#i had so much to say i'm sORRY

[teaboot]

I feel like if you're using a lot of disposable plastic bags in your day to day life, you've gotta do something sustainable to make up for it. Like using bamboo toilet paper or eco friendly cat litter or something, yknow

Honestly I exaggerate for comedic effect, while I DO routinely use ziplock bags to hold spaghetti I cook maybe once a month and the bag itself is usually for freezer storage. I actually throw out maybe one bag a week? I DO hate washing plates and tupperware and junk but that usually just means I eat sandwiches without a plate.

I agree though that needless waste should be avoided, and I do avoid it- biodegradable bags and recyclables, empty butter tubs used to store leftovers, etc.

This said, though, not applicable necessarily for myself but for a lot of others- I feel that it's importat to remember that there are many people who legitimately NEED things like plastic straws, or catheters, or pre-packaged foods

And the idea that that's a moral failing that individuals need to personally make up for when a single billionaire blows out more CO2 in a long weekend than I will in my whole life on a superjet meet-cute in the Bolivian rainforest between humvee drag races funded by the river-polluting textiles plants they planted in a third world country to avoid EPA laws and give an entire village stillbirths and stomach cancer is an idea that those very same bigwigs have spent a LOT of time and money investing in planting in the public psyche.

Like- Glass bottles are infinitely recyclable, so why are so many drinks in plastic now? Loads of drinks manufacturers used to buy them back and clean them for re-use, so why did they stop? If they chose to make something out of a limited and environmentally irresponsible material, why is it my failing to track down a correct process of disposal for them? What if there are none in my area? Do I lobby for more recycling plants in my area? Do I set aside some of my limited time outside the pain factory of my job- which I have more than one of, thanks to rising costs of things just like that drink I just emptied- to properly dispose of this company's waste FOR them?

Say coca-cola just rolled up to your town and started dumping millions of empty plastic bottles in the street, going, "wow, you should really think about building and staffing a recycling depot, it would be really shameful of you to just put these in the trash." When companies purposefully use materials with limited lifespans- because yes, even plastic can only be reused so many times- and tell you it's your own fault if it harms the environment- that's essentially what they're doing, just with more steps.

Yes, its important to be as environmentally concious as we can in our day to day life, but responsible sustainability is not catholicism. We don't get good boy points from our lord and savior Captain Planet every time the average low-income household gathers together to hold hands and repent for a single-use plastic that allows them to access something they need.

Entire families could eat trees and shit dead lithium batteries for years and still not do as much damage to the planet as an average dye plant or braindead celebrity does in a week just for fun, and I'm mad about it

...this went on longer than intended.

TL/DR: DO recycle and minimize waste, but don't beat yourself up over the little waste you can't avoid, and follow the money.

EDIT: Part 2

[thedreadvampy]

Losing my shit about this article in which a transphobic Tory was so busy panicking about existing in the vicinity of a Trans that she almost certainly misheard "jeans" as "penis" and decided that not only was this a problem with the other woman, but also that the world must be informed of this pressing danger.

"a trans woman! I had to stand directly behind her....I thought, 'this is going well', I'm handling The Situation fine'..."

translated: I saw a tall woman with broad shoulders. How would I get out of this alive? I thought. she has a PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. through some force of PENIS I mean will I managed to PENIS behave normally towards her. My hands were PENIS PENIS PENIS shaking as I tried to dry them. summoning up all my PENIS courage I said 'dryer's crap innit'. she turned to me and said " yeah I'm just goiPENIS PENIS PENIS"

It's been a week and I'm still shaking. This proves trans women are the problem and I'm not weird. I'm fine. It's fine. If you think about it I'm the hero hePENIS!!!!!

very this

[lazylittledragon]

ok i swear i'm not going to talk about my breakup forever but the thing that just keeps bothering me:

i know that not getting what you need in a relationship is a COMPLETELY valid reason to end it but also. i feel like having a very vulnerable moment where i opened up about my struggles with intimacy and being relieved that i didn't have to keep doing things i wasn't comfortable with, then being dumped a YEAR later because of my lack of intimacy. is something i should be allowed to be very hurt by???

[thelonelywhale]

No you don't understand how important it is to me that Caleb and Essek have this soft, deep, profound love for each other. These two people who were so broken and saw themselves as so damaged and irredeemable and utterly damned, having the chance to heal together and cultivate this sweet, gentle relationship with each other. The fact that they can now carve out moments of joy together, that they proved you can change and better yourself, with time and effort and love.

Matt taking the time to show that even in just a few little ways, to let Essek express his love so casually and with so much reverence and care is just AUGH. That's how you do redemption arcs. He understood the assignment. That's not only respecting the players for the time they put in to creating these characters and their pathways for growth, but also saying to your players (and viewers), "it's possible. Everyone deserves a second chance at happiness."

They redeemed themselves, together.

[eddiethebrave]

secret admirer part twenty-six

679 words

one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five

Steve studies Eddie’s sketches with a frown. They’re thumbnails of people in different positions, and Steve can’t help but compare them to his own. Perhaps he simply has to come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be a good artist. He thought he was improving, given all the time and effort he’s putting into the portraits, especially Eddie’s, but no. He still sucks.

The point of the assignment wasn’t to make the drawings good - only to provide a quick recap on anatomy. Still, though, Eddie’s are good. And Steve’s… Well, at least Steve isn’t going to get a poor grade (because that’s frowned upon when the student tries their best).

The figures on his paper are unproportionate and vaguely unsettling, like his art tends to be.

“They can’t be that bad, Steve,” Eddie says, naively.

Steve had unthinkingly shielded his paper from the other teen - a habit he’d picked up from the project, and when Steve had asked, Eddie had handed his own over passively because he’s a fucking art prodigy, apparently.

Steve slumps in his seat and places his paper in front of Eddie. He hadn’t even pushed to see it. Not once. Now, he picks it up and studies the sketches for a solid minute, brows furrowed in concentration. 

Steve’s frown deepens considerably. He’s beginning to regret handing it over for judgment. Eventually, though, Eddie sets the paper on the table and looks up to make sure he has Steve’s attention before he issues his verdict. As if Steve’s attention is ever directed elsewhere.

Once assured Steve’s eyes are on him, Eddie picks up his pencil and hovers over the paper with the eraser aimed at it. “May I?” he questions. 

Steve huffs. "Sure. ‘S not like they can get any worse," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Eddie erases things here and there. Steve thinks he's about to begin fixing the drawings, but he simply straightens and slides the paper over to Steve. He leans in close and points to one of the places he had erased. "Okay, so...” 

He continues to suggest ways Steve could make them look more like the references. 

At the end of class, Steve actually feels better footed - ready to finish up his portraits. He's almost done with his own, actually, and he only needs a few more things until he'll be satisfied with Eddie's. 

The bell rings and Steve turns to make plans with Eddie only to find the teen already looking at him expectantly. "Uh, my place?" Steve suggests. It's only fair after Eddie had hosted on Monday. 

Eddie nods in acknowledgement. "Sounds good, Stevie."

Steve clears his throat, trying not to let it show that he’s aware his face has begun to flame with the arrival of the nickname. 

Stevie. 

It's not like it's unprecedented, people have called him Stevie here and there for as long as he can remember.

It feels different coming from Eddie, though. Makes him feel special.

"You wanna follow my car, then?" Steve asks, standing from his seat finally. 

Eddie levels him with a look that's hard to interpret. "Bold of you to assume the entire school doesn't know where your castle is, Mr. Keg King." 

Right, he'd forgotten about the parties. 

Steve scratches his check. "Huh, right. Meet you there?”

Eddie agrees and Steve finally takes his leave. 

Hours later, when dismissal has rolled around, Steve is trying to remember what state he'd left the house in that morning.

He doesn’t go to his locker even though Eddie’s library book - which he’d picked up yesterday - is in his locker and he’d wanted to grab it for tonight. He's trying to avoid Tommy. He knows his friend will just act like nothing ever happened. And to him, nothing did. He's probably forgotten already, honestly. 

Steve doesn't forget - he never does.

He goes straight to his bimmer and unlocks and opens the door, but as he’s about to descend into his seat, a hand claps him on the back and he straightens again. 

So, Tommy's found him anyway. Great.

tag list (closed)

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[evilkaeya]

THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT KAITO AND SHINICHI ARE COUSINS??

[salmoninzeeweed]

I'm sorry but I absolutely fucking hate sheith (shiro x keith) like wtf NO...

Shiro knew keith since he was a CHILD, HE BASICALLY RAISED HIM, AND PEOPLE SHIP THEM??????

Keith literally called shiro his BROTHER, HE SEES SHIRO AS HIS BROTHER! CAN PEOPLE STOP BEING FUCKASS WEIRDOS AND STOP SHIPPING TWO PEOPLE WHO CANONICALLY AND VERY CLEARLY SEE EACH OTHER AS BROTHERS PLEASE???

All hate to sheith shippers I'm not even gonna sugar coat that, please stop writing and making art of them being "in love" idc if you think "oH bUT ThEir CheMistrY-" STFUUUUUUU STFU NO HELL NO

Anyway klance forever!!!

[emchant3d]

part 2 of the steddie fight steve whump - now with as-promised eddie whump 💕 part 1 here

Eddie isn’t a good man.

Steve thinks he is, Eddie knows. He says it all the time. Eddie thinks that good men don’t need to be announced as good men, that their goodness is obvious enough without anyone pointing it out, but he doesn’t want to argue about it with Steve. He hates when Eddie doesn’t see himself like Steve sees him, so he just does his best to be the person Steve thinks he is.

He did a spectacularly shitty job of that today.

He took it too far. Cut too deep. Knew it the second the words came out of his mouth, didn’t even need to see the color drain from Steve’s face as the blow landed, but he was treated to the sight anyway. He watched the angry flush fade into a sickly pale pallor as those long pretty lashes fluttered and that plush mouth parted in surprise, in shock, before Steve’s jaw had snapped shut so hard his teeth clacked.

And then it was gone. As quickly as the hurt had been written all over Steve’s face, it disappeared in the blink of an eye, and Eddie hates when he does that, when he hides how he feels and refuses to share his hurt and sadness with Eddie, but can he blame him for concealing it? Can he demand to be shown it when he’s the one who put that expression on Steve’s face in the first place?

And the worst of it is - he’d felt a sick kind of satisfaction at the sight. And he hates himself for it now, with hindsight and self-awareness, feels disgusting for the way he’d reveled in the sense of victory he’d felt. He’d won. He’d hurt Steve and he’d won the argument by doing so, at least that round of it, had stopped their back and forth with one sentence, and he’d seen him fold in on himself and go ice-cold in a way Steve hasn’t been with him in a long, long time, maybe ever, not since they started this whole thing between them.

He’d taken the win while he had it, heard Steve say something about the guest room and rolled his eyes, Steve can be so dramatic when they fight. He’d turned tail and done the worst thing he could have fucking done, can’t even claim hindsight for this one because he’d known even as he was doing it that leaving then, when he’d been asked what he’d been asked and answered like he’d answered - he’d known it was cruel. Known it was salt in the wound, and he’d ground it in with a perverse satisfaction, slammed the door behind him and everything.

He took a couple walks around the block, chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes, debated going to Gareth’s to rant and ramble and try to get somebody on his side even though he knows Gareth likes Steve more than he likes Eddie some days - his boy is too charismatic for his own good, won over all of Eddie’s friends with the slightest bit of effort.

He sat on the fucking curb and lost track of time quick, watched the darkening sky deepen until it was black and the streets were barren and his hands were frozen, until he’d thought himself into and out of every scenario possible, until all that was left to do was admit to himself how badly he fucked up.

Anger kept the guilt from setting in immediately, because he’d been so angry, so furious with Steve for - for–

He can’t even pick out what in particular pissed him off so much, and isn’t that rich? Because deep down, he wasn’t angry. Not really.

He was terrified.

Eddie’s been distant lately, he knows. He’s been taking more gigs and staying out later after them, he’s been working more shifts, he’s been hanging out with the band and saying he has ‘practice’ when really they’re just sitting around getting high and wasting time. Sometimes he doesn’t even give an excuse, just turns up late and acts like he can’t see the mix of worry-anger-hurt painted all over Steve’s face, he just wraps him up in his arms and covers his face with kisses and acts like they’re fine, like there’s not a tightness squeezing his heart so hard he’s afraid it’ll stop beating altogether.

He’s been pushing it too much. Disappearing too often. But he just doesn’t know how to explain it - the fear that settles bone-deep in him when he thinks about how happy he is for too long. If there’s one thing Eddie’s life has taught him, it’s that happiness and safety - all that shit is temporary. He’ll lose it eventually. It’ll get damaged somehow, he’ll piss someone off or do something wrong, he’ll break the delicate balance that’s afforded him a safety net and that net will disappear, and he’ll be left in a free-fall and forced to pick up his own shattered pieces when he lands, alone and hurt and starting all over yet again.

He’s so, so tired of starting over. 

So he’s been trying to…delay the inevitable, maybe. If he’s not around, Steve can’t be tired of him, right? And that’s not fair to Steve either, but Eddie’s selfish at the best and worst of times and he’s been prioritizing getting himself through this, has switched to survival mode so thoroughly that he’s not been able to recognize the only threat he’s trying to protect himself from is him.

Self-sabotage is a habit that’s deeply ingrained in Eddie. It’s the only thing he knows sometimes, the defense mechanism that feels like coming home, but when you grew up in a home like he did, sometimes familiarity isn’t safe, not like it should be.

It blinds him to everything and everyone, makes it so he doesn’t recognize he’s even doing it until it’s too late. Until he’s pushing everyone away and hurting the people he loves, until the person he loves most in the world is standing in front of him and yelling in their living room asking if Eddie wants to be here with him.

And that’s another thing, isn’t it? Of course Eddie wants to be with Steve. Of course he wants the comfort that comes with loving someone and being loved, but he can’t deny that that’s terrifying in its own right - that the idea of being tethered to something freaks him the fuck out. And he knows, he knows that’s part of the whole avoidance thing too - his heart searching for freedom where it can find it, loving Steve but being terrified of Steve at the same time, of what he means, of that string that keeps them together always, no matter what.

Usually the thought of that is wonderful and welcome and fantastic. Sometimes it’s something he absolutely cannot think about. And that leads him right back here, not fucking thinking and leaving Steve alone and acting like he’s done nothing wrong when he knows damn well he’s the fucking problem here.

Steve was yelling because Eddie hadn’t considered him. Eddie hadn’t thought of Steve, or his life with Steve, and Steve was angry about it. And he had every right to be. But all Eddie could see, could feel, had been a noose around his neck, a tie to something - to someone that felt like it was taking control.

Eddie had panicked, and he did what he does best - he ran.

Scorched earth, feet to the ground, bolted away from the issue the best he knew how, let himself sit in that self-appointed righteousness of finding an escape except he’d run from the one thing, the one person, he’d promised never to run from.

This is the downside of loving someone you know inside and out. This is the result of baring his soul to Steve and having Steve bare his back - he’s seen the delicate, vulnerable bits of that man and knows exactly where to strike.

Regret eats at him. How could he say that to Steve? How could he do this to Steve? Eddie knows his temper is mercurial at the best of times, knows his moods can change with the weather, but there’s no excuse for allowing them and his fear to take over like they had. It’s something he has to work on, he’s known it for a while, but this is the final nail in the coffin.

He’d thought he was past the worst of this, of his anxiety eating him alive and taking things from him, thought interdimensional monsters and almost dying and falling in love in the aftermath of it all meant that the mundane normal life shit would be easy, but the universe does so love to prove Eddie Munson wrong.

There’s nothing in the world worth losing Steve over. And sure, Eddie can be a coward, has cowardice in his goddamn blood some days, but if there’s anything worth being brave over, it’s the man waiting for him at home right now.

This is fixable, he tells himself. He’ll apologize. He’ll grovel and make it up to Steve and he’ll be glued to his goddamn side for the rest of their fucking lives if that’s what it takes. Anything to show him that Eddie didn’t mean it.

He wanders his way home with his metaphorical tail between his legs, hoping that he’s right - because Steve would be well within his rights to be tired of his shit by now. Steve would be more than justified in calling it quits over this - because it isn’t just one fight. This one fight was a culmination of issues and he sealed the deal with a fucking calculated attack and he has no idea what he’s about to come home to, not really, he’s just hoping that home still feels like home when he walks in the door, and he only needs Steve for that.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he makes it in. Just knows that the apartment is dark and shadowy and the only light in the place is in the hall, so he doesn’t call out to Steve. 

For a moment he’s terrified that maybe Steve isn’t here, maybe he left, but he knows that’s his modus operandi, not Steve’s, and besides, the guest room door is closed. He remembers what Steve had said, stone-faced and monotone, ‘I’m staying in the guest room tonight,’ and Eddie hates that Steve isn’t in their bed, but at least he’s here. Hopefully he’s asleep - and he feels like a piece of shit for hoping for it because he knows he just wants to avoid this conversation, even if Steve getting some rest would be a good thing. His baby doesn’t sleep too well. Neither of them do.

He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up by the door, forgets to take his shoes off like always and desperately, desperately hopes that Steve will still be willing to bitch at him for it in the morning.

His heart is a stone that’s sunk down to his stomach. He doesn’t have words, had tried to craft something pretty to say on the walk home, but his theatrics won’t help him now and his sincerity is drowning in his guilt and he doesn’t know how to fix this. How does he apologize for this? Not just the fight today, but all of it? He’s got nothing but he knows he can’t let this sit like this, can’t stand it, can’t leave the two of them in this limbo and abandon Steve to whatever awful thoughts are swimming around in that pretty head.

He knows Steve. He knows his fears, his insecurities. He knows he hit them all like a fucking bullseye with a single sentence and the rest of his actions would have taken him down the rest of the way.

He left. He’s spent so long promising Steve that’s the one thing he would never do, that he’s a runner but never from Steve, and yet he’s slinking his way through their apartment after doing exactly that, hesitant and quiet as he can be but he’s terrible at being quiet, and he winces at the volume of the thunk that sounds when he pauses in front of the guest room and leans on the closed door.

He can’t hear Steve through it, but that doesn’t mean much - he could be lying awake, hoping Eddie just continues his path down the hall, hoping to be left alone and spared the groveling that Eddie knows he has to do. Could be that Steve doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to deal with him, just wants some peace after all the shouting they’d done earlier. Eddie wouldn’t begrudge him that.

But a bigger part of him, a worried part of him, knows that it’s unlikely.

No, the bigger part of him, the bit of him that’s tied to Steve Harrington’s heart, knows with almost certainty that Steve is lying on that unfamiliar bed wide awake. He knows he’s hurting, knows he’s upset, knows he wishes that Eddie would just come in and fix things. 

He presses his forehead to the door like he can transfer his thoughts through osmosis - he thinks it’s osmosis, he isn’t sure, science was the least strong of his not-strong suits, okay - and have Steve just know everything he wants to tell him, and then he shuffles the rest of the way down the hall to buy himself some time.

He changes into pajamas as he goes over everything he wants to say, trying to work it into something coherent and level-headed, but at this point he’s debating just falling to his knees and begging Steve to not leave him, which, well - he’s had worse ideas.

He doesn’t want to lose Steve. But he knows he might. Has to accept that as a possibility. Has to face that and resist the urge to deny it, to own that he’s royally fucked up and might lose the most important person in the world to him, even if the very idea makes him want to rip his heart out of his goddamn chest.

Call him dramatic. It doesn’t make it less true.

He pads his way back down the hall, the familiar orange glow from the dimmed light less a comfort and more like he’s walking down to a fucking gate to hell, and comes to a stop outside the guest room. He takes a breath, braces himself, and then raises a hand, knocking gently.

“Baby? You in there Stevie?” he asks, and he doesn’t get an answer, but when he quietly opens the door he catches the motion of Steve ducking his head down. He’s awake, then. Pretending not to be, but that’s okay - Eddie can work around that. 

He can’t make out anything but the rough shape of Steve in the bed - his own body in the doorway is blocking most of the light trying to illuminate the dark room. He knows the shape of that lump on a mattress, and he walks closer, almost reaching out - but he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he touched Steve and he flinched, or if he pulled away from his reach. So he pulls his hand back, and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, and takes a deep breath, letting the silence sit between them.

And Eddie’s a goddamn coward, can’t even look at his baby, keeps his back to him in the dimness of the room so he doesn’t have to see the anger and the hurt as he tries to apologize for a hurt that he never should have caused. And he can’t see him, but he can hear him - he can hear the little hitches in his breath, the stutters of it, the soft trembles that Steve is trying to keep steady, and each one is like a stab to the fucking heart, and he really cannot fucking take this anymore, so–

“I know you’re awake,” he says, and Steve goes silent behind him. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. “Let’s just hash this out, huh? Get it over with.” He wishes Steve would yell. He wishes his baby would get all his anger and his frustration out and they could move on, he wishes Steve would get so fucking mad and lash out because Eddie deserves it– and he tries to stop that train of thought before it gets too off track because that’s mean, Steve isn’t like that to him and it’s not fair to expect it from him. Even if it would make things easier if he could just hope for an easy way out.

He takes a breath, and starts where he thinks is best, the only starting point he can really think of.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Steve says, sharp voice a little rough, but it’s strong and it’s steady and something in Eddie relaxes a bit. Steve’s still mad. Eddie can work with mad.

“So you are awake,” he tries to joke, and it lands about as well as he thought it would.

“Yeah,” is what he gets back, and he lifts his head, tries to pick out the vague pattern of the popcorn ceiling above them in the dark. He can feel eyes on him, knows Steve’s staring him down.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and Steve makes a soft, gutted sound from behind him. “What I said - what I did–” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t right. I should have never–”

“If you’re going to break up with me will you just get it over with?” Steve interrupts, snappy and frosty but his voice cracks something fierce, and hold on, what.

“Hold on, what?” he says aloud, like a dumbass, but sue him, he doesn’t know how else to express the utter confusion taking him over right now.

Steve scoffs at him, and there’s a shuffle behind him but Eddie’s moving too, finally turning and - oh.

Oh, no. Steve pushes himself to sit up and Eddie takes him in, his reddened puffy eyes and the tense set of his jaw, clenched so it doesn’t shake.

“I don’t need you to apologize for breaking up with me,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest, defensive, shoulders up to his ears, weight shifted back like he’s two seconds from lurching away from Eddie to wedge himself in the corner like that’ll keep him safe. And it’s so odd - it’s so wrong - to see Steve, the fighter, the one who punches first, so defensive, but he supposes it makes sense when the enemy is Eddie, and god, doesn’t that just feel like a kick in the fucking teeth. “If you don’t wanna fucking be with me anymore I get it, okay, I don’t need the spiel, I don’t need the whole it’s not you it’s me thing, just - just do it and get it over with and I can - I can move out, I’ll get out of the way and I’ll leave you alone and–”

“Shut up,” Eddie says sharply, and then cringes at himself because come on Munson, a little gentleness would be good right now, but he’s off-kilter in a way he didn’t expect. Steve flinches a little, but he stands his ground, eyes wide as he keeps them on Eddie. “Shut up, I am not - you thought I was breaking up with you?” 

Steve flails his arms a little, tossing them up. “Well - you - I mean–” he stutters, “why the fuck else are you here!”

“To apologize!” Steve freezes and stares at him like he didn’t know that option was even on the table. “Baby,” Eddie says, achingly soft, and he doesn’t stop himself from reaching this time, catching hold of Steve’s arm and pulling him close as he closes the distance between them both.

They’re on their knees on the mattress, crowded into each other’s space, and Steve won’t look him in the eye. “Steve,” he tries, but he just gets a minute shake of his head for his efforts. Steve isn’t touching him, fingers curling into tight fists in the space between them like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching out, but he isn’t pulling away from Eddie’s touch either so he keeps going. He skates his fingertips in a soft touch down Steve’s bicep, over his elbow, brushing along his forearm and feeling goosebumps pop up. 

He takes hold of Steve’s hand, rubs the back of it with his thumb, watches Steve’s gaze dart to where they’re touching as Eddie maps out the familiar pattern of Steve’s moles. Freckled even here, on these warm hands Eddie loves so much, these hands that are shaking faintly in Eddie’s gentle grip.

“You don’t gotta look at me,” he says softly, and he squeezes Steve’s hand tighter, “but please - please, angel, just listen to me, okay?” Steve’s breath hitches again, but he nods, and Eddie will take what he can get as he clasps Steve’s trembling hand between both of his own.

“Steve, I’m sorry,” he says, watching what he can see of Steve’s face, orange light slicing over his features from the doorway. Those eyes he loves are fixed on their hands and he can’t tell if he’s watching in fear or hope or both. “What I said…I didn’t mean it, okay?” And it sounds hollow to his own ears, so he tries again. “I just - I wanted to hurt you, and…” 

Steve gives a bitchy little eye roll and Eddie’s heart skips a beat, staring at his pretty, tear-stained face and clinging to that small glimpse of normalcy. “Well mission accomplished, I guess,” Steve says, bitter and sad, and Eddie groans softly.

“I know. I know, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m so fucking sorry. I can’t…I tried the whole time I was out to think of the right words to say but I just - I dunno how to explain it,” he says, frustrated with himself, and he feels the smallest little squeeze to his hand.

“Try,” Steve says, quiet, “...please,” and his voice cracks again and it feels like a fucking knife in Eddie’s stomach.

“I was scared,” he blurts out, and finally, finally Steve looks at him.

“...What?” His brows furrow, his mouth turns down, “scared of what?” “Of you,” he says, and that’s not quite right, and Steve’s face falls even more, looking nauseous.

“I’m sorry,” Steve croaks, and he tries to pull his hand away but Eddie just grips it tighter, “I’m sorry, Eddie, I shouldn’t have yelled like that or gotten mad and - and I would never hurt you, Eds–”

“Nonono, baby,” Eddie scrambles to interrupt, shaking his head so hard his hair flies around a little, “no, that’s not - I wasn’t scared of you like that.” He raises a hand, grabbing hold of Steve’s face, keeping their eyes on one another while he has the chance, “I meant - I was–” he makes a little frustrated sound, “...I was scared that I’d lose you,” he says, and God, fuck, thank God Steve is who he is and he knows Eddie how he knows him, because understanding starts to bloom in those bloodshot eyes.

“...And so you lashed out,” he whispers, and Eddie nods again.

“And so I lashed out.” Guilt paints his words. “And I’ve been avoiding you. Avoiding home. Staying away because - because if I’m not around then you can’t get annoyed, or tired of me, right? And that’s so fucking stupid, okay, I know it is, I’m a fucking idiot, really, biggest moron in the world, and a goddamn coward–”

“Hey,” Steve says sharply, and Eddie’s words die with a little whine in his throat. “You are not a coward. You’re the bravest person I know.”

“Dustin would like a word,” he shoots back, and Steve huffs, narrowing his eyes at him. Eddie gives him a small, self-deprecating smile.

“I just mean,” he soldiers on, “I’ve been doing wrong by you.” Steve looks away again. “And I’m sorry. I know I’ve been hurting you and I want to do better, Stevie, I do.” He squeezes Steve’s hand.

He watches as Steve rolls his lips in, biting them hard, his brows tight and his shoulders going tense again. Eddie wants to fill the space with his own chatter, pour out even more apologies, but he lets the silence sit - he lets Steve have the space to collect his thoughts, to think of what he wants to say.

Finally, he speaks. “It felt like you didn’t love me anymore,” Steve says, and Eddie can’t help the heartbroken little sound he makes.

“No,” he says fiercely, and he crowds into Steve’s personal space, takes his face in his hands and cradles his cheeks in his palms. “Absolutely fucking not, baby,” he insists, and Steve reaches up, covering Eddie’s hands with his like he’s trying to pull all the warmth from Eddie and into himself.

“What else was I supposed to think?” Steve asks, “you were just - you were gone all the time, and you never wanted to talk about it, and you were always busy with stuff that didn’t involve me and it was like you didn’t want to be around me anymore. And when we fought tonight I thought - I.” He cuts himself off, squeezes his eyes closed tight. “...I really thought that you might not come back,” he confesses, and Eddie pulls him even closer.

“You listen to me,” he says, soft but fierce, “and I know my word probably means shit to you right now, because I’ve been the biggest dumbass in the world and broken it, but I need you to hear me when I say this.” Steve opens his eyes, and Eddie stares into them. “I will always come home to you. Even if I’m being a fucking idiot. Even if I’m pulling a runner, if I lose my mind and bolt out of here again, I will come home.” Steve’s eyes go all watery, and Eddie gently catches the tears with his thumbs, brushing them from Steve’s cheeks.

“Swear,” Steve says, and there’s a desperation in his tone that Eddie wishes he could smooth away, but he knows that will take time. That will take dedication and patience and perseverance and goddammit, Eddie will use every ounce of all that he possesses if that’s what it takes. But for now he holds Steve’s gaze and he nods slowly, their faces just inches apart.

“I swear,” he tells him. “I swear to you, Steve Harrington, I will come home. And I will always, always fucking love you.” 

Steve gives a little sob. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Eddie shushes him.

“No, angel,” he tells him, shaking his head. “You got nothing you need to apologize for, okay?” Steve looks like he’s going to protest, but Eddie just shifts, pressing his lips to Steve’s forehead and lingering there as his baby works to catch his breath.

“Can we go to bed?” Steve asks, and he sounds exhausted down to his bones. Eddie nods.

“Of course, baby,” he says, and he pulls Steve from the guest bed - fucking terrible thing that it is, taking Steve from their room, from their space, the safe little corner of the universe that they’ve carved out together between their sheets. He guides Steve down the hall, tired and stumbling a little, his pretty hair in disarray - his baby didn’t even change first, seems like he just curled right up after Eddie left, he’s still in his jeans and everything. 

Eddie watches as Steve changes, stripping his clothes off with slow, lethargic movements, and for once they land in a heap on the floor - on top of his sneakers, and that makes Eddie’s heart do a funny little flip as he catches Steve’s hand to keep him from tripping over the damn things. A fond smile is teasing at Steve’s lips, and Eddie returns it.

They curl up together, close as they can get, unsure where one starts and another begins. Relief washes through Eddie as he gets Steve settled into the right bed this time. He buries his hand in Steve’s hair and Steve noses at Eddie’s throat, turns his head side to side in a slow rhythm that drags his lips over the same little sensitive spot on the underside of Eddie’s jaw. It’s not a kiss, not quite - just a touch. A reminder that Eddie’s still here. He’ll allow Steve to take as many reminders as he needs for as long as he wants.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Steve whispers, and Eddie wants to tell him once again that he doesn’t have to apologize, but he knows this is important to Steve. So he just nods a little, careful not to dislodge him from the warm space he’s settled into at the curve of Eddie’s neck. 

“I forgive you,” he tells him, and a bit of tension leaves Steve’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I left,” he whispers, and he feels Steve’s lips part– “don’t say you forgive me yet,” he says before Steve can speak. “I got a lot more groveling to do, babylove, don’t you dare let me off the hook that easily. I was a fucking jackass. And I’m gonna make it right, and that’s gonna take time, and I know that, and that’s okay, because I’m in this for the long haul, alright?” 

Steve is silent for a few moments, weighing Eddie’s words. Eddie can feel the brush of eyelashes against his skin as his baby blinks slowly a few times. Then, gradually, the last of the tightness in Steve’s frame melts away.

“Actually I was gonna say I’m going to get one of those toddler leashes,” he says. “That way if you try to bolt I can just yank you back.” Eddie snorts out an ugly laugh, and Steve’s chuckle echoes his own, and he rolls them both until he’s got Steve under him. He just stares at him in the darkness for a few moments, watching his smile fade into something small and private.

“I love you so much,” Eddie says, and Steve’s hands come up, slipping beneath Eddie’s shirt to rest on the bare skin of his back, fingertips tracing up and down the dip of his spine. “There’s nowhere in the world I wanna be than right here with you.” Steve hums softly and closes his eyes, and Eddie knows it’s going to take more than just a few pretty words to prove this to Steve. That’s okay. Eddie’s stubborn. He can stick with it as long as it takes.

“I love you too,” Steve says back, and Eddie leans down, nudging his nose gently into his baby’s. Steve’s scrunches up, and Eddie presses a quick kiss to it just to hear him laugh, then shifts, brushing his lips against Steve’s. 

Steve sighs soft and warm into it, lips parting, and Eddie kisses him slow, devotion pouring out of him and into Steve. And he takes it all - gasps and moans quietly against Eddie’s mouth, lax beneath him, letting Eddie nip and bite and suck and soothe at his lips, his tongue, hand slipping to Steve’s side - not to start anything. Just to touch. Just to feel. To prove to himself that he’s still able to touch this beautiful man, that he’s still allowed this wonderful, dizzying love that he’s stumbled into.

They fade like that, both tired, Eddie’s weight slowly sinking down until he’s resting atop Steve. Steve’s arms come around him fully until he’s hugging him around the waist, and their mouths slip from each other’s to land in the spaces of their shoulders and throats instead, nosing into the warmth and familiarity of the person they love.

And things aren’t fixed - they aren’t perfect. But they’re working on it, and that’s enough.

[aayakashii]

"Go inside. Immediately." Romeo lightly pushed you inside his obscenely wide bathroom and pointed at the tall wooden stool propped in front of his bathroom counter.

"You really don't have to do this..." you dragged your feet slowly and stood awkwardly beside the seating, staring at yourself in the mirror.

You had a full face of makeup, carefully and masterfully applied by Romeo himself after he required your presence in Sinostra for a special night. Some rich student decided to celebrate their birthday at the casino, and Romeo would be damned not to take that chance to drain their pockets for all they were worth.

What was your role in it? Romeo wasn't really sure. But he did make sure, however, that you were there and impeccably attired.

And he did a great job, if he must say so himself. Especially with your eyes. They looked striking and sharp, and he watched all night, with smugness and a bit of a weird discomfort he couldn't quite understand, how so many students seemed to willingly trap themselves inside your gaze. If Romeo could have gotten a nickel for every student who complimented your eyes, he was pretty sure he could have made some solid cash.

Alas, he didn't, so he could only listen as stupid boy after stupid girl after stupid boy after stupid girl came and went, complimenting his very own work of art. The makeup. Obviously. Makeup is artistry, after all. You just happened to be a convenient, compliant canvas (that he kept close to himself all night).

Or so he kept saying to himself.

"Quiet." He hissed, closing the door to the bathroom and making his way towards you and his counter. He unceremoniously grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, with your back now facing the mirror.

"If I don't do this, you'll definitely do a terrible job removing your makeup, then you'll get acne because of those clogged pores, and THEN you'll be even more of an eyesore for me. In the end, I'm doing this for MY sake. Sit down and shut up." He rambled on, satisfied enough with his excuse, as he thoroughly washed his hands.

"Sure..." you said, rolling your eyes, disbelief making itself clear on your voice as you sat on the wooden stoll.

"Do you have any allergies?" He rummaged through the drawers of his counter, carefully selecting a whole collection of products and placing them right next to you. Romeo flipped his hair as he admired himself in the mirror for a second.

"No, siree." You answered, feet dangling as you read the flashy labels of the products.

"Good." He huffed. "Lean back on the counter and close your eyes. Don't open them, otherwise you're gonna get itchy eyes and I don't wanna hear you whine."

"Ooookay." You muttered and leaned back, doing as he said. You knew there wasn't much reason for you to discuss with him when he had his mind set on doing something his way, so you just chose to accept your fate.

Romeo opened a bottle of ridiculously expensive micellar water and poured it on a makeup wipe, shuffling closer to you as he leaned down to apply it on your face.

As much as he tried not to focus on your face as he slowly dragged the cotton pad on your skin, Romeo couldn't help but observe all of your minute details.

He couldn't help but notice how your pores were a bit bigger on your cheeks and how you had the thinnest, almost imperceptible, crease lines between your eyebrows. Probably from furrowing them on the daily, and knew he probably contributed to the etching of those lines on you. He thought of maybe getting you your own jade roller but dismissed the idea with a shake of his head – why would he willingly spend his own money on someone else? That would never be his brand.

He noticed the acne scars on your cheeks and your forehead and scowled. Not at the markings per se, but at how his mind immediately raced to imagine how you looked during your teenage years. You were probably a mess, even more unkempt and disastrous than you were as an adult – a pitiful ugly duckling; something completely unrelatable to Romeo, who had perfect porcelain skin his whole life (a courtesy of being born with a golden spoon in his hands).

And yet, it still frustrated him how he would never be privy to the life you had before meeting him. He would never see you grow into yourself, like a baby deer with shaking legs finally learning how to trot a little less clumsily. Romeo would never be part of a whole chunk of your past, and deep inside, it upset him.

And the fact that he was upset made him scowl ever harder. His fingers unconsciously pressed down on your skin more forcefully, and you winced.

"Hey, don't use so much strenght." You murmured, holding his wrist with one hand. Romeo clicked his tongue, shaking you off.

He grabbed another cotton pad and applied a dab of moisturizer, resuming his ministrations with less intensity.

And with them, his eyes focused on you again: on the dark circles under your eyes and your darker eyelids. On the fine smile lines on the sides of your lips and the bunny lines on the bridge of your nose. He analyzed every patch of discoloration and hyperpygmentation on your face with some sort of secret reverence that he wished eluded him, but didn't.

After all, you lived through joy, sorrow, anger, and despair, and your skin told your story to those who could see it up close. You were an open book for him, someone who could read the words carved in every little detail of your face. He could almost claim he knew you best just from that. What he didn't know, however, was if you were brave or just plain stupid.

Romeo knew his flawless appearance wasn't exactly the blueprint for courage. He donned a mask of perfection in order to stay in control: to control how others saw him and to control how he saw himself. The more poreless and uniform his skin was, the more things could stay the same, with money in his pockets and people under his command.

And so, he hid his traumas under retinol serum and rosehip oil and infrared lights. Fake it till you make it, or so his mother would say after it all came crashing down.

Romeo knew better than anyone else that he couldn't be as vulnerable as you. Vulnerability would mean assuming his losses and bequeathing the only power he had.

So if that meant you were just a bit stronger than he was, just a bit more courageous than he was, then maybe – maybe – he could quietly admit to himself that he admired you.

He would never ever say that to your face, though. Fuck no. That would never be his brand.

[sergle]

talking about the topic of animated movies not Hitting, I accidentally reminded myself of one time on twitter, I think around the time that Raya came out?? I was poopooing on how much the dragon looks like elsa, and then talked about how I wish 2d animated and hand animated films were still The Medium instead of nothing but the highest resolution skin texture fur textured 3d animated films bc I'm tired of seeing it, etc etc and then someone who I was not mutuals with, they must've been someone working under the disney IP in some form, and must've either done some work on raya or just worked on 3d animated projects in general, replied to me SEVERAL TIMES as if I was subtweeting them, with something to the tone of "just say you hate me and you think my art is trash" and I think about that ALL the time

[peridots-pixiwolf]

[Start ID. A redraw of the official icons of the ten named slugcats from Rain World, arranged in two rows: Survivor, Monk, Hunter, Nightcat, and Gourmand in the first, Artificer, Rivulet, Spearmaster, Saint and Enot/Inv in the second. Each is drawn in roughly the same pose as in the original art and fitted with speculative interpretations of their biology, and the second image is a “dead” version of this. For example, all ten have slug-like rhinophores in place of ears, cuttlefish-like colorful eyes with strangely-shaped pupils, cephalopod-like beak "teeth", expressive barbels or oral tentacles at the corners of mouths, spiny radulas, and the frilly mantle fringes of sea slugs, though otherwise their faces are squishy, simple and mammalian-shaped.

Cream-colored Survivor and yellow Monk both share triangular, bicolored spots matching their eyes (which are tan and brown, and two shades of blue, respectively), small, bumpy fringes, and relatively neutral looks on their faces. Defensive-looking Hunter is mostly a dull orange-pink, though their blobby fringe is a more violent red and their back is purple and marred with lumps. Nightcat is navy blue and flecked with dots of yellow and teal, their rolled rhinophores are a lighter blue, and their shading fractures into stars in some places. Gourmand is almost uniformly tan, their wide, very ruffly white mantle fringe bordered by a spray of white spots, and their beak sticks out from either corner of their smile. Primarily red Artificer, snarling, has yellow markings of multiple sorts, a prominent yellow dewlap and their characteristic dark scar taking out a chunk of its face. Rivulet is a darker blue than usual, with long barbels, red gills and rings, countershading, and a cheerful expression, sticking out their radula. Spearmaster is purple with orange accents, eyes and spots, a large fringe and spines down their back. Saint’s green caryophyllidia are marked by small, yellow diamonds, and their long, thin radula extends far below them. Enot is decorated with mottled red stripes, blue patches, yellow stars, and an uneven and almost cartoonish imitation of blush, though generally the same deep blue as Nightcat, a passive or almost slightly smug look on their face and their rolled rhinophores out to either side.

In the second image, nine of the slugcats’ eyes are crossed out, indicating that these are death icons. They look fairly the same, with mostly expression differences. Survivor is caught in the beginning of a threat display, a karma flower sprouts from Monk’s side, Hunter is burdened with overgrowing, purple and blue rot, Nightcat’s rhinophores are pinned back, and Gourmand looks mildly disheartened. For the final row, Artificer bites its radula between small plumes of smoke, Rivulet drops their expression, Spearmaster looks very startled, Saint looks almost entirely the same besides half-open eyes and their markings greater in number, and Enot grins confusedly. End ID]

If you'll excuse the unusually lengthy ID: the arena meme introduced by @pansear-doodles at long last after a nearly year-long wip status (or, rather, finished a month ago today to honor my own first time playing it!)

Design notes and shout-outs under cut! :]

The following people are some of those who’ve inspired my designs most since I started this eight months ago (or just inspired me to get a little weirder with slugcat biology), among many others for sure, and I thank them for it–but this is simply to bring attention to artists I find cool, and in no way an obligation to interact or anything :]

> @saturncoyote , @carpsoup , @charseraph , @gallusgalluss , @bitsbug , @dopscratch , and @0hmanit (and a special mention to dddeerbo and hunterlonglegs, who’ve since deactivated)!

Survivor: Surprisingly the hardest to pin down the colors for, since nothing with its sibling's palette seemed to match up right (I did have to add in a little blue somewhere for Monk, the beginning of making it clear how much I’m simply going based off of vibes for the colors of scug innards). I consider them, Monk and Gourmand to be part of the same gene pool of slugcats, and even possibly the same colony even if the latter isn't really related, so took a bit of Gourmand's coloring and fit them in with their inspiration: Goniobranchus verrieri. They serve as a bit of an introduction to my ideas of scug traits (i find it really fun how many people have thought to add so many silly sluglike fixtures of biology completely independent of me, buuut here I’m mostly talking about species variation), and like in-game they’re pretty average! They, Monk and Hunter have a couple scars sourced from a piece of Joar's concept art that I'm failing to find, those across the bridge of the nose, under the eyes, and across the rhinophores, respectively, and my Survivor interpretation features many on the back of the neck, as a result of survived lizard bites.

Monk: Their coloring is primarily based off the fact that I associate them with blue fruits, honestly, a bit because I was compelled to establish a familiarity with Rivulet, and lastly inspired by the spots of Goniobranchus kuniei (and geminus, less important to me as one of my characters is a kuniei instead, but more fitting). Between the yellow + blue and the circular marking in the center of their face, they’re meant to bear a little resemblance to an iterator that shares similarities with the characterization I’ve given them, and similar coding of her sibling can be seen on Survivor’s markings around the eyes. As both a “default” slugcat and one whose campaign I haven’t played, though, I can’t say I have much more to point out about em.

Hunter: The whole rot thing made for a really fun time drawing them, and while the color change on their back is a result of this, it’s also an excuse to relate them to Babakina festiva, arguably my favorite sea slug (mostly for sentimental purposes). And to Spearmaster, a fellow messenger slugcat, and it serves as a gradient between Hunter’s pink and the “traditional” color of Rot seen in the DLLs. Aside from their affliction, they’d actually be the plainest in terms of design, as they don’t have any patterns or quirks of body type, just the red + purple and strange lumps + possible malnutrition. I can’t remember if NSH had created them in particular or just...caught + released or something, but it probably wouldn’t be strange for a lab-grown slugcat to be simple like that.

Gourmand: Like the two above, they’re rather plain in terms of coloring and adaptation, and like the two above, I find that fun. I decided it would be nice to avert the “all slugcats being of the same body type, and Gourmand’s out of place as the exception” thing by just...adding more fat to all of them, really. I did want to emphasize their sheer bulk even so, both fat and muscular (not like I couldn’t have still gone further with it, of course, but slugcat anatomy can be a little obfuscating sometimes, and they were intended to look rather plush considering personal size headcanons and therefore the lack of proper gravity), and the thick and flounced mantle looked like a good addition, as per their sea slug Glossodoris hikuerensis. Unlike Survivor and Monk, I didn’t attempt to hold their resemblance to any particular other character (which means a little less to balance out the “default gene pool” thing), so those are all the design notes I have for em.

Artificer: The second slugcat I’ve ever played, or finished the campaign of, my favorite for at least a long time, and the first thing I did was give them yellow accents, the shape of which have troubled me slightly (not quite like the spots or stripes of the others). They’re both a little more appealing and more explosive-looking to me, and considering how early on I played Arti, actually present in some of my older art. It does give them a little resemblance to Saint (completely intentional, two slugcats with strange relations to karma), as well as the fact that its radula is green for familiarity with one of its children (at some point it was going to have all-green markings, even!). I’m generous with their scars, partly because it was fun to overemphasize the one on their face and partly because it does seem like a reckless slugcat, on top of the dangers of its explosive abilities–I’ll probably just keep adding more forever. Mostly-red sea slugs aren’t too common, but Hexabranchus sanguineus works for sure. The ridged, yellow dewlap can expand for combustion purposes, or something along those lines. Arti’s where I began experimenting with a lot of the mildly-offkilter features seen in my interpretation of slugcats, as they’ve once again been a favorite from the start.

Rivulet: I've obviously given other slugcats spots, deeply enjoy the bubbly-soda markings of other peoples' slugcats, and thought seal riv would be cute. Despite not too closely resembling it, they've been government-assigned Hypselodoris bennetti, for color reasons and for a couple sentimental ones. Originally, the colors of every scug were meant to match up with the custom colors I gave them at the beginning of their campaigns, (though Arti, Gourm and Spearmy are the only three who actually apply here, since I've only played through half the slugcats: I gave arti the yellow as mentioned above, gourm brown eyes and spearmy light pink spears, furthered by the outskirts pearl accompanying me and that palette all the way to moon. Tolerance training for eternity in hell cause I already knew about the maroon pearl quest). I initially gave them the colors of the bi flag for fun... but with the limited palette of this image, I was left without pink for a while and decided to see how they'd look in red. I then realized how they now wonderfully matched Moon, and besides, red's a sort of camouflage in deep water! As a side-note, the difference between their eyes and those of others always bothered me a little for anatomical purposes, and the cephalopod eyes were probably influenced by this!

Spearmaster: Inspired as much as possible by @notyourfunnyman ’s wonderful spearmy: designed in a way that helps it fit in with scavengers, at least between the long sensory tentacles, big ruff, back spines and slightly thin/distended anatomy, a form of defensive mimicry. I always had annulate rhinophores in mind, for a little diversity sure, but mostly because the shape reminds me of radio antennae and communication towers (seems fitting for the comms array and being a messenger slugcat)! I started searching for a real-life slug to give them just by looking up their rhinophore shape...and was met immediately and coincidentally with annulate-topped nudibranchs that fit them more perfectly than I could've imagined: Flabellina and surrounding clades, I think Paraflabellina ischitana works very nicely. The orange was completely unplanned, but there wasn’t a place for light pink among the other slugcats’ palettes, and importantly it likens them to both Hunter and Seven Red Suns a little more.

Saint: I am very much a non-furred slugcat enjoyer, with respect to those who aren’t, so figuring out the only visibly furred slugcat was an interesting challenge. I’ve decided that they likely have other, milder adaptations for help in the cold, mainly just more efficient fat storage, and what looks vaguely like fur is instead a bunch of tubercles (called caryophillia, for the second reminder out of three). Their inspiration doesn’t have these, however, Miamira sinuata’s numerous yellow and blue spots (not to mention...whatever’s going on with that shape) and general effect of being the only really green nudibranch I could find were probably perfect for a strange green echo. Not pictured, but their beak-teeth are tiny and flat to make a surface for grinding soft food against with the lack of a functioning radula, which is tipped with a specialized spiny “grapple-hook” for better traction/grip (not to mention the numerous little teeth running down the whole thing).

(Best part of hiding this under a readmore means edits will be seen by all reblogs, I'm mostly sure, because I completely forgot to mention! The spots on their forehead are simple eyes. Their camera eyes appear closed in-game, I like to believe their complex eyesight is rather poor anyways or otherwise reason that they aren't seeing out of those, and while this was far from her REASON for attunement with the world, it does help compensate for mainly viewing it through a canvas of simple light and dark. This, and the fact that their swapped-out "fur" is not only to commit to a lack of hairs but contributes to sensory input!)

Nightcat/Enot: I guess you could say I found the “these two are technically the same person” compelling. (E.g. similar colors, both very strange and enigmatic, and Enot/Inv/Sofanthiel’s remark during the dating sim about getting removed from Arena Mode.) I doubt they’re the only two slugcats in their body, considering humans with DID tend to have more than a few (and I find it very funny that a slugcat bearing resemblance to Nightcat appears in Gourmand’s ending. They’re allowed in the colony and Enot isn’t </3), and I have to credit @faelingdraws ’s art for being what convinced me on it! Their design inspirations come down to trying to balance a few different ideas: making the patterns and palettes of both look oddly similar (special mention to the stars, since those are fun to draw), basing them off of Felimare sechurana and juliae respectively, using blocks of color with the same placement as in Enot’s official art, and specifically making Enot look...biologically reasonable and imperfect, whilst also clearly trying to imitate human displays of emotion (what with...the eyes and blush on that one piece of official art).

Lastly, here’s just a lineup with notes on body shape and size. Most of the nicknames (existing to give a little more space, that’s all) are obvious, and while I can’t remember why I shortened Nightcat to Nox, it is in honor of my friend by the same nickname :]

[solitaireships]

I feel like I should say since there's been a recent uptick in a lot of communities I'm in/see stuff from a lot of white people pretending to be Asian, but you are not welcome here if you are in anyway stealing from Asian cultures for clout or the aesthetics of it

This includes if you're white and you give your self inserts Asian names, I truly do not care if your f/o is from an anime, you should not be using an Asian name under any circumstances. I hate that whenever I see someone using an Asian name online, I feel like I have to start searching their account to see if they're actually Asian or just a white person who likes the aesthetic of it bcs far too many white people will use Asian names here just bcs it sounds cool, with no regard for the actual cultural meaning behind it. Meanwhile actual Asian people will be mocked for their names, or treated like their names are too hard to learn to pronounce, or discriminated against based on their names

Asian cultures are not a fun little costume for people to dress up with. They aren't just a nice aesthetic, they aren't just a thing you can borrow from bcs you think it sounds cool

[localguy2]

I hate that this is genuinely something I'm writing rn, but nothing has more RATTLED my faith in the writing team's ability to write a Zane story then him calliNG ARIN CRINGE-

[lazylittledragon]

what do you mean youre technically a detransitioner cause of terf bullshit?

it's a v long story but i detransitioned for a couple of years when i was 16/17, for multiple reasons but mostly because i fell into the blaire white/kalvin garrah chamber of "you have to be This way to be trans otherwise you're not real".

i was already Deeply insecure about myself and my 'passing' and i was led to believe that i couldn't want to wear makeup or skirts, and i couldn't choose not to have bottom surgery, and i couldn't do anything but bind for 12+ hours a day to the point that my ribcage is still misshapen. basically i thought that if i wasn't suffering enough doing 'feminine' things, i couldn't really be trans, so i should just go back to being a girl and suck it up.

the terf bullshit is because i'd seen a lot of terfs/detransitioners talking about the 'dangers' of testosterone and how it would turn me into a horrible ugly evil monster and how there was nothing worse than wanting to be a man. which combined with 'you need to fully medically transition to be valid at all' creates some very dangerous and upsetting feelings to cope with.

it also came from trying really hard to put myself in a little box before i realised that my sexuality/gender are very fluid and it's FINE for me not to have a label and just do whatever i want. when i was 19 or so i went back to using they/them (and eventually he/him) and changed my name again because even though i like doing 'feminine' things, i don't want to be seen as a woman.

tldr: i was conditioned by transphobic/terf rhetorics to think that i was being trans the 'wrong' way so i couldn't be trans at all, so i believed i must actually be a girl if i still wanted to do 'feminine' things. nowadays i am a transmasc who does feminine things because i don't give two shits about what any transmed prick thinks of me anymore.

[eaion]

Shen Qiao saves Yan Wushi - 山河剑心 (Shan He Jian Xin): S01E16

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah