#fwoosh writes

[fw00shy]

back to the basics

“Remember third year,” Harry said.

Draco glanced up from the evening paper. “I try not to, no.”

The clock on the mantle read half past eight. Harry itched his ear and yawned, his legs sprawled over the sofa arm. “Third year’s the dementor year,” he said. “The year they followed us to Hogwarts. You remember.”

“Yes, school was rather like a prison, wasn’t it.”

“Every time the dementors got near, I relived the death of my parents—”

“Merlin, how many times do I have to apologize for dressing up as a dementor, I mean how could I have known—”

Harry laughed. “I’m not looking for another apology, Draco.”

Draco paused. “Then what are you doing?”

“Just reminiscing. Funny how angry I felt back then but it’s all so funny to me now.”

Draco made a face. “I was a pretty rotten kid. But I’ve changed. Like, a lot.”

Draco always looked nervous when talking about the past. Like he thought Harry would leave him if he suddenly remembered the day he let the Death Eaters in and Fred died. But Harry never forgot anything.

Harry closed his eyes, remembering that first day at Madam Malkin’s. He had been so unconflictingly angry. But children were malleable, half-formed things. No child was a bad person. They were just dumb mean kids.

Harry reached over and pinched Draco’s nose. “I don’t think you’ve changed much at all, actually. You weren’t all that bad from the start.”

[fwoosheye]

All things considered, it was an optimal day for running. Thin clouds covering the sun and a light breeze keeping the temperature just right. The ground was dry and flat. The backpack with water and the over-the-shoulder straw fit snuggly on their back and around their waist, so they barely even felt it was there. Of course, there was the issue of the beast hunting them. They weren't sure what it was - it had been hunched over a victim when they spotted it, and it looked nothing like anything they'd seen before. The first thing they had noticed was the long matted fur, and the gangly limbs digging into a poor man's torso. Frozen with terror they had watched it gnaw on intestines and ribs with its long toothy maw, and it was only when it turned it's cold white gaze at them that they snapped out of it and started to run. The beast had cackled and immediately started to run after them.

"You can run, but you can't hideeeeee!"

Well, if there was one ting they were good at, it was running. It was even why they had even stepped outside today. it was why they were so well prepared.

And so they ran, passing block, after block, after block. Leaving the suburbs and hitting the countryside road. At first they thought the beast was taunting them, by not just speeding up to some inhuman speed and taking them down, but now when they could hear its huffing behind them they realized it probably couldn't run faster.

They took a sip of water and kept running.

The beast growled.

"How are you not yet lagging?" it huffed out.

They didn't bother answering, other then briefly lifting their hand and flipping it the bird. Whatever the beast was, it seemed like it at least understood the sentiment of that gesture.

"Impudent little morsel! I will ravel in tearing you from limb to limb! you might be fine now, but before the sun has moved another claw in the sky you will begin falter and you will be mine!"

Another claw? What kind of measurement was that? They glanced at their watch. Well they'd been running for barely an hour, so if a "claw" referred to the time they'd been running, well...

They'd be fine for another three claws, probably even four. Maybe even five.

The beast kept on huffing and spitting curses behind them. Wasting its breath. But never catching up.

If the next week's marathon wasn't cancelled, it would be easy peasy after this.

And so they kept on running.

“You can run, but you can’t hideeeeee!” The monster chasing you calls out. But the monster doesn’t know that you are a marathon runner and so you just keep on running.

[fwoosheye]

If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notes, anonymous or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog! ☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

I wear glasses 🤓😎

I am halfway done with my education to become a teacher (for elementary school, years 4-6)

One of my wip:s is a satire that's about an annoying chad stumbling across a magic lamp and wishing all pronouns disappear with very forseen consequences for anyone who knows basic grammar, and if I manage to finish it it will be released under a not-at-all-subtle pseudonym

[darlingdaisyfarm]

can I have something with Stan in his scamming era? (where he founded Stan Co. Enterprises) 🙏🙏 begging you because damn that man looked so hot here

💸₊˚⊹ kiss me, i’m not buying 𖦹.ᡣ𐭩˚ salesman!Stan Pines x reader

a/n: here it is! ugh, the grip this man has on me. i didn’t know whether to make this smut or sfw (believe me, i debated it for way too long), so i went the sfw route this time, but i’d be more than happy to write something spicier for salesman!Stan if y’all are interested !! 

you're standing in the middle of a sketchy flea market just off the highway and honestly it’s not exactly where you’d pictured spending your saturday afternoon, wandering through the rows of mismatched booths, scanning piles of junk that no sane person could ever need.

it's hot, too sticky, gross. your shirt clings to your back and you're already regretting stopping here.

but just as you’re about to leave, your eyes land on him. a man in a teal shirt with a collar so wide it’s begging for attention, leaving his chest hair on display that he’s clearly proud of, along with a chunky gold chain around his neck. his suitcase has clearly seen better days, but what sets him apart from the crowd is his wide smile, like he’s about to either sell you a miracle or steal your last dime. 

of course, you’d seen him around, not in person, but in loud, greasy ads on TV where he was always shouting, waving some half-broken thing, performing like it was gold, spitting promises about "how much you could make!" with a grin that could sell you your own reflection and make you think you needed to buy it.

and just because you’re lucky, he clocks you immediately. his eyes light up, oh a jackpot, Stan thinks. and before you can even pretend to be invisible, he’s striding over like he’s just found a hundred-dollar bill lying on the sidewalk. the suitcase bounces in his grip with each step and you’re already brainstorming ways to politely eject yourself from this situation.

"hey there, sweetie!" he talks warmly, kindly, so charismatic as if he’s known you forever and isn’t trying to scam you out of your wallet. “lookin’ for the deal of the century? 'cause I got it right here.” 

who even talks like that? your first thought is to walk away, but he doesn’t wait for your reply, flipping open his battered suitcase with a dramatic fwoosh, inside is a chaotic mess of. . . you don’t even know how to call it, whatever the hell this is.  

garbage. actual garbage.

“behold!” Stan announces, plucking out what looks like a glorified spatula, holding it up like it’s excalibur. “the ‘multi-purpose super-scraper deluxe!’ clears snow, scrapes gum, defends yer honor in a bar fight! this baby does it all.”

you blink, thinking, processing. then blink again. there’s no fucking way this man is serious.

“uh,” you squint at him, trying to keep a straight face. “why. . . would I need that?”  

Stan gasps like you just insulted his mother. “why wouldn’t ya? c’mon, sweetheart, yer too smart not to see the potential here! no more sticky messes, no more snowed-in mornings! and if some jerk at the bar gives ya trouble,” he mimics an exaggerated swing with the scraper, accompanied by sound effects. “you clock ‘em with the handle. it’s genius!”

your lips twitch, fighting not to curve into a grin. he’s ridiculous. his whole speech is absurd, but goddamn if it isn’t entertaining. he’s so into it, so unabashedly shameless, that you can’t help but laugh.

noticing your reaction, which he honestly expected, Stan leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to tell you some big, mind breaking secret. “tell ya what, baby. normally, this masterpiece’d run ya twenty bucks. but for you,” he winks. "fifteen! and maybe somethin’ else.”  

your brow arches. “somethin’ else? like what?”  

Stan rubs the back of his neck, pretending to be some shy, harmless guy who’s definitely not scamming you. “aw, nothin’ much. just a teensy lil kiss on the cheek, y’know, for good luck. gotta keep the ol’ sales streak alive!”

you freeze for a beat, caught off guard by his audacity and you hesitate. not because you’re scared, he’s too goofy to be threatening, but because you’re trying to figure out his angle. is he serious? does he actually think this will work?  

but the worst part is that it works. you hate yourself for not being able to reject, and him for being so damn smiley, friendly and charismatic. his shamelessness, his outrageous speech, the sheer brazenness, it all works against you in ways you hate to admit.

“fine,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “one kiss. but only if this thing actually scrapes gum off my shoe.”  

“deal!” his grin stretches impossibly wider in triumph, and you already know you’ve lost.  

you lean in cautiously, heart kicking up just a little, despite your best efforts to stay calm. it’s a kiss on the cheek. nothing weird. nothing big. quick, harmless, done. but just as your lips are about to brush his skin he— he what?!

the bastard moves, turns his head at the last possible second, so instead of his cheek, your lips collide with his.

you should stop, you must pull away and slap him hard for pulling that kind of shit, but for some reason you don’t. you let him kiss you and it feels warm, too good, contrary to his nature as a cunning salesman. Stan’s hand grazes your arm, daring you to stay in the moment even as your head spins. but then realisation comes, a little common sense hits you and you jerk back with wide eyes, looking at him in shock, stunned and breathless.

pleased with himself, Stan smiles cheekily at you with smug expression, looking as if he had just committed the greatest robbery of his life.

“well, what do ya know?” he chuckles, running a finger over his lips. “good luck for both of us.”  

what you don’t expect is to run into him again. weeks later, at another flea market, and then again at a diner on the highway.

the third time, Stan grins like it’s fate. “oh, ain’t this somethin’, sweetie? maybe the universe itself wants us to keep bumpin’ into each other.”

[mitskicain]

navi | m.list

. ⁺ . ✦ the doghouse — ken sato x reader

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: all good things must come to an end

content warning: angst, hurt/some comfort (?)

word count: 1.8k

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epilogue: in the doghouse

There is a saying that the universe gives and takes. That, it writes people into your lives—your paths crossing—and you will start to see them everywhere. The things that they mention will appear in front of you, their body standing out from a crowd, their voice singular in a wave of shouting. But when it is time for the two of you to separate, the universe will write them out completely. Despite living in the same city, you will never see them picking out oranges and apples in the grocery store, never see them in their favorite restaurant, never have them pull up next to you during a red light. They say that when it’s really over, you will never see them again, no matter how intertwined the two of you were before.

Ever since that last argument in your place, you and Ken had only crossed paths another couple handful of times.

There was once in the convenience store near the stadium late at night—you grabbing some cup noodles, him with his energy drink. You saw him from the corner of your eye, hair doused in sweat and matted down from the helmet, his gloved hands reaching for the chiller. He might not have seen you. You were in your hoodie, hunched down, devouring your late night meal. There was something about writing fervors that always made you so hungry. You resisted the urge to ask him where he had gotten the butter chicken he brought over the first time he came around; resisted the urge to ask him anything really—because it wouldn’t be for the sake of curiosity, or your cravings—just the chance to talk to him again, but you were too proud to ever want to admit it first. So you let him slip by, gaze lingering on his back as he disappeared down the road to continue practice. When you walked home, you could still hear the distant roars of wooden bat meeting baseball, and the echo of its fwoosh across the stadium.

It was hard avoiding Ken. His physical self was limited to mainly the stadium and the streets to and from his house. The bars on the road across from the venue would be hotspots after practices, so much so that you changed your schedule to only cover nights when he wasn’t on practice. But that was the easy part. In the daylight, he was omnipresent—advertisements and banners and posters of him decorated nearly every inch of the city. Whenever the Giants won a game, there would be the valiant cheer of the crowd, and his face plastered on newspapers. When his birthday rolled around, they decorated the subway to the stadium that you took to work with him. It was a pain. You had to keep your gaze down or your eyes shut just to avoid looking at him. One time, you thought that you had bumped into him on the subway but then realized it was just a mural of him—height accurate and all.

