#not particuarly sure what or what things

[omar-rudeberg]

Hi Lili! I just wanted to say that I love your fics and I've re-read them multiple times each and they still feel just as special in a re-read as they do the first time around. Inside is no exception. It was so beautiful, loving, but heartbreaking and devastating at the same time (I even shed a tear – or five). It really feels like you just get Wilmon, you know?

And it got me wondering how you think their first time having sex once they're back together (for good now) would happen post episode 6. Like in terms of their feelings and would it be rushed or slow, etc. I'm just really curious about your thoughts on the matter :)

Thank you for sharing your beautiful words and thoughts (even in tags) with us 💜

hello my beautiful beautiful human bean what a love letter you've left me ?! hearing you like and are moved by and go back to my silly little words? wild. astounding. unbelievable. thank you for reading & thank you for coming here to tell me. ahhh 'get' wilmon !! is there any greater accomplishment !! i sure hope you keep feeling this way !!

i've been pondering your second question for so long and i've landed somewhere i hope you agree with...

(fuck me this got more detailed than i bargained for, here have a read more whoopsie daisy)

i have this gut feeling that the first time they have sex post-canon (wild that we can now call it that !!) is ... weird. different. i don't know i can't really explain it, but why i think so is that their intimacy has always been this like, almost homing beacon for their relationship you know? it's been a northern star, a sturdy monolith of everything they feel and need from the other that they can't put into words, a balm that soothes any rough edges that arise from the many many incompatibilities of their individual existences.

it's been tender and exploratory, sweet and gripping, urgent and learnèd and all-encompassing, but it's never been ... slow? it's never been particuarly awkward. they've never had time, really, because with the exception of maybe the fish scene, every time they've had sex has been either a hello or a desperate goodbye.

all this to say that i think the first time they find to have sex post-s6 - and for some reason i picture them in simon's room when they finally get there? can't explain it - i think they fall back into this pattern of urgency and desperation and desire, but then something stops this in it's tracks. honestly i have this vision so clear of like... one of them unable to get it up the first time they want to fuck post-canon hahaha and again i can't explain it but it's true !! in my head it's wille, maybe, and it's something akin to the way - have you ever had that thing happen where you get sick right as you take leave from work to go on a holiday or something? like your body realises you don't have to be switched on for weeks and decides to give you a head cold? something akin to that. wilhelm's adrenaline has run its course and his body's not working the way it did before, it's taking a break, now. finally.

so to finally finally answer your question i think they'll want it to be fast, and suave, and smooth and sexy and dirty and similar to like ep3, but they'll be forced instead into awkward. into slow. into soothing. i picture like, lots of kissing, slow deep kissing, and nuzzling, and grinding (lord, so much grinding), and breaths fanning hot over goose-pimpled skin. i picture them slowly talking, whispering, realising they have it now - t i m e - they have time, now. they don't even have to fuck (the whole shebang) tonight if they don't want to (they do, oh they do want to but they talk about how they don't have to). they spend a lot of time not fucking anyway, just being close and naked and together. i picture them both working wille over so slowly - so gently - finding out together what places on his body react to being kissed, what has his belly pulling tight and having his dick interested, finally. i picture simon being brought to the edge once - twice, maybe - before wilhelm's finally in any state to fuck him, and then god save simon when wilhelm actually does enter him he's so hard and so sensitive and so just as;dkfjas;ldkfj;lsad

okay fuck literally everything i'm so sorry and/or you're welcome? is this what you bargained for? asd;lfj;lsadkjf

(if you made it this far go to my request for prompts next please i think i've put you in the right mindset)

[dustydaddyyy]

v: continental drift | joel miller x f!reader

flash point (series) masterlist

pairing: pre-TLOU! joel x fem!reader (no use of y/n!) summary: on a particuarly wet night, you run across tess servopoulos and joel miller, and they help you out of a tight spot chapter warnings: canon-typical violence and gore, depictions of death and decapitation (don't fucking ask), wound stitching (not sure this is a warning but for my queasy peeps), swearing, FEDRA is still an authoritarian regime, decent amount of POV-changing, the slowest slow-burn of slow burns (because I'm trash and like to make you all wait for it), a decent amount of angst

a/n: the way i giggled nervously when I realized it's been a month and a half since my last update......sorry you guys. also the sam tea is hot so please enjoy it. also this is officially the end of side a so the next time we see joel and reader will be closer to the TLOU canon timeline

The next day, you’re surprised to find Joel back in the coffee shop at the end of your shift. 

“Need something else already? Or just coming to make sure I haven’t been kidnapped?” you ask him sarcastically, as he steps up to the counter, raising a single eyebrow. 

“Just came for some coffee, thanks,” he says, and you sigh. 

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you tell him, peering around the shop, “I just sold my last cup.” 

“Oh,” Joel lets out, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Joel seems awkward. 

“I’ll make you a fresh cup,” you say after a second, giving him a tired smile, “I work here, after all.” 

“Thanks,” he lets out, and you have to bite back a laugh at how woody he sounds. 

Who knew coffee would stump Joel Miller. 

“Did you hear what happened?” he asks you, and while his tone isn’t necessarily urgent, it’s clear the information he acquired is worth sharing as you get to work making an extra cup.

“I came home yesterday and crashed,” you inform him, “So no,” 

“Really?” Joel’s eyes fall pointedly on something that looks suspiciously like a fresh hickey at the top of your collarbone, “You. . . crashed?” 

You give him an unimpressed look. “60 years of life and no one’s ever told you it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?” 

“60?” Joel asks, eyes widening and gruff expression melting from his features almost entirely for a second, “You think I’m sixty?” 

Your cheeky smile gives you away as you let out a small chuckle, shaking your head before giving him an expectant eyebrow as his scowl returns. “What happened, then?” 

“They found bodies this morning,” 

“Bodies?” you ask with a frown, looking up at him, “Where?” 

“Abandoned church on Salem," Joel says, and for a second, your eyes widen, before your frown sets deep again, "Two young guys, both carrying assault-rifle type weapons,"

"You don't think –"

"–that when your little soldier boyfriend said there was a good reason it had been boarded up, he was damn right? That's exactly what I think, sweetheart,"

Your mind is running too many miles per hour to pay any attention to the nickname or the much more comfortable tone Joel seems to take with you as your fingers absent-mindedly reach for the coffee tin.

"Infected?" you ask him, and he nods.

"Overheard a few of his guard buddies talking about it. They're pretty sure it was infected, bodies were so torn up they couldn't ID them,"

"Jesus," you mutter to yourself, your fingers absent-mindedly reaching for the coffee beans tin, only to find it empty, "Shit,"

"Still sure you got enough for a coffee?" he asks, undertone sarcastic, and you manage to roll your eyes.

"Yes," you say pointedly, before turning to peer upwards, where you spot one of the 5-kilo coffee bean bags, "But you're going to have to help take down the new bag,"

Joel nods, walking around and behind the counter to join you as your arms reach out, fingertips barely grasping the edges of the bag. Joel has an easier time reaching, and together, you manage to lug the thing down.

"But why would they stay in the church?" you wonder out loud as you set the bag down on the counter with a huff.

"Beats me," Joel says with a shrug, which only makes the gears in your head whirr harder, frown deepening.

"Doesn't make sense," you mutter to yourself as you use one of the scissors on the counter to open a corner of the bag, leaning it slightly over the edge so you can fill the tin easily.

"What are you thinking?" Joel asks as he observes your face, and you look up at him for a second as your hands go on autopilot, dropping a handful of beans in the grinder.

"I'm thinking­–" you say pointedly, "That they had no business being in that church, no reason to be there. . . the whole place was boarded up, there's signs everywhere. . . they may have been thugs but I doubt they were stupid enough to stick around,"

"Maybe they were just waiting to move the barrel," Joel says with a shrug, and you grimace slightly, shaking your head.

"There were three of them," you point out, pouring the ground coffee into a clean pot, the kettle whistling to your left, "And the checkpoint had already been abandoned for the night. . . best window to do it would’ve been immediately,"

"I'm not sure I follow," Joel says eventually as he stands next to you behind the counter, and you shake your head, bringing your hand up to rub your forehead.

"Don't mind me," you say with a sigh, "Been a long shift,"  

The rest of the process happens in silence, neither you or Joel saying a word to each other as you finish making the coffee. Joel can tell from your expression that you're still pretty deep in thought, and the expression only clears from your face when you've made two steaming cups of fresh coffee. You hand one to Joel, who reaches into his pocket for a ration card. 

“Don’t be silly,” you say, shaking your head with a frown as you finally seem to be pulled fully out of your thoughts, “I don’t want to see a single ration card come out of your pocket, Miller.”

Joel’s hand freezes in his pocket, and for a second, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught off guard by how friendly your tone is, and he’s silent for a minute before he clears his throat, his hands staying in his pockets.

“Alright.” 

"Who was this job for, anyway?" you ask Joel as you take a sip of the coffee you've just made, and he shrugs.

"Dunno," he says, and you resist an urge to smile at the fact that he's talking to you now, "Some wiry fucker Tess knew. . . I think his name was Peter,"

You grimace. "Creepy name for a creepy dude,” 

Joel makes an agreeing snort into his coffee. 

“Fertilizer, huh?" you say, making a face, "What the fuck's he gonna do? Plant a garden?"

Joel lets out a hum as he swallows down his sip. 

"And fuel oil, for some reason," Joel says, clearing his throat, "You put anything extra in this?"

"Wait, rewind–" you say, and suddenly your voice is serious as you set down your cup, "You never mentioned he wanted fuel oil."

Your mind is racing as you finally put together the pieces of the puzzle. The reason they asked for such specific items, staying in the church after, not wanting to be asked nosy questions–

Joel frowns as he turns to look at you, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "Shall I write you a full report? Or just the transcript of our negotiations?” 

"Who was he?" you ask him, tone urgent as your eyes become wide, and Joel frowns deeper, “Joel, who was he?”

"Don't know, told you that already," Joel says, before his eyes flicker with mild concern, "What's wrong?"

You give him an alarmed look.

"Joel, ammonium nitrate is the main ingredient in fertilizer," you say, your voice low and filled with panic as your eyes flit around the half-empty coffeeshop, "And fuel oil––. . .they're making ANFO, Joel, it’s a goddamn–"

You don't know how Joel understands what you mean, but his eyes blow wide as he finally puts the pieces together

"-bomb," he breathes, and at that moment, there's a sound of crashing glass as something shatters the front window of the coffeeshop. Some people scream, those sitting by the window jumping away. It's a brick, and just as people gather to look at it, something else flies through the shattered window.

"Joel–" you yell, and you only just manage to turn your body, hand flying over Joel's shoulder as you push him down behind the counter, going to do the same­–

BOOM. 

