#howwww do I tag this

[fruitycasket]

Pot Roast! (Sunspell)

I don't know how to write people being happy... So I made a compromise with myself and had Marvin be sick, so then Moira (first) and Sunday (second) can come to his aid and make him a bit happier. Also Higgins is there being (un)helpful.

Also. I made myself hungry. Pot roast is good (and it cooks itself!). :>

(Also up on Ao3 under RottenFruitz)

“You should've called me, you're burning up!” Moira shook her head at the unseen but undoubtedly high number displayed on her thermometer.

Wow, I had no idea. Had it been anyone else, Marvin would have said that aloud. For Moira, he mumbled, "You didn't have to come over."

To that, she snorted. "Not like it's my job or anything. Can you stand?"

No. No he could not. "I'm a man, I can get m'own medicine."

"And end up crawling back to your bed?"

"Ah… well…" That was an accurate assessment of how Marvin handled debilitating sickness. Grumbling half-legible rebuttals, he sank further into bed. Perched on his chest as he had been since daylight broke, Higgins purred, the noise going steady like the hum of a generator. The cat seemed to think he was helping but the extra body heat was the last thing Marvin wanted.

He was scalding hot, sweaty, and mouthbreathing as he lay on top of his duvet. Every now and then be broke into a fit of wet, choking coughs or was seized by several sneezes in a row. What had been the sniffles yesterday was now a full-blown, disabling flu. Or something like that. Maybe Moira had told him otherwise and he hadn't heard or forgotten.

“You need is rest,” Moira chided him, "Which means you stay in this bed until you're feeling better."

"All day? I'll go mad."

"You will be if I find out you've not listened to me."

Marvin hesitated. "Yeah, I will be."

He'd only told Sunday he was ill, and had only meant for Sunday and his friends to know, but he must have sounded seconds from keeling over if the news had gotten to Moira anyway. Did one of them have her phone number? That was a little disconcerting for a reason he couldn't place. That, or they'd just gone to his mum's house, and he didn't feel better about that, either.

Moira said something about getting him medicine and water. Marvin wasn't really listening. His brain, currently cooking in its own immune response, was struggling to keep up its usual activities, and he had all but used up its computing space with that single conversation and the following bit of thinking. Moira left and she could have been gone for a minute or an hour, but when she returned, she spooned Marvin two different medicines, set a glass of cool water on his nightstand, and kissed him on the forehead.

(Then, at the cat's insistence, she gave Higgins a kiss, too.)

“You should feel less shitty in a little while,” Moira stood, "I'll be on my way, now. You get some rest like I said."

“M'kay…” Marvin said. “Thanks.”

“That’s what parents are for." She squeezed his hand, stood, and left him with one more message: "A friend is coming over to check on you later, so if you've been getting out of bed"—she narrowed her eyes—"I'll know."

Marvin sighed, then all but coughed up a lung. When he was finished, he whispered through a sore throat, "Yes ma'am."

Whatever Moira had given him, it knocked him out within the hour. With Higgins as his mildly weighted blanket, he drifted in and out of sleep for all the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon. Once or twice a noise roused him, but he was never cognizant enough to register that he was awake, or that someone might be pressing a hand against his forehead and asking him how we was doing, or that he was answering in deeply slurred words. It all felt like one long, lurid dream where his bedroom sometimes spontaneously appeared.

(It would take hindsight for him to realize it wasn't all a dream, and to realize who some of those dreams were about.)

It wasn't until mid-afternoon when his medicine wore off that Marvin started staying up for more than a few minutes at a time.

By the time he was wide awake, able to push himself up in bed, Higgins was gone.

Coughing and wheezing, he fumbled for the bottles Moira had left for him beside his bed and gave himself what seemed like an appropriate dose from both. The bitter taste was washed down with a cup of water. With that done, he tried to follow his orders—don't get up, except to take a piss or eat—but he was stir crazy and wanted to get away from the cocoon of sweat he'd made for himself. He had to move around, wander, cast a spell, something. It was one thing to be curled up with a book, snug in his bed of his own free will, but the second someone or something forced stillness upon him he got twitchy.

