#this was queued before you reblogged my comment on the last part

[almostfoxglove]

oh I am not feeling normal about this I am in fact feeling very UNWELL and FERAL about this. oh my god.

Sometimes you wished he had much respect for your ability to walk upright as he did your jugular vein.

LIKE SHUT UP RIGHT NOW (so affectionate) THIS IS HYSTERICAL AND MADDENING AND SO HOT ALL AT ONCE

Annoyingly, Tim had been the one to be almost right: “six months ago, I’m telling you, man. That’s when he stopped eating secretaries and she got so much nicer.”

THE WAY I CACKLED OUT LOUD AT THIS sjkhafkjhsdf

the angst is truly nurturing and feeding my deep dark soul oh my god. please. he's PERFECT and I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

Second Base.

rating: 18+

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 3712

summary: you try out second base; hand stuff only, but it changes things between you two, as much as you don't want it to.

warnings/tags: cute little outfits designed to drive max nuts, hand jobs (m and f receiving), more blood, fangs, one emotionally unavailable vampire

a/n: this contains one of my favorite lines i've ever written!

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Second base.

Because you aren’t actual sadists or masochists, after the first bite, your sex life with Max went back to normal. Well, as normal as sex with an immortal creature of the night ever was in the first place. Okay – as normal as sex with an immortal creature of the night who is Max Phillips ever was in the first place. Which is to say, often, hard, and loud. It had been weeks since you’d seen that worried look of consternation, that sweet vulnerability he expressed, as if feeding on you might be the thing that kills you and not being railed against your couch for the better part of an entire day. Sometimes you wished he had much respect for your ability to walk upright as he did your jugular vein. 

On some level, you were aware that his recent overexuberance was in part due to that vulnerability. As if you might lift the curtain and find that the man behind it all might leave you wanting. Truly a frat boy at heart, Max struggled to express anything that couldn’t be summed up with the three “ings” – licking, sucking, and fucking, obviously – but now, he had been exposed as someone capable of those deeper feelings, as if he had been the one to split open a vein for you. And despite the heavenly glow you indulged in after the first bite, you really weren’t quite sure how you felt about it all. You hadn’t started dating Max with any illusions about who exactly he is. In fact, you might have started fucking him in the first place because it seemed wildly out of character that he or you would get attached at all – to anyone or anything. The dating thing just sort of happened, when you both came to the same conclusion at roughly the same time: no one else was really doing it for you, so why not? So what if you only directly referred to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend in the privacy of your own apartment, or his? So what if half of the office was entirely clueless about your relationship and the other half was actively placing “secret” bets about how long you two had been fucking? Annoyingly, Tim had been the one to be almost right: “six months ago, I’m telling you, man. That’s when he stopped eating secretaries and she got so much nicer.”

Technically, he stopped eating secretaries about a month into your relationship, and what Tim accidentally overheard was not him “eating” a “secretary”, but you weren’t about to correct him. But Max found it all hilarious: “he’s right, you’re so much nicer when that pussy has been taken care of. But I like it when you’re mean.” 

You actively choose not to think about what he meant by a “deep emotional connection” last time.

Fine, Phillips, I’ll show you how mean I can be.

“Nope, no, uh uh.” 

You put your hand just over the frilly blue lace on your hip. “I’m sorry, I don’t see the problem.” 

It had been about a month since first base and while Max had gotten notably more relaxed around you seeing him eat – he now occasionally walked around your apartment with his food in an opaque smoothie tumbler with a straw – he was still very strict about moving onto second base. 

Which, if left up to him, meant you’d be wearing a straight jacket and thick flannel pajamas. 

“Max, if we’re ever going to do this thing for real, you’re going to have to get used to seeing me naked. I’m not letting you fuck me and bite me while I’m in riot gear.”

“Okay, but, baby,” he whines and he can’t help himself from rubbing the satin bow above your crotch between his fingers. “You look like a birthday cake.” 

Is the baby blue lingerie with a strapless bra that catches around your biceps with white lace a bit overboard? Yes. But last time was ridiculous.

Max frowns, his visible pout morphing into something subtly dangerous as he realizes he can unpeel your bra with a string in the back. “Can’t I just fuck you normally in this and then we’ll try again later?”

You swat his hand away as it sneaks across your ribs. 

“No.” 

“You know, if I wasn’t already dead, I’d think you’re trying to kill me.” Smirking, he drops his hands down to your waist and, not so subtly, curves them around the mold of your ass. Distractedly, he slips one finger under the seam of your panties. You press your hands against his chest and blink up at him coyly. 

“Whatever gave you that impression.” 

He shakes his head, squeezing your ass once. “And I’m supposed to be the soulless demon with a heart of darkness.” 

“So you’ll do this?” 

With a sigh and his eyebrow jumping, he nods. “Yeah. Fine. Go get on the bed.”

Trying desperately not to squeal, you tear away from his arms and all but run and leap on top of the white towel. Max slips out of his shoes, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. You bite your lip, nerves humming in anticipation, as you sit up on your knees to watch him. To your enormous dismay, no matter how hard you worked, no matter how much spit or cum you used, you could not make him purr again. You’d had wet dreams on the idea alone of putting your head against his chest as he vibrated but he swore it was involuntary. “And,” he added as a way to soothe your ego, “I’m pretty sure it can only happen when I’m feeding.”

“Does it happen every time? Like with blood bags or back when you hunted people?”

“No,” was all he said about that.

Max slips his shirt off over his shoulders and goes to work unbuttoning his pants. When they slide off his hips, you frown. 

“The boxers with the hole in the waist? Ooh, baby, I’m so turned on when you make such an effort.” 

He rolls his eyes as he climbs in next to you. “Look, I didn’t think you’d be seeing my underwear and I need to do laundry.”

“You didn’t think I’d see your underwear in a situation where we’re going to specifically jerk each other off?”

Attempting some version of contrite, Max’s gaze falls from your face to your throat, to your clavicle, to your tits, pillowed up for him beneath the blue lace. He leans in as if pulled by magnets. 

“I’m sorry if I thought we’d both be a little more preoccupied.” 

His broad palm smooths across your thigh, around your hips, to just above your tailbone, his nose drawing indistinct lines from your shoulder to your ear. You sort of hate how quickly he can make you not irritated with him. You shift to take him into the cradle of your thighs, when he winds your panties up in his fingers and tugs. The gossamer material tightens just over the seam of your pussy, teasing your clit, you choke. That heated, teasing Max Phillips smirk spreads like hot butter across his lips. 

“What are the rules again?”

“Max,” you whine as you drag your nails over his chest and up his shoulders. But he hesitates, his hand knotting your underwear in his fist. One move and it’ll rub against you again.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs in a half-sing-song voice. You huff.

“Silver. Bad touch, on your skin. Lightheaded or dizzy, I use the safeword. And,” you sigh. He’s so painfully handsome sometimes it hurts. He’d set out candles again, as if he needed any help in his seduction of you and he just sort of glows. You don’t know if it’s your anticipation or some vampire illusion, but every line on him is blurred. Soft, as if he doesn’t have your pleasure literally in his hands. There it comes again, that small bit of light in his eyes, the emergence of the early morning sun over the horizon. The way he looks at you makes your chest heavy. “And . . . only hand stuff,” you grumble. 

He chuckles, pouting at you in faux-sympathy as he reaches out, other hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Only hand stuff, she’s so sad about it,” he whimpers into your cheek with a high, mocking voice. 

Your fingers dig into the skin on his chest, daring to hold him away as he goes for your mouth. “I swear to god, Max –,”

In one single fluid motion, he pushes on your tailbone, and swings your hips forward as he tackles your mouth with his own, effectively yanking you under him. You huff in surprise, before pulling away to find menace and glee in his eyes. Grins again as he nips with flat teeth on the curve of your neck. 

He plants wet, hot kisses across your chest, heat blooms against your ribs and tunnels down between your legs, as he tongues the softer places along the hollow of your throat, then up the other side of your throat, teasing your earlobe. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “that was mean. What can I do to make it up to you?” 

Pressing your chest up against his, knowing he can feel the squish of your tits, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him towards you. His hard cock rubs up against your seam and he lets loose with a muffled groan into your mouth. You roll your hips once with him between you and he turns his head to your jaw, as you both pant at the sensation. 

“You know exactly what I want.” 

His teeth graze you gently. This is an exercise in restraint for you as much as it is him. Given any other night, you’d have his pants off by now, on his back, or behind you, but you refrain. You can’t squeeze him like you want to and that only frustrates you more, makes you heated and ruffled, makes you want more of his skin on you, around you, as if he could smother you. You want to merge your bodies. Your knees dig into his ribs.

He whispers something, too low and fast for you to catch it, but it ends broken and uneasy as if you’re touching something delicate within him. Bending back with one hand, Max reaches between your legs and cups you, one finger barely pressing the wet material back inside you. 

“Was this waiting for me under all those layers?” You nod as he pushes deeper, your mouth dropping open. He kisses your chin, before tucking his head under your jaw again. “No wonder you were burning up.” 

He inhales as if his face was pressed right up against your cunt, two fingers rubbing up and down over that sodden material. It scraps against your clit and it burns. “I could eat you. Just like this.”

“Max, c’mon–,”

“I know, baby, I know.” 

Smearing that pink little bow with the smell of you, he dips his hand under the line of your underwear, past your damp curls, and soothes your overheated sex by filling it with two thick fingers. You arch, brow furrowing, mouth open, fingers clamping down around his shoulders, arousal crawling up your spine, higher and higher the deeper he goes. Max likes the build up, the tease, it’s why his thumb only hovers above your clit, the heat doing half the work for him, as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the wet squelching almost embarrassing. Behind his hand, his hips swing in time. He groans, deep, into your ear, breathless. 

“Could come like this, baby, could come right like this.” 

The bend of his cock bumps the back of his hand as he thrusts against nothing. You hitch your pelvis up, opening wider, pussy easier within reach, and you forgo any teasing for him, hand sliding right past his boxers, molding your grip around him. He’s hot and leaking all over your fingers. 

“‘Ngh . . . shit, baby.” The arm holding him up shakes. You want to lick the salty precum but there has to be a rule about that, right? If you aren’t so desperate for that final fuck, you would have been a bit more careless. His fingers inside you press up into the places only he knows can send you into oblivion, as if grateful for tearing him apart. His wrist flicks quicker, faster into you, fingers plunging deeper, up to the knuckles, bouncing you as if you were on his cock. You match his speed with your own hand and Max hums, a dark sound verging on distressed. 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes drooping, the rocking motion scraping against your pleasure again and again, like a match scratching against the box one stroke at a time. “Maaax –,” He adds a third finger and you keen, high-pitched and desperate, the width stretching you out for a cock he won’t let you have. You grind against his fingers, the bounce knocking loose every sane thought in your head. 

Opening your eyes, you realize he’s been staring at your tits this whole time. His chest warm and glowing with sweat, his eyes track every bounce and jiggle, the cups of your bra putting them more on display than if you held them up yourself. 

“Where do you want it, darling?” His voice is strained, softer than it should be with your cunt sucking up his fingers. 

Max Phillips doesn’t do cutesy nicknames. Not during sex, not ever. Your his slut. His monsterfucker. Not – 

Your already unspooling mind struggles to grasp at darling before it slips away. 

His cock is throbbing against the palm of your hand. If you could see it, it would be flushed red, the vein at the base protruding. You pump him faster and his hips stutter. He’s so close and so are you. 

But he’s not talking about that. 

“On my tit, Max. Bite me on my tit.” 

With a groan that is all growl, all tension and feral hunger, his arm collapses and he sinks his weight against you. He manages to get his hand out, but yours is still trapped there, pinned between your tender cunt and his painfully hard cock. You writhe. “Max–,” 

His kiss against your lips is a starving sort of one, one that steals the breath from your lungs, wiping any lingering ache temporarily from your body. He licks the inside of your mouth, swallowing the moan that races from your throat into his. It’s all need, desire, a blistering familiarity that you didn’t realize existed between you two. He’s trying to say something with this kiss. 

He doesn’t give you long to read into it, as he pulls back, sinking more into his knees as he mouths the skin under your neck, above your clavicle bone, and in between the valley of your tits. His weight shifts off you, enough to pull your hand out. You arch, pushing your chest deeper into his mouth, using the back of his neck to pull you higher, he groans and licks, and you yank the tie of your bra behind your back. 

“Max, you can –,”

His hand claws at your cups, mouth consuming yours again, the ropes almost stinging your back as they are ripped so fast across your heated skin. Before you lie flat, his hand cups under you, fingers pressing into where the threads burned and forcing you to maintain that bend in your spine. 

The moment is coming. You can feel it. It’s different from a rising orgasm, or the first time he ever sucked your nipple into his mouth. Your lizard brain is sending off warning flares, but you ignore it once again. Those flares arc and bend, your arousal now fire hot. 

His tongue pressed flat, Max draws a long stripe of spit from under your breast, over the weight of it, and up your nipple, where he swirls it between his teeth. Whether Max Phillips was an ass or tits man depended on the day of the week, or whatever was blowing in the air, but he laved attention onto yours like they were the first pair he’d ever seen in his life. The skin on your other breast shines from where his fingers mold around it, smearing your wet juices all over your pebbled skin. He switches over and laps up that smell off you. 

He’s wavering, caught between drawing it out and doing it so instantaneously he might black out and miss the whole thing. Your heart racing, skin almost too sensitive, you feel like you might shudder apart.

“Max, please –,”

He chooses the second approach. 

Without warning, his fangs spring out and he latches onto the skin near the valley of your chest on your right breast. 

You yelp in surprise, pain and pleasure zigzagging like rough scissors from his bite out through the rest of your body.

Okay, that hurts. 

You gasp, bucking, yanking on his hair. “Baby, baby, gentler, be gentle–,”

He swallows and the ache lessens. Hot blood pools out of the spot where his fangs punctured you. It runs warm then cold, teasing like a feather, as it rolls down your stomach. It’s not a lot, but it's more than last time. It stains his chest too.

Slowly, that same sort of miraculous fog sinks down into your bones. The grip on his hair eases, softens, and soon you are petting him against you.

You swear you feel his fangs scrape your heart. 

“That’s good, Max, that’s so good.” Your eyes roll lazily in your head and you nuzzle his hair. “God, how does this feel so good?” 

As though determined to remind you he is more than just fangs, his hand pulls away from the mattress and slides back between your legs. You feel only one finger brush against your folds through your underwear – you’re almost disappointed, go back to using three, Max –

His finger plunges deep, deep inside of you, and you gasp, feet scrambling against the towel, as a swell of pleasure almost smothers you in an overwhelming wave. You nearly choke from the force of it. You were so overly sensitive but the gooey haze didn’t let you realize it until it was too late. You come hard, harder than you thought possible, seeing eons of galaxies and stars behind your eyes, with just one of his fingers inside you and his thumb distractedly circling your clit. 

He feels you gush around his hand, wetting his wrist, and with a moan you can feel in your ribs, he spills in his boxers, the spend running down his thigh and smearing on yours. 

Your entire body goes slack, as if someone had made all your bones disappear. His hips jerk slightly as if his orgasm is still trying to wring him dry before he stills and plucks his head from your chest, unplugging his fangs from the holes he made.

Blood immediately bubbles up from the wound and without his fangs there, it spills freely and violently over your tits, your ribs. The whiplash between your orgasmic high and a full-body weakness sends hot nausea swooping into your stomach and the room spins.

“M-m-ax,” you murmur, barely opening your mouth, your voice weak and thick as if stuffed with cotton balls. 

