse voice cut through the silence between them. he didn’t even know why he asked, the answer was always the same. weed, pills, something. he didn’t care about the specifics anymore. he just needed to feel different. just a little bit of release so stop the itch from clawing at him.
his roommate didn’t look up, white hair falling between his eyes as he leaned closer to the tiny screen in front of him. he shrugged, scratching at the flakey skin around his neck. “a little bit of this, a little bit of that.”
he didn’t offer more, the way it usually went, as if the exchange was already understood–no questions asked. just the transaction. their whole routine was built around that unacknowledged code, as much as a part of their living arrangement as the rent itself.
he just stared at the long-haired guy in front of him, patience thinning. the rage crawled up his chest, but he forced himself to take a deep, shaky breath. the irritation was familiar, but this time it felt sharper, churning inside, nipping at his skin, scratching at his composure.
his roommate finally glanced up, but only briefly, before shifting his gaze back to the last few seconds of the video. “you want something or not?”
“no, of course not, tomura.” voice laced with sarcasm, and venom. he couldn’t help it. “i wouldn’t fucking ask if i didn’t want anything.”
tomura didn’t react. with a lazy shrug, he pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scratched against the linoleum floor of the kitchen–grating, jarring–a sound that deeply irritated touya, made his skin crawl. tomura shuffled to his room like some zombie, head down, back hunched–a product of the countless hours of hunching over his computer–shoulders slouched forward, absorbed in his own world. not even the slightest sign of care for the exchange. the door creaked as it closed behind him. the quiet in the apartment settled over touya, thick and suffocating.
he was already halfway through the motion of reaching into his pocket when the door opened again. tomura stepped out, holding a few small, beat up ziploc bags with different contents inside. he tossed it onto the table without much thought, and then, as an afterthought, muttered, “take your pick.”
it was so detached, so empty, no emotion behind the offer. a lazy transaction. it pissed touya off more than he could explain.
touya reached forward, but as his fingers grazed against the plastic, something inside him snapped–his whole body tensed, his jaw clenched. a rage, cold but white hot at the same time, gripped him from the inside out. the kind that made his chest ache
“that’s it?”
he barely recognized his own voice, low, tight, cutting. the words hung in the room, heavier than they should have been. for a brief moment they sounded like his old man. he hated that. the comparison, the recognition, it sickened him. his dad would do the same thing–given him and his mom scraps and called it enough. he bring home some extravagant gift, a half-hearted offer, the bare minimum. no love, no effort. just a cold hand-off of something that was supposed to mean something, but never did. it was never enough.
yet, somehow, his mom always found a way to forgive. a way to turn a blind eye.
and now, here he was, staring at tomura–doing the same damn thing. the same indifference. the same empty gestures. the same bullshit. tomura barely spared him a glance, eyes rolling in indifference, like he was already over it. he didn’t care, couldn’t care. his voice was a lazy drawl, a boredom he didn’t try to hide. “you want more? too bad. that’s all i’m offering. you figure it out.”
the frustration boiled over, and touya pulled out a crumpled bill, slamming it down onto the table with enough bags to make the bags rattle and the table wobble. the anger was red-hot now, rising in his throat, and the weight of it all–the rage, the sick realization that he was no different from his dad–made his hands shake.
tomura glanced at the money, the wrinkled 5000 yen bill sitting between the two of them. his lips curled into a half-smile, a bitter, mocking thing that nearly drove touya to the edge. “nice. can afford this shit, but can’t even make your half of the rent on time. pathetic.”
pathetic. the way tomura threw that word, like it meant nothing. like they were just another piece of trash to discard. it was a jab to the gut, a reminder of everything touya hated about his life. about the way things had always been.
“i’m pathetic?” he hissed, voice low but dangerous. “i’m pathetic? you think i chose this? you think i wanted to end up like this?”
his hands were fists now, knuckles pale, nails digging into the meet of his palms. the plastic bags sat there, insignificant, forgotten, but somehow the epicenter of everything wrong in his life. they were the last thread holding it together–and now even that was fraying.
