#i like letter boxed too but i rarely do it. the others i do less

[corviiids]

one man's journey of his entire mental health resting solely on how good he can do the nyt daily puzzles

(takes more than 1 minute to do the mini) i am a worm. i am a wretched, horrible creature. why was i made. to blight this earth (takes less than 1 minute to do the mini) god made me in his image never to be stopped

[nobodybetterlookatme]

I've never heard of emts working only at events? What's that like for you if you don't mind my asking?

Yeah, there are ambulance companies that staff certain events, but there's some event specific companies out there lmao. For me specifically, it's almost entirely college events, whether it's happening on a campus or not. It's not great, usually pretty boring, but it's better than being on an ambulance or in a hospital. We do get actual emergencies sometimes, but usually it's just getting drunk people to the tent or giving out water and bandaids lmao. Again, boring as fuck, but I chose this over working on a 911 rig, so that's on me 😔 if I'm being so real tho, other than my coworkers, the best part of the job is the food lmaoooo it's so good and all the food trucks/food booths give discounts or free food to us depending on the location and event. And there's almost always a ton of downtime, so I basically just get paid to sit there and vibe for the most part

[marstons-angel]

i thought of you so often.

arthur morgan x reader.

✧ tags : fem!reader (gendered language, explicit use of she/her in reference to reader), children / planning on children, generally sappiness, fluff, au where nothing bad happens to arthur hdskjsdkfhsj.

✧ wc : 2.4k (???)

✧ a/n : arthur morgan.... save me arthur morgan....also not a super original thought but i can't Stop thinking about it.

✧ synopsis : a collection of love letters, all unfinished, tucked somewhere you aren't meant to find them. oh, arthur loves you more than you knew.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

You try to keep out of Arthur's belongings.

He's owed some privacy, for one. More than that, you've never felt any reason to look into it. Arthur isn't a man of many words, though you catch moments of his introspection should you pry. He isn't stoic, neither. And above all things, he's kind. Really truly kind in a way that makes him different from other men.

You don't have any complaints about him is what you mean. Unlike the men you've loved before, there are no short-comings of Arthur that would drive you to wanting to investigate his own personal things. Especially something so personal like his journals, prior or present.

On top of that, you were there with him through everything. You were part of the gang and stayed by him when it all fell apart. It was towards the end of that that Arthur came to you near frenzied, told you his plans, his thoughts. Confided in you and no less than begged to go with him where he ran.

You loved Arthur enough to stay, and so things ended - and you ran. There isn't much his journal could tell that you couldn't surmise on your own.

It's been years now, and you've long since left that life. You live with Arthur quietly, peaceful in the moments with a garden and kitty sweet as sugar.

It's a good life. An honest, quiet one sometimes to the point of being boring. You rarely miss the action, though occasionally you'll take up a bounty just to feel alive and make some money.

Mostly though, you live as unassuming folk. No bloodshed, no wardens, no gunslinging.

Been talk between you both about having a baby, recently. Serious talk. You've made some money between here and there, and you've got a good life. You've traveled too. But it gets a little lonely, and you don't really get your fill with just Jack when John and Abi are ways away.

Before anything like that, though - you need to clear some space. Empty out some belongings and things collecting dust. Living in one place for too long creates all sorts of mess, you find. When Arthur is home to help, he does - but he's been busy lately figuring something out with Charles. Some business venture related to ranching that you know nothing about so far. They'll tell you when its ready.

Usually when you're tidying, you keep to just your things, or your shared things - but Arthur has lived more life than you. It shows in that big closet space filled with nick-knacks he has yet to toss.

You'd mentioned it to him not too long ago and he'd given you permission to go through them.

(A kiss to your forehead from chapped lips and hands holding your waist, Arthur hums in acknowledgement as you ask his permission.

"Ain't nothing I gotta hide from you. Do whatever you need.)

But like you said - you try to keep your nose out of his business if it's not necessary for you to be in it in anyway.

You weren't trying to look through his things, really. You started cleaning, worked your way to that last box. Up on a shelf in his closet, a little too high for you to reach easily. You made a misstep and dropped the damn thing. It barely missed your head as the whole thing fell open, and out came journals and papers and photographs.

You've always known Arthur to be sentimental, so none of it has been particularly surprising. A photo of wolves and him on a horse, the picture from John and Abigail's engagement. Some other scraps of sentimental value.

And then there was a journal. Not Arthur's journal that he's always using, but another you've never seen before. You know Arthur journals, seen the thing plenty though you never look unless he shows you first.

A journal with a dark brown stained leather binding, fallen open and your name scrawled out in pencil lead at the top of it.

The curiosity got the better of you, okay? Not your damn fault.

So you're thinking on it.

The fabric of your skirt is pooled out underneath you as you hold the thing in your hands, sitting down on the ground surrounded by things. You've stowed away everything else that fell out from the box after ensuring it was intact, including Arthur's journals. Everything with the exception of the one you're holding.

Some guilt eats at you. You don't wanna upset him potentially by having looked. Even if he gave you permission, looking in the damn thing is a little different. But your name was there so clearly, and well - you didn't think he wrote about you. Apart from here and there, maybe.

You hold the book out in front of you with a sigh, looking fondly at his name ingrained in the leather. You press your forehead against it with, resigning yourself completely.

"Lord forgive my pryin'," You mumble, hoping it's enough to absolve you.

Your heart feels funny as you let your fingers trace over the hard edge of the front cover, one eye shut as you start to open it slow.

The first few pages are nothing special.

A page outlining who the journal belongs to and when it was started, and some doodles of yarrow and oleander. The pages after that filled with mundane entries. About people he met or things he saw, all endearing to you. The corners of your lips tug up slightly.

You really love this man helplessly.

You flip through a few more pages, many of them blank before writing starts to appear again. Little by little, you find passages. You look to the dates up at the corner (though not all of them have one) and trace the timeline. This is from all the way back in Horseshoe Overlook.

It feels like ages ago now.

You look at a page with no date, and reading the writing in it. There's doodles of flowers and trees along the bottom of the page. The words are easy enough to make out - because Arthur has the most unusually beautiful handwriting.

There's some entries about you. At first, they all include your name in some context. Mentioned in the same way Arthur might mention Hosea or Abigail. The further you go, the less you see it. The more you become her and she.

It's a trend. The longer you read, the less there is about anyone else. Just you and all your silly idiosyncrasies tucked between pages. Something lovestruck and foolish lights its match in you.

Saw a body hanging at the tracks at Valentine. A gruesome sight. I told her about it and she laughed. Asked me to take her to see it. A strange woman, by all accounts.

You feel yourself smile a little as you continue to flip through the pages.

She joined me riding into town today. Said she had some business to attend but would not tell me any details. After, she came with me to purchase a new gun. I engraved a snake into it's handle, per her request.

Another few pages littered with drawings of delicate berries and waterfalls before you stumble across more writing. The more you flip, the longer the passages become you.

You can't tear your eyes away.

Rained today. Nothing too terrible or worth mentioning, except that she nearly caught a cold playing in it. I brought her coffee to keep her warm, but could not scold her further upon seeing her delight.

Another passage, this time written with messier hand writing. A coffee stain splatters on the white of the page.

Your heart tugs on itself. Swells about a thousand sizes. To think he wrote so much of your time together between these pages.

You read and read and read - and each passage is a little more mundane at the last. Some pages go on in vivid detail, but others are so short you aren't sure what to make of the fact he wrote them at all. As if such little details were important enough to keep in mind.

I picked a flower for her. I thought it would suit her taste. It was white with delicate petals. I did not know the name.

She wore it in her hair this evening. I find I can't stop grinning.

One passage on the next few pages, longer than the rest, catches your eye. From later in your time together, written when you were in Leymone. Near Scarlett Meadows and before the mess in Saint Denis.

After Arthur had been kidnapped.

I have gone on and on about the business with Colm O'Driscoll in many entries before this one. Yet, I find it difficult to forget. Many times I have come close to death, and still no experience lingers on my mind quite like this one. Everyone has done their best to look after me. For that I am grateful, though I do not care for being looked after. What use am I like this, I wonder? Perhaps, I should simply be grateful to be alive and in one piece, if a little uglier than I was. Alongside Miss Grimshaw and Miss Tilly, she has been by my side while I recovered. Such a carefree woman and yet I have seen her cry and weep over me countless times in the last few weeks alone. The decent man in me is apologetic for causing sorrow. Perhaps, it is the outlaw in me that feels some strange relief or satisfaction. Her fussing does not give me any grief. If anything, I find myself all the more endeared. Such a decent woman does not belong in a place like this. I hope she is able to go somewhere far away and live peacefully. I am not so shameless to want anything more. The time together we have spent, I will make sure to cherish.

Something painful and pitiful tugs at your heart. Even when Arthur admitted his feelings for you, he had started it on a similar tangent. You tell him often that you're the one who feels out of bounds with him. That a man as decent and as honest as him often feels like too much for you to have so easily.

A tear slips from your eye and you laugh at your own sentimentality, wiping it away before it can splatter onto the pages.

The further you read, the more sporadic entries become. You find that there are pages filled with sketches of you, but many of them are scratched out or half erased - like he did not find them good enough. Of your side profile, of your hands, of you pointing at a target with a gun. You feel a strange feeling of love wash over you.

Instead of concrete thoughts, you're met with Arthur's abstract. Subtle complexities and studies. There's honest tenderness in the way he sketches you and the words he chooses to caption each with. Lighter, thinner lines. Smaller doodles like stray daydreams caught onto a page.

You've never doubted Arthur in his love for you, quiet man he is - but it proves to overwhelm when presented to you in such a way.

You get to back pages. There, you're finally met with more writing. Except, instead of journal entries, there's the start of letters. You find your name at the top of the page.

Over and over. Love letters, all unfinished or scrapped. Written over and over and over, but not completed. There's tens of them at least. You've never received a love letter from Arthur before, though it's nothing you fault him for.

Now you're almost glad. You like this much better.

My darling girl My muse The better half of me, I must find some way to tell you all of what I think of you. It seems no words do it justice, I'm afraid. Still, it is in my best interest to try.

Damn that man.

When you find yourself starting to weep, you don't fight the feeling. You merely shut the book closed and set it in your lap before crying into your hands.

Such overwhelmingly happy tears. You feel off balance. If the whole world turned on its head this very minute, you're unsure you'd notice. What a decent, honest man you've come to love. What a tender one.

In the middle of your crying, you don't hear the door open or close. Nor do you hear Arthur's heavy footfall until he's in the doorway, with a voice worried half to death.

"Sweetheart, what in the hell?"

You turn your head to look at him, watching his eyes widen at your tear stained face. You clamber to your feet hurriedly, book dropping onto the ground next to you as you throw yourself at him as soon as you can.

Arthur is a steady enough man not to stumble when you do, though you can feel his apprehension. Eventually, he circles his arms around your waist. His hugs are strong. Bout strong as him and then some. An arm wrapped around your waist, the other crossed over your back all around your shoulder. Full pressure as he squeezes you tight, patting the back of your head.

"I leave you alone for a few hours. What has gotten into you, little lady?"

You pull back and and look at him, wet lashes and all, before leaning up to kiss him. Arthur meets your lips chastely at first before making a noise of surprise as you kiss him further. You use both hands to grab his face as you do, scruff scratching against your skin. His lips are soft, welcoming. He melts into the touch, so easily - blue eyes lovestruck as you pull away.

"You know I love you, don't you Arthur? More than anyone in this crazy world we live in,"

His face softens visibly. He smiles at you, touching his head to yours.

"Somehow, I do. Though, I'm wonderin' what the hell brought this on."

You tuck your face against his chest, feeling his laughter reverb through you at the way you cling to him so fervently. You sniffle as you talk.

"Found your journal. The one about me,"

He goes stiff, then silent. When you look up again, he's blushing red. He pinches his brow.

"Lord, I'd forgotten all about it,"

You shake your head.

"Ain't nothing for you to be embarrassed about. You are so wonderful,"

He pouts at you. Your heart swells. "You ain't helping with the embarrassment."

You hold him further. Hug him so tight, worried he'll disappear if you don't.

"I love you, Arthur."

"You already told me once, didn'tcha?"

"And I'll tell you one thousand times over," You emphasize, pouting at him. "Really. I love you,"

"I love you too sweetheart," His hand cups your face, thumb brushing along your waterline. "Don't cry no more. Spoils that pretty face."

"I'll try but I don't know if it's all out of me,"

Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss against your hairline. "Guess I'll just have to wipe your tears."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

[sweetheartbitesb4ck]

part one || part two || part three || this is part four || part five

The weeks following your first 'date' with Simon were full of going on little walks together, but most of all? The pings, to say the least. He would text you so often it came as a shock to you he even had a job. You found it amusing, sure, maybe even annoying, but you hadn't anticipated the sheer silence when he was 'away with work', as he put it.

You had guessed that meant deployed or something of the sorts... and it worried you, yeah, but your feelings for him were still new and you didn't want to get hurt if anything was to happen.

You'd been excited when he'd promised to write to you a few days before he left, but as the days flew by with nothing more than some bills, bank statements and late birthday cards dropping through the letter box it occurred to you that Simon Riley had been too blown away when he first saw you in your house to remember the road name, and far to drunk when he first spoke to you to remember the number on your front door.

So Simon sat there when he wasn't fighting or in briefings and had downtime (which was rare) writing letters he knew he couldn't send away, partly because it was a risk to send stuff away and partly because he would just blank on your god damn address every single time.

He didn't even have his phone because of something to do with trackers and intel and it was all a bit of a fuzz of unconfirmed information that Simon had explained to on a walk a few days before his departure.

This is what worried you. You obviously knew the dangers, and you two weren't even 'official' yet, but you would have liked to be updated. You couldn't help but feel a bit sick when your mind travelled to the horrors his job could boast.

Prior to his deployment, you and Simon had got to know each other a little better, which only made your nerves worse now you had more of a bond, plus you had gotten to see the less flustered version of him. You'd mostly talked over the phone but had also gone on a few walks together. It felt weird; missing someone you'd so quickly fallen for. You could only hope as the days blurred into weeks then into months.

Then, two months later, Simon was back. He'd been resting and getting medical support for a day or two before he journeyed home, and his first thought? It was to retrace his steps down that one road to that house with the open window that had changed everything. He could have slept, unpacked, done anything, but all he wanted to do was to see you.

You groan as you hear a knock against the door... you'd just about drifted off after hours and hours of tossing and turning, your head reluctant to rest. Trudging downstairs, you pull on a hoodie over your pyjamas. "Who the fuck..?" You murmur, clicking on the hallway light and unbolting the door, ready to dive back into bed.

"What?" You grumble as you swing the door just a crack open, your eyes widening and breath hitching at seeing that tall frame and skull mask. You slam it shut, fumbling to unlatch the door and burst it open, flying into the bulky man's arms and screaming.

Simon grins under the balaclava, stumbling backwards slightly as you bounce onto him. "You alright?" He asks, his voice so nonchalant even as you wrap your arms around him. Probably still trying to seem cool for you.

You pull back, face still covered in shock. "Fucking alright? That's all you have to say?" You cry, voice a few pitches higher than usual. "Fuck, Simon... you said you would write!" You mumble, leaning back in to hug him. Part of you wanted to say there forever, holding him there and squeezing him as hard as you could, but you knew you should probably invite him in. So that's what you do.

"Well," Ghost replies, shoving his hands into the big pockets of his tactical jacket as he steps inside, shutting the front door behind him and following you to the kitchen "I didn't know your address," He admits, smirking as you raise an eyebrow at him and snicker. "Oh yeah," You chuckle slightly, trying to refrain from smothering the poor bloke as he takes a seat at your table. "Tea?" You tilt your head and glance at the kettle.

"I hate t-" Simon bites the inside of his cheek and curses under his breath. Fuck... He thinks, realising him lying about loving the drink would probably wean him into having it regularly. "Tea's great," He nods, noting how you raise your eyebrows, expression sceptical.

His mind flicks back to Soap's so called relationship advice, the words "honesty is key" in that loud Scottish accent rattling through his mind. "Okay fine," He grunts, avoiding eye contact. "I hate tea. Can't bloody stand the stuff."

You huff with amusement, flicking the kettle off and rifling through your cabinet. "I'm out of coffee,"

You and Simon chatted for hours, sitting at the table. At first, he was jittery, but he soon relaxed, trying to stop staring at you, although this was hard as he finds you so breathtakingly perfect.

A few hours later, you tilt your head and smile at Ghost as he yawns. "You must be tired," You say softly, leaning on the counter.

Simon nods, rubbing his eyes sarcastically. "It's probably too late to walk home, aye," He says, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," You respond, scratching your neck with a mock confusion. "Lucky I have a double bed, eh?"

"You're sure?" Asks Ghost, his nervous expression from the coffee shop returning to his face. He was still terrified of scaring you away, but wanted nothing more than to collapse onto your bed and just hold you. You nod, smiling gently. "Come on." Taking your hand, Simon follows you upstairs to your cosy room, allowing himself to relax, stop being awkward. The decoration alone made him feel at home, probably because it shone with your personality.

And with that, the two of you curled up on the mattress, Ghost pulling you towards him, arms firm around you as he let the gentle rise and fall of your chest guide him to sleep.

Never in a million years would he have predicted this if he was asked about his future a few months ago, but here you were, two awkward and unsure people falling in love from nowhere.

Love. Simon was sure that's what that feeling was... the one that had seized his whole being since he first set eyes upon you.

thank you sm for reading! I hope you enjoyed part four..! if anyone wants a part five, I'll most likely do it, ( I just need to figure out what I'd write... probably something about the letters) but yea if u want that just let me know.... also, feel free to make any asks for fics u would like to see :)

sorry if my posting is irregular for a while! I'm back at uni and work after the Christmas break so very busy

[fables-if]

Again, please feel free to take your time answering as I swarm your ask box!

How would the romanced ROs react to MC crying, especially when they rarely cry? They find out that MC does cry, but just not in front of them (or like, anyone other than Rami) cause 'I don't wanna be a bother sniffles'

Also, please include Granny too, with kid MC (though I doubt kid MC would be any good at hiding it, but what do I know lol)

God, I love these questions, Otter. I'm so grateful you have taken an interest in my little story and characters <3 Ana: Ana would immediately be worried that they're physically harmed and would go to check for a wound. Once she confirms MC is okay, at least their body is okay, she would hug MC and let them cry and try to make them tell her what's going on? or at least to unburden themselves with her. Once she hears them say "I don't wanna be a bother" she'll get furious internally because who dares tell someone as precious as them that they are a bother. She would immediately try to reassure them that they are not a bother, that she wants to get to know them all, not just the "nice parts" and that above everything she's there for them. To talk, to blow off steam, to be vulnerable... to do anything they need to. After that, she would regularly check with MC, making sure they're okay and leaving constant letters, herb remedies, and treats for Rami and them... and leaving always the door open for them to come and talk to her, because she cares. I think she comes off a bit strong but she's deeply emphatic with others but tries to protect herself as well. Diana/Diego/Dix: They would assume someone has tried to hurt them and would also check for physical wounds. They would be less sweet and gentle, more rushed and tense. Thinking the worst always. Once they hear MC say that they never cry in front of them because they don't want to be a bother, they'll get so fucking angry.

"Who has told you that you are a bother and how do I find them?" 100% set on beating the living hell out of whoever has hurt MC and making them think that being vulnerable or crying is bothersome for anyone around them. Dix would be so ready to just make sure that never happens again, even if they have to rough up someone or be a constant threat to future friends, and partners in MC's life. They'd have a hard time comforting MC, they would awkwardly pat their back while giving them a tense hug, and once MC is doing a little bit better, Dix would take them to their home so MC can pet their ferrets for comfort since they are not very good at it.

Anne/Antón/An: An would immediately come rushing to hug MC, a big bear hug that would warm their bones, would make sure they sit down and offer them a bit of water or a warm beverage. Get them comfy, and would just kneel on the floor, holding their hands, waiting for MC to tell them what's up. They have never seen MC like this, even when they were children MC would never ever cry so for An this is a big deal.

Once MC tells An that they don't cry in front of people because they don't want to be a bother, An changes. They're a very sweet person but a rage ignites in them when they hear that. Who dares to tell their best friend such a thing? They would imminently tense up and get this weird look in their eyes but wouldn't say a thing. An would hug MC tenderly, stroking their hair softly while they plot a murder in their mind. They would let MC know that they're never a burden and that they should cry anytime they need to, that that is normal and they shouldn't feel guilt or shame for crying. Then An would make sure to find out who told them that and would have a road trip with Dix to make sure that person regretted it lmao. Bingen: Bingen, as the sensitive soul he is, would immediately hold MC tightly, and bring them to a place where they can have privacy. He would hug them and talk them through it or sing to them while they cried very softly. Once MC can talk a little bit better, he would ask them what's going on and if he can do anything to help. He would stand by, stroking their hair and face while MC talks, not saying anything.

Once MC opens up about not wanting to be a bother, he'll just hug them. He knows how is it to live like that and he's sympathetic to it but he has a hard time with words so he hopes his hug helps. Once MC calms down, he tries explaining to him that he knows how it is to feel like that but he can confirm they are not a bother and he's always willing to listen and be there for them.

Caterina: (I forgot about her) Caterina knows her grandchild better than anyone, so she knew that a child that had lost all family and didn't have anyone to take them under their wing wouldn't have an easy life. When MC was a child, they would hide in little spaces around the house to cry and did so silently or as silently as they could. Caterina finally found them one day, during the first month of their lives together, under the stairs, trying to keep their sobs as silent as possible. Their little body shook with every breath. Caterina, who by that time was no youngling, crouched down and crawled under the stairs, sitting next to kid!MC. MC couldn't look at her, hiding their face behind their hands but Caterina could tell they were crying so she just put a hand on their shoulder and brought them into a hug. A big tender and heartbreaking hug. MC just cried on her shoulder for so long, not even able to state the reason why and Caterina just stayed, listening.

Once MC was doing a little better, Caterina invited them to go to the living room together and drink a little bit of hot chocolate with some rosquillas (homemade spanish donuts made with spices). She did sign MC up for a child psychologist and would follow their advice on how to deal with grief but some stuff stayed in the way they handle the world

[vintage-vermin]

I like Ongezellig, it popped up like half a decade ago on my feed randomly. Thought it was cutely done, saw Maya and was "oh no, she just like me fr fr" Waited and saw part 3 show up and then the rest.

I sometimes just have stuff that I love, but don't even bother engaging the fandom in any way. There are shows that have helped me be less of a cunty teenager decades ago that i love, but I have never gone to a fan forum or searched tags on any site. Sometimes I only search out the creative parts of the fandom and don't bother with discussions.

I love the random little things you can find on sites like Tumblr or other art-focused platforms for Ongezellig. Redraws, OC's in the shows style and fun pieces of some of the background characters Because oh, oh no, I'm not a fan of the rest of the community. But we'll hit that up later. Later. The creator made webcomics before. Had a little youtube channel with YTP's and some random reviewy stuff. Had an old Deviantart with some furry and the rare pony thing. Did an interview for a dutch comic collection ages ago that was a fun read.

(So, you only have to mail this letter) (Mailbox has a colloquial word where it's shortened to 'bus', same word as the vehicular one. "To put a letter on the bus") (... Yes, the one without wheels) He had a little comic named 'Caiasos' that was a bit of a disjointed adventure. Followed with Mayo & Curry. Simplistic 3-4 panel comics with a bit of a newspaper format.

(One day, Mayo wondered what ink tasted like) (You know that's poisonous, right?) (The box reads "Correction Fluid") A lot of the Mayo & Curry stuff is dutch snackbar puns or kinda standard early webcomic 'sleaze' as I can only describe it. Ever read like Chugsworth Academy?

(Hey Curry, it's not really clear what our relationship is in this comic. Are we family, girlfriends, roommates...) (Haha, silly Mayo. If you read the comics well it's very obvious.) (Anyway, time for walks!) Cute enough I suppose. I used to read Sexylosers when I was like 15, who am I to truly complain.

The creator did some creative & animation schooling and made a fun project. Some of you may have seen this one fly by, too!

Somewhere around the same time, he also made a little bumper for a comic festival.

He would also do little bits on dutch history, wether it be the Dutch History Iceberg video that got popular a bit ago or his more comedic Stille Willem videos. Studio Massa, the creator, was looking to get the Ongezellig show picked up. Some of the early episodes do throw in a school shooting thing and some very dutch middleschool discrimination to the Belgians. Granted, these are pilots. Would it have been picked up, I'm sure a few things here and there would get a fix up. This did not come to pass after a long time of trying to showcase it and even finishing his pilot series. However, he did land a job at a national tv station. I hope to see new projects of his over time, maybe even bring 1 or 2 of his old characters to new life in another show.

Little write-up on my experience with a subsection of it's fandom and community under the cut, feel free to ignore at your own discretion.

I went on a little deepdive to find out more a bit ago, I didn't follow the Petje-af or the Discord at the times of their inception or popularity. One of the first places you end up is imageboards and booru's. What a treat. Some of the ' documentation' of the shows reception online is very muddled. Encyclopedia Dramatica kinda stuff. Inane terms and barely understandable references to sites or people. He also has a KF thread that lists a large amount of uncomfortable information. By the time I found a few of those boards and booru's, it was already clear that they had some mass-extinction thing happen a few years ago and had to rebuild an imageboard and a booru or 2. Dragging myself to the very first page already got me greeted with "WE WILL REBUILD" sentiments. I get that there's a certain combination in the show that will bring in a specific audience. Underage characters and some historically charged discrimination. There's an underlying edginess to one of the characters that brings in a certain type of people. I have seen multiple posts and write-ups spanning a few years between eachother where people sort of announce they are done with the shows fanbase on this level. Lot's of adult art of these characters. While most places seem to be purged of this and plenty of (THIS POST HAS BEEN DELETED) messages all over by this time. There's a sentiment shared across a lot of these types of fans. "fucking tr00ns ruined my fucking show" I've come across plenty of junk where some one makes a call to action because they found some one with a trans flag in their bio and posted some art of the show. I can't really find the root of this problem. All that seems to have actually happened is that a buncha people were being massive bigots in the discord, got banned for it and then they got indignant about it. There's mention that some one spammed some boards with the show ages ago and somehow invited tons of transphobia into the room. Like I said, it's all muddled and written from certain perspectives.

It's like that one part of the K-on fanbase really. I just find strange and a bit of a shame that there's such an active and hostile subsection of this little fandom. I have come across multiple write-up from people who just can't interact with their fun little show without some out-there types showing up. Even little videos that try to bring this show to a larger audience find their comments littered with bizarre callouts to the small imageboard groups. A prized possession of that snippet of the community is a game about Mymy shooting up her school. I understand this is supposed to be a niche layer of fandom that's still pretty isolated to 4/5 sites at most. I understand that there will always be outliers. I dunno, frustration about a fun little show made manifest.

[mcdonaldsnumberone]

DELICIOUS!

with a certain biscuit-themed day settling upon him, kaiser wants to use it as an excuse to win a kiss from you. will pocky day end with your very own happy ending, or does kaiser need to prove himself further?

gender neutral reader

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Kaiser found life in Japan fascinating. This was one of the many perks of being a globally recognized soccer star like him: he got to travel the world and take in the different cultures it had to offer all while doing the very thing that got him onto this stage in the first place.

And boy, was he enjoying the time in Blue Lock. On the rare occasion that he got to go outside of the facility and spend some free time doing whatever he pleased, Kaiser made sure he got the full quintessential tourist experience. He ate a great deal of Japanese cuisine, tried out some hobbyist things, even somehow wound up in a maid cafe with the Bastard Munchen team, and reminisced on the everyday lives of the locals.

But one thing he found himself especially entranced by was all the different things he could exploit in order to get closer to you. If there was one thing Kaiser was, it was persistent in making sure he got what he wanted, and if that meant using every little weapon in his arsenal, then he was sure to play all of his cards out onto the figurative table.

You could only imagine his delight when he learned that a very special day in November was quickly approaching and soon to be upon him.

“Darling!” An all-too-familiar sickly sweet voice rang out against your eardrums, and a sharp wave of thorny annoyance shot down your spine. You had half a mind to bolt for the nearest exit, but the next few words stopped you dead in your tracks. “Don’t run away from me! I have something fun for us!”

Fun? That definitely couldn’t mean anything good. 

You mentally steeled yourself for another very irritating interaction with the smitten striker, equal parts exasperated by his over-the-top courtship and flattered that someone like him would try so hard to endear himself to you. Was his interest in you one of genuine romantic intent? Or did he want you as a plaything to toy with and then cast aside when he was done?

You had discern carefully whether or not Kaiser was a frog in the well or a true fairytale prince.

“What is it now, Kaiser?” You grumble unimpressed. His eager footsteps halted right next to you, and the blond took a quick second to catch his breath before shoving a box into your face.

“Ta-daaa!!” He announced, shaking it in front of you. “I learned about something interesting the other day, and I just had to do it with you. Surely you wouldn’t mind! Noa was always so insistent that I learn about Japanese culture while in Blue Lock, and boy, am I glad that I did my research!”

You practically swatted his hand his hand away, and you squinted your eyes to take a better look at the small box in front of you. The bright colors, vibrantly decorated biscuits on the box, the large decorative letters spelling out the words ‘POCKY’ in white old-fashioned text…

The realization hit you like a truck.

“Let’s play the pocky game together, darling,” Kaiser cooed, and he batted his eyelashes at you charmingly. “Isn’t that what you guys do for Pocky Day? The nice clerk at the convenience store told me all about it, and for the full immersion effect, I just have to try it with you!”

You’re less than impressed. You can see right through Kaiser’s little game as if it were made of glass. He wants a kiss from you, and playing the pocky game is the perfect opportunity to do so. 

You straighten your lips, making sure to give the boy the most stone-faced expression you could muster up. “What makes you think that I’d want to play the game with you? Ask someone else in the program. It’s not like I’m the only person around.”

Kaiser made a downtrodden face. “It’s not the same! The point of the game is to play it with someone you want to kiss! Do you really think I’d want to get a kiss from someone like Yoichi? Eugh, just thinking about it makes me want to brush my teeth-”

You bit back the temptation to tell him that the thought of kissing him makes you want to vomit too. It would be easy to turn him down and leave him standing in the dust, but you know all too well how persistent Kaiser could be. Knowing him, he’d probably tail after you like a magnet 24/7, begging and begging you with the biggest puppy eyes he can conjure up for you to just give in and kiss him let him have the proper cultural immersion he deserves! 

Or worse, he complains to Noa, who then tells Ego, and you end up in trouble for not catering to every whim the players might have.

“...Fine. Just once though. And if you mess up and break the pocky, I’m not letting you try again,” you resolved. In all honesty, it could be a lot worse. Despite Kaiser’s shithole of a personality, it wasn’t like he was outwardly mean to you nor would worming your way to his massive paycheck hurt your prospects in any way.

Kaiser lit up as if it were his birthday, and he grabbed your wrist. “To my room then! Oh, I promise I won’t let you down!”

You barely had time to regain your bearings before Kaiser basically throws you on top of his bed. His eyes sparkled with so much life that you would have thought that he had won the World Cup instead of playing the pocky game. You pushed yourself to the edge of his bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and sitting down placidly as the blond ripped the box open and procured a single piece of pocky.

“Ah, I’m so nervous…,” Kaiser admitted as he sat himself down right next to you. “I always daydreamed about what it would be like to kiss you, and to think that the answer would be right here all along! You have no clue the effect you have on me.”

“Uh- In technicality, you haven’t earned the kiss yet-,” you corrected him. 

“Whatever. We both know how this is going to end.” The blond expertly placed the biscuit end of the pocky in his mouth, carefully balancing it in between his pretty lips. He glanced up at you expectantly, and you let out a deep breath before moving your head so that your teeth caught on the chocolate end of the pocky.

‘Here goes nothing,’ you resigned internally.

Making sure not to break the delicate stick, you inched your mouth forward. Your teeth broke cleanly into a bit more of the pocky, and the sugary-sweet taste of pocky coated the inside of your cheeks. You’d forgotten how good little treats like this were; in between your responsibilities and being chased around by Kaiser, it wasn’t like you had much down time for yourself.

The German, on the other hand, was fully engrossed in the task at hand. You had fully expected him to get impatient and break the pocky prematurely, but just like how you were inching bit-by-bit forward on the pocky, he was making good progress as well. His handsome face was scrunched up slightly in concentration, focusing everything he had on the game so that he wouldn’t squander his precious chance to kiss his crush.

You had to give credit where credit was due. Kaiser was, in fact, a hard worker and a skilled athlete. When he put his mind on something, he was going to get it. As much of a pain in the butt as it was for you, you did have to respect that tough tenacity. 

Your lips closed around the next little bit of the biscuit. It tasted really good, enough to almost distract you from your situation. Kaiser’s face was so close to yours, and for the first time, you couldn’t help but notice all of the finer details on his face. He was always so horrendously vain, taking great pride in his hand-drawn red eyeliner, his two-toned hair, even his signature blue rose tattoo. But apart from all of his vanity, he was straight up a handsome man.

The tension between the two of you was at an all-time high, with both of you concentrating fully on the task at hand. You swore that he was stealing your breath away with every bite he took, and your heart fluttered. He was too good—was he actually going to win a kiss from you? It wasn’t like you had any complaints about giving him one silly kiss, but when he was this close, enough to make your cheeks heat up and your breath shake, it felt like your own mind was betraying you.

Another crunch only furthered the flustered thoughts in your brain. He was just a bite or two away, and when he glanced his azure eyes towards you, your head nearly went blank. He was a piece of shit, sure, but he was still pretty, and the intrusive thoughts practically yelling at you to simply take another bite and give in were almost deafening.

Kaiser took another bite, and that closed the distance between the two of you. You only had enough time to gasp and flicker your eyes up to his face, and before you knew it, the feeling of his plush lips on yours and his hands cupping your face was all you could register.

He kissed you.

A surprised, strangled cry bubbled up from the back of your throat before it died out. His cool fingers held your face in place, and you couldn’t help but melt into the touch a little. How could it be that his touches were so sweet when he was so prickly? The sugary taste of chocolate and biscuits lingered on the tip of your tongue, and when Kaiser sighed happily against your lips, all you wanted was for him to keep kissing you. 

His thumbs brushed across the apples of your cheeks. Mouths moving together, your heart hammered inside your chest. You knew that this wasn’t the first time that Kaiser somehow managed to stubbornly wiggle his way into your heart, and if the soft way he was kissing you was telling anything, it was that this wouldn’t be the last time either. He was kissing you like lovers would, so could you fault yourself for swooning and falling for him a little?

He pulled away before you could lean anymore forward, leaving you dazed and staring breathlessly into his eyes. The corners of his lips curled upwards into a snooty smirk. “...Looks like I did manage to win a kiss from you, darling. What do you think?”

“You’re insufferable, Kaiser,” you manage to eke out, wanting to turn away to hide your embarrassed face. Damn him and his charismatic ways! You wished he would disintegrate into nothingness right then and there. That would definitely solve so many of your problems.

He laughed heartily at your mousy comment. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

Heat flooded your face, but you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him. It was way too easy for him to play games with your heart, and it didn’t help knowing that he was so sincere about winning you over too. You were determined to make him prove that he was worth your time, but with every little interaction like this, you had to admit that your determination was crumbling bit by bit.

You cursed both your internal weakness and him for being the smooth talker he was. He was simply waiting for the right moment to pounce, to make you his and put an end to this back-and-forth, to make you his beloved partner, someone for him to dote on endlessly and to be doted on in return. 

“Well, if you aren’t sure…,,” Kaiser grinned at you like a smug cat, his deft fingers diving into the box to bring out another piece of unbroken pocky, “...How about another round of the pocky game then?”

Surely, that was an offer you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse.

x

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[metalomagnetic]

Voldemort meets Sirius.

He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot in the messy house.

The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.

The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.

“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”

The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.

He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.

They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.

Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, red head, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.

Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.

“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”

He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.

“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”

The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.

He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.

The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.

She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture this vulgar, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.

He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.

He finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls, instead.

The most amusing- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-

Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.

He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.

Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper article, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.

‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have to have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.

Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.

Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.

If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.

With love,

Your father.’

The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.

Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this event with the boy running away from Grimmauld.

Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.

The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.

Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.

His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.

Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hang-over potions, peppers up. Polyjuice.

Veritaserum.

Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.

If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.

And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.

This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.

Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”

It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.

When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise to find Voldemort there remarkably fast.

People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.

Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.

His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.

It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.

Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.

And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.

Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.

Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.

It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.

He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.

Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.

What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.

And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.

His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.

Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.

But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.

Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.

Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.

Voldemort will need a different approach.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicmas23 Day 10: Hybrid AU

Good evening! I had my first drink in a hot minute tonight and it has hit me like a battering ram, so we're doing this fast because I am definitely feeling the effects.

Tonight's is some old Hybrid; it'll be pretty obvious why this ended up being archived (and I honestly don't know if this counts as Hybrid or Hybrid baby-verse).

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

tw: mention of miscarriage

After the Cullens left, I was kind of at a loss. I know they hoped Bella and I would stick together, but that didn’t happen. 

Simon and Dad were sympathetic and let me mope around the house a bit. But I was exhausted. I was sleeping sixteen hours a day when I had the opportunity and still felt like I had pulled an all-nighter. My schoolwork was fairly average but enough that no one called Dad. I managed to scrape enough energy together to help plan Cynthia’s fifteenth birthday party, and then Thanksgiving. 

It was Christmas Day when I figured out what was wrong with me. I was exhausted all the time, and eating ridiculous amounts of food but still looked like a prisoner of war. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom, getting on the scales to find out that I’d lost another two pounds. Simon would notice soon, and I had no idea what to tell him. 

And then I spied Cynthia’s box of tampons on the shelf, and I had to brace myself on the counter for a moment. My period was a rare and unwelcome visitor, and hardly a trustworthy indicator of anything but... it made sense.

//

“Oh, Alice, honey, this arrived for you a couple of days ago,” Simon said, plucking a small box from under the tree. It was still in its mailing box, with my name and address typed on the label but no return address or indication of who it was from.

Inside was a small black jewelry box, and for a second, I thought perhaps Jasper had sent me something. I hoped he’d sent me something.  Even just a letter would have fixed everything.

I ripped into it, and the contents spilled into my lap, and it took me a moment to understand what I was looking at. It was a silver sun charm on a black ribbon, with smaller stars dotted along the band, though one was missing. 

It had been my mother’s. I remembered her wearing it; she'd never taken it off. I could see the stain of blood on the ribbon, the frayed edge where the knife bit into her, and for a moment, the room swam.

“Who is it from?” Dad asked curiously. 

I put the necklace down with shaking hands, trying hard to act normal, and plucked the card up. It was black too, with a white crest – the shield, candle, and compass of the Benoits, the Latin motto running along the bottom – Ex Deus Veritas. Truth in God, coined by the Order. 

On the back of the card, the message was short. 

Our best wishes of the season to you and your family, Mary-Alice. 

Meaning: we know where you and your family are. 

//

The bag I packed was like so many others. Basic, warm clothing; my first aid kit, a new phone I had bought in Port Angeles, money. I had ordered a ton of gift cards over the internet, since they weren’t traceable. Nothing sentimental was meant to come with me, but in the end, I saved a photograph of Jasper and I to my new phone.

And then I left Forks. 

//

it sounds all fun and luxurious to say I ran off to Hawaii. 

The truth was, Mexico would have been way better but with the vampire and Order problem down there, I chose the one place in America you are least likely to get cornered by a vampire: Hawaii. 

Specifically Paukaa, which was home to less than 600 people. I was nothing more than another post-high school traveler who decided to stay. I rented a tiny one-room place from a family and got a job at a café. It was quiet and safe and I settled into a mind-numbing existence. 

I hadn’t contacted anyone back in Forks or even checked my email. As far as everyone was concerned, Mary-Alice Brandon had disappeared for the last time – I half-hoped they’d declare me dead.

I was Mary Hale here. 

It was a little embarrassing, yes, taking Jasper’s fake surname, but it kept me hidden because I doubted anyone would think to run a search on that name. And none of the Cullens called me ‘Mary’ anyway. 

It had been a few months. The hardest. When the test came back positive, I had tried to find the Denali clan in Alaska, to pass on a message to the Cullens. To find help. 

I got close - so close. I made it to Anchorage after almost two weeks of traveling; I didn't have a lot of money, I didn't want my fake I.D. questioned too much, and I was terrified I was being followed and kept double-backing and waiting to throw any stalkers off my trail. I was pretty sick by then, but I was certain I would make it. Hell, I'd broken into the Cullens' before I'd left and found a map in Carlisle's study that had helped me narrow down the Denali home a lot. 

Then I woke up in the Anchorage ER with the news I’d collapsed on the street and miscarried. 

I didn’t know what to do with that information.

I probably should have gone home to Forks and my Dad and pretended it had never happened. Or actually tracked down the Denali clan and demanded they get me in contact with the Cullens anyway. But the Benoits knew where my family was, and I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to see anyone I knew before ever again. I didn’t want to look them in the eyes and have to explain everything. I didn’t want to be Alice Brandon anymore. 

So I didn’t. As soon as they released me from the hospital, I bought the first plane ticket to Hawaii. Actually, it was the next scheduled flight. They could have flown me to the moon, and I didn’t care. 

That had been in January. It was now August, and it seemed surreal to me now. It felt like a movie I’d watched. Sad, but distant. It was easier to pretend it had happened to someone else, and just focus on each day. I had enough problems to deal with - I still hadn't managed to gain back any weight, probably because I was a shitty cook living on a diet of orange juice and minute-ramen; I barely made enough to cover my cost of living and had no particular way of getting a better job; and I barely slept, plagued with nightmares.

And now I was dreaming again, the truth had slammed into my head. Bella was in so much danger. Victoria was coming for her with a newborn army, and the Cullens were long gone.

I couldn't stay away and let Bella die - let that newborn army descend upon Forks without warning.

If nothing else, I had to protect Bella. And my family. Worst-case scenario, I could trade myself for the safety of others. I could try and take Victoria, though she would most likely win, especially when I was so weak and out of shape. Death sounded very peaceful.

Maybe I’d see my baby there. And Mom. 

I didn’t tell anyone I was coming home. I told the café I had a ‘sick family member’, and I didn’t know if I’d be back. I gave the same story to the family I rented my place from. And then I packed up, bought the cheapest airline ticket I could get, and went home again. 

When I slept on the plane, I realized the Cullens had come back to Forks. Bella was better protected than I anticipated, but they still didn’t know what was coming for them. Not to mention the danger that Simon, Dad, and Cynthia were in.

//

I didn’t look like much. My hair was shorter than I had ever worn it, and I was the thinnest I had ever been - that was including the years I spent in the hospital and on the street. Dark circles had set up residence underneath my eyes.  I was wearing the only pair of jeans that I fitted me, and they were wearing thin. My sweater had shrunk, leaving a bare panel of skin between my waistband and the frayed hemline. And my sneakers were held together with hope and super glue. 

Rather than go home and deal with Simon and Dad, I went straight to the Cullens. 

It was Esme who opened the door, blinked and gasped, pulling me into a hug I couldn’t return. 

“Oh, Alice, where have you been?” Esme pulled away, smoothing my hair back from my face. “We’ve all be so worried! Come in, Jasper is going to be over the moon to see you.”

I managed a quivering smile as Esme drew me into the house, into the living room where everyone was gathered, everyone’s eyes on me.

“Alice…” Jasper went from standing in the corner to at my side, pulling me into his arms, my body stiff as I reluctantly curled against him, breathing in his scent of forest and books and something indistinguishably him. “Darlin’, where have you been?”

I just shook my head. If I spoke, I’d start crying and I’d never stop. When Jasper pulled away, he must have seen that in my face and reached up to cradle my cheek. “Are you alright?” he murmured and I let out a shuddering breath.

“You’re in danger,” I managed, pulling away from Jasper reluctantly. “Victoria is returning, she’s in the area and she has her eye on Bella. And the Benoits are coming – to destroy you, the Quiluetes, and my family.”

An hour later, Esme had put a plate of food in front of me, looking worried. I was eating, my stomach twisting at the invasion of food that wasn't bought at a convenience store.

The pasta was good, but I couldn’t enjoy it. 

//

Dad and Simon had been so grateful that I was home, there were no questions or accusations. Just more food, a shower, and bed. Simon had checked on me half a dozen times, looking so worried. 

I slept badly, shallowly, my dreams twisted around the baby, the hospital. Terror and pain that I didn’t know were memories or imagined suffering. I dreamt of blood and misery, and woke up screaming twice – the first time, I wasn’t even awake when Dad came in to try and sooth me; I woke up with him half-rocking me, smoothing my hair back and trying to calm my sobs and screams. 

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. 

“I wish I had died,” I sobbed, half-asleep.

“Oh, honey, don’t ever say that,” Dad said. 

He managed to get me back to sleep, my hair sticking to my clammy face, before I woke up screaming again, and Simon managed to get me to take something, leaving me in a soupy state that at least kept me quiet so everyone else could sleep. 

I didn’t stir again til nearly dawn, my dreams blood-splattered and full of desperation. The drugs left me boneless and vulnerable, and when I finally opened my eyes, I couldn’t scream or call for help or do anything but lie there, staring at the ceiling. My hand lay on the pillow beside me, but I stared at it as if it wasn’t even mine. 

I ended up dozing a little; clearly enough that my visions kicked in – I could see Carlisle, Esme, and Jasper arriving at the house, Dad and Simon looking grim. Well, Dad looked miserable and old. Simon had this professional nurse ‘this is bad’ face on. 

“How is she?” Carlisle asked, after they were invited in.

“Broken,” Dad murmured, looking worn out and distressed. 

“Screaming night terrors,” Simon clarified, putting his arms around my father’s shoulders. “I ended up giving her some Valium – we’d get her back to sleep, and minutes later, the screaming would start again.”

“You drugged her?” Jasper demanded, a dangerous look in his eyes. 

“We didn’t have a choice. It was Valium or I called 911,” Simon said gently. “I couldn’t treat someone for trauma in my own house at midnight. Hell, I couldn’t treat someone for trauma without a doctor present. The Valium prescription was one of Alice’s when she arrived. And she needed sleep.”

“She kept telling us she wished she had died,” Dad added. “Over and over again. It’s all she would say.”

Esme and Carlisle looked shaken, but Jasper had just shut down entirely. 

//

I managed to drag myself out of bed, and into the shower, but eschewed clothing for a clean pair of pajama bottoms and tee, running my fingers through my hair. It needed to be washed.

My chest felt tight as I sat down in front of the food Simon had made for me. Simon was still cooking, with Dad, Carlisle, Esme, and Jasper gathered around the island with me.

I felt hollow and exhausted as I considered the plate of fruit and yogurt, along with two slices of toast. I managed a small bite and felt the cool cloud of Jasper’s gift seeping into myself, not bothering to resist. 

“Where have you been, Alice?” Dad asked gently.

I flinched, and then rearranged my expression again, poking some melon with my fork. “Away,” I said softly. “Somewhere safe.”

“You weren’t safe here?” Simon asked. 

I brought another bite of food to my mouth to avoid answering the question; I didn’t want to say it, but they were all watching me. 

“Not anymore. Not after Christmas,” I mumbled into my fruit. 

Finally, I gave up. I got up and left the table, padding up to my bedroom, where my backpack was. The folded piece of paper was filthy and crumpled, but still legible, thankfully. 

No one was expecting me to return to the kitchen, clearly. I slid the folded paper across to Simon and Carlisle. 

Jasper would be disgusted with me. That I’d only gotten sick because he’d left me and I had been trying to find them when they didn’t want to be found. I always knew I was twisted up and ruined inside, thanks to Mommy Dearest, but this was the proof. I had had an opportunity to give Jasper the one impossible thing, and I had fucking failed. 

I missed him, I needed him. He was my other half, the lost fragment. And in two short steps, I was curled in his rather startled arms, my face half-buried in his shirt.

It took Simon and Carlisle only a moment to decipher the medical shorthand, and Simon looked up at me in horror. Carlisle just looked so sad. I let out a shuddering breath, breathing in Jasper’s scent, and waited. 

“Oh, kiddo,” Simon said, looking heartbroken. “Alice, why didn’t you tell us?”

“What?” Dad said, squinting at the paper. 

“Alice, have you seen a doctor since?” Carlisle asked kindly. I shook my head. 

“Okay, you need to be checked out, as soon as possible,” he said.

//

I didn’t have any energy left, and went back upstairs. It felt like cheating, to have Carlisle and Simon to tell everyone, to do my dirty work. But the idea of voicing those thoughts, those words, made my stomach twist tightly. 

My bed was cool and smelt like home. It was good to be here, to be back. That was what I was telling myself.

[micalpixel]

May Game - December 2024 Progress Report

Another month, another game dev update post on my game featuring my character, May!

Last time, I noted that the game was playable from start to finish, in terms of who to talk to and where to go. But there were no enemies or puzzles, and the game needed them.

Puzzles

I added our first puzzle object: torches that could be lit and extinguished. Each one could trigger a script to cause things to happen depending on which torches are lit. Needs better graphics, but the mechanic works. I'm not sure if I'll add other kinds of puzzle objects for this game. I want it to be small in scope, and I think these torches already have a lot of potential to keep things interesting.

(View Video)

Enemies

The game's first enemy was added, and is in a pretty polished state. It can force the player to respawn, or be itself respawned, if it is spawn-camping. It can move around, will stop and watch the player if they're nearby, and has an idle jumping animation. It's cuter now than its initial concept, which had more of a horror-alien vibe, which felt out of place in a cozy game.

(View Video)

Other Additions

May (the protagonist) got "dying" and respawning animations in which she sinks into/rises up from the ground. Her other animations also got some minor touch-ups (hair is more animated, arms are less stiff).

An overlay (or "vignette") was added which features blue and black sludge, and is shown when the player is dying/respawning to communicate that the protagonist cannot currently be controlled.

Map transitions were added. Previously, all map changes happened instantly. But now, there are two. One for smoothly scrolling to an adjacent area. And an iris effect for entering/leaving buildings.

(View Video)

Dialogue boxes can now contain more than 2 lines of text, and will scroll to reveal more text.

A slow-tile was added, which reduces player speed.

I removed all the "front door" objects inside buildings. Now, maps can instead indicate which sides are "doors", triggering an iris effect when May touches them. Basically overriding the adjacent-map behavior in overworld maps.

Lots of code consolidation and bug fixes. In particular, May now inherits from the same base class as almost all other objects, meaning a lot less code duplication.

Games I've Beaten this Month

Donkey Kong Country Returns (Wii) - An excellent 2D platformer and a great successor to Donkey Kong Country. The game has many levels of challenge for all kinds of players. You can just complete the levels. OR also get the KONG letters. OR also get the puzzle pieces. OR Complete the time trials - bronze, silver or gold. And then finally mirror levels. Whatever your skill level, you'll find a sweet spot that's not too easy and not too difficult. It's great.

Lost in Shadow (WiiWare) - A very unique puzzle game that involves manipulating 3D space in order to alter the 2D shadows they cast, which you can actually traverse. Later on, you'll find levels that have you climbing large 3D objects where you must alter light sources to jump between four different shadow-objects it cases, plus navigating its 3D space as well. The platforming and swordplay felt like the original 2D Prince of Persia games. The atmosphere felt a lot like Ico. Fascinating puzzles, though I do wish the game had fewer mandatory levels and more optional ones, due to how large and numerous they are.

Secrets of Grindea - I played this one co-op with my brother. If you like Secret of Mana, and you love spell and ability customizations, and are prepared for some challenging bullet-hell boss fights, then you'll enjoy this too. Every single character in the game has a full character portrait, which is a nice touch and rare sight to see.

Next Steps

I have begun working on other enemy designs. This is going to be a small game. But still, I have some ideas for synergy with puzzle objects that should make things a bit more interesting. Once all the enemy and puzzle mechanics are thought out, I'll be in a better position to start designing actual rooms.

Closing

I joined the Bluesky social networking site at the end of November, and have been posting a lot of clips and such to Bluesky since this month started. I like the format. Game dev can often require a lot of work for even small features. Having a platform that's great at sharing small things has been very nice. It's also been great being able to connect with so many other devs and see what they're working on. Lots of neat and inspiring things here. Bluesky has been great! (And my Steam wishlist has gotten a lot longer in the past month!)

So, this is the last dev log for 2024, so it feels appropriate to put something to summarize the year, too.

Work on this game began on May 1, 2024. At the time, I had no experience with Godot. I'd never used a game engine, and I'd never released a game of my own. It's been a thrilling eight months. Not without some low points. But my enthusiasm for this project is still just as high as it was at the start, if not higher. I'm so happy to be making this game! And I want 2025 to be the year that I finish it. That's it. That's my #1 goal for the year.

Thanks for your interest and support! Happy New Year, and I'll see you in January!

[hanhii]

“I’m living very close to a lake in Denmark. And one day there was a very heavy fog. And it was a day of loneliness for me so I wanted to be alone. So, I walked into the fog and found a bench at the edge of the lake where I had been sitting often, meditating. And I sat down on that bench speculating about whether I had accomplished something with the books or whether they had been in vain. And after a few minutes I became aware that on the other end of the bench a very young man was sitting. And he must have come, like I, knowing the place and not really looking because you couldn’t see more than a meter in front of you, so he hasn’t seen me.

And after a while he started humming a tune. And then I became somehow scared because the tune was this one [hums Mozart’s Bona nox! bist a rehcta Ox, K. 561], and it’s a lullaby written by Mozart, but it’s very rarely played. And he still hadn’t seen me and then he started to sing. And then I grew really afraid because what he was singing was this, [lyrics from Mozart’s Bona nox! bist a rechta Ox, K. 561], and this is the only text known that Mozart himself wrote. It's a kind of nonsense consisting of the languages he learned.

And then I had to say, ‘ahem’ and he got a shock!

And I said, “Excuse me, I have to ask you, are you from Copenhagen? Because… I mean this song, my father used to sing to me every night before I went to sleep with exactly these words.” And he looked at me and he said, “Yes. I live just here in number fifteen.”

But I mean, we were sitting by the lake in the countryside, there is no number fifteen. There is just woods behind me. So I said, “Where do you think this place is?”

And he said, “Well, this is Overgaden Neden Vandet, this is the street where I was born and I live just here, in number fifteen”, where I grew up.

And then I said to him, “Then you must be Peter Høeg. And I too am Peter Høeg .” And then he looked at me and I said to myself, this is a joke someone is pulling, and I looked into his eyes and then I saw the fear. He was afraid of the same thing, that someone had pulled a joke on him.

So, then he said, “If you think you are the real Peter Høeg , then tell me something about our parent’s apartment that only we know.”

And I said, “Well, in my father’s room there’s this floor of oak, polished once a year. And in my mother’s room, there’s an African mask hanging over a table. A mask that must never be sold but only given away.”

And then he said scornfully, “Anyone who had visited the apartment would know that.”

But I said, “Then listen, inside your room there’ll be this box of metal, and it’s closed and inside that is a letter from a girl explaining how you remove this stone you carry around your neck before you make love. So, the stone will not hit her.” And then I saw in his eyes the fear that I felt myself for some kind of hallucination, a psychosis. Both he and I knew we couldn’t settle the question because the fog was so dense, there was no way.

So, he said, “How will you explain if you were Peter Hoeg, that you forgot, that you, many years ago, met an older man who said he was you?” And then I could see the time loop and I had no answer.

And I said, “…Do you want to know, something about your life, what is going to be?” And he didn’t answer, but I knew it was yes, and I said, “Our father died four years ago, and he died with dignity, the same way he has lived. And our mother still lives and is very strong.” And then I could see that he was going to ask about my younger brother but stopped. And I knew it was because he knew the answer would have been sorrowful. My brother committed suicide just a year before that.

So, I said, “Have you written your first novel?” and he just blushed, and I knew he had, and he hadn’t told anybody. And I said, “Well, you’re going to write novels which will all more or less be variations over that first novel.” And I was pleased he didn’t ask about the success or failure of his books.

And he said, “What about the world?” And I said, “Well, everything that is a disaster around you has become worse. Because nobody has done anything.”

And I looked at him and I felt the same love as I later should feel for my own son. And I could see the pain in front of him and I wanted to relieve some of it, to make it easier for him. I wanted to tell him something about the importance of love, or something like that. Then I could just see his stubbornness and I knew I wouldn’t reach him, and I couldn’t spare him anything of what was waiting for him. And then he just stood up.

But then he said, “There’s something I want to give you”, and he let something fall to my palm. It was gold coin and I recognized immediately it was a ten crown piece of gold that went out of circulation a few years before I was born and that was my luck coin until I lost it sometime in the beginning of my twenties. And then, he was gone.

And I sat on the bench for maybe a quarter of an hour and then I knew I wouldn’t dare to keep the coin, so I just threw it out into the fog and there was a splash, and I knew it disappeared on the bottom of the lake. And then slowly, I walked back and found the path and walked back home. And I have never seen him since.”

-- Peter Høeg, 2015. Yle

[oktorpg]

The Diary of John Murphy - Solo by John Murphy

Entry One

〄 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 𝙈𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙮

╰ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵇʸ: @ToldUIdSurvive

   ╰ ᵀⁱᵐᵉˡⁱⁿᵉ: YEAR 2150

      ᵃⁿ @OsoKikThruOgeda  ˢᵗᵒʳʸ

     ╰ᴸᵒᶜᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ: ᴇʟɪɢɪᴜꜱ ɪᴠ

I was sat at the table in the room that I shared with #Luna and #Emori. The notebook that Doc Lite had given me sat on the table. The slightly shiny Eligius IV logo winked up at me in the harsh lights. How the hell did you even start one of these stupid things? On the rare  occasion that farm station was granted a movie night I had heard about the idea of keeping a journal on paper. In the Sky Box, I knew it was one of the favourite therapy methods of the doctor treating the really crazy inmates… But they were digital, audio or video. I guess I was one of them now. But at least I was no longer an inmate.

#Jackson had told me to just start. I flipped open the notebook and picked up the pen.

I tried to remember why I was doing this… for Raven; so I could keep my arse out of lockup long enough to see her truly happy  (for more than a moment)… for #Luna and #Emori so they didn’t have to see me like that again. “Raven…” I muttered her name and remembered everything we had been through.

Then I wrote:

“Dear Raven.”

That was less crazy than Dear Dairy. My handwriting looked like  it belonged to a child. But it wasn’t like we had much occasion to write on paper on the Ark. I was typing long before I ever used a stylus on a screen to learn how to form the letters by hand. But paper… I’d never even seen it until I found the books in #Becca’s bunker.

There was a library on the Ark… but everything was in oxygen-sealed chambers you had to get approval to access it. It all seemed like a lot of work, so I had never bothered.

‘Just start.’ Jackson had said. So, I wrote again.

“So, I started… Now what?”

Then I stared at the page for who knows how long.

Entry Two

〄 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 𝙈𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙮

   ╰ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵇʸ: @ToldUIdSurvive

     ╰ ᵀⁱᵐᵉˡⁱⁿᵉ: YEAR 2150

        ᵃⁿ @OsoKikThruOgeda ˢᵗᵒʳʸ

      ╰ᴸᵒᶜᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ: ᴇʟɪɢɪᴜꜱ ɪᴠ

       ╰ᴱⁿᵗʳʸ:2

I was sat in the canteen, feeling…. Hell… good? Is that what this was? The notebook sat open on the table, my first ridiculous entry staring back at me. I was sure this wasn’t the kind of thing that #DrJackson had in mind for my therapy. But at least it was a start.

I stopped spinning my pen between my fingers and wrote:

“Dear Raven,

I feel… weird today. And a little hungover, are you sure that ice cream stuff didn’t have alcohol in it?”

I laughed and scratched my forehead with the pen. That stuff gave a mega energy boost and then it  just… crashed.

“It’s a good weird though. Like I finally got some sleep. Did you feel the same way? Did you sleep better too? Or was that just me? I hope not, I hope you slept too and feel better. I know it has something to do with you… Like on the island, maybe. We were  so used to each other's company, that maybe it just felt a little more like home, being together. I don’t know. But… I don’t ever remember you taking my hand before falling asleep…

Maybe it was just the ice cream… ”

I sighed and closed the book. I had to stop… I needed to be happy with having her in my life at all… wanting more always led to pain. And I knew the pain of losing her, that was unacceptable.

TBC...

https://x.com/ToldUIdSurvive/status/1703188954520977820?s=20

[josephbrassey]

On Liechtenauer, Martial Arts, and a specific definition of winning.

To love for a lifetime is to fall in and out of infatuation. To see faults and determine to continue to put in the effort. It is to find yourself exasperated by the flaws in the place your affection is vested, only to come around again and remember where that love grew from to begin with. This essay is going to be about HEMA generally, about Kunst des Fechtens specifically, and about old books and why I don’t think anything passed down can belong to you.

This essay is going to be a series of disjointed thoughts that may or may not tie together at the end. There will be no citations, no references to specific pieces of text to prove a point. I’m not going to back anything up with data, and I’m not going to point to a specific part of something written and say “this is proof of what I mean.” This is no more and less than one person’s opinion, based purely on feelings and experience and anecdotes, for whatever that’s worth to the reader.

I have three books in my office that are over one hundred years old. Of these, one is a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. It does not actually belong to me, but it was loaned by a friend who moved out of state before I could give it back. It is beautiful and thought provoking, but—and this will be relevant later—it does not actually belong to me. It’s on-loan, even if that loan is extended. The second of these books is a copy of the collected poetry of Sir Walter Scott. I have not read it, mostly because I am afraid that it will fall apart if I flip too thoughtlessly through its pages. I found it at an antique store ten years ago, and I did not realize how precious it was until I got home, where I discovered a letter from a father to his daughter written in the early 1900’s, and a perfectly preserved rose pressed between the pages. I do not want to damage either, so I keep them where I found them. They are in my keeping, but like the first book, they do not feel like mine.

The third book is a copy of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. I had a weird introduction to this book, which I have also read many times. When I was seventeen I was standing in a grocery aisle in Oregon, looking at beer that I couldn’t legally drink yet. Out of the blue, an old man I had never met approached me and started quoting from the poems. I don’t remember exactly what stanza—I think it was one of the ones warning people about drinking too much—but it stuck in my head and over the years I have acquired multiple copies, though none are as rare as this one. Even though I found it in a box of old books a friend had in their trunk, this one, like all the others, feels like a gift that I need to safeguard, until someday I give it to someone else.

I do not think that old things truly belong to us. Especially not those that have been passed down, and I think that treating them like possessions to be altered or discarded at will is a very consumerist way of thinking about things that should have more value. Especially when those things were created with blood, sweat, and tears, and when their existence was paid for in lives. Even if those lives were ended a long time ago. Even with treasured family heirlooms or old things that we stumble across, we are far more transient than they are, and at most we only keep them for a little while.

I started studying HEMA in 2008 with Fiore, and I transitioned to training Kunst des Fechtens exclusively in 2015. Liechtenauer’s art occupies a strange space, as far as Martial Arts go. Like the majority of earlier HEMA sources, it does not possess a living lineage of teacher-to-student transmission. What we have as practitioners is a series of texts expressing common principles and techniques, with only hints and bits of secondary and primary sources that offer suggestions as to the traditions that surrounded these arts when they were living. Because we are working to recreate this art from what has been left to us, it is easy to imagine that what we are creating is wholly new and our own, and that we have the right to make it our own. It is a common sentiment in many modern martial arts that the goal of training is to create a fighter whose deepest skill is expressed by the number of wins in competition and freeplay, however that’s defined. A not uncommon line of thought in many HEMA circles, including ones to which I am very close, is that creating great fencers, great fighters, is the primary purpose of our study. In some cases the only purpose.

I don’t really think that way. I used to, or at least I used to think that I should, but I don’t anymore.

What distinguishes Liechtenauer from other sources for me is the same thing that changed how I look at HEMA and functionally at Martial Arts in general. More than a set of techniques, more than the Five Words or the Haupstuck themselves, it is a system that teaches understanding of its subject material in a very layered way. I know consensus on this isn’t settled, but it’s always been my impression that the Zettel and several of the glosses are laid out in deliberate manner where techniques are unpacked in order to express the principles that they are trying to teach. Each section goes on to break down multiple ways to express the principle, and then the next section begins to unpack the next principle that the student will most benefit from learning in that order.

This layering of concept on top of concept, with later sections closing the loops that earlier ones began, immediately caught my attention, and years later it still has a hold on me. I think there is something deeply useful about the style of teaching that feels implicit in the text. We’re missing big parts, obviously, in-person pedagogy and the associated traditions that were associated with how the art was transmitted directly from teacher to student, but you can infer a lot from the structure of the texts. One of the things that stands out to me is that these aren’t just a formula for learning a martial art, but an expression of the writer’s understandings of how to learn to begin with.

And ultimately it has been this idea of understanding, itself, that’s come to shape how I think about not just Kunst des Fechtens, not just HEMA, but just about everything I approach in my life. The longer I do this, the less I give a shit about winning anything. The less I care about competing, or proving, or demonstrating the worth and value of this art. Some of that might be burnout, but I think the lion’s share of it is that as I’ve gotten older the value of what I’m doing has started to feel self-evident. This is something that, despite its severed lineage, was once a carefully guarded secret, an artform by which people lived and died. I don’t intend to wax romantic or melodramatic, but that weight means something. Immense and broad efforts were made through it’s two-century history to preserve and proliferate Liechtenauer’s art, and even though those works ultimately failed and the tradition died out, I feel strongly that those of us working with its remnants today owe it to the memory and spirit of those distant humans to respect the drops of blood and sweat staining the pages they wrote. The best way to honor this for me is to look at what they left behind, and dedicate my effort to understanding.

I talked earlier about how old things don’t belong to us. How what is old and has been passed down is on-loan, at least in an ideal world, because we are not its owners, but its caretakers. Through understanding, the Liechtenauer you study becomes not something you simply absorb and use as you choose, but a reframing of your mind that reshapes and reorganizes the flow of your thoughts. The ceiling on what a person can come to understand is so much higher than the accomplishments that are directly limited by physical health, age, ability, and athleticism. You can only win for so long, but your ceiling for deepening your learning is—if you’re lucky—limited only by your lifespan. Via this, the art expresses itself more and more through not only our arms and hands, but through how we think and feel and breathe. I don’t believe that any art-form can be grasped without allowing it to alter the fabric of which you’re stitched together, and when understood this way, not only does the art not belong to you, but it can’t.

Because the art expresses itself through you. You belong to it. It’s passing through you as you live your life, like the old books that come into your keeping to safeguard.

Until such time as you have to pass them on to someone else.

[kenmolly]

"that's all for today's lesson, class dismissed." the teacher said. you slowly stepped out of your daydream bubble, finally realizing it's lunchtime. grabbing your wallet, you slowly walk out of the classroom and towards the vending machine as the cold air hits your skin gently.

it's raining, but it isn't loud, or heavy. it's soft, gentle, soothing. oh, how you love this weather. the rain feels like gentle snow, prettily decorating the cloudy sky. you're at the less crowded place; your favorite place in the school. liking to spend the time by yourself, with nobody disturbing the peace.

you're now holding your favorite drink and food, ready to sit down but something in the corner of your eye caught your attention. 'a letter?' you thought as you reached out for the beautifully decorated paper. it's rose pink, hand-drawn roses decorating every corner of the card. 'it even smells like.. cologne? oh, this smells nice..'

the cologne smells light and clean. it's not like the other cologne that smells heavy to the point where it irritates your nose. it's airy, natural, so addicting.

your tongue swirled the straw around in your mouth as you sat down, opening the card, and there reveals a whole message written in beautiful handwriting. it reads:

to: L/N Y/N.

wonderful weather, isn't it? ah, how I wonder how would it feel to enjoy it together with you. your presence has caught my attention, and you somehow became the only person I always think about.

yes.. this is a confession letter. but.. i find myself too ashamed to reveal myself or confess to you face to face. so, to answer my confession, I have given you two hints on finding me. you have a week; if you manage to find me within the time limit, I'll take it as you accept my confession. but if it's past the time limit and you never confronted me.. that will mean that you reject me.

that's all, have a marvelous day ahead. ♡

sign, KM. T.

"KM. T. ? i wonder who it is.. so a hint is found. i wonder which is the othe-" the bell interrupts you talking to yourself. you groaned, standing up from the bench and heading towards your class, throwing the beverage box along the way.

a few classmates invited you to play some games after the teacher was announced absent, but you refuse. you laid your hand on your arms and thought about the letter you received earlier. you want to figure out who was it as soon as possible, and reject them if it wasn't him.

'roses, the color pink, cologne, the message.. which could it be? it doesn't seem to have a riddle or something.. the color pink and roses probably just represents love.. so it only leaves the cologne that's sprayed on the letter. the cologne.. oh, that's right. people rarely spray colognes or perfumes onto the letter, there must be a reason if they do so.'

you quickly sat up and eyed every student in the class, a light bulb went off in your head. 'that's it! it must be the cologne that they wear! someone's name that starts with K, and they wear this cologne daily.'

you stood up and left your seat, passing by the students in your class with the name that starts with a K, but no luck. their cologne wasn't the same as the one on the letter. out from class, at the book store, at the library.. none of them was the right one.

the search went on for days, and the last day of the time limit arrives without you noticing. groaning, you kick the wall out of frustration, leaving shoe marks everywhere. why were you so frustrated? well.. the cologne is very, very familiar. chatting sounds slowly approached you; there were three people.

"oh come on! it's sold out again?! this school sucks!" his voice was rough and raspy; sounds like inosuke. he sounds pissed, guess his favorite food sold out again.

"can you quit shouting? my ears are hurting because of you! don't you know how sensitive my ears are?" a slightly high-pitched voice hissed; sounds like zenitsu. poor him, always needing to deal with inosuke's shouting despite having sensitive ears.

"hey hey, calm down you two. let's not fight, alright? I'll make you some tempura later at my house, alright? now please lower your voice, it might damage zenitsu's ears." the voice was soothing; sounds like tanjiro. as expected, it's the famous trio that everyone was having a crush on.

'wait, t-tanjiro?! he's coming my way? well fuck-'

"hm? oh, y/n! it's you! surprise to see you here!" tanjiro waved at you, his warming smile melting your heart. you cleared your throat, moving your attention to something else, embarrassed.

"u-uh.. yeah.. hi?" oh, how you wanted to slap yourself so hard. tanjiro chuckled, a light smell of cologne slides passes your nose. 'could it.. be..?'

"oi, you! i see that you have tempura! are you gonna eat that?" inosuke points at your lunchbox that's filled with tempura you bought.

"uh.. yeah?"

"well, who cares, give me that!" he snatches your lunchbox, stuffing every piece of food into his mouth like there's no tomorrow. you sigh, guess no more food for you. a hand is suddenly placed on your head, gently patting it.

"I'm.. so sorry about him. i have some extra sandwich here, want some?" tanjiro offers you a sandwich, his smile never leaving that beautiful face of his.

"sure.. but before that," tanjiro hums, confusion lingers in his eyes as he waits for you to continue.

"are you the one who sent the letter? with the cologne that's similar to yours?" silence. tanjiro was silent for a whole minute before letting out a nervous chuckle, hand scratching the back of his head.

"haha.. guess you found me. yes, yes I am." he places his hand down and continued, "do you-"

"I accept it."

"huh?"

"I said, I accept your confession," you look at him, face starting to burn but you didn't let that stop you from looking at him straight in the eyes.

"o-oh! really? ah.. I'm so happy.." that smile and laugh, his little cheer.. how could they be so cute?

"oh before I forgot, come to my house after school! the other two will be there too, I'll make you some tempura as well." tanjiro quickly scribbles down his address on a paper and gave it to you as the bell rang. he waves at you walk away with zenitsu and inosuke, turning around one last time before going up the staircase that leads to his class.

"don't forget about it, okay? see you after school!"

© cara (@kenmolly). all rights reserved. please refrain from reposting, plagiarizing, translating, or reproducing my work in any form possible.

[reidsnose]

love letters

overview: spencer has a wonderful idea after finding out that reader had never gone to her senior prom

genre: fluff fluff fluff

a/n: i mixed two ideas that have been sitting in my notes app for this lol but i think its sweet!! i wrote it a little rushed and definitely not bc im not getting a prom this year due to miss rona👀 LMAO but as always please lmk what yall think ab it :)

masterlist

-

the idea had fully occupied his thoughts the second after the words left your mouth.

it was "the buttcrack of dawn" as you had called it, though spirits were high on the late jet ride home. it was a rare but much needed positive end to the case, and everyone was happily chatting with each other. since the case was involving high schoolers, the subject fell on prom. everyone went around sharing their prom stories one by one, recalling awful dresses and questionable dates til the questions turned to spencer.

"what ab you, pretty boy, what was your prom like?" morgan asked, still smiling widely from recalling his own.

you watched spencer shift uncomfortably for a second.

"i uh..i never went to prom." he stammered, a tight lipped smile on his face.

"no! you just dont wanna tell us!" prentiss cried, throwing her hands in the air.

"i graduated high school when i was 12! why would i have gone to prom?" he reasoned.

"you had to have gone when you were older or something! everyone has!" jj countered.

"thats not true, i never went to prom either," you defended, subconsciously inching closer to spencer.

before anyone could even ask you to explain why, spencer got the idea. he mentally left the conversation after you gave your answer. he spent the whole rest of the ride home and the next couple of weeks brain storming and planning.

and casually after work one day, as he was walking you to your car, he asked you if you wanted to hang out with him that weekend; at his house.

you and Spencer had hung out before, but mostly at your house or at coffee shops; he didn't invite people over very often.

of course you agreed but you grew confused when he told you to dress fancy.

you raced home afterwards to raid your closet, looking for any fancy dresses you may have stuffed in there.

spencer spent the whole day preparing his apartment. he put up streamers and balloons. he made a playlist of all your favorite songs. and then he rushed to get his clothes from the cleaners.

and when you knocked at his door the breath that left your lungs struggled to come back after he opened the door.

he stood in a gorgeous suit, different than he had ever worn to work. he rubbed the back of his neck and gestured to the living room, revealing the adorable (albeit poorly made but its the thought that counts) decorations.

"um.. welcome to prom," he said, turning back to you, revealing a blushy smile.

he tried not to stare too much at you, but it was difficult. your eyes sparkled as you stepped inside and looked around. and the dress you were wearing fit you so gorgeously he truly couldnt take his eyes off of you.

"spencer, i..." you trailed off, enchanted by what he had done.

"sorry if it looks bad. or if you think its weird that i did this. i just thought cause neither of us went to prom maybe you wanted to have a little one with me? yeah now that i say it out loud maybe you hate it im sorr-" he rambled behind you.

you turned quickly to him as he got lost in his words, eyes glued to the floor. cutting him off by wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him as tight as you could. you could feel the tension leave his body as he melted into the embrace, returning it gladly. he doesn't like to be touched by anyone really, except for you.

"i love it. thank you," you whispered, giving him one last squeeze before letting go.

he has a spread of snacks lying out on the coffee table which he has mooved to the corner of the room to make space for a makeshift dancefloor.

he turns on the music and you two start talking and dancing and laughing. two fools with four left feet completely and obliviously in love. well, oblivious the the other anyway.

a slower song came on, an old one that you had wanted to slow dance to ever since you were a little girl. and somehow naturally you two came together, his hand dropped to your waist, the other delicately cradling your own. your other hand found its way up to his shoulder, feeling as though a magnet was pulling you two closer. and closer.

he looked absolutely stunning. the soft lights he had strung around the apartment sparkled like stars in his eyes; its was...dizzying, in the most incredible way.

unbeknownst to you, as you stared at the stars in his eyes he was looking at his whole world that he had been somehow lucky enough to hold in his arms.

he held his arm out, allowing you to spin and when he pulled you back both of your arms ended up wrapped around his neck, and his around your waist. you were less dancing now and more...hugging. with your head pressed to his chest, he hoped with all his might that you wouldn't be able to hear his hammering heart. you most definitely could, but it was calming to know he was as nervous as you were. you smiled, listening more to his heart than the music he had played for you.

you were both sure that you could burst from pure bliss. the song ended a little too quickly for either of your liking and reluctantly you let go of each other. and suddenly Spencer was hit with the realization that he forgot something.

"oh my gosh," his eyes widened as he looked around the room.

"what?" you asked, mirroring him and looking as well.

"i can't remember where i left your corsage! i was gonna give it to you at the door but i forgot!" he exclaimed, running around the room checking shelves.

you smiled to yourself. he got you a corsage!

"ill help you look" you decided.

"please do," he chuckled.

"i thought you had an eidetic memory, shouldn't you know where you left it?" you joked, shooting him a smug smile.

"y/n, my brain was all jumbled to day and it wasn't just from being around you," he realized what he had said and quickly turned back to the shelf he was looking at, "could you check in my room please?"

his heart was racing at his own stupidity; how could he just say that so nonchalantly? he had been planning to tell you that he liked you for the longest time he cant afford slipping up and having it be anything less than perfect.

you slipped into his room, your cheeks warm from the idea that you make his big brain all jumbled. he probably didn't mean it like that, you were just looking too much into it.

you sighed as you crouched to look under his bed for it. you found a small wooden box that you slid out from underneath. it had your name on it.

is it normal to keep a corsage in a wooden box? you wouldn't know, you never went to prom.

you shrugged your shoulders, "i found it spence!"

with out thinking you opened the box, except instead of a band of flowers you were greeted with letters, all addressed to you. there were annotations written in the margins with purple ink. you furrowed your eyebrows as you scanned the various letters.

dear y/n,

today you complimented my glasses and my heart skipped a beat. thats dumb spencer dont start like that

dear y/n,

im in love with you. too forward

dear y/n,

you make life worth living. shes gonna think youre a creep

you felt a rush of euphoria fill your chest. did he really feel these things for you? your thoughts swirled in the most wonderful way. a wide smile broke across your face, butterflies running rampage through your stomach as you reread his words. his words addressed to you.

"oh thank God i really thought i lost-oh. oh no." spencer started as he walked through the door of his room immediately walking back out. you followed, blinking your watery eyes at him. "i can explain.

"i think youve explained enough, theres like 20 letters in here!" you chuckled, flipping through them.

"i didnt know how to tell you and i dont want to ruin what we already have and i-"

"it wasnt too forward." you stated, grabbing one of the letters.

"what?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"in this one," you held up the letter, "you wrote dear y/n, im in love with you. and then you crossed it out and wrote that it was too forward but i dont think it was."

"youre not mad?"

"mad? spencer ive been trying to admit the fact that im in love with you since i realized it myself, why would i be mad?"

"youre..you feel the same way?" he looked back up at you, a hesitant smile pulling on the corners of his lips.

"more so," you beamed, stepping closer.

he wrapped his arms around you, "thats good or else the rest of this prom would have sucked."

you chuckled, pulling him impossibly closer to you as another perfect song played.

-

-

ultra mega super cool taglist

@mac99martin @imhreid @spencersmagic @hollydaisy23 @raelady1184 @a-broken-pact @padfootswife @hey-there-angels @star-stuff-in-the-cosmos @sonnydoesrandomshit @averyhotchner @laurakirsten0502 @reidyoulikeabook @rem-ariiana @spencerreid9 @vampire-overlord @takeyourleap-of-faith @spenxerslut @violetspoetic @aperrywilliams @b-a-utiful @eevee0722 @srhxpci @reidemandweep @imdefinitelyfloating @random-human-person @gurkiloni @luvspence @calm-and-doctor @ssavanessa22 @singularityjc @sydnee-kom-spacekru @sydneekomspacekru

[grismavessel]

Hmm, Ingo giving Gris a gift or Gris giving Ingo a gift

(So I drew a comic, but then I wrote a blurb. You're getting a two-for-one deal!)

"Here, I made you a gift!"

"For me?" Ingo asked, standing dumbfounded as Gris held the present box up. Their smile widened even more, a dopey giddy grin on their face.

"Yea silly!" They pushed the box further towards him, Ingo happily accepting the gift. The neat box had been wrapped in a bow, Gris hovering over his shoulder, dying to see his partner's reaction. "So I found it in a time distortion, and I think it's from Unova!" They explained, excited to see if Ingo recognized it or not. They had spoken about one another origins, Gris seeing that most of the clues for Ingo pointing towards that region. Gris had gone trinket hunting and had gotten extremely lucky, dodging dangerous pokemon and lightning to scavenge the space altering event. Most of the time, it was for any lost snacks or something useful like tools and devices, but this time, Gris found something rather charming, and maybe, helpful for Ingo. It only took some minor alterations and the right measurements to make it look presentable.

"How wonderful!" Ingo's frown curled into a smile.

"Hurry! Try it on!" Gris hinted at what the item it could be.

He opened the box, Gris must have found it in a distortion as well, the bow being more decorative than the key to keeping the box sealed. Inside he spotted a necklace with a silver medallion sitting on top of some spare soft material. "Ooh! A necklace! I've been meaning to accessorize-" Ingo was very grateful for the gift, cherishing every little thing Gris brought to him but then something on the medallion stopped his speech.

In the fog of his mind, something stirred. Like a murky mirror still reflecting light, the details unclear but it shone brightly.

"Wait- I've seen this before," He realized, the haze lifting more. Taking the medallion out, he examined it. On the face was the depiction of an abstract shape, or perhaps a mechanical machine. Due to the limited space, it was unclear to an unsuspecting eye, but the letters next to it helped. 'R-V-F-W', the letters ringing a bell that he just could tell where it was coming from.

He remembered seeing this shape before, but not in such a small form but to scale, in real life. He remembered it because it had been so grand and astonishing. Breath-taking almost.

"It's unclear- but I've been here." He'd seen this somewhere. "A round metal machine for entertainment and joy," The feelings were coming back to him. He remembered slight fear, overflowing joy and laughter, seeing skylines drift below him. "Why do I know this?" He asked out loud, Gris watching him recover this memory.

He thought some more, clinging to the medallion and piecing the pieces together. Joy, excitement, calmness. Then boredom? He'd seen the machine far too many times it became a passing thing instead of exhilarating.

'They say it's the crown jewel of the city,' Ingo's body froze as he was taken back. This was rare, the times when he did remember a memory so vividly, it was almost like a walking dream, sometimes nightmares.

He was small, a child, a round cap one size to big for him on his head. He was staring up at a poster, the machine displayed on it with grand letters saying 'Fun!' emphasizing it. He couldn't describe the machine as fun anymore, he and someone else had ridden it far too much, the glow having dimmed.

He turned away from the poster, and there it was. The man in white that reflected him, only this time the same height, maybe the same age, or maybe not there at all. The image was still riddled with holes and gaps, again Ingo could not tell if it was truly someone else or himself there.

The other did not speak, but shrugged their shoulders before shaking his head.

'We both agree that ______ is the better place.' The words came out of his mouth, connecting to another memory, this one less clearer. It was a memory of a memory of a place, full of people from all walks of life. He'd seen them arriving and departing, moving in swelled waves and disappearing like tides. It was a marvelous place, or it at least felt like it.

And as suddenly as he'd been reminded of the lost memory, he was pulled back out of it by a voice.

"Ingo! You're crying!" Gris's face had appeared before him, soured and worried. Ingo had dropped the medallion at some point, his hands free to feel his wet face and that he was indeed crying.

He didn't feel sad however, in fact, he felt rather happy. Gris was reaching toward him, to wipe the tears from his tired face, but instead, Ingo moved first. He threw his arms around Gris, holding on as if he would slip away into another vivid dream.

"I'm alright," He told them, feeling a tear trickle down his face. "I remembered something fond just now," He didn't know why he thought of it as fond. It left him wondering who and what the memory was. When was it? And why? Didn't matter, at least not right now. "Thank you love," He thanked Gris for the gift of both a treasure and medallion. Slowly he felt them relax, their racing heat beat returning to normal, returning his embrace and nuzzling into his shoulder.

"You're welcome," Gris said with a shaky voice, never having seen Ingo reaction to positively to a newly found memory before.