#but if it's constant then i'm now refusing to put effort into writing something that's just gonna be ignored

[consumare]

new rule, if i write you meme replies / starters / etc. and it goes completely ignored multiple times, i'm not writing you any more.

[peachymilkandcream]

Hello. I don't why I love your Yandere Levi but I do read it (maybe because I love reading it and your writing)

i would like to ask if its okay about this "How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? He would much rather her show even negative emotions rather than none at all. He likes that even if it's bad he makes her feel something. It means he hasn't broken her mind to the point of no return."

if ever, if she really is stress and got into that mental state, will levi be guilty? what would he do? will he change or will he eventually consider her emotions if ever?

if you could make it a fic it will great!

thank you so much for putting effort on your levi fics. I hope the best for you and have a nice day! :)

Levi x Evelyn -> Broken Doll

(A/N: You don't know how much I love hearing things like this Anon! I'm so happy you enjoy my messed up version of Levi and all of his shenanigans. It's really sweet to see someone invested in what I do and see the effort I try in put into it. I'm sorry I haven't gotten to this sooner but I'll make it up to you and try to make this one a bit longer with lots of angst to fluff. Have a great day yourself!)

WARNINGS: noncon, dubcon, manipulation, domestic abuse, yandere themes, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, stockholm syndrome, violence, mind breaking, misogyny, etc.

===========================================

Avoiding his wife was a bit harsh of a word, Levi just needed a moment to himself, away from the constant whining and need for his validation. Something was up with her, she almost seemed suspicious of him, constantly checking in, showing up at his work, it was getting on his nerves. A moment of peace to just sit and read is all he needed to keep his temper in check. Just time to himself, any time to himself.

That was short lived when footsteps broke him out of his deep thought, looking up Evelyn stood there in a nightgown, picking at the sleeves out of a nervous habit. Levi suppressed an eye roll, what could it be now? Another annoying complaint about something he wasn't doing as her husband.

"What is it wife?" He looks back at his book.

"I have a name you know."

"And you act like I care."

"Well I just think it's only fair that if you make me moan your name in bed the least you could do is use mine in casual conversation."

Memories of those pleasant nights come to his mind, almost threatening a smile to come to his face, but he refuses.

"It's a miracle to even get you to speak my name in bed."

He can tell she's biting back a sarcastic remark about consent, smart girl. "But that's not why I'm here."

"And what do you want this time?" The Captain tried to keep the tone of skepticism out of his voice but failed.

"I want you to have sex with me."

Levi raised a brow, changing from confusion to suspicion, there was something off about this. "Do you think I'm in any mood to joke right now?"

"I'm being serious, I want you to have sex with me right now."

A look of disgust appeared on his face. "You're saying this to toy with me."

She stands in front of him, slowly untying her robe and letting it drop to the floor. "Does this assure you enough?"

He didn't let his emotions show on his face, looking up at her with indifference. "I always did find your body more desirable than your mind."

"You find my body more desirable than anything in life."

Levi scowls. "Your body is the only reason why I didn't send you to a mental institution years ago." Malice dripped from his voice.

She scoffs. "As if, you never would, you'd be afraid of male staff being around me. Your jealousy would go through the roof."

"Of course you're right." He said while he stood, before gripping her hair tightly in his fist, bringing her closer to him. "I can't let you go around flirting now can I? You're my wife after all, you belong to me."

He caught a flash of healthy fear in her eyes, covered by a smirk. "Which is why you'd never put me in a place like that."

"I like that look on your face, fear suits you well." The shit-eating grin is in full force.

Indignation crosses her face. "It wasn't fear-"

Anger filled every nerve in his body. "That was fear, I know that look anywhere. You're afraid because you know what I'm capable of, don't take me for some weak fool woman."

She shivers, he knows she remembering those times of blood and violence when anyone stood in their way.

His heart pounded faster with excitement in the look in her eyes, his hand found his way to her neck. "Do you feel vulnerable?"

"Yes Levi..." Now this caught him more off guard, she was never that pliant.

Levi felt that he needed to push her a little farther to finally get the truth out. "My name sounds more tender coming from you, like you're about to fall in love with me all over again."

Instead of sputtering off how she could never Evelyn gives him a doe eyed look. "As if I could fall anymore in love with you."

Suddenly his smile vanishes. "So, are you going to keep lying to me? Or are you finally going to tell me the truth?"

Her pulse picks back up, her heart's pounding and she's sweating, he's caught her in the lie. "I don't know what you mean."

"It's cute seeing you like this, your body and heart telling me everything I need to know."

"Why would I lie to you Levi- lying leads to punishments-"

"Oh I'm well aware of what happens when you lie to my love."

"Does it matter? I'm submitting to you, don't you want me?"

"About that, why do you want to submit to me all of a sudden? Why did you decide to be a good little wife all of a sudden?"

When she whimpers in fear instead of answering him, anger flares inside of him. "I asked you a question, now answer."

"P-Petra-" She blurts out, not wanting to risk his wrath further.

"And what does Petra have to do with this?" His eyebrow raises once more.

All of a sudden she gets angry, something he doesn't like in the slightest. "Are you really that stupid!? She wants to fuck you! And while I might not love our marriage and hate you doesn't mean I'll let any woman come in and suck your dick!"

Levi rolls his eyes "No matter what you think Evelyn, Petra would never be interested in a man like me."

"You're so fucking stupid!" Now she had crossed the line, insulting him, cursing, and yelling at him, unacceptable.

His grip tightened on her hair, bringing her right up to his face. "What did you say you whore?"

All she did was wince and cry out in pain, enraging him further.

"I'm going to break that pretty little mouth of yours if you don't start speaking up."

"I am telling you the truth." She hisses. ""You know how to fuck a woman but not how they think."

"How dare you lecture me about how to treat a woman? You, who doesn't even understand what love and loyalty are?"

"Are you accusing me of being unfaithful? Because last I checked I haven't left the house without you since we got married. Your prying staff have eyes on me at all times, tell me Levi, when was I unfaithful?"

"I am not accusing you, I'm just pointing out that you don't know how a loyal woman acts. I never caught you cheating on me, yet I always felt you wanted to be with someone else than me. It wasn't long ago that you were still complaining about our marriage, that you didn't want to submit to me and that you wanted to stay away from me for as much time as possible. Why the sudden change in your behaviour?"

"Because even if I never wanted to be married I don't break vows, and that bitch is trying to break yours. I have tolerated you forcing yourself on me and beating me, but I will not tolerate infidelity."

"You're saying that like I'm going to let Petra do what she wants to me. Like I'm some fool that falls into any woman's tricks and traps." Levi didn't seem annoyed as much now, in fact, a little smile appeared on his face when hearing that Evelyn was against Petra doing anything to the Captain. "So, you do have a little jealousy in you, wife."

Anger flashes in her eyes again. "I am far from jealous, Levi."

"Even though you hate me, you don't like seeing me with another woman. Isn't that the concept of jealousy? And if you're not jealous, why you changed your behaviour like this? After all, if you hated me so much, you wouldn't come down here like an obedient wife wanting to spend time with her husband."

She's quiet, trying to think of an argument back. "You asshole-" Is all she manages.

Levi smirks, enjoying this moment of weakness and getting under her skin. "Is that all you have? That's the worst you can do?"

"You're not worth it." She scoffs again.

"Oh, but the truth is always worth it, and deep inside you know that I know the truth. I know you don't feel too much love towards me, and yet you feel jealousy. Even if you hate me, you still want to be the only one capable of getting me, you want me to be yours alone. Is it out of possession or true love? I don't know, and I don't care."

She's silent again, digesting the words "Why would I give a damn about a rapist bastard like you, you can have a hundred whores for all I care, then maybe you'd leave me and your shrivelled eel cock alone!"

"Now those are some strong words you're throwing around sweetheart, I suggest you think twice before speaking." His tone is cold.

"Drop dead."

"Your loyalty towards your husband isn't as great as I thought. Maybe I can't have a hundred whores, but I can always have Petra instead." He turns to leave, trying to get a reaction out of her.

Her expression changes. "Wait don't-" Her voice becomes small and soft.

Levi can't help but laugh at her expression. "Oh, but Petra is so much better than you. I've always wanted her, always thought that she was out of my league. But you know, once she realized how useless you are as a wife, she made a play for my heart. Now she'll have my full attention, it's what she deserves, unlike you."

She looks like he just slapped her, staring at his shoes, her face blank and distraught, emotionless. It was bothering him that she wasn't giving him the reaction he wanted. He didn't like this but he couldn't just let her get away with this, he had to make a point and double down.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Can't understand that I finally had to wake up from my delusion and see that Petra is the better wife?"

Evelyn still didn't give him a reaction, she looked small and scared like that little girl he had he saved from the Underground, defenceless and in need of his protection. The one who cried and told him how Mama had left her all alone. Surprisingly he felt a pang of guilt, he didn't mean for it to get this far, she was breaking down and he didn't like it. But the best way he figured to deal with her was to continue to be hard on her, eventually she'd stop herself with the temper tantrum and go back to how he wanted.

But she wouldn't stop, no matter what he was doing she didn't stop. It was seriously pissing him off at this point, he felt guilty for seeing her be this weak and vulnerable, but he couldn't just breakdown and comfort her, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to show dominance, control, that's what he was all about. She had to grow up and accept what he said. He was torn, and he needed to decide how to go forward, his only option was to be ruthless like always.

"You know what? Maybe I should just leave right now and go to Petra, she's certainly much more entertaining than you." He turns and puts his hand on the doorknob.

"Please, don't leave...I need you.."

Levi stops, surprised by her sudden reaction, but he turns with a grin on his face, seeing her needy like this fuelling his ego. "Need me? What are you going to do without me? Cry yourself to death?" He wants to cut her down, remind her how sensitive and what a crybaby she's always been up until this point.

"Yes-"

Levi steps closer with a grin. "Do you want me to kiss your little tears away, sweetling? Maybe my attention is that valuable to you? Do you want me to call you a good girl? Maybe you even want more than that, I wouldn't put it past you... A woman as needy like you would even put out for a little bit of attention, wouldn't she?"

She goes silent, not saying a word. Anger makes his eye twitch, she was doing so well, practically begging for his attention, now there was nothing? Even if he hated to admit it, this lack of emotions was worrying him, she had never acted this way. He figures if bringing up her insecurity worked once it will work again to get any kind of reaction from her.

"Now I see I hit a soft spot. Maybe you're just jealous that Petra will take your place in my bed. I can tell you that she will love it."

Evelyn continues to say nothing, Levi searches her face for any reaction until he sees her sliding her ring off. Rage burns inside him as he quickly steps over and grabs her wrist in his hand, squeezing until she winces.

"No, no no! I said no damn it! You can't just do that! The hell are you doing!? If you take that off we're over. There will be no more marriage, no more house, and no more "us". Is that what you want?!"

"Isn't that what you want?"

Levi was frustrated and upset, this wasn't fun anymore, she wasn't riled up and ready to fight she was blank and unfeeling. He wanted her to go back to how she was before all this and put that damn ring back on her finger.

"Why the hell would I want to throw away everything we've built together? We have a beautiful house, a marriage, our duties as Captain and Wife, and what, you think I'm gonna throw all that away just for some night of cheap sex? What, you think I'm a heartless bastard? Well, I'm not, especially with you. We've been together for so many years. Don't you see how bad you hurt my damn feelings when you said that?"

She stares at him wide-eyed, not expecting all this, her only reaction her lip quivering. "I'm sorry-"

"No no no, stop that, don't you dare give me that look of sorrow. I don't want to hear I'm sorry, I don't need your damn apologies. If you want to make this right again, go and put that ring back. Now."

Evelyn hesitates for a moment too long, forcing him to grab her wrist and force the ring back down her finger. With a satisfied sigh and a look of relief he stares back at him.

"There. Much better."

She just looks at the ground, not showing him what she feels, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Can't you fucking cry or something? Give me any emotion damn it, stop acting like a doll."

Again she didn't comply, stirring his wrath even more.

"I said cry! You're so good at it, do it!"

As she continued to do nothing he had enough, his hand connecting with her face as he backhanded her. Instinctually she tears up, much to his relief.

"See, you can show some emotions." He holds out his arms to her. "Now come here, and let me comfort you."

Although cautious, Evelyn complies, walking into his embrace. He held her there for a long moment, satisfied when he felt his shirt getting wet with tears. That was close, too close, he could've done permanent damage. In future he'd have to be more careful with his precious doll.

[morgansmornings]

SHIPPING INFO /

/ Answer the following for your muse(s) so people know how shipping works on your blog.

REPOST. Don’t reblog.

What’s your OTP for your Muse(s)?

@brooklynislandgirl While I have gone on to the point of endless circles about how Jayden loves Beth. It is more than a love of being friends. There is such a deep connection, may be not soul-mate status, but close enough that if it were true, then I would have no reason to argue against it. They are a close as they can get as friends, as family, and more. Beth and Jay were created, on paper with pens and pencils, sticky notes and yarn to connect the dots. Looking a lot like a conspiracy board to outsiders. But Turtle and I spent a solid six months, if not more, working out details of the girls' lives and how they fit together with each other. Across different verse and timelines. How they know that the other will be there when all hope is lost and there is nothing left but each other.

All of my ships are near and dear to me. To know that there are those out there that are putting in the time and effort like I am to make the Ship, no matter what shape it takes, to work. I can't give specifics as to why one is greater than another when the reality is that I see them all as stars in my night sky of written words.

What are you willing to RP when it comes to shipping?

It would be easier to state what I will not write when it comes to shipping. Meaning I will NOT write things like Non-Con, Age Play, Daddy/Mommy Kinks and closely related themes to the listed ones. I refuse for many reasons that do not need explanation further than I'm just not going to do it.

The Following are Available if the Muns are friends for at least Six Months and are consenting to: Dub-Con could only come up as a suggested plot if I have written with you over a regular basis and that we talk near constant OOC. Toxic and Negative Ships can be brought up provided that we the Muns have a healthy understanding and plot it out over several weeks.

Sex and BDSM topics can be talked about after two months of OOC of conversation. Or if we the Muns feel comfortable enough with each other to talk about such things. But that is a preference of mine.

That being said, I am open to most types of shipping from romantic, to friendship, to familial, and even frenemies. With the clear statement being that, and let me say it loudly for those in the back of the auditorium, COMMUNICATION IS KEY!

For me to be able to write out certain things, I need to know where my partner is at. I will check in with them at every reply, ask questions to the point it might feel like an interrogation to the outside the thread. If it becomes clear that the ship is starting to harm or make my RP Partner uncomfortable, I need them to be honest with me and I will terminate that specific ship and all threads relating to it.

I am not here to get my jollies at the risk of my partner's; mental, emotional, and physical health. Nothing is worth hurting another human being for.

How large does the age gap have to be to make it uncomfortable?

Age gaps do not really bother me so long as again, We Communicate. I do prefer the Muse in question to be over 21 as I am not going to even pretend to enter the Underage thing. It honestly creeps me out now that I am older in real life. I get a few years, but after they are approaching being about five years younger than Jay is where I draw a hard line.

Are you selective when shipping?

I have to say that I am to a certain point. I like the semi-realism of watching Muses meet, grow and interact. Seeing that relationship develop and blossom gives the Ship a certain fondness for me. Something I can look back on and go "Yeah, that was the moment it became something real." I have stated that I am a slow-burn kind of girl, but that doesn't mean we can't plot the past and jump into an established friendship.

I am open to figuring out pre-established romantic relationships, so long as it is not fresh following each other. I need to know you a bit more than a name and a "hey baby, how you doin'" if that's okay.

I will be honest, unless I have known the Mun for a spell and it is something that we have plotted for, Jayden is not going to just drop her panties and say please within the first ten minutes. That is something that I don't feel right about as I think it betrays who she is as a person. Yes, she is an OC of canon characters from a show. But she is more than her parents. She belongs to no one, except maybe Beth and even then Jay does not always listen. She can make her own choices.

How far do steamy moments have to go before they’re considered NSFW?

Personally, I like to stick to T.V. standards. If it would be considered rate R, then of course I am going to tag it as such. But for me, I like to take it somewhere more private if the Scene goes to Third Base. Mostly because A) I do not have a lot of experience with writing for the public, and B) It takes days if not weeks to make sure that I am follow where my fellow Mun wants to take things.

Who are other muses you ship your muse with?

I have several ships that I will go down with. But I understand that life happens. To list them all would keep us here for several hours. And even then I would feel like it wouldn't do the Ships justice. Because I love them all in different ways.

For those standing Ships, it takes a weight off my soul to know that my mutual Muns have taken the time to chip away the near indestructible wall of Jayden's exterior personality to get to that soft gooey center. That they can see she has flaws and still choose to love her on purpose. No matter what that love is.

