#but rough animator only has 1 brush :[

[1captainjordan4]

Procreate vs rough animator

Did some animation tests for both programs to see how it works :]

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

25 Prose Tips For Writers 🖋️✨ Part 1

Hey there!📚✨

As writers, we all know that feeling when we read a sentence so beautifully crafted that it takes our breath away. We pause, reread it, and marvel at how the author managed to string those words together in such a captivating way. Well, today I'm going to unpack a few secrets to creating that same magic in your own writing. These same tips I use in my writing.

But before I begin, please remember that writing is an art form, and like any art, it's subjective. What sounds beautiful to one person might not resonate with another. The tips I'm about to share are meant to be tools in your writer's toolkit, not rigid rules. Feel free to experiment, play around, and find what works best for your unique voice and style.

Power of Rhythm 🎵

One of the most overlooked aspects of beautiful prose is rhythm. Just like music, writing has a flow and cadence that can make it pleasing to the ear (or mind's ear, in this case). Here are some ways to incorporate rhythm into your writing:

a) Vary your sentence length: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, flowing ones. This creates a natural ebb and flow that keeps your reader engaged.

Example: "The sun set. Darkness crept in, wrapping the world in its velvet embrace. Stars winked to life, one by one, until the sky was a glittering tapestry of light."

b) Use repetition strategically: Repeating words or phrases can create a hypnotic effect and emphasize important points.

Example: "She walked through the forest, through the shadows, through the whispers of ancient trees. Through it all, she walked with purpose."

c) Pay attention to the stressed syllables: In English, we naturally stress certain syllables in words. Try to end important sentences with stressed syllables for a stronger impact.

Example: "Her heart raced as she approached the door." (Stronger ending) vs. "She approached the door as her heart raced." (Weaker ending)

Paint with Words 🎨

Beautiful prose often creates vivid imagery in the reader's mind. Here are some techniques to help you paint with words:

a) Use specific, concrete details: Instead of general descriptions, zoom in on particular details that bring a scene to life.

Example: Instead of: "The room was messy." Try: "Crumpled papers overflowed from the waste bin, books lay spine-up on every surface, and a half-eaten sandwich peeked out from under a stack of wrinkled clothes."

b) Appeal to all five senses: Don't just describe what things look like. Include smells, sounds, textures, and tastes to create a fully immersive experience.

Example: "The market bustled with life. Colorful fruits glistened in the morning sun, their sweet aroma mingling with the earthy scent of fresh herbs. Vendors called out their wares in sing-song voices, while customers haggled in animated tones. Sarah's fingers brushed against the rough burlap sacks of grain as she passed, and she could almost taste the tang of ripe oranges on her tongue."

c) Use unexpected comparisons: Fresh similes and metaphors can breathe new life into descriptions.

Example: Instead of: "The old man was very thin." Try: "The old man was a whisper of his former self, as if life had slowly erased him, leaving behind only the faintest outline."

Choose Your Words Wisely 📚

Every word in your prose should earn its place. Here are some tips for selecting the right words:

a) Embrace strong verbs: Replace weak verb + adverb combinations with single, powerful verbs.

Example: Instead of: "She walked quickly to the store." Try: "She hurried to the store." or "She dashed to the store."

b) Be specific: Use precise nouns instead of general ones.

Example: Instead of: "She picked up the flower." Try: "She plucked the daisy."

c) Avoid clichés: Clichés can make your writing feel stale. Try to find fresh ways to express common ideas.

Example: Instead of: "It was raining cats and dogs." Try: "The rain fell in sheets, transforming the streets into rushing rivers."

Play with Sound 🎶

The sound of words can contribute greatly to the beauty of your prose. Here are some techniques to make your writing more musical:

a) Alliteration: Repeating initial consonant sounds can create a pleasing effect.

Example: "She sells seashells by the seashore."

b) Assonance: Repeating vowel sounds can add a subtle musicality to your prose.

Example: "The light of the bright sky might ignite a fight."

c) Onomatopoeia: Using words that sound like what they describe can make your writing more immersive.

Example: "The bees buzzed and hummed as they flitted from flower to flower."

Art of Sentence Structure 🏗️

How you structure your sentences can greatly affect the flow and impact of your prose. Here are some tips:

a) Use parallel structure: When listing items or actions, keep the grammatical structure consistent.

Example: "She came, she saw, she conquered."

b) Try periodic sentences: Build suspense by putting the main clause at the end of the sentence.

Example: "Through storm and strife, across oceans and continents, despite all odds and obstacles, they persevered."

c) Experiment with sentence fragments: While not grammatically correct, sentence fragments can be powerful when used intentionally for emphasis or style.

Example: "She stood at the edge of the cliff. Heart racing. Palms sweating. Ready to jump."

Power of White Space ⬜

Sometimes, what you don't say is just as important as what you do. Use paragraph breaks and short sentences to create pauses and emphasize important moments.

Example: "He opened the letter with trembling hands.

Inside, a single word.

'Yes.'"

Read Your Work Aloud 🗣️

One of the best ways to polish your prose is to read it aloud. This helps you catch awkward phrasing, repetitive words, and rhythm issues that you might miss when reading silently.

Edit Ruthlessly ✂️

Beautiful prose often comes from rigorous editing. Don't be afraid to cut words, sentences, or even entire paragraphs if they don't serve the overall beauty and effectiveness of your writing.

Study the Masters 📖

Please! Read widely and pay attention to how your favorite authors craft their prose. Analyze sentences you find particularly beautiful and try to understand what makes them work.

Practice, Practice, Practice 💪

Like any skill, writing beautiful prose takes practice. Set aside time to experiment with different techniques and styles. Try writing exercises focused on specific aspects of prose, like describing a scene using only sound words, or rewriting a simple sentence in ten different ways.

Remember, that developing your prose style is a journey, not a destination. It's okay if your first draft isn't perfect – that's what editing is for! The most important thing is to keep writing, keep experimenting, and keep finding joy in the process.

Here are a few more unique tips to help you on your prose-perfecting journey:

Create a Word Bank 🏦

Keep a notebook or digital file where you collect beautiful words, phrases, or sentences you come across in your reading. This can be a great resource when you're looking for inspiration or the perfect word to complete a sentence.

Use the "Rule of Three" 3️⃣

There's something inherently satisfying about groups of three. Use this to your advantage in your writing, whether it's in listing items, repeating phrases, or structuring your paragraphs.

Example: "The old house groaned, creaked, and whispered its secrets to the night."

Power of Silence 🤫

Sometimes, the most powerful prose comes from what's left unsaid. Use implication and subtext to add depth to your writing.

Example: Instead of: "She was heartbroken when he left." Try: "She stared at his empty chair across the breakfast table, the untouched coffee growing cold."

Play with Perspective 👁️

Experiment with different points of view to find the most impactful way to tell your story. Sometimes, an unexpected perspective can make your prose truly memorable.

Example: Instead of describing a bustling city from a human perspective, try describing it from the point of view of a bird soaring overhead, or a coin passed from hand to hand.

Use Punctuation Creatively 🖋️

While it's important to use punctuation correctly, don't be afraid to bend the rules a little for stylistic effect. Em dashes, ellipses, and even unconventional use of periods can add rhythm and emphasis to your prose.

Example: "She hesitated—heart pounding, palms sweating—then knocked on the door."

Create Contrast 🌓

Juxtapose different elements in your writing to create interest and emphasis. This can be in terms of tone, pacing, or even the literal elements you're describing.

Example: "The delicate butterfly alighted on the rusted barrel of the abandoned tank."

Use Synesthesia 🌈

Synesthesia is a condition where one sensory experience triggers another. While not everyone experiences this, using synesthetic descriptions in your writing can create vivid and unique imagery.

Example: "The violin's melody tasted like honey on her tongue."

Experiment with Sentence Diagrams 📊

Remember those sentence diagrams from school? Try diagramming some of your favorite sentences from literature. This can give you insight into how complex sentences are structured and help you craft your own.

Create a Sensory Tour 🚶‍♀️

When describing a setting, try taking your reader on a sensory tour. Move from one sense to another, creating a full, immersive experience.

Example: "The old bookstore welcomed her with the musty scent of aging paper. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight piercing the high windows. Her fingers trailed over the cracked leather spines as she moved deeper into the stacks, the floorboards creaking a greeting beneath her feet. In the distance, she could hear the soft ticking of an ancient clock and taste the faint bitterness of old coffee in the air."

Use Active Voice (Most of the Time) 🏃‍♂️

While passive voice has its place, active voice generally creates more dynamic and engaging prose. Compare these two sentences:

Passive: "The ball was thrown by the boy." Active: "The boy threw the ball."

Magic of Ordinary Moments ✨

Sometimes, the most beautiful prose comes from describing everyday occurrences in a new light. Challenge yourself to find beauty and meaning in the mundane.

Example: "The kettle's whistle pierced the quiet morning, a clarion call heralding the day's first cup of possibility."

Play with Time ⏳

Experiment with how you present the passage of time in your prose. You can stretch a moment out over several paragraphs or compress years into a single sentence.

Example: "In that heartbeat between his question and her answer, universes were born and died, civilizations rose and fell, and their entire future hung in the balance."

Use Anaphora for Emphasis 🔁

Anaphora is the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or sentences. It can create a powerful rhythm and emphasize key points.

Example: "She was the sunrise after the longest night. She was the first bloom of spring after a harsh winter. She was the cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. She was hope personified, walking among us."

Create Word Pictures 🖼️

Try to create images that linger in the reader's mind long after they've finished reading. These don't have to be elaborate – sometimes a simple, unexpected combination of words can be incredibly powerful.

Example: "Her laughter was a flock of birds taking flight."

Use Rhetorical Devices 🎭

Familiarize yourself with rhetorical devices like chiasmus, antithesis, and oxymoron. These can add depth and interest to your prose.

Example of chiasmus: "Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country." - John F. Kennedy

Even the most accomplished authors continue to hone their craft with each new piece they write. Don't be discouraged if your first attempts don't sound exactly like you imagined – keep practicing, keep experimenting, and most importantly, keep writing.

Your unique voice and perspective are what will ultimately make your prose beautiful. These techniques are simply tools to help you express that voice more effectively. Use them, adapt them, or discard them as you see fit. The most important thing is to write in a way that feels authentic to you and brings you joy.

Happy writing, everyone! 🖋️💖📚 - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[alicenpai]

princess tutu: die jahreszeiten 🌸

kind of a companion piece to my 2022 ptutu drawing | it's on inprnt

this print was at anime north; next con is otakuthon!

oops so my hand slipped and i made another princess tutu drawing. i admittedly don't watch that much anime so my catalogue of work is gonna be the same 5 animes LMAO. what can i say, i love "dark" fairy tales, and i've been really enjoying the more fine art approach to a lot of my drawings as of late (and the watercolour brush i've been using has been so perfect for that...!)

as my first princess tutu drawing is now 2 years old, there are some areas i've grown to have ... qualms with... although both drawings as a whole are pretty much exactly what i envisioned, and that's always satisfying!

both of these were drawn in roughly a week's time (yes really...) for con crunch period (and i went back to this drawing after the con to touch up some areas that were a bit rough!). i wanted a different approach to this new pt drawing, with the focus on the line work, rather than on colours and lighting in the 2022 drawing.

this drawing had 2 goals: to continue the style i adopted in my witch hat atelier "lantern bearers" drawing (which i promise i'll post in full soon as soon as all of the zine artists get their go-ahead to post their pieces!), and to emulate the art nouveau movement's heavy emphasis on line work, albeit not a 1:1 style replication of course.

the seasons also aren't a 1:1 representation, as i didn't necessarily pick flowers or colours that are most strongly associated with the season (e.g. summer being a dark tone is a bold choice?). but it's kinda whatever, as i said before i drew this in a week, there may be more appropriate flowers with better meanings. i couldn't spend too too much time drafting and researching.

FLOWER SYMBOLISM:

- spring: apple blossoms, tulips - the apple blossom is a quintessential spring flower, and thus symbolize the arrival of spring. spring is a season of change, which ahiru/princess tutu is a force of, instigating change in her friends and unravelling the story around her. the flowers below her are tulips, and there are many meanings to tulips depending on the colour, due to their ubiquitous nature. i narrowed on one, and intended for them to symbolize happiness. princess tutu's pose is one in which that is open, inviting, and warm - reflecting her nurturing nature in the series, and her willingness to help others achieve happiness.

- summer: deadly nightshade flower, yellow rose - i chose for rue/princess kraehe to symbolize a fiery summer's night instead of the typical dazzling heat of a summer's day, a rather bold and unusual choice. the warmth of sunshine didn't quite fit, as the character is quite dramatic and passionate, with her intentions often hidden in shadow. next, the deadly nightshade - atropa belladonna - has a lot of mythological associations, a lot to do with poisoning, as the flower is toxic. the flowers bloom at night (another reason why i picked a nighttime backdrop for "summer") and also outwardly match rue's dark design scheme, as the cherry on top. yellow roses, at the bottom of her frame, are the archetypal flower depicting jealousy (as with many yellow flowers are), and at one point in the story, rue only wished for her own happiness at the misfortune of others.

- autumn: douglas fir needles, orange calla lily - autumn is another season of change - although much more tumultuous, as this season is traditionally taken to prepare for a long winter ahead - fitting for fakir as the role of the storyteller. the douglas fir is not a flower of course, but is a tree - with many different parts of this tree offering many benefits in advance of the winter season. i wanted the versatile nature of the douglas fir to reflect on fakir's dependable personality. next up, the calla lily is a flower with a dual meaning - on one hand you have life, on the other you have death. a storyteller quite literally can grant both at the tip of their fingers.

- winter: birch tree, snowdrop - winter is a rather still and unchanging season, a lull in the passage of time. this symbolizes mytho's passive nature at the start of the series, especially with his doleful pose here, as if almost in hibernation. to contrast, mytho is perched on the branches of a birch tree, which means new beginnings and renewal - as mytho is one of the characters that undergo the most change throughout the series (i'd argue the most?), regaining pieces of his heart. under mytho's frame is the snowdrop flower - and if you've read my witch hat atelier: seasons piece symbolisms, one of the snowdrop's meanings is rebirth, with connotations to the bible, bringing hope, when all had forsaken eve. the snowdrop is one of the first flowers to bloom even when the snow has not yet fully melted, further echoing mytho as an analogy for rebirth.

[kidasthings]

Echoes of Eden by Kida

Noa x Mae - #omgisthisastorywithplot?

Chapter 2: Echoes of Eden by Kida – @kidasthings on Tumblr

Prologue

Three centuries after a catastrophic virus decimated human intelligence, turning the survivors into primal shadows of their former selves, the world has irrevocably changed. The ALZ virus, originally intended to combat Alzheimer's disease, not only ravaged humanity but inadvertently gave rise to a new dominant species: intelligent apes.

Near the ruins of what was once Los Angeles, Noa, a valiant chimpanzee of the Eagle clan, has just thwarted a power-hungry bonobo, Proximus Caesar, from enslaving his people. Guided by the teachings of a certain orangutan, Raka, who revered the nearly forgotten, peace-loving chimp Caesar, Noa believes in a world where apes and humans can coexist peacefully. However, during his quest, he encounters Mae, a human who defies his expectations. Mae, immune to the virus and possessing the ability to speak, challenges Noa's perceptions of humans as mere animals.

Together, Noa and Mae manage to prevent Proximus Caesar from seizing a cache of potent human technology by flooding an old bunker. In the process, Mae secures a crucial computer drive that enables her underground human community to reconnect with distant survivors, bridging isolated pockets of humanity; she also manages to betray Noa and his clan by leaving them to fend for themselves.

As Mae's group in Los Angeles prepares to merge with new allies from Fort Wayne, Indiana, tensions escalate. Unaware of Mae's bond with Noa, a small but well-armed scouting party from Fort Wayne comes across the Eagle Clan’s village on their way to Los Angeles to meet up with Mae’s people.

Far more adept on their own home turf, the scouting party is caught by the apes, rounded up, and held hostage. Their weapons are confiscated. Mae is called in when the scouting party never reports to the underground bunker where the rest of the intelligent humans in her group seek refuge. Caught between her origins and her convictions, Mae faces the ultimate choice during the tense encounter: stand with her human kin or protect Noa, the ape she has come to admire.

This story explores the fragile hope for reconciliation in a world torn apart by fear and prejudice. Can Noa and Mae forge a path toward peace, or will the shadows of old wars darken the future dreamed of by the legendary Caesar?

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

Chapter 1

In the dense shadows cast by the towering trees that skirt the Eagle clan's village, the air was thick with tension and the faint scent of smoke from distant fires. The setting sun bled red over the horizon, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn faces of the Eagle clan and their new captives. Five ALZ-immune humans from Fort Wayne sat bound and rigid, their eyes darting nervously as they listened to the low, ominous murmurs of the assembled apes.

Noa moved deliberately among the captives, his demeanor stern yet marked by an inherent fairness. Each human he approached met his gaze with a mix of defiance and fear, but none spoke. They clung to their silence like a shield, even under the weight of Noa's penetrating stare.

"No purpose here can be good if it starts with secrets," Noa stated, his voice resonating with a calm authority as he paused before a younger man whose jaw was stubbornly set.

The chants from the simian crowd grew louder, a discordant mix of anger and fear, with proposals of banishment or worse. They remembered what happened with Proximus Caesar, the obsession with human technology and worldly knowledge, and want none of it. Noa raised a hand, called for silence, but the restlessness was palpable, a living thing that fed on uncertainty and fear.

At the perimeter of the village, a human woman keeps a low profile in the brush. She had followed a single flare that burst bright in the sky to this location. It was a habitual thing, to bypass this region when doing her rounds in the forest. Immunity to the Simian Flu had bequeathed her the role of tracker, hunter, and scout after her initial mission was completed. Brown hair, blue eyes like the sky, Mae can only watch the scene unfold with a pounding heart. Worry lines were etched deeply into her brow, and her hand reached up to clutch at something around her neck - Raka's pendant - the symbol of peace promoted by an ape named Caesar long ago.

Noa gave her that pendant. For an inopportune moment, Mae was lost in reverie.

Without warning, a strong hand gripped her shoulder, yanked her from the shadows. Mae stumbled forward, dragged into the open. Her breath caught as she was thrown unceremoniously to the ground before Noa and his human captives. Dust and small stones bit into her palms as she caught herself, and a small grunt escaped her lips.

The sudden appearance of the human - a known and not particularly fondly remembered human - amongst them drew shocked gasps and murmurs.

Noa’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed in a complex tumult of emotion. The last time they parted, it was with a promise of peace, and yet here she was, thrown at his feet, disrupting the fragile balance he had fought to maintain.

Mae’s chest heaved as she pushed herself up slightly, her voice raspy but resolute as she met Noa's gaze. A single word hangs between them, charged with layers of meaning, a plea, a greeting, a reminder of shared dreams and bitter realities.

