#to my own needs and tastes it's not the liberation it can be - i guess - for other girl people

[machidielontheway]

finishing watching Damsel (netflix) and hmmm... i have a LOT of things to say, but you know what ? i don't want to spend 20mn writing all of this. so basically. the premise is quite good. the first part is different than what i expected and not my kind, but it's quite entertaining. there is one thing that to my tastes was VERY VERY GOOD (victoria&all.... <3). and then it all became garbage lol ok not garbage, but just disappointing in how it' sooo heavy handed. like girl power fantasy ok we get it but if it still somehow ends male fantasy visually speaking... and it increases exponentially to the end. the actress is quite good in the first bit (it feels like the line directive of the first part flew out of the window in the second) but in the second everything is just sooo caricatural it ruins everything. ideas good, execution bad. this is my own opinion based on my tastes and needs and i understand i can feel empowering or freeing for other peeps. it certainly did not for me. anyways. it's entertaining i guess !

[hotluncheddie]

So very much on the same page, and I can’t stop thinking about it either. So, uh, here’s this? I guess?

- - - - -

Usually, Eddie sticks to ice cream. He can squirrel plenty away from his job at Scoops—it can’t be called stealing if they’re just going to throw it away. 

But the store has recently expanded into decadent brownie sundaes, and there are whole trays going to waste, and Eddie can’t stand it. 

So more often than not lately, at home, after dinner and after Wayne has gone to bed, he smokes up and brings out the latest shift’s stash of liberated baked goods along with the last scrapes from a handful of different ice cream tubs. A plate for the former, a bowl for the latter, and one big spoon. He indulges in his high and his sweet tooth at the same time, slipping into the pleasant, hazy space of bite after bite after bite. The way his teeth sink into fudge brownie, just this side of stale but he’s found he can’t taste that difference much if he just nukes them in the microwave real quick. The way they’re *warm* after the microwave, heating up his mouth after the ice cream, making the next spoonful melt across his tongue, the mix of dripping cream and firm chocolatey goodness filling his mouth, filling him up. The way, after a few minutes, he can unbutton his jeans and the zipper takes care of itself, easing down with the swell of his belly like a sigh of relief. Of letting go. 

In those moments, he lets himself think of Steve. The one kiss they’d shared before the government had hustled Eddie and Wayne away in the night, no warning to them or anyone else before it happened. He lets himself imagine that it’s Steve pulling the zipper down, letting him breathe, letting Eddie shape his own image now that he’s not allowed to grow his hair out anymore. 

He traces the stretch marks that accompany his scars—marks that he chose for himself, not that anyone ever sees. There’s really only one guy for him, and, well… Eddie’s never found out what the government goons told his old friends, the monster hunters *or* the Corroded Coffin guys, but he figures the only two possible options are “dead” or “ditched you.” No way to come back from that, either way. So he contents himself with the Steve in his imagination because the real one will never see him again, will never have an opinion on his new curves or the red lines decorating his belly and thighs, good or bad. He never has to worry about that. 

Eddie eats another brownie, followed quickly by another spoonful ice cream, lets it melt and mix in as he chews. He swallows, letting his still crumb-dusted hand trace lightly over the sliver of belly that peeks out beneath a t-shirt that used to hang off him. Shivers, because the skin there is getting so deliciously sensitive. 

There are a few more brownies to go, and more than enough ice cream to accompany them. He picks up another, still warm. (The nice thing about the weed is that it usually lets him power through without needing to get up for a second round in the microwave.) In his imagination, Steve reminds him that he’s earned this after all the shit he’s endured and helps him shift so his jeans zipper won’t pinch as he continues to relax. 

And Eddie takes another bite. 

anon... i think im in love with u... this is too much... i don't know what to say

i think i need to run around naked in the moonlight to deal with my feelings about this.

i love how u write

the brownie sundays were the higher ups idea to boost business during the holidays. remind people that ice-cream wasn't just a summer thing.

eddie wasn't complaining, until he had to make the thing and it took ages. oh well, works work, and while its decently popular there's always leftovers. leftovers with the shortest shelf life in the store.

the tail end of winter and soon to be end of the brownie special is what made eddie really check in with where his body was sitting, without the bliss filled haze of his evening routine. his nights spent indulging in his sweet tooth, in his fantasies of steve, in the feelings the two mixed together stirred in his gut. it's heady and addictive, eddie doesn't want to stop. but the waistband of his shorts was quickly loosing its battle agains the sensitive skin of his pink streaked and scarred, stomach and hips.

eddie huffed, just managing to make the flaps meet. he strokes his fingers lightly over the skin of his underbelly. shivers, at how much he's changed.

eddie seems to take more notice his body that shift. he feels the bite of the seatbelt once he gets into his van, different than before. there’s a cool gust of air on the underside of his stomach when he reaches up to grab something from the top shelf of the supply cupboard. while he’s on his break he feels, for the first time, how his belly has just started to sit in his lap, how his thighs spread and fill up the chair.

he planned, like he does some days, to not take back whatever leftover there are. resist and start fresh, turn over a new leaf. fit back into his shorts.

but there are two full trays of brownie about to go to waste. and a selection of tub dregs that almost fill up half way when piled together.

he stows it all safely in the passenger seat.

wayne’s out till late with some work buddies and eddie has tomorrow off. the place to himself. he sits at the little kitchen table still in his work clothes, makes himself dinner like normal. then sets the first heated up try of brownie in front of himself. he imagines steve on the other side of the table. how he might be asking about his day, eddie would like to know about his. would he hold eddies hand across the tabletop? probably, if he asked.

he digs in, alternating between gooey chocolate and cool ice cream. without the haze of weed he feel the full force of its sweetness. halfway through he shifts, feels how the desert sits in his stomach. feels, more intensely than this morning, the pinch of his shorts. he attempts getting a finger between the waistband and the underside of his hip, but there no hope of getting it in. he takes another few bites of brownie, then ice cream, then brownie and walks his fingers lightly down the swell of his gut. he shivers, wonders what steve would say looking at him now, whether his eyes would darken, whether he would walk his own fingers across eddies stomach.

he signs again, brownie finished.

getting up, eddie loads up the microwave with the next batch and heads to his room to make this evening feel a bit more normal again.

spliff dangling from his lips he looks at himself in the mirror, undoing the button on his uniform and watching the zipper pull apart on its own. he lights up and pulls at his shorts, fascinated by the red lines left by his waistband. he traces them idly and inhales deep. his eyes roaming his now full stomach, pushing out agains the fabric, how the indent of his belly button is just visible. he traces that too, skims his fingers upward, over his nipple and bigger pec, up to take the splif from him mouth and exhale.

would anyone from hawkins still recognise him like this? he likes to think they would. his hairs shorter but he didn't have to dye it. same eyes, same mouth, his cheeks look a little rounder but, same face. same face that steve kissed, once, might kiss again, given the chance.

eddie would, given the chance.

he's starting to feels the blunt, hears the microwave beep. good, he's craving ice cream.

[lucy-sky]

Skulls and Roses (tattoo master!Griff x f!Reader)

Filthy Friday prompts: porn without plot (or with minor plot idk); hookup; rough

Getting your tattoo dedicated to your ex replaced by a new one can be extremely liberating.

Warnings: casual sex (protected!) - I don’t need to explain you that having sex with someone you don’t really know can be dangerous, right? Please be careful in real life :)

Words: 1936; gif by me (from an older gifset when I didn’t use the watermark)

AO3 link if you prefer reading there

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart, customer’s always right… but why not simply remove that shit?”

“Because I don’t want to just get rid of it. I want to have something beautiful instead,” you explain, turning the pages of the album filled with tattoo design options. “And please, don’t call me sweetheart. Ever.”

The story is as old as the world. You were in love, he was an asshole. You thought it’s gonna last, but it didn’t. The love is gone, and the only reminder of a man who broke your heart are these stupid fancy letters - his initials, tattooed on your forearm. At first you wanted to leave this evidence of your stupidity as a warning to not repeat your mistakes again, but you simply couldn’t bear seeing them any longer. You want to move on after all. That’s what brought you here, to a place down the street called “Griff’s Tattoos”.

“Alright, alright easy there,” the master raises his hands at your aggressive tone. “Told ya, the customer’s always right. But you see, I ain’t got no… butterflies, or flowers, or unicorns or something like that in here, I’m afraid.”

“Who says I want butterflies or unicorns?” you huffed, rolling your eyes. “I might not look super hardcore, but you don’t know me, mister…”

“It’s Griff, you can just call me that,” the man gestures at the “Griff’s Tattoos” sign on the wall. “And yeah, you’re right, I don’t-”

“Hey, how about that?” you interrupted him as you finally found something of your taste.

“Really? You want that?” Griff raises his eyebrows as you point at the picture. There’s a skull with three red roses, seemingly growing out of it.

“Yeah, I think this one is great. The skull means that the old love is dead, and the roses mean that something beautiful can still grow in its place,” you reply with a shrug.

“Okay, uh… That makes sense, I guess. Didn’t think of any of this while drawing it though,” he lets out a chuckle.

“You could think of a meaning for some of your tattoo designs to sell them to the customers.”

“Yeah, maybe. My own tattoos don’t have much meaning at all, I just make up different stories ‘bout ‘em to impress the girls,” he laughs.

“Nice,” you sigh under your breath, trying not to roll your eyes again. Yet another asshole in your life, apparently. Thank god you’re only his customer, and nothing more than that.

“So, if you made up your mind, let’s get to it,” he smiles, gesturing at his workplace.

“Yep, let’s get to it.”

Maybe that Griff really is an asshole, who knows? But in fact, he manages to make you laugh a few times while he’s working, and you really appreciate that. Conversation distracts you from the pain, plus this man… You have to admit there’s something attractive about him, despite anything. You watch his focused face while he’s working, the crease of his eyebrows, and in a way he looks quite intimidating, but when he smiles, he suddenly looks so different. As if his features soften, and those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are kind of… Cute? And his gruff voice and deep dark eyes… Damn, you can’t be serious, thinking of him like that. On the other hand - you’re a single woman now, free from a long and actually pretty toxic relationship. You don’t have to jump into another one, but a bit of flirting never hurt nobody. Flirting makes you feel confident, and for the first time in what feels like ages you’re simply enjoying it without feeling any sort of guilt. And honestly? You love this feeling.

“There ya go,” he says proudly when the work is finished. “You like it?”

“Yeah, that’s… Really good!” your reply is honest - you really think the new tattoo is great. The goddamn initials are now perfectly covered with a fresh layer of ink, and even if the tattoo is a bit too bigger than you intended to get at first, you still are satisfied. “I love it.”

“Good to know,” Griff nods, his fingers brushing against your arm with unexpected gentleness. “Did my best to save the girl in trouble.”

“Please!” you scoff, “I think you’re flattering yourself.”

“Modesty’s not my thing,” he grins. “Can I uh… Ask you a personal question?”

“Try it.”

“What happened to you and that guy?” He gestures at the tattoo. “I mean if that’s a guy, ‘cause it could be a girl too, I-”

“That’s a guy. And well, there’s nothing much to talk about, really. I was dumb enough to think he’s the love of my life, and then I found out the dickhead’s been cheating on me for months. Which is actually pretty funny, ‘cause he’s always been extremely jealous and made me feel guilty every time I looked at another man.”

You’re not quite sure why you told it to him. Apparently sometimes it’s just easier to tell something this personal to a stranger.

“Damn. That’s fucked up.”

“Fuck him. His ego is way bigger than his dick, to be honest, so I don’t regret it’s over,” you shrug.

“You know what? If I were him, I’d definitely treat you way better.”

For some reason the way Griff says it, and the way his dark eyes look at you cause a slight shiver run down your spine.

“Oh yeah?” you say, and it comes out a bit more flirty than you intended.

“Yeah. My ego’s big, but no one ever complained about my dick either,” he smirks. Unconsciously, you lower your gaze to his crotch at these words, and instantly hate yourself for that because he obviously noticed, you can tell it from the way his grin got wider.

“See something you like,” he winks, and you hate yourself once again, because even at this moment you find him attractive, with all his stupid tattoos, and smile, and beard, smug face and mischievous eyes.

“Look, Griff. I wanna make it clear for you, okay? I’m not looking for a relationship. I’ve had enough for now.”

He steps closer, invading your space, leaning towards you, his lips impossibly close to your ear as he speaks, so close you can feel the warmth of his breathing.

“Who’s talking about relationships, sweetheart? It’s just that… If you want me to make you forget ‘bout that son of bitch for a while, I’m happy to oblige.”

Oh gosh, the audacity this man has!..

“I told you not to call me sweetheart, remember?” you say as you turn your face to meet his gaze, and then, all of a sudden, following some strange impulse, you press your lips to his.

Griff is quick to respond to your actions, kissing you back with furious determination. Your kiss was timid, but his tongue invades your mouth with no shame at all, his hand reaching to the back of your head to pull you closer, it skims to the side of your neck and frames your jaw as he kisses you, humming against your mouth, and you probably lost your mind, because you don’t push him away. Instead, your own tongue darts to meet his. Matching his wild energy, you nip on his bottom lip, earning a low groan from him, your fingers sinking into his hair to give it a tug.

It’s crazy. Totally fucking insane. You don’t even know this man.

“Fine,” you hear yourself saying, chest heaving as you’re trying to catch a breath. “Make me forget.”

“Customer’s always right,” Griff chuckles, his hands roaming down your body, kneading your butt as he kisses you once again with the same fire and passion. “Just wait a second.”

He pulls back and walks towards the door. He turns over the “open” sign, changing it into a “closed” one, and returns to you.

“Don’t want anyone to disturb us”, he explains, seizing your hips and urging you to sit on the desk behind you. “Still wanna do it, darlin’?”

“I might change my mind if you ask too many questions.”

“Got it.”

He buries his face into your neck, kissing, sucking and nibbling at the tender flesh there, big warm hands sliding up your thighs and under the skirt of your dress. You let out a quiet moan when he reaches your already embarrassingly damp underwear.

“Shit, you sound so good. Can you moan a lil louder for me?” He murmurs into your neck, his fingers pressing harder between your thighs, causing your hips to buck in anticipation.

“Want me to moan - make me.”

You have no idea where you got this boldness from, but that’s the new you, and fuck it - you’re actually enjoying yourself.

Griff doesn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly tugs your panties down your legs, cursing at your shoelaces as he unties and pulls off your boots to get the underwear out of the way. Once he manages to do it, he pushes your legs open and dips his fingers between your slick folds. You whimper, gripping onto his shoulders, as he curls them inside of you, touching exactly the right spot over and over. It feels amazing, mind blowing, but you still need more.

“You got condoms, do you?” you ask breathlessly.

“Who do you think I am, swee- darlin’?” he grins, reaching to fish it out of his back pocket. At this point you don’t even give a shit what he calls you any longer. With shaky fingers you undo his jeans as he opens the wrapper with his teeth and throws it away.

He enters you with a hard thrust of his hips, setting a pretty rough pace, but that’s exactly what you want. He promised to make you forget, and he keeps his promise, fucking you as if he wants fuck any single thought out of your brain until your head is empty and light. Your moans and gasps and his grunts and muffled curses become louder and louder as you’re both getting closer to climax. You come first, throwing your head back as your walls flutter and clench around him, your whole body shuddering as pleasure hits you wave after delicious wave. Griff manages to catch your mouth in a messy, sloppy kiss before he follows you, groaning like a wild animal. Then he stays still for a while, panting, face buried into the crook of your neck.

Getting down from your high, you let your fingers caress the back of his neck absentmindedly, enjoying that pleasant post-orgasmic buzz coursing through your body. How can sex with someone you barely know feel so good? You always thought really good sex must involve feelings. Not that you want to repeat this experience, but right now, at this stage of your life it didn’t feel dirty or embarrassing. It felt kinda liberating.

“You okay?” Griff asks hoarsely as he pulls away and reaches somewhere behind you to grab a roll of paper towels.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you nod.

Your hand is already on the doorknob when Griff stops you.

“Wait, almost forgot,” he tears a page out of his album and hands it to you. “Here. I don’t repeat the tattoos, so…”

“Oh. Course,” you smile as you take the paper and look at the skull with roses once again. “Alright. Thanks again, um… Good night!”

“Night,” he says simply. “Come over if you need some more ink, or… You know.”

“I don’t think so,” you reply honestly. “But who knows, maybe one day I’ll change my mind.”

He nods with a soft yet smug chuckle on his face.

“Customer’s always right.”

Thank you for reading!

Tattoo inspo

[tokiro07]

Cipher Academy ch.49 thoughts

[What is a "Yout?"]

(Contents: character design, author philosophy, Toshusai analysis)

ONE YEAR DOWN, BABY, THREE TO GO!!! It's been pretty touch and go, and probably will continue to be, but the longer it goes the more likely Cipher Academy is to build up a strong enough following to keep going, so fingers crossed that the volumes keep selling well!

This week's chapter opens with a beautiful color page showing off everyone's color schemes (except the teachers' for some reason) and a quick review of the major codes we've seen so far. Most of the hair colors are pretty standard, Koshibai and Umitsubame notwithstanding, but the biggest surprise for me has to be Dekiai, who I would have bet money was blue, but nope! She's pink! I guess water can be any color if you dye it, I just figured the idea would be for her to look like a melted Kogoe. Maybe they went with pink to obscure that a bit more or because they looked too similar in color?

Speaking of Dekiai, the jury for Toshusai's trial being several Dekiais with different pigtails and beauty marks was a really fun touch, I especially liked the one whose hair popped when she felt scandalized. The fact that the prosecution is named Hakuai and clearly doesn't have any shading suggests that she's all white, so I wonder if perhaps each Dekiai was a different color with a unique name. I'm also curious if they're all just the one Dekiai playing multiple parts, or if they're each their own unique AI. I'm inclined to believe the former, but who knows

Another cute detail, when the Dekiais call for a guilty verdict, their beauty marks turn into spades. Looks like someone read Homestuck

Onto the meat of the chapter, this is really the type of philosophy that Nisio Isin loves to talk about, huh? There was an entire chapter in Medaka Box about how there are no easy or right answers when it comes to ethics, and it could be argued that that was one of the major themes of Medaka Box as a whole. This chapter's suggestion that the concept of a person is a societal construct is certainly novel, and while it does go out of its way to paint Toshusai as the good guy in this scenario, it's also clear that we're not meant to necessarily feel good about it. Her actions freed slaves and toppled an oppressive government: objectively good! Her actions did also create child soldiers and result in half a million deaths: objectively bad. Reducing whether this was a good thing or not to the number of lives "created" and lost leaves...a bad taste in the mouth, I feel. Like, did Toshusai intentionally give weapons to the kids with the intention of creating an uprising? It doesn't sound like it, it sounds like she was asked to create a weapon a child could use, and then it happened to end up in the hands of children who needed liberation

Intention and consequence are only linked via action and otherwise have no bearing on each other; whatever Toshusai wanted to happen when she made the Gun Eye is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that people died because of a weapon she created, at least that's how she sees it. Even if she did liberate slaves, it's not like she's a revolutionary who carefully planned out how to save them, she was a child who made a toy that was lethal. A weapon's purpose is to kill, a sentiment that I've surprisingly seen crop up a lot in Jump lately, and Toshusai knows that the only outcome that was ever going to come of making the Gun Eyes was that people would die

Of course, how Toshusai sees herself and how everyone else in the story sees her is only part of the equation - the rest is how the fans see her. Is she a liberator or a death dealer? Which is more important, the right to freedom or the right to security? I have my opinions on the matter, but I can't claim that my opinion is the objective correct one or that other readers will feel the same

I'm still endeared to Toshusai and I still like her as a major lead; she did something that helped people, but through a method that she resents, both because there might have been a way to bring about a peaceful resolution and because even if there wasn't, the presence of that method now means that more people are in danger in the long run. Even if the child revolution was a net gain of life and personhood, the Gun Eyes still exist and are still put in the hands of children, and probably not to overthrow their oppressors. Toshusai means to fix that mistake and prevent any further deaths by any means necessary, and that's a goal I can respect

[b4b31]

Warhol, Andy. Campbell's Soup Cans. 1962, pop art, The Museum of Modern Art, New York.

“I used to have the same lunch every day, for 20 years, guess, the same thing over and over again. Someone said my life has dominated me; liked that idea.”

