#Timestamp with Time Zone

[ao3screenshotss]

UPDATE WE ARE OKAY

[unproduciblesmackdown]

stories from vie boheme (ronnette)

[genderfluid-druid]

wait no i love small town fb groups actually. the ship tracking app displays ETAs as a UTC timestamp with offset, and what I'm learning is that nobody here understands how time zones work.

[iviarelleblr]

This shouldn't be so funny to me but

Yeah this post does in fact inspire more than a little desire to blaze something.

[has-the-gavle-goat-burned-yet]

Gävle Goat is Bock!

Welcome all straw goat and arson enthusiasts! Another year of Gävle Goat watching is upon us. Just a few things before the goat is officially up for the first Sunday of advent!

I will post the date on all of my goat updates, but it is still a good idea to turn timestamps on for your posts if you don’t already in case posts from old years start circulating.

I like to post my updates around midnight Swedish time, so keep in mind when that would be for your time zone if you are checking my blog for updates.

If you are looking for information about past goat activities I highly recommend the Gävle Goat Wikipedia page! I also have the tag Gavle goat lore where I have answered asks about the goat in past years.

I’m looking forward to another year of goat watching with all of you. You can find the livestream at the bottom of this post, updates will start on the first Sunday of advent (December 1st this year).

And as always best of luck to any potential arsonists out there!

[sreegs]

I reblogged it earlier but I'm glad the Something Awful Forums 9/11 thread was archived because it's an incredibly important slice of internet history. For the record I think 9/11 was thousands of personal tragedies for the direct victims of the attacks but one big national farce that led to America's ongoing slide into fascism, and the nationalism and remembrance around it is a joke especially in the wake of the same amount of deaths every fucking day in the US during the height of coronavirus.

Nevertheless I think it's important that if you do not remember because you were too young or just didn't exist on Sept 11, 2001 to read the Something Awful 9/11 forums to get an idea of what the internet was like at the moment when America changed to 24 hour news cycles and renewed hyper-nationalism not seen since WWII.

This all happened before Twitter, Facebook, before Discord. Before smart phones. Before most people had cell phones. When a lot of people still had dial-up internet, even. Some people in the thread were relying on radio because internet and TV weren't keeping up.

It was a live event of internet denizens reacting to the biggest national event (and among the biggest international events) of the past 25 years. It was also a slice of what the internet was like at the turn of the millennium. Not only that, but people accurately calling out who was responsible, and what would result before the attacks even finished.

Keep in mind that the links that follow contain images of the event, lots of Islamophobia, people calling for the Middle East to be nuked, people blaming Palestine, casual racist and homophobic language (this was Something Awful after all), etc etc. They preserved the first 17 pages which spanned about 24 hours during the events. It's the origin of the "WATCH BUSH START A FUCKING WAR" screenshot.

Links under the fold. I've also annotated the pages with notes regarding the timeline and any posts of interest. Note the thread was preserved in Pacific Time even though the page says times are Eastern. That's incorrect. Post timestamps are 3 hours behind Eastern Time, which is the time zone where the attacks occurred:

Page 1 - Note the first post was edited to include images of the second attack. The thread started after the first plane hit. Second plane hitting the WTC happens here too.

Page 2 - Poster accurately calling out Bin Laden was responsible at 9:14 AM EST

Page 3 - "WATCH BUSH START A FUCKING WAR"

Page 4

Page 5 - First official acknowledgement it was a terrorist attack.

Page 6 - Pentagon hit

Page 7

Page 8

Page 9 - Commercial flights grounded by FAA (Federal Aviation Administration)

Page 10 - First mention of towers collapsing at end of page

Page 11 - More reactions to collapse of first tower. People thinking it was a bomb or yet another plane. Rumors about a fourth plane just missing the White House (these are false and predate the actual 4th plane crash by minutes)

Page 12

Page 13 - By this point there's just rampant speculation about more bombs at the WTC, the US Capitol building being hit, etc (all false). Remember this is all just people reacting to TV news and radio and the rumor mill via phone, AIM, IRC, and maybe text messages.

Page 14 - By this point internet news sites are overwhelmed

Page 15 - Second tower collapses. First acknowledgement of the fourth plane that crashed in PA.

Page 16 - There's an abrupt time jump in the threads, I think it was the result of admins pruning the activity or the SA forums going down. This page starts on 9/12 even though it is page 16. American flag signatures and ribbons start appearing.

Page 17

[postgamevibes]

Summary: When Jack gets mic’d up during practice, he forgets the camera's rolling and says something way too sweet about you. Now he’s the internet’s favorite boyfriend, his teammates won’t shut up, and you might love him even more than before.

*********************************************************

Part I: Practice

Newark, NJ — 10:18 AM “Jack, mic’s hot,” one of the team media guys said, clipping the wireless pack to the inside of his practice jersey.

Jack gave a mock salute. “Time to embarrass myself.”

“More than usual?” Luke yelled from the bench.

He just grinned, twirling his stick like he was born holding it. “You love it.”

The ice crackled under his blades as he shot across the zone, tossing chirps like candy. He launched a snowball at Daws, flicked a puck at Nico’s skates, grinned at a kid behind the glass and waved, exaggerated and goofy.

“You’re a menace,” Nico muttered as Jack skated backward with a smirk.

“Gotta give the people what they want.”

Luke skated up beside him. “What’s she think about your mic’d up ego?”

“Who?”

“Your girlfriend, dumbass.”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. “She loves it, she watches all the clips and sends me timestamps of when I sound like an idiot.”

“Supportive.”

Jack grinned. “She made me a playlist last night, all sad indie girl songs, I listened to it four times.”

Luke blinked. “Romantic.”

“My girl gets me in my feelings.”

And then, without thinking because Jack rarely does when he was mic’d up he added:

“She was in my hoodie, hair up, no makeup, and still looked like a damn movie. Like what am I supposed to do? Not fall in love?”

Luke choked on air, Nico turned with a smirk, Daws let out an audible “ooooh” from the crease.

Jack blinked.

“That’s getting cut, right?”

“Doubt it,” Nico said. “You just handed them the opening shot.”

Jack groaned. “You guys are gonna ruin me.”

Luke clapped him on the back. “No bro, you ruined yourself.”

[pulim-v]

Did you not read the post 😭

Hi my name is Cozier and this is my new song Take me to bed (I'm sleepy)

[duckybarnes1917]

Try It, Bite It, Lick It, Spit It

18+ only.

Sleepy Sundays with Xavier!! Xavier is a certified munch!!

Thanks to @snowvee for the beautiful GIF of my man.

I'm thinking about making this a mini series...where each character gets their own day with you...

Sunday was quickly becoming your favorite day of the week. It was the only day you got to truly rest. The week was always hectic. You had work and missions, Rafayel calling you constantly, appointments with Zayne, Sylus begging you to come to the N109 zone every night, Caleb always wanting just one more minute of your time. You loved them all and would never complain about spending time with them. But by the time Sunday rolled around, you were exhausted. It was only natural that you would end up spending such a sacred day with the only person more sleepy than you. Xavier. 

It had started by accident. One Sunday morning, you had planned to go on a coffee date with him. But when you showed up at his apartment, forcing yourself to look more energized than you felt, he answered the door still in his pajamas, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He mumbled apologies and asked you to give him 5 minutes to get ready, but he looked utterly exhausted. 

You followed him to his bedroom, eyes shifting around quickly to take it all in. His blackout curtains kept most of the room’s contents a secret, but his bed was huge, and blankets and pillows were piled all over it. He had a sound machine humming softly in the corner and a fan blowing cool air. It looked like heaven. 

“You know…” You started hesitantly at first, but when you sat on the edge of the bed, you nearly melted at how soft it was. “We could just stay in…have a lazy day?” 

Xavier paused halfway through pulling his soft white sleep shirt off and turned back to you. “I’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to ruin your day.” 

You shook your head and stood up, already heading for the door. “I’m exhausted, too. I’ll just go change and be right back. Pick a movie?” 

You yelped as Xavier’s arm wrapped around your middle and hauled you away from the door. “I have clothes; don’t leave.” 

He held you close, wrapping both arms around you as he rested his cheek on your head. You giggled, “Xavie, I live one flight of stairs away. I have to put my hair up and –” 

“I’ll do it, come on.” 

Despite how much of a turn-on it was that Xavier was able and willing to do your hair, you both passed out before the movie even started. And a Sunday routine was born. 

�� This Sunday, you woke up to find a text from Xavier timestamped at 3:00 am, letting you know he had arrived from his latest mission safely and to let yourself in whenever you came over. He had been gone for a week, and the knowledge of his return gave you more energy than you usually had on Sunday mornings. You jumped up and made breakfast, and did a quick workout before getting ready. 