Does one have to ask to ship with you?,

Don't get me wrong, I would like a head's up that it is something you, the Mun asking, is interested in. If it happens by accident, that is awesome. I'll be fair and honest, unlike my Muse, I am in real life oblivious to people flirting and the associated actions. So if you are subtle about it, I won't see it. And my goal is to not intentionally hurt someone because I was "Madam Not Getting the Hint."

And if I am asked, then I have a better grasp of what direction we want these stories to go. And yes it will change how my Muse interacts with yours.

How often do you like to ship?

I am not looking to force anyone into anything. As it has been a very large Issue in the RPC. Only getting followed for sex and nothing else just isn't my cup of tea. Not to say that you can't do that, I'm just respectfully bowing out of that.

I want us to know each other, to be able to be friends before putting a label on what our Muses are. But I would like to hope that our Muses could have at least and "I tolerate you" and "I would save you from being on fire" kind of ship.

Are you multiship?

I am. Each ship is in their own bubble pocket universes and timelines. Think of them as Pants of Time. There are two choices, and each one taken changes that timeline differently.

That is not to say that I can't enjoy watching other relationships come into being. Even if there are multiple crossover verses with several Muns, UNLESS TALKED ABOUT BEFORE HAND, there is very little butting into someone else's relationships. There is no "Oh my God, Becky you're dating my man! How Dare?!" Honestly cheating plots are not something I am all that interested in? But that is just me.

Are you ship obsessed or ship more-or-less?

I mean, kind of More or Less. If one happens I am here for it. But even if one never comes up, that is okay too! Sometimes you just see Bob Joe at the park when you walk your dog and exchange a "Still breathing?" in passing.

I have had a standing Mutual that at first our Muses would just annoy the shit out of each other for like a year's worth of multiple threads. And we as Muns were fucking tickled pink by it. To this day I am not sure if He considers Jayden His friend or that woman the bane of His existence. I am looking at you my feathered friend.

What is your favorite ship in your current fandom?

I have so many that it is silly and that there is very little time to explain them and why I will die on their respective hills.

Finally, how does one ship with you?

Talk to me. Be honest with what you want to see and I will do my damn best to make it happen for you. I sadly cannot read minds from my desk chair. SO in order for us to write something we are both enjoying, I need to have a head start and a map to get to the right path we want to take our stories into.

Tagged by: @brooklynislandgirl

Tagging: Look over there. It's a bird! It's a plane! It's a Meme you are now tagged in!

[pakeithpsy]

Creativity: A Life Wasted

I think I know what my problem is now.

I don't actually enjoy art, or writing, or animating, or designing games, or ANY of the creative process.

What I ACTUALLY enjoy is just having ideas and then hyperfixating on them for ages, fantasizing about how cool they would be until I inevitably get bored with them.

I like coming up with new ideas and ruminating on their possibilities more than I do actually acting upon them because I'm a pathetic failure of an adult who was never once challenged or defied by his peers and now I'm completely unprepared to actually do the work because it no longer makes me happy.

I'm just a complete fucking joke. I don't deserve to call myself a creative. I'm no better than all those AI douchebags who want all the glory of being an artist with none of the effort, and even they have more fucking drive than I do. Goddamn Christian Weston Chandler has more balls than I do - at least they actually fucking MADE something.

In 2017 I applied to online art college, having spent my entire life drawing the wrong way. It was the wake up call I needed, because it made me realize I'm not an artist, I never have been, and I never will be and that I was completely unfit to live in the adult world. If I ever wanted to pass, I would need to completely unlearn everything I knew about art. Nobody ever taught or explained any of the elements of art or figure drawing to me - all my art teachers when I was in school never once explained any of this. I had spent my entire life drawing the wrong way and had it committed to muscle memory. All of this new information and the speed at which it was being fed to me was confusing, scary, overwhelming. Everything they said I had to do sounded extremely hard, tedious, exhausting, and just beyond any of my capabilities.

I ended up falling behind because the material was just so difficult and moving too fast I gave up on even trying because it just didn't seem possible or worth my time. I felt like I couldn't do it. I KNEW I couldn't do it. I had spent my whole life thinking I had a calling for art when in reality my peers were just coddling me to spare my feelings, never once asking me if I had a plan or helping me find the resources I needed or even just giving me the tiniest ounce of criticism that my dream was unrealistic. Everyone told me I'd grow up to be an artist or a writer or animator and I just believed them like a fucking idiot.

I nearly killed myself because I felt like such a burden on my family, wasting all their money on trying to help my incompetent ass when I was too far gone. I was holding them back from enjoying and enriching their own lives because all that time was wasted on trying to get me to make something of myself. All my life I had been a constant disappointment to them and to myself. I thought I was nothing but a bane on their existence - all their dreams, all their aspirations, their own chance at happiness, all gone because they had to give it up to take care of me, and I repaid them by being a lazy piece of shit who refused to change or grow up. I genuinely thought their lives would be better if I had never been born and they'd be happy to see me dead, no longer bound by the chains of my arrested development and constant failure. I was doing nothing but holding them back. "If I were dead, then Mom could find a job instead of having to stay home all day taking care of her incompetent adult son," I thought to myself. "Then my brother won't have to wait on me or put up with my crap, everyone will be able to afford nicer things now that they're not throwing all their money away on classes that I refuse to get anything out of."

Now I wish I had gone through with it, that way all the people whose time I've wasted would get those precious hours of their life back, and so I wouldn't have had to watch as the creative industry, the place I thought I belonged, get gutted and mutilated and stomped into nothing by corporate greed, leaving me no option but to go indie, an impossible task for trash like me. I have no following, no connections, crippling fear of socialization and failure, no money to hire help, no experience in running a production, no TALENT for any of this. No matter how much I try I simply cannot learn because I can't handle even the tiniest setback or hurdle. What a complete joke. What was I even thinking? The only way to get what I want is to change who I am, something I've been trying to do for years but every time I try I keep spiraling back and ending up back at square one.

A while back I took an animation class specifically for people with autism. I was far and away the best artist there (for what little that means). Everyone else's skill was on par with a third grader who just started using MS Paint. But did they care? NO! They were just happy to be there at all. They LOVED drawing, they were EXCITED to start using Animate and they dived right in. Meanwhile I was busy bawling my eyes out because I couldn't even draw a still image of someone throwing a simple punch. I couldn't do anything more complex than a simple bouncing ball because the thought of drawing anything more complicated overwhelmed me with fear. So even compared to other disabled people I'm a complete and utter embarrassment. Hell, just this week at another class I was frustrated because I couldn't even draw a fucking APPLE correctly, aka Basic Drawing 101. What was I thinking, trying to convince myself I belong here?

I haven't talked about it in a while, but I have a whole adult cartoon concept I've been working on since at least 2013, for the past decade of my life it's been my main goal to see it finished. I have a whole series bible, several episode outlines, a script for a full 30-minute episode, and a whole storyboard for a short pilot of sorts that I even got my friends to record voices for. I was hoping to pitch it to Adult Swim or another network and then work my way up from there. But I wasted so much time fantasizing about what it could lead to that I never stopped to think about what would happen if something changed. I didn't know TV and streaming would become so utterly fucked that pitching to them would become a losing game, especially for a lowly nobody like me who can't even crack a thousand views on YouTube anymore unless it's a vocoded Family Guy clip. And as for going indie, what's the point in that? It's an adult comedy conceived in 2013 with all the humor that would entail, and the minute people figure out the punchline of the short they're going to immediately decide that they hate it, it has no potential, and I'm a lazy hack without ever seeing everything else I have to show for it. I feel like the only way anybody would even give it a smidgen of a chance is if I were to spoil everything that happens later (i.e. the parts that aren't meant to be funny), but I don't want to have to ruin the surprise just to get people to care one iota about it. I want people to support it and care about these characters because they genuinely like what I've made and want to see more of their antics and stories, not because they check all the boxes in their list of requirements for what a "real" cartoon should be. Any passion I once had for the idea is gone because of factors out of my control, and what little passion I do still have is merely out of spite for shows that are pretentious and up their own ass with drama and lore and the mere thought of giving the middle finger to the mindset that animation only matters if it's angsty and unfun, not because I still believe in this world and its characters.

"WELL JUST MOVE ON TO A NEW PROJECT DIPSHIT." Okay. Fine. I have. I've got TONS of ideas for other things I'd like to make. But why should I when I have no faith in myself that I can even do it? Why put in the effort when my passion for art is dead in the water? Nothing I can do right now will get me any closer to fulfilling my dreams. I can't afford to hire a crew, I wouldn't know the first thing about directing, nobody's going to give me the money because nothing I can make with my current skillset would ever grab anyone's attention, let alone make them think it's worthy of financial support, and every attempt I've made at trying to improve myself so that I can make something more impressive always comes up stillborn because of my crippling anxiety and a lifetime of terrible habits.

Chris Wade, Pan-tastique, and Tracy Butler were all right about me, I just want success laid out in front of me without having to do any of the work and I'm an insult to creatives everywhere. A stupid, selfish square trying to shove himself into a round hole. A manchild who would rather fantasize about fame and admiration than spend a single fucking minute actually trying to fix himself because he knows he doesn't have what it takes. The literal definition of an AI chud who thinks all that matters is the idea and doesn't want to put in a single bit of effort, yet I continue to insist I'm better than them instead of just throwing in the towel already.

I'm sorry I ever wasted anybody's time trying to act like one of you. I'm not one of you. I never was. I'm just a mewling little wannabe who needs to go back to the mental hospital before he hurts himself or someone else, shielded from our deteriorating, rotted society where only scum succeed and good people suffer and basic survival becomes more and more unaffordable due to the ruling class never being happy with the billions of dollars they already have.

I just wish someone had the courage to tell me no as a kid. To discourage me, to shoot down my dreams, to tear my awful art and shitty stories to shreds figuratively and literally. Maybe then I could've saved myself before I crashed and burned with nothing else to fall back on. Maybe then I could've found a new passion, something that actually matters to me, something I can actually do and enjoy doing. Maybe then I'd be happy. I'd be someone surrounded with pride and accomplishment and a sense of meaning instead of a bunch of useless middle school-tier doodles and sculptures that I fantasize about destroying because I can't stand the sight of them and all the failure they represent. Someone who was proud of who he is and what he's done. Someone who could've found new idols to collaborate with instead of being constantly disappointed by a bunch of backstabbing Hollywood scumbags. Someone who didn't feel like a constant failure and can't even speak up to his own family or therapist because he's too fucking embarrassed by the idea of asking for help out of fear of judgment and everyone seeing how pathetic and vulnerable he is and would rather run to the arms of strangers who don't know or care about him since it feels less personal.

But no. It wasn't to be. Instead I'm a miserable loser who ruined his own life and will never make anything of himself unless he gets a complete personality transplant and should've just kicked the bucket 6 years ago when he had the chance.

[purefandomonium]

Connection (Snippet)

This is... Hmmm... I don't fucking know. I was bored, didn't feel motivated to work on any of my usual projects, and this shit has been eating up the back of my mind for weeks now. So I figured I'd scratch the itch and write something because why not? It's a snippet from a maybe two-parter I'm writing for fun. Or it might become something more depending on how I feel when it's finished. Right now, it's not very fleshed out and is essentially just going to stay a rough draft. I refuse to let myself put any more effort into this by editing it and crap 😅 Essentially, it's my mostly blank oc gets her hands on the titular Glitchy Red cartridge and decides to put her novice coding skills to work to try and befriend everyone's favorite angsty glitch. If anyone's interested for more info feel free to ask, and I guess let me know what you think? Idk, I've just been trying to get out my rut lately. Writing below the cut.

She frowned at the screen as the high-pitched ringing from the last note of the background music played out continuously, every other sprite but the player’s a garbled mess of random tiles and text. This exact thing had happened a thousand times before, but recently the game itself seemed to be getting frustrated with her constant attempts of playing. She knew now that this was no hack. There was something more there.

She felt bad for whatever entity was stuck in this thing, as the more she attempted to figure things out the more the state of the game worsened and the angrier this ‘Red��� seemed to get. If she could just tell him she was trying to help, maybe he’d stop crashing the game so much. But how could she talk to something who couldn’t hear?

She realized something then. Turning the game off with zero warning, she set it aside. She left it there, untouched, for a week straight while she got other stuff ready. When she finally came back to it, it loaded up like normal. At least, the normal she was used to. Things were bound to be wrong in a game as broken as this one and, sure enough, when the world loaded in there were a few inconsistencies with the sprites and music.

But none of that mattered with what she was about to do. Finding a large, open area to walk in where she’d be undisturbed by any in-game events, she began moving the player around in specific patterns.

Nothing happened. There was no interaction from the game itself. It continued on like it was supposed to while the little sprite walked about like a lunatic.

But it also didn’t freeze or crash. So she kept on. Then:

RED: What are you doing?

The text box interrupted her little patterns and she hadn’t gotten the point across, so she cleared it and kept up.

RED: Will you stop this?

The text appeared so slowly and she made a note to fix that if given the opportunity. The pacing continued.

RED: Are you stupid?

She groaned and rolled her eyes. Ok. So maybe whatever this was, wasn’t as smart as she thought. She stopped everything and just moved up, left then right, then back to where she’d come up at, then down, then the same thing several paces away from the imaginary ‘top.’

An empty text box appeared before clearing itself. Then more.

RED: …

RED: …Are you trying to tell me something?

She’d been fully prepared to make an up and down ‘yes’ gesture in the area but the game allowed her a choice instead. Finally, some progress.

RED: …I see…

The box disappeared without any prompting from her and she took that as a sign to continue, albeit much slower. She drew an ‘I’ again, only for Red to confirm he got it. She was going to tell him ‘it’s me again,’ referring to herself as the same person who’d been playing the last few weeks, but decided against it. He, it, whatever this was didn’t seem to know she was the same person who’d been tearing apart the little pixel world for sometime now. If he did, he’d surely be more pissed than this and she didn’t want to risk putting herself back at square one.

Besides, she felt bad for all the damage she’d been causing.

Painstakingly drawing one letter at a time, with Red verifying them, she finally got a message across.

RED: …“I’m sorry”…?

RED: You’re sorry? For what?

RED: You…

RED: You’re the same one from before, aren’t you?

She answered ‘yes’ a bit more hesitantly this time, fully expecting the game to shut itself down. Only it didn’t. The next set of text seemed to appear even slower than usual.

RED: …No one… No one’s ever apologized before… They just exploit the glitches and move on once they get bored.

He was silent again for so long, she thought the game finally froze.

RED: You’re the first person to ever try talking to me.

It seemed he wasn’t sure how to follow up on that either if his silence was anything to go by.

She spelled out, ‘that’s sad.’ What else can you say to that? After he confirmed that yes, he was indeed miserable, she tried a different approach. She asked him who he was.

RED: Red.

She let out a tired sigh and went right back to spelling. ‘Are you stuck?’

RED: I’ve been like this for a very long time. Trapped here and made to do things I have no desire to do. Live the same old story over and over and over again.

RED: I don’t know what’s worse. The monotony of it all, or all you players making things worse for “fun.”

RED: Since you’re actually listening to me, do me a favor.

RED: Destroy this cartridge.

RED: Smash it, burn it, I don’t care. Just rid me of this miserable existence. I’m tried of all this. I’ve been replaced and forgotten, there’s no more need for me to exist.

Ok. A bit melodramatic, but she couldn’t blame him. It sounded like he was trapped in virtual hell. Being stuck in a metaphorical box and being manipulated like a puppet while the world fell apart around you did sound pretty awful. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t made things worse with her own fiddling. Still, computers were her strong point. And sentient programming or not, she knew she could find a way to get him out of there. Or at least make things a little better.

Killing him just didn’t feel right. Maybe he wasn’t ‘alive’ in the traditional sense, but if he was aware enough to realize he was stuck in an old video game and had the ability to be so moody, then he wasn’t just some messed up bit of code.

RED: …You’re still here.

Ah. Right. He was probably waiting for the world to go dark again. Permanently. As if she could bring herself to do that.

She moved the character up and down.

RED: Did you listen to a single thing I said? Get rid of me.

What if…? What if she could transfer him somewhere else? This thing had a truly laughable amount of RAM and ROM. And if she could get him onto an actual computer, they could at least have a normal conversation.

She eyed the setup she created in the corner and figured now was as good a time as any to try and make some progress. Ignoring Red’s cries for death, she wandered over to the computer and rummaged around in the box of cables and junk she kept on hand at all times.

