#ending with an angsty ending lol

[aerequets]

this post was the catalyst for this comic, and i was also thinking of a desi song lyric (tere dil ke sheher mein ghar mera ho gaya / in the city of your heart, my home is made) and just... hmmm.... leaving your mark.... making a house into a home..... when the marks a child inevitably leaves behind (messes, scribbles, and in this case stickers) eventually fade away as they grow older and you're left with the memories stored in what hasn't been erased....

im not verbalizing it very well but catch my drift?

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[violetsquare111]

perhaps overly rambly thoughts on the influencer arc

it is very hard to watch but i don't think it's contrary to what we know of green, and i'm enjoying it just fine.

we know green is a showoff and perfectionist. the color gang all like winning, but green likes making a big display of it too. he's quite a sore winner and loser, and hates having the spotlight taken from him when it is his.

he loves attention and praise. and like, that's okay, don't we all? he cares about his friends in the end.

but i get the feeling that, while they love him and appreciate his talents, his friends don't really give him that big attention that he might want. they're used to him winning and being good at art/performance of any kind. it's normal to them really. maybe even a little disheartening.

so i can easily see how getting that attention in the form of being an influencer is a huge thing for green. an addiction, even. he gets so drawn into it that he overlooks his friends' discomfort, so he can keep being the Perfect Celebrity, keep the hype going.

obviously this end outcome here isn't actually what he wanted, and i'm sure he feels guilt for all this on some level. but he's pushed that away in favor of the high of getting a number to go up, getting more of the spotlight. there's nothing else that matters right now but getting that new dopamine hit. again, it is an addiction.

surely his friends will come around. why don't they get it? this is a good thing for him. he's winning. he's harsh, yes, but he's just trying to be successful. his friends aren't actually hurt (they are), they're doing fine (they're not), what's the issue? (everything.)

i don't think current green is character assassination - right now he's doing horribly and hurting the people around him because he is at his lowest, the worst version of himself where his flaws overtake him. it can go up from here. i have no doubt that by the end of this green is going to get some sense shaken into him and make up with his friends. like, that's just the kind of series this is.

and despite all the character analysis i just did lol - i ALSO think it's important to remember that we are probably taking every little action of these characters infinitely more seriously than the creators are. while the series sometimes dips its toes (or entire face) into being a dramatic and beautiful story, it is ultimately a cartoon, and sometimes the character writing will be put on the back burner for a moment in favor of a gag or an overall episode arc. and that's fine! nothing they're doing is unprecedented for the characters they've set up, and i think they'll wrap this up alright.

[softhairedhotch]

imagine being on a case with aaron, who you've been dating for years at this point, and the unsub manages to kidnap you both. he keeps you trapped somewhere for a few days and aaron genuinely thinks he's about to die, thinks he's gonna have to watch you die first (you're barely holding on), and...

he proposes.

it's definitely not what he had planned, he has it all written down in a secret notepad and has the ring waiting for him in his office. but right now he doesn't think he's ever gonna see that ring again, or have the chance for you to see it, to hear you say yes as you slip it on, to see everyone's reactions as you tell them, to get to marry you in front of everyone he loves most in the world. and he panics. it breaks him.

so he proposes.

it's less of a proposal and more of a rushed out i-love-you-please-marry-me-if-we-get-outta-here in one hushed painful breath but it lights you up inside and gives you the hope you need to keep holding on. to keep fighting. and when you say yes, yes of course, you see the same feeling rush over him, and the both of you finally, for the first time since getting kidnapped, feel like things might be okay.

[actual-changeling]

Y'know Scully needed to be pregnant during season 8 or she would have offed herself the second Mulder was dead and buried. Just leave the grave open, Skinner, she'll jump right after him and call it a day—same thing with their roles reversed.

There's only so much she can take, and finding Mulder dead in that field without a pregnancy giving her a reason to keep living would have been too much by a mile. She would have suffocated on the emptiness he left behind.

Even in canon, Skinner and her mom must have had one hell of a time taking care of her after the funeral 'cause i don't think Scully was particularly eager to go through her daily routines except to avoid not perishing on the spot.

While they were still searching for him, she was visibly numb to the world and lost the spark that had survived all the way through their numerous kidnappings, the cancer arc, Emily, Antarctica, weird brain diseases and stranded alien spaceships, and failed IVF.

No Mulder, no faith, no life. For them, it really is that simple.

And the thing is that we get used to seeing her like that! We know something is wrong, we know what is wrong—what is missing—but it only really hits you how much of a walking corpse she was once Mulder is breathing again.

Before his return, she wears exclusively dark, muted colours and high-collared shirts; a lot of the time, she's completely drowning in her black coat. Her cross necklace is invisible and hidden away, she solves cases and does her job, sure, yet there's no actual joy or excitement, no scientific wonder.

Without mulder, the x files are reduced to simply that: files. There's nothing to fight for without him.

This is the only Scully Doggett (and Reyes) get to know, their understanding of her and Mulder's relationship is based on rumours and stories, and what little they can extricate from Scully herself.

Then they find him, they bury him, they bring him back to life, and the SECOND she feels and sees him breathing, his heart beating, that spark roars back to life. There's more determination and liveliness in her eyes during this one conversation with Doggett than when some fucking cult whackos shove a worm up her spine and try to make her their worm god carrier.

But no matter what Mulder's chances are, the choice not to open up that grave was wrong.

You could have dropped her in front of his grave with nothing but her bare hands and a mission, and she would have dug him up and wished him back to the world of the living all by herself.

