#tiny founder

[snowyshuanghua]

mdzs headcanon of the day #631 ! I’M BACK YALLL NO MORE EXAMS (but a paper to write)

wen qing prefers salty to sweet. she’s high key a fancy cheese snob

[peanuts-designs]

#1 bbeg

[softerpixels]

new save is almost prepped i’m so excited!!

[happyk44]

[ID: Digital illustration. Grayscale. Three illustrations of Damian and Jason. Jason, in his Robin era appearance, has a small halo above his head. In the first illustration, he floats behind Damian with a wide grin. Tiredly, Damian rubs at his forehand.

"Father!" he calls out. "Are you aware that your dead son is hau-"

Jason cuts him off. "I saw you bury Alfred's waffles in the garden yesterday."

Off-screen Bruce says, "Jason? What did he do?"

Annoyed with Jason's words, Damian says, "Nevermind."

In the second illustration, Damian and Jason are seated side by side. Damian is wearing his Robin uniform. His hood has been pulled up. Jason rests a hand on his shoulder.

"For Dick, Robin means family," he tells Damian. "Me? Magic. And anchor for Tim. What about you, Robin?"

"I..." Damian hesitates. "I don't know if I have an answer."

"That's fine," Jason assures him with a soft smile. "But don't forget, 'no more dead robins.'"

In the third illustration, Damian is embracing Jason tightly from behind. He now has a small halo above his head as well. The Jason grips his hair angrily as he swears frantically, "Shit shit shit I'm so so sorry, Dami! Oh my God, fuck!"

"It's alright, Robin," Damian says, cheek pressed to Jason's back. "At least we have each other." /end ID]

Ghost!jason and Damian - definition of enemies to bros. From jason rightfully haunting damian's spoiled ass, to teaching the robin way, to a ghost mourning party.

Part 5 | Part 6 of Ghost Jason Series

AN: are we close to the end of the ghost Jason series??

[simslysposts]

Frank Stem // Elder

Skill: Flower Arranging / Gardening Decor Style: Vintage/Garden/Farmhouse Color: Green

Frank was tired of the city life, when it was retirement time, he decided to retire to the countryside of Windenburg. He bought a big plot of land and has worked to build up his garden and have a nice small farmhouse. He is a favored citizen in the community, which helps him selling his flower arrangements, but he has noticed that there are many who seem lost and have no one on their side to help with their dreams. He had a surveyor come out to his land and together they sectioned off 6 slots, that he will find people to occupy and build up their lives with the help of Frank. He wants to be a mentor to others and inspire them that no matter how old you are, it is never too late to start living your life the way you want to. WELCOME TO TINY TOWN!

[reasonsforhope]

"Tim Friede’s YouTube channel is home to a collection of videos depicting the Wisconsin-native truck mechanic subjecting himself to purposeful snake bites, blood slowly dripping down his arms.

For the past 20 years, Friede has been one of the most notorious “unconventional” medical researchers, undergoing over 200 bites from the world’s deadliest snakes — and more than four times as many — 850 — venomous injections. 

He did it all in the name of science.

According to the World Health Organization, an estimated 100,000 people are killed by snake bites each year, with countless more being disabled by the venom of the deadly reptiles. 

While life-saving anti-venom is available, very few countries actually have the capacity to produce it properly, given that most bites occur in remote and rural areas, and anti-venom requires arduous sourcing and accuracy. 

But Friede’s blood is now full of antibodies, following decades of strategic exposure to the neurotoxins of mambas, cobras, and other lethal slithering critters.

His blood is now the source material researchers are using to develop an anti-venom capable of neutralizing a broad spectrum of snake bites...

Friede started this hobby — which he is indeed adamant no one else tries at home — out of sheer curiosity in childhood. After playing with harmless garter snakes in his youth, he began keeping more dangerous species of snakes as pets. At one point, he had 60 of them in his home basement.

In 1999, he began extracting venom from his snakes, drying it, diluting it, and injecting himself with tiny doses — keeping meticulous records as he went.

He had one major hospitalization in 2001, when he was paralyzed and in a coma for four days. But instead of giving up, he doubled down. 

“In hindsight, I’m glad it happened,” Friede told The Times. “I never made another mistake.”

Jacob Glanville, an immunologist and founder of biotech company Centivax, stumbled on Friede’s videos.

Now, Friede is the director of herpetology at Centivax and serves as something of a “human lab” to Glanville.

“For a period of nearly 18 years, [Tim] had undertaken hundreds of bites and self-immunizations with escalating doses from 16 species of very lethal snakes that would normally a kill a horse,” Glanville told The Guardian.

“It blew my mind. I contacted him because I thought if anyone in the world has these properly neutralizing antibodies, it’s him.”

To develop the new anti-venom, Glanville and his fellow researchers identified 19 of the world’s deadliest snakes — in the elapid family — which kill their prey by injecting neurotoxins into their bloodstream, paralyzing muscles (including the big, important ones, like the heart and lungs).

The trouble is, each species in the elapid family has a slightly different toxin, meaning they would each require their own anti-venom.

But Friede’s blood contains certain fragments of each of these toxins; protein molecules seen across the various species. Because of his decades of service to science, his blood also contains the antibodies required to neutralize these toxins, preventing them from sticking to human cells and causing harm.

Combining the antibodies LNX-D09, SNX-B03, and a small molecule called varespladib that inhibits venom toxins, Centivax has successfully created a treatment effective against the entire range of 19 species’ toxins.

Their work, which was recently published in the journal Cell, will soon be tested outside of the lab. 

Trials will start with using the serum to treat dogs admitted to Australian veterinary clinics for snake bites. Assuming that goes well, the next step will be to administer human tests.

Researchers also believe that because the serum stems from a human, this should also lower the risk of allergic reactions when being administered to other people. 

“The final product would be a single, pan-anti-venom cocktail,” Professor Peter Kwong of Columbia University, a senior author of the study, told The Times.

Or, he added, they could make two: “One that is for the elapids, and another that is for the viperids, because some areas of the world only have one or the other.”

As for Friede, he maintains his affinity for snakes, though his last bite was in November 2018, when he said “enough is enough,” according to The New York Times.

By then, he had certainly done enough. His pursuit of immunity could feasibly save countless lives.

“I’m really proud that I can do something in life for humanity,” Friede told The New York Times, “to make a difference for people that are 8,000 miles away, that I’m never going to meet, never going to talk to, never going to see, probably.”

-via GoodGoodGood, May 2, 2025

[abbiistabbii]

I don't think people realize how absolutely wild Linux is.

Here we have an Operating system that now has 100 different varieties, all of them with their own little features and markets that are also so customizable that you can literally choose what desktop environment you want. Alongside that it is the OS of choice for Supercomputers, most Web servers, and even tiny little toy computers that hackers and gadget makers use. It is the Operating System running on most of the world's smartphones. That's right. Android is a version of Linux.

It can run on literally anything up to and including a potato, and as of now desktop Linux Distros like Ubuntu and Mint are so easily to use and user friendly that technological novices can use them. This Operating system has had App stores since the 90s.

Oh, and what's more, this operating system was fuckin' built by volunteers and users alongside businesses and universities because they needed an all purpose operating system so they built one themselves and released it for free. If you know how to, you can add to this.

Oh, and it's founder wasn't some corporate hotshot. It's an introverted Swedish-speaking Finn who, while he was a student, started making his own Operating system after playing around with someone else's OS. He was going to call it Freax but the guy he got server space from named the folder of his project "Linux" (Linus Unix) and the name stuck. He operates this project from his Home office which is painted in a colour used in asylums. Man's so fucking introverted he developed the world's biggest code repo, Git, so he didn't have to deal with drama and email.

Steam adopted it meaning a LOT of games now natively run in Linux and what cannot be run natively can be adapted to run. It's now the OS used on their consoles (Steam Deck) and to this, a lot of people have found games run better on Linux than on Windows. More computers run Steam on Linux than MacOS.

On top of that the Arctic World Archive (basically the Svalbard Seed bank, but for Data) have this OS saved in their databanks so if the world ends the survivors are going to be using it.

On top of this? It's Free! No "Freemium" bullshit, no "pay to unlock" shit, no licenses, no tracking or data harvesting. If you have an old laptop that still works and a 16GB USB drive, you can go get it and install it and have a functioning computer because it uses less fucking resources than Windows. Got a shit PC? Linux Mint XFCE or Xubuntu is lightweight af. This shit is stopping eWaste.

What's more, it doesn't even scrimp on style. KDE, XFCE, Gnome, Cinnamon, all look pretty and are functional and there's even a load of people who try make their installs look pretty AF as a hobby called "ricing" with a subreddit (/r/unixporn) dedicated to it.

Linux is fucking wild.

[happyk44]

[ID: Digital illustrations. In the first illustration, Jason and Damian sit on a wooden bench. Jason holds open a book on his lap. Damian sits next to him and reads along with it. In the second illustration, the book is now on a table. Damian struggles to reach it because he’s far shorter than the table. The third illustration shows him reading the books as he walks.

In each illustration, Jason and Damian are wearing their Red Hood and Robin uniforms. /end ID]

he likes books too

[searchingforserendipity25]

it's a good thing conclave didn't waste any time on making the stories about catholic orders and their in-fighting. and probably i shouldn't either because i am not informed enough about it to go on at length. pls take all of this w a grain of salt.

but i know in my heart of hearts that aldo bellini is a progressive liberal jesuit, the holy father's specialest most progressive liberal italian-american jesuit.

look at him. look at his glasses. those are the glasses of a man who did his dissertation on reinterpreting loyola through a contemporary reformist lens. academic wunderkid. has sooo much beef w the editors of american jesuit weekly. possibly the events of conclave are occurring in a better more beautiful world where aldo bellini is the editor of american jesuit weekly.

the late holy father for sure was a progressive jesuit also. vr pope francis coded. and low-key set him up as a successor. for a while, that seemed nearly a sure thing in some circles.

but there is the fact. well. the fact that everyone is tired, done and tired of jesuits, progressive or otherwise.

this among other factors meant he couldn't consider him the best option, besides whatever character judgement and uncanny machievallien prediction he came up with.

adeyemi has that benedictine swag which makes his potential election particularly seem like a breath of fresh air + reliable + lots of influence. tremblay is giving dominican drip and dominican corruption. and dominican flop. his nespresso machine? it's giving dominican also.

tedesco has to be an italian-founded order member. most hypocrital salesian of all times maybe?? this is unrelated to the fact that i was nearly enrolled in a salesian primary school and the weirdly panopticon-ish playground didn't pass the vibe check. and also because: consider tedesco rising in the ranks of an order created to help migrant workers...someone kick him in the head for me pls.

who even knows about benítez. i want to say franciscan but that might be just too on the nose. cistercian?? honestly it would work well if he is also without affiliation.

this lens does make lawrence's homily being interpreted as a campaign speech more understandable (and particularly funny).

because, as far as anyone can tell, he's fully running as an independent candidate. zero platform besides - if i fuck up i'll apologize and do better and be held accountable, which is more than any of you probably would.

and because he stands alone, he can be held accountable. he can belong to all, and not one faction only. as far as anyone can tell, he's burning bridges with bellini and rocking the status quo.

he is speaking to/from a place of frustration with institutional inertia and factionalism, he is using his position as dean to bravely promote a platform for internal change in the curia, he is offering doubt as an alternative to certainty, he is pulling an absolute wildcard move.

pity he didn't mean it.

pity the the only order lawrence is interested in joining is the most hardcore discalced carmelite experience possible.

you know how some people look into luxurious real estate listings like it's porn? that's lawrence w tiny monasteries. the sort of minuscule organization with not enough people for management to be necessary. too small for politics. as close to erasure as you can get in this world: no need to be useful.

serving god by existing only to meditate on him. a narrow slant of a life, at that. barely taking up space, barely casting a shadow.

his favorite is a decrepit wreck of a place in the middle of southern spain, nowhere. no wifi no speaking aloud no possessions. no shoes no food. no nothing, only prayer. and a big big sky overhead.

maybe that will fix his issues with reaching god. if that doesn't work he'll probably just wander into the tabernas desert and become an hermit. works for some people, supposedly; plenty of order founders seem to believe so, anyway.

