#sometimes you're lucky and sometimes you're not

[chaoticblogofmuses]

Wadanohara: "He should be happy. He finally got a date. So lucky." She nodded. Maybe she should ask Samekichi too sometime.

Kagura: "You're eating the cake that was in there without permission."

Sakata Gintoki has been working under the Yorozuya alone for a good few weeks now ever since he threw his old partners into the river for ‘reasons’. Life was going good for me and then one day he hears rumors of a girl alone with corpses in a place called the sea kingdom who is nicknamed ‘The Witch Demon with Corpses’ interested in this he takes a boat to the sea kingdom to find this girl. (Let the Wadanohara Survive AU fun begin!)

The lone Witch was in the middle of a bunch of corpses and some that used to be her friends, she was just sitting there, not moving from the spot, the girl couldn't find any motivation to leave the place, she didn't know of the samurai that was on the way yet to change her life hopefully for the better.

[afloweroutofstone]

Sometimes, a Republican member of congress tries to get attention by aggressively harassing the first ever trans member of congress. What does one do about this?

Well, if you're particularly lucky, you might come across evidence that that Republican member of congress employs a senior staffer who was arrested in 2020 for drunkenly making his way into the apartment of a woman he doesn't know and falling asleep in her bed. One potential way to react to this information is to take an hour or so to compile the evidence and anonymously send it to over a dozen reporters and Democratic communications staffers until someone picks it up and publicizes it

[meazalykov]

its never enough

barca femeni x platonic!alexia putellas x reader

summary: the team had to intervene after seeing the amount of things you own

warnings: overconsumption, financial issues, childhood trauma, angst

you’ve always been a fighter, y/n. 

growing up in a small, cramped apartment with not much more than a kitchen table and a flickering television, you learned early on how to make the most out of little. your world was filled with the sounds of exhaustion: the tired creaks of your mother’s joints as she came back from long shifts, the gentle rumbling of your stomach as you lay in bed at night wondering if tomorrow would bring a meal or just another day of uncertainty. 

when you were younger, you were happy because you didn't know better. there was no one to tell you that many other kids didn't go through the poverty that you had to go through.

there were nights when you would curl up under a thin blanket, feeling the hunger gnaw at your insides, wishing for just a slice of bread or orange juice to ease the ache.

your mother worked tirelessly, holding down two jobs and often coming home with her eyes clouded from exhaustion, but she always made sure you had at least one decent meal a day, even if that meant sacrificing her own. the smell of burnt rice or old beans became an ordinary experience, an echo of sacrifices made out of love. 

she sacrificed a lot, even if you started to resent her after seeing all of the rich kids at your school with no worries about when they're going to eat next.

you remember the days when you would sneak out to the local park, pretending that the kids from the academy didn’t have talking points that revolved around the latest gear or shiny new sneakers. you wore the same worn-out cleats for years that you found in a thrift store, and while those shoes may have drawn odd glances, they also pushed you to play harder, to train longer.

those white colored adidas cleats of yours slowly turned yellow and green overtime due to the grass stains. 

the first time you were signed to an academy, it was through scholarships. you took public transport (sometimes without paying) back and forth from home to the academy from 6am to 9pm.

that’s where it all began—out in the sun-kissed fields—the heartbeat of your journey. every dribble, every sprint, made you feel alive. the coaches quickly noticed your raw talent; your feet danced like a lyrical melody, weaving in and out of opponents with fairy-tale grace. 

they’d call you into training sessions meant for the older girls and suddenly, you found yourself in a world where your poverty didn’t define you.

many of the nice coaches offered to pick you up from your home in the poor neighborhoods outside of your city, knowing that they couldn't afford to not have you on the pitch.

those were the fabrics of the beautiful game that would one day pull you from those struggling days into a life of unimaginable opportunity.

your childhood academy, once you graduated high school, called you up to the senior team. the salary was small but it was enough to finally see breakfast, lunch, and dinner all in the same day instead of sacrificing one or the other. sometimes, you're lucky that you still have muscle and strength for someone who was not eating enough.

fast forward to after you turned nineteen, a year after your first senior team callup from your childhood club.. you were standing in the hallowed halls of barcelona, far away from home.

the weight of your dreams now intertwined with the club’s crest stitched delicately onto your new jersey. barcelona had been keeping an eye on you for years.

the contract you signed with the catalan team was something you could hardly comprehend—it felt surreal, almost like playing in a fantasy. the money you received dwarfed anything you had imagined during those starving nights as a child. suddenly, you had means far beyond what you had deemed possible.

the first time the signing bonus hit your account, you stared at the numbers blinking feverishly on your screen, unable to process it. the world opened up before you like a child’s storybook, each page filled with opportunity. and so, you rented a bright little apartment in the heart of barcelona, sunlight pouring through oversized windows, casting warm hues upon your brand-new life. 

it felt like a fresh canvas; you could paint it any color you desired. and paint it you did—perhaps too much.

at first, it felt liberating. a new superpuff jacket from aritiza? an absolute must. four different colors? obviously, because how could you choose just one jacket? each item in the store beckoned to you like love notes, whispering promises of happiness that you’d long been denied.

body washes in five different scents? a practical necessity because—how could you ever pick just one that felt right? you bought them all, bringing home bags filled with excitement and haste, giggling as you unwrapped each item in your sunny living room, often spilling the contents across your pristine floor in a flurry, and marveling at your newfound abundance.

having a space to yourself where the shelves were always stocked, the floors were always cleaned, and the heater actually working was something that gave you more peace than you expected.

sometimes, looking around your apartment often made you realize that the walls were suffocating under the weight of your possessions. clothes spilled from closets, shoes lined the hallway and your closets, and accessories filled every surface; a delightful chaos really, yet one that made your heart race with a strange sort of anxiety. 

you owned everything you ever wanted, but somehow, it still felt like a little too much.

your relationship with your teammates blossomed, particularly with alexia. she was a guiding light for you; her encouraging words sculpted you into a more confident player, and her laughter felt like a reminder that you were not alone in this world. 

she took you in after seeing how much potential you had for a twenty year old. the way you'd tackle world-class forwards like you had ten years of experience under your belt was something that caught the spanish woman off guard.

at barcelona, you gained the closest companion in your life, esmee, your best friend.

esmee visited your apartment frequently, often gaping at the sheer amount of items you owned, her eyes wide as she stepped over a particularly extravagant pair of heels that you probably haven’t worn once.

“y/n, do you really need all of this?” esmee asked playfully during one of her visits, standing at the entrance as if she were an unwitting tourist exploring a museum filled with ridiculous wonders.

“of course! look at this,” you laughed, sliding on a pair of trendy sunglasses you had bought just that week. 

“i could be a runway model with these prada ones.”

esmee chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief, careful not to trip over the plethora of colorful items sprawled about. 

the dutch places her jacket in her walk-in closet, hoping to not mix it up with all of your other ones. seriously, it looked like a whole family lived in your apartment instead of yourself.

“the fashion runway maybe, but i genuinely wonder how many outfits you have.”

as the months went on, whispers began to circulate amongst the team, drawing a bit of humorous attention. 

mapi once teasingly commented to alexia, “you know, i’ve never seen y/n in the same outfit twice. it’s like she has a new look every single day!”

alexia raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the countless intricate combinations you’d flaunted during practice and the matches that followed. 