They're irrevocably bound together, they need each other not just to survive but to LIVE period, and god help anyone who comes between them.

[kingkat12]

so... this is the deleted original ending to the first chapter of seven minutes in heaven. made centuries ago. enjoy!!

(it sorta starts in the middle of the closet scene, so here goes nothing)

WARNINGS: SMUT! SMUT! ROMAN BEING AN ASSHOLE! mind control powers being used for BAD bad bad BAD things!! implied mind control during sex so is it dub-con?, dark!Roman, not-so-happy-ending

word count: 1,811

a/n: there was a reason this version was scrapped... it felt too dark and not fun and urgh i'm simply posting this as an ancient artifact lol. it might suck as i wrote this back in august, but oh well!!!

(Roman is NOT a feminist in this one, so... irony<333 generalizing cunt)

 "And I reckon this is your first time playing?"

"Yeah," I mumbled, no longer meeting his gaze. I couldn't look at him, not right not, not when we were this close and alone. 

"So..." Roman ran his fingers through his hair, the usual smirk returning. "You know what usually happens in here, or...?"

I rolled my eyes; "I'm not an idiot,"

"I know," Roman's voice got lower, breathier, and he took a step closer. There wasn't much room for more steps, actually— it was getting rather cramped up at this point. "But if there's anything you've wanted to try out, now's the time."

My breath hitched, hoping the thumping of my heart wasn't audible to him. 

It was almost as though Roman could sense how nervous I was; he bent down a little, getting on my level before he whispered; "I won't tell Letha,"

Feeling his hot breath against my skin, how dangerously close he was, was almost too much for me. The way he said it made me even more conscious of what was happening; I hadn't even told Letha how crazy I was about Roman, and I knew she'd be against it.

However... I was being served my biggest dream on a platter. Maybe if I got this bit over with, my feelings would subside and go back to being purely hateful again? 

I mustered up the courage, letting out a shaky breath before I opened my mouth to speak; "Could you maybe... kiss me?" My words came out barely louder than a whisper. "I've just had a really shitty night."

Roman's expression remained unchanged. "I'm sorry to hear that,"

"... No, you're not,"

"Okay, you might be right," He let out a soft laugh against my lips, and my eyes quickly darted down to his hands to check if he wasn't holding a needle or no. That was when I knew my anxiety was through the roof. "So... you want a kiss? That's all?"

This was too nerve-wracking. I kept imagining that he would say no, that he would reject me somehow and make me the only girl at school he wouldn't want to do anything with— that would definitely make me hate him even more. In a flash moment of weakness (which I later blamed the alcohol for), I sighed; "Just... could you? Or am I asking for too much?"

Something about Roman's expression changed— he seemed to realize what it was that I was actually asking of him. Not to make out, not to drown in one another, but the simplest of all things romance; affection. Something gentle, something sweet, just to check if he had a sliver of anything resembling that in his system. 

"You like me, don't you?" Roman whispered, nudging his nose against mine, eyes rounding out as he heard my breath hitch at the simple gesture. "This is what all of this has been about?"

I closed my eyes, revelling in the feeling. It was the smallest thing, yet it was a comfort in the midst of the conversation. "All of what?"

"Your anger," Roman let out a sigh, connecting our foreheads, closing his eyes as well. "You can't stand that you like me, can you?"

For some reason, I felt the urge to cry overcome me— I spent a few seconds pressing down the stream of tears that threatened to surface. Having someone say it out loud felt like a desperately needed release. "It's been a nightmare,"

Roman stilled, eventually letting out a hum which sent a shiver down my spine. "You know nothing about nightmares," he breathed against my lips. "If I tell Letha we fucked in here, you'll be living through your worst one."

I shouldn't have been so shocked— I should've expected this. I should've known that Roman would spin this around on me. I definitely knew he wouldn't reciprocate, but this? What was it, revenge? 

"I could make your every waking moment a living hell," he continued, his cold hands suddenly travelling up my body, gripping my waist with a grip I was afraid would bruise. "Letha would take my side, of course... Who else do you have but her, hm?"

I wanted to break out into tears, now grabbing at his hands. Almost panicked, I tried to get him off of me, but to no avail. "I'll leave you alone," I pleaded, finding his eyes.

"Nah, that's not what I want," I could see the sadistic satisfaction overcome him— I saw how he broke out into a wide grin at the sight of my glossy eyes. "How about we make a deal?"

Making a deal with the devil reincarnated? Very smart move, on my part. Fucking genius. "Okay?"

Roman hummed, his harsh grip around my waist releasing, allowing me to finally suck in a heave of air. Catching me off guard, he suddenly pressed his lips against my forehead with the softest touch I had ever felt— was he trying to throw me off course? 

"Start being nice..." Roman murmured, his now hands drawing soothing circles onto my back. "And I will reward you."

I let out a shaky breath; I was thankful that the agreement didn't involve any needles. "... That's all?"

"That's all," Roman echoed, pulling away to watch my expression. "You and your mouth have been making my life hell, do you know that? So if you can calm the fuck down, we could both get what we want. How does that sounds?"

I wasn't completely sold. "And what is it that you think I want?"

Roman's eyes darkened; he knew he had won. "Me," 

Oh, how I hated him. I hated him, and I knew I always would. But as his lips ghosted over mine, seconds away from touching, I didn't stand a chance anymore when the following words sounded past his plush lips; "I have a feeling I might have to put you in your place a little, hm? Maybe you'd even want that? Because honestly, I know girls like you... You fight until your last breath, then you're completely in denial, and then you'll fall apart the minute you get what you've always wanted,"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Was this... me? 