“Fuck, sorry –,” you can’t quite see him clearly as he moves and suddenly there’s a warmth over your chest, comforting and heavy. The blood trickles to a stop and you breathe deeply. The darkness of the room stabilizes as you fully open your eyes. The room spins but this time pleasantly. 

“Hmm, whoo, wow, ah, okay . . .”

You don’t realize he’s gotten off the bed until the mattress sags again and he’s cleaning you up with cold cotton balls. 

“So, I’m going to take that mindless babbling as a good thing.” He smiles gently, but he’s holding something back. He keeps his head low like he doesn’t want you to see his face.  

You wiggle your shoulders, as he delicately wipes you down. “What, you don’t wanna clean me up with your tongue? And why do you even use disinfectant – there’s no open wound.” You poke him in the shoulder with your toe. “And you didn’t even purr that time! I demand a refund!”

“Next time, okay?” 

You frown. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. Just let me–,” 

You sit up, the dried blood pinching your skin, and he pulls away. “Max, what is it?” 

He pulls away so much, he’s on his feet by the dresser before you can touch him, the back of his arm tearing at his mouth to wipe it clean. Max is a lot of things but cold when you need aftercare is not one of them. 

“It’s nothing.” The line of his shoulders is taught, tense. But he cracks his neck and takes the Gatorade from the dresser. He finally sits back down on the bed in front of you, offering the bottle to you. You take it, unease mounting, your fingers brush his, but this time he doesn’t retreat. Instead, gently, his fingertips ghost over your wrist, down the fine hairs on your arm, drop from your elbow and settle delicately on the blue material covering the crease of your hip. Where your blood had pooled, wet, and stained the blue to a deep magenta. 

“I ruined your pretty underwear,” he says softly, forlorn. 

You move closer to him, your knee touching his hip, but you refrain from seeking out the warmth of his hands. 

“Max, I can get new ones, I don’t care about that. Please, talk to me. Did I do something wrong? Did I push you too far?”

His fingers flex around the towel, now also appropriately ruined. He shakes his head, more firmly this time. He snags his shirt off the floor, over his head, then moves towards the bedroom door.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m sticky. I’m gonna take a shower. You wanna come?”

The invitation, it’s something, an encouragement you genuinely feared he might not give. Maybe it’s not you he wants to part from. 

You didn’t enter into this for the emotional connection and neither did he. You have to remember that.

“Y-yeah. Of course.”

He invited you. He still wants you around. 

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[sen-ya]

Life After Info Post

[Click here to access the Life After Digital Comic Book]

Summary: Two years ago, a viral outbreak rose the dead. Considering how his life had gone up to this point, surgeon Trafalgar Law figured this might as well happen too. When a supply run into the nearby city gets intercepted by a seemingly reckless and impulsive former patient, the dependable routine Law had settled into in this new life shatters. He finds himself exposed — his body out in the infected landscape, his conscious clawing to define what he believes is right, his heart begrudgingly deciding to find a new home on his sleeve. Maybe there’s more than a virus roaming the new world that can bring a dead man back to life.

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, zombies/body horror (but lbr I am not good at making scary things look scary)

Relationships: Luffy x Law

Update Schedule: New page every Monday/Wednesday/Friday

Page Count: [37 posted | 55 drawn]

Latest Update: [7/21/24] WOWEE did I get myself carried away this morning. I just spent 5 hours organizing my comics and creating the digital comic book pages. I could have spent that time drawing or idk not doing what I do for my job, but I cannot be stopped. Anyway I blocked out 30 pages of this comic last week and they include the most intense action sequence I've ever done in my gotdang life. Wish me luck because I am nervous about tying down all my drawings lmao.

OLD UPDATES:

[6/29/24] HULLO! I'm doing so bad at keeping my masterposts updated lately I am sorry. All pages of life after are tagged life after if you're ever looking between masterpost updates! Also exciting update, I finally have figured out all the different plot points i'm gonna be hitting (yay!). I got hung up on something for awhile that made me not wanna work on this project, but I'm back at it. I think we'll end up with 6-7 parts! I have probably another 80-100 pages to draw lol. Also i got the app Magic Poser and it's AWESOME and I immediately used it to block out sets cuz MAN I hate backgrounds.

[6/10/24] HELLO. I'm sorry I've been shit at updating my masterposts lately. It's easiest to do from my computer, which I rarely use, and life has been happening. I also can't believe I bungled the queue and posted pg19 before pg18 i am very sorry 🤦 Eventually I'll have to turn this into an airtable base I'm sure, but until that day comes where I have like 100 pages of this comic we're stickin to the regular post lmao

[5/26/23] I got real caught up in doing summer of lawlu comics this week and this is the first week since the first week of April I haven't drawn new Life After pages and it feels weird 🙊

[5/19/24] More Luffy backstory comin' this week! :^)

[5/12/24] Updating now so get myself on schedule to update on Sundays like I had been with my other comic master post!

[5/8/24] Thank you to everyone who's liked/reblogged/comment on the first few pages!! It means the world to me that anyone's reading my silly little comics.

[4/28/24] HULLO. It’s happeninnng. I’ve spent the last few weeks working on this comic, and I gotta make this post so I can start queuing pages & link this in them! This is the most like….legit? Comic endeavor I’ve undertaken perhaps….ever. I’m very nervous about committing to how long it will need to be lol. This story is dear to my heart — zombie content is kind of my very favorite. I’ve always found it to be a great backdrop for exploring themes like grief, coping with change, community, and learning to live again. It’ll be a long haul but I hope you’ll ride it out with me!! Tomorrow I’ll be posting the first two pages. After that a page will post every Monday/Wednesday/Friday. As of this post I’ve completed over 20 pages so that I have a good lead on what’s posting and continuing to write, so I’m hopeful that’s a cadence I’ll be able to maintain. I’ll update this post weekly to include the most recent pages the way I do with my main comics master post. All pages will be tagged 'Life After' and I'll tag any pages with zombies in them with 'zombie' for blacklisting etc.

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Nine (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors or ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Shorter chapter this week (be warned, next week's will be the heftiest yet), but I hope you like this next instalment! It's really gearing us up for the FINAL TWO! As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. If you've read this far, THANK YOU! ILY :-*

Word count: 3.8k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Today is a new day. It’s a new day and you’re done crying. You’re done holding on to anger and resentments. 

Besides, you feel as though you gave Santiago everything you had last night, and - at least for now - there is nothing else left to give. 

So, instead of wallowing, you plod downstairs to where Frankie is stationed in the kitchen, offering up your favourite pastries, coffee, and even pulpy, freshly squeezed orange juice. You pull up to the breakfast bar, hopping up on a stool to survey your extravagant pity platter. 

It’s true then. “He’s gone.” 

Frankie nods solemnly, leaning into the other side of the island like he’s a sympathetic bartender in some old Western flick. He claps his palm to your shoulder in a supportive gesture. “I’m sorry, chiquita.”

You shrug. 

His face twists. That’s not all there is. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but…”

“What, Frankie?” 

“He had to bounce but he didn’t want to wake you. Said you looked far too peaceful sleeping for him to come along and fuck that up.”

Your brow notches, absorbing all of that with a contrived neutrality. “How did he… seem?”

Frankie’s eyebrows raise lightly as he ponders, thinking back over prior events. “Calm, actually. Happy, even.” 

“Hmm.” You smile softly to yourself. Makes a change from lately to hear that. You get it though. After last night, you can’t feel anything else either. Even if he technically didn’t say goodbye in words, you get it. You aren’t mad. Chances are one or both of you would have fucked it up this morning. This way at least, it leaves the night you spent together untarnished. Makes it feel like holding on to a good dream, before the realities of the day can set in and make things fraught. 

Frankie’s face crumples with concern as you gaze wistfully into the middle-distance. “You gonna be alright?” 

You pump your eyebrows. Search yourself for feelings. “You know what? Yeah. I am. I’m okay.” 

Frankie’s eyes glint playfully then. “Oh. So you won’t need alllll o’ these yummy pastries?” 

You laugh as he eyes the pain au chocolat pointedly. “Get stuck in, Morales,” you invite fondly, and he obliges, scraping up a stool and wiggling on his ass until he’s comfy. 

“Hey. So,” he says through mouthfuls. “Did you two figure anything out?” 

You groan at the sheer complexity of Frankie’s simple question. Did you? Or are you still going around in circles? “We know we love each other. The rest? Uh. I still don’t know.” 

“He’ll get there.” 

You puff air out from between your teeth. 

“You don’t think so?” Frankie interprets. 

You wrap your arms around your middle. “It’s not that. It’s… I don’t think it was all on him.” You don’t have any blame or accusations left. No grudges to hold on to - your hands are open. You’ve both made mistakes. Manufactured this distance, in your own ways - sometimes literally, sometimes not. You were both just trying to figure all this out as best as you could. 

Frankie’s brows notch and rise with a silent question. How so? What do you mean? 

The thoughts form as you speak them. Clumsy yet intrepid. “I guess... It just feels like we were… Both waiting for the other person to get somewhere, you know? But this whole time, we should’ve been heading there together. Otherwise, how the fuck were we supposed to know where to end up?” You slide a palm over your face. “Christ. Does that make any fucking sense?”

Frankie ponders. “I think so. Like trying to meet on the highway without a time or a place or directions?” 

You reach out and clasp his hand. “You get me, buddy.” 

Frankie blinks, tangling himself up further in your metaphor, but valiantly trying to muddle through. “And so… do you…?” He scratches his chaotic mop of hair. “Do you have a map now? A meeting point? I mean… What happens next? On the highway?” Your mouth lilts into a gentle smile at Frankie’s earnest question. He notes and feeds your amusement, going off the deep-end with this metaphor now. “Are you driving in shifts, chiquita? Grabbing cheez-its for the road?”

You laugh, the musical sound mingling with Frankie’s throaty chuckle. “What happens next?” You repeat the question out loud, carefully, posing it to yourself. Hasn’t that always been the question? However, the very sentiment which used to scare you now feels a lot more like potential. Like possibility. 

Still, you feel -for the moment- like leaving that question hanging. You leave a pregnant pause. You let it breathe. 

For now; you let it go. You let him go. 

“Where are the other guys at, anyway?” 

Frankie rides your tangent with ease. “Packing shit up.” 

“We should help them.” 

“Yeah, we should,” Frankie grins mischievously, and yet neither of you make any effort whatsoever to mobilise. 

Instead, Frankie pours you a cup of coffee from the pot. 

“You wanna call off the hike today?” he asks hopefully, Frankie increasingly a creature of comfort. 

“No. Hell no. I need to move.” You lock your fingers and stretch your arms above your head, a satisfying stretch extending down your spine. 

Frankie’s eyes sparkle across at you. “Just not in aid of helping the Millers pack their trunk, huh?” 

“Exactly! What did I tell you, bud. You get me.” 

You do though. You need to move. You need to move forward. No more standing in place. No more moving in circles, always repeating. 

Still, when you think about it. When you think to what is ahead, to what is next, your stomach drops. You feel overcome by a sudden anxiety which you can’t place at first. Like having misplaced something dear to you. Like having done something wrong but not being able to recall exactly what. Then, all of a sudden, you understand it entirely. 

“Listen. Tell me about this job, Frankie.” 

He immediately tenses up. “What job?” 

You take a bite of your pastry. “The one with Lorea’s cash house.”

Frankie simply groans. He always knows more than he lets on, this one. About everything. Everyone. 

“Is it true? That you and the boys are in?” 

You can plainly see his reticence to respond. But you know for a fact that he’s about to cave. 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 

“They need a pilot,” Frankie states, looking up at you with guilty, puppy dog eyes. 

“Fuck me. He dragged you back in too, huh? You know… Sometimes I wonder if any of us are good for each other.” Your tone grows mildly irate, your heart quickening, but you recognise it for what it is. It’s simply anger veiling worry. You love these boys. 

“Come on, don’t say that,” Frankie bargains. “We’ve dragged each other out of hell.”

“And back again.”

Frankie takes a deep breath. His tongue pokes around the meat of his cheek. “He says it’s simple recon. In and out. No mess.” 

You jut your chin up. Stare at him levelly, unblinking. You know that Frankie will give it to you straight. Know that he can’t help himself. “And you buy that?” 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 

“Not for a fucking second.” 

You scoff, shaking your head. Not when it comes from Santiago, no. After all, you’ve fallen for Santiago’s bullshit plenty of times yourself. It’s the fact that Frankie would wander in with his eyes wide open to it that really gets you. It’s something else. 

Still, before you can chastise him for being so stupid, Frankie glumly offers up some explanation. “Look. I need the job. I… I got my license revoked.” 

Your heart drops - and your face with it. Your hands clamp over your mouth. “Frankie,” you say softly, with empathy. “Fuck.”

He hunches in on himself despondently, his hands disappearing up his sleeves, his fists clenching and his gaze cast downward. “I fucked up, man. Cassie has a baby on the way and I fucked up.” His eyes swim with a deep shame. 

“Coke?” you venture, tentatively.  

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 

Slowly, he nods. 

“Frankie.” Your hand swipes over your face, and your eyes fill with concern for him. His palm waves in the air, however, quickly dismissing any sympathies you may care to bestow. 

“I’m back on track. Getting there. I am.” His eyes are nothing but determined. Sincere. “But I need this gig. No matter how fucking hare-brained a scheme that pendejo is cooking.” 

“Think of the baby, dude.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Frankie says forcefully, in a harsh tone he rarely uses, and you know in no uncertain terms that the conversation is done. That he’s made his mind up, and that he won’t hear you out any further on the matter. 

You swallow. Regroup. You chew on some platitudes, but none of them feel quite right. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Frankie says after a stretched, tense moment. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

“It’s okay,” you jostle his shoulder, and it shakes a little of the tension from him and the room. “I get it. And shit. I’m sorry for putting all of my bullshit on you this weekend. I wish you’d said something, Cat.” 

He shrugs. Speaks with finality. “There’s not much to say. It’s done. I just need to make it right. And I will.”

“I believe it. But you do know that I’m… If you need… Anything, Frankie.” 

He looks up at you then, the warmth back in his eyes as your voice cracks, searching for the words. But, he already knows everything you could ever say. You’ve said it before, a hundred times. He knows you love him. Knows you’re proud of him. Knows you’d do anything for him. Knows you want the best for him. He knows it already. 

In turn, you are sure that he already knows everything you could possibly call him out on. That he’s already thought about it. Weighed it up. Thought about the risks. About the possibility that he’s acting out of desperation. The possibility that he’d probably be better off staying the hell away from Pope’s schemes. 

He scrapes his stool back and comes to you, bundling you into a tight, warm, big brother hug. You tug in a deep breath, and you let it go. You’re done trying to control everything around you. It never really got you anywhere. 

Still, there’s an undeniably uncomfortable knot in your chest as you think about them all gearing up. Strapping on their tac vests. Shoving clotting pads into their med packs. It makes you feel physically ill. And so, you can’t help yourself. “Do me a favour, Frankie? Don’t take Tom?” You muffle the words into his shirt, half hoping they will get lost there. That maybe he didn’t even hear you. But, you know when he braces his hands on your shoulders to get a good look at you, that your game is up. 

“Why not?” 

You see it then, in his eyes. That Tom is not a risk Frankie has considered. His presence not something he has weighed up. 

You deliver your words as plainly and transparently as possible. “He’s too hungry, Cat.” 

Frankie simply locks eyes with you, as though trying to weed out your motives. Shrewdly trying to assess your conclusions. Is this just your petty vendetta talking? Is this intelligence? Is this coming from your gut? 

“Please. Just trust me.”

“I do,” he nods eventually, but you should know better than to feel any relief. And next, there it is. “I do but it’s not my call.” 

