that will always wonder where they went wrong

The Devil and the Dancer: An Elorcan Fic

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

CHAPTER 1

(A/N: So this is my new Elorcan fic! Big thanks to Az for the title help. I’m planning on it being multi-chapter, but I won’t write more of this if people aren’t seeming to like it, so feedback is much appreciated! Enjoy! )

Elide remembered every detail of the fall. She was in the final dress rehearsal of La Bayadere at Indiana University, starring in the role of Nikiya—something no other sophomore had ever achieved. Her Pointe shoes were brand new, just broken in enough. Her fouetté turns were seemingly flawless, a huge accomplishment for her. She’d always been afraid of them. That was when she went down. She still didn’t know what it was, how her foot bent in just the wrong way, but her ankle just snapped. She remembered blinking up at the ceiling, seeing the metal railings, lighting fixtures and the catwalk that were all rest up, up, up. She’d wondered where the chairs had gone. The small audience, mostly critics, the director, the choreographer. They were all just gone, replaced by the endless space above her.

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Lesson Learned

She taught me to be cautious
Of everyone..
Everything..
And even myself.
I second guess..
Every word,
Every thought,
And every smile.

She taught me to protect myself
Not just from this world..
But protect myself from…
Well, myself.
Ya see…
I used to see the good in everyone
I used to have faith in others
I used to love like there was no tomorrow.
That was before her.

She came into my life suddenly.
Instantly captivating my attention
Her mysteriousness was irresistible
I had to know her.
I gave her my all
More than I had ever even given myself
All the while..
She was playing games

She taught me that people will use you
Pretend to love you
Until they’ve gotten all they can from you
And then they leave..
Leave you in small, shattered pieces
Of who you used to be
Wondering what you missed..
Where you went wrong..
And what you did to deserve this

She taught me to always look over my shoulder
Because those who you least expect…
Will stab you in the back
Without warning

These lessons I’ve learned
Have left me cold..
Closed off to the world..
And even more closed off to myself.
Now I assume the worst of everyone.
I lack faith in humanity.
And I’m not sure how to love.

People didn’t vote for Hitler because they hated Jews. People didn’t vote for Trump because they hate women, or any other group of people. And dismissing them as such, reducing a huge part of the population of a country to “just hateful and stupid”, means contributing to a situation where people will continue to feel ignored, and turn towards the loud guy who’s promising to listen to them. Sorry, but that’s how it works. That’s always how it works. I don’t know why it’s still so surprising.

And anyone wondering what went wrong: THAT is a big part of what went wrong, and what has been going wrong for a while now. It’s easy to say “you’re stupid”. It’s a lot harder to listen. But if you want to understand, then listening is the better, or really the only, option.

Unfortunately, this culture where understanding someone’s point of view is seen as the same as agreeing with it, and thus demonised, doesn’t encourage understanding. And that, frankly, is a problem that everyone can start solving, right now.

His eyes would grow soft; that’s how I knew he was lying. His eyes only searched my face with such concern when his mouth searched her skin the night before. Our relationship was too much too fast and not enough love to last. Promises were never kept and wandering hands were inevitable. He used me in every way there is to use a person. He took and took until I no longer had, given nothing in return except the countless nights spent wondering where we went wrong. There was a time when he looked me in the eyes and felt more than just sorry. But that’s all it is, isn’t it? One person always ending up feeling just sorry. Sorry for this, sorry for that. But never really apologetic. Never really meaning it.
—  I asked her why she hated apologies

and when you first hear those words, you’ll scream. and you’ll cry and you’ll shake. you’ll stay up until 3 am staring at the ceiling fan that was always too low for him to walk under. you’ll think and you’ll wonder where you went wrong. did you even go wrong? what does she have that he badly wanted? that he got? you’ll wish that it was always you and never her. but darling, don’t go back to him. you’ll find someone that’ll treat you right, maybe not now but they will come. and no matter how many times he says he wont do it again, cheaters never change. 

