#how differently those deaths changed them

[zepskies]

ehehe I know I'm on the right track if I can make you laugh, Wayne! 😂💜

Ah yes, classic man with his "I'm fine." He'd probably still say, halfway through bleeding to death 😂

😆😆 Dean:

Hahaha such a good point! Hard to argue with that 😆

lol right? If he's not complaining about someone else driving his Baby, then something's clearly amiss. 😂

Yup, and have Sam stich you up with tooth floss, right, big boy? 😂

ahhaha "big boy" took me out, but yeah that floss is really gonna cut it 😂

While she's filling out his form, I had Ross and Joey in my head, too 😂

omg YES, that's the idea lmao. And you found the kidney stones gif!! 🤣🤣 I raise you with:

Awww, yeah ❤️‍🩹 But that's such a good point! Since Dean survived the finale and nothing ever happened in that barn, he has to face his mortality in a way. The "Fuck, what happens when I'm old and wrinkly" phase 😅

Quite literally all of that (glossing over 15x20 like જ⁀➴), and I just like the grounded humanness of Sam and Dean having to deal with the potential resulting health issues from decades of hunting, getting knocked out and stitched back together again, living on the road, etc. 😂

The ending was so wholesome! And I imagined the reader from Midnight Espresso. She was so warm, caring, stubborn, and sassy, too. Totally gave me the same vibes! 😭💜

You know how to get me all warm fuzzy like, friend! loll I'm so glad this made you think of the Midnight Espresso-verse. 🥹💜💜 She's very much all of those things, and like Dean, a natural nurturer, so he has someone in his corner really looking after his wellbeing in the "healthy and cared for" sense. Not just the "ya good?" 😂

Oh, Beau... Not the prostate exam 😂🫶 Btw, I loved how you switched up the different doctors for each of them! The kind of doctor fit their personalities so well too and made it even funnier 🤣

ahaha I thought it was fitting for him!! 😝 Aw thank you for pointing that out! I try to fit each situation with what's best for the character, and on this one I felt like showcasing different kinds of medical situations would be a fun way to do that. For some reason Beau always gets the (hopefully) funny everyday domestic issues 😆

Aaaah, I love that you incorporated this!!! Totally sounds like something he'd do too. Probably Jenny, Denise, and Cassie heard the same thing. He went on about it for days lmao

You've been on a roll recently giving me such good tidbits! lol Omg yeeeees he'd be complaining the whole week of post-man flu, probably even asking Denice if she can spy anything weird down his throat 🤣

Ugh, so true... Been trying to get my husband to go to one (and also been trying to get him to have a weird mole checked out for ten years. The argument: it hasn't changed in all that time, so it's probably fine 🙈😂)

oh my Goooood - men. 🤣 He needs to get that checked out! And isn't/wasn't he a military man? What's he afraid of?? 😂

Dead 💀🤣🤣🤣 (And on a side note: that aspect should be more featured in fics lol)

*snorts* not gonna lie, I was pretty proud of this line lmfao (idk why it's the first time I've referenced that kind of thing - maybe bc I'm not personally turned on by it that much, but I agree that it's a legit thing that isn't focused on as much in fanfic lol)

Oh, I'd make so many jokes when he comes back. Probably buy him donuts and other hole-shaped treats 😆

DEAD. Deceased. 🤣🤣 But I love how your mind works lolll. HC that she "rewards" him by buying him a dozen 🍩🍩🍩

Fuck, Alex... Ben fucking killed me! The fact that you picked a therapist was just hilariously delicious 😂

Girl I haaad to! 😜 Like, he would never go to the doctor anyway because he probably doesn't get sick enough to have to go, but a therapist? He definitely needs that appointment lol (or 12)

So true! I imagine it's hard staying level-headed with this man-child when he throws a tantrum. You almost have to talk louder to get through all of his white noise 🙈

Literally! It's like trying to be heard while a vacuum is going off. 🙄

But I'm really glad you thought his behavior in this was in character lol. He's kind of tricky as a character, but also predictable in some ways 🥲

That broke my heart a little, although it's so true 😭❤️‍🩹

Oh yeah, I broke my heart a little too on that one. 💙 I feel like that would be one of the few ways to get through to him in this situation.

Pffff 😂 Reminds me a little of that Rick & Morty episode where Rick refuses to go to therapy. I already feel bad for that psychiatrist 😆

LOL oh yeah, definitely feel bad for Dr. David on this one. He's gonna get an earful 😂😂

And of course Russell, much like Dean, is too "tough" for a doctor. A bullet wound you say? Nah, totally heals itself lol

Michelle said it in the comments -- there's a reason why women live longer in general lmfaooo

Hahaha I fucking knew she was checking him for injuries! Would've done the same thing 😂🫶 (Also, Russell, what did you expect? Sex? In this condition????)

Oh 100% she was after she clocked the way he was coming in 😂😂 (Russell's clearly an opportunist! 😆)

Again:

You need a hospital not a hardware store, you big idiot!!! God 😂🙈

LOL this comment had me deadd 💀

But he's got pliers! And dental floss! And an old bottle of whiskey in the trunk! (which functions as both disinfectant and a pain reliever: 2-in-1!) 😝

Yes, honestly, please quit. I wouldn't be able to sleep dating that man. What if he never comes homes from a job? 😢😭💔

Right?? It would be so heartbreaking. Ooh or the angst of an "almost." 😬 I actually have a long distance relationship Jacklesverse bingo square that I think I'm gonna have to use on Russell 😅❤️‍🩹

And I'm really curious what her punishment would've been. I'd make him eat veggies only for a month. That would break him 😂😜

lmfao that'll do it! No meat or sweets? He'd break for sure. I can hear him already, half desperation and half his usual self -

"Sweetheart, man can't live on spinach alone. That's how you get kidney stones." 😆

These were all so wonderful and so effing funny, friend! You nail these HC every time!!! ☺️💜

Awww you're amazing, thank you!!! 🥰 I honestly love doing these HCs! It's always a nice little creative reset for me. I'm so happy that you enjoy them! 💕

HEADCANON: Doctor's Appointment

HC: How would Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw react when you try to take him to the doctor?

Pairings: Dean x Reader || Beau x Reader || Soldier Boy x Reader || Russell x Reader

AN: This one is a request from my lovely friend @spnbabe67 over on Patreon! 💜

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, literal man children, medical stuff, angst, mentions of PTSD, hints of spice, fluffff

Dean Winchester

"I'm fine."

Ah yes, the same two growly words you've heard for an hour already.

"You're not fine," you testily reply. "You're not even 'Winchester fine.' You wanna know how I know? I'm driving the damn car right now!"

Dean shoots you a warning look.

One, you can tell he wants to say watch it on how you talk about his Baby.

Two, he doesn't want to admit that you're right.

He shifts in his seat with his arms crossed, trying to cover up a wince. It's the only tell that he's uncomfortable, even in pain, other than the fact that you've managed to hijack his car and take him to this damn doctor's appointment.

Dean can count on one hand the number of times he's been in a doctor's office for a genuine ailment, and not just trying to fish for information while impersonating some form of law enforcement.

That's because he's more of a "pour some whiskey on it," patch it up, and forget about it kinda guy.

