#i deserve a medal for that self restraint

[eigwayne]

I know I’m not popular enough nor write or draw often enough for it to be a concern, but you know, full disclosure, for the record, etc.

This is my promise:

I do not and will not use AI to write, draw, or paint. This applies to both fanworks and original works.

I will never knowingly use AI-created assets in a game or resource.

I will not just change the names or otherwise file the serial numbers off my fanfic in order to publish it for money like it was original.

And yeah, I know the last item is not a big deal to many people and a lot of authors are getting rich publishing their fics under new names. But that feels squicky to me. Like cheating, like you’re plagiarizing yourself, like you’re making money off someone’s IP and then lying about it.

You can do what you like; I’m not the fun police. And yeah, that third promise is probably pretty rich coming from a Daomu Biji fan, I know, I know about the Candle in the Tomb fic rumor, I have come to terms with it, maybe. But me, personally? I won’t Ctrl+H my fanfics and pretend they’re new stories to publish. If I ever do finish and publish something, it’ll be new and all my own fault. Promise.

[once-in-a-blue-moon-rising]

I am being so so so sensible today, and I going to do my roller derby admin before I go back to my 457 fic

[hobgirl]

had a woman at work today tell me there was something "wrong with [my] head" because i told her we don't sell the product she was looking for and never have. working retail is such fun : )

[slythereen]

before i decide to choose peace: i was watching the sprint in the back of the car with my baby brother and the self restraint i showed in not screaming “that FUCKER” when that fuckass got on the radio like “let’s go catch them now 🤪” deserves a medal. what is WRONG w him

[thesaintofpatience]

taking advantage of doctor who being on iplayer to do a rewatch with the boyfriend and I had forgotten so many things like

- rose love of my life but not as much as Jackie Tyler (queen) also rose is so mean to poor mickey good lord

- ninth doctor supremacy I love this man so much

- everything ten does to Martha is a literal crime and the fact that she didn’t slap him is testament to such self restraint

- also the Martha season is v v strong but she has the worst time it’s:

1) stuck in traffic (with crabs)

2) stuck in 1913 for TWO MONTHS (no crabs but lots of emotional trauma)

3) stuck in 1969 for an undisclosed period of time (less trauma but Martha starts working in a shop to support ten who presumably is too busy writing dr mr rose tyler in his diary to notice)

4) stuck (briefly) at the end of the universe

5) stuck at the (other) end of the universe and spends a year walking the earth while her family are being held prisoner and literally saves the world

AND ON TOP OF THIS she has to deal with ten subjecting her to such emotional bollocks at all times

I hope they had some good times in between all this cause Martha deserves a medal

[sketchs-trashcan]

the self-restraint i am showing by not inking my Big Art before all the pieces are ready deserves a medal

[certifiedwerewolf]

I have astronomical levels of self restraint and frankly I deserve a medal

[astrumavis]

I deserve a medal for the amount of restraint & self control I have when seeing stupid shit on the internet

[luckyspike]

Patient shared w me that they play D&d and I was like oh me too! We bonded over mutual love of nerd stuff

The conversation continued to be about nerd stuff for a bit while I did some charting and the amount of self restraint I had to not vomit out fandom brain rot was frankly deserving of a Medal of Honor or some shit idk

God forbid anyone bring up good omens ever I’ll die

[freyalise]

almost weighed in on something with a snarky take but I decided against it. I deserve ten thousand bravery medals for my incredible self-restraint

[saulweissberg]

saul was attempting to be cordial, and perhaps he believed he deserved a fucking medal for that. each time he argued with terry over the past twenty-nine years, saul thought he was an exemplar of self-control. how quick he was to think of a rebuttal, how quick he was to craft an insult that would cut them just as theirs cut him, how quick he reminded himself to keep some sort of restraint. to hold back before he said something he regretted for the rest of his life. with every mean word he had ever thrown at terry, there were a million more harsher things that swirled in his mind that never escaped it and a million more words that terry volleyed right back at him. it was futile. somehow, in the years after micah reached adulthood, he had forgotten how futile it all was. he would always be terry’s—and micah’s—villain. the antagonist of their story. a fitting title some days, on others it felt melodramatic and unearned. he hated the idea that terry was somehow innocent, that they never made him cry—in private, nonetheless, but still it affected him enough to produce tears—or that they never said anything they regretted in the heat of the moment. futile, futile, futile.

