#I wrote this late last night

[pagsys-writings]

28. Letters

For years after Arthur passed, Merlin wrote letters to him. He filled their contents with all the words he should have said when he had the chance. His first one was filled with apologies. His second held all the hurt Merlin felt at the loss of Arthur and his other friends. Regret dripped from the words of his third letter for all he didn’t do for Camelot, for Arthur, and even Morgana. But as the letters continued, they changed. As Merlin came to terms with all his emotions, the one that remained constant was love. Soon he found himself surrounded by piles of love letters as he waited for Arthur’s return, and he wondered if Arthur would ever get to read them. 

[clumpstumplr]

makka makka 🍑 akka wakka 🍆 meeka makka moo 😏 makka pakka 😳 appa yakka 🍌 ikka akka oo 🫦 hum dum agga pang ing ang oo 😈 makka pakka 🤤 akka wakka 😍 mikka makka moo 🥵

[hypnified]

I forget that people are genuinely born after 2004 and it scares me

[housecow]

i have knee problems stemming from an injury when i was younger. if i step wrong and fall in a certain way, the pain is so bad i can’t walk. but sometimes i like to fantasize: what if something even worse happens and i can’t walk for weeks? what if i happen to be in regular close contact with my feeder?

it’d be hard being told i have rest and let myself heal. there are plans coming up that have to be cancelled, the few active hobbies i have left take a hit. but…it’s so easy to accept every snack brought to me. after all, i sought out a feeder—this lifestyle is the one i’ve eaten myself towards. and he knows i have an inclination towards eating too much. that first week goes easier than it should; weight starts to pile on. but i miss going out, even running errands sounds nice. in the few moments my hands are absent of food or a shake i am regularly in contact with my friends.

the next week i’m better but… i feel slow. my feeder has started to keep people away because i need to rest and he’s right, healing is taxing on the body. i start responding less to others, too. our funnel has gotten so much more use in the last few days. the sugar and constant snacks step up and i can tell there is an agenda behind it all but *god* it feels good to be doted on. he helps me through the necessary exercises but trips across the house are rare. i notice how difficult it is to lift myself up now—how sedentary have i been?

that question doesn’t cross my mind again, there are better things to focus on. my feeder knows how to use my adhd to his advantage—food, sex, TV, and games all provide the dopamine hit needed to keep me distracted. the 3rd week is similar enough to the 2nd: ritualistic feeding becomes the norm. we don’t need a valve to control the flow on the funnel anymore, he knows i can finish everything. my belly is swollen out into my lap all of the time now, if i hold my boobs aside i can see new stretch marks creeping across my expanding hips. i expect the snacks, “babe, can you grab me something from the fridge?” is a phrase heard several times in the day. and my feeder obliges.

the 4th week we have an appointment and im told i should walk and start being active again. the doctor looks nervous though and tells me i need to watch my weight, he says something like “its alarming how quickly this happened,” but i blocked it out because—i can’t even see how much i weigh? my belly blocks the view now. oh my god.

in the car afterwards my feeder expresses doubt at the situation: “you don’t look so steady on your feet, i think you should still take it easy.” his eyes meet mine and i don’t miss the brief glance away, desire obvious at the sight of my rounded figure that’s entirely his fault. i know what he wants and i can’t deny myself that want, either. and he knows better in these situations, i trust his judgement. maybe it is best to stay in. plans can be pushed further back… the walk back to the car was a little difficult, too.

the next weeks—or does it span months?—pass in a blur. staying in is all i want to do. although i’m supposedly healthy again, i rarely get up and walk around more than needed. “needed” means a slow, clumsy walk to the fridge and back to either the couch or the bed. when my feeder is not there to feed me himself he takes time to order food to the door. bending down to pick things up is a monumental effort for me—a heavy, wide belly pressing into my fattened thighs. my swollen tits obscure my vision but serve as an excellent table when i need.

my feeder comes home one day and im asleep, taking up more than my fair share of the couch. my breaths are not easy and its obvious how much i ate beforehand: mostly-empty 2 liters, takeout containers haphazardly stacked on top of one another as they were finished, countless snack packages balled up and stuck between the couch cushions because sometimes i like to squirrel stuff away. as if there was a chance of hiding these habits my feeder built.

