#sometimes finding the right label helps and sometimes it doesn't

[nyc-pizza-rat]

sometimes, sam wonders, if his blood still carries the mark of hell, if his body and mind are still attuned to the powers that were meant for lucifer's vessel, the boy king of hell. maybe that's why magic is drawn to his fingertips, encantations sit comfortable on his tongue.

maybe that's why when he walks into the bunker, after a week away on a case, he feels the stillness in the air turn loud in his ears. raise gooseflesh on his arms.

the bunker's quiet — but the bunker is often quiet now, after chuck, and cas, and jack. after everything. dean stays cooped up in his room, the sounds of the television playing muffled by his closed door. he doesn't really talk to sam much, choosing instead to communicate through sounds that snip off before they take the form of language, sporadic text messages sent in the middle of night, scribbled notes left on the kitchen counter. dean is grieving, sam knows. he gets like that, sometimes, when his grief gets loud.

it used to happen often, when they were young. when john hadn't yet started leaving them by themselves for weeks on end. when he'd spend the days drinking, and wailing, and slurring plans in the stifling air of the bedroom of a rundown motel. he'd say their mother's name a lot. he'd clutch dean to his chest, hard, and Dean would go quiet, not a whimper spilling from his mouth, even as his shoulders bruised under their father's grip.

sam used to crawl into bed with him, then. hold his hand. make up stories. god, he doesn't even remember what he used to say, just that he had enough air in his lungs for the both of them, for a while. and sometimes that was enough. sometimes dean scribbled words into the cup of his palm with his finger. he'd sing the beatles under his breath, a lullaby. he'd say, thanks, sammy. he'd say, go to sleep.

but that was a long time ago, and sam, standing now with his arms hanging at his sides, four decades of hurt curled under his skin, looking into the hallway where his brother's room is, doesn't know what to do to help him. he's ashamed of himself. he wishes it were as easy as it used to be.

Tossing his bags on the map table, he calls: "Dean? You home?"

On his phone, no new messages. the foreboding in his blood will not dissipate, and sam swallows, stumbles, like he's intoxicated, his knees wobbly. the hallway is empty, and the kitchen is empty, too, a single coffee-stained cup sitting unwashed in the sink. the grocery list dean stuck to the fridge curls with the air sam brings into the room. it looks like it's yellowing, the paper, even though that's impossible. he traces the loopy letters of his brother's hand and clenches his fists.

all that fear, it is curled in his chest, and he feels less like a man coming home to check on family, and more like a child waiting for a ghost in a haunted hosue. what a right fucking mess.

"jesus christ," he shakes his head. draws the fridge door open, swallows a mouthful of water that tastes stale, somehow. there's some food in the fridge — covered containers of some kind of pasta salad, portioned for sam, labels on them with dates. hot dogs spilling from their packaging onto the clear plastic shelf. cups of yogurt. Fruit. just...things. Normal things. the lightbulb inside fritzes for a moment, and sam stares at the gold of it dim, and then brighten, and he finds himself praying.

don't let him be dead, he's thinking, and his body shrivels under the thought, terrified. god, just. whatever it is, just please don't let him be dead.

he shuts the fridge door and takes a breath.

Dean's laptop is lying on his bed, shut, his covers thrown off like he'd run out of bed in a hurry. sam pretends not to notice the pile of glass bottles in the corner, or the books scattered on the desk, gathering dust, untouched, now, for months.

hope hadn't stepped foot in this bunker in some time now. they were living, somehow, just the two of them, in all that empty space. maybe dean wasn't —

sam heads to the dungeon, his footsteps on the tile echoing, the sound knocking against his teeth in his mouth. when he opens the door to room 7B, the first thing he sees is red. it doesn't quite make sense to him. there's a moment, where his mind stumbles on itself, thinks about spilled paint and expensive cloth and dead deer. thinks, it's going to stain the floor. thinks, the devil's trap is probably not going to work now.

a rivulet of blood moves, curving into the stone, stretching the pool of blood by only an inch, and Sam's knees buckle.

he clings to the door, a rumbling noise cracking his jaws open.

Dean's lying on the floor, at the edge of the pool of blood. it is coming from him. It's his blood. Oh, God.

his shirt is off. red clings to the skin on his side, the length of his arm. Sam watches his chest, his eyes blurry, lips pulled back over his teeth.

His breath burns, time pulling back, curving around the two of them. He can't move. He can't think.

Dean's chest shudders, then. Rising. Falling. And Sam scrambles into the room.

"Dean???" he thinks he's screaming. he thinks maybe it might not be more than a whisper. "DEAN!"

Dean won't stir, but the closer sam gets, the clearer it becomes that he is breathing, and alright, if thin. Sam's stitched up enough wounds to know that just because there's a shit ton of blood pouring out of you, doesn't mean that you can't make it. and Sam needs his brother to make it. he needs him.

"okay, okay, okay, fuck, okay."

he needs to look for wounds. he needs to staunch the bleeding. he needs to stitch dean up. take him to a hospital, if necessary. he has spells that help with healing. he is not going to let his fucking brother fucking die on him. not like this.

his knees, in the pool of his brother's blood. a nightmare. his hands, shaking, stained already, reaching out to press into the skin of dean's torso. clear, he thinks, as his fingers skim over the unhurt skin of his stomach, his chest, his sides, his back.

Careful, careful, sam slips a wet hand under dean's head and rolls him back and away from all the blood. he leaves a mess of his bloody handprints everywhere. his organs are squirming inside of him, his stomach cramps.

"Dean. Hey," firm, and not angry, he reminds himself. not fucking angry. "dean. can — can you — are you —?"

god. god. god.

he looks down, sees the mess of skin and flesh that his shoulder has become. sam can't make out the shape of the wound, only its existence, in the way the blood pools unevenly in the gouges. already, though, he sees crystals of red, in the mess, and the bleeding slowed to a trickle.

one hand still bracing his head, sam presses the fingers of his other hand to the wound. the skin around his shoulder is a little swollen, and there's some kind of shape underneath it all, he can see. dean's usually precise with his cuts, never cutting too deep, but the would on his shoulder is shaky and strange and uneven.

helpless, Sam looks around, sees a bottle of whiskey rolled into a corner. dean's own pocket knife on the stone floor a few feet away. and then blood. god, all that blood.

dean's body is sweating, feverish. his skin pale. it's not enough blood loss to kill him, but it's enough to do something, and sam — sam needs to — he needs to...

"what did you do?" he clutches at his brother's jaw. it's unfair. it's UNFAIR. sam shouldn't have to lose him. dean shouldn't have to feel like — like this was — "God, dean, what the fuck did you do?"

he's sobbing, and he's curled over dean, and he's going to kill him if he doesn't get his shit together, but sam's so tired he has half a mind to crack his skull open against the concrete wall.

underneath him, air, and breath, and a sound that sam thinks he shouldn't be able to hear. but he does. and he grabs dean's face. shakes him a little.

"dean. hey. hey. come on, open your eyes."

and maybe it's magic, maybe it's that hellish curse, but dean's lashes part, a sliver of his eyes, bloodshot, making themelves known.

".....'ammy?"

"yeah," slowly, carefully, he crawls around, props dean up on his knees. "yes. it's me."

he's fumbling for his phone, fingers slippery. he can't look at them, covered in dean's blood. he feels like it's his hand, tearing dean's body open, killing him.

"I'm right here."

dean heaves a breath, and another, and another. sam's fingers tremble as he unlocks his phone.

"'m....'m..so...sorry, sam"

"okay." sam swallows. when he slides his finger across the screen, it leaves a red streak behind. it makes a sound, a squelch. it turns his stomach. "it's okay. it's okay, dean. ive got you."

"wanted...maybe...he was...in there..."

dean's not entirely lucid, and his words are slurring. eileen's answer on his phone is immediate, and sam reads it through the streak of red. Be there soon. and He'll be okay. and I love you.

and sam bows his head, let's himself weep into his brother's hair.

~

courage takes a handful of seconds to appear, and when it does, sam shakes himself off, runs his bloody hands through his hair, and straightens up.

he carries his brother to the infirmary, nonsense reassurances on his tongue. puts him under with his witchery, pours a tincture into his mouth to help with the bloodlooss.

cleans the wound, stitches him up, and makes quick work of it. his heart stills when he sees it, the rough-cut shape of a hand, where dean used to have a scar, all those years ago. he swallows, and swallows again, before doing up the last suture, sterilizing the skin.

it feels a little like ripping off a limb, but sam leaves his brother to rest, and makes his way towards the map room. tries to anyway. somewhere along the way, his legs give out, and he's on the cold floor and his head is in his hands that smell like blood and alcohol and death.

Sam never asked dean, is the thing. maybe he should have. maybe he should've understood, without asking. wasn't that what brothers were supposed to do?

in his pocket, his phone pings, and he knows it's probably Eileen, telling him she's close, telling him to hold on. telling him that she loved him.

he wonders. he wonders if dean ever— if he even got to — if he and cas ever even —

sam clutches at his hair. he doesn't know what to do. he doesn't even if know if there's anything to be done at all. the quiet in the bunker's air presses down on him. makes him feel small.

he taps his foot against the floor, just to cut through all that silence. and he does the only thing he feels like he can do. he waits.

Had I thought

What if Dean carves out a mangled version of Cas' handprint on his arm in a futile attempt to feel something other than immense grief and loss

[transmutationisms]

forgive me if I'm being obtuse, but isn't every medical diagnosis an artifact of human taxonomic schemes? I know I'm not treading new ground here and that diseases/medical conditions aren't like, drawn from thin air in the way a lot of psychiatric conditions are i suppose it just confuses me a bit

no, & this is ancillary in some ways to what i'm actually criticising about psychiatry. it's true there are non-psychiatric medical diagnoses that work analogously to psychiatric ones: think ME/CFS, hEDS, fibromyalgia, most things that have 'idiopathic' in the name. these are names given to clusters of symptoms, like the way that psychiatric labels are just names for a certain set of behaviours. we don't know what causes these issues, though people have various theories and there is (a varying amount of) research ongoing that aims to find the etiologies.

however, that's not the case for all non-psychiatric diagnoses. think about a viral or bacterial infection, a torn ACL, or Down syndrome. these are diagnoses that do refer to specific infectious agents, anatomical problems, genetic variants, and so forth. that doesn't mean the diagnosis is always easy to make, or that it's always made correctly, but it does mean that when you are diagnosed with one of these problems, a specific cause is being identified (& sometimes they might even be right). it's not just a convenient shorthand name for a group of symptoms, even though of course, most things that are diagnosed are done so because they cause and are associated with symptoms. (most but not all lol.)

psychiatry is distinct as a discipline in that all of its diagnoses function the first way i described. they are not referring to disease entities or processes; there is no credible hypothesis for a biological etiology. why? fundamentally, because the psychiatric diagnoses generally exist to pathologise socially unwanted behaviour: the taxonomy is a reflection of a political agenda and the priorities of clinicians. it's not even really an adequate framework for grouping patients together, because you get placed in a category based only on, again, external manifestations (behaviours). who says any two people who hallucinate or cut themselves are doing it for the exact same reasons? well, no one, because again, even getting the same psych diagnosis doesn't indicate anything about an actual etiology or underlying biological process or anything. there is no referent; the psychiatric diagnosis is only defined heuristically and circularly.

many people are confused by this because, in both popular and professional discourse, psychiatric diagnoses are consistently spoken about as though they DO refer to an underlying discoverable disease or disease process. despite hundreds of years of looking for such things, psychiatrists are yet to find any, and if they did, the condition in question would be reassigned to the relevant medical specialty, because psychiatrists also cannot treat infectious agents, anatomical problems, harmful genetic variants, and so on. (when i worked as a bibliographer we used to have extremely funny arguments over whether materials pertaining to the psychiatric search for biological disease processes should be categorised under psychiatry, neuroscience, medicine general, philosophy of medicine, 'science and society,' or just 'controversies and disputes' with no real subject label.)

to be clear, when i say psychiatric diagnoses aren't referring to known or discoverable disease processes, that's not a moral indictment. it's not an inherently bad diagnostic process, provided the patient understands that is what the process actually is. sometimes we just don't know yet what we're dealing with; sometimes a heuristic diagnostic label is just a way of billing insurance for a treatment that we know helps some similar patients, even if we don't know why.

however, with psychiatric diagnoses, evidence for such efficacy is widely lacking and often even negative; this is fundamentally because psychiatric diagnoses are not formulated on the basis of patient needs but on the basis of employer and state needs to cultivate a productive workforce and by corollary enforce a notion of mental 'normality.' all medicine under capitalism has a biopolitical remit; psychiatry has only a biopolitical remit. it has never at any point succeeded in making diagnoses that refer to demonstrable disease processes, because that's definitionally not even under its purview. these diagnoses have never been satisfactorily shown to be related to any disease process—and why should we expect that? historically, that's not what they exist for; it's not the problem they were invented to solve. they are social technologies; they're not illnesses.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hey there! I saw in one of another post of yours that you dealt with hoarding, any tips for de-hoarding the house?

Oh boy, do I have a lot. Here's what has helped me, a hoarder who lived several years at Level 4 (squalor, utilities shut off frequently):

Always be kind to yourself. Hoarding is a disorder and for me it was triggered by accumulated trauma. It will take a while to dig out, and you will likely have to wrestle with hoarding urges all your life.

Mindset tips:

Space is more valuable than stuff. Clear pathways, room to sit & sleep, prepare food, work on crafts -- it is *valuable*

Your home is not an optimization problem for storage. Again, space and clean surfaces are necessary! Not having paralysis of choice is valuable!

Cultivate awareness of when you aquire things and devise ways to break out of a buying pattern - put the phone away, go for a walk, etc.

Make some short-term rules: nothing comes in before two things go out. Only buy things you know you will use in the next month. Etc.

Kill sunk-cost-fallacy. The real value is peace of mind, not the potential of an object.

Decluttering tips

Clean out trash, first. Just get the obvious garbage out so you have space to work in.

Get some bankers boxes or bins. Create a group for sale/donate. Put some "keep" boxes in each room.

Start with 1 room to declutter. Again - trash, first. Then, go through objects in that room, putting in the group sale/donate boxes, or directly into the "keep" box for the room that object should live in. Don't worry about *where* in the room the "keep" items go in -- they go in the box, for now.

Try to get the decluttered room to a point where you can move furniture for a deep clean. And try to avoid putting anything in this room that doesn't belong there. You are focusing on 1 room at a time to fix.

Assess your decluttered room for how it might encourage hoarding. Again, is there not enough space? Do you need to take out or rearrange furniture to encourage living/working surfaces?

Don't be in a rush to sort through any of your boxes. Focus on reclaiming space.

Go through the boxes after you've had time to decompress. Some time should have passed and you now can look at your items more neutrally.

For your possessions, ask: does this spark joy? Do I have something similar already? Why am I holding onto it? Is the potential worth the time and space to hang onto it? If it is sentimental, is there a better way to use or display it? If it is broken or a crafting item, will I really fix/use it?

Get in the habit of giving objects a permanent home. Label shelves, bins, whatever else you need to.

Maintenance tips:

Avoid buying things when you're overly emotional

Designate landing pads for items. They don't have to be in the traditional places -- if you take your shoes off in the kitchen, then buy a boot tray and put it in there. Always put your wallet in the same space. Etc.

If daily clutter overtakes surfaces in your home, consider catch-all baskets. I have some in high traffic areas, like the dining room, staircase, and living room. Go through the baskets on a regular basis to weed out junk and put items away where they live.

Be honest with how much time you have to enjoy your possessions. Will you read that many books? Wear all those clothes? Make all those crafting kits? Are you spending more time aquiring vs enjoying?

Regularly assess your belongings and see what you can let go. If you are not sure yet, put items in a box and see if you can live without for several months. Date the box, and be brutal about dealing with it in the time frame you decide upon.

Get into a chore routine. Sometimes, chores are easier if the cleaning supplies are right there. I have an upstairs vacuum and a downstairs vacuum for this very reason.

A 10 minute "reset" at the end of the day goes really far, especially if you are a crafter.

Find something more benign to collect, if you are a magpie. I collect public domain stuff in digital format, video game items, etc. I'd rather be a hoarder in Skyrim than IRL.

I also "collect" experiences now -- I am currently seeing how many different trails I can hike. Maybe you would like something like birdwatching, to sate your hoarding urges. Redirection can go a long way.

I can go more into specifics, but these are always on my mind when I think about controlling one's hoarding. I hope it helps!

[orphicsun]

Hello I was wondering if you could do Jackson ellie x bestfreind reader and like they have had a crush on eachother for a while and have a sleepover where they smoke or drink maybe or play some type of game like truth or dare and find out they like eachother and get kinda freaky idk. Thank you!

EEE I am so excited for this one watch me cook on this request. This is a rlly good request and I wanna write something just as good!! Also I want to recommend you an ao3 fic with this EXACT plot it's tagged here actually my favorite Ellie fic ever.

Content: 4k words, bestfriend reader, Jackson setting, pent-up feelings, nipple-play (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), tribbing, Ellie puts a finger into your mouth how fun!, a lot of dialogue before the actual sex sorry but I loved writing Ellie to be funny, reader likes pink a lot (couldn't help myself) and is afab, reader and Ellie 18+, NOT PROOFREAD LMAO

You're far from safe from liking people you shouldn't like.

That doesn't even cover the multitude of feelings! Like doesn't cover it. You're pretty sure you love Ellie.

Maybe in another lifetime, you and Ellie could've met and went on a date. You could've loved her freely. In this universe, she is your childhood best friend.

You know it could ruin the best thing that has ever happened to you if you tell her, or if she finds out in some way, but fuck; when she looks at you, it's like you forget how to breathe. You just wanna breathe her in, you want to share the same air and feel her lips on yours.

Ellie is unlike anyone you've ever known. She's sweet for you. She's impulsive to others, and honestly sometimes an asshole. That only makes you fall more and more in love for her. You didn't know it was possible to be attracted to someone's flaws, but you want every piece of her, even the bits that others in Jackson label as "annoying."

Ellie has always been there for you since you were just 15 and she moved to Jackson right by Joel's side. You just seemed to click. She was brash, foul-mouthed, and told ironically funny dad jokes. You were the type of person who liked having adventures and never shut up. Ellie always listened. She held you while you cried, let you borrow her book of puns, and volunteered to do patrols with you just so she could have fun adventures with you.

You couldn't ruin a good thing. You don't know what you would even do without Ellie in your life. You didn't wanna freak her out or make things weird. You feel like such a coward, but even thinking about Ellie distancing herself from you because of your stupid crush on her? It just makes your stomach churn with dread.

Little did you know Ellie was equally obsessed with you.

You're like a fucking ball of sunshine to the girl, always there laughing at the stupid things she says, defending her when she gets in trouble for something minor, and your smile should be considered warfare for how easily it could kill her. She tries to keep her feelings to herself, but it is so hard to when you look at her with bright eyes and the sweetest smile like you're trying to give her a toothache.

It's a recipe for a bomb, and it only takes one game to set it off.

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You're sitting criss-cross on your bed and Ellie is in your floor. It's a Saturday, which means both of you get to have a sleepover. No patrol, and no major chores to be done around Jackson.

Ellie just got back from a multiple day lasting patrol and she missed you so much while she was gone, it's not even funny. Seattle is beautiful, but boring when there isn't a sunshine girl in awe about how the verdure clings to the buildings. But at least now she is here, back in your bedroom which she loves so much.

Ellie's room is vastly different from yours. Well, her garage is. Her bedsheets are grey and minimalistic, and her make-shift kitchen is lined with posters. Her favorite is the one with the punk green-haired man holding a guitar. Her closet, however, it quite impressive. Her shelves are lined with comics and space movies, and her hangers are lined with flannels, of course.

Your bedroom, in contrast, has white bedsheets and a cozy pink blanket. You have a few raggedy plushies from scavenging around and your shelves are filled with lighter-colored clothing. White curtains decorate your windows and frilly pillowcases (that end up in the floor most of the time) compliment your bed. You have a full-length mirror in the corner of your room and a shelf of DVDs you usually just bring over to Ellie's garage, since she has a much nicer tv than you do. Ellie glances up at you from the floor, squiggling her eyebrows.

"I'm so fucking bored!" You groan, making Ellie laugh in the process.

"And how is that my problem?"

You flip her off and she clutches her stomach.

"Seriously, Ellie. I wanna actually do something and not just eat grilled cheeses and read your nerdy comics."

She scoffs.

"Excuse me? It's not my fault you have bad taste in literature."

You snort at that. "Starlight Savage and Raven Mouse are not literature."

"Oh, then what are they, huh?" She stands up, amusingly offended.

"Comics!"

Ellie grabs one of your pillows and pretends to suffocate you with it. You're laughing and trying to pry it off of your face.

"Hey, quit! You're actually gonna kill me!" You giggle, your voice muffled from the cushioning.

Ellie finally relents, laughing along with you.

"Better think twice before disrespecting Starlight Savage." She is wearing her signature shit-eating grin.

"Oh, whatever.. Hey!- You got me off topic." You groaned.

Ellie laughs at that. "And what was the topic?"

"I am bored out of my fucking mind," you complain, your voice rising in pitch to sound whiny, which she pretends to absolutely hate.

Really, she just hates that it makes her stomach clench when she hears your cute complains, and the tone of your whines only makes it worse.

"Okay, okay, fine. We can do something fun." She feigns reluctance, setting down on the bed beside you.

"Great!! So, what should we do?"

"Seriously? You don't even know what you wanna do and you gave me whiplash bitching about being bored?"

You scoff, jumping to your own defense. "I was tryin' to get you to come up with something," and then you add to complete your argument, "I wouldn't be bored if I knew what we could do."

Ellie sighs, and you smile because you know that means she has had enough of your bullshit and she just wants to throw in the towel.

"Fine. Well, we can play a game perhaps?"

You groan in protest at the suggestion. "You're a dirty cheater when it comes to Monopoly!"

Ellie only lets out a sheepish laugh at that, because she knows that you're being 100% truthful. "That is what makes the game fun!" When she sees your glare, she sighs once more. "Fine. How 'bout Truth or Dare?"

That sounds intriguing; the game begins.

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You and Ellie sit across from each other, and the game has been going on for around 10 minutes now. It's getting quite boring - always questions like "What's a secret you haven't told me?" or Ellie dares you to do something she knows you won't do, like lick the toilet bowl.

Then, she asks a question that brings the game onto another level.

"What's your favorite sex position?"

You stare at her, your jaw practically in your lap. You don't wanna talk sex positions with the girl you secretly wanna do sex positions with.

"What the fuck, Ellie?!"

She looks a bit guilty, but shrugs with a smirk that doesn't go unnoticed.

"What? I wanted to spice things up. C'mon, don't be a pussy."

You think it over, but finally, with a heated face, you say fuck it and give into her bullshit. "Missionary."

Ellie bursts out laughing.

You're sitting there not knowing what to do! She is laughing like a hyena at this point, tears in the corners of her eyes. She slaps her knee. What the fuck?!

"What's so funny?!"

Ellie just laughs, falling over and she is snorting like a pig now before she finally settles down. "It's just.." she tries to stifle a giggle, "that is the most boring thing you could've possibly said.”

You know that, but you're keen on defending your word. Ellie loves that about you, how you're always quick to stand up for yourself. "It's romantic!"

"Okay, okay," she shrugs. "Enlighten me on how missionary is more romantic than any other position that actually feels good."

You don't hesitate to list off the facts. "First of all, it does feel good! You just haven't tried the pillow method. Second of all, you can kiss your partner and actually talk to them." You sigh, getting a bit flustered (and turned on) by the conversation at hand. "Imagine fucking someone and getting to kiss all over their face while doing so, or on their neck or their tits. It's about the intimacy."

Ellie looks just as flustered as you now. She is silent for a moment before giving you the benefit of the doubt. "Okay, I guess you can rest your case now. But there is much more intimate positions than missionary, you know. You're just thinking vanilla ones like riding the strap-on, or from behind."

You raise an eyebrow at that. "Okay, I'll bite. What's more intimate than looking into someone's eyes while they cum?"

