#nectarine: on personal

[nectarine-neuroticism]

saw something insane at my local schnucks (grocery store) today.

there was a group of 20+ or so people (range of ages, race, gender, etc.; but at least 50% were white) lined up outside the schnucks in the spot where girl scouts usually stand.

i was really tempted to record them, but i was worried somehow things would be flipped on me and i would be pinned as harassing them. (i was also really tempted to swipe the shit off their stools they had set up, but then they could have reason to call the ops and press for assault charges or some shit; i kept my cool).

i was leaving w/ my groceries and this one girl called me out, "ma'am? would you like a starbucks giftcard?" and i stopped pushing my cart to turn around and see if i was the person being talked to. i was like "what's the catch lol... for free?" to which she agreed and handed me the card. i spotted BUNCHES of giftcards on the stool and that's what the other people were handing out too.

mind you, i have been boycotting starbucks since... september, i think? idk, it was whenever i found out the ceo was planning on suing their WORKERS UNION for freedom of speech (which i later learned was speaking about palestine on their social media page); and regardless of what the cause was even about, once i heard about a corpco suing their fucking workers union, i was like i'm out this bitch. so, i was like... cool, starbucks that's not on my dollar? i'll take it.

right as i was about to, dumbly, say thanks and ask what they're doing it for, this girl was like (idr if it was 1 or 2) (1) "it's the cost of the life of a palestinian child" or (2) "it's at the cost of the death of a palestinian child." it was something along those lines, but it was loud around me and i was in shock lmao. i just stood there and blinked for a moment, and she leaned back/crossed her arms like she was expecting some kind of argument, but i don't think she was expecting me to be "on their side." i just kind of stupidly said "this isn't even real, this is just... fake." i was meaning fake activisim, but my brain was fucking short circuiting.

i was like "this isn't on my dollar... it's on yours. starbucks already already has this money, if you don't use the card it is just plain waste."

because... if you buy a giftcard and don't put it towards the company that you paid, you are just saving them cups, ingredients, etc. they are SAVING money off you if you don't spend it. it is literally already paid for, so put it to use.

and she just stared at me dumbfounded, mouth open/close kind of thing, and the people next to her were not eager to intervene. so, i was like "this is on you. if this funds the war, you already funded it." and i just grabbed another off the stool and was like, "thanks for the free starbucks."

idk why, but i was jittering out of my skin. the adrenaline was high and i was pissed OFF. like... are you stupid? jesus christ, read a book and touch grass before you do some shit like this. there is a whole wide world of resources available to learn about how you can make a difference rather than give hundreds of dollars worth of revenue to a company you are boycotting. make it make sense??? idk, there was definitely some kind of disconnect there. i almost wished they would have said something back rather than me just awkwardly stutter at them, but maybe i just gave them food for thought and they were chewing?

i KNOW schnucks is damn well NOT letting y'all sit outside on their time for free lmao. once they see you, they will get you. someone is bound to complain.

<tl;dr> very misguided "pro-palestine" demonstration: a bunch of ppl bought out a starbucks of their giftcards and were handing them out for free*, then a very one-sided argument ensues. *free, meaning "at the cost of the life of a palestinian child," their words.

[lilnasxvevo]

“Maybe I should follow amtrak-official, let’s go check them out”

amtrak-official: currently posting FEVERISHLY about their love of peaches

[newtness532]

i know i havent finished a book in like 2 months but i found out theres a big bookstore near the hospital so what if i go book shopping today?

[stephanievex]

Do you ever just eat a huge piece of fruit and think "damn it's good to be alive"

[mirillel]

I'm easily influenced so when i saw somone make shredded frozen nectarine i had to try it immediately lmao

(Pspspsps @catilinas i think you'd enjoy a peach version!)

[nectarine-neuroticism]

you don't have to donate, but help us get the word out there! takes no money to reblog, just share if ya care. :)

fags are allowed to say dyke and dykes are allowed to say fag in the same way that youre allowed to run up and slap your sibling on the back of the head

[snekdood]

i can already tell tumblrs gonna hate peaches, lmao.

[tomandgeriatric]

New redbull tastes like cotton candy

[nectarine-neuroticism]

referencing the previous tags on my post.

[symbieote]

Painting my nails in my underwear while watching FOTR (extended edition natch) and eating a salad is so decadent. I was gonna do a cheeseboard, perhaps even some charcuterie, but like. Actually a salad is so good and I love salads

[newtness532]

every time i eat seasonal fruits, the first i eat is the best ive ever had and then the rest are bad or just okay 🥲

[bluecatwriter]

Today I sat for like 15 minutes watching this squirrel in my backyard eating a nectarine. Unrestrained summer fun.

[dxrlingluv]

I will come back, always

A/N : Reposted because I forgot to put tags, so for that, I will be posting another one-shot later! This was requested, but I forgot to take a screenshot of the ask, so I apologize. Hermes art is from Zieru.

WARNING : Slight angst if you squint really really really hard. GN!reader, protective!hermes.

Word Count : 1.8k

The air in the hidden meadow always tasted of sunlight and wild honey. It was a place tucked away from the world, a forgotten fold in the fabric of the Earth that mortals had long since erased from their maps and their memories. But you remembered. It was your sanctuary, your studio, your quiet kingdom. And, for the past few blissful months, it had become a secret shared with a god.

A blur of motion, a zip of displaced air that rustled the bluebells, and he was there. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, herald of Olympus, and patron of thieves, landed before you with the grace of a feather and the harried energy of a hornet trapped in a jar.

"I'm late, I'm sorry, I know," he said all in one breath, his winged sandals, the Talaria, giving a final, impatient flutter before settling. He ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair, his eyes, the color of a stormy sky, scanning your face with a mixture of adoration and anxiety. "Zeus had a sudden craving for ambrosia tarts from Hebe's personal kitchen and decided it was a matter of cosmic importance. Then Hera needed a message delivered to Iris that was so passive-aggressively coded it took me ten minutes just to decipher the proper intonation."

You couldn't help but smile, setting aside the charcoal pencil and sketchbook you'd been using to capture the dance of light on a spider's web. "Trouble in paradise?" you asked, your voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to his divine flurry.

"You have no idea," he sighed, but the tension in his shoulders instantly melted away as he sat down beside you on the picnic blanket you'd laid out. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your temple in a greeting that was both fleeting and electric. "The only paradise I'm interested in is right here." He looked at your sketchbook. "What masterpiece were you creating today?"

"Just trying to draw the impossible," you said, gesturing to the intricate, dew-kissed web.

"The impossible is my specialty," Hermes grinned, his charm as bright and effortless as the sun. He reached into a small, unassuming leather pouch at his hip—a bag that defied mortal physics—and pulled out a nectarine. It wasn't an ordinary fruit; it glowed with a faint, golden light, and its skin was so perfect it looked spun from sunset. "For you. Picked it myself from a tree on the sun-facing slopes of Mount Pelion. The nymphs there guard them jealously, but I'm very persuasive."

You took the offered fruit, its warmth seeping into your palm. This was your life now: quiet moments of art and solitude, punctuated by the sudden, dazzling arrival of a being who moved faster than thought and stole fruit from mythical guardians just to see you smile.

"Thank you," you said softly, taking a bite. The flavor was explosive, a cascade of sweetness and warmth that tasted of summer days and ancient magic. It was nothing like the pale, earthly fruits you were used to.

Hermes watched you, a genuine, unguarded softness in his gaze, as he whispered, "Anything for you." He leaned back on his elbows, the very picture of leisure, but you could see the way his eyes kept flicking towards the sky, the way one foot tapped a restless rhythm against the ground. He was meant to be somewhere else. A hundred somewhere elses. Delivering decrees, guiding souls, overseeing the endless, chaotic commerce of gods and men. Yet, he was here, with you. The weight of that choice was a constant, shimmering presence between you.

"Tell me about your day," he prompted, eager to anchor himself in your world. "Tell me something slow."

And so you did. You spoke of the stubborn goat you'd seen on the path to the meadow, of the melody a finch had been singing, of the way the clouds were shaped like a great, lumbering beast. He listened with an intensity that made you feel like your small, mortal stories were the most important messages in the entire cosmos. For him, in these stolen moments, they were. He would laugh, his voice a rich and melodic sound, and tell you a story in return—of a squabble between Ares and Aphrodite, or a prank he'd played on a pompous minor river god.

He was in the middle of describing how he'd convinced Demeter's disciples that turnips were the new fashionable accessory when he suddenly went rigid. His head snapped up, his playful expression vanishing, replaced by the sharp, focused alertness of a wild animal.

"What is it?" you whispered, your own heart beginning to beat faster.

"Shh," he commanded, his voice low and urgent. He placed a finger on your lips, his eyes locked on the northern horizon.

You heard it a moment later. A faint, impossibly beautiful sound drifting on the wind. It was music, the clear, resonant plucking of a lyre, a melody so perfect and pure it made the leaves on the trees tremble in reverence.

"Apollo," Hermes breathed, his name a curse. He was on his feet in an instant, pulling you up with him. "My ever-so-righteous, all-seeing, golden-boy of a brother. He's looking for me. Zeus must have sent him."

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to grip you, but Hermes's hand was firm in yours. His usual breezy confidence was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency. This was the other side of him—not just the charming god of wit and speed, but the cunning god of thieves, the one who knew how to hide in the shadows.

"He can't find you here," Hermes said, more to himself than to you. "He can't know about you. They wouldn't understand." He scanned the meadow, his mind working at divine speeds. "The waterfall. Come on!"

He tugged you towards the far end of the meadow, where a small, brisk stream tumbled over a rocky ledge into a deep, clear pool. Behind the curtain of cascading water was a shallow cave, slick with moss and smelling of damp earth and stone. He pushed you gently inside, the roar of the water instantly muting the world. He followed, pressing you back against the cool rock wall.

"Don't make a sound," he whispered, his body shielding yours. Through the shimmering sheet of water, the meadow was a distorted, wavering painting of green and gold. The lyre music grew louder, closer. It was so achingly beautiful it felt like a physical pressure, a demand for truth and revelation.

Apollo's voice, as golden as his music, echoed across the meadow. "Hermes! Brother! The All-Father grows impatient! Your duties await. Cease your aimless wandering and show yourself!"

You held your breath, your cheek pressed against the rough fabric of Hermes's chiton. You could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own. He was a god, powerful and immortal, but here, hiding in a damp cave, he seemed terrifyingly vulnerable.

"I know you delight in your games of concealment," Apollo's voice continued, closer now. He sounded amused, as if this were just another one of Hermes's childish pranks. "But a message of great import must be carried to the Underworld. A king has died. The shades grow restless at the banks of the Styx. It is no time for truancy."

A king had died. Souls were waiting. And Hermes was here, with you, hiding from his sacred duty behind a waterfall. The reality of it settled in your stomach like a cold stone.

Through the water, you saw a flash of brilliant gold as Apollo stepped into the meadow. Even distorted, his radiance was undeniable. He surveyed the clearing, his head tilted. "A peaceful place. Quaint. Not your usual style, brother. I expected to find you haggling in a mortal market or dicing with satyrs."

He took a few steps, his gaze sweeping the area. For a terrifying second, his eyes seemed to linger on the waterfall. You squeezed your eyes shut, certain you were discovered. Hermes's arm tightened around you, a silent promise of protection.

Then, with a sigh of divine boredom, Apollo turned away. "Very well. Have your fun. But the wrath of Zeus is not so easily placated as I. I shall tell him I could not find you."

The lyre music began again, slowly fading as he departed. For a long time, neither of you moved. You just stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, listening to the roar of the water and the fading echo of divine power.

Finally, Hermes let out a shaky breath and sagged against you. "That was... too close."

He pulled back, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. His eyes were dark with the aftermath of fear and a raw, fierce emotion that stole your breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

You could only nod, your throat tight.

