#actually found it on the day itself this year!

[deansbeer]

what's left behind ・ THE WINCHESTERS. ៸៸៸ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ! ♡ library

୨୧ synopsis. after dean's death, sam finds old photos and vhs tapes, reliving childhood memories and breaking down as he mourns his big brother.

୨୧ warning(s). major character death (canon) | sam's pov | grief | mourning | HEAVY angst | flashbacks | childhood nostalgia | john winchester | brief mentions shitty parenting | found footage | emotional breakdown | implied depression.

୨୧ word count. 1241

୨୧ kari notes. i don't know what to say except i'm so sorry <3 this is a result of that damn gif pinterest decided to torture me with today. and yes, tears are falling down my face again.

the bunker feels different now.

sam had always known it was a massive place, but without dean’s presence filling it—his music echoing down the halls, the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor, his voice calling out some dumb joke—now it just felt hollow.

he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last slept. maybe a day, maybe two. time is a blur, stretching and folding in on itself like it doesn’t matter anymore. because maybe it doesn’t.

the only thing that exists now is the ache in his chest. the weight of grief pressing down so hard it feels like it might break his ribs.

dean’s gone.

and sam’s still here.

he doesn’t know what to do with that.

so he does the only thing he can do—he goes through dean’s things.

it’s not like he means to. he’s just walking, aimless, and somehow his feet take him to dean’s room.

it still smells like him. leather, whiskey, gun oil, aftershave. like home.

sam stands in the doorway for a long time, staring at the unmade bed, at the jacket dean had tossed over the chair, at the half-empty beer bottle still sitting on the nightstand.

his throat tightens.

he forces himself to step inside.

the first thing he finds is the box shoved under dean’s desk.

it’s old, the cardboard edges softened with time. when sam pulls it out and lifts the lid, he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

inside, there are photos. stacks of them.

the first one he picks up is of them as kids, sitting on the hood of the impala, dean’s arm slung around his shoulders, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world.

sam swallows hard, tracing his thumb over the edge of the picture.

he flips through more—some of them polaroids, some bent at the corners from being stuffed into wallets or baby’s glove compartment.

one of them is from a christmas when they were little. the cheap motel decorations hanging crookedly, dean holding up a present wrapped in newspaper, laughing while sam, maybe five or six years old, looks up at him like he hung the damn moon.

sam presses his lips together, his vision blurring. he sets the photos aside, digging deeper into the box. that’s when he finds the tapes.

old vhs tapes, a few of them, stacked neatly together. none of them are labeled.

his stomach twists.

he doesn’t know what’s on them, but if they were tucked away in dean’s things, they meant something.

he finds an old vcr player in the bunker’s storage rooms, hooks it up to the tv, and slides in the first tape with trembling hands.

the screen flickers, static buzzing for a second before the image comes into focus.

the first thing he sees is dean’s face, filling up the whole screen, his green eyes squinting as he adjusts the camera.

“is this thing on?—oh, shit, it is.”

sam lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it catches in his throat.

on the screen, dean grins, stepping back. he’s younger here, maybe early twenties, standing in some rundown motel room.

“okay, so, sammy’s in the shower right now, which means i got, like, five minutes before he comes out and ruins my fun,” dean says, smirking. “figured i’d document this moment in history—sam winchester actually agreeing to take a night off and not bury his nose in a book.”

sam watches as dean flips the camera around, pointing it at the motel table where a half-eaten burger and a pile of playing cards sit.

“we got burgers, we got poker, and most importantly we got the booze.”

the camera shakes as dean turns it back on himself, winking.

“anyway. just wanted to capture this, ‘cause, y’know… who the hell knows how long we get to do this?”

there’s something in his voice, a weight beneath the teasing. like he already knew, even then.

sam swallows hard.

he watches the rest of the tape in silence. it’s mostly random clips—dean messing around, making faces at the camera, flipping it off. but there are parts of himself too, moments dean had filmed without sam realizing.

one of him, hunched over a book while dean zooms in dramatically, whispering, “nerd alert.”

another of him eating pancakes at some diner, rolling his eyes while dean narrates, “and here we see the elusive sam winchester in his natural habitat—devouring carbs.”

sam doesn’t even realize he’s crying until a tear slips onto his hand.

he wipes at his face roughly, shoving the heels of his palms into his eyes.

but the memories keep coming.

before the hunts, before the bunker, before everything got so damn hard—

they were just kids.

and god, dean had always been there.

he remembers the times when john wasn’t around, when it was just the two of them in some shitty motel, and dean would make up stories to help him sleep.

he does remember the few times john had actually let them be kids, when he’d come back with cheap plastic toys, and they’d play cops and robbers for hours until they passed out on the motel floor.

“gotcha, sammy!” dean would yell, tackling him onto the bed, laughing as he pinned him down.

“not fair, you’re bigger!” sam would whine, squirming.

“sucks to suck, lil’ dude.”

sam lets out a broken breath, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. he doesn’t know how to do this—how to keep going without dean.

he presses play on another tape.

this one is quieter.

it’s just dean again, sitting on the hood of the impala, the sky dark behind him.

he looks tired.

“so, uh… not really sure why i’m recording this,” dean mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “guess i just… i dunno.”

he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at the camera.

“sammy, if you ever find this… sorry, man. for everything.”

sam’s whole body goes rigid.

“i know i don’t say it enough, but… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, man.”

dean shifts, looking uncomfortable, like the words are hard to say.

“i know dad was… y’know. but we had each other. and i wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

he pauses, then smirks a little.

“even if you are a nerd.”

the tape cuts out.

sam sits there for a long time, staring at the static-filled screen, his hands trembling.

that’s when he breaks.

it’s not graceful. it’s not quiet.

it’s messy, gasping, gut-wrenching sobs that rip through him, his whole body shaking as he folds forward, pressing his hands to his face.

because this isn’t fair.

they were supposed to have more time.

they were supposed to grow old together.

but now dean is gone.

and sam is alone.

the bunker is silent except for the sound of his own cries, the weight of memories pressing down on him like an avalanche.

he doesn’t know how long he stays like that.

but eventually, he lifts his head, wiping at his tear-streaked face, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

he looks at the tapes. at the photos. at the pieces of his brother scattered around him.

dean might be gone.

but he left pieces of himself behind.

and that’s enough to hold onto.

[cybershock24601]

Thinking about my rookanis twins and how easily they could have ended up resenting each other like Lucanis and Illario.

Erasmus (Elmo to his family) is the more scholarly twin. The one fascinated by magic, the Fade, spirits, and all things necessary and wants to be a distinguished scholar in the Mourn Watch. Sitting in on Emmrich’s lectures in the Necropolis at 8 years old and taking notes and sure he doesn’t understand everything but his mom or Uncle Emmrich will always take the time to explain it to him and answer any questions and he’s just waiting for the day he becomes a mage too because he wants to understand things the same way they do.

Then there is Ezio who isn’t stupid but doesn’t much care for reading dusty old books and doing things like math. He wants to be out there hitting things with swords and thinks the fact that his dad is an assassin is like the coolest thing ever and is always begging Lucanis to show him tricks, especially cool knife tricks. He’s active and acrobatic and probably could have made a pretty good Crow if things had gone differently. Like sure magic is cool but can mages do this? and then does a triple backflip or something.

And guess which one of them turns out to be the mage?

Ezio is now shoved into magic classes and being forced to read books and study theory that he finds fundamentally boring when he could be out doing things and Elmo has his dreams of being a great mage shattered by the crushing reality that he can’t do magic. They’re both so excited once Ezio’s magic shows itself (though Ezio hates having to actually learn the theory behind the magic and can’t just practice shooting fireballs all day) but things get tense with each passing year as it becomes increasingly clear that Elmo didn’t inherit that same talent for magic.

Lucanis starts stressing bad because he’s so worried the budding resentment Elmo has towards not being a mage is going to drive the same wedge between his sons that the title of First Talon did to himself and Illario. The final straw for leaving the Crows was seeing the way Caterina had started to favor one of the boys over the other and combined with everything else (and there was a lot), Lucanis and Rook decided that leaving the Crows was the best option for their family, yet history seems ready to repeat itself for no good reason at all. Rook is also worried but decides that just because her son can’t study magic the way he wants to, that doesn’t mean he can’t study it all. She pushes him to continue to study but also encourages him to explore other topics of study because he might not be a mage but he can still be a great scholar.

