#flow one way or another

[wlw-cryptid]

what does stimming mean

the word itself is a riff on "stimulation" and the action of stimming is an autism/adhd thing mostly? I believe it's usually like a(n often unorthodox) natural expression/reaction to whatever situation you're in. repetitive body movements me personally. i wiggle in my seat when im really happy or flustered or something because i just dont know how else to let all that out and its gotta go Somewhere

like. sometimes you feel an emotion so much that the reaction bubbles up and overflows into a physical energy, with a common example being flapping hands when youre happy, or clenching your fists really hard when youre overwhelmed by your environment. stims can be bigger things too, like rocking, bouncing, or spinning around.

BUT i think it can also be a stimulation seeking thing too? like being Understimulated so you start scratching at your skin, rubbing a certain kind of fabric, or tapping on a surface. like i said, a common stimming example is rocking. like in your seat, on your feet, or maybe in bed. its Soothing. stimming can give your brain a Sensation it was desperately looking for like that n a person often feels calmer because of it. but i might just be conflating this side of things with something that is more accurately put under a different name.

[sergle]

I think I'm going to make a temperature blanket this year

[gomzdrawfr]

OC doodle with the 141 - tw: alcohol, small mention of death

Honest Feelings

[bigskydreaming]

Imagine if you were a gay or bi man who tried a certain firefighter show because of all the attention it was getting for one of its mains having a later in life bi awakening.....and between seasons you ventured into its fandom in search of material to tide you over til the next one. And you're greeted by a deluge of posts and fics that are just cheerfully homophobic towards one half of the newly out bi character's canon relationship on the basis of 'well he's not the RIGHT gay guy' and pushing the idea that actually its fine to cheat on him because Reasons and he's sexually predacious based on......behind the scenes implications people have divined like they're reading fucking tea leaves.

But don't get it twisted....this fandom, like all fandoms, really cares about representation!

Sorry not sorry, but we really need to kill this idea that fandoms are welcoming and inviting and inherently progressive when they're frequently insular and reductive as fuck. Every single fandom I've been in has had major trends of people doubling down on their own headcanons and fanon interpretations of the characters and willfully enacting trends aimed at running off people who like the 'wrong' characters (usually characters marginalized along one or multiple axes), like the characters in the 'wrong ways' or other bullshit.

Scott is a Bad Friend fics overtaking Teen Wolf fandom was not incidental, it was a FEATURE of the fandom, because the vast majority of that fandom did not want to share its space with anyone who had the nerve to like its main character. Survivors complaining about or criticizing the prevalance of rape fics in a certain fandom has in my experience always led to a reactionary UPTICK in those fics, with gems like 'this character can, will, must be raped' in the tags making it crystal clear that some of these fics exist because how fucking DARE anyone try and push forth a narrative not agreed upon by Fandom Main.

I could cite examples for so many other fandoms, with the commonalities always being that vast majorities in these fandoms are explicitly reacting defensively to being asked to be more mindful of fandom trends revolving around or exacerbating racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape or abuse apologia, ableism, etc....

With the most prolific fucking rallying cry across countless fandoms being "No the fuck we will NOT be doing that," because lolololol.....

Fandom is an inherently progressive space, didn't you hear?

[automatonknight]

here's the prick i was talking about^ i have so many thoughts and notes about him but they're mostly incomprehensible so when i organize maybe them i'll post them who knows

[fumifooms]

Marchil crumbs part 5

Part 1 - Part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 6 - part 7

The anime has come and since I have my shipping goggles on I am going to notice so much. This part will be less spoilery for anime onlys (tho if you want to see me talk about why I ship them and why they’re complementary this is not a good part to start with haha). Edit: After completing this part I can confirm it’s fully anime-onlys friendly and spoiler-free! For manga veterans though there are still some fun tidbits to be found, some recontextualisations and new extra content.

Holy shit guys they’re mirroring each other in the mural and reaching out to each other AND looking towards each other?!!!! Their pose is so striking and like perfectly align?! Which means it was so intentional and the staff wanted to highlight them (for an aesthetic and/or narrative purpose I’m sure but it happened)! I will never let this go we won so fucking hard let’s goooooo we are so back

Character foils!! Dynamic duo!!

Soulmates!!

