#this guy did an amazing job with these ->

[tsuutarr]

Rich! Yandere x Chill! Reader

Work is a drag – your supervisor expects mountains from you while allowing himself to pick pebbles. He expects you to be there before him and leave after him even though he allows himself to arrive late and leave on time. He expects you to respond to every email and ask questions but ignores emails sent his way. He condescendingly laughs at you and gets annoyed at you making mistakes even though he’s made plenty himself.

In conclusion, you’re about to lose it. Go absolutely bonkers.

Still, you gotta earn money somehow, so…

You really have no choice but to continue onwards.

But seriously, who thought a cycle of work and work and more work was a good idea? You have a few choice words for them. Especially since you’re forced to stay longer than you want to because your stupid supervisor decided to give you work at the last minute, two minutes before you clock out.

By the time you arrive home, you’re dead tired, absolutely unable to keep your eyes open. You tell yourself that you need to get changed, eat dinner, brush your teeth, catch up on your weekly show… but your body is too tired to obey any of that, so it’s lulled into a long, dreamless slumber.

When you come to, you wake up on a gorgeous bed in a gorgeous room. You’re disoriented, absolutely positive that you’re dreaming. But you don’t wake up even after pinching yourself so… this must be real?

Your thoughts are interrupted as the doors to the room open, showcasing a handsome man. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on the news somewhere. Probably. Anyway, the point is that he’s handsome.

“Are you feeling all right, Darling?” he asks, voice velvety smooth and deep like dark chocolate.

“I guess?” you say, feeling surprisingly calm. He blinks at you.

“Ah… are you not going to ask where you are…?”

“Oh, right.” You nod. “Where am I?”

“You’re at one of my mansions,” he responds, smoothing out his dress shirt. “I’ve selected the best one, just for you.”

“Oh wow.” Flashes of your dingy one bedroom apartment flash through your head. “That’s great.”

“And of course, you’ll have everything provided for you. If you need anything, just tell me – I can get you everything you desire.”

“That’s amazing,” you respond. “I’m in.”

“Wha–” he looks at you, shocked. “I knew you were in dire financial straits but… aren’t you going to be wary of me, Dear? I mean, I kidnapped you?”

“My guy, the economy is awful, I hate my job, and I really just want to enjoy life for once. I am not complaining.” Shrugging your shoulders, your gaze remains steady on him. “Besides, you’re easy on the eyes.”

A bright red blush splatters itself across his cheeks, forcing him to clear his throat. “W–well, I’m pleased that my appearance is desirable to you.”

“Yup,” you reply, before looking at him curiously. “So like… did you stalk me or something? Put trackers on me?”

“Wha–”

“Well, it kinda seems like you’ve been after me for a while, I guess. Sorry if I’m wrong?”

“Well, no, you’re not… incorrect. But does that not bother you?”

“I mean, social media already has all my info anyway, so…” you hum thoughtfully. “Hm. Anyway. Does kidnapping me mean that you won’t let me go out again? A lot of stories have the guy locking their love interest up.”

He blinks. “I… suppose so…?”

“I don’t entirely mind, but I feel like I’ll probably go nuts if I’m not allowed to go out at all. Can’t we compromise? Like… you can have your trackers on me or have someone follow me around. Actually, why don’t you come along?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I mean, it’s a fair trade, isn’t it? I have friends and family that I gotta see so I don’t go insane, but like, I don’t mind spending most of my time here. And if I do go out, you can just keep track of that. Plus it’s not like I have money or power to actually run or something anyway.” You nod, certain.

“You… you’re certainly rather… receptive to this whole situation.”

“Again, the economy is trash and you’re hot.”

He clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “W–well, it isn’t the worst idea in the world, I suppose. However, the world at large is quite dangerous. You can’t fault me for wanting to keep you locked up. It’s the best way to keep you safe–”

“Oh, I know!” you snap your fingers. “Let’s get married.”

“...Excuse me?”

“I mean, that way you’ll legally be my family. Then you can be with me ‘til death do us apart. Or something.” Satisfied, you nod. “Good idea, don’t you think?”

Gears whir inside his head as he looks at you, completely flabbergasted by your proposal. He’s happy that you seem satisfied with the situation and want to marry him but… but…

“Good idea indeed,” he agrees, fully abandoning any notion of common sense (not that he had much to begin with). 

Your willing acceptance of your situation wasn’t what he was expecting, but… who is he to complain?

It’s working in his favor, after all.

[hopegrasping]

I think we fundamentally value different things in art. I think you're someone who has access to college and values professionally made art over the hobbyist art I do and the art my family makes and their family before them because they didn't have a college education but still made do with what they had and they did damn good too.

I'm not saying you should never buy another piece of professionally made clothing ever again or that untrained people will 100% always do a better job than people who've had "proper training" or whatever you call it. I'm the "those with disabilities" you're talking about and we still try our best and we work within our limitations given we are at all capable. Don't discount disabled people simply because we have disabilities, we are not your counter argument. We are real people and not a nebulous hypothetical demographic of unfortunate souls with no skin in the game we have conviction and values and while we might not be able to do As Much As Often as the next guy, we do what we can where we can and that's a lot more than a lot of people regardless of their disability status can say. some may not be able to diy at all and that's okay but this post obviously isn't For people who literally can't do a diy project and those who are disabled and unable to do diy are aware of that. It's for people who feel intimidated bc all they every fucking hear is about how fuck ugly their seriously basic handicraft is going to be bc society has been conditioning us to thing only special people are artistic and I simply know that to not be true so I said so.

I say diy isn't inherently going to look like shit 100% of the time that that is a true and productive statement. and that every effort made to better your skills, while it may not be Product You Can Sell Quality, or The Cure To Sweatshop Labor Everywhere, it's a damn good thing to do, for other people, for the environment, and for yourself I have no idea what crawled up your ass to even give this post a wack ass rebuttal as if it ever needed one to begin with, but your "uh actually, you'll never be as good as a professional and thus should never sew a button bc it's gonna look terrible just trust me bro" reads as elitist at best.

I can't tell if you think poor people can't make things work (we can) or if you just love to blatantly ignore the real life daily abuse we know is happening as we are constantly directed to fund it but maybe whatever you got going on is a you problem and maybe you should read the room and step off my cringe ass hopecore Tumblr account during these trying ass fucking times? I'm trying to inspire people to be brave and do something good for others and themselves to keep myself afloat emotionally on this god forsaken planet and you are SO pissing in my Cheerios with your weird defeatist projection

you realize before you graduated you were still making incredible things, right? Things you should probably be proud of? You were building your knowledge with experience and learning as a supplemental part of the process and you Made Stuff? Since you were a kid? We're doing that too. Everyone is allowed and should feel beyond welcomed to do so. We will learn our own way and do without college or the proper materials because we don't Need college or the proper materials to make a wrap skirt or tote bag. I've made repairs using my own hair before because I couldn't afford thread, let alone a new piece of clothing and it looked FINE no one bothered me or noticed and I want everyone to know they have That much freedom to diy. I have thread now and my current diys are amateur yeah but they're Nice and I Like Them and that's all most of us need. People are incredible and amazing and I believe in our ability to excel in our endeavors regardless of our access to college, end of. Normal people making normal art because that's a normal thing you don't need to be special or wealthy to do that is what I am saying. Nothing more. Nothing less. Do you know how insufferable it is to say "Hey everybody! Let's do a little crafting! You can do it! :D" and wake up to someone the next day pisssssssing in your Cheerios? It sucks! It's stressful! You obviously weren't my target demographic! Leave people alone if they aren't hurting you! Go sew or something idk ur good at that right? I am, and that's what I'll be doing, I encourage everyone to do the same. Literally any of you can message me I will help you find resources if you couldn't tell I really believe in the moral and beneficial nature of diy I think even one project a year makes a difference but the more the better.

I can't believe I can post something with punk in the tag and have Anyone go "NUH HUH SEWING ISN'T ACCESSIBLE" there have been days where I had acess to a sewing needle but not food. It's inaccessible to buy all your tools at once and the exact fabrics you need from the fabric store, or even to thrift every item just to add bits and bobs to an already pricey piece. But myself and other and others before our time have been poor in style for decades and for centuries. You salvage thread from clothes you legitimately can't wear anymore. You sneak a pair of scissors from school if you're young, you'll find a needle eventually if you look at ground enough and pick up enough litter. Worst case needles are 1.25 at the dollar store. So is thread. Everyone should have access to sewing. I think that is important and I think it is important to not discourage people from engaging in diy

Let go of the idea that diy will inherently look shit. All your clothes are handmade you just don't see the people doing it.

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.1.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. Uncharted waters for me, because I have no idea how many chapters it will come out as.

Reader is: British, Young Vic (get it?) theatre company director, working class, in her 30s, a control freak, a semi-conscious sub. Viktor is: Czech (as always), working in biotech with Jayce, working class, in his 30s, a control freak, a conscious dom.

next chapter -> (will be here once published)

word count: 4,6K

warnings, or rather this work contains: d/s dynamics between main characters (but who the fuck knows what Mel and Jayce are doing), love (attraction?) at first sight, no strings attached to lovers/strangers to lovers (so like reverse emotional slow burn?), lots of porn, angst, happy resolution. I will be adding kink warnings as they appear in the future chapters.

author’s note: Ok, so, um, hi! A Deer and a Man is ending, so something else has to begin. It’s like… a very freeform thing I’m doing here. Sort of about nothing, just relationships with d/s dynamics, because I want to play around with some kinks and stuff. I’m trying to make it make sense here, but not everything might, since it’s just my subjective take on things. It will have some d/s etiquette but not always, because I’m clumsy and my characters get infected with my clumsiness :v Nothing’s new really (hehe, get it?), some plot, some porn, some feelings. It’s basically me going to IKEA asking you if you wanna come and grab some vegan meatballs and the meatballs are smut in this :v So yeh, hi, welcome to another blurb of a mutlichap work.

Special thanks to my friends @rennethen and @strongfartzemergency for pre-reading this and enabling my brainrot. Artist is @petitesieste, just ahh ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Your eyes glaze over the computer screen, trying to memorize a list of poor souls to probe the next day. An ouroboros of theatre life has reached another mark, one where you must make a million decisions in a short span of time: Which plays will grace the stage, who’s performing in them, who’s directing, and who’s dressing all those people in their fancy costumes? And, most importantly, who’s paying for all of it?

So far, a successful year has set your bar even higher, with the next season looming in the golden light of August evenings. You don’t even have time to warm your bones in it—you have to think ahead, transport your brain to the future, to a cold January, when the real test begins for you. In truth, you don’t have time to do anything beneficial for your bones, and you’ve just learned to accept that your joints crack like dry wood every time you move.

A head peaks through the crack in your door, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Charlie,” you greet him, your nose still scrunched up by the screen. “I know, I know. I’m going, I just need a second.” You begin to rise from your chair but remain hunched over, extending your arm blindly toward the computer. “Did you bring my shoes?”

“Yes, and I’m not kicking you out,” says Charlie, passing you a pair of ballet flats. “But if you want a driver, well… he’s getting impatient.”

“That’s okay, I can commute,” you smile at him, taking the shoes and glancing at your watch. “It’s only Camden… oh, shit, it’s very late. You should, in fact, kick me out.” After a few hurried jumps while putting the shoes on, you're back to frantically picking up unrelated objects and shoving them into your purse: tissues, lipstick, random notes to review in the morning, and Mel’s gift—a seasonal Young Vic pass for her and her plus one.

“Where are you guys meeting?” he asks, passing you the rest of the things you will obviously want or need. It’s a seamless collaboration with Charlie. Since the very beginning, you two have been sharing a brain, and this is partly why nothing has collapsed yet. On the contrary—both you, as a theatre company director, and Charlie, as an assistant director, have been doing an amazing job, mending together a forthcoming approach and love for theatre. And this is all your head is at, despite the one evening of reprieve where you can share beers with friends in a pub that Mel has chosen completely out of character for herself. Which is why, instead of answering, you ask, “Do you really think we can do Hamlet?”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to do Hamlet?” Charlie parrots, passing you a coat with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know, is it not a bit… on the nose? It’s my second year, and my brain’s steamed up so much that I’m doing Hamlet?”

Charlie chuckles softly, as he steps behind you to dress you up. “You are going to do a bitchin’ Hamlet. And now can you please go and have some fun for once?”

“This is fun, Charlie. Hamlet is fun,” you say, holding his arms and giving him a playful shake. “Fun!”

“Calm down, captain,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Where are you guys going?”

“Ugh… World’s End?”

“World’s End?!” Charlie covers his mouth in feigned horror, his eyes wide. “This is so unlike Miss Medarda!” he whispers, shooting you an incredulous look.

“I know, Mel wanted casual,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. Then, as you move past him, you swat him lightly on the shoulder, seeking another round of uninhibited cackles. “Don’t be mean, Charlie!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Charlie laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, World’s fucking End, who would’ve thought. Let me fetch you a driver, my lady.”

You shake your head and scan your office one last time, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Figuratively, of course, since almost everything dear to your heart is actually being left behind. And even though it’s only for a couple of hours, not being in control is frightening.

On the other side of the coin are your friends, with Mel right up front. She’s been there since the very first second of your meeting—right after you yelled at a light technician, making him flinch and nearly fall off the ladder. You had immediately corrected yourself with, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. But this lightwork is still shit. Please fix it. I ask you kindly.”

That was when Mel grinned, wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and whispered into your ear, “Okay. I want to be your friend.”

Since then, Mel has been one of the main patrons of your theatre company, and you—being a firm unbeliever in your own abilities—are convinced it’s largely her money and pep talks that have granted you the creative freedom that led to you becoming an artistic director. Your worlds collided fast and hard, and, being another person married to her work, she quickly became one of the closest people in your life.

Until Jayce.

Mel, being someone who treats every relationship as an investment, doesn’t limit her influence to the arts. So when her family decided to fund research grants for scientists from the Francis Crick Institute, you knew something was coming as soon as she justified the decision with, “And they are both very handsome.”

You know the urge very well—the ever-nagging need to have everything under control, to oversee every grain of sand that rolls through the waist of the hourglass, every second planned, every schedule so tight there is barely time to breathe. It’s one of the things that bonded the both of you.

So when Jayce came along—with his motivation stemming not from a sickening need for self-accomplishment or a desperate urge to prove something to the world, but from the purity of his own heart and a healthy curiosity—Mel began to crack. And then the disease spread to you.

Now, you actually rest. You spend your free Sundays socializing. You talk about things other than work. You’ve even been on a few unsuccessful dates. And it’s all Jayce’s fault.

You loved him for it immediately—the small crumbs of the outside world granted to you and Mel through his unabashed joy and excitement. Jayce made things fun, and turning your phone off—briefly relinquishing control—became a little less terrifying.

From there, your thoughts drift in different directions until your absent-minded stare at the moving lights outside the car window is interrupted. The driver, in a grumpy tone, informs you that you’ve arrived at your destination. You crack the joints in your hands before thanking him and bidding him goodnight.

The World’s End is all red from the outside, its glow bleeding onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, you spot the back of Mel’s heavily accessorized hairstyle, a head of intricate twists and gleaming accents. You glance at your reflection, and—well. You’ve seen better days.

Your mini skirt has twisted around, placing the slit exactly where you don’t want it, so you yank it back into place, cursing Charlie for not telling you. In the process, you notice a small eyelet in your tights, the hole widening with each step you take. No nail polish to stop it from spreading. You curse yourself for that one. Your shirt is crumpled at the stomach—a reminder of hours spent hunched over your desk. Your necklace has caught a bunch of stray hairs, which you pick out frantically as you stride toward the door. And the rest of your hair? An artistic mess, sculpted by an impatient hand that’s raked through it a hundred times too many today.

Once inside, Mel’s slender hand and a row of her impossibly white teeth beckon you forward as she stands up to give you a hug.

And the inside of The World's End is exactly what you would expect from a Camden pub—big, loud, and brimming with mismatched charm. The walls are cluttered with a collection of art that looks like it was bought in a rush at a local flea market. There's a hum of conversation mixing with the thrum of the music playing in the background, and the space itself is large, almost cavernous. The low ceiling and uneven, wooden floorboards give it an unpolished look that feels welcoming to some, but it's not exactly the kind of place you'd expect to see Mel at.

Mel, in contrast, belongs in a sleek, minimalistic bar, somewhere where the drinks are as carefully curated as the furniture, where everything is perfectly composed. Here, she’s lost in the midst of it all, a little too refined for the space, as if her sharp lines don’t quite align with the pub’s rough edges. The things we do for friends.

“Darling, I’m glad you made it,” she chirps, walking toward you and spreading her arms wide.

“Now I can say I’d go to the end of the world for you,” you murmur into her shoulder, squeezing her tight. Then, pulling back, you present a small envelope. “Happy birthday, love. Here—best possible seats.”

Mel’s brows lift as she takes the tickets, flipping them between her fingers. “You shouldn’t have,” she says, though the gleam in her eye betrays her excitement. “But thank you. You wouldn’t believe who Jayce has managed to drag along,” she murmurs into your ear.

“Oh, it can’t be,” you whisper back, scanning the table over her shoulder.

A few of her closest friends sit huddled together, deep in conversation and laughter. Then, Jayce’s broad frame, unmistakable even in the dim light. And next to him—

A pair of loose shoulders, wrapped in a red shirt stretched between two sharp blades. The nape of his neck, covered in a mess of brown curls. He leans on one hand, nodding along to whatever Jayce is saying, his profile cutting sharp against the glow of the street lights.

Viktor. The last man standing, the one seemingly immune to Jayce’s influence when it comes to making people step out of their comfort zones. And yet, here he is. Of all occasions, it’s Mel’s birthday that has somehow coaxed Viktor out of his self-imposed solitude. A horse you wouldn’t have bet on.

You are led to the table, where all the seats seem to be taken—until Viktor removes his cane from the empty stool beside him and gestures for you to sit between him and Jayce. As you lower yourself onto the stool, you take his hand briefly and say, “The smartest man in the room, finally in the room.”

“You must be talking about Jayce,” he counters, a glint of amusement in his eye. He holds your palm for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” you reply with a smile—until Mel’s head suddenly pokes between the two of you.

“What’s your poison, honey?” she asks. Only now do you notice her flushed cheeks and the way she’s completely disregarded the concept of personal space, her arm stretching beyond your shoulders to tug playfully at Jayce’s hair.

“A pint of bitter?” you say, startled.

She frowns slightly, but you quickly follow with, “Cheers,” hoping to steer her attention elsewhere. Her eyes squint at you, but she relents, giving Jayce’s back a clingy hug before strolling off to the bar. Only now Viktor’s hand releases yours.

