#i will continue to update this as i continue to write more analyses

[margindoodles2407]

The Comprehensive List of Margin's Star Wars Character Analyses

On the heels of my publishing of the Domino Twins Dissertation I thought it would be prudent to make. You know. An actual list

Published Works*

(*in publication order from most to least recent)

Codywan: An Analysis

The Commander Fox Dissertation

The Domino Twins Dissertation

The Commander Cody Postulation

The Crosshair Dissertation

Can The Bad Batch Cook? An Exploration

Fun Fives Facts: An Analysis

Star Wars is a Love Story: A Thesis in Brief

The Dogma Dissertation

A Fives Analysis: High Fantasy Star Wars Edition

Heliophilic Clones: A Discussion

On Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and How Love Can Turn to Hatred

Pending Works (Unpublished But Getting There)

The Fives Thesis (AKA How I Will Be Getting Into College)

The Captain Rex Essay (I Have Thoughts (tm))

The Hunter Analysis (Eldest Siblings Of The World Unite)

The Wrecker and Tech Analyses (The Forgotten Youngest Children. We Love You)

@seeking-elsewhither @whyoneartheven behold. my very serious academic writings

[the-saltiest-saltine]

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

------

You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe. 

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest. 

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy. 

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself. 

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today. 

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with. 

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred. 

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps? 

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well. 

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly. 

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche. 

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo. 

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

0.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close. 

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept. 

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold. 

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips. 

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep. 

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away. 

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning. 

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you- 

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible. 

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within. 

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in. 

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon. 

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

[blacknedsoul-blog]

The master post of my Nevermore analysis

This post has links to all the extensive reviews I've written about Nevermore (webtoon) so it doesn't get lost in the depths of the internet. I'll update it as I write more and I'm going to try to maintain some degree of order in this mess.

Another detail: if you see that some of these reviews contradict each other or are not entirely consistent with each other, it is because I write them as the comic progresses, so it is very possible that one or more of them end up being outdated, but anyway I think it's worth keeping them.

An unnecessarily detailed analysis

These are practically vignette by vignette revisions of certain scenes or moments of the comic.

An incessantly detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo"

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the (re)encounter between Annabel and "Leo" (part II)

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of Lenore's face when she realizes how gay she is

An unnecessarily detailed analysis of the alcoholic beverages at the last meal

Literary analysis

Reviews of Nevermore from the perspective of literary theory.

Nevermore is a gothic tragedy. Part I: Classical and Shakespearean Tragedy

Nevermore is a gothic tragedy. Part II: Supernatural Brides

I think the Deans are fucking Lovecraftian gods

Character Study

These are character analyses. Some of them could fit in the previous category, but I decided to leave them aside because they are much more specific.

Annabel Lee Whitlock: The Hypocrite, the Vampire and the Femme Fatale. A review of archetypes

Lenore Vandernatch: the rogue, the gothic heroine and the courtly knight. A review of archetypes

Montresor is the Bad Ending of White Raven

Montresor is the Bad Ending of White Raven II: Electric Bogaloo

Montresor (and Willtresor) is the Bad Ending of White Raven III: now it is personal

Montresor (and Willtresor) is the Bad Ending of the White Raven IV: the saga continues

Social climbers and the relationship with power: Ada's tragedy

Nevermore themed cocktails

Fun fact: I'm a cocktail/mixology aficionado, here are some cocktail recipes based on Nevermore.

Note: the knowledge required for the preparation of mocktails is very different from the knowledge required for the preparation of cocktails. Therefore, while I may occasionally upload non-alcoholic versions of these cocktails, I may not always have the skills to make the transfer from one to the other.

Harlequin

Posh Besties

Stolen Moments

Stolen Moments (mocktail version)

Love at first sight

Bouquet of flowers (I didn't think there would be flowers again)

The box of cookies (which has no cookies)

Here's basically whatever nonsense I've burned more time on than I should and don't want it to go to waste.

A detailed explanation from my headcanon that Annabel has ADHD

Medical information about Lenore's hips (mentions of NSFW topics)

[iphigeniacomplex]

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা ("Write Down 'I am a Miyah'", 2016) by Hafiz Ahmed, translated from Assamese to English by Shalim M. Hussain, began a movement of resistance poetry among Assamese Muslims of Bengali descent, referred to as Miya Poetry after a slur used to describe this community. From Abdul Kalam Azad, for Indian Express ("Write...I am a Miya", 2019):

This poem went viral and other young poets started responding to him through poems. The young poets also started reclaiming “Miya”, a slur used against us, as our identity with pride. This chain of Facebook posts continued for days, reiterating the violence, suffering and humiliation expressed by our community. As time passed, more poets wrote in various languages and dialects, including many Miya dialects. The nomenclature ‘Miya Poetry’ got generated organically but the poets and their associates have been inspired by the Negritude and Black Arts movements, and queer, feminist and Dalit literary movements, where the oppressed have reclaimed the identity which was used to dehumanise them. The trend transcended our community. Poets from the mainstream Assamese community also wrote several poems in solidarity with the Miya poets while some regretted not being poets. Gradually, this became a full-fledged poetry movement and got recognised by other poets, critics and commentators. The quality and soul of these poems are so universal that they started finding prominence on reputed platforms. For the first time in the history of our community, we had started telling our own stories and reclaiming the Miya identity to fight against our harassers who were dehumanising us with the same word. They accused us of portraying the whole Assamese society as xenophobic. The fact is we have just analysed our conditions. Forget generalising the Assamese society as ‘xenophobic’, no Miya poet has ever used the term ‘xenophobic’ nor any of its variants. The guilt complex of our accusers is so profound that they don’t have the patience to examine why we wrote the poems.

Amrita Singh, writing for The Caravan ("Assam Against Itself", 2019), detailed the political backlash against Miya Poetry, in particular the above poem.

On 10 July this year, Pranabjit Doloi, an Assam-based journalist, filed a complaint at Guwahati’s Panbazar police station accusing ten people of indulging in criminal activities “to defame the Assamese people as Xenophobic in the world.” Doloi claimed that the ten people were trying to hinder the ongoing updation of the National Register of Citizens, a list of Assam’s Indian citizens that is due to be published on 31 August. The premise of Doloi’s complaint was a widely-circulated poem called, “Write down I am Miya,” by Hafiz Ahmed, a school teacher and social activist. “Write. Write down I am a Miya/ A citizen of democratic secular republic without any rights,” Ahmed wrote. The police registered a first information report against Doloi’s complaint, booking all ten persons for promoting enmity between groups, among other offences. [...] At the press conference, Mander emphasised that people in Assam are in distress because of the NRC’s arbitrary and rigid procedures. “One spelling mistake when you are writing a Bengali name in English … that is enough for you to be in a detention center, declared a foreigner,” Mander said. “If you are not allowing this lament to come out in the form of poetry, then where is this republic of India going?”

Ahmed's poem is influenced in structure by "Identity Card", a 1964 poem by by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish which uses the symbolic figure of the Palestinian working man to confront Israeli occupiers. Darwish's identity card, a symbol of Israeli subjugation transformed into a cry of Palestinian national identity, is reshaped by Ahmed into the National Register of Citizens for Assam and the accompanying fear of statelessness and disenfranchisement for the Miya people.

This solidarity between writers from oppressed groups is, of course, not one that ends with Darwish and Ahmed, nor with the Black, queer, feminist, and Dalit influences of Miya Poetry. As long as there is oppression, there will be companionship and recognition reflected in art and activism. On December 13, 2023, Black Agenda Report reprinted Refaat Alareer's "If I Must Die", acknowledging the connection between Alareer's poem and "If We Must Die" by Claude McKay, written in 1919 in response to the Red Summer white supremacist riots. In 2000, Haitian community activist Dahoud Andre translated "If We Must Die" into Kreyòl, and the Black Agenda Report editorial honors Alareer in a similar way, reprinting "If I Must Die" with an accompanying Kreyòl translation. (POEM: If I Must Die, Refaat Alareer, 2023.)

Transcripts under the cut.

[Hafiz Ahmed Transcripts (Assamese and English):

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা

লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা এন. আৰ. চিৰ ক্রমিক নং ২০০৫৪৩ দুজন সন্তানৰ বাপেক মই, অহাবাৰ গ্ৰীষ্মত জন্ম ল’ব আৰু এজনে তাকো তুমি ঘিণ কৰিবা নেকি যিদৰে ঘিণ কৰা মোক?

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা পতিত ভূমি, পিতনিক মই ৰূপান্তৰিত কৰিছোঁ শস্য-শ্যামলা সেউজী পথাৰলৈ তোমাক খুৱাবলৈ মই ইটা কঢ়িয়াইছোঁ তোমাৰ অট্টালিকা সাজিবলৈ, তোমাৰ গাড়ী চলাইছোঁ তোমাক আৰাম দিবলৈ, তোমাৰ নৰ্দমা ছাফা কৰিছোঁ তোমাক নিৰোগী কৰি ৰাখিবলৈ, তোমাৰে সেৱাতে মগন মই অনবৰত তাৰ পিছতো কিয় তুমি খৰ্গহস্ত? লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা গণতান্ত্ৰিক, গণৰাজ্য এখনৰ নাগৰিক এজন যাৰ কোনো অধিকাৰ নাইকিয়া মাতৃক মোৰ সজোৱা হৈছে সন্দেহযুক্ত ভোটাৰ যদিও পিতৃ-মাতৃ তাইৰ নিঃসন্দেহে ভাৰতীয়

ইচ্ছা কৰিলেই তুমি মোক হত্যা কৰিব পাৰা, জ্বলাই দিব পৰা মোৰ খেৰৰ পঁজা, খেদি দিব পাৰা মোক মোৰেই গাঁৱৰ পৰা, কাঢ়ি নিব পাৰা মোৰ সেউজী পথাৰ মোৰ বুকুৰ ওপৰেৰে চলাব পাৰা তোমাৰ বুলড্‌জাৰ তোমাৰ বুলেটে বুকুখন মোৰ কৰিব পাৰে থকাসৰকা (তোমাৰ এই কাৰ্যৰ বাবে তুমি কোনো স্তিও নোপোৱা) যুগ-যুগান্তৰ তোমাৰ অত্যাচাৰ সহ্য কৰি ব্ৰহ্মপুত্ৰৰ চৰত বাস কৰা মই এজন মিঞা মোৰ দেহা হৈ পৰিছে নিগ্ৰো কলা মোৰ চকুযুৰি অঙঠাৰ দৰে ৰঙা সাৱধান! মোৰ দুচকুত জমা হৈ আছে যুগ যুগান্তৰৰ বঞ্চনাৰ বাৰুদ আঁতৰি যোৱা, নতুবা অচিৰেই পৰিণত হ’বা মূল্যহীন ছাইত!

Write Down ‘I am a Miyah’ Hafiz Ahmed, 2016 trans. Shalim M. Hussain

Write Write Down I am a Miya My serial number in the NRC is 200543 I have two children Another is coming Next summer. Will you hate him As you hate me?

write I am a Miya I turn waste, marshy lands To green paddy fields To feed you. I carry bricks To build your buildings Drive your car For your comfort Clean your drain To keep you healthy. I have always been In your service And yet you are dissatisfied! Write down I am a Miya, A citizen of a democratic, secular, Republic Without any rights My mother a D voter, Though her parents are Indian.

If you wish kill me, drive me from my village, Snatch my green fields hire bulldozers To roll over me. Your bullets Can shatter my breast for no crime.

Write I am a Miya Of the Brahamaputra Your torture Has burnt my body black Reddened my eyes with fire. Beware! I have nothing but anger in stock. Keep away! Or Turn to Ashes.

]

[Mahmoud Darwish Transcripts (Arabic and English):

سجِّل أنا عربي ورقمُ بطاقتي خمسونَ ألفْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ وتاسعهُم.. سيأتي بعدَ صيفْ! فهلْ تغضبْ؟ سجِّلْ أنا عربي وأعملُ مع رفاقِ الكدحِ في محجرْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ أسلُّ لهمْ رغيفَ الخبزِ، والأثوابَ والدفترْ من الصخرِ ولا أتوسَّلُ الصدقاتِ من بابِكْ ولا أصغرْ أمامَ بلاطِ أعتابكْ فهل تغضب؟ سجل أنا عربي أنا اسم بلا لقبِ صَبورٌ في بلادٍ كلُّ ما فيها يعيشُ بفَوْرةِ الغضبِ جذوري قبلَ ميلادِ الزمانِ رستْ وقبلَ تفتّحِ الحقبِ وقبلَ السّروِ والزيتونِ .. وقبلَ ترعرعِ العشبِ أبي.. من أسرةِ المحراثِ لا من سادةٍ نُجُبِ وجدّي كانَ فلاحاً بلا حسبٍ.. ولا نسبِ! يُعَلّمني شموخَ الشمسِ قبلَ قراءةِ الكتبِ وبيتي’ كوخُ ناطورٍ منَ الأعوادِ والقصبِ فهل تُرضيكَ منزلتي؟ أنا اسم بلا لقبِ! سجلْ أنا عربي ولونُ الشعرِ.. فحميٌّ ولونُ العينِ.. بنيٌّ وميزاتي: على رأسي عقالٌ فوقَ كوفيّه وكفّي صلبةٌ كالصخرِ... تخمشُ من يلامسَها وعنواني: أنا من قريةٍ عزلاءَ منسيّهْ شوارعُها بلا أسماء وكلُّ رجالها في الحقلِ والمحجرْ فهل تغضبْ؟ سجِّل! أنا عربي سلبتُ كرومَ أجدادي وأرضاً كنتُ أفلحُها أنا وجميعُ أولادي ولم تتركْ لنا.. ولكلِّ أحفادي سوى هذي الصخورِ... فهل ستأخذُها حكومتكمْ.. كما قيلا!؟ إذنْ سجِّل.. برأسِ الصفحةِ الأولى أنا لا أكرهُ الناسَ ولا أسطو على أحدٍ ولكنّي.. إذا ما جعتُ آكلُ لحمَ مغتصبي حذارِ.. حذارِ.. من جوعي ومن غضبي!!

Identity Card Mahmoud Darwish, 1964 trans. Denys Johnson-Davies

Put it on record. I am an Arab

And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab

Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight children For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your door, Lower not myself at your doorstep. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

I am a name without a title, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. My roots Took hold before the birth of time Before the burgeoning of the ages, Before cypress and olive trees, Before the proliferation of weeds.

My father is from the family of the plough Not from highborn nobles.

And my grandfather was a peasant Without line or genealogy.

My house is a watchman's hut Made of sticks and reeds.

Does my status satisfy you? I am a name without a surname.

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: On my head the `iqal cords over a keffiyeh Scratching him who touches it.

My address: I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, Its streets without name And all its men in the fields and quarry. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

You stole my forefathers' vineyards And land I used to till, I and all my children, And you left us and all my grandchildren Nothing but these rocks. Will your government be taking them too As is being said?

So! Put it on record at the top of page one: I don't hate people, I trespass on no one's property.

And yet, if I were to become hungry I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. Beware, beware of my hunger And of my anger!

]

[soupthatistohot]

What is absurdism/the philosophy of the absurd?

I talk a lot about absurdism and how BSD can be read as an absurdist text, but I recognize that not everyone fully knows what absurdism as a philosophical principle or literary device actually is. So rather than explaining it every single time I bring it up, I figured I'd write a brief overview!

Note: for a while I worked with an inaccurate definition of absurdism that was closer to a definition for existentialism, but have since updated this definition. My main mistake was thinking that absurdism seeks to make meaning when it does not. Posts regarding absurdist analyses before June 2024 might be operating with this incorrect framework.

People often assume that when we talk about something being "absurd," that we're referring to the most commonly used definition of this word: "ridiculously unreasonable, unsound, or incongruous." While this certainly applies to a certain extent, the more accurate defintion of the adjective in the context I talk about it is this: "having no rational or orderly relationship to human life: meaningless." In this case, I find the the noun definition to be most precise: "the state or condition in which human beings exist in an irrational and meaningless universe and in which human life has no ultimate meaning" (all definitions from Merriam-Webster).

Put simply: when I talk about the absurd and absurdism, I'm not simply referring to the fact that things are crazy or weird, but rather to the fact that they are nonsensical in relation to life and life's meaning. This is what is at the core of absurdism.

So what is absurdism, exactly? Merriam-Webster defines it as "a philosophy based on the belief that the universe is irrational and meaningless and that the search for order brings the individual into conflict with the universe."

Existentialism contends that humans are responsible for creating their own meaning, absurdism is a branch of this school of thought that argues that there is no meaning at all, and that the act of continuing to live regardless is a rebellion against the absurd.

Albert Camus was a French philosopher and author who is often considered the father of absurdism as a philosophical principle. In his essay The Myth of Sisyphus, he compared human life to the greek myth of Sisyphus, a man who was cursed to roll a boulder up a mountain only for it to roll back down once he reached the peak, forcing him to start over -- a cycle that goes on for eternity. Sisyphus' mere existence is seemingly meaningless, but Camus argued that there is value in Sisyphus’ continual act of struggle -- his choice to continue pushing the boulder despite the circumstances is better than him giving up entirely, because he is rebelling against the absurd circumstances forced upon him.

Rebellion and revolt are at the forefront of absurdism, as the other options offered are incapable of giving life meaning, according to Camus. If one simply gives in to life's absurdity, becoming a part of the system rather than challenging it, then this accomplishes nothing and means you have trapped yourself within absurdity. The other option is suicide, which Camus also views as "giving in" to absurdity, since the individual succumbs to the idea that life has no worth. Acts of rebellion, on the other hand, have value because it pushes you to keep living regardless of absurdity.

Often, the mode of rebellion assumed by the absurdist is more absurd than the world itself. This is a really niche example, but I think it explains this well: During the communist regime in the then Czech Republic, revolutionary Vaclav Havel was followed by police when he was on vacation, constantly being spied on and sometimes attacked for no reason. Havel's response? He invited his stalkers in for tea.

What an absurd reaction to an absurd situation! But nevertheless it was an act of resistance, because Havel was directly acknowledging that he was being constantly spied on by the corrupt government for no good reason, breaking the unspoken rule of not acknowledging those spying on you. He knew that there was no point in trying to avoid them (doing so would only arouse more suspicion of him), so instead he embraced the absurdity of his situation. Often, an act of revolt entails doing just this.

In literature, whether the absurdist protagonist succeeds in their rebellion often depends on how pessimistic the author is. Franz Kafka, for example, ended most of his narratives in his main character dying in their act of rebellion, mirroring how in the real world things aren't always fair (an absurdity within itself). Camus was a bit more hopeful, his protagonists often surviving, but not always happily. Even in the case of death, though, it is implied that there is more meaning in having rebelled and died, than having continued living complicit to the absurd world.

Additionally, I want to briefly highlight that bureaucracy a big, fat absurdity that authors tend to critique. "The powers that be" often do not make sense and have priorities that don't align with commonly accepted human morals. Capitalism, government, military, police, and law are various institutions/ideas that are often criticized by absurdist authors for this reason. Franz Kafka wrote the story of a man sentenced to death without trial for a crime never detailed to him. Camus wrote the story of a doctor dealing with a plague outbreak that happened because officials didn't want to name the disease as plague and scare the public. These are just a few examples of many from the absurdist authors I am familiar with.

So, that's my brief overview of absurdity! I think it tends to pop up in a lot of fiction nowadays because of the relatable idea that things feel senseless paired with the hope that there's meaning in the act of pushing back against such things -- it makes for a good story!

I didn't cover everything here because I wanted to be concise, but I think this is a good foundational understanding of the principle to move forward with. Who knows, you might start recognizing the absurd in your favorite piece of fiction... or even in real life!

[randomness-is-my-order]

hey, welcome to my end-all be-all main blog!

this introduction is a long time coming and today i bit the bullet. fair warning: this is wordy as fuck.

hello to anyone who’s reading this. i’m tay/teru. i’m in my early 20s. she/they. this blog is to essentially engage in any and all media fandoms that i jump into and share my insights as well as post about my fics. i usually engage in a wide variety of fandoms, ranging from books/anime/manga/webtoons/shows/movies and even, occassionally, kpop though the latter is probably just going to be reblogs. i write metas for media i am more invested in while other source material might get a short review + shit posting.

my ao3: link

my fic aus can be found under: #rimo ideas

fic-related links/posts/updates: #rimo fics

original writing: #rimo writes

fandoms that feature prominently on the blog:

–mo dao zu shi: the novels and the cql ‘the untamed’. [i’m in my supercharged mdzs phase at the moment and this series might be a long-standing fixture on this blog].

– percy jackson and the olympians: the books and more prominently, the tv adaptation that was released in 2023. [my commentary during airtime was focused on analyses and positive feedback but my thoughts on the franchise as as whole and the author, rick riordian are much more critical, just an fyi for all the people who found my blog through those posts.]

– naruto: majorly posting of my fics and the ocassional doodle.

– comfort characters: wei wuxian, naruto uzumaki, mike wheeler, nick nelson, eugenides, william herondale, violet, momo ayase, okarun, anya, loid, and moreeeeee.

– otps: shikanaru, caitvi, wei wuxian/lan wangji, mileven, platonic madwheeler.

– how active am i on here? it is extremely erratic. i may continuously spam-post for a week or two and then go mia for months. i don’t know. irl situations dictate my presence on here entirely. alot of my posts are rambly and include ranting but i’m open to discourse most of the time. i specify when i’m not. dms are, of course, always open, but i may be a bit slow to respond [sorry!]. i don’t always respond to asks–sometimes i will dm you back if you aren’t anon if the topic is more suitable for a one-on-one chat but feel free to drop them! there will be lots of fic-related postings and i might some day end up compiling all my works into a coherent system of links but that day isn’t today.

i reblog cute art and any metas that i personally agree with. i don’t know why but i comment sparingly and once i’ve seen you enough, seen your posts enough, i’ll end up following you. despite all the time i spend here, i’m frankly still figuring out how to work this site.

i’ll discuss mature and triggering topics and will try to forewarn them but there probably won’t ever be any nsfw (graphic) content on here. i’m human so i’m learning and changing opinions on things every single day. though looking at media critically is important, i do give in to my biases and just have fun with things all the time. i take stories and characters seriously and will get heated about them at some point or another. if any of this isn’t your thing, i bid you farewell. :))

i will also bid you farewell if you are racist, homophobic, transphobic, xenophobic, bigoted, unnecessarily inflammatory and insulting.

anyway, let’s have fun here and engage with each other with good–or at the very least, cordial–vibes!

[cosmicjoke]

As a writer in the SNK fandom, how do you push through the discouragement from lack of engagement? No one comments on my works and it makes me really sad. At most, I’ll get one comment whenever I post something and it’ll be something like “Please update!!” People always say “write for yourself” and I do, but if I wanted to only write for myself, I wouldn’t bother posting my work. I had a work with 30+ chapters and whenever I posted, I would get hundreds of hits and no comments. I abandoned it because posting made me insecure and anxious. I write for other fandoms and don’t have this problem there, so I don’t think the issue is my writing.

Hey there!

First of all, I'm sorry to hear about the lack of engagement you've been getting on your work. That really sucks, and I know first-hand what that's like. My own work doesn't get much traction at all, either, particularly in the SnK fandom, and I don't know why that is. Whether it's people simply being too lazy to comment, or too entitled, thinking they're owed someone's work and effort and shouldn't have to pay it back in any way, or if it's some weird insecurity on their part, not wanting to comment because they feel shy or something. But I have the same issue you do, and I'm certain it's got nothing to do with the quality of the writing itself, for either of us. Sometimes I think it's because I'm not writing what's "popular", i.e. Levi/reader fics, or Levi/Eren or whatever. I don't know. I feel like most people just want to read smut, but I'm not into that at all. I updated and/or posted three new chapters for my AoT fics over the last, couple days, and I've gotten a grand total of 2 comments, I think, lol. And whenever I post a chapter or a one-shot here on tumblr, I'm lucky if I get one or two likes, and I almost never get a single reblog. It's super discouraging, and I don't blame you at all for abandoning your own writing. I've felt very often like just quitting when nobody can be bothered to leave any sort of comment, or the most they can manage is a one word comment, or a demand for an update. Hardly anybody bothers to actually tell you what they liked about a story or a chapter that you've posted.

To be honest, it's not easy to continue on when you just aren't getting any feedback. As you said, if people that write fanfiction were just doing it for themselves, they wouldn't bother publishing it online. Fandom thrives off of engagement and interaction. You'll get people whining about a fandom dying out, but then they don't lift a finger to try and keep it alive. I understand not always having the time to leave a comment on something, but once in a while would be nice. If someone is interested enough in your story to click on it, assuming they enjoy it, they should make the effort to let you know.

Mainly, I end up motivating myself just through my own passion for the source material and/or character I'm writing for. It's the same with my analyses posts. I get very little engagement, most of the time, with those, and I work pretty hard on them, too. But I keep writing them because, ultimately, I care about the media I'm analyzing and want to work out my thoughts and feelings about it. It's nice if somebody interacts with the posts, but generally, I don't expect it anymore.

It's harder with fiction, though, because while analyses posts can be seen as something more academic in nature, fiction is a form of entertainment, and so you assume people are reading it to enjoy themselves. Well, if they're enjoying it, then they should let the creator know they are.

Anyway, I feel like I'm not giving you a very good answer here. Basically, the way I keep writing, even when I don't get any engagement, is just by being interested in the source material and characters myself. So if I'm writing a story about Levi, at the end of the day, it's because I personally love his character and find enjoyment in writing for him, creating different scenarios to put him in and bringing them to life, etc... But again, it's not easy. I can't tell you how often I just want to quit. Some days, I think I will entirely. Art is meant to be shared with other people. If nobody wants to read your work, or isn't willing to let you know that they're reading and enjoying your work, then it's basically the same as telling a creator that they shouldn't bother. There's a certain level of responsibility, I feel like, from readers. They should, at a certain point, feel beholden to leave a comment if they're enjoying your work and regularly engaging with it. It's the least they could do. It takes a lot of work to write fanfiction, and nobody is getting paid to write it. The payment is when people actually tell you what they think.

[endereies]

FUCK IT - MATT STURNIOLO - PART 6

Spotify Playlist:

Pairing: Matt x Oc

Contains: Growing up with parents who make her feel isolated, what happens when she meets Matt. A person who introduces her to new people, new experiences and new feelings.

Requested?: no

Author's notes: I'm finally finished with school for the break so I should be updating a little quicker over the next 2 weeks.

Word Count: 3265

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

“Is this something we are meant to do?”

“Fuck it.”

“Okay, so, we submit this on Monday and we still have four scenes to analyse and then two exam questions to go through.” Matt mumbles as he places his back down next to me in the library and unsheathes a load of sheets, more are crumpled than ones that aren’t. The amount of them excelling the more meetings we had after school.

“We can get that done in a weekend, right?” My voice tainted with uncertainty. I had got to the library fifteen minutes before him so all my work was already displayed out in front of me with scribbles of different coloured pen one each of them.

“right.”

We were a little bit behind in our project since the majority of our meetups end in us just talking about random things or playing music with our home equipment. I would borrow Chris’s old guitars which was covered in a metallic red with black strings. The picks he bought matched perfectly dividing the red and black shades with lines of silver. Matt’s drumkit was similar to the school’s own designs yet on the base drum was the name ‘sturniolo’ in a faded midnight blue. Each drum fastened with the same blue wrapped around them. He had custom drum sticks too, fading from the original beige wood to a dyed neon-blue. The vibrancy capturing my attention every time, I bet he knew that to with the amount he’d smirk at me when he noticed me staring.

It's why we planned on staying in the library to finish the project, hopefully none of us get distracted. That’s if Matt stopped tapping his pen on the table.

“Matt.” My tone is stern as I frown still facing the pages of my book. He was too distracted in his ‘mini-concert’ that I grabbed his wrist firmly, which made his pen fall out his hand and onto the wooden desk below him.

He stammers a little as I glare at him and raise an eyebrow at him.

“The fuck did I do?”

“If you keep tapping that fucking pen on the desk, I will snap it in half.” I hold eye contact until I’m finished speaking and I let go of his wrist, watching his circulation fade back.

“And yet, you can do it all the time.” He smirks at me again and I retort by scoffing.

“When I’m in class and have nothing to do…you haven’t written anything for 10 minutes.”

“Normally by now we are playing music at our houses, this is a long ass day and this is only making it longer.” A sigh escapes my lips and I drop my pen, lean back for a moment and fold my arms loosely across my chest.

“Okay. If you work with me until six, I’ll buy you lunch all of next week.”

“Ain’t no way, you aren’t serious.”

“And you can get whatever you wish, no matter the cost, doesn’t even have to the food on campus.” I interject him by cutting him off and leaning closer over the table.

“Fine. Deal.” He holds out his hand in front of me and I look up at him with a blank expression.

“What are we, in 6th grade? I’m not shaking your hand.” I roll my eyes to him to just pick up my pen and start writing again.

“Damn, you’re no fun.”

“No…I just happened to hit puberty.” I click my tongue inside my mouth

I feel his glare on me before he continues to work on the papers in front of him. I take out my small white case and take out one of my headphones and pick up my phone to play some music in to them. I don’t bother checking what playlist I click on and immediately blast heavy dubstep into my ears, loud enough to make Matt pay attention to me again and giggle when I jump from the volume. I spam the volume control and turn it down rapidly until I can tolerate it. Matt immediately looks away from me, trying not to laugh when I hold my gaze on him for a few seconds.

-

“Is it nearly six, Alyia. My hand is fucking cramping up.” Matt whines for the fourth time in ten minutes.

“Like I said two minutes ago, no. Besides you have yet to finish of that question and it’s been nearly thirty minutes.”

“I don’t understand how you’ve been writing for that long without taking a break.”

“I want to get this finished; I don’t exactly want all this effort to go down the drain. I’ve stayed up too many nights for this.”

“Really…?” His voice filled with concern as his smirk and joke-filled demeanour faded quickly.

“What.”

“I would’ve done more of you asked me to…you didn’t have to stay up for any of it.” I interject him before he can continue

“Matt. I have more time than you, the project’s getting done. Does it really matter?” I look up to him, dropping my pen for the first time in a while.

“Of course it matters, you need sleep Alyia.”

“I also need this project done.” He sighs and rolls his eyes at me, returning the glares I’ve been giving him all night.

“Promise me you’ll relax after the project is due and let me finish off the last two questions.”

“You really like your promises, huh?” My page fills the silence as it crumples, getting caught on itself, making me purse my lips as I try to fix it before continuing to write.

“Alyia.” He grabs the pen out my hand and places it far from my reach and I narrow my eyes at him again. “I mean that, let me handle the rest of it and get some rest. Please.” I raise my eyebrow at him.

“I’ll sleep appropriately, fine, but I’m writing the last question. You can happily take the other one if you so desire.”

“Thank you. I’m not having your sleep decrease because you don’t want to ask for help.” His words make me raise my voice at him.

“What do you mean by that.”

“I don’t recall me stuttering. You have been sacrificing your sleep because you didn’t want to ask me to do a little more work.” He leans in to me, as if he is mocking me and I scoff.

“Not true.” My words mumble, subconsciously knowing he is right.

“Whatever, look it has gone six now, c’mon. We can work on this later on.” He shuffles papers together and stuffs them into his bag, lacking organisation which makes me stare at his back with a slightly shocked expression.

I follow his actions, however, and with a heavy sigh I put all my work in a pile, putting the sheets in between two books to keep them straight.

“You want to hang out later or something?” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and looks back at me.

“Hang out, me and you somewhere. I would recommend my place but Nick is there with Chris and Madi.”

“I know a place we could go if you want? I haven’t been there in a while so I don’t know how overgrown it is.”

“Wait wait. Did you say overgrown, what kind of fucking place is this.” Matt waits for me to catch-up to him and I walk slightly faster so he doesn’t have to wait so long.

“Amery Grove? There is a line of old houses at the back that people kind of forgot about, maybe like twenty years ago? I’m not sure.” Matt gaze falls to me as I start to ramble, simply listening to my words.

“Well, anyway, about two years ago a few of my friends and I decided to fix a few of them up during the summer. We didn’t decorate or anything but we cleaned old furniture and threw out what we didn’t need. While it wasn’t the prettiest, we hung out there a lot.”

“So, you just went to abandoned buildings and fixed them?” He keeps walking and opens doors in front of me as I keep talking. When he does, I quickly walk through them and turn to face Matt, proceeding to talk with my hands.

“Yeah, it was fun, even if our skills were mediocre, it made for good hangouts and a few parties.”

“You go to parties?” He gives me a side eye and I roll my eyes in response.

“Not as much anymore, I went when I had more friends to talk to and less schoolwork on my back. Maybe at some point…”

-

“Cmon you are slow” I drag out my words and groan as I get more excited, wanting to jump up and down to reduce the amount of energy but instead I shake my hands around.

“Jesus Alyia, I’m just putting our bags in here, I’m not carrying all of this across the Grove.” He arranges the bags in the back seats like some real-life game of Tetris. After another minute or so he finally shuts the car door and locks it.

“Okay I’m done, let’s go.” He puts his keys back by his belt and returns to my side.

“I haven’t been here in a while, so no promises on how clean it’ll be.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He smiles at me briefly before focusing on walking through some reasonably tall grass.

The trail I normally use is more overgrown than what I used to walk through so as we walk, we use old trees to climb past different areas and our feet to stamp on brambles and stinging nettles. It is pitch-black outside by this point so we are using our phone’s flashlights to guide our way through the trail. Leaves hang down from nearby trees and I start to wish I brought my jacket with me.

I place my feet onto a tree stump and try to climb over a fallen branch, but when my weight switches feet, I slip on some moss and fall backwards from the stump. My phone drops from my hand and the flashlight goes into my eyes, making me close them. I place my hands back to support myself for when I hit the floor but I never do. Instead, a tight grip snakes around to the side my waist and upper back, slowly pushing my body back to stand straight.

“Woah woah, are you alright…” I open my eyes to see Matt looking down at me with concerned eyes. I can barely make it out since he dropped his phone and its flashlight instantly to catch me. His chain dangles above my face and once I stand up properly, he uses one of his hands to push his hair back, keeping the other on my waist.

“Uh huh…” I regain my focus and brush myself off and pick up our phones from the damp grass. “Thanks”

“Of course,” He takes his phone back, brushing off the debris, continuing to walk ahead of me and over the branch I just slipped on. “You need to be more careful, sweetheart.”

It’s that fucking nickname again.

-

“Here we are!” I run ahead of Matt and smile bright at the few houses on a quiet lit up street.

“Its still the same…” I smile to myself, remembering how I used to run around here.

“Yeah? I think it looks fucking awesome.” He circles around me looking at the few houses, clearly seeing a difference between the ones I fixed up and the ones I left.

“Really?”

“Really. Y’know…maybe one day we could fix one up?” I turn my head a little too quickly to face him, who was already smiling at me.

“You wanna? Like, for real?” He simply nods to me before walking off to look at one of the houses closest to us.

I run to catch up to him again and I grab his wrist to show him inside one of the houses. The inside walls occasionally spotted with carvings of names and dates, ripping through worn out wallpaper. Unfinished projects left abandoned, mostly within the kitchen. I pick up an old and now rusted hammer and spin it around in my hands, recalling the last use of it going towards a leg of an old chair that lay on its side next to it. A bittersweet smile covers my face the more I venture the house, with Matt always following right behind, dragging his fingers across old cabinets and cupboards.

“you guys did so much work in here…” He picks up old projects that remain unfinished and analyze them one by one, awe showing within his eyes. “Why did you ever stop this?”

“We stopped being as close I guess...nothing personal to one another, just different schools and points in our lives. I still have contact but no one really talks as much anymore.” I quiet my voice and sit down on one of the chairs and put down the hammer.

“None of us ever took that personally, we just drifted. Miss it all like hell though.”

Matt stays quiet for a moment, just looking at me with slight pity.

“That’s a shame, especially since nothing even happened that you could’ve changed.” The distance between us closes as I stand up again but I simply keep walking towards the bottom of the stairs before I slowly walk up them.

Matt pov:

I follow her up the stairs, stepping where she did in case any areas are weak enough to break, but once I put that focus into the decor upstairs, I stand still. The upstairs was so much nicer, covered in intact wallpaper and furniture that made it seem like someone actually lived there. More carvings were decorating the walls and less tools were on the floors. I take in more of what’s around me, admiring the hard work.

Hearing the stories about her old friends make me smile but also makes me wonder why she is more closed off to people now.

We start to wonder around the different areas that she decorated and I admire the craftsmanship and efforts they put in to it.

“We can chill up here if you want?” Alyia points to a balcony that is guarded by a wooden fence, a few old chairs are stacked up and leant against the glass door and I walk through.

“Can I ask why you took me here, not that I hate it or anything. Just…if this place reminds you of your friends, why bring me here.” Alyia’s face falters slightly and I feel bad for bringing them up.

“This place has many memories but I feel stuck whenever I come here, and I love this place. I don’t want to come back here and feel self-pity when I see those carvings on the walls.”

“I meant it by the way.”

“Meant what Matt?” I look up at her before looking over the edge and down onto the weakly lit street.

“Fixing a place up with you, could be fun.” I smile at her before looking back over the edge and laying my arms on the wooden fence, trying not to apply a lot of weight onto it.

“I have no idea if any of the lighting still works properly, a few faulty lights here and there but nothing major enough to set anything up properl-“

“So? We have already walked through here in the dark easily enough, besides we don’t have to come here only at night.”

I turn back to look inside the house but my vision is slightly impaired from looking at the street lights too long. I change my point of view and glance down to my phone to check the time.

9:24pm

“Shit, it’s kind of late, do you parents want you back at a certain time?” I message Chris and Nick an apology after seeing the copious number of texts and missed calls.

“Uhm no, I can be back whenever” She trails off and I remember the phone call she had at my place.

“Oh…is she not home again?” I receive a small nod in return.

“You can stay over if you want to?”

“No, it’s okay I have things to do anyway…” She avoids eye-contact with me but I try not to question anything

“Alright then, should we head back, I’m being attacked by Nick so much” I see her smile as I finish speaking and just stands up and starts to walk back to the stairs.

-

“Just here, okay?” I turn the wheel and look through my window for any parking on the edge of the road.

“Yeah, this is perfect, thanks again” She thanks me for the millionth time tonight.

“Kid, I’ve already said it’s okay to drive you places.” I finish parking which makes the car tilt slightly as it reaches over the curb.

“Goodnight Matt.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

The drive back to my place was quite bleak, even when I turned aux on, none of the songs fit the mood I was in. Whatever that mood was. I just focused on the road ahead and the way the lights shone through my windshield and lit up areas in my car like a mini disco. I sigh when I hit another red light and pull the cable from my phone and I resort to the radio music. It immediately blares and I turn it down quickly to a volume quiet enough for some background audio.

I should hate you – Gracie Abrams

It was already half way through the song but I let it play none-the-less, letting the calm guitar fill the car. The quiet and soft vocals relaxed me and I was able to take a deep breath that didn’t result from frustration.

I notice the song fading out just as I pull into the road that I live on so I turn the radio off completely as to not ruin my mood, but as soon as I step inside it gets dampened anyway.

“Oh my God, Matt. Where were you!” I drop my keys into a small bowl and I instantly get bombarded by Nick’s concerned voice.

“Out.”

“Out? Is that all you have to say. You said you were revising the project until six and then you would be home. It is nearly half ten and this is the first we have heard from you!” he starts to exclaim and honestly, I can’t blame him for the way he is acting

“I went somewhere with Alyia…that’s all. I guess we lost track of time.” I mumble quietly, knowing I’m in the wrong but I’m not going to apologize for having a good time.

“I’m not saying you can’t hang out with people, just let us know, okay? It could be three am for all I care but as long as I have some form of communication. You had us worried…” Nick takes a deep breath and looks down to the floor.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve said something…Where is Chris?” I try and change the subject to lessen the amount I get yelled at.

“He’s asleep upstairs, he wanted to wait for you but he was exhausted after hockey so I refused to let him.”

I look up to Nick and give him a tight-lipped smile, feeling guilt twinge inside briefly.

“You better go have a shower or something, you’re covered in dirt, Matt.”

“Yeah, I will…sorry again.” Nick simply hugs me tight.

“It’s alright, just don’t let me stay up again.” He punches my arm lightly and we smile at each other.

© ENDEREIES 2024

@melliflws @axolotllover225 @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @sturniolosmind @worldlxvlys @patscorner @breeloveschris @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07

[wlwvampirism]

Reading Update (March-May)

Despite being a self-proclaimed bookblr blog, it's been a hot minute since I've talked about the books I read. Oops.

It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror edited by Joe Vallese.

This is an essay collection all about horror and how queerness relates to it. Twenty-five authors participated in this book and each one would choose a horror movie (or multiple) and write an essay about it. The essays in this collection, to me, were pretty hit or miss. I came to this book looking for a more analytical approach to horror and its relation to queerness, and though some essays delivered, most of the essays were more interested in being memoirs. Which is fine, but not really what I was looking for. I do recommend this book overall since I think that reading through this collection is rather personal and I think there's something for everyone. There's at least one essay that you'll like (probably).

My biggest pet peeve with this book is that there were quite a few essays that felt like normal memoirs with a horror movie slapped onto it; to clarify, they barely made any significant connections or analyses to the movie and it annoyed me.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

Why did I want to read Frankenstein? Can't really remember, but I read it, and I liked it. I had a lot of fun with this book and I really liked Mary Shelley's writing style. I struggle sometimes with books from the early 19th century and older because of the differences in the English language, but this one I found surprisingly easy to read. I enjoyed reading the story itself and overall, it's one of my favorite classics that I've read. Although, those five chapters about the cottage people started to lose my interest a little, but the experiencing the heartbreak that the creature went through alongside him made it worth it.

The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn't a Guy at All vol. 2 by Sumiko Arai, translated by Ajani Oloye.

I loved the sequel! I actually liked it more than I liked volume one, since this volume felt like it had a more focused plot and was less slice of life-y. This series continues to be cute and adorable and it's everything that twelve-year-old me would have loved.

Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova.

This basic premise of this book is about a grieving mother who recently lost her son; in her grieve, she cuts off a piece of his lung. After being told about a folktale, she decides to feed the lung in the hopes that it will grow into a son. Her plan works and the lung turns into a monster, whom she tries to raise. This book might just be my newest favorite book of all time. It was so fucking good. It was bittersweet and a little heartbreaking and so gripping. I loved the characters so much. This book really got to me and I would love to reread it at some point. I feel like my words aren't doing it justice. Highly recommend. It's been about a month since I've read, and some scenes still stick in my head vividly. In addition to everything else, it's such a well-written and atmospheric book.

Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon vol.1 by Naoko Takeuchi, translated by Aletha Nibley and Athena Nibley.

So, I didn't really grow up with Sailor Moon. I was a Winx Club kid, okay. So I never really got into Sailor Moon, but I've been trying to do the things that kid me never got around to, and I thought I might as well get into Sailor Moon.

I had fun with this one. I liked (most of) the characters (you'll never guess who my favorite character is), I thought the lore was interesting, I enjoy a good magical girl story (and this is THE magical girl story). I thought it was funny, charming, and a much needed break from the five horror books that I read, and am currently reading, back to back since March.

I don't care for the romance, for two reasons. One, the age difference, yadda yadda, you've heard this critique before. Two, I just didn't really pick this one up for a romance, I picked this one up for magical girls fighting crime with power but also with the power of friendship, so every time things start getting romance heavy I lose interest a little. My least favorite chapter, by far, was the Masquerade chapter. Also, so far, the fights kind of feel like Sailor Moon does everything and everyone else is There, and I would like a little more balance with this, although I'm assuming this improves later on.

Overall, I enjoyed this and I look forward to reading volume 2, whenever I get to it. Lastly, I had fun reading the translator's notes at the end, it was informative and the humor was charming. Shout out to the Nibleys for their translation work.

And that's what I've been up to from the month of March to the month of May.

[hulknussen]

will you continue doing race recaps? i really enjoyed reading the australian gp one and think you're super insightful and great at explaining things! obviously it's time consuming, so i totally understand if you aren't able to continue doing it but either way i hope you know there's at least one person who's really appreciative of your analyses and recaps about nico's races!! 💚💚

hello anon! I'm really flattered there's interest in more race analysis. I did really enjoy writing that one, but yes, they take a lot of time. australia was also heavily fueled by the outstanding result it was, whereas china and japan have been pretty... meh.

I'm moving into a new stage of life right now that means I'll have less time for all sorts of fandom endeavours going forward, be that writing fic or being on tumblr or motorsports on its own. I kinda meant to make a post about that too because I know I have wips people are waiting on updates for and requests left to be filled. I just kinda don't know how to phrase it when the tl;dr is really just, I will have less time to write or be online, and I'm sorry about anyone who gets left behind waiting on updates/req fills because of it.

all that said, the races are on weekends, and especially the next few (with the exception of miami, which is at 10pm on a sunday, and I need to get up at 5:30am on monday somebody shoot me) are at good times for me, so if there is anything interesting to talk about I might go back to writing more analysis.

in japan for example there was also the problem of steven being almost unintelligible over the sound of the sauber - which also sounded like an actual, literal tractor, holy fuck - and nico barely louder. so there was not much to orient myself on. my biggest takeaway from that race was that steven and nico were absolutely bamboozled by how smooth the track was and what it did to tyre deg because especially in china tyre deg was horrid. it was awful. I do not trust the c45 to not blow up its tyres at any given moment

so: yes, I would like to write more, if the circumstances allow and there is something to write about. and I am kinda hoping bahrain will be good enough of a race for hulknation to warrant another one. fingers crossed!

[david-tennant-wearing-things]

Making a pinned post so I look like I know what I'm doing

To be clear, my only qualifications to run this blog are:

I'm obsessed with David Tennant

I have a bit of experience with fashion design and sewing

I need an outlet to talk about DT's clothes before people irl start telling me to shut up

This blog might include actual analyses of his outfits, but I'm not great at writing long posts and I don't actually know enough about fashion to do that much analysis, so it may not 🤷

I'm trying to create a really organized tagging system so we can pretend I'm organized, but I don't actually know how well that will work. We're going to find out. Anyway, tags below the cut:

Disclaimer: I'm very adhd and sometimes I forget tags

I don't update this every time I add a new tag Latest Update: February 16, 2025 Specific Looks:

Good Omens s2 Press Day 2

Evening Standard Theatre Awards 2023

BAFTA 2024 Red Carpet

BAFTA 2024 Kilt

BAFTA 2024 Gold Suit

Red Nose Day 2024

Olivier Awards 2024

TV BAFTA 2024

British LGBT Awards 2024

Mean Girls Premiere

Pub In The Park

BAFTA 2025 Red Carpet

BAFTA 2025 Kilt

BAFTA 2025 Burberry Things He Wears Often:

Fluffy Sweaters

Pride Pins

Pride Shirts

Pride (should have all pride and allyship posts)

Peaked Lapels

Converse

Bow ties Characters:

Crowley

Ten; Fourteen; The Doctor Other People:

Georgia Tennant Instagram

Tennant Kids

Michael Sheen

Anna Lundberg Instagram

Billie Piper

Bonnie Langford

Millie Gibson

Ncuti Gatwa Designers:

Joshua Kane

Mithridate

MacGregor and MacDuff

Paul Smith

Burberry In the event that I get my act together, this blog might also include some of my own work:

Getting My Act Together And Making Shit

My Act Is Not Together Miscellaneous:

Bark Ruffalo

Wordle

Fanart

The hunt for David's aunt's blouse

Posts that don’t include pictures of David/aren't really about him are tagged #not dt or #not a fashion post (unless I forget)

fun facts that feel relevant: I'm trans, neurodivergent, and disabled. I really want to see queer, adaptive, and adjustable fashion become more mainstream, so this is my small attempt at contributing to that. While also continuing to not shut up about David Tennant.

[stolendreams99]

I wanna start brain vomiting here, but I need to get out of my own way

I've had this tumblr for years and never really got much farther than just reblogging and liking. I think I struggle with the way the site functions, I could never wrap my head around it, especially not being able to filter people's reblogs from their original content.

But here I am in adulthood with a brain that perpetually operates at 105%, constantly filled with a million and one thoughts, some deep analyses, some absolute shit.

“I want to talk about everything with at least one person as I talk about things with myself.”

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot

I started therapy a few years ago and have found myself quite the journaler, and this quote captures the 'thing' that keeps me coming back to the idea of writing here. Nothing professional, just a little blog of thoughts to share. I have friends who share my interests, but I can't always deep dive and hyperfixate for hours at a time with them. It's fun and I love them to death, but it can't happen all the time when the urge strikes. It's impractical, both for them and myself.

I think fandom as a broad concept is fascinating, I love seeing how people can breathe life back into media that only gives a fixed amount of content. When I recover from all this academic trauma and burnout, I think fandom and pop culture studies is something I might explore a bit more.

But exhaustion and ambitions aside, I like contributing to that process of bringing your own thoughts and baggage to art and watching how it gives so much more depth to it. Taking something and exploring every corner of it. I like giving, real, intense, thought to things. I like to dive into lore and think about character psychology and world building. I like to think about how the artistic choices in music and visuals contribute to it. I like to analyze dialogue and read into things and steep my brain in every element of it.

I like words, and I like using them to talk about things. I wanna do that here but I keep getting tripped up by the idea of curating the "perfect" blog and, god, it's fucking annoying. I have so many topics in my head that I've already mentally drafted out that just swim around up there and occupy space.

I wanna talk about love, grief, burnout, trauma, my life experiences that have contributed to who I am. I wanna talk about the LoZ timeline and lore, or this one fanfiction that is so exceptionally good that I will continue checking for updates no matter how long it takes, I wanna talk about music albums as collective works of art, I wanna talk about visual art and how, at the end of the day, most art is fan art and all elitists that say otherwise are missing out, I wanna talk about OSTs that rip my soul out, hold it tenderly, and put it back, I wanna talk about anime and TV shows and movies, write about my reviews and opinions, talk about the socio-cultural phenomenon that Hatsune Miku is.

I have so much shit I wanna talk about and all it does is stay tucked away in the attic of my brain just collecting dust but also still like...bouncing off the walls just trying to get out. I think writing essays in uni would've been more fun if we had more opportunities to talk about the things we cared about.

This post is a shit show and isn't much of anything for anyone, this is my attempt at getting over the idea of doing it "right" or "perfectly," it's my way of putting pencil to a blank paper, just to ruin the idea of perfection and just to get things moving.

I haven't shared my in-depth thoughts or my art consistently or with real intention on a public platform in years (did I mention I'm burnt out) so it's a bit weird thinking that people might see and read this and...I don't know, have a glimpse into my mind.

So yeah despite being on here since 2015? 16? 17? I suppose I'm pretty new to tumblr in a way. Bear with me as I try to get better at messily attempting things instead of trying to make something perfect before I even start it. I'll probably expand on so many all of the things I've mentioned here in the future :)

[couchie]

it's very awesome on the other side of this too – it's very easy to burn out from writing, especially after the initial rush of a new story and inspiration passes. i have who knows how many fanfics that are just the first three chapters written and then abandoned in a document

but receiving kudos, and even better comments, is just so good to experience 😭✨. like, 3 a.m comment notifications? gosh, im so glad my fic was the cant-put-it-down-to-actually-go-to-sleep fic for someone. a comment about a foreshadowing they anticipate or generally on the plot/progression/writing? bro i am SO flattered that you actually took time to analyse it. a comment about how the fic impacted them/what it made them feel/ "im just sobbing in bed rn omg skdjsj 😭😭😭😭"? MY STORIES INSPIRED FEELINGS IN OTHERS....... just a straight up caps locked keysmash? felt. been there done that i know how it feels and i love you for making me experience that on my own fic

and like... i continued my first ever fic for a good thirty chapter (might be even more if i'm being honest), because my wattpad mutuals (yes it was my wattpad era. i know.) commented on every single chapter and asked for a new chapter every time. i added a plot twist to one of my fics purely because a commenter was very passionate and convinced about a foreshadow that they had seen, which i hadnt actually put in there. i write author's notes that are just one sentence: "thank you for all the love and support y'all showed to this fic 🫶🫶✨✨😭". i updated a fic that i had decisively given up on after nearly a whole year, with the only reason being that someone commented how much they loved my fic

it makes a difference, guys. the writers value their audience as much as y'all value us

Yeah sure we’ve all binged a long fic, but have you ever read a WIP and followed someone’s life?

Tidbits of information - (“I graduated today!”) - and small joys (“It’s my birthday!”) and you get to be there to say “This chapter made me cry, happy birthday, thank you for gifting us this”.

I remember reading this fic of someone at the end of high school, older than me then. They seemed infinitely wise, spoke of their future career and getting into the college they wanted. I remember them posting on days they felt like nothing could bring them down - and on days the whole world did and it’s the aftermath of a hospital visit. Cancer, I think it was, their father. I got to the end of the story, I know their father was fine, but also they got to finish their WIP. I graduated three years later than them, still dutifully wrote thank you notes in every comment. I wonder if they remember me, or just the collective of people reading the story as it updates.

Four years ago I was into my first year of university, my first year of figuring out being out in public spaces. I made excuses as to why my name didn’t match my paperwork and read a fic on the train, the same five chapters over and over again for the next years as I thought the story abandoned. It updated this week after such a long hiatus, I left another thank you comment.

There’s an author I love, they update their stories like a clockwork. When they don’t, I check their blog, just to see if their doing alright, not because I feel like they owe me, just to ensure whether I better get out my laptop to write that really detailed university level essay chapter analysis to get them smiling when their day sucked.

And then, once, when I was 17, I read a fic that hadn’t updated in over a decade. I wasn’t even in primary school when it started posting. On the last chapter, I left a comment that, in retrospect, was horribly rambly and most likely full of grammar mistakes. The author replied and though I couldn’t see their face, I thought of them crying. They were married now, had children, and hadn’t thought about this fic in years. They went through their files again, found another half written chapter and an outline. I got two new chapters to read that year.

And then, recently, someone told me they got back into writing original fiction because of my comments. I get to read nearly weekly chapters.

I love binge reading a finished fic, but nothing is ever going to top the feeling of anticipation of waiting for a chapter, the pure joy when someone tells you I was done with this, but you made me think of it again, so this is for you.

Anyway, I think we should romanticize reading WIPs more, growing up alongside the authors writing the stories we love.

[strabin]

✧˖°✦Thank you for the comment✦°˖✧

⚠️I wrote something about my perspective to Jose, Wu Chang and their lore in this article. If you're sensitive to difference in interpretations of them, feel free to skip this post.

　(I used translator machine this time.)

　I was happy to give this message. And I tried writing my own interpretation of the 2022's letter, so I started making notes and reviewing the information again. Also I wanted to write about the overlap with the lyrics too.

　 But in the end, my mind felt sluggish. Gathering sources proved too difficult, so I gave up on writing a detailed analysis though I did leave behind some messy notes like this↓...

　So, though it’s rough, let me offer this as my perspective of Now, regarding what was written in the 2022 letter for now.

　While questioning the morality of his actions, Jose had been actively working toward his own goals. However, someone unexpected ended up dropping out because of him. The shock of that, combined with being left completely defenceless and forced to bear the brunt of public blame, drove him into a nervous breakdown. 　Mentally unstable, Jose managed to participate in the game at Lakeside Village, carrying with him something that had been supporting him. He headed toward the large ship, where he found the umbrella he’d been searching for—and noticed the strange ripples in the surrounding water. He approached it. 　Then, affected by the umbrella’s effects－which were intensified by the humidity－Jose began to feel an overwhelming sense of unease. While in that state, he may have seen a vision of the dead. The anxiety continued to intensify, and eventually, his dorsal vagus nerve became dominant. He entered a freeze response, his body shutting down and leaving him unable to move. ... ... In the silence, only the ticking of the clock could be heard. ... 　Perhaps triggered by that sound, Jose took out his watch and once again hypnotised himself. He had long suppressed his anxieties and faced hardship with courage. Even when unethical, morally questionable methods—the kind he once employed—flashed through his mind, he resisted falling prey to such devilish whispers. 　But now he understood: no matter how righteously he tried to live, he could never escape the fact that he was, at his core, a pirate. What’s more, reclaiming his self-perception as a pirate would allow him to gain everything he desired. 　He no longer needed to torment himself with questions of right and wrong.Through hypnosis, Jose freed himself from the guilt and self-judgment he had been carrying. His ventral vagus nerve became dominant, and with that, his mind regained stability.

　By the way, I don’t know exactly what new illusions Jose became attached to after his encounter with the Umbrella. But I get the feeling he’s trying to return to the ship. Perhaps it’s a return to his origins, or something like that... At the very least, he seems to be shifting his self-identity back from an honorable sailor to a pirate.

　That's why I've been thinking that the Identity System might be implemented for Jose. If that happens, I believe his role name would be pirate. ...Though, since Martha who seems like a more likely candidate hasn't gotten her own ID system yet, I can’t be sure whether Jose will get one either.

　Also this is the blog I wrote back when I was deeply immersed in analysing the characters’ stories in Identity V. It might be hard to read because I haven’t properly updated it well and most of the contents are written in Japanese. But if you’re interested, feel free to take a look.

　And This is an extra piece of prose that might resonate with the lyrics of the song.

This is how I see Jose:

He wanted to live according to social norms.

He took risks in order to fulfil his duty, never imagining that such actions would end up derailing his life.

Even with a dark past, he clings to hope—and would go to any lengths to do so.

He’s the type who can make painful decisions when necessary.

Like a swinging pocket watch, his sense of identity is unstable.

And yet, he could never escape the identity of being a member of the Baden family—a pirate's lineage that feels almost like a curse. (That’s why the button marked with a Ⓑ is sewn into his 3DCG.)

His courage is inherited from his father. It's not that he doesn't feel anxiety.

His impatience, and the clear boundary he draws between comrades and others, may be traits shaped by the environment in which he was raised.

And this is how I perceive Wu Chang and the umbrella:

Xie Bi'an holds a desperate, maddening desire to see Fan Wujiu again.

Forgotten by time, only the legend of their bond walks on without him.

He can never meet him again. He’s completely alone.

The umbrella, under certain conditions, causes extreme anxiety in its holder, freezing them in place—mentally and physically.

Again, thanks for your comment and for reading this long messy post✤˖✧

【日本語でも書きます】

　嬉しくて３年目の手紙に対する自分なりの解釈を書いてみようと思って、メモしたり改めて情報を見直したりしたんですが、なにしろ頭が働かない。資料を集めるのも大変なので断念しました。一応こうやってメモはしたんですがね……↓

　なので雑ですが、これでどうにか回答とさせてください。

　善悪観が揺らぎながらも自らの目標を達成するために積極的に行動していたところ、自分のせいで予想外の人物が脱落した。それに対するショックと、無防備な状態で周囲からの非難を一手に受けて責任を問われたことからホセは神経衰弱に陥った。 　精神が不安定な中、支えにしてきた何か（詳細不明）を胸に辛うじて湖景村でのゲームに参加したホセは大船の方へ行った。そこで探し求めていた傘と周囲の異常な水紋を発見し、近づく。すると、湿気によって高められた白黒無常の傘の何らかの作用によってホセは死者の幻を見た（のかもしれない）。そして不安感が極度に高まり、背側迷走神経が優位になってフリーズ状態・行動不能な状態に陥った。 …… …… 　静けさの中、時計の針だけが音を立てていた。 …… 　それに想起されたのか、ホセは時計を取り出し、再び自分に催眠を掛けた。 　感じた不安を抑え込んで勇敢に困難に立ち向かい、かつて自分がしていたような、一般的に良しとされない非倫理的な手段が脳裏にちらついたとしても、そのような悪魔のささやきには惑わされないようにしてきた。しかし、どれだけ真っ当に生きようとしても結局自分は海賊であるということからは逃れられないことに気付いた。更に、再び海賊としての自己認識を得ることで自分の望むすべてを手に入れられることに気付いた。 　もはや善悪観に揺らぐ必要はない。ホセは催眠によって自らを罰する��悪感や自己審判から逃れ、腹側迷走神経が優位な状態になり、精神が安定した。

　ちなみにホセが傘との対峙のあとにどんな新しい幻想に取りつかれたのかは分かりません。船に帰ろうとしてる気はします。原点回帰というかなんというか……。少なくとも自己認識は海上騎士から海賊へ原点回帰してそう。なので役職名-海賊としてIDシステムが来るんじゃないか？と思ったりもしている。もっと有力候補とされてる空軍にIDシステムが無いから何とも言えないけど……。

　昔作ってからまともに更新作業をしていないので新しい情報と矛盾している記事もある＋ほとんど日本語だけですが、私が第五人格のストーリーの推理にどっぷりハマっていた頃ブログがこちらにあります。もしよかったら読んでみてください。

あとこれは曲の歌詞に関連しそうな散文です

私はホセをこんな人だと思っている

社会的な規範に適った人でありたかった

仕事を全うするために危険を冒したことが人生を狂わせることになるとは到底思わなかった

暗い過去があっても希望に縋っていたい。そのためならどんな努力でもする。苦渋の選択ができるタイプ。

揺れる懐中時計のようにアイデンティティが揺らいでいる

でも海賊としてのバーデン家という、ある種呪いのようなアイデンティティから逃れられなかった（だからⒷが刻印されたボタンが縫い付けられている）

勇敢さは父親譲り。不安を感じないわけではない

せっかちだったり仲間とそれ以外の線引きがはっきりしているのは生きてきた環境による気質？

無常や傘はこんな感じ

謝必安は范無咎に気が狂うほどに会いたいという念が強い

時間に忘れ去られたまま、伝説だけが独り歩きしている

もう二度と会えない。ひとりぼっち。

傘は一定の条件がそろうと人を極度に不安にさせてフリーズ状態にさせる

重ねてになりますが、コメントを、そしてこの長い文章を読んでくれてありがとうございました。

[widedevsolution1]

ChatGPT in 2025: A Comprehensive Guide to OpenAI's Latest Innovations

Since its inception, ChatGPT has revolutionized the way we interact with artificial intelligence. As of 2025, OpenAI has introduced a plethora of new features and enhancements, making ChatGPT more versatile and user-friendly than ever before. This article delves into the latest developments, addresses frequently asked questions, and explores how Wide DevSolution leverages these advancements to provide cutting-edge solutions.

What is ChatGPT?

ChatGPT is an AI-powered language model developed by OpenAI, designed to generate human-like text based on user input. It can perform a variety of tasks, including drafting emails, writing code, creating content, and answering questions. With continuous updates, ChatGPT has evolved to include multimodal capabilities, allowing it to process and generate text, images, and even audio

Latest Features of ChatGPT in 2025

1. GPT-4.5: Enhanced Accuracy and Reduced Hallucinations

OpenAI's release of GPT-4.5 marks a significant improvement in AI interactions. This model offers more nuanced and human-like conversations, reducing instances of misinformation and enhancing user engagement. Its advanced capabilities make it an invaluable tool for businesses aiming to provide empathetic customer service and personalized experiences.

2. Operator: Autonomous Task Management

The introduction of Operator, an AI agent capable of autonomously performing tasks such as online purchases, appointment scheduling, and social media updates, signifies a shift towards more proactive AI assistance. This feature streamlines workflows and allows users to delegate routine tasks efficiently.

3. Deep Research: Comprehensive Web Analysis

ChatGPT's Deep Research functionality empowers the AI to autonomously browse the web, analyze information, and generate comprehensive reports on user-specified topics. This tool is particularly beneficial for professionals and researchers seeking in-depth analyses without the time investment traditionally required.

4. Multimodal Interactions with GPT-4o

The GPT-4o model introduces multimodal capabilities, enabling ChatGPT to process and interpret both text and images. This advancement allows for more dynamic interactions, such as analyzing charts or providing feedback on visual content, thereby broadening the scope of AI applications across various industries

5. Personalized User Experiences

With enhanced memory features, ChatGPT now remembers user preferences, previous interactions, and specific requirements, facilitating more personalized and context-aware conversations. This development ensures that users receive consistent and tailored assistance over time.

Commonly Asked Questions About ChatGPT

1. How can I use ChatGPT for daily tasks?

ChatGPT can assist with a variety of daily tasks, including drafting emails, setting reminders, scheduling appointments, and providing information on a wide range of topics. With the integration of features like Operator and Tasks, users can delegate routine activities to the AI, enhancing productivity.

2. Is ChatGPT capable of understanding multiple languages?

Yes, ChatGPT has been enhanced with multilingual capabilities, allowing it to understand and generate text in various languages, including English, Spanish, French, and more. This feature is particularly beneficial for businesses and individuals operating in multilingual environments.

3. Can ChatGPT process images and audio?

With the introduction of GPT-4o, ChatGPT now supports multimodal interactions, enabling it to process and interpret both text and images. This advancement allows for more dynamic interactions, such as analyzing charts or providing feedback on visual content.

4. How secure is ChatGPT?

OpenAI has implemented robust security measures to ensure user data is protected. Users have full control over their data, with options to manage memory settings, including enabling, disabling, viewing, editing, or deleting specific memories.

5. What are the subscription options for ChatGPT?

ChatGPT offers various subscription tiers, including free access with limited features and paid plans like ChatGPT Plus and Pro, which provide access to advanced features such as GPT-4.5, Operator, and Deep Research

Wide DevSolution: Leveraging ChatGPT's Capabilities

At Wide DevSolution, we are at the forefront of integrating ChatGPT's latest features to deliver cutting-edge solutions tailored to our clients' unique needs. Our expertise in deploying AI-driven applications ensures that businesses can leverage these advancements to enhance efficiency, customer engagement, and decision-making processes.

By incorporating ChatGPT's emotionally intelligent interactions, autonomous task management, deep research capabilities, and multimodal processing, Wide DevSolution offers comprehensive AI solutions that drive innovation and growth

Conclusion

The advancements in ChatGPT throughout 2025 underscore the transformative potential of AI in various sectors. As these technologies become increasingly sophisticated, partnering with experienced providers like Wide DevSolution ensures that businesses can effectively harness AI's capabilities to achieve their objectives

[s-b-party]

Really Late Update oof

I'm sorry for not appearing much online 🫠 I will say it's been good mentally for me (I've heard a lot of things that happened) so there's definitely at least one pro to this 😂

A lot has been going on for me that's kept me from making posts/content and interacting in general online; I got a job a while back around February (how is it almost halfway through the year already ahhhhh 💀) and since then, I've been happy that I have something to do because job-hunting daily for the past couple of years has been draining and miserable along with other events that occurred. However I'm also a bit sad that I haven't been able to keep up with everything else that I want to do when it comes to video games as it is my main hobby when I'm not working, eating, sleeping, just trying to survive in general.

I miss making my lore analyses, but with everything that's happened so far, I don't know how much I can motivate myself especially with Genshin. I enjoy the combat in Genshin a lot, but what drew me to the game in the first place was the lore and story. However, for lack of better words, I'm feeling a bit burnt out from how long we've had to wait for crumbs of certain lore/story content to be possibly answered now. For example, Mondstadt making a reappearance now with Albedo after that first Dragonspine event from a while back. A lot of lore drops/bombs are starting to arrive right about now even though a lot of people including myself have been anticipating answers for quite some time. The first event ever had brought up one popular topic of the sky being "fake" and it wasn't exactly expanded on for a long time, maybe a few mentions here or there later on but not much of an explanation for it. We got the sky being torn apart and explicitly shown to us during Natlan's story. We also have them showing recent promo material with the 3 moon sisters whom many of us were wondering about since Mondstadt. It's been a really long time since many of us anticipated for answers regarding these topics.

I've been more invested in HSR, but that's probably because since it's still a fairly young game, I'm willing to give it more time before I decide to invest less time into it. I have criticisms about its story pacing from time to time, but I still have much interest in the lore and story, so it'll be a waiting game for a bit.

Regarding Hoyoverse content that I might post if and when I have time, it'll probably be less for Genshin and HSR will be prioritized for the time being until further notice. I've been playing non-gacha games (maybe I'll look at Legend of Zelda lore more since I've been playing Tears of the Kingdom) and I want to continue writing fanfics because it's been really fun (there's an Onmyoji fanfic that I keep forgetting to copy to Tumblr which is already out on AO3 😭 I'll probably get on that soon and I'm in the middle of another HSR fanfic that I've been thinking about for weeks). I want to expand my content and my original plan was to stream again in the future, but I don't know when that'll be. For the time being, I will try my best to post content when I can. With Twitter, I haven't been on there for a while and it's been pretty good. If I end up looking at it once in a while, it won't be for too long. It would probably just be "post content/updates then go."

TLDR: My schedule has been keeping me busy. I'm not as invested in Genshin right now because it's just been a long time since I invested myself in the lore and story at the beginning so all the lore drops have been very overwhelming and overdue for me. I need some time to see if I'll treat HSR the same way. I'll try my best to get back into posting content and expand on different games. I also hope to stream again in the future.

*I don't know for certain if I'll be able to come back to Genshin and play soon since there is also the issue of storage on my phone. I will stay updated on the story content from others, so I won't be completely out of the loop.*

Sorry it took me so long to say anything at all, but I do hope everybody has been okay because I know a lot has happened during the time I haven't been interacting online outside of my close circle. Nod-Krai looks interesting and I'm happy for the people who are excited for it. Hopefully I'll be able to come back to making content refreshed :3