So, when he got sick, he usually slept as much as he could get away with, but his oppressive body heat and inflamed nose yet to be quelled by his second medicine dose. That wasn't an option.

Well, the thermostat wasn't in his bedroom, that was a good enough excuse to get up. And he could top off Higgins' food and water while he was at it.

It took a while for Marvin to peel himself off his bed. Once he was up, he meandered out to his living room. He opened his mouth to call for Higgins, and instead ended up sputtering: “Sunday?”

Sunday was in his kitchen. A pot of beef stew was boiling strong, an electric kettle was just beginning to heat up, and he was rifling through the cabinets. Higgins was up on the counter, curled into a loaf and watching the pot with hungry eyes. Sometimes the cat gave Sunday a quick glance, like he was weighing up how likely it was that he could get the lid off, steal a bite, and dart under the couch before he was caught.

Upon hearing his name, Sunday stopped his search to give Marvin a disapproving frown. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Oh, so you were—I just—I expected you'd check in and leave.”

“I have been, but I thought you'd want dinner, and…" Sunday gestured at Higgins, "…he was hungry. I can leave now, though. Stew beef basically cooks itself and it's almost done."

Marvin considered that. "No I'm—I'm fine. With you staying, I mean."

“Alright. Well, sorry if I woke you up coming through the front door,” Sunday continued speaking, “Your spice cabinet didn't have what I needed, for one thing. Had to pop out and get some things.”

“I don't have a spice cabinet.” What he had was salt and pepper.

Sunday grimaced. “Exactly.” He paused. "You headed for the living room?”

"Yeah." It was only then Marvin realized he was winded. Ugh. He'd rather not have Moira coming around and spooning him medicine like he was five years old, but she'd at least seen (almost) all the rough edges he had to offer. It was different with Sunday.

"Figured as much. Let me get you before you keel over." Sunday came closer, and rather than offer a shoulder to lean on like Marvin expected he would, put on hand on his back. "Hold on to me."

"Why?" Marvin realized what was happening too late. Not that he could have done anything about it anyway, he'd had the build and muscle mass of a stickbug before this, now he must be even lighter from sweating all his water weight into his bed. It was an (embarassingly) proven fact that, whether with magic or by physical force, he was not a hard man to lift clear off the floor. “Don’t you dare”—

“Too late!” Sunday swept Marvin's feet out from under him, lifted him up bridal style.

Marvin, foreseeing himself plummet to the floor and break a bone, clung on to Sunday as he'd been asked. “Put me down!”

“And let you fall? That'd only embarrass you more.”

Marvin prayed his face wasn't as red as it felt. “The second I get better Sunday, I”—

“As long as you wait until you’re better first.” Sunday set him down on the couch and grinned. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Marvin harrumphed at him.

Someone had anticipated Marvin would go nuts in his room, because there were pillows and a blanket arranged neatly on the couch already. As Marvin set about ruining it (i.e. getting comfortable), Higgins jumped onto his lap the moment the space was available, crushing his stomach beneath his soft paws in a quest to get comfortable. With Higgins help, the blankets became a cushion-y, wrinkled pile hanging halfway off the couch.

Should I say thanks? He didn't feel particularly thankful. But he also didn't feel horrible, even though he was warmer than before and also no closer to his thermostat.

“When’s lunch done?” he asked instead.

“Soon. Sooner if you don't mind tough beef. I can make you a little hot cocoa while you wait, if you’re hungry, though.”

“Sure,” Marvin said. He shrank into the couch, suddenly aware of how sore he was.

A deep ache wormed through his muscles, down to his bones, and trying to hobble into the kitchen hadn’t helped matters. Half of him wanted to pace to distract himself from it, the other half said to sink into the couch and never resurface. At least his medicine was slowly working its way through him. (Or he'd placebo-effected himself into thinking that was the case.)

