#but i wanted to cram the last few days on the page

[iovebarca]

hiii loved all of your fics… could you do a fluff one with marc guiu where they have been studying for school so they haven’t seen eachother for days and marc surprises her by going to her house? hope you’ve understood everything!

A Midnight Interlude - Marc Guiu

Authors note: First of all thank you so much! and I hope I did your request right :) 💓

WC: 1200+

warnings: incorrect grammar (probably), my first language isn't english so if you notice any mistakes please tell me, just fluff!

summary: Amid exam stress, Marc surprises you. After a cozy movie night and stargazing. Grateful for Marc's presence, you drift to sleep.

send me requests!! ❤️

You've been drowning in textbooks and notes for days, the looming exams consuming every waking moment. Each page turned feels like another step closer to the edge of exhaustion. But amidst the stress and late-night cram sessions, there's one thing you miss more than anything, spending time with Marc.

You and Marc have been inseparable since you met at a mutual friend's birthday party. From the first moment you laid eyes on each other, there was an undeniable connection. You've shared laughter, secrets, and countless moments together. But as finals approach, your time together has dwindled to brief text messages and occasional phone calls.

One evening, as you sit at your desk, buried under a pile of papers, you hear a soft knock on your door. Startled, you glance at the clock. Who could be visiting at this hour?

You open the door to find Marc standing there, a sheepish smile on his face and a backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes sparkle with excitement as he takes in the sight of you.

"Marc! What are you doing here?" you exclaim, unable to hide your surprise.

"I missed you," he says simply, stepping inside and pulling you into a warm embrace. His arms feel like a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of your busy life. "I know you've been swamped with studying, but I couldn't go another day without seeing you."

You feel your stress melt away in Marc's arms. You've been so caught up in your studies that you hadn't realized just how much you missed him. His presence is like a soothing balm for your weary soul.

"Come on," Marc says, taking your hand. "Let's take a break from all this studying. I brought some snacks and your favorite movie."

You can't help but smile as Marc leads you to the living room, where he has set up a cozy nest of blankets and pillows in front of the TV. The soft glow of the screen illuminates the room, casting a warm, inviting light.

The sight of popcorn and chocolate makes your stomach rumble with anticipation. You settle onto the couch, tucking yourself into Marc's side as he presses play on the remote. The movie begins, but you find it hard to concentrate with Marc so close, his warmth seeping into your bones.

For the next few hours, you lose yourself in the world of the movie and each other's company. You laugh, you cry, and you share whispered conversations in the dark. It feels like no time has passed at all since you were last together, lost in your own little bubble of happiness.

As the credits roll, you realize just how much you needed this break. Marc has a way of grounding you, of making you forget about the pressures of school and just enjoy the moment. You turn to him, feeling a rush of gratitude and love swell in your chest.

"Thank you for coming, mi amor," you say, pressing a kiss to Marc's cheek.

"Anytime, mi vida," he replies, his voice soft and gentle. "I'll always be here for you, no matter how busy life gets."

You both sit in comfortable silence for a moment, savoring the closeness between you. Then Marc speaks up, his voice tentative.

"Would it be okay if I stayed over tonight?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for approval. "I don't want to leave you alone after such a long day."

A smile spreads across your face at the thought of spending the night with Marc. It's been too long since you've had him beside you, and the idea of falling asleep in his arms fills you with warmth.

"I would love that," you say, reaching out to take his hand. "Stay as long as you like."

Marc's face lights up with a smile, and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "Thank you, mi vida," he murmurs, his voice filled with love.

"Hey," he says softly, turning to you with a gleam in his eyes. "It's a perfect night for stargazing. What do you say we take a break and enjoy the view?"

You smile at the suggestion, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest. "That sounds wonderful." you reply, already imagining the cozy scene under the night sky.

Together, you gather blankets and pillows, creating a makeshift nest in the backyard. The air is cool and crisp, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the house. You settle onto the blankets, snuggling close to Marc as you tilt your heads back to gaze at the stars.

The night sky stretches out above you, a vast expanse of darkness illuminated by pinpricks of light. Wrapped in blankets and each other's arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. The worries of exams and deadlines fade into the background as you lose yourselves in the beauty of the night.

As the hours pass, you share hopes and dreams, whispering secrets into the darkness. You talk about the future, imagining all the adventures you'll go on together once the football season and exams are over and summer break begins.

At one point, a shooting star streaks across the sky, and you both make a wish in unison, hearts filled with hope and possibility.

As you both lay under the blanket of stars, Marc turns to you with a soft smile. "What did you wish for?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You glance at him, a playful twinkle in your eye. "I can't tell you," you reply with a teasing grin. "You know the rule - if you tell, it won't come true."

Marc chuckles, leaning in closer to you. "Ah, playing it safe, are we?" he says, his warm breath tickling your ear. "Well, whatever it is, I hope it comes true for you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a rush of affection flooding your heart. You reach out to squeeze his hand, feeling the connection between you grow even stronger in the quiet of the night.

As Marc's question lingers in the air, a soft smile graces your lips. "I wished for our future together," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Marc's eyes widen slightly, his gaze softening as he takes in your words. "Our future," he repeats, his voice filled with warmth and affection. "I couldn't wish for anything more."

You feel a surge of emotion welling up inside you, overwhelmed by the depth of love you feel for Marc in this moment. He pulls you close, wrapping you in a tight embrace as if to reaffirm his commitment to you and the future you both envision together.

Underneath the canopy of stars, surrounded by the quiet serenity of the night, you share a moment of pure connection and understanding. It's as if the universe itself is whispering its blessings upon your love, promising a future filled with endless possibilities and boundless joy.

As you lay there, wrapped in Marc's arms, you can't help but feel a sense of peace wash over you. Whatever challenges lie ahead, you know that as long as you have Marc by your side, you'll be able to face them together, hand in hand, with unwavering love and devotion.

And as you drift off to sleep, cradled in the warmth of Marc's embrace, you hold onto the hope and excitement of the future that awaits, knowing that with him, anything is possible.

[cuubism]

If you’re taking prompts, I’d love more chronic pain retired!dream stuff!

oh yeah we need emotional support dream hurt/comfort today

( i assume you meant in regards to this fic )

-

For the first few months after dying and becoming human, nearly all Dream had known was pain.

It was an adjustment, to fold and cram an amorphous existence into a rigid human body. And there was the psychic change, the constant feeling of stepping and missing a stair, as he instinctively reached for the Dreaming and found it gone. He had thought, then, that he regretted his choice, that perhaps he should simply have died, or, stranger, that he should have remained Dream--though, by the end, that was not truly an option for him.

Strange, to miss something that had wrapped like a pillory about his neck for so long. But that was change. The familiar, sometimes, was a comfort even in the suffering it brought.

Eventually, he decided that he did not, in fact, wish that he had died, or that he had remained Endless. Hob had cautioned patience during that time and he had been correct. It helped, too, to eventually learn that the level of physical pain he was experiencing was, in fact, abnormal. Dream was often tired and struggled to find the wherewithal to do anything about it. But Hob seemed determined to make it better for him, to the extent that he could.

One of these ways was through the application of comfortable items. Dream now had an extensive collection of blankets, including a weighted one that helped him sleep, and a heated electric one that soothed a lot of his muscle soreness and which he'd taken to essentially living under on cold days. Sometimes Hob would leave in the morning to go to class, leaving Dream curled up on the couch under his blanket, only to return hours later and find Dream still there. "You're like a cat," he'd say, running his hand through Dream's hair.

Dream thought cats were favorable creatures to be compared to.

On this night, he was once again wrapped in his heated blanket, curled up on the couch. Stubbornly drawing in his sketchbook despite the persistent ache in his shoulder. It was kind of his own fault, that. Slightly too vigorous in bed last night. But Dream had been restless and he'd wanted Hob to be vigorous and he didn't regret it, though it was annoying him now.

He was shading in the bird he'd sketched, piece of charcoal held sideways in his fingers, when he realized. Despite the ache in his shoulder. Despite the lingering stiffness in his hips. Despite the fact that he was still waiting for Hob to get home and so couldn't yet crawl on top of him and take advantage of heat sources on both sides. He felt... content.

He didn't realize, until he was sitting there, sketchpad in hand, blanket around his shoulders, pain a distant ache deep in the muscles of his back... that part of what had been unsettling him so in these recent weeks was actually... a lack of another pain.

Stepping. Missing the stair.

But this missed stair was not the familiar touch of the Dreaming. It was a darkness. He kept going from one day to the next, stepping forward, and expecting darkness to swallow him. Without knowing he was expecting it. Without knowing it was there. Falling, and then jerking awake, falling and jerking awake again--when the darkness didn't catch him.

His conversation with Hob came back to him.

How much pain are you in? Not right now--I mean usually.

Upon what metric is the scale?

Upon what metric?

By the time Hob got home, Dream had paused drawing, his charcoal suspended over the page, staring off into the distance. Lost in thought. He didn't come back to himself until Hob had crouched in front of him and was swiping his fingers over Dream's cheeks. "Love?"

Dream didn't realize until then that he was crying. Just silently, tears streaming down his face. Hob watched him with concern, but waited for him to speak.

"I--" Dream started, and his voice cracked. He tried again. "I. Hob."

"Yeah, love?"

"I. Don't think I hurt anymore."

Hob's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" He well knew that Dream's body wouldn't just stop hurting, not for good.

Dream wiped at his eyes. This, another adjustment: his body was so much more susceptible to visible displays of emotion than it once was.

"Before," he said, and didn't have to specify when he meant. "It hurt. I did not realize."

He had been so used to the way he felt that he did not realize he was feeling anything. He didn't realize, until the pain left him.

"My shoulder still hurts today," he continued. "But. I do not. And. Regardless. I want to be here."

"And I want you here," Hob said, and pulled Dream close, wrapping him in his arms. Dream pressed his face into Hob's shoulder, tears streaming again, but they did not feel sad. They felt cleansing.

"Come here," Hob said, and sat beside him on the couch. As Dream had fantasized, he pulled Dream close, letting him sprawl atop him, wrapped in his blanket, absorbing Hob's body heat. Dream clung to him, legs twisted up with Hob's. It made his hip twinge, but he didn't care.

"I'm glad you're not hurting," Hob whispered, lips brushing Dream's hair. "I'm so glad."

Dream was still hurting, in a sense, but the pervasive soul-deep ache he'd accepted as foundational to his existence, so foundational he'd stopped noticing it entirely, had gone. An ancient weight had lifted off his chest. He felt breathless with it.

His shoulder hurt more now from how he had his arms wrapped around Hob and it would probably hurt tomorrow but if this was the exchange then he would not take it back.

All the human pains in the world in trade. He would not trade back.

[sleepynoons]

akaashi x gn!reader, sfw

cw: mentions of skin picking (akaashi picks at his fingers)

notes: sorry for being afk lol was moving back into college, and now that i have settled back in, here's my obligatory, written-in-30-minutes college!au akaashi bc he is The College Au. happy that i'm beginning to write for hq characters bc they all mean so much to me. also requests/suggestions are closing this weekend, so pls drop by my ask box by then if you want smth!! feel free to drop by for no good reason, too!

THE TWO of you don’t even have to say anything. one glance at each other, and you both shut your eyes and exhale deeply. 

to be fair, neither of you are surprised either. the two other students in your project group are notorious for skipping classes and buying homework answers off of other students. it should have been a given they wouldn’t help out on this presentation either.

the grandfather clock against the adjacent wall is an old thing, really – wood faded and paint chipped off –, yet the ticks of its hands click crisply in contrast to the soft sounds of laminated textbook pages flipping and footsteps rubbing against carpet. just like an old grandparent would, every tick of the clock is a nagging reminder directed at you and akaashi: “that’s one less minute you have to work on that project! oh, and another! are the two of you ever going to get started?”

you pull out your chair and sit next to akaashi, who looks more exhausted than he usually does. there are dark, dark shadows under his eyes, and there are swollen cuts around his cuticles from where he tugs on petty, persistent hangnails.

you shove a hand into the back pocket of your pants. i thought i had one on me, you think, pouting slightly as you continue to feel through crushed receipts, loose threads, and whatever other junk you crammed in back there. finally, you feel the familiar papery texture. there it is!

