#some of them can draw a hard line with fiction when it comes to this shit. but there are others who look at problematic anime and go

[bowtiestash]

dawg im so sick of weirdos on the internet defending really problematic shit and saying "it's fiction" cause like, while i do get where they're coming from, shutting down an argument with it sucks. sure, fiction can be used to explore problematic things, its just that i have an overall issue with how these people expect it to be consumed without any thought at all??

it also doesnt even address the nuance when it comes to this kinda shit (which is why i dont like the pro/anti labels bc wtf do those labels even fucking mean. i hate it)

#i dont wanna go full rant on the post so ill put the rest of my thoughts here #basically i dont care about what you consume in fiction. but i also want you to be critical of whatever youre consuming #for example i recently watched a vid about isekai harems and ppl were talkin about how it was escapist fantasy for lonely men in japan #but it just makes me feel a bit icked out bc i feel like this kinda media CAN affect how men view women #the same applies to shit like. rape fantasy and stuff #im not sayin that EVERY person who enjoys this would do this irl #but its problematic anime like this that makes me lowkey worried about how men view women yknow?? #and the same applies to loli/shota stuff #these guys act like bc theyre fiction it doesnt reflect on their actions irl and i do agree to an extent #but i feel like it only applies to some select individuals #some of them can draw a hard line with fiction when it comes to this shit. but there are others who look at problematic anime and go #'oh well bc the guy in this anime does this it MUST be ok!!' #obvs tho im not sayin problematic shit shouldnt be in media. a lot of ppl also lack media literacy #and that shit annoys me too #overpolicing of what people should enjoy is annoying #ive rambled a lot but my conclusion is this: if you enjoy smth problematic just keep in mind if it affects the way you think towards others #also goes without saying but keep your space away from minors as well #and if someone expresses they dont like the thing you like then just respect that??? #skypeaks

[hihello-pinky]

Sight

Suna Rintarou x F! Reader

Sometimes, it takes losing someone to finally see them. He wished he knew this before, but Rintarou had to learn this the hard way. WARNINGS: Cheating, Explicit Smut, Rape/Non-Con, mentions of abortion, use of derogatory terms

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This is no way represents my views of the original anime/manga characters.

WC: 5.5k Genre: Angst, Romance, Hurt/Comfort Other Tags: Forced Marriage, Developing Relationship, Denial of Feelings, Emotionally Repressed, References to Illness, Angst with a Happy Ending, + more to be added.

part two part three part ???

leave me love?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

You never imagined you would find yourself in a situation like this: married at twenty-six with two children, a big house, a job that fits your time, and a husband who doesn’t love you.

Clicking the book you’re reading into the next page, you take a sip from the orange juice that you made, making sure not to drop anything on the Kindle. The faint sound of Blue’s Clues is playing in the background. It can be a perfect Saturday afternoon, save for the fact that Rintarou, your husband, still hasn’t come home from his company’s event last night - the one he didn’t even ask you to attend.

But can you blame him, though? You know very well that if he could, he would erase every single proof of your marriage. He hates you. And if it weren’t for his parents threatening to disown him and strip him off his inheritance, he wouldn’t have married you in the first place.

Your thoughts go back to where everything started.

You were somewhat of a goody-two-shoes. You never went to parties while you were studying, never missed a class, never missed a violin lesson. Sure, you did date a boy before but you never went beyond hand-holding. However, a week before your graduation from university, you were pressured by some of your friends to attend a house party. You decided to go, telling yourself that you should at least try before you officially graduate.

That’s where you met Suna Rintarou.

Dark hair, greenish eyes, a small smirk. You were instantly captivated. He was friends with the host of the party - Komori Motoya - which explained why he felt so at home in the place. He was with other friends and they certainly exuded a kind of air that would draw people to them. Upon noticing your intrigue about the man, your friends warned you to stay away from the “rich playboys” to stay out of trouble.

You had listened to your friends but little did you know, you already caught the eye of Suna. Atsumu had nudged him the moment you entered the house with your friends and when Komori welcomed them, the older twin asked about you. The host only shrugged and said that someone must have brought you with them. Suna only raised his brows and observed you the rest of the night.

The next morning, you woke up in bed with the guy who caught your attention at the party the night before. The two of you were undressed and there was a dull ache in between your legs. You hastily left the house, not even thinking of contacting or looking for your friends.

You cried when you went home, never imagining that your first time would be with a stranger. You never should have gone to the party… you shouldn’t have let yourself get drunk… maybe you wouldn’t have been taken advantage of.

Graduation came and it was a big milestone in your life. The celebration and jovial atmosphere for days distracted you from what happened a week prior. You were excited to begin a new chapter in your life. Everyone around you was excited as well. You had a bright future ahead of you.

Until two weeks later, when you found yourself inside your bathroom, with a stick and two lines glaring at you.

The squeal of your children brings you out of your reverie. You look at the living room and see your husband crouching down to let your kids hug him. You almost laugh as the two step back from their father. They must have smelled the liquor on him. Rintarou, however, lets out a small chuckle at the kids’ reaction.

You expected him to go straight to the stairs but you’re surprised when he goes over to you and makes a kiss sound without meeting your lips or cheeks. A facade. To let your children believe that their parents are in love. You appreciate the little gesture from Rintarou, even though most of the time he forgets to do it. However, the action allows you to get a whiff of a woman’s perfume. He doesn’t even bother to try to hide anymore that he’s seeing other women. And, despite it being an open secret between you two, it doesn’t make the pain any less.

Because in spite of all his meanness and nasty treatment of you, you had grown to love your husband.

As he pulls away, you try to give him a smile. “Do you want me to prepare anything for you?”

He holds your hand, aware that your children are watching you two. In a whisper, he says, “I want you to leave me the fuck alone for the rest of the day.”

You sigh, close your eyes, and nod. “Okay.”

After he left to go to your shared room upstairs, you turn to your Kindle and close the case’s cover. You leave it on the counter and go to your children. “Risa, Ryuu, let’s get you changed before Grandpa and Grandma come to pick you up.” Every other weekend, Rintarou’s parents loved to have the kids over, being as they are the first grandchildren. You watch as both of your kids pout and give you the puppy eyes, wanting to extend their telly time.

You smile fondly at them. When you learned that you were having twins, you were so scared. You didn’t grow up with a mother and suddenly the world was telling you that you’re going to be a mother of two for the first time?

You pinch each of their cheeks and say, “If you’re not ready by the time your grandparents are here, I’ll ask them not to give you chuupets.” The twins gasp and run towards the stairs, only stopping at the bottom and asking for your assistance. You giggle and guide them up the stairs to their room.

You take the time prepping your kids and packing their bags for the overnight stay at their grandparents’ home. Humming, you brush your daughter's dark brown hair which was the same shade as her dad’s, as she tried to fix her brother’s hair, which was as black as yours. Besides the hair colors, though, Risa resembled you and Ryuu resembled Rintarou.

“Mommy, so excited for birthday next week!” Ryuu exclaims. “Gifts?”

“Of course, honey,” you reply to your son, making his eyes twinkle. Eyes that looked so much like Rintarou’s. You inwardly sigh and wish that Ryuu’s father would at least look at you like that someday.

“Food? Games?” Risa adds.

“Yes, darling, mommy has everything planned out already.”

“Yay!” The kids squeal and goes around the room doing their ‘happy dance’. You watch with teary eyes as your children dance happily. You may not be loved by your husband, but at least you have your children.

 ---

Suna is on the balcony of your shared room when you come in. He had just seen his parents’ car drive off. Good, another night without the children, another night of not needing to tolerate your presence.

“You could have at least seen your parents off,” you comment, gathering the robe from your dresser, and preparing to take a shower for the night.

Suna rolls his eyes. “I thought I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

You ignore his comment and say, “You’re smoking. Again. That’s bad for your health, you know.”

“Stop acting as if I care about your opinion. In case you forgot, you mean nothing to me.” Still, he stubs the cigarette in the ashtray and stands up from the chair, entering the room and sliding the door shut behind him. “Also, why the fuck are you here?”

“This is my room, too, Rintarou,” you reply softly, not wanting to make the argument bigger. The two of you have established that on the nights when your children are away at his parents’ house, you would stay in their room. That’s how much Rintarou couldn’t stand you. However, there are times when you don’t want him to always get his way. Tonight’s one of those nights.

“Fucking hard-headed bitch,” he says out loud, making sure you hear, before slumping on the king-sized bed and throwing the covers over him. He hears your sharp intake of breath but chooses to ignore it.

He stays on his phone the whole time you’re taking a shower. He’s almost at the end of the homemade video that Atsumu had sent him when the door opens and you come out with your body wrapped in your cotton robes, some drops of water adorning your face. He goes back to his phone to type a quick reply to the blonde twin.

[ tell Mina her moans sound good if only she wasn’t faking them half the time ]

Despite the fake moans that Atsumu’s girlfriend let out in the video, Suna can’t deny that he is horny. Sure, he can contact one of his girls at the moment but that will take time and his cock cannot wait anymore. And here you are, freshly out of the shower, looking so ready to be fucked.

 ---

 You feel his eyes watch as you make your way around the room. He stands from the bed, approaches you, and just as you are about to sit in front of your dresser, he stops behind you, meeting your eyes through the mirror.

“W-What do you want?” you ask softly, though you already know by the look in his eyes. He cups your left breast with a hand while the other makes its way under the robe. You hate the whimper that escapes you.

“Hmm… I haven’t done anything yet and you’re already this wet?”

“Rintarou,” you start to protest. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Your pussy says otherwise.” He inserts two fingers immediately, making you moan. You aren’t really in the mood but your body is a traitor, always giving in to Rintarou. His hand cupping your breast begins to undo your robe as his lips start a trail across the expanse of your neck and shoulder. He turns you around, sucking a harsh mark on your collarbone before throwing you to the bed.

When he crawls over to you, you feel his hard member against your folds as he ravages your chest. He kisses you everywhere in your body. Everywhere but your lips. You’ve long accepted that no matter how often you let Rintarou take you, he would never kiss you on the lips; he didn’t even kiss you on your wedding day.

“Shit,” he curses as he slaps his dick against your folds. “You’re so fucking wet.” He aligns his member to your slit and you widen your eyes.

“Ah, Rintarou, I’m not yet--” your sentence is cut off by a shriek as he thrusts all the way inside. It stings, you weren’t prepared and he didn’t give you a chance to adjust as he begins slamming his hips relentlessly against yours.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Such a tight pussy. Moan for me, slut.”

You try to put your hand against his pelvis, asking him to slow down. “Please, Rin, I - Ah - It hurts!”

He chuckles. “Really? But I just felt your pussy clench tighter around me. Just be glad I’m fucking this cunt.” The bed starts to creak and your body is slowly inching upwards at the harshness of his thrusts.

You lay there and take it all, clenching your fists on the sheets, for Rintarou hates it when you leave marks on his body. It doesn’t mean he hates leaving marks on yours, though. Oftentimes he would litter your body with bruises and he didn’t even care whether or not they were in visible places. More than once did you get flustered when Ryuu or Risa asked about some purple marks on your neck.

He doesn’t even let you breathe through your orgasm as he starts fucking you harder after you came, pursuing his own release. After steadying his breathing, he pulls out of you and leaves you alone as he goes to get himself cleaned up. A few minutes later, he emerges from the shower room and goes straight outside to the balcony.

All while you remain on your back, trying to fight the tears from falling. That’s it. No aftercare, no asking if you were alright. You hate yourself for letting him use you like this; like you aren’t his wife. Just someone to use for his own needs. You close your eyes and scold yourself. You should’ve just decided to stay in the kids’ room tonight.

 ---

 He may be a good liar but there’s one thing that Suna cannot lie about: he likes having sex with you. He would never admit it to anyone else, though, not even the Miya twins, certainly not to the Miya twins.

