I Am Reminded Day In And Day Out That Just Because Someone's Older Than You, Doesn't Mean They're Wiser

Just watched Mononoke the Movie: Phantom in the Rain

how odd, to watch the creative writing exercises of angry men in the comments of instagram. you noticed it first in the comments of conventionally attractive women - but then it started appearing everywhere else, too.

a young man talks about what lunch he's packing his wife. there is a little story under it, with 300 likes, fabricated from nothing. "this is pointless. if you treat her like this, she will take the lunch to her office and fuck her boss and divorce him and take all his money."

you scroll. a young woman talks about what lunch she's packing for her husband. it is always uglier when the subject of the video is a woman, you've noticed. "you sit on camera and you smile and you are cheating with the neighbor and then you're going to lie about being sexually assaulted by your husband and -"

you stop reading. it has 567 likes.

where did this even become a thing? people making up stories in their head, disgusting long-winded assumptions about intention and sexual disgrace. the evil twin of fanfiction.

like - it's just a lie. it's a lie that they are telling, baldfaced and assumptive. the undercurrent is of course misogyny, but the trouble is that they're so fucking certain. that's what makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise. there is this pervasive, inventive desire for them to be right. that they must be right. all women are cheating, lying, gold-digging bitches. no exceptions.

in the reverse, when women say i'd rather meet a bear in the woods than a strange man - men funnel in from the sides. they defend each other with a vibrance and capacity for empathy you wish applied to like, the other half of the population. a man could be saying i absolutely did kill her and these creatures in the comments would rise up with king shit. she made it happen. they love each other to the point of this sick strange self-gaslighting, a fervent and unhinged cognitive distortion. all men are good, wonderful people. all women are terrible, conniving, seditious, annoying.

and when did it become okay to just, like... say that kind of a thing? at one point, you find yourself typing out a witty and snappy retort. why are you spending so much time fantasizing about other people babe. but as you stare at the screen, some part of you pictures this man in public, saying these things to your face. his soapbox, high and mighty. his mirrored sunglasses and his empty life: tired and lonely.

what a sad and horrible loop he's locked in. he is terrible to women, so women don't talk to him, which he uses as an excuse to act more terribly. he blames this "failure" on women, rather than on his behavior. it cannot be that he is the problem (that the solution is to just put his ego down and accept women as equals) - he begins to invent a sculpture to replace the flesh frame of each person he sees.

it isn't just a woman posing on the beach. it is now a slut with a desperate need for each person to crave her body. it isn't just a woman yelping with surprise during something upsetting. it is a hysterical, unhelpful cretin who will probably make things worse instead of better. it isn't a person.

someone's very sweet wedding vows get moderate attention on instagram. in the comments, a man says good fucking luck you'll waste your life providing while behind your back she's absolutely fucking the best man. this will be so cringe in 2 months when she walks out on you.

you think - is that what you need to be true? is that what you need to happen, for the world to make sense to you?

"Books are like seeds, they can lie dormant for centuries but they may also produce flowers in the most unpromising soil."

- Carl Sagan

Life update:-

I went from writing this:

"He had a way with words."

To this:

"He always knew what to say and each word that left those perfectly shaped lips of his was like the mead of poetry for which she would be down to trickery just to get a taste of."

This is what my life has come down to

Okay, context: This is just a little scene I typed out in the middle of the night recently for a fanfiction (which isn't really one, it only exists in my head in the form of a bunch of different scenes and some backstory). It's for the manga and anime series Vinland Saga and is a Thorfinn x oc/reader fic. That's all that I wanna say for now, I'll probably reblog this to really get into the nitty gritty of this fic (like giving the actual context of the story). I just really wanted to share this one because I can't get it out of my mind so I gotta. Anyway, enough of me yapping, enjoy.

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The moon hung low in a star studded sea of darkness, shining down on the land. The deep blue river surged on, seeming to carry a thousand shimmering stars in its bosom along its path; to flow for miles before joining at a greater vastness eventually. The glowworms didn't come out that night, painting the two familiars in just the light of the world above. They were staring at the waters in silence, both lost in thought. Erik's fingers subconsciously found their way to her hair when the strain of its bounds started to get a little painful and released them, letting her hair cascade down her shoulders, curled and tangled. A faint sigh left her at the relief to her scalp. She saw a faint outline of her face in the water, watching her locks cup her face but couldn't tell much besides due to the meagre light. She brushed through them with her hand, taming them a bit before her eyes naturally went to Thorfinn, finding his gaze already on her.

They were sitting pretty close to keep warm but the distance hadn't meant much until now, when it felt miniscule yet immense at the same time. Erik's stare wandered from Thorfinn's eyes but not far, finding home in his face still, running over his features— his nose, his brows, his hair, his temples, his cheeks, his ears, his jaw, his chin, his lips; she thoroughly traced it all with her eyes, reading each shape, each rise, each dip, each scar. In its totality, his face looked dreamy, like a haze was pulled over it. Or perhaps it was her who was in a haze, finding contentment in simply gazing at him. It was about time she said something, she was aware of that but words struggled to take form in her head, let alone break free from the confines of her mouth.

"You look beautiful." Finally, he spoke. His voice was gentle, not rising above the gushing water in front of them as a rule. Their eyes reunited and for a second, he stumbled, eyes wide as if he surprised himself with his own words but soon, he collected himself. That was his nature after all. He always knew what to say and each word that left those perfectly shaped lips of his was like the mead of poetry for which she would be down to trickery just to get a taste of.

"It... suits you... this way."

The tug on the corners of her lips grew stronger, a fluttering in her chest made her take in a deep breath; the chill, fresh smells of grass and damp soil filled her chest. Her gaze grew softer and that was answer enough for him. 'Thank you', her smile told him. She wondered what he was thinking, his honey-brown eyes refusing to leave her. What she had in mind was crystal clear though. 'I love you', that was all. She wished she could say it. She probably could but she knew neither of them wanted to break the fragile, sanctious tranquility between them.

For that reason, he let his actions speak, extending a hand and delicately caressing her cheek with his knuckles. In harmony, she closed her eyes, feeling every inch of his hand. If she could somehow collect this feeling of his warm, scarred skin on her face, make an ocean out of it and slowly drown in it for eternity, she gladly would. His hand brushed along her shadowy locks and she ached to look at him again. He had moved— no, he was moving, just so slow that it was barely noticeable.

Their eyes were set on each other, locked in place. As he neared her, she could see his eyes more clearly. Shining in the moonlight, they held not only the colour but also the effects of the most divine mead to ever make her drunk. And from the core of those wells grew his pupils ever wider, a darkness that beckoned her to get closer as well. And she did, hypnotised, leaning closer both to his palm that cupped her cheek now, and his bewitching face. His lips were parted ever so slightly which she replicated. Her eyelids grew heavier, fluttering half way down. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, almost as if to make sure this was real. He lifted his chin and tilted his head to the right and his breath tickled her cheek so intoxicatingly, her eyes couldn't stand to remain open. And if she wasn't dying to feel his lips, she would probably fall back and swoon right there.

He didn't drag her anticipation. His lips connected with hers, feather-light and softer than clouds. That alone was enough to leave her breathless— head feeling light and heart soaring. She wanted to say his name, over and over again until her breath ran out, like it was the chant of Gods, an elixir to the parched lips of a lone traveller. She didn't. Solely because she couldn't with the way his lips blanketed hers, moving in a drawn out way. He was making his point, showing her he meant what he said and more. Erik returned the affection, kissing him with all the softness and all the love she had in herself. Her hand went to hold his free one that rested on his lap, lacing her fingers with his.

Their kiss deepened slightly, the yearning that was in the back of both of their minds taking reins. Her brows drew close. Her heart was crying out, her throat hurt from keeping all the emotion down, the only outlet being her lips which did their best to convey all that they could. Soothingly, Thorfinn brushed his thumb over her warm skin again. He understood, she could tell. Because he felt it too. All those years spent away from each other crumbled and turned to dust before them; disappeared, never to separate them again. Nothing ever could, not anymore. For their hearts would always show the way to the other. Even if the heavens were to rip them apart, even if they were stranded on opposite sides of the world, they would find a way back.

'I love you', her heart whispered yet again and he listened. And he said it back, all in the simple motion of the kiss.

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Just wanna add that I've written more after this but am debating whether or not to put that up as well. I'll probably let it marinate in my notes for a while and post it anyway idk

🧐

Ok so I've been thinking about malev part 52 again, specifically about Noel. (Spoilers for 52 of course.)

Firstly, I'M SO GLAD THAT HE'S ALIVE!! I LITERALLY ALMOST SCREAMED WHEN KAYNE MENTIONED THAT HE WAS ALIVE!!!! I'VE MISSED HIM SO MUCH!!!

But I've been thinking about where exactly he is, because we dont get told much - but it is enough to start making some speculations.

I haven't hear anyone mention the fact that he could be in Harpers Hill. Which is where I believe he may be, well, at least physically at least. 1. Harpers Hill is familiar to us. John and Arthur have been there before, and its had a good few episodes set near and in it. And it was quite a big plot-point during the fist part of season 1. 2. It is close to Arkham, extremely close.

So this is where I believe Noel is. More specifically, maybe in the hospital there. Which he wound more than likely have ended up at considering he was shot in the neck and all. But that of course doesn't explain this "threshold" he's apparently at. Which is why I also believe that his consciousness is in The Waylay. We dont know much about it, but it does seem like a rest-stop before death. And there was someone who ordered him a drink (which could be Noel or Parker, or both!).

TLDR: In conclusion I think Noel's body could be in Harpers Hill's hospital, whilst his consciousness is in The Waylay.

requesting more dante art because i finished watching the dmc anime (2007) <3

This is from a few months ago, I never posted it but I like it,

anime dante is beautiful btw 💘

Alucard is my newest obsession btw

How I look every time I add a semicolon to a sentence: