#its uhm

[mr-self-destructxx]

I got this rlly pretty yarn for xmas and I'm tempted to make a scarf out if jt,,,,, mind you I never wear scarfs I make.

[picongrounds]

[maschotch]

[aventurinesweetheart]

cali kink list reveal at 2.1k

[crymeariveronceagain]

What's the lowest grade Keefe ever got? How did his dad react?

Anonymous asked:

Keefe getting a low score in his class and his dad reacting to it-

oki doki loki! hope you enjoy ANGST

Keefe is very smart. He doesn't fail classes. He doesn't have a poor grade average. He's smart on his feet, even though he still acts stupid sometimes anyway, but he's also book smart, too. He knows what he's doing in classes, tests, everything. Everyone thinks that someone so silly and stupid about things must also be stupid school wise. He's not, though. He's good at school.

That doesn't mean he likes it. In fact, he really dislikes it. It's so structured, so sharp, and it's cruel. The education system is cruel. It assigns homework that takes far too long, makes him bustle about hallways full of people who think he's dumb just because he doesn't remember their name if he doesn't see it written down somewhere, it makes him read books over and over again trying to make sense of words that blur together in a conglomeration of symbols that mean nothing. It forces him to do really well on tests for fear that his entire grade in the class will shift downwards, and he won't pass.

But he's good at it.

So, he doesn't get bad grades. He's grateful for that. His dad thinks an A- is a failure. In fact, his dad thinks anything less than an A+ is a failure.

"You can do better," his father sneers, over the dinner table, staring at Keefe's all A's report card, once again. "You can do so much better."

That crap crushes your spirit, you know? Why work harder, why work longer, when all you are is sitting at the top, knowing that your dad will never be pleased if you're anything less than perfection.

He gets first in class a few times, on some tests. His dad isn't even proud of him then. He wants more, demands more, demands what Keefe can't give.

The worst grade he ever got made him give upon his father's demands for him. He decided it wasn't worth it.

The worst grade he got on a test was a C-. He stared at it, in class, his stomach sick, wondering how he had screwed up this badly. It was a passing grade, sure. But it was a C. C's might get degrees, but C's don't make their fathers proud. C's didn't make his father proud. Keefe knew that all his dad would see on that sheet of paper were a thousand reasons to yell, a thousand reasons to punish, a thousand reasons to make him cry, a thousand reasons to just... Keefe winced, rubbing at his head, trying to make the pressure that wanted him to sob go away.

It would be okay. It had to be okay. At least, he thought, the horrible C staring up at him guiltily, a written record of his failures, it had to be okay until he could burn this test.

He got home, the test folded up really small and stuck in his cloak pocket. He walked through his silent house, and found the trash can in the kitchen. He looked around, once, making sure no one was watching, making sure no one was looking for him, and pulled the test out of his pocket. He unfolded it. Looked at the questions he'd gotten wrong. Scanned the correct answers, forcing them to filter into his mind.

He ripped the offending test in half. Then in half again. In half a third time. A fourth. Every tear made the pressure of fear grow lighter in his chest. He tore up the C letter grade into tiny little bits, too small to ever piece back together.

And he left, determined to bring his grade up in that class so much that his father would never know he screwed up.

So he did. He worked harder, stronger, better, faster. He poured hours into his homework, hours into getting extra credit.

But, on the last test of the year, he screwed up again.

B+.

Keefe wanted to scream. There was no coming back from this. There would not be an A on his report card. A C- had been bad enough, but combined with any sort of B, and he would not be able to fix this.

He tore up that test, too.

But you cannot hide a report card. He tried. Stared at the offending B grade on his report card, and tried to wish it away, tried to bury it in his backpack, out of sight and out of mind--

"Where's your report card, Keefe?" his mother asked that night at dinner, from the other end of the very long table, where she sat near his father. Keefe squirmed.

"Go get it," his father said, not looking up from the book on Empathy he was reading. It was probably his own book.

Keefe scrambled from the room, dug around in his backpack, and wondered if there was any ink removal solution nearby. He'd write an A on his own report card if he had to, anything to get it all to straight A's, like it was supposed to be. It wouldn't change anything in the long run, but it would prevent his ears from getting screamed off.

He dug around in his mother's desk, briefly.

He found several crystals, a black box with ancient runes on it, a pile of papers written in code. He kept digging. Pricked his finger on a pin. Something about that made him flinch. He wasn't sure why.

"Keefe! Bring your report card down here! Now!"

Keefe hadn't found any dratted ink removal potion. He swallowed, heavily.

It's your own fault, his thoughts supplied, it wouldn't be like this if you put in the work.

So, he supposed, it was time to face the music.

He'd set the strings, conducted the practices, set the pianists to their keyboards, chased the stagehands to the curtains, set the lights, prepared the concert.

He couldn't leave now. After all, this was his mess.

Keefe silently walked back into the dining room, and handed his parents his report card. He didn't look either of them in the eyes. He scrabbled back to his side of the table, to his food that was now as cold as stone. He shoveled tasteless mashed parsnips into his mouth, the texture making the coldness even worse. He didn't look up.