Every time he recovered from an illness he was quick to forget how miserable being sick was.

It felt like this would be his life now.

Forever.

“Oi. I see you wallowing over there,” Sunday chided him as he set down a steaming cup of chocolate milk on the couchside table.

“M'not wallowing,” Marvin said.

“Suuure.” Sunday gestured towards the drink. “Drink up.”

The heat of the cup eased his soreness a little. He sat with it in his hands, relishing its warmth for a while before taking a sip. “It’s good,” he said, “And I… I was wallowing. A little.”

“Only a little?” Sunday asked as he retreated into the kitchen.

Marvin didn’t reply to that. “How long have you been here? Coming in and out, I mean?”

“Only been in a few times.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The sound of the pot lid being removed drifted from the kitchen alongside a mouthwatering smell. "Yeah this is almost good. Let me know if you need anything else."

Marvin asked for the heat to be turned down, and with that finished, silence settled over them, filled only by Higgins purring, then by the TV after Marvin couldn’t bear the quiet. Marvin wondered whether Sunday found it uncomfortable.

Should he have asked him to stay? Surely he had better things to do than keeping Marvin from going stir crazy. And, as it stood, Marvin was a health hazard. There had to be reasons Sunday had spent most of his time coming and going instead of here, and it felt odd to override those. Higgins had needed to be fed though and Marvin definitely couldn't have done that as he was.

One episode of some crime drama passed by surprisingly fast, and dinner was done.

Higgins knew it before Marvin did. He'd been watching Sunday every time he got up for signs he was going to the kitchen, and once he started taking out bowls for the stew, the cat darted across the floor to circle the man's ankles, begging for food as he came out of the kitchen with two bowls. Successfully charmed by his fuzzy round face, Sunday flung him a strip of beef after setting the food down on little couchside table.

Marvin shook his head. “You're spoiling him. Now he'll be insufferable."

Higgins inhaled the entire chunk of stew beef, tenderized by six hours of boiling in soup. When he was done, he licked his chops and sat by Sunday again, this time looking up at him with dinner plate-sized, I would die for you (so please feed me again!) eyes.

Marvin took a bite of his stew.

Damn, and so would I.

“Good, right?” Sunday was back on the armchair, attention split between Marvin and Higgins, who was poised to jump into his lap.

“It’s great, yeah.” Marvin paused. It went on for too long, and a little embarrassed that he didn’t say it before, hurried to add, “Thanks.”

"Of course it is, that's my mum's recipe."

They returned to silence, and Marvin alternated between being convinced it was awkward and thinking it was companionable. Sometimes they burst into fits of vibrant conversation for however long that lasted before drifting into quiet. Together, they burned through one third of a TV show they'd been meaning to watch, a few video essays, and a few bowls of stew beef, at which point it was getting dark, and Sunday wanted to go home. It was one of the first times Marvin had blown through a sick day so fast without the use of sleep.

It was nice.

A sick day—nice. What an oxymoron.

"Well…" Sunday stood and made a show of stretching, "It's about time I take my leave. Will you be alright here?"

I will be if you can carry me back to bed.

Marvin opened his mouth and hesitated. "I can get to bed on my own. But, yeah, I appreciate you for feeding the cat and all that."

Sunday grinned at him. "That's what friends are for. I'll see you around."

He watched Marvin head to his room, then started leaving when it seemed like he'd make it safely.

Marvin was left to crawl into bed, top off his medicine, and get as cozy as he could manage as he listened for the sound of Sunday leaving and locking the door behind him.

Once the other magician was gone, some little thrill that'd wormed into his heart died, and left behind a ghost—a notion that he'd messed something up.

Hm.

Being sick wouldn't be so bad if Sunday came over every time.

[twilldoodles]

epper s

[aluc-art]

Making a seperate post for this ofc

[anemonet]

hey has anyone seen the hero recently?

