#it just means i'm going to edge them to a better space and focus more on a ride or die dynamic

[devilisln-moved]

Okay, but why are like most superhero ships hella toxic?

[awakenedevildays]

「bathtubs and requests」 Art Donaldson x F!reader

you can read the other parts here!

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

"you should move in with me" Art's voice echoes off the bathroom walls of his apartment, it's all so relaxing: the heat of the water around your bodies, his chest pressed against your back and his arms wrapped around you are so comfortable that it takes a while for you to realize what he just said.

"what?"

"you heard me" he murmurs against your neck "come live with me" an incredulous laugh leaves your mouth and you try to turn completely towards him, but his arms clench tighter around you and prevent you from moving enough to do so.

"may I ask why you are asking this now?" you move slightly to the side to see his face emerging from the hollow of your neck.

"I feel like we're ready to do it" his eyes avoid yours and focus instead on his fingers as they start caressing your shoulder "and it's also the next logical step in our relationship."

"You think so?" this time, despite Art's protests, you turn towards him: your breasts press against the boy's chest and his eyes fall down quickly before being brought back to yours by the hand under his chin. The tease is evident on your face and Art feels his ears warm up quickly to the realization of being caught in the act.

"I know so" and kisses the smile off your lips to distract you.

"My answer is not a no, but how do we know that our relationship is ready for this?" you ask him and, without realizing it, the agitation inside you rises: how did you know if you were ready for this step? and if you break up because you went too fast?

The tennis player frowns "what do you mean?" and the sight in front of you distracts you for a second: Art sits back against the back of the tub to stand more upright and listen to you better, his arms, after moving his curly damp hair out of his face, leans on the edges of the tub, his wet and smooth chest shines and his legs are open and bent to the sides to give you more space between them. If you weren't so determined to finish the topic you are having you'd kiss him to death, but you're a woman on a mission and you can't get distracted.

"I mean, some of my behaviors might irritate you or we might fight about serious things and then we wouldn't be able to run away from our problems by going back to our apartment, we'd have to deal with these situations and be mature about what bothers us and-"

"love, you're getting worked up over nothing" he says and his expression relaxes into a smile: now that he understood that your reasons are motivated only by insecurity and not by the fact that you don't want to take the next step with him, he feels it will be easier to convince you otherwise.

"You see? this is exactly what I'm talking about! if we move in together we can't belittle each other's feelings and concerns like this. It wouldn't be healthy and-"

"love," he interrupts you again, and your hands that were gesturing in the air fall on his chest, your eyes avoid his.

Out of your mouth comes a small "…yes?" that makes the man in front of you chuckle.

"we're ready" his calm tone makes its way into your chest "we're 24 years old and we've been together since we were 19, we both have a steady job and we already know everything about each other, there's nothing you can tell me that will change my mind".

"what if we fight?"

"I can't promise you we won't fight, we fight even now that we don't live together, but it seems to me that we are pretty good at making up, if we fight we will solve it as always" it's true, you never went beyond a day without talking to each other, even if you were angry.

"what if we break up?"

"It won't happen," he answers immediately, his fingers move the locks of hair behind your ears and then rest his hands on your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

His head lowers to chain your eyes together and you look up to facilitate his task "I won't let it happen", the security in his eyes makes you exhale a breath you didn't know you were holding.

Your eyes move around to look at the bathroom, "but I wouldn't be able to pay half the rent of this apartment"

"I don't care about that".

"but-"

"If you really want to pay something, we can split the bills," he answers hastily, at the moment Art doesn't care about how to split the expenses, he would pay everything if it meant he could spend the rest of his life next to you… he just needs your 'yes'.

Your face gets close to his, your lips a few inches away.

"okay" his eyes still fixed in yours

"'ok' what?" his smile gets brighter, he wants to hear you say it.

"I'll move in with you" you smile too.

"that's what I like to ear" he kisses you again.

Now he only has to ask you to marry him… but that will have to wait a little longer.

━━━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━━

Hope you guys will like it as much as I liked writing it! 🩷

(in this fic he still has long hair cause I said so)

[measlyfurball13]

I'm Still Here

Summary: Curly is rescued. He is given a voice. Supposedly.

---

It’s all a blur. Men in suits with helmets. Men in suits without. Any memories Curly might have of the rescue and its aftermath are blurred around the edges. He’s sure he drooled and screamed all through the process.

Funny. He doesn’t remember the pain. It’s as if his mind has painted over it in an easier color on the eyes. 

(He remembers her saying the same thing happens after childbirth-)

It’s only a few hours after the IV is jammed into his arm that reality crisps up again. He’s staring into the face of a nurse. The nurse is a he, and a different skin tone (than him) and utterly unrecognizable. That’s the first clue.

The second is the woman in the crisp suit. A lawyer, supposedly. Civil servant. Looking over him and sighing. Another woman enters and they discuss conservatorship. Curly doesn’t know what this means. He’s never had to worry about it. He grunts, even tries to form his lips into the shape of something, but nothing makes them turn to him and clue him in on anything. 

Next comes someone dressed in a slouched sweater pulling a cart. They’re setting up some sort of device around him. It takes several days though, and in the moments between the lawyer comes back, mutters a few things about an accident investigation, then disappears again.

The nurse usually doesn’t talk when he visits but one time he sits down in the chair across the room and solemnly says that both of Curly’s parents died in the time it took for the rescue team to find him and that his next of kin is a cousin. Cousin Sue, Curly guesses. She lived all the way in New York. 

The machine is completed. A screen hangs above his hospital bed. The person in the slouched sweater instructs him to look at the twenty-six letters on the screen, focus on the one he wants, and blink to select it. 

It takes him three hours to first produce the word “HELLO.” 

“Practice and you’ll get the hang of it.” Slouched sweater says.

Slouched sweater leaves. The nurse comes in. Moves the screen. Changes his bandages. Sets up the screen again. Leaves just before Curly can type “HELLO” to him. 

(A single word. A single word. He would have given anything for just a single word to her.)

Now the lawyer drags the chair beside his bed and sits down. She’s holding a notepad and a pen. 

“Tell me,” she says, slowly, “what happened aboard the Tulpar.” 

He forgets to breathe. 

“What,” she says, “caused,” she says, “the accident?” 

Words pierce his brain like knives, his eye darts around the keyboard and his eyelid can’t keep up and it blinks without his command. Letters spill across the screen and he’s having to backspace them and-

The lawyer has put down the notepad and has opened her phone. She’s texting someone else. Then she takes a call. Then she answers some emails. 

-Curly finally blinks ‘send’ on the console, and a tinny voice reads out “JIMMY.” 

“Hmm?” The lawyer looks up from her phone. “Jimmy? As in, your co-pilot?” 

“Y” Curly sends, hoping that the lawyer can at least wrap her head around something as simple as that.

“Go on.” The lawyer urges.

Curly exhales against his bandages, and types “E” and “S”. 

“What about him?” 

“K”. Then “I”. “L” and “L”, the lawyer is pulling out her phone again. His eye hurts, it’s refusing to move at all now and this dumb bitch isn’t-

He flinches. God, he’s so sorry. He’s so sorry and she deserved none of this and maybe if he’d been a better man and not a goddamned coward and taken some responsibility then maybe she’d be listening to him right now instead.

The lawyer glances up from her phone. “Yes, Jimmy was found deceased. Your cryo pod was the only one functioning. It seems he gave up his spot for you. My condolences for your loss.” 

Something more burning than the fire rips through his stomach and he forces his eye back onto the screen. “E” and “D”, then space, then “E”, then “V”, “E” and “R”, “Y”, his vision is wavering, “O”, “N”, he can practically feel his non-existent hand tapping on the screen to finish the job, “E”. . .

His eyelid slams shut. He can tell, vaguely, that his cheek bandages are damp but whether that’s normal or from anything spilling out of his eye is beyond him. His neck twitches from the strain. 

He coughs. Forces his eye open. The lawyer looks at the screen. Looks back down at her phone. Looks at the screen again. Her eyebrows raise. 

“Are you sure?” She asks.

Of course I’m fucking sure! he could shout and shake her shoulders. 

“This was not the fault of Pony Express or its parent corporation?” 

“N”, then “O”, and now she’s actually paying attention. Something hungry lights up in her eyes, and she takes a picture of the screen and then starts furiously scribbling on her notepad. 

—

“-in this room right here, ma’am.” The nurse opens the door.

Curly looks over. Following the nurse is Cousin Sue, her blond locks he remembers now turned more platinum. She stops in the doorway and covers her mouth with her hands. 

“Were you not warned?” The nurse asks her.

She ignores him, running over by the bedside. “Oh you poor thing!” 

Curly tries to flick his eyes towards the screen, only for liquid lightning to pour into all his senses when she grabs the stump of his left arm. He chokes on air. The burning sensation lingers even as she jerks her hand away. 

“Take it easy, ma’am.” The nurse says.

“Why was it wet?” She mutters and shakes out her hand.

“Some leakage from blisters beneath the bandages. He’s okay. Try to be gentle.” 

“God. It’s horrific. I can hardly. . .”

The nurse drags her over a chair as if she might collapse any minute. Curly’s nerve endings are still on fire. She still hasn’t made eye contact with him. 

“H”, he types. “I”. Blinks to send. “HI.” 

“Hi.” She echoes. “He said hi.”

“The law firm hooked him up. That’s how we know the full story.”

It wasn’t the full story. It was the story told in simple enough words that the lawyer would stay awake while he typed. 

“God. What happened was. . . so terrible.” Sue covers her mouth. “I’m sure he did everything he could.” 

“I’ll leave you two alone now.” The nurse steps back.

The door clicks shut. Sue’s watery eyes rake up and down his frame. 

“It’s all that bastard’s fault, isn’t it? And to think you even invited him to a family reunion or two. I remember that.” 

Curly looks to the “N”. Blinks. Looks to the “O”. Blinks. Erases both. Blinks an “M”. Then a “Y”. Space. “F”. “A-”

“Disgusting man. Letting you get like this. I’m sorry about the rest of the crew as well, of course. At least they got the easy way out of things. . .” 

Curly stares at the wall behind the screen. Something inside his throat trembles. 

“What’s going on? Do you need something? Water? Water perhaps?” 

Sue looks around her before spotting the sink across the room. She grabs a cup from the nearby dispenser and fills it. Then she returns to his bedside, standing over him and then there’s his fingers on his chin opening his mouth and-

He gags. He sobs. Something wet splashes against the inside of his mouth (it’s blood it’s blood it’s blood) and nausea plays a soaring note above the chorus. 

He becomes nothing but a shivering pile of meat for a little. It’s more comfortable that way rather than trying to think. And when he opens his eyes again, Sue is gone. 

—

Curly knows there isn’t much time left. When Sue came back she talked about a private care home, and if there’s even a chance of the screen not coming with then he can’t risk it. He’s started typing only when there’s no one around to read it. It’s easier that way.

Sue and the nurse come in. They’re discussing something but Curly can hardly hear them until the nurse puts his hand on the swivel holding up the screen. Curly’s pulse lights up, and before anyone else can even breathe he blinks “send” on the console. 

The tinny voice reads each syllable as if it were reporting the weather. 

“I’M SORRY SWANSEA.”

“I’M SORRY DAISUKE.”

“ANYA. I’M SORRY. MY FAULT.” 

“I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED. DEAD PIXEL. INSTEAD OF THE BIG PICTURE.” 

Curly lets his eye droop down from the screen. 

“. . . what was all that?” Sue asks. 

The nurse comes over to his bedside. “Are you feeling alright?”

Curly doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t need to. 

All the words he could possibly offer are jammed. Like logs against the rocks beneath the water of the river he grew up by as a kid. Or traffic in the big city he moved to after moving out. Or a key in the wrong keyhole. (Or pills in his throat.)

All of these pictures he could paint. The only people who would find it worth the wait are all dead. Somehow Jimmy is among them. 

Damn it all. Curly stares at the ceiling. The nurse takes down the screen and then manhandles him into a wheelchair.

[narumi-gens]

Between Dreams and Reality

Gojo Satoru x gn!Reader

summary: The space between dreams and reality is a curse. Loving Gojo Satoru makes it the greatest curse of all.

warnings: minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, massive jjk manga spoilers, chapter 236 spoilers, angst with no happy ending, sad times guys, established relationship, gojo being his usual obnoxious self and making everything about him

notes: I'm just working through jjk 236 like the rest of you! also the title comes from something kenjaku says in the manga and it was used in the vol. 23 promo video and I loved it so much that I've been wanting to work into something so here we are.

words: 2.5k

“Hey, remember that fight we had?” Gojo asks from behind you in bed. The question pulls you from the edge of sleep, but just barely.

“Be more specific,” you grumble, too tired to even snort in response. All you can do is nuzzle further into your pillow. 

“It was about you getting remarried,” he says.