The "Campbell's Soup Cans" series highlights the homogeneity and conformity of consumer culture. The cans are identical, suggesting a standardized and mass-produced product, yet subtle differences between each can. This suggests that even though we may be the same, we have the power to choose our own path and be unique, despite society's pressure to conform. The various soup flavors can represent different personality types or archetypes, allowing the viewer to select which one they identify with. This individual choice and agency is a central aspect of Jungian psychology, which emphasizes the journey towards self-discovery and individuation.

THE SOUP SPECTRUM: How to navigate Campbell's soup selection

Tomato - The Rebel: bold and unorthodox, challenges the status quo of traditional soups with its vibrant and tangy flavor.

Chicken Noodle - The Mother: nurturing and comforting, provides warmth and sustenance like a hug in a bowl.

Split Pea with Ham - The Destroyer: powerful and transformative, brings about necessary change to the palate through the destruction of preconceived notions of what a soup should taste like.

Beef - The Warrior: strong and resilient, fights for a place on the soup menu with its hearty and robust flavor.

Black Bean - The Seeker: restless and questioning, seeks out new flavor combinations and knowledge about the soup world.

Consomme - The Sage: wise and knowledgeable, offers simple but profound wisdom to elevate the soup experience.

Cream of Asparagus - The Maiden: innocent and pure, represents delicacy and refinement with its smooth and elegant texture.

Cream of Mushroom - The Magician: mystical and transformative, turns ordinary ingredients into something extraordinary with its rich and velvety texture.

Cream of Onion - The Trickster: mischievous and unpredictable, adds a touch of humor and subversion to the soup experience with its unexpected sweetness and complexity.

Cream of Potato - The Creator: innovative and resourceful, turns simple ingredients into a satisfying and comforting meal with its creamy and filling texture.

Lentil - The Survivor: resilient and adaptable, can thrive in a variety of soup environments with its earthy and hearty flavor.

Manhattan Clam Chowder - The Explorer: curious and adventurous, seeks out new flavor profiles and experiences with its unique blend of seafood and tomato flavors.

New England Clam Chowder - The Guardian: protective and loyal, defends the tradition and legacy of classic soup recipes with its creamy and comforting texture.

Shrimp Bisque - The Siren: seductive and alluring, draws in with its rich and indulgent creaminess, leaving a lasting impression on the palate.

Vegetarian Vegetable - The Liberator: nourishing force that frees the body from toxins and provides essential nutrients

Broccoli Cheese - The Lover: passionate and comforting, satisfies the palate with its rich and creamy texture.

Vegetable Beef - The Hero: hearty and dependable, always there to provide strength and nourishment in times of need.

Green Pea - The Child: smooth and delicate, with a pure and childlike essence that inspires wonder and curiosity.

Cream of Celery - The Mentor: smooth and sophisticated, offering a creamy blend of knowledge and experience to help guide and mentor others.

Minestrone - The Networker: a vibrant and diverse blend of ingredients, bringing together different flavors and personalities to form strong and enduring connections.

Mulligatawny - The Shapeshifter: a tantalizing and enigmatic blend of spices and flavors, capable of shifting and adapting to different situations and contexts.

Old Fashioned Tomato Rice - The OutKast: a bold and unorthodox blend of classic flavors, standing out from the crowd and challenging traditional notions of what a soup can be.

Onion - The Shadow: a deep and complex mixture, with layers of flavor that reveal a mysterious and enigmatic essence that others may find intimidating.

Pea Soup - The Jester: a light and whimsical blend, with a playful and humorous spirit that never fails to bring a smile to others' faces.

Pepper Pot - The Villain: a potent and fiery blend, with a devious and malicious spirit that seeks to manipulate and control others for its own gain.

Potato with Bacon - The Father: a warm and comforting blend, with a hearty and nurturing essence that provides comfort and protection to those in need.

Scotch Broth - The Judge: a fair and impartial blend, with a strong and savory essence that represents justice and accountability.

Tomato Rice - The Queen/King: a rich and regal blend, with a commanding and charismatic essence that inspires loyalty and devotion in all who taste it.

Turkey Noodle - The Empathic: a comforting and compassionate blend, with a soothing and empathetic essence that understands and connects with the emotions of others.

Bean with Bacon - The Observer: a rich and hearty blend, with a deep and perceptive essence that sees and understands things others might miss.

Cheddar Cheese - The Oracle: a rich and flavorful blend, with a wise and insightful essence that provides knowledge and guidance to those who seek it.

Chicken with Rice - The Messenger: a clear and persuasive blend, with a smooth and communicative essence that delivers important messages and inspires action.

[schismusic]

Redecorating

I've done some pretty stupid shit in my life but this, this whole thing (imagine I'm gesturing around indistinctly with a ghastly look on my face), totally takes the cake. Is it funny if I do the tapping-the-mic-to-check-if-it-works gag in a written post?

It started when I was about to turn fifteen and trying to bed a girl - she honestly dodged a bullet when she said no, I cannot lie to you all. Anyway I guess I absolutely had to find an outlet for being an annoying teenager and being an asshole irl simply didn't cut it sometimes, you know how it is, most of us are here for that exact same reason.

A number of things have happened since I last posted on this hellsite. The short version is as follows:

I had an identity crisis, or two, or five;

I got a driver's license, somehow;

a worldwide pandemic hit, but I guess this is another one of those things that make us equal on this postapocalyptic landscape of a microblogging platform;

just as inexplicably as my driver's license, I also got a beautiful and lovely girlfriend of almost three years now;

who knows, I might even get a degree before 2024 is over.

This is all fine and dandy, of course, but sometimes a dude just needs to scream into the void, wherein "the void" in this case is about two hundred (!!!!) strangers on the internet, which probably includes you, dear reader. Thanks for sticking with me over these troublesome years of absolutely nothing happening on this blog.

What's new then?

Number one: "what the fuck kinda name is schismusic?"

Hi, my name is schismusic. I thought of this ungodly name when I was, as mentioned, a very pretentious fourteen-year-old, and it absolutely shows. However,

one could argue it's part of the charm in a way;

it grants a bit of relative anonimity compared to my other, more beloved Internet alias (which will inevitably come crashing against my inevitable post concerning my band and the record we made a while ago - more on this later);

somehow, it stuck. You people will eat up just about fucking anything, really!

(Another thing that happened: I learned a tiny bit of HTML, because Letterboxd is yet another hellsite I'm not-quite-proudly a part of. Gotta catch 'em all. I love being annoying with HTML formatting as a matter of fact, it's quite liberating to pretend to know that you can code in front of a billion strangers on the Internet.)

Number two: "so is this asshole gonna post fake hipster music on my timeline yet again?"

Not really, or at least not just that. First order of business is that reblogging is fun, but it overstays its welcome when you do it irresponsibly. It also quite literally goes contrary to this blog's original self-appointed mission and this cannot go unchecked. Pretension is law! Bad taste is every single one of this blog's ten commandments! I hate you all more than I hate myself!

Jokes aside, my point is exactly that I want to be a bit less annoying on the Internet for once. Consequently, I have decided to extend the range of posts on this blog beyond the relatively usual songs and reach into short- and medium-form writing (fiction, nonfiction, maybe even reviews: anything goes), pictures I take (the true OGs might remember I used to post my own drawings from time to time: that's not entirely out of the question for the future, it's just that it's been a while since I've last drawn anything worthwhile) and obviously shameless self-promotion (remember me mentioning my band a couple paragraphs above? Well, here is our record on Bandcamp, Spotify and YouTube; and no, my dear OGs, this is not the same band I used to talk about back in the day! This is a whole new project for you to check out), both in Italian and English, and maybe even some Spanish if I actually take my Spanish to a functional level.

As a corollary of this final point, I will not be deleting my old content, so that the new people on here can get to enjoy a whole cornucopia of cringe circa-2014 content.

Finally, since this is primarily a music blog, the obligatory soundtrack to the writing of this post:

Shoutout to literally every single one of you people for somehow not getting tired of waiting through these years of inactivity, or maybe you just forgot that I existed. If it's the second one, I hope this post was a fun throwback, and that this time you remember to unfollow me for good like you probably wanted to do back when I was active and annoying on here.

It's good to be back.

Love,

schismusic

[mbti-notes]

Hi, hope you are well. :) I was wondering if you're familiar with Roger Scruton at all? I enjoy his work on aesthetics very much while gritting my teeth at his politics, and I'm fairly convinced he was INFP. I saw an old ask from an INFJ embarrassed about sharing a type with Jordan Peterson, and I feel the same way here. I can see very clearly even in myself how the desire to balance progress and tradition can lead you down a dark nostalgic golden age path if you over-indulge the Si side of it.

I wouldn't use the word "familiar". I certainly wouldn't be able to tell you his type. I know about him, I know of his ideas in very broad strokes, and it sounds like you and I are in agreement about him.

I actually remember the first time I came across his work. I was putting together a very big essay in school and one of his papers came up while I was gathering information. I recall thinking he was too old-fashioned for my taste. I guess a more blunt judgment would be "irrelevant". Every time his name came up after that, I never really felt compelled to read his work seriously. To be fair, I have always been more interested in fringe or cutting edge topics, so he never really made it onto my radar just for that reason.

I get your point about how nostalgia can distort one's perspective. Some conservatives are fond of saying "if you're not a liberal when you're young, you have no heart, and if you're not a conservative when you're old, you have no brain". I think if you ignore the insult, there is a nugget of truth in there. The fact of the matter is, as people get older, the more they've accumulated in life and it breeds an underlying fear of change and/or fear of loss. It's tied to fear of aging, fear of becoming obsolete, and, ultimately, fear of death. It not only makes people long for "the good ol' days" (as seen through rose-colored glasses), it might also compel them to fight to preserve remnants of the past, sometimes to the detriment of the future.

I wouldn't call myself conservative but I truly believe there are valid points to be made in favor of conservatism. However, the nostalgia-fueled faction has always seemed suspect to me. The desire to preserve important touchstones is a very human thing. I find myself longing for some comforting things from childhood now and then, especially during very uncertain times. But letting fear of change/loss take over your identity, your worldview, your politics, and your relationships just seems... undignified? Maybe my typism is showing, but the thought of getting lost in a past that exists mainly in my own mind seems not unlike death. When I need a reason to get up in the morning, it's always about looking forward to something.

[fieri-sentio-et-excrucior]

@deathbyoctopi thanks for the fanfic game ask!

I’ll ask for The taste of rain on skin for A (even though is rather self-explanatory, plz DO TELL WHAT WERE YOU THINKING >w< aaand I should ask the Prisoner for E >:3 but won’t bc at some point we’re really getting a sequel for that one (looking forward to it!!) sooo I’ll go with Two heads are better than one.

A: How did you come up with the title to ‘The taste of rain on skin’?

I guess the title is quite self-explanatory :D Though I wanted something that wasn’t too crude for the title of an essentially smut-only fic!

In terms of where the fic itself came from, I’d recently fallen into the XueXiao rabbit hole, had been binging angst fics and had just written my own first fic for them, Liberation, which was also angsty (I couldn’t get that image of Xue Yang dying and the last thing he saw being XXC’s candy out of my head), so I decided a more light-hearted, smutty fic was needed next! And I love imagining that period of happiness when they’re in Yi City but everything hasn’t gone to shit yet. In my mind, whether he realises it or not, Xue Yang is completely gone for Xiao Xingchen – he’s the first and only person he has ever really wanted, in all senses of the word, physical but also emotional and everything. So I wanted to write a story where they get together and Xue Yang is full of hunger and desperation and urgency, and Xiao Xingchen is similar in his own more restrained way but still longing for that connection, to feel wanted rather than abandoned or alone.

E: If you wrote a sequel to ‘Two heads are better than one’, what would it be about?

You are definitely getting a sequel to the Prisoner of Jinlintai, hopefully sooner rather than later! It is getting long - now practically 90k words and still got a bit more to write! But I can’t wait to share it with you!

I am quite tempted to write a sequel to Two Heads Are Better Than One too! Though I have a few loose ideas and no real plan yet. I’m not sure if I want to go down the angsty route of they still hate each other and now XY is stuck having XXC’s & SL’s kids or down the fix-it route of they all learn to live and even be happy together, making a nice, little family… There are different ways to explore each of those options too. So it’s a bit vague, I’m sorry! I don’t want to go into too much detail in the hope that I’ll actually get around to writing the thing! But what I can say is that, as it’s an omegaverse setting, there would definitely be plenty of smut, whatever direction the story went :D

[iamyelling]

on the kids/parenthood question

i still very much feel on the fence. i finally found a community for people questioning parenthood , on reddit it's called fencesitters. currently lurking, maybe will post someday.

i am .. afraid of what the people in there will say if i write a post. it feels so complicated and i don't know if i'm able to articulate the complexities and nuance.

i. i feel .. i refuse to give up on the world. and i refuse to believe that just because the world sucks and things are very bad, that one should not have a child. i do not see how it is inherently a selfish thing, it seems to be a natural thing. i realize i used to see it as a selfish thing but i don't anymore. i dont really know what changed. i guess learning about reproductive justice, that people should have a right to have children if they want, and to be supported in doing so. i feel.. barred from it. i feel .. left out, for lack of a better word. i feel my choice is taken away and i am not allowed this human experience.

i also fear that i am not Capable of it. the vast majority of my concern is regarding executive function and all the chores and tasks. the next biggest concern is support network, friends, socializing, all the social obligations (this is connected to executive function). the third biggest concern is my own mental health and emotional stability. i am concerned that i am.. going to be This Way forever. or that there is nothing i can do. that i do not deserve to be a parent, or deserve friends or human connection. that i will be evil and toxic and horrible to everyone around me and thus will never have these experiences. that i will just be excluded and barred for life. i am afraid that i am doomed to be trapped and repeat these things..

i am of course afraid of childbirth and to a lesser degree, pregnancy. the tearing and health complications and injury.

i do believe that i would step up and be able to do it. (all the executive function and Task-ing that needs to be done as a parent). i feel i especially would if i had a bit of support. but.. then i become worried about annah's capacity for help and organization and i think about how she does not want kids and how it would require her to be fully excited and committed. i do not think there is anyone else i would want to raise a child with. she is my person.

i have more and more been finding that ... mainstream normie white het cis centrist liberal hegemonic whatever you wanna call it, culture around parenthood, is so not something i relate to or am interested in. and that is a big part of the reason i for a long time felt i did not want kids. the whole .. culture around it, the way the parents identify the way they engage with one another, the way they see themselves and their role in society, the aesthetics and just. so many things. but in pursuing leftist perspectives, and lesbian, and queer, and trans, and Black, and brown and indigenous and interracial, and poor, and immigrant perspectives, i see that it actually quite normal to have no taste for that shit and that disliking it does not mean one shouldn't be a parent or doesn't want kids. so seeing these other perspectives gives me images of what is possible. that i don't have to transform into some other person, i could still be myself.

and i do not believe that someone needs to fully have their life together to have a kid. i don't think you have to be rich and wealthy and all this fancy stuff. because like what, are poor families BAD for having kids?? that's ridiculous. of course not. people of color are not bad or selfish for having kids. and so on. it is normal to want and have kids, it is okay. humans are allowed to want and have kids. it is not some terrible sin to "bring another human into this world". I can understand that other people may feel that way about themselves but I think it becomes problematic when they apply that judgement to others. It can only be a judgement about their own life, it can't be applied to everyone else.

i am of course afraid that i would have a bad time of being a parent. that i would regret it or be depressed or burnt out or something else. dont worry, i read all the stories that i can.

it doesnt feel like a good idea to talk to either of our parents about this. and i have sort of talked to my friends about it but haven't been very supported in these feelings. well one of my friends we had a good talk a few months ago but otherwise yeah. idk.

and annah has asked that i do not discuss it with her for some time. and also that i ought not to be thinking about this when i am so unstable and our relationship is so rocky and we are financially in such a rough spot. so i can't work through these things with her either. and i can't articulate to her my position nor hear hers. since talking about it is off limits for at least a couple more months.

i just. i have to believe that i deserve to have a kid. and hearing annah say that she does believe we would be good parents was incredible. i hang on to it like a locket on my chest. i clutch it. sometimes i feel so strongly i believe so deeply that we would be good parents. and other times i am so afraid that we would be horrible and just continue the cycle. but i guess we all are everyone is and it never stopped our ancestors yknow. the world has never been awesome and great, life has never been easy, it's always been dangerous and scary and tough. why should i see it as different now. just because i know it shouldn't be so terrible? because i know what needs to be done to fix it? because these things shouldn't be happening?

i do desire to be a parent. to raise a person. teach them things, love them, care for them, show them things - places, art, music, life, adventure. i want to do that with annah. i want to make our family. i want to continue our families.

i do not want procreation to be a privilege of the rich and the cis and the straight and the white and the conservative. i do not want it to be reserved just for them. we deserve to have kids too. i want to have a kid.

and also i guess i am worried i just want a kid to prove (to myself? the world?) that i Am Capable of being a parent, of doing it. (not the procreation part, the taking care of them and having my shit together part) which certainly is a bad reason. so now i must dwell on this. do i want it just to be able to say "look i can do it" . as an achievement? i fear my question has so heavily morphed into "am i up to the task of being a parent?" that i have forgotten the focus should be on whether i want to be a parent whether i will enjoy it. i suppose i just worry so much about the tasks and chores involved that i fear i will become bad at it, struggle at it, not be up to the task, find it exhausting and hopeless and overwhelming and depressing and make me burned out. that the question of whether i will be any good at it simply takes precedence over desire.

[thecurioustale]

A Subway Tale

I'll never understand why people call Subway mediocre. It's not. Like, it's objectively not. Doesn't mean you have to personally enjoy their food, but you can't call it mediocre unless you're talking about your personal opinion based on your own palate and taste—which the people who toss these jeers conspicuously and obnoxiously never are.

This is a whole, big ol' meme—part of a larger constellation of affluent liberals making fun of working-class food, especially unusual / standout-ish fast food, like KFC, Arby's, Taco Bell, and of course Subway.

But Subway in particular is really straightforward in ingredient quality. You can't fake a good sandwich. The vegetables are all right there in front of you; you can see them. The sliced whole meat (turkey, ham, beef) is considerably higher-quality compared to store cold cuts unless you go for bespoke brands. The chicken breasts for their oven chicken sandwich tend to be a touch spongy, but are well-seasoned and hold up properly as part of the sandwich. The sauces and condiments have little room for cutting corners. The tuna is real tuna. The bacon is real bacon. The cookies are downright pleasant.

The bread, which is a major focus of criticism, is good bread. You're not fooling anyone with your "It's not real bread" or "Country X has weird health regulations that restrict Subway's bread from being classified as a bread because of its sugar content," or whatever. It's real bread all right. It's pretty technologically sophisticated; you're not apt to cook it at home; but it's still bread. And, far from being "mediocre" because it doesn't conform to some people's expectations for sandwich bread to be heavier or less sweet, the main reason Subway does their bread that was is because that supports the sandwich. Using your own homemade subway rolls would make for a very different experience. I've done it! It would throw all the proportions out of whack; you have to add more toppings, meat, and cheese to make up for the bread being so much heavier and more dominant. The result: a denser, chewier, less-springy sandwich that is much more filling, inch for inch, compared to a Subway sandwich. But "less filling" hardly equals "mediocre," or we'd be calling salads the fakest food of all. The lighter, fluffier preparation of a Subway sandwich offers a textural experience that, again, you are not personally required to like, but which is in no way mediocre.

Where else might we look for mediocrity? Subway has taken some dubious cost-cutting measures over the years, but it's not the sort that would keep you up at night. I was working there in the early 2000s when they abandoned the superior U-cut, which is better for holding a sandwich together and tasting all the ingredients evenly. The side-cut is faster, so that's what we were required to do. And their policy of "three of a given topping per 6 inches unless the customer asks for more," while not unreasonable with large tomato slices, becomes ridiculous in the context of olive slices, and I only did that when the boss was right there, and the customer always asked for more, because if you ask for olives you expect more than three slices (not even whole olives; three olive slices per 6 inches!).

