#because i have been in SITUATION after SITUATION after SITUATION

[izzih22]

I feel like we always get Paige spoiling Azzi can we get one where Azzi is spoiling Paige in front of the team

I Just Like When You’re Close

Note: I kinda went of track I think idk😂😂

The locker room was loud, which usually meant Paige was thriving.

She’d just gotten the aux back from KK after a two-day hostage situation, and her playlist was in full obnoxious rotation …Drake, SZA, Marvin, random 2000s throwbacks she refused to explain.

Paige was bouncing around, chirping at everyone, towel around her neck, hoodie slung over one shoulder like a cape. She hit KK with a spin move and a behind-the-back Gatorade pass like it was the fourth quarter of a championship game.

“You’ve been annoying since we walked off the court,” KK groaned.

“Annoying?” Paige gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “You mean radiant. You mean undeniably magnetic.”

“You mean loud,” Ice muttered from her locker.

Paige only grinned wider. “Haters everywhere. I thrive under adversity.”

And then like a well-timed lullaby Azzi walked in.

⸻

She didn’t say a word. Just gave Paige that look the one that said mine without needing a sound and walked over with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, soft as ever.

Paige didn’t stop smiling. She just opened her arms as she sat down.

Azzi climbed into her lap without hesitation.

⸻

“I’m sweaty,” Paige warned, but didn’t try to stop her.

“I don’t care.”

Azzi settled across her thighs like she’d done it a thousand times. Her arms draped around Paige’s neck, face nuzzling into the curve of her shoulder. Paige automatically curled one hand around her waist, the other around the back of her knee.

The room didn’t go quiet no one gasped or teased or made a scene because this wasn’t new.

Azzi in Paige’s lap was like water being wet. It just was.

⸻

“Hi,” Paige whispered, still grinning, voice softer now that it was just for Azzi.

“Hi,” Azzi answered, and kissed her. Once. Twice. Then three times along her cheek and jaw like it was muscle memory.

Paige leaned back slightly, head against the wall behind them, and let it happen. Let Azzi press kisses to her neck, her ear, her temple, all while her fingers slid under the hem of Paige’s hoodie and started rubbing slow, lazy circles on her skin.

“Do you have an off switch today?” Azzi asked, amused.

“Nope,” Paige beamed. “I’m having the best day.”

Azzi kissed her again. “You’re cute.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am,” Azzi said without a hint of shame, then kissed her again.

⸻

Caroline passed by them with a towel over her shoulder. “Are you gonna suffocate her with affection or…?”

“She’ll die happy,” Azzi replied calmly, still kissing the corner of Paige’s mouth.

“I am happy,” Paige added, tugging Azzi a little closer with her arm under her legs. “And if I die, put that on my tombstone. ‘Loved basketball. Loved Azzi Fudd. Died smiling.’”

Azzi laughed, forehead resting against Paige’s. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re in my lap.”

“Exactly where I belong,” Azzi whispered and kissed her again.

⸻

Paige ran her fingers along the back of Azzi’s thigh, half-asleep with how relaxed she was. Which, again, was rare. Paige wasn’t a sitter. She was a doer. Loud, bouncing, everywhere-all-at-once.

But with Azzi?

She was a little quieter. A little calmer. Not because she was less herself, but because she could finally just… be.

⸻

“You’re really doing the most right now,” Ice commented, dropping into the chair across from them with her protein shake.

“She deserves it,” Azzi said, lifting her head only to kiss Paige’s nose. “She always spoils me. I’m just catching up.”

Paige smiled, resting her forehead against Azzi’s again. “You’re so soft it’s stupid.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Paige admitted, dragging her fingers along Azzi’s side. “You’re my favorite blanket.”

Azzi kissed her. “And you’re my favorite everything.”

⸻

The team eventually started clearing out, packing bags, arguing over who forgot to restock the snacks in the players’ lounge again. KK tried to get Paige to move once “C’mon, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” but Paige just groaned and buried her face into Azzi’s shoulder.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Azzi mumbled, still pressing kisses to her cheek between sentences. “Let her be.”

“She’s literally vibrating with energy, and you’re the only thing keeping her from doing cartwheels.”

“I’m doing God’s work.”

⸻

By the time most of the locker room was empty, Paige was fully melted legs sprawled out, hoodie twisted weirdly around her waist, hair damp, but glowing like she was on a beach somewhere instead of a post-practice sweatfest.

Azzi kissed her once more, sweet and slow, and Paige smiled into it.

“Thanks for loving me,” Paige whispered.

Azzi blinked. “Are you kidding?”

Paige just shrugged a little. “You’re all soft and perfect and warm and clingy, and I’m just… me.”

“You’re everything,” Azzi said instantly, firm. “You’re the reason I smile at 6 a.m. You’re the reason I feel safe, and brave, and like I can do anything.”

Paige stared at her, mouth twitching up. “You practicing for your vows or something?”

Azzi kissed her again. “Maybe.”

⸻

They sat there like that tangled up, warm and spoiled and perfectly matched long after the team had gone.

Because Paige could be loud and fearless and unstoppable all day long.

But in moments like this, when it was just Azzi in her lap, kissing her quiet?

She didn’t need to be anything else.

And Azzi?

She loved her exactly like that.

[fiastomatocheek]

ONLY IF IT’S YOU

pair: jack hughes x f!reader | part: 01 02 03 04 05

genre: angst, slow-burn romance, emotional reconciliation, domestic fluff.

warnings: mentions of past infidelity, emotional vulnerability, suggestive content, eventual smut (consensual), bittersweet moments, emotional crying, co-parenting themes, soft family dynamics.

summary: it’s mother’s day, and for once, you decide to let yourself feel like you deserve to be celebrated. jack invites you and lo to dinner, and though you’re hesitant, you agree if only because things have been… change lately. eversince that kiss. eversince you started to see how much jack has changed. tonight, jack brings back everything you once had, flowers, your favorite restaurant, and hope. by the end of the night, after lo is asleep and you and jack are alone, what started with a dinner ends with something more.

fia’s note: okay, so i’ve been thinking about the whole sammy situation and her presence like, the fact that she exists and the role she plays, even if it’s indirectly. i’m not totally sure how to feel about it yet, but i keep circling back to it in my head. her existence just adds this layer of emotional tension that’s hard to ignore, you know?. i guess i’m wondering what your thoughts are. like, do you think her being there whether physically or just in memory affects how things unfold between jack and reader? does it make the angst feel more real, or just more frustrating? i’m torn between appreciating the depth it brings and also wanting to pretend she doesn’t exist at all for the sake of peace. anyway, just curious what you think about her and how you process that part of the story. is she necessary? or just an added ache?

tagging team fia! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | fic discussion

It’s been months since that dinner with Lukey.

Just a simple dinner, not even a date. But the way Jack looked at you that night when you dropped Lo off at his place, he didn’t even try to hide the jealousy. And when you returned later, he asked you to stay.

And then there was the kiss, like he knew he didn’t deserve it, but he also couldn’t live without it.

Since then, you hadn’t talked much about it. There were no dramatic declarations or official reconciliation. But the distance between you and Jack had changed. It was closer now. You didn’t flinch when he touched your hand. He made you tea when you came over and sometimes after she fell asleep you’d sit on his couch and talk for hours and hours.

Mother’s Day wasn’t something you ever celebrated. You never really had time, and honestly, you didn’t think you even deserved it. You were just doing what had to be done. Working hard, trying to keep your life steady for Lo. But eversince that dinner and eversince learning from Luke that Jack hadn’t even looked at another woman since the breakup you found yourself believing maybe, you were allowed to want something called ‘to be love’ again.

So when Jack texted that morning, inviting you to dinner, you hesitated. You weren’t sure if it was a date or just… Jack being Jack. But then you thought about the kiss, the way he still looked at you like you were everything in his life.

You said yes.

In the evening, you took your time getting ready. Not for Jack. Not even for the idea of romance. But for yourself.

You wore a long black bodycon dress, your makeup and hair done just the way you liked it. You needed to feel beautiful for yourself, for the mother you were, for the woman you were finally becoming again.

Lo was just as excited. She twirled in her soft pink dress, her high ponytail bouncing with every spin.

“Mommy, pwetty,”

She whispered when you helped her buckle her shoes.

You smiled. “You’re the prettiest, baby.”

Lo giggles. “You pwetti too.”

You kiss her forehead, feeling your heart tug. “You ready to see Daddy?”

Lo nods eagerly. “Daddy say he have fwowers!”

Just then, a knock sounds at the door. You scoop Lo into your arms and make your way over, heart already skipping.

Jack stood there in a sleek black suit, holding a bouquet of flowers and a small box wrapped in ribbon. He looked at you, then Lo, and the smile that stretched across his face made your knees wobble a little, just a little bit.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, just a little breathless.

“I stopped to pick these up for you.”

You smile, taken aback. “Jack…”

He grins softly and hands them over. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and say thank you, even as Lo squeals,

“Fwowers! Mommy got fwowers!”

Jack remembered, it was one of your favorite place. It was the place he always took you when he came back from road trips, the place you once celebrated your anniversary, the place where you’d cried in a booth and he kissed away every tear.

Lo was seated between you and Jack in a little booster. Her legs swung back and forth, her mouth stuffed with breadsticks, occasionally pointing at random things on the menu and saying,

“Dis one! me wanna try dis, Mommy!”

And Jack, he kept sneaking glances at you.

“So,” you say, sipping from your wine glass,

“What happened with that Rangers game? Looked like it got heated.”

Jack shrugs. “Luke pissed them off. I mostly just backed him up.”

Lo hums with her juice. “Dada go boom!”

Jack chuckles. “Yea, Lo. Daddy went boom.”

Eventually, as the food quiets everyone, you ask him something that’s been sitting on your chest for months.

“Jack… why didn’t you date anyone all these years?”

He blinked. “Why haven’t you?”

He looked at you for a long moment. “Because I screwed everything up. Because I was stupid. Because after what I did, I knew I didn’t deserve someone like you. I didn’t want anyone else. Not then. Not now.”

He tilts his head. “Why didn’t you?”

You hesitate. “I told myself I was too busy with Lo.”

Jack gives you a look.

“That’s not true, though.”

“No,” you admitted, quietly. “It’s not.”

Lo, without any warning, looked up at the two of you with innocent eyes.

“Mommy, Daddy, can I has… brudder?”

You and Jack both in ‘kinda don’t know what to do next’ position.

“A brother?” you asked gently.

“Or… sisser,” she said, nodding.

“I want baby! Wanna share toys.”

“You do?” you ask softly.

Lo nods, swinging her legs. “A baby. Wike me.”

Jack smiles but looks over at you, his eyes soft and unreadable.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.”

By the time Jack parks in front of your place, Lorelei is out cold in her car seat. You glance at her, then at him.

“Wanna stay the night?” you ask softly.

Jack nods. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”

Inside, you tuck Lo into her bed, brushing the hair from her face. When you come out, you find Jack in the entryway, holding one of the framed photos on your hallway table.

It’s the one of you and Lo on her first birthday cake smeared everywhere, your smile wide, hers even wider.

“You look good,” he says, still staring at it.

“You look…like the mom I always imagined she’d have.”

You step closer. “What are you thinking?”

He exhales. “That you’re the best mother I’ve ever known. And the stupidest thing I ever did was not treat you like you were enough.”

He continues, voice quiet.

“There were nights after you left… I told Quinn I didn’t care if I died alone. I told Luke I’d never fall in love again if it wasn’t you. And I told my mom I didn’t deserve to be forgiven.”

Your chest at this moment already cracks open.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” he says, voice almost trembling.

