#Parse Error

[haizeln]

Old drawing to post something on Tumblr again! ^^

[wizzardkisser]

seeing divergence through the lens of it being a love story to matt (and exandria itself) really has solidified it for me. the fact that even in a party with two gods, mortality is treated as the most holy of things.

even beyond godhood -- and i truly can't stop thinking about bahamut and the all hammer doing the dirty work, the manual work, the tiring job of walking the world and experiencing the horrors of the calamity first hand in their mortal lives, and then having to carry that knowledge. when bahamut said that the gods knew the fights of the calamity were wrong because they would cause immense pain he meant both the primes and the betrayers. and it's so meaningful that the gods of justice, and righteousness, and creation were the ones who came with the idea of the gate. a last resource to protect that which is most worthy: mortals.

[infiniteseriesofhalfways]

I am once again fighting with google sheets

[getvalentined]

The result of that flash poll I did the other day, Riv wound up winning so here he is!

Random OC lore below for anyone interested.

Riv is the oldest of the aur, a species unintentionally formed from the energetic aftershocks of the creation of his planet. Because there was only so much of that energy to go around, there are a limited number of "souls" available for their species, and thus the aur have a static population. Although functionally immortal, they do lose neuroelasticity over time, which eventually makes living pretty unpleasant, so they inevitably opt to pass away and allow a new member of the species to be born.

Several thousand years ago, Riv contracted a particularly dangerous magical condition that left him discolored—he used to be a very pale apricot color and his hair was opalescent white—and with chronic pain, but also keeps him from losing neuroelasticity, allowing him to live basically forever without experiencing the ennui that is the literal death of the rest of his species.

Travelers of other species who came across the aur in ancient times wound up essentially engaging in a millennia-long game of telephone that led to a gross misunderstanding of what they actually looked like, which is where the concept of unicorns comes from. When the aur finally went public as a species to get people to stop killing each other, everyone was very surprised to find that they look nothing like horses or deer. (Although they do have hooves, which is what led to the mistranslation that brought about that misconception in the first place.)

[tonydaddingham]

25 lazarii

so ive been thinking on neils ask and answer about the joint miracle crowley and aziraphale performed. now the way it could read is that the two didn't used to have the power of resurrection/power that is capable of resurrection, but now they do. but could also read that they didn't (as is, retrospectively from now) have the power, because it doesn't belong to them. it's this latter possibility that im going to look at because honestly? the whole thing feels to me a bit OP.

so i realise that it's not necessarily about resurrection as an act, but instead the potential to resurrect. regardless, im going to start from key moments of resurrection as a marker for their abilities:

first notion we have in s1, exactly as neil remarks, is aziraphale is able to revive a dove after warlock's birthday party. originally, this was crowley in the book (and was reportedly swapped for blocking reasons), so im going by the show only in this post to keep consistency:

and this is supported by crowley intimating in the resurrectionist minisode that aziraphale was too late to save morag - that he could only have helped when she was still alive but instead she died whilst aziraphale was dithering:

in fact, to me, the only time i can recall in GO (ie shout at me if wrong) we see anyone successfully resurrected is by adam, and this is marked by the reappearance of my beloved lesley, the international express delivery man:

"Adam had rebooted reality... people who were dead were now alive, and things that were broken were miraculously restored."

the only issue appears to be that crowley now seems to be able to exercise a power of resurrection in s2, where he appears to 'bring back' mr brown, and do so rather confidently as if he always had this kind of power...

this confidence would mirror what he says to shax, here:

although, whilst it may be implied that mr brown was killed by the demon, we only truly see him being hurtled through the air. and, whilst crowley appears to bluff that demons can't hurt humans directly, shax appears to believe him.

now, she could have just come to the resolution that they ought to kill mr brown anyway, rules (fake or not) be damned, but the fact that we don't actually see his death intimates that shax might have just toed the line (the demons yeeted him across the street, but was he technically hurt/killed? was shax responding with her own bluff when saying, "civilian casualty"?)

edit 21/08 - IM SMUG

ergo: was mr brown truly killed in the first place, and therefore did crowley truly resurrect him? i think the majority of people are going to say yes, and i would initially agree, but then we come to the below where crowley appears to have riddled it out:

now it could be a case of s2 giving us the 'what' (they are insanely powerful when working together), but the 'why' (eg. power of being essentially soulmates, love, two halves of the same whole etc.) is what is going to be determined in s3.

but the conclusion that crowley came to (and im thinking entirely with critical-noggin-topped-by-tinfoil-hat head on here) feels a bit odd in the sense that it would be that simple, and doubly-odd that at this point narratively - the series that is meant to set up s3 - that the answer would be given here.

it is a parallel to the fact that crowley and aziraphale seem to work best in cohesion - their body swap proved that somewhat - and the miracle is another example of where working together does work, but neither of them are at the character-development point yet of actually recognising it for what it is and means.

it's definitely the romantic, poetic option - that they are powerful because they do it together - and for that reason i definitely think there's some truth to it, but one of the vibes i got from s2 from multiple set pieces is that things are not initially as they seem. a couple of those things appear to have been resolved (gabriel/beelzebub, for example) but there are a load of chekhov's guns left lying around the metaphorical armoury, and i have to wonder if this is one that we all thought was decommissioned.

i want to also add that the gabriel miracle, in terms of set up, directly mirrors the facing down of satan. a key difference is that in s1, they are holding hands with the literal son of satan, whereas in s2, they are holding hands with a former archangel that doesn't appear to have any power whatsoever:

now, a miracle wasn't performed in the airfield scene (as far as we saw anyway, but potentially not counting adam's ability to retcon papa-dear), but this is directly after aziraphale names adam as 'human incarnate.' furthermore, this incredibly astute observation on the power of names by @rudeaziraphale highlights that adam, by definition of his given name, is meant to be human incarnate, and always was. and then we take into account crowley's line at the end of s1:

"For my money, the really big one is all of us, against all of them."

"What? Heaven and hell, against... humanity?"

so actually, is this what the miracle comes down to? that the power they exhibited is not just crowley and aziraphale together, but them, and humanity binding them together? crowley and aziraphale were always meant to be the same character - we know this from when neil has talked about the initial drafts he sent to terry - but actually are they truly whole without the entity that made them, influenced them, into who and what they are now?

the last thing i'll note is neil's earlier march ask here, which indicates that to bring someone back from the dead is a 'heavier weight than they could lift'. that may well just simply reference that together they could do it, absolutely, but i have to wonder if there is a secret third ingredient in the mix as well.

