#greyrocks

[mettamorph]

Annoyance is actually really big for her to express because she just greyrocked for a long time. She's become the most annoyed person and that's actually pretty positive for her.

[opossumpal]

It’s interesting how Victor Fries is often said to be low empathy but there are a lot of moments that directly contradict that

[schizononagesimus]

every time some relative tells me that i shouldnt be gay because god said no and that they "hate the sin love the sinner", a friend will ask if im okay. and the answer is probably no and i'll process it later, but i'll be damned if on the surface correcting these bitches' bible quotes and telling them im not in the business of sainthood aint one of the best feelings on the planet.

[frenz-kefka]

When I literally get my face scratched and mouth punched and shoved against a wall but my mom tells me to ‘stop getting beat up’ and that she ‘wishes she (my sister) had hit me harder’ and that she’s ’not even mad she hit me’ because I didn’t want to hear her tear me down again and again over buying two phone cases (she won’t pay me for cleaning her room) 😋

[cultoftempelhof]

Embrace the calmness of a grey rock, just like C. Brandon Ingram.

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

hey buddy if you're gonna turn the country into a reality show could you get less predictable writers

[mxchaelsdiary]

Tsk tsk, just as difficult as I remember.

How are you doing, Lucifer?

Why?

[howlsofbloodhounds]

You know how i said nightmare can copy the noises of baby animals and stuff

Do you think after he best the fuck out of killers cats and made him get rid of them he sometimes copies their meowing and purrs just to fuck with him

My genuine reaction to reading this.

I can picture him trying to do this, but the second Killer catches on, he stops reacting completely. Goes blank, as if he didn’t hear a thing, and blatantly refuses to give any response or reaction—because that’s what Nightmare’s looking for here.

And he won’t give him that power. It’s actually really easy to stop caring and disengage—eventually Nightmare may find it boring enough to move on to something new or leave him alone temporarily.

So basically: Killer knows how to greyrock, and he does it well. Of course, it’d be a significant struggle to try and do this in Stage 1 and Stage 3 is just more likely to lash out in response to stress or any perceived threat, but if he’s in Stage 2–piece of cake.

{ @brokenramunebottle }

[ozzyd27]

Hunt Statement

*Well finally, this is the end of my series of TMA inspired short stories. I hope you enjoy this one! I really struggled to think of something original for The Hunt, hence why I left it for last, but I think this is quite good!*

The Ozzy Statements Episode 15: Love Of The Game

Statement of Deuteronomy Greyrock regarding his encounters with a smiling creature deep below ground. Original statement given November 16th 1936. Recorded by Ozzy, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I must preempt this tale with an acknowledgement of my own stupidity. None of this would have taken place, were it not for my unyielding hubris. Alas it must be said, this all took place when I foolishly delved within the catacombs of my ancestral manor.

Upon his death, my patriarchal grandfather - Maynard Greyrock - bequeathed to me nothing at all, in fact most of the assets went to my father. I was, I dare say rightfully, a fair bit disappointed as I believed that I had grown quite close to Maynard near the end. I would spend many a weekend helping him tinker in his workshop, and many an evening listening to his great dramatic stories set in his youth. He would tell me of the catacombs hidden under the floor, where apparently he had explored whilst his parents were sleeping. On dark nights, lit by his gilded lantern in the living room, he would tell me of the unimaginable size of the place, while also speaking vaguely of a looming threat hidden there. He never described it more than that, just a presence which stalked from nowhere. Whenever I inquired as to its physical features or disposition, he would simply chuckle or sigh, “I don't want to give you nightmares, boy”

Apparently he found hints of a treasure down there once, in the form of some sort of map, however the creature started to chase him as soon as he picked it up. He tripped and stumbled, dropping the parchment, and got out with a concussion from falling on a rock. He was always very vague about this arguably very important aspect of his adventures, instead choosing to focus on the architecture down there and the ancient tombs he found. In the end, he told me, he locked the trapdoor to the catacombs with a heavy iron key, and hid it under some bulky furniture. He felt that as he was getting older, he couldn't risk the monster climbing out of its dungeon one night for a sort of revenge. He wouldn't be able to defend himself. I could always see, though, a little glint of disappointment in his eyes, and perhaps hope. As though he were waiting for the day he would delve back within.

But in the end, the old man succumbed to the cold wrinkly hands of death not by an otherworldly monster, but by the looming march of old age. Or at least that's what I was told, I never saw the body though. Indeed he wasn't extremely old in reality - only around 60 - yet he looked like a man of around 90. He never told me where his key was, nor of the exact place where the trapdoor lay, however I still believed his stories with my full heart. In all honesty, I felt rather betrayed upon seeing my non-existent inheritance. Surely I deserved to investigate what he had spent so long talking to me about. My heart and mind concurred to endeavor against any threat to seek a treasure I felt was my true inheritance.

So one humid night, a fortnight from his passing, I travelled to his manor, a structure I remembered as tall and imposing when I visited as a child. Those same feelings resounded within me as it loomed upon me from the foggy darkness. Naught but mice inhabited the place, for my father had made himself scarce via some important business trip, although I doubt he would have slept there anyway. My father isn't a superstitious man, but his relationship with Maynard was sufficiently abysmal to inspire within him a deep fear of him returning from the beyond to haunt him. Why Maynard gave him the house, I could never guess.

Either way, it also happened to be that the door was unlocked, it noisily creaked open at the slightest nudge, screaming bleakly upon the world to signal my intrusion. The inside was how I remembered it, albeit covered in a thin spattering of dust. And so, without hesitation I began looking.

Many of his possessions had already been taken, possibly either by my father or by thieves. Perhaps for this reason, I found no key after hours of searching. I did, though, discover the trapdoor, camouflaged in the floorboards beneath the bookcase.

Also, in the garage I found a weathered Winchester model 1897, which is a pump action shotgun that I was very surprised to find. My grandfather had never fought in the Great War, nor had he ever spoken at all about self defence or anything of the sort. I can only presume he bought it near the end, succumbing to anxiety even though the hatch was locked. Nevertheless the gun was very useful, as I pointed the long barrel towards the keyhole and blasted any suggestion of a preventative measure to smithereens. Through the splintered hole I heard the massive boom echoing through vast halls, and what sounded like wind wailing at my insolence. I lifted up the heavy wood door and saw a rusted ladder leading down into utter black. I remembered seeing grandfather's gilded lantern in another room, so I retrieved it, strapped the Winchester to my back, and ventured down.

This place was truly massive, the dancing lantern light scarcely licked the corners, and mountainous marble pillars, tarnished to time, birthed deep blankets of shadow behind. The floor seemed to be a sort of sandstone, eroded and crumbling insofar as the ground was saturated with loose stones which, when stepped through, begot a crunching static which reverberated infinitely down the path. The path itself was not only wide and tall, but had many turns and offshoots, much akin to a dark and cavernous labyrinth. Within many of the peripheral offshoots, there were simple stone rooms with modest tombs laying within. Etched into them were dates which seemed impossibly far into the past, and names scrawled in a language I've never seen before, and yet after all that time the sealing slabs upon all of them remained wholly undisturbed

For around the third time I walked into another largely uninteresting room of the dead, stepping further in to investigate. However, suddenly from behind I heard a harsh whisper, like a distant gust of wind. I turned back around and witnessed a glimpse of something very dark rushing around the corner of the doorway to the right, smooth as a liquidised shadow. Ever the curiously naive boy, I of course followed after it.

Alas, the massive corridor seemed empty, contingent on me not daring to imagine what might be lurking behind any one of the monstrous grey pillars. And so, comforted in the bosom of ignorance, I explored further into the unholy maze, my lantern desperately fighting against the dark veil which permeated the place. Many times I swore I saw a flickering shadow rushing from the wall, like a large skittering bug. And after a half dozen sightings, I could no longer convince myself that I was imagining the multitude of eyes which stared at me from that flickering shadow.

Still, I remained undeterred, and continued fervently checking each room and branch of the path. This artefact I was searching for was my inheritance and nothing would stop me from acquiring it. Interestingly, I began to realise that the further I went on, the less dilapidated the architecture and the more recent the dates on the tombs became. After a short time, the names were even written in what could have been a predecessor to English.

After around an hour, I reached a crossroads of sorts. To the left continued the usual marble pillared cavernous path, while right in front of me the floor - in a sort of gradient - transformed into gold, upon which was a shining pedestal. My greed overtook judgement, and I practically sprang upon what I saw placed upon it.

