#idk why the font is so big

[cruel-hiraeth]

fee-fi-fo-fum that 2d man better make you cum

[roscoehamiltons]

not to be a hater but this design is legitimately bad and ugly.....

[dilfdelivery]

Sexuality is so complicated like. I love dick, but I find a lot of men’s bodies (and personalities) so deeply unattractive.

[stellar-sapphic]

oh btw 🏳️‍⚧️

my partner came out to me a couple of weeks ago which has triggered a second honeymoon phase in my head and been yelling everywhere about how much I love her like I’m going through my wife guy arc but she’s been so happy and radiant since she’s finally realized herself and she’s the most beautiful and amazing woman ever and I’m so lucky and privileged to be her partner and I hope I can give her all the support I can muster even if it may fall short of what she deserves because what she deserves is the world anyway long story short

I LOVE MY WIFE

[kaizokuniichan]

Your tags about Jihyo......GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKIMG CORRECT

YOU GET ME?? Like I’m sorry I like girls and have eyes I’m not trying sit around and put flowers in her hair 😮‍💨

[britishchick09]

i looked at the rewrite ebook through an epub reader website and it made some things small? :o

[joffyworld]

OKAY FIRST THE ART

Thawing Hearts

The cold winter drags on far longer than it should. Narinder and Una, having just freed the last of the bishops from their purgatory, still have unresolved emotions. They are bonded as gods, but betrayal and hatred has made this dynamic tense. Something needs to be said...

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part two: flight | mdni | part 1 | MASTERLIST

—For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

tags: angst, stalking, pain kink, mentions of pope's suicidal tendencies, unwanted proximity bordering on assault (not with pope), heavy yearning, canon-typical mommy issues wc: 5.1k cat says: yeah i'm posting this a few hours earlier YES idk why i bother tagging 'angst', i feel like it's an inherent part of anything involving pope cody

This, he tries to tell himself, is better.

Because at least he is contained and resolute outside your house. At least he is here and not in that blinding suburban hell. At least he isn’t parked up on someone else’s street, waiting—desperately hoping—for her to come running back.

No, instead, he placates the memory of that child by watching you from his pickup truck, here and there, throughout the day. Not every day, just some odd ones. Sits opposite your humble one-storey abode and memorises the yard and the low, red brick border and the porch and the font of the street number on your mailbox and the way you sit on your front steps in the morning as you nurse a mug in both hands. Sometimes joined by your daughter, who entertains you like she was born to make you break out into laughter. Sam, he remembers. Of course he does. He remembers exactly what you were wearing the first and second time he saw you. Remembers the charms clinking against your car keys and the press of your hand on his wrist as you tried to shoo his money away last week.

He doesn’t know how you like to make your coffee on the mornings you sit outside. Doesn’t know if you’re even drinking coffee. Not at all privy to the finer details.

But he studies you like he’s planning a job.

There is a day where he finds you at a park around the corner from your house. It seems to be a routine between you and Sam—not every day, just some odd ones. He’s not sure how he manages to keep himself composed at the familiarity of it. A swing set and a girl and something…akin to penance? To a fleeting pardon? He is aware of how foolish it was to think that the love of a child could grant him absolution; could clean him.

This is the picture of innocence, though. With a wide smile splitting your mouth, you pull Sam’s seat as far back as you can while she squeals in the delight of anticipation. You count down, gathering momentum. Harnessing wind. A big push, and your baby takes flight. He is convinced, for a fraction of a second, that Lena is the one suspended in air, her hair blowing out around her like wings. But you’re cheering Sam on as she settles back down with slow, declining kicks.

Pope is gone before he can let himself unspool like an old cassette tape. Like something nobody wants anymore—something everybody has moved past.

You should really pay attention to your surroundings. He thinks you’re too easy to find, too easy to see without being seen himself (or he’s just disturbingly perceptive and he doesn’t like to think about the fact). But he has to remember your life and his are not one and the same. You have absolutely no reason to be as paranoid, as perceptive, as he is. You are not conditioned, he presumes, to go in with all teeth the moment you’ve been found out.

He knows that you pick up double shifts at the diner so your daughter doesn’t go hungry. He knows you sit in your car, before and after work, with your hands gripping the steering wheel as you press your forehead to the curve of the gap between them. What else is he to do with all of this time on his hands? If he’s not on a job, if he’s not in the fighting cage, if he’s not sitting in Lena’s old room, what more is there?

That’s what it is—a life without. He was built to saunter through battlefields in blood-stained stupor, not to live. His brothers might do this for the bountiful rewards that a good, well-structured job would bring. But this is way he was engineered. A steel-bodied machine; a soldier. The wolf in the black of night.

For as long as he can remember, ‘living’ is a hollow promise. ‘Living’ is the last thing Smurf raised him to do. He’s been on decades-long orders to traipse the darkness, eyes peeled and unblinking, watching for the threat of movement since childhood. He doesn’t know that, sometimes, he is the mirror of his long-dead father. Bogged down in the same paranoid craze that Colin wrestled with before Pope and Julia were nestled in Smurf’s womb—the sodden mire that seems to keep expanding. How strange it is to perfectly reflect a man and his hysteria without ever having known him. To inherit his father’s ghosts like warm heirlooms and spend his life wondering why he is the way he is.

No old photographs, no worn-out clothes, no well-loved car to be passed down to him. Just the name of a hockey player his father liked—Feels like a boy to me. Hey, Andrew, come on out and prove me right, you hear me?—and, of course, the loose screw. The thing in the cavity of his brain that ticks away like a faulty fire alarm. So, no, he can’t say that he ‘lives’ as much as he is haunted.

—yeah, after Andy Bathgate. Greatest hockey player of all time. You don’t like it? “Andy” for short.

Andrew David Cody, growing in a belly beside his sister as their father speaks only with him (Smurf has always held the belief that Andy would’ve softened him. In a good way. Had Colin lived long enough to give their son the nickname he wanted).

The haunting is why Pope doesn’t fight his habits. On the contrary, he clings to them like he’s hanging from the chin of a cliff, clawing for permanence so hard that his nails are scraped raw and bloody down to bone. He is intimate with this—latching onto pain. It saves him every time, and it pools on his tongue like blood medicine.

Won’t change a thing about Lena’s room in the Cody house. Won’t stop chipping into the fund he’s built for her. Won’t stop buying the food she used to eat and letting it go stale and mould-green because he obviously isn’t purchasing that shit to eat it. He is nourished by memory. Remembrance feeds him full.  

It draws him back to the stupid grocer’s a week after seeing you. Though, he is here on a different day and a different time, hoping you’re not around. He can’t stomach that. Can’t force himself to remain poised and pretend the thought of you alone doesn’t make his head spin. It always did back then. With somebody else. That beach house and that little girl and that woman who stopped seeing him the way she used to as soon as he was thrown in a cell. Couldn’t even look at him when he got out. What is he left with now? His ghosts? His father’s ghosts?

Everything festers—

Six different brands of amber-brown maple syrup stare back at him from their shelves, and it’s torture. She should be here. She would tell him which one to get. Try her best to strain her little legs and reach up high for a bottle until he has to pluck it down for her. She would probably pout about it—I almost got it. He would nod—I know. Pope wonders if her brand new parents and her brand new sister take her out to get brand new maple syrup for their brand new pancakes and he feels his fists stiffen into stone weights at his side.

And then something tumbles into the side of his leg and lands on the floor with a thump and a small yelp that soon turns into sore snivelling. He frowns at the syrup before looking down to his left where he finds Sam all curled up, snotty-nosed and weeping as she firmly presses her hands over her right knee. When she meets his gaze, she’s suddenly sobbing in a way that chokes her words. He wonders if the fresh evidence of his recent cage fight has frightened her. The little white butterfly stitch. The colours blemishing his skin are rich and ugly after all—plum purple and screaming red. Her eyes dart all over his bruised face as if her collision alone was turbulent enough to hurt him in such a way.

“I’m sorry, mister, I’m really sorry,” she hiccups. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m sorry.” Apologies keep stringing from between her chattering teeth while he watches her fuss over her knee.

Pope lifts his chin and surveys the surrounding aisle in search of you before looking down again. He can’t really leave her—not that he would do such a thing anyway. He knows how helpless children can be. For him, driving a pocketknife into someone’s jugular vein is an easier feat than abandoning a lost child.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks. Sam blinks away her tears and drags her free hand under her leaky nose.

“I dunno,” she mumbles, bottom lip wobbling. “She told me to get a jar of honey and- and wait for her.”

He looks around once more, waiting for you to show up. Part hope, part dread. It doesn’t really occur to him that he might look uncaring or indifferent to the observing eye. He’s too caught up in the familiarity of this. Transported back to a time where he would’ve caught Lena to steady her with one hand before she could even hit the floor. Gravity was secondary to his caution for that girl. Light and physics be damned. Had Lena fallen like this, he wouldn’t think twice before scooping her up in his arms.

“We’re gonna look for her,” is all he says before leaning down, leather jacket creasing around his shoulders as he hauls Sam up by her underarms. The moment he hitches her on his hip, he has to anchor himself before his world tips over. It was instinct—the lift, the motion, the hold. Muscle memory. Just someone else’s daughter this time. Yours.

“Is your knee okay?” he asks, carrying her down the aisle like she’s weightless; eyes searching as he turns a corner. Sam nods before her arms loop around his neck and it feels like they’re locking. Feels like he’ll never be able to get out again.

Lena used to cling to him just as tight when he carried her, as if mere air would rip her away from him if she didn’t hold on with her life (but he never really let that happen, remember? Gravity? Light and physics? Laws that bent to his will. Logic that yielded to his love. Until he looked away for only a moment and everything slipped—). She’d get tired and rest her head on his shoulder, little nose tickling the crook of his neck. Craig once joked that Lena always latched onto Pope like a baby spider monkey.

“Yeah, she’s got the eyes too,” his brother laughed.

Pope shrugged, “Well, spider monkeys nurse on their mothers for at least three years.”

“Right, so they grow up like any normal kid,” Craig scoffed and flicked Deran a look, who only shook his head and minded his beer. The frown pulling Pope’s brows weighed deeper then.

“The mothers take their young everywhere,” he said, some faraway look blooming in his eyes. Remembered he had to pick her up from school soon. “Y’know, a lot of female monkeys tend to stick with their mothers long after they’ve grown up. It’s not uncommon in primate families.” Craig and Deran listened without absorbing anything, but he was elsewhere. Thinking about attachment, and the sheer force of it; the endurance. How, at the time, it felt like nothing in the world could tear through it—through him and his child. A fool’s dream. “Severance is harrowing,” he murmured, “for the both of them.”

Aisle after aisle, he walks across the far end of the store with his head stiffened to his right, pace picking up as he scans through the gaps until he freezes. A man towers over you in the middle of the drinks aisle, locking his hand around your wrist and gritting harsh whispers against your temple. You’re shaking your head, trying to claw at the man’s forearm with your free hand. A scene of proximity so clearly unwanted that you’re squirming against him the way a joint-locked animal twitches under pressure with little fight left in it. Pope feels his body load up like a gun. Safety off.

Electric heat charges through his legs, ready to storm forward with purpose, but then the heel of your palm cracks against the man’s cheek and the sound of it is sharp. Cuts through the low buzz of the radio hits from the store’s speakers.

Sam stirs in the warm crib of leather-clad arms, “Mommy?”

You fight whiplash at the speed of your own split of attention, head snapping to your left where you find your daughter wrapped around the torso of your friend who is not your friend because you’ve only met him twice before. Your friend who wears vivid contusions like he was kissed all over the face. The touch of bursting knuckles instead of your a soft mouth.

Andrew.

The sight of him holding your daughter at the end of the aisle has you ripping yourself away from your foe with a strength you thought you had misplaced until hearing her voice. Pope watches you rush toward him, hands reaching for Sam’s face like lungs stretching for air. But his eyes creep back to the man you’ve left behind, who contests Pope’s undaunted glare. He’s taller than Pope, but lean. Hair sweeps over his forehead, spine hunches slightly with a carelessness. Could snap the bastard in seconds.