“are you serious?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. 

“you think she actually has that many clothes?”

“esmee and i were talking,” mapi continued, her lips curling into a smirk, 

“and we noticed that y/n always has new shoes, new clothing, she's always walking by with a new fragrance scent—it's hard to keep track. i don’t get it.”

the curiosity started to whirl in alexia’s mind. she respected you immensely and admired your skills, but now she felt a tug towards something deeper. the urge to check in, to see if this was just youthful exuberance or something more. 

so, she decided to probe a bit further, casually nudging esmee one afternoon while both of them waited for practice to begin.

“does y/n have, like, spending habits?” alexia asked casually to esmee, pretending to tie her shoelaces, her expression deceptively nonchalant. 

“not that it’s any of my business– nevermind.. who am i kidding, it is because i need to watch out for her.”

esmee looked a bit uneasy, weighing her words carefully. 

“you know, she does get a lot of packages delivered to her apartment,” she admitted after a short pause. 

“it worries me a little. she’s got a lovely place, but, um, some of the things she buys are expensive—like that vintage prada jacket she flaunts all the time.”

alexia nodded, her mind racing at the thought. 

“okay, but how does she really feel about it? do you think she realizes it’s become…well, a problem?”

“i don’t want to start anything,” esmee replied quickly, clearly hesitant. 

“but…i’ve noticed some little things here and there.”

a few days passed. you found yourself bustling through your apartment, obsessively tidying up as you waited for a batch of brownies to finish baking. the sweet aroma was filling the air, comforting and familiar, hard to resist. 

you had always loved experimenting in the kitchen since having your own space. growing up, you had no idea what brownies were until your childhood academy threw an, "end of the season" party for getting top of the league. they were delicious, but you knew that your mother at the time only had enough to feed your rice, chicken, and pinto beans.

a knock broke your reverie. you wiped your hands on a dish towel and opened the door, revealing alexia dressed casually in a simple t-shirt and sweats, looking relaxed yet focused. she stepped in, offering you a warm smile.

“hey, y/n!"

"ale!!" you say, hugging her before leading her into your apartment.

"whats that smell? are those brownies?” ale asked, stepping over a pair of athletic shorts you’d carelessly discarded near your living room. 

“mind if I grab one?”

“sure! they’re almost ready!” you chirped, feeling a bit of giddiness wash over you.

as you neglected the untidy piles around you to shuffling around the kitchen, you could feel alexia’s gaze wander.

she noticed your open closet door by your front door, she didn't notice the amount of jackets and shoes you had stored in there when she first walked in.

alexia knew that you didn't have a roommate, you or esmee would've told her. all of those items belong to you.

the older woman turned to you, her expression turning serious. 

“y/n, listen,” she began slowly, 

“i wanted to talk about something.”

you froze for a moment, piecing together the gravity of her tone. the brownies, still cooling, were suddenly secondary to her serious demeanor. 

“what’s up?” you asked with a slight frown, putting the tray down on your kitchen island to focus on her.

“i’ve been meaning to bring this up,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

“i heard some things about your, uh, spending habits, y/n. i think it might be good for us to talk about it?”

you instinctively shook your head, the edges of denial creeping in. 

“my spending habits? what do you mean?” you asked, your voice suddenly edged with defensiveness. 

you hoped that your bedroom door was locked, you thought inside of your head. that would’ve gave away all of your issues that alexia is concerned about. 

“it’s not like i’m, you know, drowning in debt or anything.”

“i—I know that,” alexia kept her eyes locked with yours, her gaze gentle yet unyielding. 

“but y/n, it’s a lot. i want to make sure you’re okay. i mean, it’s easy to go a bit overboard when you’ve finally got the chance to buy things you’d never dreamed of.”

“what do you mean? it’s not overboard,” you insisted, crossing your arms. 

“i grew up fine, really, i am not–” 

“y/n, please don’t lie to make yourself feel better.” 

“alexia–i–i just…i like looking nice, and it’s not just about the clothes. it’s—you know, it makes me feel good.”

“trust me, i get that, really.” alexia's voice softened, understanding behind her words. 

“but don’t you think all of this,” alexia points to all of your shoes in the hallway leading to your bedroom. 

“could be something more? an underlying problem?”

your heart suddenly felt heavy. 

“underlying problem? what are you saying, alexia?” the defensiveness you felt turned to an urgent need to protect the parts of yourself that had been so fragile for so long—the parts that still whispered fears of never being able to escape your past.

“i know how you grew up,” alexia said gently, the weight of her words settling like a blanket between you. 

“almost everyone on the team knows, y/n. and it’s okay. we all love you but you don’t have to be afraid of going back there—I promise, you’re safe now.”

you shifted uncomfortably, grappling with the urge to retreat, but alexia’s words were like a balm, soothing your frayed edges. yet, discussing your financial problems felt almost impossible.

“it’s hard for me,” you finally admitted, almost a whisper. 

“i’m scared, okay? scared that i’ll get back to being that poor little girl who was always hungry ale…i don’t want to be that person again, even if it was years ago.”

alexia stepped closer, her eyes radiating kindness. 

“y/n, you don’t have to live in fear anymore. you can have the nice things you’ve always wanted, but maybe you should think about getting a financial advisor? someone who can help you save, invest, and still enjoy life? you really can have both.”

you pondered her words, the idea gently pulling at your heartstrings, unsure of how you could intertwine the idea of safety with spending. 

“i don’t want to give everything up,” you breathed. 

“i just…I don’t want to feel like i’m back there—not again.” 

“you won’t,” she assured you. 

“you have the power to change, and you did. you can still get nice things, you deserve that since you work hard on the pitch with us– but maybe focus on less quantity and more quality? your childhood doesn’t have to dictate your future, y/n. believe me. you can have the nice things you still want.”

you nodded slowly, feeling a sense of warmth envelop you. 

“maybe that’s true,” you whispered.

“you don’t need to hide your past either, y/n. many of us did not grow up with a lot of dinero either. aitana’s family suffered while she was growing up, same situation as you but you didn't have the politics involved.” alexia lightly smiled, hoping to see you less scared of the conversation. 

“oh,” you said, leaning your arms against the kitchen island across alexia sitting on your stool. 

“i am just saying that all of this stuff and the idea of buying it will only last temporarily. you do not want to spend so much money to the point where you’re broke. i have an idea on how much your salary is at barca and with adidas, its a lot and you should not blow through that much money in one month.” alexia and you giggled at her last sentence. 

“i know, and i’m sorry.” 

“don’t apologize to me, you didn’t do anything to me. i’ll set you up with the financial advisor i have and we will put you on the right track okay? maybe a therapist at barca too?” 

“anything you think will help me, capi.” you leaned against alexia for a hug. 

masterlist

[wholelottaprompts]

ᡣ𐭩 Emails I Can't Send Prompts ᡣ𐭩

from the album Emails I Can't Send, by Sabrina Carpenter

"And I still make excuses for you constantly."

"Sorry that I pulled the 'it's not you, it's me.'"

"You're not my friend, and baby, you never were."

"It's times like these I wish I had a time machine."

"Whatever, you're a waste of time."

"I can't myself when you get close to me."

“Oh, so you do have a type."

"Where else can we go?"

"I hate the way you left me dry."

"Give me a second to forget I ever really meant it."

"Don't say sorry now."

"One day, I'll make sure you get a real apology."

"I tried to look for the best in the worst."

"Oh, so you can reply."

"I'm so tired."

"You want me? I'm done."

"I wonder how many things you think about before you get to me."

"You're lucky I'm a private person."

"I'm over that son of a bitch."

"Don't make me cuss you out."

"You're so vicious."

"Nobody gets my jokes, everyone here thinks I'm fucking rude."

"Why were you somewhere else when you were next to me?"

"I can't help it, it's a habit."

"You act like a bitch."

"I never saw him and we never kissed."

"There's nothing left here to decode."

"Were you lying to me and the family?"

"If you wanted brown eyes, I could have got contacts."

"You don't feel remorse."

"That never made too much sense to me."

"I can't read your mind."

"Why'd you let me down?"

"You knew I would see that."

"Looking at you got me thinking nonsense."

"Bet you wanna love me now."

"How do you do this to me?"

"Tell me what's gonna happen."

"You knew I would notice."

"I'll drive you home."

"I don't even know, I'm talking nonsense."

"I want you there sometimes."

"She looks nothing like me."

"Your signals are mixed."

"Everything reminds me of you."

"I know you know it keeps me up."

"You drive me crazy."

"Chase me."

"Did you even give a fuck?"

"You disgust me."

"Now I'm a homewrecker. I'm a slut."

"Tell me I was more than just a decent opportunity."

"Why do you look so happy?"

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thanks to you, I can't love right."

"I know now even if I tried to change that somehow, you'd end up with her anyway."

"You fit every stereotype."

"Does she step out of the spotlight so you bathe in it?"

"Now I can't even look at you."

"You said I'm too late to be your first love, but I'll always be your favorite."

"I know what you're about to say."

"Does she get up on top of you more than I would?"

"He had it coming."

"I deserve my own consideration."

"I look up from my phone and think there's no chance it's you, but it is."

"He's good for my heart, but he's bad for business."

"I've got death threats filling up semi trucks."

"How am I supposed to close the door when I still need the closure?"

"All my friends think I've gone crazy."

"I care, but I don't."

"Please fucking fix this."

"Tell me that you miss me in your life."

"It feels so good not caring where you are tonight."

"You were all I looked up to."

"Was I being lied to?"

"I got ways to find you anywhere."

"You miss me? No duh."

"Maybe we should do this on purpose sometime."

"It was all so innocent."

"What the fuck is patience?"

"I can't even stomach loving someone else."

"God, I love you, but you're such a dipshit."

"You're good at impersonating someone who cares."

"I bet your house is where my other sock is."

[novella-november]

as an actual "too long didn't read", easy-to-remember phrase that sums up what I'm trying to say above:

It's perfectly fine to not plan ahead, as long as you remember to look behind you

aka, come up with ideas on the spot, change your mind -- but don't forget to go back and edit your current work, and if what you changed your mind on is already published, at least reference it and introduce the new information properly instead of pretending it never happened.

take notes. give your world internal consistency.

You don't need to plan ahead as long as you look behind you

I forgot to actually type up a new proper post and now its 2 30 in the morning so here's the writing advice:

If you want to have an Unreliable Narrator that is not an excuse to make stuff up as you go along with no plan because "my character doesn't know whats really going on, so its fine for me to not know either"

-- in fact just the opposite. If you want a well-written Unreliable Narrator, then you, the author, need to have a solid understanding and knowledge of events that are going on around your main character, and what ripples your character sees as a consequence of the actions taking place outside of their view/understanding.

You don't need to know every single thing while writing for Novella November because we're focusing literally just on first drafts,

but it Is important that once your first draft is done , You are going to go back and do major editing to give your world consistency and make it make sense:

That things are being built up to, foreshadowed; that when something Big is revealed later in the book, It isn't literally just coming out of nowhere, you need to establish it in the background radiation of your work so that astute Readers will be able to spot the signs of its approach even if your main narrator does not, and anyone who didn't notice the foreshadowing the first time they read the book will be delighted to find all of the little bits of foreshadowing the second (or more) time through reading the book.

The best ""plot twists"" are the ones that built up to and foreshadowed within the narrative, not just doing a random, out-of-left-field twist for the sake of a twist.

Its perfectly fine, going into your novel to not have a plan and make stuff up as you go along, but once that first draft is done and its time for your second draft, you also need to make sure you're adding those things back into earlier parts of your story to have proper continuity and internal consistency.

[finniestoncrane]

OH BOY! How about Office Eddie nsfw headcanons? I love that dweeb at the office with a dark streak and honestly just want anything about him 💚

Dano!Riddler x Fem!Reader Headcanons oooooooooh yeah!! i've started writing a little outline for something like this but longer!! this is a good excuse to test some things out and see what works >:3c 🐀💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: voyeurism, pervert eddie, peeping tom, spying, non-consensual stuff, masturbation, unintentional cum swallowing

listen, employment in a nice office isn't all that common in gotham, and you're lucky you're not behind a bar serving sleazy wannabe rogues or hustling for what little money you can get, so you're willing to put up with your shy and quiet and kinda dweeby co-worker

but that's only because you have no idea about all the weird stuff he's up to...

eddie is smitten immediately by you, but he doesn't speak to you at all for the first two weeks you're sharing an office with him

it makes you a little uncomfortable, but he slowly warms up and offers you a hello and a goodbye

when he starts talking to you a bit more, it's about quite dark and deep subjects

it's almost like he's trying to guage your response to decide if you're a good person

or one of the people he goes on about, the undeserving masses

he's nice enough though, and you find that he's very helpful and willing to guide you with the tasks

and you quickly notice that he's far smarter than you, and is willing to hold himself accountable for your training

this seemingly kind gesture isn't selfless, however, it's actually his way of getting closer to you

and to have you depending on him for your job

it's not something you notice at first, if at all, but edward always offers to look your work over before passing it on to the bosses

he's changing it without you knowing though, making sure there are little mistakes that have you reprimanded

eddie delivers that bad news of course, and offers to show you how to fix your errors

you're so grateful that you hug him, or compliment him, and so he can hardly stop doing it

besides, the stupider you feel, the more you'll have to rely on him, and the more you'll view him as smart and wonderful

and in order to keep you thinking that, he'll criticise you sometimes

nothing too mean, not too obvious

but enough that he can see your pupils widening and your skin flushing when he does compliment you

"don't worry, i won't tell the bosses"

gosh, you owe him so much... maybe he'll cash in the favours someday

eddie has the keys to the office and he unlocks it every morning, since he's always there a lot earlier than you

you never question why, but it's so he can set things up

you wouldn't believe how many cameras are hidden in the little space you share

under the desk, in the toilet, in the stationary cupboard

and the work laptop he offered to set up for you?

the webcam is hacked, so he can watch you at home

because at a certain point, he can't stand not to be around you or to know what you're up to when you clock out for the day

and that includes when you leave the room to go to the toilet

he had to drill a hole in the wall of the cupboard between the office and the bathroom, just so he can keep an eye on you

and he finds his behaviour escalating, like an experiment to see how far he can go

it starts with him touching himself under his desk, rubbing his hands over his erection and trying to keep quiet

rubbing against you in the elevator, placing his hands on your shoulders as he stands behind you, staring down your blouse

asking you to reach up high or down low to watch the way your clothes move to expose you

messing with the ac, watching you sweat when it's too hot, watching your nipples harden when it's too cold

then he starts messing with the cables under his desk a lot, something with the wiring you don't understand

but it's an excuse to stare at your legs, trying to get a peek up your skirt

and then before you know it, your sweet coworker is masturbating into your coffee creamer

waiting to see if you can taste the difference, to see if you recognise him on your tongue

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

🎬 aubrey plaza - ‘NEPO-WIFE ?’