I suppose you could call their cold cut combo sandwich cheap, but it also is cheap, i.e. it's their least-expensive sandwich on the menu aside from the all-veggie one; you're not exposing any secrets by calling it cheap. It's a sandwich for people who want a bologna and salami sandwich—which there's nothing wrong with. And I guess you can make a winning argument that their meatballs are very heavily processed, not so different from the meatballs in, say, a can of Spaghetti-O's. So maybe that's "mediocre"? I dunno, though: Their meatball marinara sandwich is another one of their cheapest sandwiches and was actually my go-to favorite when money was extra tight and I needed to save a buck or two.

I'm poor; I know what mediocre food is. Subway is not it. The first time I ever had a Subway sandwich, at the mall when I was about ten years old or so back in the early '90s, it was the best sandwich I'd ever had in my life. I still remember it to this day. Subway learned long ago the art of how to make a sandwich incredible. In college in the 2000s, their sandwiches were a mainstay in my dangerously-impoverished self's diet. I worked there after college and got free food; Subway is one of the only fast food places where I think I could eat there every day and not get sick of it.

I've been to individually bad Subways before. By far the worst one was off the 10 somewhere in the empty expanses of New Mexico. I didn't get sick from it, but it was really sketchy. And I've heard stories of people having bad experiences there, and at least some of those reports are likely true. (Though likely not all; people often misattribute the causes of food poisoning and often misdiagnose other gastrointestinal issues as "food poisoning" in the first place; I'm convinced this is why "Taco Bell will give you diarrhea" is such a successful meme: No it won't; they'd go out of business if that were true; but what probably is true is a lot of people are unknowingly intolerant to some of their ingredients.) But these isolated cases are not indicative of Subway's policies or their food. Most Subways are franchisee-owned, and there can be variation in quality and cleanliness if compliance enforcement is weak. (At the Subway I worked at, the owner took compliance very seriously, and the regional compliance inspector for Subway was also a real hardass.)

I'm also aware that Subway has financially pressured its franchisees for years, worse and worse, and that this is a key reason that the price of sandwiches has gone up so much. It's possible that some franchisees are trying to cope with these pressures through dishonest and/or disreputable means. The worst thing I can say about the Subway where I worked is that they wouldn't keep enough people on-shift, meaning that we were absolutely swamped during the lunch rush many days. But the owner wanted to save on the money so as not to have superfluous employees on the clock at other hours.

Admittedly, I've only eaten at Subway two or three times since the pandemic. The enormous price increases, coupled with a lack of easy access to Subway locations on my part, serious financial pressures constraining my discretionary spending, and a desire to continue touring independent restaurants in my own that I haven't gotten around to visiting yet, mean that Subway isn't really on my radar most of the time. So maybe they've gone to hell very recently and I just didn't notice.

Much more likely, however, I think, is that this is just one more example of a mean-spirited cultural tendency among some (mostly middle-class and rich liberals, as I mentioned) to make fun of working-class food, i.e. the food that poor people eat. Subway is good food. Maybe it's not to your taste, but that doesn't negate its goodness.

I've had many restaurant deli-style sandwiches over the years, from many independent restaurants! It is certainly possible to do a sandwich that is more "amazing" than Subway. But most indie restaurants actually fall short of it. Grading on a curve, I'd consider subway a B-plus or maybe even an A-minus. Certainly no worse than a straight B.

Maybe it's because I'm poor that I can see through the "Subway is mediocre" lie. I live in a strange reality where I have lifelong exposure both to the world of the peasantry and the world of the well-to-do. I have a lot of familiarity with both paradigms, and enough exposure to each to be able to judge both sides of the "Subway is mediocre equation": I am familiar with fancy, "boutique"-style delis and other places serving up bougie sandwiches; and I am familiar with cheap food.

I dunno why it bugs me. I guess because this meme comes from a place of ill-will. I don't mind jokes and humor that are in good fun, but memes like this are not. They are elitist, and not in a good way. "Oh, look at us, and our $20 dollar sandwiches full of seeds and vinaigrette. Don't we have just the best taste? Aren't we so clever and smart? Those poor fools eating Subway; how do they even look themselves in the mirror?"

That's what it really is: just another case of people situating their own self-worth in places where they really shouldn't.

[holdingthewind]

Farewell to the Lover  of Earth

P.S. This isn’t a breakup letter.

It's been awhile since my love has moved me to write again. Honestly, it's been quite difficult trying to hold a thought for my own. For you see, in the past months, my words have lost their magic. Dulled by the need to be pristine, to be cut into the clearest form my thoughts could be - sans any life, any breath to it. The magic that once coated each letter I wrote suddenly diffused leaving the mirrors of thought and logic. And who wants to write about love, something so expansive and liberating, with the numbness of clear-cut perfection. So the magic left my words, but the love for you, my moon, still remained.

But it was hard for me not having that magic by my side, especially during the last months. I've never known love to be difficult but like many other things, I was challenged by this statement. My mother always said that you know a person is right for you, when loving them feels easy. For a long while I held onto that because loving should gush forth and make rivers and bleed into oceans. And just like with a lover, if the river meets an end it bends to those who can carry its breath, the rush of it adoration. But, I guess this love isn't like that. And it took me awhile to realize that. For the past months, there have been obvious tensions in our love. Not that it was fading or anything but that it wasn't as easy as I expected to be. There were times where I felt as if I conjured the divine strength of a god to contort my rivers just to meet your needs and wants. And there were definitely times that it spilled into quite a mess. And we both had to drown for a bit in it. But never once did I thought of charting a different course, because for some reason my current gravitated towards you. And you can say that my love right now tangles into one another to reach your ocean.

But I guess what was difficult for me was fighting against my own current. Why wasn't this as easy as I imagined ? Does this signify anything ? Was I being delusional ?

It was hard to grapple with the fact that it did hurt me, in the ways I didn't expect it to. But lately, I've been looking into the river of my love and see how it pushes against the ocean, but is being slowly pulled above into your love, the moon. All this time I thought my love was supposed to expand into an ocean of infinite. But there could never be an infinite in the ocean,  for men had to walk at some point, but you, you were made to ascend to the stars where infinite is nothing but a dream-like reality, the infinite was a blanket that embraced you and your entirety.

How could I have been so blind. Loving a moon and thinking that the ripples of your light across the gentle waves was the entirety of you. For here you were all along , trying to bring me into space. Here you were giving me a taste of infinity.

Now looking into my river didn't feel so complicated. It didn't feel as lonely as it sometimes did. For in the gravity of your love, my rivers rose but it also dwindled whenever the pull was weak. But it persisted. It still was a river, it still was your river. My love still belonged to the moon, regardless of how it looked, regardless of what we had to work around to get there. My moon, my love, I'm sorry if I ever limited you by my vision of where love ought to be. But now I see, my love, that our love has always been free. Not because it was easy, but because despite the terrain, our love was enduring , and will continue to live in many other forms.

And now I yearn to be closer to your infinity. I wish to learn a love as freeing as you. I wish for my rivers to dissolve into air and become the heavens, beside you. I wish to push through the atmosphere and break into particles and become the very space that embraces you. For it's quite lonely being up there and loving a river. And I will get there my love, I will. For too long has the earth grounded to what things should be and now I wish to truly be free and float in your love up there.

No longer will I be a lonesome river, a lover of Earth, but now I will be the very space, a lover of the Moon. And now with the magic of my words slowly seeping in as I fly to you. I hope to love you with more than I have already given.

I love you and may our love endure.

Closer to you,

Kin

[phercynoya]

We’re Alone in This Together

Some spoilers for the play The Reconciliation Dinner.

The last national elections felt like it drove a divisive wedge between our intimate connections. Ties were severed. Walls were raised. Those happen as the ego tries to keep itself safe in a social environment where hostility is encouraged and monetized.

The one-act play “The Reconciliation Dinner” written by Floy Quintos revolves around these themes. The bond between two families slowly eroded as their political positions placed them in two separate sides. Dina (Stella Cañete-Mendoza) tries her best to reconnect with her best friend Susan (Frances Makil-Ignacio) and her husband Fred (Jojo Cayabyab) after a tense exchange over dinner left a sour taste in their mouths and the ensuing cold war of words and unexpressed frustrations drove them apart.

The scenario is all too familiar. Quintos pretty much covers how middle class families socialize during a period of tense political turmoil. Everyone tries to play nice to keep the peace and keep a semblance of social order.

Bert, (Randy Medel Villarama) Dina’s husband, captures the toxic masculinity enabled by the popular Rodrigo Duterte and emulated to some degree by Isko Moreno (he bears some resemblance to the latter). Akin to his strongman idols, he tends to escalate conversations and take things personally. It would be nice if more depth is given towards his reasons for voting BBM. He felt more like a caricature throughout the play. Dina is generally on the fence, just there to support her husband all the way, while acting as referee when tensions rise. Fred and Susan try to be polite (partly to continue currying favors from their wealthier friends and avoid conflict) but they do not simply back down from an argument when they hear something they don’t agree with. Each exchange always ends in a pissing contest where the goal is to feel comfort and vindication for their personal choice.

It is great to see that the underlying dependencies (besides their friendship) between Dina and Susan are made clear, making it difficult for them to simply call it quits. Susan’s business relies on keeping good relations with generous clients. Dina gets much needed emotional support from Susan that she can’t find from her husband and do not want to demand from her daughter, especially given her current struggle. They are also the godparents of each other’s child. My favorite interactions are between Dina and Susan, because the actors are fantastic at portraying old life-long friends.

The younger generation are clearly bolder and have more polarized views than their parents. Phi Palmos’ Norby owned the stage whenever he is given the spotlight. He fits the role of a youthful Kakampink quite well. Mica (Hariette Mozelle) suffers from the same fate as his father. Her character as a scheming and aggressive BBM supporter lacks nuance. This can be attributed more on the material, not the actor.

(As an aside, I personally find it distasteful whenever the queer character is playfully flirting with a married man in a work of fiction, usually for comedic and/or dramatic effect. This feels like an unintended reinforcing of dangerous stereotypes that do not really add much value to the play.)

And then there’s the wildcard Ely (Reb Atadero). He has the most hilarious lines and his chaotic ideology captures that shitposter account you follow who is neck-deep into the meme-ry of Reddit and Twitter that no one else in the room fully gets him.

I like the portrayal of social media banters and snide remarks between the first and last dinners, a quick battle of wits between people who want to express their support, and the satisfaction of feeling right about their choices. This sequence, along with each character’s monologue generally works well.

Quintos’ politics is clear throughout the play. I guess what I would have wanted is a perspective outside the middle class. I, as a middle class citizen with generally liberal views, feel like this is portraying a segment of the internet that I am already seeing online. The conversations are all too familiar, and sure this makes it easy to empathize and relate with the story and characters. But in the end, I am hearing stories that I have already heard over and over thanks to a sinisterly designed algorithm that seeks to make me happy in doomscrolling late at night.

I would also relate this concern to how BBM supporters are portrayed in this setting. There is constraint in depth if conversations are kept within a single class.

The play in itself, is an echo chamber. Or perhaps it is the point after all?

As the play winds down, I really felt bad for everyone, especially for Dina. She is stuck, like all of us. We have to deal with the emotional toll of an unforgiving system, and we are left to fend for ourselves. The short-term highs of personal victories, milestones, and won confrontations cannot mask the shittiness of our current state, and the best thing we can do is hold on to our closest forms of support.

In the end, she had to settle with what’s left.

[cheese-induced-madness]

this is probably a dumb scenario but…..could u maybe do something with dr two brains baking with a reader?? tysm <3

anon this isn’t dumb, that’s fucking adorable. also reminding me that i gotta get back into baking, i’m missing out on decadence.

I made it like. the tiniest bit spicey. We’re at barely lime levels on ye olde citrus scale. nearly pg-13.

“Babydoll, are you SURE you don’t need to measure the vanilla?” Twobrains questioned. “Everything I’ve learned about baking up to this point has taught me not measuring is pretty much baking blasphemy.”

“I mean, with most things yes, but with flavorings it’s like. You gotta feel how much you need in your soul, man,” you respond, twisting off the cap to the bottle of vanilla extract. “You gotta look inside yourself. Ask what you truly want to taste. Look to the stars for answers.”

“I think the stars say you should get a measuring spoon,” he retorted, smiling coyly.

“Then you’re looking to the wrong stars,” you reply. With a steady hand and careful concentration, you pour a liberal splash of vanilla into the bowl of ingredients that would soon become cream cheese frosting.

You knew your boyfriend well, and as much as he always wanted to try your sweetest creations, that pesky little second brain of his was the pickiest little monster you had ever met, and it meant he could only get so much as a cupcake down if it incorporated cheese to some degree. So cream cheese frosting seemed like the simplest, most versatile addition to your best work that would let him indulge without the mouse brain getting upset.

So here you were, carefully loading the bowl into the stand mixer and hoping it’d be good enough to appease the rodent’s hunger as the human it was attached to wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on the top of your head.

It was sweet. Peaceful. Pure domestic bliss. Softer, gentler moments with Twobrains weren’t exactly unprecedented or even particularly rare, but the life of a supervillain is chaotic, and the tranquility didn’t always last, so you really took it in and savored it when you could get a moment alone with you boyfriend in a particularly affectionate mood.

Unfortunately, the calm was interrupted when you turned on the mixer and were splattered with frosting.

“Ah fuck!” you cried, but you were too late. splotches of sugary cream cheese flecked your face and your clothes. Guess this is why people wear aprons...

As you shut the mixer off, Twobrains surged from his resting spot behind you to make sure you were alright, and quickly got an eyeful of the mess that caused your shout. He couldn’t stop himself from snickering, or from that snicker evolving into a full on cackle. Your eyes locked on him in an annoyed glare, but his smile didn’t falter as his laughing fit subsided.

“Baby, I’m sorry, you just- you look so cute!” he giggled. And then he got an idea. A devilish idea. “So sweet too...” He lifted his hand to cup your chin, and planted a light kiss on your nose. Your glare faltered as you opted for a look of confusion. Where was he going with this?

“So sweet I could eat you right up...” he trailed off, tracing a finger down your neck and to your collarbone, right before placing a kiss on your cheek where a splotch of frosting lay. And then, without warning, he licked the patch right off.

You recoiled in shock, and watched Twobrains immediately start laughing again.

“Yep! Just like I thought. You’re delicious~” he teased.

“Argh, gross,” you complained (albeit with no real bite to your words), grabbing the nearest hand towel to wipe off the remaining frosting as your boyfriend’s cackling faded off once again. “Because you decided to be a weirdo, now you don’t get to lick the beaters,” you huffed.

Twobrains mock-gasped dramatically. “Betrayal. Scorned and denied cheese by my own lover. What ever can fill the swiss cheese holes in my aching heart now?”

You head a timer ding. “Your transgression will be forgiven if you take the cupcakes out of the oven, they’re done,” you suggested.

Drama queen he was, he straightened out and saluted, barking an affirmative “yes, chef!” before turning around and opening the oven, as you tended to the frosting bowl once more, careful not to let its contents speckle your face again, lest your dear Twobrains get any ideas.

Strange as his messing with you was, you knew it was just another way he showed his affection. In his mind, you were the cutest thing in the world, and he loved watching your reactions to his antics. You never really minded how much he toyed with you because you knew didn’t think of you as just a toy.

As you finished mixing the frosting, you felt your lover’s hands around your waist once more, his warmth enveloping you in a comforting hug. You shut the mixer off and closed your eyes, waiting for the cupcakes to cool as you let him warm you up.

[lilly-from-the-valley]

9:08 Oct 2022, 2.08 AM

Ran out of pen and my pencil’s a no-go, so, am writing it here.

Today marks the day former INTJ (yes, shocking) discovered that he’s actually mistyped. The guess would be very easy, but still surprised me because I never thought of it before due to how reserved he appear ((I need to stop seeing based on 16p letters which says I = introvert and E = extrovert, when we as normal people can always be inclined to one or the other depending on our situations))

Funnily, I burst into tears when he was actually serious about it. Blaming my PMS for that… also, ended up having an identity crisis and looked up online for some articles regarding his newly-discovered type. It’s childish, but I couldn’t help wondering. I did some research and articles on how can ENTJ and INFP relationship would work.

“We worked, though???” -ENTJ

We laughed it off and he suggested me to make a comic about it—a good idea, hopefully I won’t be lazy.

Previously, I did realize how he’s not obsessively Ni, if you know what I mean… He uses Ni when he needs to, when it’s helpful for him, but naturally, he’ll use Te and enjoys expressing his thoughts on what would be the best and useful for others. The issue was with us always believing him as an introvert. “Letting go of that belief was liberating.”

A few hours before 12, I got ready for us to go out and look for food and some clothes. It was different than the other days, because I chose a pretty hanbok-inspired midi dress which I bought online and ironed it. Also, did a douyin makeup look, with the intention of practicing my skills for aegyosal.

We vlogged as we reach Haru Coffee—our favorite place to get Shin Ramyun. Shin Ramyun was cheaper if bought one whole pack, but making it ourselves won’t be as delicious as how Haru’s turn out. We talked more about what convinced him to be an ENTJ and I slowly come to understand his reasonings. I needed time to accept because being with him for more than a year, really sold me the idea he’s an INTJ.

We left the place and took some photos of Haru entrance. Oh, did I mention how the cafe had expanded? From being a small corner cafe, it became an actual cafe with more space, and of course, even more korean aesthetic.

We went to our comfort mall to look for his outfit. We found a 3-piece, but the price tag had no display of how much it cost. One of the blazers show their pricing at 300+ and that made us leave the store because obviously… that’s a lot of money for one blazer. Or maybe we’re just part of minimum-wage group.

We went to Dees. Or we call it Deez (not saying it, you know it). We found one shirt, and the price was okay, but the problem was we needed a 3-piece. There were no signs of the blazers matching the shirt, so we had to find another shop.

Oh, I forgot to mention, I bought an iced coffee out of impulse. Part of me regretted it because the taste of the Iced Mocha Expresso wasn’t the same as I recalled. Also, he refused to drink it because he’s cutting off ice from his diet, for his throat. That made me a little sad, because we’d always share our cold drinks, but more for me, I guess. *slurps the thick bittersweet coffee*

We bought car wipers from a hardware store and I got myself a cheap pink earphones. He watched a video on how-to and tried putting it on his parents’ car but to no avail. Decided to ask his father, he’s an ISTP and was into cars anyway.

We went to a mall next-door, which wasn’t my favorite, because of it’s fame leading to it being packed with people on weekends. We looked for the clothes again but still couldn’t find it. So we visited the prayer room. I left my phone in the car, so he lent his. After my prayer was done, I went to the toilet for my own business and once I got out of the stall, I was met by an old woman with a grey scarf. She asked me wether it was my phone that dropped. I confidently said no, even if she asked me if I’m really sure the second time.

While walking to a restaurant, I noticed how his phone wasn’t with me. I panicked and went to the toilet from earlier to find the old lady. My heartbeat was crazy, because that wasn’t my belonging, it was his and he’ll be doomed if it gets stolen.

I went into the prayer room again and saw his phone lying in front of 2 girls. I asked them first before taking that phone, just to make sure they are actually ok with it. I clicked the lock screen button and saw his wallpaper of Beastboy and Raven. Definitely his.

Relieved, I gave it back him and he said he needed to be careful when trusting me with his phone—can’t agree more. We went to have a traditional family dinner, but I felt my period was coming so I rushed to the toilet. Though, no signs of blood. Fooled again, some of PMS signs can be frustrating, but I’m used to it.

Before continuing our earlier search, we visited a bookstore. He wanted to start collecting books and have his personal library. I let him go to motivational section while I stayed in chick-lit, fiction, and all that dreamy stuff. I stumbled upon The Diary of a Girl by Anne Frank, which piqued my interest for some reason. I saw before people saying she’s INFP, but I couldn’t be so sure.

I read some of the parts and it sold me. I was quite immersed, it really was someone’s diary. Coincidentally… her birthday was same as mine. ((sounds corny, but that fact sold me as well)) You could say that I was officially emotionally attached to it that I know I needed to get it. Considered buying online as it’s always way cheaper than off a store.

I was about to go and talk with ENTJ but he was talking to someone, which I assumed a new friend. I didn’t want to disturb them so I stood at the corner and read more pages of Anne’s diary (that sounded odd and intrusive, but it’s true!) It dragged for quite some time, but I really didn’t want to bother when he’s taking that chance of making a new friend to share about books with.

After awhile, he came to me and showed me the book—12 Rules for Life by Jordan Peterson. Of course.

I asked him about his potential new friend, but he said nah, because it turned out that guy was a business-man. ENTJ actually believed he could make a new friend to share interests with, but too bad.

Then, went to an ok price retail store, but we were distracted by other cool clothes instead of what we should actually buy.

He tried out some of the clothes, and we found the perfect black sweater and blue jeans for him. We didn’t get what we came for, but at least we found some really cool clothes.

Another incident happened, we were about to go home but I needed to clear my bladder ((thanks to that coffee)). After completing my personal task, I went to ENTJ, and stopped in my tracks when he mentioned where was my bag. I scurried back to the toilet while praying to God he’d still help me. The pink handbag was still there, truly a miracle which God had blessed.

ENTJ just laughed seeing me with my unlucky handbag. “I’ll be your reminder next time, for sure.”

We went home, while summarizing our whole day. Today was planned and unplanned. We had our goals but there was no escaping the chaos, other than adapting. I’m still thankful to God…

[pencilscratchins]

ms rebecca pencilscratchins you MUST share more plot of the good star wars that exists in you brain

well i dont have like a super clear one but more or less this is what im vibing with

TFA remains largely unchanged since i think it does an effective job of setting up the characters and the storyline. at the end, they finish the map to show the location of “new mandalore” where luke is at with din. rey still goes to convince him to teach her and he still is initially hesitant, but a combination of din and rey and grogu convince him to take her on. he’s not bitter as much as he is heartbroken and ashamed. through his parent like relationship with rey, he relearns how to open himself up in the force.

rey’s story is now WAY more focused on her personal identity and discovering her own spot in the universe. in this au, she’s nobody’s daughter; she is just a random force sensitive child because like… the lesson that anyone can make a difference, not just the same two families, is still a good lesson even in properties other than spiderman guys sksks. i think also, her struggles with the darkside come more from the fact she grew up with absolutely no power and the promise of power the darkside has obviously appeals to her (like, analog wise i think she has more inline with anakin than luke if you feel me.)

obviously, finn is force sensitive, but to me? it just felt so clear that he was being set up to get other stormtroopers to rebel and like explore the implications of that. like... it seemed blatantly clear but of course they wasted that potential. so while he does a bit of training with luke, i think speaking with some mandalorians (some of which are children of clones) gives him the idea to go liberate some troopers. poe goes along with him, since we need to investigate the republic’s way too comfortable attitude with killing hundreds of what we know are like... child soldiers. (also we can introduce jannah in the second movie so she gets to have a real character)

poe and leia have the relationship we all want them to have, and his storyline outside of trooper liberation focuses on the realities of being in a resistance and forming a new republic. i know this isnt to everyones taste but i like political melodrama i know its trash. but this is my au so i get to decide what goes in it. finn & poe’s relationship is always allowed to develop and they obviously have a beautiful intergalactic gay romance.

NOW FOR WHAT WEVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR: ROSE TICO! rose had so much potential- i think she still loses her sister and underestimates herself. but the great thing about din being in this au, is that now? rose & him get to interact. rose goes up to him and insists he teach her how to fight like a mandalorian, and he takes one look at this angry, grieving young woman with this huge heart of bravery and righteousness, and is like “ah shit. i have an adult daughter now i guess. guess i have to teach her how to shoot big guns and shit now” yeah, that’s right. rose basically becomes a mandalorian in this au NO I WONT APOLOGIZE. THIS AU IS FOR ME. and also my friend bailey.

again, all these ideas are sorta nebulous and subject to change and i wont ever do anything with it, but. You asked so.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Palliate.

Pairing: Yandere!Witch/Reader.

Word Count: 3.7k.

TW: Emotional Manipulation, Amnesia, Obsessive Mindsets, Mentions of Violence, Blood and Bruising, Mentions of Death.

Mint, to settle your nerves.

That was the first thing he’d taught you, before you were strong enough to do anything more than sit on the edge of your bed and listen. Three leaves if you were desperate, two if you weren’t, and one if you just needed something to focus on, to take your mind off your own hazy thoughts and the places they tended to lead, when you let them wander freely. He said that was normal, that it should be expected. You’d spent so long incapacitated, it was only natural you’d be a little unsteady, once you finally got back on your feet. He said that it’d get better, over time, but you’d have to fight through it. You’d have to give yourself time to let it get better, even if there were little things you both could do to help.

The mint helped. Most of the time, at least. More than most little things did.

You tried to concentrate on the flavor, now, letting it distract you from the sun beating down on the back of your neck, from small bruises forming on your knees as you kneeled between rows of rue and sage and rosemary just far enough apart to let you tug at the weeds invading his otherwise pristine garden. It was a little odd to be outside the small cottage you’d become so closely acquainted with, even if you were only a few paces away, still hesitant to venture beyond the clearing you’d spent so much time observing while you were bedridden. You were still injured, technically, and you’d been told time and time again not to test your own limits. He said you should… You were sure you should be doing something, but—

“Didn't I ask you to rest?”

Right. That made sense.

You weren't supposed to get out of bed, just yet.

A hand came to settle on your shoulder, and reflexively, you glanced towards the man now lingering behind you. You really didn’t need to, though. His voice would’ve been enough, a calm drawl strung out into something playful, fondness coming easily and anger still a long ways off. He’d never gotten mad at you before, but the threat persisted. You didn’t want to be more of a nuisance than absolutely necessary, especially after he’d been so kind to you.

“There’s only so much sleep I can take,” You replied. You didn’t want to be a nuisance, but you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life in bed, either. “I’m starting to think that’s your only trick, uh...”

“Eden, love. Just Eden.” There was a pause, his sly smile turning sympathetic. “Is your memory acting up again?”

“It’s not as bad as it used to be.” You were telling the truth. For weeks, you’d barely been able to hold onto your own name, let alone anything about your eternally patient host. But, Eden (you tried to remind yourself of that, to make a note of it, Eden) was kind enough to give you time. You needed time. You needed patience. “I found the door, didn’t I?”

“And it’s nearly been a week since the last time you wandered into the forest,” He noted as he crouched at your side, earning a small, offended noise and an elbow to his bicep, just forceful enough to warrant a hum, a slight pout, something between a whine and a chuckle. You didn’t want to stare, but you let yourself watch as his expression softened, as his gazed flickered towards the sprout of basil at your feet and a shock of white hair fell over his eyes. He looked like he was going to reach towards you, like he was going to touch you, but he stopped himself, letting his hand slip down to the satchel at his waist, instead, calloused fingers running over the well-worn leather.

You wondered what he kept in it, sometimes. You’d never seen him without it, not willingly, and he spent so long in the forest every day, he kept himself so busy with so many traps and snares and spots of ink littered across hand-drawn maps, it would’ve been impossibly to guess what he thought was worth keeping by his side. He brought enough of it back, bundles of assorted feathers and glass jars full of golden pollen and other things, stranger things, things you could barely catch a glimpse of before they were shoved to the backs of cabinets and forgotten about, on your end, at least. Eden didn’t forget about such important things as quickly as you did.

“It’ll get better,” He went on, finally, just when you thought he’d stopped talking altogether. “And, if it doesn’t, we’ll find a way to make it better.”

He sounded so sure of himself. You wanted to believe him, when he sounded like that. You did believe him.

You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t.

~

Ginger, to alleviate migraines.

It wasn’t for you, luckily. Of all the ailments you suffered from, you’d been left mercifully exempt from headaches and vertigo and all those minor, awful things that would make your life just a little harder than it had to be. If anything, your head was always a little too light, a little too empty, especially after so many hours of following the same unpaved road with nothing to think about but the passing scenery and Eden’s vague instructions, little more than a list of names and goods. Little to go off of, despite his insistence that you be the one to go.

You’d asked why he didn’t just go himself the first time he sent you on your way with a basket of herbs and roots, but Eden had only frowned, shaking his head. He said he wasn’t welcome, not in the marketplace, not in a village that’d already come to know him by name. He said that, if you cared for him at all, you wouldn’t subject him to a full day of haggling in hushed tones with women who refuse to sell mediocre incense for anything less than a small fortune.

And since you did (foolishly) care for him, you went. Not that you were anymore wanted in the marketplace than he was.

You hated it, compared to the cozy isolation of Eden’s home. You hated how crowded it was, how alien it felt to have to navigate the cramped stalls, how the merchant in front of you scowled as he weighed small bags of the exotic, colorful spices Eden was so fond of, the ones that you could never seem to taste the way you were supposed to, judgingly by how liberally Eden used them. He didn’t try to hide the disdain in his voice as he spoke, aged weariness mixed with a self-righteous reluctant. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t used to it, that constant trepidation from people who didn't understand you, from people who didn't care for Eden. At least he was kind enough not to hide it. “Running errands for the witch hermit, again?”

“Eden’s not a hermit.” You tried to smile, to brush it off as if was just another misconception. He wasn’t. You weren’t sure what he was, but he liked people, he liked having someone else around. Or, he liked having you around, at least. He didn’t seem to care much about company, beyond that. “He just enjoys his privacy. We both do.”

“Only a witch, then.” There was a pause, a gruff laugh that didn’t match his grim disposition. Something in the back of your throat tightened, and silently, you wished he’d be a bit more wary of you. Just enough to keep him from speaking so openly. “I’d take what you can and go, if I were you. He takes after his father, and that man spent his whole life makin’ a monster of himself, playing with things no one should. His son ain’t much different.”

It was your turn to laugh, now. “He cries whenever he finds fawns separated from their mothers. He takes in tadpoles he finds puddles. I don’t think Eden is capable of cruelty.” He was a kind man. You’d never seen him be anything but kind. If he had an ulterior motive, if he had a single sadistic bone in his body, you had yet to find it. “He took me in, too, when I was injured. He might be the only reason I have a roof over my head, now. That’s not a kindness I can say very many people have showed me.”

His lips pursed, the barest hints of confusion crossing his expression. It was gone in an instant, and you tried not to linger on it. He thought poorly of Eden, but the mere fact that you were alive – walking and breathing and alive – was enough to earn him your gratitude. Regardless of what a merchant and a marketplace worth of gossip thought. You knew what you believed, you knew what was true, and you wouldn’t let a few rumors convince you otherwise.