the restaurant had turned into a theater of war. saul could feel the eyes of other patrons on him as he sat slumped like a ragdoll in the chair opposite, but he didn’t meet their gazes. though saul and terry had perfected the art of stage whisper fights, clearly he had been out of practice. he could go for hours in a courtroom or boardroom or opposing counsel’s office, but this conversation had left him depleted of all his energy. it was the comedown, he knew. that awful period where the coke wore completely off and the sun was starting to rise and he had an hour to nap before heading into the wlrk office. his adrenaline had spiked in a way that a simple courtroom spar hadn’t done to him in decades, back when he was fresh and still had a sense of hunger. then the adrenaline left him there, silent at their fusillade.

but he loves you. he loves cassie, too. i couldn’t understand it. not until—

not until what? he had wanted to ask, but had no room before terry was off again. anyway, again, it was futile. he never said the right thing. he never made anything better. he had tried to get them to understand him, to finally tell them the truth, but they bristled at his honesty. they rejected his honesty. saul could charm any party guest or potential client, but when it came to the people he loved, he only pushed them further away when all he wanted was to hold them close.

saul stared at them. long and hard, crystal blue eyes trailing downward from their hairline to their nails. why not turn an analytical gaze upon them? how often did he feel their eyes cataloging every wrinkle, every gray hair, divining his mood by every microexpression? he saw the anger in their face more than he heard the anger in their voice, but both were glaringly apparent. in the brief lull between the server collecting and coming back with terry’s card, he finally responded in a tired tone. “my fucking god, terry. you beg me to understand things from your perspective and then shut me down when i try to explain mine. i was honest with you and you threw it back in my face. i can’t stand that.”

he had resigned himself to this truth: he would never understand terry, and they thought they understood him. this was clearly going to end in more tragedy, so saul was going to do what he did best and leave them to their disparagement. 

but then they said that.

hang onto your self-pity, if that’s what you want, it’s the one thing that’s yours.

“my self-pity?” saul spat, anger renewed as he sat up from his relaxed position, spine going straight. his lauded self-restraint was snapping. “what the fuck is that you want from me, exactly? i’m an asshole if i fail to show up for micah and i’m an asshole when i regret not being there. do you not want me to feel guilty for the choices i’ve made? do you not want me to try and fix things while i still can? seriously, ketziya, would you truly rather prefer that i just completely disappear from micah’s life, as if he’s not my fucking child?” yes, saul knew he had made a litany of mistakes since micah’s birth, but hadn’t terry, too? did they ever make a choice that they later regretted, or inadvertently hurt their son by furthering their own future? “you’re right. i do pity myself, i pity the idiot that i was to think that i could be honest with you.” 

saul stood up abruptly from his chair, “so if you would please refrain from following me around town or showing up at my practice, that would be greatly appreciated. and i doubt you’ll ever need to, but please only contact me in regards to our son. anything else can go through my secretary.” he spared a glance at the patrons to the left, who were obviously pretending that they weren’t eavesdropping, then returned his gaze to terry. “enjoy the rest of your night.”

First times were always so uncomplicated. In the absence of any precedent, the emotion provoked after bearing first witness was that inevitable sense of wonder. Their first visit to Opus 40, for one, was originally intended to be a detour as the Lowensteins went hiking in the Catskills. Only their father’s one-sided conversations of his early stints at the Borsch Belt had been quickly forgotten by Terry, aged nine, in favor of running their hands through the several thousand pieces of jagged bluestone, of the ramps, walkways, and stairs that had been carved only through the means of the sculptor’s hands. ‘Being an architect is always the act of building something—and transforming something into something else, don’t you think?’ he’d said, then. 