Freshly showered, you scanned your pajamas, almost grabbing your favorite pair of sweats and a hoodie, but a flash of baby pink silk and lace caught your eye. The set you had bought a while back and hadn’t worn yet. You rubbed the soft silk between your fingers…maybe Xavier would have a little extra energy today too…. You examined yourself in the mirror, the little shorts made you blush but you had to admit you looked damn good. You threw on a robe and your bunny slippers, grabbed the breakfast you made, and headed to his apartment. 

The door opened silently, and you moved as quietly as you could manage around the kitchen, trying not to wake him. You opened his fridge to store the breakfast you had made him, only to find a Tupperware with your name scribbled on it. You opened it curiously and smiled to yourself. Your usual breakfast order, freshly made. Your heart swelled at the gesture, and you were still smiling as you made your way into his bedroom. 

He didn’t stir when you opened the door, but when you crawled into bed next to him, he hummed pleasantly and wrapped his arm around you to pull you closer. You nuzzled against the familiar soft fabric of his favorite hoodie. He smelled like lavender and vanilla, and you inhaled deeply, feeling your body relax against him. 

But as much as you tried, sleep evaded you. Not even Xavier’s gentle breathing was enough to lull you to sleep. You tried to keep your movements to a minimum since Xavier had his arm tightly wrapped around you–as much as you wanted to, you’d feel bad if you woke him up. But you were getting restless. Slowly, you reached for your phone and turned the brightness down so you wouldn’t wake him. As predicted, you already had a slew of messages from Rafayel, even though he knew Sundays were your off days. He was so needy, but you loved him regardless. You opened his messages and smiled to yourself at his drama. You texted back, and he immediately replied. Conversation with him could be tiresome at times, but it was never work. It flowed naturally, and you weren’t sure how much time had passed as you lay there in Xavier’s arms. 

You were giggling silently at a picture Rafayel sent when Xavier’s soft voice in your ear scared you. 

“What’s so funny?” he murmured, kissing behind your ear gently. 

“Oh hey,” you turned your head to the side to catch his lips. “It’s just Rafe being goofy.” 

Xavier frowned and looked down at your phone. He shook his head, his silvery-blond hair shaking out of his sleepy eyes. 

“What’s that look for?” You were genuinely confused. Xavier had spent plenty of time with Rafayel and the others. They got along just fine. 

Xavier sighed sleepily and rolled over on top of you, pinning your wrists down. Shocked, you let go of the phone and gasped his name. 

“I get one day with you, sunshine,” Xavier bent down to rub his nose against yours sweetly. “Can’t they just give me one day?”

“I’m sorry,” your breath hitched as he flexed his long fingers around your wrists. “I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

Xavier hummed thoughtfully before he placed a sweet kiss on your lips. You kissed him back, inviting him to give you more. His lips moved slowly, sleepily, against yours as he skimmed his hand down your body. It was then that he realized something else was amiss. 

He pulled back from your lips. “What are you wearing?” He sat up and turned on a lamp, and his eyes widened just slightly as he took you in. His eyes lingered on the swell of your breasts and the sliver of your stomach from wear your top had ridden up, and the curve of your thighs. You fought the urge to hide from him, slightly embarrassed. 

“I–” you had no excuse, you wanted to seduce him, plain and simple. 

“You look beautiful, bunny.” Xavier’s eyes returned to your face, and he resumed his position, hovering over you. He leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with desire. “But it doesn’t seem like you intended on sleeping at all.” 

You bit your lip as he stared teasingly at you. “It’s just–I haven’t seen you in so long.” 

Xavier chuckled as he watched you squirm underneath him. He leaned down again, kissing along your jaw up to your ear. “I missed you, too, bunny.” 

His hand caressed your bare thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You held your breath as it traveled over your hip and up your stomach. Your breath shuddered as he palmed gently over your breast. 

“Xavie,” you whispered. “Please, I promise we can sleep after.” 

You felt his chuckle as his chest rumbled against you. He pulled the thin strap of your silk top down, his fingers gently pulled at your nipple as he kissed your neck. 

“Okay,” he breathed in your ear. “But first…” He paused to move his mouth to your breast, and you moaned as you canted your hips up searching for friction. His big hands pushed your hips back onto the bed and then flipped you over onto your stomach. He groaned at the sight of your ass in the tiny shorts, squeezing firmly with both hands before leaning over you to nibble on your earlobe.

“First,” he repeated again, already sounding wrecked,  “I need breakfast.” The warmth of his body left you as he sat up again. 

“Xavier,” you whined. But you should have known better. The next thing you felt was his hands firmly grabbing your hips, your silk shorts pulled to the side, and his warm thick tongue sliding against your needy pussy. 

“Oh fuck,” you pushed your hips back, arching your back for him. 

He groaned appreciatively and spread your legs further. His tongue delved deep as he wrapped his arm around your hips. He pulled you closer to his mouth and played with your sensitive clit just right. 

The only thing Xavier liked more than sleeping was eating pussy. He would lie between your thighs for hours if you let him. And on multiple occasions, he had shown up at your apartment simply to eat you out and then leave, expecting nothing in return. 

Xavier’s hands gripped you tighter, his tongue fucking into you as deep as he could manage. Your body jolted in surprise when his mouth wrapped around your clit as he shoved two fingers inside you, crooking them to hit the spongy spot he always found with ease. You gripped his pillow tightly, burying your face in it as you tried to hide from the blinding pleasure. You knew you were a babbling mess, but how could you not be when he was moaning and whining against your pussy like it was giving him life. 

“Xavie–baby,” you gasped as he sucked your clit into his mouth hungrily and then flicked his tongue over it with quick short stokes. “I’m gonna come, oh my god, I wanna see you, I–fuck!” 

“Next one–” Xavier groaned. “You can watch me during the next one–can’t stop.” He was panting and you knew he was grinding his hard cock against the bed like he was in heat. You whined at the image your mind created as he reached up and pushed you back into the pillow. 

“Fine,” you consented and ground your hips back against his face. He smacked your ass apprecitively and got back to work. 

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you came on his wanting tongue. You had barely begun to come down from the aftershocks when he flipped you onto your back and licked a hot, wet stripe up your thigh. His teeth sunk into your soft flesh and you knew then you had fucked up. You would be lucky if you got any sleep at all the rest of the day. 

“One more and then I’ll fuck you, okay?” He looked up at you as if his question wasn’t rhetorical. 

You nodded your consent and ran your hand through his soft hair. “Whatever you want, Xavie, I’m all yours, all day.”

He smiled up at you lazily, happily. “You’re so beautiful.” He turned his head to kiss your knee before slowly sliding your silk shorts down your body.. “Next time you can’t sleep, just use me, okay? Don’t entertain the others on my day.” 

“Use you?” You stuttered, sitting up on your elbows to look at him better. 

No signs of sleepiness lingered in his eyes anymore. He was the most alert you had seen him in a while. Eyes bright and full of promises of endless pleasure. He nodded once. “In fact, the feeling of your pretty pussy wrapped around my cock will probably help me sleep even better.” 

You swallowed hard, unable to form words as your mind screamed at how absurdly hot that was. 

“It’s not fair–”

Xavier furrowed his brows. “What’s not fair?” 

“How you’re so shy and quiet until you get me in bed, and then you’re like–like–”

“Like what sunshine?” A teasing smile graced Xavier’s face. His hands gently massaged your thighs like he was impatient to get back to his treat that was tantalizingly in reach. 

“Like–so fucking hot. Like a sex god.” 

Xavier chuckled, resting his forehead on your stomach. “Well, can this sex god, please finish his breakfast now?” 

You sat up and used your finger to tilt his chin up. His eyes met yours, and you licked your lips. “He can take whatever he wants, whenever he wants.” 

Xavier’s eyes darkened. “You might come to regret those words, bunny.” 

Any reply you had to that was immediately forgotten as he buried his head between your legs again. 