The evening was suffocatingly familiar. Aubrey stood in the hotel’s extravagant hallway, gazing out at the city skyline. The lights below twinkled like far-off stars, and yet all she could feel was the thrum of anxiety under her skin. Another event, another evening of being paraded out for the world to see, her every move scrutinized. And in that moment, she wished she could just disappear into the air—slip through the cracks of the red carpet and vanish.

But she couldn’t. Not with all the cameras, not with the eyes that followed her every movement. It didn’t help that tonight, she wasn’t standing alone.

"Hey," came your voice from behind her, soft and steady. You had that way of cutting through her fog of irritation, your presence like an anchor in a storm of flashing lights. Aubrey didn’t have to turn around to know you were standing there—she could feel you, your warmth, your steady energy. You, with your elegant, composed presence, the world at your fingertips, and the family legacy that made it all so easy for you.

But she wasn’t here to complain. Not yet. She would save that for later.

When she finally turned to face you, she caught the glint of your eyes—the same eyes that could pierce through her sarcastic veneer. You were wearing that calm, collected look, the one you always wore at these events. You were practically glowing in your tailored dress, a contrast to Aubrey’s unpolished and understated outfit that clung to her awkwardly, as always.

"Is it too late to back out?" Aubrey asked, deadpan, one eyebrow raised. She was never one to mince words. "I mean, who needs another ‘self-made girl’ on a red carpet? I’m pretty sure we’ve got enough of those already."

You laughed—your genuine laugh that Aubrey could always pick out from the crowd, the one that made her feel like maybe there was still something good left in this charade.

"Trust me, I’ve been trying to get you to ditch this thing for days," you said, stepping toward her, your fingers brushing the fabric of her gown. "But you know how it is. You’ve got to put on the show. Keep up appearances."

Aubrey’s lips twisted into a half-smirk. "Appearances. Yeah, that’s my specialty."

There was a brief moment of silence before you spoke again, a little softer this time. "You know they’re all watching us, right?"

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I’m aware," she muttered. "I’m sure they’ll make some snide comment about how different we are—how we don’t belong together. Maybe I should just wave a flag that says ‘Look, we’re the most unlikely pair ever.’ That’ll be fun."

You reached up, placing a hand on her cheek, your touch gentle. "You know they’ll say whatever they want. But they don’t know us. We don’t need them to."

She sighed heavily, leaning into your touch for a moment, but quickly pulled away, as though she couldn’t allow herself to be too soft. "I know, I know," she muttered, turning her gaze back to the skyline. "But it’s just... annoying, you know? The way they only focus on how different we are. They can’t look at us and see anything but this weird mismatch of ‘privilege’ and ‘self-made,’ and they think that’s the whole story. It’s exhausting."

You smiled, as you always did, like you could sense the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. "Who cares what they think? You’re you, and I’m me, and that’s why I love you."

Aubrey turned her head slowly, looking at you with a small, almost vulnerable smile. "Yeah, well, sometimes I wonder if you know what you're getting into with me."

"You’re lucky I’m a glutton for punishment," you teased, tilting your head. "But honestly, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if they think we’re mismatched. I care that I’m with you, that I chose you. That’s what matters."

Aubrey smiled, a little less dry, a little less sarcastic. "Yeah, I guess that’s the most important thing. But it still bothers me when they talk about us like we’re some kind of circus act. You, with your big family legacy and perfect smile. And me... with my weird sense of humor and dry sarcasm. I mean, who wouldn’t wonder how that works?"

"You’re different, Aubrey," you said, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "And that’s what makes you perfect. We’re not a circus act. We’re just... us. And that’s all that matters."

---

The red carpet was as predictably absurd as it always was. The sea of flashing lights, the intrusive questions, the endless waves of publicists and photographers—all of it felt like a slow, grinding march. But this time, Aubrey tried to drown it out, to focus on you. Your presence beside her was a lifeline, even when the journalists turned their attention toward her.

"So, Aubrey," a reporter called, leaning in with a microphone in hand. "You've made a name for yourself as a very... unique presence in Hollywood. And of course, you're married to y/n, who comes from such a well-known family. Do you think that your relationship has ever put you under a different kind of microscope? The kind that focuses on your differences?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched upward in that signature, deadpan way. She glanced at you, noticing the way you stood a little straighter, like you were preparing to shield her. "Oh, sure," she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I’m sure they’ll get all worked up about how I’m not the perfect ‘nepo wife’ they expected. I’m so out of my depth here."

The journalist didn’t pick up on her sarcasm, as usual. "But seriously, Aubrey, do you ever feel the pressure of being married to someone with such a powerful legacy? Do the comparisons ever get to you?"

Aubrey’s expression remained unchanged, though there was a brief flicker of something—irritation, maybe—behind her eyes. She was so used to these questions, so tired of them. And yet, she played the game with the kind of dry humor that had earned her a loyal fanbase.

"Look," Aubrey said, turning toward the reporter with a wry smile. "I didn’t marry y/n for the family name. If I wanted to marry into money and power, I would’ve chosen a billionaire. But here we are, still going strong, and that’s all that matters."

You laughed beside her, but the smile didn’t quite reach Aubrey’s eyes. You could see it—the slight tightening of her jaw, the way she didn’t let herself truly relax, even in the midst of a playful comment. Aubrey Plaza might pretend she didn’t care about the opinions of others, but you both knew the truth.

In public, she would never admit it. But in the quiet of their private moments, away from the cameras, she would sigh, lean against the wall, and mutter, "I hate that they keep bringing it up. They don't get it. We’re not a 'mismatch.' We're just... us."

You always knew what to say, though. You would wrap your arms around her, gently kissing the top of her head. "I get it. And I love you for it."

---

Later that night, when the flashes finally stopped and the event was over, the two of you retreated back to your hotel room. The exhaustion of the evening hung heavily in the air. Aubrey didn’t even bother to take off her gown right away. She collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching idly by her side.

"Did you hear what they said about us today?" she asked, her voice flat. "The ‘privilege’ and ‘hard work’ narrative... I swear, it’s like they don’t care about anything real. It’s all just surface-level crap."

You climbed onto the bed beside her, leaning on your elbow to look at her. "Aubrey, I’m not going anywhere. I chose you, and nothing anyone says changes that."

Aubrey’s lips twisted in that familiar, dry smile, but there was something softer in it now. "Yeah, I know. I just wish people would stop treating us like we're part of some goddamn zoo."

"Who cares about them? You’re my world, Aubrey. No one else matters."

In that moment, with the lights of the city still flickering outside and the world far, far away, Aubrey let out a long sigh, finally relaxing into the comfort of your arms.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I guess you’re right. I just wish it didn’t make me feel so... weird."

And for the first time that night, Aubrey allowed herself to drift into the quiet safety of your love, away from the spotlight and the noise, knowing that no matter how many cameras flashed or how many critical voices rose, she could always count on you to be her anchor, her support. In your arms, there was no judgment, no expectations—just the simple, steady beat of two hearts who had found their rhythm amidst the chaos.

But it wasn't over, it never was.

Long days—press tours, meetings, photoshoots. The usual whirlwind that came with being in the spotlight. You knew the routine by now, but today it felt different. Aubrey was quieter than usual, her sarcasm less biting, her usual dry humor subdued. You noticed it immediately, and it gnawed at you, a feeling in your gut that wouldn’t settle.

You and Aubrey had built something together over the past four years—something that others could never quite understand. She had earned every bit of her career, every inch of respect, while you, despite your best efforts to separate yourself from your family’s influence, were always seen as the “privileged one.” The “nepo baby,” they called you. And the contrast between you two—her rawness, her authenticity, her self-made success; and your polished, well-maintained image, always tethered to your powerful family—was something people always seemed to focus on.

You had tried to ignore it, at least outwardly. But tonight, in the dimly lit apartment you shared with Aubrey, it couldn’t be ignored. She looked tired, not just from the long day, but from something deeper. Something heavier.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked gently, noticing her staring blankly at her phone, her fingers tapping against the screen without purpose.

Aubrey looked up, her sharp gaze meeting yours, but her expression was unreadable. The easy sarcasm was gone. "What’s there to talk about?" she muttered, dropping the phone on the couch. "Just another day of pretending everything’s fine."

You swallowed, biting back the urge to remind her that she was the one who always said she didn’t care about what people thought. You’d spent enough time in the public eye yourself to know that there was always a kernel of truth behind those words. And despite what she projected, Aubrey did care. She cared about the scrutiny, the constant comparisons, the way her career had somehow become secondary in the public eye.

You shifted closer to her on the couch, careful not to invade her space but unwilling to let her retreat into herself entirely. "It’s not like you to be this quiet," you said softly, trying to keep the mood light. "Not even a single snarky comment about how I burned dinner last night?"

Aubrey’s lips twitched in what could have been a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, she sighed, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. "It’s not about dinner. It’s about this... circus. All of it."

She gestured vaguely toward her phone, but you knew what she meant. The press tour. The interviews. The countless articles dissecting every detail of your marriage. And the most recent headline that had likely set her off: "Aubrey Plaza, the Wife of Hollywood's Golden Girl."

It wasn’t the first time her name had been reduced to a footnote, a descriptor attached to yours. But it never got easier for her.

"I’ve worked my ass off for years," Aubrey said, her voice low and steady, but there was an edge to it, a rawness that made you hold your breath. "I’ve done indie films no one thought would succeed. I’ve fought for roles, dealt with rejection after rejection, clawed my way into this industry. And now, suddenly, I’m not Aubrey Plaza anymore. I’m your wife. Like that’s all I am."

Her words hung in the air like a weight, and you didn’t know how to respond. Because the truth was, you had seen it happening too. The way her accomplishments were overshadowed, the way interviews that were supposed to be about her projects turned into questions about your relationship. You hated it as much as she did, but you hadn’t known how deeply it had affected her. Until now.

"You’re not just my wife," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "You’re so much more than that. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve to talk about you."

Aubrey scoffed, but there was no real humor in it. "Tell that to the reporters who only want to ask me what it’s like being married to you. Or the producers who suddenly think I’m only relevant because of your last name. It’s like everything I’ve worked for means nothing now."

You reached for her hand, but she pulled away, standing up and pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating it is to have people act like I’ve coasted into success because of you? Like I didn’t do anything before we got together? I love you, but sometimes... sometimes it feels like I’m losing myself in this."

Her honesty cut you to the core, but you couldn’t blame her. How could you? She wasn’t wrong. And yet, hearing her say it out loud felt like a blow you hadn’t been prepared for.

"I didn’t ask for this either," you said, standing up to face her. "I didn’t ask to be born into this family or to have every move I make scrutinized. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for my relationship with you to be turned into some kind of spectacle."

Aubrey stopped pacing, her arms dropping to her sides as she looked at you, her eyes softening just slightly. "I know you didn’t," she said quietly. "And I’m not blaming you. I just... I don’t know how to deal with it sometimes. It’s like no matter what I do, I can’t escape it."

The tension in the room was palpable, but it wasn’t the kind that threatened to break you apart. It was the kind that made you lean in, made you fight harder to understand each other. You stepped closer to her, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to gently touch her arm.

"You’ve always been more than enough," you said softly. "Before we were together, before anyone even knew my name, you were already a force to be reckoned with. That hasn’t changed, Aubrey. And it never will."

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she let you pull her into a hug. She rested her head against your shoulder, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. But you knew it wasn’t gone. Not completely.

"I just wish people could see me for who I am," she murmured, her voice muffled against your skin. "Not just as some extension of you."

You tightened your arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "They will," you promised. "We’ll make them see. Together."

And in that moment, as the two of you stood there in the quiet of your apartment, you knew that no matter how many headlines tried to define your relationship, no matter how many whispers tried to reduce Aubrey to just your wife, the truth of who she was—and who you were together—was something no one could take away.

But the internet never thinks like that.

The internet had turned into a battlefield again, and you were the primary casualty. Pictures of you and Aubrey walking out of a luxury boutique were plastered across every social media platform, accompanied by wild, baseless assumptions.

One particular photo had gone viral: you standing still, clearly mid-conversation, while Aubrey carried two bags in her hands. The truth was that you’d twisted your ankle on the way out and had stopped to catch your breath while Aubrey, ever practical, had grabbed your things to keep the line moving. But the internet didn’t want the truth. It wanted a story.

There were three camps now. The first claimed that Aubrey Plaza deserved better than a spoiled “nepo baby” who made her carry shopping bags like a servant. The second argued you deserved better, painting Aubrey as a gold-digger exploiting your wealth. The third defended your relationship, posting clips and interviews to show how much love you shared.

The third group was small.

And no matter how many times you tried to ignore it, the hate had crawled under your skin, festering in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

By the time you walked into the convention hall for a Q&A about your new series, you were already simmering beneath the surface. You’d perfected the art of smiling through discomfort, of keeping your golden-girl persona intact, but today felt harder than usual.

The panel started smoothly enough. The moderator asked you about your role, the challenges you faced during filming, and your experience working with the cast. You answered every question thoughtfully, earning laughs and applause from the audience.

Then came the inevitable question.

“So,” the interviewer began, leaning forward with a too-familiar smirk, “do you think your family name helped you land this role?”

The room went quiet for a moment. You didn’t flinch; you’d been asked this question a dozen times before.

You smiled politely, your voice steady. “I’d like to think that my work is enough to prove that I made it on my own, but I’m not blind to the fact that my name carries a lot of weight. I can’t deny my privilege. That being said, I hope to continue earning roles because of my talent, not my last name.”

The audience murmured, a mix of admiration and skepticism. You’d expected as much.

But then a microphone made its way to a member of the audience, a man who seemed far too eager to speak. His tone was mocking, his body language confrontational.

“Speaking of privilege,” he began, a smirk curling his lips, “do you think your wife is what people are calling her now? You know—a ‘nepo-trophy-wife’? Seems like she’s benefitting a lot from being with you.”

The words hit you like a slap, and the audience gasped collectively. The interviewer looked uncomfortable, clearly unsure whether to intervene.

You felt your chest tighten, the simmering anger from earlier now boiling over. You leaned forward, gripping the microphone tightly.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” you asked, your voice deceptively calm.

The man, emboldened by the attention, shrugged. “I mean, she’s clearly riding your coattails. It’s not like anyone was talking about her before you two got together.”

A hush fell over the room. The interviewer looked like they wanted to sink into the floor, but you didn’t give them the chance to redirect.

“Aubrey Plaza,” you said, your tone icy but controlled, “has been in this industry far longer than I have. She’s been in critically acclaimed films and shows—some of which you’ve probably seen, considering you know her name well enough to make an opinion about her.”

The man started to interrupt, but you cut him off.

“And let’s be very clear,” you continued, your voice rising slightly, “if anyone in this relationship is riding coattails, it’s me. I’m the one who should be called a ‘nepo-trophy-wife.’ Aubrey has worked her ass off for everything she has. She’s an incredible actress, and the fact that you think you have the right to reduce her career to her relationship with me says more about your ignorance than it does about her.”

The audience broke into applause, but you barely heard it. You handed the microphone back to the moderator, sitting stiffly as the panel moved on.

---

When you got home that evening, your stomach was still in knots. You didn’t regret defending Aubrey—not for a second—but you knew the fallout was inevitable. You could already hear the headlines: Golden Girl Goes Off! or Y/n Shows Spoiled, Bratty Side!

You dropped your bag on the kitchen counter and sighed, rubbing your temples. Aubrey’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Quite the show you put on,” she said, stepping out from the living room with her phone in hand. She was smirking, but her eyes held something softer, something warmer.

You froze. “You saw it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You kidding? It’s all over the internet. ‘Golden Girl Defends Wife with Fiery Speech.’ You’re trending.”

You groaned, sinking onto the couch. “Great. Just what I needed.”

Aubrey sat beside you, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Hey,” she said, nudging your shoulder, “you were amazing.”

You turned to look at her, surprised. “Really? Because I feel like I just painted a target on both of our backs.”

Aubrey shook her head, her dark eyes shining. “Let them talk. You know what I care about? That my wife—the golden girl, the internet’s sweetheart—stood up for me. You didn’t have to do that, but you did. And it was... really hot, actually.”

You laughed despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. “Hot, huh?”

“Extremely,” she said, leaning closer. “There’s nothing more attractive than you telling the world to screw off because you love me.”

You felt your cheeks flush, and before you could respond, Aubrey kissed you. It wasn’t a soft, sweet kiss—it was firm, passionate, full of everything she couldn’t put into words.

When she pulled back, she was grinning, her usual dry humor creeping back into her tone. “So, do I need to start calling you my publicist now? Or are you sticking with ‘wife’?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning into her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” she teased, wrapping an arm around you.

The internet could say whatever it wanted. In this moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way Aubrey looked at you—as if you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

this might be my favorite, just fed my delulu self <3

[ere-the-sun-rises]

@maybe-im-dark Want some angsty sweetness?

| | |

"He was sick, you know."

Logan stops dead in his tracks, because this abrupt change in topic was entirely unexpected. "Pardon?"

"My Logan." She continues, idly looking through the cereal on the shelves as they peruse the grocery store. "He was sick. That's what actually killed him."

"Oh." He's deeply uncomfortable with this, but he likes Laura, and she deserves to be heard, so he lets her speak.

"The wounds would keep bleeding and he got infections in his hands. Sometimes I saw him have to pull out his claws, or push them back in. Bruises would linger on his face and he would keel over from exhaustion constantly. He even needed glasses to read." She smiles slightly, fond and distant. "But he tried. By god, did he try. He gave everything he had for us, for me. In the end, that meant his life too."

"Ah." He has nothing to that. Even if he wanted to die - and fuck has he ever tried - he knows he can't.

"It meant a lot to me, to be worth protecting and dying for." She briefly meets his gaze with a knowing quirk of the lips. "It's hard to feel saved by someone else when you heal no matter what."

"Yeah." He admits softly. "It can be."

"It meant a lot, and it still does. No one will ever replace him, or become who he was to me." She puts a box of Wade's favourite cereal in the cart, then grabs its edge so he doesn't push any further. She's tense for a moment, face shielded by the curtain of her hair. "I'll love him forever for it. But it's an ugly feeling, being died for. You're alone, without that safety you've come to know and no idea if you'll ever feel it again - just that this instance of it is gone forever."

He takes her hand, heart breaking in sympathy. "I'l sorry, kid."

She meets his gaze again, always so sure and steady. "You'll never be him."

"I know. I-"

"I wasn't done." She cuts in and he snaps his mouth shut. She keeps him pinned under her dark eyes. "You are not a replacement for him, because I was lucky enough to get to lose him and I am lucky again and get to keep you."

He squeezes her hand, overwhelmed with sentimentality. "Laura ... "

"I got to grow up because of him, but I want to grow older alongside you. You're not him, and that's good. I want someone alive to love me too." She looks away again. "To be safe with."

He can't help himself and pulls her into his arms, hugging her tightly. "I will be. Always."

She hugs him back, face buried in his shoulder. "Good."

Now I like me some angst with Laura and Logan however there is much more potential with it being less angsty.

Laura morning her father yes but Worst Wolverine as a replacement wouldn't be as angsty as some people imagine.

Laura could never replace the men who saved her life but she isn't trying to. That Logan loved her deeply even if he didn't show it, but he was dead now. He sacrificed himself for her and she would always be thankful for that.

She however isn't tore up about growing close to the new Logan. She knows her father would want her to move on to love how she chooses and so she does with no reservations. This new Logan is just as much her father as the other and neither are replacements.

Worst Wolverine of course is doubtful he's more torn up about it than Laura herself. He isn't that kind of hero he insists on it. Laura just shakes her head at him and explains he is also her father any Logan is.

She is sure her Logan wherever he is is proud and happy that she can move on. She has Logan and Wade now did she just knows that wherever he is watching he couldn't be prouder.

[fallenclan]

re-reading this current arc, there's a moment that caught my eye. in pt. 2 of moon 256(?), darkstone says to honeysong something along the lines of 'you're lucky you get to be here [ in the glow cave ], most warriors don't get the chance too'. which reminded me how the ( canon ) Clans as a whole lost the tradition of apprentices traveling/visiting the moonstone when they left the forest territories. there's a whole article about this 'lost tradition' on the warrior's website ( i only know this because i googled it to fact check, lmaoo ). and in that article, it describes why it was important - mainly to reinforce awe in starclan and their warrior ancestors - and so that apprentices get a chance to travel beyond their Clan and interact with non-Clan cats.

i find this really interesting; especially when crafting my own lore + traditions. so i want to wonder with you, would fallenclan have followed this tradition? would scorchstar have ever enforced this ( would her mother have told this tradition among her tales of the Clans )? or would another leader/cat have done so? would anything change lore-wise if fallenclan/other clans did this tradition?

on a side note, something really nostalgic to me is when leaders would seek guidance from the moon-stone. have any leaders gone to the glow cave by themselves or with others to seek guidance with the stars? i feel like maplestar would have, with silverbelly. <3

Also also, this is the second time i've sent an ask right after you answer someone else's, i don't mean to pounce on ya like that LMAOO i-ve been typing for like 10 minutes plss

- 🍂

good question!!! to be honest, this isn't something I've given a lot of thought to, but I think generally it's just the medicine cats that speak to Starclan--the leaders get to as well, but it's only when they receive their lives that they do so. if they really need to ask Starclan for guidance, the medicine cat does so on their behalf, though it isn't a common thing. Starclan really is just a bunch of dead cats, they aren't all-knowing, but sometimes they do get stuff that they'll pass along--warnings in the form of omens, etc. They have their own lives in Starclan and they aren't there solely to help out the living.

If it was a practice in Boughclan/Tuftclan, Scorchstar didn't know about it. Apprentices probably don't go to speak to Starclan--unless they sneak out to do so, which is possible but not really likely, as it's. I don't want to say Taboo to speak to Starclan without permission, but Frowned Upon maybe? like I said, I haven't thought about this much at all, I probably should get on that XD

[tiredassmage]

People will tell you Minrathous is broken - and they're right. It's corrupt, petty. Saving the world won't fix it. I take the small wins, Rook. Hal serving fish another day, Getting past the next scrape alive. Sometimes you're lucky. Sometimes you get more. But the tables always turn... It's better if you know it's coming.

- NEVE GALLUS

[agentoffangirling]

I feel like Once Upon a Time is afraid of killing its characters

"But what about Robin? What about Neal?" Those are literally the only exceptions, hardly ever do we have a good character dying and staying dead

I understand that getting rid of a character is hard, but if you're writing a story, yes, sometimes characters need to die in order for it to progress. Or maybe you're playing it too safe, and so you need a bit of shock value

Bc there was no reason Rumpelstiltskin needed to stay alive for that long. His arc should've ended in season 3, he did not need to come back for the bajallionth time to go "all magic comes with a price!!"

To my writers out there, kill your characters. Genuinely, I mean this, if everything feels too happy-go-lucky and lighthearted, do something about it. Give your story stakes. Make those deaths feel impactful to the other characters and readers. I'm not saying go out and have a death spree with them, but allow some of them to just naturally die. If it makes sense for them and/or the story, do it

[dissapointu]

hii, i just discovered your blog, and i'm in love with your writing!

If you're comfortable, could you please write headcanons for Ekko with a trans (ftm) s/o, who's still pre-transition? Wether you wanna add smut or not is completely up to you.

Thank youuu ily

-🫧

Thank you for the love! I’d be happy to write some headcanons for Ekko with a trans (ftm) s/o!!

Ekko x Pre-Transition Trans (FTM) S/O Headcanons

____________________________________________

General Relationship Dynamics

• Unwavering Support: Ekko is incredibly intuitive, and even if you’re hesitant to talk about being trans, he picks up on your mood changes and gently encourages you to share when you’re ready. He’s a fantastic listener and would never pressure you.

• Champion of Affirmation: Whether it’s using your name, correct pronouns, or hyping you up when dysphoria strikes, Ekko makes you feel seen. He’ll slip in affirmations like, “You’re so handsome when you smile,” or, “That’s my guy,” effortlessly.

• Protective Energy: If anyone dares misgender or disrespect you, Ekko steps in without hesitation. He’s diplomatic when needed but won’t shy away from throwing hands if the situation calls for it.

Moments of Intimacy

• Safe Space: Ekko understands the complexities of being pre-transition and makes a point to ensure you feel safe during intimate moments. He’s careful to check in, always asking, “Is this okay?” or, “Tell me what feels good,” with genuine care in his voice.

• Affirming Touch: When you’re cuddling or sharing softer moments, he’s instinctively drawn to parts of you that feel less dysphoric—your hands, arms, or hair. He’ll kiss your knuckles or trace lazy patterns on your skin, grounding you in the warmth of his presence.

• Bedroom Dynamics: Ekko keeps things slow and intentional, always focusing on what makes you feel good and confident. He’s happy to work around your boundaries and never treats intimacy as one-size-fits-all. His patience and love shine through every touch.

• Laughter & Comfort: He’s the type to crack a joke or make silly faces if he senses you getting self-conscious. “You’re the hottest guy I’ve ever met, and I’m not just saying that because you’re naked right now,” he teases with a smirk before pulling you close.

Everyday Sweetness

• Clothes & Style: Ekko loves sharing his wardrobe. If wearing baggier hoodies, jackets, or bandanas makes you feel more comfortable, he’s always tossing you something from his collection. Bonus: he thinks you look ridiculously cool in his stuff.

• Dreams for the Future: When you talk about transitioning, Ekko listens intently and encourages you every step of the way. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you,” he promises, already brainstorming ways to help you fundraise or celebrate milestones.

• Creative Love Letters: As someone who’s artistic, he leaves you little drawings or notes reminding you how proud he is of you. Sometimes it’s a detailed sketch of you with affirming captions, like, “The most badass guy in Zaun.”

Conflict Resolution

• Patient & Understanding: If dysphoria or outside pressure leads to a bad day, Ekko never takes it personally. He’ll give you space if you need it but will always let you know he’s there when you’re ready. “Take your time, babe. I’m not going anywhere.”

• Reassurance: When you’re feeling down, Ekko has a way of lifting you up without minimizing your feelings. “It’s okay to have bad days. But don’t forget—you’re strong as hell, and I’m so lucky to have you.”

Bonus Smut Notes (18+)

• Body-Affirming Intimacy: Ekko is laser-focused on ensuring you feel good in your skin. He prioritizes activities that don’t trigger dysphoria, finding creative and affirming ways to explore pleasure together.

• Vocal Affirmations: During intimate moments, Ekko’s words are a lifeline. He constantly praises you—your strength, your body, and how good you make him feel. “You’re perfect, just like this,” he murmurs between kisses, making sure you know he means it.

• Aftercare King: Post-intimacy, he wraps you up in blankets, keeps water nearby, and strokes your hair while you decompress together. He loves these quiet moments just as much as the passionate ones.

Ekko is the kind of partner who makes you feel like the most loved and respected person in the world. His empathy and unwavering support would make your journey feel a little less daunting—and a lot more full of love.

[aethersea]

still thinking about the trump voter I talked to the other day who was like "well the democrats have had four years to fix things," as proof that clearly they weren't doing that so they weren't worth voting for. and I just. do you think the democrats are our friends? do you think they're a bunch of saints? they're politicians! where did your cynicism go, man, the whole system is corrupt and dishonest and we've always known this. the difference is in degree. the difference is in what they do BESIDES and DESPITE the corruption.

god I just. idk I think this next complaint is old as dirt but people have GOT to stop thinking about politicians as friendly folks who are on your side. miss me with that. you can get that on a local level sometimes, but on a state or federal level, you will have a few radical outliers if you're lucky. a politician is not a buddy. a politician is a person who has power over your life, and a politician is a person doing a job, and it does not and has never fucking mattered if they're someone you could hang out and shoot the shit with! that is not part of their job! that is not the part of your life they have power over! they are not your friends!

the democrats have not fixed the country bc a) there are too many forces working against that, b) fixing a country is a convoluted goddamn problem and it'd take decades, not years, and c) they don't necessarily care all that much! they're just people doing a job! they care mostly about keeping their jobs!

look, there are probably a lot of politicians who do care deeply about helping people. there are also lots of politicians who don't give a fuck, but do a great job pretending they care deeply about helping people because they know that's how they'll get votes. I fundamentally do not care which one of these two people is in power so long as they pass and enforce laws that help people. yeah it'd be nice to have the first person, but so long as shit gets done we'll call it a win.

because there's a third, way more common type of politician, who not only doesn't give a fuck, but knows how to get ahead without actually following through on a single campaign promise. that politician is saying all the right things, just like the other two, but they don't pass a single helpful law and instead will pass a bunch of, like, food safety deregulations in exchange for cash from large companies that don't want to worry about health inspectors.

you know what keeps us safe from that? it's when 'doing some useful things for society sometimes' is a good way for a politician to keep their job. otherwise we will end up with no politicians who do useful things for society, out of sheer natural selection.

I'm just venting at this point but god. since when do we believe politicians are good people. obama was a godsend for this country and this world, he achieved so much good, and also he never so much as shut down guantanamo bay. the bar is in hell. the bar is in hell, and every single politician running for office will tell you otherwise, and we have got to stop listening to that and look at what they do. and keep demanding they do better, instead of replacing them with people who will do worse just because at least it's a brand new grifter.

[blasphemecel]

My OCs' jersey number explanations ramblings ^_^

Tsubasa - #13 (usual jersey)

Tsubasa's birthday is February 13. So purely in terms of personality, Tsubasa is egocentric and self-absorbed enough to use his birth date as his preferred jersey that he insists on wearing

Now onto the meta stuff:

Well we all know 13 is the cliched bad luck number in Western culture. Tsubasa in his backstory has many unlucky circumstances surrounding his life. Btw I know Gesner is #13 in BM but let's be honest Tsubasa is more important (my beloved oshi). I think it can also have a double meaning, unlucky number 13 as in you're unlucky to be against him rather than the sole fact that he, himself, is unlucky.

Tsubasa is a self-reliant person & player who always preserves so it can be a case of someone "making their own luck" no matter the circumstance as well.

He has a lot of strange beliefs and conventions so being symbolized by a superstitious number also fits him thematically. For example he believes in angels and the death-rebirth cycle and other such not scientifically proven to exist things.

Tsubasa's character has a theme surrounding an obsession with "death" both literal and symbolic (as his goal of self-realization and also his definition of "change" lies in "death" in his own mind, hence the obsession with "dying", and to him "death" is "repentance" for what he "has done", which according to him is "being born").

The death-rebirth cycle samsara is a Buddhist belief. In Japanese beliefs about Buddhist deities, there are thirteen Buddhas who also play an important role in traditional funerals (once again bringing it back to the theme of death and rebirth in his own personal belief system + as well as the fact that he veers spiritual).

The number 13 itself in astrology and tarot readings is sometimes associated with transformation and rebirth, and the End of one cycle onto the beginning of another. The "Death" card is number 13 in the major arcana - the card itself also symbolizes renewal.

In Japanese & Chinese numerology: 1 + 3 = 4, "shi" = death, traditonally four is considered unlucky in Japanese culture even if 13 itself isn't.

#42 - U-20 match jersey specifically

4 + 2 = "shini" = "to death", again considered an unlucky number, in Tsubasa's case more so means "I'll play to death", i.e. "I'll play until I'm renewed". It's also pretty edgy and contrarian all things considered since a superstitious Japanese person would usually avoid having this as a jersey number.

Mael - #5

Mael's jersey number as well as most things about him are meant to be ironic in some way/bully him.

In Japanese numerology, it's considered a lucky number. It's also associated with the Chinese concept of the "five elements"/Wuxing, so it is said sometimes that number 5 brings luck and blessings, which Mael lacks from birth.

The deficient destructive cycle in Wuxing is the fifth phase "counteracting" (fire evaporates water, water destabilizes earth, etc) -> Mael has a reactive and explosive personality that is harmful to him and others lying within his trigger prone behavior.

In Christian numerology, number 5 symbolizes grace and God's unwavering love towards humankind, which is again ironic because Mael is born in an unfavorable situation and struggles to move on.

God's fifth commandment is "Honor your mother and your father" -> Mael was born into an abusive household to drug addicts who neglected him and later on disowned him. Since birth they gave him nothing and were nobodies to him. Number 5 symbolizes God's favor culturally, but Mael was not born in his favor, and afterwards he fails to adjust to a normal and stable self and living.

In Buddhism there are also five precepts that serve as the base morality principle for enlightenment and the path so salvation.

The five precepts forbid the following: killing of both animals and humans, theft and other things along those lines (fraud, forgery), sexual misconduct (i.e. sexual acts which are either forceful, unethical or adulterous in nature), spoken falsehood (lying, gossiping, verbal aggression), intoxication (alcohol, drugs, occasionally smoking is counted).

Out of those Mael is guilty - and often! - of theft, verbal aggression/malicious speech, intoxication (both as someone who uses stimulants and drinks frequently and even sold substances in the past).

TL;DR MAEL IS NOT MAKING IT TO NIRVANA WITH THIS ONE 😂😂😂 HE IS STUCK IN THE CYCLE 😂😂😂😂

[brooksienewman]

"Damn, I should have known. You're just lucky that Merrock doesn't have a lot of serious crime, so you're not harming people so greatly. Probably." He grinned over at him. "Oh, right. I sometimes forget Cage was not always the upstanding young man he is now, even though I'm the one who gave him the most shit for it at the time." And that was the truth, no one was Cage's harshest critic or biggest fan. "Has someone every pulled you over and then was like 'oh shit, it's that lawyer guy?' because I would."

"That's been my secret all along… I'm a horrible lawyer." Actually, it would have made sense if he had been fired for being a bad lawyer, rather than careless due to a personal low point in his life -- move to Merrock, start over, no one knew how bad he was. But, not the case. He'd clear Kellan's record, just the same that he had for Cage or any other siblings that had needed it growing up. "Yes. Your dad," he laughed, "but just for your brother, and obviously that was a different time. Now, it happens now and then, I've gotten friends out of stupid traffic violations or little things as favors. But I call in those favors, too."

[bug-the-chicken-nug]

the trouble with sasuke is that you want him to be able to be happy and do cute things with his friends but also like 90% of the cute stuff you can think of feels out of character for him. like i think realistically. even if he were less traumatized. being his friend would basically be like how sometimes a cat's idea of a good time is to just be in the same room as you while you and the cat each do your own shit. the kind of dude who will just boldfacedly tell you no when you want to hang out half the time. will at most only smirk at your jokes. IF you're lucky. has you worried he secretly can't stand you until he like, remembers your birthday even though you literally only told him once. or randomly gives you surprisingly decent advice when you're having trouble with something. or lets you borrow something from him and ends up saying you can just keep it. I *do* feel like he'd like movie nights, because that is basically the epitome of "activity you do together quietly". BUT he WILL tell you to shut the fuck up if you make even a PEEP during the movie.