#this could be the sleep deprive talking...

[emacrow]

You're just like me.

Mary sat in the visitor center of Gotham, puzzled on the a fact someone wanted to met her.

She knew it wasn't a reporter as they were clearly banned from talking to her after her last meltdown. Twiddling her finger a bit as she hear the buzzing sound of a door opening.

It was a 14 year old preteen wearing casual yet sharp clothes, his long black hair in a low ponytail, freckled scattered on his face like stars and a nervous smile, but his eyes.

His blue dull sleep deprived eyes looked much older than they were, and it made her froze in recognition.

Before she could speak a bit.

"I was told you and I had a similar situation in being young looking." His voice sounded young, yet soft as if testing an inside joke.

"I'm Danny, Danny Fenton, I'm 36 years old, but in appearance to everyone else, I'm just an arkward, just turned 14 year old boy to others." Danny said softly, scratching his cheek with a soft smile.

Mary louise dahl felt a smile bloom back as she introduced herself.

Maybe being born different isn't all so bad afterall.

Inspired by this post <-

[jo-com]

pls alex albon fic next🙏🤞parang awa mo na teh

──★ ｡🫧⋆｡˚ The Backup Plan

Alex Albon x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: You’ve had a long-standing pact with Alex: If you’re both still single by 30, you’ll marry each other...You’re engaged to someone else now… until Alex drunkenly posts the pact on Twitter. It blows up—and fans vote that you should dump your fiancé.

୨ৎ Genre: Slight angst?, a little smau and a happy ending or nah? read to find out ;)

୨ৎ Note: Send request y'all, also hope you like this! has some grammatical error and stuffs

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

They were sitting on the roof of his apartment, legs dangling over the edge, two beers between them and an entire city below. It was 2:08 AM, the kind of hour that made everything feel quieter, closer, truer.

You were both twenty-one. Young enough to believe in forever, dumb enough to talk about it like it was something you could schedule.

“I’m never gonna find someone,” Alex said, head tilted back to look at the stars. “They either want the driver or the version of me they think lives on yachts.”

You snorted. “Yeah, god forbid someone loves you for your sparkling sarcasm and sleep deprivation.”

He smiled, soft and sideways. The kind he only gave you. “You’re not exactly thriving in the romance department either.”

You leaned back on your elbows, the breeze catching your hair. “I’m holding out for a golden retriever in a human man’s body. Loyal, dumb, likes snacks.”

“That’s literally me,” he said, deadpan.

You turned to him, smirking. “You’re not dumb.”

He blinked. “That’s what you took from that?”

You were quiet for a moment, the laughter settling into something gentler.

And then you said it—half a joke, half a wish:

“Okay, if we’re both still single at thirty, we get married.”

Alex didn’t laugh. He didn’t even hesitate. He looked at you with that warm, steady certainty that always threw you off.

“Deal,” he said, holding out his pinky.

You looped yours with his.

“We’ll probably forget we even said this.”

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.

Neither of you ever did.

...

Years slipped through your fingers like sand—quiet, unnoticed, until they weren’t. Now, at twenty-eight, you and Alex were two almost-strangers orbiting around what used to be everything. Birthdays, wins, late-night calls—once sacred little rituals—were now reduced to muted texts and empty-hearted “miss you’s.”

The milestones still came. But they came alone.

The big 3-0 was creeping up now—no longer a distant joke or a silly pact sealed on a rooftop, but a deadline that loomed like a memory you hadn’t made peace with. It sat in the corners of your thoughts, like dust you kept forgetting to clean.

Only this time, something was different.

You were engaged.

To someone steady. Kind. Good. To someone who wasn’t him.

And for the first time since that night on the roof, the deal—the pinky promise you once held like a lifeline—felt like something you had quietly buried in the past. Not because you forgot.

But because remembering it hurt.

...

The proposal had been perfect.

A quiet dinner. Your favorite restaurant. Warm lights, soft music, a ring that sparkled in just the right way. He’d gotten down on one knee and asked, and you’d said yes with a smile that felt real.

It was real. But it wasn’t whole.

Because the first person you wanted to tell—the one person who would’ve rolled his eyes and said “finally, someone’s dumb enough to marry you”—wasn’t there. Not in your inbox. Not in your messages. Not even in your life the way he used to be.

You sent him a picture of the ring anyway.

No caption. Just that. He didn’t reply.

And maybe that should’ve been enough for you to let it go. To finally move forward with both feet planted where they should be.

...

username NOT ALEX ALBON SOFT LAUNCHING HIS HEARTBREAK AT 3AM 😭😭😭

username whoever that girl is… break up with your fiancé. it’s for the grid. for the sport. for the legacy 🏁💍🚩

username no bc if alex tweeted this about ME i would be at his door in a wedding dress IMMEDIATELY 👰‍♀️💅

username the way this man just said “i’m emotionally unavailable but loyal” in one tweet 🥲

username imagine being engaged and the ENTIRE F1 fandom is telling you to go back to alex albon. i would simply fold.

username this tweet has more chemistry than most paddock couples. i fear this ship is sailing with or without her 😭🚢

username alex albon said “what if i caused emotional damage AND chaos in 140 characters” and honestly? he succeeded ✨

username “they forget” — YOU KNOW SHE DIDN’T FORGET BRO 😭 this is pain. i’m feeling it in my chest.

...

Two months later—on a regular Tuesday, when the sky was gray and your phone was face-down—he tweeted it.

Your eyes widened instantly as you red between his tweet— Your breath caught without permission.

And that feeling—the one you'd spent months, maybe years, trying to bury—rose fast and vicious in your chest. That familiar tightness. That ache between your ribs. The one that only ever belonged to him.

Confusion hit first. Then came the anger.

What was he thinking? why now? why publicly?

And then came the other realization.

Why do i care so much?

Because everything was different now. You had a ring on your finger. A man who loved you. A wedding date marked in ink.

You were getting married.

Just not to the boy who once pinky-promised you forever at 2:08 a.m.

And that’s the problem.

...

You didn’t hear him come in.

You were still sitting on the couch, phone limp in your hand, the tweet burned into your retinas like some kind of confession you hadn’t meant to write—but somehow belonged to you anyway.

“Y/N?”

Your head snapped up. He was standing in the doorway, coat still on, holding a takeout bag and a look that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed. “Hey. You’re back early.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked in slowly, set the food on the counter, and stared at you in that quiet way he always did when he was thinking too hard and trying too hard not to show it.

“You’re trending,” he said.

Just like that.

You opened your mouth, but there was nothing ready to come out. Not an excuse. Not an explanation. Nothing that could make this better.

He sat across from you. No anger. No raised voice. Just… restraint.

“That tweet,” he said softly. “The one about the marriage pact.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

He let out a breath. It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff. It was disappointment, paper-thin and sharp.

“Do you love him?”

Your heart stuttered.

“No,” you said too quickly. “I mean—not like that. Not now. I don’t—”

“But you did.”

Silence.

He nodded, slow and defeated, like the answer had already been written in every pause, every time you’d flinched at Alex’s name, every time you smiled too softly at an old memory.

“I know I’m not him,” he added, barely above a whisper.

And the worst part was—you didn’t even know if that was meant to comfort you or remind you.

“I’m trying, Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been trying. But I feel like I’m holding a place someone else still owns.”

The room felt small. The air too still.

“I chose you,” you whispered. “I said yes.”

“But have you let him go?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

[shiptillyoudie]

It all started as hallucinations, actually.

The human brain can hallucinate for all sorts of reasons: pain, blood loss, drugs, or in Tim's case, severe lack of sleep.

He started to notice that missing one day was fine, two was usually okay. By the third day, sometimes he would start hearing whispers. Coffee would keep him awake, but it didn't do much about those. It was fine, though. After several months he got used to them, and could even tell the difference between a hallucination whisper and actual sounds.

Four days without sleep was when he would start seeing shadows out of the corner of his eye, only to turn and find nothing there. Usually it was just a flutter, or a nondescript shape. It creeped him out at first, but eventually he got used to those, too. He even learned not to go on patrol at that point- he started seeing too many shadows that weren't there, so he'd self-regulate himself to computer work only, until he got some shut-eye.

Somewhere in the fifth or sixth month of living like this, one of the shadows started taking on a more humanoid shape. It was just like all the other hallucinations- appearing just at his peripheral vision, then vanishing when he looked directly at it. But it started to seem...familiar. Like a repeating pattern. He decided it was just his brain desperately trying to cope with what he was doing to it, and honestly a humanoid shape wasn't nearly as terrifying as some of the other shapes he sometimes saw, so.

It took his sleep deprived brain a long time to notice, possibly several weeks, that the humanoid shape was moving out of his field of vision more...slowly.

That sometimes, he'd be able to turn his gaze quickly enough to look straight at it, before it vanished.

That sometimes it lingered.

That sometimes it seemed to be staring back at him.

And in his severely compromised mental state, he wasn't afraid of it. In fact, he'd come to sort of...like it. Like a familiar friend. "Oh hi, there you are, my four-days-with-no-sleep friend."

In fact maybe he liked looking at it a little too much.

Maybe he started missing sleep on purpose, in hopes he could see it again.

Maybe it wasn't just a shadow anymore. Maybe it had soft green eyes, that peered at him from within the black silhouette of a head, complete with ears and the shadow of hair that blew in the breeze.

Tim knew the breeze was real. He'd never hallucinated tactile things (thank God). So when it blew, and he saw the hair on the shadow move with it, he thought either his brain was incredibly creative, or...maybe this shadow was not a hallucination.

Maybe, it would let him stare at it all he wanted.

Maybe they sat together on the rooftops, Tim staring into those green eyes, confessing his deepest worries and newest fears to some kind of spirit that, for whatever reason, had become attached to him.

Maybe he was attached right back.

Maybe the whispers he heard weren't hallucinations at all.

Maybe they were confessions of attraction; soft come-hithers, wishes in the darkness for a spirit with no mortal body to be seen by a being of flesh who, for whatever reason, could see him.

The more Tim saw the spirit, the easier it became for him to see it, and hear it. It grew more solid to him. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of white when he looked up at his hair. Sometimes a flash of teeth as he thought he saw a smile.

Then he started to talk to him in his dreams.

That was when he was real. In dreams, when Tim could see his face, bright and young and vibrant and very human looking. In dreams, when he could hear his voice, and they could have actual conversations.

In dreams, when he learned his name was Danny.

DPxDC Prompt #20

Danny and Tim are married. (Sacrificial Bride, Meddling Ancients, Tax Benefits, etc.; exact details are dealer's choice.)

The Bats do not know Tim is married. They find because Tim gets grievously injured. High on pain, blood loss, and/or the good drugs; he turns to the nearest Bat and slurs out, "Don't tell my husband."

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[23bilss]

billie long distance phone sex smut 👀👀

overseas

| ★ warnings ; phone sex, fingering, usage of (cunt)

| ★ note ; hallo.. this was rushed..

| ★ taglist ; @billiesmainwife @bilswifee @st0nerlesb0 @si1verl4ke

the light from your phone was bright, as you were laying on your back relaxing and thinking about how much fun you and billie are gonna have when she comes back from her tour.

she’s currently having a concert on a boat, which seems.. impossible.. but its something!

your phone buzzes, the light making a spot on the ceiling which isnt useful because you still cant see whos calling you.

when you rolled on your side to the way your phone was, it was the love of your life.

billie.

her messages popped at the top of the screen slowly

baby?

i need help im so fucking. horny.

please answer.

please mommy?

you loved when she begged, even though she was the top during this relationship she always begged, and begged, and begged.

she knew you had power over her and tried to listen to her best abilities, but shes just a bit hardheaded and did shit anyways.

you called her back, she answered on the third ring and all you heard was heavy breathing and slow wet noises in the background, her soft whimpers picked up and you blushed knowing she wanted you and only you to help her.

‘her special girl’ she always called you.

“mama?” she stuttered out and the noises stopped, the breathing from billie was the only noise filling the room.

“yes baby?” you whispered in the voice she always loved hearing, especially when your voice got low

she whines and you hear the sheets rubbing against her clothes, moving as she moves. so desperate for you to help her, so weak and tired.

“you want my help?” you asked, teasing her, knowing she already begged you heard her whisper ‘yes’ multiple times, the wet noises getting progressively louder.