“Because it’s always been you. Even when I couldn’t have you.”

You step into him slowly, your breath caught.

And this time, you… you are the one who kiss him first.

His hands come up to your waist, pulling you in carefully, so careful like he’s scared to ruin you. Your fingers slide into his hair, lips pressing again and again.

When you pull away, your forehead rests against his.

Then he kisses your temple.

You lead him to your room after that kiss with no words spoken, but everything said in the silence between your mouths and the hands that refuse to let go now. You and Jack stand in your doorway, your fingers still tremble a little when they reach for the zipper of your dress, but Jack catches your hand.

“Please let me,” he says gently.

He unzips you slowly, like it’s the first time all over again. Like he knows how delicate it is. The dress slips from your shoulders. He watches you like he’s afraid to breathe too loud and break whatever fragile thing is blooming between you.

When he leans in this time, it’s with more certainty. His lips find yours, long and aching. You can feel it the way he misses you. Still. Even standing this close. It’s like he’s trying to memorize your taste again.

“Are you sure?”

He asks between kisses, his forehead resting against yours, breath heavy but steady.

“Because if we do this, I don’t want it to be another memory I have to miss.”

You nod, eyes shining.

“I’m not ready to say I’m yours again,” you whisper honestly, your voice shaky.

“But I’m not scared to love you anymore.”

[ohtobeleah]

https://www.tumblr.com/ohtobeleah/783404264183693312/i-bet-chameleonreader-gives-abbot-the-biggest

robby wants jack to go on a date while he still is not technically divorced? are the boys that stupid and think that’s gonna fix the problems? dana save the day please.

Masterlist

Please! This was too funny. I 100% agree that Dana would hear about this and just side eye the whole situation.

“Nope, I don’t have time for you today.” She groans in the ambulance bay. The cigarette between her fingers is in its last legs.

“Guess who’s got a date?” It’s the smugness. The ‘I cannot believe I’m the person who gets to tell you this.’ In his voice that scares Dana.

“Can't be you,” She shrugs.

“Nope,” Robby confirms Danas first and only guess before he's spewing up the goss. Robbys hands hold each end of the stethoscope that hangs around his neck as he continues. “The bands back together.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dana nearly chokes. “She did not agree to go on a date with him?”

“Mmhmm, yeah she did.” Robby smirks. Its the shit eating kind. “Breakfast, right now, they are so back.”

But Dana knows. She knows you. This isn't all that its cracked up to be. It can't be. She can't save you from your own self-disruptive tendencies, but she can try avoid it ever happening in the first place...Most of the time.

“I thought I told you not to metal in other people's relationships?” Its the typical scolding Robby is used to. But Dana’s frowning.

“And—I thought I told you that these two are slowly killing each other being separated,” Robby replies like he saved the day.

“No, its killing Jack, because he knows its been hell on earth for that woman to remain sso heavenly after everything he put her through.”

“Hes in therapy.” Robby doesn't have enough daylight to do a deepdive into the complexities that are Jack Abbot. But come on…the guy was actively trying to better himself for you. Surely he's allowed a small amount of grace? Right?

Wrong.

“Big woop, god you doctors give me the shits.” But there's something Dana isn't disclosing. Robby can tell. He can see it in her eyes. There's a secret. An almost forbidden element to her reaction that peaks Robbys interest.

“Dana…what aren't you telling me here? Why is it a bad thing Y/n agreed to breakfast?” There's a moment to of silence that lingers. It's still and foreboding. Robby knows its something serious.

“Sorry,” Its not her place to tell. “HIPA”

[cafeleningrad]

If it's ok, OP, I would like to add a personal anecdote. (If you feel like it's derailing, please let me know, I can delete my addition.)

So, it took many, many years of development but I ceased being a lonely uncool girl. Not in a "fake it till you make it" way but a mix of circumstances, own behaviours and reactions changed.

For one, the circumstances change. The geographical and social environment, especially school and classmates, that did judge me, did not pick me in sports teams, making it difficult to connect with people because personal background and interest were unusual did change.

Second, I sometimes still feel how I don't cease to be "the weird girl" in other environments. Innate habits like derailed rambling, sometimes lacking tact in preferring pragmatism over feelings, and niche interests that are not common are present in new social environments. But what previously did single me out in excluding ways, at some point became what made me myself, and somehow it does connect to others. I mean sure, I did also learn a bit to rail myself in, how to hold small talk, how to properly sort my arguments but in proper shape it turned out I could hold long talks with other people which were fun and engaging for both parties.

I mean, adults are incredibly varied people. Surely none will get along with everyone but one will find their kin. After years of struggling in school, and my first years in university, I did also make friends along the way who kept in contact over years. The thing is, the interest was mutual. The conversations were kept by a constant exchange of messages or if possible meet-ups, sometimes re-connections after pauses. Or it's meeting acquaintances on the street and having a nice chat - it made me realize, whatever little issues I have, even if for formative years caused isolation, people do remember me more kindly than I possibly think of myself.

By, example a former colleague once straight up told me I was weird, not knowing how deeply it struck. However, he did not mean it negatively. For this one comment, he was also the one helping me as often as possible when I needed help, we talk for hours when I drop by at my old work days, and regularly message each other for life updates. What did render me to self-conscious in my childhood, often being the new girl in class needing to double down on new language skills, evaporated because another friend, and him had been in the exact same situation too. They did survive, and we could share this experience of outsider'ness. Exactly my ramblings is something he seeks out because whenever we discuss social issues my dissection is what he wants to receive a clearer picture, even if we don't draw the same conclusions. In his life I might be the weird girl, but this is the weirdo he enjoys being friends with. I met other friends, and new colleagues at my old work place, and they do recall fun anecdotes from the time we worked together. Again, in which I realize that I'm remembered in a fond way.

Which leads me to third: Self interest. Talking about feeling like the "uncool, lonely girl" inevitably comes with using "I". The frequency of self-reference and limitation is unavoidable... however at some point I needed to unlearn to think of myself when interacting with other people. Granted, food service was personally formative, especially after Covid as guest interactions runs on social protocols. Here I did learn small talk, but also what variation of jokes or formality are apt for each group or person.

To say, social interactions at safe emotional distance can be learnt. More so, at some point I entirely got out of my own head, and primarily thought of: "What do the guests need?" And when guests were nice, I came to enjoy a simple friendly chat was enough to mutually create a lovely interaction in a day. I learnt to simply enjoy the company of someone else. Not "how am I perceived?" which is a feeling I only could formerly only shut-off with close friends or overly pompous internet arguments afforded by anonymity (and not having unlearnt the rage bait of social media attention bait yet...) As I first mentioned in how I got to hold long conversations with others, it came in a bit with learning to learn some etiquette which is all about being a bit more mindful of other people. The don't even need to be strict rules, just a little more consideration in interaction is already a start to not set someone off. Or, even if I still struggle to quickly connect with peers in my age, which were especially lonely years at university first, I did still made friendships that now last for years. These same-age group struggles lead me to connect more easily with older colleagues which was also really helpful. My old colleagues are women who were part of the first generation of women to live on their own, lived through much more sexist times at the workplace. The entire feeling of inadequacy is so far beyond them because there were so many external issues to handle that actions and defiance transformed them. And well yeah, at some age the inverted self-dissection really ceases to be of any matter. When we interact they do judge me what I bring to the table, whom I help, what I say in any given moment. To say, whatever I might feel inside, what one does in correspondence to the people around them is telling much more who they are, than whatever self-image I have.

Some people are really great at reading, and influencing people's perception. I'm not.

But the less I think how I want to be perceived, the less I think about an insecure self-image in fear it gets revealed, or discovered, the more I get to enjoy simply being with people. Experienced taught me: Some people like me, some don't, I know what's proper behavior, so I find my people. The more I get out of myself, the more I simply stay curious for other people, what's new in their life, why are some things going good or not so great at the moment, what do they need, is there a fun topic to share?, the less I do feel lonely, because I'm actually connected.

Uncool is such an irrelevant topic in adulthood.

Only immature, and in truth insecure people care about what's cool as adults. Yes it is a dismissive judgement but I tell you, I've had the misfortune to work with enough influencers, celebrities and their entourage during different catering occasions, whatever they try to represent is a constant gambling for social capital, attention which is for worship, translating into sales for redundant products. Sorry, but the self-contortion of behaviours like entitlement by being careless, very noticeable fake nice behaviour just to keep up good social relationships which can be used for collaboration and association. By all what's good on this earth, witnessing these people was an ideal cure. These people who're considered so aspirational, bombarded with attention and advertisement deals are constantly dancing the line between irrelevance and a possible next deal for income. And that's what their perceived aspiration and coolness is all about. I can tell you, whatever I deemed cool as a child, turned out to be extremely vapid and reckless towards other people. The coolest people who don't know how cool they're to me. Their secret lies in not caring about how they're perceived because they're self-assured in how they act about a certain thing. It's their way and nothing else matters. Sometimes it's having cultivated a self-confidence to do something just the way one does considers right.

Sure, a big Harley Davidson bikes aren't something I consider cool by any means. But anyone who deeply enjoys their ride, working on their bike, telling me about who they met and what they saw on their rides is much more in tune with themselves, are open to the world, and much more interesting as a person than someone who drives a Harley to mark what a tough nut they're. The latter are not really themselves because they're a persona build up with material signifiers.

Getting out of myself was one of the toughest developments possible. It is difficult because my superiority-inferiority complex held up my spine for so long in school, dismantling it meant dismantling the pillars of my self-confidence. In fact, dismantling a big chunk of my self perception. That's not to say we never look back inward for self-reflection we should never do that. However... the isolation that previously protected me, was beginning to suffocate me. By realizing how whatever made me feel singled out negatively, either singled me out positively, or simply wasn't relevant anymore, I also needed to change my outlook on other people. If other people's reactions shaped me before, the people who shape me now are different, so I can't think of them as I did with others previously. I don't have to prove them anything, there is no façade necessary to maintain because the more time I spend on others, the less time I have to think about myself - the more my actions towards the people in my life do prove what matters to me, what I indulge in or not, whom I'd like to help or not. At some point I cannot control how other people see me still they do see what I do in the immediate moment. Whatever I might think of myself, how bad, how brave, how awkward, how self-sufficent I consider myself to be... values are only good when put to test, and this is done by interactions with each other. I might think myself as uncool - to a neighbour I'm the one who helped out with cat sitting and groceries when she broke her arm. To a friend I'm the one who listened when they had relationship problems. What I am, is what I am to other people, small things I do, things I tell.

The worst friendships I had were in retrospect those I made because I was lonely, didn't think I could admit that I was struggling because what gave me a sense of superiority in highschool surely didn't apply in work life, and university anymore. By worrying how I didn't want to be lonely, how I wanted draw people to me by a play-acted off-the-cuffness, I remained awkward because I constantly was re-evaluating myself in interactions, wanted to keep the upper hand, but also needed. Well, in the compensation, I was emotionally at my worst. Further, I wasn't developing. The compensation for the uncool, lonely girl, desperately holding onto connections was grasping onto a friendship that did me no good - in fact I was grinding myself to low energy to prove to myself that I am the friend that always cares. It was not about the friend who took certain acts of helping for granted, if not caring primarily about herself, being flippant, dismissive, and self-righteous in order to maintain her self-image as never getting buttered down. Like, the older I get, the more people I meet, the most harmful behavior comes from people who're stuck on creating/maintaining a self image. Newly rich guests who're extra dismissive to staff because they need to mark how they need to care about other people because everyone submits to the money they pay. Guys who got aggressive when they notice that someone is as smart or smarter than they're but thought of themselves as the stiffest fry in the bag - just to give a few examples how self-curation foregoes actual likeability. In our 20s we're pointed towards many directions: Careerwise, we've new as well as many responsibilities, we should be adults, we should've a social life, be a fully-formed person. As we can see on social media we've many templates/archetypes what certain types of fully fledged people should look like, how they should dress, how they should behave, what the people in their life, and their overall life style should look like. But actually many people are just learning how to live on their own, or to earn their own living, gain an entire new input of ideas, impressions, and responsibilities they've to sort out. None is a fully formed person at this age, even if many feel as if they've figured the world out (they've not). So at this age it is much more important to be actually invested in the world, to go out of one's shell, abandon what they previously believed to be universally true. And by that interest in others, rethinking, rediscovering if you actually like or don't like something, figure out what's important to you yourself, you might discover that you're not the person you believed you were.

Maybe who you were was "lonely, uncool girl" as your environment labeled you this way. Maybe can't easily be someone else however, in a different context, experiencing something else, worrying less that who one is could pose a problem, the easier it might become existing without fearing that one is inadequate.

when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever

[the-stars-and-the-tide]

8 comics that have inspired me!!

In honor of actually starting this blog I've drawn 8 characters from clangen or cat comics that inspired me to make my own!! Go check them out if you haven't already!!

the blogs are below the cut because i yap a lot about each lol

Eklunta - @loudclan-clangen - I think Eklunta is an interesting lady even though she's been dead for a while now. I like how she appeared in Siltsplash's mind after the kits were born. I really like how cats are drawn in this comic. They are so round and lovely and there is always so much drama

Wiggity Wacks - @fallenclan - I think it's really impressive how Fallenclan has so many characters yet all of them feel distinct in their own way. There's a reason they would be someone's favorite. I also really like the artstyle of this one!! I drew Wiggity Wacks because that is the silliest name I've ever heard and I also hope he keeps getting into situations. Stay silly Wiggity Wacks <3

Heartflicker - @vespidclan - I think the story of this comic is super interesting and I love how 404 works. She is a silly moth who can do no wrong !! I decided to draw Heartflicker because she is my fav so far. Sure do hope nothing bad happens to her!! (i say in fear)

Snompelt - @splinterclan - I'm really intrigued by the lore and drama of this comic. I also really love the designs of the cats so it was hard to chose who to draw. I'm really excited to see where this one goes!! I drew Snompelt because he's just a silly little guy :3

Suncat - @jumalanpelko - Read through all of this comic in one afternoon, and I haven't been the same since. The colors, shapes, and story are soooo good. Also wdym Suneve is upon us I talked to Her and She said Suncat was going to live a long and healthy life /coping

Rainhaze - @barrenclan - The first Barrenclan video was one of the things that inspired me to make the first version of this comic, back when the story came from clan generator and not clangen. I had a lot of fun following this comic until it ended. I drew Rainhaze because I like cats who do bad things but have their reasons

Condor - @wavesalwayscrash - The art of this comic was a huge inspiration for me, specifically how the backgrounds are drawn. The shading and the colors never fail to amaze me. I drew Condor because I also like cats who just do bad things :3

Candykit - @circus-clangen - I was originally going to draw Ringstar but momma raised a quitter so I drew Candykit instead. Her design is so cute! I really love the way the characters are designed and drawn for this comic. The mystery is really intriguing too I wish I was smart enough to try and solve some of the puzzles lmao

[sharksbitee]

CAUSE IT’S NOT ROMANTIC, I SWEAR! Featuring some of the NRC boys deep in denial!

Who is absolutely in the trenches of teasing from his friends, because what do you mean he’s in love? Adamantly protesting the thought though he’s already chest-deep that is the swamp called unrequited love for you, shaking his head and refusing to admit to any romantic feelings whatsoever, despite the suspiciously fuzzy feeling in his chest every time you’re near - nerves! It’s just nerves!

Who, no, absolutely does not have his head in the clouds! Sure, maybe he’d recently been a little more absent-minded lately (holding hands with you sounded so nice… in a totally platonic way, of course!), maybe he had been snickering to himself (you had just been so cute to stare look at today - in a completely friendly way, haha…), maybe he did flush whenever he met your eyes recently(Weather. It was definitely the weather), but it was fineeeeeeeee. After all, he didn’t see you that way… right?

Who was beginning to think that his feelings may have not been completely entirely platonic anymore, after the dreams that had been plaguing his mind for the past few nights. They all started off normal, with you inviting him out for a date - a friend’s date, obviously, which he had immediately agreed to - and everything seemed to be going well. You laughed at all of his dumb jokes, you had lunch, then dinner with him, then you… kissed him goodbye. But they were just dreams! Totally! Yeah, just dreams totally not representative of his inner wants, of course…

Who was starting to avoid you, because, Oh Seven, his friends were right, he did have a massive crush on you, shit shit shit shit shit, where was he supposed to go from now?

Who is now walking around like a kicked puppy because there was zero chance you’d actually like him back - you’re so… you, and he was just some random lovesick loser. In a school of eligible male suitors who are practically pulled out of a dating sim, he’s nothing more than the bottom of the barrel. :(

Who had accepted his fate and opted for simply being close enough to you to be able to bask in your presence. (And also scaring off potential suitors.) But hey - he’s been your friend for far too long for you to get suspicious anyway, so might as well use this situation to his advantage. ;)

FEATURING…

ACE TRAPPOLA, Deuce Spade, Epel Felmier, IDIA SHROUD, and your favourites! :)

[mercurial-chuckles]

Witless Wednesday Thought

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff | Hot n Spicy Supersolider | Bucky losing his shit | Bucky defending you | Smitten Bucky | Smitten Reader | Language | Mutual Pining | Kissing | Happy Ending | Language | ~1k | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. A/N: I was working on another story when this tiny one sucker-punched my flow of thoughts. I scheduled it for yesterday, but that didn't work out. Anyhoo, here ya go! Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. GIF credits to the OP. Divider made by me. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Part of ♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

Indulge Away!

You'd never seen Bucky so angry, so enraged.

As a matter of fact, you barely saw any other emotion flit his face except impassiveness.

Sweet heavens! He was the most devastatingly handsome man you'd ever seen, too.

Normally, you would admire him inconspicuously, just like you did every day when he walked through your part of the office. But you snapped out of your 'Bucky delirium' for Wyatt's sake, who was currently being throttled by the supersoldier against the shelves.

"You don't call her that," Bucky growled.

Holy Shit! It took you a moment to peel your eyes away from that bulging bicep and clenched jaw to make sense of the situation.

One moment, Wyatt thanked you for resolving the system layout issue, 'I knew I could trust you, dawg!' Wyatt said, and the very next second, you saw Bucky throwing him against the shelves. You didn't even realize Bucky was there. He was so fast it made you question your senses.

Bucky must have misunderstood. As much as he'd adapted, James Buchanan Barnes was still a man rooted in a different era. Modern slang still tripped him, you figured.

"Please," you pleaded hurriedly, unsure how to actually intervene.

Wyatt coughed, stunned, his feet dangling as he struggled in distress.

"Bucky," you said, scared out of your wits. He looked down at you intensely, and you quickly took a small step back when you realized how close you were. As much as you silently pined loved Bucky and had imagined him doing wild things to you with that very same rage on countless occasions, you were, very realistically, intimidated at the moment.

"Please, Bucky," you whispered.

Bucky seemed to snap out of his trance as he blinked, his expression still rigid. He released Wyatt, who stumbled and fell to the floor.

Wyatt crawled away a little. Bucky stepped closer and sneered down at him, "Apologize. Now." He warned.

As much as you enjoyed your friend's sense of humor, Wyatt was so out of his depth sometimes, and you were sure his penchant for saying inappropriate shit would be the end of him. Because after all that just happened, he wouldn't shouldn't have said "Are you serious?"

Wyatt was a personality, alright! You tried your best to look at Wyatt, but Bucky's tall, broad frame blocked your view.

Bucky chuckled darkly, crouching down in front of Wyatt, who was still sprawled on his ass.

"Take a guess. DAWG," Bucky growled.

This shouldn't be funny.

This really shouldn't be turning you on as much as it was.

Wyatt finally seemed to realize the issue.

Fucking finally!

You wanted to explain that what Wyatt said was just an endearment, but the basic functioning of your brain had been fused.

"Look… I didn't mean…" Wyatt started, his gaze shifting to yours, and you must have looked like a stunned animal.

For the love of God, Wyatt! Shut up and say sorry! You thought.

"I'm sorry," Wyatt finally squeaked, trying to push himself off the ground when Bucky leaned further.

Bucky gestured toward you, "Apologize to her," he ordered.

Your heart pounded wildly. You hoped to stay upright and not fall victim to your dancing nerves.

"Sorry," Wyatt muttered, looking at you, and you felt terrified for him too. The poor guy was freaking the fuck out, and all for what, being cool?

"It's alright," you mumbled awkwardly. If not for the very adult feelings currently coursing through your body for the six-foot-something supersoldier, the whole thing might have felt like Wyatt was being scolded for pulling your pigtails on the playground.

When Bucky rose to his full height, you expected him to dash off. But he didn't. He stayed rooted in place, eyes fixed on Wyatt.

Wyatt, however, finally managed to peel himself off the floor, and he bolted in a jiff.

Good for him.

Not so great for you.

You stood there trembling, flushed, and utterly confused.

Bucky slowly turned to you, and the intensity in his gaze caught you off guard. You awkwardly shuffled back, lost your footing, and staggered. He steadied you, metal arm circling your waist and pulling you forward into his chest.

Goodness, Bucky was tall! He was so strong, all muscle, and smelled divine. The urge to nuzzle into his chest made you blush even more. Luckily, a modicum of rationality still prevailed.

But his eyes were so blue and beautiful you couldn't stop looking into them. He didn't avert his gaze either.

Bucky tilted his head and moved closer, studying your face while your brain buzzed and your ears rang.

"You okay?" he asked, his breath warm against your face.

It was totally unfair for a man to look the way he did.

"You with me, doll?"

That nickname in his raspy voice had your lips parting. Reminding yourself to respond, you put some effort into nodding your head a couple of times.

Noticing his eyes shift to your lips, your heart picked up, and you bit on your lower lip, feeling the pulse thrumming in your entire body. His tongue peeked out, quickly proceeding to lick his lower lip.

What was going on? Were you dreaming? But if you were, why did it feel so vivid? You fully expected to wake up on your couch like yesterday, with the TV running in the background.

Bucky slowly stepped back, removing his hand and taking all your sanity with his retreating touch.

"I..." Bucky began, running his fingers over his stubble and licking his lips again. You couldn't help but stare. His lips were so damn pink, and you really, really wanted to kiss him.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Your brain needed rehabilitation from Bucky Barnes.

"Wanna grab a coffee with me?" he asked.

You heard the words coming out of his mouth, you did, but you didn't quite process them. You just kept staring at him.

When you finally noticed the shift in his expression, his face falling and eyes apologetic, you cleared your throat.

"Coffee? With me?" That was a dumb response, but that was what your self-deprecating self came up with.

Bucky nodded, quite expectantly and hopefully.

"Okay," you managed to say, offering a small smile.

Bucky sighed in relief. Then he smiled, all shy and adorable, and you bet you could faint just like that.

Charming bastard! He was gonna kill you with his looks.

"Thank you," he said, grinning wildly. He felt overwhelmingly everywhere around you. Bucky shuffled, rocking on his feet awkwardly before nodding at you curtly.

"Right. Umm…I'll be here at 5:15," he said, and you nodded, though a bit too surprised he knew exactly when you clocked out.

Bucky took a few steps toward the door, and you stared longingly at his retrieving form. He stopped, turned around, and looked at you for a whole minute. His gaze transfixed you. Bucky strutted toward you and pushed you against the wall, both hands cupping your cheeks, making you gasp at the feel of them, at the feel of him.

"Sorry... I just..." he breathed against your lips, giving you a millisecond of space to push him away--you didn't. Instead, you rose on your toes, hands on his chest. Bucky groaned softly, pressed a gentle kiss to your nose, then tilted your face closer and captured your lips, tasting, nipping. The rough stubble scratched your skin sensually.

And somewhere in the corner of your mind, it became clear that Bucky Barnes, an Avenger, had no reason to stroll through the Technical Analysts' floor except for you.

Leave your thoughts if you enjoyed reading it. 💞✨

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

If you'd like to be tagged/removed from my works, please do so here.

[d011zk1ll]

Ok I was in class when I saw this so I made some notes and I'm gonna type it all up while I sit here eating my croissant and drinking my flavoured water.

The impact of ai is nothing short of massive and I collected some information from multiples sources.

Chat GPT has increased electrical usage, which of course has incredibly worrying increases in the emission of carbon dioxide and heavy stress on the electrical grid. With millions using generative ai, it uses large masses of energy, even after the model has been created and developed. Energy outputs from server centers increased from 2,688MW/y at the end of 2022 to 5,341MW/y. This is mostly due to increased usage of AI. Each time someone uses AI to search something, it uses roughly 10x more energy than its search engine counterpart. Google emits 0.0003KWH vs Chat GPT's 0.0029 KWH. The CO² emissions from Google per search is roughly 0.2G whereas chat GPT's is 68g (340x). The daily energy usage is 10.6MWH, and chat GPT uses 5.8x that with 62MWH.

Not only that, the increased demand for AI means more hardware has to be made, transported and cooled. We cannot sustainably keep up the pace. Mass amounts of water are used in cooling centers, which strains local ecosystems water supplies and the water from rural or poorer areas, since it would be cheaper to build them there. This means in 2023, server centers were estimated to be the 11th highest water consumer in the world.

^MIT news & associated links/sources

The impacts of AI have such a large portion of responsibility when it comes to global warming too. This isn't a future problem. It's current, and it's because of the increased emissions we use as humans, and from AI.

Some of the impacts of AI are: Glaciers and ice sheets melting, sea levels rising due to the melting icecaps, the geographical range of plants, animals etc moving and shifting, the increased temperature and heat waves as well as droughts. That's barely anything from the list.

The situation holds high magnitude, some of these changed will be irreversible for hundreds of thousands of years, but we need to stop contributing to this before it becomes COMPLETELY unchangeable.

The US sea levels is expected to be at 6.6ft by 2100, the frequency and intensity of rainfall, storms, hurricanes, droughts and heat waves will skyrocket. Wildfire season will increase in longevity affecting people and nature alike.

The Arctic may become ICE. FREE. the Arctic.

AI, and it's emissions aid heavily towards the sped up process of climate change, and it's ripple effect on humans.

^NASA official website on climate change & associated links/sources

This doesn't even begin to mention the impact it has on writers, artists, animators and basic human functioning. I see people go to chat GPT for the most basic information, and these people will be in charge of important businesses someday.

Does that not scare you.

The frivolous usage of AI is bad for the world, the world we live on, the world we are impacted by.

[exquisink]

a little gift for @ysaefinn since we talked about this b4 (i'm tagging u b/c u were the inspiration for this, sry if it sucks ;; )

CW. geto coming onto reader, this is like three years post hidden inventory ig???, reader can see curses and was part of gojo's cohort, geto fumbling HARD. reader standing up for herself and being a queen

WC. ~3.0K

It’s a timeless cliche to have your beauty rest be interrupted in the middle of the night by an unexpected visitor. You grumble a string of curses and other obscenities that are lewd enough to make a priest blush as you drag yourself down the stairs, in your frumpy Barbie pink sheer pajamas. You’re about to deal one hell of a blow to whatever poor soul decided to put you up to this, and on a night that’s raining so hard that the droplets sound more like small bits of hail pelting on your home and the pavement outside. You try to rub the last of the weariness of your eyes as you stumble toward the front door, sliding it open—

—only to immediately slam it shut in his face, feeling all the blood draining from your body as you ponder over what to do in a situation when a runaway sorcerer convict is standing on your fucking doorstep.

He raps on the door again. Polite as ever. He’s always kind of been like a vampire. Needing to be requested to come over, or to come inside, or to be invited anywhere. 

”Please,” he begs, which makes your eyes shoot wide in shock because he’s not the sort of man to beg or to whine or to sound anything other than haughty and confident and smug. “Please, let’s talk.”

”I have nothing to say to you,” you grumble as you scowl deeply, still struggling to fight the sleepiness. “Get out before I call Gojo.”

Not that it might make much of a difference because you know Satoru is doing everything he can to avoid this very situation. He doesn’t want to bring his old friend in, and a part of you doesn’t want to do that, either, but God fucking dammit you can’t do this right now.

”Please,” he begs again, his tone sounding more and more desperate. Like that might just earn him an Oscar. “I just want to see you.”

”I don’t owe you anything, Suguru!” you sigh in exasperation. “Go. Away!”

”The fact that you still call me Suguru—“

”—means absolutely nothing to me or to you. Leave!” you demand again, stomping your foot against the wooden floor, your patience already wearing thin. You swear you feel a vein snap from the stress of this alone.

He shouts your name. Desperation, once again, evident in his tone. You’re almost tempted to let him inside, but you have been burned the last time you did (or attempted to, more like), so now it’s his turn.

“I’ll have Rainbow Dragon scorch this home down if you don’t let me inside,” he threatens, now his tone shifting into something more familiar, more deadly serious, yet as much as you’re not trying to fan the flames here (quite literally this time), you can’t fight off these knee-jerk reactions either.

”With me inside the house? As if,” you counter, but upon further reflection, you humor him, since he’s already rudely woken you up, swinging the door open to find him drenched head to toe from the downpour, a strike of lightning timed perfectly as you examine his face. His deep indigo eyes, his sharp features. This very figure who you were once helplessly in love with standing right before you after so much time. He’s not wearing his tacky priest getup. That actually looks like one of Gojo’s outfits. He shivers, stepping inside and leaving behind a wet trail.

”You better clean that shit up before you leave,” you mutter before shutting the door behind you. “Now what the hell do you want at this ungodly hour?”

”Ungodly? That’s the opposite of what people usually call me,” Geto teases, and you roll your eyes. 

“Seriously. What the fuck do you want?”

“To catch up. I missed you.”

Now you roll your eyes again, before giving him a once over. He looks like a sad cat, shivering and still in damp clothes. 

“I might still have some of your clothes around here. Give me a minute.”

You brush past him as you gather said items. You feel his eyes on you the entire time, trained like a sniper. You don’t know why in God’s name he wants with you, but you know it isn’t merely to catch up. He might want to add you to his endless list of casualties, because in his new, ideal world, you don’t fit in it. You may have only ever been able to see curses, but that doesn’t make you any less capable of doing something with that ability.

Even if you do require extra tools.

You toss him some spare clothes. Looking at how he is right now, he can probably still fit. He’s lost an absurd amount of weight since you last saw him which was… three years ago, at this point. 

“You can use one of the restrooms down the hall, or—!”

—you cover your eyes as he’s in the middle of pulling his top off. You wait until you think he’s decent enough to stare at again.

”—or change in the middle of the room. Sure. That too.”

”Thank you,” he replies in a low tone, folding Gojo’s clothes and handing them to you. “I’ve been meaning to return those to him, anyhow.”

”So what are you doing here?”

”I just want you to hear me out. It’s all I ask of you.”

”That’s already asking too much of me.”

”Leaving you left a hole in my heart I’ve never been able to fill,” he starts, “But you know, I’ve never truly turned my back on you. I may have the rest of humanity, but not you.”

”And what the hell makes me so special?”

”Everything,” he breathes, approaching you and you stumble backward, flinching as he cups your face. “I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t mean anything to me.”

”Yeah, well, it’s too late for half-ass apologies,” you snap, swatting his hands away which takes him aback. Almost like he’s shocked you are willing to fight back at all, given the kind of girl you had been three years ago—a little too head over heels for your senpai. You’re not her anymore. “I still have half a mind to call Yaga or Satoru.”

”And yet, you’re not,” he purrs, making you grit your teeth from annoyance. Still as petulant and coy as ever, but that doesn’t mean you have to put up with it anymore. Years of dealing with Gojo Satoru has shaped you somewhat. Geto is just a watered down version of him, at best. “Come on. Not even a ‘I miss you too’?”

”No.”

”Damn,” he breathes, drawing closer to you the way he used to when he’d try to snatch a book out of your hand or your phone whenever he wanted to swipe through any of your text threads or photos to make fun of you. “You’re still aren’t kicking me out, so there’s a part of you that does, hm?”

”Don’t flatter yourself,” you clap back, “Or do, I’m not your boss. If you expect anything out of me after cutting contact with all of us cold turkey, then you’re even dumber than I thought.  And I’ve always thought you were pretty damn stupid.”

”Did you now?” He beckons while inspecting his painted fingernails. 

“Yeah. Your whole agenda is pretty damn stupid,” you scoff, “What use do you have coming to me? I’m not your idea of what’s fit for your world, anyway.”

”Quite the contrary, my dear kohai,” he teases with another purr, making shivers crawl all up and down your body like black widows threatening to bite. “If you would just see things the way I do then you would understand that I see so much… potential. In our partnership.”

He reaches out and grabs you by both your elbows, making you drop his damp clothes in the process, yanking you toward him until his lips graze against your temple, barely a kiss.

”You have reminded me that humans don’t need to be sorcerers,” he goes on, “Not necessarily. If we can give them the gift of the sight, then maybe killing them isn’t all that necessary. Of course, not everyone is like us. That’s the unfortunate part.”

”Let go of me,” you demand, but he only tuts at you, dragging his hands up and down your arms. 

“Or what?” He laughs, scooping you up into his arms, with your legs hooked around his waist. Your faces are barely centimeters apart, the tips of your noses almost bumping into each other’s. His breath fans against your skin, and your gaze drops to his lips, ghosting over yours. Teasing. Tempting. But you resist, because you’re not that girl anymore. You’re not his to mess around or to play with or screw with anymore when he’s bored or lonely. He’s always been that kind of guy, even when you were teenagers, and he hasn’t changed. 

“Suguru,” you warn again, but he only draws his face closer to yours. “I’m not going with you. I’m not doing this with you.”

”You don’t mean that,” he whispers, dismissive as ever, nipping onto your lips, making you groan and not in the sexy way he probably wished you would. Out of disgust. It shocks him, but doesn’t deter him because he’s always been so fucking hard-headed and stubborn. 

“Yes, I do. I chose not to interfere with your life because you’ve made your choice. And I’ve made mine years ago,” you explain as you attempt to pull back. “I’m not the girl you’re going to get at the end of your story, Suguru. I’m not the one. I’ve let go, and I haven’t held it against you when you left me behind too.”

”Don’t say that,” he growls out, resting his forehead against yours. “I thought about you every day since I left. I never felt anything negative toward you. But you have to understand my side to what happened–!”

”--I did, and I still do,” you counter, “And it changes nothing. You owe me nothing, and I owe you nothing.”

”If that’s the case,” he challenges, as something dark flashes in his eyes. “Then why did you still let me in?”

”I—“

—he stops you mid-sentence with a heated kiss, eliciting a whine out of you as you feel him push you against the nearest wall, entangling his hands into your hair as his tongue bullies his way past your teeth.

”Stop,” you attempt to command between kisses, but he doesn’t relent like usual, peppering kisses along your jaw and down the crook of your neck. 

“Stop it, Suguru!” you shout again, squirming in his iron hold but God you forgot how much power he truly holds over you and how much stronger he is than the average man. He probably can only contest Satoru in terms of raw strength and martial arts alone.

Which is telling of just how even in power they are and why they were once regarded as the two strongest of their kind. 

You attempt to knee him but he blocks you, shooting a glare at him.

”You’re serious,” he mutters, studying your face, frowning in contempt, but definitely not feeling guilty about trying to take you in the middle of your living room.

”Of course I am,” you shoot back, “I said you’re not welcome. Leave, and I won’t tell anyone you came here today.”

“Well, you say that and I raise you: I’m not budging from this spot until we talk it out and then I can fuck your brains out like I’ve been dying to do since we were teenagers.”

You cast him a judging look, scoffing in disbelief. What is he, still that hormonal teenager like when he left? 

“...Did you think that was going to work?” 

He shrugs. “Did it?”

“No! Your pickup lines are way worse than Satoru’s!” 

“You’re still as difficult as you were when we were in high school!” 

“And you’re still a fucking bonehead with a bone to pick with the higher jujutsu society who are all eager to execute your stupid ass!” 

“The only ‘bone’ I have to pick is boning you senseless!”

“Oh my GOD! Did you seriously think that was going to work, too!?”

“Did it?”

“NO! It was already ineffective the first time!”

“Can you just listen to me instead of continuing this screaming match!?”

“Fine! Fine,” you grumble as you try to ease the tone in your voice. You still can’t help getting heated around him, and not in the way he prefers. He pisses you off. His whole damn existence pisses you off. How dare he have the absolute gall to waltz back into your life after going no contact and turning to the dark side and expect you to be absolutely peachy-keen about it!? 

Then again, Suguru doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s had many brain cells. You remember him back in the day–just as rambunctious as Satoru and often being the instigator of most of the chaos they brought to any scene, driving Yaga up the wall with their bullshit. Sometimes Shoko joins in, which makes you lose a little faith in her regardless of how much respect you have for her (she has outgrown that side of her though, ever since Geto left, naturally)… Utahime is the one out of them all who acted like she had the most sense. Her and Nanami.

But one thing they all have in common (well, Utahime is certainly up for debate): it’s that they all love and miss Geto. Yes, even you do, you can’t deny that you do miss him, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to let him back into your life. You’re not Satoru, and anyone with more than one brain cell can piece together that the two of them still meet up from time to time. Why else is he wearing one of Gojo’s typical outfits? These look brand new and Geto’s already borrowing them and you have seen Gojo sport some of Geto’s older clothes. 

“Why did you leave?” you find yourself asking, your voice shaky and breathy as you fight back tears. “We were all devastated when you left.”

You shield your eyes with your hair, but Geto isn’t having it, holding your face again and making you look him in the eye. 

“I don’t hold any disdain for you, or for anyone else back at Jujutsu Tech. It had nothing to do with any of you,” he swears, “But I just wasn’t happy in that system. It wasn’t fair.”

“We could have worked something out.”

“What could we do? The higher-ups are by the book. They don’t change their laws easily. If I go back, I’ll be executed on the spot for my crimes.”

“Not unless Satoru finds a way around it,” you suggest, “And he can, you know. He’s become an instructor as you already know so that means he has some authority over what happens to you if they catch you.”

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid,” Geto sighs, “And it’s unfair to impose that on Satoru. I told him already that I won’t change my mind, and that he shouldn’t have to follow me.”

“So…” you sigh, casting your gaze elsewhere. “What did you want from me if you came here all of this way? You know you’re not getting in my pants that easily or at all, right? I don’t like you like that anymore.”

“Ouch,” Geto winces, “I don’t want Satoru to follow me for obvious reasons. But I do want you back with me. You don’t have to believe in my work. I just… I just want you back with me.”

You shake your head, resting your hands over his. “You’ve made your choice, Suguru. And I don’t just not agree with you–I abhor everything you stand for now. I don’t want to be by your side. I don’t want to be associated with you or seen with you. I don’t even want these damn clothes that are still in my possession for whatever reason. I’m glad you can take them back. I just want you out of my life. You made it so easy to leave before so what’s holding you back now?”

“You.”

“I’m not that easy.”

“I know,” he whispers, “Won’t stop me from trying. This won’t be the last you’ll hear from me, you know.”

“I still won’t tell anyone I saw you,” you mumble, rubbing the corner of your eyes. “I may not want you anymore, but I sure as hell don’t want you dead, either.”

“So you do feel something for me.”

“Yes. Pity.”

He frowns again.

“Stop denying what you want. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, though. I still do. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen the damn curses around my house.”

“Yet you didn’t seem to mind it.”

“Not like I can do anything about it, but you should be careful where you release those things. Wouldn’t want you getting caught so easily, you know?”

“Aww, it’s nice to know my dear kohai actually cares about me.”

“Don’t get fucking used to it,” you snark back, shoving him away by the chest. “Seriously, get the fuck out of here. Too damn late in the night for this shit and now I have to scrub off these last fifteen minutes of shame.”

“Until we meet again,” Suguru chuckles with a playful wink before obliging to your request. You shake your head to yourself again as you shuffle toward your restroom. You know he’s leaving behind some of his curses again tonight to watch over you or whatever. There’s nothing you can change about that, but you don’t like that he tries to remain a part of your life when you have profusely denied him access to you. He still tries to find a way to bypass that boundary.

But maybe you can’t deny that there’s a little truth behind what he said. He’s read you to absolute filth. If you don’t actually want him in your life anymore, then why do you let him crawl back to you? 

You don’t think you’re being that honest with yourself, but that’s tomorrow’s problem. One thing at a damn time.

[mintyys-blog]

PAMPER HIM | prisoner mark x reader

invincible masterlist

warnings: mention of scars, past injuries, blood

IMAGINE THIS: After noticing how badly Mark neglects his own care, you plan a pampering night just for him—robes, tea, face masks, and a massage to help him finally relax. Touched, he tries to return the favor the next day with a chaotic but heartfelt attempt at breakfast, a glitter-filled bath, and the clumsiest massage ever—proving love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.

You caught him bleeding again.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a thin, shallow slice across the inside of his forearm, like it had brushed against some jagged corner while he was fiddling with the broken heater in the garage. The blood had already crusted when you found him sitting on the floor beside the open panel, sleeves rolled up, face smeared with dust and concentration like he didn’t even feel the sting.

“Mark,” you said, crouching next to him.

He glanced at you. “Hmm?”

“You’re bleeding.”

He blinked. Looked at his arm like it was someone else’s. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I am.”

You grabbed a rag, your lips pressed thin. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t feel it.”

You cleaned it off gently, quietly. He didn’t flinch. He never flinched—not because it didn’t hurt, but because pain was so normal to him now he barely registered it. And when you frowned, he only smiled that tired little smile you hated. The one that looked more like surrender than joy.

“Baby,” he said softly, brushing a kiss against your cheek, “I have a million scars. This tiny one won’t make a difference.”

You stared at him, heart twisting.

And then you stood up and said, “That’s it. We’re having a date night.”

He blinked up at you, confused. “What?”

“No arguments,” you said, already walking away. “Put the tools down, take a shower, and don’t you dare disappear into that basement again. Tonight’s about you.”

He protested. Oh, how he protested. You practically had to drag him from the bathroom with a towel over his body, still grumbling about how this was unnecessary, ridiculous, and probably a trap.

You tossed a plush robe at his chest and said, “Mark, shut up and moisturize.”

He blinked down at the robe. “…It’s soft.”

You nodded. “Yes. Because comfort is not illegal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Feels suspicious.”

You threw a second robe on yourself and pulled your hair up into a messy bun like it was a battle helmet. “You are getting pampered tonight, Grayson. Sit on the couch. Now.”

He sat. Defeated. Curious.

You straddled his lap with a smug smile and a tiny tub of honey oat mask in your hand. “Close your eyes.”

Mark did not. “I feel like you’re about to commit a war crime.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t buy the glitter one.”

You dipped your fingers into the jar and began smearing it across his scarred, weathered cheeks, careful not to touch too close to the embedded goggles or the rough patches. He tolerated it with a scowl, but you could see the tension easing from his jaw.

“It smells… edible,” he muttered.

“It’s not,” you warned.

You pressed cool cucumber slices to his eyelids. He immediately peeled one off, sniffed it, and popped it in his mouth.

“Mark!”

“What? I’m hungry.”

“They were for your eyes!”

He smirked. “They’re in my system. Mission accomplished.”

You gave up and brought him a tray of snacks instead, then plopped down beside him and handed him a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He took it like it was a bomb.

“…This smells like flowers.”

“That’s because it is,” you said. “You’re going to sit there, sip it, and enjoy not being in a freezing death camp for once.”

Mark glanced at the candlelit room, the blanket across his lap, the fact that you’d put on soft jazz in the background.

“…This is the nicest hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

Later, you coaxed him onto the bed—gently, this time, because now that the grumbling had died down, the exhaustion was catching up to him. You dimmed the lights, turned off the music, and rolled up your sleeves.

“Lie down, handsome,” you said, warming oil in your hands. “Time to get all these knots out.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, laying flat on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow. He sighed. “If you find a landmine buried in there, just defuse it and keep going.”

You laughed quietly and straddled his hips, palms pressing into his shoulders with firm, even pressure. He groaned—loudly, shamelessly, like it actually startled him how good it felt.

“Oh god,” he muttered into the pillow. “That’s illegal.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“No, seriously—what the hell. Did you go to a class for this?”

“Nope. Just in love with you,” you said sweetly, working down his spine with slow strokes. “And I happen to know where every knot in this scarred-up body lives.”

He said nothing to that. But the muscles under your hands softened. Slowly. Quietly. Like a surrender he hadn’t realized he was capable of.

You massaged every inch of him. Shoulders, back, thighs, the tight places behind his knees where the tendons always tensed when he had a nightmare. You kissed his neck when he sighed, and his cheek when he muttered, “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

You leaned down, arms wrapped around him, and whispered, “You do. You always did.”

The next morning, you woke up warm.

Which was unusual, considering you were normally the one who woke up first, dragging Mark into the present with slow kisses and sleepy whispers. But today, he beat you to it. And you could tell, because he was gone. His side of the bed was cold. Suspiciously so.

You groaned. “Mark…?”

Then something crashed in the kitchen.

You sat bolt upright.

By the time you padded out of the bedroom, wearing his robe and nothing else, the smell of something burning hit you like a wall.

Mark stood in front of the stove shirtless, barefoot, covered in flour and… was that jam?

“I—uh,” he said, holding up a mangled, aggressively black pancake. “This was supposed to be a gesture.”

You blinked. “A gesture of arson?”

He looked so proud. “It’s heart-shaped.”

“It’s on fire, Mark.”

He turned and saw the smoke curling off the edge, then yelped and flung it into the sink like it bit him.

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.

“I was gonna bring you breakfast in bed,” he muttered, ears turning red. “Also maybe massage your feet. Maybe run a bath. I’m improvising.”

“With napalm?”

“With love,” he grumbled, reaching for a towel to wipe off the jam on his chest. “It’s your turn. I wanted to do what you did for me.”

Despite the burnt offering and minor kitchen war crimes, your heart nearly burst. He was trying. That meant everything.

You agreed to sit. Mark tried again—with supervision—and managed to produce toast, scrambled eggs (a little rubbery, but edible), and lukewarm tea. He carried the tray in with exaggerated care, tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Milady,” he said solemnly, setting it in your lap.

“You’re such a dork,” you beamed, cupping his cheek. “My dork.”

He leaned into your hand like a starved cat and whispered, “Bite me.”

You did. Right on the jaw.

He disappeared into the bathroom next. You heard clinking, splashing, and more than one “shit, shit, shit” before he emerged again, soaked at the hem, grinning.

“I made a bath.”

You raised a brow. “You made a swamp.”

“No, no, it’s good,” he insisted, dragging you to the tub. “I put in those scented things you like.”

You peered inside. Bubbles foamed up aggressively over the rim, the water vaguely pink, glitter swirling in chaotic clumps like a magical potion gone wrong.

“How many bath bombs did you use?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, threw your arms around him, and kissed the corner of his smile. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” he said, absolutely shameless. “I’m a catch.”

You wrapped yourself in towels. He lit candles. He put on music.

Terrible music. Like, saxophone solo levels of cheesy.

You didn’t stop him. He was trying.

Mark pulled you down onto the bed, made you lie on your stomach, and massaged you like he was trying to knead bread. Clumsy, too hard in some spots, too soft in others—but his hands were warm, his touch was reverent, and his voice never stopped murmuring soft things against your spine:

“You deserve this.”

“I want you to feel how much I love you.”

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“You make me feel human again.”

At one point, he pressed a kiss to your back and whispered, “Thank you for giving me something to live for.”

And in that moment, your chest clenched—because he wasn’t just pampering you.

He was healing you, too.

By the end of the night, the two of you were curled up under the covers, sticky with oil and glitter, smelling like bath bombs and burnt toast, tangled together like a knot the universe would never undo.

And as Mark fell asleep beside you, one arm around your waist, you whispered into his hair:

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

He didn’t answer. But the smile on his face told you he heard.

[mariacallous]

So here it is. The habeas explainer you shouldn’t need. Not because you should be well-versed in all things habeas, but because we shouldn’t even need to talk about whether Donald Trump can suspend the rule of law so his administration can more effectively terrorize immigrants. But that’s where we’re at.

On Friday, the staggeringly ghoulish White House deputy chief of staff, Stephen Miller, told a press gaggle that the administration was looking at suspending habeas corpus.

“The Constitution is clear, and that, of course, is the supreme law of the land, that the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus can be suspended at a time of invasion,” he said. “So I would say that’s an action we’re actively looking at.” (Watch below.)

Miller is at least correct that the writ of habeas corpus appears in the Constitution, but he’s wrong about most everything else.

Habeas corpus is Latin for “you have the body.” A detainee or prisoner can challenge their detention by petitioning for a writ of habeas. That requires the government to produce the person before the court so the judge can determine if their imprisonment is unlawful.

Habeas is such a foundational part of Anglo-American law that it well predates the nation’s founding. When England’s King John signed the Magna Carta in 1215, a provision stated that “no man shall be arrested or imprisoned ... except by the lawful judgment of his peers and by the law of the land.” In the United States, the right to habeas appears in the very first Judiciary Act in 1789, giving all federal judges the power to grant the writ.

Everyone has the right to petition for a writ of habeas, including non-citizens. In the immigration context, it can be used to challenge detentions and removals. Indeed, the Trump administration has already argued in court that petitioning for a writ is the only way that detainees can fight their imprisonment.

The problem here, of course, is that the administration doesn’t believe noncitizens are owed any due process. Last month, Trump complained that “we have thousands of people that are ready to go out, and you can't have a trial for all of these people … And a judge can’t say, ‘No, you have to have a trial.’”

Immigrants challenging their removal don’t get trials, a thing Trump would know if he had the least bit of interest in how government works. They have limited rights under an expedited removal process created by Congress. But even that circumscribed process is too much for the White House. Hence Miller’s musings about how the administration is looking into suspending habeas, allowing them to deport people without even the meager protections they currently have. It would strip the courts of any power to order an immigrant’s release.

The Constitution allows habeas to be suspended only in “cases of rebellion or invasion the public safety may require it.” It has only been suspended four times. It was suspended for the whole country during the Civil War. The remaining three times, the suspension applied only to specific locations. During Reconstruction, it was suspended in multiple counties in South Carolina that were under siege from the Ku Klux Klan. In 1905 it was suspended in part of the Philippines during an insurrection there. Finally, after Pearl Harbor was bombed, habeas was suspended in Hawaii.

You’ll notice that each of those situations was actually a rebellion or invasion. But now, the administration is contemplating suspending habeas based on its nonsense theory that America has been invaded by Tren de Aragua, a Venezuelan gang they allege is acting in concert with the administration of Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro.

[adieutristana]

was i just a fool? jinx x fem!reader

i want to do more songfics and i’ve been on a fleetwood mac kick lately so…! here’s some angst

inspired by ‘silver springs’ by fleetwood mac

summary; after her attack on the council, jinx decides it’s best to break up. it’s been months, and she can’t move on.

characters included; jinx

tags/warnings; angst, hurt no comfort, break-up/post break-up, takes place beginning of s2, mentions of poor mental health, mentions of alcohol but no drinking, r works at the last drop, dual pov (kinda), jinx spiraling

men dni.

jinx feels like her heart might just leap out of her chest, right through her throat.

she's stood in front of your apartment, twiddling your thumbs and trembling. the previous week had been nothing short of chaotic- with her kidnapping her sister and sister's girlfriend, accidentally killing silco, and blowing up piltover's councilroom.

you knew, of course you did. you were the first person jinx ran to afterward, because she trusted you, and you've been the one constant in her life. with shaking limbs and hot tears running down her face, she'd collapsed onto your lap in a fit of shaky sobs.

"i'm sorry- i, oh gods, i'm so sorry..."

"shh, shh," you'd whispered, rubbing soothing circles into your girlfriend's lower back. were you confused, conflicted? of course. jinx had just done an objectively terrible thing, killed someone- probably multiple someones in just one night, but part of you could understand why she did it.

she was overwhelmed. she felt hurt, betrayed. discovering that your sister is dating an enforcer after her history with enforcers, being as volatile as jinx is and feeling rejected by vi over and over again. being actively manipulated by silco. if you were in her situation, you might've done the same.

"you're not mad at me, are you?'' she'd sniffled, looking at you through tears. to which you only placed a kiss on her damp forehead. "please don't be mad at me. please. not you."

"i'm a little confused, but no, i'm not mad."

every word and touch from you made jinx positively melt, and she never knew what she'd done to deserve this kind of kindness. you could see her lash out, hallucinate, try to hurt herself, hurt others- do some of the most monstrous acts possible, but you still found it in yourself to be gentle with her, and love her. she's never seen that in the cards for herself.

but it's that goodness you have in you that kills jinx. because she's convinced herself after that attack that somehow, she's going to make your life worse. she might hurt you. she might accidentally put you in danger. and even if none of that happens, you just deserve someone better than her. someone who has a stable head on their shoulders, and can provide you comfort. that same sweet and gentle love that you give her, despite her best efforts to be what you need.

she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, but slowly raises a fist to knock at your door. knock, knock, knock- and then silence. it's only fifteen seconds maximum before the door swings open, but it might as well be forever.

"oh, hey, babe," you hum, a light smile tugging at the corners of your lips. you clearly weren't expecting her, but she figured this wasn't the kind of visit she'd want you to plan for. "i, uh.. didn't know you were coming. do you wanna come in? i could get you water, or i've got some juice-"

"no, thanks," she interjects, her voice trembling. this doesn't go unnoticed by you, though- and your brows are immediately furrowed.

"hey... what's going on?"

so much, she wants to say. i feel like shit, i don't know what my purpose is, i've already got several warrants out for my arrest, and i just killed the only father figure i have left. i don't know what to do with myself, i'm barely sleeping, i'm barely eating.

"i think we should break up," is what comes out instead.

the color drains from your face almost immediately, and oh, does jinx hate the sight. looking at you right now might be one of the hardest things she's ever done, but..

"huh?" your voice is small, shaky. this is the last thing you'd expected, clearly. things were going so well, you reassured her after everything, what's the problem?

"i think we should... break up," she repeats. "i'm not good for you. you deserve somebody who is."

your first instinct is to reach out in an attempt to pull jinx into your arms, but she flinches away and shakes her head. her throat bobs as she swallows nervously, and takes a step back.

"jinx.. of course you're good for me," you whisper, almost taking on a pleading tone. "you make me so happy. you're loving, you're smart, you're funny, i feel like i can forget everything else when we're together. you're perfect for me."

"but i'm not," and her voice is getting a bit more aggressive, the same way you've seen her get when people lie to her, and you can't help but wonder if she thinks you're lying to her. even though you never would. "i'm not a good person. i've done horrible things. killed people, destroyed people's lives. you know that, and you're- you're still here, for some damn reason."

"i'm here because i love you," you whisper, voice breaking midway through. your eyes are filling with tears, the thought of your girlfriend leaving is unbearable. "i love you. you've only ever been good to me, and i know you've done things, but i see you, jinx. not for what you show others, but for who you are."

jinx just swallows back bitter tears, and steps back. once, then twice.

"i'm sorry," she whispers, her voice trembling. "i love you too. i'm doing this because i love you."

another moment, and she's gone.

you're not sure what to do in that instance- scream? cry? bolt down the apartment complex's hallways in hopes to find her and beg her to stay? but you don't do any of that, you only stand in the same spot, your gaze fixed on where your girlfriend- no, your ex, stood just a minute ago.

✧.*

jinx hasn't left her hideout in days.

she wants to, she knows that she should, logically. fresh air would serve her good, even if what zaun has barely qualifies as 'fresh.' she could go outside, blow song things up, get some spray paint and cause mayhem in piltover. anything to get her mind off of things, but she can't.

all that she's able to do is lay in her cot and stare, her only company her own thoughts. she hasn't cried once since she left, though maybe she wishes she could. it'd be better than constant deafening silence and not being able to move from one spot. the image of your face when she uttered those words- 'i think we should break up,' haunts her like no other.

she's dealt with a lot in this life. death, war, destruction. but the expression she saw that day, like she had ripped out your heart and stomped on it, breaks her. she made you feel like that. she did that to you.

so she'll try not to love you, even though it kills her inside. she'll try to put you out of her memory and pretend nothing happened, or that you're in the distant past at best.

she's bullshitting herself, and she knows it. but there's no better way to cope. and for the first time since that day, she feels tears welling in her eyes, hot and wet and- oh gods, they won't stop. she's trembling all of a sudden, her breath coming to her in ragged gasps.

it feels as though the world is closing in on her, a weight on jinx's chest that's absolutely crushing. you're gone. it hits her all at once, like she hasn't spent the past few days without you, but maybe part of her was hoping you'd come knocking.

but you didn't.

you're gone, and it's all her doing. you, the one who loved her fearlessly and desperately. stupid, failure, fuck-up, she tells herself.

✧.*

all you've done is cry. you've cried and cried until you thought you might drown yourself in it, having to change your pillowcase at least once each evening. after everything you'd given jinx, why? you were the happiest version of yourself when you were her girlfriend.

her love was always unconventional, sure. but it was unabashed and fierce. the way that she loved you was all-consuming, like you could drown in it. the harder you fell for her at the beginning, the more it felt like the air was being sucked from your lungs- but you never wanted to rise above water. not for a second.

and now you've cried until you can't anymore. the most difficult part of all this might've been having to delete the countless photos of you both in your camera roll. ones where she's pressing her lips to your cheek, smiling with her arms wrapped around your waist, on your back after she insisted you carry her because 'it'll be fun.' the worst are the live photos, which you can't bear to replay.

but still, you have a life to lead. you have to pay rent somehow, so you drag your heels to work every day, mindlessly greeting customers. bussing tables, switching roles, taking orders, making the occasional drink or two. you did actually like this job at some point; decent pay, good coworkers, the only downside was shitty hours and having to deal with drunk customers. now, you're going through the motions. whatever will make ends meet.

clock in, do your tasks, clock out. walk back to your shitty apartment, take a shower, stand under the hot water until you can't bear it, then step out, get dressed, and go to bed. rinse, recycle, repeat.

you're beautiful, that much has always been clear. you're not exactly sought after, but there's the occasional comment- like when you're scrubbing a wine glass, trying not to think about losing the love of your life-

"hey, bartender," a woman calls from the side bar, and you immediately set down the glass, approaching the counter.

"anything i can do for you?" you ask, though less enthusiastic than you normally would. a young woman, probably around your age. she doesn't look too out of it, so this should be a relatively easy interaction.

"uh, yeah," she chuckles, leaning forward on her elbows. "a bottle of bacardi light please, and... your number."

a beat of silence- the woman is objectively pretty, she seems forward enough. she isn't drunk out of her mind like a lot of other customers on a friday night, she seems genuinely interested, but could she love you like jinx did?

nobody could.

"i'll get you that drink," you reply, trying to put on a polite smile. "but i like to keep that information private."

for all jinx knows, you could be chatting up some girl in a club right now. maybe you're at dinner with a woman right now, laughing over lit candles and red wine. another woman's lips on yours, the place where hers were for so long.

and this hypothetical woman- could you love her? is she pretty? she doesn't want to know.

✧.*

it's been a month and a half now, but jinx hasn't been able to throw away any of your gifts, or any of the things you left at her hideout.

they stare at her from her workbench, from under her bed, mocking her. reminding her of what she once had, but let go of and has no chance of getting back. she thought letting you go would make things better, she could eventually forget you and move on, but she's starting to realize that might never happen.

because of something she did, she left behind the best thing she ever had. even though you promised to stick by her side through absolutely everything. it was supposed to be you and jinx against the world, but now it feels as if you're a world away.

she shifts on the workbench, trying to focus on the task at hand. focus, jinx. focus. she's just reworking pow pow, giving it some upgrades, but she's already burned her fingertips more times than she'd like to admit... and forgot to turn on the blowtorch, and almost tripped over wires, and used the wrong screwdriver heads. truth is, the girl's mind is anywhere but on her work.

"oh, fuck me," she grumbles, slamming the tool down. her body trembles with each move she makes.

her mind is on your scent, your lips, the way your laughter made her heart contract, the sound of you saying her name. damn it, damn it all.

the more she thinks, though, it becomes apparent that she's grateful. below all of the self-loathing, she's glad she got to love you, even if she had to go and fuck it up. it's worth it, because she got to know your warmth for a time, and she wishes so badly that could be enough.

a card she used to open and read any time she felt down glares at her from the workbench, one you'd made for your six month anniversary.

"jinx,

it's been half a year with you. can you believe it? it feels like it's been so much shorter, because i always have so much fun with you. i don't think you realize how happy you make me, or how much i love you. i plan to spend the rest of our anniversaries showing you, though. happy six months ♡

-your trinket"

she hasn't opened it since, and now, the way it seems to shake her by the shoulders and scream "you had one shot," and "she must've already moved on." she can't help the yell that erupts from her chest, or the way she hastily sweeps everything off the workbench.

"fuck you, fuck you! shut up! i did what i had to!"

✧.*

it isn't often that jinx finds herself at the last drop these days. knowing that you're one of the top-performing bartenders has steered her away. while she used to come sit at the counter during your shifts, chatting away while you kept rounds of less-than-nutritious bar food coming, she steers clear now.

no matter how enticing the thought is, or how much she misses the place her childhood self once called a sanctuary, she doesn't go in.

except today, she can't help herself, it's a visceral need. she misses the run-down booths and idle chatter with 'chuck,' and she misses you.

despite the girl doing everything in her power to distract herself from the feeling and her love, she's found herself powerless. she's always been powerless when it comes to you.

the heavy doors swing open, and the smell of liquor is immediate. happy hour has just passed, but the troves of customers remain. laughter and chatter overlap to a sort of informal symphony, one she used to be comforted by.

jinx knows the place like the back of her hand now, and retreats to a middle booth. the drink menus are already laid out, but she isn't interested in any of that. she doesn't want a quick buzz or even some overpriced heated-up food, she just wants to be there. maybe catch a glance of your face. just one would be enough.

she's close enough to the bar, but not close enough to draw attention to herself. hopefully.

a host- a new hire, presumably, approaches the girl's table and quickly eyes her. "anything for you today?"

"...no, not today."

a packed saturday night probably wasn't the best way to clear her head, or even get to see you, now that she realizes the bar is full and you're likely going to be backed up on orders all shift. but at this point, where she knows she was just a damn fool for letting you go, she's desperate.

her appetite is gone and she hasn't been able to create things the way she used to. she needs you so desperately. every second she's spent away from you has felt like her body being slowly ripped in half. she'd follow you to the ends of runeterra if she meant she'd get a glimpse of your beauty once more. if you could hear the sound of her voice begging for you to let her just love you again.

then she hears it, the all too familiar ring of your laughter. jinx's head whips in the direction of the sound and she sees you conversing with a colleague, your arm raised like you're pouring a drink. she can't tell exactly, not with all of the patrons gathered around.

but you look happy. genuinely happy. she doesn't know how much you've cried over her or the fact you had to restrain yourself from calling her that morning, only that you're enjoying yourself. without her.

that sound that she used to hear every night at her place, now just a distant noise in a bar. though the second she sees your gaze turn toward her side of the seating area, she retreats back into the booth. don't get caught, jinx. she can't see you. she doesn't want to see you.

is this all the satisfaction she'll be able to get, watching you from your workplace while you move on with your life? seeing your face from rooms apart and pictures instead of holding it, kissing it? it's absolute torture, but there's no way she'll have any more than this.

she hears it again, a clear rustle of laughter followed by, "oh, you- stop! thieram's gonna kick our asses for that!"

it's clear as day, and it hurts. twists in her stomach. if only she could hear her name in that voice one more time, if only, if only, if only.

she'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved her.

[marley-manson]

My Hawkeye take boiled down to its fundamental core is that everything fandom is inclined to interpret as low self esteem and/or self loathing is actually just love and emotional openness and intensity.

I’m actually pretty adamant about Hawkeye specifically not having major personal issues pre-war - self-esteem problems, self-loathing, major insecurities, that kind of thing - because I think that serves the themes of the story best (particularly in the first half of the show, but even throughout the rest to an extent). I think Hawkeye is supposed to be a self-actualized dude who has his shit together, who’s been thrown into a fucked up situation, and it’s that situation that causes his problems, not any major issues he had pre-war.

Hawkeye has insomnia because of the war, Hawkeye has nightmares because of the war, Hawkeye has a manic breakdown because of the war, Hawkeye is specifically heavily affected by the war because he’s “the sanest man” Sidney knows, as he says in Hawk’s Nightmare. It’s important to the satire of the first half of the show that Hawkeye is an emotionally healthy person in a situation that destroys emotionally healthy people, and it’s important to the anti-war message throughout that Hawkeye’s problems come mainly from the war-zone setting rather than his own issues.

Honestly I can only think of two scenes across 11 seasons that imply that Hawkeye has intrinsic insecurities that can’t be better explained as Hawkeye’s emotionally expressive and loving nature (incidentally Bless You Hawkeye, another obvious contender, is very blatantly about love which is why I don’t mention it): Show Biz and Who Knew, and both those Hawkeye plots essentially contradict the themes of the earlier show and exist specifically to problematize the womanizing of earlier years. I don’t think they hold weight when put against the earlier show, where Hawkeye’s womanizing was portrayed as both a reason to like Hawkeye, and a reasonable reaction to being thrown into a war zone.

And if some fans enjoy taking stuff like, eg, Hawkeye’s guilt in Fallen Idol as evidence of insecurities and guilt issues and intrinsic self-loathing, that’s their perogative and maybe it makes more sense based on what they get out of the rest of the show and the themes they prioritize, but for me it makes more sense given the themes of the show as a whole and for Hawkeye’s role within the show to take it as a very reasonable emotional reaction anyone might have when their friend gets shot after they gave him some well-meaning advice, rather than evidence of deep-seated issues - another instance of the war taking its toll on Hawkeye because he’s in touch with his feelings and not repressed.

Or another common example is Hawkeye getting upset about people leaving without saying goodbye - or his dad hiding someone's illness from him and preventing him from saying goodbye. I think that's indicative of his need to express his love and his emotions and not Abandonment Issues. He's perfectly capable of letting people go when they can talk for five minutes first (eg Love and War, GFA, even The More I See You where he put up more of a fight for a minute), and it's pretty normal to be upset when someone disappears without a word. If anything, Hawkeye's reactions to BJ and Trapper doing it are pretty even-keeled imo.

There’s also another element I enjoy which is more present in the early seasons but still holds true over the course of the show - Hawkeye’s emasculation as portrayed as a virtue. I think it’s also important to the vibes that Hawkeye is the most likeable person on the show, the most admirable, the dude you should want to be most like, and he’s very pointedly the antithesis of american military masculinity. Imo adding self-loathing and self-esteem issues to that also undermines the vibes I enjoy by making him a more typical type of self-depricatingly effeminate comedic character, and the show did enough undermining of it in the later seasons that I don’t want to add more lol.

Basically for me, to interpret Hawkeye as having big detrimental Issues and being fucked up in whatever ways pre-war detracts from my favourite themes of the show rather than serving those themes, so I prefer another explanation for many of those moments - the aforementioned love/emotional openness, or, often in other cases, just taking what Hawkeye says in its intended jokey way. And I do think this is what the writers usually intended, give or take some messy writing in the last few seasons.

[filibusterfrog]

I’ve been thinking about rescuing/adopting a parrot that needs rehoming when I get to the right place in my life to accommodate everything they would need. I've been curious about your experiences with Monty/Eclectus parrots in general and would love to know what your thoughts are about their husbandry if you have the time!

hello!! i do have thoughts on this, i go more in depth on some of my other posts in the '#monty tag' but ill pop some bulletpoints for you under the readmore

pros of ekkies:

-sweet, smart, loving birds as far as everyone seems to report, to me monty is my special boy and i love him more than anything

-are fairly quiet compared to other birds of similar size

-they telegraph what theyre about to do and move slowly so its easy to tell when theyre about to bite or if they need to otherwise be removed from a situation. other medium to large parrots are faster and less predictable ESPECIALLY cockatoos

- may be a pro or a con but they probably dont live as long as a cockatoo or a macaw. supposedly in captivity theyre expected to live to 30 or 40, which means you get plenty of time with them in your life but you wont be burdening anyone who would have to inherit them after you shuffle off this mortal coil

-monty is an excellent talker, though that probably depends on the individual

cons:

-all birds but medium/large birds especially demand a lot of attention. you need to train them set up foraging toys and play with them daily or near to daily

-ekkies subsist best on fresh veg and fruit, (though you can supplement with pellets) so their food costs will be higher

-ekkies have a higher rate of plucking than just about every other type of bird kept as pets. i think african greys may be tied with them for biggest pluckers. even if youre doing everything as right as you can your bird may still pluck because of any number of reasons and it really hurts to see your little guy go through it

-exotic vet bills

-ekkies on the whole do not really like to be scritched though some individuals do. theyre still cuddly in their own way

-bc of the aforementioned fresh diet they have big wet poos and youve gotta be ok to clean that. its water soluble but the smell can Linger

-they are very messy eaters (cute but also sweet potato residue is hard to clean)

theres probably way more, give the tag a geez and have a consider. i love monty, would not rec an ekkie if you do not love to spend time with weird little guys who love you soso much but will do everything in their power to make your life just a little bit harder in a cheeky fun way but also a screaming and crying way

[seewetter]

The only point of contention for me would be -- to use the cleaning metaphor -- what if people intentionally come into your kitchen after you've cleaned and revert all your progress? And what if you've identified the cause?

Cleaning the kitchen anyway can be good for your soul, I suppose.

But all too often people will do the immediate improvements without asking how to make them both lasting and sufficiently supported by responsible people so that if the improvements are flawed they can be reverted but if the improvements are good nobody can tamper with them.

Actually, I really dislike the kitchen metaphor, because it only acknowledges *you* (or *me*) and not the role of everyone involved. The "dirt" isn't accidental, it was dirtied on purpose. The people that did so are referring to the dirt as "cleaning". Some are uninformed, some are malicious...and some have been warned against our cleaning efforts, told that we are utterly evil, malicious and manipulative and they don't trust even the most harmless cleaning job you can imagine. They don't trust ideas outside their circle openly, their trust in others has been systematically undermined. Every act of kindness or cruelty further deepens their sense that manipulation or evil is at work. In the kitchen metaphor, this is just another type of dirt to chip away at -- the people involved are no longer people, their misguided cleaning efforts are no longer expressible through the metaphor because all they are is passive "dirt", at best their activity could be expressed as "dust collecting in a corner" or "mold growing" or something.

I'm not trying to critique the mindset of hope or the desire to fix even small problems even when all is bleak. The mindset can be helpful. It usually is. It is far better to do anything than to freeze and wallow in misery. It is definitely good to look for any opportunity to help -- and whenever you feel able to, to seize those opportunities.

What bothers me is instead that talking about cleaning a kitchen just doesn't capture the situation.

Let's think about the types of knowledge/power and how they are distributed.

Are you struggling with a disability? With a health issue? With a mental illness? Does neurodivergence present challenges? Does being fat present challenges? Or are you nearing old age and your body and/or mind aren't what they used to be? Perhaps you are a child and your body and mind are (sometimes rightly, but sometimes wrongly) judged to be incapable or overly capable. All these people ultimately don't struggle from non-descript "dirt", they struggle with judgments made about the health and capability of their bodies. The elderly, fat, neurodivergent and mentally ill all deal with doctors, diagnoses, etc. There's people that view all these issues separately, as different piles of dirt ("sanism", "ageism", "sizeism" etc) but technically, whether your deformity gets you called ugly or your health issues aren't taken seriously, it all revolves around health and ideas about the healthy body.

And we can see these kinds of parallels with other issues, too.

--- Tangent (skip if disinterested) ---

Movements for digital privacy share some peculiar overlap with movements against prisons and police brutality and the state, because the privacy movements deal with surveillance -- and surveillance isn't just "dirt", it's how governments aim to control their citizens (of course economic actors also try and control people, but states seem more interested in this).

Conversations about race and racism revolve around place and belonging, around origin, around "outsiders", real and imagined. For example, Islamophobia is racist because it takes cultural differences and uses them to attack people. When the bigots tell a Navajo woman to "go back to your country", the idea of place that racism relies on is on full, awkward display.

And then there's the conversations queer folks and women share in common about gender. The nuclear family and it's "family values", there are connections that can be drawn here. Here also we have the rights of sex workers, the conversations around kinks and "weird" sex, the things that are perceived as threats to the reproduction of society.

Then there's environmental issues, which can be radically different from each other, but also share a lot in common.

And economic issues, of course.

--- END Tangent ---

And when we look at these roughly six fields of knowledge, we realize that they aren't just dirt.

You can't understand racism's history without understanding that slavery was a business, that colonialism was "good for the economy", that taking people's homes and resources is something that involves goods changing hands and is intensely economic. You can't understand environmental damage until you understand that the mess industry causes is so monumental that the small mess I'd like you to start cleaning ...has to do with the small steps to fix the pollution the economy causes, not your own personal pollution. Health care costs money and the expectation of what healthy looks like is tied to making people money. Everything the state does, from evictions to arresting protesters to spying on you, is motivated, in part, by corporate lobbying, by "the interests of the state" (which are interests in goods, economic growth, and in protecting wealth). The idea of the reproduction of society along specific lines is the only exception here...but even there we discover that the biggest dirt in our gender kitchen are economic barriers that entrench conservative attitudes.

So I really really doubt that There is no "THIS is the MOST IMPORTANT part." is good advice for the 21st century.

Our kitchen has a dirt-flinging machine in the center of the room. And the machine has people maintaining it, convincing kitchen cleaners to stop cleaning dirt or to keep cleaning dirt but ignore the machine. Or to focus on the dirt they can clean and maybe some day a miracle will happen and the machine will be dealt with.

The idea that all problems are equal makes me think progressives just have no genuine idea of how to fix dirt.

A wise girl once said that classism will disappear if poverty is gone -- and I think that this is a good way of thinking about dirt. There is dirt you will regret having cleaned because you were going to throw out the entire stovetop anyway. If you can identify these MOST IMPORTANT parts of life and make little efforts to improve them, you will live with far fewer regrets. There are so many ways to end up wasting ones time with cleaning. Politics that becomes overly personal often just makes you judgmental and punitive. Politics that becomes overly focused on crises often makes you short-sighted and narrowly focused. I can't guide you through to the perfect way of improving the world in one Tumblr post (and there likely is no perfect way) but don't say there aren't more or less important changes, because there are.

Like...the whole idea of using the word "radical" is to talk about the roots of problems. You needn't want violence or be involved in mega-changes to see the value of addressing mostly these elephants in the room. Because trust me, an elephant in your kitchen is probably important to try and let out. And how do we eat the elephant? One bite at a time.

Daily reminder that we do not actually live in a dystopian movie put the apocalypse down and back away slowly. You know when your cleaning a room and you pull everything out of it's draws to sort through it and you're like "what the fuck have I done I'm never going to be able to tidy all of this" I think that's the stage we're at in the world. Thanks to social media we've pulled out all the messed up shit from the cupboards of the world, it was always there but now we can see it and we're going to have to sort it all out we made this mess and we can fix it. Falling to the floor sobbing will not clean a crusty room. A group of people working systematically (preferably with music in the background) will.

[torglives]

on pangi and abandonment

awhile ago, on stream, lukey threw around the words commitment issues when talking about tr pangkey. it is more likely than not that he was talking about his own character, but a lot of the audience assumed he was taking a shot at pangi. which is very… hmm! not in a bad way, i think it just goes to show how easy it is to misinterpret his actions if you aren't clocked into the way he navigates his relationships with people.

he obviously has issues, but with his attachments they stem more from (i'd argue entirely from) his deep-rooted fear of abandonment rather than commitment.

pangi is passionately committed to people. this has never been something he's tried to hide or keep secret. it's something that cc pili mentioned during an on-stream ooc conversation about pangili/pangkey (watch that whole conversation, actually. he's nailed pangi's character very well. and his own obviously but that's a given. i love pili) -- "there is you who, i feel like you have separation anxiety to some degree. i feel like you're very "it's this person, or nothing." ... kind of like a ride or die situation." -- he brings up also, why this was such a point of contention between pangili1, because they had very different attachment styles, with mocha tending to lean towards avoidant attachment.

in the clip linked, a chatter says "abandonment issues hmm i wonder why (lifesteal)"-- and that's the perfect segway for me to drag ls pangi back into the spotlight. yay! i've said this before, but lifesteal and pangi's relationships on the server/throughout its history are probably one of the most important keys to really understanding him. on lifesteal, pangi has never truly been anyone's first choice. he devotes himself to people, to causes, but no matter how hard he'll ride or die for those things, it is never reciprocated. at his core, he is very lonely. he's not wanted in the way he wants to be wanted, but gives it his all anyway. it always ends the same way, he always ends up the same way: alone. quite literally abandoned.

of course this translates into the realm, and pangi finally finds someone who, to him, is what he's been looking for--his ride or die. his person, as much as he is theirs--in pili. it's pili or nothing, and this is the first time it's been mutual, so he plays it by ear. he lets it grow into co-dependancy willingly, because to be wanted is everything he's been looking for. but pangi is no stranger to abandonment, and during their first crisis, when pili says 'i don't trust you anymore,' pangi shuts down. he tries re-working over that open wound that pili left in his (VERY BRIEF) absence, because it's how he's learned to adapt. they, of course, come back together. and then pili dies, brutally, in front of him, with clown in mind. in february, after mocha died, i wrote this in an (outdated) (so i won’t link it) thought post:

pangi, as a character, is unable to linger. he feels the need to jump from thing to thing, never giving himself the proper time to sit and process. when his worst fear is proven, when he is shown that he isn't wanted or needed somewhere--he shuts down the part of himself that was trying to be wanted and needed. his way of 'staying on top of it all' is just adding another layer. he buries it under something new, and tries to forget about it and barrel onto the next thing. it never works.

which applies here too. i think it says everything i could even say. pili dies, and pangi is once again alone. despite his commitment, despite pili’s, it wasn’t enough.

and then ros and aimsey come along, and they’re kind to him--they get stuck in the null together, and nobody else can understand that outside the three of them. they both say things like "it’s us against the world," and "the three of us," and this works for awhile. pangi has people he can devote himself to, but this time it’s different, because there’s a disconnect--there’s a part of pangi that they don’t understand, the parts that more or less belonged to pili. pangi gives his all, but more importantly, his trust, but he’s never been great with words, and there’s no intrinsic understanding of violence like he’s used to, so it causes fallout. pili and pangi shared a similar mindset, that’s part of what made them work so well. for pangi, pili had aspects of home. ros and aimsey, despite how much they care, don’t understand that culture. ros breaks his trust, once, and to him, that’s abandonment. that’s always been a tell-tale sign of it. that’s betrayal, so pangi refuses to linger. he kills at the ball, takes the brunt of their anger, and leaves, because someone must leave. someone always must leave, so he does.

aimsey finds him a few days after, and says: "why did you think we hated you? it’s not like you do one thing that makes us upset and suddenly you’re the worst person in the world." -- but honestly, that’s all pangi knows. it’s all, or it’s nothing.

he still cares about them, so much, but it has put a permanent strain on their relationship, on his trust for them, because they don’t understand each other in the same way. he cannot be truly devoted to them, because he has been shown that they are not truly devoted to him. and that’s not their fault, not at all, it’s simply a gap in understanding. it’s something that pangi doesn’t understand about them, or them about pangi.

what’s that quote? "if you give me the slightest hint of abandonment and withdrawal, i would outdo you."

i could go into detail about the intricacies with his relationship with lukey too, but if you compare them to the points i’ve listed i’m sure you can draw the conclusions yourself--why they work so well, aligning in areas that have been missing.

people are very familiar with his hate, because it burns bright and is unavoidable. people are less familiar with his love, just as passionate, because it is easier to overlook, it’s less common. he is undoubtably devoted to those he hates and those he loves, and is consumed by how he feels for both of them. he will always commit, but is terrified at the slightest taste of being left behind, of being a second choice. of not meaning to others what they mean to him. again. it’s all, or it’s nothing.