[inbabylontheywept]

a silly ode to the first mitochondria, with waaaay too many religious allusions

(the mormons put me in seminary for four years and now it's everyone's problem)

the garden was not made of trees the snake did not exist when Eve was formed inside the seas and then was set adrift

she drifted in the tidal pools prokaryote divine producing simple molecules acids and alkalines

but paradise can never last and every god must fall some swallowed by a cytoplast (entrapped by a cell wall)

what do you call the dead that rise? what name is there for this? an Eve that finds that eden lies inside of the abyss

the wall no longer trapped her in but locked the monsters out the freedom only she could win to swim, and grow, and sprout.

she tinkered with her molecules And in a twist of fate Created one of life's crown jewels Adenosine Triphosphate (1)

what was before a simple wall could bloom with organelles a garden grown from former falls a paradise in hell

a fortress swam inside the brine, a thriving little town where tiny citizens could shine and ride the ups and downs

a golgi apparatus strove to package safe proteins a lysome found a nice alcove and kept the whole cell clean

the centrioles rebuilt the walls whenever they grew weak and eve was known and loved by all as something quite unique:

the powerhouse of the first cell the mitochondria (2) the Jonah that became the whale the jesus of bacteria once eaten by a macrophage then made through death anew the founder of our current age the sprout from which we grew

(yeah, yeah - you try and use this line in a poem)

(gah. this paragraph killed the syllable counts. i was challented to fit the phrase "powerhouse of the cell" into it, and mitochondria had to fit somewhere. both of which were gonna be doozies. decided to put them back to back and break the scheme at the end.

[sweetiechichi]

babydoll!reader cries and mattheo comes running ૮ ˶︶^︶˶ ა🧸🐇<3

warnings: injury (scraped knee, minor bleeding), blood (brief, not graphic), crying, protective!mattheo, mean!mattheo, mentions of physical altercations, mild language

it didn’t hurt right away. her foot just slipped--moss-covered stone behind the greenhouse, her heel catching on a protruding edge. the fall was sudden, knee cracking against the step with a dull thud. the sting came after. sharp enough to make her gasp. sharp enough to sit her down right there on the cold stone, her dress puddling around her like crushed petals.

she blinked. once, twice. blood seeped through the tear in her tights. lace ruined. her sleeve was already pink-stained from trying to clean it. her throat felt tight. her eyes burned. she didn’t want to cry. but of course she did.

shaky fingers. unlocked phone. one name. muscle memory. it barely rang.

“baby.” his voice was flat. clipped. something electric already buried in the way he said it.

“i--i fell,” she whispered. “it’s not bad, i just--my knee. there’s dirt, and it’s bleeding, and--”

“where are you?”

“behind the greenhouse--”

“don’t move.”

“wait, matty--” he was already gone.

he nearly broke the door on his way out. someone called his name in the hall. he didn’t stop. didn’t look. fists clenched. jaw set. not running. but walking like he wanted to fight something.

and when he found her?

he froze. then stalked forward, faster now. she was curled up on the step, sleeves over her hands, tears in her lashes. the blood on her leg was drying around the edges. she looked tiny. miserable.

he crouched without a word, scanning her up and down like she’d been hurt worse than she had. his voice was low, tight, like it hurt him to speak. “what the fuck happened?”

she sniffled, already embarrassed. “i tripped. it’s stupid.”

“who pushed you?”

“no one--just the steps, my heel--”

“lemme see.”

she pulled the fabric aside. he saw the scrape. hissed through his teeth like it personally offended him.

“i’m gonna curse whoever built this fucking school.” she tried to laugh. “you’re being dramatic.”

“you’re bleeding,” he muttered. “come here.”

he stepped in close, hands slipping under her arms like she was made of glass. pulled her upright, steadying her against his chest. she winced, soft and small, and he exhaled hard--like the sound of her pain physically winded him.

“this way,” he said, nudging her foot forward with his. “inside.”

he led her in like she was breakable. like if he let go for even a second, she’d shatter. then, without hesitation, he cleared the nearest potting bench with one swift motion--pots, gloves, tools crashing to the floor like they didn’t matter. like nothing did except her.

she blinked. opened her mouth to speak.

but he was already stalking off --long strides, fast and furious--disappearing behind a heavy wooden door. she heard the clatter of supplies, a few curses under his breath, and then he returned, breathless, with something old and dented in his hands.

the first aid kit looked like it belonged in a museum. maybe it had. probably hadn't been touched since the founders walked these halls.

he dropped it beside her and started digging through like he’d done it a thousand times. of course it had antiseptic. of course it had gauze. and of course he knew exactly where to find it. he’d fixed worse--broken noses, busted lips, split skin from fights he sometimes started but always finished.

but this?

this was her. and that made it different.

he paused, just for a second. then, quieter, “this is gonna sting, baby.”

she whimpered when he pressed the cloth to her skin. his hands were steady. his jaw wasn’t. “i know. i know. just--stay still for me, yeah?”

he wrapped the gauze too tight the first time. she flinched. “shit. sorry.” he fixed it, slower this time. “you gotta tell me when it hurts, alright?”

she nodded, lip trembling. he looked like he might fall apart right there. “stop crying,” he whispered. “i’m trying.” “well you’re shit at it,” he snapped--but it cracked at the end.

she sniffled. and then he reached out, curled his fingers under her jaw, and kissed her temple. hard. like a promise. or maybe a warning.

“next time, you call me before you cry. you don’t sit out here like some kicked puppy. you call me. i fix it.” she nodded fast. like it was gospel. like it meant everything.

he stood. held out his arms. “come here.”

“i can walk.” “i didn’t ask.”

she let him lift her. she always did. head tucked into his chest, arms around his neck.

two ravenclaws stared too long. he glared until they looked away.

he carried her up to her tower. up the steps. into her little pink-lit room. lace curtains. frilly blankets. mr. sunday waiting on the bed.

he didn’t say a thing about the bunny. just set her down gentle. untied her shoes.

when she reached for his hand, he gave it. didn’t even look. just laced their fingers together and whispered:

“if it were up to me, you’d never touch the fucking ground.”

ପ꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ଓ 🌸🤍

a/n: thank you for reading! pls send requests, i would love to hear your ideas for future fics xoxo

[happyk44]

[ID: Digitally illustrated grayscale comic, titled "Please Sir..."

Panel 1: Leaning against the arm of the couch, Jason's legs are thrown over Dick's legs. "Ey... Dickface," he says. "Can I... confess something?"

Dick rests his cup on Jason's knees. "Sure."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Ok..."

Panel 2: Close up on Jason's face. "I love how Damian talks," he says. "Like some Victorian age orphan."

Visions of Damian's little face pops into his head.

"The quality of this biscuit is acceptable," one says.

"Father... what is this nonsense?" another snaps.

"Todd!" a third huffs. "You really need to stop perishing... The repercussion of your acts are calamitous."

Panel 3: Jason startles as Tim shoots up from behind the couch, shouting in tandem with Dick, "I LOVE THAT TOO!!!"

Panel 4: "Hi!" Tim says as he folds his arm over the back of the couch.

"Hi babybird!" Dick says as he tilts his face to Tim.

"Sup!" Jason turns to face Tim. "So... you guys wanna try the orphan speak?"

Panel 5: Alfred washes a plate. "So... young masters," he says. "How was the dinner?"

Panel 6: "Oh dear... well..." Jason says. "Delectable!"

"Luscious!" Dick chimes in with a slight gesture of his hand.

Tim presses both his hands together in a feigned prayer. "Very palatable."

Hmmming in suspicous, Damian squints up at the three of them.

Panel 7: The three gaze pleading at Alfred. "Please sir," they chime together, "can I have some more?"

Damian pounds the table with his little fist. "Stop this nonsense!"

/end ID]

[amyzworldds]

hello!! Can i request for a 14th member svt au (each member reactions if possible!) where the 14th member (u) got so much hate point she left the group and became a solo artist, she won her award and did a speech and then she saw each svt’s members reactions!

Title: Thirteen Cheers for Fourteen

Masterlist | Part 2

In a whirlwind of hate and heartbreak, Y/N, the lone female maknae of Seventeen, faces relentless backlash from fans, pushing her to leave the group and vanish abroad. After a year of silence, she returns to Korea, forging a solo path with a powerful comeback, while the thirteen boys grapple with her absence. Pairing: Seventeen x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Heavy angst

The apartment was suffocatingly silent, save for the faint drip of a leaking faucet in the kitchen. Y/N sat on the cold hardwood floor, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were swollen, the skin around them raw from weeks—maybe months—of crying. She couldn’t tell anymore. Time had blurred into an endless haze of pain. A half-empty water bottle sat beside her, untouched for hours. She hadn’t eaten today. Or yesterday. She didn’t care.

The hate had been there since the beginning. Nine years ago, when Seventeen debuted with her as the only girl, the Korean fans had erupted. “She’s a disgrace.” “A spoiled princess who bought her way in.” “Seventeen doesn’t need her.” She’d been fourteen then, a wide-eyed maknae with dreams bigger than the world. She’d fought tooth and nail to prove herself—begged her father, PLEDIS’s founder, to judge her fairly, trained until her body gave out, poured her soul into every performance. But none of it mattered. To them, she was nothing but a stain.

Now, at twenty-three, the hate had metastasized. Flower wreaths piled up outside HYBE, their ribbons screaming, “Leave Seventeen, Y/N. You’re a curse.” Online, the threats were worse—boycotts, petitions, vile words she couldn’t unsee. They called her names that cut deeper than knives, accused her of things that made her stomach churn. The company had forced her into a hiatus, a “break” to “think things over.” But all it did was leave her alone with her thoughts—and they were merciless.

The boys had tried. God, they’d tried. Seungcheol had held her when she’d broken down after a concert, whispering, “You’re enough, Y/N. You’ve always been enough.” Vernon had sat with her in silence, his presence a quiet anchor. Dino, her fellow maknae, had sobbed into her shoulder, begging, “Don’t let them win, Y/N. Please.” But she’d pushed them away. “I’m fine,” she’d lied, her voice hollow. “I just need space.” They’d stopped coming after she’d screamed at Minghao to leave her alone, her words a jagged sob: “Stop pretending I’m worth saving!”

She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Her phone buzzed on the floor, its screen lighting up with a new message. She didn’t look. It was probably Joshua again, or maybe Wonwoo—soft words she didn’t deserve. She’d shut them all out, locked the door, turned off the lights. Her family had called too, her mother’s voice trembling through the line: “Come home, Y/N. Let us help you.” But she’d hung up, muttering, “I’m okay,” before curling into herself and crying until her throat burned.

She wasn’t okay. She was drowning.

The silence pressed in, heavy and unbearable. Her eyes drifted to a framed photo on the shelf—Seventeen’s first win, all fourteen of them beaming, her tiny figure squeezed between Jun and Hoshi. She’d been so happy then, so naive. Now, that memory felt like a lie. A sob clawed its way up her chest, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle it. But it broke free, loud and ragged, echoing in the empty room.

“Why me?” she whispered to no one, her voice cracking. “I gave everything… everything… and it’s still not enough.”

Her gaze fell to her phone again. Against her better judgment, she reached for it, hands trembling. The lock screen showed a flood of unread messages—“Y/N, please talk to us.” “We miss you.” “You’re our maknae, don’t forget that.” She swiped them away, her breath hitching. She didn’t want their kindness. She didn’t deserve it.

Instead, she opened Twitter. Her name was trending again, a festering wound laid bare for the world to see. She scrolled, each comment a fresh stab to her heart.

“Y/N’s the reason Seventeen’s losing fans. She’s a talentless leech.”

“Imagine training for years just to be a slut who rides her daddy’s coattails. Leave already.”

“Those wreaths aren’t enough. She should just disappear for good.”

“Seventeen was perfect without her. She’s a parasite ruining thirteen good men.”

“No one wants you, Y/N. Do us all a favor and quit.”

Her vision blurred as tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting. She clutched the phone tighter, her knuckles white, her sobs growing louder. “I tried,” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “I tried so hard… why do you hate me?”

Another comment loaded: “She’s probably crying right now, playing the victim. Pathetic.”

The phone slipped from her hands, clattering to the floor. She buried her face in her knees, her body shaking with the force of her cries. “I’m not pathetic,” she whimpered, but the words felt empty. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was nothing—a burden, a mistake, a girl who’d dared to dream and paid the price.

She didn’t hear the rain anymore, didn’t feel the cold seeping into her bones. All she felt was the weight of their words, crushing her until there was nothing left. She’d fought for years, but now… now she was tired. So tired.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the darkness, to the boys, to herself, to the dream she’d once held so tight. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The phone screen glowed beside her, still open to the endless stream of hate, each word a nail in the coffin of the girl she used to be.

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

The fluorescent lights of the PLEDIS office buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on Y/N’s pale face. She sat across from her father, the man who’d built this empire, her hands trembling as she clutched a pen. The contract termination papers lay between them, a stark white wound on the polished desk. Her manager, Minseo, stood by the window, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“I’m leaving,” Y/N said, her voice flat, drained of the fire it once held. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Her father’s jaw tightened, his eyes searching her face—those same eyes that had once sparkled with pride when she debuted. Now, they were clouded with something heavier: guilt, maybe, or regret. “Y/N, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she cut him off, her tone sharp but brittle, like glass about to shatter. “I’m not just losing the boys, Dad. I’m losing me. Every day, I wake up and I don’t know who I am anymore. My name—it’s just… it’s just Seventeen’s punching bag. I can’t breathe.”

He leaned forward, hands clasped, voice low and pleading. “We can fight this. We’ll release a statement, hire more security, sue the worst of them—”

“No!” Her shout echoed in the small room, startling her father. Y/N’s chest heaved, tears brimming but refusing to fall. “It won’t stop. It’s been nine years, Dad. Nine years of wreaths, of threats, of people telling me I’m a parasite. I’m done dragging them down. I’m done doubting myself because of it.”

Her father stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “Y/N, the boys—they’d want to know. They’d fight for you.”

Y/N shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “That’s why you can’t tell them. They’d stop me. Seungcheol would lock me in a room until I changed my mind. Jeonghan would talk me to death. Seokmin—he’d cry until I couldn’t stand it. I know them too well.” She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But I can’t hold on anymore. I’m choosing them… and I’m choosing me.”

Her father’s hands trembled as he slid the papers closer. “Where will you go?”

“Away,” she said simply, signing her name with a shaky hand. “Mom think abroad is best. I need… I need to disappear for a while. To think. To stop drowning.”

Her father’s eyes softened, but she nodded. “We’ll keep it quiet. No leaks to the members. But Y/N… are you sure?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She pushed the signed papers back, stood, and walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her, a final, hollow sound.

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

Weeks later, Incheon International Airport was a blur of noise and motion, but Y/N moved through it like a ghost. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face, a baseball cap shielding her eyes. A single suitcase trailed behind her—everything she’d chosen to take from a life she was leaving behind. Her parents had arranged it all: a flight to somewhere far, somewhere quiet, somewhere she could vanish. They’d promised to handle the boys after the announcement, to soften the blow. But Y/N knew there’d be no softening this.

She hadn’t said goodbye. Her phone, now off and buried in her bag, had been silent for days—no replies to the boys’ texts, no answers to their calls. She’d stopped opening her door when they knocked, their voices muffled through the wood: “Y/N, please, just talk to us.” She’d sat against it once, listening to Mingyu beg, his voice cracking, until he gave up and left. It had broken her heart all over again, but she couldn’t face them. Not when she’d already decided.

The boarding call crackled over the speakers, and she handed her ticket to the agent with numb fingers. As she stepped onto the plane, the weight of it hit her—she was leaving them. Her brothers. Her family. The only people who’d ever truly seen her. A sob caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, sinking into her seat by the window. The runway blurred outside as the plane taxied, and she pressed her forehead to the glass, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to no one but herself.

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

The Seventeen practice room was alive with its usual chaos—Hoshi sprawled on the floor, panting after a run-through; Vernon scrolling through his phone; Seungkwan bickering with DK over a water bottle. It was break time, a rare moment of calm amidst their grueling schedule. The mirrors reflected thirteen tired but familiar faces, a unit unbroken—until now.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed on the bench, and he glanced at it, frowning. “What the hell…?” His voice trailed off, and the room stilled as his expression darkened.

“What’s up, hyung?” Dino asked, sitting up from where he’d been stretching.

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He held up his phone, the screen displaying a news alert from HYBE: “Official Statement: Y/N to Depart SEVENTEEN Effective Immediately.”

The air sucked out of the room. Vernon dropped his phone, the clatter deafening in the silence. “What?” he breathed, scrambling to his feet.

“No way,” Mingyu said, voice shaking as he grabbed Seungcheol’s phone. “This is fake. It’s gotta be fake.”

Jeonghan snatched it from him, his eyes scanning the words, growing wider with every line. “Due to personal reasons… mutual agreement… effective immediately…” His voice faltered, and he looked up, pale. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Hoshi shot up, his laugh disbelieving. “She can’t be gone. She’s on hiatus, not—she wouldn’t just leave us!”

Seungkwan’s hands shook as he pulled out his own phone, opening the statement. “It’s real,” he whispered, tears already welling up. “It’s on the official site. She… she left.”

The door burst open, and their manager, Joonho, stepped in, his face grim. The boys turned to him, a chorus of desperate voices erupting.

“Is it true?” Joshua demanded, his usual calm shattered. “Did she leave?”

Joonho nodded slowly, avoiding their eyes. “It’s true. She made the decision weeks ago. Signed the papers and everything.”

“Weeks?!” Wonwoo’s voice cracked, raw and furious. “And you didn’t tell us? She didn’t tell us?”

“She asked us not to,” Joonho said, his tone heavy. “She didn’t want you to know until it was done. Said you’d stop her.”

“Of course we’d stop her!” Seungcheol roared, slamming his fist against the wall. The sound reverberated, and the others flinched. “She’s our maknae! She’s family! You don’t just—how could you let her do this?”

“She was breaking, Cheol,” Joonho said quietly. “She didn’t want you to see her like that.”

DK sank to the floor, hands in his hair. “We could’ve helped her. We were helping her. Why didn’t she trust us?”

“She didn’t want to burden you,” Joonho replied, but the words only fueled their anguish.

“Burden us?” Mingyu’s voice broke into a sob. “She was never a burden! She was ours—our Y/N!”

Vernon paced, tears streaming down his face. “We should’ve known. We should’ve gone to her more, forced her to talk—”

“We tried!” Jun snapped, his voice hoarse. “She wouldn’t let us in! She kept saying she was fine, and now she’s just… gone?”

Seungkwan dialed her number, hands trembling. It didn’t ring—just dead silence. “Her phone’s off,” he choked out, dropping it. “She’s really gone.”

“Let’s go to her place,” Dino said suddenly, standing. “She’s gotta be there. She wouldn’t leave without saying anything.”

They piled into vans, a frantic, tear-streaked mess, ignoring Joonho’s protests. The drive to her apartment was suffocating, the silence broken only by muffled sobs and the occasional, “She wouldn’t do this.” But when they arrived, the door was locked, the lights off. Mingyu pounded on it anyway, shouting, “Y/N! Open the door! Please!”

No answer. A neighbor poked her head out, frowning. “She’s not there. Moved out days ago.”

“Days?” Jeonghan echoed, his voice hollow. “She’s been gone for days, and we didn’t know?”

They drove to her parents’ house next, a last desperate hope. Her mother answered, her face etched with sorrow. “She’s not here,” she said softly, tears in her eyes. “She left the country. She needed to get away.”

“Away?” Seungcheol’s voice was barely audible, broken. “She left us?”

“She didn’t want to hurt you,” her mother whispered. “She thought this was the only way. She’ll come back when she’s ready… when she’s okay.”

“When she’s okay?” Hoshi laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “She left us, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye! How are we supposed to be okay?”

Her mother flinched, but she had no answer. The boys stood there, thirteen shattered pieces of a whole that no longer existed.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Joshua murmured, staring at the ground as tears mixed with the rain on his face. “Nine years… and she’s just gone.”

Seungkwan sank to his knees on the wet pavement, sobbing. “We were supposed to be fourteen forever.”

But they weren’t. Y/N was gone, and the silence she left behind was louder than any hate she’d ever faced.

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

The air in London had been crisp and unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the humid chaos of Seoul. For nearly a year, Y/N had lived there, tucked away in a small flat with a view of the Thames. No one knew where she was except her parents—not the boys, not the company, not the fans who’d once hounded her every move. Her social media accounts sat dormant, frozen in time since that last post: a blurry photo of her hand holding a coffee cup, captioned “Taking a breath.” She hadn’t touched her phone for anything beyond calls to her family. The hate comments, the wreaths, the venom—they were a distant memory she refused to revisit.

She’d seen the boys once, though—on a grainy livestream of an award show, months after she’d left. Seventeen had won Album of the Year, and Seungcheol had taken the mic, his voice steady but thick with something unspoken. “We didn’t fall because of anyone,” he’d said, eyes glistening. “We’re still standing because of love—because of family. We miss… that chaos, you know? And we’re not mad. Never will be.” Jeonghan had added, softer, “We hope you’re smiling, wherever you are.” They hadn’t said her name, but she’d known. It was for her. Her chest had tightened, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as she’d turned off the screen. But she didn’t call. She didn’t text. She just sat there, alone, letting the silence swallow her.

Now, after eleven months abroad, she could breathe again. The weight that had crushed her in Korea had lifted, bit by bit. She could smile—not the forced grins of survival, but the real ones, the ones that crinkled her eyes like they used to. She’d called her father last week, her voice steady for the first time in years. “I’m ready to come back,” she’d said. “But not to Seventeen. To me. I want to try… solo.”

He’d paused, then sighed—a sound of relief, not disappointment. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We’ll make it happen.”

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

She’d been back in Korea for three months now, living in a quiet apartment on the outskirts of Seoul. The HYBE building hummed with activity, but she rarely crossed paths with anyone she knew. Seventeen was on their world tour, their schedules a whirlwind of planes and stages halfway across the globe. She’d heard their new album through the walls of a practice room once—Hoshi’s laughter in the background of a track, Mingyu’s warm vocals weaving through the melody. It had stopped her cold, her hand trembling on the doorknob. But she’d walked away.

Her days were full now. She spent hours in the recording booth, her voice finding its footing again—stronger, clearer, hers. The studio smelled of coffee and warm electronics, a sanctuary where she could be Y/N, not “the founder’s daughter” or “Seventeen’s mistake.” She practiced choreography until her legs shook, the mirrors reflecting a woman reclaiming herself. The music video shoot had been grueling—twelve hours under blinding lights, her hair streaked with silver dye, her eyes fierce in a way they hadn’t been before. The photoshoot proofs sat on her desk now: Y/N in a leather jacket, staring down the lens, unapologetic. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was building something new.

“I’m not here because of anyone else,” she’d told her producer, a steely edge to her voice as they reviewed tracks. “I’m here because I can do this. I will do this.”

He’d nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I believe you.”

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

The tour bus rumbled through a foreign city—Chicago, maybe, or Toronto; the boys had lost track. The air inside was thick with exhaustion, the kind that settled into your bones after months on the road. Seventeen sprawled across the seats, a tangle of limbs and quiet murmurs. A year ago, this bus would’ve been louder—Y/N’s voice cutting through the chaos, teasing DK about his snoring or roping Vernon into a prank on Woozi. Now, it was just thirteen.

Seungcheol stared out the window, his reflection pale against the night. “It’s almost a year,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost in the hum of the engine.

The others looked up, the weight of his words sinking in. Mingyu rubbed his eyes, his usual brightness dimmed. “Yeah. Anniversary’s next month. Supposed to be ten years with her.”

“Ten years,” Jeonghan echoed, leaning his head back against the seat. His fingers toyed with a bracelet Y/N had made him once—beads spelling out “Hannie” in her messy handwriting. “Feels wrong without her.”

Hoshi shifted, pulling his knees up. “I keep thinking she’ll just… show up. Like, burst through the door with that stupid grin, saying, ‘Miss me?’” He laughed, but it broke into a shaky breath. “She doesn’t even know how much we miss her.”

“She knows,” Joshua said quietly, his voice steady but his eyes distant. “She saw that speech. She’s gotta know.”

“Then why hasn’t she called?” Dino asked, his voice small, almost childlike. He’d been the closest to her age, her partner in maknae mischief. “Not once. Not a text. Nothing.”

Minghao sighed, pushing his cap down over his eyes. “Because she’s healing. We can’t force her back.”

“But we’re her family,” Seungkwan said, his voice cracking. He clutched a photo on his phone—a blurry shot of Y/N laughing at him during a concert, her hair a mess. “She’s our only sister. Our maknae. Even if she’s not here, she always will be.”

Vernon nodded, his jaw tight. “I get why she left. I do. That hate… it was eating her alive. But it still hurts, you know? Like there’s this hole now.”

DK wiped at his eyes, trying to smile. “I miss her complaining. She’d whine about my singing being too loud, then hug me five seconds later. I’d take all her pranks again if it meant she’d just… talk to us.”

Seungcheol turned from the window, his expression hard but his eyes soft with unshed tears. “We can’t change it. It’s done. She’s gone, and we’ve gotta live with that. But if she ever comes back—solo, whatever—I’ll be the first in line to support her. Always.”

They all murmured agreement, a quiet pact forged in the ache of her absence. They’d accepted it, as much as they could—understood the hell she’d endured, the choice she’d made. But acceptance didn’t fill the void. They missed her chaos, her laugh, the way she’d flop onto the couch after practice and demand they order food. They missed her. And they didn’t know if they’d ever get her back.

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

Y/N stood in the recording booth, headphones snug over her ears, the mic a lifeline. The track played—a slow, haunting ballad she’d written herself, every note dripping with the pain she’d carried and the strength she’d found. She closed her eyes, letting her voice spill out, raw and unbroken.

Somewhere across the world, Seventeen took the stage, thirteen voices rising together, a harmony that still felt incomplete. They didn’t know she was back. She didn’t know they still left a space for her in their hearts. And for now, the silence between them stretched on—a fragile thread, waiting to snap or mend.

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

an: Hi! Sorry this was late, but I hope you like it, anon, and I hope I got what you requested, hehehe🫶

[happyk44]

[ID: Digital illustration. That one "dog owners vs cat owners" meme, but it's DC characters:

Lois, Clark and Jon smile happily. Clark, dressed as Superman, holding Jon to his chest in both hands, while Lois holds onto his arm. "This is our sweet baby angel, Jonathan Samuel Kent," Clark says. "He's half Kryptonian, half human - we waited nine precious months for him, and he is the light of our lives.

Bruce, as Batman, holds Jason in the air by the hood of his red hoodie. Jason dangles like a kitten being held by their parent, eyes wide, eyebrows narrowed. Bruce looks tired. "This is Jason, I found him in a dumpster, he hates my guts and I would literally die for him."

/end ID]

I made a thing….

[cesperanza]

I saw your addition to the post about the enshittification of fandom alongside much of the rest of the internet and realized I had no idea that you were among the founders of ao3! I have been following your work for a DECADE and I feel embarrassed not to have known that about your place in fandom history 😅

I wanted us to own the goddamned servers!!! *holds up fist!I*. And now we do!!