"Keefe," his mother snapped. "What is the meaning of this grade?"

Keefe feigned ignorance. "Which one?"

"The B in Metaphysics."

Keefe swallowed, roughly. "It was a hard class."

"That's not an excuse," snapped his father. "Even babies would know that, Keefe."

Keefe swallowed. "I know," he said, "I was just trying to--"

"Explanations mean nothing," his mother waved him off. "You failed both tests?"

"Two of four," Keefe said, "I didn't even fail, not really. It was a hard class--"

"We know that," said his father, harshly. He glared at the piece of paper in his hands. "That's why you were in it. You're supposed to be smart. That's what your teachers said. Were they wrong? Are you just as stupid as I've always thought you were?"

Keefe winced. "No, I'm not, I'm sorry--"

"You didn't think to get any extra credit? How stupid are you?"

"I did!" Keefe said. "I did all the extra credit I could! And I got nice scores on all that!"

"Keefe," his mother said, exasperated, "Those are B's."

"I did my best!"

"That's not enough!" His father spat. "I don't want your best, your best isn't good enough. It's never been good enough."

Keefe winced. "I can't do more than my best! That's impossible!"

"I don't care," his father snapped, standing up, sharply, and making the table shake. Keefe let fear flicker in and out of his soul like the fading flame of a candle. "Either you do better, or you're even more of a failure than I thought you were."

"Wow," Keefe said, "I didn't know there was any lower I could go!"

His father snarled some very dark sounding words that Keefe didn't know the meanings of. "We pay good money for you to go to that school. We feed you, clothe you, send you out into the world expecting that you'll do the best. Are you even worth any of that if you can't even manage to pass your classes?"

Keefe felt like he was trying to drag an iceberg out of the ocean and onto dry land. "I did pass my classes! I just didn't get all A's! I got four A's and one B! That's not even bad!"

"It's worse than you did last semester," His father said, as though reporting on the weather. "So you could have done better, you just decided to fail me on purpose."

Keefe felt his soul crunch. He felt tears prick at his eyes, the ones he'd been holding off for a long time. He hadn't tried to fail. He hadn't. He hadn't.

"I did my best," he said, again, softly.

"And I don't care," his father said. "You're just proving what a waste of time and money you are."

His father turned to his wife. "So," he said, almost conversationally, "What should be done about this?"

Keefe's mother tapped one of her long, cold fingers to her lips. Keefe looked at her, begging her, with every ounce of strength and will he had in him not to leave him alone, because his father never yelled when she was around, only quietly seethed, not to leave him to the teeth of his father's disciplinary ideas, which ranged anywhere from being grounded in his room for a week to only being able to eat at night. Don't leave me. I'm your son. Protect me.

"You're his father," she said, after a moment. She stood up, brushing invisible crumbs off her dress. Keefe felt that movement in his soul. "You deal with him."

That night, Keefe wound up in a bedroom without a door and elevator privileges revoked, his ears still ringing from hearing his father's full and complete unadulterated opinion of him shouted at him as he had taken out the screws. He'd had to carry the door out to the garage by himself, tripping a couple times down the endless stairs, his father missing in action. His father had gone to bed, he found out, once he hiked back up the stairs all the way.

He sat in his bed, late into the night, unable to fall asleep, and wondered why he wasn't enough.

Maybe he'd never know.

He pulled out his crumpled up report card from where it had been flung halfway through his father's yelling match with his walls, which his father had effortlessly triumphed in. Primarily because walls can't yell. If they did, Keefe liked to think they'd yell back at his father, tell him all the things he said Keefe was, and see how the older man felt after that. Probably pretty trashy, Keefe decided. Although, that was the aim. He was supposed to feel trashy after his father stopped yelling.

He scanned the report card. Ability Detection: A. Alchemy: A. The Universe: A. Elf Science: A. He'd done so well, he thought. The last class stood out the most. Metaphysics: B.

He looked at it for a total of two minutes, watching it blur and unblur in front of the eyes that couldn't find the strength to cry this late at night, and then ripped it in half. Then he ripped it in half again. And again. And again.

They'd recorded his scores in their books, anyways. He'd always have a B on his record.

He couldn't stare at it anymore.

It hurt to look at.

He simply would never be enough.

[metukika]

uhhhm fish friends just vibing (read sakana!)))))

[alonelysimp]

ooooh is your game still up? i hope you don’t mind me joining! the ones i kin are most likely; ayaka, ei, signora and a lil bit of childe! :))

okok this stumped me for a hot min (i haven't done analyses on everyone yet ;;) but i have returned !!

you feel unhappy with where you are in life currently, even though you worked a lot and put a lot of effort to reach the place you're at. as a kid, were you forced to grow up too fast? my sincerest apologies if i'm overstepping, but did you lose someone close to you? either you just drifted apart, or *yk*

send me the genshin characters you kin and i'll make assumptions about you

[incorrect-totg-quotes]

fear me