#fearnyas

send me ❤ on anon and I’ll compliment someone at random!

that is many hearts, have a couple peeps

firstly @dnawield & @crwdeity BOTH OF Y’ALL ARE FUCKIN MEMES WHY ARE YOU THE WAY YOU ARE KJNHMKHJNM i know the answer is bc ur wonderful ok u don’t have to @ me and go on a rant abt it 😔 BOTH OF YOU are lovely, friendly people and i always see y’all tag-teaming on my dash and it makes it so fun to see u pop up !! you put so much work into your characters & headcanons and it makes it so enjoyable to read about them, even though my knowledge abt them is debatable, since i’ve only seen a little bit from each of their respective sources (altho the original ben10 i can at least say was #childhood) 😭 YOU GUYS LOVE YOUR MUSES AND IT SHOWS, it makes me care abt them too deSPITE not being the expert on them (but that’s what ur for right uwuwuwuwu) 100/10 👌👌👌 for great sense of humor and also just being pure angels in general, y’all are always out there fighting the good fight and being decent, nice human beings if any1 ever bullies u i’ll go to war (cocks gun) nya

*◟♧ christmas starters!​. ❜

     He’s not sure how many different wrapping papers and ribbons and bows are strewn about the (already typically messy) room. But it’s a lot. At least five papers and more ribbons than he wants to count. It looks more like the aftermath of Christmas morning than someone attempting to wrap a gift. ❛ Is it weird? Is it strange? Am I putting too much thought into this ... ? I don’t want it to look stupid, but she’ll think it’s weird if it looks like I spent hours trying to figure out the perfect paper and ribbons and bows, right? That’s a weird thing to do, isn’t it? ❜ He’s rambling (and he’s definitely been at this for way too long), the gift he’d painstakingly chosen settled safely elsewhere as he rifles through the wrapping papers. He’d even already safely wrapped the present for her brother, and yet here he was. 

               He’s here. He’s always been here, through the worst of it ... but he won’t always be. The thought has haunted him long before the demon Oliver created did. The whispers in his head had long turned to focus themselves on him, but there was a time when that voice had been real and it had come from the person he thought he loved more than anything or anyone. Now he can barely bring himself to open his eyes to acknowledge he’d heard his voice. Against the door, he’s sat with his body resting over his knees, head half enveloped by the arms he has crossed over his legs in order to hold them close to his chest. This position hurts, but he doesn’t particular care: everything hurts, no matter what he does. The only pain that rivals the burning of his throat and his still-shattered ribs is the indescribable ache in the center of his chest. For what seems like years now, that feeling has been inside of him, buried in the back of his mind, ignored, muted. Now it aches so badly he can hardly breathe with what little room he’s able and if he focuses on it too long, his eyes will start to well up. His father, strict and terrifying man he’d always been, had once told him that there’s no physical pain in this world that can measure up to the agony one’s emotions can put them through the moment they experience something as harrowing as anxiety, or depression, or heartbreak. Alexei Jones had been ignorant about a great many things in his life. That had not been one of them. If he were in the room now, he’d admit defeat if only he’d make it stop. He doesn’t want to listen to this man tell him that he’s hear. Not now. Not after all of this.

               “ ... ”  He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think it surprises either of them, though. To do so would be suicide to his composure : the simple act of swallowing is nearly enough to make him burst into tears as it is. His arms squeeze his legs, as if it’ll do anything to release the tension inside of him. He’s never wanted to scream and sob at the same time as badly as he does now. There’s so much he wants to say and yet there’s a part of him, much more prominent now, that’s vindictive and bitter and angry. He doesn’t want to acknowledge him. He doesn’t want to give Ollie the satisfaction of knowing that he can hear him, not when he spent so many years having his voice thrown back in his face. In truth, maybe he doesn’t even want him to know that he’s alive in here. Maybe he wants him to feel the same way he’s felt for all of these years, trying to hold onto someone who doesn’t want to stay. It’s unfair of him, he knows that deep down. There’s an underlying difference between the two of them, after all : concerning, but important all the same ... Ollie had stayed. Dmitry honestly believes that under a shift of circumstances, he wouldn’t.

               Who could blame him, he thinks. Aside from Oliver, who could blame him? He’s replaceable. A non-entity in this world. He always has been. Whatever’s real of their relationship, whatever actually mattered to them ... he isn’t sure anymore. He could sit out there all day, murmuring how important he is to him, how much he loves him, how he would miss him if he were gone, but how can he compete with the fears inside his head reminding him over and over until his own throat is left raw that he’s not important. Ollie had ignored him when he’d needed him most. Seven years, he’d waited. Seven years, he’d stupidly bit his tongue. Not blameless, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. He stops himself from shifting where he sits because he doesn’t want to be heard, but it’s not the movement or the searing pain that shoots through him that makes him choke back and swallow the threat of tears : it’s a thought, so hurtful in its simplicity, that he can feel himself breaking his own heart again : I wish we’d never become friends.