Things start to get better when Elmo finds a passion in studying surgery and medicine and alchemy. He’s still always going to be a little bitter about the fact that he isn’t a mage and his brother is but doesn’t seem to really appreciate it; however, he knows it isn’t Ezio’s fault he’s a mage and it’s alright that Ezio has different interests and strengths and getting into complex magical theory just isn’t something he’s into and that’s okay. Elmo can still distinguish himself as a scholar and grows up to be one of the most renowned surgeons in the Mourn Watch and makes some great advances in the fields of medicine and surgery while Ezio found himself as a skilled spellblade that specializes in ‘taking care of’ problem necromancers for the Watch.

This doesn’t change the fact that Lucanis got a number of extra grey hairs while the twins were teenagers and he was so worried about them turning on each other but Rook just thinks they make him look distinguished. She’s got herself a silver fox for a husband and is happy to show him just how thankful she is to have such a handsome husband and an amazing for father for their brood of children.

[thefrenchydude]

Y!Charlie little story I wrote

(Hi !I just wanted to write a little thing about a yandere character I found out about. Hope y'all like it ! :) ) (Charlie Craven belongs to @wake-me-up-inside-imagines, thank you for making such a good character !)

Nothing special never happened to you. Since your birth, you had a pretty normal life. You have grown into a loving family, studied like everyone else, and finally decided to work for a living. Opening a flower boutique near your parent's house, was what you’ve first done.

You had a pretty calm life. No rude costumer, no taxes problems… You had the chance to be able to actually live. And you were so grateful for that. You knew the chance you had to be able to be so happy.

But one thing was missing. You wanted to find your loved one. You’ve never felt in love. You were craving this feeling, to be able to be embraced by someone else love.

You registered on this dating site, which surprised even you. You weren't really the type to use this kind of means to meet people. But time was running out, and you didn't want to spend the rest of your days living alone, seeing others finally find their soul mates.

Dates were followed by voice calls and face-to-face meetings. But no one really seemed to convince you. Some people were extremely beautiful or kind, but you didn't feel that warmth deep inside, that call that binds souls together with a silken thread. Nothing but emptiness.

You stopped everything. Perhaps you needed more time to find the one and only. Or maybe you were destined to spend your life on a lonely path. You and your flowers.

Time passed without you being able to hold it back. And the anguish of eternal solitude slowly ate away at you. An aching sensation in your chest, an icy emptiness in your stomach. Winter was fast approaching, and like your flowers, you seemed to be wilting.

For this season, your store emptied itself of all warms, leaving only cold colors to tint your flowers. Which didn't help your morale.

Customers were much rarer at this time of year, so you were more often alone, standing at your counter, surrounded by immaculate white flowers. 

Your parents came to visit from time to time, cheering you up for a while. Then you'd go back to your routine.

***

The snow was pouring down outside, painting the horizon white, and the cold had invaded your store. To warm up, you made yourself some hot chocolate.

As night fell, streetlamps lit up the streets with their feverish light. The streets were empty, and you hadn't had a customer in a while. Finishing your cup, you headed for the door to turn over the sign: open/closed. You were about to close early.

At least that's what you wanted to do. A man entered your store in a hurry. A man with long blond hair, who towered over you by at least a head.

He wasn't the kind you often saw coming in. He had a very... punk style? Biker vests with spikes, ear piercings, jeans with holes, silver necklace...

You greeted the man, who looked at you strangely, as if lost. He didn't reply, just watched you for a moment.

Which frightened you. It was dark, and you were alone in your store. The thought that he was a thief hit you hard. 

You explained that you were about to close, but if he wanted flowers, you could stay a little longer.

He simply nodded. And for a while you advised him about the flowers, telling him what they were for and what they meant. Eventually, he bought a lilac with white flowers, signifying new love. He then left, leaving you to close up store.

***

Charlie got out of his bike, hiding his magnum under his vest. He was so angry, not even the snow or the icy temperature could cool him down. He wanted to break that fucker’s neck. Later that day, he learned that one of the other mafia boss of this city had the NERVE to plan Charlie’s downfall behind his back, cooperating with some undercover cops. Charlie had hired cops in his mafia. Something that could not happen normally has he checks their background and all their infos. But here they created everything, changing the cop's identity and past to make them look like dangerous and secluded -The perfect type to hire as assassins.

He had to get some steam out before he goes to kill those little bitch ass chickens.

And he had the perfect opportunity. 

A new shop had opened recently, and it was in his territory, yet nobody came to inform this new shop of the… protection fee they had installed in here for all markets. Normally, it’s not Charlie’s job to do so, but his hitmen. But he had to just beat someone to calm down. 

He saw through the window someone’s back. You were still in the shop. Perfect. 

It was dark, and the snow was becoming more heavy as time goes. Nobody would see him beating you.

He saw you coming to the door, so he sped up his pace, entered abruptly and without a word was about to kick you in the stomach and punch you to the ground. But he was stopped. You were… strange. At least you made him feel strange. Which is not a sensation he is quite familiar with. Why weren’t you on the ground pleading to make his kicks stop, why wasn’t he beating you up like he had been craving.

You must have felt his hostility, as you seemed frightened for a second before you welcomed him. 

Charlie didn’t hear anything of what you said, at least he didn’t understood anything. Because he listened to the sound of your voice, he found it soothing in some way. Then he saw you smile at him, and he just wasn’t all angry anymore.

What was happening ?

He had let you talked about the flowers you had.

He had let you advise him on which flowers to take and why. He ended up buying all-white flowers and left. He walked back to his motorcycle, turned around to see your silhouette through the snow and darkness as you closed the store. Then you left. And Charlie just stood there, looking foolish and not knowing what to do. 

***

In the days that followed, he came to see you at the store several times. He didn't mind being advised to buy more and more flowers for their significance. What he really wanted was to understand you, to understand why you were throwing him off balance. No one had ever managed to put him in such a state before. So why would a florist? It didn't make sense, there had to be something behind this “power” you had over him.

So he came, again and again. Little by little, his mansion filled with brilliant white flowers. And as the flowers bloomed, something inside him blossomed.

He… liked you ?

He hired his men to search infos on you. There was nothing extraordinary, yet he loved every piece of the new things he learned about you and the life you had. He didn’t stop until he knew everything. To the year and place you were born, to the school you went to and the reasons that pushed you to open this shop.

And it all goes down to the point when he can’t have something new about your past.

Some of his men tough, this would stop Charlie’s new kind of obsession. But the feeling in his chest continued to blossom, to expand, creating new emotions Charlie never thought he'd feel.

He had to have you by his side. To be able to feel your presence. In the evenings, when he went to sleep, he couldn't help imagining holding you in his arms, exploring the shapes of your body, whispering sweet nothingness in your ear as you drifted off to sleep. Those nights became difficult, and during the day, not thinking about you was impossible. Having you with him became a necessity.

Before it came to that, Charlie had decided to install cameras all over the house, watching you in his spare time. He loved to watch you drift off to your hobbies. 

And soon it was time to take you to your new home. He had a brand-new room prepared just for you. Comfortable and furnished with all kinds of accessories and furniture. A very large room with a king-size bed at its center, surrounded by silk curtains.

Everything was ready for your arrival, all that remained was to set up the extraction plan. Charlie had sent his best men for this one. He watched them from the mansion, saw them enter your house while you were at work. They were professional; there was nothing to suggest a break-in. A letter in your room had been placed on the desk, perfectly reproducing your writing style. It explained your desire to travel, to escape the stifling life of this city, and your possible return in a few years' time. Plane tickets had been registered in your name for France, making the whole thing more credible. -In any case, Charlie would hire policemen to stop any investigation following your disappearance.