Well. You’ve said your piece. You guess that’s all you’ve got. Absent-mindedly, you tug on Frankie’s lapels. “You’d better come back to me, Cat,” you plead plaintively. “And by God, you’d better bring those other fuckers back with you to boot.” 

With a wistful affection, Frankie tugs you to him again and you stand there in silence for a few more moments, the sounds of the other guys evident in the background. In time, you and Frankie release each other and gravitate towards them, tucking yourselves under the porch to survey their efforts packing up the trucks. 

“We should probably help,” you repeat again, and, to your side, your hear Frankie’s murmur of agreement. However, when you glance to him you see his long, lean frame stretched out up against the wooden porch post. He looks like a man with nowhere else to be in a hurry.  

“Fuck,” he curses at nothing in particular, surveying the animated bodies of his buddies before him with both awe and trepidation. “How did we get here? Years of service and none of us have anything to show for it.” 

That’s a Santiago sales pitch, through and through, you reckon. You recognise his propaganda. Funny, since he used to swallow the flag for breakfast. Is that how he got to him then? Convinced Frankie he could finally make bank? Take what he deserved? Ah. Or give his family what they deserved? Frankie is all about family. 

A sad smile twitches your mouth. “Well. That’s not entirely true, is it? Not nothing.” You think of what you’ve gained from all of this. “I got a gaggle of weird ass brothers. A suitcase full of trauma. A fucked back. And! An array of unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

Despite the darkness of your statement, Frankie’s eyes crinkle. What else is left to do but laugh, anyway? “Maybe Will should put that in his speech.”

You belly chuckle at that, moving to lean up against the opposite post. “Yeah. Scare those poor recruits off before they can end up like us, huh?” 

Frankie looks wistful again. “It hasn’t been all bad.” 

No. It hasn’t. He’s not wrong about that. 

You ponder on it. If you could go back and change your path - would you? But, despite everything, your squad would be far too much to lose. “Sure. The weird thing is, as shitty as it’s been at times? I wouldn’t change it for the world.” 

There is a beat, and Frankie reaches out across the space between you and wordlessly clasps your hand. 

“Listen. You gonna be okay, Frankie?” He looks down at his worn sneakers, contemplatively, as though he really doesn’t know the answer yet. You give his hand a squeeze, trying to let him know that’s okay. “We’ll talk more, okay?” 

He nods - a subtle, concessionary thing, like maybe he could really do with that. 

“I get why you didn’t tell me. But I’m sorry. That I didn’t do a better job of asking.” 

“It’s not on you,” he says generously. A little too generously, in your estimation. You’ve been rather wrapped up in your own shit. A little too self-involved. “I know I can talk to you. I just… I, uh. Didn’t want to ruin the weekend.” The irony of that statement causes a throaty chuckle to bounce in Frankie’s neck, and your palm slides over your face in regret even as you laugh in reciprocity. 

“Christ. I did a great job of that all by myself.”

“Well,” Frankie says good-naturedly, shifting to bump your hip with his. Wrapping his crooked arm over your shoulder. “You had some help.” 

It is your turn now to look wistful, as you contemplate the storm that is Santiago, and all the rubble he left behind. “He’s really gone again.” Frankie simply squeezes you a little tighter. “Hey. Anything else I should know, by the way?” you needle. “You’re not holding out on me?”  

Frankie sucks air through his teeth. “Tom and Molly. She finally served him papers.” 

You fold forward, hinging to collapse your upper half onto the porch rail. “Fuck. Shit. I really need to start being nicer to that shithead.” Still, from behind, Frankie’s familiar chuckle buoys you, even as you inwardly berate yourself for getting wrapped up in your own business. “We’re all messes, huh, Frankie? Do you think we can fix it?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. I do.” 

“Truly?” 

“Truly.” 

You toss him a soft, grateful smile, which extends as Will makes his way over to your position, greeting you “Hey, slackers!”. You and Frankie share a conspiratorial glance. 

“All set for the hike, Captain?” 

“No thanks to you.” 

“I had an alternate mission. Ranks of pastries to deplete.”

Will feigns tiredness, but his baby blues sparkle even as he rolls them. 

“Anyway. Didn’t need you. All set to head out as soon as you slackers get your act together. You wantin’ to do the usual route, hon?” 

You brace your arms against the porch rail. Dig your fingers into the wood. “No,” you say, the words a little tight in your chest, but they feel good. “Not today. There’s somewhere else. Somewhere I always wanted to go.” 

Somewhere new. 

“Fine by me,” Frankie offers. “Just let me grab more pastries.” 

***

You relish the hike, when it comes. You relish walking a path that is -to you- entirely untrodden. That he can’t touch. You walked the old, familiar trails for too long, and the only place it ever got you was right back where you started. 

The bullshit ends here. You’ve decided. 

And so, you turn your attention away from your sun, and to the wider constellation of stars around you. To yourself. 

You even do your best to make peace with Tom. To put old grudges to bed. 

You relish the hike. Enjoy the undulating landscape. You don’t know for sure what’s next, or where you’re going, but the difference is that for once, that feels okay. Full of potential. 

You walk until your legs burn, and when you get to the summit you take a moment to drink in the crisp, clifftop air. To look out across the ocean. To see it from a distance and to know that this time, it cannot break you over and over and over. 

Still, when you’re at the top, as if by providence, Santiago texts you. 

“Hey. Sorry I had to take off early. I wanna say… Thank you.” 

“For what?”

“For the best night of my life.” 

“Ah. Fuck it,” you whisper to yourself, and you press the button to call him. You immediately call him. He immediately picks up. “Hi.”

”Hi. What’s up? They just announced my gate.”

”That’s okay, I’ll be quick. I, uh. I just needed to tell you too. Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For a proper goodbye.” 

“Look, I’m sorry that I-”

“-I’m not mad, Santi. I think… I think we said everything we have to say, right? I think it was…”

”…Perfect?”

”Yeah. Yeah, pretty perfect.” 

“Listen. It’s selfish, but. With everything coming up. The Lorea job and… I needed it, you know? Needed that image of you sleeping.” 

There’s an ache in your chest and it’s bittersweet. 

He cares for you in every way he knows how, doesn’t he? In every way he can. He’s not perfect, but hey, neither are you. You’re both a little bit broken, but that doesn’t mean you can’t heal. And most of all, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love while you’re doing it. 

One day, he’ll turn up at your door, and he’ll be welcome. Whenever that is. Whenever it happens. But until then, you can’t just wait for him. 

Until then, you’ll love him; from a distance. 

No longer can you leave him in anger. No longer can he break you. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

Maybe one day, that will even be enough. 

“Would you promise me something?”

“Sure.”

“Come back and visit soon, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”  

You conclude the call, and you stretch your arms above your head. A pleasant tingle snakes down your back as it cracks. You haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time. You don’t think you’ve ever felt such peace. 

The path that you are walking is yours, and you implicitly trust where it’s taking you. 

***

You are grateful to slip into the passenger side of Frankie’s car, beginning the drive back to the city and signalling the end of your stay at the beach house. Still, there is something bittersweet there too as you leave behind the site of so many memories from over the years - and now, the site of your most perfect night with Santiago. 

It reminds you of all you’ve been through. The ups and the downs and plenty of things which went sideways. You are starting to realise though, that perhaps the landscape of love is undulating. That sometimes the terrain is tough. It shouldn’t have been quite so tough though - so steep and unforgiving; and so, you hope for gentler, easier paths ahead. 

It is bittersweet then, as you leave this place behind. 

As you look forward, having said goodbye. As you wrestle with your past, future, and present. 

Frankie swings the car out and onto the highway, the Millers up ahead and Tom behind, your vehicles forming a convoy through the dark, the glow of headlights illuminating the route ahead. 

You sit in silence, eyes and thoughts unfocussed, in abstraction, as you watch vague shapes and colours slipping by the window, your own face occasionally reflected right back at you. You look older than you used to. More tired. But you don’t dislike that. 

After a while, Frankie’s robust voice slices through the dark, his eyes on the road and hands threading the wheel. “I don’t know if this will make things better or worse but… Do you want to hear it?” 

You swivel your head towards him, fractured, liquid panels of light slipping over the planes of his face as your surroundings pass by in a haze. “Hear what?” 

“Pope’s heartbreak playlist?” 

Your hands dig into your thighs where they rest. “Do I?”

“Well?” Frankie asks, his finger poised over the button, and evidently not willing to make that decision for you. 

“Yeah. Fuck it.”

You brace a little, in all honesty. A tightness takes hold of your chest as you wonder if the first track to befall your ears might be angry. Resentful. Full of blame or sadness that you can’t hope to wrestle with and come out on top. But, as the first notes of the track sound out, you are surprised to find a full, unfettered laugh rises from out of your throat. The tears swell in your eyes next, for it is nothing if not bittersweet. 

“That dickhead. I can’t believe…” 

You can’t believe it. The fact he has chosen a song which reflects your life together? Which reveals a happy memory? 

He loves you, doesn’t he? He has for a long time. And you can’t help but hope that maybe one day, that will even be enough. For tonight though, it will definitely do. You’ll take it. You’ll treasure it. 

“Whiskey in the Jar,” Frankie scoffs as he catches on to the song, even if his fingers are drumming against the lip of the wheel involuntarily. “I mean. What the shit’s that all about? He’s a weird kid, I swear.” 

“Frankie,” you laugh brightly, turning once again to look wistfully out of the window, as the view of the beach house and the ocean recedes into the distance. You catch another glimpse of yourself in the pane, and this time you look younger, you think. More alive. “Did I ever tell you about that night in Philadelphia?”

[writing-for-life]

I was spam-liked by a certain someone last night and freaked out a bit (he reblogged some of my art-posts before and totally destroyed my notes with it, but metas feel so much more personal because they’re my thoughts that I sometimes truly agonise over, and it often feels a bit vulnerable).

I tried to tell myself it was just the infamous “Gaiman-slip-of-the-finger”, but since it happened thrice, I just had to go to bed because my heart couldn’t take it anymore 🤣

This morning, I woke up to over 400 new notes on those metas, and even while I’m writing this, they come in thick and fast. That hardly ever happens to me because metas mostly based on the comics usually only get engagement over time and never that extreme in the space of a few hours (my blog, while not tiny, is fairly small in the grand scheme of things and doesn’t get the engagement that shipper blogs get, for obvious reasons). I’ve got a lot of new followers since last night (I’m so glad you’re here, I’ll say hello to you separately). I even got a notification that one of my metas has been queued for a Blaze by someone??? Thank you whoever you are, and that you’re willing to spend money on my ramblings (people do that? I’m amazed). Are people checking NG’s likes? Is there some secret NG algorithm? Who knows…

All of that’s to say: I’m a bit overwhelmed because it makes me a tad self-conscious. And considering the often unhinged other posts you get from me, I just feel like: 😬😳

But there’s also the part of me that feels fairly strongly about those metas, since all three of them talk about hope and graceful endings in Sandman-canon in a roundabout way. And that is so important to me, you can’t even imagine how important, because the subtlety, subtext, nuance and yes, hope in this beautiful work so often get lost and dismissed.

So while these likes definitely don’t mean he shares my views, they still make me so happy. And a bit overwhelmed: If you’re waiting for answers to comments and reblogs, give me some time because my notes are a mess and I need to find the red thread again…

[yumeka-sxf]

A chronological analysis on Twilight and Yor - Season 1 Wrap-Up

*This is a wrap-up post for my Twiyor analysis series. If you missed the Introduction/Part 1, click here*

----------

As some of you may know, I'm fairly new to the SxF fandom, having only started watching the anime in October of last year. But it didn't take long for me to become hyperfixated enough to binge the manga, start my own blog, and develop ideas for analysis posts.

I've always enjoyed meta writing for my favorite fandoms, and SxF is definitely one of those! While I like many things about the story and characters, the Forgers overall, especially Twiyor, are my favorite thing about it, so I wanted to focus my first analysis posts on them. During my early months in the fandom, I found lots of good analyses and was impressed by the amount of talented fan writers out there. But rather than write random stand-alone posts, I wanted to express all my thoughts in chronological order. I eventually came up with the idea for this post series in December of last year, and after spending a solid month of writing during most of my free time, I finally felt I had enough to begin posting on a weekly basis.

Now that I've come to the end of the season 1 posts, I want to express my sincerest thanks to everyone who read them, especially those who left nice comments and reblogs. Even for those of you who only left likes, I appreciate it! I pay attention to the notes on my blog and it always makes my day to see the same people interacting with each new post every week. It's especially gratifying when I see a new person come along and leave a like on each post in order, one after another! In the many fandoms I've been in over the years, I always write for myself and my own enjoyment first, regardless of whether other people will enjoy my writing too. But it's nice to know that other people can also appreciate how I interpret things.

So here's what's going to happen with the post series going forward…

Since I want to continue keeping the posts as manga spoiler-free as possible, I won't start releasing the next batch of posts until season 2 airs (it's scheduled to air in October). I'll most likely release part 19 and onward towards the middle or end of season 2's run. I already have a good idea of what manga chapters will be adapted and will get them queued up beforehand.

On that note, I did end up having to tag a few of the season 1 posts for manga spoilers. I tried to avoid it as much as possible; I only discussed manga spoilers if I felt not doing so would be a disservice to my analysis. However, once season 2 airs, all but part 18 should be safe for anime-only fans! (I'll go back to those posts and remove the spoiler tags)

At some point during or slightly before season 2's airing, I plan to reblog all of my Twiyor analysis posts in order. If I can get the timing right, I hope to reblog part 18 (the last season 1 post) right before my start date for the first season 2 post. I'll probably do the reblogs just a few days apart before doing weekly releases again when I get to the new posts (for the reblogs, I'll be using the hashtag "#reblog for season 2 hype")

I don't have any other big analysis posts planned until then, with one exception…I do plan to write a post about Anya. I originally wanted to include her in the chronological series, but since her character arc is simpler and more straight-forward compared to Twilight's and Yor's, I didn't have nearly as much to say about her and figured it'd be best to talk about her in a separate post. Not sure when I'll release that post but should be sometime before season 2 as well.

Guess that's all for now! Thank you again to everyone who read this post series and I look forward to more compelling discussions in season 2!

