#whatever your personal failings and transgressions

[valtsv]

writing VAL pov for this character study/"what if the power of friendship was REALISTIC and NUANCED and CANNOT SAVE YOU (but is still a nice thing to have)" fic is fun because nobody in tsv really understands what mental illness is from a clinical perspective or has made that much progress in the field of psychiatry. they're barely on "you can get shellshock from being a combat veteran" stages of understanding the impacts of trauma (personal and societal) on the human mind. so everyone including VAL herself just thinks she's the bearer of the curse while readers will recognise the symptoms of cPTSD with schizoaffective comorbidity.

[heich0e]

i know in my heart that things are very rarely ever as idyllically simple as "forgive and forget" but i do genuinely wish that i was better at the forgetting part

[jabberwondia]

【the next step】 【part 2】 RIDDLE x READER, NSFW

Part 1 is here.

The proverbial "next time".

Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader, 18+. Fluff, sexual intimacy (explicit), consensual.

Worrying about failing a test, botching that one high note at the recital, or stammering throughout the graduation speech are all examples of performance anxiety. The thought of failing and the looming overshadow it casts on the far-off dream of success – to a lot of people, it can be paralyzing. To counter it, you dwell on all the possibilities before that something can even come to pass, methodically going through worst-case scenarios in your head; at the time, they all seem more like prophecies.

Contrary to what his occasionally fiery mood swings might suggest, Riddle Rosehearts was a fairly confident and composed person, and never suffered from nerves before a test, recital or speech. The roots of his self-assurance were practice, diligence and rules. No test would ever be scary if you had revised hard enough, no note unreachable if practiced frequently enough, and no speech impossible if rehearsed enough. Rules provided a frame which allowed little flexibility, which meant more provable, safe results.

This, however, was different. There was no way to prepare for it. Any guides on the subject would generally say, ‘Let it flow’, and honestly that’s what he believed he had done -or at least tried to do- last time, when you were catching your breath, spread on top of his lap. He had purposefully, repeatedly, attempted to forget all about it – but every time his phone buzzed with one of your messages, he was sorely reminded of everything he did, and specially of what he didn’t do.

‘Would it be so bad if it were... planned?’ he pondered. But it’s not like those words would ever leave his mouth, and he truly did care about you, so he was not about to insult your integrity by suggesting something as unrefined as “Hey baby, let’s get it on”.

Sigh. It hardly seemed like the topic you could trust friends with, either. “What should I do?” he wanted to ask, but the fear of getting humiliated in return was too real. Or at least, it was inside Riddle’s head, as however certain he could be in social situations, one of his most recurring nightmares included screwing up an easy spell, getting laughed at, then yelled at by his mother, and, finally, falling through the void (in that order).

“Next time,” he had told Floyd. Why did he do that? Whatever the hell did that mean? Not unlike enlisting New Year resolutions and telling everyone you started working out – in a way, the contract behind your words binds you to turn them into action. Riddle really wish he hadn’t, and to be fair, Floyd hadn’t even asked about it since – but the thought alone was eating away at him.

Alone in his room, he had, at long last, drafted up the end-all, be-all of text-based conversation.

Riddle Rosehearts: “Hello! 🌹 What are you doing for the break? I’ll pass on going home this time, I think. We can expect an exceptionally hot summer this year, and I’m worried about the hedgehogs.”

And then, greatly contingent on your answer, but – hopefully – the next sentence would be:

“If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?”

‘Stay the night’ was a much more suitable euphemism for what he wanted to say. It was short, and sweet, and left the possibility of nothing happening, which was important. The main problem with it is that it broke quite a few rules, but most notoriously: the rules that stated students from other schools were not allowed inside the dorms past curfew, and that non-alumni needed a special permission to enter in the first place. Well, uh, and also the fact that he was trying to bring a girl to sleepover to an all-boys school. After one law had been violated, the rest of transgressions just seemed like silly, collateral damage. This is why he was a stickler for codes and regulations – being unyielding did, in fact, protect the system from falling apart all at once.

The hedgehog excuse also worked well, and even his mother had believed it and granted him permission to stay all summer on campus.

The first text is an easy one to send. If, for any reason, Riddle feels like he needs to call the whole thing off, he can just invite you to a Tea Party, or suggest a date in the park. The break begins next weekend, and it’s a perfect time because the school will be mostly empty and free of prying eyes. And if you are too busy to catch up, spending a quiet summer caring for the hedgehogs doesn’t sound too bad either.

Y/N: “oh hey! 😊 poor darlings🦔 it’s good they have a very kind caretaker💓 yeah, I read somewhere we were reaching record temperatures. thankfully it’s not so bad inside our dorm. i’ll go home, but only from the second week onwards”

Which leaves a week in between to... to...

Riddle opens up his drafts once again. All he has to do is copy, paste and hope for the best. But as he’s proof-reading, it occurs to him that maybe “sleepover” is better than “stay the night” – which one sounds more casual? Ugh, his hands are starting to feel icy cold and unresponsive. The weight on his chest is getting bigger.

Y/N: “we should meet up before I leave! 😊 i can help take care of the hedgehogs if you need a hand?"

Oh my Queen. A second, continuous text from you was not in the original plan. So now what? Well, he could still brave through and –ahem– suggest his suggestion. Hell, if he was so paralyzed at a text, there’s no way he could actually sleep with you, even if you did come over.

Riddle does not want you to help take care of the hedgehogs. Or rather, that is so trivial right now, that he wishes you could forget about it, and words to be undone.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I couldn’t possibly ask that! Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you’d have to come in pretty late.”

Riddle is quick to type and send, but then gasps when he realizes the meaning. It can be taken two ways: either that he wants you to come in late, ergo, wants to get in your pants and is cowardly suggesting it; or he does not want you anywhere near the dorm at night, which, eh, kind of resets all the progress made in this conversation.

Y/N: “oh, right 😊 the school has rules against that, lol”

It’s getting more and more impossible to recover from this, like a rowing boat trying to maneuver through a river of chocolate fudge.

The draft that is waiting in his copy clipboard now makes no sense. “If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?” is no longer applicable to this flow of the conversation. But he needs to find a way around it, or else it’s back to square one.

Riddle takes a very, very deep breath. Face red, fingers trembling, he manages to write:

Riddle Rosehearts: “Actually, don’t worry about the hedgehogs. It takes time to build trust with them anyways. But on that note, would you like to stay over sometime? Feel free to say no.”

That last part sounds incredibly weak and lacking in courage. He erases it and types it again a couple of times until deciding in favor of leaving it as-is – the fact that you don’t feel pressured is, after all, of utmost importance to him.

And yeah, “stay over” sounds better than sleeping or staying the night, so let’s stick to that.

When the message pops on your side of the screen, your sight paces back and forth at least twenty times, doubting the verity of your own eyes or reading comprehension. After last time, and how nonchalantly it had ended, you thought for sure that Riddle had been distancing himself from you, and that you had crossed a boundary that was hard to backtrack from. That is exactly why, truth be told, you were relieved when he initiated casual conversation as if nothing had happened. The struggle was mixing all these pure, affectionate, innocent emotions he made you feel with the raw Eros of whatever last study session was, and it had left you more confused than ever.

But hey, you tell yourself. Nothing needs to happen. I can just sleep. We can cuddle, and that’s it.

It seems you are taking all too long to answer, because his chat box pops up again.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I want to see you.”

Riddle was really good in situations reigned by protocol. He was the best social dancer you’d ever seen, and the way he’d guided you while waltzing through an interscholastic dance had been dreamlike. He’d open doors for you and escort you to your school gates; he was always eager to send over a study guide or offer some academic advice. But “I want to see you” and “I miss you” were words rarely uttered.

Filled with a newfound courage, you text back:

Y/N: “i'd love to! is friday ok? 😊”

Getting into Heartslabyul is always a challenge. You’d need to either come over during the daytime and then purposefully miss curfew, or you’d have to find a way to sneak in just before the gates are closed for the night. As a housewarden from a rival school, your face is somewhat known within the Night Raven College students, and while it’s not exactly a secret that you’re dating the Heartslabyul sovereign, you’d rather if people did not know you were planning on staying the night, for the Seven’s sakes!

If this were an eventful holiday, like Halloween celebrations or a friendly Spelldrive tournament, inter-school visits were more easily forgivable. There were plenty of ways to score a guest pass and walk around freely. But an outsider going around the dorm at night, on a normal school day? Now, that is just fishy.

You devised a plan of which the success depended on how fast Riddle could find you and then rush to his room. And you know he hated running in the hallways.

Your Signature Spell, “Drink Me”, as tongue-in-cheek as it sounded, allowed you to change an object or person in size for a very small period of time. Theoretically, if this was used on yourself and your clothes, you could become hedgehog-sized in seconds. And then, all would Riddle need to do is transport you in his shirt pocket. Simple enough, right?

As you head through the motions of the plan, you realize how utterly embarrassing it is. First, you would need to decide on a set of coordinates where Riddle would find your miniaturized self. He needs to pick you up, basically engulfing you with both hands. You are then to fit inside his pocket, and this meant that his heartbeat would sound like thunderstorms in the summer sky (a by-product of you being so small). And because you’d turn back in 5 minutes, he needs to rush to his room and take you out of the pocket, lest you grow back to normal and rip his prized uniform shirt apart.

There could be some repercussions. Usually, your Signature Spell required of a catalyst – you would use homemade soda for the shrinking spell and cookies for the enlarging spell – so as to keep the side effects at bay, and make the desired transformation last longer (a maximum of an hour). Very rarely you’d cast them directly from your pen to the object in question, unless you wanted or needed consequences to be more immediate and short-lived. In this case, staying small for a whole hour was not exactly the most enticing of options, and gorging on enlarging cookies while the effects of the fizzy shrinking drink hadn’t yet subsided always resulted in nausea, an upset stomach and a fever (you know – you’ve tried before). So, the only viable option was cast and run: a plan problematic in and of itself, but the only chance you had to access the property unnoticed. Ah, if only Chen’ya could teach you how to disappear at will.

When you suggested all of this over the phone, Riddle was flabbergasted. It was hard to tell which is more mortifying – carrying you around like a portable magic pen, or having you enter the dorm life-size and risk a student seeing you enter his room at night.

Eventually, after much persuasion, he had agreed to meet you at the outskirts of the Heartslabyul forest, which was exactly five minutes away from his quarters.

It’s the first meeting since the, uh, lap-sitting incident, and you are both quite self-conscious still. You wave and smile at his approaching figure, but he hurriedly hushes, “Quick! Before anyone sees you.”

Pointing a shaky pen to your chest, you take a deep breath. “Here goes. Drink Me!”

