#but even so one they apparently have perfectly functional doors

[beardedhandstoadshark]

Genuine question because I‘ve seen this hc around…not frequently enough to be fanon per se, but often enough to notice it-

Where did the whole "8bit Link lives in a wasteland/Hyrule is a barely livable wasteland“ thing come from?

As in, nature is dead, the water is toxic, Link‘s shunned by the people, that sort of Mad Max/Fallout type wasteland. Because if you play the games or even just look at the maps, that’s not the case at all? Like, here’s the Zelda 1 map:

Those parts circled in cyan? They’re almost all trees. Out of all screens, only 4 don’t qualify as woods, 2 of which are Fairy Fountains. The other two areas are a clearing in the woods and a pathway to the (extremely tiny) desert, respectively. Both however still have very green trees. Ironically the most "dead“ part of the tree areas is the Lost Woods of all places, on the very right just under the graveyard lol.

The upper half of the map doesn’t have trees because it’s a giant mountain- a giant mountain with a waterfall leading to the giant lake and presumably where the woods underneath get their water from, so probably not murder-juice, and the lower right corner‘s a beach that (Just like the desert) still has some sort of functioning ecosystem going on given the enemies are probably just in their natural habitat there.

But the real kicker is Adventure of Link.

The light green‘s grasslands, Hyrule Field style, and the dark green tiles are very dense, lush woods. But then there’s a third type of green tile, the ones circled. Stretching acres of plants that have grown so big they not only hide enemies from sight, but even slow Link down.

Those are flower fields. (Swamps. Turns out they’re swamps! Not as conventionally pretty as flower fields, but just as much filled with life!)

I don’t think there’s a single other version of Hyrule that has as many flowers as this one, bar perhaps the Switch games. But even then, proportionally speaking AoL‘s got more percentages of land covered.

Maybe the water isn’t poisoned but the opposite, because there’s definitely fish living in those ponds and just like the plants, they’re very big. May I dare say they’re chonky bois. Very annoying ones, probably the enemy I died most to, but very chonky, and presumably getting a lot of food. Plus, the towns have fountains, and there’s a cave with a healing water spring somewhere.

Speaking of towns! Links not being chased out at all, quite the opposite in fact! My man’s getting premium healthcare, for free! And sometimes the people you can talk to call him a hero! Teach him sick moves and cool spells for his quest! One even gifts him a magic container! That’s like a whole heart container, but for magic! Also, once again, some of the towns have fountains. Therefore, they have a properly working water system of some sort, which means the structures gotta have been in place for a while.

That fact is further cemented if you look back at the map, as those yellow lines are roads. Real, actual roads where monsters can’t fight you. Every single town minus one is connected to the road. (And Old Kasuto is connected). This land is better connected than every other place in this entire series. Half of them don’t even have roads!

In many ways, 8bitrule resembles Switchrule a lot- most likely because it was a deliberate choice to go "back to the roots“, not just to the beginning, but also to the only other open world games in the series.

And just like its grand tech-filled counterpart, the Kingdom of Hyrule might be in ruins, but the land of Hyrule- it’s not a wasteland, it’s thriving.

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Part 1

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Doctor!Reader

Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

A/N: Just a little idea I had after seeing all the TikToks and now I am yanked onto the Ghost train. I used to watch my brother play the game but that was a while ago so bear with me here. (advice or little pointers are much appreciated). I also might make this into a short story or add another part to it, let me know y’all. Comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings: language, fluff, angst

You were assigned to the team as their personal physician, as requested by the higher ups in order to make sure the soldiers stayed in best health, both physically and mentally. You used to work at your local hospital before you were offered the position.

You knew the dangers and the risks involved, but you were in debt and had student loans that needed to paid. So after much hesitation, you accepted the offer, eventually being convinced by the fat paycheck.

You remembered the day you were first introduced to the team, the way everyone's eyes glued to you like a hawk, their large forms towering over your small frame in the room while you picked at the skin around your nails in nervous habit.

They were curious to say the least, wondering what the hell someone like you was doing in a place like this. And since when did they get the chance to have a full on doctor to treat them, usually they were offered combat medics. You had guts, that's for sure.

You on the other hand were nervous, frightened even, with the thought of living in the same quarters of men wrapped up within the tumults and afflictions of war without a single clue as to their current psychological state. You had seen the worst of men and humanity growing up and you no idea who these soldiers were, what they were capable of, or what their intentions might be. Maybe you should have requested that briefing before you hopped on that plane.

Amongst all of their gazes, you had failed to notice a certain masked individual in the far back of the room, his form shrouded amongst the others as he studied you. His eyes, hidden underneath the grooves of his mask that only seemed to be darkened by where he stood blocked by the only source of light, watched your every movement, from every gesture of your perfectly manicured fingers to every smoothing of the lint-free fabric of your sweater to the way you kept shifting your weight from one foot to another.

One thing was apparent; during the entire length the high ranking officer next to you introduced you and debriefed the men on what was expected and such, you had not uttered a single word, minus the small polite and somewhat strained smile on your face while your eyes told another story. Why the military truly hired you, he may never know.

After being shown your little office and workspace including your room, you were quick to settle in, decorating the area to the best of your abilities with what you had taken with you from back home in order to bring some life into the dull and two-dimensional area. If anyone questioned you on it you would just say that your own sanity is extremely vital in order to ensure quality treatment for your patients.

Once everything in your office was set up, you threw on your white coat and retreated yourself to your office space, sitting at your desk and hastily going over the files that you had completely forgotten about that were given to you regarding the soldiers' previous health before they come pouring in reporting symptoms of god knows what. Best be prepared. Jesus how many bullet wounds can a single individual have.

The soldiers were advised to do their routine physical examinations with you so the first one to come waltzing in through your office door was none other than Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a cheeky grin plastered on his face and much too excited for his own good. That boy's got a crush on you I swear. To be honest I'd be lying if I said the whole team didn't have a schoolboy crush on you.

The men were quick to warm up to you, relieved to have a gentle soul in their midst after all the shit that goes down outside, you were like breath of fresh air. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to bring a doctor on board, as quiet and reserved as you were. They speculated you were just shy, the reason why you never spoke much, not knowing that you just couldn't hold a conversation if your life depended on it, especially around those you weren't close with. At first they couldn't tell because of your major rbf.

During their routine check-ups or whatever issue they had going on, they would do most of the talking, which was a good thing on your end because it helped you to piece together their temperaments. Thank the lord no one is a psycho murderer. Oh wait.

Soap is the most chattiest of them all. Boy wouldn't shut his mouth when he sat in your office. He's super flirty. But not as flirty as Alejandro.

Ghost on the other hand was reluctant to step into your office for his check-ups. After all he was usually the one to tend to his own wounds or just push through whatever it is that is going on, so he did not know what all the fuss was about in having to get his health checked. So when you call out his last name more than once might I add, clipboard in hand and scanning the area for whoever looks to be headed in your direction, he can't help but heave out a sigh, trudging over to where you stood, your clean white coat a stark contrast to the rest of the environment as you leaned against your door to hold it open.

You muttered out a small hello to which he let out a small huff as you moved aside to let the man enter, watching him walk into your office and seat himself down. That man intimidated you a bit not gonna lie. Not only could you not see his face but he had also not said a single word to you. And not to mention he was absolutely huge as compared to you, even more so in person. You also had heard a lot of stories from the other guys.

"How is your day?" You ask, shutting the door behind you as you briefly read over his previous but extremely short records on your clipboard. There's barely anything on this man. Does he not get ill?

Ghost is quiet at first, watching your eyes scan over the clipboard and curious to know just what is on those papers before your eyes flit up to meet his and catch him off guard, which causes him to answer abruptly. "Fine."

"Okey dokes." You give a quick smile.

Did you just say okey dokes.

Clearing your throat, you go over to where he sat and set the clipboard down on the table next to you beside your laptop. You didn’t have to read his body language to know he did not want to be here at all. So you were going to do him a favor and make the appointment as quick as possible.

"So do you have any allergies to any medications, any allergies I need to know of?" Your fingers hover over the keyboard of your laptop as you turn to face him, only to be met with an expressionless skull of a mask and the expressionless eyes beneath. Oh boy this session was going to be something. You had heard of how he had never shown his face, so you made sure not to question on it.

"No ma'am."

"Are you currently taking any medication?" You ask the same standard set of questions you have asked every single patient of yours, typing as you go.

"No ma'am."

Any previous illness? Disease?"

"No."

The more you ask him questions, the more he strangely finds it easier to answer. Your voice is surprisingly soft, warm even, like the start of autumn, and he finds it comforting to listen to. Or maybe it's just some technique doctors learn during training in order to relax their patients.

"Do you have any history of smoking, alcohol, or illicit drug use?"

".......sometimes I'll have a smoke, and a glass of bourbon." He's almost waiting for you to hand him a pamphlet about the dangers of smoking.

"How many times would you say?" You ask for details, your eyes still glued to the screen of your laptop as you await his answer.

Ghost is a bit confused by the amount of questions you ask, but he also has not been to the doctor's so how would he know. "Um I don't know."

"A rough estimate is fine."

"Not much, maybe 2-3 times a week or so when I'm not on duty."

"How many times a week do you exercise?" You feel silly for asking this question to a man like him but it's all part of the procedure and you almost pray he doesn't hate you for it.

"Every day." So no pamphlet?

Jesus this man has more discipline than you. You can barely get up in the morning.

"Okayyy." You mutter out, more to yourself as you enter in his responses.

Ghost finds himself watching you from his seat on the chair, his eyes tracing over and studying your features as you type away on your laptop. He thinks you're really pretty but either doesn't want to admit it or just flat out does not know that he finds you attractive.

There are certain details about you that he can't help but find himself intrigued by, like the small black outline flower tattoo on your hand that was located near the area of your thumb, running along the curve to meet the knuckle of your forefinger. He's curious as to the meaning behind it, if there was one. He wanted to ask what type of flower it was, perhaps it was your favorite? It would give him an idea as to what flowers to get you.

"Have you ever been hospitalized, had any surgical procedures done or been treated for any chronic conditions?"

"No." Ghost shakes his head before remembering his wounds from combat, wondering if that is something you should know. "Just the bullet and knife wounds from combat. Nothing too serious."

