#I keep forgetting Tumblr exists for days at a time

[mocharoni]

guess who's back from smelling candles and burying into blankets

[bittertasteofhoney]

Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 1

Seems Like Years Since It's Been Here

Summary: You’re fully immersed in your sunny life in Jackson when a certain Miller brother’s harsh nature cracks your bright demeanor.

|| angst, jackson!joel, jackson!tommy, this will be a slooooooowwww burn, joel being a bit of a butthole ||

Notes: My first time ever posting on tumblr so please be kind! Also if this isn’t your thing, feel free to keep exploring. :) I had to put my brain rot somewhere. This idea would not leave me alone. 

The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and The Last of Us franchise. This work is my creative property and aside of re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.

The sun burns your back in a way that translates to a hard day’s work. Your knees ache and you are elbow-deep in soil, but your cheeks also hurt from grinning with your co-workers. Being a part of the gardening crew in Jackson wasn’t an easy task but in your opinion, it was one of the most gratifying. 

Everyone had their talents. Some were good with their hands in the way that saw wood transformed into reinforced gates for the town or furniture to welcome a newbie home. Others were the brains behind the operation, making sure the cogs in the great machine that was Jackson were well-oiled and plentiful, to not only make sure everyone was safe but they had room to thrive and help the town in turn. 

Within the garden, you got to witness the beauty of the deep soil nurturing the seeds and growing the food that kept the town going. In tandem with the farmers, you made sure each citizen of Jackson went to bed with a stomach filled with wholesome food. 

It was life complete with such harmony that it was easy to forget what lurked beyond the gates. You rarely ever ventured out thanks to your steady position in the rows of produce. There were times where you wished you could be of more help but the days of prowling through the woods with a gun clutched in your hand were thankfully behind you. 

Life existed before Jackson but you were only interested in keeping your sights on your future here. 

You stand, bracing your hands on your hips as you stretch out your legs and back from hours spent knelt over weeding and clipping. 

“You goin’ to check the inventory?” Your head snaps to your coworker, Roberta, who was also standing for a stretch break. Her bright, red hair shining under the midday sun and her clothes equally speckled with dirt. You flash her one of your well-known smiles and give her a small shake of the head. 

“No. Actually, I'm going to check to see if that welcome box got picked up before I grab lunch for everyone.” She gives you a nod of her head and continues twisting from side to side to stretch out her joints. You lean down to grab the mason jar you keep near you during the day to stay hydrated and head to the greenhouse. 

You pass by rows of your other coworkers working through their to-do list under the Wyoming sun, waving and smiling as you pass. 

Your nickname, Sunshine, was well-earned throughout town. You didn’t realize it but after a year or two living here, you became known not by your overall appearance or bright personality but the thousand-watt smile you always flashed towards people, friends or strangers. Like everyone in Jackson knew, life past the gates was harsh beyond words. In your mind, a smile could go a long way if someone was struggling with memories from life before or if they were still recovering from those monstrous memories.

However, your smile never seemed to work on a certain Miller brother, recently returned from an seemingly impromptu trip outside Jackson. He left just as fast as he came and the most you were able to see of him was a glimpse of a tense conversation between him and his brother Tommy, Maria and the little girl Ellie in the mess hall before he and Ellie were gone again the next day.

When the pair returned, they kept close to one another, leaving little for any outside introductions. Eventually, Ellie befriended one of the local girls and in turn, settled into the younger Jackson population. Meanwhile, Joel kept close to Tommy and Maria. You occasionally bumped into him around town, while walking to work or at the Tipsy Bison. Like clockwork, you always flashed him a smile but in turn rarely got anything more than a grimace and if you were lucky, a grunt. Those always turned out to be good days. 

Despite how many smiles you flashed at him, knocks on his front door and reminders to Tommy, neither Joel nor Ellie ever came to pick up their welcome produce box. To make the transition into Jackson life simpler, your team always curated a box filled with the season’s fresh veggies and fruits, a selection of canned spreads, a baked good or two and coffee. 

Jackson’s citizens picked up their weekly rations like clockwork and ate a majority of their meals at the mess hall. These boxes and weekly rations made it easy to make breakfast at home, have nutritious snacks on hand and host the occasional gathering at one’s own home. Joel however, took it upon himself to not even bother with stocking up the home and instead make the mess hall his and Ellie’s only food destination.

You couldn’t blame them really. It was convenient and there was always friendly conversation to be had but all the same. Their welcome box was starting to wilt.

You step into the greenhouse and spot the cardboard box sitting next to the inventory station. Dropping your mason jar in the communal sink, you pick up the box and head up the road towards the direction of the Miller house. The walk was on the long side but you welcome the feeling of the breeze and a chance to move more than from one row of tomatoes to the next. You spot a patch of wildflowers and decide to pluck them to add a little life to the box.

You spot their crooked mailbox and walk up the path, dropping the box on their stoop before knocking on the door. After a few minutes of polite tapping, you realize no one is home. You could drop the box on the stoop and head to the mess hall but you want to make sure they knew how the town’s ration system worked and you couldn’t trust Tommy to explain it truthfully. That man will flash a wink and smile any day of the week if it means he can snag a little extra of anything to surprise Maria with. It usually worked too. It was hard saying no to the town’s resident hero and handyman. 

You shake your head to yourself and lift the box again to head into the main part of town to hit up the mess hall for sandwiches for your crew. A few minutes of smiles and neighborly waves later, you enter the bustling building filled to the brim thanks to the lunchtime hour. 

You step inside almost tripping over a gaggle of your neighbor Lisa’s kids playing near the entrance. You smile off the almost misstep and continue inside, spotting the serving station. You weave around a few tables almost reaching the counter when you hear a familiar booming laugh. You smirk, knowing that goofing cadence anywhere. Tommy Miller. 

Your eyes scan the room until you see the mop of curly, black waves and next to him, a shorter set of grayer waves. Bingo. Smiling to yourself, you redirect your path up to their table, slowing down when you catch a piece of their conversation. Joel’s back was to you and Tommy was too busy frowning at his brother to notice your slow approach. Both were clothed in dusty plaids and denim, matching the overall town population.

“Oh, c’mon Joel. Stop being so hard. All you gotta do is pick up the damn box and get on with your day. Stop making work for everyone else.” You see the back of Joel’s head snap up, previously fixated on the plate in front of him.

“I ain’t making work. It’s plenty easy grabbin’ food here throughout the day and plus it saves me from Little Miss Sunshine.” You freeze about a table’s length away from them. 

Jesse, one of the town's younger patrolmen notices you pause next to him and he half turns to you, cracking a crooked smile. You don’t notice him until you feel a slight tug on your work shorts. You frown down at him, still listening.

Tommy groans in annoyance. “Really? Of course you’d have a problem with the sweetest girl in town.”

“I don’t have a problem. I just don’t feel like wastin’ my time on idle small talk is all. There’s no point.”

“She’s just bein’ nice, Joel. Can’t really blame her.” You can almost feel Joel’s eyes narrowing at his brother.

“I ain’t got time to spend losing brain cells to listen to some airhead talk. Don’t worry. I’ll send Ellie to pick it up.” You see Tommy scrunch his eyebrows at Joel, half incredulous and half pissed.

“Really? And she’ll pick up your weekly rations too? Scared Sunshine’ll flash you a smile and you’ll fall-” 

You don’t wait to hear the rest. You take a deep breath and finally turn towards Jesse and hold out the box to him. “Mind handing that over to Joel for me?” You give him a weak, watery smile. “I gotta grab food for the crew and he seems a bit tied up.” 

Jesse nods at you confused and replies, “‘Course.”

You scurry off to the counter to quickly grab a set of sandwiches before beelining for the exit, counting to twenty in your head to keep the tears at bay. Airhead. You shake your head to propel the thought momentarily away while you walk outside. 

Meanwhile, Jesse walks up to the table and deposits the produce box in front of Joel. The older Miller peers down at the arrangement of goods in confusion and looks up at Tommy who passes the look to Jesse. The younger boy shrugs and motions to your hurrying form. “She asked me to drop it. Said y’all looked busy.”

Tommy’s eyes catch a glimpse of you and he’s quick to notice your rushed steps.“Shit. She hear anythin’?” The only response the two brothers get to Tommy’s question is the narrowed look Jesse gives Joel. 

Joel hangs his head muttering under his breath before swinging his leg over the bench, abandoning the harsh look his brother was pointing towards him and the box of good intentions. He takes quick strides to the exit, hoping to catch you before you get too far down the street but when he steps back into the sunlight, you’re long gone down a side street he has yet to discover.  

Next Chapter.

[uyuforu]

*´¨)  ¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)  (¸.·´ (¸.·´ * Astro Observations XII *´¨)  ¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)  (¸.·´ (¸.·´ *

©uyuforu All Rights Reserved; Do not copy work.

Pictures found on Pinterest, Dividers from Tumblr; Credits go to owners.

⋆ Astro Observations VI ⋆ Astro Observations VII ⋆ Astro Observations VIII ⋆ Astro Observations IX 18+⋆ Astro Observations X ⋆ Astro Observations XI ⋆

࣪ ִֶָ☾. It's been a while my babies! I have been very busy by a lot of things, mostly that I found a second job in a company I really wanted to work in. I paused the private readings for a while because I wanted to make sure to get well into my job. I am feeling like I can come back now, it feels good! I didn't forget about you nor astrology, in fact my mind is constantly continuing noticing things around me lol. Im gonna do a post here with some astro gossips and thing is have noticed. Hope you'll like this :)

Tip Jar: paypal ⟡ buy me a coffee

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Mercury Cazimi is currently happening (May 2025). If you do not know what it is, it is the Sun and Moon making a conjunction, and it's often a perfect time to find out truths.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ The Wizard Liz, a very famous YouTuber who makes contents on women empowerment, got cheated on by her husband while she was 4 months pregnant and found out during the transit.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking about this transit, my mom found out some truth about her astro placements and work. She was always confronted with women who wanted to run the work place and saw her as a threat. She realized during this transit instead of running away from those people, she should confront them and stand against them.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Another thing that came up, for me I learned one of my coworker who flirted openly with me had a girlfriend, and didn't want me to know :)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ What should I expect from a Libra Sun Man?? Seriously those men looooove flirting. Always cheating, sorry not sorry.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ He also got a Leo Venus and a Leo Mars, he loves the attention, which I am not giving to him, he always made sure I noticed he was in the room, talking loud, constantly commenting on anything I would do, clingy.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking synastry with this guy, his Venus and Mars conjunct my Sun, ofc he got a crush. And his Sun conjunct my Rising. Bro is so into me its so obvious, always staring.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ My other coworkers are a Capricorn Sun (man) and a Libra Sun (woman). My Libra Sun female coworker is such an angel. She has a Virgo Rising as well; which conjunct my Venus, and we get along so well.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ She is truly very dedicated to her work, but so kind and naturally beautiful. I think her Libra Sun with Virgo Rising makes her embrace her natural beauty, she is never wearing make up.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ For my Cap Sun male coworker, he nice too, but so shy omg, he a Scorpio Rising, so you can guess why he so reserved. He also got a Gemini Moon so once you get to know him he is actually very funny.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ My two bosses are both Taurus Sun, and they are only 3 days and 4 years apart, and they got the same name, which I found to be a funny coincidence.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I wanna talk about Synastry again. My Libra Sun male coworker who keeps flirting with me also got his Jupiter conjunct my Briede Asteroid (19029). But his Chiron falls in my 12H with his Sun, Im not interested in him, I often act as if he doesn't exist, he too straightforward for me AND HE GOT A GF WTF.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Though if you want to get rid of a man with Leo on their Venus and Mars: do not give them attention. It's gonna hurt their ego so bad they gonna hate you. Mission accomplished.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking about crushes, I also found out during Mercury Cazimi transit that a guy I knew back in 2022 got a crush on me STILL. He an Aquarius Sun, Aquarius Moon and idk his rising lol, but im sure its Cancer.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ His Chiron is in my 11H, he got friend zoned by me a few years ago but indirectly ;-;

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ His Union Asteroid and North Node are in my 1H, bro got a crush at first sight on me. It also both conjunct my Mars. hehehe

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I often noticed too that men who got huge crushes on me got their Mars conjunct my Venus or Sun. Often indicating strong attraction.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I found toon that your big 3 often indicates your reputation and how people see you directly. Im a Leo Sun, Libra Rising and Gemini Moon. People see me as charming and beautiful yet also fake (Libra Rising). They also think I am kind and easily in the spotlight yet some will say im attention grabbing and too much (Leo Sun). And people also see me as funny and witty, but childish and fake (Gemini Moon).

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking fast about Lunar Returns but the one I started my job, I had a 6H stellium. Venus was also there, and I had some coworkers who got crushes on me -.-

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I also had a Libra Rising which is the same Rising as in my natal chart, and bro I felt like I was noticed so much by other people?? I got called beautiful by strangers so many times. I also got a glow up from me cutting my hair (which I did after Venus retrograde ended and best decision ever!)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Ofc my 6H stellium also meant I was very busy! I had Neptune there as well and I kept dreaming/ having nightmares about work.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also right when I found out about Liz's husband cheating on her and my Libra man coworker having a gf, it was the start of my new Lunar Return, with a 12H stellium with Venus in it. Love was OVER for me! I was feeling like it sucked, and men only cheated!

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Currently in the new Lunar Return, I also have a 1H stellium with Sun, Mercury, Uranus and Moon there, and I found out I lost weight. I am also feeling more confident in my body and I feel like im having a constant glow up.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also, I wanna say if you have a Leo stellium, Sun in 10H or even a Leo stellium in the 10H, better realize now whatever you do, you'll be in the spotlight and people will be jealous of you. Embrace the truth and be confident baby.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Transit Pluto conjunct Natal Neptune could mean you could realize some illusions you had about a subject (to know which subject it would be about, check the house it happens). Truth could be revealed to you during this time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Sun or Moon conjunct Mars Synastry can bring out jealousy.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Sun conjunct Mars can also bring out strong physical attraction for the Mars person. But on the negative side, Sun person have the ability to also piss Mars person off strongly lol.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also Im gonna die on this hill, but Sun conjunct Moon never did well to anyone around me. It clashes more than anything because the conjunction is a strong aspect; while sextile and trine would be better because it's harmonious.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Mars conjunct Chiron often makes Chiron person triggered by Mars person.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Selena Gomez being a self made Billionaire also makes so much sense looking at her chart. She has her 2H Ruler being the Sun (so money comes from the self), in the 1H. So even more that comes from the self, the money also comes from her, her image, so she was meant to build an empire around her image. BUT. Her Sun (2H Ruler) is in 29°, she is literally over famous.

Thank you for Reading!

Tip Jar: paypal ⟡ buy me a coffee

©uyuforu All Rights Reserved; Do not copy work.