And if we're talking about hospital stays, then that's usually a "one step away from death's door" kind of visit.

But when you first noticed something was off with Dean (confirming with Sam on the side of your suspicions), you did your damnedest to convince the man that he should see a doctor.

You even make the appointment for him as convenient as possible, around midday, so he doesn't have the excuse of it being too early to disturb his morning, or too late to mess up his afternoon.

Dean is a grumbly grizzly bear who only rolls his eyes in the waiting room when you offer him the clipboard to fill out his medical history.

"This is stupid," he says. "It’s probably just gonna clear up in a week or so anyway."

"You don't know that," you say. And you heave a sigh. Sometimes this man requires every last ounce of your ever-thinning patience.

You reclaim the clipboard and do this part for him too, filling out his fake-ass insurance information with his fake-ass name.

You detail his history and current symptoms to the best of your ability, and you make sure to jot down certain visits to free clinics in his past that he'd probably gloss over.

When the nurse opens the door and calls him back to see the doctor, Dean still glances over at you, mostly annoyed. But underneath, you sense his hesitation.

You slip your hand into his and get up with him. You grace a kiss over his knuckles — a moment of solidarity — and you go with him to one of the back rooms.

You later have to bite your lip against the vindicated urge to say I told you so.

The doctor informs Dean that he likely has a kidney stone.

If possible, Dean is even more sour the whole car ride home. He's convinced all the vegetables you've been trying to get him to eat are the culprit.

"This is what I get for eating fucking rabbit food," he grumbles. He levies a finger at you. "See? I told you. Nothing good comes of it."

"Right," you snort. "Zucchini is what's got you're, uh, pipe all blocked up."

But seeing the disgruntled look on his face, you remember just how much pain he's been trying to cover up for the past week. How many times you've found him hunched in the bathroom, dreading a piss.

You reach over and try to soothe him, gently stroking his thigh.

"It's okay, baby. We'll get the official test results soon. In the meantime, just keep drinking lots of water and get some actual rest."

"Whatever," he mutters.

But underneath the embarrassment, the shit, I'm getting old bit cropping back up again, and the Dean Winchester quirk of not wanting to be fussed over, not wanting to be seen as weak or ridiculous — what finally surfaces past all that is you.

Specifically, how much you push him to take care of himself.

Besides Sam, you're the only one who manages to keep him in check, the only one who cares that much, that you'd literally try to steal his car.

Yeah, I love you tends to cut through pretty much all the other bullshit.

Dean might not always express it words, but he does it now, taking your hand off his lap and pressing a kiss to your wrist, right over your pulse point.

You briefly take your eyes off the road to glance over at him, smiling. He's going to be out of commission for a while until this little problem clears up, in more ways than one.

The great Dean Winchester.

Beats Death itself, too many times to count.

Felled by pebble in his...well...proverbial shoe.

You try to hide your amusement, if not your affection. You bite your lip hard.

"Shut up," he warns, even though his lips twitch upward.

Your snort of laughter escapes before you can reign it in.

Beau Arlen

Beau is resistant at first, but he's probably the easiest to wrangle into seeing the doctor, whether it's yearly checkups or a man flu gotten out of control.

("You know what, my throat still feels weird on the left side, especially when I swallow. Feels scratchy and, uh, kinda hurts. You think I should get it looked at? What if it's laryngitis, or pneumonia, or God forbid, throat cancer. I mean, throat cancer, honey! That's nothin' to laugh at.")

You wish he'd have that "proactive" mentality with other areas of his health too, like not overworking himself at the precinct.

But when it comes to one exam in particular, he's your typical male of a certain age.

No matter how many times you remind him and write down the appointment on the calendar stuck to the fridge so he doesn't forget, he conjures some excuse for why he couldn't make it.

At first it's begrudgingly amusing, but by the third time, you're concerned, and even annoyed that he isn't taking his health more seriously.

"Look, I know it's not exactly pleasant, but this stuff is important. You gotta take care of yourself," you say.

You know you don't have to remind him that he has a daughter, but you will pull that card if you have to.

"Yeah, I know. It's just, uh..." Beau trails off, hands on his hips. He doesn't know what to tell you to make you understand how much he'd rather not go to this appointment.

"It's just a prostate exam, babe. I'll bet it's not half as invasive as a pap smear," you say wryly.

Beau shakes his head at you. "That very well may be, but believe you me, no man wants a latex finger up his..."

You raise your brows and tilt your head with a smile. "Well, you know. Some guys actually—"

Beau waves a hand at whatever you were going to say next.

"You know what, forget I said anything. I'd rather just live my life not knowing what's down there. Really, I'm good."

You utter a laugh, but you sidle up to him and grasp the open edges of his jacket. You turn your face up to him with a more sensuous smile.

"You don't mind when I do it," you tease.

Beau actually blushes. His cheeks and the tips of his ears tinge pink.

He clears his throat, his hands settling on the curve of your waist.

"Well, that's different," he says. His voice pitches lower, his green eyes taking on a slight mischievous gleam. "You're just teasin' the cave. You're not looking for coal."

Laughter bursts out of you like a gut punch. Your forehead falls against his chest as your entire body shakes with giggles.

Beau wraps you up in his arms. He tries and fails to temper his grin, even though his cheeks are still burning.

"All right, fine. I'll go," he says. "But I don't want to hear a damn peep out of you when I get back."

Soldier Boy (Ben)

(Oh, good fucking luck on this one.)

Ben rarely, if ever, gets sick. Of course, he's also nearly invulnerable.

However, you've been trying to get him to see a different kind of medical professional.

"Excuse me?" he growls. The first time you suggest it, he dismissed the idea with a roll of his eyes, thinking you were just trying to get a rise out of him. He doesn't appreciate you bringing it up again. "You better be fucking kidding."

"Ben..." You try to ply him with a gentle hand on his arm, but he shrugs you off, too irritated to curb the impulse.

"I'm fucking crazy, is that it? That what you're trying to say?" His voice raises, notch after notch. "I don't need a goddamn shrink!"

"I didn't say you were crazy!" you say. It's hard not to match his volume, but you manage to stand your ground while he huffs and puffs and eventually storms out.

You get discouraged and frustrated yourself, but you cling to every scrap of patience you can muster up for this man.

It's gonna take a few tries.

You start to suggest that maybe he should start easing up on the weed and the booze too.

Any time he snaps at you, you remind him that for as much shit as you've put up with him so far, this is the kind of shit that'll send you packing. Leaving his ass. For good.

He volleys back with empty words. "Fine, fucking leave."

You know they're empty, because every time you've called his bluff and packed a bag, he stops you.

"All right, enough. You've proved your fucking point."

After that, he tries to cut back on the booze, at least. He watches you pour out the Grey Goose and the Patrón.

Fucking fine by him. He's lost the taste for vodka, let alone that frilly French shit, and the cheap tequila.

But choking off the vein of one vice just makes another twice as strong.

Ultimately, it doesn't fix the problem either.

There's the time Ben blows a hole in the roof of your house (after a nightmare, he refuses to admit).

And there's a second time too. A third close call, and Ben pushes you clean off the bed so you won't get hurt.

If that didn't do it, he finally gets the picture after the second pink line appears on that white stick.

It now lies on your nightstand while you and Ben lay tangled together, bare skin against bare, flushed, sweaty skin.