He studies you for a moment before turning to his glass, giving you the chance to take a closer look—

The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hollow between his collarbones, skin up to his neck is covered in a satin sheen of sweat. Tendons shift beneath it, blue veins threading along his throat. His hair is faintly damp around the ears, curling and plastering itself to his temples. From the side, his jaw forms nearly a perfect square.

You don’t dare to look higher.

Lower down, though, his sleeves are rolled up carelessly, exposing freckle-specked arms. You spot it by dropping your gaze naturally.

Mel was right. They are both very handsome.

As the birthday gal disappears toward the bar, you are left wedged between the two scientists, the noise of conversation assaulting your ears. Across the table, Amara leans in, her many rings clinking as she refills someone’s glass from a sweating bottle of wine. Beside her, Salo—always overdressed for the occasion, his blonde curls neatly combed back—gestures broadly mid-story, his voice animated. A few seats down, Mion, the youngest among them and always balancing the line between sharp and naive, listens intently while occasionally stealing olives from Mel’s abandoned plate.

"So," Jayce starts, shifting his weight so he can face you properly. “What’s keeping you so busy these days?”

You exhale, stretching your arms along the back of your seat, making your spine pop. “Wrapping up meetings with playwrights, directors, and actors—making sure everything aligns. Managing funding and sponsorships, finalising script choices.”

Salo whistles. “Sounds like a headache.”

“It’s a miracle she’s here at all,” Jayce adds, nursing his beer. “I half-expected her to send a regretful telegram from the depths of her desk.”

That earns a laugh from Amara, who nudges your foot under the table. “And what are the plays, then? What’s in?”

You rest your chin in your palm and do a mock countdown with the fingers of the other. “Further than the Furthest Thing, The Scottsboro Boys, A Streetcar Named Desire—possibly Hamlet.”

Mel, just returning with your beer, lets out a delighted gasp as she sets it down. “Hamlet? Oh, darling, tell me you’re doing it.”

“Calm yourself,” you warn, reaching for your drink. “I said possibly.”

She spreads her hands dramatically. “I can already see it now—the staging, the lighting—”

“Don’t start designing the posters just yet,” you cut in, but she’s grinning too widely to be discouraged. “I can still change my mind.”

“You know that’s a lot for one person,” Viktor remarks, leaning in from your right, his voice lower, meant just for the two of you. His pupils are darker, wider than the number of glasses of wine he’s had would suggest, assessing you from under hooded eyelids.

“I’ve always run through my life,” you say simply, tipping your glass toward him. “I do have help, though.” Viktor clicks his tongue, his mouth curving into a half-smile.

Before you can figure out what it means, Mion suddenly snaps her fingers. “Wait—how did you and Mel meet, anyway?”

Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I saw her preparing Yerma, and it was love at first sight.”

“Love?” Salo lifts a brow.

“She was standing on stage, sleeves rolled up, arguing over how the chairs should be arranged.” Mel sighs theatrically. “Her diligence. Her eye for detail. I knew I had to have her.”

Jayce snorts. “And by ‘have her,’ you mean ‘fund her.’”

Mel grins. “Exactly.”

The table dissolves into laughter, glasses clinking. Conversations crisscross—Salo and Mion bickering over some technical aspect of stage production, and you don’t have the heart to correct them. Jayce launching into an enthusiastic recounting of an experiment gone wrong. Someone beside you leans in to talk, and for a moment, you lose the thread of conversation.

The haze of smoke, the warmth of alcohol-softened breaths, the layered voices—it all blurs. Next to you, Viktor is speaking, but his words are swallowed by the noise.

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just the drink settling in. Sounds overlap and ring in your ears as exhaustion takes hold and you zone out. Somewhere nearby, a bottle of wine gets passed around, then discarded in the middle of the table, still within your reach. A voice cuts through the fog, softer, closer. Then sharper, clearer than before.

Foreshadowed by Viktor’s hand on your leg—his right palm rests on you, and the moment it does, you tilt toward him, only to find he’s done the same. His fingers press inward, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh. It’s a gentle invasion, entirely unprovocative, something that simply happens—natural. His left arm hovers over your backrest as his mouth nears your ear, and you can feel the tickle of his hair on your cheek.

“Pass me the wine.” A soft command, tilting toward a question at the end, firm and quiet all at once.

You reach for the bottle without looking, your eyes fixed on his throat as he breathes. The moment it comes close, his touch leaves your leg and finds your fingers instead. His skin brushes yours, spreading the sweat from the glass onto your own, and something coils low in your stomach.

“Good…” he murmurs, clipped, as if something else should follow. “Thank you.” And then his warmth is gone, leaving you painfully sober, achingly empty.

It’s one of the most agonising seconds of your life—except this time, there’s something sickly sweet curling around the edges, a lingering undertone that was missing from all the other agonising moments you’ve suffered through.

For the rest of the evening, your attention doesn’t waver, save for the necessary moments to put Mel in the spotlight.

Viktor lingers close. Not close enough to raise any eyebrows—everyone else is too busy bickering and laughing at Jayce’s anecdotes—but enough for you to notice and relish in it. His breath occasionally fans your face when he leans over you for the bottle, his knee bumps yours under the table. He sits tilted toward you, his arm hooked against your stool, and his eyes never leave you, one way or another. He bombards you with questions and answers yours without blinking.

"Where did you study?" you ask, lips glued to the rim of your glass, leaving an stamp of your lipstick there.

"Abroad," he says vaguely, tipping his head. "You?"

"England. Try again," you counter, not looking up, only baring your teeth to the remnants of a cocktail in your hand.

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his glass idly in his fingers before conceding, "Vigilant, of course. Very well—biochemistry at UTC Prague." He pauses, watching your reaction. "Then onward to Francis Crick through MSCA. Now—tell me yours." The last part, a command again, gentle and firm and you find yourself reciting in no time.

"Theatre and Performance at Goldsmiths," you reply, your words a little looser, the alcohol working its way through your veins.

"Ah, how prestigious," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"If you consider five years of bullying that, then yes," you slur, twirling your drink in your glass. His expression sharpens, brows lifting slightly in silent question. You sigh, meeting his gaze. "I got The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art scholarship. Before that, I led an utterly non-prestigious life in Staines."

"Hardworking girl," he purrs, and oh—his hand returns to your thigh, this time less inconspicuous as he drags a long finger up and stops just beneath the hem of your skirt.

"Where do you live?" he asks, his voice dipping lower, quieter, like the answer might be something just for him.