[cryoculus]

WORKIGN TITLE.MP3 ✧ MASTERLIST

from retired superfan to lead guitarist—it’s the kind of plot twist not even the fandom could write. but somehow, you’re living it anyway. now if only mydei would stop looking at you like some ghost wearing his best friend's shadow.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 84k (COMPLETE)

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; walk with me: the title is intentional! this series is already finished on ao3 but i will be cross-posting this one by one on tumblr for your consumption as well. this is probably the most fun au i've pulled off since i started writing, and i hope you enjoy reading through it :3c

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

OFFICIAL TRACKLIST ⟢

✧ 01: NOT HIM | 7.7k words

one day, you're watching your favorite band all the way from the stands, and the next you're standing on stage with them. life is a little surreal like that.

✧ 02: ALL YOURS | 7.4k words

the last thing you expect for mydei to do is ask you to help write a song. it could have been out of pity, or a means to distract, but little do you know, those fragmented lyrics will pull you so much closer into each others' orbit.

✧ 03: MORE TIME | 8.2k words

the tour is in full swing, heavy with expectations and lingering doubts, and it comes with its own chaotic moments—both good and bad. you're still learning how to find your footing in the midst of it all.

✧ 04: GUILTY | 8.5k words

aidonia is in the rearview, and the future is yours to take. but as your connections with the band deepen further, you find yourself toeing across the boundaries of what should and shouldn't be.

✧ 05: INHERITANCE | 6.8k words

a tropical island getaway in the middle of the tour is just the thing everyone needs, but work will always come before play. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

✧ 06: STOLEN | 7.1k words

in a place that wants you to forget, you all cement yourselves into something worth remembering. but when a heated moment gets swiped from underneath your nose, you're rightfully terrified of its consequences.

✧ 07: GOLD AND DUSK | 7.9k words

you realize you have friends in unlikely places, as whatever is blooming between you and mydei unfurls. but you know better than to become complacent.

✧ 08: BLISTERING DENIAL | 8.9k words

to protect what you have is to sometimes deny its existence entirely. but to mydei, that protection is nothing short of betrayal.

✧ 09: GOOD NIGHT | 8.7k words

against all odds, you run into a familiar face—someone that could undoubtedly bridge the gap between you and the band, and you and mydei for good.

✧ 10: HEAVENSENT | 12k words

part of every journey is the end, and once the tour wraps up in its final stop, it unknowingly spells the start of something new. that being: defining whatever the hell is between you and mydei.

✧ BONUS TRACK: | TBA

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[musingsofheaven]

GIRLS LIKE GIRLS.

summary: she’s your best friend. she has always been around you, or you are always around her. you call it girlhood like that explains why you’re constantly touching her and sleeping in her bed and staring at her mouth mid-sentence like want to kiss it and tashi’s so fucking tired of that word like she want to erase the existence of that word.

pairings: closeted best friend!tashi duncan × afab best friend!reader

warnings: 3.2k words. emotional themes. homoerotic undertones. emotional repression. internalized homophobia. compulsory heterosexuality. unspoken wlw tension. queerness denial / closeting. blurred boundaries. read gently.

note: reposted because i hate tumblr ! i’m sorry for writing this during pride month (i am not really planning on writing about this) 😔 but i couldn’t get it out of my head. last night. i was supposed to write about artrick.. but unfortunately… i lived through the exact horrors of homoerotic friendship (and so tashi suddenly came into my mind) and couldn’t keep pretending i was fine. this piece is personal (not in a way it reflects what happened in mine, but it reflect the feelings, yes) in the way that makes you stare at the wall for a bit after writing. i hope it makes someone feel a little more seen. happy pride month, my babies. 🫶

You’ve always been like this.

Too loud when you’re excited. She can practically predict that you’ll do those mannerisms when you experience certain things that excite you. You’re too soft when you’re tired. You like sleeping, and sometimes you rest. The kind of girl who clings to people without realizing she’s doing it. You want to hold people when you’re comfortable with them. Especially their arms. When you are out and you’re getting anxious? You’ll hold the fabric of their top. When you’re happy, you will squeeze them. You are kind who says “I love you” like it’s thank you, sorry, and nothing at all. You can easily say it like a candy being handed to kids. You cry when you’re angry. Or sometimes you get quiet. You laugh when you’re nervous. The awkward laugh. Jesus, you do that to make people think you’re so brave or smug. You don’t hide anything, and Tashi’s never decided if that makes you brave or reckless.

But you picked her. Somehow. At some point.

Out of everyone in that place, you look at her and decide, “Okay, I’m going to talk to her.” You looked at her like she was safe. Like she was obvious. You held her wrist once, years ago, and said, “You’re stuck with me now,” and she didn’t even blink. You don’t even let her breathe. You look like you won’t accept no as an answer. Just nodded. Just said, “Okay.”

That’s what it’s always been with you. No hesitation. No distance. You love with your whole chest and body all at once. And you act like everyone else does, too. Like that’s normal.

It isn’t. Not really, in her eyes, it isn’t.

Tashi always loses her mind when it comes to you. The worst part is that she has never met anyone else like you. But you calm her down despite driving her insane. You call her your best friend. Say it like a title. Like a crown. She lets you. Even if some days, it feels more like a leash because you call it girlhood.

She can’t count how many times you used that words. To Tashi, that’s your word for everything. When you braid or brush her hair, when your fingers are intertwined in public, when you whisper I love you in her ear like you are telling that to your boyfriend. You say it with that dreamy little laugh of yours. Your smile will be so big, and you‘ll tilt your head. It’s like you’re both sixteen and living inside a coming-of-age playlist.

Girlhood. Yeah girlhood. Sometimes she wants to curse that word out. Or erase it from the dictionary. Or make people forget about it. Tashi doesn’t say anything when you do it. When you call the things you do to her girlhood, she’ll just shut up. Don’t say that, as always. She never does. She smiles, nods, and lets you have your softness, like she isn’t dying a little bit every time you wrap it in glitter and innocence.

You say things like, “She’s my soulmate but like, not in a gay way,” and expect her to laugh. She will look at you disgustedly as if she’s disgusted by the affection. No, he isn’t, but she appreciates the gesture. But the implication. Yeah. So sometimes she laughs at it. Sometimes she wants to take your face and ask what the hell you think this is. Or slap you.

Because what is that?

Best friends don’t look at each other like that across rooms. Not with the lingering eyes, no. They don’t get quiet or send daggers with their eyes when one of them is flirting with someone else. They don’t fall asleep on each other’s stomachs while looking up or maybe face down on the stomach and hand on thighs, or they don’t cuddle, and their hands will caress you.

And they don’t say I love you and sweet things like it means more than friendship, like you want her to take it differently.

But you do.

You say it all the time. Sometimes casually, when you feel emotional, or about it, constantly. You don’t even hear yourself anymore.

Sometimes Tashi wonders if you know. If you think that actions might be beyond friendship already, or you’re just that dumb. Not on the surface, maybe. Not in a way you’d admit out loud. But deep down, where it sits quietly and stays on your mind, it will whisper to you about it and warm your stomach. Maybe a part of you knows exactly what you’re doing. That‘s what you do. That speak and say, “girl, shut the fuck up that’s not so platonic.” That leans in too close. That holds on too long.

Maybe that part of you is in love with her. Not love that you can give to everybody. Not in a way that you feel with your boyfriend, who never stays long. Not in a way that you are supposed to love your best friend.

And maybe that’s the part you keep drowning with lip gloss and throwaway phrases like girlhood. You probably hide behind those little phrases because you don’t know how to justify them.

Because how can you even get jealous like it’s her fault? No, she’s not talking about the jealousy towards her. It’s the jealousy you’ll feel about others. You might not notice it, but it’s always the same. The minute Tashi mentions another girl, maybe someone from the university, someone she got drinks with once, someone she plays tennis with, someone who complimented her, someone who texted her late, you change.

Not obviously. Not dramatically. Not in a way people in relationships do. Well, maybe it’s the same, but you go quiet. Mouth shut. How can you even shut it when you always seem to say something when you’re with her? You blink a little too long. You find something to fuss or distract yourself with. She noticed it. You do it with your sleeve, cup, and shirt hem; you get touchy with things and say something soft and stupid like, “Oh… cool.”

Then, a few minutes later, you lean into her. So fucking close that you might want to eat her space. To get her in your system. Your hands can’t even calm down. You’ll touch her arm. Rest your chin on her shoulder like you’re trying to remind her where she belongs. Sometimes you’ll rest your forehead instead and stay like that.

You never say it’s jealousy. You say it’s best friend stuff. Fuck that. best friend stuff. Yeah, best friend. You say, “I don’t like people trying to steal you.” You say, “You’re my person. You’re my best friend. You’re my soulmate. You’re not allowed to replace me.”

And Tashi, who has spent her whole life trying not to look at you the way she does, laughs. Plays along. Because what can she do? Complain? No. She’s not dumb. She won’t do anything that will keep you away from her. So she’ll brush your hair back from your face and says, “As if I could.” No, she really can’t replace you. Maybe she can. But you’ll always haunt her. You’ll always be behind her mind, whispers the what-ifs.

Tashi doesn’t ask what you mean by it. Your words. Doesn’t call you out when your mood shifts for the rest of the night. When you cling too tightly. As if she’s someone you need to hold on to. When you look at her like she’s slipping through your fingers, you don’t know why that bothers you.

You’re not gay. She’s heard you say it. Sometimes she got disgusted with it. How proud you are. Or how you deny doing things that can be considered queer in other people’s eyes. You need to assure people about it. You say it with so much certainty that it almost sounds true.

But then you pull her a little closer. So close that it might suffocate you. You squeeze her hand tighter while you steal glances at her. You ask who texted her at midnight, as if it’s small talk. You ask things like you’re just curious, not because you are bothered and want to pry about it. And you act like this is normal. Like this is what girls do.

Tashi doesn’t correct you. Just smiles. Just nods. Just squeezes your hand back. She lets you have it. Whatever this is. You do everything together.

People don’t think twice about things until they see how you touch her because you are best friends and are so proud. The way you sit is too close. The way people won’t question it because “they are just friends, get used to it.” Your eyes follow her mouth when she talks, like you’re unaware.

You call it “just us stuff.” Meaning the stuff you only do to each other. You can’t do stuff with other people because it’s your thing. Sometimes you paint her nails while straddling her thigh on the couch. You even pick a color for her, and she always lets you. That made you so giggly because Tashi is not hard to paint nails for; she’s still watching your face while you do it because you’re so focused, and you won’t even notice how she looks at you. You do her makeup while your fingers linger too long under her chin, smiling and telling her she looks so pretty. You lie across her lap when you’re tired and ask her to scratch your back, whining when she pauses like she owes you her hands.

Once, she tucked your hair behind your ear, and your breath hitched. You rolled your eyes, and you laughed. Said, “God, this is so gay. Good thing I’m not.” She almost laughed, too. Almost. But she doesn’t because she wanted to stab herself after hearing that.

You share things. Share drinks. Especially food. You’ll try whatever she’s having, tell her “I want to see what you got,” while pouting. Share beds. You kiss her cheek when you’re proud of her. You’ll even scrunch your nose after that and giggle before giving her more praise. You grip her waist when you’re drunk, whisper “you’re so pretty it’s disgusting,” when she’s getting ready for a party she didn’t even invite you to.

You bite her shoulder when you’re laughing too hard. You tuck your face into her neck like it’s nothing. You say she’s so comfortable and soft, you‘re always in her space.

You tell her things no one else knows. The stuff you get embarrassed about. Your weird things that she can only understand. Your fears will haunt you. Your dreams that you’re so eager to get in the grip of your hands. The intrusive thoughts that don’t make sense or are too disturbing until she nods and says, “I get it.”

You once took a photo of her while she was sleeping. You sent it to her and told her she looked peaceful. Beautiful. You always take candid photos of her as if you are taking pictures of her through the lenses of your eyes. Or in the way you see her.

You don’t think it means anything. You’re just close. That’s all. You’re her best friend.

And that’s the word you always use when she makes you feel something you don’t want to name. You say that when you’re too sweet to her. “I love you, you know that? I couldn’t pick another best friend than you.”

You also talk about boys as if they don‘t matter. It’s never about how they made you feel. It’s always what they didn’t do. They didn’t text the right way. They didn’t listen. They don’t compliment you. They wear too much cologne. They don’t match outfits with you. They don’t carry your purses. They don’t get goofy with you. They didn’t remember the little things. They didn’t get you.

Tashi hears it every time. The silent comparison. “He was nice,” you say one night, your head resting on her thigh as you scroll through your phone. “But not funny. Not like you.” What the fuck that supposed to mean?

Tashi hums, barely. Of course she does. Of course, she’ll validate the comparison. It made the boys you date look like nothing when she stood beside them. Her fingers hover above your hair, aching to touch you, but she doesn’t move.

“He ordered for me without asking,” you add, tossing your phone aside. “Who does that?” your voice irritated before you look at her.

She gives a soft laugh. “And you didn’t leave right then?” she asks. Always asks if you leave immediately, or don’t let people do the bare minimum.

“I should have. I don’t know.” You sigh. “It’s always something. They talk too much. They don’t care enough. They try hard to impress me and still get it all wrong.” You shift a little, pressing closer like you always do when frustrated. You have that face when you’re annoyed. Tashi lets you.

“I just want someone who gets me,” you murmur. “Someone who knows what I mean even when I don’t say it. Someone I can… exist with.”

You don’t even look at her. You don’t have to. The weight of your words lands all the same. Tashi doesn’t say a thing. She wants to choke herself while hearing your words.

And then- God, then- you laugh. Bright and thoughtless. “I swear,” you say, nudging her knee with yours, “If you were a guy, I’d be so in love with you.” Classic. It guts her. Instantly. Who said that? Who said you can say that? Who allowed you? You grin like you haven’t just knocked the air out of her.

“I mean, think about it. We already do everything together. You know me better than anyone. You’re smart, you’re hot, you listen- like, what else could I ask for?” Tashi smiles because that’s what she’s supposed to do. Because that’s all she can do. She cannot say, “Yeah, I would date you right now.” But something behind her ribs is aching. And you don’t even notice.

You don’t always notice. You touch her like it means nothing after you said that. Or in daily occurrences, you’ll feel like it’s automatic. Like she belongs to you.

You drag her into dressing rooms under the excuse of “just help me pick,” and then make her stand there while you change in front of her, shirt off, bra on, asking if the color washes you out. Ask those questions that are in her little overthinking mind, like you need her approval for your clothes. You’ll twirl, look over your shoulder, ask if it makes your ass look flat. And then laugh when you catch her staring. “Don’t look at me like that, perv.”

She never is. Not the way you think. She’s just admiring you. In a way like… “You’re so pretty, I want to kiss you,” but she doesn’t say that. Not openly. Not in a way that would give her away. But you don’t know that. You don’t know anything.

Sometimes, your hand lingers at her waist for too long. You’ll grip it absentmindedly at parties, in lines, when you’re trying to get her attention. You’ll lean in close, murmur against her ear, and then stay there, breath warm, smile soft.