[tobiramasdick]

The devil couldnt come for me himself so he decided that i js CANT watch el’s stream on picarto bc of some parse error that not even reddit could help me solve and for whatever reason their help page would NOT load for me and now i sent them an email that will probably not be responded to that WONT solve my problem and NOW im crying out of frustration all bc i couldnt watch my favorite madatobi artist live and likely will NEVER bc of the damned error.Im so done

[cinnasaur]

no but like google translate would actually be more accurate:

this isn't a canadian product, you can see the kazakh label underneath, so i think the importer translated that to english and then the english directly to french. they even misspelled provence and added extra grammar (i dunno where "à l'oignon" came from, but everything has "the" in front because that'd be "proper" french syntax in a full sentence).

"soleil de fleurs" is really getting me, i feel like that takes some kind of manual effort. the word order isn't consistent with anything else, and modern translation software would take "sun flower" and give you "fleur de soleil" or correct to tournesol, so they would've had to translate and arrange each word independently, or else actually type "sun of flowers" in english?

this just looks like someone who isn't a professional translator attempted to translate word-for-word into a language they're not fluent in and didn't check their work, and that's kinda interesting. it would've been even easier to actually just run the whole list through translation software, but hey, you tried??

anyway this literally doesn't matter and i didn't need to write an essay i just think the logistics are interesting

i’m “the petrol of sun of flowers” 

[shae-la-hyene]

My video editor is smth I paid for. So it won't open until I opened my app store account out of nowhere. I try to connect. It won't. Wtf do I do now, Apple ?

Apparently I'm not the only one. Found very complicated instructions to fix it. They don't amount to nothing I don't know what language they're speaking !

There is no good reason for computers to be this complicated

I never wanted to be a hacker !

Tried stuff with safe mode. It's weird. I feel like I'm forcing it to his knees in a sordid bdsm club and he does NOT like that

There are people who are PASSIONATE ABOUT THAT !??

This is bs I bet it's just apple doing shit

I just want to call support and have them guide me through it. That's unlikely to be that easy

Seriously starting to think when this laptop dies I'm not gonna replace it but another macbook. I'm kinda over this bs. This is a workaround french laws against planned obsolescence

Well. Apple support was a bust. They're not expert at apple stuff they're just expert at SELLING apple stuff

Again, idk why I'm surprised but somehow I AM

Put my laptop through the grinder which it kinda can't handle in his old age.

No frankly I don't want to pay 40€ for an ios upgrade that may or may not wipe my entire pc and may or may not be completely irrelevant to the problem at hand

''I only see an update to cause that problem'' you mean the problem you never encountered before ?? All you know is how to 'fix' planned obsolescence by making people buy stuff. Well sorry but no. I can't afford to 'solve' all my problems by throwing money at them !

[hainamdng]

Handling Vericlock Webhooks: Overcoming Challenges and Optimizing Costs

Discover how we solved Vericlock webhook integration at Prestige Lock and Door. Addressing data format issues, we transitioned from costly platforms like Zapier to an efficient, self-managed solution, optimizing integration and reducing costs.

Integrating third-party services can sometimes feel like navigating a minefield. Recently, I encountered a tricky situation while integrating Vericlock webhooks at Prestige Lock and Door. Vericlock’s time-tracking service sent us JSON data containing nested and malformed fields, causing our webhook processing to fail. The primary issue was the unexpected data format and the lack of useful…

[aralintheobsessive]

Ok so my only context for the terms Innies and Outies is from the 1997 film verison of The Borrowers so every time I see these posts it is a WILD fucking ride

So. The point of Severance isn’t to create perfect workers is it. It’s to create a world where humans never have to have any unpleasant experiences. Because their innies are doing it for them. That’s why they can’t think of innies as humans. Because then you realize……that you’re torturing people.

[flaynbestgirl]

ive seen a few times in previous years that a lot of fans of translated japanese media would like more direct translations with fewer edits made and "no localisation" and to an extent this could be seen as professional translators being out of touch with what it is their audience wants from their translations

but in my experience its actually more likely to be fans who dont speak japanese and/or have no idea about translation theory or practice and who are just talking out of their asses without understanding the full implications of what theyre asking for

[highdramas]

in terms of your recent post, maybe abbot x professional athlete! reader — (volleyball/gymnastics/swim/soccer etc.) she comes in for a devastating ACL tear or something of the like and he’s the one who treats her? maybe jack recognizes her because robby & him would catch your teams games every now and he’s caught off guard seeing you up close, and afterwards reader stops by a couple days later to drop by some tickets to the next match and perhaps her phone number…

spinning out | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!figure skater!reader warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), almost certain medical inaccuracies because i have no idea what i'm talking about but i researched and did my best <3 word count: 3.4k summary: you are pittsburgh's sweetheart, the ice princess, the hometown hero. when you come into the emergency room on the worst day of your life, jack is the one who meets his match. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. i once again took some liberties with this request, but i hope that you enjoy it! i decided to make reader a figure skater! one of my many favorite fixations! not proofread so apologies for errors <3

the screaming that comes from chairs is enough to get the attention of any tuned-in physician or nurse. but it especially gets jack’s attention– because it’s not just screams that indicate pain, or fear. there’s just… general commotion. and that can be a lot more dangerous than anything else.

everyone in the chairs is on their feet– if they can be. jack and dana barrel out, trying to parse out what exactly it is that’s happening. but the second that he lays his eyes on you, he knows why.

you’re the face known all around pittsburgh. your face is on many billboards, definitely in the newspaper, and regularly on the local news. and it’s been this way since jack moved to pittsburgh, back in 2015. at the time, he remembers you looking so fresh faced– only twenty, and you were on track to be one of the best figure skaters in the world. call it morbid curiosity, but jack had kept up with your career, loosely, in the way that most people who lived in pittsburgh is. that's what he told himself, anyway.

“alright, alright, everyone sit the fuck down and stop crowding around her,” jack calls, approaching you and the gaggle of people who surround you. you still wear a dazzling outfit, catching every single light and refracting it back out. your feet are socked but there are no skates to be found, and two people on either side of you helping hold you up right-- barely. you look abysmal, when you finally make eye contact with him– mascara trails down your cheeks, hairs are out of place, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression so… hardened. “come on, we’ll help you. dana– get a wheelchair.”

jack helps the people he learns are your coaches transfer you to the wheelchair. you still haven’t uttered a word– you just look down at your hands, pick the skin around your cuticles. “we think it’s an acl tear,” your coach says to jack. “happened during a competition. a smaller one, thankfully. we don’t need that kind of scrutiny.” this makes jack’s face screw up slightly, but he continues to listen. “we just– we’ve gotta have her back on the ice next week.”

“dana, go ahead and wheel her back to south-9, i’ll be right in.” jack turns his attention to your coach. a stark woman, small eyes, full lips, very obviously tanned. “alright,” he claps his hands together. “you all are going to have to stay out here. we’re very packed in the er, so i can’t have you back. we’ll come out and grab you when we have an update. okay?”

he can tell that this doesn’t please her, but he doesn’t really care. because while she’s bemoaning the possibility of more people bearing witness to what is likely one of the worst moments of your life– not for your sake, but for the sake of image… jack knows himself. he won’t be able to work effectively with that type of squawking in his ear.

when he goes to central, he points at dana. “don’t let coach and company in. feel me?”

“i feel you, boss,” she says without looking up from her computer. “donnie’s in there right now, but she’s ready for you.” she looks up at jack, plucking her readers off. “never a dull moment, huh? we got celebrities now!”

he tries to find it amusing, but then he remembers the look on your face, and he can’t find the humor within the situation. he simply squeezes dana’s shoulder, turns around, and takes a deep breath before he enters south-9.

–

the door opens. click shuts. you hardly hear it– all you hear is the blood in your ears. all you feel is the throbbing in your knee. all you know is that it’s over.

you took pride in what you do. you love ice skating– as an art form, as a way that you have honed your body over many, many years. you’re proud of all of the regional, national, world competitions you’ve won– you’re proud of all of that. and really, you only wanted one more thing. you knew it was a stretch, you knew it was a strain on your body, you knew, at 30, some think you’re too old for your sport… but it didn’t matter.

you just wanted to win gold. once in your life.

you’ve had silver, and bronze, you’ve gotten close to gold the last two olympics– neck and neck with your competitor, who ultimately, worked harder. was better than you. that’s what you tell yourself. that’s what your coaches have told you, to push you. your family doesn’t say it, but you feel it radiating off of them.

you don’t need the doctor to tell you that it’s over. you felt it the second that you landed wrong and crumpled to the ice, a glittering pile of dreams that will never be realized. you cried, not from the pain– you know pain intimately, have walked side by side with pain your entire life. you cried because it was all for nothing.

“hi. i’m dr. abbot.”

you don’t respond.

he sits in one of those spinny stools that all doctors use. you finally glance at him. “you don’t have to say it,” you wipe at your cheeks. “6-8 weeks until i can get back on the ice after an ACL tear. this isn’t my first tear, so i’ll likely need grafting surgery. so who knows how much further that would set me back.”

“wow. you want my job?” he tries to crack the tension but it’s no use. not really.

you’re approaching catatonic.

but it’s like a nail pops a balloon, and suddenly, all that you are is a heaving, sobbing mess.

the doctor– dr. abbot– sits with you. at one point, he offers you a tissue. then, the trash bin to throw it. and then, his hand.

you don’t think twice before you take it. you take it and you squeeze and you use it to tether yourself because everything feels like it’s floating away from you– a career, a dream, a desire.

but other things, too.

pain. being talked down upon. only being useful for one thing.

he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t even move a muscle. others try to come in and swap out and at one point you swear he says, “shen, fuck off, i’m busy.”

you don’t know how long you cry. you’re exhausted after. and itchy, because this stupid outfit clings in every spot that hurts and it feels like a humiliation ritual more than anything else, at this point.

“can i–” your throat is scratchy, and jack hands you a water bottle. you chug at it, greedy. “can i get a gown? and–” you look around, as if scared that they might be there behind you. “tell my coaches to fuck off and go home?”

a small smile creeps onto jack’s features. “yes, i can do that.” he hesitates before he stands up. “we’re gonna get you all checked out. see what we can do for you, and what orthopedic surgery is going to need to do. and we’ll be able to determine how long until you can skate again. alright?”

you nod your head. he finds your eyes. “we got you. alright?” tears are still brimming, hanging off your eyelashes like the saddest dew drops known to man.

–

it doesn’t look good. your assessment of your injury was largely accurate, jack found, when he began his examination of your knee with a delicate touch– being as intune with your body as you are, jack isn’t surprised. he comes back with x-rays and brings in ellis to observe. “you’re smart, i’ll give you that,” he says as he enters the room, and he’s proud of himself when you smile. you’re changed, and he thinks that someone must have given you a makeup wipe, because your face is fresh and beautiful and he has to clear his throat before he continues with his diagnosis and what he’d recommend for treatment.

“you’re looking at, maybe 16 weeks before you can get back out. and that’s entirely dependent on how you heal after the surgery. and even if you do start skating, you’re going to need to take it slow.” he finds your eyes. this is the kind of news that he hates delivering, and he thinks if he has to do it, he can at least look someone in the eye while doing it. they’re beautiful– and they have a depth to them that he doesn’t find in most. you’re not scared off by his eye contact. you maintain it with little effort. “i’m sorry.”

the chuckle that you let out causes a shiver to run down his spine. it’s so humorless, that it creates a chasm inside of him that wants nothing more than to make it better. “yeah, of course it is.” you lean your head back. “the press will be here soon.”

jack and ellis share a glance. “your team is talking to them outside, we believe,” ellis says with a wince.

you smirk. “ah. of course.” you look back to abbot. “thank you for your help. i’m sorry i’m wretched. just…” you shrug. “what a shitty fucking day.”

“yeah, i don’t doubt it.” he chews on his lip. “can we arrange to have someone else pick you up once you’re cleared?”

