#writing hate

[adorationforbasil]

i honestly don't think Disventure Camp S2 needed a remake low-key .. especially when there's so little to change. and like, with hunter dating ally in dcas and this being lined up with dcas, I really hope they don't just cast tess aside like they did in dcas, a big part of her was that she.. gave up, and was left alone. and seeing as in dcas they took her and made her the third wheel therapy friend I am SO scared for any changes they'll make, especially when there's not even a reason for them to keep the polyamory anymore.

plus, idk.. i dont like how colorful the new designs are, some just look really weird especially for some characters. Idk maybe they just don't look good in the new style for me personally. Ally's hair looks so odd, it literally looks like they wanted to include the ponytail but didnt, I don't think there was a reason to keep her bangs from her new hair (plus I kinda have always missed her old body type), I don't like riyas shoes as she would NOT wear sneakers at all even in season two, I also hate how most the designs are blatantly just the all stars designs. Like tess, hunter, connor, james.. couldn't even bother to give them new clothes or designs, I always thought of it as them changing over the years and now it's ruined by the fact they're still wearing the EXACT same clothes they were a year in the future, making it look odd as not even dc1 did this.

I know this is to get rid of problematic writing.. that they left in originally. I feel that's the only reason they're remaking S2 but like, even then I don't think I'm gonna like any of the plots that stem from that era (jaiden, huntally, especially considering huntessally is removed for being written problematically but jaiden literally has a whole ass revoked consent scene and it wasn't removed or changed) and I WANNA like the change but it's just. worrying. especially considering the era of disventure camp writing they're in, I won't be surprised if half the new season is literally just yaoi yaoi yaoi.

the only designs I would say I LIKE are probably Lake, Riya and maybe Rosa Maria, but that's kinda it. I hate how the illusion of time passing is gone.. also it's SO colorful, idk I get SO overwhelmed looking at it?? my friend described it as looking fake and commercialized and I think that's EXACTLY what I've been trying to pinpoint is my problem. idk that's it, I don't mean to sound overly harsh or anything I'm sorry if I do, I'm just kinda worried for the season. i have hope, though.. a hope I probably shouldn't have for onc.

[arson-jellyfish69]

AI disturbance overlays for those who don't have Ibis paint premium. found them on tiktok

[aniisol]

Grian three-ish years ago: hey Ren meet my friend Martyn. he plays fortnite

Ren a couple days ago: Martyn, I cannot bear to think of a universe where our souls are not tied. We're the earth and the moon, pulled into continual and unceasing orbit to one another. In your absence I become a lesser man. I will destroy the fabric of the world to bring you along with me, ignore the rules of the game. You will carry my banner, I will carry your soul.

Grian a couple days ago: hey what the hell

[honestlydarkprincess]

in a polyamorous relationship with the oxford comma and the em dash

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[punkitt-is-here]

transgender online

[proxycrit]

Day 26- Lanayru Mountain

Perhaps dragon song sounds familiar. No matter; it’s time to get to business.

On that note, magnesis is reacquired! Purah’s still working on the other glyphs.

(“We’ll find a cure by the end of this year, I promise.”

“I hope we do, Mimi. I really, really hope we do.”)

((This is a totk au called familiar familiar! Zelda doesn’t go back in time, history is forever changed, and link is beset by ghost memories from his magic arm as per usual.))

(Want to throw a coin to an exhausted art hermit? Check out my patreon!)

[woman-respecter]

kids these days are like “i need chat gpt to write an essay that would normally take 12 hours in 2” but back in my day i did that all the time by using a little technique called “writing some absolute bullshit.” and yet i still walked away with a better essay and more critical thinking skills than i would get if i used chatgpt. write a bad essay that you started on the day it was due, but write it yourself.