You slap her ass when she walks past you in a crop top and call her a whore- joking, always joking- and follow it with “I’m so jealous of your body. It’s unfair.”

You once cupped her tits in a pool and claimed it was because “your bikini looks so good.”

Tashi didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. She just laughed- because what else could she do? Thank fuck you guys in the water that time so her blushing cheeks are not that obvious.

You’ve asked her to shower with you more than once. You’ll say, “I don’t want to be late.” Yeah. Or when there’s an emergency, like there’s only one shower. “You’ve seen me naked like a thousand times, who cares?” You say it all so easily. So convincingly. Like you mean nothing by it. And maybe you don’t. Perhaps it’s just friendship to you. Girlhood. Closeness.

But to her, It’s torture. Every casual brush of your fingers, every thoughtless press of your body to hers, every moment you strip down without flinching- it all adds up. A hundred quiet wounds with your name on them.

Still, she never stops you. She never will because she’d rather have too much of you, in all the wrong ways, than not have you at all. She wants you, and she’ll take anything you can give her. Anything she’ll eat that up like a goddamn dog.

And you… You can’t just stop. You keep dating men. It‘s like it’s a habit you can’t quite break. Some of them are sweet. Some of them are forgettable. None of them lasts long. And every time one slips away, you come back to her. Like you always do. Because you need her, you need your best friend. You show up at her door with a tired laugh and something cheap in a paper bag, claiming you’re over it, that it was nothing, that he was never that deep in your life anyway. But you always talk about him just a little too long. You always make her sit through it and be forced to listen. You always sigh like there’s something stuck in your chest that you don’t have the words for.

Tashi listens. She always listens. She holds your wine and your weight and your moods. She lets you get drunk. She gets drunk with you, too. She enables you to lean into her like it’s your right. She lets you hold her because you need comfort. She tells you you’re fine and’ll find someone better, even though you’re not asking. You never ask. Not directly.

But you still watch her face when you talk about new boys. God. God. God. Why is there always a new guy? She’s not even over about the last guy you dated, as if she’s the one moving on.

You still say things like, “You’ll like him, he kind of reminds me of you,” or “We have your kind of banter,” or “I think this might be different, but I want to see what you think.”

You bring them up like you’re waiting for her reaction. You told her first about which guy you are talking like you need her approval, who you’ll date. You try to make her laugh with your texts. You compare how they hug you, how they listen, how they don’t.

And after every breakup, like it always does, you come back again. You end up in her bed, curled around a pillow like it means nothing. You curl into her space like it’s yours. You don’t say much. You don’t have to. But sometimes you mutter, half-asleep, that you don’t know why nothing ever works.

Tashi doesn’t tell you why. She listens. Let you stay. She brushes your hair out of your face and holds you in silence, eyes on the ceiling, and your heart somewhere far from sleep.

Outside, the world keeps moving.

Inside, she wonders how long she can keep being almost everything.

And whether almost will ever be enough.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[cynfuldelights]

A Doll on the Wall

The dollposting got to me. Here's roughly 8000 words about becoming, transforming, and forgetting with the help of some magic and porcelain. Enjoy! Content Warnings For: Car Accidents, Blood, Broken, Bones, Implied Dismemberment AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65056150

-- Tumblr Version Below Collapse!

When I was little I used to dream of being a doll.

I’d lie in bed and stare at them all lined up in a row, sitting on a shelf mounted on the eggshell white walls of my room.

Just the thought of it was so relieving; imagining a reality where I could just… exist, and be appreciated. No asking about my future or my life or my lack of either despite a degree and years of school.

Despite breaking my back and mind to survive I still had so little to call my own. Even my house wasn’t mine; it was my grandmother’s. Still full of her things, full of her memories.

It’s no wonder that I would stare and admire them. Perfect, yet fragile things, much more perfect than me, more whole than I was at this point. Gracile arms and legs adorned in skirts and sleeves stitched full of care and details. Much more pleasing than the room they and I dwelled.

Even before she passed I’d stare up at my grandmother’s doll collection for hours. Sort through each one as I walked through her one-story brick house in the suburrbs, looking up at the shelves they were sitting on, getting a better look as I got older and taller. As a kid they were kept immaculately clean, a far cry from my own room, which my grandma refused to pick up after even before she had trouble walking. Must’ve been why she was so surprised when I started asking if I could help clean her dolls. For once she even bothered to show me how to do something instead of handing me a rag, pointing at something, and saying “Clean”.

I’d take down each one tender and careful like they were made of eggshells and gossamer instead of porcelain and hand-sewn cloth. A gentle blow and shake followed to free it of loose dust and then I’d wipe the shelf with a damp cloth, careful not to bother the others. There were dozens of them, adorning nearly every wall of every room of her home.

“Let’s clean you up little one,” I’d say to each one as I picked them off their shelves, voice as gentle as my touch, “I didn’t forget you.” My grandma taught me to say it to each one so none of them would feel left out. Ironic, given how many times she left me at home to go spend time with my cousins. Ironic, given how many times she’d talk about me in front of relatives like I wasn’t even there.

Like I was another doll on her wall. If only.

The winter after she passed, when the work days were long and the nights alone even longer, cleaning and rearranging them became a kind of ritual.

I’d drive home all the while bitching about the transmission that I still needed to get fixed, take off my suffocating work suit, put on one of my long dresses, put some frozen pre-made something or other in the oven for dinner, before then gathering my notes and cleaning supplies.

Aside from keeping track of names for all of them, I’d also rotate which dolls sat beside which and in which rooms so none of them would get bored or lonely. Demi liked the living room and sitting besides Ophelia. Candice couldn’t stand Katrina but could if Emily was nearby.

It was painstaking work, but I’d usually be done before I had to go to bed. Sometimes I wasn’t. Sometimes I’d forget to eat or forget to take my food out of the oven.

That’s how I broke my favorite, Wendy; by way of my smoke alarm scaring the shit out of me and causing me to drop and step on her with bare-feet as I rushed to stop my kitchen from burning. Being made almost entirely of porcelain except for her chestnut-colored hair, the largest pieces of her that survived were her head and torso. Even those were broken in the back like a caved in egg. A beautiful girl smashed to bloody pieces.

The others watched as I gathered her remains, cleaned the blood off, and limped her over to my dessk to try and piece her back together with superglue. It took all of an hour for me to realize there was no hope. If I wanted to fix her I’d need a professional.

I was guilt-ridden for days. Crying in the quiet moments and desperately trying not to at all other points. My coworkers became convinced I had another death in the family. I knew how to respond to these awkward condolences even less than the ones for my grandmother.

Even my supervisor told me he’d give me another week of bereavement leave if I wanted it. But only after the rumor reached him and after it became obvious my work was suffering again. Surprising, given how often I was late because of my car.

I took it. Gladly. It meant I had an opportunity to get Wendy fixed. I was more than willing to use the savings that were supposed to be for a new car for her.

But even as relieved as I was, I could see how frustrated my supervisor was. I knew then this would probably be the last bit of sympathy I got out of him before I had to start looking for another job.

The day after I called place after place until I found one that was close enough in distance and in price range with what I could afford. Unfortunately most were booked up or too busy to take something so short notice.

Except for one place I found on an odd forum I’d never heard of before. The post simply read:

<<If u’ve ever got a doll fixation that u need fixed check out this place, vera walked me through everything, fast service, discreet, still feel like the luckiest girl in the world>>

The rest of the thread was hard to comprehend. Lots of questions about the experience and how it felt, for some reason.

The linked website was… odd, they seemed to be into some New Age mysticism stuff given the lace-patterned pentagrams that served as the dot for each of the “I’s” in the business’ title. Their services were… vague as was the pricing. It was on the other side of the state but that was still better than shipping Wendy somewhere.

“Inanimate Interests, this is Vera speaking,” A woman on the other end of the phone said after the line rang twice, “How can I help you?” Her voice was smooth and deeper-pitched, something I was more used to hearing from a radio host.

“Um. Hi, *cough* hello, Vera.” I began, my throat hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to someone outside of work, “I-I’m calling because I have an all-bisque 19th century porcelain doll that got damaged pretty badly after I was trying to clean one day and I was wanting to see if I could get it fixed.”

“All-bisque?” Vera responded, clearly confused, “Is she… a doll, doll? The old-school kind, or...?”

It took me a few long moments to realize she wasn’t calling me ‘doll’. In that time I paced around the living room twice from embarrassment, “Uh… yeah? She’s over a century old, been sitting on my grandma’s shelf for a long while. It um… meant a lot to her and she’s not… around anymore, so fixing Wendy would really mean a lot to me-to her, I mean.”

“...Ah. I see.” Vera said, followed by an appraising silence. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the kind of work I normally accept we’re… kind of a specialty business.”

“Oh.” The embarrassment left me as fast as my confidence, as I looked down at my list of possible places jotted down on a sticky note. This was the last one within the state. “O...kay, thanks for listening then and sorry for bothering you, by-”

“Hang on, hang on, wait-!”

I stopped before my thumb could hit disconnect, put the phone back up to my ear.

“Yes?” I asked, wondering if I did something wrong.

“Just because it’s not what I normally do, doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Rent’s rent, after all.” Vera clarified with a reassuring laugh, “Tell me about Wendy and what happened and I’ll see what I can do.”

I blinked in astonishment before smiling and sitting down. The smile faded fast as I recounted what happened to damage her so bad.

“And how often do you handle Wendy?” Vera asked, the sound of a chair creaking through the tinny speaker of my phone, “Monthly, weekly?”

“...Daily?” I admitted, shame and guilt running down my neck like my attempts at growing out my brown hair, uneven and prickling, “I usually clean and rearrange my col-my grandma’s collection every day.” I half-expected to get chewed out for messing with fragile things so much.

Instead there was another moment of silence from Vera, before she asked, “Do you do it daily because that’s how your grandmother makes you do it, or because you enjoy it?”

“...Does that matter?” I asked, shame snapping down like a bear trap on the real answer, “You’re just gonna fix her aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say the answer matters for my… process. Things usually turn out better if there’s some positive emotions like love in the mix instead of just guilt and obligation. It’s kinda like... cooking!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, even as I picked at my nails nervously, “Well, I don’t really cook for myself but if it’ll help then… yeah. I do it because I like it. When I have a rough day at work which is… most days, I come home and clean and rearrange the dolls. My grandma used to just leave them up on the same shelves but I never liked to.”

“They get lonely otherwise, don’t they?” Vera asked, which earned a nod and “Mmhmm” from me, “Forgive me if this is overstepping, but, you seem to care more about them than even the person you inherited them from.”

“Yeah, you can say that.” I said, as I relaxed back on the old dusky pink sofa, “My grandma kinda got bored of collecting them after awhile, but she had so many by then that she couldn’t really just get rid of all of them without redecorating the entire place. It was dust bunnies and moth holes galore when I started caring for them. Tandy’s dress was all but eaten away by moths and Mathilda’s bonnet was in shambles… I had to learn how to sew to fix them all up.”

“You learned how to sew?” Vera asked, a little astonished, “How many pieces have you resewn?”

Before I knew it, we’d spent the better part of an hour talking. Vera would ask me about a specific doll or how I cared for them and then I’d eagerly reply. It was so rare I had anyone to talk to about it that the responses all but gushed out of me once I realized she wasn’t hanging up or losing interest. If anything she sounded more intrigued with every answer.

“A-Anyways…” I eventually stammered, after we mutually complained about how hard it was to find good craft stores nowadays that weren’t Hobby Lobby, “Sorry for oversharing, did you have anything else you wanted to ask me about Wendy?”

“Oh, don’t worry, this is all part of the process for new clients,” Vera reassured, “I have one other burning question for you though.”

“Well, shoot, I don’t wanna distract you anymore than I have. I’m sorry I just started rambling...” I said, sheepish as I glanced at a clock, “We’ve been talking for… holy shit it’s been that long, don’t you have to close?

“I have helpers don’t worry.” Vera said, a mischievous edge gleaming like sun on rippling water, “Which brings us back to my question-and again, stop me if this is overstepping… but,”

Probably just something about my grandma again… I thought to myself, Probably a “my condolences” discount.

“Have you ever wanted to be a doll?”

My phone clattered to the floor, I was so surprised. I scrambled to pick it back up just as fast as it fell.

“Um! Sorry, haha!” I hastily replied, a laugh forcing its way out that would’ve sounded more believable from a hostage being held at gunpoint, “I don’t think I heard you right, could you say that again?”

“Oh, I asked if you ever wanted to be a doll.” Vera said again. Somehow it didn’t lose any of its impact since the first time. My eyes darted around like I was searching for an escape from my own house.

“W-what kind of question is that? That’s not-” I shook my head despite Vera not being there to see it, “That’s absurd, you can’t just become a…” It was so insane I couldn’t even deign to say it. To let the whole idea sit in my mind anymore than it already clearly had.

“But you clearly admire them don’t you?” Vera asked, driving me to silent incredulous denial as she continued, “Almost everyday you care for them; you learn new skills to care for them before you. You sounded like you killed someone when you were telling me about what happened to Wendy...”

“That’s…” I shook my head again, as if this time it’d do something to banish these thoughts, these feelings, “I just feel guilty for breaking one of my grandmother’s-”

“There’s feeling guilty, then there’s paying money, likely a lot of money, to fix a broken doll that you yourself said your grandmother stopped caring for a long time ago.” Vera interrupted to say, sounding oddly resolute.

“You don’t know anything about me!” I declared, the denial boiling over into anger, “What is this, some kind of scam or a ploy, are you just fucking with me?!”

“You’re right on the first account, none of the others,” Vera answered, a ruffling of papers following, “You named… two, six-twelve different dolls throughout this entire conversation, not counting Wendy. And yet… I don’t know your name. Haven’t even mentioned it once.”

“Why the hell do you need that?!” I spat back into my phone’s microphone.

“Well, how else am I going to fix Wendy if I don’t know whose name to put down on the appointment?”

“...Wait,” My eyes widened, “So you’ll do it? When’s the earliest I can bring her?? How much-???”

“I’ll do it for free whenever you want.” Vera answered, driving me to silence, “If you answer the question, truthfully.”

I stared at the phone in my hands for a few minutes. Seeing if she’d hang up. Maybe it was a scam, some part of me said. Like someone just trying to find my security questions to the bank or my credit card. Maybe someone guessed I made them all doll-related.

“Take your time.” Vera eventually said, “But if you hang up, deal’s off, even if you call me back tomorrow.”

“...What if I just lie?” I asked pathetically, teeth and eyes grinding closed, “What if I just give you the answer you want?”

“What answer do you think I want?” Vera responded, her tone neutral.

“Yes!? You want me to say yes because you’re some fucking weirdo mystic witch or fucking nuts or…” I trailed off, unable to think of any reasons that didn’t descend into fucked up things to say to anyone. The kinds of vile garbage my grandmother said behind my cousin’s back when she wanted to go by Marcus instead of Mary.