The explosion is unlike anything you've ever heard, and if you hadn't had the good sense to press your hands over your ears as the sheer force of the explosives propelled you against the opposite wall, you're sure both your eardrums would have burst as sounds tear through the atmosphere around you.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself on your back, and everything hurts. Your gaze is directed at the ceiling of the building, your temples pulsing with pain, and all you can see above you is smoke, half burning embers floating through the air as you try to blink the dust out of your eyes. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure your vision, but you can still see the gaping holes in the ceiling from which pieces of stucco rain down. There’s a deafening silence in your head, filled only with a distant ringing, and your eyes blink several times as your vision becomes less blurry, bringing into focus the burning embers floating through the air as if dancing on the wind. 

For a single moment, the silence is almost peaceful as you watch them flutter down around you, eyes still blinking as your mind seems to process what has just happened, before you feel your lungs expand with a breath, and the illusion of peace shatters. 

The next breath you take is stifling, the dust scratching the inside of your throat as you try to breathe any kind of oxygen in your lungs. You’re vaguely aware of something entering your vision, a familiar face, but your eyes don’t immediately focus on Joel’s face until you feel his hands on either side of your arms, pulling you upright and propping you up against the wall. You're still dazed as your eyes roll over the scene. Most of the counter is still standing, but the front, near to where you’d been standing, has been blown to bits and everything once standing on it, is either in pieces, or strewn across the floor. 

Your eyes are torn away from the scene as you feel a squeeze in your arms, and your gaze meets Joel’s. His face is dirty, covered in grime, but his eyes are alight like you’ve never seen them, more present and alert than ever as they inspect your face. He looks relatively unharmed, except for a few bleeding cuts and scratches on his face as his eyes search your face, and you see something in his eyes you'd not seen on him before. He looks worried.  

You watch as he moves his mouth, and it looks like your name, but you still can’t hear anything except for that damn ringing. Your eyes try to make sense of the movement of his lips, but you’re too distracted by the thundering of your heartbeat in your chest. Joel seems to finally understand you can't hear him as his eyes look into yours. They’re wide with shell shock, continuously flitting between him and your surroundings in an effort to gain your bearings.

Everything feels like it's moving in slow motion. You swallow hard, trying to clear your ears, but still the ringing doesn't subside. The only thing that seems to work is your nose, and the smell is horrible, a mix of acrid smoke, burning plastic and thick dust which oppresses your lungs. Joel gives your arms another squeeze, forcing you to look back at him, the shape of your name once again appearing on his lips. You shake your head at him, eyes wide with fear as they stare into his. You watch him as he swallows hard, eyes flitting around desperately, seeming to consider something. Then he moves beside you, taking your arm and slinging it over his shoulder. He says something else that you still can’t hear, but you nod as he looks at you, anticipating it as he pulls you up. You let him, trying to cooperate as much as possible, but your whole body hurts, screaming at you to lie back down again. 

The minute your eyes focus on the full scene of the coffeeshop, your stomach turns and you wish you had never seen it. 

Smoke and debris fills the air, casting an eerie haze over the scene; tables and chairs are strewn about like discarded toys, and the floor is a harrowing canvas of debris, bodies, body parts. . .  you can see some people moving, crying, screaming. . . bending over others that lie face down and deathly still, blood smeared across the floors of the shop like morbid strokes of paint. The entire front of the coffee shop has been blown open, and the ground is littered in glass from the shattered windows which glitters dangerously in the fading daylight. 

You can’t focus on it any longer as you feel Joel pull you towards the back door, keeping one arm around your waist to hold you up and using the other to push open the door. You quickly move past the backroom, before Joel is pushing against the heavy fire escape door, which sends you both stumbling into the alleyway as it gives way. You let go of Joel at that moment, and he helps you down on one of the upturned boxes against the wall of the alley. 

Your hearing is slowly returning, the ringing becoming less and less as you can start to hear your own heavy breaths. It’s still muffled as you try and calm your thundering heartbeat, hand coming down to rest on your knees as your bow your head, shoulders shuddering. Your mind keeps flashing back to the images from inside, the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh still so present in your nostrils it makes you violently nauseous; the tears streaming down one woman’s grime-covered face, the man screaming in pain as his hands desperately the thigh from which his bone is protruding, a teddybear lying in a pool of blood, loosely clenched in the hand of its lifeless owner. . . 

Your breathing is shallow as you register what you've just seen, trying hard to keep your breath under control, but your pants are ragged as you try to steady your shaking hands on your legs.  

"Oh god," 

You bring a hand to your mouth, the feeling of wanting to throw up overcoming you suddenly, but you find that nothing comes out except for a hoarse cough.

A voice drifts through the fog, muffled at first, before it becomes clearer as it repeats your name. You look up at Joel as your hearing finally sharpens, so you can hear the blaring of sirens in the street as several trucks drive past the alleyway, the shouts from outside and the screams from inside. 

“Those people. . .” you stammer, your eyes wide as they meet Joel’s, glittering with tears, “We have to–”

“There’s nothing we can do,” he says, a little breathless, but his voice solemn, “We have to get out of here. . . there could be more–” 

“Joel!” you let out, your voice still tinged with horror and shock. 

“We can’t!” he lets out, shaking his head as he looks down at you, “We can’t help them, okay? We have to go. . . if they decide to blow up another building, or god forbid, the fucking FEDRA army descending on this place right now, we’re in deep shit.”  

After a second in which you stare at each other, you nod shortly, heaving a breath. 

“You still have the keys to your place?” Joel asks, and you take a second to feel for them in your back pocket. Thankfully, they appear not to have fallen out during your ordeal, and you nod. 

“Alright,” Joel says with a curt nod, before looking down at you, “Can you stand?” 

You nod weakly, before getting to your feet. Your legs are still wobbling a little, and you frown as you feel pain flare through your ankle. Joel notices, and doesn’t even ask before he stands beside you again, taking your arm again to steady you against him.

You go as fast as possible, but it still feels like an eternity before you reach the building in which you live, the people in the streets either too busy running towards or away from the wreckage of the shop to pay attention to you. The minute the door closes behind you, Joel walks you over to the kitchen table, and sits you on top, your chest heaving a pained sigh. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and even though his tone is neutral, his hand comes up, two fingers gently taking your jaw to analyze your face. He tilts your head to look at the side of your face as you groan slightly. 

“I can’t hear anything on the left,” you say, and he hums. 

“You’re bleeding. . . eardrum must be bust.” 

“Shit,” you let out, closing your eyes and trying to take a deep breath as you feel Joel's fingers leave your face before he steps away from you. 

“You got a first aid kit? Anything like that?” 

You nod, motioning towards the sink. “Cupboard under the sink.” 

Joel moves towards the sink, before crouching down and opening the cupboard under it.  

“What about Tess–”

“She’s a smart woman,” he says through a strained voice as he gets to his feet again, setting the kit down on the counter, “She’ll figure out where we’ve gone if she has any suspicion we survived that. . . ANFO. . . I should’ve fucking known,” 

Joel feels his stomach churn with guilt; of course he knew what ANFO was, they use to use it quite a bit way back when he was still rebuilding houses for a living. 

“What was that?” you let out, and Joel’s face darkens as he grabs a glass from the upper cupboard and fills it with water. 

“Pipe bomb,” he mutters, before he looks over his shoulder briefly, eyes pausing on the scratches that litter your arms, “Something like nails of bolts in it, from what I can see. . . the ANFO packs a pretty big punch in of itself, but the nails and bolts do double the damage because they act like shrapnel. . . it’s what the Unabomber did,” 

Joel vaguely remembers watching a TV documentary on the Unabomber with his ex-wife, which had detailed his similar methods. He briefly wonders– or rather hopes– that the dude died during the Outbreak. 

“Jesus Christ,” you let out in a breath, burying your head in your hands, “Who the fuck would do that?” 

“People who feel like they aren’t being heard,” Joel says darkly as you hear him step back towards you, and you feel like sobbing. 

Hadn’t the outbreak been punishment enough? Weren’t people sick of pain and grief? 

“We sold them that shit, Joel,” you say through your hands, the despair and guilt in your tone clear as day. 

He comes to stand in front of you again, leaving the kit and the glass of water on the table next to you, before pulling one of the chairs from the side of the table to sit facing you. 

“I know,” he says solemnly as he sits down and opens the first aid box, pulling out some rolls of gauze. You finally look back up, eyes meeting his, and Joel can see in your eyes that you’re struggling with grasping this particular fact. 

Of course Joel feels guilty, to some extent, but he'd been in the smuggling business long enough to adhere to the policy that once it was out of his hands, it was no longer his business.

“Here,” he says, swallowing as he grabs your arm, zeroing in on the largest cut.

Ironically it looks much worse than it actually feels, and almost the majority of your forearm seems covered in dried and fresh blood from this particular wound. Joel works in silence, cleaning the large cuts one by one and dressing them. You don’t mutter a word either, as you sit still and stare ahead of yourself a little. Joel knows you must be in shock, and he feels a strange amount of concern every time a loud sound from the street makes you flinch. 

“Sorry,” you mutter after a particularly loud bang in the street outside makes you jump, and Joel temporarily loosens his grip on your arm as he bandages it. 

“S’okay,” he says after a second, looking up at you briefly only to find your eyes unfocused once again, staring almost vacantly at the window. He notices your ears straining for sounds from the street, brows tied tightly together like you were searching them. Then, you feel Joel’s fingers back on your chin as he gently turns your head away from him. 

“Still nothing?” he asks as he cleans the trickle of blood that has run from your ears down your neck. You shake your head as you feel his other hand come up, “What about this?” 

You assume he snaps his fingers, but you only hear it on your other side. You shake your head. 

“No,” you say, swallowing. 

Joel lets out a sigh before his hand falls back down to his lap. 

“Shouldn’t last very long,” he says, in an attempt to distract you, “Maybe one or two weeks.” 

You give a non-committal hum as you nod, eyes still not meeting his as he returns to the final scratches on your arms. 

“Stop thinking about it,” he says after a second, and this gets your attention, your head turning to look at him as he hunches over your arm. 

“How?” you return, and he looks up at you, “How do you stop thinking about it? I–. . . those people are all dead, Joel. . . that could’ve been us.” 

“Well lucky for me you got some fast reflexes,” he says, his tone almost joking as he looks back down to your arm, and you shake your head ever so slightly. 

“This isn’t funny, Joel,” you say, and your voice is heavy with emotion as he looks up at you, your eyes shining with tears. 

“I know,” he replies with a sigh, looking up at you, “I never said it was.” 

There’s a split second in which you look at each other, before you swallow shakily and look away again, silence falling over you both.

It lasts only a second before you speak up again. 

“How come you’re always the one patching me up?” you mutter, your tone half-hearted, making Joel let out a small scoff. 

