#and has weened off smoking

[marshbevvie]

🐀 🎀 𝐵𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓁𝓎 𝑀𝒶𝓇𝓈𝒽 (@𝑀𝒶𝓇𝓈𝒽𝒷𝑒𝓋𝓋𝒾𝑒) 🎀 🐀

Hello! Welcome to my pinned post. When I first hit the scene here I made a shoddy intro post, but this is my ACTUAL info post lol.

𝙉𝙖𝙢𝙚: 𝘽𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙨𝙝 (𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝘽𝙚𝙫 𝙤𝙧 𝘽𝙚𝙫𝙫𝙞𝙚, 𝙖𝙡𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝘽𝙚𝙫𝙮 𝙤𝙧 𝘽𝙚𝙫𝙫𝙮)

𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙨: 𝙎𝙝𝙚/𝙝𝙚𝙧

𝙇𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝘾𝙡𝙪𝙗 𝙈𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧

♥ Ben Hanscom

𝐁𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧��𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲

ɪ’ᴍ ꜰɪɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜱʜᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʟᴏꜱᴇʀʟʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ— ᴍʏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ, ᴅᴏʀᴋʏ ᴍᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴇᴀʀꜱ

[𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢, 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙰𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎— 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎.]

Sexists and homophobes DNI— I put the bi in bitch and I’m the only girl holding up this Losers joint. So yeah.

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Unaffiliated with anyone official, I’m just here to have some fun. ♥

I love you internet losersss (aka the silly people who view my posts) and will interact with anyone. But please, Pennywise? Don’t slide into my Tumblr account. I’m still not afraid of you.

but enough about thaaaat

Thank you for checking out this post and I’ll see you around.

𝓍𝑜𝓍𝑜

𝒷𝑒𝓋

[fourmoony]

hi hun! for trick or treat could i get a treat with remus please? any fluffy fall vibes and im over the moon! 💕

thanks for requesting lovely! ♡︎

630 words | cw: mentions of smelling like cigarettes, but no details of smoking

Remus drops a kiss to your head in passing, warm hand squeezing the flesh of your hip as he shuffles between you and James' counter top. There's plenty of room in James' kitchen, pretty much everyone is in the living room arguing over whether or not The Nightmare Before Christmas is a Halloween or Christmas movie, but you don't mind the proximity.

You live for it, in fact. The warm, fuzzy feeling his presence brings. The whole night has been very wholesome, a happy warmth glowing in the centre of your chest. James' kitchen windows are fogged up from the condensation of the warm pot of soup Mary brought, warming on the stove, and the bitter air outside - and the house smells like Euphemia Potter's pumpkin spice muffins. There's half-hearted Halloween decorations strung up on various walls - Sirius' addition to Friend-O-Ween, the new tradition he's been banging on about for months in the run up.

Remus likes to remind him that in order for it to be a tradition, it has to have happened more than once. Sirius likes to rebuke that he can't wait to make Remus eat his words next year. You like the idea. Anything that involves downtime with the people you love, the ones who you cherish more than anything - that's your cup of tea.

"You're not joining the debate, love?" Remus asks, head in James' cupboard as he roots around for his favourite mug.

You spot it on the drying rack, hand reaching out for the soft fabric of his orange sweater. Remus turns, eyes softening when you place the mug in his hand. He kisses the very tip of your nose, eyes intent on watching the way your cheeks redden. "I wouldn't have any argument. I've never seen The Nightmare Before Christmas." You shrug, eyes fixed on the way Remus' long fingers wrap around his mug.

Your boyfriend tsks, "That just won't do."

You laugh as Remus flicks the kettle on, peering over the edge of Mary's pot to check on the soup. It brings tiny drops of condensation to his chin, his forehead. You reach out and swipe at the skin with gentle fingers. Remus smiles softly when you venture up into the curls of his hair. He needs a trim, you think.

"Best tell Mary her soups about to burn." Remus speaks lowly, like he's scared he'll scare you off from touching him if he speaks too loud.

It's a warranted idea. His beauty is astonishing, really. Intimidating. You'd never take your hands off him if you let yourself. But you do, now, to turn the burner off and move the soup to the side.

"You think Sirius will banish me for not having seen his favourite movie?" You ask humorously.

Remus chuckles, stirring his tea. "Best not mention it, love."

He turns, hand encasing yours as he tugs you towards him. He smells like pumpkin and his eucalyptus shower gel, a little like cigarettes, but you won't begrudge him it. Marlene's a bad influence. His hugs are always warm, comforting. You turn your ear to his heart, revel in the feel of his strong hand against your skull and shoulder blade, listen to it's steady thump, thump, thump.

His lips press to the side of your head, just at the same time Sirius appears in the arch way entry into the kitchen. He has his hands on his hips and a fury in his eyes, "Y/N," He huffs, "Tell them that The Nightmare Before Christmas is definitely a Halloween movie!"

Remus laughs quietly into your hair, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold it in. You shove your boyfriend away, though he doesn't go far. He never does.

"Soups ready!" You smile, as convincingly as you can.

"Nice save, lovie." Remus whispers, hand squeezing your hip playfully.

[inklore]

pretty when you cry.

— stepbro!patrick zweig x f!reader

premise: you hate him. hate how messed up the both of you are. can't stand how the two of you have been weened off of spoonfuls of poison force fed to you by your parents and the only antidote you've ever been able to stomach has been each other.

contents: messed up step sibling with benefits dynamic, p in v, plot and backstory heavy a lil, abusive parents, oral, marking, blood mention, dirty talk, degradation, dacryphilia | wc: 1.4k+

note: the demons i have inside of me when i think of this man are absolutely batshit and i should seek help. enjoy!

