#anyway here's our own thread

[axisjr]

@mortemoppetere

Is Rhett your alter-ego? You keep talking about him, but I'm over at yours a lot and I've never seen a Rhett.

[marlynnofmany]

In the interest of not derailing this already-long-and-awesome thread, here are some more details! (Paging @sparrows-corner and any other interested parties.)

So in my first semester of college, I took an Intro to Psychology class. I didn't expect anything special; it was just one of those general education courses that everybody was supposed to take at some point. But it turned out amazing.

What the general public didn't know at that point was someone in the college administration had screwed up and forgotten to assign a teacher to this class. Until a week before class. When several students emailed to ask why that detail was missing in the online listing.

The administration panicked, scrambled for someone-anyone-omg-who-can-drop-everything-and-teach-this-class. They called recently-graduated owners of Masters Degrees in teaching.

They found Sandy.

She was qualified and available, and much older than the average recent grad, with the confidence to go with it. This was still a daunting task, though, and she agreed on one condition: that she team-teach the class with a friend of hers who was still working on finishing his degree.

Having no other choice and seeing no real problem with this, the administration agreed. And thus was born the most glorious educational comedy act in my entire academic career. The two of them were a delight. They knew all the stuff they needed to teach, and they knew a great deal more, and they delivered lectures in a way that had everyone paying eager attention. It was great.

This friend, by the way, was awesome in his own right. While Sandy was a curly-haired white lady around middle age, Wayne was a black guy who (1) dressed in impeccable suits and (2) had cerebral palsy.

I think a lot of 18-year-old minds were quietly enlightened about a few things just from watching these two banter back and forth, one with joints more wobbly than the other. Wayne told a memorable anecdote at one point about stopping by a grocery store in sweat pants instead of his usual classy wear. The cashier asked some gentle question about what he spent his time on, assuming that he had some sort of carer following him around. The expression on her face when he told her that he taught college was one I'll never forget, and I didn't even see it.

Anyways, at the end of this semester, the two teachers asked a few of us smart kids if we wanted to be TAs (teaching assistants) for the next semester. Since most of us had already become friends during the make-a-group-and-discuss-things portions of the class, this sounded like a party that would look good on our records later. And it really was.

I TA'd for that class a few times in a row, with my buddies and the two very cool teachers. We met up outside of class for holiday parties and everything.

And, since this was during the time the Lord of the Rings trilogy was first coming out in theaters, we all dressed up in costume and went to an early screening together.

Wayne drove. His handicap placard meant we got to park at the front, which was pretty awesome.

Now, I'd met people before who knew more LotR lore than I did, but they all paled in comparison to Sandy. As I said in the notes on that other post, she shared some stories of her youth with us. When she was fourteen, she ran away to join a hippie commune. She already knew fluent elvish, and she used that to help the commune's drug-runners stay out of the clutches of the cops, by translating their drug notes into a language the cops couldn't read. With a start like that, it was unsurprising that she still knew elvish now, along with all sorts of fascinating deep lore.

She had a limited edition book that looked shockingly expensive. She made beeswax candles for all the TAs as holiday gifts, with our names written on them in elvish. I still have mine somewhere.

I haven't heard from any of these lovely people in a long time, since college moves on and so does life, but I will treasure those memories forever. I hope Sandy and Wayne and the others are doing well. They deserve the best.

[prokopetz]

I'm spinning this off of the main thread about tracing the origin of the term "d66" because it's not strictly germane to the topic – none of these examples actually use the term "d66" to describe their dice-rolling methods – but I'm going to post it anyway as a matter of general interest: following a conversation with Tumblr user @notclevr, it appears that before tabletop wargames (and, nearly concurrently, tabletop RPGs) got their hands on the mechanic, the principal (though by no means exclusive) users of the old "roll a six-sided die twice, reading one die as the 'tens' place and the other die as the 'ones' place" trick may have been tabletop American baseball simulators.

The most notable example of the type – and the only well-known example still in publication today – is J Richard Seitz' APBA Baseball, first published in either 1950 or 1951 (accounts vary). In this game, a d66 roll is cross-referenced with a card representing the active player and a "board" representing the current situation on the field:

For example, with Carlton Fisk at bat, a d66 roll of 31 would yield a result of "8". Assuming for the sake of argument that the situation on the field is a runner on first and a grade C pitcher, consulting the "Runner on First Base" board, this corresponds to an outcome of "SINGLE—line drive to left; runner to third".

(This example is, strictly speaking, incorrect, as Carlton Fisk didn't have his major league debut until 1969 and I'm using the wrong lookup tables for any year in which he played, but you get the idea!)

Interestingly, APBA Baseball is not the first game to use this setup. It's heavily derived from Clifford Van Beek's National Pastime, a game whose patent was registered in 1925, though it wasn't actually published until 1930. Even at a glance, the similarities are substantial:

Indeed, though National Pastime's lookup tables are much simpler than APBA Baseball's, where they overlap they're often word for word identical. It's generally accepted that Seitz plagiarised National Pastime without credit when creating APBA Baseball (ironically, given his own famously combative stance toward alleged imitators!), though he was within his rights to do so, as National Pastime had fallen into the public domain by the time APBA Baseball was published.

We can go back even further, though. As far as I've been able to determine, the earliest known tabletop baseball simulator to use d66 lookup tables for resolving plays is Edward K McGill's Our National Ball Game, first published in 1886:

A copy of the game's 1887 US patent application can be downloaded here. This one uses an unusual 21-entry variant of the standard d66 lookup table in which the order of the rolled digits is insignificant, with doubles being half as likely as non-doubles rolls; it's unclear whether McGill was aware of this when he laid out the table. Unlike later incarnations of the genre, there are no individual player statistics, with all at-bats being resolved via the same table.

[drchucktingle]

sometimes buds ask’ what is it like to be a neurodivergent artist?’ and this is great summary: the charts can look like this, and at same time people will be endlessly posting on how you are ‘not real’ or ‘a bit’. you can hold bestsellers in slot 1 to 4 and still not be 'serious'

i am ultimately ok with this. i love my trot and would not have it any other way, but i think it is worth investigation. when irony poisoning has seeped into everything, how many times does a neurodivergent person have to say ‘actually this is NOT so bad its good. its just good’

when you are autistic, or queer, or both, how much proof do you need to be considered good art? or good business? what do the charts have to look like for me to be a ‘real’ author? or allowed my face mask at a library association conference? or one person not a group of writers?

im coming up on a decade of writing tinglers soon, and people are still talkin about my ‘serious’ works vs my ‘joke books’ and at every turn, as kindly as i can, i shout from the rooftops: THEY ARE ALL SERIOUS BOOKS. THIS IS NOT A BIT.

but its hard when buds have had ‘the correct way to be a writer. the correct way to be an artist. the COOL way to react to a book that is TOO weird’ pounded into their heads by internet culture. 'kill it with fire' they say. 'i need eye bleach' they say without thinking. a line.

heres the thing, the tide IS turning. theres buckaroos jumping in and saying, ‘I want to be a part of this’ and for that they are being rewarded. the publisher who took me seriously is lookin pretty dang good right now with these charts and these sales. i am honored and moved

over time there will be more buds who shed that irony mask. the tide of sincerity is powerful, and the tide of love is inevitable. it is difficult to stand strong in our uniqueness but it also pays off, and I hope to be a shining example. eventually THE TIMELINE BENDS TO YOU

so this is not a thread to complain. i have been trotting long enough that these things do not really bother me. being made fun of and disparaged as ‘not legit art’ while also being objectively successful at the things im made fun of about is kind of the ocean that i swim in.

no. my point of this is to say THANK YOU to those of you who have been trotting by my side over these years. THANK YOU for proving love to me. im so honored by your support, and you should know that YOU have seen beyond the irony poisoned veil that stops many others. YOU get it.

and to those with their own unique perspective on creation: look what you can do. yes there will likely be a lot of resistance to something different, but there is also a LOT of reward. YOU can trot a new path. YOU can prove love is real, not in MY way, but IN YOUR OWN WAY

anyway thank you for reading buckaroos. thank you for your support. LUCKY DAY comes out next summer and it is probably as FAR OUT and existential as the tingleverse has ever gone. you can preorder it here

[lcvecove]

hiya, i have no idea if you do requests but i have a very brief and simple idea, which you can do your own take on - overly sensitive reader is dating oscar piastri & people are bothering her online but she doesn't tell oscar, instead she hides it and acts like she's fine but one night, she's in bed with him but then moves out to the living room & she's reading people's posts and messages about her not deserving him and she just sobs her eyes out, very quietly, thinking he's asleep - but he's not and he hears her, he walks out to the sight of her crying,,, then you can do whatever you want! just basically a hurt/comfort fic idea :) thank you!

𝒏ote , hi nonnie! thank you so much for requesting this. im convinced he is the sweetest sweetest bf and this thought goes so well with him . . .

fem!reader x oscar piastri. established relationship. hurt -> comfort. fluff. insecure!reader. mean online comments.

you knew better.

you knew better than to look. you knew better than to click on the notifications, the comments, the threads where strangers, bold and faceless, tore you apart like it cost them nothing.

you know it’s not true. these people don’t you. they don’t really know oscar. they don’t know anything about your relationship. and you knew better than to give them so much power over you, but you did it anyway.

it felt like a constant in your night routine at this point. after the steady rise and fall of oscar’s chest tells you he’s surrendered to sleep, you slip quietly from the bed.

you try to convince yourself you’re just stretching your legs, grabbing some water, anything to justify the gnawing pull toward your phone, toward the weight you tuck away during the day but can’t seem to ignore when it’s dark and that inner voice manages to convince you to look.

you curl up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells faintly like him, like the smell of your safe space can wrap around you and stop the words from piercing as deep as they always do.

“he could have anyone and he settles for that?”

“you can’t convince me she’s there for anything but the money”

“he could do way better”

“why do the best guys always tend to settle for the most basic, gold digging girls”

one after another they appear on the screen. picking apart your body, your intelligence, your motives.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the drops fall on the screen. little blots of water smearing and obstructing the words that had already twisted like knives in your chest.

you know you should turn it off. climb into bed and let oscar cuddle away all the insecurities gnawing at your chest. but it feels like you’re stuck. like if you just read one more comment, maybe you’ll find one that makes it all make sense, one that explains why you feel like you’ll never be enough for him.

you flinch when a familiar hand gently closes over yours, steady and warm, taking the phone from you. you hadn’t even heard him come in.

you don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe as he scrolls through the comments himself, brow furrowing more and more the further he goes.

after a few minutes he locks the phone and discards it on the table, settling next to you and pulling you onto his lap.

“you know none of it is true right?” he mumbles against your head, pressing a kiss to your temple and you sniffle

“osc—” you go to argue but he interrupts

“no” he says, the word so blunt and direct it catches you so off guard for a second that you pull your head away from his chest to look at him

“i’m not gonna sit here and listen to you justify what they’re saying. they don’t know you. they don’t know me. and they sure as shit don’t know anything about our relationship” he says, shaking his head slightly at the utter ridiculousness of what he just read.

“but it’s true. i’m not perfect and you could do so much bet—“ you mumble but he interrupts you again before you get the chance to finish, this time with his lips on yours, kissing you until those thoughts float away and the only thing you can focus on is the way his hand is running through your hair

“you’re perfect with me, to me, and for me. hell perfect doesn’t even begin to describe you baby. you’re everything. you’re all I want. the only way these people have any power over you is if you actually believe there’s some truth to what they’re saying. do you?” oscar asks, holding your jaw so you can’t look away from him.

“are you only with me for the money? the attention?” oscar asks, raising his eyebrows dramatically in a way that makes you wanna laugh and by the slight tilt in his lips, he knows.

“no” you say softly and he gasps in mock surprise

“really? I for sure thought you were” he teases and laughs when you hit him playfully.

“i’m just kidding baby. you hate attention even more than I do and you practically tackle me every time I try to pay for anything. and if you think for even one second that I don’t believe you’re the sexiest woman in the world, you come tell me and I’ll prove you wrong, yeah?” he says, pressing kiss after kiss against your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw, your lips. every inch he can reach.

“I love you” you say softly, hoping your gratitude for him shines through in your tone.

“I love you the most,” he murmurs back, no hesitation, no doubt. just the pure, simple truth.

his hands gently frame your face, thumbs brushing away the last of your tears with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again, but in a different way this time. a softer way.

“let’s go to bed,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion and affection as he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, leaving your phone and all the negativity on it right there on the table.

[keferon]

I’ve been reading through your Spellbound AU and thought of something funny, so naturally I wrote a short story for it.

My take on how Jazz came to work for Orion.

———————————————————————

Jazz slunk across ruined stonework overtaken by forest growth. Form shifting as subtly as the shadows he crossed.

Which would it be?

Tall and slim? Nah, that one already served it’s purpose. The twins saw something lank and dark looming in the trees, and now the young knights were distracted looking over their shoulders.

A hulking brute? No, that’d inspire an all out confrontation. Jazz already had all of them keyed up to act on instinct.

The twins were easy. Young and expecting a straight fight. Pax, his target, was harder to ruffle. He had the reputation of a courageous selfless hero and damned if the mech wasn’t dedicated to the ruse.

Pax wasn’t spooked, but he did take his underlings concerns seriously. He marched forward as a pillar of confidence and safety, but Jazz caught the way his gaze scanned the ruins. His white shadow seemed indifferent, but he was just an audience member anyways, not a real fighter.

Primed to play the part. Pax just needed his queue.

Jazz got into place on his stage. He shifted into something small and weak (in appearance alone). Bent a leg at an unhealthy looking angle, and slumped like he was exhausted and chased here.

Jazz sat with his back against the wall, the partially collapsed stone room was small enough that a mech of Orion’s stature would have difficulty moving quickly. It had the nice bonus of blocking anyone else from coming through the main entry point as well.

Through a crack in the wall, Jazz watched as the leader in blue and red got closer, his “loyal knights” lagging behind. The white one lagged as well, distracted by scolding the twins for being distracted.

Jazz focused on his target. Pulled at a thread from within Pax and strung it within his own chest.

Jazz set his new voice and with all the terror and innocence he could conjure screamed.

H̴͉̮́͂͗̐͌̍̇E̸̡̞̅̎̒͗͂L̷̛̻͎̮̽̏͝͝P̴̛̭͈͌̔̃̊͛̓ ̶͉̩̖̔͛͋̃ͅP̴̫͔̖͔̼͗̑̔͘͝L̸͓̣͖̫̭͎̊́̑̀͐̈́Ḙ̶͕̪̳̟̥͂̓̈̅͂͝Á̵̖̳̱͙͋ ̸̭̤̹̔͑͒̈͆̓͘Ȏ̵̡̥͈̪̟͛́̑͆̐͜Ḣ̷̡̻̪̘̯̹̊̂́̒͠ ̷̭̭͕̙̟̬͈̇̄̌̅̂̚̕W̸̺̯̦͔̼͇̄H̷͖͛̎͐̄͊̂͝À̶̘̙̈́̎͛̒͘ͅṰ̴̻͉̜͂̐̽̀̇ ̴̬͓̝̞̀̆̕T̸̙̖̲̺̯̆͛͜Ḥ̵̱͚͕͔̆̉ͅȆ̶͙̆́́̌̋ ̵̧͔͔̰̰̰͕̿͂̆̂̅̅F̵͕̘̰͓̓̔͜͜U̵̧̝̳̔̍̇̅̿͜͜͝Ç̵͎̎̓̒̓̊̂K̷̨̈́?̶̱͈̖̺̘͓͆̄͒͋

He slapped a hand over his mouth.

Outside, everyone went deathly quiet. Jazz didn’t dare move.

“Um.” Spoke their fearless leader.

Who apparently had thing for asthmatic dragons.

“Are you alright in there?”

Movement started to approach his hidey hole. Jazz could still salvage this. He could.

The white shadow came through first. Damn it. New plan: save own life.

Jazz plucked a new voice from him and made himself look as unthreatening as possible.

“ - ?! !”

Nothing. He loves the concept of nothing. Not even a celebrity crush? A favorite singer? The sound of his own voice?

Some of the functionalists were like that. That’s probably half the reason they “allowed” him to take on their commissions. All the money in their coffers wasn’t worth this however.

The white mech frowned, scanning over Jazz with a cold blue look. He turned back to the entrance, “Sir, there is a ‘hypothetically’ injured person inside the building. Most likely they orchestrated our current circumstances in an attempt to assassinate you.”

Jazz lunged from the wall, dagger slipping between armor gaps to pierce the spoil-sports spark, ready to dash past in the resulting chaos when his lifeless body guttered before them.

And just like his voice, Jazz got nothing instead.

He gaped at the way his blade cut into hollow air beneath the plates. Numbly, he pulled out his dagger and stabbed again, like it’d do something different this time. The mech was unamused.

“Sir, the assassin is trying to assassinate me.”

Jazz pulled a working voice, “I̷͕͍̓̒͝ͅ’̵̝̂m̵̼̲̓́ ̷͚̑́͗͜n̶̢̬͈̉o̷̦̓̎͝ṱ̶̟̼͒͊ ̵̨̮̠̿̀ǎ̷̫̹n̶̫̜̚̕ ̸̹͙͐a̵̛̯̻̹s̶͍̈́s̵̳̲͎͂a̷̻͉̅͆̑s̴̛̫̞̽̈s̵̳̑į̸̝̽̊n̷̙̟̤͊!̸̪̃”. And discontinued his failing assassin attempt to cringe.

A massive hand closed around Jazz’s wrist, stopping him cold.

“Do not.” Orion lessened his grip but did not release him, “Harm my friends.”

Jazz had to crane his head back considerably to make eye contact. Orion was built like a brick house and Jazz had enough experience fighting mechs like him to know his kill window was gone.

Groveling it is!

“Į̷̧̲̍͝ ̴̟̩̗̀̿̊a̵̹͙̔m̵̠̜̳͍̀̽̾̏ ̷͕͕̔̿͆̂s̸̡͋ơ̵̦̜ ̶͍̫͔͔̒̈̈́̌s̶̻͓͔̆͜ò̸͙̥̻̀r̷̢̠̈r̵̘͑̎͂y̸̰͓͆͗̔.̵̯͇́̌͒ ̵̳̞̏̇̕I̶̦͚̦͠’̸̞̯͙̟́ḿ̵̢̜̅̍͜ͅ ̴̮̩͓̀̓̈͜j̷̻̒̀u̷̯͂͋ŝ̴̭͇̱͎͑͆ẗ̶͎̬͗́͝ ̷̥̰̗̃a̸̼̫̦̾̚ ̶͕͉̓͌͋͝d̴͖̗̰̒̎̈͘ͅe̸̗̞̤̲̽͗̈́͛s̸̖͐p̵̢̎͊e̴̢͖͉͑̿̾͘r̶̩̬̰̈́́ą̵̧̰̋̊͝t̶̻̯̞̦̆e̷̱̥̪̍͜ ̴̠̱̼̣̌̾t̴̙̐̔h̵̟̪͈͛̚ǐ̶͕ě̴̻̺f̸͕̠̯̤̀̆!̷̗̩̩̃̽ ̷̮̩̆̾Ǐ̷͍̭ ̴͕͕́ṅ̸̗̰e̸̯̱̝͚͆͂v̴̛͓͉͇̍́e̴̺̞͖͂͑̏͐͜r̶̢̼͠ ̴̗͙̐͒̋̚m̸͓͆͐e̶̱̩͕̐̚͠a̵͉͇̟̺̋̇̑n̶̢̖̙̣̾͝t̷̘̔ ̵̦̉̈́̈́͗t̵̳̻͇̔̎̃͜o̴͈͖̓ ̵̬̦̞͖͌͋͂͆h̷̲̓͑̎̃a̵̛͇̾͗r̵̠̗̩̾̏̈̚m̸̭̃ ̷̢̗͇͈͑͊a̵̧̠͑̒̚ ̵̢͉̮̌̀k̵̼͈͎̳͒̀̐͂ǹ̸̛̘͈͔í̶͓̜̜͉g̸̨̖̗̜̽͊ĥ̷͉̫͉̻̾̽̉t̵̜̣̲̹̑ ̸̡͒̃o̶̮͉̺͝r̷̬̎̓̚͝ ̵̡̠̩̓̈́̐̏ḣ̶̨͖̼̥̎́i̶̖̋͝s̷̻͍̭̒͜ ̵̢̖͓̿̍̌̾f̶̣̜̒̎r̶̈͊̍��̝ǐ̶̝͓̱̱̆̐ẹ̷́̅n̴̢̛̘̍ḑ̷̪̈́̀͒̚ŝ̷͍̹!̷̪͙͕̬̐ ̵̨̡͆̏P̸̧̢̼̿͝l̶̡̧͔̳̍̉͋̆ẽ̶͉ȁ̸̦̜̤̀̉ͅs̴̮̙͍̘̐̂̉e̴͇͚͊̔̈́͋ ̸̧̳͒̈̃͠h̸̡̧̰͛̈͐ͅḁ̷͔̗̱̓̌̉v̸͖̼͓̜̽̏ę̵̬̤͎̄̅̓͆ ̷͍̯̗̥̋̀͛̉m̸̹͈͔̑͂͠ͅé̴͎͕ȑ̴̢̖̘̎c̴͙͇͙̤̐̔͒̕y̷̨͈͗͛͛!̶̹͝͝”

Orion cringed behind the mask.

“I- I’m sorry I don’t think I quite understood that.” He paused, “Would…you like a cough drop?”

Orion seemed to take stock of what he had on him, patting his sides with his free hand. He turned to the white mech.

“Prowl, would you happen to…um nevermind.” He turned to the twins, “Sunstreaker?Sideswipe? Do either of you have a cough drop?”

The twins searched their pockets for a magically appearing cough drop. Jazz searched for his sanity.

Jazz plucked a voice from the twins and couldn’t care less which it came from.

“Listen!” Oh thank fuck the twins were normal.

Jazz smiled while slowly uncurling Orions fingers from his wrist. Prowl narrowed his gaze at the new voice.

“You got me! I’m a thief! And I panicked! And I am so, so, so-.”

“A mimic.”

Smile frozen in place, Jazz turned his head so slowly there was an audible grounding noise.

Prowl remained impassive.

“Um.” And Orion…let him? Pull his wrist free. “Are you going to continue trying to kill me?”

Jazz snapped back to Orion, his target. The words aren’t what gave him pause, but how he said them. Like he just asked Jazz “Are you sure you want to go with puce green?” As if the mech was more concerned that Jazz was going to make a poor decision than for his own wellbeing.

“No.” Jazz said definitively. Because Primus knows he lost the upper hand now and wasn’t aiming to try again so soon.

“Are you genuinely in need of money? Food and shelter?” Orion continued, optics softening.

Jazz didn’t recognize the play. He bit his lip beneath the cowl.

Jazz decided to capitalize on whatever got him the most sympathy. He nodded seriously. “Yes. Of course. It’s not easy when the functionalists decide you’re a monster.” A bit of a lie and a bit of the truth. His favorite combination.

“Do you like your current employers?” Orion asked and Prowl started to narrow his optics.

“No…I don’t.” Jazz answered without enough dishonesty to feel comfortable.

Orion kneeled so he was on optic level with him. “Would you like to join my order?”

And when Jazz just stared at him he continued. “You’d be free to leave if you ever found it not to your liking. And your skills would be very useful in keeping people safe. And of course we’d ensure safe lodgings, fair pay and-.”

“Sir.” Prowl ground out with the most emotion Jazz had ever seen from the guy. “He tried. To assassinate you.”

“Well, he wasn’t very invested.” He shrugged.

Orion looked at Prowl. The twins looked at each other. Jazz looked at an opportunity.

“Deal.” Jazz took Orions hand, shaking it before his better thinking caught up to him.

Orion’s optics crinkled in delight. “Wonderful! Welcome to the Autobot Order!”

Prowls face betrayed nothing, but Jazz hadn’t spent his entire life studying people to miss the way something ever so subtly cracked under Prowls stoney facade.

Jazz didn’t need their Order to survive. But he had become desperately curious to know what in Pimus’ sweet name was going with those two. And more importantly, after outing him twice in a row, Jazz was going to BREAK Prowl.

“T̴͓̹̚h̸͖̘̀̈͠e̸̡̗̳͊̓͝ ̴͚̘͆n̶͉̰͐͜ą̸̦̉m̸̮͙͋é̴͉̫̥͘s̴̮̔͑̄ ̶̰̚J̷͎̀͝a̸̟͎̽̒̇z̷̰̆͑͜͝z̵̨͎̈́.̴͎́ ̷̡͉̱̒̾̕N̵̳͚̈͘i̴͙̓̎c̶̪̅̆ḛ̸̂͂ ̷̰̻̊͝ͅt̷͖̤̓͋o̴̗͇̭͑̿͛ ̴̮̹̉̃͜m̴̼͈̝̍ë̸̗̫̘́̊͌ē̸̘̹̅t̷̛̞̙̫ ̵͙̎̄y̵̩͂̓̚a̴͉̲̪͌̍.̶̖̻̒”

———————————————————————

The silent sentence was “Did you hear that horrib- Huh?! OH COME ON!”

I just really liked the idea that because Jazz talks in Shockwaves voice around Orion, the first time it happened everyone nearly shit themselves.

-SSTP

"Who apparently had thing for asthmatic dragons."

LMAO

"The twins searched their pockets for a magically appearing cough drop. Jazz searched for his sanity." AHAHAJCZTYLVXFUJKCDYKFSS HELP

Jazz, looking at OP: There is something really wrong with you. Five weirdness points out of five.

Jazz, looking at Prowl: ........I need a new scale

[chaaistained]

☕︎ my better cr; intro •°

.

.

.

🗝️ you’ve now unlocked the recipe to my better cr ≈

name : ℳ

age (when i shift) : 17/18 — i’m planning to either shift to dec 2021 or aug 2022 , wtv my subconscious chooses

occupation : university student — double degree in law and arts, majoring in media law and craft of writing & literature, respectively

+ part time tutor for english and maths, at the same private tutoring company i went to in high school

+ (eventually) part time stock acquisition and youth advertiser at a telecommunications company near my campus which is technically a nepo hire bcs my aunt works there

+ (eventually) paid internship at the australian taxation office for the study of torts and contracts and even tho i got in genuinely bcs of my marks and my interview it also feels a little nepo bcs another aunt (a family friend) also works here.. anyway

side hobbies/hustles : blogger (tumblrina in every reality if i can help it) , tiktok + youtube cover channel with two of my high school friends , fic author (ao3 curse does NOT exist here come at me) , occasional columnist for my uni’s student newsletter

my s/o : childhood family friend — lost contact and reunited ten years later — not revealing his name apart from the first letter bcs . he’s real .. anyway it’s 𝒜

౨ৎ meet ℳ

a sun kissed cinnamon bun personified — she is the smile that blossoms between warm cheeks during the burn of a sunrise ≈

in this dr i don’t change my name, and for that reason i’ll stick to the first letter (just like my pinned post) which is ℳ.

i’m nothing more than a normal girl, waking up each day already tired but willing myself to either go to uni or work, staying up late to catch up on the hours i spend doing other things, i have a closet full of clothes and yet i have nothing to wear, i have three of the same shades of lip gloss but they’re all from different brands so ofcs they’re not the same, i just bought a new journal but i’m yet to finish the one i got four years ago, i have ink stains on the tips of my fingers and chai stains on the pages edge of the novel i’m currently reading.

i just take every day like a new pot of tea leaves, waiting to be steeped to perfection.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ the metamorphosis

with frayed edges and tear stained cheeks, she undid the binds of a life once lived, a life once loved, finding the holes to be too much to bear in the everlasting winter of the cold reality that was thrust upon her, opting to take the needle and thread between her own fingers and stitch up the seams, to reinforce the realm of her existence into one that can hold her hand rather than hold her down

quite often i approach the concept of reinvention with a quivering hand, unable to part ways from the comfort — or perhaps the codependency — of that familiarity.

but eventually i took a step back and realised, there is no shame in finding freedom in what already feels right . after all, our souls are not dependant on this realm or this body, our consciousness is an ever expanding universe on its own, and our power to wield it is something that we have grown to understand and control in a way that allows us to live the lives we truly desire.. that’s all that this dr represents for me.

a life that i truly desire.

i’m not that different here, i have the same name, the same birthday, the same family. but it would be a lie to say everything stays the same.

i do admit to changing my appearance a bit, i’m nothing if not a perfectionist and whilst i do think my features have potential, i actually reach said potential in this reality. my upbringing has been revitalised to be something that enriched me rather than keeping me sheltered. my parental unit is less overbearing and more understanding, my brother is less of a jerk and more of a friend, my family relationships are less immature and more genuine.

i revise my failures in education, i revise my anxieties around success and the fear of that success being unreachable, i revise my health, my athleticism, my willpower and the general energy i have throughout the day to achieve everything that i wish to accomplish, everything that i could not bring myself to take a step towards in my previous reality.

my passions aren’t shamed here, they are encouraged. not just with the wary caution of a simple hobby but rather as an actual proper lifestyle, a feasible choice to make for a career, a skill that is supported as something from which i can make a name for myself.

and in this growth, in this metamorphosis, i find stability and comfort in not just my family but also my friends — people that i lost contact with, people that i drifted away from, people that i couldn’t bring myself to keep close because of the shame in my own progression or lack thereof — i’m not an aspect of shame, i never was, i know what i deserve and what i’m capable of and in this reality, i am all those things.

that’s why this is home, even after i break out of the cocoon and open my eyes in a world that’s familiar, it will also be different, because i’ll be different — no longer experiencing the slow sluggish state of what once was, for i now have a marvellous symmetry of splendour that holds me high, the equilibrium of my reality, where the scales finally tipped in my favour, levelling out to be amiably sound, with every flap of a butterfly’s wing.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ sugar heart cookies

it’s an inexplicable pull, an intangible tug on the heartstrings, a firm grip, a gentle ache, a deep longing. you can’t help but feel that there is something more out there for you, that there is someone more. someone that feels less like a piece and more like a whole person. someone who won’t complete you, but will help you complete yourself. two halves of a heart leaves you vulnerable when you’re apart, but when it’s two hearts beating alongside each other, the only thing left is to hold onto you

he sat beside me in his mother’s car. we were six (me) and eight (him). he sat in the drivers seat while his mother went inside the house to pick up a few things before taking the three of us (his little sister sat in the back) to a gathering of family friends.

his mother had bought us britannia little hearts. i can still remember the minuscule sugar crystals stuck to the tips of my small fingers while i dove inside the aluminium cover every few seconds to reach for the next tiny biscuit.

he asked me where i was that day — i’d stayed home from school because i felt unwell — when i told him, his first reaction was to nag me : “you know, if you’re sick, you shouldn’t be eating these. this is pure sugar.”

“yeah but i don’t want to listen to you!” — i was .. never really good at listening to people, especially not cute boys who were a little older than me.

he always seemed a bit uptight, but i guess i forgot how much he cared. because i can’t remember what happened two years later, during my last day in my old school. i remember crying, and i remember being comforted by people. but i guess i forgot that one of those people was him. i guess i forgot that he told me “it’ll be alright. i’m sure we’ll see each other again someday.”

it took us ten years but we got there.

this time, he was upstairs, in the house that was hosting a dinner among friends. i was distracted by my brother’s antics, one foot inside the threshold past the door and one foot on the pavement outside. with a flick of my head, my gaze turned up, up past the stairs in front of the door, up to the railing on the second level, a lookout point for the entrance.

he was leaning against the railing, blue button up shirt tucked into his black jeans, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, taking a quick glance to his side before doing a double take.

the silence felt like the calm before a pattering evening of rainfall, where you can feel the change in your future from the way the air seems electrified, from the way the clouds seems to churn around each other, like they’re brewing together, ready to erupt and explode into thunder, like the way you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

he seemed familiar, he seemed important, he seemed to be everything i could ever ask for and i didn’t know why the sirens were singing in my skull but i knew in my gut he was meant to be important to me. i knew he was meant to be somebody.

it took me a second to look away, but that entire night, and every night that followed, and every day that came along with it, i can’t ever forget the sugar crystal glimmers of light in his eyes. and for every moment to come, i’ll hold the little heart biscuits of our love in the palm of my hands, because i’m not someone who listens to people very well, i don’t care if i’m not allowed, i want them . i want him.

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

this dr is very near and dear to my heart and i can’t even begin to put everything i wanna say about it into one post so .. there will be more abt this dr

it’s literally home. it’s my life.

i’m so grateful for it xx

chaai brews; tea assortments — dr archive

2025 © chaaistained

[miifu666]

I finally drew LMK wukong... while also making him yandere because uh.. i like yanderes, we need more yan!Wukong content pls 🙏🥹 anyway Heres my rendition of what yandere lmk sun wukong would be like.. maybe ooc, ive only watched season 1...

Also not proofread— At ALL

⋆˙⟡ — Cw : Yandere, Dub-con, ooc lmk Wukong?, art is wukong x oc but writing is Wukong x reader, not proofread.

I imagine Yan!Wukong to be the type who taunts you about his past actions, how feral and rebellious he was, able to defeat the entire heavenly army and scared the Jade emperor out of his wits just for existing in flower fruit mountain. This only happens when you disobey him ofc, you left the cabin? Denied his wants to feed you himself? Maybe its time to remind you who he is

" See how i was back then? I was a Savage, untamed even if i had that stupid crown around my head. You wouldn't want me to be like that now do you, Peaches? "

He's a sweetheart, Patience and Virtue is a thing he learned the most during his years of living. Yet, unpredictability is also his nature. Especially as a monkey king. There are times when he would tolerate you acting bratty, a bit Defiant is all fun, but when the day comes where he's fought too many Yaoguais, Demons, and Alike. All he wants is your comforting touch soothing him of his worries. The last thing he needs is your uncooperative attitude.

" Peaches... im not in the mood for this. Eat the food. Now. Ive been kind to you. It's either you eat the food or ill get rough."

Wukong is canonically someone who hasnt experienced any romantic nor sexual attraction, the moment he does. He doesn't have a clue on what to do. All he can think of is being in his monkey nature, which includes being possessive, territorial, dominating, and providing you with nutrients. He doesn't trust others enough to help him with his feelings, barely have the guts to ask Bajie if you're in a bad mood. He prefers to wait for others to give him advice (not that he'll take to account).

"MK doesn't know anything, he's a kid! He doesn't understand love like i do... like us adults do. Im doing this to PROTECT you, peaches!"

There might be times where he'll be more touchy than usual, conditioning you to feel comfort and used to his physical affection. Wukong is nothing but patient, he knows how to pavlov you into feeling relaxed once you feel his hands. You'll notice his punishments ranged from letting him groom you, mark you and finally letting him eat you out.

The euphoric bliss whenever he touches you or caught a whiff of your scent is tantalizing, Due to this, he prefers to be the one to serve you rather than you serving him. A king needs his Queen to bleed his heart into, not a concubine who perfoms.

" ah, ah ah~ Remember what i said? You either let me groom your pretty head or i might change things up a little..."

Wukong who gloats about the ring around your finger, making sure everyone. Even the heavens. Know, who you belong to. Theres no such thing as divine intervention, HE willed this fate, HE knit the red threads of fate till it spells your name. Theres an endless amount of love flowing through his heart for you, it seeps through timelines and past reincarnations. Even if your current life is done in this world, he'll continue on finding you. Binding you with him, gripping your heart so close till it beats in harmony with his. He'll make sure to leave an imprint of himself in your soul, even your future consorts needs to know him in order to understand you.

While you came from another world, your own destiny is temporary in his. Wukong will fight tooth and nails to defy the stars just to have you as his permanently. He'll create his own thread. His own happy ending with you.

And if theres anyone who dares to leak the rough details about your hostage love life... hes not known as the god of trickster for nothing

" if the moon and stars are reflection of the past, would they know how many lifetimes have i been loving you before our souls reconciled in this one?

Because i couldn't possibly have just learned to love you this much, all in this single lifetime"

Artwork ©️ Miifu666

Writings ©️ Miifu666

[solifloris]

Thinking about messing with the boys. About how when we say we want to give them a blowjob, and they're excitedly anticipating it, cocks eager and hard and just twitching for us, we do stupid shit like literally blow air on their cockhead or into their bellybutton. But we make up for it well after they give us the silliest pouts/sulky faces at our antics 👀 (nonnie here is 31yo I promise 😭)

── no omg anonie... i GET YOU ??? SO FUCKING MUCH ??? this triggered a brainrot in me because messing around with them would be SO FUN... what with all the teasing they do to us, they should get their own kind of payback! 😤

caleb would have likely been surprised you'd mention it at all. he's more of a giver, than anything else—but the mere thought of having you suck him off would appeal to him the moment you suggested it. it's only unfortunate that you're a tease about it, but he probably expected it, anyway—you always teased each other, after all, whether out of bed or not. of course, not that expecting it could stop the impatient curses from falling from his lips, a telltale sign of how affected he was by it. maybe, if you teased him a little too much, he'd probably snap—fuck your mouth like he intends to, and perhaps, teach you a lesson for making him wait. but, whatever the case... he will use your pretty mouth to get off. i mean, you offered, right? it would be rude if he didn't make the most of it! "haah, you're a tease, pipsqueak. should'a just—fuck—taken it in when i told you to—"

rafayel? he would be so FLUSTERED but also so. fucking. pissed. you wouldn't hear the end of it! he'd be sulking, alright—complaining to no end, straight up accusatory in his tone the more you tease him... except, unfortunately for him, it would only make you tease him more. more than whatever silly antics you'd started with, you'd have a mission make him so sensitive under the slightest of your touches, and he'd be shuddering. it wouldn't take long after that for him to begrudgingly start begging you, and then, god, the moan he'd let out when you finally take him in would be so heavenly. he'd immediately lose all restraint and start rutting into your mouth, moaning your name, singing praises lf how good it feels and how well you take him... "f-fuck, princess—plea—please, 's so good—"

xavier would be a mess. it wouldn't even be the teasing, he'd get hard the minute you suggest giving him a blowjob at all. it's almost like he's waited for the moment you'd offer one, and you could almost giggle at the way he would draw in a breath, eyes wide and attentive when you slowly pull down his pants. his cock would already be leaking when you take it out—so responsive. he would twitch at every little touch, letting out soft, quiet whimpers when you'd tease him, only looking at you pleadingly... but he wouldn't complain, and he'd be patient, and then you'd reward him for it. his head would be thrown back with a shaky gasp when you finally wrap your lips around him, his fingers threading through your locks to guide you into a comfortable pace. the tips of his ears would be red, his eyes shut, mouth falling open in breathless pants—and boy, it'd be a sight. it'd be an experience—for you, just as much as it would be for him. "a-ah... just like that, angel... s-so good... so good for me..."

zayne, in the first place, always enjoyed watching you take him, and you knew that offering to suck him off would excite him. but how you got the courage to dare tease him at a was beyond the both of you. his gaze would remain steely into your own, eyebrows quirked up in a silent dare... it would be inevitable to have this courage of yours falter, and you'd allow him to massage his fingers into your scalp, guiding you into the rhythm that he wanted. low grunts would fall from his lips, and even if this had started with you offering to make him cum, you'd find yourself completely at his mercy. his words and his hands would coax you to take him all the way into your mouth, soothing you through the rocking of his hips and the feeling of having him press deep into your throat. "mmm. that's a good girl, sweetheart. so nice and deep, just the way i like it."

⁺₊ / an: AUGH... thoughts of giving them head... suddenly i want it so BADLY

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[tikitakatia]

Escape — A. Putellas x Reader

"The Taste of Champagne"

WC: 4.3k

Summary: Your wife keeps sending you pieces of the past like they’ll make the silence feel whole again. But the present has its own anchor now, even if you still don’t know what to call it.

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3

You told yourself you weren’t going to check.

That you were fine.

That people got busy, that not every night had to be a lifeline. That silence didn’t always mean abandonment.

But the silence still sat wrong.

You curled into the corner of the couch, Tofu at your side like an emotional support loaf, and opened the app anyway.

Nothing. No message.

No “you up?”

No metaphors. No poetic confessions. No “dream soft.”

Just the last thing you’d said, still waiting at the bottom of the screen for a reply.

You set your phone down. Picked it up again less than a minute later. Scrolled back through the thread like you hadn’t memorized half of it already.

The dumb jokes. The movie arguments. The softness you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. The feeling of being held without hands and being seen without effort.

You laughed once. Quietly. At a typo from three days ago. Then immediately hated yourself for it.

Because Alexia had texted too.

Ale: I dreamt about you today. You, me, and our little gremlin child. I miss you.

And you hadn’t replied.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t know what version of yourself to send back.

Because every word felt dishonest now.

You kept your phone in your hand. Let it warm your palm while you stare at the app icon like it might blink on its own.

You thought about texting first.

“Hey. You there?”

“I'm sorry if I was too much.”

“Or not enough.”

You typed them all. Deleted them all.

Tofu let out a groan and rolled into your thigh. He didn't care that your heart was unraveling. He was just happy to be touching you. And god, that was the thing. That soft little weight. That simple nearness. It made you realize how long it had been since anyone had made you feel like this without asking you to earn it first.

It used to be Alexia. And now it was a stranger who didn’t even show up tonight. You stared at the blank chat window like it had betrayed you. Or maybe like you’d betrayed yourself by needing it this badly.

You closed the app. Opened it again.

Still nothing.

You poured another glass of wine. Let it sit untouched.

You didn’t cry. You just… folded. Quietly. Like a house without lights. Like something was still standing, but barely.

You fell asleep with the phone still in your hand.

Screen dimmed. No messages.  No dreams.

Just you, and a dog who loved you without knowing what you’d done.

The silence stretched for most of the day.

You didn’t check the app first thing this time. You made yourself wait. Poured coffee. Fed Tofu. Stared at the fridge like it might open a portal out of your body.

The couch felt colder without a new message waiting. You didn’t say that out loud. You answered Alexia’s latest text about Tofu’s vet appointment. One word. Then muted the thread.

By 4PM, you were fully spiraling again. Quietly. Calmly. With the intensity of someone trying very hard to not care.

And then..

Buzz.

[go4goald2]: I AM SO SORRY. I didn´t mean to disappear. Work exploded, I didn't even breathe properly for like 36 hours.

You didn’t realize you’d exhaled until you saw the message and your body unclenched.

[go4goald2]: I missed you. Stupidly. Even though it’s just a screen. Is that pathetic?

You smiled.

[lostinthecrowd]: Only if I'm pathetic too.

Pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: Deal! We’ll be pathetic together.

The laugh that slipped out felt like relief. Like letting yourself come up for air after holding it too long.

[lostinthecrowd]: I know it’s dumb but… I was worried. I thought maybe I pushed too far.

[go4goald2]: NO. Not at all. Ugh, never. I wanted to be here. I just couldn’t be.

There was something about that phrasing, “wanted to be”, that sat warm and bittersweet in your chest.

You typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: I’m glad you’re back.

[go4goald2]: Me too.

And just like that, the air in the apartment shifted. Tofu hopped up beside you and flopped onto his back like the drama queen he was, one paw flung dramatically over his chest. You scratched his belly absently, phone still warm in your hand.

You weren’t stupid. You knew this was complicated.

But right now? It was simple.

They were back. And you weren’t alone.

It was late morning, Tofu chewing the corner of a throw pillow when your phone buzzed.

[go4goald2]: Quick: Favorite smell in the world. Go.

You grinned.

[lostinthecrowd]: Clean laundry. Toasted bread. Alexia’s shampoo

You froze. Backspaced.

[lostinthecrowd]: Uh laundry. Bread. Books. Not necessarily in that order.

[go4goald2]: Weak answer, mine’s rain hitting hot pavement. Also, movie theater popcorn. Cleaning products too.

[lostinthecrowd]: You’re such a freak. I respect it.

[go4goald2]: Thank you. Your turn. Favorite feeling?

You thought for a second.

[lostinthecrowd]: When someone reaches for me first.

You didn’t expect to send that. It just came out.

The reply took longer this time.

[go4goald2]: That’s a good one. That’s a really, really good one.

You looked down at Tofu, who had abandoned his pillow and was now curled against your shin. You reached down and scratched behind his ears.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time, not Chattr.

Alexia.

You almost ignored it. Almost.

But the preview caught your eye.

Ale: Check the front door.

You frowned, got up and opened it.

And there it was.

A small box, neatly wrapped in butcher paper. No card. Just your name scrawled on the top in handwriting you knew by muscle memory. You went back to the couch and opened it.

Inside?

An old photo.

The two of you at the beach years ago, sunburned and beaming, your face scrunched mid-laugh, her hand on your back, sunglasses crooked on her nose. One of your favorites. One you thought was lost.

And behind it, folded carefully was a note.

I know I can’t undo the space between us. But I remember this day like it just happened. And I still want to be the person who made you smile like that.

– A.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then your chest cracked open.

You didn’t know what came over you. Maybe it was the photo. Maybe the memory. Maybe the way her handwriting still looked like a promise you weren’t sure you could believe.

Whatever it was, when you started crying, you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even breathe properly. The kind of crying that feels ancient. Like grief that finally got tired of being patient. Tofu lay down beside you, warm and solid, his chin on your knee like he knew there was nothing to fix, just something to witness.

At some point, the tears stopped. Or maybe you just ran out of them. You must’ve fallen asleep, curled on the couch, the photo still in your lap, the blanket wrapped too tightly around your shoulders.

When you woke, the light had shifted and your phone screen was glowing softly beside you.

Chattr.

Three unread messages.

[go4goald2]: Hey.

[go4goald2]: Everything okay?

[go4goald2]: Kinda worried, you disappeared.

You started typing quickly.

[lostinthecrowd]: Sorry I was gone. Got distracted by a very needy puppy.

[lostinthecrowd]: Also, someone reminded me of a version of myself I forgot. It kinda hurts.

[go4goald2]: Maybe that means it still matters.

You didn’t answer because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure who you were supposed to open your heart to.

Later that evening, after the sun dipped low and the apartment turned lavender and quiet, you sent a text to Alexia. Just one.

“Thanks for the photo. I didn’t know you still had it.”

You expected a delay. A simple “you’re welcome” or a heart emoji. 

Instead:

Ale: I almost deleted it once. Felt too far away from who we are now. But I couldn’t. I think I always hoped it would still mean something to you.

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Not really. So instead, you opened the fridge, fed the dog, and sat on the kitchen floor like it was the only place that didn’t feel too full of ghosts.

Later, when your fingers weren’t shaking quite so much, you sent another.

“It does. I don’t know what to do with that. But it does.”

Alexia didn’t reply right away. But she didn’t ghost either. She sent a picture of her hotel dinner tray: dry chicken, too much parsley.

Ale: Can I still be someone who knows how you like your food?

It was the softest thing she’d said in weeks. Maybe months.

You let your forehead rest against the cabinet door behind you, Tofu already half-asleep against your thigh.

And then, because you were already mid-collapse, you opened Chattr.

The screen lit up like it had missed you.

[go4goald2]: How’s your night?

You hesitated. For the first time in a while, you hesitated.

But then:

[lostinthecrowd]: Complicated. But less lonely than it used to be.

You didn't mention Alexia. You didn’t have to.

The guilt was already pulling at your ribcage like an anchor.

But god, it felt easy with them. Still.

[go4goald2]: Tofu still chewing everything you love?

[lostinthecrowd]: Yes, including my will to live.

[go4goald2]: What an icon.

You smiled. You couldn't help it.

Then, half on a whim, half because your chest felt too full:

[lostinthecrowd]: Do you like piña coladas?

A beat.

[go4goald2]: …Getting caught in the rain?

You snorted.

[lostinthecrowd]: God, those two idiots could’ve just talked to each other instead of writing anonymous ads in the newspaper.

[go4goald2]: Maybe it’s easier to be honest when no one’s looking at you.

That one stung a little more than it should have.

But you didn’t say that. You just typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah. Maybe that’s the point of strangers. You get to tell the truth without the weight of history.

There was a pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: But what happens when the stranger starts to feel like the only place that feels like home?

You stared at the screen. You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t know what to say.

But because you felt it hit bone.

What happens when the stranger starts to feel like home?

You locked your phone. Set it face down on the couch. And suddenly, it was too quiet.

You got up. Washed a cup that didn’t need washing. Fed Tofu again even though his bowl was still half full. You moved like someone trying not to be found guilty of something that hadn’t quite happened yet.

And then, because your heart was beating too loud and your head was full of words that didn’t feel like yours, you opened the other thread.

Alexia’s.

There was a message waiting. Not a follow-up, not a guilt trip. Just a photo. She was crouched on the curb outside a café, still in her training kit, flushed and tired, her hair half-pulled back and falling out at the sides. She held a coffee in one hand, giving the camera a crooked, almost shy grin. Not the kind she gave to the press. Just the one you remembered. The text below reads “I found the only place here that serves oat milk and didn’t judge me for asking for extra cinnamon. Thought you’d be proud.”

You stared at it longer than you meant to. That version of her, the soft one, the real one, was hard to look at. Because that was the one you’d loved before everything got hard.

Somewhere down the hall, Tofu barked. One sharp, accusatory yelp. You went to check, and there he was on the bed, standing on your pillow like it was a podium, chewing on the strap of your favorite canvas tote bag with the determination of someone proving a point. You sighed and snapped a photo before pulling the bag out of his mouth. Then, without thinking too hard, you sent it to Alexia with the caption: “He’s got your energy, swear to god.”

Her response came almost instantly. 

Ale: So you’re saying he’s our tiny, unhinged child? Because I accept that.

And you laughed. Out loud. Small and surprised.

“He’s feral,” you wrote back. 

“Completely untrainable. He bites my slippers and stares me down like he’s the main character.”

Ale: So me? 

She said, just two words, soft and certain.

You paused. Then typed: Basically.

Tofu returned to the couch like a conquering hero and flopped into your lap, warm and heavy and unbothered. You rested your hand lightly on his back. He sighed like he owned the apartment.

Another ping.

Ale: I don’t want to push you..

Ale: I just miss laughing with you. Like this. Like… us.

You didn’t reply right away. But you didn’t leave either. You sat there with your hand on the back of the stupid, soft dog she gave you, and let yourself imagine what it might feel like to try again.

Not all at once. Not completely.

Just… maybe.

The next morning, the apartment was still. Not quite like emptiness, just calm. Like the kind of silence that comes after the crying is done and the air is finally still enough to breathe.

You didn’t open Chattr right away.

It wasn’t on purpose.

You just… didn’t.

Instead, you made coffee. Not in a rush, not distracted. Real coffee. You even took the time to add a little sprinkle of cinnamon. You pretended like you weren’t sure why.

Tofu padded across the tile, sleepy and dragging his favorite destroyed sock behind him like a war trophy. You let him curl up at your feet while you answered a few emails. Sent a few messages, one of them to Alexia.

She’d texted something small. A picture of a storefront, hand-painted signs and soft yellow curtains in the window. 

Ale: Saw this and thought of you. You used to say you wanted a bookshop with plants in the windows and a dog under the desk.

You didn’t overthink it. Just typed: 

“Still do.”

Her reply came back fast. 

Ale: Maybe one day. I’ll be the one getting distracted and forgetting to charge the register.

You smiled gently, and let the moment stretch. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t a grand gesture. But it felt… safe. Familiar. Like brushing fingers across something that used to be yours.

Around late morning, your phone buzzed again. Another message from her.

Ale: Please witness this.

Attached was a photo of a small white dog in a violently pink sweater. Hooded and with pom-poms dangling from the ends and a sparkly “PRINCESS” across the back in rhinestones. The dog looked vaguely furious. Possibly plotting something.

You choked on your coffee.

“Tofu’s cousin from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Ale: Tofu’s cousin from the drama school.

“That dog has a diary and writes about the betrayal.”

Ale: They have a publicist and a spray tan appointment.

The laugh that came out of you was too loud and sudden. Tofu startled and made an offended noise, then immediately climbed into your lap like how dare you forget I’m the star here. You scratched his head without thinking and smiled into your mug.

It was easy, that exchange. Stupid and good. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were holding your breath talking to her.

It wasn’t until almost noon that you finally checked Chattr.

The message had come in last night. A quiet ping, nothing dramatic.

[go4goald2]: Sleep well?

You stared at it for a few seconds too long. Then typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Eventually.

There was no follow-up right away. You didn’t mind.

Later, when Tofu knocked over your water bottle trying to dive headfirst into your laundry basket, you laughed. Not as hard as yesterday. But still.

You picked up your phone without thinking and opened the last thread, not Chattr.

“He’s trying to sleep in the dryer now. This is your fault.”

Ale: He takes after his mother.

You didn’t know which one of you she meant. You didn’t ask.

The day passed gently. Not in a blur, just soft. Tofu snored on your lap during a bad movie. And somewhere in your other inbox, the typing bubble came and went.

You didn’t check it until much later. And when you did, your chest tugged. Not a lot. Just enough to remind you it still mattered. That it still made you feel something.

But today, you weren’t looking for complicated.

Because for the first time in a awhile, Alexia wasn’t making things worse.

It was only hours later that you opened Chattr again.

No wine. No candles. No desperate breath held in your throat. Just Tofu snoring on your feet and the last half of a very mediocre rom-com on TV.

Still, the message was already waiting.

[go4goald2]: What’s your take on fruit in salad. Violently opposed or live laugh love?

You smiled. Automatically.

[lostinthecrowd]: Depends on the fruit. Mango is elite. Strawberries are okay. Grapes are war crimes.

[go4goald2]: I feel like that last one came from personal trauma. Did someone hurt you with a grape once?

[lostinthecrowd]: Maybe someone I loved trusted a raisin salad once and now I have trust issues.

There was a pause. Not long. Just enough to feel like breathing space.

[go4goald2]: I like it when you joke. makes me feel like you’re here with me.

Your fingers hovered over the keys. Usually, you'd have said something dumb in return. Or maybe something soft.

But tonight, your chest stayed quiet.

[lostinthecrowd]: Long day. Sorry if I’m quiet.

[go4goald2]: Don’t apologize. I just miss you a little, that’s all.

You stared at that one.

Because you knew what it meant.

Not big love, not declarations. Just… absence. Noticing.

[lostinthecrowd]: I'm still here.

You meant it. Even if it didn’t feel as loud as before.

Tofu shuffled in his sleep. You looked down at him: messy, needy, entirely your responsibility now, and thought, briefly, about how you´re starting to let Alexia back in.

Not fully.

Not all the way.

But enough that you noticed the difference when it came time to talk to someone else.

The next message blinked through.

[go4goald2]: Tell me something good about today, even if it’s small.

You hesitated. Then typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: A dog in a sweater made me laugh.

You didn’t mention it came from your wife. You didn’t have a reason to.

[go4goald2]: That’s good. I hope it was a ridiculous sweater.

[lostinthecrowd]: It was, had pompoms.

You let the conversation fade after that because something in your chest felt tangled. And you weren’t ready to unravel it yet.

The next day started with a video. A short one, blurry and too zoomed-in, but unmistakably Alexia’s voice narrating the sky. “You always said this was the best part of the day,” she said quietly. “I never used to get it. But I do now.” You watched it twice. Then three times. Her voice was still low and sleepy in the background, not performing, not polished. Just real, it even cracked a little when she said your name.

Then came the photo of the market: a fruit stand draped in fabric, oranges piled high, a dog curled under a chair in the sun. “You’d love it here,” she wrote. “They sell those weird dried apricots you always made me carry in my bag.” You smiled at your phone and hated yourself for it.

Tofu barked at the wall like he’d seen a ghost and then flopped over like he’d solved the mystery of grief. You rubbed the spot between his ears and stared at the screen. Didn’t reply. Not yet.

Alexia followed up an hour later. A selfie. Hair tied back, sunglasses on her head, a little smudge of something across her cheek like she hadn’t noticed it yet. The caption read: Bought a keychain with Tofu’s face on it. I’m either losing it or trying really hard to make up for being the worst. Probably both.

You laughed, quiet and unexpected.

Your thumb hovered. Then tapped out:

“Let me see the keychain.”

She sent it immediately. Tofu’s dumb little gremlin face stretched across a tiny acrylic oval. His eyes looked wild. His ears crooked.

Ale: He looks like he’s about to ask for financial compensation.

You grinned. You actually grinned.

And then immediately felt sick about it.

Because it felt good. Because she felt familiar.

Because it was easy again.

And that terrified you.

You responded slower this time:

“He’s a menace. I caught him dragging a towel into the shower today. He stared me down the entire time.”

Ale: Ha, asserting his dominance. I support it.

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to. God, you did. But because suddenly, your phone felt heavy. Like two versions of yourself were fighting for the same spot inside your chest.

You opened Chattr.

The last unread message sat there waiting.

[go4goald2]: You good today? Haven’t heard from you.

The timestamp was hours ago.

You locked your phone and set it on the coffee table. Then turned your attention to Tofu, who was currently attempting to scale the couch arm like a mountain goat. You reached out and caught him mid-fall. He blinked up at you like you were the center of the universe.

You wished the decision was that simple.

The message came mid-morning. You weren’t expecting it, not because she didn’t text anymore, she's gotten a little bit better at it, but because this one was different. Thoughtful. Preemptive. The kind of message Alexia would’ve sent years ago, before the silences, before the one-word replies.

Ale: Things are about to get a little busy over here cariño, travel, press, media stuff. I might go quiet for a few days. Didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.

You sat with it. The softness. The effort.

Then another message blinked through.

Ale: There’s a package on the way. Nothing huge. Just… some things I thought might make your week easier.

You blinked. Stared. Didn’t respond right away. Then:

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Her reply came fast.

Ale: I know. That’s kind of the point.

Later that afternoon, the package arrived. Small and neatly packed.

Inside: A blanket she knew you always stole from her side of the bed that smelled like her. A bag of your favorite snacks, the obscure brand that’s only sold in like, two stores. A new chew toy for Tofu shaped like a dinosaur. A handwritten note.

Just in case the couch gets lonely. And so Tofu stops trying to eat your socks. I love you.

— A. 

Your throat went tight.

You didn’t text her right away. Couldn’t.

Not because it wasn’t kind. But because it was.

Tofu immediately attacked the toy as you sat on the edge of the couch, blanket over your lap, pretending you weren’t unraveling.

You didn’t mean to open Chattr. You really didn’t.

The apartment was quiet again and Alexia’s absence had left behind that weird echo of effort. Her blanket still folded neatly on the couch after you spent hours cuddled in it, the new toy Tofu had already half-destroyed. The note from the package had been tucked away in a drawer like a secret you weren’t ready to let go of, but also couldn’t look at too long.

You told yourself you were just going to scroll. Just going to peek.

But the message was already waiting.

[go4goald2]: Okay, critical question. If you could only keep one: garlic bread or fresh-out-the-dryer hoodies?

You smiled before you even realized it. Your fingers moved without thinking.

[lostinthecrowd]: Wow, cruel and unusual punishment.

[go4goald2]: I never said this game was fair. Pick one, coward.

[lostinthecrowd]: Hoodies, because I can survive emotional starvation but not physical cold.

[go4goald2]: Okay poet, calm down.

You laughed. Quiet and genuine.

Tofu yawned loudly, then climbed into your lap like he belonged there. You reached for your wine and settled in, heart beating a little softer than it had all day.

[go4goald2]: What’s something that always makes you feel better during your tough days?

You thought about it. Then typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Dumb sitcom bloopers. You?

[go4goald2]: Videos of raccoons stealing food and running away like they know they’ve committed a crime.

That made you snort into your glass.

There was a pause after that. A few minutes where neither of you said anything. Then you typed, slower now.

[lostinthecrowd]: My wife’s trying. Like… actually trying. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Silence.

You wished you hadn’t sent it. You wished you could take it back.

Then the typing bubble appeared.

[go4goald2]: That’s a lot. Do you want to talk about it?

You hesitated.

Then:

[lostinthecrowd]: She sent me a blanket. Some snacks. A toy for the dog. Told me she’d be busy, but didn’t want me to feel alone. And it’s like… All the things I used to need from her. And now they’re here. and I'm just…

You stopped typing. Started again.

[lostinthecrowd]: I'm scared to trust it. I want to. I just don’t know if it’s real this time. And if it is, I don't know what that says about me because maybe I've changed too much to go back.

The response didn’t come right away.

When it did, it was simple.

[go4goald2]: You don’t have to go back. Maybe the person you are now deserves something forward.

You froze.

Because god. That felt like the truth.

[go4goald2]: And whatever happens, the version of you right now? She’s enough. Even if you’re scared. Even if you’re unsure. You’re still someone worth showing up for.

Your eyes burned before you could stop them. You didn’t even know what you were crying for. The effort? The loss? The fact that it felt so good to be seen, and so awful not to know where you belonged anymore?

Tofu snuffled in his sleep beside you. You wiped your cheek and typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.

[go4goald2]: Then I’m glad I said it. I mean it.

You stared at the screen long after the message stopped glowing.

You didn’t know who this person was.

But they made you feel like maybe you weren’t breaking everything by trying to hold both things at once.

Pt. 5

[purplereina11]

Found this in my drafts! Enjoy!

From The GoalKeeper Universe

You were never one to stay down, maybe even times you probably should have, but this time when you don't get back up... it's the dreaded ACL. But Aitana is by your side every step of the way.

Word Count: Only short 1.8k

You feel it snap.

It’s like a cruel, invisible thread inside your knee gives way mid-air, just as you dive for the ball—pure instinct, clean technique, everything perfect until it isn't. You feel the sting, then the burn, and then nothing but the thundering silence in your own head as you lie face-down on the turf at Ciutat Esportiva.

You don’t remember exactly how it happened—just the blur of movement, the instinctive dive. You’re not someone who stays down. Everyone knows that. You’ve built your reputation on getting up—every time. But not today. Not this time.

The ball had already ricocheted off your outstretched glove—another one for the highlight reel, people would say later—but the pain hit like a freight train a second too late. You collapsed onto the turf, clutching your leg, the world around you folding inward as your teammates rushed toward you, their faces folding into that uneasy blend of worry and disbelief.

You’re the wall. The unbreakable. The best goalkeeper in the world, they’ve been saying for the past two seasons. The one who doesn’t go down unless it’s to make the save of the century. But here you are, on the pitch, clutching your knee like it’s trying to escape your body.

You already know it’s bad.

You hear the training come to a stop around you, the footsteps pounding the pitch as your teammates rush over, voices blurring together in a wave of panic.

“Don’t move. Stay down.”

“Shit—call the physio. Now.”

And then, cutting through the noise, her voice—low and tight, but steady.

“Mi amor. Look at me. Look at me.”

You open your eyes, and Aitana’s kneeling beside you, her hand trembling against your cheek. There’s panic behind her eyes, but she’s holding it in for you, for now. You don’t have the strength to say anything, so you just grip her wrist, as tight as you can.

You don’t need to say it. She already knows.

The physios do their tests—rotation, pressure, reflex—and your stomach sinks further with every nod exchanged above your head. They don’t say it aloud yet, but you hear the words anyway. Ligament. Tear. Surgery. Months.

The season is at its most delicate stage. Champions League semifinals ahead. The title race in Liga F is tighter than it’s been in years. You were supposed to be the one keeping the fortress sealed, pushing the team to the finish line. Instead, you're in the back of a van on the way to the hospital, replaying the moment on loop.

Later that night, Aitana doesn’t knock when she enters your apartment. She never does. She's wearing her Barça hoodie, hair tied back, eyes set. You’re lying on the couch, leg propped up in a brace, TV on but volume muted. She doesn’t say anything right away—just drops her keys on the counter and walks over.

She kneels by you, hands gently resting on your thigh. You can’t meet her eyes. You're not ready for comfort yet, not from her. Not when everything feels like it's slipping.

“I’m done for the season,” you say flatly, voice low, like it might hurt less that way.

She exhales, slow and steady, and rests her forehead on your knee, careful not to jostle it.

“We don’t know that yet,” she whispers.

But you do. You know your body, and you know this kind of pain. You’ve seen it happen to others. You’ve comforted teammates through it. And now it’s your turn to be the one left behind.

“It’s not just the games, Aitana,” you say, finally looking down at her. “It’s everything. This was supposed to be our year. We were building something.”

She shifts, climbs up beside you, curling into your good side. Her hand finds yours.

“It still is our year,” she says. “Just not the way you planned.”

You want to believe her. You want to believe that you’ll come back stronger, sharper, and that the team will hold together without you in goal. But it feels like a lie to even imagine it right now. And yet… her voice, calm and certain, anchors you in place.

The days blur after that.

Scans confirm what you already knew—ACL tear, some MCL damage, minimum six months out. You hear the doctor say it, and you nod, stone-faced. You don't cry in front of them. Not here. You wait. The club puts out a statement. Fans flood your socials with love. Teammates check in. 

Back home, you finally break. You sit on the sofa in your living room, knee wrapped in ice, painkillers barely dulling the ache, and your chest tight with helplessness. You don't even hear her come in.

She kneels in front of you slowly, hands gentle as if you might shatter with a single touch.

“Say something,” she whispers.

You swallow the lump in your throat, shaking your head. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not okay, Ait.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing her fingers through your hair. “You don’t have to be.”

“I was supposed to be there. For the Champions League. For the league. I was supposed to be the wall.”

“You are,” she says firmly. “You still are.”

You laugh bitterly, blinking hard. “Not from the stands.”

Her face twists at that. She leans forward and rests her forehead against yours.

“Do you know how many times I’ve looked over my shoulder and felt calm just knowing you were behind me? That doesn’t go away because your knee gave out. You didn’t stop being who you are.”

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. All you can manage is, “I’m scared.”

And that breaks her.

She wraps her arms around you and holds you tight, burying her face into your neck. “Me too,” she whispers. “But we’ll get through it. I promise you that.”

Your apartment becomes a constant carousel of fruit baskets, well wishes, and visits.

Aitana is always there, though. Through the physio appointments, the surgery prep, the quiet nights when the pain meds wear off and everything aches. She learns how to tape your leg better than the medical staff. She brings you match footage and sits with you through every minute, pausing to explain tactics, tweaking things with you like you’ll be back on the pitch next week.

You catch her crying once, in the kitchen, when she thinks you’re asleep. She's scared, too. Not just for the team, but for you. For the mental storm you’re walking through. But she doesn’t crumble when she’s beside you. She holds it together so you don’t have to.

Time becomes something strange—measured in rehab milestones instead of goals and clean sheets. You learn to celebrate the small wins. Flexing your knee five degrees more than the day before. Standing without crutches. Taking your first step.

But the hardest part isn’t the injury—it’s watching from the sidelines. Watching Cata take your place between the posts, watching the team grind out results, sometimes shaky, sometimes brilliant. Watching Aitana lead the team onto the field while you sit in the box, heart pounding, legs restless, soul aching. Watching Aitana shine brighter than ever, pulling strings from midfield like the magician she is.

You’re proud of her. Of course you are. But there’s a sharpness in your chest every time the anthem plays and you’re not there, every time she looks for you in the stands instead of on the pitch. 

One night, you’re icing your knee after a brutal session. She walks in wearing your hoodie, fresh from the game, still glowing from the win. You try to fake a smile for her, but she sees right through it.

She drops her bag and walks over, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

“You didn’t watch the second half, did you?”

You look away. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it just… hurts. Sitting there and knowing I should’ve been out there. Knowing I could’ve helped. And now I’m just... nothing.”

She sits beside you in silence for a long beat. Then, quietly: “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you ever say you’re nothing.”

You flinch. She’s never raised her voice at you before—not like this. But there’s something in her eyes, raw and burning.

“You’re the heartbeat of this team,” she says. “You think it’s just about saves and clean sheets? It’s how you talk to us. How you lead. The way you fight. Even broken, you make us believe. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. But it’s not because you’re the best in the world. It’s because you never stop giving, even when you’ve got nothing left.”

Tears blur your vision before you even realise they’re falling. She cups your face gently and kisses you—slow and soft and grounding.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers against your lips. “I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”

You celebrate small wins: flexion, walking without crutches, stairs. One morning, you take your first jog—slow and uneven, but it’s yours—and when you get home, Aitana has tears in her eyes.

“Wait right here,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom.

She comes back holding something behind her back, sheepish smile playing on her lips.

“You weren’t supposed to get this until your first game back,” she says. “But… I couldn’t wait.”

She pulls out a framed photo—one you didn’t even know she had. It’s from a match last season. You, covered in mud, arms spread wide after a last-minute save. She’s running toward you, grinning like the world is ending, and in the background the crowd is on their feet.

You stare at it, throat tight.

“It’s not just a picture,” she says. “It’s a reminder. Of who you are. Who you’ve always been.”

You blink back tears and reach for her. She steps into your arms without hesitation.

“I love you,” you say into her hair.

She squeezes you tighter. “I know,” she murmurs. “And I’ll be right here. Every step. Every session. Every second. Until you’re back where you belong.”

Weeks pass. Then months.

One night, deep into recovery, she finds you sitting on the balcony with your brace off, moonlight painting your skin silver. You’re silent, eyes on the city, leg throbbing after another brutal physio session.

She steps behind you, wraps her arms around your shoulders, and rests her chin on your head.

“You’ll be back,” she says softly.

You don’t answer. But you cover her hands with yours, grounding yourself in her presence. And for the first time in weeks, somehow in that moment, you let yourself believe it. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this season. But someday. This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the start of a new chapter.

You’ll be back. And when you are, she’ll be there waiting. Just like she always has.

When you’re ready to stand on the pitch again—gloves on, heart pounding—she’ll be there, looking over her shoulder, trusting you to catch her if she falls.

Just like always.

And you’ll pick up where you left off—two warriors in blaugrana, building something unstoppable. Together.

[beneathashadytree]

FELINE AFFECTION - XAVIER SHEN X READER

Warnings : Xavier absolutely gives off “I’m terrified of my spouse” vibes here because he has 0 financial responsibility, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : tooth-rotting domestic fluff <3

Word count : 1.0K words

Additional notes : My head is simply full of thoughts of that new pose of Xavier in the Glint photobooth, where he’s cuddling a cat… and the brainrot birthed this. I’m so in love with him.

Tip jar!

Masterlist

“Xavier.”

For a few beats there was no reply, and then a very hesitant, “Yes?” came from the couch they were staring at so intently—and for good reason, really. His innocent expression did not erase the truth of what they were seeing.

“What’s that in your arms?” they very patiently asked, as though the calmer they said it, the more inclined he would be to answer honestly. A futile attempt at coaxing, when Xavier knew better than to ignore the signs of an oncoming scolding.

“Nothing,” he quickly replied, sky blue eyes darting away before they could meet theirs. A very telling sign, if anything; Xavier was weak to them and would always give in with a single piercing glance shooting straight for his heart.

They arched their brow as they set their keys down on the coffee table, before crossing their arms against their chest. “So you’re saying I’m seeing things?”

A trick question. He swallowed thickly, carefully contemplating his answer and then quietly saying, “I didn’t say that.”

“A contradictory claim.” Their expression was cool, but the challenge in their eyes was anything but. “Answer this then, are you holding a kitten right now?”

He stayed silent for a few moments. “Well… no.” Not very convincing—especially not when there really was a pudgy tabby cat swaddled into his soft sweater and lazily swatting at the hem’s loose threads, and his own fingers were busy gently trailing across its head.

A strangled noise left them at the sight and his continued denial. Pinching their nose in exasperation, they shut their eyes for a second. “Care to explain, then?”

“Technically, she’s a little over two years old, so she’s a cat, not a kitten,” he mumbled, half to himself, hoping that they would just drop it. It seemed he wasn’t in the mood to be very upfront today. But he certainly looked like he was in the mood to tickle the pink paws of his new feline friend and boop her twitching little nose.

“Err… lovely,” they strained to keep their voice level and absolutely calm, definitely not freaking out over this… fascinating surprise. “And what’s she doing in our apartment?”

“It’s hers now too.” A bold statement to make, from a man who looked like—were he a cat too, that is—his own whiskers were standing on end. “If anything happens to her I’ll jump.”

“Knowing your luck, you’d survive the fall anyways.” A tired sigh, and then their shoulders were drooping, their fight dissolving all at once. They collapsed onto the couch beside him, and thankfully the cat seemed to be twice as lazy as her new owner was, because she made no indication of having gotten startled, save for a slow blink of her eyes (that was admittedly rather adorable). “Fine, have it your way.”

That sweet smile of his graced his soft features, and for a moment their heart thundered in their chest, reminding them that no matter how much they would try to deny it, they really were weak to anything he wanted—as long as he gave them that smile, of course. “She’s very content like this,” they pointed out as the cat in question yawned, leaning into his finger deftly stroking her forehead.

“I know we’re often on missions, and I didn’t want to risk negligence. So I searched for the lowest maintenance kitty to adopt,” he softly said, voice trailing off at the end and an endearingly tender look in his eyes as he continued to pet her. Glancing up at his beloved, he flushed a little at the amusement on their face. “Sorry. She’s just very fluffy.”

At that they chuckled a little, reveling in the way he let himself get carried away. “It’s fine. I was honestly just worried about precisely that. Pets are a huge responsibility, but she’d be perfectly compatible with us.” They looked down and watched as she stretched her fluffy limbs, before curling back up into Xavier’s chest, a content look on her adorable face and her tail swishing a little in her light sleep. The resemblance finally became clear. “She’s… an awful lot like you.”

“Really?” he mused, a thoughtful expression on his face as he furrowed his eyebrows a little. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Kind of hard to ignore once you see it,” they snorted a little, though they lowered their voice after they saw how the slumbering cat twitched in her sleep at the sound. “You got all the stuff she needs, though?”

“I may or may not have used up this month’s salary at the pet store.” Xavier sheepishly gave them a half-smile, though he didn’t look apologetic in the least at the prospect of having wasted a ludicrous amount of money on things that the soon-to-be-spoilt kitty may never even use.

Seriously, had he always wanted a cat this bad?

Well. There was no use in admonishing him when he seemed so enamored by the ball of fluff in his arms. In fact… maybe a small part of them fell a bit more in love with him seeing him so content with the (admittedly rash) decision he’d made, and perfectly happy with staying cuddled up forever on the couch.

“Did you name her?” they asked, curiosity lacing their words as they peered at her tiny face nuzzled against his chest. “It’s only fair you get the chance to when you brought her in.”

Really, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, now that they thought about it. Cats are rather independent, and they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they’d definitely shower her with unconditional love and all the care that she needs. Kind of hard not to, when she was this sweet-looking and lazy all the time.

Xavier nodded, a small flush on his freckled cheeks. A look akin to pride on his face, he smiled up at his lover, slowly cradling the happily dozing cat, and said—

“Her name’s Meatloaf.”

…

“Absolutely not.”

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[warblogs17282]

Sinsmas is coming out today! So let's quickly discuss what we know about the episode right now.

Vivzie's Bluesky Thread:

Things we learn from this thread:

There will be quite a long wait until the start of season three, but we will have closer releases of episodes, considering that the team wants to commit to a more traditional release. This also has double confirmed that season three has 15 episodes. Season three will also be 'bigger and better'.

We will be getting shorts during the wait until season three, I assume it'll be like last time where we get a short every single month.

And of course, we gotta prepare ourselves to go out with a BANG!

Sam Haft calls the episode 'PACKED!', meaning yet again we're in for a ride and a half, that's for sure.

Yea, all the confirmation I need that Octavia's song is going to absolutely destroy us all emotionally when we hear it, SAM HAFT WHAT DOES THIS MEAN, WHAT DOES THIS MEA-

Brandon's Instagram Story:

Transcript:

"I'm so anxious for the new helluva boss episode to drop. I went back and I've been rereading the script over and over and over and I don't read."

So we also have Brandon fanning the flames of our anxious waiting as well.

Right as I was in the middle of writing this post Vivzie said that she was doing the final checks on the episode, and that she's in constant awe of what the artists at Spindlehorse are capable of.

The sneak peek gif:

We see a sinner at the I.M.P office, and it looks like the entire I.M.P crew is going on a mission somewhere where it appears to be snowing and naturally has all of the Christmas decorations up as well.

Although I will admit, it kinda strikes me as weird that they'd just leave a sinner completely alone within the building, unless, of course, that there is someone else within the building, with the most likely candidate for that being Stolas, but that's just a theory I'm spitballing here. It does also raise the question of 'where the hell is Stolas during this scene anyways?'

Onto the other not-so-new things, it was confirmed by Sallie May's VA that she is appearing this episode. (The 'next month' is supposed to be 'this month', I think she said at a panel after the first short that she'd be appearing again before this year ends.)

The trailer scenes:

This scene where Stolas appears to be getting attacked by someone while Blitz protects him with some kind of sword, with the floor appearing to suggest that this takes place outside of formerly Stolas' palace, said attacker has been commonly theorized to either be Andrealphus or Paimon.

We see a frozen over version of formerly Stolas' palace in the background, considering the events of Mastermind it now appears like Andrealphus is defending the palace against whatever it is that he's looking at, not a hostile takeover that we assumed it would be initially.

We see Octavia during this scene, everything about this shot seems to suggest that Octavia is getting a song of her own this episode, with this further getting backed up by Sam Haft's response to "Sam what heartbreaking song did you write this time."

It's also very likely that the conflict between Stolas and Octavia reaches it's boiling point this episode, considering that Octavia says "You never loved mother and you don't love me. You love him!" at some point during the episode.

Finally, in the helluva 2022 trailer, we see a shot of Andrealphus (I think this is a beta design of him or something), standing in front of what looks like formerly Stolas' palace, with a bunch of what looks like ice in the background, placing this shot after Mastermind, meaning that this shot also takes place sometime during Sinsmas, if this scene wasn't scrapped.

[herhimthem]

KOSA ISNT BEING VOTED TODAY I REPEAT KOSA ISNT BEING VOTED TODAY!!!!

https://www.senate.gov/committees/hearings_meetings.htm

THERE ISNT ANY SENATE MEETING OR HEARING TODAY. PLEASE DO NOT PANIC. WE HAVE UNTIL AFTER MARCH 13TH.

KEEP CALLING YOUR GOVERNORS AND START ORGANIZING!!! START PROTESTING OUTSIDE BUILDINGS, START MARCHING, START FIGHTING IF YOU CAN!!!!!!! AND IF YOU CANT, START SPREADING THE WORD ABIUT THESE THINGS!!!

OH MY GOD WAIT WHAT

IS THIS TRUE?? SOMEONE PLEASE COMMENT OR REBLOG AND LET ME KNOW

────────────

Update #2 - 2/26/2024

edit in case folks don't see the reblog:

Update on this.

I looked at the website and yes, there *is* no mention of any voting on KOSA happening before or past March 13th, March 13th is where the schedule ends. I'm still not sure, so keep digging for more info.

putting the link again so others can examine

U.S. Senate: Hearings & Meetings

────────────

Update #3 - 2/27/2024

ANOTHER another update, somebody relogged this with extra info

I'm gonna start putting dates on these updates so people know what's happening when

────────────

Update #4 - 3/2/2024

So, today I was on Reddit reading about KOSA, and I found this on r/AO3

Here's the Invest in Child Safety Act, it only has five cosponsors compared to KOSA's sixty-three.. wonder why..

Anyways, I was wondering, could steering reps away from KOSA while leading them towards other and SAFER bills help? :P

If these bills really ARE safer, wouldn't it give us a better chance of KOSA not being passed if we gave our Senators and Reps examples of alternative bills they could support?

Like, instead of just saying "DON'T DO THIS!!!" We could say "DON'T DO THIS, but THIS is a better alternative that will keep everyone safe AND actually be helpful."

I have a feeling most of the Democrats supporting this bill have fallen for the "We're protecting the children!!" farse. So, let's not just tell them the problem, but offer a solution! An alternative that will ACTUALLY protect children.

I posted this as it's own thing, but I wanted to add it to this update thread so people are more likely to see it.

Please post this on other sites, on Twitter, TikTok, other Reddit pages, etc. I only ask that you cover-up my username :]

(link to the actual post)

[totallynotslothhh]

SILENT WORDS PT.2

pairing: joost klein x deaf fem!reader

word count: 3,874

warning: the protagonist is deaf, lot of angst, fluff, fighting, crying, lack of communication

description: her emotions mix with his, creating a huge chaos in their relationship. Will they be able to merge their worlds despite the strong and clear contrast between them?

author's note: HERE WE ARE, after my computer tried to sabotage me, I'm still here. My eye decided to get inflamed, I haven't worn contacts in a week, and I honestly just want to AAAAAAA. Anyway, I cried while writing this second and final part, it felt like cutting out my own heart, but that's exactly how I like it 😔 (you do too).

That said, let's pretend twt doesn't exist anymore and enjoy your reading.

big kisses!

(sorry if there are grammatical errors, I tried my best, English is not my first language!!! 🙏)

part.1 part.2

——————————————————————

“answer me, please”

sent today at 10:58 PM

“let me explain everything, you can’t just disappear like this”

sent today at 10:58 PM

“please y/n”

sent today at 10:58 PM

“I’m coming to your place”

sent today at 11:01 PM

missed voice call at 11:17 PM

missed voice call at 11:17 PM

“open up”

sent today at 11:17 PM

“I’m not leaving until you open the door”

sent today at 11:19 PM

“rather than leave you alone, I’ll sleep out here tonight”

sent today at 11:19 PM

missed voice call at 11:22 PM

“let’s talk y/n”

sent today at 11:22 PM

“I’m not leaving anyway”

sent today at 11:22 PM

My phone’s vibrations were driving me crazy. Joost had been flooding me with messages and calls all day.

He had to come to terms with it. I could feel my heart’s arteries burn at the mere thought of talking to him, of facing him, of eventually putting an end to that relationship.

Because that’s what was going to happen.

I had seen it in his eyes, embarrassed and hesitant. I had seen it in the way he moved, shoulders hunched, as if being seen with me brought him some kind of shame. I had seen it in his tight lips. In the scowl he wore.

In how he avoided speaking to me. In how he avoided staying too close.

But what had I done? What did I do wrong?

Was I too emotional? Too trusting?

Had I gone too far imagining a relationship with him? Imagining a thousand futures together after he ended up in my bed almost every day following that first time? After I found him shirtless in my kitchen one morning, making breakfast like he really was my boyfriend?

‘Good morning.’ His eyes, helped by his thick glasses, crinkled into a crescent, making space for a smile that asked -no, begged- for my attention. He was focused on what was in the pan, probably pancakes, though that name was generous for how misshapen they looked.

He wore only soft shorts, falling gently over his thighs. His hair was messy, though clearly pushed into a more “tidy” look, except for a few rebellious strands.

I smiled seeing him like that. I smiled feeling he was mine. That sight was mine, the privilege of experiencing him that way was mine. He was mine.

Or had been. Maybe.

I didn’t sign anything to him, not even a good morning. I just walked over to him and clung to his arm, almost like a sleepy koala.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around his, rubbing my tired face against his warm skin, occasionally nibbling him gently and feeling him shiver slightly. Without opening my eyes, I reached out to signal that I wanted a hug: I placed a hand on his soft stomach, caressing it and sensing more shivers beneath my touch. One of his hands, evidently free from the pan, cupped my cheeks and chin, gently taking hold of my face. His fingers lightly sank into my skin, tilting my head back and lifting it.

Then his lips -lips that had explored every corner of my body, that had been soaked in my taste just the night before- landed on mine. At first it was a simple kiss, but our tongues met immediately, almost prematurely.

We tasted each other, again.

We kissed, deeply.

We claimed each other, as if bound by a thread, a connection, a magnetic field.

I instinctively wrapped my hand around the wrist near my face. He pulled back for a moment just to kiss me again repeatedly, then bit my lower lip. I opened my eyes and pulled away, shaking my head with a soft giggle; one of mine, faint and barely there, but ones he always noticed.

‘I was making breakfast.’ He moved his hand from my face and signed the phrase with both hands. I somehow felt it in my ears, even without my hearing aids. I licked my lips and glanced again at the kitchen counter, made of old wood that always smelled like home.

I frowned, teasing him, when he flipped the pancake with a spatula, revealing its darker side: a sign it was almost burnt. I raised my eyes to his and exaggerated my skeptical expression. He shrugged, showing his teeth in a grin and his chest trembled with laughter.

-a sound I couldn’t hear in that moment, but one that made me smile all the same, that gave me chills.

It felt like my ears actually caught it.

‘Your fault. You’re distracting me’ he signed, gesturing for me to move away. I smiled and shook my head, stepping aside just to grab the dishes and at least help him set the table. I leaned on the table, crossing my bare legs and folding my arms beneath my chest, bare under the shirt I was wearing.

I watched his back, his movements, the slight curve of his hips, interrupted by the waistband of his shorts. I looked at the red marks I had left on his shoulders the night before, the faint muscles in his arms that flexed every time he reached for something on the counter. His neck and head tilted toward the stove. His long legs, tense but still relaxed.

I stared him without noticing, pulling away from the table to wrap myself around him again. I rested my hands back on his stomach, loving the perfect softness there. I closed my eyes and held him tight, pressing the left side of my face to his back, right where his lungs were.

The warmth he radiated made me want to stay there. The feel of his heartbeat, the subtle vibration of his voice gave me a clue.

Was he humming? Probably. The vibration was too steady for it to just be talking.

I let myself be lulled, eyes closed, by the faint sensation against my skin. I could’ve stayed like that for hours.

But I never would again. I’d never hold his warm body again. I’d never again notice the goosebumps that rose on his skin after a caress, after scratching the back of his neck while he was curled up on me, half asleep.

I’d never again feel the sweetness of his lips.

Never again feel the vibrations of his chest against my ear. Never bite his fingers again when he playfully teased me in sign language. Never be enchanted again by his eyes silently tracing the lines of my face.

I’d never again have his presence taking up every corner of my mind. Never again hold his hand in the dark room, never again wake up in the morning from the gentle kisses he left along my skin.

I’d never have him again as my safe place.

But was he ever really a safe place? Do safe places make you feel that ashamed? Do they make you regret your feelings so much?

Do safe places make you feel so unsafe?

“please y/n, I need to see you, it can’t end like this. not after all these years”

sent today at 11:34 PM.

-as if it were my fault-

I couldn’t take it anymore. He was just as stubborn as I was, he would definitely stay outside my place all night, and I had to leave for work in the morning anyway. So what was I supposed to do?

I wiped away a solitary tear that had slid down the damp skin of my flushed cheek out of inertia and got up from the bed, which now felt as hard as stone against the irritated skin of my body.

I didn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to, because I knew I looked like a wreck. I knew my eyes were red and swollen, my lips chapped. I knew I had let myself be consumed by what had happened and I was almost ashamed of myself.

-you endured so much pain before and in the end a guy can break you like this?-

But he wasn’t just any guy. He had really managed to see inside me, to look beyond the appearance of my hearing devices. He had truly captured my heart.

I turned on the living room light and, rubbing my eyes, pressed the button that unlocked the front door of the building. I didn’t move; I checked my phone to see the time.

“11:39 p.m.”

-almost midnight-

I turned off the phone screen, still clutched in my hand, stood on my tiptoes and checked through the peephole. He was definitely coming up the stairs. And in fact, after counting 24 of my heartbeats, the distorted figure of the blond man appeared in front of my door.

I held my breath, and when I saw him reach for his phone -probably to send me yet another message- I stepped back and opened the door.

Our eyes met. His heavy breathing was obvious from the way his chest bulged. His pupils were narrow, his lips slightly parted, his hair arranged in a recurring chaos and his hands were covered by those fingerless gloves he liked to wear so much.

I looked away and let out a sigh, stepping aside so he could come in, letting a trail of his scent flood the entrance of my home.

100, 101, 102, 103…

My heartbeat was racing. I was trying to focus on that when, after closed the door behind him, I saw him turn toward me and search for my gaze.

‘I’m sorry’ he signed with his hands, his shoulders hunched, as if he were ashamed.

-ashamed. the same way he made me feel, and just the thought of it brought a flush to my cheeks again.-

Just that realization made me retreat into myself, my expression turning sullen: I furrowed my brow, pursed my lips, and narrowed my eyes.

‘If you came here to act like a wounded puppy, you can just leave’ I signed, nervously, with the urge to scream in his face.

What would it be like to yell at him? Probably incredibly frustrating, more frustrating than the awareness that I wasn’t even capable of raising my voice. That I didn’t want to.

‘Let me explain’ he looked at me, practically begging with his eyes. He took a step forward, but I stepped back and shifted to the side, still near the door but making it clear he wasn’t to touch me. And he got it, just like he always did.

He watched me, then took a breath.

‘Explain what? Explain why you made me feel like I was wrong? Explain how you didn’t hesitate to look away from me? Explain why suddenly it was like you didn’t even know me?’ I was angry as I signed, I was disappointed, sad. I was overwhelmed. With trembling fingers, I finished the sentence, maybe too quickly, before wiping the tears from my cheeks, forcing myself to stay focused on him.

‘You’re right, y/n, you’re right’

‘But I would’ve talked to you, I would’ve told you that same day’ he finished, closing his eyes and letting out the sigh he had been holding in for what felt like forever. He shifted his weight onto his right leg and I placed my hands on my hips, signaling he had full freedom to continue.

Our arguments weren’t usually like this. They were warmer. What was all this coldness in the unspoken words? What was this fear, this uncertainty? Did it really have to be this hard even with him?

Usually, we teased each other a lot, even during fights. We were both stubborn, always wanting to be right even over the smallest things and in the end it always ended in kissing, sloppily overwhelmed by the desire to shut the other up. As if our mouths really knew how to speak for us, how to make us understand each other.

And it all felt so real, so tangible, that now, even though we were close, it felt like we were light-years apart and I’d have to scream just to be heard by him.

‘I feel strange when I’m with you, I feel-‘ he stopped moving his hands, I wasn’t following anymore anyway.

I looked at the floor and shook my head. It hurt too much… too much. I didn’t want to accept the truth that was slamming into me. I didn’t want to understand the gravity of Joost’s feelings. I didn’t want to accept that he was “breaking up” with me.

I didn’t want to really lose him.

A sob escaped me, tears traced down my cheeks again and my hands immediately rushed to wipe them away. My lower lip trembled, clenched tightly beneath my upper teeth.

He was probably forced to come closer: I wasn’t looking at him, I wasn’t concentrate on him. He had to break the silent pact we had made, the one where he wasn’t supposed to touch me. He brought his hands to my cheeks and lifted my face gently. My face seemed to disappear between his fingers.

‘Look at me’ I read on his lips, but I shook my head, feeling myself shrink even more inside. He kissed my forehead and my heart skipped a beat.

Why did he have to do that?

I felt like the thorns of my own feelings were pressing into the skin of my throat. I didn’t want any kisses, no reassurances, I didn’t want anything from him.

I pushed him away, bracing my hands against his chest, my fingers clenching the soft fabric of his hoodie before letting them slide off, forcing his hands away from my face.

‘I don’t want to lose you either. Why do you think I’m here? To ruin everything? Let me explain’ he signed this time with a kind of urgent gentleness, that soft gaze that maybe fooled me.

-and fooled me it did-

‘I like you, okay? I like you so much it’s scary. Maybe that’s what scared me the most..’

‘..It scared me to realize I wanted to start something real with you’ He paused between phrases. He didn’t even know how to justify himself. By now, the tears rolling down my face felt almost natural. I didn’t even care anymore. They slid along the tracks already carved by their twin sisters. The lucky ones fell off my jawline, while the others were wiped away by the back of my hand.

My hands, those same hands he always wrapped between his to warm them up. According to him, they were like ice cubes.

‘I know I acted badly, but in that moment I needed space. And even now my mind is a mess.. but not because I don’t want anything to do with you’ I saw hope in his eyes, a glimmer that reflected what he was feeling. I hadn’t stepped away from him again. I hadn’t pushed him away.

‘Then why did you act like that? You pushed me away. You made me feel small like an ant’ I signed, swallowing a sob, planting my feet firmly on the ground, no longer caring how he saw me, or even if he heard my sobs. It was a joke. His words, that fake hope, it was all a joke.

‘I didn’t mean to make you feel that wa-‘

‘But you did. You did.’ I interrupted him, signing the words with a new kind of anger.

He looked at me and sighed, rubbing his face with both hands just moments later.

‘Do you see what it’s like to be with you? It’s hard!’ he signed with frustration and didn’t even have the decency to keep eye contact with me. So I tapped his shoulder, drumming my fingers against him to force his eyes back to mine.

‘And why is it hard? Go on, let’s hear it. I already know where this is going, so don’t you dare feed me bullshit.’ My eyes filled with tears I immediately wiped away. I didn’t even let them be born.

He stared at me with a frown on his face. He felt guilty; I could see it. I knew what thought had passed through his mind. I knew it all too well.

‘Y/n…’ he signed my name, tracing his fingertips near his eyes in the shape of a crescent moon. It almost disgusted me to see him sign my name, knowing full well that it didn’t belong to the hearing world, to the world he was part of.

‘Our worlds are so far apart, so different… I make music that you…’ I felt like throwing up. My stomach twisted in a painful knot.

What was he insinuating?

‘You know what your problem is? Do you?’ I moved closer to him, eyebrows drawn together. All I got from him was a sigh and a nearly defeated look.

‘Your problem is that I’m deaf. That you can’t act the same way with me as you would with another girl. You don’t have the tools to handle a real relationship with me… that’s why you’re scared to love me!’ The expressions I gave him probably spoke louder than the words I was signing.

He didn’t even try to deny it, didn’t try to contradict me. I would’ve been fine even if he had called me stupid. I would’ve been fine if he had lost his temper.

‘You have to understand life isn’t like when we were fourteen anymore’ his shoulders dropped as if he had just unloaded the weight of the world onto me. That all too familiar feeling of being wrong settled on me like a label.

‘If the problem is my deafness, then you can just leave.’ I signed, moving toward the door, grabbing the handle, opening it wide and motioning for him to go.

He gently touched my shoulder and lowered his head toward mine but I pulled away. I moved aside, opened the door even wider and looked him straight in the eyes.

Once again, our eyes met -but this time, there wasn’t the surprise of seeing each other after nine years. There was the coldness of finally coming together after nine years and realizing it wasn’t what we dreamed.

There was the weight of my insecurities, the burden of his inadequacy.

I wanted him to insist, to stand his ground like always, to grab my shoulders and kiss me. I wanted to be proven wrong, to know that my deafness wasn’t a problem for the singer I had fallen in love with. I wanted to feel safe with him again.

But instead, he just stood there, looked at me for a few seconds and then walked out. The door closed behind him.

Why couldn’t he picture a future with me?

Why couldn’t he see me by his side? In my head, there were so many futures with him and they stayed there, for a long time.

There was a future where he always woke up before me, rushed out without even having time for coffee.

Another where he was always away, and his house was also mine. A thousand pictures hung on the walls, a calendar with red marked days counting down until he returned from another tour.

One where we had a mortgage, a child, a dog, and a pile of unpaid bills. A home full of affection, full of the desire to be together.

One where he had never lied to me and the magic had never faded. One where my deafness wasn’t a problem, where the space between us wasn’t so defined and empty. One where words truly didn’t matter, didn’t exist, didn’t weigh more than a single gesture.

I didn’t see him again all summer. I avoided the places where I knew I might run into him.

I avoided our café, avoided the grocery store near his house, avoided every street, every alley that could remind me of him.

I didn’t get any more messages. No more calls. I didn’t read any news with his name in it, didn’t smoke on my balcony anymore, didn’t touch his clothes still left in my closet.

I stopped buying the shampoo he loved, the one that left a scent in my hair that he couldn’t stop talking about. I didn’t let my thoughts wander back to him.

I didn’t want to know anything about him. I forced myself not to think about him anymore.

What I didn’t know… was that I was consuming his mind. I didn’t know that on that Monday evening in October, while I was walking home from the station along the edge of the road, like I did every day, seeing me triggered something inside him.

All the possibilities of erasing me from his thoughts went up in smoke.

He pulled over, rolled down the window, and leaned out. I recognized him immediately when our eyes met. My heart started beating again, and my steps slowed, instinctively. He had a crooked little smile on his face, his mustache freshly trimmed, and -had he changed his glasses frame?-

“Let me give you a ride home.” The vibrations of his voice settled into my hearing aids and I hunched my shoulders after reading his lips to make sure I had understood correctly. I buried half my face in the scarf I was wearing and then I got into the car. Without thinking twice.

Was I waiting for him? Maybe.

Was I looking for him? Maybe I hadn’t been waiting for anything else.

His hands ran along my sides, his lips kissed mine like they hadn’t been waiting for anything else in months. I crashed my tongue against his, and I felt his breath merge with mine: stronger, more intense.

I tried to move my hand along the wall I was pressed up against, just to find the light switch. I found it after blindly feeling the cold surface twice. Then I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, fingers sinking into his hair.

He grabbed me by the thighs and lifted me off the floor. My breath caught in my throat and I tried to pull my face back just enough to look him in the eyes.

His pupils locked onto mine, after lingering for a second on my lips, swollen and glistening from the messy kisses we had shared. I tugged gently at his hair with a tenderness I couldn’t even measure. He smiled, showing those bunny front teeth that, in that moment, perfectly fit who he was: turned on and softened.

That night was proof that repressing my feelings hadn’t worked. Ignoring thoughts of him had only made me want him more.

But now what? What would happen next?

How would we handle this? Did I still really love him?

Did he truly want me, like he’d made me believe? Would he still dominate my thoughts? If not my mind, then at least my bed?

I didn’t know. He didn’t either.

The only thing I did know was that seeing him asleep against my breast, arms wrapped around my waist, legs tangled with mine, gave me an extreme feeling of everydayness.

The realization that I had let him back into my life so easily rocked me gently to sleep.

He was a drug too strong to withstand withdrawal from.

[nitewrighter]

Snow White and the Fae Co-Op

Part 5: An Autonomous Collective

Previous Parts: 1, 2, 3, 4

Masterpost

Of course I know where we're going. Circling around the same block four times and threading through the park twice is part of it. Besides, I'm basically at the best part, which is me and the guys, obviously.

Well, I mean it's not the best part for Snow, because she's running for her life with no fucking idea where to go through a dark forest right now, she is having a bad time, but then the best part is when she meets me and the guys, so I'm going to take a quick aside here to talk about how our operation worked at the time.

Remember how I mentioned earlier that me and my guys kind of got compared to the mob? Well... there's a reason for that. See, there was a time when the balance between human and fae kingdoms was maintained by the possession and trade of magical objects...

...and people. Okay, yeah, but our team wasn't the ones stealing kids and replacing them with goblins. We didn't deal in the exchange of living things, which is why Snow's case was so exceptional for us, and also probably why it took so long for the Queen to find her when she started staying with us. God, I'm getting ahead of myself. My point is, we mined, manufactured, and traded in magical trinkets to help maintain this delicate balance. We weren't the ones who made the mirror, that's way the fuck out of our pay grade--but coins that always turn up heads, or a necklace that makes your fuck-ugly daughter the most eligible bachelorette in the county? That was our wheelhouse.

Let's just start with the team.

So basically the one in charge of everything was Seachnasaigh, the Púca. Tailypo-looking motherfucker, but he had a tongue of silver. He was our primary broker with the Fae Courts, you know, the Deep End. He secured the contracts, talked us out of trouble, kept us abreast of most of the goings-on between the two kingdoms so that we would know where there were demands in the market, and when to keep our heads the fuck down. And if we ever had a hard time crunch for a deadline, the shapeshifting also made him pretty useful in a mine, all things considered.

Then there was Grom Gruach--the Redcap. Mostly just known as 'Grom.' Best at stabbing. He was our security and muscle and helped maintain secure exchanges of goods... and as Seachnasaigh's right hand, kept the rest of us on task because he was pant-shittingly terrifying. Didn't use that muscle for the mine as much as you'd think, though.

The more specialized workforce was split between four gnomes. Dok was an architect and maintained structural integrity of the mine as we progressed further into the mountain, Psellus manned the heavier mining machinery and the cruder smithing work and refining, Appius was our main smith, and Pasha was our enchanter.

...and I guess here is where we get to me.

Don't fucking look at me like that.

"I was the stupid one who could wiggle his ears" is that what you want me to say? Yes, I can wiggle my ears. No, I'm not going to do it now. I mean I was the only beardless one so I guess folks got that right. Kind of. (Not that Seachnasaigh counts all that much since he was covered in hair...)

I guess if I gave the names of all the others that it's only fair I give my own. It's not like the name I can give you is very accurate, anyway. Trolls have a very phonetic language. My name literally translates to "A small round stone being cast into still, deep, water in a vast and empty underground chamber." (Obviously trolls have a lot of rock-based names, you understand). The closest phonetic spelling in human lettering and characters is something like "Dhowop~op~op" and you don't make a normal "p," sound, it's more like you close your lips while pushing them forward and also kind of rounding them out in a reversal of that lip-popping sound, and you have to decrease the volume of your voice on the second and third 'ops.' Like an echo! You don't have to--

Yeah no, you didn't get it.

Just--

No, that wasn't it, either. It's basically a sound effect.

Okay, that was closer, but please, for both our sakes, stop trying. This is why my name got gnomicized to Dhopi.

Anyway, you may have noticed that mining formed the basis of the materials needed for our operation, but not a lot of us were actually miners. Well, you don't need to swing a pickaxe if one member of your group can talk to rocks.

I talked to the rocks. That was my job. I asked the rocks to move in a way that was polite to rocks, and the rocks moved.

Rocks are actually a lot more inclined to change than most think. The younger ones wish they got sprayed out by a volcano, but they won't say "no" to the pickaxe, the drill, or the shovel. They sing of seething heat and rivers of pressure...the hands of a loved one pressed hard against your back. As far as actual magical gems within the hills went, those were like little shards of wrongness. You were doing the mountain a favor if you got them out. Magic was an irritant. Magic longed to make contact with a consciousness, a mind, not the mind of a rock, and magic thrummed against the stone like out-of-sync music. They were about equally as naturally occurring and desirable as zits to the other rocks. I like to think of our crew as something like... Oxpeckers, or your sibling who pops that really painful back zit for you.

Sorry, am I still making sense? It's been a long time since I've been able to talk to someone about any of this.

Oh--Snow! Right, of course, Snow. She had a rough time. I don't know how long she was running through that forest, and neither did she, but the way she told it to me was, she was running, her outfit got torn up by tree branches, she fell into some horrible freezing stagnant water at some point, kept running, then she made it to our house, and her immediate reaction was basically, "Jesus fuck this place is a dump."

Well, at first, it was like, "Oh my god this house is so cute." And then it was like "Jesus fuck this place is a dump."

See, we weren't home at the time, me and the gnomes were at the mine, and Seachnasaigh and Grom were... I assume either schmoozing up a high Fae or breaking someone's kneecaps. I dunno. We usually met up about half a mile from home, though.

And I know what you're thinking: "So Snow could just walk right in? You didn't lock the door?" And it's like, fuck, dude, humans weren't supposed to find our house! Like, ever! In theory a human could look right at our house and just not fucking see it like the way your brain won't register keys you were looking for on a counter! She literally found our house because of Chosen One Bullshit. She changes the world--both human and fae. The rules bend for her, and the rules we made for our house bent for her.

She didn't clean our house before she passed out, by the way. It's kind of weird that that was a thing? Obviously she called us on our shit about our place being a fucking armpit, but she had been running through unfamiliar terrain so long that when she hit our place she passed the fuck out. Beds were beds, even if they were fucking disgusting. And it wasn't like she was less disgusting, on account of being covered in boar's blood and whatever the hell was in that stagnant water.

So like... we get home and we find a passed-out, soggy, muddy teenager with blood-stained skirts sprawled across three of our beds shoved together.

And because Seachnasaigh has to be a cheeky clever bitch about everything he's like "Well, isn't this a development, lads?"

And Grom says, "You want I should stab her?"

But I don't want Grom to stab her because everyone basically treated me like shit, and I thought if there was a new person, they'd have someone else to treat like shit, so I say, "Rocks don't find themselves in the middle of a field for no reason. You don't mess with a big rock in the middle of a field." And they all laugh at me and say, "Classic Dhopi."

...okay I get why it was easy to make me the stupid one, in hindsight.

But then Snow wakes up and she screams, and then like, half of us are screaming, and she starts talking rapidly like, "I'm so sorry, I thought this was a magic orphanage or something."

And Seachnasaigh is like, "A magic what."

And Grom says, "You want I should stab her?" again.

And she says, "Please! I am Snow White of Temperate Kingdom, and I beg thee for shelter from the Queen."

...and that combination of words somehow ends up flipping a switch in all of us because Grom takes off his crusty scabby cap and takes a knee, and Seachnasaigh instantly clasps her pretty white hands in his freaky-ass aye-aye fingers and says, "Sweet Princess, our home is yours. How may we aid you?"

And there's a long pause, and her eyes flick to me, and then to the other guys. Her eyes flick around the room, and her jaw sets. She blinks at Seachnasaigh before saying, "You should do your dishes."

And Seachnasaigh bows his head, saying, "It shall be done, my lady," before barking, "DHOPI! DO THE FOCKING DISHES."

So Snow and me don't get off to a super-great start.

But... she was good at noticing things. She noticed me from that first moment. I know that sounds dumb. I know she just had that effect on people because of what she was, but I'm not bullshitting when I say I was her favorite. I know I was. She never said it because, y'know, you don't want to play favorites when you're depending on the hospitality of a collective. It was in her interest to keep the peace, so I don't take it personally. But I felt it. Every time she sat next to me while mending one of our trousers, every time she invited me along to pick berries and herbs and mushrooms, every time she talked about her stupid useless prince with the dishwater hair and the bump in his nose, I felt a slice of loneliness, of vulnerability in her peeking through. A part of her she didn't share with anyone else. Maybe she saw the same in me. The Princess torn between worlds and a troll a long way from home. There are some weights you don't share until you know they're not a weight for the other person.

Snow carved out her niche with us, she didn't try to push or change our lifestyle too much, but I could tell she gave her little nudges where she could to make things easier, to make us fight less, clean more, eat better... but we changed her, too. She went from that neat red hairnet studded with pearls to tying her hair up in crowns or rams horns of braids threaded through with scarlet ribbon. She got calluses on her palms and scuffs on the knuckles of her pretty white hands. She could hike up her skirts and swing a pickaxe, though honestly she made a bigger difference at the house, swinging a hoe. She made a little garden for us, and all she had to do was sing, and the cabbages would be huge and lush and green, and the carrots would be sugar-sweet. She sang to the birds and they would shit on her compost heap for her, can you freakin' imagine?? And... yes, with a little nudge she had us pulling weeds and spreading mulch for her. I'm not too proud to admit that. It felt good to make something grow from the earth, it hit different than just... yanking wrongness out of rocks. And there was yeast bubbling in the kitchen and songs being sung at night and in a matter of weeks our house went from a place you just pass out in to a living thing. A community. A home.

Just like how her poisons just turned into medicines, Snow's cooking just... always turned out good. It was really simple stuff at first, but it got better and better the more she figured out what she was doing. And after every meal we were racing to do the dishes for her. Eventually she did set up her own little apothecary lab just to experiment on slower days when we were all out at the mine. She laughed more. Sang more. Teased and wrinkled her nose. Something about her became... freer. Wilder. Older. It was like the Fae software and the human hardware weren't fighting each other anymore, you know?

Every one of us loved her in our own ways. Seachnasaigh ran circles around the rest of us, but he was an absolute sucker for her. I'd listen to them stay up talking next to the dying embers of the fire, contests of riddles and convoluted stories that ended in puns, and a lot of shit that frankly flew over my head. She made salves for Psellus's hands, and listened patiently to Dok's mutterings as he tried to puzzle through buttress placement, and she backseat drove Appius on jewelry design. Even fucking Grom, who was given to looming, loomed a little warmer when he was escorting her on her little forest foraging trips.

To be honest I never... 'got' Pasha, but Snow seemed to get him? They could just sit in that room full of crystals for hours together, her singing while Pasha played his rebab, and the enchantments came out.. warmer? Stronger? Truer? Seachnasaigh tried to be subtle about it, but with Snow on our team, our products were suddenly a much more hot commodity. Maybe that's why it couldn't last. Maybe that's how the Queen found us, eventually. Maybe Snow was like those magic rocks in the mountains, she couldn't not reach out to those who would make her gifts shine.

We should have kept her safer.

We were fucking idiots.

Oh--! Hey! We're here! Okay, let me talk to the doorman, don't make eye contact with anyone, and keep your voice down, all right? Just keep your head down and I'll get us a seat at the bar. DON'T MAKE FUCKING EYE CONTACT WITH ANYONE. No, I'm fine, you can look at me. No, don't stare at me, keep your fucking head down. Look, shut up, let me talk to the doorman. I'll handle this.