I was thinking last night. I was thinking that I had it all wrong. I fucked up. I messed up everything about us. I thought to myself, where did I go wrong? You once said those years were some of the best years of your life. When I look back, I’ve always wondered why I saw more pain than I saw love. I’ve always wondered why I saw anger more than I did tenderness. I soak in this type of environment and became a cactus. I live in this type of art and become saddened by regret. I was thinking as I held her last night, as she cried, I wonder if I did the same for us, maybe, that’s where I went wrong. Maybe that’s why they call it maturing. Maybe that’s why they call it changing. Maybe that’s why they call it learning from your mistakes. I don’t let people cry alone anymore because I know the emotional harm it does. I know that it makes people apologize because they may feel like they’ve done something wrong. I was thinking last night as a river poured onto my shirt. Where did I place your ocean? Has it dried up? I’m left here wondering why this poetic desert is nothing but a wasteland of empty letters I couldn’t write. I messed up and I’m a mess. I text you from here to there because I’ll be honest, I miss your friendship almost as much as I miss loving you. I miss you almost as much as I miss having us together. We wrote such a crappy ending, we did. We had every author add a torn page into an already sad book. We are some main characters, right? That’s the jacked up part. I’m still writing and writing and writing and writing. I guess after these long months, you still slip from my hands. I’ve ran out of excuses and I’ll be direct. It’s always a bit hard when you can’t get people out of your mind, I’m not one to lie. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of exhausting myself. I tell myself that I don’t need any of it, not any of our memories and not any of our laughter. I was thinking last night and the worst part is, I still haven’t quite figured out why I’m writing this and why it’s about you. The source of my poetry and why I’m still stuck here writing about you. You may not read this, you may. I’m not quite sure anymore, but if you do. If you do, I guess what I’ve been meaning to say is no matter how much I avoid you, still
—  I miss you.
13/7: Would Meet Again AU

Character A has always had a tendency to come across the number ‘13′ around every corner: movie theatre seats, room numbers, addresses, number of people they’ve seen die, etc. Because of this, they thought that their 13th relationship would be the one that stuck, but after a very messy break up, Character A is left in shambles and wondering where they went wrong or why destiny loved to mess with them. They walk down the street and sit at a bus stop at 13th and 7th. While they are looking down with silent tears falling, a stranger (Character B) tries to sit down but misses the bench and falls into a puddle. Character A stifles a giggle and looks up at Character B who has the number 7 tattooed on all but one of their knuckles. Character B cracks a grin.

I’ve made a bad habit out of rereading our story, each memory practically a book by itself.
And every time I reach the end, that abrupt ending you created, I always wonder what made you think it wasn’t good enough to continue.
I always wonder where I went wrong, so wrong I didn’t even deserve a proper goodbye.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (218/366)

buffycuddlespigs  asked:

Saphael: Soulmate AU?

Fudged the ages a little shush…Also my headcanon is that Raphael is ace/aro…I’ve never written a character like that before so I apologise if I done gone and fucked up. Feel free to educate me or tell me where I went wrong.

Soulmate AU Idea

Raphael’s clock has always been frozen at eighteen years, two months, four days and twenty three hours exactly. Whilst everybody else’s ticks away the time until they meet their soulmate around him, Raphael’s has always remained stubbornly, eighteen years, two months, four days and twenty three hours. At first Raphael presumes his soulmate is a good deal younger than him and then later, as the years fold into himself he starts to wonder if they aren’t already dead.

When he’s turned into one of the night children, Raphael realises it’s because he’s a monster and no monster can have a soulmate.

He puts it aside, the notion of a soulmate, like an old children’s toy he’s outgrown. He throws himself into the clan and all the work that comes with it, surviving the centuries requires more than just a little blood. There are accounts and artefacts and bank balances on top of stock investments to manage and it often puts him at odds with Camille who plays a mean game politically but has no head for numbers. Camille prefers to spend the money on her hedonistic lifestyle. Raphael would prefer it stay where he put it in case of a rainy day. They don’t often see eye to eye, making compromises more often than not.

Between them they keep the Dumort clan afloat and strong as the years tick by and Raphael doesn’t give the clock another look. In fact he puts it from his mind and carefully develops a habit of not even glancing at it, not even while he’s changing. His gaze simply slips over it, unseeing. It doesn’t stop the tightness in his throat but he figures time can cure that and as an immortal that’s all he has.

The millennium rolls in with minimal fuss until Raphael glances at the digital clock printed on the underside of his forearm. Thick black lines are obscured by the droplets of his recent shower and it takes him a moment before he realises what draws his eye.

16: 06: 04: 08.

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Woozi: Busy Bee

anonymous asked:  Woozi angst with a happy ending? Thank you!

Summary: a moderately long scenario feat. composer Jihun


You couldn’t help but wonder where it all went wrong. Was it something you did? He was never around to give you the answers, so you could only assume. Or ask someone else.

“Does Jihun ever talk about me?” You asked the tall boy one day.

“When he’s not busy, sure.” Seungcheol said. You frowned.

“But he’s always busy.” You said and he shrugged.

“Not all the time. This burst of busyness is new. He’s never been like this before.” Seungcheol said, looking over at the door that had been shut for three days straight. Sure, Jihun had spent days alone in his studio before, but never had he spent three days in a row without speaking to anyone.

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Enough - Part 1 (Michael Clifford fluff)

Hollow. Empty. Void. Vacant. Worthless.

Sometimes I sit and wonder how I went from a happy and vibrant teen to a broken and lifeless woman. Sometimes I try and reflect on my decisions; on where it all went wrong. I can narrow it down to a person, but not a moment. Every feeling of insecurity and uselessness can be traced back to him.

Back to Michael.

It wasn’t always bad. In fact, at times it seemed like utter perfection, but hindsight is always 20/20, and it’s easy to see now that I was on a crash course from the very beginning.

It all started several years ago, when reluctantly I attended a concert in Sydney with my good friend from school. Becca was in love with Hot Chelle Rae, and being the good and loyal friend I was, I attended with her. It was there that we first met the members of 5 Seconds of Summer, the band opening for the group we had come to see. Becca was more interested in trying to meet Nash Overstreet, but it was Michael Clifford that caught my eye.

He was tall, lanky, and slightly awkward, his dark blonde fringe flopping sweetly over one eye. He shyly asked me out for pizza and as we walked he hesitantly intertwined our fingers. After three dates he kissed me, and that was the beginning of the end. I knew I was falling for him, but we never actually defined our relationship. For a while I was fine with it; I wanted him to live his dreams and not be held back. I was proud of him, and I knew he’d never hurt me.

Over the next year his band blew up and they became international sensations, and for a while I was left behind. He traveled with the band and played shows all over the world. He met new people and sometimes went on dates, but I was also a consistent presence in his life. All it took was a few late night phone calls and his tentative declarations of missing me, and I flew out to see him on tour.

The first time he made love to me in a random hotel room in some random city, I felt complete. I thought that his feelings had developed the way that mine had, and for the first time in a year I fell asleep in his arms with hope for our future together. I was sadly mistaken the next morning, however, when I awoke to an empty bed and a seemingly bottomless pit in my stomach. I sent him several text messages that day, and got nothing but curt responses. I flew home the following day, confused and devastated, but when he called three days later he acted as if nothing had happened.

And so it continued; he would call, I would come running. Each time it happened I berated myself for my foolishness, but I could never say no to Michael. He was too important. I loved him too much.

He would pick me up from the airport and spend the night treating me like a princess and causing hope to bloom in my chest. Candlelit dinners and moonlit walks led back to his hotel room where we would fall into bed together for a night of passion that always ended in tears of loneliness and my freshly broken heart.

After several months, the rumors started to surface of others just like me. He was spotted and photographed with other women, and tabloids and gossip bloggers were constantly accusing Michael of having “groupies”. At first I dismissed them as nothing more than desperate people looking to cash in on Michael’s fame and success, but the more and more I heard the less I was able to explain away.

So here I was, five years into a pseudo-relationship with the love of my life, and I’d finally come to terms with my position in his world: irrelevance.

I stared at the screen of my laptop, emotionless and silent. The photo that I had been scrutinizing for the past two hours was permanently burned into my mind, but I was still unable to look away. It was a blurry photo, but I could tell it was him. And it wasn’t just Michael, but it was Michael with his arms around a curvy brunette, his face shoved into her neck and her head thrown back in laughter. The caption below the photo read that several eyewitnesses had observed the popular guitarist and his girlfriend pawing at each other throughout the night before leaving in a cab together and arriving later at his hotel. The woman was never seen leaving that night.

It took that photo for me to realize the truth: he could have anyone he wanted, and he knew that. I was never anything more than a convenience for him, and that truth filled me with more self-hatred than anything. From day one he meant everything to me, but I never meant a thing to him. He never loved me; he used me, and I let him.

————————————

Michael had called four days ago, and I watched the screen for the first time without answering the call. He left no message, and I heard nothing until the following day. He called again, and this time I pressed the small red button to decline the call. A minute later, a text came through from Michael asking me if I was available to talk. Hoping it would stop any further correspondence, I typed back a quick “No,” and silenced my phone.