***

You'd go home, exhausted after five days of work. You had to rest, but first you had to eat, drink and shower. You'd make yourself one of those pre-prepared meals and pour yourself a glass of cool water. Just as you were about to start eating, a noise from the living room caught your attention, and you went to see what it was. A book had fallen to the floor. You put it back where it belonged and returned to the dining room. You drank and ate. Then you showered. As you got out of the shower, you noticed how you were getting more and more tired, and how even standing up seemed to have become complicated. As you headed for your bedroom, the world began to spin, and you fell against the wall, letting yourself slide against it. You heard footsteps, movement in the corner of your eye, someone grabbing you under the arms, then... nothingness.

***

Charlie had watched as one of the hitmen threw the book on the floor and hid behind the sofa. How another one came out of the shadow and put the sleeping mixture in your drink. Then how you dizzily went to take a shower and how you fell to the ground when you got out. The hitmen took your unconscious body to the van that just parked in front of your home.

He then waited for them to put you in your new home. When they were done with their mission, Charlie entered the room, sitting down next to you as you slept deeply. He touched your skin as he was craving it and backed off. He has to wait for more contact. And he has to face what would happen next after you awake. You would freak out, scream, cry, you would ask answer, you would be frightened. The first day would be complicated, but one of Charlie’s perks, is his patience. He would wait for you to settle down, to understand and then develop feelings.

Charlie looks at the flowers he has put in your room, next to your desk. He really hopes one day, you would feel just like him, and that this love would blossom inside you.

He got up and left.

[orions-aether]

"do you ever fear that the kindness shown to you by your friends is a reflection of their character? our family did not love us. and perhaps there is some trait of us that made that easy" um yes I do actually bleem shut the fuck up

[lovers-instead]

[devils-little-sistaaa]

(Sorry I missed you’re tags earlier I’ll address them here)

I’m sorry but I still fail to see how random people on the internet shipping characters that are not real has any effect on reality or real queer people. And I’m still not “changing their sexuality” when I’m not writing cannon. Nico is still very much cannonicly gay. Only Rick (or maybe Mark nowadays) could ever change that and I don’t think they ever will.

I’m very sorry for those awful things people said to you and others, that should have never happened. But that also correlates with my point. The people that say those things themselves have a “fiction is reality” type of mindset. They see fictional lesbian characters shipped with men. They think this means all lesbians both fictional and real people are really just “bi with extra steps”. Meanwhile if they would ever realize that fiction is not reality then when they see fictional lesbian character with men they would not associate that with real life lesbians at all and also realize that that character is very much lesbian in the cannon and that no amount of fandom shipping could ever change that because the fandom is not writing the cannon.

And as for the tags : back in the day right before ToA came out I was obsessively reading PJO and HoO over and over again they were comforting for me while I was in the trenches. And when ToA came out I just noticed a whole bunch of fallacies and inconsistencies and flaws. Some parts of ToA were fun for me tho but most of it just didn’t feel the same it didn’t spark joy within me like HoO and PJO did. Partially because Rick’s writing has changed a lot over the years and also because I was growing up and naturally changing myself. I started noticing the flaws in PJO and HoO more often too it wasn’t just ToA.

And as for the hints of Nico having crushes on Annabeth and Juniper :

This is from battle of manhattan when Percy Annabeth and Nico are trying to leave on the phase to get back to camp halfblood for the battle about to happen: Nico being cross with everybody but Annabeth, saying “fine I’ll go back to the camp that also hates me to help you fight ina battle to save it. But only for you Annabeth specifically”.

And this is from the last Olympian right after Percy threatens Leneus the satyr to help in battle of manhattan and Juniper and Nico happen to be there and they start talking about Grover being missing soon after this Nico aPercy and Mrs. Olearly go to mays house: Nico being very flustered and uneasy about Juniper talking to him kindly but also grueling him about Grover and Percy asking if he came there just to see her and Juniper putting her hand on his shoulder

“Authors don’t decide to make important characteristics like sexuality on a whim” well Rick very much did do that. Like. A better author or creator probably would not have done this on a whim and would have put more thought into it. But there was no indication at all of Nico being gay before House of Hades. At all. Trust me a while back I went and looked. I reared all the books with the purpose of looking for Easter eggs that Nico is closeted gay. And I found nothing. Zilch. Nada. In fact I found evidence that proves the exact opposite. Evidence that proves Rick was originally writing Nico as straight in the first 5 books and possibly even Son of Neptune. Hence the two screenshots above from BOTL and TLO. Mark of Athena itself is actually up in the air. And it kinda sucks that Rick did that. But he very much did do that while he was writing Mark of Athena and wasn’t sure if he was going to officially make it cannon or not until he was writing House of Hades and decided to do it.

And I do agree that Nico being queer was important to his character arc and plot as well as Nico and Jason’s dynamic. However it was not planned in advance like you think it was. (And also I’ve seen many real queer people saying they way Nico was forced out was traumatizing for them to read and would have appreciated it more if Nico came out on his own accord and was not forced out and very much agree with that.)

There are many flaws in Rick’s writing. Some things are insensitive and some things are just downright problematic. And it’s all of his writing not just ToA I mean all of it. And it is deserving of critique. I know he’s made some progress over the years and is not as bad as he used to be about this stuff but still.

Rick really did not plan Nico’s sexuality in advance. He really does a lot of his writing on whims not just sexualities of characters. There is very little in his series that he would have planned in advance.

I think while Rick was writing Mark of Athena he had the idea to make Nico gay but wasn’t sure whether to go through with it. He was writing books for Disney in 2012-2013. Disney. A large corporation known for being homophobic especially before the last decade or so. He wasn’t so sure about doing it. But he wanted to show support for queer kids at that time cause there was a lot of gay marriage rights being discussed at that time.

And while he was writing House of Hades he wrote himself into a corner. This was his thought process: He had this idea for the scepter that raises the dead to help them in the actual House of Hades while they’re fighting the shadowy giant. He figured Nico a child of the underworld who can control zombies and shadows would be perfect to find this scepter. He had to come up with some kind of conflict while they were getting the scepter. How about an angry god that wants something from Nico something in exchange for the scepter. Yeah that seems on par for his world angry gods are always making demigods do little mini quests. And since Rick had decided to not do Nico’s point of view for house of Hades he had to have one of the seven go along with him and do the whole thing in their pint of view. So he probably picked anybody random that was not Percy. He drew names out of a hate. Jason. Ok how does Jason correlate to scepter of the dead. Well Jason’s a son of Jupiter and a Roman leader. Let’s say this scepter used to belong to a fellow son of Zeus and Roman leader. Jason and Nico are going to get this scepter. Ok now what type of mini quest is this god going to make Nico do. What does this god want from Nico. Who is this god. Can I correlate my idea of making Nico gay into this? Can I correlate a lot of angst into this? And that’s how he came up with Eros outing Nico as a plot device.

Ok well it’s been fun but all due respect I’ve gotta end or convo here, I have more chores to do now and even more things to do in the morning and the rest of the day I’ll be busy. Peace out my friend ✌️☮️🖤💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Nico was never actually confirmed to be actually gay until the Trials of Apollo when Lester was thinking about him. And honestly Lester barely knows him.

Before Lester mentioned the word “gay”, Nico’s sexuality was totally unknown and never confirmed, it was only known that he liked guys in house of Hades. He could have been written as bi or pan or any other sexuality that happened to like guys as well as other genders.

I do not really consider Trials of Apollo as part my cannon in my imaginary world of PJO and HoO that lives in my head. Nico is not exactly gay to me he just also likes dudes. Yes I do ship him with girls sometimes on occasion. I like Percicobeth (both versions where Nico and Annabeth are just besties that are starring Percy or where they’re together romantic) and sometimes I like Thalico or Nico / Sadie plus a whole bunch of other guys in the riordanverse. There are a lot more guys that I ship him with more often than girls but that’s not the point.

my point is : people who ship Nico with girls (as long as they also ship him with guys or at least consider him to be not straight) are really not the evil villains yall are making us out to be. We’re not “erasing a character’s sexuality”. We simply perceive Nico’s sexuality (and possibly other parts of his characteristics) differently than you do and that’s not a bad thing. Remember: we don’t wright the cannon. And if you like cannon gay Nico that’s great for you. But please be open to people who see things differently.