“That was a tantrum, not a fight,” you correct. “And I told you not to say re-married. We’re not married now.”

Even with your eyes closed and your back turned to him, you can feel how amused he is by your response. 

“I was kind of a dick about it, wasn’t I?” he reflects aloud into the darkness of your shared bedroom.

It’s such an unexpected moment of introspection from him — a man who doesn’t seem to know what introspection is — that even in your drowsy state, you let out a small laugh.

“When aren’t you?” you ask him through a yawn and he lets out an offended noise that tugs the corners of your lips into a sleepy smile. 

“Well, sorry I was such an asshole,” he sighs, a faint note of uncharacteristic sincerity coloring his words.

“Gojo Satoru apologizing? I must be dreaming…” you mumble.

“Oh, my aunt’s getting remarried,” you say as you read through the series of messages that your mother sent you. 

“Didn’t your uncle just die?” Gojo kindly asks. Thankfully, you’re more than used to his inability to display any form of tact.

“Well, it’s been a year. But everyone heals differently. I guess when the time is right, the time is right,” you muse. You glance over at him where he sits next to you on the couch and are surprised by the thoughtful look on his annoyingly handsome face.

You turn back to your phone, where your mother seems to be having a very similar reaction to Gojo based on her messages — especially the ones that say, “It’s too soon!”, of which there are many. 

You’ve never been all that close with your mother’s side of the family so your aunt’s decision to remarry isn’t something you have a strong opinion on one way or the other. If she’s found someone else, you wish her the best.

“How long would you wait to get remarried if I died?” Gojo suddenly asks and you scoff without looking up at him.

“To get remarried, I’d have to have been married previously, Mr. Marriage-Is-Just-A-Construct.” The words would probably sound harsh if they were coming from someone else. You speak them dryly and with clear disinterest.

“Fine. How long would you wait to get married to someone else if I died?” he rephrases his original question and you shrug, your attention focused on trying to calm your mother down.

“I don’t know. Two years?” 

“Two?!” he screeches so loudly that you flinch away from him on the couch and slap a hand over your ear. He sits up and turns to face you fully, even going so far as to slide his glasses down his nose so that he can focus the full weight of his Six Eyes on you. “That’s not even enough time for my body to get cold!”

“Can you calm down? It’s just a hypothetical,” you tell him with a roll of your eyes. You reach a hand out to push his glasses back up only for him to bat it away before you can even come into contact with his Infinity. 

“Two years!” he repeats in outrage. “There should be at least five- no, ten years of solid mourning. And I mean the whole thing. You better only dress in black and I expect weekly visits to my grave with flowers and incense. And make sure you put my portrait in the butsudan—”

“We don’t have a butsudan now,” you cut him off to point out, gesturing a wild hand out towards the rest of your shrine-free apartment. “I’m not gonna go out and buy one just because you were stupid enough to get yourself killed.”

“And definitely no dating!” he shouts over you before he brings a thoughtful finger to his chin. “In fact, you should just be like one of those widows who throw themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre. Yeah, that’d work.”

He nods to himself, seemingly satisfied with his proposed solution. 

“We’re not married, so I wouldn’t be a widow and you’re not getting a funeral pyre. This is the 21st century. Your body’s getting shipped off to a crematorium,” you tell him dryly. “They’ll cook you up. We’ll do a little bit of grieving and say a prayer or something. Then we’ll pick your bones, put everything in the urn, and be done in time for lunch.”

He slouches forward and props up his elbow on his knee so that he can rest his chin in his palm with a pout, doing everything that he can with his posture to convey his unhappiness.

“Who’s we? You and your new boyfriend?” he asks and you would liken him to a sulking teenager who didn’t get their way, but that would be an insult to the students at Jujutsu High. 

“No, me and my new husband,” you smirk and he gasps as he turns back towards you, horror coloring his features.

“This is my death! Take it seriously!” he cries.

“Satoru, you’re not dying anytime soon. Why does it matter?” you reply, your tone short as your irritation finally begins to start peeking through.

“It matters because I want to know that you’re not gonna be off fucking some other guy a week after I die,” he mutters, leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I’m not gonna be fucking some other guy,” you snap and now it’s your turn to lean forward in your seat, your elbows on your knees as you tiredly rub your face with your hands. 

“You will two years after I die,” he huffs and you groan at his petty response.

“Can you shut up about ‘two years’ already? It was just a number I threw out. I didn’t put a lot of thought into it,” you explain, hoping that he’ll drop the topic despite knowing that Gojo has never been one to let anything go. 

There’s a slow creeping weariness that you can feel settling into your bones. It’s one that you usually only feel after a bad mission, not when arguing with Gojo. Feeling it in such a domestic setting is putting you on edge.

“Why not? This is my death we’re talking about!” he presses and you feel your self-control crack.

“Exactly! I don’t want to think about it!” you shout back. 

You’re not sure if it’s because of how loud your voice suddenly is or the admission altogether, but it seems to stun him into silence. You immediately find yourself regretting your words, hating how exposed they’ve left you. 

The last thing you want is to see the look on his face and so you bury your face further into your hands. You can feel his gaze on you and even if he didn’t have the Six Eyes, you think it would burn just as hot. 

“I don’t want to think about you dying,” you mumble, unable to stop yourself from continuing. “So can we please just drop it already?”

There’s a heavy silence that hangs over the two of you. Eventually, it breaks when Gojo lets out a soft sigh. You feel the couch cushions shifting as he leans forward and tosses an arm over your shoulders. He then drops his chin to rest on top of your head as he holds you close.

“Don’t worry. I’m the strongest,” he says, his tone light as he tries to reassure you. It’s only because you know him so well that you can tell how forced his nonchalance is. “No matter what, I’ll win.”

You find yourself wrapping his words around you, clutching onto them tightly like a safety blanket that refuse to let go of.

“Isn’t your aunt’s boyfriend like half her age?” he suddenly asks, switching the topic altogether and you lean further into his side in silent gratitude. 

“More than half. He’s younger than us,” you reply with a quiet snort, finally dropping your hands from your face.

“Hm, well good for her.”

He doesn’t respond to your taunt, and you think the universe is finally showing you mercy and allowing you to fall back asleep. But then he gives an exaggerated sigh, pulling your waning attention back to him without even needing to say a word — an art that he’s perfected over the years that you’ve been together.

“I guess you don’t need to spend ten years mourning me,” he says and you groan, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to be over and for him to just let you sleep like mere mortals do. “I mean, mourn me a little at least. But ten years is asking a lot, isn’t it?”

“Satoru…” you warn. It would probably sound more threatening if you hadn’t yawned halfway through saying it.

“But, just wait a while before you start dating again, alright? Even in the afterlife, I don’t know if my ego could take it if you moved onto someone new too quickly,” he jokes, but beneath the self-deprecating humor, there’s a strange vulnerability that finally has you opening your eyes.

And you immediately wish you hadn’t because doing so shatters the strange, liminal space that comes with not being fully asleep and not fully awake. Your mind is still drowsy and it takes a minute to realize that something is wrong. All that you’re aware of is that you’re now soberingly conscious. 

When reality manages to catch up with you, your world comes crashing down around you in sharp, jagged pieces. Because where only a moment ago, you could feel Gojo’s warmth behind you in bed, hear his voice in your ears, feel his presence in your life, all that’s left now is an aching void. 

You’re overcome with the urge to look over your shoulder, despite knowing that you’ll find nothing when you do so. And that’s what keeps you lying still, staring straight ahead into the dark. 

This is your own Schrödinger's cat — if you don’t turn around then you don’t know if he’s not there. Just like the cat, Gojo is still alive so long as you don’t look. 

“S-Satoru…?” you ask, unable to help yourself. Your voice is rough with sleep, and it sounds so different, so much more real, from how you just heard it when you were talking with him. Maybe that’s answer enough. 

“Satoru?” Your voice cracks when you try again, only to be met with deafening silence. 

There’s a sharp pain in your ribcage, one that you’ve become familiar with over the past few months. You instinctively bring a hand to the middle of your chest, pressing your palm down hard to alleviate the ache despite knowing that it won’t help. 

The bed has always been too large. It had to be in order to fit his lanky frame. But now it threatens to swallow you whole and you scramble to escape it, your legs getting caught in the sheets as you rush to kick them off. 

You stumble out of the bedroom and make your way to the living room, where you fling a shaking hand out to flip the light switch. The sudden brightness has you squinting and after you’ve taken a moment for your eyes to adjust, you find yourself dropping to your knees in front of the small, wooden altar that’s been set up against the wall. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you’re met with Gojo’s smiling portrait — the only way you’ll ever be face-to-face again. His sunglasses sit carefully, reverently, to one side, folded on top of his trademark blindfold. A small box of mochi from his favorite café sits on the shelf just beneath in offering. 

With slightly trembling hands, you open the butsudan’s drawer and pick up the box of incense, sighing when you open it and see that there’s only one stick left. You absently note to buy more when you go out tomorrow for your regular visit to Gojo’s grave. 

Once you’ve set the last stick in its elegant dish and lit it, you take a deep, shaking breath, and try to push down the wave of tears you feel burning behind your eyes. The fabric of your black sleep shorts is clenched tightly between your fingers where your hands sit on your thighs. 

You suddenly feel angry and you latch onto the burning emotion, desperate to feel anything other than the overwhelming grief that’s found a home deep in your soul. Its roots have grown and stretched over the months to consume every piece of you, like an invasive species that’s destroyed everything else until it’s the only thing left in your life.

“You asshole.” You meant to spit the words out, but instead, they fall flat along with your resentment. “Of course I’ll mourn you. Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

Your head drops forward and you cover your eyes with one hand, as if doing so will hide your tears from Gojo’s ever-watchful gaze. Despite your best efforts, your self-control finally slips and you softly begin to sob.

“Y-you wanted ten years?” you ask, still unable to look at him. “I’ll mourn you forever. I promise.”

If he was still alive, you would have offered to make him a binding vow. You should have offered to make him a binding vow. Instead, you can only make one with yourself. 

“Please tell me this is just my imagination,” you murmur, desperately hoping that some passing god will take pity on you and give you what you want more than anything. You don’t care what you have to give up, as long as they’ll give you Gojo back. 

With your eyes closed and your hand blocking any light, you find yourself wondering if you’ve fallen back into that liminal space once again, where everything is and isn’t at the same time. If you try hard enough, you can almost hear him tsking and asking you why you didn’t spend more on a bigger butsudan. 

But the scent of the incense and the soft sounds of your crying keep you from slipping away from the present. 

Your vision is blurry with your tears when you lift your gaze back up to look at Gojo. As his photo grins back, you sniffle and wipe your messy face with the back of your wrist before you press your palms together and bow your head.

“I pray that this all is just my imagination,” you beg him, pleading with him to perform one last miracle for you.

But when you open your eyes and find yourself still alone, the incense burning, and only your grief and his portrait for company, you know that this is reality — even as it falls out from under you.

[papermonkeyism]

Poking at the dinosaur project thingy, this time with some production technicalities point of view.

Here be musings.

I originally thought of the project as a calendar, then a series of calendars that could be collected into an art book once enough art had been made for it, and at some point I thought of just skipping the calendar part and going straight for art books.

I've been going back and forth between those options multiple times over the years, and it's still kinda open. Like on one hand a simple calendar with just thirteen illustrations (twelve months plus cover) is the easiest and cheapest option, though pretty limited (what to do once the year presented in the calendar ends, and you still got unsold leftover stock?), and the other hand art books are big projects requiring lots of work, even more money, but be a lasting and very satisfying thing to have.

Maybe I should take a middle road and make a zine instead?

Maybe.

Though, this is where the shape of the actual project comes in.

I've always planned the project as having a slice of life style format, with little story and more focus in exploring the setting. Kinda just looking in and enjoying the view while you go. But I've noticed that keeping the "narration" as illustrations kinda keeps the immersion at arm's length too. While that is fine and dandy for a calendar where the space for any narrative would be very limited anyway, if I was going to do more with the setting, I kinda need something deeper. Even if the audience is fine just looking at pretty pictures, with ADHD it would be better to have something deeper to help keep me personally invested enough to actually plan, plot and produce the materials needed.

Should I make an actual story, with plot and stuff? Feels kinda unnecessary for a thing focusing on just illustrations, and I don't know if I really "click" with a text heavy picture book format. I kinda feel it would make comic as the best option, though that has its own downsides. I've always wanted to do full colour paintings of the dinosaurs, yet going comic it would have to simplify a lot and make it grayscale just to keep me sane. And, as someone who has done well over 250 pages of a long form comic, that's still a HUGE commitment I don't think I have the resources - mental, physical nor financial - to pull off.

I also kinda feel having a plot story would sort of detract from the "exploring the world" aspect and put more heavy focus on characters, which. Well, it's not *bad* exactly, just not quite what I want.