[deusfoundry]

thinking about calling up ex!sylus after a fight in some random alley in the n109 zone ends horribly. in your eyes, the world is spinning. you stumble into a wall and let gravity slide you down on your knees. and there's blood. so much blood. but you're alive, thankfully. you can't say the same for the five guys who ganged up on you.

you fish around your pocket for your phone, struggling to unlock it with your slick, red fingers. once you're in, instinct takes over reason. you call the one person you know will make it to you in time.

the phone rings once. twice. it's the most agonizing five seconds of your life as the pool of red on your feet grows bigger.

when his voice cuts through the silence, you waste no time in telling him what's happened to you.

you're far too gone to really consider the words you choke out. you can only hope that it's enough for sylus to find you as your vision goes dark and your consciousness slips.

he arrives in less than ten minutes, with the help of mephisto who he sent out to locate you.

his heart sinks when his eyes catch the trail of blood leading into the alley. he steps off his bike and runs. one defeaning thud of his boots on the concrete after the other.

he finds you soon enough. and with the state you've been left in, he's inclined to think of the worst.

sylus kneels before you. he wills his fingers to stop shaking as they inch closer to your neck. a weight is lifted off his shoulders when he feels your pulse that's barely there. it's weak, but it means only one thing. that you're alive.

he takes you back to his manor. large hands work to delicately patch you up.

you'll have much to talk about when you wake up—if the desperation in his voice as he begs you to keep yourself awake is anything to go by. if what you had uttered before falling unconscious (faint, broken whispers of i love you. the kind that he only used to hear in the dead of the night on his bed, with you in his arms) should mean anything.

[sai-int]

[ pt 1 ] fwb!simon pt 2

--

you blink at him. once, twice, four times over, trying to make sense of the words he just said.

i’m in love with ya.

the words hang heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on.

“oh,” is all you manage at first. then, when the silence stretches too long and he’s still looking at you like that—like he’s waiting for something, hoping for something—you force yourself to shake your head.

“simon, i’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, careful. “but i don’t feel the same way.”

you think saying it plainly will be best, will make it hurt less. but you watch his face, watch as the flicker of something in his eyes dims, and you realize there’s no easy way to crush a man like him.

he merely shrugs. nods. like you just told him it’s going to rain later.

so you nod, too, because what else can you do? you reach for your shirt, slipping it back over your head, shimmying into your shorts with hands that shake just a little. the silence is unbearable now, a thick, suffocating thing, and it only gets worse when you clear your throat and ask, barely above a whisper—

“do you want me to leave?”

his answer comes immediately. “yeah.”

you freeze for a second, embarrassment creeping up your spine, then you nod again (you’ve seriously got to stop just nodding) and scurry out of his room and to his front door, yanking it open and slipping out into the hallway. your heart is in your throat, your face burning as you rush across the hall to your own apartment, slamming the door shut behind you before pressing your back against it.

fuck.

fuck, that was so embarrassing.

you spend the night drowning in self-pity, staring at the ceiling as everything replays over and over in your head like a bad movie you can’t turn off.

why didn’t you stop it sooner? why didn’t you shut it down the second he started calling you baby instead of slut? why didn’t you flinch when he pressed his forehead to yours, when his hands stopped gripping and Çstarted holding?

you didn’t just let it happen—you basked in it. soaked it up like a sponge, let it fill you—let him fill you—and now you can’t tell if that was just muscle memory, a latent yet insatiable reaction to being wanted, or if it actually meant something.

fuck, if you weren’t already embarrassed, that would do it.

meanwhile, across the hall, simon doesn’t sprial. doesn’t even wallow in the face of rejection.

he pours himself two fingers of his finest bourbon, sits back on his couch, and sparks up a cig. inhales deep, lets the smoke curl through his lungs before exhaling slow.

he's got a plan.

the next evening, your phone buzzes.

simon: come over. door’s open.

you stare at the message for a long minute, heart thudding, stomach twisting itself into knots. this is it. this is where he tells you it’s over, where he curses you out for being a selfish cunt, for leading him on, for taking all he gave without giving anything back.

and you deserve it.

so you brace yourself, tugging on a light sweater, slipping into your shoes. every step across the hall feels heavier than the last, and by the time you’re standing outside his apartment, you have to take a deep breath before pressing your palm to the door.

you push it open.

instead of anger, instead of harsh words or something hauled at your head, you’re met with the warm, rich scent of something cooking.

what the fuck?

your brows pinch together as you step in deeper, looking around cautiously. “simon?”

no answer, but then you see him—standing at the small table in the center of his apartment, just finishing setting it. two plates, two glasses, candles flickering dimly in the low light.

what the actual fuck?

your stomach drops. maybe he poisoned the food. maybe this is how you’ll die.

