#curse neurosis

[polypinks]

pepoyo transparent renders!

from kamihikouki, curse neurosis, & amedama! f2u, no credits needed~ likes/reblogs appreciated!

[sh4tt3rg1rl]

無益の同情　しなくて結構

無敵の現状無抵抗

こんな憂鬱続くなら

一生呪うぜノイローゼゼゼゼゼゼゼ！

[bunny-bun-draws]

🗑 Ah... I’ll curse you for the rest of time, neurosis! 🗑

[biboomerangboi]

Hua Cheng essentially cockblocking himself for possibly all of eternity will literally never not be the funniest thing MXTX ever wrote.

Xie Lian was pretty much completely in love with him the second he saw those lanterns (and completely oblivious about it) and then we get the wonderful first kiss underwater moment and Xie Lian is basically drawing hearts around Hua Cheng every time he sees him. While like quietly dying cause he literally has no idea what to do with it. Like at this point he doesn’t even really understand that he is head over heels totally gone for this man.

Until Hua Cheng is like I have a beloved I just haven’t won them over yet. Which he thinks is perfectly reasonable because his self esteem is the worst and he doesn’t understand how he could have won Xie Lian over yet. (He’s only on step 22 of his Marrying Dianxia 3000 step Master Plan ((that he debates throwing out on a regular basis because he doesn’t deserve to even dream about wanting Xie Lian)). So course he’s like yeah I have this wonderful noble beautiful beloved I just haven’t won them over yet wink wink nudge nudge.

But Xie Lian is like oh of course obviously I don’t deserve nice things and fuck I actually wanted him so badly I’m actually in love with him and now I will resign myself to never being happy for his sake. (Their combined self esteem is truly a so low it’s a hole in the ground which is hilarious because they think the other person is to good for them and unattainable forever because they literally have the same neurosis.) So he starts boxing up his feelings forever constantly wanting Hua Cheng and feeling guilty about it and literally dying inside because he wants Hua Cheng like he’s never wanted anyone.

Like essentially books 3 and 5 only happen because Hua Cheng has now cursed them both by saying he has a beloved because Xie Lian believes he isn’t wanted and therefore any nice thing Hua Cheng does is just him being nice and not Hua Cheng pulling out steps 23-34 of his plan thinking he still hasn’t won Xie Lian over. (He has he so has but he shot himself in the foot so badly it’s painful to read).

Like thank the Gods Hua Cheng is so unhinged and created the cave of 10000 Gods cause Xie Lian would literally be at his own wedding to Hua Cheng still convinced he wanted someone else and this was in fact a thing they were doing to solve a case together otherwise.

Like he needed something that unhinged to put 2 and 2 together otherwise he never would have caught on he’s Hua Cheng’s beloved. Meanwhile Hua cheng is like �� he’s going to think I’m a weirdo now and I’m only on step 50 of the plan 🥺 like the two of them wouldn’t have been fucking nasty 2 books ago if he just kept his mouth shut and didn’t cockblock himself so violently.

[bezumnie-nekuda]

Curse Neurosis

[ronearoundblindly]

Ransom x reader

Enemies to lovers , bot came from wealthy backgrounds as one is a trust fund (ran) then the other has her life getting good with a buissness outside her family . Why are they enemies at first? Shes admired for not relying on her folks too much as a teen and down to earth , enjoys the finer things as she views them as a reward or gift but ransom Demands that shit they also bicker how shes freinds with people bellow her and she sasses him how he always rely on perks thats petty

Warnings: so. much. cursing. It's all from Ransom's point of view, and since he's a disturbing(ly sexy) asshole, that translates to language. Plus smut (protected sex) MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. Reader's background/company is ambiguous. Also of note is the 'enemies' portion is quite subtle. WC 4k

The Root of All Ransom, Part One (see series)

There’s new money and then there’s new money.

Ransom loves the smell of new, physical money, and because he spends so much of it, he gets to feel those crisp bills all the time. Sure, his black card gets the same look at a register, but the plastic gets tattered after a while. The metal cards are a nice touch. Hefty. Metal makes a great tapping sound when he’s bored of waiting for a retail worker to do their fucking job and let him leave already. Cash is easiest to toss down and run out. He likes all forms of money. Ransom is diverse that way.

You, however, you are the New Money, the shit that’s a title, the shit that’s been earned, and it reminds him of his mother’s ranting. ‘Self-made’ his ass. Grandpa Harlan never made Linda repay a dime; that’s not a million-dollar loan. That’s good, old-fashioned nepotism. That’s inheritance come early. Old Harlan is Old Money, but New Money You is just as stale.

“She’s a breath of fresh air,” the middle-aged woman beside him coos.

Fucking gross.

Each time Ransom sees you he gets a foul taste in his mouth. His nostrils flare. He can smell the budgeting on you even at a distance. For every one of these events (with swag bags and a charity write-off promise) where you make a speech after receiving an award for whatever—he’s already too bored to listen—Ransom drinks heavily to make it to the end of the night.

He hasn’t given a dime, mind you, but Harlan has, and Linda has. Neither of them ever wants to go hobnob. Linda would but can’t trust Richard at these things, so she sticks to daytime shindigs. Walt is a bumbling, awkward mess, so he can’t represent anything other than why big pharma for every neurosis exists. He’s not welcome. Instead, it falls to nowhere-else-to-be Ransom. 

He thought he’d hate the events as much as the company until he found a thick, silver lining: some starry-eyed wannabe is always seated at an adjacent table. Handsome, young Ransom is guaranteed someone to go home with. Bonus points if they give head during the car ride.

Tonight though, he fucks up.

Ransom Drysdale makes the mistake of chatting up your date: your friend, Mariah, from high school who’s in town for the weekend. She’s doing a remarkable impression of a bimbo socialite, and he’s already wasted most of the meal trying to land an unattainable prize—though not a worthwhile prize, obviously.

It’s not his fault; he was at the bar when you and Mariah arrived, so he had no clue.

He expects you to be defensive once you make your way back to the table after your speech and find your friend with him. Ran is sure his reputation precedes him. He looks great in the photo ops just as he looks for great ass. He thinks your smile seems forced until you get closer. All you do is tell them to enjoy themselves.

Mariah here looks like she’s about to drop to her knees under the table, and you’re gonna let her?

You can’t possibly be stupid enough to trust him, can you?

He snorts out a chuckle, thinking you may know your business but you clearly do not know people. He wants to fuck Mariah. Then he really wants Mariah to tell you about fucking him, ad nauseam, hopefully, multiple times. Then he’s not sure whether he’d prefer you want to fuck him or you be mad about him fucking Mariah. He’ll have to wait and see.

“Isn’t she the best,” Mariah tosses out as flippantly as her hair extensions over her exposed shoulders. “I’m surprised she wanted me to come instead of a real date.”

“Sure,” he swigs his whisky quickly, “but then I wouldn’t get you for the evening, too.”

If he’s not mistaken, Mariah just soaked the pretty little thong he can just see the outline of in her tight dress, so Ran lays on a few more easy moves and thinks it’s a done deal.

Alas, he is wrong, and you and your friend leave together smiling while he races to text a booty call to meet at his place in a half-hour.

It’s all very frustrating, and Ransom hates you that much more.

Ransom has two new coats, a half-dozen new shirts, a three-piece suit, three new pairs of shoes, and he’s looking for the piece de resistance: a scarf (or several).

He loves accessories because he loves to change things up. He gets bored extremely easily, and he feels better when he treats himself.

In Hermès, he eyes a few options. He might even bother to get that one for his mother just because it has a few hideous accent colors he knows she’ll hate. Linda will still smile tightly and fake gratitude; it’s the only type of gratitude she knows. He doesn’t find anything for himself though, so he heads to the counter and recognizes the curves of a woman’s backside…in a dress that he’s seen in multiple candid tabloid shots.

How old is that garment? Jesus. Have some pride, woman.

His bored greeting startles you.

“Mr. Drysdale,” you exclaim, hand over your heart, “good to see you again.”

Is it?

“Right,” he grumbles roughly. “What brings you out of your goodie-two-shoes hole this afternoon?”

You seem excited, but in a different way than he’s ever noticed. At events, you are the picture of humility, full of genuine gratitude (and possibly the only reason he knows what that looks like), but this is something else.

The salesman returns with your order and unboxes a Birkin bag for you to inspect.

Now you’re just plain giddy, overjoyed, and vibrating, and Ransom preens a little to see Ms. High-and-Mighty so lowered as to indulge in retail therapy.