The map.

I grabbed it instantly and whipped my body around, surveying for the creature. My grandfather had said it attacked when he took the map, so I was very cautious. My eyes scanned from wall to wall, pausing on the pools of shadow behind each pillar. My breathing was erratic, but I didn't blink, I was ready to sprint at the slightest movement.

Then I heard a mocking whisper of wind. It did not come from down the hall. It did not come from behind the pillars. Inches behind my head I felt something, breathing, whispering, staring, stalking. Every fibre of muscle in my body froze, and I could do nothing as I felt a wet, scaly hand slowly grasp my shoulder. A possessive hand, rough uneven claws digging into the muscle. In shock, I forgot to keep hold of the map and it fell from my hand. The creature snarled, deep and wet, into my ear, and I finally snapped out of my horrified reverie. The gun, I had a gun. No, I wouldn't be able to reach it in time. Did it care about the map? No, I don't know enough. The gilded lantern! This was a creature bathed in shadow, surely it wouldn't react well to light. I fortunately had yet to drop it, and so with a savage determination I pushed myself forward while turning around with the lantern held high.

The claws, still pierced deep, had torn a chunk of gored flesh when I had lurched forward, but I hardly registered the pain as I looked at the thing which was before me.

The thing screamed at the light, as the shadows cloaking it melted away. Beneath I saw veins. Purple veins strung along grey skin, bulging. Copious legions of pulsating branches spread like vines beneath its moist rough skin. Worst of all was what was placed upon this monstrous form. The face was a mouth. A smiling mouth, with massive yellow tombstone teeth, which spread over every inch of its malformed head. In the middle of each of the teeth was an eye, red and piercing. Always looking. Always hunting.

The head shook, recovering from its daze, and with a gusting roar, its massive frame lurched forward into a beastial stance, on all fours, and began to chase. I ran, sprinted to the right - where the path continued further into the catacombs. The smiling beast leaped at me from behind, but by this point I had the gun in one hand, and used it like a bat to smash it away from me. It was knocked onto its side, sliding briefly on the floor, loose stones shunted into the walls. Very quickly it regained its footing and built inhuman speed, clambering towards me. I had ducked behind a pillar while it was down, and put my lantern on the ground to use the Winchester properly.

I leant from the pillar, instantly facing the smiling thing with its malevolent eyes as it launched towards me. I had barely any time to raise the gun, but somehow I managed to pull the trigger at the right time. A massive gaping hole was blown in its chest, shattering any organs and demolishing the veins there. Purple slop sputtered from the wound onto my face and clothes as it careened backwards. I was amazed, even humouring the possibility that it was actually dead. Unfortunately the fantasy didn't last for long, as the loose skin began to move on its own, and the veins began to swiftly grow over the crater. This wouldn't last. Worse, I realised that the shotgun I cradled like a saviour from God only had 1 more bullet.

With a quick exhale, I holstered my gun, picked up the lantern, ran back to pick up the map I had dropped, and began to read it while speed walking further down the corridor. Although I stopped in my tracks just as quickly, as the map made absolutely no sense. I had no idea what orientation it was in, what any of the markings meant, and there seemed altogether far too many branching paths. Then I looked at my surroundings and found the truth. This section of the catacombs had far more crossroads and winding paths than before, with rooms of tombs haphazardly placed between random corridors. In essence, it was a maze.

This didn't assist at all in the problem of reading the map, however, and so I foolishly spent at least 10 minutes wandering around, trying to find any potential landmark to use as a point of reference. However, looking at the maze on the map made me realise something very obvious, something anyone can use in any maze. So, I threw the map away and began to hug the left wall, always turning to the left and following it all the way round. Logically, this should lead me to the goal, as it means I wouldn't be going down paths I had already explored. Every so often I would hear a gust of air echoing from behind me, surely the smiling creature healing, or perhaps already stalking me once more, but I steadfastly kept going. As I trod on, I noticed the side of my face, and my shoulder, begin to subtly burn. Not literal flames of course, but where the creature's liquid had hit me began to feel like it was warping. Like the skin was sagging and rotting, as if bit by bit my flesh was dying.