"Noa."

In that moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. Noa stood motionless, the voices around him faded into a distant hum. His heart fought a fierce battle within, torn between his duty to his clan and the undeniable pull he felt towards this woman who embodied both the past they shared and the future they might still forge. He can see Caesar’s pendant, an encircled diamond, as it swung from Mae’s neck wildly.

She still had it.

It is a symbol of ideals that suddenly seem so distant in the face of palpable tension and looming conflict.

The standoff stretched out, every breath, every silent plea, every hope and fear suspended in the dusty air of the dying day.

“Noa,” Mae tried again, defeated. She pulled herself up to stand on shaky, coltish legs. The Eagle Clan scout that initially seized her did not reach for her again as Noa lifted one hand to stay him.

Noa closed his eyes, as if in contemplation.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked, as he reopened his eyes and shuttered his gaze.

Mae’s lips thinned out into a seamless line, and she cut a gaze over to the trussed-up humans attached to poles in the center of the village.

Noa nodded, once. He did not need much more than that as he added, “They approached our borders. We do not yet know their intention.”

The five Fort Wayne humans, still tied tight, share deliberate looks of fear between themselves. There is clear intelligence writ into their faces. They are not gagged, much to the chagrin of some of the villagers, as Noa would not have it. Still, they are oddly quiet. A few cast curious looks at Mae, no recognition in their eyes. The only woman in the group chewed her lower lip in frustration. Her blonde hair is cut short in a severe bob.

“Let them go, Noa.” Mae stated boldly, taking a step forward. Two other apes, positioned parallel to her, moved to intercept her advance towards the hero of the Eagle Clan. Once again, Noa lifted his calloused palm and gritted his sharp canines.

“Follow,” he told her, indicating something or someplace to the left with a sharp jerk of his head.

There is a short murmur of indignation from the gathered villagers, save for a small group which consisted of Soona, Anaya, and Noa’s mother. They appeared stuck in a shallower tumult of emotion. Noa’s mother took a step forward, unsure, but Soona placed her palm on the female ape’s furry shawl-covered shoulder and stopped her.

Mae’s eyes followed Noa, capturing his unique profile in a blink, and then dipped her head and hesitated. It is always that hesitation, caught between following an ape and leaving her kind behind, but with a reluctant glance at the captives she turned to follow.

He led her to a towering edifice of wood and natural materials that might be described as a tree house. Far above them, hawks circled in the sky, their soaring shadows blotting out the last rays of the sun. They landed at the top of the tower, a dizzying height, and screeched down at her.

Noa ascended a small ramp and stepped past a woven flap of material.

Mae did the same after taking a moment to peer backwards over her shoulder to ascertain the serious faces of a few apes herding her to the entrance.

Once inside, the darkness enveloped her, and the woman became hyper-aware of a dual pair of reflective eyes that watched her in the darkness of the interior.

“You came back,” he said, voice rough with something like emotion.

“Not by choice,” she quipped, and then stepped sideways away from the shaft of light thrown down by the door.

“Why?” It’s a simple question for a complex answer, and she wasn’t ready to answer it.

“I saw a distress signal in the sky,” she replied easily, eyes skating over the shadows and shapes in the interior of the newly rebuilt tower. “I had to see for myself. It looked like a human flare.”

“A flare?” he questioned; voice flat.

“It’s a human thing,” she sighed.

She heard him padding closer to her, his eerie eyes backlit by whatever reflective photo-sensitive cells nocturnal animals possessed. More of his face came into detail. After he stood about a few feet away, he stopped.

Mae froze.

“You have  ... it,” he informed her quietly.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

A hand reached out, seemingly disembodied in black space, and she felt the immediate lift of the small weight at her neck.

“Do you ... still believe .. in what it stands for?”

Her answer is the same as before, the same empty mantra. “I-I don’t know, Noa.”

A huff, a sigh. The weight on the back of the cord returned and he stepped back.

“Let them go,” Mae demanded, again.

He did not reply, not right away, but he did give her a long look. It was hard for her to discern in the dim dark, but it might be a soft rebuke. “I have to know … why they are … here.”

Mae’s mind shut down, because she wasn’t ready, or can’t tell him that. Her group of survivors had been expecting the Fort Wayne scouting party for months now. The underground bunker housing her people was the last of its kind for hundreds of miles. They had not come across any other intelligent humans in that time, so this must be the group they awaited. Mae was not an idiot; she had seen the sentry apes rifling through a small stockpile of guns on the ground when she was roughly manhandled to the ground.

She trusted Noa situationally, sure, but did she trust him with this?

There might have been a flash of hurt on his face but the dim interior concealed it well. “They belong with me,” is all she can muster.

“Tell the truth,” he parried back. There was a frustrated edge to his voice, nearly a growl.

“I am telling the truth,” she quipped stubbornly.

“Mae,” he refuted quietly, moving so fast that he is suddenly in her space again, too much and too soon. She gasped, caught off guard. His fingers found Raka’s necklace again, still around her neck. He was staring hard at it.

“Tell … me.”

Her tongue is nothing but a slug in her mouth, unable to form words. Noa had never been this close before, taking up her space, her attention, her very being. Caught between one moment and the next, she shook her head in utter disbelief. She could see his features more clearly, the craggy brow, the dark-light eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth beneath an inhuman nose. For a second, he gripped the pendant around her neck tightly, as if he wanted to hold it for some length of time, and then released it yet again to step past her.

Their shoulders brushed, and Mae forgot to breathe.

His voice carried over from somewhere behind her, close to the entrance. “If you will … not speak …  they will.” A rustle of fabric against fur, and he is gone.

Within the crude tower, Mae lets out the breath she held in a slow whoosh.

Noa.

[mango-parfait]

10 Years

Part 1/?

Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x Lyusya 'Lou' Melnikova (OC)

Warnings: MDNI 18+, strong language, canon typical violence, war related topics, mentions/descriptiond of a miscarriage, implied trauma, hunting of an animal.

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: Just a bunch of drabbles I've written of Keegan and Lou with the intention of exploring their relationship during the years right after ODIN, to the current events in Cod Ghosts. I thought that they deserved a little bit of spotlight instead of gathering dust as unfinished drabbles. The years will not be in order unless I ever decide to continue the series. Thank you to @moosch, (And a few other mutuals) for encouraging me to post this because I'm way too scared to do it ;;u;; And also thank you for encouraging and enabling my russian literature brainrot that has influenced my writing style <3

Chapter summary: Lou goes out hunting beyond the walls of Fort Santa Monica. Her mind racing and muscles tensed and tight - Keegan had called her a liability, looking at her with a look she could only describe as contempt. Her mind wanders, memories comes back. Keegan comes looking for her to bring her home.

Year two, 2018, Fall

Leaves crunch under her boots- a sound filled with the childhood joy of running and leaping into gathered leaf piles in the backyard of her home, now just a thrum in Lou’s mind. Instead of the passing of a season, it’s a bone cracking under her weight. Orange hues of the trees and foliage- a reminder of lasers coming down from the sky, it’s still hard to forget the sound the ground made when it cracked open, and the screams of the people around her. 

"Eyes on the ground, Lyuda. Look for movement in the leaves, dips in the soil. Nature tells you everything you need to know." Her father’s voice rings in her ears. Rough and scratchy, an indication of one cigar too many. Back then, she'd do anything to avoid going into his study every Saturday morning because of the smoke and stench that clouded every inch of nose - but now, she'd give anything to see him again.

She walks on, each step a tense moment- her eyes darting around the ground. Tracking for games, tracking for Federation movement, it was the same. Maybe there’s game out here in the safe zones - a deer maybe, or a squirrel, or a rabbit. Maybe she’ll get a rabbit or two and bring it back to the guys at base, Merrick would be happy, so will Ajax, Torch, Kick and- 

Her chest surges in anger and bile rises in her throat. She swallows it down and presses her rifle closer to her body.

Keegan.

"Civvie like you shouldn’t be here, could’ve left with the trucks to the camps and yet you chose to stay. Dumb move, rookie."

His voice, low and serious- as it always was, rings out in the silence of the barracks hall. Cerulean eyes burning into hers as he folds his arms across his chest, gazing down at her with a dissatisfied look- or perhaps disgust, she cannot remember. 

"Elias thought he was doing you a service, taking you in and then throwing your ass at me to babysit. You’re not Ghost material, you’re a liability, should’ve left when you could."

No, her mind is wandering. He didn’t say all that- he wouldn’t.

"You’re a liability, not a Ghost."

That was all.

Reaching a small stream, she kneels down to brush her fingers along the dirt. A dip. A tiny indent in the soil, a rabbit maybe- It made sense for animals to gather near a stream for a quick drink.

She crumbles some of her biscuit rations onto the dirt and puts a good amount of distance from the stream to hide behind some boulders.

She waits, her mind starts to wander.

Anya, her baby sister- only a teenager when Lou left Russia to study in America. She promised that she would be home for New Year last year. Now she’ll never see her again. Was her hair still as golden as the wheat fields and eyes as brown as wet soil? Whatever she’s doing now, hopefully she's happy doing it. 

Time passes as Lou sits quietly in her hiding spot, eyes scanning the stream to see whether any animals have taken the bait. A rabbit appears and she readies her rifle the way her father had taught her as a young girl.

But she doesn’t listen to her father's words this time- it’s the Ghost Sergeant's. The anger surge in her chest once more at the thought of him. 

"You’re a liability."

Oh, she should’ve socked him in the jaw for calling her that.

The Sergeant knew how to get under her skin, spot her weaknesses and make her correct it immediately, his gaze always hard, sometimes even bored- either way, it's hard to read his expressions sometimes. He was strict and had taught her how to fire a rifle more efficiently, tackle long distances, control her breathing, to kill quickly, to survive one more day- one more op.

To survive.

To fight.

To live.

"Tuck your elbows in. Hips tight. Shoulders don’t pass your heels. Stock against your shoulder. Again. Do it again. One more time. Nice shot. Good job. Not bad."

Four months as his mentee. ‘Rookie’- he called her, part of the team and not yet part of it. The name had stuck and everyone started calling her that. It had even gotten to Elias, his hard face blurting out said nickname in a mission debrief. She hated it. 

A bullet fired from her rifle- the rabbit falls. Perhaps this will do for now, Lou can clean the carcasses and then bring them back to the butcher’s for processing and get meat jerky out of them. More meat in her ration packs and something she can share with the guys. Picking up the carcass and clearing it out right by the stream, her focus remained sharp as the carving knife in her hands twists and cuts its way through the tendons of the rabbit- stripping it of its skin.

Keegan had asked her once whether she had any knowledge of wildlife during a training hike after she had pointed out bare patches of grass in a passing field, saying that it was caused by one too many deers going through the same route over and over again. 

"No, sir. I just read it in a book once."

She wasn’t really sure why she lied to him.

Dunking the rabbit into the water and letting the water carry its blood along its streams, she keeps the image of the sergeant’s face in her thoughts. The day he called her a liability, his brows were furrowed a little more than usual, the frown was obvious even with the knit layer of his skull mask. The op wasn’t a tough one- if it could’ve been considered an op, just some quick scouting trip to a mall with minimal Federation patrols that they avoided easily. Afterwards, it was just a matter of setting up a vantage point, collect intel for Command, pack up and head home. It was easy, even for a rookie like her.

But she couldn’t recall what she had done wrong to make him call her a liability- maybe she adjusted the scope on her rifle incorrectly, maybe she had worn her shirt inside out. Or maybe he just felt like saying what he always thought. Either way, Lou couldn’t deny the emptiness in her chest when he said it to her face getting back to Fort Santa Monica, his eyes burning down at her as he folded his arms.

All she could do was just stare up at him with confused hurt. 

She impatiently digs the knife into the carcass, incision ragged and forced to get its guts out.

Her father’s voice rings in her head once more. "Be careful, daughter. Nice and easy- like painting a brush or like when you’re helping mother sew." She ignores him again.

The way she twisted the knife felt like the first person she had killed. A federation soldier- most probably a recruit sent out to scout the area where the hospital was. She would’ve let him pass if he didn’t choose to turn the corner that led to the room where she was hiding with a couple of the kids.

A stab into the neck with a crooked screwdriver, she held onto him even when her hands were slick and slippery with his blood. Only letting go when his body went limp in her arms.

A liability. Liability. Might as well make it a cuss word at this point, judging from how much it pissed her off. How can she be a liability when she went through basic training, did so well at long distance shooting that Elias had a long talk with about joining the Task Force?

Why a liability when she went through another month of training under Elias just so that he could start her way up to becoming part of the Ghost team?

Why a liability when she had suffered what she had suffered in No Man’s Land for four months when ODIN’s missiles scorched and cracked land for miles?

Why a fucking liability when she has fought, killed, starved and scavenged for those four months?

Dipping the carcass into the stream once more, Lou watches the blood staining the water and lets itself be led away by the current. The sight reminds her of sooty tiled floors of the bathroom in the ruined hospital, her lower half soaked in the blood that pooled beneath her. A miscarriage- that was what the medical staff told her. They said that it wasn’t her fault, supplies were running out, and with Federation soldiers constantly swarming around the hospital- it made it hard to scavenge from the other buildings in the vicinity.

The memories of deep dark blood made her nauseous and Lyusya takes in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The baby she had lost, Constantine for a boy and Anya for a girl.

The mother she could’ve been. Now she’ll never get her chance.

So why would Keegan call her a liability when she had suffered what she suffered. What was all the pain, tears and blood for then? If she had gone through all of that just to be tossed into civilian camps and coaxed to live like normal then all that she had gone through in No Man’s Land would’ve been for nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Memories return. The piercing pain on the day it happened was like a million daggers to her stomach. The pitiful stares of the women as they tried to help her. Tried to. There was nothing much they could do.

Dirty bathtub. Tap not working. Ash and soot in the air. Blood flowing from between her legs. Gunfire in the distance. Her mother's face comes into view. She'd be there to wipe her tears and clean the blood off her.

“Rookie.”

Her thoughts come to a complete silence. The voice- so familiar. So hated.

Keegan.

She turns to look over her shoulder, unable to mask the scowl on her face.

He’s unmasked this time, dark stubble all throughout the jaw and around the lips. The blues of his eyes dimmed significantly without all the black fabric covering his entire body she sees him in so often. The bane of her existence fully clad in issued USMC shirt and pants with his dog tags hanging off a beaded chain around his neck.

Keegan wasn’t smiling, but she could detect the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes. Oh, how she must look to him right now- the woman that attacked him in No Man’s Land, his rookie- cleaning game by the stream on an autumn morning just outside base.

“Knew you were lying to me about not knowing how to hunt.” Keegan takes a few steps forward and tilts his weight ever so slightly to loom over Lou to see what she was doing- it took everything in her not to bristle at his intrusion, he was not a welcomed sight at the moment.

“Ajax said you were outside for a walk. Never heard of someone going for a walk with a pocketful of knives.”

She turns away from him and lowers her gaze back to the task at hand and gets to cleaning the second carcass. “Just needed to clear my head, sir.”

“To hunt?”

“I was hungry.”

“That you have to hunt?” He takes another step closer and kneels beside her to watch. If he couldn’t sense her irritation growing just by being near her, then it’s clear that he’s deliberately ignoring it. “Could eat the chow back at base.”

“No.”

“No?”

“The rations are not sustainable, sir.” She hurriedly follows up, dumping out some bullshit excuse.

Keegan snorts and then stays silent. Watching her cut the guts out of the rabbit carcass with such practice and precise movements as if she had done this a million times. When he guessed that Lyusya knew how to hunt, he pictured coffee by the campfire, holding daddy’s guns and cheering him on- something he’d see in a movie.

How much did he know about the woman that he saved from No Man’s Land? Not much, that’s for sure. Something’s off about her today- he already knew why.

A gust of wind passes and Lou could smell the sea on the man. She knew he’d gone for a naval op with Merrick to do some scouting on a Federation submarine last night- they’d left out the details because she was a ‘rookie’. A full night of swimming, scouting and fighting. What the hell is he doing here then?

“You could have just asked to use the shooting range for a bit, clear your head that way.” 

“Out here is better..” She plucks the carcasses out of the stream. “Go back to base without me, sir. I won’t be long.” 

He stands up with a grunt and places his hands on his hips, eyes scanning their surroundings. The safe zones outside the Fort were as safe as they could be - if the Federation keeps to their word. As nice as this patch of grassland was, it wasn’t as safe as his rookie would like to think.

“Like hell you are.” He tells her with a sigh, frown forming on his lips- she’s so fucking stubborn sometimes. “You’re lucky enough to catch game out here, but it’s gonna run out the longer you sit on your ass. Time to go.”

Lou doesn’t look his way- the scowl on her face is better hidden from his eyes as she works on wrapping old newspaper around the carcasses and places the bundles in a canvas bag.

And to be honest? She doesn’t want to go back anytime soon. Her heart aches to wander around the open fields a little bit more. To be able to feel like a girl once more, not the broken woman she was after ODIN, and certainly not the woman that’s training as a recon sniper, fighting to survive one more day and being trained by the blue eyed son of a bitch that called her a liability.

Fuck, she’s so pissed about that and him being here right now isn’t making it easier to not snap. 

“Just leave me alone.” She stands up and sweeps dirt off the knees of her pants. “Why do you care? I'll be back in an hour.”

He huffs and folds his arms, eyes glaze around their surroundings once more. “You're not making this easy.”

“A liability never does, sir.”

His eyes narrow at her, only to be received by defiance. But Keegan's eyes didn't hold any malice just irritation and maybe a tinge of confusion. He remembers what he said to her after their mission- the hurt on her face was enough to be seared into his memory.

A year since ODIN, a year of constant fighting. This war was expensive, tiring and a drain on resources. Keegan was tired- he’s been tired since Sand Viper. If it weren’t for the loyalty for his fellow marines and the entire Ghost Team, he would’ve packed up long ago. Move to the property in Missouri that’s been on his mind, and maybe even raise some chickens.  

But here is his little rookie, the woman who spent her childhood in drama school reciting Shakespeare and reading Classics like drinking water, a woman who could- with every chance she got, choose to leave when she could. But she didn’t. Elias told her that she'd make a recon sniper, and like a little puppy, she lapped up the compliment like canned wet food.

Keegan had never meant to hurt her the way he did. She could’ve lived a normal life again and yet- she’s here. 

His rookie.

One can’t help but shoulder the responsibility.

“Whatever you are, it's time to go back to base.” He turns to walk back in the direction of the fort, its walls safely within sight.

Lou was reluctant. She could follow- then again, she could turn in the other direction and walk further into the treeline. But when Keegan turns - she freezes, her mind fights to stay. 

“Come on, rookie.” He says to her, voice unexpectedly softer. “I'm not leaving you behind.”