During that time, I did my best to avoid everything and everyone. I cried, I screamed, I broke everything that reminded me of him. I was angry, I was sad, I was disappointed in myself. I never saw myself as weak, but now I knew that weakness was my most prominent trait and it disgusted me.

I let him rule me. I let him change me. I let myself settle for so much less than I deserved, and I hated myself for it.

I sat in the darkness of my empty bedroom, the lights off and curtains drawn as the thunder crashed outside. The only light in the black space was coming from the screen of my phone as it buzzed repeatedly from its place on my night stand. I closed my eyes to block it out, unsure of my strength as the hours and days wore on. I opened my eyes again as another call went to voicemail, but within seconds it was ringing again, the sight of his name on the screen causing the anger to bubble in the pit of my stomach again.

Without another thought, I picked up my phone and hurled it at the wall, a satisfied grin stretching across my face as it shattered into pieces and fell to the floor with the rest of the broken pieces of my past.

Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Best Laid Plans: A Meta on the Downfall of Laurel Lance

FYI- This is not about the grave, but rather my thoughts on where the writers initially went wrong with LL’s character.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way…

I’ve always wondered what the writers/producers first thought back in Season 1 when they started to get both fan and media backlash on their characterization of Laurel Lance.

Their original intentions for Arrow very much included the canon development of the Green Arrow/Black Canary storyline, a storyline with decades of proven comic success. So how could it have spun so quickly out of control in this adaptation? Why did the audience rebel against Laurel so quickly?

Everyone has his or her own experience and reasoning, I’m sure. I’ve heard people chalk it up to lack of chemistry, acting talent, or even the introduction of Felicity. However, none of those things factored in for me.

Personally, I started to turn on Laurel Lance halfway through episode 1x01. Yup. I liked Laurel for exactly 30 minutes of an episode before it started to go swiftly downhill.

I’ll get to exactly why in a minute but, before that, lets think about just what the writers intended to set up for the first third or half of the 1st season: Oliver Queen’s transition from spoiled, selfish, irresponsible playboy to tormented, selfless, city-saving vigilante.

To do that, they chose to exaggerate both sides of him. At the same time they introduced the deadly vigilante assassin, they also introduced the asshole playboy who took his girlfriend’s sister on a secret yacht sexcation.

Now, lets consider how they planned on fixing the chasm between Laurel & Oliver over the next couple of seasons:

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Let’s start by calling it off.

i. and then we stop our thoughts from wandering their way–the way they used to laugh, and how their presence always felt like home.

ii. we stop wishing they’re still there–to hold you us when we’re sad, and listen to non-sense stuffs. We stop hugging our favorite pillow and pretending it’s them

iii. we stop searching for reasons–we stop backtracking where exactly things went wrong–because it wouldn’t really make much of a difference to know

iv. we stop making excuses just to patch things back simply because there’s nothing left to fix, anymore. Nothing

v. we stop wondering how they’re doing–if they’re doing any better than us

vi. we stop asking if they really loved us–if they really meant it when they acted like they care

vii. we stop looking at old pictures–reliving those moments when everything’s still good, when you were still both happy

viii. then we stop blabbering about them–the look in their eyes during the nights they were being truthful, and during the nights that they’re not

ix. and then we stop stalking their social media accounts. We stop browsing the pictures they’re recently tagged in and stop searching for the names of the unfamiliar faces of those who are with them

x. then we start acting like normal–like everything’s fine, when the truth is, the mere sound of their names echoing on our ears is already enough to tear our hearts still
—  Ces Castaño // moving on
He tells you he doesn’t want to get attached, he kisses you when you give him presents but he never buys you anything, he lets you pay for your train tickets when you go to his place and doesn’t walk you back to the station cause he “doesn’t want to leave the house today”, he lets you wait for him for hours only to tell you that he’s not free tonight, he texts you early in the morning when he wants to fuck, he can’t be bothered to write you even a two line message when you’re away from him for three weeks, he always takes hours and hours to reply to your texts. And yet, when he decides that he’s had enough fun with you, when he decides that you’re getting boring, when he stops everything with no further explanation, you will still find a way to blame yourself for it; you will still find a way to wonder where you went wrong.
—  Cause it’s always your fault right?
Imagine: Draco Comforting You When You Don't Have a Date to the Yule Ball

