#before I start writing for it

[lousyglitch]

The wildest thing about Ben 10 is that it took until 2005 for someone to have the idea "what if a kid could turn into a bunch of aliens" like this isn't obviously the coolest and most marketable premise for anything ever. Each design is a new toy. A new powerset. Come on.

But to prove that it wasn't a fluke, they continued to have the best ideas for every aspect of it. How does he transform? A cool watch you can also sell as a toy. That watch's name? Omnitrix. Say it. It's so satisfying. How many aliens? Ten. Nice round number. The kid's name? Ben. The show's name? Ben Ten. His full name is Benjamin Tennyson, a normal, plausible name, but he also turns into 10 aliens.

Bigger brands dream about this synergy. Better writers would kill for this coherence. So holistic. So intuitive. The identity alone!!! The retro alien sound motif? Chilling. The green? Any other color would be wrong. The kirby krackle pattern? It seems so obvious in retrospect. The roadtrip format? Genius. Lesser writers would've done the spider-man high school thing. His arch nemesis being Cthulhu darth vader? Inspired, iconic, intimidating!

The execution has its highs and lows, but the idea??? Game changing. So self-evident that it seems inevitable. If Ben 10 didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him.

[the-mang0tree]

i should have never saved you

[xandrikart]

[hyperions-light]

Abt that unsolicited ‘concrit’ on fanfic thing

My personal opinion is that you should never offer unsolicited critical feedback to people, and you should only offer it publicly at all under specific circumstances. Why?

- Very few people actually know how to give ‘concrit’. They think it just means saying there were surface errors, or they didn’t like how someone was characterized. That’s not concrit. That’s not useful, at all. That’s an amateur review from someone with little to no relevant expertise.

- Especially with fanfiction, you can’t know who you’re speaking to. You can’t moderate tone or intensity of criticism based on their experience and relative skill level. It’s possible that harsh or even moderate critique could make them stop writing forever. Why? What is the point of taking away someone’s joy in that manner? So that the commenter can feel satisfied that they corrected them? That’s cruel and childish.

- Usually fanfiction is published in only one place— maybe three or four, at most. Why should authors be expected to put up with negative criticism in the ONLY place their work is available? Are published authors expected to attach one star Goodreads reviews to their bookjackets?

- If you genuinely wish to help someone improve their writing, you can do so by speaking personally with them and offering your help. The assertion that criticism from a stranger whose opinion they don’t value and whose qualifications are unknown is going to make them better is disingenuous. If someone is sincere in their desire to assist an author in progressing on their writing journey, they should demonstrate that through investing appropriate time and effort. Otherwise, there are many places to complain away from the author’s sight. The only thing accomplished by doing so in front of them is making them feel bad— and if that is someone’s intent, that’s reprehensible.

Anyway. I’ve never gotten useful concrit in my comments or my bookmarks, and I expect I never will.

[tommygotwrittenoff]

i literally do not care about big emergencies on abc's 911. i want to see my characters talk to each other and have stories that are parallels to small, everyday (everyday for first responders) emergencies

[starssoblue]

“things were so hard with dad in recent years...how did he go from paparapluie to père? i wish i could face him and understand, but while he was still here i didn't dare try to tell him [any of my feelings] and now...it's too late.” * paparapluie is a pun on the words papa and parapluie (umbrella) since the plush is a frog. père is the french word for 'father.'

[gia-d]

“Our name is Link.”

Four? You ok there buddy?

Artwork for Shadowed Chapter 4: The Missing Link, written by myself and @not-freyja

[zillychu]

On their way to Bambouche, the party stops by a restaurant. A nice meal is had, the sun is setting, the day is winding down.

Until Siffrin sees the couples' deluxe dessert special on the menu.

"Quick, someone pretend to be bonded with me!" Siffrin slaps the menu down with a sweaty palm, fire in his eye and maybe a little drool on his chin.

Odile's hand is on Isabeau's shoulder with the speed and expertise of a handler whose dog was just offered bacon.

"Isabeau," She speaks calm and quiet, as Mirabelle and Bonnie scoot in close to Siffrin, oo-ing and aa-ing at the lavishly illustrated confectionary. "Wait just a moment."

"Madame..." Isa whines with such a shake to both voice and legs (had he really already been on his feet?), that Odile returns to the dog metaphor. She nods her head towards the three at the other end of the table.

