#there's worse things failed artists can do

[beardedmrbean]

ROME (AP) — A man smashed a sculpture by Chinese artist and activist Ai Weiwei during the private opening of his exhibition in the northern Italian city of Bologna, in an act of vandalism that the show's curator described Tuesday as a “reckless and senseless act.”

The large blue and white “Porcelain Cube” was part of the exhibition “Who am I?” inaugurated at Bologna’s Palazzo Fava on Saturday.

Italian media reported that local police arrested a 57-year-old Czech man, who said he was an artist. He was known for targeting important works of art in the past.

It is still unclear how the man gained access to Friday’s invitation-only event, but the museum confirmed that the exhibition opened to the public as planned on Saturday.

According to the artist’s wishes, the work’s fragments were covered with a cloth and removed. They will be replaced by a life-sized print and a label explaining what happened.

Ai shared CCTV footage of the attack on his Instagram account, which showed the man hanging around the work before moving suddenly behind it and pushing it so that it smashed on the gallery floor.

The man then held a broken fragment in a gesture of triumph before the museum’s security blocked him, pulling him onto the floor.

Ai himself is known around the globe for making creative statements destroying artwork. One of Ai’s most famous pieces, “Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn, (1995)” captures the artist as he drops a 2,000-year-old ceremonial urn, allowing it to smash to the floor at his feet.

“The act of vandalism against Ai Weiwei’s work ‘Porcelain Cube’ is even more shocking when we consider that several of the works on display explore the theme of destruction itself,” said the exhibition’s curator Arturo Galansino.

“The destruction that Ai Weiwei depicts in his works is a warning against the violence and injustice perpetrated by those in power, and has nothing to do with this violent, potentially dangerous, reckless and senseless act,” he added.

Galansino described the attacker as “an habitual troublemaker seeking attention by damaging artists, works, monuments and institutions.”

[theswedishpajas]

Based on my favorite gif lately

[arolesbianism]

Time for more eternal gales isat au, this time featuring Sier as Isabeau, creating a sprite I can never use next to Aris’ because despite my best efforts it would make them look tall

[homophyte]

thank you for the long & thought out response. while i do fully agree with you on stances like prison abolition & the myth of the stranger pedophile scapegoat, my question and discomfort with jimmy’s actions comes not so much from a political/philosophical standpoint but from a very human emphatic one. i put myself in the shoes of the girl he groomed and abused and imagine people listening to and enjoying the music of my abuser and it makes me sick to my stomach. so thats more where my guilt and discomfort comes from. that said i can’t say that their music doesn’t have an impact or isn’t enjoyable. i also agree with you that this mass outrage and very public renunciation and demand for punishment is very much a social mechanism and automatic reaction that quite simplifies a complex situation. however these mechanisms exist for a certain evolutionary purpose after all (sorry my background is psychology) but thats sort of besides the point because im also not a fan of how these things get handled with zero nuance. 

its also true what you said that me or you or anyone deciding to disengage with this band or their music changes nothing in the grand scheme of things, so doing it as some sort of Noble Cause against abuse is useless. so in this case i feel it’s up to personal preference and whether or not i can swallow the cognitive dissonance and discomfort this information arises in me whenever i listen to their music from now on. 

thanks again for the insightful response, i’m glad we can have this sort of discussion because i also think this topic is extremely important but people often shy away from it because it’s so heavy. 

im glad you asked me to share! like i said ive spent a lot of time thinking abt this specifically so its very much like years worth of mishmash thoughts kinda strung together only by me experiencing them over time in succession lol. but i agree its important to talk about it especially within a culture so ensnared in the logic of the prison and particularly how effectively thats been exported into like 'mob justice' for lack of a better word.

re: the emotive aspect im not sure i have much to say other than like Yeah its a very strong one and i dont think its a bad thing at all to have. i got the impression from ur ask--and idk how true this is--that you were wrestling between a desire to return to the music bc you enjoyed it and that response preventing you and feeling a sort of obligation to do one over the other n struggling with that. so i think i approached it as like 'heres ways you can reason w that emotional response and grapple w it if its smth ur agonizing over' or something like that. im also a firm believer in the ways politics shapes the ways we think n feel so my instinct was to tease out some of the structures that may be shaping ur thought processes--which of course i nor anyone but you can fully know. but i dont get that same sense from how u describe it here and either way i think whatever feeling ur having about it is like...i dont want to say its 'valid' but ur allowed to have that and do whatever you want pretty much lol. i cant and am not going to force anyone to engage w the band and theres probably more reasons than i could think to list why its not for everyone even without the sordidness of abuse hanging over it.

without getting into a much much broader discussion i would gently push back on the idea of a biologically innate reason for the existence of carceral/punitive logics (and frankly psychology more broadly), if only bc it does a lot of the work of justifying them. keep in mind that these are concepts ideas and patterns of thought that exist because they serve systems of power and particularly the state. we did not have to have a society which created them, we only happen to--which is to say theyre not innate in this way and i disagree that they have an 'evolutionary' purpose bc it fails to properly historicize them. but thats me coming from an antipsych position lol

[askshivanulegacy]

These comments are a really weird take, and the video is less than fantastic. And also the comments are a complete tangent from anything the video actually says; i.e., the video does not support them.

I dislike Thomas Kinkade, but not because the art is "bad." It's not bad art. You don't make millions on art people think is bad, bottom line. His art is beautiful, and none of OP's negative comments about it apply. As the video itself points out, there's nothing wrong with creating art in the niche you enjoy. That is, in fact, the entire point of creating art. You don't HAVE to throw angst and drama into art to "say something." Art can just be beautiful and compelling, and speculative merely because it's beautiful and compelling.

The video compared Kinkade to Norman Rockwell, and ofc both the styles and subject matter are leagues apart - because the artists had different influences and wanted to pursue different subjects. This is normal. They don't even look similar. I'm not sure why you would bother comparing them in the first place, unless you are simply misinformed.

If you want to compare Kinkade, as beautiful artwork without a political message (which is a large majority of art), then he falls exactly among the ranks of:

Lisa Frank:

Christian Riese Lassen:

Bob Ross:

James Gurney (who worked with Kinkade, actually):

And all such artwork, like the painting of any sunset, landscape, or sailing ship ever. Most photography is in this category too.

Are Frank's, Lassen's, Ross's, and Gurney's artwork devoid of creativity, meaning, soul, and wit?

No. Neither is Kinkade's. Or maybe Bob Ross is a fascist too for the crime of (checks notes) creating beautiful and uplifting art.

You don't have to like the subject matter, but then you wouldn't like the above artists either.

I take exception to Kinkade too, but more because the cost of his prints are inflated beyond all reason. As an artist, if you make prints, the prints must be at a reachable price for the average person. That is the point of a print. Kinkade's prints are all at scalper prices which don't reflect their worth. Of course, this ties in to the "scam" he was running ... but honestly, if stupid people are willing to pay $200-$6000 for a print with a hand-painted rock in the corner because they think it's going to be worth more someday, then that's a personal problem. Buying a physical object as your investment mechanism is a risk, as is all investment. That's your problem and your own fault. Kinkade is detestable, not because of the art which is perfectly good, but because he found a way to exploit stupid people at scalper prices (also for his personality I guess, but that's not relevant to most people). But if you're convinced it's worth paying $6000 for a print with a tiny fragment of hand-painted something on it, that's not really exploitation if you knew about it, is it?

This is really more commentary on the idiocy of the average American person than on Kinkade himself. I object to his methods on a philosophical level because art prints should be accessible. I don't object to the art itself, or care that stupid people paid those prices.

Also, that video is extremely sub-par. Sure, they walk through Kinkade's life story, which is interesting, but they make fun of his personal appearance, which is extremely unprofessional and irrelevant. And this, despite the fact that the people producing the vid look worse than Kinkade does. The guest speaker artist adds zero value to the video. He also doesn't know who James Gurney is, which is ... embarrassing to say the least. I'm not sure why he's on the show because he's just not useful. Both men consistently speak over the lady on the show, and the number of words she says can be counted on one hand. Either she simply has nothing to add, or the two men are chronically obsessed with pointless quips to the extent that they never leave room for her to contribute. In essence, the main narrator simply reads from a script he's presumably written, and derails himself with bad taste jokes every two minutes, which the guest artist contributes to, and which the lady looks either unimpressed or disgusted by. The story they tell could have been interesting in terms of Kinkade's business practices and how he made his millions, had they actually dived very deep into it, but they didn't. It was a supremely superficial coverage that obsessed more over personality flaws extremely common to many famous people. That Kinkade also had these flaws is not remotely interesting.

Also the video says nothing about fascists, so defaulting to that opinion just because you hate everything conservative is weird and also a bad faith take. I don't care that many people dislike Kinkade and his work (I would never buy Kinkade, but more out of principle and because my tastes have evolved since then), but I do care when people take their own opinion as gospel regarding what is and isn't good art. Quite obviously, there's nothing factual about an opinion, and opinions about art are meaningless because they're about personal preference and nothing else of relevance.

Kinkade's art is good. It's real art. You don't have to like it. The people who paid more than $20 for a print of it are stupid.

You also can't psychoanalyze a fascist by their art preference or even make sweeping statements about the type of art they like. And even if that's what you wanted to do, one bad video about one artist isn't how you do it.

If you want a really good basic-level exploration about why fascists have no fucking taste and can't make good art, the Behind the Bastards episodes about Thomas Kinkade are fantastic.

Basically, the fascist view of art is that art should always be beautiful and uplifting, with an incredibly narrow definition of what beautiful and uplifting means. It's fundamentally anti-creativity and its art is removed of all meaning, soul and wit.

[txttletale]

What I don't get is that other your support of AI image generation, you're SO smart and well read and concerned with ethics. I genuinely looked up to you! So, what, ethics for everyone except for artists, or what? Is animation (my industry, so maybe I care more than the average person) too juvenile and simplistic a medium for you to care about its extinction at the hands of CEOs endorsing AI? This might sound juvenile too, but I'm kinda devastated, because I genuinely thought you were cool. You're either with artists or against us imho, on an issue as large as this, when already the layoffs in the industry are insurmountable for many, despite ongoing attempts to unionize. That user called someone a fascist for pointing this out, too. I guess both of you feel that way about those of us involved in class action lawsuits against AI image generation software.

i can't speak for anyone else or the things they've said or think of anyone. that said:

1. you should not look up to people on the computer. i'm just a girl running a silly little blog.

2. i am an artist across multiple mediums. the 'no true scotsman' bit where 'artists' are people who agree with you and you can discount anyone disagrees with you as 'not an artist' and therefore fundamentally unsympathetic to artists will make it very difficult to actually engage in substantive discussion.

3. i've stated my positions on this many times but i'll do it one more: i support unionization and industrial action. i support working class artists extracting safeguards from their employers against their immiseration by the introduction of AI technology into the work flow (i just made a post about this funnily enough). i think it is Bad for studio execs or publishers or whoever to replace artists with LLMs. However,

4. this is not a unique feature of AI or a unique evil built into the technology. this is just the nature of any technological advance under capitalism, that it will be used to increase productivity, which will push people out of work and use the increased competition for jobs to leverage that precarity into lower wages and worse conditions. the solution to this is not to oppose all advances in technology forever--the solution is to change the economic system under which technologies are leveraged for profit instead of general wellbeing.

5. this all said anyone involved in a class action lawsuit over AI is an enemy of art and everything i value in the world, because these lawsuits are all founded in ridiculous copyright claims that, if legitimated in court, would be cataclysmic for all transformative art--a victory for any of these spurious boondoggles would set a precedent that the bar for '''infringement''' is met by a process that is orders of magnitude less derivative than collage, sampling, found art, cut-ups, and even simple homage and reference. whatever windmills they think they are going to defeat, these people are crusading for the biggest expansion of copyright regime since mickey mouse and anyone who cares at all about art and creativity flourishing should hope they fail.

[hannieehaee]

BITE (teaser)

18+ / mdi

summary: keeping appearances as an idol was already hard enough, but it becomes even worse upon finding a forlorn jeonghan with need of assistance with the company's faulty security system, instantly becoming endeared with the idol who refused to take no for an answer — not that you'd ever want him to.

content: idol!jeonghan x hybeidol!reader, f2l, meet-cute, very unrealistic schedules for idols lol, jeonghan is a menace, a lot of will they wont they, reader plays hard to get, small age gap implied, afab reader, one mention of the word oppa as a honorific (sorry</3), reader is implied to be international (no specific race, just not born in korea), smut, dry humping, fingering, penetrative sex, etc.

(^ no actual content warnings in the teaser)

wc: 1.9k (teaser); 11.7k (full fic)

RELEASE DATE: september 6th

or you can check it out on my patreon today by subscribing!

a/n: wrote this super quickly so it might be a little messy but i really love idol aus so yeah hope u enjoy<3

masterlist

support me through a one time tip<3

"Hey, is that Yoon Jeonghan from Seventeen?", asked Minji as she patted your shoulder, finger pointing towards your right.

"Who?", you wondered, attempting to make sense of the distressed man standing in front of the main artist elevators in the building, "Oh, yeah, I think that's him," you said once you spotted his face, deeming it impossible to not recognize a face such as his.

"Why is he just standing there?", she wondered, holding onto your arm in the affectionate manner she usually did, "Do you think it's that elevator thing again?" she faced you to ask.

"What elevator thing?"