In the opening at 1:16 he looks at her to see if she’s really going to it as the most critical of monster food & muster up courage to dig into it himself lmao… "Marcille doesn’t look too grossed out, she’s picky so this food must be fine then" Aka treating her as a poison taster/good cuisine judge lmao

Doodle from the animation director (source). I should translate it but I’m procrastinating on it so uh director’s brotp? Anyways they hanging out look at them :]

Laios is thinking to himself there (he’s the one saying the subs), and in the meantime Marcille and Chilchuck talk, likely figuring out the money situation. Strategizing duo back at it again not wasting a second

In the beginning of ep 1, when Marcille is rambling about where they could go to get food and what to grab, Chilchuck listens with a big smile & even closes his eyes as they walk. The implication is that he’s thinking about food, but man the scene hits different now that it’s voiced and I remember that indeed Chilchuck is closing his eyes to her voice and enjoying hearing her talk and ramble. I may be too far gone into the marchil pit

I feel like already they’ve come far from when Chilchuck dreaded being alone with Shuro and Marcille, waiting for the Toudens and Namari to arrive.

Ok this might actually be smth I’m gonna complain about but I feel like blushes have been drawn too vividly so far. Why does Chilchuck look like he’s confessing when he tells her she’s not a burden and he didn’t mean to make her feel that way. It almost comes across as "Woah she cares what I think?" 💀 The banter ensuing is of course also great

Ep 2 was an episode centered on them both that had the "Magic/Traps are my domain, don’t interfere!" parallel… And now with ep 3 we’re back to them being haters together. That’s her emotional support man

In ep 4, it doesn’t show well with a screenshot but when Senshi talks about his unmanned vegetable stand with a treasure chest, while in the manga Marcille and Chilchuck both think the same thing, "That’s why that treasure chest akways had money in it…", but in the anime instead they literally finish each other’s thought. Talk about being on the same wavelength.

Ep 5 is a marchil goldmine actually, it showcases perfectly how much of a package deal they are lol. Always sticking close to each other. Glancing at each other during meals… They literally nod at each other before they try a bite to steel themselves. They exchange a serious thoughtful glance when Laios talks about Falin truly being gone atm. They argue a bit but they go right back to sitting right next to each other after the meal <3 My god I can’t deal with them they are so…… "Hate this bitch, not my friend" 3 secs later "Heyy bestie!!" Also he’s worried he brought her mood down after mentioning Falin. Made a post about ep 5 collecting even more screenshots.

Episode 6 my hero my beloved… Again I made a post about the ep collecting all my screenshots here, and even a clip! But this IS the marchil crumbs masterpost thus I must collect the major ones here as well. First of all, fun staff drawings for the first screening!

I already posted a screenshot from the trailer of when Chil had his head on his knees sitting next to her, but after seeing episode 5 I think it’s a fun and interesting trend to notice that they sit next to each other way unnecessarily close wow. They continue to banter a ton, she continues to be very casual with touch, and they’re really cute! I love just how much Marcille blushed damn- It’s really cute too when you remember with the bicorn chapter that Chilchuck teases Marcille BECAUSE he enjoys getting a rise out of her, flustering her and seeing her reactions. I support the teasing -> laughing because her reaction is over the top all-Chilchuck economy. Also she apologizes for having let him go alone and be gone for so long by helping him with sewing his cowl… Cuties

She looked so happy when he opened up about his age!… And then seemed… Disappointed? When he "truly was just a kid". "So you really are a kid! How boring…" This implies that her intent was to tease him for funsies… Ok lads we reached 30 pics see you next post, I’m gonna cover the "wake up clumsy head" manga-anime differences and we’re gonna go back to our usual spoilers yummy schedule.

Here’s Marcille cosplaying as a succubus in the newest Daydream Hour… She may not be a half-foot or have deep-set eyes but let’s be real I think he’d explode

part 6 here!!

