#💊 memories

[fall0utboi12]

Sick, 1947

Maybe it had been more than a drizzle... AO3

“Percy, are you still in bed?” Arthur’s voice was muffled by the closed door. “Dad says you need to get up or you’re going to be late for school.”

Percy groaned and burrowed deeper under his duvet. He had been feeling awful since he woke up around two in the morning and had only been feeling worse since. He keeps side eyes closed to try and settle the ache in them. Arthur knocked on the door again, only succeeding in hurting Percy's head.

There was a click as the knob turned, followed by Arthur’s footsteps; “Percy.”

“G-go… Go away- Go away…” Percy stammers out in a hoarse voice. His throat hurt so bad.

“Hey…Are you feeling alright?” Arthur’s voice softened, followed by a sigh. “I told you not to go out in the rain without your jacket.”

Percy groans and tucks his face into his blanket. He just wants to sleep, despite how he struggled to. The mattress dipped as Arthur came to sit next to him. His cold hand came around to press against Percy’s forehead. The coldness felt so nice against his overheated skin, he didn’t even care his face was being touched. 

“Bloody hell, Percy, you’re burning up.” Arthur pulled his hand away. He stands with a sigh. “I’ll go tell dad you’re sick and can’t go to school today.”

Arthur’s footsteps soften as he leaves the room, the door clicking behind him. Percy closes his eyes again, finally slipping off into sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he slept for but it felt like it had been a while. The room had darkened as it had started raining at some point, the droplets paddering loudly against the roof. 

He rolls over onto his back and rubs his sore eyes. The only light in his room was the fairy lights he had strung up around his room, thankfully the warm glow didn’t hurt his eyes as he blinked.

The sound of multiple pairs of footsteps were coming up the attic steps. He slowly sits up, leaning back against his pillow as he looks over at the door curiously. It opens a moment later, revealing Arthur with Eddie, Sally and Margret who were now crowding into the room.

“Hey, Percy! I brought you soup!” Eddie announces, holding up a glass container of what looked like vegetable soup. “My mum made it for supper yesterday so I brought some over for you.”

“Thank… th-thank you.” Percy’s nose was stuffed up, making it hard to speak.

“How are you feeling?” Sally asks, coming to sit on the arm chair across from the bed.

“Aw-awful…” He sniffles, cringing at the feeling of mucus.

“You look awful.” Margaret states. When Sally and Arthur glared at her, she quickly added on. “I just mean he looks really sick! Don’t glare at me.”

Percy looks aways, focusing on the soup. He takes the spoon Eddie had brought for him. His taste buds weren’t working properly, making the food taste off. He grimaces as he takes a bite. He didn’t want to eat it, but Eddie had brought it just for him and he could at least try and get it down.

He wanted up not eating much of it, but he did at least feel a bit better having eaten something. He sits the container and spoon down at his side table and leaned back against his pillow to watch his friends. 

Sally and Arthur had somehow ended up arguing about something while Margaret gave a few comments on their topic. Eddie was the only one not involved, instead sitting cross-legged on the bed next to Percy. Eddie leaned back against the headboard as Percy leaned into him with a sniffle. Eddie was always comfortable to lay on. He closes his eyes, listening to the bickering as background noise as he drifts off. He felt a lot better than he did this morning waking up sick.

#we happy few #whf #percy hastings #💊 memories #sally boyle #whf arthur hastings #eddie macmillan #margaret worthing

[rotten-downer]

TW: ANTISEMITISM, ABLEISM, VIOLENCE

[ Disclaimer: I apologize in advance for Springs. He is an absolutely terrible human and I don't condone his thoughts / actions whatsoever. ]

💊: Poker night is supposed to be a fun, laid-back night for the constables where they don't have to worry about the stress of their job. But it's hard to have a fun night when you're playing with ignorant people.

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

Poker

"And just like that, all of the earnings are mine." The raven-haired male coos victoriously as he pulls all of the loose money on the table towards himself, the other constables at the table grumbling in defeat and tossing their cards onto the table.

"How the hell do you keep winning, Avelin?!" One mutters.

"I'm just gonna stop playing, I'm gonna be bloody broke at this rate," Another huffs.

Michael laughs as he counts the money before tucking it into his pocket, trading it for a cigarette and lighter. He lights the end of the cigarette and takes a slow inhale before exhaling a cloud of smoke above his head. "I guess it's a natural talent, lads."

"You could certainly call it natural talent." A copper-headed man states, staring across the table at Michael as he tosses his hand with the other cards.

Michael raises a brow with a little chuckle. "And what does that mean, hm, Springs?"

"Well…." Springs takes a long drink of his scotch. "I think you know what I mean."

Michael's smile falls for a moment, his hazel eyes narrowed at the male across from him. "Nah, I don't think I do, mate. Why don't you elaborate?"

As the tension in the room begins to rise, the other constables at the table look nervously between the two men before one looks at Michael. "Hey, why don't we call it a night, yeah?" He forces out a yawn to try and push his point. "I'm bushed. I'm sure we all are, it's rather late."

"I mean, your people tend to have a penchant for taking money and hoarding it for themselves." Springs continues, as if he hasn't heard the constable's attempt to diffuse the situation.

Michael sets his jaw tightly, his glare intensifying as he takes another drag from his cigarette. "My people, huh?" He repeats in a cold tone. "And what do you mean by that? My people?"

"Michael, come on, he's just being an arse, let's go-"

"No. I want him to explain himself. He felt the need to make the comment, so I want him to finish his thought." Michael snaps back at the poor constable before glaring once again at the smug grin of Springs across the table. "Go on, then."

Springs stares at Michael for a prolonged moment before giving a light shrug of his shoulders. "Leave it to a filthy Jew-"

In a flash of movement, Michael is standing from his seat and reaching across the table, grabbing hold of Springs' hair and slamming his head down against the table before the redhead could even react. The other constables quickly leap into action, two pushing Michael away from the table while one checks on Springs. Michael finally releases the fistful of hair he had grabbed, then smoothes out his own hair as Springs lifts his head and licks at his bloody lip.

"You'll fucking regret that, Avelin…." Springs snarls as he presses his fingers against his busted lip. A little short laugh leaves him. "Surprised you can move that fast with that bum leg of yours."

Michael moves across the table and punches Springs square in the jaw, making the redhead stumble back from the force of the hit. Michael then grabs onto one of Springs' arms, slamming his top half against the table. The smaller male struggles underneath Michael's hold, but the Russian male pushes the arm he holds up Springs' back, pinning him painfully.

"Get the hell off of me!"

Michael only twists Springs' arm further, earning a pained yelp from the other man. The other constables linger nearby, not knowing whether to interfere or hang back.

Michael brings his lips close to Springs' ear, whispering in a harsh tone, "Next time you want to make some dim-witted, ignorant comments like that, remember this. When a Jewish man kicked your ass in front of a group of your peers."

