#but actually i don't want to write anything!

[lavenderprose]

At some point, for some reason, Rook had misinterpreted the term 'letters'.

Perhaps it was because Bellara had said it so breathlessly--though Bellara says lots of things breathlessly, given she speaks at about the speed of magic itself. Perhaps it was the smile she'd used when she said 'the Professor'. But Bellara smiles most of the time. In the end it doesn't matter how it happened. The result was the same: Rook heard Bellara talk about these letters, this necromancer she was writing to, and figured they were passing love letters. Odd, very lingo-heavy love letters that contained a lot of side conversation about magical artifacts and the stability of the Veil, but love letters nonetheless.

Rook meets Emmrich and hears him call Bellara 'dear' and knows it must be true. Rook also meets Emmrich and wants to climb him like a tree, but she's always been into that kind of academic, willowy, never-met-the-sun kind of look. Necromancers. Rook's always been into necromancers. She is one. It's pretty normal.

"You must be excited to finally meet him in person," Rook says to Bellara while they're following Emmrich through the Shrouded Halls. Emmrich extols the wonder of life and death in between completely demolishing Venatori in a way that feels bone-shatteringly powerful.

"Oh yeah," Bellara says, and grins. "Arlathan is pretty far from Nevarra, so I didn't think we'd ever actually meet, but it's pretty cool that we did! Professor Emmrich is really knowledgeable, not just about the Fade, but music and art and--"

"Hmm neat!" Rook says, instead of Alright girl keep it in your pants because she actually really likes Bellara and she can't blame her. Emmrich Volkarin is six-foot-three, hazel-eyed and has a voice like candlelit red wine. He'd be a dream come true for any young mage with a little too much to say and a few too many nights alone in their recent past.

Of which there are two in the room.

Anyway.

It's not a big deal. The others don't really seem fussed over the fact that Bellara has brought her sneaky link into the fold and Emmrich is bonkers capable, so it doesn't really matter whether or not he's sourced from some horny letters. He also comes highly recommended from the Mourn Watch, and that's enough for Rook.

They keep things pretty subtle too. Rook never sees them kiss or even really touch, and Bellara seems too busy with the archive spirit to do much other than tinker with it outside of missions. Emmrich always seems to have something to be doing as well. If anything, he seems to spend more time with Rook than Bellara--and this is the source of the issue.

The spark of attraction in the Necropolis grows to nothing short of a blazing inferno. Emmrich invites Rook to the Memorial Gardens, performs the rituals with her, calls her recitation of the rites masterful. He takes her arm in the crook of his own as they walk the paths. He finds her in the kitchen in the evenings and sits next to her, legs crossed in that neat and proper way, and she sits there and lets the heat of his thigh burn into hers until she has to get up and go find something to occupy her hands. He does everything short of lay his jacket over puddles for her like some prince in a storybook--though even that, she wouldn't put past him. She sees him staring at her during a soaking downpour in Minrathous one time, but it's always raining in Minrathous.

Jealousy is an insidious emotion that the Mourn Watch warns against specifically. It will make a monster of the most benevolent, if it takes hold. Rook struggles not to let it. This gets harder and harder, the more time she spends in Emmrich's company and the more he seeks her out. He'll say, "I'm so pleased to have a fellow Watcher to talk to, Rook," and she'll smile and pretend she isn't actively resisting the urge to stare at his lips. He'll say, "I am continually impressed by your keen skills of observation, my dear" and she'll only be capable of nodding because she's trying to clear a daydream from her head. Something about him and one of the geothermal underground pools in the Necropolis and a mysteriously disappearing set of clothing. He'll say, "I find myself continually waiting for the next time we'll have one of our chats, Rook--they're becoming something I find great comfort in," and Rook won't even hear what he's saying, because she's trying so hard to shove him, the concept of him, into a little box in her head labeled Bellara's--Do Not Touch.

It gets a little ridiculous. She stops taking them on missions together, because the sound of them chattering on about Fade harmonics behind her makes her want to absolutely chew glass. On the off chance she sees one of them come out of the other's room, which does not happen very often at all but has, on a handful of occasions, she'll turn herself around and sit herself down on Solas' stupid fuck-ugly green meditation couch until she feels a little less like her head is going to pop off. One time, she falls asleep while doing this and has to deal with a particularly weird conversation with Solas where she's too keyed up to do much more than grunt along to his typical long-winded pontification and he ends the conversation with something along the lines of, "Perhaps you should reexamine some details of your situation that you have taken as fact. You may find them not so."

"Could you just say something that's not buried under five layers of innuendo," Rook thinks, and unfortunately also says out loud, because she's not actually allowed to think just in her head in these Solas-dreams. He scowls at her and rolls his eyes. They're both doing the Fade-space equivalent of blowing raspberries at each other by the time she wakes up.

It all comes to a head in Arlathan, because they've camped with the Veil Jumpers for the night and Rook needs to ask Bellara a question. She thinks nothing of whipping open the flap to Bellara's tent, because Bellara is almost always awake until the stars have been overhead for hours and Emmrich--who was obliged to come along, just this once, because they're in Arlathan specifically for haunting-related reasons--is visible across the camp, wiggling carrots through the bars of Gus the Nug's cage. There is a small, tender smile on his face as he listens to the nug snort and whuffle. Rook suddenly remembers the story about the pig he used to hug as a kid, and then her heart jumps a little, and--

Well, anyway, there shouldn't be a reason not to let herself into Bellara's tent.

There is, in fact, a reason not to let herself into Bellara's tent.

That reason is named Irelin, whose body Rook now knows about in much more expansive detail than she did a few minutes ago. Bellara's too, though most of that was covered by--well, by Irelin.

"Maker!" they all three scream in unison, and Rook all but sommersaults back out of the tent.

"Sorry," she yells through the flap. "Sor--sorry, I didn't--"

"It's fiiine," Bellara yells back. Her head pokes through after a minute. Her hair is down and disappears somewhere back inside the tent. She looks like an almost completely different person with it framing her face like that. "Hey, um--you could, like...knock next time? I mean, I know you can't really knock on a tent--"

"Everything alright over here?" Emmrich has appeared, and Rook's tongue seems to grow three sizes in her mouth.

Oh shit! is all her brain will supply, so she doesn't really respond. She thinks she's willing enough to respect Girl Code, such as it is, that she won't tell Emmrich about the whole Irelin thing. Because maybe that's how their relationship works, or maybe Emmrich already knows, or maybe it's none of her business--

Or maybe something really weird is happening, because Bellara looks at Emmrich and her expression does nothing but get a little more annoyed, and she sighs, "It's fine. No worries, Professor. Just, could you guys--y'know, privacy?"

Then Irelin makes a noise from inside the tent, and it's pretty clear at that point what's just happened, but Emmrich just blushes a little and says, "Ah," and then wraps his hand around Rook's arm and leads her away, back towards the cage with Gus.

"Okay," Rook says, as Gus sniffs her boot on the off chance it contains carrots. "That was weird."

"I fear there are bound to be clashes when multiple cultures blend, my dear," Emmrich tells her, a low murmur directly into her ear. "We in Nevarra, especially amongst the Mourn Watch, are slightly more--shall we say, open? Don't take it personally that Bellara withheld the information of her liaison with Irelin. I don't think it was done maliciously."

"No, I mean--why aren't you--upset?"

Emmrich's brows furrow. "Whyever would I be upset? I'm hardly a prude, Rook. These are difficult times, and any small piece of comfort one can find should be readily taken. A tent in the middle of a busy camp is an...interesting location, but I understand our dear Bellara has history with Irelin, and should the object of my affections be willing--"

"No, no, I mean--you're not--are you okay with this? You and Bellara have some kind of..." Rook scrambles about for an accurate word. "Agreement? About this kind of stuff?"

Emmrich's eyebrows do an odd, fluttery sort of thing that reminds Rook of a puppet she once saw being manipulated by a group of playful wisps. Sort of like his face is trying to show half a dozen emotions at once.

"Why on earth would Bellara and I have ever spoken about her sex life," he says flatly, and far more bluntly than Rook is used to him being. Heat floods her body as she realizes that she has, somewhere along the way, wildly misunderstood something.

"I," says Rook, "have made a mistake."

"Rook," he says, with a voice like he's trying to diffuse a spell primed to explode, "Darling. If you thought Bellara and I were involved, would you mind enlightening me exactly as to...what you think my intentions were when I took you to the Memorial Gardens."

Rook wonders if Gus the nug could be persuaded to eat her whole.

"Enrichment?" she mutters.

"Enrichment," Emmrich sighs under his breath.

There is a long, gravid beat of silence.

"That clearing we passed earlier," Rook mumbles under her breath, once the world is done tilting on its axis. "Looked enriching."

"Quite," Emmrich says promptly. He grabs her by the hand and only grins a little when she releases a frantic, giddy giggle as he pulls her away from the camp.

