#dude dunk is gorgeous but like... fuck he really knows how to use his eyes ok???

[secriden]

i just... i need to take a moment to process Style's bedroom/sexy kitten eyes. Just.

yeah... yeah fadel i get it. i really do.

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part one) 

“Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward.”

 ― E.E. Cummings

Lucas Lallemant didn’t appreciate the party scene. Since he’d reached the age of fifteen and there was a house party every weekend thrown by someone at his school or a distant, distant acquaintance of a friend of a friend, his apprehension towards nights outs had begun, and his feelings hadn’t change since starting university. But no one cared about that, so he acted the part of the typical teenager, probably fulfilling it a bit too well, if tonight was any indicator. He was drunk enough that he’d overcome the hoard of butterflies in his stomach, and the incessant thoughts of you look stupid, everyone is staring at you, no one likes you had disaparated alongside his desire to leave. He was drunk enough that when Basile left him to go and mix himself another drink, his body didn’t tense up, he didn’t immediately pull his phone out and pretend to be doing something important or texting someone important. In fact, Lucas was drunk enough that he was fine just people watching, and not at all uncomfortable or upset with Yann for ditching him to dance with Chloé or when Arthur found himself pulled into a game of darts. He was vibing with the shitty house music, slumped on a velvet sofa in the corner of a room that seemed too big for any place in Paris.  

The house was a fucking joke, in Lucas’ opinion, he marvelled over the sheer size and opulence, all sharp points and smooth lines — this world of ostentatious wealth and economic privilege he’d stepped into seemed to increasingly blow his mind in his current inebriated state. The disparities between his own life and this house are insurmountable. Lucas isn’t poor, he knows that he’s lucky: a meal on the table every night even if it’s not the most nutritious, a hard-working mother who adores him. He might live in a run-down area of the city, and not have the laptops, video consoles or holidays his friends do, but he’s been okay, fatherless but he doesn’t want to think about that. And he’s definitely not so drunk anymore.

Lucas presses his face into his palms, dragging his hands across his face before he sweeps them through his hair and stands up. He’s on a mission.

-

“McDonald’s!” Baz yells into the chilly early morning air before turning around to face the rest of le gang and walking backwards, nodding his head towards the golden arches which glow like beacons of hope — both literally and figuratively — to those seeking a reprieve from the cold and the others starving during drunken nights out.

Lucas chuckles out a laugh when Baz stumbles over his feet but steadfastly continues his campaign of encouragement to go to the fast food place. Yann and Arthur exchange a glance before looking at Lucas in askance, who shrugs his shoulders back in confirmation.

As they enter the restaurant they’re immediately hit with blinding florescent lighting and the smell of greasy fried food. Lucas inhales it all in, while feeling for the money in his pocket he doesn’t have. He sighs inwardly, his stomach gnawing at him, but he knows he’ll just have to wait until he gets home.

Basile is already sauntering towards a table in the back, and Yann and Arthur are heading towards the order stations.

When Lucas doesn’t follow, Yann looks over his shoulder and calls. “You getting anything?”

Lucas shakes his head, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, looking down at his feet. He’s embarrassed. He knows he could ask either one of the boys to get him something and they wouldn’t even expect Lucas to pay them back. It’s not pity or done at the expectance of a favour in return. They would pay for Lucas, as they’re paying for Basile because that’s how they are.

Yann frowns, considering Lucas’ posture. Knowing, in part, how Lucas thinks because he’s known him forever. Best friends these two, and you can’t be best friends and not know when something’s off with your other half. Whether due to the sudden self-consciousness that overcomes him or the growing desire to sit down because he’s tired as hell, it’s 1:30am after all, Lucas begins walking over to Basile, eyes on the floor as they scan the dirty tiles. He looks up when he feels he can, when it’s okay to, when the sudden feelings of insecurity have diminished marginally, and he notices Basile has commandeered a table with Manon, Imane and Imane’s brother’s friends. Lucas slips onto the bench beside Manon, letting out a small salut before he’s resting his head on her shoulder. He isn’t paying attention to the conversation, only hears boisterous laughter, Basile’s deep tenor and Imane’s sharp tone, presumably calling out Basile. He wants to go to the bathroom and scream at himself because of how his mood deteriorated so fast.

It’s not until Yann and Arthur appear at their table, pulling up chairs and trays loaded with fries and ketchup and mayo, and Yann nudges Lucas’ arm that Lucas looks up. He blinks at Yann who indicates the food with his hands, Lucas shakes his head.

“Come on, we’re all sharing.” Yann encourages, raising a fry to his mouth.

Lucas just stares at the food. Manon, seeing this, reaches for Lucas’ hand and squeezes before whispering quietly, so no one else can hear. “Are you okay?”