[prismatoxic]

i've told parts of this story before, but bare with me, i'm emotional.

so like, i've had this blog since 2021. my original tumblr blog (made in 2011 iirc) was nuked in 2018 for exactly the reason you think (nsfw ban) and i didn't return for a handful of years because it stung so bad. even when i did, i mostly used twitter.

i started posting to tumblr more regularly when musk's twitter takeover finally pissed me off enough to ditch it. (i have since gone back, sort of, but am not reliably present and mostly just rt art people send me.) i've been pretty consistently here since then, sans a very angry break when all the shit with automattic's CEO happened.

and like... looking through my archives... i only made a dedicated tag for asks last july, even though i've been using an organizational tag system since i made this blog. that's how infrequent they were. my art usually got between 0 and 3 notes. when i left briefly back in january, i deleted every post in my art tag because i didn't want to leave my work here, but also, like... the only things that went anywhere were some of my mgs fanarts. no one owes anyone's work attention, but it didn't feel worth it, you know? like why share it with the public when i can just show it to the like 3 friends i know who care?

i came back partially because i felt... isolated. i have friends on the fediverse and on discord, but tumblr gave me a sense of being in a community, even if i didn't feel like an important part of said community. i missed queuing funny posts to enjoy weeks later, i missed being kept sort of in-the-loop about fandom goings-on, i missed my friends who were still here. (and that last one is also part of why i check twitter more now.)

but that alone wasn't enough, because i was a nobody here and it probably wasn't worth it to try again. but then devot and i started watching dungeon meshi, and i got into chilaios just like i thought i would, and tumblr has the largest concentration of chilaios fanart and posts. not only that, but every post i saw in the tag had so much engagement! i didn't see a single one that went unnoticed, back in february. so i hesitantly came back. i started reblogging chilaios posts. i didn't intend to try and break into the space because i knew it'd just hurt if i went unnoticed again, like i did in other fandoms.

but i made friends, little by little. i started a fanfic. i cautiously began posting my art again. i started writing meta, and shitposts, and replying on other people's posts, and commenting on other people's fics, and now...

that ask tag i mentioned? there are 15 pages of posts with that tag on my blog. only 2 and a half of those pages are asks from before i got into dunmeshi. people talk to me--they care about my thoughts and my opinions, they compliment the things i make. i have a group of like, 30+ people i interact with regularly, many of which i now consider close friends. everything i post gets some attention, no matter what it is.

this isn't a humblebrag, it's just... a thank you. i can't really properly express the depths of the loneliness i've felt in the past. i was an outcast for a long time, and it was way worse pre-2019, but i don't think it's ever fully left me. i've been hurt very, very badly in the past, and i've been abandoned a lot, and i've been ostracized a lot. i've grown into who i am today both in spite of and because of all i've been through, and for that i wouldn't ever change it, but it was still hard.

so today, as i turn 29, seeing asks and gifts pour in to tell me happy birthday, and that i'm appreciated... just, thank you.

if there's one thing you can give me today, it's this: reblog someone's art or writing or meta with some enthusiastic tags. send someone a friendly ask. reply to someone's post to comment on something they've said. write comments on ao3 for the fics that move you, no matter how much or how little you can think of to say.

this is going to sound cheesy as hell, but i genuinely mean it: reach out, and spread joy, whenever and wherever you can. you never know who's in pain, who's lonely or who feels worthless. and if it's you who feels that way, do what you can anyway; a community that isn't afraid to reach out will reach back to you, too. and you're not alone. i care, i promise--and more people than you realize do too.

it's so easy to underestimate how much a kind word can do. they add up, though. so keep going.

[asksoldieron]

SO-12: The Spirit of Harpo Marx

If there's a lot of engagement on this, this post is liable to get real long, beware before you expand.

Welcome to the Engagement Lounge, for Alight at the Window (SO-12) an instalment! Short comments can go in the replies, but there's a 475 character limit. Longer ones will need a reblog. Remember to @asksoldieron if you're reblogging someone else's reblog, so I can see it too!

Awwwwww, ya know? Awwwwww ❤️!

Poor Erik is in ⚡🔋no shape🔋⚡ to communicate, but he's doing his best. Maggie has no idea whether he's messing with her on purpose, or what's wrong with him, but she won't let him go. They'll get to him eventually. (I've just finished that part, actually. They've got him! Uh. Sorta. At least he's... safe now? 😅Oh, I can't say that with a straight face.)

This is the last of my queued posts/instalments, and I have no idea where my reading and drawing ability will be when it goes live. If I can't update you on my condition (and the condition of the next six instalments) I'll hafta have the spouse type a note for me. I want to do six more right away, or I might take a two week break, or - if I'm really struggling - it'll be a break of indeterminate length. I hope I'll be okay to just keep going, my Patrons have been so patient this year. Thanks, y'all.

But, either way, there will be a break at some point, because I'll have a while where I can't write or draw and that's going to eat up my backlog. Also, recent updates have done more stupid things to my theme and I think the site needs a redesign - maybe including some radical simplification. I'm just not mobile friendly and I can't make the current format behave. People with better eyesight than me do a lot of reading on their phones.

I have no idea how to build a community and I'm flailing, really, but maybe if I can get the interface more convenient, more people will like me? (I have no idea. Probably they won't.)

Look, though! You've got some extra art to tide you over! And a song!

I'm not in love with how Erik's design looks right now - he looks like a train wreck, but he should look like a train wreck. Nobody is going to fix his hair. I still feel self-conscious about it. He used to be cute. I've got to do a full-body rendering of how he'll clean up, but I don't have time for it now.

However, I did do a page of something trying to get comfortable with his ability to emote in train reck form. I don't have time to finish it, but I think it looks cool so I'm sharing.

This is potentially a way for me to serve you the music without lyric backgrounds that you can't read! It's very labour-intensive, but I was figuring out how to do it and it might get a little easier with practice. Also, my current tablet is struggling with the resolution and I plan to update it by the end of the year - depending on sale prices.

After I saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch, I found out the original Off-Broadway incarnation had filked music with lyrics by John Cameron Mitchell. 🥹😊I'm calling it! This is something other people sharing my identity do to tell their stories! Filk musicals are an enby thing! We do not give a shit about the music industry's copyrights! I'm performing nonbinary correctly!

So here's the lyrics again, and maybe I'll give you the rest in comic form as my vision and my tools improve.

You Are Found! (based on "We Are Young" by fun.) I need a minute, I… I don’t know if I’m ready yet I’m tryin’ to get my shit together, Maggie, please don’t be upset My family must be looking for me somewhere very near Guess I knew you must be coming but I can’t believe you’re here, and… It’s been forever since I’ve seen your face I know you want to take me home But although it hurts to do this work they need my help for what it’s worth —  Oh, gods I’m not sure if I wanna go So maybe if, next time you see me, You can take me by the hand, You’ll steal me away At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down No, I wanna go home I’m just not done I guess that I, I just hoped We could visit and I’d get right back to work But I can’t go yet So I must forget 'Cause I think you’ll hafta steal me away At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down Steal me away at last (na na na na na na) Come steal me away at last (na na na na na na) Steal me away at last (na na na na na na) Come steal me away at last (na na na na na na) The gods have their own plan (na na na na na na) But I’m just one weary man (na na na na na na) So you're gonna hafta steal me away at last (na na na na na na) I have so much to do (na na na na na na) How can I go with you? (na na na na na na) So you're gonna hafta steal me away (na na na na na na) At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down At last I am found So I guess the party’s over Time to get sober, and come down So maybe if, next time you see me, You can take me by the hand You’ll steal me away at last

See you soon! Ha, I hope!

Late edit: Two week break, folks. No drawing ability yet, so we're stuck with it. I still hope to get you the next six by the end of the year. I'll keep you posted!

[Back to Site?]

[cyko-tik-tabaxi]

Hey Gaudy, I'm sorry some people are braindead slimoids, but the rest of us enjoy your posts and just want everyone to be happy

What's emergency therapy? Because oh my gaud these tags! Are you ok?!?

for some reason i personally am receiving a lot of snide comments (and a few “kill yourself you pink cunt” etc messages) regarding this tumblr+ horseshit….despite the fact I:

only just heard about it, have literally nothing to do with it

have no intention of signing up for it? it’s bullshit?

have already spoken, multiple times, at length, about how i very specifically and purposely avoid putting content behind a paywall, even when it would make more sense for me financially, bc i genuinely believe in the importance of keeping online content accessible.

i’m assuming this is punishment for the fact i include tip jar links in some of my posts (which some of you have been, haha. passionately rude about), despite the fact reader support is how I try to earn a modest living (hi. disabled and unemployed here), while keeping this blog free of sponsors/ads, and (again) not putting extra content behind paywalls, even though that has always been an option (patreon, ko-fi, other platforms exist).

so no, i’m obviously not signing up for tumblr’s new subscription ‘feature,’ as it’s the antithesis of the values i try to adhere to. and that i have talked about. multiple times.

so great job tumblr. you really fucking excel at punishing people for the behavior you claim to want to see.

[cirphu]

My final words regarding this mess

I had written another post to bookend this whole situation but since she dm'ed me last night, I'll instead let my response to her message speak for itself.

She can share her message to me if she wants to, but I won't be posting here it out of respect for her privacy.

Again, take from it what you will, but I will not be addressing her or this situation anymore.

Note: Anything that is written in [brackets] has been added for context/transparency and is not part of my original message.

I did not attack you in that comment. I politely addressed you and pointed out the issue. You may have been seeing red from previous comments but the one from me should not have garnered that kind of response from you. Friendship goes both ways — if my comment felt off, you could have also dm'ed me to address it but the way that you replied to that anon thinking that it was me tells me all I need to know about how much our friendship meant to you. To make matters worse, you immediately blocked me and didn't allow your followers to see my rightfully angered response. Then you let them berate and badmouth me in your comments and asks. You did this — you burned the bridge and created this storm. Now you have to live with it and I really hope you learn from it. I see that you took down your response to me [linked above] but the posts where you accuse me, Eboni and Zo of things we did not do are still up [which is pushing the narrative that she is without blame, making my anger and response seem unprovoked]. I am asking you to take them down. I had a post queued up to address them and this situation one last time but I'll take you messaging me 2 mins before it went up as a sign from the universe [because my tone would've admittedly been much harsher than it is here]. These would've been my final words to you on that post so I'll say them to you here: P. S. I know you're watching my blog because you deleted the line where you thanked me (liankuea) for helping you with your pinned masterlist after I mentioned it in a recent ask, but it'll live on forever in the reblogs as a evidence and a reminder that I've only ever had the best intentions towards you from the moment we met up until moment you decided to speak to me the way that you did. Unfortunately, I can no longer say the same for you. And you know what? That realization, as I unwittingly read your hate-filled response yesterday morning, actually broke my heart. With that, I have nothing more to say to you.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 5- Cheat Code

WOW!! So I didn’t realize that my next plot bunny wasn’t queued up today until right now.🙃 Better late then never I guess. I’ll probably do an overnight reblog of this one right before the next one drops tomorrow morning. SORRY!

If you would like for this to be my next fic, please be sure to shower it with lots of love (reblogs/likes/comments).🥰💖 All plot bunnies will be linked back to this masterpost.

Summary: Bilbo moves in with his cousin, Primula, and her family as he tries to cope with the grief of losing his parents when a curious thing happens. Fiddling with one of Frodo’s games one night, he found that every night at 2:17am he is sucked into the video game world of: Quest for Erebor. At first, it just becomes an escape, but as time goes on and Bilbo really gets to know the characters, he is bound and determined to see every single one of these dwarves safely to Erebor. Even if he has to cheat the game to accomplish it.

Warnings: Depressive episodes (none that lead to self-harm)

It was almost over. The worst day of Bilbo’s life. All he had to do was get through this last part, and he could go home. Locking himself away from insufferable relatives and their condolences. Leaving him to finally grieve on his own. A much needed reprieve that would be a balm on Bilbo’s poor heart after the week he’s had. It was just that…he noticed the hole. Eyes wide and unblinking were trained on the twin black caskets, unadorned by embellishments save for the simple carved floral wreaths gracing the head of each, and poised over a hole large enough to swallow them both. His chest started to burn, and he quickly sucked in a much needed breath, only for it to stab like needles all the way down to his lungs.

Someone next to him squeezed his hand tightly, but Bilbo barely felt it. Everything seemed to be fading away. The preacher’s voice was getting further away, his chair no longer felt sturdy beneath him, and his ears were ringing as a simple fact seemed to echo loudly inside his head: his father was uncomfortable in tight spaces, he was afraid of holes. And Bilbo, his own son, was about to force him into one. Bilbo felt himself attempting to stand, but he couldn’t even get his knees under him as he crumpled and his vision faded to black.

When Bilbo came to, he realized he was no longer at the grave site. Instead, he was laying in the backseat of a car as someone gently ran their fingers through his curls. For a moment, Bilbo could have sworn it was his mother, and his eyes immediately flew open only to see his dear cousin, Primula, looking down at him. He physically felt something in him shatter, as he gave a hoarse wail and the flood of tears followed. Prim held him as tightly as she could, silently crying over him as he lost any semblance of control. He buried himself as deeply as he could into her knees, trying to anchor himself in the turbulent sea of emotions threatening to drown him. 

“You can’t go back there. Not like this.” Prim’s shaky voice ordered. “You’ll come stay with us. At least until you’re back on your feet. And that’s the end of that Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo felt like he should argue, but his strength had all but deserted him. He managed the smallest of nods, curling up against his cousin tighter. His last coherent thought before a true sleep claimed him was one week. He would not allow his cousin to baby him for longer than a week.

***

Prim lived in a two-story townhome just on the outskirts of the city. It was painted a fetching color of pale blue, and the white trim really completed the look. She lived with her husband, Drogo Baggins, although of no relation to Bilbo (Baggins was a fairly popular name after all), and their twelve-year old son, Frodo. Bilbo had been delegated to the guest room upstairs, across from his nephew (as cousin seemed too odd a term for a boy nineteen years his junior). 

After Bilbo had fainted at his parents’ funeral, he had been taken back to the home he once shared with them just long enough to pack his suitcase before he was whisked away here. The first two days had passed with many tears, hugs, and warm drinks. The first two weeks ended with Bilbo having long given up on a sleep routine that didn’t involve him awake most of the nightly hours. After the first two months, Bilbo feared he would never find the motivation to return home. 

“Bilbo?” Prim’s voice accompanied a knock on his door.

Bilbo groaned as he curled up tighter in the covers.

“Bilbo Baggins, I’m coming in unless you say something.”

Bilbo groaned again, but clearly that didn’t count as an answer to Prim’s ears as the door flew open.

“Oh Bilbo.” She scoffed, crossing the room.

A bright stream of light hit his closed eyes as Prim tore open the curtains, and he quickly remedied the problem by burying his head under his pillows. 

“Bilbo, you have to get out of this room.” She chided. “I know I told you I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s been three days since you’ve had dinner with us and it smells like it’s been at least that long since you’ve showered as well.”

It had actually been eight days since Bilbo last showered, but he wasn’t going to tell Prim that fact. 

“What about work?” She continued as she sat down on the edge of his bed, her hand finding his covered foot. “Your editor is going to start bothering you again before too long.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to let me worry about that and quit nagging me!”

Prim’s hand immediately withdrew, and an uncomfortable silence settled around them. 

“I worry about you, Bilbo.” She admitted quietly. “Being in this dark room, by yourself for days on end, it’s not exactly…healthy.”

Bilbo closed his eyes tightly against the tears that stung against his eyelids. He just wished Prim would stop and go away. He was just coping in his own way. It wasn’t like he was even remotely considering self-harm. He was just exhausted constantly, and certain tasks had begun to feel like massive chores. However, he worked on his stories at night when everyone else had gone to bed and it was peaceful, and he slept in til early afternoon. She was the one making a big deal out of nothing.

“What time is it anyways?” He finally peeked out from under his pillow.

Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were swimming with pity. It almost sent Bilbo back into hiding.

“Five.”

That did jolt Bilbo a bit as he pulled himself up just far enough to reach out for his phone. The time reflected back matched Prim’s answer. He could also see he had two emails, four missed calls and voicemails, and several social media notifications that he dreaded to answer. Perhaps he should get up. He used to love to take his laptop to the tea shop down the road from his house, and just let himself bask in the sunlight at his favorite window seat as he wrote. He had considered doing that yesterday, but then noon came and went and he just thought of it as a missed opportunity at that point.

“What are we having for dinner?” Bilbo tentatively asked.

Prim’s expression lightened as she jumped to her feet. 

“Frodo voted on pizza.”

Something greasy, additive, and full of fat. Sounded heavenly.

“Alright. I’ll come downstairs.” Bilbo groaned as he swung his feet to the floor.

Prim wrinkled her nose. “Not before you remove those pajamas and burn them.”

Bilbo gave her a flat look at her joke. However, even he was beginning to smell the stale odor of sweat and other unpleasant secretions of the body. A shower would probably not be remiss. 

Two hours later after completing the gargantuan task of cleaning himself, brushing hair and teeth, and getting dressed in a tee and sweatpants, Bilbo was finally ready to face the rest of his family. In spite of how badly he had been dreading it, the evening was far from difficult. He mostly sat and listened as Frodo entertained them with anecdotes from school, Drogo complained about his clients at the firm, and Prim regaled them with the wonders of teaching. 

However, Bilbo was more than relieved when he finally had the opportunity to retreat to the makeshift study (Frodo’s game room), and work some more on the next book in his series. By that he meant, he stared at the last place he had left off wondering just where he had been going with this direction, returning to his outline hoping for some form of inspiration, only to procrastinate any actual writing because motivation was a bitch.

“Uncle Bilbo?”

He spun around in his chair to see Frodo standing at the doorway.

“I’m sorry, were you wanting to reclaim your space?” He asked with a thin grin.

Frodo shook his head, a shy smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“No, Mom said you were having trouble with your book.”

Bilbo frowned and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Your mother needs to mind her own business.”

Rather than spurned by the sharp tone, Frodo giggled as if Bilbo had just told a funny joke. Despite that not being his intention, it pulled a real smile from Bilbo all the same. Frodo seemed to take this as an invitation to creep further in.

“You know when I have trouble writing, I just play video games for a couple of hours, and my mind gets so numbed I suddenly am plagued with ideas!”

“You write?” Bilbo questioned.

Frodo shrugged. “Just fanfiction, but I like it.”

Bilbo sat forward, a soft smile refusing to leave his face.

“You know that’s how I started my writing career? Of course there weren’t all the fancy websites like there are now when I was writing it.”

“Really?!” Frodo lit up. “For which fandoms? What was your OTP? What are your favorite tags to use?”

Bilbo blinked as he tried to process most of that, but he seemed to at least understand the gist.

“I liked to write in the world of Arthurian legends.”

“That makes sense.” Frodo nodded. “Since your current series is about wizards, burglars, and dragons. Real D&D kind of stuff.”

“Yes.” Bilbo deadpanned. “I have heard it described as that before.”

“OH!” Frodo suddenly exclaimed as he began to shift through the box of games next to the television. “I know the perfect game for you.”

The moment Frodo had found his prize, he thrust the game case into Bilbo’s chest.

“Quest for Erebor?” He read.

“Yeah!” Frodo implored. “It’s really cool! So there’s these thirteen dwarves, and you’re trying to get them home to their mountain only it had been taken over by a dragon and there’s this thing with the orcs and the leader of the company. But the really, really cool part is that you get to choose your character at the beginning and depending on what species you choose you get certain advantages in the game. Sam and I think that ideally it’s built as a multiplayer game where you have one of each type of character on the team, but Merry has played it before and he doesn’t like to replay games, and we don’t really want to play with Pippin because he never takes multimodes seriously, he just wants to goof off and then record it for his let's play…”

“I think I understand. Thank you.” Bilbo hastily interrupted.

Frodo ducked his head as he slowly started backing out to the door.

“Right, yeah. Anyways. I think you’ll like it if you want to give it a go. And then when you get good at it, you can play with Sam and I.”

Bilbo felt his breath hitch before he released it slowly in one drawn out and silent sigh.

“That would be marvelous. You’re very sweet, Frodo.” 

That had the boy beaming widely again as he nodded his head before exiting. Bilbo waited until he heard Frodo’s bedroom door close before he tossed the game away on the couch. It truly was a sweet gesture, but unwarranted. Bilbo had never been a gamer and couldn’t see that changing any time soon. He would get back in the groove eventually. He just needed to buckle down and start writing.

Three hours later, and Bilbo had abused every app he had on his phone with not even a single additional word to the document. He didn’t understand. He saw the scene so beautifully in his head, why couldn’t he put it into words correctly? He tossed his phone on the desk as he rubbed his hands down his face. If he wasn’t going to write, he should go to bed. Start getting his life back in order by actually waking up at a decent hour. Then his gaze landed on the game his nephew had so lovingly pulled out for him. 

It did sound fascinating…

Getting up to reach out for the case, Bilbo let his eyes linger on the cover where the dwarves had been so realistically animated. They weren’t your typical ‘Snow White’ dwarves with the short stature, long beards, and big noses…okay well that was a lie. There were certainly more than a fair few who fit that criteria, but they were more than that at the same time with the heavy metals and furs and elaborate braids. And the three at the front didn’t follow this pattern at all. Curious. 

Bilbo opened the box to stare down at the game disc inside. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn��t know how to operate any of these machines, and it was far too late to wake his nephew. Yet, he owed it to Frodo to try. Sweet lad who only wanted to help Bilbo find the motivation to write again. Besides, he was an intelligent, college-educated man. Surely he could figure out how to operate a child’s toy.

It was almost 2 a.m. before he finally got the damn thing turned on and on the correct channel. As Bilbo held a controller that seemed to have more buttons than he could even imagine operating, he was rather starting to think this was not in any way worth the effort. The title screen came up threatening to blast Bilbo’s eardrums in the soft silence of the early morning hours until he scrambled for the TV remote to remedy the problem. He pressed the appropriate ‘Start’ button on the gaming controller and was taken to a “Choose your character” screen.

It became rather intuitive to scroll through the five types of characters and read their bios, although the ‘stats’ bars were beyond Bilbo’s comprehension. He could choose a dwarf, which did seem to make sense on a quest with other dwarves but probably wasn’t as fun. There was also an elf with a warning that there would be an immediate drop in comradery as elves were natural rivals with dwarves. Not a viable option then. He could be just plain ‘man’, also seemed to be a boring choice. Then there was hobbit or wizard. On one hand…a wizard seemed rather useful but Bilbo was a bit intimidated by the ‘expert magic skills’ that he didn’t think he would be able to master. Meanwhile, the hobbit was such a simple fellow, valuing home and comfort, but having skills in stealth which sounded like an easy feature to control. 

Having made his selection and entered his name (he didn’t bother with a nickname), the game launched him into a movie-like scene as he was given a narrative on how the dwarves lost their home in the first place, and that the eye-catching fellow on the front cover was indeed a dwarven prince which explained his sharper features compared to the rest of his companions. After all, in modern media royalty must be ‘good-looking’. Bilbo listened somewhat boredly as the wizard, Gandalf, and the dwarf prince, Thorin made a plan to retake Erebor. Bilbo half wondered if he had chosen wizard if he wouldn’t be playing at this juncture. Then the implication was made on them needing a burglar before the screen went dark and the word ‘Hobbiton’ came across the screen. Clever.

Bilbo gripped the controller tighter thinking this was going to be the moment where he was actually going to get to play as his little hobbit character appeared on screen just now rising out of his bed. Then the controller in Bilbo’s hand began to vibrate. Thinking this was a gaming mechanic, he wasn’t too worried only the TV began to glow with a soft edge. Great. The game was crashing. Bilbo moved to get up and turn it off, only he couldn’t. He was frozen. His hands refusing to come away from the controller. 

Was he having a stroke?! What in the world was going on? The buzzing from the controller grew louder, the fuzzy edges to the TV screen seemed to come out towards him, and then Bilbo felt as if he were falling. He closed his eyes tightly against the sensation. Then it all stopped. Bilbo first became aware of his panting, too loud in the quiet that followed his strange experience. Then he realized he had somehow landed on the ground and off the couch. Groaning, he pushed himself up to his knees.

“Well that was unpleasant.” He huffed.

When the spots cleared from his vision, the first thing he realized was how bright it was. Did he stay up all night? Again? As he looked around the wooden room with its rounded doorways, it took him longer than he was proud of to realize this wasn’t the study. This wasn’t even Prim’s house anymore! Just what was going on? Was he dreaming?! 

Bilbo found himself rushing through the house to the front door, desperate to find out what exactly was going on. He opened the cheerful green door only to gape at the hobbits, actual real life hobbits, passing by his gate.

“Hello, Mister Bilbo!” 

Bilbo slammed the door shut. This was not happening. Not happening. Things like this did not happen in real life. He slowly opened the door only for the same hobbit to once again call out in exactly the same manner.

“Hello, Mister Bilbo!”

Bilbo stood there dumbfounded as he watched the hobbit saunter off only to return a few minutes later to repeat the same greeting. That had to be proof then. He wasn’t just in some weird fantasy land. He was inside the video game.

“Nope.”

Bilbo fainted dead on the spot.

[just-a-honey-badger]

I posted 417 times in 2022

That's 417 more posts than 2021!

102 posts created (24%)

315 posts reblogged (76%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@an-ungraceful-swan

@frayro-called-frey

@fromthemouthofkings

@shipsgaysfordays

@bitch-is-ace

I tagged 245 of my posts in 2022

Only 41% of my posts had no tags

#bel rants about random shit - 60 posts

#ask bel - 25 posts

#bel gays homosexually - 24 posts

#bel rants about hp - 19 posts

#bel rants about marauders - 19 posts

#bel procrastinates - 18 posts

#asks - 15 posts

#marauders era - 14 posts

#important - 13 posts

#bel writes - 13 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#like 'i don't want to be a woman but i don't want to be not a woman' and assumed i was just. a woman who kinda had to settle

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

✨the queue✨: a guide

the queue is great! it's helpful if you want to post regularly or if you have lots of posts you want to reblog but don't want to do all at once.

you can queue posts by either a) clicking the reblog button > clicking the arrow next to it once it opens the page where you can add comments > selecting 'add to queue'; or

b) going into settings > clicking on the part that says 'labs' (where tumblr has new features they're working on) > turning on 'fast queue' (this adds a new icon next to the 'reply' and 'reblog' icons where you basically reblog a post but 'add to queue' is the default).

and why would i want to post regularly, you ask? well, the more you post (and the more diverse posts you have), the more likely it is for your posts to reach more people. accurate tags help with this, too. it also helps if you need to post at a consistent schedule for whatever reason, but can't always log on at the same time every day.

if you want to queue your posts at more random times, go into labs and turn on 'queue 2.0'. this enables a more detailed way to schedule your queued posts. i had to play around with it before i found something i liked, and i suggest you do too.

that's it

17 notes - Posted November 30, 2022

#4

15 questions 15 tags

ty @shipsgaysfordays for the tag <33

Nickname: tortilla (from @fruutcake)

Height: fucking short lmao under 5 ft even though i'm fully grown

Last thing I googled: 'chapbook publishers' bc i'm trying to figure out if that's something i want to do

Song stuck in my head currently: line without a hook (she's a, she's a lady, and i am just a boy) <3

Number of followers: with the excessive amounts of porn bots? 47

Amount of sleep: ah. um it's inconsistent but on average 9-ish hours?

Dream job: university professor, author, maybe architect? or artist, i want that gay literature major kinda vibe. probably gonna be a ux researcher or sum tho

Wearing: pjs

Movie/book that summarizes me: anne with an e <3

Favorite song currently: r u mine? by arctic monkeys or dandelions by ruth b

Aesthetic: solarpunk/goblincore/light academia

Favorite authors: rick riordan? i don't read enough

Random fact: when a pig gets a cold or cough they shoot their intestines out of their anus and the farmer has to stuff it back in

no pressure y'all: @fruutcake @bitch-is-ace @frey-the-they @4remus @presidentroarie @too-many-fandoms-to-explore @an-ungraceful-swan @whooshsoohw @kara-night-light @that-bitch-kat3 @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm @fromthemouthofkings @adharastarlight @linh-song @xanadaus

(ik i don't interact with half of u sorry i wanted to hit 15)

20 notes - Posted December 18, 2022

#3

writing a new marauders fic where all the marauders in the afterlife react to harry's daily life (not his war stuff but like his cringe everyday stuff)

21 notes - Posted November 8, 2022

#2

new tag game!

featuring: questions i never really see

1. a time period you feel you'd do well in: the 1970s

2. a mythical animal you wish you could be: a dragon

3. your favourite time of day: sunset

4. the main character that's the most like you: anne shirley-cuthbert

5. your favourite flower: sunflowers

6. a universe you would love to be in: the potterverse (without the terf part)

7. the aesthetic you wish you had: downtown girl/skater girl

8. a character you would love to be: beth harmon

9. a character you would be best friends with: anne shirley-cuthbert

10. your favourite outfit to wear: my band outfit; aka a dress shirt and wide-leg linen pants

tags: @fruutcake @shipsgaysfordays @bitch-is-ace @an-ungraceful-swan @too-many-fandoms-to-explore @frayro-called-frey @fromthemouthofkings @4remus @presidentroarie @kara-night-light and anyone who wants to do it!

25 notes - Posted December 24, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

okay, but what if peter didn't exist and regulus was in his place and james and remus took sirius and regulus's last name and the marauders were all the blacks and they went to see walburga and were like 'hey mom!' and walburga fucking flips

173 notes - Posted September 23, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[kyuus4ku]

𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗧

yosano akiko

genre: drabble ; fluff

warnings: none

word count: 1K

a/n: take this as my first drabble🧐 not that proud of it -_-

"I have to tell you something."

"Usually, you don't have to make an announcement before you speak," she said before munching on what remained of her sandwich, "makes it sound formal that way."

A smile tugged at her lips as she chewed, her magenta-tinged eyes locked on yours, making your heart stutter for the right rhythm as your thoughts tried to catch up to the moment's speed.

You couldn't believe you were even contemplating on actually going through with this.

Was telling her about the dream you had last night really a smart idea?

"I'm serious."

"Y/n, by saying that, you're making me incapable of taking you seriously," she sniggered in amusement, a faint tint of mischief glowing from her face as she finished what was left of her sandwich.

You thought back to when you decided to tell her about the damned dream during lunchtime, and suddenly felt the urge to crash your forehead against the wall... repeatedly... until consciousness was nothing but a stranger to you.

If this went wrong, you'd have to stick around for the rest of the day to deal with how awkward it'd potentially become.

If this went wrong— if she misunderstood, or if she'd be able to explicate your feelings without having you confess them to her yourself.

If she didn't like you the way you liked her.

"You know what? Forget it," you raised your hands in surrender and put them on the table to get yourself up from your seat, but she stopped you by gripping your forearm firmly.

As dumb as it sounded, it felt like your infatuation for her was rejuvenated back to fresh vitality at her touch.

Even her grip was gentle, and the smile she still had latched onto her lips wasn't going to make falling out of love for her any easier.

"Wuss," she remarked in a domineering tone, raising an eyebrow and narrowing her eyes in evident attempts to intimidate you. You groaned and slumped back in your seat, crossing your arms in a mulish attitude.

"I'm not a wuss," you grumbled stubbornly.

"You sure sound like one," she sipped on her iced tea with dignity, that stupidly charming smile still bolted to her lips, "Come on, prove me wrong."

You sighed deeply, shaking off the inapt nerves which dented every inch of your ego. You then mustered up the courage to say what you didn't really want to say.

"I had a dream about you."

"Uh huh," she nodded, eyes glimmering with intrigue and anticipation.

"We kissed," you admitted, completely disappointing the side of you that wanted to piece together a whole dramatic build-up before you reached that part of the dream.

You knew that your feelings were going to swallow you whole if you didn't get them off your chest, but you didn't expect yourself to be that desperate.

Regret started to root its cause into the walls of your bones the minute you saw her expression fade into the finest type of indiscernibility.

Then, the most irresistible smile pulled at the corner of her pretty lips.

"That's it?" she laced her fingers together, her elbows planting themselves on the table as she leaned forward to fix her eyes on yours, "The person I know would've added flair to their story before getting to the climax."

"I panicked!" you whined in frustration as you buried your face in your hands, rubbing your eyes as a flustered grin shone through your lips. She couldn't help but laugh at how unbelievably nervous you were getting.

She got out of her seat and traced her steps toward where you were sitting. She sat on the edge of the table, her purple irises brighter than ever as her gaze fixed itself on you with what anyone but you could perceive as affection.

"What made us kiss?" she crossed her arms coolly, "It can't be only because I'm incredibly alluring, right?"

You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes at her burst of self-approval— the type of reaction she always adored.

"So... we were running away from something..." you poked at your chin as you tried to recall every detail, "Some kind of monster..."

"Monster?"

"Yeah, my subconscious is hella creative," you winked at her with pride, "Anyways, I got really riled up because I hate being chased."

"Being chased? Really?"

"Yes. I get really... defensive," you ignored her snort of ridicule and went on, "So when we managed to get a place to hide, I started babbling a lot of words and pacing around frantically. You tried to calm me down but I refused to stay still. So... one thing led to another... you gave up and pulled me into a kiss."

Time hung on your words as the moment froze in silence. You expected her to brush it off and leave the room, and honestly, that would've been a hundred times better than being told "Sorry, I don't really think of you that way."

But what she said and did next didn't really match up to your predictions.

"Was I a good kisser?" you could've sworn her face was a little farther from yours just a few seconds ago. You got out of your seat and backed away slightly, wondering if you were reading her body language wrong or not.

"Yeah, well... I was better," you shrugged smugly, smirking as you did so. She stretched her arms to place her palms flat on the table, supporting her figure as she leaned back with her head tilted in what you interpreted as enticement.

"Really?" a tut of skepticism reached your ears. She looked around the room and then back at you.

"Prove it."

All the gears in your brain clicked. You stepped forward, held the sides of her face softly, and kissed her.

You felt her lips stretch into a blissful smile as your lips connected. The two of you were sent to seventh heaven as electrifying sparks of restless elation galvanized you both into an unwillingness to pull away.

"Hm," you heard her hum as she pulled away, piercing your gaze with the purple stars in her eyes as her finger caressed the side of your face gently. You smiled at her, not realising how unsteady your breathing was.

"Point taken," she sang out quietly, pulling you by the collar to meet you in a kiss once again.

taglist: @pompompurin1028 @hanazou @shamelesspastawobblerland @hanges-gf @whorefordazai

comment under here if you wanna be a part of my taglist!

a/n: ehh i'm not rlly gonna be active on most of my socials for a little while, and most of my posts/reblogs will be queued. i won't be gone for long hehe and i won't stop writing— just gonna be a little ia in terms of interactions 😴 mwah ty for reading!

fun fact: i rlly did dream about kissing a girl <3

[mollymauk-teafleak]

say it will always be like this

Seregil decides it's time for Alec to learn the subtle art of make up. And he has a few ways to make it more interesting.

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Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment over on Ao3 if you liked this, it really helps motivate writers particularly in small fandoms like this one!

-

Seregil had taught Alec a wide variety of skills in the time they’d been together. From coercing locks to open to walking like a noble, from scaling walls ten times as tall as he was with no foothold in sight to navigating the baffling arsenal of cutlery that would be set before him as standard practise at the palace. Skills that would save his life, skills that would take the life of someone else and more than a few skills that were only to be used within the gauzy canopy of their own bed. Alec, always sharp and hungry to learn, had taken to every one with his usual endearing eagerness, tackling everything from swordplay to chardsharping and giving himself to it completely until he was as good as Seregil. Maybe even better, in some cases.

But this was the first time he’d ever seen his talímenios look truly, completely nervous.

Seregil had to laugh, seeing his face as he opened the box between them and began laying the multitude of products within out on the bed. It was rather daunting, he supposed, when you saw how much was contained within a standard well born lady’s cosmetics chest.

But there was just something so adorable about the way he immediately flushed and began to squirm, especially when Seregil’s laughter broke through the professional air he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

“Oh hush…” he begged, ducking his head into his collar, the tips of his ears as red as if he’d been walking around in the snow currently falling outside their bedroom window with no hat.

Seregil tried to marshal his trembling shoulders and the giggles bursting in his chest like champagne bubbles, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re just so adorable when you’re flustered like this…”

“You���re not helping!” he’d now yanked the fabric of his loose evening shirt as high as his nose and Seregil had to reach between them and coax it back down.

“Hey now, talí…” he left his fingers where they were even when Alec had resurfaced, caressing his friend’s cheek with soft fingertips, “It’s just another skill, another weapon in any nightrunner’s arsenal. You wouldn’t believe the doors that a dress and a bit of rouge can open. And with your lovely braid, it’s the perfect time for you to learn!”

Alec sighed, clearly sinking any lingering traces of his strict Danlan upbringing as best he could, “I know…”

“And besides,” Seregil’s grin turned crooked the way it only did when he was out to pay court to his lover, something he still made a point of doing even now they’d been married in all but name for months and months, “I know you’re going to look beautiful in it.”

That clearly snagged Alec’s attention and soon he was blushing for an entirely different reason, a softer and more playful kind of heat in his face, “Oh come on.”

“I mean it! Once I’ve taught you, you’ll be lucky if I ever actually Jelet you use this disguise. You’ll have every man with a working set of eyes from miles around nipping at your heels.”

It was Alec’s turn to laugh, shaking his head so a few strands of his blonde hair fell across his face, his braid starting to unravel as it always did in the evenings after a day of wear, “You’re such a fool, talí.”

“Fair. Doesn’t make me wrong though, does it?”

Now his love was smiling, he sat back and turned his attention to the products on the bed between them. He’d sorted them into groups based on what they did, what part of the face they were used for. First would come the instruction, then the application. Alec always learned best through touch.

“This is pretty much a standard set of makeup for a Skalan woman of fairly high society. Not high enough to attract attention, mind you, but certainly well to do.”

“Standard?” Alec looked at the spread with a mix of apprehension and awe, “There’s so much!”

“Precisely,” Seregil chuckled, “The pressures put on women these days are quite staggering. And unfortunately for us, if we’re to pass as women then we need to rise to meet those pressures.”

He held up a small pan between them, “This is a fairly common face powder, made for paling and smoothing the skin. Mind where you buy this when your stock runs low, some of the cheaper suppliers have started mixing the stuff with lead paint, of all things.”

“I suppose corpses are very pale?” Alec sniffed, taking the box from Seregil and turning it over in his hands, opening it up and rubbing a little of the chalky powder onto his finger, “How do I put it on?”

“With this,” Seregil held up a brush, “Finest horse hair. Here, I’ll do half of your face so you can get a feel for it, then you finish it off.”

Alec gave a last groan of protest, though he paid close attention to how Seregil tapped the fine dark brush into the powder and let his eyes close without complaint, leaning close.

Seregil had thought, with the weather in Rhiminee being so stubbornly awful, all sleet and snow and howling winds, this would be a good lesson to fill a cosy evening in. And he’d been right. While the flakes fell just outside the glass, their room was filled with gently glowing candles and the fire could be heard crackling in the sitting room just beyond the door. The smell of the mulled wine they’d been drinking still hung on the warm air, filling their bedroom with the scents of cherries, cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg. It was on Alec’s breath too, as he exhaled softly, not wanting to move his face too much while Seregil carefully applied the powder. There was something so soft and relaxed about his face in that moment, cast in gently flitting shadows by the candlelight that, as soon as he was done, Seregil pressed his lips to his lover’s in a sweet kiss.

Alec was grinning when he pulled away, “What was that about?”

Seregil smirked, “I haven’t put your lip paint on yet, it’s allowed. Right, can you see what I’ve done?” He pulled the looking glass he’d taken off the wall into his lap so Alec could see his face, now half an eerie bone white, “Concentrate on getting it settled into the creases of your eye and nose.”

Alec pulled a face at his reflection but took up the brush, mimicking Seregil’s movements as best he could. It wasn’t a bad effort at all, he only had to redo a few parts that he missed, just behind his ear and under his jaw.

Seregil gave him a fondly annoyed smile. Was there nothing his talímenios wasn’t excellent at?

Next came the eyes, a more delicate affair. This required a completely different brush, a kohl pencil, the coloured dust made from dried and ground flowers. Again, Seregil did one eye so Alec could see what was required of him, then let him complete the set in the mirror.

Alec was soon frowning, “This is so fiddly, like sprininging a tumble lock that trembles. And my eyes keep watering!”

Seregil grinned, “Think of it like you’re pulling your bow. Your hands never shake then, do they?”

“Because I know what i’m doing with my bow,” Alec grumbled, a little petulantly, cursing and having to restart the kohl when his hand slipped, “Billiary’s balls!”

“Patience, talí,” Seregil smiled, “We have all evening. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Finally, after three attempts, Alec had two passably matching eyes, ringed in thick black kohl with lids shaded a deep, sultry red. And Seregil was starting to realise just how right he’d been at the start.

Alec had always been beautiful to him, of course. Whether he was tricked up as his noble alter ego, in the finest silks with his hair neatly queued, or whether he was rough from weeks on the road, dust in his hair and days away from his last bath in anything but a half frozen stream, his lover would always be the most gorgeous man in the world as far as Seregil was concerned. The cosmetics, combined with the candlelight, only emphasised what he’d always seen on his talímenios’ face, like everything he’d always admired was being edged in gold.

Now Seregil was left wondering why he’d waited so long to give Alec this particular lesson.

“Lips next,” he said, bringing himself back to the task at hand. He could do something with the feelings stirring inside him later. What kind of teacher would he be to only give half a lesson?

Now he’d mastered the eyes, Alec seemed to be getting more confident by the moment. He sniffed the lip paint with genuine interest, admiring it’s deep red colour.

“It’s pigmented with crushed berries and beetle’s wings,” Seregil smiled, he loved satisfying his lover’s curiosity, “Which makes it pretty expensive so, in a pinch, you can rub a cut lemon on your lips. That’ll make them look redder and a little fuller.”

Alec looked dumbfounded then laughed in disbelief, “This is like learning a code! All these secrets and tricks, I had no idea...”

Seregil snorted, “I knew you’d get to liking this. Now, keep your mouth relaxed, don’t tighten up or the paint will crack. There, that’s it…”

Once again, the barely there distance between them as Seregil leaned in and carefully painted his lower lip struck him, the closeness, the attentiveness as Seregil’s focus shrank down utterly to Alec’s body. And this time, he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“I suppose you can’t kiss me now…” Alec murmured, voice a little lower and a little rougher.

Seregil was so close, he could practically hear his heartbeat, smell the scent of wood air and musk that was so completely Alec.

Sergeil grinned, heat in his own cheeks now. If any of his friends on the Street of Lights learned that this sweet faced, shy smiling Northerner could actually get the infamous Seregil í Korit to blush with scent alone, his reputation was ruined. And in the moment, he didn’t think he cared.

“Not until after our lesson,” he smiled regretfully, sitting up and handing the brush to Alec, a drop of red stain falling on his fingers as he did so, “Then, my talí, that lip paint is getting places it absolutely was never intended for.”

Even the thick layer of white paint couldn’t hide how red Alec got at that promise. Clearly Seregil hadn’t lost sight of himself entirely.

Despite his new distraction, Alec completed his lips perfectly and, after a dusting of rouge and painting over some of his veins in blue ink, he was as perfectly made up as any woman in the Noble Quarter of Rhiminee. Of course Seregil would teach him what to accentuate to make his face look more femenine, working with his natural faie features to create the full effect so he’d pass even under a critical eye. But for now, he simply looked beautiful, ethereal and otherworldly.

Alec grinned, feeling the heat in Seregil’s gaze. Even after he’d finished his rouge, Seregil hadn’t moved back. A bare inch and they’d be kissing. Suddenly, the candles seemed to be burning lower and the air had gotten warmer, closer, like before the tension broke and the rain began to fall.

And then a glint of pure wickedness entered Alec’s innocent blue eyes, “So...am I prettier than Lady Gwethylyn?”

Sergeil’s jaw dropped for a moment before he gathered himself gave a low, throaty chuckle, casting the powders and brushes and tins to the floor so he could advance on Alec, pinning him back against the cushions.

“Oh, talí, you’re in trouble now.”

Afterwards, Seregil took a lot of pleasure in standing before the much larger mirror placed against the far wall, scanning his body for the smudges of red and charcoal black and white like the gentlest snowfall, a map of how Alec had hungrily explored him, giving as much as he’d gotten for that comment.

Alec sat up in bed behind him, admiring his work too. Seregil could see him in the mirror and returned his smug smile before turning to crawl back onto the bed.

“All your hard work…” he murmured with a sigh of mock regret, touching one very badly smudged cheek.

“Well, now I get to practise again,” Alec grinned, clearly hoping, the same as Seregil, that it would lead to another evening like this one.

Seregil reached over and snagged his own shirt from where it had been carelessly tossed to the floor hours before. He used it to gently wipe away the last lingering traces of the makeup, where it still clung on determinedly at his eyes and his high, thin cheekbones.

And then there was his Alec. No inks or powders or crushed flowers, just his own soft blue eyes and gentle, shy smile and messy, flyaway hair the colour of summer wheat.

For once, Seregil allowed himself to say exactly what was in his heart, without any hesitation.

“You don’t need any of that to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

The way Alec’s eyes deepened and creased so perfectly in the corners, the way a smile of uncomplicated joy lighted on his face, the way that he believed Seregil so completely in that moment made him glad he’d chosen this lesson for today. Because if there was anything he wished he could teach his lover, it was to see himself the way Seregil saw him.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi! I know I have other unfinished fic, but I’ve actually been writing a bit, and you can blame @the-well-rested-one! I have five chapters queued up and outline for several more, that’s a good sign! Please comment if you read, or reblog! Thank you to @nikibi6 and @emulateharry for the looksie!

The One Where Harry Styles Sneezed On Me

Day One

There's only three people out on the pavement ahead of her, and a part of Elise is tempted to tip toe because she watches too many movies.

The streets of London are quieter than Elise has seen them since she moved here. She'd basically never left her university classes and not been shoulder to shoulder with wall to wall people. Her classes were over at rush hour and there were a lot of people in London at any time of day. Had you asked her before the move, she would have said she liked big crowds. But now, the tube sometimes gave her anxiety, a brand new thing, because it was so packed.

Today, well London was like a ghost town, like the film where she'd fallen in love with the city and decided she would study abroad there. It was an odd one, but that sounded like her.

28 Days Later was a weird inspiration, but maybe because London was empty in the movie, she was able to see things about it better. It was also why she felt like she should be extra quiet on the nearly deserted streets, this was the closest approximation to her favorite movie scenes she'd probably ever see in one of the biggest cities in the world. Elise had never been to a big city, not really, the largest was maybe Phoenix. But it didn't really feel that much bigger than Tucson, where she grew up, or maybe it had just grown before her eyes so she hadn't noticed.

London was a proper big city as her roommate told her, and Elise hadn't made it for a semester abroad. She'd wound up here for her post graduate work, she couldn't afford it during undergrad. The living expenses, turns out, were too expensive, but she'd found a way later, because there was a will, a dream.

Her will for today had been to find her way after class to the next public green space on her list. She'd done Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, and Regent's Park. She went after class when she could, if there was sunlight to catch. Today was so pretty, she had decided to go even if it meant catching the tube by herself at night. And then she had stepped out into a London eerily like the one from the movie that had first infatuated her. There were people on the street though, and they didn't look like the walking dead, just the walking afraid. Those who had braved the streets wore masks. One lady had gardening gloves on. Elise wasn't sure if she was underreacting or everybody else was over the top. She hadn't really thought about it, mostly because she was under 80, and well, honestly, maybe she did feel a little bit of the invincibility youth brings.

Apparently lots of Londoners didn't feel the same way. Including those who ran her Uni. She arrived with her notebooks and excited for her day plans, resolute, to find a sign on an easel in the entryway.

