#just came by to drop this achievement because holy shit I've been working on this on and off ever since i saw it

[mrpenguinpants]

oh my god I finally got this card (The Hero's Journey and it's one (1) bullshit requirement)

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

replying to @caozihuanismyson

"If that was love, Cao Pi didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. It was better to be indispensable than cherished. He needed to become something that could not be left behind. Something that Father could not live without." my jaw just fucking dropped #i love this. im in love. holy shit#HE NEEDED TO BECOME SOMETHING THAT COULD NOT BE LEFT BEHIND SOMETHING THAT FATHER COULD NOT LIVE WITHOUT#(im screaming louder so people in the back can hear)#(jk there's no one in the back cuz it's san guo on tumblr.com but still)#💀#thank u op i have ascended#also all the little details of ang trying to make up for father's absence for his lil bros..... when pi wiped his tears my heart broke#that part where cao pi imagined ang's last moments? holy shit i've never thought of it that way it's genius and horrifying#(ok i need a moment)#also............... i'm going insane about the part with fish and jade#and cao pi describing cao cao's expression of love towards cao ang as painful#and wanting to put him in his mouth like how soldiers keep their precious things safe#i thought this was going to be about ang's tragedy .... but it turned out to be about that and the horror of pi's existence#thank u for the meal op i'm so grateful

thank you so much, this is such a nice comment to wake up to!!!! it makes me so happy to have such dedicated readers who catch every single detail ;u;

Cao Ang has been my blorbo for a long time because he is a fascinating contradiction. he achieved nothing and did nothing of note, but seems to have left a significant impression on those around him. Cao Cao expresses regret for him on his deathbed. Cao Pi talks about how he should have been the rightful heir. Lady Ding was willing to disobey the most powerful man in the empire in order to get the smallest measure of justice for him. His death always struck me as, well, a feel-good narrative told by a guilty conscience. Cao Cao could have ordered any one of his bodyguards to give up his horse, but he didn't. It makes sense in the coldest, most logical way. Why lose an able-bodied fighter for a brat? You can always make more. I came up with a bunch of scenarios of what "really" happened, but in the end i realised it doesn't matter. Cao Cao still left his son to die. the horror comes from the ambiguity itself. I also wanted to explore how his actions would impact the remainder of his children. They realised overnight that they were all disposable and no one was safe. the real tragedy doesn't come from Cao Ang's death, but his father undoing all his hard work. Ang tried his best to give them love, curb their worst impulses, and foster good relationships between them, only for his father to stick them in the Sibling Royale. Climb to the top and uproot all your competition. ect. ect.

But I am an optimistic person and I believe true love can pierce the veil and save the day and all that. Cao Ang's ghost continues to haunt the narrative and in the end, he manages to effect his brothers in some way. Cao Pi comes to realise that, hey, this kinda sucks, actually. i think we're emotionally stunted and perpetuating the cycle of violence. maybe i don't have to trample all my brothers to preserve my own life. maybe i shouldn't become exactly like father. hmm much to think about. Cultural Context, for those interested:

funerary practices are not historical, but based on the modern shangdong ones i've experienced.

"putting your child in your mouth" is an expression of helpless tenderness. the full phrase is "i want to you hold in my hands, but i'm afraid of dropping you. i want to hold you in my mouth, but i'm afraid you will melt." i wanted to show this conflict within cao cao, the warlord vs the man. how his ambition corrupts him. ultimately, cao cao does not put his son in his mouth to protect him. he consumes him instead.

the opening scene is based on Cao Pi's poem "Traveling on the city wall." His poems are notable for being very emo, he talks about feeling isolated and unfulfilled despite having every worldly possession. I decided to connect it with Cao Zhi's (ahistorical) bean poem. the metaphor is less profound, but what can you do? he is the lesser poet after all ;))) .

[deniigi]

its about 2am and i read your polycule stuff and now i have heart palpitations thank u very much. it has filled a void i've been silently hoping for but never expecting and if you happen to decide that you will play around in your own little verse space and do more of those drabbles, i will eat that shit up so quick

Oho

Well you are in luck anon.

Because I wrote a short one the other day for the discord.