I had no chance to give any more thought to this unpleasant sensation, as I stumbled upon the middle of the maze. I knew instantly because it was a titanically huge square room, with dull gold covering the walls, and a single pedestal in the middle. Cautiously, I scanned around for the monster and found nothing, but I got my gun out just in case, putting the lantern on the floor near the pedestal to use both hands. There was no great treasure on the grand plinth. Instead, there were words, engraved in gold upon a stone tablet:

“YE WHO FOOLISHLY SEEK, O INCESSANT PURSUER, THY TREASURE ART BEGOTTEN BETWIXT FALSEHOOD AND MISPLACED HOPE. GAZE NOW UPON THINE PREDATOR AND SEE A MIRROR, SEE ‘TIS A BRETHREN OF DESIRE. A HUNTER WHO SHALL STALK TO THE END, JUST AS THOU WOULDST”

As if on cue, the smiling demon crawled out from the hallway I entered from. I could not possibly fathom any metaphorical, philosophical nature of the situation at that moment, instead opting for self preservation by running. Indeed there was one other passage in the room, on the opposite end from the entrance, and so I hastily grasped the lantern and sprinted towards it. For the first time in this whole dungeon, the room had a door, so I flung myself in and smashed it closed. There were of course more tombs within, so I desperately pushed one over to the door, harshly scraping against the floor, in order to barricade it. The creature scraped and roared and banged at the door, but it was quite sturdy. I leant on one of the tombs, panting while doubled over, wracked with fear and panic. Until something caught my eye.

There were many stone tombs in this room, much newer than any I had seen thus far, and most of them empty. In fact only one of them had the lid covering it. But it was the name that made me shudder. “Maynard Greyrock”, and then in a smaller font underneath “1876-1936”. My grandfather had died here, not of old age, in the end. I was in shock, and carelessly slid the heavy grey lid from the top of it to see if it really was his body, sending the slab crashing onto the ground.

The body within was unrecognisable, simply a cracked skeleton with a thin, stretched, wrinkly husk of skin wrapped around it. He couldn't have decayed this much yet, he had only been dead a couple of weeks! That's when I put some the mystery together. The purple slime, and the wet mucus on the smiling creature, perhaps even the very air of that place, they made things age quicker. That's why the half of my face hit with the liquid was already decaying and wrinkling, and why this man who died at the age of 60 not even a month ago was already scarcely more than stray bones.

Suddenly with a crack, a splinter of wood flew past my face, as the heavy planked door was demolished more and more. With a final smash, a clawed hand emerged from the centre of the door, wood flung everywhere. Then another hand. The rest of the door bends from the pressure, and with the sound of a tree falling over, the door collapses under the weight of the thing and its purple veins. I was preparing all that time though, readying my gun for action. This time I stood further back, so as to avoid getting the purple blood anywhere on me. Unfortunately that meant less power in the blast, the scatter of the projectiles was obvious in the results, but it still did damage. Many of the pellets were lodged in the chest again, while others tore up large sections of the thigh. One lucky pellet seemed to have pierced through the knee, and so it limped a lot after that. The vast majority of the pellets vit veins, though, that much is certain, so I had to be very careful not to step into the swiftly accumulating puddle of purple sludge, lest my shoes age and turn into dust beneath my very feet.

While the screaming creature, still smiling, writhed on the floor in pain, I got a run-up and sprinted for the door, climbing over the tomb and through the splintered remnants of the door. And I kept running

I ran through the maze, keeping to the right, even as I heard the roaring monster scuttling behind me, even as I felt its claws scratch across my back I still ran, sprinted, dashed, raced, desperately willing my legs to keep moving after hours of tiring exploration. Finally I made it to the ladder, but I could hear it right behind me, so I unholstered my gun once more and smashed it across its face, destroying the gun but staggering it for long enough that I could hastily climb up the rungs, close the trapdoor, and stack every item of furniture known to man on top of that God forsaken section of floorboard.

And so, I survived, with nothing to show for it, save for an ugly wrinkled section on my face and a good few scars. I was lucky though, very lucky. In fact I should have died, really. Blinded by greed, overwhelmed with hubris, I should have joined those hundreds of tombs down there. After thinking about it now, I imagine so many people died down there because of stories, just like my grandfather's, dripping with mystery and curiosity and potential. No doubt he got a clue of its existence from a previous family member too. But the cycle ends now. I shan't tell a word of this to anyone else. And don't worry, all names and dates have been fabricated in this statement, so there is no chance of anyone trying to find the catacombs based on this. Haha, how fitting that the end of this loop should come from a story.