So what would their shochet father make, then, of these failures? When Terry’s precision was no longer motivated by the business of building anything but in destroying what was left? Their Papa, who was always so deliberate with his own medium of choice, wouldn’t appreciate this act of chipping through skin, muscle, and bone, slowly enacted over the past few decades. 

Terry had said their part. Nothing else to do but to bear witness now. They watched as Saul pressed his palms against his eyes—a gesture made, a hundred, a thousand times over—and bore witness to those veins and tendons more pronounced against his skin, gnarled by time, yet still so inexplicably elegant. 

You just couldn’t let me have him. The laugh that cut across the air between them was cold and sharp, like a knife. Always like a knife.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? That I won’t let you have him?” What use was there to repeat this exercise, over and over, if it was only going to produce the same tragedy? “Micah’s not someone you own, Saul. You earn that love. You take your time and you let it grow. I did my part—just us—for twenty-nine years, and you’re annoyed that I’m the person he runs to?” 

And, Saul? What light he had, the first time they’d seen him. But it was impossible to unlearn an architect’s critical sensibilities, especially when his figure had begun embedding itself into the everyday. Only then did one see the flaws. The cracks in the slabs and columns. The holes against the plaster. The exposed wiring. The mold, the rot, the rust. 

“You make it sound like it was so easy. Micah didn’t make it easy. I couldn’t bring anyone home. And when I did, God, he hated everyone. He hated Sev,” they took a deep breath, fingers stilling for a moment. “You had your wives and girlfriends and your boyfriends and your dinners and for the longest time I only had him. And without—” Without whom? Without Sev, without their father? Without Saul? What was the point of invoking this litany of ghosts? The gravity of the pain could be obscured if it was unrecognizable. “Without anyone, of course I want to be where Micah is.” 

Amid the weight of the confession, the clatter of the silverware swelled, the lights became harsher, the chatter overwhelming. “But he loves you. He loves Cassie, too. I couldn’t understand it. Not until—” But they couldn’t quite bring themselves to continue, finding themselves again uncertain where to start. What was there to say, then? That they’d detested Cassie in her effortlessness of assuming the role of a mother, recognizing the absence of their instinct only when struck by its presence? How that detestment soon grew into affection for a woman they should not be caring for, a woman not theirs to love? And that in Cassie’s absence, there was again a hole to fill in Micah’s life that Terry could not fill with such practiced ease? All reasonable explanations, however Saul might detest it, but not quite fitting the gravity of their loneliness. 

At once, the waitress returned with the bill, and Terry opened their messenger bag, fumbling for their wallet, hands twitching as they handed over their credit card and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’. 

When Terry was fifteen, their father had taken them to a northern suburb in Philadelphia, past the railroad tracks and intersections until they finally arrived at a curious synagogue in Old York Road, which resembled nothing of the blocks of a suburban commercial center. Instead, the building had twelve sides, and formed like a pyramid before tapering towards the top. An ancient ziggurat, perhaps, or the mountains of Sinai. A modernist take on an old faith, the tour guide explained, and the only synagogue that Frank Lloyd Wright had ever built. ‘You’ll be a fine architect, Ketzi,’ their father would say, then, ‘you’ve always seen the world a little bit differently. Being different—it will help you.’

But the trouble with their father’s unconditional love towards their difference—the way through which they saw the world—was not many would notice it, let alone appreciate it, the same way as he had. All that difference had done was to create a wall, no longer making the attempt to make themselves understandable, but to simply render the world in the way it should’ve been felt. To wear a mask and to disappear into it was easy. To discard it, to be rendered vulnerable against his judgment and the weight of his stare, was the harder feat.

Their knuckles whitened at the effort of holding back, before clutching again at their arms. “Micah hasn’t needed me for a long time,” they blinked rapidly, casting their gaze above him, towards the excess warmth of the light, willing away the tears welling up in their eyes, “I know why he still needs you. You have to figure that out for yourself.” 

They felt, rather than saw, his surrender as he leaned back against the seat, no longer willing to fight.

