#just. stories. and how they can be told in different ways.

[mephisto-reporting]

Hearbreak Anniversary with Rafayel

Summary: It was your anniversary with Rafayel. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Rafayel Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Content Warning: Fear of abandonment, self worth issues, angst, hurt and slight comfort, Rafayel grovelling, Rafayel POV

The soft glow of the sunset filtered through the gauzy curtains of Rafayel’s studio, painting the space in warm hues of gold and orange. The place smelled faintly of him—a mix of turpentine, salt, and the faint trace of his cologne. You had spent hours here today, your hands busy arranging the decorations you’d so carefully prepared for this special occasion. Sea shells, shimmering like iridescent pearls, lined the edges of the room, their opalescent beauty a nod to the ocean he once called home. Candles flickered softly on every surface, their flames dancing to an unseen rhythm. You’d even managed to find strands of silken seaweed and glass ornaments, hoping to evoke the beauty of his heritage, the beauty of him.

Every corner of his art studio had been dusted, tidied, and then transformed with touches of magic, warmth, and care. You even placed the tiny trinkets and mementos you had kept from your shared moments—little souvenirs from your adventures together, knickknacks that held meaning between the two of you. You wanted him to feel at home, to feel the same sense of belonging that you had with him. You even wore your best clothes, the ones he had once complimented.

Today was your first anniversary. The thought alone sent your heart fluttering, and you’d poured all that love into this space, into this moment.

A few months ago he had told you this was just another day for him. A god’s sense of time was different, fleeting, perhaps even insignificant. But to you, it meant everything. It was a celebration of love that had somehow defied the odds—of a mortal heart tangled with one belonging to something far greater. So you ignored the whispering doubts that crept into the back of your mind, choosing instead to focus on trust. Rafayel had chosen you, not her. No matter how many stories tied them together, no matter the whispered inevitability of their connection, he had assured you. It was you he loved now.

But as the hours passed, that fragile trust began to tremble.

You sat in the chair by the window, smoothing down the dress you’d picked especially for today. Time crawled. The soft golden light of day gave way to a dark, yawning sky, and still, Rafayel didn’t come home. The anniversary dinner, meticulously prepared and carefully plated, sat untouched on the table. Each tick of the clock became a cruel reminder of his absence.

Worry gnawed at you. What if something had happened to him? Perhaps the art sale ran late, or he was caught up with his patrons. But he always came back home, right?

Your heart twisted as you reached for your phone, dialing a number you didn’t want to use but needed to.

“Thomas?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“Oh, hey,” Rafayel’s manager greeted casually. “Everything okay?”

“Is Rafayel still at the sale?” You tried to keep the panic from seeping into your tone, but the silence on the other end was damning.

“Uh… no, he left hours ago. Said he was going to grab dinner. Lina was with him.”

Your grip tightened on the phone, your knuckles turning white.

Lina.

The name struck like a knife.

“Thanks, Thomas,” you whispered, hanging up before he could ask anything more.

You sat there, staring at the flickering candles, their light casting long shadows across the studio walls. He was with Lina. On your anniversary. You had trusted him, convinced yourself that you were enough despite the insecurities that had clawed at your heart since the day you met him.

But now, they came roaring to life.

You had known, of course, who Lina was. She was the one linked to the sea god, his past, his history—his heart. You tried not to let it affect you, tried to bury the insecurities that rose whenever she came up in conversation. Rafayel always assured you there was nothing between them. But then why was he with her, of all people, on your anniversary?

Tears blurred your vision as your chest tightened painfully. Lina.

She was everything you were not. Strong, beautiful, a part of Rafayel’s past, his first love. How could you compete with that? How could you compete with someone who had shared so much more with him, someone whose bond with him was carved in the very fabric of his existence? She was a part of him, woven into the his story, while you were… just someone who had stumbled into his life, someone insignificant in comparison.

Lina... The woman who was forever tied to his past. The sea god's bride. The one he’d loved for so long, the one who had always been there, time after time. You had told yourself, time and time again, that it was nothing. That Rafayel was different with you. He had assured you that there was nothing between them anymore.

But if it’s nothing, why is he with her now? On our day.

Your fingers trembled as you held the phone to your ear, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask any more questions. The answers were irrelevant now. His absence, her presence, they were all you needed to know.

Tears pooled at the edges of your vision before spilling over, streaking your face like tiny rivers tracing paths through dusted cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Nothing felt fair. He had promised you. He had promised. But promises were like ocean tides, weren’t they? Sweeping away whatever they could, leaving only bits of broken shells behind.

Lina was everything you could never be. She was strong, beautiful, powerful—everything that Rafayel deserved. She had the sea god’s heart, had always had it, and here you were, just a fleeting ripple on the surface, barely a mark to him. She was woven into the fabric of his past, his future. What are you to him? What have you ever been?

The memories of your relationship, the quiet moments of closeness, the laughter shared under the soft, flickering light of his candles, all those moments seemed so... fragile now. Fragile and fleeting. You were nobody. Just a distraction, a place holder. Nothing more.

You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor like the scratch of claws on stone. The studio, his studio, filled with remnants of him, was suffocating. His scent lingered in the air, the faint trace of his cologne mixing with the oils and paints scattered everywhere. His taste still clung to your lips from the last time you’d kissed him, the memories of his touch branded into your skin. It was all too much. Too much. The studio, so full of him, was now a suffocating reminder of what you had lost. You didn’t want to stay. You couldn’t.

You tried to hold the tears back, but it was useless. Every doubt, every fear you’d bottled up over the months came crashing down, drowning you in their suffocating weight.

This wasn’t love. This was a cruel game, one you couldn’t win.

You couldn’t breathe. You had to get out.

Your legs moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you toward the door. The wind hit your face the moment you stepped outside, cool and biting, but it wasn’t enough to quell the storm raging inside you.

You ran.

The streets blurred into one indistinct smear of light and shadow as you ran aimlessly, your feet pounding against the pavement, carrying you farther and farther from that studio. From him.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and the sharp tang of the ocean filled the air. The moon hung high above, casting a silver glow over the beach. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning as you collapsed onto the sand, letting the waves crash against the shore in a soothing rhythm that mocked your turmoil. You kept running, further and further away from whitesand bay, along the beach.

You stumbled, falling to your knees in the sand, clutching your arms around yourself. Your chest heaved as the tears fell freely, the sound of the ocean mixing with your sobs. Lina. You could picture them together, her hand in his, the same way they had been for so many years before you. The seagulls cried above you, indifferent to your pain. And in that moment, you realized that the world didn’t stop for you. It never had. You stared out at the endless sea, the dark horizon stretching in front of you.

How could I have been so blind?

The waves crashed against the shore, each one louder than the last. You are nothing to him. The thought echoed in your mind over and over, relentless, until you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

And just when you thought the world couldn’t get any colder, the tears started again. They fell freely now, salt mixing with the salt of the sea.

You had wanted to be enough. But maybe that was a joke after all. But even as your body trembled with the weight of the heartbreak, you knew one thing: You could never go back. Not to him, not to that studio, not to any of it. You were just a wave, crashing onto the shore, and he was the sea god.

The night wrapped itself around you like a suffocating blanket. The cold air bit into your skin, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache clawing at your chest. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the bitter truth you couldn’t escape: you were never going to be enough for him. You curled tighter into yourself, trembling as the tears continued to flow. The sand clung to your dress, to your damp hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The world had narrowed to the storm raging inside you—a tempest of betrayal, doubt, and misery.

The sharp chill of the ocean breeze whipped your hair against your tear-streaked face, but it was nothing compared to the icy grip of despair coiling around your heart. Every promise he’d made, every word of reassurance, felt like shards of glass now, cutting into the fragile hope you’d built. The waves surged closer, the cold spray dotting your skin. Your sobs mixed with the crashing tide, swallowed up by the vast, indifferent sea.

You hugged yourself tightly, your body shaking as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. Yet, you stayed there, rooted to the spot, as if the ocean could somehow wash away the ache inside you. But no wave could reach that far, no tide could touch the place where your heart ached. You wanted to scream, to shout at the world for the injustice of it all, but the air in your lungs wouldn’t let you. You were too small for this world, too insignificant for him. You would never be the sea. You were just a small wave, lost in the expanse of the tide.

Rafayel’s POV

The door to the studio swung open, and Rafayel stepped inside, laughter trailing after him. “You should’ve seen the look on that shopkeeper’s face when I said we’d take both cakes,” he said, his voice warm and light. He turned to Lina, who chuckled softly as she followed him, holding one of the carefully boxed pastries. “He probably thought we were insane.”

Rafayel kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his own box of confections, his grin still in place. “I can’t wait to see my cutie’s face when she tries these. She’s going to love them.”

But the moment his gaze swept across the room, his laughter faltered and then stopped entirely.

The studio was transformed. Soft candlelight flickered, casting golden hues across the walls. Seashells glimmered like scattered pearls, carefully arranged along the edges of the space. Strands of delicate seaweed draped like garlands, their green silkiness catching the light. Trinkets, small but unmistakably meaningful, dotted the surfaces—each one an ode to moments he had shared with you. The table was set with plates of untouched food, lovingly prepared, and the air held a faint, tantalizing aroma that now felt unbearably heavy.

He froze, the pastry box slipping slightly in his grip. His throat tightened as his eyes roved over every detail, taking in the love and care you had poured into the space. The decorations, the mementos, the effort—it was overwhelming.

“Rafayel?” Lina’s voice broke through the silence. She stepped forward, her brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked, and he set the box down on the nearest surface with trembling hands. “I fucked up,” he whispered, barely audible. His fingers grazed one of the seashells, its surface smooth and cool. He trailed his hand over a string of seaweed, the soft texture almost mocking him. “I fucked up bad.”

Lina’s concern deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Rafayel turned toward her, his expression stricken. “The anniversary. Our anniversary. It slipped my mind.” His voice was a low, shaky whisper as he glanced back at the table, the untouched plates, the flickering candles. “She did all of this… for me. For us.”

He called out your name, his voice echoing through the space. “Are you here? Cutie?” His steps quickened as he moved through the studio, searching. The bathroom. The bedroom. The small corner where you sometimes curled up to read. “Are you asleep?” he called, though he knew better. Each empty room was another blow to his gut.

Panic clawed at him as he returned to the main room, his gaze darting to the table again, the small trinkets, the soft glow of candles still burning. The room felt haunted, filled with the ghost of your hope and effort.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, gripping it tightly. He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Thomas.

“Thomas, did she—did she say anything to you? Did she mention where she might go?” Rafayel’s voice was taut with desperation.

Thomas hesitated. “She called me earlier. She asked if you were still at the sale. That’s all she said.”

The weight of Thomas’s words slammed into Rafayel like a wave. You’d called, searching for him, only to learn the truth he had tried to ignore. It had slipped his mind completely. He didn’t know you were setting all of this up. For him. For the both of you.

“Thanks,” Rafayel muttered, ending the call and immediately dialing your number. He paced the studio, his heart racing as the line rang once… twice… three times—

And then he heard it. The faint buzz of your phone, abandoned on the sofa near the window.

“Shit!” Rafayel cursed, grabbing the device and staring at the darkened screen as if it could offer him answers. “Shit, shit, shit!”

He collapsed onto the chair you had once sat in, his head in his hands. Where were you? His gaze drifted to the table again, the untouched dinner, the carefully arranged decorations.

How could he have been so blind? So careless? You had given him everything, and he… he had been too wrapped up in himself, too foolish to see what truly mattered.

Lina hesitated before taking a few careful steps toward Rafayel, watching his every move with growing concern. She’d never seen him like this before. His usual confident, almost cocky demeanor had vanished, leaving only raw distress in its place. He sat slumped in the chair, his phone clutched tightly in his hands, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

"Rafayel..." she began softly, her voice gentle but concerned. "What’s going on? What happened?"

Her hand brushed against his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, but the instant her fingers made contact with his skin, he flinched as though struck. His body jerked back, his eyes flashing with something wild—something dangerous.  His eyes, usually a mischievous swirl of pink and blue, flared into a startling, unearthly bright blue before he clenched them shut, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he pulled away, his fists curling. “Lina, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He forced himself to inhale deeply, reigning in his emotions as the scales receded and his eyes returned to their usual hue. “I’m fine,” he lied, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “I just... I need to find her.”

Lina’s hand hovered uncertainly before falling back to her side. “Rafayel,” she began gently, “her phone’s here. Her purse. Even her car keys. Where could she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped, the sharpness in his voice born of self-directed frustration. “And that’s what’s driving me insane.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain could ground him. “She’s out there somewhere, without her coat, without her phone... and it’s freezing tonight.”

Lina straightened, crossing her arms. “Then let me help—”

“No.” His interruption was immediate, his tone brooking no argument. He turned to her, his expression pained but resolute. “This is my fault. I need to fix this myself.”

“But—”

“Please, Lina,” he cut in, softer this time. “If she’s out there, you’ll hear from me. Just… if you see her, let me know. But I have to do this alone.”

After a long, hesitant pause, Lina relented, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. But don’t do anything reckless. I’ll keep my eyes open and let you know if I find anything.”

