#SOMETIMES I LOSE MY IMMERSION AND GET SELF AWARE AND THINK TO MYSELF THIS IS SO FUCKING WEIRD... THIS IS WHY I DONT PLAY OTOME GAMES DUDE
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Omg rahu-ketu post😳
I was actually discussing my struggles around having prominent swati in my chart and staying grounded in my own reality on a forum fairly recently.
I have a very rich inner world which I essentially live in most of the time, and sometimes I feel like I miss out of my own life because I’m so detached. Limerence is also a big struggle for me, I find it much easier to centre myself in the energy of someone else than to be responsible for my own reality, which I guess comes from the things you talked about like rahu being a shadow planet and the mythology of rahu and obsession.
I also spend a large amount of time on social media and playing games 😶🌫️ I’ve tried to make uses of the positives by channeling my imagination into something tangible like art, but I have a hard time actually putting in the work to develop skills since I’m so distracted all the time. I think I’ve spent too much time in my head and now I’ve forgotten how to be in my body lol (my ADHD isn’t helping either💀)
Swati I think is especially a difficult nak because the libra/venus influence is only enabling rahu’s indulgence, unlike saturn or to a lesser extent mercury.
Aside from my personal whinings- the thing you said about occult/astro kind of intrigued me. All of my close family (incl. grandparents, uncles, etc) have atleast one rahu or ketu nak in their big 3, usually being ardra, mula or swati.
My mother’s side has lots of psychics and we have a dream interpretation system that gets passed down the family, whilst my father’s side has many tarot readers. My dad himself is an occultist who is interested in Thelema, astral projection, etc. There’s some interest in astrology on both sides but not particularly in depth and my parents usually end asking me about the transits. Oh yeah and I guess I had that one psychic dream last November that came true the morning after.
In general, my family has a history of very eccentric characters who occasionally got exiled or imprisoned or some crazy shit 😭 I feel like that’s just average Eastern European family lore though. Do you think such isolation is nodal? I think it is but there might be other planetary influence.
That’s enough yapping for today though. Interested to see your post on the positives❤️
Your observation about Swati is spot on
I do think Nodal influence+ well placed/strong Rahu & Ketu are necessary for learning and immersing yourself in the occult. Someone who cannot channel it well will remain ignorant of it no matter how much they read or study it. In some ways the Nodes can be understood as layers of the subconscious and the unconscious. The nodes represent karma (Ketu does) and our unconscious mind is our accumulated karma, if we remain ignorant of it, we will let it guide all our actions and lead us to self destruction. Therefore to have strong/well placed Nodes means you're aware of the different layers of your mind as a result of which you can understand the different layers of reality. Nodal influence creates a fog/veil that cannot be lifted until we gain true gnosis. This is why Nodal people get lost in addictive substances/pass times/people/ interests because their own reality feels foggy/veiled to them so they can only access it from other things. Obviously this is another form of Maya or illusion and that's why even these natives struggle with it. You hate the thing even as you indulge in it because on some level you realise that you're losing yourself to it.
Immersing yourself in the occult requires a certain discipline and consistency that can be hard for Nodal natives (malefic influenced, badly placed etc) to master unless it's well aspected but those who do master it are able to perceive reality and understand the esoteric realm in a truly sublime way. It's rare and magnetic.
I do think Nodal influence can contribute to being exiled/imprisoned/being isolated. There is a reason why 5/6 Nodal nakshatras all belong to the Shudra caste which is the lowest. These natives live lives that are "unusual" or different from the norm. They are "detached" because their life experiences already set them apart from others. They don't belong to the mainstream because they've been put in circumstances where they've been deprived of what is "normal".
Like I said in my post, what is "unusual" can vary a lot and can mean sooo many different things. Majority of the "child star gone wild" type celebrities have heavy Nodal influence. Why? because it's "unusual" for a child to be working or attaining fame and wealth or for their family to use them for the same. When you're deprived of anything ordinary or real, you depend on substances/unhealthy relationships/habits etc to feel centred. This is why after a point these stars "go rogue or wild". They amass a lot of wealth/fame but ultimately they're unable to benefit from it or enjoy it. This is also unusual as these are things typically understood as blessings. Being in a position where you can't connect to or relate to others is a very Nodal experience. That's why a lot of people with these placements are so introverted and withdrawn. If you're a famous child actor, you can't quite go to school and connect to the experiences of other people your age so you feel "isolated". Being imprisoned/exiled is another such experience. It permanently alters you and you don't know how to connect to others who haven't been through it.
I do think isolation is a big theme in the lives of Nodal people. It can be literal or emotional. But it's also obviously influenced by the rest of the chart. Heavy 12h placements also make a native experience the same themes to some extent.
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ESFJ or ISFJ?
Hi! I’m having a hard time to decide if I’m an ESFJ or an ISFJ (sometimes my feeling function seem stronger than anything else, but… I’m not the typical extrovert either).
I recommend you read a previous ask I answered tonight in which a 6 SFJ had the same question, because what I told her also applies to you in terms of thinking about where your focus lies -- if it's always on people, relationships, and connections, it's EFJ; if you are more internalized, more prioritizing of your own interests, and more attached to your inner world and able to block out others, it's IFJ. EFJs also struggle not to make emotional/ethical judgments, whereas IFJs can bypass their emotions when necessary.
I absolutely despise conflicts. Recently, my family have been getting into a lot of small “fights” and I’ve been losing my mind trying to calm things down (the vibe is always off and I end up suffering as if all the conflicts were about me — they’re not, I just happen to be in the middle of the chaos).
Given that you identify as a 6, I would consider how quick you are to express your emotions when things "go down" in your environment. EFJs are quicker to address things than IFJs because of their ability to instantly put their feelings into words and talk through them as a situation unfolds. There's no internal filter they have to move through before they can talk about things, which means they process their feelings WHILE things are unfolding, rather than having a delayed reaction (as is more common with IFJs).
My mind is always working and looking for fuel. I’m constantly getting information about things I care about and immersing myself into my hobbies.
Some of this is just 6w7 -- a busy brain, but it could also indicate extroversion if you are constantly hunting for outside stimulation because you lack an inner space in which to dwell alone with your thoughts without becoming bored, self-critical, or depressed. How much of your time gets spent "inward" on pondering what you love?
My emotional state is by far one of the most important things ever. I’m constantly aware of my feelings and, most of the times, act on them. I can’t ignore my emotions and I can’t hide them either (I’m a 6w7, so lol pretty reactive).
This does sound EFJ. Feelings leading to immediate action.
Everywhere I go, I look for someone to be my ‘one loyal friend’. Even if I end up hanging out in groups, I’ll always be closer to one/two people at most and that’s pretty much enough for me.
A strong social instinct (maybe so/sp) -- the need and desire to single out people from the group and grow closer to them.
As I mentioned, I’m constantly aware about the way I’m feeling, but, if people around me are not in a good mood, my internal peace is immediately disturbed. It makes me feel so physically anxious that I try to fix things as soon as I can (so I’ll have closure and, therefore, peace once again).
Good evidence for 9 as your second tritype number. And yes, EFJs have a strong antenna for how others are feeling and are quick to respond.
I have a hard time being unbiased because my judgement always gets in the way. Considering the rational/cold aspects of thing do not come naturally for me. I’m also somewhat impulsive when it comes to my personal judgements (they’re just there and that’s it). I don’t need much proof to believe on my personal insights (if I look at someone and think they’re fake, for example, I’ll truly believe that until they prove me they’re not).
That supports EFJ. Immediate judgments, lack of detachment.
I read the rest but see more evidence for ESFJ in general.
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If only you knew…
The title jumped out of a discussion with a friend recently. The idea is that if a person were to know me, would they like me or ditch me? So before I start, I acknowledge that what other people think of me is none of my business. Rather, I’d like to put out all the things I’ve always been worried about sharing for fear of losing someone.
A lot of people know me as the guy who weighs 200+ pounds, lifts weights and exercises a lot. They also know that I am an author who is soon to publish a novel. Some people know that I live alone in Otter Cottage in Nova Scotia and have been single for 4 years now. It is also common knowledge that I am a French Immersion teacher. There are a lot of things that people don’t necessarily know about me…So here goes.
If only you knew that I have difficulty looking at myself in the mirror. I am currently afraid of losing my weight-lifting ability. I wrote a blog entry in this blog about it. I have weight-lifted most of my life and keeping my body in shape has been a major part of my life. Granted, I did it for validation when I was younger - usually through hookups or seeking out boyfriends or partners. For many years now, I have used weights as a personal self-esteem builder. That leads to the next statement.
If only you knew that I used to solely depend on my ability to look good. I needed external validation to feel good about myself. Sure, when I was young, I used my looks to be noticed. I never did it in vain, just hoping that guys would find me attractive and want to sleep with me.
If only you knew that I have a secret desire to be an artist with a paintbrush or a pen. I’ve always envied those who could draw and design works of art. I always felt that I was creative with writing or perhaps the occasional photograph that looks nice, but I sometimes feel that I lack real talent.
If only you knew how many times I’ve had to get up after being knocked down by life circumstances. In some of them, I played a role, but others are just blind circumstances. Sometimes I send a thought out to the universe and ask why? Did I somehow unconsciously wish these things on myself?
If only you knew that all the things that I did in my life of which I am not proud, sometimes come back to me in a tsunami of guilt that makes me question if I am a good person or not.
If only you knew that underneath my exterior is a highly sensitive person that often feels the emotions of others around me. When people say hurtful things or say something unwittingly that may hurt, I find it takes a toll on me. It has caused me to build up a wall in the past. I’ve been trying to pull it down for the past four years…
If only you knew how the plight of animals in this world hurts me deeply. I am especially horrified when I see or hear of pets being abused. It pains me to my core. I am aware of animals when I eat meat. I’ve tried to cut it down to a minimum. I wish, as a weight-lifter, that I could find other ways to get all the protein that I need from plants.
If only you knew how I fear the end of my life - that I may never get to do all the things that I wanted to do and to contribute to the world. It is especially something that as an HIV+ person, I’ve worried about because I spent so many years just surviving instead of living.
If only you knew that I love things that those who consider themselves as masculine might define as feminine. I love to birdwatch. I love flower gardens and I enjoy experimenting in the kitchen.
If you only knew that I have let a lot of people walk all over me. No more accusing me of cheating in D and D. No more trying to charm me so that you can waltz in and try to change me for your liking. No more narcissists need to apply!
I am me. I accept me. If you don’t, get lost!
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Wallpaper i hate myself for loving you
#Wallpaper i hate myself for loving you full
Living a life immersed in fear felt like being bound with invisible rope that no one could see. I said what I meant, I did what I wanted, and I didn’t worry all the time about terrible things happening to my loved ones. Where I lived unleashed and unbounded by fear. It just felt like I was being sensible.īut sometimes I would get this glimmer of another world where I did the most interesting and exciting things, like exploring alone somewhere new or taking a belly dancing class. I was not even really aware that I was doing this. But when I kept choosing the least scary option, the least challenging to me, my life got smaller and smaller. I know this because, when I was really paying attention, I realized I was always trying to pick the least scary option. It was on a low buzz all the time, like a refrigerator noise-not really in my awareness but controlling how I made decisions. I see now that my fear lived at such a low-level frequency in my body that I didn’t notice it was there. That’s why I avoided things that brought up the fear because if I didn’t, it would have driven me off the cliff so freaking quickly, and I’d think, how stupid could I have been to allow it? That’s why I wouldn’t want to walk toward scary things. So I blamed it on myself as a character default. I carried the shame of fear around with me, hoping I didn’t have to reveal it, and if I did, if I had to show people how terrified life made me, I would be horribly self-deprecating.īecause I had this sense that I shouldn’t be like this.