He couldn’t quite explain it to himself either, but the first time after he fucked you as his wife, he had the urge to cuddle with you. He thought it was just the rush of things but it happened again the second time… and the next… and the next… Until he developed a habit of leaving you alone and staying away from you every time after sex.

Suna isn’t the insensitive bastard that everyone thinks he is. He could tell how hurt you are every time when he pretends as if you didn’t exist again. As if he didn’t just share his body with you.

But he has to. He has to not feel anything for you. Not even guilt, not even pity. He cannot afford to feel anything for the person who ruined his life.

 ---

 Monday mornings are for Ryuu and Risa. You liked taking them to the nearby playground to play with other kids and socialize as well with the other parents. Your children were able to make friends but you’re still having a hard time fitting in with the parents. You couldn’t blame them; you were five to ten years younger than them.

“Somebody had a good time last night,” a deep voice comments beside you. You look to your right and see a tanned man take the space with his broad body.

“Iwaizumi-san,” you say, “Nice seeing you too. Who had fun last night?”

The man smiles at you. “I told you to call me Hajime, Y/N.” He looks at his son who’s playing with your children. Iwaizumi is your only friend among the parents in this playground. You two had gotten close as he’s only a year older than you. He’s a single dad, left to raise his son alone after the mother decided that she did not want anything to do with him.

“O-okay, Hajime,” you respond, then repeat the question. “Who had fun last night?”

Hajime laughs and points at your jaw. “You.”

You quickly pull out your phone and check your reflection. Sure enough, there is a faint mark from Rintarou from the night before. He didn’t leave the house yesterday and after you tucked Risa and Ryuu to bed, he joined you in the shower and took you against the slippery walls. You blush at the memory and refuse to look Hajime in the eyes. “It’s a…. mosquito bite.”

At that, Hajime laughs even louder. “I’m not your kid, Y/N. No need to lie to me.”

You’re still blushing. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Come to think of it,” Hajime says after a few moments. “How come I’ve never seen your husband here?”

You blink, surprised at the sudden question. “He’s a very busy person.”

Hajime only hums in response.

“Is Kenta joining the party on Saturday?” you ask, eager to change the subject.

“Of course,” Hajime replies. “He’s been bugging me about what gifts to buy for the twins.”

You laugh a little. “I’m sure the twins will love whatever gift you give them.”

“Of course,” Hajime replies, “They are as sweet as their mother.”

The compliment makes you blush but you tell yourself not to dwell too much on it.

 ---

 It’s eleven in the evening when Rintarou arrives home. You are in your room, finalizing the last details for Ryuu’s and Risa’s birthday party.

As usual, your husband ignores you, and you would have let it go if only you didn’t need to ask him something important about the party. “Rintarou, what’s your guest count for the party on Saturday?”

He scrunches his forehead. “Party on Saturday?”

“It’s the kids’ birthday,” you say. “You forgot?”

“Ah,” Suna sighs. “How do I even pretend that I’m sorry?”

You close your eyes, trying to reign in your anger. “I can stand it if you hate me, but do not hate my children. You can hurt me all you want, but don’t you dare hurt Risa and Ryuu.” You are starting to have a headache again, something that has been frequent for the past week.

“I don’t hate them; I didn’t intend to forget, okay?” he barks back. “I just hate the fact that they’re the reason I’m married to you. Once the company has been fully turned over to my name, I’m going to file for divorce and get custody of them.”

The laugh that escapes your lips surprised even you. “Hell, I would allow that! You? Custody? Of my children? No way in hell! You’d have to kill me first!”

He opens his mouth to retort but you jab your pointer finger against his chest, making him stumble back, not at the force but at the surprise. “For all I know, you just want custody to please your parents. You don’t care about the kids; you care about how you can weaponize them. Do you think I forgot about the time I told you I was pregnant and you straight up told me to get an abortion? You think I’d leave my children in your care?” The pounding in your head has worsened but it is nothing compared to your heartbreak. Whatever hopes you had in having a somewhat okay relationship with Rintarou have just been doused by the ice-cold reality that he’s a horrible person. A horrible, horrible…

 ---

 Suna, for the second time that night, stumbles back in surprise. One moment you’re repetitively jabbing at his chest and the next, you’re falling against him. He gets his footing and catches you in time.

He ignores the way his heart leaped when you fell. He quickly convinces himself that the only reason he was a bit worried about your fall is that he knew his parents wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. “Hey,” he tries to shake you but you are unconscious.

He heaves a sigh as he carries you to your shared bed. He places the back of his hand against your forehead and upon feeling that you’re not feverish, Suna scratches his nape. If you don’t have a fever, then what caused your collapse? He debates calling for a doctor; this shouldn’t be such a big deal.

Then what should he do? He looks at you again and sighs. Maybe he should just let you sleep it off?

He sighs and pulls out his phone. About to text the family doctor, a message from Osamu pops up on his screen.

[ sorry for the late msg, browsing online for ur kids’ bday. y/n told me not to overthink what gift to buy but what do u think they’d like? ]

Of course. Osamu fucking Miya remembers his children’s birthday. He knows his friend has a little crush on you; he even got a scolding when he confided about getting you pregnant. His gray-haired friend was actually the one to rat him out to his parents, but it backfired when his parents forced him to marry you.

He's still good friends with the younger of the twins and the only time they argue is when his friend lectures him about morals and how he should start treating you better. If only Osamu knew...

[ they have a lot of toys, i think. better go with books ]

[ okay, what books do they like? ]

[ i don't fucking know, samu. u think i read them stories to sleep? ]

[ ok rin, relax. god u r so irritable these days ]

He does not reply, not in the mood to argue with his friend. He looks at you still lying on the bed. You look so peaceful and all with the purple blanket that he has thrown over you. Maybe you're just tired. Sighing, he locks his phone and places it on the bedside table. 

No need to call the doctor, you're fine.

 ---

 You wake up sweating a lot. Looking up, you notice that the AC has been turned off. You slowly sit up, letting the blanket slide away from you, and then turn to your right and see Rintarou sleeping shirtless.

The last memory you can remember is having an argument with him before passing out. Did he bring you to your bed and cover you in sheets? Is that why the AC's turned off?

Your eyes soften at the realization, bringing back memories of a time in your pregnancy that you treasure so much. Memories that feel like dreams, given your current situation with your husband. You carefully get off the bed to change as your back is drenched in sweat. As you look through your clothes in the closet, you take a mental note to schedule an appointment with the doctor after Risa's and Ryuu's birthday party this weekend. You pick a thin camisole, deciding that it's best if you leave the air conditioner off since Rintarou's half-naked.

You mentally hear your friend, Sacha, telling you about how you should stop being nice to your shitty husband. You stifle a laugh.

Around fifteen minutes after situating yourself back on the bed, you sigh and sit up. Sleep isn't coming and what else can you do than pick up your journal and write another entry? However, as the pen is in your hand, you only end up staring at the blank, white page. You can't bring yourself to write down tonight's thoughts, for you're still hurting over it.

Rintarou's a horrible person.

A lot of your friends have said it to you and yet you refuse to listen. But then... what he told you about planning to get custody of the kids... you know he has lots of money and connections and the law sides with the likes of him. If he's being serious about it...

"Can you stop?"

That's when you notice you have woken up Rintarou by the rhythmic tapping of your pen on the notebook. You clear your throat and begin to apologize when he sits up and groans before throwing you a glare.

"Don't even try to say shit like you're sorry or something."

You bite your tongue and only nod meekly at him. You're not sure whether to bring up the argument or not.

Rintarou turns his gaze away from you before mumbling something.

“What?” You carefully ask, failing to catch what he said the first time.

His voice when he replies is so low that it’s barely audible. “Are you okay?”

To say you’re surprised is an understatement. Not that this is the first time he has asked you this question. You just thought you’d never hear it again from him. “Yes. I don’t know what happened.”

“Cool. If you ever do not feel well, go to the doctor. I can't have you passing out. My parents will never forgive me if something bad happens to you.”

Of course, it’s his parents. Any semblance of concern that Rintarou shows to you is always rooted back to his parents.

The two of you remain silent for a while before your husband speaks again. “The twins… some friends from high school club, college. Say, maybe around fifteen to twenty people?”

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s talking about his guests at your children’s birthday party. You try not to smile. “Noted, thank you.”

You two don’t talk after that. Rintarou leaves to smoke on the balcony and you remain in bed, deciding on rereading your journal.

 ---

 The house that Rintarou’s parents gave to the two of you has a backyard garden. It’s not decorated much, save for the numerous ornamental and flowering plants. Gardening became one of your pastimes during your pregnancy. A swing set with a slide is placed neatly in a corner.

You watch as your kids’ friends play on the slide and your heart clenches, thinking about the backstory of that particular display. 

“Great party,” Hajime bumps you playfully, a tall glass of juice in his hand. “You’re a good organizer.”

You smile at your guest whose son is playing happily with your children. “You always compliment me, Hajime. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I mean my compliments, though. You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself, Y/N.”

The smile remains on your face. The two of you begin to talk about another kid’s party in the next month when Rintarou joins you.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says curtly to Hajime and you wonder about his rather unfriendly demeanor.

Hajime gives your husband a kind smile. “Iwaizumi Hajime, a friend of your wife.”

Rintarou ignores Hajime’s outstretched hand. “How did you two meet?”

“Playground,” Hajime replies, gesturing towards the kids. “That little boy over there is my son.”

Rintarou only hums in response. You think of how he probably did not know about the playground and for a moment, you start to question yourself whether or not it was rude to invite Hajime to come to the party in a house that was technically Rintarou’s. But then again, you remind yourself that the older guy is a parent of your kids’ friend, and the celebration is for your children, not yours.

“Well,” you awkwardly break the silence that has taken over. “I’m going to make sure the cupcakes are ready to be served. Enjoy your time, Hajime.” You give your friend a smile before walking away, at the same time Rintarou sighs and leaves as well.

The rest of the party goes well. All the children had fun. Towards the end, right after Rintarou’s parents had to leave earlier, you notice an unfamiliar woman arrive. You briefly wonder who she is, that is, until your husband welcomes her with too-friendly arms.

She doesn’t even bother to greet you nor the kids. She just trails along Rintarou, pretty much ignoring everyone else. Hajime gives you a curious look and you wave him off by forcing a smile before turning away and bumping into Osamu.

“He’s a jerk,” the gray-haired twin says lowly, an arm on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

You give him a small nod. “She’s just his friend.”

Before you can hear Osamu’s disagreement, you hurry towards the kitchen so you could distract yourself for a while. Before rejoining the rest of the party, you decide to go the to the restroom to freshen yourself up. It’s at that exact moment that the door opens and you’re met by your husband and the woman, him still breathing heavily, her trying to manage her disheveled hair.

You feel like throwing up.

Rintarou only rolls his eyes at you before leaving, the woman following behind him. You would have just ignored them but you hear her whisper, “Pathetic” and the next thing you know, you’re grabbing her hand tightly, pulling her towards you. Once she’s facing your direction, you slap her. “Get out of here.”

She’s baffled and looks to Rintarou for help. He only watches the two of you in amusement. “What do you want me to do? You heard my wife. Get out of our house.” The woman looks at him in disbelief before marching away, leaving you and Rin alone. He smiles at you. “Happy?”

Taking a deep breath, you shake your head. “You’re horrible.”

 ---

 Rintarou is angry. You can feel it with every harsh thrust of his hips against yours, with every rough bite he leaves on your body. He’s mad, and he’s not holding back.

The thing is, you are just as mad as him.

How dare he bring one of his women to your children’s birthday party? How dare he do lewd things with the said woman in the restroom of your house? Sure, the house is his per se, but his audacity to do the filth in a celebration of your children’s day is too much.

“Harder,” you groan out, not bothering to mask the bitterness in your voice. “Is that all you can do?”

