#forgive the description i feel like it's repetitive
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⭑ observations. tom riddle x reader
part ii here.
summary. you've been going to hogwarts for four months, and find this whole school-wide obsession with tom riddle a little bit ridiculous, and a little bit contrived. surely not all the rumours are true...
tags. smut (minors dni -_-), fem anatomy, fingering, reader who is soooo in denial, trying to worm into tom's brain like a parasite and failing miserably (me projecting), i think reader is implied to either be short or tom is implied to be tall, ooc tom because i am so far from the belief that he would ever just spontaneously hook up with someone but… it is what it is.
note. this is my first post so support is much appreciated!! god forgive me, i've never written smut in my life, and it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also, i tried my best to make reader fairly neutral, but it's late, and if i've fumbled over some description bc i'm sleepy i shall fix it in the morning ♡
word count. 5.1k
Your first observation is that nobody has Tom Riddle quite right.
He’s beautiful, yes (obvious, repetitive, shallow), and undeniably intelligent (being paired with him in Potions has proved that in a matter of weeks), untouchable (this one is a bit interesting), and, above all, unusual. The latter you like the most. It makes you feel unabashedly exceptional in all the very unexceptional gossip about him. No one ever uses that word to describe him. A rarity of charisma and charm — austere, refined, and clinically polite. Unusual has a negative curve to it that most people don’t attach to the elegant litheness of Tom Riddle, but your observations cannot be stated without the word.
It’s prompted and peddled by Selwyn’s much-too-enthusiastic vehemence in the wake of your first.
You narrow your eyes at her and say it again, no less certain than the first time. “Tom Riddle has not had sex with half the school.”
It’s a bit of a jump. Some necessary context is removed.
Riddle, once more, rarity of charisma and charm and austere blah blah blah, has been rumoured since you arrived this year from your last school to be some silent conqueror, oh-so nimble with his hands and nimbler even with his other appendages, and you — you’ve only been here four months and it’s laughable how many people believe it.
Backtrack to untouchable (this one everyone agrees is a primary characteristic of Tom Riddle, there’s no debate there) and the reason you find it interesting. Untouchable doesn’t exactly work if everyone in the bloody castle has been touching him this whole time. And it’s not as if he could hide it, not as if people wouldn’t be giddy to tell their friends of their exploits with the beautiful, revered Head Boy. And such exploits would be whispers among the halls in a matter of hours. You’ve considered this, with almost scientific determination, and it’s impossible. Tom studies all day, and when he isn’t studying he’s corralling Slytherin first-years away from forbidden corridors, attending to Dippet’s newest errand, escorting third-years to Hogsmeade, dining with the Slug Club, and — point is, someone would have noticed by now if he was disappearing into broom closets with a new lay every weekend.
But Selwyn shakes her head, because this rumour is such an integral part of Tom’s allure. He is, somehow, both untouchable and a master at touch. Distant until he isn’t, and then he can break you apart with practised, perfect hands. It’s all very mythical.
“Look,” she says, “maybe if I’d only been here four months, I’d think so too, but everyone else knows—”
“Maybe it’s because I’ve only been here four months that I have the objectivity to recognize how ridiculous you all are. He’s not a god, Selwyn, he’s a scholar, and an obsessed one at that — has it ever actually occurred to you he might not have had sex at all?”
This, now, is sacrilege.
Selwyn gapes at you, and you shake your head in surrender before you burst out laughing at how offended she looks. “Fine, whatever. Consider the matter dropped. I give up.”
You don’t really give up. It’s very fun research.
Your second observation is that unusual is not an apt enough word for Tom, and maybe you don’t possess the vocabulary to think of one that is.
You’re in the Restricted Section. This is unrelated to your Tom research, and perfectly sanctioned, with a key granted by the librarian who you feel sorry to admit you have not remembered the name of, and the library, by all means, is still open. It’s a late Thursday night, but not past curfew. You’re there with a study partner you rather wish you weren’t — Gregory Godefrey, Gryffindor (the alliteration is nauseating), and the only half-decent fellow in your Ancient Runes class, but not especially bright. You feel more like his tutor than his partner. In short, the regular books on the topic you’re writing your end-of-term essay on are slim pickings, and thus — Restricted Section.
“So,” you say, “the scriptures might look the same, but they’re written in vastly different time periods, so the meaning has changed. If you were to charge a spell with one of Ashe’s runes now, there’s almost no doubt you’d get a completely different result.”
“I don’t get it,” Godefrey grumbles sleepily into his sleeve. “How’s anyone meant to use runes if they can just change like that?”
You sigh, shaking your head. “Any magic can change, Godefrey. Half of the stuff we learn is based on intention and skill. Uagadou barely even uses wands — all of this is arbitrary.”
“My head hurts.”
“Then… just… just go to bed. I’ll finish up here and we’ll try again on the weekend.”
He grins with heavy eyes, lugging his bag over his shoulder and leaving you a packet of sherbet lemons you bitterly wish he’d pulled out sooner. “Wicked — you’re the best. See’ya.”
“See you…” you mumble, unwrapping one and popping it in your mouth.
You don’t stay for long, twirling the key to the Restricted Section around your finger as you tuck your books back into their shelves.
“It’s ten past curfew,” says a voice from behind you, all cool, measured authority, and you nearly collapse.
You stare up from where you’re grabbing onto your knees for balance, your heart halfway out of your chest.
Tom Riddle is there, his Head Boy badge somehow still glittering in the dim light of the library, and it’s only by the half-smile quirking at his lips that you can detect his words weren’t some sort of threat.
“Right, thanks.” You gather your breath. “I was just leaving.”
“Pity about Godefrey.”
You blink. Having worked with Tom in Potions since September, you’ve become perfectly adjusted to speaking to him… only about Potions. He indulges in polite small talk, he smiles freely, but your distance from him is the same as it is with everyone else, if only for the fact that, you suppose, you aren’t actively pursuing anything closer.
Oh. That is interesting — would he be so easily intrigued? It’s a bit cliché, but you suppose he is too.
You’re making an awful lot of assumptions from the words ‘pity about Godefrey,’ and then, you don’t actually have a damn clue what Tom could mean by that.
“Sorry?” you ask.
“Godefrey,” he repeats. “I assume you’re being made to tutor him.”
Right. He must have seen him on his way here. That would make sense.
“No, actually. It’s entirely voluntary — he’s my study partner for Ancient Runes.”
His chin lifts in some nearly imperceptible way, smiling still, and you know he’s a polished thing, an unusual thing, but it reads as an especially fake smile then. “Ah.”
… Oooookay?
“Well —” you start, a mechanical smile of your own forming — “curfew, then.”
The charm fixes onto his face like a damn ornament. You want to flick it away with your finger. “Of course. I’ll see you in Potions?”
You nod, leaving the key behind the librarian’s desk as you slink awkwardly away. Into the corridor. Off to bed. Yet another note to scrawl on the enigma of Tom Riddle.
You see him again first thing in the morning. You’re yawning into the archway of Slughorn’s stuffy classroom, eager to dump your bag over your table and empty the many contents necessary for today’s lesson.
There’s one girl, the oldest of the Lestranges, who glares daggers into the back of your head every class. Tom is, as always, nonplussed, asking you about your morning as you both prepare your phials and ingredients. You can’t help but shake your head at him this once, a bemused smile on your lips as you glance between him and the Lestrange girl.
“Have I offended her somehow, or is it just that I’m paired with you?”
He laughs under his breath. “I daresay that is the offense.”
You can’t help it. You’re mumbling to yourself in amazement at the bizarre, borderline cultish devotion this school has to Tom Riddle. “Unattainable commodity that you are, Riddle…”
“Well," he begins, his smile small but his voice amused, “I hope you don’t think of me as quite that far outside your grasp."
You freeze.
Are you — have you missed something? Has your casual (really, very casual and not at all unwarranted or peculiar) research for the sake of dispelling Selwyn’s obsession skewed your memory of Tom? Has he always said things like this to you? Have you always read into them like this?
One of his eyebrows rises, and it might be his notorious flattery — but if so, he makes it sound like an obvious truth, and you stammer over the jar of foxglove in your hand. Then you look away, unscrew it, do well not to put too much weight on his words.
“Hm. I have no need for you to be within it, Riddle." You say it with all nonchalance you can muster. To spit it at him in some aggressive dismissal would be to treat it like a big thing.
It isn’t a big thing. He’s talking to you like he talks to everyone else.
But you catch the barest flicker of disappointment on his face, a flash of something that might even be annoyance. Then, though, it’s gone, and he’s back to that same unshakable, confident smirk.
As the lesson proceeds, he’s once again the sharpest thing in the room.
You watch for him in the library that weekend, a bit distracted while you and Godefrey study. Without your guidance, there isn’t much studying occurring at all. Godefrey is sort of skimming the pages of a textbook, yawning, as always, like he’s never had a good night’s sleep in his life, and you’re suckling sherbert lemons until the roof of your mouth feels raw.
“What was it you said about Calarook’s Method?”
Your eyes snap from the empty doorway to Godefrey’s face. “Huh?”
“Calarook’s Method.”
“Oh.” You sink boredly into your seat, twirling your quill between your fingers. “It revolutionised the usage of runes globally. She incorporated — um — a much simpler means of translating the scriptures for different methods of magic.”
“Ohhhh, I remember now. Did you write that down?”
“Yes, Godefrey, I wrote it down.”
The final hour before curfew dwells agonisingly longer than it should. It feels like three, at least, until you’re packing your things and bidding Godefrey goodnight, tired legs dragging you down the corridors.
And then you straighten. You stand tall. (You’re absolutely normal about the sight before you.)
Tom smiles at you as he turns the corridor to approach.
“On patrol?” you ask in a friendly tone.
You’re… friends, right? Being someone’s Potions partner for four months qualifies as some degree of friendship, does it not? After all, he did say not to think of him as too far outside your grasp. That was a line if you’d ever heard one, but — you could be Tom’s friend the way everyone is his friend: wholly detached until you were needed.
“Leaving detention,” he answers with a timbre to match.
Your eyebrows raise at that.
“Leaving the second-years I watched in detention, I should say.”
You shake your head. “I should have known.”
“And you?”
“Studying again.”
“Ancient Runes?”
“Mhm.”
“...With Godefrey?”
“That is the concept of a recurrent study partner, yes. It’s recurrent.”
He doesn’t look very much like he appreciates your sarcasm.
“So, then,” you mutter, clearing your throat. “Curfew, I suppose.”
“You performed well in Potions today,” he says after you. It feels like the sort of thing someone says when they don’t want someone to walk away.