“hey, hold it and talk to me baby.” she groans and everything stops, billie sighed and cleared her throat

“hi. i had i nice concert, the waves were so pretty i got distracted.” her voice was soft, and smooth.

like she was dying to talk to you all day.

“that sounds great baby, im glad you had a nice time,” you smiled and giggled, the way she was holding on for dear life with horny and being touch deprived

“what songs did you sing?” she was quiet then spoke.

“lunch, chihiro, my boy, halleys comet, everybody dies, xanny, the diner, getting older, your power, happier than ever, then male fantasy.” she was whining, slow and low.

you could hear her little whimpers here and there so you just let her go.

“you can go back to it now” she turned her camera on this time and set it up so you could see what she was doing.

before anything she popped her airpods in and started going, her fingers were pumping slow and steady.

“faster.” you whispered, and she started speeding up. the quickness of her fingers made her cunt wetter and wetter, juices flying everywhere.

“another finger, two isn’t enough.” you softly said and she stopped for a moment, then pulled her pointer finger in.

she started slow—getting used to the feeling. then she finally started speeding up. her soft moans were filling your bedroom and hers.

billie started slowing down, “i didn’t tell you to slow down eilish.” she sped up again, the way her fingers moved, she was waiting for this moment.

she started losing her arm strength, when she stopped, cum poured out of her slowly, dripping onto her black sheets.

“you did so good f’me.” you praised, “now clean yourself up, and show me.”

she slid her fingers out, and licked it all up. in between her fingers and around, everything you could imagine she did? she did it.

billie then stood up and grabbed the sheets and ripped them off the bed, unable to lay on something damp. “i love you.” she said before getting in the shower for about 20 minutes.

after 20 she got in bed, only the underwear on. “i love you more baby.” you whispered and she dozed off to sleep.

[just-b-yourself]

What Happened to The Handmaid’s Tale? A Eulogy for Nick Blaine, and My Faith in TV Writing

I wasn’t going to write again.

But then, one quiet afternoon, I remembered Nick Blaine.

And the rage came back.

I’ve written about this show so many times, you’d think I’d have found closure by now.

But here I am. Still grieving. Still bitter. Still trying to figure out how one of my favorite shows of all time managed to destroy its own legacy — not with a bang, but with bad writing, broken characters, and one very disrespectful airplane explosion.

It’s honestly impressive how the writers of Season 6 managed to take a show once praised for its layered character arcs, emotional realism, and slow-burning tension — and reduce it to a mess of incoherent choices, character assassinations, and empty symbolism. It’s like they held a bonfire in the writers’ room and tossed in all the previous seasons’ scripts, just to make sure no one accidentally referenced anything consistent. The show used to be about trauma, survival, resistance. In Season 6, it became about… who knows? Betraying long-standing character arcs? Gaslighting your audience? Maybe the writing team got stuck in Gilead themselves and started drafting episodes from inside a Commander’s basement. Or maybe they tried to escape to Canada but got caught mid-draft. Either way, it’s clear someone was sleep-deprived, emotionally unavailable, and possibly writing on a dare. What happened to subtlety? Continuity? Depth? Oh right — they exploded in that same plane as Nick.

How to Lose a Loyal Audience in 10 Episodes ?

Want to lose your fanbase? Step 1: Ignore years of thoughtful character building. Step 2: Undermine the most emotionally resonant relationships. Step 3: Kill one of the most beloved characters offscreen and call it closure. Step 4: Promote your spin-off like nothing happened. Congrats, you’ve just alienated half your viewers and turned what could’ve been a legacy into a cautionary tale for future writers.

Let’s talk about Nick Blaine. Again.

A character so layered, so quietly devastating, so beautifully restrained, that he somehow managed to express a full novel’s worth of emotion with a single conflicted glance. A man who risked everything in silence. Who rebelled not with fireworks, but with quiet, impossible choices. A man who loved June with a kind of quiet devotion that never asked for recognition — and rarely got it from the writers either, apparently.

Because whatever the hell Season 6 was… it wasn’t written by anyone who had watched the previous five.

This is a man who:

Was always part of the resistance (yes, even when no one else knew it).

Played the long game, while everyone else played checkers with a blindfold.

Loved June with a kind of brutal, sacrificial tenderness — and proved it over and over again.

Carried guilt, grief, and agency in every scene, even when he said nothing.

Was literally canonically confirmed to be part of The Testaments, which takes place years after the events of this show.

Did the writers:

Decide subtle male characters are just "too much effort"?

Confuse "minimalist" with "nonexistent"?

They didn't just underwrite him — they actively un-wrote him. All the nuance, the inner conflict, the impossible choices? Gone. Swept under the narrative rug like inconvenient canon

Because no matter how much you try to fade him out, Nick Blaine’s story matters. His choices mattered. His love mattered. His presence in the rebellion — quiet, strategic, constant — mattered.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy.

He was the man in the shadows, protecting what he could, loving who he shouldn’t, and carrying the weight of every compromise he ever made.

And for six seasons, we watched him try. And try. And try again.

And this is the thanks he gets?

I knew they wouldn’t give him a happy ending.

I knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t ride off into the sunset with June, holding Holly’s hand and planting tomatoes in some post-Gilead garden. That was never his path.

But I thought — I hoped — they would at least honor him.

Instead, they reduced him to a name on a report.

A body in an exploded plane.

A casualty of a mission where he gave everything, only to be erased with a single line of dialogue and a flicker of guilt in June’s eyes.

He didn’t even get a scene.

He died offscreen. Like a narrative inconvenience.

Because Nick was never just a love interest.

He was never just “the other guy.”

He was the one who saw June when no one else did.

He carried her in silence when she had nothing left.

He protected her when it cost him everything.

He stayed loyal — not to Gilead, not to any side, but to her.

To love, in a world where love was weaponized, forbidden, devoured.

He lived in the grey, and he died in the dark.

And the writers didn’t even give us a light.

No real goodbye. No reckoning. No moment of honesty between him and June.

No justice for a man who spent six seasons playing chess while everyone else smashed pieces on the floor.

Nick Blaine didn’t need a happy ending.