"Hackney," you answer immediately, then, seeing his knowing smile, feel the need to correct yourself. "The bad Hackney. You?"

"Eh, Islington," Viktor says, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

Your mock jaw drop is immediate. "Unbelievable," you drawl. "And you dare to make fun of my fancy living?"

Viktor smirks, his fingers brushing your thigh before retreating. "You are making it up. But we can share a cab home then."

Something jumps in your chest at the thought of being locked in a tiny space alone with this man. And the cab driver, but, nevertheless. "I suppose we can. When do you want to go?" you ask, as steadily as you can manage right now.

He exhales slowly, then leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's go now."

You have to stop your eyes from rolling in your skull. In fact, with the mix of various alcohols cursing through your veins and the secretive glances he’s been giving you, you’d probably nod vigorously if he offered to fuck you on the bar.

You step away from the table, weaving through the crowded space as you pull out your phone. Your fingers tremble slightly—whether from the drinks or the anticipation, you can't tell. It doesn’t matter. The cab company confirms your ride is on its way, barely three minutes out.

When you return, Viktor is still lounging against the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty glass. He doesn’t look at you right away, but his body angles toward you the moment you step back into his space. You lean in just enough to let the scent of him—wine, sweet sweat and washing powder—settle into your senses before speaking.

“We have three minutes,” you say casually, as if not stopping yourself from clenching your thighs.

Viktor gives a small, knowing nod and starts shuffling around for his cane and coat. His movements are unhurried, but there’s a quiet efficiency to them, a preparedness that has you smiling.

From across the table, Mel lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re leaving already? I knew I shouldn’t have sat two workaholics together.”

Jayce snorts into his drink. “At least they lasted this long. I was expecting Viktor to slip out halfway through.”

Viktor hums in vague amusement, fastening the buttons of his coat. “And miss all your storytelling? Impossible.”

Mel rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine, fine. Go, be boring. Just don’t forget—” she waggles a finger at you—“you owe me a Hamlet.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Mel.”

With that, you feel Viktor’s hand brush lightly against the small of your back—an absentminded gesture, almost cautious, but it sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s raining again, and neither of you has an umbrella, so you huddle together under your purse until Viktor opens the door for you. You fall in with no grace whatsoever and slide your ass across the back seat to make space for him. He steps in slowly, throws his address to the driver, then slumps down beside you, looking at you expectantly.

For a moment, you freeze—until you realise everyone is waiting for your address. Mumbling out the street and number, you lean back, your shoulder blades pressing against his arm.

And oh. You know damn well you won’t be able to let this go beyond tonight—or that you shouldn’t be fucking around where you figuratively eat—but he smells good, and his eyes stay on you, dark and hungry. So you tip yourself into the crook of his shoulder, tilting your head up with an innocently pleading look.

Viktor chuckles, as if something has just been confirmed, and his slender hand finds its way between your thighs. His body shifts subtly, shielding you from the driver, who barely suppresses an eye roll in the rear-view mirror. His lips, burning with alcohol and want, close over yours. His tongue pushes inside, licking slow and deep along the row of your teeth. His fingers travel up your leg, stopping painfully close to where you ache for him most, and squeeze—just enough to brace himself as he leans in further.

You fumble with the buttons of his coat, slipping your hands beneath to tug his shirt free from his trousers. Another warm chuckle rumbles against your lips.

“So efficient,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to mouth at your ear. His breath is hot when he whispers, “Do you want to fuck here, or will you be a good girl and wait until we get home?”

A strangled moan escapes you, and your own hand flies up to clamp over your mouth. Viktor grins against your skin.

“Good. Quiet,” he purrs, before dragging his tongue in a slick trail down your neck, stopping halfway to suck a bruise into your flesh.

Breath stumbles in your lungs when he stops, lips flushed, wet and red with your smeared lipstick, his teeth barely grazing your skin before he leans back to look at you. His fingers remain firm between your thighs, a teasing pressure that makes your legs tense and tremble beneath his touch.

Whatever has led you to this moment is not your usual behaviour, but somehow, you can’t be bothered to announce it. Long ago—somewhere after shitty date number five, or fifteen—you swore off bad sex for the sake of no sex and peace of mind. You grew tired of partners who were more tease than do, and the ones who assumed you’d thrive on organising everything in bed, just as you do at work.

You crave someone to take that pressure off you. Someone who would simply allow you to be dumb, even just for a few moments. To fuck your brains out so that poor strongest muscle of yours can replenish and breathe before you have to step back into the saddle and lead the chaotic orchestra of theatre technicians, actors, directors, and founders toward whatever critics deem a successful season. To take all the decision-making away and praise you for it.

And you have no guarantee that Viktor will do exactly that—other than the way his roaming hand squeezes your leg so firmly or the way his tongue, insistent and wanting, doesn’t ask permission before invading your mouth. The way he has stared at you the entire night has left you hotter and more bothered than anyone’s scrutiny ever has. And even if this is a mistake, it’s one you are willing to make. Your thighs shake at the thought, and Viktor gasps softly against your lips.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, voice low as the vowels roll thickly off his tongue. His free hand reaches up, pushing your hair aside. He trails his knuckles along your jaw, his thumb pressing lightly against your parted lips. "Cold, or something else?"

You give a breathy laugh, rolling your hips ever so slightly into his palm, chasing that friction. Viktor hums, pleased, before his fingers slip higher—just barely ghosting over the hanging-there nylons shielding your underwear. Your breath catches.

The cab rattles over a pothole, jolting you both, but neither of you pulls away. If anything, it only makes Viktor bolder. He shifts to face you fully, pressing you back into the seat as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling languidly around yours. You taste wine and your own spit on him, and it makes you dizzy.

His hand abandons your thigh only to grab your wrist, dragging it to the front of his trousers, where he's already half-hard beneath the layers of fabric. "I want you," he breathes against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip before letting his forehead drop to yours.

You palm him through the material, pressing just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. The sound alone makes a fresh gush of lust bloom in your knickers.

Then—a pointed cough.

You both jolt as if caught doing something far more illicit than you already are.

"Islington," the cab driver announces dryly, eyes fixed firmly on the road.

Viktor huffs out a laugh, dragging his fingers through his already-mussed hair. "Do you want to come in?" he says, as if you hadn’t just been grinding against each other like reckless teenagers in the back of a cab.