“there’s no one else,” you say seamlessly. “i’ll call an uber.”

it’s odd, he thinks to himself. seeing you up close and personal, real. he would’ve thought you were entirely delicate, a beautiful flower kept in a box, plucked out, and put onto the ice to entrance everyone who watches you. but you’re so human and alive and he can sense this way that you’ve been treated, and when you say there’s no one else except these people who look at you as a product, a brand, a liability… something snaps.

“we’ll arrange to have someone take you home. it’s a risk to have you take any sort of public transportation where someone can’t assist you into your home.”

you look between the two physicians. your eyes land on jack and he thinks that you might fight it– but then, you concede, and give a meek nod of your head, and he feels that tightening in his chest that he keeps experiencing. he wants to wrap you up and hide you away– far away from those people taking advantage of you.

he’s just starstruck. that's what he decides to chalk it up to.

–

dr. jack abbot does ensure you’re driven home by someone. he is very professional, and polite, as he instructs you on when to return to the hospital for a pre-op appointment, and how to manage your pain in the meantime.

eventually, you do have surgery. eventually, you’re back in PTMC, and your eyes trail on the emergency department as you go past it, wondering if you might be able to sneak a glimpse of him.

you fire your coaches. you tell your team to fuck off. your publicist can hardly get ahold of you, and, naturally, everyone wants a statement. it makes you laugh to think about it. yeah, you’d like a statement too, you think. bitter. always so bitter in those first weeks after.

once you start recovering from surgery, the bitterness dissipates, but you certainly don’t sweeten to what has happened to you. you watch with bloodshot eyes, the footage of it happening. you’re rapt with it, and it’s a little sadistic, you think to yourself– but you can see the exact moment of the tear. the exact moment everything shifts.

that night, you write find a therapist down on a to-do list.

your first session, as you recount the story to her, you get hung up on the portion in the emergency room. you explain it in great detail, and when it gets to your doctor… “i broke,” you admit with a shrug. “i broke in the emergency room. and the doctor, he stayed. you know– sonja, and marci, they were both out there. yes, he asked them to stay back, but it was because even the doctor could see it. that they didn’t care about me. they didn’t care if i was okay. they cared that i wasn’t functional anymore.” you stop yourself. steel yourself. “but he stayed with me. he held my hand when he cried. and i can’t…” you look down at your hands, pick at already raw cuticles. “i couldn’t remember the last time someone was so nice to me, just for the sake of being nice.”

your therapist suggests you go back, and thank dr. abbot. you think this is a good idea, but you’ve spent so much time being an ice skater, you don’t know if you really know how to be a human being anymore. how do you talk about anything that’s not a diet, choreography plans, workout regimine, or regional scores? do you know how to be earnest, and real, and honest?

you hobble towards the emergency room, the brace you wear restricting your mobility, but you’d finally gotten off the crutches, thank god. you hold a box of cookies that you had baked yourself– with all this newfound free time, and with the fact that you could actually eat, freely, in a way that was almost certainly healthier than whatever restrictive nonsense you were doing before, you’d picked up baking as a hobby. you weren’t great. but you weren’t horrible, either.

it felt so good to just be mediocre at something. to not care. to just enjoy it for the sake of enjoying it.

you approach the registration desk. she– lupe, her nametag says– recognizes you instantly, you can tell. you say hello, and introduce yourself by name anyway. “um– dr. abbot treated me here, about five weeks ago. i was wanting to say…” you attempt to slow you breathing, your nervousness. “i was wanting to see if i could say thank you.”

lupe gives you a warm smile. “oh, that’s sweet, honey. we all heard about what happened– i am so sorry.” your lips press into a line. the sentiment is kind– but it strikes you, anyway. “let me go see what i can do.”

–

it’s never good when lupe is coming back.

jack snatches the sterile gown, soaked in blood from a woman that he was unable to save, and shoves it into the proper disposal. he rubs sanitizer into his hands and he eyes lupe, trying to muster up a smile. “can i hold onto hope and a prayer that you’re about to tell me something good, and not bad?”

“yes, actually. for once, right?” lupe laughs and she begins to explain to him that you’re outside. when she says that, jack’s eyes go wide. “she wants to thank you. can i bring her to the family room?”

“uh– yeah. yes, please do.”

you go to central to finish up on a chart when robby approaches jack at his side. “i hear ice princess is back,” he says with a small smile, crossing his arms over his chest.

somehow, a rumor got around that you had cried in jack’s arms in south-9. that he had cradled you and held you and stroked your hair– he’s fairly certain it was princess and perlah. no, he knows it was princess and perlah. all good ER rumors start and end with him.

“don’t call her that,” jack says without looking up from the screen. “not cool.”

“oh, my apologies.” robby’s eyes trail to the family room, where you’re limping in. “she’s walking on that knee.”

jack snorts. “that’s the least surprising thing i’ve ever heard.” after an interaction with you that barely went over an hour, he felt like he understood you. he understood that, of course you were walking. you were determined, and you were used to your body bending to your will– not the other way around. he looks over at the family room as the door shuts with a faint thwick.

“go get ‘em, tiger,” robby says and it makes jack scowl.

he’s a good, professional physician. he doesn’t have crushes on patients.

he opens the door. and you’re sitting there, beautiful, clear eyed– there’s still a storm cloud or two burrowed within you, he knows, but not the same as when he met you the first time.

you go to stand up, but he instantly shakes his head. “oh– no. in fact…” he looks at the couch and grabs a pillow. “elevate.”

you look at him incredulously. “my surgeon said i only needed to elevate for 3-7 days post-op.”

“it’s always good to elevate when resting. especially since you’re walking on it.”

you roll your eyes. “the crutches slowed me down,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“that’s kinda the point, sweetheart.”

–

sweetheart.

your lips curl into a smile and you raise your eyebrows at him. he looks at you like he would like to crawl under this couch, and die, probably. he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “i don’t know why i said that.”

“i do,” your smile is saccharine. “because i’m a sweetheart. obviously.”

“they called you pittsburgh’s sweetheart in the paper, once.”

“oh– so you knew who i was?”

“you can’t go anywhere in this city without seeing your face!” you’ve gotten him exasperated now, riled up, and you’re thoroughly happy with yourself. this is the most fun you’ve had in you don’t even know how long, to be perfectly honest. you’ve begun to recline on the arm of the small loveseat, and jack maneuvers the pillow beneath your knee. his hands are confident, his words are not. it’s a combination that you think you could watch all day.

he takes a seat across from you, once he’s gotten you settled to his liking. and there’s that stare, again– people always said that you had a staring problem, but they must not have met jack abbot before. that man had a staring problem.

you take it almost as a challenge. you maintain the eye contact and slowly slide the box of cookies to him.

he glances down. “what’s this?”