But he deserved a real one. One that acknowledged who he was. What he did. What he carried. The love he held and never demanded. The quiet war he fought until the very end.

Nick was never loud. Never dramatic. Never the obvious hero.

He was quiet resistance. A man who lived in grey zones, made impossible choices, and never once stopped fighting — even when it cost him everything.

He saved Luke. He saved Moira. He got June out — twice. He handed over intel. He infiltrated Command. He put himself on the line every single season for the people he loved.

He didn’t have big speeches or dramatic gestures. He was quiet resistance. The man in the background.

The one who sacrificed his safety, his freedom, and eventually his life — not for recognition, not for power, but for love.

For June.

For his family.

For the rebellion.

For a world better than the one that had broken him.

He was the most selfless character in the entire series.

He showed up — always.

When June called, he came.

When others hesitated, he acted.

He got people out. He gave everything — and asked for nothing.

And the irony?

He’s canonically alive in The Testaments.

He’s meant to continue. To matter. To exist in the world after all this.

But not here. Not in the show they gave us.

They killed him off like a side character in someone else's story.

No goodbye. No final scene. No dignity.

Just: boom. Plane gone. Problem solved

But the writers clearly didn’t rewatch their own show before writing Season 6.

Because they destroyed Nick’s arc in two or three lazy scenes, like all that nuance was just a narrative inconvenience.

They needed someone expendable. So they made it him.

And June?

She betrayed him. For the “greater good.”

And we’re supposed to buy that?

That she’d let him die so quietly after everything he did for her, for her family, for the entire resistance?

This isn’t the June I knew. Not the woman who carried trauma and fury and compassion in equal measure.

In Season 6, she’s… different. Detached. Not just hardened — hollowed.

I understand what they were trying to do — “the greater good,” sacrifice, etc. — but it felt false. Like she’d lost her humanity, and the show didn’t notice.

Her fire turned to static. Her decisions made no emotional sense.

The writing didn’t just drop the ball — it launched it into orbit and called it a finale.

There were so many ways to honor these characters.

So many chances to bring their arcs to a meaningful close.

But the final season was a mess of plot holes, character inconsistencies, and writing that felt like a stranger finishing someone else’s story.

They didn’t just forget Nick — they forgot everything that made the show worth watching in the first place.

Let’s talk about the unholy trinity of Gilead’s architects: Joseph Lawrence, Serena Joy, and Aunt Lydia — three characters who, despite their haunting résumés of systemic cruelty, have somehow been offered redemption arcs as if trauma had an expiration date. Joseph Lawrence isn’t just a “complicated man” with a tragic wife — he’s the very engineer of the Colonies: the mass grave of Gilead, where infertile women and “undesirables” were sent to suffer and die in radioactive agony. Then there’s Serena Joy — the woman who wrote the book on Gilead’s theocratic oppression. Literally. A mouthpiece of rape culture wrapped in pearls and condescension, Serena held June down — while pregnant — to be raped by her husband and stole a child from her biological mother. And finally, Aunt Lydia — the evangelical war criminal disguised as a devout caregiver. She tased, beat, and psychologically broke handmaids with gleeful fervor. She abducted children from their mothers, broke their spirits in “Red Center” indoctrination camps, and justified every scar with a Bible verse. And the fact that they were offered forgiveness, understanding, and even sympathy — while a character like Nick Blaine, who resisted from within and bled silently for the cause, was thrown away — isn’t just insulting. It’s revisionist fiction disguised as nuance. Their crimes didn’t fade with time. The show just chose to forget.

Let’s not even talk about the show promo.

Because wow — the disrespect.

The gaslighting.

The interviews where they teased fans like we were children.

The smugness. The vague answers. The flat-out contradictions.

You could feel the disdain.

It was clear they didn’t know what story they were telling anymore.

Or worse — they didn’t care

I’ve written so many posts about this. I’ve tried to make peace with it.

But every time I revisit the show, every time I think about what it could have been, I feel that sting again. That betrayal.

Because this wasn’t just about a character dying.

It was about a show giving up on itself.

Nick Blaine deserved better.

June deserved to be written with care.

We, the viewers who stayed loyal through the darkest moments, deserved better.

We didn’t love The Handmaid’s Tale just for the plot.

We loved it because of the people. The characters. The layered, flawed, beautiful writing that made us feel something real.

And no character represented that better than Nick.

He’s not a villain.

He’s not a traitor.

He's not a nazi.

He’s a man who lived in darkness so others could find the light.

A man who died alone, unloved, uncelebrated.

So here I am, again.

Writing another eulogy.

Not just for Nick — but for a story that forgot how to tell itself.

And I wish I could say I’m done now. That I’ve moved on.

But the truth is… when a show breaks your heart like this, the ache lingers.

RIP Nick Blaine.

And RIP to the version of The Handmaid’s Tale that once meant the world to me

So this is my final post.

My final grief.

Nick Blaine deserved better.

Not just a longer scene. Not just a different ending.

He deserved to be seen, understood, remembered — for the choices he made, the burdens he carried, the love he gave without ever asking for it in return.

But I remember him.

We remember him.

And we will carry that with us — in the silence, in the spaces the show forgot to fill, in the stories that were never told.

Goodbye, Nick.

You mattered.

[mixingandmelting]

HEYA!! I was wondering if you could write for Wooin and Hyuk when reader tries to make them jealous? Take your time with this ofc!!

Hyuk:

It’s cute, adorable even. You’re trying so hard to get his attention, yet, all because you didn’t want to ask for it, you resort to pull a petty prank like this.

“I’m telling you; I can beat everyone in LOS. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!”

“I believe you, I believe you. I can totally see it.”

It’s been ten minutes since you and that one guy talked, you working behind the seven-eleven cashier for today while the other is simply a customer. The signs are there: the strained smile, faux enthusiasm in your voice. Yet, despite how uninterested you are in the guy, you did your best to cling on to him. Something you rarely do, even to him, your own boyfriend.

Intending to see how much longer your shenanigans will go, Hyuk continues watching while slurping on his Pocari Sweat. Occasionally, his phone would buzz and he’d tap on his screen, tugging on his bottom lip as he reads over the text Wooin sends him.

It’s when he’s about to deal with Wooin’s temper for not texting back, the guy leaves. Then an hour later, your shift ends.

