#i might work fast but the bullet of inspiration works faste

[bigautomaton]

I hate how fast this came to me and I refuse to render it further

TMAGP 12

Alternate titles

Hey Alex, wtf man

Me When I Get My Hands On Shredded Mozz At 1:45AM

The Only Clubs I Know Have The John Wick Palette

[comicaurora]

Out of curiosity, how far ahead are you on the comic? I mean, you must have it all planned and written out, but I imagine that you are drawing the future of Aurora even while we're reading it.

So is Arc 2 already illustrated and ready for upload while you're on like Arc 5 or something? I'm by no means undermining your need for a break; I'm shocked that you've been uploading continuously for over 4 years at this point. I'm just interested to know how long it takes a person to make something this great. And also if you change any details in the final edit?

Basically: what's the workflow like?

Also I think you low-key inspired me to pick up painting as a hobby. I'm ready to pour so much money into creating things that I know I'll hate. :)

God, arc 5? That's a very generous assessment of how fast I can draw!

Typically, when the comic is updating regularly, I keep a buffer of 10 to 20 completed pages. Right now, in the interest of taking a break, the buffer is 0 completed pages.

Chapter 1 of Arc 2 is completely storyboarded, meaning it's sketched out, the dialog is all mostly finalized barring last-minute rephrasements, etc. It can be read in its current form, it just looks unpretty. In fact, just for fun, here's a sneak peek!

In the next month I'll go through and finalize as many pages from this chapter as possible - which means locking down the panel borders, fleshing out the backgrounds, lining, shading, coloring, polish, etc. - which will be the process of building up a new buffer for when the comic starts back up again in January. During that time, I'll also be storyboarding Chapter 2 and as much of the following parts as I can manage.

I have the next several chapters and sub-arcs planned out in loose timelines - event A happens at location B leading to consequences C and D, stuff like that. Chapter 2, being the closest, is a little more fleshed-out, with a more detailed bullet-pointed timeline and various character ideas I've had that might or might not make it into the final version.

What exactly the chapter breakdown is going to look like is a little more complicated. Initially I'd planned for Chapter 1 to be low-stakes downtime and Chapter 2 to quickly kick off the high-octane adventure again, but when I started bullet-pointing out the stuff I wanted to do in Chapter 2, I ended up with a big pile of slower-paced character moments I thought were well worth exploring, so the runtimes might stretch a little.

Translating those brainstormed notes into storyboards and dialog is what I would classify as the "writing" part of this process. It happens at an erratic pace largely determined by the whims of whatever muse decides to get me in a headlock that day; sometimes I go weeks with no storyboarding progress, sometimes I hammer out fifteen pages in one day.

It's kinda like weaving, to me. The soon-to-be-arriving parts of the story are the most finalized, the most densely woven. A little ways beyond that, things get looser - some patterns may be locked down, but the actual work that'll hold it together hasn't been done yet. And in the far-flung future arcs, it's just the basic bones of the story and a pile of the threads I've planned to use. I know the shape of it, but in order for it to be fun and engaging for me to make it, I need to give myself room to be creative when I'm putting the whole thing together.

I actually have a file called the "Toolbox" that contains every random character or subplot idea I've had, and sometimes when I'm debating where to go with a chunk of story, I'll crack it open and scan through to see if anything jumps out begging to be used. Lotta fun stuff in there that may or may not ever see the light of day. Dropping stuff in the Toolbox is one of the most fun and freeing parts of the process for me!

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

I keep picturing this:

(Not yet bf!)John going short of ballistic with genuine worry when you refuse to hold hands.

CoD ML

Okay, obviously this needs context.

So, John tags along with you to the V&A. Now, being a proper gentleman, he first takes you out for coffee and a bite before you slowly make your way to the museum in South Kensington. After all, it’s one of those rare sunny and warm London spring days and you could do with some Vitamin D.

No, not Vitamin Daddy. What was that?

ANYWAY! As soon as you enter, you fall into the habit of wandering about without any regard whatsoever for your companion. It’s not a conscious decision, of course, but sometimes you need to turn your brain off and enjoy art while protected by your personal bubble.

When you’re in the Cast Courts, you feel a hand on your shoulder. It takes every ounce of self-control not to let the scream tickling the back of your throat escape, which would definitely break the amiable peacefulness of the museum.

“There you are! Do you have any bloody idea how worried I was?” John’s lightly panting, eyes wide and pupils dilated with a frenzy that leaves you wondering about the cause of it. “I let you out of my sight for one second and you have me run around the entire museum looking for you.”

“Well, you kinda invited yourself,” you mumble under your breath, masking the way you flinch with a step back.

“Pardon?”

“N-Nothing.”

“Nah, Y/N.” His fingers dig painfully into your cheeks as he grabs your face and forces you to look at him. “You’re a big girl so use your words. Go on. You know how.”

“Y- You wanted to come with. Invited yourself.”

“I guess that’ll have to do for a proper sentence.” He lets go and extends a bear-like hand. “Before you wander off again with that silly little head of yours.”

“No.”

“Hand. Now.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking,” John growls, forcefully entwining his fingers with yours. The grip on them is firm, iron-like. Fully aware you won’t be able to escape.

You slowly walk about the space like that for a few moments. Eventually, you find the courage to defy the seething rage you feel emanating from him.

“I… I’m sorry, John.” You’re not afraid of his mood, but it’s rather the guilt that sinks its claws into you which evokes tears in your eyes.

He stops in his tracks, lets go of your hand, and turns around so fast it’s like he’s trying to evade a bullet. Within seconds, he has you wrapped up in his arms, his fingers running through your hair in an effort to console you. “Hey, don’t cry. I’m not mad with you, just a little annoyed you don’t account for me and worried about what might happen when you’re alone. I know you’re a capable girl, Y/N, but I still care about your well-being too.”

The back rubs help soothe the storm of tears welling up inside you, waiting to come thundering out. Nevertheless, the kiss on the top of your head calms it. “How about we grab a coffee, hm? Maybe get something to eat too. My treat.”

He holds you at arm’s length, checking your expression while lovingly wiping the tears rolling down your cheeks away. “Does that sound good?”

You nod. You inhale and exhale deeply, feeling silly for acting like a child at your grown age. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And for me not telling you where I was.”

“Shh, ‘s alright, love.” While normally he wouldn’t allow himself to do it since you’re not official yet and he doesn’t know whether you reciprocate his feelings or not, he kisses your forehead and the tip of your nose. “Let’s go to the café. Don’t let go of my hand.”

And you don’t.

(Might make this imagine into a proper scene for my dad’s best friend!John Price story. It’s in the works, btw! I’m currently gathering inspiration and writing bits like the above here and there, organically creating the tale, so to say.😉)

[husbandhoshi]

Congrats on 3k!! You deserve it sooo much💌

If you have the time (and only if you have the time!) I would like to request a sort of a short bullet point fic. Or more so just your thoughts on the following: moving in with seventeen. Who is the one that labels every box? Who will live out of moving boxes for the next year. And yeah, just overall the vibes of new beginnings and promises😶‍🌫️

Pls only do write something if any of this inspires anything, if not pls don't feel burdened to write anyway!

I love your writing, so once again: congrats on the succes💗

seungcheol thinks it's one huge adventure. yes, he will be the person lifting the stupidly heavy boxes at the store. yes, he will make it a competition to build furniture as fast as possible (and race to take it all apart when you discover the desk legs are all different lengths because someone thought he could figure it out without the manual). even among the graveyard of boxes and bubble wrap and those huge styrofoam slabs he keeps chasing you with, seungcheol is happiest to lay with you on your bare, naked mattress (because he forgot to order sheets). he's planning what pictures of the two of you he wants to put on the walls. this is the first time he's owned a welcome mat and he's not even mad about it. it's all yours, together, and there's no bigger adventure than that.

his walk-in closet. bowls the perfect size for a portion of ramen, plus an egg. the lego taj mahal with two pieces missing that he insists will turn up sometime. these are some of the things jeonghan's not sure he can bring to your new apartment. it's not that he doesn't want to move in with you--he just doesn't know if he can. hell, you kissed him for the first time on the tiny futon in his living room, and he just learned it's too small for your new place. it's not until he watches you, later that day, play jenga with the toiletries on his bathroom counter because there's never been enough space for the two of you, that he realizes maybe it isn't such a bad thing to try something new. he imagines leaning you against a new sink, with that carrara marble you've been talking about, and he might even say he's looking forward to it.

you don't think there's a day you haven't seen joshua on zillow. look at my pinterest board, he'd say, and you wouldn't have it in you to ask how the hell you're affording that couch or if you really need a salt lamp that badly. you've lost count of the times your thursday nights consisted of a: your favorite chinese takeout and b: watching celebrity architectural digest videos. but joshua can't help it--to him, there's really nothing that would make him happier than waking up next to you in a bed you picked together. now if it was a midcentury modern canopy bed? even better. he can't wait to use his fancy little espresso machine to make your morning latte and grab your coat from the rack you got from that shop in LA before he kisses you before you head off to work. but they're all just things (pretty, shiny ones, albeit)--more ways he can show you the love you deserve.

junhui loves a good open house. early on in your relationship, you would dress to the nines before pretending to shop for a mansion you could never afford. junhui would comment on the door handles and the crown molding like he was a property brother, and then you'd finish the night off making out in the mcdonald's drive-thru. things are a little different now that you actually can afford a home. what if you end up not liking it? will you get tired of the wallpaper? will the closet be big enough? but surprisingly, none of this seems to matter when you walk into the house. (what's on your mind? you ask him. n-nothing, he says.) but he's really thinking about feeding you in that kitchen and spending the morning looking out those bay windows. how beautiful you'll look greeting him from that front door. needless to say, he's sold.

you find soonyoung hiding in the kitchen at your housewarming party. just an hour earlier, he was dumping cans of sparkling water in the jungle juice to make it more "adult" (as if it would erase the fact that an entire bottle of everclear had already disappeared into the mix). the hour before that, he was cleaning like a madman despite there not being much to clean yet. he held the duster the wrong way and you think he got more windex on the ceiling than on the windows. darling, what's wrong? you ask. his little, drunken hands wrap around yours so he can bring them to his cheeks. i just realized this is all ours. like, all of it, he wails, teary, and you realize he is far too many drinks down. it's only after you've sent him to bed with a water and a kiss that you really think about what he said. the hardwood floors, the duvet, the misshapen tiger plushie on the couch, him--all ours.

wonwoo is not an easy person to live with. the first three things he unpacked were, in order, his table, his first monitor, then his second monitor. then he ruined your perfectly curated aesthetic with his neon red keyboard and a gaming chair that would make any interior designer cry. the final straw is when wonwoo manages to kill the one and only houseplant you have, the single thing holding your home decor together. but he's trying, he really is. he's bought a silly little throw blanket for your couch (aren't the tassels fun? he says, wiggling the fabric between his hands). his ugly lamp has been replaced by a strange glowing cat light and there's a sticker on his computer tower. he buys a succulent and you have a little naming ceremony in your kitchen. and it lives, against all odds!