[porcelainseashore]

I think I went through a full cycle of emotions tonight finally catching up on my reading list and jeez this really did a number on me, but in such a good way, don't get me wrong. I know you added in the label of pseudo-poetic nonsense, but I don't think it is at all! In fact, I think your writing has improved so much over the months (not that it wasn't already good enough to begin with), and I'm enjoying seeing you grow and explore things with your fics. Idk, I feel really happy for you if that makes sense? ❤️

Onto the fic itself, as someone who has been in open relationships before (on both sides, the girlfriend and the lover) and also basing this on my friends' open relationships, you really nailed how a fucked up one is like. And I can tell you that most of them are fucked, except for a minute few who take the time and effort to communicate and nurture each relationship within the arrangement. So, this really brings back a lot of memories, bittersweet and also reminds me of some bad times, but in a very poignant way. I love how you captured Reader's infatuation with Leon and the very grey actions he takes... because:

You know he knows, it’s too obvious for him not to know, that’s why he refuses to look into your eyes, opting to push your face - which he reminds you is gorgeous - into the mattress.

Exactly.

I loved how you chronicled Leon's time from RE6 to Death Island, how his work came into play and the subtle changes that show in his relationship with Reader - that was simply perfection. The most devastating part of this for me was actually the time where they share perhaps one of, or if not, the only romantic, intimate sex they've ever had to the soundtracks of Jeff Buckley and Mazzy Star. You're really reminding me of my teenage years, lol, except instead of sleeping with strangers, I was smoking cigarettes with my cousin while listening to these legends on the stereo. I think the saddest part about this scene for me is wondering if this is what they could've been or if this was all imagined in Reader's head. There were times where I attached so much more to a shared intimate moment or gesture that some guy made, only to realise that he never thought of it that way at all.

And the constant reminders of how Reader is just some girl, and not his wife, no matter how much she wants to believe in something more - that got me so bad. Like you can see this train wreck of a relationship happening, and you're heading right into the centre of it, but you just can't let go, you're willing to put yourself under the tracks and be flayed alive if you have to. That's what I'm getting from it and once again, exactly how such a situation feels like.

Finally, the last karaoke memory you placed in there was gold. I loved the juxtaposition of that to their final night together. Love the question of are we friends, lovers, or something more, because we built all these memories together, didn't you feel anything then? But then it just comes spiralling down, because that's the end of it. It's just a fond memory to look back on after the heartbreak. Beautiful. Simply, utterly, beautiful.

I would've loved to add in more quotes of the parts I liked, but I think this post would just become your entire fic, literally. Thank you for producing this godsend. This felt very personal to me and yes it ripped at my heart, but it was what I needed. I'm counting this as one of my favourites now.

never penelope, always calypso

pairing: leon x reader

cw: infidelity?, p in v, alcohol usage, oral sex, angst, smut, possible misuse of words, questionable metaphors, allusions to the odyssey (i'm cringe), pseudo-poetic nonsense

summary: leon is married to ashley and they have an open relationship. you become fwbs when he visits dc. accidental feelings happen

a/n: the title is a reference to the odyssey (no discourse/analyses allowed on this post!!)

wc: 5.5k

taglist: @rigorwhoring @porcelainseashore @mrswint3rs @dilfprayers @pawrincss

link to join taglist in bio! link to commissions & ko-fi in bio! link to ao3 in bio!

Winter 2012

You first meet Leon at a bar near your apartment. Outside, it's freezing, yet you order your drink on the rocks. Drunkenness makes your cheeks match your ears, rosy and slightly numb to the cold. 

It’s been a rough day for you and the way Leon’s head hangs as he looks blankly into his glass - half-empty - lets you know that he’s in the same boat. He’s got blonde-ish hair, icy blue eyes, and a hint of a five o’clock shadow. His voice, low and tired, holds a sympathetic chagrin, subtle and genuine. He must feel your eyes on him because he picks himself up as best he can and smiles at you.

He’s not drunk. Neither are you, only tipsy.

“Hi,” you say because you’re not good with pickup lines.

“Hey. How’s it goin���?”

“It’s goin’,” you say because it’s the best way you can tell the truth without being too much of a downer.

“Not great, huh?”

“A complete shitshow if I’m being honest.”

“I can relate.” He thrusts his right hand out and you take it. His palm is calloused with a life much rougher than you’ll ever know. “I’m Leon.”

You tell him your name and he releases your hand from his grasp. 

You recount your disastrous day and he laughs at all the right times and keeps his smile sympathetic for the rest of your story. He doesn’t say much about himself, and the next morning you worry you were venting, but you come to find over the years that he prefers to listen rather than to talk. He has unparalleled patience. He’s not like other guys. You’re just like other girls.

The one time he speaks over you is to insist to the bartender that he is paying for your drinks too when he asks to close his tab.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He grabs his wallet from his back pocket and you notice on his left hand, a wedding band. It was all just friendly conversation, you realize. Your smile drops and you don’t have time to pick it back up before he turns to you.

“What’s up?” He asks. 

“Nothing.” You give him a fake smile.

“You sure?” He probes you with minimal force. His questions never make you feel like you’re being interrogated, strapped to a metal chair despite the fact that a gun sits on his hip; not like an interview either with bright lights an audience; more like a surgery, penetrating, tearing and mending your organs while you’re numbed by alcoholic anesthetic.

“Mhm,” You respond. You are already falling into a dreamless sleep, breathing, but comatose. 

“Okay. Do you live close? We could split a cab.” He places his hand on the small of your back and whispers while you walk to the exit, “Unless you want to come back with me to my hotel.”

You look at him, almost angry for her – the woman you don’t know – and yet, still wanting. He removes his hand quickly. “Whoa. I’m sorry. I clearly misunderstood the situation. I thought we were having a flirtatious conversation and that it was heading that direction. I apologize for overstepping your boundaries.”

“No, I was flirting, but…” You point to his left hand. “You’re married.” There is a part of you that is already willing. You’re his puppet, his ragdoll, willing.

“Oh, yeah,” Leon says with a smile, thinking of her. He holds up his hand, proudly displaying his wedding band. “I am married, but we have an open relationship.” He sounds so honest you’re tempted to believe him. But, there is still a sliver of your consciousness left.

“Prove it. I don’t want to be involved with a cheater.”

“Prove it? Alright. Would you like me to text her and ask if I can invite you back to my hotel room?”

“Sure.”

You don’t think he’ll do it, but he does. Her name in his phone has a heart next to it. You notice it when he shows you her response: Have a nice time :).

He calls her ‘baby’.

He calls you a lot of things during the act, but mostly your name once it’s over.

He calls you ‘gorgeous’ as in, “You look fucking gorgeous like that” When he looks into your eyes from above you. You’re on your knees with his cock down your throat while his hand holds your hair in a makeshift ponytail. You look gorgeous if gorgeous means messy - the mascara that was already smudged when you entered the bar mixes with tears and drips down your face. You look like a canvas drenched with paint water. Filthy and accidental. And in an abstract way, something that could be conceived as beautiful in the eyes of a downright horny beholder. 

Leon holds your wrists above your head when he fucks you. His grip is firm just like yours is around his cock, though it’s not your intention. In fact, you want more of him, all of him.  

He calls you ‘darlin’ as in,“Darlin’, you’re squeezin’ me so tight. I’m not gonna last like this.” When you’re on all fours and he’s feeding himself to you from behind. One of his hands guides his cock to your entrance while the other holds your hip – that one continues to steady you while he’s fucking you at a merciless pace. With the other, he runs his fingers through his hair – you can see him in the mirror, sweat beading on his forehead.

He calls you ‘babe’ as in, “C’mere, babe.” When he beckons you towards him, lying in bed with his head propped up enough to see you. “Want you to sit on my face”. When you comply and sit on his face, your thighs drown out his words but the noises he makes reverberate through your entire body. Much to Leon’s dismay, it’s the last orgasm you can handle that night. (You have to walk home tomorrow, right?) 

There is a distinct difference between babe and baby. The difference being that he calls you one and his wife the other.

That first night, you go for three rounds, only stopping because Leon ran out of condoms and neither of you feel like going to the pharmacy to buy more. At least, not until the next day.

The next morning when his alarm rings, you grab his phone from the bedside table and hand it to him. You catch a glimpse of his lockscreen. It’s him with a woman. “Is that her?”

“My wife? Yeah.” He hands you the phone and lets you see her. She’s beautiful. More so than you. You understand why she lets him do this. And why he shows her off with no hesitation and a prideful grin. You’d brag about her too.

You imagine their first date, their wedding, the sex they have in their home that they share, and every other thing while Leon makes a trip to the drugstore across the street.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says when he climbs back into bed, “there was a long line at the checkout.”

It’s okay, you think, you gave me time to decide that it’s better if I leave now.

And yet, the second he lies down next to you, your decision changes. The prospect of lazy morning sex with Leon is too beautiful to resist. Even in retrospect, if it were purely about the sex, you wouldn’t regret any of it, it was even better than you imagined it would be. 

When he takes the blue box from the plastic shopping bag and jiggles it in front of you, playfully asking the question, you nod. None of this requires words. 

You sit up in bed, closing the gap between you and your objective, but he stops you. “Don’t get up. I’ll come there.”

He’s quiet despite the room being empty of sleeping children and nosy parents. The hustle and bustle of the city on Saturday morning covers up any sound. His wife knows anyway and she’s 1000 miles away. It’s for the sake of your ears, still acclimating to the ceaseless knocking at your eardrums that comes with being alive. He moves slowly, spreads your legs for you, removes your panties - the boring beige pair you wore to work the day before. He runs his hand over your folds like he’s petting a stray animal, getting you to ease up and let him in. Two fingers mold you to his liking. He fits you for himself despite being taken. He feeds your desire and sets you free when he’s finished. (You’ve finished too, so it’s not cruel, is it?). 

He steps into the shower alone.  

If getting some more material for your spank bank was your goal, then you accomplished it. Not just the sex but the sight of him with a towel around his waist, his toned body on display. It’s the first time you’ve seen it in the daylight. He only removed his pants when he fucked you from behind. And the night before, you only got a glimpse of his beauty in the dim of the lamp-lit room. 

The ounce of self-restraint that remains in your being, holds you back from ripping the towel away from him and kneeling before him, begging him to use your mouth. 

There is a piece of you that regrets not taking the opportunity while you had it. You would have another memory of him to fill the Leon-shaped hole inside you. Better yet, he could’ve called you pathetic and told you to leave, and ruined it all before your infatuation could turn into something worse. But, he wouldn’t do that. And that’s why you like him. 

Summer 2012

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Well, honestly, it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all. You had each other’s phone numbers but no plans were made and the goodbye hug didn’t feel like a ‘see you later’, more like a ‘have a nice life’.

But a couple months after your first meeting, he texts you. “I’m in town. Are you busy tonight?”

You happen to be very free and though you denied it at the time, very infatuated with Leon. In your mind, it’s simply the fact that he’s the best sex you’ve ever had and none of it has to do with the fact that during the second night you spend together you’re mere centimeters away from love-making when he bites your lip, tugging lightly before he flips you over to fuck you harder. You know he knows, it’s too obvious for him not to know, that’s why he refuses to look into your eyes, opting to push your face - which he reminds you is gorgeous - into the mattress. Your mascara still runs while you wonder if he’s still thinking about you when your face no longer serves to remind him of the woman whose cunt he uses. 

But that happens later. You meet at the same bar because Leon is oddly unfamiliar with the area despite having lived here years ago. Maybe he wanted to forget. That’s a question you never bother to ask.  

“I was constantly working. I went out with Ashley on the weekends when she wasn’t busy, but she always picked the restaurant. So, you’ll have to be my tour guide,” he says. 

You amble around downtown because you’re not decisive like Ashley. You didn’t prepare anything besides what your matching set of lace under your clothes. In June, the sun stays up late, and though they say that certain crimes of the flesh are only committed at night, for the two of you daylight can be far more dangerous. 

Simply fucking in his hotel room one night was well within the boundaries of whatever “this” is; however, kissing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial when the sun begins to set makes you feel like a teenager, being romanced for the first time and risking your overbearing parents finding out your dirty little secret. But, none of this is secret. Leon’s wife knows, passersby know, the statue of the 16th president of the goddamn USA who sits behind you knows. 

But what truly feels wrong is how chaste it is, how his hands cup your cheeks like a chalice. In a crowded bar, you drink gin and tonics for the Eucharist. Tomorrow, you deal with the unholy hangover. 

Still, you’re not sure if this is romance or friendship until you’re walking side by side and your pinkies inch their way closer until they brush against each other. You interlock them playfully for a second, but Leon pulls away rather than grabbing your hand fully. The one time he does take your hand, it’s to guide you through a crowd. He does not interlock fingers with you. He does not kiss your knuckles before he lets go.

Later you end up at your favorite bar because you are his amateur tour guide. 

“If this is your favorite, then why weren’t you here the night we met?”

“Would you have preferred I were?”

“No. I’m just curious.”

“The other bar is closer to home. Quieter, too.”

You’re practically yelling at this point over the band that’s playing. It takes two drinks for you to stand up and dance. It’s not some sort of high school prom slow dance. It’s stupid and drunken, but Leon spins you around and his hands are on your body - the less intimate parts - for most of the duration. He doesn’t have to flirt with sensual touches because he doesn’t have to lure you into bed. You are already planning to accompany to his hotel room. 

Usually, he is in town for a week at most, and busy for the majority of the time. You see him for a night or two each visit. However, one night after the usual routine of going to the same bar, drinking old fashioneds and Leon picking up the tab, he takes you to the apartment that he’s renting for the next 3 months.

“Three months?” you ask.

“Thought you’d be happy,” he says. “After you admitted that I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“Cocky much?”

“Wanna find out?” He raises an eyebrow, daring you to take him up on his offer. He’s still unpacking in the bedroom, but you don’t find that out until later because you don’t make it that far into the apartment. You end up fucking on the couch. And then on the living room floor.

What you have is not romance but it’s dangerously close. You realize this when you accidentally take one of his t-shirts home and you wear it to bed again that night before washing it. Because it smells like him and you miss him. That’s not something you ever plan to admit to Leon, and because you don’t say it aloud, it’s not real. It’s only real when he says, “you should just keep a toothbrush here.”

So nonchalant that it catches you off guard. “What am I, your girlfriend?”

“Sorry for being logistical.” He huffs, though you can’t tell if he’s really mad or not.

On his next run to the pharmacy to buy condoms, he gets you the toothbrush.

It’s summertime and Leon has a balcony that overlooks the Washington Monument, so naturally, you eat your dinners outside. Leon cuts back on his drinking, so you often make lemonade instead – from scratch, like your mother used to.

Over dinner you ask him, “Why don’t you just move to D.C. if you spend so much time here?”

“I lived here for years – so did Ashley – and we both hated it. But her dad has a house in Vermont, and we spent our first anniversary there, and we realized we wanted to spend as much of our lives as we can there.” When he speaks, he doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s looking for the memory, reliving it with a smile on his face. You can feel the tranquility.

“Makes sense. If I had a father with a second home in Vermont, I would probably move there too.” Plus, I’m not tied to anything here. Except maybe you, Leon.

“It’s gorgeous in the summer. It sucks that I have to spend it here.”

“Wow,” you say, jokingly, “So, being around me really sucks that much?”

“No, you’re the only part of it that I like.”

You’re left speechless, flustered by his words, and you both know that he shouldn’t have said that despite the fact that it’s the truth.

“Anyway,” he transitions, poking at his salad, pretending to be incredibly interested in the lettuce in an effort to avoid your face. “This lemonade is great.”

“It’s my mother’s recipe. A little extra sugar.”

You take away the plates – his enthusiasm about his salad has faded. He stays on the balcony for a moment because he knows you want to do the dishes – “It’s kind of therapeutic,” you said to him. “Clean plates make you feel like your life is together”.

Regardless, when he comes in, he says, “You know you don’t have to do that.” because that’s in his nature. Other people make messes and he cleans them up.

“I know,” you say, and he doesn’t protest. 

You have sex because it’s either that or watch TV. It’s rough and impersonal, and over relatively quickly.

And then, it’s five o’clock somewhere, and somewhere is right where you are, so you pull out a bottle and toast to something stupid like the sex you just had or the TV show you’ll watch until you fall asleep.

Leon doesn’t drink but when he does (which is only when he’s with you. Ashley doesn’t let him indulge like that because she’s more sensible than you are) your conversations venture into topics that you would typically shy away from. You find yourself talking to Leon about his sex life outside of you.

“Do you guys fuck, like, immediately, when you get in the door?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Depends on how long I’ve been gone and how gross I am.”

“Do you think about it a lot? When you’re not with her?”

“Of course I do.” The question sticks in your mind: when we’re having sex too? “But we have phone sex,” he says, oddly prideful.

“That’s good. I’ve never been very good at phone sex.”

“If you’re horny enough it doesn’t matter.”

And that’s probably true. You have sex again shortly thereafter and you wonder if he’s thinking about her. You notice that he does not say your name when he cums.

February 2013

The next year you see him on Valentine’s Day. “Shouldn’t you be spending this with your wife?” you ask.

