#i just wanted to post this on its own since it got only a fraction of second in the video

[zuzuzolsstuff]

Belphie

[mt-oe]

Am curious,,, Mizu and a yandere/possessive reader 🫡 but like Mizu is also lowkey into it though

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Hey dears!

I apologize for not being active for so long. My mental health has been absolute shit. Admittedly, I have been wanting to put out a fic for quite some time now but I didn't want to put out a half-assed fic since none of you deserve that.

Got inspired by @pinksugarberry, specifically this work. A lot of us got our own OCs in our head that we can't quite put out into art so I hope this somehow grants you the opportunity to play in and maybe be the 5th secret route.

Hope you enjoy! Mwa mwa :*

warning/s: not proofread, she/her for mizu, panty shots, voyeurism (mdni), implied afab reader

Mizu was rarely fazed by anything.

With her characteristically stoic expression, she traversed the fields of her college program smoothly. Athletic, smart, and coupled with the calm of a deep river, she overcame the adversities brought by professors who clearly don't give a shit if you learn or not, an absurdly unfair grading system, and the stress of deadlines and exams.

She was cool, calm, and collected. Someone who never faltered, who's knees never buckled.

However, this was something different.

Something that she wasn't even sure she could ever prepare for.

.

.

"Is it this one?" your voice asked softly, reaching a book down to her as your smaller figure stood on the ladder, a few feet above her.

A library assistant. A cute fuckin' library assistant.

Upon hearing your words, her blue eyes looked up briefly to check if you've gotten the right book before widening a fraction and immediately looking elsewhere. Her cheeks heated up as the image of something—something cute and baby pink—plagues her mind, hand tightening its grip on the ladder until her knuckles turned white.

The library had always been her go-to place to study. It was quiet, usually cold, and the vibe brought by other students trying to study had also added to the ambience. There were lots of sockets and was open until the late hours. It was the perfect place to lock in.

However, her concerns started rising when she felt some sort of presence watching her intently. At first she brushed it off as the usual stranger's curiosity over her appearance. After all, her appearance was quite unique. But as the days passed by, she soon realized that the stare, it wasn't going away.

Someone was watching her.

Her senses were then on high alert every time she went to the library. She even tried not going just to see if she could lose the stare, but she realized that whoever was staring at her would only stare harder when she came back if she did. It was like she had eyes on her everywhere, watching every move.

With her wits and observant nature, it didn't take long for her to catch whoever was watching her. But to her surprise, it was you. The library assistant.

The two of you barely had interactions and she found you pretty timid. Always keeping to yourself, organizing papers, and barely interacting unless needed. The only times she'd ever talk to you was to ask for information or help. Even then, you were pretty shy. You were so harmless. Like a cute little rabbit.

With her recent discovery, she found herself intrigued by you and slowly became hyperaware of your presence. Your mannerisms, the slight intonations of your hushed voice, and even the times you went out of post to reorganize the returned books. But those weren't what intrigued her the most...

"Then what about this one?" you asked in a shy voice, holding out another book. She didn't even have to look up to know that it was the wrong book again.

Shaking her head, she pretended to clear her throat, eyes darting around. Anything to avoid looking up again. "No...It's the one beside that," she mumbled, trying her best to hide the unexplainable nervousness in her voice.

A soft, barely audible sigh left your lips at her response. "Please look at it properly," you whispered, waving the book to catch her attention.

At this point, Mizu was almost a hundred percent sure you were doing this on purpose.

Everyday, Mizu went to the library, and everyday she went to the library, she coincidentally had to ask for your assistance in finding some sort of resource. That wouldn't have been a problem. That shouldn't be a problem.

But it was.

It was because every time she did, she'd have to look up and see what was under your skirt.

She didn't want to seem like a pervert, but goddamnit...

You were doing this on purpose, weren't you?

Mizu wasn't stupid. She knew you wanted her to peek up your skirt, to see what color your panties were today, to see the cute prints it had, to admire the plushness of your ass. She'd notice how purposefully got on top of the ladder and get her attention before pulling on the fabric of your panties whenever you got a slight wedgie. She's seen the way you spread your legs when you sat in front of her, even going as far as to lift your skirt up a bit. She noticed the slight pout on your lips when she refused to look.

You've been at it ever since she remembered. Initially, she thought that you were just naturally unaware, maybe even a little bit clumsy. Maybe you just had this natural innocent lewdness? But continuing to observe you, she began realizing how you only acted like this with her.

You never watched the other people who studied in the library. You never asked anyone to look up when you fetched a book for them. You kept your legs crossed whenever talking to someone. And most of all, you never got upset when someone didn't look at you.

She knew she should be disturbed, possibly even upset. But somehow, Mizu found herself amused.

Intrigued.

Interested.

Deciding to indulge you, she turned her head to look up. Her eyes looked up your skirt, admiring the slight camel toe peeking, before looking into your eyes while pretending to be subtle. Her lips almost twitched into an amused smirk as she saw the slight shiver that went up your spine.

"Is this it?" you asked again, hiding your excitement upon feeling her gaze. She looked at the book, and sure enough, it was the wrong one again. Sighing, she shook her head.

Her eyes observed the barely-visible quiver of your lips as you tried to force an excited smile down and replace it with a disappointed frown. "O-Oh...um..let me see," you whispered before turning to look at the shelf.

A little bit of shuffling later, you decided that that was enough excitement and got the correct book this time. Handing it to her, you went down the ladder with a faux apologetic smile. "Sorry it took a while."

Mizu shook her head and let out a small huff of amusement. God, you were so cute when you acted dumb.

"No, no. It's fine," she said reassuringly, spoiling you a bit and patting your head softly before she went back to her seat, book in hand. Her eyes looking over your face for a moment, studying the slight blush that dusted over your cheeks as you took a seat again.

As she got back to her work, she could feel your eyes staring at her, watching her with unwavering interest. Your gaze was so intense it was becoming difficult to ignore. Almost as difficult as ignoring the way you were subtly spreading your legs, letting your skirt ride up a bit as you watched her.

No. At this point, you were waiting for her.

Waiting for her to look.

A few moments later, Mizu finally looked up. Her sharp blue eyes looking into yours deeply before looking down, staring at the baby pink panties you had on today. She tilted her head slightly to get a better look, admiring the way your thighs trembled in excitement, and the slight throb of your cunt.

Her gaze was so intense it almost made you want to shrink in your seat. The excitement was making your throat tighten, your hand going up to your lips to try and hide your smile.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

[heyitschartic]

I've seen a lot of people complain on tumblr about how Worm fanfic is nothing but altpower Taylors. It's not a complaint without merit, I've been hearing it since 2017. Hell, it's something I complain about a lot too. It's true, the fandom is filled with crappy altpowers that really add nothing. But to an extent, I always feel I should push back a little against it.

Even if I do advocate for just writing your own thing, there's a really good reason so few people do. There are a good amount of Worm fanfics out there that use original characters, niche characters, or do a wild take on the premise. Not a ton, not the majority, but a good amount.

But nobody reads them.

Rank is probably one of the best stories in the fandom. Long, filled with original charscter's, and with an interesting focus on a PRT officer working in San Fransisco. It's got an amazing scope, working from when Leviathan attacked Kyushu all the way to Gold Morning and has so many brilliant setpieces and bits of world building. It's earned its spot as one of the best, if not the best, story in the fandom.

It pulled in a paltry amount of comments and likes over the years it was being posted.

I remember when I first entered the fandom, there were already people warning new writers that, while it would be cooler if you wrote about someone other than Taylor, that you'd be getting a fraction of the views. And it sucks yeah, but it's the truth. I've seen a lot of writers over the years get discouraged because stories they love and put a lot of time into just get ten likes and maybe one comment an update. A good friend of mine will only pre-write her OC stories because the absolute lack of interest is so disheartening its caused her to just give up in the past.

And it's not like people who critique Worm Fanfics for being filled with shitty altpowers even really read this stuff. Say what you will about the Cauldron discord, but it's one of the few places I've seen people push HARD for others to read this niche weird stories, and even then there's pusback or luke warm reception. It's sad to see people talk shit about altpowers, but just not really check anything else out but that in the first place. It's just as bad as if you were only reading them.

Check out stories trying something original! Luz Mala, Rank, Agent of Cauldron, City of Bones and Teeth, Diary of a Professional Knock-off, Fault, Lend Me Your Ears, Mouse Trap, Sunspot, Nightcrawler, Raccoon Knight; and those are just the ones I can name off the top of my head! There are a lot out there waiting for you to find!!!!

And how to fix it? Well, I'm not sure if there is a fix. If anything is going to work though, at least be the change. If you aren't someone whose actively reading and commenting on new fics about OC's or similar, well, what incentive is there for people to write them? Sure, a love of just creating something might push you to post, but if you feels like you're just shouting into a void, it might feel better to just not shout at all.

If you want people to write good stories, give them a reason to actually do it.

[whitedovebby]

ıll Bad Timing llı

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(a/n) okaaay, so I posted this originally like, a year and a half ago on another blog that I lost access to, and I'm pretty sure that blog got deleted (not by me), so I thought I'd lost a lot of fics I worked hard back then! However, I trawled through all my Google docs and found this diamond! So, I'm posting it here, and I hope all you Ghost lovers enjoy! <3

wc: 1,155

tw: swearing, mentions of blood, several mentions of injury and violence, and I think that's it?

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Somehow, amongst all the madness, you and Ghost manage to find a quiet corner to recover from the shit that just went down with Graves. Your hands are still shaking, the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as adrenaline continues to pump through your veins.

Alejandro has been captured, Soap is missing, and you haven’t the faintest clue where Rudolfo is either. You consider yourself lucky that Ghost managed to keep you with him during your escape. He’s always been fast, moving swiftly like a shadow in the night, but the fact he could save you at the same time– it blows your mind.

You didn’t come out of the confrontation unscathed, though. You’re currently sporting a bullet wound. Nothing too gruesome, and thankfully, the bullet didn’t enter your body - it just left a nasty graze on your right arm.

“I can’t believe Graves… he really turned on you guys,” you mumble, following Ghost inside a small cafe. The place is completely ransacked, with broken glass everywhere, chairs and tables tipped over, and the crumpled, bloodied body of who you assume was the owner slumped against the counter - a bullet hole right through the centre of his head. The only light filtering in is that of the street lamps outside, making the atmosphere all the more unsettling.

“Always expect the unexpected,” Ghost says in response, his voice but a mutter as shards of glass crunch beneath his boots.

You stop just a fraction behind him, arching a brow at the back of his head, scoffing.

“You can’t seriously tell me you could’ve ever seen that coming.”

“If there’s one key thing in this line of work, it’s to never be surprised,” Ghost looks at you over his shoulder, and you can see his eyes latch on to the blood staining your arm. “You got hit.”

“Just a scrape,” you shrug, “I’ll survive.” Reaching up with your left hand, you swipe a trickle of the red, viscous liquid away from your skin, stopping it in its trail.

“Such a tough cookie you are.”

“Shut it.”

The two of you share a slight chuckle, the air around you somehow both thick with tension yet calm at the same time despite the carnage surrounding you.

Without a word, Ghost reaches into one of his hip pouches, pulling out a small, rolled-up bandage as he steps closer to you. Usually, you’d already be insisting that you’re okay and don’t need any assistance, but you and Ghost have known each other since childhood. You looked out for each other back then, and he still keeps that train going to this very day.

“Here, let me,” he says, his husky voice carrying a tender tone. You don’t make a single peep of denial at his request and angle your arm outward slightly to make the job of wrapping the bandage around your wound easier for him.

It’s deafeningly quiet while Ghost tends to your arm, though it’s only a matter of time before Graves and the rest of Shadow Company will be hot on your heels. You’d heard his command during your getaway.

‘Find 'em!’ That was his order, and he doesn’t strike you as the kind of man to give up on what he wants so quickly. That much was evident the moment he announced his takeover of Los Vaqueros’ base.

“What’s ‘a matter, soldier?” Ghost’s voice breaks through your thoughts, tearing them apart like a sheet of paper. “Don’t get too lost in your own head, darlin’. We need to stay focused,” he says, winding the bandage around your arm, “There’s a shit storm coming.”

“You got that right.” You scoff, letting your eyes land on Ghost’s face again. His gaze shifts up to meet yours, his thumb tucking the end of the bandage in. You can’t gauge what kind of expression he’s wearing beneath his dirtied mask, but his eyes seem so gentle. He looks at you in a way that makes your chest flourish with warmth right from the very space your heart beats.

Your eyes fix on a smear of blood at the bottom of Ghost’s mask, a dark splotch staining the already discoloured fabric just beneath the skull fixture.

“It’s unlike you to get nicked,” you remark, reaching up with both hands to bunch the fabric between grimy fingers. His right hand comes up to grip your wrist as if to stop you, but you only stare at him intently. “Simon, it’s just me.” The use of his name and the reassurance make his breath stagger a little. Mumbling a quiet, ‘Right’, his grip loosens on your wrist.

Pushing his mask up a bit, you only do so enough to reveal the bottom half of his face, stubble freckling his chin and around his mouth, a scar across the space below his right cheek. It’s been a while since you’ve seen his face, and his body language screams nervous with his scrunched-up shoulders and stiff stance. So, you ignore the temptation in your head, screaming at you to take the mask off altogether.

His bottom lip is split and bleeding, bruising around the edges of the minor yet nasty-looking injury. Something like an elbow— or the butt of a gun must have struck him before.

“Well, the good news is, you’re gonna live.”

“Ain’t that just tickety-boo,” Ghost replies dryly, making you laugh. His posture slacks, his shoulders unwinding from his momentary tension.

Your fingers brush along his jawline, an incredibly tender gesture on your part. Seeing the skin beneath his mask, catching his lips and the tip of his nose, the depth of his cupid’s bow - it all reminds you that he’s real. He’s not his mask. Ghost– Simon… is real.

The heels of your feet lift from the floor, your mind too far gone and caught up in the moment to even notice the move you’re making. Now is hardly the time for this, but being with him again after so long brings about emotions you weren’t prepared for.

Ghost clears his throat, placing a hand on your side. This brings you back to earth, as does the way he, without force, eases you back down until you’re no longer tip-toeing.

“We should track Soap down,” he says, a hint of regret in his voice, “I think he’s worse off than we are right now.” After pulling his mask back down, Ghost reaches for his radio.

You stand a few inches away now, nodding silently as you sweep messy wisps of hair away from your eyes, hoping you hadn’t just made a mistake - hoping it was just a case of bad timing. There’s no way Ghost hadn’t wanted to kiss you as much as you did him. The fact he allowed it to get so far before stopping you speaks volumes all on its own.

So, yes. It had just been bad timing.

But next time, you will get your kiss.

-

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[deadlykitten-404]

Okay im sure people have done this before, but its time to mash together the hyperfixations, here's my take on stp Princesses x tma Fears

Title explains it ig, but i just got through the episode where gerry explains the fears to jon, so i dont feel too spoiled to reference the wiki, so here's the fears i think each of the slay the princess routes align with/are avatars of

(for the sake of post length and potential spoilers, pairings are under the cut. also ive color coded them for fun and bc its easier for me to read, i apologize if its straining, i can remove it)

Chapter 2 Princesses:

Damsel - The Stranger - She seems normal, until you dig deeper into who "she" is, and she devolves into a more and more uncanny version of herself until she gets yoinked

Prisoner - The Lonely - This one is weird, because the Princess is pretty resigned in her fate, regardless of what route you take. Having said that, I was torn between Buried and Lonely, but ultimately chose Lonely since Prisoner isn't exactly worried about being trapped (she's okay with both being decapitated and with waiting it out). She feels more Lonely, since her instance is self-inflicted, she had to kill Quiet so they could move on, which in turn trapped her even more than Chapter 1.

Witch - The Desolation - This one is more emotional than Desolation is usually thought of, but the Witch is convinced that after Quiet's actions in Chapter 1 his only intention is to break her down further. Additionally, she's fine with killing him regardless of what that means for her because then it will feel like revenge (unless you guilt trip her lol)

Beast - The Hunt - This one's easy, her entire goal is to eat Quiet lol

Adversary - The Slaughter - This one was also difficult, since many of the Fears are tied to "senseless" killing, and Adversary just wants a good fight. She's more of a mma fighter than a murderer, but her main motivation is still murder, though definitely in more of a human way than an animalistic way, so she went to Slaughter.

Tower - The Web - Her entire thing is manipulation, she doesn't even want to bloody her own hands if she can help it.

Razor - The Slaughter - Unlike Adversary, Razor does find joy in senseless killing, so she fits right in with Slaughter (I did also consider Hunt, but her goal isn't it work down the player, just to stab him) (also this is applied to "No Way Out" and "The Empty Cup" since they're just continuations of Razor and not their own Princesses)

Stranger - The Spiral - i know, it seems like she would go to the Stranger, but she actually knows exactly who she is, just not why. In Chapter 1, she acts more like fractions of herself, her world descending into madness. Her madness leads her to not know who she is, not the other way around (if it was that would lend closer to Stranger).

Spectre - The Lonely - Spectre is one of the least aggressive, and doesn't really align with many of the other fears, but her personal fear is being trapped again after getting so close to getting out.

Nightmare - The Lonely - Like Spectre, her entire motivation is centered in being left behind after being teased with being released, her pre-death monologue is an increasingly more desperate "Let me out," scared of being left behind again (though her outward motivation aligns more with Slaughter, with wanting to spread fear and terror for fun).

Chapter 3 Princesses:

Grey (Burned) - The Desolation - Both for the fire aspect, and the bodily destruction. Burned Grey doesn't really have much malice, but the only thing that she knows is to destroy to try to get what she wants

Grey (Drowned) - The Vast - Unfortunately there isn't really a Fear connected to revenge, so Vast works best with Drowned Grey since its connected to deep ocean. Ironically, it's one of the shallower connections, but Drowned Grey is made up of layers of frustration, betrayal, and anger, which is more like sadness than fear (although she is more unsettling than Burned Grey).

Thorn - The Buried - Thorn is also tricky, since at this point she's basically just tired, not scared or threatening. I've given her to Buried since she is physically trapped, and wants to get out but doesn't trust the Quiet to actually let her out because of their rocky past.

Wild - The Eye - Wild is really the only one that doesn't quite align with a Fear. I was going to assign her to Vast, since Shifty describes her as endless, but I settled on Eye since she is inherently non-aggressive, knows more because she's one with Quiet, and can locate the Narrator when the others aren't aware of him. I guess she also aligns with Slaughter since the only thing she expresses fear of is pain, but a few others get Slaughter, so I've given her to the Eye.

Den - The Hunt - Just like the Beast, but even more. She's only an animal at this point, and her only goal is to kill and eat.

The Eye of the Needle - The Slaughter - Like the Den, (and Razor, to a more direct extent), Needle is an expansion of Adversary, so her goal doesn't change, she's just more focused. This form fits Slaughter a bit more though, since there are some routes where she'll attack you outright.

Fury - The Desolation - Though Fury is also an extension of Adversary, she's more concerned with the means of death than the actual killing (I'm also not keeping her under Web, since she is now going for Quiet directly instead of trying to manipulate him). She doesn't just want to kill Quiet, she wants it to hurt.

Apotheosis - The Web - Unlike Fury, Apotheosis gets to keep Web since she isn't concerned about killing Quiet, but she does now have infinite power. Also potentially The Vast, but that's purely because of her physical size.

Wraith - The Web - While Adversary has the emotional manipulation, Wraith has the physical manipulation. (I also considered The End because I hadn't assigned any Princesses to The End, but this was purely because she's a skeleton, so if you want a Princess a Fear, feel free to associate her with The End).

The Moment of Clarity - The Lonely - Like her prior counterparts, Clarity just craves companionship so inherently that her fear leads her to violence.

Well, that's all of them! To anyone that read through this, thanks! Might end up doing this with the Voices as well, though they would likely end up just aligning with whatever Fear is assigned to the Princess that causes them.

Of the Princesses (to me), none align with The Corruption (though the devs did say that the Stranger started as a bug princess, so i guess she's Corruption in spirit), The Dark, The End, or The Flesh.

[spacedlexi]

Have you read the new clementine book? I'd like to hear your thoughts on it :D

i hate being reminded that it even exists 😭 out of grim curiosity i usually check to see whats going on at each release but its just..........................................its just so bad...............................................................................................

like its so out of character that i cant consider it canon even if i wanted to......... and its so BORING too!!! its so lame...........its So lame...

it doesnt make me sad anymore at least it just makes me laugh now (especially now after book 2) but like....darkly...just like... Oof...... oof......... but yeah the way clem is written specifically is actually laughable im sorry but that really is tangerine

i hate when characters get reverted just to retell the same story. like its doubly insulting. and its pretty much what tillie did with clem. and its BORING!!! and i just have to reiterate again that its also laughable. its just....painful honestly 💀 the plot is boring the characters are boring clem is a mess and her pre-existing (EXTREMELY IMPORTANT) relationships to characters from the game are basically non-existent. and we're not having any INTERESTING discussions!!! what are the themes what are the messages what is tillie trying to say here? im getting a big load of reused character arcs and what feels new falls flat on its face. clem isnt even a shadow of her former self shes a different character entirely. and she is crying waaaay too much. shes got the anger of S3 clem and not even a Fraction of the emotional regulation S1 clem had. and she was 8 then....

and her naming her prosthetic 'kenny' is fucking stupid

ive seen some people say that it would actually be an interesting comic if clem was removed from the story but i dont agree. its fucking lame and boring. i love the zombie setting for the stories it allows a writer to tell. for the emphasis on character it allows. and this is probably the most boring piece of zombie related media ive ever laid my eyes on. this definitely feels like it was written by a romance writer trying to figure out how the zombie setting Works as a storytelling device. with a beloved preexisting character that theyre Also trying to find the voice of. and we're watching it in real time. and its Painful.....

S4 will Always be the True end to clementines story. its too perfect. and it also marked the end of telltale. it was a love letter to the series. its very fitting for both clem as a character but also as a last goodbye from a beloved studio. the still not bitten teams signatures on the hallway walls always gets a sob outta me. that final goodbye... clem was meant to spend the rest of her days at ericsons with the community she helped cultivate. ive said it a million times but her losing her leg is Symbolic. the first episode isnt titled "done running" for no reason. clem never Liked being on the road. all she ever wanted was a safe place to call home. with people she trusted and loved. and now the comics are retconning all of that just to retell the same story but Badly. why should i give a shit about that?

whats unfortunate is that i DO think there are still things that could be explored with a post S4 clem. shes got what she wanted: a home. (relative) safety. community. however she has new limitations due to her injury. how would she adjust to this? after spending so many years on the road? after having to do so much independently? only having herself to rely on for the most part? these are the goals im trying to achieve with my own short little fic (that ive been working on for too long):

she would never Want to leave ericsons. home is what shes been looking for since S1. but now that shes Safe. now that she can turn off survival mode a little bit and actually Relax for once. shes going to begin Processing EVERYTHING shes been through up until this point. the true healing starts Now. but she cant run from it. so how would she reconcile these things? the whole point of ericsons was that they were a community of traumatized kids who found love and support in each other when they had nothing else. aj says it himself (S4 is Very clear in its messaging). THAT is the perfect setting for clem to ALSO have this grieving/acceptance process that she Desperately needs. everything shes been through up until this point is going to hit her like a truck. the true healing starts NOW. shes no longer fighting for her life 25/8. and when the brain can get out of survival mode it begins True processing mode.

one of the issues with the comics is that it puts her BACK into survival mode. but of clems own choosing! no matter how much her processing hurts and no matter how much she could want to run from those feelings, she has always wanted True Community more than Anything. having to reconcile those feelings is interesting! i Do think tillie is trying to have some of these conversations. but they all fall flat. her understanding of clem as a character is weak. and the environment shes in is not conducive to the healing process she wants clem to have. its a mess. i will always stand firmly in the camp that these comics should have taken place in the gap between seasons 3 and 4. that change alone wouldve boosted the comic. but unfortunately they chose.....This

anyway. back to my own post S4 adventures :)

[vesperlionheart]

Hello｡◕‿◕｡

I have had an idea in my head for a long time. But it is large, so I wanted to ask a few things.

How do you juggle all the characters? Do you write the setting first, and then create a backstory for each character? What is the most convenient way to prescribe all this? And how not to be afraid that no one needs my idea, and I'm wasting my time on unnecessary things? If my goal is to create my own fanfic and get feedback.

I like the idea that my story will end and people will still be writing reviews 5 years from now. How do you feel when you receive feedback? When did you decide it was time to write your first story and see it through?

large world building projects are so much fun, it always feels like snuggling into a comfort blanket or sweater you can really immerse yourself in, at least for me it does.

Juggling a lot of characters can be a struggle since I'm personally a world driven type of author as opposed to the character driven and plot driven types of authors you might run across. What I mean by that is for me the world usually appears first in my mind and I have to build it out before I know exactly who lives in it or what's happening. I think the most convenient way to prescribe all the steps you want to take starts with knowing who you are as a writer and what your personal style is cause we're all made a little different. I got to know myself better as a write after reading The Curiosities, a collection of short stories by three different authors who all are a different type or have a different approach to writing. (I loved their notes to each other reviewing their stories and its a great read.) Knowing what works for you is what's most vital, and a lot of trial and error shouldn't be feared in order to better understand yourself. You'll never waste time trying to grow and improve yourself, even if you don't achieve the fame or money in the end.

For me, when I come up with a story idea, I am usually provoked by some other media I see and feel the urge to make something more suited to my tastes. I read about vampires or werewolves and wanna do my own spin on an urban high school for monsters, I get a fraction of information about some obscure mobile video game and want to run with it in a new direction that gives it lore and meaning beyond the pretty visuals. What do you enjoy reading or playing or watching? Chances are those are topics you might enjoy creating with. For me writing is like 'play' and I enjoy playing with some things more than others as my tastes change and mature with time. On the more technical side of things, in order to build a functioning story I try to make sure I have a problem in my story and I try to ensure my protagonists are characters with needs or desires that push them along through the narrative. These can change depending on the setting they're in.

When I first started writing I was like 12/13 and I just wanted to write for the fun of it and didn't know what I was doing when I posted my first fic online. I appreciated the validation of others who read my work and commented/reviewed, and I think later on that motivated me to switch up my style and try new things for the thrill of it. (No regrets, 10/10 would do again.) You asked about "how not to be afraid that no one needs my idea, and I'm wasting my time on unnecessary things?" Believe me when I say people need stories. I'm not sure about a lot of things in life but I know stories have existed as long as people have lived and there's a reason for that. We need stories as a species. Maybe you do create a story that gets 0 comments or only a few likes and clicks. It happens to most of us when we start out. We think we're making crap and never realize our fields need that fertilizer for a better harvest in the future. You'll make some bad poems and stories and mess up plays or scripts in your life and that's good as long as you don't let it stop you. Keep trying and figure out what works for you. Keep digging until you strike gold. Your brain and your soul deserve the nourishment creating gives them. Make art any way you want and don't look back.

It's fucking amazing to know someone loved what I wrote, even 5-10+ years later. It's humbling and haunting at the same time. I'll never stop being in awe of how great it is to know someone, somewhere in the world of endless possibilities, found some joy in my story. I'm forever in awe of how cool that is. But the older I get the more I realize this writing thing I do, this expression of creativity I gravitate towards, is a gift unto me for my own sake. I need to create stories. I want to live a little in these dream worlds of mine before the daylight burns it all way and makes me go back to work. Writing is a means of self preservation at this point, even though it's a lot of hard work I still mess up on. I find so much joy in the ideas I try to flesh out, so I hope you can discover for yourself the unique joy of creating too. Don't let fear hold you back. Write your story.

[clumsiestgiantess]

Yes, The Walls Won’t Be There Forever did technically tie with The Disappearing/Shrinking Cabin, so I should’ve had it up earlier.  However my girlies from the main story kept getting into my brain so I posted that instead (also I hadn’t updated that story in a month and it’s supposed to be my main one)

So, here’s a little snippet of part 2 if you want to vote for it!  This time in the perspective of Liz’ sister’s ‘pet’.

It’s been five months since I escaped.  To my thankful surprise, the terrifying little human hadn’t sounded the alarm the moment she couldn’t find me.  My guess is that she didn’t want to get in trouble for losing me.  Ironically, her older sister also lost her ‘pet’ too, just a few days ago.  I was thrilled to have someone else to talk to, and heartened that I could be there to help them transition out of pethood.  I wish I had someone who could've helped me with that.  Through tedious trial and error, I figured out what areas of the house to avoid.  It took me months to build up a decent living space for myself, far from any wall traps.  

However, when I traveled up to the older sister’s room to welcome the newcomer, they were nowhere to be found.  I searched the whole day, quietly calling out to them.  I knew they would be scared, but I didn’t think they’d be so scared they’d avoid their own kind.  Later, I checked the traps to see if they’d fallen in one.  Still nothing.  What if they ran all the way outside, searching for another house entirely?  I’d thought of doing that myself, but it was too cold outside to get very far.  If they had gone outside, they were a lost cause.  

Another, more sinister option sprung into my mind days after searching for the missing person.  The older sister had seemed almost averse to having a pet.  What if she got rid of them and claimed she lost them?  This notion got me thinking.  It had seemed as though they’d disappeared rather than escaped.  

I felt awful for my fellow ‘pet’.  Humans release creatures back into nature, even if they might not belong there.  I couldn’t help but imagine someone like myself, who’s never been so much as a few steps outside a house, suddenly cast into the vast wilderness that even humans couldn’t tame.  That was probably the worst case scenario.  Even being straight up murdered would be better than slowly freezing to death outside, or eaten alive by some giant creature.  There’s a good reason we live in human houses.  It was disheartening finding no one to welcome, but I’m used to bad news by now.  

After avoiding the upstairs and its residents for another few weeks, I was forced to sneak into the older sister’s room.  For some reason, the humans moved the sewing box from its usual spot in the closet, to beneath her desk.  This was just more bad news.  I like to go on supply runs in empty, dark places where humans have no chance to catch me.  I never actually went borrowing before all this, so the only times I ever feel at ease enough to go out are when the room is desolate.  

My father did all the borrowing when I was younger.  I stayed in the walls, cooking and cleaning and practicing medicine.  Having to hide from humans is a new concept for me; I’ve always been hidden from them, which made it all the more shocking to have one so close.  Especially my awful ‘owner’.

At first she treated me carelessly, like a doll.  In the first few days alone I’d been more bruised than I ever had in my life.  I couldn’t even ask her for the proper things I needed to heal them.  I couldn’t even speak in Aubrey’s presence, which is awful because I was in her room.  She was always there.

Fortunately, she handled me with a fraction more care after she’d nearly taken off my arm.  It was so much more terrifying than even being caught.  I always tried not to struggle against her, but she just kept trying to stuff me into a toy car that obviously wouldn’t fit me.  Her grip was so rough I really thought I would be crushed — snapped apart and broken up to fit inside a tiny claustrophobic space.  I’d panicked — I’d struggled — my flailing arm was snapped out of the socket caught on a piece of cheap plastic, slicing it wide open.  

I remember screaming only briefly before I was silenced by a cloth held painfully tight against my face, and orders to be quiet.  My screams came to a choked halt, but I don’t think I stopped crying the entire day.  I never liked my human captor; after that day I decided to hate her.

[once-upon-a-pirate-ship]

How Restlessly the Stars Do Gleam: Chapter 9: Fire, Ice

Story summary: After the Evil Queen kidnaps and curses her family and destroys her kingdom, Princess Emma is on the run. She boards a merchant vessel with her godmother Red, and they intend to travel to Arendelle to seek magical assistance. But when Emma discovers the dark truths aboard Captain Silver's ship, she must put a stop to his cruelty and rescue the Jones brothers from their enslavement. Emma has to find her own allies and face her fears in order to save her parents, her brother Leo, and her kingdom.

I posted chapter 9 last week, but I'm only getting to the Tumblr post now. Let's just say that chapter 10 is coming very, very soon.

Read it on AO3 from the beginning here.

Find Chapter 9 below the cut or on AO3.

Although Emma had grown used to startling awake, it never got easier.

Her pounding heart stunned her, brought her head to spin around until she found her godmother lying nearby, sleep still in her eyes as if she’d only woken, in time with Emma’s movements. 

Emma scanned their camp, counting their numbers. She tensed when she came up short, Will and Mulan nowhere to be seen. She made to rise, an order on her lips. 

“They left about an hour ago to head back to Robin’s camp, about the time I passed the watch onto Liam,” Red explained. “We need a cart to transport Kristoff.”

“Oh,” Emma said, forcing her hand out of its clenched fist. “Right, of course.”

Red’s gaze was steady, knowing, even though the dark circles weighed them down. “You could sleep more,” she offered. 

“No,” Emma replied, pushing herself onto her feet. “No, I need to do something.” Urgency shook her limbs, demanded movement, progress, anything but sitting in the open where she was vulnerable to attack.

“You don’t,” Red smiled. 

Emma glanced from one end of the clearing to the other once more, finding Liam perched on a log, his gaze working methodically over their surroundings. His eyes were much more alert, his posture much less slumped than when she’d seen him last; at least someone was getting rest.

The sun beat down on her skin. Without the cover of darkness, they were exposed. Her panic bubbled, threatened to choke her—they were down two of their people. Separated. Weakened. 

“What if Regina’s tracking them?” Emma asked abruptly, her eyes landing on the sisters who had settled around Kristoff. Anna slept against his side, and Elsa rested against a tree opposite them, an unofficial second guard.

“She’s not,” Red replied.

Emma’s skeptical eyes shot back to her godmother. “How do you know that?”

“Because they would’ve attacked already.”

Emma sighed, forcing herself to breathe, counting as her lungs expanded. She pushed the air out even slower. But her skin still buzzed with nervous energy, her feet still rocked, still begged for her to run. 

“You’re right,” she said, impressed when her voice sounded normal. “I’m gonna get more water. You sleep.” She didn’t wait for a reply.

She knew it was a pathetic excuse, especially since she’d left her canteen by her bedroll, but she’d realized that too late, her eyes already on the stream. Emma leaned against a rock instead, watching the water flow in its predictable way, making its predictable sounds. 

It was only a matter of time before Red figured out that she was avoiding her. But there were conversations that would happen once they finally had time to talk, and Emma really didn’t want to have them. 

And that was only a tiny piece of why her brain was on fire, only a fraction of the reasons why her heart never really stopped racing in her chest. Every minute she stood still brought her one step closer to total collapse, every second she wasn’t actively getting closer to saving someone—anyone—made her skin tighten, made her lips press so tightly she was certain to shatter them, and nothing was ever enough to stop it.

She was never enough.

Emma shook her head, turning away from the water to find Elsa standing off to the side, her hand against a tree as she debated whether or not to continue. When their eyes met, she seemed to make up her mind.

Elsa sat, folding her legs beneath her body and folding her hands neatly in her lap. It was a posture more suited to a royal picnic, but old habits died hard. It was a concept Emma was entirely too familiar with. 

“I wanted to thank you for saving us last night,” she said. 

“You already did,” Emma replied, returning her eyes to the stream. 

“Barely,” Elsa huffed, but she refrained from attempting it again, instead pausing thoughtfully. “You seem…troubled.” 

Emma’s eyes flicked back to her, but it seemed that Elsa had already found something interesting to watch in the water. “I always am, these days.” It was quite the understatement, but no one could fault her for it.

“I couldn’t help but notice that,” she hesitated, “that it hurt you last night, watching me with Anna.”

Guilt towered above her, toppled over, buried her in its rubble. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Elsa said quickly, shaking her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I only meant that I understand. You miss your brother. I’m sorry you can’t be with him now.”

Emma tried to swallow her guilt, her pain; she was certain it left cuts in her throat. “Were you…ever separated? From Anna?”

Elsa frowned sharply for a moment, but it softened. “Not in the same way,” she said. “I hurt her with my magic when we were little. It was an accident, but I had to stay away from her. For years. I had to keep a door between us, just to keep her safe, even when she was begging for me to let her in.” 

Emma couldn’t imagine that, having to hide away. Leo had knocked on her chamber door on many cold nights, asking for her company. Living in a huge castle was lonely; she’d always let him in. They talked for hours by the roaring fireplace until he’d fallen asleep, practically drooling on his own arm. Year after year, she’d waited to feel annoyed with him, waited for the natural desire to push him away, but it had never come. He was her best friend. 

“How did you do it?”

“I’m not sure,” Elsa said. “I hated every moment of it, but I truly believed it was for the best. I know it’s not the same, that you can’t even comfort yourself with the sound of his voice. I’m sorry.”

Emma nodded, reaching a hand up to brush away a tear. “My parents would tell me to have hope that I’ll find him soon.”

“Hope is a powerful thing.”

“I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten how,” Emma admitted. 

“Now I may be wrong,” Elsa said, a half-smile teasing her lips, “but that may be the sleep deprivation talking.”

Emma chuckled, “You’re probably not wrong.”

“But I meant it when I said that I’d help, Emma. And I don’t just mean on the battlefield. I’m sure that if you’d been able to come to Arendelle this summer on an official visit, we would have become great friends. The circumstances may be different, but I think we’ll find the outcome is much the same.” Elsa paused, meeting Emma’s gaze. “What I’m saying is that you can always reach out to me if you need help. Even if it’s just to talk.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, grasping for something more. Friendship had been far too scarce in the last months, and she’d been craving it far more that she’d ever admit. 

“Unless, of course, you’d rather talk to a certain gentleman,” Elsa added quickly, her eyebrows raised suggestively. “That would be understandable.” 

Emma felt her cheeks heat. “What?” 

“Liam’s brother? The one who can’t keep his eyes—”

She couldn’t let her finish. “There’s nothing between us.”

Elsa’s eyes narrowed. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Elsa pursed her lips, glancing away from her new friend. She didn’t seem all that convinced, but that was probably because Emma wasn’t that convincing. She just didn’t have the energy to sell it.

“Well, I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m not offended,” Emma said, a bit too quickly. “Why would I be?”

Elsa stared at her for a long moment. “Okay,” she drawled. “Well, if you ever decide you’d like to talk about that, we certainly can.”

Emma opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it a second later. To contradict her would be no more than a lie, and she wasn’t willing to lie like that to a friend, no matter how new the relationship was. 

She looked down, her eyes finding the pebbles at the edge of the stream, the ones that barely touched the water. “Thanks,” she muttered.

“Anytime,” she said. “I should get back to Anna, she’ll be up any minute,” she added, needlessly brushing off her lap before moving to stand. 

Emma remained, letting her mind stray as she watched the water once more. It was more calming than it had been, and she was determined to return to camp only when she was certain she wouldn’t need to turn right back around. 

— —

The sun was just beginning to tuck itself behind the trees when Kristoff woke. 

His grogginess vanished when Anna pulled him into her embrace, fresh tears on her cheeks as she held tightly to him. He allowed himself a moment to revel in her before his tired eyes took in the group that surrounded them.

Robin, Liam, and Red sat not too far off, a polite distance to give some privacy for the reunion. Killian was fixed on watch, though he allowed himself to meet the man’s gaze and exchange a nod in greeting.  

Emma stood farthest from the group, opposite Killian with her hand on the hilt of her sword. Her fingers were beginning to stiffen from gripping it so rigidly for so many hours, but it seemed to be the only remedy for her racing heartbeat. 

Anna was quick to introduce them all, not neglecting to include the two who were absent, and Kristoff nodded to each of them in silent thanks. He didn’t seem all that surprised to find that another princess had been the cause of their rescue. 

“And Emma and Liam saved Elsa from the Black Knights—they took down five, all on their own!” 

“Actually, lass,” Liam interrupted, “I managed one, barely, while Emma took care of the other four.” 

Elsa was stunned by this revelation, looking at Emma for confirmation, but the woman in question glanced away. 

“I was the distraction,” Emma said, “I took out one before they even saw me, and I used my knives for the next. You could have taken more, if the situation had called for it,” she told him. 

“I’m not so sure,” he replied. “Perhaps I should ask Killian to give me some lessons,” he added, grinning playfully at his brother.

Killian glared at him, but it had no bite. “As if I possessed the patience to train you.”

“Mulan would be happy to help,” Robin supplied. “You can ask her when she returns.”

Worried eyes fell to the treeline. The longer they were gone, the more restless everyone became, but hours most certainly remained before Will and Mulan would reappear. Patience was required, and no one bristled at the thought of it more than Emma did.

Anna and Elsa had propped Kristoff up at his request, and he watched the group with observant eyes while the sisters continued to fuss over him. 

“I’m fine, truly,” he said, his hand catching Anna’s before it could smooth the fabric of his bandage. She practically sagged from the weight of all she felt, all that had happened, and when he squeezed her hand, tears threatened to fall anew. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered hastily. “It’s just been a long few days, and I was so scared you were dead, and that Elsa was dead, and—”

“It’s alright, Anna,” Kristoff said fondly, putting an end to her seemingly infinite rambling. “Elsa and I are both fine now. Perhaps you should rest.” 

Anna opened her mouth to protest, but one raised eyebrow from Kristoff and she practically melted. She glanced at her sister who rose, leaving them under the pretense of wishing to speak with Red. Anna’s gaze followed after her for a moment, but her attention returned to her betrothed, and he encouraged her to rest her head in his lap and sleep.

Emma looked away from the scene, her eyes jumping to Killian instinctively, and though their gazes locked for a moment, neither could hold it for very long. There was too much hesitation, too much fear, too much that separated them. 

“Captain,” a quiet voice said in greeting, and Emma turned to find Liam beside her. In her distraction, she’d failed to notice his approach. The fact only solidified that she was doing the right thing.

“I don’t see a ship, do you?” she asked dryly.

“Yet you remain my captain,” he replied. “I am a sailor, first and foremost. Allow me this small privilege for a while longer.” 

She pursed her lips, but it was a reasonable request. “Fine.” She glanced at him, finding his eyes fixed firmly on his brother. “Did you wish to speak about something?” she asked. Although she didn’t mind his company, she sensed he hadn’t come just to debate the use of her title.

“Ah,” he sounded, clearing his throat. “Yes. When we went in search of Queen Elsa—”

“If you intend to thank me again—”

“Fear not,” he interrupted, a chuckle on his lips, “I’ve learned it’s a fruitless endeavor. No, this matter pertains to my brother.” 

“Your brother?”

Liam’s lips quirked. “Yes, goes by ‘Killian,’ usually has a sword in hand, I was certain you’d be introduced…”

Emma couldn’t find it in her to laugh. “What about him?” she asked stiffly. 

Liam frowned, though Emma had averted her gaze in time to miss it. “Forgive me, Captain, I know it’s not my place—”

“Then please, do not speak further,” she nearly begged. 

He sighed deeply. “Emma,” he droned, fond exasperation woven into his voice. It seemed that frustrating him was all it took to get him to use her name. She might’ve teased him about it—had the whole thing not troubled her so much. 

She pressed her lips into a harsh line. “Liam, I know you mean well, but please. Just don’t.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, and he was not insensitive to her plea. 

“Very well,” he allowed. “Then perhaps you should try to get some rest before your shift tonight. We’ll be leaving early, I’d imagine.”

— —

When Will and Mulan returned with the cart, everything had happened quickly. Bedrolls were stowed away, Kristoff was settled comfortably beside a still-exhausted Anna, and they were off, heading back towards Robin’s camp of Merry Men before the sun had barely begun to peek above the horizon. 

Emma’s heart had thudded unevenly watching Killian rise from his spot, the circles under his eyes much too dark for her liking. She’d been unable to keep herself from analyzing his every move while she’d stood watch; he’d hardly slept, tossing and turning, startling awake or lying too still to be sleeping, and she’d hated every second of it.

Never once had his eyes sought hers in the darkness. And every day that passed seemed to pull him further away.

Yet he followed so closely as they marched back through the forest. 

Emma tried not to notice him as they trekked, tried to prevent her instinctual awareness of him from distracting her, but he hadn’t fallen to the back of the group while she walked with Elsa.

She couldn’t bring herself to peek at him over her shoulder, but the occasional half-turn of her head allowed her to see that he was watching, listening. 

It made no sense to her. 

Because he’d held himself back, sat rigidly away from her without any sign of moving closer for days. 

She wanted him to be more than just an observer. She wanted his thoughts, his opinions, she wanted to hear his laughter and see his smile, but he said nothing, reacted so little to anything. 

And she had no idea if this was progress, a step towards something more, and hoping for that would drain the last of her energy when nothing came of it. 

So she tried to pretend like he wasn’t just an arm’s length away, tried to keep her attention on her new friend. Even though every step she took seemed echoed by one of his, every move she made cast a second shadow. 

“Elsa,” she said abruptly, “would you mind telling me more about your magic?” Her question soothed two conflicting pieces of her mind; it served as a welcome distraction while also allowing her to continue strategizing for what was to come.

“I was born with it,” Elsa told her, “though I did not learn to embrace it until after my powers were exposed and I almost got my sister killed.” 

Emma remembered the story well—or rather, the several versions of the events that made their way into the castle. She’d never discovered which of the tales held the most truth, though she had her suspicions. 

“What happened?” she asked, though part of her wished she’d held her tongue.

But Elsa was not offended. “I spent so long hiding from everyone, thinking that magic needed to be controlled, concealed. And then, at my coronation, I accidentally iced half the ballroom. Everyone was terrified of me—everyone except for Anna. She was confused, concerned, but she did not see me as the monster they thought I was. The monster I thought I was. It turned out that love was the key all along. Trying to hide my powers from the world and from myself led to nothing but chaos and solitude. I had to accept my magic as a part of me, and trust that those I love could do the same.”

“And now you can control your magic?”

Elsa smiled, as if she had a secret or an inside joke. “‘Control’ isn’t quite the word,” she replied. “It’s more like…collaboration.”

Emma considered that for a moment, though she had nothing to compare it to—no magic to speak of. Perhaps it was like fencing, the way the blade becomes an extension of oneself. “Would you mind…?” 

“A demonstration?” Elsa guessed. “Not at all.” She lifted a hand, drawing both of their gazes to her open palm. 

With a small wave of her fingers, white light sparked, but it was ice that appeared there, a flurry of snow flakes that danced into spires, coming to form a single, large snowflake that hovered over her hand. It disappeared when Elsa closed her palm, but Emma’s awe did not vanish, nor did the hum she tasted in the air. 

“That’s incredible,” she murmured, meeting Elsa’s gaze.

Soft pink touched her pale features. “You should see my ice palace,” she joked. 

— —

It wasn’t exactly like coming home, but it was as close as she’d come in a while. Mildly familiar faces greeted them in the dying light, offering water and food, leading Anna and Kristoff to the most qualified healer in their camp, and they all dispersed. 

Tink’s color had improved significantly, as had her spirits, and she fell into her typical banter with Will and easy conversation with Red. 

It should have been a joyous occasion, a victory in its own right. They’d left camp with the intention of finding a guide towards Elsa, but they’d returned with her instead. So why did Emma feel the sorrow burrow deeper into her chest?

She placed herself farther from the fire than she had before; the burn in her heart had returned, and the idea of going nearer to the flames repulsed her. 

She’d won a battle, maybe two. She’d found and gained a valuable ally. And yet she sat by herself and set her jaw so she wouldn’t weep. 

Every success had become hollow, because she was no closer to saving Leo. The stars had the audacity to gleam above her while she mourned the loss of her own constellation; the predictable lights that were supposed to surround her—guide her—were nowhere in sight, not even tucked beneath the horizon, and even though she knew it wasn’t her fault, it still felt like it was. 

An eerie cold had settled within her chest now, and it was as if her hopelessness had manifested in shards of ice so unlike the beauty of Elsa’s magic, so opposite that wonder and love that flowed within every meticulously crafted fractal. 

“You will find him, Emma,” a voice assured her, so calm, so certain. 

She looked up to find Elsa joining her on her secluded log. “It just feels like it gets less likely every day,” Emma replied, running a hand over the top of her hair and down her ponytail. 

She froze, her fingertips still caught in the ends. Leo had teased her, had told her she was so obvious when she was thinking or worrying about something because of that exact movement. 

Emma dropped her hand into her lap, clasping it tightly with the other. 

There wasn’t much Elsa could say to ease Emma’s pain, so instead she sat silently beside her, offering support the only way she knew how—by simply being there. 

And while her sorrow did not lessen, the ache it gave her did, as if the tide had been high but the cycle had no choice to continue. 

— —

It wasn’t unusual. Emma tried to tell herself that they were just talking, and it wasn’t anything special. But she hadn’t spoken to him alone in what felt like days, and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like that because of a conversation with her. 

It couldn’t have been jealousy. She was certain of that, despite the bitter taste that rose on her tongue, despite the feeling of her stomach twisting itself into knots, despite the firm press of her lips that she had to work to keep from frowning—it wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t. 

Emma stood, leaving Elsa and Anna who chatted beside her. Although her eyes were tempted towards the other side of the fire, she kept herself from glancing over her shoulder to find Killian and Tink still thoroughly engrossed in their discussion.

She wasn’t jealous, and she certainly wasn’t moping. 

She told herself it was just that she couldn’t stand another moment with all of that chatter and the songs they sang while they prepared dinner, all of that, well, merriment that surrounded her. It was too much. 

Jealousy was the least of her problems. Because her brother was still lost, and they still had to face the scores of Black Knights that kept her from her father, and she had no idea where her mother was, but she couldn’t even say what she so desperately wanted to or even talk to him anymore without being reminded of what could never be. 

She stopped when she reached the stream, her eyes following the gentle flow that glowed amber in the light of the setting sun. Perhaps she’d grown too comfortable on their ship, and she sought the water as if it held some solace. Or perhaps she was simply limited in her options of temporary escape. 

With no pretense of a canteen, she did not kneel at the edge, nor did she look behind her when she heard the rustle of leaves, the crunch of the forest floor.

He hardly ever spoke to her, yet he protected her as if he were her personal knight, or a palace guard assigned to keep a close eye. He’d abandoned his lively conversation when she’d stormed away from the camp, but he wouldn’t come closer or engage with her unless an enemy appeared. 

Her heart blazed in her chest, raw and terribly wounded, and she couldn’t tell if his presence caused the pain or if it was because for just a second, she could’ve sworn she’d heard Leo calling for her. 

She’d never told anyone and she never would, but sometimes his voice echoed in her mind for just a moment. It was the guilt, the fear, the ache imprinted on her soul from his absence. It would pass; it always did. 

And when she felt her heart shudder in relief, her frustration and anger returned, leaving her to glare at the ground. All of the heaviness had built inside her, buckled, shattered. And what remained was a petulant, childish irritation. 

She toed a rock, kicking it into the stream. The water rippled, rolling away from the point of impact before the tiny waves dissipated, returning to their steady flow as if nothing had ever disturbed it. 

Emma promised herself that she would go back once the sun was beneath the horizon and the stars shone above her, gleaming, blinking in time with her restless heart. And even if Killian would remain fifty feet away the entire time, she wouldn’t turn to look at him. 

Her focus on the water wavered when she heard movement, but there were no accompanying cries or frantic footsteps of a princess in distress. Whoever lurked on the other side of the brush was in no danger, and that alone made them a threat to her. 

It had grown too dark to peek through any leaves, now that the moon was only a sliver overhead, but there was a large enough silhouette that she had a target, and she held her breath, listening to them inch closer. 

And then she leapt over the stream, racing forward until she collided with the figure, both of them falling to the ground. 

[cookiedoughmeagain]

Fic games

I was tagged to post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3, and I'm curious what this will look like, so here we go...

Dean woke up with a groggy head, sore wrists and a complete inability to move. (Exactly Like a Men Of Letters Move, SPN, Rated E)

Dean drove the Impala into his assigned parking space in the massive underground lot. Its familiar growl was cut through with a disquieting rattle that made him frown: the repairs he'd made at the side of a dusty road a few hours before would need some further work before he got back out on the road again. (Bit of Rough, SPN, rated M)

Duke Crocker had never had much of a regular sleep schedule. (Watched His Lovers Sleep, Haven, rated T)

This is a story that differs only a little from the original. Or rather, which differs a lot, but only in one specific way. (A Miracle Powered by Centuries of Troubled Aether, Haven, rated T)

The Troubles set Nathan up to fail, long before he ever heard of a woman called Audrey Parker. They set him up to fail in ways he didn’t even know about; from his own family history to what his father knew was coming, and simply the way the Troubles work. (This is not a fic as such but rather some meta about Haven, rated T)

"Why do I always go for the shy ones?" Something in her voice makes me turn around, and something in the view makes me not want to leave. (Somehow The Same, Haven. I've just been working on the next chapter for this! Currently rated T, though that might change.)

For lack of anything better to do one afternoon, Duke and Nathan sat on a rock at the edge of the beach, drawing pictures in the sand with sticks. “It’s going to be 1990 soon,” Duke said out of nowhere. “And then it’ll be The Year Two Thousand,” he added. It had an inevitable ominous ring to it. (The Things You've Done, Haven, rated T)

“I'm not saying you need wine, but I'm saying it wouldn't be a bad idea,” Jess said, amused as she poured him a glass of red. (Sunshine, Haven, rated M)

Dean walked through the library to his room. For once the place was quiet; Sam and Bobby were out on a beer run, Charlie was already asleep, Garth and Kevin would be back tomorrow. There was of course their additional, hopefully temporary, houseguest. But since losing all of his demonic powers Crowley had become surprisingly useful. (Not Entirely By Mistake, SPN, rated E)

Dean pulled the Impala up outside the Roadhouse. “This place is starting to feel like home,” Sam said. (Outside the Roadhouse, SPN, Rated E)

Honorary mention for the last thing I updated; Everyone I know lives here (hoping to update this one soon too): It was one of those rare quiet days in the bunker where there was no imminent apocalypse, no one they knew was in immediate danger, and no obvious case-worthy news stories had presented themselves. The building was relatively full, though even when all of its semi-permanent residents were at home still only a fraction of the bedrooms were occupied. (SPN/Buffy crossover, rated M)

Thanks for the tag @misscrazyfangirl321

Tagging ... anyone who wants to play!

[searchingformylostpan]

The best birthday present? To wake up in a hospital and be told that everything since passing out (overdosing) at my grandmas has been some kind of fucked up nightmare. You would hold me and I would finally be able to breathe again. The only way out of this labyrinth is through...I don't think I'll be able to survive it on my own. You tried to tell me that i had all this other support too, but the only one I wanted and was willing to accept help from especially around hard emotional shit was you. I guess it still is, I don't let on to anyone about how impossibly difficult this last year has been, my mom can see a fraction of it and jake sees it through my brilliant idea to inject fentanyl. He was not expecting to see someone do something that stupid and asked semi joking if I knew that would kill me, uh yeah... that's kinda the point. But until then, it makes my head a slightly more habitable place for me. And i goes Sydney knows whatever you tell her...

I know why you don't, I know this is hard on you too...I still can't help but want to hear your voice again. The last time you called kinda fucked me up for a while...but looking back im glad you did. It always felt kinda like you bolted and found someone to take over my role in your life to soften the emotional fallout for you and that was really fucking hard to cope with that. It was like you flipped a switch and I was out of your life and forgotten about. Like it didn't make you feel like you were drowning for months on end....you were just able to walk away and start over. And im still right where you left me. I didmt want you to feel what ive been feeling throughout this, but even though I know you really did love me, almost like it must not have been as important to you if you felt like you could live without me. Bc I can live without you, well if you call your living...its really not tho, but I don't want to. I. Was ready to spend every day with you for the rest of my life, and for you to be able to walk away from me, (yes, I was being a horrible partner to you. I pushed you to a place that is inexcusable, and you held on four so long, hoping I could make it back to us...)

Sorry got off on a tangent there, I miss you, would be nice to hear from you, even if it's liking a post or unblocking me on here- would make me feel slightly less alone. No expectations tho... ,

[wakewithgiggli]

You've made a really long post that is so just incredibly wrong. I am going to ask you to consider this: when so many of the people you have brought up this argument to don't agree with it, you might be the one in the wrong. Please consider that.

I'm not going to respond to everything in your post, but there are couple of things I do want to respond to. Before that, you said: "But you can't look me in the eye and sincerely tell me you'd rather play the worst game released this year than the best game from 30 years ago."

It's true I might not want to play the absolute worst game released this year, but I would also choose not to play the best game from 30 years ago - and this is not an unusual position. Only game historians and masochists will play that game, or choose to play that game over the most mediocre game released this year.

There are two things you appear to be missing:

First, all media gets cheaper over time (in a time of less than a hundred years anyway). When something becomes a classic that has stood the test of time, it might be viewed as worth more - but if it's a mass media item, it'll be available for literally nothing (it'll be in the public domain). You can't compare mass-produced items to statues, fine art paintings, etc. - they can't be mass-produced, and might be unique, and thats where they get their value (never mind how rife the fine art world is with price corruption inflating the prices massively).

A computer game is a mass-market item, so will never be valuable in the same way. There's no uniqueness here.

The second thing is a combination of several things actually, but they combine to to create the following fact: older games are just worse in every way than modern games. The best game of 30 years will be a terrible game by modern standards (at least when compared to decent modern games) and could not stand as its own product today. If it was released today, it would be a failure.

15 years ago or 5 years ago are definitely different, and your argument holds some water here. But you might not be grasping just how much the games development world has changed year on year., over the last 30-50 years. Games budgets and the size of game development teams are both much larger than they were in the past, and continue to increase.

The strange thing about games prices is not that they get cheaper, it's that they haven't got more expensive on release. Though, in real terms they have gotten cheaper (since $50 today is much cheaper than $50 was in 1980).

But game publishers know that the market wont tolerate higher prices (they are trying to push up to $70, but are rightly facing pushback to this).

Games do depreciate quite a lot over time, but this isn't unique: look at depreciation tables for automobiles, for example.

There is something interesting going on with game economics: because so much of the budget is in graphics, and graphic technology experiences meteoric advancement, a game you can't play now might be perfectly playable in just 5 years. Ths can be ext3ended backwards. A game you needed a $2000 pc to play on ten years ago can often be played on entry level PCs today at a fraction of the cost.

Games produced when the industry was young are laughably bad now: they don't just look worse (so much worse), things you want to do in the world are harder or may not be possible (the technologies needed for things like climbing have come on in literal leaps and bounds),and there are fashion changes driven by technology (how you play now might not be possible ten years ago, say, and that might be expected in a genre make older games look unrecognisable and require completely different skills).

There also isn't the same long tail of economics the way there can be with some sale items. The vast majority of income from a game is in the first year, and even if held artificially at the same price, the income drops off drastically over time. At some point, the game will not sell at all. Having prices drop rapidly over time makes those older games more attractive and salable for longer.

So to your main point: is it weird that games get cheaper over time, massively cheaper: no, it's not weird. There's a lot of things that conspire to make this expected, but it is expected.

Whew, this was a long post already, so that's enough.

Ever think about how weird it is that we've sort of collectively agreed games devalue over time?

This is one of those subjects where I just know people are going to start reading this and think I have some sort of weird vested interest in the price of some particular game or the profits of some publisher or whatever, so let me just get right out front here and say no, this really is me just waxing philosophic in a vacuum.

You like movies? You like actually owning copies of movies? Right now, taking a look around, it seems like if you want to buy a movie on bluray, that costs you about $25. Maybe more like $30 if it's some big fancy release with a lot of pack-in material, like the Criterion Collection stuff, but basically you're looking at $25. You like music, want to buy a new album? On CD, that's going to cost you $15. Or at the point we're currently at where there's this odd revival of vinyl records, you're looking at maybe double that? Little harder for me to work out the basic going rate since I think we're at a point where people are doing limited printings and stuff isn't going to stay at the sticker price long, but there's SOME pretty consistent price point everyone goes with, I'm pretty sure. Books? $20 hardcover, maybe half that for a paperback. You want to buy a video game that just came out though? Well, if it's new-new, and this is the first time it's ever been made available, that'll be about $60. If it's a rerelease though? You damn well better not ask for more than $5 for that or people are going to be furious. And that's super weird!

I've tried discussing with people just how weird this is, and it doesn't really seem to properly register with anyone. One big hangup is that (and this may be because the target audience for games skews really young and the industry has been really pushing to obliterate the concept of owning a game for like a decade or two) is that the people I'm talking to are completely conflating the concept of the work and the publication of a work. Like, yeah, if a store orders a stock of 50 copies of something, and it doesn't end up selling all that well, then yes they are eventually going to mark down the ones that don't sell or toss them into a bargain bin or whatever. That's true for everything, but that is also not at all what we are talking about here. This is specifically about the actual suggested retail price on the package when it leaves the manufacturer. When I'm saying "a movie on bluray costs $25" that's true for a movie that is only just being released on home video for the first time after premiering in theaters two months ago, but that is also true for a movie from like the 1980s that someone's only just now getting around to putting out on the format, or they just got the rights to distribute in a given country (and yeah yeah, super America-centric numbers I'm using here, I know), or it came out like 4 years ago but there's a sequel out soon so we want to make it available again. Doesn't matter how old it is. We're selling it now, we're selling it for $25. It does not work this way for video games. If I port some game from the mid-'80s to whatever hardware is current, and I try to charge the standard price of a game for it, people would be outraged. I can charge $5 or I can bundle it together with a dozen other games and MAYBE get away with that. But I better be throwing in some extras, or make it like 30 games or whatever.

The next thing I hear people say is "well no, see, because with games, budgets for graphics keep going way way up! And you know, hey, that's why the average price of a game keeps going up! Hell games on the PS5 are like, $70!" and... OK so nothing about this argument has any basis in reality, at all. Games for whatever weird reason have always been just kind of immune to inflation. Like, in the 80s a videogame would typically cost about $50, and $50 in 1980 is about $200 adjusted for inflation. That number basically has not budged. Didn't come down when actual production costs dropped to practically nothing, didn't shoot up when budgets kinda ballooned either. You do sometimes see people make "budget games" for maybe half the typical price, but that's kind of just a marketing decision when you're going to release something you know critics are immediately going to pounce on for "looking cheap" or being shallow or whatever. By and large, whether a game is churned out really quickly on the cheap or has some bloated budget in the hundreds of millions, it's getting sold for that same $60. Movies work the same way. The movie that cost $400,000,000 to shoot and the movie that cost $35,000 to shoot both cost you $25 to pick up a copy of at a store... and they also cost a bit under half of a what a game typically costs despite the fact that that they cost roughly twice as much to make (the math is kinda fuzzy, but that seems roughly true for the record-setters and the median, at least for big budget major studio stuff). Capitalism is weird like that, basically no connection between cost and price.

Those are honestly the two main points I see people toss out, at least out loud and in public. The next logical thing to assume though is that there have been profound qualitative gains in the field of video games across the board over the years. That they just keep getting better and better and better. And like, hell no to that. I will grant you that early on in the history of the medium, like, late 1970s to mid-80s, where we went from kinda basic arcade games where you've got maybe 2 minutes worth of game play and then you loop it at a higher speed, then this flurry of new technology and priorities and emerging concepts, and if you want to make a lesser value case against the former there, there's a case you could maybe argue. But you can't look me in the eye and sincerely tell me you'd rather play the worst game released this year than the best game from 30 years ago... actually holy crap there's a bunch of absolute gems turning 30 this year, look at this random wad of search results you know I didn't cherry pick because Earthworm Jim's in here:

Point is, yeah, video games are relatively young as an art form but not so much so that we don't have some immaculate classics older than half the people reading this. And again, hey, movies that predate any modern understanding of direction or editing, shot on cameras too old to record sound or color, and where all existing copies are pretty heavily degraded still get reissued at the same sticker price as anything else. Classic albums that were terribly mastered still sell for the same as stuff recorded on bleeding edge gear.

Oh and just to cover all my bases on this, I was tempted to bring up paintings and how with those the oldest works, especially anything where the artist is no longer with us, shoot way up in value, but that's not really fair to bring up since there we're talking about unique original one-off works, not mass-media. There was never a time when we could all go to the mall and pick up van Gogh's The Starry Night. Unless you just want a nice reproduction print. In which case that'll be like $20 (which when you think about it is an outrageous markup for a single frame of video).

Finally though, we have that argument I alluded to that I'm pretty sure IS a lot of people's logic on this which they probably aren't saying out loud, or maybe even consciously thinking to themselves- The older a game is, the easier it is to emulate. If I'm really jonesing to play the original Castlevania right this minute, it's gonna take me like 10 seconds to type a search query, grab a zip file that's all of 65k, unpack it, maybe spend another 10 or 20 seconds double checking what emulator people recommend these days, and I'm good. Maybe even less, I'm sure there's some site I could find quicker than that just emulating it with HTML4 or something right in my browser. But if I want to play like, Wild ARMs 3, I'm grabbing a bigger file, I don't know if there's any good PC emulation of the PS2 these days, I might need to get into the MiSTer scene, or work out how to make my actual PS2 read a burned DVD (in this weird hypothetical scenario where I don't have the actual game on a shelf in my eye-line and I don't have to dust off a computer old enough to still have a DVD-burner standard issue) anyway). And if I want to play, uh... what's current and doesn't have a PC release? And isn't on the Switch which has weirdly good emulation for a current system. That new Ratchet & Clank game? I assume I'd need to do some serious research, have a much fancier computer, seems like a huge game.

But you know, if even on a subconscious level, that means you inherently consider those earlier games to be less valuable (and hell, now that I think about it, I think I actually HAVE seen people openly make the argument that cartridge-based games have literally no intrinsic value because it's so easy to just emulate them), then... you're kind of a total piece of garbage and invalidating any sort of morally defensible stance you might have on piracy and emulation? Like you want to talk to me about preservation or ease of access or outright refusing to financially support whatever company would profit off a particular purchase, those are all pretty defensible positions, but you try and tell me art only has value when there is no easy way for you to personally enjoy it that doesn't involve cutting a check to someone, I think I might actually hate you and everything you represent? Or at the very least I'd like for you to really take a moment to reflect on your principles and reevaluate some things.

And again, that final little thought on this subject in particular strikes me as something people can take in a particularly inflammatory way, so let me just again reassure you I have no issue with anyone's habits regarding piracy or emulation or whatever. I'm coming at this whole subject purely as a sort of philosophical question/exploration of the commodification of art and artists/anticapitalist sort of thing.

And yeah, to just articulate that last point a bit more, while I totally think it's the weirdest thing that the public consensus is that games inherently plummet in value over time, I feel like we got here thanks to a series of very conscious decisions from scumbags in boardrooms. People want you to give them all your money and ideally avoid giving you anything in return. Their whole deal works best when they can convince you that whatever it is they have to sell you right this minute is the most valuable thing in the world and you need to have it right now, and whatever they sold you yesterday is actually total garbage with no value and you know you should really just toss it in a dumpster and make sure you have the room for today's new thing.

Hell, this is getting a bit out of scope, but marketing people are actually really working hard these days to build up an association between how much space a game takes up on your hard drive being a direct reflection of the game's value, and people are shipping games with intentional bloat like ultra-high-resolution assets and needlessly uncompressed files, because if you can only fit like 3 games on your drive, hey, buying this new game means tossing a ton of stuff out. Less stuff for you to play and be content with, less options for what game you're just going to log into every day and have people sell you DLC, and by the time they have a new game to sell, you're going to have to throw this one out to make room for that. No deep libraries, just the current thing.

So, yeah, on the one hand we have companies asking you to buy the same games now you already bought a while ago, and screw them for that, but they're also trying to convince you that nothing you own has value or deserves preserving to always keep you hungering for something new, and WOW screw that so much. Art has value, it retains that value, it's good to build up libraries and share them and keep stuff in circulation for new audiences to discover and people to revisit and re-examine. So quit letting anyone try to convince you old games (or old art of any other kind) has no value. And if you can be bothered, hey, do your best to support artists as much as you can and creeps trying to commodify art as disposable product as little as you can.

[phantomrose96]

Old Wounds

Danny’s secret is not a secret anymore.

The lines between Fenton and Phantom have long since blurred. And it’s a common occurrence for news reporters to trip over their tongue when flagging him down, mid-transformation, for a post-fight interview. “Phanton.” “Fentom.” So often that, to most now, he is just Danny.

When Danny wants upgrades to his gear, he comes to his mother. When Danny learns a quirky new element of Ghost Zone lore, he brings it to his father. When the Amity Park Ghost Alarm is raised, he’s first on the scene with the Fenton RV right on his non-corporeal heels.

When he’s injured, Danny comes only to his friends and sister.

Jazz notices the pattern. How it is only her, or only Sam, or only Tucker who receives the late-night knock at the window glass, with her brother on the other side, corny sheepish smile on display and arm or leg or shoulder held up in explanation.

Jazz notices how hushed Danny remains, day or night, when he comes to her for first aid. How he speaks in that same hesitant muted tone as he did when all of this was still a secret. How he quiets himself in the way injured prey animals do.

Jazz doesn’t feel it’s her place to ask. Not yet, at least. Eventually. But not yet.

The window is open. Honeysuckle-sweet gusts of late-spring air swirl through Jazz’s room and tease away the sheen of sweat that has collected on her brow. She cannot wipe it away herself, not with both hands meticulously occupied in tweezering out the singed fabric from her brother’s arm.

Danny winces, and hisses, and Jazz frees another thread from its embedded hold in Danny’s burn wound.

“It’s kind of like… summer vacation when we were kids and we’d get splinters visiting Aunt Alicia’s lake house,” Jazz remarks with another careful tug. “…If we can call it a lake house.”

“Lake shed,” Danny replies, grinning through the sweat shining on his pale face. “And I think every part of that dock was an OSHA violation.” He laughs through another wince.

“Dad was the king of tweezers. I think he got out every splinter that dock ever gave me.” Jazz pauses. “I wonder why that was. Think it’s the needlepoint?”

“It’s definitely the needlepoint,” Danny agrees.

Jazz hesitates on the question lingering behind her tongue. Just a little too long. Just a little too obviously.

“What?” Danny asks.

Jazz’s hand falters. She puts the tweezers down. “Danny, I will always always be happy to help you like this. Same goes for Sam, same goes for Tucker, I know. I’m positive. But I wonder why… not Mom or Dad?” Jazz eyes the tweezers, glinting in the moonlight. “I’m just… I’m thinking how much cleaner this might be if you got Dad to do it. And Mom’s got like, wilderness survival level first aid expertise. I can’t help thinking I’m hurting you more by it being… me, you know?”

Danny looks at her, and looks past her a moment. His grin slips a fraction into discomfort as his eyes leave hers. “Maybe I just like the excuse to invade your room.”

“Danny…” Jazz waits until he looks at her again. “Are you afraid they’ll make you stop if they realize you’re getting injured?”

Danny lets out a puff of air from behind his lips. “No, never. I mean, maybe if I got really really injured they’d say something. But just getting a little roughed up? I think it’s about on par with a kid coming home from football practice with a few scrapes, at least, in their eyes. They get more banged up than me these days. I’m not worried.”

Jazz reaches for the bottle of disinfectant. She unscrews the cap to a biting alcohol smell. “…So will you tell me why?”

“Why what?”

“Why you won’t ever go to them with injuries? Ever?”

Cotton swab, pure silver under the moonlight. Jazz douses it gently, a muted glug-glug from the bottle.

“…I’m that obvious about it, huh?”

“You’re obvious about most things. This’ll be cold.” Jazz applies the swab to the open wound, and Danny hisses in turn.

“Yeah. Cold. And stingy. Cold and stingy.” After a few seconds, the tension eases out of Danny’s body. He droops a little, shoulders slumped, and Jazz pulls the cotton swab away.

“Are you ashamed of your injuries?”

“No.”

“Are you worried Mom and Dad’ll make them worse?”

“Nah. You said it yourself, those two are weird, unconventional medical experts.”

“Then why not?”

A beat of silence follows. A moment of trepidation. Awash in moonlight, Danny looks up at her, and the glow in his green eyes has a life of its own. “I don’t want them to see the injuries that have already healed.”

“Why would that be a problem?” Jazz looks again. Danny’s suit covers most everything, save now for the one sleeve that’s been rolled back. She sees what she already knew was there – what isn’t obvious to the eye not searching – threads of white ridges, puckers of skin, a faded rashy texture of what had once been an ectoblast burn. Old injuries. Long healed. Faded and fading further. “Those are all healed now. Just some scars, right…?”

Danny hesitates.

“I don’t want them to figure out how many of those scars they caused.”

A gust of wind steals the antiseptic smell from the room. Jazz sits with the silence. She thinks, and she processes.

“Oh…”

Danny straightens. “They kind of… live in this world where hunting ghosts is all fun and games, you know? Like it’s a sport, like they can just get into go-mode and jump into the fun. I don’t think they’ve figured out yet that they can—could—did …cause damage.”

Danny adjusts himself on Jazz’s bed, one leg pulled up, body angled to face her directly. He doesn’t let his eye contact wander now. “They both apologized. Definitely. Like that definitely happened, back at the start of this. But it was kind of like ‘We must’ve given you so much trouble Danny! How’d you come home every day and not bite our heads off over that?’ Like. Again. Like it’s a game. Like they’d been knocking my chess pieces over for a year and not—”

Danny falters. He raises his uninjured arm and tucks the hair away from his face. “And I don’t… want it to click for them. What I have right now with Mom and Dad is so nice… It’s so much better than I even imagined. I want it to stay like this. Forever, if possible.”

“Danny…”

“And even that actually—maybe I’m actually wrong about that. Completely wrong. About their reaction, I mean. It’s possible maybe they’d see everything and just go,” Danny deepens his voice, “‘Wow! We did a number on you, huh? Man Danny I don’t know how you didn’t just smack us over the breakfast table every morning.’ you know? Like that. Like this was all just always a game. And they—and I-- …I like how relaxed ghost hunting is with them. I actually like that it feels like a game. I don’t ever want to go back to feeling how scared and afraid and unsafe and hurt I was that first year. ...But I’m afraid of how it would feel to know that maybe they’d see that, look at it all, everything they did and the scars like the actual proof and it—if it wouldn't ever be real to them. If they'd never get that it was like that. If they still wouldn’t realize—you know? That they—if they—I don’t uh…” Danny drops his eyes, and he shrinks in on himself. “I don’t know how to explain it…”

“No I—Danny I know what you’re saying. Don’t worry. Danny, I—”

“Either answer. Any answer. I don’t want to know… I don’t actually want to know.” Danny angles himself away again, feet dropped over the side of Jazz’s bed, staring down at the hands in his lap. “If it would horrify them, then I’d be ruining all the good things I have with them right now. And if it wouldn’t horrify them—” Danny falls quiet. The breeze has stilled. The room is colder now. “…then I think I just don’t ever want to know.”

Jazz nods, and nods harder.

“I get it. I get it. That’s a good enough answer for me, Danny, I promise. I’m your first aid person, okay? I won’t ask again. Thanks for… thanks for telling me, Danny.”

"Can always trust you to bring up the difficult conversations huh? Of course that's always been your thing. Talking to you is--well I'd say it's like pulling teeth, but maybe it's more like pulling ecto-demolished hazmat suit fabric out of a burn wound."

Danny offers a sheepish grin - it's an olive branch, a request to lighten the mood. Jazz meets it with her own small grin that does not touch her eyes.

"Yeah yeah, I'm your older sister. It's my job to be a pain. Now sit still, I need to be more of a pain if we're gonna de-hazmat suit your injury."

She picks the tweezers back up. The silence rings with an echo in her head now. Jazz focuses her attention back on her task, and she finds something she was wrong about before:

There is nothing faded about the scars that web up and down her little brother’s arm. They are stark streaks of lightning, glowing silver under the moonlight. And Jazz wonders how many others—how many that flaked away and melded back with healthy skin—how many of those might still be living, lingering, a permanent part of her little brother, buried well beneath the surface…

[dayseternal-blog]

In Memory, Katarinahime. Part 6.

I've collected our conversations. Why couldn't I remember them? Let me in.

2019.8.12 on "White Lilies" Chapter 3:

Kat - "Your 'please don’t kill me if you don’t like it' killed me! I feel the same way. You work so hard on something and then people are so flippant about it. 😭😭 But it was so good. You have such a good way of weaving around real feelings and situations. I love it!"

Me - "yeah, posting a new chapter is like standing in front of a dark tunnel, like you don't know what might come out of it. It could kill you. Or something... :( haha to me you are an absolute master at real feelings and situations! Thank you for the encouragement >< it means a lot coming from you!"

Katarina had never commented on my fics before. I knew that she doesn't really comment. She hardly replies to comments on her own fics unless there's a question.

This is the most memorable for me. I never forgot this. I never forgot how she understood the stress I expressed in the author notes and how she went out of her comfort zone to tell me that she relates.

2019.10.29 on "White Lilies" Chapter 4:

Kat - "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! They’re finally going to talk! And Naruto understands his own feelings! Omg this is so amazing!"

Me - "haha that scream is my reaction to any of your stories x))) thank you for the support <33333"

This was the second and last time she commented on one of my fics. I wondered if she had ever read any of my other fics. I only found out, after she passed, that "Nightdreams" was in her top five. I didn't know that. I wonder if she knows that I have been modeling my text structure off of her stories since Nightdreams.

2020.1.20 on Discord

"It's so funny, I never think of myself as writing angst and then people bring it up and I'm like... holy shit I wrote a lot of angst"

-"@ katarinahime I think of you as THE naruhina angst writer actually. If anyone asked, I would just point them to your profile"

"🙈🙈🙈 OMG lol. LMAO @ DAYS8 you're one to talk your white lilies used to be killer before your last update. My heart"

hmm I can't type the rest of the convo. I think I'll cry. But I pointed out to her why CSE is worse in terms of angst. She accepts that, and that she knew the ending would be happy, so she forgets how readers must feel.

That was our first convo within the same space, at the same time. I'm glad I could express a fraction of my admiration.

2020.2.18 on Discord

-"HOW WAS YOUR DAY IN HAWAII NEI?"

"Omg it was amazing"

-"yayy!!!!!! what did you do?"

"I went to the wedding rehearsal at the place they filmed lost and then went to bellows Air Force base beach and then I went to dinner and ice cream with friends. I love being here 💖💖"

-"Bellows is my favorite beach on the east side!!! And Kualoa Ranch is so beautiful! My husband's cousin got married there! I'm so glad you had a good day!"

"Yeah bellows looked like a movie set tbh. So beautiful"

I could've met her maybe. Had I tried. Also, I learned she loved coffee. Was addicted to coffee. She wanted to have Kona coffee here. I forgot to ask if she did.

2020.5.28 on Discord

"I wish my hair could be that long 😭"

-"why does your hair stop growing?? that..what????"

"Idk!! I wish I knew"

That was the day I learned her hair doesn't grow much past her shoulders. Apparently hair can genetically reach the end of its growth cycle. Like trees or flowers.

"I think because of the nature of our relationships with other members of fandoms and writers it's a bit harder to process it. Because there are genuine emotions and love and missing of a person, but since there was never a real-life presence the absence is harder to identify. For me it's almost like I'm expecting to see an update or a post after a long silence. It's a challenge to wrap my head around 'gone'." - @szajnie

"I'd possibly shifted backwards into denial, but not a shock kind. Like, she's still here, even if I can't talk to her."

"I've reread quite a few of her chapters and posts, and of course, our convos and comments, and just... it's so hard to reconcile. Her writing has so much of her voice in it, and when someone said that she'll live on in her art, they weren't kidding. She sounds so alive."

"Yeah, I wonder if that's why I'm at where I'm at. Like, there's still something of her we can access at any point. But I guess, the tragic rationale too is... It's all a time capsule. I just feel like she IS here."

"This is honestly the feeling I've been struggling with all week, here I am again, like this need to unleash all of this confusion and struggle I'm having with her passing. I guess I've really been trying to grasp at some kind of clarity."

"Katarina, I swear that I’ll never forget you, and I’m positive that I’m not the only one. As long as we live, you’ll live as well." - @angi1993

I'm still here.

They say earthquakes in Alaska are the closest tsunami danger for Hawaii.

Interesting.

I look out across an ocean of distance

And I wish you were here.

I wish you were there.

I wish I were waiting for you, waiting as I did before, for you to come collect the pieces of me, the pieces of you, waiting for you to give the pieces of you to me.

One day, I'll see you, I'll recognize you, and you'll recognize me.

The pieces we've traded will be perfect.

But I'll be shy. Or maybe I'll cry.

My memory is poor, I'm sorry. I didn't meet you then, I'm sorry. I didn't reach out enough, I'm sorry.

I just wish I had done a little more, it's okay for me to feel like this, there's nothing else to it.

Are you really still alive in us? Are you really still alive here?

I'm talking to text,

I wonder if I'm comforted.

[giggly-squiggily]

I just had a tiny breakdown and need some Ren ten tickle fluff

(i also wanna know they would tickle gyomei since he is so big)

Oh goodness, I am so late to this! My apologies for the delay, friends! Lee!Gyomei makes me so soft, so this was really fun to make! Plus I got to add another chapter to the Ten-Ren Tickle Attack Series, so that’s awesome! I hope you like it!

“Big guy~” Tengen’s voice was alarmingly close to Gyomei’s ears, startling the Stone Hashira and making him yelp. He had been meditating post training, trying to silence the relentless memories of his past. “Oh! Tengen- what are you doing here?”

The Sound Hashira’s chuckled, the sound of his feet scuffing back as he leaned away. “Oh you know, just hanging out.” The tone he took implied a different story. It was too driven, and full of mischief. The voice he took when he had a mission.

And it seems he wasn’t alone.

“Gyomei~” Rengoku’s voice tittered from his other side, the unmistakable smile playing in his voice. The air felt charged suddenly, as if the three of them were waiting for something. “We have a question for you.”

This wasn’t going to end well, whatever it was. His mind tracked back to earlier, when an exhausted sounding Muichiro joined him for training. “What has you so winded, Tokito?” He had asked, figuring the other must have pushed himself on the way here.

His answer came rushing back a fraction too late.

“Careful of Uzui and Kyoguro. Those two are running about causing havoc.”

Oh dear.

“Are you ticklish?”

Before Gyomei could answer, hands were upon him, one pressing gently into his waist while the other danced along his ribs. The Stone Hashira stiffened, willing his body to suppress the sudden ticklish touch. He wouldn’t give in to their games.

“Gyome! Come on, we can feel you holding back!” Tengen teased, easing up his tickles so his touch was feather-like. “Don’t resist! Give in, big guy!”

“Tengen’s right, Gyomei! You can only hold out for so long!” Unlike Tengen’s shift to lighter tickles, the flame Hashira opted for more firmer ones against the thicker parts of Gyomei’s waist, kneading the skin just above his hip. This seemed to give him a better reaction. Gyomei stiffened, his body trembling with restrained laughter. “I think you’re starting to crack!”

A blush was starting to creep up the Stone Hashira’s neck, a smile working its way onto his lips. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to gently nudge the pair’s hands away. “K-Kyojuro! Te-engen! Ple-hease!”

“Oh, was that a giggle?” Tengen sang, jumping onto the small noises escaping as his hand wandered higher, worming into Gyomei’s armpits to see what would happen. Rengoku meanwhile reached out and gave the bigger man’s thigh a squeeze, looking for more spots to break him.

“Hmmph! Y-You twoho!” Gyomei bit the inside of his cheek, hand finally finding Tengen’s prodding one and clasping it gently. “I’m not ticklish, so there’s no need to carry on-”

Gyomei had made two very basic mistakes.

One, he didn’t grab Rengoku.

The second? He forgot Tengen had another hand.

The Sound Hashira shot his free hand up to the other’s neck while his companion slipped his own into the folds of Gyomei’s Happi, giving his stomach and sides a gentle squeeze.

Well, at least he tried.

“Tehehhhehehengehehehn! Kyoohohoohohjuro! Plehehehehahahahhase!” Gyomei could no longer keep the laughs down, the sound low and rumbly as they bubbled out of his throat. “There it is!” Tengen cheered, wrapping an arm around the older man’s shoulders to keep him in place as he carried on his gentle tickles. Rengoku was more or less bear hugging Gyomei around the waist at this point, a cheeky grin forming at the sound. “Please what? Keep tickling you? Okay!”

Gyomei tried to shoot him a look, but that only opened up more spaces for Tengen to tickle along his neck. He could feel his cheeks burning, tears threatening to spill down his face as he chortled. Still, he made no moves to stop the pair. Part of him wanted to escape, but another part of him couldn’t deny he was enjoying himself. “Yohohohohoohu twohoohoohohu ahahahhare tohohooohoho muuhuuhuhuhch!”

“You love us through! It’s why you’re not fighting back!” Tengen sang, giving Gyomei’s ears a quick tickle to make the other scrunch up. “Heck, I’d even say you love being tickled! Don’t you, big guy?”

“Huhhuuhuhuhuhuhush! Thahahahhaahat’s nohohohohoohohot truhuhuhue- Gah!” Gyomei yelped when Rengoku found a particularly bad spot beneath his ribs. “Oohohohohohohkay! Ohoohohohokay! Yoohohohohohu’ve maahahahhhade yoohohohohour poohohohohint! Plehahahhahahahse stahahhahahahap!”

“Did we? So you're saying you do like being tickled?” Tengen teased sweetly, grinning when Gyomei tried to nod. “Aww! What a softie! Isn’t he the absolute cutest, Kyo?”

“But of course, Ten!” Rengoku teased along with him, easing his tickles and giving the older man a much needed break. “An absolute gem of a person.”

As if the tickling wasn't bad enough! Burning bright red from the compliments, Gyomei opted to hide his face in his hand, gently waving away their teasing as Tengen and Rengoku cooed sweetly at him. “A gem isn’t the right word for me…but thank you. The thought is appreciated.”

Tengen and Rengoku smiled softly at him, the air around them shifting before they encased the big man once more, squeezing him gently. “Heh, anytime big guy.” Tengen reassured him. “We care about you, so please view yourself with more positivity!” Rengoku nodded firmly in his request.

Maybe he would. For now, Gyomei opted to hug the others back gently, blinking back tears as he felt his heart ease. “Thank you…I’ll try.”

~~~

Later, Gyomei heard new steps approaching. These he knew all too well: they’ve been arriving nearly hourly the past few days. “Is it done?” He asked.

Sanemi snickered, and Giyu hummed. “It is. We’re ready.”

I hope this was good!

[mishasminions]

The Last Time I’ll Write a Long Post About Supernatural (15x18-15x20)

15 YEARS OF WATCHING THIS SHOW. 11 YEARS OF RUNNING A BLOG ABOUT IT. IT’S BEEN QUITE A RIDE.

[15x20 Speculation + evidence at the bottom]

First off, I just wanna come clean and say, after all these years, I still think they should’ve ended at Season 5.

If you’re going to come at me with “Then why’d you stick around to watch it if you didn’t like it?”, your question is immature, and the answer is simple: I just want to know what happens next (I also love the main characters and their actors too). You can watch a show and still think it’s shit.

Call me a clown, but despite all the disappointment and trust issues that this show has given me, I would still look forward to the day where it might just turn itself around and bring back the quality it once had, or realize the potential of each story it was trying to tell, or at the very least, do justice by my favorite ship.

Never happened.

They’ve had a few good episodes here and there. I can’t imagine the SPN Universe without The Man Who Would Be King, The French Mistake, and Scoobynatural. Seasons 6-10 were enjoyable at times. I blocked out most of 7 & 11-15. 

If you’ve been following this blog since its heydays in 2010-2014, you’d know I’d try my best to defend Destiel and this show’s decisions regarding it no matter what.

Because you know what, as a CONCEPT, this show is good. If you take a look at all the worlds its storylines have birthed in fanfiction/fanworks, you’d see how much Supernatural has wasted its own story arcs. The writing got shittier as each season progressed, and they’ve obviously given up in production as well because the quality in the execution has noticeably gone down too, but if you take a step back and take a look at the bigger picture, you’ll see that this show still tries to make sense of itself.

[If you’re still following this post, please bear with me, I know this is long, but I just want you to understand how jaded and pessimistic I am with regards to this show, so maybe you can buy into whatever hopeful thing I’m about to say later on.]

SO LET’S TALK ABOUT DESTIEL

Never in my wildest dreams did I think that they would give us Castiel’s “I love you” speech. To the point where, if I weren’t so desperate for it, I would argue that it was completely out of character for him to word vomit the way he did (but I’m not gonna diss on that right now because I’ll take what I can get).

I’ve valued every meaningful and obscure exchange that Dean and Cas have had in the earlier seasons, and I was willing to accept their relationship as just that--undefined, without any clear boundaries as to what they really are. And I think that was beautiful on its own.

But now, they’ve chosen to define it.

After they’ve driven every possible wedge between Dean and Castiel in seasons 11-15, to try to explain away their feelings as something they offer to a collective.

Dean can’t mourn and pray for JUST Cas, he has to mourn and pray for EVERYBODY--even Crowley, even some chick he just met, because god forbid he cries about just the guy who has given up everything for him--that would be “too homo”.

They’ve even set Cas on a path to abrupt fatherhood just so he can care about something other than Dean. Make it seem as if Dean wasn’t his purpose through and through.

And after all these years of this stupid show trying to deny it, they choose to acknowledge it at the worst possible circumstance, at a time where they’ve been so far apart, that it seems so foreign for them to suddenly come together.

But here we are. And they’ve chosen to tell us.

Chosen to tell us that everything that Castiel has done leading up to his death, he has done it because he was IN LOVE WITH DEAN WINCHESTER.

Chosen to tell us that the ONE THING THAT WOULD MAKE CAS HAPPY IS DEAN WINCHESTER.

Chosen to tell us that BEING WITH DEAN WINCHESTER is something that CAS WANTS BUT KNOWS HE CAN’T HAVE.

And they’ve also chosen to tell us nothing about how Dean feels.

Sure, finding out your angel made a deal, the stipulations of said deal, his newfound happiness philosophy, his long-winded monologue of why he loves you and why you’re worthy of his love, and to top it all off he tells you that being in love with you is enough to make him happy while he subtly hints that he’s always wanted to be WITH you romantically, was a lot to process in the 5 minutes after you’ve just had an existential crisis.

It’s whatever, right? Let’s culminate 11 years worth of tension and feelings in 5 minutes. Let’s waste the entire episode with cringey expository dialogue, and irrelevant sequences. The whole season was a waste anyway.

You know what Supernatural? FUCK YOU FOR THAT. They deserved better. WE deserve better.

And I would love nothing more than to hurl every possible insult your way,

But for the last time, I’m going to HOPE that you’re finally going to try to make it better for the fans that stuck by you all these years.

No more baiting new viewers, no more placating casual viewers, no more excuses. 15 years. Bring it home for the people who have actually been around.

SO HERE’S HOW I THINK 15x20 IS GONNA GO

There’s two ways this series is gonna end. Horribly or Spectacularly.

First let’s all take into consideration what Andrew Dabb says about it:

So, let’s start with

ENDING HORRIBLY

In this scenario, Misha is telling the truth about his last day of filming being 15x18. His “camping trip” during the last few days of filming 15x20, was actually a camping trip. He doesn’t go to Vancouver to shoot.

Jensen wasn’t “being careful” during the zoom interviews that it was just him and Jared quarantining for the shoot, it really was just him and Jared (althought most of these were done pre 15x19) Supernatural isn’t smart enough to do misleading PR, and they’re once again oblivious to the potential of their own story.

Misha hasn’t posted a “Goodbye Castiel” tweet because he’s probably saving it for last episode or he forgot because it was overshadowed by the Destiel trend that night.

So what we get is:

Sam and Dean are on the road again, up against the monster of the week. Only their world no longer has actual Supernatural beings anymore, so the monsters they’re fighting are humans.

Humans end up killing the Winchesters (despite having gone up against literally every powerful being imaginable INCLUDING God himself). Dean and Sam end up in heaven and relive their greatest hits.

Meanwhile, Castiel rots in The Empty because he died after realizing that he was happy and gay. Jack doesn’t bother rescuing him—his surrogate dad, the guy who made this specific deal to spare him—even though it was so easy for him get Cas in and out of The Empty when he had a fraction of the power that he has now.

Dean never speaks of Castiel’s confession because despite all the hints of a profound bond in the earlier seasons, and the fact that Dean has never cared for anyone (who isn’t his actual brother) as immensely as he does Cas, Supernatural just can’t have its main macho character be “suddenly bisexual” because that would hurt the male ego or some shit.

His heaven would probably be living happily ever after with his family. “Family” meaning Mary and John Winchester--two of the shittiest parents ever (but they’re not going to include them in this episode like they were supposed to because of Covid) and Sam.

Sam also gets a dog. As usual.

I wouldn’t put it past Supernatural to do this. After everything they’ve pulled, this would be right up their alley. I actually expect this ending.

Anyway, onto the next possible ending

ENDING SPECTACULARLY

In this scenario, Supernatural tries to stick the landing, and Jensen’s whole “It didn’t sit well with me at first, but then I took a step back after talking to Kripke, and realized that I had to view it from an audience perspective, I am now really excited about it” (DC Con 2019) anecdote about his thoughts on the final episodes, were actually about Dean potentially ending up with Cas. (Which would totally make sense because Jensen at first didn’t see Dean as anything but hetero, but as of late, he has been throwing in Destiel jokes of his own, so he seems to have warmed up to the idea)

Backed with Misha’s tidbit (DLConline 2020) that he and Jensen had conversations about Destiel, and that they wouldn’t have gone through with it if Jensen wasn’t onboard with it, but Jensen didn’t push back at all. (Why would they need to check with Jensen if it was just Cas going all in?)

Robert Berens (writer of 15x18) also wrote the script at the beginning of Season 15, but made Misha privy to the concept a year prior (Season 14), so they went into this season knowing about Destiel going canon.

This one’s a reach, but this scenario also supposes that Misha was lying about his whereabouts during the filming of the final episode, and him saying that 15x18 was his last episode is part of the diversion to avoid taking away from the weight of Castiel’s death.

And that Supernatural is actually self-aware of its own material (similar to how they have wrapped things up in the past—lots of expository dialogue, poor execution, but fulfills the story arc)

Since Season 15 is basically a Meta Season (Chuck/God as a writer, pretentiously calling out how he created the worlds, its characters, and basically invalidating the past 14 seasons), and 15x19 is supposedly the finale for Season 15, written by two of the worst Supernatural writers, Brad Buckner and Eugenie Ross-Leming (Bob Singer’s wife), then we can assume that 15x19 is where the shitty writers kill themselves--as Chuck, of course.

So we get a badly written episode that produces a bad ending, or as Becky put it, “All action, and no Cas”

So we get the bad writers season ending at 15x19.

And 15x20 is where Sam and Dean write their own stories, and where the cast had a hand in pitching ideas for it.

Dabb has mentioned that 15x20 (Act Two) is a SERIES finale, where they try to resolve the characters’ journeys.

Because as everyone has acknowledged, Supernatural isn’t about the story, it’s about the characters.

So here’s what we can get out of it:

With no more Supernatural beings left to fight, Sam and Dean are in a stalemate. They’ve resigned themselves to fighting to the bitter end, but the “end” has passed, and they’re still standing.

So they try to figure out who they are now, and what they want out of the life they still have.

Sam still wants a normal apple pie life. Before Dean dragged him out of college to go hunting with him, he had a whole life planned out for him. Become a lawyer, settle down with a nice girl, and get a dog. He gave all that up because they had work to do, but now the work is finished, he can finally go back to wanting that for himself again.

Dean finally realizes his self-worth after Cas saves him again. His prayer to Cas in purgatory may have helped him come to terms with his anger, but the whole “you’ve done everything you did for love” speech finally put him in his place, and he learns not to hate himself anymore.

But of course, he cannot fully reconcile with himself if he doesn’t get Cas back, and tell him how he feels.

Because Dean actually wants something for himself this time. Something he knows he can finally have if he can just salvage it.

So maybe this time around, with the help of Jack (off-screen), Dean saves Cas. Grips him tight and raises him from perdition.

They bypass The Empty deal by turning Cas human, and he lives the rest of his days with Dean.

Dean and Cas know they deserve to be saved, and they know that they deserve to be happy.

(Wishful thinking, maybe they kiss a little)

Anyway...

I’m just saying, there’s NO WAY that they’d have Cas go through that whole rushed speech, if they weren’t going to do anything about it later on.

But again, after 10 years of disappointment, I wouldn’t put it past Supernatural to pat themselves on the back and say, “Okay, we sort of gave them what they wanted. We’re good now”

If that’s the case, Supernatural, I’m sorry I wasted my time on you.

Here’s to hoping 🤡