#considering that this post exists to tell you numbers

[front-facing-pokemon]

gmax sandaconda is the DEFINITION of snootirific. i'm not the nose rater but i have to say gmax sandaconda might have the best snoot in the whole franchise

i saw someone in the tags of one of the posts where i used the word "snootiferous" say that they added that word to their vocabulary. as though it was a word i didn't make up. i totally did make it up and now i keep saying it, specifically in posts on this blog. i have not said it anywhere in my real life but if i can make other folks say it then i think that's the ultimate funny

not getting their models, but rendering the eyes properly. there are two competing and likely theories for why the eyes are so fucked up in gen 9: number one being that the eyes are rendered dynamically in-game as shaders instead of as flat textures like they typically were in past pokémon games so that pokémon can look around, have reflections in their eyes, have more dynamic eyes, et cetera, which means they're much more difficult to render authentically for quick silly tumblr screenshots; and number two being that game freak renders them dynamically as a "security measure" to keep folks online from ripping the models as easily to use them for… whatever they want. such as blogs like this, which are of course extremely harmful to the pokémon company's bottom line and destroying their business et cetera et cetera (sarcasm). either way, the eyes are fucked up, and i either have to find a way to recreate the eye textures from what i am given in the texture files, or i have to find a way to recreate the eyes to the best of my ability using shaders in something like… blender, which is what i've been using for more recent models since gen 7. that puts more work on me for every individual model, and isn't exactly easy for models that i have to rip and convert myself when there are dozens of nodes in the shading panel that i don't know what to do with. for example, here's what quaxly (famously, a pokémon with pupils that can look around, as it appears in a whole cutscene in-game) looks like out-of-the-box when i convert it myself from the model format used in-game:

if you can't tell what's wrong, here's what it's Supposed to look like:

notice the white pupils? those aren't rendered properly in blender, notably because no texture exists for them. no texture even exists for anything you see in the eyes there, but it's all somehow magically appeared in the shading section, by magic. and i am not that kind of wizard

this means very little to me. i just played around with some of the nodes by looking at the strangely-colored textures that were given to me with the .trmdl conversion, and i managed to get something close enough:

but they kinda look like they're looking in two different directions (possibly fine? we'll have to see how they look front-facing) and the colors are slightly off (can anyone tell but me? possibly not); not to mention it likely won't be this easy with every pokémon. pokémon whose eyes are much more complex or have colors i can't easily match, for example, or pokémon for whom multiple parts of their eyes are missing… not to mention i don't necessarily have the time or willpower to be spending hours tinkering with these models every morning to make sure the eyes look right. ideally i can take what i've learned from fucking with quaxly right now to hopefully move forward a bit smoother, and eventually i'll refine a process. but until then, this is what worries me

right, but it's also less funny. the initial concept for this blog, inspired by pokémon like snivy, is that some pokémon look really funny when they're up in your face staring at you. it's a concept everyone loves. but if they're facing away from you, there's considerably less to work with there. they're all Kinda just gonna look the same. they lose a lot of that personality. i suppose i'll consider it if i ever run Really low on options, though

nah. i don't do visual art anymore. that time has passed—now if i do it, it's usually a one-off thing and i never want to look at what i've created again afterward

[ponysongbracket]

Brony Song Tournament: Results of Round 3

(Warning: long post. Many stats)

The three biggest landslides were The Moon Rises, Lullaby for a Princess, and Discord (remix). Winning by 84.3%, 83.7%, and 81.1% respectively (not counting votes for Show Results)

These are the top 3 seeded songs in the bracket, in that exact order, so this is the expected result. This round's biggest landslide would have been number 2 in Round 2, which was already closer than round 1

Speaking of close matches, the three closest matches were:

Mad This Time vs Picture Perfect Pony (52.1% or 6 votes)

Magic vs How AJ Won the War (51.3% or 4 votes)

and G**** Bard vs Beyond Her Garden (50.6% or 2 votes)

These three were about as close as the top three in Round 2

8/16 matches were upsets, the first of which was G**** Bard

Below is how many songs by (or featuring) each artist were in the bracket in round 3, followed by how many of those made it into round 4.

Friendship is Witchcraft | 7 | 1 Wooden Toaster | 4 | 3 The Living Tombstone | 3 | 3 Odyssey Eurobeat | 3 | 2 Vylet Pony | 3 | 1 Ponyphonic | 2 | 2 All Levels at Once | 2 | 1 4everfreebrony | 2 | 0 PrinceWhateverer | 1 | 1 Mic the Microphone | 1 | 1 Awkward Marina | 1 | 1 EileMonty | 1 | 0 Mandopony | 1 | 0

Kind of crazy that FiW entered this round with the most songs, and left it barely hanging on to one.

And now how many songs focus on each character, in Round 3 and how many go into Round 4

Luna | 6 | 4 Pinkie Pie | 3 | 1 Twilight | 3 | 0 Discord | 2 | 2 Fluttershy | 2 | 2 Trixie | 2 | 2 Sweetie Bot | 2 | 1 Celestia | 2 | 1 Octavia | 1 | 0 Applejack | 1 | 0 Derpy/Muffins | 1 | 0

Brony Polka songs once again did well. 16 BP songs entered round 3. 4 went against other Brony Polka songs and lost, and two (Picture Perfect Pony and Great to be Different) lost to non BP songs in very close races. Brony Polka songs now make up nearly 2/3 of the bracket, 10 out of 16

I had added 27 songs to Shunks' list. 6 made it to round 3. Of these 6, 2 (Enemy Undefined and Brony Polka) made it to round 4.

Of the 3 songs made up of clips from the show in round 3, 2 made it to round 3

Round 4 starts tomorrow!

[zerodaryls]

i often find myself questioning reality and i'm thinking that maybe people shouldn't let their 8 year olds watch The Truman Show (1998) because it might actually create lasting psychological damage

[deception-united]

Let's talk about writing fantasy.

Fantasy is one of my favourite genres, to read and to write. But the worldbuilding required and the existing tropes can make it difficult to craft a unique, compelling novel. There are a number of less-discussed nuances that might not always be at the forefront of writing discussions. Here are some tips to help you out:

Ground it in reality: Even though fantasy allows for boundless imagination, grounding your world in elements familiar to readers can make it more relatable and believable. Making it too otherworldly can make it difficult to understand or follow, and will likely make it much more difficult to interweave the explanation of your world and its society into the text seamlessly.

Consistency: Fantasy worlds can be complex, with their own rules, magic systems, and histories. Ensure consistency in your worldbuilding, avoiding contradictions or sudden changes without explanation. I find it helpful to keep a world bible or notes to track details and maintain coherence throughout the story.

Character-driven plots: While epic battles and magical quests are exciting, don't forget that compelling characters drive the heart of any story. Develop multi-dimensional characters with strengths, weaknesses, and personal arcs that resonate with readers (see my post on character development for more).

Avoid clichés and stereotypes: Fantasy often draws from familiar tropes and archetypes, but try not to rely on them too heavily. Subvert expectations and breathe new life into old conventions by adding unique twists or exploring lesser-known mythologies and cultures. Make it your own!

Magic has consequences: Magic adds wonder to fantasy worlds, but it should also have limitations and consequences. Consider the societal, environmental, and personal impacts of magic on your world and characters. A well-defined magic system can enhance the depth and realism of your story.

Worldbuilding through storytelling: Instead of dumping large chunks of exposition, reveal your fantasy world gradually through character interactions, dialogue, and plot progression. Show, don't tell, and let readers piece together the intricacies of your world as they journey through your story (check out my previous post on worldbuilding for more tips).

Embrace diversity: Fantasy worlds should reflect the diversity of our own world. Include characters from various backgrounds, cultures, and identities, and explore themes of inclusivity and acceptance within your narrative.

Conflict beyond good vs. evil: While the battle between good and evil is a classic fantasy trope, consider adding layers of moral ambiguity and complexity to your conflicts. Explore themes of power, redemption, and the consequences of choices made in the face of adversity.

Research is essential: Even in a world of imagination, research plays a crucial role in grounding your story in reality. Whether it's drawing inspiration from historical events, cultural practices, or scientific principles, thorough research can enrich your worldbuilding and add depth to your narrative. Even fantasy worlds and elements require some sort of basis to make them more believable.

Revise: Like any genre, writing fantasy requires extensive revision and polishing. Be prepared to revise your manuscript multiple times, seeking feedback from beta readers or critique partners to strengthen your story, characters, and worldbuilding.

Happy writing!

[after-witch]

Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.

Word count: 1787

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order

“Who is the smiling man?” 

The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words. 

But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took  you away from this place. Away from Mahito.

Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting. 

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again. 

“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”

Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all. 

The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes. 

It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances. 

It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.

Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly. 

“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”

Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him. 

“You write about him a lot.”

Oh.

Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug. 

“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you. 

You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book. 

Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach. 

“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”

You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter. 

Bitter? But why?

He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.

“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.” 

He takes a breath. Then--

“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”

Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.

All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own. 

Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant. 

And you… you actually glare up at him. 

Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.

How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it. 

“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.” 

“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.

And then--

Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.

But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.

That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.

“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”

This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.

Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”

Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.

He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”

But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.

It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.

“Why do you like him so much?”

How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.

Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.

“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”

Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face. 

“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?

Mahito frowns. 

“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.

“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.” 

Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.

“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”

“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away. 

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.

His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his. 

“You won’t write about him anymore.”

You don’t take a moment to answer this time.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t read those books anymore.”

“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”

Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.

And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.

“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact. 

You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in  your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.

Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.

“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

[catboygretzky]

Exyblr Dashboard Simulator based on what I personally see on sportsblr:

1/?