jihoon doesn't know the difference between a chaise and a sectional. cherry and mahogany look the same to him. and god forbid you ask him to choose between terrazzo and subway tile because he really thinks both of them look good and, no, he's not just saying that to make your life harder. jihoon isn't good at the hgtv stuff, but he's happy to move all the boxes. it's only when he's unpacking said boxes that he finally gets it. (the vase that came with the first bouquet of flowers he bought you. the record player you got him for your first anniversary, now fingerprinted, well-loved. matching valentine's day teddy bears, worn and baby pink.) you're standing on a stool stacked on top of another stool trying to hang a poster, and this is what home looks like.

seokmin wants to live in the ikea showrooms. you can't blame him--sometimes, when there's nothing better to do, you'll spend your afternoon in a bedroom that's not yours. seokmin will try on the lumpy blazer from the closet, and you'll beckon him to your sprawling king size bed, the one sat next to the painted on windows and floating shelves. honey, come to dinner, you'd say. he'll peek over your shoulder, arms wrapped around your middle, and you open the lid to a big, steaming pot of nothing. micke or lagkapten? you ask, completely unseriously. but he's thinking about it, really thinking about it. in his mind, he's building a home together, silly furniture piece by piece, counting down to the days when you really can agonize over plants and how many drawers you want in a desk.

when you got the keys to your new place, mingyu insisted you eat jajangmyeon to commemorate move-in day. unfortunately, he failed to account for the series of delays that led to you having absolutely no furniture to move in on said move-in day. but mingyu is nothing if not a man with a plan, so he runs to the store and buys the cheapest assortment of kitchen tools and ingredients for the world's most unlikely dinner. we really don't have to do this, you laugh, the backs of your legs cold on the kitchen counter. but i want to, he insists, holding out a spoon for you to taste. we have to christen the apartment. you eventually do christen it the right way (involving: lots of tongue, even more laughter), but you might prefer, just a tiny bit, the night you sat on the empty kitchen floor and fed mingyu out of a pan.

minghao has rearranged the living room four times now. every time you walk in, it feels like you've entered someone else's house. it doesn't look right, he says, hands on his hips like his life depended on it. you don't know how to tell him they all look right, every single version. in the first version, all cardboard furniture and plastic wrap, you gave up on deciphering the wifi setup and built a fort instead. the second involved an ottoman in the walkway, which you almost immediately stubbed your toe on (and laughed so hard you cried). in the third, the couch faced away from the adjoining room, and you accidentally spooked minghao so badly he almost broke his knitting needles. but it's all perfect, every iteration, because you're doing it together--a hypothesis he's more willing to believe when you shut him up with a kiss.

don't look now, but seungkwan is buying another doodad at your local sunday swap meet. it's a small painted figurine of a bear in a nightcap, which he simply points to and says that's me. you don't have it in you to mention the fact that you're currently unpacking his seemingly never-ending assortment of doodads and you couldn't possibly know where one more would go. it's only when you're getting ready for bed that you catch the little bear in the glow of the alarm clock light. there's already a turtle with a hat in the medicine cabinet (jeju, last summer). on top of the fridge, a woodcarving that says EAT. (tj maxx, 2 years ago. it still makes you laugh). even though you just moved, all these little seungkwan-isms make home a little more home.

you wouldn't call vernon a planner. his version of housewarming is watching you play the sims. but real life doesn't have nearly as much poolside drama or five story houses--just packing peanuts and 50 page appliance manuals. aren't boxes just drawers? vernon asked you one day. no, but that's how it always starts. two weeks after move-in, vernon cooks you breakfast with a pan procured from a cardboard box. by three weeks, you know the exact box everything is in. (you still haven't been able to find vernon's avril lavigne let go album, though.) it's only when you're eating dinner on top of the box that your dining table is in when you say, vernon, baby, i think we need to actually move in. he takes one look at you, who's wearing mismatched socks and his boxers because your shorts are underneath the tv box, and his smile nearly splits his cheeks. yeah, i think so too.

if you had asked chan what his dream house looked like, he would say it had a wraparound porch, a white picket fence, and a pool. your new apartment has none of those things. the length of your bedroom is a little more than one and a half times the length of his body and he's not even that tall. if he looks out the window he can see right into his neighbor's apartment (three cats and no bitches. almost like he's living next to wonwoo). and his feet stick out of the tub. but he's learning how to live in small spaces. he likes the squeeze of your bathroom, how you have to sit on the counter if you want to both brush your teeth together. he likes the bump of your elbows when you wash the dishes together. most of all, he likes falling asleep with you slotted to his side--even in your tiny bed, he wouldn't mind having you a little closer.

[jaehunnyy]

Take a chance on me

Genre: a bit of action, crack, fluff, strangers-to-lovers

Word count: 1.4k

Pairing: Seonghwa x gn!reader, Mingi x gn!reader

Warnings: mentions of criminals and illegal stuff, a fight takes place in a bar—more of a shooting (highkey inspired by bouncy mv), mentions of a drink, mentions of bullets, guns, mentions of a wound and blood, pet names, possible grammar mistakes

Taglist: @shakalakaboomboo, @pocketjoong-reads, @nebulousbrainsoup, @justhere4kpop, @bluehwale, @bluisheye93, @ssaboala, @i-luvsang, @ad0rechuu

Networks: @cromernet 🤍

You sighed as another old man exited the bar you were working at, finally getting a break. The loud screams coming from the group of people playing billiards were almost unbearable for your ears, so you grabbed a coffee and went somewhere behind the building, a beautiful motorcycle catching your attention as it was parked somewhere close to you. You absolutely loved motorcycles, something you took after your dad; so, without a second thought, you approached it, examining the details. It was black and shiny, meaning that its owner was actually taking good care of it. As you wanted to touch it slightly, a deep voice from behind you interrupted your intentions, making you flinch.

"Do you want to steal it?"

His confidence was visible—from the way he acted to the way he was dressed; jewelry and accessories cladding his neck and hands, the leather jacket making him look like your typical biker.

"I—no, no! I just—"

He smirked at your state, getting one step closer to you.

"If I see a single scratch on it, I'll make you pay for it. Do you think you have the money?"

You couldn't stand this guy already, but you tried to understand him—maybe you would have done the same if you had your own.

"I just want to buy one myself, and yours seemed nice so… I'm sorry." you said, looking down as you couldn't think about spending the money you tried so hard to keep for something like this.

His look softened a bit at your words. He might not be known as the best guy around town, yet he couldn't help but remember where he came from and how much help he needed to be able to purchase his precious gem.

"I was joking, flower. Would you like me to take you home? I can explain more on the way." he smiled, words slipping from his mouth as if calling you that was something usual for him, and for the first time that afternoon, you found him cute.

It wasn't that the idea didn't appeal to you—but your shift was nowhere near completed, and you didn't quite want to trust the stranger that fast.

"I work till midnight." you said nonchalantly, drawing the biker in even more.

He pouts playfully, before taking his phone out of his pocket and handing it to you.

"Here, put your number," he encouraged, unlocking it, "I'll be back for you."

You hesitantly took it, typing your number as a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Seonghwa, it's time, let's go." a quite long-haired guy said, signaling with a move of his head that they should leave.

"I'll be back." Seonghwa smiled and took his phone as your steps began to take you inside the bar again.

He was too late when he realized that you didn't get to put your name in his phone, yet he decided to just call you Flower. You watched everything from the window and waved to him when he smiled in your direction before their bikes let out a loud groan, and they were gone.

It was already dark outside before you were supposed to catch your last break for the day. It was way more peaceful than the other days, which made you wonder if something happened; though you couldn't complain about it, you enjoyed the silence. You were drying some of the glasses you just washed, your eyes darting to the door right when it opened for the nth time that day—and for some reason, it felt different this time. A tall guy with an intimidating, yet mysterious posture stepped inside, leather hat on, thus you couldn't see his face. You noticed him throwing a few balls from the billiard table with his hand, taking your eyes off of him as you feared he was looking for fights. Of course, you could call Seonghwa, but you didn't want to put him in danger—and you didn't even know if he would come.

"Whiskey on the rocks, please." he said in a low, deep voice, head facing the floor.

You turned around, your back facing him, as you wanted to take the bottle—though the poster in front of you grabbed your attention. WANTED was written just above the culprit's face, making you gasp in shock as you turned back to the guy, who was now facing you. You kept looking at the poster, then back at him. He looked at you more intensely, and you looked back at the poster. He was the wanted one. You opened your mouth to say something, but he put a finger on his own lips, signaling you to shut up. You swallowed your words, nodding that he is safe, before gathering the courage to finally say something.

"Dude… they did you dirty with that nose." you said, a chuckle escaping your lips as you compared the man in front of you to the poor drawing behind you.

"I know, right?" he said, laughing a bit too—until he saw your expression changing into a serious one. "Please don't say anything, don't tell them you've seen me!"

"Don't worry. It's not like this bar is not frequented by other criminals and more anyway."

"Thank you! That's such a relief, I'm tired of running away all the time. And I'm Mingi, by the way."

You smiled softly, finally handing him the glass he ordered and telling him your name. The tension could be cut with a knife—there was definitely some sort of attraction between the two of you, yet you both enjoyed the silence of it and the way you could understand each other with just some gestures; well, that was until the door opened, three guys with guns on full display looking at Mingi with a smirk; that didn't look good.

"B-behind you…" you stuttered, trying to alert him somehow, yet all you could see coming from him was the same, dirty smirk that was stretching the mysterious guys' mouths.

"Hold tight, doll."

He said, jumping from his chair and taking a rifle out of its holder. You gasped at the sight, yet a smile from him silenced you. He started to shoot around him, aiming for the guys, bullets flying all over the floor as you covered your ears, not standing the loud sounds.

"Shhh, I'm sorry. Here, stay here." he said, guiding you under the bar with one hand as the other kept on shooting at the enemies who kept getting inside, outnumbering him.

He got up again and got another gun, this time a revolver, his moves fast enough to get rid of the bad guys in a short time. You were still shocked, breath hitching in your throat as he looked like nothing happened, another smile taking over his face.

"So freaking persistent," he sighed, rolling his eyes in annoyance, before his attention went towards you: "Are you okay, doll?" he asked, fingers stroking your hair softly.

You nodded, looking at him as he searched for any scar on your beautiful skin. You grabbed his waist softly, telling him that you were fine. Suddenly, you noticed something wet on your hand—it was blood.

"M-Mingi, you're hurt…"

He looked a bit down, just to notice his drenched shirt—but he only smiled.

"It's okay, love. It has happened before."

You were too stunned to speak. No words could leave your mouth as you saw how relaxed he was, while you felt like passing out on the spot.

"Can you help me with a med kit?"

You stood up and ran to search for it, while he was just looking at you in awe—he truly found you cute. Maybe love at first sight was really a thing, and he was witnessing it right now.

"Here… tell me how I can help."

He raised his shirt softly, revealing a wound, making you gasp—again.

"It's okay, lovely. Just help me with the band-aids, so I can go home and treat it properly."

"Will you be okay…?"

He nodded, kissing your cheek softly before he stood up like nothing happened.

"Thank you, doll, for everything. See you again."

You were shocked. As you were laying on the ground like a teenager in love, you remembered that you still had to wait for Seonghwa. The events drained your energy, and you were already tired, so you took some time to think if waiting for him was worth it or if you could just go home.

What are you gonna do?

Wait for Seonghwa Go home

[m-jelly]

I know people don't like this genre too much, but I am a huge Batman fan and I want to place Levi in that type of world. So, here is a snippet into that world. No tagging either as I know this isn't well liked.

Heavy wings

Levi x fem!reader

Modern AU, inspired by Gotham, hero Levi, fluff, romance, falling in love, caring reader, flirtatious Levi.

Moving to Paradis City was a big deal for you, you were very aware of the dangers but also the good. You keep meeting the masked hero of the city and help him along the way, while also falling madly in love with each other. A few moments of the two of you together.

It was a normal rainy day in the city, but there were fires across the city tonight due to an uprising. The soft hum of your TV was behind you as you gazed longingly out your double doors. The reporter talked about a great battle between the city's wonderful knight and the chaotic villain burning things.

"Our wonderful golden knight, protector of Paradis city and the beacon of hope known as Legion has saved the city again!"

It was wonderful news that the hero made it, but you couldn't help but be concerned. There was a lot of carnage and he was bound to be hurt. The villain had pushed Legion close to his limits. Sometimes you wondered if the man under the mask was tired of this all.

A little flash of movement piqued your interest. You pushed open your slide doors and moved onto your balcony. The rain was cold against your skin but the air smelt like ash. Your eyes scanned the skies to see their movement wasn't smooth.

You gasped and began waving. Instinct took over and you wanted to help. You knew very well getting yourself involved with the city's hero would mean danger, but you wanted to help him. You dodged to the side as he flew over and dropped onto your balcony, rolled and slammed against the glass door.

Levi winced a little and rolled onto his back. "Tch, shit." He looked up at you. "Now I'm embarrassed."

You knelt at his side. "I have some medical things in my home to help you."

He looked at you. "I wish my landing was better so I could have impressed you."

You put his arm over your shoulders and helped him to stand. "You don't need to impress me."

He grunted and limped with you into your home. "Already a fan, huh?"

You hummed a laugh. "You're a flirt."

He winced. "I've never flirted like this before. You're just...very pretty." He gulped hard and admired you. "I enjoy your streams. The bunny theme is adorable."

You gasped a little. "You watch my stuff?"

"I do."

Your cheeks burned as you led him to your bathroom. "Thank you." You sat him in your shower and sighed. "Okay, let's see how we can do this."

He eyed you. "I have medical things on me. You can use them. They'll heal me fast."

You reached for his belt. "Okay."

"Careful."

You pulled his medical pack off him. "Why? You gonna bite?"

He hummed. "I might." He fumbled with his armour. "Mind helping me take this shit off? Leave the mask, of course, I like the mystery."

The armour Levi wore was impressive. It was a full a full-body thing that moved and breathed with his body. The interlocking joints connected together causing the plates of armour to move with his body, so he could remain agile. The material was carbon fibre with titanium armour plating. It went up his neck and protected him there which then linked with the mask that covered his eyes and hid his identity. There was just the right amount on his mask to hide who he was but to show how handsome he was.

The two of you worked together to remove as much of his armour as was needed so he was topless but still had his mask and armoured trousers. It was hard to focus on cleaning him up because he was watching you very closely.

"Ow!"

You flinched at his cry of pain. "A-Ah! Sorry!"

He hummed a laugh. "I'm joking. There's nothing wrong with me."

You huffed. "Legion."

He pointed at a bottle. "Use that to extract the bullet and then the blue injector to heal me."

You nodded and did exactly as he asked of you. You powered through when he let out a strangled yelp as if he was trying not to seem weak in front of you. You smiled when you were done. "Do you want to take a shower?"

"You trying to get me naked and see me without my mask?"

You stood up and smiled. "Maybe I am. I'm curious about the man behind the mask. Does his confidence match what's in his boxers?"

He ruffled his hair and smiled a little. "Tch, shit brat you've got me all flustered now."

You pointed to a towel. "Use this." You waved to him. "Take your time."

"I appreciate the help." He cleaned up quickly with you on the brain. Once he was dry he replaced his armour and approached you now in fresh clothes. He called your name. "Thank you."

You looked up at him. "I'm just glad you're okay."

He got down on one knee in front of you. "Now, you can tell me to fuck off, but I want to see you again."

You gripped your trousers. "I would like that, but..."

"You think I'm just using you." He tilted his head. "Fooling around?"

You hummed. "I worry."

He reached up and pulled his mask off its attachments. He sighed and then looked up at you. "I have admired you on your streams for a while. I hope in time you come to like me as much as I've liked you from afar." He groaned. "Tch, look at me. I can't believe I'm all flustered like this. I hope I don't make you uncomfortable liking you like I do."

You reached over and caressed his cheek. "Levi Ackerman."

"Yes."

You pulled back a bit. "Why trust me? Why reveal who you are so soon?"

He hummed. "Well, you welcomed me into your home while I was hurt, didn't you? You also healed me up when you could have handed me over. You looked after me and flirted with me." He took your hands in his gloved ones. "Besides, I've been a big fan of your work." He kissed your fingers. "I'm a big admirer of you, but you know my alter ego name, Levi."

You felt your cheeks burn. "I have seen large donations to my streams with your name. You've been a viewer for a few weeks."

"I'll take care of you" he softly said your name. "I promise."

You picked up his mask and locked it back into place. "I believe you." You leaned closer and kissed him. "Please, be careful."

He smiled a little. "I'll be extra careful now thanks to that little good luck charm."

You escorted him to the balcony and watched him adjust the cape he used to glide around the city. "Le...I mean, Legion."

He turned and looked down at you. "Yes?"

You reached over and gripped his upper arm. "Don't push yourself too hard, okay? I would like a date with you."

He placed his hand on your lower back and yanked you against him. "Don't worry, my priority now is you." He leaned closer and kissed you. "For luck and strength. I'll see you very soon."

"You going to nail the landing next time?"

He walked onto your balcony and pulled out his grapple hook. "Of course, I have to impress the woman I have a massive crush on and like."

You giggled. "Well, I think you flying away gracefully might make me forget about the bad landing."

"I'll do my best."

You watched him fly up with the grapple, release himself and glide off. "Mm, perfect."

[mandoalorian]

lost in nightmares (leon s. kennedy x reader)

Summary: You comfort Leon after he wakes up from a nightmare in which he relived the hellish events of Racoon City. Leon, who is suffering with PTSD, is struggling to shake the past, and only you can bring him back to reality.

Word count: 2000 words.

Warnings: PTSD, trauma attacks, hallucinations, implied self injury. Hurt/comfort.

Inspired by the note from Leon found in Resident Evil 6 that reads: “To tell you the truth, I even thought about ending it. Several times actually, with just a quick bullet to the head. But I didn’t give up.”

Masterlist

Leon’s body was burning hot when he woke up, his palms sweaty and his finger nails indented into his skin where he’d made fists in his sleep. You were fast asleep beside him, lightly snoring, at peace. He looked at you momentarily with tired eyes and a small part of him envied you. The way the corners of your pretty lips were slightly upturned into a smile, even when you were sleeping. It eased him slightly, knowing you were there next to him, and he was safe. It has been getting easier for Leon since you’d moved in with him, but the nights were still the hardest. He didn’t want to wake you. He didn’t want to worry you.

Leon’s throat was dry and he was so sure that if he didn’t get a glass of water soon, he might just choke on the air around him. He needed to feel the cool liquid run down his throat. He needed to feel the contrast. As Leon sat up in bed, he saw a bright flash, a figure standing at the foot. Tall and Tyrant-like… all too familiar. He gasped loudly and shuffled back towards the headboard in fear, but when he blinked again, the figure was gone. Nothing but a mere figment of his imagination. A memory.

Leon took a few seconds to recuperate and worked on regulating his breathing, before swinging his legs out of the bed and standing up as quiet as he could, still making conscious effort not to wake you. In the darkness, Leon stumbled to open the bedroom door. He slipped out of the room and began to pad down the hallway, which was illuminated by a small amber nightlight. The rain outside thrashed against the window and it reminded Leon of that night, September 28th, when big fat raindrops fell atop of him as he navigated to the Racoon City Police station, dodging the undead who roamed the streets. Leon rubbed his eyes and saw one of them. A zombie— a monster— the undead. Blood stained and ripped t-shirt, still looking almost human if it wasn’t for the greying skin and white eyes. Leon blinked furiously, begging the image to go away.

“Go away,” he whispered. His skin began to tingle, and it was getting hard to breathe again. “You’re not real— go away.” His voice became a little more loud and a little more stern with fury. He was mad at himself. Why couldn’t he shake these images? These feelings?

It should have been different. He was working for the US government now; not by choice, but they had him training under the influential Major Krauser. Krauser was tough and rough and had been through a lot, just like Leon. He’d fought in wars all around the world; and yet, he seemed unfazed by it all. It had been two years since the Racoon City Incident, and still, not a day goes by when Leon didn’t reminisce. He wished he didn’t— he wished he couldn’t. Leon wished for a lot of things, but life goes on.

‘I’m not a kid anymore,’ Leon thought to himself. ‘So why am I still scared of monsters under the bed?’

After a long moment of fighting with himself in the hallway, Leon made it to the kitchen and took a glass from one of the cabinets. He opened up the freezer drawer and took out an ice cube, but stopped himself before he could put it in the glass. The cold against his skin soothed him and Leon took a breath of relief as he made a fist around the ice cube, the sharpness of the corners cutting slightly against his skin. He didn’t wince though, he barely even felt it. Leon let the ice melt into his hand and the water seep in between the gaps of his fingers until it made a puddle on the floor beneath him. Then, he wiped his hand with a towel and turned on the tap. Water.

Leon filled up his glass and turned off the tap before spinning around on his heel.

What he saw next, made his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. The RPD uniform, skin turning purple but still those big, empathy-filled brown eyes. Marvin.

“Save me, Leon,” Marvin choked out, and extended his arm towards his employee.

Leon dropped the glass of water on the floor, the cup smashing beneath him and shards of the glass cutting his leg and feet open. But Leon couldn’t move, it was like his feet was stuck to the tiles. Like his mind was stuck back-in-time.

“Why didn’t you save me?” Marvin called out again, his voice edging more into a pained croak.

“No, no, no…” Leon shook his head, tears filling his blue eyes.

“They’re all going to die, Leon,” Marvin mused. “Just like me. Just like Ada…”

“Stop— stop it,” Leon pleaded. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Claire… Sherry…” Marvin sighed, shaking his head. He then made full eye contact with Leon, his face straight and sour. He said your name.