“What’re you gonna do?” The look on his face is aggravating. Obscene in the way it makes something burn beneath your rib cage and singe its way down between your thighs.

Your eyes ache from your efforts to not let the tears that have gathered at your ducts fall onto your cheeks. To roll down only for him to mock—lick away with the tongue that peaks out from his lips as he smirks. 

“You’re going to cry? Really? I thought you were better than that.” 

“Fuck off.” 

You can see the puff of air that ghosts through the cold night air as he laughs under his breath. Pulling out a cigarette, inhaling twice before it’s lit, and releasing the smoke from his lungs into your face. 

“No more tough girl act, huh?” 

“No more ass kissing for money, huh?” 

This time, his laugh is deeper. The look of arrogance on his face more menacing with the way the street light is beating down on the two of you. 

Family dinner. 

What a fucking joke. 

It barely took five minutes before Patrick was getting into it with his father, and your mother had a mouthful of words to berate you. You hadn’t known why they even invited you, let alone Patrick, to this wannabe Partridge family shitshow. 

Patrick’s father, having washed his hands with his son long ago, finding zero use in someone who wasn’t making him money. 

And your mother barely able to look at you without disappointment written all over her face because she can’t live vicariously through you anymore. The day your athletic career ended, so did her pretending that she actually cared about you.

“Shitty parents build character,” someone once told you. Had patted you on the back and gave you that tight lipped smile people always did when they didn’t want to pity you, but also had no idea what to say to the shit end of the stick you were dealt. 

A smile you’d love more than to smash your fist into. Over and over and over. 

It’s really no surprise the way you and Patrick turned out. No surprise, the two of you have been at each other's throats since day one. Your parents turned the two of you into their own little competitive rivals they could bet against, give love and money to when the other came out on top. When one was knocked down and the other was spitting blood with their fingers curled in the asphalt. 

Which is why it was also no surprise when Patrick found his way into your room one night. No surprise when your face was pushed into your pillow, his mouth at the back of your ear daring you to scream his name loud enough for your parents to hear. 

“Let them know who’s winning, baby.” 

And it’s no surprise how the nightly visits turned into rough encounters in the kitchen with you bent over the counter, your mother within earshot in the other room, or the countless hookups in his father's car. 

If you had good parents, maybe they would have noticed. 

Maybe your mother would have questioned you more about why your knees were all skinned up. And you would have to tell her some lie about tripping during practice when, in reality, Patrick had you on your knees in the gravel, gagging on his cock, before he fucked you against the chain link fence when he visited you at university one night. 

But instead, your mother grabbed a handful of your hair and told you not to lose her money. 

And while, yeah, you did hate Patrick. Have always hated Patrick—maybe even a stronger word that portrays the burning sensation you get in your chest and the urge you have to pick and chew at your own skin, or his—when he’s around.

There’s still a part of you that’s almost grateful that he ruined your tennis career. 

Fucked it up for you only for him to become a waste himself. 

You���ll never tell him that, though. 

Especially not with the sickening look he keeps giving you now. 

The end of his cigarette put out against the brick wall his shoulder leans against. You can smell the nicotine when he steps closer to you. Your nostrils filled with the cheap cologne you hate actually works for him. 

The tip of his nose ghosts against your cheek when he whispers in your ears, “if you want a real reason to cry, just ask, baby.” 

You hate him. 

You hate how causally cruel he can be. How it’s easier for him to bite you in bitterness and animosity than it was for him to pretend he isn’t repulsed by wanting you—just as you are him. 

Except your bites sting and mark up his pride until he’s half way across the country trying to prove himself, if only to make you bite him harder. 

But what you hate most of all is how good it feels. 

How his words make goosebumps prick your bare legs. How when he pulls back to look at you, his mouth centimeters from your parted lips, he’s blurry from the tears that have yet to fall. The tears that your mother caused. Tears that would taste so much sweeter if they were coming from him. 

Because of him. 

Your cheeks stained way too many nights with tears and come from Patrick. 

There’s a silent communication that happens when your scowl wavers and his eyes flash to your mouth. A confirmation not needing words when you feel his fingers run up the side of your thigh, getting just below your skirt before he’s gripping the back of it to pull your thighs apart. The indent of his fingers hard and throbbing when he’s let go and pushed his palm around and up to cup you through your panties. 

The nicotine on his tongue pushing its way through your open mouth as his lips feather yours as he speaks, a hitch of your breath when his index finger runs along the wet patch on your underwear, makes his mouth pull up. 

“God, why are you so fucking pathetic?” The pad of his finger pushes against your clothed clit. Your mouth twitching open in a moan you refuse to let slip out. “I bet you’ve been wet all night, trying not to rub your greedy pussy against your seat in hopes I’d let you have a taste of my cock tonight.” He smirks, “no wonder mommy’s disappointed in you.” 

His mouth finally presses to yours just as the tears left in your eyes fall. When his words make your body collide into his like a moth to the flame that’s going to burn it alive. Kill it. Relieve them of a bitter, shitty life. 

Your underwear is ruined by the time Patrick has it pulled down your thighs. Torn and stretched out, marking bruises and rashes into your skin that remind you of the nights he purposely made your skin bleed just to lick his tongue over it and smirk when your mother yelled at you the next morning for not looking like her perfect show pony. 

Only for the two of you to meet in the hall wet, hard, fucking against the wall that displayed your seemingly perfect family photos. 

Your nails dig into the brick wall. Bring dirt under them and skin the beds of them when you wrap them around Patrick’s hand against your throat. 

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass as he fucks you hard and fast fills the alleyway. The pain of your pussy never having the opportunity to truly accommodate his size—to prepare for it—is exhilarating. Your inner thighs coated in your own slick. Your own shame. Your own pain that Patrick pulls out of you, causes you, eases into you, and adores you for just as much as he hates you for. 

“I hate you.” You choke out, swallow your moan, and hold it in until tears run down your cheeks. 

He groans against your cheek, “yeah? Fuck, say it again. Tell me how much you hate me. How much you hate how you can’t finger this little cunt without thinking of me even after all these years.” You can feel your knees grind against the brick; you know you’ll have scraps. You know you’ll press your finger into them for days, weeks, while they heal, and you think of Patrick. Fuck yourself from how wet the thought of him always makes you. 

Cry into your pillow in pleasure at how much you hate him. Hate yourself. Hate how fucked up the two of you are—how the two of you need this fucked up mess in order to live, breathe, come. 

Fuck, you’ve missed him. 

You clench your eyes shut as a hoarse cry is strangled from your lungs by his hands, cock, mouth against your jaw. 

“No one cries as pretty as you do, baby.” 

[oddverse]

Don't Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)

(Prosciutto/Pesci but mostly Prosciutto in this one)

Pt. 1

September, 2000

A young blonde, thin and yellow-haired, wrapped in a thin, yellow bathrobe, sits alone in a yellow apartment. Enfolded by deep, vanilla colored light spilling through amber curtains. Incense filling each room to hide the smell of cream rinse and tobacco smoke.

Bzzt!

The message alert breaks whatever trance he was in. There's only one person who texts him.

'bro!' 2:21

'try and come over later!' 2:21

Prosciutto is already rolling his eyes at the small cellphone, Pesci knows just how much the pet names peeve him off.

"bro!", "dude!", "dawg!", etc. etc.!

'Uff!'

'Not even a capitalization either…'

He ought to ignore the message outright just to spite him, but they both know he's not going to do that. He'd never act like it around the rest of the squad but Pesci knows just how fond his "Bossman" is of him.

Prosciutto huffs in defeat at that, testing the call button with his thumbnail, he wants to know just what his coworker has planned for tonight.

Ring~  ring~  ring~ ring ~

Ring~  ring~  ri-

Tch!

Clap! Snapping the phone shut!

'I bought him the damned thing so he'd use it!'

Tossing the little brick out of his sight, landing it somewhere on the living rooms futon, he abandons the source of frustration for his bathroom mirror. He expects a little more attentiveness from his 'student'. Leaning into the glass and scanning his face for any blemish he might miss.

He scoffs aloud at the thought, finally removing hair pins set from the night before.

'Student! That mama's boy is a head taller than me!'.

Bangs freed and framing his face, blonde locks cascading down after each pin.

Shoulder length and caressing his neck, he cranes and twists his head to watch the hair fall, gliding into place.

It was actually about twelve cm, but that homemade mohawk he sports could give him the extra dozen to make it so, dwarfing near everyone in the room.

Though... Pesci was tall when they first met, maybe not quite as broad then, but you'd never be able to tell with how much the young man hunched and hid behind his own size.

'How disappointing…'

Risotto was not too fond of taking in another stray after he had just gotten Melone, their previous newbie, settled in and going solo. Even if he already had the stand, even if he had landed right into their palms, Nero was nothing if not selective.

"This isn't a YMCA."

"The Squadra has no room for a common thug."

"We have just weened that new one off of Gelato."

"No."

The sheer potential swayed their capo in the end, perhaps worn down by Prosciuttos insistence. It was better that way, rid the chance of meeting again with the competition.

"If I do this it is your responsibility to have him aware of what we are, what we do, and what will be expected of him in the future, I will set up the apprenticeship but after that this will be your project alone. I will not accept failure on either part."

Prosciutto remembers the delight in his face. His very own project.

Oblivious to the smile appearing from the memory, he's near finished with his own coiffure, both hands working behind his head to twist and tie the last of his hair into the several tight buns, not a strand out of place. Subtle pride swelling at a job well done, he might even opt out of hairspray this time.

He recalls Pesci saying he recognized it, the style, what he was going for at least, from a magazine he'd seen some time ago.

Gucci or Versace, he couldn’t quite remember, but that was enough to intrigue Prosciutto, Pesci wasn't incorrect and similar tastes could spell good team work, synergy.

Perhaps it did work since now he's watching himself in the mirror get ready for a playdate he hasn’t even accepted invitation from yet.

'Sucker.' he muses.

No, he's got a better one.

'More like 'Hook, Line, and Sinker...'

'Clever…'

Ring~!

 Right on time, internal applause halting as he scrambles room to room for the anticipated call, snatching  it up from the corner of the sofa.

Ring~!

He's upright and quick, fingers going to accept the call before he has to pause.

Ring~!

Watching it flash Pescis number, ringing out again and one more time, he can't help but think, 'whipped'…

He finally flips it open, placing it to his ear coolly as he can manage, as if Pesci was looking at him now, as if to make up for the display, he hesitates for a second before answering.

 "Pronto."

'Smooth…'

"Ciao! Prosciutto!" He already falls for the enthusiasm. Bitterness dissolving like a tablet in water.

"Ciao Pesci." Monotone barely hiding the warmth in his voice. How dare you. 

"I didn’t mean to miss your call-" I forgive you.

"Were you... coming over still?" So meek. He already knows the answer. Prosciutto has to contemplate his response.

A strand of hair lands on his nose, he blows it away.

"I'll head by." He doesn’t push any further, Pesci can just surprise him.

The call ends, Prosciutto does not say goodbye. He needs to get dressed anyway.

It's still over another half hour before he's out the door and descending the apartment stairs, dress shoes clacking with each step. He strides through, making quick work for the exit before anyone can notice him for long, or vice versa. No time to people watch today.

Once outside, the first thing he notices is the heat, balmy from the late summer, sun beaming down on his head, turning the honey blonde into platinum with its rays.

He lifts his chin up to feel it on his face, eyes squinting involuntarily to see comfortably, navy and ochre  backdropped by a clear lazuline sky. 

Pesci's place isn't too far from here, it'll be a walk but nothing Prosciutto needs a vehicle for, he likes the scenery anyway.

He'll take note of each window he passes, ignoring the name of the shop and its merchandise, only checking out the reflection inside every time.

It still takes a moment to get to where he’s going, delving deeper and deeper into the city with each passing minute. The further he goes, the more litter he has to kick out from under him, and he wonders how responsible Pesci is for some of it. The concrete path he follows is stained dark and older than he is. Loose cigarette butts and broken glass seem to mock him, he doesn’t belong here anymore.

He flexes his forearm and raises it to his face, sleeves pulling away to reveal an Oystersteel wrist watch.

‘4:02’ He reads. He's been walking for 40 odd minutes now.

He can see the complex in the distance now, shooting his cuffs as he closes in on his destination. He’ll have to take a moment and touch himself up before greeting his subordinate. Hands smoothing hair and face as he makes his way up the entrance steps, stopping right before the door to take in the dark building, old and peeling in the sun.

Prosciutto knows it’s no Ritz Carlton, but Pesci never expected more, especially with the chump change he’s making now, he almost wishes better for the young man.

But that thought is waved away as soon as it appears, his hand reaching for the handle, the stray hair falls in his face again. 

He tucks it away.

[tau1tvec]

Weening myself off of TS4 has been such a weird experience.

Like I'll find myself downloading CC, and then thinking about it, and then eventually deleting it. Reminds me of when my friend was quitting smoking, and would just pull out a cigarette to hold it, but never smoke it.

[csuitebitches]

Hey love, I love your blog btw 💗 I know this question don’t have anything to do with your blog but I do like the advice you give & the blogs you post, it helps me become a better. What advice would you give to someone who is battling an addiction, (*maryJane*), how to ween off it.

Frankly speaking, i used to smoke pot years ago but I stopped because I hated how “slow” I became. I began having a hard time focusing, I felt more vulnerable in front of people if I was high and I just didn’t like how I felt. I once heard someone say that if you can’t go without a smoke of any kind or a drink, it’s crazy that something so tiny can have such a strong control over you. That made a huge difference in the way I thought.

I don’t smoke or drink but that’s because I’m not prone to addiction of any kind. I’m lucky that way, and my upbringing also has a role to play.

I will say that though, you can try every method and tip and trick out there and still fail if you are not mentally ready for change. Your body might give you shit for a bit for quitting but you’re going to have to mentally power through. I don’t know how bad your addiction is but I’m really not the right person to ask. You should explore genuine medical resources or talk to a doctor imo.

[chaosandcrimson]

no way is that MARISOL DE LA LUNA.. they’re a 20-year-old HUMAN notoriously known for being ANXIOUS  &  INSECURE but there are some people who have seen them being COMPASSIONATE  &  HUMBLE.  if you ask me, they remind me a lot of the rhythmic tapping of a pen against the desk, the pastel colours of a sunrise, and long days handing out flyers to people passing by, but that could just be because they’re considered the ICON OF REBELLION around town. just keep an eye on them  &  see if their true colors shine through..

This town is fake but you're the real thing Breath of fresh air through smoke rings Take the glory, give everything Promise to be dazzling

OVERVIEW

Name: Marisol Selena de la Luna

FKA: Marisol Selena Reyes Ortega

Nickname(s): Mari

DOB: January 7, 2104

Age: 20

FC: Isabela Merced

Height: 5'1"

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Bisexual

Occupation: Student (Cybernetics) / Activist

Relationship Status: Single (Closed)

[+] friendly, compassionate, humble [–] anxious, insecure, naive

BIOGRAPHY

tw: teenage pregnancy, anxiety

Marisol was born to a single teenage mother in the lower class district. Her mother, Celia, was 17 years old at the time of her birth. She has never met her biological father and she frankly does not care to either.

At the time, her uncle Gizmo was only 6 years old. He was more like a sibling to her than an uncle, and if asked, she will say that they're her big brother.

Her mom met her stepfather, Cal, when she was 3 years old. That is the only dad she's ever known, and the only one she calls her dad, because he is the one who helped raise her. They also welcomed her little brother, Felipe, into the family when she was 5 years old. He's a little shit, but she loves him to death.

She was diagnosed with ADHD shortly after starting school. Her parents helped her set up regular routines and reminders to help her with her day-to-day life, and that made a difference, but not enough for her to stay on top of things. She started struggling with anxiety because she felt unable to function properly.

At first, she was treated for her anxiety, until another doctor pointed out that she was likely to feel better and fare better long-term if they instead treated the root cause. Her family was no longer struggling financially, at least not as much as they had been when she was born, but they were by no means wealthy. And drugs aren't cheap, especially when you need to take them regularly. (And when the company who makes them have a monopoly on the market.)

She was offered a spot on a clinical trial for a cybernetic enhancement that replicates the effects of both slow release and instant release Adderall without the need for the drug itself. It helps her ability to focus in general, while also giving her an extra boost when needed. It is also completely intuitive; once she had the procedure, she didn't need to do anything other than maintenance.

It was relatively straightforward, it drastically improved her quality of life, and the cost to maintain it is manageable. However, unlike a drug, she cannot simply ween herself off it if she no longer wants the treatment—or the association with the company who produces it. And because it was a clinical trial, the expertise in maintaining it has not yet spread extensively outside the official channels.

Her experience with her own enhancement, as well as the experiences of other people around her in the lower class district, is what made her interested in both cybernetics and activism. She studies cybernetics at the university, where she has become a prominent participant in student-driven activism.

Her work has made her a familiar face within the activist group at large. She is very honoured to be considered a rising star, but also intimidated by the idea of people seeing her as a leader, when she's not sure that's who she wants to be.

In spite of her role, she has befriended and developed a crush on a boy named Jaiden West, which is... Unfortunate for her, seeing as he is very much entrenched in the corporate life that she is actively and openly opposing.

MISC

Because her dad works at the university library, she spends a lot of time there and even has a part-time job doing miscellaneous administrative duties.

[sennamybeloved]

deserving

selfshiptober day 4: gift.

▬▬ ship: taka x lane (s/i)

▬▬ warnings: none!

▬▬ author’s note: i have been wanting to write this specific prompt with taka for ages. at first, i wanted to do a wedding ring/some kind of jewelry, but japan doesn't have the same wedding customs as america (obviously) so decided that this would be more fitting :)

▬▬ tag list: @dragonselfship @dudefrommywesterns @minkymeatshop @wanderers-wife @fallen-for-them

▬▬ reblogs always appreciated! ♡

Lane has owned many weapons throughout her life, and the sword she’s wielded during her months in Tsushima is perhaps one of the worst. It’s a terrible, flimsy thing, with rust forming on the blade and a handle that’s falling apart in her hands. She never thought much of it, as she prides herself not in her swordsmanship, but instead in her archery—however, arrows can only get you so far, and the condition of this thing has gotten so miserable that its impossible not to complain about.

The fact that she spends all of her time around the island’s best blacksmith makes the issue decidedly worse. Whenever she removes the sword from her hip to clean, inspect, or—god forbid—attempt to repair it, she’s met with judgemental stares and tantalizing remarks from Taka who, to add insult to injury, always has several perfect weapons in his possession at any given time.

“Where did you even get that thing?” She recalls him asking her one day. He had not even bothered to pry his gaze away from his work in an effort to make it seem like he cared about her response.

“I have no idea,” she had huffed in reply, eyeing the weapon as if it was something revolting. “I think I found it somewhere. Or stole it. I’m not sure.”

Taka let out a disapproving huff, stopping mid-hammer to glare daggers into her from over his shoulder. “Lane!”

She laughed. “What? It’s not like the previous owner could’ve gotten much use out of it, anyway. This fuckin’ thing is my waking nightmare.”

He’d rolled his eyes and returned to his duties (smithing a new, shiny sword for a commissioner, the bastard) and she’d forgotten all about the weapon until she had to leave the forge with it the next day.

She doesn’t expect much from Taka other than his company. He is so kind, so generous with himself, only taking measured sips in return for all the love he gives her. She often feels like she has to remind him that he doesn’t owe her anything. His entire life, he’s been taught that if he wants attention and praise, he must work for it. She doesn’t want him to feel like that around her.

Or perhaps Lane was simply weened on poison and neglect, so she simply cannot handle all this positive attention. Any affection she receives must be given to her with reason, and because someone wanted to is not an acceptable reason.

She finds herself caught off guard on a crisp, foggy afternoon. Taka rushes out of the forge to greet her the moment she rides into Yarikawa.

“Lane!” His voice—so sweet and so timid, yet well-projected enough to rise above every other sound in the busy street—is exactly what home feels like. A timeless comfort that soothes her aching soul and reminds her of better days to come.

“Taka,” she replies, a smiling coming unbidden to her lips. She closes the distance between them in several quick  strides. Strong arms wrap around the wayward in a gentle embrace. Her face meets the fabric of his kisode, and she inhales the scent of oil and fire-smoke.

The setting is very public, so the embrace does not linger. When Lane moves away, her hands rise up to rest on his shoulders. When she meets his gaze, he grins, big and foolish and agonizingly adorable. Unable to resist, she leans forward and pecks his mouth. A small, half-suppressed chuckles escapes him, and Lane responds in kind.

“It’s been too long,” Taka says. The relief in his voice is palpable.

Lane huffs. “Yeah, a few days. How have you been?”

“I’m good. There’s been a slight lapse in clients, but I’ve kept busy.”

“Oh?” She tips her head to the side. “How so?”

Taka gets a certain look on his face, one that’s caught somewhere between mischief and joy. His faint smile widens into a grin, monolid eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll show you.” He says.

His lingering touch on Lane’s shoulder reminds her to follow as he turns and makes his way back toward the forge. She gives him a curious look, uncertain of what he could possibly be this excited to show her, but it only makes her all the more eager to find out.

The forge smells like ash and steel. Sunbeams seep in through open doors and windows, illuminating the rustic interior of the building, stone floors covered in filth and walls lined with tools. Lane stands idly in the center of it all, watching as Taka hurries over to a nearby wooden table, which holds an assortment of things that she cannot quite see from here.

“I made a gift for you,” Taka says.

Lane nearly chokes. “A gift? Taka, you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to.” He leans down, scooping up Lane’s gift off the shabby wooden table. When he turns back to her, she instantly feels faint. In his arms is perhaps one of the most exquisite weapons she has ever seen. 

A katana, with a blade forged from the purest, brightest steel. Purple ray skin wraps the wooden handle. Within the wrap is a charm made of gold. When Lane makes out the silhouette of a fox within the charm, her eyes well up with tears.

“I can’t accept this,” she responds shortly. Her voice is cracking.

However, she quickly wishes she hadn’t said anything at all when she glances up to meet Taka’s eyes. He looks defeated; crushed. He’d worked tirelessly on this gift, and now it’s being rejected. Lane is certain that her initial reaction is not what he was expecting at all, and she feels terrible for it.

“Why not?” He asks in that tiny voice of his. Lane swallows her sorrow so quickly that she nearly chokes on it.

“I’m sorry, Taka. It’s not that I don’t like it. I do. I truly do.” She allows her eyes to graze the metalwork once again. It’s beauty is almost overwhelming. “I just… this blade is fit for a samurai, not for someone like myself. I really don’t deserve this.”

Taka brushes off the idea like dirt on his sleeve. “You do. You’re more deserving of this than any samurai I’ve ever met.” The way he speaks to her is raw and genuine, a look of adoration deftly etched into his soft features. It makes Lane’s heart twist. “If I wanted to gift this to a samurai, I would’ve, but I didn’t. I made this for you.”

For a moment, Lane is silent. Her gaze flits between the katana and Taka’s face. Her jaw works, lips moving. Whatever she’s trying to say, it never comes out.

Taka quickly to fill the silence with talk. “You’ve been complaining about your sword for months. You travel a lot, fight a lot, and I figured that… I’d feel better if you had something a bit more reliable to defend yourself with.”

Lane finds the concept of someone caring enough about her safety to forge her a brand new sword a tad overwhelming. However, once the initial shock is fades away, she realizes that the gesture is more flattering than anything. No matter how undeserving she thinks herself to be, Taka wholeheartedly believes that she is, in fact, completely deserving. Shouldn’t that be enough?

“Taka,” she breathes, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I… Gods. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t,” he replies in earnest. Lane grasps the handle of the katana in one hand, lowering it to her side. Taka takes her free hand in his one gloved one, squeezing it gently. “Just take it. That’ll be enough.”

First, Lane grins. Then, she laughs. A string of warm, hearty giggles that she could not suppress if she wanted to. Taka mimics her joy, wearing a sweet grin of his own as she leans up to capture his mouth.

“I don’t understand you,” she murmurs playfully against his lips. “But I really, really love you.”

[writebackatya]

Questions for writers: 5, 10, 13

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

If I ever pair a song with a story, chances are I am listening to that song a number of times while working on that piece. It’s not the only thing I listen to of course, but whenever I’m stuck sometimes I’ll just listen to whatever song I’m pairing with the story to try to get the vibes or whatever I’m trying to get done for the story

You’re gonna hate me for this but I still use Microsoft Word. Yeah even though I have you check my stuff on Google Docs I still use Word to write my stuff there. I’ve been trying to ween myself off of it, but I think it’s because its the one program I’m used to using

And if I’m ever smoking weed while writing, joints > bong. I don’t know why, I just feel like a real writer when I hold a lit joint in my hand while pondering how I wanna make the characters kiss in a story

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

Oooh that’s a good question. Unfortunately I don’t have a good answer cause I can’t really think about a piece of writing that has ever haunted me. I think the only writing of mine that haunts me is the unfinished stuff. I think that means I just need to relax

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you to write about? What is easy?

One thing I ALWAYS find difficult is writing smart/scientific dialogue for smart/scientific characters. I’m a Communication Major. Not a scientist. Or someone really really smart. I want my characters to sound natural and not like someone who thinks they know what they’re talking about. I want to do them justice

Something I find easy to write about. Sibling stuff. I grew up with five other siblings and was the middle child I kinda know what it’s like to be an older sibling and younger sibling. Plus I love writing sibling dynamics

[olkarrion]

Hey I'm really fucking proud of you!!!! I've been in a similar place of self-medicating and i'm at the point where I can't fucking imagine spending 5 days sober. I'm so fucking impressed and proud of you! You got this! It will get easier and it will get better. <3 <3 <3

Thank you so much <3 Day 6 is almost over, it gets a little easier everyday. My friends have been great, letting me smoke a bit every other day, which has helped a lot in weening myself off the carts.

And to anyone who is struggling with pain, please remember to be patient with yourself. Self medicating can come with a lot of guilt, but you aren't bad for trying your fucking hardest to keep yourself alive. if you haven't been sober in days, weeks, months, years - just know that im proud of you. Youre still here, and thats all that fucking matters to me.

I love yall, and i really dont think id be able to do this without you <3

[retphienix]

Update on my "I'm trying some different mods and also trying to play outside of Louisville for fun" random guy!

He's been in intense pain for like 4 days! Nausea coming and going! Severe pain and all the negative thoughts!

The reasons for this are pretty simple- he got hurt, it got infected (not zombie), and the trait mod I'm messing with makes Prone to Illness and Slow Healer WAY more impactful lol

Prone to Illness has my guy thinking his infection is zombification, which gives him some nausea moodles, which fucks his health more.

Slow Healer straight up lowers my health more and more as I'm damaged and uh. I gotta be honest, I'm not quite sure how I was supposed to counter that lol

It became a feedback loop. I got ONE scratch and it IMMEDIATELY infected, maybe due to prone to illness. That infection FUCKED my moodles and health and then Slow Healer compounded that by lowering my health more and making the infection/scratch last longer.

I think each trait might be fair on their own? But the combo of the two became a feedback loop where one forces infections and the other drains your health to 0 over the course of a few days if you stay infected- which it makes you stay infected because it's a HUGE healing speed debuff (I mean, it's slow healer, duh).

I was disinfecting, re-bandaging, staying clean, eating good- all the stuff. This duo of traits FUCKED ME UP lol

And so.

He didn't wake up.

His health went up to like half, and then when he was about to wake up the Slow Healer health debuff kicked in and he dropped to 0 and died. Note how he's not a zombie as well, straight up just feedback looped by slow healing a false zombie infection, oof.

This is a touch disappointing tbh. I *think* I like this trait mod.

So many trait mods are superfluous in my opinion. I know how that sounds because I just used the word "superfluous" but I mean it's straight up just the truth lol

I've tried So Many trait packs, all the popular ones, a million you've never tried- so many of them are like "Here's a +1 trait for every skill in the game, here's 15 traits that do nearly nothing or give you a starting item, here's- for some reason- like 4 perks that Break The Entire Fucking Game (We're talking perks that triple your carrying capacity, perks that make a notoriously durable weapon [crowbars] do like 30x the damage so they become the BEST item in the game, we're talking recovering ammo as you shoot it, like, yeah no).

my favorites are the ones that actually add interesting options- for both positive and negative traits- and then don't fuck it up by adding 300 more on top of that.

Also a fan of the "I wanted to give occupations more identity" mods, Occupation expertise does pretty well at that.

Anyways this mod does a pretty good amount- it tries to make "some" occupations have some identity via unique traits applied to them and only them- the fact it's just "some" kinda makes it a lot less interesting but fair play fair play-

it also tries to make negatives more impactful and less "free" and positives more impactful and less "worthless why would you choose this". I LOVE those decisions.

But IDK if I LOVE the mod yet. Like I genuinely like that this combo of traits was so impactful to my play- but I'm not so stoked to see that I basically got locked into a fail state with very little I could do because I got SCRATCHED ONCE while having 2 traits.

Mayhaps it was the working out- but my workout was not affecting me when I died, so seems doubtful. I mean my soreness went away like 1 hour into sleeping and a new soreness was not on the way- if anything I should have had a LOT more wiggle-room for health- not less.

On to the next character lol, I think I'll make another with this same mod pack and just run over to my corpse to continue. Not sure just yet.

Actually you know what probably sealed this. I was trying to ween off cigs. I bet the duo of traits wouldn't have fully killed me if I just cracked and smoked a bit.

So skill issue.

[scentedluminarysoul]

Okay, while I hate people vaping where smoking isn't allowed, as someone who does neither but has asthma, I much prefer vaping

If you absolutely meed to kill yourself by inhaling shit, please vape. It at least smells better

Anyway, as an ex smoker, "weening off" cigarettes is bullshit. It's a marketing ploy to sell you stuff like gums and patches and shit. I was on 30+ cigarettes a day and quit, went right down to zero.

What really works is a) you really need to want to quit, and b) you have to identify your problem

Because sure, nicotine is addictive, but honestly? Not really. Not enough to make it actually hard to quit (sorry not sorry)

I wanted to quit and main thing was that it was a habit. Like literally a habit. After eating, after getting up, while driving, during work breaks, etc. I was just used to smoke in those situations

And not to sound like a pretentious cunt or anything, but this is literally true: I randomly found a 20 minute YouTube video about how to actively change that habit and that was it. Yes obviously it took some work in those specific situations when they arose, but I honest to fuck quit then and there and never touched a single cigarette again and never wanted to

Again, I was a heavy smoker who got up in the middle of the night to have a smoke (undiagnosed adhd doing its part as well I guess), and I quit cold turkey and I never regretted it. And it wasn't hard. I didn't suffer at all, no withdrawal or anything

But again, you have it to want it yourself. People telling you you need to quit, you knowing "oh I should really quit", that won't work or at least make it super hard

Anyway. I got diagnosed with asthma years after quitting and my lung function has been steadily getting better. Cigarettes have also become ridiculously expensive. I made the decision to not have a cat as long as I still smoked, because I'm not that rancid to subject a poor critter to it. And now I have a little guy sleeping next to me

Quitting is worth it. Take it from this weak-willed moron

But "weening off" products are literally designed to keep you addicted for longer so that they can sell you more stuff. Iirc, there's studies that show they'll make you addicted more. Don't buy them. And that includes vapes if you want to quit smoking through them

Unless, of course, you don't actually intend to quit smoking. Then, again, please vape. Smells better.

I know I sound like your mom but you kids need to stop fucking vaping

[squashwurmz]

ent. 3

today is monday, september 9, 2024. pretty boring day if you ask me.

things at home have been good, which is a relief. i am more relaxed and no longer dread the end of school.

at school is another story. i love my friends, trust me, but god i cant take it anymore. all they do is complain to me. i don't know what about me makes them want to, but it's all i hear and im so sick of it. i already have to try so hard to find joy in the daily things, and now you have go come shit on everything to ME. leave me alone!!! damn!!! of course they're always open to vent about stuff, but on a daily basis it's so exhausting and tires me out so much.

what hurts me even more is realizing they don't really give two shits about me. i know it's on me to communicate, but nobody ever takes me seriously. it's whatever.

i decided not to go to hoco this year since tickets are... wait for it... now $140!! are you yolking me rn. i could go to a concert for that kinda money. my friend from another school is going to come over and smoke while our other friends go. definetly feeling the fomo on that one, but i know we'll have a good time.

i began my first piece for my portfolio so yay!!! i have to refine my inquiry but i've been putting it off lololol. it's due wednesday soooo i gotta lock in. speaking of wednesday im going to some random concert with my other friend!! she's paying for my ticket since she just wants company and i have no idea who tf the artist is :P just hoping to have fun!!

oh and some other awkward news! im pretty sure a freshman in my 1st period is eyeing me which is kinda weird since im a junior. not into that! he's cool but like.. i believe in if the grades don't touch, you don't touch lmfaoaoa. just gonna distance myself :P

anyways, life has been pretty mediocre lately. a lot better than what was before! im trying to ween off my caffeine dependence so i'll keep you updated on that! also if you have any tips to pull AGE APPROPRIATE hoes pls lmk ;D i have never had a bf and am wondering what the hype is!! thanks, bye!!!!