You swallow, pulse still pounding in your ears. "Yes," you nod. "Yes."

“I suppose we will wrap up the ride here,” Viktor says reaching for his wallet and taking out one note too many to make up for whatever the poor man had to endure. “Yeah, mate, I figured. Have a great night.”

[rebbiasnuts]

Eric survey

Full name: rebbias

Nicknames: rebbias

Birthplace: Bordeaux

Birthday: 04/09/2008

Where Do You Live Now?: America 

Parent(s): mom and dad

Sibling(s): baby sister on the way, 1 older sister, 2 older brothers

Looks: curly dark brown hair brown eyes 4’11”

Favorite Animal(s): hyrax, dog

Favorite TV Show(s): Clarence and peppa pig

Favorite Kind(s) Of Music: all except country music I am polyjamorous 

Favorite Movie(s): movies made by michel ocelot

School: high school 

Future School: a good one

Future Job: idk

Boyfriend/Girlfriend: Boyfriend 

Best Buds: my homegirl 

Favorite Candy: trolli gummies

Hobbies: dance, cheer, tumblr

Things You Collect: money 

Do You Have A Personal Phone Line: yes

Favorite Body Part Of The Opposite Sex: arms and hands and torso


Any Tattoos And Where Of What?: no

Piercing(s) And Where?: ears and belly 

What Do You Sleep in?: shorts and t shirt 

Do you like Chain Letters: no ugh🤬

Best Advice: if u want to smell amazing don’t drench urself with perfume use cocoa butter baby oil after u shower and perfume oil when you dress up THEN pump a little bit of perfume 

Favorite Quotes: “we ALL retarded” -cardi b

Non-sport Activity You Enjoy: idk

Dream Car: i like the one I have now

Favorite Thing To Do In Spring: cheerleading 

What’s Your Bedtime: idk

Where Do You Shop?: the mall and online

Coke or Pepsi: coke

Favorite Thing(s) To Wear?: lulu

Favorite Subject(s) In School?: lunch

Favorite Color(s): pink

Favorite People To Talk To Online: I like interacting more than talking

Root-Beer or Dr. Pepper?: none

Do You Shave?: yes

Favorite Vacation Spot(s): Jamaica 

Favorite Family Member(s): my dad

Did You Eat Paint Chips When You Were a Kid?: yes

Favorite CD you own: shrek the ultimate collection 

The ONE Person Who You Hate The Most: idk

Favorite Food(s): oxtail

Who Is The Hottest Guy or Girl In The World?: my boyfriend 

What Is Your Favorite Salad Dressing?: i think it’s called creamy french 

When You Die, Do You Wanna Be Buried or Burned Into Ashes?: idk

Do You Believe In Aliens?: yes

If You Had The Chance To Professionally Do Something, What would You Do?: idk

Things You Obsess Over: columbine 

Favorite Day of the Week: Friday

A Teacher You Hate: my pre calculus teacher 

Favorite Disney Movie: princess and the frog 

What Is Your Favorite Season? Summer

What Toppings Do You Like On Your Pizza?: Philly cheesesteak 

Do You Like Your School Food Itself (As In The District Food): no

If You Could Live Anywhere, Where Would You Live?: idk

Favorite Thing(s) To Do On Weekends: sleep


Favorite Thing(s) To Get Clean up: what

Favorite Magazine(s): I don’t read magazines


Favorite Flower(s): dahlia

Favorite Number(s): 7

Favorite Ice Cream flavor(s): cookies and cream, cookie dough, and the pink circus animal cookies ANY COOKIE ICE CREAM


What Kind of Guys/Girls Are You Attracted to?: my boyfriend 

What’s Your Most Embarrassing Moment?: crashing out infront of everyone😔

If You Could Change One Thing About Yourself What Would It be?: my height

Do You Eat Breakfast First Then Brush Your Teeth or Brush first ten eat breakfast: brush teeth after


Favorite Time of Day: 6pm

Can A Guy and Girl Be Just “Best Friends?”: Yes

Do You Ask The Girl / Guy Out Or Do You Wait For Them To Come To You?: wait

Do You Mind Paying For Sex?: ewwww

What’s The Most Important thing In Someone’s Personality: emotionally intelligent 

Do you have a pager or cell phone?: yes

Favorite Sport: majorette

What Was the Best Gift You Ever Received? My car

How Long Did This Letter Take You To Finish?: i don’t know 

What Did You Listen To While Completing It?: nothing

[the-uninformed-zennial]

it's not a question but i just wanted to say thank you--

when i first started watching bound i wasn't sure about how things were gonna go and what characters would grown on me but ever since i saw mo i instantly fell in love with them.

you did such a good job portraying all of the emotions in current situations, which brings me to the second to last stream-- 8 ?? EIGHT cut scenes?? zenni you. are. insane. /pos you did amazing and i can't even begin to explain how much i care about this little bird-

oh and also, thank god the ":)" was a good thing :') i love their little family

I’m so honored that you enjoyed watching my little guy. Knowing that even one person out there cares about them makes it all worth it to me💕

Also, sorry for being such a menace there in that last week lol, I just really wanted you guys to think what Mojave was thinking; that they weren’t going to make it. So much of the prep work for that stream wasn’t even the cutscenes it was planting the seed of doubt in y’all’s minds so that when we got to the climax there and Mojave asked you all to say goodbye for them it would feel like the end. Which set up perfectly for the finale.

I really appreciate you and everyone else who watched Skybound, and took time to watch Mojave’s perspective as well as everyone else’s. I know I’m one of the newer people to this crew and that definitely shows sometimes😅, but those of you who gave me and my blorbo a chance have my heart. I can’t wait to get to build on what I’ve learned from this experience and give you guys even better content in the next bound! Hope to see you there! And thanks, again 💕

[threegoldfish]

Revolutionary, that man calls Steven's words. That Steven is truly walking with Apep, he adds. Accompanied by slow claps and general approval of a crowd that seems to be more dead than alive, honestly, all of them empty-eyed with a blank expression stretching across their features.

And Steven wants to cry with how bad it feels, wants to puke with how disgusting it is, wants to ask all of them what the fuck is even going on; Especially since he didn't even mention something revolutionary here, just used his goddamn brain---

But of course he's not doing any of that, just swallows and stares like a deer in headlights when his hand is shaken, Sasha close by his side in what he does identify as a protective gesture. It helps, it really does, and yet part of Steven feels as if he's just made fate with the devil - of something even worse than Khonshu is.