“Fuck you,” Leon spat. He reached down to his waist hoping to find his pistol holstered there, but was instead met by nothing. He wasn’t in his cop uniform like he’d pictured, but instead, a white v neck t-shirt and a pair of light grey sweatpants. He was in his pyjamas.

Leon made a fist instead, letting his fingernails dig into his skin. If he was hard enough; maybe the pain would wake him up from this real life nightmare. He wanted a gun. He wanted to shoot Marvin— kill him for good— and then maybe, maybe he’d kill himself too. Put an end to all of this finally, so he could stop being an inconvenience to you, and Krauser, and everyone else around him. Leon had changed so much since the Racoon City Incident, there was no telling who he was anymore.

Leon fell to his knees sobbing, the glass beneath him now itching against the material of his sweats, begging to cut through. Leon’s cries were hysterical, terrified wails coming from a petrified 23 year old boy who just missed the person he used to be.

“Leon? Leon!” You’d been calling his name for ten or so seconds before Leon finally heard your voice. He opened his eyes, which were now red and sore, and instead of Marvin standing by the door, he was met with you, your eyes wide and doe-like as you analysed what was before you. Your boyfriend kneeling on the kitchen floor amongst shards of glass and spilt water and specs of blood staining his pants. His cheeks were tear stained although he wasn’t crying anymore.

“I— I—“ Leon choked, unable to force his words out.

“Oh baby, it’s okay, it’s okay,” you promised, taking big steps over to him and taking his hand, carefully helping him to his feet as you tried to avoid the glass. Leon wrapped his big arm around you and held onto you tight as you walked alongside him, leaving the kitchen and heading into the living room.

Leon slumped down onto the sofa and you curled up beside him.

“Did I wake you up…?” Leon sniffed.

You paused momentarily. He did wake you up, but you knew the immense amount of guilt Leon would feel if he learned that. It would be another thing that he’d blame himself for.

“The rain woke me up,” the little white lie left your lips like velvet. “It’s so loud out there. I think there’s a storm coming.” You frowned.

Leon’s expression matched yours and he looked down at the floor beneath him. Your eyes followed his gaze and you noticed his foot was still bleeding from the glass.

“Oh— oh sweetie, you’re hurt,” you acknowledged, standing up. “Let me go grab a Med Kit.”

Before Leon could reply and even attempt to reassure you that he was fine, you bolted to the bathroom cabinet and grabbed an unused First Aid Spray, before returning to Leon in the living room. You dropped to your knees in front of him and began to tend to his wound.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” you said, concentrating on stopping the bleeding. “You know, talking about it might help.”

“I think— I think I’m losing it.” Leon said plainly and without any emotion.

“Losing what, exactly?” you beckoned him further.

Your boyfriend shrugged. “My mind?” he returned your questioning tone.

You stood back up and sat down next to him. You placed both of your hands on Leon’s face and traced the height of his cheekbone with your fingers. He sunk into your warm embrace, his heart rate slowing down from the panicked and erratic speed that it was. You ran your fingers through his tousled dark blonde hair, making sure it was out of his eyes and you could say his beautiful face.

“Is it… the incident?” You use your words carefully after having a conversation with Leon’s therapist about it. You discussed how it was best to not bring up certain words as it may just trigger him more.

Leon nodded silently and you gave him a minute to gather his words. Sometimes, time was all he needed.

“The nightmares have been getting better since you moved in, since we— share a bed. But, I still get them sometimes. This one was a really bad one. I was in the NEST lab, finding all this dirt on Umbrella when… he came. Birkin— mutated— that ugly fuck—“

“And then you woke up?” sensing that he was about to spiral, you made your choice to interrupt Leon.

“Yeah… and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. So I got up and went to get some water but I kept seeing things��� feeling things—hearing things. I can’t escape it. It’s too much…”

You grabbed a hold of Leon’s hands and squeezed them with all the strength you could muster. “Leon Scott Kennedy, you are a hero. You and Claire… you saved that little girl. You made it out of that hellhole alive and able to tell the story. You fucking did it! You’re a natural born survivor and you’re brave and— holy shit, you’re the strongest person I know. All the odds were against you and you made it.”

You watched as Leon’s face hardened.

“I won’t rest until Umbrella are done for,” Leon interrupted you. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the world doesn’t see another Racoon City Incident…”

“Okay, good, keep fighting. It’s what you’re best at,” you beamed at your boyfriend and he offered you a small, weak smile. “Leon, I want you to know this won’t be easy but I’ll be with you, every step of the way. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you so much.” Leon sighed, leaning into your body and inhaling. You curled up beside him and placed a kiss into his neck.

“I love you too, my hero.”

[imgeekgirlfan]

el paraiso de las pandillas.

Pairings:   Pacho Herrera(Narcos : TV Series)x f!reader

Warnings: No Warnings, Just a Family Drama

Synopsis: Y/N  meet the man whom you save his life two months ago, only to find out that he is the godfather of Colombia and he knows all the secrets you've been trying to keep hidden for two years.

AN: I was greatly inspired by The Sopranos series (about the Moltisanti family). I hope you'll like it. // And the bad news is, I may have to postpone updating the new episode of el paraiso de las pandillas for a while because I still don't know what to write next. But I have a plan to translate my other fic (Amado x Reader) soon. I hope you'll wait for me. luvvvv u <3

Previous : Next (Soon)

Part Two :

That man left in the morning when the sun rose. What was left in front was a mess of blood that made you spend a long time cleaning. And beyond that was a deep-seated suspicion that was difficult to eliminate. 

Everywhere in Colombia, which used to be beautiful and charming in the midst of bright sunlight, whether it was the clear blue sea, various coffee shops, markets, churches, it turned out to be hidden in darkness that cannot be seen. Anything could happen, Anything like gunshots and strange men who come with blood all over their bodies.

You did not inform the police about what had happened, not just because you wanted to keep the words you had said before, but because of your own anxiety. If you spoke up, that man and his gun might come back to deal with you at any time. You knew very well since you met that he could easily kill you without you realizing it, and the only reason you were still alive was because he chose to spare your life. 

It was as if everything in life was beyond control, as if there was nothing you could do anymore. You did not want to encounter such a crazy situation again, especially with that man. Meeting him once was more than enough. 

You desperately wanted your life to be normal again without even realizing that it was just the beginning of a nightmare.

"Wow, what a strong wind! Did it blow this Chica here?" 

a playful remark made by a bartender at a local nightclub called "Copa Cabana"  which always happens on any night you choose to go out for a drink outside.

You didn't respond anything except for raising your middle finger before sitting down on the wooden bar stool next to the third bar seat, your regular spot. Before you could even order, the bartender behind the wooden bar had already placed a glass of whiskey with ice cubes in front of you.

"Whiskey on the Rock" Manny spoke warmly to the American customers who came here often until they became friends. "You've been missing for a while , stuck with work at the school or something?" 

Two months, you thought, Two months since that night when you had to sit and pick bullets out of a stranger's man who was shot.You took a long breath before downing the whiskey in one shot, the bitter taste burning your throat slightly.  You raised the glass for a refill, and Manny laughed before filling it up immediately. "You don't have to drink that fast. You'll get drunk quickly. Take it easy," he added.

You ignored his warning because your desire tonight was to drink until you were drunk as quickly as possible, then stumble back home to sleep without having to worry about anyone else showing up to ask for help. "If I can't make it, will you carry me back?"

Manny grinned with a smile before picking up a nearby empty glass and wiping it clean with a napkin. "If I didn't know you before, I would think you were hitting on me," he joked.

He played it off, but you didn't feel like laughing with him. You are still thinking about what happened two months ago. Doing good deeds will always bring good rewards; that's what your mother always taught you when you were still a child. However, you weren't sure if the decision to do good that night would bring you any good rewards in return.

You were lost in your own thoughts and didn't notice the changing atmosphere in the nightclub. until you noticed that many people's eyes were turned towards the same direction, including Manny, who muttered to himself, "Oh no," before looking at you as if to warn you–not to turn around.

But curiosity got the best of you, and you couldn't resist glancing back at the newcomer. At that moment, you feel a deep sadness that you didn't believe Manny at first.

A group of at least five big men were standing by the door, all armed with guns holstered on their hips. But the most striking one was the handsome young man in the middle, with a strong and confident demeanor, dressed in a smooth and well-fitted black leather jacket. His intense gaze swept through the club, scrutinizing everyone, before locking onto you and revealing a look of surprise when he saw you.

You quickly turned away from his gaze, even though you knew you had already caught his attention.

You would never forget his face, just as he would never forget yours, especially since he was the same person you saved two months ago.

Manny noticed everything, but he was a good employee who was smart enough to know when to speak and when to remain silent. Everything around you seemed to be quiet and tense, so quiet that you could hear footsteps behind you, followed by the smell of expensive cologne and the sharp scent of cigarettes when another person moved to sit in the chair next to you. You pursed your lips and drank your whisky until your glass was empty, allowing the alcohol to flow into your bloodstream before turning to face this man.

His deep brown eyes looked at you without blinking, his perfectly trimmed beard under his thin lips just barely lifting into a small smile when he greeted you, making it seem as if he knew you well.

"We haven't seen each other in a while."

You glanced at Manny, noticing him bowing his head and lowering his eyes. Although you were a foreigner who had not been here long, you were smart enough to guess that everyone knew and feared this man.

"I didn't expect to see you again." You crafted a friendly smile for the person next to you. "What brings you here?"

"Just taking care of some personal business that was delayed two months ago," he said casually, as if talking about unimportant things in life. But for you, who might know the details of what happened two months ago, it wouldn't be difficult to guess why he appeared here and why there were a few drops of blood on his shoes and pants.

It's better not to doubt. You carefully avert your gaze before pretending to drink your own whisky. The dull colors start to flush on the side of your cheek in proportion to the strong alcohol in your body. 

"Oh, I haven't introduced myself yet." The man said it politely, extending his hand to you. "Pacho Herrera."

Pacho Herrera That was the name he told you that day. And if you could choose, you wouldn't want to know this man at all.

"Y/N"

You grasp his hand, the strong pressure of Pacho's hand adding to the effect of the whisky you had just consumed, making your pulse slightly higher than before. You quickly released his hand, as it felt hot to the touch. It seemed rude, but Pacho didn't hold it against you. He turned to the bartender behind the counter and ordered what he wanted.

"I'll have a Daiquiri for me and whatever Monada wants."

The cash thrown on the table was enough to buy all kinds of liquor sold in the nightclub, and the glasses were filled with whiskey almost immediately after Pacho ordered, followed by the Daiquiri placed next to it. He grabbed his own glass and raised it to you, sending a small smile that blended charm and danger. 

You wanted to get up and leave this place too much, but the only thing you could do right now was to pick up the glass of whisky and clink it with his before taking another sip while realizing in fear that you had no way of going home anytime soon.