[hopefulnothopelesss]

I’ve been sober for a lil bit over a month and I’m so proud of myself. I’ve been trying to get clean since January and it’s been an uphill struggle. I didn’t go cold turkey, I weened myself off THC by using CBD/THC vape pens (w CBD as the dominant). Started at 57% w stizzy, went down to 27% and now I’m at less than 3% thc. I’ve spent a lot of money on these cbd vapes (along with weed in general) and I’m just so happy to be done w it. I’m sick and tired of STILL smoking 15 years later from when I first started.

I’ve used weed for 15 years to run away from what was going on in my life w the divorce, the SA, that I’ve sold myself, that I was so disappointed in myself for selling myself + having sex w other people while drunk. (I can’t believe I’ve never fucked a guy sober. It’s just alarming that every sexual encounter I’ve ever had has been not sober and I’m just now truly acknowledging that as we speak!)

Anyway yeah. I want to learn how to process my emotions w/o weed. All of my emotions — the good and the bad. Even if it’s hard, it’s a part of growing up…

[raspberry-pudding]

4/8/2024

It's been awhile since I've made a post and I think I'd like to before I have to go into work today. It's only a 5 hour shift, so it'll be over in no time, but damn -- only 5 hours? Why even be there at that point?

I've recently put my foot down about the days I'm available at work, so I finally have a consistent weekly schedule that doesn't change much. The times might change, but I'm now only available three days a week, giving me four days a week to work on my projects. I'm really excited to have a routine come back into my life. There are so many things I've put to the side this year for work, and all of them are technically much more important than this job. Ugh, I just, can't wait to have a consistent schedule, even if the times might be different every week at least it's always the same days.

Let's talk about how my weed addiction is going below the cut.

I think the last time I posted, I talked about a friend I've made who is much deeper in the addiction than I am and how that's made me feel like I'm not really an addict. I think now, even though my problem isn't as extreme as others, I do still struggle with a problem that I need to cut out of my life. I might not be smoking the entire day, or doing high doses of THC like with a dab, but I notice that it's still impacting my life and keeping me from doing things that I want to do. It's like I come home from work, I smoke, and I just zone out on TikTok the entire evening. It's been a big problem, especially because I'm getting more and more bored in the evenings.

Another reason I really need to cut it out is my tendencies to snack more on weed. Especially the indica I'm using to help me sleep now -- I have to smoke it when I'm in bed. If I don't, and I just casually smoke it in the evening while at my desk or in the living room then I will eat anything in sight. To the point that my stomach still hurts the next day. It's bad.

Thankfully, I got a hybrid that doesn't make me hungry. Still, the dispensary isn't always going to have the non-munchie stuff in stock all the time.

I can't remember if it was Wednesday or Friday now that I was watching hotdiggedydemon, or Max G, stream and he was discussing his own problems with weed in the past. Also, how he's off it now, has never felt better, and agrees that it is an addictive substance. If anything, his talk about weed made me feel really validated that what I should be doing is the right choice.

Recently, I did have an evening where I smoked three joints -- three! But it was a one off thing because otherwise I've been good to only smoke one or two joints a day. My problem now though is that the first joint usually happens around 9 or 10 AM. I think that's way too early, but on my days off I struggle to restrict myself because it's so nice to smoke then clean the house. I do need to stop, though. I can't get high that early and expect to succeed at all the other things I want to do.

I'd like to start quitting by waiting to smoke around 4 or 5 PM and going back to one joint a day to ween myself off. I know my last plan didn't go well lol, when I said I was going to keep my weed in the basement. Maybe that could still be in the cards if I need it. So far, yesterday I got off work at 2 and did well to wait until after 4 to smoke. I think it's going to be my days off where I'll struggle the most.

In my head, I always see myself meditating to get past any cravings for weed I might have. But thinking about actually doing that makes me cringe a little. It's a little woo-woo, or hippy dippy. But maybe it's something that could help me. I don't really know though.

It's hard. I feel like I know so clearly the things I need to do to quit and get back the lifestyle I want, yet taking action feels impossible. And there's no reason for it to feel impossible.

It's a Monday, and I feel hopeful for myself that this is gonna be the week. But how many times have I told myself that for the past 2 years? At some point, it has to be true though.

Iris🪻

[parsecgaze]

Govt sponsorship to quit cig & vanlife bid

This morning -

Doctor’s advice:

-stop buying the tasty american spirit blacks

-smoke the nasty lucky strike reds instead

-ween off by factors of five until you are at 0 for the Chinese new year

-nicotine gum will allow you to stay inside and write more

-you won’t stop drinking (as much) until you pass out on the float of your favorite parade at 50 yrs old like I did

-AA spiritual practice is for dumb assholes; you are the only higher power that has control

-you’re way too handsome to stay single for very long

This evening -

Tire kick meetup:

-road tested and recently featured in a high profile murder case

-she’s been trying to sell it for over a year but never does for sentimental reasons

-insisted on being beautiful and riding shotgun for my test drive

-mechanical query and business proposition quickly cleared way for personal anecdotes and future goals

-I went full throttle and she clutched the armrest

-we decided that we both need to leave the city

-really fun first date with a few thousands dollars at stake and no handshake