He doesn't walk until she does. A couple of steps in his direction, a tentative gaze in his direction- he continues down the trail back to the fort with her in silence.

-End-

[crystalbeetle888]

Animal Instinct Pt.2

Charles X reader X Erik In the wake of losing a friend, you seek out revenge on Sebastian Shaw. However, you are not the only one after him, as a team of meddling mutants try to convince you to join forces. Will you give in to these persuasive outcasts, and join their family? or do it alone as you always have?

Master List Pt.1 - Pt.2 - Pt.3

Word Count: 2,697

Content: Violence, swearing, sexual references, possible bigotry it’s the 60s, slow burn, some angst, eventual happy ending, maybe smut?

The blinding morning light cracks through the curtains and into your eyes, waking you from your restless slumber. You moan in pain as you stretch from your huddled position on the floor. Your body is sore and your head aches as you prop yourself against the door. You feel hollow as you stare down at your crusted, red stained hands, your breath shaky as you remember the events from last night. The way Stars eyes widened in fright once she realized what had happened, the choking gasping noise she made as you held her, trying to keep her alive, the metallic stench that stuck to you. That fucking stench. You quickly rise to your feet, nausea washing over you as you stumble into the bathroom. Stripping off your clothes you quickly hop into the shower, not bothering to wait for it to warm up, and begin to scrub at the blood staining your arms. You slather the soap across your entire body before allowing yourself to breathe. You watch as the red water runs across your body and down the drain. You begin to cry, actually, sob for the first time in a long time. You crouch down in the shower allowing the hot water to run off, staying like that until the water runs cold.

Exhausted, you hop out and throw on some raggedy ass clothes. Deciding you needed to fetch some food, you reluctantly leave your room and walk across the parking lot to ‘Jacks’ Cafe and Diner’, one of the shadiest places you’ve ever eaten at. It wasn’t uncommon for degenerate men to stay the night at the motel with an escort, and buy breakfast at the diner the next day. Great business model given that their both owned by the same sleazy-bag slumlord. Sitting down at a booth you brush a few crumbs off your table as a rough looking woman walks over “What'cha want?” she asks “I’ll get a B&E sandwich and a water" She hums “Oh, and send out Ricky, I need to talk to him” She looks you up and down before rolling her eyes.

Ricky watches all of the security cameras at the cage fights, he sees all and knows everything about everyone. He has an acute psychic power, allowing him to see insights into people's memory when viewing them. ‘Nosey fucking bastard’ you think to yourself. The door to the kitchen swings open and a tall African man walks out “Aye beasty, my favourite girl! What are you doing here?” He asks, strutting over. His optimism falters for a moment, obviously having seen last night's memory, “Oh Animal, I’m so sorry, I know she was a good friend” he mutters in solace, sitting down across from you. 

You choose to ignore him. "I need to call in a favour” he clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“You will owe me one” he says causing you to scoff “I set you up with that pretty singer girl”

He hums in thought “Hmm I suppose you did aye, alright, what do you need?” You roll your eyes at his antics.

“I need you to look at someone from last night's match and tell me all you know,” you whisper. He nods “Alright, I can do that later tonight” “I need you to do it now Ricky” he huffs before taking his apron off “You’re a persistent lady” he says defeatedly, knowing that there was no point in arguing with you. 

The two of you travel back to the supposably abandoned building, entering through the main door “I thought this was all under construction?” you ask, “Nah, backstage just doesn't like sharing with anyone from the ring” Ricky smiles back at you cheekily. You huff, walking through the building and into a small room. Inside is a couch across from a large box TV and VCR setup. “Alright, what do you want to see?” He says crouching down in front of the machine. “There was a white man in the east-wing corridor directly after my fight, I want you to look at him” He nods, turning everything on and rewinding the video footage. “The top right is what you want” He mutters in focus. You lean forward, “There, that’s him” you point at the screen.

Ricky stares at him before humming in thought “What do you see?” You whisper. He turns to you hesitantly, “Ani, nothing you do to this fella will bring her back”, you glare at him “He deserves to die”, you counter back through gritted teeth. Ricky nods, taking a deep breath in and out “He’s going to be in Las Vegas, at the Atomic Hellfire Club in two days time. He’s meeting with someone, someone in government I think” He furrows his brows “I can’t get much more, it’s too garbled”

You stand “Thank you Ricky” you say before turning to leave “Animal, he has a telepath, be careful” You nod at him as you walk away. 

The evening begins to cool as you make your way through the airport. You only had one bag of belongings in total. You didn’t like to be held down by material belongings, just a few pictures of the circus and some locks of hair from loved ones’ who’ve passed. You didn't know why you kept their hair. You suppose it’s so you can continue to smell them and be reminded of home. Home was always more about the people than the place for you, especially after your mother died. Shaking off your thoughts, you board the plane and sit down. Plucking out a cigarette to calm your nerves, you settle into your seat, ‘This is gonna be a long flight’ You think, shifting in discomfort.

After what seems like eternity, and an entire packet of cigarettes, the plane finally lands with a harsh bump. The jostling causes you to grip the armrests of your seat “Oh god” you whisper to yourself. You didn’t like flying. I mean you did, just not in a plane. Out of the plane and through the airport, you hail down a taxi “Take me to the Atomic Club” the cab driver nods, peeling away from the curb. You also didn’t like car rides. Too many ways to be in an accident. 

The drive isn’t long, but it is overstimulating. Flashing neon lights, crowds stumbling across every inch of sidewalk, horns honking, the stench of alcohol and greasy food. “What and awful fucking place” You mutter to yourself. “Are you here for business?” the cabbie asks. “Of sorts” You reply. The bumper to bumper traffic slows to a stop “I’d be easier if you hopped out now ma’am, the club is just up the street over there” he says pointing out the window. “Alright, here” You hand him some money before grabbing your suitcase and hopping out. The streets are loud, people bumping into one another as you weave through the crowds. Making your way up the street you stand outside the Atomic Club. ‘Gentlemen’ and scantily clad women walking in and out of the establishment. Looking around you spot a motel just up the street, ‘Perfect’ you think. Entering the building an older woman looks up from her newspaper at the front desk. “Just you?”, “Yeah, three nights” She passes you a key as you pass her the money. Trotting up to the fifth floor you find your room and enter. It was small, one window overlooking the rank-ass streets and the Atomic Club, a double bed, and a small bathroom. “Home sweet home” you remark before throwing your stuff on the floor and jumping into bed, ready to sleep off the jetlag. Snuggling in, you quickly drift off to sleep.

The following day is spent perched on the window seal, waiting for an opening. When night finally falls you spot your opportunity, a limo filled with lingerie clad women. Quickly stripping down you throw on your one set of black lace underwear and heels, and book it out of there. As you trot down the street you shift your form, growing your hair longer and blonde, your waist more snatched, your bust bustier, your birthmark smoothed away, and a completely new face, just in case. ‘Got be palatable to the males’ you think slightly annoyed.

Joining the group of women, as they strut through the entrance and into the foyer. A blonde lady dressed in white invites us in. The room is tall and crowded, loud music mixes with the men's chattering and whistling. Walking down the stairs you mingle with the crowd, sauntering around them as you try to pick up a scent, and as they try to gain your attention. Star always told you to pick a random object in the distance to focus on so it seemed like you were going somewhere important. After some sniffing around you pick up Shaw's scent, following it into an empty curtained booth. You sniff around the seats, then the table, the centerpiece smelling strongly of many different hands. Pressing down on it, the room rotates, opening up into a large empty office. Your ears grow and prick, searching for the slightest of sounds. A muffled conversation can be heard behind the far bookcase covered wall. Sneaking over, you grow your ear to that of a bat and press it to the wall, closing your eyes you focus. The noise forms an image in your head. A fire crackling in the center of the room and gentle music overwhelm the other sounds, ‘Focus Animal’.

“We’ve had this conversation. You put our nukes in Turkey or anywhere that close to Russia, and you’re looking at war. Nuclear war” a man sitting across from Shaw speaks. The woman from earlier sits next to him and an unknown man sits at the bar in the corner. ‘This must be that government person’ you think. Stripping down naked you morph your skin into cuttlefish skin, camouflaging yourself with the surroundings wallpaper ‘There’s only one way in, all I have to do is wait’ you think to yourself. You’re thought is quickly interrupted by a loud bang on the wall, opening the secret door ‘Never-fucking-mind then’. 

You silently slip through the gap and step around the older man laying disheveled on the floor. You hold your breath and still your thoughts. Shaw, the blonde woman, and the random guy approach, standing over him. Sneaking around the group you crouch to the ground ‘He’s right fucking there’ you think desperately.

As Shaw chatters aimlessly the woman next to him transforms into glass. ‘It’s now or never’ you think. Whilst he’s distracted explaining some useless crap you pounce on him, jumping on his back and throwing him to the ground. You bite into Shaw's neck with your sharp feline-like teeth and pull back, ripping the chuck of meat from him before spitting it out, and going in for another bite. Before you can however, a strong force of wind throws you into the wall, deactivating your camouflage and new form. The, apparently diamond, woman whistles loudly, the noise echoing throughout the room. Azazel, the devil man from before, appears “Get rid of her!” Shaw splutters to him, clutching his throat. Lunging at him again, you're abruptly grabbed and teleported high above a lake. You fall gracelessly. Hitting the freezing water hard, you let out an involuntary gasp as you go under. Kicking to the surface you cough and splutter. “FUCK!” you scream into the night. “That fucker! That stupid ugly motherfucker!” you cry out to no one, completely defeated.

After swimming back to shore, you proceed to spend the rest of the night walking back to your motel, the front desk lady not sparing you a second glance as you walk in completely soaked and naked. Dragging yourself back to your room, you throw yourself onto the bed, too tired to cry, you fall asleep as the sun just begins to come up.

Meanwhile, back at the Atomic Club, Moira McTaggert just witnessed the attempted assassination of the mysterious Sebastian Shaw, by an even more mysterious shapeshifting woman. She managed to accidentally walk in on this woman as she was undressing and camouflaging into the wall. Moira stays hidden behind the bookcase, listening into the rest of their conversation as Colonel Hendry is teleported off by this Azazel man. She quickly backs away from the door and slides back into the booth before booking it out of there. Slipping into her colleague's car, she calls her superior McCone, attempting to explain the situation. “Listen to me, I suggest that you stop wasting my time.” He pauses “I got bigger things to deal with right now, MacTaggert” He hangs up abruptly before she can get a word in “Sir, I…” She huffs in frustration. “Have you lost your mind? So now what?” Her colleague asks. “We find an expert on genetic mutation” She answers. 

After pulling some resources MacTaggert finally finds someone, Charles Fransis Xavier, a soon to be Professor of Genetics, is giving his presentation tomorrow evening. ‘This is him’ she thinks to herself.

The trip to London is long, but nothing she hasn’t done before. She gets to Oxford University early, allowing herself time to scope out the scene before going inside and taking a seat. After the presentation, Moira waits outside for Professor Xavier to leave, the light rain bounces off her umbrella creating a relaxing tapping noise. Finally, the Professor leaves the building, squished up next to a pretty woman as they share an umbrella.

“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to be called a professor until you actually have a teaching position” he says to the woman as they pass by Moira. “I know, but it suits you,” She replies. “Don’t say that. Do say, ‘Let’s go have a drink ", “Let’s go have a drink”, “Wonderful”, she eavesdrops on their banter.

Moira follows them to a local pub where Charles and the woman friend begin to drink, quite enthusiastically actually. Charles begins chugging from an incredibly long glass, a chanting crowd forming around him. They erupt in cheers as he finishes. Moira slips through the crowd as they begin to disperse, intercepting Charles as he attempts to reach the bar. 

“Congratulations, Professor” she shakes his hand firmly, “Thank you very much. It’s much harder than it looks, actually” he says smugly.

“No, on your presentation.” She corrects him. “You were at my presentation? How nice of you. Thank you very much” he drunkenly chatters, obviously quite chuffed with himself.

“Moira MacTaggert.”, “Charles Xavier”, “Do you have a minute?” She asks. He smiles and brushes her hair gently back “For a pretty little being with a mutated MCR1 gene? I have five” 

“I say MCR1, you would say auburn hair” he throws his arm over her shoulder and leads them to a table. “It’s a mutation. It’s a very groovy mutation. Mutation, right, took us from single-celled organisms to the dominant form…” He slightly slurs his words as he talks at her. Moira rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed “You know what? This routine may go over great with the co-eds, but I’m here on business” she states firmly. He looks at her confused, “I really need your help” she reiterates. He nods his head gently “Alright” he huffs, trying to sober up enough for a serious conversation.

“The kind of mutations that you were talking about in your thesis. I need to know if they may have already happened.” Charles sits up straighter in attention, “In people alive today” she continues. He slips his hand up to his temple and focuses in on Moiras’ memories. Images enter his mind. Images of Shaw talking to Colonel Hendry, the diamond woman, the naked woman becoming camouflage, and later shapeshifting as she attacks Shaw. He’s never seen someone with such an interesting skill set before. Except for Raven of course, but that was different. Charles doesn’t even hear Moira as she continues to talk.

“Something tells me you already know the answer to your question” He says leaning in “This is very important to me, and if I can help you, I will do my utmost”. She nods gratefully “Thank you”

[the-likesofus]

color me in, make me your own

9-1-1 on Fox | buddie | 1k words | established relationship, marriage proposal, sidewalk chalks

I have spent all day feeling like I wanna vibrate out of my skin so I wrote this as a distraction. Have some soft boys in love xx

Read on AO3

The chalks were for Chris. Buck had brought them online and had them sent to Eddie’s house while they were in isolation. He had thought they might be a fun way for Chris to keep himself occupied while he was stuck at home and couldn’t go to school or hang out with any of his friends. Eddie and Buck had sat squished in next to each other on the couch watching Chris open the packet via video call and the bright grin Chris had flashed them as he excitedly babbled about all the cool things he was going to draw had been enough to ease the desperate ache in Eddie’s chest, if only briefly.

Post pandemic the chalks had been lost to the back of the cupboard as trips to the park and the zoo had taken priority. This week though, Chris has been stuck at home with the chickenpox and the chalks have served as a great distraction from the near-constant itching.

Eddie has always hated any time he and Buck end up on different shifts, especially since they started dating, but he has to admit it has worked in their favor in this case. Knowing that Buck can be at home with Chris has certainly eased Eddie’s conscience and the near-constant updates and photos Buck has been sending while Eddie he is at the firehouse have eased the pang of being away from his partner and his sick kid.

He knew to expect the chalks before he even left the station, having seen them featured in most of the pictures from that afternoon but finding Buck sat out on the footpath by himself is a surprise.

“Hey!” Buck greets him as Eddie gets out of his truck. “Chris is inside taking a nap, he finally wore himself out.”

Eddie drops his bag on the lawn and crouches to kiss Buck hello. He hums against his lips, savoring the sweet taste of his boyfriend soaked in the late afternoon sunshine.

“Rough shift?” Buck asks as Eddie finds a blank spot on the pavement to sit nearby without smearing the carefully drawn images that decorate the footpath.

“It wasn’t that bad. Mostly run-of-the-mill calls.” Eddie shrugs and reaches out a hand. Buck meets him in the middle, passing him one of the pieces of orange chalk and Eddie starts absentmindedly doodling small shapes next to his feet. “Oh, but we did have one cat-up-a-tree call, and when we go there the caller literally had about thirty or forty cats roaming around.”

“Oh, Bobby would have had a field day.” Buck laughs.

“Yeah, the place stank. Animal control had to be called. Chim had kittens stuffed into every pocket of his turnout.”

Buck passes Eddie a green chalk while he asks for the orange one in exchange. Eddie passes it to him and shuffles around to find another patch of empty concrete. The movement puts his back to Buck but he leans against his side and kisses his shoulder briefly before turning back to his work in progress.

They work in comfortable quiet for a while before Buck pipes up again and Eddie can almost guess what he’s about to ask before he even says it.

“Do you know which shelter they took them all to?” Bingo.

“No, Buck. We are not getting another cat.”

Buck turns around to grin at him in that cheeky way of his that’s one step away from puppy eyes and begging. “You said that last time.”

Eddie sighs and waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, well. Cosmo needed a friend and Hulk was so small, I couldn’t just leave him at the shelter.”

“You mean you couldn’t say no to Chris?”

“Yeah, well you taught him that face and you know I can't say no to it. You can’t either.” Eddie sighs, His small collection of stick figures and lopsided cartoon animals look like a kindergartener drew them next to Christopher’s many detailed pieces. He adds his chalk back to Buck’s pile, stands, and brushes his palms off on his work pants, leaving smears across the thighs. “Speaking of, he’ll be awake and hungry soon so I’ll go check on him.”

He presses a kiss to the soft curls at the crown of Buck’s head—loose and gel-free, just how Eddie prefers them—and turns towards their front door only to be stopped in his tracks by the brightly colored rainbow lettering that has appeared in front of Buck, each letter carefully drawn in clear broad strokes.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Below is an image depicting three figures holding hands and two pointy-eared and long-tailed blobs that could only be Cosmo and Hulk. It is just as carefully and lovingly drawn as the words above and Eddie cannot even begin to describe the warm feeling that is bubbling up inside him.

“Ah, Christopher actually drew the picture. He said he wanted to help and that I would get it wrong.” Buck ducks his head bashfully while Eddie’s heart feels like it's about to leap out of his chest.

“Buck.”

“I have a ring,” Buck adds quickly, glancing up at Eddie’s, no-doubt, stricken face. “I mean, not on me, it's inside but–”

Eddie doesn’t give him a chance to finish as he pushes Buck back against the footpath—chalk dust be damned—and seals his mouth against Buck’s firmly. He kisses him deeply and brushes his hands up Buck’s sides to fist into his t-shirt and when he pulls away he leans their foreheads together he breathes heavily, watching the way Buck’s eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones which are stained with a vibrant pink that matches the smear of chalk adorning his chin.

“Yes.” Eddie breathes out between planting a kiss to one of Buck’s cheeks and then the next. “Yes.”

Buck grins up at him, all teeth and pure joy and then they’re both laughing, and Eddie sinks down to wrap his arms around Buck’s shoulders and bury his face in his neck as he breathes him in, content to ignore nosey neighbors and passing cars as they lay plastered together on their front walk-up. Buck’s arms wrap tightly around his back and one hand finds its way into Eddie’s hair, pressing his face closer as Buck drops a kiss to the side of his head and whispers in his ear. “I love you.”

Eddie lets out a wet chuckle and mouths at Buck’s throat. “I love you too. I’m gonna marry the hell out of you.”

Buck laughs, so deep it rumbles through Eddie’s chest where they are pressed together and he cannot help but squeeze him tighter and laugh with him.