[archangeldyke-all]

hii idk if you’re still writing the cowboy sevika fics but i’m actually obsessed with them you have no idea!! anyway i was thinking a fluffy little fic about sevika being depressed after shimmers death and reader, vi, and jinx do their best to cheer her up/support her!! do whatever you want i’ll literally take anything i just love your characters so much🙏🙏

YEEHAWWWW i miss cowboy sevika

men and minors dni

it's been a month since you and your girls buried shimmer by your garden. not a night has passed where sevika hasn't cried herself to sleep in your arms. it's breaking your heart.

watching shimmer die was hard enough. you were never much of a horse person before meeting sevika's trusty mare, but shimmer converted you. before sevika settled down with you; one of your greatest comforts when she was out wandering the desert was that she had shimmer there with her. the horse was so in tune with sevika, and they'd been riding together for so long, that they practically moved as one. you worried less about sevika losing her mind when she had shimmer to listen to her rambling. you worried less about her losing her life when she had shimmer to run her back home to you if she ever got too beat up.

and as sweet as sevika is when she claims you're her best friend-- you know that title really belongs to shimmer.

"we should do somethin' for sev." vi mumbles one night. jinx is fast asleep between the pair of you, after insisting she wasn't tired for an hour straight.

"like what?" you ask.

vi shrugs. "cait and her dad go hunting sometimes."

you giggle. "you're crazy if you think we're giving jinx a gun."

vi laughs. "no, no, we wouldn't hunt. we could just, y'know, go camping or something. there are some cold springs thirty miles west of here."

"and how would we get there without a horse?"

"we could borrow one of grayson's." vi suggests.

you smile and turn to face her. "you've been planning this?" you ask. she smiles guiltily.

"sevika's just been so sad. i wanna cheer her up."

your heart bursts with love and you dart forward, squeezing jinx between your body and vi's as you attempt to hug her. vi giggles. jinx wakes up with an annoyed groan.

so, a week later, you, your wife, and your girls set out with a horse drawn wagon and one of grayson's newest additions: a young colt named 'teddy.' grayson was happy to lend you the horse, muttering something about him being a pain in the ass to train. "if there's anyone i know who can get through to a stubborn horse like teddy, it's sevika." she sighed.

the ride out to the springs is rocky and bumpy, sevika getting used to riding a horse that isn't shimmer-- teddy being an ass just for the hell of it. at least the girls find it fun. their giggles and squeals are the soundtrack for your entire ride to the springs. even with all the curses she's spewing at teddy, sevika looks more relaxed than she has in weeks back on top of a horse.

"what're we even gonna do once we get there?" jinx asks. you snort and ruffle her bangs.

"well, i'm going swimming. you losers can do whatever you want." you say. the girls giggle.

"do you think there are cliffs we can jump off of?" vi asks. you shrug.

"i'm sure we can find some. we've got a whole river to explore."

"none of you are doing any exploring until we set up camp and get a fire going." sevika huffs from on top of teddy's back.

"boo! boring." jinx whines.

'setting up camp' ends up being sevika building the tent and jinx feeding teddy while you and vi attempt to make a fire the old fashioned way.

"how did the cavemen ever do this?" vi huffs as she rubs two sticks together. you snort.

"i'm sure they had tools. blubber to make it catch better, or something."

vi rolls her eyes. "i don't understand why she won't just give us her lighter."

you laugh and look up at sevika as she wipes her sweaty brow. "she doesn't trust us not to burn down the whole riverbed."

"or she's just bossy." vi mutters. you cackle.

"i think you're right, kid."

you don't make it into the river on your first night, but you don't mind much. when the sun sets, the heat of summer fades and the cool dark forces you all to squish together on a log in front of the fire while sevika cooks up beans and weenies on the fire.

"is that a planet or a star?" vi asks. jinx looks up and hums.

"i think it's venus."

"yeah?"

"i think so. sev?" jinx asks.

sevika glances up at the sky, smiling proudly and ruffling jinx's bangs. "you nailed it, kiddo."

"what constellations are out tonight, sev?" jinx asks, tucking herself under your wife's arm. sevika hums, leaning back to study the sky.

you don't bother to look at the sky. pretty as the stars are, they're nothing compared to the sight of your three girls, cuddled together and illuminated in the firelight.

"follow my finger. you see those three stars close together?" sevika whispers, her voice melding with the crackle of the fire and the roar of the river.

"yeah." vi whispers. jinx nods against sevika's shoulder.

sevika drags her finger across the sky. "see how they lead into a cross? there?"

"is that the northern cross?" jinx asks. sevika nods, her smile growing.

"you know it. anyways, the cross is in the center of cygnus the swan. backbone of the milky way." sevika's eyes flick down and catch yours, and she smiles shyly. you grin. there are more stars in her eyes than in the whole night sky.

you spend the next day in the river with the girls, laughing and splashing and squealing when fish nibble your ankles. vi and sevika ride upriver to try to find cliffs to jump off of, and you teach jinx how to doggy paddle. when the girls return, they're soaking wet and cackling.

that evening, with the girls fast asleep in the tent, you and sevika smoke a joint and go skinny dipping.

"did you have fun with vi?" you ask, your arms and legs wrapped around your wife. sevika giggles against you.

"i shouldn't tell you." she says. you giggle.

"'s that supposed to mean?"

"means she almost jumped onto some rocks several fucking times. gave me a heart attack."

you groan, shaking your head. "no, you shouldn't've told me." you agree. sevika giggles.

"but, we both lived, didn't we?" she asks. you laugh.

"y'know we're gonna have to adopt teddy from grayson?" you ask. sevika snorts.

"what makes you say that?"

"jinx is obsessed with him. braided and un-braided his mane like six times today. calls him 'teddy bear.' plus..." you trail off.

sevika darts forward to kiss you. you hum against her lips. "plus?" she asks, her lips brushing yours.

"plus, you need a new horse. you look good in the saddle."

sevika hums and kisses you again. "you take such good care of me. how am i supposed to keep up my bandit appearance when i got a wife that talks me into adoptin' horses and takes me out on vacation?"

you laugh. "you haven't been a bandit in half a decade. and the vacation was violet's idea. she was worried about you."

sevika sighs and leans forward to rest her forehead against your shoulder. "you still take good care of me." she says. you kiss her scalp.

"well... y'know. you're my dingus the duck."

"your what?!" sevika asks with a cackle. you groan and shrug.

"i dunno, those stars you were talking about last night!" you whine.

"cygnus the swan!?" she asks. you nod.

"that's the one."

"what the fuck are you talking about?" she asks though her laughs. you snort.

"y'know. you're the backbone of my galaxy, or whatever."

sevika's teasing expression melts, stars sparkling in her eyes. "that's awfully corny, darling." she whispers, her voice shaky with emotion. you smile.

"what the-- what are you two doing?!" vi squawks from the riverbank. you and sevika giggle guiltily, caught by your kids canoodling in the cold springs.

"go back to the tent!" you shout.

"awe, gross, are you guys naked!?" jinx whines.

sevika snorts. "we all bathed together three hours ago!"

"yeah, but you guys weren't all up on each other-- vi, let's go before we overhear something nasty." jinx groans, tugging on her sister's arm.

violet laughs and stumbles behind jinx. "don't drown!" she calls.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @vkumi @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25

@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @biblicalcrybaby

@blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion @dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3

[twilighthinker]

I know many people may not agree with me, but I do want to voice out my feelings. Please remember this is not a jab at anyone, and I'm not here to police anybody! I adore the LADS fandom and therefore its members, especially in this Tumblr community.

I guess I want to seek the knowledge of not being alone in my musings.

I don't really like the poly-content with MC (us) and the Love Interests. This is contradictory because I'm not against it, if anything I would love to read it! So this is actually said with a very specific context.

I don't like it when all their feelings are towards MC, but have no feelings for each other.

Maybe it's the helpless romantic in me? I am not sure, I would like for all of us to be in a consenting relationship, where we like and take care of each other, and of course their feelings are strong with us.

I want to imagine that when we are out hunting wanderers with Xavier and being a badass couple, Sylus and Rafayel are indulging in luxury and art, drinking wine slowly. I'd like to imagine that Zayne and Caleb are playing sudoku, with Caleb rambling about apple-based recipes that he would cook for us.

I'd like to imagine that when someone feels down, and we are not there, they will have someone to support.

I'd like to imagine that we are all sitting around the living room, eating whatever we and Caleb cooked, watching movies and fighting over the controller.

I'd like to imagine that we all make a big pile of cuddling, with Zayne drinking his sweet chocolate, Xavier nodding off at Sylus shoulder, Sylus leaning back to the couch to support him but also welcome us between his legs, brushing our hair or massaging out shoulders, with Rafayel having his head in our lap and his feet on Zayne's, and Caleb leaning on Xavier's legs with his head on our knee.

I want fluff 😭 sorry I ranted. Again this is not policing, it's just something I have an opinion about LADS and LADS only, and that I have seen no content of it. And I know many are against with the Love Interests being bisexual. This is just a headcanon of mine that I will be writing soon.