His response is a particularly hard thrust, making you scream. “Shut the fuck up,” he says irritably. “Fucking whore.” He hoists your left leg up around his waist and starts to drill into you harder as he busies his lips on your collarbone.

You scratch at his back. Tonight, you don’t care that he hates when you leave marks on him. Tonight, you don’t care that he doesn’t love you. Tonight, all you care about is how good he’s making you feel. He’s not using your body, you’re the one using his. 

Another hard bite on your shoulder makes you whine and Rintarou pulls back, glaring at you. “You probably let that man fuck you, huh?” He says and for a moment, you’re confused. Who is he talking about?

“Friend my ass,” Rintarou continues as his pace becomes more unforgiving. “You probably set playdates for the kids so you two can fuck.”

Oh.

You let out a laugh, which immediately gets swallowed up by a moan. “Really, Rin? You’re accusing me of sleeping with a friend when you’re the one who brought one of your whores to the party? Hajime’s only a friend.”

“Don’t say his name!” He spits and thrusts into you deeply.

“Are you jealous?” You ask the question before you can stop yourself, making Rintarou’s movements halt. He doesn’t answer and only looks at you coldly before pulling out and manhandling you so you’re all on fours.

He doesn’t even give you time to steady yourself before he plunges his cock back in and starts jackhammering against you, pulling your hair in the process. You were shamelessly moaning now. You can hate yourself later, you tell yourself. For now, you’re going to let Rin fuck the frustration and anger out of you.

Three orgasms later, you lie on your back with Rintarou beside you, panting heavily. Now that the rush of ecstasy has subsided, you feel empty again. Instead of trying to talk to your husband about your problem, you resorted to having hate sex with him. It’s normal for Rintarou, he hates talking to you; but for you to do it, too…

“Don’t do it again,” you say softly. “Bringing your women here.”

“This is my house,” Rintarou answers matter-of-factly. “I can bring whoever the fuck I want.”

“Look, I don’t care if you’re seeing other women,” you lie through your teeth, “But can you at least protect the kids? They’re still your children. They don’t deserve to be tangled up in our problems.”

He doesn’t answer for a long time that you’re convinced he’s ignoring you when he sits up and groans. “Fine. I won’t bring other women here. But that friend of yours should never step foot here again.”

The way he spits out the word ‘friend’ reignites the anger within you. “Why are you accusing me of something I’m not doing? Of something you’re doing? Why do you care about –”

“Wow, so bold of you to assume I care!” He retorts, cutting you off. “Are you really still in delusion that I give one fuck about you?”

You closed your eyes, heat building up behind them. Due to anger or hurt, you’re unsure yourself. “What happened?

“What do you mean?” His voice is still filled with venom. You open your eyes to see him standing up and lighting a cigarette.

“What happened, Rintarou?” You repeat as you also stand up, wrapping a robe around your sore body. “Just when we were getting along back then, you suddenly turned cold towards me. Why?”

“Fuck off,” he spats and while his words are like daggers to your heart, you stand your ground.

“I deserve to know. We’ve been married for five years and through it all, I stood by your side even when I knew you weren’t mine.” Your voice cracks and it’s as if your walls have broken down. “I endured everything: your cold treatment towards me, you sleeping around with other women, your blatant disregard of my feelings. I-I… Why? I just want to know, Rintarou. Why did you make me fall for you only to break my heart?”

His back is still turned towards you so even though you can’t look at his expression, you see him tense at your confession. You finally did it, laid out all your feelings. It’s all up to Rintarou now on what to do with them. Your heart is in his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters before stubbing the cigarette in his ashtray. Before hastily getting dressed. Before leaving your room, shutting the door behind him. And just when you thought it couldn’t break further anymore, your heart shatters to even smaller pieces.

TO BE CONTINUED.

#suna #suna x you #suna x reader #haikyu #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu suna #suna rintarou #suna rintaro #suna smut #suna rintaro smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #suna angst #suna rintarou angst #suna x reader smut #suna fluff #haikyuu x reader smut #HQ fic #haikyuu!! #hq smut #hq fluff #hq angst #haikyuu #suna rintarou smut #haikyuu hurt comfort

[eternalglitch]

I want to become a better writer, but something that stumps me is inside voices. Characters when they hear or talk to inside voice is hard to write.

Do you have any tips or tricks on how to write a voice talking or thinking to a character, like how should I write it?

Some say use italics, others say bold or parentheses, but I want others intakes on it, people I love their writings from!

So there's a couple things to keep in mind for my approach to internal monologues.

First up is that only about 30-50% of the human population have consistent internal voices at all according to some sources. I personally don't hear one most of the time, unless I'm intentionally rehearsing what I'm going to say, for example. This might make it worth it for writers to consider what level a character would even have an internal monologue, and adjust their writing style to better showcase another aspect of this characterization.

(If you read my work Like Father Like Son, I intentionally start with fairly active internal monologue and slowly get rid of any internal monologue at all for the character until it starts to come back.)

With that being said, I find it very clunky when writers have a heavy inclusion of internal monologues. I personally like to just interweave the entire POV with the character's thoughts; if something is of interest for them, the descriptions of that item is a lot more exact and focused. This can easily lead into a paragraph connecting whatever nuances are needed to be "clicked together," if that makes sense, without it actually being in a dialogue format.

I'll only use a rare internal monologue line to draw the final conclusion or pose the initial question, as most thoughts tend to not be as neat and clean as dialogue allows.

In the event that I do have that internal monologue, I prefer to show it by standard dialogue formatting rules. Just remove the dialogue quotes and make the thought line of dialogue italic.

Ex. Oh, she realized distantly. Well, I had a good run of it.

Bold doesn't really make any sense for me; it's extraordinarily rare to see bold at all in published fiction. And parentheses tend to be a very disjointed idea that might be almost entirely unrelated to everything surrounding it, or a further clarification of what proceeded them.

In any case, I think it takes some practice to get a good grasp of what reads well as a good mix of direct internal monologue vs. descriptive paragraphs of what the character is thinking. I would read through some books or fanfics that you think did a good job of showing what a character is thinking and feeling and note how much each technique is used to get started on figuring out that balance.

Hope that helps!

#glitch answers #writing advice

[hush-writes-preg]

There currently is one fantasy stuck in my head.

Complitely random person I have never seen in my life approaches me in some packed, public place and inestantly slides himself into my cunt, no questions asked.

He knows I won't try to draw any attention to us, so he goes as far as he can, dumping his load into me, and then dumping me.

We both know we will never meet again... and we both know his brat shall soon swell in my womb.

You'd always heard that the subways could get packed around rush hour, but you'd never really understood just how ridiculously full the trains could get until that day.

The thought of grabbing a seat was a complete joke when bodies were packed into the car like sardines, strangers pressed up against you from every side and jostling you with every movement of the train. You regretted making the decision to meet up with your friend for drinks on the other side of the city, for it meant riding the line from one end to the other with no relief in sight. God, you can't even turn around in this state.

It didn't help that you'd decided to wear a cute skirt to work today, its short hem barely covering you to mid-thigh. With the close contact and the constant movement of everyone around you, it felt like it kept shifting up, exposing more and more of your rump to view no matter how many times you tried to tug it back into place. Your face burned as you pulled the skirt down yet again, hoping that you'd be able to get out of there without another stranger 'accidently' brushing past.

There's more shifting behind you, and you stiffened as a new body pressed rather intimately against you. The long ridge of a cock nestles comfortably against the crack of your bottom, and you gasped as its owner began to subtly rub it against you with every bounce of the train. If you thought your face was red before, it's practically on fire now. You can't believe that someone would be so bold to do this to you right out in public!

But you soon came to realize that a little rubbing was the least of your problems.

The fiction slowly but surely worked the hem of your skirt up, exposing your round ass and that tiny little slip of a thong (you'd worn it to avoid panty lines, dammit!) to the increasingly excited person behind you. Mortified, you vainly tried to ignore that hardening cock and your own pitiful situation. What if someone realized what's going on? God, you'd be so embarrassed to be caught like this, even if it wasn't your fault. Biting your lip, you jerked your hips back in a silent demand for them to back off.

Except it didn't seem to have quite the result you'd intended. Whoever was humping your ass started rocking even harder, as if your movement was meant as encouragement rather than dismissal, and it's starting to affect you. You groaned as you realize that your own body had begun to heat, the horny traitor, your breath coming in shorter, panting breaths. You knew that it was the time of the month when your libido usually shot through the roof, but really?!

Something changed. A hand fumbled along your backside, almost as if someone was drawing down their fly and--

Your whole world seemed to slow as the thick, blunt head of a cock nudged briefly between your legs, found your fickle hole, and pushed inside. Just as the train reached that familiar stretch of track that always left it bouncing from side to side.

You couldn't move, couldn't push away, and your voice seemed to have died in your throat as the stranger behind you used the turbulence as cover to start fucking you. Right there on the train, in the middle of rush hour. Their strokes weren't hard or deep, but they're more than enough to send your thoughts spiraling away and leave you as little more than a public fleshlight. Your eyes glazed over with lust as you clamped your mouth shut against the moans that threatened to bubble up from your throat, that hard, unknown cock plunging into your helpless body with confidence.

Almost as if they knew you wouldn't protest. Almost as if they were sure they'd get away with it.

It shouldn't feel this good to be taken by some faceless person, right here on the train. Your toes shouldn't be curling in your shoes and your nipples tightening to peaks as you hesitantly pushed your hips back to meet them, the change in angle almost tearing a gasp from your lips. You shouldn't find your thoughts of ending this fading away to be replaced with the faint hope that you'll be able to finish before they pull out instead.

You shouldn't…

You should…

A particularly hard jolt shuddered through the train, sending your conqueror's cock deep, and you went off like a rocket. Every muscle in your body seemed to quiver from the force of your unexpected orgasm, including your hole, which clenched and swallowed at them like a hungry thing. The first and only sound you heard from them was a pleasured grunt before you felt undeniable warmth flood your insides, bathing your unprotected womb with their seed.

And just like that, it's over. Their softening cock slid free, leaving a trickle of fluid to run out of your well-fucked hole. Bodies shifted behind you, the stranger moving on, but you're too mortified to turn and put a face to your assaulter. You didn't want this, didn't ask to be touched or filled with someone's cum, but your body seemed to disagree, considering that it was already relaxing in a familiar post-coital glow.

You swallowed, tugging the hem of your skirt back into place, praying that you could get to a bathroom to wipe up the worst of the mess before someone noticed. Just wipe it away and pretend that it had never happened, even though you found yourself riding that rush hour train again over the next few weeks in hopes of encountering them again, and getting off to the memories of what happened for months to come.

But soon there will be no more pretending. They left a little present in your womb on the train that day, and soon everyone will be able to see what they've done to you as your belly swells with some stranger's child.

#trans breeding #ftm breeding #mtf breeding #nb breeding #tw: dubcon #hush writes preg

[idrellegames]

You've probably gotten a few of these before but my turn for praise. Even as a person who's probably a hopeless romantic I dearly appreciate that Wayfarer doesn't make itself a romance first game. So many IF do that and it makes the game lose any sense of plot and in the worse cases, outright repetitive because the options fail to add any flavor to the rest of the game. Even worse are all the games that sort of 'forget' the other characters are there once you're in a romance.

But what makes Wayfarer even better is the fact you have ace/aro-spec representation that actually matters because people fall into the pitfall of making them a "hard to get/aloof/unaware of anything ever" romance option. Having the ability to make platonic bonds that influence the game just as much as romantic ones and don't diminish aro/ace characters is so nice and I appreciate it so much.

I think this is maybe a good opportunity to riff a little on genre conventions and expectations.

Romance games have their own conventions. They're fun, they're often self-indulgent--the point is to indulge in the fantasy that the MC (and therefor you, the player) is the centre of the universe. Everyone you come across is at least a little bit in love with you. You are special. You are loved. And this is really fun!