#Wallpaper i hate myself for loving you full
I felt disgusted and full of shame for not wanting to do things that other people seemed to find easy, like flying, or for freaking out when I was sick, thinking I was dying. I hated it, but I hated even more that I seemed to be an overly fearful person. Oh, I had so much judgment around this fear. I feel rage when people come along and do things that seem to amplify my fear-like my husband using the bathroom three minutes before the train is leaving, or not locking the front door at night with all its three locks. It’s why, when things don’t go according to plan, when I am running late or things change at the last minute, I can get snappy and sound angry. That’s because I spent most of my life trying to control it. I was never totally clear on the details of what would happen if I let the fear get out of control. It terrified me that when fear arose, it often felt like it was driving me at full speed toward the edge of a cliff.Īnd if I were driven off a cliff, I would lose all control, all function, perhaps I would collapse, perhaps I would shatter into a million pieces. I used to hate my fear because it scared me. “The purpose of fear is to raise your awareness, not to stop your progress.” ~Steve Maraboli
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Sometimes I wish I was the person I am now a year ago but every version of ourselves serves a purpose. I was an extremely soft version of myself, immersed in a spiritual and emotional warfare. I genuinely wanted no suffering, even for all those who had hurt and wronged me. This was a necessary step to bring me down to the lowest point. To reach a transcendent state of suffering. To lose everything about myself and see the big, big picture.
So I was there, the "enlightened" path, as you will. It was what needed to be done and the most peaceful, educated path. Wrath would have gotten me nowhere.
And the current version would see it similarly but have no problem telling a person to genuinely fuck off. Sometimes the most appropriate thing to say is "fuck you" and leave it be. Heal without all the extra fluff. Let things go the way they're supposed to be.
But integration has been the most necessary step. To solidify the ego at this biological turning point. I really like the direction. A motherfucker who is both soft and hard. Who struggles with discipline but sure as hell still excels, even among people who don't have ADHD. It doesn't make me "better", but it helps ME reach the heights of ambition I had ignored because of fear, insecurity, and lack of self love. Every step has been a necessary one. And shit, sometimes it DOES feel good to say "I am better than you". Even though its really not true at the deepest core of everything. But as a masculine dude with an unkillable drive, its good to say I can fucking beat you at everything because I have the discipline and willpower to take it all. I have very few addictions and one of those addictions I have is to reach my potential. It becomes an obsession. So we replace our bad addictions to good ones. With a penchant for self awareness, we can reign it in when it gets too crazy.
I sound extremely egotistical. Even narcissistic. I don't care. I'm confident. Most of the time. I love myself enough to know I am capable of great heights. Thats how much I love myself now. I couldn't say that for any other time in my life. So I don't give a shit how self obsessed it sounds. Nobody knows my life or what I've been through for the meaning of self love to mean THIS much.
I have so much passion within me. I feel fire, I have a love for life. An energy and lifeforce I have never felt. Hell nah, I ain't sorry for it. And neither should anyone else. We should support each others biggest dreams and ambitions. Use it for good. That's what I think. The world would be a better place.
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SELF-DEFENSE
Request: Um can I request something with steeb🥺🥺👉👈 Maybe him teaching a reader to fight or drive or work out! Thank you❤❤ @donutloverxo
Pairing: Steve Rogers x (female!) reader
Warnings: smut (18+), PIV, lil bit of slapping, nothing crazy.
Word Count: 3062.
Note: Thank you for the request. Sorry it’s taken me so long, I’ve been afk from Tumblr for a while. Hope you still like it!
It’s entirely too early in the morning when your phone rings. Shrill, high tones jolt you out of peaceful slumber. The sound forces you to open your eyes, brain ripped from the dream you were having but already can no longer remember.
With a groan, you roll over in bed, body tangled in pink satin sheets that you’ve managed to wrap entirely around yourself during the night. Blindly, you reach for your phone. Your hand slaps across the wooden nightstand next to your bed until you finally feel the vibrating device cramped between your stiff fingers.
Ready to curse at whoever dares to call you at this ungodly hour, you don’t bother looking at the screen to see who’s calling you. A single swipe and the phone is pressed up against your ear, breath coming out through your nose in short bursts of annoyance while you purse your lips in preparation for what’s to come.
“Good morning, peach,” you hear on the other end of the line.
Your breath hitches in your throat, and you instantly swallow the curses you were ready to spit at the caller down. A smile you didn’t know you were capable of this early in the morning blossoms on your face instead, anger long forgotten by the time you manage to form a coherent reply.
“Good morning, stud,” you say with a raspy voice, followed by a soft, sleepy chuckle.
“Did I wake you up?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone when he hears you yawn on his end of the line.
“Nah. I always get up at,” you look at your alarm clock, “five in the morning.”
“I’m sorry peachy,” he doesn’t mean it; If it were up to him, you’d never sleep, “I just wanted to hear my girl’s beautiful voice.”
With cheeks heating up quickly, you smooth out the soft fabric of your red nightgown. Buying it was, of course, Natasha’s idea. It’s not really your style, but somehow, she managed to convince you it is.
“How was your run?” you ask as you lay back down on the bed and take a moment to stretch your limbs.
“Wet,” he’s grinning, you can tell, “it’s raining.”
“It always rains in New York, big guy. You leaving tonight?”
The silence on the other end of the line confirms it; Steve leaves for another mission tonight. You’re used to it by now, but worrying about his safety sucks nonetheless, and a lump forms in your throat at the thought of missing him again.
“I was going to ask you what time you get off work. I want to see you before I leave.”
“One, I think.. two if it’s busy. Why?”
Steve sighs and shifts in his chair, “you know I don’t want you walking home alone at night.”
“Steve, I’ll be fine. I do it all the time. I’ve lived here my whole life, remember? I’m no stranger to this city.”
“I know you have, but I feel better if I walk you home. I’ll send an agent to pick you up. I have to go now, gotta get ready. I’ll call you tonight to make sure you’re home safe.”
Before he has a chance to hang up the phone, you interject, “you could teach me self-defense.”
It’s silent on the other end. For a brief moment, all you can hear is Steve’s quiet breathing and the clinking of coffee cups in the sink. You’ve suggested a self-defense class to him before, but the reply is always the same.
“We’ll talk about it when I get back, okay? Be safe, peach. I’ll call you.”
“Fine,” you sigh, “if you don’t wanna teach me, then guess I’ll just sign up somewhere in the city.”
“Don’t say that,” he groans audibly, “you know why I don’t want to teach you these things.”
“Steve, you can’t stay by my side every minute of every day. I don’t expect that from you. Nobody does. If something happens while you’re away, I need to be able to defend myself, and let’s face it, nobody is better at this than you.”
“I know,” he admits finally, “I just don’t want you to get involved in any of this stuff.”
“I’m not. I just want to be able to protect myself. Promise you’ll think about it?”
“Okay,” he says finally, “I promise I’ll consider it.”
Two weeks pass after that phone call. Steve gets back from his mission with only a few scrapes and cuts, but all of them heal before he’s even had a chance to see you. He’s glad because he knows you hate seeing him hurt, and you worry too much about him as is.
The sound of distant thunder outside the walls that currently surround you alerts you that Thor is in town again. Still, the raging storm outside isn’t the reason why you’re shaking in your boots.
You tug on the sleeves of your t-shirt and straighten the hem, wondering for a moment if you should’ve picked something more... baggy. In this giant room, you feel very exposed. The gym is a lot bigger than you thought it would be. Granted, you’ve never had a reason to come down here before, but knowing Steve spends so much of his spare time here makes you feel only a little bit at ease.
Steve watches you standing next to the shoulder press machine with your arms crossed when he enters the gym, duffel bag slung over his broad shoulders. He’s carrying two bottles of icy cold water in his hands; one for himself and one for you. He smiles when he sees you’re wearing the Tiffany’s necklace he got you for your birthday, and he can’t help but think you look adorable in your pink t-shirt and ruby work-out leggings.
“Hey peach,” he greets you with a small peck on your lips, “you ready for this?”
You nod and smile gently to assure him, but he can tell you’re nervous. A pang of guilt hits him deep in the chest when he eyes you carefully, afraid he’s pushed you too far this time. It’s one thing to expect his civilian girlfriend of one year to wait for him while he’s out kicking ass for sometimes months at a time. Still, it’s another to immerse you into the lifestyle, much less teach you fighting techniques.
“Born ready, stud,” you respond, sending him a playful wink.
He takes some time to go over general self-defense rules. He tells you to watch your feet, be aware of your attacker’s arms, and to keep your fists as close to your face as possible at all times. He touches your bare skin when he adjusts your posture a few times, and each time his heart twitches because the thought alone of you fighting off a mugger nearly has him losing his fucking mind.
He’s careful with you when you spar for the first time. Even though he would have absolutely no trouble sending you flying to the mat with only one hand, his touches are feather-light and soft. He allows you to hit him a few times, but he can tell he’s not the only one holding back. Steve wants to take it slow, but the sensical part of his brain knows he can’t teach you anything if he doesn’t apply any brute force.
“Peach,” he breathes after taking a break to think, “I need you to hit me.”
“What?” you gulp and bite your lip, doe-eyes widening when Steve places his hands on his hips.
“Is this how you’re going to fend off an attacker? By swatting their hands away from you? By pouting your pretty lips and batting your eyelashes?”
“N..no, but,” you stammer, “I don’t..”
“Come on then,” he urges you to step forward, “take a swing at me. Take me down if you can.”
You take a deep breath, mustering all the courage you have to swing back your fist. Before it connects with Steve’s jaw, he blocks it, twisting your arm behind your back until you’re facing away from him.
The sensical part of your brain quickly realizes you’re never going to win a fair fight, not against Captain America. Then again, you muse, he never told you you can’t fight dirty.
You think quickly, taking only a few seconds to concoct a plan that would make even Natasha proud if she saw it unfold before her eyes. Steve’s already tense, you can tell by how his jaw is clenched tight, and his grip on your arm is firm.
“That all you got, peach?”
He breathes down your neck, causing goosebumps to rise along your heated skin. In a desperate attempt to prove him wrong, you hook your leg under his and bend forward, trying your hardest to pull him down to the ground. Your ponytail flies in his face, allowing him to take in the scent of your shampoo while his rough, calloused palms find their way around your waist to steady you on the mat. Suddenly, you can feel it, pressing up against your lower back. You smirk for a split second, afraid he might see and realize what you’re trying to do, before pursing your lips again into a thin line.
Steve momentarily forgets what he’s doing when he feels you arch your back. His mind trails off, away from the objective of staying upright in position. You turn your head slightly sideways, hot breath fanning against his exposed neck in another attempt to distract him.
You sigh audibly when Steve’s lips press firmly against your throat, lips parting when the feeling of Steve’s muscles pressed tightly against your back becomes a sensation you’re both hyper-aware of. His t-shirt is thin. You can feel every ripple of muscle underneath the tight fabric that is stretched so thin you wonder how the fuck it hasn’t ripped.
The hammering of his heart and the rapid rise and fall of his chest causes your own heartbeat to speed up. In a final attempt to take him out, you once again shove him, sending all your weight into his trembling body. With a loud grunt, Steve loses his balance. His grip on your hips tightens when he allows himself to fall down onto the mat, taking you down with him in the process. The two of you wrestle for a moment. Still, Steve finds himself on top of you before you can protest, left hand tightly gripping both of your wrists while the other gently brushes a strand of loose hair from your forehead.
He leans down, lips ghosting your collar bones and neck before settling on your earlobe. You turn your head, but Steve grabs your chin with his free hand. Your entire body tenses up when his voice coats your skin in more goosebumps, and you wiggle against his iron grip when he whispers in your ear.
“Do you think this is fair?” he mutters, “wearing these tight leggings in front of me. You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”
Your pupils dilate, eyes darkening at the deliciously deep grumble in his voice.
“No,” you lie, “I swear.”
He’s needy. You can tell by the way he’s subconsciously grinding his hips into yours. You can feel every inch of his cock through his sweatpants through the thin material of your leggings, and the sheer size of it nearly sends you over the edge then and there.
Steve roughly kisses your lips. Teeth and tongues mash together harshly for the first time in over two weeks. He doesn’t usually kiss you like this. Still, you welcome it, lifting your head off the mat instead into a bruising competition of lips.
Your eyes glance towards the door, and you push against Steve’s heaving chest. He’s already grabbing for the hem of your t-shirt, warm fingers grazing your bare skin when you build up the courage to stop him.
“Wait,” you say, pulling away just as Steve’s hand glides underneath your top, “here?”
“I’m gonna take you right here, peach,” he says while groping your left breast and fondling with your nipple, “right on this mat.”
“What if someone comes in?” you ask, back arching when Steve’s lips once again latch onto your neck.
The warm, wet sensation of his mouth against the most delicate spot on your bare neck has your mind drawing a blank. Suddenly, you can’t remember why you even questioned him. Who the fuck cares if someone walks in, anyway?
“Fuck it,” you reply to your own question, “want you, Steve.”
His hand releases your wrists, allowing you to reach down to the hem of your top. You rip it over your head in one swift motion and toss it next to you, followed by your sports bra. Your tits spring free, bounce in his face. The moment the fabric lifts over your head, Steve’s mouth is on your already tweaked nipple, licking and sucking it how you like it best while you wiggle your way out of your leggings.
“Leave them on,” he orders, grabbing hold of the smooth fabric before you can pull them down all the way.
With your leggings and dampened panties stuck around your knees, your movement is limited. You struggle to open your legs when Steve’s fingers run along your wet folds and groan in frustration when he dips two fingers into your throbbing pussy.
You yelp when he takes his fingers out again and softly slaps your cunt twice with the palm of his hand. He takes his fingers and pushes them into your mouth, chest swelling when he realizes he doesn’t have to tell you to suck on them because you do it instantly.
Three fingers disappear into your pussy now, coated in your saliva and sweet, delicious juices.
“You’re so wet already,” he comments before claiming your mouth with his again so he can taste you on your own tongue, “tell me what you want.”
“I want,” you gasp when he curls his stroking fingers, “your dick inside of me, Steve.”
Your fingers grab at his sweatpants. You yank down the soft, grey material that separates his flesh from you until it falls past his hips and under his toned ass. Steve’s cock, fiery red at the tip and hard like granite, springs free from its confinement and twitches when you allow your fingertips to graze its entire length slowly up and down. Steve bites his lip and holds his tongue to stop himself from cursing, but a small fuck escapes his throat when you fist his dick and guide the tip to your entrance.
“Put it in,” he commands through clenched teeth.
You don’t waste time giving Steve what he desires. After quickly wetting his cock with your slick, you plunge it inside of yourself with a fiery need. A sinful moan escapes your pink, swollen lips, and Steve presses another hard kiss to your open mouth when your hands grab hold of his ass.
He thrusts slowly at first to get your walls stretched nicely around him. No matter how many times the two of you have sex, it always feels like the first time, tight and warm, and oh so delicious. His dick pulsates when he picks up the speed, relishing in the feeling of your fingernails digging painfully into the plump skin of his perfectly round ass.
“You like that, peach?” he locks his hand around your throat, “like it when I fuck you like this?”
“Y-yes,” you manage when he begins to squeeze, “feels so good, Steve.”
“Anyone can walk in and see you like this,” he moans, “you like that, don’t you?”
You arch your back into his chest, eyes screwing shut at the feeling of his weight nearly crushing you. When he reaches down to rub your clit, you almost lose your fucking mind, and he has to bury his head between your tits to stop himself from cumming before you do.
Your bodies are beginning to stick together. The scent of sex is now heavy in the air. If anyone enters the gym looking for a late-night run, they’ll find something they can never unsee—the unmistakable thrill of getting caught red-handed drives both of you nearly over the edge. However, at this point, neither of you can stop if that were to happen. Nothing exists except for the sound of rough breathing, explicit moaning, and skin slapping against skin.
Every sense in Steve’s body is on high alert. He can feel it every time your walls flutter around his aching cock. You can feel it too. His weight on top of you feels amazing. The soft, blonde hair that grazes your neck while his tongue swirls around your nipple feels even better. The sheen of sweat that drips from his chest onto you, you want nothing more. You never want this feeling to end.
“You gonna cum for me, peachy?” he mumbles against your bare skin.
You whine at the knowledge it will end because you feel the coil inside of your underbelly is close to snapping. His thrusts become sloppier, less consistent, and it feels as if he does deeper and deeper with every snap of his hips. There are marks on his ass from where your nails dug into the delicate skin, but it’ll heal quickly.
Your cheeks are red with heat when you cum, lips deliciously parted, and eliciting the most beautiful moans Steve has ever heard. Your entire body vibrates when the orgasm flows through you, breasts glistening with sweat as they bounce while Steve fucks you through it. He fucks you, continues to fuck you until his own orgasm rips through him. Hot spurts of cum cover your insides, and he nearly collapses on top of you, barely careful enough not to actually crush you with his bodyweight.
He stays inside of you for a moment while both of you catch your breath. After he pulls out, he hoists his sweatpants back up over his hips. He kisses you softly while he pulls up your leggings. They snap against your skin when they reach your waist, and he grabs your hand to pull you up off the floor. His cum is still inside of you, dripping into your underwear when you take his hand and follow him out of the gym.
It’s fine, you think, I’ll learn self-defense some other time.
#Steve Rogers#steve rogers fic#steve rogers smut#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers imagine#steve x reader#captain america#captain america fic#captain america smut#captain america imagine#captain america imagines#captain america x reader#steve rogers x oc#marvel#marvel smut#marvel fic#marvel x reader#chris evans imagine#chris evans x reader#chris evans smut#jammywrites
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Pedro Pascal - La Vanguardia
With Javier Peña's mustache as his hallmark, the 'Narcos' and 'Game of Thrones' actor is filming in Budapest with Nicolas Cage and Paco León
Pascal, cultured, seductive and reflective, repeats as Loewe's ambassador for its Solo Mercurio perfume and is a model for 'Magazine Lifestyle'
SYLVIA MARTI 12/13/2020 06:00
Casual striped jacket, tousled hair, exquisite punctuality, and a room in Budapest. There is something about this man, generous in smiles and answers, great talkative, attractive without clichés. Pedro Pascal, 45 years old and face success. He shot The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent in the Hungarian capital with Nicolas Cage and Paco León, who apparently encouraged the show a lot; We see him without seeing him in the Star Wars universe as a galactic bounty hunter in The Mandalorian and he is Maxwell Lord, the eighties villain of Wonder Woman 1984 , perhaps the only blockbuster that, if nothing goes wrong, will make us happy Christmas.
Session in Budapest
The Chilean actor shoots 'The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent' in the Hungarian capital with Nicolas Cage and Paco León
(full article and photos under the cut)
Chilean by birth, his family left the country fleeing the Pinochet dictatorship when he was a baby. Brief passage through Denmark and new life in San Antonio (Texas). Normal when speaking in your mother tongue some words in English slip through. Think before answering a question without losing spontaneity or being afraid of silence. An art.
There is still Javier Peña's mustache, which catapulted him to fame from Narcos , and you can recognize that little point of joyous irony of Prince Oberyn Martell, who almost ended the Mountain in Game of Thrones . Two roles that have opened doors that he has managed to keep safe from slamming doors and have allowed him to skip the toll of stereotyped roles. Today Pascal, well trained in theater and loved by the cameras, can do whatever he wants. Even dedicating a Saturday to star in a fashion shoot and speak exclusively for Lifetsyle Magazine .
"Nobody knows me but everyone thinks they know me," he said when he debuted as the face of Solo Loewe perfume. Introduce yourself with four words.”
I do not define myself only by them, but I am contradictory, faithful, loyal, sensitive and, at times, a bit geek.
What would surprise me about you if you knew him better?
That although I live life and enjoy family, friends and social connections a lot, I have a lonely point. I like having my space and the option of staying a day at home in a relaxed and cocoon plan .
“Even though I live life and really enjoy family, friends and social connections, I have a lonely point.”
With Covid-19, many of us are already a little tired of staying at home ...
Yes, now that I don't have much choice to go out, I'm afraid of not being able to go back to the theater, to a party, to a dinner with many people ... I really regret those times that, instead of going out, I stayed at home.
Which character has left the most impression on you?
I miss Peña, from Narcos . It was my first leading role, the first time I had time to develop the character, create his energy, his style ... They gave me a lot of freedom to shape it, even if it was based on a real person. I was able to work on it, make it my own, create the tone, invent and deepen.
Do you easily get rid of them when filming is over?
When I was younger I was very clear that they had to be left at work, that the character had to be separated from the person. I thought that with age it would get easier and easier but, surprisingly, the opposite happens to me: it gets harder and harder. Energy cannot always be organized the way we would like and I have to admit that I take some of my characters home with me.
Have you incorporated any of their phrases into your life?
Maxwell Lord has a very attractive in Wonder Woman 1984 : "Everything is fine, but it could be better."
Very eighties. Like the one Gordon Gekko said on Wall Street (1987): "If you want a friend, buy yourself a dog." Have we advanced or are we already for the fourth pet?
We have come a long way. I am very inspired by young people, their strength to face in an original way that win, win and win system that reached a monstrous level in the eighties. Today's young people go deeper into the need to respect a planet in which we all live together and the obligation to take care of it.
“Young people inspire me, they deepen the need to respect a planet and the obligation to care for it.”
I see you optimistic ...
I am a realistic and hard-working optimist. My first impression is that the glass is half empty, I have to find arguments to see it half full.
Is it true that you drew the comic strips to interact with them as a method to immerse yourself in your character in 'Wonder Woman 1984'?
I made a book with images from the eighties and sixties, comic book drawings, papers, erasers, colored pencils, markers and vignettes to better understand what it was to be a man of that decade, how his attitude was forged ... It was a way to focus to live up to what Patty (Jenkins, the director) asked for, which was a lot, and not lose sight of it. I'm a horrible cartoonist, but I had to do something practical to study, understand, and develop the character.
What does a script or a role have to have to get their attention?
Sense of humor. Even if it is a drama, a hero, a villain ... Humor immediately hooks me.
A good shield to go through life ...
The best. It is the most important thing to survive.
Do you remember the last time you laughed out loud?
Paco León immediately came to mind. When he's on set, here in Budapest, we are all happier and we laugh a lot. The entire production loves it. It has made filming more fun.
“When Paco León is on set, here in Budapest, we are all happier and we laugh a lot”
What fascinates you most about the Star Wars universe?
Nostalgia, the huge audience it has, the ability to reach so many people. It reflects our childlike imagination without limits. Create more and more worlds with all kinds of people and species. He is capable of casting the universe
What is your definition of success?
Have a healthy relationship with yourself. Nothing matters if you don't love yourself.
What would you have done if you had not succeeded as an actor? Did you have a plan B?
No. Perhaps the only thing that could have been useful to others is acting as a literature teacher, as a counselor or advisor for people who need help ... I am a bit of a therapist with my friends. And it must work, because they come back. I have a lot of common sense.
What is elegance to you? Has your relationship with Loewe influenced the way you dress?
In that of elegance I am a student, I am learning. I wear what is comfortable but I also have very finite taste and, when motivated, I really like to express myself with style. And when it comes to style, Loewe is on top of everything.
Something material that would save from a fire.
A book. I always have one on hand. Now I am rereading The Magic Mountain , by Thomas Mann. Literature is one of my passions. It is an extension of life. The problem would be to choose only one, there are so many! My identity is made by inspirations from authors, actors, dancers, the art world, the sea ... There is no self without the influence of all the things that inspire me.
“The sea is what I like the most in life. I have respect, curiosity and love for him on a religious level.”
The sea…
It's what I like the most in life. I have respect, curiosity and love for him on a religious level.
If he gets lost, I know where to look for him.
On a boat in the middle of the sea, on an island, on the beach in Chile ... Everything related to water. One of the first smells I remember, although I don't know if it's too attractive, is the chlorine in the pool.
What is your fastest way to disconnect?
Losing your mobile phone. I fell down the stairs in Dubrovnik and at first it was like, "Oh noooo." But then I thought, "Well, a week without him." I had a certain feeling of liberation. Not having to be aware of e-mails, messages ... I find it very strong that people communicate even through a direct message from Instagram. I refuse.
Now that you quote them, how are you getting along with the networks? (He has 1.5 million followers on Intagram)
I am quite active, I use it when I have a good time, but also to express myself and to give my opinion.
“I will say goodbye to the year with a kiss and raising the middle finger. He has treated me well but the collective suffering and fear this year….”
What is your favorite word?
Oxymoron. I like its meaning and its sound
Who would you like to shut up, as you did in the first Loewe Solo ad?
Personally, I would love to shut up that heavy, bad voice, the imp that we all have in our heads. That it's nice to have him and that, and I know he will never go away, but it would be nice if he shut up sometimes. Collectively I think we would all like to shut up one person.
Trump?
I suppose.
What have you learned from this rare year?
That you cannot live without human contact. For me the deep and simple connections with my friends and family is the only thing that matters.
How will you fire him?
With a kiss and raising the middle finger. He has treated me very well but the collective suffering and fear this year….
