fern-grove

Hi! I'm Fern, I'm 21, and this is my main blog. I have a side blog for ACNH, which is linked below! Thanks for stopping by :) (she/her/hers)

[bakwaaas]

one day I woke up and realised all the waiting and yearning was actually me living my life and it’s happening right now and it’s still good even if it’s not perfect and there is no moment when all your dreams get fulfilled and everything makes sense. like… this is it. this is life. you’ll waste away your youth waiting for some imagined future if you don’t love life for what it is now and make the most of it

[kitschens]

Comic by @shhhitsfine

[heavensghost]

[antisocialpyromaniac]

When Grace inevitably dies on Erid they build him a statue. It is grand in that it is not towering, but built methodically with the utmost love respect and care. Adrian and Rocky oversee it’s construction and they ensure the Grace depicted not as a godlike saviour but a silly little space blob who taught their planets pebbles about relativity and who learnt to speak a language not made for his body. They make sure he is seen to be kind and brave. Lastly, they ensure an Eridian is carved with him so he will always have someone to watch him sleep.

[wolfythewitch]

furthest we've ever been

[mushstool]

a small bus stop, laundromat and childrens park 🚏👚🛝

[the-shark-pitt]

okay okay so the park lore... lets hear it for the man!

In my mind, Brendon Park didn't come from money or power.

He came from a dingy two-bedroom apartment with a mother who worked 12 hours a day to make ends meet and an alcoholic father who didn't love either of them.

From a young age, Brendon wanted to be the exact opposite of his father and care for his mother in the way she never got. In his freshman and sophomore years, he worked every hour possible after school to keep his mom from having to work a third job.

His father left when he was 15 after his maternal grandmother threatened to report him for the bruises she saw on Brendon. Things got better for a while after that, but living in poverty for so long will do things to you.

He still hasn’t unlearned those things. He cuts mold off of his sandwich bread so he doesn’t waste it. He’ll put water in the milk to make it last longer. He’ll go as long as humanly possible without buying new shoes.

And he does this all for one reason. Because to indulge, to him, feels like discounting every sacrifice his mother made.

He lets himself suffer, even if only to be closer to his mother’s memory.

So he’ll live in a luxury apartment, with one of the best views in the city, and still buy dented cans and shop from the shop adds.

He’ll be mean because to be mean is to live. It’s a defense mechanism. Because he is still embarrassed about these things. He just refuses to change.

[jadeittic]

Six Weeks Minimum

summary: after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.

pairing: brendon park + fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

warnings/tags: surgery mention, overprotective!brendon hehe, established relationship, excessive supervision as a love language (but not in a bad way!)

notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!

reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo

The first thing you realized after your surgery was that the anesthesia haze was temporary.

The second thing you realized was that Brendon Park being insane about your recovery absolutely was not temporary.

It started in the hospital. The fracture had been bad enough. It was a clean break, the orthopedic resident had explained while showing you the scans, but unstable enough to need surgical fixation after your spectacularly humiliating fall down a rain-slick stairwell outside your apartment building.

You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.

You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.

Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.

He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.

"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.

Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.

The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.

"She just came back from imaging—"

"She's already been medicated."

"With what?"

"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.

His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes, because my leg is broken."

His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.

And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.

You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.

Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.

He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).

"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him. "...Yes?"

"What approach?"

"Brendon."

"What?"

"You are not interrogating my surgery."

"I'm verifying."

"No, you're being annoying."

Then came the surgery, which went well.

Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.

The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.

"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.

"I know."

"You use the crutches every single time you get up."

"I know."

"You do not try to hop."

"I'm not an animal, Brendon."

"You joke now," he muttered.

The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."

You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.

Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."

You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.

"Brendon."

"Hm?"

"You took my coffee table away."

"It has sharp corners."

"It's a coffee table."

"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."

"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."

The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.

And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.

Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.

You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.

"What are you doing?"

You stared at him. "Were you awake?"

"I am now."

"I need the bathroom."

"Okay."

"...Okay."

But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.

You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you."

"I can use crutches by myself."

He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.

"Brendon."

"I'm making sure you don't slip."

"You cannot stand in here while I pee."

"Yes I can."

"Brendon."

He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.

"Why are you still there?"

"I'm supervising."

"You're insane."

"You love me."

Unfortunately, that was true.

And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.

"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."

"You'd need help reaching me first."

Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.

You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.

Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.

There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.

You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.

So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.

One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.

You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.

"What are you doing?"

You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"

"You should've called me."

"For a book?"

"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."

He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.

And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.

Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.

Something in his expression softened immediately.

"Honey."

"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."

His hand slid carefully around your waist.

"You're not made of glass."

"You treat me like I am."

"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."

"Well, technically it was—"

"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."

He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.

Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.

Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.

You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.

"Hey."

His eyes flicked to yours.

"I'm okay."

His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.

"You were screaming," he said quietly.

"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."

You hadn't realized that stuck with him.

"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing you—"

He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.

"Oh, honey."

His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."

"You are insane."

He rested his forehead briefly against yours.

"You scared the hell out of me."

And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.

Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.

And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.

Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.

"What the hell are you doing?"

You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"

"You could spill that."

"Yes."

"You could slip."

"Brendon."

"You have one functioning leg."

"I know."

He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.

"You are unbelievable."

"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."

"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."

You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.

Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.

You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.

"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.

"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."

"In the middle of the night?"

"I woke up."

Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.

"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."

"There's a typo."

"You are impossible."

But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.

By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.

So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.

Make your own sandwich.

That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.

You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:

"What are you doing?"

You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.

"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.

"You weren't in bed."

"I was just making lunch!"

"You should've called me first."

You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"

"No, I'm not saying—It's just that you're still recovering."

"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"

"I know."

The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.

"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."

"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."

He exhaled slowly.

"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

"Because I love you."

You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.

"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."

"Last time I checked it was called caring?"

You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."

He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.

His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.

"I love you too," you murmured.

"I know."

"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."

"That seems excessive."

He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?

Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...

You'd never felt more loved in your life.

thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)

[lunalovesangst]

Big fan of the idea that, from Erid's perspective, Grace is probably kinda scary, at first.

Like his language consists of noises that are simultaneously very simple compared to the overlapping eridian notes, and weird clicking/hard sounds that no one could even begin to try to imitate. To begin with, that's a weird combination.

And there's a popular headcanon going around that Grace can pronounce certain simple words in eridian without his piano thingy, and he would sound like a pebble learning to speak. Let's make it creepy and assume eridians also have a fear of the uncanny valley.

Grace getting better with time at imitating simple words, therefore accidentally making himself sound more and more like a pebble, sounding right enough, but not quite. That shit would be creepy as fuck.

Imagine an alien that can imitate the way the children of your species sound like. At first you'd freak out! Yeah he saved your planet but. It's like a fucking mimic. Then you'd see him trip over nothing and fall face first and you'd calm down.

This is probably a stretch but I don't care. I like to imagine eridians and humans have some very similar fears, and the uncanny valley potential is just too good to ignore.

[edgycarr0t]

Do you think I made Adrian too small

[marskiiii]

slowly but surely....

[larvamars]

his greed sickens me

[succubusvalentine]

𝗦𝗶𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗥𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝟭𝟴+

Simon had learned over the years to keep his voice down during sex—finding it embarrassing that a hulking man like him would whine like a bitch during sex.

Foolishly, he didn't change his habit when he got with you. Believing the quiet grunts he would allow to be enough for you. Like the other women he'd been with.

God, it was pissing you off.

He didn't account for the fact you'd lost most of your hearing. You never wore your hearing aids during sex because the itch of them wouldn't allow you to concentrate.

Simon was a fantastic lover—gave you exactly what you needed, had you coming until you couldn't fucking think anymore. But he just wouldn't make any sound. You know you should've been used to guys not making sounds by now at your big grown age, though you got your hopes up with Simon.

Simon was holding back his moans as he fucked into your perfect pussy, thrusting at that perfect angle that made you keen—Only allowing quiet masculine sounds to rumble from his chest.

But you finally had enough of seeing his mouth part, while being unable to hear anything.

"Simon," you pant, grabbing his jaw roughly "fucking moan, goddammit. I can't fucking hear you."

Simon stilled, looking down at you with flushed cheeks. "Y'sure? Didn't think women liked I' when a man makes noise."

"Need to hear you." you whispered, grinding your hips upwards impatiently.

Simon finally broke down that wall in his mind, leaning down to your good ear and letting out a loud groan, thrusting frantically. His big meaty paws clawing at you.

"Fuck!" Simon babbled "Feels so good, so tight. So so so tight."

You gasp at how loud he was being—getting what you always wanted from a lover.

"y'don't get it. Wanna be inside you all the time. Just wanna fill you over and over and over." He groaned, his hips becoming erratic and needy as he brings a hand to your clit—desperate to get you off before he came himself.

Your nails clawed down his muscular back, leaving red streaks in their wake. But the unrestrained whimper Simon let out in response?

You were coming with a squeal, locking your legs around his hips as he fucked his come inside you.

"Don't" you pant "You ever hold those sounds back again."

Simon huffed, wrapping his arms around you. "'s embarrassing, love."

"I just came harder than I ever have in my life, you can handle some embarrassment."

You stash the fact Simons softening cock twitched inside you at the thought of being embarrassed for later. Fucking pathetic thing, your boyfriend.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

[emiqip]

"Bloodymary is fucking peak!!" I scream at the enraged mob, hollering at me to die.

"He's right!" A voice echoes from the back of the crowd.

I raise my head- Markiplier from YouTube is smiling at me.

[stuckinapril]

I think part of getting better is complete ego death. Like you’re not above setting a timer for 5 minutes and focusing on a task. You’re not above doing a very simple 3 minute workout to start. You’re not above reading for 10 minutes a day when you first get out of your reading slump, even if you used to read for hours. You’re not above starting slow and then building up to where you want to be/where you once were. What you are above is total inertia. Doing something really is better than doing nothing. Radically accept where you are, radically accept your limits, and go from there. Don’t let your ego get in the way.

[cozy-stardust]

Imagine Grace defined his name as the elegance definition of grace and Rocky spends years thinking how fucking ironic this clumsy leaky space blobs name is.

Until Grace slips out a sentence along the lines of "could you give me a little grace here" and Rocky immediately points out he used a word wrong so Grace has to explain that yeah, grace means elegance but it can also mean mercy sometimes too.

And Rocky has to suddenly reconcile that the clumsy leaky blob that saved his life twice, that almost certainly doomed himself to come back for him, name is Mercy.

[till-dawn-do-us-part]

[slightlypixely]

Leon: that one ridiculously photogenic person in your friend group

[oeing-oeing-clay]

wow dude jts so awesome that your car is loud as fuck and smells worse when it drives past. thags fucking epic man. i really like how it hurts to listen to you drive past and it scares people. thats awesome man. i really like your car that makes a loud as fuck fart sound. fucking epic dude

[paper-lilypie]

he hasn’t shut up for 3 minutes straight