“you’re always like this,” tomura just blinked, slow and blank, like none of it touched him. like he was watching some dome scene in a movie he’d already seen a dozen times. “always throwing a tantrum, acting like the world owes you something. get over yourself.”
“fuck you,” touya spat. “you don’t know shit about me.”
“don’t need to.” tomura shrugged, already turning away, leaving the bill on the tabletop. “you’re not that complicated.”
and just like that, he walked off, that lazy shuffle of his disappearing back into his cave of wires and screens and cigarette smoke. the door clicked shit behind him, a soft snick that somehow sounded louder than a gunshot in the silence that followed.
touya stood there, shaking. the rage didn’t leave–it never really did–but now there was something else mixed into it. something quiet. shame, maybe. or grief. whatever it was, it sat behind his ribs and tore at him like a rat. he looked down at the bags still on the table. he should’ve just grabbed them and left. he should’ve numbed it again. made it go away.
but he couldn’t move. not yet.
because the thing was…tomura wasn’t wrong. not really.
he wasn’t that complicated.
just a mess with a pulse.
a guy who couldn’t outrun his own goddamn shadow.
a man with his hands full of fire and nothing left to burn but himself.
he slid into the chair, the weight of the day already pressing down on him again, even though it barely started. from the other room, he could hear tomura, the low hum of whatever game he’d thrown himself into echoed around the apartment–gunshots, screams, repetitive synthetic music. it was all muffled, like it came from underwater. it was like he was underwater.
touya stared at his own reflection in the sheen of the tabletop–warped, fragmented. he didn’t recognize himself. didn’t know who this version of him was anymore. his hands twitched. his breath came too shallow, body tense. the bads sat there on the table, untouched, quiet in a way that felt cruel. he stared at them like they were mocking him–like they knew just how close he was to cracking. like they didn’t carry the weight of every bad decision he had ever made.
but they did.
god, they did.
he still heard tomura in the other room, probably already forgotten about him. probably laughing at some stupid video, lost in his screen, detached like always. and that stung in a way he hated admitting. not because he wanted tomura to care–but because some part of him needed someone to.
even if it was the wrong person. even if they never stayed.
the itch was always there, yes–but so was the fear. the emptiness. the gaping hole in the center of his chest, the one he tried to fill up with drugs, with hookups, with routine, with anything that would give him a moment of peace. but nothing ever stuck. nothing ever lasted. the moment things got quiet, it was like his brain turning on him–ripping through everything all at once.
he swallowed hard, throat dry, like he’d been chewing on ash. the taste of the previous night still clung to the back of his tongue–alcohol, smoke, someone else’s perfume. it made his stomach twist. he ran a hair through his hair, dragging his fingers down his face like he could scrape away the exhaustion and shame clinging to his skin. his leg started bouncing beneath the table, nerves firing beneath his skin like static. he needed something. a hit. a drink. a scream. he didn’t know. just something to shut it all up.
he stood up suddenly, the chair screeching across the linoleum with a harsh scrape that made his teeth grind. he hovered over the bags again, hands trembling. he hated this part–the bargaining, the slow unraveling. the part where he lied to himself. said he didn’t need it. that he could choose to walk away.
and maybe he could. but just not this time.
he picked up one of the bags, turning it over in his hand. it was light. too light to hold so much power. but it did. it held everything–silence, relief, numbness. it was a lifeline. it was a death sentence.
he stared at the bag for a long time, the plastic slippery under his grip. the decision wasn’t loud. it didn’t crash into him or scream in his head. it slipped in like a sigh, quiet, gentle. like surrender. there was no fight in him, his fingers moved automatically. muscle memory. a ritual. he emptied the bag with the kind of efficiency that only came from repetition–quick, precise, practiced. the kind of motion that had stopped feeling dangerous a long time ago. now it was just a part of him, like breathing.
it didn’t hit as fast. he supposed it was from the constant use, the buildup of immunity.
but when it did, the edges dulled at first–his thoughts softened, like someone turning down the volume on the world until they completely disappeared. that familiar itch under his skin faded into static. the burn in his brain smoothed, the fires smothered into something quieter. almost calm.
he let out a slow, shaky breath and sank into the chair, slouching down until his spine curved in a way that would normally leave him in pain. his eyes drifted towards the ceiling, half-lidded, unfocused. the lights above him blurred, a bright yellow that bathed everything he touched. his limbs felt like jell-o, the air around him wrapped him in a hug of sorts, his breathing slowed and the pounding in his ears subsided. for the first time all day–all 2.5 hours he was awake–or maybe all week, he didn’t feel like he was going to come apart at the seams.
that was a lie, of course. a temporary one. a borrowed moment of silence. but right now it was enough.
he stayed there for a while. lost time. let the stillness stretch over him like a weighted blanked as the suns rays grew and shortened. the apartment around him had long since faded–the only things around were the soothing hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of tomura’s game through the wall, the ticking of a cheap clock he hadn’t replaced since it broke. time meant nothing.
eventually he stood, once the initial high wore down just enough for his head to not feel heavy and his limbs to regain some semblance of stability. his body still moved like it was underwater–lose, a little slow, but sturdy enough to stay upright. his joints ached in that disconnected way, like they weren’t quite his own, another thing borrowed. he pushed off the edge of the table, swaying slightly as gravity reminded him it still had him by the throat. his palm found the wall, fingers spread against the chipped paint and rough texture. it was cold. solid. something real in the haze of it all.
the hallway tilted slightly, or maybe it was just him. hard to tell.
he dragged himself toward his room with a sluggish determination, using the wall like a guide rail, brushing his shoulder against it every few steps just to stay grounded. his legs carried him forward, muscle memory again, doing the work his brain was too fogged to manage. the apartment around him was fuzzy–nothing but a blend of doorways and shadows.
he reached his door, fumbled with the handle–missed once, then caught it on the second try. he didn’t bother turning on the light; the darkness was a comfort, a familiar weight draped across his shoulders. safe in its own way. empty, sure–but at least it didn’t ask anything from him. he stepped inside and shut the door behind him–not with intention, not with purpose, just because that was what he always did. the click of the latch was soft, yet it echoed in the stillness. final. like the closing of a casket.
then he sank to the floor.
not the bed; that felt too far, too soft, too clean. or at least cleaner than the floor, cleaner than he felt. the floor was solid. hard. honest. something that didn’t give when he leaned into it. something that could hold him when nothing else could. his back hit the cold wood with a dull thud, and he let out a slow, shaky breath, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. his arms fell limp beside him, his whole body slack–like a marionette with cut strings. the high was still there, humming just beneath his skin—numbing the sharped edges, a low distant thrum in his blood. but it was already slipping.
and with every minute that passed, the weight began to creep back in. draining out of him lie water leaking from a cracked vase–inevitable. unstoppable. first as a whisper. then a murmur. then a scream until it became nothing but the silence again. a heavy weight upon your chest. the part of the high that no one warns you about–the aftermath, the slow coming down, the crash, the stillness that wasn’t peace but something worse. a void, a reminder. it never crashed into him, no. it seeped. like rot through the walls. it wasn’t peaceful, it was hollow. deceptive. the kind of quiet that echoed with everything he tried not to think about.
he opened his eyes. vision blurry, unfocused, drifting toward the ceiling. shadows shifted in the corners, barely touched by the faint light bleeding through the slats of the blinds, outside, life kept moving–buffled bass thumped from someone’s speaker down the hall. a dog barked. and somewhere beyond his door, tomura laughed, low and unbothered, voice tangled in a conversation that drifted through the walls thin as smoke. touya didn’t move.
he was aware of the faint buzz of his phone on the bed behind him–forgotten, ignored. a dull vibration, persistent, muffled by the twisting sheets around it. but he never got up, never checked.
he couldn’t feel his face. his hands were warm and tingling. his heartbeat was steady but slow. steady. drowsy. the kind of slow that made time crawl. made everything feel like it was suspended in amber–thick, unmoving, suffocating.
he blinked once. twice. his eyes stayed open, but he wasn’t looking for anything. his mouth was dry; his chest felt hollow. but it was quiet. no screaming thoughts. no memories clawing their way up his throat. no reminders of what he’d done. who he used to be. nothing telling him he was worthless, that he would be better off dead, no echoes of that final argument with his dad–shouts and slamming doors. no glimpse of his mom, tearful and silent. no image of natsuo, standing in the hallway, small hands clenched into fists, starting at him like a stranger. no remembrance of fuyumi carrying shoto on her hip, the two of them wide-eyed, watching. just silence.
eventually the quiet shifted, turned into loneliness. not the kind you feel in an empty room. no–this was deeper. hungrier. the kind that curled up beside him and whispered in his ear. the kind that felt like it lived inside his bones, crawling up his spine, branding him from the inside out.
a hot, searing ache. one the pills couldn’t touch; one the high couldn’t numb. the ache of absence. of everything he’d thrown away. the kind of loneliness that didn’t just hurt, it hollowed. and he felt it, right there, at the center of his chest. it always found him again when everything else faded. the part of him that still missed being loved. the part of him that hated himself for ruining it. the part that wondered–honestly, quietly, hopelessly– if maybe there was no way back.
he swallowed hard. it caught in his throat like a stone. his limbs felt heavier, his head thick with static. he didn’t know how long he had laid there. minutes. hours. could’ve been both. could’ve been neither. but it was long enough for the high to loosen its grip, for the fog to clear up. not enough to make him feel normal–whatever that meant–but enough to bring the ache back.
and when it returned, it didn’t sneak in like before. it hit hard. full force. a deeper emptiness that settled low into his stomach, infecting every part of him. no more hum beneath the skin. no more float. just heavy clarity. one that didn’t sooth–only reminded. the silent wasn’t soft now. it was loud. screeching. heavy with everything he’d tried to drown.
he swallowed again, jaw tight, hands flexing against the floor like he needed to hold something. but there was nothing, just dust. air. the pieces of a life that hadn’t really belonged to him in years.
so he stood.
slowly. unsteady at first. his muscles ached in protest, but he pushed through it. the floor creaked beneath his weight as he stood. he pulled on a hoodie from the floor. didn’t care that it smelled like a blend of ink, cigarettes, and stale liquor. it was warm, and it was easy. he shoved a hand in the front pocket, fingers brushing against old receipts and a lighter he didn’t remember putting there. the room spun once. he let it pass.
his tongue felt like paper, his throat burned faintly. he crossed the room, grabbed his wallet off the dresser, no even sparing a glance at the mirror next to it–he didn’t want to see what looked back. he needed out. he needed to go somewhere with lights. with noise. with people who didn’t look too hard or ask too much. somewhere where he could fade into the background, somewhere where the loneliness wouldn’t find him.
the apartment felt too small. too quiet. too known. it made everything inside him louder.
so he left the apartment in silence. no word to tomura. no glance at his phone. no second thoughts. the door shut softly behind him, the sound lost to the noises of the city awakening around him.
outside, the night air hit him hard–sharp and cool, slicing into his lungs with every breath. the sky was the color of bruises–deep, purpling clouds handing low, like they might fall. his boots scraped against the pavement, each measured and slow. steady and sober enough. the lights from the street bled into his eyes, too bright and too artificial, painting the sidewalk in broken gold. people around him–hundreds at least–weaved their way around him, moving on past his tiny bubble. the city didn’t care about him. never asked anything. never looked too closely. it just kept moving. he liked that.
the bar wasn’t far. just a few blocks of cracked pavement, flickering neon, and corners that smelled like piss and desperation. sitting somewhere along the intersection home to meth heads and heroin junkies. the usual path.
the sign outside buzzed faintly, one of the letters dead. he hesitated at the door, just for a second–not out of doubt, out of exhaustion. but still, he pushed through. inside, it was dim, low-ceilinged and buzzing with voices, clinking glasses, the low murmur of a jukebox stuck on a sad song from a decade no one remembered. the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey. it wrapped around him like a blanket and he hated how much he needed it.
he moved to the bar without looking at anyone, slid into a stool like he’d never left it. the bartender glanced over, nodded once. not surprised to see him. there were no exchanged words–just a quiet understanding, the kind between two strangers who’d seen each other too many times, who knew the shape of each other’s silence better than they knew their names.
the glass landed in front of touya with a soft thud. a smooth crystal holding an amber liquid. smooth. familiar. he stared at it for a moment, the way the light caught the rim, his eyes traced the gentle sway of the whiskey inside. like it was waiting for him to break the stillness. coaxing him with empty promises.
he brought it to his lips. the first burn was sharp. clean. it cleared the last remnants of the fog in his skull, dragging his mind back into focus. the second drink went down easier. warmer. more forgiving. by the third, the ache in his chest still wasn’t gone. it just sat there–quiet, patient. like it knew it had all the time in the world.
he didn’t stay long.
the first bar never held him for more than a few drinks these days. it used to be enough–to fade into the noise, to let the alcohol smooth out the jagged edges, to sit quietly and pretend he wasn’t waiting for something to change. waiting for something to end.
lately, nothing had been able to dull the edge.
the buzz came and went like static, and the silence afterward only rang louder. the familiar voices around him felt distant. empty. the music grated, switching between genres fast enough to make his head spin. the glass in his hand felt heavier than it used to.
and the worst part? no one noticed. not the bartender. not the regulars. not even himself, really. just another night. just another slow unraveling.
he set the empty glass down, the sound barely audible over the low buzz of the room, and pushed himself off the stool. he left a few wadded up bills next to the glass as his feet carried him out the door and into the cold without a thought. the wind bit at his cheeks. the city hummed around him, half-asleep, half-feral. he didn’t need to check the time–he already knew it was late, and he already knew he wasn’t going home.
he didn’t know exactly where he was heading until he did. another bar. a different one. the one with rust on the awning. the one with cigarette smoke in the alley. the one where she worked. he wasn’t exactly looking for her.
but he wasn’t not looking, either.
the bar was warmer. louder. worse. it felt like being trapped in amber–hazy, sticky, suffocating. the air hung thick with the scent of stale beer, cheap perfume, and too many breathless conversations happening at once. college students packed the corners and crowded the bar, laughing too loud, leaning too close. everyone was trying too hard to forget something. he knew the feeling.
the lighting was much more dim that the first bar, and murky, too. like it had given up trying to illuminate anything clearly, the kind that made everyone’s skin glow gold and sickly, like they’d been dipped in honey and smoke. shadows moved across the walls. faces blurred together. his boots stuck slightly to the floor as he made his way to the bar. he found a seat at the end, tucked half in shadow, and let his eyes scan the room before settling on her.
she was working behind the bar–moving with a rhythm that was half muscle memory, half exhaustion. her expression was unreadable. detached. no wasted energy. no fake smiles. like she’d poured herself into the motions so completely that there was nothing left for small talk, for smiles, for anything resembling softness. her hair was pulled back in a loose tie. there was something almost graceful in the way she avoided eye contact. like she’d mastered the art of being untouchable.
there was something about the way she moved–quick, precise, not a single wasted motion. she didn’t yell over the music like her coworkers did. she didn’t flirt. she barely even spoke. just a rhythm: nod, pour, wipe, side the drink across the counter, move on.
he didn’t think she had notice him. not yet. he watched her anyway.
“don’t even think about it.” a voice cut through the haze beside him–smooth, confident, a little too loud.
touya blinked, turning his head slightly. the guy stood behind the bar near him, towel slung over his shoulder, grinning like he lived for the change to interrupt. bright-eyed, tan, annoyingly charismatic. the kind of guy who looked like he flirted just for sport.
“think about what?”
“her,” the blond nodded in her direction, like it was obvious. “she doesn’t do customers. doesn’t do anyone, actually. you’re wasting your time.”
touya narrowed his eyes, tone low and sharp. “did i ask?”
the blond just laughed. “didn’t have to. i’ve seen that look before.”
he turned away, jaw tight, fingers curling loosely around the edge of the bar. the kind of frustration that didn’t come from the comment itself, but from the way it landed. like he had asked. like he had shown something. like wanting to look at her meant anything at all. he hated that the guy could read him so easily. hated that he wasn’t wrong. but before he could come up with something to say–something cruel enough to shut it down–she looked over.
and for a second, she hesitated.
her eyes met his, then drifted. a pause. a flicker of recognition. not strong. not certain. just there.
“you again?” she asked, dry and flat.
“didn’t think i was that memorable.” he’d only spoken to her once–about a week ago. out back in the dingy, damp alleyway behind the bar where the air reeked of overflowing dumpsters, rain-soaked concrete, and cigarette smoke that clung to everything like regret. he didn’t know why he went out there that night, why he walked through that particular alleyway. no real reason. just one of those moments where his body moved without his brain. restless. hollow. needing a breath of air that didn’t taste like liquor and cologne.
he remembered her standing against the brick wall of the building, a cigarette between her fingers, the cherry glowing faint in the dark. her posture had been relaxed, but not open–like she’d folded herself into the silence and didn’t want company. still, she hadn’t told him to fuck off. he remembered how her eyes flickered toward him but didn’t linger. just a glance, like she was used to ghosts passing through. he remembered asking her for a light.
he didn’t even smoke that much.
maybe once in a while. mostly when he was drunk. or when he wanted to feel like he had something to do with his hands. he didn’t even remember if he had a real cigarette on him that night or if he’d bummed it from someone on the way out. regardless, she didn’t ask. just handed him her lighter–plastic, cheap, brand new, and warm from her palm. their hands had momentarily brushed. he remembered that brief sensation of skin. calloused fingers. no polish. no rings.
they hadn’t said much after that. maybe two more sentences. short, forgettable things. she smoked in silence, and he mirrored her, like he didn’t want to break whatever strange stillness had settled between them. then, without ceremony, she stubbed the cigarette halfway through and gone back inside, tossing a parting remark over her shoulder. a dry joke, sharp and careless, like she didn’t expect him to laugh. something about making sure he doesn’t lose any more fights or some shit. he didn’t even remember the exact words. he just remembered how much it irritated him. it shouldn’t have bothered him that much.
but it did.
he stayed out there long after she was gone, bathed in the dull light of the streetlamp overhead, a thin ribbon of her smoke still lingering in the air. feeling nothing at all. or maybe, too much. it was hard to tell the difference.
now, he sat in front of her again–his bruises faded but still faintly visible–watching her move behind the bar like she’d never stopped. her expression hadn’t changed, still unreadable. still composted in that detached way that made it impossible to tell what she was thinking.
“you’re not.” she said simply, already turning away to pour another drink. “you just asked me for a light. that happens a lot.”
he laughed under his breath, quiet and bitter. “yeah. guess it does.”
it shouldn’t have stung. but it did.
she didn’t look up at him right away, just kept serving drinks and wiping down the bar with a damp cloth. the kind of motion people fall into when they need to keep their hands busy. her fingers were quick, practiced, distant. then her gaze flicked toward him–brief, unreadable.
“you looked like shit.” she said simply.
that made him laugh, this time a little more real–tight in the chest but not bitter. “thanks.”
“i see a lot of people who look like shit,” she added, leaning her weight on the bar, one elbow resting near the sink, the soft hum of conversation filling the space around them.”it blurs.”
he didn’t say anything to that. just looked at her–really looked. the low light case soft shadows over her face, outlining her cheekbones and the tired shape of her eyes. she wasn’t wearing makeup, not much anyway. her sleeves were rolled up just past her elbows. she looked like she belonged behind the bar the way some people belonged in churches–too worn out to believe in the place, but still showing up every night like it mattered.
“guess i thought it stuck.” his voice low, almost dismissive. “didn’t think i was that forgettable.”
she looked at him then. not soft, not cruel. just direct.
“it was a cigarette,” she said. “and maybe ten words.”
he scoffed, his lips curling up into a smirk without any humor. “didn’t know there was a word count minimum for being remembered.”
she didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she might’ve, in another lifetime. “most people don’t even bother lighting their own. you did. that’s something, i guess.”
“cheers to that. glad i’m memorable for being slightly less useless than average”
“you said it,” she replied, already turning away.
he watched her for a moment longer, something bitter curling low in his chest. maybe it was better that she didn’t remember him clearly. maybe it meant that it hadn’t mattered. maybe he should stop wishing it had. then, like clockwork, the annoying blond slid back into view. a grin already plastered on his face.
“there he is,” the blond said, wiping his hands on his towel. “thought you’d slipped out.”
touya didn’t look at him. “still here.”
the blond leaned over the bar just enough to glance between him and her. “so? we having a moment here, or am i walking into the world’s most painfully one-sided crush?”
touya’s jaw tensed.
“she’s working,” he said flatly. “you should try it sometime.”
all the blond did was snort. “touchy.”
she didn’t even glance at her coworker, just kept lining up clean glasses–face indiscernible.
“you know,” blondie added, lowering his voice just a little like it was a favor, giving him a warning. “you’re not her type.”
touya finally turned to him, slow. “and you are?”
“definitely not.” his grin grew wider. “but i’m smart enough to not try.”
“good,” touya muttered. “stick to what you’re good at.”
the blond smirked, backing off with raised hands in mock surrender and a wink. “that’d be charming people, thanks.”
“right. must be exhausting carrying that delusion around.”
the bartender finally backed off, still grinning like he hadn’t just pissed gasoline on an open flame. the exchange ended there–sharp, small, but enough to leave touya with a sour taste in his mouth. he didn’t know what he expected coming here. not warmth. not kindness. but maybe something closer to acknowledgement. something human.
he ordered a drink, downing it with ease; the warmth in his chest now full, too familiar. he sat there a while longer, long after the conversation had died. his elbows on the bar, his mind somewhere else.
she didn’t look at him again. didn’t glance up. didn’t say another word.
no follow-up to the few dry words they’d exchanged. just poured drinks and moved on like he was already part of the furniture. background noise. maybe he was just another forgettable face from a week ago, one of many who drifted in and out of this place, dragging their bruises behind them like the ghosts who hadn’t figured out that they were dead yet.
that hurt more than it should’ve.
he was about to leave when she slid into the seat beside him.
no, not the girl behind the bar. a different girl.
darker lipstick, hair that framed her face in a way that accentuated her features, denim jacket with too many pins. a pretty little thing. her smile was easy–rehearsed. “you look like you could use some company.”
her voice was sweet with a little bite at the end. he didn’t even hesitate. touya turned to her, leaning in slightly. “yeah?”
“yeah,” she said, smiling like it was already decided. “you’ve got that brooding, lost-in-his-own-head look. it’s hot.”
he gave her a soft, tired laugh. “it’s not a look.”
“even better,”
she touched his arm lightly, like she already knew how the night would end.
and maybe she did. he didn’t ask her name. she didn’t ask his. they exchanged a few more words–something vague, something flirtatious–but none of that stuck.
it wasn’t about that.
he looked toward the bar one last time as the girl he just barely knew stood, tugging at his sleeve, guiding him down toward the door with a grin. the bartender didn’t look up. never acknowledged his existence after their brief conversation. just continued to work, as if she had already forgotten of his existence. it was a bitter feeling that took hold of his bones.
he knew she didn’t care, didn’t know why he was desperate for her to. but acknowledging that…that was scary.
so he left.
yapper alert. i wrote this on google docs with narrow margins, single spaced, 10pt font and it still took up 11 entire pages. now that this is done, i’m going to bed.
i know for a fact this fic will ruin me and im all here for it. chapt1 is sososososososo good and im SO excited to see how thisll end, gotta feel the pain 💪