If the feeling could be compared to anything, you’d say it kind of reminds you of a balloon deflating – air gushing out, spiraling as it swirls until it reaches the floor. A kaleidoscope in which the senses become filled all at once, as the world around you is so big, and you’re now so small. The only good part is that, because your height and weight also decrease in proportion, having a parasol ready allows you to float tenderly for the last couple of inches, and the fall is never too abrupt.

Riddle is now... huge. I mean, wow there, Y/N, witty observation. But he really is, and even the act of him crouching to get closer to you shakes the whole ground like an earthquake. He stares at you, two fingers pressed on his lips, pondering if he should lift you up by the collar... but no, no, that’s too ungracious.

So, he offers the palm of his hand. You know that even if you talked at this size, your tiny micro lungs are not enough to produce enough sound to reach him properly, so you keep quiet and climb up his thumb.

When Riddle brings you up to the height of his pocket, it’s like that one Twisneyland attraction that you rode together once, the scary one with the elevator which you had hated with every fiber of your heart as you held on to your boyfriend’s arm screaming – and he wasn’t too keen on thrill rides, either, but had tried to put on a brave face for your sake.

“Are you alright?” he beckons, in a normal tone for him, but it’s like a cacophony ripping apart at your miniature eardrums. You put your hands over your ears. “—sorry! So sorry,” he reduces his voice to a whisper.

Plopping yourself into the pocket, you fall all the way in, roughly reaching the middle while standing straight. You are way smaller than hedgehog size at this point, comparable to a miniature doll of only a few centimeters high. “Hang in there,” he says.

By the sudden swaying, like a seism about to tear the face of the Earth, you assume that Riddle has set course for his room. The countdown starts.

As luck would have it, everyone and their mother is out to get the Headwarden today. He gets stopped at least thrice, mostly about silly stuff such as the shipment for flamingo food or the rundown for the next unbirthday party. It’s impressive how many students are still in the dorm, really –don’t these people have anything else better to do?– their voices are so loud you can barely make out the conversations, instead just catching the keywords. You have both hands pressed against your ears, eyes closed, trying to avoid sensory overload. At least this goes to show there is no way you could have gotten into Heartslabyul unnoticed if you were your proper size.

After many unwanted interruptions, time was running out for the both of you. The de-transformation would start coming in little bursts, where you’d feel your body a little bigger each time. The transpired, stuffy white fabric of that pocket was sure starting to feel a little tight, and now you could almost peek over the hem on your tiptoes.

“Riddle!” is your hurried plead, but he’s going as fast as humanly possible, as fast as anyone can go while still avoiding attention.

When he’s at the doorstep, it feels the seams won’t hold any longer. To the best of your ability, you lift yourself using your arms, trying to squeeze up and out. He fumbles with the key, breath visibly agitated, until he remembers he can just use magic, and can finally, triumphantly, open the door and slam it shut.

“Y/N!” he beckons, in a panic, looking for you to jump on his palm again so he can plop you onto the ground.

“No time! Throw me on the bed!” you squeak, unsure of how much of your speech is currently intelligible. Riddle catches the gist of it, and grabs you by the first thing he can pinch, which is the hem of your skirt, as you’re now dangling outside his pocket, barely not small enough to fit back in.

And next thing you know, he is flinging you like a Spelldrive disk towards his bed; with a loud “poof”, you transform mid-air and land headfirst, full size, cartwheeling on his mattress. Your skirt is flung open, you’ve lost both shoes somewhere along the way, you’re all tangled in on yourself, but at least you are finally safe, and neither Riddle’s shirt nor reputation have been ruined.

Adjusting your sitting position, you first make sure all parts have grown back to size. After all, it’s not unheard of for the effect to last longer on some objects or body parts than others. A quick check assures you that you’re back to normal – all over, that is. You turn to Riddle, who is watching you from the edge of the bed, hand over his mouth, his expression between bemusement and bewilderment.

A stifled laugh that you can’t seem to contain breaks the silence, and it’s like springing open a can of worms, because the redhead giggles a little, too, and then the whole situation becomes too funny to hold it in. Soon he’s laughing tears out of his eyes, unable to speak in full sentences.

“You — you really became pocket size. Right here! You were right here!” He gasps for air between chuckles, pointing at his chest pocket. “I can’t believe... really can’t... ahaha!”

“Hehe, that was some adventure,” you agree. And it’s not like you’re not laughing yourself, but your turn to your boyfriend, and the sight of him fills your chest with a strange warmth, so much that it quiets your laughter. You’d rarely ever seen such a playful, childlike expression; he keeps cry-laughing uncontrollably, wiping his eyes and clutching at his stomach; a hint of relaxation in his ever-so-stiff posture.

His giggle fit starts settling down, and then it dawns on you.

“Oh, no, we need to go through this exact same process tomorrow!” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Tomorrow. He liked the sound of that. It made the fact that you’re staying over more official.

“We’ll think of something by then,” he states.

The rush to close the door and prop you out of the pocket as fast as possible meant that the room was still dim. Because you had landed on his bed, there you were sitting upright in its dead center; suddenly feeling a rush of pink on your cheeks, as the whole Drink Me situation had acted as a deterrent to the actual elephant in the room: the fact that you were here to sleep over and that you had both been so nervous up until that point.

Riddle’s bleary eyes flicker in the twilight, still a soft smile on his lips.

“That was nice,” you grin. “It’d been a while since I last saw you laugh.”

“Oh, come now. Am I really that serious all the time?”

You struggle to find the words. “It’s like... like you’re always worried about something. Not that I blame you—"

“Huh,” he retorts before you can continue. “Well, even I can find something that tickles my funny bone, every now and then.”

He’s now frowning and pouting and just... standing there, as if still hesitant to join you in bed. After all, Riddle was quick to notice that you had made no effort to stand up, and now is wondering what the next step is. It’s not like he had planned any activities for you to do that night – maybe watching a movie on your phones? ...playing card games? Or just go straight to sleep? In the end, he could decide on none and the Day Of came to happen before he could devise a plan, something he dreaded from the bottom of his heart. His whole life was set in rules, set in stone tablets, and now he had to somehow improvise.

“I’m not worried,” he says, pensive, then adds: “Not when I’m with you, at least.”

“Liar,” you accuse him, to which he looks rather offended, albeit playfully so. “By now, you’re probably thinking, ‘What’s comes next?’ — well, aren’t you?”

His expression gives him away immediately. For such a well-postured, well-mannered person, Riddle tends to be a bit transparent. “H-how did you –”

“—it’s because I’m thinking the same thing, too,” you admit. “This is hard, isn’t it?”

It’s not a question. In no unclear terms, last time you’d met had been the very first instance of feeling each other’s bodies, and along came the realization that you are dating and it’s perfectly okay for you to do so. And now you’re subconsciously running your fingers through his velvety red, quilted duvet; and Riddle is still paralyzed a few steps away from the bed. You are not the boldest person out there; and he seems to be bold for anything except for this.

“Agreed,” he muses. Again, he’s like on the outside looking in – it’s that anxious feeling that never goes away, back to the little boy and the cakes he’d never eat.

“This is so awkward to say out loud,” you muster up some courage. “But I’ll try.”

“—yes?”

“I don’t care what we do today. I get to be with you, and that’s enough.”

...oh. Riddle can feel his heart doing a summersault. Being filled to the brim with love like this is something he is not accustomed to. It’s like he’s back to your warm embrace and the rhythmic breathing of your clothed chest, like digging his fingers in your back again, and feeling you return the squeeze. Every single waking moment, and hell, even while sleeping, he goes back to that evening. But he struggles to return your words, hesitant and meditative, staring at the floor.

“Riddle?”

“—yes?”

“Are you okay?”

He’s not. He’s fed up with himself. Scared of this new situation to which he doesn’t have a manual for. Terrified of underperforming and disheartening you.

“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. You are still fully clothed, so all he can see are your knees and calves, from where the skirt of your uniform ends and the socks begin. It’s not remotely erotic at all, yet he’s burning all over. You notice his eyes traveling up and down, trying to take the sight of you in.

You can’t be sure, but deep inside, you intuited that if you both feel the same, then he wants it as much as you do. But then again, pressuring your boyfriend is something you would never, ever venture to do – like a hedgehog himself, he was always quick to spike up to prevent you from poking at his vulnerability. He’d get angry or annoyed or sulky, only to quickly apologize later. So, you are not brave enough to ask, but the least you can do is initiate the scene – like the character that utters the first lines in a play, setting the mood and the proceeds in motion.

Hands, your own, travel to the elastic on your socks, as you slide them off slowly, one by one. Your feet get adjusted to the soft duvet, now feeling it on your bare skin, and you can’t help but notice how utterly cold your toes are – might be from the air conditioning, might be from the nerves. Riddle gasps audibly and clutches at his chest.

You look up at him, as he’s still standing immobilized in his spot. Fine. You’ll venture one more step past the proverbial line of his defenses, then.

Not unlike his, your school uniform consists of a white shirt with a tie or ribbon, at the student’s free choice of whichever. The ribbon on your neck is striped light blue and white, with a small coat of arms applique that depicts a teacup floating in a bottle full of tears. With a quick tug, you undo it, then the first button of your collar, all while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend – it feels like the sound of your own heartbeat is going to deafen you at this point.

Riddle takes a step in your direction, fully flushed, although you can barely tell through the room submerged in the summer dusk. But he stops just by the edge of the bed, frozen again. His is quite the big mattress, and he will need to crawl to you if he wants to reach you. Close, yet so far.

You press your lips together, at the attempt to regain some moisture: your mouth feels dry and trembling all over. Even so, you use the last bit of courage to undo one more button – completely innocuous, as this barely only reveals your collarbone.

“Stop,” he beckons, scaring you for a second. Seeming so desperate, filled with regret. “Don’t.”

“Oh.” Maybe it had been too much? You dread having pushed the Heartslabyul warden too far. “I’m sorry—”

“—no.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, let me do it.”

Riddle climbs into the bed, knee first. His hand is reaching for your face, slate grey eyes full of adoration, and in turn, you unbalance him by pulling at both his arms, so he stumbles on top of you. Bumping heads at the fall, now faces only an inch away.

“Riddle—”

“—shh. Quit staring.”

But you’re not really, as your eyelids are drooping over, lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s so like him to want to have the last word.

As usual, it’s a peck on the lips, albeit a bit longer and hungrier; he then kisses your cheek, and now the question is what comes next and how the familiar pattern will be broken. To your surprise, you feel two nibbles on your neck, just below your jaw at first and then close to your throat. One leg has snuck in between yours, pressing slightly, the weight of his bony hips digging into your thigh.