"I'm sorry," he said, his forehead resting against yours. "I never wanted to bring this danger to you. For them, a mortal..." He trailed off, but you understood. To the eternal, unchanging gods, your fleeting, fragile life was a curiosity, a plaything. They wouldn't understand why Hermes would risk so much for it.

"You're worth it," he whispered, as if reading your thoughts. "Risking Apollo's search, Zeus's anger... all of it. This time with you is the only thing that feels real anymore. The only thing that's truly mine."

The setting sun cast long shadows across the meadow, painting the water in front of you in hues of orange and deep purple. The danger had passed, but it had left something new in its wake: a profound understanding of what you meant to each other. This wasn't just a dalliance, a god's whim. It was a rebellion.

"You have to go," you said softly, your hand covering his on your cheek. "The king. The souls."

He closed his eyes, a flicker of his burden returning. "I know."

He didn't leave immediately. He leaned in and kissed you, a kiss that was nothing like his earlier, playful greeting. It was deep and desperate and full of the day's stolen joy and terror. It tasted of sun-warmed nectarines and cool, ancient stone. It was a promise and a goodbye, all at once.

When he pulled away, he reached down and plucked a single, impossibly small feather from the wing on his ankle. It shimmered with an iridescent light, catching the last rays of the sun.

"So you know I'll come back," he said, pressing it into your palm. "Always."

And then, with another whisper of displaced air, he was gone.

You were alone again in your quiet kingdom, the roar of the waterfall a constant companion. You stood there for a long time, the cool, magical feather a tangible weight in your hand. The meadow was silent, save for the crickets beginning their evening song. It was peaceful once more, but it was a different kind of peace now—one filled with the lingering warmth of his presence, the echo of his heart against yours, and the aching, hopeful certainty of his return.

[nectarine-neuroticism]

Please share! <3 Much love. :)

Top Surgery Funding!

I know this is a long shot, especially since I don't have many followers, but figured I'd give it a shot anyway. After over 3 years of trying, I finally got confirmation for top surgery! The date will be April 30th, and while I do have funds to cover it, the quote I was given ended up being $3,000 more than I expected. My wonderful roommate (who will be my caretaker during my recovery) ended up making a gofundme to help cover costs, and I've already received way more than I thought I would, but I could still use help to cover the additional cost.

Link will be in the reblogs, and will also be my pinned post! Thank you for reading :]

[levanswrites]

In the Mood

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: He tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list.  His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

warnings: angst. aka the tortured mind™ of james buchanan barnes. sexual frustration, internalized guilt. mention of erectile dysfunction/anxiety around intimacy. eventual fluff.

word count: 1.5k

Bucky’s got… a list. 

Steve’s the one who planted the idea in his head—ways to keep his feet moving, even when his mind couldn’t. Granted, Bucky’s list isn’t tucked into a literal pocket-sized notebook, but it's there.

Some parts are harder than others—debts, loose ends, reparations.

Others, more straightforward. Try sushi. Learn how to download that album Sam won’t shut up about. Figure out the whole ‘zodiac sign compatibility’ thing.

And then there’s the… in-between. Somewhere between the boring and the impossible.

Pieces of normalcy that don’t sit quite right. Loose shrapnel from the fallout of who he once was. 

Like learning how to smile at strangers without feeling like he’s giving something away. Or making small talk that doesn’t spiral into awkward silence.  

Some things feel closer to second nature, though he still needs the safety net of familiarity and trust, like that time he flirted with Sarah just to rile Sam.  

But then again, the prospect of anything with real stakes, like when that blonde barista slipped him her number, sends him running for the hills. 

And between all the tiger photos on Tinder and—again, what the fuck was the deal with all the zodiac signs?—he’s quickly discovered that ‘dating’ in the 21st-century isn’t quite like it used to be. 

You ever hook up with a girl?   

He had just stared at Sam, then, with a slow lift of his metal arm like it was explanation enough.

Of course, there was the whole other issue of… mechanics. 

Something so unspoken and personal he’s barely admitted it to himself.

And he’s tried just about everything short of pills to fix it.

Articles, advice columns. Porn. Even dug out an old magazine or two for nostalgia’s sake, half-hoping it’d jog something loose. 

But most nights he’d come up limp, staring down a bottle of cheap whiskey as restlessness swallowed him whole.

And he tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. 

His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

Caught him off-guard one night, in the produce aisle of some corner bodega, when he was busy frowning at a peach that didn’t look like a peach.

Donut peaches. Crazy, right?

Cocked him an easy smile, a basket full of groceries by your hip as you plucked a different fruit off the stand, its skin leathery smooth and blush pink. 

They’re out of season, though. Might wanna try these nectarines. 

Your smile stayed with him longer than it should’ve. 

So did the sound of your laugh, bright and untroubled, when you apologized for what he could only assume was an irresistibly charming grimace on his part. 

Shoot, sorry, occupational hazard. 

I like your jacket, by the way. 

And just like that, you had him.

The next few weeks were a blur of excuses to visit your small bakery, down by 22nd street. Setting up his laptop like he actually had work to do, just so he’d feel less like a creep when you’d step out from behind the register and spark up easy conversation. 

And somehow, between testing all your newest bakes and staying back till closing to walk you home, he’s missed that fragile window where it felt appropriate to tell you who he is—was. Whatever.

That the gloves weren't some quirky fashion choice, or because he’s got poor circulation. 

But then again, maybe it wasn’t all that accidental.

Because you’re virtually the only person alive who knows him as Bucky—only Bucky—and he thought offering up the truth would change things.

The way you smile, call him handsome. Tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissed him outside that wine bar in Brooklyn, then fixed his hair and the corner of his mouth where your strawberry lip gloss smudged. 

Grabbed his hand and draped it deliberately over your thigh, that one time he took you to see a picture about aliens and space wars—though he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single plot point afterward. 

That memory is a warm thing that turns cold fast. A flicker of heat curling low in his stomach, his hand twitching instinctively toward the space between his legs. 

Then, the spark would fizzle out, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his thoughts.  

And that’s when the spiral would start, the endless rabbit hole that is sex advice by strangers on the internet. Hunched over a dim screen, browser history stacked a mile high with unanswered questions about modern dating, with one particular query searing into his thoughts:

How long should you wait before having sex with someone for the first time?

Because, supposedly, the internet says three dates. To see if you’re really compatible. 

After that point, why even bother? 

And he had to lean back and hold his breath at that, because, shit—tomorrow was date #3. 

So when he showed up to the jazz bar you’d been wanting to try, at exactly ten minutes to 8, the bouquet in his gloved hand was quivering. Like the time he asked out Lucy Ann from the 7th grade.

He'd sought temporary reprieve in the way you gasped, delighted, branding a smile on his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just like you had for the flowers on the first date, then again at the second.

(Because, apparently, no one does this kind of thing anymore, and he had scoffed because—jesus, did guys make it this easy to impress a date nowadays?)

Later, you’d pulled him close under the neon glow of a sidewalk marquee, kissing him soft and slow like you had all night.  

Taste of merlot and something sweeter on your lips when you'd muttered: my place?

And that brings him here, in the narrow hallway of your apartment, just a couple steps from the door because you couldn’t wait for the couch.  

He’s got you pressed against the wall, lost in the plush yield of your lips, the smooth curve of your cheek under his thumb. Because he loves this part, he really does—the way you arch into him, slide your hands under his jacket. Your breaths, shallow and sweet, mixed in with the heady scent of your perfume.

How you smile, for no apparent reason other than the fact that kissing him seems to make you happy. 

But then there’s that quiet thought, again.

And he desperately wishes he was holding your hips for a different reason than to pull away. 

“Maybe,” he pants, swallowing hard because your eyes were making it hard to focus, “maybe we shouldn't…”

Your gaze settles on him for a brief moment, hazy and heavy-lidded. From the wine or from something else, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Then, you pull back promptly, slipping under his arm and disappearing somewhere behind him. 

Now, he’s blinking, staring at an empty wall. 

Convinced that he’s fucked this all up, heart leaping to his throat, something pounding in his head—

Until he realizes that the vibration drumming against his ears is music. 

The soft croon of a clarinet, the brassy blare of trumpets—a familiar melody sweeps over him, and it makes his brows pinch because he knows this one.

A tune he can recognize, for once, wedged somewhere between humid nights on Coney Island and crowded USO dance halls. 

“C’mon!”

Your high pitched laugh against his ear, a gentle tug at his wrist. 

It hits like whiplash, then, the realization of what you’re asking him to do.  

And he feels like an assuming jerk for all the scenarios he’s been playing through his mind since last night—because while he was busy coming up with excuses for why he couldn’t get hard, or why he’s got a metal arm, or why he wakes up in the middle of the night hearing screams that might be his own—you had wanted to… dance. 

He lets himself be drawn by your radiant smile, into the tiny pocket of space where your kitchen meets your living room.

His heart stutters when your hand slides to his back, the other lacing around his gloved fingers. He’s supposed to lead, isn’t he?

Yet, his steps flow in tune with yours, falling into place like they never strayed in the first place.

“Not too bad,” you tease, eyes sparkling, body swaying. 

“…I gotta be honest, I—oh!” A high, happy sound tickles your throat when he spins you, arms arching high over your head. “—didn’t peg you for a dancer!”

His fingers itch to hold you closer. Adoration humming under his skin, threaded with disbelief, because how the hell did he manage to find this? To find you?         

“Guess I’ve got a few surprises left.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Mm, I like that. I’ll have to see what else I can get out of you.”

And the way you say it—all innocent and just a hint too sweet—sends a sudden rush of heat through him.

His breaths halt, feet frozen to the floor.

Shit, is that…?

Heat licks at his nerves, sparks jumping under his skin, and before he can stop to question it, it’s there. 

And instead of running, he leans in. 

The next twirl is deliberate, his hand steady against your waist as you come spinning back to him. 

He grins, the thrill of something new rising to the top of his list.

“Just try to keep up, huh?”

a/n: my first bucky fic! was a bit nerve-wracking branching out into other characters, but this was a lot of fun :) lemme know what u think!

[hazelfoureyes]

would Alastor have sex with a girl on her period? I feel like he’d like it cuz the blood but I wanted to ask the expert ❤️❤️

EXPERT?! Look what you did!

Hazel imagines….

Alastor would see your fidgeting, the way you crossed your legs and squirmed in your seat while listening to people talk around you.

He’d catch you in the hall, twirling his microphone staff, “Why the pout?”

You’d frown, “It’s personal, Alastor.”

“Ah so it’s related to your menstruation.” He said it too casually, you stopped so quickly he nearly fell forward when he stopped too. Alastor read your face, “Smell, dear. I’ve got quite an impressive nose.”

Mortified, “Everyone can smell me?”

He shrugged leaning against his staff, “Who knows? I didn’t care to ask.”

Your eyes looked to the left and down, “That almost makes it worse.”

“As much as I love guessing games,” his eyeroll said he did not in fact love guessing games, “care to clue me in to what we’re talking about?”

“It’s per-,” you couldn’t finish.

“A broken record is no fun, darling.” He closed the distance between you, “I can smell many things. So why not be forthright with it, hmm?” His head cocked to the side, a flash of his threatening radio dial eyes beaming down at you.

“My partner wont touch me, but I’m when I’m on my period I get so -,”

“Aroused.”

His blunt reply with that high toned accent was a punch to your gut, “Yeah. I already feel like shit and they wont even let me in bed with them.” Your chin quivered, emotions sensitive.

Alastor lifted your downcast face with the rounded back of his microphone, tutting, “Has the hotel run out of towels?”

You shook your head, confused.

“No more hot water?”

Another shake.

“Well I don’t see the problem then.” His face leaned down, back curving to lower to your much shorter height, “I’ve never shied away from getting a little bloody.”

༻Masterlist༺

I think if he was down to fuck for whatever reasons he had, the embarrassment reader had of their period would just enhance his enjoyment. If they weren’t embarrassed, he’d still not be offended by the sight and smell of blood, quite nostalgic if nothing else. 👀

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

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@looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos , @sailorsmouth /