"Apparently he went on a variety show and complained about the company's security system. It was a whole controversy, but I guess the facial recognition doesn't work for him for some reason," she informed you before chuckling at the sight of Jeonghan sighing in defeat at yet another failed attempt at utilizing the aforementioned system, "I thought it was a bit, but I guess he was for real."

"Huh," you hummed, having been unaware of the issue. The system worked just fine for you and all your members, so you never had any motive to question it. Your senior, however, had clear issues with the system. Within the two minutes you had noticed his presence, he had already attempted the facial recognition three times, getting rejected every single one of them.

"You should help him," your groupmate suggested, "I would, but my manager will be here soon for my shoot. You only have rehearsals today, right? You're heading that way anyway."

"What? No!" you declined, "I always get anxious around our seniors. I've never even met him," you added, far too shy to even face the pretty boy during his predicament.

Disconnecting from you, she grabbed onto your shoulders, scolding you, "Dude, just go help him! This is how you make connections. You give him a hand and then he gives you one back," she said, physically turning you around so you could face his direction, hands still on your shoulders, "Go! My ride's probably already here anyways. Good luck," she encouraged as she pushed you forward, making you absentmindedly begin walking towards the boy.

Taking a breath, you began to walk towards the boy who seemed to grow more and more frustrated at the faulty security system. The closer you got, the more you could hear his whines in complaint. It appeared that he had taken up a phone call during the time you'd been talking to your friend, frustratedly arguing with whoever was on the other line.

"Seokminnie, c'mon! Just come down! I'll buy you soju after practice," he whined, groaning at whatever response his groupmate had given him in return, "My manager already left ... Yeah .... No! Stop! Just come down! I'm your senior and- Wait! Don't hang up!", he groaned at last upon hearing the classic sound of a disconnected line invade his ears.

It was only then that he seemed to notice your presence, widening his eyes momentarily before offering you a brief bow to acknowledge your presence. Moving aside, he gave you enough space to stand in front of the elevator, quietly awaiting for you to utilize the security system, likely assuming you had not heard his prior predicament. He gestured for you to move forward, acting as if he were being a gentleman in allowing you to go first.

You approached the small facial recognition screen, about to scan your face before turning to him, finding the boy staring at you expectantly, "You need me in order to use the elevator, don't you?", you asked him, amused.

"Huh?", he gaped at you, tsk'ing afterward and making an odd 'Eyyy' sound, "I'm just being a gentleman. Go ahead," he gave you a tight yet amused smile.

You chuckled in return, "Liar," you were surprised at how easy it was to be informal with him, but he was immediately likable, "Ask me to help you and maybe I might," you added, giving him a satisfied smile.

"You know, I'm pretty sure I'm your senior — Whatever happened to respect?", he joked, tsk'ing at you once more. He proceeded to walk towards you, pushing his face onto the scanner and ignoring your presence altogether, "I'll do it, see," he practically challenged, attempting the scanner once more.

Unsurprisingly, he was met with a red X and a beeping sound that indicated yet another failure to be recognized by the system. This caused him to stand there in silence for a few seconds before whining 'Yah!' and cursing out the security system.

Clearing his throat, he straightened up again, facing you once more, "Sorry about that. Your turn," he gestured to you to move forward again, stepping out of your way.

Both amused and surprised, you decided to finally utilize the scanner on yourself, smiling at him with a satisfied look when it immediately allowed you in. Turning to him, you nodded at him to get in before you, only for him to gesture for you to go first. Something about 'ladies first.'

"You owe me one," you said once you were both in the elevator again, standing side by side as you faced the closing door.

"Nuh-uh. This was just a coincidence. You needed to head upstairs anyways," he rebutted petulantly.

"Yeah? So you don't need me to help you get to your floor, then, right?", you questioned mockingly, knowing he would also have to work the scanner in order to get the door to open to Seventeen's designated floor. There were far too many steps to get to the artists' floors, but it made sense to you by now.

Upon the realization, he groaned, letting himself throw his head back against the wall behind him as he earned a giggle from you. He frowned in your direction at your laugh, though he joined you with a chuckle just mere seconds later.

"Okay, fine. I owe you," he gave up, still leaning against the wall behind but turning his head to look at you, "What can Yoon Jeonghan do for you?"

You pretended to mull over it for a few seconds, finger on your chin as you thought it over, "I have no idea. I'll let you know," you finally responded, "Okay, so, what floor?", you asked as your finger moved to the buttons on the elevator door.

"13th," he responded, now casually leaning back against the wall.

"Oh? The second highest floor. You're an important man, aren't you?", you teased, pressing his button before moving onto your group's number 9.

"Nine?," he gaped, "Seems I'm higher on the company hierarchy than you, yet you show me no respect," he joked back.

"Shut up. I'm going out of my way for you. Senior or not, you owe me. Those are the rules of all civilized society," you argued back.

"Okay, how about," he began, pressing his hands together as if making a proposition, "I see you downstairs every morning bright and early with a fresh cup of coffee in exchange for your face — y'know, for the scanner. How's that sound?", he proposed, a pleased smile on his face at your agape mouth.

"Every morning? Do you not have any friends?", you asked as the elevator continued to move up.

"Do you see anyone here? They all get here before me. You seem pretty friendless. C'mon. Free coffee, good company. I'll even play one of your group's songs in my next Welive. See? Can't get any better than that," he continued to sell his idea as the elevator came to a stop, now at his floor but demanding yet another facial scan to even exit the elevator.

"God, the security's too much," he groaned upon noticing the prompt on the small screen inside the elevator, "C'mon!", he turned to you, "Try to tell me that's not unnecessary."

You gave up, nodding as you chuckled, though not making a move to scan your face.

"Say yes. Please," he dragged the e for an annoyingly long amount of time, grinning when you rolled your eyes but laughed, "I'll keep going. Just agree. What better way to spend your time than with Yoon Jeonghan?"

"What makes you think I even knew that name before today?", you challenged.

"You do. Don't lie to me, it won't work," he smirked back before going back to being annoying again, "Come on-"

"Fine! I'll meet you downstairs every morning expecting a fresh matcha in hand — I don't drink coffee. But you still owe me," you agreed, extending your hand to him to solidify the agreement.

"No coffee? Ew. But okay, deal," he returned your handshake, holding onto your hand for an annoying amount of time, pretending as if he were unaware of when to let go and waiting for you to pull his hand off yours with another eye roll. He chuckled any time he managed to get a reaction out of you, leading you to realize he must be an absolute menace to every person he comes across. Sadly, he was charmingly entertaining, leaving you with no complaints.

Finally, you scanned your face on the screen, letting him walk in front of you to head out. Before the elevator doors could close and separate again, he held his arm out to stop them, nodding towards you.

"What's your name? I like you," he said plainly, head tilted in curiosity.

"Y/N," you said, "Please don't introduce yourself again-"

"Yoon Jeonghan," he interrupted anyways, "Remember that. We'll be having fun in the near future," were his last words before removing his hand and allowing the elevator doors to separate you, likely heading over to his groupmates upon leaving your line of sight.

Silver doors closed in front of you, now leaving you to your own company. Dumbfounded yet amused by the interaction, you stood there as you waited for the elevator to arrive to your floor, robotically scanning your face on the door once you made it there and exiting the square-shaped room upon arrival. There, you stood with the remnant of a shocked smile on your face, surprised at how easy it had been to put any concept of age or seniority aside when interacting with Yoon Jeonghan. While you always had the tendency of being overly formal with your seniors, you had spoken to Jeonghan like you would any guy your age, disregarding formalities as soon as he'd spoken to you.

You didn't truly need any convincing to agree to see him again. On the contrary, had he not suggested as such, you would've remained with an itch to find a reason for a re-encounter. Like any other junior idol at a company with big names such as BTS and Seventeen, developing a slight crush on your seniors was the normalcy — your groupmates Minji and Lila had crushes on BTS' V and Seventeen's Vernon, respectively — and it appeared that you were now joining them in the list of girls with unrequited crushes.

Jeonghan was, what, maybe five or so years older than you? The age difference alone was enough for you to chalk this up to a mindless crush. That, and the kindergarten teacher voice he had put on while speaking to you — clearly he made a very obvious distinction about your age difference right off the bat.

As of now, all you could do was hope to see him again (which, thankfully, you would) and retain the fun back and forth he'd welcomed you in on. Friendzone was one thing, but junior-zone? At least you now had a story to let your members in on next dance practice.

...

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[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

yooooo!!! you’re my favorite ethan winters artist i just wanna say that first and foremost, thank you for the wholesome content of my comfort character and father figure 🥹🫶

i’m really curious bc i feel like i see a lot of people against mithan (not me personally, i’m p neutral on them!) but i’m curious to know all your thoughts on them! thoughts on their canon relationship, their fanon portrayal, the backlash against them/mia accusations, and your headcanons? i’m just really interested!!! hopefully that’s not weird :”)

have a good day!! sparkle on!!! ✨💖

i heart mithan... i think that they can be so cute...

i personally hc them t4t and i like to think that the dated in highschool before they both had fully transitioned

mia likes to bake and ethan likes to scrap book and he always likes to take pictures of mias cakes/ baked goods and has a album for them 😭

i am a multishipper so i draw a lot of ethan ships so my girl is left out sometimes and im sorry mia 😔

i actually really like their relationship, its a really complex dynamic that i like to talk about with my friends

i think the issue is that when talking about mithan or mia in general, theres just SO MUCH misinformation that its honestly a pain the butt to talk about

people still think that she was responsible for the creation of eveline, people still think that she experimented on eveline, people still use examples of her attacking ethan as if she did it on her own will instead of being mind controlled

in reality she was just someone who oversaw the transportation of evie. im not excusing her or anything because obviously she knew what she was doing, but people really try to accuse her of doing something she didnt and it bothers me alot lol

the problem with the fandom is that people either try to water her down to girlboss who did nothing wrong and fail to acknowledge the complexity/ moral grayness of her character and the other side is misogynists 😭😭😭😭

its hard to talk about her without people either going "stop trying to villainize her and make her look bad!" or people ACTUALLY villainizing her and acting like heisenberg would have treated him better 😭😭

mithan is such a sad relationship because they loved each other so much and that ended up being the reason their relationship fell apart (sort of... its not like the broke up... ethan kinda just straight up died)

i get a lot a trouble for saying this, but mia is a selfish person.

its not a bad thing! well i mean it is but it doesnt make her some evil witch who is somehow worse than the guy how made a werewolf american ninja warrior. its just a major character flaw she has! which is good! mia being a flawed person who makes mistakes and morally gray decisions make her a more interesting person!

she is selfish in the way that she wants to keep her family with her no matter the cost. even if it means lying to ethan about her job so that he wont think different of her. here is a interrogation from the re7 DLC, which is easy to miss!

she isnt necessarily trying to apologize for the things she has done, she is more of a, "u wont need to forgive me in the first place if we just forget it all and move on"

she doesn't try to redeem herself for what she has done, she tries to move on and return to the normal life that she wants so bad. which is fine! everyone copes a different way and she has to right to move on from her trauma. the problem that lies in this is that she has a shared trauma with ethan who still has no idea what went on in dulvey and still effects him till the present (he is mold! this is a important thing to know! most people would want to know if they were a walking corpse)

she played a direct part in what happened in dulvey, and im not referring to the email, she did not send that. she never wanted ethan to come in the first place. she tried her best to send a video to him, begging him to forget about her because she wanted to protect him, BUT it didnt send.

he got involved because she was involved. its honestly a series of really really unfortunate events.