Of course, there are romance games that colour outside these lines, but the general expectation is that you will have your selection of ROs, their individual routes, and that the ROs are always going to put the MC first. Having individual routes for each RO usually means that the RO is the star of their route, and all other characters take a backseat because they are the star of their own route. The MC and the romance is the focus, everything else is secondary.

I do really want to stress that there is nothing wrong with this format. It's successful for a reason! The problem comes when you try to apply these conventions to all games, especially ones that do not fall within this genre.

When romance isn't the focal component of the game, the narrative can ring a little hollow if you try try to employ conventions like this. I think there needs to be room for IF games where the MC isn't special, where they are literally Just Some Guy, where the characters they interact with have a range of things going on with them that don't have anything to do with the MC at all. Characters having a life outside the MC is really important for creating deep bonds and meaningful relationships; it's part of having rounded, fleshed-out characters. There needs to be room for conflict and complications, because that's where character development lies.

There's a reason why Aeran doesn't spill all his secrets in Episode 2. If this were a romance game, he might--but it's not and he won't. He is in a significant amount of emotional distress in Velantis and it is not in character for him to break down and reveal everything at the MC's request. Relationships aren't easy, especially when both parties have a lot of growth and healing to do.

And I think, too, when it comes to early IF development it's very easy to want to rush right to the romances. Romances draw in an audience, they give folks something to look forward to. They're the thing you get asks about, which generates interest in your game, and helps you inspiration and drive afloat. But when the focus remains only on that, it's very easy to overlook other necessary narrative aspects. There needs to be balance.

With regards to aro/ace characters - it's easy to fall into tropes for them, even if you don't intend to. There are expectations about what a "good" and "satisfying" relationship looks like in fiction, and aro/ace characters often fall outside of that. To grasp being aro/ace, you have to question what sexual and romantic attraction actually is, which you don't necessarily have to grasp with other characters because the assumption is that it is there naturally.

And even then, aromanticism and asexuality is hard to communicate effectively in fiction without making it feel "lesser". Take for example, Aeran's intimacy scene in Episode 2. There's a difference between the allosexual option (where the MC sleeps with him and they are emotionally and physically intimate) and the asexual option (where they don't have sex, but the emotional intimacy is still there). Even though I was being as careful not to weigh one option over the other, in comparing the two the allosexual version is the more traditionally "satisfying" ending to that arc than the asexual one because it follows conventions. I am personally really happy with the asexual option, but it still feels like it lacks a certain… "oomf", for lack of a better term.

I think this is why it's really important to have substantial relationships outside of romance. When romance and sex aren't weighted as a signifier of the deepest bond you can have with a person, there's room to explore more diverse relationships and how they can take form.

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #romances #answered

[trans-axolotl]

hey i love your posts on anti-psych organizing, the work you're doing is really inspiring <333 i was jw if you have any advice for people who want to contribute to the movement but have certain accessibility challenges? for example in my case i have very high social anxiety which makes public speaking hard and i also have difficulty processing denser criticism/theory in written form due to cognitive symptoms, etc. and it makes me feel like i don't have much to offer to help but i would love to get more involved if possible!! tysm in advance if you answer this happy pride btw <3

Happy pride anon! Thanks so much for this question, I think it's really important!

There are so many ways to contribute to antipsych/mad liberation movement, and it's so important that our spaces are accessible! When we're fighting for our rights as mad and disabled people, we deserve to have our access needs respected, and to be able to show up in whatever ways work for us. I talk a lot about writing and theory on here just because Tumblr is a place I go to write, but theory is not something that feels always relevant or important in many spaces. Community and accessibility always comes first!

Whatever you have to offer to the movement is enough and valued. I'll list off some ideas I have, but honestly, whatever you feel passionate about and your own ideas are likely to be better than what I can list off.

Creating art! whether writing, drawing, mixed media, anything, creating art and sharing it with others really can be an important way to honor our experiences and share them with others.

Finding out where a psych ward near you is, and writing cards, sending in care packages with things like books, puzzles, fidget toys, things like that. Happy to write out some more tips for that if people are interested.

Graffiti! even if you're just using a sharpie to write alternative crisis line numbers that don't call the cops on posters for the 988 hotline, putting up psych abolition stickers near hospitals, things like that.

Going to protests. There aren't a lot of specific mad pride/antipsych protests, but depending on your area, there might be some stuff happening in July for mad pride! I know there's an event happening in Vermont on July 15th.

Creating reading groups. I think theory is not more important than lived experience and isn't necessary to read super dense academic stuff, but I know for some people it can be a really powerful experience to read stuff that validates your experiences and offers new ways of understanding. Creating a book club where you can read stuff with other people, talk about it together, discuss questions and confusions you have together, can be a way to make it more accessible then trying to navigate it on your own. And it absolutely doesn't have to be theory that you read, it could be memoirs, fiction, nonfiction, anything that interests you!

Finding out what is already going on in your location. Even if there isn't specific antipsych groups, a lot of cities will have mental health support groups, mental health clubhouses, peer support, etc. Sometimes there will already be projects going that you can figure out ways to get involved.

Writing reviews of hospitals/psychiatrists/treatment providers to better give people in your community an idea of what to expect.

Community building. I think that a lot of times, we can feel really isolated and that the psych system can make it hard for us to be connected to each other and learn the skills to support each other. Joining groups like the Hearing Voices Network, other peer support groups, local support groups, clubhouses, etc, can be a really important step just to build relationships and get involved without necessarily having to create specific projects.

Learning what resources are near you and building up a resource library so that you can share things like coping skills, peer respite, local orgs with other people in your community!

Understanding the laws around psych hospitalization, mental health, medications, etc. If new laws are proposed, giving feedback, emailing hospitals about policies, things like that.

Self care and rest. So often we are in crisis, constantly going, feeling the pressure to be involved. Resting can be part of resistance! Taking the time to care for ourselves, our community, embracing joy, play, recreation, is so important. Our survival can be resistance in a system that doesn't want us free.

These are just some ideas, and are not a complete list. I really believe that everyone's contributions are worthy and valuable, and that whatever people have to offer is worth celebrating. Our movements should be accessible and considerate of all of our different needs, and figure out ways to empower each of us to participate, and to get rid of barriers together. My way of engaging with antipsych stuff is absolutely not the only or best way, and I always love to hear from other people about their approaches!

TL;DR: Theory and public speaking are not the only ways to particpate, and accessibility is important! Whatever things you are passionate about are good places to start brainstorming. There are multiple options of things like art, sending care packages, and getting involved in local community.

Followers, please feel free to add on your own ideas or ways you participate! Would love to hear all the amazing ways we're all engaging with this movement.

#asks #antipsych #psych abolition #mad liberation #mad pride #disability justice #neurodivergence #also this goes for any followers please feel free to let me know what i can do to make things more accessible on this blog! #i'm always happy to try to write summaries of posts and things like that #a project i've been working on for a while but that isn't live yet is plain language and easy read guides to some antipsych topics #plain language guides will be ready sooner than easy read guides bc i don't have as much familarity with using symbols and those norms #but that is something that's important to me!

[hyperesthesias]

König x Female Mexican Intelligence Agent

Author's Note: Don't look at me, I need to jot down some ideas for a story I will never write. I love this idea so much that I may actually change a few things and publish it as an original work somewhere down the line. If I actually wind up deciding to do that, I will probably delete this at some point. But for now -- I need to get this out because I am gnashing my teeth. This idea won't leave me alone.

Potential Warnings: Fictional depictions of war violence (I mean...obviously.) ; Secret Relationship ; Pregnancy ; Hostage Situation ; Attempted Murder ; Coma ; Unformatted, mostly just an outline/ideas.

Word Count: 4,847.

The first time they meet is at the chapel before an extended assignment. They haven't been officially introduced, they barely speak at the chapel anyway -- he can't keep eye contact with anyone for long. Especially with her. She looks beautiful under the array of colors from the stained glass windows. She smiles at him, and even if he didn't have a balaclava on, he's not sure he'd be able to return it. His heart's already in his throat, the last time he set foot inside anything remotely religious was back home in Austria -- many years ago. But the assignment ahead of them promises nothing but terror, and he's been having thoughts on whether he'll retire by choice or by bullet. He watches as she crosses herself, and he wonders what faith she claims. The chapel houses anyone seeking refuge, and maybe all he's wanting is a quiet space where his mind doesn't have to compete for attention. His leg bounces, his fingers wring together -- he's not looking at anything in specific, his thoughts wander this way and that, but the quiet and absence of prying eyes keeps him centered.

The woman leaves, glancing at him with another smile -- it's such a pretty smile. He thinks such a pretty smile shouldn't be anywhere near the stench of death. And he knows he reeks of it.

The squad gathers for mission ready and assignments, and he's stunned to see the woman from the chapel. She isn't as weighted down as the others of 141, but the gear strapped around her middle and her legs make her ready for anything. He knows she'd never recognize him -- he looks incredibly different from their passing encounter: the entirety of his bold frame is covered from face to feet, even more than when she smiled at him the first time.

She smiles at him again as the comms crackle with instructions -- and for a brief moment he wonders if she recognizes him. It's an impossibility. But it's a nice thought nonetheless.

They're paired together for the first portion of the assignment. It's then that he learns she's Mexican Intelligence. A spy. An asset. She's meant to draw out and extract information from another asset who'd gone underground almost a year prior. He's meant to give her cover, to offer additional persuasion should they encounter resistance.

She isn't intimidated by him, she doesn't mention his mask neither his size. It relaxes him. He's used to the relentless teasing from his brothers in arms, to the deluge of questions and comments that usually come from people who'd never met him. She came to the middle of his upper arm, but she made no remark about his towering stature. It's hard for him not to wonder if she accepted him genuinely without judgement, or if she was putting him at ease on purpose in some effort to manipulate trust between them. Spy craft was never something he was interested in, he doesn't like double talk. But her soft spoken words are truthful, upfront, as honest as she can be. There are things she can't tell him -- operational things that are need-to-know; things about her life outside the tangled mess of international underhanded dealings. He wonders what her life is like: she was graceful, eloquent, she had a natural talent of mediating conflict -- it garnered trust between informants and enemies alike. With a stern word and a soft smile, she had contacts in the palm of her hand.

Without noticing when or how it happened, he suddenly comes to the realization that he, too, is in the palm of her hand. They've spent long nights talking in their shared language of English, occasionally laughing trying to find a way of saying some untranslatable concept. She has a mother in the United States, he finds out. She also tells him she has no time for love. Neither does he. All of his nights are spent looking out windows in search of a target, or hiding in darkened corners. He expected her to make a joke about how difficult it must be for him to hide. But she didn't. He didn't make sniper, he tells her, a sadness in his voice.

"You have my back," she tells him. "That is what matters."

The moonlight looks sweet on her lips -- and the purr of her voice mingling with her accent, it's enough to drive him mad.

He finds out he loves her while he's peering at her through his scope. He's perched on the roof of a building opposite of the one she's in -- she's passing intel to another informant inside a hotel lobby. It feels off -- something feels wrong. He's done this long enough to know what it feels like in his bones. She glances to him, watching for the spark of the scope on the rooftop, knowing he's there, knowing he's watching her like a hawk. She has the same uneasy feeling.

As she's about to bail and call off the drop, she's double crossed -- stabbed in the leg, they only missed her stomach because she pulled her body away in time.

A shot comes from nowhere -- breaking through the daylight, shattering the glass doors of the hotel. The bullet sinks itself through the enemy, plummeting him to the ground in a pool of blood and matter.

She limps away in the cacophonous mess of people that descend on the man, sputtering his last breath. König meets her at a rendezvous point in an alley not far away. He helps her limp back to the base camp they've commandeered in a safe house a few blocks away.