(Also I am aware the dinosaur clan I have has a kid character, and I don't want to make her the point of view character for the story. I have no interest doing a childrens' book. I mean, I am perfectly fine if kids do eventually end up liking my stuff, but I don't consider them my target audience. My target audience is me, an adult person in their later 30s, and a handful of nerds I consider friends and/or mutuals.)

Another option I've been toying with is kind of a double edged sword.

Those who got the Almost Real speculative evolution zine volume 5 got a bit of a taste of this, as I kinda tried it out there.

So... I've gone to pretty great lengths as a layperson to work in the setting of the project thingy. It's always bothered me when dinosaurs get just dumped into a story with no regards to when and where they actually lived, making for an anachronistic hodgepodge of what's popular forming into a mismatched fantasy setting, usually with throwing humans into the mix. I don't like that. I'm more interested in seeing the actual animals as they were, when they were and where they were, where the focus is in the dinosaurs themselves. Thus the limit to Two Medicine formation (with some of the surrounding areas included too, though still keeping to the same time period).

I do not want humans in my dinosaur stories. Period.

But what if...

So, imagine a research journal. There's a scientist visiting the clan of Singing People the project focuses on, with the mission of studying them, their life and their world. The book or zine or whatever could be a story of the dinosaur clan introducing themselves and their life to this person. An outsider point of view to excuse learning about them by them teaching this POV person how their world works. There could be some interaction and maybe interviews, and of course illustrations because you need to document your subjects after all.

Like, I'm kinda excited about the idea. It would let me get into the details I want to picture without getting too into the heads of the characters to limit the chances of artistic exploration. You gotta document the surroundings your study subjects live in after all! But you'd still get to know the characters because it's the job of the POV person to learn about them. Win win!

It's just that I don't want to put too much attention on this hypothetical scientist. Like I said before I don't want to mix my settings. The dinosaur project thingy's world IS Laramidia in the Campanian period of late Cretaceous, it's not meant to be a scifi setting, nor do I want to have any focus on any time travel.

Wonder if it would be possible to leave the scientist character vague enough to never actually get explained? They're just nameless outsider from undetermined time and place who's interviewing some dinosaurs. Maybe with some peronal opinions or musings but no anecdotes about their own life or themself. And whenever there's interactions between the scientist and any of the Singing People it just gets handwaved away. (Of course the Singing People are curious about them too, but that's not the point of the study so it just doesn't get documented or something?)

I don't know. Could that work?

[impishjesters]

warning(s): none note(s): This was a request that accidentally got deleted so I'm fuzzy on the exact words used, but I remember it involving a reader who makes clay things and that it was for Gangle. So my apologies to the requester if I missed anything! A/N: I don't remember if it was platonic or romantic, but this was written with the intention of the crushing stage because I just think it's so stinking cute. I definitely feel like Gangle would enjoy someone going out of their way to not only help fix her masks but make her brand new ones without her even asking for them. Too cute.

Gangle x Clay Maker!Reader

Gangle held her recently broken comedy mask for what felt like the hundredth time, and it seemed like almost every time was a result of something to do with Jax. The most recent case, however, was the new arrival, just to have it stepped on breaking it further. If she had a mean bone in her body she’d curse the damn thing for being so fucking fragile.

Luckily she had you, someone who worked with clay to make all sorts of little things. You had even taken to making her some new masks, some she wore, some she put up as decoration too afraid to risk them breaking. Even when you reassured her you could fix them up if that happened, that offer extended to her two original masks.

When everything had died down she separated from the group and headed for your bedroom. She had asked once before why you didn’t just ask Caine for more space or a new room, you had brushed it off by saying it’s not like you needed a fully furnished bedroom.

Besides Caine oh so graciously gave you all the things needed to make new clay stuff, asking for more at the moment felt like too much—even if you deserved it for being trapped in this shit hole, all of you deserved more than you got.

Gangle raised a hand to knock before remembering that it wasn’t necessary and instead opted to push the door open before calling out your name.

Your head rose from the project in front of you, throwing a quick glance at your guest. “Ah, Gangle. Broken mask?” Poor girl couldn’t catch a break.

“Yes…the newbie broke it…b-by accident!” she tacked on. “Then Jax stepped on it…”

Gangle crept over and you gestured for her to show you the pieces. Laying them out on the worktable she hunched into herself, hands fiddling idly. “I-it’s not too broken is it?”

You shoved your current project aside and gently collected the fragments like it was a puzzle, whistling when you saw the damage. “Nothing’s too broken, especially since you already told me you don’t mind the clay. It might take a little bit longer than normal though, but I can give you a temporary comedy mask if you want.”

She shook her head, there was a certain fondness for her original two masks that it felt odd to wear the mock ups you made. Though she was starting to fear the damage becoming too much that these two masks would hardly be original anymore.

“Do you think you could…maybe make more solid copies of them? L-like the others?”

The masks you designed were made a bit more durable then the temporary comedy masks she’d used before. They were temporary after all, more akin to a cheap Papier-mâché mask then a solid structured mask.

“What like a better version of your main two? Thinking of tucking these two away for safety?” Gangle gave a nod and you looked at her, mask shards forgotten to reach out and touch along the edge of the tragedy mask she wore. “You know you could easily just ask Caine to fix them up.”

Gangle tittered nervously at your tender touch, trying to focus on anything but how close you were. “I..I guess I could.. but..”

It was embarrassing to admit she liked your handiwork, and while she was worried about her masks you did bring up a good point. Caine would easily fix them if they got that bad, but it felt like a last option to fall back on. In fact he had fixed them up multiple times prior to your arrival, but it felt like she was a bother having to always find him and ask time and time again.

If she was being completely honest, she sort of just really liked the tender attention you gave her and the way you kept working so earnestly on masks for her. Masks she didn’t even ask for, it was completely your own doing! So sue her for sucking up all the attention you happily gave her.

When she never finished her sentence you took that as her being lost in her own head and gentle jostled her face. “Outta that pretty little head missy, you don’t have to explain it to me. But yeah I can make sturdier mask copies.”

You gesture to the free seat nearby and she scampered off to her usual spot. It gave her the perfect view to watch both you and your work while being just the right distance to not be in the way or for her heart to beat out her chest.

The project you had been working on when she entered was left untouched in favour of fixing up some of her broken mask as well as getting a fresher template drawn up. Gangle eyed the ignored project before her attention went back to you.

“What were you working on before I came in?”

“Mm? Oh, nothing too important, just some little clay dolls.”

Gangle pulled her knees closer as she listened to you talk about the dolls in question. She was forever grateful that her masks kept the exact object she was staring at vague, if you knew that her eyes were glued specifically to you she’d completely unravel.

Physically and mentally. Maybe one day she’d speak up on her feelings.

[my-mt-heart]

Here we go again...

I'm going to echo what I said on Twitter about "The Big Three" post on my blog since this is where I feel safe speaking up. I'm very sorry I had to direct it at Valhalla who have been Melissa/Carol/Caryl fans' biggest ally on social media up to this point, even using #TheBookofCarol tag to let us know they see her as the main protagonist that she is. I'm also very sorry that as of today, we've reached the two-year mark since the news of the original spinoff's cancelation and this fandom still has to fight for the respect that they and Melissa herself have more than earned. Again, this is why we need a new showrunner with the intuition and authority to change the messaging on the show and on SM, so that Caryl fans not only feel safe, but also eager to watch, pay for, and engage with new material.

I saw that Valhalla acknowledged Carylers' complaints on their post. I wasn't expecting that. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think any other official account has ever put the needs of the fans over their own need to save face, so I respect and appreciate that. The comments were filling up with voices from other parts of the fandom trying to give Valhalla an out, but it's easy for them to ignore or in some instances mock the issue because their favorite character is represented and they get the satisfaction of a character they hate being left out and her fans being upset about it. It's easy and probably fun for them to accuse us of throwing tantrums, invalidating a very real source of pain for many of us.

There is a long history of fandom bullying and ageism directed at Melissa/Carol/Caryl and their fans to the point of many people, including Melissa herself, having to leave SM. The other factions claim we're a minority, but in reality we're just less active in public spaces because we're made to feel like we don't belong. Caryl fans are very much like the characters in that way and unfortunately other fans and other official accounts take advantage of that.

What happened exactly two years ago has broken our trust and our spirits even more. A lot of us are teetering on the edge of leaving because we're tired of being gaslit and strung along. We're vulnerable and we have triggers. In order to keep engaging with TWD content, we have to feel like its worth it, which means we need to know that the show and everyone affiliated are meeting our needs: that Melissa and Carol are acknowledged for the HUGE impact they've had in the story since S1, not how much they are marketed, and that Caryl is treated like a valid ship.

We need strong leadership for that. Valhalla is a female-led account, so they have the authority to tackle the issues that the actresses and their female fanbases face. A female showrunner would help with that as well. TBOC is fast-approaching. The promotion should focus on hyping the core audience of that show, not alienating them further. We deserve so much better. Melissa deserves so much better. Caryl deserver so much better.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter 23: Getting Real - a TMA x Malevolent crossover

So, here they are: facing fear-gods, and a fucked-up eater of fear-gods, and a weird Welsh heritage, and a death sentence from the devil incarnate, and… they’re flirting about it.

He likes it.

He likes Hastur.

Oh. Oh, he's in over his head.

Corrupted, a TMA x Malevolent crossover featuring Tim Stoker and the King in Yellow, chapter 23.

AO3

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

One of the challenges of an emotional eruption is the tendency to feel stupid after.

Objectively, Tim knows he’s not being stupid. He’s comforted loads of people (drunk and otherwise) who felt overwhelmed and out of control, and he’s aware nobody blames him, or thinks he’s overreacting.

Jon gets him tea. It’s pointless and silly and Tim feels so… moved.

Myrddin just lets him cry it out by walking away and giving him space. Again, Tim is moved; he wanted the space, but was uncomfortable asking for it.

Elias calls back. Yeah, no. Tim doesn’t answer that.

Tim. Tim, breathe.

Tim thinks that's an excellent idea. “I need some air,” he says, sounding nose-stuffed and weary.

“Is that… safe?” says Jon.

“My gut says yes, as long as I don’t go too far, I think.”

“Well, then by all means, don’t do that,” says Jon imperiously.

Tim quashes the urge to put Jon in his pocket and smiles instead. “I won’t. Thanks.” And not remotely in the mood for searching for a door, he climbs right through an open window and away.

#

The ocean goes on forever. He can’t even see the gray horizon-line out there in the fog.

He knows Wales is over there, but weather doesn’t permit visual confirmation, and all he can see is mist and wave and sky. It’s a weirdly lonely feeling. If not for the tower right behind them, it would easily feel like they were abandoned at the edge of the world.

Simon Fairchild, he thinks, would love the view. Then he remembers Junior’s thumb mutating the horizon for a moment, and he sways, dizzy.

Are you all right?

“Super,” says Tim, leaning on his thighs and taking a minute to breathe deeply.

Hastur sounds subdued. I'm sorry, Tim.

"You pronounced those pretty good without practice," says Tim, knowing he isn't making a ton of sense.

Hastur ignores the quip. All of this is so much to ask of a human. I'm sorry.

Tim stands. Swallows. He faces the fact that a god just apologized to him—and a narcissistic, dramatic, ridiculous god, at that. Then Tim faces the fact that if he has to stand up to horrible monsters and impossible magic, he doesn't want to do it alone.

No, it's not that he doesn't want to do it alone. He wants to do it with Hastur.

More than with Danny. More than with any friend. He wants to be with Hastur through this, and he is absolutely not ready to analyze that. “I appreciate that." It's too close, too vulnerable, too real, and Tim jukes left of subject. "All this isn't how I thought my life would end, that’s for certain.”

Tim… it isn’t ending. Not for sure. There may yet be a way to save you.

Tim scoffs. “Don’t you mean us? You better mean us.”

You will have the greatest story ever told when this is through. I expect you to elaborate on my greatness.

Oh, no, Hastur didn't mean us. “Well, sure. Gonna sell the rights to Bollywood, and live off the inevitable franchise money that comes from it.”

Why Bollywood?

“Because any film of my life needs to have gaudy fun, charisma, a good sense of humor, and some baller dancing."

Hastur laughs softly. Ah… I do like you, Tim.

There’s no regret in that statement anymore. There’s an eagerness, an expectation, a focus so intense it has weight. Of course, Tim goes with it. “Kind of impossible not to imagine degenerate things when you talk like that.”

If this works, you won’t have to imagine them anymore.

Hoo, boy. So, here they are: facing fear-gods, and a fucked-up eater of fear-gods, and a weird Welsh heritage, and a death sentence from the devil incarnate, and… they’re flirting about it.

He likes it.

He likes Hastur.

Oh. Oh, he's in over his head. Oh, this is a lot. Tim swallows. "Why didn’t you say ‘us,’ Hastur?"

I’m resigned, Hastur says.

“Resigned?” Tim tries to keep it light. “To what, Bollywood?”