THOUGH! she did know what she was getting into. im tired of seeing the narrative that mia was innocent and didnt know what was going on or was simply a bystander. she knew what she was doing, she knew eveline was a bioweapon, she knew eveline was a child. she used a MACHINE GUN! she knows how to use weapons and was obviously trained for it.

she tried her best to keep everybody out of the mess, ex: warning the bakers not to take them in, warning ethan not to find her, sacrificing herself for ethan in the later half of re7

but again, those are the consequences of HER actions

her consequences just happen to get really big and end up hitting ethan on the head like a metal sheet 😭

their relationship is really so interesting, it makes me really sad to think about sometimes 😭they both went through something that nobody else would ever understand, in the end they really only have each other. they get moved to an entire different country and the dulvey incident gets covered up with a "gas leak"

its really tragic because their marriage definitely had some flaws and bumps. and i know im repeating myself but its because people always take this in the worst way possible but just because i say their relationship was rocky doesnt mean im saying they dont love each other!!! thats the entire basis of mias character!! saying she doesnt love ethan would destroy her entire character!

you can see in the re8 DLC how fondly ethan talks about mia! he loves her so much, though im not sure if his comments in the DLC are him narrating current (post re8) or his thoughts before everything went down and he died (pre re8)

everything mia did was because she LOVED ethan. she would never do anything to intentionally hurt him, she is not a cruel person. she hides the truth of her job from ethan pre re7 because she loves him and doesnt want her job to drive them apart. she CONTINUES to refuse to tell ethan the truth post re7 because she wants to move on a live a happy normal life with him and knows something like her being directly associated with the connections would probably cause (more) problems. she refuses to tell ethan that he is mold because again, hard to live a happy marriage with your husband after you tell him hes a bioweapon.

obviously i dont think it was right that she did this, thats what makes her selfish! she did it for herself! she did it for her family! she thought it would work out, she thought that they could move on and be happy together.

the issue is that ethan didnt want to forget. he wanted to know what happened, he wanted to know the part mia played, he wanted answers! which is reasonable! he knows to some extent that mia was partially responsible for his involvement and he was always suspcious that mia was lying to him about her job which is implied when mia says "you were right, i did lie to you"

she doesnt learn, she doesnt stop lying, her lies get bigger and worse and it sucks yeah but it makes her so interesting!!! she keeps doing stupid things under the idea that this is whats best for her and her family, that if she hides this everything will work out and it will be for the better but its not!

just because telling your husband hes dead and a bioweapon is a hard subject to bring up doesnt mean you DONT bring it up. people shouldnt use that as a reason to excuse mia 😭, its a very bad excuse and honestly highlights how horrible their communication skills were. you cant just not tell your husband that he is actually infected with the mold and not tell him for the tree years between post re7 and pre re8.

im not saying these things to put mia down, or try and villanize her. these are all just actual things her character does! she isnt evil, but she isnt a knight in shining armor either. we need to be able to have talks about complex characters without crying everytime someone points out a flaw. characters have flaws! and mia just happens to have a lot of them!

im not mad at her, i dont dislike her because i think this way of her. shes a fictional character! you can like characters that are morally gray, or villains that drink blood and make corpse soldiers. they are fictional! pointing out the flaws of a character does not mean i dont like them.

i wouldnt call her "the real villain of re8" but i wouldnt treat her like a damsel in distress either. she is a competent person, she knows what shes doing, she has her reasons for doing them. she made bad descions with good intentions behind them! they can coexist and we should let them!

i like mithan! its a complex relationship because they both love each other so much but hurt each other in the process

talking about them is just a pain in the butt because talking about mia is a pain in the butt lol

i really hate how she keeps getting sidelined, its super frustrating to see mia get put in a cage in every game 😭

its even more frustrating that mia straight up just disappears???? in the shadows of rose DLC... like she just stops taking care of rose and theres nothing said about it. no reason or explanation. i dont think mia would ever ditch rosemary because she didnt care about her, but we probably will never know because capcom sucks at writing and they probably forgot the mia ever even existed.

all in all, i think the fandom is really just full of misinformation which make people either think mia is some horrible evil person, or its full of people who think that saying mia messed up is the equivalent of comparing her to wesker lol.

i really love mia, shes a incredibly fun and complex character, its just hard to enjoy her sometimes with the people in the fandom haha.

also ive got no idea what u meant by "the backlash against them/mia accusations" so sorry if i didnt answer that!

thank u for the ask! sorry for the long response!

[bilolli]

Just Dance Care AU!

Ok ok so I thought of a story for this Au but it’s nothing really impactful or full of drama and angst like my other au’s, I wanted to leave this au easy and fun to play around, because, let’s say it. Just Dance and drama in the same sentence makes me laugh. 

story and PNG version under the cut!

(I gave up on Y/n design because I couldn't figure out a general look for them. This is you we are talking about! Draw your own JD fit, I'll draw mine soon XD)

Anyway here’s the story so far: 

Year 2029, videogames industry made a huge step forward and classic consoles and devices were substituted by the new and upgraded VR headsets with full body tracking. It’s something like the NerveGear in Sword Art Online without the kill switch. Some games still require you to actually move your body (like fitness games or sports because yeah, they don’t have a purpose otherwise). 

Y/n wanted to buy the newest VR headset but, while searching for the best offer, they found out FazCo entertainment was hosting a giveaway, the prize? One of their prototypes, a VR meant to be released the next year coinciding with the opening of their first mega pizza plex.

(so the plex doesn’t exist right now). You decide to sign up for the giveaway and after a while you receive an email telling you you won the VR headset and that, to claim it, you need to read and sign a series of NDA policies (understandable, it’s a prototype headset that’s not even in commerce). Some clauses are a little bit concerning but nothing you hadn’t read on other electronics booklets, so you decide to sign. After, like, a day, you have the VR in your hands. 

The box let you know with super saturated and colorful writing, that the VR came with a game pre-installed inside. Uh, that’s why they were giving one away, they wanted a free game tester…but you know what, it’s worth it.

You always liked Just Dance games, they make you think about happy memories of your childhood. This pre-installed game called “Five Dances at Freddy’s” is a close copy of your childhood game with original FazCo songs, characters, environments and also some collaborations with other famous artists. It probably will be the cause of a big copyright infringement report.

There are various ways to play it: story mode, Casual dance, Five Dances, and Just Dance Care.

The first one is similar to the casual dance mode but with little cutscenes between a dance and another to tell a tale, Casual dance is how you can play the collab songs, Five Dances is the multiplayer mode and Just Dance Care is a more uhhhh “hard” way to play the game with all the other modes mixed in it. You stare at the description of the last mode smirking and decide to try it first just to see how far you can get before losing (yes you can lose in hard mode in this Just Dance, but you don’t die, you just have to restart from the beginning). Turns out the FazCo wasn’t kidding when they advertised the new headset as a breakthrough in the world of virtual reality headsets, the thing TRANSPORTED you inside the game itself. 

You almost have a heart attack when you can’t find your VR on your head, but before you can try something you are blocked by two tall individuals who you think are the “tutorial” characters. 

Yadda yadda, tutorial, you can pause the game and exit whenever you need just by opening an hidden menu, you find out your tutorial characters are called Sun and Moon and that you are way worse than you remembered at dancing (damn full body tracking, there is no way you are going to do a cartwheel in the middle of a dance, you still don’t know if your body is inside your home and if you’ll physically feel pain if you fall and you don’t want to find out).

You pass an embarrassingly long time trying to win your first dance battle just to discover it was still the tutorial. 

You try to go on with the story but you fail at the first real battle with a bear character named Freddy. 

And guess what? You have to start again from the tutorial! Y/n is gonna spend A LOT of time with Sun and Moon if this goes on.

[augustsprincess]

August Walker x Reader (Drabble)

Warnings: Daddy/little vibes, noncon/dubcon, violence...its August.

There's no plot I'm sick and possessed.

It was your fathers business, then it was your brothers business. You didn’t care for the details of it, you just looked after the gardens and made sure the house was in good condition. Talked to the servants and all that. Sure, you knew it was a dodgy business. Far too often you saw people going home in body bags in the dead of night. But you chose to ignore it.

The current guest….was a man named August Walker. You caught a glimpse of him as he was dragged in through the back door, unconscious. He was gorgeous in a demented, do not touch kind of way and that intrigued you all the more. So when your brother said he’d be away on business for 2 days and you weren’t to go into the basement…well. It was obvious what you would do. One peak wouldn’t hurt, right?

At first the man is terrifying, and even speaking to him is like dipping your finger into a lake of piranha and waiting for one to snap.

But eventually you realize his binds are painfully tight around the centre column he's sat against, which means you can tease and annoy the living daylights out of this poor guy. And hey, if he's tied up in your basement it's for a good reason. Maybe a bit of fun torture would do him well. Besides, you were dreadfully bored and the staff had all gone home for the weekend.

He can’t do a thing.

The more he calls you a slut, bitch, whore or worse, the more you giggle. It infuriated August to the point he almost welcomed death.

On the first day, you sit 10 inches from him with your drawing pad and sketched him. You made small talk, showed him your drawings. He'd even admit you're a decent artist, that is until you added the kitten ears and heart stickers to his illustrated face. After a few hours your curiosity grows. You've one pink heart sticker left and you want to see how close you can get to the lion before the lion rips your hand off.

"Don't..." He warns. You giggle. "I mean it, girlie. Don't you put that thing on me." He wiggles again and you pout, frustrated. “Get the fuck off me, dumb bitch!”

“Hey! That’s not very nice! I’m giving you my heart!” You giggle. Once he calms down you try again, ignoring his persistent complaints. The more he speaks, the more his warnings turn to a plea. "Hey! No!" He shouts, snatching his head away from your index finger.

"Hold still, Mister! It won't hurt." You gently press the sticker to his left cheek with your finger and smooth it over with a gentle kiss and a loud “Mwah!”

August huffs as he stretches his face muscles to try to get it to wrinkle but the damn thing won't come off!

"All pretty! Good night, mister." You blew him a kiss as you closed the basement door and left him alone for the night.

“Stupid girl…..” He mutters. Wait… Why was he so uncomfortably hard? “Fuck.”

On the second night, you feed him some bread and cheese by hand and reluctantly he actually lets you. You were finally taming him!

August sits with you in his lap, a firm and unwavering snarl painted on his lips. You begin to play with his curls with one hand, and his chest hair with your other. All the while August is growing more and more hard under you. You're so distracted by a specific lock of his hair that you fail to notice all but a sound when the rope finally snaps behind him.

With a stupid amount of bravery you climb into his lap and start to tell him all about your day as if he was a willing listener. You feel something solid beneath your skirt but choose to ignore it. Your nonsensical ramblings about the latest episode of your favourite TV show send him into a begging frenzy yet again, but what you don't realise is that those bindings are getting more and more loose as you yammer on.

"Did you hear that?" You ask, curiosity lacing your words

"Must be the pipes. We are in the basement, girlie." He lies.

You snort at him. “I like you. You even have a cute nickname for me! I’ve never had a nickname before.”

You start to comb your hand through his hair and you're suddenly taken aback by the look he's giving you. Like the cat who got the cream. Was he...enjoying you stroking his hair? You tried not to think about it and continued but his unwavering stare and….lustful eyes? Well, you were drowning in them.

You're gently pulled closer by his left hand and in your naivety you give him a sweet smile before the penny drops.

And boy does it fucking drop.

You gasp. His fangs show in a sinister grin and you launch yourself from his lap, snatching his hand from your hip. He only has one hand loose so you take it as your opportunity to escape, slamming the door behind you to slow him down.

You sit in the cloakroom, cowering with the cobwebs and long forgotten coats of the guests who never had the chance to leave this house. Hoping and praying your brother would be home soon to save you. But the truth of it was, superheroes don't exist.

The heavy sound of the prisoners bare feet on your father's old wooden floors beat in tandem with your heart as he chases you through your home. Eventually you lose him and as quietly as humanely possible, you climb into the cloakroom and hide.

Nothing was coming to save you.

You stayed silent for what felt like hours before you were alerted to a dull creak and a loud slam as the cloakroom door was almost ripped off its hinges.

"Found ya!". You screeched as you were physically dragged from the cloakroom by your ankles.

"No need to squeal, little pig. It'll only hurt a bit." You clamber to your feet, the harsh carpet making your ascend slow enough for August to catch you first. He sticks his foot out, tripping you to the floor again, toying with you. Like you were food.

"Oh stop crying, girlie. I thought you liked to tease?" You try to stand and run again but you're thrown over his shoulder in a split second and no amount of hitting him is helping. There’s nothing else to do but to watch his feet as he carried you up the stairs, straight to your bedroom.

With one swift movement and a harsh grip of your hips he has you pinned, chest down to the bed.

"That's a good girl, stay still for Daddy." He purrs, pulling your bright pink stockings from your legs. He tosses them to the floor as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress deepening under his heavy body.

"Please! I'm sorry, I was just bored! I didn't mean to upset you-" You try your best to help yourself, but it’s like a switch just been flicked and he turns from excited, to pissed the fuck off.

"You were 'bored'?!" The man flips you to your back and yanks your body towards him, as he leans on his calves. "No, no, no. You're a slut. A dirty brat and you thought you could get away with it, didn't you? Thought I wouldn't break free and catch you. Well I know just what you need, just what you asked for."

If you could, you would laugh at the situation. Here was this gorgeous, dangerous and absolutely insane man. Kneeling at the end of your bed, hard as a rock and all the while with a heart sticker attached to his cheek. And he was so pissed!

It was the reappearance of the rope binding in his hand that brought you back to the severity of the moment. Fear turned to manic terror as you shuffled backwards.

"No...no! Please don't!" August climbs on top of your body, thick thighs trapping you to the bed as he deliberately presses his hard crotch into you.

"Ah, ah, ah, shhh." He presses his index finger to your lips. You can't stop him, he's twice the size of you at least. So you watch as he ties your hands to the headboard of the bed.

Once he's done, he leans down....covering your entire body with his own...

"I fuckin' hate a tease." He snarls into your ear, before your pretty pink skirt is ripped clean off.

You’re pulled back to the office with a sudden wave of guilt and shame. Your face felt like it could light a match and your coffee cup almost slipped from your sweaty hands.

“Are you alright, Miss? You look like you just remembered an embarrassing dream.” Mr. Walker teases, before he walks on past your desk and towards his own. Fuck. How could you have forgotten that dream until now? How could you have even dreamed something like that up, and with your boss. And that look on his face, it was as if he knew.

You shake your head and face your computer, determined to continue your work and get on with your day. Maybe you could look into therapy later or talk to your best friend about it. Surely there was a completely normal reason for dreaming about your boss being tied up in your basement and then chasing you for some depraved, frustrated sex. Right?

“Ms. Y/S/N, Mr Walker would like to see you in his office, it's urgent.” Fuck.

[drabblesandimagines]

Sliding Doors

Leon Kennedy x female reader, Chris Redfield x female reader, fluff, angst

For the lovely @porcelainseashore who commission a continuation from Forever Hold Your Peace. Thank you for all your love and support ❤️

“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony…” the minister begins, but as you stand opposite Chris – a soft, adoring smile on his face, shedding a tear when he’d saw how beautiful you looked as you walked down the aisle – you can’t help but meet the gaze of the best man’s icy blue eyes for a moment. “..speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Leon clenches his fists.

“No.”