“what’s going on?” you ask, wary, eyeing the plates like they might explode.

simon pulls out a chair. just looks at you, waiting.

you hesitate, then slowly pad over and sit. your hands fold in your lap, your throat feels tight.

he lowers himself into the chair across from you, elbows on the table, fingers laced together.

he watches you.

you both eat in silence.

the only sounds are the soft clinks of silverware against plates, the occasional scrape of a chair as one of you shifts. you force out a weak, “this is good,” because it is—really, it is—but also because the silence is suffocating.

simon just grunts. keeps eating.

so you do too. fork to plate, bite after bite. the food is great, but you barely taste it past the tight knot in your throat.

when you're both done, he wordlessly stands, gathering the plates and taking them to the sink. you watch him move—watch the way his muscles ripple under his fitted t-shirt, the way his blond hair is perpetually tousled, the way his face, bare of any mask, is set in quiet concentration as he rinses the dishes.

you don't even realize you're staring until—

thwap.

you flinch as he flicks your forehead, his thumb and middle finger snapping against your skin just hard enough to jolt you back to reality. you blink up at him, startled, as he stands in front of you, hand extended.

you hesitate, then slip your fingers into his.

he pulls you up, and before you can register it, he's on you—his hands firm on your waist, his lips swallowing yours entirely

you squeal at first, but his lips are so soft, so sweet and full of something heavy, something deep.

you melt into him.

and that's just stage one of simon's plan, to woo you.

that night he fucks you so good you can’t even think about leaving his bed, let alone moving. He splits you open on his cock, ravishing you to the nines. he takes his time, makes you feel it, makes sure you can feel every ounce of his devotion each time he makes you cum (6 times in one night, a new record)

by the time he's done, you're ruined. wrecked in the best way possible

when morning comes, you're knocked, body heavy and sore, limbs tangled in his sheets. you don’t even stir when he rolls out of bed, grabs your phone from where you dropped it the night before.

he types out a quick message to your boss

you: sorry, got covid. can’t come in for two weeks.

sent—delivered—read—probably fired, too (you won’t be needing a job with him around, silly)

you shift slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but you don’t wake.

simon smirks to himself, tossing your phone onto the nightstand.

(don’t ask how he knows your passcode)

stage two is integration.

the next time beckons you over to his place, you notice something’s… off.

your favorite coffee beans are sitting next to his cheap instant shit. your shampoo, your conditioner, your body wash—all neatly lined up in his shower. there’s a hoodie you thought the building’s dryer must’ve gobbled up weeks ago, just neatly folded on his dresser. The chapstick he’s tasted on your lips countless times now sits atop his bedside table.

you blink at the sight of it all, brows furrowed. you pick up the chapstick, turning to him with a questioning look.

he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“figured you’d be 'round more often,” he says, completely casual, completely simon about it.

like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you’ve already signed a lease and are moving in next month (you are, you just don’t know it yet, doll).

you should argue. you should tell him ‘no, we’re not doing this’, but you don’t. instead, you swipe the chapstick over your lips, put it back where you found it, and pretend you don’t feel his eyes on you the whole time.

he smirks to himself, taking your silence for what it is. acceptance.

stage three of his plan? move out!

oh, but not him. 

you wake in your bed (for once) to find simon standing in front of your dresser.

your dresser.

he’s holding one of your shirts—some thin, worn-out thing you only sleep in—twisting the fabric between his fingers.

you rub the sleep from your eyes, voice groggy when you ask, “what the hell are you doing?”

he doesn’t even turn around. “doin’ you a favor.”

“a favor,” you repeat, voice flat.

he glances at you over his shoulder. “yeah. consolidating.”

and that’s when you notice—your drawers are open, half-empty, your closet missing key pieces. your things are gone.

panic flares in your chest. you throw the blankets off, stomp over to him, grab the shirt from his hands. "simon. where the fuck is my stuff?"

he shrugs, completely unbothered. "my place."