Rafayel nodded, murmuring his thanks before grabbing his coat and storming out into the night.

The cold air bit at his face as he ran through the streets, his breath forming short puffs in the frigid night. He clutched his phone tightly, the screen glowing as he swiped to a recent photo of you, showing it to every passerby he stopped.

“Have you seen her?” he asked a bewildered man on the corner. “This woman? Please—it’s urgent.”

The man shook his head, muttering an apology before hurrying off. Rafayel grit his teeth, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to consume him. Where are you?

The thought repeated like a drumbeat as he made his way to the beach. The icy wind off the water made him shiver, but he pressed forward, searching desperately. He called your neighbor, pacing along the shoreline as he waited for an answer.

The voice on the other end was soft, a little worried. “No... the lights are off. The door’s locked. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon.”

His heart skipped a beat, the silence that followed pressing like a weight on his chest. Where were you? Where could you have gone? You were working so hard fore him, for the both of you since the afternoon and he wasn’t even there to experience it with you together. He could imagine it, the smile on your face as you placed those shells, the excitement in your movements as you cooked his favorite food. His eyes darted to the horizon, a dark line of water stretching out before him, and his legs moved faster, pushing him toward the shore, toward the place where you sometimes went to escape.

The beach was empty when he arrived, the wind biting at his skin, the waves crashing softly against the sand. He scanned the shoreline, dread filling him as he searched. There was no sign of you, but his heart refused to let go of the hope that you might be here.

He walked for what felt like hours, the weight of the cold creeping into his bones as the night deepened. The autumn air turned chillier, the first hints of winter brushing against his skin. You hadn’t taken your coat. You hadn’t taken anything. What was he thinking? You’d never leave without saying something. So why was he—

His breath hitched as his gaze landed on something ahead. A small lump on the sand.

His heart stopped, the world narrowing down to that single, fragile form crumpled against the cold ground.

“No!” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He ran towards you, his legs moving faster than they ever had before, fear propelling him forward. His feet barely touching the ground as he pushed forward, his every step frantic. He reached you within seconds, his pulse hammering in his ears. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he gently touched your shoulder.

“Cutie?” he called, his voice cracking. His knees hit the sand as he reached you, and his heart twisted painfully at the sight. You were curled in on yourself, your arms hugging your knees, your face hidden. Tear tracks glistened on your cheeks, even in the dim moonlight, and your body trembled from the cold.

“Shit,” Rafayel hissed, his voice barely a whisper as panic surged again. You were cold, so cold. Damp from the wet sand, your skin pale as if the very life had been drained from you. He pulled off his jacket, draping it around you as gently as he could, his hands still shaking.

Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see how badly she needed me?

He slid his arms around you, his heart aching as he pulled you into his lap, cradling you as though you might break into a thousand pieces. He brushed the strands of hair from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he whispered your name over and over, praying that you would wake up. That you would hear him. “Fuck,” he breathed, feeling a wave of guilt crash over him. “What did I do? What the hell did I do…”

But he couldn’t. Not now. Now, all he could do was hold you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he rocked gently, trying to warm you, trying to make everything okay.

“I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m so sorry, cutie.” he whispered, his voice breaking. His mind raced, but nothing could erase the hollow ache in his chest. The thought of losing you, of failing you—he couldn’t bear it. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words tumbling from him like a confession he had never intended to make. “I’m so sorry. I fucked up. I messed this up, I—I’m here now.”

He clutched you tighter, trembling with the weight of his regret. The wind cut through the beach, but he barely noticed, too consumed by the sight of you—so still, so fragile, in his arms. His mind raced, scrambling for something, anything, to fix this

Your eyes fluttered open weakly, barely meeting his. You were too exhausted to respond, your body utterly spent.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice unsteady as he gently tucked his coat tighter around you. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.” His thumb brushed the tear-streaked curve of your cheek, his chest aching at the evidence of your heartbreak. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s too cold...not like this. Not alone,” Rafayel murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His hands trembled as he tried to warm you, his arms sheltering you from the relentless chill of the wind. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He broke off, his throat tightening painfully. Words felt so useless now, but he couldn’t stop them. He needed you to know. “I’m the biggest idiot in the world. I forgot something so important, something that should’ve been at the center of my mind.” His arms slipped beneath you, lifting you effortlessly despite your protests—if there were any.

Your lips moved faintly, but the sound was lost in the cold wind. He leaned closer, his ear near your mouth. “What is it? I’m here. Please... say something.”

“I thought... maybe you'd care,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. The words struck him harder than any physical blow ever could. He felt the sting in his chest, his breath hitching as guilt twisted the knife deeper.

“I do care!” he exclaimed, his voice desperate. “More than anything. I was just... I was so caught up in everything else, and I—I didn’t realize how much you needed me. How much you’ve always been there for me. I messed up, cutie. I know I did.”

You shivered against him, and he shifted to shield you better from the biting wind. “Let me take you home,” he pleaded, his voice softer now. “We’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

For a long moment, you didn’t respond, and his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, you gave the faintest of nods, your head resting against his chest. You shivered in his arms, your eyes fluttering shut again, too drained to muster a response. Panic surged in Rafayel as he felt how cold your skin was against his. He shifted, standing with you carefully cradled in his arms, his coat wrapped tightly around you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent but soft. “I need you to hold on, okay? Just a little longer. Let’s get you somewhere warm.” He pressed his cheek to your temple for a moment, as though the simple touch might reassure you—and himself—that you were still here with him.

Rafayel didn’t waste a second. He scooped you up gently, careful not to jostle you. The warmth of his jacket wrapped around your frame and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seemed to soothe some of the tension in your body. He murmured quiet reassurances as he carried you, his voice a constant presence in the cold, empty night. His normally cocky demeanor had shattered into shards of raw vulnerability, replaced by a frantic urgency to get you home—his home. Your breathing was shallow, your limbs slack in his hold, and every uneven step he took felt like walking a tightrope with everything he valued most precariously balanced in his grasp. He adjusted his hold, cradling you tighter against his chest. “Look, I know I’m an idiot sometimes. Fine, most of the time,” he admitted, his words a jumble of nervous energy and shaky humor. “But this isn’t the time to prove me wrong, alright? Just hang on a little longer. I’m taking you home.”

By the time you reached the studio, the candlelight had dimmed, but the room still held the warmth of the love you had poured into it. Rafayel carried you inside. By the time he reached the threshold of his room, his shirt clung to him, drenched from sweat and your tears. He nudged the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle you, and hurried inside.

The room was cold and dimly lit, the heater long dormant. He set you down on the bed, fumbling with the blankets to cocoon you in their warmth. Your body trembled, and his chest constricted as he watched you stir faintly before slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible at first, as if the walls themselves might condemn him. Then louder, more desperate, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry. I was stupid—so, so stupid. I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve kept you safe. Should’ve—” He stopped himself, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to stifle the sob building in his throat. His eyes flickered between his usual hues and that unearthly blue every now and then.

His hands hovered over your face, fingers trembling as he brushed damp strands of hair from your skin. “You’re too good for me, you know that? Too good for someone who screws up as much as I do. But I promise—” His voice broke, the words spilling out in a frenzied rush. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Il love you, cutie. I love you so much.” And then, because even in his rawest moments he couldn’t help himself, he added with a weak, self-deprecating chuckle, “I am lucky I’m this charming, or I don’t think you’d ever put up with me.”

He turned on the heater, pacing back and forth as he muttered under his breath, berating himself in every way he could think of, his brattiness peeking through as he cursed the broken world that had led to this moment. He glanced at you repeatedly, as if reassuring himself you hadn’t vanished, that you hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

When you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open, he froze mid-step. His usual confident smirk was gone, replaced by wide, guilt-stricken eyes. “You’re awake,” he blurted, his voice filled with relief but tinged with apprehension. “I know I screwed up,” he admitted quietly, his lips brushing against your temple. “But—seriously, who let you do this to yourself, huh? Oh wait, that’s me. Fantastic job, Rafayel. Bravo.” He huffed out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sitting at your bedside. The words spilled out before he could stop them, over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry. This—this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You’re supposed to be mad at me, not like this. Not…” His voice cracked, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Then, almost instinctively, the mask of bravado slipped back into place. “But, hey, look at you, stealing my bed like it’s your right. I mean, sure, I offered, but still.” His smirk faltered, his voice softening. “You better not make a habit of this, you know? Making me worry this much.”

You shifted, your eyelids fluttering completely open, and the sight of your weary gaze meeting his nearly unraveled him.

“Raf?” Your voice was weak, barely audible, but it was enough to snap him upright.

“Hey, you’re awake!” He forced a grin, though it couldn’t hide the guilt pooling in his eyes. “Good, because I was just about to start serenading you with an apology song. Don’t ask for a refund… the lyrics are terrible.”

You tried to sit up, but he was on you in an instant, gently pressing you back down. “Whoa, whoa, no sudden moves, alright? Just... stay put for once. Let me handle it for a change.”

"Handle what?" you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion and confusion.

His grin wavered, giving way to something more honest, more afraid. “Everything. All of it. I... I screwed up, okay? I’m the idiot who let you get like this, who didn’t see—who didn’t stop—” His words tangled, and he exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me. Or, you know, until you tell me to shut up. Whichever comes first.”

Your lashes fluttered weakly again, and a barely audible sound escaped your lips. “...Rafayel...?”

His heart soared and broke all at once at the sound of your voice. “I’m here,” he said quickly, leaning closer so you could hear him clearly. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Tears welled in his eyes as you looked up at him, your gaze heavy with exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite name—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. It cut him deeper than any blade ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice a choked whisper. “I know that doesn’t fix this, but I swear, I’ll spend every moment making it up to you if you let me.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the hum of the heater and the soft whistle of the wind outside. Finally, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I waited...”

“I know,” he whispered, his tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have had to. You deserve better than that, better than me—but I’m begging you, please give me another chance. Don’t give up on me yet.”

Finally, your voice, though weak, broke the quiet. “You forgot... something that meant so much to me.”

Rafayel’s throat tightened, but he nodded, accepting your words. “I know. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you. I’ll show you how much you mean to me. I love you,” he whispered against your skin, the words soft but raw with sincerity. “More than anything. More than I can even say. I don’t deserve you, but… please, let me try. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice a breathless whisper, “Not like this.” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, you could see the mask slip—just for a second. Rafayel was scared. Scared of losing you. Scared of failing you. It was the one thing he had never let you see, the one thing he kept locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, but now, it was clear as day.

As you looked at him, something shifted between the two of you—an understanding, perhaps. You could see his desperation, the way he clung to the edges of his composure, trying to hide the vulnerability he never allowed anyone to witness.

I thought... I thought this was everything I could give. Everything I could be..." your own voice cracking.

He shook his head again, his grip never loosening. “You’re so much more than all of this. I’ve been blind, cutie. And now I can see it—see you.” He gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to erase every doubt that had taken root there. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you feel invisible.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the tears still staining your face, but the weight of his words was a strange kind of relief. He was here. He saw you now. The storm of emotions inside you hadn’t dissipated, but his presence, the raw sincerity in his voice, made you feel something close to safety.

Rafayel kissed your forehead softly, the gentle pressure of his lips a tender promise. “I’m here, cutie. And I’ll do everything I can to make this right. You won’t feel invisible again.”

You nodded slowly, the tears still flowing, but there was a flicker of hope, however faint. "Just... don't forget again," you whispered.

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice firm, but his eyes were full of vulnerability. "I won’t. Never again."

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes closing as if you were too weary to respond. But when Rafayel reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, a faint squeeze answered him. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was enough—a thread of hope that he clung to with everything he had. For now, you didn’t pull away, and that was a start.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[notlongtolove]

the fox and her hound

“a fox?” he repeated, and you nodded. “a vixen.” spencer doesn’t understand why you call yourself a fox, not really. so you show him. not all at once, but in pieces, small glimpses of your world that you let him catch—if he can keep up.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff with a pinch of angst

content: a love story told through the allegory of a fox and a hound, mentions of metaphorical wounds

word count: 2k

note: no linked poem bc idk just thought of this and wanted to write it. mayhaps im taking this nature trope a tad too far lol but anyways i will probably come back to edit this.

a line: They don’t see it, do they? The way the fox rolls in the field when she thinks no one’s looking, laughing under her breath as she goes.

On your first date with Spencer, you’d asked him what animal he’d be. He had paused, tilting his head just slightly. He’s never understood why people ask questions like these. What animal? What color? What season? Animals are animals, colors are colors. It would be impossible to pick one to embody his entire being. Such separate realms of nature, totally different worlds, he thinks.

But you’re sitting across from him, head tilted, eyes glinting under dim light. Pretty. So pretty. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, doesn’t want you to think he’s boring or stiff or unfun. He wants to answer correctly, even though he knows there’s no “correct” answer to this.

“Maybe a golden retriever,” he said, trying to keep casual, “or a beagle. Something friendly.”

Something safe, he thinks. Something pretty girls statistically like.

You had smiled then, slow and soft, lifting the glass of whiskey to your lips, you said with all the certainty in the world:

“I’m a fox.”

“A fox?” he repeated, and you nodded.

“A vixen.” 

You didn’t explain it, just swirled your glass like you were swirling the word on your tongue. You loved the taste of it, loved the way it warmed your chest on the way down. Foxes are well-adapted to stay warm. Their thick winter coats, their long, bushy tails. They don’t need anyone to hold them when the frost bites or when the wind howls through the trees.

Spencer doesn’t understand why you call yourself a fox, not really. The dog stays close to the house. He doesn’t stray far, never been anywhere else. He doesn’t know. So you show him. Not all at once, but in pieces, small glimpses of your world that you let him catch—if he can keep up. The forest is dense, you see, the paths are winding and uneven. The shrubbery is thick, sharp branches clawing at the skin. There are logs in the way and the dog stumbles over them sometimes. You wonder if he’s getting tired, if your hidden path is too hard for him to navigate. If the spiders that weave their webs in his face and the fire ants that bite at his ankles are too painful to endure.

So, sometimes, you stop. You sit together on the forest floor, catching your breath. You wag your tails lazily and just talk.

“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, right?” he asks one evening.

The fox doesn’t answer right away. Her ears twitch, and her eyes flicker toward the trees.

“I don’t like the word never,” she says finally, “It feels like an impossible standard.”

The dog thinks about this, his brow furrowing. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

“I know,” she replies, her voice soft.

But the fox knows her way through the forest. She knows every twist and turn, every trap hidden beneath the leaves. You tell the dog he’d never catch up, sometimes hiding, sometimes running faster—just to see if he’ll try. Spencer doesn’t tell you how he sees that every time you disappear into the trees, you always turn back. Always looking over your shoulder, always checking to see if he’s still behind you. 

Eventually, you reach your den. Your fur coat is scratched and bruised from the branches and the logs, the forest leaving its marks on you like it always does. But you’re here. He’s here.

Silently, you wonder how many more times you’ll have to make this journey. You don’t think you can endure another. But you don’t say it.

Instead, you take him inside.

Your den is small, cobbled together from dirt and leaves, from twigs and scraps you’ve gathered over the years. You show him your dirt mantle, how you’d packed it tight with earth and how you’d lined with relics of your life. You show him the first flower you ever found, or what’s left of it—a brittle stem, its petals long gone. You tell him the story of the hound who crushed it. 

There’s a feather on the wall, light and fragile, from the first bird you ever caught. You smile as you tell him the story of the chase, how fun it had been to run and run with your foxes until the world blurred around you. Until you were the only one left. In the corner, something glints: A metal buckle, tarnished but unmistakable. From the shoe of the first hunter who’d ever caught you.

You trace your fur with your fingers, telling Spencer your adventures and stories of the traps and the teeth, of the hunters who came with rifles and ropes. The dog sits, listening, understanding. You show him how the edges of your den are marked, too. The walls are carved with notches—five, ten, fifteen. Each one a hunter or hound you’d escaped from. You’re proud, you say, even as you run your hand over the rough lines. They’re proof you survived, that you’ve outwitted them time and time again. Not unwounded, not unbroken, but alive. 

You tell him you’re very proud of yourself.

The dog tilts his head, watching you carefully. He sees the way your voice falters when you recount the stories of cages and leashes, how your tail twitches when you mention the hunters. Spencer thinks the fox is lying.

So, the dog tries to teach the fox his ways.

He clears out your mantle first. He takes down the brittle flower stem, the feather, the tarnished buckle. Then, he takes your paw and shows you how to sniff out the bright pretty toadstools, the ones that make the forest less dark. He shows you the rain puddles, not just for drinking, but for jumping in, for splashing until your laughter scares off the birds.

Together, you fill your den with new relics. Ticket stubs from the village fair, postcards you write but never send, laughter tucked away in secret corners. Kisses, soft and warm, planted like seeds that grow slowly into something that feels like home.

Spencer rubs off the old notches on your walls with the pads of his paws, the dust of their memory falling to the floor. In their place, you make new marks. Not notches, but drawings. A fox curled in the safety of her den. A dog lying beside her, his muzzle resting on his paws.

Night after night, you curl up beneath your mantle, snouts touching, tails tucked beneath you. 

And then winter comes. Now, your walls feel too big for just a lone fox.

You see, the dog always listens to his master. He sits, he fetches, he stays. But always under command, always under the whistle’s call. And when his master calls, he has to go. Tail wagging or tucked low, he goes. 

“You’re hardly ever here anymore,” your voice cuts sharper than you meant it to. 

“Can we please not do this now,” he says almost pleadingly, his jaw tight.

For the first time, in the quiet of your den, the fox feels the cold.

The dog goes. The fox doesn’t follow. She can’t. She doesn’t belong where the dog goes—to places of shiny badges and polished shoes, of clean, carpeted floors and voices that echo off tall, glass walls. So she waits in her den, her fur bristling against the chill, her paws worn from pacing the same patch of dirt.

You try to remind yourself of who you are. A fox, sly, swift, clever. A fox, who doesn’t need to wait for anyone. 

But still, when the forest quiets, you glance toward the trees. You press your ear to the ground, hoping to catch the faintest echo of his steps, the rustle of leaves under his paws. The fox runs her fingers over the edges of the drawings, tracing the uneven lines, patching the spaces in her den where the light and the wind get in with twigs and leaves. She roams the fields, trying to race the clouds again. But she doesn’t think she runs quite as fast without Spencer beside her. She chases her tail like he taught her, spinning in quick circles, but it’s not as fun when she’s alone. She doesn’t try to catch the birds anymore. It doesn’t feel the same.

When Spencer comes back, his coat bruised and worn from his time away, the fox licks his wounds. The scrapes and the scratches, soft and slow, patching his paws with the leaves she’s saved. ​​He carries something in his teeth—a token, a peace offering, a sign that he thought of you while he was away. 

A flower. 

He’d found it near the river, petals still dewy, fragile and bright. He hopes you like it. You do.

You take it from him with careful paws, eyes tracing its delicate form before placing it on your mantle, next to the postcards and ticket stubs, next to the daffodils, peonies, dahlias, irises and all the other flowers he’s found for you over time. You think back to the brittle and dead stem you once kept and wonder if there’s any way to hold onto something that beautiful forever.

Because sometimes even beautiful flowers die.

And when it comes to fight or flight, the fox always runs. They say it’s in her blood, in her very nature to flee. So she bolts. She runs away from the den, away from the mantle and the flowers he’d collected. The fox doesn’t know if she can find flowers quite as beautiful as the ones Spencer has given her.

You don’t need the flowers, you tell yourself. You’ll find a new den, find new birds to catch, rebuild your mantle from scratch, carve new notches in your walls once more. You always do.

But the hound finds you. Bred for hunting. Tracking. Scenting. For knowing where to look and how to catch. Bred for the hunt, he always finds you. Your crouched back, tail down, ready to pounce or bolt if you have to. Every instinct telling you to run, to vanish into the underbrush before he can catch you. 

“Open the door,” a voice calls, low and insistent.

The fox is curled in the corner of this den. It doesn’t hold the warmth of the last.

“I know you’re home.”

She shuts her eyes and digs deeper into the wall.

“Open the door,” he says, voice softening, pleading. "Please."

The fox exhales, and with a shudder that shakes through her, she reaches out and opens the door. She misses her flowers.

It’s not the chase you expect. No barking, no growling. You bare your teeth. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. 

“What do you want?” she asks, claws sharp.

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Then I’ll stay here until you do.”

And so the fox and the dog sit. They wait and wait then talk and talk. By the time the first rays of the sun creep above the treetops, the fox is laughing again. It’s a sound that is warm and bright, something that makes Spencer’s heart feel a little fuller, a little lighter. He thinks he understands now. 

They don’t see it, do they? The way the fox rolls in the field when she thinks no one’s looking, laughing under her breath as she goes. The way she finds the sunniest patch to lay in and closes her eyes, tail swishing in contentment. They only see the scars and the snarls. They don’t ever see the joy.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice gentle but steady, the kind of tone that makes it clear he already knows the answer.

“I do,” you say quickly, instinctively.

He doesn’t push. He waits.

“I know you don’t,” he says finally, not accusing, just truthful.

You look away, fidgeting with your tail between your legs. “I’m trying,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time, his tail brushing lightly against your side.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: you’re here that’s the thing by beabadoobee tsunami by niki

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How do I write mean insults that's in character for a character to say? I'm personally poor at coming up with insults that don't sound generic or would actually cut deep, being mean in general. I want to write a snarky character with a dry sense of humour when it calls for it but don't know how to go about it.

He's also recovering from a superiority and inferiority complex.

As the writer, you know your character best, and what insults would make sense for them to say (also considering the bigger context of the scene). So, I'll just provide you with a compilation of prompts and notes from different sources, and you can choose which ones are most appropriate to incorporate in your story.

Writing Notes: Insults & Dry Humor

A List of "Sophisticated" Insults

Craven - having or showing a complete lack of courage; very cowardly

Fatuous - silly or stupid; complacently or inanely foolish. From Latin infatuate, which once meant "to make foolish," but which now usually means "to inspire with foolish love or admiration."

Insipid - not interesting or exciting; dull or boring

Obstreperous - difficult to control and often noisy

Obtuse - stupid or unintelligent; not able to think clearly or to understand what is obvious or simple

Pusillanimous - weak and afraid of danger. It's been used by such notables as Ralph Waldo Emerson ("It is a pusillanimous desertion of our work to gaze after our neighbours"), and the disgraced Vice-President Spiro Agnew, who called journalists "pusillanimous pussyfooters."

Sanctimonious - pretending to be morally better than other people. It once meant "possessing sanctity; holy, sacred." The genuinely holy aspect faded, and William Shakespeare is credited with first using sanctimonious to mean "hypocritically pious or devout."

Twee - sweet or cute in a way that is silly or sentimental. Just as buddy is believed to be a baby talk alteration of "brother", twee is a baby talk alteration of "sweet". Although twee is still considered a chiefly British term, it's increasingly popular in American English.

Unctuous - revealing or marked by a smug, ingratiating, and false earnestness or spirituality. Unction can mean "anointment" or it can name something used to anoint, such as a soothing or lubricating oil. That idea of oiliness led to unctuous, which can describe the slickness of false sincerity.

Vacuous - having or showing a lack of intelligence or serious thought; lacking meaning, importance, or substance

The insult would also depend on which other character it is directed at. Here is a list of "funny" insults for adults from Reader's Digest:

My days of not taking you seriously have come to a middle.

You are the human equivalent of a participation trophy.

If you were a spice, you’d be flour.

You may have a sparsely attended funeral.

I smell something burning. Are you trying to think again?

You’re like a lighthouse in a desert: bright but not very useful.

Don’t worry—the first 30 years of childhood are always the hardest.

May your life be as pleasant as you are.

You’re as useless as the “ueue” in “queue.”

Your face is just fine. It’s your personality that’s the issue.

...and for your character's significant other:

I like you. People say I have no taste, but I like you.

You continue to meet my expectations.

I’ll never forget the first time we met. But I’ll keep trying.

If genius skips a generation, our kids will be brilliant.

We were happily married for a month. Too bad it’s our 10-year anniversary.

I admire the way you try so hard.

You’re entitled to your incorrect opinion.

Have you tried doing it the way I told you to the first time?

The best part of watching a show with you is when you fall asleep because then I can watch my show.

Don’t call me crazy—you’re the one who married me!

You can always alter these to better suit your character. You can read the full list here, which also includes some insults for kids, best friends, and family.

Tips for Better Humor Writing

Humor writing isn’t all about landing a good joke (except for when it is). In creative writing, the effect is usually a bit more nuanced. Here’s a few writing techniques to get you started:

Subvert expectations. Try to undermine the audience’s expectations or reform them with structural elements.

Save the best for last. Humor is often a release of tension, so the sentence builds that tension, and the pay-off—the punchline—happens most naturally at the end. This is also sometimes referred to as the “rule of three,” where two thoughts act as a build-up to the final humorous closer.

Use contrast. Are your characters in a terrifying situation? Add something light, like a man obsessing about his briefcase instead of the T-Rex looming behind him.

Use good wordplay. Sometimes words themselves are funny, and just as often, their placement in a sentence can make a difference. Some words are just funnier than others, so make a list of those that amuse you the most.

Take advantage of cliché. While clichés are something most writers try to avoid, it’s important to recognize them,so you can use them to your advantage. Humor relies in part on twisting a cliché—transforming or undermining it. You do this by setting up an expectation based on the cliché and then providing a surprise outcome. In humor writing, this process is called reforming.

Use humor as a counterbalance. If you just pile on one terrible thing after another, it starts to become ridiculous, and people won’t buy it. Using humor is a great way to achieve the proper balance between fantasy and real life. Remember, if a roller coaster only did twists and turns the whole time, it wouldn’t be as fun to ride.

Level of Intensity

There are people who shrug off an insult (“That’s just the way she is”) and people who commit murder over an insult (“I’m avenging my honor!”). Plus, of course, everything in between. Which is your character?

To be believable, consider the following:

Personality. How hard does your character take events in general? Does s/he get really excited over good fortune and really depressed over setbacks? Then we’ll find it believable that s/he gets really angry and reacts accordingly.

The second cause of an intense reaction is the nature of the specific fight that you’re creating on the page. Lily Owens lets most of her father’s insults go by (“the art of survival”). But when he starts in about her mother, the topic is too important to Lily to gloss over. Lily’s reaction is intense. She runs away. Another type of character might merely have seethed silently. Still another might have fought T. Ray more intensively, setting fire to the house with him inside.

Finally, the strength of fights is culturally determined. Where public or even private scenes are disapproved of (upper-class London, old-money Boston, “well-behaved” families), arguments may be muted, even when the subject matters a great deal. In other cultures, volatility is not frowned on, and people may feel free to scream at each other in public. In extreme cases, murder may even be considered a duty, as in avenging a sister’s sexual assault.

Where is your story taking place? Are your arguers in tune with local or family culture? Maybe not. You can create interesting effects by portraying the rebels against the local mores: the meek child born into a battling family, the furious feminist in polite 19th-century English society.

On Dry Humor

Dry humor - is all about the subtle irony of the facts being stated plainly; it is the contrast between sentiment and reality that makes the situation funny.

The technique is known for its simple, often matter-of-fact declarations that will make the audience laugh or be perplexed (humor is subjective, after all).

With dry humor, delivery and intention create a sort of comedic cognitive dissonance or contrast. Sometimes it is as simple as using a bit of sarcasm, but it can also be more than that.

Dry humor lives and dies on the back of doing less.

Less facial expressions, less props, less setup—less is often more when it comes to landing the joke. You aren’t using a big, dramatic setup or a grandiose vocabulary to make your point.

Essentially, these jokes are derived from saying the opposite of what is meant or delivering them in a way that purposefully counteracts the supposed meaning of what is being said.

Dry Humor in Writing

The function of dry humor has often been to highlight the absurd.

It is effectively executed in moments where satirization of the circumstances at play require little more than noting the facts aloud.

When writing this sort of humor, quick, cutting accuracy is key to making the jokes land.

Simplicity is king, and an honest statement of the facts will always lead the way to finding the funny.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Humour ⚜ Laughter & Humour

Hope this helps with your writing!

[koscheys-skull]

A Wise Person Once told me:

All stories. All Books. Religious or otherwise, have a Narrative Bias. The bible is not an exception. I think that it's easy for people who Subscribe to Christianity and really believe themselves applied to the beliefs of Christianity often don't think of their religious and sacred texts though an analytical lens. They are not only not encouraged to, but it's considered very inappropriate to them through the spiritual culture of Christianity.

Which is okay! It happens. I genuinely mean this with as much gentleness as I can, but they also are not often educated on Theology as a whole. With those that are brought up in Christianity and those that deeply subscribe to the Belief of Christianity, the idea of digging into the background and obtaining a critical analysis of not just the history but the contexts through which their sacred texts are written is not generally considered acceptable.

So, sort of very vague and "In a Nutshell" below. Spoilers for those that don't know these things but I promise you can find all of this through various theology and anthropology texts as well as resources. So go do your own research (if it's acceptable to you. if it violates your comfort zones, I absolutely understand and I do respect Christians who might get uncomfortable with these things.)

But without Further Ado: Historical Spoilers!!!

The structures of the Bible were written not by one person but a wide amount of other individuals spread apart across various other zones and regions that we now know of as "The Middle East" and parts of Africa (in a nutshell, like I said)

Paper was not a thing that people really had back in those days (Around ISH 7th century. Give or take. It's difficult because all the stories are actually very scattered from different tribes and metropolises!).

If you did possess paper or were wealthy enough to have one of these expensive items that could be considered rudimentary books (when they came out), then one of the things that happened more often than not was you used it up! Most people weren't walking around with books. They were expensive as heck. So if you were wealthy enough to have a "Hard Copy" of a sacred text (and most people weren't really), you would write all sorts of really important things to pass down to your next generations. This includes how to do your laundry. (Literally. That's why there's that section about how to treat mixed fibres. If you've ever heard the lecture on mixed fibres you'd understand. I won't go into ancient middle eastern textiles but I can if you really want me to. But that's a whole different bag of potatoes)

The stories that were compiled into the EARLIEST form of the bible is Called the Codex Sinaiticus! Which was compiled in the 4th century CE. The Most Popular version of the Bible that most of you are thinking of or being Taught From is currently the King James. Written in 1611. Which is over ONE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED YEARS DIFFERENCE. Over 1,600 years of time has passed since the Codex Sinaiticus, the languages that it was written and translated into, and the English Version of the King James Bible.

Now, I know we're not all history nerds here. I get it. That's okay! But language absolutely has not only changed and evolved in incomprehensible ways between those years, but the contexts and applications of many of those words and linguistic details that were once applicable to those people are no longer applicable and may as well be an entirely different structure entirely. You would not even recognise the texts if they hit you full force in the face. They are something else entirely different. Only, it gets worse. You'd have to understand Greek. And in the 4th century contexts on top of it! Because mostly what you'd be reading is the Septuagint.

Which is most certainly not something that anyone that has argued in this post against criticism of the Bible from an outside perspective has done. I highly doubt that @anamericangirl, or @betterthanideserve or the Kinkshamer (whatever that person's going on about in the vagueposting response) has done. Which, to be fair, is totally okay!!!! I get it! I do NOT expect these people to ACTUALLY know this stuff. But it helps when you're trying to construct arguments that you do try and take into consideration the education level and awareness of what people may or may not know. It helps a lot. Because maybe, just maybe, someone DOES know something you don't.

So I guess, one of the things I always get confused about is why Christians are always so adamant that the version and beliefs that they currently have. Your beliefs are very modern, actually! But you're trying to pretend that the consistency of your beliefs have somehow truly been set in stone over the last few thousand years. The Bible is very young and very new as far as religious texts come. It's practically a baby, itself. And most of the original contexts and the beliefs, even in 1611, are absolutely not something that is applicable here and now in the year 2024AD.

It's okay. I get it. Something that you consider sacred has been slandered and you take that personally! I get it. It's a slap in the face because someone may not agree with it and has criticism of it. But, really, that's their right. Most of the arguments that Christians have nowadays stem mostly from their own poorly constructed idea of the religion based purely around the narrow lens that they've had their whole lives. They're fed a very specific branch of something and it's not considered acceptable at all to want to branch outside of it. Which is a taught cultural belief of the religion. It's how the system itself is set up and it really does not make room or give allowance for other beliefs, thoughts, or concepts to grow. And if that's something that works for you, then by all means!

It is okay to get upset when people do not subscribe or have different things to say when they interpret a book that's free access to everyone. But you do need to understand that you're trying to apply your own personal religious beliefs to someone else. You are choosing to interpret your religious texts to suit your own narrative (and the narrative that you chose to subscribe to which was pre-cookie cut for you to consume and digest.) And by extension you're trying to force someone else to view it the way YOU want them to view the texts. When, in reality, the reliability of the book you want to believe in (religiously) is not as solid as you think it is. There's so much nebulous nature to it. As soon as someone has a different interpretation, you lose your minds and froth like wild animals.

It's an insane thing to watch. But maybe, just maybe, someone will find this post helpful and I hope that it helps bring some contexts and insight into things. I also hope that this encourages people to take some time and go read, research and enjoy travelling a little bit back in time to help understand something that they claim to be passionate about. I'm not expecting the Defending Christians to go read translations of the Septuagint or the Codex Sinaiticus. I really don't. And if you do, then more power to you! But also I encourage you to read other variations through history as well! But be warned!!!! THERE ARE OVER THREE THOUSAND different versions of the Bible!

Yeah. Crazy, right?! The book has been revised SO much over history it's insane.

But it's not a bad exercise to do! I certainly have not read all versions of the bible I've only read like... maybe 6 or 7 different versions including several apocryphas. But I'm a nerd. And that's about it. I am not a Christian. I'm just someone that likes understanding history.

Oh! Did you know the Christian God "Yaweh" is NOT original to the contexts you see them as? Originally the Christian God is the proto-Semetic god of metallurgy (this is the process of melting, combining or purifying metals for various things. So mostly like blacksmithing? ish? But it's a tad different and a little more specific). Yaweh eventually evolved into the Judaic god which eventually was also applied and implemented into Christianity as it developed. But it used to be written as "𐤉𐤄𐤅𐤄" which is really pretty to look at. Eventually Yaweh also had a weird crossover with the other god El. But that's another whole different chapter about how Christians got their God that they call "God" in the first place.

The point I'm trying to make here, though, is that there's so much that the Christians have to argue and yet it just cannot hold water enough for them to really die on the hills they want to. I admire the conviction and the loyalty. It's really admirable. But it's also missing a lot of critical and beautiful qualities that Christianity is supposed to promote. Like Love. Acceptance. Patience. All the good virtues which I just... somehow they never seem to be present, do they? I wonder where they all went....

most frustrating thing I’ve learned recently as i continue to read the bible

yeah so the bible literally never, at any point condemns abortion. Jesus never condemned abortion. In fact :) the bible actually provides instructions on how to properly have one. seriously. Look into it. Christianity takes its ethical base from Judaism, and Judaism says that you're not a person with a soul until you draw your first breath.

so :)

hahaha :) there’s literally no reason :) why Christians want to deny women and afab people healthcare :) besides the obvious, to control our bodies.

like :) there’s literally no reason :))

guys 🙏 absolutely NO scripture. :) condemning abortion even once. :)))))))

i’m about to lose my fucking MIND.

[epicthemusicalstuff]

I CRYUNG I NEED SOMEONE TO SUM UP ALL ETM SONGS MY. MEMORY + ATTENTION SPAN IS SO BAD

Let’s speed run epic the musical so far!! (It’s under the cut cause even a summary is gonna take a bit for 35 songs-)

Horse and the Infant:

Giant horse- ATTACK! ZEUS?!?! What are you doing here? I have to kill a baby? But he’s just a little thing-

Just a Man:

This little boy reminds me of my son. Is killing him the morally correct thing to do? Yeet.

Full Speed Ahead:

Let’s introduce our main cast! Wow! Polites- Eurylochus- Odysseus! BFFs forever! We’re hungry- let’s go to this island and look for food!

Open Arms:

Wow Odysseus, you are looking hella tense, maybe you should try being nice and not so mistrustful. Look at these little creatures eating lotus fruit- wow this fruit is bad for you- let’s go to this cave to find food!

Warrior of the Mind:

Athena and Odysseus back story. Odysseus, your actions aren’t very Warrior of the Mind coded. Don’t disappoint me.

Polyphemus:

Let’s kill these Sheep!! NOOO! Scary Cyclops, we killed his sheep, now he will kill us.

Survive:

HES GOT A CLUB. He is killing us- NO POLITES. Oh, Polyphemus is asleep now cause he drank spiked wine.

Remember Them:

Odysseus tricks Polyphemus. They almost get away, and then he GIVES OUT HIS FULL NAME, JOB POSITION, ADRESS, AND SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER.

My Goodbye:

Athena is disappointed and they have a big messy friend break up.

Storm:

There is a big storm. Wow! A floating island! Let’s go!

Luck Runs Out:

Captain, you keep taking risks and not thinking this through. What happens if your plans fail?

Keep Your Friends Close:

Hahahahahaha! Here is a bag of wind! Don’t open it! Oh- the winions told you to open it? No!! Penelope- I’m hallucinating! Darn- the bag is opened.

Ruthlessness:

You hurt my son. So now I’m gonna kill most of your men. What’s this- a daring escape? Well- I’ll get you sooner or later-

Puppeteer:

An island. Let’s explore! Oh no- scary lady, she turned us into pigs! Let’s run Captain! Or not I guess.

Wouldn’t You Like:

Hey kid, this scary lady could kill you. How about some magic drugs? Totally safe and all.

Done For:

We are evenly matched- big magic fight! Wow! The magic drugs Hermes gave you really are something. Are you trying to seduce me?

There Are Other Ways:

Wow, you really are trying to seduce me. Too bad- I have a wife I love. Wait- you’ll help us? THE UNDERWORLD WHAT?

The Underworld:

We are haunted by everyone we have lost- Polites- wait- MOM?!? I’m too late-

No Longer You:

This dead prophet should tell me what we want to know- wait- what no- this is actually terrible? We came to you for help but now you’re saying you can’t help us? WHO?!a

Monster:

Maybe Poseidon was onto something, and we do have to be ruthless. Welp, time to become the monster y’all.

Suffering:

Ooo, Penelope, I love you, but you know I’m too shy. I don’t want to get in the water-

Different Beast:

SURPRISE I KNEW YOU WERENY MY WIFE. I actually did become the monster, and now I’m going to kill all your friends you Siren!

Scylla:

This is the only way home. Eurylochus, what do you mean you opened the wind bag back in Keep Your Friends Close. Light six torches- oh no, a giant monster is eating our crew. Me and her are the same you know.