They all look as desperate as Isa does right now, starry-eyed and giddy as they point out the obscene number of strawberries, the generous portion of vanilla-bean ice cream, and ooh is that lava cake? It's huge, but they can afford it at 50% off!

"I know you need this like a drowning man needs air," Odile doesn't even keep her tone down this time, she's hardly the only one with at least one eye. "but consider:"

Siffrin, Mirabelle, and Bonnie look up at them, curious.

"It would be hilarious to see Siffrin and Mirabelle fail at this spectacularly."

Silence falls across the table. Hands shake. A dry throat tries to swallow.

Isa quietly sits back down in his chair.

"S-sorry, Sif..." Isa scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.

"HAH!!!"

"Madame you traitor!!"

"Wait wait wait Isa hold on, we could still--"

"Ah-ah, Isabeau made his decision. Don't be a sore loser now."

"Oh Change--okay, okay I can do this. We can do this, Siffrin!"

"Belle, Belle! Give Frin one of your earrings!"

"... Oh no my ears aren't pierced, why did I never pierce my ears??"

"Just, uh... stick it on your cloak? That might be obvious enough! I think!"

"Okay, yeah--w-wait, what's our story?"

"Story? We need a--oh Change of course we need a backstory! What if they ask us how long we've been bonded?"

"We'll just, we can, um--"

"The waiter's coming back, quick hurry up!!"

-----

A waitress stands next to a portly man in a fine dress shirt, the two of them watching the commotion as the new guy (oh, poor Oliver) tries his best to handle delivering a final dessert order to Vaugarde's Saviors--and finding out Housemaiden Mirabelle is, apparently, betrothed.

He's handling it about as well as his previous interactions, having been ordered not to call attention to the heroes' identity or fame, give them some space to breathe. Things certainly would go a lot smoother if he had any semblance of a poker face, but at least three of them seem to trust his feigned ignorance.

The Housemaiden and her companion with the cloak look like they're about to melt off the table by the time Oliver starts walking off with an empty tray. The kid with them is already digging in, picking off strawberries and laughing uproariously while the tall gentleman across from them vibrates in fits of giggles.

"... Do they know... we would have given them the cake for free...?"

[aghostsnail]

so-so there's this guy (@keferon 's tf mecha au)

[hootyhoowoo]

A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!

[rinnstars]

soulmates!

matching puzzle pieces: mimicking you unconsciously away from home

itoshi rin x reader: fluff, drabble, pro!player rin (after nel arc), long distance relationship, yearning/longing, not proofread + likes and reblogs are appreciated!

one thing rin has learnt whilst overseas is that you and him might really be connected by souls, by ribs, and by heart perhaps too.

strict routines he’s stuck to since he was just fourteen — wake up, open the windows, take deep breaths, stretching, yoga, mediation shifted in its own ways to accommodate you back when he had first gotten together with you: to waking up and looking at you with the light outside from the windows shining perfectly at your face that makes him gulp a little, staring hard and long whilst tracing your face as gently as possible, indulging in the sugary-sweet moment before returning back to his routine like a robot. its what he’s used to, what he’s comfortable enough, what he knows. and recently, he’s been mimicking you, he thinks: closing his eyes immediately at the bright light in his room the same way you bury your face in his face when you first wake up away from the “bright” lights in his room, drinking a cup of coffee that he swore he wouldn’t drink despite making it for you every morning like clockwork albeit with much less sugar than you would have added, and opening his phone the first thing he does right after it all the same way you open your phone and flash him essentially in his bedroom with your bright phone screen that illuminates the now matching photo of you and him beaming at the camera the day he left.

maybe its rin’s way of feeling your presence in his life now that its back to before he met you — just him and football, wearing a different but similarly stuffy and claustrophobic football jersey that marks his name at the back of it. bitter coffee that still smells like the kitchen that brings him back memories of you and him attempting to fix the coffee machine whilst laughing together, your smile imprinted in his mind, phone screen that still makes him unconsciously grin even though its been months since he’s left japan of that selfie with yours and his cheeks squished against each other, beaming at the camera as though it would be the last time right before he enters the gate to somewhere else that he wonders if you too look at it a little longer before you enter your phone, or hand sanitizer that smells exactly like the one you used to use, and gave to him whenever you two were out together that reminds him of home, reminds him of you.

and he’s sure his teammates dont miss the subtle changes to him. how his diet has changed strangely — desserts that fill his meal and sweets that he munches on in the dorm room that he used to buy from the convenience store for you to eat together in class and then in his room that tastes a little less sweet now that its not from your mouth to his, hotter food that you’ve made him grown used to in contrast to his old days eating leftovers and microwaveable meals from the fridge that still burns his tongue a little, sticking out his tongue as though he’s on field at the temperature even now the same way you do too, picking at his vegetable unconsciously the same way you do before pushing it onto his plate whilst smiling, each pickled vegetable even now resembling you in his mind as he pushes it around his plate. how he’s behaving all strangely too in contrast to the rin who they met just a few weeks ago at neo egoist league — how he’s more accustomed to laughing in the same tone you do, having to cup his mouth at the realisation, looking away awkwardly before being tackled by shidou (that broke out into half a fight), how he fiddles even more with his things than before as though they were your hands that he finds comfort in interlocking and fiddling with whilst lying right beside yours, how he looks a little longer at his phone screen that almost made shidou grab his phone (to his luck, he managed to dodge the attack and not get into a fight whilst in it: messaging you that as though expecting a praise). or even just the way he talks now — the tone and accent melting and merging into yours and his own mid sentence, your catchphrases popping out of his mouth unconsciously like bubblegum that draws strange looks (they dont understand it, he thinks), references to yours and by extension his favourite games and shows that flies by everyone else’s head that he misses your laugh that should ring along with his lame jokes.

and rin’s even more sure that the media doesnt miss how he’s changed from just that few weeks. how his closet doesn’t quite fit him right — sanrio and chikawa sweaters that are both a little too tight to have belonged to him and a little uncharacteristic for him to sport on his day out, silver necklaces that they just cant see the heart of, chalking it up to a new impulsive purchase despite him never wearing any in his winning match, silly keychains on the bag he brings out that catches the camera flash just right into the newspapers. how his last interview went even: seeming more nervous whilst attempting to make eye contact with the camera (knowing youre watching him live), stuttering a little too much whilst answering a question about romantic relationship, how his glued up paper ring catches the whole internet. how his internet presence (without PR) reflects something the internet wants to dig a little more — from his instagram stories about another game win whether that be on valorant or league of legends with a duo with a censored tag (of yours), screenshots of movies and shows he’s watching with the side of facetime featuring your face censored with colour brushes from the tools section, outfit pictures that are first vetted by you and then posted with a uncharacteristically cute water bottle you bought for him as a joke that he still uses to this very day.

its now that he can’t be fully with you that rin wonders if he’s taken advantage of all these years you’ve been there for him, each memory haunts him through his own unconscious movements, speech and thoughts: as though you’ve fully melted yourself on him, your soul and his intertwined and ribs replacing each others: becoming one another. missing, longing is not a strong enough word for it all — heartache when he lies in his bed all alone yearning for your warmth hands that lingers on his body, cuddling him at night that makes him dream of days long after his career in a small apartment all decorated by whatever you want living a life with just you and him, that tightening of his heart whenever he sees you in his everyday life: those red roses that he used to buy from the school shop, any song form the playlist you and him collated that he plays everyday, every second he can, things you’ve bought for him that he’s brought along this practically eons long trip to france, the dryness in his mouth when he looks at your face through facetime: noting every single changes from the way your fringe has gotten longer, to the small leftover seaweed bites form the corner of your mouth, wondering how you were just so perfect in his eyes. its not human he feels: this hunger and craving he feels deep in his ribs, in his guts, in his very bone and blood, every second he counts, every day he strikes off from his calendar, every football match he wins just for a chance for you and him to reunite.

and this time, he’s sure of one thing, no matter what his PR agency thinks, no matter what fans thinks, no matter what the world thinks: rin wants to kiss you, melting his lips against yours as he holds up the winning world cup trophy, in front of the whole field, in front of the whole audience, in front of the whole world — because if there’s anything he knows now is that you and him are one matching puzzle piece, you and him are one soul merged together dictated by the universe, you and him are meant to be: and he’ll love you for the rest of eternity.

[naonap]

men used to go to war

[chimerafeathers]

i know we love to rag on Siffrin for feeling so miserably guilty and manipulative for the crime of [checks notes] “doing nice things for their friends so that they’ll be happy and care about him even if it’s not perfectly sincere on his end”

but like. in context i don’t think that thought process is anywhere near as nonsensical as it always sounds written out like that

i’m sure i’m just stating the obvious here but it’s not really about the “crime” of making people happy. it’s about what he’s not doing, which is anything that would allow their friends to have any real knowledge or agency over the situation they’re all in.

it’s about never acting according to his real feelings in the moment and letting them see the messier version of him that exists now, never allowing their relationships to evolve or develop meaningfully beyond the “safest” iteration, the thing that is Known and produces the Correct Results, because anything else has the possibility of leading to negative emotions towards Siffrin.

Siffrin knows he’s not really doing all this for their benefit, not entirely, because the “right” thing to do would give them the full context to choose how they feel and what to do about it. they’re happy, but in a way they don’t get to keep. they’re happy, but in a way that keeps Siffrin safe from anything more complex and real. they’re happy, but only because some Siffrin in the past said the right things once, and this new, bitter, lonely, desperate version wouldn’t know how to get the “correct result” without a script to follow. they’re happy, and it was real once, it meant something once, but not anymore.

they cared about that Siffrin, yes, but would they still care about this one, if they knew? if Siffrin ever allowed them to know? (he won’t, he can’t, he refuses.)

and there’s something that could have been said in favor of Siffrin allowing himself this “selfishness” if it made him happy anyway, if it could be a genuine source of comfort in a difficult situation—but it doesn’t! not really! because that guilt is there, because that fear is there, because of how flimsy it all inevitably feels.

so they’re not doing it for their family’s benefit, because that happiness is predicated on lies and ignorance. he’s barely doing it for his own benefit, because they’re torturing themself by revealing things they no longer want to reveal, concealing things they no longer want to conceal, acting out of fear of rejection rather than genuine desire for connection. who benefits from this hollow “kindness,” really?

that’s why the last loop had to be the ugliest one. Siffrin had to see that the worst could happen and there could still be love and connection on the other side. that even when the party sees the worst of him, when they have the agency he’s been knowingly denying them, they will still choose to love him.

[lyraofthestarsss]

Blushing Game

(Mystreet boys x reader)

How long does it take to make them blush?

Garroth

- bro folds almost immediately lmao

- He definitely tries!! After all, he was used to putting on a face in front of others back in O’Khasis. Surely this wouldn’t be too different

- But there’s no hiding things from you

- All it takes is one sweet nickname for him to start melting

Dante

- He… also tries

- He’s definitely more competitive than Garroth. A few of your first few flirts are only met with smug smiles and comebacks

- It only takes a minute or so for all the compliments to finally get to him

- He looks away as he tries to hide his red face from you

Laurance

- for a moment, you thought this man was nearly unbreakable

- Nearly all of your flirts end with him shaking his head and smiling back at you

- He tells you “try harder, love” and “aww you can do better than that”

- If anything, you’re the one that starts getting flustered

- You start to lean closer, whispering in his ear

- You tell him you love him, how much he means to you, how you can’t imagine loving anyone else

- The closeness, along with how sincere you are, is what finally gets to him

- He curses under his breath as he leans his forehead on your shoulder

- He mutters that he loves you too, just loud enough for only you to hear

[ekingston]

So it’s 2019, because that’s what it said on the screenshot I used to create the gif, and you’re casually browsing Netflix, grateful to be alive in a world where COVID or an internationally devastating shift in political alliances are but distant echoes of a future that may never come to pass, and you happen upon a movie that’s just been added, called BREACH.

Your Netflix synopsis says: When a man turns up dead on the shore of a remote mountain town and a local girl vanishes without a trace, it’s up to a local detective to put the pieces together. But when she rescues an attractive tourist off the side of the road, the investigation takes an intimate—and dangerous—turn.

And you’re like, ‘eh, nothing I haven’t seen before,’ (though the LGBTQ label is interesting), but then the preview starts autoplaying and IS THAT KATIE MCGRATH?! And it IS. So now you have no choice but to sit through the trailer.

Nocturne by Blanco White is playing, calmly at first, swelling as it goes on. You’re presented with a wide shot of a towering dam, the camera slowly rising up the water-streaked concrete before breaching the top. An enormous lake BOOMS into view, jagged mountains beyond it, forming a serrated edge against the lightening sky. It’s early morning. Mist is rolling down the densely forested mountains and over the water.

(You wonder if this production used the same locations (or rather special effects) as Les Revenants did, and yes, it absolutely did, because I loved the atmosphere of that show and I adore mountain towns with enormous lakes and it is, to date, the most Hollywood version of non-Paris France I’ve ever seen.)

The wide shot narrows to a ground-level closeup of the pebbled shoreline, pulling slowly away from the water until we glimpse a piece of discarded police tape, fluttering on the breeze. The camera pans past a pair of sneakers and then a pair of uncomfortable-looking high heels, wobbling on the rocky beach. It’s a news crew, reporting live on the disappearance of a young girl. The camera pushes past them, staying at ground-level as it leads us into the woods, where we find the paws of a canine unit, splashing in a shallow mountain stream. There’s the sound of police radios, and then we see the boots of a police search party. We stop at a much smaller but otherwise identical pair of leather boots. The camera pans up at our detective—it’s Katie McGrath! Finally!

She looks amazing, obviously. For the sake of this miraculously being a supercorp AU, her character is a fair bit more acerbic version of our girl Lena Luthor, except we’re time traveling so she’s now in her early 40s, her dark hair greying slightly at the temples (let a girl dream), her jawline somehow sharper than ever, freckles proudly on display in the natural light. Her hair is hanging loosely over her shoulders, looking like it hasn’t seen a brush since she last laid down. Lena is wearing slacks, a wrinkled dress shirt and a men’s blazer that is slightly too large for her. She stares off into the woods, chin jutting, a muscle jumping in her jaw, her fingers absently playing with a pack of cigarettes.

CUT TO:

Early nighttime. A dark mountain road, lit sparsely, tall pine trees walling it in on both sides. We see over Lena’s shoulder, her hands on the steering wheel, as her cruiser’s headlights sweep over the shape of a woman, bent over the engine of her stalled car. The woman—blonde, mid-thirties, wearing cut-off jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt far too thin for the late hour—turns when the car appears, squinting into the light. It’s Kara.

Lena comes to a stop behind her and rolls her window down. She calls out, “You need a ride?”

CUT TO:

The dimly lit interior of a spartan living room. Lena dumps blankets on the couch.

Kara asks, “You sure this is okay, me sleeping here?”

CUT TO:

Daytime, and we’re at the sheriff’s office. Lena, wearing a clean-but-barely-ironed dress shirt, drinks coffee as if her life depends on it. Mike Matthews, the sheriff’s deputy, makes fun of Lena’s uncharacteristic hospitality.

“What was I supposed to do?” Lena asks him, as we see a flashback shot of Lena watching Kara over the rim of her coffee cup, earlier that morning. “Next town’s hours away.”

We see Kara maintaining eye contact with Lena for a moment, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as we hear Mike telling Lena, back at the office, “You won’t even let me stay at your place.”

“You had bed bugs,” Lena points out. Then she raises an eyebrow, looking away, adding as a casual sidenote, “Plus she’s prettier than you.”

WLWNESS/SAPPHICTROCITY/LESBIANANIGANS CONFIRMED.

CUT TO:

It’s evening, and we’re in Lena’s kitchen. Kara is making dinner when Lena walks in, feeding scraps to—and this is very important! but only to me—Lena’s dog. Did I mention this is actually also a crossover with Person of Interest, and for absolutely no other reason than I need Lena to have Bear the Brilliant Belgian Malinois? “I see you made a friend,” Lena says. It’s unclear whether she’s talking to Bear or Kara.

The news is on, talking about the missing girl. Lena turns it off before settling into a chair near the open doorway, her legs splayed wide at rest. Bear immediately settles at her side, chin resting on Lena’s thigh. We all kind of want to be a Brilliant Belgian Malinois, in that moment. Kara asks, indicating the TV, “You think she’s still alive?”

“Could be.” Lena digs for her pack of cigarettes and pulls a lighter from a kitchen drawer, probably shoving an old walkman she’s had forever out of the way to get to it, scratching the course hair between Bear’s ears before settling back down. “‘Course if you asked me last week, I may have told you something different.”

Kara turns off the stove so you can all stop worrying, and starts plating the food. “What changed?”

Lena pauses while she lights her cigarette and takes a deep drag, the blue smoke drifting through the doorway outside as Lena savors it, slowly breathing out as gays the world over are forced to reconsider the merits of smoking. Like yes, it kills you in terrifying, excruciating ways, but LOOK AT HER. Lena watches Kara intently, but doesn’t answer her question.

CUT TO:

We see Lena in her bedroom, late at night, flipping through case files. Her fingers (which, EXTREME closeup, EXTREME CLOSEUPS OF HER HANDS THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE PRODUCTION, hover over a grainy picture of a young white man, wearing a red baseball cap. His back is turned so we can’t see his face, though if you hated hard enough back in the day you may have a hunch. As the camera circles around the room, Lena is replaced by Kara, the bedroom now bathed in golden morning light. She’s looking through the photos too, her fingers shaking. We see her react to the photograph of the ballcapped man, before quickly putting things back exactly as they were.

CUT TO:

An evening shot of the lake, the water wrinkling in the breeze, softly lapping at the shore. We hear the sound of something large hitting the water.

CUT TO:

A pee break, actually, and you’re gonna go ahead and grab a snack while you’re up. There sure is a lot of water in this movie. Wait, weren’t you just watching a trailer? Why does it feel like an hour has passed? Is it the hands? How many times have you hit that pause button? What year is it?

CUT TO:

Lena and Kara are at the Lake Pub. It’s dimly lit and smoky. Lena drinks whiskey. Across from her, Kara stirs a glass of soda with her pinkie finger. They’re regarding each other so openly you genuinely start to feel a bit faint.

“You’re looking at me like I’m one of your suspects,” Kara says.

You disagree. That’s not what suspicion looks like. You’re sure, because you’ve seen Katie McGrath look at approximately 99.9% of her female costars this way.

Lena keeps her gaze level, unflinching and forward. “I look at everyone like that,” she lies.

A beat.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kara says.

You’re feeling suddenly thirsty, too.

CUT TO:

Red and blue lights illuminate the deep indigo sky over the lake. A body is being dragged from the water as Lena watches, clenching her stupendous jaw. Seriously, how is she growing hotter all the fucking time if storybook-princess-turned-mesmerizing-murderess was her baseline?

CUT TO:

Lena, sitting in her parked car. She slams her fist against the steering wheel. (Don’t worry, no hands were injured in the making of this film.) It’s overlayed with imagery of a burial service, a US flag draped over the coffin, a pair of grieving women—one middle aged, the other a pretty 20-something brunette, surrounded by officers in dress blues. Lena is there too, looking dashing in her uniform, but also like she hasn’t slept in a week.

CUT TO:

Lena is standing in the center of her living room, rubbing her brow with her long, spatulate fingers. Kara is hovering in a corner a couple of feet away, cautious. “Just say it,” she whispers. “You think I killed him.”

Lena releases a breath that is half-huff, half-groan. “I’m not sure it even matters anymore,” she says.

“How can you say that?” Kara asks. When Lena doesn’t answer her, Kara steps closer and touches her arm. Lena turns as if she’s going to shrug Kara off, and the instant you begin to wonder what the hell this movie is supposed to be about, you stop caring because Lena abruptly pulls Kara closer and they kiss, urgent and rough.

You’re not sure if your ears are ringing or if the sound you’re hearing is a chorus of lesbians all over the world exploding into cheers & wild applause.

As the music builds to a crescendo, we see a quick series of images:

Lena presses Kara against her bedroom wall, Lena’s lips at her jaw, her fingers undoing the button of Kara’s jeans before they slip inside her pants; your life flashes before your eyes; Lena points her gun at someone, but we don’t see who; Lena’s fingers support Kara’s chin as she gently dabs at her bloodied brow with a piece of gauze; headlights illuminate a figure in the road, mirroring Lena picking up Kara, but this time the smiling man in the red baseball cap (again seen only from the back) is the one pulling over & rolling down his window.

The dam’s floodgates open, a roar of white water pouring through.

The music stops abruptly as we end on a final, long shot. Lena stands on top of the dam, looking down, the sky above her, the dizzying depths below. The camera falls away, down down down, until it breaches the surface of the water and sinks into the dark water beneath.

Kara (voiceover, pleading, breathless): “If I go under, I’ll pull you down with me.”

Lena (voiceover, raw but full of conviction): “I’m a pretty good swimmer. And I have a feeling you are, too.”

CUT TO BLACK.

You blow out a breath and resign yourself to your fate. You hit the mute button, and press play.

Also I was proud of how this one manip turned out so I’m sharing the version that makes it marginally more clear that Kara isn’t randomly & uncomfortably touching her own face:

Like I said: SO MANY CLOSEUPS.

[lucky-fy]

For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)

I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).

The general pitch is as follows :

AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.

In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.

They bond :)

NB: I commissioned another piece, go take a look :D