The ample time had you working on your writing: shitty poetry drafts turning into something worth reading. The first time you had gone to a bar that allowed you to showcase your work, you felt your heart thunder against your ribs, an unswallowable lump formed in your throat, and though you stuttered through the first few lines you were met with smiles and applause when you finished. And you did it again, and again, and again��until you no longer stuttered and the applause turned thunderous—until the manager of the bar asked you to come in regularly, offering you a platform and all. You didn’t think you could have actually made it, the whirlwind of fame sucking you in, allowing you little time to focus on anything that wasn’t your craft. Soon enough, you were able to quit your job altogether and focus on writing full-time.

You didn’t expect it: after months passing and nothing from the other, for him to be merely 50 meters away from you, in the next conference room. You could recognize his voice anywhere—recognized the sound of his laugh from all the clamor of the reporters. You looked straight ahead as you tried your best to answer the questions from the critics and some of your readers, trying to drown out the noise booming from just across the hall. So close and yet so far. When the event concluded you rushed outside, hoping to catch a glimpse, only to find that he had been dismissed just five minutes before you. Emotions bubbled up in you—disappointment, rage, shame—leading to you eventually publishing a short novel that included graphic details of your relationship together. The release took Japan by storm; tabloids and headlines both banging on your doors for a statement.

The last time you saw Ken was in court.

A private settlement between the two of you. A gag order, your lawyer had said—you fought back the urge to laugh. Isn’t that what I used to put in his mouth? You joked, he didn’t find it funny.

While your lawyers discussed, you passed lingering stares at each other from across the room. You had never seen Ken so dressed up before: white button up, trousers, and dress shoes. His hair was gelled back, so different from how it usually looked—messy from having your hands in them. He fiddled with his cufflinks, keeping his gaze low, but there were moments, brief moments, where he looked at you and it felt as if nothing had changed. As if the two of you were back at your place, splayed out on the couch, lying opposite from each other, stealing glances as the movie rolled on. A place in your chest hurt at the memory, so you stepped outside and made a beeline for the vending machine, trying to find something to sink your teeth into to distract you from the hurt.

“I guess the truth was bound to come up one way or another,” his voice rang. You turned around, Ken trailing behind you. “Cat’s out the bag.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line, shrugging.

“I guess so.”

Silence between the two of you. It had been too long since either of you said a word to each other.

“Now what?” He asks, voice soft but expectant. Something inside of you squeezes. You trail your fingertips on the surface of the soda can, feeling the moisture collect onto your skin.

“Now I stop writing fanfiction of you,” you say, a teasing smile playing on your lips. He returns the expression, amused. “We move on, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sounds, a hint of disappointment. His fists hung idly by his sides. The urge to reach out to him and hold his hand and tell him that the two of you could start over was great, but you knew better than to do anything of the sort. So you just stood there, taking all of it in—the tension, the awkwardness.

“Was this how you imagined it?” You asked, trying to sound cold but your voice cracks with emotion the moment you see him turn to meet your gaze. “When you lead me on, did you think it would come to this?”

He looks down in shame, lips curling downwards. You want to reach out to touch him but you stay in place, feet glued to the ground. Your free hand is squeezed into a fist, white knuckled and all.

“I always knew you were going to make it,” he says, smiling softly, “but no, I didn’t think of-” he gestures to the room, “this.”

Fair enough, you thought.

Another painful bout of silence.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, you know,” he confesses, your jaw ticks at the mention of this. “I didn’t mean for things to end the way they did.”

You nod your head in acknowledgement.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” you say. “You tried to keep me from it but I figured you out—maybe try harder next time.”

The two of you know there won’t be a next time.

After this, it’s over. You won’t see him again. Ever. Still, the two of you laugh—maybe as an attempt to soothe the sting of loss—you hear his laugh and you are struck for the millionth time by just how beautiful it is.

Have you ever felt it? The moment before the feeling catches the memory? For a second, your mind pulls you to the surface and, like a snapped rubber band—whiplash. The echo of his laugh brings that all too familiar ache that rippled through you like waves, something that you know will haunt you for the next few years as you tried to erase whatever memory of him you had left. But before the pain was that haven of neutrality, the millisecond of peace where, instead of feeling the pang of loss, you felt nothing—and before nothing, the slightest memory of happiness.

For a moment, before the goodbye, the sound of his laugh transported you back to a time where all the two of you looked forward to was the sight of each other. You laughed over scenes together, discussing movie theories and playing make believe. You dreamed of a future where things had been better, nicer, where the world had been gentler with the two of you—a future where the two of you had been allowed to stay together, for a little bit longer at least. You were reminded of the time, cuddled up in bed, you heard him slip a little confession of an ‘I love you’ in the midst of his exhausted haze. Did he mean it? You wouldn’t know. And he hadn’t known it then but you said those words back, kissing the top of his forehead affectionately before joining him in sleep.

After this the two of you will never meet again.

The mention of the other during an interview will be quickly brushed off, only answered with a tight smile and a shake of the head. You will move back to the countryside in pursuit of a more peaceful environment for you to write your days away in, Ken will stay in the city and win game after game. The tabloids will cease the stories of you, and the news that the both of you had once been a thing will fizzle out—the public will forget of the fervor and the two of you gone back to strangers that will never cross paths again.

But sometimes, sometimes, you would wake up from such vivid dreams that you are drenched in tears and sweat, your cheeks flushed against the cool summer air. In your dreams you are back in your tiny apartment, chasing after Lassie and Strauber, singing in the shower while Ken brushes his teeth—a life so domestic and sweet that if a stranger were to peer in they would have said that the two of you were a happily married couple. Of course, this was before the world knew, before disaster struck—back when you lied your head against his chest and neither of you had ever said a word about leaving.

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author’s note: ITS THE END OF THE DOGHOUSE AAAAA💥💥💥 I’ll be honest this one was hard to go through (as evident by my burnout 💀💀) because it reminded me too much of my past (failed) relationship(s) 😭😭😭 but as always we thank our exes and we move on and write successful story about them for hundreds to enjoy 🥰🥰🥰 thank you everyone who has been so sweet and so supportive throughout it all 🫵‼️ I never would have imagined that so many of you guys would actually like this weird story I wrote 😭😭😭 and as mentioned previously the doghouse will be my last kenji fic and I will be moving on to writing for other fandoms :”))) it’s been an honor and I am so happy that you guys enjoy what I put out there, I hope to continue being able to put out things you guys enjoy 🙏🙏 until then—thank you as always and—MITSKICAIN OUT‼️‼️🗣️🗣️🔥🔥🫳🎤 💥💥

taglist: @luneariaa @moonjellyfishie @sweetcheeksbby-deactivated20240 @shittingonyourgrave @shauu @witcwitchy @fcklxnaa @despacito-uwu16 @mqshido @miffysoo @ybbayk @hore4ken @mochminnie @femmefqtqle @miratastic @lovingyeet @mythicalmo @yourfellowmarzipan @softdumplingposts @strayy-kidz @floppy-aura-koi

[rhiannonhgarrard]

When I'm writing about a character who knows more about something than I do: *"He was the world's best sailor! He... pulled the one rope and... did that other knot and the ship's sails went FWOOSH and started moving"*

[fanboyzuko]

alright mai and azula are winning :3 enjoy a snippet of today's work

On a rare day they got to hang out with Azula in the palace, Mai pulled out a package with a deep sigh. Well versed in Mai’s sighs as Ty Lee was, she immediately turned her attention away from painting Azula’s nails. While it sounded like the typical annoyed sigh, it had a slight forced element to it which meant Mai was trying to cover up a positive emotion. Azula started to protest to Ty Lee’s inattention, then realized where her focus lay and also turned to Mai with an inquisitive raised eyebrow.

“I recently received a letter,” Mai said in perfect monotone. “And an accompanying package I chose to wait to open with you all, since there are supposedly presents for all of us.”

Ty Lee quickly cleaned up her nail polish set up, promising to finish Azula’s nails as soon as they opened their presents. Thankfully, Azula didn’t seem too miffed about the interruption and hardly acknowledged Ty Lee as she gracefully rolled off her bed and approached Mai with a huff.

“Well, what is the point of leaving us in suspense? Who is it from? Your uncle? I can’t imagine why he would-” She paused as Mai shook her head with a hint of a smile.

A smile?! 

Ty Lee leaped off the bed and cartwheeled to join them at Azula’s couch where Mai had been lounging by herself. The package wasn’t well-wrapped. Or, it was extremely well-wrapped which made it look lumpy and stupid. Mai’s uncle wouldn’t send something like that, let alone for Mai’s friends too and make Mai smile. There was only one explanation.

“Is it from Zuko?!” Ty Lee exclaimed, flipping over the table between her and the couch to sit next to Mai. “Oh it has to be! That’s crazy! Why is he suddenly writing now? How long has it been? A year?”

“Hardly,” Azula scoffed, crossing her arms as she glared at the package as if she could set it alight with her glare alone. “It’ll be a year next month.”

Mai shared a look with Ty Lee which helped stifle Ty Lee’s giggle. It wouldn’t end well if they brought attention to how much Azula obviously missed her brother if she knew how long he’d been gone to the day. Before Azula could catch them having a silent conversation, Mai held a scroll out to Azula.

“He also wrote to you. I think he actually used his brain and knew it’d have a better chance of reaching you if it came through me.”

As Azula took the scroll with wide eyes, Ty Lee planted her hands on the couch to lean into Mai’s space. “I have one too, right?!”

“No, just the pres-”

The fwoosh of flames and sudden heat across from them cut Mai off. They turned to Azula, Mai’s expression unchanging while Ty Lee’s jaw dropped. Ashes fell from Azula’s fingertips as she laughed and blew the debris away.

“I don’t care what a banished loser has to say to me.”

“B-but I wanted to know!” Ty Lee whined, staring at the floating ashes in dismay. She was so curious as to what Zuko had been up to and why he decided to suddenly send them all presents! Even if he hadn’t written her a letter, he’d still sent her a present!

Mai sighed as she pulled another scroll from her sleeves and held it out to Ty Lee. “I had a feeling this would happen and brought mine as well. You may read it.”

There was a flicker of interest and regret in Azula’s eyes, which anyone else would have missed. But Ty Lee was always on the lookout for the minute displays of emotions in her two reserved friends. So Ty Lee whooped and flipped off the back of the couch, putting it and the table between her and Azula as she opened it and started reading aloud.

“Dear Mai, I would have written-”

“Read it to yourself,” Azula spat and yet her arms were still crossed and she showed no signs of pursuing Ty Lee. “I just said I don’t care what he has to say.”

“What he has to say to you!” Ty Lee fluttered her eyelashes, putting on the air of perfect, fake innocence. “But aren’t you curious about what he has to say to Mai?”

Mai huffed in minimal protest, thankfully catching on to Ty Lee’s game and not taking offense. It was likely Azula knew exactly what Ty Lee was doing too, but latched on to the excuse with a smug snort. “Ah yes, I suppose I am intrigued if their puppy love has survived banishment.” She sat on the table and waved at Ty Lee. “Carry on then.”

The letter was shorter than it should have been. Almost a year since his banishment, and that was really all Zuko had to say? Despite its pitiful length, Ty Lee still felt oddly energized by Zuko’s words. He hadn’t written anything about how he was doing or feeling, but even his straightforward report of his recent activity suggested he was doing well. Zuko had to be doing well if he was so busy! He hadn’t been moping about and doing nothing, like Azula sometimes theorized. Obviously, he’d been working hard and even if he wasn’t close to finding the Avatar, he was accomplishing things! Posing as an Earth Kingdom scholar, living with sandbenders, finding a spirit library? It all sounded so fanciful and exciting!

“Well, what are these presents that supposedly made him think of us?” Azula demanded as soon as Ty Lee finished reading. 

Mai pulled the package into her lap and started the arduous task of unwrapping it. Zuko really took no chances of his glassware presents breaking while in transit. Finally, the box was open and three items were unearthed from the layers and layers of padding. There were no labels or cards, but it was quite obvious who each present was supposed to go to. 

“So pink,” Mai said in disgust, holding the necklace up to Ty Lee.

It was indeed so pink. The pink glass was spiraled in such a way it was opaque, but there was a hint of translucence only glass could achieve. It was beautiful. It was… Pinker than the aura holding it. Ty Lee stared at her hands and felt tears prick her eyes. 

A few months ago, Master Intira passed away in her old age. She’d known her time was coming to an end. She’d prepared everyone for her departure to the spirit world, and encouraged her school to carry her memory and legacy with joy. Ty Lee of course did as her master and idol instructed, but without Master Intira’s unwavering pink, there was no one else to compare her aura with.

Ty Lee thought she’d been doing a good job of keeping herself pink and free.

But compared to the cheerful spiraling glass pendant in her hands, Ty Lee’s pink was dull and lifeless.

“Well, I’ll give Zuzu this, he is shockingly competent at selecting suitable presents,” Azula drawled, pulling Ty Lee out of her panicked thoughts.

In her hands was a beautiful hairpin in the shape of red and orange flames. But the tip of the hairpin came into too much of a point to be anything other than a glass blade. Mai also had a glass weapon, some sort of short dagger that she held in her fist. The blade was a swirl of clear glass, black, and dark red. It was amusing how Zuko got them both a pretty weapon while he got Ty Lee a simple necklace, but Azula wasn’t wrong. Their presents did suit them.

“However, it would be quite unsightly for the nation’s princess to be seen wearing some trinketry from sandbenders,” Azula scoffed and loosened her hold on the hairpin. It balanced on her fingertip, about to fall.

It never crashed to the ground. Maybe the impact wouldn’t have shattered it. If it was supposed to be a weapon, surely it could survive more than hitting the ground from a few feet. But Ty Lee hadn’t been thinking that far ahead as she dived across the room to catch Azula’s present. There had been no time to think other than a sudden fear for her friend’s happiness. Azula would regret it if she broke Zuko’s present, Ty Lee knew it. 

Azula, of course, mocked Ty Lee for her mad dash to catch the hairpin, but didn’t protest when Ty Lee put it away in Azula’s vanity. They changed topics quickly after that, no matter how much Ty Lee wanted to speculate about Zuko’s travels. And it wasn’t long until Ty Lee and Mai were escorted out of the palace. Hopefully they would be allowed to visit again in a few weeks.

“So,” Ty Lee exclaimed as they started the short walk to Mai’s home. “Are you going to write Zuko back? You should ask him more about the sandbenders! They sound so interesting. Oh and please pass on my thanks for my present!”

A lump in her throat made Ty Lee pause as she looked down at the swirling pink now hanging from her neck. 

“It’s something I didn’t even know I needed.”

[botboots]

capture [megatron, cybertronian!reader]

hi! so sorry for the lack of activity, been super busy getting ready for finals! wanted to post something though, so heres a small draft i started a while ago to try and write more gore/angst stuff, trying to push myself a bit more :) might not be the best thing ive written, but i think its alright enough to post - lmk if you want a part 2!

warnings: blood, gore, torture, death word count: 1.1k (GN, cybertronian!reader) continued under the cut

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

The soft creaking of chains is the only sound that fills the barren room. You hang your helm, energon loss and a weary processor debilitating you, limbs heavy with thoughts clouded by fatigue. Lidded optics gaze down to the drying spilled fuel that covered both the floor and your frame. You take a ragged in-vent and close your optics, trying desperately to keep yourself from shaking.

Don’t make them think you’re weak. The others just need a little more time.

A faint mechanical fwoosh greets your audials, and a soft purple light is cast through the open door for a brief moment before being blocked out by a large, spiked shadow. You don’t even make an attempt to look up as heavy footsteps, followed by a lighter pair, make their way to the center of the room where you hang. The chains that secure your arms above you chime against one another as you shift, grimacing at the twinge under your shoulder plating.

“How is our prisoner today, Knockout?”

The cherry red medic slowly waves a scanner over your frame, clear disgust setting onto his faceplates at your state - or more so the state of your finish, ever the most important thing on his processor. Your gaze narrows at the mech while he waits for the scan to process. You had never known of a cybertronian who could be so unapologetically self-absorbed.

Knockout hums and skims over the data pad, tone annoyingly peppy when he answers, “Besides some minor energon loss, I believe they’re capable of taking another session or two before their… expiration, my liege.”

“Good.” Megatron replies lowly, “You’re dismissed.”

As soon as you hear the door close, sharp digits grab your chin. The servo lifts your helm so that you look straight into the warlords blazing red optics. “You only have so much time before my patience runs thin, Autobot.” he threatens, “Where is your base?”