“Hey, baby, hey,” you smile weakly, stroking a thumb over Sam’s chin before combing your fingers through her hair. Pope is roped back in. Can’t focus on anything but your gentle fretting and fussing. “Didn’t I tell you to get me some honey?” You ask and Sam nods, eyes downcast like she’s about to apologise. Again.

“I ran too fast,” she whispers.

It’s clear to you now—how he’s holding her. As if he has held her like this since before she could walk. You feel his eyes on you as yours drop to find a pale blotch of red flushing through the skin of her knee, bent leg tucked beneath the crook of his elbow.

The man behind you gnashes your name in his teeth. Pope is near ready to pounce again.

“You move on fast, don’t you?” He laughs bitterly, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Sam peels her arms away from Pope’s shoulders and he takes it as a sign to let the girl regain her footing. She’s encircling your thighs with the tight lock of her hands as soon as he eases her down. Your fingers trace over her shoulders as she hides her face.

Pope steps closer and lowers his head to look into your eyes like he thinks it’ll give you no other choice but to meet his gaze. Like he’s quite confident you’ll let him in that way. His voice is only for your ears when you do. “You want me to handle him?”

Maybe this is the first time you really start to consider using the word ‘strange’ to describe him. His generosity seems to know no bounds and it just confounds you. The chocolate pretzels, the cash, bringing Sam back to you. Strange. A complete stranger. You’ve never met someone with such a reclusive disposition who’d still give the shirt off their back to…you. Of course, it makes you feel sceptical. Of course, you’re going wonder if he’s trying to get something in return.

But those bruises suggest he has many means of getting what he wants. His face, his knuckles. Not just today, not just last week, but even the first time you met him, though the marks were the least visible at the time. It’s gotten consecutively worse over the three instances where you’ve run into each other. You can put two and two together. Must be a pastime of some sort, and a strange one at that. Strange. If he has some other agenda, you’d wager he’d have already taken it by force. He must pity you, then? Thinks you can’t take care of yourself so he has to do it for you?

(Unbeknownst to you, he is so inexplicably drawn in. It’s been too long since he’s allowed himself to dive head-first into this kind of naivety. You seem to nurse the promise of oasis and, of this, Pope is almost certain).

“I’m okay, trust me,” you nod once but his frown only deepens with doubt. He has never been this close before. Not uncomfortably close, but close enough that you think you can see the broken capillaries of the skin of his purple under-eyes. The thin adhesive strip closing the wine-red wound of his cheekbone. A part of you wants to press on a small welt. See if it hurts. See if he’s just stone.

He keeps searching your eyes, unrelenting. It takes the soft pressure of your palm on his sternum and a whispered please to disarm him. You see it, too.

The shift in his face reminds you of the fierce thoroughbreds you grew up watching. Creatures of majesty, condemned to the never-ending racetracks where their victories were gambled on. Raised to fill the pockets of insatiable betters and disposed in meat trucks when they no longer served their purpose. But you remember visiting these gentle giants in their stalls, sneaking a sugar cube or two in your little hands. The way their ears perked forward at something sweet. Nostrils flaring, head lowering. Trusting you enough to guide them to the reward in your hand.

He looks at you with the same keen interest and that rapt hunger you could only ever find in the eyes of an animal—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

Neither of you notice the man’s absence until Sam coughs into your leg. Pope still feels the phantom shape of your hand on his chest after you’ve stepped away to look over your shoulder. Paralysed, he watches the angular muscle flex in your neck as you turn. He’s itching to get out; escape. Thick, sinewy arm choking between iron bars as he searches for the lock to his own cell.

He can’t figure out if you make him feel twice as caged or closer to freedom than he’s ever been. Either way, Libertad brands the skin you touched through his shirt. Any closer to the left, and he’s confident you could’ve torn his heart out with its caustic chambers and rotten valves, leaving shreds of flesh and clotted blood dribbling down your wrist. Any closer, and he’s terrified you could’ve discovered that he was never in possession of anything resembling a heart to begin with. Though this wretched organ batters his ribs with persistence, the absence of it would not surprise him in the slightest.

“Where was she?” you ask. Pope blinks back into his senses. Has to wet his tongue like a sponge just to speak.

“She ran into me in the,” he struggles to remember now, “breakfast aisle. I think she hurt her leg.”

You gently tip Sam’s head back and tuck your chin to your chest to make eye contact, “Now, what’ve I told you about running in places we shouldn’t be running?” You wear some faux pout of sympathy as her brain tries to download an explanation. “Did you apologise to Mr. Andrew?”

Sam nods her head vigorously before craning her neck around to ramble another string of I’m sorry’s.

“I’ll be alright,” he says, voice tight.

Momentarily, you’re crouching to take a look at the bruise on her knee—a fresh but fading blotch the size of a quarter. It could be a longing for childhood or a longing for the child he lost, but when she balances a hand on your shoulder as you pull up the bend of her knee to kiss it better, he aches something fierce. There were times, of course, before Smurf’s love turned acrid; perverse. Times when his only sibling was Julia, times when innocence was preserved. When a kiss on a bruise was the only aid he needed, no strings attached.

“Thank you, I’m sorry she’s—” you push yourself up from the floor, “—a bit unaware of her surroundings sometimes.”

“They tend to be,” he agrees.

“You got kids?”

It’s a harmless question in your head, but you can’t say the same for him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think a bullet just narrowly missed his ear and fucked with all the gears in his brain. Cogs bursting apart.

“Uh, she fell off her ATV thingy. Got a few scrapes.”

“Where’s Baz?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Put her on the phone.”

“Okay.” A beat, and distantly: “It’s- it’s Uncle Pope.”

“Hi.” Relief, then. Waves of it, rivalling the crashing shore in front of him. Roaring at him with foam and ferocity in the cool of this night. Like it was God who saw him draw the gun to his head and knew only her voice would lift his finger off the trigger.

“Hey,” he breathed. “Are you alright?”

“He tackled me.” She had been crying.

“What? Who- who tackled you?”

“A man. So I wouldn’t get hit by the car.”

The parties always bothered him, but he was never really driven to shut them down like he did now. Grabbing the shotgun from the fireplace and pulling the cords from the speakers. The sea was his oracle that night—the child, his saviour.

“No,” Pope answers flatly. You’re perceptive enough to recognise that the pause before might be an indication of something he’s chosen not to share. So, you nod.

“Well, can you let me repay you?” Your hands rest on your hips. “For last time, at least, because that was absurd,” you laugh.

“It wasn’t a loan.”

“What were you shopping for?” You ask, ignoring his rejection to your offer. He narrows his eyes like he’s caught on to a game you’re playing.

“Nothing. Just maple syrup,” he says. “I don’t need it.”

You roll your lips into a line, trying to force back a smile. For many reasons beyond you, the enigmas he has presented over time don’t necessarily scare you away like they probably should. Shadow, retrospectively speaking, has never been good for you. Furtive men who show you mere glimpses of the skeletons in their closet before tightening the padlock. They give you a thirst you can’t slake. You’re always left to jam your way in, and what you find has you staggering back. Isn’t that how one of your exes ended up cornering you in this aisle? Isn’t that why you sent Sam to find something you didn’t need? Isn’t that how your thoroughbred brought her back to you?

But he is so singular in his ways. Remarkably giving. Stuck between deciding if he should glue his eyes to yours or look at everything in existence but your face. You haven’t forgotten the way his shoulders had tensed at your closeness before resting upon touch—like he was bracing for impact. Like you have the power to tear his very soul asunder. For someone who appears so tremendously stoic, you are mystified by the pained shudder in his breath.

His body seems to translate what he refuses to confess. He betrays himself.

“Then why do you look for it?”

He thinks on it—“Habit.” No matter how little sense it makes to you, that is all he knows. Habit. Repetition. Return. Chases his own tail like a blind mutt most of the time.

In the suspension of sound, he says—doesn’t ask—he’ll walk you and Sam out to your car. He almost pays for your groceries, but he’s afraid it might frustrate you the second time around. You’re doing all the talking at the self-checkout while he quietly passes items for you to scan, ears keen for the stories you recount about Sam as a toddler. At one point, you draw the faintest ghost of a laugh from his chest and it fills you with this ludicrously enormous sense of accomplishment. You yearn to hear the sound of it once more—to actually see it grace his face, too.

He learns that Sam is actually ‘Samantha’, and that you named her after a friend with whom you no longer speak. Not for any tragic reason, just time, you tell him. A high school friendship that ran its course. He wonders, then, if you’ll somehow keep him in your life for longer than these passing grocery run-ins (longer than his frequent observations from his pickup outside of your house—outside of your knowledge).

Sam skips ahead of you as Pope, who had silently collected the bags of food against your objections, walks by your side like he’s holding feathers. The leather of his jacket catches on your arm sometimes.

“Can I ask about the bruises?” You ask out of nowhere, keeping an eye on Sam as you all walk the crossing. “Don’t tell me I should see the other guy.” A breath, just short of another laugh, leaves his throat.

“Maybe you should,” he says, adjusting his hold on the bags. He won’t say anything about the other bruises he’s hiding under his jacket, and how it hurts a little to carry the weight of the food. “Sort of a hobby. Hole-and-corner cage fights and the usual betting.”

—formidable racehorse.

“And how does one get into cage fighting?” You look at him, brows raised with astonishment.

He locks his gaze ahead, looking around for your sedan. “My…mother puts me in. For catharsis, I guess.”

“And is it?” you press. “Cathartic?”

The three of you settle by the trunk of your car. Sam crouches in front of a tyre to trace over the bolts while you wait for Pope to give you an answer. You wait until it’s clear to him that you’re expecting something. Truth.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he shrugs. “It doesn’t require much thought and I s’pose I’m good enough at it.”

“And the bruises?” You finally move to pop the trunk, prompting Sam to jerk a door open and hop into the backseat out of boredom.

Pope bends at the waist to lower the bags into the empty compartment before stepping back and shutting the rear for you. “I don’t really mind them.” He would’ve called them reminders. Or punishment. Or penance. Only if he was sure you wouldn’t ask why.

“Maybe you should,” you playfully echo his words from earlier and he rests his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The corner of his mouth creases at your quip, and it might rival the feeling you get when a glass of wine plunges you in a heady buzz. Blurring the world around you with a dull kind of bliss. He dizzies you with a fucking quarter of a smile and you open your mouth before you can give yourself a chance to think. “Can I do something?”

He is wordless again. Searching. Again. Narrows his eyes like he did in the store, like he’s trying to feel around in the dark despite seeing your pleading face shining before him in broad daylight. Then, a nod. Then, stillness. Your hearts leap into a synchronised crescendo of beating as you let yourself approach him, slow as the sun breaking out of its horizon. There is not a single moment where his eyes aren’t locked on yours, even when your hand finds the side of his neck and he feels your thumb barely graze a welt on the corner of his jaw.

Pain is nothing to him here. Pain is almost sublime when you softly press your lips to the tender skin near his butterfly stitch. Ghosting the scar that aches most. He shudders the same way he did when your palm was on his chest in the drinks aisle. A kaleidoscope of light deluges his vision and all he can do is close his eyes to absorb the heat from your mouth as it permeates the skin of his cheekbone. All he can do is clench his fists in his pockets and pray that you’ll move the pressure up to the stitch. Kiss him where it really hurts. Kiss him better.

He’s not sure he can remain standing any longer when your warm mouth and your soft palm leave him untouched again.

You don’t know what possessed you, but you can’t pretend it hadn’t been on your mind for a while. You can’t pretend the bruise isn’t calling you back to make contact again. To cradle his jaw, to caress his wounds in a way that impels his hands to tear out of his pockets and search for purchase of your hips in a desperate attempt to steady himself under your touch.

His eyes peel open to find you again, only a breath away.

Courage embraces you once more. “Give me your phone.”

He is so stunned, he can’t compute the image of you adding your number to his contacts but that’s exactly what you’re doing as he struggles to make fucking sense of what you just did.

“Invite me to a fight,” you say, short of breath as you return his phone. “Or whatever you want. Or don’t, it’s up to you.”

Pope barely nods, too distracted by his phone displaying the standard digits of your number and the print of your name above it. Mouth, too dry to give you words. He’s still lingering by the trunk when you climb into the driver’s seat.

Once you click in your seatbelt, you can really feel the sheer velocity of your heart, like it’s darting all over your body. Electrifying you.

Sam kicks your seat, eager to go home.

“Okay, baby, I know,” you calm her down as you adjust the rearview mirror to find…nothing. Just the utter absence of him. Maybe you really should’ve kissed him; pressed your mouth against his properly. Maybe he wouldn’t have liked that. Would he? He’s still a stranger in most ways—in every way that’s supposed to make you keep your distance.

You toss and turn in bed with grating regret over how forward you were in the parking lot. If anything, you must’ve looked vain. So arrogantly sure of yourself that you’re convinced you can peck someone on the cheek and order them to give you their phone so you can insert yourself into their life before they have the chance to object.

But once the tail of sleep curls itself around you, your phone lights up, vibrating on your bedside table as it bears a foreign number on its screen.

—this formidable racehorse leaning into your open palm. Mighty Orphnaeus surrenders.

[nityisdreaming]

doodle dump 3.1.25

srry if my handwriting is illegible im legally required 2 write in my made up font

which is y i dont write out my @ lol

context 4 each doodle below

caramelldansen america: i begrudingly drew dis after deciding i should doodle w/o it having 2 b a big project

bunny doodles: filler, also cuz of carameldansen

sad russia: i was sad

russia being told to dance: i got a comment on tiktok on my smile animation asking if he was forced 2 dance which i thought was hilarious, but also the most logical conclusion. i originally just went w the lyrics saying "cuz ur feeling alone" and dat being a very russia reason 2 b sad i wasnt thinking abt why he was dancing, but its so much funnier picturing some1 forcing him 2 dance like a monkey, and sadder if he was already in a shit mood

if u draw my oc ill kms: i had a childhood friend dat didn't like it when i drew their ocs, i tell myself they were jealous 2 make myself feel better

america being hungry: i was hungry

cold war angst??? doodle: based on an animation i will never finish bc i thought it was ugly and kinda too rusame 4 my tastes. i like da colors tho i might reuse em 4 a different project

physical doodles: i just found those idk when theyre from

[slowlystupendousdelusion]

Lemme vomit up what I remember of the improv night then

-notable mention for DT's 'what on earth have I agreed to' mock fear grimace as he was introduced

Okay so I was kind of expecting 2 or so hours of cloying embarrassment, but turns out he is also good at this? It put me in mind of some of those Radio 4 comedy panel shows which he has done before so idk why I didn't have faith. He didn't really stumble, was funny and generally a good sport.

What I remember:

- little warm up bit before DT joined the stage where the audience do the sound effects for the scene. Audience suggestion for 'location for a date' was (perhaps a bit premature given he wasn't even on stage yet) St James Park. PM & SW decided to interpret this as St James Park of Newcastle United fame

- first bit with them on stage was them telling a story but the person speaking switched as the keyboardist changed who he was pointing at sometimes mid-word. Famous/fictional person selected by the audience was Elon Musk (to DT's evident distaste). Inanimate object chosen was a toilet brush. Story involved Musk using a kitten who has ambitions of becoming a democrat as a toilet brush with mentions of various famous democrats in animal costumes.

- they had a bit with PM & DT where they went through the alphabet and each line started with the next letter. Small object suggested by audience was leprechaun. (It was noted that a leprechaun isn't an object) From this we had Irish accents which I'm not sure I've heard DT do before? Also PM mucked up the alphabet on the second go through which was fun

- a bit where PM had to guess his own occupation as suggested by the audience. (Microsoft font designer who uses bananas from a supermarket called David whilst wearing pink pyjamas). DT brought out another accent for his Bill Gates impression and then thoroughly confused PM by being himself to try and give the name of the supermarket.

- another section with 2 on stage in conversation where every response had to be a question and when they failed they got swapped out. One of them was a priest? Somehow dinosaurs were mentioned? DT did both a Chandler impression and a Joey 'how you doin'?'

- there was a scene (I don't think DT was in this one but was watching from the side) where the audience were asked for a hobby (badminton). I think the keyboardist could tell them to change the response for a better one? Each response somehow got increasingly horny.

- A scene with DT & SW as dentists (suggested by audience) where the genre changed with audience suggestions including: musical (obv we like to start big), tarantino (more American accent!), opera (DT's response: "fuck off!" before going ahead and doing it), David Lynch (more American accent), rock opera finale. AND HE WAS ANNOYINGLY GOOD. What do you mean he can hold some kind of a tune while coming up with lyrics about dentistry that kind of rhyme off the cuff?? Also mad how many innuendos can be applied to dentists. Lots of getting drilled and sucking. I do think we as an audience missed a trick by not shouting out Shakespeare as a genre loud enough though.

-another section where they interviewed a scientist (interested in javelin playing elephants as per audience suggestion) where three of them were doing the responses but one word at a time. DT got a little muddled at one point but endearingly so.

- A bit with DT returning a toaster to the shop (SW), but an audience member had to move them into position. This led to an accordion toaster as the sizes kept changing. Kudos to Nan cause if they had pulled me up on stage to do that I think I would have died on the spot. And I probably would have inadvertently put them into a far awkwarder position than just her kneeling in front of him. Also v brave of him to be up for a random audience member touching him tbh.

- I can't remember the context of this but DT called someone a cunt and this caught SW so offguard that she couldn't stop laughing

-there was a hospital scene similar to the dentist one, but instead of genres changing it was the emotions (including ecstasy, menopausal and melancholy.) DT wasn't involved in this one.

- a scene where each of them was doing the speaking for someone else. I'm not sure I've explained that right but basically when PM was speaking it was SW lipsyncing and when SW was speaking it was DT lipsyncing etc etc. Based on a person being shot at a station waiting for a delayed train to Edinburgh. DT got confused multiple times during this.

- DT & PM were neighbours discussing a fence dispute where some of the lines where picked from a bucket of audience suggestions written in the interval. Ended with "you can't leave this bookshop" but was spoken by PM so didn't really get to see much of a DT reaction to it.

I've definitely forgotten a bunch here so feel free to add stuff!

- 500 miles at the end (which I think went on longer than they were expecting)

[transmascaraa]

Idk how to write this but

Reader is so lost in being a people pleaser, they no longer defend themselves when being insulted

(like, someone saying "I wish you could just shut up and never speak again" to them seriously, and them clearly hurt, would still laugh as if what the person said was a joke etc)

🫶🫶

multiple characters headcannons!

you're a people-pleaser...

characters: lyney, gaming, tighnari x gn!reader

author's note: WHY ARE YOUR REQUESTS LITERALLY ME😭😭 i love them tho‼️ ENJOY READING<33 (random writing motivation smh)

☆ Lyney

-off-topic but the lucille font looks so beautiful with lyney's name

-ANYWAYS

-speaking from experience, people-pleasing sucks.

-and to overcome it, you need somebody's support, because you most likely won't be able to do it on your own.

-sometimes, it can only take a few kind words to break out of it.

-and he will be the one who will help you.

-since i hc him as a people-pleaser too, playing the role as the "big brother" to protect his siblings and please 'father' because he's occupied to do so,

-yes, he does genuinely care about his siblings, but he sometimes goes too far just to be sure.

-so, back to him helping you, he'll always remind you that you're your own person, that you're not alive to just please others.

-you don't owe them anything, so why do you do it?

-nonetheless he will give his all to praise you and remind you that you're perfect just the way you are, and that you shouldn't change for anyone except for yourself.

-sometimes, if you're about to make a choice you clearly don't want, he'll gladly choose for you and say that you're just indecisive.

-"you're hurting yourself for others, it's not good. you're you, unique."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

✯ Gaming

-similar to lyney, except for the fact that he isn't a people-pleaser himself.

-you probably wouldn't even need to tell him anything, he'd realize it on his own.

-your every single day would be filled with millions of praises about how you're unique on your own.

-how you shouldn't listen to others.

-how you only live once.

-soon enough, you'd probably break down to him many times about it(like you probably would to anyone)

-and when you've listened to his praises and reminders enough, you'd slowly get better and better at actually being yourself.

-yes, of course it would take some time, of course it can't happen overnight, but he'll wait.

-he'll be patient with you.

-he won't rush you.

-all he cares about is that in the end, you'd finally put an end to it.

-and trust me, it would come sooner than expected.

-"you're nobody's toy or puppet for them to play with. you're your own person, [name]."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

✿ Tighnari

-get ready for the biggest mom ever.

-he would realize on his own, not like he wouldn't notice you choosing to work for the whole night rather than rest, especially because it was requested by someone you hate.

-AND IT WAS SOMETHING OPTIONAL.

-he's not dumb, he will notice.

-he'll literally call you to the living room for some "serious talk" one day and it would actually get you worried.

-then, he will start lecturing you about it and how bad it is for you and your health.

-you actually start feeling bad for him... he cares about you so much and everything while you aren't even happy yourself... you let others walk over you while you laugh at the pain.

-once he realizes that you started feeling bad, he'll apologize for coming off as rude or mean, even if you confront him that it's okay afterwards.

-he'll start reminding you about all the reasons why you shouldn't do it, but he won't rush you, he'll let you take your time.

-it may take you a but longer, but it will come eventually.

-every morning, he will put a new quote on the bathroom mirror just for you.

-quotes as in "live laugh love", "keep on going!", "you can do it!", "be yourself!", etc.

-"you don't live to please anyone, no matter how important they are. you're just fine on your own."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I LOVE THIS

writing motivation hits different fr

I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT^^

| @keeyisbored | @mariaace <3

[brian-kinney-apologist]

What are your thoughts on s5? And on Michael?

well here we go I guess, my big hater moment has come 😈

(this is going to be a very long post, buckle up everyone)

personally I didn't like s5 because the writers did dirty EVERYONE:

I hated how they massacred ted's personal growth, he was at his lowest in s3 and he managed to overcome the obstacles in s4 and finally gained some healthy self-esteem. his s5 plot line was AWFUL, in what world was ted (and scott!!!) old or bold or fat (the last one especially never made sense to me bc he literally looked the same as in the previous seasons?????? like they didn'teven try??? (and the excuse of well ted hated himself so he saw himself worse doesn't work bc we dealt with this issue in s4!!!!!!))

I was annoyed with watching melanie and lindsay constantly fighting by the end of s4 but somehow they overdid themselves in s5. like we already had them breaking up over cheating and sharing a child in season fucking one, why are we doing yhis again??Plus this is s4 related but picking michael as the father of their future child was the stupidest idea EVER because mel and linds had a fit every other time when brian tried to be here for gus and they for real thought michael (and debbie) would just idk hang out with the kid once a year or what??? and yes I know the writers wanted to talk about the guy divorce™️ but once again: already happened in s1

and speaking of michael and ben, I really liked their final moments with hunter and I definitely teared up when they asked him to be their son 💔, HOWEVER see the previous point. the fighting over the baby that was never supposed to be theirs was INSANE. I hated them both during this time sooo much

now let's talk about brian and justin.

justin and randy did not deserve s5 writing. it was so painfully obvious that they simply didn't know what to do with him. imo s5 should've focused more on justin trying to figure out who he was and what he wanted from life. he went through a lot for someone in their early 20s. he had so many job opportunities too and now he was back to square one. I think that should've been their main disagreement with brian in s5 too: brian hovering over him and justin refusing to go in the direction brian wanted him to. maybe by the end of the season justin could've decided to go back to pifa for his own personal reasons, not because of brian. or we could've watch him fail a couple times because barely anyone becomes super successful when they're young and just an ordinary person. that's another reason why the ending of s5 looked super unserious to me: justin going to new york because of 1 (one) article from some random guy...........bffr rn 🙄 + this ending was literally s4 ending in a different font. moreover, justin wanting a child as a 21/22 gay man here and now was literally so funny, like this would work for a female character of that age because women are conditioned by society to want children/family from a young age. men on the other hand.......

now about brian: imo the whole s5 plot line of him fucking other guys happened only because in s4 brian had cancer and thus wasn't fucking that many people on screen, thus they just came up with the most random idea of why suddenly will fuck a million guys per episode again to bring back the viewers. imo this change of behaviour was similar to ted's where they just started to write as if these were the characters from s1, not s4/5. AND if they wanted to have some conflict between brian and justin so they'd have their big reunion after the bombing, there was a plenty of reasons to make them have a fight about something new. it was tiring to see them breaking up for the 3689044th time for the same fucking reason. like come on, it's a tv show, write something new. imo they could've made them argue about something else and justin be like I'll go sleep at daphne's tonight or something and then have the I love you scene with the same reactions from the audience

