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#trigger warnings

Thank you so much for 300 followers!

And here’s what I promised, a heart-wrecking piece of fanfiction!

This is a The Notebook AU, so you can pretty much guess what to expect. But I would like to mention: Trigger Warnings for Memory Loss, Cardiac Attack, Major Character Death. Do not proceed unless you’re absolutely comfortable with all that.

This was pretty much a challenge for me, because as you all know, I’m pretty new to writing. This is my first time creating an AU based on another piece of fiction, and it was also a challenge to deal with the bittersweet angst. I hope I have been able to do justice to this! And this goes to you all, all 300 of my followers and friends, because without you all, I’d never be here! And now, let’s get into it!


AO3 link

This is set in the future. Hawkmoth had been defeated. Over the years, Adrien and Marinette had got married and had made a family of themselves. They had three children: Emma, Hugo, and Louis. Eventually, they gave up their Miraculous and passed them on to their next generation.  

As time passed, Adrien and Marinette had realised that among the children, Emma would be the best one to shoulder the responsibilities of the Guardian of the Miraculous. When she had become of age, Adrien and Marinette had begun training her for the role. After a period, and after mutual agreement, Marinette had passed on the responsibility of the Guardian to her daughter Emma. And with it had come the inevitable, Marinette had lost all memories of her life as Ladybug. She had knowingly signed up for this. But it would be wrong to think she had not prepared for this beforehand. Before she lost her memories, she had given Adrien her diary, the one where she had written all accounts of her and Adrien’s adventures as the superheroes of Paris.  

Adrien and Marinette’s love was nothing less than magical. And that’s why, every time he read to her the story of their life, she would get back all her memories. But only for a little while. Everything comes with a price though, because after each spell of remembering, Marinette forgot everything all over again, to the point that she could not recognise her husband or her children. But for Adrien, those few moments that she remembered him, their love, their life, it was worth everything else.  

Hugo had married Kagami and Luka’s daughter, Julie, and they had two children: Anna and Daniel. Emma was engaged to Alya and Nino’s son Tony. But too many unknown faces in the house made Marinette confused and agitated, which is why they had had to come to an arrangement. Louis stayed with his mother, and took care of her, while Adrien stayed with the rest of the family in a house next door. Every evening, Adrien went over to Marinette to tell her a story. And every night, he returned with mixed emotions: happiness at having met the love of his life once more, sadness at having watched her slip away yet again and longing at having to be away from her.  

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If you’re nervous about watching Tiger King right now due to upsetting content as I am since it is so big Does the Dog Die? has a pretty thorough list of content warnings.

It even had a warning that someone gets sick which is a warning I appreciate but usually have to dig for because it’s not one of the big ones people think of.

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I bought this book like ages ago and it took me way too long to read it, but that’s how I work with reading books and finishing TV shows, sometimes I can do it in a week or less and sometimes it takes months.

Anyway this review is going to be spoiler heavy as fuck so if you have any plans on reading the book, don’t read this review further, also trigger warnings for rape, incest, gaslighting, and abuse.

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There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m abandoning all of my works. Everything.

This post is going to be long, honest, triggering and deeply personal. So for those who don’t want to read through all of my bullshit, the gist is that I’m not emotionally or mentally capable of writing anymore.


If you’ve followed me for a while, then you know that my boyfriend was killed in Afghanistan last year. Since then, my life has been a breathless decline into self destruction. I didn’t know—I still don’t know—how to recover from happily waiting for his return to painfully knowing he never will. I swear that some days I feel like he’s still out there and some day he’ll come home and this will all be just a bad dream. I want to wake up to a reality where he steps off that plane and into my arms, where I don’t keep a crumpled old t shirt that smells more of me than him under my pillow, where the shock of hearing certain songs doesn’t make me throw up. A reality where I don’t have to sit in front of his ashes every time I visit his mother and look at his singed necklace around her neck.

I wanted nothing more than to wake up. Just wake the fuck up and feel alive again because for so long I had felt this choking pain and grief and misery and then nothing.

Everything became an escape, something to fill that void in me. I tried all the healthy things. I ate, I worked out, I ran. I talked to people about how I felt and reached out, but nothing helped. I volunteered, i planted trees and flowers, I channeled my grief into kindness. I tried to take all this pain and turn it into something beautiful, and still I felt nothing. I was falling falling falling into this black pit and was reaching for anything to keep me from hitting the bottom.

So I started chasing highs. The standard shit at first. I drank so much alcohol that I’d wake up in bushes with my friends, limbs tangled in ways that left me sore and stinging for days because who the hell passes out in a Rose bush?

At first, drinking was fucking hell, because no matter how much I drank I’d always end up with my head cradled in the palms of my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as I screamed and wailed and asked why why why why when he was so close to coming home and why was life so goddamn mean??? I’d be in bar bathrooms, just curled in the corner and sobbing like a dramatic princess until my friends carried me out. This happened about a dozen times before it just stopped, because I figured I wasn’t drinking enough if I could remember everything.

So I drank more and more and more and then I realized that it wasn’t making me feel better, it wasn’t doing anything for me.

So I started smoking. Just weed, you know. Nothing too crazy at the time. But all that did was make me hyper-fixate on all of my failures and short comings. It made me hate myself so viscerally, so deeply that I wondered if this is who I truly am at my core. A mean bitch who drinks, smokes, parties. A maneater who fucks these poor kind hearted men to fill that hole her dead man left inside her and still finds herself cold and numb after because it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I’m sure you know where this is going. But I hated myself. I’m a beautiful girl, I’m not blind, and yet I found myself to be so fucking ugly. So fucking ugly and grey and all I wanted—all I needed—was something to breathe life into me the way life itself did before.

I just wanted to feel happy and normal. Only for a little while. That need was so encompassing it would grip my insides and I’d cry from how much I wanted it, how much I had convinced myself I needed it. It was all I fucking wanted.

So the bumps came. And then the lines. And then whole baggies to myself. And it felt amazing, it was wonderful. The world was alive, things were different. I had more energy, more life in me than I had in months. Then the other type of lines came and it made me feel like I was floating away. There was no pain, no misery, no death hanging over my shoulder to remind me that the strength of your love can’t make people stay.

But soon, that too wasn’t enough. Like every other thing, I felt there was something better, something that could make me feel more. So here is where I tell you about all the pills I popped, all the different colored presses and how each one pulled me out of that hole I was falling into and deposited me above the ground —much higher than I could have ever dreamed of—and filled my grey world with beautiful gorgeous colors.

Then I can tell you about all the tabs I let dissolve on my tongue, or fully swallowed out of impatience, all of the lines of ketamine I combined with ecstasy and acid in one night. The things I saw, the way I felt—it took me far from this dismal life and was addicting. I was chasing something every weekend until it became every other day, chasing some feeling I still can’t name, and I knew that it was ruining me.

My grief and my drugs were killing me, and I knew it. With every cotton mouth, every clenched jaw, every pounding headache, I fucking knew and didn’t care. I’d look at my friends faces and I knew, I knew they loved me and would be devastated if they knew what I was doing, and I still didn’t care. What was life if it felt this empty?

My grades dropped, i turned down a contracting job I wanted for years, I spent all my money on psychedelics and stimulants, and it had gotten to a point where I’d pop a pill while sitting at home just because I didn’t want to be sober and didn’t want to think about how fucked up my life was becoming.

Then one day I was at a concert, high in the clouds with a joint settled comfortably between my lips and frizzy hair piled messily atop my head, when I saw a girl get carried out the venue by medics. She was probably a few years younger than I am, and i remember looking at her face impassively as they pushed through the crowd with her body thrown over this bear of a man’s shoulder as if in slow motion. She was pale and foaming at the mouth, with her arms dangling limply down his back, and she looked dead—she was dead. I knew in that same way you know that the sky is blue when the sun is up, I just knew.

And in that moment—those few seconds it took me to acknowledge that she had most likely overdosed and died—this intense yearning shot through me, so strong that I felt it in the crooks of my fucking elbows, like I wanted to embrace whatever the fuck it was that I desired to live inside me, and this voice cried out, “I wish that were me.”

And you know what, I didn’t even know I had spoken until the guy next to me shoved me in the shoulder and said, “no you don’t.”

And that terrified me. I remember dropping the joint, fumbling it in my shaking fingers, burning myself on the lit end, before handing it off to that same random guy and running off to get some air.

I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. I know I’m depressed, I know I’ve got issues, but I had never said something so suicidal out loud up until that point. I’ve never vocally wished for death and even as I sat there, as I looked out at the people outside the venue huddled together doing whip it’s and killing brain cells, I still wanted to be that poor dead girl on that man’s shoulders.

That was it for me. I remember calling an Uber home on the spot and taking everything I had and flushing it. Im not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you that it was easy. I had convinced myself that I needed these things to make me happy, and i don’t know if I can ever see life the same way after them. The feelings you get off these things are otherworldly, it’s so damn good, but they come at a price. You dont feel the same way you did before you took them, and you never will. You’ll never be who you were before that high, but you can almost convince yourself that it’s worth it. So it was pretty damn hard to take my neon presses, my rocks. my capsules, my bud and my tabs, and flush them down the toilet.

Almost immediately after I did it, I cried. Mostly because i had flushed hundreds of dollars down the fucking toilet, but also because I had become that girl in those cheesy college movies. You know the one, the one where the party girl gets addicted to drugs and goes on a bender and her whole life is just one big goddamn tragedy that won’t end. I hate those fucking movies and I, for the life of me, could not believe I was that girl.

