#i just still cannot help but feel like it's not enough

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Just thinking about how both platonic! yan! Dick and Jason have a habit of laying on top of their batsis and crushing her.

just look at how guilty they are....

Masterlist

Requests: open

Dick is a menace. He's a full sized golden retriever who thinks he's still a puppy. When he jumps or lays on you to try to be all affectionate...he forgets that he weighs close to if not over two hundred pounds.

No matter how often you tell him he's way too big to do this, he doesn't care.

He just loves engulfing you in these full body hugs and cannot help himself. It's cute though, if you try not to think about your lungs collapsing on itself. He acts innocent by nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck,,,,but it's a ploy to then attack you with tickles which leads to play fighting.

I mean it's his brotherly duty to be as annoying as possible. Sometimes he just likes the fact hes stronger than you and can hold you down this easily. Rookie mistake to announce you need to use the bathroom or get ready for something when you're chilling on the couch. He will trap you until the last possible second.

As much as you complain and cry, don't mind it too much. It's nice to be apart of a real family like this and Dick is trying to show his love by playing.

Jason on the other hand is just kind of clueless about the fact he's crushing you. You're sitting on the couch and Jason comes home after a long night and sees a perfect napping spot..

You don't really want to tell him that he's wayyy too big to just plop down on you like that because it's nice that he's feeling safe enough to just do these things now.

He also is like a big dog. He does that big huff and occasional twitching in his sleep. lol

Sometimes you'll also fall asleep right with him because he's basically a human weighted blanket. You'll eventually wake to him looking up at you. It's subtle but there's a soft smile there. He's happy you feel safe too.

I like to think he desperately wants to be held sometimes but he doesn't know that he needs it or even how to ask so he just does it. You naturally wrap your arms around and rest them on him anyways. He's like a little kid when he does this. It heals something inside of him. His cold un-dead body, finally feeling an ounce of fuzzy warmth.

Do you think sometimes Jason will pull a snack or something out of his pocket. Like he lays on you but then pulls out a jolly rancher as an offering. lol. One moment he's sleeping and the next you can feel him munching on something crunchy.

[dragonfire2lm]

Holy shit, reading all of this just felt so damn good. I'm blind in my left eye and need glasses to see through my right, so reading other's experiences with only one functioning eye is...nice.

I thought I might share some of my experiences, because I don't really think too much about it honestly, I just know how things go for me because being half-blind is my normal.

Slopes and uneven ground are the worst. Walking is more than just seeing the ground in front of you, its also feeling it with your feet. When just out and about during the day, I can see just fine, but I do need/prefer stable ground because my depth perception is off and my balance is shit. So when dealing with say, a hill or holes i nthe ground, I take it slower, feel out each step because I can't tell how deep something is by just looknig down at it.

My night vision is also...not a thing, lol! I've gone out at night before, but would have to rely on having a torch (flashlight for you americans) with me and point down at my feet so I can see where I'm walking. For real, one time when I was walking home i nthe dark I accidently stepped onto the curb of the road because I couldn't tell I was veering that close to it, but I course corrected pretty quick. Because of my shit night-vision, we've got a motion-sensor light in the hallway for me, and I have a little lamp in my room for whenever I need to get up in the middle of the night. I don't necessarily need to turn a room's light on to see, I just need enough to tell where I'm going because gonig from darkenss with some light to full on "let me turn the bathroom light on for you" means I need to take like..ten, twenty seconds for my eyes to adjust to the suddenly bright light flooding my vision.

I'm not sure if this next thing is because I'm half-blind, or just a me thing, but I tend to not do well with navigation or cluttered environments. For example, If I need to find a phone on a table covered in clutter, you can see it, its right there surrounded by other things, but its there. I cannot see it, its not in an obvious spot where I could notice it at first glance, there's too many things, even if you point it out to me, I would still have trouble finding it. This applies to video games too! I often get lost in video games, or need my friend to point out something I missied because I just don't notice it amongst everything else.

I hate bright light. I'm very sensitive to bright light to the point most of the curtains in my home are closed, I wish real life had a brightness setting, and sunlight glinting off cars on a sunny day is my own personal hell. I've gotten flashbanged walking into the bathroom a couple of time because Mum opened all the curtains in there for important reasons I can't remember (like, she did close them later on, they are normally closed but sometimes they're open if the windows need to be cleaned or something).

People think I'm more blind than I am at first. When they first learn I can't see out of one eye, they assume I need to have things pointed out to me, like "watch out for the step/curb." when its during the day... I can see just fine, that's what the glasses are for. Yeah I can't see shit at night and will let people know that, but I know what I can and can't do...it's like people take a bit of time to really get the message that only under certain conditions do I need help and can manage the rest of the time perfectly fine on my own.

I prefer to have people walk on my blind side, because that's the side I'm keeping a closer eye on, so its easier for me to walk and talk with someone if they stay at my left.

Let's see what else? I do the head turning thing too! Its way easier and less eye strain to just turn my head towards something to look at it.

With my vision being the way it is I need to be mindful of what videogames I play. Yeah there's the obvious thing of most horror games are out because I would need to crank up the brightnesn super high and its frustrating not being able to see shit, but there's also ui elements to take into consideration. If a game uses small font, or a small hud, that's just eye strain and a headache waiting to happen. I've bought games wheere I;ve had to stop laying them because the console ports just aren't made for people like me who need larger font sizes and ui scaling, and I don't play PC because my laptop isn't a gaming one, and its much more comfortable for me to play console games because my large tv means less eye strain because its a bigger screen.

Speaking of the laptop! I wish most sites were zoom-friendly...like I need to have my web browser set to be zoomed in because again, I need the larger font and ui elements even when browsing the web. Most of the sites I frequent are fine with this (namely tumblr and AO3) but some of the sites i do use aren't zoom firendly and I have to zoom out to use the site properly, and that means tiny font and stress because I have my shit zoomed in for a fucking reason! but no, a lot of sites just don't do well with the fact that I have stuff zoomed in at 90 or 100%, like they weren't desinged to be used with zoom or larger fonts in mind.

I have to write my fanfics with font size 22 or 24 and then scale it down to a more presentable size 16 when I want to share previews of what I'm writing via google docs. Thankfully I don't have to worry about doing this on AO3.

Some of this wound up being a little bit ranty, don't take it too seriously, its just little things that frustrate me sometimes.

Stuff about having monocular vision that people don’t know (in my experience)

1. You only ever sit on one side of a room. (Especially if you’re in class) If you’re blind in your left eye like me, you sit to the left of the room so your right eye has the greatest scope, and there’s not much to your left to look at.

2. Harder time seeing past obstacles. People with two eye vision have the perception of both their eyes blend together for one image. Without this, you only have one eye, so you’re don’t get to see past obstacles the same way. For example if something is blocked for your right eye and not for your left, you can still see it through your left. For people with monocular vision this isn’t possible.

3. People don’t walk on the side of your blind eye. It may just be me, but because I’m blind in my left eye I tend to accidentally bump into people if they’re on my left. So when people walk beside me I naturally go so they’re to my right, or they do, without it being discussed.

4. 3D movies are headaches. Even though we’ve progressed past the red-blue type glasses, 3D just doesn’t work well for monocular vision. (And you know those fun optical illusions? A lot of them don’t work at all- nothing happens!)

5. Things like grabbing a pencil without looking at it are extremely difficult. (Due to lack of depth perception, you have a hard time discerning where things are in 3D space). This also stretches to having bad posture and balance. Meanwhile, things that are flat are relatively easy.

6. You turn your head when you’re looking at something, so your good eye is focused on it. This includes tilting your head at worksheets, TVs, and computer screens- and also people.

7. Seeing in the dark is also much harder, because people rely on their depth perception for it, and without that stuff gets real hard

8. The headaches. Most people with blindness don’t experience total blindness, but instead low vision, where their vision is not able to be used in a way that’s helpful. Your brain tries to merge the images, or use your bad eye to see something in the peripheral. This just makes your head hurt. Much like people who need time to adjust to having glasses due to the headache, getting headaches is common because your vision is always at odds.

9. More susceptible to eye damage. Since you’re not overly aware of your bad eye, you may not notice if the sun is shining directly at it. I tend to squint with my bad eye whenever I’m outside, without thinking about it. Additionally, you’re more wary of anything that could damage your good eye. It’s the only one, so you gotta be careful with it.

10. Also, it makes things really, really weird if there’s a bright light from one side but not from another. There are often after images that float in my vision.

11. Looking at things that are moving can be hard. I can focus on an object, but if a camera is panning in some direction without being focused on one thing in particular, I just stop being able to make sense of what I’m seeing. It becomes very jarring.

12. Sometimes it’s not that your eye necessarily has anything wrong with it, but that your optic nerve isn’t fully connected. So the eye may be healthy, but your brain shut it off, and the connection between the light coming in your eye, and the way the brain interprets it, never fully formed. Funnily enough, I’ve heard that this can cause the connection between your good eye and your brain to be stronger, as it is with mine. For some people it’s the opposite, and it makes both of their eyes worse. Peoples experiences can really differ.

[boopshoops]

Heya!

Things are lookin rough right now, huh? But here are a few reminders:

Your blorbo will still be here tomorrow.

You have people who love and care and support you.

Policies and enactments will not all be immediate. Everything will not go to shit all at once.

Things getting harder doesnt mean they're impossible.

It's okay to be upset. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to cry. That does not make you weak.

I know there are some individuals like me who did not feel safe voting due to outside factors, like living with individuals who support trump or being disabled, do not blame yourself. (Excuse me for getting personal, yes I do want to move out. Very badly. Sadly my mental and physical health are not in a space to do so yet).

This is the last term he is allowed in office. After that, I can't help but think about how the more extremist supporters- would they even want to vote? Idk. But it's food for thought. Safe to say the voter turnout for either side was insane compared to previous years, if we keep that stride up, I honestly think and hope the democrats are almost guaranteed the next election. But this is just me blabbing.

Block tags you aren't in the mindset for seeing rn. It's okay, no one is going to villainize you when the election process is giving you a panic attack. If they try, ignore them. This is for you, not them.

We've survived through one term. We can survive through another. I know it feels difficult right now while thinking about things like access to healthcare or prices skyrocketing or job security, but we really have. Things will get better. We will push through.

Here are some ideas that might help with mental health right now:

Eat some of your favorite food

Look up pictures of your favorite animal

Watch some funny or wholesome videos

Go for a walk

Exist. Because sometimes that is enough

Positive affirmations

Schedule an appointment with your therapist if you have one

Drink water. Or dont! Maybe drink a different thing that you like.

Remind yourself that these feelings will pass.

They cannot steal your identity from you. Internally, you know who you are. Even if you're still figuring it out. They can't take your mind. Your thoughts.

To those like me dealing with finals right now. Its okay. Take that break.

I love u /p

[syluslnd]

Hello there! I really enjoy your writing, I was wondering if you could write something where ‘Sylus is very clingy and cannot spend a second apart from the mc physically’? We chilling on the sofa? He is there pulling us to his lap and treat us like his plushie. Are we going to kitchen he’ll hold our hand while doing it 🎀 I’d be really happy if you could write couple occasions with this, I love the obsessed Sylus the most 🫠🫂

Love your writing 💞

sylus who cannot stand being too far away from you

couch cuddling

• You’re sitting on the couch, minding your own business, maybe reading or just relaxing. Sylus is sitting beside you but apparently that's just not close enough for him. Without a word, he slips an arm around your waist and tugs you right onto his lap.

You squeak a little in surprise and your cheeks heat up. He acts like nothing is out of the ordinary, just adjusting his grip as if you belong there.

“Comfortable, kitten?” he murmurs with a grin, barely suppressing a chuckle.

You nod, trying to play it cool but he can see your shy smile as you sink into his chest. He holds you close, and every once in a while, you feel him lean down to plant a lazy kiss on your forehead, perfectly content.

cooking situation

When you stand up and casually say “I’m going to start dinner” Sylus instantly perks up. “Where do you think you’re going?” he says, eyebrows raised.

“Um, the kitchen?” you say with a laugh.

Before you can take another step, he grabs your hand. “Then I’m coming with you sweetie.” His tone is final, and he gives you that teasing smile, as if he’s daring you to object.

“You need to be this close just to cook?” you ask with a little giggle.

“Of course” he says. “Wouldn’t want this kitten wandering off somewhere, now would we?” He gives your hand a squeeze and doesn’t let go as you both walk to the kitchen, his presence warm and steady by your side.

bathroom bodyguard

When you get up to head toward the bathroom, you notice Sylus trailing close behind. “Sylus!” you laugh, “I’m just going to the bathroom.”

He shrugs, looking like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “And?”

You stop and raise an eyebrow at him, trying not to laugh. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

He pretends to look wounded, crossing his arms. “What, can’t a man worry about his girl?”

You shake your head but can’t help smiling. “Just wait outside, then” you say.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You know, kittens are in their most vulnerable state when using the bathroom”

You roll your eyes but feel warmth in his protectiveness. It’s silly but that’s just him and as you close the door, you hear him chuckling softly to himself outside, still keeping his post as if he’s on high alert.

[evergardenwall]

a few things i've been doing and that you should do to help with feelings of anxiety/doom:

1) first, literally, disable notifications from news outlets apps, and stop watching live 24/7 tv news. like. at least, for me, it helps, because this shit triggers so much anxiety in me, and makes me spiral; i much prefer looking up the news from my own volition. even if it is also anxiety-inducing, it is not as overwhelming and i feel like i have some control/can process information better

2) spend time with your loved ones irl. hug them, talk about what you're feeling if this can help, or do an activity together that can distract you! back in april 2022, between the two rounds of the french election, i was having a full mental breakdown, and my mum took me on a day out, visiting local villages and just. getting out of the house and visiting other place and breathing fresh air helped a lot.

3) kind of a followup to 2) but, go on a walk ! pace around, breathe the outside air—i cannot stress it enough, it helps with calming down racing thoughts, at least for me :)

4) if you are having difficulty to eat/have no appetite, please, eat a little something anyway; having an empty stomach does not help. go for something easy to prepare and/or a safe food. i just had a banana and a bowl of cereal for lunch—not the most conventional lunch, i know, but at least, i ate something even though i wasn't feeling hungry and nothing motivated me to eat :')

5) if you are feeling intrusive thoughts, feeling like you are responsible for the outcome of this election, and feeling guilty for not doing enough — please, please, don't guilt-trip yourself. you did what you could. this is something way bigger than us, an accumulation of many things, including structural racism, inequalities in access to voting, the gradual rise of fascism, and the system being deeply flawed, all the harmful shit that stayed from the orange man's first term and which long-term consequences built up to this.

6) please, remember that your vote wasn't worthless. i promise. you did the right thing by getting out of your house, going to the polling station, waiting in line for hours to make your voice heard, and i am deeply thankful you did it. genuinely. and remember that this election was going to be close. i'm not saying that there isn't criticism to be made about people who refused to vote, or voted third party — they have a huge responsibility —, but you, the average person worried about the democracy, who showed up and voted blue? i do not want you to feel like your vote was useless and give up. please.

7) remember that very bad things have happened in the past too, yet we're still here. hang on this fact. we're alive, and we're here.

8) repeat of 2 but: you should hug your loved ones. and i am sending you hugs, too—especially if you're from a vulnerable demographic (a racial minority, LGBTQ+, etc.) 🫂 you are not alone!

[hunterintheice]

I am deeply unwell about this show.

Also, do you know why it's bl'ing more then any other gmmtv bl on air right now? The unfortunate trend for most bls these days is to over rely on tropes to help the relationship between the leads move forward - which means that for the most part the "developing the relationship stage" falls very flat. It basically feels like they are just checking boxes for certain tropes, and once we have enough of those the characters get together. So the entire thing is just very shallow, similar to every other bl we've seen in the past two years, and overall not that interesting anymore. (Don't get me wrong, I'm still grateful that these days we get tons of new bls of various genres every month, and have a pretty big pool to choose from. It's great. The more queer media we have, whether it's mediocre or revolutionary, the better.)

Still, with High School Frenemy (since it's technically a bromance) they cannot rely on these tropes to move the relationship forward - precisely because it's not a full-blown bl. Instead they have to build an intricate and deep relationship (a friendship that would not feel inferior to a romantic bond), work on the backstory, on the tug-of-war between the past and the present, the love and the hate. Because the implied relationship has to be strong enough to justify this magnitude of hurt and willingness to sacrifise, but isn't explicitly romantic so cannot be built solely upon tropes.

Of course it's also thanks to the spectacular chemistry between sky and nani, and their spectacular acting in general. Also whoever is writing their dialogue is spot on with it, because even if we spent 6 episodes with the characters talking about the same thing it still didn't feel repetitive or boring. And the music. God the music is making me want to chew on walls.

Anyways, I will continue to go crazy about this show.

[razzberrydazz]

While my soul wants to shapeshift, my heart wants teleportation, so that I can instantly go to the people I am trying to help and get them the things they need and get them to safety! Such as Ali Jendia's family!

A family in particular I want to help get to safety is Ali Jendia and his family. @ali-manar asked me to share his story as follows:

"I write to you with a heavy heart, not seeking financial support, but simply to share my voice, my family's voice, and our daily struggles. We are living in challenging conditions in a tent, where my wife, Manar, cannot find the comfort she needs for her kidney treatment. My children, Muhammad and Haneen, could not complete their education because of the war. My young son, Yazan, has been severely injured by explosions that shattered his safety and childhood.

All I ask is that you remember us, ask about our well-being, even if with just a few simple words that let us know we are not alone and that there are those who feel for us. Just shedding light on our suffering would be enough to ease this heavy burden and give us hope that kindness still exists.

May these words reach those with compassionate hearts who will remember us and keep us in their prayers. This gesture alone would be enough for me."

I am doing what I can to help this family and several other families devastated by the occupation in Gaza, and if you would like to help this family, you can find their fundraiser here. This is a vetted campaign. The currency is in swedish krona, $10 USD ≈ 105 SEK.

@dev-tawfik @northgazaupdates2 @a-shade-of-blue @rainy-fog @7yrannic @ankle-beez @loonarmuunar @nationalvyvanseshortage @hootnhoney  @theslyvoid9  batman @jays---wing @murielswedding @shesnake @userpeggycarter @sabertoothwalrus @daily-click-reminders @halorvic @bluerepository @kindaorangey @lorelune @smolldust @skautism @creaking-skull @bloodbornebutch @bloodraven55 @thatneoncrisis @loserlesbianongsa @serotoninny@vamprisms @ohmaerieme @meglyfer @shoogachi @the-stove-is-divorced @loudmound @wyrm-with-a-why @cybrthrillz @racc0jello�� @eldermoonbreezy @dreamterlude (comment/DM if you want your tag added or removed)

[slowd1ving]

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games. 

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible. 

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall. 

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses. 

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything. 

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae. 

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him. 

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better. 

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line. 

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets. 

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ���Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words. 

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it. 

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses. 

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ��◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend. 

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on. 

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest. 

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader. 

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness. 

Dokja’s changed. 

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over. 

When will it end? 

You haven’t seen him for months. 

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now. 

Your eyes meet his. 

Like magic, the house collapses. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind. 

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn. 

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in. 

It’s hard. 

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it. 

I can do it. That is your gamble. 

You do it. 

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death. 

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment. 

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up. 

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has. 

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand. 

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues. 

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream. 

He bets on it. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear. 

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet. 

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone. 

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly. 

Your chest heaves desperately. 

Dokja. 

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings. 

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore. 

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend. 

There is a pressure behind your eyes. 

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head. 

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too. 

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend. 

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind. 

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind. 

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet. 

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over. 

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend. 

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too. 

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle. 

His lips wobble. 

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain. 

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field. 

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart. 

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them. 

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell. 

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face. 

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face. 

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that. 

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic. 

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right? 

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

[drowned-echo]

Ok but… souyo where they’re both autistic but like. In totally different ways.

Yosuke as high-masking doesn’t know he’s autistic - copying the people around him to try and fit in, which back in the city meant a lot of insulting eachother hitting on women etc. it’s not really him or his natural way of thinking but it’s the best way 2 fit in with a group.

Despite that though he never comes across as neurotypical- his headphones are a lifeline he needs to get through the day, both comfort item and protection from sensory onslaught- and often his attempts to fit in with conversation are stilted and unnatural as he tries to use tricks to get by with his city friends with the IT who don’t care for the heternormative stuff that keeps coming out his mouth. (The internalized homophobia isn’t helping either.)

His shadow is correct in that he’s deeply bored of Inaba and that this is exciting and something to DO, but it’s also something to latch onto that means his new friends have to keep him around- something to focus a set of new masks around.

And well, part of why he clicks so intensely and immediately with Souji is that Souji is similar to him in a lot of ways.

Souji knows he’s autistic because he’s simply never been able to act like he isn’t. He’s inexpressive, comes off as weird to everyone around him, and eventually simply learned not to care what other people think- especially as half the time he won’t be staying long enough for it to matter.

I don’t have as much to say about him bcuz tbh he feels much more straightforward in that regard, but i feel it definitely plays into how initially he wasn’t planning on bonding with anyone in inaba. It’s likely he’s tried in the past and it just didn’t work out because he’s simply never found people like the IT and eventually others in Inaba who like him for who he is, because he’s simply no good at being anyone BUT who he is.

(I know that a lot of people see the persona protagonists as mirrors and maskers, and while i definitely see it for Akira/Ren i honest to god cannot see Souji or Makoto surviving like that. Makoto does not have the energy and Souji simply would be bad at it. Neither of those two are surviving shadow negotiations. I do think it’s a valid take of the characters, though, and if you see it that way then Souji’s just a different type of autistic haha)

Also, Souji likes cats. Cats are autistic. Case closed.

…But because of all that (this is Souyo remember), as well as all the shit they go through together immediately, Yosuke and Souji very easily become close. “Partners.” Because even if they handle it differently and their primary symptoms are different they still recognize that similarity in eachother even if for a long time they have trouble recognizing what it is.

[benevolentcalamity]

Once a Father, Never a Daddy [Abusive!Doflamingo & Fem!Child!Reader][1/2]

I do not know him enough so I'm not at all confident in my ability to write him, so I apologize in advance. So I'm very happy accepting criticism/tips. (I'm just after Thriller Bark btw.)

Disclaimer: This fic contains graphic depictions of child abuse/neglect and may be considered triggering. Please do not read more if you cannot handle these themes. If you or a loved one has gone through this, you're absolutely not alone, and help/better days are always there.

Also, this is split in two because when you get fics too long, Tumblr just starts lagging and that REALLY annoys me. So I apologize in advance if pacing's not as stellar as most of my stuff. I'll make it up to you.

CURTAINS!

"DADDY, LET ME OUT!!!"

Your little hands bang on the impossibly still door until the skin splits on your knuckles. With all your might you scratch, slap, and pound on the wood, feeling it press a little stronger against you with your resistance. Tears pouring down your cheeks your hair stands on end as the darkness behind you settles in; a punishment you know too well.

"PLEASE DADDY, I'M SORRY!" You scream, hands already raw from struggle. "DADDY, PLEASE, LET ME OUT! I WON'T DO IT AGAIN, I PROMISE!"

A harsh pound that rattles the door, resounding through your room, sends a piercing chill through your stomach and sends you to the floor. Scooting back and hurrying to your feet, you prepare for the doorknob to twist, for him to come barging in and demand you not make any more noise. But this is enough to scare you into silence - and he seems to know that now.

Softly you sniffle, reaching out as the all-too-familiar sound of the knob being secured and locked clicks. Wiping away your tears you stand, reaching and just barely wrapping your hand around it. With all your might you grab and attempt to twist; it doesn't budge an inch.

"... Please let me out..."

There's a sound like feet retreating from the door, and the loneliness finally hits as you back up, defeat weighing your shoulders. Slinking away, you turn back towards your room. First thing to catch your attention is your nightstand, bereft of the lamp Uncle Rossi gave you to cut through the dark. It had a smell to it, somehow, and you really liked it.

Without it you can't stand the dark - and as punishment for not doing what daddy said, it's gone. Wiping a stray tear from your cheek you grab your stuffed lamb Cuppy, putting him on the bed before pitter-pattering to your wardrobe.

creak

Your eyes shoot to the door, back stiffening as your hair stands on end. Every limb freezes, and your heart leaps into your throat. Swallowing, your hands go up to prepare to shield your head, lest your noise have bothered anyone. As your fingers chill to the bone, your knees lock and the darkness creeps back into your senses.

The doorknob twitches. Your hands fly to your mouth to keep from shrieking. Tears revived and leaking, you await on bated breath... It does make daddy especially angry, after all, when you try to hide from him.

You still have the scar on your arm.

A lump forms and engorges, threatening to choke you if you don't make a sound. You learned better from screaming "Go away" or "I hate you", so that's simply not an option. Gritting your teeth you step more into the open, hoping that an effort not to hide would let you get your lamp back. Hiding, running away... all of it is pointless.

After an eternity it jimmies and then turns after a few small clicks, and a familiar black and red lit up by the hallway relaxes you into relieved elation.

"Uncle Rossi-!" You whisper-yell, him putting a finger to his lips and looking behind him.

With quick movements he beckons you forward, and you rush to him in the time it takes to put a plate full of food on the small chair near the door. Kneeling down he pats your cheek and kisses your forehead, giving you a toothy, reassuring grin.

"Don't forget to eat out the window, and drop it once you're done. It's okay, dad won't notice one plate being missing," He whispers, ruffling your hair. "I'm not letting you go to bed hungry." He's done this every time. "... It's going to be okay, little cutie. I promise."

You nod. "... Does daddy still love me?"

For a moment he's quiet. His expression falls solemn, head lifting to look over his shoulder again. With a sigh, his hand ruffles your hair one more time, before suddenly he smiles again.

"I love you!" He chirps. The words wrap around your heart, like a soft fleece blanket, and like a charm, your sorrow is calmed, and your tears finally stop. "Don't forget that, okay? Uncle Rossi loves you."

Nodding, you finally manage to smile. "I love you too, Uncle Rossi."

His head snaps up again, and he pats your head and hurries out. The doorknob again is secured, and his feet fade out quickly. Swallowing, you grab the plate, carefully bringing it to the window. Unlatching it you crouch as the panes swing over your head, setting the plate of food - bouillabaisse - on the ledge and chowing down.

The moonlight peers out from the clouds like your only friend, and peace returns again to your heart.

"... It'll be different tomorrow..." You tremble. "I won't be bad again, I promise..."

Finishing with urgency, you drop the plate and fork into the sea, pushing the window closed and locked. Crawling into bed, you listen to the footsteps above your room, to the sea calming outside. Yawning, you drift into the now placated shadows, hugging Cuppy close to your heart.

___

A sound like something dropping to the ground above you wakes you with a start. Swallowing harshly you're quick to climb out of bed, little time to spare, and wipe your mouth as you rush to your wardrobe. You're just quick enough to grab one of your favorite cotton shirts, a pair of shorts, and a clean pair of underwear as the doorknob is unbound and unlocked.

You swallow, harshly, rushing towards the center again as dad's blond hair peeks atop the door. As he straightens back up, his head doesn't need to look long to find you. Feet planting in place, you watch, hands clenched to keep from shaking and lip wobbling, as he approaches.

"Behave, maggot," He hisses, holding his hand out.

Eyebrow quirked at you managing not to flinch, he impatiently taps his foot as you reach up to it. Harshly he grabs it, yanking you forward. His large pace forces you into a jog, matching his pace with every third step. At first you're staring up at him, waiting for him to even turn his head your way, to ask how you slept, or even just what you want for breakfast. Or maybe, just maybe, that he loves you and today it'll be different. Better, even.

None of this happens. Your bottom lip wobbles as the familiar doors to the bathroom appear past the corner.

"Take a damn bath." He shoves you to another crewmate, not even giving you a glance. "Watch it, keep it away from me."

Your hand reaches for him as you're guided into the bathroom. "Daddy?" Without a glance or gesture, your lip wobbles further, heart tying in knots. "DADDY!"

A dark cloud weighs on your shoulders again, guiding you to the bathtub as said crewmate puts some soap beside it and a towel. Patting your head in pity, he kneels down to murmur in your ear.

"Disobedient children aren't rewarded." The words are an icy dagger in your stomach. "... If you want your daddy to love you, maybe you should be a good child that deserves to be loved."

With that you're left alone, breath hitched in your throat as your heart runs cold. Staring at your reflection in the water, you cast aside your dirty clothes, stepping into it and sitting. The lukewarm water manages to chill you to the bone, to where you need to hug your knees to feel warm. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance at the door, waiting... and waiting...

You sigh, pinching your nose and turning sideways to completely submerge. Curling up, your [h/c] hair waves out in tendrils as your legs minutely twitch in unease. As your lungs slowly grow sore, you momentarily wonder if it's even possible to be good... What did you do? Why won't dad look your way?

Sitting back up, you gulp down air as the answer to your question comes from the red syrup of your shampoo.

"... Just do what daddy says?" Would that make him happy? Will he love you? Do what he says without complaining... Yea, it's as simple as that, isn't it? "... I'll be a good girl. I won't complain about daddy's work."

Yea. It's as simple as that.

Rinsing your head clean, you comb the conditioner from your hair under the running water. Reaching you grab the towel and brush, drying off and putting yourself together, painstaking as the process of brushing your hair is. All the same you finish, tying it back. Sliding back into your shoes you jump up onto the knob, it turning in your hold, and let the door swing open, taking you with it. Lowering back onto your feet, you turn-

"Get your ass to the poop deck." You're shoved into a pace, which you continue with a nod. "Captain's orders, help out with scrubbin' if you want breakfast."

"I understand."

__

It's unbearably hot.

Dunking your brush in the cold, soapy water, you wince at the glare of the sun on the sea, washing away dirt and scum. It takes a few swipes, being as small as you are, but you manage. It's a process that sees you biting your lip so hard in concentration that it bleeds, but you do your best, scrub until your arms are sore, and repeat.

"-and as I was saying, Rosinante, it's complete bullshit."

Dad's voice makes you perk up, and you turn a bit to see where he's coming from. A big smile is what you present as he and Uncle Rossi ascend from below deck, waiting for him to look your way. Dad doesn't but Uncle Rossi gives you a massive smile and thumbs up before dad jabs him, regaining his attention.

"We've had issues with this same supplier awhile now. The frequency of our visits is starting to annoy me."

Standing up from scrubbing, you take a deep breath. Pittering over to him you find his leg, swallowing. Rearing, you take a small leap, wrapping your arms around it like a peach tree.

"Daddy~!" You let out, hugging him tightly-

A harsh kick to your stomach, sending you all the way back to your bucket and straight onto your ass.

...

... Oh.

I'm not doing enough... You turn back to the bucket and brush, biting back tears. Just keep going... Do your best. Daddy will love you if you do.

All the same, your tears keep falling onto your hard work.

A hand on your head, ruffling your hair, tugs you from your sorrow. Looking up, Uncle Rossi crouches down beside you, pointing at your bucket. Now it's too cloudy and dirty to clean efficiently. Managing a nod, you wipe your tears with your arm, standing up and dumping the bucket.

Keeping a tight hold on it, you pause just as you're at dad's side, gaze turning from below deck to him.

"... Do you love me?" You ask.

Not even a glance. You raise up on your tippy-toes, tilting your head.

"Daddy?" You ask again. "Do you love me?"

Lowering, you wait, staring and waiting for what... really has to be forever. Before long though tears blur your vision, and you bite back a sniff as you rush below deck. Not good enough - you're just not good enough yet. If you work to the bone, if you're so to-the-letter it's painful, that's when he'll look your way. You just have to remember that.

Be perfect, and nothing less; push past your limits; endure and don't cry. It'll be unbearably hard, but if you manage to do all of this, dad has to love you.

It's not a long walk to where there's more water by any means. Operating the pump, that's the real test, but you manage just by jumping up onto it. It pinches down on your wrist every time it comes back down, but it doesn't hurt long. Rubbing the red marks it makes, you begin the arduous task of carrying the bucket.

Sloshing and rocking against your body, you stiffen your legs anytime you feel yourself wobble. When the water reaches and touches your chin you wince, staying still until it stops. Every maybe three steps and you're losing your grip, but still you try.

Something swipes the bottom of your feet, and your shrieks are drowned by the water pouring onto your face as you fall onto your butt. Bucket landing perfectly onto your head to hide your face, the cruel laughter of passing crewmates resounds through the rotting wood.

"Better mop that up, kid! You made that mess!"

For a moment you're stuck, legs too heavy to move. You try to move your arms, but there's no feeling. Swallowing, you try to open your mouth to complain, but the lump in your throat takes the sound before you make it. A mix of tears and water pours down your face, your jaw starting to wobble. Biting your lip harshly you force yourself back to your feet.

The bucket slides off your head, falling harshly to the floor. For a moment your gaze turns back to the steps leading above deck.

... Mop first.

Clutching your shirt tightly, your shoes squish against the floor as you go to find the mop, usually near the bathroom. Sniffling harshly, you wipe your face, shaking your head like it'll get rid of this horrible lump. Still your lips purse, and still everything hurts when the supply closet door opens. Reaching, you take the mop in your hands and take a deep breath.

Do your best...

'Watch it, keep it away from me.'

It. You.

... Get out of the way. Maybe that's what he wants.

As much as you want to go back, to try again, maybe it'll just be better to put yourself away. It'd be... a nice reprieve, maybe. And maybe they'll have something good to eat for lunch, seeing as you might not get breakfast after all. That's just what happens sometimes, after all.

You want to puke; to cry; to scream; to just run to Uncle Rossi. Everything and anything feels more like a dead end the more you think, until you've come up blank on what else to do.

"... I hate this..." You whimper, rubbing your arm as you pitter-patter back to your room. I don't know what's wrong with me...

... Someone, please...

Tears well up in your eyes.

Someone tell me what's wrong! Tell me what's bad! Please tell me, someone-!

Your pace picks up, eventually zooming past countless doors and shapes.

Just... How much longer...?

In what must have been a blink you're safe back in your room. For a second you turn back to the door, cheeks waterlogged and red, waiting for footsteps. Wanting someone to just scoop you up and hold you, tell you what's wrong with you - or that maybe nothing is... Is there?

Meandering to your window, you crack it open, and dad's voice is the first thing you hear.

"... Where's the problem?"

"What do you mean, Doflamingo sir?"

"I mean, where's the fucking maggot." Your heart feels a sharp, cold sting.

"She- it went back below deck. I can fetch it so it can keep scrubbing-"

"I didn't give it an order to do chores, I gave you an order to keep it away from me. Looks like it knows what that means. But enough about it. We're arriving to Foam Town shortly, for the supplier. Don't forget the orders."

"Get the Devil Fruit, and kill him, right?"

"Mhm. I don't take kindly to someone holding out on me. Especially when I've been so kind and generous. That won't happen again, though."

"Do you need Corazon to keep an eye on the kid?"

"Tch. It won't be an issue. Just as long as it doesn't get in the way of our business, I don't care what it gets up to... Ugh, but I'm going to hear it cry at some point today. Have someone get it some food."

"Understood, sir."

Backing up once you hear the sound of heavy footsteps, you meander to your shelf. Tugging a worn book from it - a collection of fairytales dad let you get when he looked at you - you hurry to your bed, jumping to get onto it without a hitch. Swallowing harshly you open it to a page with a family of rabbits stealing food from a mean old farmer's garden.

You like these stories, very much. But the pages are falling out, and you can't ask for a new one right now.

Just when you're absorbed enough to where the lump in your throat is gone, there's a knock at the door.

"Got your lunch, kid." That's not Uncle Rossi or dad. The door opens a crack and a bowl is haphazardly dropped on the small table. "We're landing soon. Be on your best behavior."

"... Thank you," You manage, the door slamming your reply.

Putting the book down you slide out of bed, going to receive the meal. It's a lobster risotto, dad's favorite. Tears well up again as you take the bowl back to your bed to eat and read. Dad doesn't care that you do so, you've been told, but you're still careful.

"... Foam Town. Okay." You mutter, something lighting up in your chest.

... This time, it's different.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Hemant Mehta at Friendly Atheist:

Last night was sickening. A replay of 2016. It’s hardly ancient history. We stepped on a rake years ago and we decided to do it again. This was a reminder that 2020, not 2016, was the year where the presidential election went sideways. The year of the pandemic was also the high watermark for the decade. The results are bad for church/state separation. Bad for civil rights. Bad for bodily autonomy. Bad for Ukraine and our foreign allies. Bad for Palestinians. Bad for science and the climate and common sense. Bad for just about every issue that matters to the type of people who read this newsletter. The worst people you know got pretty much everything they wanted. The people who have empathy and expertise—the people who care too much and want the best for others—lost again. A Trump without guardrails is a Trump who’s even worse than he was years ago, and he was really fucking awful years ago.

If the famous saying is “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” we’re about to be ruled by people who’ll do everything in their power to make sure we never learn about the past. The people who ban books, whitewash American history, and reject science have been given another chance to turn their ignorance into policy. We’re screwed in the event of another pandemic. Blue states will not be able to rely on federal funding in the event of a natural disaster because that will require Trump’s signature. When the economy collapses, Republicans will blame everyone but themselves and most people won’t know they’re being lied to. (The mainstream media can’t be expected to push back. They failed to meet the moment this time around, and they’re bound to get worse.) With the Senate now in Republican control and the presidency within Donald Trump’s grasp (the blue wall of Wisconsin, Michigan, and Pennsylvania have not yet been called), we’re on the verge of seeing at least two years of utter chaos with ramifications that will last even longer. At best, if Democrats manage to flip the House, they will still control a mere 1/6 of the federal government.

[...]

I don’t know how to beat back the firehose of misinformation that contributed to the rightward shift of the country. I don’t know what could have changed the minds of the half of the country that seems immune to reality. I don’t know what else the Harris campaign could have done to change the outcome. (There’s an argument to be made that she should have pushed back against Joe Biden’s policies, especially regarding Israel, but given the results, even if that helped her with Muslims in Michigan, it arguably wouldn’t have moved the needle everywhere else as much as she needed.) I also don’t believe Biden or a different candidate would have fared any better. It’s easy to feel like the past few months were just pointless. The debate that Harris won didn’t matter. The half-filled Trump rallies didn’t indicate a loss of support. The meandering ramblings of a man whose brain is clearly broken didn’t turn off enough people. The major endorsements for Harris—and the lack of big ones for Trump— didn’t change much. The overwhelming financial support for Harris didn’t overcome the billionaires backing Trump. The “vibes” didn’t match the other side’s arrogance. The Democratic National Convention, so full of joy, now feels like a last gasp rather than a new beginning. The Democrats’ superb ground game and the utter lack of one for Republicans still didn’t meet the “margin of effort.” Trump’s criminal indictments and impeachments and legal battles and mugshot and looming potential jail sentence (!) weren’t dealbreakers.

January 6 eventually led Trump to another term in office when it should have blackballed him from public life. Too many Americans are nostalgic for a utopia that never existed, and when they realized they’ve been conned, there are going to be a hell of a lot of conservatives eager to blame minorities of all stripes for all the problems they made worse. At the same time, as older generations of Americans understand all too well, the path to progress is never smooth and it requires constant vigilance. We knew that in 2016 and there were reverberations—in 2018 and 2020. We’ll now walk down that path again. It will likely be even more fierce this time around.

Last night’s election results were a gut punch for Americans opposed to the Orange Felon.

For the next four years, there will be horror show after horror show.

[baldurs-writers-3]

Gen Fic 1: A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfiction Rec List

This week, we have our first iteration of another recurring theme, Gen Fic!

Gen fics are fics where the primary pairing and/or focus of the fic is not romantic or sexual. This recurring theme is to help highlight fics that might not get picked up as often due to searching behaviors.

Check under the cut for seven excellent fics that explore complex platonic friendships, found family goodness, and character deep dives! And as always, comment and kudos if you like them!

Seven Minutes in Avernus by cyranonic (3503, Teen) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion & Karlach

While exploring the monastery Astarion and Karlach get sealed into a trap! A box of stone... Astarion doesn't handle it well, but it's a bit too early in the trip for Karlach to really understand what is happening.

Reccer says: His freak out is v. well done, and I love her moment of realization.

Taters by OrangeChickenPillow (1,593, General) Content Notes: None Pairings: The Origin Gang

Karlach might have lost one family, but she gained another (and her new family tells her "taters" with varying degrees of enthusiasm)

Reccer says: I really love team as family and this fic does it wonderfully

Lost in Frozen Fire by SadinaSaphrite (10,333, Explicit) Content Notes: Explicit for torture not sexy Pairings: Astarion & Jaheira

Astarion has a bad time and cannot save himself, even though oh how he tries. Too bad he doesn't have anybody who cares enough for him to come look for him... oh wait!

Reccer says: It's SO SAD how Astarion is hopeful and hopeful until he just has to give up and admit total defeat. Then his interactions with Jahiera are SO good.

Descent into Baldur’s Gate by Starlight_Rogue (19,331, Not Rated) Content Notes: None Pairings:

An Iseki fanfic where someone from this world wakes up as a tiefling barbarian in bg3 and lives through their favorite story

Reccer says: It is an amazing mix having humor with serious moments sprinkled throughout. It is still in progress

Fool Me Once by cyranonic (6994, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion & Karlach

In hindsight, Karlach wonders how she ever came to trust Enver Gortash. A requiem for loyalty in seven moments.

Reccer says: I really enjoy the exploration of Gortash's manipulation methods, and I absolutely ADORE the conversation Astarion and Karlach have afterwards! Friends don't let friends blame themselves for being abused!

Broken Little Puppets by BlackjackKent (1797, General) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion & Karlach

Astarion and Karlach talk a bit about how it feels after killing the people who ruined their lives.

Reccer says: The phrase 'And the hunger will never, ever, ever stop.' lives in my brain rent free. That just says it all about Astarion right there. He won, but it didn't undo anything that was done to him.

Apples by AlwaysMauria (2041, General) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion & OC (named Tav)

Approximately 20 years before the events of the Absolute, Astarion meets a child while on an errand for Cazador.

Reccer says: I read AlwaysMauria's fic 'Star Crossed', and this one-shot feels like such a sweet supplement to their backstory. It's a sweet interaction, and my new HC for Astarion's 'House of Nightstar' dialogue origin. Def recommend!

The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ!

Next week, we’ll be exploring Worldbuilding Fics! 

[pinata-candy]

Charts relating to my WOF rewrite that I’ve been chipping away at in my brain! More details below <3

I have 1001 gripes with Pantala and arc 3, which. I know, not an original thought, but still. And I’m getting this out of the way immediately:

there is no dragon slavery in my rewrite.

I am in no position to tackle such a topic and in my opinion, neither was Tui, which may be a bit mean. I think she did a great job creating a series that so many people love but the dragon slavery is not needed and it is handled sloppily at best and very, very inappropriately at worst. I am not willing to fumble my way through a topic that is so heavy and that I do not fully understand the ramifications of and cannot ever fully understand the ramifications of. I don’t know how to write dragons dealing with being enslaved and having to figure out how to dismantle the entire social structure that did this to them and no, I don’t think saying it was a few bad dragons with some evil plant is a good enough answer for all of it. So it is being cut from my rewrite and the focus of Arc 3 (so far, always subject to change) will be just the Othermind.

But those points aside, let’s get into my Pantala thoughts!

Pantala always felt so empty to me compared to Pyrrhia, it just feels undercooked. It’s a continent of the same size but it feels like we see none of it, none of the landmarks other than the jungle, the hives, and the pit where the Othermind is feel memorable. Partially I think Pantala just was underdeveloped- the first book of arc three and the last book of arc two came out within a year of each other, it wasn’t given enough time to work itself out it seems. Another reason I think it feels so empty is because there are only three dragon tribes on it- while again, Pyrrhia is the same size and is hosting seven different tribes. Having three tribes is limiting, especially when two are living in the same environment together and the other is pushed to the furthest corner of the continent away from everything else. All action then either has to occur in the jungle or in the savanna as those are the only population centers anywhere, that’s pretty limiting- so limiting that one of the books took place BACK ON PYRRHIA because there seemed to be just so little to do on Pantala. Working out things like towns, important landmarks, etc is something I’m working on but expanding the tribe list will help me do so.

NOTE: WITH ALL THE FANTRIBES IM SURE THESE NAMES HAVE BEEN USED BEFORE AND ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE

Pantalan Tribes:

SilkWings- Colorful, four winged dragons that live in the mountainous forests on the ‘wing’ of Pantala. They can produce silk from their wrists. They undergo metamorphosis to get their wings at 7 years old

Queen: Monarch

HiveWings- Four winged dragons that do not undergo metamorphosis. They are often yellow, orange, red, or black. They have stingers on their tails and in their wrists. They live in the savannas of Pantala

Queen: Wasp

LeafWings- Two-winged dragons that live in the jungle on the head of Pantala. They come in greens and browns and are known for their Leafspeak. They are also mildly poisonous and can produce a foul-smelling mucus from their mouths.

Queen: Sequoia/ Belladonna

BeelteWings- Two-winged dragons, easily mistaken for four-winged due to their Elytra. These colorful dragons live on the 2nd wing of Pantala and are known for their strong, armored scales. They can produce a hot, acidic liquid from their tails if threatened, but this is very taxing on them.

Queen: Scarab

DamselWings- four-winged dragons, live on the tail and the tips of the claws of Pantala. These dragons come in blues, greens, purples, and pinks. They are incredibly fast, fastest of all Pantalan tribes, they have no natural defenses beyond their speed.

Queen: Meadowhawk

WebWings- no-winged dragons that live in the massive tunnels beneath Pantala. These dragons traded their flight ability for stronger silk and sturdier bodies. They come in blacks, grays, and browns. They have a venomous bite.

Queen: Widow

The tribe name for BeetleWings is also subject to change as I’m not huge on it but we’ll see.

Right now in my mind- The main conflict, prior to the discovery of the Othermind, is the HiveWing's constant grab for power. They've chased the other tribes to the edges of Pantala/ down into their tunnels through violence and shady territory deals. This issue was started by Wasp's grandmother and has persisted into the modern age. The other tribes are beginning to feel the pressures of being so condensed, their resources beginning to dwindle. Truthfully I don't have much yet. I think developing Pantala, it's tribes, and whether I'm going to take away/add tribes has to come first and all that <33

[bassiter2]

every day of my life i wish i was cis mainly so i could've been repressed about being gay in a simpler way

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[vehemourn]

went to post this on twitter but i didnt wanna get banned . crazy that u can scrape my entire lifes work and i cant even tell u to die over it <3