👑 girlbossriko follow

how many bro jobs do you think it took before riko moriyama and kevin day realized that uh.....maybe this wasn't just a bro thing

👢exyinaphonebooth follow

how many times do they have to come out and say they're like brothers before you freakos stop shipping them

👑 girlbossriko follow

????? do i know u

#it's a tumblr post about two exy players that you'lll never meet in your life it really isn't that deep

558 notes

💃fox-me-up follow

ngl that newest fox is kinda 👀

#psu lb #exy lb

8 notes

👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 talk-exy-to-me

The NARRATIVE that kevin day and neil josten have........son of exy! scouting the rookie-est of rookies from fuck knows arizona........no listen you dont GET IT winning is EVERYTHING TO KEVIN and he would risk it on the foxes? And NEIL? who has only played exy for a year! NEIL Gets his attention!!!!! And hes good and he's getting better every game and he keeps bitching about kevin's ex on live tv BUT WAIT!???? NOT QUITE WHAT YOU EXPECT! Bc then neil shows up with a number on his cheek BECAUSE WELL it turns out they've known each other since they were KIDS! how is everyone not insane w me THEY'RE LITERALLY PERFECT

#where r my fellow njkd truthers #how r u all not here with me this isnt even the start #kevneil #210 #psu #njkd

102 notes

☀️ usctrojanny

every smiley blonde striker (jeremy knox) needs a brunette wet cat emotional support backliner (jean moreau)

#jerejean #usc trojans #i'm just saying 🤷‍♀️

58 notes

👸🏻 kevindazed follow

did he just......

👸🏻 kevindazed follow

guys please tell me i'm not insane

👸🏻 kevindazed follow

HE'S NEVER BEEN????? SKIIING???? KEVIN WHAT DOES THAT MEAN ?????? KEVIN PLEASE

#i i'm going insane i will literally die if someone doesn't explain this to me HE'S NEVER BEEN SKIING?!!!!

407 notes

🧚 goalie-stan

oh....i'm feeling so weak......it'd sure be nice to have a big strong goalie (renee walker) hold me up (renee if you're free on tuesday i am also free on tuesday.........on tuesday this tuesday, any tuesday?)

#literally passing out just thinking about her holding me don't call don't text i'm busy

84 notes

🌄 softkevinday follow

do u think if u offered kevin day essential oils to heal his hand he'd beat you to death

#it'd be hard for him bc he only has one hand but he could probably do it #legally this is a joke don't do this

284 notes

🗣️ jeremyknoxes follow

feeling normal

215 notes

📜 realexyblog

actually exy rpf is fine, i asked kayleigh day herself and she told me it was fine

112 notes

🐋 sexyexy

'exy is a stupid name for a sport' have you considered that a) i don't care and b) it's named that solely so i can make sex jokes about it

11 notes

🏳️‍🌈 gay4stickball follow

is he, ya know *mimes jerking off* an ncaa exy player

#i don't believe that straight exy players exist

56 notes

🙈 ittybittyminny follow

Andrew Minyard!!!!!!! 🥰🥰 short king!!!!🤏🤏😋😋 Awwwwwwww the scrunkly!!!!! 🤗🤗🤗 My boinky boy!!!!!🥺🥺 Crinkly doo,,,,shronkle scrimblo......🥺🥺🥺 rb if you'd scrunkle!!!!!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

📖 sapphic-exy follow

he literally killed someone

🙈 ittybittyminny follow

And? God forbid women do anything

#also no proof he did that #yeah there's proof his twin bro killed someone but that's not the same bc theyre different people #almost killing someone doesnt count

807 notes

🐦‍⬛ edgarallenexy

got told i'm problematic for liking the ravens? THAT'S LITERALLY MY SCHOOL OH MY GOD

2 notes

🌸 softexy

Kevin Day - A Study

#kevin day #psu foxes #palmetto foxes #exy #web weave #poetry #psu foxes #palmetto #edgar allen

378 notes

[conarcoin]

So Elon bought Twitter. I'm honestly not gonna push away Twitter newcomers, but if you're in the MCYT fandom you need to understand that the social etiquette and expectations and culture here are very different than over on Twitter. So as someone who's been an active part of mcytblr for two years now, I'd like to offer some thoughts and advice!

One: Shipping. MCYT communities on Tumblr have always tended to lean more tolerant towards shipping of roleplay characters due to the idea that this is a space for fans primarily. The creators who visit or actively use Tumblr like Eret and Martyn understand that this is a fan space primarily, and don't bother us for the content we make, and we don't bother them with it.

The number one worst thing you could do is share shipping content with creators who have not asked for it. This is a huge social faux pas here. Secondly, on the other end — writing callout posts for shippers here isn't gonna fly. Even for RPF shippers and people who may ship boundary-breaking pairings, our default is usually to not engage with these people rather than publicly call them out. It makes the space a healthier place for everyone and makes it much less likely that CCs may come across content they are uncomfortable with. It's also considered a social faux pas to ask CCs their opinions and boundaries on shipping, since that's bringing it up when they didn't ask!

Speaking of shipping, people typically don't mind you maintagging ship content so long as you also tag it as shipping so people can filter it. For Hermitcraft the tag is hermitshipping, Life Series has trafficshipping, and the lesser known DSMP tag is dsmpshipping.

Two: Reblogging. This is something a lot of newer users tend to struggle with. There is no algorithm on Tumblr, at least not one that works, so content creators rely on you reblogging their work in order for it to spread. If you see a fic or piece of art you enjoy, please reblog it! I often reblog art for MCYT fandoms I'm not even personally in.

Three: Tagging (again). There are a wide variety of tags you can use for your content! The most common tags you'll want to use are "mcyt" and "mcytblr", and any relevant series, pairing/group or character/CC names. However, please don't use the tag "minecraft"! Minecraft has an entirely separate fanbase on Tumblr that we co-exist with and have some overlap with, but don't necessarily appreciate seeing MCYT content in their tags. Any tag with "minecraft" in it is also a no-no, such as "minecraft youtubers" or "minecraft championships". Please use shorthands!

Four: Opinions on MCYT drama tend to be very different here than they are on Twitter. For instance, you should assume by default that most bloggers here either like or are completely neutral towards "problematic CCs" like Schlatt. But also, we tend to be very against spreading anything originating from leakers, and we also tend to not be fond of making posts "holding CCs accountable" for things they did years ago. Generally, mcytblr prefers to be a more drama-free community, and if you do engage in discourse, many would appreciate you tagging it as such!

Five: CCs do not need you to babysit them.

Generally speaking you will see a lot of jokes and memes on mcytblr that wouldn't fly on Twitter, and it is generally looked down upon to try to speak on behalf of CCs personal boundaries — they are grown adults, and you are a stranger! Calling out or harassing people for "breaking boundaries" is mostly just going to get you looked at strangely, especially if you don't have a source for your claims. Most of us will stop doing something if asked, but we don't need stans to tell us to! CCs can speak for themselves when uncomfortable.

Six: Most mcytblr blogs don't want CC notices. There are quite a few CCs who are active here, but the community is chill with them as they don't tend to talk about us elsewhere and allow us to do our own thing. We do not, however, like encouraging CCs to join Tumblr or to follow us or reblog our posts — many people here actually prefer being out of sight of CCs and many of us consider it rude to seek out attention from CCs outside of sending the occasional ask.

Please treat CCs kindly and don't gawk at them like you just saw a celebrity on the street — the ones who are active here are just Tumblr users like the rest of you! Seeing Eret reblog fanart or respond to an ask isn't something to point out.

While we joke about Twitter users joining, we don't actually have anything against you guys, it's just that we've built a very different community here and ask that you respect it and the etiquette we've come to establish! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy your stay on mcytblr ^_^

[bluegiragi]

You elaborated wonderfully on how Horangi views other Haetae and his relationship to them (I love how your brain works fr every tidbit of what you come up with is scrumptious).

You also gave us vague ideas of how Price and Soap view other dragons/werewolves.

But I’d love to know explicitly, How does everyone in 141 (and Konig) view others of their kind? How do they get treated by other monsters and hybrids? (I’d like to imagine they get a slight amount of flack for cooperating sometimes with the likes of humans)

lots of reading in this post, but I’ll section it off into Harpy, Wraith and Percht so it’s a bit more organized :)

Harpies

Harpy culture really prioritises independence above all else, to the point that their young are left to fend for themselves after they turn 16. They’re also quite a prideful bunch, which means they really dislike sharing space with other harpies. In the military it can be especially dicey, since two harpies will instinctively consider it an insult if they’re forced to be on the same team (it’d be like telling them you don’t think they’re good enough on their own) and it’ll result in a fight at worst and a cold, distant relationship at best. Even Gaz, who is pretty coolheaded and thoughtful as far as harpies go, would be irritated in that sort of situation.

Harpies don’t have this kind of instant animosity for any other flighted monster (like dragons) although they’ll still get a bit competitive. That irritation is a remnant instinct from back when they’d battle each other in the sky to prove themselves to mates - it would always end with one, dead, plummeting to the earth and the other victorious, still flapping. Their mating rituals are a lot less lethal these days, but that immediate wariness around their own kind has stuck.

Wraiths

There is no confirmed number of wraiths currently existing and probably never will be, because they’re impossible to keep track of. However, their numbers are probably very low, simply because the circumstances needed to create a wraith are extremely specific and unlikely to naturally occur.

Because of this, it’s unknown if two wraiths have ever even met - Ghost has definitely never met another one in his whole life (and never wants to either)- but if they did, chances are it wouldn’t end well for anyone involved. They are volatile, capable of massive amounts of destruction if let loose and (so far) impossible to contain against their will. I think they’d mostly be apathetic to one another in a “don’t fuck with me, and I won’t fuck with you” sort of way but they’re naturally sort of angry and vengeful, so it’s best to assume violent confrontation is an inevitability.

For what it’s worth, I think if Ghost did meet another wraith, he’d pity them.

Perchts

Perchts like each other well enough, so long as nobody veers away from tradition too much. They’re monsters that are perfectly happy living within their very insular, very regimented communities and distrust anything that differs from the norm. Their judgemental ways come from generations of belief that their kind all working towards the same goal is the only thing allowing them to survive in the remote areas they call home. However, they tend to go way too far, and punish any deviancy with draconian responses like public beatings and even exile.

König (or Klaus, as he was once known) tried his best in their community but he was doomed from the start with his enormous stature. He adopted a hunch as a child to try to fit in with his peers but it just wasn’t enough. After one too many mistakes, he was beaten and left for dead, effectively disowned by his own kind.

He was saved by a scouting party that happened to be in the area and then voluntarily allowed himself to be mutated so that he could be useful. He was all too happy to do so in the moment with spite against his own kind fueling him, but he regrets it a little nowadays as it’s started to take its toll on him.

Fun fact: Perchts can shapeshift into humans to hide their monstrous features. This means that Konig’s percht form is how he truly is, and whenever you see him as a human, that’s him in his shifted form.

König has a difficult relationship with Perchts nowadays. He hasn’t seen another one in decades since they all avoid large clusters of people like cities and villages. I think if he did meet another one he’d try to run away - he still feels some shame about never being accepted.

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

Dog-eared | Chapter 1: The End

Summary: You know your boss is involved with organised crime. The flashy cars, men in tailored suits, call girls that come and go, and the odd hours he keeps. It screams organised crime of some kind, or a cult. But you’ve been able to keep it all separate from your personal life. Until now. Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Mafia Themes/Mob Violence etc., Swearing, Nearly Naked Price. Main Masterlist | AO3 Wordcount: 2556

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

On the surface, working for the Mob is no different to any other corporation, you do your job – a cushy gig as a Cyber Security expert – you get paid. There’s no union busting, or quibbles over PTO and pay, simply because it’s laughable to even consider them when your boss is literally the head of one of the most notorious London crime gangs.

You butt heads with the department heads and shareholders of the shell company just as frequently as at that company owned by Nestle, you’re pulled from project to project just as often as working for Amazon’s tech support, you work unpaid overtime at the same frequency as that law firm down the road.

The key difference is the pay.

You’re flush with savings, your student loans repaid, and you live a pretty cushy life, all things considered.

“Alrigh’, lass?” The familiar Glaswegian twang shakes you out of your post-lunch daydream at your desk and you smile up at your friend as he perches on the edge of your desk. You didn’t even hear the door to your office open.

He’s dressed to the nines in a blue three-piece number, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. His waistcoat is a slightly darker blue with gold brocade embroidered on the silky material. His tie is a bright yellow to match, if you didn’t know any better, he’d almost pass for a Canary Wharf banker wanker.

His hair is styled in the usual short mohawk he’s favoured since you were kids. A bittersweet remnant of the boy you once knew shining through the hardened exterior of the very dangerous man you’ve come to love.

“Soap MacTavish, those will kill you,” you say with a roll of your eyes as you point to the cigar tucked in the exterior pocket of his suit, “Celebrating?”

“Not yet,” he says as he drums his fingertips on the desk, “But Cap’n thinks we’re about to strike it big.”

“I don’t want to know,” you playfully cover your ears with your hands, “So zip it.”

“You asked,” Soap says with a grin, “Besides, Price is keeping this one on the need-to-know basis, so I couldn’t tell you even if you were feeling a wee bit nosy.”

“Good,” you say with a huff as you lean back in your chair, “Just come back in one piece, yeah?”

“Always,” he promises with a wink as you see the lift doors open behind him, Ghost and Price in full view through the glass walls of your office. Both men are deep in conversation, “Besides, I’ve got plans this weekend, can’t woo my missus if I’m dead.”

“Speak of the devil,” you grumble as Ghost and Price stop outside your open door. The scarred blond man nods at you, a subtle twitch of his eyebrow and scarred lip more than anyone else gets in this place. He’s in a pale salmon suit, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to brandish the gold chain around his neck.

Price looks through you like you don’t exist. His azure eyes cold and emotionless as you nod in his direction. You can’t help but notice the way his rolled up shirt sleeves hug his thick arms, nor the gold shirt garters that only add to the old-school gangster look. His dark trousers are pressed to perfection, the hems brushing over the tops of his maroon Brogues. His beard is freshly trimmed, framing his thick lips in a way that makes you yearn to know what it’s like to feel them brushing over your skin.

It used to sting, the sheer indifference he shows you, but after four years, you’re over it. Mostly. You try to give him the same wide berth, mostly talking through Kate, his COO, if the need arises.

But you’re not so proud to admit you’d climb him like a tree if he so much as hinted that he was interested.

“Duty calls, hen,” Johnny leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, “See you soon.”

You feel the multiple eyes on you at the overly familiar gesture. The rumours that you and Soap were/are fucking have been circulating since you first joined Price and Sons. It makes you laugh, because – to you – it’s obvious how in love Soap and Ghost are.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” you call after him playfully, “Aaron from HR is on my ass about inappropriate work relationships!”

“Whatever you say lass, you love the attention,” Soap says without turning back, his laughter echoing through the hall as he joins Price and Ghost outside your office. But being the subject of office gossip is the least of your concerns, it seems.

An alert flashes up in a command window, then another, and another. Emails start piling in along with Teams and Slack messages from multiple department heads and C-level execs.

You groan inwardly at the workload dumped at your feet, on the wrong side of lunch on a Friday. You’re going to be here into the early hours, you just know it.

You call up Farah, getting her to ensure the counter measures are doing their job across the system as you do the same. It’s a standard DDOS attack, aimed at the infrastructure layer, and one of thousands the company experiences each year. But there’s something about this one that makes you doubt it’s run of the mill. You don’t have time to question why as you see a second and third wave of emails and video calls coming through.

You’re pulling up Farah on a video call as you hear the glass door close behind Soap.

You don’t notice the way John Price lingers at your door, his gaze transfixed as he watches you work the problem. You miss the way he clips Johnny over the back of the head, telling the younger man to “behave”.  

~*~

You’re trudging through the rowdy streets of London on a Friday night, still glued to your work phone as you try and wrack your brains over the incident. Farah offered to stay late onsite, which you had gladly accepted. You trust Farah more than any other colleague you’ve ever had. She’s capable, smart, funny, and most of all she knows her shit.

You’re only a few streets away from your flat now, thumbs furiously typing away as you hear the distinct rumble of thunder in the distance. You curse yourself for not packing an umbrella this morning.

You: Farah, don’t stay up too late, the worst of it is over, we can pick back up in the am.

Farah: Yes boss, will catch you in the morning, have a good one! Don’t lose any sleep on this, I’ve got it covered.

You: You too, night.

Farah: No promises, now put the phone away and let me know when you’re home safe.

You smile to yourself as you close the app. You know she’ll be glued to her work computer all night, but at least you can say you tried. You feel the heavy drops of rain splatter against your skin as the weather turns rapidly around you. The Friday night partygoers screeching and groaning as they too fall prey to the fickle whims of British weather.

You’re soaked through by the time you reach your building, the doorman letting you in with a sympathetic smile. You miss the guilt etched into his face as you shuffle through to the lift.

All you want to do is settle down with a glass of wine, your scrunkly elderly dog Lola, and the latest episode of that period drama series everyone is going on about.

You approach your front door, pawing through your handbag to find your keys when you hear it. A short, meek little yap that barely registers as a bark. A sound you’re far too familiar with to mistake it for anything else.

Lola.  

You look up to see your door ajar. Your stomach drops as you see the bloody streak of a handprint smeared over the handle. You look down to see a scarlet boot print stamped on your welcome mat as you nudge the door open with the toe of your shoe.

“Hello?” You call out as you use the torch on your phone to illuminate your dark flat.

You can smell the red-copper scent of blood in the air as you follow the scarlet droplets that trail through your open plan flat. The jingling of Lola’s collar makes bile rise in your throat.

“Look, whoever you are,” you start your bargain with a surprisingly level voice, “I’ve got money, I’ll give you whatever you need, just leave my dog be, yeah?”

There’s no response as you drop your handbag down on the sofa, the familiar landscape of your home shrouded in darkness as you lament not turning the light on at the door. But the warm light spilling from your bedroom tells you exactly where your intruder must be.

You make your way to the safe on the far side of your flat, dangerously close to your bedroom door where the intruder lies – the bloody handprint smeared on your bedroom door a perfect match to the one you saw on the way in only stoking your fears.

You quickly disarm the safe and pull out your – very illegal – Colt 1911 with blackened frame and mother of pearl grips. You hit the mag eject, acknowledging the full clip before sliding it back into place and pulling the slide back to arm the weapon. You may not technically be part of the mob, but you’re not so naïve that you’d not prepare for this sort of thing.  

You steel yourself, phone forgotten on the floor by the safe as you support the underside of your pistol grip with your off-hand, your dominant hand steady around the grip, aimed at shoulder height as you prepare to breach your bedroom.

“Last chance,” you call into your bedroom and the unmistakeable sound of Lola’s happy grumbles catches you off guard.

You kick the door in and immediately you’re left dumbfounded, but you don’t falter, gun pointed towards the man slumped on your bed.

“What the…?” You trail off as you feel heat singe at the tips of your ears, flooding your cheeks as you take in the sight before you.

John Price is shirtless, stripped down to his tight grey boxer briefs as his head lolls back against your expensive mahogany headboard. His hair sticks to his head, blood and rain smeared through his short locks. His face is bruised and bloodied, his lip split and one of his eyes swollen shut. Even beaten half to death, the man is striking.

“Mr Price?” You hiss as you slowly lower the gun, setting it down on a chest of drawers to your left, “What happened?”

You struggle to decide your next move, there’s a loud, shrill voice in the back of your mind that makes you want to dab his face with a wet rag. Shower him with care and attention like some trite romance novel. An equally loud voice tells you that it’s not your problem, this isn’t what you’re paid for, and you should just turn him out on the street.

Then you see the duct tape strapped tight around his hairy chest, two wads of what look like sanitary towels bunched up over his lower abdomen and another tampon-looking object stuck in his right bicep.

“Call me John,” he wheezes out and you jump back at the sudden signs of life from the beleaguered man. You can’t believe he’s still breathing, let alone conscious right now.

“What the fuck are you doing here, John?” You hiss as you notice the big lump under your blood-stained duvet, a long tail wagging against Price’s side as Lola seems to finally realise you’re home.

“Deal went sideways, shit really hit the fan this time,” he coughs out through gritted teeth as a tremor wracks his body, “Got the bullets out, used some of your shit in the bathroom, will compensate you.”

“Right,” you say as you shake your head, “I don’t want to know, don’t need your money, not like tampons are expensive anyway.”

“Fuck off with your sanctimonious bullshit for once, love,” Price hisses as he glares at you with his one good eye. You bristle at that but hold your tongue, glowering right back at him, as if he isn’t one of the most dangerous men in the country.

“You need a hospital,” you say slowly as you perch yourself at the end of the bed, “But I’m guessing you’re going to tell me to fuck off with that idea?”

“You catch on fast,” John says with a heavy exhale through his nose as Lola wriggles her way out of the bedding, her greying muzzle popping out of the covers dramatically as she sniffs you out, “I need to stay here a while, lay low while I plan my next move.

“Absolutely n-,” you begin but you’re cut off, John continuing to speak as if you aren’t even there.

“I will compensate you financially, of course, but you cannot let anyone know I’m here.”

Lola stretches her old body out with a soft whine before trotting down the bed to you, wonky tail swishing back and forth before she plops down onto your lap. Milky eyes peer blindly up at you with adoration as you scratch behind her ears.

“What about Soap? Ghost? Gaz? Kate’s gotta be worried sick,” You say, watching the wounded man labour through each breath. You try not to admit to yourself that you’re worried about him. He’s a mobster, scum, you should have nothing but resentment for him. But the nagging voice telling you to care for him, nurse him back to health, just won’t quit.

It's the right thing to do.

“Kate’s the reason I’m here,” he says as his voice becomes faraway, distant, “Said I could trust you.”

Before you can ask any more questions, Price passes out. His jaw falls slack and his one good eye flutters closed as you look between the haggard man and old dog in your bed. You groan as you release the mag from your gun and eject the chambered round, placing the disassembled piece down on your bedside table.

You force Lola out to do her business, the small dog grumbling the whole time you pry her away from the warm bed and even warmer man nestled under your sheets. You pick up your phone up on the way as you text Kate to see if she’s awake.

Kate: Call you in 5.

Is all you get as you’re lifting Lola back onto the bed, who immediately settles against Price’s side.

Traitor.

You think as you rummage under your sink to find your cleaning supplies. The welcome mat is burning away in a steel bin filled with lighter fluid on your balcony, but you need to clean up the rest of the blood before the nausea eats you alive. You phone begins to ring just as you’re locking your front door. You answer with a scowl as Kate says your name syrupy sweet in your ear.

“Cut the shit Kate,” you snap as you hold the phone in the crook of your neck as you start mopping Price’s blood from your tiles, “What the hell is going on?”

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

[ladykailitha]

Fake Boyfriend Part 1

This was going to be an AO3 exclusive until I found out I couldn't do the strikethrough coding for the titles over there and until I think of one that works as well as this one does, it goes here first. There is a second part that will be posted on Tuesday as it got a tad too long for Tumblr (clocking out at over 3k).

Summary: After most of the older teens have gone off to college, Eddie goes over to Steve's to hang out. When he finds Steve on the phone with one of his co-workers, he tells Steve to pretend Eddie is his boyfriend to get the guy to back off via notes on his notebook. It works better than he could possibly dream as the more Steve describes his "boyfriend" the more it sounds real.

***

Eddie let himself into the Harrington mansion like he always did, backpack slung over his shoulder. Steve and he was long since past caring about knocking on each others’ houses’ doors. Bedrooms on the other hand were sacrosanct and closed doors were to be respected at all times, but their houses? Open invitation. Always.

He went straight to the kitchen because if Steve was going to be anywhere in that labyrinthine house of his, it was going to be the kitchen. He entered through the open doorway just as Steve snapped.

“Fuck you!” he growled.

Eddie frowned. “Hey!”

Steve turned and he could see that Steve was on the phone with someone. The other man mouthed, ‘Sorry!’ when he spotted Eddie in the doorway.

“I gave you this number for work purposes only,” Steve continued with a sigh. “I’m just not interested in you, Caleb. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Understanding slowly dawned over Eddie. He knew who Steve was talking to now. Caleb worked at the same hair salon Steve did and was constant thorn in Steve’s side. Always flirting with him and just generally making Steve uncomfortable.

He ripped the backpack off of his shoulder and started digging around. He pulled out a notebook and a pen. He turned to a blank page and wrote: TELL HIM YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND

Steve looked at the sign with a frown of confusion. ‘But I don’t’ he mouthed back.

Eddie pointed at himself.

Steve chewed on his thumb for a moment before he nodded. “Caleb!” he said interrupting the other man’s stream of consciousness that he was just spewing at Steve on the end of the line. “Look. I didn’t want to have to pull this card because ‘no’ is a complete sentence, but I have a boyfriend.”

Eddie gave him a thumbs up.

“I haven’t brought him up before because he’s not out–”

Eddie scoffed, smirking with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean we’re not out as a couple to our friends and family,” Steve amended, sticking his tongue out at him. “Of course they know I’m bisexual and he’s gay, they just don’t know that we’ve been dating.”

That was certainly true, especially considering that they weren’t actually dating.

Eddie scribbled another note: WAYNE

“Well,” Steve said with a huff of laughter, “his uncle knows, but my parents don’t.”

Eddie started on another note, but Steve beat him to it. “It’s a small house and thin walls, the dude was going to find out sooner or later.”

Eddie nearly choked on his own tongue. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head in shock.

Steve laughed. “And have my parents walk in on us? Fuck that. I trust his Uncle Wayne way more than I do my parents.”

Eddie looked down at the half-written message that would have spelled out TRUST with a fond smile on his face.

Steve rolled his eyes. “What do you mean you want me to prove he exists? Like describe him or something?”

Eddie jotted down another note: PERSISTANT BASTARD

Steve slammed a hand over his mouth to cover the laugh that bubbled to his lips.

He cleared his throat. “So are we talking looks or personality?” he asked. “Because I could go on about both.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, causing Steve’s cheeks flush.

“Looks?” Steve asked, his voice a little high at the absurdity of it all. “Oh. Wow. Yeah. He’s got the most amazingly soulful brown eyes I’ve ever seen outside of the movies. I’ve heard people describe them as doe-eyed or puppy-dog eyes. They aren’t bad descriptions, just... not close enough. I don’t think there is a word or phrase that matches their glory.”

Eddie shoved his hair in front of mouth to hide his embarrassment. Steve took a step toward him.

“He has long hair in soft curly locks that frame his face,” Steve continued and Eddie dropped the aforementioned lock, choosing to duck his head, and look away, rocking back on his heels.

Steve took another step forward. “He has these dimples that just light up his whole countenance when he smiles. They are the single most kissable part of his face, if you don’t include his lips.”

Eddie’s mind was spinning out of control, because there was no way Steve was making this up on the spot. These had to be things Steve had actually thought about.

But Steve wasn’t done talking. “He’s whipcord thin, but don’t let that fool you. He is strong, so strong.”

Eddie head jerked up and stared at Steve in amazement.

The other boy ducked his head, twirling his fingers around the phone cord. “I told you could go on and on about his looks, man. I could tell you about how long his eyelashes are or his legs that give him this causal sensuality that should be fucking illegal.”

Eddie didn’t think he could get any redder. He was so, so wrong.

“You want me to wax poetic about his personality now?” Steve asked incredulously. “No, I’m not describing Jon Bon Jovi. He’d be offended at the comparison. Eddie Van Halen is closer to the mark, or maybe Kirk Hemmett if you really make him blush.”

Cue Eddie’s blush burning his ears and flushing his throat; a part of his body that was refusing to do what it was supposed to and fucking allow breath to enter his lungs.

“What’s he like?” Steve breathed and Eddie was instantly jealous of his ability to do so. “He is so smart.”

Eddie snorted divisively.

“The school system may have failed him more times then I care to count,” Steve insisted, “but god, he is so clever, coming up with stories on fly. He has all this knowledge of so many things. He learned elvish and is learning dwarfish.” He snorted. “Because he can.”

Eddie blushed. Even his friends from Hellfire and Corroded Coffin thought he was a little insane trying to learn those languages. Not Steve, apparently.

“He uses it for his D&D games–campaigns, sorry,” Steve said, more to Eddie then to Caleb. Eddie mouthed ‘It’s okay.’ And Steve lit up with the brightest smile.

He took another step forward. “You know those kids that come into the store all the time?” Steve burst out laughing. “Yes, my kids. He loves them as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

Eddie scrambled to write another note: NOT POSSIBLE

Steve blushed this time. “Understands them better, certainly.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side and half shrugged. That was fair.

“He DMs for them every week,” Steve continued. “DM? Oh that stands for dungeon master. It’s like the storyteller or master of the story. He sets the path for the characters to follow or blatantly ignore.”

Eddie huffed out a laugh.

“He does the voices for each person the party meets and it always makes me laugh,” Steve said. “My favorite is the voice he did for the princess. I don’t think there was a dry eye from all the laughing everyone was doing.”

Eddie grinned. That was his favorite, too. He had done it to make Steve laugh, the fact that it had made everyone else laugh too was just icing on the cake.

“Which, of course, impressed Dustin,” Steve said. He paused. “Oh Dustin is the one with curly hair and those hats.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. That’s another strike against this Caleb dude, not knowing the names of Steve’s kids. Like they came as a packaged deal. Everyone knew that.

Steve cleared his throat and looked down as he too felt Caleb’s disinterest keenly as well. “Anyway, anyone who can impress that little butthead is number one in my book.”

Eddie smiled tenderly at Steve before he jotted down a note again. YOU IMPRESS HIM TOO.