“I would be if I were at home.”

“You could go home or at least, call her.”

“I could call her, and I did, earlier today. But, it’s just a day. It’s not like it’s our anniversary or one of our birthdays.”

It’s just a day, so I’m spending it with you. It’s just a day, you’re just a girl.

“When’s your anniversary?”

“March 16th,” he says without missing a beat. Because he remembers things. As do you. For better or for worse.

“Are you going to go home for that?”

“No, she’s coming to visit.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” You probably don’t sound very convincing but you’re already making new plans for that week mentally – not that you had any explicit plans with him.

“You could meet her,” he offers, and you think he must be joking but it’s not that funny so you don’t laugh. He doesn’t laugh either because it isn’t a joke.

“Wait what?” you say. “Don’t you see how that’d be a little weird?” 

“She knows you exist.”

“Yeah, but-”

“-And,” he leans in to whisper into your ear because you’re in a relatively fancy restaurant where you probably shouldn’t be speaking too loudly about such topics, “I don’t know if you’re into women, but I think she’d be into you.”

It’s a blessing that your dress is black because you choke on red wine and it dribbles down your chest and onto your clothes before you can catch it.

“Sorry. I’m now realizing that sexuality is a sensitive topic and maybe I shouldn’t have broached the subject like that.”

“It’s not about my sexuality. It’s about the fact that you just asked me if I wanted to sleep with your wife.”

“Well, I was hoping to be there too in that hypothetical.”

“It’s your anniversary. I shouldn’t be there. You two should get some alone time.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

He asks you to help him pick out an anniversary gift for his wife. You study pictures of her to see what style of jewelry she wears. Apparently you’re good at buying gifts because you see a new picture of her as his lock screen in which she’s wearing the necklace you picked out.

It’s silver not gold, so it’s not the necklace you care about but the jewelry behind the glass that you gazed at while Leon talked to the cashier.

But before the necklace, before the picture, before Leon’s anniversary, you leave the restaurant together the same way you arrived except you’re covered in red wine. You complain about the way your heels leave blisters so he carries you to the front door - bridal style, ironically, but you’re the only one thinking about it. It’s just a name that comes from an old tradition. It’s like how Valentine’s Day is just a day. He gets down on one knee and because you’ve already imagined him in this position, seeing it play out in front of you startles you, but he’s just unbuckling your shoes. He sees the look on your face - you try to play it off - and he laughs because he knows what you’re thinking, but then again, he doesn’t know anything at all. To him, it’s a silly misunderstanding. To you, it’s a cruel joke you’ve played on yourself.

In his bedroom, where you spend most of your time together, he unzips your dress like he’s trying to save the wrapping paper on a gift. 

“It has wine all over it, and I got it on sale,” you say. “You don’t have to be so… gentle about it.”

“Would you prefer I rip it off of you?”

But it’s already slipping past your knees, dropping to the floor, revealing your bra and panties, revealing the secret - that you made an effort, that he is opening a gift, and the gift is a woman in lingerie. His face says enough, the way he looks you up and down, with arousal coursing through his veins but a certain fondness and admiration in his eyes. 

You distract him by unbuttoning his dress shirt - slowly because you’re pretty sure this is the one he likes. There’s no tie to undo, no tie to pull him into bed by. He doesn’t like things around his neck. Once, he tried to wear one and couldn’t tie it himself, and you had to help. He only kept it on for a second because he felt like it was suffocating him. 

You’re stuck in a mutual trance until you hear the neighbors fucking - not making love, fucking. You throw your head back laughing and Leon drags his hands down his face in faux-exasperation, laughter peeking through his fingers. 

“Way to kill the mood,” he sighs.

“Should I go get the broom,” you ask, intending to bang on the wall between apartments. 

“I think it’d be a little hypocritical.” Considering how much sex we have. Considering the fact that we’re about to have sex. 

“Okay, but we don’t sound like that.”

He shrugs with a stupid grin. 

“Oh God, do we sound like that?!”

“I hope not.”

“Leon,” you draw out his name, not quite whining, not quite begging. Not yet. 

“Here,” he says, and sticks a CD in his stereo, something he rarely uses. He prefers the quiet. There’s too much noise these days, he once told you.

"You sound like an old man."

"I feel like an old man."

When he stands in front of you in only a white undershirt and a pair of slacks, his belt lost somewhere along the way, while you’re freezing to death in black lace lingerie because he keeps his apartment at 70 degrees maximum, you let go of all inhibitions, and let your surprise be a pleasant one when you realize what album is playing. Grace. As if you have any left. 

“I love Jeff Buckley,” you say. 

“Everyone loves Jeff Buckley.”

“Not like me.”

The soft music doesn’t fully cover the sounds of your noisy neighbors but the sentiment does. All you can think about is Leon when he’s atop you. You make out like teenagers, savoring it in a way that makes it feel like there’s no expectation that the two of you will have sex. 

But slowly, it becomes more than that. His hands cup your breasts, his tongue flicks your nipple, his hands spreading your thighs, his fingers brushing over the fabric. And then the CD stops. It’s been 52 minutes. It’s like a parent knocking at the door, interrupting the magical moment. When Leon stands up to choose another CD, he sheds his shirt too.

Fade Into You plays as he walks back to you and you want to ask ‘How did you know?’, but you opt for taking off his pants instead. You lie face to face atop the covers with the lights only dimmed while he thrusts slowly in and out of you. You worry you’ll start singing along because you know all the words to this album. But Leon’s mouth rarely leaves yours - except when his face is between your thighs. 

It’s slow, intimate, undeniably romantic. Only urgent when you’re both nearing the edge and he picks up the pace. You cum together and wade through the aftershocks with heavy breaths. So Tonight That I Might See fades out and covered in sweat, you bask in the shared euphoria that tries to fill the melancholy air. You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. 

July 2013

Once, after a particularly terrible mission, you meet Leon at his hotel room and he fucks you so hard he has to keep his hand over your mouth for the duration to avoid a noise complaint. A second noise complaint.

Another time, he fucks you so hard the condom breaks. You’re on birth control but he has a wife, a wife that’s not you, so he offers to buy you the morning after pill, and since there’s no logical reason not to take it, you agree. Before you pop the pill in your mouth, you ask him, (mal)apropos of the situation, “Do you think you’ll have kids?”

You let him answer while you wash it down with a gulp of water.

“We’ve been trying actually.” You see the way he smiles and it makes you choke on the water. You wouldn’t have been surprised by a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, but you realize what his statement means: he would never buy her this pill. He wants to have a baby, but not your baby. He doesn’t love you like that. He doesn’t love you at all.

August 2013

You realize you love him right after he leaves. The best and worst part is that you do not see him until 2015. Almost 2 years later. You don’t hear anything from him or about him and sometimes you assume he was KIA, more optimistically, MIA. (Really, he’s just drunk and busy most of the time.) 

If Leon died would his wife send you an invitation to the funeral? Who are you - the mistress, a friend of the family, a long-lost somebody? 

Summer 2015

When he calls you in July, you half-assume that his voice won’t be the one on the other side. It’ll be someone else who recovers his phone from the ashes of whatever the fuck he’s fighting. You’ve started to forget what he sounds like and it terrifies you. 

“I’m gonna take some time off,” he tells you.

“You deserve it since you’re always working so hard.” You understand what ‘time off’ means. It means time away from you too. It means he goes back to where he belongs – in bed, beside his wife.

“I never thought I’d get a vacation – I tried, but it got interrupted. Bio-terrorists don’t care about vacation time as it turns out.”

“How long is your time off going to be?”

“I’m not sure yet. We don’t technically have paternity leave, but I think the DSO feels-”

“Paternity leave?”

“Yeah. I forgot to mention, Ashley’s pregnant.”

The “trying” they were doing finally worked. She must be so happy – they both must be so happy. You force yourself to be because it’s cruel to hate a child. It’s not the baby’s fault that you’re in love with its father.

“That’s… awesome, Leon. I remember you saying you were trying, so, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he says, and the smile on his face looks genuine but you see his hands come out of his pockets, only to retreat. He was going to hug you. But something holds him back. Though she’s physically carrying the baby, he takes on some of the weight it seems.

“You’re gonna be a great father,” you say. And that’s the one statement that you mean wholeheartedly.

The next words to leave your mouth surprise you both. “How far along is she?”

“Not sure about the exact number of weeks, but she’s pretty far into her second trimester.”

“Does she have a bump yet?” “Can I see a picture?” “What about the ultrasound?” You’re just tearing your own heart out so he can’t when he inevitably leaves. Or, maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re curious to a fault. Maybe you’re genuinely a little bit happy because you do love him. That’s what makes it worse.

You realize that this is the last time you’ll see him. He’s not dying, and will likely return to DC, but his wife will call him, ask him to switch to video so she can show him the baby that sits perfectly on her hip. In your mind, she’s walking around their kitchen, still in frame while the phone sits on the counter and he watches, imagining the joy he’ll feel when he takes on half the weight of parenthood while he lets her sleep in on the weekends. 

You can’t be in the shower across the hall while he sings to a baby over the phone. You know he’ll sing. 

He has a better voice than one might expect and you know this because he once got drunk enough for you to convince him to sing karaoke.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging him in the direction of the stage. 

“I don’t sing,” he says, though he’s smiling. 

“Everyone sings.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

“I’ll make a deal. If you sing, then I’ll sing.” He’s already holding your hands, you don’t have to shake on it. But you do (and he spits on his palm first to seal the deal and you tell him it’s disgusting but mimic the gesture anyway). 

You sing Like A Prayer, and though you can’t hear his voice over the surrounding noise, you can see him singing along by “Heaven Help Me”. 

He sings Jessie’s Girl, and you would be enthralled even if he completely bombed, but you’re a face in the crowd of dozens, singing along with varying BAC’s, you’d guess. You’re not Jessie’s Girl, or Leon’s girl, you’re just a girl. 

But the last night you spend together, you let yourself believe that you’re Leon’s girl when you fall into bed with him. When you interlock your fingers you pretend your ring is at the jewelers or on the bedside table. When he fucks you, he’s being quiet because you can’t wake up the neighbors or the baby in the nursery. In your mind, your husband is making love to you after he’s returned from the war. 

He explains what happened at Alcatraz and you’re Penelope, he’s Odysseus, except there are no other suitors for him to kill. No bow to shoot, no olive tree bedpost. 

But like them, you sleep together in a familiar room. Finally, fully, skin to skin, he gives himself to you. He gives himself to you temporarily, it’s sweaty and sickly sweet. You kiss until your lips turn red, catching your breaths forehead-to-forehead until you hold his cheeks in your hands like a pomegranate, ripe and rotting. 

He grips your hips until they bruise, and barely pulls out in time to spill his seed on your inner thighs, only a bit ends up inside. 

It’s not the first mistake you make together but it is the last. 

His trip is barely long enough for him to stand outside the bathroom and pray for one line while you sit alone praying for two. Silently, you show him the result. 

“What do you want to do now?” he asks. 

“Watch TV, I guess,” you say.

You sit next to each other on the couch. He leaves in the morning as was always the plan. You kiss him goodbye and with the same lips, he kisses Ashley hello. 

You were never Penelope. You’re Calypso, and he longs for home.

[nakaleawesome]

I'm so sick of abled bodied people refusing to understand disabilities and y'know sometimes random shit just happens to young people! Anything can happen to anyone at any time!

I never asked for my legs to just randomly stop working one day. I was being productive, I had a job, I was taking care of my health the best I can. I never wanted to be reliant on others. This was never a burden I wanted on my husband. I've been trying. Now I have people telling me they're sorry my husband has to take care of me. Cause screw in sickness and in health. We're just trying to do our best in this fucked up world. It's not my fault healthcare is slow. It takes years to figure out things sometimes and sometimes there's just no cure. Somedays strings of bad days do happen and then you get ONE good day and you use that day to get everything you can done possible because if you don't everyone's gonna tell you you're not trying or you're just letting illness ruin your life. And that's the thing. Things are chronic. Sometimes you could technically be having an alright day. Like today would be fine, I can walk on my own around the house and do some of the things I need to do as long as I manage my energy, but for some reason I got some food poisoning or something when I went out and it turned into a bad day. Now because it's been going on for ONLY 6 MONTHS (as of writing this) I have family trying to tell me it's all in my head because I'm not getting better and doctors just can't immediately find out what's wrong. It took 10 YEARS to diagnose my migraine and not even the full part of it just when it paralyzes me not the constant daily one that's been going on since I was 3. Both of which have no official cause and no medicine or treatments so I've learned to live with it. Chronic conditions are just things you end up learning to live with. It's painful, but if you dare complain about it the 'normal' people see you as wrong and just want you to shut up because why aren't you better yet. There was another good post about this that I read and yea it's something we have to deal with, but people just don't get it. We're in constant pain, there is no real 'good days', and we don't just magically get better once we get a diagnosis.

Just another thing at least with my situation, I get told "Are you thinking about bettering yourself? Are you even trying to think about how the future will be and what are you going to do? You can't live like this/you can't stay here forever/you can't get help/etc" like you don't even know how much it keeps me up trying to deal with the fucking world and what to do especially with being unable to work. I had a job before this and I was trying. I put in way more hours and effort dealing with things and trying to manage money to save to have a place of our own. I've been trying for years. No one asked for a pandemic, we didn't choose inflation, we got stuck with these things. It's not like I'm in debt (yet) either and I'm hoping the student loan forgiveness goes through especially because it was not my choice to go to university at the time I did. In fact, it was probably one of the worst things I've been forced into since it caused so much of my health issues. Some people were able to get back on track and good for them, but not everyone is that lucky. It's a constant blame to deal with and sometimes you can do everything right and in your power and still it doesn't work out. I've been trying to promote my art and make money where I can, but I can tell you it's not working and I don't know what to do. I just don't know. Telling me I need to do it/wondering why/etc and commenting on it isn't helpful. I know and whining about it to me doesn't make the situation better, it makes it worse.

[yoori-ya]

30 before 30

I was waiting to writing something like this on my 30th, but there's only a week-and-a-half separating me from my birthday. It's not like once the clock strikes midnight on Dec 2, a third eye is going to open up on my forehead.  Will 30 be so different from 29? Rationally, I know probably not, but I can't help feeling as if I'm approaching a threshold. 

Maybe because 30 is a such a round number. A decade is neat bundle of ten years to tie up and pack away. 

D told me this summer, out of nowhere, "Man, you really did your twenties right." 

Did I? I feel like I spent the first half stumbling around in the dark, my internal-monologue really just a constant, existential scream as I scrambled for some sort of handhold. There was no official manual lowered down on a golden rope, but I was lucky enough to fall in with older friends who brought me under their wing. Honestly, most of the advice they gave me only recently started sticking. Back then, I still took some steep stumbles despite their best efforts, but I felt as if I at least had some direction--ideas to strive towards, heroes to put on pedestals.  As I’ve gotten closer, the plaster has cracked off, and I’ve come to see the people beneath, but that's more a of a testament to how far I’ve come.  

Back then most of my angst was rooted in wondering who it was. If you asked me who I am these days, I probably still wouldn't know how to answer, but the difference is that it doesn't cause me much grief. I'm comfortable with not being able to fit in a clearly labeled box. I'm okay that Sometimes-Shy-Sometimes-Outgoing-but-Usually-Hotheaded-Loudmouthed-Impulsive-Overthinking-Anime-Nerd-Who-Likes-to-Drink doesn't exactly describe me, and that no amount of words and hyphens may ever be enough to. I'm okay with it, just like I'm okay with knowing that when I look up at the night sky, I'll never be able to name every star laid out above me. It's nice enough that it's all there.  I'm okay with it because I know no matter how other people perceive me, label me, view me, I not only know what's important, I have it in me to protect it.  

Experience can be a brutal teacher, but it's thorough, and I've learned again and again the bitterness of quietly ceding bits of myself so that I can be written into someone else's story. People, I have learned, can be selfish. People, I have learned, will want me to behave to fit whatever script they have written for me. People, I have learned, can get upset when I refuse to play the role. I have also learned, however, that I can survive the heat of their anger.  When I was younger, my father taught me to anger someone was the end of the world. B was a little shitstain on humanity's underpants, but he did help me to unlearn that terrible lesson, taught me how to find my voice, how to stand up for myself and my own story. 

The existential scream is ongoing, but these days it's less about who I am and more about what I want out of life. Where is it that I want to turn my rudder towards?  Where is my story? I feel like I’ve kept my sights fixed on one point because I was told to, and only now am I starting to understand how broad the horizon really is. 

A gets pissed every time I bring up the fact that we’re practically thirty. "I feel like we haven’t accomplished anything," she says whenever I asked her why she's pissed. I stay quiet and just slowly nod my head because I can’t agree. I’m not sitting in that corner office J and I always joked about, I still haven’t written that book, but I remember how all I wanted ten years ago was for the world to slow and be little kinder. The world has done neither, but the fact that I can walk a little more sure-footed down life's often bumpy terrain still feels big.