“Then say no right now.” Vera replied, quick as a whip, “If you have no doubts, no qualms, if you’re perfectly happy and content with being the person you are right now when you wake up tomorrow and you just want to fix your grandmother’s doll; say no. I’ll still do it for free.”

My mouth opened on shameful reflex, denial chambered in my throat, my tongue cocked back.

But then, I looked around my grandmother’s house. Not my house. Her house.

It’d been almost a year since she died. I still hadn’t changed it anymore than replacing things as they needed to be replaced. She hated change, especially change she couldn’t have a direct hand in. It was why I was the one who rearranged the dolls for her for a long time.

It was why my mom hated her. It was why she left.

It was why my grandma put up with me. It was why I stayed. I thought maybe I’d be good enough for her one day.

Instead, she died. The lawyer who bequeathed this house and everything else to me said it must be because she cared about me. I never believed that. I believed it was because she thought I wouldn’t change anything. It was why it went to me and not my mom.

Sometimes I felt trapped. Like I was being suffocated by a dead woman.

The dolls were my only solace. They were in my room because they were in every room. They were acceptable because they were the norm. Me cleaning them was acceptable because helping your grandma is the norm. Maintaining them after she passed was acceptable because that’s the norm when someone dies. Telling anyone else about them felt nearly impossible. Bringing anyone here even more so.

I never admired them when she was around. I’d ignore them, instead. Pretend I wasn’t interested. Like scoffing at a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean that reached from horizon to horizon.

Hot tears streamed down my face as I huffed, trying not to audibly sob. So much ran through me so fast that I almost forgot what I was doing, who I was talking to. The timer for the length of the call was still ticking up on my smartphone. Vera hadn’t hung up.

“Okay,” I began, the words climbing out of my throat like it was a dark pit, “Let’s… pretend, just pretend, that… I said yes.”

I could almost hear Vera smiling, this woman I hadn’t even met who I’d had the most honest conversation with that I’d likely ever had, “Already at the ‘let’s pretend’ stage, huh?”

Vera agreed to meet the next day, capping off our conversation with, “This time tomorrow you’ll realize it doesn’t have to be pretend.”

--

It felt like a dream when I woke up the next morning.

Too surreal, even though it should be simple and everyday. The sun was gleaming, clouds wafting through the air like the fall leaves. Normally I hated the colder months. But today didn’t feel so bad.

But the nightmare began fast as I fret about what to wear. Picking something for myself was a lot harder than for the dolls. Then it was breakfast, which was a bowl of near stale cereal.

Then I noticed as I was leaving the car had leaked a puddle of transmission fluid again, so I had to refill it, thus dirtying my clothes, thus making me have to change again.

I was thirty minutes late by the time I was on the road, hoping I could at least sneak out of my block before the lunch rush got bad enough the 2-lane streets clogged. It was still the middle of the work week and people were busy. Construction was blooming and booming and causing complaints from everyone who lived around there.

I rushed more than I should’ve. But I drank a coffee to stay sharp. Even had my seat belt on.

...

None of it mattered.

I didn’t even make it out of town before the transmission to my grandma’s Lincoln tore itself to shreds in a deafening cacophony of shrieks and screams.

Right as I pressed hard on the gas to snipe a left turn on a soft green.

A part of me wishes I’d picked something better than a sweater and jeans for the clothes I’d nearly die in.

Another part of me wished I’d died when that semi-truck T-boned me just so I didn’t have to have that stuck in my brain as the last thing I’d remember. That moment a beast of steel and velocity tore me from my car and into a terrible hell of TOO MUCH: TOO MUCH PAIN TOO MUCH MOVEMENT TOO MUCH CRUSHING TOO MUCH SCREAMING TOO MUCH OF ONE MOMENT REPEATING AND REPEATING AND-it ends.

Nothing made sense. The memories were more of a mess of broken pieces than I was.

Blood. Blood pooling around me like I was lying in a storm drain. The box shoebox I laid Wendy in was somehow lying beside me, soaking up the red like a sponge. Scattered pieces of porcelain laid around me like snowflakes.

My arm. I willed it to move, despite it looking more akin to a crushed ice cream cone than a limb. I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel why my lungs struggled to breathe, just that they were struggling.

The scream. The scream of sirens, of commuters, of me.

Silence. Oblivion in a held breath. Terrible peace permeating everything like darkness when all the lights go out in a cave.

…

That voice.

--

When I opened my eyes I was laying in a bed.

None of my dolls were along the walls. But the shelves were there.

I bolted up to a sit when I realized I wasn’t laying in a sterile white hospital bed, but instead my bed. My grandmother’s house.

I’m dead. I immediately thought, I’m dead and this is Hell.

I thought right after, No. If that were the case my grandma would be here too.

There also wouldn’t be all this medical equipment. I looked around at a heart monitor, an IV pole, and other medical stuff on carts and surfaces. It looked like enough stuff to run an ER had been keeping me alive.

“...H-Hello-?”

“!” I cut myself off as I realized someone else was calling for me. Was it a nurse or…?

“Hello?-” I began to call, before stopping near immediately again. My hands darted to my neck.

That. That’s not.

“...Hello?” I said quietly to myself, despite sounding nothing like myself. I sounded… cute? I was sure I’d met a few girls who sounded like I did that I thought were cute anyways.

“...Did the crash mess up my throat along with my…” I raised my arm up.

I didn’t recognize it either. Instead of hairy skin wrapped around an arm, I stared at glazed porcelain spun and shaped to resemble the length of a human arm. However it was much more spindly, more the suggestion of a human arm than a replica of one. Where it terminated into an elbow was a rounded joint complete with smoothed corners that exposed as I bent my arm. The same ball-joint was present at my wrist. My fingers were individual pieces that overlapped like the vertebrae of a spine or armor on a glove.

I touched my fingertips together and felt the reassuring firmness of porcelain instead of the soft mushy give of skin.

As I shifted my focus from just my arms to the rest of me. To the fact that every piece of me was different. I was naked atop the sheets, which made it obvious, if just swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor wasn’t obvious enough. They were wider at the thigh, tapering down to a ball-joint where my knees would be. Past that, my calf was thinner than any human’s could be. My “feet” more resembled the dome-top and flat bottom of a shoe than the complex bone work of a foot.

I rapped a knuckle against the surface of my chest and it sounded like a shell of porcelain. There was no suggestion of ribs, or nipples as a distinguishing feature. A smooth porcelain body, with four sockets for the ball-joints where shoulders and legs would go. And… an odd hole between my legs like something was missing. Which something was.

All in all I just felt… lighter. Like all of my flesh and organs had been soaked in the weight of my memories, and now I’d shed it all.

“...Hah.” The laugh was forced out from at first, disbelief.

I felt cleaner. Like someone had emptied out a grease trap, like I didn’t have neverending anxiety polluting my brain like a chemical plant.

“Ahaha…” The laugh rang happier with every realization.

I felt…

“Good.” I said as I stood. A little shaky at first, but it shifted fast as I got used to how it felt to not have skin covering the bottom of your feet. A little easier to slip, it turned out, as I nearly ate it just taking one or two steps on carpet.

Definitely don’t wanna be clumsy now. Otherwise I’ll break into pieces again, I thought, ...Why am I not in pieces though. Why am I…?

“...Hello?” I called into the house, plodding along step-by-step as I realized my sense of balance was off too. “Is anyone there?”

Silence. It was slow going, but I made it to the hall with the help of every wall and door frame I could hold onto along the way.

I headed for the bathroom first, so at least I could see the rest of what had changed. The only mirrors in the house were in the bathrooms, after all. I nudged the door open-

But stopped when I saw the blood on the ground. As the door crept open further I realized it was centered around the tub which looked like someone had bled a pig in it.

I whiffed the door knob twice in the process of slamming the door. I hurried towards the living room.

Unnervingly, all of my dolls were arranged on the couch, along with my notes. There was an empty section in the middle as if someone had been sitting among them. A cold, near-empty teacup was sat bside my notes on the coffee table.

I tried picking it up. Like walking it was hard getting used to my new fingers. The sensation was entirely different.

I raised the teacup to my face and sniffed. Dandelion? I definitely didn’t drink-

The jingle of keys in my front door surprised me enough that I dropped the cup. *TCHEIEEEEK* It shattered as I scrambled to get around the corner to the hall.

I heard the door open with the squeak as I faced the other side of the hall.

There was a pregnant pause as whoever was coming in likely saw the broken teacup on the floor if they hadn’t just heard me drop it.

“...Come on out, sweet thing. I didn’t forget you.” An extremely familiar voice called, her words sending a shock through my heart. Did I even have a-?, “But I will make you clean up if you make a mess.”

One hand on the wall to steady myself, I stepped out into the living room and into view, “V-Vera??”

Vera was a plump and bright woman, clad in clay-stained overalls that had one strap loose revealing the many curves of her body and the purple of the tank top she wore underneath. Dangly earrings hung from her ears; golden hoops with black pentagrams hanging from them which matched the dark color of her hair. Plastic bags were hanging from both arms like she’d been doing some shopping.

“Hope me being here isn’t overstepping,” She said as she shut the door behind her, “But I feel like letting me crash at your place is the least you could do after all the time I spent taking you apart and putting you back together.”

“P-Putting me back together?” I stammered out, glancing back towards the bathroom, “W-Why’s my bathroom look like a murder scene then???”

“Mm, I did say taking you apart, remember?” Vera asked, locking the door to punctuate the end of the question. “What kind of porcelain do you think you’re made of? Hard paste, soft paste, or…?”

“...Bone china.” I said licking my lips. I realized then, I still had lips. I had a tongue. My hands darted up to my face, my neck. There was a clear seam about two thirds of the way up my throat. A border where porcelain met skin.

“You… You-” I shook my head, staring at a smiling Vera.

“Aren’t done yet,” Vera said, setting her bags on the floor. I could see handsaw blades sticking out from a plastic bag from a local hardware store. “Honestly I’m surprised you even came to. Guess I should’ve asked Elise for a re-up on the anesthetics...”

“S-Stay away from me!” I cried, backing up as she got closer, “Stay away and I’ll just wake up because this is a dream, it’s a dream it has to be! I never met you, you wouldn’t know how to find me, you wouldn’t be here!”

“Mmm, it’s a dream and not a nightmare?” Vera asked, her playful smile coloring her words.

“It is a nightmare! You chopped me into pieces! You chopped me up and burned my bones into ash and-and…” I looked down at my body as tears gathered in my eyes. “What did you do to me?! Did you plan this!? Did you make that truck hit me?!”

Vera sighed. Stopped getting closer, which made me stop backing down the hall. “Always the same with the ones in denial…”

She raised a hand, crooked a finger. The next words she spoke were inflected in a way that made them echo through the hallway, reverberate through my body, “Come closer, sweet thing.”

“N-No way!” I spat as I started walking towards her.

“What the f-!” I began to scream as my body disobeyed me

“Silence, sweet thing.” Vera intoned, which carved the rest of the curse out of my mouth. “Don’t wanna make the neighbors think anything’s amiss.”

My jaw opened and closed, trying to speak, but all I could manage was the gross wet sounds of a mouth and tongue and lips mashing together. No sound left. All the while I got closer to her.

“Stop.”

My feet stopped when I was all but face-to-face with her standing in the living room again. My head twisted away from her, but nothing else could. I was trapped. Trapped in my own body.

Vera in the meantime circled me, appraising me up and down, occasionally running a hand or a finger along the smooth, hard material I was now made of. I just squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore how good it felt to be touched after years without it.

“I know you have all kinds of questions...” Vera eventually said, turning from me and wandering towards the dining room to retrieve two chairs considering the couch was occupied. She faced them towards each other in an empty section of the living room and sat in one. “And I’m happy to answer all of them. But if you start screaming, I’ll have to make you listen, understand? Blink thrice if you understand.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Good. Your will is your own.”

Like a light switch flicking off, her control over me vanished.

Carefully, slowly, I sat in the chair opposite of her. It was strange. Sitting when you don’t have cushioning felt more like trying to settle a craggy rock into a seat than a person sitting. But I found what was comfortable quickly, with my “back” straight and my “feet” flat. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about the teacup shards anymore. Vera had to keep her shoes on by comparison.

A long silence sprouted between us.

Eventually, I asked, “What… did you do to me?”

“What you wanted.” Vera said with a shrug, “We talked about this, I hope you remember that much.”

“...I said hypothetically.” I said, my eyes shifting off to the side. “I never said I actually wanted to… to…”

“If you had made it to our appointment, I would’ve shown you it didn’t have to be hypothetical.” Vera explained, which drew my gaze back to her, “This is what I do. Unhappy people come to me and ask to be something else. I make them into something else. Simple as that. By trade I’d describe myself as a witch, but that’s so vague nowadays. Describes everyone from your average PENTA-GRAM user to the ones who make a life from it like me.”

“...I’d say you’re crazy if I wasn’t…” I looked down at my hands again. “...How long has it been since we talked that day?”

“About three months.” Vera said, looking up at the ceiling as she recounted, “When you didn’t make the appointment I knew something was up. Most people don’t miss this kind of appointment, and even if you had known you seemed serious about fixing Wendy at least. After that it was a matter of just looking up your area code and searching online to see if there were any accidents that happened the day of our appointment.”

“W-Where’s Wendy?” I asked as soon as I was reminded. “Is she here, is she okay, is she-?”

Vera cut me off by leaning forwards and tapping a finger to my chest, “That crash basically killed you. The only reason it didn’t is because enough of your blood, enough of you, had seeped into Wendy over the years you cared for her and from your blood after the crash. After I found you at the hospital, or… what was left of you, finding Wendy was a simple bit of thaumaturgy. Like pulling on a thread once you find one end. Took quite a bit of dumpster diving though.” She made a face, “Honestly, I feel lucky I got the smell out of these overalls.”

“After that thought, it was just a matter of tricking the right person into thinking that I was a close family member and getting your meat moved here once you were stable enough.” Vera said, eyes wandering around the place, “I’ve got a nurse friend, so I hired her to help me take care of you and help me…” She spun a hand in the air.

“...distill you.” Vera eventually said with a cheeky smile.

“…” I blinked. My hands came up to where she’d tapped.

Then again, I blinked. This time, surprised by the tears that were speckled across my new hands. By the vast cavernous churning of so, so much just rippling through me despite there being nothing inside of me. But that wasn’t true was it? Wendy was with me.

Somehow it felt like I was with me more than before.

Long hard sobs smashed into me as fast as that teacup had hit the floor.

“Aw, damn, don’t cry.” Vera said, a slight panic cracking her smooth demeanor as she sat forwards. “Damn it, Vera, no more weird jokes away from the girls…” She muttered to herself as she stood to fetch some tissue.

When she returned, I was still sniffling and wiping at my face with my hands, getting yellow-ish snot all across the porcelain. When Vera returned again with a wet towel I was calmed down, enough that she didn’t have to clean me up like she did with the tissues.