Jesus fucking christ. You were willing to bet he treated those wounds himself.

Ghost is not a fan of hospitals. Pretty sure this dude just looks up YouTube tutorials on how to fix himself instead of just going to the doctor like a normal human being.

"When was the last time you visited your general practitioner.......or just any doctor in general?" You ask the last question, willing to bet it never.

There was silence on his end as you looked towards him waiting for an answer, the clicking of your keyboard coming to a stop and only loudening the silence. Ghost could not remember the last time he had been to a hospital or even scheduled a visit. And as you looked at him, your eyes almost staring into his soul, still waiting for a response, he could not help but feel a tad bit embarrassed, as if you were judging him for not being a responsible adult. Also it didn't help that you were goddamn pretty.

"I'm gonna take that as a very long time, the last time being the prehistoric ages, correct?" There's the slightest hint of a tease in your voice.

"Uh.......yes ma'am." Ghost squints his eyes at you as you go back to typing on your keyboard. Did you just.............did you just call him…..He does not know how to feel about that. Did you just try to crack a joke? He always thought doctors were the serious type.

"Okay then." You straighten up, grabbing your sphygmomanometer off the table and turning yourself to face him. "Is it okay if I check your blood pressure?"

The man is stunned. No one has ever asked his permission for anything before. He's so used to either taking orders or giving orders that he doesn't know how to respond and stares at you for a moment, forcing his brain to process what to do next before eventually giving a nod.

"Is it okay if you take your jacket off so I can get a clearer reading?"

He nods again, still in shock as he takes off his jacket, leaving him in his black long sleeve thermal. He's almost thankful he wasn't in his full tactical gear, having to imagine you standing there waiting for him as he removes every single piece of equipment off his torso.

"Thank you." You give him a short smile, placing your hand under his tricep and gently lifting his arm in order to wrap the inflatable cuff around his bicep. You almost blush at the mere size of this man's arms. "Now you're just going to feel a slight pressure okay."

Ghost can't help but feel a slight warmth spread to his cheeks at the way you handle him with such care, as if he were the small delicate thing and not you. Now he knows why the others were so giddy after leaving your office.

As you place your stethoscope on his forearm near his elbow to listen to his blood pumping through the artery, your other hand pumping air into the cuff using the inflation bulb with your eyes glued to the numbers on the gauge, he can't help but to notice the old Donald Duck watch that sat at your wrist, the ones with the moving arms and the vintage style black leather straps.

And as he further investigated your attire, he noticed a few other details, like the colorful glittery badge reel in the shape of a pill container with the words "licensed drug dealer" printed on it that was attached to your scrub top, the glitter sticker with the words "I'm nicer than my face looks" as well a few Disney character stickers and the little frog looking keychain that hung off of your badge. He was wondering what the hell that thing was. Your accessories were awfully colorful for a general doctor. Something was telling him you either used to work with families or children. Whatever the hell managed to bring you to such a drastic change.

You brought him out of his thoughts as you shifted from your position, unwrapping the inflatable cuff from around his bicep and placing it back on the table before typing the results into your laptop. "Okay," You adjust the ear pieces of your stethoscope back into your ears as you turn back to him, "I'm going to perform some auscultations, which is just listening to the sounds of your heart and your lungs so if you could just sit up straight and relax that would be wonderful."

Simon straightens up his posture as you place your free hand on his shoulder, at this point you're not sure if you're steadying him or yourself, your fingertips just barely grazing across the bottom of his neck. He doesn't know why but, it's as if your fingers are directly touching the skin underneath, despite the fabric of his mask that separated your fingers from his skin. Your hands feels hot, like really hot and he has no clue why.

The soldier only feels his cheeks warm up even more so now as you inch closer to carefully place the diaphragm of your stethoscope on his chest, your head tilted and your eyes lowered to the floor as you listen for his heart beat. He gets a whiff of your perfume and he finds himself drawn to it. You smell like something along the lines of jasmine petals, geranium, myrrh, frankincense, and a hint of sandalwood. Now he definitely knows why the others are fawning over you. Poor Simon is praying you don't hear how his heart is nearly racing. He does not know why he is feeling this way and it slightly bothers him in the way that he has no clue what it is he is feeling.

He catches how your brows slightly furrow at the center and his heart skips a beat. Now he's fucking embarrassed and this man rarely ever is embarrassed. Maybe he's even starting to panic. Can you tell? Do you know? You open your mouth to say something but he quickly interrupts he just got back from a run so you dismiss it with a shrug, placing the diaphragm on his back now and asking him to give you a couple of deep breaths.

"Okay. Take a deep breathe in, breathe it out. Breathe in, and out."

He complies with your instructions, breathing in slow and deep breaths as you go from one side of his back to another.

"Good job." You remove the earpieces and let your stethoscope hang around your neck as you go back to your table, recording in more info. Hang on did you just, did you just tell a grown 6'4" man good job.

Even Simon is confused. Like bitch.

"Okay, so we're all done with that." You inform him, before going over to one of the drawers and sliding it open. "Now if you don't mind, I would like to have some blood work done on you, just to make sure there are no underlying issues that need to be taken care of."

Simon is silent so you turn to him. "Is that okay, Ghost, is that what the others call you? Would you like me to call you Ghost?"

Goddamn you're too polite. "That's fine by me ma'am."

"Perfect. Now is it okay if I take your blood sample?"

Ghost nods, so you grab the tools necessary and place them on the table next to you.

"Could you please roll your sleeve up and make a fist for me? Thank you." You ask him once you sanitize your hands and throw on a pair of fresh gloves. You grab the tourniquet and catch sight of the tattoos that cover his forearm as you tie the tourniquet around his arm above the elbow. You're curious to know the story behind them but you have a feeling he's not one for storytelling or just talking in general so you remain silent. You tear open the small packet of the alcohol wipe and apply it to the area. The chemical is cool against his skin as you sanitize the area before letting it air dry. Simon can't help but notice how small your hands are.

Simon watches you intently as you work, the way you are so focused and so precise with each step, and yet so gentle. It's almost cute.

"You're just going to feel a little pinch." You tell him in a soft tone, a tone you were used to using on all your little patients before inserting the needle into his vein. As if the man hasn't been shot or stabbed and god knows what multiple times before.

At this point Simon doesn't even notice the needle in his arm, he's too focused on the details of your face. He can sense that you're nervous around him and he feels bad. Even though he's just met you, the last thing he wants is for you to feel scared or unsafe around him. And even though this whole situation is awkward for him since he never was a fan of visiting the hospital, you're their physician, and at the end of the day you're there to patch them up. So he comments on your dark circles, thinking you haven't gotten any rest since you arrived here. "You look tired."

"............that's just my face." You give him that distinct smile, the same smile you have given anyone who ever commented on them as you connect the vacutainers to the needle to draw his blood, your eyes glued to the dark red liquid seeping through the thin clear tube before pouring into the sample tube.

If you thought it was quiet before, well you are most definitely wrong because the silence is absolutely deafening now.

Simon nearly punches himself for his stupidity. Why in the bloody hell did he say that of all things. He wanted to tell you he liked your dark circles but decided to bite his tongue instead. Now he's definitely not going to say another word. Better yet, once he leaves your office, he's not coming back. He's just going to avoid you at all costs in order to save both you and himself the embarrassment. He's willing to bet the others handled this way better than him.

"But I suppose I am a bit jet-lagged though. Haven't really gotten any rest since I got on that plane." You add. "I appreciate your concern."

You most definitely said that to make him feel better about himself, Simon thinks to himself as he stares at the wall and avoids your face. There was no other reason.

Once your done drawing his blood you ask him to hold the piece of cotton pad down onto where the needle was punctured as you open up the drawer where the gauze is located. "Do you have a favorite color?"

Did you just ask him his favorite color? Simon stares at you blankly. Were all doctors this odd?

"I'm guessing you like black?" You pull out the roll of black gauze, displaying it in front of you with the most deadpanned expression possible.

You've got jokes. Simon thinks to himself. If he had looked a little closer he would have noticed the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

"You should see the colors the others picked." You tease as you wrap the gauze around his arm at the elbow, making sure it isn't too tight but also not loose enough to the point where the cotton pad underneath slips out.

Simon narrows his eyes at you. Bloody fucking hell. The others picked a color?

You're pretty sure Gaz requested you get an Elmo print one he saw online once somewhere. Soap asked if there a print of the Scotland flag available. The look of hurt on his face when you said there wasn't so you improvised and gave him both the blue and white gauze. You gave him a Dum-Dum lollipop to make him feel better. The others may have also gotten a lollipop as they left your office, especially after seeing the special treatment that Soap received. Were they jealous? Maybe.

Once you tell the man he is all good to go and that you will call him once you're done getting the results from his blood sample, he nearly jumps out of the chair and bolts out of your office. He prays some unknown miracle happens and that his blood sample magically disappears so that he doesn't have to face you, firmly believing he insulted you and that you thought he called you ugly when that is not what he intended. I am telling you this man does not know how to compliment. They should make a guidebook for dummies specialized just for him.

You watch him disappear out your door with a quirked brow. Well that was fucking weird.

When Simon leaves the area he finds Soap lounging about on a chair with a sucker in his mouth.

"The hell is that?" Simon squints at the sergeant.

"Mph mph." Soap's voice comes out muffled.

"What?"

Soap pauses and turns to see Ghost looming over him. "It's a Dum-Dum."

"A fuckin what?"

"Y/n said they're called Dum-Dums." Soap pulls it out of his mouth, twisting the stick of the lollipop around in his fingers as if he were inspecting it. "This one's a cotton candy flavor."

"She gave you a fuckin lollie?"

"It's pure dead brilliant I tell ya. Why, did she not give ya one?"

More silence. Simon would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a tad bit butthurt.

"Maybe you scared her." Soap jokes.

Simon lets out a grumbled incoherent huff and walks away.

Soap just shrugs and pops the lollipop back in his mouth.

Simon has a feeling he is going to go to bed thinking about his actions.

Part 2

[cat3ch1sm]

hihi! i saw ur requests were open and i was wondering if u could do killua and gon with a reader whos a silly, clumsy, and kinda dumb mf <3

except readers very powerful, on level or even more than them bc reader is a boss fr 🙏

this can be hcs or a oneshot or whatever u want!