(I laugh a TINY bit because A DECADE is really not even anything in my fannish career, lol. I was old THEN! lol)

But anyway, a lot of us who started the AO3 were archivists of one kind or another - I had inherited the DSA (Due South archive), and astolat had Yuletide, and there were other people who were central to fandom in popslash, smallville, highlander, stargate, etc etc. It's a huge responsibility and there was the fear of those small archives falling into the sea, and then there were all of these fic communities on LJ that were essentially also fic archives--flashfic communities and other kinds of communities, etc. Those people also came hurrying to help because we all wanted a safe place to preserve fanworks, both from venture capitalists/ Web 2.0 but also from just link rot and technical degradation.

The people who rushed to help were really all central to fandom at that time, a Dunbar's number of fannish folk who knew each other and who were themselves individually connected to lots of other fans. A very highly charged network so to speak--and people reading this, you know who you are!! :D. YOU AND YOU AND YOU WERE THERE! --and they're still here on tumblr, so many of the first wave OTW! <3 <3 Because we were and are mostly fandom lifers, FIAWOL folk.

[mortalityplays]

Forgive me if I'm mistaking you for another person, but I remember you speaking at multiple points on the unsustainability of free social media services (I think especially in response to the cohost collapse?), and I'm curious on what your thoughts on bluesky are so far. I'm not an expert on the subject, but from what I've read previously it seemed like they were on track to be financially sustainable, but I don't know if the recent floods of users has thrown those projections off. Sorry if I'm mixing you up with someone else on my timeline, in that case just ignore me.

bluesky will almost certainly follow the same trajectory of monetisation => bloat => enshittification => decline as every other major platform built on venture capital and user hoarding. it's a terrible model that only works in the short term as a mirage for attracting funding and making founders look good for a year or two before they sell.

you can see the same effect in the decline of all the subscription box services that came into vogue just before covid: they feel great to use for as long as the initial injection of venture funding lasts, because the purpose of that funding at that stage is to attract users and impress the next round of funders with how pleasant/intuitive/efficient/ethical/good value the service is. that's the stage where they're handing out freebies and bowling over influencers, and every ingredient in the box is fresh and high quality and locally sourced. wow what a good deal, what a great system!!! why hasn't anyone done this before? the answer is because it's unsustainable by design. they rack up good reviews, sign on a billion new users, attract new funding from a bunch of much more credulous investors, and then gut all of the expensive parts. portions get smaller, ingredients get worse, packaging gets flimsier, prices go up, freebies turn into "5% off your first 9 boxes when you invite 3 friends", and customer service vanishes.

with social media (and platforms like discord) the logic is the same, it's just a little less glaringly obvious to the end user because they're not coming home to leaking packages of rancid chicken on the doorstep. bluesky has an advantage over tiny operations like cohost because it was founded by a billionaire making a point for the sake of his own image. it got a really significant chunk of startup funding, and the owner had existing connections and rep in the space to attract more. That's why it has survived the goldrush period, why it still feels good to use, and why users who have been burned so many times before are finally accepting it as a stable, reliable option. It's still in its venture capital honeymoon phase where the only thing worth spending money on is making the service attractive to users.

What I expect we will see next, with another mass influx of users from twitter and new funding from a rogue's gallery of tech venture sickos led by Blockchain Capital is a strong ramp up into monetising that userbase. They've already been pretty forthright about how they plan to do this, and I think it's a solid roadmap of how Bluesky will bloat and decay over the next few years:

this is a huge lol. don't worry, we're not going to hyperfinancialize the social experience through NFTs. the thing even crypto freaks started feigning amnesia about a year ago. real "our health conscious sodas are 100% arsenic free" messaging here. They know perfectly well that rubes users are suspicious of their typical 5 dimensional tech finance chess games and are patting our hands about last week's bogeymen so nobody worries too hard about whatever 'decentralised developer ecosystem' just happens to be helmed by a bunch of crypto guys. this definitely means something good and based and not a google-like single sign on user data harvesting operation.

This is the same shit that's currently rotting the floorboards of discord. Bluntly, there is no way to run a platform on this scale without gating functionality behind paid services. Discord has been squeezing free-tier file uploads and call quality etc. down steadily and cranking up subscription costs over the last year or two, throwing in chaff like animated avatar frames to try and justify the user cost. They're also doing the same misdirection thing again here, pointing to Thing We All Hate to deflect from thing we might not like very much when they do it. Booo elon booo we all hate elon!!! wait how do we feel about subscription models again,

watch out for this to kill porn on bsky like it has killed porn on every other social platform 👍 boooo we hate elon boooo stupid idiot and his 'everything app' booooo wait why do you need my tax information, what's that about mastercard,

Look, we are all aware social media is a money pit. Let's not forget dorsey was looking to sell twitter in the first place, long before elon's very public plunge into total online derangement. Subscription services are not going to plug the hole, so we are gradually going to see more and more spaghetti thrown at the wall while early funders shuffle cards and do their pyramid scheme bit bringing in stupider and stupider investments. this is the window in which bluesky will be temporarily worth using for us, for the idiot public, the poorly rendered crowd jpegs in the background of their venture capital MOBA. it's in their interests to slow and pad the decline as much as possible, because that is how they get maximally paid.

Given the scale of the money involved, and dorsey's weird ego investment, I think bluesky will probably manage a controlled drift for a good few years before it gets really bloated and painful. and by then we will all be so used to the *checks notes* decentralised developer ecosystem that we'll just be posting through it, watching another generation of columnists call another collapsing platform 'their beloved hellsite' and passing around that meme about not getting out of our chairs no sir until idk we all get on a fediverse neurolink alternative to stick it to the elongated muskrat and our brains pop peacefully in our sleep. which I guess is the closest thing to viability any social media platform can achieve.

anyway diogenes the cynic is also on bluesky