“Um sorry…” I mumbled out, before repeating myself more forcefully, “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, sweet thing,” Vera said, looking sheepish, “I’m sorry you woke up before I finished with you. Makes crying your heart out a lot easier when you don’t dribble snot out your nose and tears from your eyes.”

“...No, I’m…” I squeezed my eyes shut in shame, “I’m sorry… for making you do all of this. You saved my life, Vera. Without me paying you, or getting anything out of it, you… you went out of your way to save me.”

“...Haha...” Vera laughed. Remarkably more sheepish. “Well… I guess now is as good a time as any to discuss payment...”

“...Oh.” I said, surprised but also not surprised. “I mean… What do you want? If it’s money, I’ll just sell this house, honestly. Hell, you can have the house if you want.”

“Honestly, money isn’t… really an issue for me.” Vera’s smile was tight and apologetic, “Monetarily, you’ve compensated me more than enough. Luckily, Elise is as good with a scalpel as I am with a potter’s wheel, because biology was never my strong suit.”

My eyes felt like they widened to the size of silver dollars.

Vera shrugged, “Hope it wasn’t overstepping, but organs pay the bills, sweet thing. Especially young ones like yours.”

“...Okay.” I said, either feeling bizarrely okay with this or feeling way too shocked, “I guess I’m not using them anymore… so. Okay. But-wait.” A hand came up to the seam in my neck. “...If it’s not about money, or this house...”

Vera let her chin rest on the knuckles of her left hand as she nodded towards the couch.

I followed her gaze to the empty person-sized spot in the middle of all my dolls.

“Quite a collection.” Vera murmured, her tone neutral, “I didn’t mention it before, but… I have one too. Nowhere near as large, not enough room back where I live… My dolls are rather… large.”

As I tore my gaze from the couch, I realized Vera was leaning forwards, looking up at me with shining eyes. Like a kid seeing a new toy at the store. “But... I think I have room for one more.”

Another long silence bloomed between us.

Then, I asked, “...Hypothetically.” I began, hands trembling with a litany of small *clinks* as I rested them on what served as my knees. “...Could you make me forget everything from before? Not just the accident, I mean… I mean, all of it.” I swallowed. “Is… is that possible?”

A knowing smile eased its way across Vera’s face, before she stood and offered me a hand.

“Already at the hypothetical stage, huh?”

--

Sometimes, I have dreams about what it’s like being human.

What it must feel like to have to do all these rote things just to live.

Eating, drinking, shaving, bathrooms.

The sweat, the pain, the sickness.

The blood that gushed out at the nudge of a knife. The guts that were in someone’s belly. When helping with a client was in my duties I always tried to just focus on the bones that I needed to burn.

My Master says it’s certainly not for everyone, despite the fact she was human. My sisters who were once human more than heartily agree too, every time the conversation wanders there during dinner. While only our Master needed to eat, the rest of us enjoyed the company especially after a busy day. There was usually plenty to do between the shop downstairs and our home upstairs in the city we lived in.

Sometimes, there wasn’t.

Sometimes we had days when all the chores were settled and no clients needed to be taken care of that day. Days when we just got to laugh and play and nap or sing and dance and laugh as our Master watches with a cup of tea that we’d pick the dandelions for that same day. Any extra went with her when she went on a trip for work.

“Master?” I asked her on one of those lazy days after I awoke from my nap. I was sitting on Master’s lap, with my head on her left shoulder and my hand running up to hold onto her right. Our sofa was big enough for all of us, but my sisters had decided to go run some errands. Cars scared me, so I never went with.

“Mm? Yes, Wendy?” My Master opened her eyes from her light dozing, “What is it, sweetie?”

“I had another nightmare…” I whined, nuzzling into my Master’s neck.

“Aww, another one?” She sighed, “I should really tell Selice to stop watching those racing movies in the living room…”

“No, Master, about being human.” I said, a frown drawing across the carefully painted porcelain that comprised my lips. “It felt so real. I remember having a mom and a grandma, and my grandma was mean, and she made me clean and do so many things and I kept doing them wrong and I kept running and trying to rip these awful clothes off of me and-”

“Hush, hush, I’m sorry sweet thing…” My Master said, a heavier sigh following as she pet my head to calm me down. “It’s just a dream, I promise.” She paused to sit up. So she could put a finger under my chin to meet my lavender-blue eyes, “You’ve been a doll, a good doll no less, ever since the day I found you.”

I fret with the edge of my dress for a few seconds, scrunching and stretching the black fabric edged with white lace, a giddy smile on my face. The insecurity drown it out fast though.

“I… I don’t do as much as the other sisters though…” I said, looking down in shame, “It feels like I’m just always learning stuff everyone else already knows. Selice knows how to drive. Yvonne can sew and cook. Indigo is good with the client stuff and talking to people. Mai can write well and reach the top shelf…”

“We’ll get you a step-stool.” My Master pointed out with a gentle smile.

“Maa-steeer,” I whined, poking her in the cheek with a finger, “Don’t tease me… you know what I mean. It feels like everyone’s just taking care of me all day…”

“Is it wrong to be taken care of?” She asked, reaching up to flatten my poking hand and let it rest against her cheek, “You take care of me when I need it. You help the others when they need it. I don’t expect anything more from a doll of mine. Plus you’re learning faster than you think. Most people can’t learn how to sew in only a few months, Wendy, much less a toy like you.”

“Still…” I trailed off, withdrawing my hand from her cheek and folding it into my lap with the other. Instead, I kept shifting and fidgeting. Nerves and anxiety and fear and so much, just swarmed my head. It felt like I was back in that nightmare again.

“Master?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“...My head feels full.” I whined. “Can I have wall time?”

“Of course, sweetie. Let’s go.” Master said, shifting me in her lap so she could lift me like a princess as she stood. The feeling from that alone made all the bad stuff flutter and shift like leaves on a breeze.

Our home was a fairly large place. A three-floor slice of brick and glass in the heart of a city. The first floor was for Master’s store, the second the place where the kitchen and the bathrooms and the living room and Master’s bedroom was.

The third floor was for me and my sisters. Master always told me it had been an attic space before she and Indigo converted it into a what it was now. A massive playroom that spanned one wall to the other. Carpet covered the floors so none of us could slip and break. A big bookshelf of board games and a large table to play them on stretched across the largest area. A TV with a computer hooked up to it sat on an entertainment stand, with a variety of makeshift floor cushions in the form of pillows and pet beds in a loose arc in front of it.

Most importantly though, were the places for me and my sisters. Everyone got their own space to call their own along the perimeter of the third floor. Everyone put different things in them. Selice had lots of car posters and a computer with a steering wheel and pedals she can play racing games with. Yvonne kept her sewing machine and craft supplies in hers’ along with a wardrobe dedicated to stuff she was working on. Mai had a standing desk, piled high with partially written stories and books she’d read for inspiration.

Indigo and I’s were the most sparse. Indigo at least had a few mementos from her past: a guitar covered in stickers from shows she liked, a few framed photos she arranged on a shelf alongside old school books, and a few microphones she used to record songs with.

Mine by comparison, just had my shelf and my dolls. Everyone had a shelf. Including my dolls, which weren’t dolls like us, but still dolls so they deserved a shelf. Master taught me how to take care of them and which liked which. Even gave me notes to help me do it.

I didn’t recognize the handwriting though, it certainly wasn’t as bad as Master’s scrawled to-do lists.

“Hi, everyone…” I said with a weak wave as Master carried me up the stairs and into view of them, “Sorry I haven’t cleaned you today…”

“It’s okay, Wendy,” Master intoned as she approached my spot on the wall among all the others, “They understand.”

“I kno-ooow, but-”

“No buts. Dolls deserve wall time after having a nightmare.” Master said, glancing down at me with a stern look that softened to a smile in an instant.

I kicked my feet as she lifted me up and set me on my padded, painted shelf that hung from the wall. It was placed a few feet off the ground, so even now my shoes wouldn’t touch the floor. I thought it was a little scary only at first.

“Ready, sweetie?” Master asked, running her fingers through my hair to comb it out. I loved the feeling. Leaned into it and shut my eyes every chance I got. “Want a doll to hold?”

“Mmhmm…!” I said absent-mindedly as she continued running her hands through my hair, “I wanna hold Wendy…”

“…” Master stopped combing my hair and looked at me odd for a moment, before lightly poking the crest of my nose, “You’re Wendy, silly goose.”

“I’m not a goose…” I whined doubly pathetically now that I was getting teased and deprived of hair touches, “I’m a doll, and dolls don’t have names at first. You said I was named after Wendy didn’t you, Master? I wanna hold her.”

“I told you, baby,” Master said softly, taking my hand and in one of hers’, “You and Wendy were broken pretty bad when I found you and her and all the rest of your dolls. So I put you two together to make one whole doll and named you after her.”

“I know, but…” I sniffed, something strange worming its way through my torso, out through my joints, “I… I miss her? I never met her, but… I think I miss her. She was in my dream too and she was so pretty and so nice and she took care of me and...”

“Hush, my sweet doll, calm.” My Master intoned. Her words silenced mine. Made my mind slow and relax instead of race forwards. The lilt of them was so hard to ignore. Listening and obeying felt as natural as a human’s need to breathe.

“Let all that stiff stuff out of you. Out of your fingers, your feet… your arms, your legs… your joints, your eyes…”

Piece-by-piece I felt the worry wick away. The tension tying up my movements, my thoughts, leaked out of me as my Master resumed stroking my hair, straightening my skirts, adjusting my limp hands to fold in my lap. Warm hollowness replaced it. A peace that clung to me like a blanket or a fuzzy sweater.

“There you are. You’re just another doll on the wall, Wendy. And dolls don’t worry, don’t fret. They just… are.” Master said as my head finally slackened, only kept upright by the wall against the back of my head.

I felt small and far-away. Safe and warm. Like I was cuddling with Master at the beach again. Like the first day Master brought me home and my new sisters sat me on the couch to cuddle with me and dote on me. Like I didn’t have to be anything else but Master’s, her precious thing. A doll, no more, no less.

“Rest, little one.” The witch said, picking a carefully sculpted hand from her doll’s lap, and placing a kiss on the back of it. Wendy didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She was a doll, right now. Probably happier than she’d ever been.

It was still so young. So new to its’ new life. But bright as a blossom. Every night the witch thanked the gods of the earth for blessing her with such a wonderful thing as Wendy. It’d only been three months. But it felt like the new addition to their family had been there for years.

“I promise, I’ll never forget you...”” Vera said, replacing the doll’s hand into its lap, as she looked up into those soulful eyes.

Even now, they were full of more life than the person who’d come before.

[cynthiav06]

can i just like vent for a second? i just saw an anti percy take that just pissed me off so bad bc i forget not everyone separates percy's real characterization (pjo books and son) and throw out the very terribly written one boo and post hoo books like i do. percy antis can only speak of his character from the text where rick decided percy needed to suddenly be this horrible character and friend (to this day i hate that the narrative genuinely blamed percy for bob and calypso) and the nico thing gets so misinterpreted and was a total retcon to percy and nico's canon progression in the og books. everyone is allowed to have their opinions obviously but there's this thing in the pjo fandom where everyone wants to take a single moment in which the author's writing was so weak and turn it into an actual real character moment when all prev texts in past books show that it's simply just character assassination

You are not the only one, anon. Thankfully, all my mutuals are of similar opinion, so I rarely am alone in my frustrations over this. I have made posts on most of the points you mentioned, but I swear the reading comprehension the fandom has is akin to a bottomless bag. No matter how many facts, rational explanations, and canon examples you feed in, it will all just fall down in vain. The same old incorrect takes and terrible biases will keep circulating and spawn even worse, zero comprehension takes, and "headcanons." I would say you could play a drinking game with it, but you will be dead not even quarter way through all the misinformation.

At this point, my media literacy test in pjo fandom is the opinion someone has on Percy and Nico's relationship. At least Nico has the excuse of being a literal hurt child for him lashing out at Percy and misplacing his anger on Percy, but I wonder what's the fandom's excuse. I have disproved everything I believe wrong about that take in my post here.

What I think has happened is everyone in the fandom has read these books years ago and hasn't bothered rereading the source material properly after when they got older or have only reread their favorite "shipping scenes." And during this time everyone in the fandom has been over indulging themselves on fanfics and now there is a large disconnect between the actual character in the books and the fanon version everyone has affixed in their heads. And no amount of external feedback will convince anyone to rectify and authenticate their version. Same with the ships. Especially with the ships.

Throw in some childhood nostalgia and a bit of projection, and you have a bunch of extremely single-minded opinions from people who would rather resort to death threats than actually acknowledge any other point of view exists. And gods forbid, an alternative ship exists, and people don't like their ship; the fandom which claims to hate itself is perpetuating its own miserable condition. Either way, my advice? Stick to tags you like. Try and ignore the monopoly in the fandom. Find a circle that shares your niche interests. And you will have fewer frustrations to deal with, at least usually.

As for Percy, he has become such a face of iconic and epic character and obviously the heart of the series that Rick thinks for any other character to be good, they somehow need to be better than Percy in some way or that he needs to put Percy down in some way to uplift others. And he has been doing that post Son of Neptune till today, and Percy is still the absolute fan favorite. Imagine the author and half the fandom doing everything they can to soil a character's arc and achievements and still not succeeding, hah.

I recommend you 'Percy jackson supremacy' or 'Percy jackson defense squad' tag on tumblr. At least half your frustrations will settle down. I recommend the first tag personally. I use that tag so often in my own posts, and it's the one Percy tag page where I am sure the posts will not disappoint. Those two tags with a side of powerful Percy jackson and smart percy jackson are the only fandom tags worth scrolling. Take my advice on it.

The monopoly in the fandom is so bad that if you block percabeth tag, then almost three quarter's of fandoms content is inaccessible. I checked into this and realized that posts that have absolutely nothing to do with shipping or even Percy and Annabeth are tagged with it for the sake of larger exposure. It's absolute bullshit. So now you need to check every percabeth tag post so see if it's actual ship content or just general content tagged that way.

I have no delusions of changing anyone's mind in the fandom. But a few years ago this place was even worse and death threats were almost a common situation for everyone outside popular takes and only now is there a relative safe space for new blogs to make anti posts about popular media in the fandom and not get absolutely flayed for it. Just trying to contribute to that circle. Cause I didn't have to deal with the absolute worst of the fandom because of older blogs that kept on making enough content for there to be a community by the time I joined two years ago. Would like to do the same to some extent. Cause here if you are in any unpopular branch of the fandom, then you will have to make your own content for it. That's just how it is.

Most people now however are getting more and more into alternative opinions and ships and rightfully criticizing Rick for not only character assassinations but the stereotypical things he perpetuated by selling them in the name of diversity and representation.