You bite your cheek between your teeth — such assumptions will get the better of you. Such assumptions will lead you down a path of crude, obsessive analysis (though you suppose you’ve been doing that all this time, haven’t you?) where you think, in some unspooling knitwork, that there are really only a select few reasons he could want such a thing. Your mind draws to the irresponsible conclusion, as he walks toward you again, a new glint in his eyes, that it’s exactly the sort of thing someone says before rumour has it they disappear into the nearest broom closet with the one they approach. This, you’ve decided an observation ago, Tom Riddle does not do.
“Thank you,” you say carefully. “So did you.”
“We make for a good pair, don’t you think?”
Crude, obsessive analysis. “Slughorn certainly does.”
“And I am asking you.”
He stops a respectable, inviting space before you. His weekend attire is a grey jumper and black slacks, his dark hair in its regular, pristine waves, hands laced behind his back. Everything about him is a request to be met, and not to step forward and close the distance himself. Close the distance, pristine waves, inviting space — you’ve lost your damn mind. You sound like Selwyn. The sugar of a whole packet of sherbet lemons has rendered you imbecilic. You’ll be off to bed, then — sleep this absurdity off.
“Of course, Tom,” you say with a polite smile. “It’d be hard to disagree with the grades I get in that class.” You grab onto your bag to have something to do with your hands, to perhaps signify you’ll be making your exit now.
He seems a bit amused to have to contort himself through the specifics of his meaning. “I was referring to our… rapport.”
“Rapport?”
“We work well together. We communicate efficiently.”
We communicate efficiently? Damn if you couldn’t suddenly make sense of the rumour he’d be applying for the DADA post in the future — that one was definitely true.
“Yes, we do.”
He steps closer. “And I remain far outside your grasp.”
You blink, and there’s a stark, sinking feeling as your eyes drift over the unmarred ivory of his skin, his jaw, his throat, his — no, absolutely not his hands — and you let yourself wonder for the first time if the rumours, albeit exaggerated, have even a shred of truth to them. One exploit, perhaps, to satisfy his endless curiosity. Something academic, like — oh, God, like the way you’ve been studying him for weeks. His hands carving a path down someone’s body to etch it in his memory, another skill added to his arsenal, a new way to work his fingers without a wand, a new way to work his mouth without a word.
It’s only a moment that you wonder it. Some flash of pictures in your head. It is, nonetheless, a moment far too long, and one you don’t know that you can return from.
Tom looks at you from under his eyelashes with an expression that suggests he's the only one in on a very funny joke, and the air is… different. Thick like the Potions room but in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar, not cloudy with the steam of cauldrons but hazy with the proximity of him, cologne and quill ink and something you can’t catch because you’re trying too hard to breathe it all in at once.
But he steps forward again, and seems to say in the slow way he moves, that if you’ll let him, he'll place a hand on your shoulder, and if you’ll allow that — well — then he'll move that hand up to gently frame your cheek. And then, and you no longer consider yourself at all versed in the realm of Tom Riddle, but you think you know what’ll come next.
You allow all of it. You know very well in advance you’re going to allow all of it.
And still, like it’s a surprise, you shiver at the feeling of his hand on your cheek, at the gleaming, certain look in his eyes. Your gaze flickers to his lips for just a second (a fleeting, tiny second you pray fruitlessly he doesn't notice) but his lips curl into the barest of smiles. Something so like him, small but unrestrained, like it never had any hope of growing bigger, but then — you’ve seen the way he grins at you sometimes when you say something stupid in class — you know he’s capable.
“You know what I'm going to do, I assume," he says quietly. It's not a question, per se — more of a statement, and he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on yours as he says it. He's so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. And then he leans in so slightly it might be imperceptible if you weren’t staring, holding your damn breath. “Are you going to let me?"
“I..." You're humiliated to find you are actually struggling to speak. His lips are so close to yours you can feel the ghost of them, can imagine what they might feel like on you. Your mouth is very dry. “We’re… friends, right?”
His voice only wavers for a moment, even as his lips inch ever closer to yours. His voice is tauntingly low, and there's an intimate sort of smile there, a chastising, humorous gleam to his eyes. “Friends," he breathes, and then his lips do close that short distance, and you feel the barest trace of his mouth against yours — his lips, soft and supple against your skin. A moment's kiss. Gone as quickly as it came. “Should we be friends?”
You gape at him, breathing far too heavily for such a chaste kiss, and you imagine your eyes are blown wide, and you lick your lips for a reminder of his taste but it isn't enough. You don't think before standing on your toes to find his lips again. Of course, Tom is stood impeccably straight, his chin almost pointedly jutted so that he can look down at you, and you actually — it's horribly embarrassing — you groan, or whine, or make some sound of blatant discontent at the fact that your kiss doesn’t reach him.
To his credit, his laugh is a very small one. Had it been the other way around you would have been far less forgiving. “I suppose the answer is no, then?" he says, with the implication that the next move might be yours.
“Tom," you as good as hiss (really very foolish of you to use the word forgiving to describe Tom Riddle), “you're being... you're being mean." And you refuse to make the first effort again, even though you probably appear to be a train wreck, your chest is heaving, and you... you want him.
“Am I?" he asks, and he tilts his head to the other side, almost as if to get a better look at you. “How so?" You think he's enjoying himself far too much. But he remains where he is: close enough for you to reach him if you would just yank him toward you and be done with it, and far enough away that you can't take that step without giving him the win.
You stare at him for a long moment, and then with teeth gritted so tight you might chip one, turn to walk away. Tom makes some very hollow, annoyed sound at your stubbornness, and thank god you feel him behind you: soft, lulling, not so immovable as you.
You stop. His fingers brush your hair to the side. His mouth hovers over the skin of your neck. You shudder.
“Tom..." you sigh, half-exasperated, half-sighed, half-surrendered, but he doesn't answer or stop or do so much as acknowledge your mumbling. He only presses forward, until his breath is right by your ear and his lips, soft, gentle, are against the junction of your exposed neck, and you feel his mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips against your skin... so tender, so light that it doesn’t feel at all like something merciful.
It feels singularly, purposefully cruel.
Your third observation (if you can manage the thought) is that Tom is driven by your reactions. Every little mewl, every shudder, every gasp, he wants more of. He wants whatever you're willing to give him, and you suspect it wouldn’t be hard for him to take it all. Every movement of his hands, his mouth, his — oh, oh no — his tongue, abide by whatever you respond to most. He draws in patterns. He stops. Appreciates the speed of your pulse on the curve of your throat for a moment and then tastes it again. It doesn't seem like he particularly cares what he gets out of it. The intrigue for him is having the proximity (he greatly enjoys that you’ve allowed him it) and capacity (that, you think, he’s always had) to make you fall apart.
He's spinning you then, so you're pressed facing the wall, his chest against your back, and the way he whispers against your skin makes you shiver. You dare to think he feels it, his chest heaving against your back, his breath warm and steady by your ear. And as he kisses you you can't help but imagine what might happen if he were just a few inches lower, if he were to sink to his knees, kissing the soft flesh of your chest, and down, and down, and down…
Your eyes flutter closed, and it's clear you like what he's doing by the sound that escapes you — something loud enough for him to stifle your mouth with his palm. Perhaps a little too much. Perhaps you’ll be embarrassed about it later. But right now his tongue is brushing against your skin again, and there’s something very dizzying and hot that starts with his mouth on your neck and works its way down until it's a challenge just to stay standing. You wonder if he can tell just how weak in the knees you are right now, whether that only makes him push forward, and —
And that must be it. He must know, because you think you're trying to say something but you can't form the words, and he has to feel the reverberations with his teeth bracketing little violets on your neck, he must feel the way your legs buckle, how you're held up only by the weight of him behind you.
He must know.
He pushes forward, his fingers bury in your hair, and he pulls your head back slowly — not necessarily to expose you further, but to better see your face. Your eyes lock with his over your shoulder, and there's that hunger there, lips swollen with the print of you... and his voice, when he speaks, is as if he's only barely stopping himself. “Do you want me to stop?"
You shake your head before you think he’s actually finished the question, swallowing the cotton-dry feeling in your throat. No, no — him stopping is the very last thing you want — you feel entirely rational and not at all melodramatic in saying you might just die if he stops. You want more, and he's looking at you like that’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.
He bites down gently on your neck, and you gasp as your knees finally go out from under you (you almost think he planned for this with how quickly he catches you), and you wonder if he'll do something you can't bear; if you'll be reduced to a mewling, drooling mess before he's finished with you.
Your fourth observation — which really is the last one you can muster before it starts to melt into something else — is that you make him human in the only way he can understand: panting into him, fingers in his skin, white-hot and damp at the centre of his obsession. The object of his affection. You make him understand something more singular than ambition.
Want.
And then his spare hand is dipping past your skirts, and you dig your fingers into his wrist — the combination of the hardness pressed against your back, his hands marking a path to forbidden territory, his finger curling into your mouth as his lips continue their assault on your neck — it's too much. It’s deliriously, disastrously not enough. Your vision is starting to blur.
His fingers stop at the curve where your thighs part and you bite gently down on him to quiet the noise that wants to escape you. He hums against your throat, continuing to kiss and lick and bruise you. You're dazedly aware of the cool air on your thighs as your skirts halo your waist, the heat inside, the shudder as his fingers find your core, and carefully begin to circle you. You feel self-consumed, immolated, devoured and spat out again. You feel like you're still falling, and Tom is the only force that keeps you standing.
He draws in slow, expert patterns — and you think, nonsensically, somewhere very distant where you still have sense, that they can’t be expert, he must have read something or observed some — oh. He’s pushing the thin fabric aside until his fingers are pressed directly against your flesh, and he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat as the evidence of how much you need this soaks his fingers, as they begin to sink in without resistance. Oh. Right. You don’t remember exactly what you were saying.
You gasp at the feeling of having him inside when they finally curl into you.
His finger is pulled from your mouth with a small pop, and you can’t even really muster the capacity to be embarrassed by the lewd, wet sound of it. He watches you over your shoulder, at his fingers vanished between your legs, at the drool clinging to the digit he’d quieted you with. He’s smiling into your neck now, proud and grateful all the same.
“Mine,” you think he murmurs, but it’s more something you feel than hear, some vague, hazy consonants pressed to your throat. It would be very like him, so you decide that yes, that’s probably what he said. And there’s something funny about it — the idea of being his — about what it means for him to want you so badly that he says it out loud. It feels a little bit like he’s yours, too.
Tom’s breathing is harsh, the fingers inside you moving as if they have a will of their own. Every muscle in your body constricts and squeezes around them; every cell, every neuron, comes roaring to life; and you’re fucked. You’re so completely fucked. His teeth scrape against you again, wholeheartedly pleased. This is what he wanted to see — the utter loss of you — when you are nothing but sensation, barely aware of your limbs as they slump against him. Tom is it; Tom is the only thing you can think of.
Tom is, inexplicably, upsettingly good at this.
“Look at you," he says softly. And his touch changes; it becomes slower, more deliberate and careful.
