#changing up my format

[starshipcaptainjojo]

Continuation (sort of) of this writing prompt

So Sunspot is on your couch under your heating pad while Elliot fusses over him like this is totally normal.

You made tea. The baby’s asleep and your husband won’t be home for a while yet- you called him already but he said “Is he staying for dinner?” like this was all totally normal.

So.

Sunspot. On your couch. Totally normal.

“I’m late for club,” Sunspot rasps unhelpfully when you shove tea under his nose, careful not to slosh it onto the bandages wrapped around his neck. “I need to go home and rest.”

“You have a concussion,” you didn’t mean to use Mom Voice but, alas. Mom Voice it is. “You’re sitting here, awake and drinking tea, while we figure out what to do with you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sunspot says, surrendering to Mom voice.

“My teacher Mr. Right wouldn’t criticize you so much if he knew you saved my life,” Elliot tells Sunspot, sitting crosslegged by the couch helping you peel potatoes for dinner. A dinner Sunspot- AKA Eliot’s teacher Mr. Holman Right- will apparently be staying for.

“I think he would,” you grumble, and Sunspot laughs wetly from the couch.

“It’s cool that a super hero is here,” Elliot says speculatively, testing out if you’ll go on one of your usual anti-heroics tangents.

“Better here than anywhere else,” you agree sourly. “After this stunt you’re both grounded.”

Elliot complains, something about doing the right thing, something about villains ganging up on you.

You only tune back in when he mentions Sistern and Jumbro.

“What were they doing with you?” You dart a glance over at Sunspot, who is suspiciously quiet.

“They attacked the comic shop. Said it was for nerds.” Elliot looks away. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it but-” he cuts himself off with a sharp look at Sunspot.

Sunspot already knows you’re Barracuda. You had this conversation the first day you met in plainclothes at Elliot’s school.

“Sunspot and I used to work together,” you tell your son, whose eyes light up with annoying amounts of hero worship. “He made the right decision bringing you here.”

“Used to? What, you retiring already?” Sunspot’s concussion is making him giddy. It’d worry you but he’s also heckling you, so he’s probably fine.

“Elliot go set the table. We’ll eat when your father gets home. You can play videogames once the table is set.” You point to the kitchen, but Elliot’s already moving. The most motivated teenager ever now that videogames are on the table.

With Elliot out of the room you sit on a chair across the coffee table from Sunspot laid out on your couch.

“Why are my former colleagues going after kids?” You drink your tea and watch Sunspot rub his eyes tiredly.

“No villains like you anymore, Barracuda.” He shrugs helplessly, “the era of villains is pretty much ending. I’m a glorified status symbol for the city. Sistern and Jumbro are not long for this world.” He quirks a sad smile. “They want their boss back. Your shoes are too big to fill you know.”

“Sounds almost like you miss me,” you tease.

“I do.” He says it so candidly that it makes your heart clench. “These new villains want to harm the world because the world hurt them. You are a class act.” He shakes his head. “You wanted to topple the world to make it better for yourself. Kids these days just want to watch the world burn.”

“That why you became a teacher?” You push the plate of saltines at Sunspot insistently. He takes one and nibbles it obediently.

“If I can save even one kid from becoming another Jumbro, I will feel accomplished.” He smiles wryly, “and if that makes you want to blow up another statue of me I really wouldn’t mind it.” 

“I appreciate you saving Elliot. Not that I’m surprised you did it of course.” You cross your legs. “The hero commission should give you some backup instead of a commemorative statue.”

“Nah they’d rather pay cops to shoot kids.” Sunspot lies back and closes his eyes.

“Eyes open, Sunny Boy.” You snap your fingers twice and his eyes flutter open. “Concussion watch.”

He sits up by force of will, listing to the side a little before righting himself.

“I never liked that you called me Sunny Boy you know...”

“That, Sunny Boy, is why I called you Sunny Boy.”

He shakes his head. “Sunspot. It refers to-”

“The spot on your face?” You raise your eyebrows and he seems surprised you mentioned it. In thirty years of beating the hell out of each other you’ve never once talked about it.

“So you can see it,” he mused.

“Of course I can see it. A birthmark in the shape of the sun on your shoulder? Kind of hard to miss.” Heroes. Honestly. You wave a hand dismissively. “Not sure how you lived a normal life with something like that.”

He smiles wryly. “I cover it at school.”

“I know. That was a joke, Sunny.”

“I like that it’s a birthmark.” He smiles at you, all tired eyes and barely healing wounds. You patched him up earlier but you itch to clean him up again. It’s an almost maternal thought- which is a little gross honestly. Mom-mode is hard to turn off. “Seemed weird to me you never wanted to acknowledge the ‘spot’ part.”

“I’m a woman, Sunny.” You gesture to yourself in case he missed that fact over thirty-plus years. “If you think I’m going to comment on an aspect of someone’s appearance that they can’t change, I’m no better than those douchebros or corporate leeches trying to set human interaction and empathy back decades.”

He laughs, and coughs because his throat was strangled by Jumbro.

You... might have to come out of semi-retirement for a day to set Jumbro on the right path.

You haven’t bitten off a dick since you got married. Harold might be into it, if you explain the situation to him first.

Food for thought.

“You’re smiling.” Sunspot raises his eyebrows. “And you’re showing Barracuda teeth.”

“You remember how they said I used to bite penises off?”

He crosses his legs. “Yes.”

“Did you ever think I really did it?“

“No,” he says, legs still very crossed.

