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my writing sideblog :)

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FEBUWHUMP MASTERLIST

okay, wont have everything cause i did lotsa poetry and haikus but here the masterlist of the fanfics i did :)

"I liked you better broken" (metalocalypse)

3. ghost (danger days)

4. bloodstains (mcr)

5. survivor (slipknot)

6. soul bond (slipknot)

8. hunger (slipknot)

9. false memory (hawkeye)

10. -alt- alternate universe (slipknot)

11. broken fingers (metalocalypse)

12. bodyguard (hawkeye)

13. "again" (slipknot)

15. test subject (slipknot)

17. fingers in the wound (danger days)

18. time loop (hawkeye)

19. "i didn't mean to" (slipknot)

20. hunted (slipknot)

28. breaking point (wind that shakes the barley)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!YIPPPPPPPPPIIIIIEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ty to @febuwhump for organising this :)

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you know when you write a scene so heavy that it kind of ruins your day. yeah. guh

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febuwhump day 16: touch aversion

your touch is a shock-- you become a memory. i can't escape it.

[febuwhump]

thank you so much to anyone participating in this event who's writing haikus or poetry or making art references and stuff!! i love seeing less 'traditional' pieces being done for the event and i got inspired to write a couple of haikus

maybe ill write a poem with a freaking rhyme scheme for one of the days :D

its really cool seeing everyone make out of the box stuff this year!

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@febuwhump day 14: lazarus

blink, wake to your face. we're still frayed at the edges time heals, as do we.

maybe it was murder, my suicide. maybe it was murder, and this is the hell i'm sentenced to. if this is hell, then i'm lucky to have you.

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okay but where is the love for throat punches in whump. like come on guys. the recoiling. the choking/gagging/coughing. the hands rising to the neck as they fight for air. the potential fatality of it. the hoarse, whispered attempted screams. the aftermath. the pain of talking. the swelling. the bruises. the laboured breathing. THROAT PUNCHING GUYS

[febuwhump]

thank you so much to anyone participating in this event who's writing haikus or poetry or making art references and stuff!! i love seeing less 'traditional' pieces being done for the event and i got inspired to write a couple of haikus

maybe ill write a poem with a freaking rhyme scheme for one of the days :D

its really cool seeing everyone make out of the box stuff this year!

[yippe-yahoo]

FEBUWHUMP 7: forced to hurt another

@febuwhump have two connected haiku :)

heart torn, drowned in grief you stare at me, unseeing i, the sinner, shake.

i did not know you-- a stranger in my friend's eyes you're gone now. twice free.

i was just gonna do one haiku but i came up with a few good ones when i was brainstorming, so the second one went in as well!!!!! :)

if it isnt clear, this is like a friend being possessed by something, and narrator was forced to stop them by killing them

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@febuwhump day 3: ghost

DANGER DAYS FIC LADS

The fridge wouldn’t stop humming.

Dirty clothes. Greasy hair. Lights off. Shadowed in the cloudy evening.

He would do anything, anything, for her not to come home. 

Anything. He’d sell all he had for it. For her to be staying out late at a pub or something. For her to stay at a friend’s place. He’d do anything. Here, he was nameless. He wasn’t a person. He was translucent. Nothingness. A wisp of everything he could have been. Transfixed by the dread.

Tepid condensation dripped onto his hand from the bottle he gripped with white knuckles. They littered the ground beside the couch as he absentmindedly flicked through TV channels that he really couldn’t care less about. The fridge hummed. The shadows chewed away on the corners of the room, wisping through his head in wafts of silence, broken only by the sound of the tap dripping.

The television flicked to a static channel, and he put the remote down. The fog gripping his head dragged him into some sort of disjointed state. It was like he was sitting just a little left of his body. He would do anything for her not to come home. Anything.

Drip.

Drip.

The tap wouldn’t stop dripping.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy to him. He knew that, now. He knew the routine. Lie in bed until she fell asleep, until she wouldn’t notice him getting out of bed and sitting on the porch, waiting. Waiting for something. Anything. He didn’t know quite what. The cold would seep into his bones, sending tremors to shake his body, trying to force him back inside. The cold would wake him. The cold would make him feel achey. Staring into the darkness made his eyes go funny. Ghosts of…things. Animals, maybe. He didn’t know. Darkness made you see odd things, is what he was saying.

He bit at his lips, getting his teeth around the scabs there and pulling, pulling. Iron bled into his mouth, flowing over his tongue. The sting of pain didn’t much register. The scab and bit of skin sat between his teeth, sitting there, wet with blood. He spat it out.

Behind him, the door clicked open.

Everything in him deflated.

It stayed open for a very long moment, where the silence was deafening.

It clicked shut again.

A breath, like she was going to say something, before catching herself.

Irritation rose before he could stop it. She always had something to criticise about him.

“What?” he slurred out.

“You’re drinking.” 

Staying quiet for a moment. It wasn’t worth the lie.

 “Yeah.”

Another moment.

 “You said you wouldn’t do that anymore.”

The tension was almost unbearable, a hand on a taut bowstring just itching to release.

He said nothing.

“You said you wouldn’t do that anymore.” Her voice had risen, insistent but not yelling.

The TV static crackled and flickered. “Yeah.”

Quiet.

Drip.

“You fucking–do you not have anything to say!?” she asked, voice tight, on the verge of cracking.

The burning in his chest rose, no matter how much he tried to push it down. Still, he kept quiet, hoping she would storm off and this wouldn’t be another shouting match.

“One thing! I asked you one fucking thing! Is that so hard?! Is that so damn hard?!”

He ground his teeth.

Didn’t say anything.

“LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!”

He whipped around. “Well at least I’m fucking awake when you get home, huh? At least I’m actually fucking here! I’m better than you–I come back every day to an empty house and you asleep! What do you want me to do, just sit here?!” he snarled.

The bowstring had snapped. The arrow had flown.

“Oh, I don't know, make dinner?! Actually do something for me, for once?!”

He barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, even if I did that, I’m sure you’d find issue with it. Find something to criticize.”

“The hell do you mean?! I appreciate every single damn thing you do for me, you just never notice ‘cause you never fucking do anything for me!”

“What do you want me to do, huh?! The hell do you want me to do?! ‘Cause I’ll give you anything, you know! I’ll give you pills, I’ll give you money, I’ll give you anything you fucking want! Anything!” he spread his palms, emphasising. A lump was fighting to rise in his throat.

She exhaled shakily. “I don’t want you to give me stuff…” Her voice cracked.

“What–is it something wrong with me?! Something wrong with you? ‘Cause I know it’s not just me! Just please tell me what the hell is wrong!”

She took another shaky breath. “No. No–you’re fucking wasted again. No–I’m going.”

She rummaged around in her bag for her phone.

“You’re going?–” he echoed, wrinkling his face. “Where the hell you going?! You ain’t leaving, I know you’re not.”

She kept on rummaging around in her bag.

“Just settle down.” The alcohol was messing with his head–he couldn’t keep sense of what was happening. “Settle down, where you going?”

“Calling my dad.”

“You’re calling your dad?!” he sharply laughed. “What’s he gonna do?”

“Pick me up.”

“He’s gonna pick you up?” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna pick me up.”

“Well, why?”

She looked up at him sharp, a disbelieving, humourless laugh lining her features. “Why?” She echoed slowly. “Why?”

He was so sick of this. All of this. He wanted to love her, but he was so sick of this.

“Just–” He stopped. His words had gone.

She sighed back at him.

“All of this, and you didn’t even apologise.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry! I’m sorry for not–I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for not doing what…the things that–look, I’m just–I’m sorry, okay?!”

She stared back at him, with something that looked like grief in her face.

“What happened?”

He knew what she was saying. He didn’t know.

He shrugged, looking at the ground.

Pulling out her phone, she called her dad. He sat back down on the couch. Stared at the static. Tuned out the words. Tuned out the guilt simmering in his lungs, stealing his breath in the way she used to do.

He blinked and he was in an empty apartment. No one was there, no footsteps sounded through the place, no one’s breathing but his own. The hum of the fridge, the crackle of the TV, the dripping of the tap. Light from the TV was burned onto the back of his eyelids. 

His mind kept stubbornly drifting back to her, and he would very much like to not think about that–and not think about the knowledge that he was the one fucking this up. Because he was definitely the one fucking this up. Maybe.

He needed a drink.

Peeling himself off the couch, he turned around to go to the kitchen and came face to face with his brother.

Party nodded at Kobra and stumbled on past him into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and was met with absolutely nothing. Just a blank white looking back at him. Damn. They needed to get food.

Turning back around, he passed his brother again, staring at Party through the waves of blood pouring into his eyes. 

He sat back down, wondering if that hurt. It looked like it hurt.

The silence was never really silent. The hum of the fridge. The constant drip.

why didn’t you save me?

He turned around, looking over the back of the sofa to see Kobra’s form flickering and melding in and out of the shadows. 

“Wha–what?”

why didn’t you save me?

He sounded so young.

He blinked in sluggish confusion. 

“From what?”

The bullet wound in Kobra’s forehead dripped into his eyes.

Silence.

He felt his face crease. “From what?” his voice cracked with bottled emotion.

He knew. And he knew that Kobra knew that. And so the only other thing present in the room was Party’s pleading, desperate attempts to ignore this. The haze in his mind ever turning into the shape of a little brother. Ever tuning out the dripping of blood.

“I missed you.” His voice shook.

Kobra kept on staring at him, red-washed and unblinking. Fading in and out of the shadows. 

i saw you run.

His mouth tried to form words, but he was shook still, transfixed.

i called for you. i know you heard me.

His head shook ever so slightly, denying any of this. His brother was dead. It hadn’t been his fault.

it wasn’t my fault either.

“I know–I know, none of this was your fault, none of it was–”

i saw you leave me there.

“I didn’t–but I didn’t…” his words shook and stuttered.

Everything went black.

                                                                                    *

He woke up alone. 

The tap dripped.

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It clings to my skin, a painful, cloying film

                                                     of regret, i try to scratch it off but it only

gets stuck under my fingernails.

       You know, i feel it in my lungs when it shrinks, hardening into a mould around me.

                                          it wrinkles my skin into bulbous, fatty sections as it compresses, binds.

Trying to shake it off is fruitless. You are alone and no one will come to save you, shrunken and shriveled by your shame like a fruit that's gone bad. 

Mind turned to acid but not anymore,

Its gone, oh, how its gone–but some days i am less sure.

only did this cause i genuienly was so uninspired for writing a fic with this prompt or any alts. i dont hate it, surprisingly! done for prompt 2: old injury. wrote this about trauma and how youll think youre doing fine but then some days its like youre being crushed by it

@febuwhump