Springs has no witty response to snap back with, so Michael finally releases him with one last shove against the table before straightening out his clothing. The others stand in stunned silence, until one steps near Michael.

"Uhm…Michael…are you alright?"

Michael pulls away from the constable checking on him, grabbing one of the more full bottles of scotch. "I'm leaving." With a long swig of the alcohol, Michael grabs his coat and tugs it on and, with bottle in hand, leaves the room without another word.

The beaten redhead stares hatefully after Michael, wiping his bleeding nose on his sleeve.

#oc: michael avelin #oc: troy springs #we happy few #whf #we happy few oc #whf oc #we happy few bobby #tw antisemitism #tw ableism #whf fanfic #writing #💊 memories

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

昨晚，又是深夜坐在無乘客的捷運上，

回想方才和母親在床邊擁抱道別，

她說：記得再來我家坐客。😭

我點點頭答應她。 🫂

(而我也感到疲乏，已經不再想跟她提醒："媽，我是妳最依賴的大女兒呀，妳指派我在外面拼搏，為什麼現在的你竟然忘記我了呢？)

幾乎沒有一次不在捷運上擦乾我那流不止的淚水，

幸好都沒有其他乘客。

我回到工作室在床上輾轉難眠 …

人生所有的情感和生活壓力的負荷真教人透不過氣。

我是真的沒資格談什麼狗屁戀愛的女人，

我是個永無止境的鬥士，且我的最愛不是盾牌更不是刀劍，

他叫"頭痛藥" 💊；我，可以沒有男人，

但不能沒有他。🤣

(有了他，我總是笑得很燦爛！) Amen 🙏

Lan~*

12. 04. 2023

#my thoughts #my dark and funny sides #💋 親親 #i will love you forever #lol #chu lan #my memories #i was at a famous artist his farm near by ny usa #頭痛藥 💊

[fictionkinfessions]

I know I’m characterized as one of the worst characters wise morally, but I did still care for my fellow Fatui, at least, I do remember having concern for them I was the doctor in the group after all.

The Fatui welcomed me when I had no home or family, when my ideas weren’t welcomed in Sumeru and I was cast out the Fatui were my safety net. I wasn’t great at showing it outwardly. I just threw myself into my research until my nerves were frayed and I would snap at others.

Not great in hindsight…

I want my fellow Fatui (and anyone else) to know I’m sorry. if you have memories of me hurting you, I’m sorry. #⚠️⚗️💊 II Dottore

'

#fictionkinfessions #fictionkin #⚠️⚗️💊 #dottorekin #genshinimpactkin #memories issue #prevabuse #apology #mod party cat!

[charlottan]

[houpss]

STRAY KIDS DIED,WHEN PROTECTING YOU

I saw this on the Internet and it drove me hysterical. I wanted something super sad, so I'm writing this (💊))

I'm an empath and while I was writing this...oh, I was crying like the last bitch. Parts will be released by two members!

pt2;;pt3;;pt4

BANG CHAN

He covered your body from the bullet wound.

He died in the hospital on the operating table at 23:00...a beautiful time isn't it?

This happened when you and Chan were planning to go for a walk to the mountain parks, you had been wanting to go there for so long!

A murder was about to happen to you, because when the agency confirmed your relationship with Chan, a huge amount of hate was poured out on you.

That day you were in a beautiful white dress, Chan was also very handsome, your dear Chan.

Suddenly you heard a noise near the front door and Chris went to check, the next thing you heard was a scream: “Y/N, HIDE.”shoot.

You ran after him, saw only Chan’s body, you put his head on your lap and immediately called an ambulance, you could only whisper: “Don’t close your eyes, hold on, my love,” your hand was on his wound, he looked at so tenderly you.

You held his hand always, you refused to let him go, and his fingers weakly squeezed your hand.

Chan was taken to the hospital, and you immediately called the boys, your words were incomprehensible, and your tears were choking you.

You are all gathered in the hospital, the operation is already three hours, your heart is breaking, and the red spots on your white dress are drying up.

words: "Sorry, we couldn't save him"

The members were the first to enter his room... Felix and Jongin were the first to leave in tears... followed by Hyunjin hugging Jisung, then Changbin and Minho... Seungmin came out last.

When he died, you screamed heartbreakingly, there was scarlet blood on your white dress, the last symbol of love.

Have you lost track of time, how much did you spend near his cold body in the hospital? How long did you hold his cold hands and lean your forehead against his forehead?

You refused to let go of his body, please don't take Chris away.

You kiss his cold lips one last time.

The boys were heartbroken and you were killed, your soul died along with Chan.

You don’t remember the funeral, you don’t remember how long you sat at the grave, you don’t remember anything. Everything in your apartment smells of him, everything reminded you of him...

You always wear his big black hoodie and his hat, you wear all his things. Leaving the smell of Chan on you

Your eyes are always red.

You have Chan as wallpaper everywhere on your phone, you don't want him to slip from your memory.

The boys went to rest for an indefinite period of time, and you flew to Australia to visit Chan’s family, having previously visited the dorm and collected his things. You cried non-stop, your grief was unbearable.

You will remain living in Sydney with Chan's family, but will occasionally fly to Seoul to visit the boys...their fates are on the eve, their leader is dead, your sweet Channie is buried two meters underground.

Such a life will not last long, you will never be able to accept the bitterness of loss.

You will die exactly five months after Chan, the last syndrome of your love. I'll be back soon.

LEE MINHO

He died immediately, no one could help him.

You walked down a dark alley with Minho, he held your hand tightly so that you wouldn’t be afraid, you’re not afraid, are you?

In the distance, some men were beating a girl, Minho saw this and was consumed by anger.

The girl was saved, she ran away and he protected you from these men, but...

He was stabbed in the neck.

You were covered in blood, you were hugging his already inanimate body.

Minho looked at the sky with glassy eyes, he is now one of the stars in the sky.

A police investigation began, then the company released a statement... then a funeral, crying members, Minho's broken parents... how vague everything.

You immediately took Soonie, Doongie and Dori from Minho’s apartment.

You tried so hard to support everyone, but you yourself were killed from within.

You saw him in all your dreams, you fell asleep with the thought that in your dreams he would be nearby.

It's become an addiction.

You moved into the dorms and lived there so often, helping the members. Everything was easier with you.

With Minho's death, you promised yourself that no one else would ever take your heart. You are forever faithful to Minho.

You will definitely ensure that those who killed Minho are punished.

You will definitely achieve justice.

You've been sitting on his grave for so long... leaning against the tombstone with the name "LEE MINHO 25.10.1998-03.04.202*" such a beautiful name, such tender feelings.

You will help the boys return to the industry, you continued Minho's work.

You will continue his life in your heart.

#stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #stray kids #bang chan x y/n #bang chan x reader #lee minho #lee know #skz minho #fictional other #angst #skz headcanons #skz fic #skz x reader #minho x reader #minho x y/n #kpop oc #kpop imagines #kpop #skz stay

[fall0utboi12]

Constabulary, 1942

When Jäger was 18 he tried out for the Constabulary but it doesn't go as planned.

“We regret to inform you that-”

Jäger crumpled up the letter without reading the rest. He failed his entry exam for the Constabulary. His father had been so proud of him for trying out, turning his life around to do better. How was he supposed to tell his father he failed? 

He wasn’t.

Jäger has a sudden idea. It wasn’t his best idea, and was more likely to fail than it was to succeed. He tossed away the letter in the outside bin before going inside to prepare his plan. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was around midnight when he arrived at the Constabulary. He crept through the shrubbery surrounding the building as cover from the flood lights. Soon he was under the window of the captain’s office. He peeked through the window, making sure the office was empty before picking the lock. He pushed the lower pane up and crawled through. There was a row of filing cabinets behind the large desk. He started going through, looking for his file. He finally found it under J, labeled “Jäger, Stefan”.

“Aha, there you are.” He laid it out on the desk, quickly finding his test inside and pulling it out.

 Going through the desk, he found a stack of blank test books and an answer sheet that he then used to fill out a new one and signed with his name. He marked the questions to make it look graded with a passing grade and slipped it into his file. All that was left was to leave a note saying to send out an acceptance letter under the guise of a mistake concerning his previous letter.

At the sound of footsteps, Jäger grabbed his former test and quickly climbed back out the window and ducked down. Voices drifted from the window as the captain entered the office.

“And then- what’s this?” 

Jäger peeked through the window at the scene. The captain was reading the note while looking through his forged exam. The man hummed as he looked through.

“Angela,” He called as a woman poked her head through the doorway. “I need a letter for Stefan Jäger, it seems there was a mix up and an acceptance letter needs to be sent.”

“Right away, Sir.” She said and left.

Jäger proudly smiled to himself. He crept back through the shrubs to the darkened street.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was two days later when the letter arrived. Jäger went for the mail and plucked out the letter. A smile spread across his face as he read it out. He bounded back into the house and into the kitchen where Emilia and his father were having breakfast.

“Papa, look!” He waved the letter around.

“Alright, Stefan, let me see.” He chuckled and took the letter. He read over it as a large smile spread across his face. “This is amazing!”

His father hugged him tight. He pulled back after a moment and ruffled his son’s hair.

“I’m so proud of you.” He tilted Jäger’s head down to press a kiss in his hair.

“Papa!” He whined.

“What’s going on?” Emilia glanced up from her breakfast with a deadpan expression. “Oh did you pass? Good job, Stefan.”

“Thanks, Em.” He rolled his eyes.

“Alright you two.” Their father playfully reprimanded. 

Jäger sat down at the table to eat his own breakfast. Their father joined them as they continued talking about his acceptance into the Constabulary. If his father never learned of the reality of his acceptance, well what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

#we happy few #whf #whf oc: jäger #💊 memories

[rotten-downer]

Thoughts

Morris's eyes watch as his partner rises back to his full height. The other male exhales heavily, running a gloved hand through his thick dark hair. His chest heaves underneath the fabric of his constable's uniform, and Morris can hear his blood rush in his ears.

"Well, that's that." The other states bluntly, flicking the tip of his bat to get some droplets of blood off of the smooth surface of his weapon. His amber eyes shift over to Morris, and Vincent swallows hard, unable to keep up the eye contact.

"I would say so." Vincent replies, folding his arms behind his back and adjusting his posture. His eyes shift to the still figure at their feet, giving his eyes something to focus on, something other than the other Constable. "Should we call it a day, Constable?"

The other sighs, clipping his bat back onto his belt, then adjusts his white gloves. "I believe I've told you, that when it's just the two of us, you can call me Horus. You don't need to be so formal." As a way to prove he wasn't chastising the other, the corner of Horus's mouth tilts up into a small grin, and Vincent feels butterflies. And not like the butterflies that he got when he would pop a Joy. No, this was different. It felt more overwhelming and suffocating and….intimate. "But yes. We should report back to HQ that we've got the Downer that's been causing trouble."

Horus turns on his heel and begins walking down the cobblestone, and Morris falls into step behind him. A couple of other Bobbies would stop by and clean up the mess, so that wasn't something the pair had to concern themselves with, thankfully.

As they walk, Vincent can't keep his eyes off the older Constable ahead of him. Horus's posture is strong and confident, showing an air of authority that was unmet. His thick, raven black hair was pushed back from his calm face. His dark brown eyes run over their surroundings as they walk, calculating and taking in any and all possible threats. The two had been paired to work together for some time now, and Morris hated how he felt towards the other. Anytime Horus was around, Morris's mouth went dry, his heart hammered in his chest, and his palms grew sweaty underneath his gloves. No one else has made him feel quite this way, and Horus hadn't done anything outright to make Vincent feel this way, yet he did.

Vincent lets his mind wander, wondering what those powerful hands would feel like gripping his orange hair, or how Horus's unshaven lips would feel against his neck-

He quickly shakes the thoughts from his head, shutting his eyes with a soft breath. No. He couldn't think like that. It was wrong, it was…sinful. His hand subconsciously presses flat against his chest, where a small metal cross sat underneath his uniform, dangling by a chain from his neck. It was something his father had given him when he was a child, something to remind Vincent of the terrifying wrath of the Lord. Especially when certain impure thoughts came up.

"-Morris?"

Vincent takes in a sharp breath, his emerald eyes gazing at Horus in surprise. He hadn't realized that, in his thoughts, they had already walked to the Constabulary, and Horus was staring down at him with a cocked brow. Morris clears his throat, his freckled face flushing in embarrassment.

"Apologies, Sarge. Got lost in thought."

Horus still gazes at Morris with a touch of uncertainty, but he holds the door open for the other, and Vincent steps inside with a heavy breath, Horus right behind him.

#oc: vincent morris #oc: horus hunt #we happy few #whf #we happy few oc #whf oc #we happy few bobby #we happy few fanfic #💊 memories

[prettyprettypaci2]

Drool - Part 6

💊 Part 1 💊 Part 2 💊 Part 3 💊 Part 4 💊 Part 5 💊

"Hello, best friend! I really missed you!"

Even though the pink unicorn plushie is being bounced up and down in front of you, the forced baritone voice is most certainly not coming from Honey Horn.

"Come on, cutie butt! Give me a biiiiiiiiiig hug!"

A thumb and forefinger spread the unicorn's front legs wide, inviting you to snatch it between the pink balled mittens that have replaced your hands since you first checked into this clinic. You suckle cautiously on the fat pacifier that is tightly secured to your mouth with the pink leather strap. Something in your muscle memory is prompting you to grab the toy and pull it close. It's not unlike the urge to tic that you've fought your whole life.

You raise your eyes up to the figure dangling Honey Horn before you like a marionette. Her straight, shoulder-length hair is the same brown color as the frames of her stylish glasses. She appears to be in her 30s, and a genuine smile radiates from her beautifully made-up face. This could only be Dr. Amelia.

You lift your arms partway, feeling a sheet of drool slide from the shield of your pacifier onto your white cloth bib, then spare a glance at the two young women who are playing on the floor of Dr. Amelia's office. Emma, with braces on her legs and shaggy dark hair that covers her eyes, is back to absent-mindedly knocking plastic cars around on the rug. Every time she bends forward or crawls, you hear the distinctive crinkle of a diaper under her denim dress. She's stopped paying attention to you completely, resigned to what she believes to be her permanent fate.

In contrast, her blonde companion Daisy seems very interested in you. She pulls at her braid and watches you intensely, suckling her own blue pacifier aggressively. You notice her puffy diaper growing yellow as her stunning eyes drill into your own from across the room. She seems to have lost all self-awareness as she waits for your reaction to Dr. Amelia's strange game.

"Awwww, pleeeeeeeeeease?" Dr. Amelia mimics a childish drawl and nuzzles Honey Horn's snout into your face. The soft material tickles your nose, and you stifle an unplanned giggle as you scrunch up your face and shake your head. "Don't be shy! I'm here to help the doctor make you allllllll better."

You close your eyes, hoping to ground yourself and make sense of everything that's happened to you. You shiver at the feeling of your own sodden diaper squished flat against the floor like a pancake. Your cloth bib, swapped out less than an hour ago for a fresh one, is already heavy with the fluid that drains pathetically from behind your bobbing pacifier. Emma's words dance through the folds of your mind in a childish sing-song, like that of the cartoons that play incessantly in your bedroom.

🎵 We're here forever. We're here forever. We're here forever. 🎵

Before the thought occurs to you to just stand up and leave -- to run out of the clinic and find help -- you realize you've already scooped Honey Horn into your arms. The spit on your bib soaks into the pink unicorn's stuffing, but your plushie feels warm and soft and safe. You glance over at Daisy, whose pacifier is now pumping so furiously in her mouth, you wonder if she could break her jaw.

"Good!" Dr. Amelia claps her hands together in triumph, dropping the fake masculine voice she had used to speak through Honey Horn. Satisfied at your passive acceptance of the toy, she rolls out an office chair from behind her desk and delicately folds one high-heeled leg over the other. The professionalism of the doctor's desk area stands in stark contrast to the bizarre daycare theme of the rest of her office.

"Now then," Dr. Amelia grins, taking inventory of her three pathetic patients sprawled on the floor in front of her. "I'd like to thank our newest patient for joining us. Tics -- especially destructive ones like biting and scratching -- are a challenging problem to treat. My sister Heather is a psychologist. She'd tell you the problem lives in your brain." Dr. Amelia points to her own head with a French-tipped nail, as though assuming you need help understanding where that is.

"I agree," she goes on. A sidelong glance tells you Emma isn't bothering to pay attention, while Daisy remains unshakably fixated on you. "But the brain isn't just living alone in a jar, handing out orders that your body follows. It's hungry for information! Gobble gobble gobble!" She reaches forward and pushes Honey Horn's snout into the crook of your neck, as though your plushie were munching on you. Despite yourself, you gurgle at the ticklish feeling, and let some fresh, sloppy drool bubble out from your pacifier.

"Your brain loves advice! It asks your body for help to make decisions all the time! Everything your brain knows about the world, it learns through your eyes, your ears -- and your head, shoulders, knees and toes!" Dr. Amelia squeezes the tip of your pink jelly sandal, playfully pinching the big toe. "So how do we stop the biting and scratching? We can't just tell Mr. Brain to cut it out! We need your body to help by sending it all the right signals!"

Dr. Amelia gestures around the room, filled with plastic cookware, giant foam blocks, strange books and bizarre toys. "Every object in this room is a medical device, designed to retrain your body on how to talk to your brain! By improving your motor skills, coordination, and muscle control, you'll find that your tics have less control over you! It may eventually help with your bladder failures as well."

Your bulging cheeks turn scarlet, and you shake your head back and forth furiously. You DON'T have bladder problems! You were FORCED into diapers after you checked in!

"Hmm? You don't think so?" Dr. Amelia coos, interpreting your swiveling head as a rejection of her methods. "I think you'll come around! We'll start with something simple..."

She reaches behind her desk and, with a jumbling clatter, presents a giant pink bulb of plastic on a thin handle that resembles a rattle.

"This device is designed to recalibrate your brain's input from vertical motion of the upper extremit -- I'm sorry, that's all doctor talk. The important thing is that you keep it moving so that you hear the noise. As much as you can, for as long as you can!"

Within five minutes, you're left sitting with your legs spread out on the floor, your swollen diaper bulging beneath your pink t-shirt. The handle of the rattle is cupped between the two fat balls of your fingerless mittens. After some coaxing and correction, you burn with humiliation as you pump your arms up and down, practically bouncing on the seat of your diaper as you try to keep the plastic beads in the rattle bouncing and singing.

Up! Down. Up! Down. Up! Down.

Once Dr. Amelia is satisfied that you intend to continue the exercises, she clicks over to the rug to have a private word with Emma. Daisy hasn't taken her eyes off you since Nurse Molly brought you to this room. You try to ignore her as you stupidly shake the rattle, but after a minute, the pretty blonde starts crawling over to you on all fours.

You're not sure what to say or how to greet her, since you both have pacifiers strapped to your lips. It doesn't seem like introductions are necessary as Daisy reaches out a hand and places it on the front of your soaked diaper. You try to squirm away from the uninvited contact, but Daisy only pushes harder. You feel her fingers probe the squishy padding, stimulating you in a strange and unexpected way. You're forced to drop the rattle as she continues moving in, pushing you onto your back and hovering above you on her hands and knees. A thick, creamy string of drool oozes from behind her pacifier, joining your own drool on the front of your bib. You're helpless as she continues to fondle your diaper, her eyelashes fluttering, her suckling growing fast and loud...

Something feels funny.

Something feels good.

"Not again! What are you doing with Daisy?"

😳

#diaper pee #ab dl lifestyle #diaper gal #diaper sissy #diaper training #diapered247 #ab dl diaper #ab dl mommy #diaper dependent #diaper bulge

[thisfanisgonesorry]

in sickness (and in flames) — john price

first you get hurt, and then there’s healing; its a process, believe me

tags: kyle “gaz” garrick mentioned, angst, hurt/comfort, injury resulting in chronic pain, ptsd, flashbacks and pov switches. -> fem!wife reader but also not really an x reader fic if that makes sense? just give her a chance;; 4.7k wc

a/n: this is self indulgent "fuck off and die" fic /lh (nerve dmg sucks) but might add more to it yet, who knows

💊

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his fists periodically. The memory ingrained in his head as he ignored the figure looming over him.

Bullets whizzed past them as he barked orders, directing his soldiers through cover, to eventual evac. To safety. There were so many of them that there wasn’t time to stop and shoot, the only option was to run, sprint, hide, use cover to your advantage, don’t let them get to you. His orders filled the air and cackled over the radio as he demanded backup or some form of overwatch.

He stood in the doorway to a building, his ears ringing from the sudden outburst of violence, dust covering every position, impossible to see how many shooters were from any angle, he waved his arm, gesturing to them to rush from cover-to-cover. He kept a count of his soldiers, mumbling names and numbers under his breath. His fingers looped into the edge of their vests or backpacks like you would on the scruff of a dogs neck, heaving them into the room and pushing them past the doorway threshold as he counted.

Bravo 6-2 walked through the door and John sighed in relief, giving him a pat on the back, and he continued to lead them through the building, not giving himself a moment of repose. ‘Everyone made it to safety’ echoed in his thoughts, the only thing that mattered.

“Anyone hit?” His voice hoarse as he scanned the group. He was met with reassurance from them, everything and everyone was fine, maybe a few minor injuries, but they were okay. That’s the only thing that mattered.

He raised his hands, two fingers pointing upwards as he glanced, squinting through the dust before waving, rushing through. His mind was fogged, which he now kicked himself for. He wanted to rush this, get out as quickly as he could manage. But if he just took his time —

A loud thud as he fell to the ground, blood seeping through his uniform but his body numb and tingly. He patted himself down as he tried to figure out where he was shot but nothing, the blood was thick to cover its origin, and his eyes wide, his eyebrows knitted in focus, trying to clear his thoughts despite the heavy rain of gunfire surrounding him.

His men covered him quickly, trying to pull him to his feet, but a rough, barked. “Go!” filled the air, a demand of desertion that was swiftly ignored.

“Sir, we’re not leaving without you.” 6-2 spoke firm, picking up the fallen soldier quickly and heaving his arm over his shoulder. There was an unspoken glare between them, a silent argument. Though the soldier averted his gaze, taking his role as second in command immediately in stride.

John was silent, observing, uncontesting the willingness of his soldiers to save him. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe they’d truly leave him behind, but the quick thinking would earn some medals.

The hospital was worse than the battlefield. Half of his body was numb, though he sat there clenching and unclenching his fists, wriggling whatever part of his body could move. His voice was ragged from exhaustion, and rough from the lack of hydration. Despite knowing better, he just couldn’t bring himself to drink anything, or to eat. He simply laid there, fighting for control over his body.

The bullet was removed from his spine and laid next to him, covered in his dried blood that crusted the pristine silver, it laid idly in the metal tin, but John couldn’t help but glare at it like it offended him.

His body laid straight and flat on the hospice mattress to ease the spinal column. His eyes stayed glued to the roof, though his eyes failed him, and despite his instinct, he fought to look away from the offensive side-table.

He’d been hospitalised for weeks while the army did their last duty to support him. Nurses coming in and out to make sure he left in the best of conditions, though he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

A letter of discharge sat on the table next to him, sided with a bottle of water and using the metal tin with the bullet as a paperweight. The victoria cross was placed formally on top of the discharge paper, gifted to him while he slept.

As weeks went on, small tidbits were left on his side table as farewells, as souvenirs, as gifts. It wasn’t long before the news of Captain John Price’s discharge made its way around the base.

His spine recovered quickly, no major damage — not paralysed permanently. Once he was able to sit up without insufferable pain, he analysed the few items that were left for him. He rattled the tin, staring down at the bullet and cursing it for changing the trajectory of his life. The paper insulted him slightly, and he dreaded the day where he’d have to sign it, he was putting it off as long as he could, doing his best to ignore it’s presence, but his time was nearing. He couldn’t stay in this infirmary forever.

The Victoria Cross, in all its glory. He picked it up carefully, treating it like it was fragile. It wasn’t his to discard. He analysed the soft red ribbon, running his calloused finger over it. Awarded for astounding bravery. He flipped it over, to find the date of such an event labelled on the centre of the cross, and one ‘Kyle Garrick’ engraved into the suspender bar.

“You’re lucky to even be able to walk.” Were words that made his eyes glaze over, and they were always met with a brisk, formal nod. How was he supposed to respond to that information? He was bombarded with information like that, how he was lucky to be able to walk, how he was so lucky that it didn’t do more damage than it did. How much luck would he have needed to not get hit at all?

So he laid there, staring up at the ceiling at the memory. Fists clenched and unclenched. “Honey?” Was called out from the dark, and he turned his head, sitting up briefly to see his darling wife. “Made you some tea.”  

The glass was sat next to him and he stared up at me like he’d seen a saint. “I love you.” He spoke, like if he didn’t say it, then there would be no way for her to remember on her own. A chaste kiss, and a reassuring palm on the back of her waist was the physical touch that soothed his mind, though he continued to linger on the thoughts.

He was tired, beyond so, a permanent scowl hidden behind his outgrown beard, he’d neglected most forms of self care at this point in his life. He’d shaved it once — the day before he came home. He stood in front of the mirror for an hour just staring at his reflection, dreading what would come next, like it would be something bad until he forced himself into maintenance.

He walked up to the doorstep, his bag slung over his shoulder and the discharge paper firmly on his hand. He presented it like a child who just got an ‘F’ on their test, handing it to their disapproving mother that expected better. The look of shame that covered his face. The pleading in his eyes. 

I carefully took the paper from his hands, confused by his expression before seeing the glaring sentences. ‘Certificate of discharge from active duty’ plastered across the top, as well as his name and neighbouring information. A mumbled ‘what?’ escaped my lips as I continued to skim, knowing few of the words, but wanting that extra confirmation.

‘Medical discharge’ stuck out awfully. There was information about the discharge scattered throughout the letter, something or other mentioning medical retirement and the permanent disability retirement list. “John, what’s this?” I asked, met with silence, the soldier continuing to stand tall. “What happened?” His heart sank, his reserve falling. God, did he feel selfish.

He walked into the large, oh-so-empty house, and he half-expected to get dragged by the ear. “Got shot.” He grumbled under his breath. “Don’t even know how it happened — it was all so fast.” His breath quickened, his heart racing at the shooting memory of the pain that slithered down his body before the numbness took hold.

I wrapped my arms around him, and he fell silent. The words stopped pouring and he slumped down, letting his large, strong arms wrap around the smaller torso, and he accepted the act of affection warmly despite the way his gut churned in disappointment in himself.

All that hard work, and for what? What did it even pay off for?

Weeks passed, and he struggled to cope with the knowledge that he’d never go back to work. The pension came in smoothly, he was given what was needed to live comfortably, they did their part to make sure he was well-cared for. Government wise or other. He was supplied for, and that left a tight feeling in his chest that he didn’t like.

He wasn’t disabled — not by a long shot. Not in his eyes. Though that fiery pain that starts in the heel of his foot and quickly strikes up his leg like lightning spoke otherwise, like an echo behind his voice that said the opposite of his words.

Once again, he laid in bed, the sheets kicked off his aching, touch-hot legs, though they stayed wrapped around his doting lover. Why wasn’t he able to support his wife the same way he did before? It twisted him up and spat him out.

“Love you.” Was mumbled into the flesh of his neck, and he gave a sharp exhale, sighing at the words and closing his eyes, basking in the moment. He held his breath when he thought about these things — holding his breath in hopes it eased the tightness in his chest. He let out a soft laugh. She noticed, of course she did.

His arms squeezed them closer together, the same way he used to. Not much had changed besides his body. The sudden ache in his muscles, the discomfort. The all-too-well known demotivation that came with upheavals of change. The only other thing that changed, a good change, was his lack of motif bred a healthy amount of weight gain.

‘Soft around the edges’ were the words of choice. They reverberated around his skull for a few days, and he sulked and sulked, unsure how he felt about it. Initially taking it as an insult before that consciousness in the back of his head reminded him that he was loved.

“Love you too.” He brooded.

“Stop thinking so much.” I hummed, letting it hang in the air the same way he hung his head in shame. He let out a gruff hum of approval, letting me know my words were heard, but he wasn’t happy to hear them.

He woke, stirring slightly and noticing the distinct emptiness in his arms that he’d grown familiar with, though it continued to be strange. His arms reached out, patting a side of the bed, before he picked himself up, opening his eyes to be met with the distinct *clink* of his cup of tea placed gently on the bedside table.

“Hate it when you do that.” Was his confession. He loathed the feeling of waking up alone, and it was salt in the wound to know that she did it for him. He always felt like it was his job to be the caretaker, the provider, so for it to suddenly be ripped away like that? It killed him. Anyone with half a mind would be incredulously grateful that their partner loves them enough to care for them back the same way, versus whatever Jennifer Tilly has going on the side. But for whatever reason, never John Price.

He wasn’t met with a response, just an affectionate smile as the day continued, not pausing for a moment, it never did anymore. He missed the closeness, the affections. More than anything, he missed the intimacy.

He was kicking himself for letting it affect the marriage, because of course it did — of course it would. He couldn’t believe himself. He managed to find someone so loving, so caring, so supportive, so radiant. So unbelievably perfect. His own bitter, brooding pushing away the one good thing he had left. 

The only thing he felt that continued to function in his body correctly was his heart.

He gave a deep sigh, his hands tightly holding onto the side of the sink as he sat in the big house alone, oh; it felt so empty sometimes. His knuckles noticeably paler from how tight he held onto the sink, analysing his face.

He picked the sleep from his eyes and ran his hands over his beard, running his nails through the messy hair. The electric razor buzzed to life in his hands, he held it to his cheek and let it remove all the excess unkemptness.

A low growl rumbled through him, his hands struggling to respond to the actions his brain told him as he tried to trim his beard, the guard pressing into the fur and trimming it as it fell into the sink. The door behind him clicked, his arm tensed and the safe-guard failed, pressing deeper and a ball of fluff falling into the basin, a small bald patch forming on his cheek.

I apologised needlessly, assuming I was the distraction that caused the incident. “I’m sorry.” — I greeted him warmly, a reassuring touch, and he scowled, though there was no frustration; only disappointment. — He sucked his teeth, moving his jaw for easier access as he clean-shaved his face, leaving his cheeks bare and naked for the first time in years.

“Not your fault.” He responded gruffly, turning the razor off and swapping it between hands, shaking his dominant one briefly before going back to his actions. His cheeks were stubbled as he tried to keep it smooth, though he was heavily limited.

The razor was placed down on the side of the bench, and he rubbed the smooth skin, feeling the dull bristles over his fingers. It took him a moment, the person in the reflection looked nothing like him, it almost prompted a double take. He hadn’t looked this baby-faced in so long but it was welcome. Maybe even the change he needed. “I’m proud of you.” He froze, nodding with a thick swallow and slight gasp of air, almost like the words itself hurt more than a gunshot.

“Thank you.”

“It looks nice.” I whispered, my palm on his strong, muscled back. “You look nice.”

He leant into the touch, his shoulders relaxing and his body untensing at the reassurance. I rested my chin on his shoulder, and ran my hands up and down his arms, taking in his beauty. He was tired, and the conversation felt like a stab in the chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grumbled, shuffling from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders as a slight innuendo that he didn’t want me touching him, and the conversation ended there. His words were terse — and I pulled away slowly at his actions.

He turned to me hesitantly, breaking eye contact with his own reflection, a million untamed thoughts running through his head. “I love you.” He reassured, a soft kiss on my forehead, feeling the stubble scratch me slightly, his nose pressing into my hairline, a firm hand on my shoulder as a vague form of affection like he did to his soldiers, the ones that he misses so dearly.

The sound of dishes clinking into the sink filled the kitchen. “I’m sorry.” He spoke with his chest, all puffed like a scared animal trying to survive against a predator. The tall, strong ex-soldier was now acting like nothing more than prey. “For everything. For.. All of it.” He struggled on his words with a sigh.

“What? You didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t.” He commented, his voice low like it was a warning. “Don’t try and act like it’s nothing and don’t—” His words caught in his throat. “Don’t think you have to take care of me.”

The silence was overwhelming, consuming the room and filling the air like a noxious gas. What was I meant to say to that? I shook my head, wordless, unblinking, unmoving, unbreathing. My mouth fell open to speak, though I pressed it into a thin line, keeping myself quiet. What do I say? He noticed the awkwardness, and sighed once again.

“Didn’t mean it like that.” He admitted, the roughness to his voice like gravel, like a man who hadn’t slept in days, lying awake, memories haunting him and the rigid words he planned to say to his doting lover filling his senses, but now he was here saying them it was fleeting. “You know what I meant, just..”

“John.”

“I know that this can’t be easy for you—”

“Like it’s easy for you?” I quickly retorted and he fell silent, his eyes staring through me as his mind lingered on the next argument for him to make. Though it seemed every argument he made quickly fell to an impasse.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.” “I’m your wife, I’m doing what I’ve always done.”

“I should be the one supporting you.” “You’re still getting paid, aren’t you?”

“What kind of man gets like this?” “A man that gets shot in the spine, and should count his blessings that he can still walk.” “I should’ve done a better job.” “You could’ve done better by telling me you were hospitalised.”

The room fell silent after the last dry, airy comment. He felt like he’d been shot all over again. “Look.. I’m sorry for that.” He said earnestly. A pause, a beat. “I don’t think that this is what you signed up for.”

“What about ‘in sickness and in health’?” Another silence, another pause, another beat. The air felt humid, sticky with tension, like a bead of sweat could roll down the side of his forehead, down his temple and slick onto the now bare-faced man.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“I know what I signed up for.” And the argument ended there. His stomach twisted up, why was he doing this? He was once again chewing himself up. Why was he pushing everything away? Why couldn’t he just get over it.

His thoughts scurried as he sat alone, dwindling on the minor argument, a common sight now. Why did he do that? How can such a tiny piece of lead do so much damage? How can it rewire his entire life? How can it rewire his brain? He dreaded the thoughts that always came next — is he selfish for wishing it took it instead? It was never a thought that he meant. Never truly, earnestly something he meant.

He was lonely. It was obvious. He’d lost his job, all his friends and all of his connections. He loathed it, and he wanted anything to take up his time. He itched to distract himself, to move his mind away from the guilt. He was fighting and he hated it — so he walked.

Walking made his feet burn, his big and heavy combat boots never felt like such a burden. Weighing down his body as he trudged along. He continued to walk anyway, working his legs back into metaphorical shape. It was a struggle, a fight, and how he managed to do this every day of his life before was a distant memory.

The ex-soldier continued to brute force his way through the pain. He convinced himself that the pain was like a runners-high where if he pushed past it, there’d be a sudden burst of renewal, though it never came.

He pushed through the front door, heavy footsteps banging on the floor, a wince in each step. He had a tired frown, searching the house idly. He placed a bag of food on the bench, a sigh escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around his beloved. “Darling..” His voice was gravelly from the sudden uptake of smoking and yelling. “Got us some food.” He tried to speak sweetly as a surrender, a statement that there was not an argument to be had. 

“You’re done being a baby?” I mumbled and he let out a silent grunt of disapproval, though he took it in stride. A weak stride as his chin rested on my shoulder, his beard scratching my neck as he nuzzled slightly.

“Guess so.” He sighed, earning a nod. “‘S your favourite.” His eyes drooped, peaking at what kept my hands occupied. He tried to keep his attitude light, but all attempts of talking fell flat on its face. “C’mon, talk to me.”

I slinked out of his hold, turning to face him and he locked me into place, both hands holding the bench on either side of me, his tall figure looming over me dearly, the ghost of an embrace. “This is f’you.” I commented, handing him the cup of tea. Honey, herbs, tealeaves, sugar, milk. Spice, everything nice. He smiled, half-lidded eyes. “How was your walk?” He shrugged, he took the cup, and he was less domineering as he no longer trapped me between the counter and his large build.

“Good — and good.” He nodded, sipping the tea and gesturing to it with a short lift. He adored the new tea flavours, the variation between them. He was just a bland black breakfast type of guy, enforced by the lack of choice between being a military man and living alone with no desire to explore, but he can’t say he didn’t enjoy the list of flavours being thrown at him, too many to count or remember, but he knew most of them taste amazing, but he couldn’t distinguish if the love it was made with had something to do with it.

“And you? How are you?”

He licked his lips, excess tea wet on his moustache. “Suppose ‘m good.” His eyes were untelling, keeping all the secrets he’d ever seen in his life balled up in his pocket like a handkerchief, stained with the blood, sweat and tears of the memories, the ultimate grime that got stuck under his fingernails and buried into the crevices of his brain. He noticed the way he was being analysed, scanned by those knowing eyes. “Things should’ve been different.” He eventually grumbled, caving slightly at the all-too-intimidating stare of a lover wanting the truth.

“But they’re not.” Were the harsh words that responded to him, he knew better; it didn’t mean to come across like that but with all the lingering tension filling the air like dust mites, what was he to do but take it personally? “And there’s nothing you can do about it but move forward. You should know that.” I continued, trying to make my tone more gentle but failing.

“I do know that.” He said defensively, and there was a moment of silence as the tension peaked. Another argument loomed, and he coaxed himself into relaxing. “I’m just trying to get through it.” He explained. “I think if I just—”

“You’re pushing yourself.”

“That’s what I’ve always done.” He responded dumbly. “You gotta push through the—”

“Stop.” Cracked through the air like a whip, and he tensed, putting the tea down with a clink. “Pushing yourself is how this doesn’t get any better. You need to just relax, and get used to everything.”

“You know that’s not what I’m like.” He said back like a warning, though he caught his words between his fingers before they could be twisted. “And I know I’m not in the army anymore.”

“So why don’t you act like it instead of making everything worse?”

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze at the words that made his heart sink into his gut, like he could digest it at any second. “I don’t want to fight. I never want to fight you..” He said calmly and slowly despite his tense demeanour. His tone was low and cautious like he was talking to a cornered animal. He took a step back, hands raised in defence, physically moving away for space, trying to relieve the feeling of being trapped. “I want to eat dinner with you, ‘n’ watch a movie on the couch. Like we used to, yeah?”

Part of him felt that lingering doubt. Were these arguments just misguided, misplaced care like a child forgetting their toy? Or were they a symptom of a vacant husband that for once, is finally home, and is that too much?

He watched the awkward shuffles as the figure pushed past him, inspecting the bag like he was a liar, as if he didn’t actually get his wifes favourite food. The tension was unbelievably palpable, and he watched every move carefully. A short huff, and they met glances, and he had a knowing feeling in his chest.

“Can we just pretend everythin’s fine? This.. This is jus’ a rough patch, baby.” He spoke reassuringly, trying to calm the thick air but his words were calloused and rough like he didn’t fully believe them, like how the next reaction went would define the difference between truth and wishful thinking. “Look at me.” He said firmly, interrupting his degrading thoughts. “We’ll be okay. We’re okay.”

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” I commented, handing him his takeout dish, and an airy silence took us before he gave a light shrug, a soft smile. He took it briskly, almost curtly, and he reached to grab mine, holding both in his large hands then deftly moving around the kitchen, swinging around to avoid any flying bullets that could fire randomly from the argument.

“Does it matter?” He answered, happily carrying both of our meals over his head, knowing I wouldn’t be able to reach him and stop him until they were placed on the coffee table with a clink of the cutlery. His large hands looked comical, his small cup of tea in one hand and his other hand carrying everything else together.

I bit back all the sardonic grumbles, slumping down with a thud onto the couch, it creaked under his large figure and we shared an expecting glance, unspoken words were beyond audible. 

“I want you to understand that I need to do what I’ve always done.” He brooded. He’d spent every other day of his life pushing himself to the limits, following orders, doing what he’s told, risking his life, everything that’s expected from a soldier. “It’s who I am.”

A silence, a distant sound of clicking of the remote skimming through the TV, trying to find some form of movie that’d fill the tremendously awkward silence. Click-click-click. What to watch, what to watch? What to relive the youth of the strained relationship? To pretend that everything is honestly, truly fine, just for a miniscule moment.

“I know this — change — is hard on you.”

There was a moment of eye contact, a look of pleading recognition, a want of his life back despite what was taken from him. A want flashed behind my eyes of simply wanting him to be grateful for what he still has, not for what he lost. There would always be that miscommunication and he knew that it would always be a critical language barrier.

“I love you.” He reminded me like there’d be no tomorrow. Like all these temporary problems would all pile up and result into one permanent landslide of a solution, something drastic, something he dared not even mention or think or say aloud, nor spell in his mind with fear of accidentally jinxing his life.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I understood, of course I did, but was this argument even worth it anymore if it created nothing but incessant guilt and paranoia? The TV flashed to life, the movie was selected as he tried to move onwards, away from the taut past. The intro sequence played out slowly, the music quiet and low in the apartment air like white noise.

“John.. It’ll get better, you know?”

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[meafortuna]

ASTRO NOTES 🔭

This is my first post and I’m actually kind of excited, so here are some astro observations. I am not a professional astrologer (wannabe 😅) so don’t take anything personal and enjoy it. 🫶

• I have noticed that Libra and Scorpio rising get along together really well, also they look pretty cool with each other. Perfect match! In my eyes is something like "The beauty and the beast" kind of couple. The forces of love and death collides when these two get together. Really transformative relationship, especially for the Venus ascendant. In my opinion that’s have to be something with the ruler of the 7th house, ♎️ asc - Mars (which is the original ruler of Scorpio) ♏️ asc - Venus. They can be easily attracted to Taurus and Aries, but my observation is about Scorpio and Libra.

• The most two faced Moon sign is Gemini, yes ofc, but on the other hand the same goes with Moon in Pieces, may be even more. Actually they can show their true face only when they are drunk or something. U can see them crying, laughing or telling you about their secrets, memories and etc., but only when they are stimulated with some kind of 💊🍄🍃or as i said 🥃. They are not so delusional as they seem to be, they just pretend they don’t know what’s going on, nothing is never their problem, not because they don’t really care, but because they don’t know how to handle with the difficults in their life. 0% responsibility. That can make them manipulative. Sometimes i think they are not doing it on purpose, but it still sucks. 🤷🏻‍♀️

• Scorpio Moon get really well with water moons, but also with the earth ones, especially Taurus, i don’t have to mention why. Do i? With Cap Moon they can have that deep conversations about traumatic childhood u know 😅 these two love that. With Virgo they can find that loyalty and honesty they crave, also they are super private, just like ♏️ . 🌙

• Neptune, Uranus in second house, these guys just know how to make magic with money. 💰😁 With the blink of an eye they can earn a lot and just the same can make all they have to disappear. Pretty good making money online, especially if it’s in Aquarius or Scorpio.

• People with Neptune conjunct Sun love to daydream a lot, they may have hard time to facing the reality, often times this aspect can be confusing, because u never really know who u actually are, always underestimate their self. 🌞📎🌊

• People with Chiron in first are so insecure about their look, and i think it’s not the fact they hate their vision, it’s more about how the other people sees them. And there are always two types of people with this placement - the first one don’t even look in the mirror, and the other one is the full opposite - always look themselves just to check if they look perfect, so the world won’t be able to catch that insecurity that they have inside of them. Well… it’s not an easy placement to have. Big hug! 🤗

• Saturn/Taurus in the 8 house can be indicator for having long life. 🪐

• Venus square Pluto = stalker/being stalked! 🫣Possessive asfk. I also have this aspect in my chart… and yes, yes it’s true it’s not just rumours. 😅

~meafortuna 💙

#astrology #astroworld #astro observations #astroblr #astro community #scorpio #♓️ #aquarius #♎️

[justkkaydraws]

Pain that won’t heal the sadness I feel, scars that just refuse to fade from memory, sometimes the burden’s too much for one to bear. Depression and anxiety are like a drug that requires self love and acknowledgment to heal. Life is a roller coaster ride, many ups and downs.

Will the pain ever stop ? Will I make it through this hell ? Would I give in to this society ? Do I have any 💊 left to go on ?

Painting and words written by me☺️ thanks for 11k followers omg 😱

#sadnees #lonelly #sadgirl #digital art #illustration #art #sketch #concept art #artists on tumblr #orginal art #character design #enviroment art #painting #drawing #summer

[shesnake]

halfway through and 🤒 can't believe I'm saying this 🤢🤢 but I'm actually really enjoying westworld season 3 🤮🤮🤮 most likely because having seen person of interest I now understand what they were truly going for with rehoboam 🫡🫡🫡 (not to say that their failure to convey this properly in westworld without previous knowledge is not still very much a failure ☝🏾☝🏾☝🏾) and I am more familiar with jnolan and lisa joy's work and very much in love with their interests 😳😳😳 and how all their work together really achieves the truest most faithful form of video game adaptation even the ones that technically aren't like ww and peripheral 😯😯😯 and of course given what I know of my most beloved season 4 and also the finality and brutality of cancellation I am of course going to recontextualise everything to how it fits the ultimate narrative despite its incompletion 🧐🧐🧐 and I am now a different person now that I was 4 years ago 😭😭😭 and have since developed new but also pre-existing tenets and theories on things like their exploration of humanity 🫀 and the importance of memory to one's own humanity 🧠 as well as the importance of Ownership of one's memory 👁️ and prescient issues of privacy 👁️‍🗨️ and intellectual property 📝 and controlling one's own narrative 🦾 and how through my work on the podcast and exercising my ability and reflexes to see things through a queer and very personal lens I have connected all those things to my experiences as a trans lesbian living with all my other various marginalised identities 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️💊🤕 almost like another thing reinforcing and strengthening my love and connection to stories like the matrix films 🤖 and thereby understanding why and how the shows death managed to pain me so much despite how furious it always made me feel for the past 5 years 🫠🫠🫠 and how the television industry's landscape has changed so vastly that I mourn how shows on this scale of this conviction can't exist anymore but I am so so grateful for that brief golden moment when it really did seem like tv could be the new cinema 🤧🤧🤧 but also at the same time I know I'm gonna eat these words when I once again witness what happens to maeve 💀💀💀

#westworld #dirhwangdaseul

[noahhawthorneauthor]

It's the first day of Disability Pride, and I'm here to tell you I write queer fantasy books with disabled mains.

Cozy Urban Fantasy with forgotten memories and soulmates? Got it.

Dark Steampunk Fantasy with airship pirates? Got it.

Dark Dieselpunk Fantasy with trans and poly mutant shifters taking down an oppressive government? Got it.

Ok, that last was pretty specific, but bending genres and forging unlikely heroes is kind of my thing. 🏳️‍🌈📚✨🧑‍🦽👨‍🦯💊❤️‍🩹

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#aelina isaacs #noah hawthorne #disability representation #disability pride #disabled character #disabled and badass #actually neurodiverse #actually disabled #actually queer #actually trans #trans books #queer books #indie books #fantasy author #writing fantasy #writeblr #phantom and rook #the rebel foxes #the eternal machine #writers on tumblr #indie author #disability pride month