‘It's just... sometimes I don't think he’ll really care, is all. And we'll end up looking like idiots, as usual,’ Terry recalled Micah saying, at the twilight hour in the forest, and how they’d come dangerously close to Saul’s defense, ‘this kinda stuff just doesn't work when the other person doesn't give a shit.’ 

Micah was right, then. They sat there, feeling no small amount of shame at the ridiculousness of the scene. Like talking to a wall where the plaster had fallen off, or whispering into the hollow of a tree, and expecting it to answer, to give something—anything—back.

Arms still crossed, they uncurled the fingers of their left hand, seeking out the familiar texture of their sleeve, rubbing against the fine lines of cotton to ward off the hurt. “I am asking you to see things from my perspective and you’ve shut down again. I can’t stand it.” Another wave of anger, then, as they waited for the waitress to come back with their card. They bit the inside of their cheek, restraining the shock at his apathy.

They cast their gaze back unto him—at this marvel of a man, in this little life, in this little town, conceding the fight and folding back into the wooden chair. “Get up and leave then. Hang onto your self-pity, if that’s what you want,” they bit their lip, attempting to stifle the cruel punchline, to no avail. Better hate than indifference. Better to drown against the blinding light than be shut out again and to be left alone in the dark. “It’s the one thing that’s yours.”

[fatechica]

Have read or seen any spoilers?

Hi anon! I’m going to assume this is for Stranger Things season 3 (mostly because that’s all I seem to blog about, lmao). And I have seen some, for sure. Not saying which ones, though! 

I’m something of a self-professed spoiler whore and seeing spoilers never really bothers me, so I’m still excited for the show either way!

(And, no, this isn’t an ask for spoilers unless any of y’all have a leak of if someone’s going to die at the end of s3 and who it is. In which case, hmu I beg you.)

[ernestofparis]

I was physically assaulted today.

I’m a night owl, and that means I go out at the middle of the night, put my headphones in, and allow the night soul of the city to meet me. I’ve done this a million times.

This early morning, almost getting home after a rather interesting adventure, I feel arms wrapping around my neck. They slowly pin me to the floor, when the second wasted cumshot of a guy appears, holding a gun. The usual; they tell me to shut up, to give them my wallet (which I didn’t have at the time) and my phone, asking also for the password in a probably fake Venezuelan accent, probably to discredit them. I was too scared, so I fumbled and wasn’t able to give it to them (maybe for the better). This caused him to beat me with the butt of his weapon. Next thing I know, the cunt that hugged me from behind was showing me my broken chain with my medal, stained with my own blood, telling me “look what you did”, as if the blood was his. He was even claiming my blood as his own, while blaiming me for spilling it. He then starts to take my jacket off. They let me take my ID and my keys, then to leave me on the ground. I ask them If I can take out my SIM card, and the guy in the gun tries to help, but just can’t be bothered. I watch them walk away. I then realise they took my headphones too.

There is too much to be said and felt. These escapades du flâneur were sacred to me. These nights were sacred to me. That path was sacred to me. They violated them by rendering me helpless to their inability to make a living in a decent way.

And then, all the feelings of anger and revenge that turn me into an animal, making me probably worse than them. I still know I’m better, because I restrained myself. And there was the silver lining:

My restraint somehow led my mind into a rabbit hole that concluded in the most necessary and strange of gardens. I find my higher self telling me, inside my mind, swearing to God and ourselves, that all the lies that my family, my schools, and the narcissists that have come into my life are not true. He’s begging me to believe him, and miraculously, after years of struggling to get out of the black hole of depression and self assured insufficiency, I realise that it’s true: They’re lies, warped by those who refused to see me, and woven by my own despair to go along. And suddenly, like my jacket, that fabric was gone, and its cold absence shows me my real reflection in the most objective mirror I’ve ever gazed myself into.

Don’t ask me why this happened then; why did such violence catalyse such a path in my mind. But it did. And along the other things I’ve been learning recently, I can now see how the hope that I’ve lately gotten back will come to be.

Right now I’m processing the first stages of trauma. At first it was waves of anger and aggression directed towards the poor bastards that don’t know what else to do with their lives. But now I’m starting to feel the helplessness, fear, and notes of despair of having gone through that. And I’m tired. I feel defeated. And yet, it feels normal; I’ve just gone through a traumatic event. But above that, it feels ok because I can see the field of wheat that I’ve been promising myself for years, just outside the walls of the magnificent, cold and dead castle that has been keeping hostage all these years.

I guess I’ll always have the castle. But it’s time for me to get out on the world, so I can come back to fill it with the life we both deserve.

[enden-k]

You portray me as some sort of heartless villain. I am not FULLY incapable of being nice to others. I simply work long shifts with the general public, and therefore feel entitled to go a little feral outside of my active work hours. Furthermore, it has been an entire two weeks since I "accidentally" bonked someone over the head. Surely I deserve a gold medal for showing such self-restraint! /j

Anyway, I'm home and on Genshin should you require any more of my seed.

- Tiddy* Anon

nonono i didnt, im sorry asjdndj 😭 and yes you do

my game hates me tonight apparently (it crashed) and im too tired of this so ill just. draw a little before i sleep lmfaooo ill try again tomorrow or smth

[daemoninwhiteround2]

You: *writes dragon! Dick*

Me: Well shit, guess I have a new kink

Dick likes shiny new things as much as the next dragon, which is why he's not too mad when Bruce presents him with a little brother. Bruce is so perfectly human, his mind utterly defenceless, and it's been so easy over the years to slip and slide in there and leave some suggestions behind him. All in the name of shoring up Batman's mental defences, of course, Dick doesn't need a stray thought alerting Martian Manhunter that something's not right with Batman's new sidekick. The circus cover will only excuse so much, after all.

He resist the urge to coo and wrap his true form around his new treasure. His little wing is too small to take him with ease right now - and while blood and screams do have their place, that's not how you treat treasure. Dragons don't raise their children for nearly as long as humans do, but Dick's parents did teach him that much before he left to finish growing by himself.

So Dick smiles and plays the older brother. He can't resist taking a peak or two into Jason's dreams and us utterly delighted by what he finds. That night is a true exercise in restraint, and considering dragons are a species notriotous for not having the best self control (see: burning villages down), Dick honestly deserves some type of medal.

His little wing dreams of him. And he's so cute and hero worshippy too! Dick won't have to do any work - Jason will come to him!

(Dick may nudge a couple of dreams in the 'let big brother teach you how to kiss' direction. He's got self control but he's not a saint!)

The stage is all set to have his treasure come willingly to his talons, but then...

Then Jason starts pulling away. Doesn't say anything, and there's no hint of discomfort in his scent or mind or dreams, but there is something... Illusive. Difficult to pin down without pulling on more power than Dick wants to.

So Dick goes through Jason's phone when he's asleep.

He nearly breaks it when he finds the text messages. He's heard of the Drake family, has allowed them to continue to live in his city, to lay claim to a name they're barely entitled to, because he thought they understood their place in the hierarchy. Clearly Janet has failed to teach her offspring a thing or two.

He debates burning down their mansion. It is the traditional way a dragon expresses their displeasure, after all, and he finds the thought of them burning a wonderful irony. He wants to see how far their claim to dragon blood gets them.

But then he thinks...

No.

There's something much more fun he could do.

And if he exposes this little creep in front of his little wing... There's only one way for his treasure to go for comfort.

[shapeofmetal]

I’m in a mood let’s GOOOOOO 1) wavy brown mid rib cage length hair, Caucasian, brown eyes, idkk 5’4’ average body type?? 2)Tfa sentinel prime (IDK WHO ELSE UMMm) 3/4 ) THE STUPID RAIN SCENE FROM THE NOTEBOOK 5)I think roaches are the most likely bug to survive a nuclear apocalypse????

I was so fucking close to drawing a mustache on sentinal I deserve a medal for self restraint