I’ve had a really good run—far longer than I should—thanks to raw luck.

Tim clenches his fist. “Excuse me? You're quitting?”

Don't misunderstand. I'm saying I’ve decided if I have to die because of meeting you, then… the scales balance. That’s all.

Tim stops walking.

Water whispers against the shore, steady and patient. A bird of some kind screams overhead, unseen. The smell of baked bread wafts from the tower, luring. Tim swallows. “That’s a really big thing to say, Hastur.”

I’m aware.

Tim is shaking (because it's cold, he tells himself). “First off, no, I do not approve of you accepting death. Not allowed. Practically an HSE violation. Second, that’s… not something you want to joke around with. For any reason.”

I’m aware.

Tim shakes. He nudges a loose rock with his foot. He could walk the whole island in a few hours; see the weird churchyard where (supposedly) 20,000 saints were laid to rest. See the weird apples unlike any other in the world, immune to blight. See the lighthouse. He doesn’t move. “You’re telling the truth?”

I am.

Tim’s mouth is dry.

Don’t feel like you have to respond. I didn’t say it to get a response. I… just felt it should be said.

But that's such a big thing to say. “Hey. I have a question.”

Ask.

“Why didn’t I lose another body-part after we beamed ourselves here?” Tom says, following a gut instinct.

I chose not to take it.

Tim inhales slowly. “You could’ve before?”

I’m not sure. In both other cases, I was straining for independence, we were in the middle of something wild, and I just found myself with your eye, and your hand. This time… maybe because I had control of your body, briefly, I could feel a… Hastur considers. Like a breeze from an entryway you didn’t know was there. I knew I could follow it and something would happen. I chose not to.

Tim feels pale. Hastur means it. This thing Hastur said… he means it. “Why do the scales balance, Hastur?”

Silence.

“I’m just… that’s a really big thing to say.”

I'm aware.

Tim knows how he’d take a statement like that from a human. He knows what it would mean, emotionally. It sounds like love. 

On the other hand, it's coming from a narcissistic god in hiding who’s facing death by digestion or death by Cthulhu’s great-grand-uncle, all while trapped in a mortal body, and given this, Tim has no idea what it means.

Whatever it really means, it’s a vulnerable statement, and deserves a response. “I…”

Shhh. You don’t have to answer me. I’ve been around a long time and had many lovers, and I know what I said. I didn’t say that to obligate you. I just wanted you to know.

Holy shit. Holy shit. “We're not lovers, though.”

What a strange thing to say to the god seated deep inside you.

Tom chokes a laugh. “What the hell, Hastur? Foul beast. Get thee behind me.”

Oh, I’ll get behind you, all right.

Tim laughs again, and Hastur laughs, too—a deep and quiet sound that buzzes under Tim’s skin in places that shouldn't be possible with disembodied vocal cords, but does anyway.

Damn. They're really doing this. When had the goofy flirting become real?

It is real. This is real.

It's never been real for Tim before. It's worse than fear-gods, worse than some psycho cannibal chomping his way through history. This is real.

Spooked, Tim tries to make it silly again. “Many lovers, eh? How many of those lovers knew who and what you are?”

Hastur huffs. What does that have to do with anything?

Tim grins. “Just wondering what kind of skill level I’m going to be dealing with. You could be like the CEO who thinks he’s funny because his employees all laugh at his jokes.”

Ha! They enjoyed it. I’ll have you know there is no lover like me anywhere in the world.

“That’s not necessarily a positive,” Tim quips, because that was an opening. “And I’m sure they all told you that, right? Notarized and sealed in wax, or something.”

The responses I create cannot be faked.

Tim laughs again. This game is fun. “As far as you know, anyway. Seems to me you’d need a lover who doesn't, you know, worship you to get an honest opinion.”

Are you offering? says Hastur, all honey and whiskey and incorrigible god.

(This became real when did this become real—)

Tim folds his hands behind his back. “Just making an observation.”

Well. I'm glad I could— Hastur stops.

They both feel the change. It’s like a cold breeze, but cruel, moving with intent, and Tim spins toward the horizon. There: a darkness forming in the mist, large, growing, taking so long to resolve into a recognizable shape that the fear of it surges over them, making Tim shockingly aware yet again of how isolated he is on this beach right now, out of sight of land, away from everyone and everything he’s ever known in his life, and—

Hastur’s hand pinches his bicep hard enough to bruise.

“Ow!”

Focus. I'm here. You're not alone. He can’t make us alone.

Of course. Lukas.

Somehow, when Elias said “ship,” this image had not come to mind. It moors in the distance, and its details do not come clear. It is a ghost, a phantom, a rusted and silent hulk in the gloom like nothing else remains in all the world. “Fuck me,” Tim whispers.

I think we’d best go back inside.

“Yeah,” waits Tim weakly. “Hey. Is it okay if I run?”

What do we have to lose?

That was Hasturian for let’s fucking book it, and without another word, Tim turns and bolts.

#

Myrddin seems to dislike having Peter Lukas’ ship in sight of his home. He stands at the window, squishing a slice of bread into a little ball, considering.

“Kinda need that ship,” says Tim, “in case you were, you know, thinking of scuttling it, or something. I don’t fancy trying to portal myself to wherever we’re going.”

“Mm,” Myrddin says.

“I mean, unless you have another way to get there,” says Tim.

“Oh, I do,” says Myrddin, “but I’d rather eat my own foot than go near the destination, to be perfectly honest. Not my cup of tea.” He shivers.

Well, if the wizard’s being that dramatic, then it can’t be that serious. “Not that we both don't know this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve got a promise to keep.”

“And many miles before you sleep?” prompts Myrddin.

“These woods don't quite have the lovely part down.”

“Dark and deep, though,” Myrddin says.

“You're not wrong.”

Beside them, Jon shivers, staring out the window.

Tim wonders if he sees something they don’t. “Maybe it’s a better idea if you stay behind.”

“No,” says Jon.

He’s using you somehow, little priest, says Hastur. Elias is doing something. You’re walking right into it.

“I don't care,” Jon snaps. “I have to… I can't… you don’t understand.”

“So help me do that?” says Tim, all too aware that a spooky lifeboat with a spooky shape that’s probably Lukas in the bow is coming their way. “Because right now, I'm seeing you taking a big risk, popping along with me, and I don’t have a reason why.”

Jon sighs. “Look. I don’t know what Elias’ role in this is, but I'm not doing any of it for him. You don’t understand. I need to know. I need to. I need see the truth with my own eyes.”

“Right, but why?” Tim frowns. “You’re not telling me something.”

Jon looks positively caught. “I am not.”

“Yeah, that’s a double-negative, boss, so you just admitted you are,” says Tim, just to be a contrary.

Jon reddens. “I swear on my honor I will swim after the blasted boat if you try to leave me behind.”

Tim is not laughing. Nope. Not at all. “You got a lot of practice swimming?”

Jon is too skinny to do a puffy kitten impression, but he manages, anyway. “I grew up in Bournemouth. I’ll have you know I am an adequate swimmer.”

Hastur laughs. Adequate!

“Perfectly satisfactory!” says Jon.

“All right, all right,” says Tim, raising his hands. “You can come on the scary ghost ship. On your head be it if it’s properly spooky and answers nothing.”

“I’m not—” John begins, and then comes a knock at the door.

Myrddin takes Tim’s hand. “I'm glad to have met you," he says. "Don’t die, hm? We can talk when you get…” And he pauses. Blinks. “Oh, my,” he says, and turns away.

“When I what?” Tim blurts. “Get back? Why would you interrupt that?”

Myrddin opens the door instead of replying. A man stands there, and he is not Peter Lukas. He is short, heavyset, with a thick, black beard and dark skin made darker by the sun. He wears a nondescript pea coat, and around his neck hangs the unique, trumpet-like shape of a boatswain’s whistle.

That whistle gives Tim the heebie-jeebies. A whistle has never given him the heebie-jeebies before.

“Well, well, well,” says Myrddin. “Tadeus. That’s where you disappeared to?”

And the man, the boatswain judging by his whistle, looks through Myrddin like the wizard isn’t there, and tilts his head toward Tim in the barest acknowledgment.

Tim feels like his eyes are very wide. "Okay, sure. Yeah, let's go."

Myrddin touches his shoulder. "Good luck," he says softly. "I think you’ll be glad in the end you made the choices you did. Yes. You will.” And he tucks something into Tim’s pocket and pushes him toward the door.

The guy—Dahl, apparently—has already turned, walking back towards that tiny boat.

Jon gulps audibly. “Thank you for your hospitality, sir.”

“Of course, of course,” says Murddin with great and sudden cheer. “We’ll talk more when you get back.”

“When he gets back?” squawks Tim, but he already knows he won’t get an answer.

Dahl isn't waiting. They both hurry after.

Myrrdin stands in the door, smiling, waving a handkerchief like a black-and-white recording of some old-timey embarkation.

Tim shakes his head. “This might as well happen,” he murmurs.

That’s an amusing reaction to horror.

“Sort of logical, really,” says Tim, hunching his shoulders against the sudden cold as he follows this Dahl. “It’s really one of those days, you know? Not much we can do about it. So this might as well happen.”

His left hand shifts slightly out of his pocket and strokes his stomach. Pragmatic. But you're not doing it alone.

Tim swallows.

Jon jogs at his heels, too close, already spooked and shit at hiding it.

They wouldn't get anything out of drowning us, would they? Tim thinks, trying not to add to the spookification.

Only Elias’s displeasure, probably, says Hastur.

“What?” says Jon. “What displeasure?”

Tim forgot Jon could hear Hastur now. “Oh. They won’t do anything nefarious to us, is all I'm saying.”

Jon looks a little pale. “Only if we actually die. There are a lot of things they could do that don't involve death."

Tim makes a face. “Well, sure, if you want to get ridiculously technical, sure.”

You can still back out, little priest.

“Look, will you just call me Jon, please?” Jon snaps. “It's my blasted name.”

Hastur chuckles. As you wish. Jon. He does something to the name, makes it intimate, magical, maybe even a little invasive.

Jon trips.

“Hastur,” chides Tim, steadying him.

What? He wants me to use his name! Names are intimate.

Tim rolls his eyes. “Sorry. Some people can't behave, apparently.”

“Fine,” mutters Jon. “It’s fine. I asked.”

Don’t go making me jealous, now, Tim thinks, still chiding.

Don’t give me reason to, says Hastur.

So.

Tim thinks two things as they follow the silent Dahl onto the rowboat. One, he's right, and their relationship is changed. It is real. Serious. They both feel it, and they really need to talk out some boundaries ASAP.

Two (speaking of boundaries), Hastur is apparently jealous of Jon?

Why?

Well. That would be one of the things they discuss. Soon.

Dahl is strong. He kicks them off the rocky shore and hops in, weirdly graceful, and begins rowing them toward that distant dark shape.

But Tim knows what he saw before. The boat moved itself. Dahl is doing this for show, and Tim can’t imagine why. Though come to think of it, there’s a weird isolation to sitting in a boat, silent, rowed by a man a;sp sitting in silence, who ignores them as completely as if they didn't exist.

[reubarb]

is venting on a main even good practice? maybe i'll fuck off to a sideblog or something. finally utilise that empty one i own. maybe it's not good practice. sorry

that's bad, then. i feel silly now. but it's more or less that gnawing empty feeling you get sometimes? like when you read something and you just feel... there's suction in your chest, drawing in senseless nothings. you're all too aware of it, it's right there and you can't ignore it. the ache in your body becomes noticeable, but you ignore it but it's there. and i don't know why its there. was it something bad? is it good? i feel tired.

i have this incessant desire to know others. to be their friends, allies, to speak endlessly on things i love with them but then i feel ill. it's like i'm fucking it up. i can't speak about the things i like, it isn't good practise, i am taking up too much space. i am talking at them but i feel so happy! so joyful! but i can't be that. i don't deserve it.

it honestly feels like everyone has a manual. they know how to do things their way, how to socialise, how to be a person. but i never got it and there's nowhere to get it, no way to find it. i feel like i'm always on edge; everyone will hurt me. i'll fuck up one way and suddenly everyone is against me! i, the tainted one will be cast aside and they will gloat holy about my sins, how they are better. and they will be right

and i fear that maybe it's parasocial. maybe my desires are not moral to be so close to others, even though i have nothing to offer. i can't focus on much and i do struggle with the fact i feel others may not remember me. i'm the filler person. i'm just there, i'll be that guy you never talk to much, only when the people you adore aren't able to.

i need to be better, i need to be polished and whole but i can never be that i have too many flaws but i feel manipulative for saying it. i can't ask for help, that's bad. only for me. never for others, they can seek help all they like and i feel so proud and envious of them but the moment i want to... i am not worthy.

i feel silly because i admire things. characters that i don't even think make sense but i feel too scared to mention because that means it'll come up in the tags and i think if it did, people'd see me. i have a paradoxical desire to be known, to be worshipped, to be loved but any attention i get makes me want to run into a hole and hide.

i genuinely feel different from others. people feel distant like there is a barrier between you and i. i walk the same and i talk the same but my speech is naught but lies and i feel like. something. i am isolated and want to break out but i know that if i do, i will be hurt. i do not want to be hurt because i fear that it'll be the greatest pain of all.

i want people to like the things i make. ask me about them, circle me about them. to understand and love the characters i make even if i do not deserve it. so that when i die, someone will remember what i have made. maybe it'll be worth it, after all.

sorry. this is incredibly stupid. i'll go back to reblogging now because then nobody can see this. nobody will give the time of day to read this. i don't have people close enough to me to do that anyway, it'll be ignored. that's fine. it truly is that — fine.