*article translated with google chrome. Source of article*
#Pedro Pascal#jose pedro balmaceda pascal#la vanguardia#magazine article#article#magazine lifestyle#maxwell lord#ww84#the mandalorian#din djarin#lavanguardia.com
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Translated interview (with omissions)
The female gaze: An interview with Céline Sciamma
Michael Ranze, filmdienst.de, 2nd of November 2019
// Additions or clarifications for translating purposes are denoted as [T: …]. A couple of omissions in the first interview, but I provided links to existing articles with more information. I’ve also added extracts from two more interviews with Céline below. Aaaaand... I believe this is it for German Portrait interviews! 😅 //
A conversation with the French director about ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’.
The French director Céline Sciamma already garnered international attention with her debut film ‘Water Lilies’. She is now a regular at the big film festivals. Her recent film ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ is a multi-layered love story between a female painter and a young noble woman, whom she has to paint.
Interviewer: Your first three films ‘Water Lilies’ (2007), ‘Tomboy’ (2011) and ‘Girlhood' (2014) are about the coming-of-age of female characters, about their search for identity, including sexual identity. Where does this great interest in the world view of young women come from?
Céline Sciamma: I was lucky enough to make films as a young woman and to talk about things that I know about and understand. That’s why my first three films were closely connected to the childhood and youth of the heroines, and their female identity. I’m also pursuing the same theme in my new film ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’, this time with grown women. In the other films there was always the desire for love, which is also self-discovery. Love is fully lived out this time – this creates some kind of dialogue. I am 40 years old – I now have to talk about these things. (laughs) [T: Also see here, here, here or here about her previous films]
I: But there’s also the theme of female solidarity, especially in ‘Girlhood’…
CS: Yes, indeed. The more my work develops, the more it deals with the theme of friendship, sorority, but also the ability to enjoy life to the fullest. This also includes solidarity, these small islands that women can establish together. My films open up the space for this idea, this is much more radical in ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ than in my previous films.
I: But you also wrote the screenplay for André Téchiné’s film ‘Being 17’, where the two main characters are adolescent boys.
CS: That’s the same kind of work for me. It’s about creating characters without objectifying them, and to find access to their experiences. The female gaze is not only about filming women. It’s also about being aware about the images and representations. You have to pay a lot of attention, when you are inventing or composing something. Otherwise it becomes conventional, or you create characters that are empty. That applies to men and women. The male gaze is damaging for male representation in my opinion. I thought that it would be interesting for me to do it differently.
I: How did you work together with André Téchiné on the screenplay?
CS: This was the only time in my career as scriptwriter that I worked on the script with someone else. I admire Téchiné’s work. My first cinephile emotions are linked to his films. It was therefore a lot of fun to enter his matrix and get access to his thinking, on the one hand to participate, and on the other hand to support his goals. The fact that he wanted to do a film about youth motivated me to make him a young film director. [T: Also see here about her work on ‘Being 17′]
I: He is now 76 years old.
CS: Yes, exactly. He was 73, when we worked together. But it never felt like there was a huge age hierarchy between us. I admire him very much, he really fuelled my ambitions, we have a very intense relationship.
I: What do you like more: writing scripts or directing films?
CS: This has changed. I always liked the balance between the two, also the fact that I didn’t always have to follow my own wishes, but could immerse myself in another logic and worlds, and distract myself. But over the years I realised that I don’t want to lose any more time. It’s of course not a waste of time to work for others. But you sometimes have to put up with long project delays. For the first time in a long time I don’t have any screenplay assignments, and I like this feeling. But you never know what may happen. I was really blessed with some projects. For ‘My Life as a Courgette’, it just gave me joy to write a film for children. If something like that comes along again, I would do it immediately. [T: Also see here about her work on ‘My Life as a Courgette’]
[T: Omitted Q&A about the reasons why she did a period film, but see here, here or here]
I: What are the challenges when you recreate a period, which was so long ago?
CS: You have to do a lot of research, especially about the situation of female artists. You really have to dig deep, because no one wrote a thick book on it. The other challenge was the collaboration with others. That is the beauty of cinema. The costume designer does research about that period, so does the set designer. This is my third collaboration with Thomas Grézaud (he also worked with Sciamma on ‘Girlhood’ and ‘Tomboy’, editor’s note). He always suggests something, which is then incorporated into the film. When it is about historic films, then accuracy is very important. But sometimes it’s also interesting to consider what is not in the picture. For example, there is not much furniture. We built the few pieces ourselves, out of wood and with cotton. It was more about believing in cinema, in action, in clear lines.
I: So you work closely with the costume and set designer?
CS: Yes, there is a close coordination. I wanted some kind of uniform for the characters, for example. We then looked at various costumes. They were not supposed to be out of silk but rather heavy fabrics, which restrain the actresses, force them into their roles and at the same time describe the sociology of their characters. I also wanted pockets for the costume of the female painter, even though others told me it would be anachronistic or too modern. Fact is that pockets existed back then and that they vanished in the 19th century. The ‘femme bourgeoise’ [T: middle-class woman] was invented, and fashion went backwards. I liked the idea of this silhouette, which was even accurate. That is our job: We try to give a presence to these women from back then.
[T: Omitted Q&A about how the actresses were recruited, it mentions the circulation of gazes between the three, the physical and psychological contrast between Adèle and Noémie, Céline describes them both as strong, intense, determined and courageous actresses, she also wanted to create an iconic and fresh couple; see here or here]
I: You spoke about the ‘circulation of gazes’. Between the actresses there are short and long gazes, shy and curious ones. How did you conceptualise this ‘ballet of gazes’?
CS: That was already in the script, especially the rhythm of the gazes, when they look at each other. The actresses were very much aware about that. It’s not about dictating what they have to do. But it’s rather a way to start the conversation, to show their connection or communicate their intentions. They have to ‘dance’. I call it a collection of gazes. As you already said: We have this gaze, we have that gaze. It changes with every scene. And it shows how good the actresses are. If it’s in the script, then the actresses are very, very good [T: this was weirdly worded]. Otherwise they might suggest something that doesn’t fit. You have to see straight away that they desire each other. And it’s brilliant how they do it.
I: I liked the beginning of the film, when Marianne jumps out of the boat to retrieve her large case. A woman isn’t supposed to do that, so it shows that Marianne is different than others…
CS: And the film also shows that: She is not a woman who follows the rules. She jumps into the water to get her things. The important thing is: The film also jumps into the water. The camera also dives in, we swim with her. That’s two pieces of information: This character will be an active one, and the film will join this jump. [T: Also see here]
I: There are only women on the island…
CS: No – we just don’t show the men.
I: The island seems like a refuge or even a utopia.
CS: Yes – that’s true. In cinema, it is about what you decide to show in the picture. I didn’t want to show men, because then it would have been about the pressure and dominance that existed back then and still does. We now look at what is possible, at the potential of the women. You can also call it utopia, but these are not imaginary futuristic dreams, it is based on life experiences, maybe on a higher level, if it was more based on reciprocity. And political utopia – there has to be a place, where the economy doesn’t determine everything, where there is no sexism or racism. These places exist, in families, communities, maybe in a city. This culture has to grow. This utopia arises from experiences that we make and transform to ideas.
[T: Omitted Q&A about the cinematography of Portrait, but see here or here]
—
Interview with director Céline Sciamma (extracts)
Sportello745, moviebreak.de, 9th of October 2019
[…] Interviewer: In your debut film ‘Water Lilies’ you contrast the uncontainable, awakening hormones of the main character with a perfectly synchronised swimming team. In which way does the landscape characterise the emotions in your new film?
Céline Sciamma: In Water Lilies, it was about what’s on the surface and what’s hidden below. I guess, even with synchronised swimming it’s less about control but more about what you don’t see and the effort you have to make underneath. I don’t think I rely on symbolism too much, I get often asked about the meaning of, for example, colours. That’s not really how I think, I try to embody certain things and be less metaphoric. But maybe in this film the tension is between love and art and beauty. The landscape does fit into this tension very much. [T: Also see here or here for Water Lilies]
I: Did the paintings that you researched have any influence on the language of the film, and if yes, which paintings in particular?
CS: Yes, they did. It was especially the self portraits of female painters, because these pictures were quite different from what you would expect. There was a specific painting, which was actually not from the 18th century but from the 17th century, it was from a woman called Judith Leyster, a [T: Dutch; also see here]. Her work was misattributed to her husband. In the picture, you can see her painting, she smiles, you can see her teeth. I have never seen something like that. It helped me to be courageous, which means it made us invent something new and not be scared of being unconventional. That is exactly the kind of female contribution to art history: When Virginia Woolf writes, she reinvents literature, she revolutionises it [T: also see here or here]. When Chantal Akerman films ‘Jeanne Dielman’, it is a revolution for cinema [T: also see here, here or here]. The voices of women are not only limited to ‘Hey, we have a little story to tell’, but it is always about reinventing art. It is about creating something new instead of the same old. […]
I: When did Marianne paint the eponymous ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ in your opinion, shortly after her encounter on the island or many years later?
CS: I think, she painted it a couple of years later. That is her memory. When I commissioned the painting, I originally wanted to have 20 frames, maybe even that Marianne’s whole work is based on this moment. A kind of ‘usual suspects’ situation, where everyone reappears. But this moment [T: at the bonfire] is definitely the matrix for what she will do next, and I think, [T: the painting] was made years later […].
I: At the end of the film the love story between the two is ‘concluded’. On the one hand, the ending is bittersweet, because the love has been immortalised in a painting. On the other hand, it is also quite sad, we see Héloïse crying. It felt as if this great piece of art, which tells the story of the two women, can never be exchanged for the love that was lost. What do you think?
CS: We tried to spark a dynamic where the end of the love story doesn’t mean that they spend eternity together or die. It was about getting rid of the sentiment that the victory of love is mutual possession. Their love for each other made them curious about love itself and art. For me, the last scene addresses how art deeply affects us and how love makes us more emotional towards beauty. […] At the end, Héloïse feels the music she would never have felt if she had not loved. Love as curation for being curious about the future, about art, about beauty. That for me is a positive dynamic, even though it is heartbreaking, which was on purpose. At the end, both women are more open, and that is the dynamic of emancipation, which I love. And it is positive to talk about it.
—
Sciamma: ‘I want to show images of daily life that are missing’ (extracts)
Patricia Batlle, NDR.de, 29th of October 2019
Interviewer: You had a very lively screening of your film ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’. There were standing ovations from the audience, and there was an animated conversation with you and the lead actresses Adèle Haenel and Noémie Merlant. Were you surprised to be so warmly welcomed in Northern Germany?
Céline Sciamma: It’s funny because you are sometimes cautioned that other countries have a less welcoming culture, but not to take it personally. So you prepare for different types of audiences. But then the reception in Hamburg was really, really warm. It doesn’t surprise me, because I believe that film is a nation, that film culture is unique and unites the viewers [T: PORTRAIT NATION FTW]. A cinema is sometimes like a country. I travel around a lot with the film and I feel the warmth, this fire in the cinema across countries. […]
I: You address topics like menstruation and abortion that are rarely shown in cinema – especially not in love films.
CS: Yes, why is that? That is crazy! This clearly is part of the pleasure of the film, part of its political intention. To show images that are missing, although these are images of daily life. Our story should put our audience on an emotional rollercoaster, where the images have an unusual relationship with the story and are surprising. That is the power of new images.
I: Four women play an important role in your film, men are on the sideline. The names of the women stand out all the more. The self-confident painter is called Marianne. The name is synonymous for the Republic of France – was this on purpose?
CS: I have to admit: I didn’t think about that. I didn’t think about the Marianne of the Republic, when I wrote the script. The names of all my characters are related. In my debut film ‘Water Lilies’ my main character was called Marie, in ‘Girlhood’ she was called Marieme, and here she is called Marianne. It’s like a thread that runs from film to film. But it’s true: It is France! I like the fact that you noticed this. (laughs) […]
—
Articles:
https://www.filmdienst.de/artikel/38732/interview-celine-sciamma-zu-portrat-einer-jungen-frau-in-flammen
https://www.moviebreak.de/features/interview-mit-regisseurin-celine-sciamma/item?item=2
https://www.ndr.de/kultur/film/Sciamma-ueber-Portraet-einer-jungen-Frau-in-Flammen,frauinflammen106.html
Picture sources: [1], [2]
#Filmdienst.de#moviebreak.de#NDR.de#Céline Sciamma#Portrait of a Lady on Fire#October-November 2019#German interview#These were the remaining Portrait interviews#in German#That's that#Time well spent#My translation#long post
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hello and good day! i would like a matchup for a3! and ikerev, please! she/her pronouns. you can call me juice, though! hm i think a good description of me personality wise would be im usually cheerful, friendly, childish but i tend to hide a lot of my negative feelings and overthink quite a lot. towards others i'm always curious about the littlest details of someone's hobbies or interest and sometimes i talk more than i listen. love literature and things like fashion or games (1)
Hello, thanks for requesting juice! Sorry for the long wait but I hope you enjoy it! I was pretty excited to write a match up for a3! since it’s been living rent free in my head for the last few weeks. I got a little carried away with the last prompt cause it was so fun to write, but I hope you like it! Also, the ikerev one might take some time but I’ll try to not take too long. Have fun!