It’s a muttered plea more than a loud proclamation, but it’s audible enough for several pairs of eyes to focus on him due to the interruption.

The minister smiles, awkwardly, his eyes flitting between the members of the bridal party to gauge whether it was a joke – heaven knows he’s seen them fall flat before - before he clears his throat to proceed with the vows.

“Christo-”

“No.” It’s louder that time, Leon’s voice echoed around the room like a gunshot.

“Not the time for your jokes, bud.” Chris forces out a laugh as he replies over his shoulder, before turning back to you and offering a reassuring smile.

“It’s not a joke.” You wish the ground would swallow you up as Leon remains focused on you. “Don’t marry him.”

“Leon”, Claire hisses from over your shoulder, looking furious. “What are you doing?”

He ignores her. “I’m not saying marry me, but just… Don’t marry him.”

You shake your head, subtly, eyes wide in fear as the small congregation of friends and family begin to whisper amongst themselves.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

Chris’ fists are now clenched as he turns to his supposed best man, his brow furrowed as he tries to analyze the situation, his mind automatically heading into work mode – assess, strategize, action.

“What is this?”

Leon ignores Chris too, instead taking a step forward. “I’m different now – I swear. Just give me another chance. The connection’s still there – I know you felt it when we kissed-”

“Kissed?!” Chris and Claire reiterate almost in unison, and someone in the seated crowd gasps.

“What kiss?” Chris presses, turning back to look at you in disbelief. “Honey, what’s he talking about?”

Your mouth feels drier than it ever has, your tongue heavy in your mouth. “I didn’t, Chris… I… I mean, he…”

“I kissed her, Redfield.” Leon cuts across, rolling back his shoulders as he sidesteps in front of the groom, blocking you from his sight. “When you asked me to deliver that gift earlier, I kissed her. Can’t say it was the first time either.”

You should say something more coherent than your mumbled excuses – explain what Leon means by that because it definitely makes it sound worse than it is - but your heart is pounding and you’re beginning to feel a little faint.

This isn’t real, it’s a bad dream and you’re going to wake up in the hotel suite, Claire knocking on the door, hair stylist and make-up artist in tow to help you start getting ready.

The minister tries to soothe tensions instead. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private to-“

“What the fuck does that mean, Kennedy?”

“We were a thing-”

“We were not a thing, Leon,” you shift a little to the side then so you can see Chris, finding your voice at last.

You wished you hadn’t moved as hurt flashes across Chris’ face - sweet, loyal, dependable Chris.

Chris, who never fails to set up coffee machine timer to greet you with a freshly brewed batch when he has to leave early, who would always find some sort of way to communicate with you even if he was halfway across the world, who never shied away from holding your hand or kissing you in public, who told his closest colleagues about you openly, who didn’t treat you like a dirty little secret.

Chris, who, despite how much you tried to convince yourself, has never made you feel quite like Leon did.

“-before you two started dating.” Leon presses on, ignoring how the taller man’s shoulders grow more and more tense, seething breaths now coming out of his nose. “I treated her rotten, drove her into your arms and regretted it every minute since. I’m not gonna let her make the biggest mis-”

Chris’ fist meets Leon’s face – it’s so swift that the whole room takes a moment to realise what’s happened. The agent is surprisingly not knocked off his feet by the blow but stumbles back and you automatically reach out a hand to steady him by his arm, unaware of how it looks in that moment.

Leon wipes a trickle of blood from his mouth, looking smug as he relishes your touch. “Not gonna say I didn’t deserve that.”

Chris is staring at your hand on Leon’s arm and you pull it back when you see the hurt in his eyes, wringing your hands together as you begin to plead.

“I’m sorry, Chris. I should’ve told you, but it… It was nothing. A blip. It wasn’t anything like what we have. He kissed me earlier and I pushed him away and I told him. Please.”

“Is this why you were crying?” Claire demands, stepping over to stand besides Chris in an act of support. Her shoulders are high, ready to protect her brother at all costs. “In the suite earlier, when Leon was there.”

“N-no,” you shake your head furiously, but your voice isn’t convincing enough to your own ears, especially in comparison to Leon’s firm “Yes.”

You’re hot, the wedding gown of your dreams feeling stifling, too tight, the veil tugging heavily at your scalp.

“Chris, please, can we go talk somewhere?” You step forward, past Leon, hand outstretched to take your fiance’s. You want to take him away from all the prying eyes, the disbelieving murmurs, away from all the tension, have a discussion with clear heads, but he pulls his hand from out of your reach.

“Do you love him?” Chris’ voice is so flat it makes you feel sick. It’s the same tone he has when he comes back from missions where he’s lost comrades, the one that you can slowly break him out of after days of soft words and touches.

You never wanted to be the cause of it.

“It’s been years.” There’s the crack in your voice again, your next words a little too rushed. “I love you. You’re sweet. You’re so sweet, kind and loyal.”

Everything Leon wasn’t.

“I said, do you love Leon?”

You stare deep into Chris’ eyes then, his lips pressed together in a thin line. There had been something when Leon had kissed you less than an hour ago, how easily you’d almost fallen back into threading your fingers into his hair to deepen it, how your heartbeat had remained elevated since.

Leon is a wildcard and Chris is steady, dependable – everything you should want.

Everything you’ve been convincing yourself you did want.

One more look into your fiancee’s eyes is all it takes. He doesn’t deserve this but he does deserve the truth.

You take a shuddering breath and nod.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Right.” Chris nods, as casual as if he’s just been given his latest set of orders. He turns on his heels and heads back down the aisle – the aisle he was meant to be walking down with you on his arm as his new wife – with his head and shoulders held high, Claire hurrying after him, dropping your bouquet as she does.

As you stare at his retreating form, Leon slips his hand into yours and squeezes.

And, as tears begin to stream down your face again, you squeeze back.

--

He drove you away from the venue on his bike, your cheek pressed firmly against his back and your veil floating behind you in the wind.

Cars honked in celebration around you, all under the impression that a husband was taking his new wife for a celebratory ride, not that the best man had just absconded with the bride.

He takes you back to his apartment, a thing he’d never done when you were ‘together’, but it made sense now, considering. You lived with Chris, a two-storey on a cul-de-sac, white picket fence – you could hardly go back there today.

Or ever.

“What can I do, sweetheart?” Leon asks, cautiously, as you both stand in his living room a few feet apart. It feels more like a show-home than your place – no personal affects, the coffee table empty besides a remote control for the widescreen.  

“I… I need to get out of this.” You huff, ripping the veil from your scalp at last, the pins holding it in place scattering over his polished wooden floor and you fling it down on the sofa. You know you won’t be able to undo your dress yourself so you turn, flustered. “I can’t…”

“I’ve got you, it’s okay.” Leon soothes, closing the gap between the two of you and deftly unpicking the laces of the corset with nimble fingers. You feel it loosen immediately, but it doesn’t ease the suffocating feeling in your chest.

“There.” The dress drops a little and you quickly wrap your arms around yourself, keeping it up, before Leon steps around the coffee table, heading towards the hallway. “I’ll… I’ll grab you a change of clothes.”

Your clothes, right. They’re all at yours.

Oh, God, how are you going to get them?

How could you ever face Chris again?

You remain standing in the living room, forcing yourself to breathe deeply. You can hear Leon opening and closing some drawers, obviously looking for something that you can wear. He emerges a few moments later, holding a grey sweatshirt and some black gym shorts.

“I think these will work. Shorts have a drawstring, so…”

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, down the hall, second door on your left.”

You take the clothes from his hand, avoiding eye contact and head to change. Your hands are shaking as you turn the lock, quickly shedding your dress and wedding night lingerie – not how you thought you’d be removing it tonight, that’s for sure, but you can’t bear to keep any of it on. Finally, you slide a lacey white garter off your thigh and bundle everything together into a ball, placing it on top of one of the two laundry baskets in the corner, noting he separates lights and darks.

You pull the sweatshirt over your head – it feels odd, oversized but not as oversized as any of the things you’d stolen from Chris’ dresser – before putting on the shorts and double-knotting the cord to keep them up.

You wet your face in the sink next, washing off your make-up as best you can. A glint catches your eye from your right hand – your engagement ring moved over in preparation for the wedding ring being slipped on.

You’ll need to return it.

Carefully, you pull it off your finger and place it on the sink, undoing the latch on the necklace Chris had sent Leon up with – does he regret that now? Is he sat somewhere with a whiskey, mulling over what would be different if he hadn’t sent his best man to the bridal suite? - and thread it through the chain, fastening it back around your neck and tucking it under the sweatshirt, out of sight.

You don’t want to wear it, really, the idea making you feel sick being adorned with gifts that Chris had picked out lovingly - but you don’t want to lose it somewhere in Leon’s apartment either.

Leon is still standing in the same place in the living room when you emerge, the only difference being his tie is now off and thrown over the coffee table, one hand in his pocket. You stop a couple of feet in front of him and stare, trying to read his gaze.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t set out to say those things, baby. I just-” You throw yourself into his arms, sobbing – for what’s just occurred and for how horrible you feel when being in his arms immediately just feels so right, more natural than being wrapped in Chris’ ever did.

Leon presses kisses to your crown, pulls you back and down onto the sofa and hooks your legs up into his lap, rocking you back and forth like a child who needs consoling.

“It’s all right. It’ll be okay. And I’ll be better, I promise.” He murmurs against your ear when your sobs begin to slow, his white shirt significantly damp with your abundance of tears. “I’m not fucking up again. Not after this, baby. I’ll spend every damn day showing you how serious I am about you, about us.”

--

Chris remains a gentleman, despite everything. The first you hear from him is one week after the wedding, via email, letting you know that he’ll be out of the house for a few days if you’d like to go in and collect your things. He’s going to put the house on the market after, said he’s taken a new position within the BSAA and will be permanently relocating to the European branch, so doesn’t see the point in keeping it empty. It’s not surprising, really, Chris has been headhunted a couple of times since his work in Europe, but he’d always wanted to remain on American soil, with you.

He adds he’s going to sell the furniture as a job lot too, so to take anything you like and then leave the keys under the doormat once you’re done.

He signs it best regards.

He’s too nice for what you’ve done to him.

A fact Claire had reminded you of daily – scornful text messages and voicemails telling you exactly what she thinks of you and Leon. They cease only after Chris can be heard in the background of the final voicemail, telling her to stop.

You’re living in a short-term rental when you pick up your things – not that you would’ve taken any of the furniture anyway. You’d stayed at Leon’s for a week after, sleeping in his spare room. He’d returned to the venue and picked up the things you’d left in the bridal suite as you lay in bed, festering in the horrible combination of guilt and relief of what had transpired.

Leon wanted you to move in permanently, but you told him it was too much, too soon. You made demands this time, wanting to take it slow but also testing the limits of how much he had meant it when he said things would be different, that he would be different.

You were selfish with them at first – he had to date you properly, take you out for lunch, coffee and dinner dates, walks around the park, weekend trips away and trips to the movies, hold your hand and kiss you in public.

You told him you wanted him to try therapy, to learn how to communicate.

And, to his credit, he does it all. He hates the first three therapists, only managing a session or two with them, but he keeps going until he clicks with the fourth and sees them every Wednesday – always reschedules for another day of the week if he’s away with work.

You’re never sure how he’s going to be immediately after – sometimes he emerges with the weight of the world resting even more heavily on his shoulders, other times he seems to have a pep in his step until, gradually, he comes out lighter and lighter every time.

He tells you he loves you when you make a dumb joke over dinner in a cheesy diner – so loud in his proclamation that the waitress gives the two of you a slice of pie each on the house, extra whipped cream.

There are things he’s still uncomfortable with but he’s better at communicating, each of you compromising as you settle into the relationship.

“Do you want to get married?” He murmurs in your ear one night a year and a half later, spooning you against his bare chest. The bedroom has a pile of moving boxes stacked in the corner - your first night in your new, shared apartment.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” you take one of his hands, fidget with his fingers. “What about you?”

“I don’t mind either way,” he grasps hold of your wrist and rolls you over in a smooth notion. “Whatever you want.”

“Uh-uh,” you correct, “we’re partners, remember?”

“Right. Whatever we want.” He kisses you then, slowly, as if he has the whole night to while away. He’s never in a rush when it comes to you, not any more.

“I love you.” You mumble between kisses, feeling him smile as he captures your lips once again.

“I love you, sweetheart. Always and forever.”

--

“Leon?”

“Huh?” He’s spaced out – Chris, Claire, the minister and you all staring expectantly at him.

“Got the rings, man?” Chris is holding out his hand, an amused smile on his face.

Right, the rings.

Best man hands over the rings.

He stuffs his hand into his trouser pocket and tugs out the little mesh bag they’d been placed in. He can’t imagine Chris wearing his for long, not with his line of work. Leon wouldn’t either, truth be told. He’d get a nice chain, maybe, have it hang over his heart.

Chris takes the bag with a nod of thanks and empties them out onto the minister’s book, big fingers fumbling to pick up the ring he’s about to slide on your finger, following the minister’s prompts in reciting his vows.

Leon stares at you as you look up into Chris’ eyes, smiling so much your cheeks must hurt, and tries not to think about how when you had looked at him like that, he’d left you the next morning with nothing but a note on the pillow.

--

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would please be upstanding for the new Mr and Mrs Redfield!”

Leon hadn’t realized he’d be sat next to you at the top table. He hadn’t thought much about the reception at all, besides the speech Chris asked him to make.