but the best part of it all is the empty pitcher sat against the corner of the couch, because i couldn’t reach to the coffee table to properly set it down with so much fat making every movement difficult.

the remnants a weight gain shake. our usual ingredients of cake mix, melted ice cream, strawberries, chocolate syrup, nutella, crushed oreos. it was hastily made, however, and it’s obvious by the chocolatey powder on the sides of the container that it was about the calories this time, not the taste. he can see where some escaped the pitcher and poured down my overly plump, round face and past the lovingly cultivated double chin. it dripped onto my breasts, lovely puddles of calories he wish made it inside of me even if the sight is wonderful. after that thought, an idea comes up. how deep are the rolls he’s gifted me? a cow this size needs to be used.

[naffeclipse]

Warm Fangs

Naga!Sun x Reader. Sickness.

Prev

As you sleep, the fever worsens. Chills hit you with a violent shudder. The heat from the sickness flees under the quaking cold. You moan softly, curling up tighter. A soft hiss shushes you but you can’t find anything warm, anything warm at all.

The smooth brush of scales loosens from around you. The outside cold slips away from your feverish skin but stays within.

“It hasn’t broken yet,” Moon murmurs distantly. Cold fingertips brush your hair, damp from sweat, away from your forehead. A whine leaves you. You hate how pathetic it sounds inside your head.

“Oh, no. I was afraid it might linger with our poor lily pad,” Sun lowers his voice but he’s not as quiet as his brother, holding a stage whisper more than an actual whisper. You might have smiled if you weren’t bothered by the mottled moonlight giving way to a blue-bright early morning sky. 

It doesn’t feel warm. The sun is supposed to reheat the earth and take away the frost filling your chest with a shivering revolt.

A few quiet exchanges slip away in your near unconsciousness. Gingerly, you become weightless, lifted into the air like a feather before pressed into other arms. Heat, raw and covering, finally touches your body. You breathe out a low sigh, eyelids fluttering to peek up at the source of the heat. The form softly sways as you’re carried away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sun hums. He looks down at you, his spiky frills flaring around his head in golden hues before the shadow of the cave eclipses the morning sun. “Don’t move, my water lily, you’re still sick.”

“Hmm, I’m fine,” you half moan. Your eyes fall close again. A tender soreness soaks into every muscle, especially at your neck and your shoulders. The deep, deep ache that refuses to go away. 

You shudder with another chill. Sun clicks his tongue in concern, the forked end whipping with a snapping worry. 

“You amaze me, truly. Even in the throes of illness, you’re still so stubborn.” He laughs softly, endearing but in a way that almost makes you push yourself out of his steady arms. He doesn’t get to think you’re cute. Not right now, when you feel how sticky your body is and how weak your limbs dangle as he carries you deeper into the cave you’ve made a shelter within.

“Sun,” you softly groan.

“Save your strength to fight the fever, not me.” A soft peck of his scaly mouth touches your temple. You nearly dissolve under his doting command. “You need to rest and do as I say so you can feel better. I don’t like to see you like this.”

You, in a reflective, rebellious instinct, almost try to kick out your feet and find solid ground, but Sun lowers you to the cold, cave floor. You’re seized by another icy torrent of coldness. Hugging your arms, you quietly groan. A soft swell of tears teem over your eyelids. That’s from the sickness, you tell yourself. You’re not crying because Sun and his sweet warmth let you go.

“I’ll be gone for only a moment, lily pad. Hold on for me, okay?” he singsongs.

You want to snatch the heat that had held back the torturous chills. Lifting your heavy eyes, you scour the dimness of the cave, catching sight of Sun’s long body softly slipping over the stone towards the shelves that were chipped into the wall of the cavern. The rich yellow hues of his scales are bright even in the shadows of rocks. The markings along his waist and around his throat are scarlet and vibrant with warning of his venom. You watch the outline of Sun’s defined shoulders move, taking and gathering, collecting a pale pink blossom you can’t currently name.