That’s a twenty-five thousand dollar bag you’re holding.

“Nice color,” Ransom chides, but he isn’t rewarded with your deterrence. You simply turn to beam at him.

“My favorite!” Your hands return to sweeping over the beautiful pebbled leather. “I had to wait for years—which is fine—“ you quickly add “—but I promised myself I’d do ten hours a week of volunteer work to earn such an extravagance.”

“Are you going to use it?”

You nod without turning back to him.

“Are you going to enjoy it?”

Another saleswoman motions to help him with the scarf he holds, and Ransom says nothing to her but drops his black card on the counter.

“Very much so,” you say quietly, almost like a confession.

“Then what’s so crazy about that?”

You giggle. You actually giggle. You don’t tell him how wrong he is or judge his spending in any way, which is surprising when that’s all those events he knows you from are for—to get him to spend money their way.

Ransom doesn’t know what compels him to stand there with his small purchase and watch while your bag gets squared away. You don’t choose to wear it out of the store, something he finds patently ridiculous because it’s a fucking Birkin and you’re about to walk out of Hermes with it in a box in another bag.

He pushes off the counter to walk out with you, an idea springing up.

“You’ve met my mother, I believe.”

Your polite smile gives nothing away. “Yes, a few times. Very briefly.”

“Her birthday is next month—” he lets an employee open the door for you both “—her sixtieth, allegedly.”

“Oh, well, tell her happy birthday for me.”

“You could come.”

Your face scrunches but whether from his offer or the bright sun on the street, he doesn’t know. His sunglasses are already on. You rummage around in what looks like a tapestry bag on the bad side of vintage for yours. 

This is why you should have left using the Birkin, and he’s honestly surprised Hermès even served you looking like you do.

Where’s all that new money now, he thinks, because one bag is certainly not all of it.

“Why not? You both own businesses and run in similar circles.”

“Hugh, I don’t think—“

“Ransom,” he corrects with a sneer.

“Well, I just…” You regard him thoroughly for a long moment until a black car pulls up and its driver opens the door for you.

There it is. There’s a bit of pomp. He’s almost proud to see you being served. You’re just like him—or rather his family—in a way; you have help.

“Fine,” you say to Ransom while nodding to your driver, “text me the details, and I’ll see if I’m in town.” Even though your words are dismissive, they sound genuine and kind.

Yuck.

Your driver fishes a card from his breast pocket and curtly adds a ‘sir,’ before shutting you behind tinted windows.

Ok, so it’s not the easiest ‘yes’ he’s ever gotten. It wasn’t a ‘no’ either. Good news is that Ransom is not holding his breath. If it works, it works.

The idea is to flaunt you in front of Linda, not romantically, of course, but as a younger woman, perceived as better, more self-made, more successful, with a Birkin bag in his mother’s actual favorite color, while he gives her a scarf she’ll be revolted by. It’s perfect.

This did not at all go to plan.

Linda is supposed to be pissed. She’s supposed to be appalled and furious and have to hide that from her guests—which is most of the family, catering staff, and Harlan’s house help. She’s supposed to look at Ransom and know that he did this on purpose.

He told you not to bring a present for a reason, but he made damn sure when he picked you up that you were wearing that damn bag.

How the fuck was he supposed to know you’d go and be the dumbest bitch ever?

Linda got through two whole sentences of greeting after obviously clocking the Birkin and then turned it about her. She’s predictable that way, but you are not.

“That’s my favorite color,” she said.

“Mine too,” you said.

You both fucking laughed.

“I’ve always wanted one,” she said.

“You should have one,” you said.

He should have known right then except for on what planet does someone…

Ransom only stepped out for a few minutes to mess with Walt, smoking that sickening cigar. When he comes back in, there on the table right beside Linda is your bag. He looks around, but you aren’t in the living room. Then his mom smiles and pets the Birkin possessively.

“Oh, Ran, that girl is so sweet,” Linda coos.

Richard snorts in astonishment. “She’s really something.”

Ransom cringes at the lustful leer on his father’s face while he stares off toward the library.

What the shit? 

You gave his mother your bag? After one minute of conversation?

God fucking damn it.