Mutiny:

Captain why did you do that? Fight fight fight! Oh no- Odysseus has been stabbed. I’m hungry, let’s eat cows. Oh no, they were a gods cows. We knew that but still ate them. Now Zeus is gonna kill us.

Thunders Bringer:

Zeus is here. You can live, or your crew can live. But like- Penelope. Sorry crew. Crew dies.

Legendary:

It’s me! Telemachus! I never knew my dad- I wish I could know my dad. All these suitors want to marry my mom. I wish I could fight them. DONT CALL MY MOTHER A TRAMP!

Little Wolf:

Fight Little Wolf Fight- we are going to beat you up just cause you were in the way. WOW. ATHENA?? What are you doing here- we haven’t seen you since the second saga! Ow.

We’ll Be Fine:

I’m going to help you cause I feel guilty about your dad. Bet. We are best friends now. Go find my dad.

Love In Paradise:

Rewind- Morning! You were asleep. I’m in love with you now. Ew back away I have a wife. You’re a goddess??? Oh no- now I’m really depressed. I’m haunted by the ghosts again- ATHENA!

God Games:

Zeus- father- release Odysseus. *lots of convincing Gods* NO, YOU DID WHAT I ASKED SO NOW IM MAD. LIGHTNING BOLT. Is she- dead?

I’m Not Sorry For Loving You:

Yes I kept you trapped against you power, but I loved you- why won’t you love me back? It’s not like you have a whole literally family waiting for you-

Dangerous:

HAHAHAHA. Hello old friend! Let’s do some cool dance moves as I tell you how you will get back home. Here is a wind bag 2.0! Let’s hope you don’t have issues with it this time!

Charybdis:

Another obstacle!! But I know how to beat you!! Woo! I see home- I’m almost there! WAIT NO! NOT AGAIN!

Get In The Water:

Poseidon! Please let me get home- I already told Siren Penelope, I don’t want to get in the water! Can’t we get along? No! Drowning-

Six Hundred Strike:

Use the wind bag! I’m out of the water! SIX HUNDRED STRIKE! You’re beat Poseidon- let me go home. What’s this? You won’t. TIME FOR VIOLENCE. Stab. Stab. Stab. Next to my WIFE.

[devonpink]

A Thanksgiving Story

Arrogant, ignorant, and stupid, no three words could better describe my dad. I didn't always see him like that, though. Growing up, we were best buds—I admired and looked up to him as a role model. I truly felt like I could tell him anything, I could trust him. So, you could imagine my shock when after coming out as gay to him, he turned on me. He ignited into a homophobic rage, disowning me as his son. He couldn't stand the sight of me. The unpleasant feeling was mutual and I moved out as quickly as possible.

For almost a decade, there was nothing but radio silence between us. Until one day, I randomly got an email from him, inviting me to a one-on-one Thanksgiving. I read it over and over, completely stunned. As mad and hurt as I still felt, I knew I'd regret not accepting his olive branch. So, I accepted.

A few days later, in the early afternoon of Thanksgiving, I drove over to my dad's place, my childhood home. As nervous as I was, driving up the old driveway and parking in my old spot felt good. As I stepped out of my car, I was reminded of how sweltering it was for November, even for Florida. As much as dressing up sounded fun, wearing a white tank top, dark tan loose shorts, and flip-flops only made sense. My balls would have melted in a pair of underwear, so I freeballed.

My heart was racing, as I flip-flopped to the front door. I was expecting the worst but hoping for the best. I could smell the turkey cooking through the front door as I knocked, its mouth-watering scent calming me slightly. A few seconds later, my dad opened the door. Unsurprisingly, he was exactly as I had left him: bulky beyond belief, obviously my leaving had no effect on his serious workout routine. Then again, maybe he exercised to escape the pain, I know I did that. He was wearing nearly the same thing, the only difference being his loose shorts were black. His pit stains were just as bad as mine—like father, like son, I guess. To my relief, his nervous expression pleasantly told me was just as anxious as I was.

Stepping inside, I got a good whiff of him as I passed him, that oh-so-familiar scent of cologne failing to mask the intense pit reek. The house, like my father's manly stench, was exactly how I'd remembered it, nothing had changed—it was nice. As my dad led me to the kitchen, with his back to me, I gave my hairy sweaty pits a sniff. They reeked, even worse than my dad's. Unlike him, I'd forgotten to put on deodorant or cologne. We both stunk, in slightly different ways, but that similarity was comforting—like father, like son.

I was expecting things to be insanely awkward, but it was like the good old days. We sat out on the porch, drinking beer and shooting the shit as we waited for the turkey to finish cooking on the barbecue. I forgot how much I loved talking with him, for an arrogant douch bag, he sure could make me laugh. Neither of us had brought up my leaving yet, I assume to not break the good flow we had going. In truth, I didn't want to bring it up. It felt good to pretend everything was as it was in the old days.

When the turkey was done, we brought it inside and gobbled it down like too starving beasts. Obviously, our nerves had calmed down quite a bit. Everything was fantastic, I forgot how good of a cook my dad is. We didn't say much to each other while eating, too distracted by our hunger to converse—like father, like son. Before we dove into dessert, he offered me another beer. As much as the pumpkin pie was calling my name, I couldn't decline.

Instead of the usual beer we were drinking, he brought a brand I'd never seen before, "Obedience." I didn't question why he only brought out a single can, I was too distracted by the pumpkin pie to care. I cracked it open and swigged it down, anxious to get to the pie. However, after I finished, I felt funny. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt different. I silently stared at my dad, watching an evil grin form across his face.

My dad spoke, dropping his nice-guy demeanor. "Now listen up, boy. It's time we finally get to the point of our happy reunion." My heart was racing, I knew something terrible was about to happen. Flashbacks of before I left flooded my mind. Strangely, as much as I wanted to move, I couldn't. My body was frozen like it was waiting for something. "Take another swig of your beer, down every last drop." What happened next shocked me to my core, my body moved on its own! It was like I was a bystander in my own body, only able to watch. I robotically brought the can up to my mouth and downed every last drop, doing exactly what he commanded. At that moment, I horrifily knew exactly why it was called, "Obedience," and why he only brought out a single can of it.

"Belch, boy. Like a man." My dad arrogantly commanded, knowing I'd helplessly comply.

"bbbbbbBBBBUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppppp!!!" Just as he commanded, the biggest manliest belch came out of me. I hated how good it felt to obey him, an obvious effect of the beer.

"Belch again, boy. Except this time, additionally, let out all that stress and worry. Also, uncross your legs and manspread! Sit like a man!" He commanded.

I wanted to resist but was helpless to his commands. "bbbbBBBBBBBuuuUUUUUUrrrPPPPPPPPPpppppp!!!" Like he commanded, all stress and worry had left my body. I then uncrossed my legs and manspreaded, just like my dad. Sitting that way felt so much better.

My dad laughed, like a cocky bastard. "Such a good and obedient son I have." I wanted to get up, scream, anything but just sit there. Except I couldn't move. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't move. "Now, let's get to the good stuff," My dad excitedly proclaimed, unnerving me even more. "Let out all the useless liberalism! Become a rigid conservative, just like dear old dad! Like father, like son! Belch, boy!"

I tried as hard as I could to keep it down, but it was useless. "BBBBBBUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppp!!!! With that, all liberalism and open-mindedness had left me. My mind was assaulted and reprogrammed to believe all sorts of small-minded conservative ideas and beliefs. It was overwhelming, yet electrifying. With conservatism comes stupidity, so my mind had become completely moldable, exactly what he wanted.

"Real men vote red, don't they, boy?" My dad asked, every word dripping with superiority.

"Sir, yes, Sir! Real men Vote-BBBBBBBbbbuuurrrrPPPPPPPPpppp!!!" Before I could finish, another manly burp escaped from me, making my dad bust out laughing. I couldn't help but laugh too, being more stupider now. It felt good to make my dad laugh. I felt like… a good son.

"Now, before we continue, I want to make sure you have no remaining resistance. So, let it all out! Give yourself to me completely! Belch, boy!" My dad commanded.

"BbbbbuuuuuuuUUUUUURRRRPPPPppppppp!" I did as he commanded, like a good son. It felt good, right, to obey him. Why would I want to resist him? He's my dad! He made me, I must obey him!

My dad was grinning like a king, as he should. "Belch again, boy! Belch as loud as you can!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" I was more than happy to obey.

"Fuck yeah, son! You sound just like your old man!" My dad enthusiastically congratulated me.

Having him praise me felt good, so fucking good. More, I wanted so much more!

My dad then got serious, obviously, this next one would be important. "Belch, boy, and erase all gayness from yourself. Become the straight man I've always wanted you to be! No man wants a faggot for a son! Blech, boy! Belch and become straight!!!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" Like a good son, I obeyed. "BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" And just like that, all my gayness was gone. I'm now as straight as a freshly bought nail. I like women, only women, like a normal man. Who'd want to be fag, anyway? Fags are sick freaks!! Thank god I'm not one of them anymore. Thank god I'm straight, just like my dad! Like father, like son!

We celebrated my much-needed transformation over two massive slices of pumpkin pie. Afterward, we returned to the porch and smoked cigars, some of his finest. I feel so much better now that I'm following in my dad's footsteps. I want to be exactly like him, in every single way. I want to be completely interchangeable with him. He gave me a matching pair of sunglasses and a red cap, to protect me from the blistering sun. I obviously wore my cap backward to match him. I'm so thankful for my dad. Without him, I'd be lost.

[ckret2]

I'm staring at the newest chapter in horror but also, there are SO many witnesses and there will probably be a ton of documentation about the second dimensional incident, which makes it that much more baffling Bill got an insanity plea. I know it's for Story Reasons and I probably shouldn't think about it too hard but goddamn.

They legitimately looked at all of this and said "yeah no he's found not guilty by reason of insanity, Theraprism NOW." (I thought at first it was "guilty but insane," however we get no indication that he's going to be sent to a normal multiversal prison after he completes his karmic rehabilitation. They all but say that reincarnation is the goal after this is over, which seems to be equivalent to release and reintegration into society.)

That being said it could simply be that interdimensional court has different requirements to be declared insane enough not to get permadeath. Or I'm misremembering how the Theraprism works...It's a forensic hospital, right? Not prison. He's being treated not punished.(Kinda debatable. That place sucks.)

The Axolotl gotta be the single best lawyer of the entire multiverse how the hell did they pull this off. I would love to just be in the court when this went down actually I can already feel how absolutely insane it was. No way either side didn't fight tooth and nail.

the fact that Bill is willing to look every single person he meets dead in the eye and say "no my dimension wasn't destroyed, it's fine, all my people are alive and they love me" is ngl gonna be a big part of the ax's defense strategy.

They have a lot of documentation of what Bill's like after the massacre—but there's absolutely no record, anywhere, of what happened during the massacre. You know what they do have documentation of though? Bill insisting that he dumped Euclydia into Dimension Zero so that he could do renovations and that he's built a paradise universe in its place when all he's built is a void with a few strobe lights. Bill claiming that all these people he kidnapped himself are actually from his dimension. Bill pulling off "rescues" with seemingly no self-awareness that he slaughtered more than he saved. Bill being told MULTIPLE TIMES "if you keep trying to fix Dimension Zero then the multiverse will collapse" and Bill going "okay. i hear you. So how about i fix Dimension Zero, and then, everything is fine."

What do you do if you get Bill into a courtroom and ask him "do you plea guilty to the massacre of Euclydia?" and he goes "I don't know what you're talking about. There was no massacre. I liberated everyone, they're fine. They're literally still alive today. Nobody died." Like. You're trying to decide his culpability in a crime he doesn't acknowledge happened.

You've gotta ask 2 questions: does Bill literally not know what happened to his dimension—even if the knowledge comes and goes, is it still sometimes genuinely missing—or is this just an act to try to wiggle out of trouble? And, if he does literally not know what happened to it, is that a trauma reaction to the massacre, or did he commit the crime not comprehending what the result would be?

Bill's a known liar, this could all be an act. But, like, god, wow, it's a really, really good act.

The Ax can argue that Bill literally doesn't grasp the difference between right and wrong. He can tell them that Bill is completely unable to differentiate fact and fiction. He can tell them that Bill has delusions that he didn't destroy Euclydia, that the neighboring dimensions are Euclydia, that all his people are alive and healthy, and argue that he probably had delusions that whatever he did to his dimension wouldn't destroy it in the first place. He can argue a whole lot of things about Bill.

Are any of these things true about Bill? Debatable. Probably not. Somewhere between 30%-60% true. Could the Ax convince a court that they're true? Probably. Everyone already agrees Bill's insane. The only question is if he was the right kind of insane at the right time.

[cultlix]

𝐡𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬

pair. mob heir! felix x fem reader | genre. toxic relationship, smut, angst | warnings. semi-public sex, penetrative/unprotected sex, use of pet names, mentions of alcohol and organized crime.

synopsis. You raise your head, locking eyes with your executioner. There's still something this hideous place has not taken away from him. His love for you. A love he watched grow in his ribcage like trailing ivy, suffocating his resistance, that he treasured in secret, sacred and fatal, the one that makes you sink obliviously in between bedsheets filled with torment and bliss.

author's note. this one was a wild ride! not because i easily run out of ideas or just lose interest in what i write, but because my kitten kept on running away from home and it was impossible for me to stay focused on this story. but then i spent so many sleepless nights waiting for him to return and praying he was safe that, somehow, the only decision i could make to preserve my sanity was completing it, at any cost. hope this contribution does justice to one of the most appreciated trope in ff world (mafia is such a classic, right?) and that you guys may find it entertaining. thanks in advance for the time you'll decide to invest in reading this work.

➽──────────────❥

You can't enter The Hydra without losing a part of yourself.

It's not superstition, but a tacit agreement, a compromise of sorts. Once you slink into that private club, that dreadful abyss of vices and transgressions, tiptoeing on the fringes of morality, the only way out is giving something back, a sacrifice.

At their negotiating table, every mind becomes sinister, each soul easily corruptible. The Hydra takes, deprives, drains inexorably, then comes back, demanding, expecting more, a mythological beast driven by an endless hunger of tributes and rewards.

You never know how low you can go, how lost you can get, till you get in there. The hecatomb never ends, the monstrous creature grows and never placates, lavishes and purloins in equal measure, in a vicious circle, fed by people's avidity and weaknesses.

Going back is not an option, is a chimera. But this baleful eventuality doesn't scrape your obstinacy even for a second when you decide to cross that goddamn threshold.

When you finally meet his eyes, his devastating beauty is transfigured by dismay. He's disoriented, livid.

"What are you trying to prove, uh?"

Felix grabs your wrist firmly to guide you into the darkest corner of the dancefloor, attempting to shield you from indiscreet and lecherous gazes with his slender figure. He can almost feel the other men's labored breaths as they scrutinize you, each defined line of your profile, each smooth curve of your flesh and how they harmoniously combine into that surreal vision, making them slavering, making them wonder how gratifying it would be to empty themselves in that secret, narrow paradise you preserve between your legs.

Felix abohrs it, but he detests even more he's not that different from them. A ravenous wolf, lurking, agonizing till he catches the majestic fawn.

"Nice to see you too," you start off, trying to free yourself from his iron grip.

"I said I didn't want anything to do with you ever again," he bursts out exacerbated, but his voice, an octave higher than usual, shakes, calling into question the trustworthiness of his harsh words.

"I said I didn't believe you."

There's not a mere trace of hesitancy in your tone, no signs of fear on your delicate features. Just like the first time, when he took you at his place and told you the walls of his attic were so thick that he could have done anything he wanted with you, that no one would have ever heard you screaming. "I think you should worry more about making me first," you answered, loosing the knot of his tie.

He takes you to a hidden corridor and opens the door of an unlit, pushing you inside.

"Get undressed, now," he orders, slamming the door behind his back, taking off his leather jacket and throwing it on a security camera.

"I..."

He shushes you immediately with the index on his mouth, then pulls out his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and starts typing.

They can hear us.

He jumps on a table and removes cautiously a laminate panel from the ceiling, taking out a small-sized jammer. Then unfastens his belt, making sure the buckle clinks noisily.

"Nice sweetheart, like this, lay on on the table, oppa wants to fuck you raw from behind, he needs to drill that tight, pretty hole of yours real bad. Will you let him? Will you help oppa feeling better tonight?"

You can easily tell his words sounds affected, unnatural. They come out in a deluge, potent and evocative, yet plainly strategic, shallow. A well-written script acted masterfully for a mysterious audience. But behind the accurate sham, that diabolic mouth of his can still make sound those sordid trifles persuasive, alluring, emphasizing the unrest you perceive within yourself without his touch.

He nods, suggesting you to fake a verbal consent.

"Yes," you murmur a bit puzzled, but audibly.

He eventually turns on the device. "We don't have much time left. That fucking paranoid of Kim Seungmin will probably come soon to check why mics have stopped working—"

"Mics?"

"Yeah, mics, you can use to them to convert sound waves into electrical signals you can record, you know," Felix exclaims with a sarcastic tone.

"Record? Is that even legal?"

"Is that even relevant?"

He pours you a flûte of champagne, but you decline. He drinks it avidly, collapsing on the leather couch. "They're watching us constantly, they put our allegiance to the test and keep everybody under strict control."

"Felix, are you trying to tell I've just entered the Death Star and you're enslaved to the Empire?" you chuckle incredulous.

He laughs, wholeheartedly. "No, Y/N. I'm just telling you I'm the commander of the Death Star and the heir of the entire fucking Empire."

A subtle smugness slowly takes possess of his elegant lineaments as he placidly lets you drown in a bottomless ocean of veiled truths and dark revelations. He barely hides his amusement while he waits for a reaction, for a demonstration of what you'd be willing to risk, to endure only to stand by his side.

You try to listen with aloofness to his stories, to each one of his shocking confessions adorned with vibrant shades of blood and violence, to his tales about supremacy and honor.

Is it still you, Felix? you think, heart brutally clasped in the firm grip of desolation, Are you still the one I fell in love with?

"Mr. Hwang now only needs to designate his successor, me or his biological son. Then, The Hydra, every shady affair concluded between its walls and all the shit coming with it, will be my own fucking business."

Felix drinks and strides nervously in a room too small to contain his anger, his bitterness. He stops and turns to look at you, motionless, composed, betrayed only by a single tear falling from your eye to your quivering lower lip. A pearl of rare pureness in that hideout of evil. He knows you're disgusted, but still, despite his shame and the abomination towards himself, he needs to exhort you to believe he doesn't worth this agony.

"What's wrong, angel? Ain't what you always wanted? Am I not the knight in shiny armor you've always dreamed of?" he provokes you, pouting, coming closer, catching that solitary tear with his thumb, then tasting it, mischievously.

You raise your head, locking eyes with your executioner. There's still something this hideous place has not taken away from him. His love for you. A love he watched grow in his ribcage like trailing ivy, suffocating his resistance, that he treasured in secret, sacred and fatal, the one that makes you sink obliviously in between bedsheets filled with torment and bliss.

"Fuck knights in shiny armor. They're so overstimated."

You push him against the door and kiss him.

Your tongue finds him unprepared, but submissive, rage runs through your veins faster then heroin, a poisonous aphrodisiac, a fire in liquid form turning doubts and trepidations into a heavy rainfall of ashes.

As he steals your breath with every swirl of his skillfull wet muscle, he grabs your hips, forcing you to move and making you hit the wall with your back. He breaks the kiss, taking your hand and guiding it on his still coated bulge.

"You like this, right? You want to see me crawling, begging. It must be so sublime for you watching me while I try to resist you and miserably fail each fucking time."

"How can you be so full of shit?" You protest, sighing, lost in the rapture of feeling his body responding instantly to your presence.

He loosen his grip but you continue to palm him, now feverishly, making him groan, close his eyes, press his forehead against yours as he tries to find support with both arms on the flat surface in front of him.

"I swear I'm gonna fuck you so hard, Y/N, that you'll still feel me inside you even when I won't be there anymore."

"Please."

He pulls your panties down to your ankles and frees his throbbing lenght, then lifts all your weight by grabbing your buttocks, helping you to wrap your legs around his waist. Felix penetrates you rapidly, frenziedly, doesn't even wait for your walls to enfold around his hardness that he starts thrusting into you with an untiring impetus, making you bounce on his cock heavily. His movements are swift but precise, hard, intense, targeted to make this stolen moment culminate in a violent blaze.

He moans, curses as he swims deeply in your warmth, praising the way only you can take him so relentlessly when he needs it, though he knows it hurts, confesses how he could never escape this, the two of you, even if he wanted to, and makes promises, million vows with the weight of a zephyr because it's his lust speaking, cruel and consuming, and you won't trust them till he won't reemerge from this state of fleeting elation.

You let him come inside, his pearlescent seed obliterating the last crumbs of your lucidity, inundating what's left of your broken soul. Your orgams follows with arythmic contractions, a devastating force that makes you almost stifle, calling his name in feeble pants.

Felix covers your mouth, delicately. "I know, angel," he whispers, exhausted, totally uprooted from his surroundings, caressing your lips with his thumb, kissing them one last time before going back to his abode of doom. The world, his world behind that door, hasn't stopped turning, carries on its waltz of nefarious alliances and murderous games, blessed with cupidity and ignorance.

Once outside that place, immersed into the nocturnal symphony of calmness, the hammering music in the club's nothing more then a white noise and the silence lulls your senses. Felix sends a message on his phone, then adjusts your coat over your shoulders.

"You know I can't save you."

"I've never asked you to. But we can always start from something easier, a call, maybe? You think you can do that?"

"I'll try" he says, smiling. A black car stops in front of you.

"Stay away from trouble," Felix recommends, kissing your forehead.

You gently push him away, leaving him upset.

"Step back, then."

He smirks, watching you get in the car, waiting for you to disappear behind the misty drapes of the night and into the most remote corner of his dreams.

"Now I totally get why he's so obsessed with you," the driver says, an irritating tone, cool shades and long black hair.

"Pardon?"

He starts the car before you can even reflect on the prelude of that strange conversation, then stops at the first red traffic light and turns around. He's stunning in a disturbing way, eyes piercing, mad, making him look handsome, yet rotten.

"Hwang Hyunjin," he says, waiting for a cordial handshake, but you stand still, freezed and paralyzed after hearing that name. Felix's last request still resounds in your head and you already know you won't be able to keep your word.

"Welcome to the family, uhm...angel? That's how he calls you, right?"

© cultlix, 2024. all rights reserved.

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Con said at SFROP that David Jenkins told him to play Izzy as a mix of Salieri from Amadeus, and Iago (Othello).

I think the Salieri/Mozart parallel with Izzy/Stede is really interesting. Salieri cannot understand why God would choose to bestow his favour on Mozart, who in Amadeus is presented as an immature dandy whilst nonetheless being a genius.

In the same way, Izzy cannot understand how Ed (‘God’) can view Stede, this ‘ponce’, with no talents associated with traditional piracy, or traditional masculinity for that matter, in such a favourable light over himself.

The thing is, people often like to create God in their own perceived image. And Izzy thinks that his version of masculinity should be performed and valued by the man he idolises. After all, Ed can do it better than he can! So when Ed begins to act more like the femme man he’s just met, it’s an invalidation of Izzy’s selfhood. If God is in fact a bit goofy and whimsical, what does that mean for me?

What Izzy does is look for confirmation of self-worth in Ed’s reflected glory, whilst Stede looks for validation via his own agency and actions. Stede isn’t trying to create ‘God’ at all (just as Amadeus’ Mozart focuses on himself). And because of that, Ed is allowed to be himself around Stede - a man, not an object to be moulded into shape then worshipped. Ironically, the man whom Ed is just happens to be very much like Stede.

With regard to Amadeus and OFMD, the difference is Salieri is the villainous protagonist. The story is Salieri’s. We hear of Salieri’s childhood, the death of his father, the pact he makes with God. Amadeus is very much presented through the lens of Salieri.

None of this is true for OFMD (except for the brief voiceover at the beginning of 206). Stede is indisputably the shows central protagonist, with Ed as the secondary protagonist or deuteragonist. Izzy is the antagonist. It is not Izzy’s story - he is a device. Just as in Amadeus, Mozart is a device really in exploring Salieri’s bitterness and shame at his own lack of genius.

Does Izzy have a backstory to be told? Absolutely. Write some fan fic. Write your Wide Sargasso Sea. But in canon, Izzy is a spanner in the works only. It is not his story.

[jazzy-art-time]

Thanks

CW: cooties

It’s that Turkey thanks day here where I’m at. So I figured I would be that cringe fucker who gets overly insightful on today for a change.

But I figured I would sit down and tap for a second for anyone who would glance over at me today.

This past year has been, a lot for me. Good n bad and stuff but.

I wanted to say thank you to my friends. My dear friends.

I don’t think I would be the man I am right now without you and your support.

Like literally, prolly wouldn’t have been Raymond without you. You helped me test out everything and become comfortable with becoming Raymond. I can never be thankful enough for that, I’m closer to who I am and want to be even. I cannot express my thanks enough for that.

You guys support my artwork and my characters so much. You guys let me yap for so long and you let me send so many paragraphs for hours about my shitty ass stories and OCs. You’ve listened to so much Jolene Bennet and Pinky BrainRot you deserve awards. It seems silly but it means a lot to me that you guys are willing to listen to me insanity. I’m not that interesting of a person, so my characters are all I’ve got going on, it just means a lot that you are willing to listen.

You have also had to bear witness to the Birth of Jarble as well as its continued development. Which is very special to me due to why I made Jarble to begin with. It means the world that I can feel comfortable sharing it, developing it, getting tips and bouncing ideas back and forth. Jarble went from a shitty AU I made to escape from everything into something I hold dear to me. It’s special now, it might have died out and fizzled. So thank you for helping me create something special. Also the fact that I’m willing to share my writings with you guys show how much I trust y’all, my writing sucks and you are the few who get to witness it. I will say however, fuck you for the sheer amount of Jeden emojis, he haunts me and you do this to me I’ll get you /silly

As well as you guys aren’t afraid to call me out on my shit. If I’m doing something wrong, if I’m being out of line or overreacting… you call me out. You come to me and talk and help me get better as a person.