Pressed against the wall in a sleepy bundle of his scales, Moon watches you, eyes half lidded but attentive. You didn’t hear him enter. His hands open and close, as if to reach for you. He holds back. You frown at his distance but recall his cool scales through the midnight fever, and drowsily, in fitful half-sleep, wait for Sun.

He returns with a skim over the floor. His presence washes over you with hope.

“Don’t cry, my water lily. I’m here,” Sun coaxes with gentle mirth. A crooked finger swipes the leaking liquid from your eyes.

“Not crying,” you grumble, voice croaking like a frog. “Not a water lily.”

“Oh, I’m going to have to disagree and blame your lack of sense on the sickness,” he chirps as if you were simply the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

You pry your eyelids open for a glare. You certainly are not a beautiful and grandiose flower. Not right now in your freezing weakness.

Moon’s hissing laughter echoes. It fills you with another short burst of irate energy that lasts for only the moment of his humor. Sun tuts and shoots Moon a look before gently cradling you. The golden naga guides you upright with a tender hand supporting your back. He rests your head on his shoulder, his underside a shiny, pale cream color, and the gentle heat of his body burns away the chills holding you down. 

He lifts up a small flower, pale pink and pom-pom like on the end of a slender, green stalk.

“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better,” he softly insists.

You eye the flower as if it were a venus flytrap, and you were a particularly weak fly.

“What is it?” you murmur.

“I’ve heard humans call it a sensitive plant, sometimes called touch-me-not. If you had told me you weren’t feeling well early, you could have had this sooner.” The chasiting does not evade your awareness. Sun lowers the plant closer, as if offering a rose instead of medicine. “It will help with your fever and chills.”

“Ugh,” you turn your head ahead. The thought of eating when you have no appetite rears an ugly head within you. “I don’t need it.”

“I disagree strongly, lilypad,” Sun crones in disapproval. “Once you eat it, you’ll start to feel better.”

The soft lift to his tone invades you. You want to squirm, keep turning away from the offered medical plant, but Sun’s warmth surrounds you entirely. Gently, his finger guides your cheek until you face him once more.

“Please, won’t you, for me?” His cornflower blue eyes hold you with his plea. From the corners of his wide mouth, the very tips of fangs glint, but you’re not afraid of his bite. He saved you with his venom, once.

You grimace and force your lips to part. Murmuring praises and coaxes alike in a soft, musical tone, Sun presses the flower head to your mouth until you bite it off, and chew laboriously. It tastes green and dry. He watches you, hawk-like, ensuring you masticate the soft, brittle like petals before swallowing against the vicious dryness of your throat. You gasp after gulping.

His smile grows like a sunbeam at sunrise.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” He tenderly rubs his mouth against your forehead. “Thank you."

The heat of his affection battles the cold underneath your skin, and when you shiver, he holds you tighter. You fall deeper under his fondness.

"This will pass and you’ll be in tip-top shape again,” he says softly, brimming with heated hope.

Oh, Sun. You want to curse him. You want to tell him that he can’t talk like that, melting your insides and making you nothing but an ooey-gooey mess, but you can’t. You are swept away by his sweet tones. 

No one but Sun unbalances you and catches you in the same motion. He’s disarming. He's the only thing that feels right.

You slump against him in another full-body shudder. Softly humming, Sun begins rearranging your limp form, draping your legs across his deliciously warm tail as the dark end wraps your lower legs. The tightness of his coils used to frighten you before you realized how summery and soft he is. He tucks you gently against his arm, lying down to become your personal pillow.

You are so useless. It’s a miracle you haven’t faded away by now—a miracle of two nagas, no less.

“It’s also called humble flower,” he continues with a soft note. “Perhaps you could take that aspect from it as well, my water lily.”

You moan, unable to offer a rebuttal that you are no flower, but his gentle embrace covers you entirely. His chest thrums lightly with a heartbeat you’ve listened to before. A soft hum fills his throat. He continues pressing his mouth against your cheek, the crook of your neck, and the top of your head as if smothering the clammy effect attempting to surface on your body.

“Soon, you’ll rise and we can stroll through the jungle and find more flowers, more flowers like you, and you’ll feel better. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he chatters endlessly.

You can only snuggle deeper against his chest, against his warm, smooth scales, better than any patch of sunlight, and trust in him.

[crybaby-bkg]

asking nerd Bakugou to give you a ‘pearl necklace’ and he starts grumbling about you tryna drain him dry but instead of pulling out his cock, he pulls out his phone to actually search for a pearl necklace </3

and to both his surprise and embarrassment, his phone is quickly tossed away in favor of you showing him what you’re actually asking for. he’s not mad though—not when you end up looking so pretty covered in white, grinning, and asking for another necklace <3

[finickyfelix]

Last night I made a post about how I am probably not going to do tag games at the moment. Which I deleted. And then regretted deleting. So now I am going to make the same post again but with a clearer head, this time hopefully more as an info post than a vent post.

Anyway. No tag games from me for now, because they're apparently not good for me at the moment, especially after the fact that I spent pretty much all day yesterday feeling very horrible about my writing because of one. (This is not the fault of anyone who tagged me in anything recently, and especially not the people who tagged me in the tag game in question. If this is you, please don't feel bad. This is my fault for doing a tag game when I knew they made me feel like this lately. I like being thought of so if you have tagged me in anything I love you, no hard feelings.)

If you want to continue tagging me in things, you can, so I can see your writing, but please be aware that I won't actually do any tag games until further notice. I just want to look at what you've got.

If I do ever go back to doing tag games, I am very tempted to change something about my tag list situation. Either get rid of it altogether and just go back to leaving everything open tag, or start it over from scratch, or maybe I could just be rude and kick off a couple of people who I have convinced myself I am bothering, because as it is tagging my current tag list makes me extremely anxious. But I might never go back to doing tag games, so who knows, this might not be relevant. Or I might go back to doing this next week so it might be relevant very soon, lol. I have no idea how permanent this will be. Until it's fun again, I guess.

I might post just snippets of my writing more often, when I can, but there will not be a tag list for them. Tag lists and I don't get along apparently (me having one, that is. I like being on other people's tag lists.) You'll just have to be lucky in your timing to see my writing for now I guess.

[headless-over-heels]

Somebody I Love - Mark Hoffman

Minors DNI. ~760 words. Very slight Dom!Mark. Fem/AFAB Reader, female pronouns used, mention of reader wearing a bit of makeup, otherwise not much description in terms of reader's looks (lmk if I’m wrong). Kinda Mark's pov, 3rd person pronouns, no use of "y/n". Unprotected P in V, light dacryphilia. Mark is down bad for reader. Reader is a little mean to Mark at the beginning.

As Mark leaned in to press his lips to hers, she stopped him, firmly, two fingers against his lips. He was already balls deep in this perfect little pussy of hers, fucking her raw at her insistence, and kissing is where she draws the line? 

“I’ll only kiss somebody I love,” she said sheepishly. 

He tried to hide the hurt that flashed across his face at that. Smirking instead, Mark murmured, “I can work with that,” punctuating with a hard thrust that made her moan so loudly that she buried her face in the pillow. 

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head to the side, earning a sharp yelp as he exposed the column of her neck. His lips on her soft skin, he worked in a nice bruise with his tongue and teeth, he could feel her toes curling against his thigh as she drew her legs up around his waist, pulling his cock in deeper. 

Mark had her screaming in seconds, nearly coming at the sight of her eyes rolling back in her head. She didn’t have to say it. He could just tell no one had ever fucked her like this, made her feel this good. The way she clung to him like a lifeline, as if she were drowning in her pleasure and he was the only thing that could save her. The way she met his hips at every thrust, the fresh tears that sprung forward every time the tip of his cock brushed that sweet spot deep in her. It was enough to make Mark forget that sting of hurt. For a little while, anyway. 

They’ve been fucking like rabbits for months now. Not much longer, and it would be a year. Longer than Mark has been with anyone, not that he’s “with” her, he supposes. He knows what he’s good for, that their relationship, or whatever this is, is just sex, but he also knows what he wants. And Mark wants her. However she’ll let him have her. 

