#why does he draw all fat women so ugly like genuinely what the fuck is lola charlotte???

[berrymeter]

liking one piece is ignoring 95% of the chara design bc if i acknowledge it i will kill the author with my bare hands

[thunderheadfred]

🦈Kirishima HC’s🦈

Absolutely no one asked for this i just like him a lot

He’s an adult in all of these. 20s-30s at least. Some NSFW because I’m a big perv. Minors do not interact. Shoo.

- - - - -

General:

He is in the dictionary under Himbo, right next to Kronk.

Works part-time as a fitness instructor before making a name for himself as a pro hero. Most of his clients are middle-aged women, because he makes people feel safe. Before long, word gets around and he amasses this like. Loyal army of jacked housewives and older ladies who are his biggest possible fans. They mother-hen him like crazy.

Has a large and complicated extended family. Lots of cousins. You will never learn all their names, don’t even try. I have no idea if his parents have canon occupations but no matter what Horikoshi says, they actually own a mountain onsen. Kirishima went to the city by himself to go to middle/high school, his family is all off in the country somewhere and he gets homesick a lot but never admits it. He’s broke for a long time even after making it as a pro hero, because he sends most of his money back home.

He’s a dog dad. You cannot, WILL not convince me otherwise. Big dogs. Small dogs. Fancy dogs. Ugly dogs. He has a whole pack. He calls them all baby, sweetie, pupper, the worst and most embarrassing baby talk. Tells them about his day. All of his furniture is wrecked. He’s an active member in online dog groups, where he is careful to use a pseudonym and never show his face, but eventually people are going to figure out that Red Riot’s dogs look an awful lot like this one user’s....

He’s in a casual taiko group, always on the o-daiko. Loves participating in festivals and parades. He has never, ever, not once, worn a shirt while drumming. Probably has been gifted at least one antique taiko drum for his hero work, and he keeps it in his house but is too afraid to play it because it’s scary valuable “uhh it’s definitely haunted”

Regularly goes out drinking. Socially and responsibly, like clockwork, always with the same people. He’s a goddamned lightweight, and no one understands why. Will mope if he has to miss a night out at the izakaya.

So he’s clean, but sloppy. House looks like a tornado ripped through it, and nothing he owns matches. Not a single thing. I mentioned the dogs.

Will absolutely use “manly” as a replacement for “awesome,” and will constantly tell you how manly you are. Your actual gender is a non-issue. If you hang out with him for more than five minutes you’re manly as hell now.

He cries a lot? Sometimes it’s for show but he gets genuinely misty-eyed over the dumbest things. Do NOT show him pictures of puppies.

He’s good at braiding hair. His or yours. When his hair isn’t hardened, he likes doing all kinds of wacky stuff with it. He usually keeps it long enough for braids, ponies, buns, quirk-assisted faux-hawks, whatever. Mina has given him many bad ideas. He will definitely steal your hair bands and accessories, if you use them.

His fridge is just like, meat and beer. He will, if forced, consume perhaps one single vegetable. Unfortunately, his B.O. reflects this. God bless him - he showers and bathes daily, because he works out a lot and is just generally hygienic. But don’t ever touch his socks barehanded.

He wears the cheapest, most predictable cologne you can imagine, the kind that comes in an aerosol can and punches a hole in the ozone every time he sprays his pits. It smells stupidly good on him. How. so fucking manly. you kind of hate him for getting away with it.

- - - - -

And now, the 🌶 Spicy Ones 🌶

Does not date or hook up much; wants a serious relationship.

Has a tough time getting dates, weirdly. He’s still secretly insecure, but mostly he’s got rocks for brains and never knows how to flirt. He ends up friendzoning most of the people interested in him, because he is, in fact, a little too chivalrous for his own good and can never make the first move. He’s an emotional open book, but clueless romantically. I recommend being extremely straightforward. Draw him a map if you have to.

Is afraid to kiss you too deeply because of the teeth. Will take a lot of gentle encouragement to get him comfortable, but once he knows you’re safe, he’s going to be kissing you all the time. Like, too much. People are gawking, Kiri, for God’s sake.

He radiates massive doses of husband/dad energy. Will immediately marry the hell out of you. If you are capable of and willing to have his children, you are going to get extremely pregnant. Very quickly. Not necessarily a breeding kink (though why not), he just really wants to start a family with you.

He’s Big. Just huge. Tall and broad, and also... his dick is a summit and you will need to prepare for the climb. He’s had problems in the past because no, not everybody wants ALL THAT inside them. That said, if you can handle it? Woof.

Hard as a rock is No Joke with this man. Can and WILL use his quirk on his dick. If you don’t think that’s the first thing he mastered as a teenager I dont know what to tell you. Ever used a glass dildo? Well buckle up cuz it’s like if a massive glass dildo whispered sweet nothings in your ear and held you close in big strong arms and fucked you till you cried. It’s a sometimes thing. Otherwise you’d simply pass away.

He loves your brains. Your smarts and wit are a huge turn on, and he gets a boner when you use a word he doesn’t know. He also loves fucking your brains completely out, so that you cant use any words at all.

He’s a devout church-going body-worshipper. He’s so jacked that’s it’s constantly intimidating, like, how dare you stand next to this chiseled statue of a man?! but whether you love power-lifting with him or would rather die than exercise, he’s gonna treat you like the prettiest fucking piece of cake on planet earth.

Size kink ahoy; he gets his big grabby mitts on you... and you psychologically lose three feet. Doesn’t matter how tall or small or fat or thin you are, you are getting groped, squeezed, and manhandled. You didn’t even know it was possible to get thrown around like that; always onto something soft.

Not dominant. Not unless you ask very, very nicely. had a brief pushy phase at the peak of his teenage manliness obsession, unconsciously trying to be more like Bakugou, but he quickly realized controlling people wasn’t really him. It certainly isn’t very manly. Doesn’t want any toxic masculinity in his love life, even as roleplay.

That said, he can and will be a soft dom, if that’s what you want. After some practice, he’d get pretty good at it too. But his natural sexual groove is goofy, a bit awkward. Usually finds a non-sexual excuse to touch you at first; prepare to get tickled a lot. If you sit in his lap it’s all over.

If you get dominant with him, even a little, he’s gonna turn to putty in your hands. Go ahead and boss that big dumb puppy around. Nothing turns him on like seeing you get exactly what you want.

You’ll have morning wood pressed up against your ass. Every damn day. He might hump and grope you in his sleep, moaning a little. Usually it just wears off. If you wake him up to fuck, he’ll have no idea what’s going on but will be like “hell yeah i guess this is happening”

Gives oral like a starving man. Has absolutely zero reservations, because he knows his tongue and hands can’t hurt you. Will be as loud and messy as possible. If you get embarrassed or shy about it, he’s going to mumble sweet talk directly into your junk until your teeth fall out.

He’s vocal in bed. Growly. A moaning groaning disaster. He says the sweetest, gentlest things... has the cleanest dirty talk you’ve ever heard, but tenderness filtered through his bourbon-barrel chest comes out all dark and rumbly, especially when he’s close. you feel his “I love you” in your bones

He thinks making his partner cum is the manliest thing he can do. Any orgasm is good, but if you cum untouched on his dick, he’ll be riding that high for days

[frangipanidownunder]

Objects in the Mirror: fic

This is for my anon who asked: ‘what happens when Scully sees Mulder kissing someone else during their “separation”. This is set pre-season 10.

Willowy. That’s the first word that pops into Scully’s head. The second thought is that at least the woman isn’t a brunette too. Type, much, Mulder? The third thought is that it’s none of her business what Mulder does these days. None. At all. Unless it’s a health issue, he’s an adult. He’s not her…The mental conversation doesn’t supply a word so her brain leaps to the fourth thought, which is how the fuck could he do that? She stops short of adding ‘to her’, so she pulls herself back to the third thought, repeating like a mantra as she strides out, eyes to the sidewalk, desperate to unsee what she saw.

But now there’s a burning itch in her gut, the kind that used to see her pumping more rounds out at the firing range or sending local law enforcement officers running for cover with her machine-gun observations of their sub-par work. Pity she can’t blow her anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy off like that anymore; she’s no longer FBI.