[hoonieyun]

now playing...

when the sun hits - slowdive

pairing: lee heeseung x reader x sim jaeyun

warnings: profanity, some really angsty shit, talks about mental health, reliving trauma, 18+

wc: 2303

pls ignore timestamps and possible typos lol - please make sure you read the written parts to fully understand the whole story!

you were more nervous than you thought, your leg bounced rapidly as you waited for heeseung as at your agreed upon location. 

the sound of your platform boots making a rhythmic tapping sound on the floor was all you could hear as you patiently waited for heeseung to arrive, you never even fully processed if this was a good idea but after talking with manon and jen; you were about 75 percent- wait no. 60 percent sure this was a good idea. the three of you weighed the pros and cons and ultimately you decided that you should meet with heeseung. if only they knew that you had also agreed to meet with jake later tonight but that was something you could just explain at a later time. 

so here you are now, staring at your cappucino that has long become cold, the ripples in the coffee nonstop as your leg continues to bounce and lightly bump the table you were sitting at. you chose a spot somewhere in the back corner of the cafe, for privacy reasons and just in case the conversation takes a turn for the worse; there was another exit in the back you could just run out of. 

you’re too focused on trying to figure out what you wanted to say to heeseung that you hadn’t even realized he was standing in front of you until he was setting down his own drink next to yours on the table. 

“hey, sorry did i startle you?” heeseung asks and you shake your head but you probably did look startled since you were so deep in thought you didn’t even notice his presence. you motion for him to take a seat and he gives you a tight lipped smile and a nod before pulling out his chair and sitting across from you. 

“you look good.” heeseung says just above a whisper; like he was testing the waters on what he could say without getting a reaction out of you that he wanted to avoid. 

“thanks, i’ve definitely looked better. you look good too!” you respond, trying to lighten the mood with a small chuckle to which heeseung returns with a laugh of his own. 

it’s felt like eternity since you heard his laugh and you’d be lying if you say that the sound of his laughter didn’t sting just a bit. it makes you think about all of the good times together and how those moments have now been shrouded by all of the toxic and emotional mess that you two got into the last few months of your relationship. you wished you could go back, truly. 

but you weren’t sure that the outcome would be any different if you did. 

heeseung clears his throat when he’s noticed you’ve begun to space out; “i see you still zone out pretty often.” heeseung mutters and you look up at him with wide eyes like you’ve just gotten caught. 

“sorry i just-” you begin to say but heeseung places his hand over yours on the table when he sees the tremble in your fingers. “it’s okay, you don’t need to apologize.” and the feeling of his hand over yours seems to bring you a sense of comfort you hadn’t felt in so long, especially from heeseung. you manage to calm down and steady your breathing thanks to heeseung. 

“mind if i start first?” heeseung asks and you nod. 

“i know i can go on and on about how terrible of a boyfriend i was, hell, how terrible of a person i was truthfully; but i don’t think that’s productive. 

i’d rather tell you about how good i’ve been doing and that i plan to stay this way. i’ve only been in therapy for like a month or so but it’s really helped. honestly, i always knew that i was a little messed up here” heeseung says, lighty knocking on his head garnering a small giggle from you to which he smiles at when he hears your laugh. 

“therapy has helped me realize a lot of stuff i wish i knew sooner so that i could’ve been the person that made you happy instead of miserable and i can’t take back anything i said or did but i just want you to know that i’m not that person any more. 

sorry, i mean that i am that person and i will always be that person and i need to take ownership of my behavior but i refuse to be that person any longer even if that was who i was in the past. 

im really sorry for everything i did and i know i know a simple apology isn’t going to do anything but i hope we’re in each other's lives in the future so you can see how much i’ve changed because i couldn’t imagine a life without you. 

even if it’s just to admire from afar. i’d like to be in your life…”

a single tear falls onto the surface of the table and that’s when you realize you’re crying. you weren’t utterly sure why his words had this effect on you but hearing heeseung be this sincere, compassionate, and vocal about his emotions in a healthy way made you cry. you could tell he meant it because his eyes have become glossy and this was the first time you and heeseung had a conversation about your relationship and emotions without it instantly turning into a screaming fest. 

“thank you for saying that heeseung…” you begin to say, taking a deep breath before continuing. 

“i’d be lying if i said that these last few months haven’t been hard, because they’ve been shit. it wouldn’t be fair to put all of that blame on you so i’m sorry that i’ve made you feel like you were the root of all of our problems. 

i know i’ve said hurtful things in the past and i think- sorry i know that they were all from a place of hurt but hurt people shouldn’t hurt people. so im sorry that i didn’t do my part as not only a girlfriend but as your friend to be kinder to us both.

i’m so grateful that you care enough to articulate your emotions in the way that you did and if i’m being honest i’m pleasantly surprised. i can tell how much you’ve grown in this short time and i’m happy that you’re going to continue to grow and want to grow.

i think being in each other’s lives to witness our growth is a good idea…” you respond and heeseung’s eyes light up; like he had just heard you say you love him again and although you didn’t it was something. 

“really?” heeseung asks eagerly

“but-” 

“oh…” heeseung’s voice drops low at your response. 

“i think i still need time to myself. this conversation is making me realize a lot of things and even if it’s resolving some of our issues i don’t think it’s fixed everything. 

maybe in a few months from now when we’ve both gotten the chance to do some more healing, we can start over but not right now…” you explain and you watch heeseung’s eyes lose their shine. 

“i understand… i really do appreciate you coming to talk to me. i didn’t expect you to even want to see me in person.” he says. 

“yeah, i didn’t expect it either.” you respond causing the both of you to laugh. 

as you part ways, you take one look back at heeseung as he continues to sit at the coffee table in the back. a slight pain in your chest as you watch his figure, his leg bouncing similar to yours just moments ago. unbeknownst to you that heeseung was trying to hold it together and prevent himself from crying.

you thought that after the nerves from speaking with heeseung you’d be fine to meet with jake but you were wrong. you were just as nervous, maybe even more. you weren’t sure why; maybe it was because you’ve known jake less? you don’t fully know him as a person and that made you uncertain?

or maybe it’s the fact that you weren’t sure if the issues you and jake have would ever get fixed. you wanted to fix them but it seems like jake wants to fix them a lot more than you did. what problems you had don’t compare to the issues that plagued your relationship with heeseung but after speaking with heeseung you felt like it was salvageable. 

you thanked the host and gave her a small nod as she walked you to where jake was sitting. you stood right outside of a private room at the restaurant, you had told jake that this was your favorite place because they had really good steak and his ears perked up at the word steak like he was a puppy hearing the word treat. 

he always said he’d take you here on a date one day but you didn’t think this would be the circumstance for that to finally happen. 

you take a deep breath before knocking and pulling the door open, to which you find jake sitting at the table and looking at you with a smile. you return the smile with your own and he gets up to hug you and his embrace feels warm. a type of warmth you hadn’t received from jake since the start of your relationship. 

he pulls out your chair for you and helps you into your seat, muttering a small thank you as you watch him circle the table so he could take a seat of his own. 

“i hope you don’t mind, i ordered for us. i just asked the waitress to bring us what their special was if that’s okay?” jake explains and you smile and nod. 

“yeah, that’s fine. honestly i’m not too hungry-” you explain but jake cuts you off. 

“nonsense, you need to eat. i know how you get and i’m sure all you’ve had today are energy drinks.” jake says with a laugh and you can’t help but also chuckle. 

“as a matter of fact i also had a cappucino so there’s that” you respond teasingly and a smile breaks out onto jake’s lips. like he was relieved and glad you were comfortable enough to joke around with him knowing the seriousness of what this dinner was for and how things have been between the two of you for the last few weeks. 

the two of you silently ate your meal, occassionally breaking out into conversation to catch up and it was so hard to get through the awkward tension. 

“so-” the both of you say in unison after the waitress has come by to grab your empty dishes. 

“you can go first.” jake says and you nod in response. 

“i’m going to be honest jake… you hurt me… a lot. 

i wasn’t sure that i was ready for a relatioship after heeseung and i think this proved that i wasn’t. 

i’m sorry that i couldn’t be the girlfriend you expected i was going to be but i wish you’d understand that i wasn’t in the best place and i feel like it’s not fair to have treated me that way knowing what i was going through and had just gone through. 

i was still processing so many things and then you came into my life and i thought you were a sign that i was going in the right direction but i think it was more to let me know that i needed to keep going instead of stopping at where i was. 

i really did like you jake but i think this is as far as we’re going.” it felt a lot easier to vocalize your emotions to jake because it was so fresh that you were able to just say all of it without having too much time to ruminate on everything and make yourself overthink. 

“you don’t think we can start over?” jake asks, a slight tremble in his voice. 

“i don’t know. truly, i don’t know. everything is still too fresh and i haven’t even processed my past trauma to process everything that’s happening right now. i’m sorry but i can’t give you an answer.” your explanation leaves jake nodding in silence for a moment and you can tell he’s trying to come up with what to say; like your words aren’t what he was expecting and he thought this would go a completely different route. 