Steve blushed. “He can take his talent for story telling into song writing as well. He might not be the singer of his band–” There was another pause. “Yeah, an honest to god, plays at The Hideout every Tuesday metal band. He plays guitar. Lead, not rhythm. His best friend Jeff is rhythm guitar and their lead singer. He can read music and learn a song by ear. Do you know how fucking rare that is? To be able to do both? Trust me, it’s rare, okay?”

“Look, Caleb,” Steve growled, “don’t get pissy with me. You asked me describe my boyfriend. I warned you that I could go on and on.”

Eddie could barely breathe. This was starting to feel less like an excuse to get this asshole to stop harassing Steve and more and more real with every compliment that came out of his friend’s mouth.

Steve’s own breath caught in his chest. He looked directly at Eddie, so full of adoration, Eddie was sure his heart full on stopped.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Steve murmured, “of course I love him. God, how could I not. He means everything to me.” He tried to step forward but the cord got caught in his fingers, so he unwrapped it and took a final step toward Eddie. The cord was now taut, stretched as far as it could go.

Eddie could tell that the scant two feet between them was too far for Steve, but he was tethered to phone. He knew that that ache and longing in Steve’s face mirrored his own expression.

“And I am so grateful I get to call him mine...” Steve finished, his breath shallow as he fought to get his heart rate under control.

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***

Part 2

[christinaroseandrews]

To those of you feeling like all of your internet friends are screaming at you, you are not alone. It’s a bit of a clusterfuck right now, and the future looks very bleak considering the Supreme Court. It can be very easy to slip into despair. Don’t. While some people are trying to offer help, it can feel like your dashboard/feed/whatever is one huge trauma conga line. And it is. There’s a lot of people who don’t know what to do, so they’re reblogging everything that they feel is helpful all at once, while others are venting very legitimate frustrations and fears. But it can all be so very overwhelming being on the receiving end of it.

So do your best not to get overwhelmed. Step away. Take a break. Skip posts. I’m here to tell you, you can mute or unfollow people. You can set up filters. Do what you need to do in order to preserve your mental health so that you can function for the long haul.

Because it will be a long haul. A lot of posts are going to play up urgency. But take a minute, an hour, even a few days to shore up your mental health shields. You don’t have to do everything now. And it’s important to not get so overwhelmed that you end up doing nothing. Because doing nothing is what got us here.

Remember that some people have different responses to trauma. Some fight, some freeze, and some flee. All are valid and all need to do different things.

There are lots of resources if you are looking to fight... you don’t need a list from me. Your dash/feed is probably full of helpful lists. And there’s always googling if for some miraculous reason it isn’t.

If you are frozen, step away for today. The problem will still exist tomorrow. If you feel stuck tomorrow and don’t know what to do, make a list of 3-10 options suggested by all of the reblogs/retweets/etc. and assign them a number. Then go to Random.org and randomize what ONE thing you will do. If you really hate it, you know that isn’t a viable option for you. Keep doing that until you find ONE thing that you can do.

If you need to flee, flee. Take the time you need to get your bearings. Then, when you feel safer, find ONE thing to do that you feel safe doing.

This is a battle that is going to be won in inches. And I’m going to tell you that if all of your troops are suffering from mental burnout/despair, then the other side will continue to win.

And that’s the last thing we want or need.

Okay... TL:DR over

Have a picture of Goose looking cute:

[dropthedemiurge]

Love for Love's Sake | Messages you didn't notice #6 | Sunbae Theory

I wanted to add this to my previous post about other messages and their translation and theories (here) but it was becoming too long, so I'm posting it separetely.

Guys, I kept thinking about the fact that we never got to learn more about the meaning of these "random" messages. And then I realized I was overthinking it too much.

ALL THESE MESSAGES WERE ACTUALLY FROM MYUNGHA'S SUNBAE WHO MISSED HIM IN REAL LIFE!!!

In the final episode there's a moment when the last message shows up, and the author is finally written.

"I hope that place sparks your hope. From sunbae."

After we learn Myungha's full backstory, we now know "that place" means "afterlife". And if you look back on all the messages it MAKES SENSE, if you think that these are messages that are still coming on Myungha's phone from a friend – or, if we consider that everything is happening in Myungha's head, these are the thoughts about him by someone else.

Sunbae missed Myungha who was suddenly gone from life.

[In May, there is Children's Day, Parents' Day, there is even Teacher's Day but there is no Day when I can meet you] [I was passing by and saw a bracelet that you used to wear long time ago. It reminded me of you. I wonder if you still wear that bracelet.] [I broke a vase that was a gift from you. Can it be repaired?] [I thought only you dressed like that but others do too. I knew it wasn't you but I still followed. But why would you be dressed like that] (last sent messages) [I miss you. If only I could go there…] [Everything depends on what you'll do. Get yourself together.] [I hope that place sparks your hope. From sunbae.]

Tell me if these messages don't look like they were written by someone mourning the loss of a dear person. Someone who might be still sending messages to the number that will never reply anymore (and Myungha never did!). A chat that has become a diary of memories and longing, filled with a ghost of someone whose specific details you keep noticing in your everyday life. There is no Day when they can meet anymore. If only he could see him again...

I'm not sure about the vase but Myungha wore a bracelet in the beginning of the story (that was the first detail we notice about him tbh when he looks through the novel draft in the very first scene).

Someone else on Tumblr has expressed a theory that sunbae is a friend (or someone who loved Myungha) who decided to commemorate his friend in a written novel because they wanted to give him a happy life instead of a miserable one Myungha lived in real life.

I am so on board with this theory, (even though I like the grim reaper/deity theory or Myungha creating the world for himself), I think sunbae did exist in real life. And he obviously cared about Myungha, whether his love was to teach him a harsh lesson or to commemorate him in a meaningful story. After all, isn't this what all authors do to their characters? They make them go through conflicts and breaking points in order to overcome it all and finally find a happy ending.

Maybe sunbae has regretted that Myungha was never able to accept the love that others wanted to give him so he wrote the story to change that. Maybe sunbae is actually Yeowoon who wanted to put Myungha in his shoes and teach him how to love and be loved – actually, remember young Yeowoon, who lost Myungha due to his decision to erase himself from the game, who cried and picked up a pen to bring him back, starting a mission to make Myungha happy.

Maybe this novel is a desperate attempt to make peace and hope that someone you lost could be still loved at last.

No matter what, Sunbae was surely grieving Myungha.

[luvhughes43]

all-american b!tch | hughes!sister

guts masterlist🦋 - luvhughes43 masterlist🌙

summary: hughes!sister dealing with the success of her brothers, online hate, and her feelings of having to be strong all the time.

note: little bit of luca fantilli x reader

word count: 1.9k

and i am built like a mother and a total machine

i feel for your every little issue, i know just what you mean

and i make light of the darkness

i've got sun in my motherfuckin’ pocket, best believe

yeah, you know me

y/n hughes is the kindest girl you’d ever have the pleasure of meeting. as the youngest and only daughter of one of the most iconic hockey families, yn grew up in a turbulent world where she had learned to thrive. she plays the family sport, had to navigate through the hardships of being associated with her brothers, and she would be the first to tell you that her experiences had made her a better person. 

“okay trevor listen,” yn hughes or, as referred to by trevor, tiny tot, leaned in closer to the aforementioned boy. “it's quite simple… ghosting the girl will only make her trust you less. i know the podcasts have said that getting close to a girl then ghosting her will make them fall for you but seriously, that's such a bad idea” 

trevor nodded along to each word, pulling out his phone so he could draft a text to “the girl” in question. “okay so like… what should i say then?”

“hmm” yn loomed over the side of trevor's phone as she watched his fingers drift over the keys. once he had finished, he tilted his screen over to her so she could either approve or deny his message. 

there was a brief pause, “i can't tell if you're joking or not,” yn responds, causing jack to giggle as he paused to read the message over both yn and trevors shoulder. 

“I always wondered why you were better at meeting chicks at bars…” jack chuckles, “they never had to read one of your messages”

“its not that bad!” trevor whines loudly as he attempts to grab his phone back from you. 

you hold the phone away from him, swiftly raising your free hand to stop him from moving any closer towards the phone. “don't worry i can fix this,” you speak smoothly to which jack bursts into another round of giggles. 

“bro you cannot tell a girl that you-”

trevor clamped his hand over jacks mouth, effectively stopping him from reciting the awful text to the room full of their friends. “shush, the master is working” 

you rewriting trevors text was just one of the many things you did for the people you considered family. you would sit with luke for hours, letting him rant to you about his move to NJD back when he was still at michigan with you. you would have weekly recaps with your best friends and teammates about their lives, always making sure to help any of them out if needed. 

forgive and i forget

i know my age, and i act like it

got what you can’t resist

i’m a perfect all-american

despite the positives, you got an overwhelming amount of hate for just… existing. you could be the most perfect person, and people who didn't know you would still come after you online. 

you would never admit to anyone that the hate and harassment bothered you but… it always stung. in the beginning, when you first “came into the public's eye” when you started playing on the umichs womens hockey team you couldn’t avoid the hatred. people from school had started using you for your connections to all the boys you knew, and before you had the time to go private on socials (you’re now public again), you would spend hours reading through hate and manually deleting all the messages. 

ynhughes86 posted 1 year ago

liked by luca.fantilli, lhughes_06, edwards.73, and others

ynhughes86 welcome to the den🐺️🗣

tagged: umichwhockey, teammates,, and more

view all comments

teammate1 GO BLUE🗣🗣

lhughes_06 #goblue

jackhughes andddd everybody screamed!!

jackhughes number lookin fresh

liked by ynhughes86

_quinnhughes 〽️

trevorzegras tiny tot making moves🫡

ynhughes86 youve gotta let that go..

user03 the power of being a hughes💀💀

removed

user82 did daddy and mommy pay ur way in?

removed

user21 not surprised that shes playing for umich… lets be real no other team would take her. shes a hockey nepo baby fr

removed

user44 ??? have u even looked at her stats and plays? shes definitely good lol

user09 shes nowhere near her brothers levels lets be real

removed

user77 looks like she cares more about partying than she does about hockey... surprising.. not!😒🙄

removed

i am light as a feather, i’m fresh as the air

coca-cola bottles that i only use to curl my hair

i got class and integrity

just like a goddamn Kennedy, i swear

with love to spare

after a few months of going through hate comment deep dives, you promised yourself that you wouldn’t let them bother you anymore. In celebration, you made your instagram public again and paid absolutely no attention to any of the hateful people in your comments and dms. 

yhughes86 just posted !

liked by jackhughes, umichwhockey, dylanduke25, and others

ynhughes86 just your average roadie🫡

tagged: teammate5, teammate2, and others

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ynhughes86 special shoutout to trevorzegras for losing our bet! without u i wouldn’t have been able to do what i do🙏 aka spend money at the mall

liked by trevorzegras

teammate5 we should never be let loose in the mall ever again

ynhughes86 we should never be allowed off the bus

lhughes_06 dub after dub

ynhughes86 oh u know it💯

luca.fantilli is this why you were teaching me about girl math? u were trying to justify your purchases?

ynhughes86 … no comment

user32 using trevors money… wow. so she's a gold digger too?

user91 u guys are so lame let a girl live

ynhughes86 just posted !

liked by teammate, jackhughes, _quinnhughes, and others

ynhughes86 all the love at the banquet tonight

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teammate1 love uuu my forever girl

ynhughes86 love u more!! u looked so good tonight

luca.fantilli girl in the last pic is kinda cute idk

ynhughes86 kind of? 

luca.fantilli girl in the last pic is very cute im 100% sure of it

ynhughes86 the cute girl in the last pic thinks youre 100% cute too

lhughes_06 the guy in none of the pics thinks you guys are disgusting

user44 no style no game

user81 grow up loser

i’m a perfect all-american bitch

with perfect all-american lips

and perfect all-american hips

i know my place and this is it

ynhughes86 just posted !

liked by luca.fantilli, colecaufield, _quinnhughes, and others

ynhughes86 perfect all-american or whatever olivia rodrigo said

tagged: luca.fantilli

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trevorzegras that's right no swearing for you tiny tot

ynhughes86 😐

user57 “or whatever olivia rodrigo said” yeah she hates women

user91 thats why she's so close to the guys but u didnt hear that from me!

user16 if u guys dont leave this girl alone…

teammate2 OHH BFF LOOKS SO HOT

teammate3 please marry me

luca.fantilli 🤤🤤

liked by ynhughes86

lhughes_06 nope. 

i don't get angry when i’m pissed

i'm the eternal optimist

i scream inside to deal with it

whenever something bothers you, you keep it in. you hold all of your troubles and worries so deep within you that eventually, they float away and come back to haunt you when you least expect it. you thought that if you ignored all of your problems, that they would somehow fix themselves without any intervention from anyone else. 

it wasn’t always helpful. 

all the time

i’m grateful all the time

i’m sexy and i’m kind

i’m pretty when i cry

“they only ask me about my brothers, lu” your sniffles were quieted by the fabric of lucas sweater as you pressed yourself against his chest. you had played possibly the best game of your career, and the post interview questions were all about your brothers and family. questions wondering about their training and practices and how that had impacted you, how their game influenced yours. it made you feel like you were irrelevant in your own career. 

“i am so grateful for my family and how they’ve helped me grow as a player,” you responded politely to the interviewers' inquiries. it's not like you weren’t grateful. you knew that your family had a huge impact on your skills and you were glad that they were there to help you. but nobody ever wondered what your individual experiences were. all your training had to be a direct reflection of your brothers. your playing style, even unrelated, had to do with your brothers. your wins were a direct result of their greatness. nothing you would ever do or succeed in would be solely yours. 

“i love them,” you sob, “i really do! i just want people to see me” 

lucas' arms tightened around you as he started brushing your hair away from your face. “i know, baby” he whispered into your ear, holding you close as he waited for your breathing to calm down. 

“i just wanna be me!” you slumped against lucas front, who carefully pulled you over to your bed so you could sit down on top of him. 

you could hear the loud pop music blaring from the speakers downstairs, and you listened in silence to the people trudging up and down the stairs as they no doubt looked for a bathroom. 

“have you talked to your brothers about this?” lucas' soft voice cuts into the silence. 

you pull away from him slightly so you could look at him in the eyes. “no…” you admitted quietly. “they wouldn’t understand,” you leaned your head against lucas shoulder as you cuddled into him. 

he hummed quietly to you, a hand running down your back to help further soothe you. “i think you might feel better if you open up to them,” luca hedged. both of you knew that your previous statement was a lie. 

“i don't want them to think of me like that…” 

“like what?” luca questioned, his hand never leaving your back as you continued to prop yourself against him. 

you sighed. “i just… they always come to me. i don't want that to stop or for them to think that im weak” your words were quiet as you finally admitted your true feelings to your boyfriend. 

“they could never think you're weak,” luca murmurs reassuringly. “luke talks all the time about how he thinks you're adjusting to life here better than he did,” you look up at luca inquisitively. “and quinn, he is so proud of you! he talks so highly of you all the time… and jack, i mean come on. they all love and support you so much. they won’t stop asking for advice or talking to you because you're having some troubles” luca explains. “also, there’s nothing wrong with being weak. you should let yourself be open with your brothers just like they are with you. you deserve that”

“have i ever told you that i love you?” you tearfully smile at the boy who was always so good at listening to you.

luca smiles back, “not enough” he jokes as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

you brush a few strands of hair out of his face. “i'll call them tomorrow,” you add, reciprocating luca's kiss on the cheek. 

luca smiles, happy that you're no longer worked up and that you’ll finally tell your brothers your struggles. 

you spend the rest of the night hidden away from the raging party downstairs, wrapped up in your boyfriend's arms as you think about everything you try to hide. you didn’t have to be just one thing. you were allowed to be kind and to have complex emotions. you could be upset and angry without being a mean girl. perfect never existed, and you were glad that you were finally open to letting others see the cracks in your walls. 

lucas’ hair was soft as you ran your hands through his locks. “i love you,” luca mumbles. 

“i love you” you whisper to your boyfriend, placing a kiss on his shoulder as he shifts to lay his head on the middle of your chest. 

you easily fall asleep comforted by the fact that you were allowed to be flawed, and that no matter what, you’ll always have your people by your side.

[leclercsloveletter]

CL16 | friends or not

Summary: You love Charles, but he keeps you treading on the line between friends and strangers. The humiliation and frustration finally got to you.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem reader

Words count: 1842

Warning: mention of sex, angsty I guess? Google translated french

Author’s note: Inspired by Zeph’s song I just love her music so much. This is my first time using tumblr to post fic so let me know if I can improve the formatting somehow to make it easier to read! Thank youu <3

"Hey Y/n, I'm in Monaco today, pull through?"

"Sure, usual time?"

He left a heart reaction to the text, the familiar dance of messages unfolded with practised precision. An occasional catch-up session with Charles over a glass of wine or within the intimate confines of your shared solitude has become the only constant rhythm in your situation with him. In fact, you don't remember the last time it wasn't like this. He texts you when he's around, and sometimes makes plans just to let it fall through at the last second. You understand he's a man of business, always busy and on his feet, but why would he even consider getting to know you when he knows he can't be at least present in your life as a friend? Worse, why did you allow him to get his way?

Charles Leclerc is the type of man to only text back half the time you texted him. You would be lucky if he read your messages, a lot of the time, he resorts to ghosting you for days or even weeks only to reply with short, blunt, generic answers. Sometimes you laugh to yourself at the audacity of this man, a virtuoso of unpredictability, to parade you around like his future girl during intimate dinners with his friends only to burst your bubble when he's back on the road again.

But sadly, Charles Leclerc is more than that. Besides his devilishly handsome face, he donned the facade of the happiest man alive, a veneer that temporarily eclipsed the shadows of uncertainty when you're finally allowed to occupy his precious time. The streets of Monte Carlo bore witness to your interplay of laughter and the tender clasping of hands. With him holding you so close to his chest the paparazzi can't snap a shot of his mystery girl. It gets to your head like a sick disease. Moments like that are when his existence woven itself seamlessly into the fabric of your life.

Between the white sheets plastered on your naked body and the whispers of the Medditerian sea, Charles Leclerc was your Charlie. The Charlie that speaks in fluent waves of serenity about his life on the road. His words are like a siren's song, drowning out the echoes of your longing that surface in his absence. In those stolen moments, he becomes the tranquil pulse that courses through the veins of your shared narrative. You wish you could tear him out of your skin.

"So, how's life?"

You start the conversation, sitting across from him in a restaurant on the edge of Monaco. Charles is gorgeous as always, in his cream-coloured sweaters that you spent many early mornings nuzzled in before he kindly pulled it off your frame.

"Would you believe me if I said it was kind of shit? Could've been a better season I guess. How about you?"

Charles replied with a laugh, sipping on the sweet wine with eyes fixed on you. It should be illegal for him to give you that look, the look that says he has a genuine interest in your existence.

"I can tell, you always call me when you panic. I think I had more calls from you this season than I ever had before."

A quiet acknowledgment, an attempt to make him realise the shared vulnerabilities you had for each other. You look around before continuing, the same restaurant where you first met, linked up through a mutual friend at a dinner party. He gave you his number over a glass of whiskey on the rock, leaving you full of naive anticipation to send the first text.

"I remember the first time I saw you here. I was starstruck to meet you in real life, clinging to every word you said, so excited when you handed me your number. I wish I wasn't the last thing on your mind Charlie."

Words flow out of you uncontrollably, you don't know why you said that. The pain bubbling up and closing behind your throat as you speak intrigues Charles who now wears an expression of confusion and slight frustration.

"What do you mean Y/n? You know how much you meant to me, tu es la meilleure chose sur terre, chérie."

His gaze softens, hands reaching out to pat a stray hair on your head. His attempt at reassurance softened the moment, yet a lingering doubt clung to the air. You wish he meant it, or meant it and not regret it.

"You're looking at me like that again. Like I'm the best thing on earth to you."

"Because you are-"

"Only because I'm the only one to look at. The second best of two is just last Charles."

Over that bar counter where he slipped you his number, when you were dwelling on the heartbreak of your last relationship, or when you found yourself crying in his living room over the loss of your friend, Charles always said he'd be there for you. Yet, in the crucible of reality, the promises seemed hollow. He's only there when nobody else needs him. You're a second thought to him, a blind spot he noticed when it's convenient. But a part of you desperately held on to Charles, wishing, praying, begging that one day you would be promoted to have a position in his life and not just an on-and-off fling he does.

"I'm sorry Y/n, I didn't mean to make you feel that way."

He said, voice just as calm and peaceful as you always knew. But filled with static and signals that you're tired of decoding. Right at that moment, you realise you could either move on or continue being his nuisance. To set yourself free from Charles's hot and cold would mean to be free of the games he set you in.

"Just reply to my text more often Charlie."

But to set yourself free from Charles also means to lose the love you drove through all the mixed signals for.

-

"Mon ange, what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing much, just that time you brought me to dinner with Max and Kelly. It was nice."

The street of Monaco, viewed from the inside of Charles' car, was silent on a weeknight, surrounded by the sea where lights and chatters fell into white noise. It felt the same as the night when Charles hit you up last minute since he "didn't have a plus one for a party" which turns out to be just dinner with Max and his girlfriend Kelly who have to go on a work trip abroad next week.

Kelly sat across from you, mirroring one another: Women who are successful in their line of work, flowing with beauty and sophistication, have a world-class F1 driver accompany them while you all sit and gossip. The only difference is that she has a title and you don't.

"So Charles, when will Y/n be making paddock appearances? I think Ferrari would love it if you put on a show for the tifosi."

Max joked, tipsy over the seemingly unlimited alcohol on the table. Charles and you both choked on air, but you were flustered with your heart drumming in your chest, and Charles was trying to hide the scrunch of his nose.

"Ah I don't know Max, we are still trying to figure ourselves out. I'm in no rush to run PR and have Ferrari staging pap on me."

He sighs with a chuckle, Max and Kelly both wear concerned gazes seeing your face drop. In your head, the world stops spinning, he doesn't even have the guts to refer to you as a friend, but just something mysterious and hindering that he has to "figure out". The delicious food suddenly turns sour in your mouth, as sour as the pity he's sparing you by asking if you're alright.

-

"Charles, are we friends?"

"Of course we are, I wouldn't let a stranger in my car yea?"

He said lightheartedly, humming to the song on the radio. You can only let out a sigh, you don't know if he's dumb or he's leading you on anymore. Your desire for him is real, it's running thin by the second.

"Stop the car, Charlie."

"What?"

"We need to talk"

He pulled over carefully, you left the pista so fast it's like the leather was burning holes in your skin. The night breeze hit your already cold skin, Charles brought out a coat you know he kept in the back seat to swing over you. If only this was how it is always, to have him so close and so caring, to be his only one.

"So..."

"Charlie, are you bored of me? Did you realise I'm replaceable? If there's anyone better please just let me know and we don't have to pretend we know each other anymore. Please Charles I'm sick of being led around like your decoration only for you to treat me like less than a friend when you're away."

Silence, he stood in silence with a look you can't recognise after spending so much time tiptoeing around him. Your pleading caught him off guard, he probably didn't know you had a breaking point. Or at least he didn't expect it to catch up to him so soon. Charles pulled you into a hug, a futile attempt to assuage the tears streaming down your cheeks.

"I promise we are friends. I'm sorry mon ange, that I made you feel that way. I'm uncertain about us, I don't know what I want from you. I just want to keep you around."

"Charles I'm not just something to keep around. I have my values, I'm a human too. I want you but if you don't want us then just...let us go"

"I don't want-"

"This isn't just about you Charles, it's about me too. I will not sit around to wait for you while you go fuck another girl on a different continent every race season. You either give me something or you let me live."

You tore away from his arms in the outburst. Charles looks lost, heartbroken, just the way you look when he did the same to you. You almost run right back to apologise, to cradle him in your love and swear to never hurt him again. But you can't stand being a pet of his anymore, not when you put your whole soul into this man but still not deserving of a title.

Silence, silence hung in the air so heavy and suffocating as he led you back into the car, and dropped you off at your place. A "bye" so small it got lost in the wind as he drove away. War is over you guessed, even though there was no answer but no answer is better than waiting for a potential answer from him. You pull out your phone, delete his number, delete your pictures, unfollow his private account and let the heartbreak wash over you.

Down the street, Charles felt the same as you do for the first time.

[doberbutts]

Feminist theory is not the same as feminist activism, which is what I specificied in my ask, intentionally. There is feminist theory about men's issues (yes Bell Hooks is by far the most famous theorist in this space), and that is good, but it is not the same as activism to improve men's conditions in the here and now. I wanted to give a different perspective, and have a discussion about something that I feel is a problem that has lead to and continues to lead to a lack of progress for men. I mean, the other ask you got saying thst feminism persistently centers men just by talking about our issues, that proves my point. That is an incredibly common view. Not even working towards solving men's problems, just talking about them occasionally is considered too much. There is an obvious solution to that, which I said previously. Regardless, I am and will continue to believe in the cause of fighting to improve things for both women and men, because we all deserve better. Anyway, I won't bother you anymore, but I hope you know this was written in good faith about something that is important to me.

Theory informs activism, so if you want to see feminist activism that does what I'm talking about, find the feminists talking about what I'm talking about.

Respectfully, despite referencing the other ask, you seem to have not read it if your stance is still "what has feminist activism done for men", because I gave pretty direct examples there.

But you're right. That sort of feminism is harder to find especially nowadays. A lot of people's feminism regards men as "ewwww boys are icky" and "men are 100% solely responsible for all of women's problems". Which was the entire point of my post that started this conversation. It's also compounded by the fact that a lot of times this doesn't look as big and loud as rallies and marches, and so it gets ignored. In reality, the feminist activism that follows the theory I'm describing looks like parents teaching their sons that gentleness and femininity is not bad. Dads who wear nail polish and tutus to support their sons' interests. Boys being encouraged to watch and read the "girl books" and "girl movies". Dads who do not abandon their sons' need for physical affection as they age out of fear of homosexuality.

It looks like restructuring the ways we look at sexual assault and rape so it doesn't automatically exclude the most common way men are attacked. It looks like teaching young men that they do not need to take abuse from a romantic partner or family member on the chin just to be a man. It looks like teaching men that "masculinity" does not need to be defined by stoicism and that the concept of "manning up" is harmful. It looks like teaching boys that there are ways to communicate affection that aren't violent or sexual in nature. It looks like teaching teenagers that playful ribbing is one thing, but tearing your friends down all the time so you can be the biggest man on the block is toxic behavior, and only leads to more isolation because all your friends learn to be mean to each other.

It teaches young men that pleasuring your partner involves more than just a penis, and sometimes doesn't even require a penis at all. It teaches them that their worth is far less in the length of their shaft or the hardness of their muscles or the number on the scale, but far more how they treat others. It teaches them that height and beard length and shoe size and how much alcohol they can consume or their favorite sport team aren't indicators of "manhood", because they are men regardless of the answers to any of those things. It teaches them they can be any type of man they want to be, they don't have to be what the patriarchy tells them are their only options.

And I know this, because I have watched plenty of my butch friends who are devout feminists and have been their entire lives teaching these things to their sons. This is established feminist theory that has existed for a long time. Many followers of this theory do in fact practice what they preach.

Genuinely, I don't really care what you call it. If you want to call it "man's liberation", go for it, I don't care. But to me, this is just feminism. I'm not going to call it men's lib because the feminism I was taught by the women in my life covered these things. Same as how I don't use the word "transandrophobia" because the trans theory I was taught by the trans women in my life told me "transmisogyny" covered these things.

Anyway. I urge you to go read some black feminist theory and then spend some time talking to practitioners of said theory. It might just surprise you how similar the conversation is. It might surprise you to see how their kids and families interact. I'm not saying all black people, because not every black person who is a feminist is specifically a *black feminist*, but when you find someone who fits this description you will know.

[raspberriesoda]

fall from grace » ljn

genre | angel!jeno x human!reader; fluff, slight angst at the very end

word count | 2.3k

summary | your guardian angel has always blurred the line he’s never supposed to cross, and one night he unintentionally takes that leap into territory he’s not meant to be in

a.n | this will most likely have a part two! (pt2 will be much more angsty, and possibly smutty i haven’t decided yet) also if you see something extremely similar to this on ao3 no you don’t (i wrote this as a nomin fic a few years ago and posted it there but dreamscape angel propaganda made me want to revamp it and post it again)

he hadn’t expected to end up here. or, at least that’s what he tried to convince himself. he really wasn’t supposed to be here. none of this was ever supposed to happen.

but, how could he not fall in love with you?

the way that you snort when you laugh a little too hard at something you know isn’t really that funny. the pout that cutely displays on your lips when you give something your full focus. the little noises you make in your sleep when you’re dreaming. the way that you almost always trip on the crack in the sidewalk right outside your apartment building, despite living there long enough to be mindful of it.

jeno thinks about it more and more day by day; not that he even pays mind to the passage of time anymore. there was no way out, he was doomed from the start.

but, instead of the lighthearted feeling that would normally come hand in hand with love, jeno feels a weight. in any other circumstance he’d likely be considered a stalker by the way he knows every little thing about you, but that’s his obligation. jeno’s sole task is to watch over you, to keep you safe, to make you his number one priority above all else.

you aren’t supposed to know. you’re supposed to be blissfully unaware of jeno’s existence and his presence in your life, as well as any others like him.

and jeno was never supposed to fall in love.