He has no words. Ran just purses his lips and stalks off to the other room in search of you. You’re deep in conversation with Harlan, seated across from each other in the bay windows of the library in high-backed upholstered chairs. On the floor beside your foot is a Blood Like Wine tote, partially filled.

“Grandpa,” he interrupts, leaning one arm against your chair with a questioning gaze.

“Ransom, my boy, it’s good to see you.” Before he can get a word in, Harlan waves an arthritis-gnarled hand in your direction. “Have you met my neighbor?”

“Neighbor?”

You shrug with a weak smile. “I purchased the Carlyles’ old property last year but kept my apartment in town.”

He’s thrown off by this news, thinking. “That’s walking distance from here,” Ransom says flatly.

“Yes, it is. That’s why I can find my own way home tonight.”

“Ah,” Harlan taps his nose, “so you two know each other.”

“Your grandson was kind enough to invite me.”

“And you made quite a fucking impression,” Ransom growls while putting a hand on your shoulder.

Harlan flicks Ransom away. “Don’t be creepy, son. Get the lady a drink.”

“Mr. Thrombey, please.” You stand, forcibly pushing his hand off of you. “Ransom’s your family. Why don’t I get you boys something while you catch up?”

“Whiskey, neat, two fingers,” Ransom bitterly spits, shoving the hand in his jean pocket.

Harlan tsks him with a solemn look.

“The same,” his grandfather sighs before returning your smile. “I appreciate it, dear.”

“Anytime.”

Ran fights the urge to kick your tote on the floor.

Harlan simply moves on. “One of my next novels is an intrigue of corruption, involves a non-profit, and Good Miss was enlightening me to a few details of their inner workings.”

“Glad you both can turn it off for five minutes,” Ransom grunts back.

Harlan’s sharp gaze lands on him.

“While I am glad you did not use her and lose her, as they say.”

“God, no,” Ransom groans in revulsion. “She’s here to rub Linda the wrong way…not me.” He tries to bury his self-satisfied smirk in a sweater sleeve held to his mouth.

“Charming.” Harlan means anything but charming as he looks to see you side-tracked again by a chat with Marta. “You’ve done much worse before—“ he turns to the window “—but my guess is she never has.”

Ransom’s jaw twitches. This is why he hates his family, even his favorite among them. No wonder he brought someone exclusively to annoy them, hoping to make them feel small and selfish, but he forgot something important.

They’re all like him. None of them care to be selfless. They don’t want to be charitable. They are fine being perceived that way, if necessary, if it gains them something else they want.

But.

What Harlan says gives him another idea. What if he keeps you around? They are sure to lose their minds. Harlan would be impressed (and proved wrong). Richard will be jealous (although that’s still gross). Linda would be unable to manipulate that situation (though she’ll try).

Plus, Joni will hate you instantly because you’re prettier and don’t need her snake-oil skin shit.

“Harlan,” you offer his grandfather his drink first, then turn to Ran with that irritatingly kind smile. “Hugh.”

He takes the glass and flashes pearly whites.

It’s decided. He just hopes the sex won’t be as boring as he thinks. You’re definitely not a roadhead bitch.

Although based on that damn Birkin, you are stupidly generous, so he hopes that translates to the bed…or wherever he fucks you.

“Sure your shoes can take it?”

As if he can’t walk across the fucking woods…the embers of waning alcohol all push around in his gut on the trek over to the Carlyles’ place. He hasn’t gone over there since maybe freshman year of high school during a long Christmas stay at Thrombey Manor.

He was wrong. Ran’s shoes are not fine, but he has to bury that irritation down deep while entering the warm and inviting mansion filled with your...roommates?

Four other people live in a house that you sometimes stay in: Angela, Diego, Terrell, and Luca.

Ran doesn’t fucking care. This is not some weird orgy he’s planning. He almost walks right back out and floors the Beamer back to civilization.

Mercifully, you have most of the upstairs entirely to yourself, a small suite of a bedroom, office, and bathroom neatly tucked above a quieter part of the house.

He’s surprised that you drop the tote bag and start shedding clothes so quickly.

“Sorry about them. We all went to uni together and this works as a crash-pad for the internationals.”

“No problem,” he sighs, “I know what it’s like.” They’re freeloaders, like my cousin Meg, is what they are, but Ransom keeps that thought to himself.