You’re trembling hopelessly. The way you coil and collapse under his touch is just further encouragement. He doesn't even bother to speak anymore, only pants, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slick when they attach to your throat again. Your whole body is on fire, and he's the one setting you alight — there is not a single inch of you that is not alive with the feeling of him, and you can barely breathe through the slow, heavy rush of it.
You think you cry at the divine curve of his fingers carving inside you, slow and soft and then intense — when you grip his arm for more friction, and one of his hands is coming up to wipe a tear away but the feeling flares in your abdomen and you're only half aware of it, really — you think your eyes have rolled back. You think you've gone somewhere else.
He keeps you just on the precipice, just shy of losing control, just far enough to leave you craving for more.
“To—Tom," you sob, gasps cleaving his name in two — you're on the brink of something incomprehensible, building inside you to something you can't help but think is about to shatter, your eyes clenching shut as you grip him so hard you're certain your fingers will leave marks. “I'm gonna—"
“I know," he breathes against your neck, hands running a familiar path along your body; he's so very, very proud that he's made you like this. He just barely bites into the spot above your collar, curls his fingers, and then you’re falling — something unfurls inside you and can’t be collected, something hot and depthless that your hands can’t clutch at from where they’re clinging so desperately to him — and you think, coming down from it with trembling, debilitating ecstasy, that he looks very much like he’d be proud to make you like this over and over again.
You're flattened, and that triumph in his eyes — the absolute satisfaction of seeing you this way, of knowing that that he's the one that did it to you — that feeling fills your mind and makes you collapse even more, makes you want to melt and flow into liquid at his feet; to give in, do whatever he says, even if all he says is just be like this for him.
He slowly removes his fingers as you come down, and your eyes are blinking for focus when he turns you around, his thumb coming up to brush over your bottom lip and you sigh at the taste of yourself as he pushes it inside your mouth. His other hand brushes away the damp, stray hairs that have fallen across your face, almost reverently, a silent worship as he takes you in, appreciates everything you just gave him.
He smiles gently at your half-blinking, half-vacant expression, his thumb still in your mouth; he watches you for a long moment in silence. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he's got a small quirk at the corner of his mouth as he pulls his thumb away and swipes it once more over your lip.
You're still not quite sure you can find words. Still not sure they'd form right as your tongue darts over the residue of Tom's finger and you flush impossibly hotter at the feeling of your own arousal on your mouth. Tom fixes your hair behind your ears and it doesn't seem like he's ready to stop taking you in in this state — your hair wild, lips swollen, throat bruised and dress askew — and he leans in so tenderly it startles you, pressing a faint, almost imperceptible kiss to your forehead.
“Tell Godefrey he’ll be needing a new study partner. I think you’ll find yourself committed elsewhere." And with that he turns on his heel, perfectly composed, and disappears into the darkness of the midnight corridor.
Oh God, you think, and you’re too stunned to even react as you watch him vanish. It takes you a moment before you regain your senses, and you can only just manage to sputter out a breathless, miserable sigh into the air before you.
You are so completely, utterly fucked.
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Fighting Against Gravity
Description: You've hated Steve Harrington since your sophomore year, and the feeling is very much mutual. Unfortunately, with you both working at Family Video, it was only a matter of time before you got stuck on a shift together. You'll just keep your distance, hopefully.
BEHOLD!! one of the longest fics i've ever written lol (a whopping 3.6K words bahaha) and it's just me fantasizing about hate sex with Steve Harrington,,, this is addressing a prompt I got forever ago!! so anon, even though i've lost your ask, i hope you enjoy the porn :)
Steve Harrington made your life hell in high school.
Okay, maybe not him specifically, but Tommy and Carol were fucking awful to you. Tommy making obscene comments in the hallway, Carol spilling her lunch down your shirt on purpose. Carol stealing your clothes in the locker room while Tommy stuck things to your locker.
It got to the point that you would fake sickness, change your classes, park your car across the street just to avoid them. And Steve would just… stand there. He would just stand there and stare, his eyes all wide and shocked, while his friends tormented you. Doing nothing.
So, since sophomore year, you have hated Steve Harrington. Even now, after high school, the sight of him still makes your heart pound angrily, makes your fists clench and your teeth grind together. Robin insists that he’s changed, that he’s “not the same as he was in high school, come on, you’ve got to give him a chance.” Bullshit.
And what makes it worse is that Steve doesn’t even try. Ever since you got your job at Family Video, mostly to work with Robin every day, Steve Harrington has been a fucking dick. Rolling his eyes when you tell a joke, scoffing at any of your tiny complaints about school, about your job, about the various dates you’ve tried to go on that always go up in flames. He just flips his hair, crosses his arms and makes you feel like a complete fucking idiot.
“I have no idea what’s going on with him,” Robin says, shoving a few more videos into the shelves. “I swear he’s not usually like this. It’s like, only when you have a shift.”
“It’s fine,” you mumble, though the tenseness in your shoulders tells Robin that it is absolutely not fine. “If Harrington wants to stay a dick, he can. Doesn’t bother me either way, y’know? He’s been like this for years.”
A loud clatter behind you causes you to shoot up, turning your head to see the man in question with a pile of videos clutched in his hands, his knuckles white and eyebrows furrowed. You both lock eyes, and it feels like his gaze is burning into your fucking soul. It’s probably only a moment, but it feels like you spend years just staring at each other, before Steve huffs and turns away, rushing behind the counter.
Robin watches the whole exchange from the floor. “Oh,” she whispers quietly to herself. Your gaze snaps back down to her.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing,” she says, turning back to the videos, but you can tell that it is absolutely not nothing.
“What is it Robin?”
“Nothing! Look, it’s fine, okay?” she says, and you choose to just shut up about it, murmuring a quiet “okay, okay,” while you turn back to your stack of videos.
You allow yourself to get lost in the repetitive motion of filing the films away, lost to the world while you bury yourself in your thoughts. Still stuck on your strange interaction earlier, your thoughts somehow float to Steve fucking Harrington of all people. Images flutter through your mind of his pissed off little scowl, his dark eyes burning into yours, frustrated and angry. The little crease between his eyebrows, the clench of his fists. What is his fucking problem? You shove a video a little too aggressively into its slot. You want to punch him in the nose, take him down to his knees while he prays for your forgiveness. Begging for you. His dark, angry eyes looking up at you from between your thighs, those big hands clutching into your hips-
You stumble over your own feet, nearly face planting into the carpet. Where the fuck had that come from? Fantasizing about Steve Harrington? Jesus Christ, you need to get laid if you’re actually thinking about fucking Steve of all people. Even though he is somewhat attractive, maybe to a person who doesn’t know how much of a dick he is. Maybe someone could somewhat see how pullable and soft his hair is, how fucking tight his jeans are all the time, how big his hands are. How pretty he would look with those hands around your neck, slender hips between yours-
You can feel how red your cheeks are, trying to restock videos in the most casual way possible, trying to keep your mind blissfully blank. Anything but Harrington. Literally, anything.
Fortunately for your quickly spiraling mental state, Robin feels the need to break you out of your reverie.
“Shit, um, I forgot to tell you, I need to leave early today.” Robin says, sheepish, trying not to make eye contact while the floor drops out from under your feet. You have to hold yourself back from knocking the copy of Grease from her grip. You squat down to meet her eyes.
“You’re leaving me here? With him?” you hiss, glancing over to the register where Steve is helping out a customer; a pretty girl that Steve is leaning just a little too close to to be casual. Anger swims in your gut. The unprofessionalism in this guy.
Robin finally meets your eyes, her cheeks red. “I have a date? Uh, with Vickie.” she says, and when her cheeks are all red like that, and she seems just a little ashamed, you really can’t find it in yourself to scold her. “I’m sorry,” she says, and you force yourself to believe in her apology.
“Fine, it’s fine.” you mutter, crossing your arms. “Leaving me to deal with Harrington myself, I get it.”
“Look, maybe you guys could, I don’t know, talk? While I’m gone?” Robin says, standing. “I swear to God, walking in here is like walking into a war zone.”
“Not a chance, Buckley,” you chuckle, humorlessly, but Robin laughs back all the same. “But you have fun on your date, okay?”
“Oh, I will,” she giggles, and you finally laugh genuinely. Robin hugs you gently, whispering a quiet, “good luck,” before she runs to the back to grab her backpack, and then she’s gone. Leaving you to the wolves. Or, wolf. Steve Harrington. You resolve yourself to just avoiding him, staying silent and doing your job until you can finally leave. But, in a tiny store like Family Video, keeping your distance proves quickly to be incredibly difficult. Against your will, you end up behind the counter next to Steve, trying to clean up as fast as possible.
“Excuse me, Harrington,” you mutter, bumping yourself in front of Steve’s tall body to wipe down the shelves behind the counter.
Steve jumps back like you’ve struck him, but you try to ignore it, bending further to reach the back of the shelf. You reach behind you to pull your skirt down, suddenly horribly conscious of the shortness of it.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you hear Steve mutter, and that is it. You’re just trying to do your fucking job, and somehow he has a problem with you doing that? You straighten up and whip around to face him, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. Odd, because last you checked, Steve is taller than you. What the fuck was he looking at?
“What the fuck is your problem, Harrington?” you say, stepping toward him.
“My problem?” Steve asks, incredulous and completely fucking patronizing. “You’re asking what my problem is?”
“Yes! What is it? Because it’s like I can’t do anything right around you. Anything I do, or say, fucking think is met with, with-“
“Oh Christ,” your fists clench at Steve’s interruption. “Ever since I’ve met you, you’ve been the most uptight fucking brat I’ve ever met. Not to mention-“
“Oh fuck you, Steve.”
“Not to mention the fact that you are so caught up in who I was in fucking high school, going on and on to Robin about how much of a dick I was in school, as if people in your little world can’t change. That’s how judgemental you are, you can’t fucking let go.” Steve steps toward you, his tall body feeling like he’s looming over you.
“Let go? You and your little friends made my life a living hell. I dreaded going to school every day. And you want me to let it go?”
“It wasn’t even me doing that to you. It was Carol and Tommy-“
You poke a finger into his chest. “You just stood by-“
“I’ve tried to fucking apologize to you, but you won’t let me-“
“You’ve tried? Am I really supposed to believe that?” Steve’s angry breaths are fanning over your face, smelling like gum and cigarettes. You can see little gold flecks in his brown eyes.
“I fucking have, and you know it.” You’re both too close, too fucking close.
“Do I?”
You don’t know who moves first. Probably Steve, the impulsive asshole that he is.
Maybe it was you.
But suddenly Steve’s strong hands are gripping your jaw, your hands are winding into his soft hair, pressing yourself into him. All you know is that Steve’s lips are soft, overwhelming against yours even as your teeth clack together painfully. The kiss is wretched and messy, but Steve just presses himself in further, licking up against your teeth and forcing you to open up to him. His tongue presses against yours, slick and wet and warm. He feels so big against you, and it’s so good that it takes a moment for you to realize that you’re still kissing Steve Harrington.