He’s always fixing other students’ uniforms, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but he has unexpected skill in unbuttoning your shirt all the way through. But he’s taking it slow and steady, because every single new flash of skin is just killing him on the inside, building up fire within.

Pushing up with one arm, he uses the other to take your hand and give it a kiss, then a tug as he prods you to turn around, softly undressing one sleeve, and reaching for the clasp of your brassiere. Is this too sudden? He’s filled with worry, but push comes to shove, and his instincts urge him to keep going. He needs both hands to do this, causing him to promptly level forward, his mouth caressing your naked shoulder plates. And with one quick snap, you’re out of your bra, though it still lingers lazily on top of your breasts, as you adjust on your back once more.

Riddle realizes – he can almost peek – y-you’re half-naked, writhing beneath him, and –

“—hey,” you call softly, smiling with a tint of self-consciousness as you reach a hand for his cheek. “C-can I...?”

Can I take your clothes off, too? – is what you mean to say, but the words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Curses. Leaving the question unasked, you tug at his striped necktie, and his fingers follow yours, together undoing his shirt buttons all the way to his waist. He’s using a white, paper-thin t-shirt underneath, so you can make the shape of his nipples through it. More lightly clothed than ever, the sudden rush of shame gets the best out of you, and your gut reaction is to pull him into a full embrace, arms clasped around his neck.

Riddle stops for a moment, melting into your hold. You cannot see eye to eye right now, but you can clearly hear each other’s heartbeat. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and uncharacteristic of him, but he wants to eat you whole and has no way of hiding it. Uncertain, his hand travels down your neck, feeling your collarbone, and hovering for a few instants where your bra is – unbound, it is no more than a decoration on top of your chest, and he pushes it aside.

“Ah,” he exclaims, almost unwillingly. Your breasts are oscillating up and down with your breathing, your lips are swollen and dyed a madder red, and you just look so beautiful.

“Now you quit staring,” you snap back.

“Hah,” he laughs raspingly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve got some nerve.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, glad that he’s finally back to his normal self, setting aside all the anxiety and worry. Well, mostly. Of course, some worries are still in the way, but they continue melting as the heat rises – it’s impossible not to give into the moment and fondle your breasts. You let out a little yelp.

“Ah – does it hurt?” he frowns, worried, unable to gauge your reaction. Sure, he made a point to read a few erotic novels in an attempt to prepare for what should be expected for this situation –ugh, perish the thought of anyone finding those hidden at the bottom of his drawer– but truth be told, he still had no idea how rough or how gentle he should be.

“No,” you assured. “It feels good.”

“Show me where.”

At his request, you guide his hand with yours, back to your chest; and strengthen your grip, instructing him to squeeze ever so slightly. His leg, or rather, his knee presses against you, separating your legs further apart, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. The goddamned skirt is still in the way, but you can’t muster up enough lucidity to concentrate and remove it, moaning and twitching below him.

Riddle must have read your mind, because he shifts his hands to the zipper on your skirt instead, and his mouth starts moving down and away from your neck. Your first reflex –completely involuntary, mind you– is to cross your arms and cover up your breasts, as if it made any difference at this point. His eyes move up to yours, worried again.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” –well, now you’re making less sense than the Queen’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat poem– “It’s just... ah...”

He understands. Neither of you want it to end, and yet moving forward is just as scary. Before this, when you first started dating, he used to be able to listen to his inside voice when he kissed you. Or rather, he was forced to listen to it, by his own brain – like a switch you can’t turn off, he’d count the number of kisses and always follow the same pattern. His head was constantly yapping at him, keeping track of time so as to not be late for the 5 PM tea, or telling him to compulsively fix your uniform. But since he had climbed on top of you ten minutes earlier, he has not heard his inner voice, not even once. He could not keep count of how many kisses and nibbles he’d placed all over your collarbone, shoulders, inner elbows and wrists; softly motioning you to let go and uncross your arms. And the sheer fact of losing control was terrifying, yet it felt so good.

That being said, when faced with your bare chest, and the zipper on your skirt lowered but still not removed, Riddle feels a flash of clarity and stops dead on his tracks. There she is, the girl he loves, half-dressed, gorgeous, breasts perking up, but there is one thing that doesn’t quite feel right.

“Come here.” He props you up, helping you sit. He moves the hair off your face and pats your head. “I’ll– I’ll take off the rest of my clothes, too.”

It’s not as embarrassing if it’s the two of you, is his reasoning. And it was important for him that this wasn’t one-sided.

“—you wha– you will?” Not at your brightest nor most eloquent, you’re taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, again crossing your arms in front of your chest. He’s halfway through the zipper of his black school pants when he stops to look at you, face fully flushed.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he mumbles guiltily, his delivery harshly contrasting with his words. “You know I hate that.” Feigning authority and playful anger, part of him is trying to be a tease, yet still unsure how.

A giggle escapes your lips. “Shame you’re not wearing the dorm uniform today.”

“—ah.” He notices in that same moment. Had he been so nervous he completely mixed up his clothes today? As the last layers were coming off and he was sitting there in his underwear, he realized it didn’t matter.

“Wait, what is it about the dorm uniform?”

“Heh. Just – the heels,” you blurt out. “They’re kind of... –ah, I’m not gonna say it.”

The idle talk is not important. All you can focus on is how his porcelain skin contrasts with the crimson quilting, and he’s blushing head to toe, like a white rose poorly stained with red paint. Actually, you meant to say the heels turned you on (come on, admit it, just a little?), but halfway through the sentence you noticed you could not be any more aroused, and then he fell on top of you again, and your head emptied completely of thoughts. His hand now presses between your legs, and you wonder where your skirt went – it had been on you just a second before, right?

“Riddle,” you gasp, knowing the fabric of your underwear is betraying you and giving away how wet you are. You have no doubt he can feel it too. And he wishes you wouldn’t call his name, not like that – do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? His fingers are caressing you softly, and it truly feels like you might burst even though you’re just getting started. His face is close to yours, jaw shivering in a cold sweat, even though it feels like there must be a hundred degrees in the darkness of the room. And while he’s helping your orgasm build up, thumb toying with you gently, he can’t help but wonder if your skin feels just as good to the direct touch as it feels through your panties, and how is it that even the parts of you he never knew are all so perfect. It seems slightly unfair, he muses, that you could be this flawless without even trying – but then you wince a little, possibly lost in pleasure, and Riddle starts worrying again.

“Are you okay?” his words feel moist close to your ear.

“Hm-mm.”

“Relax your arms.”

And the second you do, he moves back down again, slobbering kisses all over your neck and chest. While seemingly rawer and more animal than ever, he’s still attentively measuring your reactions, and finds you gasp the loudest when he sucks on your breasts. So, he teases them for a while, circling slowly with his tongue, then softly and toothlessly pinching the stiff center with his lips; he repeats from left breast to right, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, with a sort of rhythmic cadence. Focus, Riddle reminds himself, as his own erection is throbbing painfully. But he’s determined to devote to you first and foremost.

“May I–”

“Yes. Please,” you beg, not even sure what you are agreeing to, but realizing it might as well not matter anymore.

Struggling to open your eyes, you force yourself into keeping alert just so you can take in the view of your raggedly breathing boyfriend, peeking up from the curves between your breasts, hand on the inside of your underwear and soaking his slender fingers inside, applying even pressure. He is amused at the sight of how effortlessly they go in and out, assisted by your moisture, so much so that he forgets about your breasts for a moment. Your voice brings his attention back, however.

“I – I can’t...”

“It’s okay. Don’t hold it in”, he reassures, but maybe he is also talking to himself, as Riddle is always the type to exceed in self-restraint. You are melting, becoming undone with a touch of his hand and he cannot get enough of how it feels – to hear you panting and moaning, to know he will soon be able to press inside you and fill you with his length. It’s an unfamiliar, weird, wonderful thing – not quite like he had imagined, but perfect all the same. Your chest is responsive to his every kiss, and now his fingers have gotten faster and heavier. He can feel you close and is living for it.

“Riddle, I –”

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps breathily, finally able to be honest with himself. “Don’t hold back. It’s all right.”

“Riddle. Riddle? I’m – I ––”

“––Y/N,” he chuckles, and his touch becomes even more merciless. Your hard nipples cannot possibly take any more kisses. “You’re so adorable.”

It’s not like you need any more stimulation, but as he says this, his mouth is full of one breast and hand cupping the other, and you can clearly see it all, from his heavy-lidded slate grey eyes to his dark red eyelashes, all focused on you as he’s making your sex squeak with wet sounds, pushing down just underneath your navel as his fingers throb and sting inside you.

“Please. Don’t stop.”

He won’t. He’s not the type to tease you like that. Your toes are curling in a frenzy as your legs swing inevitably open, and pretty soon you’re incoherently giving into the thrusting of his hand, and his lips have not left your breasts for one second.

You can’t hold it in. You would have if you could have – the sensation was just too amazing, and you were trying to grasp at straws –literally, if by straws you mean sinking your nails into his shoulders– trying to prolong your orgasm to no avail. You are coming all over, spasming and stirring and gasping his name, and Riddle is a bit scared at first – did he – did he do that? – but it seems you are content, and you settle down huffing beneath him. He takes out his fingers, but his hand stays put, pushing on you softly, as you are still whimpering with the aftershocks that come and go after the peak.

Riddle knows what is supposed to come after that, but the thought alone makes his stomach do cartwheels. Now, how to initiate? He doesn’t have time to think, as you grab him by the wrist, taking his hand out of your underwear and giving it a tug, motioning him to come closer. In your current clouded state, it’s hard of you to completely gain enough strength to pin him down as you originally had wanted to, so you settle to have him sit beside you as you roll over so that your upper body meets his crotch.

“Y/N?” he yelps, suddenly self-aware of how flush his length is against the fabric of his boxers, throbbing to come out, and your face is now caressing it softly with only one layer to separate you.

“Ah. Sorry. Too fast?”

He shakes his head.

“No. Actually,” he pushes his underwear down. “Please. Can you –”

He needn’t ask. The sensation of him in your mouth compelled such novelty – it was weird to get used to, but at the same time felt like the natural next step to take. Tip reddened and throbbing, teased by your lips as your hands would steady his thighs. Funny how something so intense – suckling at him, gasping for jagged breaths, as the bitter taste of his precum numbs your other senses – would come apparent to you so matter-of-factly, unrehearsed yet perfectly calculated. Riddle stifles moans until he can’t anymore, pouring from his lips, buckling into you with hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

He’s no longer thinking straight, and that’s fine. If he were, he’d still be stuck in the preparation phase, staring mindlessly at the welt of your socks, unable to move. But since he’s no longer counting the kisses he’s given you tonight, he’ll make a point of also not counting how many times he’ll thrust into you, as he topples you over when the wetness of your mouth just won’t quite scratch that itch, and hurriedly reaches over the counter for a condom. It’s not like the guilt is completely done, but this – this is everything right now, and as you are huffing and puffing away below him, eager to receive him, he understands that a bit of chaos is needed every once in a while.