Pity she can’t blow off being Scully.

She takes her writhing anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy into the café over the road and orders a large latte and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. She knows she’ll regret it almost immediately and spend a week denying herself any other treats but she needs the sugar hit. Mulder’s still talking to Willow-Blonde, so while Scully’s waiting, she teases ‘Louis’ the barista with a slow smile, holding the seam of her wallet against her cheek, hugging her waist with the other arm and slowly twisting her torso side to side so that her hair falls over her face, then swings back off it again.

It’s a pointless mating dance. It’s reactive. She’s aware of that, but tries not to fall further down the Mulder-profiling-her rabbit hole. The slow-combustion of what she recognises as a misguided sense of dispossession is still taking place in her veins. She hates herself for this weakness but here she is swaying for a bearded barista. Louis blinks her way, finishing the latte art on her order with a flourish. For him, this ritual is part of his training. Keep the customers happy. Especially the older, professional women. They’re the ones who’ll return to the same café time and again, spending their disposable income on cakes and romantic hopes. She’d fuck him though. He’s pretty enough. She wonders what the male equivalent of willowy is. And then tells her mind to shut the fuck up.

Outside, where people are actually living with purpose, instead of imagining petty sex-revenge scenarios, the street is busy. Through the thrum, she spots Mulder again. His outline, his figure, is imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye. She believes she could find him anywhere, in a ballgame crowd, in the darkened corner of a jazz club behind drifting dry ice, through the misty rain at the end of the yard, arm raised against the twisted apple tree, raging at the brutal sky above him. There was a time when she so desperately wanted him to return home from her imposed exile that she saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the line in the bank, across the street pushing someone else’s baby in a stroller.

“Latte for Day-nah,” Louis sings, and as he hands over the cup his fingers brush hers. They’re thin, girlish, two knuckles decorated with calligraphy tattoos. She doesn’t hold his eye, just whips the coffee and cake bag from his hand and heads outside.

The woman has gone but Mulder’s still there, brown paper cup in hand, sunglasses (those ugly sports ones he got from eBay because they were called SpookMeister, what? they’re so me, Scully) across that familiar, broad nose, hair an inch past unkempt and stubble on his chin that hides that fat bottom lip just a little too much. She dips her face to her own cup and watches a moment longer before a car pulls up and he climbs in.

He calls her later. She doesn’t answer the first time, lets the cell buzz and slide over the table top while his name flashes at her. When she does pick up, she feigns breathlessness and gets the desired response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Scully?” There’s disappointment laced through his words.

“No, it’s fine. Just doing a workout.” She wheezes out a cough for extra measure.

“Keeping fit for all those kids, huh? You’re a good doctor, Scully. Always going above and beyond for that place. I hope they know how deep your affections lie. Is there some kind of Olympic Games for paediatricians? The Doctors Games?”

It’s hard not to bite back, but they’ve played this game for so long their dysfunction is beat-perfect. “Keeping fit for one’s own personal health and wellbeing is a key component in living a fulfilling life, Mulder.” If only she could convince herself as easily as the words flow.

There’s a shuffle, a few clicks and bumps. He’s changing channels. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve found a new therapist. One that seems to really get me, you know?”

His tone seems genuine and she softens. “That’s good, Mulder.” Despite their issues, she’s only ever wanted him to be well. “I do want to know these things. As your physician…”

“Not that I didn’t like the other one you recommended, but,” he takes in a sharp breath as if to punctuate his point, “we’d run our course.”

She sinks into the chair, letting her head flop back on the rest. One step forward, two steps back. “How often do you see him?”

“You’re letting your unconscious bias show, Scully. Her.”

The small word stings like a needle. She refrains from asking him if she has blonde hair and legs like a foal.

“Fortnightly. We’re still at the heady getting to know you stage.” There’s a small silence where she imagines he’s assessing if he’s done enough damage yet. “She’s young enough to understand Instagram but mature enough to get Prince.”

She laughs gently. The tension diffuses again and she feels a rush of emotion. She can’t help herself. He drags her down then lifts her up with a simple switch of tone. “I saw you today. In town.”

“I do go out in the wild without my Ghillie suit sometimes, Scully. Why didn’t you say hello? I don’t bite.”

Not literally, she thinks. Well, not for a long time. She crosses her legs at the unexpected surge of arousal but the image of him kissing another woman creeps behind her eyes again. “It felt…” If he were here with her, in the same room, he’d lean in to her, tilt his head, quirk his lips, draw the truth from her. But there’s a distance more than miles between them and she can’t say the words. “I was running late.”

“That’s unlike you, Dr Punctual. Is everything okay?”

The way he switches from teasing to caring leaves her off-balance. She waits for the world to right itself.

“Can you schedule me in for an appointment, Scully? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Not medical. Are you free on the weekend?”

Tightness in her chest makes her breathing hitch. She adjusts the phone in her grip, gives herself time to respond. She’s faced mutants and monsters, her own mortality and his death, the loss of her children. Surely, his confession shouldn’t be elevated to those ranks. Yet her hands tremble and nausea roils in her stomach. Her brain rocks. It’s stupid, dumb to feel like this. She left him. She turned her back one last time and got herself away before the darkness swallowed her whole. The guilt that followed stripped her bare like a never-ending winter but recently she’s begun to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin again.

“Sure. I’ll come over,” she asserts. That way she can simply leave again. Walk the same walk.

“No, let me take you to dinner,” he says, unexpectedly. “That Thai place you like.”

Her sigh is sharp enough to graze her throat. He can’t be that insensitive as to invite her to eat at the same place they celebrated getting the keys to the house or her news about the job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

“Or the Ethiopian restaurant. You loved their shiro wat.”

“We could order pizza and stay home.” Home. She says it without thinking.

He chuckled. “Like the old days?”

“Something like that,” she says, knowing it will be anything but.

In the end, they agreed on a lunch at the vegetarian café and she orders an omelette she knows she won’t eat. He tucks into his feta and pumpkin quiche with salad and tells her he’s trying to eat cleaner. She doesn’t ask what’s brought on the change.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Mulder? If it’s just to prove you’re finally paying attention to your diet, you’ve demonstrated it adequately. I believe you.” Her fingers clasp around a napkin and she twists it to a sharp point.

His expression is the same one he used for the victims of the most bizarre kind of crimes. She feels panic welling in her throat and crushes the napkin into a tight ball.

“I wanted to tell you that I met someone. I figured I owed you an explanation. Not an explanation, I mean I haven’t done anything wrong…fuck, this is hard,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez. I feel like a teenager. I…I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” He pauses and she nods her head at him, encouraging him to finish, not only because he’s clearly still got stuff to get off her chest, but also because she just wants it over. “Not that anyone else knows because I don’t have friends…so, anyway. I…” The noise he makes is a sad laugh. For her or for him? “That’s, that’s my news.”

His fingers have crept across the table and they’re drumming on the surface, disturbing the small jug containing packets of sugar so that it chinks in time with his beat. He adds a low “sorry.”

If she takes a deep breath, what signal will that send? If she speaks too quickly, would that show a callous disinterest? She tries to smile but her lips refuse to co-operate. She’s never been good at hiding negative emotions, despite her tendency to stoicism. “How did you meet her?”

“Online,” he says. “Where else does someone who spends days at a time in his den meet other humans?”

He’s blushing and it’s charming and she hates it. “Is it serious?” The words are dry on her tongue.

He looks away and she tries to interpret the clench of his jaw. A beat. It softens and his mouth changes from grimace to lop-sided grin. “What does it mean if she left a copy of Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps on the coffee table?”

“Well,” she starts, trying to hold his eye despite a rush of conflicting emotions churning through her. “I would jump in the car and take it back to her, but I’m not sure how to get to her place.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then his head tips back and he laughs. She sips her tea and enjoys the sound. It always pleases her so profoundly to make him laugh. Not many people could claim to draw out true joy from Fox Mulder.

When he’s collected himself, he rubs his chin. “She took me out last week for coffee, took me out to tell me it was over. At least she did that, I suppose. She…she told me I was too insular. Can you believe that, Scully?” He plays for light. “According to her expert opinion of my psyche, that, I might add, she gleaned from two coffee dates and a meal at some over-priced French place where a dessert the size of a pin cost $50, I was still stuck in the past. With you.” He lowers his eyes and she rolls her lips together to stop herself from adding ‘and your demons and truths’. His shoulders move as he chuckles. “She didn’t really leave me that book, Scully. She didn’t come to the house.”

She’s stupidly relieved to hear that.

“It seemed wrong, somehow,” he says. “And it got me thinking, after her Dear John speech, that maybe this is what we’re…I’m destined for. A kind of relationship limbo. Prevented from going forward because I’m still snagged on a Scully branch. Do you think she’s right? If you…if you met someone, Scully, do you think you could give your whole self to that person?” He blinks slowly. “Or will there always be a small part of you left here?” He pats his chest with the side of his fist.

Her own heart speeds up. She’s had a few dates, a few flings. She hadn’t told him because he wasn’t in the headspace to process her attempts at moving on. And she can see now they were just ‘attempts’. There was an emptiness to the experience. And there’s a grain of truth to his question. It’s exposed just how indelibly tied they are because of their past.

She doesn’t answer him and he plays with the lollo rosso on his plate. “I like the weight of you in here.” He looks down to his heart. “It keeps me balanced.” A waiter retrieves their plates and Mulder watches her for the entire time he’s cleaning the table.

Her chest constricts, burns with such intensity that she’s certain her face is aflame. His fingers meet hers, mid-table, and she lets him squeeze them, such tenderness, such affection, so far removed from the angry, impotent man she’d left.

“Have we fucked each other up entirely, Scully?”

“Is that how she put it, your mystery woman?”

He grins. “I told her I liked being fucked up. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That’s when she threw in the towel.”

“I don’t blame her,” she says, rubbing his knuckles. “Imagine meeting Spooky Mulder all grown up. At least back in the day your paranoia was justified. Government conspiracies and all.”

“If Dr Dana Scully had met me now, she wouldn’t have lasted one date with Ole Spook, would she?”

She lowers her head as she giggles. “You showed me many things, Mulder. Opened my eyes to wonders and closed them to the black and white life I’d known. I’m a better person because of you. I wouldn’t change a day.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And I still mean it.”

Outside, the day is cooling, sun leaching away behind thickening cloud. They walk in amiable silence down the street. There’s a bookshop she loves and he nods as she lingers at the door. Inside, the comforting smell of words on pages wafts over her and she browses the dark-shadowed shelves.

Mulder emerges with an armful of books from Squatchin’ for Novices to Meals for One. She swallows at the sight of that one. She’s picked up a mystery thriller, and couple of romances that he side-eyes. She bats him over the arm with one. Then she spies the main prize. She picks out two copies. A his and her pair. The teller scans them through and she hands one to Mulder.

He’s still laughing as they walk to their cars. He puts the other books on the passenger seat of his car and clasps his copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck to his chest.

“Shit is fucked,” she says, reading from the blurb.

“And we just have to live with it.” He drops a kiss on her head and smiles a full-wattage beam. “You’re still a good date, Scully.”

“You too,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me about…your…”

“Tiffany. That was her name.”

She can’t help the sharp burst of laughter that comes out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That…was unexpected.”

He snugs a hand in his jeans pocket. “I know. It should have been a warning.”

“Well, unfortunate name aside, it’s good that you’re getting out there.”

“Out there. Where the truth is? I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry.”

She pulls a sympathetic face, reaches out to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be your snag, Mulder. I thought I was setting you free.”

“We’ll never be free of each other, Scully. And I don’t want to be free in that sense, not if it means never having days like this. I…miss you.” He bounces his toe off the ground and the lump in her throat wedges itself firm.

“I’d better be going,” she whispers. Turns to leave.

“Maybe we can make this a weekly thing,” he says after her. “Just two fuck-ups having lunch, you know?”

She stops, turns back around, smiling through her tears. “Maybe.” And she watches him in the rear-view mirror. Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, she thinks as she drives away, and sometimes, they actually are.

[moncercueil]

I’m suddenly feeling really paranoid and have a bad feeling that I’m going to be used in his pity narrative just like he used his exes on me before. I should have known that things aren’t as they appeared; he told me so many times that he had been abused and manipulated by the women in his life and my heart went out to him completely and I just wanted to love him and provide comfort, but now I’m on the opposite end of that and I know that he’s calling me toxic and abusive and manipulative-- when he’s the one who hurt me so many times repeatedly over the course of the time that we were together. It makes me feel sick, it makes me want to cry, and I don’t know what to do because right now it’s only a suspicion and maybe my own paranoia, but I have a gut feeling that he’s painting me out to be an abuser to the person he’s been talking to lately. I have a feeling that he’s not only replacing me by moving on to this person but that he’s painting me in the worst light possible to make me seem like one of the people who hurt him and abused him and treated him badly. GOD.

I finally trusted someone and let them in because they promised to love me and never hurt me or break my trust but then when my back was turned they went on my phone and violated my privacy-- I can already hear it!! I can already imagine what he’s saying!! But where is the part of the story where you talked shit about me behind my back? Where’s the part where you called me a horrible, abusive, toxic girlfriend-- after an argument YOU started, I groveled for, and apologized for absolutely nothing? You had triggered ME in that argument and made me feel absolutely awful and horrible and like a bad, cruel person for being hurt by the things that you were doing! Where is the part of the story where I begged you, looking you in the face, to PLEASE tell me what’s wrong and tell me what was going on and why you were upset? Why couldn’t you just tell me instead of talking to someone else about the issues we were having? And least especially the person I was most insecure about!

You said that I have jealousy issues-- where’s the understanding that I’m not some crazy toxic jealous bitch, but that you would repeatedly tell me that you hate me, call me a horrible sickening cunt, tell me that I’m the worst person to happen to you after your abusive mother-- AND THEN TURN AROUND AND TELL JOE YOU LOVED THEM IN THE SAME BREATH? Of course I would be terrified and sickened with fucking fear that I was losing you to them-- who wouldn’t be after such whiplash? I was dying for scraps and shreds of your love, and whenever I reacted out of fear or showed any emotion that you didn’t like, you would immediately nail me with the words that hurt me the most-- toxic, manipulative, selfish, you’re so selfish just like Kayleigh and Chris-- how many times did I have to hear that? How many times did you compare me to your exes when you were angry at me, just to hurt me, after I begged and pleaded for you to please stop comparing me to them? How many times did you make me feel empty and less than nothing, hollow and stupid and cruel and abusive for unintentionally hurting the person I loved most in this world without even meaning to? I’m still unlearning this-- it’s been nearly six weeks of therapy and Liz is still trying to get me to understand that I’m not a bad person, that I’m not cruel or evil or manipulative, that I’m a regular human being-- someone was nice to me the other day and I almost started crying, hyperventilating because I genuinely believed that I had manipulated them into thinking I was a kind person deserving of even a shred of niceness or decency-- how fucked up is that!? You destroyed my sense of identity as a person, you destroyed the only thing I genuinely believed about myself-- that even if I’m ugly or fat or stupid or unsuccessful, at least I’m fucking kind, I’m fucking soft-hearted and loving-- you took that away from me and I see myself as a monster, I hate myself and I genuinely believe I deserve to die for hurting you (even though everyone keeps trying to tell me that I didn’t really hurt you) because if I can hurt the person I cared most without even trying, what kind of fucking monster does that make me? What kind of evil thing does that make me? I deserve to be put down before I could ever hurt someone again--

And yet you’re okay, you’re doing just fine and moving on, you were going on tinder dates two weeks after you dumped me in the most hurtful and crushing way possible, and you’re talking and hinting at an online relationship with Nami exactly one month since it ended-- it would have been our six month anniversary together, and instead it’s the one month anniversary of our death. And you’re okay. I’ve wept and sobbed and hurt myself over and over every single day-- and I still do, and I still am, and I’m still hurting by watching you and seeing your interactions online-- because I’m stupidly there, stupidly waiting and holding on, because that’s what love is, right? Holding on and being patient? And you said you needed time, that you weren’t sure what you were feeling, that your heart is on cope mode and that it would be months or years before you could feel again and find out if you care about me-- BUT IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE DOING JUST FINE how could you not be? You’re telling Nami you love her publicly, drawing art for her, rejoicing in your follower count and presenting yourself as a delight and a savior to the FE3H fandom-- and nobody knows that you’re capable of so much fucking cruelty, that you’ve hurt me and fucked me up so badly, that you’re intentionally putting on a mask and parading your happiness with an online persona to spite me, because you knew that it hurt, because you know that I haven’t unfollowed you or blocked you, and you know that I can see all of this. And I? I’m so stupid as to allow it, I’m stupid for holding on, for trying to find a way to reconcile the pain and grief that you’re putting me through with the blind hope that one day we can recover what we had. I’m stupidly living in the past, soaking up the nostalgia, reminiscing over and over, thinking back on the times we spent together in San Francisco, in Santa Monica, protecting the home I carved for you inside my heart, as if you wanted to return, as if you weren’t already looking for someone else to burrow yourself into. I’m aware that I’m hurting, that I’ve been hurt and humiliated in a way that’s so toxic and cruel and hurtful it should be unforgivable, but I’m still here, still waiting, still wishing for a scrap of indication that you think of me, let alone care, anxious to be away from my phone just in case you text me (you won’t). I wish I could move on, I know fully well that you already have, but something in me is clinging for dear life because I fucking chose you! I chose you and I let you in! I never do that! I have never before let anyone know me so thoroughly, I’ve never trusted someone to see all of me, to know my secrets and my feelings without limits, I gave myself in my entirety to you and you didn’t fucking care! You didn’t fucking take care of me the way I did of you! I made myself small, I poured myself over, I made myself available to you 24/7, lest you should feel alone or unloved for even a second-- and for what? You disposed of me! You didn’t care! You don’t care and you’re already searching for someone new and using me and the memory of our relationship, the memories I cherish so much, to achieve that! You’ve desecrated everything, everything that was so fucking sacred to me, that meant so much to me, that I poured and dedicated everything to-- and you don’t care. I can’t wrap my head around or fathom such cruelty, such an absence, it’s such a profound feeling of loss, knowing that I and everything we worked for, everything we dreamed of and promised one another, means nothing and can be disposed of and forgotten in a heartbeat-- and that you can even spite it all and call me cruel things, call me toxic and a bitch and everything that you must be saying-- all the things that you’ve already said, worse even, to my face-- a sickening cunt, that I disgust you, tainted. Why am I still holding on when you’ve made your loathing so painfully, cuttingly clear? When my unconditional love and understanding have been met with nothing but pain and cruelty? Why am I still holding on? Because I’m fucking stupid and despite the pain, despite the humiliation, despite your utter loathing and depreciation, I know hat I’m still in love with you, I still wish I could be by your side through the process of your healing, and that I could stand with you at the end of the process, knowing that I have you, fully healed and full of love toward the person who stood by you unflinchingly.

But you don’t want me. You don’t want me, and you disparage my love, you call me selfish and sickening when all I ever did was promise you unconditional love and promise you that I would stand by your side through everything you went through, that we were a team and you were my partner, and I would never leave your side. I’m still holding on to those promises. I’m still holding on, as if it’s fulfilling a promise that you broke long ago-- which you excuse by saying that my actions were so severe that they freed you of any promises you could have ever made. But you broke a promise long before that, the first promise I asked you to make. You told me you would be gentle with my heart, because I was terrified of being hurt, terrified of the prospect of loving and being in a relationship, but I wanted to do it, I wanted you to be my first and only. Instead, you broke it, over and over, and it’s been so badly damaged and hurt, I don’t know if I could love again. I’m trying to pick up the pieces pouring out from my chest, but there are too many and they’re all slipping through my fingers.

It’ll be years before I let go. It’ll be longer yet before I could recover.