#fun to think about art from like an outside perspective

[vestaloflight]

7, 11, & 21 for the art asks :3c

7. A medium of art you don't work in but appreciate Oh man, graphic design if that counts? Like, taking things and putting them together to get an idea across? Liiike I can edit a nice picture, or make a pretty palette but I really have no idea what to do to make a nice graphic that's visually appealing and informative for whatever point you're trying to make. I don't know if that really counts as a medium, but my eyes roll back into my brain when I think about making banners or web designing... But one that's maybe more sense-making, 3D visual arts. Like... paper-craft. Sculpting. Stuff like that. It's so neat and I do not know how to do it at all. I started doing resin-work but that still feels wholly different since I'm just picking colors and mixing stuff and pouring them into a mold. Starting from scratch? Wtf, I don't know how people do that and I'll be forever envious. 11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what I don't have anything specific that I listen to except it's like, always music, never podcasts or audio-books or anything. And I don't always listen to something sometimes I just zone out to the sound of whatever is on TV or the hum of the room. Sometimes I might get inspiration from a song and play that on repeat while I'm working, and sometimes I just let my "liked" collection shuffle. 21. Art styles nothing like your own but you like anyways I think I like... pretty much Every art style that's not like mine... but let's see... I love a style that's got a lot of background work to it - I am TRYING to put backgrounds into my stuff when it makes sense but oh god it does not come naturally to me and some of my fav artists just make it seem so EASY... obviously it took loads of practice to make it look easy but still it just blows me away how simple or complex it can be and I'm just over here like "what color bubbles should I place randomly in the bg". Also LOVE a cartoon-y style. I'd say my art tends to be a pretty even blend of "anime" as my mom calls it and realism, but I have a REALLY hard time leaning into one or the other. Like how do people draw chibis. I don't get it. I can't make it happen. Idk if this is even really the right way to answer this, but it's what I'm doing. X'D

[insert-content]

a summar(ule)y of 196 culture

since the tumblr veterans have been kind enough to introduce us newbies to their site and culture, i think it is only fair that we explain the culture of our glorious former home to any tumblr users who might be interested in the #196 tag. keep in mind, all these things are based on my perspective of the situation.

first of all, some general information (that you might’ve already heard):

196 (r/196 on reddit) was a subreddit with only one (official) rule; "post before you leave." it was mainly a meme/shitposting sub, but it cultivated a large queer and left-leaning community. in protest of the recent api chances in reddit, 196 has shut down indefinitely until reddit reverts these changes.

now for some culture/references that you might come across

spronkus kronkus:

spronkus is this yellow, rabbit-like creature.

they were the mascot of our subreddit. their appearance can vary from images to image, but as far as i’m aware, their full outfit consists of a bandanna in the colours of the trans flag around their neck, a gun labelled as such (other wise you obviously wouldn’t know what you’re looking at), and an axe also coloured like the trans flag.

r/place:

this is a rare event on reddit where the entire website gets a huge white canvas and can start creating pixel art on it. 196 participated by collaboratively creating our mascot, spronkus with "196!" written next to them.

this version of the pixel art was recreated by me as i couldn't find a nice image of it. there were some changes between the first version and the end result, so this might not be exactly how it looked in the end

post titles/"rule":

reddit forces it's users to title every post they make. as most of the posts on 196 spoke for themselves, many user instead titled their posts "rule", to indicate that they followed the subreddit's only rule. some people also tried to make puns with the word or tried to include it in words that shared some letters (example: wor(ule)d).

anarcho-stripperism:

as the amount of cropped porn jokingly posted to the subreddit increased, the moderators decided that porn would be banned from the sub, with one exception: anarcho-stripperism. she made food fucking videos, in which she jokingly tested the fuckability of different food items (fruits, pasta, etc.)

bigotry showcase:

bigotry showcase was a post flair (basically the reddit equivalent of tags) on the subreddit and was later restricted to only be used on saturdays. under this flair people posted instances of different forms of bigotry to make fun it.

eating babies/hungryposting:

at some point, the subreddit started to pretend to like eating babies, which started a variety of memes regarding the subject. even a post flair called "hungrypost" was added because of this

goblinhog:

goblinhog is the most prominent and well-known member of the 196 moderation team. besides this, on 196 he was mostly known for changing people’s flair if you enjoyed him enough about it.

flairs:

flairs are little tags that are displayed under your name in posts or comments, they are also subreddit specific. most subreddits give their users a palette of preset flairs and the option to make your own custom flair. however, in 196 you only had the option to customize your flair during special events. if you wanted to customize your flair outside of those events (which was basically the entire time), you had to ask a mod to do it for you.

punching nazis:

from time to time, the same gif of a person with a nazi armband getting punched in the face, and promptly falling to the ground, was reposted to the subreddit. this became a sort of tradition.

discourse/drama

wasp discourse:

the wasp discourse was a one to two weeks long heated discussion that generally divided the subreddit into two factions. one side said that they were justified in killing wasps if they were attacked by them, while the other claimed that since wasps are just animals, they aren't aware of what they're doing in the same way humans are, and therefore should be spared.

drama about the british:

there was a time when jokes along the lines of "ew, british" became pretty frequent on the subreddit. as a response, some user claimed that this was akin to racism and tried to get others to stop with the jokes. a debate over whether or not it was important or necessary to stop followed afterwards.

pillar discourse:

this was a debate over which type of pillar should be considered the best (ionic; doric; corinthian). i have seen the question "which pillar is the best?" being used as a sort of greeting between 196 refugees on here.

related subreddits

195:

195 was the predecessor to 196, and also was a social experiment with the same premise as 196 (one rule, post before you leave). as the creators of 195 ended the experiment, the community wanted something with the same vibe to continue posting, and thus 196 was born.

197:

197 is another part of the 196 ecosystem and is commonly understood to be the more politically right-leaning and bigoted as 196, as some people who were banned from 196 continued posting there. besides that, the subreddits were essentially the same in terms of how they functioned.

19684:

this subreddit adds a second rule which banned all mentions of sex (that’s why it’s name is a pun on 1984). some people took this as banning all discussion of sexuality, which resulted in a community that was slightly less accepting of queer people. it is currently still up and running as the 196 moderation team wants a way to stay in contact with the community.

amendments to the posts:

u/femboy_expert:

another well-known 196 user. as the name suggests they're an expert on the subject of femboys, with their flair on 196 reading "phd in feminine boys". as the subreddit was somewhat obsessed with femboys, it's no wonder that they became popular.

u/shitcum_backup:

this was the main account of a pretty popular shitposter on the subreddit. although i didn't see them as much in the last few months, i remember them sometimes having a unique speaking pattern, in which they referred to themself in the third person.

u/monko74:

this user commented "Every day I thank god for not making me a r/196 celebrity," which led to many users of the subreddit treating them like a micro celebrity. there are even a few subreddits solely dedicated to u/monko74.

691:

a sister subreddit that inverts the rule of 196, here you would be (temporarily) banned for posting. some time ago the members of this sub initiated a rebellion/revolution against the bot who performed all the bans (roomba).

u/Smart_Calendar1874:

this wasn’t necessarily part of the subreddit, but it was a pretty popular meme. and since it’s getting posted on here again, and i know enough about it, i’ll add it to the post. this user made a post to r/AskReddit titled "How would you get a small cylinder (5.1in length, ~4.5in girth) unstuck from a mini M&Ms tube filled with butter and microwaved mashed banana? [sic]" it was pretty clear that they were referring to their penis, yet they continued to claim "it’s a cylinder," in the comment section. this lead to comments like "it is imperative that the cylinder […] remains unharmed," in response to people’s advice of cutting the m&m tube.

it's going to be very interesting to see which aspects of 196 culture are going to survive the tumblr migration, and which aspects won't be applicable on this site.

i'm obviously not the ultimate scholar on 196 lore. if i’ve missed or left out anything, or said something wrong, please comment it.

[tinytennisskirt]

Let It Linger

Summary: When post-canon divorced! Art goes back to high school for a fifteen year reunion, he’s met with strong memories of the his estranged best friend, the girl he loved those fifteen years ago. He gets caught in a rally between his past and present. A whirlwind of past yearning, casual touches, meaningful conversations and pining rushes back to him like the time never passed when he sees her again for the first time in fifteen years. Turns out not so much has changed.

Warnings: mentions of sex, alcohol, marijuana. casual touching, pining, yearning, MEGA SLOWBURN, a longer fic with time skipping between MRTA! art and POST CANON! art. AU.

Art wasn’t sure how to feel about this. He was parked outside, in some dress shirt he’d owned far too long and the black dress pants he wore for when he did pre-game press. His hands on the wheel, lips pressed into a straight line. This would be interesting, he knew it would be. He was sitting in the parking lot outside the smaller gym of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy and he could hear the music through the walls of the car and through the open gym door, he could see a purple cast of light from inside.

It had only been fifteen years. That wasn’t much time in perspective, but fifteen years felt like a lot when he remembered who he was that many years ago.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“My mouth, my mouth!” You called, opening your mouth and slowing your running to walking backward. Patrick tossed a marshmallow and you caught it in your mouth as the three of you ran down the hill, Patrick with a bag of marshmallows, you with the chocolate, and Art with the graham crackers.

Both boys cheered loudly and you jumped, triumphantly raising your hands above your head. Art nearly ran right into you with the momentum from the hill and you all ended up laughing way too hard at it, even with the marshmallow in your mouth. Art tried to catch his breath, his hand sliding over your waist as he passed you, trying not to stumble the rest of the way down the hill. Patrick just laughed. “I had no idea my aim was that good,” he said, teasing.

You swallowed the marshmallow, “You’re kidding? Your aim? That was all me.”

Art grinned, “I think it was a joined effort…” He played mediator. You hit him in the upper arm gently. “No, all you. All her, Patrick. Sorry.”

Patrick threw his arms up in forfeit. There was no winning against you. They both knew that. You giggled and shoved a marshmallow right in Patrick’s mouth before skipping down the rest of the hill, leaving both boys behind you. Art watched, a huge grin on his face. The three of you had found a great way to sneak out of your dorms at night. It was 11:42 and you were heading toward the back of the grounds with the ingredients for s’mores, a lighter, and matches for good measure. And maybe the remainder of a pack of cigarettes.

What good was your last year at the academy if not the one you rebel just a tiny bit? You were down the hill humming Groove Is In The Heart by Deee-Lite in your big Mark Rebellato sweater and yoga pants just happy to be out at night. You were fun, carefree, and bright, even in the dark of the edge of the property, away from all the fuss of the school. “You’re so slow!” You called out to them. Both Art and Patrick jogged to catch up to you, finding your regular spot between a few trees.

You sat on your regular log and pulled the blanket from your bag before getting up to drape it over. Patrick got to collecting the twigs from the stash and put them in the hole you three dug the first time you snuck out. Art took the seat next to you on the log, “Crazy, you have like seven tennis balls in here.” He laughed. You shook your head, nudging him just a little while he grabbed the three marshmallow skewers from your bag. He grabbed one of the balls out and threw it at Patrick.

“Can take the girl out of Mark Rebellato but can’t take the Mark Rebellato out of the girl,” Patrick said, catching the ball and throwing it back at Art. He got the fire started and lit one of the remaining cigarettes off of the growing flame. “You guys ready for that test on Monday?”

“Since when are you an academic?” You chuckled, putting a marshmallow on the end of Art’s stick.

“Since he found out Lydia Jennings is into smart guys,” Art said. You chuckled, biting your lip just gently. Art noticed.

Patrick blew smoke out the side of his mouth, “No- okay, she said she liked smart guys we all know there’s no way in hell I’m becoming a straight-A student like this one over here,” he gestured with the cigarette between his fingers to you. “She’s hot, she’s not drop-everything-and-study hot. I’m talking about the test on Monday because I know that with you two and Stanford, you’re obsessed with your grades… I am… not ready.”

You shook your head, looking up at him, “She is so drop-everything-and-study hot, you’re just picky. And I’ll lend you my notes tomorrow if you want- Art and I worked on them together, they’re pretty extensive.”

“They are good.” Art nodded, dangling his marshmallow over the embers. “You’re actually worried about it? I mean, the year is almost half-done, you’ve got time.”

He nodded, “I know, but I have to graduate to be free of this place for good. No way I’m doing that GED thing.”

“My mom did the GED thing.” You said. “She’s doing just fine. It was only a setback. Plus, if you plan on truly going pro, it won’t be a big thing. Just player trivia.” Art laughed at that, pulling his stick back to pull the marshmallow off. You had already prepped his graham cracker and chocolate and pulled the marshmallow off between them for him. Patrick watched how you two worked so wordlessly- wasn’t his focus. “I will lend you all of my notes tomorrow, it’s just a matter of reading them a few times a day and you’re set.”

Patrick shrugged, grabbing himself the things he needed for a s’more. “Thanks.”

Art nodded, “You’re lucky you’re good with a racket.”

“Rude!” You said, shoving him backward off the log. He landed on his back in the leaves and it was all-around laughter again. The dynamic was this. Shoving, pushing, insults in good fun, but caring all too much. Art knew there was nobody in the world who cared more about anything than you did. He was, as your friend, able to enjoy just how passionate you were about the things and people you liked. He pulled himself back onto the log, shaking his head at you as you dusted him off and removed the leaves from his hair. You smelled good, like fall, vanilla, and chai, almost, but with a sweetness that reminded Art of the caramel apples from the fair. He shut his eyes as your hands picked the last little bits from his hair. You pat his cheek when it was done and the conversation moved onto the new tennis coach’s really bad toupée.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art got out of his car, shut the door, and locked it, car keys sliding into his pocket. He stared out over the grounds, past the outdoor tennis courts, and to the point in the field where it dipped down into the big hill. He wondered if they’d ever found your makeshift fire pit, filling it with dirt, moving the logs… He glanced at himself in the side mirror of the car, remembering when his hair was longer, more golden. Part of him wondered if he would even see you tonight. Maybe he’d see Patrick, which was a more likely occurrence, Patrick wouldn’t miss something like this.

If only they made it less of a surprise who you’d run into at one of these. He guessed it would be his class, a few extras, people who had settled down bringing their fiancees, partners, husbands, and wives. He wondered if he was too dressed up? Dressed down? And he was nervous, for some reason, when he shouldn’t have been.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“I know I shouldn’t be deciding on a dress this late but I can’t tell if this dress is too much?” You said from inside your dorm room. “I’m afraid Mark Rebellato himself will come to smite me for how much boob this dress shows off.” You spoke through the door.

Art and Patrick grinned at each other. “I’m sure it’s fine!” Art called back. Both boys had spent about twenty minutes tops getting ready for the mid-term formal. One of many formals the school so unfortunately had. “Can we see?”

“It’s not the right dress!”

“How would we know?”

The door to your room unlocked and you opened it, standing looking very unimpressed in a gorgeous purple dress. Both boys stood, a little dumbfounded for a second. “Too much?”

“No.” Both boys said in unison, gazing at you, your hair perfect, your makeup perfect.

Art blinked hard to snap himself back to reality, “You look… beautiful.” His eyes lingered a little too long on the slight shimmer to your eyelids and the gloss on your lips. Your eyes softened and you looked down at yourself again.

Patrick agreed. “Damn.” Both boys had themselves forgetting you were the same girl they called their friend on a day-to-day basis. “Mark Rebellato is rolling in his grave.”

“Is he dead?” You asked, laughing. Art didn’t find anything funny when you were standing there looking like that. He thought you were gorgeous, he could say that as your friend of a good few years, but this was breathtaking. You were.

The dance was more fun than both Art and Patrick anticipated, but you made anything fun. Patrick nudged Art’s arm as they stood off to the side with cups of punch. “She’s different this year.” He said. Both boys were watching you dance with one of your girlfriends. You were so free and you were once again the brightest thing in the whole room, purple and pink light cascading over your face and you were laughing.

Art hardly heard him. “Hm?” His eyes didn’t leave you.

“Exactly.”

Art nudged him back, seeing what Patrick was getting at. “Fuck off.” He grinned. “She’s just pretty. She’s always been pretty.”