“your—” you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath, hands clenched into fists.

“figured it’d be easier this way,” he continues, like he’s explaining something obvious. “y'know, since y’spend all your time there anyway.”

you gape at him, dumbfounded. “you stole my shit?”

he tilts his head, considering. “nah,” he says finally. “just moved it.”

“without asking me.”

he steps closer, towering over you, eyes heavy-lidded and knowing.

“would you ‘ave said no?”

you want to say yes. you should say yes.

but the truth is, you don’t know. because when you think about it, when you really think about it—you never liked sleeping alone. never liked waking up to an empty bed.

and simon—your simon—he knows that. knows you better than you know yourself.

so instead of arguing, instead of pushing him away, you let him tip your chin up with two fingers.

“mine. got that, pet?,” he murmurs.

you nod.

{ people that expressed interest/taglist }

@pyxrin @xxrsi @skeletonsucker @spaceinvadernelly @coeurbrule @forgotmypasswordagain

[disventurecamptakes]

I think the problem with the All Stars merge is that they don't really let any positive relationships, especially newer ones, linger for too long.

Grett and Gabby defeat Yul and become friends! Gabby is eliminated the next episode.

Jake and Aiden work out their differences and become friends! Aiden is eliminated two episodes later.

Connor and Alec make up and become friends again! Alec is eliminated THAT SAME EPISODE.

Meanwhile, the negative relationships (shoutout Jake and Ally, shoutout Connor and Riya) get milked and dragged out for all they are worth. No wonder the show feels so miserable nowadays.

.

[soleilsplanet]

do you ever just … picture a whole scene, a whole fanfiction in your head, you know how to place every single word of the english dictionary that you need (or your language dictionary), you know how to structure your sentences, you know just what your characters are going to say to each other and then… and then you just open microsoft word.

[inlovewithl3vi]

It wasn’t uncommon for the brothers to crawl into your bed at night, usually almost every night at least one of them would end up in your bed.

So when your bedroom door slowly creaked open you thought nothing of it. You just assumed someone couldn’t sleep, or maybe they had a nightmare and wanted to be near you.

Until you heard a familiar voice speak up.

“MC, I’m sorry to bother you at this time but I-“

It’s Barbatos, someone very unlikely to come in your room at night. You cut him off by pulling back the blankets and inviting him to come in your bed.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

It was rare to see him like this, in his pajamas with his hair slightly messy probably from laying in his bed trying to sleep before coming over here.

He lays down in bed next to you, allowing himself to get comfortable under the blankets.

You curl up against him, sighing contently as you begin to feel yourself drift off to sleep again.

Although it was slightly surprising to see one of the most proper demons come in your room at night seeking comfort, you can’t help but feel a little happy so many people can find comfort in you.

[hopelessvalentines]

“nostalgia is a villain that we are told is a hero, all it ever does is hurt.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Archaic Words: Hate

for your next poem/story

Bydryven - to commit evil

Deule - the devil

Deviltry - anything unlucky, offensive, hurtful, or hateful

Exheridate - to disinherit; to hate or detest

Eye bite - to bewitch an animal with the evil eye

Hain - malice; hatred

Hateredyne - hatred

Hatien - to hate

Hatous - hateful

Hatrex - hatred

Hazeney - to foretell evil

Hellhound - a wicked fellow

Hiessen - to forebode evil

Ivele - evil; injury; sickness

Lathe - hateful; also: injury, harm

Lether - vile; hateful

Limbo - hell; properly, the limbus or place where the righteous were supposed to have been confined before the coming of Christ

Lothe - perverse; hateful

Mysbreyde - evil birth

Onde - zeal; envy; malice; hatred

Pelsey - mischievous; evil; wicked

Quad - bad; evil

Quede - harm; evil

Quince - the king's evil

Slier - to look sly upon, but with some evil design

Spurn - an evil spirit

Toady - hateful; beastly

Tutivillus - an old name for a celebrated demon, who is said to have collected all the fragments of words which the priests had skipped over or mutilated in the performance of the service, and carried them to hell

Ungode - bad; evil

Yeffell - evil

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs