#is this. legible?? sorry if this isn't legible..

[allthecastlesonclouds]

for ghost stories was there a specific superhero/vigilante story that you pulled from like what was the inspo?

oooo oo oo! there wasn't a specific superhero story that inspired it but there WAS a buncha inspiration for the general plot/character layout! i wasn't a superhero comic book kid, but a lot of my friends were/are. and i was a Lumberjanes fan. for a while. like. still am. and those journeys absolutely did inspire this story! thinking about the diane one especially :D :D

uhh fabian's based off of fanon bruce wayne/batman. he's so fucking rich and both hallariel and bill have fucked off and/or died earlier in the story so cathilda is a very maternal alfred! fabes barely has any powers at all (like. literally just strength and speed) but he does have magic items and also the hangman, which he's very adept at using! his house is just like. have you ever read magnus chase? where a buncha kids just. stay at a rich guys house? if they need a place to go? he does that.

i think i mentioned this but kristen's outfit is squirrel girl's with a really elaborate mask, and fabian's is spider-man's with a crystal design instead of a spider!

i know there's a dc vigilante named oracle (i think it's barbara gordon? babs?) but i'm pretty sure she's a techie and she was not the inspiration for adaine.

BUT one of the supers (who you haven't met yet) is pretty based off of poison ivy, in skill set and motivation, but there's no super based off of harley (though this super does have. a girlfriend. because i can). agent 88 is based off of someone who i can't quite remember :')

her outfit is not as. revealing. though. that's something that i tried to avoid, actually. name one female dc/marvel superhero that doesn't have. the most revealing outfit ever. that shit is skintight. i don't want it on my high schoolers. absolutely not. no.

[tezzbot]

Messy messy silly comic lol Sibling Moment

[transvampireboyfriend]

Teacher AU

Eddie who studied to be a music teacher but right before graduation Corroded Coffin takes off. It's fast, they have to mail him his diploma to avoid a crowd of fans at his classmates' ceremony.

But it goes as fast as it comes, a few years of touring and then popularity wanes. Eddie is not bothered by it, neither are the guys, they enjoyed it while it lasted, yet they all knew they couldn't live like that for the rest of their lives, so it's all for the best.

Eddie lives off of album and merch sales and writing songs for other bands and artists now. This is when his best friend, Chrissy, tells him she heard the music teacher was retiring at her old pre-school.

Eddie applies for the vacant position, fearing they won't like his former star status but ultimately, after a good interview, he gets the job.

Steve who became a pre-school teacher and started teaching as soon as he could. He lives with his best friend, Robin, and coaches the town's junior basketball teams (both boys and girls) on his off time.

Steve who's nearing his thirties and getting a little frustrated with his love life. No matter how many dates, no matter how many 6 month relationships, no matter how many 1 year and a half and moving in together debacles, he still just never quite fits his partners, he never feels that thing, that excitement everyone talks about. No matter how amazing the person. Robin calls him an idealist, says he's being naïve. Steve sticks by his instinct to hope for more.

Steve who stares (a little slack-jawed) at the new music teacher for a good minute when he comes pick up his kids. Trying to take in the wild hair pinned up by a pencil, the glasses around big cow eyes, the tattoos peeking out of his long sleeves, the dimples.

He was aware Mrs. Wallace retired and a new teacher was brought on, he just hadn't expected his heart to race at the mere sight of him.

Steve completely misses his name, has to ask him to come again when those beautiful brown eyes get a mischievous sparkle and look expectant, like he got stood up waiting for an answer.

"I said it's nice meeting you" the new teacher repeats

"Oh! Of course! You're very nice. I mean it's very- It's nice meeting you too" Steve says and forcefully shuts his mouth, pressing his lips into a thin line.

The new teacher's smile just gets bigger and he nods and leads the kids to his class.

Robin thinks it's beyond funny that Steve doesn't know the new teacher's name, but she refuses to explain, refuses to tell him what it is and encourages him to find out on his own.

Steve approaches the guy in the teacher's lounge at lunch.

Beyond whatever the hell makes Steve's brain functions jump ship when he's around him, Steve does think it was rude of him to stare and not even introduce himself when they first met.

His mother may have been real shitty, but she didn't raise someone impolite.

"Hi," Steve starts, making the other man look up at him from underneath his glasses. Steve looks away for a second to avoid getting lost in those eyes.

"I think I owe you an apology," Steve starts, the other teacher raises his eyebrows and lowers the book in his hands.

"I'm sorry?"

"That's my line," Steve points out, he's rewarded by a small laugh and dimples, "I was rude," Steve explains, "I was staring and I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Steve." he smiles and extends his hands to the other man.

"I know." the guy says, smiling big enough to show his teeth, but gently taking Steve's hand in his own "I told you, they were nice enough to put all the names in my schedule, remember?" he says,

Steve freezes.

How come he didn't think of that? His schedule is the same, all schedules for teachers have everybodys' names. They even distributed new schedules for everyone when the hiring decision was made, Steve just hadn't bother to look at it yet, knowing the important bits hadn't changed.

Steve would facepalm if his dominant hand wasn't otherwise occupied.

"Uh-" Steve starts, thankfully the other man cuts him off,

"Hey," he says, with the kindest eyes Steve has ever seen, and still gently holding Steve's hand, "It's cool. I get it." he tells Steve,

Then he asks, "Are you a fan?"

Steve stares again.

Excuse him?

Judging by Robin's smirk accross the room, Steve's face must be as red as a ripe tomato.

Steve yanks his hand back.

Well, that's presumptuous. Just because Steve isn't very good at thinking whe he's around him, doesn't mean that- Sure, Steve came prepared to flirt with him, but he does not appreciate beaing treated like he's easy.

Steve frowns at him before turning around and promptly walking away. He guesses he'll have to go check his schedule if he wants to know the name of this jerk.

[fancy-feathercroak]

I was revisiting some old bio lore and my Plague priestess has some dialogue that gave me a chuckle since we now live in a post among us society.

[necromancelena]

Had to make today's damn promo on loose scrap of paper because the duplicitous landlord is apparently spraying the apartment with chemicals to kill bugs. And they won't let me sniff the chemicals. So I won't be allowed back in until I stream Wind Waker at 6:00 PM EST. But yeah go watch that then.

[visions--of--collisions]

for @its-just-a-glitch who requested 200 words of an active work-in-progress, here is an uh er um slightly longer than 200 words-preview of:

EXCERPT: let me ease your mind (chapter 3) • hobie/miles, post-canon, omegaverse; rated: e

Hobie’s bladder woke him a couple hours later, albeit not as many as he would’ve liked, if the darkness was anything to go by. He grunted and dragged his cheek against the pillow under his head.

Miles was warm in his arms, muscles twitching in his sleep. He’d backed up against Hobie at some point in the night, and Hobie had performed some kind of death roll to accommodate him, apparently; the blankets were a tight cocoon that would’ve been cozy as anything if Hobie weren’t worried about pissing himself. He eased his arm out from underneath Miles and wormed his way up into a half-sit. Hobie propped his weight on his elbow as a yawn seized him, squeezing tears out of his eyes. He wiped them away with his knuckles and leaned over to peer at Miles’ face.

His eyes were darting about under his eyelids as he dreamt, but his brow was relaxed enough. A sheen of that weirdly clean-smelling heat sweat limned Miles’ shoulders; he’d lost his shirt again, which wasn’t all that surprising. He wasn’t quite a furnace under Hobie, as he gingerly crawled over Miles, but that was probably because Hobie ran fairly hot himself. However many hours spent cozying up under bedsheets had to have warmed them both up, besides. 

He peered over at his alarm clock, which had just ticked past four. Hobie sighed and laid his brow on Miles’s shoulder. Five hours and change would do it, alright. A shame it hadn’t been more than that. He reminded himself it could be, if he extricated himself sooner, but when Hobie shifted to do just that a hand fisted in his shirt. Miles turned his head, ribs quaking with a noise that was part-grumble, part-keen, all-protest.

“M’here, Miles, shhh. You’re alright.” Hobie buried his face in the curve where Miles’ neck became his shoulder. The tendons beneath his skin stretched and strained against him as Miles raised his chin to expose them. He pried Miles’ hand free and tangled their fingers together, holding them against his chest to feel the vibrations as he purred. “Need the lav; go to sleep, yeah? Be back in a sec.”

He spent a long minute nosing at the pulse thrumming under Miles’ jaw before he squeezed Hobie’s hand and relaxed against the mattress. Hobie felt his sleepy, reciprocal purr more than he heard it; he bussed Miles’ temple and clambered out from underneath the covers, tucking them over Miles’ hand before he crept out of the room.

It was dark enough that even the thought of turning on the bathroom light made Hobie’s eyes sting. He flicked on the galley light instead, and left the bathroom door open wide enough that he could see where he was aiming. After he’d flushed and washed his hands, Hobie shuffled back into the kitchen with his eyes mostly-closed to wet his suddenly-parched throat. As he was leaving his glass in the sink, the empty cooking pot on the draining board snagged his attention. Hobie thought for a minute, squinting in the direction of the fridge. He dug out some chicken breasts and half a pound of sausages and left them to defrost before he turned off the light and retreated back to bed.

The change in Miles’ scent was obvious, with the bedroom door shut behind him. Hobie crawled back into the nest as quietly as he could. Miles was turned away from him, hugging one of the spare pillows to his chest, but he wasn’t sleeping deep enough that he didn’t notice Hobie’s arrival. He’d barely settled his head on the pillow before Miles had backed up into him, his shoulder blades two hard, sharp points through Hobie’s thin shirt.

“Oof! Easy,” Hobie entreated, the surprised laughter huffing out of him. Miles’ only response was to continue shuffling until their lower halves were aligned to his satisfaction, and then to keep right on going. Hobie took the hint and got his arms around him, squeezing tight enough it made them both grunt. Miles writhed like he was trying to get free before he went lax, purring deep in his throat. His eyes were pleased slits in the darkness, when he rolled his head back.

Hobie could feel him rocking against the pillow he was still clutching at. The high, quiet noise Miles made when he tightened his arms left Hobie swallowing through a sudden thickness in his throat. He groaned under his breath and wet his lips. “Miles. Oi,” he mumbled. Hobie squeezed him again all when he got in response was a vague murmur and a brazen non-cessation of pillow-fucking. He bent his head to speak into Miles’ ear. “D’you need a minute? Where’s your stuff?”

The purring stopped. “I’m …” Miles croaked. “S’under the bed.” The almost-sweetness of the sweat on his temple didn’t quite distract Hobie from the way his hips kept moving. He was tempted to nudge a thigh between Miles’ legs. Instead, he pushed himself up and twisted around to grope about among the peripherals.

The leather satchel was lying on its side behind a discarded shirt; Hobie found the handles and dragged it out. He hefted it up onto the bed and turned to find Miles lying on his front, the pillow trapped underneath him. He turned his face away when Hobie met his eyes. “Man … You just got back in bed.”

Hobie reached over to rub his back. “Allow that. Couch is already set up and all; I’ll be cotched.” There was a damp spot starting on the back of Miles’ shorts, visible even in the gloom. He pulled the blankets up over it, arranging them around Miles’ shoulders. “Wake us when you’re done. If you ain’t out like a light after,” Hobie added, nudging him.

Miles didn’t answer right away. He’d stopped moving, finally; his face was buried in Hobie’s sateen pillowcase. If he didn’t know Miles better than that, he might’ve thought he was sulking. Hobie sighed through his nose. “I can’t stay if we ain’t talked it out first, mate,�� he said, quietly.

Miles turned his head, settling his cheek against the pillow. His face was flushed, the corners of his mouth down-turned. “I know,” he mumbled. “Sorr–”

“Boy, if you say sorry …!” Hobie shoved his shoulder lightly, jokingly mean-mugging at him from a few inches away. Miles swallowed, noisily. Hobie kneaded his back again. “Ask me later,” he offered.

Miles looked at him with dark eyes. “What’ll you do?” he murmured. When Hobie just stared at him, he added, “If I say ‘sorry.’ What are you gonna do?”

“I …!” The surprise and delight winded him for a second, filling up his throat. Unable to speak, Hobie pressed his teeth into Miles’ shoulder, blankets and all. The purring had started up again; a thin vibration he could feel right through the layers. Hobie shoved himself off the bed, feeling a bit like a fish that had managed to escape its hook. “I am gonna leave this room like I said I would!” he declared. He fished a piece of blanket fuzz out of his mouth as discreetly as he could. Hobie glanced at the empty space next to his alarm clock and hesitated. “D’you need water?”

“I don’t need water,” Miles hummed. The blankets shifted as he moved underneath them.

“Okay, alright,” Hobie scoffed, playing at disapproving while something not far removed from glee filled his lungs like smoke. He snatched his patched dressing gown out of the nest and reached down to scruff the back of Miles’ neck. “There's fresh batteries in the inside pocket. Be good,” Hobie said, and walked out before Miles’ breath could even.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[strawberista]

╭┈──── ◌ೄ◌ྀ ˊˎ “̳I̳f̳ ̳y̳o̳u̳ ̳t̳h̳i̳n̳k̳ ̳y̳o̳u̳ ̳c̳a̳n̳ ̳d̳o̳ ̳e̳v̳e̳r̳y̳t̳h̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳b̳y̳ ̳y̳o̳u̳r̳s̳e̳l̳f̳,̳ ̳y̳o̳u̳’̳r̳e̳ ̳i̳n̳ ̳f̳o̳r̳ ̳s̳o̳m̳e̳ ̳h̳a̳r̳d̳ ̳l̳e̳s̳s̳o̳n̳s̳.̳”̳_________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

⚅— 𝕊𝔸ℕ𝔸𝔼 ℍ𝔸ℕ𝔼𝕂𝕆𝕄𝔸 𝕆𝔽 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝕎𝕆ℝ𝕃𝔻 𝔼ℕ𝔻𝕊 𝕎𝕀𝕋ℍ 𝕐𝕆𝕌 —⚅ ⚅— ᵂʳⁱᵗᵗᵉⁿ ᵇʸ ᴷᵒʰⁱ —⚅ ⚅— ᴵⁿᵈⁱᵉ. | ᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿ⁻ᴰⁱᵛᵉʳᵍᵉⁿᵗ | ˢᵉᵐⁱ⁻ˢᵉˡᵉᶜᵗⁱᵛᵉ —⚅

•❅───✧❅ＲＵＬＥＳ|ＭＵＳＥ|ＭＵＮ|ＶＥＲＳＥＳ❅✧───��•

[chocobox]

i love infodumping to people about all might and nighteye because it always makes them so upset. they're like omg that's so sad. and i'm like yeah :)

[yanteetle]

if you’re doing requests, what about leo trying to separate y/n from their family/friends? or maybe guilt-tripping them or something, or hell even just being a manipulative little bastard, he *is* the king of mind games after all

Y/n's been having a harder time leaving his prescence recently... it's quite a shame that he knows all the ways to make them stay, even if they aren't the most... morally ethical.

I was convinced to start drawing fangs on the turtles after one of my moots suggested I try it out! You could interpret this as a yandere Vampire!Leo messing with y/n's head, but it's really all up to you! (I prefer not to because I want to chalk it up to stylistic choice and whatnot) Either way, sorry for taking so long with this by the way, It's been a while since my last proper illustration after having undergone surgery and hospitalization recently! I tried to pay a subtle homage to one of my first drawings with the expressions shown here, and I had fun coming up with the concept of this piece! I played around with a bunch of concepts, but this one speaks the most to me and I hope it does the same for you as well! Thank you for requesting, I hope you have a nice day and it was a pleasure drawing this for you! Oh, and if the text isn't as legible, please let me know so I can fix it! Thank you for your patience!

Taglist: @dynaspamm@faetaiity@fried-milkfish@milks-thoughts@hearteyedracoon@crystallinecryogenics@m0nster-fluffer@syrinxmeadow

[dangerpronebuddie]

Saw this post from @thatbuddie and cried writing this. Happy Father's Day to all who celebrate and all who struggle through it. Love y'all 🩷

He doesn't know why he's torturing himself. It's not really torture, but the ache in his heart is. He can't help the smile on his face even through the tears as he looks through the box. Seeing how much Chris' artwork has changed over the years is more than enough to have him in a blubbering heap in the floor of his closet. Seeing it while knowing he won't witness how it'll change for who knows how long is almost enough to completely shatter him. Handmade cards, origami swans Shannon taught him to make, origami frogs Buck showed him, and the heart Eddie insisted on keeping rather than tossing out all sit neatly tucked in the box at the top of the closet. His reasons for keeping the heart are too difficult to explain. It's one of his favorites. He stacks each piece carefully beside him, wiping his tears on the sleeve of his hoodie so he doesn't damage the pages. He's not outright sobbing. He'll take it as a win. Chris still isn't speaking to him, but Ramon sends lots of pictures and updates every day. He says Chris is adjusting okay, but not his usual bright self. Eddie knows the feeling. He opens the card from last father's day and can't help but outright giggle. Chris' handwriting is just like Buck's. Small and slanted and barely legible unless you're used to the style. He doesn't know why it's so hilarious. Maybe he's losing his mind. He collects himself with a deep breath and sets the card aside before reaching into the box and taking the next piece from the pile. This one does break him. He remembers standing on the sidewalk as the bus drove away, surrounded by parents who seemed more than happy to have two weeks without a kid to take care of. Eddie couldn't understand how they were so ecstatic to watch their kids leave. He feels the same way now as he did that day. Glad he let Chris go, but more than a little empty without half of his heart. He feels a tug in his chest, like the string that connects them wants to snap. He resists the urge to hold on tighter, just like that morning all those years ago. He blinks through the tears at the writing in the card. Chris' assurance that Eddie would be fine is the thing that has him choking out a sob, dropping the card to his lap as he covers his face with his hands. "Hey, hey, Eds, it's okay." Eddie hiccups a sob and slumps against Buck's chest. He doesn't know when he showed up. He didn't hear the door, or Buck's usual cheerful greeting. He's just glad he's here. There was a time when he'd try to collect himself. Scoop the broken pieces into some semblance of a person and pretend he's fine. But he's not. And he knows Buck's not either. Eddie twists and wraps his arms around Buck's neck, his shoulders shaking with each sob. Buck rubs soothing circles on his back, whispering reassurances to him Eddie barely registers. "I'm sorry," Eddie whimpers, holding tighter. "Hey, it's okay," Buck says softly, his own voice wavering. "I miss him too. I know."

Eddie doesn't know how long they stay curled around each other, holding each other together as the tears fall away. It reminds Eddie of the day Chris left. How he had turned to Buck and broke. They sat on the floor by the couch for over an hour, simply holding each other, clinging to the one and only lifeline they both had left. Eddie sniffles and takes a deep breath after God knows how long, finally collecting himself enough to lean back. He wipes his sleeves across his face and takes another shaky breath. "No word from him?" Buck asks. Eddie shakes his head. "You?" Buck shakes his head. "Doesn't mean he doesn't love you, Eddie." Eddie knows that, he does. But some days, his mind doesn't let him believe it. That was how he ended up in the closet floor, sifting through the evidence. "You still up for lunch with Bobby?" Buck asks after a few minutes. "If you're not, we can plan it another day. He'd understand." "I still want to go," Eddie says with a genuine smile. Just because he's having a shitty day doesn't mean Buck and Bobby have to as well. Buck stands and offers a hand to pull Eddie to his feet. Eddie stands with a groan and winces as his knees crackle. Buck giggles and opens his mouth to speak. "Don't you say a word, Buckley," Eddie warns, pointing a finger at him. Buck smirks and raises his free hand in surrender. "Wasn't going to say anything. I was just going to find your cane." "You're older than me!" Eddie squawks, lightly bapping his chest. "Your knees say otherwise," Buck grins. He tugs on their still joined hands. "Come on. Cap's waiting on us." He practically drags Eddie to the door. Eddie smiles, already feeling a little lighter. Buck's always been able to do that. Always been able to drag him from the depths of his mind so simply. Both their phones chime as they step out into the afternoon sun. Eddie takes his from his pocket as Buck does the same. Eddie's heart stitches a piece of itself back together at the notification. A message to the Buckley-Diaz (Chris picked the name) group chat: Superman: Happy Father's Day guys Love you The tears that fall from Eddie's eyes this time are filled with joy and love. He beams at Buck, who's wearing his Christopher-specific grin. Eddie pulls him into a hug and they dissolve into laughter laced with relief. Eddie knows they still have a lot of work to do. Frank even suggested having a therapy session with Chris. But this? This is a start. This is what finally lets him believe- "We're gonna be okay," Buck says, cradling the back of Eddie's head. Eddie curls his fists in Buck's shirt, holding tight. "Yeah. We're gonna be okay." He presses his temple to Buck's. "Happy Father's Day, Buck." "Happy Father's Day, Eddie."

[altruistic-meme]

text reads: My handwriting legibility depends heavily on if I'm the only one who'll be reading it or if I expect someone else to read it

And it depends on how fast I'm trying to write as well

My notes in class are never really readable

*(I'm writing in the half-darkness, that's the only reason it's so big)

Text reads: OK, so. On twitter I saw a post where a bunch of people were sharing their handwriting, but it was all like OBNOXIOUSLY neat and pretty. So I want y'all to share your normal handwriting so I stop feeling so bad! Let me see 'em!

[cadmusfly]

Let's Judge The Signatures Of Dead Frenchmen - Marshals of the Empire Edition

plus some bonuses at the bottom

This is a shitpost I've just wanted to do ever since I noticed Masséna's signature.

I know signatures are not meant to be legible, god knows mine isn't, but look at it, it's all the same letter!

I'm lazy so I'm only going to judge the ones on wikimedia and a few extra from letters, sorry to Marmont and others who did not get their signatures scanned and then made transparent for osme reason who is going to forge a dead frenchman's signature

Of course Bessières has a nice one:

Berthier is also pretty nice:

Loopy! Wait as has been pointed out to me, that could be an Alex. Did anyone ever call him Alex or Al

I love Lannes' because he circles his name!

A fancy guy like Murat's gotta have a fancy one, right?

Nice but not as loopy as Berthier's, honestly not the fanciest here

Davout has a nice legible one

Let's look at Soult's-

Woah, he's taking up a bit of space there! Where are you going with that t, champ?

Augereau is nice and straight I'm in awe as someone physicalyl incapable of writing in a straight line even on lined paper

Mortier is also really nice!

but also Ed Mortier. He called himself Ed. Do you think his friends also called him Ed or perhaps Eddie

MacDonald is Massena tier

can you guess who this next one is

hint: not french

Lefebvre's goin for the loop:

Jourdan is all classical:

Cant find Bernadotte pre-kinging but dude why is your kingograph so large who transcribed it like this

@phatburd linked me St Cyr's and

Very nice!

Victor lets see

I think I see a V in there. And a treble clef.

Oudinot:

I can kinda make it out!

But anyway I've been saving the best for last.

I have no words for this artistic masterpiece by Marshal Michel Ney.

Is that an umlaut or an emoticon? What are the two lines doing - error of transcription or part of the actual signature? Why do the loops just keep on going????

Is he just self conscious of how short his name is?????

Bonus!

Eugène de Beauharnais how's your-

he just didnt know when to stop.

Junot:

circle! pretty circle! napoleon did say he has pretty handwriting

Duroc:

Man he turned that c into an underline

This was fun! Next I'll rate all their coat of arms of something

[dfortrafalgar]

I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling the Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem. But sometimes, you just need a little bit of love... and a little bit of science.

Warnings: read chapter 1 for warnings

(also it's far too late in the game for me to be asking this but can someone help me figure out why everyone's blogs outside of the first five people in the tag list dont show up. ive been on tumblr since like 2014 and still cannot figure this stuff out im sobbing)

Taglist: @phsycochan | @mirillua | @augustanna | @chaixsherlock | @whore-of-many-hot-men | @nerdisthenewcool | @lilypadmomentum | @1dkneo | @kitsunechan707

Chapter 28

[Prev] [Next]

Your maternity leave had started early, not helped by how active one of your babies was at the crack of dawn.  Every morning when you woke up to the sound of your alarm and rolled over to hoist yourself out of bed, you felt a kick against your abdomen.  When you stood up, you felt that familiar fluttering sensation.  One morning, you slept in only a few minutes longer than you normally did, and were punished with a small shove against your bladder that had you involuntarily unloading your urine into your pajama bottoms.

That one made you cry, Law keeping his chuckles to himself as he helped you clean up in the bathroom.

“Stop berating them through my stomach,” you sobbed.  “I just pissed my pants.”

Your husband had answered you with a soft kiss to your swollen skin as he bent down to pick up your soiled clothing and bring them to your washing machine.  “It happens, darling.  It wasn’t your fault.”

Needless to say, it had been an emotional third trimester thus far.

On a Friday evening, you were sitting reclined against the arm of your couch, a book resting on your belly as you munched on some apple slices when Law came bursting through the door.  He was frantic to kick off his shoes and shrug off his lab coat, hanging it on the hooks in the entryway before scrambling into the living room and plopping himself down next to you.  He was holding a notebook in his hand.

“Hello to you, too,” you stated sarcastically, placing a paper bookmark in your novel to mark your spot and adjusting yourself on the couch to sit with your legs crossed under you.

“I was busy on my break today,” Law stated matter-of-factly, flipping through the wrinkled notebook with a fervor.  When he found the page he was looking for, he folded the journal in half and held out the exposed page to face you.

A bunch of squares and barely legible writing covered the lined paper.  You squinted.  “I have no idea what I’m looking at, babe.”

Law rarely had moments where he got so excited that he couldn’t speak, but this was clearly one of those moments.  He would forget that other people didn’t have over 20 years of medical training going back to the age of five.  “Sorry, sorry.”  He turned the notebook back toward him, using his finger to point out what he had scribbled down.  “These are genetic predictions.  It’s estimated that about 50% of fraternal twins will be opposite genders, so a boy and a girl.  Which means about 25% will be both boys, and about 25% will be both girls.”  He moved his finger from one scribble to another.  “I have black hair, which I’m assuming to be the dominant gene among the two of us.  However, I’m also a carrier for brown hair, because my mother and sister both were brunettes.  Accounting for your hair color, I’m estimating that it’s a 75% chance that both of our babies will have black hair.  At least one of our babies will have my eye color, but I believe your eyes are the dominant trait.  I remember you saying at one point that someone in your family had curly hair, right?  I’m estimating a 25% chance that at least one of our kids will have curly hair.  If both of our babies are boys, the chances are 75% that they’ll be colorblind, and 25% that only one of them will be colorblind.  If both are girls, it’s a 75% chance that both of them will be carriers for the colorblind gene, 25% that only one of them will be.  But again, this is all approximations.  So then I started thinking about more technical stuff.  I have B+ blood, but I couldn’t remember what your blood type was, so we have to go off of the Rh factor, which is dominant with positive Rh, which means that at least one of our babies will have Rh positive blood, likely both.  Male pattern baldness is also a dominant trait in most families, but I’m 26 and still have a full head of hair, so hopefully if we have a boy, he won’t have to worry about hair loss.  Funnily enough, I learned today that having six fingers on one or both hands can actually be a dominant allele in some genetic lines, but neither of our family members have had any form of polydactyly that I can recall.  Just an interesting thought.  Anyway–”

Your shoulders were shaking with your laughter.  “Law, slow down!  Breathe!”  Your hands reached forward to grab his shoulders to settle his excited rambling, his face slowly losing color as he was speaking more than he was absorbing oxygen.

You watched as your husband took a long gulp of hair in before blowing it out slowly.  “Sorry.  I got excited.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re adorable,” you replied, stroking your hand along his cheek.  “How long did it take you to write all that down?”

Law glanced one more time at his notebook before closing it and discarding it on the coffee table.  “About 15 minutes.”

You snorted.  “I hope intelligence is a dominant trait so that both of our kids will be as smart as you.”

“You’re smart too,” he argued back, his voice light and content.

“Not ‘scribble down multiple punnett squares in 15 minutes’ smart,” you countered.  “Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shook his head, stretching his arms behind his back.  “Nope, I came straight home.  I was too excited to show you that.”

You grinned, struggling to lean forward to kiss the tip of his nose.  He assisted you by leaning forward on his own legs, pressing his forehead to yours.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked suddenly, diverting the topic.  One of his hands came to rest on the crest of your belly, petting the taught skin through your shirt.

“Tired,” you replied.  “It’s hard to stand up.  Robin said both babies are probably around 2 or 3 pounds by now, but honestly it feels like I’m carrying lead weights when I stand.  I feel like a turtle.”

“Any more movement?” he asked, scooting over the cushions to be closer to you, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders to pull you into him.  You gladly followed his gesture, dropping your head into his neck.

“One of them moves in the morning still, the other likes to kick when I go to bed.  The only reason I’ve been able to tell is because I feel them on different sides,” you groaned.  “I don’t know what it looks like with them folded up in there, but they haven’t made it easy on me.”

Law hummed in response, his free hand stroking your belly.  The feeling of his palm against your bump felt more soothing than the finest lotion.  “I’m just glad that they’re both okay… not like I’m thrilled that you’re in pain, obviously, but…”

“No, trust me, I am too,” you sighed, closing your eyes.  “I’ve made it this long now, and both of them are still alive.  And pretty soon…”

Your husband knew exactly what you were going to say when your voice trailed off.  It was a subject the two of you had been tip-toeing around for quite some time.

The birth.

“That’s the one thing that’s still scaring me,” you admitted.  “I’m already high risk, and anything could go wrong.  I might have to be ripped open while awake to get them out.  I might die, even.”

Law felt his chest clench.  “Don’t say that, you won’t die.”

“But we don’t know that,” you sighed, your voice growing more nervous by the second.

“No, you won’t die,” he replied firmly.

You felt mildly guilty for broaching the subject.  You knew how difficult it was for him to even think about the slim chance of losing his family again, not when he had come so far and achieved so much with you.  You leaned your head upward to kiss the soft skin of his neck, his sideburns tickling your forehead.  You felt his arm around your shoulder pull you even closer to him, his breaths shallow.

“I’m sorry…” you muttered.

“Don’t be,” he responded quickly.  “I mean it.  You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His hand dropped from your belly to grasp your own, tilting his head down to meet your own as his lips gently pressed against yours.  Your eyes slipped closed, leaning into his tender kiss and wrapping your free arm around his torso.  The size of your belly made it hard to be flush against him, but you made do.  After all, you would have to get used to cuddling with two babies soon enough.

You pulled away from his lips.  “Hey, so how’s the studying been?  For that surgery?”

Law groaned, not at you, but at the mere thought of the looming procedure that had been bearing on his mind for the past eight weeks.  “I feel like I’m back in med school, that’s for sure.  I feel ready for it, but at the same time I can never be too prepared.  It’s going to be… a lot.”

Dual heart-lung transplants were very, very rare, and used for the most severe of cases.  The procedure had never been performed at Law’s hospital before.  Single heart transplants had been done, and a few lung transplants, but never at the same time.  Law’s cardiac ward was specifically chosen for the operation because of the young doctor’s expertise in the field.  The patient’s life was quite literally in Law’s hands.

A small smirk flashed on his face.  “I started wearing gloves in that patient’s room with his family.  I don’t want them to see the tattoos on my fingers.”

“Do you not wear gloves for any other patients?” you asked with a small giggle.  

“No, I do, when performing treatments.  When I’m on rounds, I just stick my hands in my pockets,” he explained.  He had one dimple on his cheek that showed up when he smiled.  You couldn’t help but peck a quick kiss to it.  His stomach suddenly grumbled, startling the two of you.

“You stay right here, I’ll make us some dinner,” he said, making a move to stand up.

“Pancakes,” you demanded with your own mischievous smirk.

“We had pancakes a week ago,” he replied with a smile.

“And?”

Law leaned down for one last kiss on the crown of your head.  “Alright.  Pancakes it is.”

—

Your pregnancy journal had gone from an anxious possession that you worried would jynx your good luck to a vice that you crawled back to whenever you were bored.  The pages were filled with the ink from your pen as you used the prompts to delve into some of the thoughts you kept to yourself, your feelings about your body, your babies, your relationships, the hopes and dreams and the worries and troubles you tried not to stress about.  You kept track of the gifts you had received, the words of advice from your doctor, and the unprovoked comments from elderly ladies at the supermarket who liked to comment about how cute of a couple you were when you shopped for food with your husband.

The grouchy, black-haired surgeon with bags under his eyes and a resting bitch face, and you, his slightly shorter, glowing wife with a very large pregnant belly and a polite, shining smile on her face.  You were truly a match made in heaven, one might say.

Law had been busier and busier in the weeks getting closer to your due date.  As the weather got colder, the holidays came and went, and the new year began, he was diving more and more into his studies preparing for what was easily the largest, most intense, and most serious surgery of his professional career.  Some might assume that you would get tired of the neglect, growing frustrated that he wasn’t around to spend time with you in your third trimester, but in reality, you couldn’t be more proud.

The sight of him hunched over your kitchen table surrounded by old textbooks and papers was an image straight out of your college days, where you’d let yourself into his single dorm room close to midnight and find him on his floor in the dim lighting surrounded on all sides by professional journals, research papers, and textbooks from every esteemed surgeon in his field.  You’d sit down next to him and diligently push french fries against his lips as his eyes stayed glued to his studies, rewarding you during his sparse downtime with awkward kisses that tasted like salt and firm yet shaky hands that were obsessed with traveling up and down your body.  

The only difference now was that Law was that professional in his field, that he was in an apartment, and that you both had rings on your fingers.  The french fries stayed the same, but he at least had a piece of mind to feed himself while you watched from the couch and giggled.  Every once in a while, he would lean back against his seat and pop his spine with a satisfied groan, toss you a fond look across the room, and go back to reading.  Sometimes, you would stand behind him and rub his stiff shoulders, encouraging him to stand up and stretch his legs just as he would do to you to ensure you remained strong during the final weeks of your pregnancy.

The only thing weighing on your mind was the panging worry that he would be in the middle of this massive procedure when you went into labor.  You were both informed by your doctor that most twins would be delivered either naturally or induced at around 36 weeks, almost a month before single babies were usually born, and with your due date at 38 weeks being in the middle of May, you had a nagging feeling in your head that he would miss it.

You both tried to hold onto hope that your babies would be delivered any other day that month.  He would be gone for only a day, a full 24 hours, in total the day of the surgery.  What were the odds that your babies would be born on that specific day?  Slim, to say the least.

At around 32 weeks, it was getting hard for you to stand up.  Your movements were slow and labored, and you were spending most of your days in your apartment either on your couch or in your bed, standing up when instructed by Law, or Shachi and Penguin when he was at work, to walk laps around your home.  The fear of blood clots forming in your legs and traveling to your lungs, as described by your lovely husband in far too much detail, was enough to make you more determined to keep the blood pumping in your body.

“Alright, ready?” Law stated, standing behind you in the kitchen as you slowly made your way through a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

“Ready,” you stated back, your eyes focused on washing the silverware in your hands.

His inked hands traveled around your torso and under your belly, lifting up against the bottom of your bump.  The sudden relief of having the weight lifted off of your back made an almost erotic moan leave your lips, your grip on the silverware releasing slightly as the tension in your entire body flooded from your veins like a broken dam.

“Feel good?” he asked from behind you with a smirk, his chin resting on the crown of your head.

“Oh my god,” you groaned.  “I saw a lot of posts that said that it feels good, but I didn’t think it would feel this good.  I wish you could do that constantly.”

Sparse kisses were placed to the back of your head as his hands slowly released their pressure against the bottom of your bump, leaving your back aching once more as your body was forced to bear the brunt of the weight in your abdomen.  You stifled a whimper as you were forced to hold what felt like 50 extra pounds on your own again, but Law’s lingering presence behind you with his hands resting idly on your belly soothed your aches subconsciously.

“Busy spring, huh?” he asked, filling the room where the only other sound was the sloshing from your dish washing.

You hummed in response, rinsing your hands and turning off the tap, drying your hands on a towel that lay on the counter beside you.  “You could say that.”  You turned around to lean against the counter, Law’s hands remaining on your body as you rotated.  He leaned forward to capture your lips in his, you rewarding him with a smile.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be more physical with you…” you sighed.

Law pulled away.  “Why are you sorry for that?”

You shrugged.  “You seem like you’ve been a lot more handsy with me lately, and I can’t reciprocate.  And I’m probably not going to be able to reciprocate for a while after I give birth.”

Your husband chuckled, planting chaste kisses across your cheeks.  “I’m not ‘being handsy with you’ because I want anything.  I’m ‘being handsy’ because I want you to be happy and comfortable.  I’m not expecting anything in return.  And by the way,” he pulled away to stare into your worried eyes.  “I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking about your post-birth body being somehow inferior to how you were before pregnancy, I know it.”

You averted your gaze, your lips pinching together.

“And I know you don’t like the stretch marks on your belly,” he added.

“Where are you going with this?” you asked, your voice quiet.

“Because I’m going to remind you every day how beautiful you are.  Always.  Even the changes that come with having a child.  You’re always going to be beautiful to me.  I’ll never be repulsed by your stretch marks or wrinkled skin or cellulite like you think I’m going to be.  The person standing in front of me is a beautiful woman who has given me a life worth living, and I’m going to cherish her and support her through everything.”

Your eyes darted toward his neck, where his glass necklace still sat between his collarbones.  He religiously wore it every single day, only taking it off to shower, sleep, and perform surgeries.  Likewise, you never removed your glass ring.  Hot tears began to form in your eyes, but your lips curled into a smile.  Your expression fought for dominance over being happy or sad, and what resulted was a shaky grin, furrowed eyebrows, and watery eyes.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you asked, letting a few lose tears escape the corners of your eyes.

Your husband kissed the damp streaks that your tears left behind on your cheeks.  “You fed me french fries on the floor of my dorm room in college.  I think that’s when I knew you were going to be my wife one day.”

A bubbly laugh left your throat as your hands gripped his shoulders for stability.  “I think I knew when you found me out behind my dorm building that night.”

Law leaned in to kiss you one more time, but a sudden gasp left your lips as your entire body tensed up.  A stinging cramping sensation rippled across your abdomen, lingering in your muscles.  It lasted about 30 seconds, where your shaking hands clenched the cotton of Law’s shirt, his eyes wide and frenzied as his hands supported your upright posture, before the pain finally dissipated into a mild buzz, then nothing at all.

You stared into Law’s eyes.  “Can you help me sit down?”

[strangersteddierthings]

Porcelain Steve - Part 6

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six🦇Part Seven🦇Part Eight🦇Part Nine

Even though he's expecting company, Eddie still jumps and yelps when his front door flies open without so much as a knock, revealing Dustin and Will.

"I know I said to let yourselves in, but a warning knock would have been nice," Eddie shoots them a glare, not bothering to stand from the couch where he'd been pretending to watch whatever terrible daytime movie was playing.

"Sorry," Will apologizes sheepishly while Dustin just laughs.

"Which of your moms dropped you off? If it's Claudia, I'm filing a complaint about how you were raised."

"Har har," Dustin says, swinging his backpack off and knelling down to unzip and dig into it. "We biked here."

"Lucky you, then. The complaint will wait."

Dustin wrestles a blanket from his backpack. Unwrapping it reveals Steve, hair rumpled but otherwise unharmed. "Alright. Delivered safely. We gotta go meet El and Mike now but we'll see you on Saturday, right?"

Eddie sets Steve on the couch, angled towards the TV. "Yeah. I get the feeling if I don't show for the barbeque that Joyce will show up here and drag me there by my ear."

"She would," Will confirms with an easy shrug. The boys turn to leave before Will exclaims, "Oh! Almost forgot!" before digging into his pocket for something, turning around to give it to Eddie.

"What?"

"El and Steve spoke again. He had a lot of things to say. I spent a good portion of the last three days writing down everything as El repeated it to me. This is your letter," he says, having successfully pulled out what looked to be a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Oh," Eddie takes it, and realizes it's not just one folded piece of paper, but three. "Wow."

"Seems you are Steve's second favorite," Dustin grins at him from the doorway.

"You are first, I assume?"

"No. Robin is. She got five pages."

That tracks, actually. Eddie's not surprised Robin got the most pages.

Soon enough, the boys are off and Eddie returns to the couch, pulling his legs up to sit crisscross. "Alright, Stevie, let's see what you have to say."

He unfolds the pages completely and is met with Will's now familiar penmanship scrawled across the sheets of wide rule paper that has clearly been ripped from a composition notebook. He's seen Will's handwriting plenty over this last year, quickly scribbling notes during DnD sessions and on the little item cards Will makes himself to hand out when he DMs.

Will's handwriting isn't always the neatest, but this looks like Will took time, wanted his writing to be legible. Flipping through the papers he sees it is two pages, front and back, of a letter, and the third page is a list of questions in a different, neater handwriting. He gets the feeling that Will probably didn't paraphrase anything. How many people got letters? How much of Will and El's time was devoted to doing just this?

Eddie feels emotional over this, misty-eyed and a lump in his throat, and he hasn't even read the damn letter yet.

"Shit, Stevie, do you even realize how loved you are?" Eddie asks out loud, turning to look at Porcelain Steve like he might answer him this time. Blank hazel eyes stare forward. Eddie shakes his head, to clear away his thoughts, and gets to reading. Not out loud, because he doesn't want Steve to hear how wet his voice will sound.

Eddie,

I guess the first thing I want to say is thank you. I was kind of freaking out when I first woke up like this. It was calming, that day on the lawn, after Robin and Nancy found me. You were so chill and just chatted my ear off like you would have if I were, like, there. I mean, there there and not like, doll-there, if you get what I mean.

Shit, man, being stuck like this would have been a hell of a lot worse without you, I'm certain. Everyone's been great, of course, and, like, no offense meant, Will and El, but you act most normal. Helps me feel, well, I don't know how, exactly. Describing emotions is not something I'm like, good at. Robin's great, too, but she catastrophizes, you know? And since I can't speak back, she can get herself pretty worked up about this and I hate that. Hate that I can't do anything to help her.

Shit. This isn't your issue. Don't include that. No, wait, do. Sorry, El. (It is here, off in the margin, that Will has added 'I wrote everything word for word. Enjoy the asides to El and me.) Hanging out with you helps her, I think. She seems less anxious on days we spend with you. So, I guess, I also want to thank you for that. For being there for Robin when I can't.

Eddie has to pause there because he had no idea. Robin has been a grounding force for him this whole time. He had no idea he was doing the same for her. She never said, or let on... well, that was probably her goal and now Steve's spilled the beans.

This is getting easier to say, even if I still don't know how to feel about the other two people who are going to be privy to everything said, or I guess from your end, written here. (Here, Will has transcribed a conversation they seemed to have had in the middle of writing this up.) Oh. He means us. - El Yes. Don't worry Steve, we'll do our best to forget everything you've said once it's written down. - Will Steve laughed and says thanks. - El I appreciate that but- well, being honest there's some things I want to say but I don't want anyone else to hear. Those conversations are better left face to face, anyway. So, uhh, what else did I want to say?

Oh! Yeah, I told Robin she could drive around the Bimmer, so she can have a car while I'm- so she doesn't have to bike everywhere but knowing her she probably won't take me up on that offer. Maybe you can talk her into it? Or, maybe she'll be willing to drive your van around and you can take the bimmer.

"Jesus, Stevie, can't you just be okay with existing?" Eddie says it under his breath and tenses instantly. For a moment, he forgot that Steve was right there on the couch with him, could hear him. Now he has to explain himself because Steve's already heard, and without the context of how Eddie really means those words, they can sound judgmental. "Shit. Sorry. I just read the part about your car and, dude, you just don't know how to not try and be helpful, huh? I bet it's destroying you on the inside that you can't do anything. But Steve, you gotta know, we don't care about you because you're useful."

Steve, of course, can't reply, so Eddie goes back to the letter.

Uh, what else was there? Oh! Yeah! I don't get migraines here. Or, in this body? Or, whatever it is. I haven't had one since this happened. Also, no hearing issues. Though I find myself wishing to be completely deaf sometimes. I get that Max can listen to Kate Bush for a week straight, but I'd like a little variety. God, what I wouldn't give to listen to the Top 40 again. Don't say anything, Munson. I can already see your judgmental face at my music taste. Unlike you, I have the ability to like multiple types of music. The Top 40 AND that one song from, uhh, shit. Might not have migraines or hearing issues at the moment, but the memory is still as it was. Which means it is shit. That one song by that metal band where their name sounds like it's metal? You know who I mean. (In the margin, Will has just written five little question marks in a row ?????)

"The band you were thinking of, it's Metallica," Eddie says.

Not important. But, uh, the reason for telling you this. I was hoping you might smuggle me to a show the next time your band plays at the Hideout? Last time I tried to go it was too loud and gave me a migraine, you remember, but I think that I could listen to your whole show like this. We might as well take advantage of the perks of this shit situation, right? So, uh, I wouldn't mind if you did that. Or, like, had Robin or someone else bring me. Whichever.

Actually, wait, I lied, I do care which way. I've already had them pen down Robin's letter, so you'll have to pass this on, but I want Robin to take me. So, I can also watch the show, not just listen. That was the part I liked most, when I went last time, before I had to leave. Wait. Scratch that. Ask Argyle. Other than you, he seems like the only person willing to be caught holding me in public, mostly because I don't think he even knows how to be embarrassed. Jesus that was such a weird sentence to say. Holding me in public. Such a weird thing to experience, too.

Uh, anyway, I think that's it for now. Thanks for everything, Eddie.

"I think you're handling this loss of bodily autonomy rather well, Steve. This letter is a lot more positive than the one I would have written if our roles were reversed," Eddie says with a sigh. He can't help but wonder what Steve would have said in this letter if it hadn't had to be filtered through two teenagers first.

He looks to the last page, the list of questions, and is surprised to see that, mixed in with questions about which sports team is winning (he is not going to watch Sportsball for Steve. There has to be a line drawn somewhere and this is it. He will ask Wayne about it later and hate the glee he sees in his uncle's eyes because now he's going to have to pretend to like sports for the unforeseeable future) and for honest updates about their friends are questions about Eddie's campaign that he's rambled on about since Steve can't escape. Steve wants spoilers, wants to know what Eddie has planned.

Steve has actually been listening. He'd been operating on the assumption Steve just tunes him out when he gets going, unable to stop his brain to mouth filter when it comes to talking about Dungeons and Dragons and his current campaign.

"I'm at your list of questions now. I can't answer anything about sports, and don't think I'm unaware of how you asked me and not Lucas. I see what you are doing and I'm not going to fall for it. So, your first non-sportsball question here; How is Dustin doing, really? Well, that's a whole thing but overall, okay."

[txttletale]

Hi, i dont quite understand the earlier points about the allosexual term!

The way i always understood it all, straight to gay is a spectrum, so would cis and being NB or trans or genderfuild be, and same for ace to allo. As in, demisexuality would be on the gradient between asexual and allosexual. And therefor the term allosexual would hold meaning by sheer ability to talk about the concept of asexuality with more nuance?

I also saw someone in the replies of that post posit that the 'other side' of asexuality would be 'straight, bi, pan, gay, etc' instead of using allosexual as a descriptive term. Whats your take on that? Im asking because, a lot of ace (im using this to include any experience of attraction deviating from the socially expected, so also demi) ppl i know identify as hetero, gay, bi etc as well. As in, an ace person who may lack the ability to feel sexual atttaction to others on sight alone, may still prefer one gender over another if they're still inclined to romantic bonds.

Plus, a lot of asexuals arent sex repulsed either, and the term is purely used to describe an 'aberration' in how ace ppl experience attraction? Therefore, wouldn't allosexual be a helpful destinction?

(Sorry for the long ask, im just curious and like how much thought is usually apparent in your answers here)

essentially, i think where you're wrong is the idea that cis-trans or straight-gay are spectrums. i obviously believe that sexuality and gender, the phenomenons, the actual matters of people kissing and fucking and self defining and being -- those are all mutable and contextual and often defy clear legibility, permeable and impossible to strictly taxonomise. however 'straight' and 'cis' are not just neutral descriptors of another point on a spectrum, but strictly delineated boxes from which any deviation is punished. someone who's gender fluid or gender questioning isn't 'part cis' or 'midway between cis and trans' -- they have deviated outside the acceptable bounds of cishet social performance. & the reason these categories are so cleanly delineated is that unlike other categories they have entire hegemonic social apparatuses -- chiefly homophobia & transphobia -- dedicated to patrolling those descriptive borders of cisness and heterosexuality and brutally punishing anyone crossing them. & the same is simply not true of 'allosexuality' -- there is no such socially enforced category. when ace people face aphobia they are being punished for failing to perform heterosexuality, not just sexuality in general.

[off-the-rails-raccoon]

Did you like the new ending :3 (fuck the old one)

I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!!! It's the best logical way the dsmp could've ended AND because it's so open-ended, it leaves a lot of room for the fandom to build on, which isn't something you see a lot in media nowadays.

HOWEVER, it has been really bothering me these past few days since it was released, and I've had complex feelings about it that I haven't really been able to figure out until somewhat recently. Though, this is probably just me lol!

I'm gonna try to make this as short and legible as I can, but as you know I'm so very bad at that so sorry in advance.

Dsmp has been my main source of entertainment and an escape from just life in general since I first started getting into it—which was back in mid-2020 or so, but that was less of dsmp itself and more of the fandom. Though I still really enjoy the content creators content itself, I've watched them less and less and on the occasion that I see a clip or quote by them (especially Tommy) it's SO jarring how much they've changed and matured, and it's only a reminder of how I've done the same. That's the feeling I got when seeing the new lore. Everything has changed, people have matured, relationships have drifted apart, and we are living in the present.

It's like the feeling of finding an old toy that you distinctly remember loving so very much way back then and realizing you feel indifferent to it now. You've changed, your taste of things you enjoy changed, your relationships with people have changed, and you've grown.

I don't want to go back but I don't want to stop reminiscing, and this ending has made me realize that.