“Liar.” You lean back in your seat. “I was just thinking Jumbro might benefit from losing what tiny dick he has.”

“Please don’t castrate a stupid man for me with your teeth. Feels... wrong somehow.” Sunspot sighs. “You never threatened me with that either, but they said you had a taste for... manflesh.”

You both scoff a laugh at that phrasing.

“If I did bite dicks off- which I am not admitting to- I wouldn’t be interested in doing it to you. You don’t seem to be obsessed with yours so taking it from you might not even do anything.”

You’re lying.

Well, you’re not lying. But the idea of going anywhere near Sunspot in an intimate- or even predatory- way never even crossed your mind.

If you’re honest with yourself-

“It’d be too weird, anyway,” you deflect.

He grimaces. “Wholeheartedly agree.”

The door mercifully opens and closes and Harold gets home. He finds you both sitting across from each other in silence, leans down and pecks you at the whorl of your hair.

“Sunspot. Nice to meet you. Hon, I’m gonna check on the brat, then we can eat. You guys look so awkward it physically hurts me. Work it out before it spoils dinner.”

He then pauses, your perfect crazy husband. He turns to Sunspot and holds out a hand. The two men shake, looking seriously at each other.

“We missed you at our wedding,” Harold says, not letting Sunspot’s hand go. “But obviously you’ve been keeping an eye on Elliot. So. You know. Open invitation to dinner. Always.”

“I thought the wedding invite was a joke,” Sunspot admits. 

“Nope,” you and Harold say together.

Harold steps back, nodding to himself. “Alright. Well. Work the awkwardness out, then we’re eating.” He gives your shoulder a squeeze, then heads to the den yelling the countdown to his arrival that makes Elliot save his game in a hurry.

“He’s very nice.” Sunspot sits back down. “Couldn’t picture you marrying someone but... he weirdly makes sense.”

“He found me bloody in a ditch.” You smile fondly. “He asked if I was gonna bite him.”

“Did you?” Sunspot looks more awake now, which is good.

“Only once he asked me to.” You grin, and Sunspot grimaces.

“Gross. It feels like my sister is trying to tell me about her sexcapades.” He hears the words only after he’s said them, eyes going wide. He covers his mouth.

But he’s right. Also it was hilarious.

“Yeah. I’m glad I don’t know anything about your love life either.” You smile, no teeth this time. He smiles back.

“Got any tips? I’m pathetically single.” Sunspot laughs and coughs again.

“We’ll find you a nice... uh. Girl? Man?” You never really thought about Sunspot's orientation, but a man who wears skintight white spandex could go either way.

“Yes,” Sunspot confirms and you snort a laugh.

You stand up and stretch. “Let’s go have dinner. We can work out what you’re going to do about Jumbro and Sistern afterward. I have some fun ideas for you.”

“No,” he says, but it’s not as firm as it should be. He sways when he walks, but he fusses when you gently support him down the hallway.

Somehow, you both make your way to dinner together like this is totally normal.

[kipine]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

In the shape of you, something new.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[egophiliac]

I have never been more concerned for a JP update from your art than I am seeing a Cheka knowing the context of Leona’s dream.

My bois ok right?????? My sweet nephews ok right??????

well

uhhhh

I'm sure the real one is fine :)

[titenoute]

Meme redraw OG Rayman prefers to choose kindness whenever he can...

V.2 :

But sometimes, you gotta send a message.

[asmogorna]

Ok so for the last couple days ive been ill in the head about The Black Parade as mcr's alter ego/characters and i wanted to share some thoughts i had so far :3

It doesnt align with the canon lore that we have (i didnt really use it for reference at least) so it can be viewed as some sort of an au

I dont know if im gonna give them new names that just sound similar to the names of mcr themselves, so for now i will be referring to them by the names of the band members

So far I've been thinking about the typical "chosen by fate" scenario, where the characters lives lead them through a path for a specific cause

So

Post WW2 England

5 kids under their own circumstances witness a big parade (I will be doing some research and see if it could be some kind of victory celebration parade? It's just that I'm not sure if England had those. Not that I'm aiming for historical accuracy atp it's simple curiosity)

The kids get heavily impacted by that event and carry on (ha) that memory throughout their life

Now to the specifics of the characters cus by God they all gave me a headache

Heads up: they're all british orphans lol

Frank and Bob are students/residents in a Christian orphan school, and later on in life are priests in the town church

The reason why is that they both have badges on their uniform with crosses that could be associated with christianity

(I couldn't find any info about what exactly certain design details could be referencing, so ig it's up to interpretation)

The military theme in Gerard and Mikey's costumes will be explored on later (Mikey's medal could be either The Victoria Cross or The Distinguished Flying Cross, and the symbol on Gerard's shoulder is most likely the Order Of The Garter star)

And I couldn't figure out what to do w Ray, because I'm not sure if his uniform design details reference anything specific 🤷🏾🤷🏾🤷🏾

Now, Gerard and Mikey lost their father to war, and their mother passed away when they were both very young

And after that they ended up in the same orphanage as Ray, befriending him and finding out about their shared passion for music

This doodle was made abt that specifically <3

Later on in early adulthood they decide to start a cabaret band, in which Frank and Bob both join them later, deciding to leave their priest lives behind (partially because iirc both of them kinda fanboyed their way into the band irl lol)

After receiving little recognition, the band decides to take a train to America, to try their luck there. With a lot of hope and determination

That, sadly, doesn't last for long, for the train crushes with no survivors on board