Especially since this all fiction anyway. It’s fiction. It’s fantasy. You don’t have to take things like this so seriously. If you believe Nico (or at least your version of him) is just gay and is not attracted to girls / does not have relationships with girls then that’s just fine and dandy you keep doing that you keep doing you. But please don’t go attacking people and calling them evil just because they perceive a character in a different light than you do.

Fiction does not affect reality in any way. And thinking that it does is a very harmful naive and dangerous way of thinking. We are not erasing anyone’s sexuality. Nico is not a real character. Nico does not exist. There is no Nico in the real world. Do not take fictional shipping and fictional sexualities so seriously. Have fun with it and perceive it the way you want to in whatever way makes you the most happy or makes the most sense to you. But also be open to people who think about friction differently than you.

[what-even-is-thiss]

The reason people don’t want to work is that it’s just normal for them to be in bad work environments.

My issue with working at Walmart wasn’t the work itself I was doing. It was the circumstances around it. The concrete floor, lack of places to sit, having to put up with asshole customers, not getting time off for injuries, and bad pay.

If I had been given shock pads to stand on or a few chairs to rest on sometimes, if they paid me a livable amount of money and I was allowed to yell back at asshole customers, if they had given me any amount of training, I would happily work part time folding clothes all day and telling people where the swimsuit section is.

I’m a creative type. I’m a writer. I’m pretty smart, even. But if I could make a living folding shirts and listening to podcasts in one ear and helping people find the scented candles for 30 hours a week? I would. Leaves some mental space free for me to brainstorm. Lets me catch up on my reading with audiobooks.

But instead I was treated so badly by upper management and customers that I’m like legitimately a little frightened whenever I step into a Walmart now. And I only worked there for three months a few years ago.

I’m a good lower level worker. When I’m treated well. I like finishing tasks. I like being helpful. I like having some time to talk to coworkers and some time alone with my thoughts. I’m a frickin team player. And that’s how I was at my first job. I was treated well by my supervisor. I was trained. They were patient with me. I was so good at being low on the totem pole at that job because I was valued and felt like I was being listened to. I was able to sit still when there was nothing left to do which made it feel less bad when we were on a time crunch. I didn’t mind working hard at that job because it was fun even though I was doing all the low level stuff that the supervisors didn’t want do.

But at Walmart I was like that for all of two days. Then I figured out that nobody appreciated my work and if I worked in my normal people pleasing manner I’d kill myself because their standards were high and the rewards for meeting them were low.

So I slowed down. I started avoiding customers. I started taking a lot longer to get to my breaks and to come back from them. I became worse at my job because no matter how good I was at it there would be no reward, no appreciation, and I’d just be pushed further beyond my limits.

My only level of happiness from that job came from the people who were working with me. The old ladies and my department manager who made sure I wasn’t overextending myself. The one other young man working in the clothing department who always got sent with me to unload the heavy stuff and commiserated with me about the shoulder injuries, the hurting feet we were too young to have.

But none of that was enough to make me stay. We were constantly understaffed. I was constantly abused by customers and not able to do a thing about it. I was not paid much at all. So as soon as I had enough saved up for what I was trying to do and my last semester of college was about to start I handed in my two weeks.

I would have found a way to stay if I liked that job. If I liked that job I would’ve pushed myself to my mental limits to finish college and keep that job at the same time. Heck that job could’ve been a rest from college. A place to get away from it. But I hate that job so I got out as soon as I could.

I want to work. I want enough money to live sort of comfortably. I want to have some tasks to do to give my creativity a rest. I want to be a part of something. But the way that modern corporate run work environments are set up does not give me any of the things I actually want out of a job. And I think that’s the same for millions of people right now. A lot of people would happily spend their lives as a waitress or an Uber driver or a warehouse worker or a farmhand or any other “low skill” job you can possibly think of. But with the way the world works right now those jobs are absolutely miserable. It doesn’t have to be that way. I know because I’ve had a fulfilling part time minimum wage job that I looked forward to going to every week. A job where I was listened to and allowed to sit when I needed to. I miss that job. Especially now since I’ve realized that’s not the standard. It should be. People should look forward to going to work or at the very least not get mild ptsd whenever they set foot into a Walmart.

[asteroidtroglodyte]

5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?

It could get good, even.

[the-bluestreak-cat]

My extremely personal red flag is if you’ve never lived independently.

Do not open tags it’s just a personal vent and I hit the tag limit (30) and that’s never happened to me before ajskdlf

[djungleskogs]

found out literally like most of my coworkers have been friends outside of work this entire time….

[autistichalsin]

In retrospect, four years later, I feel like the Isabel Fall incident was just the biggest ignored cautionary tale modern fandom spaces have ever had. Yes, it wasn't limited to fandom, it was also a professional author/booktok type argument, but it had a lot of crossover.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: a writer, whether fan or pro, publishes a work. If one were to judge a book by its cover, something we are all taught in Kindergarten shouldn't happen but has a way of occurring regardless, one might find that there was something that seemed deeply problematic about this work. Maybe the title or summary alluded to something Wrong happening, or maybe the tags indicated there was problematic kinks or relationships. And that meant the story was Bad. So, a group of people takes to the Twittersphere to inform everyone who will listen why the work, and therefore the author, are Bad. The author, receiving an avalanche of abuse and harassment, deactivates their account, and checks into a mental health facility for monitoring for suicidal ideation. They never return to their writing space, and the harassers get a slap on the wrist (if that- usually they get praise and high-fives all around) and start waiting for their next victim to transgress.

Sounds awful familiar, doesn't it?

Isabel Fall's case, though, was even more extreme for many reasons. See, she made the terrible mistake of using a transphobic meme as the genesis to actually explore issues of gender identity.

More specifically, she used the phrase "I sexually identify as an attack helicopter" to examine how marginalized identities, when they become more accepted, become nothing more than a tool for the military-industrial complex to rebrand itself as a more personable and inclusive atrocity; a chance to pursue praise for bombing brown children while being progressive, because queer people, too, can help blow up brown children now! It also contained an examination of identity and how queerness is intrinsic to a person, etc.

But... well, if harassers ever bothered to read the things they critique, we wouldn't be here, would we? So instead, they called Isabel a transphobic monster for the title alone, even starting a misinformation campaign to claim she was, in fact, a cis male nazi using a fake identity to psyop the queer community.

A few days later, after days of horrific abuse and harassment, Isabel requested that Clarkesworld magazine pull the story. She checked in to a psych ward with suicidal thoughts. That wasn't all, though; the harassment was so bad that she was forced to out herself as trans to defend against the claims.

Only... we know this type of person, the fandom harassers, don't we? You know where this is going. Outing herself did nothing to stop the harassment. No one was willing to read the book, much less examine how her sexuality and gender might have influenced her when writing it.

So some time later, Isabel deleted her social media. She is still alive, but "Isabel Fall" is not- because the harassment was so bad that Isabel detransitioned/closeted herself, too traumatized to continue living her authentic life.

Supposed trans allies were so outraged at a fictional portrayal of transness, written by a trans woman, that they harassed a real life trans woman into detransitioning.

It's heartbreakingly familiar, isn't it? Many of us in fandom communities have been in Isabel's shoes, even if the outcome wasn't so extreme (or in some cases, when it truly was). Most especially, many of us, as marginalized writers speaking from our own experiences in some way, have found that others did not enjoy our framework for examining these things, and hurt us, members of those identities, in defense of "the community" as a nebulous undefined entity.

There's a quote that was posted in a news writeup about the whole saga that was published a year after the fact. The quote is:

The delineation between paranoid and reparative readings originated in 1995, with influential critic Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. A paranoid reading focuses on what’s wrong or problematic about a work of art. A reparative reading seeks out what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art, even if the work is flawed. Importantly, a reparative reading also tends to consider what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art for someone who isn’t the reader. This kind of nuance gets completely worn away on Twitter, home of paranoid readings. “[You might tweet], ‘Well, they didn’t discuss X, Y, or Z, so that’s bad!’ Or, ‘They didn’t’ — in this case — ‘discuss transness in a way that felt like what I feel about transness, therefore it is bad.’ That flattens everything into this very individual, very hostile way of reading,” Mandelo says. “Part of reparative reading is trying to think about how a story cannot do everything. Nothing can do everything. If you’re reading every text, fiction, or criticism looking for it to tick a bunch of boxes — like if it represents X, Y, and Z appropriately to my definitions of appropriate, and if it’s missing any of those things, it’s not good — you’re not really seeing the close focus that it has on something else.”

A paranoid reading describes perfectly what fandom culture has become in the modern times. It is why "proship", once simply a word for common sense "don't engage with what you don't like, and don't harass people who create it either" philosophies, has become the boogeyman of fandom, a bad and dangerous word. The days of reparative readings, where you would look for things you enjoyed, are all but dead. Fiction is rarely a chance to feel joy; it's an excuse to get angry, to vitriolically attack those different from oneself while surrounded with those who are the same as oneself. It's an excuse to form in-groups and out-groups that must necessarily be in a constant state of conflict, lest it come across like This side is accepting That side's faults. In other words, fandom has become the exact sort of space as the nonfandom spaces it used to seek to define itself against.

It's not about joy. It's not about resonance with plot or characters. It's about hate. It's about finding fault. If they can't find any in the story, they will, rest assured, create it by instigating fan wars- dividing fandom into factions and mercilessly attacking the other.

And that's if they even went so far as to read the work they're critiquing. The ones they don't bother to read, as you saw above, fare even worse. If an AO3 writer tagged an abuser/victim ship, it's bad, it's fetishism, even if the story is about how the victim escapes. If a trans writer uses the title "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter" to find a framework to dissect rainbow-washing the military-industrial complex, it's unforgivable. It's a cesspool of kneejerk reactions, moralizing discomfort, treating good/evil as dichotomous categories that can never be escaped, and using that complex as an excuse to heap harassment on people who "deserve it." Because once you are Bad, there is no action against you that is too Bad for you to deserve.

Isabel Fall's story follows this so step-by-step that it's like a textbook case study on modern fandom behavior.

Isabel Fall wrote a short story with an inflammatory title, with a genesis in transphobic mockery, in the hopes of turning it into a genuine treatise on the intersection of gender and sexuality and the military-industrial complex. But because audiences are unprepared for the idea of inflammatory rhetoric as a tool to force discomfort to then force deeper introspection... they zeroed in on the discomfort. "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter"- the title phrase, not the work- made them uncomfortable. We no longer teach people how to handle discomfort; we live in a world of euphemism and glossing over, a world where people can't even type out the words "kill" and rape", instead substituting "unalive" and "grape." We don't deal with uncomfortable feelings anymore; we censor them, we transform them, we sanitize them. When you are unable to process discomfort, when you are never given self-soothing tools, your only possible conclusion is that anything Uncomfortable must be Bad, and the creator must either be censored too, or attacked into conformity so that you never again experience the horrors of being Uncomfortable.

So the masses took to Twitter, outraged. They were Uncomfortable, and that de facto meant that they had been Wronged. Because the content was related to trans identity issues, that became the accusation; it was transphobic, inherently. It couldn't be a critique of bigger and more fluid systems than gender identity alone; it was a slight against trans people. And no amount of explanations would change their minds now, because they had already been aggrieved and made to feel Uncomfortable.

Isabel Fall was now a Bad Person, and we all know what fandom spaces do to Bad People. Bad People, because they are Bad, will always be deserving of suicide bait and namecalling and threatening. Once a person is Bad, there is no way to ever become Good again. Not by refuting the accusations (because the accusations are now self-evident facts; "there is a callout thread against them" is its own tautological proof that wrongdoing has happened regardless of the veracity of the claims in the callout) and not by apologizing and changing, because if you apologize and admit you did the Bad thing, you are still Bad, and no matter what you do in future, you were once Bad and that needs to be brought up every time you are mentioned. If you are bad, you can NEVER be more than what you were at your worst (in their definition) moment. Your are now ontologically evil, and there is no action taken against you that can be immoral.

So Isabel was doomed, naturally. It didn't matter that she outed herself to explain that she personally had lived the experience of a trans woman and could speak with authority on the atrocity of rainbow-washing the military industrial complex as a proaganda tool to capture progressives. None of it mattered. She had written a work with an Uncomfortable phrase for a title, the readers were Uncomfortable, and someone had to pay for it.

And that's the key; pay for it. Punishment. Revenge. It's never about correcting behavior. Restorative justice is not in this group's vocabulary. You will, incidentally, never find one of these folks have a stance against the death penalty; if you did Bad as a verb, you are Bad as an intrinsic, inescapable adjective, and what can you do to incorrigible people but kill them to save the Normal people? This is the same principle, on a smaller scale, that underscores their fandom activities; if a Bad fan writes Bad fiction, they are a Bad person, and their fandom persona needs to die to save Normal fans the pain of feeling Uncomfortable.

And that's what happened to Isabel Fall. The person who wrote the short story is very much alive, but the pseudonym of Isabel Fall, the identity, the lived experiences coming together in concert with imagination to form a speculative work to critique deeply problematic sociopolitical structures? That is dead. Isabel Fall will never write again, even if by some miracle the person who once used the name does. Even if she ever decides to restart her transition, she will be permanently scarred by this experience, and will never again be able to share her experience with us as a way to grow our own empathy and challenge our understanding of the world. In spirit, but not body, fandom spaces murdered Isabel Fall.

And that's... fandom, anymore. That's just what is done, routinely and without question, to Bad people. Good people are Good, so they don't make mistakes, and they never go too far when dealing with Bad people. And Bad people, well, they should have thought before they did something Bad which made them Bad people.

Isabel Fall's harassment happened in early 2020, before quarantine started, but it was in so many ways a final chance for fandom to hit the breaks. A chance for fandom to think collectively about what it wanted to be, who it wanted to be for and how it wanted to do it. And fandom looked at this and said, "more, please." It continues to harass marginalized people, especially fans of color and queen fans, into suffering mental breakdowns. With gusto.

Any ideas of reparative reading is dead. Fandom runs solely on paranoid readings. And so too is restorative justice gone for fandom transgressions, real or imagined. It is now solely about punitive, vigilante justice. It's a concerted campaign to make sure oddballs conform or die (in spirit, but sometimes even physically given how often mentally ill individuals are pushed into committing suicide).

It's a deeply toxic environment and I'm sad to say that Isabel Fall's story was, in retrospect, a sort of event horizon for the fandom. The gravitational pull of these harassment campaigns is entirely too strong now and there is no escaping it. I'm sorry, I hate to say something so bleak, but thinking the last few days about the state of fandom (not just my current one but also others I watch from the outside), I just don't think we can ever go back to peaceful "for joy" engagement, not when so many people are determined to use it as an outlet for lateral aggression against other people.

[tender-rosiey]

from me to you — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this takes place in chapter 268, soo sort of spoilers ahead? also long live gojo satoru; gojo leaves you a letter 🙏

“y/n-sensei, there is a letter for you as well!”

that catches your attention, and you look up at the first years. you tilt your head slightly, and yuuji hands you an envelope.

you gently take it from him, and the first thing you notice is “wifey” written on it then the doodle of satoru with his blindfold on. you feel your throat tighten, and your hands shake slightly.

you let out a small breath then shakily open the letter.

hey, honey!!

it first reads.

I feel like there is still much I didn’t tell you in our last meeting, so here I, your beautiful and handsome husband, am writing them down.

you swallow lightly, and a small smile appears on your face as you imagine satoru saying that, then you continue to the next line.

first, I changed all your computer passwords to variations of “satoruisthebest” at one point. your confusion was so cute!!

you quirk an eyebrow at the admission, but when you rack your brain, you remember that one day when you couldn’t log into your computer.

what you vividly remember was satoru being sat beside you the whole time, and now that you think about it. he was smiling so widely the entire time, letting out small chuckles every now and then. oh, that sneaky man.

“satoru, I am telling you it’s broken!”

“sweetheart, we spent over 2000$ on that. if it broke, then we could easily sue the company,” he chuckled, arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“2 year guaranteed top performance my ass!”

you smile at the memory. it was pretty satoru of him to do that. your eyes then move to continue reading.

second, there are times when I would tell megumi that you would be coming with me, then he would turn and leave me when he found out I was tricking him.

your eyes glance up at said boy who is sat across of you. he made it out alive, despite everything. he suffered so much, but he made it.

it makes you relieved, and you can imagine satoru being bloody proud of him and saying something along the lines of ‘you handed sukuna’s ass to him, very cool!’

no matter how much megumi had frowned and grimaced at satoru’s presence or antics. it rooted itself as something—safe and familiar.

you can’t count on your hands the times when you and satoru would visit the siblings, and nobody really said it, but these meetings did all of you a favor, a chance to kind of wind down. maybe act like death might actually not be looming tomorrow.

it feels like just yesterday when megumi would cling to you when he got really sad or nervous, after so much time spent getting comfortable with each other.

he grew up well, you think, eyes gliding to next.

third, I hid your uniform every two to three weeks, so you have to stay with me.

at that, your eyes widen a bit. satoru’s schedule was pretty packed, but he somehow managed to squeeze time for quality time between you two.

it tugged on your heartstrings, and you made sure he knew how much you appreciated it, not a single space on his face left without a kiss. however, finding out that he went out of his way to make you rest and stay.

satoru’s care really showed in his actions, and you feel like this is the biggest proof of it.

“satoru, have you seen my uniform?”

“nope! maybe, it is a sign to stay home today? you’ve been working so hard, wifey!”

you cupped his face, pulled him down to your height, and kisses his cheek, “you’ve been working harder, ‘toru. let me take off some of the load at least.”

“we could both stay!”

“you’re kidding, right?”

“I already told yaga; I miss you!”

you try to stop the reminiscing further and try to compose yourself before reading the rest.

fourth, I’m the one who kept adjusting the thermostat. I just wanted an excuse to cuddle.

a fond yet melancholy smile appears on your face. you kinda figured that one out. satoru’s favorite pastime was cuddling, so it’s no surprise that he would go out of his way to create the need for it even further.

add to that, once you went to get some green tea and saw him from the corner of your eye teleport to the thermostat, click something, then teleport back to bed.

you figured that the room being chilly that night was not an exception in the middle of july.

“babeeee, it’s so cold! let’s cuddle!”

“maybe the problem is with the thermostat?”

“I checked! I think cuddling is the best solution.”

you giggle as you recall the moment, one of many similar. your heart feels a bit lighter as you go through the letter. something satoru managed to always do even in person.

he would plaster sticky notes, get you trinkets, and even pull pranks on other just to see you smile. feeling more encouraged, you keep on reading the letter.

then you feel your chest constrict so tightly that you might just throw up.

fifth, I am really gonna fucking miss you.

you read the line over again, and you purse your lip in hopes of silencing any noise that may come out as you feel the lump in your throat return, even worse than before. your breathing starts getting more difficult.

your grip on the letter tightens, and you find yourself thinking back to the good times. memories of late nights spent in each other’s arms, thinking about everything and nothing at once.

hushed whispers of confessions and quiet giggles as you reminisced on your highschool days. tight hugs when recalling the sad moments and the departure of a certain someone.

“you know, y/n, I think we might just be made for each other,” he said one night. you hummed and looked him in the eyes.

“three am thoughts?”

“three am admissions,” he grins slightly, “I am made for you, and you’re made for me.”

you remember him pulling you closer and kissing your forehead, while you teased, “and what would you need little old me for, so much that I got made?”

he feigns thinking then closes his eyes, burying his face in your shoulder, “grounding me.”

I love you. I really do, but you should know that already, right?

your eyes drift down to the corner of the paper, and that is when you feel your tears start free-falling. there is drawn a chibi satoru besides a chibi you and between them is a heart.

the chibi satoru is giving yours a big smooch, while she laughs. you never thought that the day your jealousy burns would be because of drawings, and drawings of you and your own husband, nonetheless.

“but wow, gojo-sensei is shit at writing letters,” you hear nobara remark.

megumi responds with a small chuckle, “I am fine with mine.”

“what about you, y/n-sensei?—”

the trio becomes silent as you let out a sob. a watery smile makes its way up your face as you kiss the letter gently and murmur, “so shitty.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will tell @callmemirro

check out my buy me a coffee!

[fxrheisenn]

Andrus Laansalu talked about making Disco Elysium at EKA (Estonian Academy of Arts)

"Initially, the church wasn't a focal point. There were certain characters that needed to visit this location, and I asked, "Seriously, what do we have in our church?" The others replied, "Nothing at all. Our church is completely bare—just a wheel, really. It's quite basic."

That's when I decided to unleash my creativity in the design. For example, they chose to install a glass structure at the top of the church to create a reflective surface. It was like placing an optical clock up there. Therefore, one of the most crucial aspects of designing the church was ensuring the lighting was just right to create the desired atmosphere."

"Let me show you an example of Baroque architecture, which is rich in detail. We're also designing the interior of the church based on large cathedrals. However, the foundation you use might not yield the expected results, because the church itself doesn't require such intricate details. Sometimes, it's about simplifying the design."

"I used Articy for the initial scriptwriting of Disco Elysium. The image only represents a tiny fraction of the text and choice variables involved. This system was also the reason I eventually abandoned the project after a year of outlining the script and shifted my focus to becoming a sound designer. My mind struggled to keep up with the dynamic graphic rules, but fortunately, a more talented writer took over afterward."

"In terms of sound design, it's essential to develop different layers to bring out the charm of the church as a cohesive space. Although this represents only a small portion of the overall design, each layer actually requires a significant amount of time to compose the whole....... Whenever there's a shift or a change due to the dialogue itself, you need to adjust the background sounds. Each time you modify the details in the dialogue, I have to refine the background audio, ensuring that these elements build upon each other like an intricate layer of work."

"It's funny how many scenes involve characters getting smacked in the face. My job was to recreate those, so I locked myself in the bathroom with a recorder and hit my forehead until it turned red.

As a sound designer, I really dig those unsettling, drill-like sounds. So, I mixed in creepy lectures, metal scraping, moans, and cries of pain—because I just love that stuff! (laughs)

Players will be moving through all kinds of areas, so it's super important to make the sound transitions feel natural, trying to create a more immersive vibe in certain spaces.

With all the scenes featuring big cranes, you can hear them from far away, and I wanted to capture that eerie ringing in your ears. That's going to be a thing throughout most of the game. I've found ways to really mess with players while they're playing!"

"I've come across a lot of old objects (like phones and radios) that I needed to perfectly replicate the sounds. I started to become a bit of a hoarder, buying up different models of old phones whenever I found one to add to my collection. The sound effects I can simulate from them are really impressive."

"Some of the devices don't actually exist in real life—just a mix of architecture and tech. When I need to create sound effects, I first look for something similar that exists in our world, then I try to simulate what the sound and appearance of that thing might have been like a century ago.

Towards the end of the game, there's a character carrying a fuel canister. We needed the sound of the canister, so we dug one up from our garage—it had been sitting there since it was five! I realized this would make the sound perfect. So, it had been there for 50 years, and after 40 years, it finally found its purpose.

In some places, I needed unique sound waves, and recreating them was a real headache until one day I happened to walk by a swimming pool and stumbled upon an old wartime torpedo. You can rotate the torpedo's probe, and it slowly rises up, like a proud zombie head. The sounds it made were exactly what I needed!"

🙋How did you manage to get funding?

"Well, since we're in Estonia, you just need to know a wealthy person. You don't need five people—just two who can network, hang out together, and convince them to keep investing! (laughs) Back then, we constantly ran out of money and would tell them, 'Oops, looks like we spent it all! Can you invest a bit more?' That's how we made it through!"

🙋How did you all come together to make the game?

"Luck. It usually doesn't happen this way, and that's the key difference. It has to be. If not, you couldn't create a game of this scale - well, I mean in terms of budget. But creatively, Estonia definitely has writers and artists who can pull it off. With such a small population, there are a lot of quirky folks who are good friends. We were really lucky, though - lots of fortunate circumstances came together. It brought the right people together, allowing those talented fools to collaborate with us. They had experience but hadn't tackled projects of this magnitude before. So yeah, luck is pretty important!"

Lecture experience shared by 白兔YIYANG SUN on 小红书, reposted & translated by me with her permission.

[sophiamcdougall]

I am never going to complain about Greek Duolingo again

I mean, I am. But still.

So, as some of you know, my family has been coming to this tiny Greek seaside village for several years. Just over a week ago I came out here with my mum, under the impression that early September, after the height of the summer heat, would be a good time to have a holiday. ANYWAY Storm Daniel had other ideas about that. Locally things are improving (I'm actually really pissed off about the disaster-porn tone of most English-language media coverage, but that's another post). The power is back on, there's running water most of the time, and though the latter is not drinkable, a truck from the government came and handled out free bottled water yesterday. But we are currently kind of stuck. Can't do tourist things. Can't go home. There aren't any local flights out until Saturday and the road to Thessaloniki is still closed.

So this evening, feeling kind of aimless and depressed, I go down to the nearest beach with a couple of binbags and start cleaning up in an effort to at least do something positive. I always try to do this at least once out here and obviously, after the storm, there's a lot more plastic and rubbish than usual.

At some point I find this large, round bit of metal - some kind of machinery part, I think -- that's too big for the bag, so I take it to the bins on its own, leaving the rubbish bag on the beach. And when I come back for it, something among the stones beside it moves.

Specifically, it pulls its head sharply inside its shell

So, meanwhile I've been trying to learn some Greek with the help of Duolingo.

I currently have a 33-day streak and... I have questions. Shouldn't I be able to use the past or future tenses by now? Shouldn't I be able to say "x is like y"? I can't do those things. But one thing I absolutely can say all day long is έχω μια χελώνα : I have a turtle.

This is far from the limit of Duolingo Greek's turtle-related content. "An obsession with turtles" is my mother's characterisation. I can inform you that the turtle is not a bird, and, improbably, that the turtle is drinking milk. I can introduce you to a turtle in company with a horse and an elephant. As far as Duolingo is concerned, it really is turtles all the way down.

Now this, you may be able to see, is not a turtle. It has claws rather than flippers. It is a tortoise. I know there are wild tortoises in Greece: my aunt once rescued a pair of them shagging in the middle of the road -- but that was up in the mountains. I've even seen one myself, but it was also on a road and very dead.

I am 95% certain they don't belong on beaches. There's nothing for it to eat, except, unfortunately, a lot of plastic. Even if it gets off the beach it will immediately find itself on a road where it could get hit by a car. I'm pretty sure it must have been washed down by the floodwater and has been just sitting there, dazed, ever since.

Now obviously the first thing I want to do on encountering this unusual animal is to go and tell my mummy, so I do. The tortoise immediately brightens her day. She agrees that the tortoise is not happy on the beach and needs to be taken somewhere safe. it gets surprisingly wriggly when picked up so we put it in a carrier bag with some grapes and cucumber and go looking for somewhere to rehome it.

We find a path leading up between the houses towards a likely-looking field, but before we get very far a dog in a yard goes berserk and a man's head pops over a fence and demands to know what we're doing. He does this in English, as evidently we're just that obviously tourists.

"I found a tortoise on the beach!" I explain. "We want to find somewhere to put it."

"A what," he asks.

"It's like a, you know," I begin and then to my astonishment I find myself saying... "μια χελώνα"

"Oh! A turtle!" he says.

"But from the land. δεν είναι χελώνα", [it is not a turtle,] I say, as I am worried he will tell me to put it back near the sea where I found it. As it turns out it actually IS a χελώνα, Greek does not distinguish between turtles and tortoises, but I don't know that; I can't even name the days of the week or identify any colours other than pink yet, give me a break.

The man's entire demeanour changes and thaws. He does not worry about my turtle-that-is-not-a-turtle conundrum. He knows where οι χελώνες come from and where η χελώνα μας belongs. He leads us through a gate into a courtyard area.

"[somethingsomething] μια χελώνα," he explains to the assembled onlookers, of whom there are, suddenly, a surprising number.

"ΜΙΑ ΧΕΛΩΝΑ!!!" crows the throng of delighted small children, who are, suddenly, everywhere.

"μια χελώνα!" I agree, accepting that at least for current purposes, that is what it is.

"Μπορούμε να δούμε τη χελώνα σας; [can we see your turtle?]" asks an adorable little girl, shyly, and I understand??

The children fucking love looking at the χελώνα and showing it to them is kind of magical?

I finally put the tortoise down on the grass of this wild area off to the side of the courtyard, and marvel aloud that it is weird that I barely know any Greek except how to say μια χελώνα.

"I think she will soon run off," a kind lady called Aspasia assures me, seeing I remain slightly anxious about its fate. "I don't know why I'm saying 'she'. I suppose because χελώνα is feminine in Greek."

"Yes! I know that!" I exclaim, thrilled.

"Well done!" she says. And also she asks if we are OK for drinking water after the storm and if we need any help with anything and is just generally incredibly lovely and now we know more of the neighbours!

So "μια χελώνα" has just become, by a long way, my most-used and most understood and all-around most conversationally successful phrase in Greek. So I guess I have to admit I was wrong to doubt Duolingo's wisdom: it is correct to be obsessed with turtles. And I concede that prior to learning how to count to ten or to distinguish right from left, the simple ability to yell the word TURTLE over and over again is, it turns out, a crucial element of the responsible traveller's social skills.

(I am pretty fluent in Italian and turtles haven't come up in conversation even once?)

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Bucky’s Quiet Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader

Summary: After a painful breakup, Bucky offers quiet comfort and unconditional care, showing you a love that's patient and gentle. He mends the ache in your chest and reminds you that you deserve so much more.

Word Count: Roughly 1.3k 

Warnings: A smidge of angst (super tiny, barely there), references to an emotionally draining relationship, toxic relationship dynamics, obviously fluff (because who I am without it?), thoughts of self-worth, slow-burn.

Author's Note: Based on this request + I worked in some Valentine's Day things and a lil poem just because :)

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Divider by: @strangergraphics 

Love is not always loud,

Not fiery, sharp, or proud,

The Tower was quiet when you got back. 

Your eyes were downcast, the weight of tonight, the last year, weighing on you so heavily that you wanted to crawl into a hole.

You didn’t want to talk to anyone immediately; your mind was consumed with flashes of every rough patch, fight, and the breakup itself tonight. The words that echoed from your ex’s mouth were like a cruel stab to the heart:

“You always made things so complicated. I’m not the one with the problem here; you are. You were always so needy, always wanting more. I’m actually relieved it’s over. You were ruining me. I’m sure you’ll find someone else who can tolerate you. I’m just better off without all your drama.”

You had poured your heart into a relationship that never seemed to give back, where your love was only met with the bare minimum effort. You were always left wanting, always feeling like there was something more to give, but he couldn’t wouldn’t supply it.

And the icing on the cake, or in this case, salt on the wound: you found out that he had been seeing someone else the day before Valentine’s Day, 

The betrayal stung, but there was also a deep sadness. 

You knew you deserved more, but a part of you kept hoping he’d see you, really see you. You wanted to be enough. You craved his validation, his attention, his touch, his love.

But that never came. 

He drained your happiness.

Till you felt hollow.

It doesn’t need to shout its name,

Or spark an endless, burning flame.

When Bucky saw you standing there, looking small and broken, his chest ached. He knew. He always knew. 

His deep blue eyes were the ones that had always seemed to understand you, even when you couldn't quite articulate how you were feeling. 

And right now? 

You couldn’t describe how you were feeling. 

Exhausted? 

Shittty? 

Overwhelmed? 

All of the above could be a more than adequate description.

You didn't even have to look up to know Bucky was there. His presence, that unspoken comfort, was enough. He'd been waiting for you. You could feel it, feel him, even before you saw him.

Bucky had always been the one who understood when things were left unsaid. You could talk to him for hours or simply sit silently; it would always feel like home. But tonight? Your heart was broken tonight, and nothing would ever feel like home again for a while.

You felt the sting of tears behind your eyes as you walked toward him. You didn’t try to hide that your eyes were glossed over or that you were visibly tired.

He stood up from the couch and was pulling you into his strong arms before you could even say a word. 

You buried your face into his sweater, letting the tears fall. His embrace was the first real comfort you’d had all day, and you crumbled into him. The last week had been a blur of fights, loneliness, and betrayal. Your ex had been giving you the bare minimum for months, only fulfilling the things that kept the relationship afloat. 

Bucky had seen the way you smiled for him, how you tried to fill the empty space in your relationship with kindness, how you were always the one to bend, to give.

And it killed him.

"I’m so sorry, sweetheart," Bucky’s warm breath against your hair as he held you close, pressing his lips to your head. "I’m so sorry that happened to you."

You let out a shaky breath, nodding, unable to form words. 

Bucky’s arms around you felt like the safest place you’d ever been, and it took everything not to collapse into him completely.

"You’re safe here," Bucky said softly. "Don’t stress this. I’ll be here. Always."

You nodded again, pulling away slightly to look up at his face. His eyes softened at the sight of you. You could see the worry in them, the concern.

"I’m sorry," you whispered. "I just...I don’t know what is what anymore. I don’t what to do with myself."

Bucky wiped a stray tear from your cheek, his thumb brushing over the softness of your skin. His touch was gentle and caring. He was always so careful with you, treating you as though you were the most precious thing in the world. But right now, you felt broken, like you weren’t worthy of the love he offered so freely.

"You’re gonna be okay," he murmured as he gently squeezed you. "You’ve been through something really fucking tough, but you’re not alone, okay?"

Bucky led you to the couch and you sighed, sinking into the furniture. He searched for the softest blanket he could find, wrapping it around your shoulders. He just sat beside you, as you tried to find your grounding. A gentle hand continually stroked your hair as you melted into him. His quiet presence like soothing balm to your weary soul. 

Bucky had always known how to give you the needed space without making you feel alone.

You fell asleep eventually, comforted by the feeling of his presence beside you.

Some love is quiet, soft, and true,

And in that peace, you’ll start anew.

The next day, Bucky woke up with an idea. He had kicked everyone out of the Tower in the afternoon, telling them he had some private things to handle. 

You didn’t know what he had planned, but when you walked into the living room later that evening, your heart fluttered with surprise.

The lights were dimmed. The room was now softly lit with candles and the faint glow of fairy lights. A table was set for two with flowers arranged in a vase in the center: tulips, your favorite. There was no grand display, no flashy gestures, just the kind of thoughtful simplicity that spoke volumes.

Bucky was waiting by the table, dressed in a way that was casual but put together, a white shirt and dark slacks that made him look effortlessly handsome.

"You didn’t have to do all this," you whispered. 

He gave a small, amused smile.

"Yeah, I did," he said. "You deserve to feel special, especially today."

Bucky guided you to the seat, pulling out the chair for you. His eyes were soft, full of affection and care. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing. He was just there, present.

The meal was simple, but there was love in every bite. He had taken the time to make it, and the care was evident in how he plated it, in the small details that made you feel seen.

"You’ve been through a lot, and you deserve better," he said softly, kissing your forehead as you both sat on the couch.

"You already give me more than anyone else ever did." The words escaped before you could think, and you met his gaze. His smile was gentle, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity that made your stpmach flip.

Bucky took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your skin, grounding you in the moment. There was no rush, no expectations. Just him. His gentle love, his patience, his presence.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead once more, his breath warm against your skin. "No one’s going to hurt you again. I’m not going anywhere, okay?"

You nodded.

His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that told you everything: You deserved to be treated with the kindness, respect, and tenderness you’d been craving. You don’t have to beg or fight for it.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Not loud, not brash, but always there,

A love that shows its tender care.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

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Much love x

- Maeve

[moon-my-beloved]

neighbors (tf141 x fem! reader)

Introduction: the universe is never on your side.

wake up, go to work, eat, read, and go to sleep.

that had been your routine for the last couple months ever since you moved in to your new place. your new home.

it really didn’t bother you at all. the solitude, the quietness, the undeniable lack of socialization you had, it was okay with you even if might have looked like the most miserable life to others.

it was a great place to the say the least. your last resort to finally getting the fuck out of the apartment you had shared with your now ex-roommate. you couldn’t bare living there another day hearing her constant sexual acts with every guy she brought in like they were some kind of rabid animals. gross.

there was really no need to say goodbye either. jumping out of your bed in excitement when you got the message from the real estate agent that the place was ready for you to move in.

finally, finally after so many years of busting your ass and saving just enough, you had your own place. not hesitating to pack your things that same day and shove everything into your old but still functional car.

you were free.

the moving was tedious and exhausting, working your muscles out when your furniture finally arrived and giving an awkward smile to your next door neighbor which you later got to find out that her name was charlotte, but insisted on you calling her just auntie lottie. she was a nice old lady, mid 70s who frequently brought you some of her delicious homemade baking with every new recipe she came across. who were you to reject free food?

auntie lottie was probably the only person you had actually talk to ever since moving in, occasionally sitting on her porch just to chat or helping her out with her garden at times.

it was one friday afternoon where the weather was a bit too cold to sit outside and found yourself sitting on auntie lotties couch as she talked about her children, grandchildren, or just the latest gossip. you were more on the listening end of the spectrum, at times putting in your two cents when she asked of your families whereabouts and pointed out ‘how such a young lady shouldn’t be living by herself! you ought to have a husband by now.’

you knew she didn’t mean it with bad intentions but it made your cheeks heat up in embarrassment with the reminder that you were truly utterly unsuccessful when it came to relationships. sure, you had your fair share of partners and they never lasted longer than a few months before they were heading out the door when they realized your lack of intimacy.

it just never felt right and you really couldn’t blame them, despite it leaving an ache in your chest. you really don’t quite remember how the topic of conversation was brought up but she had mentioned that your other neighbors just across from you would be here soon.

“really? I thought no one lived there..” furrowing your eyebrows in confusion as you brought the cup of tea up to your lips. it had been empty ever since you got here. no visible cars or sign of life making itself known for you to determine if someone actually lived there. you just figured it was empty.

“they’re an odd bunch but they’re sweet and handsome. most of the time they’re gone. no worries though, I’ll introduce you to them, dear.” you really weren’t fond of that idea and by the way her eyes wrinkled with that sly look she gave you, a worried chuckle made its way past your lips.

“sure, that would be nice.”

true to her word, they arrived the very next day.

the engine of a black SUV waking you up from your three-hour nap that had your joints popping back in place after stretching your limbs out of their locked positions with how long you had been lying down on the couch.

that wasn’t really what caught your attention though, fighting off the idea of just going back to sleep before your ears caught on the multitude of voices from outside. reluctantly, you get yourself out from the confines of your soft blanket and sit up on your knees to open one of the blinds with your fingers.

your eyes widened at the sight before you. four big men, all of them carrying a variety of duffle bags make their way out of the car. some of them stretching after what you presume a long drive.

you can’t quite get a good look at them but you could tell they were all pretty good-looking even from the distance. starting with the one who probably had better hair days with the way his mohawk was a total mess, leaning against the tallest man you have ever seen as he rubs the sleep off his eyes. skull mask doesn’t seem to be bothered by the shorter man’s tactics. an arm wrapped around his waist to keep him from falling face first on the pavement as they make their way to the front door.

flicking your eyes towards the other side of the car, you zero in on probably the most gorgeous guy you have ever seen. he wears a cap, the UK flag displayed on it and you almost gasp when he turns just enough for you to see how smooth his skin looks. totally not jealous. the last of the group finally gets out from the drivers seat. he looks older than the other three but his stance screams authority and respect once he adjusts himself. these were the neighbors lottie was talking about?

but before you could ponder the fact that you were living across four big scary men, mutton chops turns around towards your direction and makes eye contact with you.

you flinch away from the window a little too hard, tumbling your way over the couch and down onto the floor.

“shit!” you quickly cover your mouth, lying on the ground in defeat and your pride more broken than it already is for at least a few minutes before you slowly get yourself up and warily open the blinds again only to find that they had already headed inside.

letting out a small sigh of relief, you sit down on the cold floor. tilting your head back to rest against the cushion of your couch as you beg to any god out there that they didn’t catch you basically eyeing them down.

auntie lottie will definitely hear about this on your next ‘girls night’.

a/n: this is me forgiving myself after not uploading something for 2-3 months.? I’m sorry ;-;