A celebration, if you will.

His big hand lies splayed over your belly, protective, possessive, and deep down...grateful.

You glance up at the patched ceiling. Ben follows your gaze. His contentment fades into a frown, just like yours.

Both of you are thinking the same thing, if in different flavors of concern. Anxiety. (Guilt.)

"It's different now. You know that, right?" you say quietly. "If we're going to do this, you and me together, then I need you to protect us. Protect us from you."

At this point, you know he won't see a psychiatrist for his PTSD; not if it's to help himself (God forbid he admit that he needs it).

But if it's to protect you and your child, his own child...

Ben swallows a few acidic ounces of his pride.

Despite every cell in body that fights against it, he gets in his car the very next day and shows up for the appointment you made for him with Dr. David.

("What kind of quack fucking doctor goes by his first name, anyway? Christ.")

After the first couple of painfully awkward sessions, it's not so bad, Ben discovers.

He has a willing (heavily paid) audience for all of his stories from "the good old days."

Every gushy detail.

Russell Shaw

Russell is always quick to give reassurances, to downplay, to tell you that he's good.

But the day he comes home from a job with his bag hanging from his fingertips, almost dragging on the floor, his movements stiff as a rail — your heart sinks into your stomach.

"Hey, baby," he greets you tiredly, even tries to kiss you, but you're too busy running gentle hands over his arms and chest. Searching.

"Hmm, someone's missed me. Miss Handsy-yy-ahhh..." His playful quip dies the moment you find it.

Under his jacket lies the shoddy patch job on the bullet wound in his arm, located a few inches below the shoulder, just barely hidden by his sleeve.

"What the fuck is this?" you snap, half in anger, half in worry as tears spring hot in your eyes.

Russell immediately goes into damage control, soothing a hand down your arm and meeting your gaze.

"Hey, I'm okay. It's just a graze."

"Yeah fucking right. You're still bleeding!"

"Ehh, yeah, but no biggie. I've got some tools in the car—"

"No! We're going to the hospital."

"Sweetheart—"

"Right now! Let's go."

The man doesn't have the heart to argue with you too much after that. He knows he should've taken proper care of this before he got home. He really just wanted to, well, get home. To you.

But he regrets scaring you. He regrets making you worry.

He brushes the tears from your eyes and is grateful you don't ask what happened. He can't really tell you, even if he wanted to. His contract work with Horizon keeps his lips sealed for your safety, above all other reasons.

Only now does he begin to realize just how fucking unfair that is.

It really hits him when you sit with him for an hour and a half in the Emergency Department, waiting after the guy who fell off his moped, a kid with a little green army man stuck up his nose ("Hey, retro," Russell whispers to you), and a lady who can't seem to stop hiccuping.

Russell takes in a deep breath. He leans over to your ear.

"You know, we could just fix this up at home. A little needle and thread and some alcohol. Perfect First Aid kit," he says.

You narrow your gaze at him. "We're waiting to see a doctor. And don't think I'm done with you. When we get home, prepare to get punished."

A little smirk tugs at his lips. He brushes said lips across the back of your ear. "What am I, a little kid?"

You smile slightly as well.

"Well, if you're not going to tell me when you're hurt and try to cover it up like a little kid, that's how I'm gonna treat you."

Russell chuckles. His hand slips over your thigh.

"Gotta say, I'm kind of liking the sound of punishment. What'd you have in mind, sweetheart? Gonna spank me?"

And he's willing to give you more ideas.

You roll your eyes. Despite wanting to remain strong, his touch, the sensation of his lips brushing your ear sends a shiver curling down your spine.

"Oh, you just wait."

AN: lol I always have so much fun writing these. Let me know which one was your favorite this time! 💕

@waynes-multiverse You gave me another perfect little tidbit for Beau on Man Flu that made it into this one. 😂

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[lottiesdolly]

wanting

♡ lottie matthews x reader

The woods were loud at night.

Not because of animals, though you swore you heard them sometimes, but because the silence itself felt alive. Breathing, watching. Judging.

And Lottie? Lottie thrived in it.

You’d never really noticed her back home, not like this. Sure, she was beautiful in that haunted way. But here, in the cold teeth of nowhere, she glowed. People followed her. Leaned in when she spoke. Even Natalie didn’t bite back as hard anymore.

You were the only one who didn’t bow.

That’s probably why she hated you.

“You’re sitting close to Van,” Lottie said one night, voice quiet but sharp. You didn’t hear her approach, she just appeared, like the forest whispered her name and she answered.

You blinked up at her. “There’s one fire and twelve of us. Excuse me for trying to not freeze to death.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her?”

You laughed, dry and disbelieving. “What, you’re the camp psychic and the jealousy police?”

Wrong answer.

Lottie moved closer, way too close. Her hand caught your wrist before you could even flinch away. She didn’t squeeze. She didn’t need to.

“You don’t get it,” she said, almost soft. Almost. “I’m not worried about Van. I’m worried about you.”

You hated the way your breath caught. She leaned in until her lips nearly brushed your ear.

“You think you’re not mine?”

You’d felt it for weeks now, those lingering stares, the too-long touches when she bandaged your arm, the way you woke up some mornings already knowing she’d been watching you sleep.

“I’m not yours,” you said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to you.

Lottie smiled, slow and cruel. “Then why haven’t you told anyone about the lake?”

Your blood ran cold.

That lake. The one you found together, the one she made you swear to keep secret. You never told anyone about how warm the water was, how she kissed you there like she was drowning, how you kissed her back like maybe it was worth it.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” you said. “It was just—”

“Say it was nothing,” she challenged. “Lie to me.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pulled your wrist free and stood up, turning to walk away, but her voice stopped you cold.

“They don’t love you like I do,” she said, and it wasn’t a plea. It was a warning.

You looked back. Her eyes burned, two bruises of violet fire. She looked like she wanted to destroy something beautiful. You realized it might be you.

“You don’t love me,” you whispered. “You want to own me.”

Lottie stepped closer. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

The next morning, Lottie acted like nothing happened.

She passed you a piece of stale bread by the fire, her fingers grazing yours like she hadn’t threatened to own you in the dark last night. Like she didn’t know you’d barely slept, heart racing every time a twig snapped.

“Eat,” she said.

You stared at her. “You’re not my mother.”

“No,” she said, voice syrupy. “Mothers let you go.”

Your stomach clenched.

Van laughed at something Taissa said a few feet away. You turned toward the sound too quickly, pretending it mattered, pretending your whole body didn’t feel like it was still caught in Lottie’s gaze.

She leaned in again. “You can look at them all you want,” she whispered. “They won’t look back like I do.”

You flinched. “You really don’t hear yourself, do you?”

“I do,” she said. “I just don’t care.”

She walked off, hair catching the low sun like wildfire. Everyone moved around her like she was the eye of a storm and they were just leaves waiting to be blown apart. You hated it. You hated her.

But that night, when it was your turn to go check the traps, she followed you into the woods.

“Lottie,” you said, spinning around. “No. Go back.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

You laughed, bitter. “And you think I belong to you?”

Her expression changed. Not angry. Not sad. Something worse. Something devoted.

“I know you do.”