“Did you have fun talking to him?” Outside of the store, he nuzzles the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping themselves around your shoulders.

“I mean, it’s nice chatting with someone from another crew and getting to know them.” You shrug.

Instantly his grip tightens, eyes impossibly blanker.

…So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh.

Being the good boyfriend he is, he gives exactly what you want.  His full attention is on you for the rest of day and night, not once letting you in every sense to where, the next day, people were constantly looking at you when you appear in a quarter zip, constantly tugging up the zipper and looking sleep deprived while Hyuk, standing next to you, seemed more refreshed than ever. It was also, not coincidental that a certain someone from yesterday gets toyed around and taken down during the race Hyuk, surprisingly, personally volunteers to enter.

Wooin:

His smirk never disappears; eyes wide and pupils constrict and snake-like. Across the club, you’re laughing at something some loser tells you, looking as if you’re having so much fun. It might’ve been more believable that you are if your eyes had some light in them or, at least, you stop glancing at him. But what did the other know, too dumb to even realize you’ve been faking it from the very start.

His finger continues tapping on the bar counter, taking sips of his drink time-to-time as he waits it out.

You could’ve told him you wanted him to yourself for the day.  The things he needed to do today are things that can get pushed back to tomorrow –say the word, he would’ve done it. But, it’s funny really. You often whine how he’s so clingy, telling him to let go only for you to stay attached to someone who you don’t care about for over an hour.

Suddenly, there’s loud laughter in the corner you’re sitting in.

“Okay, that was a pretty good joke.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s more where that came from. Drop your number and you can hear the rest of them.”

…Forget watching, maybe he should really do it. Show the guy that you’re taken in the flashiest way. It’ll probably piss you off but consequences be damned when the guy can’t take a hint-where are you going now?

The few seconds he takes his eye off of you, you’re already making your way out. Quickly, he goes follows after you, slipping through the crowd with ease and catching up the moment you step out.

“Got bored of that guy?”

“Who the fuck-Wooin?!”  

He snickers, pulling you closer to him with the arm slung around your shoulder.

“If you really wanted my attention, you just needed to say it.”

“Who said that I wanted your attention?”

Long story short, the two of you don’t sleep that night as he makes it his mission to have everyone know you’re taken while letting you know he will always give his time to you.

[hikariyaps]

coffee dates

word count ☆ 1.3k pairing ☆ megumi x fem!reader [college au] content ☆ pure fluff a/n ☆ i'm baaaaaaaackk

megumi fushiguro needed coffee right now. it was a cold, foggy morning in the middle of november. it was six and he was awake, thanks to his stupid alarm that he forgot to disable the night before. since he was already awake, he figured why go back to sleep? after all, a little extra studying wouldn't hurt.

currently, he's fighting to keep his eyes open, all bundled up in a warm sweater and scarf, walking to the on campus café. apparently, yuji managed to blow up the coffee machine in the boy's dorm common rooms. only god knows how it is always that imbecile that manages to do things like this.

so here he was trekking throught the biting wind, bag on his shoulder, hands in his pockets because his best friend blew up his source of sustenance.

the café is warm and smells strongly of coffee and butter, it's comforting. he sighs stepping inside. he just hopes that the barista knows how to make coffee properly. ever since the machine blew up, he's been here a few times in the morning. every single time the barista has been sleep deprived. and every single time the barista has messed up his coffee.

he takes his usual place near the window and sets all his study material up. the place is quiet, save for the mellow music playing softly from the speakers. he walks over to the counter, expecting to see the usual barista's face.

but there you were. all soft and glowy and awake. he needs a moment to process this. 'hi, what can i get for you today?' you ask, voice like honey, a polite but genuine smile on you face, booting up the computer to punch in his order. it takes a few seconds for his brain cells to recover before he answers.

'i'll have a large black coffee and a croissant, please.' 'okay, that'll be 700 yen.' you say, typing the order into the ancient looking computer.

megumi pays and takes a seat, he was supposed to be studying but his eyes were on you. you looked like an angel, or maybe that was just his foggy brain. but something about you didn't let him take his eyes off of you. he watches as you make his coffee and warm up his croissant. and instead of calling him to the counter, you bring his order over to where he was sitting.

he mumbles out an awkward thanks and his eyes flit back to his laptop screen. as soon as you were gone though, he immeadiately went back to observing you. the coffee was immaculate, just the way he liked it. most people assume its very easy to make a black coffee, but he was very specific and this might be one of the best coffees he's ever had.

pretty soon, he became a regular at the cafe, started dropping in more than once a day, hoping to catch you, so he could have the coffee you make again, of course. funny thing is, you were always there. he doesn't know your name, you don't wear a nametag. but he told you his and he loves the way it sounds when you say it. you talk to him more than the other customers since he's been coming here a month.

most people don't usually come here so often, so you were pretty excited about him. he was very polite, really pretty and honestly, very cute. he might seem quiet, but he had the prettiest smile on his face whenever you talked to him.

yuji and nobara know about you. they found out through stalking him when he started leaving immeadiately after class to visit the café before closing time. it was pretty obvious that he found you pretty, his gaze said it all. he did not hear the end of it once he came back to the dorms.

they became regulars at the café too. mostly for the purpose of gathering information for megumi. his love life was more than just dry, it was like the afternoon in the sahara. they were more than happy to stalk- get to know a girl he finally liked.

it wasn't through them he heard your name though. it was a sunday, early january. the café was not really empty, but not really full either. he hears someone call out a name, and then you respond and disappear into the back. he repeats your name multiple times softly under his breath, committing it to memory. not like he could ever forget it.

it isn't until february, that something happens between you both. you were sick of just looking at him work and making small talk. for once, you actually wanted more.

so when megumi's waiting for his coffee to go, you decide to woman up and ask him.

'so, do you have a valentine?' you ask, tone totally conversational, nonchalant if you would, while making his coffee. which was a stark comparision to how fast your heart was beating.

he hums. 'nah, i have my eye on someone but they haven't asked' he replies, thankful that your back was turned.

'who?' you ask, and he swears he can hear disappointment in your voice.

'you.' he says, the word slipping out before he could decide whether it should be said or not.

you on the other hand have just gone though the five stages of grief and then were quite pleasently surprised, celebrating inside your head while crying invisible tears.

you hide it quite well as you hand him his coffee and say 'my number's on the recepit. text me later?'

and he nods, small smile splaying on his lips. he texts you as soon as he steps out the café and you reply immeadiately.

you guys text each other very frequently and he's way easier to tak to on text. you get to know a lot more about him and you know this isn't just some silly little crush. you wanted him to be yours. and megumi feels the same way.

he takes you out on valentine's. it isn't anything too fancy but you know its genuine. its a small picnic, with your favourite foods. you're surprised that he remembers.

he remembers a lot of things, especially when it comes to you. he remembers your prefrences, your favourite brands, your schedule. he starts showing up to pick you after classes to drop you off to the café. at this point, both of you knew you had pretty strong feelings for each other, but there was no label for you guys.

not until you came over to his dorm for the first time. it'd been a year since you guys first met. you bring over hot chocolate and pastries that you made. there, lying on his bed, comfortably warm and feeling particularly fuzzy, he says it.

'i love you,' he whispers, soft and careful. he was acting as though it was a fragile, tangible thing that would shatter if not treated right. he was hoping you wouldn't break it, those three words symbolized his heart.

you didn't break it, instead you leaned over and presses your lips to his in a chaste kiss.

'i love you too,' you whisper back, forehead resting against his forehead.

you lay in the silence holding each other for a minute. until yuji and nobara start howling from the other room. 'I THINK FUSHIGURO FINALLY SCORED A GIRLFRIEND!' 'YEAH NO SHIT SHERLOCK, THEY SAID THE L WORD!' you wondered if his room was bugged.

and here you both were now six years later, on a coffee date, to the same café, reminiscing and reminding each other how much you loved each other, when he pulls out a ring and asks you to be his forever.

you say yes, of course.

and that's how megumi fushiguro got the love of his life, also known as his personal coffee maker.

©hikariyaps2025

[vicavica]

Weak Pet

…

Summary: Daryl Dixon is the bad guy who hurt your feelings.

Warnings: age gap (reader is in her 20s) and there will be a part 2. Also, English is not my first language, I’m sorry for any mistakes and I hope you enjoy reading :)

…

He was old enough to be your dad, and maybe that was the reason neither he or the group took your feelings seriously, thinking it was just a silly crush. Growing up in the midst of the end of the world deprived you from many used-to-be-normal things: you’ve never stepped a foot into high school if not for hiding, have never had a crush on a classmate, let alone a dance at prom or a graduation. But that, that was love and you knew it. Something so pure and visceral couldn't be mistaken, it was instinct, the same kind that made your body tremble in adrenaline when hearing a walker near you.

Because you were too young when the outbreak happened, only being 5, now, 15 years later, you read everything you could find during runs for resources, trying to get a glimpse of how the world was like, how it worked. Most of it were gossip magazines, you knew all boyband’s scandals without ever hearing a single music from them. Daryl saw you one day-...Oh, there you were, thinking about him again. But how could you not? Rick put you up with him during runs, saying something about how he’d teach you valuable skills on how to survive an apocalypse, and since then your thoughts belonged to him.

“Hey, kid.” Daryl appeared at the beginning of the small market aisle. Everything was chaos in there, shopping carts lying on the floor, mold on the walls and around spoiled food cans. It was clear a lot of survivors passed by throughout the years, there was little almost to nothing on the shelves. You were next to one that contained magazines - or, as you called it, encyclopedias. There weren't much left, people must have taken them to start a fire, as you’ve done a thousand times. “You good?”

“Yes!” You smiled, and the butterflies in your stomach started fighting each other when he walked towards you, eyes on the magazine in your hands. He stopped right behind you, and you could feel the warmth coming from his body. “I know it’s not what we came for, I’m not bringing it to camp-...”

“You should read real stuff.” He took the magazine from your hands, reading the big appealing titles. “This ain’t how things were.”

“Oh.”

He noticed? Your interest in life before walkers? Not an interest, your obsession. He noticed it?

“C’mon.” He gave you the magazine back and held his weapon again. “Let's head back before it gets dark.”

You had a crush on him then - and that was the only time it really was just a crush -, but since that first time you two went on a run alone, things have changed. He’d always have a concentrated look on his face when talking to you, because he’d only talk to you when it involved plans on how not to get bitten by a walker, but his frown started to be less and less evident until it wasn't there at all. You’d spend hours into the night with him telling you about what, now, seemed like a fairytale dressed as life before constant danger. Beaches during Sunday mornings, traffic after a whole day of work, bars full of people and loud music, rockstars. His favorite rockstars, how he thinks his favorite rockstars got turned into walkers, his first bike, his first fight, his first bar fight. Him, him, him. Everything you knew about the past life had him in it. So, when you both parted ways to sleep, you’d imagine yourself living everything he told you about, but living it all with him. Going to rock concerts, riding with him in his bike, arms around his waist as the sun sets, breaking bottles of beer in some random man’s head. These made up scenarios made the loss you felt about everything you could never live easy to carry, and now a walker looked like an old bad man getting punched in a bar.

“Brought this for you.”

Daryl had just come back from a run, and as the group approached him and Rick to help carry the supplies, he took a book out of his bag.

“What?!” You took it in your hands, feeling the texture of the cover under your fingertips. “How did you find it?”

Daryl shrugged.

“It was laying on the floor.”

With eyes glued to the book, you didn't catch Rick chuckling and Daryl giving him a cold stare. The man went out of his way, out of the plan’s way for that run, to get it for you, but he wouldn't tell you that.

“Yeah, it’s a real treasure, you don't find Shakespeare laying on the floor so easily these days.” Rick insisted, walking off with a smirk before Daryl could do anything.

Your eyes went up to him, and he quickly dismissed the hard look, looking softly at you.

“Shakespeare?”

“He’s a cool guy, you’ll like it.”

Always taking care of you, always making sure you were okay, giving you part of his food, teaching you how to use the crossbow, how to drive his bike (the one he wouldn't let anyone touch!), guarding the seat next to him for you like a dog, helping you in your duties, coming back to camp with books. Romance novels. In more than a way, Daryl taught you what love is. If love had a face, it’d be his, so how could he, now, be so oblivious about it?

— You’re just a kid!

You weren’t! It was your 21st birthday, he brought you alcohol as a gift and after a few sips, you didn't get drunk, but got bold enough to confess your love for him. Well, at least, you two were alone, having celebrated your day with the group hours ago, but you’d be embarrassed if a walker saw you being rejected.

— I’m not! You know it, you just gave me alcohol!

— To me, you are. I’m old enough to be your daddy.

— That doesn't mean anything-...

— It does. This… — He pointed between you two. — …ain’t happening.

— I…What’s so wrong about me?!

— Na, we’re not doing this. — He collected his lighter and pack of cigarettes from the grass.

— Answer me! ‘Cause- I don't get it! — When he turned his back to you, ready to walk away, you were quick to put yourself in front of him. — You owe me at least this.

— What don't you get? I’m old, you’re a kid.

— I’m a woman and I know you see me as one!

— What?!

— You don't say it, but you act like it. There’s no other explanation! You always ask me if I ate, you hold doors for me, you taught me pretty much everything I know about survival, you always want to be paired with me during runs, how is this not love?

— It’s maintaining the safety of the group.

— And what about the gifts? You always come back with things I like when you go on runs without me.

— Kid-...

— Stop calling me that! I hate it!

— Well, guess what? That’s what you are, and that's all I see when I look at you. — His harsh words went along with his cold stare. You could see it in his eyes that he wasn't done and you were getting your heart broken on your birthday. — You ain’t no woman to me, you’re the weak pet I have to take care of so you don't ruin everything we built around you. We’re paired on runs ‘cause, for some reason, Rick sees something in you. If we spend so much time together, you should thank him, ‘cause if it were for me, you wouldn't step a foot out of these gates. You’re too careless, a danger to us all. All this time, trying to teach you something and all I get is a dumb crush? It’d be great if you’d just stop reading your foolish books and learn something useful for once.

It seemed like you’d just learned something: how it feels when your heart is broken. It wasn't useful for the current context of the world, a walker wouldn't stop trying to take a bite out of you to hear your crying about how Daryl Dixon was such a cruel heartless man, but Carol sure had the time (or heart, unlike Daryl) for it.

— And then he just walked away. — You cried, and you had cried so much already you were starting to get a headache. Wasting medicine over a heartbreak would make you feel worse. — I feel so embarrassed. — You closed your eyes as tears filled them again, and Carol pulled you close to her, making you rest your head on her shoulder. You two were seated on her bed.

— Oh, sweetheart. Don't cry, it’s okay. You’ll be okay.

— I hate him, he destroyed love for me.

— Oh. — She laughed softly. — He didn't, trust me. It seems like it now, you think you’ll never get over him, but it’ll pass. It always does.

— You think the same, don't you? — You pulled away to look at her. — You think I just have a dumb crush on him. — Carol looked at you trying to hide the pity in her heart. — You do!

— Sweetheart, you’re young-...

— Don’t. — You shook your head, almost begging.

— Too young for him. You should like someone like Carl, he’s about your age, just a few years older.

— But it’s not him I love, Carl is like a brother to me.

— And Daryl could be your-...

— Dad. I know. He made it very clear. — You wiped away your tears in your sleeves. — I’m so sorry I’ve never had one, so I don't know the difference. — You stood up. — When you find someone the same age as me that brings me books about love during the collapse of civilization, call me.

And it was the same with Maggie.

— Look, I think it’s cute that you have a crush on him-...

And Beth.

— Oh, I’m so sorry, Y/N, he was really mean to you. But-...

You turned your back to her, not wanting to hear your feelings being dismissed by a fourth person. Turns out everyone knew about your “dumb crush”, you weren't too discreet about it. But if everyone knew this whole time, Daryl also knew, so was he just entertaining himself with the weak pet having dumb feelings for him? This wasn't the man you knew, the one you loved, not the one who had spent hours sharing stories and thoughts with you, hearing about you growing up raised by your grandmother and having lost her only a few weeks after the outbreak, how it was when your last camp was invaded by walkers and how scared you were when surviving alone in the woods until Rick found you. Maybe those days were the reason Rick saw potential in you, but your role in the last camp was to take care of the kids and cook, surviving in the woods for three days was pure luck.

You really had a lot to learn, but after a year, you were sure you were a whole new person, a real survivor. Who Daryl thought he was? Weak pet?! You’ve never killed a walker, but it was only because he’d never let you do it! How could you if he’d take care of it first?! You were not careless, actually you were scared to death when stepping outside of the group’s territory, so you always had your ears and eyes open to the first signal of danger. And he was the one who was quick to stand by your side during runs, he thought it was a good idea if you learned how to use the crossbow, he asked you if you wanted to learn how to ride a bike, he brought you the books, he was the one inviting you to walk with him, to talk about anything from night to morning, he fixed your hair when it covered your face, he said you were pretty, he was the one who almost kissed you seconds before you told him you loved him only to have him saying you were just a kid! How could he?!

— Heard you’re going around camp saying I’m the bad guy who hurt your feelings.

[lexlovesbartylily]

one night darry is up later than normal, pacing the kitchen thinking of ways to pay off the most recent electric bill. he could pick up another shift at the construction company, or start a second (or even third) job for more cash. he's stressed out of his mind and totally zoned out before being startled into consciousness by ponyboy. ponyboy who just woke up from a nightmare about being jumped by socs again, dazed and scared. he walks towards the kitchen hearing muffled steps in front of him. he stops in a slight shock at the sight of a frantic and sleep deprived darrell.

pony didn't want to disturb him because he was scared that if he did, darry would go haywire again. so instead he quietly (which isn't so quiet bc of how old it is) opened the fridge to find a drink. all of a sudden he hears darry gasp behind him.

"ponyboy what are you doing up?" darry asks, sounding almost exactly like their late dad.

"i had a nightmare, getting a drink. what're you doing?" he replied, nervous about the next course of actions.

"bills are piling up again" the eldest says with defeat.

"let me help, i can get a job after school and give you the money" ponyboy practically begs. he's been subtly begging his brothers to let him help since the incident. he got shut down every time and he knew what darrys answer was gonna be but it couldn't hurt to try again.