               If he’d known this is where they would end up, maybe he wouldn’t have passed him that note in the hallway when he couldn’t understand his sign language. If he’d known that he wouldn’t have been able to communicate with him out of fear that he would see it as too much of a burden, maybe he would never have asked him to go out with him. If he’d known he would spend seven years marinating in anxiety until it consumed and destroyed him, maybe he would have rather died than ever love a man who could sit back and watch his destruction with nothing but a half-hearted reassurance of, ‘I’m here.’ hidden behind a door way. Why hadn’t he said that a month ago? Three months ago? A year ago? Seven years ago?

               He’s never hated and loved someone as much in his life as he has both hated and loved Oliver Wright. The anxiety spreads, until his whole body aches, and it takes everything in his power to tightly shut his eyes and continue willing back those tears. He doesn’t want this anymore. He doesn’t want this. This, them, him. He wants to disappear. He wants to stop hurting.

               ... the soft sound of something sliding under the doorway makes him peek open his eyes, wet and swollen. Beside him, a single sheet of white paper lays on the floor, having been pushed through by the man who sits on the other side. He feels the apprehension in him swell, enough to make him feel nauseous. Like a bad habit, he feels compelled to reach out, grab it, reestablish contact between the two of them. It would be so easy. He knows it would. Because there will never be a time where he doesn’t fall back into Ollie’s arms, forgiving him of every wrong he’d done and absorbing all of the pain to tuck away for later. Worse than an addiction, he’s created a space in which he cannot live without him. But eventually he’ll stop replying. He won’t have anything else to say. He’ll leave him to his thoughts, his anxieties, his hurt. He won’t always be here, no matter what he says. He doesn’t trust him. The person he learned to speak for, to exist for : he doesn’t know the one who resides in his home, his heart, anymore. And he doesn’t trust him.

“ though, it is quite lovely to see you nonetheless! “ rhea castore is a person that has never known anything of skyscrapers, cars, electric generators or anything of that sort, though she can surmise well enough that the stories her dear friends used to tell her back in her small little world had been most likely been borne of the contraptions that roamed this land. metal beasts amble along smooth walkways with smoke trailing behind them, and the woman almost goes to meet them-- though is quickly pulled back by a very distressed feline. ‘are they not friendly?’ ‘they are, but they get very upset when they’re interrupted.’ ‘ah! i cannot say that i do not understand the feeling.’

so the warden lets herself be lead back to the grass and trees ( something that was very sparse here, she notes as she sees stone pathways and hears more alloy animals in the distance beyond ), the two of them finally taking refuge on a metal bench underneath a long light.

“ how have you been, dear oliver wright? “ and, like always, she cups his face with her hands, a gentle smile upon her lips. 

“ you’ve grown so much. ”

               And there it is  ...  another apology, murmured between lips that should be blue to a puppet that may as well be deaf. Under differing circumstances, he'd feel like those are words he’d subconsciously waited to hear from him for years now, although he can’t really remember when hurt had become synonymous with love between the two of them. Not that Ollie had ever been aware of his feelings, content to turn a blind eye to him and he content to let him do so. Just hearing them makes that ache he’d barely gotten any relief from since they’d dragged themselves back home a couple days ago reignite in his chest and he has to swallow to keep himself from tearing up. A decision that, ironically, ends up with his eyes welling anyways, because the pain that he feels in his throat at the movement is so intense that he physically winces, both hands shooting up to touch his fingers to his bruised skin as if it would do anything to calm the sensation. He sees Ollie start from the corner of his eye as he doubles over on him, pressing his forehead against his knees and closing his eyes tightly in a desperate attempt to wait out the pain, but he supposes he never gets that far because he doesn’t feel him touch him at any point. It takes a minute, two, maybe five, before he’s able to open his eyes again and, with it, he let’s out a broken sob. It hurts. He’s never wanted to scream so loudly in his life. It HURTS.

               He presses his lips together, takes as deep a breath as he can physically handle, and begins to straighten his posture once more, leaning his back on the bottom of the couch so he can re-situate himself on the floor. By time his hands slide down from his neck, they’re trembling. He curls his fingers, resting them against his cheeks in an effort to calm himself, but his entire body is shaking. He ignores it.