✧◈ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◈✧

When the morning sunlight shines into the eyes, it slowly wakes up a sleeping girl amidst a throbbing headache from hangover. You try to stay calm and take a deep breath until you realize that the place you're in right now is not your own home, but somewhere unfamiliar to you.

The spacious bedroom is covered in soft, light-colored silk sheets, and the room is illuminated by white and gold-dotted curtains from floor to ceiling. When you decide to step outside, everything is more extravagant than before. You walk slowly, confused, and dazed by the remnants of the drunken stupor that lingers in your head.

What crazy thing happened last night?

Suddenly, you hear someone talking loudly from ahead. You choose to quietly follow the sound until you reach a room that looks like a large kitchen. You are startled to see several armed men standing guard. They all turn to look at you with stern eyes, except for one man who is sitting drinking black coffee and reading the news comfortably in a white bathrobe.

It's Pacho Herrera, the man you met at the nightclub last night.

Memories are starting to come back a little bit. You only remember drinking with him last night, but the rest was empty, like a blank piece of paper without any letters. Pacho raised his eyebrows as if he knew that you were staring at him. A slight smile appeared on his face before he gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Come sit here. I think you might be hungry, so I had someone make breakfast for us."

You still stood there, refusing to follow his invitation. "What happened last night?" you asked.

"You really can't remember anything? That's too bad" Pacho took another sip of coffee before continuing, "It's not a big deal. You were very drunk last night, so I took you to my home. Then we had sex, that's all."

The answer you heard made your body stiffen. Your pale face became even paler than before, and Pacho chuckled lightly at the shock written all over your face. "I'm kidding. But are you going to keep standing there? Have a seat."

Pacho's demeanor changed as he placed his hands under his chin  and stared straight at you with eyes that seemed to be peering into your soul. as if he could see every dark secret of yours with just one glance. You were silent for a moment before taking a deep breath and finally walking over to sit across from him, trying not to show any signs of being startled for him to see.

When Pacho waved his hand, everyone in the room left, leaving only you and him alone. He slid a plate of sandwiches and hot coffee towards you, but you didn't want to touch it. The increasing pressure was getting to you, making you lose your appetite.

"Do you know I also have a business in New York? So, I get to hear a lot of news from that side as well. And when you told me that you were American, it reminded me of some news I had heard before," he said.

It didn't sound like good news at all, and you could feel it in your gut from the moment you laid eyes on him.

"Do you familiar with the Moltisanti family? They're an Italian mafia that holds power in New York. We had the opportunity to do business together often. It seems like they're looking for a certain woman. She is the daughter of Christopher, the big boss of the Moltisanti family, who disappeared two years ago. And you've been here in Colombia for two years now. What a coincidence, don't you think?"

Your anxiety came rushing back. You realized that you weren't prepared enough for this situation, you just didn't think it would happen so soon.

"You're right. I am the missing daughter," you said, clenching your trembling hands tightly and looking up resolutely. "But I am just an illegitimate daughter who is insignificant. Everything about Moltisanti has nothing to do with me. I suggest that you and your 'Los Caballeros de Cali' should not take any interest in me."

Gentlemen of Cali  is one of the nicknames for the Cali Cartel, the criminal group of godfathers in Colombia, who produce and export cocaine almost worldwide. Consisting of four main founders: Gilberto Rodríguez, Miguel Rodríguez,José Santacruz and the last person is sitting right in front of you, Pacho, who is the most notorious in terms of cruelty, intelligence, and charm, making him the main face and brain of the gang.

He is not the only one who is determined to investigate your history after meeting you that night. You are also determined to investigate his history.

"We don't have any problems with the Moltisanti, at least not right now," Pacho move forward, creating an uncomfortably close proximity with clear intention to press on. "I just have a question. Will you not be a problem for us in the future?" 

Pacho wanted to see a hint of fear or unease in your eyes, like anyone else would when caught with a secret they didn't want to reveal. But what he received in return was a cold, intimidating gaze. 

"You may have forgotten that two months ago, I saved your life. Without me, you wouldn't be sitting here," your voice was harsher than usual and you didn't look away even for a second. "You promised me that you won't do anything to me, and you won't let anyone else do anything to me. I hope a gentleman from Columbia like you will keep his promise for life."

Your words made Pacho pause for a moment before his old smile slowly returned, now with a hint of surprise and satisfaction.

"I really like you a lot, Chingona." That's not a fake or deceitful word to please you, and it's uncommon for someone like Pacho to be so straightforward with others. At a moment when his complex emotions were projected through the dark tint of his eyes, he looked at you and said, "Maybe I can help you escape from your family drama."

You paused and furrowed your brows slightly "You already know?"

"It's not hard to guess. Christopher is seriously ill, and right now Tommy, your older brother, is taking over as the head of the gang. I guess he doesn't like having a young sister around much, and Colombia is a good place to hide from the influence of American mafia. Am I right?"

There was something in his brown eyes that you didn't like at all. It was a very gentle emotion, almost sympathy or empathy. "Well, That's close, but not entirely" you slowed down, seeing no benefit in concealing anything from this man. 

"If you were mine, you wouldn't have to worry about the Moltisanti family interfering with you again."

"Are you saying you want me to be your whore?"

Pacho shrugged nonchalantly. "I haven't really thought about that, but it's okay if you want to be." Pacho laughed again, not sure how many times the woman in front of him had made him laugh today. "Speaking bluntly, I'm quite impressed with many things about you. Plus, our main market is already in America. It would be great if we had some beautiful Americans helping us out. I can send you back home and guarantee your safety. What do you think?"

"I remember you said that you didn't like gringos."

"And I also remember that I make an exception for you." 

This is not like a negotiation proposal at all,  but more like a heated argument between two people who know each other well. Although you two only met twice. 

"Thank you for the offer, but I still insist that it's best for both of us to stay apart." You took a deep breath and let out a small smile before picking up your cold coffee cup and taking a sip. The bitter taste at least helped to sober you up a little. You stood up to your full height and reached out to him. "I hope we can put this behind us."

Pacho didn't immediately take your hand. He just looks at you with an unreadable eyes before standing up as well and finally accepting your hand in the end. "I'll walk you out," he said.

"In this outfit?" You looked at the bathrobe on his body with a strange face, but Pacho didn't answer. He arranged his hand on your back before pushing you forward at a steady pace, not too slow and not too fast. Passing through the shady garden with blooming flowers and a large pond decorated with strange animal sculptures until you reached the menacing-looking bodyguards who eyed the two of you without blinking.

When you arrived at the imposing gate of the house, he kissed you lightly on the cheek and said, "See you later."

There's absolutely no way. You're thinking but not speaking. You just smile politely at him before hurrying out of here without looking back even once. despite feeling his sharp gaze following you until it's out of sight.

At that moment, you didn't think much about it, except feeling a great sense of relief that you had escaped from that crazy situation. But if you ponder a little bit about his last sentence, you might need to be more cautious

Because no one can avoid the godfather. That's the truth that you'll deeply understand later.

[deusvervemakesgames]

Project RBH Devlog 0059

The problem has been fixed! The game is working again!

What weird is that I don’t know for certain why this code interaction caused the problem.

What was happening is that I set the player’s depth to change dynamically. What’s depth? That’s the order that GameMaker draws sprites on screen. So if you wanted to stand behind an object and have its sprite obscure the player, that’s what depth does. For some reason, this was preventing the bullets from spawning. Then the code would try to set the bullet’s parameters—things like its speed and damage—at which point, because no bullet spawned, the game couldn’t run that code, and crash. But the reason this happened is because in the function that spawned the bullets, I spawned them using the built-in ‘layer’ variable, meaning there were on the same ‘layer’ as the thing that spawned them—the player or the enemy. But I guess messing with depth on the fly makes that not work? For some reason? Because replacing that variable with the name of the layer that the player/enemies are on fixes the issue? Even though that’s the same layer it should’ve been calling anyway? It’s very strange.

So I celebrated by replacing my most hated placeholder sprite. I bet you didn’t know that there was one placeholder sprite I hated more than any other. Can you guess what it is?

It’s the door. Stupid thin empty doorframe with nothing interesting going on.

So I replaced it with this.

This is heavily inspired by the entrance to Dark Space from the Illusion of Gaia, much like the appearance of Nexus. However, I felt that this might be a little too inspired by Illusion of Gaia, so I reworked it.

Honestly I could watch this thing loop all day.

It’s not perfect yet; I could touch up the animation a little, and there’s a bug where sometimes when you walk away from the door, it skips the closing animation and jumps straight to the closed state. There’s another problem as well. While the animation is fast enough that walking up to the door isn’t a problem, you can dash into the door before the animation has finished. That’s not a big problem though, I’ll probably slap a white fade screen transition on the door anyway which will largely resolve the dashing issue. It’s a purely visual thing.

I also decided to implement a new bullet behavior because I hadn’t in a while despite thinking of this one ages ago.

Bullet acceleration!

Though, I also have a bullet deceleration behavior. Sadly they don’t cause the bullet to start slow, speed up, and then end slow again, they simply cancel each other out. I could probably fix that by giving bullets a maximum speed at which point the acceleration stops applying. It’d probably be a good idea anyway because objects moving very fast don’t play nice with collisions.

Until next Devlog!

-DeusVerve

DevLogs like these are brought to you by Patron(s) like Haelerin!

Support me on Patreon to get Early Access to builds!

[transskywardsword]

so i love this post by nello-0 and i just HAD to make something inspired by it so have a lil bullet point ficlet

link, general, bearer of the hero's spirit, chosen by the gods, who totally had not been scrubbing latrines not even a week ago for lippin' off to a superior officer without even the rank of private to his name, had thought the Other Link was eight when the kid showed up, trailing behind the rest, a keaton mask on one hip and a too big sword on the other

(he'd see other masks, later, each cared for with adoration and feral protection, like they were real people and not chunks of wood, and one mask, reserved for the heat of battle, the power in it so old that the master sword would seem jealous at times)

The Other Link was not eight, it seemed. he took a great dislike to being called it, despite his chubby, tiny legs and chubby, tiny arms, and chubby button face. link told him such the first time they met, in the midst of a screaming match with the princess--

(his superior officer, superior officer, what was he doing?)

(this was a child, a child in a warzone, and regardless of how many promises of fealty he might swear, link was a hero to the people first and a Hero to the Princess second, and people included children too far in over their heads--)

"i will not serve behind some tiny, chubby eight year old!"

his hands move fast and proxi works just as fast to translate, though her twinkle toe voice does little to tame the snarl on his face, the fury in his fingers

"I'm not eight" Other Link spat

(his voice carried an accent that spoke of a nonnative hylian speaker, faded in a way that spoke of a childhood spent elsewhere and a life lived far from home, as if he wasn't just tall enough to only just see over the war table)

(where did such long, deep vowels come from? such bright, rolled 'r's?)

(it reminded link of a summer day, of time spent running barefoot through shrubbery and crawling up trees, of a child's dream)

"excuse me, kid" link signed, "I'll gladly watch a ten year old get run through instead!"