[mad-hunts]

the thing about barton and his own 'foil' as she should technically be considered, as she is technically the complete opposite of him in every way that matters, is that sumire [ whom i have talked about a few times on here, albeit briefly, so i will give you a brief refresher on her and that is that... her character eventually commits these killings based on the twelve main tarot cards in a deck based on them not fitting her idea of what 'perfect' looks like (kind of like barton BUT much different at the same time) ] and barton used to know each other as they were best friends as kids — even if it was only for a few years.

and as strange as this may sound, a broken promise between them was partially the catalyst behind what started her descent into feeling this need to 'judge' people, which is quite the coincidence as it may seem. because where do most of her victims end up dying? in these settings where she has set up these 'mock trials' for people. so, i know that i said i would talk about how barton had inadvertently created a monster a longgg time ago, but i now am sharing it with you all. because although one cannot blame barton fully for her actions as sumire, of course, has to take responsibility for them herself; but this did play a part in being a catalyst for her feeling all of this resentment and hatred for the world / people around her that led up to her first murder.

which, as you might have it, was the chariot: a tarot card that symbolizes revenge, willpower, and essentially tries to subconsciously put off this message that you are moving in the 'right direction.' i don't think it's so much just the promise itself though that makes this important — it's also that barton himself essentially forgot about the promise he made to sumire, as terrible as that may sound. it actually kind of gives you more insight as to what was going on in barton's mind as a kid because he basically made sumire promise him this: that, if he ever got on the 'wrong path,' that sumire would be there to show him a better one. and that she would attempt to reconnect with him if they ever got separated somehow / give him a sign of some kind that she was still there, so he could meet her.

and i say that this provides more insight because i haven't really gone into depth about this, but barton has expressed this idea in one roleplay on here. + that is that he didn't want to end up like this. however, regardless of that statement, there is no washing away of all of the heinous things he's done and he chose to do them anyway. i'm just thinking about how messed up it is that sumire, up until the point where she started her murders, had casually been searching for barton because the way in which his victims were found was vaguely remiscent of the way that wesley used to kill his victims. + this meant that he was definitely on the wrong path and she would eventually end up on the wrong one too.

[xannerz]

gnaws on priest hector

[ciderjacks]

argh. This comic writing is taking me way longer than usual. I keep editing things and it doesn’t feel right.

[kuromi-hoemie]

hhhh talking about my writing was fun but 30 tags is not enough.. yes i have 3 major influences but i have minor ones too.. it is a lovechild of my favorite things.. writing is so fun and i have no self control or a concept of pacing myself i will sit there for 16 hours and get hit with every status effect but by god does it all just flow out of me. I've always been a music person yes but i also used to write a lot into early adulthood until The Incident™

but i am ready 2 jump back into it. i think comics are a great middle ground between the two mediums so i don't get As into writing bc i kind of started going crazy last time 🫡 i can take a more structured approach to it that forces me to pace myself and think about it differently. i love art.... i love making things i love knowing how to do things i love knowing how to play things i love having so many creative outlets, even if i don't do a lot of them regularly lol. it is enriching 😳 and nice to know that it's always there to come back to when u want.

[happi-tree]

are we out (of the woods yet)

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

Or: Henry Oak, and being destined for two worlds and when you've only ever walked in one.

ao3

Here’s my fic for day 3: werewolves. Like day 1, this is part of a supernatural au that @kaseyskat and @llumimoon masterminded alongside me, although this one takes place chronologically before day 1's. Hope you like it!

Life is good for you. Great, even! At least, that’s what Father wants you to believe. 

Below your feet, the leaves crunch in shades of silver and gold, compounded into tiny bits that fly up around you as you sprint through the dense forest, and life is… as good as it can get, for the time being.

The sky is becoming clearer by the day, more and more pieces of azure heaven made visible by the ever-growing gaps in the canopy, carrying with it relief and distress in equal measure.

The sun lances to alight on pale golden fur, warming you through, unfettered by the leaves as you bound from shadow to shadow, light to light. At the same time, you feel the autumn’s chill on the breeze; though it is not yet cold enough for the grass to don their frost-coats at the gray-gold-blue dawn (scarcely ever is, these past few years), there is a weariness in your bones that belies the winter ahead, aching in joints that have not shifted right in quite some time.

It tugs at the back of your mind, the turn of the seasons, the shifting of moons, the shedding of leaves that regrow with the promise of spring. But there isn’t much you can do about it - not without it getting back to Father in some way or another (it always does, and you have long since learned that this corner of the wood has eyes beyond those of the white birches), and that is the last thing you want - so you growl under her breath, clench your jaw, and run harder, as if the ache is just a muscle you can stretch simply by outrunning it all. 

You bank around the trunk of an old, gnarled dogwood and think of winter. They’ll need food stocked up at the Commune, soon. 

(Commune, a name that Father has given your number, because Pack is too much too animalistic, too barbaric, too laughably simple for what you are. For your purpose. For your community.)

(You would personally like to tell Father where he can shove his community.)

(Well, most of it.)

The sun will be setting soon, you know, and as you bask in golden hour you dread the encroaching indigo-tinge of twilight that will bring you to Father’s side, ever the obedient daughter. There is not much you can do, though, except to attempt at grasping ephemeral joy in your hungry jowls, to crush the dead growth underfoot until you are expected back within the heart of Commune territory. 

<Hen!> a familiar mind-voice calls out to you. <Hey, Hen, over here!>

Well. You suppose that maybe there is something else you can do.

The careless footfalls of your partner approach from behind, and you whirl around.

<Goose,> You sigh, half-exasperated, half-fond. <What in the moon’s name are you doing over here?>

<Could ask you the same question, Hen Ry’,> he chuffs, trotting over to brush against your flank. 

<Plus, you always head over to this part of the outskirts when you’re all moody,> he notes, gesturing with his muzzle at your surroundings.

The cliff-wall before you is a massive, towering thing, all craggy rock and silvery moss. You could spend hours following the striations in the stone, nosing at the peaks and valleys, following them to the edge of Father’s influence. You have spent hours doing just that, following the winding currents within the rock, stripes of light and dark that squirm organically like the veins of some giant, petrified creature. 

The trees thin out, here, and you glance sidelong at Goose.

<I’m not “all moody”,> You argue rather pointlessly, staring at the ribbons of light-dark in the stone before you.

<Please, babe, you’re always moody. I can smell it from miles away.>

Goose Sy’ is a gangly, wiry thing, with dark fur that looks lit from within in the dappled sunlight. He hunches lazily now, but there is strength and power and quickness beneath his pelt.

<What’s on your mind?> He asks, and you let him touch his nose to your cheek, an affectionate gesture that is a rarer and rarer treasure, these days. <Is the old man on your ass again?>

<When isn’t he?> You respond simply, growling a bit as you kick up more debris.

You sigh. <He keeps asking if I’ve thought about a mate,> you confess, and you scent his agitation and the slightest bit of worry as he turns his golden eyes on yours.

<He’s not, like, suspicious or anything?> Goose asks.

<Moons, no, thank goodness,> You respond, seeing him untense before you. <Could you imagine?>

<I could, actually,> Goose says, his laughter resounding in your brain. <I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his perfect paragon pup has been fraternizing with a mangy commoner. You know, before he kills me.>

You nuzzle against his side, let his scent wash over you. You’ll have to roll around in muck and mire for quite awhile to erase it, but as you bury your face into his ruff, you think it’s worth it.

There’s an ache in your heart that matches the ache in your unshifted bones, and you often wonder which came first.

<Killing is against his own rules, and my Father surely wouldn’t debase himself to such levels. It is beneath our glorious, enlightened kind,> You sniff mockingly. 

<I dunno, Hen, I think I just might send him over the edge.> He bumps his side to yours, snorting.

Father… has been getting very insistent about settling you down. Perhaps a part of you always knew that pups were the only things he judged you as being good enough for, but your stomach turns at the very principle. You feel trapped, miserable here in his territory, heir to his kingdom of oak and earth. To bring more of yourself into the world, to force them to endure as you have…

You scent a chill on the breeze, and it ruffles your fur, causing a shiver to run down your spine. The ache intensifies, and you can practically feel the creaking of your bones beneath the sinew.

You hear yourself whine before you can stop it, and Goose presses closer to your side.

<Have you thought about Changing?> He asks, mind-voice lowered to the slightest of whispers.

You balk. <Are you insane? Father would actually kill me. Just because you can get away with it doesn’t mean I could just - >

<I know, I know,> Goose says, trying on a soothing tone like an ill-fitting coat. <It’s just that - > he snarls, low and angry, and you flinch.

<Sorry,> He cuts himself off. <But you’re hurting, and it’s his fault. Him and his stupid fucking rules.>

It’s not the sun against your fur that makes you feel warmed through, now.

<I hate him,> Goose tells you.

<I know,> You reply, instead of the me, too that lies just below your speech-thoughts. 

<Does it hurt?> You ask him. <The Change, I mean.>

<A little,> He answers. <Well, a lot, at the beginning. But then, the pain goes away a little, I guess. Shrinks. You could try it, you know. I’d take care of you.>

<Absolutely not,> You say. <My Father would have both of our heads, and you know it.>

Your heart says something different, as it always has. You ponder for the briefest moment the concept of running away from it all, of a full-moon sunrise where you awaken in a body that is still yours but also not, side by side with him. You imagine the shift-ache unfurling into a new shape before shrinking dormant below your reformed skin.

You wonder if he would drag you to the treeline outside the nearest town, dress you in human things until you could masquerade among them. If he would teach you how to walk on two legs. 

You wonder what he would look like. Instead of brushing against your side, you wonder if he would hold your hand.

Wondering is a pointless thing, though, Father says, and running is cowardice.

Staying feels even moreso, but you know nothing else.

<Well, if you change your mind and wanna stick it to the old mutt, you know where to find me,> Goose’s voice echoes softly between your pointed ears, breaking you from your thoughts.

<Thank you,> You respond, trying to wrangle your mind-voice into something that sounds less morose and forlorn. You fail, judging by the way Goose presses his muzzle against yours. 

You wish you could go, just pick up and leave, but there are things that keep you. Mother, for one, though she grows more and more distant by the day, ever colder, like the Autumn she is named for, as Father sinks his claws into you both, bleeding you of your heart and your strength and your freedoms until nothing is left but exhaustion and ache and apathy.

Mother belonged to another Pack, once, you know, even though she has never spoken of it. A real Pack, in name and in function. She has known what it feels like to move between forms, between worlds, transient like the phases of the moon.

You would’ve liked a life like hers, a name like hers, one that feels equal parts human and beast.

Instead, you were named in Commune tradition. The first moons of your life you went nameless, in order for your parents (your Father, mostly) to judge what name would best suit you.

You think of Father’s name: Bear, a towering, massive presence compressed into lupine form that looms over you even when he is not there. Strong, masculine, predatory.

Goose was named this way, too, and the name suits him well - your partner is flighty, a free spirit, but brash and loud and quick to bite and clamor at whatever displeases him.

Even your childhood tormentor, Horse, suits his name. Proud and haughty and ornery and loud in his own right, skittish beneath Father and Mother’s glares. 

You do not have to wonder why Father chose Hen for yourself. You are a livestock, a thing to be kept in a wooden cage, with clipped wings incapable of flight, legs unsuited for traveling too far from his reach. Your children and your children’s children will feed the gaping maw of your captor, and there is nothing you can do about it. 

Your name chafes at you, scratches at you like brambles upon your hide. Meek and feminine and prey-animal and all the things you are but wish not to be.

<Sun’ll be down soon,> Goose’s mind-voice resounds in your brain, and you startle, cocking your head to dislodge your useless spiraling.

You look around, noting the yellowish light stretching the tree-shadows longer and longer across the ground. 

<You’re right,> You agree.

<Lost you for a minute, there,> He says.

Goose doesn’t press for answers, but the flicking of his ears gives away his concern.

<Just thinking,> You respond, glancing at the deepening blues on the horizon.

<You were thinking pretty loudly,> Goose remarks with a light press against your side. <You gotta get back, yeah?>

<Wish I didn’t have to,> You grumble, already turning to the depths of Commune territory, pawing forward even as you think it.

<Offer’s always open,> Goose replies. <Full moon’s only a week away.>

The pain within you seems to increase at the reminder.

<I know. Thanks. Don’t forget to get rid of the scent.>

<I know!> Goose exclaims as your paths begin to diverge - his, to his home on the far reaches, yours, to whatever Father has awaiting you tonight. <Thanks. See you soon?>

<Soon,> You agree, and hope you can make good on that promise.

“Hello?”

The first thing you register as you awaken is that your body hurts. 

Bone-deep, marrow-deep, cell-deep, all over. It feels like your limbs have scrambled themselves, ground themselves to dust, and then attempted to piece themselves back together from the rubble. It is as if every muscle fiber within you has been stretched past breaking point, as if every nerve ending fell prey to one thousand claws, one thousand fangs. 