"Classes Cancelled today. Online classes will resume tomorrow. All formats will be conducted via Portal for three weeks, or until further notice."

Well, shit. Had they thought to send an email? It may have saved her the trip.

Elise looked at the 100,000 emails in her gmail and discovered they had indeed emailed her. This was why she avoided online courses, she was much better, learned better, in person. Also, she was abysmal at keeping up with things via email. The next few weeks would be a trial.

She'd have to figure it out, and she knew herself; A schedule was necessary, she'd write one down, on paper, to order her life while she had to finish these courses online. But that seemed to be her only coursework for this day.

That was a bright side. She took it as a silver lining, she could head to the old London Heath right away. She considered walking, plotted out her path and realized that it was a long, long way, so long it would steal all of her energy to explore.

The tube was really ghostly, like the ghost town they visited once, Calico or something?

Regardless, she was surprised she wasn't more excited. It was just like 28 Days Later. Well not really, no bloodthirsty, spattered lurchers, but it felt eerie. Like it had the first time she watched it, before she got totally immune to the plot and could only see the sights. She was thankful when a few people got on her carriage, though they sat as far from each other as the spacing allowed. She quickly looked up more information on her phone and estimated how far away the people should be, they were all separated by much more than that.

By the time she got to her destination, she'd normally be just getting out of her first class, and Elise's stomach reminded her that this was meal time. She really was married to a schedule, or at least her biology was. She thought a picnic would be lovely, so she looked up a market and found a Whole Foods nearby. She would splash out for her lunch it looked like, could be worse, could be Waitrose, and must be cheaper than a cafe, surely.

London was pricey. Which she'd known intellectually and was now experiencing literally everyday. As such, Elsie was kinda thinking she needed a job. Was she allowed to work? Maybe on campus. She'd have to ask the question to somebody who knew; she was running through her reserves.

Elise kinda sighed at herself as she walked into Whole Foods. Maybe this was not the best idea. But it was bright and cheery inside and smelled like green juice and roasted vegetables. Her stomach growled and she decided the worst that could happen was she would wind up eating cup o' noodles and have to pack a lunch a lot towards the end of semester before her next stipend.

Elsie shrugged and sang along a little to the song playing overhead. She felt like she rarely heard One Direction here, she heard it played out more in public in the US, and wondered if that was due to public exhaustion. She understood that it had been next level crazy here. Maybe it was just time? They'd been her favorite when she was in early high school. She had decided she was gonna marry Liam in eighth grade. That opinion changed as they all aged. She got too cool for them, and well, some of them grew up nicely. "Just how fast the night changes." She tried to harmonize along. The song also meant she wasn't hurrying she was, however, wandering.

Fruit, she should grab some fruits, that was always a good place to start.

How she wound up by the hot bar she didn't know, but she grabbed a bit of roast chicken and realized the layout was backwards to the one she was used to in Tucson. The metal spoon clanked as she got some potatoes that looked deliciously crunchy and had little burned ridges like she loved. She should have some vegetables. Carrots didn't count, real green things were needed. Asparagus counted. She was looking at the cut fruit, but then thought about her budget concerns and headed over to the produce section.

It was a little emptier than what she assumed was normal, a few ladies and a tall, lanky man in a hoodie and hat were the only people about. He was broad from the back, but had a furtive set to his shoulder that made him smaller. He was also standing exactly where she wanted to be. In front of the bananas, her favorite of the economical fruits. The best bunches clustered where he didn't seem to be doing anything but loitering.

Elise's belly growled, the aroma of her roasted chicken wafted up. She'd give it another minute and if he hadn't moved, she'd try to politely shoulder her way around him, 6 feet or not.

She gave it two minutes. By the end her converse was audible tapping. He still hadn't moved at all. So help her, if he was on his phone! It was time for action. She came up to about his shoulder, and he did not seem to notice there was 5 feet of impatience at his elbow, at least he certainly didn't move. When Elise realized he was on his phone, her patience snapped. That had to break some kind of grocery store etiquette. Was there grocery store etiquette? Certainly, it would extend to standing so people couldn't access foods when you were fucking around on your phone.

She reached past him, "sorry, excuse my reach." she hoped he could hear just how not sorry she was. Elise was good at passive-aggression.

She heard his breathing change and was ready to tell him he had just been blocking the bananas for three minutes, and she knew she wasnt being socially distant, but he was being rude, when he turned towards her. He was being rude, especially by English standards and she would tell him so, even if she wasn't sure if he was exactly impolite, accusing an Englishman of that was very effective.

She realized two things when he looked at her.

One- he was not some stranger- he was HARRY. FUCKING.STYLES!

And two- as his spit splattered all over her face, he wasn't about to call her rude, his gasp had been the beginning of a sneeze.

😷😷😷😷😷

The last hour had been an absolute blur. She had just sat down to eat. And though her 16 year old self would consider this an upgrade, her 23 year old self was really sad the heath was not the site of her lunch, even if it had been switched out for her teenage dream.

Because Harry Styles had started his litany of apologies with a "fuck!" Then a spilling ramble. "I'm so sorry, dammit, I knew I should have just sent somebody. Dammit, Jesus fuck, now you will have to be quarantined too." His hands were fumbling with the wet wipes and she could smell the disinfectant on them. She stopped him short before he was wiping that shit on her face and was redirecting his hand while he was still talking about how they could just both be holed up in his house. It distracted from the fact he was rubbing spittle off her shirt very close to her nipple.

"I mean, it's not huge. Damn, I kinda wish the new house was done. Then we wouldn't even have to see each other. Not that, I um, wouldn't want to see you, or like whatever, but um. We don't know each other and we'll be, like, living together for several weeks. I guess you could quarantine at your place. But I just feel better, cause it's my fault. Seems rude to possibly infect somebody due to negligence, and not like, help them through it. I just had to have my celery juice." That part was said under his breath, and he wasn't holding any juice.

She remembered the closed juice bar. The sign had read: Our fresh bars-juice, smoothie, and coffee are close due to Covid- 19 contagion worries. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Then it clicked, while she wiped his sputum from her face. That is what he was talking about. What the?

"Are you just wandering around whole foods infecting people? You have the virus?"

She realized she'd been talking really loud and attracting attention. Harry certainly realized.

He looked agitated and around to see if they had an audience, and she realized his face was a bit of a liability. That would be some headline for sure. "Harry Styles spreading coronavirus!" or some shit like that. He used to get press for existing, the memory made her soft for him.

"Let's get you checked out. And we can go back to my place and talk?" He made eye contact and she got confused for a second longer.

"What?" Elise found herself saying. She would normally never ever go home with some dude in a store. But, this dude was Harry Styles, and that made her feel simultaneously safer and also like this was a chance she had to take. She also wanted to yell at him a little.

He sighed, like she was a hard to open packet of chips. "Can you check out and meet me outside?" He looked around again and bit his lip because the women nearby were watching them. He handed her his basket and helped her transfer her things to it, "Can you grab my things too?" He didn't sound like she remembered him. But she supposed she'd not done more than listen to his albums once through after she'd grown out of her One Direction phase.

He sounded better. He was still growing up well.

"Huh?" She was not following him. He gave her that exasperated face and thinned his lips before he quickly got a hundred pound note out. "Check out and I'll meet you in my car. I'm near the front, all right?"

She barely remembered checking out. The girl had to prompt her twice, and she'd shoved the sanitizer at her when they'd both had to touch the change. She even considered keeping. Can you grab my things too, the audacity! But she handed it to him promptly and he put it away and sanitized his hands and gave her a squirt too. Chivalry in the time of Corona.

The drive had been quiet. Though she was sure there were things to do, to say, certainly. So the radio played and Harry sang along. It was a surreal moment, right out of her teenage dreams. Listening to Harry Styles sing in his expensive car. The missing piece that made it reality instead of fantasy was that she was not singing along, instead she was confused and hungry.

"Here, I'll warm up your lunch." Was the first thing he said to her as he ushered her into the square house she recognized from something on the internet years ago. It was a little cold inside and Elise fitted her sweater around her shoulders and sat at the wood grain kitchen table. Her food came to her steaming. Then a warm mug she immediately wrapped her hands around.

"You cold?" He asked while moving to a fancy looking blue screened rectangle on the wall. "I'm always cold, so I just wait until someone seems too cold to change anything."

She nodded.

"Right, so you know me?" He asked like it was taking out the garbage.

"Um," Elise took a drink. "Yeah, I was a huge One Direction fan in high school."

He smiled at that. "Ok, is that why you've gone silent? Freaking out?"

"Yeah, and also, I'm not really following. Honestly."

"Why don't you tell me a little about about what you think is going on. Then I'll fill in my side."

She took a breath. "Can I eat my lunch first?" She needed a minute, and she was beyond hungry, and annoyed. Definitely annoyed. And maybe just a touch of freaking out. Harry was her favorite for a lot longer than Liam, if she was honest.

"Oh! Yes, of course." He shook his head, "how rude of me."

That was why he felt rude? Not the bananas or irresponsible shopping trip. Elise widened her eyes at her carton before she dug in and didn't look up until the blender went.

A green smoothie, vibrant and lush, was placed at her elbow. It matched his eyes. "Here, to your health."

"Thank you." She took a sip and smiled. Her blood sugar was rising and she was already feeling considerably better, though her odd situation and figuring it out came to the forefront. "So, um, to my health hmmm?" She cheered the air.

Harry exhaled and nodded.

"To yours as well?"

"I suppose you could say that." He pulled his lip between his forefingers and she remembered that from interviews.

"You're not supposed to touch your face." She ah, ah, ahhed with a grin.

He laughed and it broke some of their tension. "I'm not. Neither are you."

Elise realized she had her chin in her hand. She slapped it lightly on the table and sat up. "Fair enough, so what am I doing here, Mr. Styles?"

He groaned lowly and she wondered what that was about. She didn't let it sidetrack her though, she'd wait out his response.

He took a big gulp of health and Elise watched the chunky residue slide down the glass.

"You've heard of Coronavirus, yes?"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes.

He chuckled, she hoped at himself, what the fuck kind of question was that?

"Right, pretty unavoidable, yeah?" He didn't need her to agree, he kept talking. "I travel a lot."

"Duh!" she interrupted.

At that he really did laugh. "So, I travel a lot, duh, and I flew on a flight where somebody tested positive. There aren't many tests yet, they're rationing them."

"Even for you?" She was surprised.

"Even for me," he sighed. "I'm just a person. Anyway, the person in question asked for a pic for his daughter—."

"Likely story."

"Perhaps, and so, we were in close proximity and we shook hands," she nodded along with the line of his narrative. "They won't test me unless I show symptoms. But quarantine was recommended."

He finished, he'd left out a part though.

"Is Whole Foods part of the quarantine radius?"

He blushed a little, and all of the reasons she'd had some of her earliest fantasies about him surfaced. "No, not as such. But I was low on bananas."

"Nobody you could pay a euro for your bunch of bananas?" She hoped for a laugh.

He squinted. "Course, but I don't like to be a bother."

She couldn't help but laugh at that. "So, in your effort to not inconvenience anyone for a couple hours, you've exposed me by sneezing in my face, rude, and kidnapping me to your house? So, now I have to quarantine too?"

"You aren't a kid. How could I nap you?" This was not a joke, but the humor of it was not escaping either of them.

"Not what that means, though I've no idea why." She shrugged.

"Young lady napped?" He tried.

"Oh god, you are sooo English. Young lady napped." She tried on his drawl.

"That was terrible!" He shook his head like he was offended.

"I thought it was pretty good?" She popped her shoulder and her own little dimple in her left cheek appeared, though it didn't pull the weight his did. He narrowed his eyes before raising up his eyebrows.

"It was alright, I suppose. We have time to perfect it."

"Why's that?" She found herself asking.

"Well, we're pretty much stuck together. How d'ya feel about two weeks at Le Hotel Styles?"

He couldn't be serious, could he?

[roleplay-salt]

About; Rules; FAQ

Welcome to Roleplay Salt! This is a blog for roleplayers to vent & rant anonymously about the things that peeve or hurt them in the roleplaying community.

GENERAL

Your submission will always be posted anonymously; no exceptions. (This includes positivity submissions & shoutouts.)

Your submission’s text will be placed in a graphic and then copied as plain text as its caption for accessibility purposes.

Topics must be roleplay-related. (This can, of course, include experiences with partners doing things that may be unrelated to roleplay, but would still be considered relevant if it impacts your roleplaying experience with that particular partner.)

Anyone following our blog will be allowed to leave replies on submissions, whether in agreement or disagreement, and everyone is allowed (even encouraged) to reblog submissions, with or without their own commentary. However, we will delete any spamming comments, including ones that are or are similar to “Why don’t you come off anon and say that?” Such comments provide nothing to the discussion. In fact, they usually shut down discussion and it completely disregards the entire point of this blog’s existence. No one has to “come off anon” nor are they “cowards” for seeking safety behind anonymity. Your aggressiveness with that sentiment only reinforces the reason why they want to be anonymous in the first place. ADDENDUM: We will delete salt replies that involve simply telling others to, essentially, “shut up and move on already” and “stop sending salt replies in about this”. You’re more than allowed to say this things in the comments, but we will no longer be making them a part of any future debates.

We actively edit and restructure the wording of submissions. We read every single one of your submissions and we care about consistency and readability. We will correct any spelling errors, grammar errors, and odd sentencing structure, and we will often lengthen abbreviations and slang, and we will fill out any curse words or sensitive terms that were originally 'censored' in the submissions. Do not take it personally! Again, we aim for consistency. We will never just copy/paste your submission and then post it. That's terrible.  

T Y P E S    O F    S A L T

Vents & Rants

Complaints

Negative Confessions

Callouts

T Y P E S    O F    S U G A R

Advice & Suggestions

Critique

Positive Confessions

Shoutouts

T Y P E S    O F    F L O U R

The “Flour” category is reserved for any submissions that do not appropriately fit under “Salt” or “Sugar”, often involving personal confessions and storytelling.

C A L L O U T S    &    S H O U T O U T S

A callout submission is specifically speaking nastily and meanly about someone else, regardless if it’s the truth or not.  All URLs & names in a callout submission will be marked out to preserve the other party’s anonymity as well.  We are a safe place for you to release your anger, frustration and hurt, even if it’s towards someone and not something. But we cannot and will not participate in the true nature of a callout. That will need to be something that you do for yourself if you believe that it’s important for you, your friends and your fandom community.

A shoutout submission is specifically speaking kindly and positively about someone else.

All URLs & names in a shoutout submission will remain visible, and the person will be tagged & mentioned on the post so as to better the odds of them seeing it.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

“Who are the moderators?”

Currently, there is only one operating the blog: Moderator Bull.

“Am I allowed to know your roleplay/personal blogs?”

Unfortunately, no. To preserve our own anonymity (for many of the same reasons as the submitters), we have agreed on the terms to never give out our URLs if requested. If we are interested in your blog, then we will follow you at our own discretion!

“Will you remove a submission for me?”

That depends on the type of submission, what it is about, and what your reasoning for wanting it removed is. The whole point of anonymity is that nothing gets tied back to you. The only cases where we will greatly consider removing a submission is if it’s involving a shoutout about you and you don’t want to be affiliated with us. 

“Will you remove my comments on a submission?”

Of course! However, we will not remove any corresponding responses to you (except in instances where, if yours is removed, the next comment is made to look like it’s being directed to the person prior to your comment. We don’t want to cause unnecessary conflict.) We will also not be relied upon to keep deleting comments you regret leaving behind. If you’re wanting to leave a public response on submissions, then you must be prepared to have others possibly publicly disagree with you.