“akaashi, here.” you slide it over to him, and he glances at it before focusing back onto his laptop screen. it’s almost like he doesn’t recognize the object as he says nothing for a few moments, but then, he looks back and purses his lips, his best attempt at a grateful smile in his current state.

“thanks for the bandaid,” he mutters as he begins to open up the packaging.

you shrug your shoulders and furrow your brows. “i should’ve brought more,” you say. “that’s on me.”

he shakes his head as he wraps the bandaid around the knuckle of his thumb – the most tortured of all his fingers. “don’t apologize. i should be the one taking care of myself anyway.”

“i doubt a single college student can take care of themself, let alone a project meant for four people,” you groan. 

“they don’t count as people,” he deadpans.

you choke a laugh. “akaashi, don’t be mean.”

“i’m only stating a fact.”

at this point, akaashi has already returned to working, typing away and switching tabs every so often. you, too, grab your things to contribute.

the project is more tedious than anything, and luckily, the two of you had completed your respective one-fourths of the work ahead of time. however, the two of you were hoping – naïvely, might you add – that your other teammates would pull through, so you had procrastinated on finishing their parts until the day before the deadline.

and things continued downhill from there. you and akaashi were supposed to meet in the morning to dedicate the whole day to completing and revising the presentation. however, his research advisor emailed him last-minute to help with some urgent manuscripts, so the two of you delayed until 4pm. but then you got roped into a club event, which included dinner and a drinking afterparty, and not wanting to cause a ruckus with your seniors, you obliged. needless to say, it’s now 9pm and there is a whole half-empty presentation waiting to be filled.

at least the one thing that is working in your favor is your mechanical teamwork. you work on a section, akaashi on another, and when both of you are done, you switch to polish each other’s works. akaashi is also a fantastic writer and critic, so not only do you feel like you’re learning from his suggestions, you’re also not devastated in the process. even with potentially very shallow questions, he’s patient.

about an hour in, you mumble, “wait, i’m not sure if this makes sense.” you turn your computer towards him, and he leans forward, slightly in front of you, to see clearer.

from this proximity, you notice the way his nose twitches, along with the way his lips form a pout, as he readjusts the bridge of his glasses. you can also trace the curvature of his ears, following the round of the helix down to the lobe. and his eyebrows –

then again, these are things you’ve known for a while now. you’re just taking note of details you’ve already memorized. you’ve come to terms with your crush on akaashi since the second week of the fall term, truly having experienced love at first sight. but you’re too tired for a relationship, and if you’re exhausted, well, akaashi is probably having a worse time.

and by the looks of it, akaashi suddenly sniffles. you pull out a tissue immediately.

he chuckles as he takes it. “that pocket of yours is pretty handy.”

you frown. because you did miss a detail.

akaashi is flushed from his cheeks up to his temples and ears. and upon reflection, his voice sounded more gravelly, without its usual snark, when he was making the jab at your project mates earlier.

oh. 

“are you sick?” you ask.

the first time he doesn’t hear you, intently reading through your write-up. you ask again, this time also tapping his shoulder.

“sorry, what?” he mumbles.

“akaashi, i said, are you sick?”

a confused expression flashes across his face before ot returns to its typical unbothered look.

“don’t worry about it,” he grunts,

“you should get some rest,” you insist.

“and what about the project then?”

you really shouldn’t be doing this to yourself because it would mean pulling an all-nighter, but you also don’t want akaashi to work while he’s under the weather. “i’ll just do it myself. i’ll send you everything by the morning, so you can take a look over it when you wake up, and then we can submit it by class time, yeah?”

he gawks at you, terrified at your proposal. he shakes his head, adamant when he says, “there’s no way i could let you do that. you need to rest, too.”

“not as much as you,” you argue back. “if you’re not too sick, then you can sleep it off and wake up early to help. but right now, you need to go back to your dorm.”

he fights back, trying to convince you of otherwise, but you’ve already crossed your arms across your chest firmly and are staring at him with a quirked eyebrow, visibly unimpressed.

akaashi can only roll his eyes at your stubbornness.

as he packs his things, he looks over his shoulder at you and asks, “is there anything i can do to make it up to you?”

“akaashi, are you being serious? you don’t need to make up anything. just feel better for me, alright?”

now he’s looking at you like you’re a total idiot.

you just sigh.

“fine, just treat me to a meal or something, alright? now go.”

“i was going to take you out for dinner anyway, but fine. i’ll pay for lunch tomorrow.”

“yeah, sounds good. now go!”

akaashi leaves, and you return back to your work.

the hours fly by. other students begin to filter out, and by the time it’s past midnight, you’re only accompanied by a night-shift student librarian and the grandfather clock. you lean back into your chair, taking a quick breather.

you think back to your conversation with akaashi before he left. gotta finish the project before he wakes up, only six more slides to go, i wonder what we should have for lunch, he did say we’d get to eat together another time –

you jolt. sitting upright, your eyes widen slowly as you recount akaashi’s words. he said he would take me out anyway.

are you hallucinating? so delusional that you can’t tell between fantasy and reality? he said those exact words, right? did he mean it the way you think it means?

the clock chimes loudly as a new hour begins. you’re thrown back to work, but really, you don’t even know how you managed to finish the assignment because, the entire time, you kept thinking about akaashi and his intentions.

what does he mean?

[poppy-metal]

So I’ve sent a few asks about this since i'm not a challengers blog lmao but i feel like ive got this sorted now. This is a polycule au where reader enters via Tashi.

Reader is Tashi’s childhood best friend. They met at a day camp for kids in the neighborhood, and you were excited to let her babble on about tennis and sports and everything else. You traded hair ties and discovered you have the same favorite movie and that was that. 

You were interested in tennis for a bit, an eager little kid, really just excited to have a best friend. Your parents were a bit concerned - don't you want other friends? She seems a little... overbearing... - but you didn’t care. This wasn’t just another kid - this was Tashi. Fire and ice, determination and grit, strength and beauty... You didn’t realize you were falling in love, you were just a kid. But that first love - when given the opportunity - can grow into its own beast. Spin the bottle might have been the first kiss you two share (and your first kiss ever), and it probably should have hurt your feelings more when she told you you were a terrible kisser later that night, but she offered to teach you and you tried to ignore the way your mouth went dry at the thought of tasting her again.

But despite your best efforts, as you drift away from tennis and into the pageant circuit, you and Tashi drift apart too. She still drags you out to do doubles for fun, but you can tell it bothers her that you aren’t as passionate about it as she is. It was her idea to write letters in college - she was flopped out on your bed, looking like a goddess in her tiny pajama shorts. She said it was convenient, you couldn’t help the way your heart skipped a beat. You’d been scared that she might just leave you - find a friend with a passion and drive that matched hers. But she wanted you around. Even tried to set you up with Art one time, the four of you crammed in a booth at some shitty diner. You decided then that you hated both boys - you’d heard their names in her letters, tried to ignore the way jealousy coiled in your chest every time they looked at her.

After her injury though... she just drifted away. By the time Lily was born, she rarely wrote back, to your texts or emails. It was too hard - you understood tennis as a game, but not in the way she did. Besides, you were solidly from before. Before the injury, before the marriage, before any of it. In her mind, you were pure. She couldn’t taint that with her pain and loss. You tried reaching out to Art, but he brushed you off.  You ran into Patrick a few years later, at a shitty hotel. You’d almost kissed him - the heat of the moment and the history making desire twist with guilt in your stomach and you’d practically ran from the bar.

But that didn’t mean you stopped writing. And that made everything worse - why couldn’t you be more like Patrick, take a hint, let her go, let her slip fully into her after. But you never forgot a birthday - an ever growing collection of cards and letters in a box under her bed. You’d wondered, sometimes, if she read them. The letters got shorter and shorter as your own life drifted away from you. Empty friendships, empty relationships... it should have alarmed you, the way your life became grey without her. 

After the Challenger, when Patrick was back in their life, he was looking for something of Art’s when he found that shoebox under her bed. The last few letters are unopened - you’d stopped including any details of interest by now, and she couldn’t bear to read the nothingness. You used to fill pages - now you barely covered the front of one.

But despite late night conversations while Tashi was getting ready for bed, neither Patrick nor Art ever felt like it was their place to say anything. Patrick would poke and prod, but never actually did anything. 

It would be another year of radio silence before fate intervened. At this point in your life, you were working as a personal assistant for some big-wig sports sponsor, an overbearing man with wandering hands - but he pays you well, and your contract has a year or so left in it anyways.

The party had barely started when someone taps you on your shoulder. You’d been flitting around in a blush gown, debriefing the staff and restocking tables. You spin, expecting another waiter with a question, but Art’s blue eyes widened as they met yours. He hadn’t recognized you from behind - looking for answers about where to put their coats, but now you were both staring, brains whirring, trying to think of what to say. And you can’t stop  yourself from scanning the room, a million questions swirling in your mind. Is she here? Did she know I was here? Eventually, you and Art are able to get through the awkward conversation, as you try to keep your eyes from traveling the entirety of his form - older, but still muscled, and the crows feet around his eyes only served to increase his attractiveness.

You’d flit away again, your heart pounding in your chest. You still hadn’t seen Tashi - was she even here? It would be a few hours before Patrick would confront you at the bar. You’d finally gotten away from your boss, throwing back a shot surreptitiously. 

“Is he always like that?” He asked, leaning back against the bar, up in your space the way he’d been all those years ago. 

“Hmm?” Was all you could manage, the shock and the alcohol making your mind move slower than normal.

“Your boss. Is he always so touchy?” You don’t answer that, putting your shot glass back on the bar and flitting away again.You’d hosted a thousand parties with your boss - why are they here now?

It was almost midnight by the time you finally see Tashi - you’d been washing your hands in the women's bathroom when she came out of the stall behind you and you both froze. Your brain was running a mile a minute, you weren’t even sure if you were breathing, all those feelings from decades ago coming up your throat.

“It’s good to see you.” Was all she said before slipping out of the bathroom. You find yourself leaning heavily against the sink, just trying to catch your breath.

