#foundgold

Meme: Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion. Bonus points if you include a topic. ( IE. shipping, roleplaying, ect. ) Status: Open

-painfully chuckles-

okay so this is a thing and i have been the target of this nasty fucking thing. And here’s the short and long of it....

callout culture got started because one person decided to make a bitch post about something they didnt like about someone else and it snowballed into being an acceptable fucking thing to do anytime anywhere for any fucking reason what so ever. this includes vague posting. WHICH by the way if u vague post? that’s basically a kind of bullying/emotional abuse--that ends up effecting WAY more than the person yer even ‘vague’ posting about.

grow.the.fuck.up. go talk to ur friends in private and vent there. k thanx bye.

if there is one thing i have learned about this site its that its general users (and those of other sites) are like lemmings. one of them deviates “for a cause” and the rest of the damn lot follow, even if they’re now headed for a cliff. often times no bothering to research what the cause even is. or gathering the facts about an incident before making a decision regarding it. they just take the damn bitch post at face value. which makes the majority of everyone here look terrible and like the lot of us were either born yesterday or have our heads so far up our own asses we can lick our own brains.

now in regards specifically to RPC Callout Culture---

my opinion is it shouldn’t fucking happen. you gotta problem with someone fucking take it to them privately. dont sit there behind ur keyboard and publicly blast them for what you THINK they’ve done. because le’me tell ya about 90% of the damn time the person doing the fucking calling out don’t even HAVE the whole fucking story themselves. haven’t seen both sides of whatever the truckety fuck the issue even is. they’re just bitching because ‘dear god i have been wronged and im gonna make sure the world know it’. and to that i say again....

grow.the.fuck.up.

The ONE stipulation to ALL of this ?

Is when there is a varified fucking threat some one is posing to the public. then and ONLY then is it fucking okay to call a bitch out on a public form like this. Otherwise its just digital playground bullshittery that i personally grew tired of sometimes before i could actually reach the fucking monkey bars.

TL;DR

RP Callout Culture - 

BE HONEST. accepting!

i can think of a few things! but if i had to pick one then i guess like, i don’t care to police what people can and can’t write about. as long as it’s tagged properly, done without malicious intent and not romanticized, i don’t think it’s my place (or really anyone’s place) to be going around telling people what they can and can’t write. 

if you don’t like something, block the post or the person. it’s really that simple

micheal was absolutely not the college type. he never even graduated high school, had no interest in a higher education anymore. but he loved the cafes around any school, loved the peace and quiet and the knowledge that no one would recognize him; hell, everyone he knew was just like him, but without the slight love for soft things. so a cafe was perfect, the best spot to read shakespeare-- today, romeo and juliet for the umpteenth time. his book was full of little notes, though he had no reason for it; he just recalled his freshman english teacher’s voice all the time, telling him how to annotate. there was hardly room in the margins anymore, so full of his thoughts on the work.

he didn’t have any money this day, though, sitting for a little bit before he steps out for a smoke, shuddering in the cold air. he loved winter until he remembered he walks everywhere. it wasn’t ideal, that was for sure. he shoves the book back into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he blows smoke in the air. he’s not ready to go home yet, honestly; courtney and isabelle were busy with their parents today, he would be all alone. so instead he wanders around to waste time, fingers almost numb after only moments of walking as he flicks ash to the ground. he settles for a moment outside of a florist shop, looking in the window at some of the displays. he always did like winter flowers. once he turns around, though, he jumps, shocked to see someone had snuck up behind him. micheal laughs, sniffling a little as the cold made his nose run, taking another drag from his cigarette before wiping the bit of snot. 

do I hear cackling in the distance?

send me 💒 + a ship for four wedding headcanons! | Not Accepting

@softestmood look at this …;)

Everyone assumed that Donny’s Bachelor Party would be wild and there was actually much concern over him getting just a little too drunk and doing something he’d regret– The only thing he did deserving of some recognition is get into an all out brawl with some homophobic guy at the third bar who apparently didn’t like his impromptu I’m gonna have a husband song (sung to the tune of We Just Got A Letter from Blue’s Clues).

There was a brief moment where the best man and much of the wedding party (aside Virote) couldn’t find Donny right before the wedding and, again, everyone sort of assumed he got cold feet and bailed but no– he was found just in time at the nearest subway getting himself a sub because he, quote on quote, earned it and was fucking starving.

Virote did extensive research (with Donny’s help of course) in both Thai wedding rituals and Jewish ones so that they could have a combined, semi-traditional wedding together. It was a mix match of colors and music and, of course, religious views but they managed to get through it with minimal headaches… : )

Imagine: Ramza being held down, imprisoned, awaiting execution in a cell. And in comes Delita. Sword in hand. Ramza is filled with relief, tears on his bruised and bloodied face, but smiling when he sees Delita. “Delita–” he’s filled with a sense of peace, knowing that Delita would indeed be the one to put his life to an end. :))))))

the shadows have always been his. even under his masquerade, the shadows were his. from them he could see everything, could command anything, could be anything. nobody could tell him what to do or how to do it -- if they tried, his blade would find them first. perhaps that should have been the sign that gave him away -- the comfort he felt in the darkness, the ease with which he moved outside of anyone’s notice, the exhilaration that came from taking a life. it should have been obvious to those he falsely led that their saviour, their leader, their inquisitor was manipulating the strings for chaos. he was no herald. he was disaster.

making friends among his companions was one thing -- a mistake of compassion from when his memories failed, but his master had been agreeable. they were  granted quick deaths at the end, when teren turned the inquisition’s supposed victory into treachery, into catastrophic defeat. they did not suffer as the world burned at his feet and rifts torn open the sky, demons flooding every inch of thedas. a new god took his place in the heavens, and his puppet, the one that allowed it to happen, commanded the ground from his beloved shadows that now dominated.

but there was one -- he’d made special arrangements for gavin. the only that knew, the only one that had accepted a place at teren’s side. the only remnant of anything good that had existed in the elf before his original memories had been restored and the first plan had been returned to its hellish motion. he was not the same, but then, neither was the elf.

and yet. 

something. something. the conflicting memories in his head that told tales of the time he spent with gavin that keeps the other protected. that wars with him. teren knows, he knows this is the path he chose (too late to change it, he doesn’t want to, doesn’t matter anyway), but a little voice in his head says he isn’t the person he could be. says that this isn’t what gavin meant when he told teren he believed in him. says that something is wrong. tells him he needs to stop hiding in the shadows, even as his command stretches farther across nations.

he should have seen it coming, but he’s blinded by the hope that this last piece of him clings to. he should’ve know that, while his master had allowed him to keep someone, he would have been watching. making sure teren behaved. keeping an eye on the domain that he had created (not that, even with hope, even with a change of heart, the pretend inquisitor could save anything anymore). but his master sees the small hesitations, and his master stops it.

ends him. 

it’s not gentle. he’s still alive when teren arrives, steps from the shadows to find the room they’ve kept together destroyed. the red lyrium that has left him alone has decorated what remain, and in the center of it all, there he is, like a show piece, said lyrium piercing through flesh as if to hold to other aloft. the scent of blood is strong but the elf does not flinch, even as he steps barefoot across broken glass and lyrium shards until he stands before the other.

he doesn’t speak, only reaches for a bloody cheek, fingers gently tracing a small pattern before lifting gavin’s chin. there’s a strange sort of sorrow in the elf -- something that should have faded completely by now, but instead he smiles, something soft, reminiscent of before all this.

“you didn’t deserve this.”

the words offered back are soft, as they always are. gentle. there’s no regret in them, even though the pain is obvious. something inside the elf breaks -- the last piece tying him to a morality he didn’t know he was holding on to. 

he doesn’t apologize nor does he ask for forgiveness - it’s beyond him now, and even if he thought he deserved it, he wouldn’t have accepted it anyway. instead, he pulls one of his daggers from their place at his back, it’s familiar handle uncomfortable. the briefest moment of hesitation and then he places his lips against gavin’s, ignoring the blood. maybe a goodbye. maybe a distraction. maybe the plea for forgiveness he won’t ask for.

the dagger sinks beneath skin with practiced ease, passing broken bones and eliminating whatever signs of life were struggling to hang on. he feels the pulse stop, knows his mark has been made as the last breath brushes his skin. lips lifts slightly, a whispered confession maybe slipping from between them, and he finally pulls back, dagger remaining where he put it. a final gift. 

he’s startled to find there are tears on his cheeks, and he wipes at them once with a hand now covered in blood. battles scars. but he feels nothing, a true emptiness as dark in him as the shadows he steps back into, leaving behind the only thing that had ever mattered. time would forget this happened.

and with his master’s help, so would teren.