#but I know thinking that way is wrong. idk why though but I know that it is

[alittlegiraffe]

HEYYY i got an ideaaaa!

em thinks reader is cheating on him (due to a photo in the tabloids of a girl who LOOKED like her kissing another guy, but it wasnt her) so he dumped her. but, when he finds out the truth that she wasnt cheating and the pic was fake, he goes to her house in the middle of the night after a month of not seeing eachother and they make up (how cute ?? 🥹)

and maybe makeup smut idk 😭 ur writing is SOO good i love it i check ur page almost everyday

Title: “Not Her”

You never meant for it to become a thing.

The account had started as a hobby. Some light content—behind-the-scenes glimpses of the house renovations, your skincare routine, the occasional throwback of the girls when they were little. A new chapter for you, now that they were all mostly grown. Something of your own.

You never expected the brand deals to start rolling in. The way followers multiplied. The way your name—your actual name, not just Marshall Mathers’ wife—suddenly held weight online.

Marshall was proud. Protective, of course. But proud.

So when you got offered a partnership in LA, three days, full expenses paid, a glossy photoshoot, a press dinner, a seat at the table you never thought you’d be invited to—he told you to go.

You had kissed him in the hallway before your car came, hands around his neck, murmuring, “You’ll miss me like crazy.”

He’d answered without looking at you, his nose buried in your neck, “Already do.”

You didn’t know that would be the last thing you’d hear from him.

You come home to silence.

At first, it doesn’t register.

Your suitcase wheels thud against the tile. You call out—twice—your voice echoing through the big, still house.

“Marshall?”

The dogs are gone. So is his truck.

At first you think—errand? studio?

But then you reach for your phone. Open your texts. The most recent ones are still there. A sleepy goodnight from two days ago. Your photo from the shoot that he responded to with a flame emoji. But the bubble you type into doesn’t turn blue.

And your call goes straight to voicemail.

You frown, confused. Hit it again. Straight to voicemail.

You try FaceTime. Blocked.

You sit down at the edge of the bed like someone knocked the air out of you.

Something’s wrong.

Your heart knows it before your head catches up.

You open Instagram, then Twitter. Then you see it.

A blurry paparazzi shot. A woman with your hair. Your body type. Your outfit, even—nearly identical to the dress you wore to the brand dinner. And a man you don’t know. His arm around her waist. A kiss.

EMINEM’S WIFE SPOTTED KISSING MYSTERY MAN IN L.A.

Your stomach flips. You zoom in. The lighting is low. The resolution grainy. But it’s not you. It’s not you.

It doesn’t matter.

You feel the blood drain from your face.

You fumble with your phone and call the only person who might know where he is.

Paul answers on the second ring.

“Hey—” you start, your voice cracking, “Paul, I—I don’t know what’s going on. I just got home and he’s not here and he’s not answering me and—”

Paul sighs. And it’s a heavy, Goddammit, Marshall kind of sigh.

“I know,” he says gently. “I know. But he’s pissed.”

Your throat closes. “He thinks that’s me—? Paul, I didn’t do anything, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not you.”

You shut your eyes. “Then why—”

“Because he saw it before he heard anything else. Before anyone could explain. Because some asshole sent it to him and he was already halfway out the door before I could call him back.”

You press your palm to your mouth.

Paul continues, steady but not unkind. “He’ll come home when he realizes he’s being stupid. I’m working on it.”

Your voice comes out small. “He blocked me.”

“I know. He’s not thinking straight. Give him space, alright?”

“He left,” you whisper. “Over a photo. Over something that’s not even real.”

“He’s scared,” Paul says quietly. “He’s not mad at you, not really. He’s scared.”

That’s somehow worse. You nod, even though he can’t see it. You hang up soon after, because you can’t keep your voice from shaking.

You sit alone in the bedroom you built together, still half-dressed from your flight. And when you look in the mirror—you realize how close the resemblance really is.

You look like her.

---

You’re still in the closet, sitting on the carpeted floor where you’d slid down an hour ago, your back against his dresser. One of his hoodies is balled up in your lap. It still smells like him.

You haven’t moved.

You can’t move.

Your phone buzzes again—persistent now—and you see the name flash across the screen.

Hailie 💛

Your stomach drops.