She stepped closer, boot crushing old pine needles. “You think you’re different from the others? That I don’t see the way they crave me—how easy it would be to let them believe I’m some... chosen thing? But I don’t want them.”

“You want power,” you spat.

She stopped in front of you, voice low. “I want you.”

You hated the way your body froze. The way your pulse betrayed you. She could always feel it, she read you like scripture.

“You don’t have to be scared,” she said, brushing her knuckles against your cheek. “You’re the only thing I don’t want to break.”

A twig snapped in the distance. You both looked toward the sound. A rabbit. Just a rabbit.

But that moment was enough for you to move, step back, heart hammering. “You’re sick.”

Lottie tilted her head, smiling like a saint before the slaughter. “Maybe. But you’re still here.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because she was right.

Later that night, when the wind screamed and the walls of the cabin groaned like bones, you curled up on your makeshift bedding and tried not to think about her.

But the door creaked open.

Your breath caught. It was her. Barefoot. Silent.

She crossed the room like a ghost, knelt by your side, and slipped beneath the blanket.

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers found yours in the dark, cold at first, then warm. And when she pressed her forehead to yours, she whispered, “If we get out of here… you’ll still be mine. Won’t you?”

You wanted to say no.

You didn’t say anything.

[coriihanniee]

I KNEW IT, I KNOW YOU - p.sh ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : high school student!sungho x f!reader 𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, angst, fluff, coming-of-age 𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : emotional repression, major character death, mentions of graves, mild existential themes 𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 2.6k words 𓂃۶ৎ PLAYLIST : I knew it, I know you - Gracie Abrams

“Come on! It's just a little fun! He's been here for two years and no one's ever seen him smile.”

“Fifty thousand won says you can't get him to fall for you by graduation.” 

“What's the harm in trying? It's not like he has feelings anyway.”

Those were the words your friends spoke, their voices light with the carelessness of those who have never known what it felt like to be truly alone. Their laughter echoed in the school corridor as they nudged you towards accepting the challenge—a simple bet that would irrevocably alter the tapestry of your existence. 

That was how you found yourself walking beside Park Sungho, the silence between you as vast and impenetrable as the night sky.

Sungho moved like a shadow—tall and elegant, yet somehow existing just outside the periphery of everyone's attention. His features seemed carved by marble, high cheekbones that caught the light in ways that made him appear almost otherworldly, dark eyes that revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them, and lips that rarely moved except to answer direct questions from teachers. His uniform was always impeccable, as if disorder could not touch him.

In the weeks since the bet began, you had tried everything. You'd dropped your books near his desk (he'd picked them up without a word), asked for help with calculus problems (he'd solved them efficiently without a single unnecessary explanation), even "accidentally" spilled water on his sleeve (he'd simply dabbed it dry, his expression never changing). You'd left snacks on his desk, written notes about class, and deliberately sat beside him in the library. Each attempt met with the same polite indifference that had earned him his reputation.

Tonight was different. Your study session had run later than usual, the library's fluorescent lights harsh against the gathering darkness outside. He had insisted on walking you home—not from kindness, he'd clarified, but “practical safety concerns given the hour.”

His voice, as always, was devoid of inflection. 

“You know, you could just say you wanted to,” you said, brushing your shoulders against his lightly. 

He didn't look at you. “And lie? That would be off-brand.” 

You snorted, shaking your head. The cool night air felt like a welcome shift from the library’s stale hum.

As you stepped outside, the silence of the night stretched thin between you two, neither of you quite sure if it was the moment to break it.

"Are you always this... detached?" you asked after a pause, trying to mask the curiosity that flickered inside.

"I'm not detached. I just don't... see the need for filler."

You nodded, but your gaze stayed on him, trying to decipher the layers underneath his words. 

The air around you felt suddenly still. You noticed the way the cool breeze picked up, how the faintest scent of something earthy seemed to shift in the air. The weight of the quiet was thicker now, pressing against you both, and you couldn’t help but feel like the world was holding its breath.

You cleared your throat. "It's... kind of eerie out here, isn't it?”

He didn't reply immediately, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his footsteps unhurried. 

“It's always like this when something’s about to change,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “You get the sense the world's bracing itself.” 

You weren't sure what he meant, but before you could ask, there was a subtle brush against your skin. 

You paused, fingers brushing against your cheek as you looked up. The sky had darkened even more, the clouds gathering with a heaviness.

Streetlights diffused into halos of amber light. The rain fell in ever-changing patterns, as if the sky itself were breathing.

Sungho produced an umbrella from his bag—always prepared, always controlled. He held it over you both, the small space forcing you closer together.

“We should hurry—”

Before he could complete his sentence, something within you rebelled against his practicality, against his perpetual retreat from sensation. You stepped away from him and the umbrella's protection, into the full embrace of the rain. 

The water rushed over you with startling intimacy—tracing the contours of your face, seeking the hollow of your throat, threading through your hair until it hung heavy against your neck. Your uniform darkened, clinging to your skin.

 There was something profoundly liberating in this surrender, in becoming one of the elements rather than fighting against them. 

You closed your eyes, feeling droplets catch on your eyelashes before sliding down your cheeks. The rain held no judgement, demanded no performance, expected no victory. In its presence, you could just be. 

You opened your eyes to catch Sungho watching you. His gaze held a careful blankness replaced by a tension you couldn't name. He stood perfectly still beneath his umbrella, a solitary figure bisecting the boundary between chaos and control.

“What are you doing?” His voice only carried genuine bewilderment, as if you were a language he'd never learned to speak.

“Living,” you answered, raising your arms in the sky in a gesture of surrender and celebration. “Just for a moment.” 

“You'll get sick.” His concern was devoid of emotion, but the intensity in his gaze belied his tone. 

"Maybe," you conceded, spinning slowly in place, letting the rain embrace you fully. "But isn't that part of being alive? The risk? The possibility?"

You moved through the rain-drenched street as if it were a ballroom, the puddles your partners in an improvised dance. Water splashed around your ankles, soaked through your shoes, wicked up the hem of your skirt. You felt weightless, boundless, as if the rain had dissolved the barriers between your body and the world.

"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like?" you called to him over the sound of the downpour. "To let go of all that control, just for a moment?”

A shadow of longing flickered across his face, so brief you might have imagined it. “I can't afford to wonder.”

The words hung between you, heavy with implication. Not “I don't wonder”, but “I can't afford to wonder”—as if curiosity itself was a luxury beyond his reach. 

“Everyone can afford one moment,” you replied, moving closer to him, close enough to see the raindrops collecting on the umbrella, falling in rhythmic patterns around him but never touching him. “Even you, Sungho.” 

His knuckles whitened where they gripped the umbrella handle. “This is childish.” 

“Then be childish with me.” You extended his hand towards him, water running in rivulets down your arm. “Just this once.”

“I don't know how.” The admission seemed wrenched from him, raw and unintended. 

 “You don't need to know how. That's the point. You just need to feel.”

He looked at your outstretched hand, as if it were both a temptation and threat. The rain continued to fall, creating a curtain that seemed to separate you both from the rest of the world. 

“Please,” you said softly. “Try.”

Time hung between you, taut and uncertain. He stood motionless, his eyes never leaving yours, knuckles tightening against the umbrella's handle. In his gaze, a war waged between lifelong restraint and newfound longing.  

A heartbeat passed. 

And another.

The universe held its breath.

With deliberate grace—he lowered the umbrella.

The rain claimed him instantly, darkening his hair to ink, streaming down the severe planes of his face. He blinked rapidly as water caught in his eyelashes, ran along the perfect line of his jaw, soaked the shoulders of his uniform. For a moment, he looked affronted, as if the rain had personally betrayed him.

"There," he said, voice tight. "Are you satisfied?"

You weren't. 

Not even close. 

You craved more than this reluctant surrender, this bare minimum. You ached to shatter that perfect composure, to break through the walls he'd built so carefully, brick by brick. You needed—with an intensity that frightened you—to discover if anything human and warm pulsed behind those eyes that reflected everything and revealed nothing.

“Dance with me,” you said impulsively, moving closer.

“I don't dance.”

“Everyone dances. Even if they don't know it yet.”

Before he could protest further, you caught his hand. His skin was cold against yours, like touching a marble statue beginning to warm in the sun. You pulled him gently towards you, feeling the initial resistance in his frame.

“There's no one watching,” you reassured him. “Just the rain.” 

Something shifted in his expression then—a loosening around his eyes, a softening at the corner of his mouth. Not surrendering exactly, but perhaps considering the possibility. You guided his hands to your waist, placed your own on his shoulders, and began to move. 

There was no music except the rain itself. His movements were stiff at first, mechanical, as if he were solving an equation rather than dancing. But gradually, his grip on your waist loosened. His steps lost their rigidity, moving with quiet instinct instead of thought.

You moved together through the rain-silver night, creating patterns in the falling water. The streetlights caught the droplets in his hair, transforming them into a temporary crown. Water ran between your joined hands, cool and intimate.

Perhaps it was the way you stumbled, just barely, on the slick pavement, or how your laugh—genuine, unguarded—rang out, catching him off guard. Perhaps it was how he steadied you with an ease that felt almost foreign to him. Or perhaps it was the sheer weight of the moment: the rain, the quiet, the two of you existing in a space where everything else fell away.

The lines of his face, usually so controlled, began to soften, losing their harshness, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as if pulled by something you couldn’t name. His expression unraveled just enough to reveal the warmth, the quiet tenderness, he’d been hiding. 

A smile. 

Time suspended as you witnessed this revelation. The rain seemed to slow around you as his smile broke through the walls he'd built around himself. Your heart collided against your ribs with such force you gasped—a jagged and exquisite agony that hollowed you from within. 

This wasn't the petty satisfaction of winning a bet, it was far more devastating.

Recognition. 

You knew it, you know him—Not the mask he wore for the world, but the rawness beneath—layered, fragile, and alive. The realization crashed through you like thunder, reverberating in spaces you hadn't known existed within yourself. 

This boy who had moved through life untouched suddenly stood before you utterly exposed, the rain revealing what words never could. 

“Oh,” you breathed, the sound barely audible above the rain.

His smile faltered at your reaction, vulnerability flickering across his face. “What?”

“You should do that more often,” you said, your voice hushed with reverence. 

“Do what?”

“Smile, it suits you.” 

“I haven't had much reason to.”

“We could change that,” you spoke without thinking, driven by an impulse deeper than thought. “I could help you find reasons.” 

His eyes widened at your words. For a second, he didn't speak, just looked at you like he couldn't believe the words that left your lips. His hands tightened on your waist, and you thought—you hoped—he might pull you closer.

Instead, he looked away, loosening his grip around your waist, stepping back into the version of himself the world expected. The space between you cooled, though the warmth of his touch still lingered on your skin. 

You didn’t say anything—you just stood there, a breath caught in your throat, wondering if you'd imagined the shift in him. If the moment had meant as much to him as it did to you.

"We should get you home," he said finally, his voice different now—softer, warmer, as if something had thawed in him. "Before you catch pneumonia."

He retrieved his abandoned umbrella, but didn't open it. Instead, he walked beside you through the rain, allowing it to touch him as it touched you.

At your gate, he paused, raindrops glistening in his hair like stars caught in darkness.

 "Thank you.”

“For what?”

The smile returned, smaller this time, but more genuine than any version of it you'd seen before—unpolished, a little sad, but unguarded.

"For the memory," he murmured, almost as if to himself. "For reminding me what it feels like to want to stay, even just for a night.”

Your heart stuttered, tripping over his words. They landed too softly to be dramatic. You didn’t know what to say. only that you didn’t want the moment to slip away.

"Sungho, I—”

But he was already turning, already walking back into the rain, leaving the words you couldn't say hung in the air, thick and unspoken.

 ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“But that's impossible! I was with him last night!” 

The pitying looks from your classmates. The concerned touch of your teacher's hand on your shoulder. The gentle way your friends suddenly spoke to you, as if you might shatter.

"Y/N, Sungho died last Saturday night," your teacher had explained gently. "He was walking home in the rain when a car lost control on the wet road.”

Last Saturday night. The same night you had danced in the rain together. The same night he had smiled—that smile. 

The same night he had finally let himself be known.

The memories came flooding back to you—his cold hands, the way he seemed to materialise and vanish without warning, how no one ever acknowledged him when you spoke his name in public. The flickering of streetlights as he passed beneath them. The curious stares you'd receive when you sat alone at “his” desk in the library, speaking softly to an empty chair. 

Now, standing before his grave a week later, you watched as others placed flowers on the fresh earth. White chrysanthemums, proper and formal. 

Nothing like him at all.

You thought of the wild blue delphiniums that grew behind the school greenhouse, the ones he'd pause to study when he thought no one was watching. The ones whose petals he'd once brushed with his fingertip, so gentle it made your heart ache to witness.

You watched them depart—teachers who'd only known him for his perfect grade, classmates who'd whispered about his strangeness, friends who'd pushed you into that fateful bet.

The bet. 

If you had never accepted their challenge, if you had never approached him, never walked home with him that night, never pulled him into the rain... would he still be here? Would he have taken a different route home, missed the car that lost control on the wet road? Would he be sitting in class tomorrow? 

The weight of this possibility crushed against your chest—that in trying to prove he had feelings, you might have inadvertently orchestrated his end.

You knelt as mud seeped into the fabric of your knees. The stone bearing his name was still bright with newness.

How unfair that you'd only glimpsed him in those final moments, in a smile that had lasted seconds but had somehow rearranged everything inside you.

"I saw you," you whispered, your words dissolving into the silence of the cemetery. 

"I knew you.”

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, feeling the sharp edges of engraved letters beneath your fingers. A breath hitched in your throat, catching on the sob you refused to let rise.

He had given you his smile—his first and last real smile—and you would carry it like a treasure, a light against darkness.

You rose slowly, ready to leave, but paused as a sudden breeze lifted the strands of your hair—cool as his fingertips had been against yours. You could almost believe he was there, dancing with you still in the endless rain.

You didn’t turn around. Maybe because you knew if you did, the illusion might shatter. So you simply smiled, and stepped forward into the quiet.

Sometimes, on rainy nights when the streetlights flicker, you still see his smile—hesitant and beautiful—as if he's still watching you dance in the rain, learning to feel again long after his heart had stopped beating.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

perm taglist : @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh

[lilacstarryskies]

Stranger Things WIP… steddie but focusing on stobin!

Munson wasn’t so bad.

Steve had always seen him in the periphery of his vision, though it was only recently, with Dustin’s foray into Munson’s Hellfire group of nerds, that he had noticed him.

Those curled locks were striking, sitting atop his head like a crown; he really was the king of freaks. Steve would see his curls bouncing around as he awaited the children—the one he was not-so-reluctantly friends with through multiple dimensional shenanigans that happened in this shitty small town of theirs. Munson’s smile was wide, a hearty thing, making Steve confused on how Hawkins could ever think of him as evil and satanic. The guy was a snarky shit, that’s for sure, but it was so clearly good-natured.

“Robin,” Steve said, head flopped aside on the countertop of Family Videos’ checkout.

“What?” she groaned in response. Her annoyed voice coming from behind, as she painstakingly rewinded the recent tape given by the annoying middle-aged wives of Hawkins who couldn’t deign to be kind and rewind their own tapes. “Dingus, I’m a little busy here.”

“When’d you realise you like…” Steve began to speak. His voice became a whisper, “Boobies?”

“I’ve told you before! Don’t say boobies, Steve!” She turned towards him, voice raised in her charmingly-snarky tone.

“Come on, it’s boobies, there’s nothing wrong with it,” Steve teased out, before reverting back to his more soft and inquisitive-sounding tone, “Besides, I’m serious.”

Her face changed, softening up as she looked at him, “Really?”

“Really,” he responded, “I swear on Tammy Thompson’s muppet voice.”

Steve felt as if Robin just knew this would be a different type of conversation to their usual ones filled with jokes. This was more akin to the infamous toilet stall drug-fuelled talk which turned them into true best friends.

“I—I suppose I always knew,” she began to confide in him. “Well, not exactly, but I always knew that I was different. I was sitting with my friend—old friend, Kate, and that’s when I knew.”

He had always wondered what Robin’s life was like before they met in through the toils of minimum-wage summer work, and he supposed now would be the time. She was as quiet regarding her past as he was, and he had many things in his past to be ashamed; he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the same case for Robin.

“I saw her there, beside me. Eyes drilling into our other friend, turning red every single time their eyes crossed each other,” Her voice was a raspy soft thing, quiet as she spoke her truth. Speaking aloud something that would be a death sentence to discuss in any other place in Hawkins, with any other person. “And then I just knew, I wasn’t like her. I felt broken.”

“Robin, you’re not—”

“Steve, I know now, but in that moment, all I could think was that I was wrong,” She cut in, not even deigning to hear him, “Because while she was staring at Dash and blushing at him, I was out here doing all of that for Tammy Thompson.”

He let that simmer in the air for a moment, unable to respond in a way, not willing to break away from the importance of what Robin was saying; her story. Something that’d get her killed and lynched if any other person heard. Something meaningful, striking deep into Steve’s heart, in a way only felt in Starcourt’s toilets in Summer 85’ and Tina’s parent’s bathroom on the night Nancy broke his heart. It was her pain to tell and he could only feel happy that they met and that he was hers to speak to, each other’s other half.

“But—but, didn’t you ever feel anything—just a little for guys?” Steve queried, before realising it may be a little insensitive to ask a lesbian if she liked guys, though he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He was earnest in his words, genuinely asking in attempt to help with his own conflicting thoughts.

“Steve, you know I’m a lesbian, right?” she joked, switching the mood up, “I can honestly say I’ve felt nothing for any guy before. No matter how much I wished too.”

“Robin…” He felt bad, imagining poor Robin, all alone, screaming into her pillow, not just for Tammy Thompson’s muppet voice, but for her inability to be like all the other’s, to like boys like Steve, Carver, and all the basic jocks of Hawkins, Indiana.

“Chill out, Steve, I’ve made my peace with the fact I like boobies and only boobies, no matter any kisses from Joe ‘lipsy’ Flaherty.”

Steve broke out in a bark of a laugh, “You kissed Lipsy?”

“Hey, he didn’t have that bad reputation in Seventh Grade—”

“Oh, right! He was just Brace–Face then until they came out and he started slobbering on all the girls—and not in a hot way like me!”

“Dingus, I don’t wanna know where your tongue has gone, I’ve already heard the rumours and seen the graffiti!”

“That’s right, I’m a kissing god—and cunnilingus too!” Steve joked out in response.

“Eww, Steve! This is worse than the high-school gossip! I don’t want to hear this right from the source!”

“Well you’re already used to my sex talks after my dates, like with Brenda, Heidi, Maria—”

“God, stop reminding me that you can get hundreds of girls while I can’t even get the one I like.” Robin bemoaned with a grumble.

END of wip currently (because im writing so many other fandom stuff rn BUT i will continue this asap)

ALSO…people! I have a discord server and i have been yapping like CRAZY about stranger things so u may want to join! 18+ though! steddie and stobin have me hooked rn, istg ive come up with like 10 different aus to write for them lolol

https://discord.gg/jwaj48GFkW — server invite link!

[therebelcaptain]

While I enjoy seeing Cassian having a deep and intimate relationship with Bix as it shows his vulnerability in a way we've not seen before, it also feels at odds with the image of Cassian I’ve had since 2016—someone who had sacrificed everything for the rebellion. The impression I got from lines like “you’re not the only one who lost everything” is that he’d been virtually alone and isolated in this fight for years before we meet him in Rogue One, his only constant companion being K2. It felt like he’d been keeping himself in a prison of his own mind for the sake of the rebellion.

But in this season, Cassian seems more than willing to walk away for the sake of protecting Bix a mere two years before Rogue One. We're at the halfway point and Cassian is a lifetime away from the man we meet in Rogue One—he was honestly much closer at the end of season one. And maybe that's the point—that things like love can get in the way and hold people back from doing what they must in a revolution—but like others have already said here, making it the focal point of both Bix and Cassian's stories this season feels like a disservice to them as individual characters. Hell, it's not even something that hasn't already been explored in the show. Vel and Cinta's relationship in the first season already looked at how complicated it can be to fall in love while in the rebellion, so I'm not even sure of the necessity of doing the same thing with another couple, much less Bix and Cassian. It seems like the writers room decided an end point for the two of them—likely Cassian being forced to kill Bix, if his last conversation with Luthen is anything to go by—before working backwards to somehow make it feel earned instead of constructing a story that actually felt right for the characters.

While this is essentially what Andor is an exercise in, Cassian already has a specific end point that they need to work toward, but the majority of the main cast doesn't. The next batch of episodes picks up a year before the film, so Cassian's going to have to lose everything in one fell swoop in these next episodes otherwise I'm not confident that he will end up where he needs to be by the end. There are things mentioned in the Rogue One novelisation that could be explored in order show Cassian's further evolution into a fully fledged rebel who's willing to do anything for the movement. Jenoport is one such thing that comes to mind, but that probably won't happen given Cassian hasn't even met K-2 yet.

On the other hand, there is a lot more room to play with Bix as a character. Her end point isn't set in stone in the same way that Cassian's is. They could have explored a myriad of things with her character working through the trauma of being tortured and finding her own way to the rebellion as a result. While that is a factor in her story arc this season, it's frustrating to see her relevance to the story be tied so directly to her relationship with Cassian. At this point it's clear that she's only being kept around so her inevitable death can further galvanise his commitment to the rebellion. After everything she's been through as a character, Bix deserves so much more than being fridged for Cassian's story arc.

To those of you who think my opinion on this is because I'm a diehard Rebelcaptain girlie, it really isn't. Like I've said before, I actually like Bix and Cassian as a couple and would have enjoyed their scenes together more in a different context like maybe in a flashback to their youth. I'd always seen them as childhood sweethearts who still loved each other in their own ways, but had grown apart as they got older and their priorities in life changed. That made a lot of sense to me. What doesn't jive with me is that we're seeing this so close to Rogue One where Cassian is supposed to be living for the rebellion first and foremost and seemed to have been for many, many years. And at this point, the gap between these two men is the size of valley.

[autistic-danieljackson]

Salty Ask List - 13 and 17 :)

13. Unpopular opinion about XXX character?

Daniel - I really don't think he's that OOC in season 9-10. I hear this complaint all the time but I feel like it was a natural progression over the seasons. I also prefer early seasons Daniel but I don't think he gets that out of character in the later seasons. You know when he was OOC? RIGHT AFTER FOREVER IN A DAY! That's not an unpopular opinion but I will never get over that.

Rodney - I don't know if this is an unpopular opinion and I feel like it's going to come off the wrong way but truly he is not as misogynistic as a lot of people like to claim he is. I always see people claim how horrible and disgusting he is and that they couldn't watch Atlantis specifically because of him and I guess I just have to assume they've never watched another show from 2005 before? Because while it definitely isn't great or something to be condoned...there was way way worse during that time. And also he grows so much so I'm guessing they're just watching like half of season 1 and giving up. Again, not sure how unpopular this is but it's something I see way more often than I expected to and it bugs me a lot.

Teal'c - In my opinion, Teal'c was so underutilized. Especially being, as far as we're shown, the only alien employed by the SGC(other than Jonas for a bit of course). But too often it felt like he was there to be the straight man and punch and shoot when it was called for. I would have loved to see more character development and also what sorts of things he got into on Earth. Because that man is getting paid(hopefully) but he's living on base with no rent and his money isn't good on his home world. So what's he doing with all that cash? Personally, I think he buys all the things on those late night infomercials. But I just would've liked to see more personality from him. Also, I just cannot be bothered to care about his family. They feel like such an afterthought(a lot like Sha're). I would've either liked to see more of them or just have that plot cut all together.

I'm realizing I don't know how unpopular any of these actually are but I don't think I have a lot of really controversial opinions haha.

17. Instead of XYZ happening, I would have made ABC happen…

You've opened a can of worms with this lmao! We all know I wouldn't have had Carson die. There are so many other things they could've done instead. I think if they still wanted a shock factor they could've given him a major injury/permanent disability. Losing hearing or sight or a limb and the impact it would've had on him and the team would have been way more interesting than just killing Carson off.

I also saw once where someone was talking about how they should've had Jonas go on the Atlantis expedition and I whole-heartedly agree. His antics would've fit in so well with the Atlantis crew and it almost feels disrespectful that he was main cast for an entire season and then just cast aside other than one episode in season 7(although I'm fairly certain this was due to the actor and not the writers just writing him off but this is ideal Stargate where everyone is pleasant and easy to work with 😂)

Last, I don't know what I would've done differently but I wish they would've kept Ford around. He and Ronon would've been such a good duo and I think we really missed out.

WAIT I FORGOT HOW HEATED I GET ABOUT ELIZABETH! Okay sorry one more because the shit they pulled with Elizabeth actually makes me so mad. First, I don't know if anyone else has noticed but the s4 credits immediately introduce Sam as being main cast with Elizabeth nowhere in sight which spoils the whole thing and also feels extra disrespectful. They didn't change the s2 ones for an episode or two until Ford was gone. But second, there was no reason to do what they did. Just like Carson, I think character death(or I guess in both cases "death") was the least interesting route. I think major injury would've been so interesting in this case as well. Sam steps in as interim leader while Elizabeth gets back on her feet. Watching the pain and frustration as someone who was always in control can't even get their body to obey them. That would've been interesting to watch. And then eventually Elizabeth is able to step back into the leadership position, maybe solely or maybe she and Sam are co-leaders because we needed more women in the Stargate universe. Oh what we could have had...

There are like a million other things I would've done differently but I'll be done for now before this post gets ridiculously long haha

[rabbitprose]

kyojuro's view on death being "you die when you need to die" and akaza's view on death is "you die when i allow you to die"

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 2 - Psyche Skills

Part 1 - Part 3

[thefirstknife]

Hi Bel,

I keep seeing comments about people complaining about the quality of destiny’s writing and story in the last few weeks. I haven’t really engaged with destiny since season of defiance, what’s currently gotten everyone so riled up? I thought that people were enjoying Season of the Deep/Witch in terms of narrative, why is Season of the Wish causing people to deride the destiny writing staff again?

I don't know!

Deep and Witch have been absolute bangers in every aspect to me. I've been enjoying all interactions and lore tabs we've received. A lot of them are stuff that we've never had before, a lot of reunions and closures, a lot of development and interactions between characters who you wouldn't really think would have much in common.

Sloane's return and healing from what she's been through has been fantastic, Drifter opening up with her to help her because he also got help from others was fantastic, Sloane reuniting with Aisha and Shayura brought me to tears (Shayura's descent into madness was triggered by immense trauma of Sloane staying on Titan and Titan disappearing), everything with Sloane and Zavala...

Witch was just incredible in every single way; the focus on Eris, the amount of Eris and Ikora content!!!!! Everything about Xivu and Savathun and their interactions together!! Eris finally fulfilling her goal she promised Savathun YEARS ago, getting that closure.

Wish so far has been equally great to me. All the new stuff about Ahamkara is amazing, finally giving us proof for long-standing speculation about Ahamkara and how they aren't universally evil creatures and expanding on them as a species. I love all interactions we've had so far; finally we have Petra back, Mara's singleminded focus on figuring out how to defeat the Witness and her continuous work to improve as a person, ALL SJUR MENTIONS!!!!! I won't talk about the "leak" because we have no context for it so I will wait for the full story to be revealed before I can pass judgment; something that I think should be a lesson to learn from this entire year. Maybe wait for the story to finish before judging the story.

Literally everything this past year that involves Osiris, but especially this season now that he's back in his element with the Vex. And of course every little detail we get of him and Saint. Osiris honestly shaped this year for me with everything that he's done to uncover the biggest mysteries. I think a big reason is that a lot of people just don't like Osiris, which I consider a massive skill issue.

Other than that, I don't know what are the issues people have besides just not being interested in any of these storylines and attributing it to a nebulous "bad writing" claim. I also genuinely believe that way too many people get wrapped up too much in fandom, imagine storylines they want to see and then get disappointed when the actual story doesn't go there. Almost like people forget that this isn't their story and these aren't their characters. A lot of it is also fandom completely warping characters into not what they actually are and then feeling like the canon story is the one that's wrong.

Whatever is the reason, I guess everyone is entitled to their perspective of the story and everyone is free to explore the story in different ways through fanfics and AUs and whatever. I do that too!