While he often uses his time with her to get out his frustrations, fucking into her as hard and deep as she can take, it’s not uncommon for him to be damn near loving with her when he can tell she needs it. Today, she needs it. She’s desperate for him, pulling his body flush to hers, burying her face in his neck as he buries his cock in her pussy. Mark can’t deny that his chest aches a bit when she gets soft like this.

Her nails are like claws raking up his back, pulling him impossibly closer, and she’s whimpering his name in his ear with every thrust, her hips meeting his in perfect rhythm. Mark pulls back just enough to look at her, almost hating how she can push him to the edge by this alone. Eyes rolled back in absolute bliss, mascara and cock drunk tears of pleasure soaking her cheeks, head lolled back against the pillow as she bites her lip to keep from screaming. 

He wants more than anything to tell her to let it out, to scream for him, tell him how good he’s fucking her. But when she meets his eyes, she takes his breath away as she takes his face in her hands, and presses her lips to Mark’s for the first time. 

I’ll only kiss somebody I love, Mark remembers her saying that first time. 

It’s the best kiss he’s ever had, he thinks— no, he knows. This is the kiss he’ll be thinking about for the rest of his life. Mark's head is swimming, hips moving on instinct alone as she deepens the kiss, taking all control from him in an instant. 

She grinds that perfect little pussy on Mark’s cock, giving her clit all the friction she needs, and before he knows what’s happening, she’s whimpering into his mouth as she comes, those perfect velvet walls taking him with her as they flutter around his cock. He empties himself deep inside her, nearly collapsing on top of her in his effort to keep her lips on his. 

Mark kisses her again, and again, and again until he can't breathe. He touches his forehead to hers, just needing to keep her close as her pants fan across his face. He strokes her cheek, and her eyes flutter open to meet his once more. He can’t bring himself to ask if she means it. He doesn’t need to. 

She just nods, a grin nearly splitting her face in two as she pulls Mark in to kiss him breathless again. 

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Happy pride, silm fandom. I bring queer Tolkien puns.

Fingolfhe/him

Aredhel Ar-Gayniel

Morfem Eledhwen

Polymagorous (Rep for Hador’s granddaddy..)

Queernaeth Arnoediad

Artanaromantic (!!)

Earendilf I sincerely apologise

Míriel Þerindyke

Arwen Undemiel

Ambisexuarussa (I hope you’re cringing by now)

Artanace Nerwen

Prideros Feanorian

[maslows-pyramid-scheme]

Can you explain more what you mean when you say “an identity based framework is inconsistent with material analysis”?

I'm incredibly critical of the idea that simply having a particular social identity renders one 'oppressed' or 'oppressed enough' to speak on particular issues; if your biggest grievance is how people speak to/about you and not your material reality, then you're doing comparatively well.

For context, I think there are four main forms of structural disadvantage that we should structure our discourse around:

being institutionalised on the basis of one's group, e.g. imprisonment, confinement in certain places like residential schools, confinement in mental health facilities;

being subject to violence on the basis of one's group, e.g. domestic violence, conversion therapy, forceful removal from family/culture;

being impoverished on the basis of one's group, e.g. living in poverty (not just being poor), being prevented from earning or owning money; and

lacking institutional representation, e.g. in politics, in administrative decision-making, in planning decisions.

I find that a lot of online 'activists' can't actually describe what they believe without relying on an identity framework; they'll say that [x] is oppressed, but they won't be able to explain how [x] fits into any of those categories (or whether there should be a fifth category) - they'll just assume that material consequence follows group identification.

[iusedtohavesixtoes]

A picture of November’s OTP of the Year prompt, Red Wolf Moon: De-aging

Seteth rushed to meet them near the edges without thinking, eyes locked on the lavender haired man struggling with whatever he was carrying. “Yuri, have you seen—?”

Yuri paused in his step as whatever small thing in his arms jerked as the older man spoke. A child, Seteth realized, though folded over with a robe, oversized. Clothes he recognized, but was too wrapped up in the mystery to make any connections. He watched as small hands lifted the clothing from its head to reveal the face of who he was searching for, covered in tears and a running nose.

Small. Much too small for Flayn. “Papa!”

[findinghomes]

far too easy

1.4k | 1/1 | teen | tags: dnf, fluff, established relationship, love confessions

-

It always rose up at the worst times. They were inopportune moments—like a fleeting hello in a hallway or a you coming? seconds before an Uber pulled up.

But Dream would just be there, fixing his cat beanie in the mirror with a small frown. He’d turn to George and ask, “Does this look okay?”

And it would almost slip out.

I love you.

-

Or, the first time they say I love you.

[onthewaytosomewhere]

it's an Olympics proposal fic that i thought was gonna get posted last night - but then i got distracted by something else lolz

so this is entirely the fault of @thinkof-england & @priincebutt - i mean all i did was make the comment that you just know one of the sappy fucks would propose at the olympics lolz

It's a race to propose at the Olympics for the boys, but neither knows that it's a race or that the other is planning to do so as well. Henry has a nice little plan that doesn't quite work out the way he wants, and Alex's "perfect moment" he's been waiting for never really comes. But, what does happen is perfect for them.

[pommolove]

I miss him more than ever, everything feels so empty without him. I just need his loving arms around me again, I can't take this

late nights like these make me crazy, what do you mean I will never feel his love again? n' my dumb ass regularly listening to Jeff Buckley is not making this any easier

[filet-o-feelings]

Me: I want to write, but I have no ideas

The 20+ wips and prompts in my docs: 🙄

[your-local-uwu-artist]

nastasia gets the gangs phones for communication, she texts important plan stuff or something to O'chunks who asks mr.L how to spell "i cant read" to which he's like "i cant spell???"

mimi will send mr.l very stupid memes, as well as pictures of boyband members for him to rate

mimi set up O' chunks contacts for him that way all of their phones would have dimentios contact name be "that bitch"

dimentio texts with emojis like the way old people think teenage girls text intentionally just to annoy people

Mr.L is always quick to respond to Nastasia's texts

mimi's contact for mr.L is "ellie is a dweeb <3" in like a secretly affectionate sibling name and dimentios is "ellie💚" in like a patronizing "i cant wait to monolougue about my evil plan later" kinda way

Mimi's contact name on Mr.L's phone is "minecraf🕸️creeber"

O chunks on Mimis is "himb'O chunks"

Mr.L and mimi constantly judge each others taste in memes

they also scend each other ascii art alot

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⠤⠔⠒⠒⠒⠒⠒⠢⠤⢤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⢀⠴⠊⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠲⣄⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⡰⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢧⠀⠀ ⠀⡸⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢇⠀ ⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⢀⡶⠛⣿⣷⡄⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⠛⢿⣷⡄⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀ ⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⢸⣷⣶⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⢻⣿⣶⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀ ⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⠻⠿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⠻⠿⠛⠁⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀ ⠀⠹⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠏⠀ ⠀⠀⠈⠢⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣚⡁⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⠒⢢⡤⠤⠤⠤⠤⠤⠖⠒⠒⠋⠉⠉⠀⠀⠉⠉⢦ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣤⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⢸ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⡇⠀⠀⠀⢠⣿⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⣸ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢱⠀⠀⠀⢸⠘⡆⠀⠀⢸⣀⡰⠋⣆⠀⣠⠇ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠳⠤⠤⠼⠀⠘⠤⠴⠃⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠁⠀

like that one

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣧⠀⠀⠀⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣇⠀⢸⣿⣿⣦⣤⣄⣀⣴⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣿⡆⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⣿⣿⣧⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣿⣿⣿⠻⣿⠂⡀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⣿⣿⣿⣦⣿⣏⠁⠀ ⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⡀⠀⠀ ⢠⣾⣿⡿⠋⠀⠈⠙⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⡿⠿⠟⢿⣿⣿⣷⣄⠀ ⠈⠿⡿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠻⣿⡿⠂ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢿⡿⠟⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀

and that

lots of cats lots of miku and lots of crewmates dfnakjs

nastasia is forced to come to terms with motherhood as everyone starts texting her "whats for dinner"