[s0ckh3adstudios]

And then a weird guy appear

[iiboronii]

I see a fictional businessman and fold soooooo fast

[wanderingcas]

I have 3 kids, one a teen and while difficult you absolutely can be low tech and screen time, my eldest has a school supplied iPad and a personal iPhone but both are heavily locked down and timed for access. He doesn't game and has no browsing capabilities either. My younger two don't have anything and though they've occasionally asked I've always told them no and explained my reasons. It works for us and as a result my kids have the time to get bored, be creative and are all excellent readers. My house is a shit-tip of cutting and sticking, piles of Lego and assorted abandoned craft though!

that's so comforting to hear!! i'm really making an effort for everything to be low-tech in my house, and in my own little bubble it's working out just fine, but i'm worried about all that breaking down when she steps out into the "real" world lol. i'm so glad you found a way to make it work - i'm going to keep trying, and hope that i can do my own thing in this crazy world. it just all gets so overwhelming! (as i'm sure you can understand)

[clubolive]

Via @neprezi

i kind of wish the anti voting people wouldn’t dance around the idea of what happens after the election. Like okay, the democrats lose, you taught them a lesson (and fwiw, I do think its a legitimate message to send- the people are not happy with the actions and status quo of the DNC). Now What. Trump, the multiply indicted crime president who incited a violent mob upon the capitol, is now President. He has all the qualities you hate about Biden, AND more, except he and his administration have even less reason to be sensitive to the wishes of their democratic constituents. He is a puppet for the far right and white supremacists and christian nationalists. I really shouldn’t even have to go over this- we LIVED it already. Genuinely asking, is this what you want? Because frankly I do not think 4 more years of Trump is worth it over Biden. Your hands are not clean, this is the future you want to choose. I just don’t understand why.

[unidentifiedwhistlingobject]

An Island Garden

The garden suffers from the long drought in this last week of July, though I water it faithfully. The sun burns so hot that the earth dries again in an hour, after the most thorough drenching I can give it. The patient flowers seem to be standing in hot ashes, with the air full of fire above them. The cool breeze from the sea flutters their drooping petals, but does not refresh them in the blazing noon. Outside the garden on the island slopes the baked turf cracks away from the heated ledges of rock, and all the pretty growths of Sorrel and Eyebright, Grasses and Crowfoot, Potentilla and Lion's-tongue, are crisp and dead. All things begin again to pine and suffer for the healing touch of the rain.

Toward noon on this last day of the month the air darkens, and around the circle of the horizon the latent thunder mutters low. Light puffs of wind eddy round the garden, and whirl aloft the weary Poppy petals high in air, till they wheel like birds about the chimney-tops. Then all is quiet once more. In the rich, hot sky the clouds pile themselves slowly, superb white heights of thunder-heads warmed with a brassy glow that deepens to rose in their clefts toward the sun. These clouds grow and grow, showing like Alpine summits amid the shadowy heaps of looser vapor; all the great vault of heaven gathers darkness; soon the cloudy heights, melting, are suffused in each other, losing shape and form and color. Then over the coast-line the sky turns a hard gray-green, against which rises with solemn movement and awful deliberation an arch of leaden vapor spanning the heavens from southwest to northeast, livid, threatening, its outer edges shaped like the curved rim of a mushroom, gathering swiftness as it rises, while the water beneath is black as hate, and the thunder rolls peal upon peal, as faster and faster the wild arch moves upward into tremendous heights above our heads. The whole sky is dark with threatening purple. Death and destruction seem ready to emerge from beneath that flying arch of which the livid fringes stream like gray flame as the wind rends its fierce and awful edge. Under it afar on the black level water a single sail gleams chalk-white in the gloom, a sail that even as we look is furled away from our sight, that the frail craft which bears it may ride out the gale under bare poles, or drive before it to some haven of safety. Earth seems to hold her breath before the expected fury. Lightning scores the sky from zenith to horizon, and across from north to south "a fierce, vindictive scribble of fire" writes its blinding way, and the awesome silence is broken by the cracking thunder that follows every flash. A moment more, and a few drops like bullets strike us; then the torn arch flies over in tattered rags, a monstrous apparition lost in darkness; then the wind tears the black sea into white rage and roars and screams and shouts with triumph,--the floods and the hurricane have it all their own way. Continually the tempest is shot through with the leaping lightning and crashing thunder, like steady cannonading, echoing and reechoing, roaring through the vast empty spaces of the heavens. In pauses of the tumult a strange light is fitful over sea and rocks, then the tempest begins afresh as if it had taken breath and gained new strength. One's whole heart rises responding to the glory and the beauty of the storm, and is grateful for the delicious refreshment of the rain. Every leaf rejoices in the life-giving drops. Through the dense sparkling rain-curtain the lightning blazes now in crimson and in purple sheets of flame. Oh, but the wind is wild! Spare my treasures, oh, do not slay utterly my beautiful, beloved flowers! The tall stalks bend and strain, the Larkspurs bow. I hold my breath while the danger lasts, thinking only of the wind's power to harm the garden; for the leaping lightning and the crashing thunder I love, but the gale fills me with dread for my flowers defenseless. Still down pour the refreshing floods; everything is drenched: where are the humming-birds? The boats toss madly on the moorings, the sea breaks wildly on the shore, the world is drowned and gone, there is nothing but tempest and tumult and rush and roar of wind and rain.

The long trailing sprays of the Echinocystus vine stretch and strain like pennons flying out in the blast, the Wistaria tosses its feathery plumes over the arch above the door. Alas, for my bank of tall Poppies and blue Cornflowers and yellow Chrysanthemums outside! The Poppies are laid low, never to rise again, but the others will gather themselves together by and by, and the many-colored fires of Nasturtiums will clothe the slope with new beauty presently. The storm is sweeping past, already the rain diminishes, the lightning pales, the thunder retreats till leagues and leagues away we hear it "moaning and calling out of other lands." The clouds break away and show in the west glimpses of pure, melting blue, the sun bursts forth, paints a rainbow in the east upon the flying fragments of the storm, and pours a flood of glory over the drowned earth; the pelted flowers take heart and breathe again, every leaf shines, dripping with moisture; the grassy slopes laugh in sweet color; the sea calms itself to vast tranquillity and answers back the touch of the sun with a million glittering smiles.

Though the outside bank of flowers is wrecked and the tall Poppies prone upon the ground, those inside the garden are safe because I took the precaution to run two rows of wire netting up and down through the beds for their support. So, when the winds are cruelly violent, the tall, brittle stalks lean against this light but strong bulwark and are unhurt.

After the storm, in the clear, beautiful morning, before sunrise I went as usual into the garden to gather my flowers. To and fro, up and down over the ruined bank I passed; the wind blew cool and keen from the west, though the sky was smiling. The storm had beaten the flowers flat all over the slope; in scarlet and white and blue and pink and purple and orange bloom they were prostrate everywhere, leaves, stalks, blossoms, and all tangled and matted in an inextricable confusion. Swiftly I made my way through it, finding a foothold here and there, and stooping for every freshly unfolded cup or star or bell whose bud the tempest had spared. As I neared the little western gate with my hands full of blossoms to enter the garden on my way to the house, I was stopped still as a statue before a most pathetic sight. There, straight across the way, a tall Poppy plant lay prone upon the ground, and clinging to the stem of one of its green seed-pods sat my precious pet humming-bird, the dearest of the flock that haunt the garden, the tamest of them all. His eyes were tightly closed, his tiny claws clasped the stem automatically, he had no feeling, he was rigid with cold. The chill dew loaded the gray-green Poppy leaves, the keen wind blew sharply over him,--he is dead, I thought with a pang, as I shifted my flowers in a glowing heap to my left arm, and clasped the frozen little body in the palm of my right hand. It was difficult to disengage his slender wiry claws from their close grip on the chilly stalk, but he never moved or showed a sign of life as I took him off. I held him most tenderly in my closed hand, very careful not to crush or even press his tiny perishing body, and breathed into the shut hollow of my palm upon him with a warm and loving breath. I was so very busy, there were so many things to be done that morning, I could not stop to sit down and nurse him back to life. But I held him safe, and as I went up and down the garden paths gathering the rest of my flowers, I breathed every moment into my hand upon him. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed; he made no sign of life. Alas, I thought, he is truly dead; when all at once I felt the least little thrill pass through the still, cold form, an answering thrill of joy ran through me in response, and more softly, closely, tenderly yet I sent my warm breath to the tiny creature as I still went on with my work. In a few minutes more I began to feel the smallest fluttering pulse of life throbbing faintly within him; in yet a few moments more he stirred and stretched his wings, comforting himself in the genial heat. When at last I felt him all alive, I took a small shallow basket of yellow straw, very small and light, and in it put a tuft of soft cotton wool, filled a tiny glass cup with sugar and water, honey-thick, placed it in the basket by the cotton, then gently laid the wee bird on the warm fluff. His eyes were still closed, but he moved his head slowly from side to side. The sun had risen and was pouring floods of light and heat into the garden. I carried the basket out into the corner where the heavenly blue Larkspurs stood behind the snow-whiteness of the full blossoming Lilies, and among the azure spikes I hung the pretty cradle where the sunbeams lay hottest and brightest on the flowers. The wind, grown balmy and mild, rocked the tall flower-spikes gently, the basket swayed with them, and the heat was so reviving that the dear little creature presently opened his eyes and quietly looked about him. At that my heart rejoiced. It was delightful to watch his slow return to his old self as I still went on with my work, looking continually toward him to see how he was getting on. The ardent sunbeams sent fresh life through him; suddenly he rose, an emerald spark, into the air, and quivered among the blue flowers, diving deep into each winged blossom for his breakfast of honey.

All day and every day he haunts the garden, and when tired rests contentedly on the small twig of a dry pea-stick near the Larkspurs. The rosy Peas blossom about him, the Hollyhock flowers unfold in glowing pink with lace-like edges of white; the bees hum there all day in and out of the many flowers; the butterflies hover and waver and wheel. When one comes too near him, up starts my beauty and chases him away on burnished wings, away beyond the garden's bounds, and returns to occupy his perch in triumph,--the dry twig he has taken for his home the whole sweet summer long. Other humming-birds haunt the place, but he belongs there; they go and come, but he keeps to his perch and his Larkspurs faithfully. He is so tame he never stirs from his twig for anybody, no matter how near a person may come; he alights on my arms and hands and hair unafraid; he rifles the flowers I hold, when I am gathering them, and I sometimes think he is the very most charming thing in the garden. The jealous bees and the butterflies follow the flowers I carry also, sometimes all the way into the house. The other day, as I sat in the piazza which the vines shade with their broad green leaves and sweet white flowers climbing up to the eaves and over the roof, I saw the humming-birds hovering over the whole expanse of green, to and fro, and discovered that they were picking off and devouring the large transparent aphides scattered, I am happy to say but sparingly, over its surface, every little gnat and midge they snapped up with avidity. I had fancied they lived on honey, but they appeared to like the insects quite as well.

In the sweet silence before sunrise, standing in the garden I watch the large round shield of the full moon slowly fading in the west from copper to brass and then to whitest silver, throwing across a sea of glass its long, still reflection, while the deep, pure sky takes on a rosy warmth of color from the approaching sun. Soon an insufferable glory burns on the edge of the eastern horizon; up rolls the great round red orb and sets the dew twinkling and sparkling in a thousand rainbows, sending its first rejoicing rays over the wide face of the world. When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness. In this hour divinely fresh and still, the fair face of every flower salutes me with a silent joy that fills me with infinite content...

- Celia Thaxter, from An Island Garden, 1894

[dragon-deez-ballz]

Oghhhh so character from alien race but extremely strongly resembles humans. Is anybody going to interpret this as Theyre all autistic? no ? Oh okay more for meee

Um i was going to put this in the tags but i got kind of mad. I understand the desire to treat saiyans as "ohh horny sexy savages" because of the ABO potential but oh my GODDD it 99% of the time comes off as so RACIST and MYSOGYNIST!!!!!!!!!!! HOWwww do you write "vegeta: hrrng, Woman, i cant possibly be satisfied having sex with you because Goku is a Perfect Specimen of the Superior Species and only HE can sate my sexual needs" If toei animation decided that vegeta says "femoid" instead of "woman" those stupid fucking fic writers would start using it unironically because they just absolutely do not give a rats ass about bulma

[artemistorm]

Hey so raaaaandom question but I've seen you talk a lot about podfics recently and I think it's super cool, and have considered doing one or two myself—can I ask howwww that works? Like do you put it on YouTube or something and then link it on ao3? 💜

I'm going to make a series of posts about it in the near future (once my multi-day headache goes away and I get caught up on homework) but basically you

1. Choose a fic and get permission to record it (or do your own)

2. Record it (I use audacity recording software cuz its free)

3. Edit it

4. Upload it on archive.org as a hosting site (it is a designated media archival site)

5. Copy-paste the "share" embed link for the audio file from archive.org into the html of the ao3 fic textbox.

6. Make sure that the fic has the appropriate podfic tags: "podfics and other podficced works" and "podfic length: [time]"

7. Post on ao3

8. Advertise on tumblr

[traumasurvivors]

I’m a new follower and I went back through your my post tag and just howwww do you come up with so many posts? I really liked and neeeed so many of them

Sometimes (most of the time when I first made this blog) I write things I need to hear or things that help me and hope they help someone else too.

Other times, more so now, I pay attention to the stories people drop in my ask box (I do read them all even though I may not answer them). I pay attention to the tags on my posts. Or the replies people leave. And then I try and think about things that the people behind these responses might need to hear and I try and write posts to speak to them. (I’m half asleep. I don’t know if that made sense.)

[hoshigray]

HOSHI WIFEY UR GONNA MAKE ME SOB OMG. tysm for ur feedback on my fic ur so kind 🥹🥹 u don’t know how much ur words motivated me—especially since i lost sleep over it and i noticed you said you stayed up too (GET SOME RESSST GYAL) and also also thank yew for alerting me of any errors u saw, i proofread another time and tweaked some i saw but if u see any other mistakes ya like u said u can run them by me !!!

BUT HOWWWW ARE YOUUU ALSO!!! i hope classes are going well for you, tell meeee about your day, whenever u get to this ofc. mwah mwah loveeeee uuuuu. omw to read ur ex husband halloween fic tehe

vegasss babyyyyy !!! You're absolutely welcome for the feedback, the fic was so good and fun 💚💚 lmao not us both losing sleep that night,, glad I had you aware of some errors you made, I'll be sure to lyk about more when I reread (also peep me fixing errors in my rb tags bc I was sleepy heheh)

but I'm doing good, my love!! My first class got canceled today, so I'm chillin' waiting for my next and last class of the day 😌✨️ and STOOOP I SAW YOUR RB FOR MY FIC AND AWWWW YOUR THOUGHTS MADE ME SO HAPPYYYYYY!! The sentences you pulled had me grinning, and not you saying you wanna get pregnant, man be serious 💀💀💀 but omg how's your day, hon? know you had work before classes, so hopefully you're not taxing your body with so much work 🙇🏾‍♀️💕

[frasermints]

I know you are a Leafs fan but some of us in your orbit are Devils fans if you could be considerate of us please 😘

block the fucking leafs lb or jayposting tags babe i tag liberally it is not that hard HOWWWW many times do i need to have this conversation with y'all

i am not censoring myself in my own fucking house. this is my house. you are a guest.

[oatmilkovich]

do you have any idea on how you're able to watch doctor who when you're not in the UK, because i really really wanna watch it with my sister but i don't know howwww

i'm in the uk unfortunately so i watch it on bbc iplayer but it'll likely be on any sort of website where you (not so legally) stream things.

i'll pop this in the doctor who tag in case anyone has any outside of the uk suggestions!

[willkimurashat]

2022 Fics in Review

Thank you so much for tagging me @rebelrayne !!! I only started writing this year, as my new-found hobby, and I actually found it quite fun and therapeutic :) that being said, I don’t have a lot to share, but it’s still cool to look back on it lol!

In 2022 I…

…wrote the following one-shots:

First Impressions Don’t Have to Decide Everything, Right?

MC x Will, 4k+ words

My first ever fic!! It will always hold a special place in my heart, even though I’m kinda scared to reread it and feel incredibly cringy🙈

The Answer Was Simple

MC x Suresh, 2.3k+ words, Lie detector prompt

I’m really proud of this one actually. I wrote it in one sitting and I was surprisingly satisfied with how it came out:) still can’t believe all the love I got for it here on tumblr!

Snog, Marry, Die

Halloween-themed, 7k+ words, tw: blood, violence, murder, death

I was just rereading it yesterday, and I still think it came out so fun lol! Every time I read the title, makes me feel like I was such a genius for coming up with that pun lmao, like, I am wayyy too proud of that title haha😂

…started the following multi-chaptered wips:

Stargazing

MC x Will, s4 rewrite, 61.6k+ words

Ah, the fic that kinda started it all:) It was such an ambitious plan, and I think it’s only now hit me, just how ambitious it really is to do a whole season rewrite lol… I hate how slow I am with writing it, but I love writing it so much nonetheless - it’s my baby!

An Unnamed College AU

Started writing this back in the summer, I haven’t touched it in months, but I haven’t given up on it yet either. I just didn’t think the plot fully through before starting it lol! Maybe I will get back to it, who’s to say?

An Unnamed Xmas fic

Something I started, but lost motivation and didn’t finish… whoopsie daisy👀 maybe next year?

An Unnamed Romcom-Inspired fic

I am actually super excited about this! The idea has been occupying my mind for a few weeks now:) I think this one’s kinda self-indulgent, but my bday is coming up in 1.5 months, so I’m allowing it lol😅 no, but I think it’s actually gonna be really fun, and I hope you guys think so too! Stay tuned!

…reached the following milestones:

Started writing! I mean, it’s a big deal because it got me through a lot actually, as this year was absolutely fucked.

100 kudos across all of my fics on ao3! Like, WHAT??? HOWWWW THANK YOUUUU

1301 hits across all of my fics on ao3! Again, HOWWW I LOVE YOU ALL

Collectively wrote 71,089 words across the fics officially posted to ao3! I didn’t know I could do that wtf!!!

Stargazing currently sits at about 61k words, which is approximately 122 A4 pages, which is also about the same as the word count of Carrie by Stephen King! (I never read it, but it’s still super freaking impressive!!)

And let me be sappy for a moment lol:) After years of stalking the tumblr litg tag, I finally caved in and made myself a sideblog too lol! I had a very very shitty year, but this place has been my safe space. I am so grateful I got to know so many of you - you are all so wonderful and funny and talented and inspiring! I’m not usually a hug person, but I am squeezing you all so tight right now❤️ thank you for being here and ranting/venting/crying/laughing with me, I love you all!❤️❤️❤️

Tagging: I feel like at this point everyone’s done it, but if you haven’t and you want to - I’m tagging you! I am so so proud of all of you for all the hard work you’ve done this year!!

Happy New Year, my lovely friends! Wishing you all peace, kindness, and lots of wonderful moments in 2023! I hope it treats you well ❤️❤️❤️