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"not even a little bit?"

summary: literally me writing about myself in third person to cope with my emotions on some level / this was supposed to be the start of some little light-hearted fic but then my brain crossed the line and decided to decompartmentalise itself

prompt: “can i kill him?” “no,” “not even a little bit?”

ship: uhhh molly x dana / molly x cat ;))

warnings: kind of talks about myself and my brain being weird and third-personey idk it talks about death i guess. it’s just kind of a weird ‘fic’ (it’s really not a fic it’s more of a therapy session) sorry

“can i kill him?” molly asked, gripping her dagger ever-so-slightly tighter.

dana noticed.

“no.”

“just a little bit?”

“for fucks sake, no. you cannot kill him. not even a teensy-weensy little bit,” dana exclaimed, exasperated, squinting her eyes in anger and crossing her arms, “we’re here to deliver him safely. that means no bullet holes or bite marks, molly,”

“you know what, fine.” molly got up and walked away, angry at nothing besides dana, that man, inequality and the entire world. the weight on her shoulders she wouldn’t and seemingly couldn’t take off her shoulders weighed her down a lot, sometimes so much she couldn’t float. some days it would seem lighter, and others it would come crashing down on her like a wave. molly tried not to be such a bitch and overall sad person, but she wasn’t very good at that. she was usually either unnervingly good at things or unprecendentely bad. molly knew she needed to go back in there and apologise, but she had a habit of overthinking her problems and knowing exactly when she had waited too long to act upon them. she stopped walking; trying to distract her brain for dismantling and overanalysing itself, and tried to think about how her cat was waiting for her at home. her cat, cherry, wouldn’t know what would have happened if molly never returned home again. that small thought kept her from not doing idiotic things that very much almost always risked her life. usually. some days molly could be a literal embodiment of the song “what a catch, donnie”, and what all the words entailed; while other days she could kid herself into thinking she was a narcissist with a loaded god complex. some days pretending to be a narcissist with a god complex was a good way to ‘cope’. she wasn’t good with emotions, usually having too much adrenaline coursing through her body when she realised she had them to deal with them properly, and she certainly wasn’t good with other people’s. her own mother had laughed at molly’s attempt to comfort her after she had let off her steam in one of the only ways she knew how (yelling and blaming-but-pretending-to-not-blame things on the people she was yelling at).

wow that was a therapy session for myself.

so apparently brains can write about themselves being weird but do you know how weird that seems? i’m in a pete wentz mood i can’t explain it