               “  .  .  .  ”  His expression slowly steels. Little by little, the agony that had been then moments before fades away until he’s staring emptily at the space in front of him, following the pattern of the wood on their coffee table as if it’d become the most interesting thing in the world. Somewhere in the background, the soft sounds of Ollie’s baking show are still playing, turned down almost all the way, but having forgotten to be paused. He wishes he would just turn it off. Even looking at food right now makes him want to vomit. But he doesn’t say anything. He never does. He wouldn’t care to listen, even if he did.

               He doesn’t even know why they’re here right now. What did they think they would accomplish, sitting here, trying to act like everything’s okay? As if they weren’t both glaringly aware of the fact that he no longer had a ring around his neck, or that he’d also taken back the ring he’d given Ollie in high school when he’d returned the damaged one to him three days before. He didn’t want the reminder, he’d said. Not right now. Not after he’d lost his own engagement ring. It’d been temporary. He’d promised him he didn’t want to call the wedding off, but that didn’t mean that they could pretend that nothing’s wrong. That there aren’t bruises around his neck. That he hadn’t killed people. That Ollie hadn’t killed him.

                It’s not like it’s the first time he’d apologized to him. Not since high school, not since college, not even since yesterday. He still doesn’t look over at him, although he’s aware that his gaze on him is growing more and more concerned. Even now, it’s rare that he ignores him outright, at least for extended periods of time. The silence between them has gotten steadily heavier. The distance longer. He’s hurt and Ollie’s lost and neither of them know what to do about it. One of them is standing their ground, that’s true : but he’s too tired to be the one doing it this time. Forgiveness, he thinks, sounds  ...  exhausting. Seven years ago, he wouldn’t have even blinked. Now he just wishes he’d never woken up in the first place. All Oliver does is say he’s sorry. Sorry for things he’d done, sorry for things he hadn’t, sorry for problems that didn’t exist, sorry for problems that he’d created. If he was so desperate to find something to destroy the two of them, maybe he was broken enough to oblige. They’d said I love you so many times that he’d adamantly fought the notion that words could lose meaning, but in hindsight, people who make that argument aren’t wrong. He’s so sick of hearing him say he’s sorry. Whether he forgives him or not won’t matter : he won’t accept his decision either way, when his feelings have never been the ones Ollie cared about. Fear, lack of confidence, lack of trust, those are the things his other half had clung to. Never love, never him.

               And he’s still apologizing, after all this time. He wants to say that if he were really sorry, he would stop saying it. He would stop making it so meaningless. He would stop apologizing for everything. For relying on him, for loving him, for their entire fucking relationship. As if he’s a burden on his existence, as if he’d never wanted to be with him, as if he hadn’t been the one who had asked him out in the first place. If he were sorry, he would either love him or admit that he had never loved him enough to be here and stick it out through his insecurities in the first place. He has to settle.

               “No you’re not,”  he rasps, the pain visible on his face as his facade of indifference crumbles, but he stays perfectly still this time. The only indication otherwise are that his tears well up further and begin falling down his cheek. Everything hurts. His arms, his legs, his hips, his throat, everywhere the Ventriloquist had held onto him : but physical pain, that he could push through. It’s the emotional pain that pushes him over the edge. He can’t even look at Ollie’s face, can’t turn his head to make eye contact or give him the respect of acknowledging him directly. His gaze stays perfectly trained on the wooden table, only glancing up briefly at the television to catch sight of a tiered cake in the image. He visibly heaves, one hand raising to press against his mouth, eyes closing quickly. His breathing becomes staggered for a moment, his body trembling again almost as quickly as it’d stopped. He can’t throw up in this state. The sheer fear of the feeling when he’s in this much pain almost sends him into a panic attack as both his hands reach up to cover his mouth. He hunches over himself, legs crossed, his forehead pressed against his legs. He stays like that.

               I want to die,  he thinks, and it scares him how much he means it.  I want to die. It hurts. I want to die. It hurts. I want to die. I want to die——

               One hand slowly lets go to untangle itself from his body, weakly reaching out to the man who sits off to the side away from him. He can feel his entire arm shaking, looking for something to steady himself, but they both know who he’s reaching out for. He doesn’t want apologies. He doesn’t want empty words and broken promises, not anymore. He wants the same thing he’s wanted since the two of them first met : he wants Oliver. Nothing more. Nothing less. Seven years, he’s tried to convey that to him. Seven years, he has ignored the sincerity of his feelings. Seven years, he has used him and belittled how genuinely he loves him. Seven years, he has refused to reach back for him. Seven years, on the brink of killing himself, and Dmitry still just wants to hold his hand.