“i was going to ask you to get back together in hopes that we could fix this together and we’d be able to come out of it as better people but i respect your wishes. 

it was a bit foolish of me to think you’d take me back so quickly but knowing how i made you feel and the hurt i put you through i get it. i just hope you know how sorry i am. the way i acted was despicable and i don’t even recognize that person. i’m going to do better in the future… 

i hope that we can meet again later down the line? maybe when we’ve gotten some time to ourselves?” jake asks, hope coating his words as he looks at you with so much intention and regret. 

“yeah, later down the line.” you say with a tight lipped smile as you get up to leave. 

“yn…” jake says just as you’re about to walk through that door. 

“i’ll always love you. even if i only got to actually love you for a short amount of time, i’ll always love you.” he confesses and you can’t bring yourself to turn around as tears threaten to fall down your face. 

“goodbye, jake” you say, voice shaky as you sniffle your way through the door.

masterlist - back - next

hoonieyun notes: we love open communicators!! now lets just hope no one fucks up... now playing will return soon! ive got to write out the last five chapters then its... over..!! ahhhh i can't believe we're so close to the end wahh

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[prokopetz]

Final Roundup for Tumblr 200 Word RPGs 2024

I'm going to start putting together the offsite archives for the 2024 event this weekend, and there are a couple of small pieces of business to take care of first.

Firstly, my notes indicate that I don't have archival permission for the following 22 entries:

ALL THE KING'S MEN by @dialectical-songbird

Anxiety Simulator 2k24 by @binghsien

BASH THE FAScisT by @mylittlegeekery

DISCRETIONARY ARMOR by @effortlessly-emily

Dungeon Delver by @bigmacsbiganchor

Easy Submission by @boredtosizzle

Fusion Core by @bagf1sh

HERMES by @fagenthusiast

The Human Observatory News by @arsene-inc

Level 1 by @sirilyan

The Littlest RPG by @copperspont-games

No Man's Land by @just-another-madman

Ready-Set-Mutate! by @mikethinkstwice

RULE OF COOL by @itsabear

Scales and Rails by @doublestormryu

Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness by @immaculateyaoibaby

Sommelier Smack Down by @henchmaxxing

This is inspired by Homeworld, and I wrote it a while ago, and here it is by @millenomi

Word Count Starts After The Title by @moon-of-curses

THE WORK STORE - RETAIL GOTHIC RPG by @malice-mal

THE WRECKED PLATOON by @zeitghost

You Find Yourself In A Room. by @cartoonofmilk

If you're the author of one of these entries and you did grant permission, but I didn't notice, feel free to make fun of me. Otherwise, consider this your last chance to give the okay!

Second, it's come to my attention that at least one entry managed to squeak in under the midnight UTC deadline on November 30th, but wasn't included in the index of entries because it didn't show up in my Tumblr notifications until December 1st:

Roll The Bones, a game about silly wizards in situations by @highqualityduck

If your last-minute entry is in a similar predicament (you can hit the "index of entries" link up there to check), please let me know – but please also check your post's timestamp first, as I can see there are several folks who flubbed their time zone math and posted their entries hours late; if that's you, maybe hang onto it for next year.

[unnonexistence]

up to 5735

words edited on the WIP: 3938

[bronzepascal]

father figure - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: physical anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, long distance, relationship establishing, the reader is her late 20s, pedro is 50. no proof reading done. author’s note: please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! enjoy! you can also buy me a coffee here to support my work & help me with my medications. word count: 7k!!! NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

It had been a year since you found out the truth—not through confession, not through closure, but through an Instagram message from one of your closest friends. A direct message that changed everything: a single grainy photo, forwarded without warning, along with a message that read, “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought you should see this.”

You were back in your home country at the time, visiting family—reconnecting with people you hadn't seen for months, catching your breath after a long period of work and city noise. The visit was meant to be restorative and a time of relaxation. A kind of a reset from everything. You had even FaceTimed your now ex-boyfriend the night before, his face pixelated and warm on your screen, telling you to enjoy yourself and not to worry about anything back in the UK. But his messages started to dry out and became very short, to the point where he did not even take the time to answer your messages.

And yet, there he was in the photo your friend had sent. Blurry but unmistakable, taken in a crowded bar somewhere in Nottingham city centre, leaning in close to a woman with curled hair and red lipstick. His hand rested low on her back. Too familiar and way too intimate. The timestamp on the story said it had been posted just hours ago—while you were asleep under your parents’ roof, thousands of miles away, still trusting him.

Your stomach had dropped before your mind could even make sense of what you were seeing. The smile on his face was the one you used to think was yours. The kind that used to say, I want you here.

You didn’t cry at first. You didn’t throw your phone or rage against the walls. Instead, you felt an eerie kind of stillness—like your body had gone completely quiet to protect you from something it wasn’t ready to process. You just sat there, phone slack in your hand, staring out the window of your childhood bedroom while the world outside remained oblivious.

The betrayal was worse because you had trusted him across the North and Baltic Sea. You had believed in time zones, phone calls and the space between visits. You had believed in the loyalty of someone who kissed your forehead in airport terminals and promised he’d wait. You had believed him.

But he hadn't waited. And worse—he hadn’t even hidden it that well. It was way too transparent. A wicked action.

When you returned to the UK, nothing felt the same. Your flat in Nottingham, which had once been full of warmth and morning light and his toothbrush in the bathroom, felt like someone else’s life. You had thrown away his stuff to the bin so you would not feel any of his presence in your small flat. You barely unpacked after arriving back. You barely slept as the thought of being cheated on was flowing through your mind . Panic began to seep into your skin, creeping up on you in the most mundane moments—waiting in queues, crossing the street, standing under hot water in the shower. It was becoming quite obvious that you sometimes forgot how to breathe without trying. Every photo, every object, every café held a ghost.

So, three months later, you left Nottingham. Without notifying even your closest members in your circle - you could not just stay in that city anymore.

You packed up your life and moved to the buzzing and bustling city of London. Not for adventure and not with excitement. You just needed space and distance from the city that you had created for yourself and defined it as home. You also never thought in your life that you would ever move to London but here you were now. It had to be somewhere the thought of him could never catch you again, somewhere the echoes of him did not ring in your head.

The panic attacks started in Nottingham, long before you even knew what to call them. At first, you called an ambulance, thinking it was a heart attack. The lovely team of nurses of the NHS were assuring you that it was just a panic attack and nothing to be worried about. Afterwards, they felt more like tightness in your chest or a fluttering in your throat—things you could write off as stress or maybe just not enough sleep. Just your own body rebelling against you, in the silence.

You found yourself on the floor of your bedroom one night, wrapped in your duvet like it might shield you from whatever your body was doing to itself, the fabric pulled so tightly around your shoulders that it felt like armor. Your forehead was pressed to your knees, legs drawn in close, your entire body curled into itself as if trying to shrink away from an invisible threat. The room was silent, but your mind was loud—heart pounding too fast, breath catching in your throat, skin prickling like something terrible was about to happen. You told yourself to breathe, repeating it like a mantra: In through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. And again. It didn’t work right away. Nothing did. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

You hadn’t been sleeping well, not since the breakup. Maybe your body was just reacting to all the stress—maybe it was nothing. But three nights later, it happened again, and this time it was worse. You felt it coming like a wave from far off, slowly building, then crashing over you without mercy. You hadn’t even made it to bed that night—you were standing by the kitchen counter with a cup of tea in your hands when your knees buckled slightly and your vision blurred at the edges, and you had to sit down on the cold tile floor to steady yourself, your hands shaking so hard that you spilled hot tea down your arm without noticing until the burn registered minutes later.

From that point on, you started sleeping with the lights on. At first, just a lamp on your nightstand, but soon, the overhead light too, humming quietly above you as you lay in bed wide-eyed, unable to surrender to sleep because sleep had begun to feel like a place you might not come back from. You began checking the front door twice before bed, then twice more after you’d already crawled under the duvet. Some nights, you’d get up a fifth time—just in case.

It was as if fear had taken up residence in your flat. At first, it lived in the shadows, tucked quietly behind the wardrobe or underneath the sink—just out of sight, just out of reach. But soon, it made itself known in every corner of your day. It whispered to you when your phone lit up unexpectedly. It pressed against your chest during meetings, on buses, in the silence between texts. It crawled into bed with you at night and reminded you, again and again, that nothing was safe anymore—not your heart, not your body, not even your thoughts.

You stopped recognising yourself. The version of you who had once laughed easily, who made plans without hesitation, who trusted her instincts—she had been replaced by someone you didn’t quite understand. Someone who flinched at doorbells. Who forgot entire conversations. Who avoided mirrors because she didn’t like the sadness she saw staring back. That was the night you realised this wasn’t something you could manage alone.