I just wish that I couldn't still feel the smiling creature stalking me from the shadows. I believe it will hunt me to the very end of my days, and I think that end may turn out to be quite soon…

Statement ends.

[pupculture]

So I successfully greyrocked through my mother bringing up my rape. And I feel

Really really proud. And so absolutely horrible.

How the fuck can she look me in the fucking eye and keep yelling. I didn't fucking do anything. I didn't respond I didn't react and she yelled for 30 fucking minutes.

I fucking hate her.

[kittyit]

How do you combat the anger? I know it's not fair but at times i feel angrier towards transwomen than towards non-trans men, just because their infiltration and control feels even more insidious and selfish. I have real compassion for people who transition in part due to homophobia but most of the out trans women I meet in my circle are straight and I can't help but greyrock them. It feels unfair to feel even angrier at a small minority but I guess it's the claustrophobia of it.

there was no need to apologize for this ask in your next one :) you're being quite hard on yourself for your feelings, which is basically convicting yourself of thought crimes. it's not a crime to feel angry. it sounds like you have great insight on where some of this anger might be unreasonable if you applied it to your overall worldview, took actions based on it, or formed opinions that didn't account for the nuances of the actual situation. but the anger itself doesn't need to be combatted. it's okay to be angry, and there's a lot to be angry about. you also don't need to not be angry at agps and i think it's a great instinct to shut them out in an easy and neutral way. it is claustrophobic, they are inherently sexist at baseline, and many of them go much further than just the inherent sexism of a man identifying as a woman in their behavior and treatment of women. so basically you're not doing anything wrong by having feelings, you're not doing anything wrong by withdrawing your energy for men who are inherently disrespecting your personhood and sex as a class, and you don't have to apologize for reaching out when you're feeling bad and wanting a kind word

[biggayhimbo]

i think velrisa greyrock bit people as a kid. like not in the cutesy lilo and stitch playfighting way or in a glamorizing way- i think she lost her first tooth in a fight. and i think she lost that fight, i think she never stood a chance in it- she was a little girl branded a monster and therefore a heretic. and i think when she peeled herself out of the afterforge dirt and came home, she didn’t tell ander who did it, no matter how much he asked. i think she woke up the next morning to the sharp point of a fang growing out of the hole where her incisor once was. i think velrisa greyrock, disowned by the age of five, woke up with a black eye and scraped knees; and i think she must have known her fangs were her goddess saying get up, my champion.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Meghan pr released that the BRF WOULD tell her happy birthday officially on social media. What happened next? Greyrock..! by u/Ruth_Lily

Meghan pr released that the BRF WOULD tell her happy birthday officially on social media. What happened next? Greyrock……..! Poor Meghan. She only communicates by pr releasing to the tabloids…And the BRF wants nothing to do with her nor Harryhttps://https://ift.tt/Pn5OiCN archivehttps://archive.ph/0g4Bx post link: https://ift.tt/NZafFbw author: Ruth_Lily submitted: August 05, 2024 at 05:43PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[pdrrook]

What if during ROs love confessions to MC, MC just sort of greyrocked them? Like 'Mmhh...anyways-' and went back to talking to whatever they were before? And later it turns out that MC thought they were being mean-spirited and asking them out as a joke, which is why they reacted like that? Maybe MC just has been burnt like this in the past many times 🤷‍♀️

Jewel would take it as a rejection and would never bring it up again, even if she had an inkling that MC didn’t mean it. She’d think about it all the time, though, entertaining all the reasons as to why MC did what they did

Reed, since they know each other like forever, would know if MC had a situation like this in the past, but he’s also stupid when his feelings are concerned so he’d take it as a ‘no,’ too, and he’d be glad to see MC is acting normal afterward, bc at least they can return to the status quo and act like they did before (he also thinks MC already knows he’s into them, so nothing much would change)

Laurent would be so confused, but he’d assume he misunderstood something and his confession must have inconvenienced MC in some way, so he’d keep it to himself from there on out

Nino would ignore & avoid MC afterwards, bc it’d cost her a LOT to be/act vulnerable, and if MC just brushed it off, she’d be super ashamed and super gutted

Flavio’d be like ‘fair enough,’ bc he knowssss it’s a stupid idea to confess so just it serves him right for taking the plunge

Alan, kinda depends on the confession and circumstances, bc he could be just pikatchu face and try again, or he’d be hurt like Nino, and react similarly to her

[sha-brytols]

for the inquisitor!