He's angry at himself for not catching the set-up sooner. Swearing in German under his breath as he patches up her leg. His hand swallows her thigh as his deft fingers sew up the knife wound that missed an artery.

"It's not your fault," she breathes heavily, trying to keep herself sane through the searing pain in her leg. "It's not mine, either. These things happen. We learn, we correct, we move on."

He glances up at her through his hood and sighs, tying off the suture. "I thought I lost you," he says. He shakes his head and growls at himself quietly. He should learn to never get so attached to his partners. "I have lost brothers before..." he trails off for a moment, busying himself with the bandages. He wraps them around her thigh gently -- he's always so gentle. He ties it, sets the roll back in the kit, and looks up at her. "This was different." His accent is thicker, heavier; he's tense.

Her bloody hand reaches to his masked face and caresses what she believes to be his cheek despite that she cannot see him. "I know." She swallows, dizzy with adrenaline and uncertainty. "It is for me, too."

He didn't know she felt the same. He's still unsure now as she's speaking the words. He's convinced he misunderstood.

But as she caresses him, and as she leans to kiss his helmet, his body relaxes at the thought that he understood perfectly.

"Thank you for having my back," she breathes as she pulls away from him.

He sits there, very still. Wanting to do something, but not knowing what or how. He can't look at her, the same way he couldn't look at her when he saw her in the chapel that day.

Quietly and without a word, he takes off his helmet. And his hood. The balaclava is all that's left. He takes a breath and hesitates before he nudges it down his bare face. He's fair skinned with soft blonde hair, a long and bitter scar jagged across the diagonal of his face. He still isn't looking at her -- his eyes darting from her this way and that. It's everything in him to keep his head up. "We...have met before. In the chapel."

"I know your eyes anywhere," she says and smiles at him -- the same way she smiled at him that day.

"You knew?"

"I figured," she chuckled.

König lets a weighted breath. She was a spy, of course she knew. He pulls himself up and even on his knees his frame seems to envelope her -- he leans and gives her a kiss on the head. "I am glad you are okay."

She holds his head, staining his skin with the blood on her fingers. "I am now." She presses a kiss on his lips.

He has never been comfortable sharing his body with anyone, it requires that people see him. He doesn't like to be seen. He doesn't like to be touched. But the way she touches his face -- it does not hurt. It does not make him recoil. He melts under her fingertips, letting himself sink into the bed beside her, with her.

The 141's assignment progresses, as does their relationship. They're more than partners, they're something deeper. Something only they know of, something only they understand. Confidants who have each other's backs, lovers who know each other from stolen glances alone. They keep it secret. Almost afraid to jinx it.

But where he was afraid of jinxes, König notices she's become distant. Where they would steal a moment of time to even say 'I love you', she avoids him. He wonders what he could have done wrong -- he wonders if the images of him slitting another man's throat, or eviscerating another with brute force was enough to push her away. He would not hold it against her if that is the case. He can't track her down enough to even ask her what he had done.

He finds her in their safehouse after a briefing, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He believes it is starting to make sense: the job is difficult, the blood is never ending, and the mind can only take so much. They've been at it for longer than most, with another few months added to the total time they'd be in the field of their current assignment.

"Meine Liebe," he whispers and kneels in front of her. "What is it? What bothers your mind?" He puts his hand on her back and her arm. It looks as though she has been crying -- her eyes and her nose are swollen. He's never seen her shed a tear, even with a knife wound.

She struggles to look at him. She swallows and feels a pain in her throat. She can't speak over a whisper: "Ich bin schwanger..."

His body goes numb and his eyes fall wide. He's staring at her without any air in his lungs. She's pregnant. He is the father.

She wanted to tell him in words he would understand without any doubt. She's practiced how to tell him in her head for two days. The pain in her throat grows.

"Schwanger?" he says again. The energy returns to him, and he can't sit still. He can suddenly hear his heartbeat in his ears. His hands go to each of her arms, he wants to hold her, embrace her -- but he doesn't want to hurt her. He's bobbing up and down, a smile starting to grow on him. "You are having a -- a baby," his brain can hardly translate it coherently.

She watches as his eyes speak to a smile that spreads and stretches against his hooded face. "No se que hacer..." she whispers to herself. "If they find out, I will be off the team," she sniffles. "I have to see this through," her accent sharp and hard.

"We will -- We will hide it," he says, definitively. He's convinced himself already -- he's already thinking of a plan. "We will make sure they do not know."

She shakes her head. He doesn't understand all of the risks. "It is dangerous. For all of us." Her arms wrap around her middle. "And for the others," she nods as if pointing to the rest of the 141. "We cannot lie to them."

"We are lying already," he shrugs.

She stares at him.

He centers himself at the sight of her glare. "What I mean is, they don't need to know everything, ja? It is...'need-to-know'. For right now, they do not need to know."

That she could work with, at least for now.

König wraps her in his arms, being careful not to hold her too tightly. "We will think about it, Meine Liebe. 'La resolveremos', ja?" His hand cradles her head as he leans his veiled cheek on her hair. "I have your back."

They want to tell the 141, they keep trying to find the right time to do it. The more people they have on their side, the better -- the more people there are to protect her, in König's mind. But she worries they won't be as forgiving. Weeks pass, time lapses -- the job is always more important. They can never seem to find just the right moment to reveal such a secret. But König's spirits are high, his desire to be around her, with her, beside her stronger than ever. He puts her at ease, reassures her -- spends nights with her talking about the days they would have with their new life. They make a promise to each other, to their baby: they wouldn't retire by a bullet, it would be a choice. One they would make together. She wonders what kind of life this new little life would have -- something different, something better than theirs. She would make sure of it.

Ghost is perceptive, despite his quiet nature. He picks up more than what people give him credit for. He can feel something is different. But the job is hard, it's lonely, it's difficult to find intimacy, harder to find someone who understands what the job means, what it takes. If they find comfort in each other, he wouldn't say anything. As long as it doesn't affect the mission, it's not his place to butt into anyway. But he can feel something...deeper, something much more serious. He hasn't quite figured it out yet.

That is, until he watches as she pats cold water on her forehead at a utility sink in the warehouse turned makeshift base. She hasn't looked well, but whenever anybody tells her as much it earns them a stark answer of "female trouble", and nothing more. None of the other men want to know anything more than that, they figure they wouldn't comprehend it anyway.

Ghost hands her a towel, and when she reaches for it, the layers of coats that have been wrapped around her for weeks briefly part enough for him to see a reason for her so-called 'female trouble'.

"When are you due?" he asks.

Her eyes close as she holds the towel to her head. She knows her time is up. He's going to tell on her -- she'll be off the case, and all the work she'd put in, the vendettas she'd garnered, it'd all be for naught. She swallows and sighs, turning to him. "Four more months." She plops the towel on the edge of the sink. "We should be through by then."

He stares at her, quickly glancing at her stomach. "Why'd you lie about it?"

"I have worked too hard to throw all of this away. I can do my job. I am not an invalid."

"You don't want off the team."

"I don't want you to say anything."

"Honesty is the best policy."

"It is my honesty to share."

"And König's?"

She stops and straightens. She doesn't say anything. But it's all that needs to be said.

The rest of the 141 find out later that evening. Both she and König come clean. The men are upset, worried, but know that complicated is part of the job. She's deep cover. If she disappears, it would wreck the mission. They've all worked too hard to throw it away. They keep it secret. Besides, pregnant women make for easy confidants -- a natural response to witnessing a maternal figure, she could use it to their advantage.

König dotes on her as well as he can, sacrificing water, rations, and sleep rotations for her. The others do the same to an extent. But König's excitement supersedes them all -- he smuggles some of her favorite homeland snacks from the field. He struggles to focus when a rifle isn't in his hands. But that is to say, he focuses often, for weeks.

She's guiding them through a chokepoint with cameras and coms from a van. Leading them to the stash of WMDs and intel that they've been hunting for a year. She's out of the line of fire, but never out of danger. She's due in a few weeks. She's tired, they all are.

"You boys almost finished out there?" she asks, watching from Soap's camera as they tag and bag what they came for.

"Just about," Soap radios back.

"Ja, everything is here," König is looking at a tablet in one hand, with his rifle in the other.

"Claro," she exhales sharply. "Because my water broke an hour ago. Get back to base."

"Copy. We are RTB," Soap says -- keeping calm not only for the men with him, but for her sake.

König itches to get back to her, his leg bounces, his fingers wringing. Would the infant be born by the time they got back? Or did it take more time than that? He suddenly realizes he knows nothing about anything -- at all. His mind is blank. But the moment he barrels through the door of the safehouse, seeing her sitting at the table, wincing, he knew one thing: he had to help her. He takes her in his arms and carries her to the bedroom. The med kit on his breastplate has nothing of use for her, he orders his brothers for towels and water.

The night wanes and the pain grows more intense. But he never leaves her side. The others are outside the bedroom, unsure what to do with themselves. She forgets they're there altogether. All she can think about is what will happen after that night. And by morning, after his final encouragement for her to push -- the night has ended, and a new life takes a breath. A small cry breaks with the dawn.

He helps both her and the newborn recline on the bed, and presses his bare face to them both. They are both so beautiful -- so unlike him.

"It's a girl," he says as he greets his brothers, his voice fogged with tiredness and emotion. His eyes tell of his happiness behind the hood. His brothers are happy for him, they congratulate him, pat his back, but silently share the fear of uncertainty.

She has to be on her feet in two days, to move up and out. Everything is sore, she moves slower than she did when she first went into the mission. She's charged with writing the reports and packing the computers -- all between nursing her newborn daughter. The rest of the 141 are loading the munitions and tac-gear, they would be back for her when it was almost wheels up. They had to figure out a way to smuggle the infant out of the base first.

König returns with news that they've paid off a guard to ignore the newborn. But when he approaches the safehouse, the sound of the infant's manic crying can be heard from the street -- the door is slightly ajar. He enters with a weapon drawn, and sees the computer smashed and scattered across the floor. The baby is in her blanketed drawer -- her makeshift crib, alone.

His lover is nowhere to be found.

Cool rage sets in before panic. The nervousness in his mind goes quiet, everything goes still, his face flushes with cold. She's missing. There's no one better than to find her. König wraps the baby in her blanket and positions her snugly inside his body armour before he radios the 141.

She's taken by a double-spy, an informant she burned in pursuit of the WMDs and the intel they chased for a year. He lost everything -- he no longer exists, cannot exist anywhere. A life for a life, he says, it sounds fair. He explains, there are more of her enemies gunning for her -- but if he takes her, he'll fetch a handsome reward, one he is unwilling to share. All she can think of is her newborn, of König, of the life they promised themselves. Somewhere far away. Her body fights against her and weighs her down as she struggles to escape the ties he has her in. She manages to headbutt him, disorienting him giving her enough to snap the ties around her wrists. She takes his radio and forces her body to run as fast as it can out into the open. She doesn't know where she is, how she got there -- but she knows König will find her.

The 141 track a coded radio message four miles away. They know it's her. They don't know if they'll get there in time.

She's on the flat roof of a three story house, having been held in the attic. Her enemy advances through the window she escaped; she searches for a way off the roof. She hears the 141's vehicle as it screeches to a halt, the men already pelting bullets in her assailant's direction. The man grabs her as a shield. She can feel her body starting to rebel against her, she's dizzy, starting to see double.

The men stop their hail of bullets and fan out, Soap and Ghost breach the house through the rear. König watches helplessly from the ground, she sees the outline of the baby in his clothing. Whatever happens, she knows he wouldn't break his promise of a better life for them -- even if she couldn't hold up her end of the bargain.

Her attacker wraps his arm around her neck, threatening to pull them both off the roof and to the pavement below. He has a weapon to her head. Ghost and Soap come up through the attic and appear on the roof with them. The man's finger bounces against the trigger, his feet dance against the roof's gutter.