Lucas looks down at their hands and nods his head. Manon squeezes his hand once more before rejoining the conversation, but her hand remains laced with Lucas’s. It’s a small comfort this contact, but it’s a very welcome one, especially coming from her. Manon is one of the anchors in Lucas’ life, like Yann, who keep him steady and grounded and know when and when he doesn’t need to talk. They are the stakes to Lucas’ growing rose, sturdy and supportive, allowing him to breathe and talk on his own.

“Little sister!” Idriss yells, indignantly. “You can’t speak like that to me!”

Imane narrows her eyes at Idriss, folding her arms as she responds, red lips pursed. “But I just did.”

Lucas, hearing Imane’s blunt tone, can’t help but smile because of its familiarity and, really, it’s the small things that encourage positivity in him. Because he’s hungry and, rationally, he knows he’s only hurting himself by refusing the offer of food, he dunks a fry in mayo and munches away as Idriss looks to his friends for support. Lucas’ eyes follow Idriss’ movements to the two boys sitting to his left. Sofiane he recognises with his tight black curls, eyes dipped in honey and defined arms and shoulders. Those were the features Lucas noticed the first time he met Sofiane at Imane’s house one day after school. Imane had glared at him and shoved Lucas into her room because he’d been staring apparently. Sofiane is attractive and Lucas is only human after all. Next to Sofiane sits a boy Lucas does not recognise. His eyes are the first thing Lucas sees because the hospital lights in here are bleeding them of colour making them appear almost clear. He’s wearing a pink patterned short-sleeved shirt with the first few buttons undone, and a silver skull ring reveals itself on his middle finger as he sips from a straw. His nose is strong and curved, and he’s laughing along with Sofiane at Idriss, but all of that is incongruous with his posture, all rounded shoulders that suggest a shyness, as though he wants to make himself smaller. He’s gorgeous and Lucas wants to know his name, all the negativity from before has been steam-rolled by this boy.

Lucas feels his groove coming back. He takes in the sight of his friends, Manon snorting out a laugh beside Imane who is grinning, Arthur engaged in a deep conversation with the no-name boy, Yann teaching across the table to slap palms with Basile, and Idriss gesturing empathetically to Sofiane. He feels all warm, his anxiety seeming so ridiculous, which he knows it is but can’t help how quickly and intensely it grips him, and can go within several minutes or stay with him for days. These are the people he lives for, who help drive away the self-doubt.

The thing with Lucas is that he’s a contradiction. That’s what his anxiety has made him. He is extremely comfortable around his friends: obnoxiously loud and sarcastic, but new people put him on edge. He’s met Idriss and Sofiane before, but never this other friend. This new person combined with Lucas’ weird mood, something he’s regretting already and damning his brain for has him dialled down a few notches. He wants to speak to him, but how? Pretty boys make him nervous.

“Eliott, dude, how can you say that? how can you do this to me, bro?”

Eliott. Oh.

Lucas looks over at Eliott, pretending to search for a fry he wants so as not to be obvious, even though they’re all identical because they’re McDonald’s french fries, and it’s not like Eliott is even looking at Lucas, he hasn’t even glanced at him once, Lucas thinks, but that’s beside the point.

Eliott shrugs his shoulders, an amused smile on his lips at Idriss’ outraged expression.

“This is the guy who made us watch Lost in Translation and Pride and Prejudice a hundred thousand times.” Sofiane interjects, laughing.

The question slips out Lucas’ mouth before he realises the thought has turned into actual spoken words. “2005?” His voice quiet.

Green-grey eyes meet his. Eliott. His brows are furrowed, his eyes curious, like he’s just seeing Lucas for the first time despite having been sat opposite him for the past forty minutes.

“See, you’re saying he ‘made you’ but all I’m hearing is that you wanted to given how many times you’ve watched it.” Imane smirks, Sofiane barks out another laugh, and Idriss’ glare redirects towards Imane, all of them not having heard Lucas’ question.

It’s strange how it happens. As the rest of the gang continue their conversation in vivacious voices, Lucas and Eliott hold eye contact, like looking away would cost them a great deal, like a black hole will open up and swallow the world if they do.

“What did you say?” Eliott asks, an arm on the table, his face resting on a closed fist.

Lucas scans Eliott’s arms, sinewy and smooth and dusted with light hairs; he avoids looking at his chest because he doesn’t wanna ogle the guy when he can see. He’s not an idiot.

“2005.” He could elaborate but he wants to hear Eliott speak, and it’s obvious what he meant.

“Hm.” is all Eliott says.