The group crawls out of the collapsed train in their no longer physical forms. Yet, even after their death, they still have a desire to move forward. And that desire, though thoughtlessly, forces them to go forward. The souls of all the other people who lost their lives to the train accident follow them, through the landscape that no longer feels like earth

They then reach the end

Walking in one by one people disappear, finding their own peace and meeting their own finish line

After it's done, The Black Parade now have officially made themselves into what they're supposed to be. Gaining a new purpose and a new sort of life

I got too poetic for my own good here I fear .. anyway

Their job now is to lead the lost and the forgotten to the afterlife

They could be referred to as some kind of a grim reaper, I guess

I'm still thinking about adding more to the story, and maybe I will change some things, but so far this is all I can share really !! I hope if you've read this far you found this entertaining .. this is all for the satisfaction of my urges so I might or might not have too much fun w it in the future :3

The story was mainly inspired by this specific post from Gerard himself, because i liked the concept a lot ..

Also

She's gonna be here as a separate character too probably...... Cus I'm self indulgent and I love the ideas bubbling in my brain

[deerspherestudios]

Hi hello! Short announcement that queue will be 3 posts a day (ask, fanart, and donation link) from now on!

[itsdefinitely]

fun times

[monsterboyblood]

Some very rough concepts for soul core Bass and Proto, with some extra things under the cut like how Bass' buster works and some helmetless ideas for the two of them.

[usagifuyusummer]

More silly and fun practice sketches on the Victorian Era FOP AU lol. Just gonna post them here first while we're still developing this and busy with our real-life duties as students.

There's actually a ton of my thoughts in the alt text of these images lol. I hope it's still there. I will also include the links of the existing posts relating to this AU to keep track of what has been created.

Origin Discussion Posts

Updated Character Designs 1

Updated Character Designs and Concepts 2

Concept Art 1: Boy with a Parasol

Tumblr Asks 1

Credit: @keyintheeye-blog original creator and the default character designer of this Victorian Era FOP AU.

I will post my other thoughts (something like a what's happening update) on the repost of this later. Gotta get back to my unavoidable university duties... Have a nice day tho 💐

[fisherrprince]

Redesigned my sona ( ・∇・)👍

[12thbiologist]

Introduction by N. K. Jemisin, from 10th anniversary Authority reprint

"To my own shame, I've become a jaded reader in recent years. By this, I mean that my enthusiasm and curiosity, my drive to experience new worlds, have all been damaged by a persistent disjunct between reality and the speculative fiction I most enjoy.

"Is it any wonder? Given the horrors of Trump's first regime, the looming threat of another, a global plague allowed to run rampant, and a billionaire backed culture war on the rest of us. I'm more jaded about everything now. Escapism at this juncture feels like a way to temporarily pretend that everything is fine. And while there's value in taking a break from Hell, it also feels dangerous. Like drinking to drown my sorrows. Nothing wrong with alcohol now and again, but nobody needs a steady diet of oblivion.

"What I've found myself seeking instead are philosophies of entropy and survival. That is, fiction that addresses multifaceted decay and the psychology needed to survive it. At this point, to mangle Audre Lorde, the master has handed his tools out freely after designing them to break at first usage, buying out the only shop that could fix them and the only newspaper that tried to report on the scam, and charging all customers a subscription fee. And these days, it's no longer just us marginalized folks who need our media to acknowledge the slow motion apocalypse we're all trapped in.

"Enter, The Southern Reach books. When I first read Annihilation during the run-up to the 2016 election, it was a welcome breath of fungal, fetid air. Other fiction of the time seemed determined to suggest there was no need for alarm. Things couldn't be so bad. Anything broken could be fixed.

"Could it though? As I watched my country embrace a stupid, incompetent, and blatantly criminal fascist while insisting his spiteful, privileged sycophants somehow had a point—Well, when you're already queasy, sweet smells make the feeling worse. It helped to read instead about the smells and sights and horrors and haunting beauty of Area X. It helped me to imagine that creeping transformative infection warping body and mind and environment and institution. Because that was the world I was living in. It helped to meet the 12th expedition's nameless women who were simultaneously individuals, with selfish motivations, and archetypes, trapped in their roles. The biologist, driven by the loss of her mate and the need to integrate into a new ecosystem. The psychologist, a human subjects ethics violation in human flesh. We are dropped into danger with these women, immediately forced to confront an existential threat with courage and perseverance. And this? This was what I needed from my fiction.

"The second book, Authority, was even more what I needed. As we watch Control slowly realize he's never been in control, and that things are a lot worse than his complacency allowed him to see—it just resonated so powerfully. His over reliance on procedure and the assumed wisdom of his predecessor. His dogged refusal to see the undying plant in his office as a sign of something wrong. There was nothing of 2014's politics overtly visible in the book. And yet, they were all over it like mold.

"I've read and written reviews of these books and it seems to me that there's a common misreading that applies. Namely, that they are "climate fiction," or "cli-fi." This clunky label fits superficially, in that climate change occurs during the course of the book.

"However, Area X, with it's inexplicable reality warping power, is a poor metaphor for human caused destruction. Or even for the surreality of climate denial- talk about reality warping. I think a better analytic is to view the books as postcolonial fiction. Per Caribbean Canadian writer Nalo Hopkinson, postcolonial stories take the adventurous repertoire of science fiction—such as traveling to a distant realm and taming the exotic flora, fauna, and people who live there—and from the experience of the colonizee, critique it, pervert it, fuck with it. The characters of The Southern Reach books are only obliquely marginalized. Their races, ethnicities, class distinctions, and other markers of identity are deliberately downplayed, down to the lack of personal names. But they are all women, which is atypical of pretty much any US government agency. Two of them, the Asian biologist and the half-Indigenous psychologist, are racialized. Biology and psychology and anthropology are often dismissed as "soft sciences," in large part because too many women thrive in them. Or because they've done too good a job of reconsidering racial/cultural/ethnic equity and updating practices and personnel to suit.