lately- and he couldn’t tell if it was on purpose- jeno had become admittedly sloppy with keeping a safe enough space between you and him. he knows it’s no excuse, and he knows the consequences of the risk he’s taking, but the pull is just too strong. his one responsibility is to protect you, but what was the point of that if he couldn’t make you comfortable and happy? if he couldn’t love you in the way only he knows you deserve to be? he’s just fulfilling his duties, right?

how unfair, he thinks. how unfair it is that he’s forced to be so close to you, yet just far enough away that you’ll never even know.

jeno stands on your balcony, three floors up, three hours past midnight.

there’s only a wall separating you from him, and though there is the perk that you can't exactly feel his presence like you might with another human, there stands the possibility of you finding him all the same. he’s more than aware of how dangerous this is for him, to have this little of a distance between you; a relationship between a human and their guardian is never allowed to be physical or emotional in any way. he asks himself how far he is from crossing that line, how close he is from falling off of that tight rope. realistically he already has, but he finds it difficult to care.

ironically, jeno wonders if he’s been cursed or blessed. maybe both, he thinks- blessed with the fact he’s always with the human he loves oh so deeply; cursed with the fact that though he knows just how to make you smile, that smile will never really be for him.

he’s willing, though- more than willing to take that chance, despite the better part of himself advising against it (or that had been the better part of him, long long ago). if he just gets to see your surprised, sleepy little smile early the next morning when you step out to check on your favorite flowers and notice they’ve bloomed way ahead of schedule, then to jeno, its worth it.

as jeno tends to the soft peach colored petals, you sit inside, your legs tucked under you on the kitchen counter, sipping peach flavored tea and watching old cartoons on your computer. you couldn’t sleep, and tossing and turning in bed was finally out of the question after a few too many hours of dreamless silence.

your bare feet make a soft thud on the kitchen tiles when you uncross your legs and leap from the counter, making your way to grab more honey for your tea. the sound makes jeno glance up from the petals sitting between his fingers. this signals to him that you’re now on the move and that he should go, but again, the voice in his head is muted when it comes to you.

jeno takes another bud in his hands and watches as it spreads open right before his eyes at his touch. he rearranges the flowers and stems and pats down the soil as if to make it look a bit more lively, and with this, he decides he should depart before you have the chance to notice he’s here. he turns, preparing to hop the banister, but he bumps the patio table, sending an unused pot of dry dirt falling to the ground. it shatters into large shards of clay that scatter across the wood, and jeno stills.

you almost drop the glass jar at the unexpected calamity, adrenaline shooting through your body like a shockwave. a heavy spoonful of honey is frozen in the air as you hold it above your mug; it drizzles down the side of the ceramic and makes a sticky puddle on your counter. a few moments of painfully eerie silence pass and you try your best to catch your breath.

jeno stoops down to clean the mess he’s made, making certain to be as silent and quick as possible before you arrive to investigate. after your mind has time to form a theory that doesn’t involve something you’d seen in a horror film, you come to the hopeful conclusion that it must have been the wind knocking around your gardening supplies. for your peace of mind, you round the counter to pull open the curtain draped glass doors.

what you see makes you think that maybe you had fallen asleep earlier after all.

jeno looks up, stunned, frigid, crouched down with his hands full of rocks and clay and dirt. he can only imagine how he appears to you in this moment; he must look like he’s just been caught committing a crime- and it likely would be in any other set of means.

millions of worries should be swarming his head, but the only thing on his mind right now is you. your tangled hair, your fluffy pajama pants, your eyes twinkling in the moonlight and looking at him with wonder- not toward him or past him, but directly at him. it was something he’d never had the pleasure of witnessing.

your urge to cry out is suppressed by the peculiar calm feeling that settles over you the moment your eyes lock with jeno’s. even in the shadows the strange boy’s eyes seem to shine, and any thought of ill intent is sent away as quickly as it came. your brain has no time to question the unusual level headedness you feel before you start to connect the dots.

weirdly, you recognize him, but your mind blanks when you try recalling from where. though, you really figured that you’d remember something like this if you’d seen it before. it takes jeno standing, letting the soft starlight paint his nervous face and his shimmering wings for you to be able to connect him to any sort of a tangible memory.

you’d never actually known his name, or from where he came, but you did know of him.

the boy you’d spotted leaving the cafe after the barista had told you that your coffee was already paid for on the morning you were running late for your psychology lecture. the boy you’d seen scanning shelves in the campus library when you saw your favorite novel sat next to your course work upon returning from the counter to ask if they had it in yet. the boy you’d seen walking down the pavement when you’d whipped your tipsy head around after being yanked back by your hoodie just before you stepped into the street, a blaring car horn and a rush of wind whisking your hair up as all you could do was stare at his figure as he strolled away from you.

other instances that you’d had no concrete explanations for began to surface in your mind the longer you studied him. the closed window and extra blanket the night you’d accidentally fallen asleep before a severe thunderstorm. the carton of fresh milk in your fridge you could’ve sworn you’d forgotten to pick up from the market. your favorite white sweater miraculously being completely unharmed after a pink sock snuck its way into the wash.

you knew all of these occurrences and the same boy being present could be purely coincidental, but something about that was just too hard to believe. you always meant to approach him when you saw him in your day to day life, but the courage to make the move and close the distance between you never arose.

‘what an angel,’ you’d always said to yourself when you’d see him. you never would’ve guessed you were right.

when jeno finally snaps out of his trance, remembering the predicament he’s gotten himself into, he turns to really leave before he lands himself in any more trouble. he spreads his huge white wings, the ones that had always been hidden when you were near, and flaps them once to lift himself into the air. a gust of chilled wind flutters your pajamas and pulls the breath from your lungs as you gawk at him.

you try to speak, to tell him not to go, but your voice won’t come out. before jeno can get too far, and before you can think of something less hazardous, you run forward and hoist yourself up on the railing to grab jeno’s ankle in an attempt to stop him from fleeing. at that same moment jeno flaps his wings again, not thinking that the sudden weight on his leg could be you, and as a result you’re pulled from the rail and out into the open, three stories above solid ground.

a strangled yelp jumps from your throat as you dangle in peril. jeno’s head snaps down, and his eyes widen as they meet your figure, clinging to him and flailing wildly. your grip rapidly begins to slip from jeno’s body. your mind races around the realization that this could very well be the end; in an instant you feel the cold night wind rushing up around you, whisking your hair towards the sky, blurring the buildings and skyline together and your breath is caught in your lungs as all you can do is fall.

just as soon as it happened, you collapse into jeno’s open arms with an ‘oomph’ when he catches you before you can meet any harm. you immediately wrap your entire body around him and squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a trembling and fearful cry into his neck. hot tears threaten to spill down your cheeks and the height makes you lightheaded. you’re shivering as jeno lifts you both up to the balcony once again.

it’s bittersweet for jeno to see you this close. you’re so stunningly beautiful, more so than jeno could have ever imagined. your eyes finally open to meet jeno’s when you feel yourself safely sitting on your balcony, curled up under jeno’s kneeling figure. they glisten with tears and your soft face appears to glow in the moonlight. jeno’s heart grows wings of its own to soar through his chest; he may be the angel, but you are angelic.

a very nervous laugh bubbles out of you, your face blooming with a deep red at the sudden realization of your very close proximity to one another, and the embarrassment of the stunt you’d just pulled. one of your arms still drapes around the back of jeno’s neck, the other hand pressed to his chest, revealing jeno’s rapid heartbeat that matches that of yours. jeno’s arms are still wrapped around your waist. he never wants to let go.

“i-mh,” you stutter a bit, and gulp. “i’m sorry,” a sheepish smile pulls at your lips. your voice is much breathier than you’d wanted it to come out.

jeno’s features are sharp, but his expression is soft. tufts of his silvery white hair flit around in the crisp breeze and he looks at you, admires you, his gentle eyes flickering across your face like he’s committing you to memory. his fingers comb gingerly through your windswept hair, pushing it away from your flushed neck and tucking it behind your ear.

his eyes suddenly shift down when your hand meets his jaw, the tips of your fingers ghosting over his cheek. his skin tingles under your timid touch.

you’ve never seen anything like him.

“you’re.. so pretty.”

“thank you,” jeno breathes out through a dazed smile. as you relax a bit, jeno feels your fingers brush delicately against the indents you had made on his shoulders; your grip is softer now, but no less fervent.

“i’m jeno,” he tells you. your eyes meet his again. his heart skips a beat when you cup his face fully, your thumb smoothing over the expanse of his cheek; its warm under your touch.

“thank you, jeno.”

a short beat of time passes, and in a sudden surge of bravery, you lean forward to connect your lips in a kiss. jeno’s heart stops then, his feathers standing and his eyes wide, utterly overwhelmed with the cordial feeling of the one he loves so suddenly embracing him.

jeno decides to throw all caution to the wind. he wastes no time in sliding his hands up your neck to cradle both sides of your jaw, turning his head to let the kiss deepen. his eyes flutter closed and his wings relax, and the sigh he lets out sends hot air onto the peaks of your blushing face, making you melt into his hold. you can’t tell if the warmth that spreads through your body as your lips move in perfect sync is from jeno’s celestial form, but you’ve never felt such a rush from just a single kiss.

but it’s not otherworldly, because jeno feels it, too.

all of a sudden jeno feels the crushing sense of his time running short. he reluctantly pulls away from the kiss; you chase his lips as he leans back.

“i’m sorry, i’m not supposed to be here.”

your fingers grip his shoulders again. a wave of sadness crashes over him when he sees the somber look in your eyes.

“don’t go,” you whimper. jeno’s heart throbs. he would consider it a moment of weakness, only that's all he ever felt when it came to you. he kisses you once more, quick this time, and he feels himself ready to break.

“i’ll come back. i promise.”

with that, he’s gone.

you didn’t end up sleeping that night.

the tea in the mug that hangs loosely in your grip has gone cold by now. you sit in the same spot on your balcony, staring longingly up at the star speckled night sky.