"no ponyboy, soda and i have it under control, just got to pick up another shift next week."

"that's the third extra shift you've picked up in the past two weeks, you're working 7 days a week plus the extra shifts which is over 80 hours in two weeks. it's unhealthy darry and you need to relax. i could get an after school job and you could work less." pony pleaded. he knew that he was making darry agitated but he couldn't help it.

darry slumped into the chair next to him, staring at the bills that consume his every thought. thinking about how pony is right but he could never admit it. he hates that pony knows how bad it can get, he just wants pony to do good in school so he can succeed and get out of this stupid town.

"oh pony, it's so hard," he says with a sigh, "but there's nothing you can do to help. you have school and that's the most important thing you can do right now okay?"

pony's face relaxes knowing he wasn't going to get reprimanded for talking back. he knows how much his brothers struggle but every time he tries to help it's no use.

the boy accepts defeat.

"fine, but you can tell me when things get tough okay dar?" the youngest says with a hand on his brothers shoulder.

"thanks kid." darry smiled, a somber smile that even though it was semi-forced, made pony feel better.

"i can't sleep, can we watch the tv for a bit?"

"sure but only for a little bit, it's already 2 am."

the brothers then fell asleep on the couch together in the soft light of the tv.

everything was gonna be alright.

Ponyboy and Darry + bonding while being insomniacs go!!

[error-dark]

I love Bloodmoon. I miss Bloodmoon. I wanna draw Bloodmoon more. All I want for Christmas is Bloodmoon...

Congratulations to Bloodmoon from SAMS for out-living rent free in my head for 15 months. That's a whole new record and idk what other fictional character is gonna top that.

[madbard]

Thinking about how the Stan twins were both taught from a young age that life is a matter of transactions. How they were valued only for the money they could bring their family, and how this shaped their lives in such different ways.

Ford was the intelligent one, and this made him valuable. He knew what he had to offer. He knew he was important. (He had to be. Experience had shown him that love was conditional. He had to earn it. He had to be enough.) When Bill Cipher approached him, he confirmed everything Ford wanted so desperately to believe about himself. Imagine that sense of excitement, of accomplishment, of pride and power and relief. Imagine having that final, unshakeable source of external validation - that this being that knew everything and could have chosen anyone, chose you. Imagine knowing exactly what you could do to please this being and, with the understanding that love is conditional, knowing that you could fulfill the requirements for that love. Imagine knowing exactly how to ensure you would be loved, not just by that being but by the family you uplifted and the future you created. All you had to do was satisfy your own curiosity… all you had to do was build a portal. Is it any wonder that Ford fell for Bill’s tricks?

Then we have Stan, the failure. If love was transactional, he could never pay the fee. He knew people only helped you if you had something to offer. And he had nothing to offer, so why would anyone ever help him? Why would anyone care? Of course he didn’t fall for Bill. He couldn’t. When Bill promised gifts and power and happiness, how could Stan believe a word he said? In a world without altruism, such promises could never be trusted. There was always a price to be paid - and Stan had never been able to pay it.

And so the end of the world was triggered and then averted, all because one brother thought he could earn the world’s love, while the other knew he would never earn anything good.

A+ parenting, Filbrick. Truly.

[5a-alf]

I fear Kevin Day is the type of person whose struggle always came second. He funcioned enough that while everyone knew he wasn't alright, it was also nobody's problem, as someone else was actively having a harder time and they took precedence. He internalises all his problems and keeps going and going but he is fueled by alchool and sheer desperation a 100% of the time. If he were to stop for even a second he wouldn't know how to start again.

Did he ever, at somepoint in his life -away from the ex foxes, a pro player, married to Thea- wish he had it worse, just so that maybe it would have been his turn being saved? Being first? How badly would he feel, just one second after thinking it, because he knows damn well he has enough trauma to fill a stadium and he isn't actually jealous of his friends that had it worse, he isn't . That's a fucked up thing to think, stop it, stop it.

Would he still drink himself into a stupor to shoote the ache, to banish the thought? That's the help he got, when he was at his worst, a drink, and then two, and then a thousand. And it worked, it made him go, it picked him up when he was down, and now he can't get down without crashing.

Did he wish to be saved? Did he hope somebody, anybody, took the time and put in the effort to help him, just because they saw him down, not because he begged, but because they noticed he could use a hand. Or two, actually. Was it torment, to always be under the spotlight, yet never been seen? Did he run toward fame hoping the more eyes on him meant it would be easier to be noticed?

[cimtee]

I’m so flattered that even a single soul is interested in my WIPs 😳. I happen to love seeing the unique creative process of each artist.

Also it makes me feel less self-pressured to only post the clean pieces I’m more confident about. Also I’m mending the hole left behind from high school, when my friends watched my sketchbook fill up in real time during the classes I didn’t care to participate in (every single one).

One project I started recently is making ref sheets for each of the trc kids. Been meaning to do it for a while, to help with consistency when drawing them, but also because I love character design. Click for better quality!

Lineup sketch:

Also been doodling basic headshots to get their features down. Here are a few + some notes on personal design choices. Ideally, my ref sheets will list these and more:

(they make me laugh when I open up my sketchbook cuz they’re just there like 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️)

Other WIPs: Going through old sketches to see if any more are fit for posting. A handful of Pynch stuff. Some rendered pieces I will probably never finish but maybe will post anyway, if I’m feeling bold. Layout of the Barns, Monmouth, 300 Fox Way, St. Agnes, blah blah. And arguably my biggest one, a detailed interpretation of Ronan’s tattoo. Its tracked time on procreate is over 50 hrs… but what’s one more questionable life decision amirite… I have crazy respect and admiration for tattoo artists now.

It’s been a fun challenge, albeit a tedious one. A sneak peak:

That’s all for now!! I think I need a couple days off tumblr. I like yapping though. Thank you for having me

[hplonesomeart]

Here you go fellow gays enjoy some tranquil scenery with the favorite fruity robot ever. Spend a late night chatting with him on a balcony as the laughter rings out in the air. Can’t quite get any better then this

[thefastestclockintheuniverse]

This is legit maybe one of my favourite pages - because it confirms the delightful fact that Dave Strider is just sort of constantly muttering nonsense to himself.