You were in the trenches with me when I became a Aggressive, Distrustful person who snapped and was going crazy because I was being stalked. Helped me gain the courage to speak out when I got doxxed by Travis. Stuck with me when I had to change antipsychotic medications and I went absolutely batshit and had to go to the hospital. When I was stuck in bed for nearly two weeks because I was practically almost dying. You guys… for whatever reason. Stuck with me.

You didn’t have to stick around, I never would’ve judged you if you did. But you stuck around, you came to me and laid it all out on the table. You told me when I was being unreasonable or that I was hurting you with my actions. You helped me when you didn’t… really have to.

And you continue to help me, I’m a better person now and I know that. I don’t think I would’ve gotten as better as I am without you.

You support me, you help me when I’m lost or confused, you talk to me… you share Garfield things with me or if I’m upset you send a picture of your dogs or just.. you do so much for me.

I am forever thankful for everything. I’m not good at expressing emotions, I never have been. So perhaps it’s all just nonsense what I’m saying or maybe I’m repeating myself, I don’t know.

But thank you.

For everything.

I love you guys and I wish I could be better at explaining it… that way I’m not dropping a mile long scientific paragraph on you every few months

And a thank you for my Followers as well.

Which sounds like, cocky or something to say. I don’t know, feels weird standing here going “AND TO MY FOLLOWERS” but it’s hm.

ANYWAYS.

Thank you lot for sticking around!

Within the past year and a half I’ve… been different! I cut off all social stuff for the longest time and then went radio silent a lot posting wise. Almost all my blogs kinda went nonexistent. I deleted a lot.

And then I randomly went “hey guys look at this story I’m working on called Jarble. I will tell you absolutely nothing about it.”

But y’all still? Stuck around.

Which I know I’m just like, another guy on the dash posting stuff. So perhaps it isn’t that deep as I’m making it sound? I don’t know.

BUT REGARDLESS. You guys stuck around!

You guys watched as I went insane over a AU that I never said anything about. Which might’ve been annoying when you guys asked and I just never answered because I got self conscious lmaO. Yet you guys still showed interest and shared support!

When I decided to update my blogs again, welcomed me back and showed support when I expressed interest in doing stuff again.

Even welcomed me back when I decided to attempt to be social again and join discord servers! Which was… hard for me and a 1000% awkward! Cuz I went insane and then shuffled back like a fool. Yet! Here I am!

You guys keep supporting me, sending me asks and supporting me and my work despite it all

And I thank you for that! I appreciate it and it makes me feel special when you guys appear to show genuine interest in my dumb characters and stories…

I know I’m just another idiot on the feed, but it means a lot to me that you stick around and glance in my direction.

So all in all

Thank you guys.

To everyone.

End of cooties

Edit: also thanks to my fiancé I guess. Whatever. You’re sitting right across from me and I might throw a cracker at you. But you alright I guess. 🙄�� don’t choke on the Turkey BabyGirl

[snowflake194]

So, it’s been a week since the mid-season finale, and can we talk about how Shannon and Abby are still haunting the narrative? Like, seriously.

Shannon’s lingering presence in Eddie’s story is something that has been dissected for years now. She died back in season 2, about six years ago, but her shadow has never really left. Every single decision Eddie has made since then, every relationship he’s tried to have, has been tied back to her. It’s always about “finding a mother figure for Christopher.” We know this. We’ve always known this.

But then there’s Abby. Abby, who practically disappeared after season 1, was mentioned only by how she changed Buck from 1.0 to 2.0, until the season 3 finale when she returned with a fiancé, gave Buck the closure he needed, and we all moved on. Or so we thought. Because now, out of nowhere, she’s back in the conversation - through Tommy, of all people, being her ex (again) fiancé.

And I keep coming back to the way Abby left Buck in season 1. She told him she needed to “find herself,” and Buck, bless his heart, said: “I’m excited for you almost as much as I’m sad for me.” And I just.

Doesn’t that just hit different now? Because here we are, with Eddie talking about moving to El Paso to be closer to Chris and rebuild their relationship. And so of course Buck is going to support him. Of course he’s going to smile and tell Eddie he’s doing the right thing, because it is the right thing. Eddie should be close to Chris and do everything he can to fix things with his son.

But you know it’s going to break Buck. He’s happy for Eddie, but he’s also quietly devastated for himself, because to him, he’s losing the one constant he’s always thought would be there - the two people he never imagined leaving him.

It’s wild to think that, eight years into this show, Buck and Eddie’s first major relationships are still looming over the narrative. Shannon and Abby may have been messy and complicated and long over, but their impact? It’s still shaping who Buck and Eddie are today.

And honestly? That’s just so interesting to me.

[whiteobsidian]

from cyra, to you

My struggle with LOA and how I overcame it.

During the summer (in 2020), around July I read a community post about the law of assumption, then I really did my research and had a better understanding of the law of assumption. It was quite fun and painful, I would read the same posts just to get reassurance that what I was doing was “correct”. Growing up with only listening to instructions made it a bit difficult to transition from the law of attraction to assumption. Though the law of attraction didn’t do  me any good.

When I got into the law of attraction in (last) december it was like a miracle had happened and I could change anything I “disliked” all by listening to some music online. I discovered those videos by accident, and I don’t regret it but I do regret abusing it and myself.  During quarantine + online school I was probably at my lowest point in life, I was depressed and scared and my anxiety had turned severe, especially as a black person during this period. I had also gained weight and my acne was worse than ever, In conclusion : I was insecure. Using subliminals was my escape from that, being so desperate to fit into today's beauty standards , I wasn’t doing myself any justice, I would get angry at the 3d for not showing what I wanted to see. I drank 2 liters of water a day, why wasn’t I getting results? I listened at low volume, why wasn’t I getting results? This mindset did change…. well kinda.

As I wrote earlier, I read a community tab from one of my favorite submarkes talking about how they used the law of assumption to manifest. I was obviously confused, I didn’t even know there were different laws/ ways to manifest. This got me into watching Hyler and Sammy Ingrams videos for a whole day straight. I was fascinated to say the least, and I was even more excited learning that visualization can also help you manifest, since I am a big day dreamer. A few weeks later, I had an instagram account and followed lots of coaches and accounts. I was doing self concept challenges and abundance challenges. I had manifested a lot of new things (clothes, macbook, food) but I wanted something more, something I saw as “BIG”. You might've already guessed : appearance changes.

I didn’t want to change for me, I wanted to change so I would be treated differently, that I would have a better life with prettiness. I had a ugly mindset and this ugly mindset told me I was ugly, I never really thought I was an ugly person before and I'm questioning why I ever thought I was in the first place, I had completely changed and it scared me, I was desperate. I would get mad when I didn't see what i wanted, this led me to repeating the old story over and over again. It took me longer than I expected to get my appearance changed because I had doubts. The 3d is a reflection, a movie of your thoughts. All I needed to do was to change my mindset on how I saw myself. 

Self Concept

Self concept changed my whole view on manifesting and honestly myself.  Your self concept is how you see yourself, how others treat you, how you see the world etc etc, for example if you believe that men or women treat you badly then it's going to reflect your reality. I had a lot of old  thoughts and assumptions that would mold into the 3d. Remember that no one is going to manifest for you, you have to do this yourself, know you are powerful, beautiful, and smart. Nobody can change these beliefs you have set in your mind except you. You need to work on yourself. 

Techniques and Methods

i’m going to put this out now, you DON'T need to do any methods or techniques to get “faster results” do whatever makes you feel comfortable, if you're new to the law of assumption feel free to try any techniques you're interested in, just don’t be pressured to. It's not mandatory to do all this extra stuff, unless you really want to. 

Timing

I know that all of us want our results to come quick, instant even and it is possible, but only unless you truly believe that. Know that your affirming is going to work and that your results are already there, if you are affirming for quick instant results, know that you will get quick and instant results. You don't necessarily have to believe in your affirmation, you just need to believe that what your doing is going to work. If you've been affirming and listening to subliminals for months and you're still “not” getting results it's not the 3d, it's you. 

Why?

You can manifest anything you want, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise but question yourself, why? Especially if it's an appearance change, I hope you're manifesting an appearance change because you're doing it for YOU. Not for validation, or to actually “feel” pretty. You are a powerful being, don't let others determine your self worth or determine who you are. 

Apply

Manifesting is simple, especially in the law of assumption, all you need to do is affirm, persist, and know.

Affirm for what you want 

Persist in that thought over and over

Know that your thought will materialize into the 3d no matter what

STOP over consuming info online, I don’t care if a loa creator posted, I bet you already know what it's about by the title. Stop going on instagram and tumblr just to read things you already know, if you're really that impulsive then delete the apps! Don’t waste all your time for reassurance to see what you're doing is right. There is no right or wrong, just manifest.

Have fun!

Have fun when manifesting, don’t make it seem like it is a chore or it's that pile of homework that's sitting around in your room. Think about it, you can manifest your dream life by just thinking, I want you all to have fun when manifesting, enjoy it! Know that you have everything you want all just by assuming!

Remember, you’re one of a kind <3

with all my love, 

xoxo cyra, 111 222

ps. I did manifest an appearance change (and everything else I wanted), all by working on myself! :)

[rowayneau]

Hazbin Hotel x Twisted Wonderland

An idea for an AU where the whole Hazbin Hotel ended up in Twisted Wonderland. The whole hotel(after ep 2) is suddenly transported to Night Raven College and somehow combines with The Ramshackle Dorm. Everyone is freaking out and is wondering where the hell are they, and who is this human kid (Yuu) and is that a talking cat?!?! Why are its ears on fire??? 

There will be a lot of chaos before everyone settles down. I can see Crowley will try to take advanta–ahem, show his kindness and let them stay on campus in exchange for helping out with the school.

Also this is a Hogwart/Disney school?? Where villains are being worshipped as heroes and history is not what it seems. I can see Charlie being a Disney fan will feel conflicted about this? Was their history wrong or the movies wrong? Not all the story is what it seems.

Charlie will learn a thing or two about perception in stories. How the story is being told depends on who's telling it, maybe her parents' story of hell might not be as accurate as they tell her.

But who cares about that right now, this is a magic school with wonders and amazement and new opportunities. But they are stuck being staff in a school full of douchebags kids with no pay. Yayyy…….. 

There are assigned different jobs and spread out across campus

Charlie: School's official therapist/counselor. Usually has no patients unless is an Overblot victim or Yuu coming in from an Overblot incident or dealing with Crowley’s bullshit. She is also Yuu’s primary caretaker, Crowley is irresponsible enough to leave Yuu on their own to fend for themselves doesn’t sit well with Charlie. So she stepped up and became a big sister to Yuu.(Which is a big relief. Have you seen what this kid went through in the game, especially in the later books?)

Yuu: Charlie assistant therapist/Crowley's gofer/Hotel gofer/Grim's caretaker. The unfortunate isekai protag who ends up cleaning up all the mess/incident at school. If that's not bad enough, with Ramshackle combining with the Hazbin Hotel, they will also need to deal with the Hazbin crew too. Will not be able to catch any break. At all.

Vaggie: School security and second gym coach. Will be extra protective of Charlie and super on edge due to being in a new environment and in an all boys school. Hates Coach Vargas as he reminds her of Adam and will be very strict towards the students and training them like a drill sergeant

Angel: Health/Sex-ed teacher. How did Crowley approve of this? No one knows. He is the teacher that everyone avoids but has to see due to being mandatory. Very uncomfortable and in way too many details of sex-ed during his class. Luckily for them, the students are all underage and he won't go that far. Except for Leona who is currently 20 years old. Yeah.....

Husk: School cafeteria worker. No different than working at the bar in Hotel but instead of hearing the Hazbin's moan and bitch about their problems, he gets to hear students moan and bitch about their problems. Oh and no alcohol since it's a school and all.

Niffty: School Janitor. Everyone is afraid of her and is cleaning up after themselves just to avoid her. Students with bug-like features or resembles it hides from her.

Alastor: School Announcer. This creepy fuck took over the school broadcasting system and turns it into his own radio studio. Keeps tabs on the student body and makes announcement that either is useful or just fuck with the student body. Very interested in this world of magic and trying to study them for his advantage. He is also looking into Unique Magic and is particularly interested in Azul's.

Sir Pentious: School Repairman. He mostly causes explosions with his inventions and his egg bois can be found all over campus. There are just so many of them, like an Easter egg hunt. His invention is interesting enough and everyone likes an airship with a death ray attached to it.

I can imagine in this AU they will be stuck until all 7 Overblots are resolved and then maybe they will find a way back to Hell. Along the way, they will get involved in a lot of shenanigans and start to grow fond of the kids. 

They can see the kids do their best, but they always lose. What surprised them is that even with constant failure and loss, they never gave up. The kids are so passionate about their dreams & ambitions when they fall down and crawl back up no matter what.

In a sense, they can see how these kids are similar to Charlie with her dreams. Maybe there is more in common to them in this world than they thought.

[impsandstars]

So many thoughts after this episode.

Okay so we know Blitz’s side to this story in terms of his feelings for Stolas. We have heard him in Apology Tour not once but twice in a roundabout way tell Stolas about his understanding of their relationship. Not a confession of feelings but not him saying no either.

He tells Stolas it cannot be not because he doesn’t have feelings for him, not because of their class differences, and not because of Stolas himself.

It’s Blitz. Blitz is the problem. He’s damaged and cursed to ruin the people who try to be near him (family, friend or lover.) He doesn’t deserve happiness, he doesn’t deserve someone to have feelings for him. He is not worthy of being with someone like Stolas, someone powerful, kind, caring. Blitz is after all, at least by his thinking, the reason Stolas’s life is the way it is.

Then we get Ghostfuckers and for the first time, out loud, we get Blitz not once but TWICE talk about his feelings for Stolas. Wanting a relationship with him that now can’t be, and again when he confirms (for the most part) with Millie that Stolas really got to him because he means more than just a guy he fucks.

So once again we the audience are privy to Blitz’s feelings, getting confirmation from the man himself through his words instead of just his actions, that Stolas has meant something more to him that just a transaction.

The only problem is, that has been there since Full Moon, is that Stolas STILL doesn’t know any of this. He left their full moon encounter with the understanding that they were finished, that blitz never had feelings for him that he thinks lowly of him and has never wanted him. Blitz made fun of him for being gay by sending him memes, he told him point blank that relationships are boring and told him he wasn’t worthy of an apology. He broke his heart and hurt him. The reciprocation that Stolas had been hoping for, he now realizes, was never there. A relationship with blitz can never be.

Mastermind changed that.

Blitz already knows that Stolas has feelings for him but they were cemented and made real by his actions. Stolas was willing to take the blame for everything that had happened and was willing to walk to the chopping block for blitz’s sake. I mean if that doesn’t say I love you to the moon and back I don’t know what does.

And Stolas? He is finally, finally, able to see what Blitz has been showing us the audience all along. They sing together (which is also so perfect because we know Stolas has an easier time singing his feelings and to hear blitz do that too!!). They have a beautiful duet where Blitz says, out loud, how he doesn’t want to live without him by his side. HOW HE VIEWS STOLAS AS HIS HEART. I just. How beautiful for Stolas to finally get that confirmation that Blitz has feelings too, and yeah maybe it took a while and they had to literally be at death’s door, but they’re kinda dramatic like that.

Thank you for the person who pointed out the heart shaped pupils in Stolas’s eyes during this scene because I totally missed it on multiple watch throughs. Yes it can be read as Stolas looking one last time at the man he loves before being killed but I also think it was Stolas’s way of showing blitz that he has heard him. That this thing between them wasn’t over, that they could have had a chance to try again. And honestly? What a heart wrenchingly beautiful thing to know that your heart’s desire wanted you back before you walk to your death. That’s some dramatic romance right there.

Unfortunately, after the trial Stolas is not in the right headspace to adequately respond to this new and profound understanding of mutual affection and love, but that doesn’t stop blitz.

Blitz feels freed now to be able to be soft with Stolas, to care for him and be there for him during what’s going to be one of the hardest moments in his life. He openly smiles softly at him, holds his hands, bathes him, wraps him in a blanket. How lovely it is to see him be able to express outwardly what he has been grappling with for some time now.

One day Stolas will be in a better place and he can then reciprocate those soft feelings and oh boy is he going to absolutely shower Blitz in love and affection. I can’t wait.

[heavenlymorals]

Do you have any tips for how to write Arthur Morgan’s personality in general? I’m trying to write a fic but I feel like no matter what I do it somehow just makes him feel out of character haha. It’s probably since I’m writing one with a reader/oc character x Arthur. Like I don’t want to remove Mary from the story because she shaped so much of his character’s pain (since in my opinion I assume that Arthur probably got Eliza with child from a one night stand trying to bounce back after Mary had told him that she was engaged to some other man). But I also don’t know how to really write Arthur as he’s completely over Mary and how he is instead with someone he considers the love of his life, cheesy I know but I had too haha. I’m also trying to somewhat do a slow burn and trying to instead have Arthur seemingly brood over his love for the reader rather than how he did with Mary in the game.

I don’t know if this makes sense and feel free to ignore it LOL

Ahah here goes nothing- my consensus on a general understanding of Arthur Morgan-

I think the biggest thing that people should focus on when writing Arthur is his personality differences between men and women. There is a pretty clear divide between how behaves with men compared to how he behaves with women. It can change slightly between how close he is with the people, but it's pretty much the same.

With women, Arthur is very respectful and chivalrous. He even gets mad at other men if they don't behave accordingly. He is more interested in them as well in the sense that he'll listen to their dreams and hobbies and either add to the conversation or encourage them in some way that seems more meaningful, even if it can be at times superficial, just a way to be polite. However, he is no push over. You know that meme that's like "Me and my girl don't argue, she tells me to shut the fuck up and I do"? Yeah, that is NOT Arthur. He can raise his voice, call them out, etc etc. when he feels disrespected in some way or if the person is doing something stupid. We see this with Mary, Sadie, and Abigail. He is also more likely to talk about his emotions with women, but not really BE emotional. Idk if that makes sense, but I don't know how else to say it.

However, Arthur is more inclined to be disrespectful to women who don't fit into his view of life and the status quo of the time (ie. Prostitutes, masculine women, etc.)

Honestly, just think of that when writing him with your oc (I'm going to assume they're a woman 😭). Is Mary a big part of Arthur's character? Yes and no. He can obviously make time for her, but she isn't controlling his every action and thought process. His main focus is the collective of the gang and once the gang is safe, that's when he'll actively start looking for love because that's when he'll have the time and energy for it.

Now with men, Arthur is much more rough. He is very much a suck it up kinda guy with other dudes. There is clearly a hierarchy in the game and he enforces it, especially with the men underneath him. He forces them to work, doesn't take their excuses really, will call them out, will be mean, and will even make threats (ie. Sean). He likes men who are hard workers and are always on the go (Lenny) and is more likely to be jovial, open, and willing to talk. He also will take NO shit from other men and that will either leave the other man read to filth or a black eye. Arthur also does not disclose feelings of fear or inadequacy to other men, but he will show more active emotions like joy or anger.

Honestly, whenever I feel like writing Arthur, I just think of the average older American outdoorsman and it helps me out pretty well. Chivalrous and respectful with expectations and a no bullshit attitude.

Hope this helps and happy writing 🫶🏼

[sugarpasteltmnt]

Hi, I'm someone who's interested in making a long-fic but just been struggling to do so. Alot of it just cause I really I'm not confident in my ability to write it well or that people will read it. Even though Neon Void was your first fic (I think) you managed to not only reach so many, but tell a story so deep and personal and moving that every time I re-read a snippet I find myself wanting to read a whole chapter.....and then the entire series.

If I can be so bold to ask, how did you do it? How did you take Neon Void and make it? What kept you from giving into the voices within and without that tell you to give up? How did you make sure the story was the best it could be. If you could go back, what would you do differently? What strategies would be best for someone who also wants to do a longfic?

Sorry if it's alot.

First, thank you so so much. It makes me super happy to hear that you thought it was moving and enjoy reading it!!

and don’t be sorry!! I’m super flattered that you wanted to ask me such a cool and thought provoking question!! Gunna hide most of this answer under a read-more as I get a little autobiographical, but in short:

You must be your own biggest fan

I’ll be honest— I had NO idea so many people would read my fic. The amount of positive feedback has blown me away and I couldn’t be more thankful for how nice the TMNT fandom has been to me (and my sister!!)

And you’re right! Neon Void WAS my first fic I ever published!! But I’ve been writing every day since I was a tween. I just love to write. But even then, I was nervous to post. No one except my closest friend had EVER read my writing before. I wasn’t sure if anyone would read it, or even like it since it was kind of a wacky premise.

But also in a way, it was okay if no one else read it, because I liked it. And that’s kind of the secret sauce to it all.

I have never, ever written anything this long before. Originally, TNV was going to be like, ten chapters max. I have no idea it would evolve into a nearly 30 chapter fic. And i think there were several factors that contributed to that.

First, I was utterly and totally obsessed with my own AU. When i started daydreaming about certain scenes over and over, i knew i had to write it. Being so invested in my own story was the biggest factor in actually finishing it. Which sounds so obvious, but the thing is I have a tendency to think of new AUs constantly. (Sometimes even daily.) The fact I kept revisiting this one was a sign that if i wanted to write it, now was the time.

Second, and this is piggybacking off of that last confession of always daydreaming new AUs, i knew i was on a personal timer. If i was going to do this, I had to make sure I did it. So i gave myself a goal of trying to post on a rough schedule to keep myself accountable.

(But remember!!!! It's just fanfiction!!! you never, ever have to put that kind of expectation on yourself! You don't need a posting schedule. You don't even need to finish. I personally pushed myself so hard to see it through because for years I told myself that if i was ever going to post fanfiction, i HAD to finish. It's okay if you don't!! I would never ask a writer or an artist to slog through something that doesn't bring them joy anymore. Because at the end of the day, fanfiction is meant to be fun!!)

BUT

Here's a bit of a confession. I didn't want to give up on it because it brought me a lot of joy during a rough year. I found myself sneaking on my phone at work to write a paragraph or two whenever I had the chance. I would think about it 24/7. I was in love with the story I was making up and looking forward to writing helped get through some not so Cowabunga times. I know posting your work is super intimidating-- and you might be tempted to stop-- but remember, if it makes you happy-- even for a while-- it's worth it. TNV was making my days a bit brighter even before I started posting it.

Which leads to my next confession-- and this is probably the biggest reason I was able to actually pull it off with a posting schedule:

I had already written 50%-60% of TNV before I even posted chapter 1.

And that was on purpose for several reasons. One, I was having so much fun planning easter eggs and planning long-term foreshadowing bits. Second, it was a test to see if this AU was really rotting my brain enough that I wanted to spend a lot of time writing it. By the time I had a lot written and scenes I was super eager to get to, I knew I wanted to post it. But having a bulk of it already written was a huge reassurance in trying to maintain my posting schedule. (But again, that was just my style! You can hit the ground running if you'd like, start and then pause for a while to figure things out-- whatever works best for you!!)

But even when i was insanely obsessed with my own AU, it still took a lot of time and energy to write. There will be times you will find yourself trudging through bridging scenes to get to the scenes you actually wanna write and it's sooooooooo haaaaaaaaard. BUT!!! It's worth it!!! Getting through it and seeing how it sets up the exciting part just right is soooooooo satisfying.

As for making sure the story was the best it could be??? I'm not sure!! Because there were definitely times I went whining to my sister and best friend about certain plot points or scenes, worried it wasn't good enough. There were a LOT of times a scene or idea just didn't feel right. Heck, a lot of chapters ended up in a different order than when I originally started writing!! The lesson I learned throughout the whole thing is that the original idea doesn't have to be absolute. Sometimes rearranging the scenes is just what you need!

But when i was REALLY struggling, I'd find myself referring back to the original source. It was what inspired a fanfic after all! Sometimes taking a step back and reevaluating each character's personality helped me shape the scene into something that felt better. Other times I had to step back and remind myself about what was actually important to the story. (Example: originally, I had no idea how to get Donnie to the hidden city by himself. At first I tried to think of some lore on the mask to give Donnie a reason to go investigating Void... but it didn't feel right. The mask wasn't important. Not even Void was the most important thing to Donnie at the time. Leo was. And that helped me sort of get rid of the loosey-goosey idea of giving a complicated back story to the mask that made the story feel muddled.)

But even then, I wasn't sure if certain moves were the best they could be! I was always worried (and continue to be) that I poured too much into descriptions, or spent too much time talking about emotions with too little action. Or that I overuse phrases. But so long as each chapter made me happy, I figured readers would enjoy them too.

If I could go back and do something different... I wouldn't have goofed with Leo's kraang parasite adaptation in Mad Dog Part 2: Prom. I was trying to make his parasite enter an obvious 'stage 2 boss battle' look, but later I realized I didn't like how I described it lol.

But!!! I will confess, I'm no saint-- when i started getting lovely comments, it helped pour gas on the fire to keep going. And that's why I'm so thankful for every comment or doodle or ask sent my way. You guys are amazing and helped me get the fire under my ass to keep going, even when things were really hard.

I know it sounds so corny and like a cop-out answer, but ultimately, it's YOUR personal investment in YOUR story that is the secret sauce!!! So long as your interested in it, it won't feel so impossible to write a long fic. There will be challenges (like there is with any project) but honestly?? If you're head over heels for your own story, it will be fun and fulfilling. Even if you don't finish-- so long as it made you happy, that's what matters the most. (Again, that's so cheesy... but just like Master Leonardo tells Leo, 'cheesiness makes the best pizza pies in life'.)

Thank you again so much for this fun ask-- and I believe in you! You've got this. Have fun, enjoy writing, and have confidence in your work, because it makes YOU happy, and that's the greatest thing a story could be.