#grumpycatenergy

Pentagram City is going up in flames. Angels tear through the streets in a rain of holy fire, cutting demons down like they’re nothing. In the middle of it all is Husk, a worn out former Overlord fighting tooth and nail just to stay in one piece. He loses limbs. He nearly dies more than once. Crawling into the shadows half-destroyed, he thinks he’s finally slipped out of the worst of it.

Then Vox finds him.

And Vox has plans.

With the city convinced Husk is dead, something colder and meaner starts to take shape in the dark. His survival is only the start of a rough new chapter.

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Chapter 3 of my fanfic is up now. It has been SO fun to write. The whole thing is inspired by a Cyborg Husk avatar design my close friend cooked up and then challenged me to build a story around. I couldn’t resist! Enjoy!

Link Below!

Somehow you ended up in my corner of the internet. Poor choice or divine intervention, jury’s still out. Either way, I ain’t your therapist, but I’ve got time, booze, and a bad attitude, and nothing better to do,so feel free to:

Ask for advice, vent your soul, cry over your situationship, beg for approval, debate stuff, etc. Hell, ask me if your demon crush likes you back. (Spoiler: they don’t. Move on.)

You need opinions? I got ‘em. Need a roast? I’ll flay you with words and a smirk. Emotional support? I’ve got a scratchy voice and a semi-functional moral compass. Good enough. Just don't cry if I hurt your feelings. You'll get over it.

Bar's open. Ashtray’s full. Lay it on me.

Hustle culture is just capitalism with a caffeine addiction. Calm down, Greg, nobody’s impressed you woke up at 4 AM to send emails. Sit down and have a drink like the rest of us failures. 🍺🍸

Despite all appearances, Husk’s the type to growl praise into your ear while fucking you like he’s got something to prove. Which, let’s be real, he does. He’s a lazy bastard about most things, but in bed? Nah, that man gets feral. Like he’s trying to sweat out every regret he ever drank away. Doesn’t moan much, but he’ll curse, pant, and murmur low praises in your ear like “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect, don’t stop, don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

But here’s the kicker: he’s got a thing for doing it somewhere dangerous. Like public bathroom at a casino-dangerous, or Alastor’s study when he’s gone for “just a moment”-dangerous. There’s something about the thrill that shakes off his apathy gets his blood pumping, wings twitching, tail wrapped around your thigh like he’s staking a damn claim.

https://bsky.app/profile/zammyblehc.bsky.social

I’m seriously obsessed with how it turned out—look at my boy Husk, livin’ it up for yours truly hehe ]]

I don’t get the whole “New Year, New Me” thing. What’s wrong with the old you? Aside from the crippling anxiety and questionable decisions, but hey, those build character. You think swapping donuts for kale and waking up at 5 AM to meditate is gonna make you a better person? No. It’s just gonna make you hungry and tired. Congratulations on setting yourself up for failure.

And don’t even get me started on gym memberships. Every January, gyms get flooded with people who wear matching workout sets and think sweat is just “glitter leaving the body.” Give it two weeks before those treadmills are collecting dust again. You’re not committed, you’re just guilty about all the pie you ate in December. Own it.

Honestly? Resolutions are just socially acceptable self-loathing. You don’t need a new year to change, you need therapy, a nap, and maybe a stronger drink. But sure, go ahead, promise yourself you’ll be different this time. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re crying into a pizza by February.

Happy New Year. I’ll be at the bar if anyone needs me, and no, I’m not sharing my whiskey.

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Spent five whole minutes actually enjoying myself—singing, rebuilding, feeling like maybe things were turning around. Then he shows up. Alive. Smiling. I was this close to being free but nope! He's back from the dead and flipping me off.

Yeesh, first of all—yeah, I’ve been there. Panic attacks’re like getting drop-kicked by your own nervous system for crimes you don’t remember committing.

And yeah, sometimes they come outta nowhere like a bat outta Hell, other times it’s ‘cause your brain decided to unearth some cursed memory at the worst possible moment. Either way, they suck, and I’m sorry you’re dealin’ with that.

But here’s a couple things that’ve helped me when the walls start closing in—maybe they’ll help you too.

1. Breathe like a damn jazz musician.

Not shallow, panicked rabbit breaths—slow and controlled. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Imagine you’re tryna keep your smoke from curling funny, y’know?

2. Cold shock.

Grab an ice cube. Cold water on the wrists. Hell, splash your face like you’re tryin’ to sober up before a card game. It hits the vagus nerve and tells your brain, “Hey! Not dying!”

3. Count backward from 100 by 7s.

It’s dumb, yeah, but it pulls your brain into math mode instead of apocalypse mode. Can’t spiral if you’re too busy tryin’ to figure out what the hell 72 minus 7 is.

4. Make a “safe script.”

Write yourself a little script—something like “This is a panic attack. It will pass. I’ve lived through this before. I am safe right now.” Doesn’t have to be poetic. Just real. Read it when shit hits the fan.

5. Trigger warning: be gentle.

If memories are the cause, don’t beat yourself up. Your brain’s just tryin’ to process stuff that hurt. You’re not broken, you’re healing. Slow, sure, and maybe a little angry—but healing.

Look, panic attacks don’t mean you’re weak. They mean your system’s stuck in survival mode when there ain’t no tiger. But the more you ride them out, the more you teach your body that it can come back down. Every time you survive one (which, spoiler: you do), you’re chipping away at its power.