[headstrongblake]

@thewholecrew: alec & octavia. | hunter vs hunted universe

if this works, there won't be any more torture or experiments. if she can get them out of here together, she'll take alec to find his kassy, find her big brother. then they'll be safe once again because her brother won't let anything bad happen to her, which means no one else will ever touch alec again. she'll make sure of it. "it's okay to be scared alec," octavia promised, "but fear is a demon, okay, so close your eyes and tell yourself that you're not afraid." she said, reciting words her mother told her all her life as her powers grew unstable. "that's how you slay the demon," octavia very quietly whispered to herself as she sucked in a deep breath, straightening on her bed as the electronic beeps alerted her to the guards coming. "i won't leave you alec, i promise." she told him before falling silent, waiting for the guards.

like predicted, they go for alec first, unlocking his cell as they disappear from her view inside. she can hear their scuffling, fire burning up her spine as she listens to alec's pained noises. her fingers coiled tightly against the skin of her palms, grinding her teeth together because this part is the worst. to listen to them go for alec. for them to begin trying to drag him off for his latest experiment while all she can do is sit on the edge of the bed and wait. "i'm not afraid," she quietly muttered to herself, sucking in another pained breath as emerald hues lifted to the agent roughly handling alec. hatred crossed her gaze, feeding her desire to escape. her need to fight for survival. it's not just about her. it's about alec.

"stop!" octavia growled, earning her a disgustfilled glare from the agent that tugged on alec. her breathing strained, anger seething as the second agent scoffed at them, unlocking her cell. you better behave or he gets it worse, the agent warned as they entered her small space with the painfully heavy cuffs that encased her hands when they were transporting her. instead of fighting with her words, octavia silently watched the agent, bidding her time as they came towards her. she stood weakly as directed, emerald hues flickering over the agent's shoulder to alec as she let out a calculated breath. as the agent punched in a code, the specialty cuffs whirled to life drawing her attention to the agent's soulless eyes.

just as the agent went to snap the cuffs onto her hands, octavia drove her knee with as much force as she could muster into their gut, knocking the wind from their system. there's no time to spare to look at what she's doing, all she can focus on is the plan. next, weapon and alec. quickly she bent down, forcing the agent's hands together as she snapped the cuffs that stabbed her skin onto the agent, a smirk twisting on her lips at their yelp. "not so fun, is it?" she mocked, knocking her elbow against their jaw before she reached for their gun, rushing out of her cell to alec, "let him go!" she ordered, aware that the monitoring in this building meant they only had limited time. squeezing the trigger, octavia shot at the wall beside their head, "next is in your head, or you let him go, give us your badge and you join your friend over there." octavia glared, finger on the trigger, ready for a kill.

@headstrongblake: alec & octavia. / verse: hunter vs hunted.

though he couldn't see her face he assumed she was as frightened as he was, they knew that the consequences for what they were about to try and do were extremely severe and if this didn't work that there was going to be a lot of pain waiting for them if they were caught. alec swallowed thickly, arms cradling his slowly healing body. they were both sick of the pain, sick of the torture and tests and never ending injuries and wounds. they were nothing to these people but experiements, but lab pets, less than human. he didn't want to stay here anymore than she did and alec didn't even know how long they'd been here already. he sniffled on the other side of the wall, nodding as he sucked in a shaky breath. "i-i don't either," he agreed quietly.

he was still scared but he trusted octavia, and also if things were to go wrong he didn't want her to be alone in what they would do to her. she had been so strong in the beginning, fighting against what they wanted her to do and she recieved more pain and torture because of it. it killed alec to hear, to see her wheeled in or dragged as she returned from wherever they took her. tears pooled in his eyes and alec raised his arm to wipe them. this was no time for tears, even if his body felt weak and his insides quivered with fear and aching. if they got out they wouldn't have to feel like this again.

her words of encouragement had a quiet whimper escape him in acknowledgement, nodding as he swallowed the blood he could still taste in his mouth. "o-octavia... i'm scared..." he admitted as he saw the two agents walking closer down the hall in the metal door's reflection. he tensed, biting his lip as he nodded again, "o-okay," he agreed and let out a shaky breath, wincing as the door opened with a bang and the two agents did as octavia assumed they might, going for alec first. his heart lurched in his chest with fear as he whimpered when the guard grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet. he scampered up as his scabbing wounds pulled painfully. he did as she said though, going slow, even as they muttered and yanked at him. he stumbled, falling half on purpose and half because it had been too much. he gasped in pain, knees bruised and scraped as he was pulled to his feet once again.

so badly, alec wanted to look back, to meet octavia's eyes before they took him away but he didn't want to give anything that could tip them off. c'mon! quit dragging your feet! one of the men said and he couldn't help but reply, "i-i'm t-trying, b-but i-it hurts---" the answer earned him a hard smack that had him fall to his knees once again, tears pooling in his eyes as his face stung, hand slowly lifting to the reddening skin.

[mintmatcha]

addressing issues - kyotani kentarou

well! here's part two to this drabble ! special thanks to Amy (@saetyrn9) for helping me out!

tw: hurt comfort, discussion of relationship issue

The pancakes are raw in the middle. You try to pick around the batter, stabbing only the burnt bits with your fork, but it's a bit of a hopeless task. The gluey texture sticks to your tongue and the tingle of baking soda fills your mouth with each bite.

 "Don't eat that." Kyotani tosses the spatula into the sink with a sigh. The smell of burnt sugar clings to the air, even though all of the windows in the apartment are propped open. He's still in his pajama pants, loose things now splattered with batter, but he's pulled on a sweatshirt- one that he stole from your closet months ago. "I ordered food. It'll be here in 20."

You place the fork down. "Thank you for cooking." 

He slinks over, shoulders slack with defeat, and plops himself at the table. Tiredness weighs on his features; neither of you slept very well last night, but he was out of bed long before you even woke. "Don't thank me- I fucked it up." 

He expects anger. Maybe discipline. Sometimes you wonder if that’s all he’s ever known. 

Stretching across the table, your hand finds his cheek and cups it. Morning stubble prickles along your palm as you give him a little squeeze. He's frozen in your touch, neither pulling away nor leaning in, but his eyes close. 

"Thank you." you repeat, firm.

He turns to kisses your palm and his lips linger. They’re soft and waxy- he’s been using that chapstick you gave him. "Anything for you." 

You two stay like this, connected by only your touch, for a long time, much longer than justifiable. Just as the moment feels infinite, Kyotani breaks away. 

"We're avoiding it." he says. He takes your hand into his, placing two more quick kisses before setting you down. As he pulls away, you tighten your grasp and interlace your fingers with his. There's a flicker of surprise, the slight raise of his brows, but he settles into the contact, drumming his fingers along your knuckles. 

"I know." you sigh. "We…. don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. We could just… move on."

He takes a deep, stabilizing breath. "That's not healthy." 

The clock chimes. It rings through the kitchen, filling the space where your response should be. He raps in your knuckles with his finger tips, tapping patterns you can’t quite follow.

"Okay." 

"Okay." he repeats. Kentarou digs into the hoodie's pocket and reveals a crumpled ball of paper. As he unfurls it, you can catch a couple words scribbled in the margins. 

"Did you… take notes?" you ask. He flushes immediately, aggressively trying to smooth wrinkles down. He's scowling at the mess of graphite smeared across the page. The tips of his ears are scarlet, bright against his blonde. 

"I … I'm not good with all this. This makes it easier." He shoots you a quick glance. "Is...that okay?"

"I just didn't expect it." 

The sink's dripping again. It's a random droplet that collects at the faucets' rim before falling into the collection of dirty dishes below with a tiny plink. It catches your eye, the way it gathers slowly; maybe you could ask the landlord-

Ken's right. You are avoiding it.

"I don't like it when you yell." It feels good to state the obvious. The bounce of your calf shakes the table, jostling your joined hands, but it barely registers.  "It makes me feel shitty. Really shitty." 

There's still a weight of something upsetting you; it itches in the back of your throat. "And… and it scared me."

He clutches your hand tighter. There’s a slight tremble in his throat, the miniscule shake of his adam’s apple, as he swallows, but he doesn’t let anything reach his face. The firm hold of his brow is stoic, controlled, even as his body betrays him. 

"I’m sorry.” his voice is firm. He opens his mouth to say something else, but only draws in a breath. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, running over the chapped edges slowly as he contemplates in silence. “I... I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know you are.” 

“I.. I just…”  Kyotani’s unusually frazzled as his eyes flick down to the page in front of him. If you strain, you can make out some of the scribblings, but he adjusts away from you, covering the writing. “It's dumb, but…” he traces over his writing with his finger as he reads.  “Sometimes, I feel some type-a way and… it, it comes out wrong. It’s easier for me to get angry than admit that I’m hurt. It’s not fair to you. It’s not an excuse.” he looks up at you. “I’ll work on expressing myself better.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice, a gentle truth that you want to cling on to, but that itch under your skin hasn’t gone away. The situation’s still bothering you, still begging to be addressed. As you turn over it all, the squeeze of his hand no longer feels comforting- it feels overbearing.

“Kentarou, I don’t even know what I /did/.” you try and pull away, but he’s holding too tightly. Exacerbation boils in your chest, bubbling over quicker than you can control. “One minute, we’re having a good time with your friends. The next minute you’re yelling at me and storming off! I don't understand what I even did!" 

"But-"

The waver in your voice rings through the room as you give a final tug. “I can’t live like this,  constantly hoping that I don’t push your buttons. It makes me feel like I’m living in a minefield.” Reluctantly, he releases you, hand still dangling over the ruined breakfast. His steady look has finally broken into one more recognizable, with downturned mouth and a glassy sheen to his eyes. It’s blinked away quickly with a sniff, replaced with his usual sternness, but it was there. “It can’t happen again, Kenta.”

“I understand. “ he says immediately. 

The sink drips again. It’s all you can look at, that little shine in the corner of your eye. The uncomfortable squirm building in your stomach begs you to keep watching it, to focus on it until nothing matters. You’re only brought back to the conversation when his chair squeaks across the tile as he pushes away from the table. In a few strides, he’s at the faucet, wiggling the handle with just the delicate touch of his ring finger. “I’ll fix that tomorrow.” 

Of course he will. He’s always clanking around your apartment, burying himself into a new task wordlessly. Wordlessly, without request, he strives to make your life better. 

“I don’t even know what I did.” you repeat. The blonde leans over the sink, hunching over his elbows with a sigh.

"It's a dumb reason."

"If it matters to you, it's not dumb." 

He says it without looking at you. "I don't like it when you call me maddog." he states firmly. "It hurts. Really fucking bad."

Your anger deflates, suffocated by the sudden weight of guilt. "I didn't know that." 

He shrugs. It says all he needs to. 

“I- your friends call you mad dog though." 

“I don’t like it when they do it either.”

“But you don’t yell at them.” 

"They call me mad dog because they think I'm mean. Feral." he shoves his hands into the sweatshirt's pocket and kicks at the tile. His sock, a pink polka-dotted thing he must have fished out of your drawer, skids across the tile. It doesn't match his other sock- a Kentarou staple."I don't care if that's what they think of me." 

 Kyotani gives you a half smile. "But I care how you see me."

You stand and slink over, reaching for the drawstrings on his hood. He straightens at your presence, but doesn't reach, instead just letting you fiddle with the frayed cloth. Neither of you can meet each other's gaze, instead just staring at the floor between you. It's not until now you realize that you are wearing the other pink sock. Sliding your foot in between his completes the set. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too."  The weight of him suddenly leaning against you, relaxing into you, almost knocks off your balance, but there's a comforting warmth to him.

"Still love me?" he rests his forehead against yours as he talks, his fingers are trailing over your sides and gathering up the hem of your shirt.

"Of course." you tug the strings, tightening the hood around his neck, "Still love me?"

He grips your hips and pulls you flush against him as a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Always will." 