I match you with
Tsuzuru!
The two of you first meet after you watch one of their plays, “A Clockwork Heart.” When you realize that the lead and writer is a classmate of yours from college you can’t help but approach him a few days later to discuss the play further.
He seems self conscious at first but quickly opens up as the two of you discuss his script and before you know it one conversation has turned into an in-depth discussion over lunch.
After that first encounter, both of you start talking more often, quickly growing closer. Tsuzuru appreciates your cheerful attitude, making it easy for him to be comfortable around you.
Considering your love for literature, you often help him brainstorm for new ideas, always looking forward to seeing how he brings it to life on stage.
It is easy for you to fit in with the rest of the boys from Mankai, despite their constant prying on your relationship with Tsuzuru. After all the time the two of you spend together, it is no surprise when none of the boys (except Azami) bat an eyelash when you make it official, after a lot of back and forth between friendship and romance.
Prompt: Bonding
“The reason S was created in the first place was because Luke needed a companion. It’s tragic that he was the one who left him in the end.”
“Well, yes, but he also taught him to open up to people, insuring that he wouldn’t be alone when he was gone.”
You and Tsuzuru had been discussing the end of his latest play “A Clockwork Heart” for a while, arguing over whether or not the ending was tragic. When you approached him to offer your praise for his work earlier that day you hadn’t been expecting him to engage in your opinions on a play he wrote, but he was actually deeply invested in the conversation, despite the matter at hand being trivial to the actual substance of the story.
“He couldn’t have known though. He also put his own wishes aside to protect him. That alone makes the ending tragic.” You vividly remembered the tears you had shed when the show reached its climax, a result of both his script and his acting.
“It depends on your idea of what the ending was. S was a machine, so as long as Luke was alive they could meet again, when it was safe for the both of them. That makes the ending-“
Ring Ring
You almost chucked at the generic sound his phone made as it vibrated.
“Give me a sec.” he moved away from the bench before answering. It wasn’t long before he returned, a flush expression on his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize I had kept you for so long. I actually need to get going.” He ran a hand through his hair, smiling shyly. It was only then that you noticed what time it was.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bother you for that long!” Now you were both flushed, the realization dawning on you that you had spent two hours talking.
“I-it’s fine. Um, we can continue this tomorrow, if you’d like?” you were surprised he actually wanted to talk again, a smile spreading over your face.
“Definitely. “
“Okay. See you then!” he waved as he ran off while simultaneously trying to dial someone, resulting in him almost falling on his face. You looked forward to tomorrow.
After that first encounter, you continued to meet during lunch to talk about other works, quickly realizing you had a similar taste in books and movies. It was an easy transition, going from acquaintances to friends.
“How’s the summer troupe’s play coming along?” It was easy to tell that he had been losing sleep again from the – almost – comical black circle under his eyes, but you asked anyway, hoping that you could offer some help.
“I know what I want to write, the words are just refusing to form and settle themselves on the page.” The frustration was evident on his face as he tried to put the pieces flying around his head in order. You tried to think of a way to help him but you knew that he needed to figure this out on his own.
“Come on.” You forcefully pulled him out of his chair, carefully shutting his laptop.
“W-wait. Where are we going?” you pushed him along, despite his protesting.
“Trust me.” You flashed him your biggest smile before setting of, only mildly aware that your hand was still around his wrist.
“The movies?” he seemed confused over what your objective was but you were confident it would help him out of his slump.
“Yes. Come on, I’ll even get us popcorn!” you were beaming as you led him inside.
“What are we watching?” Tsuzuru, finally resigned to his fate, flipped through the leaflet, looking at the moves currently playing.
“Your choice, I’m fine with whatever.” You hurried to the bar to pick up snacks, leaving him at the ticket booth.
“Look at those effects.”
“The acting is top notch.”
Tsuzuru had been so immersed in the movie he seemed to have forgotten all about his tiredness. When you exited the theatre you could practically see the gears turning in his head.”
“It’s a very different take on pirates than the summer troupe’s play, but if I exaggerate the characters even more then there would be great opportunity for comedy.” You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you as you observed him, completely lost in his own mind.
“So I take it the creative juices are flowing again?” he looked back at you, as if seeing you clearly for the first time in days.
“Yes! Thank you!” He put his arms around you, too far lost in his excitement to feel any awkwardness.
“I-I have to go write! I’ll see you tomorrow.” He continued shouting thank you over his shoulder as he run off with newfound energy. You expected you wouldn’t see him the next day, considering he’d probably be passed out by then, but you smiled anyway.
“See you later!”
Prompt : Cinderella:
“So, you’re thinking of doing Cinderella for the next play?” You and Tsuzuru were hanging out in his room, taking full advantage of Masumi’s absence that weekend.
“Yeah… I’m not sure how to go about it though. Everyone in the Spring Troupe agreed that I should be lead this time around but I just don’t see myself in the shoes of a prince… Itaru would probably be a better fit for the role.” You couldn’t help throwing a pillow his way.
“Hey! What was that for?” You sat up a little straighter, tempted to glare at him until he picked up on your annoyance.
“I can definitely picture you in the role of the prince.” You cleared your throat before switching to your best narrator voice.
A long, long time ago there lived a boy and a girl. They were the best of friends when they were children. The boy would often sneak out to meet with her and they would play for hours. But their happiness would not last long.
You see, the girl grew up to be the maid of one of the less-fortunate royal families in the kingdom. She had been forced into that position by her father’s latest wedding. It would also turn out to be his last, for he died a few years later, leaving her in the care of a wicked stepmother.
One the other hand, the boy grew up to be the most charming prince in the land. The women fawned over him and he always had everything his heart could desire.”
“I’m literally none of those things.”
“Fine then.”
The prince was an idiot who didn’t know how to take care of himself and never asked for help. He constantly worried his friends over his health but they loved him anyway.
“That’s not any better…”
“Shh, let me continue the story.”
Their difference in class ripped the two friends apart, putting an end to their relationship. While they weren’t allowed to meet again, they promised to never forget about each other. To keep that promise, the made matching bracelets and agreed to never take them off until they could meet again.
“Friendship bracelets? Who does that?”
“They were kids! Would you have preferred rings?”
“Wouldn’t those basically be promise rings?”
“I’m coming up with this on the spot, give me a break!”
That bracelet was what gave the girl the strength to continue living, despite her struggles.
When news of a ball arrived at the estate, her step-sisters were quick to start preparations, eager to have a chance at the prince’s hand in marriage. The girl was simply happy at the prospect of seeing her friend again.
When her family found out she was planning to attend the ball, they locked her in the cellar, not willing to risk any competition. The girl wept and wept, until suddenly a kind seeming lady appeared in front of her.
“Isn’t this just the movie?”
“Give it a second!”
The lady promised she would help her get to the ball if that was what she wished. Despite her suspicions, the girl earnestly declared that all she wanted was to see her friend again. And so the kind woman flicked her wrist and the rags the girl had been wearing were replace by a rich ball gown, paired with a glass slippers. The girl thanked her again and again before heading off in search of her lost friend.
“She doesn’t warn her about the time limit?”
“There’s no curfew here, it’s a stupid conflict anyway.”
You couldn’t contain the excitement and adrenaline that flowed through you as you went up the steps of the grand palace. You hadn’t been here since you were a child, when the king’s father still allowed you to visit, and childhood memories flooded your mind. It was difficult to keep your nerves at a reasonable level as you approached the guards at the front gate. By the time you had arrived at the palace, most of the guests were already inside, so you were completely alone when you handed the invitation, hoping the witch had done her work well.
“Enjoy your evening.” They smiled before urging you to step inside. A sense of awe filled you as you walked through the somewhat familiar halls, remembering all the places you and Tsuzuru would hide from the servants, before his title meant anything to you.
You weren’t sure you remembered the way to the main hall, so you followed the noise, hoping you could make your way there.
When you finally stood outside what seemed to be the entrance, you took a few deep breaths before walking forward, determined to see your friend again. When you stepped though the door you quickly realized that the door wasn’t the room’s main entrance, but the top of the grand staircase. Dread filled you as everyone’s eyes fell on you. If it wasn’t for the railing you thought you have fainted right then and there. You breathed in, allowing you hand to wrap around the bracelet the two of you had made so long ago, letting the warm feelings it carried spread through you.
You bowed once before making your way down the stairs, hoping you wouldn’t trip on your dress and make a fool of yourself before the night even started.
The moment you were off the last step, your eyes fell on your step-mother, eyeing you with absolute envy and disgust. You hoped the mask would be enough to conceal your identity.
You walked around the room for a bit, keeping to the less populated areas, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tsuzuru, disappointed to find that he was nowhere to be found.
“Please let this not be for nothing…”
You were about to make your way to the balcony, but a swarm of guests was suddenly in your path, dancing to the waltz the band had just started playing. You frantically looked around, searching for a way out when two arms wrapped around you, pulling you along with the rest of the dancers.
“I guess you’re my partner?” the face of the man that stood before you made your jaw drop. You had thought of so many things to say, but now that Tsuzuru was standing before you, the words seemed to catch in your throat.
“So, uh, are you having fun?” he was as awkward as you remembered. Something about the familiarity filled you with a sense of calm. I found him.
“I am now.” It was hard to contain the smile quickly spreading around your face.
“Actually I was-“that was when it was time to switch partners. When you felt his hand slip from yours, panic flooded through you. No… I didn’t have the chance to tell him.
As he pulled his hand away, his fingers brushed the bracelet on your wrist, eyes widening as he was whisked away by another partygoer, realization evident in his features. You tried to get closer, but were quickly taken away by another guest. Your eyes landed on Tsuzuru a few times but the hall was too crowded. It was almost suffocating. You took the first chance to slip out on the balcony, eager to get away from the crowds.
You stood at the railing, letting the air cool down your heated face. He had seen you, but you weren’t sure he would care enough to search. Negative thoughts occupied your mind as you gazed at the land beyond. Maybe this was foolish… He probably barely remembers me… He’s a prince after all. He was more important matter to attend to than a peasant he used to spend his free time with. You felt tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, your own loneliness catching up with you.
“Please don’t cry!” You were shocked to find Tsuzuru standing a few feet away from you, his face flushed and his knees bent. He must’ve been running.
“You’re the girl from back then, aren’t you?” he glanced down at your wrist, pulling up his own sleeve to reveal a bracelet identical to yours.
“Y-you kept it.” Your voice cracked, barely audible in the midst of the ongoing celebrations.
“Of course I did! It meant a lot to me.” The words seemed to call to something inside you and so you let the tears fall.
“W-what did I do? Please don’t cry!” he took a step closer, still unsure of what boundaries existed between you.
“I-I can’t help it. I’m just so happy!” you wrapped your arms around him, not caring who saw you. All that mattered in that moment was that the two of you were reunited at last.
“I missed you.” You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was crying too, by the way his heart beat against your, the way his hands shook, still wrapped around you in a tight embrace. Year’s worth of loneliness and regret spilled out of the both of you in a single moment.
You stayed like that for quite some time, allowing the relief to wash over you. When you looked at each other again, you couldn’t help but laugh at your state. You knew the scene must look ridiculous to any outside spectators, but none of them mattered. It felt like you were alone in the world, no barriers between you. Your class didn’t matter. You were just a boy and a girl who had been reunited.
“ The king was skeptical at first, knowing a commoner queen wouldn’t create any new alliances, but he could see the love his son had for the girl. And so they married. It’s said that the pair practically run down the stairs of the palace after their wedding, eager to get to their honeymoon, their laughter echoing through the streets.”