A lot of first times are awkward. This might be no exception. But he enters you with such ease, you wonder how this new feeling can be so recognizable, as the pressure builds between your legs and his hipbones dig into you once again, and he restrains your hands with his, raising your arms, soft eyes filled with lust.

“So tight...” Riddle whispers, but it’s more like sounds are escaping him, uncontrolled, “Y/N... y-you’re...”

His speech is barely intelligible, though you can sometimes make out words – ‘beautiful’, ‘good’, ‘wet’ – and a few poorly-pronounced phrases like “does it hurt?” –– it doesn’t, and as you’re pinned beneath him with a clear view into his quivering rosy lips and half-lidded gaze, you know he’s getting closer as he gets harder. He‘s trying to get his mouth full of your taste as if it were forbidden – like it all boiled down to this one evening, and this chance was all he had. And if it were for him, he would have made it last forever – but his body is not so used to this kind of endurance, so after a few minutes Riddle finally gives in, collapsing into your shoulder, quietly whimpering your name, in a moment of weakness that is greater than he’d like to admit. Riding his orgasm, fingers entwined with yours and digging at your knuckles in a tight grip, his voice is unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and you understand its over once he quiets down.

The silence lasts for a few moments. Or, more appropriately put, a slight wave of sheepish embarrassment, as he’s promptly rolled over to your left and you’re both lying face up and wheezing up a storm as if you’d just ran some kind of marathon. But then Riddle slightly tugs at your hand.

“Everything alright?”

“I think so. You?”

“It’s been... quite the novelty,” he says flatly, but then smiles a little at his choice of words. “Do couples do this all the time? ...it seems exhausting.”

“So that’s it? That was your quota for a whole lifetime? Fine then.”

“––No!” he hastily turns sharp on his side, facing you, only to find that you’re unable to hold your laughter. “–Oh. Not funny, Y/N.”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“– I would very much like it if we did it again. Uh... tomorrow, or – or some other time.”

You smile. “I would like that, too.”

“Should we settle on a schedule?”

“––what? No!” but a sudden tinge of guilt overcomes you, as you quickly realize he might need it. “U–uh, I mean, if – if that makes it easier for you–––”

“––just kidding,” a soft smirk escapes him, like a stifled giggle that says ‘gotcha’.

“Oh, look at you cracking jokes now,” you accuse him with a pout. “That’s a first.”

“Guess that makes two firsts in one day.”

As you both let out a complicit giggle, reaching out for the sheets and then for each other’s hands, no longer worried about the next one step or million steps to come, you find yourselves drifting off to sleep in a loose embrace.

[antigonick]

just stumbled into one of your snippets and i'm OBSESSED with your writing style. it is so fluid and punchy and such a delight to read. if you ever feel like answering, how does your writing process works? what are your inspirations, style and tone-wise? and what themes do you enjoy exploring the most?

have a lovely day! 💌

Oh, that's... WELL. That's! The best compliment you could have sent me, thank you so much, I don't know what to say.. I'm actually trying to write a... I'm gonna call it a novel when it's just a mess of fragments right now, but—yeah. Fluid and punchy is exactly what I strive to achieve with the character's voice so this is so nice to hear. WHATEVER. THANK YOU.

Anyway! My writing process is really... steeped in rhythm, I guess? It starts with character writing, which leads me to character voice, which leads me to finding the right "mind" tempo, and from it cascades the headspace I need to write. In that, in the idea of perspective and voice influencing the story first, I'm indebted to Faulkner, to Marlon James, to Woolf's The Waves, to Shirley Jackson—to the perspectivism twists of horror and gothic writing as a general rule. Rereading her, I think Emily Brontë has shaped my metaphorical network very early on, and my handling of violence, especially in dialogue—though more recently, Tamsyn Muir made me tick about dialogue too. Malin Rydén is one of my utmost inspirations, not a little because the main character of my story was first created for his story, but also because he was my gateway into harder, grittier speculative fiction and digital literature, which both inspire me now for the story I'm trying to shape—horror out of the gothic castle and into the terrible anticipation of what comes next, with more politics, with ghosts and body horror twisted to technology. In terms of pure form, I'm extremely impacted by poetry—E. E. Cummings, Alice Oswald, Emily Dickinson—those who deconstruct syntax to wrangle it into breath. He didn't influence me because I discovered him too late, but I feel a kinship to some of the early stylistic experimentations of Frank Bidart too. Hanif Abdurraqib, whose first name I gave to one of my main characters too because his voice is incredible: it moves. Charles Olson's Projective Verse gestures at what I feel when I write, you know? "ONE PERCEPTION MUST IMMEDIATELY AND DIRECTLY LEAD TO A FURTHER PERCEPTION (…). Always one perception must must must MOVE, INSTANTER, ON ANOTHER! (…)" and then "Breath allows all the speech-force of language back in." Even silence can be your story-weapon.

I'm interested in... blowing apart labels, dichotomies, I think, making them harder to grapple with—right and wrong, love and hate, personal and universal; transgressions, fluidity; how language fails, how language betrays; the way human connection can both fuck you and raise you up, in its constant failure and constant trying, in the violence of intimacy, in the tension between hardness and vulnerability—more than anything, I'm interested in the way individual desires clash with collective needs or personal ideals, in the lies and justifications you can find for yourself, in what it means for you when you come to dismantle them (or refuse to). I love palimpsest, stories retold again and again, and/or I love difficult, ugly settings, speculative and dystopia topics, I want the story to be political in itself, even when it's not politicking; and I LOVE mindfucks: using our terribly faulty, terribly subjective perception / perspective / memory / dreams / FEARS / intellect to tell a story that is both fascinating because it's unique, and trapped by it. Can't escape yourself. What are you gonna do with yourself (against yourself, for yourself) now?

Formally, I try to use that in writing: trapping the reader in one voice that swallows them really, ideally that jostles them a little, that blurs the boundary between them and the character: extreme immersion. I like to try and convey emotion / impression and even action as it is experienced, rather than explaining it clearly. In that phenomenology has influenced me, I guess? Deleuze, Guattari, Merleau-Ponty, and poetry again, I guess. Archibald McLeish says "a poem should not mean / but be...", and that's what I try to do with the character I choose, and then I let them be, and they drive both the story and the writing that should echo it—form and content cycling each other like mirrors.

Goddamnit, that got so long. Anyway. THANK YOU for being interested, I'm really touched.

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

I really think father and hohenheim should have been the same character? I mean, father is such a bland villain. Maybe I just haven't looked enough but I haven't seen even the most hardcore bh fans talk about him? It's all just about how ed punched god or whatever. No one's actually interested in the guy himself. I can think of several ways them being the same person would make it a lot more interesting, at least to me. I mean, first of all ed and al having to fight their own shitty father is some delicious angst. Second I really like the mad scientist type character and that's what hoho would be in that scenario. Third I think it would be fun to analyse the "sins" he took out of himself if he was a human to begin with. Ohh and come to think of it, it would go really well with Ed's whole "alchemists are the closest things to God yadda yadda" speech in the beginning wouldn't it? Honestly I can't think of any reason why they had to be different people at all...Ah, except how can I forget. Arakawa's writing this. Of course they have to be two different people. One who actually did all the wrong things and the loving father and husband who's going around trying to make everything right(nevermind that he left Trisha to care for their 4-5 yos all alone with no support. Nuh uh he's perfect) If she held the fact that the two can in fact be the same person it might just explode her world. I'm rolling my eyes.

Father and Hohenheim as the same character? Who is a mad scientist? Who as a result reimburses Ed's pompous "Alchemists are the closest things to god"? Blends aspects of being an unforgivable monster with having loved his family? I've got your guy!

🎉Hohenheim of Light!🎉

Oh sure, he's not the final big bad that the Elric bros have to fight, and sure he's more of a retired villain who's mildly penitent for his centuries of bloodshed, rather than continuing to enact widespread destruction. But we do get to see the results of all his transgressions against humanity and his own first son too! So, 🎉 ta-da! 🎉

To actually address your ask:

Besides what 03 had already done, for awhile I actually thought Father WAS Hohenheim in Brotherhood.

To clarify: I avoided the online fandom from 2009 onward in order to prevent getting spoiled for the (at the time) new fma adaptation. I kept putting off watching it for well over a decade (lol), and for no other reason then a combo of 1) not being in the mood for more fma, and 2) when I was, I would immediately run right back to fma 03 without fail, and then be so thoroughly satisfied with revisiting a long time fave that I just. Would put off watching Broho for another time.

Still, being online in any capacity meant that every once in awhile I was unavoidably being exposed to the odd screenshot, text post, and fanart. No big deal, nothing really spoiled anything heavily enough for me to know the full story, and I could easily scroll away before making sense out of anything.

But I did one day stumble into a screenshot of Father glowering in his underground throne. And here I thought "Oh shit! Hohenheim is actually in full villain mode this time around?! We're going to actually explore the mass annihilation he commits for philosopher stones and how his sons will have to contend with their own father. This will surely dig even deeper into Ed and Al's heel turn against the military, and what alchemy means as a method of power and control. Man, this is gonna fuck!"

lol

lmao even

So to my now endless disappointment I finally watched Brotherhood this last spring. And although I surprisingly liked* this affable, bumbling, rather tragic version of Hohenheim (which stumps me, given my initial assumption for Brotherhood AND being a long time Hohenheim of Light enjoyer) (I still like Hoho of Light more tho), Father was such a fucking let down on every front.

*Don't get me wrong, I'm not claiming Von Hohenheim didn't do wrong against Trisha and his kids. As much as he had to build the anti-circle around Amestris, it doesn't erase the fact that Trisha had to shoulder the full burden of raising their kids, and child Ed's sense of abandonment and outrage against him is highly warranted.

Even keeping Father as a homunculus that duplicates Hohenheim's appearance, he still could have been an interesting character and villain. But every step of the way he was just the obvious big bad mostly relegated to the background, stored away except for a few key encounters and flashbacks. He was paper thin, an easy excuse for why the core ills of Amestris are all his exclusive fault, and conveniently the canon has an in-baked reason for why he has the personality and stage presence of cardboard. Woo. hoo.

God the lore and function of homunculi blows in mangahood. At the very least make me actually feel like they are parts of this once former-cyclops in a bottle! And still make Father an actually compelling character! In fact the other homunculi could have potentially been an effective vehicle for that, but noooooo-

Honestly, I agree. It would have been so much more affecting for Hohenheim and Father to be one, singular character. Of course much of his backstory would have to change, but that's not a loss in my hater's opinion. The implications for the Elrics, for their paradigms to be entirely torn asunder and have to be rebuilt in order to survive and make sense out of their position in Amestris, it would have been juicy.

You're right, I have seen next to no deeper interest or investment into Father as a character and as a narrative device from hardcore fans either. I'm sure it does exist, given Brotherhood's immense popularity, but damn if we can be forgiven for getting the impression that most fans just don't give a rat's unseasoned ass. I see more posts and fanart for Von Hohenheim than I do Father lol

Mangahood simply can't have (or actually address) any truly murky topics, or depict messy and complex characterization, if it doesn't ultimately shine the brightest, most admirable, most absolving light on our protags as possible. So why would Von Hohenheim have anything to do with Father besides having been his victim?

We remain starved by the emaciated, sorry excuse for 'pathos' that is Father's whole deal. What a shame.

[transmutationisms]

pleaaase share any and all thoughts you might have on as i lay dying by william faulkner if you're willing, i'd appreciate your analysis on any topic dealing with it. I recently had to read it for class and kept thinking "tumblr user transmutationisms would probably find this very interesting" and when I search your blog i see its one of your fav novels! personally am interested with the treatment of darl and what is considered "sane" vs. "insane" as well as addie and how her death is handled.

yeah this book made me so insane when i first encountered it lmao. i was always surprised by people who read it and thought that darl had genuinely or intrinsically 'gone insane' or even that he was in some kind of decline throughout the book. i thought what faulkner was doing with him was very different.

i'd posit there are basically 2 main mechanisms by which darl comes to be regarded as insane. one is the construal of criminal action as prima facie pathological. in darl's case it's specifically criminal action against his mother's body (so, the violation of a blood tie that is so important it has guided the entire novel) and ofc the barn burning has a more general sort of antisocial effect as well. so, the designation of insanity follows not because darl's action shows some kind of intrinsic breakdown or loss of lucidity, but because it puts him outside the bounds of accepted familial and social behaviours. so, in that sense there's a very straightforward connection between the social mores, the criminal code based on them, and the invocation of insanity to preserve the dichotomy between 'sane' and 'criminal', ofc with the asylum then appearing as another arm of the carceral / criminal apparatus.

in addition, though, faulkner's work is generally marked by an interest in the sort of social breakdown and decline that articulates along family lines. which is to say: although i wouldn't attribute to him the same degree of evolutionary-hereditarian degeneracy theory as, like, zola, there is certainly a repeated interest throughout faulkner's work in the family as a site of inherited social and economic decline. i don't think the point here is to write anse as insane, per se, or as passing on a discrete malady to darl, but parentage matters (cf. jewel's illegitimacy) and in the same way that anse is antisocial, illogical, and frequently illegible to the surrounding characters, darl by the end of the book has come to occupy a similar socially marginal position. darl is ofc punished more violently for his transgression; anse's chapters convey pretty clearly his outsider position and complete inability to make sense of the world on linguistic-logical terms, but darl escalates this when he burns the barn because he's breaking a rule that has more external social ramifications than, say, anse's biblical exegesis about snakes and trees and whatever.

broadly and kind of annoyingly you could say the novel is investigating the relationship between consciousness and language, or at least feeling and language. the words are "a shape to fill a lack", vardaman's fish chapter sort of sums up the failings therein, &c. so, anse and darl are interesting to counterpose in this respect because the disconnect between their inner worlds and linguistic abilities are very different. darl is the most linguistically adept narrator in the book, yet by the end he's committed an act so illegible to the state and to his community that he's declared insane for it. anse, on the other hand, is motivated by what is in certain ways a very clear and simple moral code (he is driven primarily throughout the novel by the desire to bury addie and then take care of his own material needs re: teeth and a new wife), but he's not really able to communicate this directly in narration, which makes his chapters some of my favs to re-read. with anse the stream-of-consciousness is continually hinting at and around what he's trying to convey; with darl there are certainly things he's capable of expressing clearly and directly in language, and so the effect (for me) is to surprise you when it's revealed that darl, too, is on a kind of margin of social logic.

[amysubmits]

My gf wants to be punished by me. She really perks up when I give her an admonishing look, or talk sternly to her. She seems to find my authority and discipline hot.

I do enjoy the idea of punishing her, but more as a sadist. Like, I want to make her suffer — but not because she did anything wrong, but simply because I can. To me, it shows her submission and the power she eagerly gives me, and I find that incredibly hot.

The problem is, I don’t really feel comfortable punishing her for specific transgressions. I think it’s because I don’t feel comfortable with giving her rules. She’s an incredibly capable person who doesn’t need rules enforced in order to function well; she’s up at dawn, punctual, studious, etc. Whereas, I’m actually the one who struggles with things like being on time, being clean, eating regularly… So punishing her for minor transgressions like being late, or sleeping in, or whatever, feels incredibly hypocritical! (Also, it would be so rare. And usually she has good reasons, too, bc she doesn’t fuck up by accident.) I just don’t see how I could ever have the right to expect her to endure a punishment, when she is so good and I am not.

I am also extremely cautious about introducing punishment for more serious things like if she actually “failed” me or hurt me in some way. (Eg. Say she forgot our anniversary, or started an argument and felt bad about that, or was rude / disrespectful to me.) These are more serious issues than a broken arbitrary rule (eg. “Address me by a title” or “Kneel when you enter the room” etc.). In that case, it’s a complex issue; I’d want to press pause, discuss and understand — not jump into kinky sex / punishment stuff. Not to mention, these issues are shared issues; it’s rare that it’s one person’s fault, so it feels weird to me to punish only one person. (And I don’t want punishment for myself; it would probably feel really triggering.)

Plus, she already feels horrible! She is incredibly perfectionistic, and especially in major transgressions, her internal narrative is more like, “I fucked up and failed you.” It feels needless to dwell on it — I want her to be able to make mistakes and know that she’s safe; that “I’m sorry” is enough; to not beat herself up about it. I worry that punishing would draw extra attention to the issue, and make her feel even worse / like it really IS all her fault.

Finally, I guess there is a distinction between punishment and “punishment,” and a lot of this consideration goes out the window if she’s only after the fun, hot kind. That’s worth discussing with her. But even in the fun “punishment” scene, I don’t really know what to punish her for, because we don’t have rules and she’s so good that she doesn’t really need them. I don’t even know what rules she would have, or how to come up with them! (The internet only recommends punishments, but I’ve found relatively little about how to make rules, both serious and fun ones, or the logic behind what is healthy or not.) Btw we’re not in a 24/7 dynamic or anything, we just do bedroom stuff.

Sorry for the long ask; I tried to edit it down but I have so many questions and need help. Thank you!

Hello :)

It sounds like you're pretty solid in your understanding of what you are and aren't comfortable with. It doesn't sound like punishing her for 'serious' infractions, big or small, is something you're open to. And that's totally valid. It sounds like you aren't certain if she's specifically after the serious type or the sexy kind. If she was after the serious kind, she may not like your boundaries, but it sounds like you know what yours are. If you haven't already, I'd explain this all to her similar to how you explained it to me, so that she has a full understanding of where you are coming from. And then whether or not she had initially intended for them to be 'serious' or not, I think these types of interests always link back to our sexuality in some way or another, even if it's kind of indirect. So, I'd wonder if you could find ways within "play" or "scenes" that could let her get to see you be pseudo-stern with her, and that could let you engage your sadistic side. To avoid risking her actually feeling guilty, maybe the 'rules' or 'infractions' would have to be things that are outside of her normal behavior. For example, if you use Sir during scenes and would worry that creating a rule of 'you must always end statements to me with yes sir or no sir during scenes' might make her actually feel guilty if she forgets - then maybe make up rules that are just things that could not possibly be accidental or guilt related, and would just exist as an invitation to play. As a doofy example, you make a ruler that is "No calling me Mr/Ms/Mrs. Babboon" which she has never called you and never (normally) would, so then if she does call you that, it's a really clear invitation to "punish" her. Of course, this is just if this type of play would be within both of your boundaries, but it kinda sounded to me like it probably would be. Perhaps you guys can brainstorm other ways to play with the kinks you have while avoiding those boundaries you have and also avoiding her guilt/perfectionism triggers.

Good luck to you guys. :)

[miraculousweb]

If Gabriel was, while not a good person, was a good father, partner and friend AU

The Wish Aftermath

Gabriel Agreste, the last will and testament/the last letter (or something):

"I leave my trusted friend, partner and confident , Nathalie, with whom I've asked too much already, my butterfly brooch. To my son, Adrian I leave his mother's peacock brooch, know that I am so proud of you. To my dearest wife, Emilie,I return to you the tome I've had within my possession, and I give you my sincerest apologies and regret for the mess I've no doubt left behind. I'm sorry that you have to find out this way, that I've done too many unspeakable things that I can't even begin to list them, I regret that I'll never get the chance to tell you in person or express how sorry I am for all of this. All I can offer you is perhaps hollow excuses and explanations. Duusu, though they owe me nothing, has agreed to pass on my follies and my failings, for you to judge and decide if or how you wish to remember me by.

I regret, so so many things, I am regret that I never got the chance to say goodbye to you my wife, my love, my heart and soul, then or now. I regret that I am not brave enough to face my precious child, my son, my light, before my final moments. I cannot even begin to ask for either of your forgiveness, for these transgressions against you and against those whose lives I've hurt, for the tarnished legacy I leave behind, and all the broken pieces I've left behind for you to pick up in my stead. As the end grows closer I am both terrified and relieved, I know I have no right to make any last requests of anyone but I beg of you, please don't blame Natalie, she did everything she could to mitigate my actions. Do not condemn her for my mistakes. I am sorrowful and guilty for all the pain and suffering I've caused and I alone take the full responsibility for it, she is not responsible for my wrongdoings.

I leave you with these final words, and though I know they are not enough, I know I must press forward still, and write them.

Emilie, I've missed you, with all my heart, mind and soul, and I love you, more than I could ever love myself, more than enough to trade my life for yours in a heartbeat. Please live your life, and take care of Adrien for me, won't you?

Adrien, my darling boy, my only son and child, in the darkest of times, you have been the brightest light that shines, never lose sight of that strength within. I never said it enough, I never told you, not in so many words, just how much I love you and how proud I am of you. Be there for your mother, but don't forget to take care of yourself too. I know I've always demanded too much of you, so consider this my blessing to make your own demands from life and live it to the fullest in whatever way is best for you. It's your turn to decide what life you want to live.

Nathalie, my oldest and dearest friend, thank you. Thank you for everything. I'm sorry for leaving you behind, for putting you through all this, and abandoning you to pick up the pieces in my stead. I wish you nothing but the best, and I want you to know that no matter what anyone says, you are family. I will forever be grateful to you. Goodbye old friend

I love each of you, may you be able to rest easy from here on out without me

Sincerely

Husband, Father, and Friend

Gabriel Agreste "

[hippielittlemetalhead]

Intro To The Supernatural: Supernatural 101

Part 2 of my Sterek fic on AO3. There's a fair bit of canon twisting mostly just making it all add up and make sense and leaning into the "Stiles is scary smart and resourceful and some sort of magic to the point The Wild Hunt and the Nogistune saw him as the one to take out to make their job easier" plus some other bits that are just for my amusement. Always open to questions and comments and headcanons.

Still not be doing a tag list for the crossposted works but I'll keep y'all updated on that if it changes.

It had been such an uneventful couple of weeks (barring that failed attempt at a meeting Stiles had dragged him to with Argent and Deaton). Ever since Deaton had informed Stiles of his Spark the boy had thrown himself headfirst into researching just what the hell that meant but that didn't keep him from turning the rest of Beacon Hill's supernatural world on its head. After they had handled Jackson's whole Kanima issue and taken out Gerard, Stiles had sat Chris, Deaton and even Uncle Peter down in the middle of the pack's den (a great spacious loft that was almost as derelict as the subway station) for a long overdue crash course on the supernatural world and adjacent topics for the recently initiated. Including the Sheriff.

Stiles had burst in through the loft's sliding door as his betas were getting settled -as far from Allison as they could without offending Scott- with his father in tow and sat him down with a huff before moving to stand behind Derek's left shoulder. He had stiffened as Stiles took his place, leveling a glare at his father and the rest of the pack all the while. He had barely been able to suppress the shudder as the pups started to fall into line, Scott and Allison untangled themselves from each other (much to Chris' relief) and the Sheriff seemed to deflate at whatever he saw in his son's face. Peter barked out a laugh and he felt Stiles' ire shift towards his uncle for a moment.

"Care to share with the class there, creeperwolf?"

"Oh nothing of note, Spark. Nothing at all." He sees Lydia perk up at the mention of Stiles' own touch of Other.

"Whatever," The boy grumbles out and Derek can feel when he steps forward before he places a hand on his shoulder, his grip light but grounding and more appreciated than he thought it would have ever been.

He can see the way the Sheriff tenses at his son's lingering touch on the older man's shoulder. The older man he had personally arrested under suspicion of murder. "Stiles-"

"Alright, so welcome to the first meeting of Intro to The Supernatural." He doesn't need to be watching the boy to know he's avoiding looking at his father who does not look happy at being talked over. "We're gonna do some introductions for the uninitiated or just those of ya who haven't been payin' attention. So uh, I expect a few of you to take notes here cause there will be a test at the end. Okay then, for this class your professors here are: Chris Argent, Hunter of the Argent clan and currently regent and representative of the local branch until our own Aly comes of age for her grand destiny and claims her place as Matriarch. Next we have Dr. Deaton, Beacon Hill's local vet and Emissary to the late Alpha Talia Hale, 15th of her line to stand as Alpha to the Beacon Territory Pack. Former Emissary Deaton is a practicing druid and has been recognized by most supernatural forces to be an acceptable placeholder until the Hale pack is back up to snuff. After that ya got Peter Hale, Left-Hand to the late Alpha Talia Hale and blood kin to Alpha Derek Hale. Due to certain circumstances Peter's current place in the Hale Pack is undetermined and will be discussed once those who are due a say are brought up to date on his transgressions against Kin and Pack and Territory and what this means in the supernatural world and furry politics." He takes a deep breath and the hand on Derek's shoulder tightens. The Sheriff's eyes that have been trained on each man as Stiles introduced them are now resting on him, flicking over his tense form and the hand on his shoulder up to the boy still standing in a position of importance and power even if he doesn't know it. But this is Stiles so he probably knows exactly what he's doing. "And here we have Alpha Derek Hale, son of the late Talia Hale and 17th of his line to stand as Alpha to the Beacon Territory Pack. Though young for his station Alpha Hale has proven his worth as a provider and defender to those in his care and has earned his Claim to the title of Alpha and the traditional territory of the Hale Pack."

He expects Stiles to move away after that. To give his shoulder one last grounding, reaffirming, squeeze then move off to sit with his dad or pull back to stand vigil in his unwitting place of honour. But he doesn't. The younger man's hand seems to rest heavier on his shoulder like it's all that's holding him up as he squeezes almost painfully. Stiles' scent turns that ash and sour of nerves and anxiety and frustration that he had almost gotten out of the damned couch the boy usually spread himself out on when he had taken over the loft researching whatever the star of that week's horror show was. It shifts and Derek feels his hackles raise and can see the way his betas all react, sitting up and staring at the boy with curious eyes and invasive noses. Stiles takes a deep breath and shifts to stand a little closer to Derek, close enough to share body heat, close enough for both their scents to get a little mixed up.

"I'm not really gonna be one of your teachers but uh-" Another deep breath and the hand is gone and he moves to stand in front of Derek. A solid wall of 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone and sarcasm wrapped in the scent of earth and storms, fire and blood and Other. "My name is- ho boy- My name is uh, is Miecyslaw Stilinski, Beacon Hills' resident Spark and member of the Hale Pack. I stand as Emissary, Second and uh- and Left-Hand to Alpha Hale until a time as he chooses someone worthy of each role. You can still just call me Stiles for now."

Not so unwitting after all then.

Derek knows he's staring. Knows that the Sheriff is looking between the two of them with something edging on rage and resignation and confused desperation. He knows that the betas are confused by all of the formal language and titles and are just waiting for Stiles' permission to let the floodgates open on all of their questions. Lydia is watching the entire room with that cold calculation that makes him think she might be perfect for Emissary or Left Hand but next to her Jackson is glaring at Stiles like the boy's very existence offends him.

"Wait," Allison has pulled herself from using Scott as a body pillow and is leaning forward, her attention focused on Stiles where he still stands firm between the rest of the room and Derek. "That's not possible. You're not allowed to be Emissary and Second and- and his fucking Left-Hand Stiles. Do you even know what the left-Hand is?!"

"Allison-" Chris sighs like just the thought of the impending argument exhausts him.

Stiles laughs. It's a sharp bark of sour humour that cuts Chris off and makes the rest of the room shift uneasily. "You think I went into this blind Aly? You think I didn't do my fucking research? I know exactly what every role I have claimed entails and I will do my damned best to fulfill every single duty until the rest of you are ready to step the fuck up and start making this half-assed attempt at a pack something that will make everything out there think twice before they set so much as a foot on Hale Land."

"Stiles," When did he stand up? When did he move close enough to lay a hand on the boy's shoulder and try to pull him back into his space? "Come on-"

The boy whirls back to look at him and there's something burning in his eyes that makes Derek dry swallow. "No, Derek. There is too much crap out there that we are not anywhere equipped to handle and I refuse to stand back and let them twiddle their thumbs while the rest of you pull your heads out of your asses. So the four of you are going to walk everyone in this room through the basics of what it means to be in a werewolf pack or allied with one. What the roles are and what is expected of them as betas. You are going to tell my dad about just what the hell has been going on these past few months so I can be sure he's not going out there to fight some big bad half-cocked and blind. Deaton is going to help Lydia figure out what the fuck she is that the bite didn't kill her and didn't take and you Argent-" Now his fury was trained on the tired looking man, "You are going to explain your family's long and fucked up history and morals to your daughter and the kids she almost helped kill and to my father and to every wolf in this room so they have an idea of just what the hell they are dealing with. Deaton, I expect full answers that actually make sense and Peter-" He's breathing hard now, hard and fast and Derek can hear the worrying speed of his heartbeat. "Just try not to screw us over and I might not find a way to send you back to wherever Lydia dragged you from."

Peter laughs between an exhausted looking Argent and Deaton who reeked of fear and nerves despite his usual stoic expression. He smiles at Stiles and it's all teeth. "Oh I knew I should have bit you when I had the chance. You are a formidable human, but you would have been a glorious wolf."

[daisyachain]

I saw a critique somewhere once that I really liked of the popular conception of Paradise Lost-type Lucifer as a real paragon. The Christian idea of the relationships between god/humanity/sin is poisonous in that Original Sin means humans deserve to suffer. This means that then the existence of the god is what condemns humans to suffering—there is no sin if there is no perfect being. The god’s all-perfect nature is what leads it to choose to bring down such worldly suffering on humanity, which it deems to be wrong by nature. This for also lends itself to white supremacy and patriarchy, where the perfect god is cast as a man of whatever dominant ethnically European group. Having a perfect god creates a theoretical moral hierarchy, that hierarchy is co-opted by the real actual hierarchies that exist, oppressed groups are framed as ontologically bad.

Therefore, conceptualizing Lucifer as a wronged paragon is not the transgressive move that people see it as. Rather than truly undercutting the oppressive god, it just raises up an equally unfair/hierarchical/white male supremacist figure (after all, when is Lucifer shown as anything but a blond guy?) as a rival to the oppressive god. The trickster Satan of sex, drugs, and goats’ hooves is a more effective folk Christian figure to adopt to undercut the oppressive god. Lucifer represents a challenge to the god as an equally powerful, perfect, judgmental being establishing a rival hierarchy. The Satan-devil-figure represents letting it hang. Satan is a way around the rules of the oppressive god, he is the ability to ignore all hierarchies and hack the system. Magic does exist, it just goes against the divine order. The post-Paradise Lost Lucifer seeks to replace the oppressive god, the Satan figure seeks to make him irrelevant.

That’s an analysis I like and agree with. After all, when is Lucifer portrayed as anything but a blond guy? However, the one thing that is compelling about the pop culture mythos of Lucifer is that it represents some kind of failed effort as the basis of suffering. The figure of Lucifer started a rebellion and was cast out, as opposed to the exogenous Satan who just hangs around tempting. Lucifer has been taken to be the idea of ‘what if someone tried to help humanity, and was punished?’

The Christian mythos’ main sticking point is, again, original sin. Every misfortune is blamed on humanity. Anyone with eyes can see that the people who suffer most in their lives do not do anything to deserve it. It’s impossible to reconcile, and the Christian way of doing so is to just say that life doesn’t matter in the long run. In the year 1400, it’s easier to believe that your cousin got the black plague because he’d screwed your brother’s wife behind his back. In later years, it gets much harder.

So, as much as it has played into white male supremacist ideas of ‘I’m right and I define right and laws like the age of consent are oppressive’, Lucifer has a far more powerful appeal as a story to explain the wrongs in the world. There are so many things going badly, how could the god not be responsible? How could nobody have noticed this was bad? The answer that the pop culture idea of Lucifer presents is: someone noticed, someone tried to help, and the person who tried to help suffered or was corrupted. It’s comforting to think that there was at least some resistance on moral grounds to the tyranny of the god. It’s easier to understand divine entities getting corrupted in a long war than to understand them as corrupt from the start. Me, I like the idea that a divine being trying to do good will be struck down. It resonates with the nature of the world as it shows itself. Rather than the good god which triumphs and the devil which tempts, it’s much easier to imagine the evil god who whacks the mole and the good devil which tries (and fails) to overthrow it.

[the-awful-falafel]

Love reading your analyses on Rick and Morty, but I have very little context as I've never watched the show before. I've been very busy since it aired back in 2013 trying to get rid of a terrible cockroach infestation. I'm wondering what your opinion on Prime Rick is? In relevance to him also being Morty's grandpa.

I feel like I have no opinion on Rick Prime at this point, honestly.

He's... there. He exists as a distant antagonist we can root for our Rick to hunt down to complete his revenge quest, his proverbial white whale that he's pinned all his trauma resolution on. This plot thread does have the potential to be lowkey hilarious if it's revealed Prime and C-137 were friends or dating or whatever (which, as an aside, would be such an asshole move on our Rick's part) but, just based on what we have canonically, I've got nothing.

Even the potentially interesting aspect of Rick Prime being our Morty's "real" grandfather feels like a nothing detail to me, considering our Morty has never met or known him at all so there's literally no connection whatsoever. Our Morty's already been so fucked up by experiences with our Rick that trying to introduce a newer, worse Rick into his history almost feels like a distraction, in an annoying and tone-deaf "hey, cheer up, it could be worse! just appreciate the family you have :)))" sort of way.

It's also that I don't think Rick Prime is introducing a particularly novel paradigm shift or new dynamic to the story? Compared to Evil Morty, who presented a complete inversion and deconstruction of the R&M relationship just by existing, Rick Prime is basically just "our Rick, but worse, more OP, and ACTUALLY gives no shits". My most cynical interpretation is that Rick Prime mainly exists to make Rick C-137 look better in comparison by externalizing his character flaws + self-loathing conflict, plus to exonerate him of past transgressions by making Prime the real Rick behind the abandonment of Beth / failing marriage with Diane, but I've been feeling that since the full tragic backstory was revealed, anyway, so I digress.

In general I just think Rick Prime is sort of... boring, and needs fleshing out. I don't get the sense that he's plotting anything major, I just get the impression he's a petty dick who spent half his life fucking with Rick C-137 (almost analogous to our Rick fucking with the devil in that one season 1 episode) and that the threat he poses is exclusively tied to their cat-and-mouse game, while Morty is just an accessory dragged into it with no personal investment and would be much better off ignoring the conflict entirely. Sorry if my thoughts are a bit incoherent, lol.

[phoenixkaptain]

Worst part of modernity is the idea that I should want my beloved chaotic characters to stop winning.

No!! >:( I want Bugs Bunny to win!!! I want Puck to be utterly unflappable and a dick who only answers to one (1) person!!! I want Hermes to be a massive asshole who steals people’s cattle just because it’s said to be impossible!!!

I don’t want chaos incarnate characters to start being “more relatable” or whatever! They already are relatable! They’re relatable in to our most base parts, the parts of us that some of us wish didn’t exist! Watching Bugs and Puck fuck around with people appeals to that part within us that impulsively wants to push people when they’re standing somewhere they shouldn’t. Hermes is a messenger god, yes, but he is as far from serious as it is possible to be and is actually a great representation of how we should view the Greek Gods, as they were presented, just in general (since they got angry at the slightest provocation and were petty and yet found the most joy in fucking with each other because, at their core, every single Greek God was just a toddler).

Bugs is the type of character who I don’t want to see face punishment. He was written in a way that his fucking with people was charming because, for the most part, these people wronged him in some way. Bugs was less an asshole and more a representation of the idea of Karma, “what goes around comes around,” the idea that your bad deeds will come back to bite you. Bugs is the very embodiment of karma, and I don’t want to see him fail or face consequence or punishment because that defeats the whole purpose, he’s a chaotic, unstoppable force.

Puck is just… a fairy. He’s a fae. He’s supposed to be kind of an asshole, because the fae in English, Irish, Scottish, etc mythology were just kind of assholes. Puck is a dick who fucks up fucking with people, yes, but my enjoyment is found in the fact that the only person who can punish him is the Fairy King. It’s immensely funny to me. I don’t want Puck to be punished by anyone else, I just want him to pout and sulk and be forced to apologize and solve problems because the Fairy King is tired of his bullshit, I love it.

Hermes is generally represented pretty fairly in modern media as the type of person who pulls pranks and ties people’s shoelaces together, but modern media seems to believe I want to watch the consequences of his actions. I do not. Hermes appears with a letter, ties your shoelaces together, and vanishes. He’s too fast to catch. He’s harder to catch than a fish coated in soap and butter. He’s harder to catch than Luke Skywalker-

Basically, my enjoyment of chaotic characters is not based in seeing them be punished for their transgressions. Even if it was, I would like it to be one character solely who holds the leash, because it adds the comedic effect of having the Fairy King realize that the guy he sent to mess with the Fairy Queen perhaps went too far, which means that everything is Puck’s fault, not the Fairy King’s, would the Fairy King do that? Does he seem the type? (Yes) Puck is an exception, not a rule, and it’s because he is just a conduit through which the chaos energy of the Fairy King operates, which is immensely funny because, honestly, the only character who wins in a Midsummer Night’s Dream is the Fairy King, who is absolutely the cause of every single problem and everything that went astray went that way directly because of him, but he never gets punished and, in fact, would like to say that everything is Puck’s fault.

Which is, I would say, the funniest part of the entire story.

Which is, I say, the exact behaviour I want to see in chaotic characters. I don’t want them to be punished. I want them to somehow succeed despite everything and I want them to have the last laugh. This only really applies to the truly Chaotic Neutral characters, who would fuck with someone for the sin of leaving gum on the underside of a table. But it applies, and I don’t wish to see these characters change. I don’t think the idea of a force of chaos being chaotic is archaic or outdated and I don’t think these characters need to be “updated” for a modern audience, and I honestly despise the way people try to take recognizable characters, drain them of the traits that made them so fun in the first place, but try to milk us for all we own over them anyway because we foolish mortals hold the slender hope that, if we support the character, maybe one day they’ll act the way they should.

Updating characters for the modern era is not a bad idea or an impossible one. The Addams Family practically begs to be updated for a modern audience, just because it represented the opposite of a perfect nuclear household, despite outwardly appearing to be perfectly in line with the archaic and sexist standards of the time, and it shows that the people who are having the most fun are the ones who don’t listen to what they’re “supposed” to do, but instead listen to what they would like to do and are happier because of it.

But it’s a case-by-case basis and some characters and their actions are timeless. Stop trying to change the way these characters act. You can make new interpretations without removing the heart, you can create stories without changing the moral of the characters, and I would even go so far as to say you should put these characters in modern media, but I beg and plead for you to not destroy them.

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Honestly, the solution is to just use the correct word: heterodoxy. Not everything is heresy, for literal God's sake.

Heresy has to do with theology, heterodoxy with philosophy.

Theology, as called theosophy, is thought about God and the world based on reason, Scripture, and mystical insight. This is what separates Christianity from Jainism. Two separate religions. We literally worship different gods.

Heresy is a religious theology and/or doctrine destructive of the truth of God and his mission to the world. This is the difference between Christianity and Mormonism/Gnosticism/Adoptionism etc. Also, while I'm at it, saying something like "God hates [insert group or person]" is heresy. I love that bishop (i think) that said it's blasphemous, but he's wrong. Believing that God hates any person is not blasphemous, it is heretical for any Christian (this does not apply to Jews or Muslims; love yall, go in peace).

Doctrine is a third thing: the authoritative body of teachings, and principles accepted by a body of believers. Catholics and Protestants, for example, have different doctrines but the same theology. Same God. Same religion. So NO catholics/protestants, protestants/catholics are not heretics. You worship the same God. Deal with it.

Then you have

Philosophy is the general beliefs, concepts, attitudes, opinions, intellectual methods, and leadership of a school of thought. This is like Arminianism vs Calvinism. Sadly, no Calvinism is not heresy. They technically have the same theology as other Christians, their philosophy is just really sucky (no offense).

Heterodoxy is religious philosophy that differs from prevailing opinions and beliefs but is distinctly not heretical. So for example this would be something like Universalism or believing in Conditional Immortality (as opposed to natural immortality).

Then on the lower side of the spectrum you have something like

Tradition is the information, beliefs, and customs of a group handed down from one generation to the next. So like Anglican vs Methodist. Similar philosophy, different traditions (which is why i don't yet know which i prefer).

Preference: personal liking or interest. I have a preference against the pastor at my church because i can't stand his preaching (pray for me yall T-T)

For some final words people use wrong:

Sin: to hate or be indifferent. Let me explain: Sin comes from a word meaning "to miss the mark" or iow, to fail at a purpose. Humans were made in the image of God, God is Love, humans are made in the image of love. It is the purpose of the human to love and to create life and beauty and goodness (in whatever way God calls you to. Parenting, science, art, activism, medecine, poetry, architecture, wtv). Thus, if to sin is to fail at the purpose and the purpose of the human is to love, to sin is to fail at loving - hatred and/or indifference. This is also why homosexuality is not a sin. But if you hate gay/trans/etc people, you are in sin.

Transgression: to betray or rebell. You steal from some rando, that's sin. You steal from your brother, that's transgression. Also, for the divorce/abuse issue: transgression is listed as a reason for divorce. This means adultery, obviously. To commit adultery is to betray the person you're supposed to love. It also includes abuse. To abuse your beloved, child, friend, etc is an act of transgression against them and God.