Request: Hey I was wondering if you could do a Draco Malfoy imagine where you don’t have a date to the Yule ball and you’re really bummed about it and Draco can see that you are not yourself. And he asks you what’s wrong and he comforts you and tells you that he’s always had feelings for you. Could you make it cute and fluffy. I would appreciate it so much. Thanks!!☺️

—–

You sighed as the last group of kids in your house left to go to the Yule Ball. You really wanted to go, but no one asked you. You went up to the Astronomy Tower and just sat down where you felt you had the best view of the night sky. You pulled your legs to your chest and rested your head on your knees, sighing again.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” You jumped in surprise at the voice. You never heard someone else come up. You turned to see who it was.

“Oh, hi Draco,” you said, forcing a small smile.

“Is there a reason that you’re sitting up here alone on a cold winter night. Without a jacket, might I add.” He asked.

“Yeah, kind of,” you answered, shivering. It really was cold.

“Mhmm,” he hummed in response. “Well why don’t you come down to the Slytherin common room with me and tell me why.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you up before you could even reply. He threw an arm over your shoulders and you leaned into his warmth. He chuckled and led you down to the dungeons.

He sat you down on the couch and walked away. He came back a moment later with a blanket. He sat down next to you and put the blanket over the two of you. He pulled you close to him and forced you to look at him.

“Now tell me what’s wrong,” he murmured, concern in his eyes.

You sighed. “Well I really wanted to go to the Yule Ball, but I don’t have a date. I know it sounds dumb, but it’s just really upsetting, especially since I had to watch all my friends get ready and how excited all my friends were.”

Draco stared at you with his grey eyes and shook his head. “I knew I should’ve asked you. I really wanted to, Y/N, but I thought you’d say no. Truth is, I kind of really like you.” You saw his pale skin tint with a blush.

“I would’ve said yes. I kind of really like you too, Draco.”

Draco smiled down at you. “We could still go, you know. If we get ready quickly.”

“We could. But I think I’d rather stay right here.” You cuddled up to him and Draco chuckled and kissed your forehead. He ran his fingers through your hair and the two of you stayed there like that all night.

3

They took it too far.

Oh look. Sportstale got a little bit serious! 

Now don’t get me wrong, Sportstale is like, 99.9% fun and lighthearted. I mean come on, i’ts an AU where things went well for the first human, even if they’re still a bit ahh- violent.

That being said, it’s because of that quirk that there IS an established rivalry between Chara and Sans in this AU. @queenryla and I have been discussing their little confrontations, but I always wondered- well- why?

Long story short for this headcanon, Chara probably took the game too seriously and injured Papyrus really badly. Human strength and determination amirite? Sans doesn’t approve.

So here, have so more really late night doodles. 

ps. don’tbefooledwiththatbgonthefirstoneitisLITERALLYapieceoffreeclippart

6

As a possibility for Nicola’s future employment, Malcolm may consider the key people a somewhat *unlikely* prospect, while the university…well, that clearly never even begins to cross his mind as a possible option for her post-political career. 

Which maybe says more about him than her, but it does make me wonder what Nicola must look like on paper in terms of being a competent human being.  (On the grounds that being offered a position at Yale is a pretty big deal.)  She must have a fairly impressive CV, but of course a CV doesn’t record encounters with the press and that’s really where it always went horribly wrong for her.

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Maybe I was wrong to keep saying “always” —- “I’ll always love you.” “You’ll always be my favorite.” – because it gave you an excuse to take me for granted. You think I’ll ALWAYS be here. But one day you’ll wake up and wonder where I went, when the truth is, I had been missing for quite awhile.
—  Open your fucking eyes.

I used to hear a voice that sounded like yours and feel that heartbreak all over again.

I used to see someone who looked like you in a crowded room and wonder where it all went wrong.

I used to read your texts and cry to myself at night.

But not anymore. Now I hear someone say something you’ve said to me before and instead of feeling broken, I smile to myself. Now when I see someone who looks like you, I laugh a little remembering our times together.

I no longer keep the texts you sent me, and I no longer hope that its you when I get a text, because I’ve moved on.

I’ll always miss you, or maybe I won’t. One thing is for sure, I’ll never forget our happiest memories, or the heartbreak they all ended in.

The only thing I can do, is come to peace with the fact that it wasn’t meant to be.

—  Late night thoughts