[tangents-within-tangents]

Like fr to everyone in the notes talking about headcanons/AUs/"having fun" in the notes: the word you are looking for is REinterpretation. Not to go webster or anything but

-Interpret: explain the meaning of information, words, or actions. (explain, expound, clarify)

-Misinterpret: interpret something or someone wrongly. (misunderstand, misconstrue, mistake)

-Reinterpret: interpret something in a new or different light.

It seems in fandom spaces the word interpretation is often used at times when what they actually mean is reinterpretation (or sometimes just reaction or impression, ex: your opinion of a character is subjective and valid, but that's not the same as an interpretation).

If your "interpretation" is completely divorced from or contradicts the text, it's not an interpretation anymore. It's a reinterpretation. A reimagining. And yeah you can totally have your fun, go off! Just don't act like it IS an interpretation. Because valid interpretations come with supporting evidence, which is the whole point of the og post.

I think this bit from OP's other reblog describes it best:

this is one way it gets messy that fandom is a space for both media analysis and transformative works even though those two things don’t always co-exist comfortably or necessarily serve each other.

This is the crux. Both happen in fandom because both are a form of engaging with a work that you appreciate. But one literally relies upon analyzing what IS presented in the text, and the other upon reinventing and transforming that text (and headcanon sometimes straddles this line in between). So the important thing is recognizing the distinctions and not mixing them up. And it goes both ways:

-“He would never act that way” we know, it’s an intentional recharacterization bc we're exploring something different right now

-“But he's just a poor meow meow” not relevant right now because we're analyzing how the writing actually portrayed him

Textual evidence doesn't matter when we're just having fun and making incorrect quote memes, and headcanons don't matter when we're analyzing thematic content. The distinction helps us to have more productive conversations. And crossing the streams can sometimes take us to harmful or frustrating extremes.

To borrow an example from Rowan Ellis: You relate to a Taylor Swift song and feel seen in your queer identity? That's great, no one can stop you from experiencing the song that way even if Taylor didn't intend it. But if you turn that around and say this is proof that Taylor herself must be secretly queer, or worse that she's somehow queerbaiting? Please stop!

Another example: Someone once pulled the "we're just having fun, you can scroll past" card on me when they were straight up bashing the writing for not going the way they wanted. Please, have your fun, I won't stop you. Write a fix-it au where your blorbo comes back to life. Vive la fanfic! But when you say "the writers should have done [random specific thing] if they wanted me to believe he was truly dead" whilst blatantly misinterpreting the thing the writers did do to confirm it so it can fit into your theories/denial? That's not 'just having fun' anymore, that's flawed/unfair criticism and I'mma push back on it. (I didn't actually, just for the record)

Headcanons by definition are not canon, and I think you'll find most people are totally fine with you having whatever headcanons you want, so long as you don't start claiming that they are canon or that your way is the only way. That's where people have a problem.

But even headcanons that don't contradict canon, that could fit into ambiguous gaps where canon did not confirm or deny the possibility either way, are still headcanons. They aren't presented in the text itself and therefore not useful to analysis and criticism.

And I think this is where the distinction can feel blurry at times. Because some headcanoning is based on evidence from the source material. So some may think it's the same as media analysis, but I'd call it extrapolation rather than interpretation. It uses canon evidence in more of a imaginative/conspiracy theory/inspiration to bounce off type of way. Especially since fanon is often about filling in gaps.

Fanon focuses on the story, and treats it almost as if it and the characters are living. But media analysis relies upon treating it as media. On recognizing it was written by a person who made choices and used literary devices and elements intentionally to convey meaning (even if we can debate on what that meaning is).

Subtext is not just whatever you want to project onto a story. Subtext is an actual literary device. Meaning that is intentionally implied by the author because you shouldn't spell everything out and it's important to let the readers participate. It's what the characters aren't saying but the author is.

Unreliable narrator is also a literary device, that is intentionally crafted and indicated throughout the whole text. It's the author saying something through the character saying the opposite. It's not an excuse to ignore whatever you want to ignore of what the narrator says.

Characters aren't people and they don't actually make any choices. Everything they do, everything they are, was written and crafted by the author.

(In short, when I analyze character arcs or critique writing choices, I'd love for the discussion I get to point out things I may have overlooked or misinterpreted. Not for it to just shove in a bunch of irrelevant headcanons, character personifications, and Watsonian explanations that have nothing to do with my arguments.)

Fanon is very open-world concept (and open multiverse lol), but analysis is about looking at what the author did give you, what they chose to include or not and what it is meant to show us.

Writing is about crafting an iceberg that implies a keel under the water. Therefore analysis is about studying the iceberg to try to interpret that keel. And fanon is about exploring the whole ocean. And transformative work is about idk cutting off chunks and making ice sculptures.

All of them are very cool and fun in their own right but I think we can see how they can definitely clash and get in each other's way.

Not “Only my reading of canon is correct” or “Interpretations are subjective and all valid” but a secret third thing, “More than one interpretation can be valid but there’s a reason your English teacher had you cite quotes and examples in your papers, you have to have a strong argument that your interpretation is actually supported by the text or it is just wrong and I’m fine with telling you it’s wrong, actually.”

[ailithnight]

Howdy y'all. Have a snippet that is completely unconnected to anything else I am writing or will write. Feel free to do with it whatever you please.

But first, important warning! TW: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault of a Minor

Seriously, this actually might be a brand new kind of fucked up even for the Danny Phantom fandom.

"Oh. I don't think you need to worry about, uh… that stuff."

"Oh? Why not?"

"It's just. Um. Y'know. The, the scientist were always fascinated by, um, by my 'mimicry of bodily functions,' right? They wanted to test how far the, 'the mimicry' extended. If I'd 'mimic' things like, digestion and immune response and, and um, excitement."

"Excitement." Flat. Not really a question, but a question all the same.

"Yeah. You know…" Danny makes a couple hand gestures. Wiggles his pointer a couple times; then holding his hand in a loose fist and giving a couple jerky, twisting pulling motions. Kind of like… Oh. Oh god. He's just 15. It's such a painfully 15 thing to do, dancing around the topic like this. All awkward and nervous.

But also, god, he's so painfully 15. Jason is suddenly wishing he'd made a lot more bullet holes when they took those fuckers down. He would have if he'd known just how far their depravity sank. If he'd known they had-

"They sexually assaulted you?" Dick's voice is high and strained. Jason winces. Everyone knows, Dick hasn't told them, but they've all seen the signs, they know he has some personal traumas there.

Danny full body flinches, recoiling as if Dick had just slapped him.

"What? No! It wasn't. They didn't. It's not like they were, like, getting off to it or anything. They were just. Testing reactions. To, like, stimuli and stuff. Same as when they'd test how my body responded to different temperatures or lack of oxygen or various drugs. It wasn't. It was just an experiment." Danny looks down, fidgeting his hands in his lap and refusing to look up. It's practically textbook denial. Dick is probably fighting flashbacks right now. Jason would try to help him if he wasn't trapped somewhere between horror and rage.

After a long moment of silence and fidgeting, Danny sighs. Still refusing to look at anyone, he leans back and studies the cieling instead. "Anyway. It was just another expiriment, but it still kind of killed any interest in… that stuff." Young. Young. So painfully young. "So I don't think I really need the whole… y'know… talk."

[bugisastranger]

hey babe 🩷 if you have the time or inspiration to write please consider fake dating to lovers with Clark Kent, like a to all the boys I’ve loved before typa situation

a/n: thank u for the request anon!!! sorry it took me a bit to get around to it - i can be a busy busy gal.

"you want me to what?"

clark's voice is unlike anything you'd ever heard from him, his shock nothing less than apparent. you shush him, looking around the hallway to see if anyone's noticed. it's lucky for you that nobody did.

"come on, clark. it's one night! not even! it's like, a few hours at most."

"can't you ask someone else? pete?"

"i don't want to ask pete. he won't be able to sell it."

"and you think i can?" he's exasperated, leaning closer to you as if he's suddenly aware how many people could overhear this conversation. "i'm a horrible liar."

"please? you know how my family can be," you whisper, looking up at clark. he sighs, hanging his head. he does know how your family can be—overbearing—which is exactly why he's hesitant. but you're you, so how can he actually say no?

"okay. okay, fine."

"really?" you ask, nearly jumping out of your skin. your arms slide around clark's neck as you excitedly let out a few small 'thank you's. clark's still frozen in place from his decision, but forces one of his arms to slide awkwardly around your hip. he's in for it, isn't he?

the ringing of the school bell pulls the two of you apart, and you quickly shut your locker, making your way towards your first class. clark keeps his place beside you. "so, what does this mean, exactly? what do you want from me?"

"jeez, clark, that sounds like i'm holding you hostage. it's just a favor."

"yeah, yeah. whatever. what do you need me to do?" he asks, taking his seat next to you at the lab table.

"i don't know. whatever feels natural," you say, bending to the side to pull your textbook out of your bag, a gesture which clark never would've took a second glance at. but today, with your hair falling in front of your face (and then you pushing it away), something's different. he doesn't even notice he forgot to say something in response to you until you glance back at him, confused at his silence.

"uh—" he clears his throat. "how am i supposed to know what's natural? we've never dated before." oops. overly sarcastic.

"have you never even considered it?"

"what?" clark's baffled by your question, but you ask it so casually, like it's not taking the ground out from beneath his feet. it's not that he hasn't considered it. it's that he has. he knows all too well how he wants to walk with his arm around your shoulders, how he wants to have you cuddle into his side as you watch a movie, how he wants to absolutely spoil you—as if he has the money for that anyway. "i—"

"you know what? forget i said that. i don't wanna know," you mutter. "just, like, pretend like you're obsessed with me, i don't know."

"hey, lovebirds! you done?" the teacher calls from the front of the classroom.

as clark starts, "oh, we're n—"

you say, "sorry! we're sorry." and then the both of you, red in your faces, stay silent. you barely even move, feeling reprimanded, even though your teacher was barely offended.

when the teacher lets the class work in pairs, clark decides to use the time to talk to you instead. he could do the work later. "can you just give me an idea of what the night's going to look like, at least?"

you take a quick glance at the teacher, making sure her eyes aren't on you and clark. "you'll come over and i'll introduce you as my boyfriend. my parents won't be suspicious, because i'll start bringing it up today. and they won't be too intimidating. my uncle might, but they'll love you. there's something about you that screams 'good guy' and they'll pick up on it." you twirl the pen in your hands. "it'll be fine. you have nothing to worry about, really." clark feels his heart skip a beat when you place your hand on his bicep—which is supposed to be a comforting gesture. what's happening to him? you've touched him before. plenty of times, actually. this shouldn't mean a thing.

a few days later, and clark is taking deep breaths as he walks down the path to your front door. before he can even meet the porch, you're outside, greeting him. he nearly stops in his tracks when he sees you, your hair half up, half down. the dress you're wearing is baby pink, and something about this sight—seeing you so... girly does something to him, even if he won't admit it.

"hi," you say, breaking the awkward silence. "ignore the dress, i'm trying something a little different."

"no, it's good. you look great," he forces. and then, he remembers he's supposed to be your boyfriend, he's allowed to flirt with you. "you look really pretty." he swears he sees your expression change, like you're nervous. it makes his hand tense, and he nearly crushes the stems of the flowers he forgot he's holding. "oh, these are for you."

"thank you. this is..."

"good enough, i hope?"

"better. i knew you wouldn't let me down."

"can't leave my girlfriend hanging, can i?" oh. oh. that gets you. and clark knows it, too.

"uh—" you start, looking at him with what can only be described as a mix of shock and infatuation. "we should go inside."

and as you're walking towards your front door—"i should call you something, shouldn't i?"

"what?" you turn back around, facing him.

"honey," he tries. "no, too mature. babe?" clark watches your reactions carefully, and even though you seem affected, 'babe' doesn't have the punch he was hoping for. "sweetheart?" bingo.

"sweetheart is fine," you mutter, trying to ignore the way your face heats up.

"okay, sweetheart. you ready for this?" you nod, walking towards the door with clark at your side. "what about princess?"

"too much. you can't call me that in front of my family."

"but i can call you that when we're alone?"

"clark!"

"it's just a question, sweetheart," clark teases, fighting back a chuckle. he could do this the rest of his life.

part two coming soon?!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I feel like the Ghost Marriage event shouldn't have happened. I mean, it's a little sus that this dead chick was proposing to a bunch of TEENAGERS in the first place, but not only that, but she was a royal, and as I understand only a few of the students at NIght Raven were of noble/royal decent.

Personally, I don't think there's a huge issue here?? Depiction of something doesn't automatically mean endorsement or condonment of it. Ghost Marriage clearly depicts Eliza wanting to quickly get hitched to one of the NRC students as a patently bad thing; it is in no way promoting what she's trying to do. (Small correction though: she's not proposing to anyone, Eliza is just outright kidnapping the one she deems to be her ideal groom; it is the other NRC students who are proposing to her in an effort to rescue Idia.) The mere existence of Ghost Marriage is NOT Twst saying, "Hey, it's okay for minors to marry adults and this is what we should be doing!" That's like claiming that Sebek being depicted as racist or Epel believing in gender norms is promoting racism or gender norms. If you look at the context surrounding these situations, you'll quickly realize that these depictions are, in fact, NOT promotions. Sebek, Epel, and Eliza are constantly told their viewpoints are wrong or clowned on for expositing their beliefs.

When it comes to age, the devs kept Eliza's pretty ambiguous. Just because she is dead doesn't mean she's like 80+ years old. They never put a number to it, but they allude that she "died young", but she isn't exactly a child since her attendants speak of her childhood like it's a thing of the past (ie "[...] ever since you were a little girl"). Judging by her immaturity and even her looks, you could honestly argue that Eliza is roughly the same age as the NRC students or is at least a fellow teenager herself. (Furthermore, in the original Japanese text, Eliza promises to visit the school again with a baby; this was scrubbed from EN--why? Maybe because they didn't want to imply a young woman close to the boys' age getting pregnant so soon.) Whoever she marries wouldn't be left alive; her kiss will literally kill them, also rendering them a ghost too. As a married couple, both Eliza and her groom would be dead; it would not be a situation where one is dead and the other is left alive. I don't find it problematic that students potentially younger/older than her proposed because the intention was never to go through with the marriage, it's to trick her so she puts on a magical ring that will dispel her from the world of the living. Again, CONTEXT MATTERS. No one here is actually seriously wanting this legally binding marriage except Eliza herself. Idia (the intended groom) is 18, so he could marry if he wanted to. It might be weird if Eliza was younger than him, but I think that even if that's the case, it's fine because she's supposed to be viewed as immature and unrealistic about love. Eliza is MEANT to be seen as a little cuckoo, not an example to live up to (literally ALL the other characters, including Idia, see her as unhinged); the writing in this event isn't trying to tell you that you should aspire to be like Eliza. On the contrary, you shouldn't be like her, and Ace even calls her out for this at the end of the event. I would take issue with Ghost Marriage if it had done the opposite and tried to promote her behavior as "good" or "desirable" when it very obviously is not.

I don't think the typical rules for nobility and their marriages apply in this case. Eliza is dead and technically has no country, wealth, or anything to her name. She is chained to this mortal coil because of her unfulfilled desire to marry the perfect prince--so that's the desire she seeks to fulfill. Her retainers help her because they lament that she was not able to achieve her dream when she was still alive and they feel guilty for not being able to help her flee before their kingdom was brought to ruin. Eliza doesn't have to heavily vet lineages or even necessarily marry another royal. That kind of stuff is only really important if you have countries to rule over, assets that could be impacted, politics that could shift. You know, actual things at stake that are dependent on who she marries. But Eliza currently has nothing but her own desire fueling her, so nothing is riding on who she marries. She's just driven by her own selfish longing to find her perfect prince because... oh yeah, everyone in her country is already dead and this is literally all she has to "live" for left 💀 (though if we really wanted to get technical, Idia may not be nobility but he’s still pretty rich and influential; he’s close to being a noble without the actual title attached to it.)

[thatonebirdwrites]

Not only that, the fucking jackasses, who don't know ANYTHING about the systems they're tampering with, are COMMITTING LIVE CODE WITHOUT TESTING IT to the Treasury Payment Systems. See here (Wired reporting) and here (an expert weighting in). This "move fast and break things" mentality will KILL people.

You CANNOT do that with government systems without months if not a year or so of thorough testing. And yet, they have failed to do even the a day of testing. None of them are federal workers, it's unknown whether they even had background checks, and they refuse to give their real names to actual federal employees.. (Honestly, that mentality shouldn't exist PERIOD. Techbros use it to try to get around laws and regulations, and end up harming folks more than helping.) I'm not even joking about this. Disabled people rely on the payment system working for our healthcare and survival needs. Please Care About Other People. Disabled people like myself deserve to live too, and what's happening can and likely will kill us. There should be people lining up to block them from entering. Make the fuckers fight to get through. Senators should be blockading entrance. Make the fuckers drag the Senators off in handcuffs, which will only prove all our points. Again, this is a fucking coup by entitled neo-Nazi pricks who want us to live in an Musky-rat-company, where Musk controls everything. That's their ultimate goal. But they can't do that unless they can leverage the Treasury to force the rest of the government to capitulate to their demands. MUSK HAS NO REAL AUTHORITY unless we cede it to him. He pretends he does because he's Trump's friend, but he was not elected, he was not confirmed, his "DOGE" office was never endorsed or confirmed by the Senate, and thus everything he does is illegal and/or unconstitutional.

Call Congress to DO something.

Protest what is happening, but be SMART about it. Do NOT invite police to a protest. You Cannot Trust Police. Many of them are in bed with the far-right.

Protest Tips:

Wear a mask with and safety glasses. (Harder to identity you and it protects you from smoke, tear gas, and diseases.

Do Not Bring Your Phone. Or at the very least Do NOT turn it on as it can be used to identify you or obtain your location.

Do NOT advertise the details of the protest and who is coming to the protest all over social media. Share about the protest's start locations as needed in your groups, but don't advertise it's march pattern or its end goal location or who is attending. These conversations about the march route, goal location, assigned roles, and etc need to happen either in-person with all phones off OR use Signal, an encrypted chat. You want to limit what the surveillance state can pull from posts.

Have designated medics who can help in case of injury or if Police try to shoot people or throw tear gas.

Have designated frontline people. These are the people at the front of the protest, the ones that are most likely to deal with police and/or fascists first. Use make-shift shields to help protect frontline people.

Have designated people who assist those with disabilities to make sure they care able to stay safe and escape if things turn sour. Stay with your assigned peeps!

Have a designated protest partner to help watch your back. Stay with your assigned peeps!

Have designated suppliers, who carry supplies for medics and/or frontline and/or other roles.

Have a plan in case the police try to kettle protesters. A kettle is when police block off routes to escape, thus trapping protestors in a smaller area. This is done to shut down protestors, demoralize, frighten, and mass arrest. Make sure everyone knows the plan and abides by it.

Write on your arm the numbers of lawyers and/or people you can contact in case of arrest.

I'll leave this handbook here in case you all find use out of it. If others have tips, feel free to add them.

I already shared/wrote a post on community care and safety plans here (that was kindly expanded on by censoredsecret).

These men just stole the personal information of everyone in America AND control the Treasury. Link to article.

Akash Bobba

Edward Coristine

Luke Farritor

Gautier Cole Killian

Gavin Kliger

Ethan Shaotran

Spread their names!

[thollandsgirl2013]

Can I please request one with touch starved reader??

Okay, so I got a little carried away with this request, but I really enjoyed writing it! 👀 I’m not sure if you’re comfortable with smut, so there’s a warning before it starts. Happy reading!

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

𝐀 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮*

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → SMUT!! 18+, unprotected sex (pls don't do it), language, a bit bossy! Reader

Summary → The reader is touch starved after spending a week without Peter.

The apartment felt emptier without Peter. A whole week had passed since he left for a mission, and it had been torture. The phone calls at night were nice, but they weren’t enough. Hearing his voice through the speaker didn’t compare to feeling him—his warmth, his hands on your waist, his fingers tangled in your hair.

You weren’t usually this needy, but something about this week had been unbearable. Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe it was the way you had to fall asleep every night without him pulling you close. Maybe it was just that you were touch-starved to hell and back.

But finally, finally, he was coming home tonight.

You had been pacing the living room for the past thirty minutes, heart hammering in anticipation. You didn’t even bother with distractions—there was no way you could focus on a movie or a book when Peter was almost home.

Then, the sound of keys jingling outside.

Your heart practically leapt out of your chest at the sound.

The lock turned, the door creaked open—and there he was.

Peter stood in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, hair messier than usual. He looked exhausted but so, so good. His soft brown eyes met yours, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, bab—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your entire body against him. Peter let out a startled laugh as he stumbled back against the door, his hands immediately coming up to grip your waist.

“Whoa—hi to you too,” he chuckled, his voice warm with amusement.

You buried your face in his neck, inhaling deeply. He smelled like faded cologne, a little sweat, and home. “You were gone forever.”

Peter’s hands tightened around you. “It was a week, sweetheart.”

“Exactly.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, taking in every little detail of his face—the way his lashes brushed against his cheeks, the slight stubble on his jaw, the tired but happy glint in his eyes.

Then, you kissed him.

Peter made a surprised noise, but he quickly melted into it, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head. The kiss started slow, a soft press of lips, but that wasn’t enough. You tilted your head, deepening it, fingers gripping the fabric of his t-shirt.

Peter groaned against your mouth, his fingers digging into your waist.

“Missed me much?” He teased against your lips.

You glared. ��I’m actually mad at you for leaving me alone for a week.”

“Oh yeah?” His grin was smug. “Doesn’t seem like you’re mad.”

You huffed. “I am mad. Very mad.”

“Sure,” he smirked.

“I am, Peter.” You pulled him into another kiss. This one was messier, more desperate, your hands moving to his shoulders. You felt the tension in them, the lingering exhaustion in his body, and you wanted to erase it.

“God,” he murmured as you pulled back for a breath. “Missed you too, baby.”

You pulled away breathlessly, eyes dark. “Bedroom. Now.”

Peter laughed softly against your lips. “Not even a snack first? A shower? Anything? ”

“No,” you murmured, kissing along his jaw, nipping at his skin just enough to make him sigh. “You left me alone for a whole week, Parker.”

“I know, I know,” he said, exhaling sharply when you kissed beneath his ear. “I’m sorry.”

You tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. “Make it up to me.”

Peter swallowed hard, his pupils blowing wide. “Y-Yeah, okay.”

Smut starting below 👇

You didn’t even give him a chance to process before you were dragging him toward the bedroom. Peter stumbled after you, still laughing under his breath.

“I feel like I should be worried,” he teased, but he didn’t resist as you pulled him inside, kicking the door shut behind you.

You pushed him onto the bed, climbing onto his lap, and Peter’s hands immediately found your thighs. His touch was warm, grounding, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re being clingy,” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, sliding his hands up your back. “I really do.”

You tugged his t-shirt up, fingers grazing his stomach. His breath hitched.

“Off,” you demanded.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s bossy tonight.”

“Peter.”

He grinned but obeyed, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it aside. Your eyes swept over him—his lean but toned body, the faint scars from old fights, the way his chest rose and fell a little faster under your gaze.

Then, you leaned in, kissing him again.

Peter groaned, gripping your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper. He flipped you onto your back, pressing his weight against you. His lips moved from your mouth to your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he murmured against your skin.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly. “Then show me.”

Peter pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with heat.

“Oh, I will.”

And he was more than happy to oblige.

Peter’s lips crashed against yours again, rougher this time, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his muscles as he pinned you beneath him. His hands roamed your body, fingers digging into your hips, then sliding under your shirt, palms warm against your stomach.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Take it off,” you murmured against his lips, tugging at your shirt.

Peter grinned, nipping at your bottom lip before helping you pull it over your head. His eyes darkened as he took you in, hands skimming over your exposed skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.

You tugged him down by the back of his neck, lips brushing against his. “Less talking. More working.”

Peter groaned, his fingers trailing up your sides before slipping behind your back to unclasp your bra. He kissed his way down your jaw, across your collarbone, then lower, his lips exploring every inch of newly exposed skin. Your back arched as he worshipped your body with his mouth, teasing, tasting, taking his time.

But you were impatient today.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back up. “Peter.”

He smirked. “Yes, ma’am?”

You shot him a glare. “I need you.”

Peter’s breath hitched, his pupils dilating. “Yeah?”

“Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands moved to your jeans, undoing the button and dragging them down your legs, his touch slow and deliberate. He tossed them aside, leaving you in just your underwear. His body pressed flush against yours, the rough fabric of his jeans teasing your bare skin. Even through his jeans, you could feel every inch of him—his warmth, his hardness, the absolute need crackling between you two.

Peter dipped his head, kissing you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, stealing every breath, every thought, until all you could focus on was him—his hands, his touch, the heat radiating off his body. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, teasing the edge of your underwear before retreating, making you squirm beneath him.

He was enjoying this. Drawing things out, taking his time.

But you were feeling bold today.

With a frustrated huff, you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand lower, pressing it exactly where you needed him the most. Your legs squeezed around his hips, silently demanding he stop playing around.

“No teasing,” you ordered, your voice breathless yet firm.

Peter’s lips curled into a smirk against your skin. He pressed a lingering kiss to your jaw, his breath warm as he murmured, “You’re really not in the mood for patience, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes, fingers tightening around his wrist. “Do I look like I am?”

Peter exhaled sharply, the teasing glint in his eyes flickering into something darker, needier. He loved when you got like this—so demanding, so desperate for him that you couldn’t stand to wait another second.

“Bossy,” he murmured, but he obeyed.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, the first touch sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. Your head fell back, a gasp tumbling from your lips as he started working you over with slow, precise movements.

“Good?” He whispered, his eyes locked onto your face, drinking in every reaction.

You dug your nails into his shoulders, hips lifting into his touch. “More,” you demanded, your voice almost a plea.

Peter bit his lip, his other hand gripping your thigh, anchoring you down as he picked up the pace, his fingers sliding against you in all the right ways. He curled them just right, finding that spot that made you arch off the bed, a choked moan escaping your lips.

He groaned at the sight, at the way you fell apart under his touch. “Fuck, baby… you’re so sensitive.”

Your breathing hitched, a fresh wave of pleasure surging through you. Your thighs trembled, your grip on him tightening as you felt yourself climbing higher, nearing the edge, your entire body burning with need.

Peter wasn’t letting up. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse, his voice a low rasp against your skin.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, his fingers never slowing, never stopping. “Let go for me.”

And you did.

A broken cry left your lips as pleasure crashed over you, your body shaking, your fingers digging into his skin. Peter worked you through it, his pace only slowing when he felt you start to relax beneath him. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his hand still lazily stroking your thigh, grounding you.

When you finally caught your breath, you lifted your head, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, his expression utterly wrecked with desire.

You smirked.

“My turn.”

Peter barely had time to process your words before you flipped him onto his back, straddling his waist in one smooth motion. His breath hitched, hands instinctively flying to grip your hips, his eyes wide with surprise and something much darker.

“You really are feeling bossy today,” he rasped, his voice thick with admiration and arousal.

You leaned down, your lips hovering just over his, teasing. “Got a problem with that?”

Peter swallowed hard, his fingers tightening their grip on you. “Not at all.”

A smirk tugged at your lips before you kissed him—deep, slow, deliberate. You took your time, savoring the way he melted beneath you, the way his hands roamed your back, your thighs, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you the most. You rocked against him, earning a sharp inhale, his body tensing beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just to look at you, to watch the way you moved above him.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin as you slowly traced the lines of his abdomen. "You're so perfect," you murmured, your voice low and filled with desire.

Peter's breath hitched, his chest rising and falling under your touch. He tilted his head back, his hands gripping the sheets as he watched you.

You grinned, loving how easily you could drive him crazy. Your fingers continued their slow, teasing path, tracing every ridge, every scar, your touch light but purposeful.

His breath came out ragged. “You’re killing me, babe.”

You grinned, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to his neck, down to his collarbone, your hands trailing lower, lower—

“Payback,” you whispered against his skin.

Peter let out a strained laugh, though it quickly turned into a groan as you palmed him through his jeans. His head fell back against the pillows, his hips bucking up into your touch.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You really—” His breath hitched as you popped the button of his jeans. “You’re really gonna do this to me, huh?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Do what?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at you, but the effect was ruined by the way his lips parted when you slowly dragged down his zipper, the way his chest heaved as you peeled his jeans off. He was already hard, the outline of him straining against the fabric of his boxers, and you could tell he was barely holding on to his restraint.

“God,” he breathed when you pressed a teasing kiss to his lower abdomen. His fingers tangled in your hair, his jaw clenched. “You’re unbelievable.”

You shot him a smug smile before finally slipping his boxers down, freeing him completely. He let out a shaky exhale as you wrapped your fingers around him, giving a slow, experimental stroke.

Peter’s reaction was instant—his head tilted back, a deep groan tearing from his throat, his grip on your thigh tightening like he was already on the edge.

“Baby,” he gritted out, his hips jerking into your touch. “You—fuck—you’re so in control tonight.”

You grinned, placing a kiss just above his navel, deliberately teasing, watching as his stomach tensed beneath your lips. Peter’s fingers twitched against your thighs, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he exhaled a shaky breath.

“You’re torturing me,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes hazy with need.

You dragged your lips lower, just barely brushing against where he needed you most before pulling away, savoring the way he groaned in frustration.

“Patience, Spidey,” you teased, running your fingers along his length in slow, deliberate strokes.

Peter let out a strangled laugh, his head falling back against the pillows. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You smirked but didn’t respond, instead focusing on driving him to the brink, reveling in the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath hitched every time you moved just right. His body was like a live wire beneath you, every little reaction making you feel more powerful, more in control.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, lifting his head to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You hummed, leaning up to press a lingering kiss to his lips, your hand still working him over. “Maybe.”

Peter let out a breathless laugh against your mouth, but it quickly turned into a groan when you changed your pace, drawing another curse from his lips.

His hands slid up your waist, gripping firmly before flipping you onto your back in one swift motion. Your breath hitched as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

“My turn now,” he smirked at you.

A shiver ran down your spine at the shift in his tone, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Before you could say anything, his lips were on your neck, trailing down, his hands roaming over your body like he was memorizing every inch of you.

You gasped as his fingers hooked into your underwear, dragging them down with agonizing slowness. “Peter—”

“I know,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “I got you.”

Peter pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, his fingers gripping your hips to keep you still as you squirmed beneath him. His touch was teasing, deliberate, his breath warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He was savoring this—you—as if he had all the time in the world.

“You were so bossy a minute ago,” he mused, his voice thick with amusement and desire. His lips ghosted over your skin, making you jolt. “What happened to all that attitude?”

You tugged at his curls, frustration curling in your stomach. “Shut up.”

Peter chuckled, the vibrations sending another spark of pleasure through you. His grip on your hips tightened just enough to keep you in place, his thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles into your skin.

“As you wish,” he murmured before finally giving you what you needed.

The first press of his lips to your folds had your breath stuttering, the sensation electric. His tongue flicked out, tracing along your sensitive bud, teasing, tasting. A deep groan rumbled in his throat as he settled between your thighs, his hands splaying across them, holding you steady.

Your back arched off the mattress as a sharp gasp escaped your lips, fingers twisting in his hair. Peter hummed in satisfaction, the sound vibrating against you, making your entire body shudder.

He was slow, methodical, taking his time to explore, his tongue moving in deliberate strokes, circling, pressing, teasing. His lips sealed over your most sensitive spot, sucking gently, only to pull back and do it all over again. His hands slid up your thighs, his grip firm, thumbs pressing into your skin as he kept you exactly where he wanted.

“Peter—” His name fell from your lips, breathless and needy, your fingers tugging at his curls.

He hummed again, clearly enjoying himself, the vibrations making your thighs tremble. He licked into you, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it before his lips closed around the spot, sucking just hard enough to send a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

You jerked, a strangled moan escaping you. “Peter—”

He pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he gazed up at you. “You taste so good,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Missed this. Missed you.”

Your fingers curled tighter in his hair, a mix of frustration and pleasure coursing through you. “Then don’t stop,” you breathed.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then, he doubled down, his grip tightening, his tongue moving with even more purpose. He licked into you, slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm that had your breath hitching, your thighs trembling. He alternated between long, teasing strokes and short, precise flicks, his mouth working you over with devastating skill.

His tongue circled your sensitive bud before flicking against it in rapid succession, the sensation making you whimper, your legs tensing. When he sucked at just the right spot, your vision went white, your body tightening, pleasure coiling low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every passing second.

Peter felt it, the way you were unraveling, the way your breath hitched and your legs trembled. His fingers dug into your hips as he looked up at you through dark lashes, his voice a low rasp.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

You let out a broken moan, nodding frantically, too lost in sensation to form words.

Peter smirked against your skin, his lips pressing one last, lingering kiss before sealing his mouth around you, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. That was all it took.

You shattered, your back arching, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body shaking as you tumbled into bliss.

Even then, Peter didn’t let up immediately. He eased you through it, his tongue still flicking lazily, his lips pressing gentle kisses against sensitive skin as he made his way back up.

You blinked up at him, still dazed, your breathing uneven, your body boneless against the mattress.

Peter smirked down at you, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Bossy still?”

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers sliding into his hair as you pulled him down into a deep, lazy kiss. “Shut up and fuck me, Parker.”

His pupils dilated, his breath catching in his throat. Then, in one smooth movement, he positioned himself between your legs, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Peter didn’t waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, his body pressing flush against you as he lined himself up. The anticipation had you trembling beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“You sure you can handle this?” He teased, his voice rough, teasing but breathless.

You narrowed your eyes. “Peter, if you don’t—”

He didn’t let you finish. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he pushed into you, filling you inch by inch. Your mouth fell open, a sharp gasp escaping as your body stretched to accommodate him.

Peter let out a low groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “Fuck,” he gritted out, his grip on your hips tightening. “You feel so good.”

Your fingers curled around his biceps, holding onto him like a lifeline as he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling with restraint.

“Move,” you whispered, lifting your hips slightly in encouragement.

Peter let out a shaky breath before drawing back, then sinking into you again, deeper this time. You moaned, arching into him, and that was all the permission he needed.

His pace started slow, controlled, dragging out every sensation, every sound you made. He was savoring you, his lips trailing along your jaw, your neck, whispering sweet praises between gasps and groans.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Missed this—Fuck, you feel so perfect.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging him down for a messy, desperate kiss. The week apart had built up a hunger in you, a longing that couldn’t be satisfied with just slow and sweet. You needed more.

“Faster, Peter,” you demanded against his lips, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts.

Peter let out a low chuckle, but there was no hesitation in the way he obeyed. His pace quickened, his grip on you turning bruising as he drove into you harder, deeper. The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room, mingling with gasps and moans, the headboard softly knocking against the wall.

Your mind was a blur, overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the way Peter filled every inch of you, hitting the perfect spot with every thrust. Your nails raked down his back, and he let out a strangled moan, his rhythm faltering for just a second.

“Shit, baby—” His voice was wrecked, his breath hot against your skin.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, needing more. “Peter—”

“I got you,” he promised, voice strained, his body moving in sync with yours, his hips snapping against yours at a perfect, desperate pace.

You felt yourself unraveling again, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, the edge creeping closer and closer. Peter felt it too, the way your body clenched around him, the way your moans turned breathier, needier.

His hand slipped between you, his fingers finding your most sensitive spot, circling, teasing, pushing you over the edge.

You cried out his name as pleasure crashed over you, your entire body tensing before unraveling beneath him. Peter groaned, his rhythm stuttering as your release pulled him right along with you.

His lips found yours in a messy, desperate kiss as he spilled into you, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, both of you clinging to each other as you slowly came down from the high.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ragged breathing between you, the warmth of Peter’s body still pressed against yours.

Then, after a beat, Peter chuckled, breathless. “So, uh… I take it you really missed me?”

You huffed out a laugh, still trying to catch your breath. “Shut up and hold me.”

Peter grinned as he slowly pulled out, a satisfied hum escaping his lips. Rolling onto his side, he immediately pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in a warm, secure embrace. His fingers traced lazy circles along your back as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Bossy and clingy,” he murmured, his voice thick with affection. “I love it.”

You just nuzzled closer, content in the warmth of his arms, finally having everything you needed.

Peter’s lips brushed against your ear as he pulled you closer, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “You came three times, babe,” he teased, his voice low and full of satisfaction.

You groaned, half embarrassed, half amused, rolling your eyes as you buried your face in his chest. “Shut up,” you muttered, your voice muffled..

He chuckled, his fingers threading through your hair as he kissed the top of your head. “I’m just saying,” he whispered with a grin, “you’re fucking incredible.”

You looked up at him, narrowing your eyes playfully. “You better be careful, Parker, or I'll boss you around more.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you gently, his lips warm and soft against yours. “I think I’ll be okay with that.”

And with that, you let the peaceful silence take over, content in each other’s arms, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you drifted off to sleep.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[mostlyinthemorning]

Facebook is (literal) garbage

For the past 3 weeks, I've been running a little experiment on my Facebook feed. (Yes, I know, Facebook/Meta is terrible, but I have to be on there for work, so...)

Anyway, once or twice I day, I would go onto my FB feed and write down every single thing I saw for the first 60 posts in my feed. I didn't engage with any of the content in any way, I didn't like any posts or comment on anything so as to not influence the algorithm.

Then, I categorized all the posts into two categories: Stuff I Want to See (friends, pages I follow, groups I'm in) and Garbage (everything else).

This is the result:

Out of the 3,900 posts I saw, 2,715 (69.6%) were garbage.

When I tell people about this they nod knowingly and say, "Oh, the ads." But the ads were actually fine. All the ads I saw were either for local to me pages or events or for major brands. What was awful were the pages and groups that were suggested for me.

Imagine wading through a sea of the most anodyne, nostalgic garbage you've seen from the same pages over and over again. Cutesy DIY and craft projects, black and white historical photos of places I don't care about, sports teams I'm not interested in, weird celebrity before and after photos. By the end, I felt like there was something really awful happening to my brain for being doused in this pablum every day (and there probably was!).

Full breakdown:

Posts from friends: 5.3% My groups: 7.3% Pages I follow: 6.9% Suggested groups: 8.8% Suggested pages: 38.4% Ads: 18.3%

Everyone's algorithm will be different, of course, but I can confidently say that spending three weeks reading ALL of my FB posts makes me never want to spend time on my feed ever again.

[floralscented]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDAHLIA'S SWEET 23 !

my birthday is on a holiday this year & so i decided that i'm actually just going to celebrate forrrr the entire month! hehehe. in april, i will be posting a drabbie / one shot / fic update a day, all centric around jackles characters ( . . . but primarily, probably, soldier boy PLS. ) and i want to invite you to help guide it!

rules include :

must be jackles or a jackles character (and one i know) !

anyone can participate! you may send in a general idea for what you want me to write, or reserve a day and worry about the details of what you want written for a little later, without the stress of deciding now on the spot ! all reserved days are randomly chosen. unavailable days will be listed.

you don't have to have an april birthday to claim a day, but if you have an april birthday, please tell me !! you will get priority over that day being claimed <3 happy birthmonth to us !

don't request weird shit. i hope this went without saying but i am not a cnc / dubcon / w!ncest / anything along these lines safespace with my writing.

that being said, there's no limitations to what you could request except for the things above ! fluff, angst, smut, slowburn, enemies to lovers, familial, romantic, platonic, aus ⎯⎯ you name it !! go ham !!

i am starting the preparations and plannings for this now because a month long, daily ordeal is a lot !! and i wanna give myself as much room for success in this feat as possible <3

make a reservation ! bold are unavailable. 23/30 taken !

april 1 . april 2 . april 3 . april 4 . april 5 . april 6 . april 7 . april 8 . april 9 . april 10 . april 11 . april 12 . april 13 . april 14 . april 15 . april 16 . april 17 . april 18 . april 19 . april 20 (happy birthday to me!) . april 21 . april 22 . april 23 . april 24 . april 25 . april 26 . april 27 . april 28 . april 29 . april 30 .

& finally, thank you, if you decide to participate !! i love the thought of celebrating my birthday (month. LMFAO.) with everyone, and thought i could give back in the process! not that i won't accept birthday gifts in return HAHAHA.

[cyborgartalchemist2]

Need to point some queer rage at something, white cishet persecution kink it is.

I absolutely despise this kind of cishet nonsense. And here's why-

White cishets recognize that being different is an automatic point against the rest of society. They know that marginalized groups are disqualified by the oppressors for the most basic of human experiences like finding love.

But they stop at that.

Because instead of letting that information strike a nerve they see 'a thrilling experience' to write/read about. The forbidden romance. A star crossed love doomed to be denied by all around the lovers. But, instead of including some form of marginalization like... one of them having a different skin color, being transgender, or disabled and considered incapable( incorrect) of fulfilling their half of the relationship, one of the lovers is a different species(still white and nearly human, think twilight or acotar) or this kind of rubbish where the only disqualifier for their relationship is that doctor/patient is frowned upon and can have power imbalances... not sure if it goes against the hypocratic oath, but it does have the possibility for damaging reputations..

Why make up these ridiculous reasons for a romance to be forbidden instead of taking from the laundry list of actual reasons a couple might experience aggression and refusal of acceptance?

Because they want the drama, pain, and angst that comes with marginalized romances without losing their privilege. They want "I love you, even though I know I shouldn't." But they want it without having to dismantle their own prejudices or do any work to understand that the reasons that make some romances forbidden are wrong and harmful. They don't want to admit that society is full of bigotry and prejudice, they just want dramatic romances where against all odds, the lovers come together.

I know white women who write these are often disadvantaged by being ciswomen, but it doesn't erase the fact they make up arbitrary and downright ridiculous barriers for their white het romances. It's an insult more than anything. It's someone saying "I recognize that some love is denied by the systems of power in place, but instead of accepting that I can do something about it by discussibg it, I'm going to appropriate the energy and flavor that comes with forbidden romances but with completely normal and acceptable members of society who would never experience this kind of denial. Simply because I want to read something dramatic without feeling guilty or being confronted with my own privilege."

And don't get me started on those made up slurs... like... balleraggot is disgusting. Tell me you don't understand the creation and use of slurs without telling me. Honestly... where did 'gonna make slurs that are ripped off of real and truly harmful slurs' sound like an even remotely good idea?

[copperbadge]

Hi CB! I've followed your work for a while and I'm curious - I've seen that you do many times on a repetitive and consistent manner.......how? By the love of gods, how? What is this magic? Is it inherited? Genetic? Signed, please-halp

Hey, thanks for reading! I think you may have missed a word in the ask so I am taking a best guess at what you were inquiring about, but I'm guessing you were asking about consistent and repeat ability to write and post fiction? Gosh that sounds egotistical of me but I used to be known for being prolific and I think I'm still known for, if not having the BEST prose, at least having the ability to be of consistent quality. :)

The good news is that it is neither magic nor genetic, and one of those things that anyone can achieve -- it just takes time and a bit of effort. The secret is that I wasn't always even a good writer; what I have always been is a passionate writer. My early fanfic, from fourteen to eighteen, was actually very bad. But I did it a lot. It's hard to get truly good at something if you aren't passionate about it because you won't want to do it so often that you get good at it, but fortunately I fell in love with it. And once you're good at something you do want to do it all the time!

In my teens I wrote absolutely tons of fanfic, and if you were to read it (you can't, it's not under my name and some of it is lost to the ages) you could actually see me improving, because I started out so terribly bad. We're talking "Multiple people speaking in one paragraph" bad. But I kept writing and took feedback and when I went to college I took classes (I had a kind of unofficial minor in playwriting, including having several short plays produced) and when I came back to fandom after college I was...decent. And this you can trace, if you start reading at the start of my AO3 account where all my fanfic since 2003 is stashed; you can see I used to be more awkward in my prose, my pacing wasn't as good, what I considered relevant to include for the story wasn't as polished as it is now.

So, there are almost five million words on my AO3 account, which doesn't include anything I wrote before 2003; I'm forty-five and started writing when I was just shy of fifteen. This will be my thirtieth year writing fiction in April. If you spend that much time writing, even if you don't necessarily TRY to improve, you will learn and grow. And you learn how your own creative process works and how to wrestle with that, so you become consistent simply because you gain a kind of mental muscle-memory.

The thing is, quality and consistency is nice, but it's not necessary to enjoy either fandom or fanfic, or even writing. If you love to write, that's the best thing; you will bring yourself joy. It's one reason I never even considered making a career as a writer, because I didn't want my joy to become my job. That's not to shit on professional writers by ANY means, I have several as friends and of course I admire many well-known authors. But for me, it was important to preserve the parts I loved best, and I didn't think I could do that and still try to get a paycheck from it.

So the trick of quality, consistent writing is to love it enough to do it until you develop your skills and grow as an artist. But the real trick of any artistic expression is to love it for itself, to put heart into your work, and to do everything you can to protect what gives you pleasure. Quality and consistency are nice but if you love what you do they really, eventually, cease to matter. :)

[bots-and-cons]

Could we get headcanons for Soundwave and Predaking with a human companion--probably one that started out as a prisonerbut eventually evolved into a pet/friend--who's a musician skilled in multiple instruments like acoustic guitar, violin, flute, etc. and will play music and sing for them? (Bonus cute idea, if they ever go out somewhere and find bamboo growing, they cut a chute of it and make it into a functional flute like Wei Wuxian from Mo Dao Zu Shi)

A/N: I'm at my mom's again, so I don't have much time to write, but I'll try to write while my little siblings are in school. I wanted to post something, since it's been a while again :D

~Predaking~

Before Predaking gained sentience, he was already enamored with you playing your guitar and singing

He really enjoyed listening to it, since he found it calming and beautiful and just enjoyable in general

You kinda had a habit of hiding from Starscream by going to Predaking, because Screamer was clearly scared of him and Predaking was protective of you

After he transformed for the first time, he was very forward about asking you to sing and play for him, because he likes it so much

It really sounded more like a command than a request, but you were glad to comply, since it was something you enjoyed doing anyway

Predaking's favorite instrument of yours is violin, he enjoys whatever you want to play for him, but he enjoys the violin the most

~Soundwave~

Soundwave is actually quite a big fan of human music, but he usually enjoys very fast-paced stuff like phonk or something like that

He had never actually heard anyone play the way you do, because he'd never heard single instrument live music before

It has such a different vibe than just listening to music from the internet, even if he has phenomenal sound systems and the quality is amazing

He really enjoys listening to you play and sing, but he never forced you or even asked you to do so

While he enjoys it, at the same time he doesn't really care if you're playing or not, because he can get work done either way

You've noticed he liked listening to you play and sing, so you do gladly do it, even though he doesn't ask

There's not really any external signs he likes the music, he doesn't hum or sway or dance or anything, he just vibes

[meleebites]

🧸 Hugs, kisses, snuggles, words. He's very warm.

🦢 "You need to stop snoring, Gorey. I'm a light sleeper." "I told you far too many times that I can sleep on the couch if you can't sleep with me!"

🍡 How many times have I answered this question? He has no nicknames for me, I call him everything in the book that isn't "babe", "bae" or "baby".

🪽 Still working this part out but damn was it ever warm and comforting. He deserved it. His soft lips deserved it. <3

🪺 "Oh, he's pretty and he's nice and I kinda wanna hug him." to "Most charming man alive, 10/10, I'd marry him and start a new family with him."

🪷 Picture a divorced middle-aged man starting a selfship blog. That's literally it.

🧊 Proper grammar, emojis (particularly hearts), no extreme tones. Has autocorrect.

🍋‍🟩 Probably something cheesy. "My beloved Kannon ♡" "MY PRECIOUS BUTTERCUP ♡"

💍 We'd get married ASAP if we didn't care about how long we've been a thing for. Asgore would LOVE to get married, as his last divorce really affected him and he wants to get back what he once had, but he'd be nervous about me leaving him like he normally is. I'm a bit less ready for marriage, as I have less experience and am younger, but I want our bond to get even stronger so nothing could tear us apart.

🪻 In source his favourite is golden flower tea. He'll drink any herbal or floral tea. He probably doesn't drink them cold usually.

☁️ We don't actually do much, come to think of it. We just coexist and breathe in each other's air. And eat. And sleep. And play games. And go on walks. And make out. And cuddle. And travel. Or something close.

🛍 He always gives me flowers. They mean a lot to him. He gives me ones that remind him of me. I mostly get him food, or I make art for him, or whatever he asks me to get him... but if he does that, he's in a great mood. He usually tells me not to buy or get him anything as he says he is undeserving of gifts. He isn't.

🫧 Skipping this one yet again as it's difficult for me.

🪼 Writing fanfiction is something I do to cheer myself up. I'm good at writing (I think) so I always have a fanfiction I'm working on. Unfortunately, I don't really share these as the contents are usually sexual and might offend some people. It's not proshippy though, that stuff's gross.

misc. selfship asks ❤︎

thank you for 400! <3 answer these asks however you'd like, but please practice reblog karma if applicable! 💌

🧸 - how would your f/o try to comfort you if you were upset? 🦢 - what's a petty argument you'd have with your f/o? 🍡 - what nicknames do you have for each other?

🪽 - what was your first kiss with your f/o like, if you've had it?

🪺 - describe your f/os perception of you before you got together, compared to what it is now! 🪷 - if the roles were reversed and your f/o was the one selfshipping with you, what would their blog look like?

🧊 - how would your f/o text you? would they use proper punctuation/capitalization, or type more informally?

🍋‍🟩 - similarly, what would your contact names be for each other?

💍 - how do you and your f/o feel about marriage?

🪻 - what's your f/o's coffee or drink order?

☁️ - how does your f/o like to spend their free time with you? 🛍️ - what would your f/o get you as a gift? additionally, what would you get for them?

🫧 - what song(s) remind you of your f/o?

🪼 - what’s your favorite way to feel closer to your f/o?

proship/comship/neutral dni

[darlingdaisyfarm]

You know I've been meaning to ask.. is everything okay? I mean your pfp is blank. I understand you're uploading, but I also want to make sure you're okay

idk if i have some mental connection with you, anon, because how else i can explain that you sent this ask right when i felt so bad??? but yeah i should really put a pfp, i just can’t choose the right pic and at same time im lazy….

honestly i promised myself i wouldn’t vent online and irl because i don’t wanna be annoying or be the kind of person people get tired of. but i guess i just feel emotional rn sorry again

well 2025 kinda kicked me in the face already LMAO, it already reminded me that some people will always pick someone else and some things are just not meant to be yours. i just got reminded once again that i’m super replaceable to person i really loved and cared about. so now im realising that i was just there to pass the time until they found smth better, someone better. and they did, they did and that’s just unfair for me, i literally loved this person for 10 years and that's how i ended up

not exactly the fresh start i was hoping for lol

been feeling like a ghost in my own life lately so i guess i made this blog to just be somewhere, to talk to people, to share things i love, to feel like i exist in some small way. to find friends? idk. sometimes i wonder if i’m just taking up space here, but deleting this blog feels dramatic so whatever. although i thought bout this a lot and still think about it, but i guess im just being... yeah, dramatic, i mean i am, ive been told. so, i don't know, deleting feels rude ? and i don’t wanna be rude, i hate being rude :( i still hesitate every time i post though. and i don’t want to be that person who craves reassurance but damn, it gets lonely and im embarrassed to even say that rn

+ last year drained me so much that i couldn’t even start anything for a whole month. its about my work, i just felt stuck, exhausted before i even tried. things are getting better now with my work, though. it’s actually tied to people and honestly, i love that?? i mean, i love people very much. in general. so whenever i meet someone kind or understanding in my work, it lifts my mood

but when it comes to writing or fics, i feel like i’m always fighting myself. actually i enjoy writing, ive been writing since… 14? 13? so i try, i push through, but nothing ever feels right lately. i don’t know if it’s just a phase or if this is how it’s always going to be. why i always feel like i could’ve done better or that maybe i shouldn’t have posted at all

anyways….. i don’t usually post stuff like this. i really don’t want to be like this, i hate sounding so negative, i really do. i promised myself i wouldn’t. i usually just keep things to myself, but you seemed like you genuinely cared, sweetheart and i figured i might as well be honest, i appreciate your worry! thank u sm angel! ♡