I want to finish what I started, she thinks. Ignoring the yelling, the clatter of weapons, and the gravel beneath her feet -- she takes a single breath.

With a twist of her body, she wrangles herself out and under the grip of his arm -- she violently pulls his shoulder backwards. Wrested free, she uses what little strength she has to kick him over the ledge -- three shots come flying from behind her, pitting themselves inside the assailant's chest. He goes over the edge. She takes another breath, her shoulders sinking with relief as she watches him begin to fall.

Before she can take another, she feels something grab her wrist. Suddenly being pulled backwards, she careens over the edge with him. Ghost lunges forward, but it's too late. She watches as her partners -- her friends -- are left behind on top of the roof. The sky above her, the ground below -- she takes one more breath.

She lands on top of her enemy, crushing his lifeless body.

König runs to catch her -- he kneels at her side. Desperately, he looks for a pulse. She is unconscious, but alive. Her head made impact with her attacker's skull. He lifts her over his shoulder and seeks refuge in the vehicle.

They return home from their assignment with more secrets than answers.

Before their infant is one month, König is on a civilian flight to the United States. His daughter in his arms, a pack with everything she could ever need or want for their travels slung over his shoulder. He's shrouded in a large hooded jacket and a balaclava. He gets his usual stares as he boards the plane: his height, his stature, but the stares at the baby in his arms is new. She's tiny compared to him, born slightly premature, she's small. He thought she might inherit the genes of his height and width, but he figures she will take after her mother. She flies mostly without incident, but dislikes the bottle. She prefers her mother. He speaks to her in his native tongue: "I know you want your mother, but right now I am all you have," as if it would convince her to take it. An older woman on the flight shows him a trick on helping an infant take a bottle.

"Is she yours?" she asks.

He hesitates, he still can't look anyone else in the eye. No one except his lover. But he nods. "Meine Tochter," he manages a small smile beneath the mask.

"She is beautiful."

"Ja, like her mother."

He simply means to leave her on the front porch of her grandmother -- his lover's mother. Her and the pack. But when he gets there, he finds himself out of his element: out of his gear, in the suburbs, toting a baby -- on the porch of his mother-in-law. That, combined with his size, gets him caught. The woman comes to the door with a broom and begins beating him with it.

"I know your daughter," he finally manages.

She notices the crying baby in his arms. Something is terribly wrong. She invites him in.

He is sitting on the couch -- it feels strange to sit in a place so calm, so daintily decorated. It feels like a trap. But the woman holding his daughter is calm and kind, cooing with her. It was the best decision to bring her here. She'd be safe.

"I thought she might have blonde hair. Like me," he mutters, his whisper almost being swallowed by the balaclava. He extends a finger to his infant. "But...she has so much hair. None of it blonde," he smiles and laughs.

The woman chuckles. "My daughter had such thick hair when she was born. It looked like this." She begins to tear, but does not cry. Much like her daughter. "Is she safe?"

He nods. But he cannot look at her. "A hospital. She will be okay, they told us."

"Do you believe them?"

He looks at her now.

"They say things sometimes...Sometimes they are not true."

He sighs. "Ja, I believe them. Because..." he struggles to find the right words. "Because I believe her -- that she is strong."

A silent tear falls from the woman's face. The baby fusses.

"She will be okay," he says again. He feels as helpless now as he did when he watched her fall.

"Will you catch the men who did this to my daughter?"

"I will." His tone turns dark -- darker than he meant it. But it is the truth. "This one will need a place to stay for now," he caresses his baby's face.

"Mi angelita," she sings sweetly, and kisses her head.

"What does this mean?"

"My angel," she says again.

König looks at his child, her face glowing in the warm daylight peering through a window. She is heavenly -- just like when he first met her mother in the chapel that day. They are both perfect. So beautiful. He feels a pang in his throat, and he takes a calculated breath. His hands go to his face with apprehension, and he pulls down his mask, revealing the large scar that mars his features. But also a soft smile, and wet eyes. "Meine Liebling," he whispers, and places a kiss on her soft skin.

A day later, he places another kiss on the forehead of his lover, who lies in a hospital bed at a nondescript location. She's resting, asleep. The soft tissue damage has all but resolved. It's the swelling in her brain that worries her physicians. And him. And the rest of the men. Her superiors are threatening to disavow her. But none of the 141 will let that happen. Not him. The attempt on her life won't be swept under the rug. He'll find all of der Ficker who want her head -- and he'll take theirs.

His thumb caresses her hair as he nestles his masked face against her temple. "Meine Leibe." His eyes close as he draws a breath. "I have your back."

#konig cod #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig fanfiction #konig #könig mw2 #könig x you #könig modern warfare #cod modern warfare #141 x reader #141 task force #call of duty fanfic #modern warfare fanfiction #konig fanfic #mw2 fanfic #mw2 könig #cod könig #cod konig x reader #cod fanfic #konig x oc #könig x oc #könig cod #könig x y/n

[precious-little-scoundrel]

What got you into writing/how long have you been writing?

What’s your writing inspiration?

Do you write in silence or need background sounds? Like music?

Do you struggle more with dialogue or detail?

Any tips for someone who wants to write fanfiction?

How do you differ all your OC’s so you don’t rewrite the same characters over and over?

Do you do research?

— from someone who would love to write their own stories lol but yours are great!

My darling. So many apologies for how tardy I’ve been in replying to this, I really wanted to give it due thought because I’m quite touched you’d even ask.

1: I’ve been writing since I was little, my mama was always reading me classics and my greatest ambition was to be some kind of author every bit as colorful as their characters, a la Oscar Wilde. 🥳

2. Writing inspiration? Oh that’s a hard one only in that I could cite a million things and chat your poor ear off, but to be boring and also frank -I just love stories. I think they’re so inspiring and healing and necessary for making sense of things, or else resigning to things that can’t be explained. I love to study love and how very human and fallible and also indestructible it is in its many forms. I love to dig through tragedy and find the refining purpose of it, I love to take characters through hells I’ve been through so that I can imagine their triumphs, too, and my own through them. If this can happen to -name your hero- then I’m no smaller for it happening to me, if -name your hero- can get through it and be loved and admired by a whole fandom? -I deserve the same commendation from myself at the very least. Stories are essential and fun and I never ever imagined I’d have a little group one day liking my own where we could all scream about these things together. I’m legit so humbled each time I log on here and find y’all ready and waiting and interactive. The community of it, that’s the biggest drive right now, tbh. What a sweet season.

3. I usually write in silence, or else at any chance where I have a moment, so that could be public transport or lunch breaks or in the loo during family holidays, ha. However I do find music to be an inspiring mood setter for writing later that day. Especially as i juggle many ongoing projects at once, the genre im listening to before may very well influence what gets worked on.

4. Detail!! Dialogue can be challenging but I hear it so clearly in my head most of the time that it’s not hard. Details can devastate me.

5. Ooof, I still feel like I’m a baby at it, this is only my second fandom to dare for. I’d say for sure write what you find inspiring instead of what appears to be wanted, i firmly believe that’s the only sure way to keep up any inspiration and the niche will draw its own crowd, one’s who will like it all the better for its specially crafted world. Also, for dialogue -replay and replay dialogue from the character before you write. Are they terse or do they ramble? Are they sarcastic or earnest? Do they have a word they repeat often? -I noticed the other day how Rosenthal uses “you know?” often in the show. Also, sometimes switch up sentence structure from character to character, it helps feel like hopping brains without a fully jarring POV change. All these are things I’m currently working at myself, but that’s the best I’ve got for advice.

6. Oh boy I’m still figuring this out myself. Three things come to mind as little helps I use- first off, read real biographies, it helps tremendously with crafting fully dimensional fictional people. Two -have a maturing arc for your OC during the story, separate from whatever adventure or romance that occurs, this will make it feel less like a inserted person into the broader story. Three, choose a personality type or something similar to both keep them separate from the next but also to ensure their virtues have corresponding vices.

7. I do research a lot. But I find that it’s a fine line for myself of when that drains all creativity or bravery. Im massively indebted to so many mutuals who generously share their own with me.

#best of wishes to you Nonnie! dare bravely!! #writing woes #about the author 💋

[quinloki]

What draws you in when it comes to yandere content? It seems to be a real love-it or hate-it genre, so I'm curious.

I find wandered concepts interesting, but rarely can I read an entire fic about it.

Hmmm… I think it’s mostly the inevitable struggle. I’ve said before, but that’s something I really enjoy. I think I’ve enjoyed action movies because of it - it doesn’t always have to be sexual, or intimate, but just that defiance, that struggle.

In yandere it’s taken to an extreme - similar to bondage/immobility in kink. Defy and rail against it all you want, you’re not getting away. You’re at the mercy of the person in control, and more than the struggle is the acquiescence.

In kink and fiction you can control when that happens, and there’s no consequence for it either. You can give in earlier without shame, you can struggle unto your death. You can explore all the pieces in between.

In fanfic room it’s almost always going to be an alternative version of the characters when you’re writing one or more as yandere.

The reason I think it’s such a love-hate trope is because there’s definitely two different ways to approach yandere: adding it to the canon vibes of a character and seeing what situations would push them into more toxicity and madness, or discarding canon and leaping gleefully into toxicity and madness.

Light yandere can be off putting to some, and full dismissal of a character‘s characteristics in exchange for a darker story can be off putting to others. That’s not even including people who just find anything remotely possessive or protective as “problematic yandere”. So it creates an even more charged topic.

Plus, it might be something that’s best for most people as one-shots or short stories. Long form yandere stories can be emotionally exhausting because the experience of yandere is itself a strong negative emotion. Tension, fear, build up, the dub con and non con elements, it’s all heavy stuff.

It’s hard to break tension with such a story, and if you can’t break tension you can’t give your reader a chance to come up for air. But writing those breaks can be a challenge to do without them feeling disconnected or jarring, so it turns a lot of longer dark fics into marathons.

Which further draws dividing lines for people. Because unless you revel in the struggle, it can be suffocating, but giving in too fast can also feel unsatisfying.

I think it’s one of the harder things to write well, at least in long form. One shots, drabbles, musings and such are easier because you don’t have to break tension, the piece ends and that’s when you breathe.

#quin answers #indydonuts #ask me anything

[writercole]

The Line

Summary: Bob reminds you what you’re missing Words: 626 Warnings: 18+  fingering, dirty talk, cheating if you squint but not really once you get the rest of the story Credits: @wildbornsiren​ for putting the idea in my head and yelling at me in horny once she read over it. A/N: This is part of an upcoming TGM college AU. I’m not going to give too much away but let’s just say there’s three men competing for her attention.

It was getting hard to tell where the line was anymore. Jake had insisted on a movie night at the frat house, swearing all of the guys would be out. His plans were ruined when Bob said he had no plans and that he’d been wanting to see that movie, too.

That’s how she’d ended up in the dark between the two of them on the couch, Jake’s arm around her shoulders while Bob’s hand rested on her knee. 

She felt his fingers trailing slowly up her inner thigh, under the hem of her mini skirt. “Bobby, not now,” she hissed, turning her head towards him slightly to keep the sound from Jake’s ears.

“Yes, now,” he growled as his fingers brushed against her lace panties. His touch was light, barely there, igniting a fire deep inside of her. 

Her hand gripped his wrist, trying to push it out from under her skirt while also trying to keep her moans and gasps quiet. She heard him snort out a laugh before he pushed her panties aside and slipped his fingers into her folds.

“Damn, girl. Look how wet you are already,” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint. “I bet if I pulled my hand out they’d glisten in the tv light.”

Her fingers tightened around his wrist as one long finger, then two, filled her dripping cunt. She whimpered, barely audible over the surround sound explosions. 

“Keep quiet or expose us both,” Bob threatened, his gaze flitting to the man on her other side. “It’s your choice.”

“Bobby,” she begged, a whiny, needy whisper that she was almost embarrassed to admit came from her.