Ellie laughs at your vulgar question, pink tinting her freckled cheeks. "Tribbing." Her voice is more quiet, and that only makes you more aware of the slight tension.

You quickly brush it off with a laugh.

"Of course your gay ass would say that."

She grins and sits up at that, quick to defend herself. "Hey, you have no room to be talking, little miss 'my gay awakening is Rose from Titanic.'"

Your jaw drops and you look at her like she has said something crazy. "Hey, Rose is hot!"

She giggles. "Yeah, Sherlock, thanks for pointing out the obvious."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, okay. Can we get back to the game?"

She nods, and it continues.

As time passes, the questions grow more and more...uncomfortable to answer. You're still asking her the more casual things, but Ellie is daring you to do stupid, impossible stuff, or to answer questions like "what was your first time like?", "do you have a friends with benefits situation with anyone in Jackson?", and "if you could kiss anyone in Jackson, who would it be?" (which you brushed off jokingly by saying old man Eugene. She didn't press any further, only mocking you).

Then, she leans forward after you choose truth, and she whispers something you can't really brush off.

"Who do you like?"

You're fucked. If she asked "do you like someone?", you could answer without revealing who it is. She knows she has you trapped. Sneaky cunt.

You don't answer right away. Ellie is so close, your knees touching. The air in the room is insanely hot, and you want to leave your own house, you want to hide under your blankets or cover your face, but you can't.

Ellie doesn't wait for you to answer.

"I know you like someone, I can tell when my best friend is in love. Who is it?"

"That's way too personal, I.."

She scoffs, but it's not a rude sound. Just shocked, maybe slightly hurt. "You have always told me your crushes. Why won't you tell me now?"

You feel guilty now because she doesn't understand. She doesn't get why you won't tell her. She can't understand that it's because you like her. You want to scream it: I'm in love with you, Ellie! But those words won't be the next you utter.

"I just...I feel like this time it should be private." You know that your reasoning is weak, for once in your life, the defense is slipping and it's ugly. You internally wince.

She just stares in silence, not really meeting your eyes. It makes you panic, and then, then the words slip from your mouth seeing the hurt on Ellie's pretty face.

"It's you."

She stares at you like she didn't quite hear what you said, even though it was shaky, nevertheless loud and coherent.

"What...?"

"I..I'm in love with you, Ellie." You repeat yourself.

She leans into you. "Fuck.." Her breath hitches. "You better not be fucking around with me, I swear to-"

"No!", you shout loudly and quickly try to compose yourself. "I mean..I'm not joking. I like you. I hope this doesn't fuck with our friendship, or like.." You trail off, not wanting to think about what could happen now.

"I'm in love with you, too." There, now Ellie has gotten it out too.

Ellie didn't even fully understand why she asked you that. She knew she could've gotten her feelings hurt, that you could've liked someone else or that it would definitely mean you did like her, and then she had to be vulnerable and confess it back. Still, she was so exhausted, so fucking tired of pretending like hugs and casual touches were enough. They were never enough.

"Can I kiss you?" She doesn't even give you the proper time to react to her shared confession before she springs that onto you. You don't complain, only nodding quickly.

Her breath is warm against yours, and you can tell how shaky it is. You've never seen her so nervous, it makes your own stomach flutter with butterflies. Then, Ellie's grasping onto your face and smashing her lips against yours. Her mouth is warm, and the kiss doesn't even start out gentle. It's all devouring, all need and passon.

You quickly move into her lap, thighs on either sides of hers, and both of you are desperately pulling each other closer, finally sharing the same air. She tastes like everything natural, something so unique it can't be described but you immediately know you need more of it. Her tongue moves inside of your mouth, devouring you just like how she has been dreaming of for who knows how long, and when you're forced to pull away for a breath, her lips are sloppily trailing down your jaw to your throat, her hands grasping your hips to pull you closer.

"I've wanted you for so long, you know that?" Her voice is warm against your sensitive skin, and you think you could just burst with how it feels to be practically intertwined with her.

"Show me how it feels, Els.." You gasp and tilt your head back for more, but Ellie pulls away to look at you.

"How what feels?' She doesn't sound rude, only confused with her lips swollen and wet.

"The intimacy..the intimacy you talked about.." Oh, that.

She nods quickly, and her mouth is all over your shoulders, leaving soft pecks between words, "We can do that, but I wanna do something first..is that okay?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

With that, she pulls your shirt over your head and stares at you like she has never seen a pair of boobs before. Her eyes are wide and she takes you in before her.

"You're so pretty," she mumbles with conviction, kneading your tits through your bra. You can only moan when she sticks a hand into your bra and rubs her palm over your nipples, her other hand deftly undoing the clasp of the fabric.

That was the hottest thing you could do for a woman, Williams..

Her lips quickly find a nipple, pulling it into her mouth to swirl her tongue around the bud. Your fingers tug at her hair, begging for more. You need her closer. She reluctantly pulls her mouth off off of its new favorite place and leans back up to face you, planting an affectionate kiss on your cheek before smiling sheepishly.

"I'm gonna say something I want to do to you, but you can't laugh.."

That makes you already giggle, despite the heat building between your thighs. That is something you love about Ellie, the way she can make you laugh even when you aren't supposed to be.

"I'll try my best. What is it?" You ask, and she fiddles with her fingers nervously.

"I wanna use my fingers on you," she says it so quietly, voice nervous but filled with hunger before she quickly adds, "if you want me to. It's okay if you don't wanna go any further-"

"I want you to finger me, Els."

That was easier than she thought it would be.

She nods now, slowly unbuttoning your jeans and watching with an intense gaze as you hop off of her lap to shimmy them off. Now you're in nothing but a cotton pair of panties and you look so gorgeous.

Ellie has always found you to be beautiful. During patrols and on lookout, your hair had a shine to it that most people wouldn't care to think too much about, but Ellie always noticed it. Ellie always noticed the way your lips parted when you were zoned out, or how you walked like you always knew where you were going even on the paths that were mainly uncharted. You were so lovely-looking.

Now, nearly naked for her, she doesn't know if she can bare to blink even for a second. She is currently having a never-ending starting contest with your body, and she has to stop herself from pouncing on you. She wants to love you, not just fuck you.

Ellie is on her knees between your legs, hooking her fingers into the waistband of your underwear. Her eyes flicker over your body before looking to yours for confirmation.

"You sure you want this?"

"Please, Ellie. I want you." You know you sound desperate for her, but it can't be helped. You were soaked through your underwear, clit beating with need, and Ellie is just eyeing you like she wanted to devour you. She probably would, but she wants to save your clit for later.

She nods and slips your underwear down your legs, pulling them off of your ankles and throwing them behind her. The action made you giggle, but Ellie quickly squashed your outburst.

"Somethin' funny?" She asks, slipping a finger through your slick folds. You gasp and jolt.

"Hey, where the fuck is the warning, you cunt?"

She has to stifle her own laugh at your outburst, but she is growing tired of the cute giggles; if you laughed one more time, she'd be fucking you until you were limping-

"Sorry, pretty. I'm gettin' impatient." Her tone mkes you involuntarily clench. You rarely hear that tone, the serious one when she is either around someone she doesn't know and is keeping it professional or just not in the mood to joke. Now, you discover it's her horny tone, too.

You nod, tilting your head back to rest it on your frilly pillow. Finally, she slips two digits past your lips and you resist the urge to let a whorish whine slip past your lips. When she easily slides into your heat, you then can't resist.

Ellie's eyes are glued to your pussy like it's magic, watching your hips try to rise for more, feeling the way your walls tighten around her intrusion.

It's too much for her poor, fucked head to bare.

She is already as wrecked as you are. She wants to taunt you for the way you already look like you're going to cum from her barely brushing at your spongey g-spot, but she can't. She is probably in rougher shape right now.

"You feel so warm." It's all she can manage to get out, and she curls her fingers inside of you into upward, making you moan.

"I wanna cum, Els..please, more. Give me more." Ellie has never seen you this dumb for pleasure before, but who is she to deny you?

Her fingers aren't thrusting in and out or finger-banging you, just slowly sliding through your cunt, her fingertips stroking where you need them to. You feel so full, so complete. You hope she does this every single day from here on out.

It doesn't take long to get you into a state of complete bliss, and you haven't even climaxed yet. Your legs aren't clamping down, rather spreading wider as if you're begging for her to take you in the most obscene ways possible, fill you up with more than just her fingers. If only she you two were currently at her house, she has that unopened strap-on box... maybe for another day.

The knot that builds in your stomach, the temperature of it overheating your insides is about to snap. You're begging as if Ellie is teasing you or something. You're whining, and you look like you're about to start sobbing if she pauses her pace even for a nanosecond. She just wants to gives you everything, thinks you deserve the whole world, so she leans forward and intertwines her fingers with yours as her other fingers pump deep inside you, and you swear it's rearranging your guts. You wanna be wrecked so damn badly.

"You keep fluttering around me, gonna cum?" She asks, and you whine and nod.

Your orgasm soon hits you like a tsunami, once in a crash and then it simmers throughout you in waves. This is probably the hardest you have ever came. You gasp onto her hand tight, squeezing her fingers. You can't even speak or you'd be howling her name. It feels so euphoric and you wonder how it can get any better than this.

When you come down from the peak, she eases her fingers out of your tender insides and licks her ring finger clean. Then, she settles her hips between your legs, bringing her soaking middle finger to your lips.

"Open up."

You do so without question, tasting yourself on her digit before she swiftly pulls her finger away with a "pop!"

"I taste weird," you mumble and she rolls her eyes, mumbling a little "fuck you" before sitting up to strip out of her flannel.

You feel maybe a little nervous before. Something about the thought of feeling her in such an intimate way makes you feel even more fluttery inside. You've been with women before, you are far from a virgin, but you've never clashed clits before (omfg what). Most girls thought it was just a porn thing.

"You okay?" Ellie pauses, her flannel on the bed and a black t-shirt layer underneath it.

"Yeah," you mean it, "just a little nervous."

Her eyes soften, and she takes your hand and squeezes it. "I promise I'll be slow with you. I'm not gonna rush you into this, and if you want, we can always stop."

You feel more assured now, and you smile. "Okay."

When she finally strips out of her clothing, you take her in. She is breath-takingly beautiful. Her body is pale but covered in tan freckles, and her nipples are perky with arousal. Her shoulders and collarbone look so fucking kissable. You're still in a daze as she hooks a leg over yours, her warm cunt only an inch or two away from yours. She hovers.

"You ready?"

"I want you, so yes."

That makes her smile, and she slowly eases down onto you, her folds rubbing up against yours and both of your neglected clits finally getting the attention they deserve. Both of you are already moaning and Ellie leans down onto you, her tits brushing against yours as she kisses you deeply.

This kiss is slower than the first, less desperate but just as emotional. It's hungry and consumes you in a sensual way. Her hips grind against yours, her slick mixing with your soaked pussy to make you only whine into her mouth.

Now you understand how intimate this is. You feel so connected to Ellie in a way you hope you never get to feel with anyone else. You wanna always be this close. You think that even after this ends, you'll feel that tie to her body and heart, always leading you back to her.

When you both cum together, it's much different than what she gave you before. You can feel her tense up with you, hear her shaky breaths and moans, and you feel a warmth inside of you reminding you that she feels this way because of your pussy, because of her feelings for you. It's making you obsessive to feel this way.

When the high fades, she collapses on top you. You're both breathing heavily for a few minutes. Her breath is against your neck and it feels like a kiss. Your brain is thinking of something stupid now that the horniness is over.

"Isn't it obvious that I'm your girlfriend now?"

Ellie laughs and squeezes you tightly.

"Yeah. You're my girlfriend now, and I'm not letting you go."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄

[kimberly-spirits13]

Damian Wayne Dating an Artist HC

Artist Credit: according to Pinterest, this is from heuksae

Warnings: not edited 🤭, None

Note: Thinking about writing a one-shot where Damian and kind of implied artist!reader meet at a gala for the Gotham Museum of Art- also trying to think about some general Damian things to write like SFW alphabet and some off handed oneshots but idk right now 😀- thinking about finding a notebook to write all of my ideas down and then just get through them one by one but I have MANY THOUGHTS LOTS OF TIME

Damian was drawn to you the moment that he met you

What really kicked it off was after you went on an entire speil about your favorite artist and why they are the cornerstone of your inspiration and ambitions, he saw the inside of your sketchbook and knew that you weren't just some amateur with a high opinion of themselves

The two of you sat for an entire hour talking about what you like to create, favorite mediums, favorite colors, the hues that you like to see, the artists that you like, what you're working on next, etc.

It started a bidaily routine of somehow meeting up somewhere and sketching together or picking each other's brains about some sort of artistic matter

He's never really had anyone that is able to give him constructive feedback when he's stuck on something, so he always turns to you when he needs another pair of eyes inspecting his work

The first time you ask him to help you fix something that you weren't sure about, his heart flipped out of his chest

He came to you because he saw you as an equal (sometimes as a superior), and he respected every thought that you so generously shared to the world from your mind

The two of you started dating after some time and hanging out more than what should be possible

one of his favorite dates is having some sort of hot drink like tea paired with Alfred's various pastries, sitting in the Manor's gardens with you, and creating (!doesn't have to just be drawing/ painting because there are many forms of art!)

He prefers the standard oil paint, watercolor, graphite, and sometimes charcol, but he's never forced himself to be married to just those mediums

He leans into realism with some obvious influence of John Singer Sargent, baroque, and hints of greater Impressionism

The two of you are often found wandering around hole in the wall art shops and carrying around a beat up sketchbook full of ideas

Damian LOVES going to the art store with you

he's not a shopaholic in any other scenario, but good weaponry and nice art supplies are his Achilles' heel

The two of you walk around the aisles of art supplies in a store like Dick Blick and spend hours talking about the things you've done with each medium, what you recommend using, what's your least favorite item, swatching whatever you can, and throwing everything into the basket

he insits on paying btw 🤚 even if it was your idea to run and grab a few things you needed to restock, he's whipping out that black card and will not hear a word about it

being endowed with the Wayne fortune, however, does not mean that he does not get excited when there's a sale running

He's the type to text you at 4am saying that he found out a certain store is running a sale that day and to be ready for him to pick you up so the two of you can go

Oil paint is expensive y'all- rich or not, that stuff makes me clutch my pearls seeing the price tag sometimes

Damian has dabbled in making his own paint with things like Gum Arabic and has a small collection of items he found walking around Gotham with an exact label of what it is and where he got it, that he uses to grind up as pigments

kind of starts to look like an old alchemist or something but that's okay

You're the only one that he'd EVER let use these pigments

Once he's perfected the formula and tested things like like fastness, he's making a custom palette for you and presenting it to you at either the most random time in the middle of the night, or as a special occasion present

Loves going to art museums with you and walking around aimlessly all day, studying how a work was done and discussing with one another what you like and dislike about something

He's def taken you to Italy or Paris on a random occasion just to go walk around the great museums there

One day Damian calls you and asks if you're free for the weekend because he wants to fly across the world to go see some museums with you- also the jet is leaving in three hours

like duh you're free

He has a seperate sketchbook that he rarely ever lets you see that is filled to the brim with sketches of you

Damian is kind of mortified when you find out but tries to play it cool

you tell him that it's extremely endearing but don't push it on him further since you can tell he's trying to sink into the void and disappear when talking about it

The two of you have totally left art supplies at each other's houses and at this point. things like brushes and pencils become a communal item

Damian would never use your things without explicit permission though

His paints are some of his most joyous and treasured possessions so he maintains that level of reverence with your collection

If you tell him you're fine with him using whatever, his stomach and heart switch places for a second and he starts to feel a faint blush spreading on his cheeks

To him, it shows how much you trust him that you're willing to lend him something so valuable to your being

Not really an art thing but more of an aesthetic preference, Damian likes tangible items over digital

He has a record player with his favorite records and a vintage film camera where he has a collection of photos displaying the various dates the two of you have been on and places that you have seen together

He keeps them in a leather envelope inside his desk drawer and reaches for them whenever he's missing you

Damian keeps one in his wallet from a time that you two were walking around the gardens one hazy spring morning when no one was at the manor. You have one of his sweatshirts on and a soft smile as you're peering off into the expanse of the gardens holding a sleeping Alfred the cat in your arms

Damian intensly listens to everything that you have to say and finds himself more and more curious about the inner workings of your mind the longer you're together

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Caine x reader who has become his assistant despite being a human? Like they have been in the circus long enough and have such genuine enjoyment of the adventures that Caine has taken to letting them help him make them! He even gave them a new outfit to match him!

They do go on adventures still of course, but sometimes they will hang back to help manage things around the circus as needed. They are Caine’s right-hand person (Sorry bubble)!

If you managed to last that long, having you help would make sense. Experience in the digital world is valuable!

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Caine & Reader who helps him

★ It's hard living in the digital world. But, somehow, you've made it work. Playing along with whatever game you're thrown into. Maybe it helps that you like the adventures. Maybe... that's why you're still here. And not abstracted. Like most of the people you've met.

★ Bubble is indifferent. Not really caring about this new role you have. "I'm still his favorite." He says to you, probably being right. Maybe he lingers while you fix something and gives you bad advice. But that's about it.

★ The redesign he gave you matches his outfit. While still keeping elements of your original character. Complete with a little bowtie and your own cane! Though, sadly, it doesn't float in the air like his. You can take it off whenever you want.

★ Caine gave you "mod privileges" that include the ability to fix minor bugs and glitches. It's limited, you can't make NPS's or build locations, but it's still quite useful. Floating props and missing texture get fixed sooner. Saving everybody time.

★ Jax calls you "the ringmaster's pet" as a joke. Speaking of Jax, you like to punish him for his bad behavior. Occasionally deleting the floor below him. Then throwing a label above the hole that says "TEMP FIX DO NOT DELETE"

★ If you ever draw a bee, he copies it. Then sprinkles the doodle around the grounds. Hidden in whatever random place he could think of. Like under furniture and behind paintings. Months later, and you're still finding copies. 

[soundop-central]

the megasoundopstarshock polycule exists for a reason

I need to know everything you HC with them stat

ive made two posts about them!! the initial introduction and the cuddle puddle

General Headcanons

The Soundwave Chaos Polycule (also known as the Soundwave Harem) exists less to explore Soundwave's relationships with each member, and more to explore the dynamics that each of the members have with each other

I think its very funny to make it that Soundwave is aware of literally everything that goes on between his partners (spymaster goes brrrr). He's like a scientist watching his ant colony interact. He's watching the bacteria grow in a petri dish. He's a wildlife conservationist studying a pack of wolves.

I cannot stress how much Shockwave hates Optimus and how much Optimus just wants to be his friend. Optimus will find him outside of work (he knows better than to disturb him in their home lab), sit next to him, and start yapping. OP yaps about anything and everything, usually about whatever archivist project he's working on. Shockwave could not be less interested. Sometimes, OP will start a friendly debate with Shockwave because that's the only way he can get him to conversate. Shockwave immediately tries to shut him down, but it never really works. They are in an eternal struggle.

Optimus is super monogamous. He supports Soundwave whole heartedly and is secure in their relationship. Still, he can't help but get a little jealous when Soundwave chooses to spend the night in someone else's berth when its his turn to have the 'Wave. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes Soundwave has a rough day and needs to sleep next to his fellow weird cryptid scientist. The next morning, Soundwave always makes it up to OP though through gestures like bringing him extra energon, giving him the Cybertronian equivalent of a massage, or with a morning frag. It's really up to Optimus as to what he gets. Soundwave is more than happy to do whatever he wants him to. What matters is that Optimus feels reassured, which he always does.

Megatron and Shockwave are very good...uh. its complicated? They honestly don't know either. Both of them are too weird about feelings to be able to put a label on their relationship. But they enjoy each other's company in all contexts. The tenderness that Megatron is capable of is not saved for Soundwave only. He often shares it with Shockwave; gentle touches, soft spoken praise, showing a genuine interest in his work. Shockwave, likewise, will give to Megatron in his own way. He occasionally will invite him into his lab for "intellectually stimulating exercises" in which really he just enlists Megatron to be his lab assistant for the day. He teaches Megatron about science and engineering, and Megatron high key loves it. He loves that Shockwave recognizes his intellect beyond his military prowess and poetic craftsmanship.

Starscream, on the other hand, has a strained relationship with both of them. Because it's Starscream. Starscream, quite frankly, thinks its funny to annoy them at this point. He will pull pranks on Shockwave, like breaking into his lab at night and moving everything slightly to the right, or hiding an inconspicuous tool. Shockwave doesn't even know about the latter until he actually needs the instrument, and then all hell breaks loose. Starscream will walk in a couple hours later, ask what's wrong, pretend to look for about ten minutes before magically finding whatever it Shockwave is looking for. Shockwave suspects him HEAVILY, but never has enough empirical data to accuse him.

Star is a little seductress too, so when he's feeling especially spicy, he will try to egg Shockwave on in all the right ways. They've spent so long doing this dance that Starscream knows exactly the right buttons and when to push them to get Shockwave in his berth. Though, usually, it's Starscream sitting on a lab table with Shockwave between his legs.

Star and Shockwave are also lab "partners". I use that term very loosely. It's more that they have separate labs that are adjoined by a small hallway and they occasionally run into each other. Sometimes they collaborate on projects. Star proves to actually be quite skilled at being professional, something that surprises Shockwave. 

Starscream and Megatron are...they sure are!! They still fight like cats and dogs, but there is a sexual tension there now (as if it wasn't always there). Starscream doesn't really prank Megatron like he does Shockwave. But, he also doesn't try to kill him anymore which is a megastar W. Soundwave insisted that they go to therapy before they were allowed to move in, and after a few years (human years, i like to think human years are like months to Cybertronians) they managed to work out the Major Issues between them. Still, there is no fixing their clash of personalities.

Still, Starscream and Megatron are charming, and a lot of times their fights look like a battle of wits. Whoever loses gets to top. I cannot stress this enough: they solve their problems by fucking.

Still, there are strangely sweet moments between them too. It feels wrong for everyone involved, but it happens.

Starscream and Optimus are BESTIES. They love going out on the town and doing things together. They'll grab brunch and go shopping. They'll go to the library. They'll go to parks and people watch. They do literally everything together. Optimus is a secret gossip, and Starscream LOVES tea, so during their brunches Optimus talks about office drama and Starscream punctuates with gasps and "oh no she didn't!"s accordingly.

I honestly dont have a lot of thoughts about the megop angle (im not a megop shipper), but i think its really funny if Megatron pined after Optimus and optimus acts oblivious. he knows that Megs is pining. He does not care. He has all he needs with Soundwave.

TL;DR theyre all gay, your honor

[chahaezii]

Warning : Suicide, Emotional Abuse, Generally Sensitive and Heavy Topic.

It's 2:50 AM, 4th of June. I'm writing this to dump my emotion here in a form of fanfic. Do excuse my shit plot lol, I just needed to relieve myself 🥀

Cold.

That's how it's been feeling ever since Jinwoo was reawakened.

He's been distant—cold.

He's been busy with work. Raids to go to, paperwork to finish and a guild to be taken care of.

It's like he was never married to you.

You both had been married for a good 2 years, it was amazing—until he changed. He used to be sweet, gentle and loving with you. Adorable golden retriever man. He would ask you about silly little things, he'd keep you updated with his raids even if he was just a weak E-Rank getting his ass beaten every time.

You didn't care about his status, you only cared about him. Only him.

But, after that double dungeon incident? Everything changed. He slowly became distant and cold, never bothered to update you about anything or even ask you how your day was going. It's all just him and his newly found skills.

Every time he returns home, you'd be waiting for him in the living room—just for him to ignore you. You'd welcome him, sometimes offering a hug or a kiss, but he brushes you off. Saying he's exhausted or too busy for you.

That's fine. Totally fine. He'll change back eventually. Right?

.

Tonight didn't go so well.

You tried to confront Jinwoo, you tried telling him how upset and lonely you feel these past couple months without him being present. How you feel as if you were never married. How you missed the old him.

“Can you shut up? I'm fucking busy, Y/N. I can't deal with having you up my ass like this. Leave me alone.”

Oh.

“I'm sorry. I'll—I'll leave.” Your voice cracked. You turned around to leave.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you walked away, your heart shattered. You never thought the once very gentle and loving man would betray you this way. Breaking your heart into thousands of pieces.

You ran to what was once the room you both would sleep in—it's just your room now. He's never around anymore.

You cried, sobbing violently into the pillow. Regretting everything. You couldn't take this emotional torture anymore. For months, you've endured his coldness, his attitude. You snapped, you can't take it anymore.

You took a pen and a piece of paper, writing down your feelings, how you've been suffering ever since Jinwoo changed, how much you've longed for the old Jinwoo—the gentle and loving guy who you once loved very much. The Jinwoo you fell in love with.

You were done writing, you folded the paper nicely and labeled it as a "Goodbye Letter". You placed it on the nightstand, alongside the pen and your other belongings.

The windows beside the nightstand opened.

You looked down from your room.

“May he find solace with me gone.”

And with that, you jumped down.

.

THUD!

Jinwoo heard a loud thud outside, his first instinct was to check it out. He put his work aside to see what the loud noise was.

He walked up behind the house, near the bushes—he spotted a limb silhouette. He walked up closer to it.

“What the fuck.” his voice sounds like he's about to crack. His expression remained unchanged, but his body language says otherwise. He knelt down beside you, looking down at the bloody puddle you're laying on. Lifeless.

He couldn't believe his eyes.

“Y/N? Can you hear me? Please, stay with me. Wake up, please..?” He's losing it. He tried using his healing potion on you—it didn't work. Your injury was too severe for the potion to take affect.

“Fuck, Y/N. Stay with me! Please. I'll—I'll get you some help.” Jinwoo is trying his best to keep his composure—but he's fucking losing it. He's been too reckless with you. Pushing you away as if you meant nothing—you were his everything.

He scooped you up into his arms, blood covering him—he doesn't care about it. All he cares about now is you. Hilarious, right? I guess it's true, people only care when you're gone.

He used shadow exchange to teleport to the nearest hospital. Immediately seeking help for you.

The nurses had you laid on one of the hospital beds, trying to keep you stabilized until further diagnosis. The doctors had you hooked on some machinery.

Jinwoo couldn't help but to feel anxious. His usual stoic and cold look is now replaced with worry and anxiety. His legs couldn't stay still—walking in a circle, his fingers fidgeting, trying to keep himself calm—it's not working.

He started thinking back to moments where he'd lash out on you, or state mean things. He never thought much about it—too focused in his own world to the point where he'd forgotten about the one person who used to love him at his lowest.

The one person who he loved with all his heart.

Because of him—she's now laying on a hospital bed. Barely alive. He's regretting everything.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N. I'm sorry, It's my fault that it has come to this. Fuck.”

The doctor walked towards Jinwoo, holding a clipboard.

“How is she, doctor? Is she okay?” Jinwoo kept his cool, trying his best to not lose himself in front of the doctor. He'd be lying if he says he's not worried though.

“She's stable for now but,” the doctor paused, briefly adjusting his clipboard in hand. “She may not have much time. She lost a huge amount of blood and her brain was severely damaged due to the heavy impact.”

Jinwoo couldn't mouth a single word. He was speechless. His wife is dying and it's all on him. He was the reason—he killed his wife.

“Listen—this may be hard for you, Mr Sung. You may visit her for the time being. Maybe it'll sooth you slightly to see her.”

Jinwoo nodded at the doctor's word, he immediately walked inside the hospital room Y/N is in, pushing the doors open and seeing her laid on the bed looking peaceful. He couldn't bear to see you this way.

That beautiful look on your face that he is now starting to appreciate more than ever. He felt as if his world was falling apart—knowing he was the reason behind Y/N's suffering.

He sat down beside her, caressing her face. Savouring each and every second that passes by. He will never have a moment like this with her anymore.

.

Suddenly, Beru interrupts. He didn't want to say much, so he gently tapped Jinwoo's shoulder while handing out a note—the "Goodbye Letter". Jinwoo took it and immediately read the content written.

“ Dear whoever is reading this, I'm dead. I took my life tonight in hopes that it'll bring solace for my husband. He doesn't seem to need me anymore, he's been burying himself with work, he has been rude, distant and cold—he's changed. I can't stand it anymore, I missed the old him. Oh the sweet boy he used to be, how much I longed for that boy to come back. But no, that boy is dead. He's dead to me. And I shall die with him. May my husband live a free life without having me bothering him anymore. Farewell. ”

Written with red ink. As he finished reading, his hand trembled ever so slightly. He waves his hand out, signaling Beru to leave him alone—and so Beru does.

Jinwoo feels remorseful. He feels ashamed. He couldn't believe that his kind and caring wife had been feeling that way for so long. She tried telling him earlier and he brushed it off all because he was—what? Busy? Fuck. He's so stupid for being this way.

“Y/N I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for being a shitty husband to you,” his voice cracks slightly, he's on the verge of tears, his gaze is locked onto Y/N. “I should've treated you better, you've always been there for me and I—used you. I took you for granted and I can't, forgive myself for that. But please, forgive me.” He leans in closer to hug your unconscious body, tears are now falling to his cheeks. “I love you, Y/N. I love you so much, I don't know why I'm acting the way I am. I just, I wish I could control it. I don't wanna lose you this way. Please.. come back.”

He knows your time is ticking though.

He is aware you're never coming back.

And he hates that.

.

Feeling sorrowful, are we now? I wonder what caused this.

It's all on you, Sung Jinwoo. You killed her.

[etanow]

Got some Abstragedy and various ML ramblings!!

Zooble doesn't care much for torturing and tricking humans or whatever the stigma around demons is, they're more aligned with the sin of sloth, manifesting with apathy and a blatant disregard for any 'duty' they might have to higher powers.

This means they aren't into the whole "human and blood sacrifice" stuff like other demons might be, so when a mysterious cult's summoning of an ancient power failed and the group summoned Zooble instead, you can only imagine how pissed they were. Not only from being ripped away from a Seinfeld marathon but also now having an innocent soul sacrificed in their name. Hell has paperwork, too much damn paperwork, and turning the bright soul over to eternal damnation like it was promised to felt like too much of a chore and such a waste of a soul. So instead Zooble told it to go haunt or whatever, just leave them be and they won't collect. She didn't like this idea much. Stuck as little more than a string of shadows with no name to remember, and nowhere to go, and the idea of haunting her family felt wrong.

So in the first few years, Gangle followed Zooble around as a distant shadow, not interacting much, simply watching the demon go about their business. Zooble didn't mind this. They got annoyed at first when she started getting curious and asking questions or starting up chats, but soon found her to be a decent conversation partner.

Gangle didn't know she could possess the mask she died in until Zooble showed her, even with the heavy emotions that the mask brought she missed being more than a watcher to the world. She can enter it freely, but can't exit it unless the mask breaks. There's something supernatural about the mask, the breaks never stick. The black silk ribbons originally were connected to the back as decorations. It's how Gangle got her new name, when she learned she could use the ribbons like limbs and Zooble started laughing at how gangly she looked. Gangle as a nickname stuck more than any other they gave her.

She cried when she held a pencil for the first time in a decade and now finds enjoyment in interacting with everything around, she's very touchy-feely. Goes absolutely crazy for bubble wrap.

Zooble can interact with Gangle when she's pure shadow and vice versa.

Zooble's allergic to holy water lol

Gangle worries about everything and overthinks a lot, being around Zooble helps with that as their presence does promote feelings of apathy.

Gangle is ambidextrous after learning how to write with flimsy hands. Zooble prefers writing with her shadowy hand.

Zooble can switch out parts but certainly has preferences based on fate, even if they don't know why. They change their parts out slowly rather than daily and will stick with some appendages for months or years at a time.

Gangle kissed Zooble first and then ran and hid for 4 months out of embarrassment even though Zooble very enthusiastically kissed her back. Zooble found her and the first thing she did was return the favor 💕

They didn't put a label on their relationship until much later, just fine being whatever felt right in the moment.

Gangle can't feel temperature anymore so doesn't mind Zooble's elevated body temperature or when they burst into flames.

Their arrangement works, but Zooble still feels like Gangle is missing out on the life that got stolen from them. They want to fix it. It took a while to hunt down someone with connections who might be able to help, it's how they made their way into C&A Laboratories- specifically in a research division focused on the study of souls; One of Caine's many domains. In exchange for services to find a way to sever the soul debt, they'd both participate in any research going on within the residency.

Jax is the one to fix Gangle's mask when it breaks when Caine isn't around. He teases her for it endlessly, sometimes throwing it at the shadow when she isn't paying attention only for it to stick to her and force her back in.

Jax and Zooble have an,, interesting agreement. Deals and trades are how he ended up in the same residency, and he's no stranger to twisting the words of their pacts for his own benefit, even to other lab resident's detriment.

[glitterclan]

kinda embarrassing i cant work out how to download the experimental branch of the gene mod so if you have the time is there any chance we can get a tutorial 👉👈

download the .zip file here (click the green code button then click download zip), extract the contents to its own folder.

you may need to install uv lock, which you can do by opening windows powershell and inputting the following:

powershell -ExecutionPolicy ByPass -c "irm https://astral.sh/uv/install.ps1 | iex"

then you should click the run.bat file in the zip contents you extracted and it should run. you cannot run this through thonny, you have to use the run file. if it doesn’t work, you can get help in the genemod discord.

if you’re trying to convert your old saves to the experimental branch and/or merge saves into one file, it requires some work and knowledge of how to edit your save files. i’ll explain how to do that below the cut.

if you want to convert an existing genemod save to the new branch:

1. go into your [name]clan.json file in the saves folder. at the very top, above “clanname”, put “clancount_mode”: “multiclan”

2. go into your clan’s subfolder in the saves folder and open the clan_cats.json file. for every single cat in the game, put “group”: “CLAN” on a line under the “status” line. for kittypets or loners, put “null” without quotation marks.

now you have to create the other clans, because it won’t generate them automatically. you can do this by stealing cats from other pre-existing saves. keep in mind that you can view other clans, but you cannot play as them.

3. paste in all of your cats from other clans into the clan_cats.json of your main clan. make sure there is a proper bracket transition between the cats, because this doesn't paste in.

make sure each cat has the proper "group" label that corresponds to what clan they are supposed to be in.

4. this is the difficult part. you have to go in and change any repeating ID numbers. when you are merging files, you may find cats with the same ID number. sometimes you may not. you just have to check.

if you find a cat with the same ID number as another cat, just change one of them to any number that isn't already in use.

but you not only have to change the "ID" section, but you have to change every instance of that cat's ID that appears throughout the sheet. cats who have that cat as a mentor, apprentice, mate (former or current) or parent will have that cat's ID number listed in their code. you have to change it everywhere, and it can be easy to miss some instances of it. you can CTRL+F the ID number to see where the instances are, but make sure you are only changing it for one cat.

5. go back to the [name]clan.json. under the “clan_cats” section near the top, you must add the ID numbers of every cat in the other clans.

6. now you just have to set up the code for the other clans. follow this template, and fill the leader, deputy, and healer lines with the respective ID of those cats.

if you did everything right, it should run. but keep in mind this is tedious and it’s easy to mess up. unless you’re really attached to your pre existing save, i’d suggest creating a save from scratch.

[enlightenedfeline]

How to navigate researching things for your writing:

Research can be hard and you can often get swept away and forget what you were even looking for in the first place, in this post I'll share the process I like to use when I need to research something for my writing.

First off I'll start this post by saying that I am as unmotivated as someone can get when it comes to doing research for writing, and as a crime writer I need to research a lot of things.

1- A good start is always to narrow it down to exactly what you want to research, make your questions as specific as possible so you don't fall down a rabbit hole of looking at unnecessary information just to find what you want.

2- If you can't narrow it down or aren't sure specifically what you're looking for, do the opposite of what I stated above, make your question as short and general as possible, so you can get all the possible answers, and when you find the one that relates most closely to the topic you actually wanna research, use the information in it to create a very specific question.

3- Use the FUCK out of reddit, and quora too, although I find that as a crime writer, most of the sketchy information I actually want is on reddit and not anywhere else. Your answer probably isn't on google, especially not now that they're relying on AI, another good website for more history related stuff is ofc the infamous Wikipedia, but I personally haven't had to use it often. But seriously, Reddit, read all the relevant posts you can find because you will probably find the answer you want, and if you don't, asking the question yourself is always an option.

4- Interest and curiousity is good, but it won't help you if you're in the middle of a scene and get carried away. Ground yourself, find what you want and get out, if you read something and you're interested in knowing more, please just bookmark the tab and get back to your scene with your newfound answer.

5- Images are very very helpful in research, especially when describing weapons, just find yourself a labeled image on google and go crazy! Same thing applies to human anatomy, either images or visualizations work when you need them.

6- Sometimes, for more complex topics, you will not find one straight answer, not on reddit, quora, wikipedia, nowhere. You will need to put information together and fill in the gaps yourself, if you're in the middle of writing a scene when this happens do not stop to put the information together! Finish your scene with what information you have, correctness isn't important, set a time to do your research and put your answer together, and when you've finished that go back and edit the scene!

The final piece of advice I will leave you with is to just focus, as I just stated, correctness doesn't matter in the first draft of the scene, you can go back and fix it as many times as your little heart desires, but you absolutely cannot get back the flow you lost because you got distracted.

So focus, if you find what you need right away, great! If you don't, justs set time aside to do it later, what matters first and foremost is to get the information on the page and fix it later.

Maybe some of this advice will help, maybe it won't, either way, I hope this feline has enlightened you!

[veelingsforyou]

oc INTRODUCTION!

cw: mentions of death n suicide, which could be somewhere in the lore bits. just read at your own risk..

introducing my two ocs! Ignacio and Aeon!

expect some limited (not really) lore abt them since I'm actually new to the fandom and.. I'm still at chapter 4 lol

ok heres the lore

Rondel "Aeon" Eastman

They chose their name 'Aeon' because they thought it sounded really cool.

- Aeon strongly believes that people can change, often brushing off their friends bad behavior as just a one-time mistake. "I know he bullies you but that's because he came from a broken home!"

- Aeon seems to be friendly towards anyone who treats them kindly, and cold towards that don't. They are thoughtful, kind and moralistic, though they can be hypocritical by judging others for the same things they secretly do themselves.

- They sometimes would act coy for their own benefit.

- Aeon prioritizes their own needs more than others, sometimes. They never intervene on someone being bullied, rather watch than do something about it.

- Aeon has a tactic they always fall back on when making new friends: they approach someone visibly vulnerable, offer comfort, and gain their trust. It's just something they find really easy to do when they want a specific person to like them.

- Do NOT expect Aeon to help you if you get your ass beat.

- Aeon used to have a few friends they considered close, but now they’re basically alone all because one prank went too far. During halloween they faked three deaths, and it was so “realistic” that the others cut them off completely. Still to this day Aeon thinks that they didn't do anything wrong.

- Losing their only friends made them hate halloween and didn't find pranking fun anymore. (no halloween costume for this exact reason

How they feel about their school: Not sure why their parents put them here, but they're adapting to it. Despite their dislike to most of the faculty including the Prefects and Mr. Burton specifically, they'll still follow the school rules.

———

Aeon is not part of a clique, and they had their fair share of opinions towards other clique's.

- Befriending few of the Preps and Jocks was hard, but Aeon keeps trying despite always being the butt of their jokes.

- ^ Aeon helped Tad Spencer multiple times with the gardening and personal problems, Gord and Pinky taking a liking on Aeon for some reason. They only befriended Dan and Kirby and that's all, tho Aeon doesn't remember how they became friends in the first place.

- Aeon doesn't know the Greasers that well and would rather stay out of their way.

- Aeon gets along pretty well with the Nerds.. but they don't really go out their way to be closer to them.

- Aeon hates the bullies and would rather see them die instead of giving them a chance. They don't give them their satisfaction by not reacting to their bullying, ignoring them like they were never there. Depending on the bully, they'd probably would try to flee before they try to do something worse to them.

- Townies? Aeon is afraid of them and can't really find a way to befriend them without crying.

———

- Gender’s never been a big deal to Aeon. Labels like “girl” or “boy” just never fit right, and having to stick to one felt like too much. Thing is, they don’t really care how people see them.. a girl, boy, whatever. If someone refers to them based on how they look, Aeon just goes on with it. They never give a straight answer when asked about their gender, either.

"What’s in your pants?" "Uh, my underwear." "What’s under that?" "I dunno."

Google asexual drake. That’s pretty much how Aeon sees themselves.

- Dorms wouldn't help you figure it out, Aeon lives with a friend. Rent free.

- Most people see them as a girl, few people see them as a boy.

- Aeon surely would like kisses and hugs, but they never would wanna be in a serious relationship as that's too much to handle. Yes, they really like Jimmy. Yes, they don't want to actually date him.

- unlabeled

- Learnt a lot of pick-up lines from romcoms they watched.

———

- Both of their parents are dead, their dad killed themselves and their mom got murdered by her new boyfriend the next day. On how Aeon reacted to this, they were pretty upset that they all died in the same week without giving Aeon time to grieve.

- Aeon raised themselves since their dad doesn't give the time and day to try talking with their own child, before taking his own life. Aeon is not close to both of their parents.

- Aeon became self-destructive and pessimistic about their future after their parents died. They feel so stuck and hopeless that they wouldn’t hesitate to do something dangerous and reckless.

- They have Stage 1 of Rheumatoid Arthritis. Due to Aeon being finaically dependent on their parents, it's nearly impossible for Aeon to pay the treatment all by themselves. How they survive is basically up to you because idk either lol

- For Prosopagnosia, they rely heavy on unique parts of a person and voice. For example, if Jimmy has a spiky hair which no one else has in the school— Aeon would recognize him easily. (but Aeon has to remember it first)

- Afraid that being open about their condition might make the bullying worse, Aeon does everything they can to hide it. They make sure no one ever finds out what’s really going on with them. It'll be harder to do so now that the school gives them a permit to skip classes like p.e class for how god knows long.

quotes:

- I can't wait to see my parents the year I'm out of here!

- Well, I saw a cat the other day. It was really cute!

- I wanna really bring my English scores up to A+.. would make going to college really easier.

- I've planted a really rare yet beautiful flower a while ago, you gotta have to see it!

- My favorite comic released a new volume way earlier than it's scheduled!

- I saw a movie that made me cry because of how good it is.

Ignacio Valdez

- Ignacio is outspoken and eerily calm most of the time, yet he's violent and disturbingly callous when it comes to bullying others. Around his friends, he'd act outgoing and even becomes defensive of them, showing an intense loyalty to the few who accept him for who he is.

- Can be emotionally unstable and aggressive under stress, mostly due to his temper issues. His act easily crumbles when someone shows him genuine comfort.

- Ignacio’s already got a reputation for bashing faces and sending people to the hospital. Rumors say that he's secretly a serial killer based off how he torments people and how he always smell like iron.

- Well. yes. it's true.

- He’s sensitive to criticism and doesn’t hesitate to retaliate by picking a fight. It gets worse if you’re alone with him—he won’t think twice about throwing you 12 feet underground. He's also the type to think his opinion is superior than others.. don't get him twitter I beg you

- He lives in a house in secluded part of the town where his parents left him in, you can think on how it looks like. There's a mattress in the living room and there's blood stains on the wooden floor.

- Ignacio would end a persons life if they disrespected him and tried to control his life. But he would also kill out of boredom to feel fullfillled. In another way, he'd kill to earn money too.

- He has a burnt scar on the side of his face during the time he was Greaser, a Prep threw the fire cracker back at his face.

- After leaving Greasers then joining the Bullies, he took the bandage off. He believes the scar makes him look tough and scary.

- He believes in aliens, zombies, conspiracy theories and "2012 is the end of the world." He only talks about them to Aeon.

How they feel about school: He fears to be expelled after getting onto a lot of detentions many times, so he tries his best to not fuck this up this time and HOPEFULLY he graduates.

———

- He became part of the Bullies easily since he was friends with Tom and Wade the time he was a Greaser.

- His depart from Greasers is because of his personal problems with Johnny. Everyone besides Johnny doesn't know why Ignacio left.

- Ignacio avoids them on sight, not wanting to talk worrying it'll be awkward. He does think about them time to time.

- Still can't believe that his relationship with Johnny was actually a situationship (my guy is not moving on)

- He still carries his Greaser mentality when hating the Preps. Has a resentment and grudge towards Chad Morris.

- Just like other bullies, he has strong dislike towards the Nerds. Hated Algernon the most.

- Ignacio doesn't have any opinion towards the Jocks, he has good terms with some of them but can't really stand both Ted and Damon. I like to think the Jocks can't be intimidated by him

- Ignacio tried to fight with the Townies and got his ass beat before landing a punch. So, yeah. the hate is mutual

———

- The reason he thought Johnny liked him back is because they made out one time. He also called Johnny his ex after finding out Johnny and Lola are dating.

- bicurious

- He is really CLINGY and affectionate..

- He really wants a girlfriend (or a boyfriend as a last option) so bad, he keeps thinking every compliment means they wanna woo him.

"I like your look!"

"Thanks. so you wanna go on a date?"

"...no."

He sometimes would harass women to go out with him, and backs off if she said no for the 5th time.

- His goal in life is to get married before his thirties and probably would want to continue his bloodline.

- His parents hated him because he was being "disrespectful" and disobedient, to the point they moved countries to get away from their own son. Honestly they didn't want to admit that their parenting skills sucks ass and made Ignacio worse than they already are.

- there would be more but i geniuenly don't know anything else to write

quotes:

- What's up, you whore?!

- Nice clothes.. wouldn't be so nice if I poured oil on it huh?

- Go cry to your daddy for more allowance, prep!

- Okay, okay! Fine! You win! I don't care anymore..!

- I've been thinking of picking up girls from other schools since every girl in this school is so deviant..

———

Ignacio and Aeon's relationship

to keep it short, Ignacio thinks they're best friends-- Aeon thinks they're in a hostage friendship. Aeon currently lives with him.

After Aeon comforted him over Ignacio struggling to overcome his feelings on his ex, he started to get attached. Like attached to where Ignacio would depend their mental health on Aeon, expecting them to 'fix' him because no one else could.

Aeon believes Ignacio can change. It's just a slow process, that's why they insist on staying with him until he becomes a 'better person'. Always defending him like they owed their life to him, and would rather die to let Ignacio be his own without them.

Ignacio seems really loyal to Aeon, he never gets angry at them and treats them like some kind of savior. His fucked up mental state has convinced him that Aeon is the only person who could ever truly understand him, and he clings to the idea of staying together until death.

Keep them separated if you can.

im posting out of rush and I haven't read all of it so tell me if ure confused abt smth

[thatbennybee]

ChordStriker!AU Q&A

I'm doing a bit of a Q&A about my ChordStriker!AU on insta after sharing this teaser WIP, so I figured I'd present some of the questions here! (Feel free to ask more btw!)

↓↓↓

Rock!Poppy

Q: "Is Poppy's family (Peppy & Viva) still with her since the Bergens didn't attack them?"

A: Peppy is with her, but he is confused/in mental decline like canon King Thrash was. Viva is missing. Poppy was old enough to remember her.

Q: "Will Viva play somewhat of a role in this AU?"

A: Yes, she's had a much bigger impact on Poppy's life, even till this day even though she's been missing for many years now. Poppy has never stopped looking for her.

Q: "Is King Peppy still a liar in your AU?"

A: Nah, he's normal. Sometimes hating him with my entire being is hard, so he gets to be a good dad this time. He's just not all there mentally so Poppy is more like his caretaker now.

Q: "Poppy's relationships don't last long because she gets bored... So how long is Branch going to last?"

A: The Rat Pack (Snack Pack) is wondering the same thing, but Poppy's never used the bf/gf/partner labels before meeting him which is strange... 👀

Q: "Does Poppy still party?"

A: She's a total party animal! Her parties are even more intense than a Pop Troll party since Rock Trolls are pretty extreme. LOL

---

Pop!Barb (Barbie)

Q: "What does Barb look like?"

A: For now, this is her design, it might change once I have time to draw her digitally.

Q: "Does this mean Barb has to go through the events of Trolls 1?"

A: Nope, Barb never befriends Bridget because they have never met. They have found a way to remain undetected in the forest. (Thanks to Branch’s constant nagging about safety)

Q: "How does Barb's gang look? Is there any significant differences in their dynamics?"

A: I haven't had time to finish them all, but here's some of them for now. There's more members of The Lunch Rush, but this is all I have for now!

Val Thundershock → Valentina Wondershock.

Only Queen Barbie calls her Val. She is very optimistic & loves to sing & dance! She's Barbie’s right-hand troll, BFFL & knows everything about her. They have a very... "close" relationship. ;] She's a popstar who's managed by Demo and loves to help make Pop Village a happier place.

Riff

He's a university student studying to be an engineer. He's very soft spoken, doesn't like to make a fuss and is probably the nicest guy around. He's quite close to Barbie and sees her as an older sister. He's actually on friendly terms with Branch. His favorite treat is lollipops. 🍭

Carol

But you can call her Carrie! Everyone does. She's a bit of a diva, loves to look good & dull things bore her. She will ignore anything that doesn't catch her eye, even trolls. Best to be looking your very best!

Sid Fret

Just call him Sid, no need to be so formal. He is every trolls dream guy and he knows it! He's a great roller derby racer and loves the attention trolls give him. Sure, he's a little self-absorbed, but he's a very loyal friend.

Demo

Not much has changed about Demo. He's perfect as he is <3 He's just a little more excitable & cutesy than before. He cares about Valentina a lot & they are very close friends.

Petra

She is the blueprint, she's the moment, she's everything. A model, actress, singer, you name it, she can do it. She's perfect... Who doesn't want to be her?

---

Branch

Q: "How different is Branch in this AU vs canon Branch?"

A: He is the same Branch essentially, just without the development he gains at the end of Trolls 1 & so-on. None of it occurred, so he is still grey, miserable & a recluse. He helped Barb to come up with a plan to keep everyone safe after nagging & warning her for ages, but after that, he returned to his bunker & is still not well-liked by the village.

Q: "Does she know Branch's whole past? If she does, what was her reaction?"

A: Not sure if you meant Barb or Poppy, so I'll answer for both. Barb—no. I don't think she'd ever find out, and she's also not the type to ask. Their personalities clash a bit too much, she stays out of his way like he asks her to.

For Poppy—I think it would come up naturally in conversation after a while when Branch feels more comfortable sharing. Poppy isn't the type to pry, but makes it clear that it's out of understanding, not a lack of caring. She can tell that he is closed off for a reason. She relates to that. I think she'd be beyond pissed once he told her, though.

Q: "Will Branch's brothers be in this?"

A: Yes, but Floyd will be getting the bigger role this time.

Q: "How quickly does Branch fall for Poppy? I'm sure the answer is yes, but is he happy?"

A: I'd say he's quite guarded in the beginning. He is cautious around her for the first few weeks, but he starts to come around once he picks up on Poppy being emotionally guarded herself.

Things move quickly once their walls come down around each other, & a mutual understanding is there. Poppy fell for him first. (At least, that's what Branch lets her believe, as it was love at first sight for him, but he'd never tell her that; she'd get a big head about it.)

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

The Library

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Summary: On your first day working at the library, you meet fellow librarian Remus Lupin, and over time, a quiet companionship rooted in shared struggles and soft understanding begins to blossom into something more. Written for @acourtofchaos's Festival Of AUs Fandom Celebration. Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, fatigue and brain fog, quiet resilience, hurt/comfort, meet cute, no established relationship yet, slow burn, library au, no use of y/n, remus being impossibly kind, mutual caretaking without saying it aloud, soft moments between two tired people, remus might be disabled too but it’s not labeled, the bookshop is almost a character, emotional support tea, this is love in its earliest form, shared silences as connection, yearning but make it soft Word count: 3.3k words.

The job is part-time, at an old library on the edge of town. The air inside smells like paper and promises, history whispered through the silence. From the outside, the building seems plucked from another century, ivy creeping up its worn brick walls and mottled windows that catch the morning light just so. The wooden door creaks as you push it open each day, like the stretching yawn of a creature rousing from slumber. Inside, it's always slightly cool, the scent of old books lingering like a comforting memory.

You chose it deliberately, this quiet sanctuary away from the hustle of the world. You crave the stillness that isn't loneliness, the quiet that doesn't demand you mask your pain or hide the haze that sometimes clouds your mind. A place to simply exist, without expectation or hurry. Your condition has reshaped your life into something unrecognisable, but in the library, with its steady rhythm and predictable patterns, you find a semblance of what once was.

There are mornings when you wake already weary, joints stiff as though rusted, your limbs reluctant to obey. Each movement feels like wading through deep water, your body dragging behind your intent. The ache isn't sharp but pervasive, a dull hum that settles in your bones. Thoughts are thick with fog, words slow to form. Even brushing your hair or tying your shoes becomes a small negotiation. Simple tasks require strategy—breaking things into steps, resting between motions. Life doesn't slow down for you, but here, within these walls, time bends a little. It stretches and contracts around you, accommodating your rhythm instead of demanding a relentless pace.

You've become adept at managing your energy, parceling it out carefully throughout the day. Activity balanced with rest, doing with being. The library seems to understand, its floorboards creaking sympathetically underfoot, the soft lighting casting a gentle glow over everything. The quiet rustle of pages turning is a symphony in understatement, a lullaby in its own right. It accepts your slower tempo without judgement, enveloping you in its word-filled embrace.

And on your first day, you meet Remus Lupin.

His eyes meet yours, the quiet smile on his lips not seeking to intrude but rather to reassure. He's not a loud presence in the room, not one that demands attention or commands respect through force. Instead, he's like a gentle whisper that you can't help but lean towards, soft yet undeniably there.

He sits with an air of relaxed concentration, brown hair falling just so across his forehead. His cardigan, worn at the elbows, suggests many an hour spent lost in the pages of a book or deep in thought. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing thin wrists and long fingers that tap a silent rhythm against the armrest of his chair—something learned, perhaps, from years of tracing lines of ancient text or simply grounding himself through motion. There's a stillness to him that isn't idle but measured, as though each movement is chosen carefully, mindful of energy spent.

"Welcome," he says, and though the word is simple, it carries the weight of sincerity. "We've been expecting you."

You nod, your own smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you tug at the sleeve of your sweater. "Thank you," you say, and for the first time in a long while, you think you might actually mean it. "I'm glad to be here."

"Libraries have a way of comforting the soul," Remus says, his own smile reflective of yours. "They ask little and give much in return."

You glance around at the high shelves, the secluded reading areas, the way the afternoon sun filters through the large windows, casting soft shadows on the wooden floor. "That sounds perfect, actually."

Remus nods, understanding reflecting in his warm brown eyes. He motions for you to follow, and you do, trailing behind him like a shadow in search of light. There's a steadiness about him that belies the turmoil of your shared past, not stagnant but flowing like a deep river, unseen yet powerful.

His steps are measured as he guides you around the library, pausing occasionally to adjust a book spine or straighten a placard. The reverence with which he treats these silent guardians of knowledge doesn't go unnoticed, and you find yourself admiring the gentle strength that emanates from him.

"Over there," Remus says, pointing towards a quiet corner by the window, "is my favourite spot on rainy days. If you listen closely, you can hear the rain tap against the glass like its trying to tell you something."

Your smile widens and you say, "Have you ever figured out what it's saying?"

Remus grins back at you, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Not quite yet, but I have my theories."

He shows you the catalogue drawers, each one filled with cards that hold the key to every book in this vast collection. And then, hidden behind the poetry section, he reveals a nook where someone has stashed a beanbag chair. "No one knows who put it there," he explains, "but it's become something of a sacred space."

"Understood," you reply with a nod. "I'll make sure to treat it with reverence."

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that seems to echo off the high ceilings. "Good. That's what we like to hear."

He gestures toward the break room, his arm a loose arc in the air. "There's always tea, and sometimes there are cookies if you're lucky. The kettle can be a bit temperamental, but if you wiggle the cord like so—"

"Like this?" you ask, mimicking the motion he demonstrated.

"Exactly," he says, a hint of warmth seeping into his tone. "You'll do just fine here."

As you make your way back to the main desk, Remus pauses and reaches for a book on a cart nearby. He doesn't even glance at the cover before extending it to you.

"You might find this interesting," he suggests, an uncertain note coloring his words, though his eyes tell a different story—one of quiet confidence.

You accept the book, your fingers brushing against his for a moment longer than necessary. "Why this one?"

He shrugs slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. "Just a hunch. Sometimes books find their people, not the other way around."

You nod, running your thumb over the embossed title on the cover. "I like that thought."

You don't say it aloud, but you love the book. It isn't the sort of story that grabs you from the first page; rather, it's a slow burn, the kind that sinks its hooks into your heart and doesn't let go. When Remus hands you another book the following week—one that fits your taste so uncannily well—you begin to wonder.

By the third time, it can no longer be chalked up to mere coincidence. There's something uncanny about the way he seems to know not just the books you'd enjoy, but the ones that speak to the parts of yourself you haven't yet revealed—the corners of your mind you thought were known only to you. Perhaps it's intuition, that quiet sense of understanding that often goes beyond words. Or perhaps it's something deeper, something inexplicable... something like magic.

Your responsibilities are simple enough—reshelving books, updating the library's catalog, arranging displays, and manning the front desk. Mundane and manageable, they should not be a source of strife. And yet, there are days when even these routine duties weigh heavily upon you. Standing for long stretches sends a dull ache through your muscles, clouds your vision, and scatters your thoughts like leaves in the wind. You try to hide it—the tremble in your fingers when fatigue settles deep in your joints, the subtle wince as you shift your weight, the way your hand rests on the counter just a little too long, not for balance but for grounding. The ache creeps in quietly, persistent and familiar, turning standing into strain and motion into effort. But Remus sees.

He doesn't acknowledge it outright, doesn't ask questions or press for explanations. Instead, he appears at your side, pushing a cart laden with books toward the section where you stand, minimizing the distance you have to cover. "Why don't you man the desk for a while?" he suggests on occasion, his voice as soft as the pages he so reverently handles. "It's been quiet."

Or perhaps he'll say, "Could you reorganize the bookmarks? They seem to be in a bit of a tangle."

His suggestions carry no hint of pity, no undercurrent of judgement. They do not single you out as different, as needing special treatment. Rather, they offer respite without drawing attention to the struggle lurking beneath the surface of your composed facade.

Gradually, you find yourself leaning into the rhythm of life in the bookshop. It's a steady beat that anchors you when everything else feels unsteady, keeps you grounded when your thoughts threaten to sweep you away. You come to depend on the comforting predictability that greets you each morning: the soft hum of the lights as they warm up, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath your feet, the sight of Remus's lopsided smile.

And then there are the tea breaks—unexpected moments of respite in the backroom of the shop, where chipped mugs and forgotten crumbs tell stories of countless similar interludes. The kettle takes its time, building to a whistle that seems reluctant to interrupt the hush of the afternoon. At first, these breaks are silent save for the occasional clink of spoon against ceramic, a nod of thanks, a murmured "good blend today."

But slowly, over time, words begin to fill the spaces between sips of tea.

One afternoon, you're both seated in separate armchairs pulled close to the heater, mugs cradled in your hands. You hold yours tightly, as if the warmth can anchor you to the present moment. The steam rises in gentle wisps, mirroring the thoughts that gather and swirl within your mind—a storm quietly forming.

"Some days," you begin, your voice just above a whisper, "it feels like I'm trying to keep a house of cards from falling. Every move cautious, every breath held... just trying not to mess it up."

Remus is still, his gaze intent on you, the picture of patience.

"I want to do so much more," you continue, your voice gaining strength, "but my body won't let me. Plans made and cancelled—birthdays, dinners, even just grocery runs. I make lists and then stare at them for hours, too drained to start. And then the guilt creeps in, like I'm lazy or failing, even when I know that's not the truth."

He nods, the spoon in his hand stirring slow circles in his tea, the soft clink of metal against porcelain punctuating your confession.

"I understand that feeling," he says after a pause, his voice steady against the backdrop of your shared solitude.

Your eyes flicker open, surprised. "You do?"

"Of course," he replies gently. "It's not exactly the same—everyone's pain is their own—but I have days when the simple act of staying awake is too much. Days when my body hurts and my thoughts are slow. Days when I don't move, not because I want rest, but because moving isn't an option."

You really look at him then, taking in the faint circles under his eyes, the way he leans forward with a hand braced on the table. There's a deliberateness to his movements, as though each one is measured—not out of hesitation, but necessity. Like his body has its own terms, and he's learned to negotiate with it gently, patiently.

"You never said," you whisper.

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips, more sadness than humour. "I didn't want it to define me. But it's also nice to be seen."

You nod, your throat tight. His words resonate within you, the shared experience bridging the gap between your worlds. It's a strange sort of comfort, finding common ground in hardship, yet it's there nonetheless—two souls reaching out in the quiet, acknowledging the other's struggle.

"You make it look easy," you murmur.

His smile is wistful, touched with a hint of rueful humour. "It's not. But we get good at hiding what hurts."

The words hang in the air, a testament to resilience born of necessity. The room lapses back into silence, but it's not stifling—it's a shared quietude that speaks volumes.

You take a small sip of your tea, feeling the liquid warmth spread through you, chasing away the last vestiges of chill from your bones. "I'm glad you're here, Remus."

He looks at you then, his gaze steady and warm. There's a softness there that wasn't present before, a quiet understanding that seems to say, 'I know.'

"And I am glad you are here too." His voice is low, almost a whisper, but it carries the weight of sincerity that leaves no room for doubt.

Outside, the wind howls against the windowpane, shaking the glass. But inside, the world is still. The two of you sit there, not speaking, simply sharing in this moment of mutual understanding. It's a pause, a brief respite from the chaos of life outside these walls.

Weeks pass, and the silence that once felt awkward begins to settle into a comforting rhythm, punctuated by the rustle of turning pages and the soft clink of tea cups. The small moments between you start to feel significant—not because they're grand or dramatic, but because they are filled with the quiet understanding of two people simply being there for one another.

He saves the last lemon biscuit for you without saying anything, just pushes the tin your way with a small, knowing smile. You find books that remind you of him, their corners turned down, sticky notes peeping from the edges: "Thought you might enjoy this." "Wait till you get to chapter five..."

Some afternoons, when the library is still and the sunlight spills through the stained glass windows in hues of honey and rose, he reads aloud. He selects carefully—poetry, fairy tales, snippets of old letters tucked between forgotten pages. You listen from the oversized armchair in the corner of the children's section, legs folded beneath you, eyes half-closed.

Sometimes, his voice falters midway through a sentence—not from emotion, but fatigue—and he clears his throat softly, as though trying not to draw attention to it. On some days, he pauses more often, the rhythm of his reading slowed by a tiredness that seems to sink into his bones. Still, he glances up to see if you're awake. Sometimes you aren't. It doesn't matter. He keeps reading, his voice weaving through the dusty air like a gentle incantation, even when it trembles slightly at the edges.

There are no grand declarations, no cinematic gestures. Instead, there is kindness and patience, a safe harbour amidst the chaos of the world beyond these walls. And in the slow unfurling of each day, in the shared pot of tea and the hush of ancient texts, something begins to bloom between you—something too tender to name.

You learn the cadence of his habits, like the way he hums a quiet melody—not an actual song, just a tune that seems to coax the books into place—as he arranges them alphabetically. His fingers trace over the spines with reverence, as if greeting old friends, and sometimes you catch him whispering words too soft for anyone else to hear. It's as though the books are speaking back to him, and he's the only one who knows their language. Every day, he places a fresh flower in the small vase on the front desk—a daisy, perhaps, or a sprig of lavender. Once, it was rosemary, and the library smelled of earth and quiet strength.

He learns yours, too. How you take your tea—with honey instead of sugar, just a splash of milk. How you tend to favor the chair closest to the heater, especially on colder days when your joints feel tighter, stiffer. How you pause at the foot of the staircase, not out of indecision but to measure whether today's energy will carry you to the top. How your answers stretch out longer on days when the fog is thick outside the windows, not because you're avoiding the questions but because you're trying to see through the mist inside your own head. How your shoulders tighten when you've been sitting at the computer for too long, the strain of holding up the world becoming too much. He notices these things, and his actions shift subtly to accommodate them.

There's comfort in this silent understanding, in the way he rearranges the seating at staff meetings so you can sit closer to the heater, in how you refill the biscuit tin before he even mentions it's empty. Neither of you need to ask, "Are you alright?" because you've learned to read each other's silences, and somehow, that says more than words ever could.

One particularly golden afternoon, you're cataloging new arrivals at the desk when Remus appears, bearing two mismatched mugs. Steam dances from their rims, carrying with it the comforting scent of Earl Grey. He sets one before you—its handle chipped and worn like a well-loved book—and your fingers curl around its warmth.

"Thought you might need this," he says, his voice threading through the silence like a secret shared between old friends.

You glance up from the tome before you, its spine cracked open to reveal pages yellowed by time and use. A smile ghosts across your lips as you lift the mug, letting the heat seep into your hands. "I did. Thank you."

He doesn't press for more than your quiet gratitude, just settles into the chair across from you. From the pocket of his shabby cardigan, he pulls a folded scrap of paper—creased and soft at the edges. His fingers fumble slightly with the fold, a momentary hesitation that seems uncharacteristic in someone usually so precise. "Found this tucked inside a returned book," he murmurs, carefully unfolding it. "Listen to this."

His voice weaves through the air, knotting the words into a tapestry of memories spun under moonlight, of hands that once cradled stars and released them into the night. You close your eyes, allowing the rhythm of his recitation to wash over you, each syllable a drop in the pool of tranquillity that forms within you.

When the last word fades into silence, you open your eyes. "That was beautiful," you whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

Remus offers a small, almost bashful smile. "I thought you'd appreciate it."

Silence fills the space between you, not a chasm demanding to be filled but a comfortable stillness that brings its own kind of peace, and within this silence is an unspoken dialogue, one that speaks louder than words ever could.

It's in the way Remus's gaze doesn't burn, but warms you with a steady affection that is just as comforting as the fire crackling nearby. It's in the way your knees brush under the desk and neither of you makes a move to create distance, in the rhythm of your breaths, falling into sync without either of you noticing at first.

This isn't love, not yet. But it's something that could grow into it given time—a delicate bud of possibility nurtured by kindness and slow-building trust. It's a connection forged not through grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but through shared understanding and quiet moments like these. You are just two people learning how to carry their invisible weight together—gently, without dropping their own.

And for now, in this cocoon of books and worn wood and soft light, it feels like enough. More than enough, even. It feels like the beginning of something beautiful, something worth waiting for.

[artfulacrostic]

okay so matt's entire treatment of and then defense of hector after their witness turns on them is based on his own personal experiences. he's (imo) super wrong to out hector's identity to everyone and their mother without even giving him the courtesy of discussing it with him first, but do you know why he does it? it's because he thinks that not only will it win them the case if he can spin it in hector's defense, but ALSO because he thinks that being outed to the public will force hector to stop being white tiger.

his thought process goes like this: if he, matt, had been somehow forced to stop being daredevil, maybe if he'd given it up post s3 or even sooner, then maybe the people in his life that he lost because of their connection to him and therefore his vigilante identity would still be alive. (father lantom, foggy, etc.) therefore he assumes that even though hector doesn't want to be outed, this will be the net good in the end, as it will 1) keep hector out of prison/get him off murder charges, 2) get him off the street as a vigilante before the people in his life are negatively impacted even more than they have been already, 3) allow him to find a different way to do good without the outlet of vigilante violence (which we know is to matt a self-destructive behavior, though it doesn't necessarily seem that way for hector). it's giving "i know better than you what's best for you" which is SO catholic of him. i can say this as someone who grew up roman catholic trust me i'm correct.

HOWEVER. matt can't convince hector to stop, the same way foggy couldn't convince him to stop, and his assumption that being unmasked will force hector into retirement is also what signs his death warrant, since matt inadvertently put white tiger on fisk's radar as a vigilante that matt appears to be enabling (thus breaking their agreement in fisk's mind.)

on to the defense matt uses in his closing argument.

this entire section is matt asserting through the parallel of hector's life that his own decisions regarding his vigilantism are right. first, that his choice to go out as daredevil was made from a place of good intentions, and that he did accomplish good things. second, that his choice to hang up the mask was not a choice that meant he was abandoning his cause or the people he fought to help, but rather that he was doing it in a different way. the way foggy wanted him to.

by being forced to justify his own position, matt is also placed in the position where he has to acknowledge himself as a hero, even just internally, because he has to believe the argument he's making about hector, and that means for the first time, maybe he believes it just a little about himself. after all, he doesn't like being called a hero, he disagreed with that idea actively throughout s1-3, where the idea of who a "hero" is had a lot of discussion.

the only person who really knows both matt and daredevil and ever calls him a hero and means it is foggy, who does it twice. most telling: the first time is when they meet, and foggy says he was a hero for saving that old guy as a kid. matt is a hero for doing something years before he even conceived of becoming a masked vigilante. he doesn't need a mask to be a hero, foggy just acknowledges it straight up. the second time is after season 1, sometime in s2 when foggy tells him to go be a hero, just don't get killed doing it. this is an acknowledgment of the good he can do, but even here the mask comes with a caveat: it might get him killed. foggy knows that to do heroic things, it requires matt to put himself in danger.

all the other times people call him a hero, they only know his vigilante identity, not matt himself. and most people don't label him that way anyway; it's usually the term "vigilante"; people rarely throw the h word around. when they do, it's usually not both a) in reference to him and b) positive/sincere. frank rejects the idea that matt is a hero just because he doesn't kill people. karen decides that the real heroes are the everyday people surviving in society despite everything. maggie makes fun of him for moping in the basement like a brooding hero. and even foggy isn't afraid to call matt out for his complex when he thinks he ISNT being heroic, but not once does matt agree with anyone who labels him a hero.

but now, he's forced to face that his argument hinges on hector ayala, a vigilante, being a hero. putting himself in harms way over and over again, just because "it's the right thing to do".

just like matt did. and if hector is a hero, then despite it going against everything matt believes about himself, then there is some part of him that is a hero too. mask off and everything. a hero, still.

so while i think the parallels matt has drawn between himself and hector are not completely fair, i do think that it's a fascinating way to make him study his own beliefs about himself, and for us as the audience to get a glimpse into his internal process at the moment, when we lack any of our usual clearest conduits to how matt is feeling or thinking at any given time (his confessions to father lantom, his discussions with foggy, karen, even claire, etc). without them to serve as the interrogation device to give the audience access to his thoughts, the writers instead use hector as a mirror and make matt hold it up to himself and reveal things through his actions.

[northopalshore]

Tumblr astrology rabbit hole

I've done some digging on Tumblr recently, looking through the astro community (particularly ones that dive into celebrity astrology) & interact with asks often.

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

Now, I understand that these accounts are doing this for fun & I shouldn't really have a say in what they decide to do. However, you still can't turn a blind eye on the fact that it feeds into this delusional factory: where readers just disassociate with the reality of what those placements really mean. Even if it is for fun, a lot of people unconsciously keep those descriptions in their subconscious

Making things that aren't true happen. Just to appeal to the audience.

& it doesn't help either when said accounts start getting up their own asses. When their audiences start looking for different accounts, and happen to find actual good intentioned posts about said placements they sort of expect the same kind of treatment they've been receiving from other accounts.

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

The people posting are actual human beings with lives & different personalities, you can't clump them into one pool labeled "astrology content account".

The educational material shouldn't be clumped up with the accounts that use it loosely. Not everyone here is willing to entertain you that way. So don't expect us to answer your self-indulgent fantasies.

Usually, whenever I see an account I can tell immediately whether their writings are pretentious, or genuine (just so you know, genuine can look very different from person to person as well). I understand that not everyone sees "depth" or authenticity the same way. Still, if you're reading this, I urge you to reflect on what you're reading.

We aren't machines born to push out content for you. We have the right to disappear as long as we want to. The purpose is not for fame or followers, or praise from the audience but to share our genuine passion. Even though sometimes, I see that people forget that. Even the creators themselves. We aren't being paid to be here you know?

₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑

Please use your heart & your intuition even if it is "just Tumblr".