(forgot to mention how everyone tried to insert themselves into britin's relationship as if they had any say in it 🙄)

overall, I think that the main issue with s5 was that it was too repetitive, the writers clearly didn't know how to wrap up the show

now let's talk about michael. I understand why some people may like him but he's not my favourite. I don't hate him overall but he has his moments. I think his best scenes in the show were with ben and hunter, I really liked them together (also when he was hanging out with the gang™️). however I do find him annoying at times and I will never understand his crush on brian because you are a grown man, STAND UP. I understand that it was the premises of the show but it became concerning very soon. maybe i just look from a perspective of a person who walks away from any type of relationships the second anyone looks bad at me and I just can't imagine loving someone who dgaf about you (in a romantic way) for 15+ years....... also michael beefing with a literal teenager was something else 😭 like wishing death upon justin was INSANE, the craziest thing anyone has said on this show. michael didn't even know the depth of britin's relationship and dared to insert himself in it????......also brian having to apologise every single time even when michael was the wrong one pissed me off so bad. like in s5 when brian tried to end their fight and michael made it even worse...... I also dislike how michael never faced any consequences for his actions just once (jutin was an icon for snapping back at him lol), considering the fact that brian was blamed for everything all the fucking time for no reason but whatever I guess

I think I'll end this here because this post is already too long 😅

[hawthorne-swift-enthusiasttt]

Unit 919 as obscure google fonts!!!

Hi please don't ask me what this is i don't even know lmao

Anah:

Um yeah so I think both of these fonts just go along with her vibe tbh. Sweet, timid, and a bit prim!

Mahir:

Any fantasy-looking fonts match with him honestly. I found a TON that reminded me of him but I think these two sum him up pretty well.

Cadence:

I kind of like the idea of a handwriting-esque font with her. It's just the vibes I guess. But the first one sort of looks mesmerizing in itself (imo) so it works with her.

Hawthorne:

Hawthorne is basically all the bold fonts lmao. I really think these picks are self-explanatory. Just look at him. He screams BIG BOLD FONT lol.

Morrigan:

I feel like I could have put more effort into hers and relate it to Wunder or something but I like these ones enough so 🤷‍♀ She gives a hand-written vibe about her as well.

Arch:

Sorry for the grainy-ass quality and tiny image but I feel like Arch has a sophisticated yet humble and chill vibe about him (that makes zero sense I'm aware but I was struggling on him ok)

Lam:

I tried to find a regal-looking font for her. Idk if this does her justice but its sort of intricate and mysterious so I think it matches.

Thaddea:

So similarly to Hawthorne, she screams bold in-your-face font. Also can I just take this moment to talk about Thaddea like she's so badass omg I love her <33

Francis:

Ummm I'm really not confident about this one but it's giving fancy menu and Francis is all about food right???? Idk I could do better but I couldn't find anything so whatever :')

BONUS STUFF:

Okay so I found some bonus fonts that I really liked and gave such nevermoor energy so I'm including them.

Nevermoor Christmas:

This one is sooooo battle of christmas eve. Especially the Yule Queen. I kid you not when I first read these books the first thing that came to mind when reading about the Yule Queen was this font. It might be a problem that I have a vast knowledge of random fonts that I relate to my interests but whatever ok I'm only human

Jack:

These have Jack written all over them. Any variation of Cinzel works for him, and Cormorant is similar as well. I think these are quite sophisticated but also stand out. They have a specific flair about them that I just associate with Jack. Super trash explanation I know but at the end of the day all of these literally just come down to vibes.

Hotel Deucalion:

Anyone else think this one is so Hotel Deucalion-ish??? Or at least Jupiter-ish. Like it's fancy but welcoming.

Anyway dudes that's the end of the post hope you liked it. It's funny cause I always say I'm gonna do something productive with Nevermoor content like writing a fic or something but most of the time I just end up with shit like this. Like girl. You are supposed to be making stuff like fanart and fanfic and headcanons why are you doing a Nevermoor post about google FONTS???? lmao

[plor-bindery]

Bound: Pages of You, by @wolfpants

Surprise! I got a thermal binder for Xmas and this is what I chose to do with it first!

Big learning curve still in progress here, which is why my margins are RIDICULOUSLY NARROW after trimming. The challenge for me with ppbs is the cover, forever and always. I'm determined to sort them out, though.

If you don't know it (but of course you know it), Pages of You is a fabulously engaging muggle AU Drarry fic set in 1980. It is delightful and centered on a Harry who is discovering his bisexuality, the joy of sex in general, and the joy of Draco Malfoy (scion of his bookselling godfather's nemesis/cousin-in-law, naturally). Harry is so dissembling and boyish and on-the-cusp in this fic, and Draco is repressed and yet determinedly himself. God, it's great.

The typeset was quick on this one as I was keen to try out my binder, but I still took the time to pick out the best fonts I could to represent Draco/Hematite's and Harry/Shopboy's handwriting.

A few little notes under the cut on the process.

I used "presentation paper" for the cover which is matte, lightweight cardstock (37 lb) but has some sort of coating that makes it print more like photo paper? Idk. It was the right size/price. I took a leap and bought some soft touch laminate to cover it. 1.5 mil film on a roll is a pain! Omg! But I will figure it out. And it does come out SO nice and light and soft to the touch, true to its name. I think it'll be a dream for wrap covers if/when I figure out applying it more neatly/simply.

The thermal binder was quite simple to use but I think I have a learning curve on the application of the glue strips ahead of me. I cut them slightly shorter than the length of the spine (per YouTube) and still had a little spill-over at the ends, and even up into the side of the cover/text block. Nothing disastrous but not as neat as I'd like.

I bound the block to a blank piece of the cover paper, not sure about laminated cover plus thermal binder, but didn't cut the blank cover down (reasoning it'd be trimmed with the text block anyway) and hoo boy. Forgot about how hard it'd be to trim with a big wonky cover sticking out. Hence the over-trimming.