“Maybe because you keep getting yourself into trouble, sweetheart,” he returns as he wraps the rest of the bandage over a particularly large gash on your arm, careful to keep his grip loose around the fresh scar of your stab wound. 

“Saving your life, you mean,” you mutter, and Joel emits a dry chuckle, before looking up at you from where he’s sitting hunched towards you. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, or if it's even a good idea, but he finds himself putting a reassuring hand on your knee, which he feels under his fingers is still trembling.

“That’s twice now,” he says with a squeeze of your knee, “You done being a hero? ‘Cause I’m afraid there won’t be much left of ya if this happens again.” 

His face doesn’t reveal much, but his tone is strangely gentle, caring. . . something you’ve never before heard from Joel. 

“Yeah, I’m done,” you say with a groan as you try to sit up a little more, Joel’s hand leaving your knee with a slight pat, before he gets to his feet. Then, his eyes fall on something under your chair, and he frowns. 

“Are you bleeding?” he asks you, looking back up, and your eyebrows knit together as you follow Joel’s eyeline and find, to your great concern, a rapidly growing pool of blood gathering at your feet. 

“I–. . . I didn’t think I was,” you let out, frowning slightly, before Joel steps around you, and you listen as he takes a sharp intake of breath. 

“Your shoulder,” he says as you watch his hand go into the first aid kit and reach for the scissors, “You don’t feel that?” 

“I mean a little, but, fuck–. . . ! What was that for?” you ask him, turning around to glare at Joel, who just used what felt like his entire hand to press down on the wound, making your shoulders erupt with pain. 

“Sorry,” Joel mutters, as you feel his fingers pick up the hem of your shirt. Then, you hear the scissors cutting through the fabric of your top, “Doesn’t look too deep, but you’ll need a few stitches I think.” 

“More fucking stitches,” you grumble to yourself, shaking your head as Joel peels the shirt from your back, “At this rate I’m going to be, like, 90% scar tissue.” 

“And water,” Joel adds in an attempt at a joke, and to his credit, you chuckle slightly. 

“And water, I suppose,” you say with a nod of your head as he reaches into the first aid kit for something to suture you with. You sit in silence as Joel cleans the needle and then your wound, before you feel him put his hand on your shoulder and he starts to sew you up. 

It hurts, and you immediately feel tears spring into your eyes as your shoulders tense and your fingers tighten around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. 

“If you relax, it’ll hurt less,” Joel says, and his voice is practically in your ear, his breath fanning over your exposed skin. 

“I’m being stitched up by a stranger with no pain medication or alcohol. . . I think you can understand why I’m tense,” you reply with a sigh. 

Joel says nothing, but you can hear him thinking. You wonder about what. 

“Stranger, huh?” Joel asks you with a hum, and you snort.

“What word would you use?” you reply, eyebrows creasing, “Because something tells me you’re not the type to have friends.” 

Joel says nothing, only letting out a grudging sound as you feel the needle pierce your skin again, which makes you grit your teeth, shoulder tensing up again. 

“Jesus Christ woman, relax,” Joel says again, letting out a breath as you feel him put a hand on your other shoulder, “Or I’ll sew you up crooked.” 

You try your hardest, letting out a shaky breath and forcing your shoulders to un-tense, but it still isn’t enough, and Joel heaves a sigh as he tries to think of a way to distract you enough so he can sew you up at least half-properly. 

“Be honest,” he says eventually, “How the fuck did you survive a month and a half out in the open?”

You’re silent for a second, and Joel waits for your answer before getting back to work. 

“I was by myself,” you say eventually, as Joel places another stitch, which you react less violently to than the last one, “That sounds stupid, but I’m pretty sure that’s how. . . you have nobody else relying on you, you’re responsible for nobody and only have yourself to answer to. . .  you’re entirely alone.” 

“Here I was thinking that’s exactly what leads people to giving up,” Joel notes, throwing another stitch, and you let out a breath. 

“You’d think that, but spite is a good motivator,” you admit, “Most of my time traveling I was just angry at the universe for putting me through the ringer. . . so I kept going. . . kind of like a ‘fuck you’, huh?” 

“So you’re telling me–” Joel says, stopping to place another stitch, which you hiss at slightly, “–that you survived 2 months of hiking through the American backcountry as a fuck you to the Universe?” 

“Canadian backcountry, actually,” you correct, before chuckling slightly, “But yeah, pretty much.” 

“Canada?” 

“Hm,” you give an agreeing hum, “We’d heard the midwest was hell on earth. . . as much hell as you can get in an apocalypse, I suppose. . . so I crossed the border somewhere in North Dakota, walked along the border.”

“What about infected?” Joel asks, and you shake your head. 

“Only in and around big cities,” you note, “The rest is mostly national parks and forest, so I ran into relatively little trouble. . .infected were really the least of my worries, it’s the people.” 

Joel gives an agreeing hum, but before he can open his mouth to reply, your front door flies inward with an almighty sound and you hear someone’s hoarse voice call out your name. 

You jump again, eyes widening. From behind you, you’re vaguely aware of Joel’s hands having left your shoulders, and you hear the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off. 

Sam doesn’t look too injured as his wide eyes search the room before falling on you. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and he has some smears of grime on his cheek, as well as a bloody handprint on the side of his pants that looks too small to be his. When he sees you, his face simultaneously relaxes and tightens at once. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he eyes the cuts on your arms, seemingly not even noticing Joel sitting behind you, and you nod. 

“Just a few scratches,” you assure him, and he lets out a breath, before his expression becomes stormy. Behind you, Joel moves again, his hands coming back up to your wound where you assume he’s almost finished. 

“The fertilizer,” Sam pants in a panicked voice, “Who did you give it to, speedy?”

“I kno–” you say, but Sam doesn’t listen. 

“–because if you mix fertilizer with fuel oil you get–”

“–a bomb,” you finish, “I know, Sam.” 

Sam’s voice stalls in his throat, eyes widening. “You knew? You knew they were planning on blowing people up and you went along with it anyway?” 

“Obviously, I didn’t know that,” you reply sarcastically, and Sam lets out a scoff as Joel puts another stitch in your shoulder, palms coming up to steady your bicep. 

“Sweetheart, I’m sure this is a very important conversation, but I’m gonna need you to hold still for me,” he says, his voice low but still audible as he focuses on the stitch.

Something in Sam's face twists when he hears the nickname, and Joel recognizes the flash of jealousy behind the young soldier's eyes that makes him realize this might not have been his smartest move. He doesn't find himself caring too much, drawing some satisfaction in the way Sam sizes him up.

"I'm sorry, but who the fuck are you?" he asks him, moving his rifle towards Joel; not quite pointing it, but enough to tell him his attention has shifted, and not in a good way.

Joel takes up the challenge, moving his gaze from you to Sam, his shoulders setting imposingly as he gives Sam an almost unimpressed eyebrow from over your shoulder.

"Someone who doesn't have the fucking time for your little schoolboy crush."

"Joel," your voice is a sharp warning, "Not helping. . . Sam, I didn’t know.” 

“I don’t care,” Sam says with a shake of his head, “Come on, you can’t be stupid like this, speedy.” 

You close your eyes as you feel another stitch, face contorting in pain momentarily before you sigh. “I know.” 

“–and all those people. . . did you know they killed fucking kids? I mean Jesus Christ,” Sam lets out again, and at this your jaw sets slightly. 

“FEDRA hung an entire family for trying to come into the QZ last week,” you say, your tone cold, “You don’t need to lecture me on the blood staining my hands, thanks.” 

There’s an uneasy silence between the two of you as Sam takes heavy, angry breaths, and after a second, Joel clears his throat, chair grating as he gets to his feet. 

“All done,” he says, his voice back its usual stoicism, but neither you nor Sam pay him any attention as he walks to the other end of the room to clean his hands in the sink.

“You have to stop,” Sam says with a shake of his head, hands on his hips as he gives you a look. 

“I have stopped–”

“No, I mean you have to stop smuggling,” he says with a shake of his head, “I don’t ever want you anywhere near this shit again.” 

Normally you’d agree with Sam, but something about his tone irks you. It’s too authoritative, too controlling.

“Excuse me?” you utter, eyebrows flying up your forehead, “I don’t need you telling me to do anything, Sam.” 

“Clearly, I have to– given you’re in absolutely no fit state to make any sound fucking decisions,” he hisses at you, and his tone has a venom to it you've only heard him use a handful of times. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” you let out, and Joel can hear in your voice that you’re stung. 

“You really want to know what my problem is?” he seethes, before motioning towards Joel, “This. . . ! This is my problem! This ridiculous rebellion you have going on, that you’ve had since the day you left the academy, that makes you run around here like some kind of untouchable, twisted version of Robin Hood. . . it’s stupid, speedy, and sooner or later it’s going to get you killed.” 

“Hasn’t gotten me killed yet,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest, and Sam lets out a sound of exasperation. 

"I don't fucking care!" Sam lets out, his voice loud with anger and frustration, "You aren't listening–. . .  the Fireflies’ cause isn’t any more noble than FEDRA’s regime. . . they’re all the fucking same, they lie and they kill, and sooner or later, they'll turn on you and you'll end up like your fucking dad."

"What?"

Your tone is shocked, and Sam watches with a guilty turn of his stomach as your eyes widen in shock, and grief, glistening with the oncoming threat of tears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Sam says your name, but you interrupt him as you get to your feet suddenly, the sound of the grating chair filling the otherwise silent room.

"Tell me," you say through gritted teeth, and Samuel purses his lips, jaw clenching in frustration with himself as he takes a second to answer you.

The room is so silent that even with his bad ear, Joel is sure he could hear a pin if it dropped.

"It wasn't some random bystander that snitched on your dad," Samuel admits finally, and Joel realizes with a horrible turn of his stomach what he's about to say, "It was the Fireflies. They weren't happy he stopped helping them, and so they tipped FEDRA off that he’d been letting them run operations through the shop."

Your vision is starting to narrow as you take a shallow breath, eyes boring into Samuel. "How do you know this?"

“It doesn’t matter–”

"No– Samuel, how do you know this?" you say, your gaze going back to the boy you'd known for 13 years, your eyes filled with the puzzle pieces you're struggling to put into place, "If we were ever friends. . . please tell me."

Samuel's eyes plead with yours as your brain works overtime, before he lets out a defeated breath, shaking his head. "Burke is my mom's name, I took it when I joined the academy because I was sure they wouldn’t let me in otherwise. . . my dad's name is Hartwin."

Even Joel recognizes the name; it had been whispered in the streets for the past few years as word spread of the Fireflies' revolution and victory in San Francisco, led by a hardened ex-marine called Jack Hartwin. His name had been spoken with a twisted kind of admiration, word of his liberal use of violence somehow less known.