"And you've always wanted to be one of my girls, haven't you?" Roman leaned down, pressing a deadly soft kiss against my cheek which nearly took my breath away; I could feel him smirk against my skin. "Or maybe... the only one?"

At this point, I felt so broken down that I gave in to a nod. 

Roman's hand slowly ghosted up my body until his fingers gently wrapped around my neck, holding me in place, almost as though he feared I would run; "I can arrange that, y'know?"

This conversation had unlocked a deep, dark part of me that I didn't know I had— like this, completely at his mercy, I had a feeling I was made to be his. Brainwashed. That I was put on this earth to find him and be with him, and that we were destined to be together. It made me feel so weak and pathetic that my lower lip eventually gave in to a quiver, feeling a sob build.

Roman let go of my neck, stroking his fingers through my hair. "Shh, no need for that... You're fine, you're okay. It's just me."

Just me. Just Roman. He who that had haunted my dreams for months, the only one I could think of when I got myself off, and the one I had been longing for from afar for so long that it turned into burning hate. 

Roman must've felt like he was done torturing me, finally meeting my lips with the most gentle kiss I had ever shared. This was all I had ever wanted— he was right. My heart beat hard in my chest as I let myself melt against his dangerously soft lips. 

I wanted to be his, no matter the cost. No matter what happened or what I had to sacrifice. 

I loved Roman Godfrey.

... and I was sure of it now.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Yes— This was right.

Of course. 

I loved him. 

I loved him, I loved him, God, how I loved him. With every fibre of my being, I loved him. 

I loved the feeling of his body against mine, corrupting my mind until I was nothing but mindless. A small part of me also loved that it was our little secret, and ours only. 

Letha didn't have a clue, of course— I had kept my act up quite well when I was around her. I had kept it up around everyone else as well, but the anger that was ravaging through my system, the hate that was burning me up from inside was currently being mended by one thing and one thing only;

"A-Aah—"

My fingers tangled into Roman's hair, feeling his bruising grip around my hips tighten as he fucked me into my mattress. I let out a small cry, feeling my legs starting to go numb after how long they had been thrown over his broad shoulders. Deep down, I didn't care— nothing could put out the angry fire in my soul like Roman did. Nothing was a better remedy than feeling his cock inside me, no matter what, when, or where.

I let out a gasp as Roman shifted, pulling me into his lap with ease. I couldn't feel my legs now, and I had a sense that he knew— he barely had to put any strength into moving me around, especially with how he was towering over me in general. 

I let out a gasp as he sunk me down on his length, and I gripped his shoulders with a short squeak for support. Heavy breaths escaped my parted lips as I clung to him, whimpering at the feeling of his thick cock stroking my insides. 

Roman seemed beyond content, gazing up at me with half-lidded eyes. He revelled in the sight of how ruined I was before he attached his soft lips to my collarbone to bring forth a hickey, humming. That was the one place we both knew Letha wouldn't see it, after all. 

It was impossible not to submit to the devil reincarnated when sex could feel this good with him. It didn't matter that I had practically sold my soul for this, because every second, every stroke of his cock, was worth it. 

"You're heaven," he murmured, lifting my hips and pushing himself further into me, taking more control. "You feel so... shit, this is heaven—"

Ironic.

And just as I felt my climax approaching, flashes of thoughts I had suppressed came crashing forward. No matter how nice all of this felt, I couldn't help but wonder how I had even agreed to any of this in the first place. But it wasn't like he had mind control powers, right? It wasn't like this was some sadistic ploy to seek revenge against all the times I had been a complete and utter bitch to him.

No— it couldn't be. Don't be ridiculous.

... Right?

[agathasvidal]

what if all rio is trying to do is tell agatha that it hurt her too. what is rio is desperate to share this sadness with the only other person who could understand. what if rio is angry, FUMING at agatha for being so selfish in thinking that rio could never feel remorse. that agatha just abandoned her for years, potentially centuries, convinced that she was the only one to be upset, to have had her entire world turned upside down.

agatha is a selfish person and the road is testing her ability to be selfless. what if her biggest test is accepting that someone else could share that pain with her. that she never had to make rio a villain in her mind, and she never had to become one herself.

they will have their fight, they will get ugly, but at the crux of it all, when they both take a second the breathe, rio whispers “he was my son too” through her rage. maybe it is a scream. maybe a cry.

by blaming rio, and running from rio, agatha took away rio’s right to mourn; to be a mother to that child. rio will have to spend the rest of eternity thinking of it unless she acts now. she needs to resolve the only thing in her existence that has ever made her feel alive, so she can truly experience the one thing she never thought she was able to: death.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Do you think if the trolls all came back, like everything in the main comic did happen and they were alive again. Do you think Feferi would actually forgive Eridan? Or want to even be his friend after everything? I don't personally like the erisol and fefertasprite interaction…felt rushed…..so I just wanted to know your opinion if things were different! :)

Yeah, I think they would be! Feferi is one of the trolls who takes dying the least badly (relentless optimism) and Eridan does genuinely feel bad, which means a lot when it's Eridan. I think she really is genuine when she says she wants them to be friends and also that she's really not the type of person to hold a grudge, and like... death is SUPER cheap in Homestuck, it's really not the horrific, irredeemable, irreperable damage that it is IRL - and if you're talking about (Feferi) and (Eridan), then they're both dead (and irrelevent) now, so the score is kind of even.