Other Link huffed, blowing curtain bangs off his face, and stormed out the war room, the most childish thing link had ever seen

"i will not" he tells his princess, "lead a child into battle."

he leads a child into battle.

Other Link was not ten. He drinks like an adult, but has a kid's taste in liquor, taking the moonshine when the flask is passed to him and pouring shot after shot into milk. it must taste terrible

it leaves a mustache on his tiny little face. a baby faced thirteen then. teenagers drank while hating the taste, and no one over the age of thirteen drank milk

Other Link was not thirteen. He fights like he's lived a thousand lives, like the blade is an old friend, the grip of his too-big sword as natural in his hand, and his eyes are ages old. no child fights like that, even at thirteen. no teen knew how to move so fast, how to have such control over gangly limbs, how to have such proper balance. hells, link was nineteen, and every inch he still somehow grew put him off his game for at least a week-- teens were nothing but growth, and the changes didn't phase Other Link at all

"okay." link finally signs, dropping beside Other Link during meals, snatching hardtack from his hand. it is stale and salty. they are running low on rations, and link has been slipping Other Link his own for days now. growing kids need food. stress stunts their growth

could that be it?

stress stunting growth?

the princess knows, knows something about this strange kid with his strange masks, a history, a place where he'd come from, the title he hides from them all.

"hero of--" she whispers behind closed doors, "hyrule's greatest hero, the hero across ages..."

link knows jack shit about heroes. he dropped out of school not long after learning to read and still counts his fingers for long-division

"okay. how old are you?"

Other Link snatches back his hardtack, scowling.

"I'm seventeen. eighteen soonish."

link laughs. Other Link doesn't.

"okay. how old are you really?"

Other Link still isn't laughing. He just stares, smirks, and goes back to his rations.

"keep guessin', city boy." he says. "go on. maybe you'll get a prize if you do."

years later, at the end of the war, the Hero of Time stands before him, just turned nineteen and still only just reaching link's elbow. link loves him so much it burns, and letting him go through that portal back to his somewhere-home is like cutting out a part of him.

"kid." he says instead with a nod of his head. Other Link grins.

"see ya around, city boy."

with time as fucked as it often proved to be, link was surprisingly sure he would

[rosainta]

Day 2 of Rosain Quivan’s Daily Logs

Started December 7, 2023 at 10:00PM, Home

Finished December 8, 2023 at 10:42PM, Home

Log #2

Author's Notes:

I started this yesterday from a sudden shower inspiration thought. Who would’ve known that the most bizarre of ideas could be generated while cleansing yourself?

Anyway, this idea is just pure dialogue between Sniper and Scout from Team Fortress 2. No romance implied, but you could interpret it that way. I'll be completely honest with you- I'm very adamant when it comes to accurately representing their relationship, whether it be in a canon-compliant friendship / coworker way or in a romantic setting (specifically the latter, since I have to admit that I am an intense Speeding Bullet fan, though of course I love any other old depiction of the two, as well as other ships as long as they are respectfully expressed). Though this adamant demeanor towards accuracy helps me find out what I like to see in works including these two goofballs, I'm not entirely sure if I can transform those standards into my own writing... since I've never tried it yet! So, take this as another practice round, this time more centred on character depiction and dialogue (that, hopefully, doesn't sound like a cringey 15-year-old's WattPad fanfiction...)

Warning: a few colourful words here and there.

If you want a part 2 for this, let me know down below! I'll be happy to write anything, though. And also, if you have any feedback, please let me know! I strongly appreciate it :-)

Title: Intention. Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Third-person objective New Mexico, Badlands, Badwater Basin, (fixed the order; that was bugging me last time), RED Sniper's Campervan Around 3:15AM, sometime during the Gravel War

“Snipes... Snipes, you awake?”

A long pause. Then, the sound of dog chains jingling. A bed creaks violently.

“Sniper, get up, you gotta help me here!”

A low grunt, a shift in the covers.

“Ngh… can’t this wait? It's..."

A shift in the sheets, someone leaning to squint towards a clock.

"Crikey, half past three?! What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to wake your sleepy ass up, stupid!"

A loud groan. Possibly the sound someone rubbing their temples together.

"Did you know that the average human being needs shut-eye to survive? Ain't that wild? Or perhaps you didn't come along to learnin' that at kindie yet?"

"Oh, just... just shut up and help me out, will ya? Look, I'm sorry it's so late, but this is really, really urgent, okay? And this concerns more than just the both of us, but you were the closest person I could find, so I need you here. I promise, I'll be outta your hair after all this."

A sigh.

"... if this is an emergency with the sheila again, go ask Spy. I'm sure he'll be 'appy to see your squirmy little arse again."

"Hah! Yeah, as if. He's probably out screwin' the Eiffel tower or somethin'; wouldn't wanna see, much less hear that, though I can only imagine the snorting sound he'll make when he- argh, anyway, that's besides the point! Point is, it's not about Miss P, it's about..."

A pause.

"...it's about what? Who?"

"Well, it's about Engie..."

Another pause.

"...and? Come on, Scout, get to the point, or I'm going back to sleep."

"Okay, okay! Well, I don't exactly know how to put this, but I think- or at least I have a feelin'- that he might, maybe, possibly, be workin' ... for BLU."

The bed creaks again.

"What, you think we got an enemy Spy in the base?"

"No, it's not that. He passed the security check earlier, because I was on rounds for that today. I think that our Engie, like the real one, well, I think he's double-crossin' us or somethin'."

"And why do ya' think?"

"Well, this afternoon, near the intel room, I was sorting my comics out when I saw him doin' this thing, where he would be all suspicious lookin' and shifty-eyed, then he'd pull out one of those 'computah' things, or whatever they're called, and start typin' really fast, like he was in a rush or something. Then, whenever someone passed him, he'd shut the screen down really quickly like this-"

A clap.

"- and would look at the person with a goofy little grin, as if he wasn't just sendin' some, I don't know, ransom photos of someone's wife a few seconds ago. He even had the audacity to wave to Pyro when it walked by, and I think even it found it a bit weird 'cuz it made this strange garbly noise I've never heard it make before. But anyway, he'd open it again and do the same thing over and over again until it was lights out. It was so suspicious. I didn't say anything then, 'cuz, you know, I didn't want him to know I was staring at him like a creep or somethin-"

"Which you are."

"Whatever, now, get this-"

A dramatic pause. Two hands are slapped on someone's shoulders.

"I go back to my room, and you know how his is right next to mine?Well, I wait outside the door, and I'm about to say 'good night' or something like that and maybe sneak in a question about his secret porn addiction, but... he doesn't go to his room. No, he turns the corner, goes out... and starts headin' in the direction of BLU's base."

Silence for a moment.

"You sure he wasn't just, you know, heading out for a hookup or somethin'? I hear a lot of people south-east go troppo for one-night-stands."

A slight shaking movement from the hands to someone's shoulders, dog chains jingling.

"Argh, Snipes, freakin' please?! I'm bein' serious here. He doesn't usually do that, I'd know because every night he plays those cheesy old cowboy country songs on his radio and goes to sleep, which keeps me up all night because I can hear it through the freakin' wall. And don't you think it's a bit strange how he was reacting when he was on the 'puter? No one would do that, even if it's for a hot night out."

A hand grips one of the latter's on someone's shoulder, as if to push it off.

"Well, maybe for bogans like you, who don't have the slightest bit of public decency when it comes to flirtin' with any skirt you see. And what right do you have stickin' your nose in his business? He could have as well been headin' back to Teufort to buy some quick supplies for his sentries, or hell, maybe even just going to see The Admin."

"Well, actually..."

The hands slide off the shoulders.

"I may have trailed him a bit. You know, just outta curiosity."

"You- you followed him? In the middle of the night?"

"Look, man, I had to do what I had to do to make sure that I wasn't going to have my head end up in someone's refrigerator the next day."

"But you do realize that you were being just as suspicious, more so really, as he was by trailing him?"

"Well, yeah, but- okay, look, that don't matter now, alright? What matters now, is that I found out where he was going. And it was the BLU base, I saw him sneaking in without gettin' shot by a sentry or a look-out, but I couldn't stay for long since they woulda caught me instead. But luckily, his little visit wasn't without a little proof. Check what I found-"

Knuckles slide against firm wood as someone picks up a small metallic object from a nearby dresser, holding it in front of them.

"This."

Someone snatches the object, clicks on a lamp, and observes it intently. A sleepy yawn.

"What is it?"

"I think it's called a U.S. Bee, or something? I don't remember what he called it, but he told me it's like a little key you put inside the compooter and it stores, like, info and crap. I don't know, something nerdy that only he and Medic would understand."

"Hm.... An' how do you know it's his?"

An impatient whine.

"I don't know why you're being so skeptic and shit about this, Snipes, I literally told you the story and brought a goddamn piece of useful evidence! Do you still not trust me? What more do you want from me here? A picture of his ass in blue?! Wait a sec- hold on- are you freakin' workin' with him?!"

A quiet sigh, someone shaking their head.

"Alright, mate, I'm sorry, okay? Veg out, now. No, I'm not workin' with 'im, and I do trust you, I really do. It's just that... I find it hard to believe that Engineer of all people, a man with whom we've been working with for 4 years now, would all of a sudden head up and go against his entire team like that, especially in such a dangerous manner when he knows that someone else could be, you know, spyin' on him."

"I wasn't spyin' on him, I was just-"

"You said yourself it don't matter, so it don't. What I'm saying here is that we don't know his intentions here. For all we know, he could be using his little device of his to gather intel on the other team, or he could be, I don't know, doing a secret contract or something. I just feel that it's unfair that we rush to conclusions like that, especially for one of our coworkers who may really be doing us a service, mate."

Quiet for a bit.

"You alright there?"

"No, I- I get it... I just, I just really feel like I found out something critical, you know? Like, it's not everyday you see one of the team be so secretive like that, well, except I guess Spy."

"Well, we all have our own secrets, don't we?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Quiet. A few gentle pats on the back.

"But... wouldn't it be a good idea to try and find out what that thing, like, has? I mean, you know, just to prove that Engie really didn't have any bad intentions?"

"Yes, but that would be quite a breach, no? He'll most likely be looking for it in the mornin' and if he finds out you were givin' his equipment an unauthorised burl, well, say g'day to your dispenser privileges for the month."

"Well, what if I did it now, while he's still away?"

A pause.

"That's risky."

"I'll be fine."

"Alright, you do you. But how would you know where to start? And if you did get it to work, understanding what you're seeing is another question entirely."

"Hmm..."

Someone rubs their finger over their chin, pondering.

"Oh, I know! Medic, he'll know. Those two dweebs spend so much time doin' those experiments together, I don't doubt he'll know what the heck to do with this. Plus, man probably never sleeps, so it's basically 24/7 with him."

"Okay. Well, chookas with that, mate. I'm heading back to nap. G'night now."

The sheets shift for a moment, before an arm reaches out to stop them.

"Ah, um- thanks, pally. For listenin' and all. I know you don't really believe me or anythin' but, uh, I'm glad you didn't doze off halfway through."

"No worries."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"So, ehm, I'm gonna do that now."

"Oh, yeah, right, I'll head out now. Night, Snipes."

"G'night."

The light clicks out, and a figure scurries away into the night. Then, a sudden shift.

"Wait a minute, how did you get inside?"

Credits: Team Fortress 2 by Valve Image source: Team Fortress 2 Written by Rosain Quivan Cross posted on Amino ( Rosain Quivan )

[rametarin]

silly WH40K inspired idea.

It's the year XXX in the future. A cabal of people exist that take up a paladin-esque role with elements of cowboyism and monastic trappings.

As part of the graduation, the prospective member of the order is provided the hand tools necessary to construct their own firearm. They must design it on paper and utilize simulator technology to prove the design is safe and capable of withstanding the brutalities associated with its own existence. Unwise decisions that result in the operator's self-harm or destruction of the firearm are possible, and politely discouraged.

But every member of the group effectively needs to be capable of being an engineer and gunsmith, able to turn raw ingredient metals into components for firearms and ammunition. The organization supplies the education necessary, and at least information on how to hand make the tools to make firearms, but it's ultimately up to the prospective gunsmith to smith them.

There'd also be an organization standard for firearm blueprints and ammunition size and case style. Exactly what, I don't know, but the organization's emphasis is on being able to make that exact kind of firearm almost anywhere on planet earth from locally available rocks, sunlight and parabolic mirrors (for the heat) and component molds.

There'd be a trial to just make Whatever Was Necessary to fire a bullet at a target to a minimum small arms range, and then exceptional marks are made for ranges exceeding the length of the curvature of the earth, and a separate trial to be able to make an Organization Standard Performance Rifle, out of materials ideal for that (assuming care would be taken to acquire the necessary materials, not just scrap together something that just has to survive firing a bullet once.)

Reason being is the continued education in the traditions of the personal firearm, as well as other force multiplier forms of weaponry, and the continued fabrication of such when you have a minimum of material components to work with. And yes, the implication such materials might be being bottlenecked and withheld from the public is not an accident, but the organization's trials and system assumes as much, that simple trade and procurement may not be possible or legal.

That's the lowest level member. Being able to make your own small arms is the minimum base requirements for initiation. Above those are the Large Arms makers. Kinetic weapons that are just really big guns that may or may not require multiple people to man. This includes everything from mortars, to howitzers, to artillery, to anti-air gun batteries. Whom similarly operate under the idea that the only way these things might exist in an area, is if they know how to personally manufacture and fabricate each and every component themselves.

Perhaps they have some process to work backwards and marry carbon with hydrogen to create propellants. Perhaps they eschew "messy" forms of propellants and use some custom material that is effectively just hydrogen, for light gas guns. That'd be neat. I'm not 100% sure. But I do know as the component of a kinetic weapon, it'd be another part of the manufacturing process of your own gun and ammunition.

Why light gas guns, specifically? Because when you use hydrogen as a propellant, it burns cooler (temperature-wise, I don't mean, 'that's cool/awesome') and has greater impulse. A person so inclined could literally fire a payload and escape the earth's orbit with it, while conventional propellants cannot do this. Hydrogen gas or liquid as a propulsion system means very very fast projectiles that can conceivably move so fast that they tear themselves apart in the atmosphere. When you need to fire something screaming and generating its own plasma out into space from the ground, but you can't use a railgun, you go to the Light Gas Gun guys.

Above them would be the Electropropulsion Systems. Yes, I'm talking railguns and coil guns. Due to the sheer complexity and investment in materials required for the magnets and armatures, considered somewhat impractical, but when you need absurd range and power and want a simpler propulsion system, you go to the coil and rail guys. A big advantage of these sorts of drive systems would be it's simply less high profile than components to create or transport hydrogen gas than it is electronic components.

And above them, would be the realm of computer scientists and electricians, because now the order gets into rockets and guided self-propelled projectiles. Requiring the organization's resources and manpower, they still standardize fabrication units to make the exact specified digital computer components needed to create missiles with the topological data and inertial drives to tell exactly where they are on earth at any given moment of time, and where they should be. No more computing power than is necessary to go as far as a missile of their size with the fuel that offers the greatest possible range to chemical science and physics and get it from where it's fired to where it needs to be. They do not rely on satellites (though the option may exist), they hard insulate the self-propelled projectiles against radio interference, give them a very detailed map and send them on their way.

Sitting atop the heap are the engineers and electricians and computer scientists for fire control systems for everything from large kinetic weapons like naval guns and artillery, as well as the guys behind the computers and component standards for missiles. Not just components of other specialty weapon types, but their own group in the organization, given how essential a standard and the science is for the function of other weapon types. They bear the standards on the absolute minimum material components and methods for fabricating the ideally sized and powered pieces, be they electro-mechanical, or digital. As a rule, for things that are made to resist neglect and the rigors of time, electro-mechanical things are preferred. For power and control and performance, refined and perfected digital fire control systems are ideal. Cartographers, map makers, cosmologists, everything one would need for obscenely accurate missiles ranging from lipstick tube sized to ICBMs.

And from there we get to limited robotics and machines for mobility. Terrestrial, legged or wheeled, flying, swimming. Drones. Turrets. Things that allow movement. Considered its own subset skill, it's added last only because it encompasses everything that comes before, and applies to all. That includes rockets and jets.

And, really. That's kind of all she wrote. Well, he. 'Cause, I wrote it, and I'm a cisgendered dude. Once you get to the point you've reached the end of the tech tree for chemical propulsion bullets and how to be pinpoint dead on balls accurate down to a science, once you've acquired the knowledge and resources to do the same for artillery and triangulation to within millimeters even in adverse weather conditions, once you have the capacity to make and fire hypersonic missiles capable of taking off from the ground, going around the world at LEAST once to its origin point the long way and blowing up or entering orbit and staying up there until a scheduled time or parameters dictate to change trajectory, then, well.. you kind of have every method of long range weapon figured out.

Bows, longbows and crossbows? Yeah. But they're for especially oppressive times. The science and instructions on how to make bows and strings and arrows capable of being fired over 1,000 feet. Given how one doesn't need chemical propellants or potentially brow raising amounts of metals or smithery, they're a lesser science. May even be training wheels for would-be initiates.

[gingerbreadmonsters]

here we are in heaven

or: for you are mine, at last.

gn!reader, no content warnings, fluff fluff fluff (with only a tiny bit of heart-wrenching in the middle, i promise!). the blessed hala day is upon us! happy birthday beloved @daveyistheloml 🥳🥳🥳 i hope you're having a wonderful day!! i’m… not great at david, so don’t look too closely - but for our girlie hala?? i can always make an exception hehe 💕💕💕 oh, and, uh - do forgive me. i couldn't resist. inspired by ‘at last’ by etta james, which i insist you listen to while you read. david falling in love at terminal velocity in 1000 words or less.

update: this now has a (much less fluffy) companion, wrapped up in clover 💕💕

Why are you following me?

To tell the truth, David Shaw has never really thought of himself as lucky.

He’s been fortunate, you could say. Blessed with good sense, good looks, good grace. Fire in his soul, wolf’s blood and the call of the moon. Growing up in Dahlia as normal as his dad could get him, a serious sort of boy who became a lonely sort of man. Magic doesn’t change that much, when you really think about it - people are still people, for better or worse, and six of one is still half a dozen of the other. Ups and downs, to be sure, but not exactly a charmed life.

(That being said, some of those downsides have been quite… significant, you might say. Never mind. Best not to dwell. Today’s a happy day, for happy things. There can be time for that later.)

In any case, David Shaw has never really been one to try his luck, or what little there is of it. Rolling the dice doesn’t come naturally to him - he’d much rather the reliability, the certainty of a fixed outcome. Safe and dependable and predictable. It’s much more reassuring to know, don’t you think? Bullets weren’t made to be bitten. The unknown is a scary, scary thing, especially for someone who was never meant to be alone.

Constancy, unfortunately, is hard to come by. To be fair, it’s not helped by the fact that most of the people in his life can turn into wolves. That does tend to complicate things. Luck doesn’t really seem to enter into it, though - growing up doesn’t just happen overnight, and there are preparations to be made. He’s never been afraid of hard work, and there’s more to life than random chance. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, and somewhere in the middle will have to be good enough. You might call it resigned. Forewarned is forearmed. He’d rather call it ready.

It works, for a little while. You know what they say about best laid plans. Nobody knows where luck comes from, but somehow, it never comes to David Shaw’s door. What does come is a phone call, and a tearful Marie, and the realisation that nothing will ever be right again.

(I know, I know, I said we weren’t going to dwell on it. Sorry.)

These things happen every day, apparently. Very common. He’s not alone.

Yeah. Easy for you to say.

A house for three, then two, now one. Fortune doesn’t smile upon him. Nowadays, he doesn’t smile either. It’s hard to grow up in freefall, and yet it’s the time you have to grow up the fastest of all. Eight minutes, and the world he knows freezes solid as the sun is snatched away. Days, months, years - it’s all the same out there, nerves shredded with ice, turning slowly into stone. David Shaw is adrift, tumbling through the stars into the blackness below, lost in space and running out of air.

Pick a colour. The chatterbox opens and closes, opens and closes. This is not the first time you and I have spun coins together. A losing streak can’t last forever, and the wheel has to stop at some point. Somewhere, in the dark glow of a world that shouldn’t exist, a thousand dice hit the table - and every single one comes up six.

The odds of bumping into a stranger in a fast-food restaurant are not exactly one in a million. What happens next, however, might be.

What is it about you, that makes him feel like… like this? How is it that you find him, over and over, sunshine in his moonbound soul? Maybe it’s gravity, that force that brings him ever into your orbit, that catches him out of the crumbling sky and leaves him lightly at your feet. Maybe it’s karma, some grand scale that decides enough is enough, shoves him gently in the right direction and repays its debt a hundredfold. Or maybe it’s something else, some fate or chance or fortune - and it isn’t his to question why. You come crashing into his life with all the dazzle of a shooting star, the meteor flame in his heart, and David Shaw learns that some questions, perhaps, don’t really need answers.

Once in a lifetime, you might say. Made for you, destined for you, soulmates. Fortune favours the bold, and there’s few bolder than you - if anyone could fight fate, it would be you. If anyone could defy the laws of the universe, it would be his mate, waiting for him in the living room that he bought with you, curled up on the sofa that you chose together. Was he made for you? No way of knowing, but he’s not sure it matters. You find him anyway. Nothing as inconsequential as destiny could ever stand in your way and make it out unscathed.

His other half. Marie calls you that, and he can’t help but smile every time, because it’s true. Astronomical odds, that his path might cross with yours, that he might walk together with you towards the unknowable future, and that you might let him. Isn’t that a miracle? The blue moon calls to him, wolf’s blood and all, and he finds you hanging it in the sky for him, right next to the mirror in the hallway.

See you around, troublemaker.

masterlist

So it's true - luck has never really been on his side. Whatever. Call it what you will, it doesn't matter. Let fate try its hand - don't you know who you're talking to? All roads lead him home, in every world, in every universe, and his heart is weightless in the joyful gravity of you. When it comes to chance, David Shaw has never been a lucky sort of man. But here, in your arms, he has never been anything less than blessed.

take a trip to the other side of the mirror?

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[slimepuparibaba]

Dear SlimePupAribaba,

Hello. My friend is a big fan of your Stars and Asters Genshin AU fic and he says he's happy to see your work in ao3. How your bullet points and fast pacing makes it easier to understand the differences and readers can visualize the story flow in their own minds, etc etc (his words, not mine).

I'm writing so my friend can ask your permission to write an au work based on your au. His intention is to make his own take on the Genshin Impact "fate changing and going haywire" au, with your work serving as a source of (heavy)inspiration. He'll give credit to you as the source inspiration.

He said that you've been putting effort to your AUs for years and respects it. So he wants your input if whether you mind him writing an AU similar to yours, only with differences like the prolouge, key characters, etc. Please let us know whether you have specific preferences or concerns with this request as we appreciate any of your thoughts on this matter.

Also if you're wondering why I'm asking and not my friend is because he's shy as heck. Like, hermit shy. He doesn't submit his work to any platform, it's just a hobby. But if one day he decides to publish it on ao3, he wants to already have your permission first (which might be a very, very long time I believe).

Thank you for taking the time to consider our request. We look forward to hearing from you.

Also here's hoping that he doesn't find out I called him hermit shy here or he'd kill my butt

*spits out drink*

Holy hell someone wants to do a twist on my shit?!

Um... HELL YES?

LISTEN, THIS IS A PSA.

IF ANY OF U LIKE MY AUS ENOUGH TO WANNA DO UR OWN TWIST OR MINI-AU BASED ON MY AU, PLZ DO IT AND LET ME KNOW. I WANNA SEE SO BAD YOU HAVE NO CLUE

it genuinely makes me happy to know there are ppl that feel inspired to make stuff based on the weird brainrot i come up with ;;w;;

By all means, give your friend my blessing and if he ever does do anything with it lmk cuz i wanna see it

[letsberealgenz]

Shoe Dog

“Let everyone else call your idea crazy…just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping until you get there, and don’t give much thought to where “there” is. Whatever comes, just don’t stop. — Phil Knight

A couple of days ago, I made one of the best decision by picking up a dusty gem sitting on the shelf. Maybe it was meant to be dusty when I picked it up. It’s like a treasure that holds an encoded message specially written for you with an aim of shedding light on your journey.

The gem is none other than a book composed of 405 pages where every word is written with utmost wisdom by the one and only, Phil Knight, better known as the creator of Nike. That’s the thing about being an avid reader, you know exactly when you’re reading a really good book!

I know there’s tons of books out there where founders share their journey of starting up but the main “make or break” moment happens when the book gives you a lot of “AHAA” moment and this is exactly what Shoe Dog brings you! I am going to share with you some key moments that truly impressed me and I hope this provides value into your life. The real key is at the ending (make sure to read) till the very end.

1962

“Before running a big race, you always want to walk the track.” “You cannot travel the path until you have become the path yourself.” — Buddha “You are remembered for the rules you break.” — Douglas MacArthur “The main who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.” — Confucius “Don’t tell people how to do things, tell them what to do and let them surprise you with their results.”

1964

“A tiger hunts best when he’s hungry.” “The art of competing, I’d learned from track, was the art of forgetting, and I now reminded myself of that fact.” “Happiness is a how, not a what.”

1965

“He looked at numbers the way the poet looks at clouds, the way the geologist looks at rocks. He could draw from them rhapsodic song, demotic truths.” “Running track gives you a fierce respect for numbers, because you are what your numbers say you are, nothing more, nothing less.” “Inspiration, he learned, can come from quotidian things. Things you might eat. Or find lying around the house.” “But everyone’s athlete, he said. If you have a body, you’re an athlete.”

1966

“Someone somewhere once said that business is war without bullets, and I tended to agree.” “Wisdom seemed an intangible asset, but an asset all the same, one that justified the risk.” “But my hope was that when I failed, if I failed, I’d fail quickly, so I’d have enough time, enough years, to implement all the hard-won lessons.”

1968

“I told her that I flat-out didn’t want to work for someone else. I wanted to build something that was my own, something I could point and say: I made that. It was the only way I saw to make life meaningful.” “Alcohol and time worked their magic.” “The single easiest way to find out how you feel about someone. Say goodbye.” “By nature I was a loner, but since childhood I’d thrived in team sports. My psyche was in true harmony when I had a mix of alone time and team time. Exactly what I had now.”

1969

“Penny and I were learning to live together, learning to meld our personalities and idiosyncrasies, though we agreed that she was the one with all the personality and I was the idiosyncratic one.” “Life is growth. You grow or you die.”

1970

“No news was bad news, no news was good news — but no news was always some sort of news.”

1972

“If we’re going to succeed, or fail, we should don so on our own terms, with out own ideas — our own brand.” “No matter the sport — no natter the human endeavor, really — total effort will win people’s hearts.” “Like books, sports give people a sense of having lived other lives, of taking part in other people’s victories. And defeats.” “The cowards never stared and the weak died along the way — that leaves us.”

1974

“More than a product, we were trying to sell an idea — a spirit.” “But when we did fail, we had faith that we’d do it fast, learn from it, and be better for it.”

1975

“No brilliant idea was ever born in a conference room.” he assured the Dane. “But a lot of silly ideas have died there,” said Stahr. — F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Last Tycoon

1976

“Whatever happened, I just didn’t want to lose. Losing was death.” “Money wasn’t our aim, we agreed. Money wasn’t out end game. But whatever our am or end, money was the only means to get there.” “I no longer simply made Nikes; Nikes were making me.”

1977

“Beating the competition is relatively easy. Beating yourself is a never-ending competition.” “But I liked the idea of acting as if things were going to work out.” “It didn’t focus on the product, but on the spirit behind the product.”

1978

“Obsessives were the only ones for the job. The only ones for me.” “Maybe the cure for any burnout, I thought, is to just work harder.”

1980

“I never knew that numbers could mean so much, and so little, at the same time.” “Any building is a temple if you make it so.” “You measure yourself by the people who measure themselves by you.” “To study the self is to forget the self.” “Oneness — in some way, shape, or form, it’s what every person I’ve ever met has been seeking.” “Change never comes as fast as we want it.” “Because mothers are our first coaches.”

Because here’s the real gift:

I’d tell men and women in their mid-twenties not to settle for a job or a profession or even a career. Seek a calling. Even if you don’t know what that means, seek it. If you’re following your calling, the fatigue will be easier to bear, the disappointments will be fuel, the highs will be like nothing you’ve ever felt.

Put it this way. The harder you work, the better your Tao.

Yours, Asrajjit Kaur

[ineffable-kelpie]

The Big Finish

Rating: G

Wordcount: 765

Prompt: A "we survived" hug

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley

-

Aziraphale’s miracles weren’t working. His miracles weren’t working, and neither were Crowley’s, and Crowley, who had apparently never fired a gun before—information that would have been useful to know before Aziraphale staked everything on this one trick—was holding a rifle. The rifle, as Crowley had so theatrically demonstrated moments before, was loaded. And, in a few moments, Crowley was going to point it at Aziraphale and pull the trigger.

It was going to be fine.

Aziraphale straightened, facing Crowley. The stage lights made everything else disappear. “Are you…ready…sir?”

Crowley had never looked less ready for anything. He made a face, silently begging Aziraphale for a way out of this. Maybe there could have been a way out of this, if either of their miracles were working. They could have simply left, and made everyone forget they were ever there. As it was, they were already onstage, in front of all these people, and Aziraphale couldn’t start his career as a semi-professional stage magician by backing out of a trick. That would be humiliating. He might actually prefer to be discorporated.

Aziraphale took off his hat, fixing Crowley with a look that he hoped communicated bravery and trust. Crowley wouldn’t let him down.  He knew Crowley could do this. Crowley, who looked like he was about to throw up, didn’t seem to know it himself.

“Ready?”

It was going to be fine. Aziraphale wasn’t the least bit worried. Because if he was, if there was any significant chance of this going wrong, he’d come to his senses and run offstage, and he couldn’t do that. He was in too deep. So he simply refused to be worried.

“Aim…”

Crowley raised the gun. His hands shook, which did not inspire a lot of confidence in his aim. He gritted his teeth with the effort of holding it still, his whole face screwed up as he found Aziraphale in the rifle’s sight. He could do this. He would never hurt Aziraphale, even by accident. It was going to be fine.

Aziraphale couldn’t watch. He squeezed his eyes shut as he yelled, “Fire!”

Boom.

Aziraphale braced for the impact of the bullet. It didn’t come. A second passed, and he opened his eyes. He was still onstage, still alive. It had worked. He’d survived.

He remembered, not a moment too late, to show the bullet “caught” between his teeth. The crowd erupted in applause. Aziraphale held up the bullet in triumph, beaming, his heart still pounding from the residual fear that he definitely hadn’t felt. “Oh, thank you! Thank…” He turned and saw Crowley, still holding the gun, a wide smile stretching across his face. The wonderful demon, Aziraphale knew he would come through for him, just like he had at the church, just like he always did—

Perhaps it was a delayed effect of seeing Crowley again for the first time in nearly eighty years. Or perhaps too much had happened that evening for Aziraphale’s heart to handle, and it all overflowed at once. Or perhaps it was simply the performance adrenaline. Whatever the cause, Aziraphale couldn’t stop himself from running to Crowley and throwing his arms around him. And it must have affected Crowley, too, because Crowley squeezed him back so energetically that Aziraphale’s feet lifted off the ground. “No paperwork!” he cackled.

“You did it,” Aziraphale said in a squeaky voice. “I knew—”

A flash bulb went off in the audience.

Right, the audience. The audience which had just watched a “total stranger,” who definitely wasn’t planted beforehand, shoot a bullet at Aziraphale. The audience in front of whom Aziraphale was now embracing said total stranger. That audience.

Aziraphale pushed Crowley away and stepped back, as if nobody would notice if he did it fast enough. Crowley’s face was a mask of shock. Aziraphale’s expression was probably about the same. How had that happened? He hadn’t been thinking. His brain had completely turned off, and when it came back on he was hugging Crowley on the West End stage, in front of his first real audience. His face burned. He strongly considered cursing. “Oh dear,” he said instead.

The audience had stopped clapping. Crowley glanced at them sidelong, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what was there. With forced casualness, he tossed up a hand and snapped his fingers. Oh, he was modifying their memory! Thank goodness he had the presence of mind to do that. Where would Aziraphale be without him?

Crowley’s miracle fizzled out pointlessly, just as all their other ones had. He swallowed visibly. “Oh dear,” he agreed.