Although, you’d be lying if you said that belief didn’t waver, as he went on. “Cruelty isn’t all you have to worry about.”

You opened your mouth. Then, you closed it again, keeping your eyes on the basket still hanging limply on your arm. He wasn’t done yet, not with the spices, not with his poorly veiled warnings, but you didn’t want to listen. You could listen, you would listen, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to believe anything you heard in such a crowded place, in such an awful place.

You just wanted to get back to Eden.

~

Willow bark, to take the pain away.

It’s more of a comfort than a necessity, by now. You used to need it, rely on it, and you still liked to keep a bundle nearby, just in case, for days where the soreness was worse than it should be and you needed something to take the edge off, to suppress that overwhelming ache back into a steady throb. But, you never needed it, not like you used to. Not like you had when your injury was a defining feature rather than an afterthought and Eden’s medical expertise was more of a experimental artform than a practiced skill.

His hands didn’t shake, anymore, as his fingers skirted over your bare skin, following along the outline of your wound, the trail of stitches that stretched from the bottom of your shoulder bone to the center of your rib cage and repeated itself, carrying over again and again and again, forming neat rows of tender flesh and scar tissue that refused to stop any higher than your hip bone. He wasn’t hesitant, not with the needle, not as he pushed it through the long-suffering spots where he’d first messily laid your stitches months ago, and he didn’t have to look at you to recognize the way you shifted, the soft string of expletives you let out, to notice your little attempts to turn your head at just the right angle, flinch at just the right time to—

“Eyes on the ceiling,” He demanded. With a small huff, you obeyed, turning back towards the furthest wall. “It’ll only get worse, if you look.”

You knew that. He’d said as much as thousand times before, once for every day he'd tended to your lasting wounds. You were tempted to try, to insist it was only fair that you got to know what was going on with your own body, but you trusted Eden, and it was easier to tilt your head back than to argue, to search the cluttered room for something more interesting than the boy sitting at your side and your own, nagging discomfort.

You were in his workshop, now, an area separated from the rest of the cottage and filled to the brim with the tools of Eden’s trade – blooming flowers permanently encased in blocks of amber, the shells of insects hollowed out and ground into a fine powder, pots, everywhere, some empty and some not, the largest placed over a smoldering hearth that never seemed to grow dimmer, despite how often Eden forgot to tend to it. There was something inside, a substance you didn’t recognize, bubbling and black as a starless sky. It was already solidifying around the edges of its cauldron, crystallizing into rows of jagged, silvery edges slowly creeping along the coaction's surface like an infection. Like a parasite. Like something that shouldn’t have existed but continued to, regardless.

Eden must’ve caught you staring. The needle stilled, and instead, he took to dabbing something cool and smooth around the edges of your scars. A rag, or a balm, or a dozen other possible remedies. You didn't try to look. “It’s for you,” He explained, as if that made it any better. “One of my father’s incomplete recipes. He never figured out how to stop it from hardening once it’s exposed to open air.” Eden clicked his tongue, pulling the thread he was working with taut, and you cringed, tying to ignore the slight pinch. It didn’t hurt, not really, not like it used to. It didn’t hurt at all, if you were being honest, but it felt like it should’ve. “The color isn’t right, either. And I’ve already fed enough dye into the damn thing to poison a small village.”

You should’ve laughed. You wanted to, you knew it was the reaction he was looking for, but it was all you could do to avert your stare, to let your fingers curl around the edge of the table he’d perched you on. "They really don’t like you.”

“I’ve noticed.” A blunt response, not abrasive, but not encouraging, either. Not as dismissive as you would’ve preferred. “And yet, they manage to stomach my cures regardless. It’s funny how quickly pain softens the heart, isn’t it?”

“They say it’s unnatural.” You were pushing, now. You should know better than to push. You never found out anything good, when you tried to push. “They say your father used to dabble in things that shouldn’t be.”

Eden sighed, pushing himself to his feet. There was a short silence, interrupted only by the sound of glass knocking against glass before he dropped what he was holding, stepping in front of you and cupping your face with both hands, instead, forcing you to face him, to meet his dark eyes. Black eyes. Lightless eyes. A contradiction when compared his tanned skin and warm smile. A contradiction you tried to overlook as he bent down, kissing the top of your head so gently, you could almost bring yourself to ignore it altogether.

“My father was a toymaker and a healer. My mother died in childbirth. He did what he could to take care of me, and there is nothing unnatural about that.” He took a moment to laugh, to hold you, and you couldn’t be help but be thankful for it. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid to touch you, afraid to watch you break all over again. Now, it was all he could do to let you go long enough for his arms to fall to your waist, for your face to find his chest, his tunic, a place to hide yourself away from the rest of the world. You didn’t want to go back, not to the village, not to the marketplace, not to the lonely, hurtful, desolate world outside his cottage. You didn’t want to go back to a place filled with so many people so determined to separate you from Eden. You didn’t want to return to a life you couldn’t remember, one where you wouldn’t have the man who’d saved you by your side. “He loved his family, just as I love you.”

For once, you didn’t have to convince yourself to believe him.

~

Witch hazel, to stop the bleeding.

You’d need it. You’d need a lot of it, more than you should for such a small cut, a jagged line drawn from the corner of your eye to your opposite check, thin but deep and bleeding, pouring out, washing over your hands as you tried to clutch at your face and rub away the damage, like a child trying to blink away a bad dream. Your legs might’ve been bleeding, too, the sides of your ankles, the backs of your thighs, your skin scraped raw in all the places you’d hit the ground as you tripped, falling over your own feet at your stumbled backward, but you didn’t check, you didn’t want to check, you didn’t want to see how bad it was. You didn’t want to take your eyes off the man in front of you, his towering stature, his grim expression.

His sword, silver and unsheathed and pointed at your heart, as it had been from the moment he first caught sight of you.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be here, in Eden’s forest, only minutes away from the cottage you’d come to think of as your safe haven. He hadn’t asked for your name, he hadn’t mentioned Eden, he hadn’t said a word to you, not before there was a dagger flashing across your line of sight, a weapon quickly discarded for something more intimidating, something that’d let him stay at arm’s length while he approached you, his stare holding yours, his lips pulled into a thin frown. “I—” You tried, but your voice gave out quickly. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had threatened your life. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so scared. “Please, I didn’t mean to get in your—”

“Stop talking.” His tone was flat, apathetic, the barest hints of rage seeping through a weathered veil of neutrality. Immediately, you fell silent. “Who said you had the right to use that voice?”

You opened your mouth, but you thought better of it, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you bowed your head. You wanted to get back to Eden, back to his cottage. You wanted to be anywhere but here. You wanted to run, but you wanted to get out of this with your head on your shoulders, too. “Are you going to kill me?”

“It will not be a true death.” There was a pause, a reluctant hesitation. You pulled your knees into your chest, your hand still pressed to your wound, but the gesture didn’t seem to earn you any pity. “But, I am going to make this—”

He stopped, abruptly, his head attention towards something behind you. You heard it a moment later – measured footsteps, barely making a sound against the dead leaves and branches that littered the forest floor. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

Not when there was only one person who’d ever bother to save you.

“Adam,” Eden called, already positioning himself at your side. His hand was already on his satchel, toying with the buckle. Like he’d done this, before. Like he already knew it wouldn’t resolve itself peacefully. “There are easier ways to introduce yourself. If you put that sword away, I’m sure (Y/n) could still find a way to forgive—”

“Do not call it by that name.” He was focused on Eden, now, leaving you to fade into the background, to observe as his hands began to shake and he glared, baring his teeth, as Eden had done more than try to play peacekeeper. “That is not (Y/n). It doesn’t deserve to pretend it is, none of your abominations do. It won't bring— It can't—” He trailed off, his sword falling back to his side, his eyes clenching shut. You almost felt bad for him, your would-be murderer, but Eden’s expression remained cold, unbothered. Slowly, almost idly, he reached down, taking you by the arm and helping you to your feet, letting you tuck yourself against him as Adam finally found his voice.

“(Y/n) is dead. Nothing you do can change that.”

A moment passed in silence, still, deathly, frigid silence.

Then, Eden spoke.

“I can handle this on my own.” He didn’t deny it. He wasn’t denying it. Why wasn’t he denying it? “I need you to brew tea, Chamomile. Gather as much lavender as you can on your way home, until your pockets are full and you can’t carry anymore. Can you do that for me, love?”

You nodded, but you were still shaking, still unsure, still so, so confused. You weren’t dead. You could breathe, and you could think, and you ate and you slept and you weren’t dead. “I’m not.” You didn’t know who you were talking to – Adam, still clutching his sword, still ready to behead whoever his blade could reach or Eden, your Eden, the gentle protector who hadn’t looked at you once since his arrival. You just wanted someone to say it wasn’t true. You just needed someone to say it wasn’t true. “I’m not. I’m alive. I’m not de—”

“I’m in love,” Eden said, his voice soft. As if he hadn’t heard you at all. “Why does everyone act as if that’s so monstrous?”

You didn’t want to hear Adam’s response. You didn’t want to hear anything, not from him, not from Eden, and certainly not from your own frenzied thoughts, racing and only growing louder as you ran, sprinting, stumbling through the forest in any direction your legs would carry you. A crooked sob racked over your chest, and reflexively, you moved to brush away the tears blurring your vision, but you couldn’t feel yourself when you should’ve, it wasn’t flesh that met your cheek. Your eyes darted to your hand, a sneer already playing at your lips for whatever mud or decaying foliage had plastered itself against your skin, but…

But, you found a small trail of crystals, instead, silvery-glass that coated your palm, rows of jagged edges that hadn’t been there before, that shouldn’t have been there, where your blood had stained your skin only minutes ago. Or, where you thought your blood should’ve stained your skin. You hadn’t looked.

You hadn’t looked.

You froze dead in your tracks.

Slowly, our raised a hand to your face, to the cut carved into it, to what should’ve been a bloody, bloody wound. Something jagged met your fingertips, but you ignored the slight sting. It didn’t hurt. Not as much as it should’ve. Not as much as you wanted it to.

By the time you pulled away, your hand was covered with it. Thick, cool, forming webs between your fingers as you spread them apart. Dark. A kind of dark you’d only seen once.

As black as a starless sky.