I had been military, straight laced with a good head on my shoulders and a hard worker. I was smart, respected, the girl everyone wanted to bring home to mom. And now I was a hot mess crying in my bathroom because I had just flushed my addiction down the shitter.

Now I’m just home, trying to gather the pieces of myself in a way that doesn’t cause long term damage when I’ve yet to hit my 27th birthday.

I still go out with my friends. They know nothing about what I’ve done because I’ve always gone out and done things alone. This is the first time I’ve ever spilled my guts.

So where does FanFiction come into play in all this. Well, it’s simple, really, if you’ve gotten to this point and picked out all the mistakes in grammar. My brain is so fucked up that I can barely write a passable 3 page essay. I can’t remember words, much less how to string them together to form something beautiful in the way I used to. Trust me, it kills me and I’ve agonized over it for hours. I once tried to take this amazing idea I had and put it to paper but it would just not flow. Nothing made sense. Where before writing was effortless and focused, now my brain could barely concentrate on forming a sentence that didn’t sound like gibberish.

My attention span is so short that I literally have to isolate myself with no internet and my textbooks to get work done. It’s so bad that I have anxiety and panic attacks about the fact that I feel like a whole dumbass with one brain cell, where before I was proud of my intelligence and could hold decent conversation.

I’m still pretty, as if that fucking matters, but now I’ve got a stutter and can’t hold eye contact because my paranoia makes me think they’re judging me. And let me tell you, I’m so fucking pissed about that because I know it’s just my fried brain thinking these things, and there’s no one to blame but myself.

And I still feel empty and numb. How can I write about love and human emotions when I don’t feel anything? How can I write about looking at someone and loving them when the memory of love faded like my lover’s ashes in the wind? I just can’t.

I know love as it whispers against my skin with each interaction between me, friends, even other men, and yet I look at them and feel absolutely nothing.

So Yeah, I can’t write my stories if I can’t get my brain or my heart to work.

I’m really sorry to all my loyal readers. I really am. I wish I had been stronger. Thank you for all of your support throughout the years.

Don’t do drugs.

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Meet Misty!!

Misty is the sweetest five year old you will ever meet. She was born with Amelia, a birth defect that causes either a loss of limbs (she was born without her left leg) or defected or stunted growth of appendages. She has brown curly hair, green eyes and freckles. She loves food shaped in hearts or animals and loves to draw. 

She has a big imagination, superheroes are fun to play as and she loves when Logan picks her up so she can ‘fly’. She has a teddy bear who is also an evil mastermind named Evil Mr. Teddy. He kidnaps the barbies a lot. 

Taglist for The Babysitter

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I’m back!! Kinda….

Some people have seen this on twitter (I am much more active there) but I’ve been diagnosed with fairly advanced breast cancer. I finally start my treatment on Friday.

Why am I “kinda” back? I need lots of distractions that make me feel better, and who makes me feel better??


Originally posted by bangtan-boys-daily


So I’ll be around! Feel free to tag me in stuff, ask me questions or what have you.

I purple you!

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((Inspired by @smollmikey​’s Fluffy/Blushy Sentence Starters. These just warmed my heart… Especially: “It’s nice that your voice was the first thing I heard today.” [giggles]))

((Also, to clarify: this is part of the trans!punk!Anti/demi!cop!Jackie AU Disappointment’s from.))



A pale hand abruptly slaps itself onto pink, trembling lips as Anti stares with wide, horrified green eyes at a slowly waking Jackie. The cop warmly smiles.

“It’s nice t’at yer voice’s t’a first t’ing Ah heard ta’day…”

Relief floods Anti and he sobs, hugging his partner close and thanking him; beyond grateful that this sweet hero of a man doesn’t make fun of his female vocals breaking through his voice training at ache’o’clock in the morning.

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Hey, hey, honey~ can you write both rape topics with Vanderwood? In my opinion it's important topic and it will be nice to have chance to read it with Vandy.


Uhm, which ones? The one where Mc gets raped in front of him and were she got raped in the past? I can but I need to know which story you mean my loveeee

And yeah, it’s a sensitive and important topic 

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You know when you’re sure something terrible was done to you and everyone in your life says you did it to yourself then, years and years later when you can no longer fight for justice for yourself, some piece of media shows exactly - almost specifically - what happened and you have to relive a situation that you can’t change? And you feel your whole body seize up with that even more specific anxiety of not being able to fight or run from a moment that will always haunt you because you take your brain and heart and body everywhere you go? And not one person can see what you see and media is just media and an apple is just an apple unless you’ve ever bitten into the rot of one?


Anyway, here’s my cat.

She turned one today.

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