In general, the fandom - I mean, people in general, really - tend to have difficulty divorcing themselves from other people. We tend to assume that the people and characters they like will hold similar opinions to themselves. This is how people who like Karkat and don't like Eridan can mentally gloss over or even block out their clear, close friendship, or how people who dislike Cronus can end up overlooking that Meenah actually takes his opinion seriously and unironically defends his wizard thing. Feferi really isn't mad at Eridan or upset about dying the way we probably would be, because she's friends with the horrorterrors, relentlessly cheerful, comfortable with death in general, and death is also just not really that big of a deal in this setting. "I'm really sorry about that, that was shitty of me" is honestly probably all the apology she needs, especially if they came back to life anyway.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

three cheers for your ego

hello mtt nation, i am here with my promised angsty christmas fic, as part of my defeat of my evil twin in the twinter war (i am the better twin now obviously). enjoy, and happy holidays >:3

When Sans comes back home from a tiring scouting mission, he immediately notices something is off. The food rations he’s so sure were left near the kitchen entryway are gone. That meager bits of fresh meat he’s scraped together for Gyftmas just simply… disappeared.

“what happened to the food?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

His younger brother, seated on the sofa in the living room, flinches but doesn’t look away from his intense blood red gaze. His hands twist nervously in his lap. “I… I GAVE IT TO THE BUNNIES.”

“you what?” Sans says, voice deceptively quiet. His whole body goes rigid and his fists clenches, threatening to break off the door handle he’s gripping.

“THEY NEED IT MORE THAN WE DID – THAN I DID,” Papyrus replies, his voice carefully laced with a tone of defiance that is not very helpful right now. “AND… IT’S GYFTMAS.”

Sans thunders across the room as he stands before papyrus, his teeth clenched so hard he can hear them grinding in his skull. “what does that even mean?! who the hell cares if it’s gyftmas?! that was all we had! do you understand what you’ve done?!”

Papyrus shoots up on his feet, his frame towering over Sans’ short stature. Sans unconsciously takes a step back, momentarily surprised by his brother’s reaction.

“I UNDERSTAND PERFECTLY,” Papyrus says, his voice low and steady. “THEY HAVE KIDS, SANS. LITTLE ONES. AND THEY ARE HUNGRY AND COLD. DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO NOTHING? TO TURN MY BACK ON THEM?”

“yes!” Sans snaps. “exactly that! if we starve, who’s gonna save us? who’s gonna keep you alive?!”

Papyrus’ face twists in discomfort, but he stands his ground. “I DO THINK ABOUT IT, BROTHER,” he says, his voice soft. “IT’S UNCOMFORTABLE TO THINK ABOUT. BUT, WHAT’S THE POINT OF SURVIVING IF WE’RE JUST… CANNIBALIZING EACH OTHER IN THE PROCESS, LIKE WHAT’S HAPPENING IN OTHER PLACES? IN SNOWDIN, WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE A COMMUNITY, SANS.”

“oh, spare me the sentimental piece,” Sans growls. “do you know how hard it is to get food around here? and you just threw it away to some family who wouldn’t lift a finger to help us if the tables were turned!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!” Papyrus shoots back, his voice slightly trembling. “KINDNESS STILL EXISTS! NOT EVERYONE IS LIKE YOU!”

The words hang in the air like a shotgun. Papyrus looks shocked at what came out of his mouth, but he doesn’t look sorry. Sans stares back at him, mouth open like he’s about to say something, but then he stops. Without a word, he turns on his heel and storms towards the door, anger rolling from him in waves.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Papyrus demands, rushing to block Sans’ path. Sans glares at him, irritated.

“where do you think?” he hisses, his eye narrowing dangerously. “i’m taking our food back.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO ROB THEM?!” Papyrus gasps, disbelief making way to horror. “THEY HAVE KIDS, SANS!! AND THEY HAVE NOTHING TO EAT!!”

“well, too bad then,” Sans spits. “no one steals from me. and the bunnies will learn real quick what happens when someone does. they’re gonna have a mad time.” A feral grin spreads across his face.

Papyrus stands in front of the door, defiant. “NO.”

“out of my way, paps.”

“NO! I WON’T LET YOU!”

“you think you can stop me? i can easily shortcut pass you.”

“I KNOW! BUT IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING, AS YOUR BROTHER! IF YOU CROSS ME, I’LL WHACK YOU TIL YOU SEE SOME SENSE IN THAT CRACKED HEAD OF YOURS!!” Papyrus crosses his arms, disapproving.

“you think you’re so much better than me? you think you can survive on morals alone?”

“NO,” Papyrus replies, his voice soft. “I JUST WANT TO BE BETTER THAN THIS.”

After an eternity, Sans drops his coat and lies on the sofa, the tension in the room lessening but still palpable.

“well, merry fucking gyftmas then,” he mutters. “i hope you’re happy with this.”

The frozen streets are silent, blanketed with layers of dust and snow. The streetlights flicker weakly as Sans makes his way towards the party venue and his favorite spot in Snowdin – Grillby’s. The place is quiet and empty, but bears a feast of dusty wine bottles, cold cinnabuns, and some canned goods. Sans hums a strange, broken tune as he prepares the table.

“paps, do you think this will be enough?” he asks, holding up a container of homemade soup he made by himself. He turns to the younger skeleton lingering near the jukebox, whose face is skeptical but amused.

“I THINK THAT SHOULD SUFFICE, BROTHER!” Papyrus says. “NO ONE WOULD EXPECT MUCH FROM YOU LAZYBONES, SO NO NEED TO BE SO WORRIED!”

Sans chuckles, putting the soup container onto the table. “you’re right, paps. shouldn’t be too important how it tastes – it’s the intention that counts.”

He walks up to the jukebox to see if it still works. A bit rusty from underuse, but he can fix it in a flash, no problem.

As he works, Papyrus trails behind him, his voice teasing. “WOW, YOU’RE REALLY PUTTING IT ALL THIS YEAR OF ALL TIME, HUH? FOOD, DECORATION, MUSIC, ALL THAT JAZZ. NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

“ha, good one, paps,” Murder snorts, then in a softer tone he continues. “it’s gyftmas. it’s supposed to be a special day. i guess… i just wanted to do something different, something new, this time. something nice. for you. for everyone else too.”

The next minutes are draped in silence, but the more comforting kind as Sans tinkers with the jukebox. Papyrus’ voice breaks it for just a moment. “IT’S WEIRD SEEING YOU SO… SENTIMENTAL.”

Sans doesn’t answer, busying himself with fixing the broken machine and then with arranging cracked plates and mismatched cutlery. He tries to be as meticulous as possible, careful not to disturb the frail air of festivity he has created in this small space. It should be a wonderful day today after all.

When everything is done, Sans sits in his place, reserving the place next to him for his brother. No one has arrived yet, but he guesses he can always start the feast early, a private celebration between him and Papyrus.

He pours a glass of wine for himself, then one for his brother. Papyrus looks a bit affronted at being offered a drink, but he doesn’t complain, so that should be good enough.

“a toast.” Sans raises his glass. “to time. to the end of a year. to family. to… the ones we’ve lost.” He clinks his glass softly against Papyrus, who doesn’t pick it up but does sigh, an exasperatedly fond sound.

“to you, sans. to your newfound resolution. and holding on to your goal for once in your life.”

Sans drinks, and drinks even more. The guests start to pour in, their voices echoing around him but muffled as if he was underwater. Only Papyrus is clear in the cacophony – a beacon of light he can hold onto in this strange but joyous time. Sans laughs at the jokes coming from Papyrus, his voice bouncing off the walls of the bar. He smiles as he listens to Papyrus recount the things he can’t be sure are real in his inebriated state – childhood memories, plans for the future, a warmth that doesn’t spread to his snow-soaked bones anymore.

So, he drinks again. And again. And again.

As the nights wear on, some things start to slip through to his foggy mind. Plates that remain untouched. Wine bottles that remain unpoured. The soup he made sit alone on the table, growing colder by the second.

And yet, Sans still smiles. At his brother, who hasn’t changed at all. “thanks for staying this time,” he whispers, trying to touch Papyrus’ hand but stopping at the last moment, the distance between them so small yet so inexplicably big at the same time.

“OF COURSE, SANS,” Papyrus says, a faint grin on his severed skull. “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE.”

It has been raining snow a lot these past few days in the town. A normal monster would be freezing out in the snow, but, well, he’s hardly a normal monster anymore, is he? Few things phase him at this point, and the cold isn’t one of them.

He knows he isn’t supposed to get close to anyone, but he can’t help it when his friend hasn’t been here with him for months now and the light show in the snowy town is too tantalizing to pass up. So he goes in, wearing a large puffy coat and some hat and scarf to cover his whole face up – a perfect disguise. Now he looks like one of the children playing around near the big tree in the town center. Just a normal, socially awkward child standing near a building, watching his peers mess around from afar. It isn’t exactly fun, but it’s something to do to sate off the gnawing boredom in his chest.

And then, he sees them again.

A skeleton monster just like him – how peculiar. He was interested of course, but something has held him back, something nagging at him at the back of his mind. He can’t name it exactly, but it makes his SOUL pang uncomfortably in his ribs, as if warning him of something. So, he is content with just staying back, idly watching the scene play out.

The strange skeleton monster has been doing this for days – asking people around about their sibling, someone with a name that keeps slipping away from his mind. Again, how odd. Everything about this skeleton monster is odd, from the way they tower over most people yet never intimidate anyone, to the way they enthusiastically play and talk with the town’s children like it’s second nature to them. They’re an opposite of him, and yet-

Ah, whatever. It’s no use thinking about it anyway.

He watches as the skeleton monster again asking the townsfolk about their brother again. And again no one has any clue where the missing person can be. The monster looks dejected, but only for a moment. The resilience… it would be heartwarming to see if he had one.

He subconsciously takes a few steps when the monster finally stops at the giant tree with presents underneath it. He has taken some of the presents for himself, and no one seems to have noticed so far. The skeleton monster looks up at the tree, which has a star on top of it. When he gets just close enough, he can vaguely make out what they’re saying.

“-I WISH THAT THIS GYFTMAS, MY BROTHER WILL RETURN HOME! HE STILL HASN’T PICKED UP HIS SOCKS, NYEH!” the monster grumbles, then in a softer tone continues with a mournful sigh. “… I WISH I HAD SEEN THE SIGNS. HE HASN’T ALWAYS BEEN THE MOST CHEERFUL PERSON, BUT I THOUGHT HE’D TELL ME IF SOMETHING’S WRONG. I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED… I DON’T KNOW WHY HE LEFT… I FEAR THAT- NO, THAT’S- I WOULD KNOW ABOUT IT, SURELY!”

The phantom watches the whole scene slow around him. There’s something about this monster that feels familiar to him yet fills him with dread. They’re… weak. Vulnerable. Sentimental to a fault. In this world, it’s kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. There’s no place for kindness when everyone is out to get you.

But, looking at this monster, whose eyelights sparkle under the lights, he feels an urge to avert his eyes, something clawing at his red-hot deadened SOUL. A memory flickers in his jumbled mind: his friend showing him the real stars on the surface, twinkling like their carefree eyes.

Ah, isn’t he forgetting something?

He turns away, boots crunching in the snow as he disappears into the shadows. This is just a distraction – a fun yet trivial thought experiment. But the image of the monster standing under the Gyftmas tree, wishing for something impossible, stays in his mind long after he’s gone.

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

canon is my sandbox and i can do whatever i want forever, which means: Veil Jumper June and Lord of Fortune Addie! NPC headcanons be upon ye:

June's not Inky but she is still vaguely working for the Inquisition. Her research makes her cross paths with Veil Jumpers sooner or later, and after collaborating for a while decides to (loosely) join up with them

She goes by Jay among the Jumpers because yknow, introducing herself as "June" among a group that's mostly Dalish is awkward. It's a play on the letter "j" and also her "Bluejay" nickname

She'll pop up around Arlathan forest and she'll have dialogue with Bellara and Harding. If you wanna get ambient dialogue about what some of the old Inquisition members are up to, she's your guy

When you visit the Halls of Valor, there's a chance that Adriel greets you instead of Isabela. Everyone here seems to accept her authority without question

She'll occasionally drop hints about what Hawke(s) and co are up to; this may or may not include Lilian (funny coincidence that auntie 'Bela's girlfriend has the same last name as her dad!)

What are Liam and Fenris doing? That's, um.. private. Maybe you can coax it out of her if you hang around often enough! or maybe Neve can piece it together

Bonus Kala cameo: Somewhere in the Deep Roads you can come across a clearing littered with darkspawn corpses, and in the middle, the corpses of two Wardens and a mabari. There's a "worn mabari collar" memento here with "Barksparn" on the name plate

If you pay attention towards the beginning of the area, there's a mark scratched into a wall that you can't decipher except if you're a Warden. Otherwise, if Davrin is in the party, he'll tell you what it means: [date]. three. not returning.

[the-demons-within]

*insert rain scene*

There is swearing, btw,

Will

"It's not my fault you don't like girls!!" Those words fell onto Will's shoulders, stiffening his entire body.

"... really... really, Mike?" Will's tears began falling, mingling with the rain pelting his face.

"Will.. I didn't mean -" Mike was cut off by Will, who wasn't listening.

"That's the problem, Mike.. you don't understand! Not at all!" Will borderline yell. He hated the ever falling tears running running his face down to his chin. He watched as Mike kept eyeing him and the drops of water.

"Understand?? Understand what?!"Mike called .

reluctance tainted Will's voice as he spoke, voice faint. "It kinda is your fault," a certain type of distain filled his eyes as he stared at Mike. His legs told him to get the hell out of there. But a morbid curiosity prohibited his escape, leaving him to lament an outcome that hadn't come about yet.

Mike: "My fault you.. what?...don't like girls..?" It was as if Wil could see Mike putting the pieces in place as it happened. Just the thought that Mike now knew made him wanna vomit. He couldn't just stand here in silence.

Will: "Just forget it!" His voice cracked as he sobbed slightly, talking his bike under him and finally leaving. He heard a faint "WILL!" Through the rain. But he couldn't turn back. He couldn't even look back, not after that.

Mike

Mike cursed under his breath as Will rode off into the rain, scrabling with his own bike. He leapt off chasing the boys bath back to the byers residence - a place he knew the way to better than his own home.

He knew he fucked up, he knew he did and my god did he contemplate jumping off that damn cliff again because of it. He hated that he said that, what kind of thing to say is that!? The tight nit guilt in his chest make his question his loyalty to Will, his very best friend.

He finally arrived at his house, Will's bike was out of sight. Worried, he frantically knocked on the door, haping for a responce. He didn't care who Joyce, Jonathan, anyone

No one answered.

Worries swirled through his mind. Did they hate him? Had Will told them already, shit, shit,

"SHIT"

he pushed his bike onto the ground as he sat on the soaked step. Head in his hands, he paused. With the cracking of a heard exterior, tears began to fall to the ground. And again, the cracking of... something. Mike, blurry eyed, lifed his head to the sound. It was behind the byers' house.

Castle byers.

He got up from his sorrow and ran to the yard, stumbling and slipping through the cursed muddy ground. There at the edge of the house, directly in front of his eyes, was a broken, destroyed castle byers. But more importantly, to the side was the boy he was looking for.

(Feel good Inc really just started playing, bruh)

"Will?..." he quivered. Will turned towards him.

"Christ Mike!? What Is Your Problem!???" He yelled over the rain.

"Look, Will, I'm sorry!" He stepped forward."I- I didn't mean that I just... it was a horrible thing that came to my head, and I didn't filter it before saying it, I didn't think about what was actually coming out of my mouth!" Mike looked at Will, eyes pleading for forgiveness, for his best friend to realise how much he hated what he had said.

"Bullshit." Will whispered.

"What"

"Like I said, you should just forget I ever said anything" Will spat.