As I said, the fandom has more problems than it has people, lol. But you just need to find one niche group that fits with you and see if it lasts. By the looks of it, I am not going to be too active in this fandom for very long either. Doesn't seem to be worth it. But you can vent on here anytime about anything. It's definitely the sort of space for that. And I like seeing people finally vent out their frustrations, so you are welcome anytime.

[the-hasegawa-fan]

@tingthething dared me to post this on tumblr so... HERE GOES NOTHING...!

Everything (I can remember) I've done since first meeting Hasegawa Ken

ohhhh boy..

- Memorized his hair hex code

- Can name most of his profile from memory

- Saved over 300+ pictures of js his sprite alone

- 2,000+ photos of him in my gallery

- Made a playlist of every episode he's in, in my first week of watching tetro

- Saved the OTHER all ken vids playlist js bc

- Drew him over 100+ times

- Wrote about 15+ essays in a few months

- At LEAST 9-10K words worth on those essays

- Written some of his dialogue WORD FOR WORD

- Wrote his name in my journal 100+ times straight

- Turned at least 40 random words/phrases including "The physics of a flying cow" and "cannibalism" into a Hasegawa Ken reference

- Gave away MONEY for him

- Spent multiple hours of my life sobbing over him

- Begged and pleaded for his interview for months

- Defended him since day 1

- Bookmarked his google search page

- Bookmarked his terminal

- Bookmarked his wiki page (on my computer, phone, and ipad)

- Informed my friends about Hasegawa

- Converted about... 3-5 people into adoring Ken

- My entire family knows him by first and last name

- dedicated at the ***very least*** a month STRAIGHTs worth of time to Hasegawa

- Went out and asked to go to places just bc they REMINDED me of him

- Skipped classes, and school days in general over him

- In the progress of memorizing all of [Matter of Taste]

- Memorized current info about [Matter of Taste]

- Left messages/drawings of him in 3 museums thus far (my goal is 14)

- Wrote him across multiple surfaces in public

- Extended family are aware of his existence

- Teachers are aware of his existence

- My classmates may also know of his existence

- When I first joined Tetrocord the FIRST THING I did was go to tetro art and scope out every single hasegawa art

- Multiple google docs of mine are DEDICATED to him

- He was my phone theme for quite the amount of time

- Have req'd multiple artists as soon I see art reqs open for "HASEGAWA KEN!!!"

- Cried in sheer and utter JOY each time he's proven innocent in a trial

- Listen to the Hasegawa Maid Audio... I've played it about 60-70 times now??? Maybe? I leave it looping sometimes so I lost track lol

- Got my phonecase based off smth related to him

- Set alarms to wake myself up for every premiere that includes him

There's so much more I'm forgetting probably- 😭 I keep remembering stuff as I go along- BUT YEAH!!! HERES MY LIST :3

[alwaysacoyote]

the flat circle (chapter 1)

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König x f!pararescue!reader | no use of y/n

Synopsis: You and König are partners. In this world and at the end of it. Your mission: you just need to obtain a case for KorTac, but nothing ever goes according to plan. Word count: 3.3k Tags: Horror romance, mutual pining, slow burn Warnings: body horror a/n: inspired by True Detective S1! wanted to take a break from my own original project and bang out something for the fandom I have lovingly stalked from afar for an embarrassingly long time. please god forgive me for my mistakes, I am new to posting works on tumblr. reader has a backstory but is otherwise vague.

You would pronounce it if you had a good watch: the contact is fucking late.

As it is, you turn your wrist over on muscle memory and blink at your watch, forgetting for just a second that it’s good for fuck-all. Nothing moves as it should. The hour hand spins around the face and the second and the minute hands labor to keep up. Whole days have gone by, in the eyes of the watch, you and König in an abandoned hotel room that stinks like mildew and stale cigarette smoke. You will have sat here for days, slumped on the edge of the bed, leg bouncing as you curl over your rifle and pinch the bridge of your nose.

And König– König will have paced endless circuits, day in and day out. 

He’s in tune with you as you are with him. Working each other up and up till he’s redlining his fucking engines and the only thing he can do about it is wear a hole in shitty matted carpet. Drills himself like a boot, eleven steps in his long and lolling stride get him from the window to the door, then about-face, then eleven steps back.

He steps into and out of the red light slanting in through the gaps in the curtains, painting him in bleeding stripes, turning him into something flayed. 

“Sailor’s delight,” you mumble into the muggy air, half to yourself. You tap one-one-thousand, one-one-thousand, one-one-thousand out on the magwell of your MK18. Not keeping any particular kind of count. Just reminding yourself how seconds should go.

He halts, feet square, and only then does he let whatever facade he’d put on in his head drop. Hip swings, gait slinging base wide and casual. Does a lot of talking with his eyes and posture out of necessity of always having his face covered by something, that head tilt and hand on the hip where he wears his sidearm. Unimpressed, for damn good reason. Everything is red. Your skin, your hair, the food you eat, the clothes you wear, and all your mornings, noons, and nights. What you wouldn’t give for color.

“I still think he’s dead,” he contributes, reviving the debate from Hour 1. Feels like a lifetime ago, like the watch might be right, that you've been waiting on nothing for days.

But it hasn’t been days.

It’s been hours. You should know this.

“Don’t speak that into existence,” you groan before he’s even got the words all the way out, “because knowing our luck, it’ll come true.”

He laughs, a whooping bark of a hyena-cackle, that says that’s just the most delightful thing he’s heard all day. “Got to start thinking of all the possibilities, haven't we?” he answers, tapping his helmet. “Can't be disappointed if we're always expecting the worst.”

He gets drunk sometimes and he’ll always fall back on telling the story of how the Bundesheer deemed him too fucking big to be a sniper, like it’s not one you could recite yourself start to finish without error. Maybe more than one thing can be true about his past life. Maybe König couldn't sit and wait worth shit. It wears you down but it whittles him spearpoint-sharp. 

You've been around for his failed relationships, on-off alcoholism, and sometimes questionable use of medical req pain pills. Maybe– when he is denied something, he wants it all the more. Doesn't matter if he would've fucking hated it. It's his Shangri-La, the things he can't have. Enough head trauma and doorkicking have given him the personal philosophy that any problem is made of a builder-grade particleboard core, and if he places the appropriate amount of force into his heel right near the lock, he can finally have what he needs to satiate him. 

“Any ideas?” he prompts, misinterpreting your silence. 

“I'm thinking how we'd track that case down if he's bought the farm,” you lie, pushing your knuckles into the meat of your thigh to stop your leg from bouncing. It doesn't help. And he's right. At some point here, you're going to have to cut your losses, and there's no more than thirty minutes tops before the two of you are going to be playing inner city cadaver dogs, looking for the contact's miserable corpse. 

“Idiom.” No explanation. When both of you say shit about tapdancing bears and pleading the Fifth, there has to be quick cross-cultural exchanges. 

“Died. Keep up, I've said that one before.” 

He starts to kick up another bout of zoochotic pacing– that's a thinking-stride if you've ever seen one, the way he marches and pivots like he's got some place to be– and he completes another about-face when the air conditioning unit kicks on. 

It puts him with his back right to it. He can't see it, and he certainly can't turn to look at it now. In the scarlet light, his scleras are bloodshot-red ringing his irises, and they bore into yours. 

Your gut plummets and your heart leaps into your throat. Between the two extremes it's a miracle you don't just vomit into your lap, but instead, you straighten. Inch by painful inch, spinning hour hand telling you you've wasted hours staring at the control panel, till you can get a good look at it. You check. Double check. Triple check.

The LED on the panel is off. 

You sag and let out a sigh from the depths of your soul. Cheap aircon unit in a cheap hotel that's busting apart at the seams– maybe it's just his weight and proximity that eked a brief, tinny shudder out of it–

He mule-kicks the fucking thing. Over. And over. And over. Each clang is so loud it sounds like the goddamn apocalypse is happening in this hotel room. You sprawl, scuttling up the bed as if to run from the report of his boot caving in the metal housing, and then he’s done and he stands, huffing. 

“Wh- dude.” You push yourself back up, blinking dumbly. You're not surprised, not chastising, either. Hell, part of you is pretty impressed by the absolute ruination he caused in just a few seconds. It's certainly making noise now, painful metal-on-metal squeaks as parts settle in their new configuration with a massive dent on the face. “Just in case I forget you're not domesticated or something?”

Shit like this is why he was an insertion specialist in the Bundesheer. He's decisive and efficient— and the property damage helped too. Shit like this is why he's with KorTac now.

He doesn't even seem sure why he did it at your prompting. His stomach rises and falls and his mask billows as he sucks air hard. On some level you think it was just his instinct to react to an embarrassment, no matter how temporary, with outright violence. 

Then the knock.

Open palm slapping on the door, fast and urgent, and your brain clicks the pieces together. The sound of the aircon, this. You've fucked up, you've given yourselves away. Both of you snap your heads towards it. 

The deadbolt wiggles alarmingly. For that moment when pure fear lances through your system, you forget all about the guy you're here to meet: there is nothing good on the other side of that door. 

König and you move as one practiced unit without the need for words. He lifts his AUG and nestles the butt into the meat of his shoulder, while you rise from the bed and tuck into the space between the wall and the bed in the corner, taking a knee to conceal yourself. Water soaks into your pants, but you prop your rifle and wait.

If it comes through that door and it's not the contact, it'll have a few rounds in center mass before it can even figure out who's all in the room. If it comes through that door and it dives for König, it's getting gutshot.

He leans on the door, steadying it, muzzle of his rifle trained at the water-stained drop ceiling. He peers through the peephole and gives you a quick chin-jerk. Your finger eases up off the trigger. 

His throat clicks dry when he swallows. “Spindle.” 

The reply is muffled. “Come on, just let me the hell in–”

“Spindle.” 

“Fuck– uh, Jesus. I've got the fuckin’ Pelican case,” the man outside snaps. “That good enough? You sure it's me now?”

You and König stare at each other. Neither one of you wants to be the one to make the mistake first, and your eyebrows lift into your balaclava, asking a silent question.  A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. You wipe it away in frantic pawing when it feels like something crawling on your skin.

“I'll throw this thing out the fucking window and you two can go fetch it, swear to God,” the man continues. 

Both of you nod. He unlatches the deadbolt. 

Terry is the kind of man you'd be wary of, working so tight with KorTac. Old man in a profession where they die young and all that. 

He falls into the hotel room while König shuts the door and locks it again behind him, huffing indignantly so you both know he's pissed about the treatment. His silvering hair had been tied up in a manbun at some point, but flyaway strands frizz out from it, and he's wearing a fucking Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and Adidas sneakers. Reads as a snowbird to the untrained eye, but to you, he screams spook. 

You stand, letting your rifle lower till it's just hung on the sling. Most important of what's on his person is what he's got in his hands. The black Pelican case. You don't know what's in it, why it's important, or all the assuredly rancid shit that had to be done to bring it to you now, but you don't care. All you're here for is to ferry it from Point A to Point B. If you needed to know, you would know. 

Terry's scoped you out in that first minute. Not just you-- your rifle, the window, the half-inch gap beneath the closed bathroom door like he expects to see a shadow moving under it. The red light casts a beam across his heaving chest and he steps out of it, feet squelching on the moldering carpet. 

“What was all that shit about a fuckin' password?” he starts in on you. 

“It was shoehorn,” König reminds him of his piece, moving away from the door. 

Terry's on a roll, though, spitting mad at the both of you. He rounds on König because he was the guy at the door, and therefore the most culpable for making him wait. He jabs a finger at your partner's plate carrier-covered chest. Color-changed in the light as they are, his eyes are clear and clever as he gazes down at the older man, head cocked. “Day I've fuckin' had, see if you remember fuckin’ shoehorn-”

“Case.” Usually König isn't quite so economical with his words. He goes from his shoulder-rolled posture to something you recognize well from working in proximity with the man for as long as you have. All his little nervous tics cease, and he sights in like a scope. 

He is, without any close runner-ups, the biggest motherfucker you've ever seen in your life. He's just shy of seven feet in his boots and all told when he's geared up, he's got to be close to 350 pounds. 

There is still one thing in the world that makes sense, and he's slavering at the bit to remind himself of that. 

Terry has also probably worked with enough operator-types like König to recognize someone's civil mask slipping. Creeps in around the edges of the eyes, corrosive like acid. “Jesus.” He blinks first away from it, and then he all but throws the case on the bed near you like the handle was burning his palm. “Albatross ‘round your necks, now.” 

It pings as an odd thing to say on your radar. Either it's odd to König too, or there's no one-to-one German equivalent for that particular idiom, because he glances at you over the spook's head. There’s the silent transfer of responsibility, tagging you in, but neither of you take the case.

“What’s that mean, Terry? And where were you? We gotta be outta here before sunset,” you chime in. You're better with people, marginally, than König. Maybe you were supposed to wheedle some good information out of him, but your nerves are too frayed to not get in a dig where you can. It’s all for nothing. Terry isn’t even looking at you. “Terry.”

He stares at something beside you. The window, the aircon. At the mention of his name, he shakes his head, snaps out of his trance. “What?”

“What do you mean, about the case-”

“You checked this place?” he interrupts urgently, swinging between you and König.

That nasty streak König had let slide is gone. Back to his edgy fidgeting, rocking his weight back and forth, left to right. Arms crossed, he cradles his rifle now up to his chest. “KorTac-approved, cleared ourselves.” He continues without needing to, voice dropping, “Abandoned, anyway.”

Terry hisses through his teeth, ssst, like correcting a pair of bad dogs. And he goes still. König gives a full body jerk, spine snapping ramrod straight, and right next to you, the LED light on the aircon unit clicks on.

It wheezes to life, a tortured rattle. You're the first to feel the break from the heat and humidity, cool air on your thighs. There's no relief in it. 

The lamp at the bedside flickers, casting a wan white glow. 

König turns his trigger finger. It's as small a motion as he can muster, hooking it at you. The meaning is obvious. 

Come. 

Slowly. 

When the rattle of the aircon dies, the lamp brightens, holds steady. Its glare backlights you, throws your shadow across König's front, but you see in color again. black, gray, khaki, yellow, the faded bleach tears streaking down his sniper hood from the eyeholes— and his wide blue eyes, unblinking. 

The outlet at your side crackles, an over-surge of power coming alive in its terminals. Smells like burning dust. No more than a foot from you now. You’d managed half a shuffle step but you plant your feet, suck in a breath, and stop the very air in your lungs. Would that you could stop your heart, too, beating frantically against your ribs like a flopping, dying bird. And you realize at last just how long it takes for seconds to go by. 

Pressure clamps down. 

It settles in your chest and you only have room to breathe out but not back in. An iron band hitches tighter by fractions of inches around your ribcage when a stilted, tiny burst of air leaves your nose. Your cartilage pop-pop-pops down the line of your sternum, floating rib tightens on your liver. You gag on a grunt.

It feels like you're underwater. Your ears stop up and darkness pulses at the corners of your vision. Lets you keep your eyesight, so you can watch König search your face, fingers twitching, head jerking with miniscule movements. 

It twists around your heart and your lungs in the wet blackness of your bone and muscle and tissue. If it wanted to, it could split you open as fast and easy as blinking, and the fact you aren't staring at a pile of your own steaming entrails means it doesn't want to— yet. 

König is considering something stupid; you see that familiar look in his eyes. You mouth, Don't. 

It skitters back up your aorta, out of the pit of your gut it'd crawled into. 

And then it drops you. Your knees crack on bare subfloor. 

The outlet bursts in red sparks. The television on the dresser flashes a grinning weathercaster frozen in time before it cuts to black once more, and the LED clicks on and off and the lamp goes dark. Maybe the woosh you hear like the bone-rattling passing of a freight train isn't the sound of blood finding its way back through your veins, because Terry and König both duck and cringe from nothing as it seems to pass right by them. Over them. Through them. 

Your partner recovers faster.

“Heilige Scheiße, you fucking lived!” König rushes forward, kneeling before you and crowding you. 

A monstrous headache blooms in your temples. You're gasping air without any relief from a feeling, a fucking feeling, that it has touched you, and maybe, maybe something bad will still happen to you because of it. 

“Fuckin’ carry her, we need to get the fuck out,” Terry says. His voice is indistinct in the background of your still-ringing ears, and König right in front of you, still trying to get you to stand on her own two feet instead of sitting on the floor like a fresh, limp kill. 

And then it ends. Whine and static, like shutting off a radio. You surface. Everything is too sharp. Too loud. 

“Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße,” König mutters, defaulting back into German. His black-red eyes stare deep into yours. Has to get close enough for you to feel a faint warmth that spreads through his hood and your balaclava to see whatever it is he's looking for in the low light. Probably pupils, you figure. Might suspect head trauma of some kind, with how you're slack and apathetic. 

You pull back. Your voice is strange and shaky in your ears when you mumble, “‘m fine. I'm fine.” If you say it enough, you'll convince yourself. 

“You can walk?” 

Behind him, an ember thinks about becoming a fire on the damp peeling wallpaper by the outlet where it'd sparked, smoking and glowing. 

You stand to make sure you still can. Good enough. He hovers with his hands spread near your waist but doesn't touch yet. He'd heft you and your gear and your rifle without batting an eye, if needed, yoke you over his shoulders and packmule you through hell and back. But you won't ask him to. 

You think of the firefighters' boots in Chernobyl. Stacked high, boots without feet in the basement because no one knew what else to do with them. Blood-cursed with something beyond sight, beyond perception, only a taste of metal in the mouth promising what's to come, ruination down to the cells. You are the monument of leather in the dark, and he doesn't know what will happen to him if he touches you. 

He shakes your shivering shoulder. “Come on. Can almost taste a good shower, now, ja? We'll get you to the safehouse.” 

You can only smile, weak and watery. “Ja,” you echo.

“That's a girl,” he tries to repeat that phrase you'd taught him. Atta girl. Doesn't quite get it right, but it's the thought that counts. You let out a tiny, misery-soaked laugh, while he packs up to breakout. 

Terry's at the window, facing away.

The column of red light through the gap in the curtains swells around his silhouette, opaque like a dense mist, and it bleeds in the gaps where his arms hang limp at his sides. König doesn't notice, passing you the case so he can have the deadbolt and his rifle ready, but you do. 

“Terry,” you prompt. You slur it, tongue like cotton against your palate, but you're sure you said it loud enough for him to hear. He doesn't move. “Comin’?” 

He shakes his head, whips away from the window. “Yeah,” he insists, mutters it. “Yeah. Coming.” 

You hum in your throat, and you scrutinize him. He's all frenetic, jumpy energy now. The way everyone first is when they enter the Zone. Big cosmic questions no one can answer, so the ones that last keep their heads down, and they do not look up. 

Terry shuts the curtains, and the red light is shuttered out. And you look away. 

[bloomries]

I'm like stupidly obsessed with this song Reverse by Minimall and it got me thinking about mc realizing that these demons are gonna like a very long time and they're just a blink. So I'm nosy about what some of the Obey me Writers on tumblr would do with this prompt, can be fluff/angst/whatever with any obey me character! Feel free to ignore, have a lovely day!

includes : lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, belphegor, diavolo, and barbatos.

warnings : gn! reader. angst.

notes : i don't do full-out requests, but i do enjoy writing little things for you guys! i also love angst and sorrow! not my usual layout of writing but i still hope you enjoy!! thank you for sending an ask! :D

He's not unaware that somethings been bothering you, but he can't quite place what it is. It was a sudden change in your demeanor, you've slowly began distancing yourself, and it doesn't hit him what's happening until you make a (bad) joke about not being around in the future. His heart aches at the thought, and he'd do anything to take that worry away from you. Later that day, when you two are getting ready for bed, he'll pull you into a tight embrace. He'll beg for you to stop distancing yourself- claiming that, should you have such little time together, that you two should make the most of it together. He also makes it known that you've carved your existence into his soul and he won't ever forget you or your time together.

Mammon, Satan, Asmodeus.

He's in denial about the fact you'll eventually die and he'll be left for all of eternity without his lover. When you make comments about how he'll outlive you, he tilts his head in confusion and is like "what are you talking about? don't say stuff like that, okay?" and gets teary eyed, full on sobbing sometimes, if you push it. It's best to hold these thoughts close to your chest, and just cherish your time with him while you can.

Leviathan, DIAVOLO, Belphegor.

If you think he'll outlive you, you're sorely mistaken. It's not that he's in denial, but once the revelation has been brought to his attention he's doing all he can to find a cure for death. He'll do whatever he has to in order to keep you by his side, even if it means bringing harm to himself or others (not you though, of course). He'll find it, he's certain of it, he'll find the cure and you two can be together forever- so please forgive him for ignoring you. Hopefully, he'll find it before he forgets what you look like.

LUCIFER, Beelzebub, & Barbatos.

[pinkpastels113]

romance is not dead (if you keep it just yours)

also on ao3

a/n:

for @mcrololo and @shikariix <33 did i listen to paris by taylor swift and enchanted on repeat the entire time while writing this?? maybe... also thanks for the idea/encouragement to write this based on this tumblr post @pyresrpgear!! hope you like this as well :))

People often forget that you can find romance in the most mundane of things, that love exists in the most simplest of gestures.

Chloe was getting some water at the fountain in the common area of Beca’s music label when one of these moments happened.

“Shoot your shot!”

Chloe turns at the sound of the man’s voice behind her. It belonged to one of Beca’s coworkers and she can just make out him slipping behind the wall of the opening to the common area with a subtle wink before her attention lands on Beca, her wife, walking towards her, her own water bottle in tow.

Chloe grins, as she always does when in the same vicinity as the love of her life. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Beca chuckles, nervously, and lifts a hand to rub it at the nape of her neck as if working up the courage to pop the following question:

“You’re really cute. Wanna go out with me?”

Her dark blue eyes are downcast, just like that time eight years ago when they were both in their twenties in university, high on the serotonin and adrenaline of yet another win with their Bellas, after a group hug, when Beca had also asked her out with the same expression, her bottom lip snagged between her teeth and a hopeful lift to her eyebrows. 

Chloe’s heart leaps in her chest in the exact same way back then, too, now, like she had been waiting forever for that feeling, that confirmation, that Beca liked her back in that all consuming, I-might-be-sick overwhelming way that Chloe had felt towards her best friend ever since she’d joined their silly little acapella group. 

(Even though Chloe considers herself a romantic– she had been reading romance novels ever since middle school, after all– she feels like Beca might just secretly be a bigger one.)

She sets aside her water cup, reaches forward and repeats the gesture with Beca’s, in favor of taking both of Beca’s hands in hers. Beca’s fingers were cold, so she threads them together and squeezes to breathe some warmth into them. 

“Yes. Of course I would love to go out with you.”

Beca’s face lit up, like a dang near Christmas tree, and her lips quirk into a huge relieved smile just like they did when Chloe had first said yes all those years ago as well. (Pft, as if Chloe could say no.) She returns Chloe’s squeeze. 

“Cool beans.”

And it may be cheesy, and corny, and just a tad bit dumb especially since both of their matching wedding rings are digging into their skins, but it still made Chloe’s day. She already knew that nothing would wipe that dopey grin off her face for the next twenty four hours, and she’s completely satisfied with that fact.

When they got home later that day, after dinner and they’re cuddling on the couch with the heater on and a movie playing in the background, Chloe talks about it, mentioning the shoot your shot comment.

“Was he new or something? What was that about?”

Beca snorts, burying her face into the crook of Chloe’s neck where her breath ghosts over Chloe’s collarbones, “Nah. I told him that I was about to ask out the hottie at the fountain and he’s simply encouraging me. He knows that we’re married, Chlo. Just cheering me on like the dork that he is.”

“Like the dork that you are, you mean,” Chloe corrects, pressing a soft kiss to the center of Beca’s forehead. She finds the whole thing incredibly cute, even though it was small and mundane.

Who says romance is dead just because you’re married? It survives even past death, unlike those classic vows for marriage.

[oceannicmuse]

Sing, poet, the echo of my will.

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Hi my Odesingers! It's Oceanic Muse here to entertain *Love in Paradise plays in the background*. How are you? I'm meh, y'know.

This is the part two of the previous post! I mean, some other points to form the lore of my version of Athenide AU.

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DISCLAIMER: English is not my first language, so all of this was translated with the help of AI and Google Translate. Please be kind!

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PART II — INTRO & AU LORE

Love interest?

I get why some people avoid including a love interest or keep Percy single during these time travel AUs—especially considering canon Percabeth. But in my fic, Percabeth doesn’t exist, and honestly, I need angst to keep the children of Aphrodite entertained. So here are my two main contenders:

(Mortals are out of the question. Percy, being on the path to ascension—or with inevitable ascension—wouldn’t consciously get involved with a mortal knowing how painful it would be for both.)

My bets are on Apollo and Hermes. They both have a lot in common:

• They’re charismatic, and Percy knows them in the future. In the past, they’re feared but not described as especially awful.

• They’re not married or romantically linked to any major divine partner (unlike Ares and Aphrodite, often treated like a couple).

• The potential for fluff and angst is just too good to resist.

Personally, I went with Hermes. I wanted to explore something I’ve never seen before. And trust me, now that I’m developing it, I kind of regret it—it’s more complicated in some ways—but I think it’s worth it. Besides, there are already tons of Perpollo fics (I married that ship).

Does Percy return to her time?

Yes, but not in the way people expect. Her physical body vanishes in Ancient Greece, and her essence (I’m not sure what to call it—maybe her deified soul?) returns to the modern era. It’s like fate telling her: “You’ve fulfilled your purpose here” and “everything must return to where it belongs.” Even though she physically adjusted to the Hellenic world, she’s still a temporal agent with a mission to complete before returning.

When Percy returns to her body in the present, she remembers nothing of what happened (yes, it’s a cliché—but a beautiful one!). A while back, while diving into this fascinating AU, I read some amazing Tumblr blogs—ideas from anotheroceanid and chaoticdumbassrogue, if I'm not bad. Their fics inspired me so much that I even tried to figure out Tumblr (spoiler: still confused).

One of the ideas that stuck with me was Percy gradually recovering her memories during Son of Neptune. Imagine: a Percy trying to reclaim her identity at Camp Jupiter, while having flashes of her life as a goddess in ancient Hellas. An identity crisis of epic proportions—the mortal Percy and the divine Percy are one and the same, yet also not, like the Greek and Roman versions of the gods. And to make things worse, she’s furious about how everything she fought for turned out.

Interference and Time Paradox

Percy messes with a lot of stuff in the past, but she doesn’t break the space-time continuum or anything.

Everything she did was already meant to happen. Time always expected her to be there, saving the day or causing chaos, or both. As she was growing up, the past she’d eventually live through was already baked into the present. So she doesn’t change history—she completes it. Like that one puzzle piece nobody knew where to put until suddenly, perfect fit.

So why isn’t she mentioned anywhere?

She vanished, and slowly, so did her legacy. No goddess, no miracles, no prophecies. People started to forget. Her name stopped being spoken. Temples crumbled or got rededicated to other gods. Some of her deeds got misattributed, others erased. When the Romans took over, she got lost in translation.

Maybe there are scraps left. A weird myth with no clear hero. A statue with features that don’t match any known deity. Symbols no one can explain. But no one knows it was Percy.

Except the gods. They remember her. Some with warmth, some with guilt, but all of them know she was real. The sad part is, even after centuries, none of them managed to make mortals remember.

(Classic patriarchy erasing powerful women from history, right?)

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I hope you enjoyed this and that it made sense, and not just my ramblings! See you in the next post.

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I'm not a player, I'm the puppeteer.

[asouefanworkevent]

another fall is upon us! another woevember is coming!!

what is it?

woevember is an asoue fanwork event week, that will take place from november 10th through november 16th, 2024. every day of the week is dedicated to a different part of a series of unfortunate events or all the wrong questions for you to create something about! this year's theme is objects!

what do i do?

the prompts will be revealed now, so everyone has time to make something. between now and the week of november 10th, you’ll create fanworks about the prompts, and then post it on the corresponding day during november 10th - 16th! there will be the occasional countdown post between then and now too, so we all know how many days are left until posting begins.

don’t forget to tag this tumblr (asouefanworkevent) in the post so i can find it and reblog it, and tag the post with #woevember !

what do you mean by fanwork?

everything! fanfic and fanart are of course allowed, but woevember has always been meant to be an event that is as big or as little effort as you want! fanwork also means edits, gifs, analysis posts, headcanons!! your cosplay!! your photography!! your photosets!! your web weaving!! your moodboards!! your super short fics!! your sketchiest drawings!! your most ramble-y half-fic idea posts!! your wip scenes!! you merely saying ‘lemony snicket, though. am i right?????’ (and you are. you’re so right.) your loving macaroni art!! your embroidery!! your sculpture!! whatever you are moved to make from the prompts! i want people to be encouraged to and be able to create even something small that didn’t exist before for the snicketverse, and share it with other people!

are there any rules?

to keep the event open and comfortable for everyone, no explicit content. also, as always, sibling romance and age gaps will not be tolerated.

do i have to make something for every day?

only if you want to! feel free to just make something for one day if you want :) the point of having a different theme for each day is so some part of canon that you like comes up eventually, and you can at least make something for one of the days. or you get struck by an idea you might not have considered before! i want to get people thinking about all the intriguing things in asoue and atwq and the exciting, different ways we can interpret and create from the same idea.

what are the prompts?

the description under each prompt is just some ideas to get your brain going – feel free to take them in another direction too! whatever you want to come up with!!

november 10th - violet's inventions

the grappling hook! the toaster in the clock! the rock retrieval device! the bobblehead train stopper! even just lockpicking, and violet's ribbon, too! what else do you think violet has made, pre-canon or during canon? what does she make now? post-canon, does she have a job that relates to inventing? does she still invent in her spare time?

november 11th - the sugar bowl

the mysterious sugar bowl! lives have been lost in the quest to find it and it's important to both the snickets and the baudelaires, so says esme. where is it now? what was its importance? what was inside it? where was it during canon, before canon? who has had it before? did anyone have it before esme? what does it look like? how does it keep its contents safe? when was it first used? did it make it to the hotel denouement? is anyone still searching for it? what if it wasn't stolen?

november 12th - disguises

both the firestarters and the firefighters have used disguises --the same disguises, supplied by vfd. what other kinds of disguises have each side used, and for what ends? was a disguise ever seen through at the wrong time, or the right time? was a disguise ever NOT seen through when it should have been? even the disguises beatrice wore when she acted on stage, or the cow disguise worn by jacques snicket, or the denouement triplets pretending to be each other, what does it mean to wear a disguise and what do you do when you wear one? do the baudelaires, or the quagmires, ever wear disguises again? do frank and ernest ever pretend to be each other post-canon?

november 13th - the bombinating beast

our beloved statue the size of a milk bottle, valued upwards of a great deal of money! where do you think it is now? what did lemony do with it when he left stain'd-by-the-sea? who used it before canon? do the baudelaires ever encounter it? does it make its way back to stain'd-by-the-sea? and where is the bombinating beast itself now?

november 14th - books

lemony's a series of unfortunate events books do, after all, exist in asoue canon itself! what does vfd think of the books? who's read them? or books like the unauthorized autobiography, and the beatrice letters, and lemony's childrens books, what place might they have in canon? for all the wrong questions, who's read them? they were filed at vfd headquarters, after all. how many members of vfd know what lemony did during his apprenticeship? or books like caviar: salty jewel of the tasty sea, or stain'd myths, or lemony's pamphlets on the accordion, or even the classic children's lit books, like the ramona series by beverly cleary, and their place inside canon and especially vfd? or even beatrice and bertrand's a series of unfortunate events, the journal they contribute to on the island. who else has written in that journal?

november 15th - the duchess of winnipeg's ring

the ring that went from the duchess, to lemony, to beatrice, to back to lemony, to kit, to bertrand, to beatrice, to the box she kept it in, to widdershins as he searched the ruins of the baudelaire mansion, to ishmael when it washed up on the island, to violet, and to the second beatrice, who traded it to a shepherd for a yak ride. what other adventures has it been on? does the duchess ever get it back again? why did beatrice keep it in a box -- a box that kit's grandfather made the code for? what has the rest of the duchess' family done with it? what does it mean to them?

november 16th - free space!

do you have another object in mind? the spyglass, one of klaus's books, or sunny's meals, or the harpoon gun, or ellington's record player, or cleo's chemistry equipment, or something like the medusoid mycelium? the laudanum? all the things esme says are in or out? the baudelaire fortune? the quagmire sapphires? the fabled tito puente records? the ruins of the baudelaire mansion and what else might be there? all those objects mrs. bass had her students measure? jake hix's meals? cleo's car, or the bellerophon taxi? the vfd taxi? gustav's films, or the sebald code? violet's bread knife? kit's book raft? commonplace books? do you want to combine any of these objects with one of the previous days and create something with two objects for one of the previous days? so many options!! or do you care not for objects! use the free space to write about the item or character or relationship or thought or whatever of your choosing! feel free to pick a theme from a previous woevember event for the free space, if you'd like!

if you have any questions about anything, feel free to drop me an ask or a message!

happy creating, and i hope to see lots of you november 10th-16th!! ✨

[marimayscarlett]

We're all so quick to reblog these posts about keeping fandom spaces alive, but look at the Rammstein fandom, look at it! 😭 It's getting quiet and nobody wants to admit it. 😓 Everyone is just quietly lurking or waiting for someone else to do something and it's heartbreaking!Same cycle, different fandom. 😣 We say we care, but we don't engage, we don't reblog, we don't hype each other up anymore! Some just resort to like posts as if they were on instagram! No reblogs! Some blogs that used to be so active just vanished! Where are they? 😭 We need to actually show up if we don't want this space to disappear like so many others! Thank god at least you and some other blogs still post content! 😭 I'm not aa creator, but I try to reblog everything with commentary, but it's getting increasingly frustrating because I'm screaming into the void😭😭😭

Hi 👋🏻

I guess this is in regards to this post.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts on this. I suppose it depends on how you look at the matter. Allow me to describe my impression:

I entered this fandom on here in 2015 and spent some time here. It was admittedly very lively, very open — lots of people reblogged things with their thoughts added in the caption (which admittedly isn’t as common anymore, at least from what I’ve noticed). There was a lot of joy and excitement when Rammstein in Amerika and Rammstein in Paris came to theatres.

And after I came back to Tumblr, I witnessed the same excitement for the tours in the last two years! Which isn’t surprising, considering the tons of new concert material we got in the form of official reels and pictures, as well as the vast amount of fan videos (which was absolutely not a given during the festival tours, mind you).

I’m not sure I share the view of the Rammstein fandom as stated in that ask, but I do understand the feeling of looking back wistfully and yearning for more excitement, joy, and togetherness. Surely, the activity on here isn’t as high as during the tours, but I think that’s only natural.

Let’s not forget that there are various reasons for reduced activity:

– No new material: no tour or other events this year, so there’s not much new apart from a few selfies of the band members. Reblogging and posting older content is always nice and plays into the bittersweet emotion of nostalgia, but even I can’t spend my whole day on it.

– Real life happens! Plus there are different focus points in life. The members of this fandom don’t only exist on this little platform. They have family, work, responsibilities, friends, worries, and things to deal with, as well as offline hobbies and other fandoms they’re part of — which is a good thing! There’s a risk of becoming too absorbed in one thing when there’s no variety. I can only speak for myself, but I also find joy outside of Rammstein in other areas of interest. Which is nice, life’s too short to miss out on all the fascinating topics this world has to offer.

– Other fan spaces: Instagram seems to have a considerably large Rammstein fandom, and there’s a fairly active (I think) Discord server for this fandom here as well. Some people just need a change of pace when it comes to platforms sometimes.

And yet — we’re still here. We have wonderful and incredibly skilled artists who spoil us with beautiful Rammstein art. We have very talented and creative fanfic authors among us who bring the band to life in various scenarios. We have diligent gif-makers who pick out funny and striking moments for us to stare at endlessly.

As someone without an ounce (!) of creativity in my body, I deeply appreciate all of them, as well as every single person in this fandom. Every like, reblog, and written thought — whether it’s opinions or thirst — contributes to keeping this fandom alive. 🤍

It’s always good to encourage more engagement — I totally get you! But I don’t think this fandom is in any danger of dying out anytime soon. At least from the blogs I interact with and based on my dash, there's quite a lot of activity happening. Maybe not as much as there used to; yet perhaps it will be more if we get new content ✨

[kyalico]

I remember how your hands felt on mine

☆ : hai guys this is my first tumblr post (idk how to use this app) english isnt my first language so i apologize for any grammar mistakes n my overuse of commas :’) was originally gonna be a nanami oneshot but i switched it in the middle of writing

characters: toji fushiguro (jjk) x gn!reader

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, reader’s kinda an ass but so is toji, reader’s in denial half of the time ngl, rushed, not proofread :(

author’s note: its slightly inspired by i remember how your hands felt on mine by Wisp bc i luv that song <3 go stream!!

word count: 1.2k (short bc i wrote it in an hour and its time to sleep)

the cold air gently brushed on your delicate skin, whispering soft hums into your ear. your feet kicked back and forth above the gloomy water, your reflection barely visible from the cloudy specks floating above the surface.

his raspy voice ringing in your head every time the cool wind breathes onto you.

“i’ll love you forever and always, okay? don’t forget that, honey,” is what he would remind you of no matter the day or situation.

the stupid promises were repetitive to say the least, but you couldn’t help but reminisce the days where he gently held you against his firm arms, cooing nothing but delightful words that sounded melodic.

you had known toji for years. from freshman year of high school to now, adulthood. adulthood was definitely one of the most terrifying things to ever exist, but toji would always be there by your side no matter what. he went through hell and back if it meant seeing your smile that imitated a ray of sunshine for just a split second, and not once did he feel an ounce of regret for it.

the first interaction felt as if it came fresh out of a corny romance movie. looking back on it, you realize how unusual you used to act, yet toji never minded. in fact he loved how much you would rant on and on about something silly you’ve suddenly started to hyper fixate over or how much you absolutely despised chemistry. whatever it was, he adored it. he adored you.

now, what did go wrong in your relationship? was it the fact that you felt that he wasn’t emotionally mature enough or was it the fact that he thought you were never direct about how you felt about him? nobody knew the answer but you wish you did. he wishes he did.

“what the fuck? why would you just pour all of that onto me all at once? didn’t even give me some time to process, damn.” a condescending tone and a rough hand covering his face, he was insanely frustrated with you. you never meant for it to escalate, but it wasn’t really your fault he couldn’t handle this, right?

“it’s not my fault you’re never aware about how i feel,” you retorted, a frown on your face which was unusual knowing the fact you never frowned. seeing the way the corners of your lips turned down made toji uncomfortable.

“how am i supposed to know if you won’t give me shit? you lock yourself away in hopes of me getting the idea about how you feel.” toji groaned. it was getting harder to contain himself, but it was definitely frustrating that you were acting this way. you almost never did, and that’s what was so off about the situation.

“maybe read the room better? it’s not my fault you’re so fucking dense all of the time for no reason. it’s almost like you’d choose money over me.” you sneered as your body felt like it was burning up, temperature quickly rising as you struggled to keep yourself together. “i bet you spend all of that money on your side chicks, hm?” it was completely out of anger and you were basically speaking on autopilot at this point. it was hard to figure out what to say especially in the heat of the moment.

however, toji was infuriated at this point, unable to concentrate as he basically stared you down. his fists clenched, dull nails digging into his calloused hands with his knuckles turning snowy white. “the fuck? why the fuck would you say that? you’re actually so immature. i don’t know why you would think that in the first place, but maybe you’re right.” he scoffed, an unamused look on his face. “it’d be crazy if i just admitted i had a side chick or two, huh?”

“what?” it took you a while to fully process all of that, and it wasn’t great at all. “did you just admit to fucking other girls? holy shit, you’re a fucking whore!” you cried out, hand raising as it came in harsh contact with his cheek.

a red sting stained the feeling of his cheek, his eyes widening as he realized what came out of his mouth and it was stupid.

“wait, darling no.” he gently grabbed up by the shoulders, noticing the way your eyes glistened up. “sweetheart, it was just in the moment. i swear i didn’t mean it and i would never cheat on you.” he spoke rapidly in hopes of you believing whatever bullshit came out of his mouth.

a voice interrupted the continuation of your thoughts, the feeling of the wind once brushing against your skin. you didn't even realize the puny tear falling from your eye, sliding down your cheek.

you quickly wipe it away, warily turning around to locate the familiar voice hidden by the whispers of the wind. it was him, wasn’t it? you were unsure whether or not you wanted to see him in this very moment as uninvited memories swam back.

you felt the weight of a large hand covering your shoulder, its thumb gently caressing your skin. “hey, what’re you doing here?” toji spoke softly yet loud enough to penetrate the sound of the wind.

“nothing. what about you, why are you here?” you mumble, responding with a hint of hesitation present in your voice.

“missed you, that’s all.” he gently pecked your cheek without a request and he knows he doesn’t have to ask for permission from you. you’d allow it anytime.

“liar, don’t even.” you slowly pulled away, looking back down at the murky waters. “your ass cheated on me, i dont want you back.” huffing, the wind exposing your features that he absolutely loved.

he squished your cheek gently. “already told ya, i never did and will never want to.” he planted another kiss on your body, except this was on the top of your head.

“your ass admitted it, didn’t you? that’s why we broke up, you slut.” you sighed. you didn’t want to talk about any of this but he was definitely willing to after messing up horribly.

“no, baby, no.” toji sat next to you on the bench, grabbing your hand in his. “i know you won’t believe me, but it was all in the heat of the moment.”

“i genuinely didn’t mean to hurt you at all, please know that. i love you so much and saying those things was the biggest regret and mistake i’ve ever made in my life, and i hate making mistakes especially when it comes to you.” he confessed and you couldn’t lie, you wanted to believe it. and you did.

you noticed the sincerity in his voice, the look of love in his eyes. eyes that were meant for you and only you.

you would’ve never expected for him to own up to his mistakes, but you needed to as well. he wasn’t all at fault, especially when you instigated the argument in the beginning. pride was swallowing you whole, and you didn’t want to ruin the moment at all.

you let it swallow you but also let the warmth of his body engulf you. you missed this. you missed him.

“it’s okay, hun. i forgive you.” you spoke gently, forgiveness was all toji needed. he didn’t even care for the fact that you were at fault. all that mattered was you. just you.

you’ll apologize soon, but you needed him right now. not even the frosty wind and the aroma of seawater could ruin this moment.

☆ rlly rushed ending so sorry!! ill do better :’(

[olderthannetfic]

The cultural purism in writing is always wild. Especially food stuffs. Some places are less global, but some people would drop dead if they ever found out how many places have gone hog wild with dishes that were brought to their countries during wars, colonial times, migrations, or were brought back to their countries, and other times people used their legs to move around.

Certain dishes only exist because they're a """"""bastardized"""""" version of some random dish from somewhere else. Which probably also was inspired by something, and then spread throughout it's place of origin.

Side note: "White people are the only ones allowed to make foods from different cultures." Only if you present them as being dumb and completely uneducated about #true authentic foods, and then pretend like it's a world ending event when Jenny from Connecticut adds some croutons to her eggdrop soup. Rather than it just being completely normal that you add what you want to your food, because that's what cooking is. I distinctly remember a time when people had massive tantrums on tumblr, twitter, and facebook about white people daring to eat "ethnic" foods. Must have been about *looks at calendar* yesterday.

Don't get me started on the cultural puritanism for people of certain ethnic backgrounds. It's as if knowing, eating and loving certain cultural foods is a requirement to be considered good enough for your own identity. Oh and don't forget the stupid comments if you don't pass the cultural food requirements. If you have preferences, or dare to cook to your own taste that isn't completely traditional, you're whitewashed because clearly no one ever changed this dish during those millennia, centuries, decades, years... three days it has existed. So put down that ingredient you like, you don't wanna be like Jenny from Connecticut who keeps destroying entire cultures by putting croutons on everything.

Don't forget to add some mockery of immigrant foods while we're at it, especially when you wanna mock white folks for not being able to deal with "true authentic food." Let's ignore why the foods immigrants made wouldn't have been the exact same as back in their homeland, and how this food is not worth less, just because they needed to find a ways to substitute ingredients and create new dishes. Listen, there's a difference between taco bell and random chain restaurants, and dishes made by immigrants adapting to their new situation of life, not everyone can keep live their culture the exact same way if they leave the home land, especially not as a minority.

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