"Sam," you let out, your voice trembling as you blink once, tears still refusing to spill down your cheeks as your face becomes a mask of realization, "Oh god.” 

“Speedy, please–”

He takes a small step in your direction, but you respond with a step back, your body almost flinching at that stupid nickname falling over his lips. It had been for a stupid reason, as well, a name he’d called you after you’d out-sprinted almost your entire class during a training exercise at the academy. You had let him, allowing the nickname to take hold until eventually he had started to use it more than your actual name. Now, the name sounds poisonous coming out of his mouth. 

“How long have you known?” you ask him, your voice is trembling with both rage and betrayal, “And don’t you fucking even think about lying to me.” 

Sam’s face becomes a mask of solemn guilt. 

“Since the beginning,” he admits sorrowfully, “I found out who you were a few days after you joined.” 

“You knew–” you say, your voice stalling in your throat as you hear your heartbeat thunder in your ears, “You knew all this time, and you never told me?”

“What would you have done with that information? We were sixteen, speedy,” Sam pleads.

“You were protecting him,” you accuse, your voice hoarse with pain and anger. 

"I was protecting you," Samuel shouts back, his eyes wide and pleading, "That's all I ever wanted to do, okay? My father would've destroyed you if you'd gone after him. . . you were my friend, the first and only one I’d ever had, and I couldn’t in good conscience say anything–"

“That wasn’t your decision to make!” you explode, and finally the tears flow freely over your cheeks, “This whole time, you lied to me. . . you looked me the face and you lied to me, for thirteen fucking years, I–”

Your voice stalls in your throat as you take a shaky breath, your trembling hand coming up onto your forehead, your chest tight and uncomfortable as you fight the overwhelming urge to hurl. 

“Speedy, please,” Sam says, and his voice is shaky, “I wasn’t protecting him. . . I want nothing to do with him. . . I was horrified when I found out what he’d done, I joined the academy out of spite because I wanted to get as far away from him as I possibly could.” 

“How fucking noble of you,” you spit, your tone venomous as you refuse to look at him.

Silence falls on the kitchen, not a word spoken by anyone, until eventually you let the breath out again, just as shaky as when it came in. Sam tries one more time, saying your name, your actual one. . . but you interrupt him before he can get any further. 

“Get out,” you say, and this time, your voice is firm and furious. His eyes widen with surprise and hurt for a second, before his brow creases slightly. 

“What?” he utters, his voice filled with pain, his eyes even flitting helplessly to Joel for a second, who is still standing in the corner as quietly as he can, wishing he had the superpower to turn invisible right now.

“You heard me, get out,” you repeat, and you’re still not looking at him, fingers pressed against your mouth lightly as your eyes look down at your feet. 

His expression becomes almost pleading. “Speedy–” 

“Samuel,” you return, your eyes, alight with fury, finally meeting his. 

You say it like a warning, and Sam presses his lips together as he watches your expression. 

“Get out of my house before I do something I regret,” you seethe, and Joel watches your fists clench at your side. He feels his shoulders tense slightly, readying to move just in case your common sense fails you and he has to actually pull you off the soldier standing in your living room holding an assault rifle. When Sam says nothing, you repeat yourself, your voice raising. “I said get out, Sam, fucking get out, before I–”

“What?” Sam interrupts you anyway, shaking his head “Before you kill me. . . ?”

He doesn’t say it with scorn nor anger, tone maybe a little disbelieving but open and vulnerable nonetheless. 

When you say nothing, he takes a breath. “You would do that to me, Speedy?” 

Joel knows it’s going to happen before it does, watches as your fingers curl around the glass of water on the table, hears the sound of it shattering as you knock it over. It doesn’t hit anyone, but Sam jumps slightly at the sound, but to his credit, his gun remains unfired. 

“Don’t fucking call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that again,” you shout at him, “Get out of my face. . . I don’t ever want to see you again.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Sam says, and Joel notes that he actually sounds genuinely upset.  

“With all my heart I fucking mean that, Samuel,” you say, your voice barely controlled as your eyes shine with tears of anger, “I mean it. . . I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want to hear your name. . .I curse the fucking day you ever even spoke to me, if you’d just minded your own damn business you’d have saved us both the fucking trouble.”

Sam is completely silent as he processes your words, the only sounds in the room that of your breathing. 

“Get.out.”  

Sam heaves a defeated sigh, his own eyes shining with threatening tears. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that Joel is witnessing this, his eyes focused only on you as his eyes plead with yours. 

Finally, he turns on his heel and walks to the door, before pulling it open. He pauses there, before turning his head slightly over his shoulder, but without looking at you. 

“For what it’s worth,” he says, before swallowing harshly, “I only did it because I love you. . . you’re my family, not him.” 

Every word he says feels like a gut punch, and you show him your back as you try and take a deep breath, feeling your face contort as you’re overtaken with the sudden urge to cry. 

The door clicks shut quietly behind him. 

You take a deep breath, clearing your throat and looking at the ceiling for a second, before walking towards the door that leads to what he assumes is your bedroom, passing by Joel standing in the corner in silence. Your face is a mask of so many emotions Joel can hardly keep count; hurt, betrayal, rage, and he can see the tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheeks, but you don’t meet his gaze. He says your name, but you ignore him as you pass him by, only saying in a hoarse voice: 

“Please do me a favor and show yourself out.” 

Joel barely has time to nod wordlessly before your door slams shut with an almighty bang.

END OF SIDE A

a/n: ya'll i PROMISE it gets more exciting/more spicyyy. i just needed to establish this so i could flesh out the reader/joel dynamic and the basis for their relationship. please please bear with me, i have a plan heheheh. as usual, please let me know what you thought of this chapter and the story as a whole, i love hearing your input/feedback :)

taglist:

apart from those of you who explicitly asked to be added, i also took the liberty of tagging some of you that showed interest in more parts (if you do not want to be tagged, please please let me know, in which case i apologize in advance for doing so!)

@tanushreeg27 @user1112223334449890171 @frecklefacelm @samarav @alyssiamarierenee @platinumblondeedition @huntersandpie @lizlil @lumpypoll @pedro-pascal-3nthusiast @phryne-fish @ponyboys-sunsets

as usual, replies, reblogs and likes are highly appreciated!

[weaselbeaselpants]

Want to say this outloud so that the rest of the tag+comunity knows it and knows it well: not all the Lily Orchard-critical blogs and people HAVE to be buddy-buds with each other. It's always nice to have unity and no-infighting but you need to understand we are all adults talking about how we and other people have been hurt/set-upon by her base, or even preyed on by Lily herself.

Barring shitty transphobes and KiwiFarms (I 100% get why someone would go there, espec when receipt trails are getting harder and harder to keep up and are reported as harassment in sites like this one; I personally wouldn't trust the farms and the bozos there to handle my info well or with good faith. Other people who are using farms for receipt-tracking? Sure. The Farms themself? Fuck no and fuck Null) and obviously predatory people in their own right like Zena and Poppy, we're here to tell our stories and make sure other people's stories get told. Beef, even particuarly ugly beef like accusing each other of dismissing ab*se, zionism, or being angry that we're on servers w people we don't like - it's valid to not be chummy and mad at each other. Still, none of that will ever make us what Lily (or Zena and Poppy) is.

Lily Orchard-

wrote CP (her 'Stockholm' series). It may not have involved real children so it's not punishable by law in many states/prefectures, but y'know writing graphic cp is not a good thing. Most annoying proshippers defend the semantics of 'drawn material' out of fear that those rules will be abused and used to silence non-vile art: BUT, they don't support it and they don't want it around;

also, Lily up and lied to her audience, first that she ever wrote Stockholm then that the videos were she admitted to writing it were deepfakes and that the fanfiction's graphic bits were edited in by bronies who were mad at her.

stole (ie. copy-pasted other people's writing) other people's words and passed them off as her own

CONSTANTLY talks over people of color and other queer people. I'm too damn white and not native to dictate if Lily is truly 'native' or not. What she does/say though in the name of fighting for other lgbtq and bipoc folk is really scummy.

and that's JUST the tip of the iceberg!! Lily-

had PatchworkHearts make graphic p0rn of her behind her[Lily's] partner's back, most of which Patchwork was not comfortable with making but did so out of desperation that Lily took advantage of, including drawing r@pe-bestiality of on of Lily's x's ocs.

is quite possibly is a serial sock-puppeteer; creating accounts to live out her darker fantasies. On the offchance that Tara Callie is somehow a real person, than that real person is vile as hell and was just as much (longer so) a friend of Lily's than she was Britt's, so it's cruel of Lily to act like Britt was complacent in Tara's crimes and not her.

has been accused of lying about medical ailments to get money from her audience.

immediately dumped ILoveKimPossiblealot for having the gall to talk to LIly's accusers and get their stories, rather than just take Lily's word.

keeps instinctively misgenders people and only stops when she gets any heat for it like she did to EssenceofThought. By contrast every one of her main critical blogs has not misgendered or deadnamed her, and the one who initially did has actively avoided deadnaming and misgendering her since.

in now deleted videos and older tumblr posts, told friends of abuse victims not to care about their abused friends and parents of incestuous siblings to accept their children's incest.

is being accused by her sibling of CSEM. Lily has said it's the other way around but then also draws her sibling as the darvo'd sister from an incest game, dismisses said siblings abuse at the hands of their half sibling because Lily 'loves' him, and also proudly has mentioned beating up said sibling and slying saying she 'ran off with a pedophile' at 17 as though being taken advantage of (I know, Courtney does not view said relationship like this) is the sibling's fault.

And that's all I could remember for a single post. Im going to go back and post links once this headache I'm suffering from is sated.

[earthearthearththearth]

Hello! How would the Mercs be with an S/O who has chronic health conditions (totally not because I’m self indulgent with a connective tissue disorder)

💕TF2 Mercs With An S/O With Chronic Health Conditions💕

Includes: all

Note: I referenced arthritis a lot for this and general connective tissue disorders. If anything is wrong, please correct me and I'll correct this!

🛠Engineer- You KNOW this man would be the most understanding. Not that it’s the same, but his hand was amputated, and even though he may have a hand now, he didn’t for a while! So he gets it. He isn’t overbearing, but he is attentive with how you are feeling. He’s willing to help out with anything, and although he knows you can handle yourself, that doesn’t stop him from going to Medic on the days you seem particuarly hurt or fatigued. He does his research and tries to see if any of the tips on there work. Most of them are emotionally based-don’t be overbearing, see what you can do, but he keeps up on the more physical ones too. Which means he likes to go for walks! Being from the country, he used to go on walks all the time. Nowadays he doesn’t have much time, but he tries to be there for you. 

🔥Pyro- “Aww he doesn’t get it so you go in the blanket pi-” NO! NO!! Just explain it, man. And if you don’t want to explain it, or if he’s embarrassed to ask, he’ll ask someone else. Pyro will get it, he’s not dull. Of course he doesn’t know most medical terms, he’s been hanging out with the same 8 people for the majority of his life, and the doctor there isn’t even licensed. At first he does think you are dying. But luckily that is cleared up before he sees you again. He can be a little overbearing at times, but he understands when you need your space. He just hates to see you hurt, and being uncared for with his own health problems (burn victim, i headcanon) has left him with the innate desire to make sure you always know your problems matter. 

⚾Scout-Scout is a goober and I’m not going to lie to you, he hears “connective tissue disorder” and thinks your bones are going to disconnect. Like, your arms are just going to be socks of butter. Eventually he is corrected, but it never leaves his head. Lucky for you, this boy is incredibly active, so there is never a dull moment. Sometimes he gets a little too caught up and you kinda gotta be like 

“Hey remember when I had chronic health conditions” 

And he’s like, “yeah :3” 

“Well they’re chronic-ing”

He is asking Medic, Engineer, Heavy, EVERYTHING. Anyone he thinks might know a thing or two is being asked questions. You might think you want to be asked, but he has so many. He listens to you the most though, since it is you he’s trying to learn about. Um..he knows what arthritus is! He..has heard of it. 

🦅Soldier-Does Soldier know what any of those words mean? Kind of! Disorder? I’m trying to give you deez orders! Har har harharharhar. Anyway. He is perplexed. On one hand, you seem up for training and you do quite well! Sometimes. Sometimes you spend time with Medic, sometimes you watch. Sometimes he wouldn’t notice you’re gone until a little ways in. He is in the ZONE of training. Eventually he’d ask a little something like, “WHY DIDN’T I SEE YOU ON THE FIELD TODAY MAGGOT?” 

And you’d say something like, “Just feelin’ a little stiff today,”, “Flarin up today”

So convince him not to crack you over his knee to get you feeling limber.

Eventually he’d understand that you have your off days and leave you be. But as soon as he’s done going bananas, he’s checking on you.

🗡Spy-He’s probably one of the most normal. He knows what’s up, he’s met people and had to act like said people, you know, spy things. He’d check on you to make sure you’re okay, staying active. He’d probably ask a little too much about your well being and to be honest, might keep a little booklet of sorts. Not that it helps a whole lot. In no way are you left out of anything, and he’s making sure of it. If you’re feeling particularly bad, you can hang out in his smoking room and get lung cancer as well. Sometimes he doesn’t smoke. His little treat

💉Medic- He is an unlicensed doctor damn you! He’s all up in those bones. He’d definitely want to take those joints and bones apart like a kid ripping apart a barbie. He loves you! Maybe he’d give you some painkillers or anesthesia. You are experimented and poked at a lot because finally, finally he can feel like a real doctor and deal with medical issues that aren’t bullets and death. He takes care of you when you need it, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because it’s fun to him or because he is genuinely worried. He gives you a lot of credit. 

💣Demoman-Alcohol is nature’s painkillers! He would be offering that up to you like no tomorrow, but it is because he cares. On a more sober note, he actually does have relatives with arthritis. I headcanon his mother to have arthritis, if alive. I don’t remember who the dead parent mercs are. So yeah, he gets it. He’s helping you with any chores you said you had to do,  a habit of his regardless of how your tissue connectivity is doing. 

🦘Sniper-Sniper is..yeah. Well he has your best interest in mind. Even though he knows what’s up, he’s not sure how to deal with it. He’ll probably have you drink some weird mix of gasoline, peyote, and rain water and tell you “it’ll work ya right up mate”. Don’t drink it. You having aches and pains almost constantly means he’s probably gonna have a shooting buddy. You’re his partner, yall are gonna be around each other anyways. It’s a little hard to get used to the days where you are around. Despite being a skilled sniper, the smallest noise makes him jump. It’s in his blood.

🐻Heavy-The most normal. Health issues? Okay. Want a sandwich or something? His love language is act of service. So if you’re feeling bad, sick, emotionally bad, aches, pains, or otherwise shabby, he’ll give you cut up fruit. Oh yeah. Watch this guy rip an apple in half! He can do more than that, but you know. He’ll ask if you’re okay and make sure you’re not strained, but for the most part everything is normal.

[imsparky2002]

Miraculous Animal AU - Science Class

Zoe the Wasp - Though her and Chloe are not technically related, they've been together since birth and see eachother as sisters. Even though they're sweeter than Chloe, Zoe has a sharp pincer that she uses for hunting her food. She also loves movies and punk rock songs that play on the record player. They adore their hedgehog mate, Cosette, and often fly on its nose.

Aurore the Swan - Aurore's a big, beautiful and elegant bird, who also happens to be a nervous wreck 90% of the time. Due to society's expectations of swans to always be radiant and magestic creatures, Aurore can be a perfectionist, scared of failing in the eyes of her elders. It's only thanks to being with her friends and her penguin mate Mireille that she's learned how to relax and simply live life for herself. One of her favorite things to do is to honk about the weather with her girlfriend to the other animals on each farm.

Mireille the Penguin - Mireille is as quiet and chill as the temperature they prefer to live in. She's often waddling around to see what the weather is like, and their favorite pasttime is going for a nice swim in the pond. She often finds it hard to open her beak and speak up, but is working on it with the more extroverted animals. They also like visiting their older brother, Theo, who is the pet of a famous artist.

Jean the Macaw - If you want to see an animal with flair, vigor and theatricality, look no further than Jean. A particuarly passionate parrot, Jean loves to strut his stuff wherever he goes, showing that they can squawk the squawk and walk the walk. They adore the theatre, listening to all sorts of musicals from the record player and copying certain words that he learns from the scripts. They also put on little shows for their friends, with the help of some of the more theatre-loving animals. He cherishes his mate, a nerdy deer named Austin T.

Lacey the Cheetah - Lacey always has a need for speed, so don't coop her up. As the fastest not just of Farmer Olga, but of all the farms, it's Lacey's job to catch any troublemakers trying to sneak in. She also loves parkour, racing for glory against Kim, Alix and Aggie. Because of her low stamina, she can often be found napping in various parts of the farm. Be thoughtful and don't wake her up.

Denise the Bison - Denise is one bulky bison. They grazing, rolling around in the dirt, and prefers to be in a herd rather than alone. A very social bison, they want to make sure everyone feels included in daily activities. They may be huge, but they're one of the friendliest and calmest animals on the farm, always willing to be pet. There's only one animal that can make them blush, that being their serval mate Simon.

Simon the Serval - A snarky and slender serval, Simon's a cat who is always trying to nab pieces of technology to use for himself. Some of his friends call them "Keyboard Cat" since he constantly paws at the computer as if it were a majestic artifact of God. They also can be rather grumpy in the morning, needing to climb a tree or mark territory to cool off. Sometimes, he likes jumping onto the back of his bison mate and going for a ride.

Cosette the Hedgehog - A spunky and spiky critter, Cosette's always in the mood for exploring, digging and foraging. You can often find it sniffing its' friends, rolling around in a ball, or digging with its claws for treasures. They love makeup, and have made some out of various substances found on the farm to put on its' animal allies. One time, Cosette and their foxy friend Alya tried to recreate something they saw from a Sonic movie. They were sad to find out foxes couldn't actually fly.

Ismael the Raccoon - A witty little gremlin, Ismael proudly identifies as a "trash baby". He likes digging through garbage, collecting various items from the bins to put on display at his room for the other animals to see. He's a night owl for sure, usually hanging out with the other nocturnal animals around the various farms. You can often hear him chittering with a meowing Simon, as they snark about various things.

Reshma the Elephant - A polite and elegant elephant, Reshma never forgets to cherish her friends. She often trumpets about new ideas for fashion, and her best friend Ismael is as protective of her as she is with him. Her fashionista friend is Marinette, the little ladybug. They are always working together on new animal attire, despite being vastly different in size. She loves wrapping her trunk around her cheetah mate, Lacey, and her polar bear mate, Margo.

And that's the Science Kids! Thanks to Coco and Weebs for the animal species ideas. Make sure to watch out for the Recess Class who will be the next farm to show. Give a thumbs up and show your support in the reblogs and replies. @artzychic27 @msweebyness @nerd-chocolate

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — MISERY BUSINESS (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — moira is many things, and your lover. . . is almost one of them .

#. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, canon-typical unhealthy relationship dynamics .

#. word count! — 2.6k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. a/n! — come join my discord server? title/description subject to change, wrote this on a whim lolol

Moira likes you in the way a cat likes a mouse. There’s layers to the fun, and you’ve been in the “playing with your food” stage for a while longer than you’d have been willing to admit to anyone on the outside. In here though, where she’s free to run about and experiment to her heart’s content, well. . . You don’t have anyone to explain yourself to anyway. Talon wasn’t your first choice, to be clear on the matter. In fact, before the fall of Overwatch and the subsequent destruction that waged on your city in the wake of it, it probably wouldn’t have been an option at all.

But you know better than most that sometimes things just don’t work out the way you’d hope. This was one of them, though there’s plenty of times when you’ve been able to swallow that fact a lot easier than you can right now. It’s not always so drab or hopeless, and the feelings come and go as they would if you were being holed up anywhere else. You try to soothe yourself by insisting that this place isn’t any worse than those well-protected shelters out there that monitor your food intake and your whereabouts at all times. In that sense, you’re sure you might even have more freedom than those subjected to those so-called havens spread across the world’s face.

You’re less stifled here than you probably would be at any of those safe spots, even if danger is more liable to lurk around the corners here. It’s give and take, —unlike this twisted thing you’ve got going on with Talon’s most notorious geneticist. That’s just give. Give, give, give until you’ve spread yourself so thin that there’s nothing left to offer, and then give some more, because she asks it of you. But she still cares in her own way. . . At least, you think she does. Or, maybe you’d just really like to.

It’s been a few days since you last heard from her, which isn’t particuarly unusual. She’s a grown woman, after all, with her own endeavors that she often gets so lost in that time becomes a meaningless construct only serving to interfere with her work. Beyond that, she’s a top choice for field combat at Talon, despite much preferring to stay in the labs where the both of you have long agreed she belongs. Her, because it’s a preference, and you because it’s easier to ensure that she hasn’t gotten herself killed on the battlefield when you know exactly where to find her.

She didn’t tell you she was leaving this time. You chalked it up to a midnight ushering of her out of bed and off to some other place in need of defending for now, stifling worries that she’d just chosen to up and leave without telling you beforehand. Every other time, she’s mentioned it in advance, even if it always seemed more like a casual slip into a conversation than a true heads up for the sake of your sanity.

