firm grip

Rotten Innocence Pt. 1 JeromeXReader

Darkness. There’s no poetic way of describing what I see. The only thing I see. My vision is blinded by an itchy black cloth bag that somebody very kindly shoved over my head, without my consent. Now I am being led every which way, a firm hand gripping my upper arm and pulling me along like a stroppy child.

This day started out average, nothing peculiar. It was only tonight when I was out for a late night grocery trip that things took a turn for the worse. As I was walking along the gloomy streets of Gotham, plastic bag twisting around my fingers, the bright lights of the city skyline began to disappear.

Every second more lights went out and draped the city in black. I continue walking. The darkness finally reaches my footsteps and I can no longer see where I’m headed. The alleyways, the nooks and crannies of the city all merge into a deep, endless oblivion.

That’s when I sense something behind me, just a suspicion. I turn to me faced with more black, if there is something there, it could strike at any moment.

And strike it did. I feel a hand dart around my waist, pulling me closer to my captor. A second hand shoves itself around my mouth, blocking all of my attempts to scream. Then the bag is thrown over my frantic head and a strong force carries me further into the darkness, kicking and resisting. It isn’t enough.

I am flung into, what I think to be the boot of a vehicle. My head crashes into the harsh metal floor, knocking me out cold.

The last thing I can recall is hearing laughter.

Laughter so menacing, so cruel and so unbelievably wicked that it can only belong to one person

Jerome Valeska.

anonymous asked:

Can depression please burn in hell it's slowly ruining my life and future and I FUCKING hate it & not being able to do anything more than I already am about it

Oh sweetheart I am so, so, so sorry. I was literally just texting my best friend the same exact thing. We call our depression our “struggle bus”, and some days (many days) it locks us inside and won’t stop and won’t open the doors. I am so sorry it’s got such a firm grip on you: remember that it is not your fault and that you are so, so, so strong for making it this far. I know it’s unfair that you have to fight so hard – it’s infuriating, I know – but I believe in you. You are stronger than you know, and more powerful than you are aware. I’m so proud of you for being who you are. I believe in you and I believe in your future. You are incredible, and I’m sending you so much support and love, darling <3 <3 <3


Hello! 😀
No the bite of Voigt does not hurt!
It is a firm grip and Voigt always gets an A+ for effort, but it is just very squishy and a bit gooey so it is just like being attacked by a giant angry wet marshmallow! 😊🐸😊

Fresh Blood

There’s blood layering every surface of my living room; it sends my body into a frenzy because it means I have to have everything washed or thrown out.

My desire to have someone’s heart in my hand and their blood seeping down my throat like strong alcohol has grown too strong, it’s creeping and crawling into my days instead of staying settled in my nights like it should do. This wouldn’t have happened if I had it all under control. The mere thought of not having a firm grip on the situation makes it slip out of my reach even more.

White seems like such a good colour for the interior of my house until it comes to slitting a person’s throat; the blood is never going to come out of the couch.

Huffing, I make my way into the kitchen; I keep rolls upon rolls of bags for this kind of situation and now my mind is screaming at me to use them. I almost slip when my foot touches the hardwood floor but I quickly regain my balance.

Now that the man’s guts are decorating my living room and his blood has settled into my stomach quite nicely - it’s making me feel full, bloated even, which means I won’t have to eat tonight - I’m feeling on edge and frustrated with myself due to not thinking to put anything down to stop the red substance staining everything. I almost wish I could revive the dead man so I can relive the feeling of his skin opening at my hands.

Despite my reluctance, I have to start throwing anything that can’t be bleached or washed into the bags. Everything I own costed a heavy amount when I purchased it so a lot of it is destined for the bag, except a few things I can’t bare to see go; those things I promise to still make good use with, and place them by the stairs.

While the rug that was previously sat in the centre of my living room (and once complimented the colour scheme I had going on, but now ruins it completely with the blotches of blood) is being thrown into the second bag to begin to fill to the top, I can hear my phone ringing from the kitchen. I don’t bother to run and answer it.

It screams at me to answer it four more times before whoever is calling seems to give up. The house falls into an easy silence after that, much to my appreciation.

Around half an hour later - when guts are sat in a messy pile in the corner and the only blood is that smeared across the wall (due to my victim struggling for his life) - there’s a noise I don’t expect, and one I haven’t heard in so long; the sound of the front door opening.

It’s become so unknown to me that when the noise first sets into my ear, I don’t recognise it. Although, when there’s a gasp - a noise I <i>do</I> know, and adore very much - following it, I know that what’s about to happen cannot look good for me.
My head snaps in the direction of the door and stood looking shocked, confused and scared all at once, is [Y/N]. She’s wearing one of the numerous sweaters of mine that she likes to keep at her house.

“J-Justin?” she stutters and I don’t dare to move a muscle in my body.

“Happy Halloween,” I ask rather than state. My voice is laced with panic and I wouldn’t have to have someone tell me to be able to detect it.

“It’s January,” she says and my fingers clench around the bag that starts to have the ability to slip between them. I can feel my forehead becoming hot, as well as the rest of my body.

“Ah, shit- looks like I’m too late. Well, there’s always next year. You wanna go get some coffee?” I speak frantically, hoping something else will capture her attention and throw her off the image of her boyfriend stood in front of a white wall painted with blood.

“What’s going on?” she squeaks and I find her very attractive when she’s scared. I try hard to keep my mind and my vision straight.

“Isn’t it obvious, babygirl?”

“Why have you painted your walls red?” she asks and I laugh.

“That’s easy: it’s not paint,” I grin and feel my body begin to relax.

This is it. It’s going to happen right now. This could either end with us being partners in crime; killing together and having our own late night murderous rendezvous whenever we want, the idea of it makes me shift uncomfortably in my trousers, or it’s going to end with her trying to leave and me having to duct tape her to my bed. I don’t see a realistic option between the two.

“Then, what.. is it?” she frowns and her round face looks sadder than I’ve ever had to see her. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.

“Well, it’s blood.” I don’t think she’s noticed the guts in the corner.

“I thought it was cranberry juice.” She doesn’t convince me; cranberry juice doesn’t take so long to make its way down the wall.

“Nope, it’s blood,” I state clearly.

She’s quiet. Her eyes are on fire and they’re moving between me and the wall. I’m uncertain as to what she’s thinking so I don’t say anything, I simply wait; the bag in my hand is starting to irritate my skin.

“Is this one of your little jokes? I can never tell. You’re scaring me.”

I sigh and drop the bag, my hand appreciates it when the air is able to lick at my skin. I move closer to her and the worried expression sets deeper onto her face. I can see her bright eyes glance down to where the blood had splattered all over me. I could feel a sense of pride at my work.

“What’s going on?”

“Your life’s about to change a helluva lot, sweetheart. You’ve just walked into something you shouldn’t have,” I mutter as I move closer to her. I can see her fingers trembling and threatening to detach from her hands. “I’m not joking when I say this is blood, just like I wasn’t joking about the bodies in my closet, and the head in my fridge. It’s all true.”

She wavers for a second longer; I can almost see her brain clicking behind her skull as it tries to calculate whether I’m simply making another one of my jokes or if my jokes are becoming too advanced for her to understand.

“What do you think? Impressive, right?” There’s a grin that’s threatening to make it’s way onto my lips that I’m sure are coated in a small layer of blood, if I haven’t managed to swipe it off with my tongue yet.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“I don’t find this funny anymore.”

There’s definite worry in her tone of voice and I can feel myself moving closer to her. She makes a pathetic attempt to force her body backwards, although it does nothing but make the desire I have to move closer to her even more powerful.

“Are you scared? You don’t have to be, babygirl. I’m not going to hurt you, I’d never lay a finger on you.”

Even as the words leave my lips I know I’m telling a cruel lie; my lust for her and for her blood has grown stronger since I accidentally bumped into her two years ago. I managed to avoid putting any kind of pain onto her for reasons I’m not too sure of, but now, it’s all I can think about. Of course, I have to try and make sure she never finds out.

“Tell me what’s going on. Is this some kind of joke that I don’t understand?”

“I’ve already told you; this isn’t a joke.” My jaw clenches and I’m uncertain as to why, although I’m sure I know when I feel myself becoming impatient with the girl in front of me. “This is real, all of it.”

Next, she does something I hadn’t anticipated - she laughs. Her head falls back and I can see everything working in the front of her throat. It makes me think about all the sharp objects I could slice it with. The laugh, however, is far from genuine; it’s hesitant and sharp. It doesn’t last for very long, either.

“Right, that’s funny. You’re a serial killer, hilarious. I get it now,” she chuckles and it’s fake. I’m watching her closely because I’m confused by her behaviour and have no idea where the conversation is going to lead; my two previous assumptions as to where the conversation could go have seemingly taken flight and headed for the nearest window. I’m not left clueless.

“Don’t kid yourself, [Y/N],” I mange to let escape between my lips.

It’s a strange sensation to me, to have somebody’s guts in the same room as my girlfriend; there’s been so many things that I’ve done, most things don’t surprise me but this, this is new.

“So, what? I’m supposed to believe that my boyfriend kills people? Stop joking, Justin, it’s just not funny anymore.” Her voice has now adjusted and taken on a shaky quality that I find quite amusing. “I’m leaving. You’re inhuman,” she says and I think she’s going to start crying.

“I’m very in touch with humanity, okay?” I frown deeply and correct her quickly, now following her as she strides for the door. “You can’t leave.”

“And why the fuck not, Justin? You’re clearly going through some thing right now and I don’t like it. You’re making me panic.” She turns to look at me for a split second; it’s a look I’m unfamiliar with but I’m sure it’s supposed to signal to me that she’s hoping I’m going to stop her and tell her it’s all a joke. It’s a shame that I can do no such thing.

“It’s going to be okay, baby. You’re gonna go and clear your head and I’m not going to stop you because I know you’re going to come back to me, isn’t that right?”

“You’re serious.. aren’t you?” she says, sounding as though all of her worst nightmares have suddenly become true.

“Very much so.” The evil smirk is back onto my lips, I cannot help but show my affection for my satanic hobbies. “I’ve told you over and over again but you just don’t believe me, do you?”

She’s trying to edge away but I’m moving closer. She moves slowly as though she’s created a plan in her mind; if she moves ever so slightly, I won’t notice. Little does she know, I notice everything. I notice how she moves away just like I notice my victims trying to edge their way towards the door. It’s evident that [Y/N] doesn’t know just how much practice I’ve had in this field.

“I-I have to go.”


She doesn’t give me an answer. It happens in a matter of seconds. She’s out of the door and she’s running towards her car that’s parked patiently next to mine. The sun is setting; disappearing behind the hills and she’s getting away. A plan is already taking shape in the folds of my brain while I watch her drive away; anger seeping into every inch of my body.

I caught her in the end. I knew I would. I said at the beginning I was too selfish to ever let her leave me, and even if it means watching her every second of every day, I’ll always have her. Of course, I’ve had to make sure she doesn’t utter a word to anyone, it took some bribery and manipulation but I’m certain no one else will ever know of my secrets.

[Y/N] is upset, of course she is. One second I was the charming boyfriend who gave her all the happiness in the world and suddenly, I’m the psychotic, inhuman monster who happens to enjoy stapling human limbs together for fun. Even I can sympathise.

I’ve noticed that there’s still a hint of love in the colours that swirl around the outside of [Y/N]’s pupils; it pleases me to know she’s still so invested in me, even after I sat and admitted almost everything - apart from the murdering of her cousin; I don’t want her entire family banging on my door.

I’m insane and I’m feeling more and more on the verge of frenzy every day. What was once an itch has mutated into a burn that sits under my skin and claws away until my needs are satisfied.

So, the next time you’re walking through the busy streets of whatever city you’re in; whether it’s London, Paris, New York, Milan, Amsterdam - anywhere, remember me. I’m everywhere - I’m the dead eyes of the old man striding past you, I’m the grimace of the lady sitting on the bench across the street, I’m even the shrill shrieks of the baby in the stroller. Every disgusting sight, every pungent smell, every irritating sound is what I’m made up of. Notice me. After all, I’m looking for fresh blood wherever I go; while showing no signs of being filled to the brim with insanity, and ready to overflow.

 The darkness and disgust that I create is something that will always be there, no matter where you go; it’s something you can’t escape, just like I can’t seem to escape the deep desires for human pain within the pit of my stomach and the thirst for their blood trickling down my throat.

anonymous asked:

Which couple believes you that is better developed in the male's side feelings to the girl? NH or SS? Only considering the evidence of the manga.

In terms of Part 1, they were developed relatively equally in my opinion. Because both Naruto’s and Sasuke’s opinions of Hinata and Sakura gradually changed, from a rather negative outlook, to a much more positive and endearing one.

For instance, Naruto went from thinking that Hinata’s “a world class freak”:

To thinking that she’s someone he really likes:

It was basically the same situation for Sasuke’s sentiments towards Sakura. He went from initially thinking that she’s nothing but annoying:

To thinking of her as one of his “precious comrades”:

In the same way, both were a little bit hampered during Part 2. Naruto because of his lingering feelings towards Sakura, and Sasuke because of the Curse of Hatred which had a firm grip on his heart. However, the obvious difference is that people never questioned whether Naruto cared at all about Hinata, but they did for Sasuke towards Sakura, because due to his hatred, at one point he would have killed anyone and anything that looked at him the wrong way.

Yet, if you paid attention enough, you could see why Naruto and Sakura strove to save Sasuke as much as they did, because they knew that beneath all of his hatred on the surface, his true self was still salvageable.

dancing with myself: a lucas&el friendfiction

December 1984

El worried at her lip for a few more seconds before reaching over and ringing the doorbell. Tugging at her red and white plaid dress self-consciously, she tried to reassure herself that she didn’t need to be nervous, that this wasn’t even the first time she’d come over to Lucas’s house, and that she was there for something important.

The door opened and a tall, dark-skinned man looked down at her for a few seconds before breaking out into a wide, familiar grin. He looked so much like Lucas that she relaxed a bit and smiled back, offering a wave, still too nervous to talk.

“You’re El, right?” He offered his hand and she shook it, the warm, firm grip comforting. “I’m Wayne, Lucas’s dad. He mentioned you were coming over.”

Keep reading

Graylu original submission for the Fluff Fest 2017 

Hope you’ll enjoy our collaboration. Thank you, Sierra,  for helping me to create another wonderful peace of Graylu! To all graylu shippers: I’ve increased my productivity so there are two more Graylu arts coming up soon. All likes and reblogs much appreciated!

- clerfait

art © clerfait

story © lockedk3yfiction

Soundtrack: Thomas Newman - Spacewalk 

‘Miraculous Feelings’

Lucy’s heart beat fast, air leaving her lungs when she saw the look in Gray’s eyes. Adoration, heat, and uncertainty.

Lucy could feel the immense gaze that fell into her own brown orbs. She noticed the way Gray’s navy blues lingered at her lips, the slight bob of his Adam’s apple signaling his anxiety and the firm hand which grip loosened in the junction of her elbow.

Lucy could no longer breath, focused solely on the way Gray’s chest tightened, his muscles flexing in the dim light. Unconsciously, Lucy’s tongue would swipe at her bottom lip, earning a low rumble of a groan to escape Gray.

“Lucy…” his breath was ragged, voice leisurely drawled out. “Please, don’t tease me… not here…”

Gray was right. Lucy’s shoulders unclenched as she swiveled her head in the dark, taking in their surroundings. At the current moment, both Lucy and Gray were lost in the woods with the cool cavern as their only shelter. Though the cave was small, it was homely and tender.

The cave shielded them from harsh weather and outside forces that may have ill thoughts of the mages.

The two were meant to be on a job request with the other members of Team Natsu before being ambushed by rogue mages in the western forest. For the most part they fought with all the strength they had yet Team Natsu had somehow strayed from each other. Erza, Wendy and Carla seemed to be backed up near the river by two sibling wizards while Natsu and Happy made their way to the nearest village following closely behind an explosives mage.

Lucy was lucky to find Gray once her own battle had ended. She had searched the land for miles, following trails of lingering magic before coming upon the ice mage breathing heavily against the grass. He was unharmed but still winded, rasped panting stuttering his lungs.

She need not worry though when Gray flashed her his infamous smirk, taking hold of her hand to help lift his body from the ground. His thanks was genuine, smile never leaving his lips as they walked hand in hand in search of the rest.

Hand holding was something Lucy had become accustomed to with Gray, his tight clasp around her small fingers tangling together perfectly. When small acts like this had begun to happen, she didn’t know. She didn’t mind; at first, they were gentle touches that left her shaken and bewildered. Now, Lucy hardly took notice, finding comfort in situations like these alone.

She did not question why Gray would make such bold moves as these. Neither of them were in a romantic relationship, yet Lucy’s face flushed more when it was just him and her.

In this cave alone once more, the wind howling outside and rain falling piece by piece, the blonde had much time to wonder. She was still in his grasp, Grays eyes studying her features as Lucy continued to stare off into space. She felt when his hands began to travel along her arms, finger tips skidding across her bare skin.

“Gray… what are you doing?” She had to ask; what they had now was not the same as what they had to begin with.

She watched as Gray’s gaze darted to the ground, a contemplative look etched in his brows. Gray’s shoulders tensed, his neck cracking as he gritted his teeth. Almost as if he were battling inner quarrels.

“I care for you, Lucy. More than as a friend, I want to protect you and be there with you. Always…”
Gray’s words trailed, still watching at the dirt below them. The darkness hid himself well in that position, the reddening of his face unnoticeable.

“I’ve always cared for you in this way…” he whispered, bringing Lucy closer, their bodies messing together as he lay his forehead upon hers.

Their eyes met once more, Lucy placing her hands around Gray’s shirt sleeves as she were already wrapped in his arms. The temperature rose with their nearness alone, comforting each other in a warm embrace.

Lucy did not know how to respond, shyness bubbling within her conscious. She nibbled on her lips once more, giggling as she heard Gray suppress another noise. “Lucy…”

No more teasing, she assumed. A smile flitted upon her, closing her eyes in bliss, leaning toward Gray slightly more.

“I like you too.”

In the Mourning


In the morning, he wishes for dawn to never come. Because he is in love with the moon, the brightness of day could never compare to the radiance of amethyst eyes shimmering in the glow of the night. Because his heart beats for the stars, blue skies paled in comparison to a silhouette bathed in luminescence. 

Strands of midnight hair. Moon kissed skin and rose petal lips. He preferred the scent of the cold seasons to warm springs and summer festivals, the smell of cool air and fresh snow flirting with the touch of her fingers against his collar — gentle yet firm, like how she gripped the hilt of her blade. Her nose nuzzled in the crook of his neck, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist and a hand placed at the small of her back; they fit perfectly like two cosmos collided. 

She smells of spring water and ringo ame.

“Are you all right?” she asks him. Her voice is soft and young like spring. “Kurosaki-kun?”

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, blinking through his tired haze. 

“You were mumbling again…” she continues. 

Strands of midnight hair are replaced with fiery, sunset locks and eyes of carob brown. And though her smile glowed like sunshine on her peachy complexion, he is made all too aware that hand he holds is ignorant to the grip of a blade. 

The sound of summer rain taps against the window.

“No, it’s nothing,” he assures her. 

She smiles. 

His heart is filled with guilt.

…how he wishes for dawn to never come. For a man in love with the moon, whose heart beats for the stars, in the morning light he mourns for autumn chills and winter dew— 

“Good morning.”

—and yet he will lay with spring blossoms and summer rain. 

“Good morning!” her voice has never sounded happier.

ringo ame: candied apple; a popular treat at summer festivals

for @deathberryprompts weekly prompt challenge

anonymous asked:

Pls write some sin for Kojuro lol. Maybe morning bj??? 👀👀👀 Also your writing is rlly rlly rlly nice!

oh my gosh, love. Thank you for saying so, although my sin buddy (ahem, Kojuro) would be disappointed in me coz I can’t write graphically hahaha. But for the love of Kojuro, here you go. I hope it’s fine. XD

Lately, I haven’t dreamt at all.

But this one was too good to wake up from, the impression leaving every inch of me drowning in pleasure. Oddly, even as I floated in darkness, my surroundings as still as the void, there was an intense sensation creeping over me, continuing to devour my thoughts, as if wanting to tip the scales at which my sanity held ground.

Should I resist?

I could feel myself smile at the firm grip taking over me. The softness, the warmth of something so achingly familiar coiling upon me, ready to tighten its clutch…

…and it did for a second, only to release me again, a little wet, and only to take me back once more.

…Clenching tighter.
…Going warmer.
…Plunging deeper.

Over and over.

I squinted my eyes as they caught the sunlight, and at the same time, realizing that my dream had been nothing short of reality.

I found her between my legs, eagerly toying with me, her look of enthusiasm making me feel proud and excited despite the haze in my mind. If it was due to drowsiness, or it was because I was enveloped with conscious desire, I couldn’t tell.

I reached for her hair, catching her gaze at me from under her lashes; and had her continue going down on me. With one quick pull, I popped out of her mouth, the sound making both of us smile.

“Good morning.” She said, licking her lips.
“Indeed, it is.”

If that dream I said, was too good to wake up from, I was wrong. 

This was even better.


After the awkward conversations at the dining table, Samantha lingers around while her parents and Johnathan leave to immediately get back to work. With a sigh, Samantha runs a hand over face and gets up. She heads straight towards her bedroom, needing a long and warm shower to wash away the anger she feels under her skin. When she enters the bedroom, however, she’s met with Johnathan standing at the end of the bed as if he’d expected her. 

“Samantha, we need to talk.”

Ignoring his words, Samantha looks away and tries to walk past him to reach the bathroom. A firm grip on her arm stops her, though, and she immediately looks up at Johnathan with annoyance clear in her eyes. “Let go of me.”

Goblin Piledriver - Matt Cavotta

This art definitely incorporates a sense of hilarity, despite the gruesome circumstance. Compare this to the art of Goblin Sharpshooter (illus. Wayne Reynolds) which also captures elements of a comical scene.

Thematically, this is the way goblins are traditionally depicted - gross and clumsy to the point where it’s even funny.

In the heat of battle, goblins don’t have much on their side. They’re puny, not very smart, and as mentioned earlier, quite clumsy. The only thing they’ve got on their side is sheer numbers. A goblin horde is extremely frightening simply because they’ll outnumber you and surround you and keep coming until you’re exhausted. The art in Goblin Piledriver captures these fighting tactics perfectly. In the main image, a goblin has jumped upon an unprepared soldier. Clawed hands scratch away at unprotected flesh, a soldier’s hand reaches up in desperation, clawing in its own way in a final attempt to escape the firm grip of the small creature. In the background, other combatants face off against what seems to be a heck of a lot of goblins, as demonstrated by the silhouettes.  The surrounding orange/red tone not only conflicts with the greenness of the goblin, but also further brings out the element of depth to aid in distancing the foreground from the silhouettes. The color suggests battle has been raging for a while - perhaps, even, a collection of blood and dust gathering in the air stirred up from a long fight.


Takes place during the bed sharing in 3.12 Disclaimer: See previous posts. Also on ao3.

There’s an elbow to Michaela’s stomach and her eyes shoot open.

Laurel is thrashing in her sleep and murmuring something along the lines of please no .

Michaela repositions herself quickly and wraps her arm around Laurel. Her grip is firm enough to calm Laurel down but gentle enough not to hurt her. “Hey, hey, shh, I’m right here.”

It takes a few moments but Laurel stills. “Michaela?” Her voice is raspy but more present than usual these days.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Laurel brings a hand to Michaela’s arm. “Closer?”

Michaela shifts a little and feels Laurel sigh.

“Thank you.”


Rejection, doing something "wrong", acquired social skills and why it matters

I got talking to a friend on tumblr about the feeling of rejection, and at first I said I was no longer that sensitive to it, but then, as we kept talking, I began thinking about it.

It’s true that the fear of rejection no longer has that firm a grip on me like it used to do, but then, that’s because my reaction’s changed, not my gut reaction.

My gut reaction is actually the same as it’s been for as long as I can remember; I feel like I’ve “done it again”. I’m not quite sure what “it” is, but “it” is something Bit Not Good. It’s something I will regret, and something I ought to be ashamed of. Something that will drive someone away/make them think less of me/I will be scolded for.

I don’t react that much emotionally to this thought anymore. Not all the time. And I can at least realise that it’s probably just my brain talking, not reality. Not always.

I think it’s an instinct that is hard to kill, because for a long time, that reaction made sense. I did do thing I wasn’t supposed to do. I did make people uncomfortable again and again. I did manage to mess things up without meaning to.

My social skills are learnt skills. I didn’t always have them. I still refine them constantly. And that means that every now and then, I miss the target completely in something I say or do. And these days, I can forgive myself for that, just state to myself that “that was unfortunate, but you’re doing great most of the time, you’ll learn from this” and it is not the end of the world.

Sometimes, however, I don’t know exactly what happened, but I get the deep and unyielding sense that I’ve “done it again” and it just won’t let go. And every now and then, someone will point out that what I’ve done/said was not alright, and I just stare, because I had no idea that what i did could be interpreted the wrong way, and what if I’ve done other things like this and no one told me and now–

It’s not really that strange that my gut reaction is what it is, considering the fact that I was used to negative reactions after social interactions. And someone asked me about what I think about the new ‘theory’ about Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, and this is my take on it (besides the fact that is yet to provide enough reliable research, from what I gather). It’s an understandable psychological reaction to fear unpleasant things in settings where they’re used to unpleasant things. It’s not pathology - it’s basic psychology. And it can change, but it takes time.

The point of this whole post being this; it never ends. It just gets better. And for some of us, social interaction is kind of a bravery, because it repeatedly expose ourselves to the risk of doing something that will make us feel very bad, or the feeling that we might have done something bad, and that’s not a feeling anyone likes feeling. It’s easier being on your own. So the fact that you’re still out there, learning, making an effort, taking a risk…

…that’s something you should give yourself some credit for.

anonymous asked:

Widow could you give me some advise on how to be a good sniper please (also i love this blog)

(Glad you love the blog, you’re awesome!)

To be a good sniper takes much time, patience, and training. It all starts with the basic fundamentals of shooting like a firm grip on the rifle, good posture, and proper breathing technique (inhale, hold your breath, fire, exhale). You also want to keep the same sight picture, because if your line of sight changes slightly, where you fire can shift and cause you to miss. There is of course more to being a good sniper, but it would take too long for me to get into everything. I hope this helps, good luck! – Widowmaker