You return his gaze with steeled optics, “Doesn’ matter how many times you beat me,” your voice is littered with faint static as you speak, “‘m never tellin’ you.” Megatron glares at you, opening his intake to disregard your words; but before he can speak you raise your helm and spit at him, a small glob of energon splattering onto his chassis. His optics widen, a hilarious mix of disgust and anger shaping his features - in any other situation, you would’ve laughed.

His narrow optics flit to you before raising a digit and swiping the blue substance from his frame. He flicks it away, and your vision suddenly spins when his fist slams into the side of your helm. Your frame shudders and you grit your denta, trying to let the sharp pain roll off you.

“If you’d like to play dirty,” Megatron snarls into your audial, “then I would be more than happy to accommodate.”

//

Energon drips from your intake. You feel as if you had been thrown into a spiked pit, scratches and dents littering your frame. Megatron circles you, running a clawed digit along your form. The sound of screeching metal-on-metal makes you cringe, and you try to ignore the flaring pain it leaves in its wake over your already battered plating.

He drops his servo from your frame, moving in front of you to raise your helm once more. He says nothing, only glaring. You return his gaze, exhaustion clear, but he doesn’t miss the glint of challenge in your optics. Megatron isn’t an idiot - he knows your type, and he knows you meant what you said.

The warlord snarls, “If you refuse to tell me the location of your base,” he raises his servo. “Then I will at least take the opportunity to thin your ranks!” Panic floods you right before he swings down, claws ripping through your chassis; bright, blue energon splattering onto both of your frames.

You wail - hot, white pain overtaking your thoughts. You thrash and kick out, sending Megatron stumbling away from you - but all of your attention is locked onto the excruciating pain taking hold of your body. Optics blown wide, you can’t help but stare as energon spills from the four, deep gashes carved into your chassis.

You barely feel his servo grab your helm and violently shove it upwards, trying to force the last of your attention on him.

“You should have taken your chance.” He sneers, sharp denta glinting as his gaze bore into yours.

You can’t look back. Not with any real meaning behind it. The only thing you can process is the pure, unfiltered agony taking over your frame. It was spark-splitting, and you can do nothing but wallow in it as Megatron makes his way towards the exit; leaving you heaving as you bleed onto the floor from the chains that suspend you.

Not moments later, you feel the ship rumble. Blaster fire can be heard behind the door, and you feel a sliver of hope grow in your spark. Even if they can’t save you, at least you won’t spend your last moments alone on a Decepticon warship. However an explosion jolts your frame, twisting you at a particularly painful angle; you cry out, venting labored as you try to re-focus on the sounds outside - anything but lingering on the torment of your wounds.

The gunfire dies down, and you hear a shout. Their voice wasn’t familiar, but you didn’t particularly care at this point - as long as you were given a chance at escape, you couldn’t give less of a scrap about what faction, or lack of, the bot saving you aligned with.

The door slides open. With strained effort, you lift your helm just enough to see who it is. You tense up in apprehension - this isn’t anyone you know. They were slightly blurred to you, but from what you can make out their frame is silver and blue with two red stripes on the top of their helm, and comparatively smaller than most of your comrades. Whoever it is, they seem to freeze as soon as they lay their optics on your mangled, energon covered form.

You probably looked dead.

The bot runs out, and for a moment fear seizes you at the prospect that they thought you were already gone, and decided that a sparkless Autobot wasn’t worth their while. You try to call out, but you only irritate your wounds - your chassis throbs as your voice fizzles out into static. All you can manage is a whine as you curl in on yourself; only managing to lift your knees a few inches upwards.

Your venting stutters. Tears well up in your optics. Your frame begins to shake. 

You were going to die here.

[azureblues08]

Guys, I made a short story that involves Ton Kampon & Fwoosh Famooze: inspired by the concept of Kamis as well as passing on tradition, specifically when it comes to craftsmanship.

Constructive criticism is appreciated!

I created it due to an idea that Fwoosh Famooze was brought to live by the spirits of the Patapons who worked with forging & were very passionte to the point of passing on their craftsmanship, even joining the furnace because they held it close to their hearts, resulting in giving life to the Furnace!

I hope that I communicated that idea well in the writing even for a brief moment in it 😅

[foolnamedjoey]

I keep forgetting you need to write out sound effects

it makes me feel dumb every time I write "FWOOSH" though

[theloverofdragons]

“And this letter here is an A, see I’ll draw it in the ground for you with this stick, so far we’ve got D-r-a, can you guess what we’re spelling?”

Up on their position on top of the ice crystal, Draco cracked one eye open and huffed smoke down at Rolith. “Those just look like squiggles!”

“Ah, I can’t actually understand you, man I’m so much better with togs than dragons… Hmm maybe if I try a similar technique…”

“Don’t treat me like a tog! I’m the World Destroyer!”

“Oooookay I definitely understood that, thanks to the fire,” Rolith frantically patted his head before he got several bald patches. “Right so back to the drawing in the ground method, so next we have a C, which looks the same however you write it…uh wait, I’ve done it the wrong way round. So we may have to start from the beginning!”

Another fwoosh of fire.

“And that’s my teaching stick turned to ash. Instead of trying to learn how to read, want to beat up the Rose?”

“Make sure I get dragon snax afterwards!”

****

For @hdawg1995 who requested: Rolith trying and failing to teach draco how to read while the hero is in the ice

[fw00shy]

Slow Days, Bad Habits

When Draco told Pansy he was moving to Los Angeles, Pansy said, "Fuck off, you're not." It was a Thursday and the afternoon sun stretched over Pansy's fire escape patio like a lazy cat. Draco fished out the olive from his glass and ate it, saying, "No, I really am," when he really wasn't — lying was a bad habit of his, and he was five martinis deep — but the next day he woke up thinking: Why not?

Doing what he wasn't supposed to do was a relatively new bad habit of his (sure he used to break rules, but he never broke Father's rules) but it was by far his favourite. Doing the unexpected. Turning heads. Like when he wore the shirt the Muggle orphanage gave him for painting walls to one of his mum's "Sorry We Lost the War" benefits and Daphne said, "You? Volunteering? No way, I bet a thousand Galleons you bought that from a thrift store."

Los Angeles was everything London wasn't and everything Draco wanted to be. Cars built to go 300kph putting bumper-to-bumper down wide, yawning freeways. Plastic surgery to cover up whatever you didn't like about yourself. Every day Draco looked in the mirror and changed something different. What if he had a different nose? A larger mouth? Would his life change for the better? Some days he wished he had more time to figure out how to turn his life around. Other days it was a lot easier to let his eyes droop until every second stretched long and he lost track of it, another day lost in the waste of his life. 

When Draco saw Harry at the farmer's market he knew Harry had moved to Los Angeles to disappear. He knew this because Harry wore dark glasses and a cap pulled low over his scar. He knew this because the papers had reported Harry missing four years ago, and had never found him since. He knew this because he had moved to Los Angeles to disappear, too. Draco bought his oat milk and his strawberries and walked back home with them tucked under his arm, like his little secret. That was another bad habit of his now: secrets. Anything could be a secret if he wanted it to be. His favourite bench at the park. The line from an Ada Limon that made him cry. Waves crashing against the pier. The scent of jasmine in his mother's garden. And now, Harry, in LA. All his secrets. All just for him.

Draco saw Harry at the farmer's market again the following week, around 1pm when the stalls were packing up and the baskets of strawberries numbered in the ones and twos. Draco came to the farmer's market every week and some weeks they ran out of what he liked, but he was fine with that; this was the time best suited for him.

Draco watched Harry meander past the stalls, his hands behind his back, like he was browsing with no intent to purchase. But why? Maybe he was a ghost. Draco chuckled at the thought, and then he saw Harry walking toward him.

"I won't tell," Draco said. "So don't Obliviate me, please. I like my memories. Or the recent ones, anyway. I mean, they're nothing special. Just things like, eating a good peach. The sun sinking into the sea. Waking up and not being too hot or too cold. Normal things." (Running his mouth: maybe the original bad habit?)

Harry blinked slowly, his mouth slightly agape. He didn't look like he was going to attack Draco. He wasn't even carrying a wand. 

"So," Draco said, smiling, a little more confident now. "I won't tell if you won't tell?"

"You live here too?"

"Sure do," Draco said. "Do you want to come over?"

So it was their secret now.

Which was fine. More than fine, even. Draco didn't normally like to share, but he sure did like breaking rules. Especially his own.

[66sharkteeth]

Got a few scion-related questions since it seems like we’re on a streak with those

Can the scions communicate with anyone besides Rex and Jericho? Like could they learn sign language, or at the very least just pick up a pencil? And could Jericho’s scion communicate with Bags or Charlie the way it can with Jericho since they’re in on the hivemind too?

This could kind of be lumped in with the first one, but can the scions communicate with each other? It doesn’t look like Rex is in the Jericho-Bags-Charlie posse, so I’m assuming they host different hiveminds, but does that mean they’re just stuck staring at each other or can they still talk in some way?

They can only speak verbally to Rex and Jericho (when not possessing their bodies), though they can kinda get some words out through hisses and stuff when in their blank form (I think like 3 people in the world noticed it kind of spoke in this panel):

I dont think this is really "talking" though and maybe more like...the hissing and fwooshing of their flames? Because they don't technically have vocal cords. However... They do roar and shit, so maybe that throws that out the window haha. I feel like they technically shouldn't be able to do that, but they wouldn't be nearly as scary and intimidating if they couldn't roar and hiss.

Technically, Rex's knows sign language, because it knows everything he does. They could also both technically write if they wanted to, but neither really needs to. Communicating through body language has been enough for them so far.

As for Charlie and Bag Girl, I think it could technically speak to them like it does Jericho, but it choses not to (it doesn't even speak to Jericho very much. Rex's is VERY chatty in comparison).

And lastly, no, they can't speak to each other, outside of writing or possessing Rex/Jericho.

Fun fact, I ALMOST wrote this scene for Jericho's scion to speak briefly with Rex's.

However, for various reasons, I felt it works better if we barely ever hear from Jericho's scion. I feel its much more intimidating and mysterious that way, vs. Rex's, which is def intimidating, but clearly the obnoxious little brother of the two scions.

[betterthanyalls]

AN- 12-10-2023 I made this sooo many months ago i forgot now but I was scrolling through my tumblr posts lost to history, I audibly gasped when I saw this. I hate and love myself for writing this.

Chugga Chug

Train!Bendy x Plane!Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“CHOO CHOO!” Bendy screamed as he was rushing down the tracks, he sped up even more. A child was playing on the railway and didn't notice Bendy nearing. Then a loud splat was heard, the child was run over by Bendy. He felt happy now, his kill count reaching 27. Bendy continued on his tracks, blood coating the front of his locomotive. Above him was y/n. She was a majestic plane that soared through the skies. Y/n zoomed through the skies as a passenger plane. At the moment she was carrying 53 passengers from New York City to London. Y/n flew smoothly then remembered she was flying people to Great Britain. She hated Great Britain after her last 7 husbands were british. Anger built up inside her as she decided that nobody was going to get to London on her flight. She started flying higher and higher, making all the passengers lose oxygen. She started doing loop-d-loops until everybody on her flight was dead from the great forces. She then started darting to the ground until she saw a locomotive with blood on its front. “Fwoosh foosh(Hello there!)” Y/n greeted the train. “Choo Choo(Hi toots, I’m Bendy)” Bendy replied back. “Woosh(I’m Y/n!)” Y/n spoke back. They conversed slightly until they got to the topic of deaths. “Chuga Chug(I killed 27 people so far)” Bendy bragged. “Woosh Woop(Only 27? Im at 53!)” Y/n retorted. “Chugga Choo(That’s really hot)” Bendy spoke while flabbergasted. “Fwoosh Fwoop(Have you seen yourself?)” Y/n winked. Then before Bendy could compliment her back, a car drove straight into Bendy. It resulted in Bendy being derailed with the car screaming “BEEP BEEP(STAY AWAY FROM MY FUTURE SENPAI)!” The car screamed at Bendy. Bendy tipped over and screamed in pain. The car stopped to address Y/n “Beep Honk!(Hello there y/n-san! I am Cuphead)!” Cuphead told Y/n. Y/n glared at Cuphead after he hurt her new hubby, she then nose dived at the car. Cuphead screamed in pain as he was crushed by baddie Y/n. Y/n then helped Bendy up and said “Fwoosh Whoosh(I love you Bendy, let's get married)!” Bendy was surprised but loved the idea “Choo Choo!(Yes let's do it!)” Y/n then asked one more thing “Woosh?(Are you british?)”. “Chug(Yes I am!)” Bendy responded to her. Y/n did a double take and then shot off to the sky. She wasn't going to marry another british guy.

The End!

[unolvrs]

uno i like your judgement and i like how you explain stuff, so tell me, what is your opinion on the way gege decided to 🔪 gojo?

spoiler warning for jjk manga!

i actually discussed this in-depth with a friend and my conclusion is that ehhhhh, i guess it makes sense why he did that because the teacher will always get defeated for the student to avenge him and/or be the one to beat the final boss but the way it happened is a little wack. gojō said back in the first chapters that he's confident he can beat sukuna even in full-form but okay, let's give megumi's body a credit: maybe that really did give sukuna an edge but c'mon! gojō going all sappy and shōnen manga saying that he knows sukuna didn't give it his all? that shit honestly made me stareeeeee. the whole fight was intense in a weird way. every chapter left everyone hanging and the hype and expectations were getting out of control.

maybe that's really the bad side of jjk especially with the weekly leaks from certain twitter accounts: the expectations are too high that everyone else will always have something to say bad about it, including me. there are still so many things left unanswered and so many characters left hanging. i'm not even the biggest fan of gojō but the whole thing made me ??? well, i guess it's an introduction to the upcoming final boss fight between itadori and sukuna but honestly, like i said, there are so many things left unanswered including the characters still labeled unknown ifyk what i mean...

but of course, jjk still isn't done yet, so there may be more to come. i have no idea what gege is planning or what's going on in his head but i'll just say that people will always have something to say whether or not he executed it this way or that way.

for now, i'm gonna say i didn't like how he handled the whole thing but that's just me. it was very abrupt and to built up, lasted a little too long, only for fwoosh. maybe gege wanted to add a realistic aspect to it which includes all the unanswered questions, the characters that suddenly disappeared, or maybe, it's bad writing. no one knows until jjk finishes!

that's what i think!

[thejournaluser]

alright, i got inspo from Malevolent now

time to write hehe

There was a moment of silence before he noticed that he was alone. A sudden turn- contorting his body, Derick looked to see the door behind him being welded shut by the people of the village. How'd he come to be here... he does not know. They did something to him. Something about him- it doesn't feel right! Why can't he remember...? No, there is something.. it's slipping! He needs to know! Where is everyone!?

He turns to the welding door. Stop them! Stop!

"Do not shut the door!"

THUD!

His body hit the wooden door as hard as he could but it didn't budge. There were sounds of a struggle from outside and there weren't much trouble for them to finish the door being shut.

"Stop! Let me out!"

Derick cries out but all he could hear were footsteps. It echoed through the halls until all he could hear are the phantom noises that kept playing through the back of his head.

He looks behind him to face the room. White tiled floors glossed and elevated. The walls are painted a blank looking blue as it envelopes the entire room. The ceiling? Well, it isn't really that remarkable except for the hole in the middle. Derick walks closer.

He sees through the hole... a sunroof, perhaps? No, he believes that's what he calls to be a window. Perhaps... not so sure. The sky wasn't there when he looked. It was just a really big light. Blank white of luminescence beaming into his face-

He looks away. Rubbing his eyelids as he tries to seethe through the pain. Then a noise came to his aid. But he does not know that it's help. All that he knows is that a voice is beginning to emerge. Somewhere in the room. Perhaps above? Maybe.

Then... BOOM!

Or rather, a Fwoosh~

He felt the dust touching his feet despite wearing his shoes and a person stands before him, not even making eye contact. Though as he notes, their head keeps twitching as they speak. And something feels wrong about the way they talk. It feels like... they're narrating his thoughts?

"Weird."

"'He says,' said the person. Derick jumps in surprise. How did this person know? He does look male, average in looks!"

...

"Who are you?"

"Derick asks though he is unsure if the person in front of him would even answer his question. They look at him..."

"What the..."

"He feels... scared. The man before him stared at him with wide eyes, piercing into his heart like a knife. He is smiling. Why is this man smiling? And why can't Derick help but feel... intrigued?"

"Stop reading my thoughts!"

"He protested. Though he could not stop the man's narration. But the only way to do now is... left or right!"