[lavender-laney]

choking on sea salt, chapter three

chapter 1, chapter 2 part one, chapter 2 part two, chapter 3

Sadie awakens to the sound of creaking wood and footsteps. ­Her eyes flick open, and she’s met with the very first rays of sunlight streaming through the broken windows and illuminating the dust that endlessly fills the air of this house.

“You awake?” a gruff voice asks, and Sadie startles, the sun’s light suddenly blocked by the stocky man peering down at her, wisps of hair falling over his bloodshot eyes, coveralls hanging off his starved body. Nikolai, she remembers. He’s a rough-looking man, with a crooked jaw framed by thin white hairs that could, in some ways, be considered a beard. His mouth seems to perpetually hang open a bit, revealing gaps in his yellowed teeth.

Sadie throws the blanket to the side, finding the yarn has become even further unwound during the night, and sits up, gingerly moving away from where the man looms over her form. She stands, brushing the floor’s dust from her clothes.

“Yes, yes,” she stutters, wondering how long he’d stood there before she’d woke up. “I’m awake.”

He stares at her for a moment longer before nodding absently. Turning away, the man begins to make his way towards the door, lumbering footsteps leaving imprints in the dusty floorboards. Still shaking off the last dredges of sleep, Sadie follows, and as they step outside she realizes the sun has only just begun to peek its way over the horizon. The moon still overlooks the rolling fields, and Sadie is reminded of summers spent at her grandparents’ farm, of her grandfather shaking her awake at dawn’s first light, of shoving on her grandmother’s old work boots and mucking her way through the barns in shoes a few sizes too large.

The tense silence between Sadie and Nikolai doesn’t have nearly the same peaceful feelings as mornings spent on her grandparents’ farm, however. Whereas Sadie would expect birdsong or the last dawdling crickets from the previous evening, instead the air is filled only by the whistling of the breeze and the scuff of dirt under the pair’s shoes. The sheep pasture is along the dirt road, within the fence that Sadie recalls seeing as Joseph led her into town the night prior.

Nikolai pulls open the gate, and Sadie gets a closer look at the barn that houses the animals and the fence that surrounds the pasture.

The barn is in similar disrepair as the house Sadie spent the night in, though attempts to patch holes in the roof or reinforce broken fences have clearly been made. As they pass through the outermost fence, iron rods have been used to keep the wood standing where it has been weathered. Sadie peers closer and realizes that the fence has not only been aged by the elements but has also splintered outwards at the height of Sadie’s hip in many places. Her steps slow where she follows Nikolai and she leans closer to the wood. Clumps of wool catch in the damaged posts, shadowed by dark stains that Sadie quickly realizes is blood spattered around the impact points. An unnerved feeling abruptly fills her chest.

“Let’s go,” Nikolai calls, standing at the entrance of the barn, looking back at Sadie with a stern expression and shadowed eyes.

With one last glance at the fence, Sadie rushes over, fighting to avoid the man’s searching gaze. He scoffs, leading her further into the barn. The inside is in worse shape than the exterior, worsened by the smell of unclean wool, feces, and mildew. Sadie is sure the horror must show on her face and feels thankful Nikolai has not turned to look back at her, instead bending down with a pained breath to gather a tin bucket in his frail grip. He turns back to her.

“While I head over to the well, go ‘round letting them outta their pens,” Nikolai says, voice gruff. “Now I need you to listen close to this part,” his tone gains a stern quality, and Sadie feels the nerves in her chest tighten. “Do not give any of these animals an opportunity to get outta that fence out there. They like to … wander, you could say, and then I’ll have to come out and round ‘em back up because you weren’t paying attention. So watch what you’re doin’. These creatures are smarter than you’d think.” He pauses, eyes searching her face. “Do you hear me?’

Sadie nods, eyes wide. “Of course, yes. I understand,” she responds.

Nikolai’s eyes stay trained on hers for a long moment before he huffs, heading back out the barn door, bucket held against his hip. “I’ll be back.”

Sadie nods again, waiting until the man has started to make his way out of the fenced area and down the hill towards town. She grimaces. If he has to walk that far to collect water, no wonder his joints ache, she thinks. She’s certainly not complaining, however, and instead takes the opportunity to survey the barn. As she’d noticed before, it’s clearly an old building, and the closer she looks, the more unstable it appears. She risks a glance at the roof above her, and quickly looks away, choosing not to think about the decaying wood above her head. As she steps further into the barn, the sheep pens become more visible. They’re simple, fenced areas bordered by planks of wood. Each one holds a sheep or two, some with fragile-looking young lambs. Many of them, though, are empty, and Sadie is reminded of Mary’s words the night prior.

“We eat what meat is available to us,” she’d said, all shifty eyes and nerves.

Sadie steps up to the low door of one pen, studying the sheep and lamb that rest together within. They lie together, the lamb leaned against its mother’s stomach, but in perhaps the most … detached manner that Sadie has ever witnessed an animal behave. Although they huddle together for warmth, the animals appear as though they’re hardly aware of one another’s presence. Their gazes are glazed and unfocused, legs sprawled out and ears limp against their skulls. Their bodies, especially the mother’s, are littered in bald patches and wounds. The mother has a large wound across her forehead, her wool stained brown with dried blood. Sadie thinks of the damage to the fence outside, the clumps of wool and crusted blood decorating the wood, and cringes at the implication. With their current disposition, she couldn’t imagine either of these animals ramming their bodies against the fence with enough desperation to harm themselves.

Trepidation worsened by this realization, Sadie lifts the latch to the door and pulls it open, and the creaking wood draws the animals’ attention. The sheep blinks, lifting her head, as if reconnecting to the world around her. She stands, clumsily and without care for her lamb, who is sent tumbling to the ground soundlessly. Sadie can’t help the gasp that escapes her mouth, but the sheep doesn’t seem to notice, simply stepping over her lamb and stumbling out of her pen and past Sadie, making her way out to the pasture. Sadie’s gaze follows her, but the sheep continues on her way without a glance back.

The shuffling of hay brings Sadie’s attention back to the lamb, who is attempting to right itself, weak legs shaking under the weight of its own malnourished body. Caught in a moment of morbid curiosity and a cautious desire to help, Sadie steps forward hands outstretched, but the lamb finally gains its balance, shoving past Sadie’s legs without a care. As it walks past, the matted wool on its backside becomes visible, and Sadie wonders just how long the two had laid there together, unmoving.

As the lamb follows its mother, Sadie sighs, attempting to shake away the goosebumps that have spread across her skin. She moves towards the next pen, and the lone sheep it holds. This one, a ram with cracked, blunt horns curled in a wicked shape around its ears, is in a similar state as the first two and makes its way out of the barn in the very same, unnerving manner. She makes her way down the rows, but the last pen draws her to a stop. It holds a young ram, a little too large to be a lamb, but too leggy and awkward to be considered an adult. Its horns are still small, and the tips are dull. It stands in the corner of its pen, facing the wall with a dogged focus. Its legs are racked with shivers, and Sadie wonders how long it has stood there, weakening its muscles to the point of tremors. As she stands there, wondering how to draw its attention to the open door, it leans its weight back on its hind legs, preparing itself, then rears forward with the full force of its body. Its horns meet the wall with a harsh thud as wood splinters,­and Sadie flinches, immediately stepping forward to grab at its wool the same way you would hold an unruly kitten’s scruff.

Only after she’s done it does she realize how risky of a move it was, how easily the animal could rear towards her to drive keratin and bone into her stomach or kick out with its hind legs. No matter how frail they may seem, a tired muscle won’t prevent a distinctly hoof-shaped imprint on Sadie’s midsection and worn-down stubs won’t prevent a bruised kidney.

Even as the ram remains still, seemingly unaware of Sadie’s grip on the back of its neck, she envisions what her grandfather would say about a mistake like this one. She remembers the first summer she’d stayed at their house, the first time she’d stepped foot into the barn holding rows of dairy cows --- distinctly in better shape than the one she stands in now, met with the excited calls of hungry cows rather than the eerie silence of ill sheep. Her grandfather had led her to one of the stalls, occupied by the oldest and most tame of his herd. He’d held Sadie’s hand as they stepped towards the animal that towered over Sadie’s young frame. As the cow leaned down to snuffle at Sadie’s hair, her grandfather told her in a steady voice all the ways in which a peaceful creature can be dangerous. How quickly a playful horse can buck its rider, how easily milking a cow can become a hoof to the stomach, how even the sweetest of roosters can dig its spur into soft skin at a too-fast movement.

Sadie releases her hold on the sheep’s skin, nudging its shoulder to turn towards the open door. It follows her touch mindlessly, and the first step it takes out of its hay-filled pen and onto the packed dirt of the barn’s floor seems to bring it to awareness just a bit, just enough to take its own unsteady steps towards the door, following the same path as the others.

Sadie watches for a long, tense moment, and begins to understand the glazed, dissociative look in the animals’ eyes, wondering if perhaps she should’ve stayed in Pruitt’s stuffy classroom listening to the overconfident chatter of Bradbury and his peers. With a thud that splits the heavy silence, the pen door swings closed before her. Sadie snaps back to reality. She shudders, both at what she had just witnessed, and at herself for feeling so affected by it. The seed of frustration that had welcomed itself into her chest last night grows, and she pushes the pen door back open and steps into the pen with a huff, determined to get something out of this strange morning.

The pen looks fairly normal, if a bit barren and dirty, but Sadie moves further in, peering at the wall the sheep had been so focused on. The wood is spattered with blood, dried and fresh, and has started to splinter in places. One such crack has formed a sizeable hole in the wood, about the size of Sadie’s fist, and she kneels down in the hay to peer through it, uncaring for the way its filth dampens her knees. Through the hole, the pasture outside is visible, and Sadie can see the flock of sheep making their way past the barn, towards the farthest fence. Past the farthest fence, the ocean is barely visible, the rolling waves audible if Sadie strains to hear them. Sadie wonders if the sheep simply wanted outside but feels there must be more to it. When she surveys the rest of the barn, she finds nothing more of substance, and resigns herself to the unfulfilled curiosity weighing on her.

“Alright,” she huffs to herself, voice breaking the heavy quiet of the barn. “Alright.”

As Sadie follows the flock’s path, she finds the animals gathered at the farthest fence. Some apathetically dip their heads to gather the yellowing grass of the pasture into their teeth, while the others simply … stare. Just as the last sheep was, they’ve planted their hooves in the dirt and watch the horizon, the ocean, like dogged sentries. Sadie steps up beside them to share the view. The sun has crept its way up past the horizon in the time Sadie spent inside the barn, though the sky is still dark with early morning. The ocean looks calm, waves rolling in and out slowly, meeting the sands of the beach gently. The picturesque sight is marred by the utilitarian iron fence that lines the grass just before the beach’s sands begin. It is tall, tall enough to withstand strong waves and winds. The base of the fence has been rusted by seawater and the sea salt encrusting it is visible even from a distance. Although it would certainly hinder a person from making their way to the water, it doesn’t appear impossible to bypass in any way. Based on Mary’s and Edith’s reactions last night, Sadie wonders if the fence is more symbolic than anything, a reminder of the fear of the ocean already held by the townsfolk.

As Sadie is studying one of the younger lambs, peering at the crooked position of its back leg and the grime encrusting its wool, she hears the outermost fence creak open and turns to see Nikolai carrying the bucket of water. At the same moment Sadie turns at the sound of the door, numerous sheep wheel around quickly, desperately, and force their way towards Nikolai, heavy step by stumbling step. One makes it quite close, too, as Sadie has already moved forward with a hand outstretched, prepared to grab it before it can bolt. Nikolai kicks out with a shout, nearly dropping the water bucket, and slams the gate closed. The sheep is unbothered by his reaction, and rushes forward anyway, slamming into the closed gate with the full weight of its body. It crumples into a heap, dazed by the impact, but its legs continue to kick, pushing at the dirt beneath it, mouth opening and closing without sound.

Sadie can only watch in horror, clenched hands still outstretched, even as the other sheep lose interest, rejoining their position against the far fence. Nikolai scoffs, stepping past the writhing animal to make his way toward the barn. Sadie looks between the man and the sheep, overwhelmed with a desire to move closer to the animal. Not to help, though, but to peer closer at its face, at the way its pupils roam, unseeing, and its mouth begins to foam with its desperation. She wishes she could pull out the notepad that sits in her pocket and record its behavior to study later.

“Are you comin’, or are you just gonna gawk at the damned thing?” Nikolai’s voice calls, and he sounds winded.

Sadie watches the sheep for a moment longer as it begins to lose energy, diminished to a twitching, heaving body. She commits the horrid image to memory, and follows Nikolai back into the barn, finding the man tipping the bucket of water into the troughs within each pen.

“Well,” he begins, heaving a deep breath as he sets the bucket on the ground. “Were there any dead?”

Sadie watches as he picks the bucket back up and carries it to the next stall, turning a calculating eye on her as he walks past.

“No,” she says, wondering what she would have done if she’d opened one of the pens to find a dead, decaying sheep. She wonders what the lamb would have done if its mother had died in the night, if maggots and flies had taken to her body with a frenzied hunger. Would the lamb have continued to lay against her cooling, festering corpse without even noticing her demise? Or, and this thought brings a nauseated feeling to her stomach, would it have joined the scavenging insects in their feast?

Nikolai grunts in response, continuing his task.

“What’s … wrong with them?” Sadie dares to ask, watching Nikolai closely for his reaction.

He pauses in his movements to look back at her. His chest is heaving in exhaustion, and his wrists tremble where he holds the weight of the nearly empty bucket. The looseness of his jaw somehow appears worse than it had just an hour prior, and the shadows beneath the redness of his eyes create a distinctly sickly appearance. Sadie can’t help but be reminded of the fragile, unnerving state of the sheep.

“They’re sick,” Nikolai spits, the most emotion she’s seen from the man. “The animals’re sick, the people’re sick, the land is sick. It’s all goddamned sick, and you’d do yourself an’ the rest of us a favor to get yourself the hell away from this place.”

The silence of the barn is suffocating following the man’s tirade. With the remaining energy from his proclamation, he heaves the water bucket up and dumps the rest of it in the next trough. That seems to be the extent of his capabilities, though, and he drops the bucket with a startling clang. It rolls, stopped by the edge of Sadie’s boot, and the man follows it, sliding down the side of the stall wall, coming to rest in the mud. His chest rises and falls rabbit-quick, and his eyes roll in their sockets.

“Oh god---!” Sadie begins, stumbling forward, kicking the bucket away. She kneels beside him, arms held out but wary to touch. “Are you, are you okay?”

Nikolai turns to meet her panicked gaze, seeming to regain a bit of clarity amid the frenzy. “Don’t you touch me,” he says, spittle flying from between the gaps in his teeth. “It’s your fault, you know? It’s always your damned fault. If you would just learn your lesson, just learn your place,” he leans forward suddenly, gripping at her shirt the same way Sadie had held the sheep’s scruff. “If she had just known her place, we wouldn’t be in this damned mess.”

Despite the pounding of her heart, the nerves wracking her limbs, Sadie’s curiosity, her damned curiosity, latches onto the man’s words.

“If who had known her place?” she asks, voice even, peering into his eyes. “Who, Nikolai?”

His demeanor has changed, though. His eyes have refocused, and they’ve lost their frantic quality. His grip on Sadie’s shirt loosens, and he instead uses his hand to push himself up from the ground, legs wavering beneath his weight. Sadie steps back, disappointment curling in her chest, as he fights to right himself. Once he’s found his feet, he huffs, and turns away from Sadie, bending to retrieve the bucket. Without a word, he carries it back to the corner it was originally retrieved from, leaving it to rest against the wall. Still avoiding Sadie’s gaze, he leaves the barn, making his way towards the pasture fence. The sheep that had tried so desperately to escape must have collected itself in the time it took to refill the troughs and has rejoined the rest of the flock down by the furthest fence.

“You’re gonna come back this evening to gather the animals back into their stalls,” Nikolai says, and Sadie rushes to catch up to where he has opened the gate. The sheep only have time to lift their heads, eyes widening, before the pair have slipped through the gate and closed it behind them. As Sadie pulls the latch closed, the sheep swing their heads back around to return to gazing down at the ocean.

“By myself?” Sadie asks Nikolai, now walking beside him. She wonders if he remembers how he’d acted in the barn, what he’d said, if he’s just choosing to ignore it. Sadie certainly won’t forget the way his crazed eyes met her own, nor the gnashing of his crooked jaw as he spit out the nonsensical words. Not for a long time, she’s sure.

Nikolai doesn’t look back at her when he says, “Can you not handle that?”

His tone is questioning, and Sadie feels like she’s being tested.

“Of course I can handle it,” she responds evenly.

Nikolai nods. “Alright then,” he says simply.

They walk to town in a tense silence, occupied only by the questions filling Sadie’s mind, and the echo of the heaving, desperate breaths of a man and a sheep.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

We're finally starting to get into the interesting parts...

Excited to hear what you guys think!

Tag list (lmk if anyone would like to be added or removed!)

@megarywrites @at-thezenith @repressed-and-depressed @plasma-studios @wrenofthewords @pb-dot @communist-mariner @phantomnations @thelittlestspider @inkingfireplace @silverslipstream @atreegrowss @i-rove-rock-n-roll @your-absent-father @borisyvain @ashfordlabs @digital-chance @boundedsea @kaze-writes @thebearthatreads @innocentlymacabre

[7greentears]

Aight, so this’ll be the major answer to what brushes I use and will link to. Thank ya’ll for questions!

---

PROGRAMS

I mainly use Clip Studio Paint and sometimes Krita for inking. Clip has honestly been great to use and its let me explore animating and 3-D spaces with their modeling program.

SKETCHING

I use 2 brush packs with sketching. The first is Intoxicate Pencil Set by  ×ェ×

Below are the brushes I use. “Intoxicate Pencil Normal x4″ is the one I use mainly for sketching and refining.

The second is 15 Natural Pencils by saturn_days

I use the “Y2k Graphic Pencil” for mapping in areas for shading. (rough sketching and ideas) “Static Chalk Pencil” is used for when I wanna do more detailed shading or blacking things in. Same thing applies to the “Carpet Pencil” but I sometimes use it to outline my sketches to look more clean. The “Asphalt Pastel Pencil” is mainly for sketching with bolder lines. I like using that for clothing or sketching details.

INKING

When I use Krita, I only use “Pencil-3_Large4b”, comes with the default brushes. I set it 100% opacity and around 6-15% for size.

In ClipStudio, I’ve started using Casa Gneo by  墨佳遼

I use both (1 & 2) , but I like the feeling that Casa Gneo has. Scratchy and like a regular ink pen.

COLORING/PAINTING

Finally for painting, SU Cream Pencil by Yuriky has been my Ol’ reliable when it comes to blocking in flat colors. It’s also great for shading and hair shine. It use it for a majority of my drawing process, from lighting to clothing, etc.

Other brushes I haphazardly use are:

Real Pastel Arch by ARCHV

Was there an analog art supply? by 弥阪 (which is also where I get most of my paper textures from for my drawings)

Grunge Dot by Marredae

rake painter/oil Paint by  PokiHan

Highlighter marker by ghostpajamas

Dirty brushes by  ぱーらめんと

---

Aight, enjoy these crunchy crunchy brushes!

[analiza-beta]

Emory Nonsense, for @lorata

So, long story short, I thought I’d be normal this week and then Emory waltzed into my brain and took root and now I have over 6k of baby!Emory just sort of existing and I have a feeling this is only going to spiral worse? Also, no clue where I got the idea that Emory’s parents were lesbians. I could have sworn I’d read it somewhere but I went to look for it and tumblr did a “search function, what do you mean? Our search doesn’t function!” so I guess I made that up.

Without further ado: I give you part 1/me losing my mind.

Click for baby!Emory:

There’s a pond near their house. It’s out past the back door, behind the quarry and it’s mines, after a massive drop-down cliff, with tumbling weeds and rockslides and a million trip-hazards. It’s Emory’s favourite place in the whole district.

Sometimes, when the weather’s nice, her parents will let her wander over and she’ll sit on the rocks scalding hot from the heat, and dip her legs in the water up to her knees. It’s the sensations that she likes, really. The warm breeze which swoops down into the valley, the water brushing up against her, the sand beneath her feet. Even the sounds and smells are nice; wildflowers and crickets chirping and the faint hiss of humidity which reminds her of solstice nights in summer.

There’s a lot to be found out here, and Ma says that it’s important to take what they can get; to stretch it as far as they can because no one gets hand-outs in the quarries. Emory’s not entirely sure what ‘hand-outs’ are, but she does know that Ma’s right about using what they have. It’s no good to be wasteful, she says, and Emory knows that it’s good of her to help where she can.

That’s how she finds herself in the quarries each morning; with a bucket under her arm to hold whatever she finds. There’s a trail through the brush, a winding path dug out of the grass, marked by grey rocks and rubble and she knows if she follows it, she’ll find the area of the quarry that’s far enough from the mines that animals and plants are undisturbed. She hums as she walks, kicking up the pebbles on the path with her feet as she goes. The sound will scare off the animals, but that’s okay. She didn’t want to kill them anyways, not if she can help it. Mama knows how to skin them and use the hide, and she taught Emory how when she asked, but they’re all sorted for meat and materials at the moment, so Emory is looking for greenery today.

There’s a blackberry bush hidden beneath a copse of low-crawling vines, and if she’s very careful she can hold as many as she can in the bucket and in her hands and take them home to be made into a jam. It’s this bush that she’s looking for, but because summer is approaching, there might be strawberries lining the fence. There’ll definitely be dandelions, which even Emory knows how to make into a salad and she can’t even reach the kitchen bench without a stool. She ducks beneath a tree branch, hand scraping against the rough bark, and steps out into the meadow. It’s a nice day, she decides, breathing deeply and stumbling out into the clearing as she twirls in circles. She giggles breathlessly when she finds the strawberries and plops down onto the ground to start plucking them. For each strawberry, she plucks them off the bush, removes the stem with her teeth, and places them gently in her bucket. One by one, over and over. Rhythmic. She’ll have to be fast, because she can feel the day creep along into night as she works.

Once the strawberry bush has been sufficiently scoured, she crawls out into the dirt to pick dandelions for dinner. Handfuls and handfuls make their way into the bucket before she decides there’s enough. She wipes dirt of her hands onto her pants, and frowns slightly at the dirt scrapes and grass stains on her knees.

“Damn,” she whispers, borrowing the word she heard Ma swear the other day after dropping a bowl. Her and Mama will have to clean her clothes when she gets home. The normal procedure is to wash them in the left over water after a bath, which works out. By the sweat and dirt in her hair after today, Emory figures she’s about due to bathe anyways. She grabs her bucket and stands. It’s overflowing, but not so badly that she’ll have to hold anything. That’s good, since it means she’ll be able to make her way back up the hill much easier than usual, as she’ll have both hands to pull herself up. She plots the trip home in her mind as she walks. Her memory’s pretty good, but she doesn’t know how to read the signs yet, so relying on memory alone is as good as she’s got. By the time she’s home, the sun has begun to set and she can feel the evening breeze sift through the air. She clicks open the back gate and swings open the fly screen door, making sure that she grabs the spare key from under the garden bench to lock the door behind her. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach though, because even though she’s hit her growth spurt before everyone else on her class, she’s still not tall enough to reach unassisted.

She places the bucket on the table, and creeps into the kitchen, where she spies her Ma setting up the tumbler.

“I brought dandelions,” she tells her. Ma smiles, kind, eyes crinkling.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Do you want to help me make the salad?” Emory grins, and runs up to her.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll go grab the bucket.” She dashes back with the dandelions to the sound of her Ma’s laughter. It’s a good night.

——

Most people, Emory learns, do not have guns in their house. Emory’s Mama keeps her rifle and shotguns on the top shelf of her wardrobe, where Emory can’t reach, even with a stool. She says that she has to have guns because she’s a peacekeeper. The peacekeepers protect the people of district two, she explained once, but sometimes that means protecting them from other people as well, or wild animals. That’s what the guns are for.

When Mama’s peacekeeper friends go out hunting, they sometimes take Emory with them. They don’t go to the quarry, but they do go out into the woods. Emory has to catch the train there with her Mama, because most of the peacekeepers don’t live in the quarry towns like they do and so the woods where they meet up is out past Peacekeeper HQ. The first time she went with them, Emory wasn’t allowed to shoot anything. She hadn’t minded, though, because it was exciting just to be out with the adults. She’d liked the woods too. They’d smelt like smoke and honey and sap, and when she took her shoes off, she could dig her toes into the dirt and play with the bugs.

While she was playing with the dirt - trying to build a sandcastle out of dirt when there was no water wasn’t very easy, she was rapidly discovering — a loud bang had blasted, and she’d nearly fallen over out of shock.

When they’d gotten home, Mama had cooed and said she looked to be in a right state. Having looked in the bathroom mirror, Emory had to agree. Her hair was blown askew and her eyes were still wide and alarmed. Mama had gotten the brush out of the bathroom drawers, and sat Emory on the floor between her legs. Brush, brush, brush, until her hair was smooth again. She’d plaited it for bed, too. One strand over the other, over the other. Emory had watched her do it in the mirror until her heart stopped beating so fast. Mama had tucked her hair into place with a tie, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“If you don’t want to come with us again, that’s okay,” she’d said. “I know it can be scary the first few times.” Emory had frowned then. She hadn’t been scared, just alarmed. No one had told her how loud it would be.

“I wasn’t scared,” she had said. “Next time, will you teach me?” Mama had smiled.

“Of course.”

The next time had been easier. Her Mama had brought a smaller shotgun with her. Not a rifle because that would have been too big for Emory to use. She’d placed it over Emory’s shoulder, and held her small hands in her larger ones. Positioning them delicately over the handle and it’s trigger, she’d whispered directions in her ear. Quiet, so as not to disturb their target. The squirrel had been nibbling at something up high in the trees. Emory had knocked the gun into aim with her mother’s guidance, squinted until she could see her path clearer. Her Mama had told her when to shoot, and she’d fired the gun with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

She hadn’t been prepared for the recoil, which sent shocks down her arms and sent her sprawling back into her Mama, sat behind her. Mama had laughed and held her arms still, and told her to go get what she’d caught. Emory had grinned, thrilled with adrenaline. The squirrel had fallen some metres away, and when Emory had gone to pick it up, she’d been alarmed to find it blown through the stomach. The sight had sent a swoop through her stomach, but she knew she wasn’t meant to cry. Ma always says that there is no use in wasting your tears on things that can’t be fixed, and Ma is always right. Emory had stepped over a twig, weary of her Mama’s watchful eyes, and bent down to pick up the squirrel. It was bloody and leaking insides, and when she’d held it, she’d felt the snap of small bones. She’d bitten down onto her tongue to stop herself from crying out and slowly walked back to Mama with the squirrel cradled gently in her hands.

“Decent shot,” Mama had appraised, turning the quarrel over. “Next time, aim for the eyes. It’s quicker and it means we can use more of its body afterwards.” Emory had nodded, not sure that she wanted a next time. The sight of splintered bones had stuck in her mind, and she hadn’t managed to wipe it away. Mama had wiped her hands off on her trousers, and placed the squirrel on a sheet of paper. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get home and you can see how we use them afterwards.”

Mama was right. When they’d gotten home, Ma had shown Emory how to properly skin the squirrel — hook the tip of the knife into its head, beneath the skin, and slowly flay away the fur until it’s a mess of blood and bone — and how to cut around the bones so that they can get the most meat out of it. Emory had liked that bit better than the killing. At least the squirrel was being used for something. Even the hide can be used, she’d learnt. Ma had said she would turn it into a holster for Mama’s gun, and sent a soppy smile her Mama’s way. Emory had sat on the kitchen counter and poked the hide sullenly. They’d gotten hardly anything out of the squirrel because she’d failed to shoot it in the right place. She’d have to make a better shot next time. Ma had smiled at her, and tucked Emory’s hair beneath her ears.

“Thanks for bringing this home,” she’d said, smiling. “It was very helpful.”

——

The quarry towns still hold some of District Two’s oldest traditions. Every solstice, Emory sits with her Ma and bakes a pie for the whole town to eat. The best part of solstice nights, is that Emory gets to stay up as long as she likes. Everyone gets together to make what Ma calls a potluck — everyone contributing their own share of a feast — and Emory gets to laden up her plate with all the foods she likes best. Soups, bread rolls, lasagne, the works. She loves it best because she gets to talk to people. Old man Dave from the house two doors down brings his grandkids and his hounds, and Mary from the butchers brings her new fiancée to meet everyone. Emory spends the night curled up by the bonfire at her Ma’s side, sipping on her pumpkin soup and watching as the sky turns from blue to black to dotted with stars. Fireflies and sparks from the fire light the navy darkness of the night with gleams of gold, and once the chatter has died down, everyone takes a roll of bread and scatters it’s crumbs across the bonfire.

——

When Emory turns six, she starts going to school. Emory’s happy to go to school and sit on the carpet and run her fingertips over it’s looped bristles over and over to comfort herself. She can listen contentedly as her teacher talks them through craft projects. She’s got a mini art easel made of popsicle sticks and covered in glitter which she’d taken home and propped on her window sill. School is fun largely because her teacher likes her — she doesn’t scream like the other kids when they get excited or wail when she’s dropped off and her parents leave — and she gets to sit calmly and enjoy the comforting atmosphere of the classroom.

The day everything shifts is a day like any other. Emory is sitting on her designated piece of carpet — no one said it was hers, but she sat there on the first day because it’s beneath the window and gets the sun, and she’s at such a vantage point that she can see the chalkboard, and now it’s the place she always sits — when her teacher starts writing symbols on the board. Letters, she says. The letters make sounds, and the sounds strung together are what makes words. Emory learns that the writing is when you put down the sounds onto paper — is spoken turned to written. Her teacher assigns them each a reading list — ten words to learn before next week — and Emory tucks hers into the pocket of her pants for safekeeping.

On the walk home, Emory takes the slip of words out and tries to sound out the letters. In class, her teacher had walked them through the different sounds each letter made, and that made enough sense, even if Emory doesn’t understand why shapes can make sounds. The problem isn’t that she doesn’t know what letters make which sounds, it’s that she can’t tell what the letters are. She squints at the list in the bright light, and tries to make out what the words are.

She doesn’t know all the letters yet, so it’s difficult. And more than that, when she looks at them, they move. One second she’s certain there’s a “d” and the next, when she looks back at it, it says “p.” It’s nearly enough to drive her to tears. She whispers the letters aloud as she walks, trying desperately to string them into words. The whole thing is awful. She knows her words, she knows how to speak, so why don’t the letters make sense?

She tucks the lost beneath her pillow when she gets home. Lights off is at seven, but if she’s careful, she’ll be able to light her lamp and try to read it afterwards. It’s probably fine, anyways. There’s no way she’s the only one who doesn’t get it. Plenty of the other kids will be struggling too, she’s sure.

——

The thing is, the other kids aren’t struggling with reading. Sure, they did at the beginning, when the letters were unfamiliar and the onset of reading daunting, but they’ve picked it up. The others fly through their lists quickly each week, but Emory can’t even manage to learn her first. It makes her gut twist and her cheeks flame and her eyes burn every time she has to go up to her teacher at the end of the day, and admit that she still doesn’t know what the words say.

She begs her teacher to help her. Actually begs, even though Ma says that she shouldn’t let anyone debase her to begging. The fear is palpable though, and Emory just needs to know how. In the end, her teacher just repeats what she’s already said; she seems at a loss, too. Eventually, she concedes to let Emory take home material with her, stacks of picture books and lists and a sheet that breaks down the sounds made by consonants and vowels.

When she gets home, Emory hauls up in her room and presses a chair against the door so that her parents won’t come up and bother her. She spreads the sheets and books over the floor and flicks on her lamp. She spends hours there that night, knees and ankles aching from where they press into the carpet, trying desperately to stumble through each sentence. She doesn’t get very far.

The next day, she packs away all the reading materials into her bag to give back. She’s not giving up, she tells herself, but, well- . It’s difficult, is all. She’ll try to stumble through all the reading exercises, but she figures there’s no use putting her effort into something hopeless. She’s spent hours pouring over her lists, over the words and the books, and it never gets any easier. Not even a little bit. When the teacher raises her eyes hopefully at Emory that morning, she just wordlessly shakes her head. The teacher’s face falls, and she offers Emory a hug.

It’s okay, if she doesn’t think about it too hard. She’ll find some other way to be useful. It only makes her panic when she thinks about it too hard — about how Mama needs to be able to read for her work as peacekeeper, how Ma needs to know what the signs say in the quarries, how her teacher needs to read to teach — because then all she can think about is how there’s hardly any work in the district that doesn’t require reading. How is she supposed to help the district when she can’t even read? When she asks her Mama, all she says is that little girls don’t need to worry about such things. Emory thinks there’s a lot of things for her to worry about, but keeps her mouth shut.

——

The good thing is, not everything requires reading. Emory’s tall for her age, and strong too because of all the work she does with Mama, and there’s plenty of kids smaller than her who tend to get picked on. Those kids need help fighting off the bigger kids, and that’s where Emory comes in. She can’t stand the mean kids — the ones who steal lunches and sneer at the younger kids and disrespect the teachers who are only trying to help. When they take a kids lunch out on the play ground, and kick him to the floor when he tries to get it back, Emory knows that no one else is going to stop it.

The teacher isn’t outside, so Emory stomps over to the fight with a determination that can’t be broken. She grabs the boy’s wrist — thicker than hers, but not by much — and yanks him aside.

“Give it back to him,” she says steely. The boy looks at her gormless for a moment, before his face resolves to rage.

“Yeah,” he mocks. “See, I don’t think I will.” He spits at the floor. Emory frowns, considering. She draws her hand back. The boy laughs at her. She punches him across the face, fingers drawn in with the thumb on the outside like Mama taught her, and feels the crack of his nose against her fist. The boy stumbles backwards to the ground, falling flat on his back in the sandpit.

“Give it back to him,” she repeats. The boy is still clutching his nose, but now looks to be in a state of fugue shock. He blinks wetly, and hands over the now smashed sandwich. Emory smiles. She thinks she should probably make him apologise, since that’s what you’re meant to do when you’re in the wrong, but she also doesn’t want to push her luck and so she stays quiet.

——

She gets into more fights after that. She scraps with kids who bully the younger students, and defends anyone they try to fight and eventually they start ignoring the others altogether and just annoy her. By the time it’s summer again, Emory’s gotten into six fights across two weeks. It’s not deliberate, she tells her mums when they ask. It’s just that there’s plenty of kids who can’t fight back, and if she’s able to fight their battles for them, why shouldn’t she? Her Ma purses her lips, but Mama beams at Emory and ruffles her hair, and they have her favourite soup for dinner, so it’s worth it.

Emory still doesn’t have people she really talks to at lunch, but her teacher’s taken to keeping her company at recess. She’s not her teacher anymore — Emory moved up a class during the holidays just like everybody else, even though she still can’t read — but she seems to have a soft spot for her regardless. When Emory gets in fights, it’s her who brings her up to the principal’s office to call her parents. That happens more and more often nowadays. It’s not like she gets in trouble either, or she’d have stopped. They just call and talk, and talk some more. She hears whispers of a centre one day, but she’s not sure what they’re talking about and so she usually just reverts back to swinging her legs under the chair to keep herself entertained instead of trying to listen in.

“I’ve always thought she’d go when she was old enough,” Mama is saying. “That’s what I did. Went through to sixteen and drifted out to the Academy. She can do the same thing, if she wants.” Emory keeps half an ear on the conversation, but has rapidly found herself enthralled by the pitted wood texture of the desk.

“Well,” Principal Hudgens says, adjusting a stack of sheets. “We’ve got all the paperwork here for a recommendation. She might not be as vicious as some of the other kids we have here, but she’s stable, and she’d enjoy it, if nothing else. Send us a memo if you want me to put it through.”

“I thought the centre didn’t send people to the quarry towns,” Ma says, though it sounds more like a question.

“Not for recruitment,” Hudgens tells her. “But they ask us for a report on the kids here, so that they can streamline the application and interview process. I don’t think your girl will have any problems getting in.” Ma makes a sound in her throat, drawing Emory’s attention away from the wood carvings.

“Getting in to what?” Emory asks. Mama hums, probably pondering her answer.

“Well,” she says. “Do you remember when we talked about the Hunger Games a few months ago?” Emory nods, because yes, she does remember. The Hunger Games are the price the district pays each year for rebelling, and District Two offers up two eighteen year old volunteers every year so that the district can remain safe. The Centre is what gets them there. It teaches kids how to protect the district. She knows because one of the girls in the year above at school goes to the centre, and she says that going to the Centre is great because she’s learning how to save people. Emory’s not sure what the Hunger Games themselves are yet — they haven’t talked about it in school, and some parents tell their kids early, but hers haven’t — but she does know that they’re something good. Mama continues, emboldened. “The Centre’s primary function is to train people for the Games, but they take in children like you at seven and you don’t have to go to the games if you don’t want to.”

“What do the kids do there?” Emory asks. She doesn’t want to commit to anything if she’s not going to like it. What if she goes there expecting it to be fun, and all they make her do is read.

“Mostly, you exercise and run and play games,” Mama says, and that sounds good actually. Emory likes running, and sport is her favourite lesson of the week, because she gets to have fun and strategise, and she doesn’t have to read ever. “It’s after school, and if only goes for a few hours. We can take you there for an interview if you like.”