The prompt was: Peter and Sam being smart together, which my brain translated as ‘Peter being an asshole trying to get information out of Sam and Sam smiling at him tenderly while telling him to get fucked.’ ❤

---------

Sam apparently hid his suit from everyone, which Peter found ironic given that it was an invisibility suit and he lived with a blind dude.

Matt said that the suit tasted like batteries which was not unlike the time he’d told Wade that he smelled like depression and cocaine.

That is to say: invasive and unhelpful.

Peter decided that he was going to get actual information out of Sam.

Sam loved him. He said so. Jokingly. Directly after they’d fooled around and Peter had offered him a coffee for the road. But like. It was still a declaration, no?

Shut up, Johnny, no one cares about your opinion.

The goal here was to wheedle information on the suit out of Sam.

 --

It didn’t come.

Sam laughed and told him Peter suit was made of hopes and prayers and then asked him about cacti.

He was a cunning and wily adversary, since that way definitely lay a Wikipedia time-suck that took up most of Peter’s afternoon.

 --

 Peter thought that maybe his charm could make it happen this time. He coaxed Sam east of Chinatown and wrapped arms around his waist and set his chin on his shoulder and told him to give up the suit.

It made Sam laugh really hard, which was a sign that the charm was working.

But then he leaned back into Peter’s grip and whispered in his ear that he’d give up his secrets only on pain of death, so keep going.

“You’re not that pretty,” he said tenderly, playing with the ends of Peter’s hair. “So I imagine we’ll be here for a while.”

Rude.

Rude as hell.

 --

 He tried to go through Hannah, but Hannah blinked at him and asked him who the fuck he was. Once he’d explained that he was her sibling’s kinda-boyfriend, she was so scandalized, she slammed the door and called Sam there and then to demand to know why he hadn’t told her of any kinda-boyfriends.

Hannah then emerged from the apartment again and pointed a finger at Peter and said, “Break his heart and I’ll break yours,” while Sam tried to talk her down on the phone.

So that was a bust.

 --

 He decided that he needed to think smarter, not harder here.

He located Blondie. He gave him the job of going into one of the baby Peters’ verses and locating a baby Sam to interrogate for information about the suit.

Blondie said he was on it.

He came back really quick, too, and then introduced Peter to a six-year-old.

Gwen laughed her ass off at him.

He told her to watch her back and then hunkered down to ask this teeny, tiny Sam what his feelings on invisibility were. Teeny, tiny Sam told him that this was a Pokémon move, which Peter already knew. So that wasn’t helpful at all.

He told Blondie thanks for his help, but no thanks.

 --

 “So it’s batteries,” Peter said, following Sam around the office.

Foggy loomed menacingly over the copy machine. Sam shooed him aside and took over standing by, collecting the papers it spat out.

“Everything runs on batteries, Peter,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“Right, so you’ve got an electric pulse going through. How do you distribute it evenly? What material are you using? Is it a superconductor? Are the batteries powering a cooling system?”

Sam blinked slowly at him and snatched another page off the copy machine.

“You wanna know what it is?” he asked.

“Yes. Desperately,” Peter said.

Sam waved him in close. Peter leaned in. Sam waved him in even closer.

He got right up against Peter’s ear.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he said.

He pulled back and nabbed another paper with a smile.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

Uh. Dinner?

“Delighted to,” Sam said.

 --

 Mirrors.

It had to be mirrors.

“Yeah, man, he goes out as a human disco-ball every night and fights crime,” Johnny deadpanned. “That would totally work.”

Peter dumped him off the couch and took his place to lean over it and address MJ and Ned.

“Mirrors,” he said.

“Probably not,” Ned told him. “Invisibility is more likely achieved through manipulating light than mirrors, Peter.”

How? Explain.

“Oh, well, it’s probably a filtering system,” Ned said. “But it could be some kind of material that he’s made that uses the spectrum of light that we can’t perceive. It might be actually reflecting, now that you mention it. Kind of like a mirror, I guess.”

Peter stared.

“I didn’t pay attention in Wade’s torture class,” he said. “Do you think I should call him to re-book or?”

“Or you could just drop it?” MJ said. “Sam’s tech is Sam’s tech. Leave him alone and ask him about fuckin’ willow or something like you always do.”

Peter huffed.

“But science, Michelle,” he said.

Her gaze stayed flat.

 --

 “Okay, so I respect your defense of your ideas,” Peter said. “Like, a whole lot. But I just want to see it. Please?”

Sam lifted an eyebrow.

“Me in the suit,” he said.

“I’m dying for it,” Peter said.

“You just want to see me in the suit. That’s all,” Sam said.

Yes, pretty much.

“Okay, sit there. Don’t move.”

Holy shit.

Yes.

 --

 The suit was black with white stripes that went in some kind of pattern that Peter didn’t understand. He swore that they moved every time Sam did.

Sam held his hands out to the side.

“Suit,” he said.

“Hot,” Peter said. “Come here.”

“No, you’ll steal my trade secrets,” Sam sniffed. “You stay over there.”

Peter whined and made himself as sexy and charming as possible. He patted a leg seductively.

Sam’s mask was unreadable, but Peter saw him roll his eyes anyways.

“I hate you,” he said, coming over to sit on the designated thigh.

Yes. Science.

“Babe, you’re so sexy when you’re hiding intellectual property from me,” Peter crooned into his hair.

Sam leaned back against him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t call me ‘babe,’” he said sweetly.

“Or what?” Peter hummed.

Then blinked. Because he had no Sam.

O…kay?

No ‘babe.’ Message received. Where the fuck—

“Boo.”

He shrieked.

Sam laughed. Peter clutched at his chest.

“How did you do that?” he asked as Sam climbed over the couch and sweetly draped his legs over Peter’s.

Sam took off his mask and wiggled his black-gloved fingers.

“Magic,” he said. “Now you, sir, owe me dinner.”

 --

[sibilantly]

hi, sib. i just read your fic persistence, and it was so beautifully done that i wanted to drop you a note. your writing has seriously been such an influence on mine, but lately i've been having so much trouble because of my ocd. now i can't read anything without nitpicking the grammar, much less write. it's been this way for months now and i feel like i'm losing my mind. all i ever wanted was to write something good but... well, at least i still get to read something by you. i shall be content.

I’m sorry for the delay in replying, anon. Your message was so thoughtful, but also struck this… almost painfully bittersweet, personal note with me, and I had to take a couple days to reflect.

I’m so happy you enjoyed Persistence - it was a lil 500 word labour of love, but it’s somewhat different from my usual body of work, and I was a bit nervous putting it out there. So I’m delighted you enjoyed it. And it’s quite flattering to hear I’m an influence on your writing, since I feel I’m still learning the craft of writing, in many, many ways. Thank you!

Now, as for the latter half of your message…

Oh, anon.

Nonny non anon, I feel you. I’ve been… well, perhaps not right in your shoes, as I have never had OCD. But I’ve been in the same vicinity, most definitely.

Up until half a year ago, or thereabouts, my writing process was: write out a few paragraphs (if that - sometimes it was barely a paragraph) and then rework them. I would rework them over and over and over, until I felt they were just right. Only then did I feel I could move on. I felt like I was laying the foundations for a house, you know? If I didn’t get the first things laid down just right, then everything that came after would be on shaky ground, might even come tumbling down.

Thing is, writing is more like sculpting. You dig up some clay (your discovery draft or your outline, whatever), you mould it (your first draft), and then you carve and add little bits, over and over (editing. and more editing. and more. fucking editing >.>)

Anyway.

Eventually, I started slowing down, and the threshold of what I could stand before I needed to edit got smaller. It became ‘write a few lines. stop. edit those lines over and over’. And then it became ‘write one line. stop. edit that line over and over’. Rinse, repeat.

It got to the point where I stopped writing completely, for almost half a year, because everything I wrote down was so far from what I envisioned in my head, it was crushing. I had the exact same despairing thought you did: ‘All I want is to write something good’. And if I didn’t write it down, if I kept it in my head, it was good. It was perfect, in fact. Surely that was better (I thought to myself).

I feel you, I feel you, I do.

I wish there was some magic bullet that I could use to erase all those thoughts from you, to divide writing from editing in your mind, because they’re two very different processes. I would… well, I would use it on myself first, because I am human and selfish, but then I would turn it on you, and everyone else who is plagued by this period ;)

But the horrid thing (which I was very, very displeased to realise), is that if you want to write, the only thing you can do in this period is just… push… through it.