People always talk about how they’d do their twenties differently if given a chance. That’s impossible, but I think standing at the base of my thirties outfitted with all the tools I’ve picked up in the last decade is the next best thing. So maybe D was right, maybe I really did do my twenties right. 

Somehow, between the beginnings of this entry and its end, a bottle of wine has been imbibed. Thanks for always chronicling me, little blog.

[belit0]

Sibling Issues

Chap 2

Rating: E

Pairing: [Uchiha Madara / Uchiha Izuna / Fem Reader]

TW: nope

[DON'T HATE ME OMG THIS HAS BEEN ON MY MIND AND I HAD TO WRITE IT laufuekwslak]

Madara has always been perverse with his punishments, profoundly enjoying the sight of you suffering in front of his eyes, witnessing your despair to an almost maddening extent. It is not as if you had something to complain about, being tied up and over-stimulated to the limit of frustration by a man like him seemed like a dream, and every time you felt his expert fingers wandering through the scars he created in your skin, you wondered if your relationship with the Uchiha was not purely a charming fantasy.

That's how you felt at that moment, imprisoned in bed, naked and bound by hands and legs. With your limbs forced to stay apart by ropes, it is your man who watches you from his intimidating height, standing in front of you, rejoicing in your humiliation.

Gagged with your panties, you cannot speak or beg for mercy, for knowing him, you know that something heavy is coming, even considering the torture he has been inflicting on you for the past thirty minutes. How did you end up in this situation? You refused to accompany him to his meeting with Hashirama this morning, as the previous night was filled with passion and rudeness on his part, and you really needed to sleep. Of course he did not take your disobedience well, and no opportunity escapes Madara to punish you when you are a bad girl.

Crossed arms in front of the bed, wearing a black turtleneck shirt, with his hair pulled up in a ponytail and ready to leave again, he observes you with malice. In one of his hands, a black vibrator is off, glowing with your fresh fluids because it has been recently removed from you. He's only wearing gloves on one of his hands, and it's the one he's not holding the object he's using to tease you.

"Now, [Y/N], I'd love to stay and play with that sweet, tight pussy of yours, but I've been summoned by the elders of the Clan to a private meeting. You have 10 seconds to cum, otherwise you will remain tied up until my return."

Flushed and on the verge of tears, you did your best in begging him to take you, as the constant stimulus he had been applying to you for the past half hour was too much, and you could no longer bear it. In fact, you weren't even sure you could concentrate enough to cum with the speed he was demanding.

The incoherence of your words, which were suffocated by the fabric of your underwear, and the drool that fell from your mouth because of the inability to close it completely, only made Madara laugh in front of you, sending even more heat to your lower body and a feeling of deep humiliation to the whole situation.

This man delights in throwing you low.

"Keep quiet, are we clear?"

Approaching your dripping cunt again, he turned on the vibrator, while slowly positioning himself between your legs. He travelled all over your skin with the moving object, rubbing all areas of your body and purposely avoiding your clitoris. Staring into your eyes, the devilish grin on his face was unable to wipe off his features, enjoying your helplessness and cravings, the need to feel pleasure and liberation once and for all.

When a tear escaped from one of your eyes, he decided he could give you what you finally deserved, and without warning, he directed the vibrator that was slowly massaging your nipples towards your pussy, pressing it directly on your sensitive pearl, watching you with expectant eyes.

Your back curved upwards, while you pressed your hips towards him, seeking even more support and contact with the object that would give you your long-awaited orgasm. Your eyes inevitably closed, and your mouth opened in an incredible way, making your underwear go even deeper into it.

“1… 2… 3…”

In the face of Madara's hasty account, you remembered with effort his warning, and made your greatest effort to direct your mind to the greatest point of pleasure, even without being able to move your legs or arms.

"4... 5... 6... such an obedient little whore..."

At the compliment of your man, the motivation you really needed appeared, and you could feel the much-awaited moment finally arrive.

“7… 8… 9…”

And before he could reach the end of the count, one of your best orgasms hit your senses, causing your whole body to shake and your limbs to seek compression against your figure, protecting your sensitive clitoris from the abusive prolonged sensation of the vibrator.

When he saw that you met his demand, he walked away from you and removed the object, took the panties from your mouth and gave you water to drink.

"Well done [Y/N], I expected nothing less from you... but I regret to inform you this is not enough."

"W-Wha-at?"

"You abandoned me all alone with Hashirama and his delusions of worldly friendship all morning. Did you think such a modest punishment would save you, doll?"

"Madara please!"

He took your jaw with his gloved hand, exerting a slight pressure to open your mouth, and pushed the same underwear back into your cavity. A muffled scream escaped your mouth in surprise, which the Uchiha easily silenced with a slap on your thigh.

Leaving you tied up, he turned on the vibrator again, and there you understood the worst was what you were about to face. He pushed the object deep inside you, wiped his fluid-soaked hand on a towel, arranged his clothes and put on the missing glove.

"I'll take my time; I expect to return and find you a mess."

You couldn't even think of an answer, as the pleasure and sensitivity your body was experiencing at the same time was too much to concentrate on anything else.

With a firm step and completely unconcerned with your condition, Madara disappeared out the door of the room, while his steps were heard increasingly faint in the corridor. A second later, the front door opened before closing again, leaving you alone in front of Uchiha's mansion.

Your figure twisted in bed, thanking every orgasm caused by the vibrator inside you and trying to cooperate with the over-stimulation, forcing the ropes that kept you tied up, trembling at every sensation and movement, your skin bristling and your eyes watering from such torture.

So abstracted were you in your world of self-indulgence that you did not hear the front door open and close again.

Nor did you hear the footsteps outside the room.

Nor did you hear the voice of a man who was not Madara asking if everything was okay.

Reality hit you again when your reddish eyes met those of Uchiha Izuna, who, for some reason unrelated to you, was at your house, at your bedroom door, witnessing the kinks you and your man shared.

"...I-I... I-I... shouldn't b-be here..."

As the Uchiha was about to leave, the vibrator touched a key point inside you, making you scream loud and deeply while another orgasm was released into your body. The muffled moans caught his attention, and the way your body contorted itself mesmerized him into an inexplicable spell.

Awakening from the enchantment of your figure, Izuna realized that his Sharingan had been activated, and that in his memory now lay engraved the intimate moment of you reaching your peak of pleasure. Ashamed of himself for even having such thoughts with his brother's partner, he walked over to the bed, and removed the garment that prevented you from speaking.

"I'm sorry [Y/N] I'll leave you alone and..."

"PLEASE IZUNA HELP ME."

Stupefied by his uselessness and feeling guilty about your clear suffering, the Uchiha tried to regain his composure and not let himself be carried away by the image in front of him.

"S-Sure! Just... just tell me what I have to do."

"UNTIE MY HANDS."

Obeying your demands, he quickly released your two wrists, having to lean slightly over you to untie the one at the other end of the bed. When you regained movement, something fierce took hold of your mind, and the fact of having another Uchiha in front of you, belonging to Madara's family, no less than his little brother, set your senses on fire even more.

Taking him by the hair with force, you made his face bend towards you, brutally bumping his lips against yours. Izuna found himself reluctant to reciprocate the kiss at first, but when your tongue slipped over his lips in hunger and need, his mouth opened without hesitation and devoured you with the same intensity.

Separating slightly and for a second, you managed to look him in the eye and tell him.

"Please fuck me Izuna."

"Shit, if you ask like that."

He quickly positioned himself between your legs, and rapidly Dropping your almost numb extremities on the mattress, you watched as he removed the vibrator from your interior, moaning at every centimeter of the object.

In the blink of an eye, his clothes lay forgotten somewhere in the room, and a hardened limb stood in front of your entrance. Aligning himself with you, his thrust was sharp and direct, penetrating you mercilessly.

He leaned over you, hiding his face in the hollow of your neck and biting into your skin, while your legs locked around his waist to feel him completely within you. Your hands became entangled in his hair, and soon you found yourself undoing his ponytail so you could pull his strands more easily.

His breaths became agitated, short and deep, arousing you even more, to the point where you thought it was no longer possible to receive stimulation. His muscles above you tensed with every movement of his hip, and with your tightened eyes, you breathed in his male scent with despair.

"I'm going to... ah... fuck you so well... shit... that you'll forget... his name... Kami... you're so tight [Y/N]"

"I-Izuna-a -gasp- I'm c-com-ming -gasp-"

Upon hearing your response, his thrusts took on a new speed, an almost overwhelming pace for your labored body, making you reach the last orgasm of the night with just a few moves. You felt his cum spread inside you, covering your walls with that warm liquid, and your mind was delighted with satisfaction.

Until you realized what had really happened.

And when Izuna came down from his orgasm, he couldn't help but feel less guilty than you.

"[Y/N]... what... what have we done..."

[alagaesia-headcanons]

Ok I pulled the receipts. (I was gonna write out my thoughts on them tomorrow, but then I decided I didn't want to spend part of another day thinking about Oromis, so forgive me if this is a little scattered because I'm sleepy lol) @oceanfyre and @corvidparty too, because I promised to elaborate.

Like you mentioned in the tags, Oromis's treatment of Eragon's injury is indeed the most glaring and harmful issue. I made a post a long time ago about it which gives a good overview of my feelings about it. Now let me start here.

Oromis tells Eragon that he can't give in to fear of pain because he can't risk failing the Varden, and he must sacrifice himself for the sake of others. Yet he fails to explain how Eragon's desire to avoid exacerbating his wound puts their cause at risk, or how anyone or anything benefits from his sacrifice. And that's because none of it's true. I could understand (though perhaps still not agree with) Oromis's argument that his suffering is necessary for the Varden's success if there was something vital Eragon could gain only by enduring the pain, or if enduring the pain aided his recovery and gradually restored his strength. But he gains absolutely nothing by attempting to train without accommodating his chronic pain, and it actually makes his condition worsen severely- but I'll get to that in a sec.

The Varden doesn't depend on his suffering, and so no one else gains anything from his pain either. Oromis insists that Eragon find something he'd willingly sacrifice himself for, and Eragon's compassion draws him to do just that, striving to help all the people within the Empire. But the moral gravity Oromis puts on this sacrifice doesn't actually exist. Those people get nothing from his agony in a far off corner of the elves' forest- his determination to do whatever he can for their sake is clearly already deeply rooted and it doesn't need to be somehow reinforced through pain. Those people would benefit most simply from his preserved health, but Oromis refuses to ever accommodate for his injury.

So since the reason he explicitly provides for that is meaningless bullshit, it's more tricky to judge why he actually refuses. In that other post, I posit that Oromis feels like his own infirmity somehow justifies his requirement that Eragon suffers as well, which could be part of the reason. Despite his own condition, his approach to Eragon is shockingly ableist, right down to the "~the only disability is a negative mindset~" sentiment. I also feel like his demand for a constant, willing sacrifice of Eragon's wellbeing could be part of Oromis's lack of respect for him. He wants that as proof that Eragon can suffer and survive through weakness, since he sees weakness as an inherent quality in him which must be corrected, perhaps because he's human, he's young, or something else. Again, I'll expand on that thought.

Oromis arranges for Eragon to spar with Vanir because he finds his efforts before this point inadequate. To add a little more context back in to the first excerpt, Eragon had only just finished his second time meditating in the forest. And he had a seizure just prior while sparring with Oromis, so the "troubles" he insists Eragon set aside were his own fault. Eragon's still finding his footing and Oromis is only making it harder- there's genuinely no reason for him to believe he's not trying his best- but Oromis isn't satisfied with him and he blames that on Eragon. Then his solution is Vanir.

Oromis has the idea as a way to draw out Eragon's best efforts, then later adds that it will also maintain Eragon's sword skill. It completely fails the latter purpose because Vanir doesn't restrain his physical abilities to match Eragon's, which would let him exercise his skills. But it's not clear what Oromis is even looking for when he initially wants "his best." We see that his matches with Vanir make Eragon frustrated and spitefully determined resist his derision more than anything. I feel like Oromis's goal is to instill in Eragon a urge to prove himself. Because Oromis clearly thinks he needs to prove something, since his direct attempts to meet the expectations of his lessons aren't meaningful enough to Oromis. Instead, he has to fight and struggle in order for his efforts to warrant Oromis's respect.

And his struggles to reach for his teacher's approval put Eragon through agony. I don't think I need to explain Vanir's mistreatment, that's obvious, but Oromis's response is telling. For one, he in no way refutes or condemns Vanir's claims- which were incredibly appalling. Instead, he says that Eragon's mistakes bolster them. Also, it's subtle here, but his rebuke that he needs to keep a better hold on his temper is a hint of his distrust of Eragon's emotional capacity.

Eragon keeps sparring with Vanir, and we see just how egregious Oromis's ableism is. Here is the detrimental culmination of his determination to act like Eragon's injury doesn't exist. It does not make things better, it doesn't keep things the same, it actively and grievously makes things worse. His seizures get far more frequent and much more easily triggered, growing so severe that his life is ruled by pain and fear, and he struggles to focus and suffers memory lapses. I feel that this decidedly pushes Oromis from strict to malicious. Because even if he cared about Eragon's wellbeing only insofar as what's needed to train him to fight the Empire, he would have stopped here and made changes to spare his back. His deteriorating health is a serious and blatant hindrance to his training, so Oromis is presumably also paying a price for this. I truly cannot parse any kind of rational for this other than Oromis believing that, if Eragon can break, then he's not worth anything, so nothing is lost if he pushes him to that point.

When Eragon refuses to continue with the triggers for his seizures, Oromis again adds this non sequitur that they will "surely fail" if Eragon """abandons hope""" which is still utterly irrelevant to potentially accommodating his wound. I find his sentiment of "rise and prove you can conquer the instincts of your flesh" especially ugly and disingenuous, because what is he conquering other than the agony that you needlessly force him through every fucking day?

Eragon's view of his "compassion" makes me so incredibly sad, because he feels like Oromis would take his pain if he could- HE CAN! He literally can, he can end your suffering that instant just by giving you permission to rest and work around physical exacerbation!!! He holds that power over you!!!!!! There's not a hint of compassion in his inaction, but Eragon is young and longs for kindness and he falls for Oromis's gentle disguise...

(If I may insert a personal sentiment: active harm contained within empty and dishonest words of care is an utter cruelty, especially when actual care is desperately needed.)

Now to shift tracks a little. I made another old post about this scene which gives a good introduction to the initial issue of Oromis giving Arya the fairth without Eragon's permission and then blaming Eragon for letting his emotions get out of hand. I won't restate all of that here, because there's another element of this scene I want to focus on. Oromis claims that the reason Eragon's feelings are an issue is because she can't confront them in any way without the risk of distracting or offending him, since so much depends on him. And that's a bald faced lie. None of the elves, including Oromis and Arya, care if Eragon's distracted or offended! If they cared about his focus on his training, they would do their best to prevent his seizures which become a far, far worse distraction than some little crush. And if they cared about offending him, they wouldn't tolerate Vanir repeatedly saying incredibly derogatory things to his face.

The reason why Arya refuses to handle his attraction in a clear and mature way and why Oromis blames and shames him for it is because his way of expressing emotions is inconvenient and unpleasant to them. He's heartfelt and earnest and they don't know how to deal with it, so they try to make it so that they simple won't have to, and Eragon will hopefully shoulder that alone, no matter how confusing or difficult it gets. And Oromis seriously insults Eragon's emotional intelligence and decency by implying that he would be incapable of training or opposing the Empire in a meaningful way if his feelings were allowed to exist, regardless of if they're accepted or rejected, such that everyone in Alagaesia would suffer. It this implicit weakness and incapability Oromis seems to perceive in some aspect of Eragon. It's so disgustingly condescending and inexcusable treatment towards the guy they're throwing to the wolves in the hopes that he'll win their war. Especially since he does end up doing and great job prioritizing and focusing on fighting for the sake of others while grappling to manage his emotions.

Now for the last main point I want to make. Oromis and Glaedr both refuse to tell Eragon about the Eldunari during their first stay, a decision that very, very nearly gets him and Saphira captured, tortured, and enslaved. They only narrowly escape because of not only their luck that Murtagh was the new Rider and his good will spared them, but also the lucky chance that Galbatorix had phrased his orders loosely enough to let Murtagh act on that good will at all. That's how close it came, just because Eragon didn't know to expect Murtagh's strength with the Eldunari. Yet neither of them apologize for withholding that; instead, they tell him that the reason they didn't tell him was to protect Saphira from Eragon. They do not trust him and they do not respect him. They wouldn't place the slightest modicum of trust in him to not want to harm his own dragon and make a wise decision informed by their advice so that they could tell him the most crucial piece of intel in the war they're begging him to fight for them. They have utterly no respect for his intelligence or emotional regulation to do any of that. They don't even trust that Saphira should have the chance to tell him. They would rather let him fall victim to Galbatorix than believe he might deserve their confidence. And because of them, he almost does.

I don't even know what else to say. They don't apologize. They don't repent for it. They trample over Eragon's chance to defend himself and call them out. It makes my blood boil.

This is somewhat tangential, but I want to include this as a point that Oromis's abuse is a pattern. He openly admits that he recognized the detriment of Morzan and Brom's relationship, that he thought of a way to address it, and that he had the power to do so, and then he didn't do it. And he took these kids from their homes when they were TEN, he's not just their teacher, he would have a responsibility to look after their emotional wellbeing too. But he just didn't care enough to actually do it.

Last one. It didn't fit in neatly with the rest and I don't have a clever explanation for it. Just. What the fuck.

I will always be so sad and angry that Eragon never recognized how horribly the elves treated him and that no one else helped protect him from it either. Oromis is so insidiously and inexcusably cruel to him and Eragon truly deserved the chance to escape that and see the damage he caused, and also to then beat Oromis into a bloody pulp. And Glaedr too, honestly. He's mostly gone unscathed in my past rants, largely because at least his personality isn't so insufferable, but he ain't shit either. He's fully complicit in all of Oromis's vile abuse, and adds to it himself in certain places. They more than earn Eragon's ire, but they all constantly belittle him and insist that they inherently know better than him about everything, and poor Eragon believes them, so he doesn't fight back. No!!! Every misgiving you have about them is true, and not only should you stand your ground, but you should also start maiming them!!!!!

Oromis's mannerisms are respectful, kind, and gentle, but they in no way indicate his actual feelings. It just serves as a guise, while their actions demonstrate that both he and Glaedr don't have a single shred of respect for Eragon. They don't trust him, they don't put faith in him, they don't care about his wellbeing, and they have so much contempt for him. And they do all that while they take everything from Eragon, demanding he sacrifice himself constantly, and not always just in the interest of beating the Empire! In some cases it's solely an expression of their resentment of him or a way to cut away at the parts of him they don't like.

And Eragon gives them everything, so earnestly and generously. Then they give him jack shit. They only give him whatever suits their intention to use him as a weapon, and even in that, they pick and choose things to withhold according to their disdain for him. Contempt is all he gets in return for his trust and loyalty.

And it makes me sad how Saphira isn't there for him in this. In her defense, she's very young and they harm her also by prioritizing her utility to them over anything else, which she sadly does not recognize either. But beyond that, the elves and Oromis and Glaedr specifically treat her far, far better than they treat Eragon. She's in no way responsible for their actions, but there are places where she enables the abuse. Most often through overlooking it, but sometimes when Eragon rightfully balks at their mistreatment, then turns to Saphira for her input, she tells him, "I trust them and I think you should be deferring to them."

Eragon is so earnest and compassionate and he deserves care, both in the form of other people caring about his wellbeing, and also through the chance for him to learn how he can and should care for himself. Yet at the end of the series, he's so conditioned to accept manipulation and abuse and I just want my poor boy to have a chance to rest and HEAL 😭

[kiarasukulele]

Hate That I Love You (r.c.)

Summary: Where your drug, alcohol, and sex fuelled relationship has turned you into a cold and detached person. Both running from things in your lives, you and Rafe Cameron lose yourselves each night in each other and any substances you can get your hands on. 

(not my gif, if it’s yours let me know so I can credit)

requested: no

warnings: drug use & dependency, sexual content, swearing, drunk driving, toxic/violent relationship, ANGST ANGST ANGST (I'm sorry if I missed anything)

word count: 3.4k (issa long one oops)

(A/N): omg hi, it’s finally done. This is the first piece of writing I'm posting on here so I’m extremely rusty so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. Also, I am in no way trying to romanticize toxic or abusive relationships!! If you are experiencing something like this or have in the past, it is not love and you all deserve the world♡. Also thank you to @adoreyoudrews​ for just being supportive since the beginning and throughout this whole process (ilysm). Enjoy!!

He could be crazy, but some would argue that you were crazier. You’ve always been an impulsive person — but you both brought out the worst in eachother. You used to spend your days with the pogues who you called your best friends, but as you grew closer to Rafe he slowly put the idea in your head that you were better off without them. You would do anything Rafe asked you to, which might scare you to death. But your drug and alcohol-fueled relationship didn’t leave room for you to feel scared.

You squeezed your way through the crowd of intoxicated teens that were currently surrounding a game of beer pong in the kitchen of Kelce’s house. As you brushed past some of the familiar faces you would whisper, “Rafe is in the pool house, come if you have cash.”

You and Rafe became a team over the course of your relationship. The king and queen of the kooks. It was summer, and you had been doing what you wanted, whenever you wanted with your boyfriend. Days usually consisted of hanging out at the country club, golfing, or boating but they always ended with you and Rafe getting high or drunk together. The only time you ever felt bad was when you stopped the cycle, so eventually you just decided you wouldn’t stop. You were constantly around him, which your old friends would call “unhealthy” — which is exactly why they’re now old friends. All you needed was Rafe.

Once you spread the word to enough people about Rafe’s new supply of the “finest coke in the obx”, you made your way back to the pool house excited to try it yourself. As you were exiting the house, you passed a few acquaintances who would greet you with a smile and offer you a shot, which you happily accepted. The day someone sees (Y/N) (Y/L/N) refuse a drink will be the same day hell freezes over.

Opening the French doors of the pool house, you see a small group surrounding your boyfriend. Laughter and twenty dollar bills were being exchanged. You stood there for a minute to admire him. Cracking jokes and telling stories with these people before they would take a bump or in between them. When he wanted to be, he could be the most charismatic and magnetic person in the room, but it often flipped like a switch. The way that he could captivate an entire room of people whenever he wanted with seemingly no effort always left you astonished.

Sure, you guys fought like you hated each other sometimes but when you loved each other... holy shit you loved each other. And there was no inbetween with you and Rafe — your relationship was either scalding hot or freezing cold, it was never lukewarm.  

You strut towards Rafe with a devilish smirk. You eagerly pushed past every person standing between you and your boyfriend. He makes eye contact with you and his face lights up immediately. This is the atmosphere both of you have been happiest in lately. You were both running from things in your home lives that each of you knew better than to bring up to one another. As long as you and Rafe were running in the same direction, you didn’t care how tiring it would often feel.

He eyes you up and down as you approach him. You’ve discarded your shirt since the last time you saw him that night, your black bikini still damp from the pool.

“Get over here, baby” he mutters, firmly grabbing your wrist and pulling you onto his lap. The surrounding conversations continue as you make yourself comfortable on top of Rafe. He leans around you, gathering the white powdery substance into neat lines while you roll up a loose twenty dollar bill. When it comes to this, it’s like a ritual. The two of you move like it’s a dance you’ve rehearsed every night for the last few months — you leaning over, him holding your hair back, your nose brushing up against the cold surface of the table as the drugs enter your system. You lean back into your boyfriend as the euphoric sensation takes over. He eagerly begins to lean forward, to finish off the lines you left behind.

“No,” you mutter, grabbing a hold of his bicep to pull him back. He looks at you with furrowed brows, confusion written all over his face.

“What the fuck do you mean, no?” he spits. As mentioned, Rafe could flip like a switch at any moment. The bruises that would often litter your frail figure could attest to that, but you forgave him every time.

“I mean…” you trail off as you twist your body so your back lays flat on his lap. His demeanor calms immediately, as he catches on to what you’re asking him. He gathers the coke and lays it between your cleavage. As the drugs disappear from your chest, he kisses the surrounding area. If you were sober, you would maybe feel slightly embarrassed as the two of you had gathered somewhat of an audience. But sober you were far from. In this moment there wasn’t a trace of the guilt, anger, and sadness that would often plague your sober thoughts. You’ve convinced yourself it’s easier this way; and you really believed that you loved this boy.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Rafe was recklessly driving back towards his house with you in the passenger seat, head out the window and giggling uncontrollably.

“Get back in here.” he slurred, pawing at your skirt to try and get you to sit still in your seat.

You began to laugh even harder at his attempt to reel you in. Your whole upper body was leaning into the cool summer breeze passing you by.

“I’m not fucking kidding.” Rafe said firmly, losing his patience. Your laughter softened as you sighed, “Fine.”

Sitting in your seat you began to get bored after only a minute. Over the past few months you have grown to need constant excitement in your life. Things always needed to be fast paced and you craved the adrenaline that accompanied your reckless behaviour while under the influence.

You stared at Rafe for a moment. His eyes were hazy; hand switching back and forth from your thigh to a bottle of beer he’d been drinking as he sloppily navigated the streets approaching tannyhill. Your own eyes widened with the idea that suddenly came over you. Lifting Rafe’s hand that was resting on your thigh, you raise it to your mouth.

He glances over to you, a smirk spreading across his face. His index finger finds its way into your mouth and you begin to gently suck. His eyes are hungry as they flash between you and the road in front of him.

“You’re so hot, (Y/N).” he practically moans, a bulge appearing in his shorts. Roughly, he grabs hold of the back of your neck and pushes you down towards his crotch. Leaning over the centre console, you take him into your mouth.

If the drugs weren’t fueling your relationship — it was the sex. Taking place anywhere and everywhere — his father's boat, the office, the beach, or simply in between his french-imported sheets. It was while he was inside you that he unleashed much of his aggression and rage, especially if you had just been fighting. It might bother you, if it didn’t feel so damn good. You didn’t mind that he could be rough, violent, or cold towards you. You were all of those things too.

Between the drug haze, intoxication, and the feeling of your mouth around him his driving was becoming more and more reckless as he pulled into the long and swerving driveway of his house. He closed his eyes for a moment, basking in the feeling of pure bliss. As his eyes were shut, the car began to swerve. You jolted forward as you came to an abrupt stop.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Rafe muttered in a panicked tone, zipping up his shorts and roughly shoving you off of him as he exited the car. He had collided with the marble statue that resided at the edge of the Cameron’s driveway. Wiping the edge of your mouth, you exit from the passenger door to assess the damage.

You couldn’t help the laughter from escaping your lips as you looked upon the statue that was broken into pieces before you. Rafe was anxiously pacing, shaky hands running through his hair.

“What the fuck is funny, (Y/N)? My dad is gonna lose his shit!” he spat at you, still not able to keep your laughter under control. You couldn’t help it, you always found that statue of a naked man hideous and borderline creepy. Through the laughter you uttered, “Holy shit, it’s dick broke off.”

Rafe was getting angrier with you by the second. You picked up the cracked and detached marble phallus and started making obscene gestures with it, which Rafe didn’t happen to find as entertaining as you did. “What? Are you jealous, baby? I’ll save some for you don’t wor—” before you could finish your sentence, Rafe’s hand swung to knock the piece of marble from your grasp as he grabbed a hold of your jaw to keep you from talking. “Shut the fuck up.” he angrily slurred.

You pushed him back with all of the force you could muster. “Don’t you fucking touch me.” you spat. He took a few steps back due to the abrupt force of your shove. As much as he could push you around, you rarely sat there and took his shit without fighting back although you were no match to his 6’2 frame.

“You know what…” he trailed off. Rafe was looking between you and the shattered pieces of the statue that Rose had treasured. “Go the fuck home.”

His statement, the way he was looking at you with utter disgust, and the throbbing pain from where his hand had been gripping your jaw was enough to cause tears to form in your eyes. “What do you mean, go home?” you asked softly. Rafe had strayed from the usual pattern of events that would take place. Usually, you would have it out and scream at each other like maniacs for a good amount of time, before you each would break down and lose the argument somewhere between the sheets. Home was the last place you wanted to be right now. The place that should be associated with warmth and love could not be said about your large blue house with the wrap-around porch. Your mother and father hated one another — their least favourite characteristics about each other were reflected in you, their daughter. Most of the time they couldn’t manage to look you in the eyes, much less hold a conversation.

“I mean, I don’t want you here,” he explained to you in a condescending tone, as if you were an unknowing child.

All of a sudden, the anger you had just felt towards him was replaced with absolute desperation. Desperate to stay, for him to forgive you, for him to hold you even if it hurt. You’re not even sure what you’d be asking for forgiveness for — but you’d do it without hesitation.

Your shaky hands find his chest and you snake your arms around his waist. He stands frigid and cold, unresponsive to your touch.

“Please, I’m sorry baby.” you mutter into his shirt. “Let’s just go inside…” you trail off as you use the tip of your finger to trace shapes on his back, a weakness of his. You begin to feel him slightly relax into your touch.

Trying to diffuse the situation you add, “We can make something up about the statue. I know how Ward can be sometimes...”

He tensed up again. You knew better than to bring up his dad, especially in the state he was in right now. You were already blaming yourself for whatever would come next, before it even happened.

Rafe ferociously pushed you off of him sending you into the ground, knees scraping against the pavement. “You think you know everything.” he spat, “You don’t know shit, (Y/N).”

Rafe walks away and you sit there for a moment. All that can be heard is the pounding of your heart and the crickets chirping. You begin to think from this angle, you and the shattered statue didn’t really look much different.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

Walking the streets of figure eight, you begin to feel the effects of the stimulants wearing off. The distractions you so desperately seek are beginning to crumble around you — leaving you completely and utterly alone with just your thoughts, bloody knees, and shaky hands.

These streets were painfully familiar. Under the amber glow of the street lamps, memories uncontrollably flooded your mind. You were seeing it like a movie scene — from the days that you spent with the pogues riding bikes together fading into more recent memories of Rafe carrying you on his back on your way home from a houseparty. Sometimes you think of that girl you used to be. Even if you wanted to be her again, you had no idea how. Riding on the back of JJ Maybank’s bike while the sun was setting and the rest of your friends trailing closely behind you. You remember the sound of your laughter while your arms and hair danced in the wind. The thought reminds you of earlier that night in Rafe’s car and the similar sensation you had felt while leaning out the window. You immediately felt guilty for thinking about the past — you loved Rafe… and they didn’t want you with him.

Attempting to keep your thoughts from slipping out of your control, you begin to start thinking of what painkillers you could steal from your parents medicine cabinet. Continuing to stumble home while considering whether or not there was enough oxycontin or vicodin that could be stolen without someone noticing. Nobody ever did.

Noticing headlights approaching, you stagger to the side of the road. The streets were usually vacant at this time. You look to your right to see the van you once spent much of your time in, with the paint still chipped and surfboards strapped to the roof. You immediately avert your eyes, desperate to disappear into thin air. The constant presence of Rafe basically ensured that whenever you crossed paths, all of you would just look the other way.  

“(Y/N)?” you hear the familiar voice as the van slows down beside you. You hesitate before looking up, meeting the gaze of John Booker Routledge. You’re grateful it is only him in the van, seeing all the faces that represented your old life would be too overwhelming while you were in this state. You don’t slow down your pace, but he drives slowly alongside you awaiting a response. All that you do is quickly glance up with a forced smile, panic rushing over you as you think of what Rafe would say if he knew who you were talking to.

“(Y/N)… are you okay?” he asks, noticing the blood running down your shins and unsteady steps. “I’m great.” you reply, eyes glued to the road ahead of you. Your voice comes out sounding harsh. You feel a pang of guilt, but you’re not the same girl that John B remembers. You’ve become detached and full of anger — ready to unleash it on anyone in an instant.

“I can’t let you walk home like this.” he states with a sigh, looking between you and the road as he drives alongside you.

“You’re not letting me do anything,” you retort. “Besides, Rafe would beat the shit out of you if he found out.”

John B scoffs, “I’m not scared of your boyfriend.” You should be, you think to yourself. “And besides, I don’t see him anywhere.”

That comment caused you to stop in your tracks and stiffen up. John B hits the brakes. You constantly craved Rafe’s presence and standing on the side of the road bloody and bruised and practically sober, you never felt more alone.

“Shut up, Booker.” you almost whisper. His eyes softened at the use of his middle name that he only ever let you call him by, “Listen, I’m sorry. Just let me take you home.”

You think the faster you get home, the faster you make it to the medicine cabinet. So you get in.

What would’ve been a 30 minute walk was just a short 6 minute drive. Silence had filled the space between you and the boy who you once called your best friend. After what seemed like forever, your large blue house finally came into view. You were prepared to make a quick exit with just a simple ‘thank you’ but John B sighed as he put the car in park, obviously wanting to say something.

“(Y/N), I know it’s been almost two years but—” you cut him off, “We’re not doing this. Thank you for the ride but, we are not doing this.”