Emory thinks for a minute. She knows it’s a minute because she trains her eyes on the clock as she considers it, and the minute hand makes one full rotation.

“I’ll go,” she decides eventually, and tries not to catalogue Mama’s smile and Ma’s frown.

——

The interview isn’t for a while yet, Emory knows, because the centre takes you in when you’re seven, and she’s still six for a few months. During those months, she spends most of her time behind the quarry. She knows that during the interviews, they give out tests. Not real tests, not like the ones at school where she has to memorise and write things, but one of the older kids who already goes to the centre said that they make you do all sorts of things on application day. She’d asked him what sorts of tests there were, but he’d just made a face and said that it wasn’t fair if she knew and the others didn’t. Emory hadn’t protested, because he’d made a decent point; it wouldn’t have been fair if she’d had a head start.

Still, not knowing means she has no direction. She spends her days running as fast as she can around the quarry, lap after lap, until her lungs burn and her legs shake and she can hardly make it back home without collapsing. She practices push ups at night when she’s meant to be sleeping, and makes sure to ask Mama all sorts of questions about how the process works. She tries not to ask when Ma’s there, because she gets the feeling Ma doesn’t like the idea of Emory going all so much. Mama though, is prouder of Emory than ever. She beams at Emory’s excitement and tells her every night that she’s so glad she’s taking this seriously. Emory smiles, because by the time she’s being tucked in for the night, her bodies exhausted and tired and she can’t fight off the desire to be coddled like she does during the day — the big kids at the centre won’t be tucked into bed by their Mommies, but Emory’s not at the centre yet, so maybe it’s fine.

When she’s not trying to outrun her racing thoughts, she fills out the last of the paperwork. Most of it has nothing to do with her really — there’s a form her parents need to sign and another that needs to be filled with her medical details, and another after that with school grades and teacher statements and recommendations — but there’s a section with questions for her to fill out. Mama says it doesn’t matter too much, as most of the important stuff is covered in a verbal interview, but it’s Emory’s duty to fill it out herself, and so she takes it with her up to her room and asks Ma to read the questions out to her slowly, so that she can think through her answers. When Ma leaves, Emory takes out a pen and slowly tries to write her way through the answers. Why do you want to go to the centre? What motivates you? Hoe can you best describe your relationship ship to school? Emory thinks the questions are a bit complex really. Why does any of that even matter? She knows this is the right thing to do. It’s what she needs to do. Mama says the centre is about protecting people — just like peacekeeping is — and Emory wants to protect people. In the end, she figures that’s probably a good enough answer, and spends the whole night staying up trying to write it down even though the letters are still squirrelly and run away from her when she tries to grab them.

When the day of the interview comes, Emory wakes bright and early. Maybe it’s silly to feel so overeager, but she’s spent the last while trying desperately to figure out what the Centre really is, and she’s so excited to find out. Her parents don’t own a car, so she walks down to the train with her Mama whose on her way to work. She won’t be able to pick her up until her shift is over, and so Emory will have to stay late at the regional centre afterwards — the nearest testing centre to their house is in Calgaratt, and Mama can’t get off work early enough to pick her up when the interview will end. The train ride is peaceful, and Emory spends much of it picking at the knees of her pants and periodically straightening her posture. When the train ride ends, her Mama helps her off and gives her directions to find the actual centre building, which is further down the road.

“You ready?” Mama asks, bending down to Emory’s height. Emory nods solemnly. She is. “I’ll come pick you up at five o’clock, okay.” She waits for Emory to agree, before ducking down to press a kiss to her forehead. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Emory says, and turns to look up at the centre.

—

The centre building is enormous; gleaming white walls and sheets of window pane and a sprawling oval behind it, where Emory can see kids running frantically and chucking things at each other in what must be some kind of game. Emory would be worried about gawking, but there’s plenty of other kids here who are gazing dazed at the building. Still, she snaps herself out of her staring and crosses the gravel car park up to the entrance. There’s a small line of children there — those born in the month of July, like Emory — and Emory goes to join them in the waiting room.

The room is sparse but still nicer than anything else Emory’s seen. The couches are some kind of dyed leather, she thinks, and the floor is tiled white. She takes a seat on the couch when a woman directs her to, and has the number seven printed off and taped to her back and front. What seems like hours pass as she sits there. There are three rooms available for interviews, and so over the course of roughly half an hour, those waiting are called in. Emory knows she arrived at 9 A.M, so by her estimates she been waiting for roughly three hours. There must be some kind of backlog, she thinks, because Mama said that when she’d had her own interview she’d gone in immediately.

When they call her name and Emory stands, she find that she’s sweated so much that her thighs are almost stuck to the leather. She looks at the couch briefly with a sense of betrayal. They don’t have much leather at home, and Emory had forgotten how much she hated how it sticks to the skin. She walks over to the aide who called her, and tries to ignore how ominous her footfalls sound against the loud tiling, with nothing else to muffle them.

“My name is Amelie,” the woman explains with a kind smile. “Follow me through to room three, and I’ll conduct your interview.”

Amelie takes a seat behind a desk and gestures for Emory to do the same, and so she sits. Amelie explains that the first portion of the interview is done through some routine tests and identifying games. She pulls out a sheath of papers, each of which has a pattern printed on it. She tells Emory to identify as many as she can. The patterns, Emory finds, are pretty easy. One is a repeating sunset, the other is a hidden image. Some of them are strings of numbers, and she correctly notices that each number is the sum of the previous two numbers. There’s some math after that, too. Addition and subtraction, and even some of the basic multiplication that they’ve started to learn in class. Emory likes math too, so that’s not so bad.

The only real problem is when they get to reading. It’s basic, and Amelie asks her to read as much of it as she can. There’s only a few sentences but Emory looks at it and just as always the words don’t work. Her eyes swim and she presses her nails into her legs so that’s she doesn’t cry. The centre won’t want crybabies. She straightens her spine and tries her best to stumble through the sentences, but it’s clear she’s not succeeding from the look on Amelie’s face. She reaches out and takes the papers away from Emory.

“How about we move on?” She asks, and Emory nods gratefully. She doesn’t want to spend any longer on this than she has to. Maybe once she’s in the centre, she’ll never have to try to read again. Amelie produces another stack of papers — these ones have printed images on each of them, of people in different scenarios — and she asks Emory to walk her through what each person in the images are thinking. It’s not too bad. Emory thinks she understands people pretty well, and at the very least, nothing she says here makes Amelie frown the way she did when Emory did the reading section. Most of the images are fairly simple — a boy crying looking out his window, a girl who’s spilt her block tower on the floor — but one catches her eye. A little girl learning how to shoot. When Amelie asks her what the people are thinking, Emory tells her that the little girl is being taught about duty.

“What do you think duty is?” Amelie asks, and Emory frowns.

“Duty is what we have to do,” Emory says, thinking. “It’s what we need to do,” she amends.

“What do you need to do?”

“I need to pass this test,” Emory says wryly, in a bout of candour she doesn’t feel. Amelie laughs. “I need to help.”

“Alright,” Amelie says, now far more relaxed. “I’ve got to go grab some final paperwork before I give you the tour, but I’m going to leave a marshmallow here.”

“What’s a marshmallow?”

“It’s a kind of lolly,” Amelie explains. “I’ll leave it here, and if you want to have it you can. If you wait until I get back though, I can bring another one and you can have two.” Emory wants to ask which is better — if she should wait or not, but she figures that like with the rest of the tests, she needs to find the answer herself.

“Okay,” she says instead. Amelie places the ‘marshmallow’ on the desk and leaves. It’s a weird thing — it looks like a small, white pillow. When she pokes it, it’s gelatinous, and powdery too. Emory thinks it probably doesn’t have much substance, because it smells cloyingly sweet and almost airy. She sits back and waits, watching the marshmallow with a vague sense of apprehension. She’s at least curious as to what it is — Amelie called it a lolly, so it must be for eating, but why would anyone eat it when there’s better things that aren’t as sugary? By the time Amelie returns, Emory hasn’t even begun to answer her own question, and the marshmallow is still there, plain as day. Amelie smiles and withdraws a second marshmallow from her pocket and hands it to Emory.

“Patient,” she praises. “That’s good. Come on, you can eat while we walk.”

She leads Emory out through the back door, and they head out into what Amelie calls the pavilion. There are kids sparring on gym mats, and more classes whacking each other with foam swords, and a group on the ropes, and everything about it makes Emory’s blood sing. The sounds of shouts and yelling, and the stick of the gym mats and the sound of steel on steel. Emory’s sure she looks positively deranged — she catches a glimpse of herself in the windows, and her eyes are wide and her grin exuberant — but she can’t bring herself to care. The Centre is perfect, and Emory feels everything about it settle into her chest like a missing limb. She needs it like she needs air. Nothing ever felt right at school, but here, Emory thinks she can finally find what she’s been looking for. She’s not sure what that is, exactly, but she wants it with a vigour she hasn’t felt before. Amelie let’s her climb the ropes course, and it’s great because Emory’s strong for her age and manages to climb all the way up to the top, and she only scrapes her foot a little on the way down, because she’s climbed ropes before in the quarries. Emory can’t even find it in herself to be ashamed for the show of emotion or the excitement she feels, because by the time she leaves, she thinks if they don’t accept her, she’ll lose the one place in her life where she might belong. This is what she needs.

[weebsinstash]

soooo what you're saying is yandere emperor & love sick concubine x empress au with bakugou as the emperor and izuku as his favourite concubine yeah??

oof those two would be an awful (read: amazing) duo for poor reader empress to go up against

Not going to lie I actually always meant to write more for Izuku??? I've actually had a decent amount of ideas for him because like, he already has habits that you can tweak ever so slightly and boom he's a lil yandere simp, drooling over you as he watches you from a distance and doodling into his lil notebook. He gives "hello mommy I love you so much and would die for you let's get married ❤️" energy but he's also feral enough that like. Could easily imagine him as one of those sweet tiny dudes who has a third leg and Fucks Severely. Like to be honest I'm a bottom as fuck and have always likes taller partners but certain personality types just deliver what is needed lmao. Like I've kinda unlocked a thing for having something smaller than you partner wise especially like that holds you down extremely easily, like the helplessness of it? Idk like in hentai where chicks get surrounded by like little tiny extremely strong but hugely dicked goblins, like not always that small obviously but you kind get the gist. Imagine an adult Izuku being shorter than you and younger than you and you think he's so passive and sweet or you think he's an annoying little boy and try to brush him off, and suddenly he's got you up against a wall hugging you so tight you can't shove him off and you're met with like the horror you can't overpower him by ANY means. And the whole time he's just like OuO sweet and smiling and just this secretly heinous little sex fiend who can easily fold you like a pretzel

But I will admit those two would work fairly well for this formula 😳 hm. The gears are turning. I dunno... hmm.....

Let's look at it from this angle. Bakugou is probably one of those Emperors that either killed all his brothers and took the throne by force, was his father's only child and usurped him, or maybe was a nobleman or high ranking soldier who became Emperor by wiping out the royal family. Just typical domination by overwhelming force kind of guy. Known as a somewhat of a savage albeit with amazing tactics skill and talented in warfare and combat. And then Midoriya is. Hm. Maybe a childhood friend or whatever but tbh I'm just kind of imagining him as this lil hippy thang that dresses in white and soft colors, I wouldn't say femboy per say but, maybe a little lmao. Katsuki sitting at his desk stamping documents and then here's Izuku bringing him tea and snack cakes and Bakugo is still like, a little rough, but nicer to him then he is to you lmao

But I just cannot imagine the like absolutely infuriating scenario of 1. Being stuck with Bakugo against your will in a political marriage 2. Having to perform duties you may not even be remotely interested in, for example tradtionally the Empress manages the other harem women who are often high ranking nobility but she's also not allowed to get involved in politics, so like, you influence but not much actual power of your own 3. He's not even a nice fucking person, like in this scenario you literally struggle to think of his good qualities that don't inevitably circle back to him being a brute 4. You're expected to have children with him and 5. On top of having to share him with other women, one of his concubines is a man who is essentially tries to guilt trip and pressure you into loving Bakugo

I remember in "I'm Divorcing My Tyrant Husband", which is kind of an infuriating read and idk if I would recommend it, the cruel tyrant Emperor doesn't respect his Empress because she's too nice and I imagine Bakugo, depending on what mood you're going for, would either be a condescending 'oh you're so weak and delicate, what use is there for you, worthless crybaby' OR 'you're so delicate therefore you must be kept like a precious caged animal where no harm can come to you like a beautiful rose encased in glass so it cannot wilt'

Bakugo would definitely be one of those characters who you constantly have massive 'misunderstandings' with, 'misunderstandings' translating to 'this guy is constantly a massive fucking asshole who doesn't properly communicate for shit' and Izuku is always trying to tell you how he "really" feels but since its never Katsuki himself you could care less. Like for example, an idea I can imagine for him is something like, Reader has a precious garden she takes care of day and night, while gardening you get bitten by a viper that was hiding in the brush, you get extremely ill, the next time you wake up and have recovered your entire garden is gone because he tore everything out and you're devastated because it feels like you've been punished for falling sick when his intention was to completely overturn your garden in case there were more vipers (which, to his credit there were, but you don't even care because you actively encouraged animals to take homes in your garden and now it's all ruined)

[josephslittledeputy]

WIP Wednesday!

Tagged by @detectivelokis @direwombat @inafieldofdaisies @clicheantagonist @socially-awkward-skeleton ty for keeping me in the loop lovelies!

Tagging @g0dspeeed @nonfunctioning-queer @marivenah @henbased

Posting a few things since I've missed a million wip wednesdays, so first up is the beginning of Willa's disastrous journey in part 1 of her dark au :)

“Ugh…” A groan forces itself through cracked, dry lips as she wakes to an insistent mumbling hum buzzing by her head. Her eyes flutter open and roam over her settings with an owlish blink. Numbly, she stares ahead, to the swaying headset that’s making so much noise, and finally to the vibrant orange ribbons, flapping in the wind outside. A few minutes tick by before her memory trickles in, syrupy slow, bringing with it an ice cold terror. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. She was hanging upside down with her seat belt being the only thing holding her in place. It takes another minute to realize that the ribbons outside were not ribbons at all, but flames. To make matters worse, there's a tiny waterfall of liquid, dripping down from the helicopter and splattering onto the ground into a puddle. The smell itself is indistinguishable: Gas. She looks over to her right to see Hudson, passed out, then in front of her to see Burke, also passed out, and then there was… Wait, where the hell was Joseph? “Amaaaziiiiing Graaaace.” The distant, haunting timber of his voice paralyzes her. Ironically, she can’t help but to think that this would be the part in the movie where the main character ran and hid from the killer. But she has no where to run and no where to hide, so she does the next best thing: A fumbling attempt to grab the headset dangling just out of reach, taunting her. “How sweet the sound…” She leans forward, brushing her fingertips against the headset and pushing it further away. “C’mon!” She makes another attempt and this time her hand secures a tight grip around it. With a bud of hope blossoming in her chest, she pulls it toward her, just a little closer- Joseph’s hand shoots into view like a striking viper, latching onto her wrist with a punishing grasp and her breath hitches in her throat. She doesn’t dare to turn her head, in fact she’s not even sure she’s able to. She’s frozen in place, watching him move into her line of view. “That saved… a wretch… liiiike me…” He tilts his head, watching her. Unblinking. Waiting. It’s only when she releases her death grip on the only lifeline out of here that he, in turn, lets go of her wrist. It's a short lived relief, as in the next moment he grabs her jaw, lips twitching in amusement now that he’s made sure she’ll be unable to look away from him. “I told you that God wouldn’t let you take me.” He taunts, using his other hand to blindly reach up and grab the headset behind him, pulling it close so he could talk into the mic. “Dispatch.” “Ohhh… my god.” Nancy responds with a relieved, shaky exhale of breath. The reply prompts a brief half smile, one that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Everything is just fine here. No need to call anyone.” No. No, no, no. There was no fucking way- “Yes, Father. Praise be to you.” He drops the headset with a dramatic flourish then leans in with deadened expression, getting close enough that she could smell him this time: Dirt, sweat, ink, old books, and… something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He reaches up, slowly, as if approaching a cornered animal and she can’t help but to think, oh god, this is it. Bracing herself for the pain of long, pianist fingers penetrating squishy flesh, her eyes fly open in surprise when rough, callused thumbs brush across the apples of her cheeks instead. It’s a soft, soothing gesture, one she’s unfamiliar with. He wipes away stray tears that she hadn’t even realized were there and takes a moment to watch her. A second later, he’s leaning in, getting too close, forcing her to move her head back until it hits the headrest behind her. “No one is coming to save you.” He utters those final words before climbing out of the helicopter

Next up is Willa's (failed?) cleansing!

“Not this one.” He holds a hand out, stopping the peggie at her side and giving them a look before handing over the book he’d been reading from. His blue eyes—looking almost colorless in the moonlight—flick back to her and the water parts around him when he moves closer. “This ones not clean.” Then he lunges, pushing her down until she's submerged underneath the water again. She struggles, trying to gain purchase on anything, but the effort is futile and a few seconds later she’s already resurfacing. Her chest heaves with her gasps for air, her lips trembling from the cold temperature. “Y-you mm-muh-mother-f-fucker!” “Ahhhh!” He clicks his tongue with a smile, “Shhhh.” Expecting it this time, she holds her breath just before he pushes her under, the cold water shocking her system as if she were doing a polar plunge. She manages to grab hold of his shirt, pulling him with her and delighting in the blurry shock on his face when he stumbles and falls. He barely manages to catch himself and in using her to regain his balance, he sends her back slamming into the ground, driving the air from her lungs. Out of instinct, she opens her mouth and inhales water, gulping it down like she hasn’t had a drink in years. It gives her a bone chilling sense of dreadful déjà vu. Her frantic movements grow more sluggish the longer time passes until soon, she isn’t even struggling at all, but weakly smacking at whatever part of his body she could. But he doesn’t relent, he doesn’t let up, he keeps her there until her vision darkens at the edges. Then he keeps her there even longer, sharp fingers digging into her shoulders as he takes out his rage and frustration on her. She can’t do anything but exhale… and let go. . . . “N’aww, you really thought this was over? It’s only just begun…” . . . Someones pressing on her chest—one, two, three—then pushing air into her lungs. They repeat the motions again. One. Two. Three. Air forces its way into her lungs. She doesn’t respond. Again—one, two, three—more air. She responds this time, coughing and throwing up water that spills over her face. Sweet, sweet air fills her lungs and there’s a multitude of voices all mumbling by her ear. Her eyes lazily open, idly noting that her chest feels heavy, that it aches. Above her, with the moonlight behind him like a halo, she can only think that Joseph Seed looks just like an angel in that moment. Or maybe it’s the bliss—yeah, she’s sure it's the bliss. His lips were moving and the words don't register with her, but the relief was clear on his face. Raising a hand, he pushes wet strands of hair from her face and slowly, the words begin to fade in. “You’re not here by accident or by chance. You are here by the grace of God. You’ve been given a gift.” His lips pull up into a smile, not like the half ones that she’d seen earlier in the crash, but a real one. His hand smooths over her hair again, the motions setting her at ease, making her relax, disarming her. “Now it remains to be seen whether you choose to embrace it…” His voice lowers into a despairing whisper, ”Or to cast it aside.” Chirping crickets fill the silence while he continues to stare, memorizing her features.

[bluestar22x]

Chapter 1: Found

Alien Son - Chapter 1: Found

Series Masterlist

Series Summary: Unbeknownst to him, Cade was a product of an experiment with the goal of raising a super solider. Saved from that fate by his adoptive parents, he is still hunted. Eventually, as it always does, his past catches up with him, though now there's another plan for him, one he could've never imagined.

With the help of friends, Cade must escape his captors again, resuming his life on the run in hopes of finally ending it once and for all, before another generation of his family line has to suffer the consequences.

Rating: 18+ series (explicit content, sensitive topics)

Chapter Word Count: 1,300(ish)

Series Warnings/General Info: Science fiction, mpreg (due to fictional science), violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, friendship (found family), romance (male x female), eventual love scene, violation of autonomy (by the antagonists), cloning, inter-species relationship (sort of - Cade is part human/more human than not), xenophobia, alien super human abilities

--- Don't like, don't read or comment! ---

xxx

Cade Dalton was being followed. He was certain of it. It was too dark of a night to see whatever or whoever was on his trail and the long dirt road to his rented home absorbed sound too well for him to hear his stalker through the wind, even with his sharp senses, but he had that primitive sensation of being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention.

He cursed under his breath, and picked up his pace, wishing for the millionth time that day that his rusty 1993 Chevy Lumina wasn’t in such rough shape that he’d needed to bring it to the local mechanic. Of all nights to be pursued, it had to be the night he was without a ride. To make it worst, he’d left his handgun in his safe as well.

Cade silently chastised himself for being so careless. Every time he slipped up in some way, he exposed himself to being taken by them. Whoever they were. His parents had never revealed names to him. They’d been too afraid of what he’d do with the information at the time. They’d thought they’d always be there to protect him. He only knew that the mysterious they his parents were running from, were protecting him from, belonged to a wealthy corporation somewhere in the southern U.S., and that they were hunting for him because he was special. Gifted. More like cursed.

Like a prey animal, Cade’s eyes darted left and right, his pulse quickened, and he geared up to bolt at the sound of leaves snapping nearby in the dense forest along the path. But before he could, a deer’s head popped out of the brush yards ahead of him and swung around to stare at him.

Cade felt his adrenaline crash at the sight of the doe, and he burst out laughing, clutching at his stomach with one hand. Somehow, the creature was not alarmed by the sudden loud noise being admitted from him. She only stared in his direction and flicked her ears around, more curious than cautious.

Once he’d composed himself, Cade combed a hand through his thick, short dark hair and shook his head at his tawny companion. “You are much braver than you should be. You do realize it’s hunting season, don’t you?”

The doe snorted a response at him and trotted back off into the woods. As she did, Cade exhaled loudly, and did his best to shake off the remaining physical repercussions from the surprise encounter.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself at the sight of his trembling hands.

It had been a full decade since an attack from the corporation’s hunters. For all he knew they’d forgotten about him or simply given up. Maybe he’d finally hidden too well and too far away. Maybe they had more important things to focus on.

But maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Turning a corner on the road, Cade reached his driveway. At the end of it was an old, but cozy looking log home. It had been his rental for the last month. He was hoping to get another couple of months out of it before moving on.

Cade approached the front porch and climbed. When he reached the only door in, he took one last wary glance at his surroundings, then unlocked the door and slipped inside. He immediately relocked the door behind him and flicked on the kitchen light. He wasted no time heading into his bedroom to swap his tool belt for the Glock in his gun safe that was hidden under his bed. He loaded some rounds in it and strapped it to himself before returning to the kitchen to heat up some leftover pizza he’d bought at a gas station the previous night.

The microwave had just beeped when Cade heard one of his tin trashcans tip over outside on the porch. He stiffened. It’s probably just a raccoon, he thought reasonably. But it was better safe than sorry. He pulled his Glock out, flicked the safety off, and held it in both his hands at ready as he slowly approached the front door.

When he opened the door, he quickly scanned his surroundings. He saw nothing too concerning. There was no sign of someone or something being out there, except for his tipped over trashcan.

Maybe it was the wind.  

Cade shrugged to himself and applied the safety back to his gun before sliding it into its holster. He bent to pick up the wayward trashcan and to throw the trash bag that had flopped out back into it. He was reaching for the door handle again when he felt a slight stinging sensation in the side of his neck. His left hand automatically flew up to the area and he felt something metal with a soft tip sticking out of his skin. He tugged on it, and it fell out.

It was a silver tranquilizer dart with pink fluff on the end. 

Almost immediately after pulling the dart out, Cade started feeling the effects of the whatever drugs it had injected into him. Fear gripped him as he suddenly felt like a ton of bricks. He stumbled, trying to fight the effect, to get inside to safety, but quickly collapsed and fell unconscious.

Out of the shadows of the trees, a bearded man twice as bulky as Cade strolled towards him, a dart gun slung around his right shoulder.

“He’s down,” the shooter shouted.

A scraggy, scarlet haired man who was a few years younger than Cade emerged from behind the cabin.

The shooter sighed impatiently as the significantly shorter man fixed his glasses and opened the silver briefcase he was carrying. Inside were a handful of test tubes, needles, paper, and other things the bulky one could not identify.

While waiting for his coworker to prep, he studied Cade’s face and frowned. “Weird. You’d think an alien kid would look more…you know, alien. He doesn’t even have Spock ears. You sure this is the right guy, Percy?”

“Adam was genetically engineered to look like a human,” Percy explained. “Besides, his mother had shapeshifting capabilities. So even if he hadn’t been, he’d have likely been able to blend in perfectly anyway.”

“Still finding it weird to think they’re among us,” the shooter said wryly, poking Cade in the ribcage with the barrel end of his shotgun.

“Just him now, as far as we know,” Percy told him as he drew blood from Cade’s forearm. “What’s left of the rest is at our lab.”

He proceeded to inject the drawn blood into a blood tube and cap it before snapping the tube into a small handheld metal device that looked like nothing the shooter had seen before.

“What’re ya doing?”

Percy glared up at him, annoyance in his pale eyes. “You’re paid to shoot, not ask questions.”

The device beeped and he glanced down at the screen. “Yep, perfect match. This is definitely Adam. I need you to get him in the car.”

The shooter grunted. “You’re not going to help?”

Percy snorted. “Who’s the one here who’s got at least fifty pounds of muscle on him? It’s definitely not me.”

“This kid doesn’t have a ton of muscle or fat on him, but he’s gotta be only a couple inches shorter than me and it’s a ten-minute walk to the car. Any help would be useful.”

“Throw him over your shoulder and deal with it.”

The shooter flipped him the finger, which Percy ignored, then did as instructed. “Oof. Let’s get going then, before he wakes up.”

Percy nodded, buckled up his briefcase, and followed his coworker into the forest.

xxx

Series Masterlist

xxx

[bambirex]

Me And Mr. Wolf

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Rating: explicit

Category: m/m

Additional tags: plot what plot/porn without plot, porn with a little bit of plot, sexual tension, resolved sexual tension, roleplay, light dom/sub, doggy style, horny Jaskier/Dandelion, horny Geralt of Rivia, dirty talk, spanking, biting, possessive behavior, rough sex, breeding kink, wolf instincts, (not literally but you'll see), anal fingering, jaskier basically writes smut fanfiction and then gets to experience it, coming untouched

Word count: 3,861

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: Geralt looked at him differently, with an emotion in his amber eyes that Jaskier couldn’t quite decipher, but it looked like hunger. And Jaskier tried to signal to him that it was okay to act upon his desires (if they existed at all, of course), but all his attempts were futile. The tension, the lingering glances and touches remained, and Jaskier felt like tearing his own hair out every day.

(...)

All his frustrations oozed onto the piece of paper before him. That was the only way to truly let it all out, by making up an unabashedly horny song using his typical metaphors. It wasn’t as if anyone would ever hear it; this wasn’t the kind of song Jaskier would have ever played in front of a crowd. That was just for him, only he would know who the big bad wolf and the needy bunny of the lyrics were.

Well, Geralt would probably know, too, what with him living his life with the “white wolf” title plastered to him, and the fact he once fondly said that if Jaskier would be an animal, he would definitely be an over-energetic rabbit.

Lucky that Geralt would never find that song.

Author's notes: What the hell is this, I hear you ask. I don't know either. I had a nasty idea and I jumped onto it. Please, check the tags before reading!!!! Comments are super appreciated, but hate commenters will get their kneecaps stolen! (I'll also be very sad and I'll let you know and make you feel embarrassed, so just don't, please)

I don't know how dicks work so you just have to accept whatever I wrote here lol

Read on Ao3

It was a silly song, really.

Sillier than most of Jaskier’s little jaunty songs about horny daughters of fishmongers, or that ridiculous sea shanty about a drunken selkie man.

Jaskier was usually a fine poet; he appreciated the beauty in the world around him and he made sure to translate those into his songs via decorative metaphors. He poured his joy, his heartbreak and his anger into his creations, touching the hearts of many who listened to them and who needed an outlet for their own feelings.

But, he had other emotions besides the most obvious ones that a songwriter usually penned down, very pent-up and frustrating ones that made him grab the bottle of ink one day and write a ridiculous story, which then grew into a very confusing lyrics of a song.

Jaskier and Geralt has been dancing around each other for months, and it was slowly driving Jaskier crazy. Now, he didn’t even know if the witcher liked men, but his behavior was certainly very strange. His touches lingered on longer as he rested his big hand on the small of Jaskier’s back when he escorted him out of a crowded tavern, or when he gently patted him down to check for injuries after Jaskier once again foolishly got caught up in the middle of a hunt. When he walked past Jaskier, his body always brushed into his, even when there was plenty of place.

Sure, these all could have just been the signs of Geralt finally growing more comfortable around the bard and letting himself open up to the possibility of a friendship, but Jaskier enjoyed making up conspiracy theories, especially if it involved his own feelings for his companion. He’s been aching for Geralt since the day he’s laid his eyes on him in the tavern at Posada, and it has only gotten worse the more time they’ve spent together. Jaskier’s heart- and other parts of his body – wanted and needed Geralt so badly, of course he couldn’t help but hope when Geralt’s behavior towards him changed.

There was only one catch, namely, that even though it seemed like Geralt had become more physically affectionate, he still refused to verbalize his needs, or act on them in a more explicit way. Which left Jaskier endlessly second-guessing what this all meant, drinking up these small moments and always craving more. He couldn’t help but notice this strange tension between them whenever they were close to each other. Something heavy has been hanging in the air around them for a while now, fizzling like cracks of lightning, waiting to blow out into a storm. Geralt looked at him differently, with an emotion in his amber eyes that Jaskier couldn’t quite decipher, but it looked like hunger. And Jaskier tried to signal to him that it was okay to act upon his desires (if they existed at all, of course), but all his attempts were futile. The tension, the lingering glances and touches remained, and Jaskier felt like tearing his own hair out every day.

Not even furiously jerking off each night thinking of Geralt’s hands on his body helped. Jaskier’s body was pulled tight like the strings on his lute, ready to snap.

All his frustrations oozed onto the piece of paper before him. That was the only way to truly let it all out, by making up an unabashedly horny song using his typical metaphors. It wasn’t as if anyone would ever hear it; this wasn’t the kind of song Jaskier would have ever played in front of a crowd. That was just for him, only he would know who the big bad wolf and the needy bunny of the lyrics were.

Well, Geralt would probably know, too, what with him living his life with the “white wolf” title plastered to him, and the fact he once fondly said that if Jaskier would be an animal, he would definitely be an over-energetic rabbit.

Lucky that Geralt would never find that song.

Once he was done, Jaskier shoved the paper deep into his bag. He barely even skimmed the lyrics to check if it was coherent at all. His cheeks felt warm, and there was a growing tightness in his pants by the time he was finished. Fuck it all, he thought. He may never be fucked by Geralt, but he could always write down his lustful fantasies using flower language.

--

“I brought an apple for Roach, but I can’t find it for the life of me!” Jaskier groaned as he patted down his clothes, checking every pocket for the ripe fruit. “She’s gonna hate me now.”

“She doesn’t know you were gonna bring her anything,” Geralt replied calmly from the tree trunk he was sitting on, cleaning his sword. “She can’t read minds.”

“Still, it’s so embarrassing,” Jaskier huffed, “I’m trying to impress a lady here, and I’m failing!”

“Isn’t that just the usual story of your life?”

“That was a low blow,” Jaskier murmured under his nose. He rummaged through his bag, but there was still no sight of the apple. “Ah, shit. I think it might be in my other bag.”

Geralt sighed, then reached down for the embroidered bag by his feet. “This one?”

“My hero,” Jaskier cooed, fluttering his eyelashes at him. “I know I can always count on you, my dear.”

Was that a blush on Geralt’s cheeks, or was this a cruel game Jaskier’s eyes played on him?

“You would lose your own head if it wasn’t attached to your neck,” Geralt grumbled as he opened Jaskier’s bag, reaching inside to shorten the process a little bit. He knew that if he’d let Jaskier continue his frantic search, the apple would never see the light of day.

By that time, Jaskier had completely forgotten about the song he wrote a couple days prior, about him and Geralt fucking, disguised as animals. He didn’t even recognize the piece of paper in Geralt’s hand.

It took several moments of heavy silence and seeing Geralt’s eyes widening as he read whatever was written on the paper for Jaskier to realize that it was his horny-frustration song Geralt was reading.

He practically flew over to Geralt to try and snatch it out of his hands, but Geralt was faster, rising from the trunk and holding the paper out of Jaskier’s reach. Jaskier desperately jumped up for it, panic swirling in his chest.

“You wrote a new song,” Geralt stated. His voice was calm as usual, but there was also something else to it. Jaskier didn’t know what it was, but it made chills run down his spine.

“It’s shitty, just a silly little thing,” Jaskier said, forcing out a laugh. He could feel his face flaming, and he was pretty sure Geralt could see it. “I was gonna throw it away. Did you find the apple?”

“The lyrics is interesting,” Geralt said, his eyes drifting back to the paper. He licked his lips, slowly. Jaskier watched his tongue, his own mouth running dry.

“Why would the bunny want to be fucked by a wolf, and not another bunny? Why does he want the wolf so bad?”

“Since when are you so interested in my, I quote, ‘empty nonsense sang by my fillingless pie of a voice’? It’s just a song, Geralt,” Jaskier scoffed. He made another attempt at reaching for the paper, but he was stopped by Geralt’s hand around his wrist. He had a strong grip, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make him halt. Jaskier swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the way his whole body heated up by Geralt’s touch.

Geralt’s eyes darkened as he looked at him. He stepped closer. Jaskier wasn’t all that shorter than him, but right now, it felt like Geralt was towering over him. It made Jaskier feel small and weak, in a way that was equal amounts intimidating and thrilling.

“The bunny seems very frustrated,” Geralt continued. Jaskier felt his breath on his face. He had to bite down on his lower lip to stifle a whimper.

“Poor thing is constantly humping the ground. Why doesn’t he just tell the wolf he wants to be fucked?”

Something about the way he asked that question, and how his pupils dilated, made Jaskier realize they weren’t really talking about the song anymore. Geralt may have been oblivious, but not this much. He clearly understood the metaphors, and now he was giving Jaskier the chance to explain himself. He needed to take this risk: he would either majorly embarrass himself by misinterpreting this whole situation, or he could finally get what he wanted and put an end to this weird tension between them.

“He keeps telling him,” Jaskier said, his voice wavering slightly. “Maybe not outright saying it, but he keeps giving signs. The wolf is just dense.”

Geralt chuckled. “Is that so?”

“He keeps looking at the bunny hungrily, but doesn’t do anything about it,” Jaskier bit his lip, daring to move a little closer himself, until their noses nearly brushed. Geralt didn’t move away. “It’s driving the bunny crazy.”

“Maybe he just wants to eat the bunny. A wolf is a predator, after all.”

“He would have already done that, then. He’d had plenty of opportunities, but he’d never hurt the bunny. He keeps letting the bunny follow him everywhere he goes, and sometimes it almost seems like he likes him. Am I wrong about that?”

Geralt hummed. There was a small smile playing on his lips, barely there, but it still gave Jaskier hope.

“I think you may be right,” Geralt replied. He gently run his thumb across the vein in Jaskier’s wrist, making him shiver. “But maybe the wolf isn’t dense, he’s just never met such an eager bunny before.”

“Are you saying that the big bad wolf is afraid of the tiny bunny?” Jaskier grinned cheekily, unable to help himself. The unexpected slap on his ass made the air in his lungs hitch, and his cock stir in his pants.

“Maybe the bunny should be more careful around the wolf,” Geralt growled. Impossibly, his voice went even deeper. It made Jaskier tremble with need. He didn’t even try to hide the quiet moan that fell from his lips, this time.

“The wolf could destroy him.”

“He wants to be destroyed,” Jaskier breathed. Daringly, he took Geralt’s hand and placed it back on his bum, sighing in bliss when Geralt squeezed it. “He’s been dreaming about it for long months, haven’t you read the lyrics?”

“He wants to be impaled on the wolf’s cock,” Geralt read the line, a teasing edge to his voice. “He wants the wolf to re-arrange his guts.”

“Okay, probably not my finest lines,” Jaskier cringed, “but sue me… I mean, the bunny. He’ll die if he doesn’t get to feel the wolf’s huge dick inside him.”

With a deep, guttural growl, Geralt dropped the paper, then surged forward and smashed his lips against Jaskier’s. His fingers dug into his buttocks through the material of his trousers possessively as he licked into Jaskier’s mouth, his tongue slipping past his lips, coaxing his mouth open. Jaskier obeyed him willingly, moaning as Geralt’s teeth dug into his lower lip.

His own hands flew up, desperately tugging at Geralt’s hair. He pressed his body closer to him, grinding himself against Geralt’s pelvis. He gasped in delight when he felt the hardness in Geralt’s trousers pressing back against him.

This was really happening, that part of his brain that was still able to make coherent thoughts, reminded him. Finally, finally, Geralt understood the message. Jaskier wished it didn’t happen through his embarrassing mess of a song, but he gladly took what he could get.

Jaskier whimpered when Geralt pulled away, desperately chasing his lips. Geralt smirked, giving Jaskier another curt spank that had him arching into his touch.

“How does a male bunny go into heat, by the way?” Geralt laughed. Jaskier groaned, quickly shutting Geralt up with another kiss. He nipped at Geralt’s lower lip, enjoying the way Geralt’s hips shot forward in response.

“Is he still in heat?” Geralt pressed further. He moved to Jaskier’s neck, licking at where his pulse thrummed quickly. He took the pale skin between his teeth, making Jaskier let out a high-pitched whine as he marked him, sucking a deep blue bruise into his neck.

“Yeah,” Jaskier moaned, his aroused body deciding to stop feeling embarrassed about his ridiculous lines. He needed Geralt so badly, he felt like might actually truly die. His body felt like it was going to explode any second, and Geralt’s lips on his neck didn’t help. He swore under his breath as Geralt’s hot breath ghosted over the blooming bruises on his sensitive skin. He was being marked, being owned by Geralt – the sheer possessiveness of it all nearly sent him over the edge right there. He tilted his head back, exposing more of his throat. He was the perfect prey, and Geralt was the perfect predator.

The exact opposites of each other, and yet, that was exactly what made them work.

“The wolf needs to take care of it,” Jaskier panted as he rocked against Geralt’s body. “They ended up fucking in the song, Geralt…”

“Don’t worry,” Geralt drawled into his ear, his large hands travelling over Jaskier’s body, squeezing and pinching and caressing everywhere he could reach, “the wolf wants the bunny just as bad. He’s gonna fuck that little bunny within an inch of his life.”

That in itself nearly made Jaskier come into his pants. He cursed under his breath as he whipped around and fell to the ground onto his hands and knees, not caring the slightest about how ridiculous he must have looked like. His sheer need clouded every single rational thought inside his brain; there was no more shame, no more second-guessing. They wanted the same thing, and it was finally time to tangle up in each other after months of excruciating tension.

“That’s a very needy bunny,” Geralt chuckled behind him. Jaskier lifted his butt higher, wiggling it with a whimper.

“And that’s a very slow wolf,” he shot back, “I thought he said he wanted to fuck the bunny, so what is he waiting for!?”

Geralt slapped his ass again with a growl. Then again, and again, until Jaskier was a panting mess, desperately humping the ground like the bunny in the song. His ass stung with every slap, making Jaskier crave more of the delicious pain. He arched his back needily when Geralt yanked down his pants along with his underwear.

He heard the pop of a bottle opening, and immediately there was a cool, wet finger circling his entrance. He moaned at the realization that Geralt was carrying a certain oil with him, probably hoping to do this for a while now.

“The wolf needs to hurry up,” Jaskier hissed, “if he keeps playing, the bunny will hop onto a different wolf’s dick.”

Jaskier felt quite triumphant as Geralt growled again. He pressed his finger inside not too gently, the stretch burning just enough to make shivers run down Jaskier’s spine. He shut his eyes tight, rocking back against the finger inside him. The callouses on Geralt’s finger felt rough against his sensitive insides, making him keen. He spread his legs further apart, welcoming the second, then the third finger inside. Geralt scissored them, stretching him wide open. He rubbed that sensitive spot inside Jaskier, making him see stars.

“Please,” Jaskier moaned, canting his hips backwards, fucking himself on Geralt’s hand. “The wolf knows the bunny is in heat, he can’t keep making him wait…”

Just like that, Geralt removed his fingers. Jaskier mourned the loss of them for a couple seconds, until he heard the sound of Geralt unbuckling his belt behind him.

There was something so incredibly raw and animalistic in fucking like this, out in the open, with only their pants undone, too impatient to do much foreplay. The whole thing made Jaskier’s blood buzz inside his veins pleasantly; that was what he wrote about in the song, after all. The wolf fucking the living soul out of the bunny, taking him fast and rough, the way they both needed it.

Jaskier gasped as he felt the pressure of Geralt’s cock against his rim. He’s expected Geralt to be big – he hoped he was, even- but the reality of it made him tense up momentarily. He whimpered at the burning ache, clawing at the ground.

“Are we sure the bunny can handle it?” Geralt breathed against his neck, raising goosebumps all over Jaskier’s skin. “He might be too delicate to take the wolf.”

“He’s not,” Jaskier moaned. He took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles as much as he could. Slowly, the head of Geralt’s dick pushed inside. Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head as it stretched him, slowly but mercilessly pushing inside him. “Ah, fuck. He can take it, he needs it!”

Geralt caressed his bare hip gently as he buried himself to the hilt. He moved his hips gently at first, letting Jaskier get used to the stretch. Jaskier arched his back impatiently as the ache subsided, giving place to pleasure.

“Come on, now,” he groaned, wiggling on Geralt’s dick and making him swear, “the wolf is a wild animal, isn’t it? He should act like one!”

His voice died on a gasp as Geralt shoved his hips forward. Jaskier felt so full, stretched and owned in every way, and he fucking loved it. He gripped onto handfuls of grass, mouth falling open on loud moans as Geralt started pistoling into him, not holding back anymore.

“Is that what the bunny wants?” Geralt rasped, his fingers digging into Jaskier’s hips, hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises there. His hips shot forward at a maddening speed, knocking the breath out of Jaskier’s lungs. “To be taken apart by the wolf?”

“Yes!” Jaskier screamed. He was surely going out of his mind. This was even better than what he imagined, better than the nasty little fantasy he wrote down: the reality of Geralt’s girth inside him, the delicious pain of being filled to the brim by him, the sound of his deep moans and their skin slapping against one another was beyond everything Jaskier has ever imagined. It was all so nasty, so absurd in a way that thrilled him to no end.

Geralt let go of his hips to drape himself across Jaskier’s back, his body covering his and pushing him further into the grass. He braced himself with his hands on the ground by Jaskier’s head, his hips thrusting in and out of him without any support – it really felt like they were a pair of wild animals coupling. Geralt growled, and Jaskier whined, their sounds creating a confusing, sinful orchestra.

Geralt tilted his hips and drove the head of his cock straight into Jaskier’s prostrate. Jaskier cried out, pushing his own hips back to meet Geralt halfway. There was a tiny string of drool dripping down his chin as he was getting fucked out of his mind, jaw hanging slack and eyes half-lidded in bliss.

“The wolf is going to come all over the bunny’s pretty bum,” Geralt whispered into his ear. He grinded himself into Jaskier’s sweet spot, making them both moan in unison. “Gonna show everyone who the bunny belongs to.”

That sounded wonderful, the idea of Geralt’s cum joining the decoration of bruises on his hips, but Jaskier had different ideas.

“No,” he whimpered, twisting his head to look back at Geralt. His witcher’s eyes were dark, his hair escaped his ponytail, messily framing his face. The strong, wild white wolf, so dangerously beautiful. And he was Jaskier’s.

“The bunny wants to be bred,” Jaskier moaned, face burning with his words that stumbled out of his mouth carelessly, his brain to mouth filter even flimsier now that he was mad with lust, all his darkest fantasies coming to life as he was coming apart, speared on his wolf’s cock.

“He wants to be bursting with the wolf’s seed.”

The sound that ripped out of Geralt’s chest would have been terrifying in any other situation. Right now, it made the heat coiling inside Jaskier’s belly flare up even more.

“The wolf’s gonna breed him full,” Geralt rumbled, driving himself impossibly deeper inside Jaskier, “gonna pump a litter into the bunny.”

By the gods and all the higher entities out there, this shouldn’t have been the sentence that made Jaskier blow his load with an embarrassingly loud, half-sobbing half-screaming moan- but then again, everything they’ve done today was so wrong in all the best ways, Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised, really. His vision blurred for a couple moments as he spilled onto the ground beneath him, his body trembling and twitching with the force of his orgasm.

His hole tightened around Geralt, making Geralt practically howl as he desperately chased his own completion. He sunk his teeth into the back of Jaskier’s neck, biting down hard on the skin until Jaskier screamed, his spent cock twitching one more time as the wonderful pain exploded in his nerve endings.

Geralt kept his teeth around his neck as he fucked him, growling and hissing as he reached the edge. His hips stilled inside Jaskier, and he let out a shaky breath as he came deep inside him. Jaskier closed his eyes, his lips curling into a tired, but very pleased smile as Geralt emptied his load into him.

They stayed like this for a while, Geralt still inside him, panting against Jaskier’s back. He gently kissed over the bitemark on Jaskier’s neck, soothing the pain with his tongue. Jaskier sighed happily, a very pleasant exhaustion settling into his bones.

“And you say my songs don’t have power,” Jaskier chuckled tiredly, “how long do you think we would have kept this stupid façade up otherwise?”

Geralt hummed softly, kissing Jaskier on the cheek gently. Nowhere was the animalistic horniness now, seeping out of them as they both came down from their high.

“Your metaphors are incredibly on the nose,” Geralt murmured, “at least you could have made some effort and not make the wolf white, or the bunny brown with blue eyes.”

“Leave my horny song alone!” Jaskier whined. “That was my only outlet!”

“Not anymore,” Geralt grinned, gently cupping Jaskier’s jaw and making him turn his head to kiss him on the lips, sweetly, languidly, until Jaskier practically melted against his mouth.

“Not anymore,” Jaskier repeated with a dreamy sigh. He pecked Geralt on the lips one more time, before he patted his bicep with a smile. “Now, as much as I like how this all turned out, I think the big bad wolf should pull out of the little bunny now. We still haven’t found that apple for Roach.”

“Hmm. I thought the bunny would like to go for another round. He could show the wolf how well he can hop. On the wolf’s dick, maybe.”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, but he didn’t have the heart to argue. Instead, he gently pushed Geralt off and flipped them around with a triumphant grin.

[instantbreplay]

Note: I really wanted to post this, but I decided to make it into parts because there are a lot of characters to go through. Consider this part 1!

Recently, I’ve been listening to Twisted Wonderland English voice headcanons, and I agree with some but not others but that’s the point of headcanons. They’re always someone’s thoughts, and sometimes they fit perfectly! So, I wanted to give my headcanons for the Twisted Wonderland cast.

Part 1: Heartslabyul

Ace Trappola — Max Mittleman

Most known for:

Saitama in One Punch Man

Ryuji Sakamoto in Persona 5

Arataki Itto in Genshin Impact

I chose Max because I agreed with a few other headcanons! Max, during his performances as Itto and Ryuji, has a very playful and mischievous tone of voice and as Saitama, he can perfect a voice that’s nonchalant, a bit bored, and blunt which summarizes Ace as a whole. When thinking of Saitama, I remembered his scream when he punched Vaccine Man with one punch and got mad and when he told Genos to get to the point, and that could fit with Ace as he signed a contract with Azul and had a sea anemone growing out of his head and got crushed by a cauldron.

Deuce Spade — Johnny Yong Bosch

Most known for:

Vash the Stampede in TRIGUN (original from 1998) and TRIGUN: Stampede (2023 reboot)

Lelouch Lamperouge in Code Geass

Ichigo Kurosaki in Bleach

Personally, as a girl who loves both TRIGUN shows, I loved the way Johnny performed; as Vash in both versions, he maintained a kind and gentle voice while also being silly and giving out the best surprised shouts or nervous chuckles at the right moments. This would make Deuce very memorable as Deuce has a bit of Vash’s personality towards his friends but still maintains a little of his delinquency from his past and acts more of a tough guy when certain challenges arise such as when his opportunity to play in Spelldrive came, but after playing Ichigo, I doubt that would be an issue to give a rough voice.

Trey Clover — Alejandro Saab

Most known for:

Cyno in Genshin Impact

Izumi Miyamura in Horiyama

Yuri in Fire Emblem: Three Houses

This was another one I agreed with as Alejandro is the king of voice range! Trey is the calmest yet one of the firmest vice housewardens, and sometimes can go out of character a bit when it comes to brushing teeth. Alejandro fits this as I heard him play the most serious yet punniest Genshin Impact character, Cyno, who breaks character to break the tension in the room through jokes, but he is also capable of being a gentle soul who comforts like Miyamura or someone as calculating and diligent as Jing Yuan in Honkai Star Rail.

Cater Diamond — Kaiji Tang

Most known for:

Osamu Dazai in Bungo Stray Dogs

Satoru Gojo in Jujutsu Kaisen

Gengo in Naruto Shippuden

I won’t lie; finding Cater’s voice actor was difficult until I stumbled upon Kaiji who voices Osamu and Gojo, two playful and supernaturally powerful men with quips and mischief. When Osamu said thanks to Chuuya after telling him to go into enemy fire to die, I knew this fit Cater too well as Osamu, like Cater, is depressed but keeps a smile on his face with a fun, joking tone with any situation, and like Gojo, Cater is a bit flirty (not womanizer flirty). Although he might have a little more of a feminine sounding voice because it is canon in the Japanese version that he is bisexual, I'm sure it would still be fitting to have Kaiji as his actor.

Riddle Rosehearts — Billy Kametz

Most known for:

Naofumi Iwatani in The Rising of the Shield Hero

Ferdinand von Aegir in Fire Emblem Warriors: Three Hopes

Josuke Higashikata in JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Diamond is Unbreakable

Not only was Billy Kametz talented with line delivery, but he brings out the personality of his character that playing Riddle would have been magnificent. It is unfortunate that he passed on, but I still appreciate his work. What really made me choose him for Riddle was his performance as Anai in the Sanrio anime Aggretsuko because Anai was one to get easily sensitive over everything, feeling as if he was being personally attacked because he didn't like how one of his coworkers phrased their words to him. Because Billy played such a stickler, his voice would have suited Riddle in better ways than imagined with other voice actors, especially when he gets upset or angry or even overblots.

[hellogirlslikegirlslikeboysdo]

And the lights are not fluorescent, and there are no words on the page. - Zuihitsu/Hybrid Essay

Author's Preface and Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7

Description: My final portfolio for one of the creative writing courses I took based around exploring the creative nonfiction essay in its many literary forms, with any and all identifying names or signifiers censored out.

This essay may not actually, in the most technical sense available, “pass” as a submission to the “Essay 3: Zuihitsu/ Hybrid” assignment.

If you are interested in financial compensation for your loss, feel free to contact us at 1-800-THIS-AUTHOR-IS-PHYSICALLY-ALLERGIC-TO-UNDERSTANDING-BASIC-DIRECTIONS. We are taking the time and liberty to inform you of this upcoming inconvenience not only as a hook for the first line of this essay, nor to plead “ignorance of the literary law” during its grading process, but rather to provide a reference point based in where said essay is coming from, and where it plans on going for the remainder of its duration.

As we’re sure you’ve found in your time as an academic instructor working at [REDACTED], [REDACTED]’s famous claim of a “gradeless” curriculum in the traditional sense (ie. a lack of letters or percentiles) may hold up in the previously mentioned technical sense (excluding the GPA our final evaluations get translated into during the grad school application process), however, most of the expectations and requirements professors hold in their classrooms act as a sort of “pass/fail” grading system anyway, though the unique teaching philosophy shared amongst them and facility tends to inspire only two genuine points of grading criteria: “Is the assignment complete in provable effort and its entirety?” and “Does it follow the awarded instructions?”

After countless scouring on the internet, our class notes, the description and examples left in the Canvas page, and our memory of class the day you explained it, we have come to the dreaded conclusion that this essay may not fit the second criterion.

Our continued rough drafting is committed, rather, to the hope that our confusion on the nature of the hybrid essay, the actual difference between Zuihitsu poetry vs Zuihitsu essay writing, the necessity of following a particular theme or idea throughout, the assigned process behind this essay, each supposed segment’s expected length or whether this portion’s subject matter qualifies it as an actual part of the essay, or even the correct way to separate each section, will somehow act in the spirit of Zuihitsu literature: Following the pen wherever it leads you.

Wish us luck, dear reader.

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

I found the same kind of fun in the animal diary that I find in all our in-class hands-on work: Obvious, self-explanatory, and buried deep within the depths of the most artistic/freeform aspect of the activity. Like clockwork, it requires me to brush away the specks of uncertainty in the directions, my withered hands revealing the big, bright label plastered on top.

It reads exactly how you imagine it reads: “See!! See, look, I told you I was here! You were so focused on making sure this assignment helped you towards your next essay, you thought you wouldn’t have room for me, but here I am, idiot! You’re having a good goddamn time drawing a funky little platypus, and it’s all thanks to me! Leave your thank you on the way out, ya dumb bitch!”

Apart from the question of why this metaphor requires a labeling gun with such long stickers, one has to wonder what disgusting alleyway all that distracting stress crawled out of. The supposed safety net of my professors, generally speaking, knowing what exactly they’re doing (those PHDs don’t exactly just pop into existence one day) does quite little to sway this approach to learning in all its hypervigilance. I’ve posited many theories over the years, tangentially and never allowing myself the time for a full conclusion; It could be the looming threat of how little time I have to devote to brainstorming how to attack my assignments, maybe the unshakable internal insistence (blame capitalism or the public schooling for that, either’s a fine scapegoat and the “why” is too abstract to help me in the middle of class) that learning has to be productive towards a traceable later goal, instead of myself as a whole and an academic (if I have nothing tangible to show for my efforts, how can I be sure I even followed the directions correctly?).

The most troubling option, embarrassing as it is for someone who claims to prioritize her career as a writer above all else, is that I’m simply trying to justify using the skills and techniques as they are given to me, in hopes that the results they wield in class are shiny enough for me to actually use them outside of the class.

I do wonder if I took the animal diary this seriously when I first encountered it. My memory flickers under the winds of time, but I’m leaning towards no.

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

It does, of course, come to my attention what asking for clarification on the instructions could do, but the things classification has done in the past (make just as little sense as before, confuse me further, led my mind even farther from the intended understanding, you know the drill) brushes the thought away.

Years of fractured, sprawled-out education has taught me my best approach for tasks I’m not fully sure about is to set my concerns aside and simply go with what I think is best, consequences be damned!

(And by damned, I mean, as I’m sure you guessed, professionally dealt with at a later date.)

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

Maybe the apologetic, justifying tone gives me away, maybe it's the heavy overarching theme in this freeform-style essay, but I should confess that my current thoughts are mixed in the way they always are. Half are swirling around the task at hand and what little attention I can pay to it (as always). The other half is on what I really wish I was writing (ie. what I am always thinking about, somewhere, way in the back): Whatever nonsense my brain has deemed flashy enough to name my current hyperfixation (The Stanley Parable at the moment I’m writing this, though I’m sure it’ll have changed by the time I come back to edit this).

That latter half, of course, brings me to the conundrum I’ve left out to dry ever since I labeled myself a writer. I want to spend this entire essay rambling on about this stupid little video game, and its two stupid little main characters, and the actually brilliant way they need each other more than the narrative itself needs them in one blog-style expository essay, well underneath 750 words. But that just won’t work, in the same way that what I wish I was writing even more than that (fiction, prose in particular) won’t work either. In the simplest of terms, that’s not what this assignment is about. And in order to actually learn, to grow as a writer, I can’t just write what I want to. I have to write what I need to.