It’s not like you’re naive to what’s going on between you. As cold as many assume her to be, she’s not some repitlian creature posing as a woman in human flesh. She’s just as much a person as you, albeit quite a different one, —and sometimes she gets a little lonely. So when those cravings seep out and she’s in need of a fix, you’re the one she reaches for. But all the same, you’re replaceable.

“Doctor O’Deorain isn’t in.”

You pause in the hall, looking over at the man who’d spoken to you, —mid thirties, by the look of him, scraggly facial scruff and tired eyes. If he hadn’t said what he did, you’d have deduced as much by the exhaustion written all over his face. When Moira’s away, someone has to be there to pick up the slack.

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he explains, as if having read your mind.

Though you don’t recognize him, you’re sure he’s seen you come and go from her personal office every now and again. Nobody has ever dared to question it, granted, but you’re certain they must be curious about what happens behind that closed door. It’s none of their business, but human curiosity is seldom concerned with what it needs and needs not be piqued by.

“Okay, thank you,” you answer simply.

He seems confused when you keep walking down the hall toward the labs, but doesn’t bother to question it actively. Being part of Moira’s “in-crowd” must give you some kind of special privileges down here that you hadn’t been previously aware of.

The button on the outside of the door takes a lot more force than one might expect to press it inward, but you’re used to it by now. The two iron slates pull apart and give you access to the main lab, —one that branches into several other rooms, all of which have identical doors to the main entrance. These, however, are all guarded by fingerprint recognition software, and your hand only offers you access to a single one. . . That aforementioned personal office of Moira’s that, as far as you're aware, has only ever seen your face and hers since she took over its residency.

The main lab is empty, save for a few test rodents in their various containers. You pay them the same kind of attention you would if they were on display at a pet store and not sitting in wait to be experimented on. All white fur and red eyes, you whisper little greetings to them in the same way Moira has poked fun at you for in the past; only this time, she’s not around to snicker at you just under her breath. You kind of wish she was, though. It’s a dull ache, but not one that you can completely ignore in this nearly silent lab.

Hand against the sensor now, you wait for it to recognize and authorize your identity. When it does, the second set of iron slates come apart, granting you access to the small room behind. It’s nothing grand, in spite of Moira’s well-known status amongst the rest of the staff. As far as you know, she’s the only one who even has an office at all though, so its size isn’t much indicative of its importance.

It’s just as neat as it always is, —papers mostly filed away, and the few left on her desk neatly aligned and set off to the side. To be honest, you’re not completely sure why you even came down here in the first place. You could just as easily have gone to her apartment just a few blocks from Talon’s base of operations. She gave you a key a few months back after deciding that you could probably make more use of it than she did most days. That’s probably why you’ve found yourself here rather than there. . . The sheets of her bed smell more like you than her, but the lab coat draped across the back of her chair is rich with her fragrance; a little musky, a little citrusy, but still so feminine and divine.

You might often chase after Moira like a feline on the prowl, but make no mistake, —you will always be the mouse. No matter how many times you all but purr beneath her fingers, no matter how many times she has you mewling at her touch, you are and always will be the shivering little rodent to her devilish lioness.

“Am I really this foolish?” You mumble softly, a bitter laugh catching in the back of your throat.

You are. It's a rhetorical question, —you already know the answer, and you've known it perhaps since that very first kiss. No matter how often or in what manner, it's always nice to be wanted by her. . . To be desired by the kind of woman that lives and breathes on what often feels like a completely different plane of existence. Sometimes she speaks and it's like the world has caved in at her will, and you feel yourself crumble into pieces at her feet. She can look your way and leave you stuck with thoughts of her for hours, even days, to come; until she decides you're once again important enough to spare another glance at.

So yes. Yes you are really that foolish.

You stand around in her office for a while, fiddling with things you know she wouldn’t mind you touching, like her excessive collection of ballpoint pens and the fake succulent she keeps on her edge of her desk to “liven the place up.” Even if she isn't there right now, a part of you feels more connected to her here than anywhere else. It's where she beckons you to whenever she has an itch to scratch, —where she pushes you against the off-beige wall and kisses you until you're not sure what it really feels like to breathe anymore. It's where she sits in a variety of odd positions very befitting to her long legs and talks with you about the progress of her work, about the grievances she has in her day-to-day life, and sometimes, even about her past as a part of Overwatch.

It doesn't hurt that your opinion of the organization is about as positive as her's, which is to say it's rather low, all things considered. You found them to be undeniably underhanded and the fall of the organization was simply all too convenient, leaving people like Moira to pay the final resting price. . . Leaving people like you dispersed from the only real home you'd ever known.

So you made a new one amongst the rubble and destruction, and it's fucking beautiful. All smooth skin and ginger hair, —dual-colored eyes with lips like fire that set your heart ablaze.

You're thinking too much, you've concluded by the end of it, so you snag her lab coat and make your way through the winding halls of Talon's base. You're just another civilian they've taken in, convinced that because you survived the wreckage, you must be useful for something. . . That you were strong enough to make it out, and wise enough to accept their help. You're not sure how true you really believe that to be, but at least you're not alone sometimes. The quenching of your lonely ache might even make up for the various acts of horror you’ve been instructed to perform that you’d much rather forget about and pretend like they never happened at all.

When you’re with Moira, it’s a lot easier to pretend that you’re still an innocent. She wears the remnants of her perhaps more nefarious misdeeds on her own augmented arm, —always an angry shade of purple with protruding veins, and she never holds you with it. You still hold out hope that she might one day, when you’ve both grown much too used to one another and she doesn’t swallow “I love you”’s down like bile. You’re holding onto hope that one day she’ll call this what it is.

You flash Moira’s key at a Talon operaterive who asks where you’re going on your way out the door. Question answered, and she doesn’t even ask why you’ve got the good doctor’s lab coat clutched in your grip like a vice. Nobody has to say their worries out loud for you to know they’re festering just under the surface. They choke back warnings to be careful, to be mindful, to not let yourself get swept up in Moira’s game of life.

But the truth is, this is all you’re getting, and you don’t even feel like you’re settling. It could always be worse, and for whatever it’s worth, you feel pretty damn good when she’s around.

And when she’s not, you manage. Some times are better than others, though. This time, you’re somewhere in between lost and peaceful, okay with the quiet, but disconcerned with the lapse of warmth in her absence. So you’ve found yourself here again, that spare key in the lock of her door, letting it swing open to this all too familiar place of near nothingness. Moira spends more nights in the lab than she does here, but there’s little traces of her splayed around, —like the bottle of red wine on the counter, or the few books she has on an otherwise barren shelf.

Past the wine and the books and the coffee table littered with syringes, you enter her bedroom and find yourself pausing, just looking around at everything (though you’ve likely seen it a couple dozen times before by now.) Her lipstick sits on the vanity shoved over in the corner, a reddish-orange color that you’ve watched her apply through half-lidded eyes in the early hours of the morning. That same color has stained your whitest shirt collars, and you’ve chosen not to wash those marks off just yet.

Pencil eyeliner, likely once sat right beside the other cosmetic, has rolled nearly to the edge now. She’s just as precise when she adds it to her eyes as she is when she measures chemicals in her lab. A little collection of nail polishes sit off to the side, —black, red, white, and the half-empty shade of deep violet that you see her don most often.

Her closet door is half open, slid away from the wall just enough that you can see a sliver of her collection of white button-ups hanging down from the rod inside. You wonder if they all smell as much like her as the lab coat in your hands, but you doubt it.

There you are again.

Foolish little you, wrapped in her sheets that hardly have a scent at all beyond the detergent she uses to clean them, her lab coat positioned just so that you catch hints of her with every breath you take in. You close your eyes and let lethargy win. It’s hours before you stir again, awakened by the rustling of Moira stealing her coat away from your grip. You don’t bother to open your eyes, letting her take it away and slip it on her lithe but surprisingly muscular frame. It’s hers, after all. . .

You imagine she must look tired, —but you know it’s not enough to make her stay. That’s never been enough of a reason. So you don’t ask for it. She’ll go from this apartment to her lab, and she’ll stay there for hours upon hours, from the early hours of the morning to egregious hours of the night, and somewhere in between, she might call upon you to stop by so she can tease you for taking the coat from her office, for sleeping in her bed while she was away, for stopping to wave to the test rodents, —and then she’ll press your back to that beige office wall, slit her knee between your legs, and take your breath away again.

Like she always does.

And you might even ask why she didn’t tell you where or when she was going when she left this time. She might even reward you for your nerve by cooking up some half-baked reply about responsibilities and authority and blah blah blah, all those things she’s told you a million times before in lieu of just being straightforward. You’ll take her explanation with a grain of salt as you always do, and she’ll sense your apprehension just in time to nip it in the bud, —hand under your chin, forcing you to look up at her, asking if you trust her.

You’ll say: “Yeah, of course I do. . . You know that,” even when that’s flimsy at best.

She’ll give you a smile that’s more reminiscent of a smirk before leaning in to hold you captive in her kiss. You’ll give, give, give, and give some more. . . Because she asks it of you.

Your thoughts still when she rests a hand against your head, smoothing it over your hair, petting you like a kitten.

But you’re still the mouse.

“Sleep well, darling.”

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Toby x teen reader(platonic) who is tics? If you don’t want to it’s fine!!^^

Anyways thank you!!!

-⚠️anon

I do have a post where the reader has anxiety tics, but since this is just gonna be tics in general, i'm still gonna write it!

Thank you so much for requesting!! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ticci Toby x reader with tics

For him having someone else that tics is 50/50 on wether he likes it or not

It's obviously very annoying to have tics, and its even more annoying to have someone around you constantly having tics

BUT he also loves that he has someone that he can relate to

Occassionally you just get fed up having tics, it can be really really frustrating

And some ways you can help him when he's having hard days are giving him a neck pillow so he doesn't hurt his neck and head as often, helping him with eating and drinking so he doesn't spill, etc

And he will of course help you with whatever you need during your hard days!

Honestly its kind of amazing for him to have someone that understands so well, and knows exactly what to do

But again, it does kind of get annoying for both of you at times

relaxing can be a challenge, but you are happy to have each other so its not that big a deal

Both of you having tics is also kind of helpful for your communication

For example, you will know he's particuarly angry when he starts flapping his hands, or smacking his lips

And he will know your emotions based off your tics as well

It is a very good tell tale sign because then, he can help you out

Also, he likes to teach you different coping mechanisms he's picked up over the years

Toby isn't really a caretaker around the manor, but since he is able to understand you better, he is usually the one that helps take care of you for things that pertain to it

For example, he wouldn't be the guy that cooks for you or drives you places, but say if you needed someone to accompany you to therapy, or if you are having a bad day, he's your guy

He's just tryna make sure you grow up with a healthy support system, because he knows how hard it was growing up thinking having tourettes was weird or an annoyance

He's gonna make sure that you have good coping mechanisms, healthy thoughts and good therapy

[elderberries-and-honey]

After supper, they began their stroll into town. As they walked along, Winifred was yet again amazed at how different everything looked in Wales. The streets were so much quieter here, the hustle and bustle of London being something she was so accustomed to; she couldn't help but 'oooh' and 'ahhh' at everything. Lawrence found it particularly adorable, of course, and allowed her to gaze for a while before starting conversation.