“That’s an ending befitting a prince Muku reads about in manga… I still don’t see where I fit into this… ”
“Fine. As they descended the staircase, the prince fell on his ass, causing even more laughter from the girl. A moment she would never let him forget.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the earnest look on Tsuzuru’s face. He may be clumsy, but he has always been kind.
“It will need a lot modifications, especially considering the fact that none of us can exactly pull off female roles, but it could work.” At some point through the story Tsuzuru seemed to have pulled out a notebook, in which he was now scribbling away.
“Are you seriously taking notes?” he was still focused on the story, not letting the inspiration go to waste.
“Of course I am. You’re brilliant!” he pulled you in for a kiss, taking you completely by surprise.
“You’re the best.” He turned back to his note taking, leaving you with flushed cheeks and a bright smile.
“You too.”
And they lived happily ever after.
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"What Inspires You?" by David Pailin Jr.
What is inspiration anyways? It feels like motivation, but not quite... it seems less defined by our circumstances. The feeling's so fleeting, but when we grasp it, it's exhilarating! There are plenty of things that move us emotionally and physically, but this is a bit more intense. It's our dreams, our goals, but somehow it's not that at all. It's like the bridge between us and our dreams. It's that momentary awareness of the talent it takes to get where we want to be and the realization that we possess it. Maybe everything is inspiration. But if that's true, why don't more people have it, where do we find it, and why is it so important? Those three questions will be the focus of this article as we look to ascertain some of the mystery that is inspiration.
The Uninspired
Admittedly, it's very hard to avoid being self-righteous when you speak about what inspires you, but what about when you aren't inspired by anything? In an effort to gather some perspective, I decided to ask several people what inspired them. Below are some quotes of individuals I interviewed (men and women).
"Contributing to the greater good of humanity and leaving the works a better place if I can help it :)"
"Being surrounded by people who are constantly on the move to better themselves professionally, physically, and personally. I'm competitive and like to measure myself against the best of others. They keep me in check."
"When people know and work towards accomplishing their 'purpose' is the biggest for me. There's something about someone deciding, 'ok, this is what I way to do with my life and then doing it. Nothing is more inspirational than that to me."
"My Family, my kids."
"In so many words, Fulfillment, the ability to look back and say it was done by me. Of course, the first thing that played in my head was "girls and bottles!" lmao. The hood in me is always trying to outshine the calm."
"All the people who did me wrong lol make them regret every screwing u over because all your writings and blog posts can get u closer to you dreams."
"What inspires me is being in a relationship where you are each other's BFF, #1 fan, and dream keepers. Also, what inspires me is making a difference with people and having them be empowered and inspired :-)"
"The most inspiring thing to me is the way the music I truly love...like Michael Jackson or something like that makes me feel...I want to make other people feel like that. Also, the fact that anything is possible... I want to be one of the people that is a testament to that… you know."
"Nothing inspires but myself."
"Idk anymore, man, my drive is gone"
I definitely agreed with some answers more than others, but the last two took made me physically shiver. At first, I had the audacity to think, "how can people feel this?", but thankfully I came to my senses and pondered over. I realized at some point everyone feels this way if they're honest with themselves (if not just keep living). When things are going wrong, and people are hurting, the things that normally inspire become frequent reminders of how far they have fallen. You don't have to be immersed in self-loathing to lose inspiration; sometimes, it's just as simple as giving up. There are times when pure exhaustion and routine sap all the inspiration out of us. Soon the refreshing feeling of creative juices just seems harder to draw out than usual, and sometimes it really is. Without proper grounding, these feelings can spiral out of control, and words similar to the quotes I mentioned above can leave our own mouths.
In my research, I crossed Kurt Cobain's suicide note. In it, I saw a man who had completely loss his passion for what he once loved. He was so earnest that he felt like a fraud every time he took the stage because he was just going through motions with the audience. He explains that he tried everything to get that feeling back (including drugs & alcohol), but in the end, even his wife and daughter were not enough to draw from. His tragic case certainly isn't the first and sadly won't be the last. This lost inspiration for life isn't a remote as you think, as a staggering amount of American's (11%) rely on anti-depressants to function.
The Ingredients
Isn't it strange that the things that innately inspire us seem almost heavenly? Often times they are the best of man, but even then, it seems... superhuman. Dictionaries define it as a divine influence, but what does that translate to? At the Plutocrats Club, we believe three elements catalyze inspiration.
Lack of Knowledge. Put simply, you can't get inspired by something you know absolutely everything about. Even masters are constantly learning; as the craft itself continues to evolve, the more time they spend with it. Time and innovation make sure that all things progress. This progression fosters doubt, and doubt leads to curiosity, and determined curiosity leads to epiphanies.
Passion. Though you can have epiphanies about subjects that you aren't interested in, it's impossible to get inspiration from them. Here genuine interest is critical to finding inspiration. Inspiration resonates with our very spirit, and if there is no soul in what we are trying to draw inspiration from, we will find ourselves empty-handed.
Wonder. The feeling of admiration, awe, or marvel. Wonder is probably best exemplified when a child goes to Disney World for the first time. Unfortunately, as we get older, it takes more and more to make us wonder. Reality creeps upon us, and we start to lose the wide-eyed view of the world that we had in adolescence. As hard as it is, it's important for us to seek wonder. It encompasses doubt, passion and then adds surprise. Admittedly, it's also the hardest of the three to ascertain because there are few things that adults can categorize as truly wondrous; even fewer stay this way.
It's Importance
Sure we shared who doesn't have inspiration, what it takes to construct it, but why is it important? The truth is so that we can enjoy life. There are "Existors" all around us. You see them at home, at work, and on the subway. They speak only because their job requires it, they have a job only because they need food, they eat only because it's required to live. Just typing that, I felt the monotonous redundancy of that lifestyle weighing in on me. No joy or enjoyment is in anything they do, just basic, logical goal after basic, logical goal. What happens after all goals are achieved? Death? The goal of inspiration is to provoke creation. The creations of men and women at their best are truly emotional experiences.
After watching your favorite movie, take a serious look at just how many people it took to make it become a reality. At one point, that was just one person's vision! As much as we try to restrain ourselves, we aren't robots. We are full of thoughts, emotions, and illogical mechanisms that need to be explored. Not just for the sake of exploration, but so that our fellow man can use them to the best of their abilities. So I'll ask, what inspires you?
Photography by Demetrius Baker
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Eyeliner Tears
Why are Asian eyes so ugly? I thought to myself as I outlined their shape with the blackest liner I could dig out from the free Lancôme makeup samples Mom never used. This was my daily routine since I first discovered the beautiful black pencil when I was 12 alongside lip gloss, mascara, and blush. But eyeliner was my favorite – changing most dramatically what I hated most passionately.
• Monolids are ugly because they make eyes look like slits.
• Double lids are ‘mutant’ because, as my white medical professor once so aptly described, “Epicanthic folds are a prominent feature of Down Syndrome. If you don’t know what they are, Asians commonly have this feature.”
Let’s face it: we can’t win, at least not in the beauty arena. But with my eyeliner adding the illusion of a larger eye, I felt halfway there. Not everyone, however, appreciated my foray into adolescent self-transformation.
The Chinese beauty culture operates very differently than American beauty culture: pale skin, small mouths, soft bodies, and youthful innocence are prized over glowing tans, wide smiles, athletic frames, and sultry seductiveness. To achieve the Chinese beauty ideal of youthful innocence, heavy makeup such as eyeliner is unacceptable, and makeup at all is frowned upon for younger girls. Mom called them “raccoon eyes” and told me I looked uglier with it on but I never heeded her advice. She also said respectable girls did not waste their time on vanities like makeup, but rather immersed themselves in their studies. She especially hated when I wore makeup to church, a place where teenage girls are supposed to look extra pure.
I rolled my raccoon eyes.
One year, I met a new girl at our Chinese Christian Church. She was talkative, witty, similarly loved makeup and rebellion, and we became fast friends. This same year, a new youth pastor arrived at our church. He was funny, fluent, and finally our first youth pastor who wasn’t middle-aged.
So how do they tie back to eyeliner?
Prior to their arrival, I dreaded attending church, paranoid that the judgmental eyes of multitudes of Chinese parents hated my appearance and shared the Chinese cultural views held by my mother. Was it paranoia, or was I just observant? Adults would enthusiastically praise my younger brother’s handsome features and say nothing about my appearance other than, ��She is tall!” Their smiles seemed disingenuous and their attitudes towards me distant. Or maybe I was just overly sensitive. Regardless, much of that paranoia melted away with the arrival of a new friend and youth pastor – two characters who seemed more attuned than the other members to the Asian-American dichotomy that was my life. I began to loosen up at church, smile more, and even happily greet the adults. I felt … safe. Maybe not enthusiastically accepted, but also not frowned upon with disdain. One might wonder why I was so concerned for approval from within my Chinese church. When you live in a country spearheaded by people who don’t view you as truly American, you cling onto the safe spaces that still might take you in and consider you a member. I wasn’t aware of how shaky my walls of comfort had been built, though, until one sentence caused them to tumble back down again.
“He said he doesn’t like you because you wear so much eyeliner.” She told me. She being my new best friend and he being the cool and young youth pastor we both adored.
“How do you know this?” I asked, disbelief and doubt at each other’s throats in the battleground that was now my mind.
“Because he told my mom. And my mom told me that it’s not just him who thinks this way, but a lot of other parents. They tell their kids to stay away from you because you are a bad influence.”
Bad influence.
Me, the introvert who rarely speaks, a bad influence?
I let that sink in.
That night, I considered giving up my eyeliner. I thought all my fears about being hated by my friends’ parents were unfounded and paranoid. I thought my youth pastor would especially not judge me by something so exterior – actually, why would he judge me at all? Why would a grown ass man concern himself so heavily with whether a teenage girl wears eyeliner? Anger and sadness bubbled up around me. How did one of my greatest fears, one I thought had been pushed away and laid to rest for good, one which only my new friend knew so intimately, suddenly come to surface all over again?
And that’s when it hit me: maybe she lied.
The seed of thought that this supposed best friend might not actually like me at all was planted. And over the next few months, it thirstily drank up water and sunlight. I befriended other girls and began to uncover bits and pieces of the horrifying truth: she did hate me, and they had evidence. Screen captures and chat conversations were forwarded to my inbox. Not only did she tell others about how terrible I supposedly was, she also told them I disliked all of them and fabricated statements I had never uttered nor so much as thought. I could not believe it – why did she want to destroy my life and capitalize on my insecurities? What did I ever do but consider her my friend?
Sometimes, you never get answers.
Not too many months after, she moved again. We stumbled across each other’s Instagram accounts a few years later. She had dyed hair, tattoos, piercings all over, eyeliner wings bolder than I had ever applied, false lashes nearly reaching her thickly painted eyebrows, the same deceptively sweet smile as when we first met, and was surrounded by other Asian girls.
I once burned with the anger of her betrayal, but all I could think about now was her new embodiment of the criticisms she claimed were the reasons for my rejection from our community and how ironic our appearances were now – me being the studious medical student who sometimes forgets to wear eyeliner and she being the girl who refuses to be seen in public without it - the pictorial epitome of the bad influence she once used to mark me for social abandonment from our only remaining community.
Irony,
Karma,
or
Hypocrisy?
Today, I won’t know if sprinkled between her lies were grains of truth, and if her comment about my reputation was one of them. I won’t know if my eventual submission to certain Asian cultural values drew its main roots from my teenage experience of potential two-fold community rejection. I won’t know if she ever realized the extent to which she hurt me or if she continues to hurt in similarly sneaky ways our other Asian sisters struggling to find acceptance and self-love in a land which has subjected them to unwarranted rejection.
What I do know is this:
We
All
Cry
The
Same
Eyeliner
Tears
Yes, we do.
They trickle down from our unmistakably Asian eyes, glide along our sunscreen laden faces, and leave smudgy black streaks to remind us of both our perceived physical imperfections as well as our efforts to conceal the ugliness we feel inside.
Feeling ugly is not just some manifestation of low self-esteem as these American schools/media/counselors might tell us in order to erase from our mutual history and from their responsibility the ‘chink’ comments that we heard or the fingers-pulling-eyes-upward-to-mimic-us that we saw.