"No, Will I was being a total douche!" Mike called, gradually stepping closer to Will. As Mike arrived at Will he glanced down at the slightly shorter boy. Will's features were sharper than usual, his lighthearted expression turned a mix of dispare and hate. The boy had closed himself off, and Mike hoped to open him back up.

He pleaded with Will to understand he didn't mean it, but, it failed. "Please... please Will I never meant to even think that, I just- I don't even know where it came from." Now close to Will, he spoke at a mere whisper. He gained no responce though. "What you said" Mike began, gaining Will's attention "what exactly did you mean?" The word *exactly* was painfully exaggerated.

"Really??" Will demanded."You still don't understand!?" Mike stuttered under the pressure of Will's words. "God Damnit! Mike, I'm in fucking love with you!" A broken Will stood in front of Mike, breathing heavy, his eyes puffy with tears.

A brief silence ensued.

"Just- just leave it" Will cried, his anger gone leaving a Sobbing mess to walk away from Mike.

Mike grabbed Will's wrist. "Wait- Will i..."

"You what?" He said, turning to the taller. At a loss for words Mike did the only thing running through his mind.

...

He kissed Will.

He pulled away near instantly in a panic. "Fuck- will I'm sorry" he tried to clamber together a string of words into a failed sentence excusing himself for kissing Will when he was interrupted by a pair of lips on his own. He looked down to see Will, the gorgeous boy that had filled his mind for the past months finally embrasing him in a kiss. His hand slid to fill Will's as his eyes fell into rest, falling into the others open arms.

When the two had to pull away they stayed in each others arms. Mike broke into a bashful grin as he looked at Will. "So.. you said you loved me?" He beckoned.

"Well.. yeah" Will's face ,puffy from his tear now had an extra layer of red. Mike's eyes softened into Will's gaze.

"I think I love you too... I have for a while now." He chuckled slightly. Will smiled.

"It's pouring out here, we should head inside"

"Is Joyce home?" Mike enquired

"I don't think so, let's just-" will paused to jump out of Mike's arms slightly.

"Boys!? What are you doing out there in the rain?? Get inside!!" Joyce yelled from the back door.

The two ran inside, attempting to fabricate a believable stoy as to why they were in the rain, soaked, red-faced, and why some of castle byers was broken...

Joyce

Joyce at down at the dinner table with Jonathan while Mike and Will were getting dressed.

"Really, mom? You just didn't tell them you say ALL of that?"

"Hush Jonathan!" She whispered "I didn't wanna spoil the moment or anything!-"

"Just tell them you saw them" Jonathan's eyes shot up to the lounge room. Joyce shot a glance at Jonathan as Will and Mike entered the room. As he walked past to the sink he whispered his last words to her before coming back to sit down.

"You gotta tell them eventually-"

"Yeah yeah, maybe at their marriage ceremony" Joyce laughed.

And as Jonathan sat down next to his mother, he caught a glimpse of his brothers hand being closely held by Mike's and in the end... maybe he doesn't have to interrupted EVERY romantic moment they have....

Just most.

(Sorry, this is kinda cringe. lol, I wrote it at 5 am with no sleep)

[pollyanna-nana]

Gonna be real. I know I’m super biased in saying this but I genuinely think it’s more conducive to the story’s message and themes if Thistle is still alive after the end of the manga. Like.

There’s all these examples of characters talking about how love and support from those who matter most to you is what can allow you to heal despite experiencing immense trauma. Themes of life and death and rebirth in both a physical and metaphysical sense. I just think it’s so much more satisfying for Thistle to get that, too, more so than the tragedy of him dying. You could say that him not getting that chance is just how things go sometimes, but in a series all about defying fate and walking the more difficult but fulfilling path (after all, recovery and facing the reality of it all certainly wouldn’t be easy) I would argue that him living serves the narrative much better.

[crypticvirago]

Something Wounding lore related that I think about a lot, that I never touched on or will ever expound upon, is that if the Network still exists for Al-An to rejoin, he will become a complete stranger to Robin.

Al-An is the name of one component of the Network that was pulled out of it and forced to be an individual for a thousand years. Al-An grew to find his sense of self as an individual thanks to Robin's influence, with the "Network" he developed with her. If he were to trade that in to be re-enveloped in the one with his people, he would lose his individuality, and become more like that version of himself that he mentioned as being unrecognizable in Chapter 6.

I dunno. I think it would be a great bad ending, if Al-An were to reconnect with his people and completely lose any and all of the attachments he'd formed with Robin. Robin realizing that she'd been able to help him get home and find family again, but to entirely lose him in the process.

[tennessoui]

wip wednesday (early cause im offline tmrw)

When the dust settles, Obi-Wan is surprised to find himself still standing.

It takes all of him, he thinks, the end of the war. It takes everything he has.

He used to wonder, in a distant, nebulous way, what it would feel like in the aftermath. How his life would return to the routines he held before Geonosis, if the cadence of Temple life would feel strange and unfamiliar to him after so long spent in the trenches. If he would miss the sound of his men behind and around him, the steady stream of words and laughter and presence of others, at all times, surrounding him.

It’s only when the dust settles, when the first grains of sand whip through the arid desert air to sting his eyes, that he realizes that every time he ever allowed himself to think about the end of the war, he’d always assumed that they would win. He had never truly thought they would be defeated. That the Jedi Order, the Temple itself, so strongly entrenched in the galaxy and in Coruscant and in Obi-Wan’s world view, were capable of falling.

He had cautioned others against the same assumptions the moment he heard them. He had warned his own padawan to not look too far into the future, to not plan too much for the war’s end. He had told many people—clones, civilians, holonet reporters, other Jedi—that it was dangerous to think of the war as something they would inevitably win. Nothing was inevitable, especially not victory.

But he realizes now, only now, only as he traverses the desert on the back of a stolen eopie, wearing robes still smelling so strongly of volcanic sulfur that his eyes are stinging with reactionary tears, that he’d thought. He’d always thought. 

He’d never really considered…this.

This aftermath, where he is still standing on shaking legs and everything that he has ever cared for in the world has become ash, has become the dust settling around him.

Everything he has ever known and loved and fought for has slipped through his fingers. When the dust settles, when he looks down at his hands, he expects to find them empty.

Instead, there is a baby in his arms.

And he knows—he knows intimately how much damage these hands are capable of. What hurt these hands can inflict even on those he loves. Loved. 

He knows, as the homestead rises up in the fading light of the two suns, that these hands should not cradle this baby. Not the son of the man he has murdered. Not his brother’s son. Not his padawan’s. Not Anakin’s.

He knows the babe is safest here on this farm in the care of this couple. He knows he must leave the child with them, to raise and love a thousand times better than he is capable of. He has tried before. He has failed one Skywalker already.

He knows. 

And he can’t. He cannot let him go.

While the Galactic empire rises on one side of the galaxy, the dust settles on the other and Obi-Wan Kenobi looks down at the babe in his hands and realizes that he cannot let him go.

Not another Skywalker.

[thegrimreaperisanerd]

HAPPY PSE @mercuriobebop !!! HAVE ALMOST 18k OF EXTREMELY SILLY SEXUAL TENSION AND BOARD GAME ACTION!

Sorry it took so long! Especially since I ended up asking you to complete a second piece, but at least I'm only 40 minutes into the day after! I hope you enjoy!

Of Games And Winning

Teasers under the cut 😉

[adrift-in-thyme]

I’m not thinking of specifically any good prompts for fairy time, but you know I love me some angst XD hurt/comfort, perhaps? Maybe with Warriors?

-Sky Floor

TIME AND WARRIORS MY BELOVEDS

And hurt/comfort too?? You couldn't have sent in a better prompt Peggy

CW for captivity, blood, and injury

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

Someone is speaking.

The voice floats to him like stray strands of fairy dust. Distant and hazy and soft…familiar.

The clouds of gray and black begin to part. The new light of a summer day pierces through closed eyelids. Reluctantly, Time shifts. 

Pain streaks up his small form in response, carving through the dim awareness he has only just begun to grasp. A low groan escapes past cracked lips. 

A fingertip brushes his cheek, so gentle it is hardly there. 

“It’s alright, Sprite. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Here…

Time shudders as the memories pour in. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

The translucent walls of a bottle surrounding him on all sides. Iron cuffs on his wrists and ankles, burning through his flesh. The agony of his torn wing. The pain of the wounds that pepper his abused body.

And a voice…a voice that pushes through an eternity of pain, that rises above the others that have filled his ears with their cruelty and derision. It is thick with anger, heavy with care.

“I’m here, Sprite. They won’t touch you again.” 

He drags open his eyes to a world of royal blue. Silken folds surround him on all sides, dipping and diving in graceful arcs. They snake around and over him, protective, secure. 

He knows their embrace well. After all, it is not the first time he has taken refuge within them. 

He fists his hands in the fabric, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. It is gentle upon his abused body, gentle on his wings.

His wings…

He frowns as his awareness grows like a slowly incoming tide. He can feel them again, sense them upon his back. Whole. Healed. 

A torn wing is not easy to mend. Of that he is certain. 

“How?”

He doesn’t realize he has spoken the question until he hears his own voice, little more than a croak, tight with remnant pain and fear.

“Don’t worry about that now.”

Time looks up into the eyes he knows so well. Anguish and adoration, beauty and pain, the flames of defeat and the spark of victory – he has seen them all reflected there. But right now he isn’t certain what emotion permeates those deep blues. He only knows what they make him feel.

Safe. Loved.

His next breath stutters on the way out. A lump situates itself in his throat before he can quite comprehend why it is there. 

“Big brother.” The title slips out on impulse and Warriors’ face spasms in response. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve called me that,” he says, quickly schooling his features into a soft smile. 

He scoops Time into his palm with such care, the hero hardly feels himself being lifted. The breeze caresses his newly freed wings, coolness mingling with the wonderful warmth of the sun. He revels in the feel of it. 

“I’m glad you’re awake, Sprite. How’re you feeling?”

Time blinks, searching vainly for words. There is so much he needs to say, so much he needs to ask. But exhaustion and pain still cling heavily to him. He is uncertain how long he was held captive though it felt an eternity. And now all he wants to do is sleep.

“Thank you,” he whispers, instead, and prays that his brother will understand everything he means by it.  

Judging by the way Warriors’ expression grows impossibly softer, he does.

“Of course,” he murmurs, eyes shining with vulnerability, a smile on his lips. “I’ll always come for you, Sprite. Always. You’re my little brother.”

He holds Time to his cheek for a moment, and Time hears his breath hitch as he leans into the embrace. He yearns to comfort him, to protect him from the memories and emotions that seek to harm him. But then Warriors is releasing him once more into the silken bed of his scarf. And his mind grows wonderfully fuzzy.

“Rest,” Warriors says. “I’ll watch over you.”

Time doesn’t doubt that he will.