Patrick nodded, sipping his punch, watching your dress swish around you as your friend spins you. “Too pretty.”

“Mhm,” Art sighs. The way he watches you is different from Patrick's. There’s something buried in what he feels, but he’s never acknowledged it much. Aside from when you met at twelve in a co-op game and you made fun of his ears. It honestly hurt his little feelings but Patrick found it absolutely hilarious that someone so funny-looking could say something so mean to someone else. Art laughed when Patrick defended him. But you, always so smart, nodded. And you smiled, which both boys didn’t expect. Then you apologized to Art and introduced yourself like nothing even happened. Art forgave you. There was something about you that both he and Patrick knew would make a good addition to the duo they’d formed over the first week. And it had been that way ever since. Didn’t make it easier when you stopped looking so funny and disproportionate when you turned fourteen but, being friends, it was ignorable. For the most part. They were only boys.

When presented with a slow dance, you excused yourself from the floor and came to stand with the boys, taking Patrick’s cup of punch right out of his hands and downing it. Patrick went to grab it but it was too late. You pulled a face, “Seriously?” You scrunched up your nose and Art laughed as he pieced it together.

“Didn’t give me a chance to warn you,” he chuckled. You felt the warmth spread down your throat- he’d spiked his own punch. Of course. Art, mouth agape, placed a hand on the small of your back without thinking. You just giggled and shook your head at him. Patrick took his cup back from you, sipping the very last drops. The couples and wannabes behind you continued to dance closely. “Awful, right?”

“So bad,” you giggled. Art twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh too much. Your hand closed around Art’s wrist and pulled it up over your opposite shoulder and you kept talking about how gross it tasted, making fun of Patrick for spiking it so badly. If anyone sniffed it, they would have immediately known it was mostly alcohol. Art’s arm stayed around you, the perfect place for it, so it made sense to step a little closer. It’s only worth noting as something that happened because Patrick, who was used to your casual displays of closeness like this one- saw the angle Art kept his hand at so that his hand wouldn’t rest too close to your boobs. He laughed just a bit. Art just shook his head at Patrick and flipped him off with that very hand.

By the near-end of the night, you’re danced out and you asked the boys to come back with you, but Patrick had taken to chatting up Lydia Jennings, of course, so Art obliges. Patrick didn’t need a wingman, he would do fine on his own. Art holds the door for you as you leave and you’re immediately laughing as you cross the parking lot. “Fucking insane,” Art laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I always forget it’s not a school dance until Patrick sneaks in two shooters.”

“I had at least one whole shooter in that punch,” you said, knocking against him as you walked. The cool autumn air hit your bare skin and it was harsh. “It was disgusting.” Art felt you shiver just a bit beside him and he was already taking off his jacket to give to you. “He could have gone with vodka or something, spiced rum, and fruit punch is one of the worst things I think I’ve ever tasted- thank you.” You said, taking his jacket with a smile and pulling it over your shoulders.

“It was spiced rum?!”

“Yeah!” You laughed with him, still leaning against him as the two of you walked. “He ends up with Lydia Jennings she’s going to hate, hate, hate his breath. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom,” you said, pulling a pink toothbrush out of your bag. Art couldn’t help but laugh at the thing.

“Smart,” he grinned wider as you showed him the travel-sized tube of toothpaste that went with it. Art just flashed you his pack of mint gum in return and you narrowed your eyes at him. Art shoved it back in his pocket along with both of his hands. “So… you had fun tonight?” He followed up.

You smiled at him with those perfectly glossed lips parting to show teeth. “I did. However-

“There’s a however?”

“However…” You grinned, taking his hand and walking backward. You lowered your voice, pretending to be extra serious. “You need to dance more so you can dance with me.”

“You didn’t like the nodding I did? I feel like that was a lot, too much, even.” He held the door open to the other building and you mouthed another thank you as you passed him again. ”How much more do I need to do to dance with you?”

“You can always dance with me. I promise it’s a lot more fun when you’re not feeling centered out.” You told him, heading up the stairwell. It’s still early in the night so the girl’s dorms were mostly empty. “I knowww, I know how you get with it, but-”

“I’d dance with you.” He nodded, but squeezed your upper arm, “You didn’t ask me. I would have.”

“Okay then. Swear on your life right now that if I asked you, you’d say yes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting that neverending grin that lived on his face when you were around. “For what?”

“All future purposes.” You replied, stopping outside your room and leaning against the wooden door. “Where dancing is involved.” You held out your pinkie finger and Art took it before he got to question any more. You grinned and jumped a few times. “You just made the craziest promise, I’m going to make you hate me with that one.” Art just grinned.

You talked a bit more just at the door until both you and Art were wary about someone seeing him on the girl’s side of the dorms. You opened the door to your room and stepped just inside, about to say goodbye, but just one more thing before he left, you asked. For him to help you unzip your dress. Art should not have felt the way he did when you handed him back his jacket and turned around while lifting your hair. Your bunkmate had zipped it up before you had left and you had no idea when she’d be back, you explained.

Art wouldn’t say no to you. Who could? He stepped closer, met with the closer, stronger scent of your perfume and you still smelled sweet. You always smelled sweet. With gentle fingers, he took the small zipper and slowly unzipped the back of your dress. The sound of the zipper being the only thing in the empty of your room and he wouldn’t forget how when the zipper hit the bottom of its track, his finger grazed the bare skin of your back. Soft, softer than he could have even imagined. And you turned so that he wouldn’t be faced with the bare of it all, braless underneath, he could tell, and you thanked him for the night, for his jacket, for his help. Said you’d see him tomorrow. Usually, you’d hug him goodnight, but with your dress about to slip off you just smiled, making fun of the promise he’d made to you just thirty minutes ago before a real goodnight.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art looked over at the dorm building across the lot, looking at the exact path between cars you and him would have walked that night. His hands shoved themselves into his pockets, habit. He decided not to stand out in the parking lot anymore, swallowing hard as he allowed himself through the door and into the smaller gym, which was decorated just like the regular school dances. There were streamers and early 2000s radio hits and so many people.

It was almost immediately people recognized Art. He was possibly the most successful of the graduating class, though he hated to think it. He wouldn’t put himself above anyone. He was already getting pats on the back and he started in some small conversations but he was a little distracted.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“They have parties at Stanford?” You said, looking at some Stanford webpage on Art’s mom’s computer. “Frats, too. Insane. Hey Art, you should join the frat.” You chuckled. Art and Patrick were playing Jenga at the coffee table, two or three of the blocks wet from falling into the eggnog.

Patrick ruffled Art’s hair, “Frat boy Art Donaldson?”

You spun in the chair, “I could join a sorority, they have those too.”

Art grinned, “Yeah? You think they’d take Patrick?”

Patrick pushed Art into the couch and the Jenga tower toppled over once again. You laughed, watching him shake his head and reach for his eggnog, once again pulling a Jenga block out of it. You came and sat next to Art on the couch, sitting on the arm. His hand mindlessly wrapping itself around your ankle as your foot rested on his thigh. Gentle, like letting you know that he’s there despite the readily available knowledge that was your being. Something sweet. Patrick took a seat on the floor in front of you both. “I think they’d take me, but you have to be a Stanford student, so you know, it’s too bad.”

“Their loss,” You smiled. “Do you think I’m pretty enough to rush a sorority when we get to Stanford?” You asked. Both boys looked at each other.

“...Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding just a little. You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.” Art said firmly. He squeezed your ankle just a little. You smiled at that. Art’s mom called you to dinner, christmas dinner, and in seconds both boys were bolting to the dining room. You exchanged a look with Art’s mom when you got there. She was lovely and she was letting both you and Patrick stay for the holidays. Her food was amazing and the conversation was Stanford, mostly, and your tennis plans for after graduation. The application process, the fuss of getting a dorm room there, and how excited she was for you and Art to be going to the same place. She loved you, his mom. She called you her daughter when the mailman came around during the holiday season and to whoever asked. She’d been in a household of boys for far too long.

The post-dinner conversation laying on your back on Art’s bed next to him while Patrick was laid at the foot of the bed was on exactly that. “Art, I think your mom likes Y/N more than you.”

“I know,” Art replied, hands folded on his chest. He turned his head to look at you, giggling.

“I can’t help it,” you replied through your laughter. “Everyone loves me, it’s not my fault.” Nothing about that statement was false- everyone did love you. And who wouldn’t? You were kind and sweet and loving and so warm to everyone you met so of course they all loved you. There was nobody like you so everyone who crossed paths with you would never be able to forget you. Art’s smile fell, looking at your freshly glossed lips and that unforgettably beautiful smile. He’d zoned out so when you rolled onto your side, nearly onto him, his eyes widened just a bit.

“You’re jealous?” You beamed.

“Not even,” Art scrunched his nose, using a gentle hand to push you away but you returned, giggling. “She’d go insane having a real excuse to go to sales at the mall.”

“Sugar mommy,” Patrick remarked. He had way too much pie, he was half-asleep. Art just kicked him with the foot that rested closest to his chest, eliciting an ‘oof’ noise from Patrick that you giggled at.

“You’re so jealous your mom likes me more, it’s crazy, it’s crazy,” You giggled, grabbing his upper arm. Art twisted his mouth to the side, eyes flickering from the gloss on your lips, to your eyes. “Don’t worry, when she comes to visit me at Stanford, she’ll probably have enough time to see you as well. I’ll make sure of it.” You teased.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Art said, pushing you back again and you just laughed madly, a laugh that was so room-filling and contagious and completely perfect. Art turned his head to look at you. You were more than sorority pretty. Who wouldn’t think so when you laughed like that?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art found that Lydia Jennings had three kids now. Three in fifteen years, which was a little crazy. She, of course, had pictures with her. Spitting images of her bright blonde, big-mouthed self and Art pretended to care, more than he cared to admit. There was no sign of Patrick. Lydia Jennings asked Art about his divorce, asking about his own daughter, but he had to real interest in talking about that sort of thing. Not with her. He excused himself, raising his head above the crowd to scan for anyone else he knew.

He ended up talking to an old friend who was already balding with his pregnant wife at his side. It was good to see just how well people were doing. Settling down, having quit tennis or only pursuing it on the weekends, some of them with kids in tennis classes already. Art was continuing to be congratulated on his career by even the partners of these past classmates.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You were dancing to some Tal Bachman song and Art was internalizing every lyric. “What song is this again?” He asked, leaning back against the tree. The light from the fire was flickering around your face that was nearly hidden by the winter jacket you had on.

“She’s So High,” you replied, spinning in circles. Patrick locked eyes with Art from across the fire, giving a knowing smile. One, because you were high, so was he, so was Art- Two, because Art was completely zoned in on you, the way you moved, the way you looked. And he couldn’t help it, you were the most fascinating thing around and he’d smoked quite a bit. It was like the song was written for you, he thought, out of his mind and red-eyed. You were dancing alone, like you hadn’t even though twice, the music coming from your little portable music player thing. Art met Patrick’s eyes and Patrick raised his eyebrows, nodding at you. Art shook his head, but Patrick jumped over the fire to sit next to him anyway.

“So are you telling her or am I?” He teased, ruffling Art’s hair and Art bat him away, huge grin on his face. “So when’s the wedding?”

“Shut the fuck up, she’ll hear you,” Art chuckled, shoving Patrick over just a bit. Patrick came back laughing. “It’s not like that.”

“You really think I’m fucking stupid, huh?” Patrick chuckled, pulling Art into a bit of a headlock in return. “I’ve known you both how long?”

“Too long,” Art laughed, trying to wriggle out of Patrick’s grasp, finally escaping just to shove Patrick all the way over. He was glad you were minding your business, occupied with the song. “It’s not like that.” He repeated, still keeping his voice low.

Patrick pulled himself back up, “Tell that to your dick,” he said, taking a shot at Art’s groin that he gladly blocked just to sock Patrick in his. Patrick doubled over just for a second and Art laughed a bit too hard, the fry of the weed that burned his throat making him cough. Patrick couldn’t stop laughing at the coughing and being high, everything was a lot funnier. It took a minute for them to stop laughing over the stupidity. Patrick sighed heavily, looking over at you still dancing mindlessly to a song by Avril Lavigne, then back at Art, who was trying to regulate his breathing, also staring at you again. “Maybe not always your dick but definitely your eyes. I’ve never seen anyone with bigger heart-eyes, it’s sickening.” He said.

Art looked at Patrick and twisted his mouth to the side. “I don’t think so. She’s just…pretty.” His eyes gazing back to you, spinning in your fluffy winter coat, swaying, firelight flickering over your face, defining your features in shadow.

“Uh-huh… You really think I don’t know?”

“There’s nothing to know,” Art replied, pulling his eyes off of you again.

Patrick shook his head, adding more to the fire, hand still over his groin as the pain continued to die down. He kept his voice low, “Fuck off with that. It’s bullshit. I know it, you know it. You spend more time with her than me, she’s your partner for every co-op game, your mom loves her, you look at her like I’ve never seen you look at anyone.” He chuckled, “And you so want to fuck her.”

“Not as much as I want you to fuck off,” Art chuckled. “Okay, well, I mean- I might. She’s gorgeous, yeah, but I don’t think I could ever tell her anything. She’s perfect, too perfect and we’re friends. We’re her best friends, it would fuck everything up.”

“So you don’t even try? I’ve seen you ask for girl’s numbers within forty minutes of knowing them, it’s unlike you to not even try.”

“She’s different,” Art replied, looking down at his hands. “I couldn’t. I make a move and she doesn’t want it, we’re fucked forever.”

“And you don’t make a move and you’ll never know,” Patrick replied. The weed made him oddly thoughtful. “I’ve seen you two with my own eyes there’s something there, I swear to god there is. You can’t just let things play out, you’re going to miss your chance. Think about Stanford next year, all the college guys hitting on her and you know they will, she’s Y/N… Fifteen years down the road she’s married to some frat guy she met at a rager and you’ll be wishing you told her while you could.”

The silence between them was filled by your music and humming. Art looked at you, eyes closed, lips glossy, boots in the dirt. And for the first time he let himself think that he could never want anyone more than he wanted you. He would never see past you, he wouldn’t ever feel this way about anyone else and in the moment, through the weed, it felt real. You, perfect, gorgeous, here.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art glanced around the room, feeling some familiar fire burning in the pit of his stomach. It felt oddly highschool, it felt oddly familiar. He wondered if you had kept up with tennis, he wondered if you had a husband and kids, he wondered if you’d gained weight, lost weight, changed your hair, were going just a little grey, even. He was nervous- that’s what he was and he could place that. It was then that he saw Patrick, coming in through the door across the room.

Art, over Tashi, had put her in the past, including what Patrick had done. Him and Patrick didn’t keep up much other than a few texts and meeting at the bar a few times, but the hard feelings were pretty much gone. Art started making his way over to his old friend just to be grabbed by another ex-classmate who wanted to catch up. He was faced with more pictures of kids and meeting someone’s wife and Art wasn’t so bothered to talk about his own daughter, he’d always take that opportunity. She was the best thing he currently had.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

You and Art sat on the bleachers in the gym, just having finished a co-op game, having won, of course. You both showered and got dressed again and met back up. The air was warming up, mid-spring and Art had still not told you yet. He decided he would at the end of the year and see if you’d make the first move, just to be safe. It didn’t weigh on him- he’d been friends with you for ages, liked you for ages, so it was a secondary thing.

“Hoping my tennis career is enough to buy an old victorian home,” You said, packing your things into your gym bag.

“I remember you saying that,” Art said, hauling your bag onto his shoulder along with his own. It wasn’t abnormal to have him carry your bag. It was sweet. “You want a blue one. Well, blue-grey.” He said. You looked at him, a little surprised he remembered the blue-grey thing. “With the white trim. I remember things.”

You nudged him just a little bit as you passed him. “I’m surprised, after so many tennis balls have hit you in the head.”

“And whose bad aim is at fault?” He teased back. You held the door for him and went out into the early afternoon sun.

You rolled your eyes at him with that gorgeous smile. “Bad aim, uh huh. Who’s to say it’s not on purpose?”

“Y/N!” Your girl friend called, bounding over. “My hair tie broke and I can’t go all the way back to the dorms in time for scrimmage, do you have an extra?” Art watched your full attention go to this girl, linking hands with her and everything. He watched you take the hair tie off of your wrist, the purple glittery one that you swore was your favourite. “Hi, Art.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noticing him standing there. Art just raised his hand in a subtle wave.

“Of course,” you said, pulling the purple sparkly hair tie off and giving it to her, no questions asked. “Do you need anything else? I have a redbull in my bag if you wanted that before your scrimmage?”

“Really?” She asked. Art lowered your bag for you and you unzipped it, pulling the redbull out and handing it to her as she finished tying her hair up. All Art could wonder was how could anyone not love you when this was who you were? Art knew that purple hair tie was your favourite and you gave it up, just like that, and didn’t even ask for it back later. And your redbull that Art watched you go through your coins for six miinutes counting literal dimes and pennies to get it from the vending machine was in this girl’s hand just because you thought to offer it. You were kind and beautiful and Art moved the date up a little in his head- the date that he’d tell you how he felt. For now, he dug his free hand into his pocket and pretended like you weren’t absolutely perfect.

Saying goodbye to the girl, you and Art resumed your walk back to the main building. “You know Abbey, right?”

“Her?”

“Yes, her,” you giggled. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she keeps asking me about you. Your favourite colour, song, movie, all of it.” You explained, gesturing with your hands and leaning against him as you two walked. “She likes you.”

Art was only half-surprised. But was more surprised at you bringing it up. “Likes me how?”

“Exactly in the way you think,” you replied. “I’m always down to play wingwoman, but I did tell her all the wrong information.” Your smile turned into a bit of a cringe. Art liked that even in your full care and support, you were just a little evil. Plus, what harm was it really? Art was only seeing you. He couldn’t spend a second on anyone else. Seemed impossible. “She thinks you’re a huge fan of Green Day.” Art couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah?” Art set down your things at a table in the cafeteria and the two of you got in line for food. “Playing interference?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, bowing so your head nudged his arm. The smile that pulled at your lips was one you appeared to want to suppress. A strand of your hair, wet, fell in your face and Art wasted no time moving it behind your ear. Your eyes met his as your smile broke into full action and your eyes fell back to the ground. Sometimes… just sometimes, he felt maybe you were worth ruining the friendship.

Your lower lip between your teeth, you grabbed a tray for him before you grabbed your own.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ �� .˚ₓ- present

Art finally made it over to Patrick, who looked decent. He shaved a bit, cleaned up just enough. Art thought about how strange it was to be back here with him after all this time. It almost felt right, was just missing you. “Hey, man.” Patrick said, reaching forward and locking hands with Art in a quick greeting.

“Hey,” Art replied. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Patrick replied. “See anyone worth talking to?”

“Not really. Lydia Jennings has three kids now, in case you were looking forward to that,” he chuckled. “She doesn’t look bad though. I didn’t check for a ring either, so.”

Patrick chuckled, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, wearing virtually what was the grey version of Art’s outfit. “Not for me.” He said. “I actually- I ran into Y/N in the parking lot. I thought maybe you’d be looking for her tonight.” Patrick added. Art hated the way his stomach did a little flip as if he wasn’t a full-grown man with a failed marriage and a daughter.

“She came?”

“Yeah, she headed in here before me. She’s good, she hasn’t aged much, it’s weird. You know what they say about the way good people age…” He added. “She’s in purple, said we’d talk more later but she was excited to be here.”

Art swallowed hard, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, man.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

When Patrick left early to hang out with Lydia Jennings, swearing he was going to ‘get some’, it left you and Art in the boy’s room. How they’d been bunkmates for six years running you had no idea, having been room with at least four different girls. Their room was decorated with sports posters, tennis awards and medals, and Star Wars memorabilia. You weren’t supposed to be there, but oh well. “You think purple is my colour?” You asked Art, going through the nail polish you had in your bag, buried under the bag of cheetos you brought over.

“Hm?” Art slid off his bed and onto the floor where you sat, your back to the edge of his mattress. “Yeah. The medium one, though. Not the dark one.” He said, pointing to the bottle he liked better. You shot a small smile his way before grabbing that one.

“I haven’t painted them in ages,” you said, doing a bit of a jazz hand really close to his face and then pressing your hand to his cheek. Annoying, or trying to be, but casual. Art scrunched his nose and batted your hand away, though he really didn’t want to. “So about Abbey.”

“Your friend?” Art adjusted the way he sat. His knee overlapped yours.

“Mhm,” you replied,beginning to paint your nails. “Did she end up talking to you after class yesterday?”

Art thought back to after class when he was on his way to his next class to meet up with you and Patrick. She had come up to him, but he almost immediately shut her down. “Was she supposed to?”

You smiled, “Yes. I told her to ask you about your favourite Star Trek episode.”

Art grinned, you were still playing interference. He wondered why. “I brushed her off… I didn’t think anything of it I was on my way out.” He grimaced a little and you looked up from your nails, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think I was too rude…”

“Where were you off to in such a hurry?”

“You- And Patrick.” He saved himself. “I had someplace to be! Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“And what is that type? Girls with purple fingernails, maybe?” You laughed- Art wondered what you meant by that because at this very moment there was nothing you said that had ever been more true. “Your future girlfriend is going to hate me.” You followed up. Art’s heart sunk just a little at that. You then mumbled something under your breath that Art didn’t catch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

Art caught up a bit with Patrick, who was interested to hear that his daughter was just getting into tennis, but really liked ballet. Patrick himself had still not settled down, but he’d landed a good job adn was now making decent money, enough to find himself a good apartment. He talked about this girl he’d met at the mechanic and Art didn’t mind the tale of it all, but he did glance around every few minutes to see if maybe you’d be nearby or even come to speak to them. They way you’d left things he wondered if you’d say anything to him at all.

It’s not like you left things horribly… But he knew the way things went just weren’t ideal and that was the problem. It was the lack of grace in the process of losing touch.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“Patrick held both envelopes up. “Saw these on the mail piles, grabbed them before mail day.” He said. You, who had been mindlessly playing with Art’s curls on the couch in the corner of the library, and Art, who was pink from just how intimate the feeling had been, both perked up. Patrick shot a look additional to the excited expression he wore and Art just flipped him off. “They’re yours.”

You and Art looked at each other, Art tilting his head back to do so. Both of you scrambled from where you sat to grab the envelopes Patrick held, huge grin on his face. “Stanford Tennis,” you breathed. Art pressed his lips together. “Acceptance letter?” You questioned. Patrick shrugged, but continued to grin.

Art shook his head, “Should we open them? I mean- same time? Or?”

“I feel sick,” you said, words overlapping his. “Oh my god.” You pressed your hand to your stomach. “I knew they’d be here soon but this is so… late. I was getting scared I wouldn’t get anything, we got something… We got something.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, big crooked grin on his face. “Together?”

You swallowed, sitting back down, then standing right back up again. “No, you first.”

Patrick sat on the couch, ready to watch both of his friends excitement, arm up on the arm of the couch. “Hurry up!” He kicked Art in the back of the knee and Art didn’t even feel it, opening the big envelope. He narrowly avoided a paper cut. You paced a short distance, back and forth, back and forth anxiously. He unwrapped the papers, eyes scanning over the letter.

“Fuck yeah!” He exclaimed, all too loud for the library. He didn’t care though. “I’m in!”

You gasped and your grin was the first thing Art looked for. Your arms up and around his neck, so excited for him. “That’s amazing, I’m so so proud of you!” You exclaimed, also so loud. Art’s arms around your waist, squeezing you tight as you kissed his cheek enthusiastically. Patrick was there to clap him on the back, hugging Art when you let go. Art was glad for it- it helped hide how pink he went from just the kiss on the cheek. You were jumping up and down and you were beautiful and you were happy. It would be one of the last times Art saw you so happy.

“What about you?” He gestured to your envelope and you looked down at it like you’d forgotten you were holding it.

“I- I can’t, one of you has to do it,” you said. It was for sure. You’d met with the faculty there, the coaches, you were scouted two years ago when you weren’t even old enough to apply and the second you knew you loved tennis you knew Stanford was the best place for you. Patrick took your envelope for you, opening it as you nervously bit your lip, swaying into Art, letting your fingers intertwine with his just to have something to brace yourself. He squeezed your hand, smiling at his own acceptance, knowing that if anyone had it in the bag was you. But Patrick read it over and there wasn’t a grin- in fact the smile he did have fell just in the slightest. Art felt your hand squeeze his harder.

“What is it?” You asked. Art looked at Patrick, who then looked up at you with sorry eyes. “Patrick?”

“You’re- um-” he paused another moment and handed you the papers. “Waitlisted. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Art watched your colour drain. The obvious bright light you brought by just entering a room dimmed as you read it yourself. Art could feel the slight tremor in your fingers, so he squeezed your hand as hard as he could, just so in the new wave of overwhelming sadness, you’d know he was still there. He felt guilty for celebrating so soon.

“I’m waitlisted.” You repeated, monotone. “And not even until next semester. Next year. And even then there’s no guarantee.”

Art didn’t wait another second, he used the hand he held to pull you in. You didn’t resist, you couldn’t, you felt limp as Art wrapped his arms around you. Patrick’s hand on your back for just a moment, but Art’s hand on the back of your head and the other running up and down your back. His crush on you was unaffected by this hug because he knew that you needed it more than anything. You were the one with the plans, you were the one who knew exactly how things would play out and Stanford was the first step on every path you’d imagined. Knowing you so long, both boys knew you were right to cry.

Art held you, standing, for as long as you needed- his arms around you stayed tight and didn’t waiver once in the thirty minutes you stayed there. He was quiet, Patrick was just cursing Stanford for being fucking stupid and though Art agreed with him on that, because who in their right minds would look at your grades and your tennis stats and say they didn’t want you? Who wouldn’t want you?

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

When Art saw you from across the room it felt like he was eighteen again. He’d anticipated feeling nostalgic for a time, but you were there and you were in purple, like Patrick said and he knew it was you from the smile you wore, reuniting with what looked to be a very-pregnant Abbey Campbell. Good for her, Art though, seeing past the bump and looking at you. Patrick was right- you’d aged like fine wine or whatever that saying was, but you were still youthful and you were still… bright.

“You should talk to her,” Patrick said, noticing where Art’s eyes had landed. As if he hadn’t been watching Art scan every five minutes during their conversation. “You haven’t seen her since…”

“September 2006,” Art replied, looking at Patrick.

“Have you kept in touch at all, or?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well fuck.”

“Yeah,” Art nodded, eyes not leaving you. You were different, older, for sure but not in ways noticeable. Many of the men in the room had grown into bigger bodies and were either unfortunately balding or had already gone bald for some. Mid-thirties you wouldn’t think it, but it was there. And you were there, looking youthful and bright and you were still one of the prettiest girls in the room. Women… in the room. He gestured to you, eyes not leaving you, scared to lose track of where you were. “I’m going to-”

“Good luck.” Patrick pat Art on the back to send him off and Art, drink in hand from his stop by the food table, walked over to you, ignoring everyone who wanted his attention this time.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- past

“You’re not telling her at graduation? You’re fucking joking.” Patrick said, shoving Art back onto his bed as the boys got dressed for one of their last classes at MRTA. “How fucking stupid are you, you can’t just not tell her.”

“I tell her and I ruin our friendship while I get to go to Stanford in the fall. I can’t do that to her.”

“You sound like a fucking idiot,” Patrick said.

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but even if I tell her and it goes well, we would only have the summer before I move all the way to fucking California. You’ll be on tour and this whole… thing would just be broken. And fucked up. I don’t want her for a summer, Patrick. I want her all the time, every day, like it was supposed to fucking be. I don’t want her for just a summer.” Art huffed, looking at his hands. The whole waitlisting bullshit threw a wrench in everything. Everything.

“You’d rather not have her at all?”

“I-” he flailed his hands around, “I don’t know! I don’t know how to tell her something like that and then move away.”

Patrick shrugged, “Could just kiss her.”

Art opened his mouth to speak and a knock on the door cut him off. Art pulled his shirt over his head as Patrick lunged to open it. It was you. Who else?

“You guys want to cut class?” You asked, arms folded over your chest, mouth pulled a little to the side, standing in your shorts and tank top, not dressed for class at all. Your hair was behind your ears, your lips just slightly glossy and you had that slight sparkle to your eyelids, but it was never too much. He would never get over just how beautiful you were, never ever. “I don’t feel like going today and I just want to do something fun or maybe even nothing?”

“That sounds great, but I actually was looking forward to doubles today…” Patrick groaned, putting a hand aside his head. Art knew him well enough to know Patrick was not looking forward to doubles. “But Art already has all his credits, I think he can stay. I’ll come back before dinner though?”

You nodded slightly and looked to Art, who still had his mouth a little open at the sudden position he was in. “Would you? I really don’t feel like going but I can just skip and meet you guys for dinner?”

Art nodded back at you, slowly. Patrick was playing wingman with expectations this time. ‘Could just kiss her,’ echoed around his head. He made eye contact with Patrick who, out of your line of sight, shot Art a telling look. He was giving Art a window. But skipping with you, being alone with you wouldn’t change the fact that when September came you’d be states away, alone, probably. The long distance would be hard and he knew he could maintain the friendship, but if he confessed and it went well, the long distance of a new relationship would probably kill him. And you. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” Art said.

When Patrick left for class, you came into their room and sat down on Art’s bed, next to him. You weren’t exactly yourself, the way you sat with your arms crossed and lacked that gorgeous smile Art looked forward to every day. You sat so close he could smell the sweetness of your perfume. “You okay?” he asked, looking at you with his head a little tilted, smiling gently.

“I can’t get the Stanford thing out of my head,” You admit. Art nodded. You’d been good about it. It upset you, he knew that it absolutely killed you, but you didn’t talk about it much- for Art’s sake, not wanting to depress him and Patrick with your delayed dream. “I know it’s stupid, I’m only waitlisted a year, but it was supposed to be different. They said I was a shoo-in, how could they say that and not mean it?” You vented. Art heard every word.

“They’re missing out for sure.” He said, hand sliding over your knee to rest just above it. “And Patrick is right- they’re fucked in the head and you deserved that place in the program more than anyone else.”

“Even if I deserved it, even if they’re fucked in the head, I’m still not going and that’s whats killing me.” You said, looking at him with sad eyes. He missed when they were full of light and happiness. “You know, it was supposed to be us. And now it’s not and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you- And Patrick.” Was Art mishearing or was there a pause? And us? Us. “I just feel so stupid and I’m suddenly so lost? I knew exactly what was coming and then it just stopped coming. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you both when we all go separate ways.”

“Couldn’t lose me.” Art said, eyes locked on yours. “I might be in California, but I have a phone. And it has a ringer and we have email and facebook and I don’t think I’d even know how to go a day without talking to you, so you know if you didn’t call, I would.” He said, admitting a little too much. “Patrick too, I bet.”

“I love that,” you smiled just a bit. “I just… I was so ready for things to change, but now I’m not. Even if I call you a hundred times in a day, would it feel the same?”

Art looked at the hand he had on your leg, at his thumb as it moved back and forth over your skin. “Probably not… But it would be the best thing until you come and visit. Or when I come home on holiday. It would just be to fill the spaces between, you know that the distance would mean nothing once we’re all together again.”

You looked down. “I know. I just don’t want it.” You sighed, leaning your head against Art’s shoulder. Art could smell your shampoo, it was soft and just as sweet as your perfume. “I’d just... I hate the idea of having to miss you. Distance fucking sucks.” You added. He agreed. Distance would suck. But right now you were here, next to him. He wouldn’t kiss you, he knew that. Not now.

But he turned his body just slightly and wrapped his arms around you, your head moving to just under his chin, resting against his chest. And he held you tight, he always would. And he didn’t resist his other urge, slowly tilting himself back so that he was laying down. You didn’t protest, you just held onto him tighter, laying next to him. Like most things between you two, they went unspoken. You in his arms, in his bed, god it was so telling but you didn’t say a thing. And neither did Art, aside from, “I don’t want it either.”