"As the 12th expedition proceeds into Area X, on the surface it seems they are reenacting a thousand science fiction novels: going forth as intrepid strangers into a strange land. But for any reader who's familiar with those classic narratives, Annihilation's version feels like a setup. Our marginalized protagonists lacking the privileges and power of stalwart square-jawed white men seem doomed from pretty much the moment they enter Area X.

"So, they are the colonizees in this situation and Area X is definitely fucking with them. But as the story proceeds, it becomes clear that they are themselves fucking with that classic adventure dynamic. The psychologist has wholly focused her skills on taming her fellow adventurers, and perhaps herself. The biologist is trying to solve a mystery of identity: something unquantifiable and scientifically immeasurable, more felt than known, and deeply personal. The anthropologist has no one to study, save her fellow expedition members, and only the surveyor seems wholly focused on Area X at all. Perhaps this is why she later tries to kill the biologist. We see the irony of this setup most clearly with Control in Authority. He is the stalwart square jawed man that traditional science fiction has primed us to expect, even hope for, because he'll have the power to solve the situation, right? But Control becomes the proof that no colonizee can ever tame Area X. At best, they might manage to tame themselves.

"By the end of book one, the 12th expedition becomes the first successful one by a colonizer's rubric, in that they manage to share new understandings of Area X with those outside it and in that at least one member of the team survives with her mind and form somewhat intact. The beginning of book two seems to confirm this, as the story shifts to explore the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of the Southern Reach itself. But the expedition members' choices have become the choices of the colonized. Survive or not? Internalize or not? Assimilate or not? They bring these choices to Control, who adds his own familiar, horrifying existential questions. When change seems inevitable and irreversible, can it be controlled to some degree? Can the self remain intact after the mind and body have been "Ship of Theseus"-ed into something unrecognizable?

"This is not to say that climate focused readings are irrelevant to The Southern Reach series. I mean that climate issues are also colonization issues. In that, the worst effects of climate change fall hardest upon the most marginalized. We observe the breakdown of the 12th expedition, an invasive species to this new biome, even as we observe the breakdown of recognizable life within Area X. New configurations of life emerge from this collapse of old structures. Hybridizations, commensalisms, wholesale assimilations. Even our bureaucracies, as evidenced in Authority, form a kind of natural order that can be deconstructed and readapated. Control fails to contain Area X because of another key understanding that the colonized eventually develop: you cannot fight that with which you have become complicit. The best you can do is realize what's happening and hope its not too late by the time you do. Never fear, Area X reassures. Colonization and its associated harms, terrifying and painful as they might be, are not the end—however much traditional science fiction stories might suggest otherwise. Survival is possible if one is lucky, brave, and clever, but it might require a transformation far more nuanced and complex than mere death. And this is a reassurance. Speculative fiction has historically framed colonization as a contest with winners and losers, but its never been that simple. Human beings are syncretic, some element of who and what we were will always remain in what we become. Entropy cannot be stopped but new energy can be added to the system. And those who are caught up in the transformation can claim a degree of that power for themselves. And, ultimately, syncretism means that we are carried forwards regardless, if only in part. Still better than nothing.

"As I write these words, multiple genocides are in progress. I feel no certainty for the future. Half my nation is so enthralled to it's own bigoted fantasies that I neither expect nor particularly want the United States to survive. I do not fear the singularity, sentient AI, or any technological boogeyman. I fear the confluence of greed and shortsightedness and spite that human rights and human consciouses cannot survive intact.

"But new systems emerge, inevitably. After a climate extinction or a natural disaster, ecologies adapt, new entities eventually fill old empty niches, power changes hands, and stories can be deconstructed. Even when the situation is most terrifying, least stable, there will always be those who embrace the change, and perhaps gain new strength from it. It's a bittersweet understanding, but the change is upon us. We're all in Area X, now. If we are lucky, clever, and courageous, we might still recognize ourselves when its all said and done."

-N. K. Jemisin, Authority

[sollucets]

wandee goodday, episode two

[myokk]

remembering the snow

pairing: Imelda Reyes x Poppy Sweeting

word count: 3,2k

summary:

Imelda remembers the first time she saw snow.

Her parents always started the story telling her that she cried and cried and cried.

***

Or: a character study on Imelda and how she grew up because I love her & she doesn't get enough appreciation :)

cw: none, this is just a love letter to Imelda

a/n: or: this was the first oneshot I ever wrote, and it holds such a special place in my heart. I think it might be my favorite 🥹🫶

Imelda Reyes has never been one to do things by halves.

Her mother always talked about the circumstances of her birth with pride: Imelda came quickly as if she were eager to get out and see the world already, screaming even before she had fully left her mother's womb, determined to leave an indelible mark on the world.

The women in their village who had assisted the birth crossed themselves, chattering to each other in quick, soft, beautiful Spanish staccato about the baby who was already unlike any they had ever seen before. Strong and healthy and beautiful, her deep brown eyes already taking in her surroundings and watching them solemnly moments after her arrival.

Her father always talked about the circumstances of her childhood: running wild and free, flying before she could walk (a source of great pride), his little shadow who peppered him with endless questions about the world. He always brought her along to his work meetings much to everyone's delight; she was with him when he was offered the enviable position of Spanish Diplomat to the British Ministry of Magic.

At the age of five, they left the beautiful sleepy village where time hadn't seemed to exist. Imelda still dreams of long, hot, dusty days playing under the shade of orange trees, going to the market every two days with her mother draped in their finest silks, sleeping and lying around during the hottest part of the day, only leaving their house once the sun left its highest point and was about to disappear behind the mountains.

The older women in the village doted on her. If she thinks hard, she can recall their beautiful, wavering voices calling out to her as she raced past them: 'ten cuidado, cariño, te vas a mancar', 'ven aquí, cielo, te quiero ver la cara tan bonita', 'mira cómo se está creciendo, se nota que va a ser una belleza de mayor'...voices filled with comfort and love. She never knew anything different then.

She's their only child. Her mother was always brushing her hair and humming, trying to get her to sit still and listen to her endless fairy tales as the sun bore down on them; her father, treating Imelda like the son he had always wished for but accepting and loving her all the same. Sometimes, her mother would let her out of the house before the sun became too strong and they would fly around the mountains and be free free free.

Arriving to Edinburgh at the age of five, Imelda hadn't even realized she didn't speak the same language as the other children around her. As with everything else, she jumped in headfirst. Her mother always jokes that she became fluent in English the second she stepped foot on Scottish soil. To Imelda, it does seem that way. She can't ever remember not speaking in the soft Scottish burr, reminiscent of the soft Spanish she had left behind and still spoke at home.

As a child, she never had problems forging relationships with whoever was around her. She was brash and inquisitive and irresistible, taking charge wherever she went. The other children flocked around her, hanging on to her every word.

It changed, though, when her mother got her cough. It started out harmless enough, a slight cough and headache before bed each night. When her mother woke up every morning, she would be fine. But going to bed early changed to going to bed even earlier and earlier until it was time to accept what the three of them were steadfastly ignoring: she was getting worse.

Imelda was nine. She remembers her mother drying her tears with gentle, soft hands, caressing her cheeks and whispering to her that it would be fine. That she wasn't gone yet: they still had time.

'No pasa nada, mi amor. Siempre estaré contigo.'

At Hogwarts, things changed even more. She was a Slytherin and proud of it, but she never quite fit in with her classmates. She wasn't one of them, hadn't grown up with them, and they made sure she knew it. Gone were the days of running wild: she turned her single-minded determination to her studies and quidditch and found herself excelling at everything she put her mind to. It all came easily to her and she had no time for anyone who could distract her.

She wasn't a complete loner. She had her quidditch teammates, her partners in various classes, but nobody she hung out with outside of classes. She always studied alone, learned alone, trained alone.

(Of course, the picture she paints to her father in owls home is much different. He has enough on his mind - a daughter struggling to make friends is a non-issue as far as Imelda is concerned. And besides: she's fine.)

Imelda was quite content with the way things were working out for her. She would never admit if she was lonely or not, and enjoyed every part of her life. Until her fifth year, when everything began to change. Gone were her rigid schedules and studying alone and discipline. A new girl was sorted into Slytherin and Imelda found she didn't hate the girl's company. The two of them laugh together at night while they braid each others' hair, Imelda teaches her Spanish, and they have started to study together.

The new student drags her around Hogwarts and Imelda finds herself actually enjoying herself and enjoying spending time with the classmates she’s spent so many years ignoring.

This is when she meets Poppy Sweeting.

Well...Poppy swears that they met ages ago, during their first year when they were partnered together in Potions. Imelda has no recollection - that whole year was a blur - it was the year her mother succumbed to her illness - so she has to take Poppy's word for it.

She finds herself with friends for the first time in a long time. But, when the new student is running off with Sebastian doing Merlin-knows-what, things that Imelda definitely does not want to be a part of, she still finds herself seeking Poppy's company.

Poppy is sweet and fun and introverted in a way that Imelda finds familiar and comfortable: whereas Imelda turns to her studies and quidditch, Poppy often opts to spend time more time with beasts than humans. But there's something endearing about her earnestness and Imelda starts to find herself craving Poppy's calm company.

She always knows what to say when Imelda finds herself getting worked up over nothing.

On the train home for the winter holidays, as Imelda is striding down the long corridor in search of an empty cabin where she can read and concoct fail-proof quidditch tactics, Poppy calls her over to her carriage and asks Imelda to keep her company. She only needs to ask once. There's an unfamiliar fluttering in Imelda's stomach as she sits across from Poppy and the other girl beams at her but it's...well. It's not altogether unpleasant. They play exploding snap and exchange book recommendations and laugh together and...well, if Imelda's knee brushes against Poppy's occasionally or their fingers linger as they exchange essays to look over...

She can't be blamed, can she?

A letter from Poppy arrives over the break. At the sight of Poppy's small brown owl tapping the window with the letter in its beak, Imelda's heart starts racing and she runs over to the bird, grinning like a fool, but she pauses before opening it. Her fingers tremble as they hover over the wax seal.

Imelda's father is largely absent these days, a shadow of the man she had grown up with. She's noticed the difference over the summer too, of course, but the winter always feels different. More desolate; more harsh. They're nearing the four-year anniversary of her mother's death. It's impossible to ignore the fact that losing his wife has damaged his soul irreparably, and Imelda's seeing first-hand what being deeply in love can do to a person.

Maybe she'll put the letter aside and read it tomorrow.

Tomorrow bleeds into the next day turns into one week and before she can blink the bleak winter vacation with her father has ended and she's heading back to Hogwarts.

On the train, she walks past Poppy: the two of them make eye contact but Poppy flushes and looks out the window, tucking her honey-colored hair behind her ear and Imelda moves on to the next empty carriage. She pulls out some parchment and works on revising her Charms essay. It's for the best, anyway, she tells herself. For the best that she doesn't have any distractions. Their O.W.L.s are coming up and she's determined to get an O in every subject.

The month of January goes by in a flash. Between the insane quidditch schedule she's concocted for her team and the study sessions in the library, she keeps herself busy. The new fifth-year, her first real friend, starts to show concern for Imelda, gently trying to ask her what's going on as they braid each others' hair before bed.

Imelda doesn't want to bother her, though.

(She doesn't truly know what's the matter, anyways.)

She resolves to do a better job with keeping her emotions in check - her friend has enough on her plate, and Imelda doesn't want her to have to worry over something that's not even a problem in the first place.

She's fine.

Out of the corner of her eye in the classes she shares with Poppy, Imelda notices that she doesn't look as happy as she normally does. Her face is more pale and withdrawn; whenever Imelda's eyes flicker to her, her own gaze darts away.

With the beginning of February come a lot of blizzards, and they make Imelda remember the first time she saw snow.

Her parents always started the story telling her that she cried and cried and cried.

They had both run over to her, covering her with warm hugs and kisses, the tiny family huddled together in this foreign place where the people looked and spoke differently, where nothing was the same and she missed the old women who would give her mazapanes whenever she ran by, missed the tiny clouds of dust that would puff up as she ran and the hazy mountains in the distance and the hot, hot sun beating down while she played in the shade of the orange trees while her mother slept away the heat. Pulling her mittened hands off of her tear-stained face and telling her 'mira cariño, mira qué bonita es la nieve. Tócala, ya verás que no pasa nada...estamos aquí contigo...'

Her tears had soon dried and she was laughing and playing in the snow and she couldn't even remember what had made her so sad in the first place.

Imelda's sad now as she stares out the window.

Her mother isn't there anymore. She has no one to turn to in this self-imposed exile.

Four years ago today.

She's hidden herself away in an alcove, curled up, arms wrapped around her knees watching the snow swirling out the window. She canceled quidditch practice today due to the storm, much to everyone's surprise. Just last week, she had forced them to train in the freezing rain and today's snowfall is mild in comparison. But...today she doesn't have the energy. She's spent so much effort pretending that everything's fine when it's not and now she's sad and alone and confused.

She doesn't hear Poppy when she comes near.

The other girl crowds into Imelda's space, pressing against her in the alcove. The two face each other, and Poppy brings a gentle hand up to Imelda's face to brush away tears she hadn't even realized were falling.

"What -" Imelda starts saying, but a fresh sob chokes her and she can't. Poppy leans forward and wraps her arms around Imelda, pulling her into a close embrace. Imelda feels everything crumbling around her and she sobs into Poppy's shoulder - Poppy whispering reassurances and smoothing her hair, cradling Imelda as she cries and cries and cries.

They don't leave the alcove for another hour, almost staying out after curfew.

Imelda is subdued the next few days. The snow continues to fall until the whole castle looks like it's straight from one of the fairy tales her mother used to tell her as she brushed her hair. Imelda shows up for meals, shows up for classes, shows up in the study group, but she feels like she's just going through the motions.

She can tell her friend is getting worried, but Imelda can't confide in her. Her friend does small gestures anyways because she understands: saving Imelda a seat in class, asking her about quidditch, saving her favorite muffins for her at breakfast.

Maybe she talked to Sebastian about her worry because even he is being nicer than normal to Imelda, asking her if she wants to play wizarding chess with the two of them. Imelda doesn't really understand how or why they like playing the game so much - her friend is awful at it and Sebastian seems to enjoy the destruction and chaos more than actually strategizing. Even though Imelda hates the game - every move is painfully obvious and she can't understand how nobody else sees it like she does - maybe it would be nice to do something different.

Imelda freezes when they enter the Astronomy Tower to play: Poppy is there, waiting. For her. They haven't seen each other since she broke down humiliated and sobbing and she doesn't know what to do.

Sebastian looks between the two of them, brows furrowed, then leans down to their friend and whispers something in her ear. She nods and the two of them disappear, leaving Imelda and Poppy alone.

Poppy stands and Imelda can feel her heart start to hammer against her throat. Poppy walks forward slowly, only stopping when she's right in front of Imelda. When she speaks, her voice is high and sweet and Imelda realizes how much she missed her. "I-I'm sorry, I just didn't know how else I could talk to you. Will you come with me? I have something to show you."

Imelda nods mutely and Poppy takes her hand. They lace their fingers together and it's the first time - apart from a few days ago - that they have voluntarily touched each other. She feels Poppy's fingers tighten around hers and Imelda focuses on the feeling of soft knuckles under her thumb, but now...she's self-conscious for the first time about her quidditch-rough hands and maybe she should have listened to her friend when she tried to encourage Imelda to use some hand lotion.

Maybe Poppy will let go of her hand and leave in disgust.

But...Poppy doesn't do any of that. Every so often, she looks up at Imelda, smiling slightly. When they reach the Entrance Hall, she lets go of Imelda's hand and Imelda feels its loss with a pang.

Poppy opens the bag at her side and pulls out two huge yellow and black Hufflepuff scarves. As she's reaching up to wrap one around Imelda, she whispers: "sorry, I only have these. But yellow looks good on you."

Both of them flush and smile at each other and Imelda doesn't know how long they stand before Poppy grabs her hand again, making sure their fingers are laced, and then they are heading out.

Poppy looks more and more excited the closer they get to the Forbidden Forest, but Imelda's never set foot even remotely close to the forest, and she feels quite apprehensive at first. But, Poppy's excitement is exhilarating - Imelda can feel it rolling off of her in waves and despite herself, she begins to feel excited too. They still haven't spoken since leaving Hogwarts, but it's a comfortable silence. Imelda's glad for the scarf - their breath is puffing out in soft clouds as they breathe and it's quite cold - the freezing temperatures in Scottish winters are still something she's never quite gotten used to.

Their boots crunch through the snow-filled landscape - it's nearing dusk and the sky is turning a brilliant shade of orange and pink, but it gets obscured by the tree branches the further into the Forbidden Forest they venture, the golden light only showing in bursts now.

"Almost there," Poppy says breathlessly. She beams up at Imelda, whose breath catches at the sight, before turning back and pulling her faster and faster until they stop in a clearing. They've stopped in the middle, and Imelda looks around.

Here, they can actually see the sky and it is breathtaking in its beauty - the gnarled, naked trees around them twisting and reaching up as if they could try and grasp some of the beauty for themselves. The snow is perfectly smooth and untouched except for the footprints that the two of them have just left. Apart from that, the clearing is nondescript.

This is what Poppy had been so excited to show her?

Poppy gives no explanation for why she brought Imelda to the Forbidden Forest, but she's almost quivering in excitement - Imelda can feel the tension in the hand that's clutching hers tightly. The sun sets lower and lower, the two of them watching it as the colors around them start to fade and mute and then -

Poppy gasps in delight.

There -

A small, dancing, brilliant white light sparks to their left and disappears just as quickly.

"Look," Poppy whispers. Imelda glances over to her - she can barely make out her face in the dimming light, but Poppy seems to be glowing with happiness.

There - again -

More and more of the brilliant white lights appear, glowing and flickering on and off, and moving in almost a pattern, dancing around their heads. Imelda laughs as she watches the tiny creatures fly around them. It's magical and beautiful and -

"I found the snow sprite nest a few weeks ago, when the blizzards started, and I've been observing them since then. I...I wanted to show you and tell you about them the second I found out because I haven't stopped thinking about you but after...well, you know...I just wanted to cheer you up..."

Poppy trails off, looking uncertain when Imelda doesn't say anything in response.

She can't, even though she desperately wants to. Her mouth goes dry as she looks to the girl at her side, who has done all of this, for her.

Poppy looks impossibly lovely in the glow of the snow sprites, as they dance and spark around their heads in a beautiful waving pattern and Imelda doesn't even think as her hand goes to Poppy's cheek. Poppy stops rambling as she looks up into Imelda's eyes.

Then, before she can lose her nerve, Imelda leans forward and presses her lips to Poppy's. It's only the lightest of touches, but her heart is beating so quickly and Merlin, she can't believe she just did that. She quickly retreats, face flaming, but before she can get away Poppy reaches up to cup Imelda's cheeks with both hands and she pulls her forward, her mouth greedy, desperate, as they finally kiss.

When they finally pull away, breathing heavily as their foreheads rest against each other, Imelda can't help the huge smile that's threatening to split her face open. It mirrors the expression she sees on Poppy, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed and she is just so lovely that Imelda can't help but lean forward and capture her mouth again. Their lips mold to each other and it's the culmination of all of their stolen glances, touches, secret wishes.

Imelda Reyes has never been one to do things by halves, after all .

A HUGE thank you to @dom1re and @thingsmaygetalittlecrazy for reading this oneshot recently and leaving me such amazing comments on ao3😭♥️♥️♥️ they made me reread this oneshot & I remembered how much I love it🫶

[anartisticalniche]

He noticed some commucion one day as he strolled around the plaza looking around for inspiration.

A crowd of some sort had formed around a corner; they were cheering, laughing at something- or someone- that he couldn't really see, due to the amount of people present.

As he approached the cheering citizens, his eyes lit up at what he witnessed.

A pair of men, two brothers he believed, were performing acts of comedy and telling jokes, keeping the audience they had gathered captivated.

They were foreign, he could tell, as the thick accent reverbted in their joyful voices. Their clothes dirty and broken in places, but the glint in their eyes lightning up whatever state their physical form were at the moment.

The man remained astonished: he could smell talent a mile away, and he believed he had just stepped a mine full of gold with these two.

After everyone had scattered, he approached, and while they remained wary, he simply clapped cheerfully.

"Bravo! You boys put on quite the show! I'm really impressed!"

He bowed down, a gleam in his eye: "My name is SMG4, and I'd like to offer you both an opportunity. How would you fine gentlemen like a better stage than the dirty streets of the Mushroom Kingdom?"

Here we go! First prologue of A Corsair Freebooter, aka how the Mario bros met SMG4.

The poor boys were immigrants that performed around the streets for money, and the blue man himself took a bit advantage of it and recruited them for his plays in theater.

(I want to point out that he doesn't straight up become friends with them... he's a bit of an asshole like in the first era in canon, where he mainly focuses on getting famous and popularity through his work...

He'll get there though in terms of friendship, don't worry!)

[pocheccos]

soft spot.