D:

It’s the worst fucking epiphany ever. If I got that in a fortune cookie, I’d be fucking pissed. But it’s seriously all there is.

There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to write, if you ultimately decide it’s not for you.

BUT.

If you do want to write, or if there comes a time when you’re not content with reading, and… y'know, you’re willing to indulge me, random fanfic lady on the internet, I want you to do this:

Pick up the pen (or put your fingers to the keyboard, but if you can, I recommend pen because you can’t backspace pen and paper) and eke out some words every day.

It doesn’t have to be a lot. It might just be a sentence.

Whiskyrunner, who we all generally acknowledge to be amazeballs, went through a period where her goal was 10 words a day because she knew she could achieve that.

That’s important. Pick a word count that you know you can achieve, not one you have to push yourself to achieve, because if you fail, you will self-flagellate. Trust me, I have been there. I hated every son of a bitch who recommended ‘write every day’, because for every day I failed to write a page, I’d hate myself a little more, and the joy I found in writing would shrink. (And they’d always recommend a page, or pages, and I’d be like, ‘What, motherfucker? There are some days when I can’t summon up the energy to get out of bed, and you want me to write a page? Pages?’ There should be some script that edits ‘write every day’ to ‘write an amount that’s achievable for you every day, even if it’s one sentence’, I think.)

Write until you hit your word goal or until you’re satisfied, whichever you have the mental energy and fortitude for that day. If there’s a day where you do the latter, don’t fall into the trap of thinking you have to match that the next day. Don’t move the goal posts. Your goal is still (X) words. Everything beyond that is like the stretch goal on a Kickstarter. Nice, but not the main aim.

Next (and this is the hard part - or, at least, it was for me: do nothing.

Don’t tweak them. Don’t delete them. Don’t touch them.

The second you hit your goal, close the doc, close your notebook - whatever you write in. You did it, you achieved the goal, which is ‘(X) number of words’.

Do whatever you need to do to remind yourself of that.

Your goal is not '100 (or 50 or 25 or 10) good words a day’. Your goal is words.

Just words.

To paraphrase Bane: now is not the time for qualitative judgement, only quantitative. Right now, you’re at the 'digging up the clay’ stage of the writing process. You’re just trying to get enough clay to sculpt into some lumpy-looking motherfucker which you will eventually carve down into your nice sculpture.

(Don’t think about the sculpture right now. Think about (X) number of words, and digging up clay.)

There was a point where I did all sorts of objectively bizarre things to remind myself of this, and to outfox my anxiety-ridden brain and its need to edit, including, but not limited to:

- writing on a fresh page each day, even if it meant 90% of the preceding page was still blank

- opening new docs each day to write my daily goal (which I would then have to piece together later, haha)

- using that program - ilys? - that only lets you see the last letter of what you typed

- muttering to myself ‘the goal is (X) words. the goal is (X) words. the goal is (X) words. only the number of words matters. only the number.’

If you’re anything like me (and, hey, I felt your message on a deep level, so I think we’re at least a little alike), you will hate every word you write with this process. You will hate this process, period. You will want to go back and retool the words because holy fuck, what if someone, somehow, gets access to your notes and sees this mess you just eked out? What if you die, and all that’s left to show of yourself as a writer is this half-written piece of shit?

(Okay, maybe that last fear is just me.)

Still. This is normal.

But how you feel about your writing immediately after writing it is not an objective, accurate measure of how good it is. You’ll be tired, you’ll be stressed, you’ll be comparing it to the image you have in your head and thinking about how far apart they are and despairing.

Stop there.

Close the doc (or the notepad, or the notebook, or turn over the post-it note (I did that at one stage, too - writing on post-it notes, haha)). You did it, you wrote the words. You dug up some clay. No one will see them but you, and whoever you choose to show them to. You can edit them later. You can make them better, or throw out whole paragraphs or whole pages if you need to. But later. Only after you finish the draft, however many new pages or new docs (or post-it notes) it takes.

Try to be kind to yourself. It’s so damn hard, I know it is, but try to remind yourself that what you wrote for the day does not define you as a writer. Even the finished, edited work does not define you. It just shows what you were capable of writing in that moment, on that day, at that point in time.