Tashi would say that it was seeing you with your boss that pushed her over the edge into bringing you back into her life. But both Patrick and Art know that it wouldn’t have mattered if she had seen you with your shitty boss, happily married with kids, or in the height of your career. One look at you was enough.

aw, this one HURT what the hell ☹️☹️☹️☹️ the continued letters :((((( them slowly getting more and more lifeless the more that times passes and the more listless she becomes :(((( i imagine she stops hoping for tashi's reply, probably stops thinking tashi reads them at all - just vents like its a diary - she could buy an actual diary but something about the letters and knowing where they'll end up gives you comfort. you talk about failed dates and how you dont feel like you're built for love, dont think its meant for you. think you're probably always meant to doll it out and not receive it and how its okay and you accept it and you dont resent her for leaving - especially after her injury, you get it - except sometimes you get angry and your letters have tear stains on them with blurred ink lines and you write about how you understand how hurt and devastated tashi must have been and still must be, but why couldn't she let you be there for her? why weren't you enough? why did she accept love from art years later but never sends a letter back to you? why does he get grace from that time in your life, but you dont? what did you do to deserve it?

those are the letters tashi almost replies to - the angry ones - she gets as far as putting a pen to paper but can never find the words to explain how the reminder of you, after her injury, was just too much to bear - all her passion and ferocity and girlish zeal were wrapped up tightly and bound to you - even though you didn't play tennis - you reminded her of everything playing tennis used to make her feel. euphoric. how can she explain thinking of you made her sick to her stomach and by the time she'd gotten to a place where she could stand on her own two feet again. allow love back into her life through art - that she'd simply felt the weight of her cruelty too intensely. she couldn't apologize. she couldn't bear seeing the betrayal in your eyes, the hurt, the wound she'd caused. tashi was tough - but not when it came to you. you'd rip her right open. so she never replied. and eventually, it became too much to read them too.

and art probably knows about you - it's kind of hard not to notice his wife getting letters continuously. he asks about them, and tashi tells them they're from you and arts thinks 'oh.' he feels bad for you, he remembers you - remembers that time tashi tried to set you on a double date and it went miserably because art was too much of a loser back then to know how to treat a woman - and he'd still been very much in love with tashi. you'd been sweet, though. down to earth, kind, funny. he could tell you and tashi adored eachother. he doesn't read any of your letters, but he sees the expression on tashi's face kind of - shrink whenever she gets one - and he recommends only once, "why dont you return it?" but the glare she'd sent him had been enough that he'd never brought it up again. he wanted to ask more about you. had an inkling there was something more there under the surface - something romantic even, but he never knew how to go about asking. you were a touchy subject. it made him endlessly curious, despite himself.

and patrick - patrick probably hurt the worst. tashi marrying art - not being invited to the wedding - it'd hurt, badly. you'd written her many letters about just how much it hurt - but with patrick. it felt like a slap to the face. you and patrick - you felt a kinship with him. you hadn't bonded until well after college, not until years later, when you ran into him one night at a local bar. but catching up with him felt as easy as breathing, and like you'd known him all your life. he was self-deprecating and annoyingly flirtatious and haunted. he asked you about a tattoo you had on your wrist with a finger skimming the mark there and you'd breathed in. and that was it. you spent hours talking about tashi, spooling your guts out - and he did the same. you realized you had a connection there - you'd never been around patrick much when he dated tashi but you could tell he still loved her. just like you did. art too, though you didn't know the man well enough to mourn his absence from your life, other than to be stung that he apparently was more deserving of tashi than you were.

you'd almost went home with him - you could tell he wanted to. and the shared pain you felt drew you to him, you couldn't lie. patrick zweig was attractive and and you knew a night with him would treat you well. he'd make you cum - many times, probably. but the thing that stopped you was the very reason you were called to do it in the first place. god, was everything in your life about tashi? every goddamn thing? even your hookups? patrick wanted you, he definitely thought you were hot, but the peak of his desire came from wanting to have something of tashi's. to be closer to her - or to back at her. he'd make you cum, but it wouldn't be about you, or even for you. you couldn’t even be mad at him for wanting it - because for a moment, you wanted it too. to have something of tashi's - both to be closer to her and to spite her. but that's not who you were, at the end of the day.

you just didn't have it in you to play games.

patrick didn't take it hard. just gave you a half crooked smile and gave you his number if you ever changed your mind. the paper sat folded up in a pocket in your wallet for years to come. never used, but never tossed out.

it would be a few years later - working on an event for your gross boss that you saw the match on screen. catching snatches of it between your rounds of attending to guests, before tuning in fully on your break. breathless and nearly nose pressed to the screen as you watched all three of them come together in the most beautiful match of tennis you'd ever seen in your life. watching art and patrick embrace across the net made your eyes burn. when you saw tashi smile you turned the TV off.

a week later patrick was in the news, pictures of him seen with tashi and art on every article online. you couldn’t escape from their image - pictures of the three of them at a dinner - coming out of the movies. one of tashi and patrick seen laughing at a premiere. another of art and patrick relaxing on beach chairs.

it felt like being stabbed in the chest. the connection you felt with patrick severed. you didn't share anything. he was still chosen, in the end, when you weren't. you threw his number out. crumpled and barely eligible anyway.

you stop writing tashi after that. you doubt she'd notice. it was time you stopped being pathetic and let go. she probably threw the letters away the second she got them. art probably thought you were a nuisance. patrick probably thought you were a joke.

you move through life on autopilot for some time. you tune out news about anything related to tennis. you throw yourself into your job - that you hate. but what can you do? it puts food on the table and a roof over your head and yeah your boss gets handsy and makes inappropriate comments but its worth it kind of because he pays you extra and that means you get to buy the fancy ramen. the kind with actual beef tips in it.

its just any other night, refilling guests drinks - managing the bar when it's unattended - flitting around to see if anyone needed anything. your outfit was bordering on inappropriate - akin to that of a maid - black and white and shorter than necessary, especially for a high brow event such as this. but it was what your boss made all the women wear, so you couldn't complain. and yeah, maybe your skirt was shorter than anyone elses but if you just were conscious enough of your surroundings and keeping the hem from raising, it was manageable.

seeing art is like a bucket of ice being dumped on your head. turning around to see his startled expression feels almost comical. his suit and tie in comparison to your near slutty get up is humiliating beyond belief but you simply paste a smile on your face and pretend like seeing him and what it means that hes here hasn't just made your brain short circuit - you act like he's any other guest. pluck his coat from his arm and tell him if he needs anything to please let you know. you hope he doesn't. you hope he leaves you the hell alone.

if seeing art was ice seeing patrick at the bar feels like being tossed into a fireplace. you feel your skin heat just from him being close. your nose twitches at his comment - patrick was always more perceptive than people gave him credit for - but you didn't want to linger around to entertain him. if he thought he could just talk to you like he did the last time you two talked - like he hadn't spit in your face - he was wrong.

and if seeing patrick was like being thrown in a pit of fire seeing tashi in the bathroom was like being shot through the heart. a bullet entering your sternum. breaking all your bones that'd been paper thin anyway and tearing apart all your lungs and viens and cartilage. beautiful as the day you'd last seen her. somehow even more gorgeous with time and in the flesh. her beauty could never be captured completely by a camera or on a screen, though. it was the kind that shone best in person. because she glowed. she was effervescent. you wanted to die.

"its good to see you."

its good to see you.

over and over again in your head long after the door swings shut behind her. its good to see you like there wasn't a decade of unaccounted time between you. its good to see you like there weren't a thousand unanswered letters between you. its good to see you like you were passing acquaintances. nothing more.

you wash your hands in the sink three times. you fix your skirt, though it does absolutely nothing to do so. you go back outside and you deliberately avoid their table and when your boss pulls you to the side and slides a hand down your arm and tells you, you look like you need a break - you look at him and you know you can do what you usually do, which is act stupid and say no thank you or simply act like you dont know what he wants from you until he gets bored. but then you feel the empty pit in your chest that the bullet left ravaged, and you know you need something to fill it. even if that something will make you hate yourself.

you dont beat around the bush.

"can you take me home after work?"

your boss grins. you smile back, it feels wooden on your face.

"sure i can, sweetheart."

[aluhnim]

Hello!! When you start a comic, how do you go about deciding your panelling layouts?? If this is too big of an ask for covid brain, how about your favorite song of the moment / a song that really inspires you?? I hope you feel better soon!

I was searching around for an old write up I did for some Original Character Tournament folks who were interested in my thoughts on panels and layouts. To try and answer your question, I go off of vibe now that I’ve made a LOT of comics. However, as much as it doesn’t seem like it at times, I do typically stay as “conventional” as possible to make sure my readers are still following the plot. I make a lot of adjustments along the way. Smarter layouts allow me to draw less, and drawing less is better for me in the long run! It’ll allow me to put more time in other places of the comic.

Anyway, here’s my write up back in the day that’ll hopefully answer some comic drafting questions!

More conventional paneling is a necessary stepping stone because you know your reader won’t get lost and the structure will have you more focused on flow and pacing. It seems remarkably easy to do comics with more ��static” or traditional panel layouts but they work for a reason. There’s no real need to break out of something that works, unless you want to! Breaking out of the structure can really add some OOMPH to your important pages.

Some tips, note that these have been my preferences and some definitions don’t quite match their descriptors.

Bleed

I consider open panels or panels that stretch out beyond the edge of the page to be considered bleeds. They’re simple ways to make you feel like your not just sticking within your margins and making your page feel less static without much extra effort. Manga does this quite often, and Western American comics, especially during action packed moments or large splashes.

Some examples of things bleeds can do:

- They can also be used as transitions between pages (first panel bleeding in, last panel bleeding out).

- They can be used to interrupt or add a beat to a moment. Although the example below is mostly bleeds, you can see the one full panel at the bottom stands out because it’s not like the others. A subtle beat.

- They can also just be used to extend a panel to make it bigger. That seems obvious, but larger panels do make people spend a bit more time on them, regardless if there is text or not. Though, “more time” means probably several milliseconds or even a few seconds more than usual.

- Collaging with a bleed is a really great way to think beyond panels and open the space. You will be spending more time thinking of how much you can cram in along with the flow of how your text is going to lead through a series of images.

- Removing panel borders can really open a space and allow for more room without having to go above and beyond the ideas of comics and panels. (sorry, gale galligan is just good)

Gutters

The space between panels is almost just as important as the panel itself. That’s where readers and inferring actions and time. You can only control so much of what the reader is doing between their eye shifting between panels, which is why composition within panels and clarity are so important.

Gutters can also be played with! A simple example is changing your gutters from white to all black. It can be a subtle shift in time, a transition to a new space.

Even the amount of space between panels leaves an idea of time! I think webtoons/manhwa really work well with the gutter space, leaving you to physically scroll and feel the effects of time passing with the amount of empty space you encounter.

It’s important to understand that the gutter has a lot more to do with reader imagination, and your goal is to have them understand that the next panel is somehow plausible.

THIS SCENE EMFIELDS DID IS VERY FUCKING GOOD. TIME, SPACE, GO OOOOOOFFFF KING

Panels themselves can be a part story!

This one is a difficult thing to write for, since I feel like there isn’t many examples out there. There are very structural examples of panels out there, like Watchman. While the 9 panel grid was intentional, it also was likely the only way to deal with Alan Moore’s script effectively without missing details. The panels themselves don’t ENHANCE the story, but a means to an end.

But it’s also an incredibly good example of how conventional comics paneling can still be effective, especially when you start breaking that mold just a little bit.

But then you have comics like M. Dean’s “Baby fat”. Where the comic paneling itself never strays from its original structure, but is indicative of the story itself, representing tiles, mirrors, patterns.

Or Robert Hunter’s “The New Ghost” which he uses circular motifs and has circular panels representing the telescopes sight line.

Predicting Reader Navigation

These are my rules of thumb when doing general sight reading panel by panel.

1. Text is what people gravitate to first. It’s the context needed to approach the next panel.

2. Faces are next, this provides context to what the subject is feeling.

3. Familiar people/animals/objects and SFX.

4. Everything else!

This is an example of sight reading notes I gave to my friend Holocene when we were collaborating.

[physalian]

On Tournament Arcs (I want more of these in lit)

The “tournament arc” is a staple of shonen anime. I’d find it very hard to believe anyone on here hasn’t at least seen gifs of it so here’s a quick breakdown: Your core cast of characters + extras and new adversaries are all thrown together in a tournament competing for anything from the low stakes of cash or bragging rights to who lives and who dies by the hand of the nefarious god throwing the tournament.

These are extremely popular for a few reasons:

They’re fodder for a ton of episodes without a whole lot of complicated story—the story is baked into the different rounds of combat

There’s a chance for a lot of different intense character interaction that might not normally happen pitting two random names against each other

They can sometimes artificially raise the stakes—in isolation, winning the Round of 16 in a series about saving the world doesn’t mean anything, but winning any one game might give the heroes the chance to stay alive just one more day

I just rewatched the first tournament arc of My Hero Academia a few days ago (the first sports festival) and man, I do miss when this show was good.

So! While tournament arcs aren’t exclusive to shows with super powers or magical abilities like Naruto—they’re baked into a sports anime—today’s essay is all about the efficiency and shake-ups that MHA pulled off, since its pacing is something you could realistically cram into a written novel, and, well, I like this one.

Disclaimer: This show is incredibly manipulative, in a good way (at least in earlier seasons it was in a good way). Elements are way more dramatic than they should be due to the music, the animation, and the pacing, but you’re having fun right along with the characters at the edge of your seat. The excitement isn’t manufactured, you’re hyped right along with the people in the stands. This isn’t very translatable to page, unfortunately.

Second disclaimer: I DNFed this show midway through an episode in season 5 and never went back. It got so bad I literally turned it off in both disgust and sheer boredom. I am not an MHA superfan.

—

Pacing:

For a shonen anime, this first tournament arc is brutally efficient. Take a show like Naruto or DBZ, shows known for their filler, and their tournament arcs for any given season will last 50 episodes or more. MHA’s is 11 episodes, 12 if you want to include the setup in episode 1. In that time, there’s three unique stages of combat and an entire three-tiered 1v1 tournament within the tournament.

Some fights last two episodes, some last about 30 seconds, but none are too drawn out, or too rushed, based on who’s fighting and what their powers are.

Example: Todoroki kind of has “instakill” powers (or at least he does in this arc, he forgets about it 6 episodes later) and if he’s up against anyone who doesn’t have the specific kind of powers that can counteract his, the fight’s decided pretty much instantly, like when he’s up against quasi-Spiderman Sero, and manifests a whole glacier from teenage angst. When he is up against somebody who he can’t freeze immediately, well, that’s where the drama comes from. This is his arc, after all.

Character fodder:

Not only that, but it’s not 11 straight episodes of 1v1. The first leg of combat is an obstacle race, the second is a “cavalry battle” with teams, and the last, the majority, is 1v1. These different challenges require the core characters to think different ways, and as the number of competitors thin dramatically, different side characters get the chance to shine at different points in the arc as more and more are disqualified.

But the way that this arc is written leaves even some core characters in the protagonist class on the outs pretty quickly, even those who make it to the final round, usually due to bad matchups. Characters who had excelled either in power, physical ability, or intelligence just aren’t suited to face whoever they’re up against and it shocks them as much as it does the audience. Even when it forces them to get creative—and that is one thing I loved about this show in its early years, how smart some characters had to be with their niche powers to compete with the natural born powerhouses.

A surprising standout fight was Bakugo vs Uraraka, where nearly every single person in the stands, including the teachers, all professional heroes, were like “dude you can’t hit a girl, you can explode shit with your hands, she’s only got anti gravity” and Bakugo did not give a single fuck about what’s in Uraraka’s pants. It shows that he’s smart, and that he’s a dick, but he has a shit ton of respect for other people’s power and determination when they have as much as he does. Only one other character, their personal teacher, Aizawa, notices: To go easy on her would be a far greater insult than to treat her like an equal challenger.

She lost, in a heartbreaking defeat, but she absolutely made him work for it. It did so much for his character, this whole arc did, but more on that later.

Audience expectations:

But the big reason this arc worked so well was how it subverted expectations. Midoriya is (or used to be) the show’s protagonist. In this arc, he’s got two real main adversaries in his way to gold: Bakugo, a kid with extremely impressive raw talent that he’s honed with a dangerous perfectionist streak, and Todoroki, who wants to win by half-assing it to piss off his abusive hero dad. Both of these two are far more competent with their powers while Midoriya still has the training wheels on his.

Usually, in these types of shows, if the hero doesn’t win, he comes in a very close second in the big dramatic final showdown. It’s part of his arc to be not quite ready yet. But usually, he wins, and the character he’d beaten to a pulp learns some humility and joins the hero squad in the next arc out of respect to their better.

MHA doesn’t do that. Midoriya never faces Bakugo in the 1v1 and he faces Todoroki in the semis, not the finals, and he loses.

The big fight of the tournament is Midoriya vs Todoroki. I used to hear it compared to Rock Lee vs Gaara (which I actually have seen despite not liking Naruto) and it’s… not, if only because it’s missing about 300 episodes of buildup and drama between these two.

But the fight isn’t just a fistfight. Midoriya wants to win, yes, but he’s a hero, first, and he wants to save his friend in the true shonen way of punching friendship into his enemies. Their fight plus the buildup takes two episodes, littered with Todoroki’s PTSD flashbacks (to a gorgeous score) that basically boils down to:

Todoroki: Wah I hate my powers, fuck my dad, I’m gonna half-ass this out of spite and my raw power is enough to win

Midoriya: Fuck you dude, if you want to beat me, you have to give it your all, and it’s not his powers. You may have inherited them, but it’s your power.

Well, Midoriya gets what he asked for, and Todoroki does not at all hold back.

And that’s the semifinal.

With Midoriya out, there’s still the rest of the semis and the final round. This does not happen.

So why did it happen? Because our hero isn’t ready yet. He’s so new with his powers, so inexperienced in combat, that so far he’s skated by on his smarts and his sheer raw ability the few times he’s able to let it out like releasing a pressure valve, seriously injuring himself in the process. Against kids who’ve been training their whole lives, being smart only got him so far.

It was the perfect path for his character, one we’ve only known for maybe 30 episodes in total at this point in the show. If he won or even just barely lost, that would have left so much less room for growth in later tournaments. He’s hella OP, but he’s not at all a Mary Sue, and his greatest strength—his heart—is what cost him the win. In the end, he lost the medal, but he won a friend.

And then the final round comes.

Bakugo vs Todoroki, the two most well-rounded kids in the class (in their whole grade level probably), after Bakugo opens the entire tournament with “I pledge that I’m going to win”.

Thing is, with Bakugo, he’s an asshole, but he’s an asshole who continuously puts his money where his mouth is. He’s never blowing smoke. If he says he’s going to do something, by god, he will do it.

So the final round comes and Bakugo tells Todoroki that he wants to win fair and square, that Todoroki'd better not hold back, he’d better give it his all, because going easy on Bakugo would be giving him the win, and he ain’t no charity case.

That… does not happen. One does not overcome a lifetime of childhood trauma by the Power of Friendship and one speech in this show. Todoroki botches it, gets his ass handed to him, and Bakugo wins the tournament, and he is pissed.

Character Arcs:

I already talked about Midoriya above and won’t repeat myself, but like I said above, tournament arcs are a fantastic way to do many things at once, which is crucial to pacing. It won’t feel stale, no matter how long or repetitive it is, so long as the characters are still developing within that repetition. This was about showing off their powers, yes, but the pressure to perform and get their names out their in a highly saturated, cynical heroism market of capitalism is a lot for 15 year old kids.

Some are out there to make money, being a hero to their families. Some are out there to be the best. Some are out there to be the friendly neighborhood super kid. Since all but one character must lose, everybody but Bakugo failed in some way, big or small, to make the impact they wanted on tournament day. And Bakugo, though he won, feels like he still failed because he won basically by default.

Since it’s set so early in the show, one would think that it would be a fantastic foundation for where all the core characters see themselves and where they go from here. If you’re writing this into a novel and you don’t have a million characters that don’t matter, it’s a brutally efficient way to establish the major players in high-octane fashion.

I’mma gush about Bakugo for a second now: He and Todoroki are two sides of the same coin in this arc. Both are plagued by expectations because of their powers, and both suffer because of it. Todoroki’s been beaten like a dog by his dad to hone his fire and ice powers to one day usurp the number one hero.

Bakugo, though, Bakugo is “the gifted kid” who suddenly entered a world where the gap between him and everyone inferior to him is a lot smaller. He has incredible power, which has always gotten him high expectations and little margin for fucking up and looking weak—cause if you’ve got the ability to make explosions with your hands, you have to be the best all day every day. There is no falling off the wagon, there are no sick days, there is no flab or fat or cheat days.

All of this is an undercurrent in this arc. He has such high expectations for himself, such high expectations thrown on him by hero society, such critical views of his attitude and his powers—he was literally called a villain when he fought Uraraka and didn’t treat her like a “frail” little girl—that when he wins because Todoroki throws the fight, it’s the biggest insult anyone could do to him.

Nobody else cares, but Bakugo cares. In his desperate quest to always be the best or else, winning by default doesn’t prove anything to him. He doesn’t want the medal, he doesn’t want this victory by his name, he doesn’t want anything except a rematch that truly challenges him. And mad respect to this kid for it.

—

Some things to consider for your tournament arc should you choose to write one

Every character should have their own separate goals and reasons for winning, beyond simply “winning”. Why do they want to win, or what will happen to them, internally or externally, if they lose?

Would it be better for your hero to win right now, or lose so they have room to grow? Who else loses and how? Are they disqualified, do they cheat, is it a devastating defeat or a photo finish?

What do these people do to themselves in their desperation to win? Do they hurt themselves, go past their physical limit? Do they bully themselves and pick their faults apart? Are they completely different people when they’re under this kind of pressure? Who’s overconfident? Who’s exactly as competent as they say they are?

What are the best matchups, not for spectacle, but for character development? In the written medium, character work absolutely comes before how pretty it might look one day on the silver screen, and that’s what will hold audience attention long after the arc is over and done with. That’s what will have people coming back to reread over and over again.

Remember: The tournament is never just about the combat, it’s about the combatants.

[missredherring]

An Escape Rope Tied Around My Neck

Maxwell Lord/Odin ft. Max Phillips/Loki

Rating: PG

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: angst. Mentions of blood.

Summary: A wish… what is a wish if not a desperate plea for the unobtainable?

A/N: This is my offering for @perotovar's Frith Challenge! I have a lot of feelings about Norse Mythology and Maxwell Lord, so figuring out how to combine them was a lot of fun to noodle over.

It's a personal belief that the events of Norse Mythology aren't linear and are happening all at once and not at all. You know, in a timey-wimey way. (A little bit of UPG for you, lol.) I've written it as such in this piece, and those moments are italicized. I hope it's not too confusing.

Not beta read. All mistakes are my own.

“Are you sure you don’t need me for anything else tonight, Mr. Lord?” Raquel asks. Her tone is genuinely sincere and without any flirtatious undertones like his last two secretaries had when they’d asked him that same question. Raquel wants to do her job and do it well. He likes that about her. 

The room is crammed with every knick-knack and trinket that he’d seen splashed across the pages of the business magazines. The intention had been to spread them around the larger work spaces in the building, to decorate with the trappings of a successful business in hopes of luring in more clients to keep playing this little game he’s passing the time with, but then the search for the Dreamstone had ended much quicker than he’d anticipated. 

“Yes, thank you, Raquel. Don’t worry about me and go home; I’ve kept you late enough,” Maxwell says and shoos her out of the office.

He watches her, listening to how her heels echo in the empty workspace and then the hum of the elevator as it takes her away. A few minutes later there’s the sound of a car pulling away. Only then does Maxwell close his office door and take a seat behind his desk. 

The stone sits like the prized heart of a hunted down stag in the middle of his desk, resting on top of the scattered academic papers, journals, and notebooks that made up the research material he’d been using to find it. 

It’s almost disappointing.

A couple of lamps on the desk illuminate the room, casting warm light on the stone and turning its color a more dark amber than the fresh honey hue it’d had when he’d snuck a peak through the packaging in the daylight. 

The Dreamstone is different than all the shiny, pristine, and ultimately useless trinkets in the room. It has potential. It could be an escape rope. Or at least a way to smooth the path to Ragnarok.

Eye intent, Odin reaches for it but pauses just before touching the smooth facet of the largest crystal point. There’s a noise in the room, a weight shifting on the cushions of the nearby couch. Magic beckons just out of reach, making his fingertips buzz and tingle with the urge to touch, but he stills.

“Please tell me you’re doing something interesting,” Loki says as he rests his head on the back of the couch. 

There, cast in a perfect balance of light and shadows, sits Loki. Fiery hair in disarray around his shoulder and eyes glittering in the low lighting as he sprawls on the couch. The bond between them pulses: warm, strong, and intact.

His chest aches with the foreknowledge of how it will twist and knot in the future.  

Odin wants to bring Loki into his plans, as he has a sharp mind that loves to think outside of the realm of possibilities, but another part stops him. The part that grows louder by the day and warns of wolf teeth and serpent scales and living dead flesh. 

“Just a curiosity that caught my eye,” Odin replies, covering the desperate need that’s been gnawing at him with nonchalance. 

He picks up the stone and examines it, taking in the weight and texture of the crystal cluster. There’s magic at its core, he’d sensed it before, but now it rises to meet his own. Darker, bitter, and more acidic like bile: eating through whatever holds it for too long. Pulsing, it tastes him and he bites back, a reprimand and reminder to know it’s place. Around the base of the cluster is a metal ring, aged from time and rough handling, inscribed is an old language, but not as old as his, he notes. He traces a finger over the letters but catches on a singular word. 

“Place upon the object held but one great…”

Desire? Want? Hope? Dream? All options but none that feels right. 

He turns the stone this way and that, but even bringing a lamp closer sheds no light of understanding on it. Sighing, Odin looks to where Loki has started wandering around the room, touching everything. 

“Be useful and take a look at this.” 

Loki saunters over, curious, and takes the stone, tossing it from hand to hand before rolling it along his palm. He squints, bringing the stone closer to his face and then licks the last word, his tongue contracting into a point to dip into the grooves.

Odin grumbles and rolls his eyes, the action making the severed muscles in the empty socket ache as he doesn't want to close his eyes and miss a moment of the children playing in the field outside the hall. As the blood rushes to his head, pooling and throbbing there as he hangs from the tree. As he plucks out the eyeball, Mimir’s chosen currency. 

There is no hiding the truth from Loki's silver tongue. He rolls it around in his mouth, teasing it out, and then pronounces: “Wish.” He spits it out onto the carpet and sneers. “Looks like it’s the work of an Olympian’s clumsy hand.” 

Loki passes it back and dusts his hands off to dispel the sticky residue of the stone’s magic. Task finished, he returns to his circuit of the room.

Odin sets it on the desk and leans back to regard it.

“Place upon the object held but one great wish.”

A wish… what is a wish if not a desperate plea for the unobtainable? 

Ragnarok. 

It is a fool’s wish that Ragnarok will stop it’s steady march onward. 

Deep in whatever approximates a god's soul he knows it's coming, it needs to happen, it will happen. 

A forest devoured by fire makes way for new, stronger growth in its place.

If a single wish could save them the fear and pain in favor of a kinder end? 

But when that forest is home to all he holds dear? His family. The people of his community. The mortals who still pray in his name and honor him in their actions.

All those who will look to him when the wolf finally catches its prey and plunges them into darkness. 

There is potential here and all he has to do is coax it to its greatest yield. 

A thrum of delight slides along the bond and Odin brings his focus back to the office to find Loki admiring a gaudy gold ring on his finger that had been on a display with that year’s latest watch model. 

He blinks again to clear his sight fully because Loki has changed. A broad frame dressed in a tailored suit, its design different from the one Odin is currently wearing. His jewel eyes have darkened to be almost black in the room’s shadows. His hair, now short and dark, is neatly combed and styled and yet still caught up in the chaos of his movement. 

They look like they’re brothers who once shared a womb instead of a chosen bond.

Odin’s lips twitch. “You could’ve picked something else,” he says and watches as Max gives him a toothy grin.

“Haven’t you heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery?” He lifts a shoulder. “Plus this’ll work better for my own plans.”

Odin opens his mouth to say he doesn’t want to know, but a shiver of premonition rolls through his body, raising the hair on his arms and the back of his neck.

He motions and Max kneels at his feet, curiosity burning in every line of his body. Odin cups Max’s jaw and squeezes gently, drawing it open to allow his thumb room to enter Max’s mouth. 

“Come,” he orders in the voice of a leader responsible for many and while Max’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, he obeys without question.

How many people will obey him to their deaths? 

He presses down on a sharp, too sharp, canine until blood wells up and beads. Turning it, he presses the pad onto the hot, soft muscle of Max’s tongue, forming the runes as they offer themselves for use. 

Uruz, Ansuz, Isa, Algiz, Algiz, Algiz, Algiz.

The bindrune complete, Odin releases him and allows Max to sit back on his heels as he puzzles over the magic. Maybe the mystery will be enough to curb some of his mischief. Another fool’s wish. 

Rippling, Max fades and Loki watches him with a relaxed face, she’s glowing in the midst of her pregnancy. He’s sparkling with mischief and humor, scarred lips stretching wide. Their face is burned and marled and eyes unseeing in the hard light outside of the cave, left blank after finally being consumed by the spark of their nature. It is not in fire’s nature to be merciful. 

Max swallows and stands. “Interesting. I’ll leave you here,” he tugs his waistcoat into place and smooths the lines of his jacket. “Wish me luck.”

The Dreamstone pulses on the desk in front of them. 

Max is gone and Odin is alone with the stone again, it’s cloying influence reaching and coaxing.

Wish, wish, wish.

URUZ symbolizes Strength, Tenacity, Courage, Untamed Potential, Freedom.  ANSUZ symbolizes the Mouth, Communication, Understanding, Inspiration. ISA Clarity, Stasis, Challenges, Introspection, Watching & Waiting.  ALGIZ symbolizes Protection, Defense, Instinct, Group Effort, Guardianship.

[spaceorphan18]

Bits and Pieces : Moment 1

This is the first one in an anthology of one-shots where I fill in missing moments during Season 3. Mostly, I just wanted to explore the unseen things we didn't get on the show, and do some character studies for Pen and Colin. The first one is set just as the season opens, from Pen's POV.

****

A stack of letters waits for Penelope on her nightstand.  She knows what they are, and yet moves around her room, attempting not to look at them. 

The summer had been… as good as one could expect given the abysmal end to the previous season.  Her sisters’ weddings had been dizzying affairs but at least they left Penelope in relative peace.  Left to sit in the corner to read.  To write.  To think.  And think and think and think… 

Oh how she had wanted to get out of her own head.  

Returning to Mayfair hasn’t been the worst experience.  Plenty of new faces showing themselves this season.  Plenty of new, lovely ladies -- many of whom she sees shades of herself in, making their debut.  Plenty of things for Lady Whistledown to write about.  

She isn’t able to make herself feel better but at least through her writing she could do better for others.  She is trying to atone for her past mistakes.  She is of the mind that even if she can’t do anything about herself, she can at least attempt ease for others.  She is not completely powerless.  

The stack of letters still waits.  

She tells Rae she doesn’t need help to unpack.  All of her books are carefully returned to their home on the shelves.  All of her hideous dresses crammed back into the wardrobe.  All of her secrets buried safely underneath the floorboards.  She has a lot to do now that she’s back.  

Yet the distraction on the nightstand is becoming unavoidable.  

She sits on the edge of the bed, and picks up the first one from the pile.  It’s thick and heavy in her hand.  She knows from experience that it’s not a single sheet of paper, but pages and pages of writing, front and back.  He used to write her everything.  Apparently he still does.  It makes her stomach turn.  

The postmark is from Dublin and dated a week and a half earlier. 

Oh god… is he close to home? Her heart involuntarily flutters at the thought.  

Of course he’s close to home -- the season is starting.  Francesca is making her debut this year.  He would want to be there for that, wouldn’t he? 

She stares at the letter and contemplates.

She had spent so long over the past few months trying to forget the gentleness of his face, the soothing sound of his voice, the protective grasp of his hand.  So long did she try to untwist the deeply rooted thorns of love so painfully ground into her heart.  

She looks at the stack of letters and wonders why every time she takes a step forward there’s always something to pull her back.  

She begins to flip through the envelopes, noting the vast array of postmarks on them and wonders even more -- did he miss her?

Lisbon, Madrid, Barcelona, Bordeau… 

Her mind races back to that evening, back to that gut wrenching night.  The kindness she thought she saw in his eyes.  

I will always look after you. 

…Paris, Lyon, Zurich, Munich… 

The flippancy of his voice, how it tore through her heart like a knife.  

I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington

…Milan, Rome, Venice, Vienna… 

How could such sacred words to her be so hollow to him? 

You are special to me.  

…Prague, Berlin, Amsterdam, Brussels…

How was it she could be deluding herself for so long? 

Not in your wildest fantasies

…Athens.  Athens?? 

It’s the last envelope in the stack, and the only one that gives her pause.  There’s no way… she tears open the letter, not helping herself, and notes the date from a year and a half prior.  It must have gotten lost or delayed.  

She unfolds the letter and a few dried, dark red flower petals fall out.  

Penelope, 

I spent the day wandering the beautiful gardens of our host and came across an array of poppies that reminded me of you.  Of the splendid color of your hair.  As much as I’m enjoying my tour, I suppose I’m missing home just a little bit.  And looking forward to the day when I can describe such beauty to you in person. 

Or maybe, I wish you were here to see these flowers in their natural glory.  

The best I can do is send a little piece of Greece to you.  

Colin 

She casts the letter onto her bed with a frustrated cry.  

Why? 

Why is there always something that makes her love him just a little bit more? 

She hops off the bed, collecting all of the letters, including the one she opened, and gathers them in her arms.  In a moment of anger, she rushes to the fireplace with the intention of throwing all of them in.  But she stops, mesmerized by the flames.  .  

Her brain is screaming at her to throw them all in and be done with it.  Nothing good will come of keeping those letters.  

Her heart won’t let her; keeps her frozen in place.  His letters are a piece of himself that he’s giving to her.  And she can’t so easily cast that aside.  

Resigned to her own predictability, she heads to her desk, and opens the bottom drawer, placing them gently against all the rest of the letters she’s received from him over the years.  She still won’t read them.  Won’t allow herself to read them. 

The poppy petals she has kept out, and puts them in a small jar on her desk with other small trinkets that she has kept over the years, smiling at them fondly as she does so.  

She has to try to move on somehow, someday.  

But today is not that day…  

It’s only later that she realizes there have been no letters from Eloise.  Her heart aches just a little bit more.  

[goth-boyfriends]

i just finished and scheduled part 5 of goth boyfriends! ; _ ; i did the last 8 chapters on a very short timeframe in the last few months… i started part 5 early 2023 haha, but then i kept getting sick and all that, but now i feel like maybe for a while i can work steadily so i will try my best!

Those are the last 9 chapters of part 5 in this pic! whoah! (i put the anniversary illustration on top to avoid spoiling, but all the rest are comics pages and cover! for those who discover it, each chapter is 7 pages!

i tried to put it with part 4, but it was a tad too much for the sleeve! : ( a little surprised as part 1 to 3 are in one, but i used printer paper (80 g/m² at best) which was much more slim! i upgraded to 200 g/m² but 'downgraded' to 160(ish) g/m² halfway because it was more than enough. thinking of trying 120 g/m² so i can carry more paper around. i have to test if it fits all mediums i want to use!

so new sleeve for part V it is! i don't think i can cram many parts in one sleeve anymore now that i use bulkier paper! I spend a lot of time (re) organizing the pages i have around this project! it really feel like such a workout now! ; _ ;

starting to take space on the bookshelf! i'm both proud and a little scared about the space as it's very small here. i had to move a lot of things around to possibly get a new bookshelf in the next few months if i can afford it!

So, until my may 2025 (it feels surreal to write this!) there will be a new page every 3 days if i scheduled correctly! (might be a day more or less in-between chapters because i suck at maths! ; _ ;)

me? i will be starting part 6 soon! hoping to find a good pace, and stay diligent to not be surprised by sickness or other life troubles too unexpectedly.

ganbatte everyone! : p

xoxo, ken

[meanlesbean]

Here, have 1,400 words of Majora's Mask angst. inspired by a conversation with @gintrinsic-writing about Link having to pick and choose who to help on the final cycle. I'll put this on my ao3 in a few days when I think of a title. (Edit: better ao3 version up now)

————————————————

On the afternoon of the final day, the Milk Bar is empty.

Madame Aroma won’t arrive for another few hours. In twenty minutes, one of the members of the town guard will show up, but he won’t stay long. He’ll order one of the special drinks that Mister Barten won’t let Link try, chug it all in one big gulp, and then lay his head down on the counter to weep quietly for four and a half minutes. When he’s finished crying, he’ll ask for a shot of something off the top shelf—surprise him, just this once. Then, after his last drink, he’ll shake Mister Barten’s hand, put his helmet back on, and leave.

Unlike some of the other guards, he won’t abandon his post. When the moon falls and swallows the world, he’ll bear witness to the end from his station at the town entrance. 

Right now, it’s just Link and Tatl at the counter. Mister Barten is sweeping up on the stage, and he’s got the phonograph playing some soft piano music instead of the usual Indigo-Go’s songs, which Link is grateful for. Mister Barten isn’t as talkative as he usually is, but Link hasn’t been able to figure out if it’s because it’s the final day or if it’s because Link won’t talk himself. Either way, it’s quiet. The nice kind of quiet too, unlike the Stock Pot Inn, which gets creepy after Anju and her family evacuate. Even with everyone gone, the floorboards don’t stop creaking. 

It’s a good place for thinking and planning. That’s the most important thing left for him to do.

Or at least, that’s what Link thinks. Tatl has other ideas. 

“Are you going to squeeze in an afternoon nap or what?” She buzzes around him like an insect. Link’s adrenaline from the battle against Twinmold had worn off by the time they got back to Clock Town, but Tatl always takes longer to settle after a fight. She lands on the counter to take a small sip of her Chateau Romani, kindly poured into the smallest shot glass in the bar by Mister Barten, and then flies a few more laps around his head. “If you don’t go to bed soon, you won’t be rested before the reset, and I know you’ll stay up with Romani instead of sleeping the next night. I don’t want to be rescuing my brother while you’re in one of your moods.”

Link waves a hand out to get her to stop circling. He gives her a pointed look and then taps the end of his pencil against his open bomber's notebook twice. It’s a portion of his records of the first day, near illegible now with how much information he’s crammed onto the pages. That’s why he’s got a few clean sheets of paper ripped out and put to the side. If this is really the final reset, he can’t afford to waste time with indecision. 

“Huh?” Tatl says. She floats over the notebook to examine it, washing out the pages in her golden light. She flutters and makes an annoyed chiming noise. “What are you getting at now? There can’t be anything else to add on here. You’ve stalked everyone in Termina long enough already.” 

Link shakes his head and holds out his hand. Tatl lands on his palm, her magic tickling at his skin like the sparks from a light arrow, and he lifts her up to his shoulder. His posture relaxes as soon as she sits, the warm buzz of her magic trickling down through his chest and back. An ache he hadn’t noticed in his upper back disappears. It still feels a little weird sometimes, having her nestled in the crook of his neck. The first time her wing had brushed against his neck, he’d almost hit her on reflex, and she didn’t talk to him for the whole day after. Navi had always preferred to perch on top of his head. 

On one of the clean pages, Link lists out all the hours, from six o’clock to five o’clock the next morning. He repeats this for the next page. For the last one, he adds an extra hour at the end and draws the moon and its hungry maw.  Next, he circles Romani’s name in his notebook. On his new timetable, he writes her name between the hours of two and five in the morning. 

He knows that Tatl understands because he feels her go still, then huddle closer to him. Still, he flips through the notes he’s taken, over two dozen pages, for emphasis. Some of his notes are about the temples—he hadn’t made it through the Snowhead or Great Bay temples on his first attempts—but even excluding those, there’s too much. 

Tatl doesn’t speak. In his notebook, Link sees Pamela’s name, and he circles it like he’d done for Romani. When he looks at his timetable though, he pauses. He and Tatl have restored the flow of the Ikana creek and healed Pamela’s father three times: once very late into the night of the second day, once in the morning of the first day, and once more in the evening of the first day. From what Link can tell, Pamela doesn’t sleep well when her father is cursed, and that means Link can free her father at any time.

Pamela needs her father. He knows that, even if he doesn’t fully understand it. She’s young and scared and alone, and Link shouldn’t make her wait. When he looks at the blank time slots of the first day though, all he can see is dozens of other things he needs to do. If he’s going to reunite Anju and Kafei, he needs to spend the afternoon in Clock Town so can talk to Anju. And while he’s in town, it only makes sense for him to help the Great Fairy and go solve the argument in the mayor’s office. He should free at least one of the Giants on that first day too—he can make his way through the temples pretty quickly now, but he couldn’t rush the battles against the beasts holding the Giants captive. Potions and fairies don't work as well when he doesn't sleep. He’d learned the hard way that one little mistake in those battles could take him hours to recuperate from. 

His hand holding the pencil is frozen above the paper. Link stares at the blank pages. 

He feels Tatl release a tiny, quivering breath. Her wings flicker against him a few times as she leans forward. “Okay. We’re not going back to the Stone Tower on the first day. I need a break from that horrible place, and you need to get at least some sleep before going there again. You can take a nap in Romani’s bed, or in Epona’s stall since you’re a little freak, after we defend the ranch. We’ll go to Ikana and free Pamela’s dad and the Giant afterwards. Got it?”

Link nods and picks up the pencil. He gives himself two hours to sleep, then blocks off the rest of the morning for fixing Ikana. Tatl lets out a little ringing noise in approval, then says, “So, we’re going through the whole ordeal of getting Anju and Kafei back together, right?” He nods again. “Okay, then write Anju’s name in the two and eleven thirty times slots.” He does. “We need to go to the ranch and talk to Romani at some point during the day. Let’s do that at five so we can stay for dinner. We can go to the cucoo shack before eating too. Helping Grog always makes you smile.”

Link puts down the pencil. Before Tatl can scold him, he brings his hand up to where she's perched, and he closes his eyes and presses her closer against him. Tatl shifts a bit, and then she wraps both her small arms around his hand. He trembles, and she doesn’t say anything. 

She lets him hold her like that for a minute before she starts pushing him away. “Move your hand, would ya? I can’t read anything like this.”

Link pulls away from her and picks up the pencil again. Tatl pats his shoulder. It feels like raindrops. “Okay, let’s finish filling in the first day. You ready?”

When Link nods, it's the truth. 

“Good. We’ve got this.”

Link believes her.

[whorekneecentral]

sugar daddy jenson! and the reader reading one of their spicy books on kindle. jenson wants to cuddle w them but they’re too invested in some smut. he looks at what they’re reading and you can decide what happens after lol

y’all get me. 

Hours roll by and Jenson had yet to get a text back from you. It was starting to worry him because even if you were busy, you'd text him that you were busy so he'd at least know you’re alive. 

Surely you’re just wrapped up in some project or a last minute cram session, but still, he decided to check in on you. 

Your car was in the parking lot when he pulled in, he peeked into your car and everything seemed fine so he buzzed himself up, using his key to unlock your condo door. 

“Sweetheart?!” He calls and your brows furrow, letting the book down when you hear him. “Jense?” You get up, meeting the man halfway between the living room and the front door. 

“I haven't heard from you all day, I just wanted to check on you.” He says, kissing your forehead. His arm slung over your shoulder as you two walked back to the living room. “What have you been up to?” 

“Just got caught up in my book,” you tell him, sitting down. 

He hums, picking up your empty coffee mug to take it to the kitchen. “How about we go for a drive? Get you out of the house for a bit?” 

“Can I finish my chapter first?” You looked up at him, puppy eyes and a pout playing on your lips. Jenson could never say no to you, especially not now. 

He sits next to you, arm back over your shoulder once again. “Fine, finish your chapter.” He kisses your head, letting you snuggle into his side. 

Jenson lets you read, switching on the tv and flips through the channels for a while before randomly settling on one of them. He can feel you shift a bit, your eyes fixed on the pages as you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.  

That caught his attention so obviously, being the nosy person he is, he started to follow along with the words on the pages. 

Her cheat heaving as she looked up at the man. “Jack, please.” She begged him, he smiles at the woman under him. “What would he say if he heard you? Begging another man to fuck you instead of him?” 

Jenson pulls the book from your hand. “This is what you’ve been ignoring me all day for?” He asked, “word porn?” He scoffs and you roll your eyes. 

“Gimme my book.” You reached for it but Jenson got off the couch, taking the book with him. He skipped a few lines, reading over the just of the scene. 

“I can do this,” he says, setting the book on the coffee table before pulling you off the couch. 

“Jenson,” you warned him but he ignored you, moving you to lay on the couch. 

The man drops down to his knees in front of you, your legs over his shoulder and he kisses down your calf, to your thigh before he gets to your pussy. You lift your hips, letting him take your panties off, tossing it along with the other clothes.

His nose brushes against your clit, his tongue licking a stripe up your cunt. Your hips buck when you feel his tongue against your clit, your hand gripping on his hair.

Jenson’s hand on your hip rocks you back and forth slightly, just enough that he can hear his name fall from your lips. 

“Jense- fuck, there.” You pull on his hair, getting him to do what he did again.

He glances up, your eyes shut and your head tossed back and he can't help but smile; he’s broken you down to nothing but a whimpering mess but he wasn’t done with you just yet.

Your cheeks are red when you see him sit up, the lower half of his face glistening. You also can’t help yourself when you pull him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on him.

“Better than your book, huh?” He members, earning a giggle and a smack on the shoulder from you. 

[breakfast-cereal]

a cure for monotony

word count: 1.2k

description: Yagami Light was bored

notes: written for Day 1 of @deathnotetober 2024

[main masterlist] [work on ao3]

(c: Yayoi Kusama)

Yagami Light was bored, but not in the typical sense of disinterest. Light cared for various things: school, his parents, his sister, morality, justice. The list goes on. The thing is, life was monotonous. 

Every day, Light suffered the same idiotic ramblings of his peers. Did you hear that Aiko-chan is dating Haruto? I got so drunk at that party last night! Hey, Yagami-kun, do you have the answers to the homework?

It wasn’t limited to school. Wherever Light went, he was tortured with the knowledge of his superiority. These people wasted their time gossiping and chatting about nonsense, living out their immoral lives without a care in the world.

Maybe life was more than monotonous. It was torturous until Light saw the Death Note. 

He brushed it off as chain mail. Idiots loved those things. Forward this email, or you’ll be subjected to Reiko Kashima’s curse. Light scoffed but shoved the book into his school bag anyway. The black cover stained his hands. Call it morbid curiosity.

At his desk, Light flipped through the blank pages, fascinated and disgusted at the effort in creating the prank. He pushed it into his drawer, fighting the itch in his hands.

Light scribbled a few math problems into his workbook, glancing from his neat handwriting to the TV on his side table. He huffed and grabbed the remote. Morbid curiosity.

The news channel broadcasted the face of Otoharada Kurou, an older man hijacking a daycare. Light scowled as glee flooded his body. What depravity. 

In his seventeen years of life, he has heard several arguments against the death penalty but disagreed with all of them. Men like Otoharada deserve to die. When activists say it’s immoral to kill another human being, he nearly laughs. Is it not the pinnacle of morality to remove filth from this earth? The justice system exists to rid Japan of depraved criminals. He has never felt the urge to defend them.

Light scribbled Otoharada’s name, keeping his face in mind like the notebook said. He looked at his watch, noting the seconds ticking by. Forty seconds. In forty seconds, the world would be free of Otoharada. 

Thirty-five seconds passed, and nothing happened. Light flushed. He couldn’t believe himself, falling victim to a stupid prank like a common fool, too stuck in the emotions of it all. He shook his head, returning to his math problems.

The reporter gasped. Light swiveled, jumping from his chair to stare at the TV in horror. Otoharada died. Light killed him. Thickness welled in his throat, black like the ink staining Otoharada’s name on the Death Note’s page. Yagami Light killed a man. He wanted to vomit.

When Light picked up his pencil, his hands shook furiously. The reporter continued in the background, her words rattling between his ears. He couldn’t believe it worked. Was he a murderer?

He ran his fingers along the Death Note’s cover, sliding it inside his desk drawer. For the first time, Yagami Light was no longer bored. 

Light gripped his cram school books under his arm, slinking into the bright 7-Eleven. On his walk home, he watched the degeneracy unfold around him like clockwork. Darkness brought out the wicked, and he began believing the creatures of the night in horror films were nothing more than amalgamations of Tokyo’s midnight streets.

Drunks stumbling out of bars, harassing any woman they can get their hands on. Students around his age, hanging off the arms of older men from the club they got into with their fake IDs. People had no shame, no decency. It revolted him. While they weren’t criminals, Light couldn’t deny the world would be better off without them.

A scream sounded from outside the store. Light looked up from the rows of energy drinks, catching sight of a group of men assaulting a terrified woman. He sneered and ran his hands along the side of his bookbag.

Light pulled a magazine from the magazine stand and slid the Death Note between its pages. On the man’s lips hung his name: Shibuimaru Takuo. He scribbled a few iterations, crossing his fingers the kanji were right. Finally, he etched 渋井丸 拓男 [1] into the page next to plain characters reading traffic accident. 

The woman struggled from Shibuimaru’s grasp, starting down the street, her coat billowing behind her. Shibuimaru followed, revving the engine of his bike with furrowed brows.

Light scoffed. Of course, it wouldn’t work. He was naïve for thinking the first time wasn’t a fluke.  

He returned to the energy drinks, plucking out his favourite flavours. Shibuimaru’s gang shouted. Light stared at the scene; Takuo’s bike was crushed against the concrete. His hands shook, and he forced the Death Note back into his book bag. 

For the first time, Yagami Light killed someone who was not a criminal. Shibuimaru had not faced a trial in court, and he had not been found guilty.

Light stumbled out of the 7-Eleven, clutching his chest. He fell against the brick wall outside the store and felt dirty; his hands soiled with the death of an innocent. But that wasn’t a fair judgement. Shibuimaru was far from innocent. If Light hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve raped that woman. He would’ve been a criminal.

His body sparked with exhilaration. Yagami Light realized the Death Note was what he had been looking for all this time.

After Shibuimaru, Light spent his free nights scanning the NPA’s database and monitoring the news. Every stroke of his pen was liberating; every criminal erased from the world was a step closer to divinity.

The new possibilities unfurling elated Light. A world free of evil, free of cruelty. He held morality in his palm, and it was intoxicating. 

He understood the implications of his actions. Light was smart, smarter than the average person. He knew murder received the death penalty, but he would martyr himself if he had to. 

With the peoples’ interests at heart, Light trudged forward, correcting the NPA’s failures. He left the deaths blank but sensed the ripples of every heart attack along his spine. Light wanted criminals to know they were being punished. 

When he wasn’t studying or correcting, he spent some time on occult blogs, learning the intricacies of the Death Note. To his surprise, no Shinigami came to him. He imagined they observed him and agreed. 

The more he learnt about the Death Note, through use and reading, a strange reverence grew inside him. Not reverence for the Shinigami, but for the notebook itself. The gods blessed him with a tool to rid the world of evil. Light never wanted more. 

Light took his Death Note from his desk, placing it alongside his textbooks and a black pen. He scanned the list of names imprinted on the pages and flipped on the TV.

Morality and justice used to be concepts Light could only ever fantasize about. Now, he held the power to enact them in his fingers.

For the first time in his life, Yagami Light felt true, unequivocal love. 

[1]: The kanji for Shibuimaru Takuo

[heroictoonz]

So, I finished Red vs Blue. Just now like not even a few seconds ago as of writing this post. It was, well to say it bluntly it wasn’t great. I didn’t agree with pretty much most of the endings for these characters and I wish the final season had been longer than less than an hour an a half. Most movies are longer than that these days. But, I will say, that I cried. I cried and sobbed and am still crying writing this because even if I didn’t like how it ended it didn’t end horribly and I can tell it ended in love. All the characters, the ones they had in the season at least, got their emotional 15 minutes of fame. Maybe Tucker didn’t get much at all but, I dunno. As the guy whose only personality trait is liking Tucker RvB I weirdly didn’t mind all too much. Donut wasn’t in it either but he did great in season 17 so I also don’t mind that too terribly.

I will say, I don’t think there was any hope of RvB having an ending that I, personally, would think was ‘good’ or ‘satisfying’. Not perfectly at least. And I don’t say this to be mean. But, this was clearly the kind of show that was meant to run on till it was forced to die. They probably weren’t planning on ending it when they did and it took the company getting taken to pasture for it to be over. With as much random bullshit that they crammed into this show I never much expected for it all to be focused on or tied up in the finale. And this show didn’t start as something that took itself very seriously, but the ending was clearly taken with so much heart and care in mind and that’s all I can ask for from this show, I think.

They ended the show where it began. In a box canyon. They ended the story with Allison and Leonard. The people who unknowingly started all of this in the first place. They did what they could to tie in other loose ends and bring in some really cool ideas to make the ending interesting and still it’s own fun story. It made me sad to watch, honestly. Most the characters I have spent so many years loving just didn’t get the best endings. And I was always afraid of that but, hey maybe I’ll write a fic to give them a better one. Maybe it’s the endings that the RT team thought was most fitting for all of them, and I can understand why. I just, personally, enjoy happy endings. This one wasn’t as happy. But, it had hope in it. Especially Carolina and Wash’s last part. I hate the idea of some of these characters being dead and never coming back. I hate the idea of Grif leaving and never seeing any of the others again. But I get it, I understand the ending and I’m content with it. As weird as that might seem, honestly.

Whenever I finish something I’m always reminded of this Doctor Who episode I watched as a kid where he talks about how much he hates endings. How he will tear the last page from books he reads so they never have to end. It’s funny that without fail I think of that episode, that scene. Because in that episode the Doctor is forced to face an ending. One he doesn’t want but accepts anyways. This is me rambling but, I think every time I finish something I love this much and have loved for this long, whether the ending it good or bad, I think I understand that random Doctor Who episode more and more each time.

Did I like the ending season of Red vs Blue? Not fully. The ideas were cool but as with most of this show the execution wasn’t the best in my opinion. But, maybe I’m just a hard ass lol. But the ending did make me laugh, it made me cry, it made me smile and stim and feel. The ending made me feel. And it was a pretty good send off to a pretty great show. And hell, they got an ending. That’s harder to come by these days. Maybe that’s all I can ask for from it. Maybe that’s why even in my tears I’m content more than any other emotion.

But, it’s also weird. Like a really long chapter of my life is closing. I think this is also where I have to officially accept what happened to RT. As someone who’s followed RWBY, RvB, and Camp Camp for a really long time not to mention the lives and their gaming channel and all of that, it feels weird? Kinda bad, honestly, to see it end. I’ve, admittedly, been avoiding it. Avoiding talking or thinking about it. And I doubt the guys told all the stories they had for this show, but I’m glad they got to end it. I’m glad they got at least that much.

It’s 2am and I have work in about 14 hours. I think I’m gonna go read fanfiction.

[lackoftrumpets]

The TTRPGs I played in 2023: Part 2

Near the end of November, I asked for recommendations on one page TTRPGs I should play for a event I ran. The goal was to play a TTRPG for about 40-50 minutes before swapping to something new. While I sadly didn't get around to playing all of the recommendations, I still appreciate all of the games people showed me. Reading new game is something I enjoy doing, so I still had fun even if they didn't make it to the table.

Before I go into each TTRPG individually, there was a common running theme between playing all of the games that I feel like I should say. As much as I enjoy the concept and writing one page and other extremely small TTRPGs, I will admit that playing them was a rough experience. Working with that small amount of mechanics and concepts was something me and the table were not used to and I'm not sure if these kind of games are something I will play more of later. Whenever I got excited by a mechanic is one of these games, I always felt like I wanted something more. I think these types of games are great thought experiments for game design, but I can understand why these type of games haven't gotten much traction in the mainstream (with a few exceptions). However, don't let my thoughts discourage you from writing these type of games. I still love making them because its a fun challenge to see how much content you can cram into such a small space. This was something that most of these games did fairly well, so lets move onto that. If you want to check out any of these games or their authors, I have everything linked on this post.

Rollers of the Lost Artifact by JayBlnk6

This was the starting game and it left a good first impression. In this game players are archeologists looking for special artifacts. The simple skill system was nice, but what I really loved was the inventory system. Each item size has a certain shape and you have to fit it into a 3x3 square. I always love inventory systems that force you to play a Tetris (turning a mundane thing into something fun), and this game did a good job fitting it into a smaller system. Since we were playing multiple games at once, the players didn't get to sell the artifact, but I still appreciate the rules where players get a choice on what they wish to do with it.

Rats in Space by Jay Writes

I think the title of this game explains itself. The players are rats in space looking for a special piece of cheese. The theming of this game was a lot of fun to play with. The morale system was also an interesting addition to the d6 system I've seen a lot of one page games (including my own) use. It was fun to see the players start to panic as their moral system got lower because of a large streak of bad rolls. I also really liked the d6 table for determining one last consequence when the cheese is found. The players thought they finally found it, but then realized they had one last obstacle to conquer (that being the horrible smell in the room).

Rough Beginnings by @tornioduva

This was the most unique game I played that night and despite some odd moments, I had a lot of fun with it! The players are simple group of adventurers, but there is a small element of mystery to it. They each have a secret personality trait and one of them is secretly try to sabotage the rest of the group. I love the creative ideas this game had, but it was a bit of an awkward play. In order for the adventurers to escape, the GM needs to roll a 9 from a 2d6 on the scenario table. The first round, I rolled a 9 for the first scenario. The second round, I rolled a 9 after the players went through about 15 scenarios, the majority of them being the players getting HP for succeeding. I love the concept of this game and I think it inspired me to make my own deception based TTRPG, but it was rather clunky. I have no issue with that at the end of the day. I love playing games that take risks and try new things!

By String and Song by @efangamez

I've enjoyed participating in game jams run and reading some games by efangamez before, so when somebody at the game community mentioned one of their one page games but couldn't remember the name, I knew where to find it. While the game they were recommending was Barbaria, I ultimately ended up going with this game because bards seemed like more fun to play and most of the games in this series seemed like they were reskins of each other. I feel kind of bad saying this, but the game just felt like one page D&D 5e. It's a d20 game which seems to be rare for one page TTRPGs and the way everything was written with Skill Checks and attacking seemed to invoke that game. I guess if you wanted to introduce smaller games to people who have only played D&D I guess this could be a good starting point, but I think most people would just ask to go back to D&D. If I had to guess, most of my negative feelings about this game likely come from me just being burnt out of D&D. It was written well and the enemy descriptions were flavorful, but I don't ever see myself going back to play this.

Honey Heist by gshowitt

Whenever I hear one page TTRPGs discussed, this game always seems to be recommended. After playing it, I can see why. The concept of being normal bears trying to break into a convention was already an instant sell. I loved the idea of the balance of trying to keep your bear and criminal parts from not taking over. It was one of the most interesting ideas for a fail state I've seen in a game. This the game we played for the least amount of time because it was near the end of the meeting and we were all tired, but the random animal chaos mixed in with surprisingly intricate criminal planning made for a fun mix.

[pinkierre]

bookshop owner pierre x english teacher charles | piarles drabble for darling @softiecharlie

[She got what was coming to her because she sucks.] 

Pierre chuckles at the comment Charles had scribbled into the margins of the book he had borrowed. 

When Charles asked him for a copy of his favourite book, Pierre was slightly hesitant. They’ve been friends for so long now, and you’d think as a bookshop owner (Pierre) and English teacher (Charles) they’d have exchanged so many books over the years. But for some reason, Pierre’s only read all the things Charles had ever recommended, but it’s never been the other way around.

Until now. 

Charles’ handwriting is messy and barely legible. He’s tried to cram way too many words per line, trying to keep his pen strokes off of the words of the actual story. It’s endearing to Pierre.

He can just see Charles, sitting at his desk at work, a pen between his teeth as he thinks up his commentary on the text he’s reading. 

It’s been a while since Pierre read this particular book, so he was due a reread anyway, and Charles’ comments are making it a whole new experience. 

[That’s cute.] 

Pierre makes mental notes on the things his friend comments on. Maybe it’s dumb, but the commentary is giving him ideas and plans to put into execution when Pierre can finally muster up the courage to tell Charles how he really feels. 

He’s sucked in now. It’s a Friday afternoon and business is slow, so he’s propped up behind the till and nose deep tucked inside of the pages. 

[The MC finally makes the right choice, oh my, I’ve been waiting for this.] 

Pierre has made it two thirds into the book now, starting only this morning. He keeps getting interrupted by clients who want to buy stacks of books, so he’s definitely complaining, but he wants to go back to the story of one of his favourite books, narrated by his favourite human. Though each happy customer brings a smile to his face. [This is how I feel about you, Pierre.]

His hearts skips a beat as he lets the words sink in. His finger frantically goes back through the line of words that precede the narration. 

“It’s as if everything falls into place whenever I see his face.” 

Pierre feels his body temperature rise what feels like a million degrees. Could it be…? No, no, it couldn’t… Charles couldn’t possibly feel the same… 

Or maybe he does. Maybe, with the direction their friendship has taken over the past few months. It wasn’t only Pierre who made the hugs longer, the hands linger and the eyes locked on each other. It is a two-way street as they say.

With a heart rate of well over 160bpm he reads on. The notes becoming more and more like full-on declarations of love. 

It’s been a while since Pierre has managed to burn through a book at this speed. The store should’ve closed two hours ago, but he hasn’t even gotten up to change the sign in the door. Thankfully, no one’s come in to disturb him. 

He turns to the last page and his breath hitches once again. 

[I love you x]

It’s at that moment that he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He fishes it out and is greeted by a picture of Charles smiling up at him. He feels his face morph into a smirk as he answers the call. 

“Hey, I’ve just finished the book. Want to grab dinner?” 

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

Daisy, my love. Can you believe it? I finally wrote your amazing prompt into a drabble. I would've loved to expand on this I just didn't have the timeframe for it unfortunately. But I definitely wanted to write you something for your birthday, so here it is! Happy birthday, darling! I wish you the bestest day! I have said it before, but you really are amazing, both as a person and as an artist. Your writing, whether poems or stories is absolutely amazing. I love you!!!!!

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Make It Back for Christmas (Steve Harrington x Reader)

Make It Back for Christmas (Rated T)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 1.9k+

Warnings: Mild brief language, holiday fluff, pining Steve and Reader

Summary: It's the last week of the semester and you're dying to head back home to Hawkins for the holiday festivities. Not only that, but you haven't heard from your boyfriend in a week and you're already going through withdrawals. Will you be able to make it back in time for Christmas?

God, you hated finals week. 

This wasn’t like anything you experienced in your high school years. Or was it? Thanks to the last semester of all-nighters and unbelievable amounts of cram studying, the last four years all blended together. 

Three exams. You had three exams this week. Plus a term paper, a research project… one of your professors thought it would be fun to have an exam and a nine-page paper due the same week. Was it nine pages single-spaced or double? Hell if you knew. Your brain had already begun to hurt just thinking about everything you did to army-crawl your way through to break. Even though most of the hard work was done, you weren’t out of the clear yet— you still had a five hour drive home on Saturday and you hadn't packed yet. 

You just had to select a college five hours away. You hated being away from your home of small town Hawkins, Indiana. You missed your family, your friends. Some nights there was nothing you wanted more than to spend a few hours at the local arcade or the neighboring video store. 

The only thing that made everything seem a bit more bearable was your boyfriend. Usually, Steve would be the first one you would call and talk to after your latest exam or assignment, but you haven’t been able to reach him in days. The two of you had gotten together the summer before you left for college. It was a sweet summer romance story. You had known each other for years, practically growing up together. It was the typical cliche: two friends who had been skirting around their feelings throughout high school, mainly due to one garnering a reputation. 

Although, when you were with Steve, that’s all he was: Steve. Not overly cocky King Steve, not party keg master Steve; he was Steve Harrington, your best friend since preschool who always stole your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because you hated them. The same Steve who would sit with you for hours in the backyard watching the clouds or the stars, listening to you talk about your superficial problems like they were an international threat of war. The Steve who was so terrified going out on his first date with Samantha Hollis in the sixth grade, he spent most of the morning excessively brushing his hair and gargling mouthwash in your bathroom while talking about his big first kiss plan — a conversation that later had your stomach turning and your dinner in the upstairs toilet. You hadn’t realized it at first, but you had fallen head over heels for your best friend. 

When you finally recognized and came to terms with your feelings for Steve in junior year, it had been too late. He had already started his “perfect” relationship with his dream girl: Nancy Wheeler. You had no malice toward the girl. In fact, you were both good friends. It was just hard to maintain that friendship when all the conversations ever gravitated toward was, well, your shared connection. 

“Steve and I were going to see that movie!”

“Oh, you’ll never believe what Steve said the other night.”

“Oh my god, isn’t he so clumsy? It’s adorable.”

Forced smiles and friendly nods became second nature for you. All you wanted was for Steve to be happy. If he was happy with Nancy, then you were happy for him. You had to admit they made an attractive couple. She was helping him in ways you never could, helping him succeed instead of just encouraging him to try and make a change. They were an unstoppable team. Steve didn’t need you anymore and you had to come to terms with it. You slowly began to distance yourself, just so you could sort through your feelings and not be awkward around them. It made things easier at first. 

Then Nancy broke his heart at Tina’s halloween bash. Suddenly you found yourself thrust back and immersed into Steve’s life once more. Only this time, you leaned into his touches a little more than usual. You two sat a bit too close at movie night. You split too many meals at the local diner. It was only when Dustin Henderson made a passing comment about how the two of you acted like an old married couple did you snap back to reality and attempt to distance yourself from Steve again. He didn’t need to lose the love of his life and another friend at the same time because you couldn’t keep your feelings in check. So you resorted to only hang around him with the kids when he needed to play carpool, taking them to the arcade, or the farmer’s market, or even the grocery store to pick up 

This only seemed to confuse your best friend. “Why aren’t you spending time with me?” he asked you when you brought El and Max to the mall over the summer. 

“What are you talking about?” you tried to appear nonchalant, like you weren’t doing this on purpose even if it killed you. Unfortunately, your poker face needed some much needed work. 

“No, no,” the look he gave you that day would haunt you forever. Steve looked like you had just kicked his puppy right in front of him. “Don’t bullshit me. You’ve been avoiding me all summer since we graduated. The only time I ever see you is with the kids and even then you spend more time with Dustin than me!”

It was true. After Dustin had oh-so-kindly exposed your emotions, you had somehow convinced the child to be your partner in distracting you from Steve. Well, it was less of a convincing and more of a “if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll lovingly end you” type of agreement. He stuck to you like Velcro when the three of you went out, making sure there were very few interactions that could lead into moments of longing. 

“It’s nothing, Steve,” you had tried explaining with no success. “Dustin just really wants my attention is all, I guess.” 

A frown on his face, Steve turned away mumbling something under his breath. You weren’t quite sure at the time, but it did sound oddly similar to, “he’s not the only one.”

It wasn’t until you found yourselves trapped in a Russian underground that you had to face more than one fear. Trapped in your own room, the soldiers tried to get you to admit how you found their base. They had even stabbed you with some type of drug, which you would only later discover its use. You couldn’t tell how long it was before you were released with the help of your best friend. Steve had looked so worse for wear, but even in the chaos, he was only concerned about your safety and well-being. 

“Are you okay?!” his slurred speech inquired as he ran hands up and down your arms before cradling your face. 

You weren’t sure if it was the stress or the inclusion of a truth serum in your system, but you did the only thing you could think of to answer his incessant questions: you leaned forward and kissed him. 

And he kissed you back. 

From that moment on, everything was different. You had gone from being best friends, to two people who went out to dinner, to being in an honest to goodness relationship. Just over a year later, you’re sat in your dorm room with a receiver broadcasting a busy signal in your ear. 

This was the sixth time this week Steve hadn’t answered the phone. He hadn’t called for his daily good morning or good nights. He didn’t call to check in on you during what he knew was going to be a stressful week. Concerned about his safety, you reached out to Dustin several times, who assured you that Steve was fine. He was just busy with all of the families renting out movies for the holidays. You knew you weren’t entitled to his time, but all the same…it had been a long week and all you wanted was to hear your boyfriend’s voice. 

Allowing a sigh to escape your lips, you dialed Steve’s number again, this time with the intent to leave a message. When the recording of his mother’s bored yet powerful voice played, you bit your lip to refrain from showing too much emotion over the phone. “Hey Steve,” you started. “It’s uh, it’s me calling…again. I just wanted to let you know that I, uh, that I miss you. Miss hearing your voice, seeing you. And I hope that you’re doing okay. Just a few more days until I can start my drive home and see you!” 

You let out a sad chuckle as there was a knock on your bedroom door. Your roommate, Allie, probably wanted to use the phone since you’d been hogging it for a few hours. “Oh, I gotta go. Call me back soon, okay? Love you.” As you hung up the phone, you moved to open the door. “Sorry, Allie. Just wanted to make sure-“

“Make sure I was doing okay?” A familiar voice cut you off and your breath caught in your throat.  You couldn’t believe it. Standing in front of you with rosy frost bitten cheeks, tired eyes, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen was Steve. “I’d say I’m doing much better now that I’ve seen you, sweetheart.”

Without much thought, you ran into his arms and kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him one more time, just for good measure. It was messy, all smiles and awkward breathing, but it was perfect. “What-“ you stuttered in surprise once you caught your breath. “What are you doing here? Why haven't you called?!”

Steve grinned sheepishly, head bent down to stare right in your gaze. A few strands of his perfectly unruly dark hair fell directly in his line of sight and you automatically moved your hand to brush it away. “I knew if I picked up the phone it would be really hard for me to keep my mouth shut. Did you really think I’d let my baby drive home alone for Christmas?” he said with mock disdain. “I don’t think that would make me a very good boyfriend, do you?”

“I have a car.”

“Yeah,” your boyfriend nodded in agreement, “but why waste gas if you’re not going to use it in Hawkins.” 

You frowned. What was he talking about? 

“Baby, you’re with the Harrington car service,” Steve’s smooth voice rolled over you like honey. “It’s door-to-door service, even during your trip.”

“….so you’re kidnapping me and not letting me drive my own car.” 

Steve gave a small huff, shoulders slouched. “Gee, when you put it like that…you really sucked the romance out of it, babe. You know I did just drive five hours-“

You silenced him with a gentle kiss to the lips. While not as rough or as passionate as the first reunion, it was just as loving. Your fingers curled around the soft fabric of his white Henley top and pulled him closer. He stumbled a bit from the action, but soon rested his hands on either of your hips, a low hum vibrating his throat. 

“I love you,” you whispered. 

The smile on Steve’s face stretched out to be a mile wide. “I love you, too, baby,” he replied, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Now come on. Let’s get you all packed up.”

You laughed at his dramatic hand gestures before he crossed his way into your room. “Your chariot awaits, my dear,” he mused, turning his head to glance back at you over his shoulder. “It’s time to get you back home for Christmas.”

====================

Author's Note: So this is happening. Is everyone excited?! To say I've been looking forward to this event for the last month plus now. I just want to give a small shout-out and thank you to two very amazing people, @bakerstreethound (for encouraging me to keep writing) and @upsidedownwithsteve (for inspiring me to try my hand at this -- so sorry for the tag!).

Writing this and some of the other fics for this event have me convinced Steve would be the perfect boyfriend around the holidays, even if he may be a bit of Scrooge sometimes. The number of times I've smiled writing these pieces...I've lost count. But stay tuned because we have a lot more headed your way (including some dad!Steve...)!

If you liked this post and want to see more like it on my blog, please make sure to leave a comment and reblog it! While likes are appreciated, it's these two things that really help spread the word about my writing and motivate me to keep making new content! Until next time, my little sparks! <3