His lips trail lower until they are almost aligned with yours, breath warm and sweet. You rise up ever so slightly to close the gap. The first kiss is fleeting, just a test of the waters, but the next one takes its time.The drag of his lips, the taste of mint on his breath, the hum building in his throat: it suddenly hits you how much you've missed him. As your hands slide into his hoodie, your hoodie, pocket, dragging him closer, Kentarou changes the pace and showers your face with a barrage of pecks. It's quick and needy, leaving you no time to even breathe. 

"You know-" you manage to as you dodge his mouth, arching your back away from him to catch your breath. He grunts out something adjacent to a whine and dips with you to press against your forehead."I don't think you're mean."

 "You don't? Even after all this?" As he continues tracing kisses down your face and neck, tickling you with his stubble, you laugh and squirm, but he's holding you steady. 

"I think you're a big softy."  you giggle.

"Hey now. Don't go around saying I'm soft." he nips at your neck with a warning growl, but  you can feel the curve of his smile. "It's only for you." 

[chockfullofsecrets]

"If I'm not careful I'm gonna end up writing content for a character who literally never appears in 141 episodes"

I mean, you are more than welcome to. In fact, we will gratefully encourage this.

you encourage chock? you encourage chock like the author? oh! oh! tk fic for anon! tk fic for anon for Two Thousand Words!

(also, heads up that i am moving next week! have been working on Importance of Timing when i can, but the first chapter probably won't be here for another two weeks at least.)

---

Verin Thelyss, Essek knows, is a seasoned battle commander and strategist.

He’s also in possession of the instinct to tackle people when he’s excited, so Essek is well aware that it’s only those decades of training and experience that have his little brother pausing for the briefest instant as Caleb and Jester teleport him into the hold of the Nein Heroez before he launches himself at Essek in a dead run.

Veth and Caduceus are at their respective homes, Kingsley watching over the ship, but he is far from alone - Yasha and Fjord each have a supportive hand on his shoulder, a silent assurance from the tense minutes waiting for their friends to return from Bazzoxan. They swear in unison and scramble for their weapons as Verin screeches to a halt just shy of shunting Essek straight though the hull and yanks him into a rib-crushing hug.

He burrows into the junction of Essek’s neck and shoulder, made possible only by virtue of the activated floating spell that puts the coiffed swoop of his hair a full inch above Verin’s. “Thank the fucking Light, you’re not actually dead.”

“What the fuck, he’s like a swearing puppy,” Beau hisses. There’s a soft thwap as Fjord gently smacks her across the back of the head.

Essek is feeling out the edges of friendly intimacy, still, stumbling through every brush of fingers and shared look of exasperation, but even he does not need Jester’s frantic gesturing to prompt him to lift his arms and awkwardly wrap them around Verin’s shoulders.

It’s like wrapping a single thread of silk around one of Yasha’s biceps. Clearly he is not built for comforting.

Verin stiffens with a single sharp twitch of his ear against Essek’s collarbone . Essek’s thoughts flail wildly between an expectation of tears or a dagger to his ribs, but his brother just laughs, loud and hearty, and snuggles even further into his personal space. “I see someone’s finally taught you how to hug back - you should have written and told me, this is better news than any number of pages on den politics.”

Essek bristles. “Careful, or I will stop,” he huffs, somewhat more waspishly than he intends to.

Luckily, Verin has proven immune to his moods. “Oh, please don’t,” he insists, voice still crackling with glee. He grins, warm and wide enough that Essek can feel it against the side of his neck. “It just makes doing this that much easier.”

“Doing what,” Essek says reflexively, even as the tiny portion of his brain that he allows to remember his childhood starts to blare an alarm. “Verin-”

It’s far too late to realize that Verin’s hands have somehow been maliciously positioned just along the backs of his ribs.

Jester, standing with Caleb behind Verin, perks up in clear interest as the corners of his mouth start to twitch up. On second thought, Essek thinks he’d have preferred the dagger.

“Verin,” he hisses again, fighting back the anticipatory shiver crawling up his back. “Don’t - don’t you dare-”

It’s about then that Verin’s evil, evil fingers find the edges of his mantle’s arm slits and squeeze him even closer as they stretch to wriggle under his arms.

He snatches his arms back, but it’s too late - a dismayed giggle sneaks from his throat, then another, and then he’s beating helplessly at Verin’s shoulders as he dissolves into high, squeaking laughter.

Every single nerve between his armpits and his ribs squirms in unison - a bubbly, slippery sensation even more potent for how long it’s been since he last felt it. “No,” he shrieks. “I - ahaha! eeheee! - no tickling, no tickling, Verin-”

Jester looks thrilled - she’s bouncing on her toes, babbling something to Caleb that’s inaudible over the rush of his own laughter. Light, the Nein are going to tear him apart for this-

“Yes, tickling,” Verin protests, laughing right along with him. “All the tickling! You let me think you were dead! For months! I thought I was never going to get to watch my poor brother giggle himself to pieces ever again!”

He’s not, because Essek is going to kill him. “That - nahaha, hff, ahaaa! - that was - ha - it’s been decades - stop, stop, there’s people!”

“Yeah, people,” Beau says, loud and smug and far too close behind him. “Hey - Verin, was it? - does hotboi here have a worst spot?”

Oh no. Oh no. Essek squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to focus and does the only thing he can while laughing like an idiot.

With a shaky flick of his wrist, his floating dispels. Verin yelps in surprise as gravity takes Essek straight out of his grip.

The instant his boots hit the deck, Essek twists the rest of the way out of his grip and bolts.

There’s nowhere to go, really - the Nein have a room full of Counterspells, and Verin can run faster than he can, and he’s already tumbling halfway back into laughter in giddy anticipation of being caught. Still, it’s a surprise when he stumbles into a brick wall of leather and biceps that resolves itself into Yasha as she hoists him back into the air.

“Oh, where do you think you’re going?” She sounds admirably innocent given the soft, teasing smile she gives him.

“Noooo,” Essek giggles. Heat gathers in his cheeks as he tries to make himself stop - it doesn’t make sense, he’s not even being tickled anymore, but even the potential for it flutters light and fizzy at the bottom of his lungs. “I - I’m not ticklish anymore, I’m not-”

The Nein and Verin cluster around the two of them, bubbling with various levels of amusement. “Really?” Beau drawls. “It’s cute that you think denying it has a single fucking chance of working.”

The sarcasm helps him center himself, if only a little - he buries his face in Yasha’s arm and sucks in a deep breath that doesn’t do nearly enough to get rid of his blush.

He straightens as best he can while being bear hugged by a barbarian. “I am denying nothing,” he says carefully. Jester is still bouncing next to Beau, fingertips already twitching where they’re curled sweetly on her cheeks around a mischievous beaming smile, and Essek has to look away before the nervous snickers still wobbling on the back of his tongue can worm their way free. “I am well aware that Verin is - incorrigible-”

He hisses the last word in his brother’s direction - again, harsher than he intends, but he is so unused to being soft around him - and fails to contain a shy smile as Verin sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

Jester’s tail waves its way into the edge of his peripheral vision. He jumps and looks over at Fjord instead. “-but I, ah, I would ask for more respect from the rest of you-”

“You really shouldn’t,” Fjord says, grinning boyishly back at him. “I mean, you know us.”

And then, to Fjord’s right - “Essek?”

He’s been avoiding looking at Caleb. It is foolish, perhaps, to think that after all of the incredibly stupid things he knows Essek has done he will decide to judge him for this, but he cannot help the way his shoulders stiffen as he twists a little further to meet the gaze of the last link in their semicircle. “Yes?”

Caleb looks - focused, in an offhanded way, like he’s intent on something happening just slightly out of their current reality. Stunned might be a better word for it. He blinks for a moment before focusing those keen blue eyes somewhere near Essek’s eyebrows. “Ah - did you know that when you laugh, your ears -” He puts his hands up to his own ears and flaps them a little.

Drow do not run particularly warm, but that only makes it easier for Essek to feel the heat absolutely flood back into his face. “I-” he stammers. Nearly a century of politics is nowhere near enough to help him keep a straight face. “I - ah - eeh!-”

Caleb is close enough to reach out and run a questing fingertip over Essek’s left ear - it flicks wildly, trying to dislodge the unexpected tickle, but a surprised squeak still slips out.

There’s a moment of silence before Verin starts to snicker. “Oh, I like your friends,” he says merrily, beaming. “Go on, Light knows he doesn’t let himself laugh enough otherwise.”

“Don’t,” Essek gets out hastily, but Caleb is already reaching out for another go and Yasha’s grip is firm enough that all he can do is squeak again. “Wait - hm, hnn!”

Beau sidles up to Yasha’s side and gives him a self satisfied leer as she reaches out across their little group to pluck the feather from Fjord’s tricorn. “You got him, babe?”

“I do,” Yasha confirms and lets out a little squeak of her own as Beau reaches around her, no doubt squeezing something entirely inappropriate with company present.

“Hot,” Beau smirks, and reaches to flutter the feather over Essek’s right ear. “Aw, does that tickle? Thought you said you weren’t ticklish, man.”

Essek maintains some facsimile of composure for all of two seconds before his face crumples “Nnn - hehehe - eheehe - oh!”

His lungs are surely going to burst, with the way they’re shivering out desperate giggles as he shakes his head frantically between Caleb’s fingers and the teasing feather. He can’t move his arms, so he kicks his legs instead. “Please,” he begs, nearly incomprehensible even to his own ears. “Ah - aha, heeheehee! - tickles-”

Verin leans down and scoops his ankles up with one ridiculously sculpted arm. “Essek, you’re going to put a hole in someone with those boots.”

He looks up, raising his eyebrows teasingly, and Essek’s stomach drops like he’s cast something on it. “Here, I’ll fix that.”

Essek’s eyes, narrowed with laughter, shoot wide open. He doesn’t remember Verin being this evil - but then again, his brother’s never been egged on by five other people determined to render reports of his death more realistic.

“Verin, Verin, no-” he tries, but he’s giggling so hard that he can’t even get the words out. He twists as far away from Caleb and Beau as he can, flailing frantically, but Verin’s grip holds firm.

He pouts dramatically. “What? Is it my fault that my tiny, ticklish wizard brother insists on wearing metal-tipped boots that endanger everyone?”

Essek opens his mouth to reply and promptly dissolves into another frantic peal of laughter as Beau gets bored of his ears and shoves her feather in Caleb’s direction before jabbing a finger between his trapped arm and his chest to get at his armpit. “Your - shihihit, shit, ahahaaa, not there! - your arcanist brother is going to kill you just as soon as I can- hahaha!”

Verin just laughs, unlacing one of his boots and starting to slide it off. “Is that your attempt to convince me not to tickle your feet?”

Jester, practically vibrating, emits a sound that perhaps only weasels can hear. “Oh, that’s so cute! Can I have one of them?”

“One of his feet? Sure.” Verin hands over an ankle, grinning down at Jester. “You, I think you’re my favorite.”

As Essek gasps and struggles and falls further and further into a formless mirth that makes him feel so light he can hardly bear it, there’s a different sensation at his ear. A hazy portion of his brain identifies it as the rough bristle of chin scruff and an amused huff of breath.

“You don’t really want them to stop, do you,” Caleb murmurs. “I will help you, if you do.”

It’s quite unfair, Essek feels, to try and make him explain himself while he’s strung out and dizzy with laughter. He tries anyway, for a syllable or two, but Verin digs in between two of his toes and he ends up just tipping his cheek against Caleb’s and shaking, laughing too hard to make a single sound.

“Alright, then,” Caleb says. “In that case-”

He brandishes the feather with a flourish more suited to somatic casting, swooping it down the length of Essek’s nose before directing it back to his ear.

“Tickle, tickle...”

[theseventhoffrostfall]

Thoughts on mass effect?

The idea of the setting, the base universe presented in, like, the codex, is a solid one that I could easily see being among one of my enduring favorites. That is not the universe that's actually portrayed.

And this time I'm not talking about the games themselves, like how your approaches to problems are all either brute intimidation or touchy-feely idealism with no meaningful way to accomplish anything as a rational person trying to mediate problems, or the obligatory "your squadmates are emotional wrecks so there can be an obligatory token character arc where you fix them"

I mean like you know how Turians are supposed to be duty-bound, stoic, professional and have a severe aversion to lying, mostly on account of their culture but partially because of their psychology and the physiological makeup of their brains? Yeah, every single Turian portrayed is just a human. Not just Garrus, who acts like a human and denigrates himself as a "bad Turian", all of them. Salarians are supposed to be analytical, intelligent and conniving, with little concept of romance or sexuality? Every Salarian is a human that talks fast.

The codexes go into great detail about the different styles of warfare among the various races, and while I'm aware that it's an action-RPG and not a grand scale Battlefield type game, every single race just throws disorganized gangs of infantry at you.

It's like someone was hired from outside the company to build up a universe that would pass muster in a grand strategy game where, though characters aren't a focus, differing factions are supposed to be fundamentally distinct, and then that universe was handed to Bioware's writers. Bioware's writers are not sci-fi writers; they're certainly not military or investigative or political sci-fi writers. They have no interest in writing about political intrigue or anything from a non-human perspective, or even from a professional, big-picture-thinking, realpolitik-accustomed, has-bigger-problems-than-family-drama-in-suburban-Canada human perspective. Everything interesting about the universe had to be baked out so they could write about every single character's father issues.

I know Mass Effect 2 is supposed to be the good one, it's certainly the one everyone sucks off, but that torpedoed half the concepts of the setting more than 3 did. The Terminus systems were supposed to be a wild stretch on the edge of space, with a host of races that barely acknowledged the Council's existence. What we saw in 2 was a bunch of scummy criminals and shitty colonies from the established races. It's less the wild west and more the wrong side of the tracks. Humanity's the fast-growing galactic newcomer in the first game, politically unified and generally having not a ton of contact with other races yet. Second game, not only are there somehow generations of humans living in the ass-ends of the Galaxy like Omega station, but decades prior a human had enough reputation and political pull to co-found a major mercenary group. Mercenary groups themselves being just thug gangs and drug runners and criminals with no mention of training, being mostly former legitimate military personnel, or indeed ever being hired on as contracted soldiery is another topic for another time.

The concept of "Spectres", while indeed also in the codices and the first game, is just fucking silly. It doesn't exist for the benefit of the universe, it exists because Bioware for some fuckoff reason is addicted to creating a special above the law faction of player characters to justify the player character acting like a player character, because writing better scenarios than the PC having ultimate agency and authority (theoretically, they're bad at portraying it) is almost as hard as writing a military officer as a professional who doesn't let whatever family issues he may or may not have effect his work. Again, the whole concept doesn't jibe with the rest of the universe, because how do you convince member-states, let alone barely-not-hostile Terminus powers to let unilaterally appointed, unvetted agents run around their territory with the explicit injunction that they're above the law and above any political consideration. The response when you show up to an active crime scene saying "I'm a Spectre, let me through on Council authority" shouldn't be "Oh my god, you're a spectre!? [You must be a great and wise hero/you must be an incredible badass, please don't hurt me!]", It should be "What? Who the fuck do you think you are? How about you tell this fucking gun barrel you're above its jurisdiction, and you can hightail it on back to your ship to kiss the Council's ass right after you kiss mine"

Also, I'm aware it's a petty point, but "all keyboards are holograms and the only ways to use technology are either wearing special gloves or surgically implanting microchips in your fingers, trust us this is better than an actual fucking keyboard" is completely idiotic. I like flashy sci-fi high-techness probably more than the next guy but at a certain point you're just throwing in nonsense to prove how high-tech the setting is without even thinking for a second what it would be like to live in this universe.

Last point, the fact that human genetic engineering is banned by the Council for vague reasons is retarded, for the same political reasons (the response should be "who the fuck are you to dictate internal affairs, let alone what we do with our own genome"). Same with the aversion to overt cybernetics. They just either didn't want to model people having biological or cybernetic modifications or cope with the fact that maybe the player would like some sickass laser arm cannons, or, unlikely, they didn't want to have to also write about the existential and similar issues relating to cybernetics, mind-machine interface and DNA modification

[heejojo]

hating park

summary: y/n has hated Jay for a long time but what happens when they now share a practice space?

pairing: Jay x gn reader (with a Sunoo, Niki, Jungwon, Jake and Heeseung appearance)

genre: crack, angst, fluff

word count: 1.4k

a/n: I hope you enjoy this, I'm currently working hard to improve my writing. requests are accepted and highly welcome. have a nice day!

If there was something you hated more than peanuts, it was Park Jongseong and you hated peanuts a lot. It was the way he talked, the way he did everything and the way he was better at you in everything you both did without putting in much effort. Of course, you can’t blame him or the heavens for giving him such a photographic memory nor can you blame the heavens for giving you such a slow brain.

Although his cocky personality infuriated you to no end, you respected him as an academic rival and maybe in another life, where you’re not so hard-headed and he isn’t so arrogant, you could be friends but since you’re not, might as well live with it now.

“So for the debate, we’ll split those who volunteered into two teams. For Team A, we have Y/N, Niki and Sunoo. In Team B, we have Jay, Jake and Jungwon” your English teacher said. You groaned inwardly, you were up against Jay again but thankfully, this time you had people you knew in your team. Giving Sunoo and Niki a funny face making them burst into laughter and the class give you weird looks, you focus on your work. Suddenly, you feel a paper plane thrown to your back. When the class ends, you join Riki and Sunoo to discuss the debate. It was going to be an impromptu debate from what your teacher had said and they weren’t going to give you the topic until five minutes before the program started to see how well you could all do under pressure. It made no sense but you had no place to complain about it. While studying with them, you guys began arguing about random things. “No Sunoo, mint chocolate isn’t that good and I'll carry this for life,” you said backing Niki up. When there were world wonders like chocolate and Oreos would you want to take mint chocolate? “It tastes like toothpaste and chocolate bro” Niki deadpanned. You burst out laughing while Sunoo started fuming. “I don’t blame you, only pretty people like it” Sunoo retorted. Niki and I glanced at each other and continued laughing. Out of nowhere, three people came and sat down with you guys. Jay, Jake and Jungwon. “Do you mind if we practice together, neither of us knows the question so it would be fun?” Jay asked. “No, absolutely not,” you said. You did not want to stay in the same area as him for too long. “Y/N it’ll be okay, it’s just for the project so it’s fine” Niki comforted. “Fine” you grumbled and Jay chuckled to which you sent him a glare and moved to the other side of the room. Cocky idiot.

You would never admit it but you did enjoy your time with the other boys even if they were like children. Jungwon was very serious but knew how to have a good laugh. Jake laughed at literally anything to which Sunoo followed. Niki enjoyed teasing Jay which you were secretly delighted about. Your relationship with Jay improved a bit and you were able to let down your walls. Jay had such an amazing work ethic which you respected a lot and he was able to tune out his swollen head attitude which you were thankful for. You learnt a lot from him and you realised he put in a lot more effort into his schoolwork than you had thought he did.

As the day for the debate neared, you all were put on edge and anyone who looked at you could see it so when you got a call from your friend Heeseung telling you to come to see him in an empty classroom you were pretty surprised. “Hello, Y/N I know you’re really busy in preparation for the debate and stuff but please can you meet me at the empty music classroom? I have something to give you” he asked. “Sure, no problem. I’ll be there in five minutes” you responded and hung up. When you enter the classroom and meet Heeseung, he quickly puts something into your hands. “Open it,” he says, pointing to the piece of paper in your hands. You look at him sceptically, “What is this?” you ask. He refuses to tell you and continues to urge you to take a look at it. “I’m not opening it until you tell me what it is,” you say. “It’s the debate topic, I took it from the office” he quickly spits out. You hand the paper back to him immediately. “Why did you take this!?” you whisper-yelled.

“I did that because I knew how much you wanted to win, I saw the look in your eyes. The envy and the sadness anytime your parents compared you to Jay. You worked really hard and you deserve to win at least once” he said. “Even though, you shouldn’t have done that. Do you know what will happen if you get caught? Throw that far away and don’t give it to anyone. I acknowledge your looking out for me but if I lose this debate I’ll know I tried my best but lost it fair and square but if I win after taking this, it’s cheating. I have less than a year to go before I graduate so I can still take my parents comparison but your reputation will be shattered if people find out what you did. It’s better to do the right thing using the right means” you told him. “I can take care of myself, thank you for caring about me but I would never want to win like this” you continue. “I hope you get rid of that,” you say as you pack up your things to go back to the class. “Are you really sure about this?” he asks you one final time. “I don’t need it, Jay puts in a lot of hard work as well and it will be breaking my work ethic if I take this,” you respond. “Do you fancy him, is that why you don’t want to take this” he queried. You pause for a while before saying, “Even if I do, it doesn’t relate to this” you say and leave the classroom. Once you leave, you go to the bathroom and stay there for a while thinking about what had happened and how it felt so unreal. You already felt a headache arising and rested for a little while.

Taking a deep breath, you leave the bathroom and go meet the debate members. You couldn’t focus during practice and Sunoo noticed and asked, “Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little pale”. You forced a smile and nodded, telling him you were just nervous about the debate. You could feel Jay’s eyes drilling holes into your back and when you turned to face him, he stared at you for a while before continuing his work.

The day of the debate came and although you were nervous, you did your best as so did the other people on your team. Jay’s team spoke with so much passion, you were almost convinced. After the judges had finished compiling the results, your team had won by a point and Sunoo and Niki wouldnt stop talking about it. “It’s because of my top tier arguing skills that we won” Sunoo gloated. “All those skills and you still can’t make us like mint choco,” Niki said. “All those looks and your crush still can’t like you back” Sunoo shot back which made Niki shut up. You shook hands with the people on Jay’s team, congratulating them and left the arena to be alone.

As you stayed in the debate room alone with your thoughts, Jay walked in with an ice cream in hand and offered one to you which you gladly took and stayed in comfortable silence with each other. “I saw you and Heeseung,” Jay said out of the blue. You stopped eating and your heart started racing. “He glanced at you and continued, “I know you didn’t open it and I heard all those things you had said. I’m sorry if I made you feel inferior in any way”. You didn’t know what made you laugh but you did and he looked surprised. You composed yourself and said, “Sorry, I have a habit of laughing during serious situations. So don’t have to feel bad for getting top place especially when you put in that much effort.” you said and continued eating ice cream. “You’re a good person when I started knowing you and realized I judged you too harshly and was blinded with envy,” you said. You both feel back into silence knowing that neither of you had any ill blood towards one another.

“What’s so bad about liking me?” Jay asked trying to lift the mood. “Shut it, Jongseong,” you tell him.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

Hon' if you are accepting prompts (and only if you are!) can I have some spooky Sansa and Jon? I'm still not over them in spooky scenarios so I would love to read anything about it.

And for something a little more specific (in case that helps): maybe ghost!Sansa and Jon moves to her place and she is not happy, but also she loves his dog?

Or maybe Addams AU!

Or maybe Jon is the ghost and Sansa moves into his place?

Or they are talkshow hosts or something and a ghost is trying to get them together?

Or maybe YouTubers AU and their followed bug them until they agree to a Collab and it's Halloween or something like that?

Okay I went all over the place and clearly have too many ideas, but feel free to choose any of you do choose something!

First of all, I guess I'm sort of always taking prompts? I'll never turn them away, though they may also sit in my inbox forever (I'm looking at you, the last anon prompt from when I asked for them back in December...)

Second, spooky prompts! ❤️👻❤️👻❤️ If there's anything I love in this world, it's the supernatural/paranormal. And it may be the middle of summer, but I'm already longing for spooky season and I've been trying to vibe with it but it's hard when the days are so long, hot, and humid. (I desperately want to be able to go outside and not feel like I'm breathing soup, thank you very much.)

Before I get to the prompt itself, because I'm too wordy for my own good - your one prompt of Sansa/Jon is a ghost and the other moves in to their place... well, I've read that fic! It's actually locked on AO3 and I don't know if that means the author doesn't really want people finding it/linking to it, so I won't, but I guess DM me if you wanna know what it is?? I don't know the protocol for that. There's also Haunt Me, Then by the lovely @ode-to-an-inkwell which I read back when I was lurking and I loved it. It's the same base premise, but with a ton more plot!

The prompt I have chosen is the youtuber collab! Because I also love writing about/dissecting social media, apparently.

.

.

Sansa breathes – deep and even – and tries to stay centered in the middle of her group (away from the edges, away from the dark corners and the sounds coming from them and the people she knows are waiting for her there).

She wishes with all her strength that her followers had never found out that she's related to Robb. It's not something she was hiding, necessarily, but when she started her channel, she'd kept a lot of her personal life private. And honestly, she never thought it would get to this point – the point where she has millions of followers and Robb and Theon have millions of followers and those followers inevitably found out she and Robb are siblings.

A collab had been unavoidable. She just wishes it were any other activity than... this.

She lets out a strangled scream as something crashes to her right and she stumbles left, straight into the other person who's been dragged along tonight – Jon Snow. He catches her arm and keeps her upright and she almost thanks him until she hears him let out a laugh. It infuriates her and she rips her arm out of his grasp and sends him a glare, though it's short lived when she sees what looks like a jar of eyeballs on a shelf behind him and bile twists in her stomach.

She hates Halloween - she hates horror movies and jump scares and gore, and she especially hates haunted houses. But what else should she have expected for this collab? Robb and Theon have a dumb prank channel, of course they'd bring her – notorious wimp Sansa Stark – to a haunted house for the video. She thinks Robb got permission to film, because Dacey and Olyvar are flanking them with cameras to capture everyone's reactions.

“It's all fake,” Jon reminds her, though she barely hears his voice over the din of sound effects echoing through the dark corridor as they pass from one room to another.

“I know that,” she hisses, heart pounding wildly. They approach a doorway and – sure enough – right as she passes through, there's a person with heavy special effects makeup waiting on the other side to grab at her (another thing she resents – this is one of those places where the actors can touch you. They'd had to sign a waver). She screams in the actor's faux-bloody face and she swears he laughs at her.

In front of her, Robb and Theon are being obnoxious as usual. She doesn't really condone their prank channel and has often had to reign them in from doing something that would get one of them needlessly hurt (or would be considered, you know, illegal). Jon is usually an unwilling participant in their videos, and he has his own woodworking channel that has nowhere near the viewership that her makeup channel or Robb and Theon's prank channels do (she's told him, over an over, that if he showed his face on camera, he'd get more viewers, but he insists that he wants the focus to be on his work, not him). Jon walks next to her, calm, like nothing in this place fazes him, and she sort of resents him for this.

She understands it's all fake, she's not stupid, but that doesn't stop her fear response from kicking in every time something jumps at her, every time lights flicker or go out. It doesn't stop her stomach from turning whenever she sees the needlessly gory scenes like that doctor cutting a girl open, her fake intestines spilling out as the actress screamed.

“It'll be over soon,” Jon leans in close so she can hear him better, and for a moment a sense of calm washes over her. She loses it, though, as he moves away to give her space and she panics and reaches out and grabs his hand, tugging him back close to her.

A strange look passes over his face, but he doesn't say anything, just lets her grab onto his arm as they continue through the haunted house. She can't explain it, but with Jon next to her she feels... safe. She knows none of this is real, she knows none of these actors will actually hurt her, but it doesn't seem to matter, and it doesn't seem to matter that Jon won't actually have to protect her (though she somehow knows that he would if he ever had to, and that's a strange realization to have as she's walking through a room of terrifying clowns).

When it's finally over and they're outside, she breathes a sigh of relief and she feels muscles that she hadn't even realized were tensed relax.

“That was awesome,” Theon nearly shouts at one of the cameras. He and Robb talk loudly and animatedly for the cameras about the house, summarizing it for their audience (she knows they're likely to cut out a lot of the extreme scares and gore, since a good portion of their audience are kids and young teens).

“You good?” Jon murmurs to her and she realizes she still has a death grip on his arm.

“Oh,” she breathes with a forced laugh, “yeah,” and she lets go of his arm and immediately wishes she could have it back. (And then, some part of her brain whispers that she wishes she could have his arm wrapped around her instead, but she pushes that thought out because where did that even come from?)

Jon brings a hand up to scratch at his beard and shifts on his feet and she wonders if its because he feels awkward on camera. Jon's never liked being on camera, not really – it's why Robb and Theon always have to catch him off guard and why his videos – at most – only feature his hands and forearms (the comments on his videos about how attractive his hands and forearms are had been one of her main arguments for showing his face, but Jon had gotten weird after that and so she'd dropped it eventually).

“Hayride next?” Robb asks, which brings her back to the present.

“There's more?” she whines, twisting her face into a pout that always got her out of trouble when she was a kid, but Robb and Theon are already making their way towards the next attraction.

“You can sit next to me,” Jon offers, and she feels relief flood through her. “I'll be on the outside.”

She feels herself smile for the first time all night and nods and she's even more pleased when he – after a moment of hesitation – holds out his arm for her to take. She does so, curling her own arms around his and hugging it to her, keeping herself as close to him as possible as they walk through the fairgrounds to the haunted hayride.

They arrive right behind Robb and Theon and when Robb sees the way she's basically clinging to his best friend, there's a look that she can't figure out – it flicks from their joined arms, to Jon, then back to their arms, then to her, then back to Jon again and she feels Jon stiffen up next to her. Something silent passes between them and Robb looks almost... concerned? But then Jon shakes his head so subtly she thinks she's not supposed to see it and Robb nods back and turns around to face Theon and the cameras and Sansa's left more confused than anything.

The next tractor and wagon pull up to the entrance and the previous riders disembark. She waits with Jon, and though there's a slight fluttering in her stomach, she's not terrified like she had been right before the haunted house. Jon keeps his word and as they climb onto the open-topped wagon, he lets her sit in the middle and he takes the outside so she won't have to deal with the actors that run up to them during the ride. She settles into the hay and, without thinking, leans her head on his shoulder, arm still linked through his.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Robb and Theon shouldn't have made you do this,” Jon says back and his voice sounds a bit shaky. She can't see his face, she's too comfortable resting her head against him to look up, but she wonders why he sounds nervous. Maybe he's more scared of all of this than he was letting on? He hadn't seemed nervous at all in the haunted house.

“Don't worry, I'm going to have so much fun giving them a full face of glam makeup when it's time to make the video for my channel.” That's the point of this collab – she does a video for their channel and they do one for hers.

Jon lets out a soft laugh as the tractor starts up and the wagon lurches forward, heading into the dark forest. “Can I watch?”

“Definitely,” she says as she squeezes his arm tighter, her heart jumping at a noise off in the woods – a signal that the scares are about to start. “You should let me do your makeup,” she continues to try and distract herself. “I think glam makeup would look amazing with your beard.”

“Sure,” she can feel his shoulder lift into a shrug, and that does make her lift her head up and look at him.

“You would? I thought you hated being on camera?”

He shrugs again, but whatever response he was going to give is cut off as an actor takes a running leap at the wagon, latching onto the side and pulling himself up, and the passenger nearest to him (right in front of Jon) screams. Sansa sucks in a breath and tries to calm her racing heart (and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dacey with a camera pointed right at her and Jon, a smirk on her face).

She spends the rest of the ride (and all through the haunted corn maze), hanging onto Jon for dear life and she swears his calm presence is the only reason she survives.

(And when she finally gets home to her little apartment and gets into bed, she tries desperately not to think too hard about why that is. She tries not to analyze the safety she felt with him or the way her heart had been fluttering during the car ride home, sitting in Robb's back seat and staring at Jon's profile illuminated by moonlight in the front seat as he and Robb talked and joked around. She tries not to obsess about the way he'd told her to call him if she ever wanted him to be in one of her videos, tries not to read too much into the look Robb had given Jon when he said it.)

(She tells herself that the reason she can't sleep that night is because of the haunted house.)

(It's definitely not because of Jon.)

[raindropsonall]

Serendipity

Chapter I

Watching the trees pass by as she entered the town of Hawkins. She didn't think she was ever going to see this place again after the accident, she left with the intent of never coming back. But she's here and is not exactly excited. Anxiety crept into her stomach as she thought about her father's reaction to her presence back. She hasn't spoken to him in five years. She missed him but they both needed space.

The crunch of the leaves as she stepped off the bus and walked to the curb to look around at the crowd spotting a telephone booth. Looking through the heavy yellow book she found her father's number, the sheriff . Nice to see nothing has changed. Picking up the black phone, she started turning the phone dial. With the last number dialed she let out a sigh as the phone rang.

A few seconds passed and the other line picked up, "This is Hopper." a rough voice said on the other side. He sounded a bit occupied.

She bit her cheek and spoke up. "Hey Dad." it didn't sound soft but it was definitely not confident, almost like a child apologizing for breaking their mom's fine china she inherited from her grandmother.

"Daniella?" Hopper spoke in a breathy tone, almost as if he had heard a ghost. "I... I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

She let out an anxious chuckle. "Yeah, Uh I am just in town, and um I was thinking I could maybe come see you." clearing her throat she rolls her eyes. Just like her father she isn't very emotionally intelligent.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm just at the station. So I mean if you want to come here, I'm a bit busy but I can take you over to my house if you want." he spoke, still in shock that his daughter is calling after all this time.

"Alright, um well I'll see you then, I'll be there soon." She tucked her hair behind her ear and bit at her lip nervously. She was so afraid he was just going to hang up on her.

"Alright, see you soon." He spoke and hung up just as stunned as her but for different reasons.

Putting the phone back on the hook she dropped her hand to her side shocked that he would even want to see her.. Walking down the sidewalk she looked around using the map she received at a convenience store and noticeable landmarks to find her way around. The creases on the map made it difficult to read some parts of it and she couldn't figure out how to keep it folded.

About four in, she started seeing more of the people of this quaint town. She assumed that school must have just gotten out and everyone was now on the way home. Suddenly four kids with bikes crossed in front of her. They were talking about some science thing Dani knew nothing about. She stopped paying attention to them and tried to focus on where she was going. Well, where she thought she needed to go, but she was lost. It had been years and the memories of this small town had long disappeared

"Hey, you new?" A young boy with dark brown-hair and a striped shirt said to her as his group of friends all stopped.

She looked up, pulled out of her thoughts and gave a sheepish grin and nodded. "Was it that obvious?" The boys nodded and looked at each other as if they were talking telepathically.

"Do you know where you're trying to go?" The curly-haired boy asked. She nodded. "Yeah the Station. I thought it would be near the edge of town, but I guess I was wrong as you can tell."

"Welp, actually it's only two blocks west." the first boy pointed to the west down the street. "Is someone you know in jail?" the curly-haired boy spoke again and the black-haired one elbowed him, making him let out an exclamation.

"No no, Uh my dad works there." She said trying not to laugh at the young boys and their naive actions. "Well thank you, I better get going. I'll see you kids around." She left them with a smile and as she walked away she heard the four of them start bickering and questioning who she was.

The new mystery of the old town. nFrom here on, walking to the police station is not weird at all.

The bell on the door rang as she stepped onto the tiled floor. She was greeted with an older lady flipping papers and stapling. She looked to be the busiest in the station at the moment. The woman grins and continues her work. Dani just gave a friendly smile and walked to her desk.

"How can I help you hun? Did someone throw something on your lawn? Could it have been a raccoon." The lady pushed up her glasses still having busy hands but multitasking as she spoke.

Dani clears her throat and rocks on her feet once. "I'm looking for my dad actually." an awkward silence filled the room as the older woman looked up with a hesitant and questioning face. "Uhh.. Jim? That's his.." that was when she was cut off.

"Oh yes, yes! I was unaware that he has another daughter." Standing she walks to the farthest door, her heels clicking on the floor.

The ping went through Dani as she was seen as the daughter out of the picture. The one not talked about, just a bad memory. It made her feel worse about the situation of coming back to her father. Was she just a bad memory to him? Maybe it will just be like when she was with her mom.

Her thoughts were cut off by the knock on the wooden door. "Flo, if it's another call about Mr. Turner's fence, tell him I'm busy with more important matters like arresting chickens. I feel like he would understand." A rough voice said on the other side along with the clicking of the typewriter.

"Actually you have a visitor." She rolled her eyes as Dani smiled a bit from her dad's lame excuse. Flo opened the door and revealed an awkward standing Daniella, his daughter. The cigarette hung a little from his lips as he sat in shock. He wasn't expecting her to be so tall. He didn't know what to expect really. He could only picture her at the little thirteen year old.

"Daniella?" He said with a little growing smile on his face. He walked around the desk and did something Dani would have never imagined and hugged her. One of the tightest hugs she has had in years. It brought tears to her eyes. She didn't know how much she missed her father until this very moment.

She returned the hug a few seconds as the feeling set in and hugged him back with as much force he gave her

The smell of alcohol consumed her as he walked beside her dad through the white halls as she walked to her sisters room to give her garbage vending machine chips. "hey bunny we got you your favorite." Dani walked to her bed leaning on the bed's railing as she opened the bag and hopped on the bed beside her.

"Do you think I'm going to get better, Ella? Mom and Dad look sad all the time." Sara spoke in a whisper as she put a chip in her mouth then looked at her big sister. Dani let out a sigh and looked at her.

"Of course. You know how I know?" she spoke and turned to the end of the bed and crossed her legs. "Because you are the strongest little sister. You're brave and you have a big life ahead of you! You, my bunny, are going to be okay." a large smile appeared on Sara's face as Dani booped her nose. "Now those chips aren't going to eat themselves and Cyndi Lauper isn't going to wait for us to dance." she popped up from the bed and ran over to the radio turning on Girls Just wanna Have Fun. Sara dancing in her bed with her bag of chips in one hand.

"It's Dani by the way." she said with a smile as they both pulled away from the hug. Jim looked at her as if he were dreaming. He chuckled and nodded. "Alright Dani." He paused. "I'm glad to see you kid."

She gave him a small smile. The tension in the air is now getting bigger. Two people who get uncomfortable while sharing feelings become a mess of tension of not knowing what to do after. Hopper taps her on the shoulder and lets out a sigh of content. "Alright well let's get you home to mine and I'll get you set up because you look exhausted." he walks over and grabs his hat.

"Aw thanks. Every girls dreams to hear that." She sent him a joking smile as they both walked out and said bye to Flo. Then began the immensely awkward ride to Hoppers house. What are you supposed to talk about after five years? The new stepdad? So they sat in silence until he got too uncomfortable and turned on the radio.