I can’t guarantee this will work for you. But there is something to be said for habit, for retraining one’s brain (to a certain extent). If you do want to try writing again, and you try this, anon, know that I’ll be proud of you, and I’ll salute you for the very act of trying.

Much love,

Sib

(P.S.: Here, I recovered a partial copy of the very first draft I wrote of Persistence. I don’t know where the rest is (on paper, probably), but hopefully it’s enough for you to see the difference between draft and finished work, and to… idk, have a good chuckle, maybe, but hopefully feel reassured, too ;). We all write shitty first drafts. They’re the clay that you mould into something better.)

They’re two levels down, in a sunny, light-filled build meant to evoke the mark’s childhood home and favourite holiday spot, when the windows and the door and the fucking walls blow in, and a SWAT team swarms in like a tide of gun-toting ants.

(DUST, STUFF FLYING EVERYWHERE. YELLING. CHUNK OF PLASTER GOES FLYING TOWARDS EAMES.)

Eames ducks, which means the chunk of plaster misses him, but, unfortunately, takes out Cixin, their extractor, with a wet crunch. They’ll have to work on Cixin’s spatial awareness later, Eames thinks.

The SWAT team levels their guns at the remainder of Eames’ team. Even a few years ago, Eames might’ve considered running. Now, he just raises his hands, gets down on the ground when ordered to.

Everyone else runs.

There’s sporadic gunfire, the sound of running footsteps, truncated screams and cut off swearing as Eames’ team is violently kicked out, one by one.

Eames stays where he is until silence reigns.

(FOOTSTEPS, A GUN MUZZLE AGAINST EAMES’ BACK, BUT NO SHOT COMES.)

Eames peeks upward, just in time to see the leader of the SWAT team yanks his mask off, revealing Arthur’s exasperated, sweaty face.

“I can’t believe you’re working today, of all days,” Arthur says. “I should probably shoot you just for that.”

“But you won’t.” Eames rolls over onto his back, smiles his most charming smile as he gets to his feet. “And you have to admit it’s somewhat fitting, me working today.”

Arthur smiles fondly, diluting the exasperation. “Maybe.” He looks Eames up and down. “You look good.”

“You’re lying, but thank you,” Eames says. He nods at Arthur’s outfit. “That looks good on you.”

Arthur is inspecting his outfit. “You know, this wouldn’t be a bad disguise, if you were working on an opposing team. Make the other team think you’re the mark’s militarisation–”

“Stop right there.”

“What?” Arthur says. “Worried you’ll be tempted away from the side of the angels?”

“Worried I’ll be tempted away from my regular paycheck, anyway,” Eames says, sniffing.

Arthur chuckles, then nods upward. “Are they going to give you the kick soon?”

“Not just yet. They’re probably debating whether or not I’ve gotten to the safe or not.”

“You need to get on top of that,” Arthur says. “You can’t have your team hesitating over what to do next on live jobs.”

[datingadviceonreddit]

I'll just give a little background: I don't have much relationship experience. Period. I'm kinda cautious when it comes to something a bit more serious. I've got actually no idea how I achieve some one night stands, and I know I'm not very attractive (I groom myself, of course). It's a long read, but I'm just a potato with relationships and I believe it's all important. Maybe it's an interesting read for some.Ok so... I met this girl at bar my friend owns. This girl came with another girl who's a friend of his. By the time we closed it was just us and so I went up and danced with her a while, we got along kinda nice and out of nowhere I got invited to a beach party in the spot... probably because I asked jokingly "where to next?". I barely knew her, she barely knew me, and still she said "let's go, it'll be fun". Maybe she was just playing, and maybe I was too... but I don't know how to say no to some party time. I took her and a couple of her friends there in my car. Nobody knew I had a car, and they assumed I didn't (she said something along the lines of "we can't get there", like trying to call the whole thing off)... thus I thought this to be a genuine invitation. But maybe I'm just assuming, I can always be wrong.Adventure of a lifetime for me (I've recently decided to say "fuck it" and just do things). 3hrs later we arrived early morning to the beach house of her friend. Awesome place. Awesome people. The guy literally said "dude, I didn't think she was coming... she even left the WhatsApp group, what would you think?". We spent the next 2 days drinking, having fun, chatting, and everything with everyone. I loved it. Nobody believed I just met these girls the night before. I totally forgot about sex (which was obviously a thing in my mind before). We even spent an entire night just by the pool with beers we didn't drink at all out of the fun we were having, unbelievable to my new friends (she and the girls I brought). Here I learn something that's maybe important: she hasn't renewed her phone's data plan, so she's just now on prepaid and barely connected to anything online.We returned. We all had so much fun. My birthday was the next weekend. I obviously invited her to celebrate. The plan was swimming pool in my apartment, some drinks, and then hit the bar... and that's what we did. By the time we arrived, the bar was mostly left to ourselves, so we just did some dancing, singing, we ordered some dinner and shared with everyone. She gave me a quick kiss at the bar, everyone watching and whatnot. I've learned to give no value to kissing, but this felt different. I tried to brush it off my mind because... c'mon, I still don't think we're something, and just kept dancing around after a few minutes of everyone celebrating us.We bounced that same night to some friend's party. We danced like retards until next morning. Then we kinda planned on the spot to make some barbecue the next day (or just a few hours later) because the other girl already had it planned, but it was much nicer in my apartment... which is quite far from where she planned it on the first place. We bounced to my apartment to check for grill availability. The other girl texted a few people, and it quickly became a negative for the new plan (it was 9am then). Being the gentleman that I am (right then cuz reasons) I walked them outside, to the Uber waiting for them. Goodbye kiss. Sweet goodbye kiss.We agreed they'd let me know where they'll make that barbecue, and that I'll be there. Texted the host (her friend), and she told that because of the weather they'd be changing the plan to just some drinks later that night... they'd call me. No call. No answer. Little heart break. Suddenly, a text from my girl "come!"... but didn't know where the fuck to go, so I texted back "you don't tell me where to!". Silence. Dead silence. Uncomfortable now. Later I got a call 6am. Didn't answer. I call back and got an answer from host, speak anything and nothing "she's already leaving, but go to her place she's taking the party there"... she passed the phone to her but we didn't agree on anything, call dropped. I call back, no answer. Way more uncomfortable... "what do?". Decide to abort mission. Wake up hours later. I check her Facebook. It's literally just girls in a photo from a couple of minutes ago, I commented "invite me!". No answer. Little heart break again. This same day I invited her and her friends to another beach house my friend has, just 2hrs drive. Everyone say yes. Oh shit.We don't text much the next few days. "Hi there handsome!". "Have a good day". Some times she starts, sometimes I do. It's kinda even (I deliberately kept it like that). I decided to have a look at her Facebook, got greeted with 404 not found. Huge heart break. "Okay then... moving on". Decided to make sure I was blocked, because reasons... just to learn I'm not blocked, she deactivated her Facebook. "Well, shit".I continue with my life and business as usual. I decide to ask her out, says yes and suggests movies. "Anything good now?" I asked, no answer. Next day I ask "What's up? Something tonight?". She busy, but tomorrow. Next day she suggests a nice club, "sounds good" I say. After work I ask "alright, what up? I'm going to a friend's birthday party, maybe catch up with me?". She forgot grandma birthday. Holy fucking shit. I cannot believe it. But I just calm down quickly. I tell her "you only like to make me miss you", and answers "no, no, I love being with you... I'll reach out to you later tonight so maybe you come if it's good or I come, we'll see". "That didn't work very well last time, but we'll see". "I know, right?!". Nobody reached out to no one. Friend's birthday party is shit. Go back craving party.Tomorrow we depart to beach house. She confirmed today she's in. Others say they're in too. I've got no idea what to think. I got good vibes from her, but also some weird ones. I've talked to one her friends (a friend hooked up with this one one), says we're cute together and whatnot. Even joking about double wedding (scary, though).Part of me believes I'm just having bad luck with timing (her essentially with no means for communication), and that I should just be patient. Part of me doesn't believe it entirely. I feel like I'm still acting like I'm trying to "game" her, but doesn't feel right anymore... I feel I cannot read her at all now (implying I can anyways).How do I figure out what's going on? What to ask? How to tell if we can have something or not? What did I just do? What do now? I've been feeling kinda stressed about it. I'm not sure if she closed her Facebook because of me, or for me (incriminating shit she wants gone or something). Halp. via /r/dating_advice