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

You didn’t seem to notice when he approached. You were heavily invested in your conversation with your friend, laughing and gesturing and you were even more beautiful up close. He could admit it to himself, he was amazed by how well-preserved you’d been. He maybe was expecting a bit of a grey streak, he remembered your mom being fully grey when you were only a teenager, but your hair was perfect. He was just a little bit to the side, in Abbey’s line of sight and she saw Art first, she looked happy to see him, he noted. Too happy for someone with a baby on the way. She put her hands up in the air like she meant anything to him and you looked over at him, seeing what Abbey was so delighted to see and for the first time in fifteen years, you locked eyes with Art.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- interlude

Art remembered the last time you looked at him. Confused eyes, sad ones, the ones he hated seeing, the ones he knew he caused. It wasn’t supposed to be the way it was. Your best friend felt like he just… wasn’t that anymore. Missed texts to missed calls after promises of hundreds in a day felt like lack of care. And it wasn’t on your end. When Art missed your calls, you stopped looking at your phone so much and you missed his. You visited him twice at Stanford, within the first few months and it was the same but he was so busy. So distracted, it seemed. You met Patrick’s girlfriend, Tashi Duncan and the only thought in your mind was that she looked at Art strangely. So when things unravelled, you asked him things and he answered honestly, leaving out the part that he knew went against his character. He was looking at you, thinking about how he should have kissed you at the airport before going to California but he was looking at a girl who wouldn’t kiss him. Not anymore.

And he missed you like he missed no one- when you stopped responding to his emails and Facebook posts. Your last post was October 4th, 2006, and it was a picture of you at a coffee shop you were beautiful, but Art was so lost on the guy next to you. He should have kissed you at that airport but he was tangled in this mess of Tashi who he had admittedly used to try and not miss you so much when you posted with one of your new guy friends, who you did not like romantically. But Art didn’t know that. He didn’t know how badly it hurt when you traveled to California to find him completely happy and distracted in a new life with new friends and forget that you were coming to visit. That hurt. He should have kissed you at the airport when he could before all of these things crashed and collided and brought you down. He was at fault, but you forgave him, you just didn’t speak again.

Patrick said it was fine, you’d come around. Art’s mom told him that you called to check in on her, but that growing apart does happen. He would ask himself how in the world did he end up growing apart from you. You of all people, but admittedly it was his own fault. These things just happen, distance ruins things.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ- present

But there wasn’t much distance now. You were standing in front of him. Your expression didn’t change- it was a gentle smile upon laying eyes on him. Abbey asked him how he was and just like years ago, he brushed her off with a ‘would you excuse me?’ and passed her, sheepishly walking over to you.

“Hi, Art,” you said, head slightly tilted, lips pulled into that smile he hadn’t seen in years. Art felt shy around it, he hated that, but he was happy to see it. And you.

“Hi,” he replied.

You gestured to Abbey, “Reminds me of something.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied with a small chuckle. “I-um… How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” you nodded. Art found himself glancing for a ring on your finger or maybe a baby bump he missed, but nothing. You were doing okay. “Oh, no ring.” You said, holding up your hand. “Wasn’t so lucky. How are you?”

He shook his head, still a little dazed that you were here in front of him, talking to him like you hadn’t gone fifteen years without doing so. “Not so bad.”

“That implies that there’s some bad,” you nodded, leaning against the wall. Your dress reminded him of another you’d worn. “Not so bad?”

“I’m okay…” He said. “Just… I didn’t think I’d see you tonight.” As if he hadn’t spent every moment since RSVP-ing thinking about seeing you again. Finally seeing you again.

“Oh,” you nodded, understanding. “No, I get that. I didn’t think you’d come. Thought maybe you were busy winning some grand slam, too far ahead than the rest of us. It was a good win, your last big game in Chicago.”

“You kept up,”

“I couldn’t not. I’m not me if not nosey and that aside, your name all over everything tennis-related- billboards, even. You and Tashi.”

“You must have heard about the separation, then?”

“On the tennis new channel, surprisingly. Fuck them for making that public, and I am sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He replied, eyes not leaving yours. “It just wasn’t working out. She cheated.” He admitted, which he hated. Something about your eyes was a well-working trap for him to fall back into the exact boy he used to be in your presence. He wanted to tell you everything, he forgot what it felt like to be around you. But you weren’t different at all. You were still that same warm, caring girl you used to be.

“Art, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible. Nobody deserves that.” You said, eyes soft. Beautiful.

“It’s in the past.” He nodded again, looking at the ground. They hadn’t changed the gym floors since you’d left, he noted. They were the same. “Thank you, though. I actually, um, I have a daughter, though.”

“Lily,” you smiled. “I’m nosey, I told you. Is she much like you?”

“I think so.” He smiled back. You knew his daughter’s name and you knew about the divorce yet he had no idea what you’d been up to. “So, are you… working, are you…”

“I am.” You nodded. “I teach children with special needs how to play tennis, it’s a great job. Lots of fundraisers and events. It’s really lovely.” Art remembered when you were younger. You’d mentioned something of the sort- doing that. He couldn’t help but wonder if you had joined a company or made one. But he wouldn’t ask, the small talk was already killing him. “About your daughter though, I’d love to know more.”

He wanted to know more about you but he liked to talk about Lily and her hobbies and habits. It felt good to talk to you again as you engaged with him as if fifteen years was three months. It was strange, but the feeling of being around you and your light again, it was easy to brush it all off. Like he was eighteen and you were an addictive happiness. You were smiling as he spoke about his daughter. You were smiling so much that he had to stop at one point, unable to hide his own smile. “What?”

Your eyes went a little wide, but you kept smiling, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. I just… I always knew you’d be a girl dad. And you seem like a good one.”

“Always knew?”

“Oh yeah, I think I first thought about it in grade ten… A girl knows these things.” You said. Your body language changed slightly, you tilted your head to the door. “Hm- Do you still smoke?”

“Do you?”

“When I need to.” You said. “It’s not a habit, it’s an occasional thing. Come with me?”

Art was surprised by the offer. But how could anyone say no to you? He nodded and followed you out. You stopped outside your car, a decent distance away from the building and hopped on the trunk, sitting like you would so many years ago. Your car was nice, so you must make good money, he noted.

“How are you really?” You asked Art, eyes genuine as you lit the cigarette. Art, focused on you, didn’t know how to answer that. He was wondering how you weren’t someone’s wife or mother because even after all these years, he couldn’t find flaw in you. Not one. You were still sweet and kind and lovely and you looked amazing, so how did nobody find you and keep you? You asked him how he really was as if you still saw through him. “You’re really doing okay?”

Art took the cigarette as you passed it to him. “I’m okay. It wasn’t easy- any of it, but it happened and it’s in the past.”

“That’s good.” You said, watching him take a drag. The soft wind blew your hair around your face. “I am sorry about what happened, it sounds awful. I had to check in, really check in. But that aside, you’ve really made a name for yourself out there. Big games, high stakes and a good reputation.”

Art nodded, eyes on the ground as he inhaled again and passed the cigarette back. Something about being here with you was surreal. You’d kept up and he had no way to do the same. “Thank you. I planned on retiring three years ago, but second wind came around. I plan on retiring next year, thinking about starting to coach.”

“You’d be a good coach,” you nodded, smoke blowing out from between your perfect lips.

“Maybe…” He started. Silence.

You nodded, “You’re thinking about the elephant in the… parking lot.” You said, looking around.

“I might be,” he replied, straightening himself out. “It’s been fifteen years and you’ve not said a word to me since… And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to.” Art rolled up his sleeves. You watched. “Fifteen years.”

“I know,” you replied, quiet. “But you have had an amazing career and you married the girl I was so worried about, had a daughter. Your life has been exactly what you wanted, that’s amazing. Could it have been the same with me in it?” Art wished it was you in it. “So I let time be time and do it’s thing, I know it’s been fifteen years.”

Art shook his head, “It couldn’t have been a space thing. Maybe I needed the space, but it was bound to exist anyway. We were best friends, you, me, Patrick- and Stanford changed things but you didn’t have to walk away. My life has been my life but it’s not that way because you walked away.”

You chuckled, “I know that. And I am beyond proud of you either way, but me, eighteen years old and in love with you? Showing up after a month of planning and you forgot I was even coming? Just about broke me. And of course, there was Tashi and-” You had more to say but Art felt all of his thoughts come to a halt. His fingers felt cold. He interrupted you-

“In love with me? You were in love with me?”

You laughed, so genuine, the sound was something he had missed sorely. “That’s even a question? Oh, I was so young, but I was very much in love with you. Patrick would never let me forget it. I had such a crush on you. You… you didn’t know?” You covered your mouth as you laughed, but Art felt a little bit frozen, but it was easy to laugh with you.

“I didn’t know, no.”

“So the fifteen years is because after you broke my little eighteen-year-old heart, I took the time to recover and I just… never did.” You admit, handing him back the cigarette, which he took without looking at. He was only seeing you. Part of him was kicking himself hard, angry that he hadn’t confessed when he had planned, knowing now, so many fucking years later than if he had said what he wanted to, he might have had you. There were the complications, but if he had you, there wouldn’t have been a Tashi situation. And in his mind he watched the possibilities unravel his life as he knew it- knowing that it could have been you. It could have been you. “As sorry as I am about it, I don’t regret it. You have an amazing-sounding daughter and the life that you and I used to talk about, going pro… And I have a job that I only got through staying on this side of things. If I was in California, I wouldn’t have met the sweet lady who started the company I own now.”

He hated that you were right. But he hated it more that he could have had everything he really wanted- the things you and him talked about- and it could have been with you. A house, a marriage, a child? The things he really wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret, but it was something close to the feeling. “I understand. I just- you liked me? Patrick knew?” His whole adult demeanour was destroyed by your youthful smile.

“He would play wingman,” you said. “It was awful, but it was still fun. And I think I should tell you, though it feels wrong, that I missed you. And I am sorry I didn’t reach out. It was too much.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he nodded back. “I missed you too. A lot. It took a while to get over what happened, but it’s been good…”

“I’m glad,” you replied. The cigarette was almost at it’s end. And for a while you just stared at each other. The words unsaid filled the air until it was almost suffocating. He could have had you. If he had said something. If he’d kissed you at the airport. Tashi might have been Patrick’s. Art hated to think about a world without his daughter but it was you. It was always going to be you no matter how many years passed. “I hate to ask this for the sake of my phrasing, but… no hard feelings?”

Art smiled down at his feet, hands back in his pockets, “No, no hard feelings.” He replied. “And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you too.”

You smiled that beautiful smile, the wind blowing your hair a little more. There was something so painting-like about this moment. It could be frozen in time, he wished it could be, and he made a mental note to engrave this image of you in his mind. You were just as gorgeous as the day you left and sure, it hurt to think about a little bit, especially all of the ‘what if’s, but you were here now. And there were no hard feelings. How could he ever have any toward you? It was you.

“You want to head back in?” You asked, digging a foldable toothbrush out of your purse along with a tiny tube of toothpaste.You truly not changed much in your ways. Art wondered if you remembered the last time you’d brought a little toothbrush and toothpaste out. He dug in his own pocket and pulled out his pack of mint gum. He noticed the way your eyes widened at the parallel. But then you just grinned, starting to laugh as you half-brushed your teeth, half giggled. Art chuckled too, popping a piece in his mouth. And the laughter lasted a while. It was like you were the same giddy teenagers who wouldn’t tell each other their biggest secret. But eventually it died down and you headed back inside.

The moment you were inside, he noticed the song playing. So did you. You stood there for a moment, not looking at anyone but him. The Cranberries playing loud over dusty speakers. The only Cranberries song you ever liked, Art remembered. You couldn’t stand the voice cracks in the one about zombies… He was a little confused when you held your hand out, but when you smiled, he remembered. In the spirit of parallels, you were asking him to dance. He remembered the promise he made you, he wouldn’t forget it. He had pinkie promised and you swore to make him regret it, but he never got the chance to. You never gave him a real reason to.

“You pinkie promised.” You said, tilting your head just in the slightest. “You swore.” You said it a little sing song. Fifteen years forgotten- they didn’t exist. You were here and you were asking him to dance with you.

“I did,” he said, smiling, hands still in his pockets. And he did take your hand and with a youthful giggle, you pulled him to the dance floor. It was one of those songs where you could scream the lyrics, you could spin and you could maybe even jump, but you just stayed close. Art wasn’t sure what exactly to do, but it was okay. You led at first, swaying just a little to get him into it. He grinned, unable to stop it. Fifteen years felt like seconds, like you never even left. Like you were those same young best friends dancing around your feelings, your truth. And you were so beautiful, spinning and swaying and your dress following you as you did. You laughed and it was melodious, you were so unaware of the eyes on you, of Patrick’s eyes. They met Art’s from across the room and a knowing smile spread up his old friend’s face. He raised his drink in their direction and Art nodded back.

Time might have made Art a little bit harder, colder, but you made him right back into who he used to be before life existed. Your light was brighter than the strobes spinning the walls of the room. You got him into it with a nearly-sixteen-year-old promise. The music loud, but just dull enough to hear you. Art was drawn back into you like you were a magnet. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have you. That he didn’t get that life with you. But you were here and you were still so perfect.

The dancing had somehow melted itself into something slower, though the pace of the song didn’t change. It was almost a hug, the way his hand slipped around your waist. It felt familiar and you… smelled the same way you used to. So sweet. Your arms around his neck, close to him. It wasn’t even a thought in either one of your brains that you ended up this way, but it felt right and you just did it, so that’s how you were. Swaying, like a slow dance, and the end of the song rolled around, the music dulling to only an instrumental.

You pulled away just a little, your faces just a little bit close. “I think it’s best we went our separate ways. It would have killed to me to stay your friend and watch you and Tashi’s life in person rather than in pictures.” You said quietly. “And if I’m honest I think I might still be a little bit in love with you.”

Art met your eyes at your confession. You looked like you regret what you said, but the concern in your eyes changed, eased. You could still read his expression. “I did love you too, you know.”

“I know.” You smiled. He grinned a little sheepishly, his grin still the same. His eyes were soft and he looked at you like he always did. Such a familiar gaze. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“For still feeling the way I do. After what I did.”

“You’re not alone in it.” He admit with a small chuckle. And you giggled. And it felt like nothing else existed in the entire universe. Just you. Just him. He wasn’t blunt, but it was definitely still said. It really could ever only be you, no matter what. Even with Tashi, it was always you. A first love that could never truly be erased, despite the countless mistakes and sins of youth. It hadn’t worked, but looking at you now, he had that hope again. That it might.

You just continued to sway to the music. The promise to dance whenever you asked fulfilled. There was peace in saying what was left unsaid for so many years. There was peace in feeling it still. Feeling how he did about you was the most consistent thing in his entire life. He wasn’t who he had to be with Tashi, he was who he truly was with you. His big career in hindsight, his past with Tashi, his life that didn’t include you was behind him.

Patrick did wander over when the song ended. He came and stood beside you both, the lip of his bottle resting against his mouth. You and Art shared a look before you left the position you were in, hands slipping back to your sides. He was grinning a sly grin. A familiar one from back in the day. Knowing.

You just tsked, “You need to shave.” You said. Patrick just grinned, laughed.

“You too.”

“Really?” You laughed. “Okay, I see how it is.”

Art chuckled. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this. As much as he wanted just you and him, the three of you together were something entirely different. Who wouldn’t miss the better days? The three of you got a little more caught up, Patrick was free to reveal his position as a double agent in your teenaged slowburn that never really fizzled out… You and Art didn’t mention anything said during that dance, but he knew without being told. Everyone who knew you both knew that you belonged together. The night was still young, but Patrick lowered his voice. “I have an ounce in the car.” He said, shrugging. The three of you shared a look and in minutes the three of you were hiking across the schoolyard. Adults. Stupid adults with stupid nostalgia, laughter echoing across the empty courts as you all walked down the hill.

Art moved the dead leaves and under it was still that circle of rocks. The dirt had somewhat filled it, but it was still a bit of a divot. And the logs had thinned out but they were still there. You sat next to Art like you always would. You turned your body to face him and you just looked at him, studying the way his face had changed, his hair… but it was still very much so the boy you’d loved years ago. He looked over at you and he smiled and it was a reflection of so many years ago. The exact same spots, the exact same people, the same reason to sneak away.

You had hoped you hadn’t overstepped. You didn’t come to the reunion to say what you said, but it was right. And you knew Art felt the same. He said so. The three of you stayed and talked for hours like nothing ever changed. Time could never truly change the three of you. No matter who fucked who, who married who, who went where, who did what. It was always you. It would always be you. And that aside- you and Artwould figure that out- it would always be the three of you. Proven by your very own lives.

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

[bunnwich]

It's Supposed to Be Fun

(a letter to my friends in the twst fandom)

I've been wanting to make this post for a while and these thoughts may seem scattered but I’m gonna try to express them. 

Lately, I have seen many friends and moots that either are leaving the fandom or feel guilty over not having posted in a while or losing interest in twst. On the other side, I also have friends being harassed.

This a reminder to remember why you joined this community to begin with. I know that keeping up with the fast-moving pace of fandom and comparing ourselves to others, can skew our perspective on these things.

It’s supposed to be fun. 

Why do we post art or write? Sure, partly for recognition, there's no denying that. But, why do we create, I mean really? For enjoyment. Not for others, not to be “popular” FOR JOY.

So, whether you’re dealing with people critiquing you or feeling guilty about not creating. My question is this: Why waste so much of your time on something that makes you miserable?

Did it stop being fun? Why? Haters? Loss of interest?

To my friends who feel guilty for not creating and not sure if they lost interest in twst: 

Don’t feel guilty. At one time, the creation of your twst content was natural. It's what you did for fun with friends or for yourself. Revisit that mindset and think - if creating twst content now will bring that same joy it did before.

If the answer is no, then maybe it’s time to pivot. It’s okay for interests to fade. It doesn’t mean that time, memories, or the friends you made are lost. Connect with your friends, we will understand! We still love you! It's not a race there's no time limit, just pick up were you want to. Draw fanart of old events or OCs.

To my friends who have been harassed: 

I say this with sincerity…. People who harass others over fictional characters are fucking losers.

Like… There’s no other eloquent way to encapsulate it. I’m starting to not care for the reason anymore - If you harass or be shady to others over a ship or fictional character. CONGRATS! YOU ARE A LOSER.

We all join fandoms as a hobby, for fun. We’re all just kids in the sandbox playing pretend again… and if you are the type of person to go up just to “kick the doll out of someone’s hand" or make commentary on how “their way of playing is wrong." You’re a loser. I have a life outside of twst, we all do. Someone saying my ship is wrong or cringe is just so laughable to me. We have to make fun of these people more for being so goddamn lame.

Imagine being so unhappy that when you see someone having fun you HAVE to comment on it. By all means, if it gets you through the day...talk shit to close friends or even post about it on your own blog. (THAT WAS ALWAYS ALLOWED.) Don't bother creators directly. Don't be a loser. I sure see tolerance leave people’s bodies when they see a fandom opinion they don't like. (And this is coming from someone who has lots of opinions on these things! But that's why I always put the disclaimers that, hey this is just MY opinion.)

Discussion is one thing, unhelpful comments are another. We shouldn’t give these people the time of day. Curate your online space. Yes, when you post things online you are subjecting yourself to scrutiny. But, we as creators need to stop letting these people have power over us. Period. We do this for free!! FOR FUN. The best thing you can do is create shamelessly.

Delete weird replies, block whoever you need to do to rid yourself of these people who have nothing better to do. Keep your peace. It’s supposed to be for fun. You don’t owe anyone a response.

The twst fandom is like a little family to me and I guess I feel protective over the people in it?  I have made many friends and memories because I joined it. And even dispite a handful of the negative experiences (AKA: A couple of “losers" that I’ve had to deal with.) I’ll always look fondly back on this time.

The key for me has always been to just…create for myself. I originally made bunnwich for me and one friend to make fun little arts about our Yuu’s and now I get to have lots of friends to share it with! I’ve transitioned from an OC blog to probably more of an Oc x Canon blog…but I don’t care tbh. I just…draw what I feel like. I know there are people who probably dislike me for that or feel strange about my content and that’s fine. I’m still gonna keep drawing it, loser.  

And I just want you guys to do the same, twst or not.

I can’t forget that all my followers and friends are a bonus, if I had never joined tumblr I’d still be drawing the silly shit I draw in peace. And while yes, I do want to grow as an artist and sell more merch and keep growing... I can’t forget my initial excitement for this silly little game. I like to talk about it. I like to write about it. It inspires me.

It’s supposed to be fun. Please remember that. I know it can be discouraging to have others being shitty to you. Or going through a creative drought. But, try not to let this stop you from creating what you love.

[patricia-taxxon]

In art, positive feelings are dumb and negative feelings are smart. This is an association I've noticed in especially online discussions of media, it is an error that has gone uncorrected for entirely too long.

This association is bolstered whenever someone says that you shouldn't criticize the mario movie too harshly because it's "fun" and light frivolous things are self justifying. This association is bolstered whenever people continuously categorize media that makes you feel bad as a strictly adult afair, that anything sad or disquieting or revolting is somehow trying to outsmart you and you're actually very cool & hip for rejecting it in favor of dumb pleasures.

This association leaves two categories of art completely outside of discussion and dying for air. Firstly, art that is joyous and life affirming in a mature and reflective way. It'd seem almost sacrilegious to describe Kiki's Delivery Service as "Wholesome," even though it is such prime comfort cinema there's just so much more to it than that. It's a tangibly adult perspective on the themes it presents. But the "happy=dumb" association is set so deep that nearly all critical discussion about miyazaki's movies is about how pretty and sweet they are. They exist in this category of being overexposed yet somehow still unappreciated.

But then there's the inverse, art that makes you feel like shit in a simple and single minded way. Irreversible is the worst time you can have with a movie, probably, and it (affectionately) has nothing going on under the hood. It's a pain box. This category of art tends to confound folks far more than the previous, it elicits a "what's the point??" usually, or if any concession is made towards allowing uncomfortable art to exist it's with the caveat that it has to "justify" it's discomfort. Simple displeasures don't have the same assumed good faith as simple pleasures. The surface level ways in which a film like Irreversible makes you feel like you've been beat up after it's finished? Not worth mentioning.

There's graver consequences to these two boulder-sized blindspots in artistic conception. Like, because negative emotions are smart, people think that making entertainment out of real life tragedies can be de-facto respectful so long as they make the emotions in their entertainment negative enough. It doesn't matter that Netflix's Dahmer plays defense for the killer and uses the image of black people as a boringly virtuous collection of punching bags to milk tragedy from, if it just makes you feel bad enough, gives the surface level impression of graveness, then it's fine that you're making entertainment out of real life people's personal real life tragedy that still exists in recent memory for many people.

I want to elevate joy, bring it into critical attention, stop taking it for granted. I also want to de-elevate misery, take it off it's false pedestal, let us realize that it's all art. FEELINGS are self justifying, not just good ones.

[mtkay13]

Working hard on the business!!

I had a lot of fun working on this piece that fits well as a companion to this one! I really, really enjoy Wuxi and Zishu's side hustle and think about it a lot.

More musings on this piece below!

I have been thinking a lot about Wuxi and Zishu's relationship for the past few months--working on the translation of Qiye has given me a fresh look and new perspective on it which I feel like elaborating on for a bit.

While they come from very different place and are 5 years apart in age, Wuxi and Zishu seem to rather quickly relate to each other due to both being outsiders--to the capital and its codes. It's very sweet to see how quickly Wuxi seems intrigued and interested in Zishu, wanting to know more about him and quick to react when he's around.

Beiyuan is Wuxi's only friend so far, and I think it's very refreshing for Wuxi to find another person with whom he may be able to relate more on some regards, and whom he can look up to in terms of martial arts skills and craftiness. This is a personal HC of mine, but I sort of see Wuxi as having this sort of (fully platonic) "cool older guy crush" on Zishu.

Because of that, I feel like Zishu showing interest in Wuxi and going as far as to offer him to collaborate must have been incredibly validating and exciting. It was a way for Wuxi to be more independent, do something for himself aside from his own training, aside from his role as the young shaman of Nanjiang. Something for his own experimentation and profit--be useful, but also be shown respect and interest by someone he himself is interested in and respects.

I like to imagine that Zishu was already interested in poisons given his field of work and potentially learned a thing or two about that back in Siji manor--even potentially worked on some of his own, and was therefore more than excited to be able to figure out new things with Wuxi's help. On top of that, it must have been pretty fun and gratifying to work on this side hustle which in turn also helped gain some more control over the population (welp).

So yeah! It's nice to think more about what lead to the bond they have, and I can't help but think of how affected Wuxi must have been in TYK when he discovers Zishu's state several years later. Regardless of how helpful Zishu was when Wuxi worked to get Beiyuan out of the capital, he was a friend first and foremost and that alone must be a big reason why Wuxi is so determined to find a way to save him.

(that aside, the illustration was more fun to make than I initially feared. I usually don't like having to work on a ton of tiny details LOL but somehow the atmosphere here made it entertaining!)

(btw! I don't know if I mentioned it before, but in case I didn't: I transliterate "Wuxi" as such ((in one word)) because, him not being han, it feels more right to transliterate his name in a non-han fashion as well. It's unlikely that his family name is Wu and first name is Xi--rather, Nanjiang/Wasa names seem to work differently ((same for Axinlai and Nuaha)) than the typically han family name-first name model. Many thanks to Lianzi and the other members of the 7.0 team for bringing that up! That's it!)

[unlikelyjapan]

Full disclosure: I wasn't a Syd/Carmy shipper until two weeks ago. Hell, I don't think I've ever been a shipper of anything up until this moment - but I've been happily married to my slow-burn best friend for eons, so this all struck a deep, nostalgic chord for me. Consider this post my coming-out party:

This whole thing came about from that well-worn Freud quote that "friendship is the art of distance while love is the art of intimacy" that I recalled from a crude psychology class.

From the most shallow, birds-eye POV, Carmy achieved intimacy with Claire (while maintaining distance/friendship with Syd) by disclosing details of his family situation, his panic attacks, expressing romantic affection, and establishing physical intimacy with someone.

He even seemed more eager to relay and express these experiences to his friends (see the cannoli conversation with Syd and Marcus) as he went deeper into the relationship. From this perspective, I empathize with people when they say they see his relationship with Claire as real personal growth, followed by a steep regression.

Claire seems to pantomime someone who is secure, but is actually pretty anxious in matters of the heart - the idealized projections she places on Carmy based on her proximity to him a decade ago, her unwillingness to walk away from the red flag of the 'wrong number' fiasco, and her unrelenting insistence to know why he tried to dodge her in the first place. I'll say nothing of the constant placating.

Claire is a sort of a faux 'sword of destiny' for Carmy - he yearned for her attention in his youth, it was loudly proclaimed to be "the good thing" by his abusive family, and so it's the only logical choice in Carmy's mind once he's beaten over the head with it for the umpteenth time - it's the love chosen for him by his family and his past self before he pieced together ways to partially escape, it's fatalism, it's the end of the weary search for "fun" and happiness.

He's never truly happy or having "fun" (as he doesn't know how to define that in his mind - that's why we're tortured with 5 grueling minutes of Logan), but he feels cared for and is going through the motions of being "that guy who is fun and in love".

Love even had to be defined for him by his inherited family friend/handyman who he didn't even know was his "best friend" until Claire relayed it to him - he blindingly accepted both assertions from Fak, falling back into his family's narrative that he can't survive or be normal without their collective help.

By contrast, Sydney is probably the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself without outside influence from family or employers. She was his first hired employee, his first true friend who wasn't a blood relative, and probably the first person he feels mirrors his passions without a need to compete with her over them.

Sydney is a choice - she is happiness (in whatever shape or form that you choose to define it, it can be aromantic if you'd like) that Carmy found all by himself, without the narrative being driven by outside influences. They have fun together on their own frequency, but Carmy's black-and-white thinking can't recognize it for what it is - he's still reaching for a sense of "fun" that was repeatedly sold to him as his family tried to push him along the path of normalcy (an impossible feat for a Berzatto).

Syd and Carmy share a brand of maternal grief/strife and a profound love of service that breeds a slow intimacy. By saying "you deserve my full focus" Carmen is saying that Sydney's happiness is more important than his own, which can sound abysmal in type, but is also a natural pre-req for love when given willingly - which I think he is giving willingly for her, just not willingly for the anxiety and minutiae that comes with actually running a fine dining restaurant. He needs someone he can have absolute trust in to hold his hand through that part.

That's why he could only create The Bear with her, and why he says he wouldn't want to do it without her.

They're both fearful and avoidant, which is a fatally-wounding powder keg if they were to connect this instant, but with ever-growing intimacy and self-work (which Claire - however insufferable her dialogue - probably planted seedlings in with Carmy, and his openness and absolute trust in Sydney could drive her towards, too) their coming together could heal many of their longstanding wounds.

This was more of a meandering walk than I hoped, but I think it all comes down to actively choosing happiness vs. passively chosen happiness - Sydney is the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself, and we were beaten over the head with depictions of how much he cherishes that agency and Syd this season. I really hope S3 is a big mess of mirroring and sharing for them.

[redstonedust]

u know as someone who made fun of mcyt fans before i got into it i think the wildest part is when you realise that this is literally how the creators want us to interact with their content. like from an outside perspective you heard someone is drawing art and writing fics about minecraft players and u think 'oh god that must be SO cringe for the people its about' and then you actually get into it and realise they're constantly retweeting art and reacting to theories and whatever gay content people are writing into their fics is chump change compared to the stuff mythicalsasuage will proudly say live on youtube.

[icarusthecryptid]

Keath's storytelling through their art is amazing.

Like, look at these characters, these concepts, these pictures. Every bit of media used to convey a story. It's honestly brilliant!

I've got so much to say about it so let me ramble about the Harkers today!

Each of these represent something, which is very neat. But the way each character is dressed, is designed, looks even, it tells you something! It's brilliant. The personalities out of clothing and designs.

The Storyteller, their entire design is a story. Every accessory, every detail, every layer. It tells you so much about them! The hat that covers eyes, which I think is a fun way to show how the past doesn't look forward. Uncovered mouth, because historically stories/legends/history was passed by word of mouth because most people couldn't read. Also most of the time it was through songs too! That's so cool. There's so much going on in the Storyteller's design and clothing, the feather accessories, the plants, the straws, the clothes and dress like attachments. The shoes! There's a million details, and each says something without actually saying anything at all. For a mysterious figure, I believe the storyteller has the most that's actually being told purely from a visual perspective. There is a mystery, but the past illuminates (get it? Storyteller has a lamp hehe). Visually, the Storyteller lives up to its name so well! This is a being you'd find at the side of the road, along the crowd, on a stage, to sing of a past, to tell a story. A forgettable but unforgettable being. Too many details that will overwhelm you with implications, too many stories, but not extravagant, still rooted in the past, the basics if you will. Straws are important here, fields, the outside, nature. Straws in the past have been used for so much, bedding, isolation, food for cattle, to soften places, and clothing like hats. Multi-purpose and helpful.

Okay, next the Storyteller's significant other, the Bell-Ringer or also known as Yarrow. Who represents the future! A goat like being who wears Bell's and expensive clothing. If the future is commonly associated with good fortune, this is exactly how it should be conveyed! Not too simple and not too extravagant, there's a lot of details, but they're still rich in its simplicity. Ruffles, straight lines, horns and branches. Bell-Ringer is tall (but not the tallest), imposing, regal, a crown of golden really. Stitched patches on their cheeks, which convey a doll-like being, even as a goat. Their eyes are unique, like all goats, horizontal. To me their eyes are a way to have a unique play on future insight. And the patches on the cheeks can convey that these are untold. Yarrow is colorful, bright, imposing and even knowing. A representation of the future in such a beautiful way. Bell's also!!! Bell's are so important, Bell's have been commonly used to announce big news, important events and presently more for the time. Ringing Bells on a street corner for news, ringing Bells to herd cattle, ringing Bells to celebrate. A bell for attention, now more to great people too. It's important here, and it can have a lot of implications. Does the bell ringing mean that something important happens where the Yarrow is? The future is the sound of bells.

The last two Harkers are a bit harder for me as I'm not super sure I have seen all their details. So I'm hoping I'm getting it right and not misinterpreting what I'm seeing.

Okay! Third, let's go with the Enkindled. The Enkindled is the shortest. Its name can mean several things, like set on fire or to inspire (emotions). With a tree like being that is messy, that is wooden but small, pretty simple and not too extravagant. I believe the Enkindled has the least amount of detailing, oh there's a lot of it don't get me wrong, but clothing and accessory wise, there isn't much. But it represents a tree like being, so that makes sense. The wood that branches is detailed enough. Trees are mesmerizing enough. A truly rooted figure that doesn't need much, but still can inspire. The smallest of things can give the most ideas. A single tree can tell a story, a forest tells more. Again, I still don't know much, but what I know is that there is heart in this being, contrary to what you glean from a first glance maybe. But trees have represented so much, like family trees. But also strength, individuality and expression, calmness, growth and the interconnectedness of everything. It's the heart of it, the beginning maybe. They represent order(?) and that's reflected in their design! Trees might look chaotic, but they're ordered in a way that makes sense. Branches serve a purpose, the way they form is the most ideal path for a tree. The order in which a tree grows, withers, lives or dies.

Lastly the Croon, the tallest and most imposing looking. It has feathers and matches the design of a bird, the skull is bird-like. It's body looks like a bird's. But that's not the only animal trait, moose antlers, a crown of spikes and claw-like hands. The Croon looks the most intimidating. And its name can be interpreted as a tone of voice, crooning, sentimental humming/singing/speaking. The croon represents entropy, entropy can mean the end or decay of things. With a skull representing their head I feel that that's really well conveyed. There's a chaos to their design, but it all makes sense still especially with the concept of entropy. Where things fall into disarray or decline. The Croon looks dosserayed.

I love the way that the Harkers are themed after story aspects. The Storyteller as a name tells a story, respecting the past as most stories are retellings. The Bell-Ringer, the future, every story has one, what comes after. The Enkindled, the heart, the idea of a story, that what motivates, but also the order of it, there is a way to tell a story that makes sense of the chaos within these events that are linked. The Croon represents entropy, the chaos in a story or the ending of it, the challenge or the struggle that simply is.

If I got anything wrong please don't get angry! I'm very much still learning about the lore and details, unfortunately my brain is far more focused towards details in art than all the smart stuff everyone else seems to get 😭 and please do correct me if I'm wrong on anything!

End of the day, I just really love the amount of attention and visual storytelling that was put into Yaelokre, the art was addmitably what got me so into this all. It was the first thing that really caught my attention. The songs and the story I love them too!

Thanks for reading :D (if you're still here) and I hope if anyone else wants to share their thoughts on designs and stuff they will! I can't wait to ramble about the lark too, but my brains too tired to talk any more so I'll leave this here for now :D

Have a doodle page as compensation for sitting through this!

[neonfretra]

does anyone want to discuss hrpf outside of shipping + written fic context . because i think about where what i do sits in relation to it all

for brevity i will be referring to the real person as the player and the fictionalized interpretation of the player as the character

to get things outta the way, i dont think theres very much you can say about real life people before you start crossin into real person fiction (rpf) territory LOL

transformative art is rpf. speculation is rpf. narratives is rpf. the second you start steppin away from a direct relay of the facts as is, we gettin in ficticious waters IMO. its really a neutral thing to me and my ethics begin and end at "dont show people who dont wanna see"

and its real funny to think about how i do art just because it feels like i set up way less barriers compared to people who DO write fic . i see all this talk about making sure you make your stuff login exclusive, about not sharin it to the people involved, disclaimers about how its in fact NOT a reflection of reality that your favorite athlete is mpregnant and YOU are are mfather.

and i just hit post and call it a day LOL

TO BE CLEAR there is definitely layers to it in the sense that i see similar amounts of caution with say ship art or certain degrees of raunch.

shipping in the rpf scene is funny to me in the sense of the tendency to treat shipping as THE exclusive rpf thing. like no i dont think my tomas tatar fanart is 1:1 on the reality front either. for example, nj devils hairline is not that far back and thags the only inaccuracy.

heres the kicker: mmy foot.

most of my doodles tend to evoke a degree of characterization or narrative. yeag maybe its a little less 30k slowburn and a little more fabian zetterlund shot putting a man but. that is fictional, that is a character

im not saying that rpf defines players more than the reality of them does but i do believe it does enforce certain views

in the spaces i hang around ive noticed the narrativization around certain characters being part fueled by the information that is filtered by reporters and part interpretations bounced back and forth by fandom . and when you have eyes on a story, its easy to pick out information solely as it agrees with you

maybe the most prominent narrative ive seen for the sharks has been macklin celebrini having a jock dad -> therefore he got daddy issues, joe thornton houses him -> therefore mentor and father figure joe thornton? where even though i havent seen any direct relay of information from any players (though ivent been looking LOL) a lot of the discussion around it revolves around this common understanding that it just is (the funnier part is arguably that will smith hockey has been doing more for this narrative for patrick marleau BUT NEITHER HERE NOR THERE.)

and its really interesting to note HOW fandom warps or weaves the story by going off common tropes or dynamics to make sense of the public facing parts we do see, which is what i think is magnified through the lens of fanworks but not (necessarily) CREATED by fanworks

which is where i feel my work is part of the. ecosystem??? life cycle??? and then we all return to the dirt and the worms eat us???

how much or how little we define the gap between player and character changes from person to person. i simply do not have that goin on here. devin cooley eats joey daccords hair take it or leave it. annnnd main tag that

other times i feel we wear the divide thin are when there is headcanon that uses facts about the player (ie a lot of ship talk) or when the character becomes the kneejerk understanding of the player (ie liveblogs. very fun way to get a read of a communitys feelings on something because of how immediate the reactions on it are)

the point of this post isnt to shame or interrogate people about participating in rpf, im not looking for those sort of feelings, im fascinated by fandom culture as a twig off the old branch and i would love to hear other perspectives on the same topic (and different communities! i dont have much involvement in fic. which is. a massive hole in my perspective on this probably)

is it possible to cross the line from rpf to plain old original content LOL (the answer is intent i know but. walk with me here its fun to think about)

naturally theres a degree of "original character" to every depiction . you gotta make up some amount of it. theres no clear separation OF rpf and original content because everything is about borrowing. you make characters with inspiration from other things. its near enough universal for someone who deals with characters to have at some point lifted a character directly out of their original context and made them their own.

its not just their face or name or some other physical attribute that makes it rpf id also argue because i have seen people using attributes of real people as "claims" for origubal characters (like a "faceclaim" to say "this is how i imagine my character to look")

on top of that there is fluctuating interest on actually depicting the player, with approaches that i have heard of ranging from "character that shares the quantitative aspects of the player and thats IT" to "character that was made heavily referencing to things the player has said/done"

its interesting when certain players in rpf have a consistent character! which trends to be in teams with a more active rpf oriented fanbase (vs interest mainly in the real life hockey played), comparing the fandom of kraken to the golden knights on tumblr for instance. its also interesting to note that more popular teams just have more rpf centric leans. because there are more people to write rpf. i mean also we are on a fandom centric site and rpf bridges that gap from narrative/character fueled media and sportsball more LOL

(if you like sports from a purely sports oriented angle do you enjoy watching it? genuine question. because at what point is it "i could just be doing this myself" because ive hit that point with other things before LMAO)

i do call the difference being more "fandom" oriented but IDK if thats correctly using the word or just less syllables. and on top of that i cant exactly tell you if its popularity or stand out personality that holds more sway. though then again i guess those two traits arent separate from each other necessarily. or even that those are the only two factors to broad appeal (probably popularity with another player is up there. but im not trying to find a formula for most attractive to make rpf of)

to return to the kraken because that is the most rpf oriented team i follow, i do notice when players portrayed consistently. i can definitely tell you like. one or two character traits about players i do not follow the media of solely from liveblogs and art. complexity of the character varies by a lot, though i do think its interesting to consider the hows and whys.

a trait or interest being highlighted by media (i tend to see this in offical media coverage that gets spread by jokes) -> the character heavily revolves around this feature in jokes or casual reference, with heavy personal interpretation

media pushing a narrative by following a more cohesive timeline or story structure (i usually see this in fanworks. easier to identify the influence of IMO) -> fairly consistent character backstory or , at least in the broad strokes of it

just general agreements about tropes that are appealing with little basis on the player -> this is usually the more relationship focused character interpretation

there isnt usually just one factor (and this isnt an exhaustive list of factors) to one characters history. unless its a super new player on the radar.

its definitely a character that belongs to the fandom! as in the unique character to the unique community! its actually really funny how they evolve. you could probably fingerprint someones influences if you tried hard enough. with how new the kraken is (and the fact the fandom leans more towards being united as one body than any other team ive seen so far) it does get pretty easy to get it down to the post but. do your own treasure search. I wont deprive you!

(also its EMBARASSING... what if the people i mention SEE... im SHY...)

harder with an older fandom like the sharks there are so many dead and defunct sources or jokes so widely spread that it gets hard to locate the origin . because dead and defunct sources. though i think its growing a new ring around the fandom tree because of the newer players! so its a thought. to think about how different events influence the size and activity of a fanbase and to ask how different fans from different. eras? of a fanbase interact (or dont).

again i notice this in the sharks fandoms by comparing fans from the playoff contending sharks era (last playoff season was 18-19? start is a little murky but ill toss out that 2012 was the year tomas hertl was drafted because tomas hertl was an era of the sharks LOL a whole 12 years! i know people younger than his professional career and those people are catching up to me in height. humbling!) and fans from when the sharks were very much not playoff contending (quite an amount of the current active fans LOL). not sure if theres much to say without looking stupid. different jokes, notable players, friend groups, feelings towards other teams. all still feel very strongly about general manager mike grier scattering players like dandellion seeds to the wind.

(AGAIN. HOPING NO SHARKS FANS NOTICE THIS. IM SHY)

how many sharks fans havent seen logan couture on ice

again i am saying all this as someone who ACTIVELY participates in this BTW!!! does anyone notice that players i dont know definitely have a flatter "whatever is the funniest thing to say" angle . or that characters of players i know a few things about have like one punchline . or even that certain characters are consistent and not just bound by direct interpretations of one moment (which i do a lot of when im liveblogging) (dont get your hopes up for anything new here, the character usually is "pathetic and a little bit of a bastard")

i keep writing these disclaimers like. if someone disagreed this strongly they would not be reading this far. hi! is anyone still here. is someone still reading.

i have created life and i dont know to kill it.

i talk about one of my depictions of a player as a separate character (that is to say, a SEPARATE character from the character intended to represent the player) and i have NO idea if this is like. an OC? a defamation case in waiting? my spawn? do i have to pay childcare. does anyone know who or what im talking about or has the character been festering in my mind like an infection.

is it just me???

my advice to you: if you dont want somethin to come back dont give it a name.

consider dissecting your personal and the more widespread fandoms take on players and characters! its fun for me but i also just like taking things apart ^_^ i fear i may not be as analytical as this post demands i do a lot of restating information and thats it

[justalia]

belief

this post takes inspiration from my journey and my unconscious “positive” manifestations.

i found manifestation back in 2020, didn’t think much of it to be honest and didn’t even attempt manifesting anything because the advice i found was to affirm and persist and laziness got over me. i couldn’t be bothered to do all that. i tried once ngl, i failed and never picked it up again until 2022.

in 2022 tiktok started to popularize this shit with weird quirky methods and at the time i started to think again about an sp. i randomly desired her but we had went no contact since 2020 and i wasn’t really that bothered by her presence/absence. i started to miss her and i would ALWAYS (i know you do this too) make up scenarios that implied we were together.

now this wasn’t conscious so i wasn’t thinking i was manifesting her, i didn’t give a shit mostly cause i did not wanna reach out to her and i just wanted to make up my silly little scenarios with no consequences.

putting the scenarios to the side i started to rediscover manifestation and found the whisper method on tiktok, long story short i did it and the next day she reached out to me all of a sudden. it was so random and it made no sense based on the method i did but i took it as a conscious manifestation because i had done that method.

spoiler: i was in the state of being in a relationship with her and the 3D reflected that.

this happened again in november, i set the intention to manifest something and i scripted it. i was constantly checking the 3D and then i decided i was done with it and i would just make up my silly little scenarios about it in my head.

i had so much fun with my imagination but i didn’t even think i was manifesting shit left and right because of it. i thought the methods were doing that for me. i thought that i just had to script it as it had already happened and it would manifest. i didn’t know what states were, i had no idea what law of assumption was in the first place.

this being said you can see that i always had the habit of experiencing my desire in imagination if i couldn’t get it in the outside. i always used imagination like a kid and to be honest that did manifest some good things in my life.

the fact that it wasn’t conscious tho didn’t allow me to maintain my manifestation when it came because i was focusing on the outside reality and didn’t recognize that it was my own doing, i didn’t recognize that i was the cause of everything.

this leads me to what i wanna talk about: belief.

reading edward art’s series led me to realize what was so difficult for me in the first stages of my journey of conscious manifestation.

i started studying law of assumption and everyone talked about belief: “believe it to be true” “believe you have it” “believe imagination”.

all these things confused me so much because i was like “what? that’s crazy, why do i have to act delusional, i manifested shit before and it wasn’t this hard”.

i was just finding out the mechanism of what i always had done in the past without even realizing it.

“give it to yourself in imagination”

i swear to god if only i understood before how easy this shit was supposed to be i would’ve saved myself from a lot of heartache and troubles. i was so stressed while learning and applying the law the first times that i literally didn’t get my period for a month because of how stressed i was lmao.

and it is crazy how i always used to do it yet i found the law to be so difficult to understand at first.

now my perspective is that belief is too strong of a word, belief is just a feeling, something you feel to be true IN IMAGINATION. it’s not about the outside. IT NEVER IS. it never was and it never will be. i thank edward art because he was able to put into words what i was struggling with and when i read his series i felt understood.

belief is to strong of a word. belief is just a feeling, something i feel to be true in imagination. nothing more nothing less. saying “in imagination” i do not want to imply there is a waiting period between the 3D and the 4D being reflected, cause to be honest i don’t believe it and i’ve not experienced all the time.

yes. all you have to do to “manifest” i know it is real in imagination and discard the outer world because why would it matter if you can have exactly what you want in imagination NOW?

all is mind, there’s no reason at all to want/need the 3D to reflect in order to feel your desire to be yours.

when i unconsciously manifested with fulfillment in imagination i did not think about believing anything, i simply felt what i wanted to feel. i satisfied myself with the only way i knew: daydreaming.

but alia, i daydream all the time why doesn’t it manifest?

because you daydream then wait for something to happen. when i unconsciously manifested something just by imagining having it i wad not EVER focused on getting it from the outside, i did not give a shit about the outer world and just enjoyed imagination because i wanted to and because i could. the key is: I HAD NO EXPECTATIONS. I WAS NOT EXPECTING ANYTHING FROM MY IMAGINAL ACTS. I WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING TO CHANGE ANYTHING.

i was simply feeling what i wanted to feel.

read that again.

i was simply feeling what i wanted to feel. i was craving an experience and i decided to experience it in imagination. i thought to myself “well i can’t do anything to have it physically i don’t give a shit at this point i’m just gonna satisfy myself with imagination”

was i worried about:

is imagination enough? is it gonna reflect? is it gonna manifest? do i have it? am i doing enough?

NO I WAS NOT.

why? because i wasn’t trying to get anything in the first place!!!

i accepted that i could only have it in imagination and that i couldn’t do anything to manifest it because “the universe” would take care of it. (those were my beliefs at the time).

now i’m grateful to have found the law because i was not aware of how limitless we are and of the fact that circumstances did not matter at all and i could manifest literally ANYTHING i wanted. ANYTHING. i was still tied to logic before studying law of assumption so i didn’t fulfill every single desire i got but only the ones that were “realistic” like an sp.

and at the end of the day what even is realistic?

is manifesting an sp realistic? i don’t think so.

if you put logic into the game is it even really realistic to manifest someone to be in a relationship with you? probably not.

so if logic doesn’t apply anywhere at all in law of assumption and manifestation why would i worry about “making it happen”? all i have to do is enjoy having it in imagination.

the rest will follow like everything does.

i do not believe in the fact that there’s a time lag, i simply accept that i cannot know how imagination will be expressed and that includes the when because i don’t know which bridge of incidents i will take part in, i believe the 3D reflects imagination instantly in ways we don’t know anything of.

redirecting to the main topic:

belief is not something you should struggle with, you just have to FEEL what you want to be true in imagination, feel that you have it now, imagine yourself to have it/be it and imagine it in the most amazing way possible so that you WANT to go back to it, not because it manifests but because it is exactly what you want.

it is not your job to make anything happen on the outside, you can’t and you never will be able to.

you cannot experience it on the outside. accept this now and fulfill your desire in imagination now.

[julesnjian]

System Mapping

Hello,

Recently I had a great call on Discord where I loosely gave some tips for system mapping. here's a more organized summary:

System mapping can be done in many different mediums. I prefer art, where i represent each alter with a circle and use arrows with words to signify how alters feel in relation to eachother. one of our alters system maps using friendship bracelets, another painted a mask. you can make a powerpoint, journal, really any medium. generally art and abstract system mapping can be less triggering than written system mapping.

as an alter i usually recommend that each alter make their own system maps and make new ones as time goes on. its important to note your perception of yourself and other alters so that you can notice and identify differences and misunderstandings. you can take it a step further and note anything that makes you feel distant or averse to that part, as noting things like that down can be discussed in therapy to help encourage understanding and empathy

writing and/or artistically portraying that you arent aware of an alter or your system is still very useful for yourself and for your therapist!

generally, i feel its very important to honestly portay/note down your personal understanding of the system as an alter without outside input from friends or from other alters, and you should allow your alters to do the same as this can help fill in the gaps and encourage genuine opinions, feelings and thoughts. each alter creating their own system map with their own opinions gives you and your treatment team an understanding of what everyone knows and doesnt know. some of my alters however dont agree with this perspective and prefer to map via including information from other alters as they see a combined perspective in their personal map to be important. if thats you, then thats fine! whats important is not forcing your perspective onto another alter or modifying their map without their consent

System mapping regardless of what medium you use is a very triggering process especially early on. please approach with caution and do not attempt to do it if you feel triggered. this isnt something you have to do alone, you can work on it with your therapist or with a trusted friend.

sometimes, alters will express perceptions and opinions that you dont agree with or that you find to be uncomfortable. this is good, because it means they are being honest and it also means you can bring up this conflict in therapy. hindering their map will only distance you further from them. its important that every alter has the right to exist and express themselves even if you dont like it.

since art is my primary medium, i prefer to communicate alters through shapes, sizes, complexity, colors, etc. you dont have to use words, but it is unfortunately true that the meaning of abstract portrayals can be lost to time due to the nature of CDDs

What my powerpoint consists of - All diagnosed mental health disorders, how those disorders affect different alters, what episodes relating to those mental health issues looks like for individual alters, all unhealthy coping mechanisms and which alters engage in them, alters primary roles/jobs and how they identify, any personal issues they may have whether its episodes or just general issues, and fun facts. Information I'd like to include in a future remake: how alters feel about themselves and other alters, the specific time frames alters percieve/the trauma they carry, where alters primarily front, known triggers. I personally reserve my powerpoint for professionals, my partner, and trusted friends. this level of detail is highly triggering and not necessary for system mapping but it is an option if you are able to do it.

other discussed ideas for system mapping/ones i can think of right now: Visual novel, coding, making figurines, knitting/crochet, creating a literal map, collages, pinterest boards, playlists, using objects to represent alters, word clouds, friendship bracelets, masks, videos, voice memos

and that's all i can remember right now! please let me know how you personally map out your system and if theres anything youd do differently <3

I dont feel like fixing formatting errors because tired I hope this is helpful

[hanasnx]

okay on a real note who to cast as nightwing tho?

i’m so fucking glad you asked. here are my fancasts

louis garrel:

i was trying to find an actor that fit dick’s ethnic background and i think louis did a good job but i can’t remember the specifics bcos i fancasted him so long ago. he fit the look i wanted which is the skin undertone shade, the black fluffy hair, the romantic eyes, and the pronounced nose. he can be very serious but he also looks very boyish when he smiles and jokes, which is another reason he fits dick grayson. the shadows on the bone structure is just superb for a batman-universe movie.

he would appear in a coming of age, 2000s nightwing movie about dick grayson breaking away from the robin mantle to set out on his own separate from bruce. it would span his mistakes and short comings as one half of a whole, and his journey to becoming blüdhaven’s sole protector. it would be more of an external experience for the viewer as the audience, watching from an outside perspective with the appropriate amount of nightwing’s private self reflection. but it would be paired with nightwing’s friends outwardly observing him, which helps him gain self awareness and adjust his protocols accordingly.

lorenzo zurzolo:

he has a “prettier” look and he’s italian, i believe. so he fits less than my first choice. however, i see the more serious sides of dick grayson in him. i see the romance and break-ups, the drama, and the dark side of gotham’s politics in this film about dick. this is a small project from a small company that lovingly tended to a specific strain of nightwing’s character that we don’t often see. we see him as a resolute pillar of purity and goodness, without compromise and with swiftness and strength. this would be nightwing later on in his years and a stand-alone art piece separate from the main storyline. lorenzo is very conventionally attractive which fits dick as a man who’s pretty enough to draw you in and keep you mesmerized.

i can see people criticizing him for being “too serious” and “nightwing is supposed to be fun” but this would be more of an introspective piece. this would be nightwing inwardly, and how he acts when he’s alone. rather than any performative sense of humor he puts on in other media. this would show the batman’s influence on him as a lean mean machine. also it’s a movie in a diff language in another country

loved this question anon! i’d like to thank @xstarkillerx for helping me develop this bcos i truthfully cannot remember who said what when we first hammered through my list of fancasts

[writingforstraykids]

My heart remains with you

Pairing: Minchan

Word Count: 4430

Summary: Prince Minho, the neglected second son of the king finds a dear friend in Chan who later becomes his knight. When war parts them the lines of friendship and love start to blur.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, friends to lovers, knight!chan, prince!min, first kiss, cheesy af

A/N: This has been requested by my dear unnie @skzoologist and I've had so much fun writing this yesterday🤭 I hope you guys enjoy this little Minchan au🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The Kingdom of Elyria was renowned for its beauty, with landscapes sprawling across temperate forests, serene lakes, and majestic mountains. However, the true splendor lay within the walls of the Lee Castle, a grand structure of ancient stone and sprawling gardens, perched atop a hill that overlooked the capital city. Here resided the royal family, rulers of Elyria for generations.

Minho, the second son of the King, was often overshadowed by his elder brother, the crown prince. Where he was charismatic and warrior-like, fitting the mold of a future king, Minho was introspective and bookish, with a quiet demeanor and a sharp mind that gravitated towards scholarly pursuits. His mother, the Queen, often said that while his brother was born to rule, Minho was born to think.

From a young age, Minho felt the heavy cloak of neglect that often accompanies the life of a second son in a royal dynasty. The court paid him little attention, focusing their ambitions and hopes on his brother. Minho's days were largely spent wandering the vast halls of Lee Castle, exploring its many secrets, from dusty old libraries filled with ancient tomes to forgotten corridors that echoed with the whispers of the past.

His solitude was broken the day Chan entered his life. The son of a lesser noble who had fallen on hard times, Chan was sent to Lee Castle to serve as Minho’s page. He was quiet, observant, and meticulously responsible, qualities that quickly made him indispensable to Minho. What started as a formal relationship, bound by duty and station, soon blossomed into a genuine friendship. Chan was Minho's gateway to the world outside the scholarly nooks he favored. Through Chan's eyes, Minho learned about the people of Elyria, the struggles of the lesser nobility, and the realities of life beyond the castle walls.

Together, they would sneak out of the castle under the guise of night, exploring the city disguised as commoners. These escapades provided Minho with a perspective of his kingdom that books could not offer, and they instilled in him a sense of responsibility towards his people, a trait that his tutors found most peculiar for a royal second son.

As they grew older, their roles within the castle solidified. Minho took on more scholarly duties, often advising his father on matters of law and history, while Chan trained in the arts of warfare and strategy, rising in rank among the knights of Elyria. Despite their increasingly divergent paths, their friendship remained steadfast. Chan was always there, a protective shadow, ensuring Minho’s safety during their covert outings and supporting him in his scholarly debates against dismissive courtiers.

Their favorite haunt was the castle’s oldest garden, an overgrown labyrinth of flowering vines and ancient statues, hidden behind the west wing, rarely visited by others. It was here that they shared their deepest fears and greatest hopes. Minho confessed his anxieties about being forgotten, a relic in the shadow of his brother’s destiny, while Chan spoke of his desire to restore his family's honor.

As they sat beside a crumbling fountain, under the shade of a towering oak, Minho realized that Chan had become more than a friend or a confidant. He was his anchor, holding Minho steady in the turbulent seas of royal life. In return, Minho offered Chan a vision of a future where friendship and loyalty defined a man’s worth, not just birth or title.

This friendship, deepened through shared secrets and dreams under the canopy of stars, laid the foundation for a bond that would, in time, challenge the very traditions of their world. But in those early days, it was simply the prince and his knight, finding solace and understanding in each other’s company, building a friendship that would one day be tested by the trials of war, duty, and the heart.

-

Under the celestial tapestry of the night sky, the garden was a tranquil sanctuary, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. It was here, amidst the whisper of leaves and the gentle fragrance of night-blooming flowers, that Minho and Chan found themselves, seeking solace from the demands of their lives at court. 

Minho, with his head resting comfortably against Chan’s chest, could hear the steady beat of his heart—a reassuring rhythm in the quiet of the night. The sounds of the castle seemed distant here, as if the garden were not part of the kingdom but a separate realm altogether. Chan’s hand was gentle as it stroked Minho’s hair, a touch that spoke of deep affection and understanding.

“Chan,” Minho began, his voice a mere whisper, mingling with the rustling leaves around them. “Do you ever think about what life might be like, years from now? When the responsibilities of the crown are mine to bear?”

Chan paused, considering the weight of the question. Minho's brother had been sick often over the years and it seemed to worsen each time. The possibility was given and widened with each time. “I do,” he admitted softly. “I think about it more often than I probably should. But in every vision of the future, I see myself by your side. Maybe not as a knight, perhaps not even as a noble, but always as your confidant, your protector.”

Minho shifted slightly, turning to look up at Chan, his eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. “Even if the path I walk takes us far from everything we know? Even if the crown leads me into storms I must weather?”

“Especially then,” Chan replied, his voice firm with conviction. “Every king needs a steady hand to hold in the darkest hours. If the fates allow, I would be that hand for you, Minho.”

The prince smiled, comforted by the sincerity in Chan’s words. “I often dream of a future where our kingdom is at peace, where our days are not dictated by tradition and duty but by what is just and good. I dream of a court where the ideas of every man, noble or not, are heard and valued.”

“And I,” Chan added, “dream of a time when our friendship need not be hidden in the shadows of these gardens, when the world can see the strength of our bond and know it for the force it is.”

They envisioned a kingdom that thrived on innovation and diplomacy, where scholars and warriors alike debated in halls as grand as those reserved for feasts. They saw a court that celebrated the arts, where music and poetry flourished, resonating through the corridors of Lee Castle.

“Perhaps,” Minho mused, his imagination alight with possibility, “we could open the castle's libraries to the people, let knowledge be a bridge between the crown and those it serves.”

Chan nodded, his chest swelling with pride at Minho’s ideas. “And the armies could be reformed too, trained not just in combat, but in the arts of peace. They could be protectors of the realm’s ideals, not just its borders.”

They talked on, each vision they shared weaving a tapestry richer than the last. In their kingdom, justice would be tempered with mercy, power with humility. They saw a future where their own union could become a symbol of the unity they hoped to foster throughout the realm.

As the hours waned, Minho’s voice grew weary, yet his spirit was alight with hope. “Do you think it’s possible, Chan? That we might really see such days?”

Chan’s response was a gentle squeeze, reassuring and strong. “With you as king? I believe the future holds great promise. And I will do everything in my power to see it realized. Together, we could craft a legacy that will outlast us both.”

The night deepened around them, the stars wheeling overhead in their slow dance. In the quiet that followed, filled only with the sounds of the night and the closeness of their breathing, Minho felt a profound gratitude for the man beside him. Here in the garden, with Chan’s warmth enveloping him, the fears and uncertainties of the future seemed distant. For now, it was enough to dream, to plan, and to believe in the potential of their shared visions.

As dawn began to paint the horizon with strokes of pink and gold, Minho and Chan rose from their place among the flowers. They returned to the castle, their steps light with the intimate joy of shared secrets and cherished dreams. The garden remained behind them, a silent witness to their hopes, holding the promise of their return.

Their conversation that night, under the watchful gaze of the stars, would be remembered in the years to come as a declaration of intent—an oath made not just to each other, but to the future they dared to envision. In their hearts, they carried the seeds of change, nurtured by the strength of their unity and the depth of their resolve. As they stepped back into the roles demanded by their birthright, they did so with a newfound purpose, ready to face whatever challenges awaited with the knowledge that they would not face them alone.

-

As the shadows of dusk fell over Lee Castle, the usual sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining hall were replaced by the clanging of armor and the murmur of tense voices. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable sense of urgency; Elyria was on the brink of war with its long-time rival kingdom to the north, and every soul within the castle walls felt the looming threat of battle.

Minho, usually a pillar of calm and reason, found himself wandering the castle's corridors with a restlessness that mirrored the unease gripping his heart. His days were filled with drawing maps and devising strategies, yet he felt sidelined, his efforts overshadowed by his brother’s bold, commanding presence. Everywhere he looked, the preparations for war were in full swing, yet in this bustling activity, Minho felt an acute sense of isolation.

As night descended, Minho sought refuge in the one place that had always offered him solace—the hidden garden where countless memories of his childhood with Chan lingered in the perfumed air and rustling leaves. It was here, under the canopy of ancient trees and starlight, that he awaited Chan’s arrival, the weight of impending separation heavy on his shoulders.

Chan appeared at the edge of the garden, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight, his armor casting a metallic glow. Seeing Chan in full knight's attire, prepared for battle, struck Minho with a wave of emotion. Chan’s stride was confident, but as he drew closer, Minho could see the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes.

They sat together beside the old, moss-covered fountain, their spot for heartfelt conversations. The air around them was cool and fragrant, filled with the scent of night jasmine and the distant sound of the castle’s preparations.

“Promise me you’ll return,” Minho whispered, his voice barely above a hush, betraying his fear of losing his closest friend, the one constant in his life.

Chan turned to face him, his expression serious. “I promise,” he replied, his voice steady but his eyes revealing the strain of the commitment he was making. “I will come back to you, Minho. You must believe that.”

Minho nodded, trying to mask his anxiety with a semblance of a smile. “I will hold you to that promise, Chan. You have always been my protector, my confidant. I cannot fathom facing the future without you.”

Chan reached out, taking Minho’s hands in his. “And you are my reason to return. Whatever battles we face, remember that my heart remains with you.” He paused, squeezing Minho’s hands gently. “In my absence, I need you to promise me something too.”

“Anything,” Minho replied, the intensity of the moment drawing him closer to Chan.

“Keep the kingdom steady. Use your intellect, your wisdom. You know the court, the politics, the people. Guide them, Minho. Help them see the path of peace and reason. Your voice can be just as mighty as any sword.”

Minho felt the weight of Chan’s request settle on him, a mantle he was now ready to accept. “I will do my best. I will keep Elyria safe, for you.”.

As dawn broke, coloring the sky in hues of pink and orange, Chan stood, his armor clinking softly. He pulled Minho to his feet, embracing him tightly, a silent promise passing between them. They lingered there, in the embrace, until the first calls of the morning birds signaled the unavoidable arrival of the day.

Minho didn't know what came over him but he cupped Chan's face and pressed a short, soft kiss on his forehead. “To keep you safe, my strong knight,” he whispered and Chan's face softened. 

He brought Minho's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. “Never lose hope, my dear prince,” he told him.

Chan stepped back, armor gleaming in the new light, and with one last reassuring nod, he turned and walked away, his figure gradually swallowed by the mists of the early morning. Minho watched him go, the promise of his safe return a flickering flame against the darkness of his fears. Tears burned in his eyes once he was alone and he hugged himself tightly. Never lose hope. 

As the sounds of the castle waking reached his ears, Minho turned back to the empty garden, his resolve hardened. He would rise to the challenge Chan had left him; he would be the voice of reason Elyria needed, awaiting the day he could once again share this secret sanctuary with Chan.

Three years later

The war that had ravaged the lands and darkened the souls of many finally drew to a close after three long years. Minho had spent those years in a state of perpetual worry, each day stretched thin by the fear and hope that war naturally inspires. Chan’s letters were his only solace, rare as they were, each one treasured and read over until the words seemed to echo in the halls of Lee Castle itself.

My dear Minho,

I find myself in a rare moment of peace, and my thoughts turn to you and the sanctuary of our garden. I recall the fragrance of the blooming night jasmine, the way the moonlight filters through the leaves. These memories sustain me in ways rations and rest cannot. I long for the day when I can leave this behind and return to where my heart remains. To you.

Hold fast to our dreams; they are the beacon guiding me back to you.

With all my heart, Chan.

Minho, in the quiet after his official duties, would retreat to their garden, where he penned his replies, each word a thread in the tapestry of hope he wove for both their sakes.

Dearest Chan,

Your letter arrived on a cool, starlit night, much like those we’ve shared. I read your words beneath our oak, where the shadows seem less fearsome with you in mind. The garden grows wild in your absence, each vine and flower straining towards the sun, much as I reach for our promised tomorrow.

Stay safe, my friend, for Elyria, and for me.

Always, Minho.

When the declaration of peace finally reached the castle, Minho could scarcely believe it. The relief was overwhelming, tempered only by the anticipation of Chan’s return. He arranged for the garden to be restored to its former glory, wanting Chan to return not just to Elyria, but to the beauty they had once cultivated together.

As Minho sat under the oak, his gaze fixed on the path that led to the garden, he held a crumpled piece of the last letter Chan had sent him, reading and rereading the words that had offered him solace through the darkest days.

Min, my dear,

Peace is upon us, and I am coming home. The thought of seeing you, of standing in our garden, and shedding this armor weighs on my heart with a sweet ache. I am weary, Minho, changed by the shadows I’ve seen, but I hold onto the light of your friendship, knowing it will guide me back from the brink.

Prepare the garden; I am carrying seeds from across the lands we’ve marched—let’s plant new life together, foster growth from the ashes of destruction.

See you soon, my brave prince.

Chan.

My dearest Channie,

By the time this letter reaches you, I hope to be counting merely hours until your return. The garden is waiting, the foxgloves and lilies have blossomed, and I’ve taken to reading aloud in the afternoons, foolishly pretending it’s to you. The castle has felt emptier without your laughter and your steady presence.

I wait for you, my friend, with a heart full of stories to share and an ear eager to hear yours. Come back to us, to me, soon.

Yours, always and forever,

Minho.

On the day of Chan’s return, Minho waited in the garden, their sanctuary and witness to the depths of their bond. The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh blooms, a soft breeze playing among the leaves, as if nature itself was celebrating Chan’s return.

As Chan stepped into the garden, his armor shed and replaced by the simple garb of a knight at peace, his eyes found Minho’s, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all. They moved towards each other almost instinctively, their embrace a testament to the years of waiting, of hoping, and of holding on.

“Minho,” Chan murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I made it back.”

“You did,” Minho replied, his own voice choked by tears. “Just as you promised.”

They stood there, in the heart of the garden, unable to let go, each touch and breath a reaffirmation of their connection. The war had changed them, undoubtedly. Chan’s eyes held shadows, his smile touched by a melancholy that hadn’t been there before. But here, in the embrace of his closest friend, there was a sense of coming home, of the weight lifting, if only for a moment.

As they finally stepped back, hands still clasped between them, Minho looked up at Chan with a small, hopeful smile. “Let’s walk,” he suggested, guiding them down the familiar paths, their steps slow as they reacquainted themselves not just with the garden, but with each other.

They talked of many things—of the war, of those they had lost, of the future. Chan spoke of the battles, but more of the men and women he fought alongside, of the small acts of bravery and kindness that had illuminated the darkest days. Minho listened, his heart aching for the pain and pride woven through Chan’s words, offering his silent support and understanding.

As the sun set, painting the sky with strokes of gold and crimson, they found themselves by the old fountain, its waters murmuring softly in the background. Minho reached out, tracing a scar on Chan’s arm, a new addition since the war. “It seems we both have scars to bear,” he said softly.

Chan looked at him, a gentle acknowledgment in his gaze. His fingers traced the scar located on Minho's stomach through layers of fabric, still knowing exactly where to find it. “Yes, but we’ll bear them together, won’t we?”

Minho nodded, squeezing Chan’s hand. “Together,” he affirmed.

In the sanctuary of their garden, with the shadows of war slowly fading into the background, Minho and Chan rediscovered the strength of their bond. Here, in the twilight of their reunion, they began to weave new dreams, grounded in the realities they had faced but looking forward to a future they would shape together. In this shared space, they were not just a prince and his knight; they were two souls, scarred but unbroken, bound by a friendship that had endured the greatest of trials.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Minho and Chan sat together in their secluded garden, enveloped by the serene twilight. The world around them quieted to a soft murmur, allowing the gentle sounds of nature to fill the air—a distant birdcall, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. It was in these peaceful moments that their conversations often drifted from the mundane to the profound.

Today, however, as Minho watched the sunset cast its golden light on Chan's face, illuminating the lines of strain and the scars of war, he saw him not just as his friend or his protector, but as something more profound, more integral to his very being. Chan's features, etched with the experiences of battle, held a rugged beauty, a testament to his strength and resilience. Minho’s heart swelled with an emotion that was tender and overwhelming, realizing that his feelings had grown beyond the bounds of friendship into something deeper, something akin to love.

“Chan, do you ever think of a different life?” Minho asked, his voice soft but laden with emotion, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope.

Chan turned to him, a gentle smile playing on his lips, his eyes reflecting the fading light. “All the time, but always with you in it.”

The simplicity of the statement, and the sincerity in Chan’s gaze, struck a chord within Minho. He felt a warmth spread through him, a clarity about his feelings that he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge. Here, beside him, was not just his knight but the person he loved, deeply and irrevocably.

Chan, noticing the change in Minho’s expression, the way his eyes lingered and his cheeks flushed with a subtle hue, felt a stirring of his own heart. He had always seen Minho’s beauty—in his gentle demeanor, in his sharp intellect, and in the kindness that radiated from him like sunlight. But now, under the soft glow of twilight, Chan saw Minho in a new light, realizing how central Minho had become to his every thought of the future, how his days were brighter, his burdens lighter with Minho by his side.

“Minho,” Chan began, his voice low and earnest, “these years, these trials, have shown me so much about strength and resilience. But none of that compares to what I've discovered about myself, about us. You are in every vision of my future because you are the part of my life that brings me peace, joy, and a sense of home.”

Minho turned to face Chan fully, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, moved by Chan’s words. “I've been afraid,” Minho confessed, “afraid of acknowledging how deeply I feel, how much you mean to me. Not just as a friend, but as the one I love, the one I cannot envision my life without.”

Chan reached out, brushing a tear from Minho’s cheek with a tenderness that belied his warrior’s hands. “Then let's not hide from these feelings anymore,” he said softly. “Let’s explore this path together, no matter where it leads.”

As the last light of the day gave way to the stars, Minho and Chan remained in the garden, their hands entwined, their hearts open to the possibilities of a future together. Under the vast expanse of the starlit sky, Minho and Chan found themselves lingering in the garden, unwilling to end the evening that had transformed their relationship forever. The night was quiet, with only the soft whisper of the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant call of a nightingale. The air was cool, carrying the fresh, earthy scent of the garden after dusk.

As they stood beside the old fountain, now just a silhouette against the dark sky, their conversation dwindled into comfortable silence. Both were keenly aware of the new, delicate territory they had ventured into, each heartbeat seeming loud in the quiet of the night.

Minho looked up at Chan, noticing how the moonlight danced across his features, softening the hard lines of battle and time, casting him in a glow that seemed almost otherworldly. Chan’s eyes, usually so strong and assertive, now held a gentle uncertainty that Minho had never seen before but found endearing.

“Chan,” Minho began, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer. “Thank you, for being my strength, for always being here.”

Chan’s response was a soft smile, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that words could barely capture. “Minho, there’s no place I would rather be,” he replied, his voice equally low.

In that moment, with the moon witnessing their solitude and the serene night embracing them, Minho felt a pull, a desire to bridge the gap of inches that still lay between them. His heart raced as he reached up, tentatively, to touch Chan’s cheek, his fingers trembling slightly.

Chan’s breath hitched at the contact, a shiver running through him, not from the chill of the night but from the warmth of Minho’s touch. He looked down into Minho’s eyes, seeing the open adoration and the silent question they posed. With a gentle firmness born of years of holding back, Chan lowered his head slowly, giving Minho time to pull away if he wished.

Minho’s response was to close the distance, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that was tentative at first, a soft brush of warmth that held a question neither had dared to ask aloud until now. When neither pulled away, the kiss deepened, growing in confidence and heat. Chan’s hands moved to cup Minho’s face, his touch sure, and Minho sighed into the kiss, his arms wrapping around Chan’s waist to pull him closer.

The world around them seemed to fade, leaving nothing but the two of them locked in an embrace that sealed their newly acknowledged feelings. The kiss was a mixture of all the emotions they had shared over the years—joy, fear, longing, and above all, love. It was a kiss that spoke of past struggles, present understanding, and a future filled with endless possibilities.

When they finally parted, breathless and hearts pounding, they rested their foreheads together, a smile playing on both their lips.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Minho murmured, his breath warm against Chan’s lips.

“Yes, we should have,” Chan agreed, his voice thick with emotion. “But we’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

They stayed like that for a while, in the quiet of the garden, surrounded by the peace of the night, letting the significance of their first kiss sink in. It was a perfect moment, one that marked the beginning of a new chapter in their lives, filled with the promise of shared tomorrows.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

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[jolalibrary]

little cute things to remember (because it’s been a while since we’ve done this):

✨ you’re more that the notes or the followers you get: outside of the obvious, sometimes a fic is a grower (it’ll find people in time) and sometimes it’s because people are storing your work away ready to read when they need comfort. your worth isn’t attached to your numbers, it’s your storytelling, your soul and kindness. plus, if you love it, that’s one super fan—and anyone else is a bonus.

🌙 you don’t have to write X to fit in/be seen: just like we don’t eat the same meal every day, people’s interests change. what is popular changes, but what doesn’t change is what makes you happy. so, write that because that means your heart will be in it.

🌾 it’s okay to be nervous about connecting with people you admire: but I promise it’ll be worth it. work up to it, take the time you need, but I promise (from someone who is a chronic worrier and big ball of anxiety) everyone will be just as thrilled to hear from you, as you are to hear from them.

🪴 your process is your process, own it: I see people worry about not posting enough, and those who worry they post too much. your process, your writing, your blog at the end of the day, is yours. if people don’t like it, they know where the unfollow button is. you’re doing amazing, you’re doing what you want, when you want it, with the time you have. don’t let anyone take your shine.

🔑 I don’t think I can write X or Y or Z: that’s okay. you don’t have too. even if they’re wildly popular or it’s your fave character/trope to read, it’s okay if you find it overwhelming to write. but, try. even in private, even if it never makes it online and stays in a private discord with your bestie. sometimes, it’s scary to take the leap, but sometimes it’s also pretty fucking great.

🩷 for my anxious, worrying souls: sometimes, it does feel lonely. it feels like you’re shouting into a void, surrounded by people, but still on the outskirts of the convos, the chats, the places, the fandom. it’s one of two things: perspective—your brain, as wondrous as it is, is also very cruel, and twists good things into bad (like a disney forest that if you go too deep into begins to look eerie) or you just need to find your person. the one you send all your thoughts to, the one who learns all the intricacies of your life, your routine, easily. it can be hard (and intimidating) to find them, but you will. they’re out there, waiting for you as much as you are for them.

☁️ what makes fandom great is not just the works we find along the way, but the souls we find and connect to. fandom is about supporting art, sharing, loving, enjoying, but it’s also about having fun, being in a space you can curate that makes you smile, and doing so with people who get you, who understand why you love that movie (even if it’s not rated that great) and love you for it all the same.

🫂 do what’s best for you: you don’t want to tackle that fic now, that’s okay. you want to change fandoms, that’s okay. you want to take a break and come back. you want to be around, connecting but not writing for a while, that’s super cool. you want to press pause, hide, lurk for a moment, you do you bby. ignore that pressure you feel on your shoulders, it’s not real. those who love your work, your words, your style, your heart will be here. there’s only one you, and if you burn out at both ends, all you’ll be given is a version of you that you’ll look back on and not like to be reminded of.

lots of love,

jo (undercoverpena) 💕

[carlyraejepsans]

I really respect your dedication to these characters and the fine nuances in writing them with pinpoint accuracy but lord it must be really really hard to find any amount of fanfics by people who feel the same and don't unintentionally do something kinda ooc once that makes you stop reading a story. With short comics and art and whatever you have to go out of your way to mischaracterize characters since there's not a ton of internal substance, they're just kissing or telling a line of dialogue, but with fic it's so descriptive and so much more thought on how a character's inner workings carry on, and I feel a lot of people have fun writing fanfiction in a way that does not result in 100% accurate characterizations because that would take so much continual, constant effort and very thorough character analysis skills and applications to get right pretty much all of the time. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say beyond it must be tough for you specifically to find stories that don't annoy you- or perhaps that is not accurate! I don't read much fic so I don't know, it just seems like it'd be exhausting from an outside perspective

BAHAHAHA the eternal struggle of the Hater. I'm kind of obsessed with how you described it here. You're mostly correct! And kind of missing a crucial detail at the same time.

It's true, it is extremely difficult to find fanfiction that agrees with me--especially for a fandom like Undertale with 1) a very young audience and 2) a very heavily character-centric form of storytelling, which inevitably results in nuanced personalities that are hard to grasp without full context (which means analyzing the canon... a lot!)

There's two very important things you should note though!! Undertale is a HUGE fandom. As hard as finding really accurate fics might be, they ARE out there, and when i find them I'm so invested in their accuracy and analysis that I enjoy them 10000 times more than someone who just... doesn't think about this stuff. It's about quality over quantity.

The other thing is: being this ""picky"" and analysis focused doesn't actually stop me from reading fanfiction. Just lately I've been going through the entire fandom tag on ao3 in reverse alphabetical order and trying out anything that doesn't immediately put me off via tags/summary. Is there a lot of stuff that reads ooc or that I just plain don't like? like, a LOT of it? absolutely. But at the end of the day, that ALSO becomes an exercise in analysis. Why did this portrayal come off as ooc? Was the character voice accurate to canon? If not, what made them differ? Was it the way the character acted, rather? Is this the author's bias or exaggeration? Why do I feel like it would be at odds with the person they are in canon? Would they ever be driven to behave like this? What would push them? Was that accurately justified in this fic? and so on.

it's true that engaging with fandom on the regular can heavily skew your perception of the original, but i feel that engaging with fanon and habitually returning to the canon as a point of reference, as contrast, as fact checking, is one of the best ways to truly understand both the characters and the fan communities that they gathered around them. overall, it's good fun!! well worth the occasional cursed content, and even then it gives me something to inflict psychic damage on my friends with.