“Can I ask you for roleplay advice?”

Go right ahead! But we can’t promise the best or most insightful of answers, or that we’ll get to them relatively soon! Chances are, we will post your questions anonymously so that others in the community can help.

“Why did you follow my blog?”

To make our existence known to you and, if you like us, hoping that you will send in a submission of your own or tell your roleplay partners about us!

“How did you find my blog?”

Most likely through the Recommended sidebar feature, a mutual, or just the good ol’ search function.  

“Could you unfollow me?”

If you don’t want to be associated with us, then we recommend blocking the blog so that we don’t unintentionally follow you again!

“Hey, could you do something about the people leaving rude, mean responses on the submissions?”

Unless they are throwing bigoted slurs, threats, or suicide-baiting remarks at the anonymous submitter, they are not doing anything wrong. They have just as much right to disagree with your submission as you had when you sent it to us. We are, first and foremost, a place to vent frustrations or hurts behind the safety of anonymity, and we are also a free-speech blog. We are of the belief that discussions, no matter how heated, is healthy and brings the community together as a whole. Just as your submission may provide someone else with the awareness that they are not alone in similar frustrations, someone disagreeing with your submission may provide a new perspective to you and others that had not been considered before.

“How does name-calling and swearing and being mean add to a discussion? You and your blog are what are wrong with the roleplaying community!”

Just because someone isn’t being nice to you as they give their side of the argument, doesn’t mean that it cancels out their actual argument. You’re choosing to be offended and distracted by how abrasive they are, and that’s no one’s problem to deal with but your own. You have the ability to block anyone so that you no longer have to see their comments on future submissions. Why would we police what people say, the endgame of which would be to ban them from ever reblogging or commenting on submissions again if they don’t listen to us, if you’re not even willing to try solving the problem first by just blocking them? Wanting to have the last word or being upset that your submission didn’t receive the feedback you wanted is not a reason for us to step in and step on someone else’s right to speak, rudely or otherwise. If you’re not going to block them, then why should we?

“Could you not post submissions on sensitive topics like noncon, incest, and pedophilia?”

We have started tagging posts that we believe might be sensitive and controversial in nature with the tag “#twcontroversy”. We recommend blacklisting this tag. If that is still not enough, then we recommend unfollowing/blocking us. These are topics just as relevant in the roleplaying community as anything else.

“Could you promote me?”

Certainly! But only if you are another community-involved blog (a blog that provides a ‘service’ to the community, such as advice, roleplay help, a place for confessions, etc.), and it must be relevant to the roleplaying community to some degree! If you want to promote a roleplay blog, then we suggest sending in a shoutout submission!

“I sent a confession in weeks ago. Where is it? How long will it take for it to get posted?”

It’s either sitting in the queue or sitting in our drafts, waiting to be queued. We have 1,200+ followers so far, and on average we’re sent 15+ submissions a night. We only post between 5 to 8 submissions at night. Your submission is on a wait list. That’s all we can tell you.

“Why don’t you just close your submission box until all the current confessions are posted?”

Because we’re a vent blog first and foremost. If we close our ask/submission boxes, then we’re no longer an option for people who might desperately need to vent or talk about something that could have happened to them that day but have no other options. We want to be a healthy alternative to just bottling it up or possibly lashing out at the wrong people.

“I don’t believe you! I think you deleted my submission because one of you didn’t like it! You’re not unbiased at all!”

We’ve posted submissions about highly controversial roleplay topics like noncon, racism, transphobia, and pedophilia. We reassure you that your salt submission about OCs, theme trends, blog selectivity, etc. is not on that same level, least of all to the point that one of us would delete it. The only submissions that we have deleted, so far, are the ones that have included racial and homophobic slurs.

“[insert OP/commenter] is obviously a rapist/pedophilie!”

If we find that you have accused someone of being a rapist, pedophile, or apologist of either because of their defensive views on noncon/pedophilic ships or roleplay, your comment will be removed and you will be blocked. These are serious accusations that you shouldn’t be throwing at people over fictional content and we refuse to to let you use this blog as a platform to spew such slanderous accusations.

[tjkiahgb]

Listen, I got so caught up in Tyrus Week, spending hours and hours going through tags and liking posts and queuing reblogs, that I pretty much pushed everything else to the side. (Plus I’ve also been working on the next thing I’ll tell you guys about in the next few days.)

All that is to say, I got a lot of stuff in my inbox this last week, so I’m just going to tackle a bunch of them in... A LIGHTNING ROUND.

Let’s go.

And before you ask, yes, I made a graphic for it.

Looks like this Andi Mack finale party has turned into... a death party.

Would’ve been a strange choice for Terri Minsky to turn the finale of Andi Mack into a murder mystery, but if that’s what she wanted, I’d trust her.

I don’t watch that show but I know some people who do and they’ve told me it’s just light and airy and pleasant, so, yeah, sounds right up Cyrus’s alley.

You guys are shouting Lightning Round! every time the graphic comes up, right?

I, like TJ, am just some guy. I tell everyone who asks to call me Jay. Jay is long for “J”, which is short for another name that I, also like TJ, only let people related to me by blood or my soulmate know about. I will say it’s not Jagger, though. I wish.

That wasn’t my intention while writing TJ and the Gals, but as with all art, or whatever TJ and the Gals was, once it’s out of the creator’s hands, it belongs to the people.

No.

Thelonious Jagger Kippen Is A Hashtag Good Boi.

Shoutout to my FAQ page, where you can find information like this and more. Not blaming you, anon, I’ve gotten this a lot and the FAQ page is hard to find. I mostly just delete the question and let the anon live in mystery because I’m chaotic something. I’m only answering this now because it’s the

You know the shook_bitch? Thank them from me for getting Disney Channel to respond to them, and congratulate them on being the subject of the best comment the Disney Channel Instagram account ever made.

Yeah, I went back and checked and Jonah only says in 3x12 that his dad made a bad investment, not lost a job or anything.

It really seems like he’s been managing the Judy Bartholomew fortune all these years. We don’t know anything else of him other than he was once a background workout video guy and he has at least enough knowledge about baseball to coach little league.

Hopefully the new job is providing him with a solid salary, but if not, I think the world is ready for a Judy Bartholomew comeback.

Judy Bartholomew: Still Trottin’ After All These Years

I’m not entirely sure exactly which girl we’re talking about here. I think this one:

I will say, she does seem into it. She’s like, oh, things are about to get gay in here.

Honestly, there were so many background actors killing it in this scene.

You’ve got this guy...

...who hears the beginning of “Born This Way” and reacts like it’s ruined his evening. I mean, I was a little tired of it, too, when it was being played on the radio over and over and over, but it’s been some years. It’s not overplayed as much anymore and it definitely wouldn’t make me this upset. (He pops up later in the song and is happily dancing, so maybe he thought it was the beginning of a different song?)

Then there’s this girl...

...who is feeling it. She’s like, hell yeah, this is my jam!

And there’s this girl in the goggles...

...who, after TJ and Cyrus sing the “be myself, respect my youth” part, is like, okayyyy. I see you.

Here’s a fun(?) behind-the-scenes thing for this blog. A few months back, I was thinking about ways to replace “Moments” if we had, by some miracle, gotten a season four, since I would’ve run out of moments weeks after the finale. What I came up with was “The Random Andi Mack Extra of the Day.” It would’ve just been screenshots of random extras throughout the show’s run. Upon some reflection, this was a bad idea.

The first problem here is that I get the feeling those posts would’ve gotten, at most, 20-30 notes each, because no one really cares about random, out of context extras and it doesn’t seem like a thing people would want to reblog.

The second problem is, knowing myself, I probably would’ve spent hundreds of hours during the hiatus between s3 and s4 making 1000 of them in the first place, just so I could have them ready to go. I would’ve absolutely done this without testing the waters first to see if there was any interest. (Just like with the “Moments.” I made like 300 of them before I made the first post about them.)

So, the most likely scenario was going to be me, two weeks into “The RAMEotD,” looking at flopping posts, then looking at my folder of 800 screenshots of Andi Mack extras and going, “Well, what am I going to do, not post them? I already did all the work!” And I would keeping queuing them up, and they would keep appearing on this blog every day, and they would taunt me with their 22 notes. You remember the work you did? IT WAS FOR BUT A PITTANCE!

So I guess what I’m saying is maybe it’s for the best. The cancellation saves me from myself.

Hey, though, heads up. If and when you go back and watch the series again, pay attention to the extras -- the unsung heroes of the entertainment industry. There are some extras reallllly putting in work on this show. It absolutely adds to the delightful quality of Andi Mack. Every time I would spot someone in the background being goofy or really overselling whatever they were supposed to be experiencing, it filled me with joy.

It’s a fun show. Everything about it is fun, including the little details.

Ooh, a serious one. This is going to be my first ever hybrid Discussion/Analysis post.

Okay, so I think we’re talking about two different things here.

I won’t argue that I think Tyrus could have absolutely happened sooner and been explored more.

I obviously can’t say with certainty, but I assume that was at least somewhat the plan leading out of season two. The setup for their relationship was all already there by the end of it. They’d met, they had bumps, they grew really close, and they capped the whole season off with TJ looking back at Cyrus. All the elements were in place that you could jump right into this storyline in TJ’s next appearance. (Not necessarily them canoning, but at least the exploration of TJ’s feelings or some movement towards canoning.)

When Cyrus’s lookback happened, it was addressed in the very next episode (granted following a break in seasons). I don’t know that TJ’s would’ve been as immediate, but I don’t think you have him look back in the season two finale if you don’t intend on truly paying it off for 21 episodes. (Or, at least 13, if you want to say 3x13 was the real start of a storyline involving TJ’s homosexuality.)

So, yeah, look, I’m speculating wildly, but I would imagine the original creative idea was to address TJ’s lookback early in season three and start getting into it, and that, yes, that idea was likely kiboshed from above.

What I will argue is that the bench scene is subtle but not ambiguous. We’ve made the semi-joke constantly around here that there’s “No heterosexual explanation for this!” but, truly, there is no heterosexual explanation for the bench scene: two boys, one of whom has already explicitly stated he’s gay, slowly reaching for and holding each other’s hands, intertwining their fingers while they sit by the fire and stare into each other’s eyes, nervously smiling. This is something that has been built towards for multiple seasons. If you’ve been watching the show, if you’ve been paying attention to it, if you care about the characters, especially TJ and Cyrus, it’s very clear what’s happening here.

This feels like talking about people who weren’t sure Cyrus was gay after the first two times he came out because he didn’t use the word. Or people who thought Cyrus wasn’t gay anymore after he said his crush on Jonah was gone. I sympathize with some of the younger set who maybe don’t have the world sense to follow along with this, but, come on, at some point, we’re three seasons in and you have to keep up with the level of the storytelling. I don’t mean this in an insulting way, but if someone can’t get what’s happening here, then maybe this whole thing isn’t for them. Maybe if all they know right now is that Cyrus is gay and accepted and happy, then that’s good enough, and they can hold onto that idea and grow with that and catch the next train, whenever it comes along. Maybe this moment is for all the people who get it.

That’s about the kids in the casual audience. Now, if we’re talking about an adult homophobe -- one who would express the kind of outrage that we believe Disney fears -- it’s a different story. If an adult homophobe is really watching that scene and thinking, “Seems pretty straight to me” then it feels like it doesn’t matter what they would’ve done in the finale. They could’ve said “gay,” they could’ve said “boyfriend,” Cyrus and TJ could’ve lead a pride parade down the street outside Celia’s house while blasting -- well, I was going to pick a gay song here for the joke, but probably “Born This Way” would be the most appropriate one, so -- “Born This Way” from loud speakers, and that homophobe would’ve been like, “Nice parade.” As ignorant as homophobes are, even they are not that dense. An adult pretending Tyrus isn’t a couple after the bench scene requires a level of impenetrably willful ignorance.

Anyway, the truth is that angry homophobes aren’t watching the show. They never do. They like to read headlines and get mad, but they’re cowardly and, most of all, lazy, and they don’t like to put in the actual footwork. They like to leave comments on articles they haven’t read, about shows they haven’t watched. They like to post reactions to stuff they see in their Facebook feed or send one sentence responses like, “There goes Disney Channel!!!” or “What is happening to our country?!?!” And then they like to scroll on to the next thing that will feed their sad rage about how the world is changing around them.

If you want to think about Disney censorship as a way of preventing those homophobes from being outraged, it’s not the textuality of the scene itself, it’s the placement at the end. Delaying them canoning until the finale just makes for less work. Show’s over. There’s nothing to defend. No one’s signing a petition to get a show off the air that’s just aired its last episode. Most of the articles written will be about everything happening in the finale, and Tyrus would just be a part of it.

And that is more or less what’s happened. Just about every major article I’ve seen about the finale has discussed Tyrus, and discussed them as textually getting together -- again, there’s no ambiguity there -- but has also brought them up in conjunction with what happened with Andi and Jonah, with Muffy getting together, and with Andi getting into SAVA. And the articles themselves tend to largely be about the show ending as a whole and its impact. (No one needs to send me articles trying to prove or disprove this. I’ve been over a lot of them. Some are more Tyrus focused -- the ones in the gay media for sure -- and some just mention it -- more traditional media sources. This is the general gist of most of them.)

So the article headlines mostly read “Andi Mack Finale” or “Andi Mack Ends Run” or something like that. The homophobes -- who, again, aren’t watching the show and are getting all their information about it via article headlines -- see those headlines and don’t even remember Andi Mack was the show they hated from two years ago because their rage is mostly performative and short-lived. They get mad in the minute but forget about the specifics of the stuff within a day.

Like I said in the recap, I won’t argue that there’s a scene with more that wouldn’t work, but I personally don’t see the bench scene as not having accomplished everything it needed to.

Oh, that went longer than I thought it was going to be. Not very lightning round of me.

This actually got sent a while back but it was still in my inbox and I figured I’d throw it in here in case the anon saw it. Lightning round!

Sorry, anon, I wasn’t ignoring you and I appreciate you reading my old recaps, but you were the second anon to piece together that I am actually blessed with psychic powers.

I don’t really have any plans to, sorry.

I had only planned to do one set before and after the finale for Tyrus Week, but I will point you and anyone else interested in making their own TJ and Cyrus texts to this post I made that should give you the basic tools needed for the job. (Use them! You wouldn’t believe what a pain in the butt it was to get that background clean like that!)

Thank you, honestly. That’s so, so sweet. But I have no plans to do that.

Like I mentioned at the start of this post, I’m working on something now that I’ll tell you guys about shortly that’s look-backy and will hit on some stuff from those seasons. (Though not in the same vein as the recaps.)

The recaps take a long time to produce, and as much as I’ve loved this show and this fandom, I will be honest and tell you guys I am sort of planning my exit.

This blog has become something of a part-time job for me. Not in the work sense because I have truly enjoyed all this, but just in the time sense. I’ve put a lot of time in and I would like to rededicate that time back toward other things I’ve put on hold for the last year and a half.

It’s starting to feel like making you shout Lightning Round! each time was a mistake now that I’m answering stuff seriously or sadly.

I was getting emotional multiple times while writing it, because of the show, because of the fandom, because of this whole journey we’ve all been on together.

I appreciate you saying this so much because that’s what I’ve always hoped has come through in the things I’ve written about this show. That I’ll make jokes or point out holes or goofy details or whatever, but that I couldn’t do this -- I couldn’t commit myself to this as much as I have -- if I truly didn’t love the show. That everything I’m doing here comes from a place of love and celebrating the show and embracing it for its good stuff and its silly stuff.

It wasn’t a perfect show, but that was always what made it kind of perfect.

Thanks for the asks. Thus ends the lightning round.