But, fuck, you look so happy walking in with him that it takes his breath away. Your fingers interlaced, surrounded by cheers and applause. Redfield can’t help himself – Leon wouldn’t either - swings you around and dips you into a kiss in the middle of the floor. You look embarrassed when he releases you, but there’s a giddy smile on your face too.

He couldn’t give you that. He couldn’t. He’s not sure Redfield can either – setting you up for disappointment and heartbreak.

He doesn’t know why anyone else is seated at the top table – you and Chris only have eyes for each other throughout dinner. He drinks more than he eats, wondering if he can make Redfield regret putting on an open bar.

“Now, for the best man – Leon Kennedy.”

He pulls the notecard out of his jacket pocket as he stands - he’d started writing it so many times but never got particularly far. That morning, he’d searched generic best man speech on his phone and jotted it down.

“You’ll be pleased to know that I’ll be keeping this short and sweet – two words you probably wouldn’t use to describe Chris Redfield.” He pauses, polite laughter rippling through the crowd.

“There’s two things being celebrated here today. The first being that it’s finally been acknowledged that I am, in fact, the best man between us.” He pauses again, taking a pre-emptive swig of his drink to help dull the ache of the words to come.

“Secondly, of course, the union of this… wonderful couple. May your lives be filled with love and happiness. To the bride and groom!”

The guests raise their glass in unison and Leon sits down heavily in his seat, downing the rest of his drink as Chris stands up, thanking Leon for his speech and leading an applause. He picks up a champagne flute and looks down at you, adoringly.

“Truthfully, I’m wondering if I should’ve gone first, because mine’s even shorter than Leon’s. Thank you all so much for coming here today to celebrate with us. All that’s really left to say is, I love you, darling – always and forever.”

Chris bends down to steal another kiss and the guests applaud and cheer once again – Leon swears it’s louder than what his speech received.

“I love you so much, Chris.”

Leon wishes it had been louder still to drown out your response.

--

“You ready?” Chris murmurs into your ear before pressing a kiss against your jaw. You didn’t think it was possible – you’d never seen Chris drunk ever – but it seems the numerous glasses of champagne have gotten to his head. He’ll deny it in the morning if you accuse him, tell you it wasn’t the alcohol which was making him act that way, no, it was you that was making him love-drunk, before capturing your lips in a kiss.

You nod and squirm with a giggle, his stubble tickling your neck. You had sat down at the table for a breather, after completing a round of the tables to greet your guests as well as a couple of dances with your friends. You haven’t seen Leon since dinner and, truthfully, he’s the furthest thing from your mind ever since Chris slipped the ring on your finger. Your new husband takes your hand and grabs a chair with the other, leading you to the middle of the small dance floor and places it down. Once he’s happy, he lifts his other arm above his head to twirl you into position and down upon the chair.

You feel giddy – from love, champagne, happiness – as Chris kneels before you and gently begins to lift the hem of your dress up and over your knees.

Someone in the crowd wolf-whistles, probably one of the squad, and Chris turns in the direction to mockingly glare. He then resumes his work of pulling your dress up a little more, cautiously, until he found what he was looking for – a lacey white garter on your thigh.

Chris asking if you wanted to do the garter toss part of the ceremony had come completely out of left-field, so much so you were thankful you hadn’t taken a sip of your drink before he’d asked, lest you had spit it out in his face. He scratched the back of his head, gave you a dopey-looking smile that made you want to cuddle him rotten and said he wanted to do things by the book. He wanted the tradition, some sense of normalcy in his life with the whole white wedding, and having no strong feelings about it either way you’d agreed.

Now, though, as he looks up at you with that up-to-no-good smirk, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

“Hands or teeth?”

“Huh?”

He lightly pings the garter on your thigh. “Shall I remove it with my hands or teeth, darling?”

“Chris!” You laugh, sure he was joking.

He tilts his head. “Uh-uh. Pick, please.”

“Fine.” You smirk back, buoyed in confidence by the champagne. “Teeth.”

“Excellent choice, Mrs Redfield.” He plants a hand on your other leg to steady himself, before lowering his head and you feel his teeth graze your thigh as he nips the lacey material and begins to tug it down, all to the hooting and hollering of the assembled crowd.  

Leon takes a long sip of whiskey as he watches from the corner. He would’ve used his teeth to remove it too, but only in the sanctity of the bedroom later that night.

It flies over the heads and outstretched arms of the bachelors – Chris always did have a good throw - and eventually smacks Leon right in the chest.

“All right, Kennedy!” Somebody cheers, and before he can really think about it, he bends down and snatches up the garter, aware that the eyes of the room are on him. He holds it aloft in a mock display of triumph.

He looks for you then, wondering what you’ll think – a sign from the universe that you’ve made a mistake – but your eyes are fixed on Chris, cupping his face in your palms as he remains knelt in front of you, pressing a long kiss to his lips.

Leon stuffs the garter deep in his trouser pocket.

--

Leon doesn’t see either of you for six months – thanks to a relentless run of missions, intercontinental travel and briefings all keeping his mind occupied – and it helps dull the ache in his chest too.

An email pops up in his inbox though, inviting him to the Redfield’s housewarming BBQ in a couple of weeks, but he never replies to the RSVP.

Still, he finds himself parking his bike up outside the new house – it has a white picket fence, for fuck’s sake, nestled on a quiet suburban street. To his trained eye, he can see some additional security measures, so at least Redfield hasn’t become completely complacent. The gate clicks a little louder than usual when he opens it, probably linked to some sort of surveillance system, the panes of glass in the window are clearly bullet-proof and the front door is steel, disguised to blend in with the rest of the street.

He rings the doorbell – looking direct into the pinhole camera.

Chris answers soon after, a black apron on for grilling duties over blue jeans and a white tee. He looks good, annoyingly so compared to the dark rings Leon has under his own eyes, but he’s perhaps a little softer around the edges. Leon had heard down the grapevine that Chris had taken more of a consultant type role at the BSAA, office hours, trying to move away from always having his boots on the ground – something he never thought he’d see.

“Hey! You made it. It’s great to see you, man.” Chris greets him, a genuine smile on his face. “Perfect timing – I’m just about to fire up the grill. We’re all just out in the yard.”

He steps over the threshold – his eyes immediately finding the framed wedding photo on the hall table, the one where you’d all signed the registry and the photographer had Leon stand by your side and Claire by Chris’.

He wonders if, when you look at it, you can tell his smile is fake.

He doesn’t take in much else of the house as he’s led through, instead forcing himself to take a deep breath in preparation of seeing you again. He’s tried to forget about the kiss through a string of dates from the office and one-night stands, but he still has your stolen garter tucked in the back of his bedside drawer.

It’s over, he chastises himself.

It didn’t even really begin either.

You’re facing away from him when he follows Chris through the kitchen and out onto wooden decking, a set of stairs leading down to a large rectangle of grass. There’s a good 15 or so in attendance, only a handful of people present that he recognizes, some from the wedding, all congregated in little groups, a long table set up with bowls of salad, chips, rolls, sauces and other snacks, a bucket of ice, rapidly melting in the midday sun, in which various drinks are nestled.

You’re talking to Claire and a guy he doesn’t recognize, but he has his arm draped around her shoulders. You’re dressed in a sweet floral sundress, capped sleeves, white sandals. He wants to slip in to the conversation, no fuss, no announcement, but Chris has other ideas.

“Hey, Leon’s here!”

You turn at your husband’s call, a little surprised. Chris had told you he’d invited Leon, of course, but noted that he hadn’t accepted or denied. Really, you weren’t sure if he’d show at all, given what had happened at the wedding and the fact he’d been off-grid for so long after.

Those bright blue eyes only meet yours for a moment before they trail down to your stomach, and the protective hand you’ve placed on top of it – only a recent habit since your bump had properly popped.

“Oh, yeah,” Chris chuckles, clocking on to exactly what Leon is staring at. He slaps him on the back, ushering him forward as he does. Leon wants to dig his heels in, maybe if he keeps his distance it won’t be real and only a trick of perspective, but his legs won’t co-operate.

“Sorry, should’ve said - turns out we brought more back than souvenirs from the honeymoon.”

Claire groans. “Are you going to use that line on everyone, Chris? It’s too early for you to be cracking out dad jokes.” She takes a swig of her beer, before nodding at Leon. “Hey.”

Leon nods in Claire’s direction, but his eyes are still fixed on you.

“Leon.” You smile, a little worried at how much colour has drained from the agent’s face. “We’re so glad you could make it. It’s been ages!”

“I…” He swallows, shaking his head a little as if he could shake off the feeling of disbelief. “Congratulations. On the house and the… baby.”

Redfield smirks as he steps over from Leon’s side to yours, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in close to press a kiss to your temple. “Thanks, bud. Gotta admit, I’m feeling a pretty lucky guy.”

“The luckiest.”

Chris cocks his head at the lack of sarcasm, almost put off by how genuine Leon sounded.

“Sorry, is there any more beer?” Someone he doesn’t recognize – one of yours or Chris’ other friends, maybe – interrupts.

“Of course! I’ll go get it.” You barely make it a step out of Chris’ embrace before he wraps his hand around your arm and stills you with a furrowed brow.

“Babe, we tal-“

“We talked about me carrying heavy things.” You correct with a feigned huff. “The baby will be heavier than a box of beer.”

Chris looks apologetic. “All I was gonna say is you need to be careful – don’t want you wearing yourself out and missing the party.” Leon feels a stabbing pain once again in his chest as he watches Redfield cup your face, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Let’s be honest, darling, you’re usually on your second nap by this time.”

You pout, more so annoyed that Chris is right. The move, plus the second trimester had you feeling permanently fatigued. “True, but-”

“Let me go grab the beer,” Leon interrupts and Chris drops his hand from your face, as if he just realized Leon was still there. “Just tell me where.”

You frown at his offer. “You’re a guest.”

“A lousy guest - didn’t even bring a housewarming gift,” he berates himself. “Being the beer lackey can be it.”

“You didn’t need to get us anything – your company’s gift enough.” You place a hand on his arm and squeeze in reassurance - he swears his heart skips a beat. “It’s probably easier if I show you where. Come on.”

“Thanks, Leon.” Chris pats him on the back and turns to the grill, declaring it hot enough to finally start cooking.

Leon follows you, dutifully, back up the steps onto the decking, one hand poised ready to steady you if need be. You lead him towards the opposite end of the kitchen and towards the pantry, hesitating before you open the door.

“I’m sorry, if this was a shock.” You jerk your chin down at your stomach. “We were just sorta telling people as and when we saw them, rather than do any real big announcement.”

“Yet you announced the house?”

You smile, wryly. “I think Chris just wanted an excuse to buy that grill. He’s trying out lots of hobbies. I caught him looking up ride-on mowers the other night.”

“Heard he’s office-based now.” There’s a beat and it comes out before he can even think, always ready to justify his actions even when no-one’s called for it. “I couldn’t have done that for you.”

Suddenly, you’re thrown back to that hour before your wedding – something you truthfully hadn’t thought of until this moment.

“You think I asked Chris to do that? That I demanded a wedding and a house and a baby and…” Your voice cracks a little before you take a deep breath. Your emotions are high strung enough at the moment with the pregnancy and you try to compose yourself, digging your nails into your palms.

“You know what? No – I’m not going through this again. Relationships are about compromises on both sides, it’s unfortunate that’s what you still don’t seem to understand.”

You slide open the pantry door then, pointing to the back where a couple of boxes of beer are stacked, in amongst tubs of protein powder. “Just grab any of those, please. I’ll see you outside.”

Leon’s hand wraps around your wrist as you step away. It isn’t a firm grip by any means, just holding you loosely in place. “Just tell me one thing - are you happy?”

“I’m really happy, Leon.” You reply without a beat’s hesitation, because you are. “I hope one day you allow yourself to be happy too.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, only drops his grip on your wrist and turns into the pantry in the guise of retrieving the beer. It’s only when he hears you step back out onto the decking that he bends to pick up the box, half wondering if he should just quietly leave now.

No, that would only cause you grief, surely. He’s done enough of that.

After a few moments have passed, he lifts up the box and heads out, pulling the door shut to the pantry behind him. He heads back out into the yard, pausing at the top of the stairs to see you back at your husband’s side, laughing at something he’s said, looking up at him like he’s everything.

Chris wraps his arms around you, helping you up to your tip-toes so he can kiss you as passionately as he did on the wedding day, and every day since.

Claire wonders, loudly, whether your honeymoon phase will ever be over, but she’s smiling as she says it.

Leon silently carries over the box and opens it, adding a couple more cans of beer to the ice bucket before Claire hands him an open one, proposing a toast to the new house and baby Redfield.

Instead, Leon toasts to the life he could’ve had.

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Comments and reblogs make my whole day x

[carmenized-onions]

Doing Too Much. | House Call

logline; Appliances can reach their breaking point, when you push them too far. Same goes for people.

[!!!] series history, this is the sixth; First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth

[New Thing!!] Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin' added to.

portion; 4.8k

possible allergies; eatin' meat, besides that, we're pretty good actually. did somebody say calm before the storm....?

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (no pronouns, but girl is said a couple times, i believe.)

After this chapter, I'm entering my era of couch hopping as I move to a new city n start a new job. I'm really excited for the chapter after this one, so hopefully I actually get time to write it-- But that's just my lil warning if you're left rereading for like two weeks </3 But I'll def be stalking my activity/inbox so please do yap to me

Monday morning. The next morning after everything. Well, closer to noon than morning, at this point. You’re supposed to have, what, a work ethic this week? After the most insane weekend of your life? No. You’re lazing around and doing fuck all. No matter who calls. Well… Not completely no matter, but like, most people.

When you check your phone, you’ve gotten a text at 6:43 A.M. Unknown number. Ah. Carmen. You put him in as Carmy, and put his nickname as ‘Mister New York’. Listen, old nicknames Mikey ingrained in your brain die hard.

It’s a simple text, deeply un-romantic.

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

Then, four lines of four perfect categories. Flawless. Purple first, even. The hardest category. And then,

‘Morning’

Stupid. Incredibly stupid, to be enamoured, by this. You reply,

‘Good morning!’

‘Connections Puzzle #342’

And then a failed jumble of coloured squares, you get one out of four categories. What the fuck is 'dogleg' and since when has it meant taking a sharp turn? You follow that up with,

‘Fuck you.’

Aside from Carmen, you’ve actually gotten texts from a couple people. Your boss at Eden’s asking if you’re alright. What the fuck did Cicero say? Oh well. You tell him you’ve ‘been better, been worse. Will be okay by next week.’ Perfectly vague, and you still get wired your cheque and tip out. Alright, maybe Uncle J does deserve your free labour.

Speaking of, the next text on your itinerary is from Uncle J, just info for the winter nuptials of Vinnie and Mira. Oh yeah. Three-hundred guests, you remember that part. You also remember him saying it’d be an ‘easy gig’… He did not mention you’d be the only bartender. This is going to be a nightmare. Oh well. You text back that despite it being an open bar you get to put out a tip jar. He just reacts to it, ‘haha’. That sounds like a yes to you.

And then, adorably, a selfie from Syd, wearing the collar and pins you’ve gifted her, under a green sweater. Cutie. You hype her up accordingly.

Besides some texting though, Monday is relatively unbusy. No calls. No emergencies. No businesses knocking down your door for your services. You’re thankful for a break, letting the inertia set in, finally being able to relax after fix after fix after—

Tuesday comes, you get sent another perfect round of New York Time’s Connections around half past six in the morning, along with a good morning text. And again, you fuck it up. You send him your Wordle results this time, as an act of rebellion. You then ask,

‘How’s reworking the menu going?’

‘Hard to say’

‘Ask me tomorrow’

God he’s an awful texter. Horrifically dry. You know you’re down bad beyond a belief when you find that endearing. You spend Tuesday drowning and pruning your plants after depriving them for so long.

Plus working on your art piece for Carmy. You’re pulling out old film photos, a canvas, and a load of bleach—It’s like high school art class all over again— Surprise surprise, the handyman who loves to up-cycle is a mixed media artist. Who could’ve guessed?

While trimming a photo, an exterior of The Beef, a picture frame on your wall falls down behind you, you tut, turning your head to it, chastising the air. “Mikey! It’s a copy, relax! I’ve still got the original print…”

There’s every chance you’re insane— No, you’re definitely insane. But you’re allowed to be, your best friend died, you’re allowed to talk to the air as if he’s still around. Sometimes the timing of doors swinging open for you and things falling down are just too uncanny to not be a ghost.

Wednesday arrives, and again, just after 6:40, Connections results. And the Wordle, this time; plus a ‘Good Morning’. It looks like this is simply just your thing, now. Every morning, the second both of you get up, you send each other puzzles and wish a good morning. You don’t mind that. It’s nice to have a ‘thing’, with someone. With Carmen.

Part way through the day, around two o’clock, you get another text. Two, actually. From Carmen, in quick succession.

‘Are you busy?’

‘Don’t worry if you’re busy. Can call Fak’

You’re quick to reply, frankly deeply offended.

‘Are you fucking firing me????’

‘I’m gonna get ready. Text me details’

While getting dressed, you watch three dots bubble, bubble, bubble… He’s taking forever, just don’t look at it, you’ll get anxious for no reason. No jumpsuit today, you’ve got to switch it up every now and again. Navy cargo pants with the perfect number of pockets and zippers, and an orange Chicago’s Kindest shirt, tucked in. Hm. Looking in the mirror, hickey is still there. Lighter, but there. Foundation? No. You’ll sweat it off and that’ll just bring up more questions. If Syd asks you’ll just tell her you fell down the stairs… On your neck. She's not the type to confront anything remotely sexual anyways.

Speaking of Syd, before Carmen can text you back, she calls you, which is fair— Don’t leave a Carmen to communicate. You stick your phone in the crux of your neck and answer while you pack your utility belt. This feels nearly nostalgic. “What’s fucked?”

Carmen is in the background; you can hear the tail end of a sentence, grumbling. “—Don’t call—”

“My life.” She responds without missing a beat. “And also, Carmy’s stove and oven.”

“Oh.” You squint. “What the fuck happened?”

“Overuse? I actually don’t fucking know, it just stopped working. We plugged it in and out— He even reset his apartment’s breakers. I dunno what’s wrong with it. It’s probably got something to do with him putting his fuckin’ jeans in there.”

“…He what?”

You can hear him in the background, again, clearer this time, grimacing, “What are you doing to me?”

Syd does not mind him at all, continuing, “I know! He’s fucking weird!”

“He’s extremely weird.” You like him a lot. “I’ll be over soon, were you guys like, mid-cooking?”

“Yessir.”

“Christ, alright… I think I have a dual burner hot plate laying around somewhere, you want me to bring it—”

They both speak clearly this time, together, “Please.”

You’ve got a pile of things to give to them anyways, and maybe you miss Carmy’s face. Just a little.

Instead of just buzzing you in, Carmy comes down for you. When he sees you through the door window, carrying a cardboard box, he almost breaks into a full run. He’s somehow opening the door, grabbing the box from your hands, and chastising you all at the same time. “You should’ve left it in the car, I would’ve—”

You step in through the entryway and kiss his cheek, cutting him short. You can’t help yourself, it’s the first time you’ve seen him since and you feel like a giddy teen. The teenage girl in your head is no longer just in your head, she’s fully manning the station. “You’re very sweet. But it’s also not heavy.”

When he continues to be frozen, the regret starts to mount, “Is—Sorry, is that okay to do—?”

“It’s very okay to do.” He manages to reply, with haste. Nodding to himself. “It’s good.” He nods again, then marches off, expecting you to follow to the elevator. You do.

“What floor?”

“Eighth.” He sniffs; you press the button. He stands next to you, looking you up and down. He astutely observes. “Orange.”

“Yeah.” You smirk, looking back at him, “Turns out, businesses can have two colours in their designs.”

What’s a little roasting of fellow small businesses between two not just friends?

“Oh yeah?” Coy, smirking. Oh no. You’ve gotta get the teen off the controls. He tilts his vision to stare at your jacket. Ah. You opted to wear your Carhartt instead of his jean jacket.

“Didn’t wanna give Syd more questions.” She already guessed you’re a sugar baby, you don’t want to wrap Carmen in on that too. Especially since ideally in a month or two he’ll be your boss. Hm. The Bear is going to need an HR.

He hums, nodding. “We’re not telling Syd?”

“What’s there to tell?” You grin, crossing your arms. “You suddenly have free time, Bear?”

He takes a beat, thinking, then just takes a deep frustrated yet amused exhale. “I’m gonna fuckin’…” He can’t think of a threat. “…Get you.”

You snort, “You’re gonna get me?”

“Fuck you—!” “You’re gonna fuckin’ get me, Bear?”

“I—” He tries to hold a straight face, it doesn’t work. “Yeah, I am.”

“Can’t wait.” You nod, grinning, turning back to the doors. “You told me to ask how menu’s going tomorrow.”

“I did.”

“It’s tomorrow.” The door dings, opening on the eighth floor; you step out together. He switches his grip to hold the box in one arm. Alright Biceps, we don’t need to brag here...

“It’s… We’re getting there.” He grimaces. “Syd’s recipes are always… Almost perfect.”

“Ah.” You nod, you know your friend well enough to know where this is going. “And she fucks up one thing hard?”

“Mhm.”

“And when you tell her it’s okay and give her a hand she just feels worse?”

He nods. A touch surprised you’re right on the dot so quickly. “Everything ends up perfect, but I think she’s finding the edits…”

“Demoralizing.” You walk down the hall together, he nods. “I know what she needs, I’ll find an in.”

“You always do.” He hums, you walk just a touch ahead of him, unknowingly walking past his door. He pulls you back by the back of your jacket, making you stumble back into him. This seems to be this villain’s intention; as when you turn around, he’s quick to grab your chin and kiss you.

“It’s very good.” He emphasizes, again, before opening his door and acting like everything’s totally normal and fine. Since when did he turn the tables and make you the desperate one? Son of a bitch.

Ah. Actually, subtract any attraction you had in this moment— He lives like this? Books on the floor, by the window. Jeans on the dinner table, because they were in the oven. The kitchen actually looks alright— You’re almost certain that’s purely for utilitarian purposes while they’re working on the menu. This motherfucker better have a bed frame or him asking you to sleep over would be downright offensive. God, he’s wonderful. God, you’re an idiot.

You find Syd at the table, moping, head in hands. Carmen sets the box down, sitting beside her. You pat the top of her head. She silently moves one of her hands to go over yours. You nod. The silent exchange of girls who know.

“Yeah?”

She nods, grumbling. “Yeah.”

Carmen has no fucking idea what’s happening and he’s never been more intrigued by a near wordless social interaction in his entire life. What? You’re not even making eye-contact. What the fuck is happening?

You fish through the box with your free hand, grabbing a pot. You place it in front of Syd. “Look.”

She peeks through her fingers. A tiny but flourishing nursery pot of basil sits before her. You speak. “You’re gonna hyper-fixate on this basil I’m gifting you, and then you’re gonna crack back into it with the dual burner until I’m done fixing the oven.”

She nods, putting her hands in her lap, “Yes, Chef.”

You pull out a second nursery pot, setting it down for Carmen. “For you.”

“What for?”

“Basil grows like a motherfucker and it’s getting unhinged. I need to start pawning off to people that’ll make good use of it. A-K-A, chefs.” You look at Syd, pointedly, “Talented chefs.”

You hand off the heating pad— Wrapped in brown paper with a card tied to it, to Carmen. “For Nat.” You add, when he looks confused, “Can’t imagine I’ll see her sooner than you will.”

He looks even more confused, when you hand him a spray bottle full of reddish water. It’s one of the good spray bottles, too. Continuous. Carmen wouldn’t know the difference, but you do. “Rosemary. —Water, that is.”

He squints; you clarify, gesturing to your own hair. “You mentioned, losing hair, so— Thought I’d make some, with the trimmings of rosemary I had. Got ginger and cloves in it, too.”

Why have you trapped him in hell? You’ve remembered such a specific off hand from days ago and acted on it? And he can’t express the grandiose level of affection he feels right now? Are you serious? You’re the devil. You’re absolutely the devil. He just coughs out a ‘thanks’.  

“And, the pièce de résistance,” You pull out the old ass, boxed up double burner countertop stove. “A stovetop that ideally fuckin’ works. It was my single claim to fame in my college dormitory.”

Carmen’s already opening the box. Sydney smirks, curiosity peaked. “Was that legal?”

“You a fuckin’ RA?” You grin, poking her forehead. “It was not. And that’s exactly why everyone loved me— Didn’t serve them fuckin’ hot pockets.”

The configurations of Carmen’s apartment would be great for literally any occasion besides the current one. The kitchen is narrow, and so, when you pull out the stove to check the back, there’s an estimated no fucking room left for Carm and Syd, so they sit at the dinner table with your stove top. You’d think they’d look like they’re doing a cute hot pot. No. They look like two conflicted and confused twelve-year-olds working on a science project.

So do you, honestly. Wiring is definitely more your speed than plumbing, but if you’re being honest, this is the first oven you’ve worked on without your dad, and you’re having a hard time remembering everything. There’s a lot of embarrassed Googling on your phone, when you're sure they’re not looking. They can’t know you’re even slightly incompetent!

You’re pretty sure it’s just a couple damaged wires, fried from overwork— Easy fix, if you had wire. You don’t. Slightly harder fix. But soldering is your bitch really, you’re in your bag. You look stupid, wearing chunky goggles and a respirator, but you’re in your bag, baby! What’s that one saying? Skills make you hot? That’s not a saying.

But it is true. When Carmen’s able to peer into the kitchen, quickly looking over his shoulder when Syd takes a moment to write a measurement or direction down, you look stunning.  Respirator and all. You just look correct there, in the kitchen. His kitchen. So stunning he feels guilty. Do you find it annoying? Constantly fixing errors behind him? Probably. You say it’s not a lot of work, but that can’t be true.

“How’s The Bear, ‘sides menu rework?” You ask, raising your voice in the kitchen.

“S’good.” Carmen. “I’m in hell.” Syd. Not hard to tell which statue is lying, here.

Syd stutters on, “Nat’s takin’ care of baby Michaela— Which is very good and—and cool, actually.”

“But?”

“But we’re back to handling the business side entirely ourselves, for like— The next month. Maybe two? Fuck, are we doing the wedding without her?” Sydney almost burns her sauce, Carmen’s quick to move it off the burner.

He mutters, “Don’t even start to think about it. It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”

“Oh yeah, wedding— Have you gotten your menu yet?” You call from the kitchen, muffled by your respirator.

“Oh my god!” Sydney exclaims, and Carmen is wincing. She can’t tell you things are going wrong; doesn’t she know that? You’ll fix it, if things are wrong. You always fix it. Fix him. You’re gonna put him in your phone as Carmy Bad News. If you haven’t already. Start a support group with Tif.

Syd continues, “They’re so fucking particular and somehow also vague—Like, ‘we want salmon and chicken’ for main course— What kind of preparation? ‘Surprise us!’ Okay, how about roasted chicken—? ‘Mmmm, no, not that’. I’ve been told ‘non quello’ at least ten times in the last four days.”

No, you’re witty. Bad News Bear. Fuck, that’s definitely his name in your phone, isn’t it?

“Fuckin’ nightmare. Y’know, I’m the only fucking bartender? For like three hundred guests? Thank God they’re not asking for a custom cocktail or anything, I’d lose my shit.”

Sydney laughs, and she steps back into her flow easily, reducing the sauce without burning it, now. She looks more serene than she has in days. What? How are you doing that? What are you doing? Are you casting a spell?

“Can you even fucking imagine what their couples’ cocktail would be?”

You groan from the kitchen, laughing in return, “Not you too, Syd! Must you make me work!?”

“C’mon maestro, make a cocktail!”

“Bleh. Uh… They give long island iced tea energy, but it’s a wedding so— Like a boozier negroni?”

“That sounds fucking disgusting.”

“I didn’t say it’d be good, I said it’d be their couples’ cocktail.” You’re both giggling, like school girls. It’s like you said— You become teens, together.

Despite the fact that Syd is making an incredibly complex dish, and you’re fixing an oven—His oven— Ridiculing the other impossible tasks set out for the both of you… Despite all of that, you’re laughing.

Carmen is, what, nearly thirty? A restaurant owner, with a full crew, who attends Al-Anon, and is only now truly registering the power of an unsolvable burden being shared. Not fixed, shared. Talking. Laughing. God, this all comes so easy to you, doesn’t it?

You finish soldering, test each burner, and the oven— All working, thank God. You quietly cheer in the kitchen, removing your respirator and goggles. “We’re good here! Fixed!”

“C’mere!” Syd calls out to you, and so you do. Eagerly. She hands you a fork. Unprompted, she does the thing. You’d missed the OG, really.

“Beef Oxtail, pressed in a Foie Gras casing, seared. Basted in a King Oyster mushroom sauce. Pureed greens on the side.”

“I never know what the fuck you’re saying.”

She pushes the side of your face with the palm of her hand. “Put it in your mouth and chew.”

You want to make some sort of kink joke, but you respect the already struggling man in the room and take a bite. Hm. Hm. You put a finger over your mouth, swallowing. “...Now it might just be my unrefined palate.”

“That’s why we have you try it.” Carmen pipes in. Syd nods, following. “It’s important to know the baseline.”

“…It’s got like,” You hand the fork to Syd so she can try it, while you think. “A bit of a bitter aftertaste? Which might be the… goal?”

Syd spits it out the second it touches her mouth, she shouts your name, your actual name— A rarity. She’s so terrified that she forgets the Walk-In bit she’s been in on all week. “I just fuckin’ poisoned you— Oh my god?! Are you good? That was— Fuck! You swallowed that?!”

She grabs your face like a concerned mother, also maybe to check if you have superpowers, you’re not sure. All you know is there’s a golden opportunity to make another sex joke and you have to hold back. Life is so unfair.

Carmen takes a quick taste, also spitting it out. “I’ve got it, Chef, don’t sweat.” Immediately looking to the drafted recipe card to see where they went wrong.

Syd almost squeezes your cheeks like a stress ball but thinks better of it, letting go, groaning, beyond frustrated at this point. “You shouldn’t have to fix it— I should fuckin’ have it, at this point.”

Carmen's trying to ignore how much he relates to the sentiment. He's not the focus, right now.

“We make mistakes, Chef—” “Syd.” You snap your fingers, pointing to her, interrupting Carmen. “Can you help me grab something, from my car? It’s kinda big.”

Carmen’s quick to chime in, already going to untie his apron, “I can—”

“No!” You look at him pointedly, trying to communicate through look alone. He kind of gets it? “It’s… Girl stuff.”

Syd squints. “You need me to help you carry a big girl thing?”

“…Are you fuckin’ helping or are you gonna poke holes?”

“What are you actually dragging me out for?”

“Technically I do actually need your help grabbing something, it’s just not a girl thing. And it's also not from my car.”

“Oh?”

You walk out of Carmen’s building with his keys, and gesture out to every apartment buildings treasure trove— The spot everyone throws their furniture when they move out and don’t know what else to do with it.

“Bookshelf!” There is actually one pristine looking bookshelf, a cheap one, definitely just something from IKEA. But it’s better than the fucking floor. “I spotted it on my way in, we’re gonna bring it up for Carm.”

She groans, hating the concept of manual labour, but still walks with you and grabs one end anyways. “Why didn’t you make Carmen carry his own bookshelf?”

“Because you need a fuckin’ pep-talk.” You pick the other end of the bookshelf up. It’s thankfully not that heavy. You walk backwards so you can keep facing Syd.

“…I don’t—” “Yes the fuck you do.”

She kisses her teeth, you frown. “What’s up, Adamu?”

“It’s just fucking annoying— I keep, I keep fucking it up. I keep—Keep—”

“Doing too much.”

She gives you a look, ‘are you serious?’, type look. You continue. “You’re doing too much. You’re not cooking like you.”

“I can cook like Michelin—”

“I never said you couldn’t. Watch your step.” You interrupt, walking over a bump in the sidewalk. “You can do star level shit, Syd. But that’s a grade, not a type.”

She kind of reels, at that. You continue, “You cook great complex dishes, you always have, I’ve tried them. But now, you’re all caught up trying to prove some shit, to Carmen, to—to— Who gives stars? The tires guy?”

She laughs, almost dropping the bookshelf. “Yeah, I’m trying to impress the tires guy.”

“Fuck you.” You snort, stepping up the stairs. “What I’m trying to say is, you should make what you want to eat, not what you think you should eat.”

She nods, you stop on top of the stairs, both taking a second to breathe. “…Thanks.”

You nod back, hands on your knees for a second before standing back up, opening the lobby door. “I’ll always be your cheerleader, Syd.”

“More like coach.”

“Can you let me have one hot girl career, please?”

When you get back up to Carmen’s, he’s already grimacing. You and Syd are split apart by the bookshelf standing between you in the hall. “Fuck is this?”

“It was free and I’ll clean it!” You press your hands together pleading. “C’mon, you can even put your jeans in it!”

“Jeans on a bookshelf?”

You turn to Syd. “Better than the oven.”

“I think he’s doing that to dry them.”

“I think it’s ‘cause he doesn’t own a dresser.”

“It’s both.” Carmen clicks his tongue, single-handedly picking up the bookshelf and carrying inside. Alright, does he need to show off this much? Whatever. It’s definitely not making you feel any type of way at all.

You squint, watching him walk further in his apartment, and then to Syd. You speak at the same time. “He stays doing too much.”

As promised, you wipe down the bookshelf, making sure it’s free of grime and roadside pests. Syd and Carmy work together in the kitchen, with a now functioning oven. You load the shelf up with the books on the floor— Thankfully they’re piled into categories already, so you don’t have to bother him about that.

You’re tempted to clean his living room, but that would probably be rude, right? Don’t want him to take it as you saying he’s a slob. But they are taking a while… Alright, you’ll just throw out trash. You won’t fold blankets or pick up dishes or anything. Just trash! No big! He can’t be mad at you for that.

You pile together the garbage, then sneakily throw it out in the kitchen trash can as fast as you can, before he looks. He’ll think he’s just sleep cleaning, or something. “How’s it goin’ in here?’

Carmen pipes up, eyes focused on the dish as Syd plates it. “Good.” Syd holds the plate in one hand, and silently corrals you with the other to sit at the table. You do. She sets it down the plate before you, handing you a fork and knife.

You look up at her expectantly. She shakes her head. “Eat first, this time.”

She looks serious, so you nod, cutting into the dish. It’s different from the last one. Instead of oxtail, it’s pastry. Or at least, a puff pastry exterior. You’re pretty sure it’s Pillsbury, you remember Carmen buying that, the other day, on your excursion.

Inside it, you believe is the beef oxtail, there’s other things, too. Some sort of sauce, some greens— Oh well, no time to bask in the cross section because Syd looks like she’s about to explode. You take a bite. You nod, chewing.

Syd starts, “Searing the duck caused the bitter taste— So instead of- Of searing the outside, I coated it in the mushroom sauce, the greens— Not pureed, this time, for texture. Your basil, too. There’s a crumble of feta, for a subtle tang. And then wrapped it all together in puff pastry, and baked. It’s sort of like, a varied take on a beef welling—”

“You made a fucking gourmet hot pocket?” You swallow, wheezing. The second you say this, Sydney’s focused face beams, laughing, like she’s just pulled off the most perfect prank of all time.

Carmen was so intrigued and focused on Sydney’s explanation, that you watering it down to hot pocket and being right makes his entire system reboot. He cannot stop smiling, aghast. He's been helping Syd make a hot pocket for the past hour?

“I told you to make what you want and—” wheeze “—you make a fucking hot pocket?!” You double down, laughing with her, she’s trying to defend herself but she can’t stop wheezing in tandem.

“I— I can’t fuckin’ stand you!” You snort, covering your face with your arm. “I hate your ass, oh my God, Syd.”

“Did—” snort “What did you think?” She recovers, slowly but surely.

You shake your head, handing her the fork. “It’s sick, Syd, obviously, it’s fucking perfect… Chef.” You tack on at the end, almost forgetting. “I’m not gonna be able to have an actual hot pocket, ever again. You’ve ruined my life.”

She takes a bite for herself, nodding. She does a small cheer, pumping her fist. “Let’s fucking go.” She points her fork at you— Purely on muscle memory, and you both instantly remember the days of her testing out recipes and you pairing them on first taste. She’d point her fork to you like a microphone. It was a fun game between two nerds.

It’s a reflex response for you, even now. “Barolo. Savory, dry, red. A young one, though. Light body. Could also do an Amarone, if you’re not buried in money.”

She hands the fork off to Carmy to try it, then writes the pairings down, mumbling, amusement still in her voice. “How the fuck do you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I think I have some wires crossed.”

“Fire, Chef.” Carmen swallows his bite. “We cannot call it a hot pocket on the menu.”

“Then what’s the point!?”

Leaving Carmen’s place is objectively the most awkward experience— But also the funniest. You offer to wait for Syd and drive her home— You’ll need a second to pack anyways while they make their business plans.

When you do offer, of course, Carmen stutters short, almost asking you again to sleep over or at the very least stay late, but saves it, realizing himself.

Syd accepts the ride offer. You pack up and wait for her to be done. When she is, Carmen offers to carry your things down with you both, in which Syd accuses him of thinking you’re both weaklings— He does not have a defense case for this, he has to let you go. You can tell he wants to kiss you at the door, and you do too. Sadly, you’re equally down bad, but he can’t know that…

You say your goodbyes, Syd helps you load your tools and hotplate in the trunk of your car. Your phone vibrates. Text from Mister New York.

‘Look up I’m on the balcony. 8 floors.’

You look up, sure as shit, he’s out there, cigarette in mouth. Unlit. He waves, you wave back. He texts again, in rapid succession.

‘Thank you’

‘For helping Syd’

‘And the oven and the hot plate and the bookshelf (not necessary)’

‘nbd + I think it’s v necessary’ Does Carmen understand acronyms? You’re risking it, here.

‘and cleaning my trash’ Sonofabitch.

‘ah fuck. I don’t think you’re messy!!! I just wanted to help!!!’

‘I know. You’re you. Be safe.’

Oh goddammit, stupid dry texter, saying something so gah. You jump as Syd taps the roof of your car behind you, getting your attention. Watching from a far distance, Carmen laughs, though you don’t notice it.

“Are we going?”

“Yes! Sorry!” You hurriedly pocket your phone, waving one last time as you get in your car. Syd sits beside you in shotgun, her pot of basil sat safely in her lap. You drive off.

You’re half way down the road, when Syd pipes up again. “So y’all are fucking, correct?”

You almost brake check the guy behind you.

 “How do you fuckin’ do that!?”

the opening is dedicated to my dear friend and i who have sent our wordle results to each other everyday for the past like year and a half.

Things of note, one - people usually skip the shit up top-- I made a spotify playlist! Listen if you like, I'm not your dad.

Two, I know this is a self insert right, i know what I set myself up for-- Do you know the hell i am in as a syd x carmy girl writing scenes with both of them and it NOT being them? What have I done, to myself? The only coping mechanism I have is imagining in this universe Syd is a lesbian. And that is helping.

The hot pocket recipe-- Who fucking knows, if that would taste good? I think it would? In theory? I fucked with a dish from Daniel NYC, to make it into a bit. Would it work? ....Beef wellingtons do, I can't see why this can't???? Idk man.

Rosemary water w cloves and ginger does fucking work btw. I am part of the so stressed out i lost my hair brigade. Also basil does grow like a motherfucker.

We're seein' a little bit of that tenseness that comes with being in an 'almost relationship' both of them feel like they've got something they can fuck up now. Poor birds. They'll be okay. Probably.