The walls of your Nottingham flat felt smaller every day, closing in around you like a cage you couldn’t unlock. The memories clung to the paint and the worn floorboards—the echo of his laughter in the hallway, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air long after he was gone. Each room held a weight that made it harder to breathe, harder to pretend you were okay. You realized that no matter how many therapy sessions you attended, how many nights you forced yourself to sit with fear, you needed distance. Not just from him, but from the life you had shared and the place that now felt haunted by what was lost. So, after months of restless nights and quiet goodbyes to friends and routines you once cherished, you packed your bags and moved to London. A city vast enough to swallow your past and loud enough to drown out the doubts swirling in your mind. You weren’t running toward something —you were running away—from pain, from memories, from the girl you used to be. And somewhere, beneath the noise and the unfamiliar streets, you hoped to find yourself again.

Your company had been kind enough to transfer you to their London office—a gesture that felt more like a lifeline than just a change of scenery. From the moment you arrived, everyone you met was friendly, welcoming in a way that made the city’s vastness feel a little smaller and less intimidating. No one pressured you for explanations or asked about the sudden move—your colleagues respected your privacy and you appreciated that unspoken understanding more than words could say. It was a relief to be part of a workplace where your silence wasn’t mistaken for weakness and where kindness didn’t come with expectations.

What you didn’t have to say aloud, your company anticipated. They were fortunate to have a partnership with a mental health therapy organisation, a benefit they encouraged all employees to use if needed. One morning, your manager quietly slipped you a small card with a phone number and a simple note: “For whenever you feel ready.” The offer felt like a soft hand reaching out in the dark—a chance to take care of yourself on your own terms, without judgment or pressure.

That number became a quiet promise to yourself. You didn’t call immediately, not yet. But knowing it was there, waiting, was enough for the moment. It was a reminder that healing wasn’t a path you had to walk alone.

You started going to therapy slowly, taking your time with each step—making the appointment, walking into the quiet waiting room, sitting with your own thoughts before the session even began. You were no’t in a rush; some days, just getting yourself there felt like progress enough. The therapist never pushed you to speak before you were ready. Sometimes you came with stories, sometimes you sat in silence, simply letting the space hold you. Over weeks and months, the sessions became a steady thread, weaving a new kind of strength into your days.

But those moments stayed private—your sanctuary away from the busy hum of office life.

One evening, your company announced that there would be a social gathering between all the teams in the UK—a chance to unwind outside the usual meeting rooms and email chains. They had booked a spot at a posh, tucked-away venue in Soho, known for its elegant decor, craft cocktails and a clientele that included some of the most celebrated people such as Hollywood actors and actresses. The place had a reputation for discretion and charm, a haven where stories whispered in hushed tones and laughter lingered under soft lighting.

As you stepped into the venue that night, the atmosphere wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the subtle glamour—you felt, for the first time in a long while, the possibility of joy quietly blooming again. It wasn’t about dating or drama. It was about connection, even if just with colleagues, in a space that sparkled with life and whispered promise.

The party was alive with a vibrant energy that pulsed through every corner of the sleek Soho venue. The room was filled with a swirl of colors from elegant dresses and sharp suits, the soft glow of chandeliers casting a golden hue over smiling faces. Laughter spilled from clusters of people, weaving through the steady hum of conversation and the rhythmic beat of music that encouraged some to dance with carefree abandon. Glasses clinked repeatedly, carrying the sharp tang of citrus cocktails, the crisp bite of white wine, and the deeper warmth of red one. Groups formed and reformed, exchanging stories and jokes, some animated and loud, others whispered and intimate. You found yourself drifting from one circle to another, soaking up the lighthearted atmosphere, the way the laughter lifted the heaviness you’d carried for so long. For the first time in what felt like ages, the weight in your chest loosened and your smile felt real, not forced. It was a rare moment where the past felt distant and the present felt… almost too easy for you.

Making your way to the bar for your second bottle of white wine, you paused, letting your eyes wander across the room. That was when you noticed the man standing beside you, ordering tequila shots and a glass of red wine with an easy confidence that piqued your curiosity. He glanced over, breaking into a small smile before asking, 

“What are you ordering?” 

You matched his smile with a playful smirk and answered, 

“Try to guess.” 

He studied you for a moment, as if trying to read the expression on your face, and then guessed, 

“Whiskey?” You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that surprised you with its lightness. Shaking your head, you said, 

“Nope.” That little exchange sparked something warm between you, a flicker of connection that felt unexpected and welcome.

Then, with a friendly nod, he introduced himself. 

“I’m Pedro,” he said, holding out his hand with a sincerity that felt both natural and disarming. Recognition flickered in your mind. 

“Oh, you’re that guy from the Kingsman film,” you said casually, as if naming a colleague at work rather than a famous actor. He laughed—a rich, easy sound that didn’t carry an ounce of arrogance—and shrugged, clearly used to the recognition but not defined by it. The moment was simple, unforced, a brief crossing of two very different worlds in the middle of a bustling party. It wasn’t about fame or flashing cameras; it was just two strangers sharing a laugh and a connection in the soft glow of a London night.

You took a long swig of your white wine, almost chugging it down like it was the only thing keeping the nerves at bay, when Pedro caught your gaze with a teasing smile. 

“Easy there, little birdie,” he said, his American accent rolling around the words in a way that made you laugh out loud. There was something utterly charming about hearing those casual words come from someone so effortlessly confident, and you shook your head, still smiling as you set the glass bottle down. The nickname stuck with you, a playful reminder of the evening’s unexpected lightness.

The two of you peeled away from the bustling bar, navigating through clusters of guests with their animated chatter and clinking glasses, until you found yourselves sinking into a pair of plush, velvet sofas tucked into a quieter corner of the room. The soft, amber lighting wrapped around you like a gentle cocoon, muting the noisy hum of the party into something distant and soothing. You felt the tension in your shoulders begin to unravel as you settled back, the leather cool beneath your fingertips. The glass of wine warmed your hands as you took slow sips, matching the unhurried rhythm of the conversation that blossomed between you. There was an ease in the way words flowed, a give-and-take that didn’t demand more than you were willing to offer. His eyes held your gaze with steady kindness, and you realised you hadn’t felt quite this heard—or this safe—in a long time. For the first moments that night, the weight of your past, the knot of anxiety and fear that had tightened inside you for months, softened, melting away into the background.

Time seemed to stretch and compress all at once, until a subtle shift in Pedro’s voice caught your attention. His usual easy cadence faltered just a little, as if he was weighing his words before sending them your way.

“I should probably tell you something,” he began, the faintest hesitation lining his tone, “I’m leaving London in a week. Not exactly sure when I’ll be back.” His eyes searched yours briefly, then softened into a warm, rueful smile that carried a mix of regret and hope. 

“But I’ll make sure I come back. I love a long getaway here.” The honesty in that moment struck a chord deep in your chest—it was an unexpected, bittersweet truth laid bare amidst the lightheartedness of the evening. You nodded slowly, feeling the ache of his impending absence, but also the quiet thrill of knowing he wanted to come back—to you, or at least to this shared space. When he finally asked for your number, it wasn’t with urgency or expectation, but with a gentle hopefulness that made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected tonight. Your fingers brushed as you handed over your phone, a small, electric connection that promised possibility, no matter how uncertain the path ahead might be.

Over the weeks that followed, you and Pedro settled into a rhythm of daily texts and late-night FaceTime calls, bridging the thousands of miles between New York, Los Angeles, and London with a steady stream of shared moments. Each morning, you’d wake to a good morning message, sometimes a simple “How are you doing today?” that carried more warmth than you expected. The conversations were unhurried and honest—talking about your day’s small victories and struggles, the funny things that happened or just the quiet spaces where neither of you needed to fill the silence. Pedro’s easy laugh came through the screen, a comforting presence when the city outside your window felt too big or too lonely. You found yourself looking forward to those calls more than you’d admit, a tether pulling you back from the isolation that had clung to you after the breakup. It wasn’t romance at first—not the way you’d imagined it—but a steady companionship, a connection that felt safe and real. After six weeks of these digital exchanges and long distance communication, Pedro surprised you with a message that made your heart skip: he was flying back to London, just to see you. The anticipation that followed was like a slow-burning flame, both thrilling and terrifying.

When you finally met again, it was at a posh restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of North London—the kind of place that felt like a well-kept secret, where the soft lighting and muted chatter wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The scent of fresh herbs mingled with the subtle flicker of candle wax, and the hum of other diners created a cocoon of intimacy around your small table near the window. You smoothed your dress nervously as Pedro arrived, his smile immediately putting you at ease. He looked exactly like you remembered, relaxed yet attentive, his eyes lighting up as he greeted you. 