You shake your head while looking up at Checo, “Been traveling all week, I think it’s catching up to me. I would like to stay somewhere for longer than a couple days.”

sergio perez x gender neutral!reader // word count: 1098 // no major content warnings. mentions of airsickness but nothing happens. just being soft. no use of y/n

rambling. hi, hello! it’s been a hot minute (years maybe a decade, in fact) since i’ve posted any writing onto this site. i wrote this before the news today but this is me coping i guess!! anyways hope u enjoy and hugs to my fellow checo lovers. we are free from the hell that is red bull racing. if my spanish seems off, thats on me. i only speak fluently, but never formally learned how to write/read (im at a first grader level probably). ty ty. how the hell do u format on this thing

You’re nervous on the flight heading to Las Vegas. From the initial take off, your stomach felt uneasy. Thankfully, the Red Bull team had the idea to fly out from Los Angeles, so the flight would be short. Your whole life you’ve never been one to fall prone to airsickness. That would not change today.

You kept your eyes trained to the scenery outside. Your eyes traced mountains and their ridges as a distraction. You mentally ran through your personal schedule for the week. Even as a guest for the team, you were required to complete media duties. A few video shoots with Red Bull and some with your own personal sponsors. Today would be one of your free days; you’d have the chance to adjust to the time zone and settle into your home for the week. You’re so focused on not feeling sick, you don’t even register when someone takes the seat next to you. You only become aware of Checo when he takes your hand into his.

You exhale a deep breath and offer the driver a smile. He drops your hand in exchange for raising the arm rest that separates him from you. Without question, he presses himself against you while wrapping his arm around your shoulders. On instinct, you lean against him while keeping your eyes trained on the window. Your free hand comes up to grip the hand that's draped over your shoulder.

“Since we took off,” Checo begins as he leans to press a kiss to your hair, “has tenido una cara. What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer immediately, choosing to look away from the window and give the man your attention. You shake your head while looking up at Checo, “Been traveling all week, I think it’s catching up to me. I would like to stay somewhere for longer than a couple days.”

Your offered reason wasn’t a complete lie, you were tired. You felt as if you were being pulled in a different direction at every turn. Even if you were in a beautiful city for an event, you had to adhere to a schedule.

Coupled with the stress of watching your partner struggle in his sport, you felt drained. Checo, even Max, had expressed their frustrations to you after races. Complaining that their cars were not responding to them or that the team refused to acknowledge that their beloved car wasn’t the fastest anymore. You were waking up at odd hours during race weekends only to see both Red Bull drivers struggle to get points.

The media had managed to get under your skin, unfortunately. You had grown accustomed to being on the end of good and bad press with your own career. But seeing your partner casually slandered each week was different. It was easy when the boys performed well. Though a bad performance meant the press could lob every doubt and criticism with little remorse. It felt as if you were the one being stabbed with each word.

Unconvinced brown eyes stare into yours, waiting for you to admit the real reason. Checo doesn’t press the subject further, but you see how his eyes beg for you to confide in him. Perhaps in a more private setting, you would. You could discuss it in his native tongue for an extra sense of privacy, but you didn’t want to feel vulnerable on a plane.

Perhaps you were being dramatic. You had no real reason to be this distraught over his race results. You weren’t a part of the Checo’s garage. You weren’t there to change his tires, to fix his car after receiving damage, and you weren’t strategizing on his behalf. You were just the significant other. The Red Bull affiliated athlete that happened to be dating a Formula One driver. Others would tell you to focus on your own sport.

Still, the anxiety chose to manifest.

“Mi vida,” Checo says and it pulls you out of your mental spiral. You see the concern taking over his face, and it makes you feel guilty. You didn’t want to be on his list of worries for the weekend. Checo would argue against that thought, give you a kiss and remind you that he wanted to support you as you did him.

”You’re under a lot of pressure this weekend.” You begin, “I’m hoping that this weekend treats the team well. Don’t let my bad mood add to your stress.” It's a loose attempt at describing how you feel, but you see the frown on Checo’s face.

You choose to give Checo a quick kiss to dissolve the growing frown. He chases you as you pull back for another kiss. This one is far more intense than your peck, so much so that it blinds you to the sensation of his hand on your thigh. His fingers skirt towards your inner thigh just close enough to replace the nausea in your stomach with butterflies.

You dig your nails into his other hand as a warning, “Pórtate bien, Sergio.” You say in a hiss. You shoot the man a glare. Your relationship with Checo wasn’t a secret, but you would rather jump off the plane with no parachute than join a certain club.

All the man does is chuckle at your reaction, but he moves the offending hand closer to rest by your knee. He lowers his face to find the space between your neck and shoulder. The pair of you sit in comfortable silence, your gaze returning to stare out the plane window.

“When the season is over, I’ll take you somewhere we’ve never been.” He mummers against your skin. In a tamer fashion, he peppers soft kisses along the area, “No schedules, just us and whatever we’d like to do. Three races and then we’ll disappear. Only if you promise me something.”

You can’t help but hum softly at his words, knowing you’re falling victim to his favorite way of getting you to open up. You already know what his request will be.

“Lo que tu quieres, mi cielo.” You tell him anyway.

”Tell me what’s bothering you,” Checo says, lifting his head from your neck. “Whatever feelings you have, they won’t scare me. Feeling you pull away is what scares me. Only when you’re ready.” You shiver at the air hitting the empty space. You don’t turn to face him, but you squeeze the hand that you were still holding and turn your head to grace it with a kiss.

I will. You wordlessly tell him.

I love you. Checo reminds you when he intertwines your fingers together.