You force yourself to break away, your cheeks flaming. Steve stares at you with his dark eyes, looking about as shocked as you feel with his flushed cheeks.
“I- fuck, what was that? What, what the fuck? I-“ you stumble over your words, but Steve swoops down again to lick into your mouth. You moan lightly at the taste of him, grasping onto his shoulders, and it just feels too good to pull away.
“Shut up,” Steve breathes into your mouth. “For once, just,” Steve kisses you again, almost like he’s fucking starving for it. “Shut up.”
“Make me, Harrington,” you whisper.
Steve kisses you again, harsh and unforgiving, and you gasp as his hands grip your hips, so strong that you know he’s going to leave pretty marks. Like you’re his. Your nails dig into his back as his lips leave yours, instead traveling to your throat, biting harshly, while one of his hands drifts under your skirt, playing with your throbbing clit through your panties. You can feel how soaked you are, how the wetness of your pussy is making your thighs slick and your cunt clench.
“Steve, Steve, fuck,” you whisper. Steve grunts softly into your neck, his fingers sneaking under your panties to run through your sticky wet slit, running just over your entrance.
“So fucking wet, baby,” Steve mumbles. “This all for me? You like getting me mad? Does it get you hot, babe? Make this little pussy so fucking wet?” You want to reply, a snarky comment on the tip of your tongue, but one of Steve’s long fingers is dipping into you, and it takes all of your energy just to make sure your fucking knees don’t give out. “Bet that’s why you’re such a brat all the time. Fiery little thing; you just needed to get fucked?” And his finger is suddenly moving inside you, stretching your sensitive walls.
“Oh god, Steve-” you whine, but he cuts you off again by adding another finger, jamming it inside you alongside the first. The hand he had on your hip travels around your back, holding your weak body upright.
“You look so pretty like this. You’re always such a pretty thing, aren’t you?” Your cheeks burn with the embarrassment of being so placid and submissive under Steve’s touch, but when his fingers tease at a sensitive spot so fucking deep inside, pressing harder than you can with his long fingers, you can’t bring yourself to care. And Steve just looks so pretty, his dark eyes blown wide and hair hanging in his face, and you hate that he’s so pretty. You hate how his fingers feel so fucking good.
You hate how desperate you are for his cock, the thick bulge in his jeans pressing against your thigh.
You grip his wrist, somehow finding the strength within yourself to pull his fingers out of you. You turn around, away from him to bend yourself over the counter, flipping the back of your skirt up in a clear invitation.
“Jesus Christ, baby, you want my dick that bad?” Steve grunts behind you, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“Like you don’t want my pussy just as bad, Harrington. Why don’t you follow your own advice, shut the fuck up, and fuck me?” You chuckle lightly at Steve's responding groan, and suddenly hear the tell-tale sound of a belt coming undone and a zipper being pulled down.
Steve’s cock is throbbing and sticky, needy for your pussy after fingering you. If Steve’s honest with himself, he’s been half hard since you walked in for your shift, just like he always is. But Steve would rather die than tell you that now. Maybe he’ll tell you after you agree to go on a date with him.
But that’s the least of his worries. Because right now, your pretty little pussy is right in front of him, covered just barely by your soaked panties, and you’re asking him to fuck you. Steve can’t decide if he’s dreaming or not. He really doesn’t want to wake up either way.
A high pitched whine escapes your throat when Steve pulls your panties to the side and you feel the thick head of his cock swipe through your sticky folds, far bigger than what you anticipated. It’s fucking intoxicating. You wiggle your hips back, desperate, and whisper out a desperate “please” as he finally notches himself against your entrance.
You don’t have to tell him twice, because Steve is suddenly sinking his cock into you. Slowly, so fucking slowly. Too fucking slow.
“Harrington, do you always fuck women like a 90 year old man? I thought you were a ladies man, I mean really, what happened to King Ste-”
Steve doesn’t let you finish your sentence as he grits his teeth and shoves his cock into your aching pussy, and clenches his eyes shut at the sound of your squeal, a choked moan escaping his throat as your hot cunt grips him so fucking tight.
Your fingers grip at the edge of the counter, as Steve forces his fat cock into you. The stretch burns, it burns, but it’s so good, fuck, it’s like you can feel it in your lungs. And then he moves, dragging himself out so slow you can feel every vein dragging against your walls before shoving back in again. Your bent hips are pressed against the counter while Steve has his big hands gripping your waist.
“Jesus, baby, so fucking tight for me,” he grunts, and he sounds wrecked. “Taking me in like a good little slut.”
“Steve, Steve, oh god, Steve.” You chant his name like a prayer, your voice weak and airy, legs trembling. Your pussy clenches at his words, and you lower your forehead against the cool material of the counter as you hear Steve chuckle breathlessly, obviously feeling your reaction.
“You like that, baby? Like being called a slut? Fuck, you do. You love being my fucking slut don’t you?” Steve snaps his hips forward harshly through his words, watching your ass shake under the force. Little whines are punched out of your throat with every thrust, and you just sound so pretty that Steve can’t help but bring a hand up to run it comfortingly down your spine. “Little brat, coming in here in these tiny little skirts, riling me up with your little comments. You’ve been so bad, baby, so bad to me. Just needed to be put in your place, right?”
Little tears are starting to leak from your eyes as Steve’s unforgiving thrusts into your squelching pussy, his fat cock rubbing deep into you. You jerk hard as Steve slaps a hand over your ass, the sound echoing throughout the empty store.
“I asked you a fucking question sweetheart,” Steve grunts.
You force words to come out of your throat. “Yes, yes, oh god, Steve, I needed to be put in my place, fuck. Needed, needed you to fuck me Steve, oh-” You glance forward through bleary eyes and see the parking lot just outside the window, still blissfully empty, but the shock of what you’re doing rings through you. Anyone could see you right now. Anyone could walk through those doors and see Steve Harrington fucking you like a bitch.
Your pussy throbs almost painfully, your stomach clenching, and you know, oh God, you know-
“Steve, Steve, I’m gonna, oh God, I’m gonna cum, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you whine.
But Steve does stop, and you cry out in despair as he slips out of you, his strong hands flipping you around so that you can see his flushed and sweaty face. He’s so beautiful that you could nearly pass out. Maybe you will. Steve brings a hand up to wipe a tear off your face, shushing you gently.
“Sorry baby, I just, I gotta see your face when you cum. Gotta see how fucking pretty you look.” He hitches one of your thighs up onto his hip, keeping you spread open for him, and sinks his cock back into you through his words. Your eyes roll back again at the feeling, and you barely have a moment to catch your breath before he’s pounding up into you. He forces you to take his cock all over again, and the knot in your stomach is back with a fucking vengeance.
With no counter to grip onto, your arms wrap around Steve’s shoulders, bringing him down just enough to kiss him again. He groans into your mouth, and you whine back, the both of you tangled together like you’re made for each other. You kind of hope you are.
You break your lips from his, looking up into his dark eyes as you gasp, “Gonna cum, Steve. Oh fuck, you’re gonna, you’re gonna make me cum.”
“Go ahead and cum, baby,” Steve whispers, so intimate you nearly cry harder. “Show me how pretty you look when you cum on my cock.”
Your vision whites out for a moment, your mouth gaping open in a silent scream as you clench and gush around Steve’s fat cock, still pounding relentlessly into you.
“Jesus fuck, sweetheart,” Steve whimpers, “so, fuck, so pretty.”
You gaze up at him with teary eyes, your thighs still trembling, and run a hand through his hair. “Go ahead and cum inside me, Steve. I want, shit, I want you to own me.”
You watch his eyes go wide, before his mouth drops open and his hips stutter, his thick cock throbbing inside you while he floods your sticky cunt with his cum. You hear him whispering softly, barely able to make out his little mutters of “mine, all mine,” while he comes down from his orgasm.
It takes a while for you both to stop shaking, but when you finally breathe normally again, you keep Steve pressed close. He gazes at you, eyes soft as he whispers, “For what it’s worth, I’m- I’m sorry. I know it’s too late, but I am.”
You smile at him softly. You know what he’s like, maybe you always have. Steve Harrington, as horrible as he was in high school, has changed. He’s changed into a wonderful, kind, caring man. So far from the ‘King Steve’ you once knew. You trace a gentle hand down his jaw.
“I know, Steve,” you whisper.
“But do you? I mean, I was awful to you, and I understand if maybe this was just, like, a heat of the moment thing, or whatever. I mean, I can quit if this will make you uncomfortable, knowing that I-”
“Steve,” you answer, cutting him out of his panicked rambling. “I forgive you, okay? I think… I think I forgave you a while ago. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet. But I do. I forgive you, Steve.”
“But-”
“I forgive you, Steve Harrington. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. For how I’ve treated you. And… And I know that we may have done this a little backwards, but I love to go on a date with you, Steve. If you wanted, y’know.”
Steve stares at you, shocked, and you open your mouth again to take it back, maybe tell him that you both can be friends, even if it’s not what you want.
But then Steve is swooping down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, chaste and warm, and it feels like your heart is going to beat out of its chest.
“I wanna take you out so bad, sweetheart. God, I’ll treat you so good, just watch baby, I’ll-”
You giggle at him softly, pecking him on the lips again, just to feel him. And to shut him up, just maybe. It’s like you can stay in this moment forever, kissing a blushing Steve Harrington.
The sound of an approaching car roars from outside, and it’s suddenly horribly apparent that Steve’s soft cock is still inside you, your leg still hitched up onto his hip. You push him away just as he backs up, rushing to stuff his sticky cock back into his pants. He kicks his discarded belt under the counter while you pull your panties up, trying not to think too hard about the strange feeling of Steve’s cum leaking out of your gaping pussy.
The bell dings as someone walks in, and you both whip around, hoping that you look a bit more put together than you feel. You quickly try to pretend to wipe down the counters, just like earlier, but as Steve walks around you to greet the customer, he squeezes the fat of your ass, making you gasp.
You look up to meet his pretty eyes, his puffy, used lips smirking at you knowingly, wiggling his eyebrows. You giggle at him softly. Okay, maybe Steve Harrington is a dick. But maybe, just maybe, that’s not so bad.
#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fic#steve harrington#stranger things x reader#stranger things x you#stranger things smut
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Hi darling today i am into angst (idk why) so this is my ask
So, creator reader was tortured and killed (by literaly everyone) so when she comes back TRAUMATIZATED OF DEATH she doesn't speaks to anyone, she doesn't scream if she is angry or so, she just cries until the persons who hurt her are not near her. She also has a fav tea(you choose darling), a comfort meal (you choose again) and a COMFORT PLUSHIE(it can be any plushie sweetie) who gets carried in the creators arms
What do you think darling?