Iniquity: wickedness, crookedness. God made something one way, you perverted it into another way. I don't feel like i need to explain this one; it's pretty on the nose. One way this is used a lot tho, is the oppression of the weak. God says we are to love the poor and the immigrant and the widow and the orphan. To oppress those groups is to pervert God's law, AND it is to make his name less holy because he attached his name to us. This is why sin, transgression, and iniquity are big deals because they chase people away from God and turn God into this monster. See: the crusades and the inquisition and the transatlantic slave trade and the war on gay people and -

Anyway. I am well aware that words don't mean things, but rather people mean things by words. But also words freaking mean things!!!

sometimes…. religious theology that’s “““heresy”““….. is better

[siwarcheimbi]

Can You Be Friends with Someone Who Broke Your Heart? Lessons from the Desk Across Mine

Dear readers,

The intricacies of love often play out like a Shakespearean tragedy. And in the epicenter of this romantic saga lies the tale of Mr. C—a man whose presence in my life has been as tumultuous as a summer storm.

Our story began in the hazy embrace of a summer's day, amidst the sterile confines of our shared workspace. There, amidst the hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic clatter of keyboards, I first laid eyes on C—a man whose presence exuded an enigmatic charm that captivated my senses from the very beginning.

He was a vision of contradiction—a walking paradox wrapped in a cloud of mystery. With his tousled hair and mischievous grin, he embodied the essence of the quintessential bad boy, his artistic soul pulsating with a love for weed and an inexplicable affinity for cats.

From the moment our eyes met across the expanse of our office, I knew there was something different about him. Perhaps it was the way his laughter danced through the air, or the spark of mischief that glinted in his eyes. Whatever it was, I found myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame—a flame that would burn bright and hot, only to flicker and fade with the passing of time.

Our courtship was a delicate dance of words and gestures—a symphony of longing and desire that swept me off my feet and carried me away on a tide of passion and romance. He showered me with compliments and affectionate gestures, spoiling me with promises of forever and declarations of undying love.

But as the old adage goes, all good things must come to an end. And so it was with us—our whirlwind romance crashing against the jagged rocks of reality, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and unspoken words.

In the aftermath, I found myself grappling with a question that seemed to linger like the faint scent of his cologne: Can we salvage a friendship from the wreckage of our failed romance?

For weeks, I found myself adrift in a sea of uncertainty, my mind consumed by thoughts of C and the fragile connection that bound us together. His sudden disappearance, his cryptic confessions—all served as painful reminders of the fragility of our bond.

And yet, despite the odds, I found myself clinging to the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, we could salvage something beautiful from the wreckage of our failed romance.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I found myself confronted with a harsh reality: C was not the man I thought he was. His words, once so sweet and comforting, now rang hollow in my ears, a cruel reminder of the lies and deceit that had shattered my trust.

And yet, despite the pain and disappointment that threatened to consume me, I couldn't bring myself to hate him—not entirely, at least. Instead, I found myself making excuses for him—forgiving his transgressions, overlooking his flaws, and clinging to the faint hope that perhaps, deep down, he was still the man I fell in love with.

But with each passing day, that hope grew dimmer, overshadowed by the harsh reality of who he truly was—a man capable of breaking hearts with reckless abandon, without a second thought for the consequences of his actions.

I remember one particular instance where C disappeared for days without a word, leaving me to wonder what had gone wrong. When he finally resurfaced, he offered vague explanations about needing space and dealing with personal issues. And although my heart ached with longing, I chose to believe him, desperate to cling to the hope that our connection was worth salvaging.

But as time went on, his actions spoke louder than words. He continued to flit in and out of my life, offering empty promises and half-hearted apologies that did little to assuage the pain of his betrayal.

And then came the revelation that shattered whatever fragile trust remained between us. C confessed that he had been dealing with issues with his girlfriend all along—the same girlfriend he had failed to mention during our courtship. Yet, despite this revelation, he still professed a desire for us to remain friends, to salvage some semblance of the connection we once shared.

But how could I be friends with someone who continued to flirt with me, to tease me with the promise of something more, only to leave me adrift in a sea of uncertainty once again?

And so, dear readers, I find myself at a crossroads once again—torn between the lingering affection I feel for C and the bitter resentment that simmers beneath the surface. Can you be friends with someone who broke your heart? In the end, perhaps the answer lies not in the actions of others, but in the strength and resilience of the human spirit.

For amidst the pain and heartache, there exists the possibility of healing—a glimmer of hope that refuses to be extinguished, even in the darkest of times. And so, as I gaze out across the expanse of our shared history, I find myself clinging to that hope—a beacon of light amidst the stormy seas of romance.

Until next time, dear readers, remember that love, in all its forms, has the power to heal even the deepest of wounds. And though the road may be long and fraught with peril, the journey is always worth the risk.

Yours in love and friendship,

[caffeineandsociety]

It's trite when you're preaching to the choir. It's assholish if someone's support ends there, or you claim that fearing for oneself is the ONLY reason one should care about disabled people. But it is NECESSARY to help a certain subset of people break more free of the constant, inescapable messaging that disability is a moral failing that no one would experience if we all just made better choices.

This subset includes some disabled people, because internalized ableism is a bitch.

You should care about disabled people and ableism for more reasons than "it could happen to you, and then people will neglect and mistreat you the same way they already mistreat people you dont THINK you know personally". At the same time, there is value in reminding people:

1) The Golden Rule applies to everyone, no matter how much society leans on a false narrative about why someone may be in a bad spot

2) Someone Else's Problem is a cognitive distortion, ESPECIALLY when it comes to something as far-reaching (and thus by extension local to you) as ableism,

3) Contrary to Society and the wellness industry's claims, disability is NOT a divine punishment, literal or figurative, for whatever earthly transgression(s) the powers that be want us all to think it is, and

4) Even if your disability was acquired later in life, that doesn't make you somehow immoral or stupid or otherwise lesser for being a Bad Decision Maker - no, not even if you were disabled by drug use or years of other "bad lifestyle choices" or an accident that was well and truly your own fault

I know some people in the disabled community think such statements are trite and I respect that opinion, but I really do feel the need to state frequently and emphatically that anyone can become disabled at any time, no matter how healthy and perfect you think you are.

You could get hit by a drunk or just plain careless driver and be rendered paralyzed for life. You could have been born perfectly healthy but then come down with an autoimmune disease at age four (👋). You could go your entire life eating "right" and exercising, and still come down with a neurological condition that will render you blind. At. Any. Time.

I remember when Obamacare was instated and they had a hard time getting young ablebodied people to sign up because they thought they were invincible. One notable case had someone rail against the notion they needed affordable insurance because they were young and healthy... And then they ended up disabled in a car crash and had to raise money for the hospital bills because they didn't sign up for insurance.

Disabilty isn't a punishment for bad or lazy people, it's purely random. And the older you get the more likely you'll end up like us, and be treated exactly like us.

[600shekels]

2 Chronicles 1: 4-12. "The Pollinator."

4 Now David had brought up the ark of God from Kiriath Jearim to the place he had prepared for it, because he had pitched a tent for it in Jerusalem. 

Kiriath Jearim is the "the Proclamation from the Forest, the Place of the Honeycomb." It features prominently in the Book of Joshua, a kind of coming of age story.

This reference, coupled with the idea of the Third Temple, tells us what we need to look for as we analyze the rest of the Second Book which is how to move the Ark from place to place as easily as a bee moves pollen from the flower to the hive.

Kiriath Jearim which means wilderness, in spite of its untamed character is still a provider. It is the most important resource humanity has for the making of civlized areas. Sight unseen, we need what happens in the forest to survive. The most important is pollination. Without pollinators, everything dies.

This applies to bees, ants, wasps, hornets, it applies to teachers, rabbis, priests, authors, musicians, playwrites, and actors, it almost certainly refers to your boyfriend and or your husband whom you depend on for affection. Persons failing to appreciate this will always be at a loss to understand how God thinks:

Humanity depends on the movement of what is primordially good from producer to consumer in all the realms. The process begins with work, that of the bee, the b, the boy, all the insects, all that happens from within the hives in the forest and under city skylines:

5 But the bronze altar that Bezalel son of Uri, the son of Hur, had made was in Gibeon in front of the tabernacle of the Lord; so Solomon and the assembly inquired of him there. 

Bezalel, son of Uri, son of Hur= "Yah is my Light, to assume His Heat, live under His Shadow, in the cavern of the nobleman."

Altars are vaults. They exist between yesterday and today, war and peace, God and man, what is Sacred and what is profane. To live in the light is to overshadow the profane.

Bronze, the most reflective surface the ancients could create, is the only way to see oneself and see God at the same time, it unvaults us from Him. Bronzing is a way of surpassing the altar without transgressing.

6 Solomon went up to the bronze altar before the Lord in the tent of meeting and offered a thousand burnt offerings on it.

7 That night God appeared to Solomon and said to him, “Ask for whatever you want me to give you.”

8 Solomon answered God, “You have shown great kindness to David my father and have made me king in his place. 

9 Now, Lord God, let your promise to my father David be confirmed, for you have made me king over a people who are as numerous as the dust of the earth. 

10 Give me wisdom and knowledge, that I may lead this people, for who is able to govern this great people of yours?”

11 God said to Solomon, “Since this is your heart’s desire and you have not asked for wealth, possessions or honor, nor for the death of your enemies, and since you have not asked for a long life but for wisdom and knowledge to govern my people over whom I have made you king, 

12 therefore wisdom and knowledge will be given you. And I will also give you wealth, possessions and honor, such as no king who was before you ever had and none after you will have.”

David's sin was vanity, which nearly led to prejudice. Solomon, the benefactor of David's advice, decided to become pride free, and offered a sacrifice to God. This is necessary for all of us, but for Royalty it is of the essence. To look in the mirror without vanity or pride and yet acknolwedge what one sees is a trait of a personality of the highest order. It is this personality we want to pollinate:

Man, says the Talmud, is a world in miniature. Which means that the world is a man in macro. Our world contains oceans and continents, forests and deserts, men and beasts; so, too, does man. The human psyche includes a subconscious “sea” and a “terrestrial” persona; it has lush forests and barren deserts; and it has a “human soul” and an “animal soul.”

The human soul—also called the “G‑dly soul”—embodies all that is upward-reaching and transcendent in man. It gravitates to its source in G‑d, driven by an all-consuming love for G‑d and the desire to lose itself within His all-pervading essence. Its modes of expression are the thought, speech and deed of Torah—the means by which man achieves closeness and attachment to his Creator.

The “animal soul” is the self that man shares with all living creatures: a self driven and fulfilled by its physical needs and desires. Its vehicles of expression are the endeavors of material life.

“A man who shall bring near of you an offering to G‑d, from the beast, from the cattle and from the sheep, you shall bring close your offering.” When a person brings an animal from his paddock as a gift to G‑d, the gesture is devoid of meaning unless he also offers the animal within himself.