#and that wasn't a character descriptor

[lucky-slice]

Kevin day coward this, kevin day coward that .... do we not remember the time he was ready to straight up choke neil out. Cause I think about the fact Kevin canonically threw neil against a wall every. damn. day

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff

Just a few suggestions. You shouldn’t have to compromise your writing style and voice with any of these, and some situations and scenes might demand some stiff or jerky writing to better convey emotion and immersion. I am not the first to come up with these, just circulating them again.

1. Vary sentence structure.

This is an example paragraph. You might see this generated from AI. I can’t help but read this in a robotic voice. It’s very flat and undynamic. No matter what the words are, it will be boring. It’s boring because you don’t think in stiff sentences. Comedians don’t tell jokes in stiff sentences. We don’t tell campfire stories in stiff sentences. These often lack flow between points, too.

So funnily enough, I had to sit through 87k words of a “romance” written just like this. It was stiff, janky, and very unpoetic. Which is fine, the author didn’t tell me it was erotica. It just felt like an old lady narrator, like Old Rose from Titanic telling the audience decades after the fact instead of living it right in the moment. It was in first person pov, too, which just made it worse. To be able to write something so explicit and yet so un-titillating was a talent. Like, beginner fanfic smut writers at least do it with enthusiasm.

2. Vary dialogue tag placement

You got three options, pre-, mid-, and post-tags.

Leader said, “this is a pre-dialogue tag.”

“This,” Lancer said, “is a mid-dialogue tag.”

“This is a post-dialogue tag,” Heart said.

Pre and Post have about the same effect but mid-tags do a lot of heavy lifting.

They help break up long paragraphs of dialogue that are jank to look at

They give you pauses for ~dramatic effect~

They prompt you to provide some other action, introspection, or scene descriptor with the tag. *don't forget that if you're continuing the sentence as if the tag wasn't there, not to capitalize the first word after the tag. Capitalize if the tag breaks up two complete sentences, not if it interrupts a single sentence.

It also looks better along the lefthand margin when you don’t start every paragraph with either the same character name, the same pronouns, or the same “ as it reads more natural and organic.

3. When the scene demands, get dynamic

General rule of thumb is that action scenes demand quick exchanges, short paragraphs, and very lean descriptors. Action scenes are where you put your juicy verbs to use and cut as many adverbs as you can. But regardless of if you’re in first person, second person, or third person limited, you can let the mood of the narrator bleed out into their narration.

Like, in horror, you can use a lot of onomatopoeia.

Drip Drip Drip

Or let the narration become jerky and unfocused and less strict in punctuation and maybe even a couple run-on sentences as your character struggles to think or catch their breath and is getting very overwhelmed.

You can toss out some grammar rules, too and get more poetic.

Warm breath tickles the back of her neck. It rattles, a quiet, soggy, rasp. She shivers. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. If she doesn’t look, it’s not there. Sweat beads at her temple. Her heart thunders in her chest. Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba- It moves on, leaving a void of cold behind. She uncurls her fists, fingers achy and palms stinging from her nails. It’s gone.

4. Remember to balance dialogue, monologue, introspection, action, and descriptors.

The amount of times I have been faced with giant blocks of dialogue with zero tags, zero emotions, just speech on a page like they’re notecards to be read on a stage is higher than I expected. Don’t forget that though you may know exactly how your dialogue sounds in your head, your readers don’t. They need dialogue tags to pick up on things like tone, specifically for sarcasm and sincerity, whether a character is joking or hurt or happy.

If you’ve written a block of text (usually exposition or backstory stuff) that’s longer than 50 words, figure out a way to trim it. No matter what, break it up into multiple sections and fill in those breaks with important narrative that reflects the narrator’s feelings on what they’re saying and whoever they’re speaking to’s reaction to the words being said. Otherwise it’s meaningless.

—

Hope this helps anyone struggling! Now get writing.

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.1)

oh boy oh boy am i excited for this one buckle up boys it’s gonna be a long one. analysis under the cut (WITH PICTURES!!)

i, like many others, have many thoughts and opinions about juni ba's the boy wonder that i'd like to express. i was having trouble formatting my rant, though, so i decided that it was easiest to just address some of the common complaints i've seen about the comic and jason's characterization and insert my ramblings throughout it. so far i've seen three main complaints:

the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one"

his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character

the neighbor's kid interaction

to start with the first one-- when introducing jason's character, in both the second and first issue, ba uses the descriptors "coarse", "bitter", "hardened", "brash" and, of course, "rageful".

so, yes-- i understand where people are having issues with this characterization. however, even if it's overplayed, it's still important to remember that jason is angry, and is driven, in part, by his anger at bruce and the joker. and, as ba highlights, he deserved to be! completely erasing jason's anger is just as bad as defining him with it.

i also don't think it's wholly accurate to say that ba is boiling jason down to just his anger. it might seem like that when only considering the dialogue and narration, but jason's behavior in the comic doesn't perfectly align with how the narrator describes him. while the narration describes him as "rageful" and could be an instance of generalization, jason's actions throughout the comic are more aligned with two other emotions/motivators: fear and despair. we never see jason get actually, properly angry; the closest we get is when he's seemingly annoyed by damian (which i believe could be performative) and when he becomes violent, accidentally hurting damian.

even in this instance, though, he is not driven to this violence by rage, but rather fear. so, while ba states in the narration that jason is driven by his anger, he contradicts himself by highlighting how jason's sadness and terror motivates his character. this could be interpreted as lousy writing on ba's part, but i'm not going to attribute the paradox to that inference. to me, it actually represents a critque of the "jason is the angry robin" generalization, because it calls to attention the discrepancies between how one is described versus reality, an issue that jason both faces in the comics (bruce using him as a cautionary tale when dying WASN'T HIS FAULT) and outside of the comics, as mentioned previously.

furthermore, this highlights the difference between what jason believes about bruce's perspective and bruce's actual perspective (according to damian). jason believes himself to be a "failure", but damian refutes this by describing his conversation with bruce concerning jason, a conversation that does not align with jason's belief. if you couldn't tell by now, perception versus reality is a BIG theme in this comic (and for jason's character in general!)

i was really fascinated by ba's take on jason, because it veered pretty far from a lot of contemporary comics, most of which do, unfortunately, play with the angry robin jason generalization. they've been doing a bit with his fear, too, which has either been pretty fun or the most awful thing ever (i'm looking at you zdarsky. gotham war was fucked up), but what makes ba's jason stand out to me is how he grapples with his grief.

this boy is so sad. ba's jason might actually be the saddest rendition of him i've seen in canon content. we've seen jason grapple a little bit with the despair rooted in his death and resurrection, mainly in lost days, where he cries 3 (?) times, fresh out of the pit and very traumatized.

even in this comic, though, he reacts to his grief with anger more prominently than sadness. that obviously doesn't mean the despair isn't there, though-- anger is just an easier outlet for it (which i could really get into the masculinity aspects of that, but then this would be wayyyyyy too long).

ba's jason, though? that motherfucker is so. sad.

christ he's depressing. AND THAT'S SUCH A FRESH PERSPECTIVE!!!!!!! THANK YOU JUNI BA!!!!!!

now i'm pretty sure some people would argue that this rendition in out of character because he's so sad. to me, though, he's still the same jason; he covers up his sadness with anger and pettiness, redirecting his own insecurities onto those around him to mask his true feelings.

ba quite literally illustrates this in the comic. whenever he is being his snide, normal self, he has his red hood mask on; but when he actually opens up to damian and expresses himself truthfully, the mask is off. ba is highlighting how the classic jason anger and bitterness is, in part, a performance and coping mechanism.

this post is already too long, so i'll go over the two other critques in a different post, which i will link below (eventually). if you guys have any thoughts you'd like to share or discuss, my dms and asks are completely open! if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed my ranting. look out for another post soon! :))

part 2 / part 3

[lenaellsi]

“Crowley is still an angel deep down” “Crowley is more of an angel than any of the archangels” “Crowley was only cast out because he needed to play his part in Armageddon, he's not a real demon” “Aziraphale wants to rebuild Heaven to be more like Crowley because he’s what an angel should be” no. Stop it. This is exactly where Aziraphale went wrong.

Crowley is 100% a demon. He's not actually a bit of an angel, and he's not cosmically better than any of the other demons we see in the series. He's much less vicious than most of them, yeah, but he's also much less vicious than most of the angels, because how “nice” a celestial being is has nothing to do with which side they're technically on. Crowley's kindness comes from him doing his best to help people despite the hurt he's suffered himself, not any sort of inherent residual or earned holiness. He was cast out just like the rest of the demons, and that's an important part of his history that shouldn't be minimized, excused, or, critically, 'corrected.'

Being angelic is not a positive or negative trait in the Good Omens universe. It's a species descriptor. Saying that Crowley is still an angel deep down because he helps people is an in-character thing for Aziraphale to think, certainly--Job and the final fifteen showed that in the worst possible way--but it's not something Crowley would ever react well to, and it's the main source of conflict in the entire "appoint you to be an angel" fiasco.

We know that Aziraphale thinks Crowley's fall was an injustice, but why? Well, because Crowley is actually Good, which means his fall was a mistake, or a test, or a regrettable error in judgment, or…something. Ineffable. Etc. The point is, he’s special, much better than those other demons, and if they can fix him and make him an angel again, everything will be fine! (So once Job's trials are over, everything will be restored to him? Praise be!) Aziraphale has to believe that Crowley's better traits come from traces of the angel he used to know and not the demon he's known for 6,000 years, because that’s how he can rationalize his incorrect view of Heaven as The Source Of Truth And Light And Good with his complicated feelings about Crowley's fall.

But Crowley's fall was not an injustice because he's actually a Good Person who didn't deserve it. Crowley's fall was an injustice because the entire system of dividing people into Good (obedient) and Bad (rebellious) is bullshit. Crowley is not an unfortunate exception to God's benevolence, he is a particularly sympathetic example of God's cruelty.

And really, Crowley doesn't behave at all like an angel, especially when he's at his best. All of the things that he's done that we as the audience consider Good are things that Heaven has directly opposed. (See: saving the goats and children in defiance of God in S2E2, convincing Aziraphale to give money to Elspeth despite Heaven's views on the "virtues of poverty" in S2E3, speaking out against the flood and the crucifixion in S1E3, tempting Aziraphale to enjoy earthly pleasures because he thinks they'll make him happy, stopping Armageddon.)

Heaven as an institution has never been about helping humanity. And that's not an issue of leadership, as Aziraphale seems to think--it's by design. Aziraphale's first official act as an angel toward humanity was to literally throw them to the lions. Giving them the sword wasn't him acting like an angel, it was just him being himself. Heaven doesn't care about humans. It's not supposed to. It's supposed to win the war against Hell, with humans as chess pieces at best and collateral damage at worst.

Yes, it's easier to think that there are forces that are supposed to be fundamentally good. It's easier to think that Aziraphale is going to show those mean archangels and the Metatron what’s coming to them and reform Heaven into what it "should" be, and that God is actually super chill and watching all of this while shipping ineffable husbands and cheering for them the whole way. And of course it's easier to take Crowley, who Aziraphale (and the audience) adores, and say that he deserves to be on the Good team much more than all those angels and demons that we don’t like. But that's not how it works. People are more complicated than that, even celestial beings.

Crowley is a demon, and the tragedy of his character is not that he's secretly a good guy who is being forced to be evil; the tragedy is that he's lived his whole life stuck between two institutional forces that are both equally hostile to the love he feels for the universe and the beings in it. There are no good and bad guys. There are no "right people." Every angel, demon, and human is capable of hurting or helping others based on their choices. That is, in fact, the entire fucking point.

[cuntyji]

Heyo!!

Loved all the writing so far! Had this random idea. Like Gojo and the puppy but imagine one of the jjk men that reader chased down their new kitten that ended up cozying up to said man of choice.

Again just my random mind LOL.

You got me as a supporter of your works.

BONGO'S GUIDE TO LOVE ౨ৎ VARIOUS JJK X (GN!) READER

summary: naming your cat bongo seemed fun at first—until he started treating every man in your orbit like his personal enemy. from perching smugly on the shoulder of your tattoo artist mid-ink session to single-handedly (or single-pawedly?) trashing your neighbor's bakery, bongo is on a one-feline mission to ruin your life. or maybe, just maybe, he’s actually trying to fix it? because amidst the chaos and claw marks, there might be a paw-sible chance he’s onto something you’re not.

content warnings: gender neutral reader (no use of y/n, specific pronouns or gender mentioned). 100% sfw and crack, unestablished relationship, meet-cute. bongo cat's breed is not mentioned, only descriptor is that he is chonky. drabbles of various characters, including: stranger! sukuna, tat artist! choso, bakery owner! nanami, moving helper! toji, actor! gojo. — ( full length cat dad! geto fic here )

— RYOMEN SUKUNA  ₍^. .^₎

you watched in absolute horror as bongo, your self-declared king of bad decisions, flung himself at the most terrifying human in the park. his fur fluffed up like some sort of possessed cotton ball as he darted straight for the man’s massive combat boots. the man—ryomen sukuna, as you'd later learn—looked like he moonlighted as a death metal frontman when he wasn't out intimidating random park-goers. tattoos spilled down his neck, across his face, and from what you could see, probably over most of his terrifyingly ripped body.

“bongo, no!” you shouted, but the little menace had already committed.

sukuna's brow furrowed as he crouched, grabbing bongo by the scruff of his neck like some kind of annoyed parent dealing with a particularly unruly toddler. bongo dangled mid-air, his expression entirely unbothered, his tail swishing lazily as if to say, this is fine. you froze, half expecting sukuna to punt bongo into the stratosphere. but instead, sukuna tilted his head. 

“the hell is this?”

“oh my god, please don’t kill my cat!” you blurted, sprinting towards him with all the dignity of a car alarm. sukuna glanced at you, his crimson eyes narrowing. “why the fuck would i kill your cat?”

“i—uh,” you stammered, gesturing wildly at his tattoos like they were some sort of official cat murder license.

bongo, clearly bored of dangling, chose this exact moment to lick sukuna’s face. one looooong, obnoxious lick, from his chin to his cheekbone, leaving a trail of cat slobber behind.

you winced. “oh no—”

but sukuna just blinked. then let out a low chuckle that sounded like a chainsaw revving. “bold little shit, huh?” bongo purred louder, smushing his entire face into sukuna’s jaw like they were old pals. sukuna, to your utter disbelief, reached up with his free hand and gave your traitorous cat a solid scratch behind the ears.

“what’s his name?” sukuna asked, his tone entirely too casual for someone covered in dark tattoos and holding a cat like a teddy bear.

“…bongo,” you muttered, now questioning every life choice that had led to this moment. he smirked, finally lowering bongo to the ground, though your little idiot immediately flopped onto sukuna’s boot like it was a throne. “bongo, huh? fitting. looks like a troublemaker.”

you stared. “yeah, well, he usually doesn’t go around licking strangers.”

“good taste,” sukuna said, smirking wider. “smart cat.”

smart? your cat had the brain cells of a soggy sponge and the survival instincts of a lemming.

“right, well,” you said, attempting to scoop bongo off sukuna’s foot, but the cat clung like velcro. “sorry for… all this. he doesn’t usually—”

“don’t worry about it,” sukuna interrupted, crouching again and giving bongo another scratch that sent your little demon into a full-body wiggle. “might be the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“…seriously?”

“yeah.” sukuna’s grin turned sharp, teasing. “most people just run the other way.”

you raised an eyebrow. “wonder why.”

he laughed, low and deep, then stood, towering over you in the most obnoxious way possible. “guess bongo knows a good guy when he sees one.” bongo chose this moment to leap back into sukuna’s arms like some kind of feline rom-com lead, rubbing his cheek against sukuna’s chest. “traitor,” you muttered under your breath.

“looks like he’s mine now,” sukuna teased, shooting you a grin that made you feel uncomfortably warm. “not a chance,” you shot back, but your tone lacked conviction.

ryomen sukuna: terrifying, tattooed, and apparently now your cat’s best friend. god help you both.

— CHOSO KAMO  ₍^. .^₎

it was a bad idea, you knew that from the start. but bongo’s separation anxiety had you by the throat, so there he was, your chunky feline menace, perched on a folding chair like a judgmental little gargoyle as you prepared for your tattoo session. everything was fine until choso kamo walked in.

your tattoo artist was the living embodiment of a rain-a-sauce—uh, renaissance painting. his long black hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, his dark eyes framed by perfectly smudged eyeliner that made him look both mysterious and mildly intimidating. his loose black tee hung just right, accentuating broad shoulders and strong arms that you were definitely not admiring. and then bongo decided to ruin your life.

the cat launched himself like a furry cannonball straight onto choso’s shoulder. not his lap, not a nearby table—his actual shoulder.

“bongo, no!” you hissed, half-rising from the tattoo chair. but choso, calm as a goddamn monk, didn’t even flinch. instead, he turned his head slightly to glance at the literal furball now draped across him. “he’s fine,” choso said, his voice low and smooth, as if this was a completely normal occurrence. “guess he likes me.”

you gawked as bongo, the little traitor, made himself comfortable, kneading choso’s shoulder like it was a deluxe memory foam pillow. “i… i can get him off—”

“don’t worry about it,” choso interrupted, grabbing his tattoo gun with one hand while his other casually scratched behind bongo’s ears. you stared. he was petting your cat. while holding a needle. meant for your skin. “uh, are you sure that’s… safe?” you asked, your voice pitching higher as choso began inking the outline on your arm.

“he’s not bothering me,” choso replied simply, his focus entirely on his work. bothering you? you were the one about to be permanently marked while your fat, smug cat played parrot. bongo purred like a tiny chainsaw, rubbing his cheek against choso’s jaw. “great,” you muttered, clenching your teeth as the needle buzzed against your skin.

as if sensing your tension, bongo stretched out one paw and lightly bopped your cheek. “oh my god, bongo, stoopp!” you whined, glaring at him. choso chuckled softly, his lips quirking into the faintest smile. “looks like he’s trying to comfort you.”

“he’s mocking me,” you shot back, but choso’s quiet laugh was almost enough to distract you from the pain. almost. “you’re doing fine,” choso said after a beat, his voice soothing in a way that made your stomach flip. 

“thanks,” you muttered, your face heating up for reasons that definitely had nothing to do with him. meanwhile, bongo continued his reign of chaos, now swiping at choso’s dangling ponytail like it was his personal cat toy. “you’re really just gonna let him do that?” you asked incredulously. choso shrugged, completely unfazed. “he’s keeping himself entertained. and you, apparently.”

“entertained is not the word i’d use,” you grumbled, but your mouth twitched despite yourself.

“well, at least one of us is having fun,” choso said, his tone light.

and maybe it was the distraction of bongo’s antics, or the way choso’s calm presence made the pain a little more bearable, but by the end of the session, you were almost… relaxed. as choso finished up, he finally plucked bongo off his shoulder and held him up, his strong hands making your cat look oddly small. “you’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his words.

“you have no idea,” you said, shaking your head. choso handed bongo back to you, his lips curving into that faint smile again. “next time, maybe leave him at home.”

you glanced down at bongo, who was purring smugly in your arms. “yeah, not likely.” choso chuckled, wiping his hands clean. “figured.”

as you left the shop, you couldn’t help but think that bongo might’ve been onto something with his whole shoulder-sitting act. maybe your chaotic little furball had better instincts than you gave him credit for.

— NANAMI KENTO  ₍^. .^₎

it’s always the quiet moments when bongo chooses chaos. you were mid-face mask, your skin glowing with the kind of self-care that influencers would kill for, when your furry menace decided to bolt out the backdoor like he had urgent business. “bonggoooo!” you screeched, stumbling after him in your ratty pajamas and slippers that definitely weren’t made for running.

the scent of the bakery hit you like a brick wall. god, how does it smell expensive? buttery, sugary, and somehow elitist all at once. you didn’t have time to contemplate the metaphysics of aromas because bongo had already darted through the bakery’s back entrance like he owned the place. by the time you caught up, panting and slightly disheveled, you were greeted by the sight of nanami kento, the bakery’s perpetually composed owner, standing in the middle of his flour-dusted kitchen. and in his hands, like a prized artifact, was bongo.

kento held your cat aloft like some kind of culinary simba, his perfectly pressed apron dusted with flour. bongo, with his chubby belly and utterly unrepentant face, dangled there like he had no idea he’d just stormed into someone else’s livelihood. “this,” kento said, his deep, even voice somehow more judgmental than any glare could be, “is yours, i presume?” you swallowed hard, your face mask cracking slightly as you plastered on a smile. “yes! uh, that’s bongo. my cat. um, i’m so sorry—”

“he ran across my counter,” kento continued, his tone unchanging as he gently turned bongo to show you his flour-dusted paws. “he stepped in the dough. twice.”

“oh my god,” you groaned, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. bongo, ever the villain, reached out a paw and batted at kento’s tie, smearing it with a bit of leftover flour. “i’ll… i’ll pay for the damages,” you stammered, mortified. “or, uh, write an apology letter. from bongo. he’s very articulate.”

kento raised a brow, lowering bongo but still holding him like he was a particularly troublesome baguette. “a letter?”

“yeah, uh, he’s got great penmanship,” you blurted, because apparently, when embarrassed, you just doubled down on ridiculousness. kento sighed, setting bongo down on the floor. your cat immediately started rubbing his face against kento’s leg like they were old friends. “he’s lucky he’s cute,” kento muttered, though his tone softened slightly.

“he’s really not,” you mumbled, scooping bongo into your arms. “he’s a menace.”

“i’ve noticed.” kento crossed his arms, eyeing bongo like he was calculating the exact amount of havoc the cat had wreaked. “next time, maybe keep him indoors.”

“yeah, definitely,” you said, clutching bongo tighter as he squirmed. “and, uh, if you ever need… cat-signed apology letters, i’m your person.”

kento gave you a long, measured look before sighing. “just keep him out of my kitchen.”

as you backed out of the bakery, clutching your flour-covered feline, you couldn’t help but wonder if bongo’s next target would be a crime that didn’t involve you humiliating yourself in front of absurdly attractive men. unlikely.

— TOJI FUSHIGURO ₍^. .^₎

moving to new york was supposed to be your fresh start. concrete jungle where dreams made of, blah blah blah. instead, you found yourself battling overpriced rent and a cat who had zero respect for personal boundaries.

toji, the moving guy, had been an unexpected lifesaver. with his messy scrawl of a name tag and a physique that screamed, “i bench press refrigerators for fun,” he made quick work of your moving boxes. it was almost comical how easily he hefted bongo’s cat tree—like it was a baguette instead of a glorified jungle gym for your chunky feline. you tipped him with cookies because that’s just who you are: a sucker for baked goods as a currency. and as toji waved goodbye and headed off, you gave yourself a little pat on the back for surviving the first day in the big apple. until you noticed bongo was missing.

cue the meltdown.

“bonggggoooooo!” you hollered, tearing through your barely unpacked apartment like a madwoman. every cupboard, every box, even the bathtub—it was all checked twice, thrice, and then some. no bongo. by the time you collapsed onto the floor, tears welling up, you were already planning the world’s most dramatic cat funeral. there’d be violins, speeches, and a photo slideshow of bongo’s finest “this idiot just ate plastic again” moments. then, a knock at the door.

you practically threw it open to find toji standing there, his enormous frame taking up most of the doorway. in his arms was bongo, looking about as offended as a cat could possibly look, his fur slightly ruffled but otherwise unscathed. “found him in my van,” toji said, his gravelly voice tinged with amusement. 

“oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for bongo, who—of course—refused to leave toji’s arms. “he’s such a menace, i’m so sorry—”

“don’t be,” toji interrupted, smirking as bongo nuzzled against his chest like a lovestruck teenager. “guess he’s got good taste.”

“good taste?” you repeated, incredulous. “he literally jumped into a stranger’s van. he’s one step away from being catnapped—i mean, kidnapped.”

“looks like he wouldn’t have minded,” toji quipped, scratching behind bongo’s ear and earning an annoyingly loud purr in return. you groaned, crossing your arms. “great. my cat’s in love with the moving guy.”

toji chuckled, finally setting bongo down. the traitor immediately twined around toji’s legs, shooting you a look that said this man is mine now. “guess i’m unforgettable,” toji teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“yeah, well,” you said, scooping up bongo before he could claw his way back into toji’s arms, “don’t let it go to your head.”

toji gave you a crooked grin, his scarred lip tugging slightly. “welcome to new york,” he said, turning to leave. as he walked away, bongo let out a mournful meow, his paw swiping at the air like he was starring in his own rom-com goodbye scene.

“ugh, big boys,” you muttered, carrying bongo back inside. but as you closed the door, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, new york wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

— GOJO SATORU  ₍^. .^₎

you knew gojo had a flair for theatrics, but the day he decided to charm everything with a pulse—including bongo, the cat cast for your shared scene—you realized just how far he was willing to go. bongo, a seasoned feline actor with a resume longer than yours, had been nothing but professional. meanwhile, gojo? not so much. “who’s a handsome boy? you are, aren’t you?” gojo cooed at bongo during a break, crouched low and ruffling the cat’s fur like they were old pals.

“you know he’s supposed to like my character, right?” you deadpanned from your chair, sipping lukewarm coffee. 

“it’s called method acting, babe,” gojo replied with a wink, scratching under bongo’s chin. “gotta make sure he’s comfortable with me too.”

“yeah, by stealing my scene partner.”

gojo just grinned, letting bongo climb onto his lap like a tiny, furry king surveying his kingdom.

fast-forward to the final day of shooting, and bongo had developed what could only be described as a toxic attachment to gojo. 

“aaaand that’s a wrap!” the director called, the crew breaking into applause. you were ready to celebrate—finally free of gojo’s antics—until chaos erupted.

bongo’s trainer approached to retrieve the cat, only for bongo to hiss dramatically and latch onto gojo’s designer blazer with claws sharp enough to shred through fabric and ego alike. “uh, a little help?” gojo yelped, trying to peel the cat off without damaging what was likely a five-figure jacket. the trainer tugged at bongo gently, but the cat clung harder, his claws hooking into the seams as if his very life depended on staying attached to gojo.

“he’s tearing my clothes!” gojo screeched, his voice hitting a pitch you hadn’t thought possible.

“you’re the one who told him he’s a ‘handsome boy,’” you snarked, watching the scene unfold with far too much glee.

“he is a handsome boy! but now he’s a demon!” gojo cried, trying to shake off the cat, who let out a mournful wail and doubled down on his grip. the crew burst out laughing as bongo dramatically clung to gojo’s chest like he was recreating a tragic love scene.

“just let him go, he’s attached to you now,” you teased, crossing your arms and watching the chaos unfold.

“i can’t!” gojo wailed. “he’s got my soul in his little murder mittens!”

finally, the trainer managed to pry bongo off, leaving behind shredded fabric and a very disheveled gojo. “you owe me a new jacket,” he grumbled, glaring at you like this was somehow your fault. “i owe you nothing,” you shot back. “maybe next time, don’t flirt with cats.”

as bongo was carried off set, still yowling dramatically, you couldn’t help but think: if nothing else, that cat had impeccable taste in people to torment.

[504py]

In Ink, Unsaid - Knight!Leon Kennedy/Reader

Your knight is appointed to tutor you, and he falls asleep during your lesson. It leads to a cute interaction involving his hair.

hell yeah finally got this out!! this one's a lot longer than the first part, i pray it ain't too wordy LOL. once again art by me and hope y'all enjoy!!

Historical inaccuracies, I suck at old-timey speak, reader referred to as "my lady" but no other gendered terms or descriptors besides that, no use of Y/N, mutual pining, almost a Leon character study. It's a little more romantic this time.

1, 2, 3

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You don't think you've ever seen Leon make a mistake. It unsettles you a little, how much composure and perfection he seems to uphold. You tend to watch him a lot because of it, growing a strange compulsion to always have your eyes on him.

Whenever you see him through a window while passing by, the sight of him slows you down a bit before you continue on your way. Whenever he walks past the room you're in, your eyes dart to his figure on impulse, trying to take in as much information as you can before he's out of your sight. Leon walks too fast, you find yourself thinking a lot.

Paradoxically, when you're close enough to actually see his face, you find yourself unable to look at him. You try to, but he's already staring at you, and he never looks away first, so you do. Whenever you look at him, his eyebrows raise slightly, like he thinks you want something from him when you do. The pressure from it is surprisingly crushing, so you simply cannot imagine holding eye contact with Leon for more than two seconds.

This strange fascination of yours with your new knight has materialized itself in the form of behaviors that might align themselves with a stalker's. You've drunken in all the little details about him. You recognize the sound of his footsteps, the dent in his left vambrace, since he tends to guard his body with that arm, and the moles on his knuckles. Since you can't look at his face when he's actually near you, you've taken to staring at his hands or his feet. He rarely ever shifts his weight between each leg, even if he's been standing for a long time. It makes you more conscious of how you carry yourself... Speaking of posture, he tends to tilt his head to the right slightly when he rests.

Rest and any of its synonyms are words you'd rarely use to describe anything related to Leon. The most you'd seen him do something as relaxed as resting, was that night he sat by your bed till the thunderstorm passed.

So how do you know his habits when he rests? Shockingly, he's doing it right now, in front of you, during your first tutoring session together.

His eyes were rather bloodshot and dull when he entered the library, a feigned intensity in them like he was trying to convince himself he wasn't tired. He knows you notice, but you don't ask about it, and he seems to be glad you did.

"...This arrangement is rather unorthodox, is it not?" You ask as he sits down across from you.

Leon puffs out a little breath, not enough to be a sigh, but noticeable enough. You are unsure if it is out of annoyance.

"I suppose so, my lady, but your mother was the one who appointed me to tutor you today."

You frown a little. It's not like you disliked Leon at all, but you tend to find him a little too... tense to be around. He seems so structured and confident and it makes you afraid to make mistakes around him... Besides that, he's got a really intense stare that doesn't fare well with your nervous composition.

"...Do you dislike having me as your tutor, my lady?" He queries, the faintest hint of doubt and dejection in his voice.

"I–" You try to start, but he cuts you off, "It's not meant to be taken in any personal manner, my lady, but..." He takes in a sharp inhale, realizing he interrupted you and maybe stepped over a line. Leon pauses and watches you carefully, waiting to see if your expression will contort or if you'll start to reprimand him.

...You just avert your eyes, so he continues.

"Perhaps you'd fare better with someone you were more comfortable with... my lady."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "I'm rather alright, Sir Leon. I apologize for complaining."

"Forgive me for pushing, my lady, but you always feel rather tense around me. Is that for any particular reason? Perhaps I could help."

"I, uh..." Your gaze falls to your lap, "I'm just not sure why mother chose you. Your schedule is rather full as it is, is it not, Sir Leon?"

"Well, I can promise you I'm very well-educated, my lady." He says, but as he observes, it doesn't do much to soothe your nerves.

"...Spending more time with you is always a pleasure to me, my lady. I promise that to you too."

That wrinkle between your eyebrows soften, and your shoulders drop.

Leon does surprisingly well as a tutor. You suppose it's because of his rugged impression that you thought the opposite, but even the way he speaks is well-constructed and seems to have been planned in advance.

If your mother had never appointed Leon as your tutor today, you'd never have really noticed how calming his voice can be. Whenever he's spoken, it always sounded like a command, even if he's trying his best to be respectful. His voice usually comes off too strong, too deep in his chest, too loud sometimes, too much authority. Usually you tend to shrink in your skin a little whenever he speaks, but now, he sounds so relaxed that you feel like he could lull you to sleep at any moment.

Ah– it seems he's beat you to the chase, though.

It took you a little too long to notice, but Leon has fallen asleep in front of you, cheek resting against his right fist and his left hand still resting on the book's page.

You freeze up, not wanting to do anything that'd wake him up. You understand that a tutor falling asleep in front of a student would be highly inappropriate, but you still felt that it would be rude to wake him. Is he a light sleeper? You wonder how exhausted he must be to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable situation, and it makes your heart ache.

He's breathing lightly, you wait a bit, see if he'll wake up on his own. Maybe it's just your own excuse to watch him while you can.

His eyelashes are a lot longer than you thought, and you don't think you've ever seen him without that crease between his brows, and an almost-scowl on his lips. Leon's hair was of a color and style that confused you. Some days it felt brown, sometimes it was blond, or something in between. You've convinced yourself it depended on his mood or the weather. As for the length... the fringe always seemed to obscure his eyes slightly, so you've always wondered why he didn't just cut it. Especially when he wears his helmet, and he makes a bit of a fuss when his bangs get pinned underneath his visor.

Unconsciously, you've been reaching forward to brush away the strand of hair hanging in front of his nose, hoping to get a better look of his face.

Leon's eyes flutter open, his pupils adjusting to the light before they dilate as they settle on you. Your arm flinches back to your side.

He mumbles your name, intimately, no honorifics or titles, and your face warms.

"I– Leon– Sir Leon, hello," You breathe out shakily, "You fell asleep."

The message takes a few seconds to reach his just-woken-up brain, before his eyes widen and he immediately sits up properly.

Words come spilling out of his mouth, this is the first time you've seen him stutter. "I'm so sorry– I'm incredibly sorry, my lady, I apologize for my inappropriate behavior, I don't know why I dared to do such a thing, and why I keep making mistakes today–"

"Leon."

He bites on his tongue and his eyes are slightly wide as he stares at you.

"...It's alright, I promise."

The tips of his ears are a bright red, and that same flush seems to be creeping up from under his shirt collar to his neck. He takes in a few deep breaths, and he looks unsure. This is the second time you've seen him wear this look now. He takes in a deep breath.

"I... I apologize, my lady." He bows his head towards you. The roots of his hair were a deeper brown compared to the rest of his locks. You wonder if he's not even a real blond. Perhaps hours of staying under the sun lightened his hair.

You space out staring at him, and Leon straightens his neck. He can't recall maintaining eye contact with you for this long, and it makes his abdomen feel warm, even if he knows you're not really all there.

"My lady?"

You finally blink, and at the realization your blank-eyed gaze settled on him, your eyes widen and you immediately look elsewhere. You decide to rest your sight on his hands.

"Is there something wrong with my hair?" His fingers twitch, slightly restless.

"I... What makes you say that, Sir Leon?"

"You've been eyeing the top of my head for a while. I felt your hand near my face while I was waking up, as well, my lady."

Your heart skips a beat, and the way your blink catches for a second and the way you seem to choke on your spit isn't missed by the knight-now-tutor across from you.

"I-It's quite alright, my lady." He rushes out, his heart dropping at that look on your face. He's not even sure what's "alright", but he just wanted to offer you any bit of comfort so things don't escalate, in the fear he was too forward with confronting you.

He remembers the musings of his fellow knights about his hair, about how could he see with all that bother, how it could get in the way during combat, or how it just looked a little funny. Truth be told, his hair was the result of continuously forgetting to go get a haircut because he fixated so much on work, but now he keeps it out of spite. Leon insists he can do perfectly fine to anyone who says otherwise, but if it's you...

Leon breathes in slightly, and his hands move away from your line of vision. You follow them, and he's pushing his fringe back as much as he can. He's trying to tuck it behind his ears, and it almost makes you laugh, how gentle the gesture is, then you realize how beautiful he actually looks. Your cheeks warm, and you cannot look away.

"Is this better, my lady?" He asks, strangely demure in his demeanor.

You chuckle, and his heart soars at the noise, "You missed a spot." you comment, before your hand raises for a second, nearing his face.

"Ah– May I?"

"Of course, my lady." The devotion leaking from his voice is punctuated by the mole on his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

Your fingers are slightly shaky as they clear the few strands of hair he couldn't pin back. The pads of your fingers graze his forehead, and he takes in a sharp breath. Physical contact between you two was relegated to holding onto his hand when he assisted you, and nothing more, so he wasn't a stranger to it. So he can't really understand why such a tiny act has such an effect on him.

You sit back, properly look at him, and smile. He feels slightly shy under your scrutiny, but he hopes you find him good-looking at the very least. He does have the face to pull off shorter hair, but something about it felt like you were seeing him naked. He felt under-decorated without his fussy hair.

"Mm... I think you look best just as you are."

Leon breathes out a little laugh accompanied by the toothiest smile you've seen on him thus far, which really isn't much, but it comes off just as endearing. The bags under his eyes seem to disappear as his eyes turn into happy crescents. Adoration is dancing around in his pale blue irises, and in the reflection of his dilated pupils, it's only you.

"Thank you, my lady... It makes me happy to hear that."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

[dejwrld]

summary — international rockstar choso kamo is in love with the international popstar, y/n.

warning readers discretion is advised ⸻ female reader, female anatomy described, written with black reader in mind, mentions of descriptors of black reader (complexion, hair texture, culture), open to be read by all readers, profanity, angst, lovers to exes, told in third pov Chosoi's pov), mentions of drug and alcohol usage, opposite attracts trope, riding/cowgirl position, brief mention of oral (m.receiving), famous au, modern au, he falls harder trope, praise kink, rockstar choso x popstar!reader one shot

sticky note from deja — this was originally another character plot, but urgh i just think about rockstar choso a lot! well i think about choso a lot period. so here's a sweet treat to the choso gaggers.

He liked her more than he had expected. He never was the one to be in a committed relationship—didn't quite go with the rockstar image as an artist, nor did it sell to the public. He thought it was better to sell into the stereotype that rock stars do hardcore drugs, can't remember their flings' names, and show up late to their sound checks for concerts. But here he was, staring at her as she peacefully slept on his chest as if she belonged there. 

Well, she did. She was different from the people he pursued romantically who entered his life and exited quickly when they realized they couldn't keep up with his lifestyle. She could handle the throat-cutting hate from fans because she had rabid fans. She could take the intrusive questions from music journalists because she had one of the world's best PR and media training teams. 

He didn't want to admit that he was falling in love with her. 

But, here, Choso was itching to smoke a morning cigarette but too afraid to wake her because she had a late recording session.

And don't get him started on the reckless shit he did while she was locked up in the studio last night. 

"Good morning," Her voice comes off like a whisper as if they were in a library with strict talking rules. She's placing tired kisses on Choso’s chest with a smile. 

"Mornin'," Choso mumbles back, his arms resting behind his head. His brown-colored eyes met her gaze when he felt her hand rubbing his thighs. "Don't you have to be at the studio in a couple of hours?" His right eyebrow, embedded with a piercing, raised at her. 

She chuckled, letting her hand rub against his cock that had hardened in the wake of morning wood. Betraying him entirely as he's inhaling sharply at her actions. 

"I just need two hours with you," She responds. "And maybe one to get ready." She adds before smiling. Her eyes glistened with lust, and Choso couldn't deny that look. 

"Help yourself." He responds, getting even more comfortable in his king-sized bed. His hands still rest behind his head because he wouldn't have cared for her to use him as she pleased. 

With a pleased smile, she leaned closer to peck his lips before leaving a trail of kisses on his bare chest and traveling downward to disappear under the gray-colored duvet that covered them both. 

Choso was waiting for her to notice the impulse thing he did yesterday. Quite afraid of her reaction because maybe he had gone a bit overboard. He wasn't sure she loved him as much as he loved her. 

Choso!" She climbs back from under the blanket and quickly tugs it off the two of them. "What the fuck is this?" Her acrylic tapered square-shaped nails trace alongside his waist, and that simple movement causes his pale skin to garnish with goosebumps. 

"Surprise cupcake." He gives her a cheeky grin. 

"Surprise my ass!" 

Just above his waist, stopping right where his white-haired happy trail ended, was her name in old English font. 

Y/N.

He couldn't read her facial expressions. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow together in confusion, but her mouth held back a snicker. Y/N's fingers traced alongside the tattoo's outline that imprinted Choso's skin.

"I can't believe you did this insane shit." She stares at Choso and then at the tattoo before giggling. "You're so insane, but I love you for that." 

Choso didn't think she knew what she had just said because before he could respond, she was kissing the tattoo so delicately that it caused Choso’s toes to curl in anticipation. Her tongue traces the outline of each lettering on his skin, and Choso could feel the precum on his tip immediately stain his Calvin Klein boxers. 

"Fuck!" He breathed out, letting his head sink into the back of his hands resting behind his head. 

His boxers were removed, and soon, his body relaxed under the feeling of her tongue licking at the precum on his tip as if it were a sweet delight. He peeks through his long eyelashes at the way her tongue glides up and down his thick shaft before engulfing his cock in her mouth without a care. The sound of Y/N gagging on his cock followed by the sight of saliva pooling out her mouth caused Choso’s skin to heat up instantly. He removed one hand from the back of his head to palm at the top of her head. His fingers fiddle with the silk scarf that protects her hair for the night while he guides her head up and down his hardened cock like a sports ball on a court. 

His dark eyes opened and were met with Y/N’s, whose hands flickered up and down his cock before briefly letting the pad of her thumb rub at his plump pink-shaded tip, smearing the precum and saliva that coated it. It drove Choso mad at the way she looked at him. It was as if he was the best thing since sliced bread when, in reality, Choso was just some musician who, on some days, couldn’t even keep his eyes open as he was in the studio high on whatever drug he consumed that morning. 

She released his cock with a pop before she removed the remaining amount of clothes. First, it was the yellow-colored Calvin Klein cheeky underwear—she was a brand ambassador for them (of course, he knew that). Then, it was the oversized t-shirt that belonged to him that she managed to look better in. Her brown skin glistened in the sunlight that shone through the high-rise windows in Choso’s penthouse. The warmth of her thighs on his side from straddling his lip caused Choso to smile. His eyebrows raised in curiosity at what was her next move. When he said, help yourself—he didn’t expect her to want to ride him. 

His body tensed up at the feeling of her cunt sinking further down on his cock. His body instantly reacted immediately because that was just the charm Y/N had on him. The littlest things could have had his cock twitching in whatever pair of sweatpants he wore. His fingers clutched at her waist while he guided her hips at a pace that was wonderful for both of them to enjoy. Such a little thing like this made Choso realize even more why that insane impulse idea he did the previous night was even more justified. He was in love. He showed it when they had sex. From his last relationships and embarrassing one-night stands that led to signed NDAs, he didn’t care to use them for a quick nut and go on about his business. But with her, with Y/N, he made love to her as if, just in the blink of an eye, she wouldn’t be here anymore. He ate her out as if it was the last thing he had eaten in fuckin’ centuries. He wanted all of her when he had a vision to please her when they had sex. 

“Look at you,” Choso’s voice is a sweet, teasing tune, similar to his most recent single. His fingers trace the outline of her stretch marks that connect from her thighs to her love handles. “Helpin’ yourself. Need help?” He chuckles.

Quickly, he’s thrusting his hips upward to meet Y/N’s sudden bounce. He felt her nails piercing his bare chest, bracing herself for his abrupt thrusting. Her plump, kiss-swollen lips gasped apart to let out a moan that caused Choso to feel feral. He wanted to flip her over—have his fuckin’ way with her. Fuck her into the mattress to show to her that she was his and only his. It was the only way—but no, Choso had to let her do her. Let her fuck him how she pleases. 

So the grasp he had on her waist loosened. His thrusts that met with her bouncing abruptly stopped, and he relaxed under her weight. The only thing the rockstar could do was glance up at her completely lovestruck—completely pussy drunk. 

“Thought you were helping me, hm?” She questions in between raspy whimpers that make Choso’s cock harder. 

“You’re a big girl, and you got it covered.” He spat back.

She couldn’t even respond to his words because she got lost in the pleasure of his cock kissing at that spot, which caused her to feel like she was on the fluffiest cloud. Her hips rocked backward and forwards. The headboard clashed against the wall, and Choso thanked every God that the property next to his was empty. He did not have the energy or time to deal with noise complaints. Especially given Y/N’s moans that only grew louder as she bounced on his cock as if it was the most critical task. He was trying so hard not to grab upon her, slam her harder on his cock—milk her out until she creamed on him. But no, he told her to help herself. 

“That’s my girl.” His brown eyes met hers when those words of praise fluttered off his lips.

If Choso could look close enough, he could see a sparkle in her eyes, and her pussy clench around his cock. 

“You’re doing well, Y/N. Is that what you want to hear?” He teasingly questioned. “You look so fucking beautiful riding me.” He adds, but this time—he no longer could control his impulse to feel upon his girlfriend. 

He ached for her touch. 

His hand finally found the place on her waist to help bob her upon his cock. His face flushed and was so hot— Choso knew that when his face got as red as the bottom of Y/N’s favorite red bottoms, he was about to cum. He felt his balls grow heavier with each pounce of Y/N, and the only thing he could utter was her name as if it was a lyric in one of his songs charting on the Billboard 100. 

“Fuck, I’m about to—” His words were cut off by Y/N.

“Me too, baby.” She huffs, rocking her hips fast to reach her pleasure wave. “Just tell me one thing, baby. Please.” She coos, and Choso can only nod. 

Whatever she wanted, she could have. Whatever she needed, she could get. Choso would give her the whole world plus some with how she rode him. 

“Tell me you love me.”

“Fuck, Y/N. You know I love you. I wouldn’t get your name tattooed on me.” Choso breathed out. 

“But I want you to say it when you cum,” She moans out. “So you have it imprinted on that silly brain of yours who makes you feel like that.”

Choso glanced into her eyes and realized she was serious about this. He was yanking her down so that her chest was on his and thrusting his hips upward, embracing her in a heated kiss that made him feel intoxicated. He was so intoxicated that he was questioning whether he should pull out now. Her teeth nibble at his lower lip just in time for them to come together. The feeling of her cunt pulsing around his cock drove the rockstar insane. When he pulled back from the kiss, his sweat-covered forward pressed against hers as he thrusts a couple more times, ensuring every droplet of his cum stayed inside her. 

“I love you, Y/N.” 

[thydungeongal]

D&D players often talk about the six abilities of D&D dividing neatly into two categories, physical and mental, but not only does this division actually not really make sense within the wider context of D&D as a game, I think it's actually one of those things where the game itself has never used those descriptors for the abilities but the fandom has found the division useful for whatever reason.

The closest I think D&D has come to enforcing such a duality is in 3e, where a number of spells treated a character's Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution scores as effectively "separate" from a character Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma scores. But even then the separation wasn't actually described using the words "physical" and "mental."

[moghedien]

I know that Gortash being introduced as a "handsome young man" is like a joke we like to make because he is clearly not young and I might be a dyke but I'm not sure anyone actually into him would die on the hill of him being conventionally handsome either. but do we know if that was all intentional or what because I never see people talk about how the Chosen are introduced there outside of joking about it

like I'm genuinely unsure if its a side affect of Larian just saying whatever and not going back and changing with how that scene goes later, because its not just Gortash that is described in a way that seems misleading. Ketheric is also introduced as an elf when he is a half-elf. and based on how literally everything else in the game goes, elf vs half elf seems to be a distinction anyone on Faerun just inherently knows and would note, to the point that the only person who has to be corrected on the difference is a literal alien from space who hasn't met either before (Lae'zel). Not to mention the fact that Ketheric has a beard which is a very clear indication of him being a half elf, yet in that moment he's called an elf

and I want to know if this has been just like a confirmed oversight or not that maybe wasn't fixed once character designs were finalized, because I honestly want it to NOT be that. I want these questionable descriptors to be there on purpose because its actually so much more interesting. because we have to remember that these descriptions came from the Absolute, which they are in control of

like if the Absolute presents Ketheric as an elf and Gortash as a handsome young man, its so much more interesting because it means that they programmed that into her to make that be how their mind controlled cultists see them. Like Gortash wants to be this young and handsome charismatic leader, but regardless of how he looks, we know the guy ain't as young as he wants to be. Considering he sold Karlach to Zarial like a decade ago and had been working before even then for who knows how long, he might be comparable younger than Ketheric, but he's not gonna be super young. not enough to justify that being how he's described and he doesn't look it either. Handsome.....I'll keep my mouth shut.

but Ketheric being described as an elf when he very clearly is a half is more interesting to me because when we see imagery of Ketheric before he turned Sharran, he looks much more elven in features. He is clean shaven and very like stereotypical elf regardless that he isn't a full elf. and I just find it very interesting that it almost seems like this version of Ketheric he wants his adoring cultists to see him as

and its just so interesting to me that, if this was an intentional thing in the game, that apparently Gortash and Ketheric both programmed the Absolute with very specific things they wanted people to see them as when they're introduced to them. like they want to be these false versions of themselves so bad they have people who would follow them regardless brainwashed into thinking of them like that.

Idk about Orin, I don't remember what the Absolute says about her in that moment but I believe it, its true

[louisoffline]

FINALLY FINISHED THE REF SHEET PLUS OTHER DRAWINGS YAAYYY okay so i had the ref sheet done basically two days ago BUT i wanted to draw some more because my ref sheets look so......just stand there kinda scary so MORE ART !!! also skip if you are seeing this when i say our mcs twin bro......we are so mind connected with the skeleton sweaters my lord when i logged on and saw that both step 2 designs had them..........my goodness..i think we might just be the same person....

I want to try and flesh out relationships and dynamics more i think thats something i kind of struggle with with ocs so..that is what the rest of this post will be backstory, character traits, etc etc if you chose to read i will love you forever

Step 1: Gosh...I love making characters really reeaaallllyyy awkward and that's exactly what Lenae is. Her awkwardness is really just stemming from anxiety or nervousness. Qiu and her's dynamic is so sweet to me I love characters being to nervous to say things and then another saysit for them omg im weak yeah thats so them. Lenae and Tam on the other hand....it's not like Lenae doesn't liker her she knows she means well and is extremely sweet but Lenae just can't understand why she is so loud and energetic all the time, she finds it hard to keep up. She IS the sweetest kid you would ever come across though, she will do anything to see you smile. Her earmuffs are a constant, everyone else may think it's just a comfort thing but it is in fact a noise thing we just don't know that yet guys(undiagnosed autism is craayyy)

Step 2: Still being that same shy, sweet kid while looking emo AND TRANSGENDER?? not for the weak. Still shy and reserved maybe even more so but no one really expects anything else. I think meek is a very good descriptor, they get freaked so so easily like has never had a peaceful day in their life. However, Halloween IS their favorite time of the year, it's an aesthetics thing i guess. If you pass by Lenae in the halls you would probably think that they were on their last few threads of patience by the sour look on their face but no, they could be having the best day of their life with that face on. They found it tiring to keep that placid smile on their face all the time when it wasn't always real. In this stage Lenae has definitely started expierimenting with different art mediums like dabbling in painting, poetry, music, you name it. Qiu and Lenae are still the bestest friends ever(bestest crushes ever???) and it's actually kind of nice to have someone by your side who knows what you're going through with your gender identity struggle and everything. Lenae for sure feels bad for how they treated Tam just because they thought she was a little much, I mean it was kind of hypocritical, so they've been trying to make it up to her by being kind of everyly nice?? oh boy oh boy

Step 3: I really don't know a lot of what I could write for step 3 since like nothing of it is out in the actual game SO were just gonna go like personality kind of wise y'know? I think they've definitely mellowed out AT LEAST A LITTLE...like omg guys they can sometimes order for themselves at restaurants!! They're very opinionated and has a strong stance on what they believe but like not in a mean way they just don't understand why others would think differently. Building on their creative abilities, they probably have plans to go to a college for art or fashion. Or maybe they'll start their own business who knows! It's okay to not have everything planned out anymore, some spontaneity is welcome in their life. Now that they've finally been able to be more open, mainly around friends, they'll say something a little too...unsettling or freaky??? to be normal, it's a little weird to get used to oopsies

AND THATS ALL if you read all of this i appreciate you becasue this has been drafted up on my computer screen for multiple days I just did not know what to say siigghhh yeah i love this kid and I hope you guys do too teehee

[talia-black]

A Gift Repaid (Is But A Favor Owed)

(I started this a week after 2.3 went live. Clearly this sat in my WIPs before boredom resurrected it. Based on the 2.3 post-quest. Currently in the middle of a hurricane and the internet is out so I finally have no choice but to finish some of my WIPs.) 

Angsty, because Lord knows I can’t separate poor Aventurine from his trauma, but let me know if you want a fluffy sequel. 

Trailblazer!Gender neutral!Reader

(But I do use the name Stelle because I am a part of the AvenStelle agenda)

Stelle wants to repay Aventurine's gift, but doesn't have a single clue about how to do that. Maybe something just a little bit more will come of their clueless but sincere gesture.

Aventurine let out a well-earned sigh as he collapsed into bed. The weeks following his return to Pier Point had been nothing but a series of meetings, debriefs, more meetings, follow-up reports, and even more meetings. Leaving the normally free-wheeling gambler feeling restless and pent-up. Watching the drama unfold on the Radiant Feldspar had been his only form of entertainment. So naturally once the negotiations had settled and the Fool's prank had been dealt with, the Stoneheart had nothing to distract himself from the stack of paperwork taunting him from its perch on his desk.

Admittedly he had resorted to browsing one of his favorite online stores when he got the notification that the limited-edition model of the Astral Express was finally open for bidding. He won naturally, and it only took him a few seconds before he decided what to do with it.

Aventurine bundled up a few trinkets he had collected while on Penacony and had them packaged alongside the train model before shipping it off to the formerly-named Radiant Feldspar.

Stelle had been by far one of the most interesting and delightful characters he ever had the pleasure of meeting. Despite the power they wielded simply by hosting a Stellaron and being a member of the Astral Express Crew, they were almost chronically lawless and free-spirited. Although, squirrel-brained might be the most accurate descriptor. They could be in the middle of a punch line to some terrible dad joke one moment, and the next they are sprinting off because something shiny was poking out of a trashcan and they just had to take it with them. Every expensive gift he sent their way was met with sincere gratitude. But Stelle's wide-eyed, embarrassed blush didn't hold a candle to the expression of pure joy that lit up their entire face whenever they dug out something they deemed worthwhile out of a pile of abandoned boxes or an alley that looked like it could launch a thousand microbiology studies. Stelle was just so genuine and thoroughly lacking in any kind of malicious intent or agenda that it was impossible to not be endeared to them.

As far as the Stoneheart was concerned, the Astral Express' resident raccoon in human skin could have whatever their heart desired.

()()()()()()())()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Honestly, Aventurine forgot about the gift after a week. Work wasn't any less busy, and it was becoming clearer by the day that part of his punishment for damaging his cornerstone and putting two others in jeopardy was to be grounded on Pier Point until Diamond was forced to send him somewhere else.

Five weeks later, the gambler was willing to take a second shot at that Emanator if it meant he would be able to escape the never-ending mountain of paperwork. One way or the other.

Which is why he decided to spend an afternoon sifting through his backlog of physical mail instead of addressing the two-foot stack of papers that one of Obsidian's lackeys had dropped on his desk five minutes before his lunch break or the 1000+ emails sitting in his inbox.

The majority was junk. He was appalled that most of it got past his subordinates desk, and he happily watched the papers be chewed to pieces in the shredder. A few particularly inventive scam attempts even managed to get a chuckle out of him before they met their fate.

The slightly more personal letters were mildly amusing. Threats from past "friends", professions of love from strangers who had caught a glimpse of him at this place or the other. 

He would definitely need to have HR reevaluate the person who handled his mail.

Aventurine saved the packages for last, mainly because he knew those had been thoroughly inspected before they were even allowed in the building. One attempted bombing incident and now all of his shopping orders took a minimum of 72 hours before he was allowed to pick them up. But it wasn't until he had actually started to examine the boxes that he noticed something odd.

One of the packages wasn't so much a "package" as it was something vaguely spherical wrapped in newspaper. A shipping label that barely met postal requirements was the only thing holding it together, and the smell of burnt metal radiated from it. The sender's name had been smudged, which only fueled the gambler's curiosity.

Mostly confident whatever was in the package wouldn't kill him, Aventurine tore away the wrapping paper.

"What in the name of the Preservation-"

Aventurine hissed. His fingers had struck metal, nearly slicing his finger open on a particularly jagged corner. The rusted bronze burned in the low lighting Aventurine had illuminating his office, offset by the shiny aluminum that had been soldered to it. Aventurine continued to unwrap the package and it was only when the last of the newspaper had fallen to the floor that he was able to make out what it was.

Several pieces of scrap had been melded together in a caricature of a star. Different types of metal and alloys gleaned in the light of his office, and despite the patches of rust and wear on it, a lot of effort had clearly been put into it.

Aventurine had no clue what to make of it. It wasn't some high-end art piece if the shipping was anything to go by, and wasn't anything close to gifts people had attempted to bribe him with before. He reached down to pick through the wrapping and take a second look at the shipping label and a folded piece of paper fell out. It looked like standard cardstock, but Aventurine could see his name scratched on the top.

The gambler's intrigue was practically suffocating him at this point as he snatched the paper up and folded back the crease.

Hey Aventurine, hope you're doing alright. I've been stabbed before. It's not a fun experience once the adrenaline wears off and you can't get your legs to work properly. Make sure you wait at least a few days before trying to go out and pick a fight, or you'll wake up with very disappointed people hovering over you.

Sorry I didn't respond to your gift sooner. I would say social anxiety is bitch, but March has been nagging me to stop masking my vulnerability with humor.

Truthfully, I didn't know how to thank you. Excusing that little scuffle at the theme park (No hard feelings there. A lot of my friends have tried to maim me before) you've been great company and I wanted to give you something in return for all of the presents you’ve given me. It took me a while to decide on what exactly that was. I've watched a few of your poker games. You can make more credits in a single evening than I've ever had in my entire life. It wasn't until Dan Heng commented on all of the "junk" in my room that I had the idea of making something.

March 7th says I'm a hoarder. I prefer the term "low-budget collector". The metal you're holding was scavenged from a massive junkyard that most of Belobog's decommissioned robots end up in, though some of it came from abandoned cycranes I found near the Alchemy Commission. You wouldn't believe the types of odds and ends that get thrown in their dumpsters.

I had to ask for Himeko's help to actually weld the metal though. I think I did a pretty decent job for my first time, and aside from a few burns I made it through the experience unscathed. Word of advice: never touch the tip of a welding torch. Even after it's been off for ten minutes.

I really did like hanging out with you, Aventurine. Not a lot of people are willing to put up with my hyperactive raccoon brain for long, and it was nice to meet someone else who enjoys causing general mayhem. There should be another present in here if I get Pom-Pom to approve it.

Anyway, I hope you at least like this gift. If you don't, feel free to toss it.

May your journey lead you starward

-The Trailblazing Raccoon

Stelle

P.S. If you were serious about that round of cards, the Express will be staying at the Luofu for the next few months before we go out of range of the HoloNet for a while. I know a place with great food and mostly empty tables if you feel like stopping by.

Stelle.

The letter’s words blurred from how hard his hand was shaking.

Aventurine blinked furiously. A single tear escaped and smeared the postscript. He set the ornament gently on his desk before looking through the newspaper for a second envelope.

Instead of another folded note, there was a smaller envelope crookedly taped to what had been the inside of the newspaper. 

The Astral Express welcomes all who wish to move beyond their past and journey along the silver rails, no matter their intent or agenda. Ms. Topaz has already been granted an Express Pass, so it would be inconsiderate to not offer you one as well when a Trailblazer has vouched for you. The Pass enclosed will allow you to board the Astral Express whenever you wish, barring emergency circumstances or a crisis state. 

- The Conductor of the Astral Express, Pom-Pom

A golden ticket was nestled in the folded page. The rainbow sheen on its glossy gold surface was a perfect replica of the reflection of the stars outside Aventurine’s office window. 

Those same stars were the sole light in Aventurine’s penthouse apartment later that night as he drowned his memories and anxieties in a bottle of Penacony’s finest. His alcohol-addled brain scheming away as he clutched that golden ticket in a death grip. 

()()()()()()())()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

A few days later…

“Hey Stelle!” 

The Trailblazer in question looked up from their game to see March leaning into their room.

“You’ve got a package. Well, a few packages. And a letter.”

Stelle raised an eyebrow as March dropped six nicely-wrapped boxes and a letter on their bed.  

“Are you sure you haven’t gone over your budget this month?” March asked as Stelle reached for the letter. 

“I haven’t ordered anything,” Stelle mumbled, distracted by the ostentatious gold calligraphy decorating the front. The list of people she knew who would send them such a thing was short, and with the packages…

Stelle ripped open the envelope and leaned back, away from March’s prying gaze. 

Dear Stelle, 

It would be my honor to accept your invitation. The gifts I’ve sent are a small measure of my gratitude for such a thoughtful present, and I hope you won’t object to similar gestures in the future. I’ve never had the chance to visit the Luofu, but I managed to free a few days next week for me to spend at my leisure. You have my number, so if you’re looking for a little risky fun, give me a call. 

Your close friend, Aventurine <3

[thepixelelf]

genres/tags: body swapping/your name au; mystery; angst; minwon are roommates; reader is a small town [gender neutral] living in a lonely world. warnings: coarse language; major character death (non graphic/not shown). wc: 1.8k

love triangle au requests

[where and, more importantly, when] In the past week and a half, Wonwoo has slept better than he's ever slept in his life.

Actually, maybe "better" isn't the best descriptor for his sleep. Longer, certainly. Dreamless.

When he closes his eyes, he no longer dreams through yours. He no longer finds himself trapped in your tiny town, in your lonesome loft, in your dead-end job...in your body.

Wonwoo keeps telling himself he should be happy; relieved. What he was calling a curse a few weeks ago is finally over. He isn't waking up in an unfamiliar body every other day anymore. You're not messing with his life anymore, intentionally or not. Yes, he should be thankful that all that body-swapping nonsense is over.

Groggy, eyes drooping, Wonwoo watches coffee drip from the Keurig into his whale shark-shaped mug. You'd bought that mug with his money, at the aquarium you went to in his body, since your small town doesn't have places like that. (And you've never left.)

((In your own body, anyway.))

The TV across the apartment plays the general news channel, but Wonwoo stopped paying attention at some point.

His phone lies face up on the counter in front of the coffeemaker, the daily journal app you used to keep him up to date on your shenanigans in his body open. If it weren't for your notes — and the kitschy mug in front of him — he'd almost believe that all the times he woke up and spent the day in your body were dreams.

Wednesday 10:38PM Obviously I didn't take your car to the aquarium. You city people drive like fucking animals. Makes me glad I've never left.

Thursday 3:45PM You don't act like it. -W

Friday 11:01PM It's not like I've never wanted to leave. I mean, you've spent enough time there to understand. Everyone wants to leave, but it's only the lucky ones who actually do. I know we've been complaining about this whole thing a lot. But... I don't know. It's been nice to not be me. For a little while. You probably understand by now why I can't leave. I know you've been receiving the calls. My mom's condition has been like that for years... I don't want to leave her alone.

Saturday 11:48PM I didn't mean to be nosy, but they called you/me yesterday. They said your mom was awake and asking for you... but she was unconscious again by the time I got to the home. I can take care of her too, when I'm you. If you're okay with it. If not, that's okay too.-W

Sunday 9:06PM She'd know you're not me. I don't want to scare her.

Monday 11:59PM I could still take care of her. From the sidelines. If you want. -W

Wonwoo stares at the last note he put in the log. He didn't swap with you that night, or any night since, so you haven't read it. Now he's finding it hard to accept that he'd settled for this mode of communication. You'd tried to trade phone numbers at one point, but his messages weren't sending. The ones that you'd sent as a test went through, but there were no notifications for them. By the time he'd thought to scroll through his old messages, it was like yours were always there. He knew it wasn't because you blocked him — he could check when he took over your body, after all — so it didn't really make sense.

Not that any of this made sense, but still.

Something must have happened for the swapping to suddenly stop with no warning, but then again, it's not like either of you got any warning when it started.

Sighing, Wonwoo pulls up your number and hovers his thumb over the call button. He's never spoken to you, really — only ever heard your voice when he was using it.

He taps his thumb and brings his phone up to his ear.

It rings until the automated voicemail message plays, and he hangs up.

Then tries again.

"Hello?" an unfamiliar voice answers.

Wonwoo blinks. He's never talked to you face to face, but he knows this voice is one he's never heard before. "Who is this?"

"Who is—" The voice chuckles. "You called me, buddy."

"I'm looking for..." Saying your name out loud feels strange. He's never told anyone about you.

"Sorry man, they must've given you a fake number."

Wonwoo frowns. "That's not possible." You sent those messages to him before with the exact number he's calling now. "Just a couple weeks ago we—"

"I've had this number for like two years, so I don't know what to tell you."

"Two years?" Carelessly, Wonwoo's hand shoots out to support himself on the counter, and he knocks over your whale shark mug. "Shit." Hot coffee spills all over fake marble, and the handle of the mug cracks completely off. "Fuck."

Wonwoo hangs up on the stranger even as they ask if he's okay, and he tosses his phone on a dry section of the counter so he can hold the broken handle of your mug in one hand and the rest in the other.

He doesn't get it. He really doesn't.

But he feels like crying.

Why did it stop?

Where did you go?

Why did he have to break the one thing he has here that's yours?

The front door of the apartment opens, and through it steps Mingyu in his work attire. He toes off his shoes, puts his wireless earbuds in their case, and when Wonwoo can't hold in a sniffle, Mingyu looks up at him.

He meets Wonwoo's teary eyes, glances at your broken mug, and, shocked— 

Whispers your name.

Wonwoo's mouth drops open. He can only stand frozen as Mingyu marches up to him and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Is that really you? It’s okay. It’s okay. We can go back and get you another one! Where were you? I’ve been— I thought—”

Careful not to touch him with the broken edges of your mug, Wonwoo pushes Mingyu off. “You knew?”

Mingyu’s eyes widen, and he backs off with a faux casual cough. “Haha… Knew what…?” he drawls, avoiding Wonwoo’s hard gaze and scratching the back of his neck.

“Don’t play stupid. You said their name.” Wonwoo puts the pieces of your mug on the counter. “How long?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Mingyu.”

“The whole time?” Mingyu flinches back, wincing with one eye peeked open to watch for Wonwoo’s reaction. “Um…”

Wonwoo feels dizzy. “The whole time?!” he echoes. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“They told me not to!” Mingyu puts his hands up in defense. “They were embarrassed I caught them so quickly.”

“But… You… Wait, the aquarium… You went together…?”

Leaning into it now, Mingyu talks over Wonwoo’s confusion. “So where are they? Do you know what happened? Why did the swapping thing stop? Did you figure out how it works? Are they ever coming back?”

Wonwoo snaps back to into it at that last question. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

“Well do you know where they are?” Mingyu steps closer, his brows furrowed. “I tried calling them but some random guy answered. And I don’t know why — I swear they’ve told me a million times — but every time I try to remember the name of their town, I can’t. It’s like a blank spot in my brain.”

Wonwoo frowns. “It’s—”

Wait.

“It’s…”

The name is on the the tip of his tongue, but why should it be stuck there? He was living every other day in that damned town.

“Right?” Mingyu says. He snaps his fingers. “I know it sounds something like… cargo, or gunley, or scarsborough, or—”

“—reporting to you live from Garneau—”

Both of them whip their heads toward the TV, where a news reporter stands in front of a woodsy area. The sky behind them is gray, and the trees are lit by flashing blue and red lights

“It’s been just over two years since a missing persons report was filed after a barn party that was held on the outskirts of Garneau.”

“‘Barn party’?” Mingyu repeats. “Isn’t that—?”

You were the first person Wonwoo had ever heard use the term, since you were planning on going to one with your shitty coworkers. Wonwoo told you not to go — not just because of that one asshole who would always look at you in a way that made Wonwoo shiver, but because barn parties, whatever they were, couldn’t be fun. He had no thoughts on whether or not it would be dangerous.

“This morning, intense rainstorms in a marshy area not far from that party led to the discovery of a human body in the mud. Forensics are showing the person to have been in their mid-twenties, and that their body was submerged for at least one year.”

Wonwoo’s jaw clenches.

“Other details are currently unknown, but speculation leads to a connection between the missing persons case from two years prior. We urge anyone with any information on—”

Mingyu gasps when the reporter says your name.

“—to come forward. Until more information is discovered, however, this has been—”

“What the fuck.” Mingyu looks over at Wonwoo, whose face is blank. “What the fuck. What the fuck!”

Wonwoo says nothing. He can’t.

A week and a half ago, he started looking up treatments for your mother’s condition and better homes for patients like her. He missed a deadline for one of his projects while searching for other places you could visit as him that you couldn’t go to in your town, like the giant indoor amusement park, or that cheesy rainforest-themed restaurant. The last time he was in your body, he left a bowl of sliced strawberries in your fridge after you lamented missing the day some client sent an edible arrangement to your work.

Was that two years ago for you? Did you ever even see them?

Wonwoo goes to the entrance of their apartment, grabs his jacket, shrugs it on while slipping into his shoes, and puts his hand on the doorknob.

Mingyu puts his hand over Wonwoo’s. “Where are you going?”

Jerking his wrist, Wonwoo yanks open the door. “To find them.”

Mingyu follows him into the hall. “Didn’t you see the news? They’re—” He stumbles, eyes wide and breath starting to grow uneven. Then he swallows that moment of realization down and meets Wonwoo’s eyes with an uncertain tilt to his mouth. “You really think you can find them?”

Wonwoo can't answer that. “But I'm going anyway.”

Running his hand through his hair, Mingyu turns around for a few seconds with the other hand on his hip. He sighs before dipping back into the apartment.

When he comes back out, his steps are heavy with determination.

“I'll drive.”

[lenaellsi]

we really need to be able to separate "demon as species" and "demon as political affiliation" in good omens, because that is at the core of why so many people (including the characters in the show, especially aziraphale) are reluctant to acknowledge crowley as a true demon.

demon means BOTH "an angel who has fallen from heaven, has an animal aspect, and is weak to holy water and resistant to hellfire" and "an employee of hell who is loyal to satan." there is one word for both of these concepts. crowley fits one, but not the other. it's why he's simultaneously a "former demon" by his own words and also incredibly resistant to the idea that he is anything else.

not working for hell doesn't mean he's not really a demon. it doesn't mean he's in any better standing with god. it doesn't mean his fall wasn't something that changed him deeply, both on a physical level and as a person. it means he is struggling to find the vocabulary to define himself, because the system is not built for someone like him. it is impossible, in the minds of every character in the show except for crowley, to be a demon without being one of "the bad guys." it's impossible to have fallen without joining team hell.

the same is also true of angels. michael refers to aziraphale as a "former angel" in the same episode that crowley refers to himself as a "former demon." I don't think aziraphale would ever use that language for himself--he's very attached to his identity as an angel, and the closest he ever gets to calling himself anything else is when he's so upset at the end of the job minisode--but just as there's no word for a demon who is not associated with hell, there's no word for an angel who has been alienated from heaven.

but these identities still mean something for both crowley and aziraphale. a huge part of crowley’s personality and his moral code is his resistance to authority and his disdain for rules and predestination. likewise, a huge part of aziraphale’s personal code is still his allegiance to some sort of “greater good,” whether that be god or just a nebulous concept of a heaven that doesn’t exist.

and in addition to the philosophical divide, there are real tangible differences between the angel crowley used to be and the demon he is now. the distinction between “angel” and “demon” is not important in that it dictates whether a celestial being can be Good or Bad, but it is important in how it functions as a descriptor of the person’s prior life experiences, their relationship with god, and their physical characteristics.

[ohthethingswedoforlove]

Guess who rewatched Marble Hornets recently and can't stop thinking about yandere!Masky and yandere!Hoodie.

Warnings: yandere characters; stalking; violence; some spoilers for the series;

  Tim who just feels incurably guilty. 

  Now that he thinks about it, he always felt that way, ever since he can remember. Like he was always at fault for something, even if that something wasn't privy to him. But now, well. He can't ignore where some of the guilt comes from.

  But can you really blame him for being so attached? He already lost so much, especially for someone who never had much to hold on to, to begin with. Still, he knows. He knows he should keep you away from him. And from that strange... Thing, the monster that has followed him since he was child. Or would monsters be a more accurate descriptor? Afterall, the Operator isn't the only danger you face when you choose to keep yourself around Tim.

  Because while Tim may feel guilty, Masky doesn't. Masky knows what he wants, and he always wants it with a precise, pinpoint precision. Does it matter if it's wrong? Well, he too has been wronged! He too didn't ask for this! Why should he deny himself a sliver of happiness, of comfort, when you're right there and already trust him so much? 

  Taking you isn't hard, even if you kick and scream and beg for him to let you go. Why would he? He fails to see the reason. And if you don't stop fighting against him, he might need to take some drastic measures. Yeah, broken bones are a pain to deal with, but nothing you can't handle.

  And Tim? Well... He feels guilty. And he doesn't remember much of what happens when the mask is on. Even at the lowest of rock bottoms, he still mourns the life you would still have if it wasn't for him, the normalcy you two could have possibly shared. He cares for you. But despite everything, you'll never see him truly fight against what he's doing to you, or what he truly wants. Because maybe, in a rather cruel twist of fate, this is what he wanted. 

  Someone to share the pain with.

  Brian, on the other hand, kind of... Doesn't care anymore.

  So much has happened, so much has been taken. At this point why parade around with a false sense of righteousness?

  There's always a certain hint of malice when it comes to Hoodie. He doesn't lament the situation, he doesn't pretend he wishes you had gotten away from him. You're right right he wants you, and friend, he's been just so alone alone alonealonealone.

  He isn't as erratic or prone to violence as Masky, but he's one for torment. To follow you around, to play with your anxieties, to leave messages behind. He's your shadow. And he'll run circles around you until you find yourself digging your own grave.

  But sometimes you see him. You see hints of Brian through the cracks of this husk of a person, he lifts his mask and you see him smile in that very specific way you remember from your friend. You hear him laugh or even crack a stupid joke specifically to see your reaction, which in the new situation you two now live in, feels completely out of place. But his voice sounds wrong. Ragged. There's a hint of venom that follows everything he does.

  He just wants some company. And at this point you both know he doesn't care what he has to do to keep you around.

[archer-kacey]

I think it's really convenient that Mike is making sure everyone knows that Norman is white, but when the question of LGBTQ or minority characters comes up, suddenly it's a much more complex question. (I get he was asked, but you're telling me there's no possible way to leave it ambiguous?)

You leave everyone else's appearances and physical descriptors ambiguous, but this twitter interaction leads me to believe you have SOME idea of what you want your characters to look like so...which is it?

Funny thing about erasing the canonicity of the books is that you also erase any canonical descriptors for the other characters. Wally being incredibly old? Gone. Allison being platinum blonde and a Ginger Rogers look-alike? Gone. Sammy looking like a preying mantis? Gone as well. This gives you the perfect opportunity to get in there and start dropping more details about the characters that you claim to be passionate about. Answer that age old question- is Sammy Lawrence brunette or blonde?

What REALLY really puts a lit match in my gas tank, though, is something Mike pointed out himself. He says that the photo of Norman is in Joey's apartment, which is true.

But you know what else can be found in Joey Drew's apartment? Something that was retconned later on haphazardly?

"Local Artist Pushed Himself too Hard, Found Dead At Desk."

"Years later we find out he wasn't dead at his desk!"

"It was always in the apartment" is not the gotcha you think it is.

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

Murderbot and Pronouns

This is my personal opinion, so take it as such. But it felt like something worth saying.

I used to get very frustrated when people used the wrong pronouns for Murderbot. I remember thinking more than once, why can't they just get it right.

But, a few years ago, my mother read All Systems Red in Russian of all languages. In that translation, Murderbot is referred to, partially, as a robot, which is masculine in that language. When she talked to me about this human-robot, it was also in Russian, and using masculine descriptors. It became "he" by translation.

I'm told that in the Hebrew translation, the pronouns are feminine, but that might be hearsay.

Then, a dear friend of mine finally finished ASR! And she kept referring to MB as a "she." When I asked my friend why she did it, she said it was because of how its voice is described at the beginning of the book.

She'd imagined a tough-looking butch with short hair, a no-fucks-given attitude, and a kind voice. Like herself.

And that made me pause. She had seen herself in Murderbot the same way I had. Her choice of pronouns was coming from her perspective of the world, not from a desire to misgender MB. She wasn't trying to hurt anyone. She'd missed the pronouns (especially in book one) and saw herself in the main character.

And I understood her logic.

The thing she helped me realize as we spoke is that MB has unusual-by-US-standards pronouns, and when people didn't get them right, it made me feel like they wouldn't accept my pronouns either. That their supposed disrespect would extend to me, the person.

But that wasn't true. My friend knows my pronouns and doesn't get them wrong. It was never about that.

So, now I try to be kinder and gentler when I see people call MB a he/she/they. What I want is for people to respect my pronouns because I'm a living, thinking being, and I want my autonomy to be respected. And by being observant and kind to one of my favorite characters, people showcase that they may be kind to me and respect my autonomy.

And that's what I tell them now. I care about MB's pronouns because its autonomy is one way for me to explore my autonomy in a world that wasn't willing to give me the freedom to be myself.

And I find that people understand that, just like they see themselves in MB, so do I. And why that makes it important for me to see them get its pronouns correct.

And some people didn't read the books deeply enough to really let the "It/Its" sink in. Or they're trying to reference Skarsgard-MB without misgendering the actual human playing MB.

Either way, may I recommend kindness and compassion?

You're valid, your frustrations are valid (and this is to everyone, not to anyone specific). You deserve to have the world acknowledge your pronouns and your autonomy!