Your very soul yowls in pain, and it is only because your teeth feel so wrong and foreign in your own jaw, because your vocal cords scrubbed raw, that you do not vocalize it beyond a shaking rasp. 

The second thing you register is a presence right in front of you. 

You open your eyes, and the third thing you register is dazzling, dizzying, scintillating color. 

Your hands (hands?) scrabble at the rough earth in a vain attempt to ground yourself as you look around half-dazed and hurting, and the soft, uncalloused flesh of your palms smarts and stings against jagged bits of debris.

You look down.

Well, this explains the pain, you think, eyes darting over a body that you inhabit but do not recognize in the slightest, in colors that you can scarcely remember seeing.

Father is going to kill me. Then, Where am I?

You don’t recognize this part of the woods - the scents of the Commune are all but nonexistent, and the area around you is well-trod, devoid of grass, human odors lingering and overlapping.

A human hiking trail?

You blink rapidly, taking in the fuzzy dawn light and its myriad of hues.

Mother had taught you about colors, once, when you were a very young pup and the world was still bright with more than shades of yellow and cerulean and she was not yet as poisoned by oppressive bear-weight of cynicism. 

She had told you their names, even, though you struggle to remember them. 

You test them out, now, forming their mouth-shapes with a slow clacking of newly-blunted teeth. 

Green, the color of moss and grasses and foliage at the height of solstice. 

Orange and her deeper sister red, the colors of the fallen leaves underfoot, the colors of the sky as evening starts its slow descent toward dusk. 

The coveralls that the human woman before you wears are purple, you think, a flower-color, a dusk-color, a dawn-color. A spring-color, a beginning-color. 

“H-ello,” you attempt, your voice creaking and throat constricting at the novelty of speaking aloud. 

“Hello, again,” the woman responds, slowly and frowning, but… not unkindly, you think.

You inhale, and her scent is tinged with something sparkling and warm and cold all at once. Magic-smell, you realize. There is worry there, as well - not for her own safety, but for yours. 

There is not even the tracest amount of falsehood to her - her demeanor, her expression (though, that, admittedly, is mostly guesswork), her scent. 

It’s a novel concept. 

You cannot remember that last time anyone had had honest intentions with you (apart from Mother and maybe Goose), let alone went as far to show genuine concern over you. 

It takes you aback, strikes you nearly as harshly as… whatever it was that has left you feeling so crippled. 

“My name is Mercedes,” the woman says, gently, softly, as if speaking to a wounded prey animal. 

The comparison is… not without merit. 

“What can I call you?” She asks. 

Smart, this woman is. Or incredibly stupid. To lend her own name like that knowing full well the risks is either an intense show of trust and compassion, or…

There is a glint in her eye, you notice, and the magic-scent sharpens. 

Well… best to repay a kindness with a kindness. 

“Hen,” you croak, trying to get the shape of your name to form on your clumsy, human tongue. “Ry’Oak.”

“Well, Henry,” the woman (Mercedes!) says, and you splutter at the way that she slurs the first two syllables together rather than the last. 

“Are you okay?”

Moons above, no, you are not. 

Your body hurts like it never has before, and your eyes sear with a kaleidoscope of hues you haven’t seen since you were a young pup, and the way this witch has butchered your name might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. 

Henry, you mouth to yourself, running it together. It sounds rather plain, achingly human. Father would hate it. 

You quite like it. 

“I think… I will be,” you tell Mercedes. 

“Good,” she says, extending a hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

[waywardsalt]

gonna be a hater in tags real quick

[jackleopard]

The Eras Tour really is just incredible, 10/10, it’s a tour that will go down in history

[encrucijada]

unfortunately i am thinking about haze dogs again. nothing concrete. just vague shapes. connor in the iron dog mask. the dogs themselves stalking the town. that party scene that eludes me. connor drunkenly falling into the fountain pool.

[elenadoeslife]

Heating pad with freshly boiled water broke on me.. 0/10 - do not recommend 🥴

[niko-jpeg]

10,000 words ( : ౦ ‸ ౦ : )?? thats sm im so excited for when u release it!! (๑>؂•̀๑)

i hope u have a good day ur writing is so good !!

You have a good day too! And thank you so much!!