✧*｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧*｡
Ooh, super cute idea, anon! Angst it shall be, though I can't promise I'll be any good at it lol- And sorry, idk if you want Fem!Reader, but I mainly do GN!Reader so- :')
Also, before anyone gets confused or I have to use repetitive words:
F/T = Favorite Tea
F/F = Favorite Food/Meal
As for the plush, I'll simply use the basic teddy bear. I know, kind of plain—but tbh I kind of like it so we're keeping it, bois.
I hope you enjoy this oneshot!
Disclaimers! This Oneshot includes: Bad Grammar, Spelling Mistakes, Angst, Mentions of Trauma/PTSD, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of torture (briefly), & Arguments.
If you are not okay with these terms, or are facing some sort of mental illness yourself, please skip this story.
Please let me know if I mess a warning!
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭.
It was over.
It was finally over. You were finally free from that torment—that torture. You knew it the very moment you closed your eyes, and the world went dark.
Yet, Teyvat wasn't letting you go. No, it refused to let you go. You were stuck, in this stupid hellhole you once used as your get-away from reality.
You're stuck in an absolute nightmare you had once dreamed of being in. And you hate how you still feel guilty for hating it.
But, most of all, you hate how you're still stuck in this miserable world. You hate it, you hate it, you hate it.
These "acolytes" of yours were sickening. They kept begging for your attention, no matter how many times you've made it clear that you want nothing to do with them. You felt like you could keel over puking whenever they get down on their knees and beg for forgiveness.
You already forgave them. What were they continuously pestering you for? Isn't forgiveness enough to ask from their victim? The person they hurt the most?
You took a sip out of your F/T, trying to calm your nerves. Your "followers" were all nothing but heartless NPCs, you reason with yourself. You've given them enough.
And yet, you still felt guilty for ignoring them. Their eyes tear up like the day you were killed, after the most, horrible, bloody, and messy—
You shudder, shutting down that thought as best you can. You've drank all of your F/T just thinking about this entire thing to begin with, so you focused on your F/F. Only half of it was eaten.
You take a bite out of it, trying to fight away the tears as you remember another memory during your time in this wretched world. A person, out of nowhere, just straight up yelling at you, threatening you, insulting you...
You hate to feel weak, but at the same time, you feared to be too mean. So you stayed there and took it, praying that this annoying and upsetting person would just go away already.
They eventually do, but it felt too long. Your heart was broken, and your eyes just shed a tear or two. You were glad you had your teddy bear in your bag, as you cuddled it to your chest in that spot to make you feel less sad.
Truly, damn this world. Even if your heart couldn't let go just yet.
The End.
Ghost Rebel Side Notes: I have no idea if I did this good or not but I do hope you like this, anon! And, if anyone's curious for whatever reason, the GIF was chosen because it's like Reader drowning in their memories :')
✦ Check Out the Ghost Rebel's Blog Description to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦
#yandere sagau#sagau genshin#sagau#genshin impact sagau#genshin sagau#sagau x reader#sagau angst#sagau fluff#genshin self aware#genshin x reader#imposter au#imposter sagau#sagau impostor au#genshin cult au#self aware genshin
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14 common inner critic attacks
Here is a list of 14 common inner critic attacks divided into the key categories of perfectionism and endangerment. Each is paired with a healthier (and typically more accurate) thought-substitution response. Click here for the PDF version.
Perfectionism My perfectionism arose as an attempt to gain safety and support in my dangerous family. Perfection is a self-persecutory myth. I do not have to be perfect to be safe or loved in the present. I am letting go of relationships that require perfection. I have a right to make mistakes. Mistakes do not make me a mistake. Every mistake or mishap is an opportunity to practice loving myself in the places I have never been loved.
All-or-None & Black-and-White Thinking I reject extreme or overgeneralized descriptions, judgments or criticisms. One negative happenstance does not mean I am stuck in a never-ending pattern of defeat. Statements that describe me as “always” or “never” this or that, are typically grossly inaccurate.
Self-Hate, Self-Disgust & Toxic Shame I commit to myself. I am on my side. I am a good enough person. I refuse to trash myself. I turn shame back into blame and disgust, and externalize it to anyone who shames my normal feelings and foibles. As long as I am not hurting anyone, I refuse to be shamed for normal emotional responses like anger, sadness, fear and depression. I especially refuse to attack myself for how hard it is to completely eliminate the self-hate habit.
Micromanagement/Worrying/Obsessing/
Looping/ Over-Futurizing I will not repetitively examine details over and over. I will not jump to negative conclusions. I will not endlessly second-guess myself. I cannot change the past. I forgive all my past mistakes. I cannot make the future perfectly safe. I will stop hunting for what could go wrong. I will not try to control the uncontrollable. I will not micromanage myself or others. I work in a way that is “good enough”, and I accept the existential fact that my efforts sometimes bring desired results and sometimes they do not. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference” - The Serenity Prayer
Unfair/Devaluing Comparisons To others or to one’s most perfect moments. I refuse to compare myself unfavorably to others. I will not compare “my insides to their outsides”. I will not judge myself for not being at peak performance all the time. In a society that pressure us into acting happy all the time, I will not get down on myself for feeling bad.
Guilt Feeling guilty does not mean I am guilty. I refuse to make my decisions and choices from guilt; sometimes I need to feel the guilt and do it anyway. In the inevitable instance when I inadvertently hurt someone, I will apologize, make amends, and let go of my guilt. I will not apologize over and over. I am no longer a victim. I will not accept unfair blame. Guilt is sometimes camouflaged fear. – “I am afraid, but I am not guilty or in danger”.
"Shoulding” I will substitute the words “want to” for “should” and only follow this imperative if it feels like I want to, unless I am under legal, ethical or moral obligation.
Overproductivity/Workaholism/Busyholism I am a human being not a human doing. I will not choose to be perpetually productive. I am more productive in the long run, when I balance work with play and relaxation. I will not try to perform at 100% all the time. I subscribe to the normalcy of vacillating along a continuum of efficiency.
Harsh Judgments of Self & Others/Name-Calling I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them. I refuse to attack myself or abuse others. I will not displace the criticism and blame that rightfully belongs to them onto myself or current people in my life. “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself”. - Jane EyreENDANGERMENT ATTACKS
Drasticizing/Catastrophizing/Hypochondrisizing I feel afraid but I am not in danger. I am not “in trouble” with my parents. I will not blow things out of proportion. I refuse to scare myself with thoughts and pictures of my life deteriorating. No more home-made horror movies and disaster flicks.
Negative focus I renounce over-noticing & dwelling on what might be wrong with me or life around me. I will not minimize or discount my attributes. Right now, I notice, visualize and enumerate my accomplishments, talents and qualities, as well as the many gifts Life offers me, e.g., friends, nature, music, film, food, beauty, color, pets, etc.
Time Urgency I am not in danger. I do not need to rush. I will not hurry unless it is a true emergency. I am learning to enjoy doing my daily activities at a relaxed pace.
Disabling Performance Anxiety I reduce procrastination by reminding myself that I will not accept unfair criticism or perfectionist expectations from anyone. Even when afraid, I will defend myself from unfair criticism. I won’t let fear make my decisions.
Perseverating About Being Attacked Unless there are clear signs of danger, I will thought-stop my projection of past bully/critics onto others. The vast majority of my fellow human beings are peaceful people. I have legal authorities to aid in my protection if threatened by the few who aren’t. I invoke thoughts and images of my friends’ love and support.
Source: Pete Walker in "Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving"
#soft life#black femininity#manifestingmindset#self development#hypergamyblr#feminine energy#black women in leisure#black women in femininity#hypergamous#childhood trauma#ptsd#cptsd#pete walker#inner critic#shadow work#becoming that girl#becoming her
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This may be a controversial take, but I think that the only right way to do the whole flippant/non affectionate/deathly serious love interest thing is if you eventually flip the script. If person A fits the description above then person B has GOT to eventually get tired of it. How does person A react when they realize that maybe their actions were a little too harsh this time and person B is not brushing it off? How does person A react when they realize that person B is tired of their bullshit and is actively distancing themselves from Person A? If person A does not slowly start to lose their composure because they realize that person B is actually, genuinely, wholeheartedly slipping away this time then there is no point imo. I want to see what happens when someone who is allergic to their true feelings is faced with the choice of "be heartfelt for once in your life" or "let the person you love leave you for good because you aren't brave enough to confront your emotions".
I want to see Person A sobbing and screaming out a confession that's said in a scratchy voice because the screaming has torn up their throat. I want an awkward and repetitive and desperate confession that would be better described as word vomit because of the lack of structure. I want person A on their knees as they plead for person B to forgive them.
Like, guys, come oooon.
#I would list specific examples but I'm not sure I want to expose my media history#But we all know those characters#The ones who show no emotion when their LI (probably annoying) jumps and hugs them#Or actively shows disapproval at the display of affection#But we all know that they're faking and would go feral if their LI was in danger#Side note: bonus points if person A says I love you first#I say they but I wrote this post with lesbians in mind#Also if it's not clear: person B is a complete puppy
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Books of 2023
Book 29 of 2023
Title: Run Run Cricket Run
Authors: Tom Thompson
ISBN: 9781636240374
Tags: FAC, Fiction, FRA Bernard Fall (Author), LAO Lam Son 719 (1971) (Vietnam War), LAO Laos, LAO Laotian Civil War (1959-1975), LAO USAF Steve Canyon Program - Ravens FAC (Laotian Civil War), Military Fiction, O-1 Bird Dog, O-2 Skymaster, THA RTAFB Nakhon Phanom Royal Thai Air Base, THA Thailand, US USAF 20th TASS - Covey, US USAF 23rd TASS - NAIL FAC, US USAF 7th ABCCC Airborne Command and Control Sqd - Hillsboro, US USAF 7th ABCCC Airborne Command and Control Sqd - Moonbeam, VNM Ho Chi Minh Trail (Vietnam War), VNM Vietnam War (1955-1975)
Rating: ★★★ (3 Stars)
Subject: Books.Fiction.Military.Vietnam, Books.Military.20th-21st Century.Asia.Vietnam War.Fiction
Description: Young American pilots feel the weight of destiny as they are tasked with shutting down the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. 1970—the height of the Vietnam War. A group of young Forward Air Controllers based in Thailand is assigned with supporting the Truck War and the People's War in southern Laos, where the fate of the Vietnam War, and Laos' very future, is being decided. Tasked with shutting down the Ho Chi Minh Trail—the North Vietnamese supply lines running into South Vietnam—literally stopping the constant stream of trucks in their tracks, these American airmen, call sign "Nail," fly missions 24 hours a day. Daily, they run the gauntlet of intense anti-aircraft fire to bring in accurate attacks by American fighter bombers. At night, streams of red tracers scream up from the ground, seeking the metallic flesh of their fragile craft. During the day, they search the skies for the telltale black puffs of smoke that reveal the self-destructive warheads of the North Vietnamese gunners. Even when tragedy befalls the group, they persevere with their mission. But will courage and dedication be enough?
Review: Just finished reading this and I'm so disappointed in Casemate. There is a good book somewhere in here, but the author needed a good proofreader/editor in the worst way. Fiction needs structure and a narrative which this doesn't have AT all! It needs to have a compelling story to tell, and this is instead a mishmash of multiple small stories that muddy whether this is a story about a unit, or the main character (who is rarely a part of the book), or about ... what?!?! But the worst crime is the repetition. There is absolutely no reason to repeat the same paragraph (+) length info over, and over, and over, (ex why Lam Son 719 was named 719) in the course of a couple of pages. Any good editor should have redlined that! I can forgive the little issues like after repeating over, and over, and over, and over again about the whole right door being the ONLY door, they say they got in on the left door later. Or mixing up Callsigns, where Hobos become Zorro's and then back again. These are things all authors deal with in drafts and that often find their way into SELF PUBLISHED books. But a book from a publisher??? I expect so much better and thats why I don't fault the author at all, but definitely fault Casemate. Where the hell were the editors??!?!?
#Books#Ebooks#Booklr#Bookblr#Vietnam War#Laotian Civil war#Ho Chi Minh Trail#Forward Air Controller#FAC#Fiction#Military Fiction#USAF
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During the first semester of this year, in fact until August, I tried to put my to-do list in an app. I had hope to be able to carry it everywhere with me, with limited additional weight to my backpack, and the idea of being able to sync it in my phone and on any device was appealing. But by the end of August, I had to put the idea to rest. It was never going to work for me. There's nothing easier to ignore than a notification, but there's nothing that can nag more at me than an unread notification. I was losing my mind, and feeling unfocused both at home and at work.
To be fair, I don't think you should be always focused. That kind of productivity is the achievement productivity books are selling you. They can be obnoxious afuck with it. But as my life is shared with my family, my work and my hobbies, I need to be able to keep track of what I must, should or want to do.
So I went back to my organiser. It sounds very fancy. It's not. It's an A5 binder, I filled with doted paper.
I use a mix of influences, but mainly I take inspiration from the original Bullet Journal method, and from Getting Things Done. From the Bujo, I took the idea of collections, of a key code and of very few trackers. From the GTD, I took the weekly review, the in-tray and always starting a task description with a verb. So what does it looks like ?
Here are the basic bones. Six tabs, with 1) routines, 2) weekly view which is gone since I began this post's draft, 3) In-tray, 4) collections, 5) references, 6) archives
The routines contains 2 things: stretching exercises and my trackers. I reduced it to only two trackers, one for tasks needed to be done regularly (I'm not sure I'll keep it), and one to see when I write or "touch" my writing. The notion of "touch your writing (every day)" was introduced to me by Lionel Davoust, to take in account everything around writing that isn't properly speaking writing (editing, correcting, but also plotting, research, brainstorming, sorting...). It helped me to be more forgiving to my failure to write.
The weekly view was supposed to be very simple. Set with the week number at the top, it was directly followed with the list of the main tasks I wanted to accomplish during that week. I only opened the next week during weekly review. The repetition with the In-tray, made it too heavy to manage, and I started to ignore my organiser (that's always the sign something doesn't work). I probably will use that now-empty spot for something else, maybe even dedicate it to learning Japanese.
The In-tray lists every task I can think of, or comes across (except emails answers where I use the unread option in my mailbox). During my weekly review I will go through them and scratch tasks I've (forgot to mark as) done, but also tasks that are no longer relevant. I also add a color code to identify 3 groups of tasks: Professional, Personal, and the ones related to my daughter and partner. (sorry for blurring so much, but privacy is key)
I will only show the index of the collections. Some contain too much sensitive data to show more. Collections are what I want to keep permanently (birthdays, travel lists, embroidery projects lists...)
The reference has only two things atm: the key, and a set-up cheat sheet, because I'm lazy.
Finally the archive is something I use when I need (want) to keep old collections, that are no longer relevant, but worth keeping for legal reason or as memorablia. Currently, I have the detailed calculations of our nanny payslips, and the comments I made for my worst quarter at work (worse in the sense it was too much to handle alone, and I nearly burned out).
That's it. It's been going well so far, and I don't really feel lost on what I could do next, which was plaguing my momentum before. Hopefully, it will last, but I've learned that I shouldn't get too attached to a system. It'll work until it breaks.
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MARCH DATA ANALYSIS.
First major update post! I think I’ll try to get around to these every first week of the month, ideally on the 1st, but the 7th by the latest. The one exception I think I’ll have is if I have an announcement I need to wait to make for any other reason, but either way just know they’ll happen either way.
One of the big things I wanted to say is that I’m so sorry if posting has been few & far between / rusty at all! It’s been a long while since I’ve written in this type of setting / this is also essentially my first time in a proper group, so it’s still an adjustment, but it’s been super fun so far and I am excited to keep writing w/ everyone. Please forgive me if sentence structures are repetitive and/or my descriptions are lacking!! For my fellow Ignihydians™ I will be doing my absolute best this upcoming month to shoot our score up.
MONTHLY MISSION QUEST(S).
SOLIDIFY VISUALS. Although I do keep visuals all consistent COLORING wise, Tumblr is such a new format, I’ve been confused as to how to set-up posts and, to be honest, I wanna spruce up my theme at some point because I feel as if the main theme right now isn’t… Awful! But I could do better. I will blame this on not usually working on Tumblr visuals in the past lolol.
WORK ON SMALLER WRITING DETAILS. I totally want to figure out a better way to write out small actions and writing build-ups in a meaningful(?) way. A lot of the actions I write tend to come very suddenly out of writing around banter for a while, so I’d like to get back into writing more uh. Descriptive? LOL. Another thing too is working on word choices. Honestly, best if I start properly reading again to help me with this especially.
REACH OUT MORE. I’ve been fairly shy about interacting since this all is more new to me than it is familiar, but I’m heavily interested in starting more plots and writing with others more this month. There’s a lot of super great writers from when I skim/read over my dashboard and it always makes me super happy to see LOL, and if that interests anyone directly in any way to know I’m definitely contactable through Discord/DMs! Either way, I plan to do more that would ( probably ) put me with more starters & interactions regardless.
I think that wraps this all up? I’ll keep every months ‘housekeeping’/ooc update post linked beside the thread tracker on the pinned so that it’s easily locatable to see my month's goals, mainly for myself, but also for those who want to read it anyway. Happy writing, everyone! And GL this March!!!
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Wolfsong by TJ Klune: the things I liked and didn't
This was a good read, completed it in a day.
SPOILERS ARE IN RED- They are not major
THE THINGS I LIKED A LOT
The characters having 'bonds' in every sense, such as the parallels between Ox's relationship with his mother and Elizabeth, Thomas and Joe, my personal favourite being his brother/fatherly bond with Gordo.
The way the characters at Gordo's (the car mechanics') interacted with each other- the playful teasing between these characters was definitely a highlight and made for the funniest scenes.
The twists and turns of the story both managed to make sense and be decently unexpected. Of course, some of them are predictable, but I'd argue predictable isn't bad as long as it really makes sense.
Ox's character development was great. Seeing him develop and grow into that of a leader, seeing him gain both confidence and a family.
The Bennetts as a family was well set up, even when we see them take to Ox very hastily, it doesn't seem rushed. It feels very natural and their family dynamic never failed to make me smile.
How grief and trauma was handled. How Ox becomes much stronger from it, grasping to keep everyone together despite his own grieving. How Elizabeth completely blocked out her pain, reverting to a simpler form, in order to process her emotions. How Joe becomes impulsive and fleety...etc...etc...
The fact that many minor characters in the first half of the story come back. Like with his ex Jessie and the boys from Gordo's.
The reunion was handled well I believe, it always annoys me when a character either spends too long forgiving a character when in a dire situation. Or when they do a 180 as soon as they reunite. It took a week, which, considering they didn't know when they'd be in danger again, makes a lot of sense.
The repetition of certain phrases. Such as what Ox's father said to him as a child, or 'not yet'. The best of these is the 'oh' moments when a character bonds with another in a very deep way. Without any spoilers, they form a deeper understanding of what the Bennett family or their love truly is.
The writing style fits the main character a lot. He's straight to the point and doesn't use embellishments in his words. Though, sometimes I would've liked some pretty descriptive words- like say- what we would get in Song of Achilles. Yet, it fits the book well and was a good narrative device.
I'd say the best aspect of this book is the relationships between the characters. The family bonds, friendships and love shared between our two main characters.
My favourite characters would have to be Gordo and Elizabeth.
NOW FOR WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE
The age gap: 6 years is not always a bad age gap, but I'm a bit iffy at this one.
Their relationship doesn't begin until both characters are 17 and 22/23, and their sexual relationship doesn't begin until they're 20/21 and 26. However, they meet when Joe is 10/11 and Ox is 16. Which, yeah a bit weird. It's obvious that Joe has a little crush on Ox, and it can be uncomfortable at times.
Only 2 main characters in the first novel are women, one is a mother, and the other is an ex-girlfriend who at some point becomes a more prevalent character in the book. Sorry if that's nitpicky, but I did wish there were more female characters. Since many of the men in this book are queer, it would be nice to see a few queer women as well.
Some of the 'wolf talk' can be very confusing to read. I'm not sure if that's the point, but it can get a bit tedious to try to decode all of the dialogue.
The highschool. We didn't see much of highschool at all. I mean Ox spent most of his time there in the first quarter, and we only see a handful of random scenes. It's also stated that the Bennetts are revered and respected, But I don't really see any of this in practice. It's just stated a few times.
It's hard to place who Joe is as a character. He changes a lot in the book, but I don't find it gradual due to the fast time skips. This is likely to represent and allow us to also feel the 'boy became a man' scene. Ox one day is stunned by the realisation that Joe is now a man, and he hadn't even noticed. But I'm talking about his personality, we don't see how he goes from clingy and sweet to flirtatious and teasing. Then to what he becomes at the end of the book- kind of patient and possessive, his personality kind of hinging on 'I love you' and 'I'll tear the world down for you', which is very romantic and all...but, what else?
End notes:
There are two sex scenes in this book, one in the last quarter and one in the epilogue. They're okay, didn't make me cringe, that's all I can say about that.
Give this book a 8.5/10 maybe a 9/10 if you like angst, werewolves, queer romance and found family.
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In response to your post about your writing...
Forgive the essay, but you're one of the best writers I've seen on this platform. My favorite is probably "the years start coming and they don't stop coming"; it never gets old. I also LOVE "The Sphynx" and "Dirty Pop(sicles)" (but that last one... lmao).