I'm really excited for the next chapter, I don't wanna give shit away, but it's gonna be,,,,,, different. I haven't seen anyone try this kinda formatting on tumblr before, and I'm excited to see what you think. Between my moving and how complex the choreography of it is gonna be, it's gonna be a much longer minute between this chapter and the next, I fear. But listen, you already knew your ass was gettin' spoiled with a chapter every two days. Hehe.

As always, please come yap to me in the replies/inbox/dms/reblogs. I love to hear thoughts!! It sustains me, baby!!

Next Part

[xx-j4nu5-c4t5-xx]

"An ideal Sims game would have Sims 2's gameplay mechanics, Sims 3's open world, and Sims 4's graphics!"

I absolutely despise this take, and I want to explain why. This is a very long rant and it is full of piss and vinegar directed at everything in the Sims 4. I'm gonna try to keep everything kinda professional as much as I can but I can't guarantee an unbiased opinion.

If you'll let me talk your ears off for a moment, I'd like to explain, from my own experience as an artist and a casual player, my issues with the art style and direction of The Sims 4 compared to The Sims 2. (I'm not really going to comment on 3 because I've never played it.)

I want to start off by explaining the difference between better graphics and higher resolution. The Sims 4 absolutely blows Sims 2 out of the water when it comes to textures and polygon counts on sims, no contest. But I'd argue that the graphics themselves... aren't better. They're worse, even, so much fucking worse. The biggest problems come from the stylization and the animations, in my opinion, so I'll explain what I mean.

Have you ever felt like the Sims in 4 just look... weird? Not quirky, not kinda strange, but off. Distressing. Uncanny. Whatever the fuck the kids call it nowadays. When you strip away the packs and the CC and the shaders, the sims in the base game look bad. They're very close to being human; they walk like us, talk like us, have families like us, but they don't look like us, not exactly. There's always something off about them, no matter how close you try to get. Proportions will be a bit off, or your eyelashes will be like three polygons for some fucking reason, and the jig is up. The illusion is gone.

This is one of the instances where a higher resolution and more detailed models and meshes work against you. You aren't making believe. You are beyond the point of pretending that the pixelated shapes are real clothes and bodies and faces, because at this point, they're close enough that you don't need to. There's no gap to bridge. But that doesn't necessarily mean that they're lifelike, at least, not enough to be completely human. In some ways, they're still tethered to being cartoony and plasticky and fake. Just enough to frighten you. Enough to put you off. They're not using it to their advantage anymore, and instead, it's holding them back.

When the Sims 2 came out in 2004, the developers knew that they weren't going to make a perfectly accurate life simulator. They physically couldn't render every wrinkle in the face or fold in the clothing. In some animations, things clip strangely or the facial expressions are sort of janky or there's just some form of roughness around the edges. But that's okay; your brain doesn't need a perfectly accurate representation this time. That's not what you're here for, anyway.

The Sims 4 is basically Icarus-ing itself into disaster. The entire game sacrifices style for complete realism, a goal that was unachievable ten years ago, and is unachievable now.

The Sims 2 never thought of itself as a completely realistic life sim, though. It has cartoony, low poly meshes and exaggerated proportions and wild, raunchy storylines that would never occur in real life. BECAUSE IT ISN'T REAL LIFE. And it isn't like real life, not because it's failing to be, but because it doesn't want to be!

The Sims 4 is not ever going to completely replicate human looks or interactions or dynamics. And if it's trying to, it's doing a shit job of it. That shouldn't be the goal in the first place. If I wanted to watch a lonely college student talk to himself in the mirror to try and get better at interacting with people, I'd close the computer and go look at myself. It somehow highlights the most mundane parts of life without any of the whimsy and goofiness that the earlier installments had. It takes itself too fucking seriously for its own good, and it's killing both the gameplay and the art style.

The other point I'd like to bring up is the animation. The Sims 4 allows for much more customization of both sim and environments, but at the cost of dynamic animations. How many times is that grab animation reused? How many times is the same set of animations used for sims with wildly different personalities? Your sims barely feel alive with how little they express themselves.

Now, look, I'm a digital artist. I've dabbled in animation, but only briefly, and only in 2D. I've got no clue how 3D animation works, much less how it worked 20 years ago, but I can see the passion in every single animation in the Sims 2. The more niche interactions allowed for more expressive animations than in 4. They could afford to have a distinct animation for mean sims throwing the football extra hard to be assholes, rather than every sim using the same generic football-throwing animation to save time and money. I get where they're coming from. I get the idea. But in one move, you've both made the art style stiffer and less expressive, and you've made the personalities of the sims seem meaningless. Everyone acts the same, regardless of what their moodlets or their traits say. It's hollow. It's stifled. It's a waste of potential.

But for what Sims 2 lacks in polygons, it makes up for in smaller animated details. Quality over quantity. The sims have hair physics, they open the door before they get in the car, they take utensils out of the counters when they cook, they jump on the couch and the cushions smush under their weight. When they dance, the weight is realistic, and when they smile, it tugs at every one of the few dozen shapes that make up their faces. The sims are lively. They dance and sing and love and hate just like humans, and rather than being some strange attempt at mimicry, it's almost a tribute. They were made with love. You can tell that they were drawn up and rigged and animated by a bunch of people working together, studying each other and making faces in the mirror for reference and watching their kids and neighbors and dogs and hands for reference. The sims are not human, and not trying to be, but they're taking the most human parts of us and making them their own.

You could never have a game with the Sims 4's graphics and the Sims 2's gameplay. The gameplay and graphics are inexorably connected, and the Sims 2 just has so much glorious detail baked into it, that you could never really make it work underneath the limitations of the later games. The developers of 2 knew what their limits were, and they worked tirelessly to make the game as full and complex as they could within those limits. The developers for the Sims 4 just did not have those guidelines, and thus, the drive to bend the rules was no longer there. They didn't go wild in rebellion because they were never told they couldn't in the first place. They spent the entire time chasing a goal they couldn't meet, and lost sight of what made the series fun to begin with.

It wasn't the realism you came for; you had realism already surrounding you. It was the caricature of it that made it interesting.

[naamahdarling]

Two days ago and I was comfortable enough that this was the right choice that I was able to make the call to have Smooch put to sleep. I am sure now. I wish I weren't. It hurts to see him like this. The vet is out or I would move it forward. We could do the emergency vet but I literally do not think I could do it without our vet and my favorite nurse. That feels selfish but when she answered the phone yesterday the comfort was... astonishing.

I'm trying to prepare. I've been waiting for this for a long time, which is why it's bearable at all. I have entertainment, I have an art project to memorialize him ready to go for whenever I feel like it. I have plans to make a couple of keepsakes. But there's going to be a hole in my life so much bigger than his frail little body. It's the end of part of me. He has been there in my future for so long, thinking about not having him there is like vertigo, or a reverse haunting of some kind. It's a Wrongness, part of the world about to be unmade. He is genuinely part of my identity. I'm all these things that I consider core parts of me -- queer, funny, creative, curious, a little clever, loving, an artist, a survivor, my friends' friend, my blood sister's sister, my chosen sister's sibling, my father's daughter, my boyfriend's partner...and I'm Dried Pickle Man's person.

Here at home IRL and online, and everywhere I go, to almost anyone I speak to at all, I have been his human for 13 years and 27 days.

And that isn't enough apparently, because Sid, too, is slipping away. I...I don't know that we can save him, either. His digestive issues are keeping him from eating, we can't stop the flare, a feeding tube won't fix it, meds aren't helping him. He's losing weight very fast. Vet is at a loss. I usually have a pretty good idea of what to do next or what needs to happen. I have nothing for him. The specialist might know. How the hell do we keep affording it?

And Raleigh. Oh god. Raleigh. If we can't afford the surgery or if it fails. What do we do?

What if we lose all three?

What if my boyfriend loses BOTH his boys? Raleigh alone is going to devastate him. Not just sad, like ordinary grief, I mean I have never ever in my life seen an animal love a human this much.

He's already struggling with his depression and ADHD. He will suffer and there is nothing I can do to stop this all from happening. I can't dig into a hidden well of trying harder, I can't outsmart it. I can't comfort him by saying that it is hard but possible to influence this. I hate seeing him in pain.

And I'm scared for me. I am afraid it will just ruin him and I will lose him too, until and unless he can recover. And I already spend so much time alone. Even my art is...gone. Too painful. Writing isn't really possible, either. My body barely feels like mine these days. I have so fucking little to hang on to. My cats are one of the last things I have of myself. One of the only good things I have in my day to day life.

It's all an absolutely terrifying cascade. Unlike a lot of situations where I'm scared of the future, this isn't me afraid of unlikely scenarios that are several crises away. This is very real. And I'm usually not scared for my boyfriend like this.

It won't kill us. You can come back from something like this, probably, I know people survive much worse and I'm bombarded with reminders of that a dozen times a day. But it can take such a long time to come back, and...sometimes you just...Come Back Wrong.

I'm not often genuinely completely helpless. I am helpless now.

[narcpixiedreamboy]

Okay I’d like anyone that sees this to blind react and put a finger down for each thing in this list you relate to. There are 9 things. You can comment your score publicly or keep it private, up to you, but I think this might be interesting for some people. Here’s the list:

-Do you tend to take criticism too personally, or gotten unreasonably defensive when someone points out a mistake you made? Do you hate admitting you’ve done something wrong?

-Do you like to daydream about doing something amazing (such as saving people from a burning building, being the one to win your team the game, being an amazing actor in a movie, etc.) and having people recognize you for the great thing you did?

-Do you place in importance on being associated with important or high status things, like trying to date/be friends with the coolest kids in your classes, or choosing to go to a prestigious university over a common state school?

-Do you tell people about things you’ve done specifically to get praise for it? Such as telling your friends about the A you got on that really hard math test, or pointing out your cool new hairstyle, or the drawing you did that you think looks really cool, specifically so that they will compliment you for it?

-Do you feel comfortable prioritizing yourself and what you want/need over other people?

-Have you ever diminished your accomplishments, or been purposefully self-deprecating so that the person will reassure you (i.e. “You’re such a good artist!” “Oh no I’m really not, anyone could do what I do” “No really, your art is amazing!”)?

-Do you find it hard to genuinely care about other people’s problems?


-Do you get jealous easily if, let’s say at a party, your friend is getting more attention than you?

-Have you ever felt secretly happy that someone around you failed or did worse on something than you did? Like maybe you didn’t want your friend to fail their math test, but them failing it did you make you feel a little extra good and proud about the non-failing grade you got on it.

(Scroll for explanation for spoiler reasons)

So what that list was a rewriting of the DSM-5 diagnostic criteria for narcissistic personality disorder, where for each section I filled in one of the ways I actually feel that part of the criteria. So instead of “grandiose sense of self”, I said “bad at taking criticism”, because that’s one of the ways my grandiose sense of self actually presents. If this was the original diagnostic criteria, you would need 5 of 9 to be diagnosed with NPD.

The reason I asked you all to count how many you relate to is that I have seen a lot of egotypicals do this exact same stuff. My goal is to help someone possibly unfamiliar with NPD understand that people with NPD are not the foreign, subhuman monsters that we are so often represented as, but rather people who feel some normal human traits too much.

(Also please don’t use this alone to self-diagnose, it was not made for that)

(Also also, thank you to the people in the reblogs for letting me know I could’ve used the read more feature. I am new to tumblr so tips on how to use it are appreciated)

[cupcakeslushie]

Any advice for someone who's going through art block?

Art block is so difficult, because I really think it’s down to each individual person finding what helps for them.

For me, I more often just try to power through. Because if I do stop to take a break, there’s a danger, where I know I’ll get stuck for weeks, just lazing about, not getting anything done. Then it’s really hard to get back in the swing of things. But this method of being stubborn, might be horrible advice for someone whose mental health really suffers from staying in that mindset of “failing, failing, failing”. Because that’s what it can feel like, when you’re not seeing the results you want. It can be very frustrating, and it either causes you to grow even more stuck, or it lights a fire in your ass to keep you going until you’ve forced it.

Both of these methods aren’t necessarily unhealthy or bad, but they simply work for you, or they don’t. And what helps, can often change based on your mindset and energy levels.

If powering through ever does fail me, (like it kinda has recently lol). Then, I’ll throw up my hands and accept that life is telling me to take a freaking break. In a week or two, I can come back when I’m rested and inspiration hits again. Because even I have points where I just have to listen to what my brain is telling me—despite the fact that all I want to do is be drawing nonstop lol.

Ill watch some tv, listen to some music, read, cook. Whatever is relaxing. And most of these things will provide me with enough chill vibes that I can jump back in when I’m ready!

It’s all about listening to yourself and knowing when to actually give your mind and body a break.

But, If you’re coming in well rested and bright-eyed, and the art block is still popping up, maybe it’s less art block, and more just your brain being slow to switch tasks. Do some warm up sketch exercises, get up and jump around to get your blood pumping. Browse your feeds for inspiration, but set an alarm to give yourself a certain amount of time so you don’t fall down the rabbit hole. Play some banging music to get your energy up. Staring at a blank, white canvas is hardly the proper kind of stimulating activity lol. You’ll rarely find any ideas that way.

There’s plenty of methods to handling art block. The real killer of it, is more when you let it pull you into this loop of self deprecation/sabotage that only gets worse the longer you sit in it. Art block isn’t failure on your part, it doesn’t need to be punished, or mean you’re lacking as an artist.

It’s an unavoidable part of the creative process, you learn how to handle it, and how to sail through it when it hits.

It’ll either blow over when it’s ready, or when you’ve developed a good strategy to hurry it along.