(SORRY IF THIS MAKES NO SENSE LMFAO)

☘️~ DW POOKIE I UNDERSTOOD U PERFECTLY!! thanks 4 requestingg ily <33

gn!reader

𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐰 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 <𝟑

୨⎯ 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐚 ⎯୧

killua usually doesn’t have a lot of patience for people with your personality , but he’s honestly seen what you’re actually capable of so he’s more like.. weirded out

as in like, killua knows you’re crazy powerful and generally super capable- so how the hell do you literally manage to trip over every minor obstacle in your path

but tbh gon has kinda warmed him up to those kinds of people. outside of battle situations it’s basically him making sure you and gon don’t get kidnapped or killed or something

and the contrast between your personality during battle and your personality on just a regular day chilling with him and gon is like insane to him. one minute you’re covered in blood and utilizing blazing nen in ways he didn’t even realize were possible, and next you’ve pulled up like a really stupid meme or picture of a cat on your phone and just giggling like an idiot while showing him (and very much still bloodied).

killua asked you about it once and you just kinda gave him that thousand yard stare and he was just like… nvm

apparently your higher functions just shut off after a certain time 😭😭

but back to the clumsy part. because it’s genuinely insane how careless you can be on a daily basis. worse than gon.

“watch out for the fucking pole, y/n!”

“are you even paying attention?”

“what the hell did you even just trip over, you dumbass? there’s nothing even there.”

“holy shit can you be careful for once??”

“I literally watched you take down 10 chimera ants without breaking a sweat and you can’t even pull a push door, you idiot?”

“no, i’m not letting go of your arm because that’s the tenth time you’ve tripped in the past fifteen minutes. you’ll probably kill yourself if i don’t hold your ass up.”

“way to go, dumbass, now you cut your leg. maybe you’ll be less stupid next time” (while begrudgingly fixing you up)

along with being clumsy you can be super absent-minded and get distracted easily. like gon and killua will just be walking and talking and then suddenly stop and realize you stopped like ten feet ago to stare at absolutely fucking nothing.

when they backtrack to get you they’ll be like “wtf are you staring at” and you’ll just snap out of a daze and they’ll realize you weren’t even staring at anything in particular, you just…zoned out😭😭😭

“y/n. y/n? hellooooo? ugh… nevermind.”

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 𝐠𝐨𝐧 ࿐ྂ

we all know gon isn’t actually the silly, slightly air headed kid from the early days of hxh, obviously- but when he’s just with you and killua and there isn’t any danger, you both basically act the same way. believe me yall got killua stressinggg 😭😭

u guys just fuel each others’ silly antics. and while he isn’t as clumsy as you can be, when u guys are together you guys r genuinely a two man wrecking team. you guys are constantly doing silly and sometimes stupid stuff and not at all focusing.

far too many times you both have been walking or running beside each other and just stumbled over each other’s feet and fell to the ground like actual idiots.

you and gon both have the same tendency to get distracted easily. so basically the same scenario from killua’s hcs but you and gon lmfao

he’ll be walking looking at his phone or something and realize the both of you aren’t even beside him anymore.

“y/n? gon? where… you gotta be kidding me. guys. what the hell are you even looking at?!”

little Christmas head canon- you guys absolutely knocked down the tree at least twice.

[momodita]

snapshots. [—todoroki shouto]

TAGS / WARNINGS: pro hero shouto, gender neutral       reader, pining, lots of food talk (shouto feeds       reader a gyoza), pining, silly fluff WC: 1,000 NOTE: realizing i forgot to link the snapshots       masterlist but can’t do it now bc tungle       doesn’t update reblogged versions and       i’m a sucker for consistency… weeps…

✗ MINORS / AGELESS / BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

Your mouth goes dry when the door swings open.

“You’re here early.”

It’s Shouto, inclining his head in a curious tilt. Outside air rushes in. Were it not for the mid-winter freeze, you would’ve thought he warmed you with his Quirk: eager blood pounding in your ears to accompany the rush of heat from your throat to your face.

Remembering to speak, you offer a smile. “I wanted to help set up.” There’s a scarf tucked neatly against his throat—a fluffy, well-kept material—not for its functionality, surely, but completing a cozy, well-prepared look nevertheless.

Behind you, Katsuki barks out his own type of greeting. “The fuck you standin’ there for, Icy-Hot? Get inside already. And no distractions.” As acting head chef of tonight’s hot pot party, he offers no leeway to kitchen loiterers.

“Sorry, you arrived right in the middle of dinner prep.” You watch Shouto remove and arrange his shoes by the foyer step. “We’re just getting everything ready for later.”

“This early?” he asks. The sweater he’s wearing looks large and comfortable without being too baggy. Complimenting it gives you an excuse to stare as he shrugs off his coat.

“Bakugou’s making sure we have enough,” you say. “Said it was easier before everyone arrives.”

“He’s doing everything himself?”

You chuckle. “He wrangled some extra hands.”

(Denki had fallen into Katsuki’s clutches after trying to usher everyone out of the kitchen, only to be put to work prepping carrots. Then he tried slipping away when he thought no one was looking; a mistake not to be repeated under Katsuki’s hawkish supervision.)

Shouto doesn’t break away to mingle with Izuku and Tenya setting up decorations around the living room like you thought he would. After his greetings, he wanders over to watch you prep bok choy at the counter.

“My important task,” you joke, tossing the leaves into a colander for washing.

“I can help.”

Bakugou scoffs. His knife clicks against the cutting board. “You can’t even cut chives correctly,” he touts. Beside him, Eijirou claps a hand on his back, grinning.

“Don’t worry, Bakugou. No matter how you chop bok choy, it’s tasty!”

Shouto doesn’t look bothered by the heckling—he never does—though you imagine it would take devastatingly little for him to unintentionally goad the blond into blowing up tonight’s dinner.

“Here,” you hand him a paring knife, “it’s kind of small, but we’re only cutting off the ends.”

Shoulder to shoulder with him, the warmth in your face is an adversary that refuses to abate: a habit you’ve never been able to kick, cemented over the years. Amid the aromatic broths is the scent of his cologne. Your nose can’t help but pick it out, and your brain can’t help but latch onto it.

“Look at the two of you, so hard at work!” Hanta chirps, saddling up with a plate of steaming gyoza. He waves some chopsticks. “A snack for your troubles.”

They look and smell incredible: the bottoms are perfectly golden and crispy, the thin wrappers clings to the filling, shiny and slightly translucent. Apparently Katsuki made the filling earlier that morning. He’d already been assembling them by the time you arrived, barking out corrections to Denki and Eijirou.

“Here, Todoroki—say ahh.” Hanta grins, picks up a gyoza. You stifle a laugh: bemusement rarely makes Shouto’s expression, but your chest always flips when it does. It’s endearing, too, the way his cheek puffs as he chews. Your head tips to try and hide the smile. Hanta nudges you with an elbow. “You too, ahh—”

“Oi! Flat Face, quit yappin’, the apples’re gonna brown if you leave ‘em out.”

“Coming, coming! So scary, Kacchan,” Hanta grins, leaving the plate of gyoza on the counter. “Juice is right there if ya want it.” He departs with a wave.

“Sero’s taking care of the snacks,” you explain. “Insisted on making apple bunnies.”

Shouto blinks. He’s staring at the plate of gyoza.

“They’re good,” he gestures, “you should try one.”

“I’ll be eating my fill when the prep is done, don’t worry,” you say. It’s a tempting thought: homemade gyoza are best when they’re hot. But prep is almost done, you can wait a minute longer.

Shouto, on the other hand, decides that is not the case. He picks one up with the chopsticks.

“Ahh.” Mimicking Hanta with a monosyllabic tone, he presents it with a completely blank expression. Your hand jumps to muffle the laugh that escapes; you almost angle away—a split second thought your body prepares to follow through with.

Realistically, though—selfishly—you know there won’t be another chance to monopolize his space like this when everyone else arrives. And the gyoza looks so good, it would be a shame to refuse.

With a murmur of thanks, you lean in. The outside has cooled some, but the filling has not. It’s savory and juicy. Your eyes squeeze shut with a satisfied, trilling hum.

“Hot.” You huff instinctively against your palm, reaching for a drink. “But good. Have you made gyoza before, Todoroki?”

Shouto’s eyes flutter a blink, chest expanding with a breath.

“Once,” he says, chin tilting. You’re almost too distracted by his eyelashes: the curve of them casting gentle shadows on his cheeks. “I tried to fold some with my siblings.”

“‘Tried to’, huh?” you muse, smile stretching easily. “How’d they come out?”

Shouto’s mouth quirks. “The ones that didn't have filling spill everywhere were alright.” You laugh. “And you?”

“I have a couple times. Not recently. The success… varied,” you admit, sheepish. “It takes more skill to make gyoza than I thought. You gotta have good technique to fold the wrappers—they look good when they’re uniform. Maybe your sister will teach you if you ask,” you suggest lightly, snapping apart bok choy leaves that weren’t separated by the knife.

“I will,” he says, and adds, “When I get better, I’ll teach you.” A little thrill dances up your spine.

“Yeah,” your chest is light, “I’d like that.”

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for Sam; further progress in "Match is technically also a Luthor".

The thing parked outside is . . . theoretically a towncar. Theoretically. 

Match doesn’t actually think towncars are typically equipped with obvious armor and subtly “concealed” weaponry as accents, though. At least not the kind that’s clearly designed to handle open warfare, anyway. There are tanks he’s seen that were less prepared for open warfare.

“Right on schedule, Mr. Luthor,” the chauffeur says, then holds the car door open for Luthor as the bodyguard slips into the front passenger seat. Match . . . doesn’t actually know what he’s expected to do here. Obviously the chauffeur’s going to be the one driving, but he’s never ridden in a car; only the kind of transport vehicles the Agenda uses, most of which are military-issue or at least militarized designs. 

The chauffeur raises a pointed eyebrow at him, still holding the door open. Luthor’s already settled into the back of the towncar and seems to be occupied with skimming the contents of a tablet that was left on one of the seats. 

Match . . . doesn’t have any orders. Or even instructions. Or–anything. 

He’s supposed to get in the car, he thinks. It’s the logical deduction, that he’s supposed to do that. 

But no one’s told him to do that. 

Technically, he could still kill any one of them. Kill all three of them, if he’s careful about it. Luthor isn’t going to be able to pull out any kryptonite if he’s having a TTK-induced massive stroke. Technically, he could kill them all and just go back into the facility and–

“‘Joseph’ seems appropriate, but also implies I’m willing to share,” Luthor muses idly, not looking up from his tablet. “But ‘Alexander’ is just too on the nose, and doesn’t account for your brother anyway.” 

. . . “share”, Match wonders? Share what? 

“Superboy isn’t my brother,” he repeats. Luthor spares him a dry look. 

“I’m your father,” he says. “I’m perfectly aware of who your siblings are.” 

. . . Match cannot process a damn word that the man just said, so just gets in the towncar and sits stiffly on the opposite side of the backseat. Luthor returns his attention to his tablet and the chauffeur shuts the door. Match feels an odd sense of–he’d call it “panic”, almost, if he was the kind of thing that could feel anything like that. 

“I suppose one of you could be ‘Alex’ and the other could be ‘Xander’, of course,” Luthor says, tone back to musing as the chauffeur gets in the driver’s seat and starts up the car. “But that also doesn’t seem like much effort, which seems a bit hypocritical of me after I was just judging your respective manufacturers’ lack of it.” 

Match doesn’t know how or even if he’s supposed to respond to any of that. Some of the staff at the Agenda just talked to hear themselves talk; some of them expected him to function as a sounding board. A . . . “rubber duck”, one of the engineers had called him once, laughingly patronizing, though he hadn’t understood the apparent reference. 

“I don’t have a father,” he says. Luthor spares him another dubious look. 

“Oh, don’t you?” he says. “I designed your DNA myself. You’re a masterpiece, by the way, so you’re welcome for that. A perfect blend of Kryptonian and human. Sublimely arranged and maximized.” 

“Biologically, that wouldn’t make you a parent,” Match says. “Superman and Paul Westfield were the only DNA donors to the initial design.” 

“It’d actually make me more of one, in my opinion. But I said a perfect blend,” Luthor snorts dismissively, rolling his eyes. “Paul Westfield’s DNA was anything but ‘perfect’.” 

Match . . . pauses. What does that mean? Who else’s DNA would . . . ?

Oh, Match thinks. 

“The tactile telekinesis is much more effective with Luthor brainpower behind it,” Luthor informs him. “Just for the record. Westfield’s DNA wouldn’t have you capable of crushing cities or splitting atoms.” 

. . . oh, Match thinks again. 

“Splitting atoms?” he asks slowly. 

“I told you,” Luthor says, pointing the tablet pen at him and tapping it against his chest. “You’re a masterpiece. The radiance of a thousand suns. And I am Death, destroyer of worlds.” 

Match doesn’t know how he feels about being called a . . . “masterpiece”. He’s an improvement on Superboy, the Agenda’s told him, but it’s not as if Superboy’s all that impressive a baseline to start from, so . . . 

So he doesn’t know. He’s still a clone either way; a copy of someone else. A copy of a copy, in fact. 

And apparently, he’s also an atomic bomb.

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Spring Fishfly - Chauliodes rastricornis

The lakes and forests of cottage country always have so many surprises when it comes to insects. I thought the Hudsonian Whiteface Dragonfly was going to be the highlight, but then I saw this large-winged individual trying to phase his way through a screen door to get inside. When I first saw the wingspan and flight pattern, I expected to see a giant Moth, so imagine my surprise to see an elusive Fishfly! He sure does fly like a Moth, and even rests like one with the wings folded backward and was drawn by the porchlights. He was definitely the highlight of the evening and greatly dwarfed all other nearby insects! While an insect like this appears intimidating, rest assured that he is perfectly harmless and can be handled with care. According to Bugguide and other identification sources, this specimen is more likely to be a Spring Fishfly rather than a Summer Fishfly (C. pectinicornis), but not just because he was found flying in May instead of July. Given habitat ranges and differing timeframes of adult emergence from the water, seasonality cannot be the sole factor for identification. Apparently, the best way to distinguish between the 2 species are to examine the two parallel markings on the back of the insect's head, just behind their ocelli.

As can be seen from Pictures 5 and 7, our Spring Fishfly friend has dark-colored head markings contrasting with its lighter shell. The Summer Fishfly's head markings and body are the reverse of that (bright markings, darker shell). This identification however, doesn't take into account other species of Fishfly that may call lakes home, so examine your Megalopteran carefully. As if net-veined wings and yellow highlights along the head's mouthparts, thorax and wing-bases weren't enough of an allure for the camera, there are the elongated and feathered antennae to admire. There's no doubt that these antennae used to locate the enticing pheromones of females (also similar to the function of feathered Moth antennae). The feathering designated this individual as a male; a female Fishfly would have had serrated antennae with saw-like grooves. At a passing glance, with their slight curvature they resemble grand mandibles! However, that style of antenna (pectinate) my only occur for this genus; other genera may have other types. For example, Neohermes Fishflies have antennae that resemble balls on a string (moniliform). Mileage may vary, but if you're looking to try and find some Fishflies, approach the water in spring (or summer) and see what insects come to the light. Have some bug repellent or patches handy to keep the Mosquitoes away, as adult Caddisflies aren't going to eat them.

Pictures were taken on May 27, 2024 in Muskoka with a Google Pixel 4. The instances of white ocelli seen in the images here are due to the camera's flash.

[ghostofskywalker]

Congrats on your amazing accomplishment! I'd like to submit a request for your event. I was thinking of a fic for a female reader and either Wolffe or Cody. My idea was that the reader works with either the 212th or 104th and has feelings for her Commander. Unbeknownst to the reader, her Commander has feelings for her as well. For whatever reason (winning the war, undercover mission, or whatever you're feeling), the battalion has to attend a black-tie formal event, and everyone (especially your Commander) is blown away at seeing you in a gorgeous floor length dress and all dolled up. That evening, the pining is unreal, and feelings are finally revealed🥰🥰🥰 Congrats again, and thank you for sharing your amazing work!!!❤️😁👍

thank you so much!! here is the fic, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it :)

words: 1,808

summary: there's only one thing that makes an event like this worth going to, and wolffe doesn't realize what that is until he sees you walk by in a bright red dress.

clone troopers masterlist || join my 3k celebration!!

Hard to Breathe

If Wolffe got to choose a way to celebrate the bravery and honor of his troops, he definitely would not have picked a gala like this. They had recently returned from a mission that apparently caught the attention of the Senate and the Chancellor, and now the entire company was wearing their officer’s dress uniforms and awkwardly shuffling through a ballroom while people tried to make small talk to them about the horrors of the front lines. 

“Do we really have to go to this thing?” he had asked the general the day before, the scowl on his face only growing when the Kel Dor nodded. 

“The Republic would like to acknowledge the bravery of this battalion. We may wish their support came in a different manner, but it is important that we put our best foot forward tomorrow evening.” 

Wolffe could read between the lines. He knew that meant he was required to attend, no matter how much he didn’t want to. It also meant that they were doing this partially to keep the Senate on their good side, and that even the General saw the uselessness in this kind of celebration.

And so far, Wolffe was feeling incredibly bored. The food and drinks were high quality, but that was the only good thing about this whole event. Or at least, it was until he saw you walk through the doors. 

He didn’t usually forget how to breathe. Wolffe was a seasoned commander who had served on the front lines of the war from the moment he left Kamino, and he had been on more life threatening missions than he could shake a stick at. He also had a reputation for being calm and collected, no matter what the galaxy threw at them, even when they were faced with certain death. 

But of the sudden, as he stared at you in a bright red dress, he felt like the entire world stopped. His brain had to metaphorically slap him back into function, because he had genuinely forgotten how to breathe. 

He was a goner, he knew that now. 

There was only so many times he could deny his feelings for the battalion’s civilian secretary when being questioned by Sinker and Boost, and now, there was really no way around it. You hadn’t noticed him yet, and he was perfectly fine with that, because he would prefer if he got himself under control before he interacted with you for the first time tonight. 

If it took him a while to remember how to breathe, it took even longer for him to tear his eyes away from you in that dress. Floor length and bright red, the bodice was fitted but the skirt flared out at your waist, making it seem like you were floating over the floor as you took steps across the room to get a drink. 

He had never seen you like this before. War wasn’t exactly the most conducive environment to this kind of dress code, and usually you wore sensible pants and a simple shirt, a symbol of your place on the front lines and your employment by the Republic. You had gone to battle with them before, and even wielded a blaster (something Wolffe was still not happy about). In his mind, you deserved to exist in a world where nothing bad ever happened to you, where you could live your days doing whatever you wanted, and where you could wear dresses like this one every evening for the rest of your life. 

“Not so keen to leave now, huh?” Wolffe knew that voice, and he turned around to give Sinker a disapproving look. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh really? So you’re not still scraping your jaw up off the floor because you watched her walk by in that dress?” 

Wolffe huffed. Sinker was right, but he didn’t want to admit it. “Shut up.” 

“You can lie to yourself however much you want, but you can’t deny the fact that your body language tells a different story. Maker, why do neither of you seem to realize that the other is just as disgustingly in love as you are?” 

Wolffe desperately wanted to believe the words of his brother, but he tried not to show it. “You may be right about me,” he said lowly. “But you’re certainly wrong about her, so why don’t you just give it rest before she hears about this and requests a transfer to get away from me.” 

To Sinker’s credit, he didn’t push the topic, but he did give Wolffe a look that clearly displayed his disapproval in how the conversation was going. 

The real moment when Wolffe wanted to strangle his brother began when Sinker called your name and waved you over to them. 

Kriff, you were even prettier up close. 

“How are you enjoying the gala?” Sinker asked. 

You shrugged. “It’s okay, but I think I’d rather have celebrated in more low-key way. Taken the cost of this ridiculous event and given it to you all in gift cards to 79’s, let everyone spend their nights in whatever way they wanted. Or given you an extra week of leave, something more meaningful than this.” 

Wolffe nodded. “I agree,” he said. 

Sinker rolled his eyes. “You both are no fun, perfect for each other. Why don’t you go dance a little, and then maybe you’ll change your mind about all this.” 

Immediately, Wolffe knew what Sinker was doing. He and Boost had also been less-than-excited to have to attend this event tonight, so now he was just lying through his teeth. 