I think the way you write is typically clear, concise, and interesting. You do a good job at varying sentence length and structure, and you use a wide range of vocab to avoid repetition. These things also give the MC a relatable personality and convey their emotions in a subtle way (not to mention the fact that they can be downright hilarious). "Actions speak louder than words" is always a hallmark of good writing, and I'd say you nail that most of the time.
One thing about fanfiction is that you don't have many opportunities to describe things without relaying something your reader already knows. But this is arguably good practice; in general you don't want to stop time to give a full description of an environment unless the character is in awe and observing it all in detail themselves (even then, keep it brief).
Personally, I like your character- and plot-centric approach; truthfully, the details of the setting and what someone's wearing aren't important to the reader... unless, of course, they are.
Some might disapprove of your "abrupt" transitions, but I think it works really well for you. The way you introduce the next part usually makes it easy to pick up and avoids being repetitive, so I don't see it as a problem (quite the opposite, actually).
In short, you do a great job! Do you write/plan on writing formally at all, or is it just a hobby for you?
I had to lie down and reboot my brain a few times before even thinking about how to reply this. This is such a motivating thing to read first thing in the morning, holy shit.
Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m going to print this essay and hang it on my wall.
I feel like I struggle with “show don’t tell” a lot, which leads to the balancing act between elaborating/describing and not over-explaining/stating the obvious. I’ve written plots too vaguely before, and I always have to remind myself that plot twists readers can see coming (or at least don’t come completely out of nowhere) are actually a good thing 😅
I’ll keep your encouragement in mind Anon! And to answer your question, writing’s just a hobby for me. It’s something I want to keep absolutely stress-free, so I don’t do those “write x words a day” stuff or monthly challenges. Kudos to the writers who do though, I have mad respect for them 🫡
I can’t say this enough, but thank you again. I’ll let you in on something: I’m actually in the middle of commissioning an artist for an illustration of a scene in The Sphinx. Since you enjoyed that piece (I had a lot of fun writing it too even though xOC fics generally aren’t popular), I hope you’ll look forward to it when it’s finally done.
Have a great rest of the week Anon 💕💕💕💕
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Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White
3.5 stars
The concept of this book is so, so very good. The representation in this book is good as well all throughout. I didn't mind the graphic descriptions of horror and gore that is a huge part of this book. I thought all the religious text quotes stuffed throughout this book made sense as our main character, Benji, has forcibly learned that since he was eleven and it's likely ingrained and instinctual.
The execution of this book wasn't as good, but I don't think it was terribly done and I still enjoyed it.
I do feel like the book glosses over a lot of parts that I think need to be clearer or more focused on, or more in-depth. Give me the grappling with trauma. Give me the horror of what's becoming monstrous and not human anymore. The whole Flood and the Angels and how they work is kind of glossed over a bit. The fact that their Seraph could turn Graces against them, the Flood against them does feel like an oversight.
Benji's a good character, but I would have liked to have been more with Nick. The other side characters aren't quite fleshed out as much which is a shame. The love triangle but honestly not REALLY a love triangle was a surprise. I don't know if it was strictly necessary because the fact that Benji had Seraph in him should obviously be enough to be hunted down and found. To me, I never felt like Nick and Benji had enough interactions or closeness to warrant the forgiveness of Nick calling Benji "It" (not the way you think) and seeing him as a person, and Benji never knows that the plan was to literally give him to the Vanguard either. Why does Benji like Nick?? What makes Nick care about Benji??? They mention they have a lot in common but Benji finds out really late and they don't talk about it. The things Benji is going through, I think I would have liked just MORE depth on it.
The pacing was a bit off. The beginning was great and then it slumped to day to day, then got all jumbled again with lots happening. It's also repetitive sometimes. There wasn't a few pages that could go by without mentioning the organs coming out of Benji or his trans-ness. Nothing wrong with bringing up something important to the character but we were reminded about it nearly every other page in case we forgot.
Overall, this was such a good read.
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The Inner Critic in CPTSD: Common Attacks and Thought Substitution
From Pete Walker | [PDF version]
Perfectionism Attacks
Perfectionism: My perfectionism arose as an attempt to gain safety and support in my dangerous family. Perfection is a self-persecutory myth. I do not have to be perfect to be safe or loved in the present. I am letting go of relationships that require perfection. I have a right to make mistakes. Mistakes do not make me a mistake. Every mistake or mishap is an opportunity to practice loving myself in the places I have never been loved.
All-or-None & Black-and-White Thinking: I reject extreme or overgeneralized descriptions, judgments or criticisms. One negative happenstance does not mean I am stuck in a never-ending pattern of defeat. Statements that describe me as “always” or “never” this or that, are typically grossly inaccurate.
Self-Hate, Self-Disgust & Toxic Shame: I commit to myself. I am on my side. I am a good enough person. I refuse to trash myself. I turn shame back into blame and disgust, and externalize it to anyone who shames my normal feelings and foibles. As long as I am not hurting anyone, I refuse to be shamed for normal emotional responses like anger, sadness, fear and depression. I especially refuse to attack myself for how hard it is to completely eliminate the self-hate habit.
Micromanagement/Worrying/Obsessing/Looping/Over-Futurizing: I will not repetitively examine details over and over. I will not jump to negative conclusions. I will not endlessly second-guess myself. I cannot change the past. I forgive all my past mistakes. I cannot make the future perfectly safe. I will stop hunting for what could go wrong. I will not try to control the uncontrollable. I will not micromanage myself or others. I work in a way that is “good enough”, and I accept the existential fact that my efforts sometimes bring desired results and sometimes they do not. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference” - The Serenity Prayer
Unfair/Devaluing Comparisons: To others or to one’s most perfect moments. I refuse to compare myself unfavorably to others. I will not compare “my insides to their outsides”. I will not judge myself for not being at peak performance all the time. In a society that pressure us into acting happy all the time, I will not get down on myself for feeling bad.
Guilt: Feeling guilty does not mean I am guilty. I refuse to make my decisions and choices from guilt; sometimes I need to feel the guilt and do it anyway. In the inevitable instance when I inadvertently hurt someone, I will apologize, make amends, and let go of my guilt. I will not apologize over and over. I am no longer a victim. I will not accept unfair blame. Guilt is sometimes camouflaged fear. – “I am afraid, but I am not guilty or in danger”.
"Shoulding”: I will substitute the words “want to” for “should” and only follow this imperative if it feels like I want to, unless I am under legal, ethical or moral obligation.
Overproductivity/Workaholism/Busyholism: I am a human being not a human doing. I will not choose to be perpetually productive. I am more productive in the long run, when I balance work with play and relaxation. I will not try to perform at 100% all the time. I subscribe to the normalcy of vacillating along a continuum of efficiency.
Harsh Judgments of Self & Others/Name-Calling: I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them. I refuse to attack myself or abuse others. I will not displace the criticism and blame that rightfully belongs to them onto myself or current people in my life. “I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself”. - Jane Eyre
Endangerment Attacks
Drasticizing/Catastrophizing/Hypochondrisizing: I feel afraid but I am not in danger. I am not “in trouble” with my parents. I will not blow things out of proportion. I refuse to scare myself with thoughts and pictures of my life deteriorating. No more home-made horror movies and disaster flicks.
Negative focus: I renounce over-noticing & dwelling on what might be wrong with me or life around me. I will not minimize or discount my attributes. Right now, I notice, visualize and enumerate my accomplishments, talents and qualities, as well as the many gifts Life offers me, e.g., friends, nature, music, film, food, beauty, color, pets, etc.
Time Urgency: I am not in danger. I do not need to rush. I will not hurry unless it is a true emergency. I am learning to enjoy doing my daily activities at a relaxed pace.
Disabling Performance Anxiety: I reduce procrastination by reminding myself that I will not accept unfair criticism or perfectionist expectations from anyone. Even when afraid, I will defend myself from unfair criticism. I won’t let fear make my decisions.
Perseverating About Being Attacked: Unless there are clear signs of danger, I will thought-stop my projection of past bully/critics onto others. The vast majority of my fellow human beings are peaceful people. I have legal authorities to aid in my protection if threatened by the few who aren’t. I invoke thoughts and images of my friends’ love and support.
“Perfectionism is the unparalleled defense for emotionally abandoned children. The existential unattainability of perfection saves the child from giving up, unless or until, scant success forces him to retreat into the depression of a dissociative disorder, or launches him hyperactively into an incipient conduct disorder. Perfectionism also provides a sense of meaning and direction for the powerless and unsupported child. In the guise of self-control, striving to be perfect offers a simulacrum of a sense of control. Self-control is also safer to pursue because abandoning parents typically reserve their severest punishment for children who are vocal about their negligence.
As the quest for perfection fails over and over, and as sustaining attachment remains elusive, imperfection becomes synonymous with shame and fear. Perceived imperfection triggers fear of abandonment, which triggers self-hate for imperfection, which expands abandonment into self-abandonment, which amps fear up even further, which in turn intensifies self-disgust...on and on it goes in a downward spiral of fear and shame encrusted abandonment. It can go on for hours and days…weeks in environmentally exacerbating conditions…and for those with severe PTSD, can become their standard mode of being.
Endangerment: The importance and magnitude of the critic’s endangerment dynamic cannot be overstated. I have in fact worked with numerous “well-therapized” individuals who were relatively free of perfectionism, but still seriously afflicted with the drasticizing processes of the critic. Moreover, I have seen many individuals challenge and eliminate most of the blatant perfectionist, self-attacking cognitions of the critic without effectively addressing its habit of flooding the psyche with thoughts, images and feelings of fear. I learned to disidentify from perfectionism long before I learned to stop perseverating my critic’s harrowing snapshots of danger into feature long films about my immanent demise into total abandonment, public humiliation, lethal illness, penniless homelessness, etc. One of my clients eventually identified the critic’s endangerment process as: “Critic as Horror Movie Producer”. I sometimes also think of it as: “Critic as Terrorist”.”
#long post#no bold#pete walker#dogpost#cptsd#cptsd info#trauma info#perfectionism#endangerment#triggers#criticism#inner critics
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*Note: according to Chad Gadya, a goat cost 2 zuzim. And a standard dowry in the day was apparently 200 zuzim. So 400 zuzim is no small sum!
Yes, we already did Shabbat 30b, but here's another one - this page has a lot of incidents!
You'll have to forgive my even-worse-than-usual art here - unlike Hillel, I did get sick of the repetitive questions :P
I left out the moral, which is Hillel saying "Better you should lose 800 zuzim than I should lose my temper". He was a pretty clever guy!
(Description after the cut)
(One day…)
PLONI: Let’s make a bet! Whoever can provoke Hillel to lose his temper gets 400 zuzim*
ALMONI: You’re on!
PLONI (thinking): Those zuzim are as good as mine!