But I would definitely ask people to be normal with how they engage in criticism, especially in the current state of affairs. Writers are developers; they experience a ton of harassment and negativity from the community and also from inside the company. And they are online: they can see what we're saying. It's been documented that community commentary has been used to harass writers:

Imprint this into your brain and never forget what these people had to go through. Let's not forget also the way people treated Seth Dickinson on social media when he was active with Destiny fans. "Fans" were actively arguing with him about his own work (telling him that HE is wrong) and were utterly disgusting towards him when he tried explaining what he wrote. His works are now hailed as the best writing in Destiny and people want him back. If I were him, I wouldn't want to come back ngl, not with how he was treated and not with how fans are still treating writers (and hey, Seth wrote LF Collector's Edition! So he was back, technically, this year!). Let's not forget that a lot of writers are members of various marginalised groups. And I'd definitely not want to go back with zero support from leadership.

Which is also an important aspect for all developers, including writers: sometimes they have orders they may not like, but can't argue against. They do the best they can with what they're given, the time they have and directions they receive. And with that in mind, I am enjoying everything we've gotten this year, obviously with some specific complaints about things I didn't particularly enjoy (like the universally mid reception of Defiance; I've spoken about my gripes with it before, a big one being the shafting of Suraya who should've at least been mentioned in a lore tab).

I can tell that there is passion in their work, even if maybe they would prefer to do more with it, but can't. Maybe even if they want to take different routes, but can't. But from what we got, I can feel that they care about this world and these characters. I can tell that someone lovingly wrote about Sloane and her friendships with two grieving women. I can tell that they deeply cared about Sloane's friendship with Zavala and that they loved showing us Saint and Drifter caring about a fellow trauma survivor.

I can tell that the writers are immensely careful and loving towards Eris; everything she went through was crafted with love and passion from both writers and her VA. Eris' story is such a fundamental aspect of Destiny and I can tell that this was important to the writing team and that they gave her everything they could to do justice to her character and her arc and her healing and her release from the cycle she was trapped in for so long.

I can tell that there are writers who care a lot about Osiris and Saint and their relationship. I can tell that someone cared a lot about expanding on Ahamkara and giving them more personalities. I can tell that someone cared DEEPLY about Sjur and Mara and that her repeated mentions are the passionate work of writers who want us to remember her.

I could go on. And I know that not everyone sees it this way, which is fine; we all have different ways of perceiving stories. I enjoy discussing things we in the fandom disagree on and I enjoy hearing different perspectives! Unfortunately, this has recently become rarer and rarer. And for the love of god, please try and treat writers with some respect, especially now, especially those who are still working and doing their best with the shitty situation they're in. None of the cries of "poor devs" ring true to me unless the same is given to writers, instead of treating them like punching bags.

[entering--hyperspace]

Cannot imagine whatever is going on through Mr Leonard Echowatcher's head. You spend your life yearning for a world where you lived differently, where the day wasnt soaked in war, blood, and battle. Where you could envision a future where you have a partner and a family with friends to live gracefully with. But then you are given such opportunities only to find you were never taught to be gentle, you have a gentle, empathetic nature and yet the physicality of it is a stranger to you. You are expected to raise a child with gentle hands so that she saves the world, What does that even mean? How can you accept your growing love for your friend when you were never taught how to love, that intimate love is a luxury best left forgotten, there are no need for such things in war. He has to learn to become the things he wanted bc he grew too old to develop it naturally. He becomes a father to taimi fumbling his way into learning how to care and parent, he is defensive of Aurene bc he is from a culture where they arent expected to raise their own young and yet has to do so with a dragon. It feels like a test, He has to prove both to others and to himself he is capable of being a father, of nuturing, that calloused, stained hands can still be gentle. He has to accept that love is a terrifying leap of faith in vulnerability in order to gain a partnership that is considered a rarity. I love the idea that he spent 30 years yearning for things he thought he would never have and when he is actually given those opportunities (albeit admittedly through unusual circumstances) he has to learn how to actually live in them, becuase they were always just Concepts until now. Ohhhh my god Mr. Leo you are my everything

[andragoras-in-vanity]

i finished veilguard, my life has no meaning, also what yhe FUCK was that post credit scene, im afraid. and i cant wait for the next one tbh. i hope my rook gets to be a lil well remembered hero who stays ready as the veilguard but has decided to protect thedas from demons and twisted spirits using their expertise as a mourn watcher and my likely connection to the fade, ya boy would spend time learning ancient elvhen funeral practices from bellara and how they effect the fade too.

i just want my boy to have some peace with his husband, go on ...safer adventures...cause his heart nearly gave out a few times and itll take a while to put it back together again. hes always going to be looking for harding and honouring her too, i want to think she was the one he went to when he had panic attacks. i think hed be searching spirits and the fade, and hed go visit hardings mom (would probably cry more than she does too especially if she looks like lace). hed have tea with mahanon and visit the griffins, and the caretaker a lot, but when its all over and everything is mosty recovered and he visits vorgoth and myrna he gets a lecture from myrna and a begrudgingly relieved hug, and vorgoth doesnt really say much but takes him aside and pats his head like when he was child and would hide from his lessons because they made him feel dumb.

i love dragon age, i never want the series to end, i need to revisit inquisition again

[keeps-ache]

💫💥today💥💫 i start learning blender >:| !!

[infizero]

every time i so much as think about that scene where light looks at porn magazines while scowling i go into hysterics its genuinely the funniest thing i've ever seen

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[naw-naw-honeyimgood]

i know im the dumb bitch that's first thought to what fic i can write off a media is either a soulmate au or a daemon au BUT

I'm reading a harry potter fanfic (dont look at me like that 1) its a crossover and 2)fanfics can just as easily be a ceremony where we dance around a fire thats burning source material okay) and i mean

tbf i didnt CHECK but has anyone considered that a person's animagi form is just what their daemon would be? cuz the mc of this fic is about to realize that the weird-ass dog he's seen around campus is an animagus and i was like

you know, when ur writing a daemon au, one staple is that a trait for people with dog daemons is loyalty. so i thought it was kinda funny that someone who's a dog animagus was framed for disloyalty and all that

then i thought of a daemon au where there's like a whole faction of people STILL, twelve years later, debating whether sirius black was REALLY guilty. because he has a dog daemon, so there's no way he'd betray his BEST FRIENDS, who he was LOYAL to, right? ('in fact' some of that faction would mutter to each other 'that action far better befits the rat daemon whose death he was accused of' conspiracy theorists who?)

or a group thats adjacent to THEM who insist he was playing a long con from the beginning: he was planning to serve voldemort from the get-go, so he PRETENDED to have his daemon settle as a dog in order to have an in with the Order of the Phoenix, who would obviously trust someone with a dog daemon. his daemon isnt ACTUALLY a dog, the claim.

but one thing i hate about writing daemon aus is that u have to come up with a daemon for EVERYONE and then NAME them all, which i hate, so this is an open offer to anyone who actually wants to write it

i mean i guess i could write a tiny little thing??? i dunno- if i actually wrote this it would ONLY have this stuff in it so idk if it would be worth writing

(i could see conspiracy theorist parvarti or lavender tho- divintation fanatics they are 🤔)

[thisismyworldyeah]

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