“I’ll stop. Just say the word,” he promised as he started to slowly pull his fingers out of her.

She pushed his fingers back inside of her, her eyes fluttering shut.

Bass rocked the room, shaking the crowded sofa.

“Did you see that?!” Jake shouted over the sound.

“Uh, yeah,” she squeaked, feeling Bob’s fingers brushing against the top wall of her pussy. 

“Yeah, that was cool,” Bob replied, his voice even and calm.

She felt her walls clenched around his fingers and shut her eyes, focusing on the feeling of his hand between her legs, trying to keep herself quiet.

“You’re about to cum on my fingers, aren’t you?” Bob teased in a soft voice. “That’s it, girl, come on my hand while you’re on a date with someone else. Such a little slut.”

Stars popped in front of her eyes as her release washed over her, her pussy fluttering around his fingers. She managed to keep quiet and not draw Jake’s attention as Bob helped her ride out her high before he pulled his fingers out of her skirt.

“I was right,” he cooed in her ear, “look at them glisten.”

She turned her head and saw the tv light reflecting off of the slick coating his fingers. She followed his fingers as he brought them to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean one by one. 

The music changed and Jake shifted, reaching for the remote to turn up the lights.

“That was a great movie, wasn’t it?” he asked her as he pressed a kiss to her temple.

“It was okay. It was kind of hard to focus,” she responded sweetly, hearing Bob stifling laughter behind her as she looked into Jake’s green eyes.

“What did you think, Bob?” 

“Pretty tight,” he said. She didn’t even have to turn around to see the smirk on his face. 

“Wanna get some dessert?” Jake offered as he stood, helping her to her feet.

“Y’all have fun with that. I’ve had all the sweet I can handle,” Bob called as he strode out of the room. 

Everything: @thelastpyle​​ @deangirl93​​ @evergreencowboy​​ @katelyn--renee​​ @fictional-affairs​​ @lassie-bird​​ @paintlavillered​​ @buckys-zomdoll​​ @polireader​​ @b3autyfuldisast3r​​ @welcometothefandommultiverse​​ @mlovesstories​​ @supraveng​​

Top Gun: @princessmisery666​​ @evansrogerskitten​​ @bradshaw-fanclub​​ @saiyanprincessswanie​​ @luckyladycreator2​​ @mavswife​​ @princessphilly​​ @ahockeywrites​​ @clints-lucky-arrow​​ @wildbornsiren​​ @w0nderw0man-reading​​ @shanimallina87 @fuckyeahhangman​​ @blue-aconite​​ @mandylove1000​​

#writercole #bob floyd #spicy

[sumu-samu]

(Broken) Trust

This was something I thought up from two comments on Geordi’s episode Your Boyfriend Finally Draws The Line. One said something about Cutie having a panic attack after Geordi left and another kinda piggybacked off that with saying how even if Cutie got the help, and Geordi forgave them that they would never forgive themselves and live in constant fear they would hurt him again. So… angst. 

Italics is things playing in Cuties head and the bold italics is what they were thinking in the moment of the fight 

CW: stereotypical/fictional display of a panic attack, argument, disassociation, mental distress, and severe angst. (Lmk if I missed anything)

multiple chapters

master list | part 2

Why are you like this

Of course I’m mad. Fuck you-

I’m asking you for 20 or 30 minutes. Why is that a problem?

That is not fair to me. Don’t say that.

Why are you like this

Do you know how hurtful it is

Fuck you-

Cutie just stood there, all of Geordi’s words swirling around in their head.

Sometimes I just want some space for myself

Don’t… DON’T

Why can’t my words ever be enough for you

Geordi was right, all they did was push and push and push. They were being so fucking toxic. 

Giving me space is not some gift you’re granting me. It’s… it’s a right that you’re respecting.

Don’t guilt me for asking for it

That is not fair to me

Don’t give it conditionally

You’re not really giving it at all

Subconsciously they knew that it would come to this, but they were to blind to see that the way they acted was bringing this end closer and sooner. 

It’s not easy for me to just not care

My feelings aren’t just some problem you can solve

Even if that would be convenient for you.

They think everything’s about them

Selfish, that’s what they were. They were too insecure to take Geordi’s feelings into account. They were too obsessed with what others were thinking about themselves to care that Geordi needed space.

It’s like you don’t even hear me

Because I’m tired. And you don’t seem to have much to say anyway. 

Are we too different

They don’t get it, they don’t get me

I have drawn a line, and they keep crossing it

Maybe trying isn’t enough

It wasn’t, trying wasn’t enough. Because regardless of how hard they tried it always ended up the same. 

I’m upset. But that doesn’t mean I want you gone.

I’m not mad, just tired

I want them in my life

 Did he? Did he still want them in his life? After all they had done.

They think back to the talk they had just had before he walked out.

Is the why really going to make a difference? I already know why you did it. The same reason you always do *he’s going to leave* because the thought of not knowing what someone thinks all the time pushes you to this place where you just- *loud, loud, mad. He’s mad. He should be. You fucked up* 

It was everything they were scared of but they couldn’t do that to Geordi. They couldn’t lie, they couldn’t hide it from him. They loved him. He understood how hard it was to be honest. Of course he did, he was Geordi, the best thing to ever have happened to them. 

Honesty after the fact… and then apology… aren’t going to be enough for me.. anymore *way to go dumbass. He’s gone, he hates you. He should. What’s wrong with you* because… because apologies are just words…. Words you keep on saying.

He was right. The amount of times they said sorry, you coulda filled a whole pool with it. 

I lost three years of myself, and my health, and my happiness to that. And I’m not gonna do that again *happiness, you don’t make him happy. Miserable, he’s miserable. How could you?* 

They never wanted to take his happiness away. To be compared to his ex. An ex they didn’t know much about but they knew was a piece of shit. 

I need to go. I’ll text you when I get there. Goodbye. 

And just like that, he walked out. And they were left there, alone, in silence, so so so much silence. They could feel their heart begin to speed up. Faster and faster, it felt like it would beat straight out of their chest. Their lungs moved with their heart, expanding and contracting faster and faster, their chest burned. They were already crying before Geordi walked out. Their legs gave out, Cutie fell to the ground right there in the kitchen. Chest heaving, mind racing, face flooded with salty tears. They began to shake, they couldn’t stop it. 

“G-G-Geordi” they wheezed. But no matter how hard they tried to call out, Geordi left, he was gone. He wouldn’t even care to come to their side to calm them down. 

They tried so hard to think of the next best person. But they couldn’t. All that ran through their head was Geordi and his words. 

They were able to find the strength to get their phone out and call the last person they texted. 

“Cutie! Hey! Wha-… Cutie?” They could hear the rapid breathing that came from Cutie. “What’s goin’ on? Are you okay? Where are you?” 

“Home… help… please” they struggled to get it out. 

#redactedasmr #redacted headcanons #redacted audio #Geordie #redacted geordi #cutie #redacted angst

[yeehawpurgatory]

Listen, I know this might sound untrue, but Arthur IS mostly a bad dude—or at least not as good a man as some claim. (I love him still but hear me out)

This is not me arguing “he’s bad so you shouldn’t like/glorify him” at all, I promise—I can’t stand that rhetoric. It’s just that I see a lot of “he’s so kind” “so good at heart” “so hard on himself” and I wonder why folks so often adamantly, un-ironically claim him as a misunderstood gentle giant type.

The fact that he’s mostly nice to those he cares about and is willing to help strangers in need (never mind both of those things are optional anyhow, you can just as easily play him as an asshole who doesn’t come to anyone’s aid—) doesn’t undo the harm he’s responsible for throughout the game. Nor does him being told to do so by an authority or being a victim of circumstance undo it.

His good doesn’t make up for his bad, and I don’t think it actually needs to. His bad certainly doesn’t take away from what makes him compelling and likeable to the audience; but within the context of his world, he’s right to be unhappy with who he is. It’s not a matter of low self esteem or self worth issues, his unhappiness with himself comes from self awareness.

(Saying this with a grain of salt because you know, fictional character with no real agency whose actions are as such for plot reasons), he may have had a shit hand dealt to him, but he’s a person who makes bad choices. He’s charming and relatable (and hot lol) but I’m not sure I understand the whole simplifying his character to “good person stuck in bad situation” thing, when it plainly isn’t the case, no matter how much we like him.

I think the “you’re a good man Arthur” line gets thrown around as proof of him being good at heart; but I think it’s more like, he needed to hear it to act as such. He needed to be told how to be good and pushed into reflection and immediate actions. He needed to be told that he’s a good man by others because he needed permission in a sense to be different than he knows himself to be. (Take a shot every-time I say good)

“The Thomas Downes mission was out of character” it really isn’t. He says what kind of man he is multiple times, he hammers the point home that he’s a bad man. And while there is definitely a bit of self loathing in that sentiment, he’s still speaking his truth. He’s just unhappy with it; he IS the type of man to commit an atrocity like beating a dying man for a few bucks. It goes against the beliefs fans have projected onto him, usually coming from their own moral compass instead of what the character shows his own to be, and that’s why it ‘feels so wrong’ to see him doing something actually despicable.

We arrive at this misunderstanding due to fandom projection, as well as this rampant desire to problem solve by ‘fixing’ the canon material to fit a sort of agenda. Ie, ‘I only like the good attributes in this character’ ‘it’s only acceptable to like this bad dude provided he’s always feeling guilt for his actions’ or ‘he’s not really at fault for them.’

But the thing is, even if Arthur is at conflict with his actions, the guilt he may feel isn’t an indication of anything pure within him. He’s in total control and chooses still to go along with everything. I tend to think an action done in guilt is functionally the same as an action done with enjoyment. Arthur feeling bad at the end of the game for his faults and complicity doesn’t mean he is good. Nor does it mean he ‘was a good the whole time’, nor does it excuse what he’s done.

We don’t have to make him a better person than he is in order to like him, is what I’m trying to say I guess. It’s fine to acknowledge all parts of him, to do otherwise does a disservice to his character as it often flattens them beyond recognition. And it’s also fine to hone in on what you appreciate most and write and draw and celebrate that while functionally ignoring the rest if you so choose—but it’s also fine (and usually important) to acknowledge who the character is without the plethora of projections placed upon them.

Arthur ends the game with a loving act, more or less saving John, saving Abigail, Tilly, paving the way for them to become something better than he was. None of these things are meant to be a great action done to save his soul or redeem him in any eyes, especially not his own. He dies on a good note (and yeah I would say low honour/back for the money is still a ‘good’ choice for a low honour story), and shifts his focus to the last good deed he’s done in his final moment as a way to leave off peacefully despite all his wrongdoings. He doesn’t get redemption really, and he doesn't wholly achieve 'goodness', despite all the potential for growth the audience can see in him, that’s the deliberate tragedy of it all.

#i know im forgetting so many things that would change the tone of what im saying so take away is this; i love him and i love ooc him #but flattening the character and reducing them to their best or worst traits alone is a type of simplification im thinking we should all #grow out of #boy that was a doozy #sorry if that got nonsensical #I usually skip analyses stuff or essays and commentaries but this was rattling in my brain for a while #not to be negative but one of the worst parts of fandom to me is when a character/story gets lost in translation due to fanon #and I think that’s rampant here especially and not just for arthur #but what do I know yk #NOT a character critical post I love him he’s my wife and son in one too precious for this world yadda yadda #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2

[russilton]

I was wondering why you draw Lewis’ hair as just squiggles coming out of his forehead and not in any defined pattern. Because typically IRL his hair is parted in places and you erase a lot of detail.

Honestly, part of it is a stylistic choice and part of it is cutting corners on detail to create a recognisable shape when too much detailing ended up making him look bald. Rather than it being a perfect copy of one of his haircuts it’s a blended slightly fictional version of several- which is an approach I took to most haircuts of real folk.

I also started drawing Lewis around Brazil/qatar 2021 when his partings were a lot closer, and I believe these are partially faux locs rather than the twists he usually has now- so you’re right that there’s absolutely lost detail there because I’m still working off an old style

Once you get past the recognisable hairline, the layers of parting became really hard to define without looking overly detailed, so I went for a shape of his hair rather than detail that layering

It’s sort of the same reason I don’t draw more realistic detail in georges hair either, it’s more of a cartoon shape than a real visual copy of his hair, because when too much focus is on mirroring the real look 1:1, it becomes more striking how the rest of his face isn’t exactly right. Instead, like with Lewis, the hairline and overall shape is priority, and layering lost to that shaping, it is admittedly hard to make a 3D shape fit a 2D style, and I won’t pretend I’m great at it.

That being said, I’ve never been super happy with how I draw lewis’ hair, and I’ve been making an effort with some recent unfinished art to experiment with new detail and some textured hair brushes I picked up from black artists on IG. I haven’t found something that works with my blocky blunt line art quite yet, which is why I’m still working on it, and as you can see below I still haven’t found something that helps with the layering

I’m in a very filtered corner of f1 where I don’t see much outside of real photos and gewis, so if anyone has favourite examples of how creators they like have stylised lewis’ hair, drop them in my inbox! I could use extra inspiration, and I would love to see any other examples of how people have cartoonised twists vs braids in a cell shady style to make it clear they are different patterns bc I’ve been struggling!

Tldr: it’s partially a style choice and partially a lack of skill, I’m working on it, would appreciate inspiration from other artists!

#‘mark why are you awake’ ‘ saw this ask while going to he bathroom and couldn’t sleep till it was answered’s #asks #anonymous #mark rambles #Lewis’ hair is the last part of any fan art I do bc it’s so- I know I’m not doing it right! #but the changes I make look wrong roo #you haven’t seen art from me in a while because I’m struggling with health and modifying this way of drawing hai #*hair #I don’t want to half ass it #full ass only

[sassygwaine]

parts of “unmasking autism” by devon price, phd that made me go oof

I do think when allistic people declare that everyone is a little Autistic, it means they are close to making an important breakthrough about how mental disorders are defined: why do we declare some people broken, and others perfectly normal, when they exhibit the same traits? Where do we draw the line, and why do we even bother doing so? (32)

All too often, the difference between who gets perceived as an innocent, shy Autistic and who gets viewed as creepy, awkward, and obviously disabled is more a function of things like race, gender, and body size than it is any innate difference in personality or behavior. (57)

I was basically a perpetual adolescent, performing intelligence for praise but mismanaging my personal life and not connecting with anyone in a deeper way. (85)

Once you’ve proven yourself capable of suffering in silence, neurotypical people tend to expect you’ll be able to do it forever, no matter the cost. (99)

When the entire world shames people for being into “childish” things, having odd mannerisms, or simply being irritating, you don’t need ABA to program you into compliance. Everyone around you is already doing it. (102)

Unfortunately, when an Autistic person complains about the sensory pain they’re in, people think they’re being overly dramatic, needy, or even downright “crazy.” … They acted as if I chose to be distracted and furious every day. (115)

We often seek out clear “rules” for good behavior, which we then adhere to rigidly, hoping they will keep us socially safe and finally render us worthy. (121)

When many of us were growing up, adults saw us as loud, stubborn, uncaring, overly reactive, and burdensome. We’ve grown up believing we truly are hard to be around, and to love. (144)

Today, his fiction readers tell him he’s fantastic at writing dialogue, and really understands how other people speak and feel. But it’s not because these things come naturally to him. He devoted thousands of hours to picking conversations apart to make sense of them. (161)

We’re more like the protagonist of the video game Katamari Damacy, a freaky, colorful demigod who rolls an ever-growing ball of objects around, each step forward attracting more random items into his ball’s expanding gravitational field until it engulfs the universe. We don’t complete discrete projects. We build worlds. (178)

It’s vital we learn to navigate interactions marked by conflict, and practice standing firm in the face of negative reactions from others. As long as we haven’t abused anyone or violated their rights, it’s okay for our actions to make others unhappy. (193)

At times, unmasking means teaching our neurotypical friends and family to treat us better; in other situations, it may mean disengaging from those who aren’t ever going to be worth the effort. (195)

[regarding friendships worth cultivating:] Who tells me honestly when I’ve hurt them, and gives me a real opportunity to do better? (205)

“I am not a math-minded type of Autistic…I am the kind who thinks about people obsessively.” (219)

In his writing, [Mike] Oliver described disability as a political status, one that is created by the systems that surround us, not our minds and bodies. (230)

Emotions that are too large, passions that are too childish and not profitable, habits that are too repetitive, and bodies and minds that require daily assistance all challenge this incredibly narrow definition of health. It is only by expanding our definition of what is acceptable human behavior and working to meet other people’s manifold needs that we can move forward. (233)

From the Tuskegee Syphilis Study, to Hans Asperger’s research on “high-functioning” Autistics, to the forced lobotomies performed on gay people and communists, immense violence has been done in the name of science and “protecting” the public. (247)

We all deserve to take a step back and ask whether our lives line up with our values, whether the work we do and the face we show to others reflects our genuine self, and if not, what we might want to change. (250)

#unmasking autism #just finished currently processing

[youzicha]

Visible Cities

Marco Polo is still entertaining Kublai Khan by describing fictional cities, but during his sojourn in Xanadu he has been practicing drawing, so now he illustrates them while he speaks…

MP The marvelous city of Zed, oh Khan, is arranged in long neat rows of identical houses, stretching out in both directions forever. In front of each house there is a single flower pot, and in each pot grows a single sprig of mint. In the morning, while the sun is still low in the sky and the air is bracing cold, the wives in the houses step out to rub the mint leaves with their fingers, but without plucking them. They pause to—

KK Hang on a second. What’s behind the houses? Are there flower pots there as well?

MP No, the pots are only in front of the houses. The space in the back is empty.

KK I can’t see that in the drawing though. The house blocks the view. Really, there could be anything behind it.

MP But, um. Okay. Let’s do it this way; I’ll change the drawing to make the houses transparent. This way you can see the back lot also, and confirm that it is empty.

KK Very clarifying, thank you. Although I can only see the back lots in the foreground. Near the horizon they get so small that they are unreadable. Maybe there are still flowers behind those houses?

MP I actually intended all the houses to be identical, even if it is hard to put that into the drawing. I think this line of questioning goes a bit against the spirit of the exercise, which was more like a— But wait, it seems some of your courtiers have comments too.

DZ Yes. I wanted to ask, earlier you said the city stretches away forever?

MP That’s right.

DZ I think that’s wrong. Actually the city is on the surface of a cylinder, so it is bounded in size. If you walk far enough in a straight line you will get back where you started.

MP But look at the drawing! I made the ground completely flat.

DZ It looks flat in practice because the city is very big. You can’t see the subtle bend.

EN If I may interject. I think we may trust the artist that this part of the city is flat and infinite. But that doesn’t mean that the entire city is like that. There might be another part, hanging in the sky, which is curled up in a giant loop.

MP But the sky is completely empty, I didn’t draw anything at all there.

EN The disconnected part might be floating very far away, so it would just look like a tiny speck, too small to see. That’s consistent with what you drew.

MP Could I have one more cup of this excellent jasmine tea? And I think I will need another hash brownie.

✵✵✵

This is of course an allegory for the philosophy of math that I tried to sketch in a previous post (prompted by @raginrayguns). Mathematical structures (e.g. the integers) are fictional and imagined; the mathematician describes the setting, and then you try to think through hypothetical scenarios (if you rub the mint in your fingers, what will it smell like?).

My point of transposing it into art/fiction is to say that the suspension of disbelief that this requires seems pretty modest, comparable to what we do when think about any kind of fiction or hypothetical scenario. When Doron Zeilberger writes “I believe that finite integers, finite sets of finite integers, and all finite combinatorial structures have an existence of their own, regardless of humans … What is completely meaningless is any kind of infinite, actual or potential. … the sum and product of any two integers is well-defined only if the result is less than p”, that seems to imply that Marco Polo’s story is “completely meaningless”, which seems too harsh! Can you really not use your imagination a little bit, Zeilberger?

Similarly for the claim that it is impossible to pin down what the “standard” integers are, because any description we could write down in first-order logic will also apply to some nonstandard structures. When it comes to something as simple and natural as the natural numbers, that also seems odd to me. Could Edward Nelson really not guess which layout, of the many city plans consistent with the drawing, Marco Polo had in mind? Is it really pointless to say that something would be true in that city, even if it might not be true in some of its nonstandard sisters? And are there not lessons to be learned from the imagined life in Zed that can guide us in our own grids of asphalt and silicon..?

[dateamonster]

what’s your opinion on monstrous transformations (both fast and slow), and also more controversially what do you think about having monsters/nonhuman characters serve as minority allegory (as opposed to society’s hate for them being being an allegory)

ohhh hold on this is a rly good question i think abt a Lot actually.

ok getting the first bit out of the way, love a good monstrous transformation. fast, slow, its all good. i personally like gradual slow shifts the most but its a situational thing. transformation is one of those things that like just always has to be symbolic. even more than the degree to which Everything is symbolic ya know. so like context rly matters when it comes to how to invoke it most effectively.

MOVING ON

i think from the phrasing of the ask ur looking for something more along the lines of like. for example shapeshifters as representation of nonbinary people or aliens as representation of different cultures rather than like monsters vs humans as allegory for racism. but im also not sure you can meaningfully separate the two! the latter i think is more overused so it like registers more as an immediate red flag, but its like. if the aliens from avatar werent being violently invaded by humans it wouldnt make like their reskinned stereotypical indigeneity anymore tolerable i dont think.

which isnt to say i think every story that draws connections between fantastical fictional species and real world people are inherently bad. i dont really think theres any trope that i believe cant be handled well by anyone under any circumstance. the super easy fix to bad rep via monster or fantasy creature characters is basically just have actual humans who also represent those same identities and communities and experiences so that the audience isnt drawn to connect the traits of any one group with your fictional species.

the harder fix is to like seriously analyze why you want this character to be a monster and what that says about them and what that says about you and your own experiences and biases and what you actually want to communicate with the inclusion of this character. and when applicable hire a sensitivity reader. its kinda crazy how many pieces of media seem to prefer half-assing the hard way over just doing the easy thing and not assigning the status of token minority to a literal monster.

of course once again all of this is ya know circumstantial. im speaking to like my own experiences and the things ive observed. and its weird too! bc im also speaking as someone who like is trans and nonbinary and thinks of myself and my gender expression as inherently intertwined with monstrosity. and as someone who is autistic and thinks of myself as a changeling. and as someone who is a fat person who represents themself with a pig themed sona. if i talk abt cringeass hollywood blockbusters engaging in High Fantasy Racism i feel like to be fair i kinda have to talk about independent own-voices creators who write stories and make art about their own identities in the lovely language of monstrosity. theres not rly a way to draw a hard line around the former without the risk of catching some of the latter.

so umm as usual i dont rly have a snappy all encompassing answer for how i feel abt this kind of characterization. im simply too much of a Nuance Enjoyer. i do i guess think this is something that generally turns out better when it is someone making art about their own experiences, but also unless i believe minority artists are a monolith, which i dont, i need to accept that artists will inevitably make stuff that is beautiful and resonant to some people and totally repugnant and offensive to others, and that both of those responses can be like totally justified and correct. thats art babey!

anyway slight digression but i think any case where a character feels more like an allegory than a fully fleshed u know Character is gonna flop for me no matter how relatable it is. tbqh, id rather more ppl try and fail to make beautiful grotesque frightening sensually moving monsters out of their lived experiences and their empathetic connections with others than succeed at creating bland toothless universally approachable Good Rep tm. if u know u know. if u feel me u feel me. that is all.

#ask