(A few hours before shabbat)
HILLEL is washing his hair. A noise is heard outside. HILLEL looks confused.
HILLEL: ??
PLONI: Is there a Hillel here?! Is there a Hillel here?!
HILLEL comes outside with wet hair.
HILLEL: Yes, my son?
PLONI: I have a question!
HILLEL: Ask, my son, ask!!
PLONI: Why do Babylonians have round heads?
HILLEL: My son, you have asked a profound question!
HILLEL: It’s because… they have poor midwives.
PLONI: Oh ok thanks
(A bit later)
HILLEL is washing his hair. A noise is heard outside. HILLEL looks confused again.
HILLEL: ??
PLONI: Hillel? Hello?
HILLEL comes outside with wet hair
HILLEL: Yes, my son?
PLONI: I have another question!
HILLEL: Ask, my son, ask!
PLONI: Why do Tarmodians have round eyes?
HILLEL: Another insightful question!
HILLEL: It’s because they live somewhere sandy.
PLONI: Oh, ok.
(A bit later)
HILLEL is washing his hair. A noise is heard outside. HILLEL looks confused again.
HILLEL: ???
PLONI: Hello, Hillel!
HILLEL comes outside with wet hair
HILLEL: Yes, my son?
PLONI: I still have a question!
HILLEL: I’m here all day!
PLONI: Why do Africans have flat feet?
HILLEL (thinking): Why are all this guy’s questions kind of racist?
HILLEL: Yet another great question!
HILLEL: It’s because they live in swamps.
PLONI: I see…
PLONI: Actually, I have a bunch more questions to ask you, but I’m afraid you will be angry with me.
(HILLEL sits down on the ground)
HILLEL: Feel free to ask me every question you have!
PLONI: Are you the great Hillel who they call a leader of the Jews?
HILLEL: Yes…
PLONI: Then say there are no more like you among the Jewish people!
HILLEL (surprised): Why would you say such a thing?
PLONI: Because you have just lost me 400 zuzim!
(HILLEL smiles in amusement)
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OKAN - "ORIKI OSHUN"
youtube
Dorian offers us a prayer...
[8.25]
Dorian Sinclair: OKAN's invocation of the goddess Oshun has real power to it, and, as befits a deity so strongly associated with water, real depth as well. The layers of percussion, synth and violin are ever-changing, finding new ways to refract off each other as they wrap around Elizabeth Rodriguez's vocal lead. And what a voice it is -- expressive, forceful, and somehow simultaneously commanding and vulnerable. I don't speak Lucumi, but Rodriguez easily conveys both loss and resilience, as the shifting tides of the instrumentation pool around her.
[10]
Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: The religious services that I have always found meaning within are all exercises in tension and release -- the interplay of hunger, memory, and forgiveness embedded within the day long arc of a Yom Kippur service, the slow, trance-like waking of the early-morning Thai Buddhist rituals my mother and aunt would take me to as a kid. "Oriki Oshun" is not of those particular traditions, but it captures in its four minutes a similar build, sticking tight to a perfectly struck groove until the track flowers into something more, a feast of guitars and chants and rushes of drums that feels like exaltation.
[8]
Will Adams: The urgency and energy cultivated in the song's main section -- with bustling percussion, Rodriguez's commanding vocal, that blazing guitar solo -- feels like it could be sustained for over ten minutes. OKAN know better, though, and restrict themselves to four minutes, allowing the silence following the prayer to speak volumes.
[7]
Ian Mathers: That guitar solo feels a bit late period Santana-core in context, but in context it actually really works for me. Even without reading the description on YouTube and knowing the (personal, harrowing) context behind its creation "Oriki Oshun" feels like it earns the sense of drama and grandeur that builds and builds throughout the song.
[7]
Peter Ryan: Magdelys Savigne's blistering percussion is so overpowering that it took me a few listens to key into Rodriguez's vital rhythmic violin-work that underpins most of the track, two obvious virtuosos propelling each other from vibey ceremonial first half through a tenacious conclusion. More prayers should have this urgency.
[8]
Michael Hong: As prayer music should be, OKAN's offering is lively, trading electric guitar licks and urgent drums in exchange for a demand for protection. If the chant offers something repetitive, Rodriguez forces her voice to offer something more, wailing as if wondering if it's all enough.
[6]
Nortey Dowuona: One of the many public narratives about Lido Pimienta was her leadership capabilities for young brown girls. But the best example of leadership is by example; Lido brought OKAN on tour with her, four months after their first album dropped. And in the time since, they have released a second, even better album, collaborated with Bomba Estéreo and Lido again, featured on Miss Colombia and lost a child. They now ask Oshun for protection for their new child's life, with a stunning violin solo that winds across the branches of the drums and trunk of the bass into an outstretched hand, waiting, the ebbing synth notes a question mark on whether they have received the blessing. A prayer we are all allowed to hear because of Lido.
[10]
Tara Hillegeist: My fondness for popular culture often runs me at odds with my personal interest in leaving a stranger's grief at their doorstep, out of my earshot, where I believe it belongs unless I've already been invited in to share, communally, in their lives beforehand, to such degree that I can no longer credibly accuse myself of being unknown to them anymore. I am not willing to play the thief of another's sorrows nor call that performance "compassion." As such, upon being presented with the very real experience inspiring this song's creation, I personally felt it would be too inappropriate to engage with the song within the confines of the Jukebox format, and thus... I chose to set it aside, until or unless I could find a means to reconcile my own convictions about the use case or lack thereof for a blurb and the material at hand. It's been about a month since then. What changed my mind? Well -- I couldn't stop listening to the song itself. And it was somewhere in those listens that I realized I was making a stiff-backed fool of myself for the sake of my principles. It's difficult to hear something as welcoming, as open, as purely delightful-as-in-"full of delight" as "Oriki Oshun" and feel something besides invited in. This is songcraft as community-healing practice, whatever its origins: a plea rooted in hope, motivated by its grievous origins to kick up a righteous enough noise that it can chase that pain far, far away, where its echoes can reach home no longer. And I, at least, shall not continue to fear dancing with it, together.
[10]
[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]
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Genre: Mystery, Thriller, Fiction, Adult
Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars
Trigger Warning: Death, Description of Rape
Summary:
The October List
Gabriela waits desperately for news of her abducted daughter.
At last, the door opens.
But it's not the negotiators. It's not the FBI.
It's the kidnapper.
And he has a gun.
How did it come to this?
Two days ago, Gabriela's life was normal. Then, out of the blue, she gets word that her six-year-old daughter has been taken. She's given an ultimatum: pay half a million dollars and find a mysterious document known as the "October List" within 30 hours, or she'll never see her child again.
A mind-bending novel with twists and turns that unfold from its dramatic climax back to its surprising beginning, The October List is Jeffery Deaver at his masterful, inventive best.
*Opinions*
This book was lent to me by my grandmother because she thought the fact that it was told from the end to the beginning very interesting. As my grandmother is a huge mystery and thriller reader, I took her recommendation and after a couple of months, finally picked it up. While the end to beginning format was an interesting twist and I didn’t figure out the ‘beginning’ before we got to it, I found the writing flat and didn’t care about any of the characters. It was a very fast-paced read, I got through it in three days, but it isn’t a story that is going to stay with me for any reason other than the interesting story structure.
For me, characters are the most important part of a story so for a story to be told in reverse it takes a longer time to get connected to these characters. That being said, I didn't feel like these characters had any personality from “end” to “beginning” with the exception of Gabriella in the two chapters at the “beginning” of this book. Even then I really couldn't bring myself to care because all of her personality was shoved into those two chapters and then I had to think back to the rest of the book to piece it all together. Even with that, I still didn't care about her. Aside from the “end” to those two chapters, I found her extremely annoying and not believably written. Once you find out the twist of the novel, it really doesn't forgive those sins. None of the other characters felt like main characters as much as set pieces that were moved around for the purpose of this mystery. Some people like Mysteries like that they're more interested in the how and the why than the people involved, but that's not what I enjoy. I want to care about the people who are in these situations as much as figuring out who did it and why.
I also wasn't a huge fan of the writing style. It all felt very flat and simple with a lot of repetition. Because we are going from the “end” to the “beginning” I get why some of that repetition was needed to be able to pull the reader in the backward format, but if I noticed it and it took me out of the story, then it wasn't done well in my opinion. Most of this book felt like an outline that hadn't been completely fleshed out. All the plot points were there, but none of the substance that really let me sink into the story. That being said there were parts of this book that was really tense, especially at the “end” when the reader is attempting to figure out what is going on. However, as the story went on and more and more of the story unraveled, even that tense quality went away. While I did not figure out the “twist”, I am not sure if that was because there weren’t enough clues along the way due to the barebone writing or because the mystery was well crafted.
The biggest detractor for me is that it was very evident that it was written by a man. Now, for me, there is a difference between male authors and books written by men. The easiest way to spot the difference is if the female characters' breasts are mentioned within the first five pages of the book. This book did not pass that test. Multiple times people comment about how hot Gabriella is and then it's followed up with ‘but I don't think about her in a sexual way.’ Then why bring it up at all. The only reason is that the book is written by a man. There are multiple times when I rolled my eyes at descriptions or just how things were written. especially the sexual tension between Gabriella and Daniel when her daughter is missing. I get everyone processes grief differently but I don't know many mothers who would be interested in having sex with a man she just met while she's trying to find her kidnapped daughter. Again I know the twist could be an excuse for some of this, but I don't buy it.
Overall, I gave this book 2.5 stars and I don’t have a real desire to pick up something else from this author. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy the book, but it was not memorable and most of the tension was due to the fast-paced nature of the chapters than the actual plot of the story. For a quick mystery, it was fine enough, but I wouldn’t call it a memorable story.
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Send 👫 and my muse will introduce your muse to one of my other muses
“Well, well well. What do we have here?“ purrs a voice out the smog. The voice is notably deep and masculine. It comes from a literal cloud of thick smog from the eruption. Inky and heavy it slowly melds and from the haze of smoke and sputtering lava emerges a dark towering figure. Broad from cresting crown to heavy clawed feet.
The entity in form is quite massive, towering over the smaller spirit. And though his form seems gaseous and acrid it is notably solid as the dark muscled body materializes. In appearance he is intimidating, body the darkest hue of black, hair long and plated with matching shade but embers singing the whole way through. Like lava threads through hardening magma. What enthralls the attention is not just the molten eyes, but the contrasting stark white tiger teeth that push through the wide, malevolent smile.
The very air is heavy with a dreadful presence, a mantle born that weighs upon even her.
“You have wandered far out of your domain Little Mother.”
@natureunleashed
#well i may introduce someone else to introduce this individual#or I may just leave this to develop on it's own#titan ru udai#natureunleashed#forgive the description i feel like it's repetitive#i hope it gives and ominous air#oh boy oh boy first time writing a description of this boi
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