“It’s good to see you in person again,” he said softly, pulling out your chair with a quiet charm that made your heart flutter unexpectedly.

The dinner unfolded gently, like a carefully composed melody. Between sips of wine and shared bites of food, you talked about everything and nothing—his work trips and meetings to and in New York and LA, the quirky little moments that made each day feel different, and the small victories and frustrations that peppered your own routine in London. 

“I’ve got to say,” Pedro confessed, leaning in slightly, “I missed this—just talking with you. No cameras, no scripts, just… us.” You smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle deep inside. 

“Me too,” you admitted, “I didn’t realise how much I needed something like this. Something real.” There was a pause, a quiet space where your eyes met, and you felt something shift—a flicker of connection that went beyond the casual.

Pedro reached across the table, his hand briefly brushing yours, and you caught your breath. His smile was warm and easy, full of that quiet confidence that made the night feel safe. He didn’t know anything about what you’d been through—the panic attacks, the nights when fear took hold so tightly you could barely breathe. He only knew the you sitting here now, laughing softly, sharing stories, making jokes. 

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he said gently. You smiled back, but inside, the old doubts stirred—could you really let someone in again after everything? 

“I wasn’t sure that I would have wanted to be here tonight,” you admitted and it sounded worse in your head, hoping that it would not put off Pedro’s thoughts about you, “not after a year of being out of the dating world. But tonight feels… different.” Pedro’s eyes softened. 

“Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them.” 

After a while, as the easy laughter died down and the music softened in the background, playing Somebody Else by The 1975, you found yourself wanting to say more—something deeper, more honest. Pedro’s steady gaze gave you the courage you didn’t know you had.

 “There’s something I haven’t told you,” you began, voice low and a little shaky. “Before I moved here, back when I used to live in the middle of England, in the city called Nottingham, I went through a really hard time. I was back in my home country and something really fucking shit happened.” Pedro was listening patiently, not interrupting your talk.

“I have told myself that I would not speak about it until like the fourth date or something but I feel like if we want to get to know each other, then why the fuck not say it right now,” you chuckled, a bit of a panic surging in your body as the adrenaline increased in you. Your neurodivergent brain was really telling you to say everything out loud, on a proper hamster on the wheel moment.

“I was cheated on and it fucking broke me to bits. I did tell myself that I would never fucking date again or go out for a dinner with a male person so that’s why I was quite hesitant about today. I started to have very strong and bad panic attacks, the anxiety was killing me inside—it was like a shadow I couldn’t shake. I’ve never really talked about it much.” You took a breath and looked at him.

“I didn’t want to scare you off or make things complicated. But I’d rather be an open book than some little bird locked in a cage, pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.” Pedro reached out, his hand warm over yours, his smile gentle and steady. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” he said softly. “That means more than you know.” In that moment, something really heavy shifted from your heart and shoulders—a quiet relief, a doorway opening between you, inviting trust. He was an absolute gentleman, something you never thought would happen in your life again. Pedro wanted to make sure that you were seen.

You felt it like the subtle change in air pressure like something that happens before a summer storm appears—gentle, but undeniable. Pedro didn’t let go of your hand right away. His thumb traced a slow, thoughtful line along the edge of your knuckles, not absentmindedly, but as if he were grounding himself in the weight of your presence, in the fact that you were sitting across from him and letting him see just a little more of who you really were.

There was a pause then—not awkward, but thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours in that way that always made your chest feel too small for your heart. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally, his voice careful, but not unsure. You gave him a small nod.

“I know I’m flying back to New York soon, and I don’t want to make anything complicated or overwhelming… but would you want to go out with me again? A proper date this time. Just… you and me, somewhere quiet as I know a few places around here.”

You hesitated and were not sure about that—not out of fear, but out of surprise. Not because the idea scared you, but because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t. And that alone felt like something worth acknowledging. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up into his eyes. There was no pressure in them, only warmth. Only patience. 

“Why not,” you said with a slow, genuine smile, your voice light but sure. “I’m actually feeling… comfortable with you.” The word ‘comfortable’ wasn’t flashy, wasn’t poetic—but it was rare, and true, and exactly what he seemed to understand the value of. Pedro smiled like he’d just been handed something delicate and precious, and nodded.

 “Good,” he murmured. “Then let’s make it a date.”

Three days later, the real date happened—an evening that shimmered with a different kind of anticipation, heavier than casual, lighter than pressure, but undeniable all the same. The restaurant Pedro chose was nestled on a quiet side street in Fitzrovia, one of those hidden gems that felt both intimate and electric, the sort of place that whispered of slow conversations and long glances across candlelight. The notes and sounds of different genres of music spilled warmly from the speakers, not too loud, just enough to score the night with a pulse of elegance. You wore something that made you feel beautiful—not for anyone else, but for yourself—a soft satin dress the colour of red wine that brushed your knees and shimmered just a little when you moved. Pedro stood when you arrived, pulling your chair out for you with a shy, almost boyish smile, and you felt your heart stutter unexpectedly at the quiet charm of it.

As the night unfolded, the conversation deepened in that unspoken way two people sometimes fall into when the timing is just right. You laughed—really laughed—at something ridiculous he said about trying to make sourdough during lockdown and accidentally creating what he described as "a weaponised crouton." In return, he listened with that warm, undivided attention that made you feel like your words had gravity, like they deserved to be heard. You talked about your favourite films, the weirdly specific type of cereal you couldn’t live without, your favourite parks in London, and whether or not dogs should be allowed on restaurant patios (you both agreed wholeheartedly that they should). Each time your hands brushed on the table, each shared smile held just a little more weight, a little more charged air, as if the night was quietly asking you both to step closer, if only a little.

Halfway through the meal, somewhere between the second glass of wine and the shared chocolate fondant you didn’t plan on ordering, a strange warmth had settled in your chest—not from the alcohol, not even from the food, but from the simple, gentle truth that you felt safe. Not just physically safe, but emotionally, too. You could feel it in the way Pedro looked at you—not with hunger or expectation, but with something steadier, more curious. A part of you, the part still tender from your past, wanted to pull away, to protect what was still healing—but another part, braver now, let itself lean in. 

“I didn’t think I’d feel like this again,” you said quietly, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass, your voice dipped in vulnerability. You weren’t even sure what “this” was, but you knew it mattered. Pedro didn’t flinch, didn’t try to fill the silence with jokes or assurances. He just reached across the table, his fingers curling gently around yours, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. 

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice low, sincere, and steady. “But maybe that’s why it’s worth seeing where this goes.” There were no fireworks, no declarations of love, but at that moment—two hands joined across a table in the corner of a softly lit restaurant—it felt like a beginning. A quiet promise between two people still figuring themselves out, but willing, cautiously, to try.

As the evening wound down, the plates were cleared and the final drops of wine sipped slowly, both of you reluctant to move too quickly, to shatter the delicate stillness that had settled between you. The conversation had softened into low tones and shared glances, into stories told with your hands and laughter traded in the pauses. The rain had begun sometime during dessert, soft pitter-patters at first, then a full symphony against the windows. London outside had turned blurry and grey, its chaos muted by the falling water, streetlights smudged into watercolor glows.

Pedro walked you out, always the gentleman, one hand at the small of your back as the maître d’ held the door. The air was cool and damp, the kind that kissed your cheeks and curled at your hairline. You both stood beneath the overhang, watching the rain coat the pavement, the smell of wet stone and the far-off sense of the dust hanging between you. Your taxi hadn’t arrived yet—it was running a few minutes late—and neither of you minded.

You turned to say something, maybe a thank you or a joke about the weather, but Pedro beat you to it—not with words, but with a look. There was a softness to it, a careful weighing of a question behind his eyes. He shifted just a little closer, close enough that you felt his warmth, but not enough to crowd. 

“Can I ask you something?” he said, and his voice was quieter now, not nervous exactly, but reverent, as if he didn’t want to disturb the shape of this moment. You nodded.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Do I have your consent… to kiss you?” The question hung in the air, simple and respectful and more intimate than anything he could have done without asking.

There was a beat of silence—not hesitation, not fear. Just stillness, like your heart needed a second to catch up. You felt something shift inside you again, not a door this time, but a window cracking open, letting in air you hadn’t breathed in ages. You smiled, slow and sincere, your cheeks warm even in the rain.

“Yes,” you said, your voice soft but certain. “You do.”

And when he leaned in—gentle, unrushed—it wasn’t the kind of kiss that made your world spin, but the kind that made it feel like, for the first time in a long time, it had steadied.

The kiss was exactly how the films tried to sell it—the good ones, the ones you used to watch on weekends with a blanket pulled to your chin and hope tucked somewhere quiet inside you. It was soft at first, barely there, as if Pedro was still giving you a chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You leaned into it, into him, into the moment that felt like it had stepped straight out of a romcom and into your real life.

His lips were warm, unhurried, and somehow... familiar, like a song you didn’t know you remembered until the melody started playing. It didn’t make your knees weak or your heart race into a panic—instead, it calmed everything. Your shoulders didn’t tense. You didn’t feel like you were about to be pushed aside or left hanging in the dark again.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the press of someone else’s lips against yours didn’t feel like a risk—it felt like home. Like permission to stay a little longer. Like maybe, just maybe, the worst had already passed, and this—this simple, steady kiss in the middle of a rainy London street—was something you were allowed to feel good about. Something that could be yours. You didn’t want this night to end, as you were telling yourself - expect the unexpected. The thought of Pedro going back to the United States was something that you did not want to happen but his work was there and you didn’t have a say in it - you just accepted it.

The days after Pedro flew back to New York passed with a strange kind of ache. You weren’t unfamiliar with missing someone—it was a feeling that had carved itself into you long before—but this was different. This wasn’t the hollow silence of absence; it was a hum beneath your skin, a low thrum of connection stretched across an ocean. You found yourself looking forward to his texts more than your morning coffee. The FaceTime calls became part of your routine—some sleepy and quiet, others filled with stories about his long days on set or you venting about the nightmare of the Northern and Piccadilly Line at peak times and rush hours. Sometimes you’d fall asleep with the call still connected, the glow of your screen dimmed and his breathing soft through your headphones like a lullaby you hadn’t known you needed. You did snore but he did not mind it, although in your anxious brain, it was telling that he definitely did.

Pedro missed you, too. He didn’t hide it. He told you in ways that felt easy and honest—“I saw someone at Whole Foods today who looked like you from behind. I almost called your name like a total idiot.” Or, “The pizza here tastes like cardboard now. It’s your fault - your European taste has changed me.” And in quieter moments, he’d say things like, “Wish I was there tonight,” voice low, thumb rubbing absently against the side of his whiskey glass. There was a tenderness to the way he said it. A yearning that settled in your chest and made you whisper, “Me too,” even when it hurt.

Four more weeks passed like that—half-lived, half-waiting—and then he booked the flight. No big declarations. Just a simple text one morning: “Coming back next Friday. I can’t wait to see you.”

This time, you invited him to your flat.

It was still strange, letting someone into that private, quiet space you’d built for yourself in North London. A place that had become your little sanctuary—the one you’d slowly reclaimed after heartbreak and fear. But it felt right. It felt like the next step you were meant to be ready for.

The buzz of your intercom jolted through the stillness of your flat, pulling your heart into a stuttered rhythm as you moved toward the door, equal parts anticipation and nerves pooling in your chest. You opened it slowly, fingers trembling slightly on the handle, and there he was—Pedro—standing in the dim, golden light of the late afternoon, framed by the hallway of your building like some beautiful, familiar scene from a film you didn’t want to end. He looked the same and yet different somehow—maybe it was the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, or the relief that visibly softened his features the moment you stepped into view. He wore his usual soft hoodie layered beneath a tailored coat, dark jeans that clung just right, and that grin—the crooked, sleepy one you’d seen over blurry FaceTime calls, now right here in front of you. In his hands, a bouquet of tulips—your favourites—fresh, delicate, still beaded with the faintest hint of water, in a pale blush pink so soft it made your throat tighten. In the crook of his other arm, a bottle of the same white wine you’d both accidentally gotten tipsy on at the bar in Soho all those weeks ago.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, like the word had been waiting on his tongue for far too long. 

“I come bearing gifts... and a really average case of jet lag.” His eyes searched yours, half teasing, half sincere, and you couldn’t help but laugh—one of those real, from-the-stomach laughs that bubbled out before you could think. You stepped aside to let him in, and as he passed through your doorway, everything about your flat—the familiar books stacked by the window, the soft throw blanket draped over your worn couch, the faint scent of the candle you always lit in the evenings—suddenly felt brighter, more significant. Pedro dropped his bag gently in the hallway without taking his eyes off you, then leaned in with no hesitation and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close like he’d been counting down the minutes to this exact embrace. You sank into him instinctively, your face pressed into the fabric of his hoodie, his arms secure around your waist, and for a long, quiet moment, the world outside ceased to exist—no ticking clocks, no emails, no endless distance—just the warmth of him, real and solid, right here.

Then, without a word, he leaned back just enough to see your face, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your breath hitch. He didn’t rush. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft at first, gentle in the way that said I missed you before it said anything else. It wasn’t urgent or frenzied like in the movies—it was intentional, grounding and quietly electric. The kind of kiss you’d always seen in romcoms, the kind where the camera lingers, the world goes quiet and everything else blurs out except for two people standing in a hallway lit by the promise of something unfolding. His lips moved against yours with the kind of care that didn’t try to take anything, just offered. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t flinch or hold your breath or feel the old fear curling at the edges. You felt steady. You felt chosen. You felt… home.

Later, after the tulips were placed carefully in a glass jug and the wine poured into mismatched glasses you’d forgotten you even had, the two of you settled into the low hum of an ordinary evening—the kind that asked for nothing more than time and closeness. You didn’t bother with anything elaborate. No plans. No pretense. Just the quiet lull of your living room, low lamps casting soft amber across the walls, and Amy Winehouse crooning from your old speaker, her smoky voice curling like incense through the room. Pedro had kicked off his shoes and was now stretched out on the sofa, his back leaned comfortably into the armrest, one arm slung across the top as you lay with your legs draped over his lap. It was domestic, almost dangerously so, but it didn’t feel heavy—it felt good— it just felt…real. His hand rested on your thigh, warm and unmoving, just there, a gentle reminder that he was with you, and you were with him.

There were kisses, here and there—nothing urgent or scripted, just soft brushes of lips exchanged in between shared comments about the music or the weather or how surprisingly nice your North London flat was despite your constant complaints about it over FaceTime. His presence was steady, grounding, like gravity reimagined in human form. And for the first time in a while, your body didn’t feel like it was bracing for anything bad. You were just... there. Existing. Breathing. Safe. The kind of safe you almost didn’t recognise at first because it had been so long.

But then, just as “Love Is a Losing Game” faded into the next track, the atmosphere shifted—not in a bad way, but like something was pressing gently against the surface, asking to be let in. Pedro’s fingers, which had been absently tracing lazy shapes against your leg, stilled. His eyes found yours—not intense, not heavy, just... clear. Present. His voice was low, careful. 

“I have a question to ask,” he said.

You sat up slightly, heart ticking up, and nodded, trying to read the sudden seriousness in his face.

“I know we’ve been taking our time, figuring this out in our own way,” he began, voice steady but laced with something fragile around the edges. “And I’ve really loved that—every moment of it. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about what this actually is. What we are.” He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in small circles. “I guess what I’m trying to say is... are you ready to take this to another level? Like, properly—me and you. As in, boyfriend and girlfriend.”

The question hung there, full of breath and weight and possibility.

Your mind didn’t go blank—it went loud. Questions rushed in like a flood: How does he really feel about me? Is he just being kind? Does the age gap ever make him hesitate, even if he’s never shown it? What about my anxiety—does he really know what he’s signing up for? The days I might shut down or pull away, the nights I might cry without a clear reason? Can he handle the version of me that isn’t put together and pretty?

Your breath caught, not in fear exactly, but in the overwhelm of suddenly being seen so clearly and offered something real. Pedro must have noticed the flicker of doubt in your eyes, because he squeezed your hand just slightly and tilted his head. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to say yes because you think it’s what I want to hear. I want you to say yes if you want this too. I already know you’re not perfect. You think I don’t see when you get quiet and go somewhere else in your head? I know. And it doesn’t scare me. If anything... it makes me want to be here even more.”

You blinked, lips parting, your heart tightening with something that almost felt like relief. The part of you that always braced for people to run... eased back just a little.

“I don’t know if I’ll always get it right,” you said quietly, voice a little shaky. “But I think... I want to give it a go, again. I want to try it with you. Because I feel safe with you. And that doesn’t happen often.”

Pedro smiled, his eyes softening, and leaned forward to kiss you again—slow and sure and full of something that didn’t need words.

And just like that, something shifted—quietly, powerfully. No fireworks. No dramatic music swells. Just the steady heartbeat of two people choosing each other in a world that rarely makes things simple.

please do not copy and translate my work (unless it’s in my native language and you give me full credit)! you are more than welcome to support me by buying me a coffee - link in the blog!

