#before calling to be like I Might Be Dying

[riddlesrizzler]

Copy That, Cupcake

summary: "WizQuill this is..." characters: jim halpert! mattheo. pam beesley! reader. dwight schrute! draco. warnings: none! word count: 723

The morning sunlight spilled through the dusty windows of WizQuill, catching on the floating dust motes that danced lazily through the stagnant air of the office. The front desk, your throne and prison, was cluttered with scribbled memos, ink bottles that never stayed full, and a slowly dying cactus you’d named Frank. You sat slouched in your chair, idly doodling a dragon in a party hat on the edge of a memo about quarterly parchment sales.

The door creaked open - same time every day, same lazy saunter - and you didn’t bother looking up.

“You’re late,” you called, twirling your quill between your fingers.

Mattheo Riddle’s familiar voice echoed with faux shock. “Late? Never. Time simply waits for me.”

You looked up then, already fighting a smile. He was leaning against the edge of your desk, hair tousled in a way that definitely wasn't accidental, a coffee cup held out like a peace offering. His eyes —-warm brown with just a hint of mischief - scanned your face for a reaction.

You took the cup and sniffed it suspiciously. “This is from Cups & Beans. The Muggle café?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I have my sources. You like the caramel one, right? With extra foam?”

Your cheeks warmed slightly as you sipped. “You're playing a dangerous game, Riddle. If Draco catches you bringing Muggle drinks into the office again, he might combust.”

As if summoned by name, Draco Malfoy came storming out of the copy room, clutching two scrolls and a half-eaten protein bar. His platinum hair was slightly askew - a sure sign something had gone terribly wrong.

“Riddle,” he barked. “Did you-” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Did you hex the filing cabinet to scream every time I opened it?”

Mattheo blinked. “Scream? No. Maybe sing a little. A cheerful jingle.”

You snorted into your coffee as Draco turned an alarming shade of pink. “Fix it. Now. Or I’m filing an official complaint with HR.”

“We are HR,” Mattheo said calmly.

Draco blinked. “…I’ll go over your head.”

“To who? The owls?”

Before Draco could retort, a distant wail echoed from the copy room. He spun on his heel and disappeared back down the corridor, cape billowing dramatically behind him.

Mattheo turned to you, smirk firmly in place. “He didn’t even see the glitter hex in the ink pot yet.”

You chuckled, trying to hide the way your heart fluttered around him. “He’ll find it. He always does. And he always thinks it's cursed.”

Mattheo leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “That’s why this is your best idea yet.”

You reached under the desk and handed him a neatly rolled scroll. “Phase two.”

He unrolled it and laughed under his breath - a warm, rich sound that made your stomach flip.

Inside was a forged memo printed in official WizQuill font, complete with magical watermark, declaring Draco Malfoy the newly promoted Regional Auror Liaison for Magical Quill Security - a title you invented while half-asleep yesterday, fueled by coffee and boredom.

“He has to test every quill in the building for curses now,” you said, lips twitching. “It’s in the memo.”

Mattheo clutched his chest like he’d been hit with a stunning spell. “This... is art.”

He turned the parchment in his hands, admiring your work. “You’re wasted behind a desk.”

You looked at him - really looked. His messy curls, the way his tie was always a little too loose, like he couldn’t quite conform to the office dress code. The soft scruff on his jaw he never quite remembered to shave. He was always a little chaotic, a little off-center - but with you, he was golden.

“You say that like you're not stuck here too,” you teased.

He glanced down, suddenly more serious. “Maybe I like being stuck here.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His voice softened. “Because you’re here.”

The moment hung in the air, delicate and unspoken, until-

“WHO HEXED MY INKWELL?” Draco’s shriek echoed from down the hall.

Mattheo grinned, but his eyes stayed on you. “We should probably run.”

You laughed and grabbed your coffee. “Meet me in the breakroom. I’ve got a decoy memo and an emergency stash of chocolate frogs.”

He saluted. “Copy that, cupcake.”

And just like that, he was gone - but your heart was still racing, and you were pretty sure he knew exactly what he was doing.

[aurumalatus]

you take the stars (i'll keep the moon)

kinich x reader, angst, major character death, discussions of chasing death, non-linear storyline

summary: the first time you both die, you both come back. it's only the first time.

Dying is so, so cold.

You never ask Kinich what it felt like for him. He doesn’t talk about it either, and you’re not so socially stunted as to not know what that means. For a while, you think you’re on the same page about it all.

But Kinich seems to take it differently, at least afterwards. Whereas the exposure makes you shrink, it seems to make him bigger, bolder. He sees it as a blessing that he’d gotten so close and still made it out alive.

Yet, all you can focus on is that you’d gotten so close.

/

“Do you know how stupid that was?” Kinich hisses through his teeth, breath hot against your cheeks. His grip on your arms reminds you of his love—bruising, barely controlled. “Don’t ever do something like that again!”

It makes you want to kiss him, weirdly enough; his face is so handsome, even when smeared with grime and blood, and you just want to bite his bottom lip and tug. You want to tell him he’s being unfair, that he does stuff like this all the time, especially nowadays. That he’s been through six rolls of bandages this week and you’re wondering why you need to buy more already.

But you think that might make him angrier, so you merely shrug.

“Sorry, Kin,” you sigh, “I won’t do it again.”

/

When it’s dark, you lose Kinich in the sky.

His hair is an inky color, the kind that swirls and disappears behind the stars when you’re not looking hard enough. He’s quiet, too, even as he tends to the remains of the blown campfire. 

He’s searching for something in the stars, you think. Maybe his mother, or maybe his father. Love, or vengeance. 

“Kin,” you call, voice echoing delicately through the clearing. He doesn’t turn to you, doesn’t reply, but you know he’s listening. “What are you looking for?”

He frowns. You smile bitterly.

Even he doesn’t know.

/

You and Kinich aren’t in love.

Before you died, maybe you could’ve been a good lover. Maybe a good person, because the two are not the same thing. But now, you’re neither, and you’re not sure what Kinich is either. You’re not in love with Kinich, because you’re not in anything, haven’t been since you died.

Instead, all you are is clawing, running, escaping. It would be good for you to do that much, if you could.

But you don’t. And neither does he.

When you retire for the night, he sleeps facing away from you for the first time. As if to console you, he shoves his share of the blanket in your direction—he always seems to be too warm for his taste.

You don’t want to think too hard about what that means, so you sleep.

/

When the Night Warden Wars come back around, you don’t go.

Kinich finds you sitting upon a cliff overlooking the Stadium of the Sacred Flame. He approaches you wordlessly, and the grass parts politely as he takes a seat. You already know what he’s going to say.

“You’re still going,” you say, always beating him to the punch.

You take his silence as an answer, no matter how rotten it tastes.

The flame is visible, even from here, and you think the rumors must be true—that the flame draws its power from Natlan, that it takes and takes to fuel the future of your people.

There’s no other explanation for the way the oxygen is sucked straight from your lungs.

/

Kinich fails to return from the Wars, and no one can seem to find you for three weeks.

Twenty-one whole days that your friends spend, unsure if you’re still breathing. Mualani will later say it was the worst period of life—unyielding, roaring waves of grief that refused to dissipate, an enduring assault on her heart and soul.

You wonder if you’ll ever manage to weather the same storm.

You’re eventually found, if only purely by coincidence.

Citlali takes a stroll one night, at a time when the sun is long buried. She can’t say why or how, only that she does. And she sees you.

And then, she can’t seem to force the image of you sleeping on Kinich’s grave from her mind.

/

“I’m going.”

With your tears glistening in the moonlight, Kinich feels like the Sacred Flame is burning him from the inside out. Sweat beads on his nape; it’s hot, too hot. He wishes the night was colder.

“But why?” you ask. Your hand inches toward his, and it hurts more than he thought it would. “Why can’t you just stay with me?”

Staying or going—he’s always been caught between the two. Or maybe he’s always lived by going, and it’s the worst kind of habit that he can’t seem to break. So he merely shakes his head and tries to ignore the pang in his heart when you start to sob.

A breeze passes. He shivers.

And yet, he still can’t manage to say he’s sorry.

[kitchenisking]

Things To Do On The Dates You Aren't Having by lielabell - (Rating: Mature, Words: 5,557)

"So are we dating now or what?" Stiles asks the third time he finds himself doing the obligatory postcoital cuddling with a certain sour wolf.

the engagement by bibliosexual - (Rating: G, Words: 1,595)

“Stiles,” Derek growls the next morning, “why did Wanda just call me to congratulate me on my engagement to you?”

“Uh, because we are engaged?” Stiles tries. “We’re having a spring wedding with two flavors of cake, or did you forget? By the way, you still need to buy me a ring.”

Hypothetically Speaking by KaliopeShipsIt - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 2,916)

“Soooooo, Daddy-O. Hypothetically speaking. Do you think you could potentially see yourself loving a magical werewolf grandbaby rather unexpectedly begotten via the carnal jubilation that is one man shoving his dick up another guy’s ass?”

Textual Promise by Areiton - ( Rating: Explicit, Words: 1,828)

Derek stares at the text for a long time before he goes for a run. Because this? From Stiles? This isn't something they do. 

He still says 'ok'.

My Sea to Your Shore by Aquila_Star - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 66,178)

The setting was idyllic, but when he looked down at the poor animal caught in the trap, struggling for its life and its freedom, he saw only how its desperation mirrored his own, the trap he was caught in just as unforgiving. Unlike the rabbit, Derek's trap was not the result of random bad luck. It was a trap of his own making.

As he headed back to the house, he couldn't help but wonder if there was someone who could wrangle him from his trap, and whether he would survive to see his freedom.

kids say (and do) the darndest things by EvanesDust  - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 7,787)

Have kids, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. ...or the one where Stiles and Derek's kids had no shame.

Nothing's Ever Worth it if it Doesn't Scare You by In_Over_My_Head  - (Rating: Mature, Words: 3,707)

Running had become his default reaction to Scott. Whenever he had a stupid plan or didn’t listen, mostly whenever his moronic actions put the pack in jeopardy…again. Stiles ran now, ran because he knew that if they did what Scott wanted someone would get hurt. They’d just gotten Kira back and now Scott wanted to put her in danger by fighting something without all the information. 

He knew Argent would try and help, to change Scott’s course of action, but it wouldn’t work. Maybe, since Cora was back, Peter might show up too. Sometimes he could get through to Scott. The problem with that was Peter always had an ulterior motive, and Stiles only figured it out half the time. Peter was dangerous, but Scott didn’t seem to get that either. God he missed Derek, missed knowing there was someone that would listen, that would get what he meant and actually try to help.

I know what you did Last Hot Girl Summer by Arver7 - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 6,908)

Stiles thinks he wants a Hot Girl Summer after a break-up. What he gets is definitely a hot girl summer and so much more.

"good boy" by quackquackcey - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 10,807)

Stiles doesn’t think his senior year can get any worse with his best friend turning rabid every full moon, until he finds himself stuck with a massive black wolf overnight that doesn’t even like jerky.

But on the bright side, the hot guy with the half-dying sister he met at the gas station seems to be in town for a bit, so there’s still a chance that his senior year, his supposed best year of high school, isn’t a complete lost cause…right?

That is, if he can manage to juggle the sassy wolf that he takes care of at night and the hot guy that asked him out on a date for some reason.~ 🐺

Finders Keepers by inhystereks - (Rating: G, Words: 3,340)

“Sorry, I know I’m kind of staring, but she didn’t tell me you were so good-looking,” Stiles babbled, wanting to hit himself even as the words left his mouth.

“She,” the guy said, something in his expression shifting. “Laura.”

“No,” Stiles replied with a frown. “Lydia. Who’s Laura?”

“My sister,” the guy said, brows furrowed once more. “Who’s Lydia?”

“My best friend,” Stiles said.

[wbbobsesserr]

ᯓ sweet spot — chapter two

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

my masterlist

wc: 2.5k

it had been three weeks.

three weeks of pretending azzi fudd didn’t occupy 99% of paige bueckers’ waking thoughts. three weeks of trying not to stare during film, of forcing herself not to “accidentally” sit next to her at every team meal. three weeks of scrolling through azzi’s social media accounts like they held the secrets of the universe. three weeks of watching every reposted workout clip like it was a sacred ritual. three weeks of dying. slowly. softly. lovingly.

it was hell.

because azzi was still azzi.

sweet. soft-spoken. warm to everyone. she high-fived her teammates. she brought extra protein bars to practice in case anyone needed one. she complimented everyone, everyday. and paige? paige was losing her mind. she’d never felt like this before. not about anyone. there had been hookups, of course. flings. a very short-lived situationship with a girl from back home who smoked too much weed and ghosted her after two weeks. but azzi?

azzi made her feel like a middle schooler with a crush. like she was trying to act normal during a fire drill while her entire body was combusting.

and the worst part was that azzi didn’t even know.

or maybe she did, and she was just too nice to say anything.

practice had ended an hour ago, but paige was still in the gym, sitting on the bleachers with a bag of ice balanced on her knee and her phone glowing in her lap. she wasn’t texting anyone. she was just looking at azzi’s most recent post: a photo from the locker room after the team’s first practice. azzi smiling, flushed, holding up a peace sign. caption: “i love it here already.”

she’d liked it within 0.3 seconds of it going up.

now she just sat there, staring at it like it might change.

“hey.”

paige nearly threw her phone across the gym. she looked up. it was azzi, hair pulled into a high bun, hoodie slung over one shoulder, and a water bottle tucked under her arm. she looked like a nike ad. or her own personal dream.

“you good?” azzi asked, stepping closer. “didn’t see you leave with everyone.”

paige sat up straighter, hiding her phone screen. “yeah— just icing. knee’s a little sore.”

azzi nodded, then sat next to her. right next to her. their knees almost touched. paige stopped breathing.

“you looked good today,” azzi said, like it was just a fact. “sharp on that last drill.”

paige shrugged, trying to act chill. “you always look good.”

silence.

paige’s eyes widened. “i mean— you played good. you looked good playing. like— your shot. your form. it was— good.”

azzi laughed quietly. “thanks.”

paige wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

they sat in silence for a few moments, the quiet hum of the lights buzzing overhead. azzi leaned back on her palms, gazing out at the empty court.

“you like being here?” paige asked finally, voice low.

azzi turned her head, smiled. “yeah. i do. it’s… different. but good-different. i feel like i’m supposed to be here.”

paige nodded, then swallowed. “you are.”

azzi’s smile lingered. “what about you? you still like it?”

paige glanced down at her hands. “i used to think it was just about winning. getting a national championship. now… i don’t know. it feels like it matters more when you have the right people around.”

azzi looked at her, something soft in her eyes.

before paige could completely combust, someone called from down the tunnel— lou, probably. something about team dinner.

azzi stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “you coming?”

paige blinked, then nodded. “yeah. just need a sec.”

azzi lingered for a moment. “you sure?”

“positive.”

azzi gave her one last look, then jogged off.

paige watched her go, heart a tangled mess of hope and helplessness. she grabbed her phone again and looked at the photo. zoomed in just a little. yeah. she was so, so screwed.

the team dinner was supposed to be casual. nothing fancy— just some bonding, a little pasta, maybe a couple of dumb games nika liked to spring on them out of nowhere. coach had even given them the evening off to “build chemistry,” which everyone knew really meant “don’t get in trouble and try not to burn the dorm down.”

paige almost didn’t go.

because azzi.

and because paige had barely survived three practices without turning into a puddle every time azzi looked in her direction. but nika wouldn’t let her skip, practically dragged her by the collar out of her room with the promise of free garlic knots and good lighting for selfies.

the restaurant was small and loud, with big booths and sticky menus. half the team was already there, squeezed into one corner and tossing crumpled straw wrappers at each other. azzi sat near the end, her curls pulled up and her smile lighting up the table like a lantern. paige picked the seat next to her before she could think twice.

“hey,” azzi said, voice soft over the buzz of conversation. “glad you came.”

paige nodded too fast. “yeah. me too. i like… food.”

azzi blinked.

nika snorted soda out of her nose.

lou choked on her breadstick.

“smooth,” aubrey muttered, bumping paige’s knee under the table.

but azzi just laughed— a quiet, melodic sound— and passed paige the basket of garlic knots like she hadn’t just committed a social crime. “i meant to tell you— you’ve got a really quick first step. it’s hard to guard. you kinda burned me yesterday.”

paige blinked. her soul left her body. “i— uh. i didn’t mean to? i mean, i did, but not like— burn— like basketball, not like… fire.”

nika buried her face in her hoodie.

azzi smiled. “i got what you meant.”

it was fine. everything was fine. except her hands were sweating and her fork was now mysteriously on the floor. paige reached down to get it and hit her head on the table.

azzi leaned over, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “are you okay?”

“never better.” paige’s voice cracked. she never wanted to die more.

later that night, paige laid in bed, phone screen glowing inches from her face. she should’ve been asleep— they had weights in the morning. but instead, she was twenty minutes into another accidental deep dive of azzi fudd’s instagram.

it started innocent. a few scrolls. a couple likes.

and then she found him.

noah.

the boyfriend. azzi’s boyfriend. smiling next to azzi on some beach in california, both of them mid-laugh. another post from valentine’s day— azzi in his hoodie, captioned “my favorite human.”

her stomach twisted.

azzi didn’t post often. but when she did, the captions about noah were always so full. like she really meant them. paige lingered on one in particular— a photo of the two of them in front of the usc gym. the caption read: “through every win, every loss, every late night practice— you’ve been my home. i love you so much.”

paige closed the app.

then opened it again five seconds later. she wasn’t proud of herself.

she was about to close the app for good when nika barged into her room with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.

“you’re so gone for her.”

paige flinched so hard she dropped her phone.

“excuse me?”

“don’t even try to deny it,” nika said, plopping onto the bed like she owned it. “you short-circuit every time she so much as looks at you. i’ve never seen someone so flustered.”

“i don’t—”

“you do.” nika pulled paige’s pillow out from under her and whacked her with it. “you’ve got the biggest gay panic i’ve ever seen. and i roomed with lou.”

paige groaned, burying her face in her hands. “she has a boyfriend.”

“yeah, and you have zero chill,” nika leaned back. “i’ve never seen you like this before. nervous, shy. it’s weird.”

paige didn’t answer. she couldn’t.

because now, every little moment replayed like a loop— azzi’s compliment. the softness in her voice. her dimply smile that lingered too long.

well, fuck.

practice had ended twenty minutes ago, but paige was still out there, lazily flipping a ball between her hands as the last few teammates trickled out. her shirt clung to her back, sweat drying slowly in the gym's faint breeze. she could’ve left. should’ve. but something told her to stay.

and then azzi appeared.

“hey,” she called softly, pulling her hair into a ponytail as she approached. “you staying to shoot?”

paige’s heart dropped to her knees, then tried to crawl back up her throat. “uh— yeah. just a little.”

azzi smiled, grabbing a ball from the rack. “mind if i join you?”

“join? no. i mean yes. i mean— of course.”

they started with simple catch-and-shoot drills. easy rhythm. azzi’s release was still perfect, every shot as clean as glass. paige couldn’t stop glancing sideways, watching the way azzi’s eyes followed the arc of each shot, the way she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet after every make.

paige hit her stride eventually, sinking threes from the corner, then fading toward the wing. they passed back and forth, no words, just the soft echo of the ball and their sneakers squeaking on the court.

azzi shot like she was born doing it. No wasted movement. every jumper was soft, clean, perfect rotation. paige tried to stay focused— tried to match her rhythm— but she kept getting caught in the way azzi would laugh lightly when she missed, like even failure didn’t rattle her.

“your arc’s so pretty,” paige said before she could stop herself.

azzi looked at her. “mine?”

paige nodded, suddenly shy. “yeah. it’s, like… the perfect rainbow.”

azzi smiled. “thanks. yours is faster, though. quick release. super smooth.”

paige’s stomach did an actual flip.

“thanks. i, uh— yeah. i work on that,” she said, for what felt like the tenth time this week. why was she always saying the same thing around her? like she had five phrases and two working brain cells?

they continued shooting.

after a few more rounds, azzi passed her the ball and stretched her arms over her head. “you know, you’ve got such a calm confidence about you. like, on the court. even when you mess up, you never look rattled.”

paige literally missed the rim.

not the net. not the backboard.

she missed the rim.

azzi’s eyes widened, a little startled. “you okay?”

“i— yeah. i’m just— tired,” paige mumbled, retrieving the ball like it wasn’t the most humiliating moment of her life.

azzi laughed, light and genuine. “that was kinda cute.”

paige stopped breathing.

she didn’t even know what to say. her mouth opened, but no words came out— just a small, embarrassed sound like a kicked puppy.

azzi tilted her head. “sorry, was that weird?”

paige shook her head fast. “yes. i mean, no. i mean— not weird. totally fine.”

azzi walked over and gently bumped her shoulder. “you’re funny.”

you’re funny.

paige wanted to throw herself into the sun.

just then, nika popped her head into the gym.

“ohhhh,” she called, loud and dramatic. “what’s this? a little after-hours hoop date?”

paige glared. “we’re just shooting.”

azzi, ever the sweetheart, smiled and waved. “hey, nika!”

nika waved back and winked directly at paige. “don’t stay too late, lovebirds.”

she disappeared before paige could cuss her out.

azzi giggled. “she’s funny.”

paige swallowed hard. “yeah. real funny.”

they kept shooting a little longer. paige never fully recovered from the embarrassment she put herself through.

when they finally called it a night, azzi walked beside her toward the locker room. “i’m really glad i transferred,” she said quietly.

paige looked over. “yeah?”

azzi nodded. “everyone’s been really welcoming. especially you.”

paige could barely breathe.

“oh. uh.” she blinked, thinking of the words. “well, you’re easy to welcome.”

azzi’s smile curled into something almost shy. “that’s really sweet.”

paige scratched the back of her neck. “i mean it. you’re… like. good. at everything. and nice. and— you know. people notice that.”

“people like you?” azzi teased, gently.

paige almost dropped her water bottle. “i mean, yeah. maybe.”

azzi smiled so softly, paige thought she might cry.

paige was halfway through tying her shoes when she spots azzi just a few feet away, standing by the gatorade cooler, laughing at something aubrey just said. it should be normal. it is normal. but paige’s brain short-circuits the same way it always does lately when azzi’s in the room.

and then it happened. a moment. a mortifying, soul-leaving-your-body moment.

“yo, paige!” nika yelled across the gym. “you left your phone in the locker room. again.”

she tossed it with a perfect spiral. paige reacted late and fumbled the catch. the phone hits the floor with a dramatic thud, screen up, very much alive, and very much still open to instagram.

specifically, azzi fudd’s instagram page.

a beat of silence. then a few beats.

someone snorted. probably aubrey.

paige dove for the phone, her face already bright red.

“i’m fucking killing myself,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.

out of the corner of her eye, azzi’s gaze landed on her. she never said anything. but she smiled.

oh, jesus.

during a quick water break, azzi was sitting beside paige on the bleachers, who was untying and retying her sneaker for no real reason. nika and caroline are arguing about music again. nobody was really listening.

“god,” azzi groaned softly, scrolling through her phone. “i forgot how cursed my finsta is.”

paige, stretching her calves, froze like someone hit pause. “you have a finsta?”

azzi laughed. “unfortunately— i don’t call it that, though. more like my friends-only account,” she paused. “my friends at usc made me make one. it’s mainly me complaining about homework or pictures of my boyfriend.”

she didn’t mention the username. but paige tucked the information away in the back of her mind.

“sounds cool,” paige said casually, but her mind was already in overdrive. she knew what she’d be doing later, that’s for sure.

paige was supposed to be writing a paper. she had three tabs open for it. but none of them matter. what mattered was the list of usc mutuals she’s stalking, scanning every tagged photo of azzi from the past two years.

it took time. it took way too much time.

but eventually, she found it.

@fuddleazzi. azzi’s not-so-secret account.

private. 63 followers. the profile picture was azzi in a pair of massive ski goggles, wearing a bright smile with her dimples on display. no bio, no nothing.

paige stared at the screen for a full five minutes, thumb hovering over the follow button.

she doesn’t press it.

instead, she swiped up, into the messages app and texted nika:

paige: i found azzi’s secret account and i think i deserve a metal

nika: SEND ME THE @ U MANIAC

paige: it’s private. should i request or would that expose me as terminally obsessed

nika: baby u already dropped u phone OPEN TO HER IG. embrace ur downfall

paige groaned into her pillow.

she didn’t request.

but she did screenshot it.

and maybe saved the profile pic too.

just in case.

© wbbobsesserr

[bebx]

Saw someone say Jun-ho might need another kidney transplant one day because the average lifespan of a transplanted kidney from a living donor is 15-20 years.

I have Some Thoughts / Fic Ideas about this (and of course, it’s Hwang Bros angst);

As the Front Man, In-ho has his men keep tabs on Jun-ho’s medical records in secret; this way, he learns Jun-ho’s health isn’t looking so promising and he might need another transplant soon. Finding a donor is hard (In-ho learned this from firsthand experience), even deceased donors, and with such a long waiting list, things aren’t looking good for Jun-ho.

In-ho is determined he will do something about this. He’s already failed his wife and their child. And he’s failed Jun-ho before, on that cliff. He will not fail Jun-ho again.

Jun-ho needs his one, remaining kidney. After all, a living donor is better for Jun-ho than a deceased one. And In-ho will do this for Jun-ho. It may not be a redemption, In-ho knows he can’t be redeemed or saved. And he knows Jun-ho will probably still hate him. But he will do this — he will sacrifice himself for his baby brother.

Fast forward, In-ho’s dying in Jun-ho’s arms. There he tells Jun-ho to take his remaining kidney. Only that Jun-ho refuses. And Jun-ho begs In-ho to stay, hang in there until help comes. Both of them are fucking stubborn. In-ho keeps “trying to die” and Jun-ho keeps giving him chest compressions, keeps bringing him back.

Until Jun-ho can’t take his brother’s stubbornness and determination to sacrifice himself for him anymore so, in the heat of the moment, he blurts out, “You think I want your kidney? After everything you’ve done, you think I still want a part of you inside me?”

And that — that stills In-ho completely. Like In-ho just goes into shock, and it’s not even due to blood loss. What Jun-ho says isn’t true, Jun-ho doesn’t actually mean that; he just has to say anything to make In-ho stop trying to die on him / for him. But In-ho believes him.

Of course, it’s understandable that Jun-ho is so disgusted by him that he doesn’t want anything from In-ho.

In-ho, while shocked and pained by Jun-ho’s words, understands. He can’t even blame Jun-ho. His only fear is that Jun-ho might die without a kidney. His kidney.

In-ho blames himself.

If he hasn’t done all these terrible things, if he never becomes the Front Man, Jun-ho would have accepted his kidney and he would have lived.

In-ho, still in Jun-ho’s arms, closes his eyes thinking he’s failing his brother again and that his brother’s disgusted by him.

Footsteps are getting closer, Gi-hun and Gi-hun’s team are coming for their rescue. Jun-ho keeps crying and calling In-ho’s name, hugging In-ho tightly in his arms, but In-ho won’t respond or open his eyes.

Should I write a fic about this? 😭

[jjoelmillers]

haymitch abernathy - fire

♫ ed sheeran - photograph

main masterlist | blog playlist

Luckily enough so far in your life, you have not had your name called in the reaping, and you hadn't experienced the tragedies of the arena personally. Nothing was certain but for that, you thanked your lucky stars. To not know those types of grief, anger and loss was as rich as most people got in these districts. 

That wasn't to say you didn't know the pain of the games and what they did to those who entered into them and survived. You were far from blind to the toll it took. Second hand, you got to experience those feelings through him. 

Haymitch Abernathy.

When you first met Haymitch, he was quiet and reserved. On the outside, he was an older man who lived alone and had a refusal to allow himself the luxury of close friends. Often angry, he deflected those feelings onto most people around him. The Capitol had made him this way, and you would never forgive them for that. 

Granted you hadn't met him before this version, you had only met the Haymitch who depended on alcohol and isolation to get through his days. The Haymitch who wouldn't share his feelings and when he did, they came out only in aggression. That was the man you met, that was who he was. 

Until you. 

How it happened, you didn't remember. You met Haymitch in a bar one night, albeit completely drunk off his head, and he was a little sweet on you. Having dealt with enough male attention before, you were used to it. But, what you had realised in it all was that he wasn't creepy or weird with you; it was actually rather sweet. Haymitch couldn't compliment you enough.

"You know somethin', doll," he drawled, accent thick and words trailing off into their own little world. "You might just be the prettiest damn thing I've seen in this district."

Surprisingly, you felt butterflies in your stomach. Usually, unwanted advances made you hurl and often lessen your visits to said places. But, there was just something about him that made you think otherwise. It felt like a draw, like there was something beneath the surface just dying to meet you. 

"And just how many people in here have you said that to tonight alone?" you quipped back, smiling and taking a sip of your drink. Haymitch stopped slouching and sat upright, intrigue rising in him at your joke.

"Just you, just you." His chuckle was delightful to you. "So, do you have a name? I mean, I'm quite content calling you sweet thing, but I figured it's polite to ask."

A gentle look on your face, you leaned in closer to him so you could talk at a normal level, the music a touch too loud. You told him your name, and he spoke it back to you. It felt right, it felt nice.

"That's a hell of a nice name, you wear it well, I'm Haymitch."

You'd heard of him, you knew he won the second Quarter Quell, which explained the heavy drinking. Other than that, you didn't know much else. From what you had heard, he was rather unpleasant to be around, but this chance meet had shown you differently. To you, he seemed like a normal everyday man. Politer than the rest, too. 

You were not the only one feeling things, either. 

 Haymitch loved the mystery behind you. In the beginning, he thought you were beautiful when you had walked in. He hadn't expected you to stick around after his awful opening line, but he was grateful you did. Haymitch wasn't having the best of days. It was rare for him to openly talk to someone at the best of times, but right now he didn't want the night to end. 

Your conversation went on the entire evening, until you began to feel tired. Haymitch was drunk, but sober enough to grab your coat for you as you stood. 

"Could I walk you home, sweetheart?" The pet name made your heart soar. You'd barely known the man half a day and yet you felt like your head was in the clouds. 

"You can, but you're not exactly sober yourself. Plus, I don't want to cut your night short."

Haymitch let outa breathy laugh, helping you into your coat before donning his own. "I may be fairly drunk, but I know you're safer with me than without me. It's late, and it's dark."

With a hand at the small of your back, Haymitch led you to the door and allowed you to walk through first as the cold air of the night hit you both. You couldn't deny that feeling in the pit of your stomach at his small show of protective dominance. It was welcomed, and you loved it. 

The walk to your house was pretty quiet, the two of you simply enjoying the closeness of one another. Occasionally, your arms would bump together and a flurry of apologies followed, ending with the two of you just laughing it off. It was nice to finally have someone that brightened the district up for you, most of the time it was dreary and depressing. You had no idea the effect your presence had on Haymitch, either.

He had lost so much, done so many things he wasn't proud of. He was lonely, and drunk most days, just willing the sun to set and rise again. You had given him someone that listened tonight, that understood, someone to lend a shoulder for him. Every barrier Haymitch had built up had started to crack this evening, and he knew that if he continued to see you that those barriers would surely crumble. Fast.

"Well," your voice broke the silence in the air. "This is me, thank you for walking me home, Haymitch." The way you say my name sounds heavenly, he thought. "Would you like to come in for a while? It's not too late just yet."

Haymitch smiled, holding your door for you to enter and following behind. Always a gentleman, you thought. Your home was quaint and small, but still very cozy. You did what you could with the little you had, and he could see it. His home was not nearly as welcoming. 

"Please, have a seat. Would you like another drink?" you brought him out of his thoughts, as Haymitch sat on your couch. 

"One more couldn't hurt, I'm sure." Haymitch smiled over to you, and he looked different inside your home. He looked much more relaxed, and a lot let tense than in the bar. The glow of the dim candles in your front room highlighted him in all the right places. Bringing the bottles round, you joined him and laid your head against the back of the sofa. 

Haymitch took the time to study you. The soft features of your face at ease as you closed your eyes, he couldn't really look away. Your mouth was parted slightly, strands of hair falling around your face. It was like one of those famous paintings you see in museums. He forced his eyes away for fear of you noticing him staring. 

"You know," Haymitch started, playing around with his bottle. "I don't want to overstay my welcome, if you want to sleep then I don't mind leaving."

He did mind, in fact. He really wanted to stay. You opened your eyes and looked over to him, a gentle smile on your face and shining eyes. God, he could kiss you right there. Haymitch wanted to remember this sight forever.

"I would want you to do no such thing."

The rest of the night was spent chatting aimlessly, laughter and relaxed banter between you. Somehow, you had ended up with your head in Haymitch's lap, as you lay staring up at him. His hand found its way into your hair, fingers tangling into your locks with such care. 

"And then, I basically-" 

Haymitch paused his story mid sentence, as his eyes landed down on you to find your eyes closed and your breathing steady. He took a few moments just to stare, wondering how he had gotten so lucky to be in this position. There were so many who you could have chosen to talk to that day, someone closer to your age even. But, for whatever reason, you had chosen him. 

"Bored you that much did I, sweetheart?" he laughed to himself, keeping his voice quiet. Haymitch noticed his body felt heavy, the drink having caught up with him. Not wanting to move you nor leave without you knowing, he shifted to lie down on your couch and kept you lay with him. You stirred a little, instinctively wrapping your arms around his waist as you snuggled yourself into his side. Your head rested on his chest, the rise and fall of his own lulling you back to sleep immediately.

Haymitch slept like a baby that night. The rest was history.

Which brought you here, now. 

That was two years ago, almost. You had been dating Haymitch for a year and a half of that, and to be honest it had been wonderful. Haymitch was doting, and protective. He never could get enough of showing his affections, whether that be through kisses and cuddles or other means. When he had moments of vulnerability, you never ran nor did you judge. You were just there for him, allowing him the space and resources he needed to start healing. 

Haymitch all but lived with you at this point, and it had been nice to have someone in the house with you. No matter the day you had, almost always you would open the door to him, waiting for you with love and care. Haymitch would hold you, whisper sweet nothings into your ear

Some days were great, but some like today were not so brilliant. 

You had spent the day baking, mostly. The idea to surprise your love came to you that morning, and you got excited. All but shooing him out of the house with a kiss and a promise of a 'special something' on his return. With a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows and your hand swatting him out of the door, Haymitch left with a smile and you got to work.

The day had disappeared, and before you knew it, it was dark outside. It must be at least 7pm, you thought. Knowing Haymitch would be home soon, you hurried to tidy the kitchen as best you could before checking on the oven. With all well, you switched it off to let it cool naturally, taking a seat on the couch exhausted. The day caught up to you, and you lay down in attempt to just rest for a few minutes, and fell asleep.

It couldn't have been more than an hour before you heard the door close and the sound of shuffling in the hall, waking you with a small jolt. As you rose to regain your bearings, you brought your body to sit up on the couch. Standing, you realised you hadn't brought the bread or cakes out from the oven where they were resting. You wanted this to be a surprise and a nice set up for him, but having fallen asleep, you missed the chance. 

As your legs began to walk towards the kitchen, your eyes fell on a disheveled Haymitch in the door frame. He was leaning against it, clearly not in a happy mood. He could barely breathe your name out before taking a stride towards you and burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

"Haymitch," you whispered, catching him in your arms and holding him. "Come here, love."

Gently leading him back to the sofa, you sat and allowed him to hold you however he needed. Haymitch curled into your smaller frame, taking in deep breaths of air in attempt to calm himself down. You didn't ask, nor pry, he would tell you in his own time. Haymitch's frame hung heavy, his grip around you tightening as he let out the frustrations of the day.

"Don't worry, I've got you," you spoke softly into his ear, your fingers running gently through his blond hair. "You're safe here, Haymitch, you're safe inside this house."

Haymitch let out a soft cry, something you had never really seen him do. Perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you, you had thought, until you became aware of the wet patch forming on your chest. Haymitch was crying. Your heart broke. 

For as long as you had been with him, or around him for that matter, he always was rather strong. Never one to cry, never one to show those emotions where possible. He was always there to catch you when you fell, to care for you on the bad days and to love you through everything. For all of his faults, Haymitch could not be accused of being heartless. 

Haymitch's sobs eventually quieted down, and the shaking of his body had lessened. To see him in such a vulnerable state hurt you, but you knew right now all he needed was for you to be here. He had gone so still that you wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep. 

"Hey," you whispered to him, giving him a small shake. "Still with me, handsome?"

"I love you." His voice was hoarse and muffled, but you heard him clear as day. That phrase had been burned into your brain ever since he said it the first time. You couldn't miss it, and he never stopped telling you.

"Well, that isn't what I asked," you joked, trying to lighten the mood just a touch. 

"I do," he said, raising his head to look you in the eye. "I really do, so much."

Now seeing him in the light, Haymitch looked awful. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his face was darker than usual. He wasn't his normal self, and it pained you to see. He sat upright and pulled you over to him, resting  a hand on your thigh whilst the other gently stroked your face. 

Haymitch continued. "I love you more than anything. I just don't want you to forget that."

You smiled softly to him. "How ever could I forget? You say it and show it every day."

"As long as you know it, that's what matter to me, darling. Had a rough day, if you couldn't tell," the slight, ever so slight joke to his voice showed you that he was over the worst of whatever it was. 

"What's brought this on? You don't have to talk about it, but I'm here if you do. You-"

Haymitch cut you off as he pulled you onto his lap, your legs either side of him. His hands held your waist, eyes gazing up at your face with so much love in them. Carefully, you held his face in your hands, your thumbs running across his skin. One of Haymitch's hands ran down your thigh and back up, as the other found its home on your back, beckoning you closer to his chest. As your body hit his, a small sigh of content left his lips. 

Haymitch just held you there, his hands running everywhere they could, mapping out your body as he went. You pressed a kiss to his throat, leaving a trail up towards his lips. Stopping before him as a silent way to ask permission, Haymitch closed the gap and kissed you. Unlike his normal kisses, filled with passion and intensity, this was softer. He needed this. He poured every ounce of love, every feeling he had for you into it, his hand that was once on your back now entangled in your hair. 

Pulling back, he stared into your eyes again, taking steady breaths. 

"You're my angel, sweetheart. I really don't know what I'd do without you here."

You made a very overly exaggerated thinking face, before leaning in close to him and smirking. 

"You'd be without cake, and fresh bread for one."

Before he could question it, you took his hand in your smaller one and led him to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he was reluctant to let your body leave his own. With a reassuring smile that you were only going to the oven, you brought the goods out to his happy surprise. Placing them on the table, you looked at him for approval.

"These look lovely, darling," he said with a genuine smile, his face already looking a lot more lively than when he had first come home. "You're good with those hands, I'll say that."

The suggestive tone in his words wasn't lost on you, and you narrowed your eyes back at him and stuck your tongue out. Haymitch caught your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, leaning his mouth close to your ear.

"I'd put that tongue away or use it, if I were you."

You gasped, but he just let go with a chuckle. Sitting in the chair besides him, Haymitch left a hand on your leg as you both ate, hoping the familiar feelings of home might take his mind off the bad day. He stole glances at you here and there, fleeting touches as you dined. This is what Haymitch wanted. When it was finished, you stood and began to clean.

"Ah, now just what are you doing?"

You furrowed your brows, stopping in your tracks. "Clearing.. the uh, table?"

"Nope."

Haymitch grabbed your arms and pulled you to him. His strong arms held you tight, lifting you with ease as he stood himself to leave the table. 

"Haymitch! The table-"

"Ain't going anywhere, love. But we certainly are." He cut your protests short, winking and stealing another kiss from you. "Before you get any thoughts of any kind, we're sleeping because I'm tired."

Leaning in close to his ear and pressing a small kiss to his cheek, you giggled. "We both know that isn't true."

The night was spent close to each other, making sure the love you both held was felt between you. Haymitch never failed to make sure you were cared for and adored in every way he could. Not just for you, but for him too. To remind himself that he can love and shouldn't be afraid to show that. You were his world, the one thing in life he had left to protect. 

You kept Haymitch sane, you kept him in check. 

 Because even through the darkest days, his fire burned always. 

[rotclaw]

i don't know how much i can say with each new post about it. but please deal with me and this long post, because i need to write

she's laying in the hospital bed, dying. my boyfriend holds me when i sob, but the physical touch can't scratch the itch. so now i'm here at my parents' apartment, hoping they'd make me feel better because the child deep inside is crying out now for stability.

they're in the middle of moving, so their lives are busy enough as it is. my mom is non-stop talking. i know she hurts for me, but it feels like such a selfish hurt, as bad as that might be to say. my feelings matter, but only because it makes her hurt. maybe i misread her though. i know she loves me. our relationship hasn't always been the best.

my dad is stronger than me. it's his mother. he can watch me cry and hug me and tell me it was her time. he understands more, because nan and my mom never got along. i cried as i told my boyfriend that i needed to see my dad tonight, hoping his hug would squeeze some sort of deeply set, bubbling cyst of grief so the pain would go away.

it didn't help as much as i wanted. i know she's laying in the hospital room, dying. she's alone. agonal breaths, i'm sure.

my nan was such a spitfire. she was no nonsense and hated sappy stuff. i can hear her voice telling me to stop crying, in the way she talks where you know she means it, but she says it with love. raspy, mid-high pitched voice. not grating, and unmistakably her

wake up early to find a good swimming spot before everyone else gets there. weekly dinner schedules, monday: hamburger helper, tuesday: leftovers. melted chocolate ice cream, delivered in a well-used plastic bowl. judge judy in the background, always.

sunday drive in the old pontiac firebird. bright red, metal flake. she loves sparkly things, glitter, sequins. red is her favorite color. can't wait to be picked up from school to show off my cool nan. sunsets spent together in the kitchen.

stability in my life. nan is always there. nan will always be there. she got sick with something but she's fine within the week. she'll be there, you can call and she'll pick up.

but not a good mother to her own children. the 60s were a different time. alcoholic, smoker, abuse. i cannot deny what she did according to my father. not perfect. but she loved her grandchildren with all she had. nan is always there.

she's dying in a hospital bed, 35 miles away. agonal breaths. agonal breaths. her lips are pale, her eyes tightly shut. nan will always be there.

i deny my mother's questions about needing something. tea, a sandwich, medication to relax. she means well. i don't want any of those.

i need to hear nan's voice again. i need her to speak to me one more time before she leaves. the other day when i visited she was able to hold my hand. she speaks weakly through the oxygen mask, "hi, cakes." like every other time i saw her. because i wanted pancakes every time i visited her as a child. deep wrinkles in her face. the old teardrop tattoo she got because she thought it was cool. hi cakes, her last words to me. the look in her eyes as i walk in the room crying, soft and full of love, like we both know. we know. but i want nan to always be there.

she lies dying in the hospital room, alone. i cry for the hundredth time as i type this out for her. i know i will not stop crying all night. in two hours i will wake up, anxious and nauseated. i try to empty my mind of her. the last song i played for her replays in my head, and i spiral back into tears. i hope she heard my words to her, spilled from my heart.

i feel almost foolish because she would sternly, lovingly tell me to stop crying. she'll be fine. she's ready. as i remember standing over her hospice bed, watching her final breaths. harsh, ragged. a hint of her voice in her groaning gasps. the voice i so desperately, painfully, angrily want to hear again. because nan should always be there.

there's the part in me that knows she's no longer here. the rational part. the part that would listen to nan when she says that i shouldn't cry. but every other part of me can't let go of nan. my nan who should always be here. i know i know i know i know i know i know my nan will not be here. she will not be here. she is not here. my nan is departing. she can't speak to tell me that she's not afraid, she's not in pain. she's been ready. 82 years old and i always joked about how she was gonna be around for 20 more.

her daughter committed suicide in my childhood home 21 years ago. i don't know if there's an afterlife. my family all says they'll be together again. i try hard to believe their words.

but i want my nan here, with me. but she's just a dying body in a hospital miles away.

i will never hear her talk in person again. i will never hear her say my nickname as i visit again. never never never, no more new memories to make. it's all been done. her time is done. she's fine, she's not afraid, she's ready.

and i cry and cry and feel like a fool for making such a long post about my dying grandmother. but i can't tell her these feelings because she's dying. so i write and write and beg for a release of this grief that will only get stronger after the official news of her death reaches me. and i want to be a child and run into her arms again after a hard day at school, on days where my nan is there for me.

i am 30 now and this is what happens when you age. the people you love dearest will die, the people who held you and cared for you and made you pancakes every time you'd visit. you hope they answer the phone when you call or text but they won't.

you, an unreligious man, drop to your knees and almost begin to pray to a god you don't know exists. pray that your beloved dying nan will send you a sign that she's in a better place. you hold her picture to your heart and beat your fists against the bedroom wall as it rains outside, and you want to go sit outside in the rain again because it hides the tears, but your face is red and puffy and tired and it's so obvious you've done nothing but sob.

and then you go to your parents' apartment in the hopes that you'll be freed, temporarily, of the grief, and you take an hour to write a fucking tumblr post because you have no idea where else to air out your feelings. because the only person you want to talk to right now is dying in a hospital bed.

and you don't want to end the tumblr post because you're afraid you'll lose the grip you barely have on your psyche, just like when you kept stepping towards her hospital bed after you said your final goodbyes. you have more to say, you have so much more to say to your beloved dying nan, but she's dying and you have to leave her room eventually, still clinging onto the hope that she'll open her eyes again and say "hi, cakes" right before you close the door

but there are final words final words one more word one last conversation that will never ever happen again

and you have to leave her, you have to close the door now.

[theseinfernalangels]

can we get #28 w/ brennan please 🙏

your last one for him was sooo good (he def gives such gentle love vibes)

28: One person tracing the other’s lips with a fingertip until they can’t resist any longer, tilting their chin towards them for a kiss.

(Sorry, anon. I’m feeling angsty today).

“I never asked if you were tired. I asked what you’re worrying about — and I know you’re lying, by the way.”

Brennan’s words, soft and stern, have you going still in his hold. You knew he could read the expression on your face with ease, but you hadn’t expected him to call you out on it so directly.

“And?” You reply, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s not like you can do much about that, Bren. You know that’s just how I am.”

“I do,” comes his reply. He hooks a finger under your chin, guiding you to face him directly. His face is shadowy in the darkness of your room, but it doesn’t do anything to dim the seriousness in his eyes. “But I’d also like to know what’s on your mind. You’re a worrier, but not to this degree. I can feel your heart pounding, angel.”

You shrug and avert your eyes. Eye contact was never your forte, especially when you got like this. Not when you saw, not when you knew that something bad was coming in advance.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as you feel one of Brennan’s fingers slowly start tracing your cupid’s bow, the touch grounding, warm, and familiar.

“I…saw something.” You hesitate to continue, keeping your gaze fixed past his head — anywhere but his amber eyes that look almost dark as coffee in the night.

“Yeah?” He encourages, stroking your bottom lip. “You wanna tell me what it was?”

You shake your head instantly. If he knew, he’d instantly try anything and everything to prevent it — and that might end in the worst tragedy of them all tomorrow. You could deal with the knowledge of other people dying, but not Brennan. Never Brennan.

“‘S bad,” you whisper, biting down on your tongue as if you were blocking the flow of words from leaving your mouth. “I don’t want to have to think about it more.”

Brennan’s finger pauses and slides up your jawline before he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth. He’s warm and light, but you can tell by the way his lips move against yours that he’s a little worried now, too. He’s just trying not to show it for fear of making you worse.

Good thing he won’t have to deal with it for much longer.

“Hey,” he murmurs, nuzzling your nose with his. “I’m sure that whatever it is, we’ll find a way through it. We’ve gotten through college, war, and death together. As long as we stick by each other’s sides, we’ll come out swinging.”

You nod and try to force a reluctant smile. It doesn’t come easily, though. He doesn’t know — won’t know — until it happens, and you can’t burden him with the knowledge that he won’t be able to do anything to change the outcome of the battle tomorrow.

So as you kiss him again, distracting him with the addictive pull of plush lips and lavender-tinged balms, you desperately pray to any god available that he won’t be watching once you finally fall from the back of your already-deceased dragon.

He can’t know. He won’t. Not until they read your name off the death-roll, and by that time, you’ll be nothing more than ashes in a common breeze.

[if-seal]

hello seal! i've recently started to write out my if, and in the middle of it i realized that in most of the current scenes i've written the mc as having a stronger/bolder personality and reading back some of the scenes kinda depend on mc having that type of personality

i originally planned for mc to be more of a blank slate and i don't want to turn away the people who prefer playing a shyer/softer mcs, so what should i do? rework the scenes so it'll fit better? just go with what i've already written? or is there perhaps a compromise??

Dear Slate-Writing Friend,

This is a fascinating question and one which I think a great many interactive fiction authors, new and old, will be interested in.

For me, consistency is very important indeed. I shall expound upon that below...

There is a certain amount of audience expectation around games in which you are deciding various elements of the MC. I realise I mention Harry duBois of Disco Elysium a lot here, but I find him a useful point of reference for a truly non-blank-slate character where there are many directions in which to turn him. He is a fully set character, but you can guide him in any number of different ways, including dying by sitting on a distressingly uncomfortable chair and such.

Some interactive fiction works in a similar way. Take Birdland and its sequels, for instance: there is a named character whom you are playing. Others may not have a pre-named character but the MC is either only customisable by name or they are not customisable at all.

Then games like those made by Choice of Games involve a blanker slate. I would not always call them an entirely blank slate: they exist within parameters of behaviour and actions. The Creme de la Creme MC cannot have secretly been a criminal before arriving at Gallatin. The Tally Ho MC is a servant. But there is a much higher degree of customisation around their traits (such as gender), skills (such as hunting ability or occult awareness), or personality (such as shyness or calmness).

In some games, these aspects may be less flexible. An MC may always have regrets about an event from their past, for example, or always despise their parents, or always be scholarly and bookish. There are plenty of games which include such inflexible elements and plenty of audiences who enjoy them.

I have two notes for you to consider.

The first is that you'll want to make sure to infuse the game with these elements strongly, grabbing the players with the story and MC so hard that players will buy into it fully and not yearn to play a shy character, for example. You may also want to make it clear when talking about the game that these fixed elements are vital to the story and the play experience because there is a certain expectation of customisability in Choice of Games games and the Twines that are inspired by that style.

The second is that it's important not to inadvertently suggest to players that flexibility might be accessible. So: if you want to present players with an MC who is always extroverted and take-charge, do not include a Shy stat or similar - it will make players confused or cross that their allegedly Shy MC is still bossing people around and taking names.

I suspect that in your case, because of coming to this realisation in the middle of writing, that your MC is currently somewhere in between customisable and set. That is an awkward place to be, because if it feels like not one or the other, players may stumble at the inconsistency. It is a little jarring to feel like the game is intended to pay attention to their MC's personality but isn't. Much more satisfying to know what's going on in either direction.

But this is entirely fine as you're in the middle of the first draft! A great deal of this draft is about discovering what the game needs and what will need changing later. So I would suggest revisiting your earlier scenes and figuring out whether you still like the idea of allowing a customisable personality - or whether you'd like to make the MC less flexible. Either may happen! There are absolutely excellent ways of writing both approaches, but I caution against trying to do a combination as it's easy to end up feeling in a not-so-satisfying limbo.

Thank you very much for your question and I hope this is helpful!

[73lesbiansinfandoms]

Just watched the thunderbolts*

Here are my thoughts

Spoilers from here on out

This movie honestly made me so giddy the entire time

The open marvel logo was so cool like going back to the comics and it hinting the movie.

Taskmaster was done so dirty, but I'm at least glad that she got a decent amount of fight scene before dying.

I'm glad that Bob was actually a character and not just a 2 second thing before going dark.

My dad called him Superman, and I was like, nah, but then he went and did a very Superman originy plumit to the ground.

Like the whole mental health and being alone was such a cool thing to incorporate for this film.

It wasn't what I was expecting plot wise, but I still loved it.

Bucky, you are so awkward

Red Gaurdian, no one might know you, but us watches know you and love you dearly.

Such a great character and that heart felt scene with Yelena pouring her heart out so good.

The end credit scene, I feel like it's a bit out of character for Sam to be copy writing the avengers and stuff, unless he's doing it as like his and Bucky's teasing.

The fantastic 4 taking place in a futuristic 60's makes a lot more sense with the spaceship.

Bob must be protected like Lewis Pulman did such a great job playing him like ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Valentina was such a good Villian, like she was so cool.

[lore-gore]

Crown of Antlers au

- Because of Lottie's schizophrenia, it left her mind vulnerable to possession. The Wilderness took advantage of her weak state, twisting her hallucinations in order to make her it's puppet. It's prophet.

- The girls put the cabin fire out by smothering it using the snow, so only the front ends up getting destroyed. They rebuild it using the materials they would have used for their shelters.

- It looks like a nest.

- When Shauna tries to stop the rest of them from leaving, Lottie tells her to let them go, as "they'll be back."

- It turns out that yellowjacket Shauna saw as everyone got ready to leave was more significant than she realized.

- While making the hike back to civilization, the group is attacked by a swarm of yellowjackets. Kody dies, while the rest escape back to the cabin covered in injuries.

- It didn't want them to leave.

- Travis sees The Wilderness in Lottie, and becomes afraid. He tries to trick her into falling into the pit of spikes, but we all know how that goes.

- The snow starts to fall.

- As winter begins, Lottie starts having more dreams of The Antler Queen. More signs. A crack in the mirror forming antlers.

- The emergency call box is still worked on, but it won't be finished in time.

- Shauna realizes that it's easier to rule when times are prosperous. But in cold and bitter winter, she is out of her depth. Slowly she starts to retreat from her leader role, seeking Lottie for help.

- Then the animals die.

- Instead of the animals dying by Akilah's hands, The Wilderness kills them.

- Lottie and Shauna suggest doing the hunt again, but Natalie stops them. She says they can preserve the animals in the snow.

- This works, for a bit. Until suddenly the animals rot.

- They soon realize that it wants them to hunt. It wants them to feed.

- Lottie has that last dream of The Antler Queen.

- In the morning, they draw the cards. Tai and Van rig them to choose Hannah, but instead of Shauna messing up the order, it's Melissa.

- She had gotten closer to Hannah while recovering.

- Mari is chosen.

- Shauna wears The Butcher acolyte outfit, while Melissa wears The Poacher acolyte outfit (the one Shauna originally wore).

- Inside the cave, Lottie finally realizes what it wants from her. She knew it all along.

- She still speaks to Mari.

- Shauna drains Mari's body so she is safe for consumption.

- While she does that, Gen cuts off a piece of her hair.

- Lottie dons the white robe and antler collar.

- When she walks out, everyone looks at her.

- Gen walks up, pining the lock of Mari's hair to her dress, before cutting off a lock of her own hair and pining it as well.

- Shauna takes the scissors from her and does the same.

- One by one the girls cut off a piece of their own hair and pin it to Lottie's robe, until the whole piece looks like ermine.

- The perfect robe for a queen.

- She puts on the baklava, as Natalie crowns her with antlers and Shauna pulls a veil over her, decorating with two earrings.

- The feast is the same as the pilot. Quiet, with only a nod from their shaman, their queen, to eat.

- Finally, she has taken up the mantle, and become It's Antler Queen.

I might combine this with another au where Krystal lives, which I'll talk about later.

[unhealthysky]

In an alternative universe, we would’ve had the gods acting like camp counselor and deal with their children like The office or Abbot Elementary but more serious

It would’ve been a sick reveal if Percy came to camp and all these gods were the leader and counselors of each cabin. Not every god is there and most are minor gods.

They each have a number like normal, but there are little subtle signs in the cabin to show who it belongs to. And some campers got into different cabins because the counselor that “found” them got close to them and it would be sad to shove them to another cabin, yes that child has similar powers as me but it’s just a coincidence. They call me mom/dad because they’re just children that miss their parents🥺

Quests still exist and children still die but that would’ve made the driving force of the conflict more interesting. Luke would’ve been frustrated that his siblings are still dying but the gods didn’t do anything about it. Yet it could be referenced that an uprising happened before but most of their children were wiped out and that loss still traumatizes them.

The uprising could’ve been when they tied Zeus to a chair but there was a loop hole. He promised that he would be a good leader to the other gods and their children present but there are dead so it doesn’t apply anymore. The gods could face a dilemma of doing it again but losing these children now for a new future for kids they might not even want to have down the line? Yes he’s a good leader to allow the gods to see and train their kids but he’s still a leader that send kids to die because you train them so they should be able to survive without you. He makes it a rule for the gods to not be present for a quest just to lend items, or assistance like blessing, or something small.

Of course most gods break that rule but it comes at a cost. I feel like a swear on the River Styx would severely injured a god, not permanently but enough to put them out for a good season. They would have to hide or come up with an excuse ( I hurt myself on vacation 😮‍💨) and another god would take their place in camp or in the counsel. All of them are on a schedule to be there for like two or three seasons of a year and some immortals like Hercules show up like substitute teachers because a counselor got “sick” .

Ares could’ve been the god to introduce Percy to the rest of the camp and explain things. It would’ve made an impact on Percy, kind man that looks mean but loves his kids and he would’ve stayed at his cabin instead. It would insulted Poseidon so bad it would have him claim Percy and let it be known that he broke a rule.

Luke still would’ve been a lighting thief but it was out of frustration which grew from Kronos influence but the other gods found out and were trying to deal with it. Yet Zeus found out and thought it was Percy which would’ve lead him to do the quest. The gods planted it in his backpack but they still were trying to figure out a plan on how to get him out of this but Percy thought they’re were blaming him and ran off. Just pure chaos… almost like Eris was a part of it :)

Ares would asked Zeus to spare Percy on the plane to want to fight him due to Poseidon and his history. Sighting the Romans as well as the reason it has to be in New York. Zeus would let him and he still would’ve lost but it would have affected Percy. The counselor that trained you is a god that now claims to want you dead and planted the lighting in your bag but he still lost on purpose and apologized to you, yet your dad was the reason for you going on the quest to begin with 🥺

Ares would’ve faced some consequence but Zeus and Poseidon would’ve let it go because he’s too soft as a father and he’s ego driven enough to fight him by the sea. He wouldn’t have been a counselor next summer but oh I wanted to take Clarisse and some of my kids on vacation but oh Percy just happened to pass by my ship. Now I have to take him “hostage” because of my ego, I fed him and somehow helped them get the Golden Fleece, darn it 😪

Aphrodite maybe would’ve been the first counselor supervising on the first quest because you don’t want Percy running away, you know how tricky these kids are 🤭. Also love for his mother was a driven factor for him to go on this quest no? Ares would’ve been the second, Artemis the third, Dionysus the fourth, and the last one would’ve been Athena.

[wylldebee]

Random Wigglestein/Uno Family Headcanons

—The reason Monty had a British accent and Benedict had an American one because Benedict tried to sound like their dad, while Monty kept his accent as a small rebellion against him. —Monty gave Numbuh 1 the middle name Benedict because somewhere deep inside him, Numbuh 0 still loves his little brother. —Wigglestein is the family name; Monty took his wife's name when they married. —Numbuh 1 needed a week's break post Operation: Z.E.R.O to deal with the reveal of family information. A week. Everybody in the KND thought he was seriously ill. Numbuh 4 thought he might be dying. —Family dinners are the most awkward and intense things to ever exist. If it wasn't permanent, Numbuh 1 would want to be decommissioned early just to forget them. —Numbah 1 inherited his workaholic side from his Grandmother Wigglestein. He's also inherited the genes to manipulate fire and get a shadow suit, he just hasn't been pushed to that angry, explosive edge just yet. —Numbah 1 was instantly Grandfather's favourite grandchild just because he was Monty's child. —Father and Numbah 1 send the most passive-aggressive uncle-nephew cards every birthday and Christmas. They make nice kindling/targets for target practice. —Grandmother Wigglestein (Monty and Benedict's mother) abandoned the family a year or two before Monty found the KND Handbook. She couldnt deal with Grandfather and his damn tapioca. Wasn't the greatest mum, though she was decent compared to Grandfather. —Whenever the KND break into his house, Father immediately starts throwing hands with his nephew the second he sees him. YOU BREAK INTO MY HOME AND DON'T EVEN BOTHER TO TAKE YOUR DIRTY SHOES OFF?! —Father's pipe actually belonged to his great-grandfather; he found it in Grandfather's study after his defeat at Monty's hand. He thought if he had it, he'd be just as evil and powerful as his dad and maybe finally get daddy's approval. —It's so fucking awkward at family dinners. I know I just listed this headcanon, but it really is awkward. Numbuh 1 is on his hands and knees begging the Decom Sector to erase parts of his memory please his grandfather just pinched his cheek and the DCFDTL just called him Cousin Nigel he is begging please.

[ashenstardust]

Hiiiiiiii author I hope you're doing well <3

So i saw that you're writing for clair obscure (you're the only one i found really 😭) and i wanted to know if you can write something fluffy with Verso ? 😭 (If you're taking requests ?) Idk just pure fluff like he calls her "princess" and is a gentleman to her ? (I'm a hopeless romantic and a sucker for fluff 😭)

Aaand that's it , sending love your way <3

I hope this is okay;;;; If it is not, I am so sorry pls forgib me ;w; Pairing: Verso x Reader Summary: Verso goes out of his way to make sure you're okay when the group is spending the night in camp. Word Count: 929 Rating: G Warnings: Fluff (?), use of nicknames

“Careful, princess,” Verso’s words of warning cut through the quiet copse and make you jump a bit in surprise.

You look over your shoulder, briefly, to see him walking your way. Then you go back to looking over the Curator who stands idly by waiting for someone to engage its skills.

“You might not like what looks back,” Verso says, meeting where you’re standing and casting his gaze at what you’re investigating.

“Its just so interesting,” you marvel, leaning over to try and notice something new from a different angle.

You hear Verso hum an amused, if skeptical, acknowledgment. “Well, I came to ask if you wanted dinner while it was still warm,” he muses, “I know how you scientific types absolutely love to put anything and everything before your own wellbeing.”

You scoff at him, but it carries no weight as you circle around the Curator and fumble through your jacket for your notebook. You flip through the pages quickly to find a blank sheet.

“Are you ignoring me, mademoiselle?” the usual growling cut of Verso’s voice is there and undercut by his feigned, dramatic, offense.

“I’m not ignoring you,” you begin to say.

“But you wish to gain sustenance from scientific discovery and have no need to partake in basic human functions?” he interrupts you.

You slide your eyes to meet his and find his chastisement is coming from a place of concern, not anger. You make a dramatic display of tucking your notebook away and gesture for him to lead on.

A small, slanted smile graces his features as he turns and walks you back to the fire.

You study his back as you go. His concern for you was different from his concern for Maelle. And as you think about his addition to your camp you realize you’d seen him impatient, but you aren’t sure you’ve seen him angry.

Not that you want to see him angry, particularly, he is fierce enough in battle while calm. But, call it scientific folly, you want to see what would happen.

A simple stew was simmering over the fire. You aren’t exactly passing through greener pastures so stew is the best your group can do with what little supplies you have. Verso has been more than helpful on that front too. He knows what plants grow in even the harshest environments, and he knows how to prepare them so they don’t kill you.

Verso waves you to sit, while he grabs two bowls and fills them. You take the time to glance around. It’s dark in the clearing, even with the moon shining on a cloudless sky. You notice there are no other silhouettes. The rest of your small expedition team must’ve already gone down to rest for the night.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, handing you a warm, full bowl.

You take it, gratefully, and get caught under his stare for a heartbeat. He breaks the moment, seemingly reluctantly, to sit with his own dinner. Your mind comes back to you as do the many questions you’re dying to ask him, most of which you fear you know the answer to. You take up a spoon and eat a few bites instead.

“You know you can tell me anything, princess,” he says, and the nickname he’s chosen to give you makes your blood warm. “I want you to trust me – I want us to trust each other,” he adds.

“Why does it matter?”

Verso gives you a look like he needs you to explain.

“We need you to continue on our journey. Why does it matter if we trust you?”

You watch a glimmer of understanding twinkle in his eyes. He leans forward, and you forget, for a moment, what you’re a part of. “I need you to trust me,” he says, his growling voice is low. You realize he’s telling you a secret. “I need you to trust me because things are only going to get worse, and I know we’re all going to need someone to rely on.”

You let him know you are listening to what he is telling you, and for a long while after you let his words sit between you in silence. You are hungry and you do want to eat something warm for once. And hadn’t he gone out of his way to make sure you take care of yourself?

But soon enough the food is gone, and you don’t feel tired and when you look at Verso, he doesn’t look tired either.

“You think I’ll rely on no one?” you ask, staring into your empty bowl.

“You rely on no one now,” he says with a light laugh. The sound doesn’t help how gravely serious he’s looking at you. “If you rely on no one it will kill you long before any of our enemies get the chance.”

���Okay,” you concede.

Verso stands and offers his hand to you.

You look up at him curiously but take his hand without hesitation. It’s warm and rough with callouses.

“When we get to that point, promise you’ll rely on me too.” You’re cringing a bit at your choice of words, given how the last promise had gone for your group, but felt you meant the words you chose.

For Verso’s part he doesn’t seem at all phased by you. Instead, he allows you to use his hand to stand and begins walking you to where everyone else is sleeping soundly.

“I promise,” he tells you as he leaves you there. You watch him disappear into the shadows before you lay down and finally rest.

[canisonicscrewyou]

If there's one thing I actually hate more than being sick it's having to call out because I am sick.

[quadrantadvisor]

Alright new Jason Todd headcanons in a dpxdc setting:

Danny is a "liminal" ghost, rather than a "half" ghost. He's alive and dead at the same time. (He's like Jesus Christ (in the church denomination I grew up in), fully ghost and fully human.) Danny, in human form, can go through a ghost shield, because he IS a living human.

Jason, however, is a reanimated corpse. He isn't a ghost, wouldn't have a ghost core, etc, he has a normal human system that runs ON ectoplasm. Jason CANNOT go through a ghost shield, because he is always an ectoplasmic entity. Danny can go through the Fenton Ghost Catcher and be split into a ghost and a human; if Jason went through the ghost catcher, he would straight up die.

(For my purposes I'm gonna say that Jason became an ectoplasmic entity upon his resurrection, but wasn't very stable. Dunking in the Lazarus pit stabilized his system but also poisoned his ectoplasm.)

I do think that Jason could learn certain ghost abilities if he learned to harness his ectoplasm, especially if they detoxed him off the Lazarus waters. He's probably already enhancing his stealth and strength in ways he hasn't really noticed. I think he's held back by the amount of physical matter he's lugging around, so maybe he couldn't fly, but I'm imagining temporary invisibility, or intagibility of like, a limb at a time. Maybe he can't walk through walls, but in a fight he can dodge by instinctively making the targeted part of his body intangible.