"In your letters, didn't you tell me you were a writer? Is that what you're doing when you're scribbling in that notebook at night?" He asked.

"Mhm," Winifred answered, still gawking at everything around her. "I've always done it for as long as I can remember. I can't remember a time when the stories in my head didn't overpower my other thoughts." 

He smiled at the thought of that. He wasn't particuarly creative in that way, and he couldn't really imagine it, but he liked that she was. "Would you ever let me read any of it?" He asked curiously.

It was an innocent question. Winifred knew that. But her stories were the only thing she had all to herself. Besides, they were much too vulgar and macabre for other people's reading consumption.

She shook her head. "No, you wouldn't want to." Memories from the workhouse where Sister Mary read them aloud to embarrass her as a form of punishment and all the other children laughed at her flashed in her head.

"Why not? I'd love to know what goes on in that head of yours." Lawrence asked and it was the honest truth. He wanted to know more about his mysterious wife.

"Well, my handwriting is much too messy. You wouldn't be able to read it anyway. If I ever buy a proper typewriter, then you can read them." She lied only because she was sure of two things:

1) She would never be able to afford a typewriter.

2) Even if somehow she could, Lawrence was never, ever reading any of her writing.

Before Lawrence could get out a response, they had arrived at their destination: The Dragon's Breath Inn. "Right this way, Miss." Lawrence said, reaching for her hand as they made their way inside. 

next / previous / first

[kirric-the-fan]

Cure count: Sky: all current cures Delicious party, Tropical Rouge, & Healin' good: 2 cures each Star Twinkle- Go! Princess: 1 cure each (Plus Cure Supreme)

A few things I've noticed from the poster: 1, that really cool tower behind Sora, & 2, what I think is a new fairy top right. 3, Cool beach, also top right, but not sure if that's a reference to the Tropical Rouge setting. 4, Cure Supreme, hi! You're pretty. Also, you're looking like someone's done pick & mix on all the other cures in this poster. 5, that kanji broadly means connection, which could be a reference to the fact that it's an all stars film and they're all coming together, but I also wonder, especially with how the cures are laid out, and how Sky and Prism are reaching for each other, whether one of the plot points will involve them being split up (something that would also account for the lack of other cures if this really is all the main cures present for most of this film).(Edit: nvm I have just seen the trailer and that is the main plot of the film. Some exciting group-ups I might comment on more later because hgnngh dynamics)

The other interesting thing about this, is that if I had to pick just two cures out of the whole roster to win a fight for me, I'd pick Cure Felice and Cure Grace, because Felice is overpowered (Including as Haa-chan with her magic too), and Grace is a particuarly tough and determined fighter, who is perfectly capable of and willing to throw hands in a one-on-one (plus how many power-up forms does she have now? works well with others etc etc etc). and they're both in this film. Together. hehehehehe

[darkhorse-javert]

Flufftober Day 5; X +1

I might write a turn-about situation for this prompt, as another idea is nagging, but for now have a Modern AU of Sam and Andrew, and a looming dinner. @flufftober

She slipped out of into the Station car-park, into the green park behind i, only to be confronted with a heap of person on her favourite perching wall.

"Andrew Foyle, what are you doing here, is something wrong?" She found herself shifting her weight back towards the gate. Should I get Mr Foyle.

He lifted his head "Oh, hullo Sam." A heavy sigh "Nothing's wrong, unless trying to work out how to get out of a Mess Dress dinner counts."

"Mess Dress dinner?" RAF things then.

"All the Brass and braid-trimmed, will be there, and particuarly prominent pilots, Group is showing us off to them."

"Isn't that a god thing, that you're being reconised by the upper ranks." Or looking at you for promotion maybe, I wouldn't know how the RAF works

he sighs with hs whole body, sagging "Its a Plus 1 Do." He begins to count off "WingCo's bringing his wife, Squadi's girlfriend is coming down specially to be there - I haven't even met her yet. Rex has even coaxed Colin in to going with him, Douglas has Heather..." He looked at her, face open, bleak, sad, "And then there's me sitting in, looking like a right Noddy-no-mates by comparison."

In the scheme of things, she saw day to day with the police it was small, tiny really- but to stand out so in a roup, especially in front of those you respected, wouldn't be nice.

She tipped her head, considering "Violet won't go with you? although she hadn't heard mention of Violet for a while, but Mr Foyle barely talked about Andrew anyway.

Andrew's mouth twisted in a wry smile, "Violet finished with me when Rex and Connie broke up, accused me of being clearly on Rex's side - when I was really just trying to stay out of it all."

She did remember a lot of gossip, almost a year ago, about a full-on fracas in one of the bars they'd been called to, which had involved the RAF boys and a confronation with their ladies. Gossip about which had always gone suspiciously silent as soon as Mr Fole was even thought to be nearby.

Andrew carried on in a dull tone "I'd rather get out of it, except I can't think of a way that won't also ground me for quite a while, or be too obvious. That's worse, nearly, because then everyone would know I tried to get out of it."

"You'd miss a good dinner, too- surely it will be good if they're feeding the top brass."

Another dry twich of the mouth into a sour smile, then Andrew seemed to give her another look. "Sam- " he said slowly as if measuring each word, "Would you come with me, to the dinner?" He hurried on, before she could quite register just what he was saying "Just as a friend, nothign else."

She looked at him, raised an eyebrow "A friend, or a cover-up?"

"Both, if you want, if it makes you feel better about it, play at being undercover. And you'd get a good dinner out of it"

"Play?" she pretended shock, all the while notingthe facts he'd offered, So perhaps Mr Foyle has been coaxed to say more about me than I ever thought he would.

Now Andrew was looking brighter all over, hopeful, but something struck her, "I'm not sure I've got anything smart enough to wear for it... Andrew, is Mess Dress equal to White-tie or Black-tie?"

(A/N It appears to be either)

[yukyunotabibito]

[ Cue the Music ] "Do you dance?" Micaiah asks, and though her voice is sweet the question comes out like a challenge. She glances down at the black feather she has pinned to the gold of her Daien style dress and smiles at the irony there. Irony she is sure Nasir sees. (He sees much, and Micaiah is not afraid of that; merely afraid it is a testament of what she may one day become). "Well, even if you are not in the mood, please feel free to take this. This is your first time taking part in collecting for the Ethereal Ball, yes?"

"Not often," They say with a laugh. Because when would they ever have gotten the chance to? Such events were not a specialty of Goldoa. Not that Nasir particuarly cared to dance anyway.

Perhaps had things been different, perhaps if Micaiah was not who she was, they would have accepted her offer. But as it was, they certainly could not do such a thing so easily.

"Maybe some other time, Lady Micaiah. I would be honored to exchange our items though," They offer her a pearl, a oddly fitting item for one as attached to the sea as they were. And take the black feather in return, also oddly fitting for Micaiah and her ancestry, "Have a good evening. And do take care to remember to be cautious."

[cheonmayasudasayo]

Kink criticism is one of those rare political things that's actually obnoxious to talk about with nearly all political sides like the way liberals love to claim is the case for damn near everything (with of course them always being the enlightened fencesitters). One should of course be critical and understanding of what might be the source of some of their kinks and fetishes on a societal and personal level so that they can examine how society affects their sexuality, whether or not their fetishes might be coming from a source that is hurting them or objectifying to others, and so on and so on. The problems is that even on the part of the left that likes to claim that it's pro kink and progressive on issues or whatever whenever the subject gets brought up often comes in with two presumptions,

a) that any and all kinks and fetishes or at least the ones they see as violent and problematic have to come from some source of moral degeneracy within the person that should and must be fixed like some kind of morally degenerate psychiatric disorder rather than something that can ever just originate from societal issues at worst but be harmless play or even healing when enacted between adults, and

b) the refusal to acknowledge that kinks and fetishes can have a plethora of rationalities or reasons behind them in the mind that vary and change between every person, sometimes being something one associates with something else, sometimes something that might be an actual issue one should look into, and a lot of times nothing at all or at least nothing discernable. Sometimes people are into the idea of BDSM because they get turned on by the idea of beating women or specific groups of minorities (though one could imagine they wouldn't typically get into kink to do it if that were the case), sometimes because they have a history of abuse and think they should be beaten, and many times nothing and no origin at all but because lo and behold it just turns them on cause brains are just like that sometimes.

Most kinks and fetishes believe it or not don't have tragic backstories or horrific tales of sociel woes tied with the people who carry them out, but a lot of leftists can't seem to turn their inner psychiatrist off and diagnose sociological tragic backstories into peoples sexualities and personal lives, and assume that just because certain fetishes come from sociological and soceital woes on a grand scale must necessarily mean that it must be an issue whenever enacted on the personal scale, regardless of what anyone's thinking or what's actually happening. I used BDSM as an example of people including leftists and progressives diagnosing any and every kinkster taking part in it as mentally sick moral degenerates, but this is a lot more common of a thing imposed upon incest roleplayers, ABDL fetishists, consensual non consent roleplayers and so on.

Sure the societal issues that give arise to the origins of these fetishes can be looked into and criticized, but I've never particuarly been into people's attempts at trying to mind read the morally degenerate origins of a person's sexual psyche that may or may not exist and may or may not come from next to nothing beyond "it's just my thing" or "I'm just into that" with it being close enough to such that it'd be impossible to look into how true such a thing is without literal ass superpowers, and I don't think trying to mind read is good marxist praxis or marxist doctrine in general.

I would love to have more mature conversations about kinks and fetishes and what they entail on both large and small scales but until people get over their prejudiced presumptions, and also until it's just safer to do in general or at least there's more safe spaces to do so (this is a social media website where trans women are called out for anything and nothing at all mind you), these conversations just realistically are going to have a judgemental instead of informative and educational edge and not go anywhere. I also didn't get into issues from other sides such as those who refuse to acknowledge that there could ever be any issue with any kink or fetish at all (or at least the ones they're into) both personally and societally, but that's the entire issue summed up already.

[separated-at-danger-muses]

Little Muse Facts

1) What does your muse smell like?:

To put it simply, he smells much like you might expect: Sand and dirt. I wouldn't say it would specifically unpleasant, since he does keep himself rather clean, but you can surely tell from his scent that he's of "nature."

2) How often does your muse bathe/shower?:

Full on water baths are about once a week. He hates water, understandably. Other than that, he'll be giving himself thorough sand baths, hence the scent above.

3) Does your muse have any tattoos or piercings?:

None that he put there on purpose. He has plenty of scars, as shown in the gif above, but I'm not sure if that counts.

4) Any body movement quirks? (EX: tapping heel, shaking knee):

None specific. But around females, he'll stand straighter and puff up his chest, given his naturally flirtatious attitude towards them. Other than that, nothing specific.

5) What do they sleep in?:

Rivor doesn't sleep very good, but at the same time, he doesn't have a specific time when he needs to wake up. If he's particuarly comfortale, he'll absolutely spend a few extra moments in bed.

6) What’s their favorite piece of clothing?:

Always naked. Not applicable, lol.

7) What do they do when they wake up?:

The very first thing he does is make sure that everything in his hoard of jewels and valuables is intact. That alone is something that's extremely important to him.

8) How do they sleep? Position?:

If he's alone, he'll almost always opt to sleep on his stomach, since that minimizes the amount of which his quills are in the way. If he's with a partner, he'll assume the big spoon position.

9) What do their hands feel like?:

Surprisingly soothing. One would think his claws would be very sharp and dangerous (which they can be) but Rivor knows how to control them. Thus, if it's a friendly touch, one can assume to feel a smooth surface.

tagged by: @monmuses ;;thanks!!

tagging: @cerulean-volcano @syllusion @thestupidmeanone @mismxtchedmuses @fatedgoat and anyone else who wants to take part!

[mollytatlisu]

Evaluation

I carried out lots of secondary research, which helped me establish lots of things throughout my project. Such as my magazine sections, the elements of my trend forecast and my target audience.

Most of my primary research was made up of my own photoshoots, which were built upon my secondary research. I also carried out a primary research survey, which allowed me to identity current popular influences within my target group.

Throughout the year what I’ve found most difficult is distinguishing the most prominent uses between indesign, illustrator and photoshop, up until this module, they all blurred into one and I didnt know which application to use for what. Because this module was 3 months long and I was using all three of those applications throughout, I feel as though I am very familiar with all of them now, which makes me feel more confident moving onto my degree in September.

I think my main strong points are my photoshoots. I feel as though I planned them very thoroughly, which I think made some of my pages look very professional, the slip dress page for example.

One of my main weakenesses throughout the project was learning how to embrace negative space. I think I got the hang of it towards the end which resulted in some very good page layouts. Another thing I also found difficult was switching between writing for my blog and writing magazine content, and didnt quite realise how different the 2 styles are. I felt as though once I’d got used to writing for a magazine, I started to write in a more colloquial style towards the end of my blog, some of which I think sounds quite unprofessional.

Although this isn’t an improvement I myself could directly make, one of the ways I could improve this magazine is to get it printed elsewhere. The way the book was bound meant the last 3 pages began to fall out, which I attempted to fix using eyelash glue. As well as this, the ink on the outside of the bind has already started to scratch off, making it look old and scuffed, so I will have to potentially consider getting another one printed for the exhibition. An improvement I could make regarding the content itself is consider the midway point in each spread more carefully, thinking about the printing process the whole way through. For example, the magazine page that talks about pearls has a set of lips right in the middle of the page, which does not look good printed at all. I also regret not going with the silk paper option, I think it would’ve made the magazine look much more high end and luxurious.

This module definitely required lots of planning, particuarly for the several photoshoots I carried out. It was after the first one I realised how many things need to be predetermined, such as outfits, location and timings. As well as this, this is the first module in which I had to plan for the final outcome to be complete before the actual deadline, because it’s a magazine I had to leave time for it to get printed, which meant working out how long I would need. That was actually the biggest issue I encountered, although I had a consistent time plan it fell through slightly when I needed to send the magazine to print. This meant I was slightly strapped for time regarding my sketchbook, but thankfully I finished everything just in time.

On the most part my final outcome is successful, the majority of the pages look how I intended, and after having looked through the magazine after it was printed, I’m fairly sure there are no grammatical mistakes or errors which is something I was worried about; but something that frustrates me is the quality of the print. In term of layouts I think there are a few that are particularly weak, such as the lips page, which I would improve by simply swapping it out for an image that didn’t have a face exactly on the centre line of the magazine.

[skeleton-in-a-hoodie]

Random headcannons for ageswap:

(Under a readmore cause it's long)

The older April gets, the more Kraang/Utrom she becomes. When she meets the Turtles she's pretty much just got purple markings appearing on her skin. By the time Yoshi is 4 tentacles start growing from her back and neck.

She also has a frill on her head, but that tends to stay retracted unless she's using her powers a lot

She has a secondary set of jaws in her throat with Kraang-like teeth

The more April uses her powers, the faster the Kraang stuff develops.

The above applies to Shadow too. When the Foot Clan get involved with the plot, Shadow is 9 and still mostly looks human.

Shadow's powers also didn't manifest until she was about 6.

June doesn't have powers. At most she's more durable than your average human.

She'll still fuck you up though. June is Donnie's apprentice and hide an armoury in her bag pack. She essentially has a battle shell.

Mayday can shapeshift similar to Mom-thing. She was made by the Kraang when they realised June didn't have the DNA sequence they needed, so they tried engineering it. Technically she's also a Kraang-human mutant, but there's also some other stuff shoved in there too.

Her mutation isn't fully stable. Donnie made a mutagen based medicine that stabilises her. It's not something that can be cured, she's just got to learn how to manage it.

Yoshi has a scar on the left side of his face, going from the tip of his snout up to his left ear. He got into a fight with Hun when he was 6 and it didn't particuarly go well for either of them. Arguably Hun came out worse though.

He's legally blind without glasses. Donnie ended up having to make him glasses. No one's sure if it's due to his mutation, or something he inherited from his other parent.

Speaking of which, no one knows who his other parent is. As far as the turtles know, Karai wasn't dating anyone. At some point in a fight with Saki:

Saki: You rat bastard!

Yoshi: Yeah? And?

Yoshi can collapse his skeleton! This is useful for breaking into places. It's also hell on his joints.

The Turtles all have poor hearing due to their mutations. They're oddly loud people when not on missions. Casey is also hard of hearing, but that's largely due to standing next to one too many explosions.

That + Yoshi's eyesight and sensitive hearing is an interesting combination.

Leo's eyesight is also poor at best. They learn braille.

June is mute - everyone knows ASL and JSL. She also learns other sign language too.

Her and Mayday learned morse code together. They then taught Shadow and Yoshi.

None of these kids know what they want to do with their lives. For one they're all 14-16 and Shadow is 9. Also none of them, except Shen, know what it's like to grow up in peace times. It's really hard to plan your future when you know the world could end next week.

Back in Japan, Shen was part of the theatre group at school. She made costumes and helped build the sets. The mask she wears when she sneaks out at night was one she made and was told she could keep.

Shen and Saki dated when they were about 12. She broke up with him at least four months before she moved to NYC.

Got some more, but I'm gonna stop here. Like this is long enough as is

[jraker4]

@vellichorius So first off, an apology. Some of the shade I was throwing in that latest post was misdirected-I was confusing you with someone else, based on your icon. I won't pretend I don't find your political position both duplicitous and wrongheaded (I'll get back to why in a moment), but I went harder and harsher than was warranted. Sorry about that. Now, to your point and my remark about 'wrongheaded': why is it not democracy? Democracy doesn't mean 'you get what you want when you vote', it means, stripped down, that you get a say in what happens. In fact, a big part of democracy is literally being unhappy with the outcome-just being less unhappy. I'm not sure you understand much about the democratic process. The fact remains: it's a pretty big deal, the choice between 'bad' and 'worse', even if I thought Biden was particuarly bad, which I don't. In fact, it's considerably more important sometimes than the difference between 'good' and 'better'. As for 'duplicitous', I mean, unless you're just extremely oblivious politically, you knew that would be a controversial statement. First of all, even in your view of history, not all of that aid is being used to 'kill children'. Unless Hamas is more than just admitting to their ongoing practice of using child soldiers, but to using exclusively child soldiers, not all of the aid is doing that. Of course that wouldn't make it OK at all, I'm just addressing your hyperbole. Second, just because Hamas or Qatari state media (excuse me, I meant 'AJ') says something or someone is an aid group or a journalist doesn't make it true. But I guess Western media and Israeli media lies, but not Hamas and Qatari state media, right? Third, that's not to say these things don't happen, and they're fucking terrible. Which is one really good reason among many why it was a really, really awful idea for Hamas to break a ceasefire to launch an urban war that would be fought among Palestinian populations. Also, you cannot colonize a land to which you are indigenous. That doesn't mean you can't tyrannize, oppress, conquer, and misrule it. It just means you cannot colonize it. Whether or not Israel is doing those other things is a topic that can be reasonably discussed, but 'colonization' is simply a question of historical fact, yes or no. Is Israel indigenous to the region? Yes? Then they're not colonizers. As for saving Israel versus saving Palestine, well, as terrible as things have often gotten for Palestinians, I don't believe they face destruction the way Israel does. Palestinians have been subject to Israeli power, implicitly and explicitly, for decades, now (in addition to Egyptian, Jordanian, and Syrian power), and yet far from drawing closer to destruction, they have one of the highest rates of population growth in the world. That's certainly not to say that things are good for Palestinians, or that ordinary Palestinians get anything like a fair deal from the world, from Israel, or from their own governments. I'm just addressing claims of 'facing destruction'. Meanwhile, Israel is opposed in this war by Hamas, which as a concession dropped explicit genocidal rhetoric from the front page of their charter, so to speak, less than a decade ago. Who literally uses Protocols of the Elders of Zion as a textbook for children. Is surrounded by governments which have more than once in the past attempted to destroy it as a nation utterly, with all of its people. Fortunately, thanks in part to American help, Israel is a shitload better at war than its neighbors, and so they've failed in these efforts.

if i see one more article, post, or news anchor talking about how joe biden is old, i'm putting my fist through a window. i feel like i've gone through the fucking looking glass.

this is project 2025, trump's plan for what he'll do if elected. whatever you think is in there, it's worse. watch a breakdown of the highlights here. this man wants to unravel the fabric of our democracy for good - this all aside from his vitriolic hatred of poc, his determination to start ww3, and the fact that he can't string a sentence together without telling outrageous and easily verifiable lies. his administration will start their crusade to exterminate trans people on day one, and they won't stop there.

do not talk to me about how joe biden is old, as if that could ever matter to me more than my life or the lives of my friends and family. my little sister is 14, she's trans, and i don't know what to tell her when we talk about politics, because one of these people wants her dead and the other one is old and some of you are still acting like those problems are equals.

i can't fucking stand this. i'm not hearing it this time, we are not repeating 2016. refusing to vote is not an act of protest, it is an act of complacency, and our most vulnerable will suffer for your negligence. vote like your life depends on it, because for some of us, it really fucking does.