Lucas is feeling slightly flustered, but he’s not anxious and his cheeks aren’t heating up, thank fuck. He looks away from Eliott’s eyes because it’s a lot to take, the look in Eliott’s eyes — all heat and curiosity like a particularly inquisitive bird. But heat for what? Lucas knows where his is coming from because look at him, Eliott is all model-looking and soft-spoken. Hopefully he’s not an asshole. That would just be Lucas’ luck.

Lucas steadies himself, hand no longer in Manon’s grasp. He mimics Eliott’s position because he’s trying to fill the silence and he’s thinking over Eliott’s response, wondering if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut, but Eliott’s still looking at him — he hasn’t turned away, rolled his eyes or ignored Lucas — and he can’t deal with this silence because what does it mean? So he breaks it.

“It’s the only valid version. Nothing beats that hand flex.”

Eliott breaks his own silence. “Thank you for validating my taste in films.” A small smile, almost shy.

“I love you, most ardently.” As soon as the words leaves his mouth, Lucas wants to take them back, who comes out with that to someone they’ve just met?

Yann glances up at that, confusion clear on his face, he looks from Lucas (cheeks finally beginning to blush) to Eliott, and motions for Lucas to switch places with him.

Lucas utters no words but does as he’s told, now sitting firmly beside Eliott, and avoiding the backward glance Yann gives him before rejoining his conversation with Manon and Baz.

“Have you seen Moonlight?” Eliott inquires, his whole body shifted to face Lucas, leaning against the side of his chair. His eyes have retained their curiosity but there’s also a spark of mischief there.

Strands of Lucas’ hair fall across his face, forming a partial shield and he lets them be. A sort of mask protecting him against unknown intentions; these strange feelings swimming around in his head and stomach. He shakes his head no in response.

It’s like Lucas’ admission has turned a switch on in Eliott’s brain because he’s suddenly speaking. A lot. There’s a palpable excitement behind his words, a passion at odds with his precious calm and brevity.

“Well, I’m not an expert or anything, not like you so I don’t know if it’s a valid opinion,” he teases. “But it’s a fucking beautiful film. Not only the story and the themes it explores, but the acting: the verbal non-communication; the yearning and the fear and the hope. The cinematography? I’ve not seen anything like it. Ok, I need to stop before I start crying. Trust me, you have to see it.”

“It’s not going to make me cry is it?”

“Will that stop you from watching it?”

Lucas ponders a second too long because Eliott is leaning forward into Lucas’ space, elbows on his knees, serious expression on his face, like Lucas’ response will hold a secret to the universe.

“You’ll have to show it to me.” Lucas quips.

Eliott’s eyes widen a fraction. He’s sitting back and Lucas feels a tug in his gut he ignores. Maybe it was a bit too forward? God, he’s probably in a relationship and Lucas has made him feel entirely uncomfortable and that’s the power of Lucas Lallemant, turning the good into the bad. Well done, congratulations to him, he’s done it again.

“You can stream it. I mean, I don’t have the dvd because I saw it in the cinema, but I’ve watched it at home too, on my laptop, which is what I meant to say. We can watch it online. At mine. On my laptop...?” Eliott looks about himself, dragging a hand across his face and sighing before glancing up through his lashes at Lucas.

Lucas is grinning. “Yeah, we should do that. At yours. On your laptop.”

Lucas is rewarded with a sheepish smile, pink tongue wetting the softest looking lips, and a light laugh that is cut off short.

They both lock eyes and look away immediately, a shared embarrassment of sorts. The formulation of words a convoluted task in the presence of this new and intriguing person. But slowly, as if pulled by magnets or the cosmic forces of the universe, their eyes dance their way back up to each other, tethered by a feeling — not that they know each other but that they’re meant to. Lucas doesn’t admit this though.

“I’m guessing you’re a fan of Lady Bird, then.” Lucas rushes to speak before he’s consumed by thoughts of pink lips.

“Maybe I am, and what about it?” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, deep lines emerge around his eyes: his eyes are laughing.

“Manon’s obsessed. She loved Moonlight, too.”

A furrow of the brows. “Manon?” Eliott asks.

Lucas indicates Manon with a thumb. “The pretty brunette.”

“Ah.”

Before he can try to interpret that look, and he wants to, they’re both cajoled back into conversation by their friends. They exchange mutual expressions of disappointment, gift the other with a secret smile.

“Basile, you can’t speak like that about girls.” Manon scolds.

As the night wears on and Lucas is wishing he was home all tucked up in bed in a blanket burrito, his eyes find themselves on Eliott once again, who is drawing on a napkin. Blunt, black lines mar the white fabric; long fingers folded pressed around a biro. Lucas can’t make out what it is until a few moments later when he feels a brush of soft fabric against his knee. It’s a raccoon and a hedgehog at a cinema? Thoroughly confused, he looks up in askance at Eliott, but Eliott is nodding along to whatever Sofiane is saying.

Yann is shouting his name, because apparently embarrassing nicknames are ripe for use in social situations such as these where there’s a cute boy.

“Lulu!”

Lucas rolls his eyes and glares at Yann. Yann doesn’t have the courtesy to look chagrined. Nope, he is grinning like a buffoon (in Lucas opinion), all mischief and purpose in his expression.

“Remember when-“ Satan’s words, let’s be real, nothing good can come of them so Lucas intercedes.

“Nope, I don’t.”

“But you didn’t let me-“ Yann protests.

“Goodbye.” Lucas stands abruptly and goes to the bathroom. His departure probably won’t prevent Yann from spilling whatever embarrassing thing Lucas has done, and let’s face it, the possibilities are endless, but Lucas doesn’t have to be there to hear it and see the look on pretty Eliott’s face, just the thought makes ugly butterflies crowd his stomach and his underarms begin to sweat.

He breathes out evenly when he enters the bathroom. Not actually needing to go, he glances about the space, and notices his reflection in the mirror, he almost doesn’t recognise that look. He hasn’t felt like this in a while: happy. And there’s something else there, something he’s never felt in all his eighteen years, reflected in his sharp, blue eyes that hold a glow of hope and wonder. He notices his hair, unkempt and longer than he’s ever worn it before, but he likes it. It’s new. If Lucas believed in signs he’d take this new look of bright eyes and long hair and the feelings as an indicator of a new beginning.

His thoughts are disrupted by the swing of the bathroom door and Eliott is there. He’s tall, Lucas notices, around a head taller than him.

Eliott nods back to the table where their friends are sat. “Everyone’s leaving, I think.”

“Oh, okay.” Lucas nods his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his blue bomber jacket.

They look at each other for a second longer than necessary completing their dance of quiet looks for the evening, before Lucas nods his head again and starts towards the bathroom door.

“I was thinking, and I know we’ve only just met,” A nervous laugh punctuated by a hand brushing through hair. “But, if you’re still up for it, I was thinking that maybe you might want to watch Moonlight today.”

He stops a foot away from Eliott, tilting his eye back to look him in the eye. “Later or...?”

“Now.”

That’s how Lucas ends up on the quiet streets of three am Paris walking towards a stranger’s apartment.

They drifted off in the opposite direction to everyone but Manon to hoots and hollers that were certain to dampen the mood in Lucas’ opinion, alas, he was still reeling from his accepted invitation, his mind much too preoccupied to roll his eyes at le gang or bite out a sarcastic retort. Manon leaves them at the next street, venturing off in the direction of Lucas’ own home, she squeezes his hand before wishing them a good night and she’s off. Gone. Alone.

He’s looking down at their shadows — his and Eliott’s — illuminated by lamp posts, elongated and distinctive in their varying heights. He watches their hands brush together while his own, very real hand, is met with a cool breeze instead.

“I like this time of day.” Eliott voices.

Lucas looks up finally and shrugs. “Seriously? Aren’t you cold?” He points towards Eliott’s chest, revealed by the open buttons of his shirt, and turns, walking backwards so he can look Eliott in the eye without being blinded by the yellow superficial light lit at intervals on the pavement. “Who wears a shirt like that in this weather?” He teases.

Eliott shrugs in return. “You don’t like it?”

There’s something in the air, now completely and entirely sober, his thoughts are running straight for his tongue. “It looks good on you.”

A grin. “Just good, huh?”

Lucas looks down, retreating to his spot beside Eliott and bumping his hip against his. “More than good.”

Eliott bumps Lucas’ hip back, sliding a hand down his arm, and Lucas’ breath is caught in his throat at the feather-light touch, culminating in a shaky out-breath of disappointment when Eliott’s hand doesn’t make contact with his.

He needs to catch his breath. It’s all so new and thrilling. The anticipation.

They pick up their pace as a light patter of rain starts to fall on them. If anyone awake in the city of Love were to stop and listen, they might hear the delirious laughter of two boys, tired and hearts-pumping and alive. If they were to pull open their shutters and push up their windows, they might see these same two boys kicking dirty, puddle water at each other, brushing shoulders and gazing shyly at one another. They would notice that while this is all new, made obvious by the daring but hesitant hand holding, there is a spark of something in the air that seems to have caught these boys up in its spell.

[wolveswithhats]

writing wip game

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you or interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it! 

The titles weren’t interesting so I vainly just posted some excerpts from a grab bag of more recent stuff. If I did everything it’d honestly probably go on for pages. I have a lot of unfinished stuff (pretty much...exclusively unfinished stuff dfjkdjfkg). Like a decade’s worth.

Tagged by @ackbang​. TY TY, MY DUDE. If you see this and you’re a writer, consider yourself tagged. Like for real. Only not tagging because I can’t remember who writes fanfic and who doesn’t.

Looooooong post below.

ling ling the goblin king (ling + lan fan, fma)

"lan fan did it," the prince says, and for a moment she feels a flare of anger and betrayal over his deception. 'it wasn't me, i didn't do this. i didn't kill anyone.' but the prince is bending at the waist, low enough that that his tail of hair brushes the dirt, and she realizes his lie is for her benefit. "thank you, m'lady. i owe you my life."

her mouth feels dry, face hot from exertion and the burning gaze of her older peers. "d-don't do that," she stutters, and she's not sure if she's referring to the lie or the bow.

"you dare give me orders?" but there's no heat in his voice, eyes crinkling with humor as he rises to his full height. she has no idea how he can look so amused with a hole in his shoulder, covered in the blood of a man he just killed. he grins lopsided, teeth crooked and painted red. the sight is altogether ghoulish.

limb choppy choppy (lan fan + greed + ling, fma, part of the revival au)

And Greed is stilling his struggles, catching his wandering hand in his own, running comforting circles with his thumb over Ling's blood-smeared cheek. “Hey, you little pissant, this is nothing, piddly kids table shit. Remember that time that one Central soldier tried to gut us? Right down the middle, like splitting a sausage. Goddamn crimson tide. I thought we'd never get the blood out of that coat. Now that was an injury.”

“T-they took my arm.”

“Yeah, and who needs one of those anyway? Gonna get you all sorted, get you one of those shiny metal ones, like your girl Lan Fan here. Guess the adjustment period takes a bit, a year or three, but bet we could expedite the process with proper motivation. I'm thinking sandwiches.”

He laughs, or something approaching as much, a soggy intake of air. She's struck with an unexpected wave of jealousy, that it's Greed that's offering reassurance and intimate personal jokes. A former homunculus, a former demon, a watery imitation of a man. Creature comforts from the creature. It should be me, she thinks, though she has nothing to offer beyond promises of protection, and even those feel like falsehoods after all that has happened here. Comforting platitudes are beyond her. What could I ever say to make this better?

lets get lit fam (greedling + ed, fma)

wobbly-legged, too uncoordinated to walk. almost stumbles into a line of trash cans at the mouth of the alley, but ed hooks his elbow and steers him away. "what the hell were you thinking? we're supposed to be keeping a low profile."

it's not an accusation he's fully equipped to grapple, not when he's still so bleary from sleep—and some other pleasant, dizzying sensation he thinks might be inebriation. he's never woken up drunk before. he's never been drunk before period. "what'd i do?"

"not you, ling. you would have gone straight for the food menu, not the liquor list. i'm talking to the dipshit you share a mental occupancy with. greed, what the hell?"

"was just a few drinks," ling slurs, but it's not his words, or his voice, and wow he's never been so aware of his own tongue before.

solid citizen (ling + greed, fma)

"geez, kid, you're certainly in a mood." so he was reading his thoughts, just fantastic. he look he gives him is withering, but greed pats his shoulder, almost condescendingly, pitying for sure.

"you're plenty fine, kid. i'll give you the ears, but you're top shelf in the looks department otherwise. if you were ugly, i'd tell you straight up. i don't lie. this here," he points to his own face. "is ugly. nothing like my old human face."

it's a bated response, he knows, and he doesn't really feel like playing, but greed did make a passing effort to make him feel better. "human face?"

he beams, dreamily, which is an impressively soft expression to pull off a mouthful of razors, and ling is suddenly reminded of the mythology of the man fawning over his own reflection. surely greed can't be that vain? "yeah i was a real stunner. fucking gorgeous." or maybe he could, apparently, what did ling know anyway.

wreckage (vincent, re-l, ergo proxy)

When she makes it back to the Rabbit, chest burning and damp with exertion, Vincent has already stripped Pino of her overalls and laid her across the table. Cooling fluids draining, frayed wiring spooling out of her gashed torso, sprawled like a tiny metal Tityos. Her left arm is snapped off and dangling at the elbow, her eyes glassy – glass, literal glass – staring at the ceiling. Broken doll parts. Just another disassembled AutoReiv, but this isn't like that at all, because Pino isn't just another AutoReiv. She's like Iggy--

It's almost too much for Re-l to take. Hand over her mouth, breathing sharp through her fingers in short repetitions. Tries to steel herself, to be calm and assertive, because one of them has to be, and Vincent-- Vincent was awkward and mousy and sensitive, Vincent who spilled his cereal and tripped over his own feet and housed an ancient being of unspeakable power in his lanky boy-frame. But his god-strength was of no use here, drowned under the weak, simpering, overpowering grief for something that was no more human than he was.

do NOT worry about meryl (vash + wolfwood + milly, trigun)

milly caught the hurt. naive, for sure, but shrewd. "oh, we'd never think that of you, mr. vash. it's just our job as representatives of the bernadelli insurance society to mitigate any and all damages from the humanoid typhoon, even the rumored ones."

wolfwood: "bernadelli employing a little insurance of their own, eh?"

milly nods. "if we had to pay out claims on every false report of mr. vash's wrongdoings, we'd go belly up in no time!"

caught up on the word 'wrongdoing', growls, "you make it sound like i'm doing any of this on purpose."

"it's just sensible. your name has a lot of weight, vash."

grumbles: "yeah, i'm aware."

"and that's why meryl was so insistent on following up on this one, even knowing it wasn't really you. so many people drag your name through the mud, and it just doesn't seem fair at all."

his name had long since been dragged, strangled and shot, left to rot under a flock of buzzards circling its carcass in the heat. There was no saving it. still, the intent was kind, if not bewildering. "you...were trying to protect my reputation?"

milly looks at him like he's insane for thinking otherwise. "well, yeah. we've come to think of you as a friend, mr. vash, and that's what friends do.”

baby scrub (locke + rachel, ff6)

offers his hand and a single word: "lock."

her faces scrunches distastefully at his uncouth greeting, but she's not sure what else she was expecting from a dirty street boy. "lock?"

"with an e," he adds, as if that clarifies anything.

"that can't be real. you just made that up."

"all names are made up," huffs locke-with-an-e, looking impatient with her slow uptake on this odd world of his. "and i never said it was real, but it's all you're going to get."

spike bday (spike + dawn, btvs)

“if I show you something, you need to promise not to say anything. not to the watcher, or your sister. not to anyone, right?”

even through her tears, she nods, curious. spike's always good for skirting just outside the limits of good taste.

“I'm serious. spool your intestines out your nose, string 'em up like christmas garland. I mean it.”

“colorful threats of bodily dismemberment, I get it.”

hands her a faded yellow tintype. a young man, twenty-five or thirty maybe, a riot of disheveled curls, glasses, frumpy suit. not an unattractive man, but a timid one, uncertainty written into the slanted bow of his shoulders. he had the weedy air of someone who spent a lot of time duct taped to flag poles, or whatever the victorian equivalent would be. did it count as a twirly if you were dunked into a chamber pot?

a rebellious counterpoint in wrinkled tweed to the hard, starched lines of victorian decorum – interesting, but not very relevant. and a little disappointing, if she was being totally honest. spike's anecdotes usually had more flash and gore. “I don't get it.”

he's exasperated, fingers twitching like he's ready to snatch it away, and he tucks his hands under his arms in an awkward self hug. she takes in the hard set of his jaw and the...flush of his cheeks? god, she didn't even know vampires could blush. it had to take some serious breaking of undead physiology to ping that level of embarrassment, and something beyond that even to flap the unflappable spike. he hisses impatiently. “would you just—look at the face.”

and she does, tilting the little photo to and fro in the dim of the crypt. unassuming man-hermione with hair that cannot be tamed. sharp cheekbones and dark heavy brows under the rims of his glasses and suddenly she sees it—him—the angular planes of his face coming into sharp relief, like a camera finding its focus. “oh. oh my god! this is you. holy crap, spike. you look....”

“normal,” he finishes for her, and something in her stomach swoops and clenches, stones in a pond. “mundane.”

“i was going to say like a megawatt dorklord, but we can use your word instead.” she wipes her nose on the back of her hand. he snorts, amused and embarrassed.  

“i was a poet.”

she tried to envision anything beyond smutty limericks carved onto the wall of a bathroom stall.

“were you ever published?”

“i was a shitty poet,” he amends, grimacing.

boston au (spike + dawn, btvs)

bodily kicking a dumpster, sending it careening into the street with a rusty scream of metal. a hydrant follows suit, ripped from the sidewalk. caps off his tantrum with a boot to the side of Angel's GTX, but even the size-10 crater marring the passenger door of the angelmobile did little to ease his frustration.

“better?” dawn asks, when he drops bodily into the driver's seat with an aching sigh, anger dissipating. she looks so tiny and forlorn, knees drawn to her chest, picking at a cigarette burn in the upholstery. two years ago she'd have been a ripe treat, poor little lost lamb. now the idea twists his gut, her sorrow palpable, proprietary, under his skin and in his veins.

“no,” he grunts, staring out impassively at the aftermath of his outburst. water spurting from the sidewalk, skip spilling out into the road. half a dozen cars along the block chirping in a chorus of wailing alarms. and angel in the foyer, something vaguely resembling pity etched across his massive cavebrow. fucking wanker.

...

“we go back to sunnydale then. try again. badger the scoobies until they agree to help. we'll figure this out.”

“i don't want to.” quietly. barely a whisper.

“to figure it out?”

“to go back.”

“dawn...”

“there's nothing there. they're not going to help because i'm nothing. it's an ongoing memorial to my own non-existence. can we not go back? can we just keep driving?”

“where?”

“I don't care. away.”

thinks about leaving sunnydale. thinks about what he's leaving behind. shitty memories, regrets, lost love. he has a small collection of personal effects; records, first edition books, family heirlooms that cannot be replaced, a hundred years of mementos of his whirlwind romance with dru. wonders if he can ring up clem, ask him to send a care package once they get to wherever they're going. looks at dawn in her clearance-rack pajamas, realizes she has lost everything. she has no belongings, no family, no remnants left as evidence she even had a family. nothing but him and her, here, in this moment.

it's just stuff. it's surprisingly easy to let go.

he drives.

taco hell  (spike + dawn, btvs, part of the boston / unravel au)

Right where her window was supposed to be, a swirling doorway of light ringed in licking green flame, spilling out into....a fast food restaurant?

"I think it's Taco Bell," Dawn said, pinching a tissue to her--aw hell--bleeding finger. He took inventory of the spell books around her, the scrying bowl, and the ashy pentagram burnt into 70s shag weave of her bedroom carpet. So much for their security deposit.

"You opened a hell dimension to Taco Bell?"

She craned her head to squint at the pimply teenager manning the register, oblivious to his cross-dimension spectators. "I think it's just a regular Taco Bell. I don't see any dragons or shrimp people or anything."

"Not all alternate universes have shrimp people."

"I know that. You know, it actually looks like the one downtown, across from the KFC? On Kellner? Unless the Kellner Street Taco Bell is a Taco Hell. I've been reading up about liminal spaces, where the fabric between realities is weakened. Maybe it's a hot spot, and all the employees are actually like, octopus centaurs. How would we know? Not like I'm going to crawl over the counter to check, you know?"

"Well, now's your chance to ask Squiddly Diddly here what he's got going on downstairs." Slack-jawed employee finally cottoned on to the door to another universe in the restaurant lobby. Dawn awkwardly waves. Poc Ock waves back, bewildered, before the portal collapses in on itself in a burst of white light.

"It stopped bleeding." she holds up her finger.

-- 

(I don’t think anyone would, but as a precaution: please don’t reblog these to the Herald. They’re sloppy and incomplete and mixed in with a bunch of other fandoms so it’d just be really weird. THANK)

[sportsanimebreakdown]

How to Draw Someone Getting Punched in The Face

AKA: The first of many posts where I don’t just lose my shit over Hajime no Ippo, but I explain to you, in stupid amounts of detail, whhhyyy.

Layout Disclaimer: Any sequential pages will be laid out right to left. That’s how it goes in Japan and it’s important to the motion of the page to keep it the way the artist intended it. Also, I don’t own any of the following artwork. If you’re a publishing company and want me to take it down, just ask and I will.

SO!

Let’s start with the basics. Let’s have one of Japan’s greatest living artists, Inoue Takehiko, rewind like thirty years of his life and show us the early years of Slam Dunk as an example of how most artists show someone getting punched in the face. (Non-sequential excerpts)

So on the right, we have a decent and typical page: we can’t really see the person who’s hitting our protagonist, his eyes are flat for comedic effect, and we’re in the split-second right after the punch. To tell us the strength of the hit, we have strong motion lines, mild distortion of the character’s face, and some ink splatter for blood from a split lip. In the other page, we get even less info, not even seeing their faces. We still get the sense of the strength of the big guy’s hit, both from the motion lines and by how much the guy dominates the panel. 

It gets the point across that someone was just punched in the face, and it does it a lot better than most. (Have you ever seen someone get punched in a shoujo manga? It’s pathetic, they really need to pick up their game over there.)

But in order to talk about this, let’s introduce a timing/effectiveness numbering  system:

So 0 is the point of impact. 1 is right before it. -1 is right after it. So a 5 might be “Hitter walking up to Hittee” while a -5 might be “Hitter walking away from struck Hittee”. So that’s the timing numbering. And then let’s add a second number in there to account for power. As you can see in 1:2, it’s the moment before impact, but it looks a hell of a lot more effective than 1. and in -1:2, that impact actually looks like it hurt, as opposed to -1. 

I’d put the Slam Dunk panels at -1:1. So they’re both right after the moment of impact, and they’re effective punches, but I’m not thinking that someone’s gonna get knocked unconscious.

Now let’s look at George Morikawa’s early work on Hajime no Ippo (sequential excerpts, right to left) at Issue 9: 

First panel: 0:2. Point of impact, fairly effective.  Second panel: -3:2. Opponent's body has had full falling-down-reaction, and we can see his legs shaking.

So in this early example, Morikawa is still getting his feet under him. The sound effect (PAN!) isn’t as effective as it could be. It feels like a solid object between us and the image. This translates to the impression that Ippo has just stopped Miyata in his tracks. Which works, but... well you’ll see how he’ll improve. We can’t see Ippo’s expression, which would be nice since this is a plot point, but we get a sliver of Miyata’s shocked face.  Also, notice the direction of force and how it creates a mass on the page. We’re going up. Naturally, Morikawa keeps that consistent across the punches and the reaction, but look at the mass the two fighters create on the right panel. Awkward, much? It’s hard for us to get a sense of how hard Ippo’s hit him because there’s very limited directionality to his strikes. Also, it doesn’t lead the viewer’s eye to naturally move quite as well from panel to panel.

Let’s go forward to Issue 100:

First Page: 2:2 The puncher is crouched down, showing the power he’s going to put into it, which we see in the next panels, where the impact happens (I’d put the impact panel at 0:2) Second Page: -1:3 . Ippo’s head is already flying back.

Here, we only get one panel of the actual impact, but we see a strong wind-up and a strong reaction, so it’s definitely improving. We even get, right after the impact, the audience reaction in a quick three-pane, while Ippo’s “just been struck” face hangs in the air. Learning how to massage time, when to hold a moment and when to fast forward, is important for any artist, but the skill -or lack thereof- is more obvious in the sports genre. Also, let’s look at the directionality, which is improving: the opponent’s punch direction on page 1 leads the uppercut you know is coming right to the top left corner, as it should. Then it keeps this direction, pivoting behind ippo slightly, for the next page. So consistent and solid, but nothing that makes you get chills.

Issue 131:

Page One: 2:4 to 1:3 We get a whole page of the opponent’s incoming punch and Miyata watching it, calculating. Page Two: 0:6 Miyata’s landed his surprise counter punch and it’s completely caved the dude’s face in. Page Three: 0:7 At the start of the next chapter, Morikawa brings us back to this moment of impact, extending it. Page Four: 0:7 to -2:7 he hit him so hard, -1 was blown past and he’s already on the ground.

Morikawa’s got it DOWN. The balance between audience reaction/Miyata’s internal focus (look at those eyes) and the action is perfect. The pace is kept up by the constant breaking of the rigid square panels by the sound effects. The two-page spread gives an entire page over to the sound effects. The ink splatter (or what will later develop into Morikawa’s “debris” effect) makes it feel like blood/sweat is being blown off of the opponent. The motion lines tell us his head is practically exploding and that Miyata is moving with incredible speed. The great top/right-to-bottom/left movement on the title page is classic and gorgeous and brutal. On page 4 there’s an angle change that’s done very naturally (from right-left to left-down) which, slamming the guy down at an angle that stops all future momentum on the page, tells us what a game-changing, fight-ending punch that was.

I’ll stop with the damn blow-by-blow, but let’s look at how, past Issues 900, Morikawa’s style has developed to the point where he can make anything look fucking amazing:

Shadow boxing: 

Look at the beautiful directionality of that! The twisting cyclone of power! Not only do we have the motion lines on the objects themselves, and not only is there the directionality of the abstracted sound effects, but movement itself is given form in those white stripes and the tiny bits of debris. What are those?? I DON’T EVEN KNOW BUT THEY FUCKING WORK.

Clenching a fist and starting to twist his body:

Look at one of the few pages where Morikawa will break his usual 90-degree-rectangle-panel-layout. How it makes everything feel like it’s happening at the same moment. Look at how the sound effects are chaos everywhere, and you don’t even know what they SAY but you can TELL what they say because of how they’re drawn (like the cracking knuckles in the middle panel or the shooting-off-to-the-right one at the bottom (which says hiiiIIII...! like a plane taking off) and how they draw the eye from panel to panel and shooting onto the next page, making you blow past this page in eagerness, even though it’s so great.  FUCK. LOOK AT IT.

And finally... How to blow someone’s head off and do it in a way that makes you wonder how they’re still alive: -1:10

That’s it. I have nothing more to say. I only have intense hand waving and an artistic inferiority complex left. 

Ah well. At least he didn’t start this freakin good. There’s hope for the rest of us.