You offer him another drink, which Ran accepts, watching you like a hawk with sky-blue eyes.

Beneath your dress, you wear a slip, a silky satin thing that actually impresses him. He’s convinced there is thick shapewear beneath it because that just seems like a you thing to do: one sexy move, one boner killer. Instead of showing him though, you spin your finger around in front of him.

“Really,” he quips. He’s already resigned to putting his dick in either way, so he doesn’t really care.

You smile too sweetly for it to read as coy. “Make yourself useful and go to my bag.”

“That’s not a bag,” he scoffs. “Might as well be made of tissue paper.”

He still obediently wanders over to the chair you draped it over and flips back a handle. Excellent. This nearly makes up for the entire party. Ran derives a sickening amount of pleasure from knowing these condoms were stored in the Birkin his mother will now carry around with pride.

He downs the remainder of his drink and whips out a wrapper. He wouldn’t care if you didn’t have any, or didn’t want to use one, or if you made some reference to them but the lights were off and didn’t check. The lights are still on though, and you’ve pointed him right to them. He’ll play ball. He hopes you play with balls, too. He hopes this is fun instead of just mediocre. He prepares himself to be actively bored, however, because that’s the most likely scenario.

It’s his usual MO. Works like a charm. Start out slow and teasing—girls tend to think it’s sensual but he’s being lazy (and they beg soon anyway)—until he can take over in exactly whatever fashion he wants. Except you don’t quite let things unfold that way.

He expects you to want him to kiss you, but you playfully turn away each time he advances. You swat his hands when he tries to touch you, only to grab the hem of his sweater and rip it off him. You don’t wait for him to unbutton his jeans before sliding cool fingers down past the band of his boxers.

Fuck, he does like it when they're forward.

He pops the button, pushes the zipper, and shuffles out of the heavy cotton while you get a good hold of him. Ransom doesn’t care that your hands are soft, just rough enough for friction and nothing more, and he doesn’t really care that your slip is still on because he’s figured something else out.

You’re not wearing underwear. He’s not sure if you were but tossed them aside while he grabbed the condom, or perhaps you’ve been speaking with his family for the better part of two hours with your cunt kissed by the same air they were all breathing, but he’s happy about it.

Ransom leans forward to you again, but instead of letting him kiss you, you look down to spit in your hand and work him harder.

“The sooner you suit up…” you taunt him, glancing at the wrapper still clutched in Ran’s hand, “sooner you get in for the night.”

He’s been with bossy doms before—not his favorite—but this is different. His instinct is that you want a show of it, maybe you want to see him touch himself, maybe you want to see his face as the tight latex is rolled down his throbbing cock, but you hold his gaze while turning your body away from him.

Since he doesn’t have to play up how he looks, Ran focuses on the expanse of skin across your back. There’s so much more than your dress showed, yet not enough, and it’s beautiful. He thinks about the same, smooth skin that must be stretched across your ass and rolls his hips against the fabric while his mouth maps your neck and shoulders.

Not romantically, of course, he’s not trying to make you feel better—you are more than capable of feeling yourself, but Ransom enjoys a little taunting of his own now and then.

His hands move to cup your breasts, and fuck, did you not have a bra on earlier either? This day is full of surprises.

His intense rutting coupled with teasing your taut nipples makes your slip catch between your ass cheeks, and he angles his dick to press through the apex of your thighs, taking the satin with him.

Pretty skin beneath his lips, pretty noises ringing in his ears, Ran pulls away.

The fresh wet spot on your slip sticks to the condom when he looks down at his demanding erection.

You’re ready. He’s ready.

Fuck, Ransom is so ready, and you know it, climbing onto the edge of your bed to get comfortable presented in all your glory, all the lights on, fingers already teasing and working yourself open.

This is already way better than he expected. He doesn’t have to work. He doesn’t have to try. He doesn’t have to fake interest. You handle your clit like the expert you are on yourself, and Ran works himself up, sheathed and thrusting in you like the expert he is on himself. Pleasure for pleasure, and fuck is it pleasurable. 

His fist holds onto the bundled satin across the small of your back, and you make natural escalating noises.

It sounds genuine.

Shit, when was the last time he didn’t get annoyed at some bitch hamming up her moans? Not that it distracted him from coming, no, he could get him whether she was dramatic or an awkward, silent one. Takes more effort when he has to ignore something she’s doing though. 