[incognitopolls]

Beginning January 1st, 2025, poll submissions will be accepted on the 1st and 15th of every month!

Submissions are still subject to this blog's general rules and guidelines; check those on the pinned post.

About timezones:

Poll submissions are automatically timestamped. Any submissions timestamped with a date other than the 1st or 15th of the month will be discarded.

Please keep in mind any difference in time zone; this blog operates on EST (UTC-5). (Meaning someone in UTC+10 [for example Sydney, AU] should submit between roughly 3PM on the 1st to 3PM on the 2nd in order for their submission to be timestamped correctly.)

If you're not sure how to adjust for your timezone, you can google "what time is it in New York right now" to check if you're within the right window.

[mortmere]

Final Thoughts: Due South Stacked Rewatch/Timestamp Roulette Art Challenge

Personal favorites (in no particular order):

Well this was fun. And it wasn't. Like most things, it was a very mixed bag. 

I started out in September wanting to see if I could develop a personal, recognizable lineart style, something easy-looking and confident. Turns out I wasn't very motivated to do that after all. Or maybe I'm so stuck in my ways that I don't want to put myself through the process of de-learning some things and learning new ways of working. I've always been self-taught in almost everything (just doing stuff intuitively my way) and get easily irritated if I'm pushed out of my comfort and skill zones. Not a great learner!

The one thing where I definitely did step out of my comfort zone and gained confidence in was posting stuff that's less than perfect to my own eye. Ha, got quite good at that, actually! I think I got over the fear that someone tells me "this is not up to your usual standards". I'm hoping - while definitely aiming to create stuff that gives people feels - that this will make me work quicker and post more happy-making art instead of sweating over whether a piece is good enough to be posted. And I truly hope that my shit-posting (as I've called my super quick doodle weeks) has given someone else out there a feeling that they, too, can post stuff that might not be perfect by some artificial standard. I keep saying that great fanart can be drawn with stick figures, too. 

One of the biggest joys in this project has been discovering oil pastels. They simply suit my way of working, the colors are easy to mix and I can work pretty fast (I'm impatient). One thing I've gotten a lot of feedback on is how much people love seeing traditional media used for fanart. I still don't know what to think of the difference between digital and traditional. Is there any? Don't I use my human hands to create digital art, too? What difference does it make if a piece of art exists in pixels instead of pigment (except that photographing the latter for online viewing is a pain in the ass)? I kept going back to digital art from time to time in this project, and certainly can't choose which I enjoy more, oil pastels or Photoshop. Probably will continue more with digital art for the simple reasons of less mess, no storage problems, available shortcuts to reach a better likeness, and endless editing options. The best medium for me is the one I actually bother to pick up to make art. 

This 38-week project was probably the largest-scale art experiment I've ever done - or will ever do, at least on a strict weekly schedule. I kept expecting RL stuff to throw me off schedule, but it didn't. I kept expecting I'd just give up at some point, but I didn't. I guess the joy of having even a small purpose in life (even if it was self-inflicted pain in the ass sometimes) was worth it.

Thank you for following this project - and super thanks to those who tried the actual timestamp art roulette challenge even once! It's still open - the instructions are in the first post here: https://mortmere.tumblr.com/tagged/*/chrono

(The link goes to a chronological view of all my art/crafts post from these past 9 months - it's been my "progress evaluation link" to see what I've managed to create so far.)

[sakusaswifee]

“𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐘”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 ONLINE FRIENDS + KUROO TETSURŌ

𓆩༒︎𓆪 I know it’s short, but it’s the best I got rn

𓆩༒︎𓆪 Join my discord server by clicking this

𓆩༒︎𓆪 Join my NSFW haikyuu community by clicking this. You must be 18+ to join, pls don’t lie.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

It started with a ping.

A study Discord server. You joined because finals were threatening to destroy you and every student in the hemisphere. You didn’t expect much—just notes, maybe someone to help you cry about calculus.

But then came him.

tetsu1995:

hey, anyone wanna review bio chapters 6-8 w me? i’m about to combust

Your fingers hovered. You weren’t usually the type to respond. Too shy. Too awkward. Too convinced you’d say something weird.

But he’d typed “combust.” You laughed.

[username]:

I can help, just promise not to combust😭

And that’s how it began.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

𓆩༒︎𓆪 WEEK 1:

Study buddies. Bio turned to chem. Chem turned into a shared playlist.

You learned he loved science but had a dumb sense of humor.

He learned you got flustered easily and overused emojis.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 WEEK 3:

He messaged even when there wasn’t a study session.

“Hey, how was your day?”

“You okay? You seemed off earlier.”

He started calling you sunshine..not in the server, but privately. Just for you.

You weren’t used to that.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 MONTH 2:

You’d hear the Discord pop and feel your heart skip.

He showed you his face on video for the first time..messy hair, sleepy eyes, a grin that didn’t match the 3AM timestamp.

You waved nervously, hiding half your face with your sleeve.

He teased you, but his smile turned soft.

“You’re cute, you know.”

You almost logged off.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 MONTH 4:

Inside jokes. Screenshared movie nights.

He’d send you pictures of his dog lying on his homework with captions like, “reason #37 why I failed stats.”

You’d send him voice messages at 1AM, whispering your stress about classes. He’d reply with encouragement and sleepy chuckles.

And you started to wonder. Was this just friendship?

𓆩༒︎𓆪 MONTH 5:

You both admitted you hated being alone in calls..so you stayed unmuted, even while doing separate things.

Sometimes you’d hum while doing work.

Sometimes he’d stop typing just to listen.

“[name]?”

“Mm?”

“You’ve got a pretty voice.”

Silence. Blushing. Keyboard smashing.

“I’m serious,” he added.

“Don’t hide that from me.”

𓆩༒︎𓆪 MONTH 6:

He said he wanted to meet someday.

You laughed and said, “That’d be nice.”

But you knew you meant it.

Because now your day felt incomplete without his voice, his messages, his dumb jokes and quiet reassurances.

You were best friends. But you knew deep down he had you wrapped around his sarcastic little finger.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 ONE NIGHT:

You were ranting about a horrible exam.

Tears were threatening. You didn’t even notice how your voice shook until he interrupted.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“I wish I could hug you.”

Silence.

“Not just a pat on the back hug,” he said softly, “I mean the kind where I don’t let go for a long time. You’d be safe. Warm.”

“…Tetsu.”

“I know. Sorry. I just…care. A lot. Too much maybe.”

You whispered, “Me too.”

That night, you both sat in call. Quiet. Breathing. Hearts fluttering.

And for the first time, the silence between you felt like a promise.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪

Kuroo’s standing near the arrival gate at Narita Airport, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, trying to act cool but his heart’s racing like he just finished a match. He keeps checking the screen, bouncing slightly on his heels. Hair perfect (he triple checked it in the bathroom mirror), hoodie smelling faintly of his cologne, palms sweating despite the cool air.

He’s never been this nervous. Not for a game, not for an exam. But this? This is different. This is you.

You, the girl he met months ago in a late night Discord study server. You, who laughed at his terrible puns and stayed on voice chat with him til 3am, time zones be damned. You, who sent him selfies of sleepy mornings and rainy days and slowly became the first person he wanted to talk to about everything.

And now you’re finally here. In Japan. For him.

He spots you the second you appear, your suitcase trailing behind you, wide eyes scanning the crowd. You’re bundled up in your coat, mask slipping under your chin, lips parted just a little in wonder and Kuroo knows that look—you’re nervous too.

He steps forward.

You see him.

And then you’re running.

Kuroo drops his backpack and wraps his arms around you the second you’re close enough, lifting you off your feet just a little. You’re smaller than he imagined, warmer, real. You bury your face in his chest, your fingers gripping the back of his hoodie like you’ve been waiting forever to do this.

“I missed you,” you whisper, voice muffled and shaky.

His heart nearly bursts.

“Missed you more, angel,” he breathes against your hair, smiling like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

You pull back slightly, teary eyed, smiling.

And before either of you can think too much about it, your hands cup his cheeks and you kiss him..just a soft, grateful peck on the lips. And then you freeze.

Kuroo blinks. His heart short circuits.

You blink. Realize what you just did. You immediately step back, flustered, hands flying to your face.

“I—I didn’t mean—I just—it felt right—I’m so sorry—!”

Kuroo grins.

“Do it again.”

You stare, wide-eyed.

He leans in slightly, all teasing and warmth. “Please?”

You giggle, shy and burning red, and then you’re tugged right back into his arms. And the airport fades around you..just the two of you, finally together.

𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪 𓆩༒︎𓆪