"---I'll never go to the field of reeds, huh.", he thinks, swallows, and feels a soft nudge happening within his mind at his own words.

"---Steven, baby, you're playing a role here. You're doing this to keep the world safe." Marc's voice is gentle, a tone that's only meant to be heard by his partners. "Besides, look at how fucking stupid they all are - Apep must have some kind of mind-controlling power or such, stripping people of their...humanity. Intellect. No shame, doll - I think you did amazing - but you didn't exactly come up with a groundbreaking revolution here. And yet? Look at them."

Marc has a point, and no, Steven is not angry with him - because yeah, exactly what he'd been thinking about. They're so easy to... manipulate.

"Escucha mi amado - you're the first to ever enter the field of reeds when time's coming for us, cariño. You're doing a great job." And Jake means it. He would've probably broken that guy's neck already just because of how fucking annoyed he is, of those people being literal idiotas.

Taking a shuddering breath, Steven swallows; He listens to that conversation Sasha is having with that lady, begins to feel sick because of that, averts his gaze. The worst is, the longer the night goes on, the more he gets to know about the fact that every single person inside this room shares similar thoughts - wants to kill someone, to rob someone of their belongings, some even want to torture others for reasons that are definitely not justified, at all. And here they are, Sasha and him, forced to listen to this, to take it all in---

It gets even worse when that man returns who is replacing the Kendall-guy, giving him another handshake, inviting them for... another meeting? Oh god. Steven doesn't want to, he hates every second of this--- but he does feel that sheet of paper that now sits within the palm of his hand...

"T-thank you.", he manages to croak out and nods way too enthusiastically, but that man doesn't seem to care. He just steps away and Steven exhales long and slow, throwing a glance over at Sasha that hopefully tells more than he ever could while using any words. "P-please.", he whispers, his own heart beating so fast he thinks he's going dizzy with it. The air feels stuffy, hard to breathe, he's too warm and too cold at the same time and his palms are sweaty, probably soaking that sheet of paper he's still holding onto with so much force that it's getting all crumbled up---

"L-let's... lets go's... let's go, okay?"

He wants - needs - to get out. He needs to breathe. Steven knows this feeling - he's about to have a panic attack if he stays any second longer---

"Steven, bud, you're okay. You'll be alright. Take deep breaths, you'll be fine. You'll survive another day."

"---Déjame tomar el control---"

"No!" Steven blinks, realizing he's answered Jake verbally instead of inside his mind, so he clears his throat and smiley nervously at a man by his side who offers him a somewhat curious gaze, but turns around quickly again. Steven swallows, his gaze returning to Sasha---

"P-please?!"

sasha listens without looking at him, her smile growing wider and wider with each word. in a cynical way--perfect for this crowd. because it was. they would eat this rather devious suggestion up and this was their ticket in.

the crowd smirked in a way that was almost hivemind, slow out of rhythm claps sounding off around the room. it worked.

" you're a genius. " sasha purred into his ear, placing a hand on the small of his back as if to show how proud of a wife she was of her wonderful husband.

the burly man started to come closer, sasha's touch curled into a grip while she pressed her hip against his, head against his chest. seen as affectionate--verses that she intended it to be. protective. the way his heart pumped in his chest. he was nervous. she couldn't blame him.

" revolutionary. that was--revolutionary, sir. " his eyes sparkled, taking one of jasper's hands to shake in awe. " you truly... walk with apep. with your vision.. " he still shook his hand, going as far as giving him a bow. " we will begin to feel his glory. in no time. " finally letting go. he needed to make a call. they were back on track.

sasha watched the man scurry away back up the stairs, finally exhaling the breath she had been holding. disgusting delusion. what good was any of this?

she took it upon herself to turn to the tired looking woman stood near her, lashes fluttering. " so...tell me. after we start causing this chaos and our glorious god finally arises... what exactly is his promise for us? " she tilted her head, eyes boring into hers to demand an answer.

the short haired blonde woman stared at her in silence for a moment, a smile of her own slowly creeping back onto her features. she had a strong cockney accent. " well... mr.kendall told us apep says we will truly have free will. there will be no justice to stop us and we can live as we truly want. without consequence. "

sasha's smile pressed into a thin line, squinting while she pretended to giggle in delight at her words. " my, my--just as the days gone by of the snap. how I miss those days. " she knew exactly what they were referencing with all of this. but no--actually. she didn't. it was a terrible fucking time and she could shoot this woman right between the eyes right now. rage boiling just beneath the surface before catching steven's reflection in the window which calmed her down.

" s'alright, though. we'll be back to the way it were. thanks to the suggestion of your fella. " the woman tossing her chin in his direction. sasha turned around, looking him once over before giving him a nod.

" well I hope the new order is everything you want it to be. however many homes and things your heart desires. " sasha offered, fluttering her lashes. it made even her sick.

" you're tellin' me. I've been dyin' to kill my sister and her husband. she deserves it. gettin' the house after father died. well--she'll see what's coming. soon enough. " brows furrowing before she folded her arms over her chest to look out the window. guess she had much to ponder about.

many others had a similar story, sasha and steven would come to find. after their.. casual interrogations as the night went on.

eventually the man in place of mr.kendall came down, scanning the crowd for steven until he found they were thankfully still there.

" please--I'd like to formally invite you to our next meeting. mr.kendall would just love to meet you and witness the brain on you. " looking at him like he were a beautiful work of art. all for his mind. he placed a piece of paper in his the palm of steven's hand, grasping it tightly in the form of a handshake before stepping back to talk among the others.

sasha's heart hammered in her chest, having to had grown a bit quieter as the night went on. something on her mind. the meeting was essentially over anyway. guess they met sometimes casually to regroup, gather ideas and get a basic headcount on the followers.

" I think I've seen and heard enough for the night. how about you? " she frowned, not making eye contact for the moment while she adjusted her coat, clearly ready to go. the leader wasn't here anyway.

[stephantom]

This is so sick, I have to share it. The Rite of Spring by Igor Stravinsky (complete) on guitars!

So fucking dissonant and insane. (But that is really what the classical piece sounds like too, if you’ve never heard it!)