Our damaged self-esteem is not some personal mental and emotional disorder or a reflection of our weakness but a collective experience caused largely in part by the pervasive belief that some belong here but we don’t and that some are beautiful but we aren’t. Don’t think that just because dating apps are now asserting, “Asian girls are the most desired race!” that the girls who come after us are protected from the less-than we endured. The American dating scene did not just become more “accepting” of us – we changed to look more like them. But underneath the beautifully and extravagantly drawn eyeliner wings, the perfectly filled in eyebrows, the time-consuming application of fake lashes, the hours spent at the gym to avoid ‘Asian flat butt’ stereotypes, and the sharp cut of the surgery knife on our eyelids, we still cannot help but wonder: is this beautiful yet? And when he says, “Yes”, we still worry, was I not beautiful before? Do we really want to be with the ones who only want what is made-to-order, and overlook the ones who saw the original, in all its imperfections, as worth discovering? So while I have every right to be mad at my Asian sister for the hurtful actions she made against me as a result of her wanting to be more accepted by our community than I was, I cannot lose sight of the more formidable barrier to our collective inability to self-love: not the lies she told before, but the lies they still tell today.
Why are my Asian eyes so ugly? I used to think to myself constantly.
And if you’ve read this until the end, I think you know the answer.
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Comments: Friends who have read this far or read my shared thoughts at all, I know my experiences are not isolated. My past shared posts related to familial pressures and relationships have shown me just how overlapping our experiences can be. The feelings of low self-esteem and self-image at some time or another in your life is probably a universal one. Experiences of betrayal are sadly quite common. Hopefully you enjoyed this short piece - it’s a bit different from the other posts I’ve written (a little more cleaned up and narrative when compared to my usual frenetic ranting) ... anyways, I wanted to share that I’ve been working on putting together some more shorts + poems in my free time (this is how I destress from school haha) and something I hope to achieve through writing with this project (and since day one) is unfiltered and unapologetic storytelling highlighting the Asian voice that is so often completely ignored in discussions of race and discrimination. I’m not saying our experiences are to be equated to the experiences of other minorities because noo, but I am saying we should at least be included in the discussion.
This brings me to my next point: I want to continue to share your stories too. If you have experiences you want to share related in any way to your identity as an Asian-American female, I want to hear them and with your permission, try to make prose or poetry of it. Text me, message me, or call me and let’s get in touch :) Thank you for being a part of this whether as a reader or direct contributor. Let’s shape our collective voice!!!
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I'd thought I'd tell a little story during this quarantine, one that people might relate to, especially black women and girls.
I remember the exact moment in my life where I began to feel self-conscious about my body.
I was in 3rd grade, standing in line in the cafeteria, next to my crush, who at the moment was shorter than me. He pointed to my arms, told me they were hairy.
And I didn't really think much of it at time, I probably laughed it off and attempted to change the subject, but here we are, over a decade later, and I still look at my arms and think about how abnormal they are.
I started to develop at an early age - by 4th grade, I needed trainers because my chest "caused a disturbance" for some.
In 5th grade however, that was truly the turning point. Aware of my hairy arms, my developing body, I was standing in line (again with the lines), going into the classroom for the morning, and I was not only taller, I was bigger. All the children surrounding me were visibly smaller. My mind started spinning in that moment. That's all I could think about.
The teacher was at the front of the classroom, and I was looking around, wondering if any of these kids had started shopping in the juniors section already.
I know there were many factors at this point that were weighing on me, but of course at the time I didn't know what that could be. I didn't know that every time I turned on the Disney Channel and aspired to be a Disney Channel star that I was using the actors on this platform as the example I'd set for myself. I didn't know that the fashion magazines in the check-out lines encouraging me to "lose fat fast" was impacting me as I tagged along with my pops to the grocery store. Some might say "societal pressures" but I know better to characterize it as colonial pressures. Not being able to afford the latest trends, not being able to be white with bone straight hair and that photographic thigh gap.
Entering middle school was an entirely different type of hell. My economic situation became more pronounced to me. My dad's girlfriend at the time (not to put him on blast) had offered me some hand-me downs, which I was really excited about because I thought she had style.
One day at her house, she was giving me the clothes to try on, and one article of clothing after the other wasn't fitting. I was absolutely mortified. This was an adult, albeit a "petite" adult, but that didn't matter to me. My understanding was the grown ups were older, therefore they were bigger (not the best logic, I know now). I broke down in her bathroom. I said things about my body that I had never uttered before. I may have thought about saying those things, but I finally made them real.
She tried to console me as best she could, but there was nothing she could do. I was leaving her house empty handed. That was the greatest reminder.
Clearly all of this did nothing for my self-esteem. Horrible things happened in my mind. I started equating my importance and worth to the amount of attention that boys would give me. I became incredibly fixated on my look, in a really unhealthy way, worried about how I appeared to others 24/7. I would cry sometimes in the bathroom if I couldn't get my hair just right. I would avoid eating lunch in the cafeteria because that meant people would stare as I walked up to the line or threw away my trash. I traveled in crowds to blend in, so no one could point me out. My whole personality was based on feeling "pretty" and starving for people to like me. Because the moment that wasn't the case, I absolutely fell apart.
7th grade was a bad year. I hated school and most places where I was required to be in public. I started having panic attacks, anxiety attacks, sometimes in the bathroom at school. I think I lost a lot of friends because I went into a shell. My family experienced more obvious economic hardships, my uncle was taken to prison, interrupting our entire family dynamic. All of these played roles.
I was very good at hiding a lot of this though. I was a cheerleader, I mostly tried to display a sunny disposition to avoid being questioned. And I'm not saying there weren't things I enjoyed about life. My family was (is) incredible, my core friends made me laugh, I loved cheerleading, in fact, I would get so lost in it. I was the happiest when all I was doing was training, hanging with cheer mates, it was the best distraction. But at this point my life took an extremely dark turn.
In 7th grade I started to starve myself. There was no other way to describe what was wrong with me other than depression. I wasn't even familiar with the concept, but that's what it was. I was so distraught, not just by my appearance, but with everything happening in my life. I ate as little as possible, most of the time just to entertain my parents, who had noticed a significant change in my behavior. I didn't see that I was losing weight. I couldn't see the changes happening to my body. My brain still saw this person at a size I despised, so I continued to torture myself. It wasn't until about three months later, standing in the lobby of McDonald's with my mom, that my charade was over. She turned to me to ask what I'd be having, and I told her I wasn't hungry.
She looked at me sternly and spoke so only I could hear. "Why aren't you eating?" I shrugged my shoulders, "I'm just not that hungry." "I see you. You haven't been eating and now you look sick. You need to eat."
I wanted to break down in the lobby, but I didn't want noses prying into our discussion, so I ordered, picked at my food, then hid bits and pieces inside the wrappers in which they were packaged.
I knew it was wrong of me, but my mom telling me that I was in fact losing weight, made me feel good about myself for the first time in a while.
I got through my first battle with depression and tried to become more positive. When 8th grade came, I vowed that things would be different for me. I started to invest more in fashion, immersing myself with coordinating quirky fun looks on a budget. I didn't realize then that this had all become a coping mechanism.
In my new outfits that I'd put together, I began to feel more confident, like myself, happy with me. It was a much better year by far and these feelings lasted up until about 10th grade.
I had just switched to a majority white school. So my out of the box fashion choices with respect to my developing curves was quickly shot down by the laid back, by the beach Hollister shorts, flip flops and tee.
I was surrounded by girls my age that we tinier than me, once again. I remember these really cute pair of shorts I had designed myself. They were once high rise jeans that I cut up to hot pants, giving it a bit of fringe and sewing some fabric behind the parts that I'd deliberately distressed. I loved these shorts partly because I had designed them myself.
One day I wore them to school and these white girls who sat behind me snickered and whispered, "she is way too big to wear those shorts."
I threw them away when I got home, staring in the garbage bin, fighting everything in me to not retrieve them.
And I started to look at my body intensely again. Fashion was no longer a safe haven because it was now being used as a weapon against me. I had nothing to hide behind. My insecurities would be forced to take center stage in my brain again.
I hated the way I looked, every year I would look at photos from the previous year and say, "man I wish I could go back to that size" not realizing at that time that I hated who I was then too.
This is a long story but I promise I'm getting to the point.
This is hard for me to say, but at this point in my life, I'm the biggest I've ever been. I've done fad diets, tried all kinds of workout regimens, weight fluctuating over the years, to no avail. I eventually grew demoralized, feeling like no matter how hard I try, I lack the patience and discipline to reach my fitness goals.
But it's taken all of this time for me to realize this struggle hasn't been about my health and fitness goals. Up to now I've only had aspirations to "look good to attract positive attention", and I've carried on up to now not being able to look at myself and love what I see at any point of my young life.
I can't recall a time I looked at myself and said, "I'm beautiful, I'm worth it, I love the person that I am, I am happy with what I've accomplished, I am a good person." All this time I've repeatedly called myself all of those things I did that day in the bathroom of by dad's ex-girlfriend. And many more insults that I've learned over the years.
No matter the positive or negative changes my body has gone through, I haven't been able to see them. So to that extent, my goals are impossible to reach. I've never been satisfied with myself, ever.
So what now?
This struggle isn't rooted merely in some superficial beauty standards. How did these standards even get here? And why have I tried all my life to reach them? That question is far more easier to answer.
I just long for the day that I look at myself and say, "I accept you for who you are" just as I have done for others. I long for the day that I can consider my reflection beautiful, just because I think so, and not because of anyone else. I don't know when that day will come. There are moments when things are good, I feel like I'm almost there, only to be crushed by my unresolved reality of dangerously low self-esteem.
This isn't something I wrote for an outpouring of sympathy, a bunch of "you're beautiful just the way you are"'s. It won't make a difference. It's not the antidote. I wrote this because I know there are black women and girls like me, still trying to answer this question, heartbroken by their own reflection.
I will say this, though. I was inspired to write this because today I completed day eleven of a fourteen day workout challenge. For some that's no big deal, for others it won't count until all fourteen days are completed. But for me, it's a huge accomplishment. I have never in my life worked out consecutively for this amount of time. I know it's not long, but for someone who is not physically active or athletic, this is a huge step. I'm doing this thing at my own pace, even though I'm still not quite sure I'm doing it for the right reasons.
I know I'm not, but I'm partly hoping that at some point it will click for me, and I'll work out beyond the fourteen days, because I should have more to live for than just the opinions of others.
Stay tuned.
#long post#mental health#body image#depression tw#anxiety tw#panic tw#mental illness tw#mental illness#black women#black women mental health#black girls#quarantine#body positivity
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Munechika Takado - Season 1 - Main Story (Love Choice) Review
Trope: The Grouch/Hardass
Weakness: Comfort food from a local bar
For other character reviews: Voltage Men at a Glance
--
Minimum Hearts for SHE & All CGs: 150
The story:
You land yourself in the hospital of your dreams, but rather than doing your residency in the orthopedic department, you end up in the “Elite” ER unit. It’s filled with enough Ikemen to cast in all your shoujo fantasies, but as beautiful as they are, their personalities are equally unique to match.
--
The Characters:
Relationship status: Budding Interest
Surprisingly the MC and Takado fit well. Between his berating and her stubbornness, they drive their own character development forward. Not the most flattering in real life, but she’s able to get somewhere on perseverance alone and manages to not lose herself in the process. Naive from the start, she looks at the world through a shoujo tinted lens. Clumsy, of course, and not the best at interpersonal relationships, our bookworm MC comes to learn that love isn’t as prettily packaged as it is in fiction. When made to choose between love and work, she is self aware of her own emotional limitations and tells him such. She doesn’t shy from confrontation and is a real go getter which makes her appealing to the reader.
As for Takado, the depth that is missing from the Main Story is all in His POV. It goes into the extent of his despair and chronic depression and how he longs for death on a daily basis. He strongly believes that he will live and die with a scalpel in his hand, and his self worth is all wrapped up in his ability to save his patients. So he distances himself to get through life day to day and becomes a semi permanent occupant of the on call room. As he goes through his journey, his color blindness becomes a metaphor for his helplessness in the lives of his patients. He’s always searching for what he lost, and by the end of it, we the reader are left with a glimpse of hope that his search isn’t entirely a waste.
For those hoping to see a more developed romantic relationship, you’ll have to wait. This main story centers mostly around their professional relationship and her hate to love relationship with him as her admiration grows. The writers really try to paint him as a sympathetic unsung hero. Whether or not they succeeded in convincing you please let me know.
--
Was it worth the price tag?
For me: No. (Buy His POV for 200 Coins)
I am not saying it’s bad. I have seen some really enjoy the story and find the MC relatable and realistic. She even has a 2D husband that she feels like she is cheating on when she falls in love with Takado. And her female friends even mention the games they play, so those are nice nods to the reader. The score is amazing and the music really drives home each scene. But I think all that can be enjoyed without overcoming the paywall. There are longer scenes behind the paywall, but none of them were too impactful or memorable (and I can’t tell you if I would be sad if I missed any because I just don’t remember anything that stood out.)
For me, it was too exposition heavy. The MC is a glossary for medical terms and time and time again breaks the 4th wall to tell me what she is doing. The writers tried to write a medical drama ish, but so many things were glaringly different from how a real teaching hospital operates, it grated my nerves to no end. The whole start, I had a blaring sign in my head that said “MALPRACTICE.” If it was a drinking game, I’d be blacked out. Due to this, it took me a lot longer than most stories to immerse myself in the world, and it made me drag my feet with reading it.
After I set aside glossary MC, I ended up enjoying the character interactions, and sometimes she’d make me laugh or smile. I don’t think it was worth the 15 USD I paid for it though, given I could almost get an entire paid season of something else. I don’t think it explores the depth of Takado that I would like, so I can definitely say to save your money, read it for free, then spend 2 USD and get his POV. Now that POV packs a punch.
Anyways, feel free to disagree with me. I’d love to hear your point of view.
Until next time
Like what you see? If you’d like to support me, feel free to visit my ko-fi page, and contribute to my caffeine intake. It is the lifeblood of creativity and insomniacs!
#munechika takado#romance md#romance md always on call#voltage inc#love 365#love choice#game review#review
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I tried my hand at writing erotica, its non fiction based on my daily life. Tried to keep it as gender non specific as I could.
r/Ruiasoftporn
mom says, always brush your teeth in the morning:
I have read about liminal spaces. The waiting rooms between the Then and Now. The connection between what was and what will be. This Dadar railway skywalk in the cold morning feels like one. I relish cold mornings in Mumbai. I relish anything cold in Mumbai. We don’t get a lot of cold here.
In movies, they always show liminal spaces empty. Like it’s your own personal moment . Lonely . But I don’t feel lonely here. Maybe before you, maybe before us. There is a floating anticipation in this chilly air. This space is my waiting room for now, till you come. Till I see you. Waving at me, on this bridge lightly shaking from the footfalls. Lightly shaking like me.
You arrive with a smile on your lips and sleep in your eyes. You hug me good morning and I hold you still. I’m listening to my favourite song and the saxophone trill is perfect for this moment. I push a earphone in your ear and kiss you tight. It takes you a moment to register, but you pick up quickly. You pick me up quickly, and push open our mouths. Tongue on tongue at this time of the day is almost taboo but we are far from our beds and freshly brushed and bathed to start the day. Brushed mouths and fresh bodies roiling against each other.Your hands in my hair, my hands on your back. And now you aren’t sleepy anymore , rather energetic. I’m pushed against the thick metal railings, their wet cold seeping through my t-shirt. But I don’t want this kiss to end, we can go on for longer and this bridge is empty.
Also I really like the cold.
********
Nipples aren’t weed, they don’t need to be rolled like a joint everytime :
I’m in college now. I travel halfway across the city every morning to earn my degree. I will insert a line here now that my friends wouldn’t catch me dead uttering. Ruia isn’t a place, it’s a feeling. It’s a small world here, but it’s foreign. A quaint building nested in a quiet neighbourhood. But I’m standing in it’s epicentre and I can almost feel it engulfing me. It’s small, but it’s huge. It’s a fish tank sitting in the dentist’s reception area. I feel like Nemo.
I do get carried away with these thoughts once in while. I get carried away a lot, mostly by you. The Quadrangle is a strange place. It’s not square at all. It’s shape is a quarrel for another day, because right now you are staring into my eyes. I hope the midday sun is doing me some favour hitting the right angles of my face. After all, I don’t get your attention like this in public all the time. I straighten up in an attempt to make my boobs conspicuous. You laugh. “ You’ve got really bad posture, you’re going to get a hunched back someday”, you say.
Apparently the next lecture is cancelled, it was 50/50 anyway. The professor is running errands for the Principal, couldn’t be helped. We have half an hour more, to while away. We both got dragged by our friends towards the stage at one end of this open yard. The Quadrangle is bustling with people and there is no other place to sit. I sit on the edge of the stage with my legs hanging over the edge. You sit cross-legged, behind me. I lean back into you and my ill-postured back finds comfort in this position. There are my friends on one side and yours on the other. My idiots couldn’t find a place and are standing on the ground in front of me. I put my bag on my lap, there is really no place here.
You are so busy talking to your friends, and my friends are busy talking amongst themselves. I might almost drift off to sleep. Your voice reverberates from your chest and I close my eyes in peace… until I feel your hand snaking under my arm.
My eyes are wide open now. The hand has progressed to the boob now. I regret having pads in my bra now. Suddenly I am eerily aware of the number of people here. It’s bustling with people. My eyes dart all over the place, is anyone watching? My breath hitches, and my heart beats faster. I half turn to look at you questioningly. What are you doing? Why does it feel so good?
You are immersed in talking with your friends, who are dangerously close to us. Too close for comfort. I try to sit up, but you hold me steady in place against you. I look at you, you smile at me. The sun is heating up the air, but that’s not why I am sweating.
You leisurely stroke my boob in rhythm with your talk. As natural as say, ruffling someone’s hair or swinging hands in hand. My toes curl inside my Converse. I look anywhere and everywhere except your face. I almost scream when the other hand lands on my other neglected tit. An audible “Oh shit” escapes my lips. The friend who was talking to you turns to me. He agrees, the tv show he was talking about had an unexpected main character death.
Now I have to focus on her and control myself. But your relentless ministrations won’t stop. My size doesn’t matter, you’re covering every inch. The gentle pressure is driving me crazy. I want to rip my bra off so you can find the nipple. But you find it even through the thick fabric, pressing on instead of rolling it with your fingers. I am losing my mind.
I am exposed here like this, naked amongst these people and your horny self. The strokes go back and forth from my tits to my back and everything in between. How hasn’t anyone noticed? My legs shiver from all of this madness. I slowly arch into the cup of your fingers, and my feet hanging of the stage lift on their own accord. I am no longer in control.
And I accidently kick my friend standing in front. Fast as lightning, I sit up straight and apologize. And that’s when I realize someone has unpinned my bra.
*************
Its considered rude in Japanese culture to not slurp your noodles:
The canteen is a funny place. It isn’t enough of a place, there needs to be more of it. There aren’t many tables inside and we always need to fight for a table to sit. Especially now, in monsoon every inch of the area that is not covered by a warm butt is cold and soppy wet. So the actual lunch tables are much coveted. Today’s star is me. I coaxed a group of people I knew to give up their seats to me. Hence, today everyone loves me.
Our seat is near a window, I am opposite to it. I have a good view outside. The canteen windows are funny too, they overlook the quadrangle and people can look directly into your plate. Marketing gimmick.
I feel like eating oily noodles today. So I lose my new and crisp 100/- note today. Pity. I am slurping away when I hear your voice. I look up. You’re on the other side of the window looking directly into my plate. And then your gaze shifts to me.
The food is stuck in my throat. I take a fitful sip of water. I wave a ‘Hi’ at you. You wave back but don’t answer after that. You’re talking to someone on the phone. And that would be okay with me if you weren’t staring at me so much. I can’t question you, I can’t scold you. I can only look away. I am playing with my food now. I can’t eat. You make me so horridly uncomfortable in all the right ways.
But two can play this game. I start with the fork and lick it’s prongs. I smack my lips and run my tongue over them. I twirl my fork to heap noodles on it and caress the handheld end. I shove the glob of noodles in my mouth and lick the fork clean. I then proceed to moan like a kitten.
In any other circumstance I would be ashamed of myself, but this you totally deserve. You look visibly shaken. I see you gulping air, swallowing nothing. Your neck. “ I’d like to lick it someday” I think. Now I am getting distracted by the possibilities.
You end your phone call and half a minute later I get a text.
--you’re coming home with me today.
Welp, looks like I might get to experiment today.
“hey, Hey!” my friend sitting beside me calls me.
“what?”
“tell me what you ordered looks like it was really good, I’ll have a plate too”.
*************
Sometimes its better to bathe with Holy Spirit instead of Dettol after getting drenched in the rain:
Its really pouring cats and dogs today. We might get sent home early. We get phenomenal rains like these once every year in Mumbai. And Ruia lies in a low lying zone. Meaning water pools here like crazy. Just getting to college drenched me completely. The wind broke my umbrella. We all were sitting half soaked, waiting for lecture to begin. And again they got cancelled. But we still had lab work.
Me and my group of friends decided to go on the building terrace. It would be slipping wet, but we were soaked anyway. It was all empty and flooded. We dragged the tyre-cum-chaises and sat on them. It was lightly drizzling now.I looked around.
I really loved the terrace. It wasn’t too big and it wasn’t too small. It was the perfect size to hang out in. And from here, you could see the Matunga skyline. A weird mixture of really tiny, two-storeyed residential complexes and huge high-rising sky-scrapers. The clouds were rolling overhead. They looked so pregnant, their water ready to break at any moment. I loved being here, even if I was chattering from the ice-cold wind.
I text you, to come here. I need you to come here. You reply back a negative. You’re busy with your own labwork at the moment. This won’t do.
‘I am soaking wet from the rain and I’m so so cold’ I text back, attaching a selfie, as risqué as I can manage to get with people around.
I get a reply back.
‘give me 15 minutes’
Everyone else decides to leave. The labwork is simply not worth drowning for, we decide. Almost the entire college is emptying. I tell my friends I’m leaving with you. I wait inside until they leave and go back on the terrace waiting under the roof of the entrance. Out of the two entrances one is locked to prevent flooding. I am shivering.
I hear the elevator door open and close. I attack your form furiously kissing you,pulling you into the terrace area. Thank God you’re alone.
‘Whoa,you’re wet!’you say.
“And not how I’d like to be” I reply.
You take that as a challenge. My bra is unpinned under my shirt yet again. You’re getting irritatingly good at this. I back you up against the wall next to the entrance, just out of range for any pair of wayward eyes. Not that it mattered, we were literally out in the open.
‘You are so worked up today” you whisper in my ear.
‘Mhmmhm’ is all I can manage while peppering kisses on your neck. My hands are all over your chest and fumbling at your waist. Your hands are splayed across my back rubbing sensationally, sending delicious electricity down my spine.
You bring your hands around my waist to slip inside my shirt and under my bra. I exhale. My hands are in your hair now, I can barely do a thing. I am shivering, but not from the rain.
‘Looks like you need this way more badly than I originally thought ,we need a quick fix’ you say.
I bite your ear.
You look around and suddenly your eyes brighten. You lead me to a corner section of the terrace, where remnant beams of the building structure protrude outwards. They look like concrete tables. They are the perfect height to rest your elbows but a little difficult to climb and sit on.
But you straight up hoist me onto one, and pull down my pants. Track pants were a wonderful decision.
I gasped. I am soaking wet and now half naked, well almost, the pants pool at my feet. Your hands are under my thighs,over my calves racing across to my sex. Your fingers find me first, and I pull in your face for a kiss. I have crossed all my boundaries today. Your fingers come back slick, I blame the rain.
Pleasing me is difficult. Both your hands are at work. One rubbing circles on my clit, the other pumping finger after finger into my vagina. I my legs start to shake, my stomach starts to quake.
Every breath is inching me closer to glorious death. Le petit mort. I moan. Out loud.
The rain has gone from a drizzle to a raging storm. All that cold water on us, and I’m on fire.
You push away from my face only to bring yours on my sex. Your first lick on my clitoris sends me shaking into spasms. I can no longer sit upright, I lean over the surface, splayed out like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Your tongue finds rhythm with your fingers. Pumping me, sucking me, pulling me closer and closer to you, until I can bear it no longer. With a scratch of your finger and flick of your tongue, I convulse into climax.
A bone-shaking, muscle-quivering, petit mort.
I cannot move. You help me into my pants and steady me inside the building, out of the terrace plot. Everybody is going home. We get our bags and reach the exit of college too. We leave and walk together. You notice I don’t turn towards my usual way.
‘You’re home is that way’ you turn to me and say.
‘I’m coming with you today, I have to finish what you started’ I whisper.
*******
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