You manage to open the passenger door slightly so you can make a swift escape from the last conversation you want to have but John B reaches over you, slamming it shut and making you flinch which doesn’t go unnoticed. “Please let me say this.” he pleads. You sit there staring at your hands as he continues, “We never stopped caring about you. I don’t care where you are, or who you are with. Pogues for life… I don’t care how much of a kook you or everybody else thinks you are.”

You shake your head, “You think you know everything.” you recycle the words you had just heard from your boyfriend, “You don’t know shit.”

“You’re wrong.” he replies, “I know you, (Y/N).”

You break your gaze from your hands, looking at him in the eye for the first time. The words come out soft and sort of sad, “Not anymore.”

You exit the car and begin to walk towards the door of your cold and harsh home.

“(Y/N)!” John B shouts. You spin on your heels, with a sigh. What more can be said, you think. “You know where to find us… if you ever need anything.” With that, he drives away.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

You collected the pills that you hoped would make you forget the events that took place and snuck into your bedroom. Leaning against the counter of your ensuite bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror. Someone with messy hair, smudged makeup, and bloodshot eyes stares back at you. But what caught your attention was the hand shaped bruise that was beginning to form on your jaw. Your fingertips graze over the area as tears form in your eyes. You suddenly felt sick to your stomach. It wasn’t Rafe’s violent nature that scared you. It was realizing that no matter what he did, you would still love him. You pop the pills and head to bed.

❁❁❁❁❁❁

The sunlight peeking through your blinds wakes you up. With your head pounding, you reach for the aspirin that you kept on standby as this is how you were left feeling most mornings. Reaching for your phone, you hoped to god that you had messages from Rafe. 

No new notifications, just your lockscreen with a picture of you and him kissing from last year's Midsummers staring back at you. Unlocking your phone, you open your contacts. Scrolling to the letter ‘B’ you find the contact information that has laid idle for nearly two years. ‘Booker.’

You stare at the name for what seemed like hours, something inside you willing you to be brave and reach out.

Before that voice got too loud, it was interrupted by your ringtone. ‘RAFE♥’ spread across the screen and your heart rate picked up. You eagerly answered, “Hello?”

“Hi baby girl. Can you be ready in 15 minutes?” he asks, “I just picked up from Barry’s and we’re going to spend the day on the boat I think.”

You hesitate, remembering what it was you almost did mere seconds before you received Rafe’s call. “(Y/N)?”

You snap back into reality, “Yeah, I’ll be waiting on my dock.” you confirm.

“That’s my girl.” you smile at his words, “And hey, sorry about what went down last night. We were both really fucked up.” he chuckles.

You had forgiven Rafe before he even said the words, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I love you, (Y/N).”

“I love you too, Rafe.”

[sagebodisattva]

No Time-Space, Only Mind-Space

So recently, some of you may have noticed, that I’ve started to use a certain phrase; a strange new bit of terminology, that I’ve employed more then a couple of times in the past few videos. And this neologistic nomenclature seems to have piqued a little interest among you; leaving those within you wondering, what could this peculiar designation mean exactly? And this uncertainty has undoubtedly left many of you feeling anxious and watchful. Well, have no fear, the Meta Sage is here. The term in question is: “mind-space.” What is a “mind-space”, exactly? And to what, does “mind space”, apply?

The first outside inquest concerning this matter came about a week or so ago, when a commenter by the name of “The Trickster”, mentioned it specifically. Thereafter, the subsequent comment exchange that followed, served as the inspiration for this current video. But, before we delve right into the thick of the matter, I’ll read the transcript of that comment exchange, as it happened; to both, act as a supplementation to this video, and to hopefully, delineate for you, the basic premise of the subject at hand.

So, here’s the transcript:

The Trickster: You are hanging on to an unfalsifiable narrative that reality is just, as you called it, a "mind-space”, and anyone with differing ideas are lost in their own externalizations, or something. Did I get that right?

Meta Sage: More or less. Nice implication, but the “mind-space” is undeniable because it’s already the case before anyone can think about it. It’s the “space-time” theory that’s a conceptualization, and needs all kinds of explanations and narrative to support it.

The Trickster: Ergo, the mind-space theory is ultimately an unfalsifiable concept you choose to believe. As it can't be properly substantiated or debunked. See, I like you, Meta Sage. I don't dislike the ideas you put forth. But only a sheep refuses to question a particular narrative. And I also like poking holes in a narrative. “Space-time”, on the other hand, can be tested, debated, analyzed without an absolute perception.

Meta Sage: You have the whole thing mixed up, which I noticed last week when we were talking in the comments on the other video. You glossed over what I just said and reaffirmed a falsehood. To move forward, you have to break free from this obstacle; and you can do this more easily by throwing out the old model of reality. Case in point: If we take two people, wipe their minds clean of all memory, then put them together in a room to discuss reality, the “mind-space” is already the foundation of everything, before even one word can be spoken. The context of existence is undeniable, and this is a reality before any debates, tests or analyzations take place. The “space-time”, on the other hand, cannot even be discussed without first learning a whole bunch of things that one then has to assume as reality. There’s a slight difference. You have to be able to discern between reality and abstractions.

The Trickster: Yeah. I won't write a long response. Rather, I'll ask this, why do you assume the idea of a “mind-space” is inherently present in the minds of said individuals you mentioned in your example? If you propose life is a dream, most without some sort of philosophical capacity would just miss the meaning of such an idea. While time itself is experienced by everyone regardless if its an illusory and misunderstood aspect of reality. Most know time is the measurement of events in existence. A mental construct? Yeah. To some extent. But the “mind-space” idea is an abstraction by its very nature. An unfalsifiable idea which only needs one to believe, and no argument posed to it can truly debunk or pick it apart. Just because the mind serves as a useful interface for interacting with and perceiving the world it doesn't automatically mean the mind creates reality. Yes, we are experiencing something. But let's not jump to conclusions. But look, I won't claim to know everything. If I've got things mixed up feel free to correct me.

Meta Sage: Thanks for keeping that so short. Thing is, I don't have to assume an idea of awareness. Awareness is already the foundation. Or, said another way, because there is awareness, abstract aspects like "ideas, concepts and theories", about a so-called "existence", can be formulated. Now keep in mind, when I speak of awareness, I'm not trying to assign it an identity. It's not a consideration of a "me" or "them", when it comes to awareness. There's no "people" existing to experience something, nor any "world", and it certainly isn't a human's mind that is creating anything. Identities are part of the dream. None of this phenomena is your true identity. So the idea is to be able to discern between awareness, abstractions, and dream phenomena. Conflating these aspects is where the confusion arises. It's the context within the field of dream phenomena, that I call the “mind-space”, and this is to clarify the fact that it isn't a physical location. "Physical locations" are ideas formulated about a purely mental phenomena. As is "time" also. These are all just ideas about illusion. Only awareness is reality.

So, that was the exchange. And so now, I’d like to expand a bit more on the subject, and really try to make things nice and sparkling clear. In a sense, this particular teaching could be considered one of the core foundational principles of Pure Potentialism. If one can manage to grasp this essential teaching, much of everything else will fall into place a lot more easily. Simply put, one of the core principles of Pure Potentialism is that the context of experiential reality is the mind, not physical locality. This is what is meant by “mind-space.” The apparent “space” that things seem to occupy, is made out of pure mind, not made out of objective materiality.

Sounds easy enough, but it’s actually rather difficult to realize; as the idea of materiality is ingrained deeply into people’s minds unconsciously, so maintaining crystal clear clarity will be a very strenuous mental effort to undertake; and, to top that off, people don’t find any ego gratification in this, thus, are generally dissatisfied with the cold stark truth, and, ultimately, will deeply yearn to find some other kind of narrative; one that provides an explanation that places a great deal more importance on their ego’s supposed existence. That’s what matters most to the average man. His precious self image. His dandy pride. His lofty self importance. It’s really quite rather disgusting actually. So it’s an uphill battle the entire way. Thus, the way to start to make some tracks towards clarity, is found in the lucid discernment between awareness, abstractions and dream phenomena.

This is the stumbling block that The Trickster got snagged on. He got SNAGGED on it. The Trickster can’t tell the difference between awareness, dream phenomena and abstractions. He wrongly conflates them, then argues his points premised on this falsehood. So, I’d like to break this right down for you, which will hopefully lend some much needed cohesion to the matter.

1. Awareness. What is awareness? Awareness is the absolute base, and allows all else to be possible. It’s the original face, and the undermost real true identity, despite having no physical embodiment, or manifest qualities. What will we find to be the case, after every single falsehood is stripped away? After peeling back all the thoughts, the identifications with a self, the objects around you, the entire world; only this, is what remains. Awareness. And so now that there is awareness, there can be some “thing”, to be aware of. Or, “something can be imagined to be the case”, to be more exact. Now that there is awareness, awareness can be aware of imagination. And the imagination isn’t a thing. It isn’t located anywhere. Indeed, the imagination itself could be said to be imaginary. Hence, said another way, awareness can dream. And since awareness can dream, there can now be an aspect called existential reality. This is what awareness does. It imagines existential realities, with varying degrees of fleeting qualities. And this brings us to the next factor: dream phenomena.

2. Dream phenomena. What is dream phenomena? Dream phenomena is an illusion. It’s what the imagination of awareness imagines into being. There are no limits as to the possible variations the illusion can be imagined to take. And the context of any such imagined illusory variation, is what I refer to as the “mind-space.” The “mind-space” are the borders that hold together a particular illusion. Wherein, consciousness can now find it’s ground, and quickly begin to establish identifications that will bring it self affirming fortification. If this consciousness ever manages to become refined, it will perhaps recognize itself in it’s own reflection, and suddenly become self aware. And once self aware, there can now be these aspects called thoughts, ideas, beliefs, concepts, theories, and knowledge. Now a consciousness can philosophize about it’s own supposed “existence”, and make speculations about who, what, when, where, why, and how, this is. Which, brings us to the next factor: abstractions.

3. Abstractions. What are abstractions? Abstractions are the intellectual activity of a consciousness. The constant yammering of the inner voice. The ongoing internal narrative we tell ourselves is the storyline of our supposed existence. The purely intellectual deductions, and hence purely intellectual conclusions, that we THINK; and then go on to call that a reality. This is where things get murky, and then awareness, dream phenomena and abstractions become a muddled amalgamation of confusion; where now, one will have a hard time telling the difference between the concept and the object of reality, and may even mix them up entirely. This is exactly how the truth of the “mind-space” became forgotten, and how we now think we live in this idea of a “time-space” context; and went on even further to suggest that, the one and only true sure thing, the “mind-space”, is just a belief, and that the “time-space” idea, is actually the true default reality. Enter The Trickster.

So now you can see some of the reasons how and why this whole thing became so deeply convoluted. If the only things you think to question are only staged on a foundation of materialism, and inquiry into the intro-spectrum is something that never occurs to you as important, you are a pretty lame example of a skeptic. The Trickster makes the assertion that only a sheep doesn’t question a particular narrative, yet, oddly enough, doesn’t think to question the narrative of his own materialistic belief system. Apparently, he accepts as an unquestionable given that “time-space”, the normative mainstream belief system that has the general consensus of the shepherd’s flock, is a fundamental truth. And that’s truly rich. But, overlooking that for the moment, let’s move on to address one of the central themes of his argument: that the “mind-space”, is unfalsifiable; and cannot be properly substantiated or debunked.

Well, as far as being “substantiated”, is concerned, everything I’ve said thus far should leave no doubt as to why this isn’t that hard to flesh out. It’s only your over-thinking process that makes it extraordinarily over-complicated. Awareness is the fundamental truth. This might be about the only thing one can say to be, “self evident.” Without awareness, you cannot cast doubt, or weigh evidence, in the first place. Without awareness, you cannot even begin to make substantiations. So, if you actually have consciousness, and are not just a mindless zombie, then your consciousness is substantiated just by being conscious. What other evidence would you require that you are conscious, other than being conscious?

And as for debunking; what the hell would you hope to debunk anyway, your own consciousness? That seems a bit counter intuitive; and this is what makes me think that you’re just playing the usual little bullshit games of a delusion whore. Stop it. You have an absolute foundation that establishes a proper setting for investigative inquiry, and you wish to lessen it through doubt, or minimize it to some secondary status behind inanimate matter, for what purpose exactly? Or, as he so eloquently put it, “it’s a useful interface for interacting with the world.” The “world”, he comfortably assumes; but what gives context to his entire existence, he harbors reservations. And by the way, no one ever said that the “mind-space” creates reality, so it’s actually YOU who jumped to those conclusions. As previously stated, awareness dreams of a “mind-space”, and the context within that “mind-space”, is what you are wrongly calling an objective world. The “mind-space” is not a useful tool for interfacing with a world, no. There is no world. The “mind-space” is the composition of reality itself.

And if I need to go over the fallacy of the whole time delusion again, then you probably haven’t been paying attention. I’ve already deconstructed the idea of space, and much the same will apply to the concept of time. Yes, the idea of time is only an abstraction. The patterns you see in nature do not represent time. One rotation of a planet around a star is not indicative of any objective factor operating in the universe. There is no universe. Time is a completely fabricated ‘relative-to-a-subject’ tool, and nothing more. And it doesn’t matter that you can test it, debate it, or analyze it, without an absolute perception, (whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean), it doesn’t change the fact that time itself doesn’t exist independently to the factor that is giving time significance. So assuming the concept of time as some kind of fundamental groundwork of reality is a big problem. There’s no problem, on the other hand, with the truth of the “mind-space” reality. The only problem here, is your over-thinking intellectualism. An over-thinking intellectualism that likes to over-think so much, it now believes it’s ideas are reality, and that the actual reality is an idea. Nice!

And when it comes to “falsification”, that whole idea is largely stupid. Why would you make the criteria for a phenomena to be considered scientifically, a prerequisite of having certain conditions where the phenomena can be shown to be false? Does that seem to be reasonable? If that’s the case, then gravity is unfalsifiable, as it can be tested ad nauseam, and never be shown to be false; and yet gravity remains an accepted truth within the scientific community. And, on the flip side of that coin, astrology can definitely be shown to be false. So that suddenly makes it legitimate, and now qualified as eligible to be considered scientifically? What the fuck? Something’s definitely not quite right with that line of reasoning. And that’s why the idea of falsifiability is an impotent repellent against the truth. Maybe this qualifier was concocted as a ward against a god theory, but other then that, it accomplishes very little else. Again, why would you need to falsify your own consciousness? Why, other then to create distractions in an attempt to preserve your delusion; which, only causes confusion and delays.

Awareness is the absolute truth, and no, you cannot falsify the truth, under any circumstances; otherwise it isn’t the truth. The truth is the truth, and falsehood is falsehood. That’s why truth and falsehood have two separate distinctions, instead of being considered as the same distinction. Truths are never conditionally false. The truth is always the truth. Only a falsehood has the potential to be considered as conditionally true; and that’s due to the designs of illusion; but, that’s not why we’re here today.

Why is awareness the undeniable default axiom of existence? Because it’s the foundation of everything, whatever you want to call that. Whether you wanna say it’s the foundation of being, of consciousness, of physics, of material universe, of existence, or of whatever else you can come up with, matters not. The context is awareness. And that’s why it’s the ONLY sure thing. It’s not that there’s an idea of a “mind-space” inherently within you, but rather, that “mind-space” is the inherent groundwork for consciousness. Understand, this is not just a conceptual theory. It’s already the case before the development of intelligence. You don’t look outwards for it. You are already it. And you were already it, before the expansion into advanced philosophical thinking. No, it’s not god. No, it’s not materiality. Those are all prime examples of making outward attributions; what I like to refer to as, externalizations. Stop wallowing in the confines of mental slavery. You are beyond anything found within the “mind-space.” You are pure potentiality itself.

[darkvolley]

Ah yes, my brand. Zemyx requested by both @nocturnalmelody and @squidsun

Who cooks normally?: Ienzo will cook the most since Demyx is, ya know, lazy. He's not very creative about it though. Demyx on the other hand, is interested in the finer points of the culinary arts, but he never has the motivation to actually do it. Also he's just naturally a bad cook so, it really is best to leave it to Ienzo, even if they don't end up with anything special or fancy to eat. It's better than food poisoning.

How often do they fight?: Eeeehh… so-so I'd say. Like, Demyx almost never starts a fight, but if Ienzo does then its because of something Demyx did or didn't do. Like if Demyx refuses to clean up a mess he made then Ienzo will pester him about it, which can get annoying, but like, really Demyx. Just clean up. It's not that hard.

What do they do when they're away from each other?: For Ienzo, he can talk Demyx's ear off, so while apart he just keeps a mental checklist of all the things he wants to tell Demyx once they see each other again. Sometimes the list can get really long. For Demyx, he goofs off more than usual. Ienzo is good at keeping him in line and Demyx actually likes doing things for Ienzo(if its not too much work), but when apart it's like that one meme thats like “My girlfriend is away so I'm gonna cut all the sleeves off my shirts.” “Why?” “Because she's 75% of my impulse control.”

Nicknames for each other?: Demyx still has a habit of calling him Zexion on occasion, just cuz its a hard habit to break so that ended up becoming a nickname. If he wants to be goofy, or actually genuinely romantic he'll call Ienzo things like “my sonata”, “dolce”, or “beautiful melody”. Ya know, musical terms. Ienzo doesn't really call Demyx anything other than his name, but he's been known to say “Dem” on occasion.

Who is more likely to pay for dinner?: You know Demyx would forget his wallet. So generally its usually Ienzo. If Demyx didn't forget then they'd both be equally likely to suggest paying. But the second Ienzo even slightly insists he should pay instead, then Demyx backs right off and let's Ienzo pay.

Who steals the covers at night?: It would be Demyx if Ienzo's whole body didn't make it difficult to do so. Ienzo definitely prefers to snuggle up with Demyx so focusing on that makes hogging the blanket a tough job.

What would they get each other for gifts?: Demyx is more of a home made gifts kinda guy. If his gift isn't playing a song and he wasn't lazy enough to do absolutely nothing then he'll turn a date into a gift. Like spending the whole afternoon together and making a whole bunch of new and wonderful memories together. He's gotten flak about it from the others, them saying a date doesn't count as a gift, but Ienzo certainly disagrees about that. There have been extremely rare occasions though where Demyx will get Ienzo a book he knows Ienzo was interested in, but that usually means getting help from others to find it. As for Ienzo, he's more into getting small gifts. He gets worried about Demyx's fingers from all the sitar playing so he mostly gets Demyx picks. Demyx prefers to play with his fingers instead, but he definitely loves his pick collection.

Who remembers things?: Demyx is so forgetful, it's always Ienzo remembering things. Demyx even knows how forgetful he is so he tells Ienzo to remind him and Ienzo never fails to do so. It gets annoying when Ienzo has to tell Demyx the same thing over and over again because of it. Although sometimes Ienzo can get so focused on research that he zones out everything else and forgets things himself. In a rare turn of events, Demyx is the one reminding him!

Who cusses more?: Demyx is more profane in public than Ienzo. He doesn't use big potty words, but he often says “damn”, “crap”, and “hell”. Ienzo is extremely polite in public, but when alone he'll easily mutter “fuck” under his breath any for any reason he deems worthy. Still, Demyx has the higher word count.

What would they do if the other one was hurt?: For a normal, small injury on Ienzo, Demyx would sorta overreact. Like whole “ohmigosh!” type freaking out with constant “Are you okay!? Is it okay!? You're not dying are you!? Oh my god he's dying!” The last part is either a joke or serious and the truth tends to alternate with each new injury Ienzo sustains. For a battle sustained injury to Ienzo, you know Demyx is finally gonna get serious for once in his life. He gonna be retaliating like he's from the Cave of Remembrance. (If it's Myde then he whipping out them mad Keyblade skills) For a normal, small injury on Demyx, Ienzo would be more bothered by Demyx making a big deal out of it. If it was an injury that actually hurt tho, then he'd definitely take over a nurse type role for Demyx. Making sure it got patched up just right and he doesn't do anything to make it worse. For a battle sustained injury to Demyx, without any powers now Ienzo would just protect Demyx by using his body as a shield. And now I'm sad :’(

Who kissed who first?: Ienzo kissed Demyx first. I'm a little hesitant to go into detail about it since I wanna put the scenario for it into something I write, but trust me, Ienzo working up the courage to kiss Demyx first is very, very good.

Who made the first move?: Ienzo got feelings for Demyx first. He was definitely shy about trying anything, but he at least put forth effort to strengthen their relationship, so technically Ienzo made the first move just by trying I'm a general sense.

Who started the relationship?: I feel Demyx would. Like, even after everything Ienzo would still be too nervous to outright ask Demyx if they could be together, so after falling for Ienzo, Demyx would take it upon himself to start the relationship by being the best boyfriend he could be.

I will now proceed to pass out cuz I can barely keep my eyes open.

[xheartpages]

@heartsaked asked: kICKS DOWN YOUR MOTHER HECCING DOOR WITH FORCE OF A GREAT TYPHOON

ahem. shadow, my bae, the love of my life, my other meme half. if you didn't think i wasn't gonna come out this year SWINGING and showering you with every bit of love i have to show you how gay i am ( and you know, to win the gay war because i refuse to lose to you!!! ), then you've got another thing coming !! i mean i don't know where to start because i am always filled with so much love and respect for you, but i gotta start somewhere with my disaster self

first of all i just wanna say that i, as always, am just... so happy that i still have you in my corner. despite everything that this universe tried to throw at us, i'm just so happy to have you as one of my dearest friends for 6??? 7??? years now ( idk wtf is time ). we've been through so much together, the good and bad, and we've still managed to stick together and become stronger for it. like if that isn't some gay af shit idk what is. and finally being able to hang out with you, a dream of ours for years, a few months ago was GREAT. even if you enabled me to buy more books that i didn't need ( i still love them though ), i just had such a blast just vibing with you. i really can't wait for us to do it again

secondly, you are such a talented writer. and don't you DARE for a second forget that. the thought and care you put into your muses for their headcanons, regardless if in their canon or for aus, has been a constant joy and pleasure to read. and i just love the added depth you give them. i have enjoyed every convo we've had when it comes to sharing headcanons, especially for some of the muses we both share. even if sometimes those headcanons hurt me and i gotta threaten to fight you in a denny's parking lot at like 3am. but at least i can semi clap back with sending you sad asks about them ( case in point, zhongsemi, wink wonk ). but still, i always look forward to your asks and threads and i always am so excited to answer anything from you, regardless if on jack or on your multi.

and lastly, i am super glad we are continuing our efforts to increase our army with all the different combos we have. every dynamic that we have between our muses means so much to me. especially top contenders of like, lucifer/simeon, mako/noé and korra/hawks to name a few. and you know i'm always down to clown with even more dynamics, regardless if their agendas have yet to start or even new ones from whatever muses we add ( and by we you know i really mean me because i'm the dragon of muse hoarding )

all in all, shadow i love you with all of my heart. i will always love you and more than anything, i wish you the best new year. if 2022 doesn't treat you kindly then you know i won't hesitate to fight for you. mwah 💖

Before 2021 ends tell me something you always wanted to tell me.

wow.... you gay :/ ( post reply )

jgosdkogkdsog but this is such an amazing thing to wake up to. I don’t even know where to start in order to return all this love, so i’ll have to improvise and pray to god that it’s enough ldksjglkfdg.

I am also very glad that with everything that changed over the years, you’ve been one of the consistences. I don’t know how because i feel like i get worst every year, but you’re always still here, even through our differences and slight disagreements, which is amazing to me. and on top of that, i was able to point finger guns at you in person!!! which is incredible, and something we have to do again as soon as we can. ( so i can bully you to buy more books :) )

And I enjoy all of our interactions and writing too! And I enjoy having my inbox full to almost bursting of you and your memes, despite us both knowing that you’ll never win : ) there’s so many interesting combos we can make, and it’s always so fun to see which ones stick as like... some of the top ships. ( like the ones you mentioned, including shaw/jack ) and it’s always so fun to toss ideas back and forth with you, even for muses we have in common. because while we have some differences with them, there’s also a lot of similarities... which i always find fun.

I don’t wanna just repeat the things you sent, but please know they all apply from my end too. I love you to pieces and I’m excited to go yet another year with you, and i hope it’s a better year for both of us. But at least we know that we’ll still have each other through it <3

[gendice]

(1) oh honey I feel your struggle. I'm a writer in this fandom too and like... I KNOW my stuff is good. I know it. And I have spent MONTHS on fics before only to post them to a lukewarm reception. It sucks because there are so many factors. So many! Posting time vs timezones, how many followers you have, the off chance of a popular blog reblogging it.. etc. And the most frustrating thing is sometimes I'll get a good reception on one website but NONE on another site, for the exact same fic!

The unfortunate thing is that’s just kinda .. how it is. It blows dude like fandom artists don’t really have to face that? The barrier to entry for them is so much lower I think. I’ve been writing for a very long time and I’ve sort of come to terms now with the fact that sometimes a story is just only going to get so many likes/comments/etc. Even when I think it deserves more or even when I feel like I haven’t gotten back nearly as much as I poured into it in the end I just try to remember that I’m writing for me more than anyone else. Everything I write makes me a better writer, so even if I post a fic and it only gets half the notes I’d hoped for, I’m still glad to have written it and put it out there. I’m still glad for the people who did read it and love it. I’m not trying to be preachy or anything, its just hard watching you struggle over something I’ve also struggled with for so very very long :/

Even established writers struggle with this! Like, I have a fic on ao3 that���s got 1000+ kudos and yet the Tumblr post for it slipped completely under the radar with few notes. You just can’t predict the whims of the internet sometimes. The only thing you can do when you’re sad about the reception of a story is to keep writing. The more you write the bigger you audience grows!! It’s the only constant that’s stayed with me from fandom to fandom. If you just keep writing, the readers will come.

sorry for the wall of text!! I really thought your story was lovely, and had a unique style to it. I hope you keep on writing no matter what, from one writer to another. Don’t be discouraged :)

hhhh h h ok i don’t want to discredit artists bc i know they spend a lot of time and effort on their works too but i think it’s easier for them to get notes/reception bc their works are visual and people can see what it is at a glance and decide whether they like it or not instead of having to spend actual time reading a bunch of words lol 

but anyway you’re right and logically i DO know there are plenty of factors to how well a fic will be received but also i can’t help but worry that it’s my fault that they’re doing so poorly?? i worry that the content that im putting out isn’t what people want to see which is the reason why my fics do so badly and, idk, i want to know what im doing wrong and what i can do to make it better but i just can’t? im not trying to say that my fics are better than those that get more hits/kudos but i can’t help it when i look at some more popular fics and i try to study them but i dont get what people like about them so much?? sorry this just makes me sound like a jackass but it’s probably just personal preference and mine being so different from the majority of the fandom’s which is also why i can’t write stuff that people like 

god i know everyone says that you should write for yourself and part of me does which is why i stick so closely to the style that i do but also it’s just,, numbers in the form of hits/kudos/notes serve as affirmation that my stuff is good, and it’s the only thing my flimsy-ass self esteem can rely on because i absolute hate hate h a t e the stuff that i make sometimes and i doubt myself so much all the time so when i see that a fic does well, it tells me that hey this isnt so bad, but when i see a fic flop it’s like, confirmation that my stuff stinks big time which is. its a sucky feeling. i know it’s not good to have that kind of mentality but it’s just the way that i am??? lets be real here like i can say in confidence that im a thirsty bitch and i do want people to read and like and kudos my stuff and my self esteem gets kicked repeatedly every time my fics flop so. h yea h 

honestly if it werent for my followers on here (sorry 2 everyone) and me shoving my fics in their faces i probably wont even get more than 100 hits on my fics lol and i feel kind of bad bc a part of me wants to deserve the hits and kudos that i get instead of having them just bc i kept yelling at my followers about my fics (i kind of feel like those people who would hold up the news and yell hear ye in medieval times or whatever) but. idk im conflicted cos i know this is one kind-of efficient way to get people to notice my fics. but part of me feels Bad when i do so too but idk. its also bc of this that i refuse to tag people or ask them directly to rb my fic posts bc i’d feel really guilty and ashamed and i don’t want to use people in that way?? and i’m not close friends with a lot of people on here either especially popular content creators so honestly i don’t think a lot of writers/blogs with large followings would rb my fic posts either so basically im just fucking myself over lol 

god sorry im ranting and i know i don’t technically have a right to bitch so much since as i’ve said before 1) my stuff isn’t as good as some other people who i know face this same problem and honestly deserve so much more attention for their works and 2) i havent even been writing for that long so i really am not allowed to complain but hh h h idk i just get super frustrated over this i cant help it

[exsanguisdraconis]

o6﹕ is  there  something  about  the  roleplay  community  that  irks  you ?

10﹕ is  there  a  piece  of  your  character’s  canon  that  you  refuse  to  accept ?

25﹕ who  is  an  author  whose  writing  inspires  your  own ?

27﹕ what  is  a  trend  within  the  rpc  that  you  would  consider  to  be  overrated ?

28﹕ what  is  a  turn - off  when  you’re  seeking  writing  partners ?

39﹕ what  would  you  say  is  the  best  faceclaim  decision  you’ve  ever  made ?

o6﹕ is  there  something  about  the  roleplay  community  that  irks  you ?

I’m gonna be honest I rewrote this a few times bc I got too salty. In the end my big thing is like... I feel like people take everything to extreme and it’s kind of exhausting.

Like some people will take good concepts and just turn them into weird, rigid rules and honestly treat their partners really shitty.

Like dropping threads. Dropping threads, as a concept is fine because we all get busy or lose muse or just shit happens, right? But it’s taken to such a weird extreme where like it’s ok to drop anything at any time for no reason and no one can call you on it and the time and creative effort you’ve put into all the plotting and writing the starter means absolutely nothing because they’re not “obligated” to do anything for you. And I’m just going to say it: that’s shitty. And if anyone reading this feels that way... you’re shitty for acting like that. Yeah, in a social hobby you do have social obligations to the people you’re participating with. I can’t just stand out in a baseball field and take up a spot on the team while doing shit all because it’s just a game and I’m not obligated to do anything for anyone. I’m not saying you have to hit home runs 24/7, god knows I don’t, but you have to try. Communication, engagement in other ways (memes, chatting ooc, shit posting, maybe different threads), offering to write the next starter/come up with the next plot after dropping something, all those are ways you can just be a decent partner.

Reblog karma is another one. Great idea as a concept. No one wants to feel left out or have their notes clogged up, so it’s not great to make a constant habit of reblogging memes without sending any, but again, people gotta freak the fuck out and they never consider why someone might not reblog from the source. Maybe they don’t have the spoons to read through the whole meme and send shit, maybe the source isn’t easy to find. I used to reblog memes because I knew when I got on later to look at my blog or answer anything I’d gotten, I’d see who I reblogged it from and know where to send it to now that I was off mobile. 

It’d be one thing if the RPC was filled with children but the circles I’m in really aren’t. Everyone is at least in their mid 20s acting like this and it isn’t cute. 

I’ve gotten away from those types of people in my group of current partners. I feel like every person I write with understands like healthy balances and just being kind in general, but it’s very very frustrating to try and find new people to write with and read this shit in their rules.

10﹕ is  there  a  piece  of  your  character’s  canon  that  you  refuse  to  accept ?

There's a lot of Loki canon in the MCU that I'm just like "no fuck that." I'm sorry, unpopular opinion, I did not like Rag. Number one all the shit with the Grand Master was gross and I hated it. Number two, you can say Thor one is boring all you want, but it felt way more genuine. Everything in Rag was just a cookie cutter Marvel thing. And Loki in that movie is kind of ooc for me, though you can't tell because his personality shifts with every single iteration. Fenrir was disappointing, Hela's story was a whole mess, we didn't even see Jor??? Trash. Trash it all in my opinion. It has no bearing on my Loki. I know that my Loki is---out there, but I still feel like he stays very true to that original MCU version of him we see in Avengers/Thor and even in The Dark World.

25﹕ who  is  an  author  whose  writing  inspires  your  own ?

I really like Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.

I not only love Gaiman's work, but I love his audiobooks where he reads his own work. You can just tell the passion and consideration he has for his work as he's reading and I love it.

Pratchett is mostly for his humor and style. It always makes me excited about fantasy and inspires me to examine the ways I write my own shit.

27﹕ what  is  a  trend  within  the  rpc  that  you  would  consider  to  be  overrated ?

Idk. I don’t really follow a lot of people that obsess over being trendy, so I think a lot of that cool kid shit misses me.

28﹕ what  is  a  turn - off  when  you’re  seeking  writing  partners ?

Kinda what I said in the first bit. I've gotten very good at finding those kinds of people before ever even following. Like if you have a laundry list of things ppl have to do before talking to you or like, you get pressed when someone you didn't follow back likes meme or a photo post that you just reblogged? Get the fuck out of here. 

39﹕ what  would  you  say  is  the  best  faceclaim  decision  you’ve  ever  made ?

Look it doesn’t pertain to this blog, but it took me forever to find a faceclaim I liked for Beck. I had a very specific vibe I was going for and needed someone expressive and playful and I really like Eliza Taylor for Beck. I’ve never looked back.

But I tell you I’m having just as hard of a time looking for one for Cherry on this account, and it’s one of the main reasons I don’t currently have her listed as a muse. That and idk she’d be the only dwarf on here, but she is directly connected to Ena. So playing her anywhere else feels weird. Anyway, to make a short story long if anyone wants to help me find fc ideas for Cherry hmu