Then you demand he goes faster, and he’s into it. Then you come with a groan that’ll haunt his hindbrain, and he can feel the massaging grip and release. Then you take his balls in hand, tugging gently, and he fucking loses it.

He feels the hot flood of his cum into the condom as your walls still ripple against him. 

Damn, he doesn’t even care if you made him wrap up. That was fucking satisfying. It wasn’t even complicated, but you came and he came and that’s all he needed.

Ransom hasn’t been at a girl’s place in a while (certainly not without his car ready to get away) because he prefers to kick them out and already be home, but his hookups are usually clinging to the idea of staying the night.

You immediately go to the bathroom, clean up, and—now completely naked—stand at the foot of the bed.

“You good, Hugh? I’m on a call with Beijing in fifteen, so take your time—“ you button up a plain, blue shirt, your nipples showing right through “—or sleep or whatever. I’ll be a bit.”

“Only the help calls me Hugh.” It’s all he can come up with while he stares at your breasts and contemplates why he feels a bit used.

He got off, you’re not clinging to him, and you’ve given him an easy out. If he had to describe his perfect fucking date, this would be it, and his gut twists oddly just thinking about being dismissed.

You don’t miss a beat, heading for the door with only panties and the shirt on. Your ass pops out easily from under the hem.

“Suppose I’ll see you at the Kennedy thing next weekend, huh?”

Ran slaps his hand over his face, remembering there’s another fucking event coming up. “Yeah. Is that the stupid inner-city garden initiative?”

You hum in response, grabbing something else out of your flimsy purse tote. He better not see you carry that fucking thing around in front of actual fucking people. You don’t see him staring at your ass through his fingers before you swivel back around.

“If you need something, text me. Don’t knock.”

He snorts, knowing that he wouldn’t stay if a girl paid him to.

For one shining moment, you turn to beam at him. “Thanks for making it quick,” you chirp with a wink and shut the door behind you.

You goddamn wink at him after chucking him into the quickie category in your own mansion.

What the fuck?

Out of spite, he should just sleep here, he thinks. Let Harlan question why the Beamer is still in the drive. Let Walt stare at the car and know Ransom can get better pussy than that twat has had in a lifetime. Let Linda…

Hell, let Linda do whatever the fuck she wants and let Richard think whatever the fuck he wants.

Ransom takes his own naked walk of glory to the bathroom and does just that—he sleeps in a hookup’s bed all night, completely pleased with himself and his control of the situation.

a/n: Honest to god, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Genuinely, I swear. Now that I've plotted it out though...there was no way. I just personally don't really like more than 5k per Tumblr post. Too easy to lose your place. This way we stick with a three-ish-act structure, too. Squee! Hope you enjoyed this, and please let me know what you think in comments, reblogs, or anon asks!

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist]

[themasterofalchemy]

The crossroads of neurosis and psychosis

If I hurt myself first It takes the power from their hand If I hurt myself first I'm too wounded to see where they stand

A queer custom I've slipped into A fool's defense mechanism I, the jester of the court of tools A fortune teller lost in sentimentalism

The dreamer who sits in the clouds Has a funny way of striking herself down

Right there on the borderline, a star fell from the sky The children, the clowns, and the poets cried For only the overlooked till convenient Those heard but yet to be listened Can understand the void inside

If I hurt myself first That's a bleed I can manage If I hurt myself first It's a wound I can bandage

An odd philosophy I've subscribed to A personal attack of terrorism I, the radical of the harsh ghoul

The dreamer who strikes herself down Too heavy to sit in the clouds

Right there on the borderline, a star fell from the sky The children, the clowns, and the poets cried For only the overlooked till convenient Those heard but yet to be listened Can understand the void inside

You don't need to tell me what you don't find appealing I promise, I've thought it - and much worse You needn't say the lashing I'm sure you're thinking I promise, I know it, that of my curse

So right here on the borderline A star fell from the sky Silently crashed and burned so bright

Right there on the borderline

[libbee]

Inheritance

By Carl Jung

People do not realize just how much they are putting at risk when they do not accept what life presents them with, the questions and tasks that life sets them.

When they resolve to spare themselves the pain and suffering they owe to their nature.

In so doing they refuse to pay life's dues and for this very reason life often leads them astray.

If I have to suffer then let it be from my reality. A neurosis is a much greater curse.

One cannot do more than what one really is.

Suffering was inevitable in any case. But I want to suffer for those things which really belong to me.

A decisive factor for me in choosing this path was the knowledge that if I did not respond fully to my life's purpose and challenges then they would be inherited by my children who would have to bear the burden of my unlived life in addition to their own difficulties.

I am aware of what a heavy burden was passed onto me by my parents.

Such a burden cannot simply be shaken off. You find yourself weighed down with an inheritance that you have to accept and carry around like a snail carrying its house on its back.

[weil-weil-lautre]

One may be very far from the ascetic view of money as a curse and yet regret that analytic therapy is almost inaccessible to poor people, both for external and internal reasons. Little can be done to remedy this. Perhaps there is truth in the widespread belief that those who are forced by necessity to a life of hard toil are less easily overtaken by neurosis. But on the other hand experience shows without a doubt that when once a poor man has produced a neurosis it is only with difficulty that he lets it be taken from him. It renders him too good a service in the struggle for existence; the secondary gain from illness which it brings him is much too important. He now claims by right of his neurosis the pity which the world has refused to his material distress, and he can now absolve himself from the obligation of combating his poverty by working.

Sigmund Freud, "On Beginning the Treatment," The Freud Reader, 370-371

[hollownoire]

I've finally gotten around to uploading Curse, my first major project that I intended to make into a song prior to making the other two. This one is special to me, as it's more than just a song, I poured my soul into this despite just starting music and not really knowing much music theory. It's meant to reflect the past two years of my life in song form, and while I'm still sort of kicking myself for not doing better I think I need to let it be seen regardless of some pressure from my own neurosis to be perfect and master everything before I let it be seen. Here's to being vulnerable, I suppose! There's even a small animation element to this one. I hope you all can enjoy it, cause this one is especially important to me.

[oneslimybastard]

VTM is my favorite vampire setting for a number of reasons, but one of the main ones is that it's really good at selling vampirism as a curse that actually kinda blows to catch.

Like you are a Literal Corpse now. You can animate your blood to look Less Corpsy, but it takes active effort to do so and if you let yourself get Evil enough it's joever anyway. You can seduce all the humans but what good does that do when you are a CORPSE who's numb to human warmth. Aside from the killthirsty beast now living in your chest you also inherited your clan's specific neurosis so even if you want to be a good person, thanks to one goof from earlier you'll now be restless and agitated until you've fucked someone over in a way that will satisfy your worst impulses. You're either a nepo-baby in the palm of some scheming fuckwit or an Accidental Pregnancy who may or may not be terminated On Sight depending on how much of a Masquerade violation you're deemed to be, scrambling for scraps. You can't talk to your mortal loved ones because they either think you're dead, or you'd have to come up with excuse after excuse of why you can't hang during the day. If you're a nosferatu you're Canonically Ugly Now also your transformation was particularly painful. You can't cry. You can't get a boner. If another vampire makes you drink their blood you might get emotionally enslaved to them.

Shit rules. It's both sexy, glamorous, but also supremely gritty and bleak, all dependent on which lens you use or how far you zoom in. Even the most well established ventrue is miserable in their own way. So much vampire media treat vampirism as a curse that you'd wanna cure but then like. fail to actually explain the downsides? Like yeah u'll outlive all your friends and family that's kinda sad. But not so sad I'd pass on all the superpowers and undead sexiness babyy and i dont go in the sun anyway. But VTM? No I'm good actually. Like maybe I could fuck with being a gangrel, but even then I dunno man. i think i'd get killed first of all before even getting close to being able to turn into a wolf so I'm good where i'm at.

[heather-chandlers-weirder-cousin]

OC ask game- but it’s literally whatever I could think of

☕️- what are their thoughts on gossip? If they gossip, what are their favorite types of gossip?

🤥- how often do they lie? How did they feel about it?

💋- have they ever kissed someone?

💇‍♀️- what’s their dream haircut?

🩱- can they swim? Do they enjoy it?

🕸️- are they afraid of bugs?

🍺- do they drink? Why or why not?

🎧- what kind of music do they like? Do they have disdain for any type of music?

🫀- do they have any health conditions running in the family? If so, do they have them? (Magical conditions/curses can count!)

👰‍♀️- do they ever want to get married? Do they have someone in mind if so? If they’re already married, how do they feel about it?

🍫- do they have any dietary restrictions? For what reason?

🛼- what do they do in their free time?

🧼- on a scale of one to ten, how much of a neat freak are they? Do they have any particular neurosis about cleanliness?

🛐- what’s their religion? Were they raised in it, or did they convert?

🏳️‍🌈- are they queer? If so, what labels do they use?

[insert-uncreative-user]

Unfinished PPY (Curse Neurosis) fan animation ⋆

[triglycercule]

fellas sorry for the dead day have some art for your forgiveness (this is inspired by a certain song :333 pepoyo my lord and savior please upload a new song my queen)

the lyrics are custom translated by me ‼️‼️ it's such a good song here are the references

chat you SRSLY need to listen to curse neurosis by pepoyo its so damn good that i made an mtt english cover of the song because i felt like it suited them. LISTNE 2 IT PSLSSS!!!!

[theoneandonlysun]

This is kind of just sun every 5 minutes isnt it

(the reference art is from Curse Neurosis by PEPOYO (my beloved))

[avoidantrecovery]

i love this video of venus williams being protected by her dad during her interview. because it it depicts something that is usually so hard to pin point, even if you've been through it.

the journalist asks a seemingly normal question about whether venus thinks she‘ll win and she says yes. he comments on how confident she is, which she agrees to. then he asks her why she thinks this and she begins to provide her answer, elaborating on her previous reply. he continues to prod. people who have never experienced emotional abuse, never seem to understand how banal some of it can come across as. you might even be called overly sensitive for picking up on something like this. and i‘m not saying that the journalist is emotionally abusing her, but it begins where he lets off essentially.

he is, consciously or not, trying to get under her skin and into her head, even though she is still a child. he wants a certain reply from her, maybe for her to show humility or uncertainty instead of her steadfast belief in herself. he never yells or looks angry, but he is applying pressure wants her to essentially change her own assessment and opinion of herself and her skills to suit his (needs). maybe he wants a certain headline, maybe it’s just a personal thing. and this is when her dad steps in.

and rightly so, he recognises what is going on immediately and wants to protect his daughter from limiting thoughts that might crop up in her mind due to these questions. even seemingly simple questions like that can unsettle and make someone unsure of what they just said. especially if it's a child/minor vs an adult in a conversation. and when it's done over and over again.

now imagine if instead of it being a journalist, it's your parent and there is nobody to stop the questions and interrogation. a parent who feels threatened perhaps by your youth or innocence or curiosity and naivety, things you don't have any control over and should be able to experience like everyone else gets to. every time you try to assert yourself, discover who you are as a person, start hobbies, a sport, just sit in your room, or go outside with the one friend you have, anything really...you are pummelled by a barrage of questions meant to make you doubt yourself. sometimes it's small comments, sometimes they are snide, other times passive-aggressive. you are told you are worthless, unwanted, a curse, and will never make it or survive without them. you are blamed for everything, you are attacked, you are triangulated into arguments that have nothing to do with you, even the love you still have for your parent(s) is rejected or viewed with suspicion. this goes on for hours sometimes. over and over again for years on end through your entire formative years.

as a result, your sense of self shrinks, shame begins to build and anything you associate with yourself makes you doubt and question. is it even worth it, are you able to do it, what is the point etc…? you begin to feel like an imposter, no matter how much you practise or how good you are. you feel like all love/care is transactional and since you already think lowly of yourself you the thought that nobody would ever truly value you begins to form. and if they do, you cannot handle it and you sabotage. when you‘re at you lowest and need to come up with a way to solve your problems, their questions and doubts come up to the surface, instead of what you actually need.

as children, the most important thing to our survival is our parents. so if they say something negative about us, we align our own thoughts and opinions with theirs in order to be on their good side, in order to survive. even if we know what they are saying is wrong. it is hard to hold two opposing views at the same time (also a source of neurosis according to jung) so sooner or later something will have to give.

i recently re-discovered the concept of limiting beliefs. it's essentially core beliefs that we picked up, usually in our younger formative years, that helped us get through a rough time, but still continue to influence our behaviour. this is the next thing i will look into for myself.