“cookies. i made them.” you run your tongue over your teeth. “to say thank you.”

he hangs his head. looks up just enough to peer at you through eyelashes– long, pretty eyelashes. “you don’t need to thank me. i just–”

“oh, no. i do.” you clear your throat. think over the little script that you had written in your journal, all of the vulnerable and real things that you wanted to say. “i don’t know what i needed, exactly, in that moment. and in don’t know if it would be possible for one person to be exactly what i needed. it was–” you feel that swell of emotion start to rise like a tide in your abdomen, but you push through. “it was the single worst night of my life. but not because of the injury. because i just… i realized how sad my life is. i don’t have friends. my family situation is dysfunctional in a way that is not healthy. my coaches and team and everyone around me just looked at me like a thing. an item. and you looked at me and cared for me like a human being. so.” you have to clear your throat again. “thank you.”

jack’s eyes didn’t leave you, one single time. and he only looks away not to close them, rub at them. when he opens them, they’re misty, and he chuckles. “fuck,” he drags the word out, and you feel it run through the center of you. you move to stand up but he stops you. “you are a human being,” he blurts out. “and fuck anyone who has ever treated you like anything else, or less– fuck. them. seriously.”

“yeah, i fired my team.”

“good.”

“yeah.”

a comfortable quiet takes over and you go back and forth in your mind as you stand up, for real this time. “i know you’re working. and i know this is probably unprofessional, but…” you take a piece of paper from your coat pocket and you hand it to him. “when i get back on the ice, i’d like to do it for myself. but, you know, could be good to have a medical professional there to make sure i’m not fucking myself up even more, so…” you suck in a breath. “that’s my phone number.”

he opens the piece of paper and stares at the string of numbers. looks back to you. “i’ll be there.”

“great.”

“great.”

you sling your purse across your body. “that won’t be for awhile, but…” you brush past him, towards the door. “you know, i can still go out to dinner with a torn acl.”

jack smiles, dimples out. holds the door for you. “sounds like we’ve got a date.”

[moonstruckme]

hi love I like all ur fics!!! Ur most recent emt Maurader made me realize tho we don't always get to see Sirius being vulnerable so what about a fic where may be he's having an off day? Or runs into a cousin and they completely ignore him and he tries to act like it doesn't bother him and just reader comforting him and giving him space

Thank you for requesting angel!

cw: allusion to past abuse, discussion of toxic workplace dynamics

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Sirius gets home from work early. You’re in the bedroom, stomach-down on the mattress with your book in front of you. You hear the front door open and come out to greet your boyfriend, but your smile falls when you see him. 

Sirius’ face is red. He doesn’t usually color when he’s upset, so you take it to mean something that he has now. He steps on the back of his shoe a couple of times before he manages to get it off, stomps on the back of the other even more harshly. You think he might be shaking. 

“Sirius?” 

He flinches. Turning around, his expression twinges with some mix of emotions at seeing you, too muddled to parse apart. He seals them all away quickly. 

You take a step towards him. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” It comes out hoarse. Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah. Just a shit day at work.” 

“You’re home early,” you note. 

Sirius nods curtly. You think maybe that’s that, but his expression is conflicted. 

“Do you wanna sit down?” you ask gently, going to the couch and hoping he’ll follow. He does. It’s a challenge not to reach for his hand, to pull him closer or offer some kind touch, but the stiffness about Sirius’ frame hints that it may not be well received right now. 

When he’s still silent after a moment, you say, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I could make tea and we could just relax.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says, tersely, like he might be trying to convince himself more than you. “I think I’m probably going to be fired, though.” 

You feel your eyebrows go up. 

“I…you know how I got a new boss a few weeks ago?” 

You nod mutely. 

“Right, well, she’s got a temper. At least a couple times a week I’ll hear her shouting at someone in her office and she’s already managed to fire from almost every team.” Your dread mounts as Sirius goes on, speaking faster now that he’s on a roll. “She called me in after lunch. I fucked up something in a report—I hadn’t checked it and it had gotten sent out with the error—and she was pissed. She screamed at me—really screamed, stood up and got red in the face and all that—for probably ten minutes before she sent me back to my desk. And I just came home.” Sirius lets out a dry chuckle. “If she doesn’t fire me, I might quit.” 

“You should, baby.” Your voice pitches with dismay, hurt and outrage for him warring inside you. You take a chance and reach for his hand. Sirius fits his fingers between yours instinctively, something seeming to loosen in him at the touch. “I can’t believe she really shouted at you. No one deserves that, least of all for a silly error in a report. She should be fired for that.” 

Sirius gives you a little smile, but it dissolves at the edges, watery. A cavity opens in your chest as his eyes grow shiny. 

“Baby.” 

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. Blinking. “Sorry,” he says roughly. “I never used to do this.” You feel your face pinch with sympathy. He means cry, you know. Sirius as an adult is more emotional than he was as a child, but you still rarely see him cry. “She just—she sounded just like my mother.” 

Realization comes like a blow to your middle. “Oh, my love,” you say breathlessly, moving to put your arms around him. 

Sirius usually hugs with his whole being. He throws himself into it, with force and purpose and his own rough brand of caring. So you’re used to letting him take the lead, but now, when his arms come around you hesitantly, you’re the one who applies the pressure. And Sirius melts against you. 

You cup the back of his neck in one hand and squeeze between his shoulders with the other, imagining your love pouring out of you and into him through your palms. Sirius is quiet, but you feel a couple of hot tears transfer from his chin to your shirt. You worry he’s holding his breath. 

“Sirius.” You say his name with all the tenderness you can summon, afraid of him hearing echoes of his mother’s voice. “I’m so sorry, lovely. You never, ever deserve to be shouted at that way.” 

“Even if I told you I left your favorite mug at my office?” he jokes weakly. 

You let him go. There aren’t many tears to brush off his cheeks, and you make short work of them, soothing your thumbs over his face just for the sake of it. Surprisingly, his complexion is less agitated than it had been when he’d come in. He was holding it in, you realize. 

“Don’t ever let me speak to you like that,” you say.

Sirius’ expression sobers. “You wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t.” 

“Really. Leave me if I talk to you like that, I’m serious.” 

“No, that’s me.” 

One side of your mouth tips up without your consent. “Bad joke.” 

Sirius mirrors you, grinning halfheartedly. “You think you’d have learned to evade it by now.” 

You gather that he wants things to be light now. That’s okay. You know Sirius has a difficult time with the truly heavy emotions—anger is an instinct for him, but tears and sorrow he’s never known what to do with. You’ll talk about it more over time, in bits and pieces where he’s comfortable. And just because you’re letting it go now doesn’t mean you’re done coddling him. 

You let your hands coast down from his face to either side of his neck, massaging gently the tension in his shoulders. “Did you really bring my favorite mug to work?” 

Sirius’ smile goes a tad sheepish. “Yes?” 

“Why would you do that?” 

“Because it makes me think of my most favorite sweetheart when I get coffee from the break room,” he says, smarmy. “Also, it was the first one I saw when I went to grab one from our cabinet.” 

You smile at him. Sirius pretends at facetiousness, but you know the first reason had been the genuine one. 

“What,” he asks, “you didn’t notice it was missing?” 

“No, I did. I only thought you’d broken it.” 

“And you weren’t going to say anything?” 

“What’d be the point?” 

A soft, intimate look comes over Sirius’ face. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, gray eyes raw and quiet, “do I?” 

You match his tone. “Of course you do, lovely. You deserve better than me, it’s just I’m what you’ve got.” 

“Mm, there’s another way you’re not allowed to speak.” He wraps his arms around you, pressing a heavy-fond kiss to your hairline. “I won’t have any of that talk.” 

“I’ll trade you that for the jokes about your name.” 

“No, I don’t think so. You’re going to have to work a little harder, doll, I’m not giving those up so easily.”

[kiragecko]

Do you think Cass's writers KNEW how harmful Babs' teaching methods were?

Cass and/or Babs fans who have read the first Batgirl series and/or No Man's Land, what do you think?

I'll get into the details in a moment, but my guess is they were trying to write Babs as a fallible mentor, but were ignorant about just how much damage she would realistically be causing. I'd like to get second opinions, because I've spent enough time studying communication with nonverbal people that I no longer know what people actually KNOW.

Anyways, here's the stuff I want to know if you guys think is intentional:

When we first meet Cass, Babs is trying to teach her to read. Babs is showing her the word 'stop' and getting Cass to sound out the letters. This is ... not a good idea.

Some of the errors Cass makes (starting with a 'd' sound and correcting to 't', for example) suggest that Cass is still learning HOW TO MAKE SOUNDS. She's still teaching her body how to shape her mouth and throat, when to vibrate her vocal cords - the physical aspects of speech. That's HARD, and deserves focus so it can be learned properly!

We later learn she only knows a small number of words. She's still learning to associate sounds with meaning. That's HARD, and deserves focus so it can be learned properly!

She's also still learning to match letter shapes to sounds. THAT IS ALSO HARD AND DESERVES FOCUS SO SHE CAN LEARN IT PROPERLY!

By conflating reading, speech, AND understanding, Babs is making Cass' job MUCH MUCH more difficult! Each of those, and a dozen smaller aspects of communication, all need months of prioritization, without competition from other aspects.

-

Throughout Batgirl, Babs pressures Cass to read. Cass is still learning to parse meaning from the words downloaded into her head. She struggles to organize them into sentences. She struggles to understand the nuances of what other people are saying. Once again, these are all important things that she should be encouraged to focus on! Reading is nice, but at this point it shouldn't be the priority. By ignoring the skills Cass IS building, and pushing Cass towards competing skills she doesn't have the prerequisites for, Babs is slowing down Cass' progress and providing negative feedback loops.

-

Babs seems to equate reading with communicating. Possibly because of her past as a librarian and the obvious value she gets from reading. Possibly because her current job is as an information broker and hacker. Possibly because her own disability limits her physically, and reading and writing has become necessary for interacting with the outside world. Possibly because she is living vicariously through the new Batgirl. And possibly because her eidetic memory suggests she thinks in words and can't actually imagine thought in other ways.

Cass is probably never going to use reading as a primary communication method, and would have benefited froma learning regimen that works with her skills, rather than pushing through her weaknesses.

-

Here's the stuff I'm pretty sure was intentional:

Babs calls Cass stupid for not being able to read during a high pressure situation that is triggering Babs. This is obviously wrong, and she feels awful about it.

Babs is frequently impatient with Cass' progress, and sometimes accuses her of not trying, or not caring enough. She makes comments in front of other people without thinking. These are all shown as problematic and hurtful.

-

Here's the things I think Babs did right:

Babs sets up a computer system that can be navigated by voice, and can interpret vague instructions. It provides visual, as well as verbal, information for everything Cass asks about. Cass is never pressured to use a different system.

Babs mostly allows Cass to explore, and builds lessons around Cass' interests. She integrates life skills into her lessons, and actually does a REALLY good job at helping Cass build enough of a foundation to start getting curious about the world.

She usually backs off when Cass gets stubborn, which lets Cass recover, and keep some agency.

She MOSTLY doesn't co-opt Cass' growing friendship with Steph. She supports them, and doesn't try to use Steph to push Cass in the directions Babs wants her to go.

Other than stuff around speech and literacy, I actually think the writers did a good job of writing a flawed but caring mentor who actually helped more than she harmed.

-

What do you guys think?

[genericpuff]

Life update! This is frankly one I've been trying to avoid but at this point it's kiiinda super necessary ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

DISCLAIMER: VERY LONG POST AHEAD. A LOT OF IT IS ME TALKING ABOUT LIFE SHIT OBV. I RAMBLE A LOT AS I TEND TO DO. I'VE BOLDED THE IMPORTANT SHIT SO THAT HOPEFULLY IT'LL MAKE IT EASIER TO PARSE THRU. PLS FORGIVE ME ;-;

------------------------

First things first, I quit my job! Or rather, I put in my resignation letter with my current shop, with two weeks notice. Not something I had to do, I just felt it was the least I could do to go out on decent terms (and it means I can honor the appointments I still have booked and use the time to notify all my clients).

There were several reasons for leaving but ultimately it was a personal decision that will - hopefully - allow me to build a better environment for myself within the larger tattooing industry. I've learned through too much trial and error with all the shops (of which there have been 3) I've worked in that I don't particularly enjoy working in one single shop under one single shop owner. It's often counter-intuitive with my ADHD and anxiety, and it's kind of hard to address my mental health problems when I'm still in an environment that exacerbates them.

Of course, this wasn't an "all or nothing" decision because I frankly wasn't giving up a whole lot by leaving. The tattooing industry has been going through some hard times, between The Great Depression 2: Electric Boogaloo and the oversaturation of shops that exist everywhere now (seriously, everyone and their mom nowadays is a tattoo artist). Not only is the industry changing and being forced to adapt, I too have to change and adapt, not just to maintain my place in this industry, but to align it more with what I need within it, rather than trying to force myself to align with what other people often project (and believe me, some of the people in this industry do a LOOOT of projecting, tattoo artists ruined the tattoo industry fr LOL)

So it's scary, but it's necessary. I'm still gonna be tattooing, but I'm doing it on my own terms now. Instead of locking myself down to a single shop environment waiting for the work to come to me, I'm going where the work is, through guest-spotting and expos and whatever other collaborative opportunities I can find, something that I was a lot more restricted in doing with single shop environments.

Also I'm just like, tired of being broke from not getting more consistent work and the shop splits cutting all my generated income in half LOL There's a reason so many artists - even established folks who have been tattooing for decades - are going private nowadays or opting instead for booth rent shops over the 50/50 splits. I could go on for ages about this but I'd rather spare you all the details because they frankly don't matter here and I don't want to dwell.

Buuut making this decision is, ultimately, to address both my exacerbated anxiety from working in a shop environment, and my financial issues from said environment not benefiting me. Especially now that-

-------------------------

-my roommate is moving out in April! I'm very excited but also very terrified. This will be the first time my husband and I have ever been able to live alone since we started living together some 6-7 years ago. Yeah. As much as I'm a social person, at home I'm a hermit and introvert, and I'm frankly just sick of people who I'm not romantically committed to constantly being around. Even when they're sweet people (which my roommate mostly is) it's still like living around a sinkhole. Sure, it's pretty simple to just walk around the sinkhole and place all your furniture around it and mind where it is at all times, but it sure would be nice if the sinkhole just wasn't there to begin with, y'know?

There are so many things I've been wanting to do and simply can't on account of living with a roommate, projects that I want to pursue, spaces that I want to create for both myself and others. Knowing that she's leaving in April has almost made me even more anxious and impatient, because now I'm actually thinking about all the things that will improve and become available to me just with one less person in the house and I'm DYING for it to finally be reality. I can finally have an actual dedicated workspace area that isn't just a corner of a small den, we can separate our leisure space from our work space, we can decorate the whole place how we want it, we don't have to worry about being intruded upon during our conversations, we'll have so much more counter space in the bathroom and kitchen, we don't have to pray that she's not in the bathroom every time we need to use it because that inevitably means we either have to wait an hour or go piss in the corner toilet shoved next to the washing machines, we can put the doors that originally separated the living room from the kitchen and hallway back up because she had removed them to make space for her 15437281 bookshelves. Much of what I'm describing isn't anything that was her 'fault', it was just the circumstances of living with a roommate which I'm just so excited for my husband and I to get away from.

But of course, her leaving means we now gotta make up for what she would normally cover in bills each month (the biggest of which is obviously rent). And with how dire the tattooing scene has become, leaving my shop to pursue other ventures - even if it costs me more time and money and energy on the forefront to do so - felt like a necessary change, because staying there certainly wasn't gonna accomplish anything, either. The shop kind of felt like a sinkhole in and of itself as well, a bottomless pit of unrewarded effort and stress, weighing down on my subconscious every day. While many of these feelings were largely personal, they weren't helped by the nature of that environment being what it was.

Part of my ongoing treatment for my ADHD is accepting and reminding myself that it is a disorder and that I need to allow myself to walk the path of least resistance, rather than force myself to conform to what I think I "should" be able to do out of the instilled belief that if I can't, I'm "failing". Rather, I need to actually build an environment for myself that doesn't work against me. It's not that I'm failing completely on my own, it's a failure of the systems and environments that I've forced myself to exist in for years. What I'm trying to do is going "against the norm", sure, but for someone with ADHD, going against the norm is necessary because the norm isn't built for me.

Going solo with my tattooing and freelance work might end up not panning out, but I won't know until I try, and for now, it sure beats the path of resistance that I've been drudging through with what's now amounted to very little. Going solo means my time is my time again, as is my work and rewards. As scary as it was to hand in that letter of resignation, I've removed myself from the path that was hindering me and set myself on another that promises, at the very least, change. Whether or not it ends up being beneficial or productive change, well, that's something I'll be finding out as I walk it. At least now I can walk it with my head held high and my hopes renewed.

---------------------

It goes without saying that this year has been a rough one so far, and we're only at the end of March. I'm sure most people can tell that I'm not really as "present" as I used to be, especially when it comes to the constant delays in Rekindled updates and lack of posting outside of that. I've been in a state of limbo, where everything and nothing is happening at the same time, waiting for the moment when I could finally make progress (and as I described above, much of that has been tied to my roommate finally leaving). With the move-out date right around the corner, and my resignation handed in, it feels like I can finally start removing things from my plate to make it more manageable, and rearranging everything to include the things I want rather than the tasteless, unfulfilling garbage I've been choking down.

But that leads me to one of the things that will be getting removed from that metaphorical plate.

------------------------

Anyone with ADHD and RSD knows that it's hard to be selfish, even when the situation calls for it. But sometimes you have to be, for the sake of establishing and respecting your own boundaries and care.

So, in a little act of selfishness for the sake of self-care: Episode 70 will be going up as soon as it's available, I'm hoping by next weekend at the latest. After that, Episode 71 will also be going out as soon as it's available, hopefully within 2-3 weeks time as has been needed over the past few months. This will hopefully line up with my resignation from my shop.

Following Episode 71, Rekindled will be taking a mid-season hiatus.

I know this kind of sucks considering all the delays we've already endured, but it's precisely because of those frequent delays as of late that a hiatus is sorely needed. It not only gives me time to rebuild a buffer of some kind, but largely to focus on cleaning up that aforementioned plate of bullshit that Gorgon Ramses himself would throw at a wall.

I'm aiming for the hiatus to last between 2-3 months. During this time, I'm hoping that I'll find enough stability in my real life to dedicate time and care to it again. The reality is that a free-time hobbyist project like this does require free time. And that free time is hard to justify when it's all the time on account of lack of consistent paid work. To put it simply, if I don't have a roof over my head, I can't keep doing what I do here. Rest assured, it's not that dire yet, but it would be if I stayed on the same path. Projects like these are at their best when they can just be done in one's free time, for fun, without the stress of mounting bills and other responsibilities piled on top. That pile's been getting pretty high for me lately and now even Rekindled hasn't been safe from it - while the art and story has continued to elevate itself with each new episode, the turnaround time has lengthened and the stress of Real Life™️ outside of it has affected my own enjoyment in making it.

I love making Rekindled. But if I want to keep loving it, I have to put it aside for a bit so I can cultivate a better environment in which to create it in. Ultimately the suffering and spite isn't what makes Rekindled great, it's joy and care. And neither of those things can be committed to it when everything else around me feels like it's been burned down.

I do still have my own doubts with this decision. Going on long-term hiatuses has always been difficult for me, largely when it comes to getting out of them (fans of my original work are all too familiar with this). But I know the circumstances here aren't the same, and that they won't repeat themselves if I don't allow them to. I have far better tools to combat burnout now than I did even just a year or two ago, but one of those tools is drawing boundaries and knowing when to step away.

-----------------

This was obviously a VERY long post and I realize with the Rekindled hiatus announcement near the ass end, a lot of people will surely be wondering where tf Episode 70 is LMAO but I'm sure I'll get asks in my inbox about it anyways that I can respond to, and when we actually go on mid-season hiatus, it'll be mentioned properly in the episode itself with a link to this post.

With my roommate moving out soon and my shop resignation now turned in, I feel like now I at least have the mental room to start breathing again, rather than gasping for air. And that will, in the long run, also allow me to create even more cool shit for both myself and all of you :> I do have plans, both for Rekindled after its hiatus and other projects (wink wink), that I now feel like I can start really getting off the ground with the shackles of my living situation and work environment finally loosening. And I do hope that, whenever those plans start to materialize, y'all enjoy what I have in store! It'll take some patience, and a lot of work, but it's work that I'm hoping will pay off in all the best ways ┬┴┬┴┤･ω･)ﾉ

Thank you all for your patience, kindness, and support. I know I've been saying this a lot lately with each episode delay, but I am really grateful to get to create what I do for you all. And I wanna keep doing it. I just can't do it without filling in that pesky sinkhole first (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ TOO SWEET ꒱ OKKOTSU YUUTA X READER

cw: mdni. yandere yuuta. yutamaki poly hinted at. vague discussion of death. implied suicidal ideation (yuuta). canonverse. reader is a civilian and probably (most definitely) has stockholm syndrome. a/n: this was supposed to be a normal hurt/comfort drabble, but then i remembered how strange and off-putting yuuta is…it spiraled from there.

“Do you ever think about dying?”

The evening air lulls, hushed in anticipation. Tucked in the safety of your bedroom, you both lounge atop wrinkled cotton sheets, silhouettes washed a dusky blue. His voice is soft when he speaks, chin resting in the hollow of your rib cage—an uncomfortable pressure.

(It feels claustrophobic: like each inhale will yield less and less oxygen, like the world will close in on you, like you will be trapped inside your skeleton, beneath him forever.

But you would do anything for Yuuta, you think. And you’re certain he would withstand any pain to comfort you—quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.)

His hair messily frames his face, partially obscuring his vision; you comb your fingers through the silken strands and push them back. His irises—midnight, wide and unflinching as the velvet sky—drink you in.

You’ve long grown used to his disquieting stare.

Knifelike, it slits and peels back your skin, lancing muscle and cracking bone to expose your inner self: all your emotions, secrets, and fears. Through trial and error, you’ve discovered that it’s safest to answer his questions truthfully; whether you like it or not, he always gets at the marrow of your being.

“Sometimes,” you finally reply.

Blinking slowly, he hums. “That makes sense.”

Before you can untangle the threads of his thoughts, he adds, “I used to think about death all the time, especially before I understood what happened to Rika.” He draws invisible shapes on the ridges of your ribs, lithe fingers leaving rippling gooseflesh in their wake. “Even after—when I realized I had unwittingly turned her into a curse—I wondered if I would be better off dead.”

(It’s easy to forget that Yuuta is a special-grade sorcerer—though you have no conception of what his position entails. “Jujutsu,” “sorcery,” and “curses” are just a few of the words that are strictly prohibited in the sanctuary of your one-bedroom apartment. You only know of Rika because she saved your life alongside Yuuta and Maki.

While you can’t parse why he’s confiding in you, you stay quiet. You shudder as you imagine how Maki would react to such talk at home.)

“I’m sorry,” you finally murmur, unsure of what else you can say.

He chuckles, lips curling into a smile, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You’re too sweet for your own good—you know that?”

Shaking your head, you admit, “No one has ever called me sweet.”

Lifting himself to his hands, the crushing weight on your sternum instantly melts away; he crawls up your body and drops to his elbows, forehead pressed to yours. His hair curtains your face: all that you can see, hear, smell, feel, and taste is Yuuta.

“Well I have,” he pouts before dotting openmouthed kisses across your neck, breath molten—cloying—as he reaches the familiar curve of your jaw. “That’s why you’re here with us. Your soul is too precious for the ugly world outside.”

Yuuta pulls back to contentedly admire your expression, now flustered from his praise and caresses. “For many years, I didn’t value my life. But after meeting Maki-san, then you…I found my purpose.”

A cool palm cups your cheek, skilled digits splaying out, sensing the life thrumming beneath your flesh. He resumes: “I don’t fear death, and I don’t long for it—not anymore. However,” his thumb smooths across the plush vermilion of your lips, teasing tenderness as his gaze darkens, “if anyone tries to hurt you, they shouldn’t fear death. They should fear me.”