But before Wolffe could apologize for his brother and assure you that you were under no obligation to dance with him, you spoke. “I suppose we could,” you said, extending your hand to Wolffe. “May I have this dance, commander?” 

Not trusting himself to speak, Wolffe just nodded as he followed you to the center of the room. The song was slow, one very clearly played for lovers, and couples swayed together all around them. 

Wolffe’s hands rested on your waist, and he could feel the soft material of your dress. He desperately wanted to run his hands across your back, feeling the way your skin shivered under his calloused fingertips. 

He didn’t really know how to dance as well as some of the other Senators and their partners (it wasn’t really something they covered in basic training on Kamino), but he put all his focus in trying not to step on your toes, and so far, he was successful in his endeavors. 

“I’m sorry you had to waste leave time attending this event,” you said sincerely, looking up at him with a kind expression on your face. 

Wolffe chucked. He would never admit it, but seeing you in that dress and being able to dance with you right now had made this entire experience worth all the trouble. He would do battle a million times over if it meant he would be thanked by you in a dress like that. “It’s okay,” he said. “I suppose it’s better than letting our actions go without acknowledgment.” 

“But still, I wish-” 

“Mesh’la,” he said, the pet name escaping his lips before he could think twice about pulling it back. “I’m serious, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Alright,” you responded. “I’ll let it go.” 

The song ended, and Wolffe let go of your waist, instead reaching down to take your hand. “Do you want to take a break from all this?” he said, leaning down to whisper the words in your ear. “I need some time away from all the stares and smalltalk.” 

You nodded, leading him out the doors of the venue and into a small garden area. Secluded and quiet, Wolffe immediately felt more at ease now than he had for most of the night. 

A comfortable silence settled over the two of you, and Wolffe couldn’t help the way he stared at your dress, the lantern lights in the area dancing across the fabric with every shift of your body. 

Eventually, you spoke. “What does that word mean?”

Puzzled, he looked at you. “What word?” He had an inkling you were asking about what he had called you in the ballroom, but he wasn’t going to admit to anything before knowing if that was indeed what you wanted to know. 

“The one you called me before, mesh’la?” you asked. “I didn’t recognize it.” 

“It means beautiful,” he admitted, voice much more quiet than it had been all night. He was baring his heart to you, and now you would either accept or spurn his affections. 

“You think I’m beautiful?” 

To him, that was the dumbest question he’s ever heard, because of course the answer was yes. But he was no stranger to a spotty self esteem, so he just nodded. “I always have, but tonight only made me more sure. I forgot how to breathe for a while when I saw you walk through the door.” He squeezed your hand. “And I tried so hard not to make things weird when we were dancing, because I don’t want you to transfer.” 

Now it was your turn to be puzzled. “Why would I transfer?” 

“Because you don’t return my feelings,” he said, a twinge of sadness in his voice. “I know-” 

But you cut him off before he could finish. “Who said I don’t return your feelings?” 

“What?” There was probably a better way he could have voiced that thought, but oh well. 

“Wolffe, I’ve had a crush on you from the moment we met. If anything, I thought you were too good for me.” 

“You could never be too good for me, cyar’ika.” Rather than go back and forth for any longer, Wolffe leaned closer to you, and soon your faces were only inches apart. “Can I please kiss you?” 

“Yes,” you breathed, and when his lips landed on yours, Wolffe learned the real meaning of “forgetting how to breathe.” 

He had kissed people before, but no one else could hold a candle to the way your lips felt as they moved against his. His hands found your waist and you pulled away for a split second, eliciting an honest-to-maker whine from the commander. You very clearly got the message, and the two of you remained in that garden, bodies pressed together and lips locked in passionate exploration, separating only to breathe when absolutely necessary. 

There were only thoughts in Wolffe’s mind at this point, and they were: 1) how much he wanted to keep kissing you until he literally had to be dragged away from here, and 2) how much he hoped none of his brothers decided to come looking for the two of you, because he wanted to keep you to himself for just a little while longer. 

- the end -

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

[windvexer]

for like the fifth time I'm going to try and say my feelings on "you have to do physical support actions or your magic won't work"

if you're not familiar with this it basically means performing regular ""mundane"" actions that correspond with your magical intent. Cast a house protection spell, but also lock the doors. Cast a job spell, but also apply for jobs.

At face value it does not seem like very bad advice and in fact I do think that for many people it's decent advice, in fact I suspect it's helpful for many,

but I find an intense difference between these two statements:

"Mundane supportive actions can be a helpful technique for manifestation. It's something you might try as part of your magical experiments or for troubleshooting when your magic isn't working well,"

and,

"You must perform corresponding physical actions or your magic will not work."

And I think that most people just sort of automatically assume some version of this to be true without ever really thinking about it. And today I'd like to tug at some of this base assumption yarn and see what the cardigan looks like when we're done.

Here are some things I see said about this:

"Magic follows the path of least resistance [assumption of its own, but let's roll with it] and taking mundane supportive action reduces resistance against the spell."

Well, does it though?

Let's assume that magic takes the path of least resistance

(and gods, spirits, and entities always, universally, and unfailingly function in a way that simply takes the least amount of energy possible and never behave in unique and unpredictable ways according to their personality and whims)

and that the path of least resistance for a job spell is that the delivery person is going to hand you a package at your door and say, "hey, we're hiring, I get a bonus referral if you call this number by Friday."

Okay, so that's the path of least resistance. By, like, a huge margin. Let's say that path has 5 resistance points (low!).

And you applying for jobs online or in person has 750 resistance points (holy shit, that's quite high).

Like, right now, for whatever reason, you're just not getting hired when you submit your resume (*your "best friend" hid swear words in your job experience column as a "joke").

For this thought experiment, the spell is simply going to manifest by the delivery person handing you a referral printout.

So let me ask you this

Is going out to apply to jobs with your resume actually reducing "resistance" in a way that matters at all?

In fact, in some scenarios, is it possible that the actions you take (turning in your tainted resume) increase resistance, even though from our perspective it is supposed to be helping?

In this thought exercise, these mundane actions which are supposed to be helping are either irrelevant to the path the spell is actually going to take, or are actually increasing "resistance."

So -

Are mundane actions always necessary to compel spells to manifest?

And if they are always necessary, what is the mystical function which links unrelated and unhelpful actions to the actual manifestation of the spell?

I've never seen anyone explain that part. Because I think people would say something like

The Universe wants to see you work towards your own goals

In which case, that is the spell, I've already done that, it was me casting the spell!!!!!

(Also I'm not New Age, I do not believe in a conscious or co-creating Universe in a way that matters, and my spiritual beliefs about the Universe do not intersect with my magic)

or maybe they'd say like

Splashing around in the pond of Applying For Jobs somehow causes ripples in the Jobs pond that makes it easier for the spell to manifest,

like apparently there's some sort of surface tension that we need to break in order to allow the spell to manifest at all.

And to be perfectly honest,

yeah.

I believe in that one.

I believe it helps!!

It's the equivalent of a cartoon where a big cloud of dust kicks up and then something important is swapped out behind the scenes but we don't really know how it happened.

But!

I don't believe it helps all of the time!

I don't believe it is necessary all of the time!

When facing a very stagnant or resistant situation, I personally find that a valid magical technique is splashing about in the pond and getting the silt stirred up and then bippity boppity, the change happened!

This of course implies that such actions may be unnecessary and even very unhelpful when:

Situations are rapidly changing and fast-paced

Situations are very delicate and it was already never safe for you to take the only available mundane options

...you didn't need to do so, because the spell was going to manifest just fine anyway

The splashing is actually getting directly in the way of causing manifestation

Let's revisit that job spell where your ""friend"" fucked with your resume.

Now let's say that your job spell has specific requirements.

Let's say that you must have a work from home position in your niche field.

The only way to get these jobs (besides in-person networking, which you can't do because you are disabled) is to apply online.

And in this field you do not fill out little job apps. You always send in your resume.

Every single time you send in your resume, you are unknowingly sending a tampered resume that uses extremely inappropriate language.

Because you have been told you must take mundane supportive action or your spell will not manifest, you actively seek out employers and send them your resume. They never reply.

Once you send in your resume, even employers who were talking to you stopped contact.

Someone on Twitter reaches out to you! Unexpected! Great lead! You send in your resume (you must perform physical supportive actions or your spell will not manifest) and...

They block you.

"Now hold on," perhaps you are saying, "this is such a specific situation. And not very reasonable, either. A majority of people will be able to perform physical supportive actions that are actually helpful."

In which I return to point #1, where if the only way the spell was going to manifest was via the delivery driver, how do you know any specific action you are taking is actually helpful?

And waving back to point #2, which is, it is reasonable, actually, for people to be doing everything appropriate and reasonable to support their spellwork, but unknownst to them there is some hidden problem that is causing mundane actions to fuck up manifestation,

whether or not it is a simple and obvious problem like a fucky resume, or whether it is a very obscure and esoteric problem,

But then also let's roll right into point #3, which is,

I just don't believe that a majority of practitioners, even very good practitioners, are so adept at spellwork that they know exactly the "path of resistance" their spells are going to take,

because for some reason when people say "path of least resistance" apparently they're envisioning like 2 or 3 huge macro channels we can get in there and dig out with shovels,

and not ten thousand cracks the size of spider legs smashed into the mirror of reality,

each one almost as equally likely as one another,

running into each other like colors in a liquid prism,

many of which may not respond at all to our clumsy actions,

may be specifically resistant to our actions,

or operate on planes of existence so Other that it is a miracle the intersect with physical reality at all, and yet are as alike as any crack to shunt our manifestations to our feet.

"Magic follows the path of least resistance" is a delightful nod at Newtonian physics, and doesn't actually imply that, like, these paths are things we can necessarily interact with in a way that matters,

are large enough that we can adeptly manipulate them with our mountainous, clunky bodies,

are channels we recognize or personally believe in,

or even exist within our realm of comprehension.

The "path of least resistance" could be nine hundred thoughts flitting through a series of retail worker's minds, one secret shopper not being able to find the right brand of salsa, a dropped cigarette, and an exasperated manager finally turning to Annoying Chad and saying, "you said you can get your friend to work here, right?"

well, anyway.

Thoughts like these are why I question this magical "law" as being a law in the first place, and why some of the stuff we take for granted in manifestation not really mattering at all, sometimes.

I just believe that magic is supposed to work.

I do think that very often, and for mysterious reasons of mystery, mundane support actions can help. (splashing in the pond, &etc)

I think that if you are personally having trouble manifesting, or if you are new to magic and you're not sure what to try first,

experimenting with mundane support actions is just dandy.

I think that if you're more experienced in magic and looking to try something new, experimenting with magical support actions is a nifty way to flesh out your personal praxis.

But I think that unless you are specifically working with a magical tradition that requires mundane support actions,

then this is not an actual rule or law at all. It's just a technique, and like any other can help, harm, or do nothing at all.

[chalkrevelations]

Something that already strikes me about audience response to Day's family in Last Twilight is the amount of anger and shaming language I'm seeing directed at them, and what I keep thinking is that Day is not Heart.

Sure, it may turn out that Ramon and Night have hidden what happened to Day because they're ashamed or don't know how to deal with it, that they're the ones who imposed the "abroad in the US" cover story, that despite seeing Aon use his cane when he comes over and Day lights up like he never does at any other time, they just haven't bothered to get Day a cane to help him maneuver the world. But we don't know any of that, yet, and I'm going to suggest that assuming all of those things infantilizes Day in much the same way that people keep pointing out his family doing, by making him a victim of his family's behavior instead of accepting that a lot of his isolation is self-imposed. No, his family isn't doing things perfectly (redesign your kitchen for function instead of form, when even sighted people are stubbing their toes, for god's sake), but why automatically assume his family did all that to him instead of assuming that Day, himself, did those things, or at least had a hand in them?

What we know at this point is that nobody except Day, himself, shut him up in his bedroom like a hermit and demanded that food be left at his closed door so that he didn't have to interact with anyone, even his family. And once he's made up his mind about that, there's only so much persuasion and so much coaxing and so much fight you can have with a grownass person when they've decided they're not going to do a thing. If Day is going to refuse to come out of his room, he's not five years old, and they can't drag him out - physically cannot, I mean, not without someone getting hurt, plus that's also assault. (The discussion of five-year-old autonomy, when they actually are small enough to pick up, is for another time.) And then try to repair the relationship after you've done something like that. Mork tricks Day out of his room with the fish tank gambit and finds ways to keep tricking him to stay out of it. Nobody has (figuratively) locked Day in his room the way Heart was; Day has walled himself off.

So, I'm wiling to wait to hear if Night and Mom have just decided to tell everyone Day's abroad to hide what's happened to him, or if Day was involved in that cover story, if Day has used that to hide himself away and avoid having to talk to former friends and acquaintances in this new state of perceived vulnerability. And if we never hear for sure, I'm willing to not just assume that this was something imposed on Day against his will, based on what we've seen and learned about Day so far. He has enough internalized shame to do it, himself. When he gets his cornea transplant, he tells Night in Ep 1 - and it sounds like he expects it to happen fairly soon, and he probably expects that a lot of things will go back to normal then, and that this will all be a bad dream, so why not treat this entire time as some sort of liminal space, a time out of time, away from everyone and everything, and never let them see him like this? Why not just go back when he's himself, again?

When he wants to, Day is perfectly capable of pushing back against people who he's absolutely smart enough to know are infantilizing him, from his bratty behavior in the caretaker interviews, to the way he's apparently gotten rid of several caretakers in the past, to the "fuck you" of following Night into the Shining Institute instead of staying in the car. If my dude wanted a cane to help him maneuver, he would have one. Until they prove it to me that he doesn't already have one, tbqh I'm going to suspect that he does, and that he shoved it in the back of a drawer and buried it with other stuff - if he didn't break it over his knee and throw it in the trash. Do you think Mom isn't going to give Day whatever he wants? Day's mother may not be doing everything perfectly, but she is not Heart's mother. And anyway, he's a grownass person with a phone and a computer he's able to use, why are we assuming that Day can't get online and order a cane for his own self, instead of waiting for his family to do it for him? He could get Aon's help, if he needed help with it.

[clotpolesonly]

Please please please tell me more about ace sterek exploration 🥺

one of my favorite WIPs that i still swear i'm gonna finish someday!!!!!

human college AU where Derek is ace and decides he wants to explore his sexuality a little to figure out if he's sex repulsed and what his boundaries are through experimentation, and he gets a recommendation from Erica for Stiles, an experienced and sex-loving classmate that she can vouch for as being a really good respectful guy who won't be a dick about it.

Derek Hale stood in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his standard leather jacket, looking a little out of place in a shitty apartment building when Stiles was used to only seeing him in class. His head was down, but he looked up when Stiles said his name. He did not, however, volunteer anything. Stiles slumped against his door jamb. “What are you, uh…what are you doing here?” It didn’t register until after he had said it that asking like that might be rude. It was also a fair question, though, so Stiles let it stand. He had been acquainted with Derek for the better part of three years, since they had always had a lot of classes in the same buildings, but they weren’t really pals. Definitely not close enough for Derek showing up at his apartment after dinner time to not be weird. He wouldn’t have thought Derek even knew where he lived. Derek shifted on his feet. “I wanted to ask you something.” “If it’s about the reading for Professor Ito, I can email it to you,” Stiles offered, scratching his head. “A lot of people were having trouble with the PDF download earlier, according to Kira. She thinks they got the problem fixed, but if it still isn’t working for you—” “I want you to have sex with me.” Stiles got halfway through his next word before that statement processed in his brain, and then his mouth stopped functioning properly. His ears too, possibly, because that could not be what Derek had actually said. After a few painful seconds, he managed a weak, “Pardon?” Derek’s face looked downright angry, what with the eyebrows and the manfully clenching jaw, but the tips of his ears were pink and his glare seemed to have settled somewhere around Stiles’ knees. “I said I—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I heard that you have a lot of…” “...sex?” Stiles put in helpfully when it seemed like Derek had lost track of that particular word. Derek’s ears only got redder. “Yes, that. And I need to… Well, I want to…” “...to have sex,” Stiles filled in again. “With me?” Derek nodded. He still looked mad, but Stiles thought that might just be his incredibly uncomfortable face.

[...]

Stiles was going to have to wing it, which he could totally do. As Derek had pointed out, Stiles had had a lot of sex in the last couple of years. He had a very healthy appetite, and he had grown into himself enough to be reasonably attractive to many of his peers. A couple of hookups a week kept him satisfied and able to focus better on his studies, and it also meant that he had plenty of experience with partners of varying tastes and preferences. Derek would be just one more. Besides, Stiles couldn’t say that he wasn’t looking forward to the chance to get all up on that, even if it got cut short. Derek was a flawless specimen of manly beauty and Stiles was not immune to his surly charms. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure that he had made a pass at Derek a few years ago, back when they had both been in the same Rhetoric and Composition class. He’d been rejected, as he had anticipated—though apparently not for the reason he’d assumed at the time—but he’d had to at least try. And now, here he was, making plans to have sex with Derek Hale. Or to attempt sex with Derek Hale, more like. There was no guarantee of how this would go. It was entirely possible that they could get two minutes in and Derek would call the whole thing off. Which would be perfectly fine and a good thing, really, because it would mean that Derek had figured out what he had come to Stiles to figure out. But if Derek didn’t call it off, then Stiles was going to make damn sure he had the best introduction to sex that anyone could ever have. He was going to rock Derek’s world, if Derek was okay with that. He hoped Derek was okay with that. He also hoped that Derek didn’t care if his carpet was vacuumed or not, because he was pretty sure his vacuum had been broken for like four months and no amount of hitting it was making it work again. Stiles wasn’t intending to sex Derek up on the floor of his living room, so it would probably be fine, but he was stress cleaning, so sue him.

[...]

“Is this okay?” Stiles’ voice came out lower and softer than he’d intended, but that was just because they were so close together. It didn’t make sense to be loud, he told himself. Derek licked his lips, eyes flicking up to Stiles’ and then darting away again. “I already said green, didn’t I?” “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to ask again,” Stiles said. “I’m going to keep asking, Derek. And I’m always going to listen to your answer.” Derek’s eyes met his and held them. They only fluttered closed when they were close enough to bump noses. Stiles kept the kiss simple at first. Just a press of lips, then another. He lingered over it long enough for Derek to press back experimentally, like he was testing out how this all worked. It was strangely sweet. Stiles gave him a little more, leading him in the push and pull of it, and when Stiles pulled back a bit, he found Derek with an adorable look of concentration on his face. “How’s it going so far?” he asked. “It’s…” Derek’s eyelashes fanned out across his cheeks in an inky sweep. “…weird.” “Good weird or bad weird?” “Not bad.” Stiles huffed a laugh. “Does that mean you want to keep going? Hit me with a color, dude.” Derek pinched his leg and ignored Stiles’ yelp to say, “Don’t call me ‘dude’.” Stiles contemplated snatching the throw pillow from the floor and laying into him—the most surefire way to win a pillow fight, after all, was to be in possession of the only pillow in the room—but he was on a mission and he would not be distracted. “Color.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Green.” “Okay, then, so come back here and let me kiss you again!”

and of course they're gonna develop feelings along the way, and Stiles is gonna angst about it cuz this is a Business Arrangement obviously and this isn't what Derek came to him for and he's taking advantage and whatnot, cuz that's how these things work, we know how it goes XD

.

ask me about my wips!

[lemonadedino]

74, 77 for prompts ask! huddling for warmth, and in vino veritas -- wiz

i'm so sorry that this took soo long wiz!! life started kicking my butt and my thoughts wouldn't settle

made this one lestappen for funsies

charles is the owner of an ice cream shop that specializes in making really elaborate ice cream confections. his store lowkey went viral on tiktok because their creations are super impressive looking, but mostly everyone in the comments was thirsting over charles when he appeared in the video to explain how they flavor the ice cream. obviously, his social media guy lando is absolutely thrilled with the heightened engagement.

one day after work, charles brings his puppy leo to the vet. they've been going to dr. vettel for forever and they both adore him. so imagine charles' shock when he checks in the with receptionist, an australian with remarkably swoopy hair who seems to have replaced the middle-aged woman with a perpetually pinched face that charles remembers form his previous visits, and is informed that dr. vettel has retired, moved to the alps to save the bees, and has left his personal phone number to charles in case he ever needs something.

after processing some emotions, charles finally asks the gold ticket question.