I then glued the laminated cover to the block with PVA and trimmed again. So much trimming!!!

Final step was to iron on the gold HTV on the front, which went on like a dream and makes me feel feral whenever I look at it.

I want to try this bind again to improve on the trimming issues but I’m still super satisfied with this product. It’s a tangible functional lovely object I can read and hold and touch. Love it. Looking forward to more paperbacks in 2025!

[mogamuncher]

I just realized that the team behind Sword Art Online Abridged said that they were going to try and do the entire series, which means that eventually we'll get to the arc with Alice and Eugeo right?

So now I'm losing my mind thinking about what Abridged!Eugeo would be like, because holy shit is there so much to be done there

Would he be like Recon, an adorable universal punching bag that is still very loyal, brave and just the specialest little guy ever? Would he be like Balls, a best friend that truly believed in Kirito despite Kirito being. . . Well, himself? Or would he be like Tiffany and Liz, doing their own thing but still having Kirito as a friend that he cares about, though he's still acknowledging that Kirito is insufferable?

Because like, all of these sound great, but hear me out here:

What if Abridged Eugeo is actually more like Asuna and Suguha?

It'd make sense, like character and story wise, since he's supposed to directly parallel Kirito and match with him on a lot of things. Canonically, Eugeo and Kirito should have the energy of two friends that can spend years not seeing each other, but when they do, they immediately snap right back into how they usually acted together, like no time passed at all. They are really close friends, and we all know that Abridged Kirito cannot be that close to people unless they are either willing to put up with a lot of shit (read: Balls) or are a lot like him but in a different font (read: Asuna and Suguha, also arguably Kayaba)

Now I use Asuna and Suguha as examples, because I they, along with Kirito, use a fake persona to mask how they really are, soft and squishy (Suguha and Kirito) or a complete fucking freak (Asuna). And I think Eugeo could be similar

Picture with me, Eugeo seemingly being similar to a Recon sort of character with a touch of Silica, he's nice, soft spoken, a bit pathetic, naive and the world's punching bag. Kirito sees himself on the poor guy, much like how he did Recon, so he acts a lot how he does with Recon "Don't talk to him like that, how dare you" "No one tell him", with the added character development of having the initiative to essentially drag Eugeo into a friendship (we're friends now, we're having soft tacos later style)

Then as the episodes go along, he shows signs of not being quite right, things he says are a little mean spirited or he plays along with one of Kirito's cruel jokes, but he always does it smiling or seemingly by accident, so it slides on by unnoticed

Until one big moment happens and it all comes crashing down, and the real Eugeo is revealed, and that Eugeo is actually just a fucking asshole with no empathy, a-la Asuna. You can even foreshadow it by not telling exactly why Eugeo killed those two noble dudes (assuming they cut out the rape scenes) only to reveal later that he did it not because they were being awful to someone else, but because of something comically inconsequential or personal (hell, it could even be because they fucked with Kirito's flowers)

Idk, I just think it would be funny. And if they go ham on the religious implications of this arc, they could even throw in a backstory of Eugeo being afraid that his real self would break the rules and get him Alice'd. You could even go the "We Happy Few" route with it!

But that's all just my ideas ig, i'd be happy to hear what everyone else has in mind

[fuck-customers]

today, mar 25 2024, a woman came into my red hardware store and dumped her bag of returns on my counter. she said "i have a fucking return. it's all coming the fuck back. i don't need any of this fucking stuff" and i was instantly on edge because she's being loud and every other word was another f-bomb. and i GET IT i get swearing, i get being angry, but why the hell are you upset with me lol i looked at the pile of stuff and was like "oh did you buy this yesterday?" because i recognized the pile of items as things that i had personally rung up at some point. it's a bunch of electrical stuff like outlet covers and some solenoids or wtv. but god i shouldn't've said anything. because she snaps "No what the fuck. i bought this fucking weeks ago. and i dont fucking need it. so i'm returning it"

and i'm like.. damn ok, fine. she's digging for receipts. and has a huge stack of Orange Hardware store receipts. and i'm watching her flip through them and she snaps "go ahead and grab yours if you recognize it!" and i'm like 'uh.. ok i'm pretty sure that my store's receipt is this one' and i pointed at one (idk if its just the font but i recognized my store's receipt and yoinked it out.

so i start processing her return. she's like "ugh i need to go get my card from the car!" and i'm like ok, that's fine. she doesn't really need it for the return but 1) i want her to get away from me because i'm gonna call a manager she's being such an asshole. 2) her friend was looking for other stuff to buy.

she comes back in with her card. i'm like scanning and returning the items. 3 items i KNOW are NOT ours are on the pile. im like.. i don't want to deal with her trying to insist that they belong to our store. but i scan one. it beeps 'item not found' i go 'oh well these items aren't from our store, sorry i can't return them"

and she's like "i dont see how that's fucking possible! everything in that bag is from this fucking store!" and she's just absolutely shrieking. and i don't understand why she's mad, like i don't get it. the manager came up and was like 'we don't sell this product. sorry we can't do a return on it.'

she screams some more but accepts that they must be Orange Hardware and not Red Hardware. She goes out to "make a call while her friend shops"

and i swear to god that she was screaming at someone on the phone for next fourteen minutes and everyone inside the store could hear her from the parking lot. every other word out of this woman's mouth was "fuck" and it was setting my nerves on edge.

her friend finally came up to buy his shit. and it totals $77. she's standing at the door handing him her visa and she is PISSED that the total is $77. she says she doesn't understand how it could add up to that much. and im like uhmmmm.. they're plumping parts.. and the stupid toys you're buying for your grandkids pushed the total to $77 after tax.. either buy it or leave. i don't care

she ended up buying it but you could still hear her swearing up and down the parking lot as she was screaming on the phone with her mother (apparently) saying that she was going to need to be reimbursed for the shit she was buying

and i'm just like... goddamn, i dont care how awful your day is. don't take it out on employees or customers you asshat.

the only funny part about this is the fact that her name was actually Karen. which just made me laugh. but all the other staff had come up to the front to make sure i was okay while she was yelling. and she did get intimidated by some of the men and slink out while her friend paid for the stuff. but still.. a big yikes.

Posted by admin Rodney.