it is all chaos and entropy. the thing is that the chaos and entropy make it beautiful and lovely.
yes, it's true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is terrifying. i have lived through some of the unfairness - i got born like this, with my body caving into itself, with this ironic love of dance when i sometimes can't stand up for longer than 15 minutes. i am a poet with hands that are slowly shutting down - i can't hold a pen some days. recently i found a dead bird on our front porch. she had no visible injuries. she had just died, the way things die sometimes.
it is also true that nature and the universe are uncaring and unspecific, and that is wonderful. the sheer happenstance that makes rain turn into a rainbow. the impossible coincidence of finding your best friend. i have made so many mistakes and i have let myself down and i have harmed other people by accident. nature moves anyway. on the worst day of my life she delivers me an orange juice sunset, as if she is saying try again tomorrow.
how vast and unknowing the universe! how small we are! isn't that lovely. the universe has given us flowers and harp strings and the shape of clouds. how massive our lives are in comparison to a grasshopper. the world so bright, still undiscovered. even after 30 years of being on this earth, i learned about a new type of animal today: the dhole.
chance echoing in my life like a harmony between two people talking. do you think you and i, living in different worlds but connected through the internet - do you think we've ever seen the same butterfly? they migrate thousands of miles. it's possible, right?
how beautiful the ways we fill the vastness of space. i love that when large amounts of people are applauding in a room, they all start clapping at the same time. i love that the ocean reminds us of our mother's heartbeat. i love that out of all the colors, chlorophyll chose green. i love the coincidences. i love the places where science says i don't know, but it just happens.
"the universe doesn't care about you!" oh, i know. that's okay. i care about the universe. i will put my big stupid heart out into it and watch the universe feast on it. it is not painful. it is strange - the more love you pour into the unfeeling world, the more it feels the world loves you in return. i know it's confirmation bias. i think i'm okay if my proof of kindness is just my own body and my own spirit.
i buried the bird from our porch deep in the woods. that same day, an old friend reaches out to me and says i miss you. wherever you go, no matter how bad it gets - you try to do good.
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I am so curious about the Eddie feminization fic. Can you tell us more about it or is it a secret??
you know anon, for you, ill do more than just tell you about it
here's a massive little snippet of it 💕
(nsfw beneath the cut!!!)
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“See that pretty thing in the mirror, baby?”
Eddie’s breath hitches. Buck thrumb runs idly along his pulse point, a sweet taunting sensation. Eddie wonders if he can feel the way his heart is pounding in his veins. Boiling excitement seizing his body, setting ablaze every nerve ending.
He swallows, nodding obediently.
Buck hums behind him. The look on his face being one painted with pure satisfaction.
Buck leans in, lips brushing over the shell of Eddie’s ear. The motion is so light yet sends such a delightful shiver down his spine. But then Buck smiles, a wolfish grin spreading wide across his features, that spells nothing but mischief and coy desire.
“She’s going to get fucked today.”
Buck punctuates his words with a slight squeeze of his hand.
Eddie can’t even help the whine that pours out of his throat.
Fuck.
Within the confines of the lingerie, he feels his cock throbbing, leaking delectably in the lace. He’s probably making a mess of it, though Eddie can’t find enough of a thought to care.
Buck’s gaze never breaks from the mirror, his dark piercing blue eyes staying latched onto Buck. Like a predator watching its prey with wild, careful hunger. His other hand, the one trailing across Eddie’s stomach, drifts back down and behind him.
Slim fingers slip past the elastic of the lingerie, following the curve of his ass before pausing right over the base of the plug. Eddie’s heart spikes in his chest.
“Gonna slide my cock into that slick hole of hers…” Buck murmurs, as he slowly starts pumping the plug in and out in small thrusts, just barely grazing over Eddie’s prostate that aches to be touched so badly. “And fuck her full of my come. Have her all wet and shaking beneath me.”
Eddie can’t come from this. He knows he can’t. The stimulation is not at all near close enough to get him over the edge. But God, the borderline filth pouring from Buck’s lips genuinely makes him think for a moment he might.
He presses his throat further into Buck’s palm, rocking his hips back, so, so desperate for more.
“Do you think she’ll like that?” Buck continues, voice devilishly low as he angles Eddie’s head close to him.
Holy shit.
Eddie groans into the gag, anything to convey nothing but the utmost enthusiasm. Fuck, he wants it. He wants it so bad.
His head fucking spins from it, and he knows it’s not just from the hand around his throat.
He wants to be fucked. To be stretched out and ruined. He wants to be made a writhing mess in the sheets while Buck takes him apart. God, he’ll do fucking anything for it. He craves it like air. The desire to be at someone else’s mercy- at Buck’s mercy.
To not worry or think about anything that isn’t this moment. Right now, Eddie just wants to be filled, and fucked, and tied up, and praised.
He wants to be a good girl.
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Daughter of the House of Dreams: A Fragment
Author's Note: This is the opening to a long-abandoned "Sleeping Beauty" retelling that I no longer plan to write, but I still like it as a piece of prose, and it sparked my enduring interest in second-person narration, so it feels relevant, and why should long-dead authors be the only ones who get to have their unfinished fragments published?
If you ever travel to Monetta City, be sure to visit Faraway Lane. Walk past the glittering new shops, and the shoppers in their bright silk dresses and top hats, and you'll find a cozy stone shop at the end of the street. This shop isn't grand and mighty like the other shops. It won't sniff and turn you away if your clothes aren't the latest fashion. It's a grandmotherly old shop that shakes its head at the prancing and preening of the younger shops, and invites you in instead. It holds no wares in its windows; it hardly has windows at all. But it has a warm and wide wooden door, with a shingle hanging above—Alessia Day, maker of dreams.
Don't ponder the sign's message too long—it means exactly what it says. Just slip inside, shut the door behind you, and look. Don't breathe too deeply, unless you want a week of crazy dreams, but allow yourself one gasp of astonishment. You won't be able to stop yourself. No living person has failed to feel awe toward the rows and rows of shelves, longer than streets and taller than palaces, filled to bursting with glass bottles in such bright colors that the dresses in the other shops' windows would weep in envy. Some bottles are the size of thumbnails. Most fit comfortably in the palm. Some are as large as breadboxes or steamer trunks or carriage horses, but the shelves manage to fit them all. And each bottle is filled to the brim with dreams.
If you don't understand, ask Alessia Day. You'll find her at a counter half a mile from the door, polishing bottles and humming a song you've heard but can't remember. She's an old woman now, and proud of it, but squint your eyes and start to daydream, and you'll see her as I remember her—a willow-wand girl with shining brown hair and eyes that sparkle with half-formed jokes.
Tell this girl how pretty she is (she'll laugh and call you crazy) and ask about her dreams. She'll tell you of her stock and sell you any dream you ask for—daydreams and pipe dreams, dreams of love, dreams of adventure, dreams of loved ones lost and loved ones found and people you've never met but wish you had. She'll show you dreams of lush and perfect islands, dreams where fishes fly through the air, and dreams where people swim the seas with fishes' tails. She'll pull down dreams that last a second but linger a lifetime, dreams that fill a month of stormy nights, dreams that fade on waking and dreams that drown out memories. If you let her, she'll talk of dreams until you drift off, and she'll bottle up your dream while you doze.
But if you're smart (I know you are) you'll step to the counter with a clear glass bottle, empty of everything but air, and ask for her story instead. She'd distill it in a dream for you, and be glad to do it—I once saw her whip it up in half a minute, and I'll bet she's even faster now. Buy the dream, but don't drink it right away. You won't be ready for it. Linger in the shop a while. Hear the story first from Alessia Day's lips, in that voice of hers that's sweeter than singing.
You won't believe half of it, but when you stagger from the shop and wander the empty, starlit streets, you'll ponder over passages until you stumble into bed at sunrise. And when you wake, the world will be different—you'll see tiny footprints on the windowsills, know things about the shadows on the walls, tip your hat to creatures in the corner of your eye, and realize there is another color no one else can see. You'll laugh and call it your imagination, but every second Tuesday, you'll start to wonder if the old woman was right, if the things she told you were true.
If you drink the dream she made, you'll know. I'll understand if you don't—some things are easier not to know. But if you do, and dream through her story, come to my house and ring the bell. My man will let you in—he'll know you by the wonder on your face. He'll bring you to my study, set you in my oldest, softest chair, and get us both settled with a steaming pot of tea. Then, once you've finished babbling, I'll close my eyes and tell you my part in the tale.
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no-context WIP tag
tagged by @frankenjoly ty for the tag!!
from a fic that is. very self indulgent <3 it remains to be seen if i'll ever actually finish it but i'm at least having fun writing the beginning
“I had Naomi-chan distract him, then nabbed his notebook and used the copier while he wasn’t looking,” Lucy explains. She plucks the papers from Aya’s hands, “But have you seen this shit? It almost makes me think he doesn’t actually want a partner at all.”
“I have seen it,” Atsushi assures her.
Akutagawa takes the papers. He removes his sunglasses, then begins to read over them. Almost immediately, his expression sours.
tagging (with no pressure): @rejectscanon @that-was-anticlimactic @justadino-ig @starrynightarchive @feralshadowdemon
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Do you ever read a post online where someone complains about how "IDW never talks about this [idea/character/plot/theme]" and you just think to yourself... this person hasn't read anything besides MTMTE have they?
Really sad when you see people complaining "the story never talked about this!" and act angry about it as if it's some oppressive flaw that the writer (JRO) was evil for never talking about but it's like. Bud if you just read exRID/OP or maybe Windblade/TAAO you would have read plenty about that.
The two worst ones I can think of off the top of my head are "Optimus is always treated like a saint, I hate how he gets away with everything just because he's a Prime" (wrong, read literally anything Barber writes) and "the Decepticons never get a sympathetic perspective, they're always just villains and the narrative is totally just treating them as if being revolutionaries makes them evil" (wrong, read several side stories that Barber wrote). Like literally the moral of the story is just "read something besides MTMTE."
And I'm not complaining about people who are just curious or don't know. I'm talking specifically about people who complain, or say MTMTE is bad, or generally act as if JRO's writing/MTMTE/LL represents the entirety of IDW1 and basically act like, if JRO didn't write it it doesn't exist and clearly since he didn't write it that means no one else did. Like please I'm begging you to read the other less popular but still good series in IDW1 and you'll find multiple stories/ideas that they tell that MTMTE/LL doesn't.
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so rhea BaD we know that right yeah of course
when arundel stopped donating, she didn't even care, investigate, or wonder why. she just accepted it because if that was his decision, well, good for him.
looking back on it now, considering what she knew of him, it should have been suspicious, but at the time it happened she didn't bother with it bc it was none of her business why he stopped donating.
if she had thought more about it maybe it would've been really odd and shouldn't have been ignored, but her lack of intrusion into people's lives and her consistency at minding her own business as to why they may or may not do something related to the church ended up getting the best of her.
so in conclusion, rhea did not put her nose where it didn't belong, thus, rhea BaD.
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