5. What was the Herald of Andraste's opinion about the Chantry and the war before the explosion?

14. What type of Inquisitor are they? What are their motivations? How do they lead?

20. What does the Inquisitor think about Hawke?

YEAHHHH thank you ❤️ doing elnora for this

Inquisitor Ask Game

5. What was the Herald of Andraste's opinion about the Chantry and the war before the explosion?

The Chantry as, like, an institution? Sucks major farts no thank you 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️ But she's fascinated by the Chant of Light itself and the story of Andraste and the Maker and has a lot of admiration for the message of hope it expresses. As for the war, my headcanon was actually that Clan Lavellan is a sanctuary clan for Dalish mages that were cast out by their clans (my way of trying to figure out how the hell that retcon makes any gotdam sense) so naturally the war affected their lives a lot. The rogue Templars targeted them a lot and Elnora ended up being one of the few non-mage hunters in the clan and was on the front lines against them when they ambushed, so she has a very fucking poor opinion of them LMAO

14. What type of Inquisitor are they? What are their motivations? How do they lead?

She's a faithful Inquisitor if you can believe it. She's a lot like Ameridan in that she believes in both the Maker and the Creators (this was before i played that dlc if you can fucking believe it) and she especially feels a lot of admiration towards Andraste specifically as the woman who nearly took down Tevinter and helped freed the elves all while preaching hope and faith and community, so when everyone's like "yooo Andraste chose you" Elnora was like omg YAY and went with it. Her motivation is basically to follow in Andraste and Mythal's footsteps as one. Make a better future, protect the weak, strike down injustice, and never let go of the people you love.

As for how she leads she needs Cassandra at her side at literally all times or she's fucking helpless

20. What does the Inquisitor think about Hawke?

DEPRESSING LOL. Elnora LOVES heroic tales and ballads and things like that so when Varric was like "hey meet my best friend Hawke ^_^" she was ecstatic. And then it turned out Varric embellished a lot of details regarding her personality because this woman is a fucking bummer to be around. I think at first Elnora was really put off by Esther just because she's fucking MEAN. Like actually just a nightmare to talk to. Hang on I even rewrote their interaction about Anders where Esther just greyrocks her LOL

After awhile of traveling together though Elnora's opinion flips and she just kind of feels bad for her. Like she just seems so weary. I like to think of Here Lies the Abyss as like, a cautionary tale to the Inquisitor on the realities of being a living legend. Hawke is a statement on how you can try as much as you possibly can and fight tooth and nail at every turn and still fail, so Elnora ultimately ends up admiring Hawke for how she still manages to go on despite her shit life.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

.

Ramblings about mental health. Feel free to skip.

It's insane how little I allow myself to talk about myself and my interests irl. I think it's because I've always been made to feel bad/evil/selfish/sociopathic for wanting to share the things that bring me joy.

I love music and concerts but people in my life legitimately think I don’t listen to music. I love painting but most people are surprised I can draw. I never under any circumstances talk about my love of history with people irl because the second I do, I get the most negative reaction imaginable.

I've gotten so good at hiding myself that no one in my life can name a single thing I like. When asked what I do like, I greyrock and parrot their own interests back to them. This satisfies most people because they love hearing about themselves, and it means they stop paying attention to me. It gives them less of a reason to hurt me.

Hiding myself full-time is exhausting, and is why I'm so severely burnt out, but I know deep down it's just not safe to be myself around others. I just can't trust others with who I am at all. This is not from paranoia, this is from severe physical, sexual and psychological abuse that has shaped how I interact with others.

I use tumblr because it's pretty much the only place where I'm not being made to feel guilty about breathing everyone else's oxygen. Yet I'm still anxious every time I think about posting stuff to do with my fic because who tf wants to hear about that? Truly? Idk I'm barely human at this point anyway.