Or for lighter listening, Modest Mussorgsky’s Night On Bald Mountain covered by the same guy:

[sunset-sunbun]

fanart for Like A Wheel Ever Turning because this fic has me in a chokehold <3

(click for better quality) O ugh

i struggled so much on the smile doodle- I wanted to get the expression justttttttt right. I'm still unsure how well I did TTwTT also I'm near if not absolutely certain none of these are actual quotes from the fic just little summaries of events in my brainnn

if you want to ACTUALLY SEE THEM! THEN PLEAS PELAS PLEAS LEAS PLEASSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE CHECK IT OUT

fic is by @annasofthe11thdimension and they are fucking incredible <333333

[catcze]

[ 🪷🫧 ] KokoHua

I vow to love you until the end of my days, for better or worse, in sickness and in health.

My heart is yours, from now until forever.

Not even death will bury the love I hold for you, and not even time will make me forget your smile.

My princess, my love, my darling, my heart.

For now and for the rest of eternity, wherever you go, I will be by your side.

[ ! ] — yume masterpost — [ 🪷 ] Mao Hua *ೃ༄

[ ♡ ] — art by @LezissmiT on twitter / vgen

[c-hrona]

Another lil kiss from my piece for @vashwoodzine :3c

Go grab your copy, preorders are open till August 2!

[sunkissedliterarylightofchrist]

On a basic human level if you do not like the Rings of Power soundtrack, composed by the excellent Bear McCreary, I do not trust you.

[emhe67]

„I watch ‚All Creatures Great and Small‘ for the plot.“

The Plot:

[shroomerr]

HAPPY NEW YEAR !!! here's some of my fave/most popular art I did in 2024 <3

[navinskizz]

“I am here for you”

(Idk why but people don’t appreciate varadha’s side of friendship enough.He literally went against his father’s order and gave away his biggest territory for his friend’s safety. He chose to be rather humiliated, looked down and disgraced by everyone than tell why he did that. That too for over 25 years(dyk how many days that is)and he was only a 10 years old child. When his father asked him if he knew the kadha’s value,of course he did why would not he? but there was something more valuable to him. His only friend. His Bestfriend. How could he measure deva’s value to a simple kadha? He knew what would happen but still he gave it away like it was nothing cus nothing mattered except deva to him. He made his decision. He let his only friend go and he was ready if that was meant to be their last. Even If it meant his friend would be safe and he had to live alone forever. His mother had already passed away, his father dishonored him, his step siblings hated him. He was alone raising his little brother. “A Child raising a Child”. He had to be an adult before he could act his age. He had a lot of people depend upon him at such young age. He couldn’t just let himself get swept away and be carefree. He has responsibilities. If deva is ready kill and bury anyone before they even try to touch a strand of his beloved’s hair(varadha as we say😏), varadha is ready to give away his everything for his loved ones even if it means his life.)

[ominous-faechild]

Guys I literally JUST realized a thing about my autism/masking/alexithymia. I noticed there was an alexithymia tag here on tumblr and when I investigated, there was this one post listing these symptoms:

and I just--

I've had these exact, MAJOR struggles through my whole life for one.

But for two, and what's really interesting in my opinion...

Yesterday, I was having a video call with my mom. I've been off of some medications that I'm supposed to be taking because of financial issues, so my mental is NOT in a great place and I've had NO spoons for the past month. But while on call with her, she seriously, unironically, asked me if I thought I really needed the meds. Because, apparently, I "wasn't acting like I needed them" or something like that. And I'm sure I don't need to explain why that pissed me tf off.

But, like... at the time, the closest thing I could come up with for an answer was that "I have no spoons and no energy to do anything"; "I lived 17 years without meds, I kind-of know how to fake it"; and "I haven't had much socializing lately, so I have enough Social Energy™ to fake being okay right now."

Now that I'm not being put on the spot and after reading that post, I'm slowly figuring out that I've always done this. I mean, I've obviously always struggled to describe my own emotions and need to analyze my physical reactions to figure them out, but like. I'm just now starting to realize that I've really struggled to describe exactly how I'm "feeling bad" or, in fact, that I am feeling bad at all.

I mean, again, considering the alexithymia, that last part is a given. But it's kinda putting into perspective exactly how I've always had to understand "I don't have the energy to do anything" or "it's incredibly difficult to do anything" or "something deep inside of me feels Wrong™ and I can neither address nor identify it". I'd just passively have those "feelings" and struggle to continue life despite them.

It brings back thoughts of my struggles with masking, and how I was never diagnosed with autism as a child. Looking back, it should've been incredibly obvious. I had SO many of the tell-tale signs. But I guess it wasn't today, and there wasn't anywhere near as much awareness of what those signs were... but really. Textbook.

I'm sure my masking made it more difficult to recognize the signs as I got older. Hell, I even read over different "autism diagnosis checklist"s countless times, thinking to myself "oh wow it's a lot like me!... exceeeeeptttt--" and moved on from there.

I keep digressing. My point is, since discovering my autism and how it was hidden by masking, I've always wondered where my mask ends and where I begin. Most of the time, I feel like I feel nothing, even when I'm not depressed. I've been told I don't show my emotions, like when I'm happy (aka my chest is light and I feel free). That, or people can't tell when I like/dislike them (though that's partially a trauma thing). Other times, I've been told I'm smiling when I didn't even realize I was happy, much less that I was actually smiling. Some people have told me I'm incredibly easy to read, that my emotions show very clearly. But how can they when I feel like I feel nothing?

Which leads me back to what I said earlier, my conversation with my mother. How she asked if I actually need my meds because "I don't seem like I do". I guess I kind-of understand now, why she might've seen it that way. Do most people always show signs of how they actually feel? And how does the fact that I "don't feel" effect what I show?

I've wondered about that for a while. How much of how I act is because I was trained to, one way or another? How much of the emotion I show is because I learned to? Do I even show the emotions I feel? I really can't know because the people I know irl, who would better be able to tell me how I act, aren't understanding of any of these things. My older sister is lowkey ableist and thinks she sees the grand plan of the universe, my mother is too "pull yourself up by the bootstraps!!!" to accept Spoon Theory or mental health struggles, and just about everyone else in my life comes and goes as quickly as the wind.

Anyhow, this was a long rant that I've kinda had half-formed thoughts about for a while. Thanks for reading, hopefully this can help or entertain whoever stumbles upon this?

[leuxcrows]

actual book 7 chapter 6 spoilers i do not recomend opening unless you have read it because your experience WILL be ruined

have i ever told yall that to me twst is peak comedy game of the moment