"who is leo seeing today, then?"

and then a blond man dressed in navy blue scrubs steps out from behind the door separating the rest of the clinic from the lobby. he doesn't seem to notice charles. charles doesn't mind because he's too busy ogling this gorgeous man who's exactly his type. he's always been a sucker for blue eyes, sue him.

"oscar, do you know if the 6'oclock appointment is coming in? they're already 15 minutes late, and the sooner i can get back to jimmy and sassy the better."

"charles, meet dr. max verstappen. he's taking over the clinic now that dr. vettel has retired," oscar says.

and boom introductions are made. they have a perfectly lovely vet appointment, where charles accidently said that leo is 4 years old instead of 8 months because the way max's mouth moved was just sooo mesmerizing wdym i actually have to have a functioning brain??

the next day, max shows up at the ice cream shop, presumably on his day off. charles is like "omg is he here to see me... but i don't want to read too much into it, yk?"

while paying for his scoop of vanilla ice cream on a waffle cone, max admits that he had no idea that charles owned the place. apparently, oscar had casually suggested the ice cream parlor as the best place in town for dessert. lando, who had been puttering around somewhere next to charles, trying to act like he wasn't listening in on their conversation, knocked over a rack of scrapers as soon at the mention of oscar's name. weird, right? crazyyyy

some time passes. max and charles become closer. leo is suddenly having a lot more vet visits than normal, even though he’s in perfect health so that charles has an excuse to see max. he’s aware that it’s getting borderline pathetic, and he’s pretty sure that oscar agrees, since the aussie has memorized his number due to how frequently charles calls to schedule appointments.

they're mutually pining but the feelings are kept under lock and key because i-dont-want-to-damage-our-friendship-what-if-he-doesn’t-like-me-back-am-I-allowed-to-date-my-dog’s-vet-blahblahblah.

charles’ shop gets nominated for a prestigious award, created to highlight innovators in the gastronomic world internationally. to celebrate, his best friend, pierre, throws him a surprise party at the ice cream store after hours. all of their friends are invited, as well as seb. having listened to charles mope about the hot vet countless times, he pops by the veterinarian office and invites max, telling him to bring a friend if he’d like so that he’s more comfortable.

and that’s how max ends up at charles’ surprise party, cradling a bottle of what he hopes is acceptable wine, oscar in tow.

upon seeing max, charles has a brief moment of “i am actually going to to murder pierre omg how am I supposed to handle being with him outside of a work context without combusting” before realizing “OMG I GET TO BE NEAR MY CRUSH!!!!”

charles notices that oscar and lando seem super awkward and stiff around each other but doesn’t know why and chooses not to press it (so actually landoscar had a one night stand that lando fled at 5AM because commitment is scary and he’s worried because he likes this guy way more than he should for someone he’s met less than 12 hours ago. better leave before it get too real)

The night progresses, more wine is poured and toasts are made. Basically everyone is tipsy by the time the party winds down and people start to trickle out.

max is the last guest to leave, constantly finding himself caught in conversation with charles again and again. just as he steps out the door, charles grabs his arm.

“wait hold on, do you want to try next week’s special edition flavor? you’re special, so you can taste test before the official public release.” charles says and then proceeds to wink horrifically. max agrees and the two of them make their way to the walk in freezer in the back where charles stores flavors to restock.

the door closes behind them and they realize a little too late that charles forgot to unlock the door from the inside so they’re now trapped.

cue immense panic from both of them. thankfully, charles has his phone on him and calls lando, to whom he had given a spare pair of keys to let them out. in the meantime, they ultimately end up cuddling for warmth in an effort to not freeze before lando could get to them.

wrapped up in max’s embrace and lulled by the wine on his tongue, charles confesses to max. mutually reciprocated declarations of love ensue and just and they’re about to kiss, a lock clicks and lando opens the door.

laying in his bed that night, max asleep next to him, charles realizes that the bruises on lando’s throat definitely wasn’t because of the shop’s weird lighting casting shadows. they were most definitely hickeys and charles remembers lando slipping out of the party at much the same time as a certain receptionist.

[bringbackmaes14]

Weird things that happened in my French class this semester, specifically relating to my teacher

I will be referring to my professor as Prof W. My classmates will be J and S. (Also for reference not relating to my teacher but the class, on the first day of class there were six students (including me), on the second day there were three of us, and by the fourth week and through the end of the semester, it was just me, J, and Prof W.)

On the first day of class, Prof W walked into the classroom, asked if he was the teacher, left when no one responded, then came back 10 seconds later and said “oh, no, I’m the teacher”

Prof W never had an attendance sheet, he just made us write down our first names on a sheet of notebook paper and that was it

Prof made us buy the textbook off some weird international textbook website I've never even heard of rather than through the school bookstore???

On the second day of class, Prof W couldn’t find the classroom even though S, J, and I were all sitting relatively close to the door. When we pointed out the classroom to him, he said “oh you know, they are always changing the numbers.”

Prof W didn’t know what time class started or ended at for the first week even though he started and ended class on time. To remedy this he started setting an alarm for the end of class every day.

After literally not moving from one spot in the classroom for like, five minutes, Prof W started coughing and said “Sorry. You know I’m allergic to all of this.”

Prof W is not on the “rate my professor” website

Prof W taught us the phrase “pas de soucis” which translates to “no worries” he then started laughing and said there was a funny story behind the phrase. The funny story was that “the French were trying to colonize people in Australia but then the English came and massacred everyone and everyone said ‘pas de soucis’ about it.” That was the extent of the story. Prof W said all this while laughing.

I have no idea where Prof W prints out our tests. There are plenty of perfectly functional printers all over campus. He gave us our first test, and it was so low on ink that the questions were barely legible. By the time I got to the third question, the professor said “oh I should put this up on the screen”, and I realized I had done problem 1 wrong because part of it wasn’t even printed on the paper. (We were having to tell the time on analog clocks but apparently, some clocks had suns next to them and some had moons, so suddenly my answers like “midi” had to be changed to “minuit”.)

Professor W is not entirely fluent in English. There have been a few times where he’s explained things in French and then said “I don’t know if this is a word/phrase in English. Do you say [insert regular everyday words] in English?” This particular day's words/phrases included the word “anecdote” (which is pronounced the almost exactly the same in English and French and means the same thing), whether there’s a difference between the words for kitchen sink and a sink in the bathroom (because there is in French), and the proper grammar and usage of the words “coming” and “going” (which is just... wtf).

On our second test we had to describe where a monkey was in relation to a cube because we were learning directions. The problem was he never taught us what the words for cube or monkey were, so I just had to figure out which was which based on the pictures and the directional words in the question. I almost got 3 of them wrong because of this.

During fall break, Professor W showed up at my job looking for a book (I work in the college library). We talked a little and I mentioned I only have class on Tuesdays and Thursdays (this is relevant for later, it's also relevant to mention this happened on a Tuesday and it was the last day of fall break). I left him to peruse the French textbooks and eventually he found one he liked. He passed me, said goodbye and left. He then came back like 10 seconds later and said "Do I need my school ID to check these out?" WTF OF COURSE YOU DO SIR. So he put the books back because he didn't have it and left again. He then came in A THIRD TIME and asked me, "Do we have class on Thursday?" I was awestruck. Did we??? Apparently he just got confused when I said I only had class on Tuesdays and Thursdays and thought I meant Fall Break extended to this Thursday? And then he said "Okay well let me know if we don't have class." And left???? SIR I'M NOT IN CHARGE OF WHETHER WE HAVE CLASS OR NOT YOU ARE (although I could've just texted J and been like "do you wanna skip class?" and we wouldn't miss anything because he'd have no one to teach.)

Prof W was teaching me how to conjugate verbs with passe compose, and he was doing "er" verbs, which I've learned a lot of (manger, marcher, jouer, parler) and he conjugated "manger" on the board, and then he couldn't think of another "er" verb and he was quiet for another second and then he wrote "tuer" on the board, and said "tuer, which means 'to murder'" LIKE THAT WAS A COMPLETELY NORMAL THING TO FOLLOW UP WITH???? I WAS ALONE WITH THIS MAN IN THE CLASSROOM AND SCARED FOR MY FUCKING LIFE

During the third test in this class Prof W stopped me in the middle of my test to ask me about another student's grades. He asked me if "F" was failing (which... WHAT WHY DON'T YOU KNOW THAT) and then asked me what "FA" was and he gave this whole spiel about how the student has missed a lot of class and he's thinking about dropping out but he'd lose a lot of scholarship money. I then explained that "FA" probably meant "failed attendance". Prof said "oh that's good that makes sense" and then just walked back to his desk

During that same test: the test was only 7 questions and numbers 5 and 6 were exact repeats of 1 and 2 and Prof was like "oh I guess just cross out the doubles". Also these weren't just one part problems like "write a one-sentence response to this question" they were both like 5 part problems. Also when he was looking over the repeating questions he pointed at part of #1 and went "this is wrong you should fix that" SIR THIS IS A TEST I APPRECIATE THE HELP BUT YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO HELP ME

I got to class one day and the door was locked and it's never locked so that was weird. Prof W shows up and his card doesn't open the door. SO HE JUST TAKES US BACK TO THE LOBBY TO HAVE CLASS????? AND. AND. HE DIDN'T EVEN TAKE US TO ONE OF THE TABLES MEANT FOR MULTIPLE PEOPLE TO SIT DOWN AT HE TOOK US TO ONE OF THE TINY COFFEE TABLES WITH ARMCHAIRS AROUND IT????

Also regarding his card not opening the door, he said he would call someone to put the class on his card before he walked to the lobby. And then he didn't for 35 minutes. He sat us down and got us working and only after 35 minutes did he stand up, say "I have to take this", and go call security to open the door.