You swipe to answer and try to sound normal.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Mom,” she says instantly, and there’s confusion in her voice, worry creeping just behind it, “what’s going on?”

You sit up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I just talked to Dad,” she says. “Or tried to. He’s at a hotel downtown. He wouldn’t say why, just said he needed space for a few days. What—did you guys fight? What happened?”

You can feel your voice trying to shake again, so you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale. “No. I mean—yes. Kind of. But not really.”

“Okay, well… now I’m freaking out,” she says. “Is it something with the girls? With Stevie?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “Everyone’s fine. It’s just—it’s a stupid misunderstanding. A bad one. A really… public one.”

You pause, then sigh. “You didn’t see the headlines yet?”

“I saw something dumb on Twitter but I thought it was fake. That woman wasn’t even you, was it? Like, obviously not, right?”

You can hear her frown through the phone.

“Right,” you say, your voice hollow. “It wasn’t. But your dad saw it, and… he blocked me before I could explain.”

“Oh my god.” She’s quiet for a beat. “Seriously? Dad thinks you’d cheat on him over a press dinner in L.A.?”

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think he really thinks that. But he saw it before he could ask me. And then it was everywhere. I guess somebody forwarded it to him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hailie mutters, then after a pause, “Do you want me to go over there? Talk to him?”

“No,” you say, too fast, too desperate. “No, please. Don’t make him feel cornered. Paul’s already trying to talk him down.”

She’s quiet for a long second.

Then, “He’s gonna feel so dumb when he realizes. I mean—Mom, this is you. You’ve been with him since you were what, nine? Ten? You literally built him into a human. He’s just being… Dad. Dramatic, moody, stubborn.”

You laugh, but it’s thin. Fractured.

“I’ll be fine,” you lie. “I just—thank you for calling.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not picking sides or anything, but… I know he’s wrong this time. He’s gonna figure it out.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to respond, so you just hum softly.

“And hey?” she says before hanging up. “Try to get some sleep. He’ll come back. He always comes back to you.”

The line goes dead.

You stare at the floor.

He’s always come back before.

But this time, it’s not just a fight.

This time, it’s the whole world watching, waiting to see if the woman in the photo is you.

If you are what broke Eminem.

---

It’s been nineteen days.

Nineteen days of pretending everything is fine.

Nineteen days of smiling through it for the brands, for the comments, for the girls who don’t need to worry that their father still hasn’t come home. That he saw a lie and believed it before he believed you.

Paul calls every few days. Always the same updates.

“He’s still pissed.”

“He’s not talking to anyone except me and Hailie.”

“Yes, I told him it wasn’t you.”

“Yes, he knows now.”

“No, he hasn’t unblocked you.”

The worst part isn’t even the silence. It’s how well you’ve managed to hide it.

You still post your content. Still go to the gym. Still film your nighttime routine and tag the serums and the silk pillowcase brands. Still smile when people ask in the comments, Where’s your husband? like you didn’t wake up alone again that morning, heart aching like a fresh bruise.

You keep it light. Keep it together.

Until one afternoon, sitting in your car after Pilates, a thought creeps in and sticks.

You open Instagram.

Click his name.

Still not blocked.

Your breath catches.

He’s watching.

He didn’t block you there.

And that changes everything.

The next morning, you post a mirror selfie at the gym. Hair up, makeup subtle but exactly how he likes it. The caption is just a single drop of sweat emoji.

Twelve hours later, your DMs are full, but not from him.

So you keep going.

The next night: a calm, softly lit routine video—your face clean, skin glowing, bare legs curled under you on the edge of the bed as you tie your hair up in a clip. The camera catches the oversized black tee that hits your thighs.

His shirt. One of the ones he thought you “looked too good in to be wearing around other people.”

No caption.

But the comments eat it up.

You post again two days later. Golden hour. A simple, flowy sundress—the one he always said made you look like summer and sin.

The hem hits high on your thighs. You angle the shot just so, a breeze catching the fabric, your smile sly.

The caption reads: “Might keep this on tonight. Might not.”

You lose five followers. Gain almost a thousand.

No message from him.

But late that night, your story shows “Seen by marshallmathers.”

Your stomach drops.

He’s watching.

Good.

Let him.

Let him see what he gave up. What’s still waiting here, soft and wanting, even though you’re angry. Even though you’re hurting.

It’s almost 2:00 AM when you hear the door.

You sit up so fast you nearly knock your water glass off the nightstand.

Keys. A familiar, halting step. Hesitation. Like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of this.

You don’t say a word.

Don’t breathe.

The bedroom door opens.

And there he is.

Marshall.

Rough around the edges. Hoodie pulled up, baseball cap low. Eyes bloodshot. A duffel still slung over one shoulder like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him stay.

He looks at you like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. Or if you’ll throw him out.

Your voice is small.

“You forgot I still have your location?”

His mouth twitches—guilt or maybe a ghost of a smile.

“I never blocked you there,” he murmurs. “Didn’t block you on Instagram either.”

“No,” you say, standing slowly. “You just blocked me everywhere else.”

He winces.

You step toward him. Stop a few feet away.

“You saw a picture of someone who looked like me. And you left.”

“I know,” he rasps, voice thick. “I fucked up.”

You’re trying to stay strong, trying not to cry. But he looks wrecked. Like the time away hurt him as much as it hurt you.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” you whisper.

“I didn’t know how,” he breathes. “It hit me all at once and I just—I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I saw that guy’s hands on her and all I could picture was—was—”

He breaks off.

You take another step. You’re close enough now to see the scruff on his jaw, the way his eyes are shining.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you,” he says fiercely. “Missed you so much it made me stupid.”

He drops the bag and pulls you in like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

And finally, after almost three weeks of cold sheets and lonely nights, of pretending and performing and aching in silence—you’re home again.

In his arms.

Where you never should’ve had to leave.

You don’t make it to the bed.

You barely make it three steps backward before his mouth is on yours—starving, reckless, like he’s trying to erase every single day he spent without you. Like kissing you is the only way he knows how to beg for forgiveness.

You gasp into it, your fingers already in his hoodie, dragging it off, not gentle. Not soft.

You’re not interested in soft tonight.

He grunts low in his throat when your nails rake down his chest and you hear it in the way his breath shudders—he’s been waiting for this.

For you.

“I saw everything,” he growls against your mouth, one hand buried in your hair now, the other already cupping your ass like he’s claiming it again. “Every fuckin’ post. Every little tease.”

You smirk, breathless. “Good.”

He laughs—dark and dangerous—and in the next breath, he spins you around, shoving you up against the bedroom wall hard enough that it rattles.

“You mad at me, baby?” he asks, mouth brushing your ear, his voice low and gritty.

“I should be,” you say, but your thighs are already pressing together.

“You are,” he says, nipping at your jaw, “but you still want me so bad you wore my shirt to bed and posted it for millions to see. That sundress? You knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.”

You don’t deny it.

His hand slips under the hem of your sleep shirt—his shirt—and when he finds nothing underneath, he growls so deep you feel it in your chest.

“No fuckin’ panties?” His mouth curls into a snarl. “You been sleeping like this without me here?”

You moan when his fingers drag up your inner thigh. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

He curses.

His palm flattens to your belly, holding you there while he pushes the shirt up, exposing you to the cool air, to him. You whimper, legs shaking, and that’s all it takes—he turns you again and lifts you clean off the floor, wrapping your legs around his waist like they belong there.

And they do.

He walks you to the edge of the bed, not bothering to undress fully. Your shirt’s off in seconds, tossed somewhere. His sweats are shoved down just enough.

The moment your skin touches his, your mouth finds his neck.

“I missed you,” you murmur against his throat.

He groans, fists the sheets beside your hips.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say, needy and angry and desperate to be forgiven. “Even when you left—I didn’t—”

His hips snap forward and he’s inside you in one rough, punishing thrust.

“Don’t say that,” he snarls, biting down against your shoulder, his voice half-gone. “Don’t you ever think I thought you did.”

“You did,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back. “You left.”

“I know,” he pants, forehead dropping to yours. “I know, baby. I fucked up so bad—”

You drag him in with your legs, your body already shaking around him.

“Then make it up to me,” you whisper. “Claim me.”

Something breaks in him.

His grip on your hips tightens. He thrusts into you harder, deeper, a filthy rhythm that has the headboard slamming, the mattress creaking under you.

“You’re mine,” he hisses, every word a thrust. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs, his fingers sliding between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing rough and tight until you’re writhing under him, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

He doesn’t stop.

Not after the first orgasm. Not after the second.

He takes everything you offer him—your forgiveness, your body, your anger, your love—and gives it back threefold, raw and aching and real.

By the time you’re both limp and boneless in the tangle of ruined sheets, the silence is different.

It’s not cold.

It’s not distant.

It’s heavy with everything he couldn’t say before.

You feel his fingers brushing hair from your face.

You hear him whisper, “I don’t care how dumb I look—I saw that photo and thought I lost you, and it killed me.”

You press your forehead to his chest, lips brushing his skin.

“I wore that sundress for you,” you say, quietly. “I wore your shirt because I missed you more than I was mad.”

“I’ll never leave again,” he promises. “I don’t care what it looks like. I’ll ask next time. I’ll fucking listen.”

You hum against his chest. “Damn right you will.”

His hand slides back down to your hip.

“Also,” he murmurs, mouth curling, “that sundress still isn’t safe.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, already pulling you back beneath him. “You just reminded me why I like it best on the floor.”

---

He’s still inside you.

Still thick and hard and pulsing against your walls, both of you drenched in sweat, your bodies trembling with the aftershock of it all.

You feel him start to shift, like he’s about to pull out, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up—your legs lock around his waist tight, thighs clamping down, holding him right there.

His breath catches in his throat.

He freezes above you.

“No,” you whisper.

His eyes darken. “Baby…”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t move. Don’t pull away.”

He stares down at you, searching your face.

You can see it in his expression—that look of a man who thought he lost everything and still doesn’t believe it’s real that you’re here, letting him touch you like this again. Letting him have you like this again.

You tug him closer by the hips, forcing him to stay deep inside, your lips brushing his ear.

“I don’t want space,” you whisper. “I want you. Still. Again. Until I forget how it felt not to have you.”

He groans—low, wounded—and drops his forehead to yours, his hands gripping the mattress tight like he’s holding himself back.

“I’m trying,” he says, breath shaking. “I’m trying to slow down, baby. I hurt you. I fucked everything up and I need to make it right.”

Your lips part.

Your voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge. “Then do. Don’t stop until you fix it.”

That breaks whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slides under your thigh and lifts it higher, folding you deeper against him as he starts to move again—slow at first, long strokes that grind his hips against yours, every thrust a promise, a penance, a plea.

You moan, eyes fluttering, and he watches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s making sure you feel it.

“You want me to fix it?” he rasps, kissing you hard. “Want me to fuck the memory of all that bullshit outta your head?”

You nod, lips swollen, fingers tight in his hair.

“I’ll do it,” he growls. “I’ll fuckin’ bury it. I’ll make sure you only remember this.”

His rhythm picks up. Your breath stutters.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice thick. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours. I never stopped being yours.”

His thrusts turn savage. Controlled, but bruising. Like he’s engraving it into you. Like every second he spent away from you is something he has to erase with his body.

You lose track of how long it lasts.

How many times you come.

How many times he shudders against you, forehead pressed to your neck, panting your name like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to say.

All you know is your body gives out before your heart does.

And still—you keep him close.

Even when he tries to roll off to give you space, you clutch at him again, dragging him with you, wrapping your arms and legs around him like you’ll never let him go again.

And this time?

He doesn’t fight it.

He just sinks into you, chest to chest, still joined, still inside you.

Silent. Breathing hard.

Only one word spoken in the dark between your tangled limbs:

“Mine.”

[lunchboxe]

I have a theory. There is very little—if any— evidence to support it, but I have a THEORY. A The Amazing Digital Circus one.

I think Jax is gonna abstract.

"oh but that's not really a theory" you say, "everyone is saying people are gonna abstract stfu" NO cause I think I know WHY (I don't and it's gonna be wrong)

The "adventure" with the fireflies and the stargazing,

"She likes when I'm mean to her though!"

"I didn't think you cared about what other people like?"

"I just- no yeah, you're right, I don't."

Jax made a face there that, if I'm remembering correctly, I believe he has only made when talking about abstraction.

First of all, I think he was being honest about Gangle. I think she likes when her comedy mask breaks (not really likes it, but maybe feels a bit relieved) because, like we see in episode 4, with or without her comedy mask, she can't just STAY happy either way. Maybe a part of her appreciates when Jax breaks the mask, so she can, both literally and figuratively, unmask.

I think that's why he was more or less against her and Zooble being so close. Zooble sees Gangle as someone to tiptoe around and protect, while Gangle thinks hanging out with Zooble is going to fix her. In terms of being happy, of course.

I think that when Jax said "you're right, I don't" he was going to say "I just don't want anyone to abstract". It's caused by stress after all, and the stress of maintaining her comedy mask all the time wouldn't be very healthy. Ever notice that in episode 4, when everyone thinks that Gangle is ACTUALLY, SUSTAINABLY happy, Jax never even tries to break her mask?

I think Ragatha is going to abstract. Both her eye and her hair glitch a bit during the baseball scene. Softball? I can't remember. Either way, Ragatha currently has to deal with the life she's built in comparison to Jax's.

She tries to help. Whether or not she always wants to, Ragatha always tries to help other people. But it makes sense that she'd be angry. Even in the pilot episode, she spends the whole time helping Pomni, and ends up left for dead. We see she's angry because she avoids eye contact after. After that, when she says "it's completely understandable with what you were going through at the time." Pomni doesn't even seem to care. She doesn't seem at all worried about what Ragatha thinks.

Then, Pomni doesn't want her cheeriness. Then she gets the stupid sauce in her eye and starts being mean to everyone. Then, she invades Pomni and Jax's conversation just to insult him and remind him of his dead friend, then she gets manipulated into leaving again so Pomni and Jax can joke around on the bench. Then those two go off to look at something in the hall, presumably Ribbits door, and everyone else goes in an unspecified direction. She's alone. No-one cared to talk to her, or ask if she wanted to go with them, she goes all this time trying to be as likeable as possible and no-one likes her.

Earlier in the episode, we even see this. Pomni keeps telling her she can stand to be meaner, but whenever she is she's hated for it. Meanwhile Jax is mean all the time, and Pomni seems to care about her a lot more than about Ragatha. Granted, it might be a stretch to say they're already friends, but you get the point.

And when Ragatha abstracts, who do you think is going to be the breaking point? Probably Jax, right? The character who seems to care the most about not wanting the others to abstract. With Ribbit he seemed very... Full of negative emotions, idk, and with Kaufmo he seemed the same way. He was upset and almost looked like he felt guilty in both instances.

So when Ragatha abstracts in part because of him, I can imagine that wouldn't exactly feel good. Thus, after a couple episodes dealing with the weight of the situation, Jax abstracts too.

... And yeah, that's kinda it. Conclusion. Bye.

[littolmouse]

can i get headcanons or drabble about tenna with somnophilia? i beg you, pretty pretty please🙏🙏🙏

from @piirrah

YES U CAN GOAT!!!

Somno!Tenna hc’s for the soul :3

tw’s/cw’s: drugging, noncon, nonconsensual drug use, abuse of power mention, nonconsensual filming mention, somnophilia

-Lovessss to invite you out to drink after work! Once he finally gets you to come with him, he’ll slip something in your drink before handing it to you, only to play the part of the sweet, attentive boss only trying to help out his drunk employee!!

.Will offer to take you to your home since you’re obviously too inebriated, but once you get in his car he’ll just drive you to the nearest motel! It’s okay though, you’ll be passed out before you’re even able to realize he’s going the wrong way.

.Will obviously have sex with your unconscious body, I mean, how could he not when you just look so cute? Will deffo leave before you’re able to gain some form of consciousness, but he’ll at least make sure you’re properly tucked in before he goes!

.When you see him the next day at work, you’re unsure why, but you get this weird…feeling inside of your body whenever you guys interact with each other; it’s like you just feel so warm whenever you’re around him for whatever reason.

-

-If you guys are together, you’ll notice he’s definitely a late sleeper.

.Some nights, he doesn’t even sleep at all; on those nights he’ll just…watch you.

.Is a super observant guy! picks up on all the little things you do while you rest! all the quiet, nonsensical mumbles under your breath, all the little shifts of your body while you toss and turn.

.Sometimes, he notices that you’re calling out for him even while asleep and it drives him fucking crazy >_< the way you continue to think about him even while dreaming drives him up the wall, it gets him hard every single time!!

.He’s just such a gentleman, he won’t wake you up to satisfy himself >_< he doesn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep after all!

.Instead, he’ll just jerk himself off over you! He’ll use his hand to stifle all of his little moans so you can’t hear him.

.When he’s gonna cum, he’ll use his other hand to catch everything that comes out! He’s just that considerate of you <3

-

-In his prime, he was fs a user of some sort you cannot convince me otherwise ✌️😭 now his drug of choice is up for debate, but i hc he would for sure abuse alcohol/weed/coke and would exert his position of power over you to make you do it too!!

.Since he’s so much bigger than you, his tolerance for these substances are crazy high! you on the other hand, are such a lightweight it’s kinda crazy to him, but that’s why he makes you do it!

.There’s been so, so many times that you just got so blackout you never remember anything afterwards, but your boss always has the pictures and videos to remind you exactly what happened the night before;

The pictures and videos of him sliding his big cock in and out of your passed out holes.

The pictures and videos of you still moaning around him even while you’re unconscious.

.He never can get over the fact that even while fucked up and passed out, you’re still just so tight and around him LOLL

.Will absolutely use it for blackmail if you try to transfer jobs or try to find an excuse not to do drugs with him ✌️😭

.and so the cycle perpetuates

extra:

idk if y’all have ever seen that one bojack scene where hollyhock keeps chloroforming todd but that’s literally tenna ✌️😭lowkey enjoys drugging you lmfao, he just 'loves' you so so so much he can’t help himself from taking advantage of you, even if he knows it’s wrong and that you would leave him any chance you got. Also he just thinks it’s fun!! how easy it is to get you so vulnerable you can’t fight back against him!! He loves the feeling of control so much, probably even more than he 'loves' you!

i hope u enjoy!!!

[cauldron-burn-and-fire-bubble]

thinking about barbara martin (trench's secretary) (not a single document written by or about her) (but we ball). also thinking about how wretched the bureau dress code is

bonus below

[eebie]

i cant keep it hidden any longer

[volivolition]

guy who's unaware he's gonna spend the next 3-5 hours reworking the lyrics of dream sweet in sea major: haha maybe i'll write a silly little narrative for my hmself, wouldn't that be fun? :)

[loversbones]

this is dj spookyswag she was born two seconds ago in a dark alleyway i found her drinking sewage and i hope she explodes

[emohorseboy]

this is an unpopular opinion but i actually love it when my friends call me, it doesn’t happen very often but i’ve had so many really lovely and memorable conversations with friends over the phone. i’m SO bad at replying to texts these days and there just is no replacement for hearing someone’s voice and laugh and stuff in real time - it’s not the same as actually being with them obviously but it’s a thousand times closer than texting. i wish it was more commonplace/socially acceptable to just call to catch up and check in. my sister called me when she was out walking once just to use the time to talk and it was so nice, why don’t we do that more? maybe people do and they just aren’t calling me (fair enough).

[moe-broey]

My therapist hasn't killed me yet 👍

[louismygf]

just recently watched this is us with my college friends

[relaxxattack]

i miss tumblr user 6ds so much...

[orcelito]

Don't know whether it's a product of my upbringing or just part of who I am, but I really do tend to shrug off things that seem to send others into massive guilt spirals. Like, what's the point? Either you meant to do it or you didn't. If you meant to do it but regret it now, make what amends you can & resolve to do better, then move on. If you didn't mean to, be honest about it, apologize if need be, & try to do better. Then move on.

Beating yourself up truly serves no purpose. What are we, catholic? If there is a god, I truly don't think they'd care, anyways

[obligatory-name-change]

thinking about a house. the house is sentient but not in a way i would typically recognize. it would view me as both a part of itself (similar to how an animal is a part of its ecosystem) and also something inherently lesser (like how an owner views its pet). i can't communicate with it in any meaningful way. i can't even tell when it's paying attention to me if it doesn't try to draw my attention. it can manipulate whatever is inside of itself except me, which would give me a sort of edge if it ever viewed me as a threat, but since it doesn't it sees it in more of a "awww look at your little claws" way.