We had an assignment due on 11/28 at midnight and J and I were both working on it that day, but we got confused if we were supposed to pick 1 of the 2 prompts to complete or if we had to complete both, so I texted Prof W at 1:30 pm for this assignment (which I will remind you was due that night at midnight). Well anyway, he texted me back AT FUCKING 8:30 THE NEXT MORNING and said "you have to do both". I had already done both just to be safe, but Jazmine was not so lucky 

J got an email from Prof W, from his college email AND IT GAVE HER A PHISHING WARNING??? LIKE STRAIGHT UP OUTLOOK WAS LIKE "this guy is a scammer" WHAT

For background, throughout the semester, every week we've had to present a recording of ourselves reciting passages from the textbook in class. What Prof W didn't tell us UNTIL FUCKING TODAY, THE DAY OF THE FINAL, is that we apparently were supposed to turn all of these into the Dropbox each week. BUT HE NEVER FUCKING TOLD US THAT SO I DELETED THEM BECAUSE I THOUGHT THEY WEREN'T IMPORTANT SO NOW I HAVE TO RERECORD LIKE 12 MINIATURE ORAL PRESENTATIONS

He graded the final exam OUT OF 10????? I got a 10/10 so it's fine but WHO THE FUCK GRADES A FINAL EXAM OUT OF 10???

Anyway I love this man and I want him to be my French professor again.

[the-box-publisher]

Hey, I don’t expect anyone to see this in fact I hope no one does. For some context I woke up this morning to find a box on my desk- my door was still locked and my windows don’t open I live alone on the fourth floor of a building. At first I was scared it was a bomb but then I realized no one would go through this much effort carefully wrapping and decorating this box to kill a nobody. Anyways there was a letter on top of the box that said:

“Dear publisher,

Please publish this story.

Yours truly,

The journalist”

I was obviously extremely put off by this. Who is the journalist? am I the publisher? How the actual flying f*** did they get into my apartment? But I supposed just to play it safe I would publish it just because it was a small request and I’m scared of what might happen if I don’t. I suppose I’ve always been a very paranoid person but what else can I do. Plus who would believe me anyways I’m sure you don’t. So inside the box was a story covered in dirt like it had been buried:

“Story submitted by Mathew Coppula,

I am very strong willed, I always get what I want. No matter what ever since I was a kid everything always had to go my way. It used to be everyone would tease me because I could control everyone and everything except my own body. I tried to be intimidating but my body would always have great timing for “cute” sneezes, stomach gurgles or hiccups. Then when I was 15 I read you could apparently stop your body from hiccups by just telling yourself not to. I don’t know what I expected but I decided to try the next time I hiccuped I told myself to stop and to my surprise it worked! After continuing this for several years it occurred to me that just maybe it would work for other things and with time and practice I found that I could perfectly manually control every part of my body. I quite enjoyed this everything perfectly controlled, neat and orderly. It wasn’t until I went to the beach a couple of years ago I had any anxiety related to this ability (though I shut that anxiety off to). I was at the beach and after not paying attention I got wiped out by a large wave, since I was caught off guard I didn’t have much breath left in me and quickly I was about to pass out, as wave after wave crashed over me I was so scared of passing out, when suddenly a little voice in the back of my head said “tell yourself not to pass out” and so I did. That’s not normal telling yourself not to pass out and functioning without air is not… was not normal. I found recently I stopped needing to tell myself to do it and it just started happening automatically.

I don’t remember how it happened I was just driving and suddenly it was dark, I was so disoriented everything was spinning and spinning and then I woke up in a hospital bed. Or at least I tried to I could see but couldn’t move my eyes at all, I could hear smell and feel but I could not move a muscle. I could feel a desperate burn from needing to breathe but I could not take in any air. I assumed they had me under heavy anesthetic, but then I saw it. The blank line on the heart monitor, nurses and doctors looked saddened as one moved to shut my eyes, I wish she didn’t being here in the dark is so much worse than being able to see. I heard them talking about what to do with me, I don’t have any family and no one to take me. I tried desperately to let them know I was still alive. But it was no use. Now I only hope they chose to cremate me.”

I- don’t know what to do with this. Obviously it’s not true, even if it was how would I even have a written copy of it, it’s not like Mr.Coppula could transcribe it. Why would anyone be so desperate for me to publish this that they broke into my home?

My curiosity got the best of me so I chose to look him up. Apparently Mathew Coppula was in a bad car accident after lightning struck his car. He died hours later in the hospital, it was deemed an accident, an act of God if you will. He was buried.

[hereliescorri]

I read something recently where someone was describing the common neurodivergent relationship to rules. And to be clear, I’m pretty sure this was like, a screenshot of a tumblr post and not from a peer-reviewed psychology journal or anything like that. But anyway, they talked about how ND folk basically have two modes when it comes to rules. If a rule doesn’t make sense and seems arbitrary, like it has no function except to just be a rule, we’ll blow it the fuck off. Hard pass. Not interested. At least in our heads anyway. I’m sure there’s plenty of ND people who’s fear of getting in trouble is stronger than they’re loathing of arbitrary rules, but mentally it’s a big middle finger. 

On the other hand, if a rule makes sense to us and we can justify it, we will absolutely follow it, and other people not following a perfectly reasonable and necessary rule (as we perceive it), will throw us into a rage — again, at least mentally. There will be an internal hissy fit, if not an external one. 

This very much resonated me, and it’s never more apparent than when traveling. People lose their ever-loving minds in transit, and it drives me up the wall. If you listen, you are constantly provided exact instructions on what you should do and where you should go, and people either don’t listen or just decide those rules don’t apply to them. It’s the little things, like the woman today who walked halfway up the walk side of the escalator and then just… stopped, causing everyone behind her to have to come to a sudden halt. Guess she was looking for the most comfortable step? Or there’s the people when the plane is landing that the flight attendants have to go tell to put their seat backs and tray tables up after it’s been said over the loudspeaker several times. The guy sitting adjacent to me not only had to be told that, but then as we were descending and even the flight attendants had to take their seats, he decided to get up and take his kid to the bathroom. We are about to slam into the ground at a bajillion miles per hour, sir. What are you, some kind of maniac?

It’s also worth noting that this man was traveling with his wife and four children, and when he realized we were able to exit out the back of the plane, he booked it out the door with his oldest teen son and onto the shuttle, where he placed his luggage in the middle of the aisle, sat down in the one available seat, and spread his newspaper out in front of him. Not gonna lie, I kicked the luggage out of the way so I could get by. As the shuttle doors closed, his son pointed toward the plane and said something in Icelandic — clearly, uh, dad, you fuck, you left the entire rest of the family on the airplane. Why are people like this?

When it comes to travel, there are a whole bunch of spoken and unspoken rules we are meant to abide by both to make things go smoothly and because the actual process of traveling fucking sucks and we want it to be the least painful it can be for everyone. But a large chunk of folks can only conceive of it being better for themselves, so they cut in lines, they take their time putting their bags in overhead bins while everyone queues for their seats behind them, they ignore instructions from flight staff, they play their videos without headphones, they cough into their hands or into the air. The lady next to me on the flight I just got off of kept shoving her elbows into my side and resting her newspaper on my face (apparently Brits and Europeans are still very much into newspapers??), then turning her head to cough on my tray table so she wouldn’t cough on her friend. 

My entire body protests. Some rules aren’t arbitrary. WE LIVE IN A SOCIETY. 

[paradoxrealm]

A Return Worth Waiting For...~

I... ...Yeah, I did. ...What was that?

She followed him into the living room like a duckling, just as she used to as a teen, though confusion was written across her face as clearly as a billboard.

...Could it have been one of your mice-ah um... spiders? Could one of them have gotten down and possibly knocked into something?

...God she hoped not...

As they examined the living room for anything unusual, top to bottom, they hear the rattle again as if to answer her question with the source. And it sounded like... it was coming from the wall...?

They both slowly turn towards the wall where they assume the last set of rattles sounded from, facing a familiar little wooden door in the wall as the wall around it seemed to creak and groan in inanimate displeasure.

...The... door...?

"...'stel... ...What... was that?"

"...I don't know... ...It's... never done that before. ...It's not even supposed to do that. That door hasn't been opened since... ..."

"...'stel, I'm getting some serious deja vu here..."

"...What do you mean?"

"...when Shadow opened the door... ...They retrieved the key and unlocked it for Moon when it wasn't supposed to be reopened at all..."

"...Astel had to bubble the door and seal it back up to prevent a dimensional reset..."

"...Creation have mercy..."

Why... did that sound familiar to Moon...?

Astel silently approached the little door in the wall, kneeling before it so she could better examine it. She fiddled with the knob, but it didn't budge at all in her grip. She took a spare bobby-pin from her jacket pocket and used it to feel around the lock mechanisms, but they refused to shift without the proper key. That left her to tuck away the bobby-pin and feel around the edges of the door with her hands. But it fit the wall like a glove.

No cracks.

No holes.

No gaps.

It was perfectly solid. And that only puzzled the dimension hopper even more.

...It's sound. ...But... that doesn't make any sense... ...How could it have made the rattle we heard?

And, as if to answer her inquiry once more, the door rattled within its perfect little wall. But this rattle was much more intense than the last as it actually made Astel jerk her hands back, nearly stumbling backwards with a startled gasp. It looked as though it were attempting to free itself from its own hinges as if they were part of a cage.

She scrambled back up to her feet, her buttoned gaze never leaving the rattling little door as she stepped back towards the Beldam's side.

This... felt wrong... Even to Moon it felt wrong... And whatever THIS was, it even had Astel concerned...

Even... a little frightened...

...Wh-What the hell-

——————

He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed that it refused to open. He would quite literally kill to have open access to the outside again, but he wasn’t exactly getting a welcoming feeling from it. It was, after all, a gateway between worlds. It had an entirely different set of rules it played by, and he wasn’t exactly eager to take and a chance and possibly make it angrier.

“This feels… Familiar.” The words felt careful as he spoke them, his gaze fixed to the door. “… The door wasn’t… It wasn’t supposed to be open, but it was… And you had to…” His face scrunched up like he was trying to gather details from a hazy memory and was failing to do so. “… Something about a reset?… Is that going to happen if we don’t fix this?” He asked, allowing concern into his voice. “… You seem to think the solution might be opening the door?” Based off of her actions, at least. Apparently, according to her thoughts and his vague recognition, opening the door might be a bad idea. But, last he heard, Astel was functionally immortal- and, well. He certainly wouldn’t be disappointed to find the door open again.

[autolovecraft]

Clutching the edges of the aperture.

Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him.

Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

Sawyer. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

God, what a rage! But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Birch, just as I thought! Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. An eye for an eye! For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar.