#its been a while since i posted anything at all

[kianamaiart]

Growing an audience takes time and getting people to care about your characters can often take more time. I've done a bunch of OCs in the past but none of them really got traction until my IDWTBAMG OCs. I steadily grew my social media following for well over a decade. A lot of checking socialblade, looking at analytics and generally drawing/posting everyday. I have a whole doc available about this type of stuff.

There's no particular shortcut other than happening to go viral or getting really lucky. But I will say "branding" or carving out a niche for yourself over time helps. Although I've been in a number of different fandoms over the past 15 years I've been on the internet, the kind of art I do has been pretty consistent. Lots of shorter, light hearted comics or vignettes highlighting relationships (be them romantic, platonic or familial) and people started enjoying my work for my writing style more so than just what fandom I was creating for.

Finding your community, creating stuff that aligns with those communities and engaging with others is huge. A lot of my work prior to IDWTBAMG centered queer people (specifically sapphics), Black and Asian folks and stylistically is very anime/modern western cartoon inspired. It's what became known for in fandom spaces and what people were following me for. So when I finally did make IDWTBAMG, a concept with anime influences, in a western cartoon style, with two Black, sapphic leads, it just fit right into what I was already doing. Like if you grew your following from doing cute, slice of life stuff, then suddenly dropped a psychological horror comic, chances are it's not gonna grab a large part of your audience. Might bring some new folks in, but you're ultimately kinda starting over and pivoting (that's why rebrands are hard to pull off). This may not be the best example but hopefully you get what I mean. Appeal to the communities you've fostered!

I hate using corporate speak for art but if you ARE trying sell your ideas to people and get your work out there, you do kinda have to learn how to market yourself and your art to some extent. Get in the head of a marketing agent or a brand manager. What's popular right now? How can I use that to my advantage? What times should I be posting my artwork to get the most eyes on this? Who is my target audience and how do I effectively appeal to them while staying true to my own work? Stuff like that. Genuinely, studying how social media managers operate as well as just observing how businesses market their products helped me a lot. "Okay I'm making this animatic, but it won't come out for the next four months. How do I keep people interested and hyped for that amount of time leading up to the pilot's release? I'll keep doing comics here and there so people connect with the characters by the time the pilot comes out. Once I get he VAs recorded, I'll make posts to get people hyped for the casting. I'll upload snippets and behind the scenes stuff to give people a taste of what's to come. I'll release during Black History Month since this is a Black led project with Black characters. I'll have a specific upload time at peak hours to get a good amount of people watching for the premiere and to give the pilot a good running start." This was all stuff I was taking into consideration and planning for.

Then generally, I think people connect to characters more than anything. You can have a cool concept and fun world building ideas but if your execution is bad and your characters aren't compelling, what's the point, y'know? IDWTBAMG isn't a particularly novel concept imo, but I think its strengths lie in the characters and how they interact. The concept is just a tool to give the character dynamics and relationships legs to stand on. So few of the comics I've done with these guys have to do with their lore, it's just small interactions of the girls in class, at a convenience store or just talking to each other in a void. Even though it's simple, that's often the kind of thing people connect with.

Then there's just the technical aspect of having appealing drawing! Getting better at your craft, if nothing else, is good for catching eyes and helping with your execution of your project. While it's not always necessary, I think it helps a lot. I know there's a lot of people who follow me just because they personally like my art style and character design.

Not sure how helpful this actually is LOL. It really does just kinda take time. We all have to start somewhere. I was a "small artist" too at one point. It was years of trial and error, mental breakdowns, finding my own artistic voice and posting artwork almost daily for like 5 years straight. I do think that's why IDWTBAMG ended up being so special to me. It really does feel like a culmination of everything I've learned and all that hard work up to this point and people can kinda feel that.

[nosferatu-official]

sympathy for the devil

remmick x gender-neutral reader

rating mature

tags no use of y/n, gender-neutral reader, pining and sexual tension, lil bit angsty lil bit sexy (mostly angsty), small makeout sesh, saw some posts wanting uncharismatic loser remmick so i thought i'd deliver, he's touch starved and hasn't been called by his name in years, he's the vampire but you're in control

warnings lots of blood, mention of a gun, violent metaphorical imagery

some quick disclaimers i am not a remmick apologist by any stretch of the term, i just think he's neat / i try to keep all of my x readers completely inclusive of everyone regardless of race or gender identity, so if you notice any instance of exclusive language, please lmk so i can fix it

Every night since the vampire disappeared, you stand by your screen door and stare into the dark.

You cannot name what it was within you that kept letting him past your threshold night after night in the soft blue hours before the sunrise, just as you cannot discern what kept him from seizing you in your sleep and draining you until there was nothing left. You both fought the currents of your base instincts: to survive and to feed. No one in their right mind would have continued to invite a vampire inside their home after their identity was known, and no vampire should have so easily passed up a meal such as the likes of you.

It was merely the nature of your situation; a contradiction near laughable in its absurdity.

Granted, your first allowance of his entry was born purely from the goodness of your own heart. You had no business wandering about at dawn, traipsing back and forth from your home to the nearby well, but he certainly had no business holing up in your run-down barn. The low creaking of floorboards had given him away; you knew the difference between the sound of something settling and a trespasser. He'd thrown his hands in front of his face when you flung the doors open like he expected to be assailed. You did not learn until later that it was the sunlight itself he sought refuge from.

Nonetheless, you weren't without sense. You didn't invite him inside like an old friend right then and there. Instead, you'd listened to him as he implored you to let him stay there, just for the length of the day with the promise that he'd be gone by nightfall. You made your own promise that you'd blast him to hell with the loaded shotgun you kept at your door if he raised a finger to try and steal anything.

Just as he'd said, by nightfall, he was gone, only to return the next morning.

You lived, for a while, in conscious ignorance of one another. It was not as though you had anything of value to take — not in the midst of a depression, not when your money and your livestock were long gone — and it was not as though he proved to be a problem. Like clockwork, you would hear the barn doors shut in the early morning and creak open once more as night fell. You drew many of your own conclusions; perhaps he was on the run from the law, or hiding from scornful family members.

Why, then, would he keep coming back?

There was one night that he remained — that the barn doors did not open back up. The usual silence was broken by the soft, tinny plucking of banjo strings. Maybe it was boredom that drew you out there, or curiosity, or the sound of music. You opened the doors and he was at once awash in silver moonlight, staring up at you as he tuned his instrument in the dark.

"Come to kill me?" He'd asked, as simply as wondering aloud about the time.

Maybe you should have.

Instead, you'd requested that he play you something.

You loved music. You always had — it was your sole weakness, the one thing that could pierce you to your core. It was what kept you there in the barn as he began a mournful rendition of a song about a Highland widow, stripped of her land and language. It was what drew you nearer, what caused you to ask for the banjo so you could share your own song; a harrowing tale of death and its icy grip. His eyes, dark in the dim light, watched your fingers dance across the strings and pluck a song onto the air.

Music meant something to him. It must have. It was the only reason you could figure that he didn't kill you that night.

He and his banjo were gone by the following night, but he always came back.

It was not the closing of barn doors that roused you to wakefulness at dawn, but his low humming and quiet playing outside your door.

You padded across the floor on bare feet to stand just on the other side, wordlessly listening to his mumbling song as you squinted sleepily in the rising light. His song drew to an end, and his eyes strayed back to look at the glowing horizon behind him before he turned to meet yours.

"I don't reckon I can come in?"

That morning, he crossed your threshold for the very first time.

You should have noticed it then — his gaze, hungry, though he accepted no food. His occupation of all the dark corners of your home, where the shadows chased away the light. It was strange, and he was strange, but for the first time in a long time, you spoke and there was someone to respond. Long stretches of silence were filled by music that was not your own. He gave you his name — Remmick, one like nothing you had ever heard before.

You barely managed to catch him when night fell. He was halfway across the yard when you flung your door open, standing on the porch to call out after him.

"What are you running from?"

He paused, turning to look back. There was an uncanny gleam in his eyes; a trick of the light, surely. His grin was broad.

"I'm not running," He said. "I'm searching."

In silence, you watched him walk into the night, a banjo slung over his shoulder and a song on his lips. Searching.

He came back again and again like a stray dog returning to scraps, and each time, he had a new song to share. You would sit across from him on the floor and accept each and every offering with the bobbing of your head and the tapping of your feet. He sang of keeping your lanterns trimmed and burning, and another time of the "poor wayfaring stranger." His accent, once a stark Southern much like your own, gradually dropped away into something else entirely until it was gone completely, leaving in its wake a pleasant and unfamiliar lilt. Beneath the shroud of obscurity with which he cloaked himself, there was something honest to be found.

You discovered the truth in the same way you discovered him: suddenly and without warning.

He did not come to your porch, singing you awake. The barn doors creaked shut and your eyes fluttered open. It was still dark outside; morning would not yet be for another few hours. Throwing on a coat over your nightwear, you crossed the yard to your barn and pushed the doors open. There was no moonlight to illuminate him. Your eyes slowly adjusted, finding him facing the far wall.

"You're awful early." You arched an eyebrow, humor carrying your voice. "C'mon, I've got some leftovers from supper."

He did not look back at you. Shoulders taut, he shook his head. "Not tonight."

The shadows obscured much, but you were able to discern his form within them. Something dark blossomed across his shirt and stained his hands. At once, your heart leapt to your throat.

"You're bleedin'," You breathed, rushing forward only for him to thrust out an arm and stop you from approaching.

"You stay away from me."

"Stay away? You can't be serious." You reached out to push his arm out of your way, but he caught your wrist in his grip. It happened far quicker than was natural; all you could do was choke out a gasp as he spun to face you and yanked you closer, his breaths cool and labored against your skin.

Blood. The metallic scent invaded your senses all at once. He was awash in it. It spilled down his front and smeared over his neck. As he pressed you against him, you felt it seep into your own clothing, deep and dark.

"It's not mine," He rasped.

Your gaze crawled from his chest to his mouth. Dread sank within you like a pit had opened up in your stomach. Teeth; slick with blood, sharp-ended, the maw of a beast.

Slowly, you lifted your head. His eyes searched your face, running a maddening marathon between each of your features. What he was looking for, you did not know.

Finally, bloodied lips curled into a smile.

"Do I scare you?"

You stared up at him, your wrist still locked in a vice grip. It could not stop the quivering of your hand.

I'm not scared.

Your lips longed to form around the words, but your tongue was pinned to the floor of your mouth, choking you. A shaking breath rattled from your lungs and hung in the air between you. His eyes dropped to your mouth, your lips parted, and he stared. Hungry.

Suddenly, as if shaken from a daze, he released you and stepped back. In the newfound distance, you sucked in a gasp, blinking hard.

"Go on," He ordered. "Walk. Don't run."

Your legs burned, every instinct within you set aflame as your body screamed for you to turn and leave faster than you'd ever moved before. From somewhere deep, you conjured up the resolve to steady yourself, fixing your eyes upon him as you began to take slow steps back. You did not turn, not even when you stumbled out of the barn doors and crossed the yard. You eased onto your porch and reached out to the door with your hand, hooking the lock once you were inside the confines of your home.

It wasn't until you blinked that your eyes burned with tears, heart clinging to your ribcage and blood staining your clothes.

You haven't seen him since.

The last time he darkened your doorstep was weeks ago. The barn remains empty now, and so does the seat across from you at the table. At odd hours of the day, you'll find yourself staring at it, as if something, anything will suddenly fade into existence and fill that space.

At night, you stand by the door and wait.

You wait to hear a song on the air, the plucking of banjo strings, and yet all that sings are the crickets. Land stretches out before you for miles, swathed in darkness with no one in sight, and you are alone, dreadfully alone.

The sharing of songs and stories is a tie you cannot sever. The vampire carries pieces of you, and you hold remnants of him. You grasp at them in your memory and your mind burns with shame, for you should not wish Death back into your home; he will never leave empty-handed.

One night, you venture out into the dark.

It's a short trek from your home to the nearest well. You normally only tread the path in the light of day, but the October air is crisp and the moon hangs high above your head to guide you on your way. You have grown used to being alone again. The feeling envelopes you completely, like an embrace from an old friend. Humming softly to yourself a tune about a Highland widow, you cast your bucket down and draw water up, holding it securely against your chest once you make your way back.

Your house is well within sight when the weight of a gaze settles upon you, like a rock has been dropped in the pit of your stomach. The bucket in your arms suddenly feels as though it weighs tons. Eyes on you are not something you can ignore; they do not go away. They burn into your back, boring a hole straight through you as your heart races and your throat closes.

The bucket slips from your hands, water spills across the grass, and you run.

You're pursued at once. He catches up to you, far quicker than he should; a hound on the trail of the hare. Your lungs are on fire by the time you spring onto your porch and wrench the screen door open, fumbling clumsily until your hand closes around your shotgun and you whirl around to press the barrel to the vampire's chest. He stops short of your threshold, glancing down at the weapon.

"You go on and let me in there now," He drawls, thick Southern masking his Irish song.

"Like hell I will," You hiss. "Where did you go?"

His eyes soften. Slowly, he curls his fingers around the barrel of the gun.

"I told you... I've been searching." His voice is low and placating, a boat rocking on the water. You have half a mind to move your finger from the trigger.

"Searching for what?"

He turns the barrel from his chest to the open air behind him, where darkness spans for miles. It's as if the moon has been swallowed up in shadows.

"You and I," he murmurs, "will never have to be alone again."

A chill travels down the length of your spine. You and I; he says it like there was never so much as a moment that you were separated from one another.

"I don't understand," You whisper.

"Family." He blinks hard. "Fellowship. Music. I know where to find it, but I want you with me. I - I need you with me."

Your breath catches in your throat. The gun is heavy in your hands; that must be why you tremble.

"I need your... your songs," He continues. "Your stories. We make something beautiful together, you and me."

"No."

"I can't be without you."

"No!" You shake your head, hands quivering. "I can't — I can't go with you, y - you're... you're not..."

Your voice tapers away into silence, the word dying at the back of your mouth. Human.

"Listen to me." His eyes find your own. "It doesn't have to be this way. I can save you."

The gun slips from your fingers and clatters to the wood beneath you. You don't even flinch at the sound; you stare ahead at him, unwavering, and his eyes glint crimson.

"I don't need your saving."

Surprise strikes across his face as if you slapped him with an open hand. He reaches out to touch the frame of the door, and his own hands quiver.

"I... I came back for you," He breathes, a tremor in his voice.

The words sink into you, slow and sharp. They crack your ribs open and leave you bleeding.

You stagger forward and place a hand on the doorframe to catch yourself. Your fingertips brush against his own, and he shivers. You tilt your head back and look up at him, your lips parted and your bodies close.

"Remmick," You whisper.

It's not an invitation, but it's enough. He grabs your hand and draws you hard against him, and when his lips find yours, you melt into the curve of his body. He kisses you with desperation, a man starving; hungry. Your fingers dig across his back and then tangle into his hair and he sounds a strained gasp against your lips.

"Again," He heaves, and he swallows his name as you murmur it; Remmick. It's a hymn on the hearing, a song so strange and lovely you utter it again and again: Remmick.

He presses an arm to your waist and holds you tighter, killing whatever distance left between you stone dead. His mouth closes over your neck and your heart thrums a maddening rhythm. He lingers, feather-light, over the fragile vein where the blood flows, burying his face into your skin and breathing in your scent. You cannot stand the separation, and you dip your head to kiss him again; in feverish abandon, he takes your lower lip in between his teeth, and blood fills your mouth.

At once, you choke out a gasp, and as you hastily step back, your hand flies to your mouth. Your fingertips come away, slick with your own bleeding, and the vampire stands before you with dark lines dripping from his chin. You stain his mouth and his teeth, the sharp points carving you out and drinking you in.

He stares at you, eyes wild with want. Hunger. On the horizon, the soft blue glow of morning breaks through the dark. He waits for you to welcome him in, to take you and mold you into something new and eternal.

When you speak, tears blur your vision.

"If I see you again, I'll kill you."

He says nothing. His gaze betrays no hint of feeling. He does not reach out, call your name, beg for you. The loneliness within you opens up into a dark chasm, spreading to every corner of your mind.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spilling down your face. When you open them again, the vampire is gone.

You taste blood, and you know that you're alive.

[caoimhewrites]

Surprise Surprise

Undying Ground (Pt 4)

You and Ghost go to get more materials and find something you weren't expecting.

Tags/CW: zombies, minor weapons mention, post apocalyptic world WC: 1.8k

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader. Reluctant allies to lovers

Series Masterlist → here

A/N: sorry this took so long :( writers block won't leave me alone. ALSO!! Surprise cameo yayyyyy

It was hot.

So unbelievably hot.

The type of heat that made your stomach hurt and tighten, threatening to spill. It does worse to your feet, the pavement searing hot, making them feel like eggs in a pan.

You had quickly learned that Ghost's idea of "not too far" could not be any more different than yours. You two had been walking down the street for three hours already and you still couldn't even see the town Ghost told you about last night.

Ghost seems unfazed by the unbearable heat. He trudges along in all black, long sleeves, dark jeans, and a thick dark jacket that you assumed he used for when an infected tries to bite.

He had lent you a new knife, saying that yours was "pathetic". You had taken it with a grumbled thank you, concealing your gratefulness. It had been so long since you had anything even close to adequate for defending yourself. It was different. An adjustment. But, it was a step up from the stick you called a knife.

You had counted yourself lucky, not running into many infected while you are out alone. If you had found yourself another horde, you surely would’ve been a goner. Even in the couple weeks on Ghost’s floor you hadn’t heard the sound of their groans. Perhaps they were finally rotting away, purging the earth of their disease.

No.

It couldn’t be that good.

You knew well enough not to get your hopes up about these things. You were stuck with these things for the rest of your life.

"Are we close yet? You said it wasn't that far. This is far," you let out a long petulant sigh, looking over at Ghost.

"You're just lazy," he retorts flatly. "It's just a quarter mile now."

“You better not be lying," you roll your eyes, grumbling with agitation.

He shoots you a glare, fed up with your winging, “whatever. You complain too much.”

Finally after what is certainly farther than a quarter mile, the small town comes into view. It’s small and dilapidated, ivy growing on the walls of the shops. Signs dangle as they rot off of their posts, wind blowing them, making the wood groan.

It’s like the old westerns your grandpa used to have on every night but wrong and distorted. The old charm morphed into something eerie and uncomfortable.

The growl of an infected hits your ears, the drag of its feet moving the loose gravel. The old, tattered Braves cap on its head droops into its eyes, what's left of them at least. Ghost draws his knife and moves forward swiftly. You learned quickly to take them out when they start making noise. The growls attract more and the last thing you need is every infected left in the town coming after you.

Ghost gives you a quick nod, "stay here. You know what to do if there's more."

"I know the deal."

As Ghost deals with the infected you take off to your left. The old pharmacy calling your name. If Ghost is right about the town, there should be plenty of supplies on the shelves to keep you stocked for another year, two if you're lucky.

You struggle to pry open the old doors. Years ago they would have slid open automatically but years of disuse and rust have them sealed shut. Your arms burn with effort as you manage to pull them apart just enough to slip inside. You toss your bag in haphazardly, waiting to see if any infected come crawling out towards you.

After a minute or so of waiting and no infected coming to get you, you step in and sling your bag over your shoulder. Ghost was right. The aisles are almost full. The town must have been hit fast, leaving no one any time to raid for supplies.

You waste no time shoving whatever you can grab into your bag. Bandages, antibiotics, even old bags of chips and beef jerky. You snatch some old sodas from the coolers, blowing off the thick layers of dust that had accumulated on top like a blanket.

"Leave some for the rest of us." Ghost's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and accusatory. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

Your hand paused mid air, "and why not?" You ask with a raised brow.

Ghost took a step forward, his boots heavy against the dust covered tile floors, "that shit is five years old. I doubt either of us want you vomiting everywhere."

You grimaced and looked down at the can, "yeah whatever. It's probably fine." You decide you don't care at all. It can't be that bad, can it? It's just been sitting there, not like anything has happened to it.

"Trust me... It's not." Ghost's brown eyes narrow, mask shifting slightly over his face.

You turn your head to look at him with a crooked grin, "is that experience talking or what?"

You've discovered that it's quite fun to tease him. Having no TV or books for five years really does a number on a person. The boredom feels more deadly than a bite from an infected. But, Ghost turned out to be... sensitive. He was terrible at being the butt of the joke, always snapping at you like an offended child. Naturally, you took full advantage of this fact. He never made any move to kick you out for it, no matter how much he hated it.

Ghost exhales sharply, jaw tense, "just shut up and trust me. Don't drink that shit."

"Fine, dad," you chuckle as you roll your eyes at him.

When Ghost turns away you slip the can into your bag. You don't care what he says, you haven't had soda in five years and his bossy attitude wasn't going to stop you from getting what you want. You've been good enough to keep up your end of the deal without complaints. You deserve to treat yourself.

Ghost, silent as always, makes his way through the aisles. He’s far more meticulous than you, pulling out bottles, reading them and leaving behind what he doesn’t want as opposed to your frantic scramble to take whatever you could get your hand on like a grandma set loose in a super sale.

“So… how did you find out about this place?” You ask, voice laced with a quiet curiosity. 

Ghost doesn’t look up as he murmurs his response, “scoped it out a few months ago. Everywhere else is a lost cause.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble. “Why not take everything now? Any scavenger could come through and wipe out all of this in just a few hours,” you shrug your reply as you keep looking through the heavily stocked but dusty aisles.

“No one’s coming down here. The infected blocked off the main roads. Only thing keeping them from us is the river,” Ghost replies as he slips a few bottles into his pack. 

You let out a small huff, “hmm, lucky us I guess.”

You drift away from his side, drawn like a moth to a flame towards the snacks. Ghost can say whatever he wants about the soda but, you won’t let him shame you about these chips. The barbecue potato chips call your name. A soft clanking distracts you from stuffing bag after bag of chips into your pack. 

Gripping the handle of your knife, you slink towards the sound. 

“Ghost,” you whisper, alerting him to the possible danger. His head whips around and he silently moves to your side, knife at the ready. 

When you first met him, his name seemed stupid, ridiculous even. But, as you’ve stayed with him the more it makes sense. His movements usually go unnoticed by you, the silence and precision of his movements shocking. 

He gives you a small nod, urging you to go first. Your movements are measured as you keep walking forward. An old, rusty door stands in front of the both of you, blocking you off from the sock room. Pulling the handle and silently pushing the door open, you step into the back. The sound echoes again, making Ghost grab your arm.

His touch is surprisingly gentle, large hand wrapping around your wrist. “Slowly,” he whispers, brown eyes staring intensely into yours.

You hated when he did that. It was better when he ignored you or was indifferent towards you. The gentleness and… care made the whole situation harder. Living on some strange man's floor, him being your closest ally after losing Vivienne wasn’t exactly easy. Especially since he didn’t seem to be fond of you. That’s what made moments like this even more confusing. He made it clear a million times that your essentially colleagues at best, just in each other's lives because being gnawed on by an infected was the only worse option.

Rounding the corner, your eyes fall on the source of the sound. Whatever you were expecting wasn’t this. An infected or a group of people who had managed to make their way inside seemed much more within the realm of possibility. But… a dog? You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen a dog.

The german shepherd was buried in an old trash can, gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. It raises its head to get a good look at you and Ghost, a sweet, dopey look on its face. 

“A dog?” You ask in surprise.

Ghost steps up beside you, lowering his knife to his side, “when’s the last time you saw one of those?”

You shake your head, staring at the animal, “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”

You step forward, hand outstretched non-threateningly. “Come here, boy,” you coo as the dog trots over to you happily, voice soft and coaxing. The shepherd presses his nose against you palm, tail wagging rapidly.

Ghost shifts with unease, “don’t touch it.”

“Calm down. It’s just a dog. It’s not gonna eat you,” you roll your eyes and look over at him, a small smirk forming on your face.

“It could be infected,” he huffs, eyeing the dog like it could explode at any second.

You scoff, “does it look infected to you?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, crouching down by the dog. Ghost reluctantly reaches down to inspect the collar around the dog's neck. “Riley… hmm,” he lets out a small huff, almost a chuckle.

“What is it?” Intrigue lacing your tone. 

“Nothing. Rings a bell is all.”

You run your hand over the dog's back, feeling the soft fur and slight squish. Wherever this dog has been he’s been eating well. “I’m keeping him.”

Ghost straightens up, glaring at you sharply, “no you’re not. I’m not housing another stray.”

“Rude,” you shoot back, matching his glare. “I am keeping him. There’s nothing in our little agreement that says I can’t.”

He looks down at the dog for a beat, debating what to do. “Fine, but you’re taking care of it. And it better not shit in my house.”

“Can you just enjoy anything?” You ask with a huff. The only thing that seemed less likely than seeing Ghost’s face was witnessing him experience any form of joy. 

“No,” Ghost replies, voice flat.

Taglist: @little-mini-me-world @angeldemon28 @iminlovewithjasontodd @i-like-foxs @dravenskye @lilynotdilly @thatghostlykid @lostintransist @nicolebarnes @vybzwithjaz @night-shadowblood-writes2 @jimihendrixenthusiast76

[jmdbjk]

I have some fun news.

I am going to NYC to see Jimin's The Truth Untold Exhibition!!!! I'm so glad I bought tickets before it SOLD OUT! It is not sold out, only the early bird tickets are sold out. Regular price tickets are still available.

But see? That's how misinformation is spread, when one person on X screams it's sold out and random people (me, I'm random people) scroll through and see the post and run with it.... (rolls eyes).

ANYWAY...

I need to see Jimin's outfits in real life. I need to see the size and shape of that man up close and personal. I won't ever dream that I'd ever get to actually see Jimin in the flesh within touching distance but I will see his actual clothing within inches of myself and that's almost the next best thing.

I am going in June the week after the four are discharged, the tickets I bought are for June 21, the day Yoongi is released from his social service.

If there is a group live from the Hybe building lounge room couch while I'm in that exhibit I will scream with everyone else. My family will be traumatized but oh well, right?

It'll be a day to remember.

And... I discovered AFTER THE FACT that we booked our hotel right in the middle of Koreatown. I HAD NO IDEA until I started to look for restaurants and guess what? Antoya is 2 blocks from my hotel. I will take pictures. Not sure if we'll go eat there but who knows. We'll try.

[Yes, I used that potato quality, non-official pic.]

Of course I'll blog about the trip when I get back.

But WE HAVE SO MUCH TO ACCOMPLISH BEFORE THEN!!!

Jin's Echo album and subsequent tour!

FESTA!!! CAN'T WAIT TO SEE THE SCHEDULE!!!!

AND THE FREEDOM OF OUR SEVEN!!!! HOW WILL IT UNFOLD??? WHO WILL MEET WHO AT THE GATES??? I CAN'T WAIT!! I'M GONNA CRY, LOSE SLEEP, CRY SOME MORE!!!

Hobi wrapping up HOS tour and the HOS Final in Seoul ON FESTA DAY! And ANOTHER new song at some point!

The timing of Hobi's HOS Final concerts has been known for a long time. Securing that stadium for those dates had to be planned well ahead. I will be watching the livestream of both nights.

There is no way we will not see the freshly discharged members in some way, they will be there, in the audience or on stage or at the very least in photos from backstage. They will be there. Why wouldn't they? The timing was timed as if the Universe said "let it be so."

As far as performing, I won't wish too hard for it but they might?! The timing of these shows is just giving so much potential for anything to happen!

In a blog post on July 2, 2024, I said they would hit the ground running. Look at Jin and Hobi since.

They aren't going to "rest" after discharge. If you think that, you clearly have not been paying attention to what they've been saying for the past 3 years.

They've looked forward to all of this for YEARS, "this" meaning "this time of post-military enlistment" where nothing is in the way of their artistic freedom and living their lives the way they wish. It was such an ordeal to get to this point in time, years of delays, they are not going to sit around and let more time pass before they get back on stage.

Successful people are DRIVEN. They are ready to hit the ground running.

I am overwhelmed knowing in less than five weeks 6 out of 7 will be free. I don't want to get my hopes up but I feel strongly that at the very very least, a 7-member group photo will be shared at some point during those few days of total chaos.

I will watch the livestream of Jin's concert, but as of this moment, I am not going to go see him. Never say never though,right? But after watching his concert livestream, I might change my mind. We'll see. I reserve the right to book a last minute trip (its the way I roll anyway). I am very excited for his album next week!

This is going to be an unpopular opinion with some: Anyone who knows me knows I support all of them, right? But I gotta be real here. The AMAs are the American Music Awards. Jimin's Who went furthest over here than any of the others this past year. The no-brainer to me is to vote for Jimin for this particular award. I have to weigh the circumstances and the numbers.

The context was not taken into consideration in this case and now the votes are going to be split.

We need to be smarter and stop being driven by emotions when there clearly were numbers to show how big Who was in the U.S. this past year.

The drama and fighting was unnecessary. RPWP and Come Back to Me have won so many critical awards – real, peer reviewed and film industry awards – that trying to "give" Namjoon this AMA award just seems very manipulative.

Don't get me wrong, if Namjoon wins this I WILL BE ECSTATIC that Army actually pulled it off. But I will also be surprised if he wins because I know the votes are split between he and Jimin. I'm afraid it will be a sad situation of self-sabotage and the BP girl is going to win because of that.

In other instances, if I am faced with choosing between Jimin and any of the others... Jimin is my man y'all. It is what it is.

Regarding fans who also went on hiatus: Let the fans who took a break come back without criticizing them. Let the casual fans be casual. Just because they weren't obsessed with social media these past few years does not make them "less" of a fan or unimportant. There will always be someone doing something "more" than you in some aspect so just shut up and let them come back and get off your high horse of self-importance.

I do not sustain a constant social media presence but I'm here with my face in the BTS business every single day. I know what is going on to obsessive levels.

I also have a life, a job, family, etc that I must pay attention to as well. But in my down time, everything BTS is what I'm obsessed with. You just don't see me needlessly posting about myself doing it 24/7.

Let. Them. Be. The world needs BTS, let the world come as they are, casual, hardcore, baby Army, OG Army, everyone come to the BTS table and feast! No one has a right to gate keep the 7.

Every day that comes keeps getting brighter and brighter knowing our 7 will be back together NEXT MONTH! 30 days left for Jimin and Jungkook, 40 for Yoongi, 29 for Namjoon and Tae.

[lyn31]

Since my last request was angsty, here’s a fluffy one in exchange haha!

I remember going shopping with my sister when she had her daughter. All the clothes and accessories for cute little baby girls are so tiny and adorable’

So, can I request a fic where Zayne and MC were out and ended up shopping a bunch of cute things for baby Serena to dress her up in?

Bonus, Zayne and MC playfully argue over what to name their baby before choosing “Serena” (cuz I wheeze whenever I think of Zayne naming the squirrel after a drug “Clopidogrel”)

Thank you for your time! I hope you have fun with this prompt!

Ahahahaha thank you! This is such a cute prompt to write! Too sweet! And omg what are the odds of me getting the post in game about just that, I'll put it down tho, because this is too long already ahaha (the part after this) sorry 👀🫶🏻🥹

Also, for the names—I actually combined Zayne’s and MC’s (theoretical) Chinese names to create their children’s names. Yes, I’m that serious about it! MC’s Chinese name is Xiang Yun, which I love for its meaning: “multicolor auspicious cloud.” Zayne’s name, Li Shen means “dawn,” or at least the one that they used for him! So together, it just felt perfect.

Originally, Serena was going to be Selene, but that felt too moon-themed. Since the vibe I wanted was more like a sunrise, I shifted to Serene, which eventually became Serena 😄 The same thought process went into Lucas and Callum—I wanted them to have unique names, but with a shared warmth. When you name your kids, you wish them health and happiness, and while their names don’t all need to mean the exact same thing, I wanted them to feel broad enough, similar enough, but different enough.

Serena for the peacefulness that comes with a new beginning, like the dawning of a new day.

Lucas for the light that begins at dawn, someone who brings warmth and clarity to those around him.

Callum for the peace and fresh start that the dove symbolizes—complementing the idea of dawn and auspicious beginnings.

I know... I really love names, ahahaha—even my internet name was picked super carefully 😂💕

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Baby Girl

Summary

A heartwarming and humorous exploration of parenthood, as a couple — you and Zayne — navigates the joys and challenges of raising your newborn daughter while deepening your bond through love, laughter, and shared moments.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Family fluff, domestic fluff, silly, banter, going overboard, cute baby!

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The baby section smells like powder and gentle chaos, with the faintest trace of vanilla in the air. Fluorescent lights hum softly above, casting a sterile glow over the rows of pastel onesies and stuffed animals.

The shelves are lined with tiny socks and soft, ridiculous things shaped like animals—everything in soft hues of pink and blue, as if the store itself is whispering ‘sweetness’ at every turn.

Serena is nestled against your chest in the wrap, warm and drowsy, her tiny hand curled against your shirt’s fabric. She’s only been awake long enough to blink at the sunlight when you left the car.

You barely make it past the first rack before you stop. A little dress hangs there—cream-colored, with the faintest blush undertone and tiny embroidered flowers on the collar. The kind of thing you’d always thought was cute but distant, like a magazine page or a window display. Not for you. Not real.

But Serena is real. She’s right here, her small weight pressed against your chest like a secret.

“Zayne,” you say, holding it up.

He turns, mid-step. His eyes settle on the dress, and then on you. And then on Serena.

He doesn’t say anything.

You wait—expecting the usual gentle teasing, something about how impractical it is or how she’ll outgrow it in a blink—but his gaze just stays on the fabric like he’s studying something fragile. Like it’s not a baby dress at all, but some abstract idea of softness and time.

Then, with no change in expression, he takes it from your hand and places it in the cart.

You blink. “No commentary?”

Zayne glances at Serena, then back at the dress. “It would be beneath her to wear anything less.”

Your laugh is quiet, surprised. He says it so matter-of-factually, as if it’s obvious. As if the embroidery itself should be honored.

She shifts in the wrap, murmurs, and he reaches over to brush her cheek with his knuckle. “She suits this color,” he adds, like that settles the matter.

It kind of does.

You watch him push the cart forward, already eyeing the next rack, and something warm fills your chest. The kind of warmth that doesn’t come from sunlight or tea or even sleep. It’s that very specific kind—serene and a little awed—that only shows up when you realize someone you love is loving something you made together.

And in this case, that something is squishy and sleepy and currently chewing on the corner of her bib.

“Wait until you see the socks,” you murmur, adjusting the wrap as you follow.

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

You don’t even know how you ended up in the toddler section.

One moment you were cooing over mittens smaller than your palm, and the next, the soft hum of a nearby overhead speaker caught your attention. The bright colors of the baby section fade away as you step into the toddler area.

The racks here feel more structured, organized. You stand in front of a rack labeled 2–4 Years, eyeing a burgundy cardigan with tiny wooden buttons and elbow patches. The soft rustle of fabrics around you fills the air, accompanied by the occasional squeak of a stroller rolling past.

It’s objectively too big. You know that. But you hold it up anyway, pinching the shoulders and already imagining Serena in it—hair a little longer, hands a little steadier, walking unevenly across the apartment with her arms spread wide for balance. Maybe she stops, turns, and looks over her shoulder with that same serious stare she already has, and then—

“She’ll grow into it.”

You jump slightly as Zayne appears at your side, two more hangers in hand—one with a forest green dress that has little embroidered rabbits, and the other with a soft grey jacket, also far too big.

“Zayne,” you start slowly, “she’s three months old.”

He blinks. “Yes.”

“These are for kids who can spell their own names.”

He studies the tag as if it might reveal a loophole. “Six letters is hardly a challenge.”

You squint at him.

But he just slides both items into the cart like you haven’t said anything at all.

“You’re serious.”

“She’ll need clothes in the future. This is... efficient.”

You gesture vaguely at the now two-thirds full cart. “We came here for pacifier clips.”

He looks you over for a second, eyes flicking down to where Serena is half-asleep against your chest, and then back up. “We needed more than that.”

You don’t even argue. Not when he reaches out to straighten the wrap on your shoulder with a quiet gentleness, thumb brushing under Serena’s jaw on instinct. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. She’s here. She’s herself. And she’s going to grow—faster than you want, probably.

So if he wants to be ready, even a few years early, who are you to stop him?

You reach for the cardigan again.

“Okay,” you mutter. “But if she refuses to wear it in three years, I’m blaming you.”

Zayne hums, already distracted by a shelf of winter boots half her size. “We’ll cross that tantrum when we get to it.”

You laugh again, soft and helpless. There’s no stopping either of you.

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You don’t need baby sunglasses.

You’re fully aware of this.

There is no reason for a three-month-old—who squints at indoor lighting and naps through half the day—to need heart-shaped, rose-tinted sunglasses. But here you are. Holding them. Turning them over in your hands like they’re some precious artifact instead of plastic frames barely wider than two of your fingers.

Zayne walks up beside you, holding... a hat.

It’s not just any hat. It’s soft pink with long floppy bunny ears. You meet his eyes slowly. The sudden quiet of the aisle wraps around you, making the hat feel even more absurd as you meet his eyes slowly.

The store’s low background music plays something gentle, an instrumental lullaby—almost like a soundtrack to your own personal moment of disbelief. The polished wood of the shelves reflects the soft glow of the register lights as the cashier taps on her tablet, oblivious to the fashion debate unfolding nearby.

“What is that.”

“A necessity,” he says without hesitation.

“She can’t even hold her head up straight yet.”

“That’s why the ears are soft.”

You stare at him. “Darling.”

He hums, gently plucks the sunglasses from your hand and holds them next to the hat. As if testing for coordination. As if it matters.

“I hate how cute that would be,” you mumble.

“Then it’s settled.”

“No. No, it’s not.”

But he’s already walking toward the cart, the sunglasses and hat in one hand, the other reaching out to adjust a tiny gold bracelet hanging near the register. It’s engraved. Tiny star. His hand pauses, but he doesn’t pick it up. Maybe even he knows that one’s too far.

You wonder if he’s thinking what you’re thinking—that time is already moving faster than you can track.

I’ll come back for it later.

You chase after him with mock seriousness. “Zayne, she doesn’t go outside. She’s not even aware of the sun.”

“She will be,” he says, placing the sunglasses in the cart with the gravitas of someone arranging delicate lab equipment. “And when she is, she’ll look fabulous.”

You make a helpless noise, half-laugh, half-defeat. “We’re those parents.”

“We are.” He doesn’t even blink. “You chose this.”

“Excuse me?”

He glances pointedly at the frilly booties dangling off the edge of your cart. The ones that look like strawberries.

You’re caught.

You sigh and reach back for the floppy bunny hat, smoothing one ear. “Okay but we'll take a lot of pictures.”

Zayne adjusts the cart handle. “That's a must.”

You look down at Serena, blissfully unaware of the fashion decisions being made in her name. Her lip twitches in her sleep. You don’t know if it’s a smile, but you decide to take it as one.

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The cart squeaks a little as you turn down another aisle, and that’s what finally does it. Not the pile of pastel outfits. Not the third set of unnecessarily fancy socks. Not even the sunhat with a ribbon bow.

It’s the weight of the cart.

You glance down and suddenly see it all together—tiny hangers sticking out at odd angles, a pack of blankets you don’t remember grabbing, some kind of plush rattle shaped like a lemon.

A small wave of guilt rolls over you.

“Okay. We should—maybe—be practical,” you say, already slowing to a stop. “We don’t need all of this now.”

Zayne stops too. “Define ‘need.’”

You give him a look. “She wears diapers and drools on herself for fun. She doesn’t need a themed wardrobe.”

“She doesn’t know she needs it yet.”

“Zayne.”

He gives the cart a small nudge with one hand, just enough to rock it gently. Serena sleeps on in the wrap, her head resting against your chest. You look down at her, then at the pile in the cart, then back at her.

Finally, you sigh, pick up a few of the smaller items, and start “measuring” them against her like it’ll help you decide what to put back.

You hold up a daisy-print romper. “Too much?”

You shift her slightly, hold the outfit in front of her.

Zayne tilts his head. “She looks peaceful. I think it’s working.”

You try again with the bunny-eared onesie. “This?”

“She’s glowing.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Exactly.”

You huff a soft laugh and move on to a third—an absolutely unnecessary tulle dress with a velvet bow. “We really shouldn’t—”

“She’ll wear it at home,” he says. “While doing nothing.”

“She’ll spit up all over it.”

“She’ll spit up regally.”

You pause, the dress hovering over Serena like a curtain, and then—against all better judgment—you laugh. You try to be practical. You really do. You even hold up a simple white bodysuit, your version of restraint.

“She makes that look good too,” Zayne murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “Do I have to be the reasonable one here? You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying.”

The truth is… he’s right. Every ridiculous outfit you hold up just fits. Not literally, of course—they’ll all need rolling sleeves and folded waistbands—but they feel like her. You imagine yourself dressing her in these things in the coming months. You imagine her looking up at you, holding her arms out, babbling at nothing. You imagine trying to capture it all before it slips away again.

Your throat tightens a little.

“I just didn’t think we’d be like this,” you say softly, barely loud enough to be heard over the faint music from the store speakers. “So easily—gone over her.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything at first.

Then he steps closer and brushes a stray piece of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple. His voice is quiet.

“She’s ours. We’re allowed to fall.”

You let that sit between you a moment, heavy and warm. Then you glance back at the cart.

“I still think we need to put something back.”

He picks up a set of plain burp cloths.

“Not that,” you say instantly.

He raises an eyebrow.

You exhale. “Okay, fine. Nothing goes back. But we are leaving now before one of us finds matching shoes.”

Zayne gestures for you to lead the way, completely unbothered. “I make no promises.”

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You don’t realize how much you bought until you’re unpacking it all on the living room floor.

Zayne's already peeled the tags off half the clothes and started folding them neatly into color-coded stacks on the couch. Serena’s napping again, this time in the little bassinet beside you, one fist curled loosely by her cheek. She hasn’t stirred once.

You hold up the bunny hat again and let out a helpless little noise. “Okay, but I get it now. I get the parents who go overboard.”

Zayne doesn’t even look up. “You say that like we aren’t those parents.”

You toss a sock at him. It’s fuzzy and shaped like a bear paw. “We blacked out, Zayne.”

“We were lucid the entire time.”

You narrow your eyes at the four different sizes of footie pajamas now lined up on the floor like some sort of cotton evolution chart. “Were we?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps folding. Calm. Methodical. Unapologetic.

You pick up one of the sweaters—cream-colored with a scalloped hem, still slightly too big—and lay it out beside Serena’s bassinet.

It swallows the space beside her.

You stare at it for a long moment.

“She’s going to grow into this,” you say quietly.

Zayne’s hands still. You don’t need to look at him to know he heard it. You say it again, softer this time, almost to yourself. “She’s going to grow. Into all of this.”

Not just the clothes. Not just the boots or the headbands or the over-the-top tulle dress.

She’s going to become someone—bit by bit, minute by minute—right in front of you. You’ll blink and she’ll be walking. And before you know it you’ll turn around and she’ll be saying full sentences, reaching for things on her own.

These ridiculous outfits won’t fit forever. Some will be worn once. Some maybe not at all. But right now, they’re proof of something you can’t say without your voice catching.

Zayne crouches beside you without a word. He looks at the sweater, then at Serena. Then he rests his hand lightly on your back, thumb moving slowly, back and forth.

“She’s already different than when we brought her home,” you whisper.

“She is,” he agrees softly. “But she still fits in your arms. And she still fits here.”

His hand shifts slightly, pressing over your heart.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of it settle into your chest. When you open them again, you both just look down at her. At her tiny frame, curled like a comma. At her slow, steady breaths.

After a while, Zayne leans closer and presses a kiss to your temple.

“We’ll keep every piece,” he says quietly. “Even when she outgrows them.”

You nod. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else.

Later, you both end up on the floor, backs against the couch, watching as Serena stirs and stretches in her sleep—just enough to wrinkle her nose and kick off one bootie.

Zayne calmly picks it up and sets it on the coffee table.

You turn to him, already smiling. “So... next week’s trip?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Matching pajamas.”

You laugh, bright and full.

And just like that, you both fall a little harder.

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Bonus

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

It’s a quiet morning at home, the kind that feels wrapped in cotton.

You’re lounging on the rug, legs tucked to the side as Serena wiggles happily on her mat. The sun spills through the window in soft stripes, catching the tips of her little tufts of hair and the curve of her cheeks.

And the tail.

The very fluffy, very unnecessary tail of the onesie she’s wearing.

It’s brown. Soft. Has tiny little ears on the hood and a curled tail on the back. A squirrel onesie, because clearly, restraint doesn’t exist in your household anymore.

“She looks too good in that,” you say, grinning as Serena kicks her legs and flaps her arms like she’s about to take off. “You know we’re never going to take it off her now.”

Zayne, sitting beside you with a mug in hand, hums in agreement. “She matches it perfectly.”

You glance sideways at him, lips twitching. “Good thing you agreed with me on Serena, then.”

He takes a sip of his tea, unbothered. “Clopidogrel had charm, the same as the squirrel. But it’s meant for Clopidogrel. I still think Amaryl isn’t bad.”

You nearly choke on your laughter. “Zayne—”

“It’s an important medicine.”

“Yes! To control blood glucose in patients with type 2 diabetes! Not for names!”

He’s unrepentant, calm as ever. “Amaryl has a good ring to it.”

You stare at him. “Look at your daughter now,” you say, gesturing toward the mat, where Serena has now rolled halfway over and is grunting softly at her own fist. “And tell me—with a straight face—that you want her named after a diabetes drug.”

Zayne sets down his mug, and after a dramatic pause, leans in just slightly.

“She doesn’t need to be,” he says, his voice softening. “Serena is perfect. It was the best pick.”

You tilt your head, caught off guard by how quickly he's backing off this time.

He continues then, leaning closer, one hand brushing your waist like he’s trying to draw your attention. “Because, after all, it came from her mother.”

Your smile breaks without warning. “Flatterer.”

“Is it working?”

You wink at him, still smiling. “Flatterer gets you anywhere.”

His other hand lifts, fingers trailing to the back of your neck, his eyes glint with something more—amused and affectionate. “Anywhere?”

You meet his eyes, heart skipping, a flutter of hesitation as the world narrows to the space between you.

You close the distance, matching his closeness, your own hand curling behind his neck. “Anywhere.”

You’re a breath away from kissing him when Serena lets out a babble that sounds vaguely triumphant. You both pause. She kicks her feet, arms flapping, tail bouncing behind her like punctuation.

You burst out laughing. Zayne’s smile is soft and full, completely content.

He shifts to crouch beside her and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Clopidogrel would be proud.”

You snort, reaching over to smother his face with your palm.

Then you both lean in together, planting a kiss on Serena’s warm cheeks, one on each side.

She babbles again.

And just like that, the moment stretches—gentle, glowing, and absolutely yours.

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Notes

Guhhh damn it..... It got me a little bit, I was doing silly little thing but ofc this is how it ended up with 🥹💕 Love it tho! And here's the Clopidogrel reference that show up with the right timing! Ahahahahaha

I'm going through this series to add the part per order..... You're at Baby Girl! Here to:

Customize AI

Arm Wrestle

Good Morning? (Smut)

Game on (Smut)

Aftercare

Another Game? (Smut)

Restraint (Smut ⚠️ Mild-Dom/Sub)

How it all happen

Honeymoon part 1 (Smut)

Honeymoon part 2

New Chapter of Life Together

Exploring (Smut ⚠️ Mild-BDSM)

Try For Baby

Little Joy

Lonely?

Love

Lingers

Labor

Lapse (Smut at the end)

Baby Girl

Uh Oh

Desserts Mission

Emergency Matchmaker

Morning Kisses

Like a Star

Phone Calls

Seed-baby

Little Surprises

Big Sister Serena

Wait and see

Jealousy, Revisited

Family Time

Chaotic Morning

Rainy Day

In Sickness and In Health

Girls vs Boys

In the Quiet Moments (Smut at the end)

[iolypse]

chapter one of the kokichi time loop fic is sooo close to being done I'm screaming. we're at 10k~ words.

do I have any idea how long this fic is going to be? vaguely; with how it's going so far... probably several hundred thousand words. I can't lie. do I have any idea when I'll finish it? no, not one! do I have any idea when I'll start posting it? I try not to post anything unless I've already finished it, since that way, it's guaranteed that you guys will get a complete story—HOWEVER, I may try posting this one in arcs? so like... I'd finish writing one "arc," then start slowly posting the chapters within that arc while I worked on the next one. maybe. big maybe. we'll see!

do I have a smoothed out and edited version of a previous snippet I posted? yes, I do! here you go!

He turns his feet so it reaches his chest first.

Its touch is deceptively soft—almost gentle, as though the brush of fabric against his skin, or perhaps a body climbing into bed beside him, if it weren't so cold. It's just enough for him to feel its weight settle atop his sternum, and for a fraction of a second, his brain doesn't register it as pain. It is only pressure, merely a hand weighing too firm against his ribs as if to test their flexibility.

His nociceptors hesitate. The message doesn't arrive in time. There is no alarm, not yet.

Then it sinks its teeth in and bites.

At first, his tries to hold against the force—his ribcage bows, bones groaning under the mass, muscles flexing in a last ditch effort to rearrange his molecules and turn him into steel through sheer willpower alone to resist—

And his ribs snap.

They do not fracture one by one, neatly and orderly, pigs in a row awaiting their organized slaughter. It could never be that easy; it could never be such a clean, clinical break; there is no such mercy, not for him. Instead, they shatter. A violent, catastrophic splintering—jagged bone driven inward, spearing his lungs, his heart, his everything; a sudden, excruciating collapse as his bones crack like brittle wood. The edges of his own skeleton become weapons turned against him, shredding veins and arteries and tissue. It is instant, and it is endless.

It is a cataclysmic cathedral of agony, sacred and obscene, his torso transformed into a shrine of mutilation. It is a crushing, swallowing agony that turns his body into a ruinous cage of fractured bones and hemorrhaging flesh.

He wants to laugh. He wants to make a joke—something about those ASMR videos, the ones where a car satisfyingly rolls over plastic toys and chip bags, snap, crackle, pop—but the words burn in his throat, lost in the thick, metallic flood of blood surging up his trachea. He chokes on it, drowning in his own attempt at levity. It hurts.

The pressure does not cease.

His stomach folds like paper, his organs popping like bubble wrap, innards bursting under its bearing. His spine buckles. He hears it, that wet, awful twist, and then his nerves vanish. With it, his legs go, as do his arms; he can't feel them anymore. There's a scream before they are snuffed out as if the flame lighting the wick of a candle has been pinched, and they're gone as quickly as yanking a plug out of its socket in a single fluid movement.

He can't breathe. He is being eaten alive.

Swallow.

Is this what Miu felt like?

His thoughts fragment. The edges of his vision smear and fray, bordered by pink, white, black. Red-hot agony lights up every cell, make it stop make it stop make it stop—

Stomach acid, digestion—

His heartbeat slams inside his ears, frantic, erratic—

Until suddenly, it isn't.

Until suddenly it's sputtering, struggling against the pressure that demands it stop all at once. He is yielding, he becoming something less than human, something flat, small, insignificant—

His head.

It has been seconds at most. The cold maw reaches his skull shortly thereafter.

A crack. A cave-in. Something splinters. Something gives.

There is no more pain. His nociceptors heed the calls of his smothered brain no longer.

Kokichi Ouma, Ultimate Supreme Leader, is—

—slouched against the inside of a locker, and he only knows it's a locker because his forehead is smushed against the metal slits of its door.

[elbiotipo]

I think ASOIAF is doing some neat things regarding the "millennia of history" thing - it's actually implied that most stories about events dating to that long ago have been "reskinned" for modern audiences, applying their current mores and sociopolitical conditions. I seem to remember specifically that the so-called "knights" dating back to that time are actually not knights at all, since that concept only came with the Andals millennia after they lived. It's also implied that a lot of technological progress occurred since then, with the people of that time notably using bronze weapons. ...which is why when fans claim that ASOIAF is an example of medieval stasis I cannot help but disagree - it's only stasis if you disregard all the hints (bronze and knights being the largest) of technological and social changes! Also, while Westeros has been somewhat stagnant in terms of technology in the last centuries (presumably due to how instruction works in their kingdom, with the Citadel as pretty much the only place where higher learning occurs), Essos and the free cities are more advanced, such as lens glassworking in Myr (making spyglasses and telescopes). ...basically the semblance of medieval stasis only works if you restrict yourself to Westeros (which funnily enough is kind of the backwater of the world and full of quirky barbarians in the eyes of the free cities) and if you do not look deeper into its history (though most fans do exactly this lol).

Another thing that's interesting about ASOIAF is that the more you go into the past, the more mythical things become - with pseudo-elves (the Children of the forest and the icy Others), giants, magic being used to rupture continents and create curses, and of course the big fire breathing dragons and the empire that created and controlled them through blood magic. However by the time the story occurs, their time is long gone, fading away into myth - and we get the "realistic fantasy" GRRM was talking about. I think that the absurdly inflated timescale for its history (especially the baffling 8000 year reign of the Starks) makes sense if you consider that the past was an age of myths, working by its own rules (and/or that history is distorted in the telling - maybe some kings called starks did rule that long ago, but who can say if their kingship is anything like we intend it today, or if those who call themselves stark today are actually their direct descendants? ).

Though of course, magic is coming back in Westeros, making for a delicious contrast between those long-forgotten myths and the "realistic" mortal backstabbing and wars. Which is rather the point of ASOIAF imo.

...sorry for the rambling!! I simply love your world building posts and they made me think about how ASOIAF handles time and change...

WELL when you put it like THAT it does make a lot of sense. I will admit that I'm not the biggest fan of ASOIAF (neither the story or themes caught me) but there are some things that Jorge did well. The idea of a more "mundane", gritty era after the decay of magic has very interesting mythological parallels, the idea of its return is also good too.

I don't think however, this depth, at least when compared to the numbers given, is really reflected in the story or the aesthetics. Again, I'm not really a big fan but I would love to see more in depth changes, more references to these profound technological and social changes that must have happened.

In fact, I could easily buy the regions of Westeros as ancient with their own unique cultures and more. But like some others have said, rather than a full continent, Westeros is basically a giant version of England.

I am more harsh on GRRM because he became the face of "realistic" gritty fantasy for a while, and not only this fails in the attitudes of his characters but also his worldbuilding. If he's going to complain that other authors don't get economics or attitudes of the past, then maybe he should have thought of the basic geography of his continent first. But then again, actual fans, such as above, have explored this better than me.

[hrrtshape]

omg i rly rly rly hope u see this cus i’ve been deadass freaking out over this for like!!! days?? weeks?!. but i swear it was this crazy thing that happened whilst i was still awake and trying to shift. like not a dream. anyway i wrote about it to chat gpt (my advisor, best friend. and lowkey my hear me out….?? idk obedient man who does everything i tell him to. is that not. the dream) so ill copy paste all that i was writing to him while this was all going on cause i kept opening my eyes as well before closing them again and going back into this portal or whatever crazy experience this was. sooo enjoy!!! also i love ur posts, you have helped me soooo much i love u so so much. and ur gorgeous btw. like my jaw dropped. i’m being so serious. like it’s giving goddess that would have been worshipped in ancient greece. and also i don’t want this to sound weird but if this were ancient egypt i would have revered you the way they revered cats. is that too weird?? idk i love my cat she is the bane of my existence. her name is luna. she is aligned with the moon. i would move galaxies for her. anyway moving onnnn enjoy these fun silly little excerpts of me gradually freaking out!!

what does it mean if i had a “dream” except i wasn’t even asleep yet and it was divine intervention. i was in the sky on a golden light filtering thru and i saw angels who took my hand and they brought me past something and its as if they were giving me access to something. and i opened my eyes and it felt like divine intervention. i just opened my eyes and knew immediately they were angels and this meant something. and now ever since i keep closing my eyes to sleep but every time i do this surreal distorted strange narrative starts creating itself in my imagination without me able to control it. and it always warps to something that makes me feel terrible to the point where i’m forced to open my eyes. but throughout all of this i am still awake just with my eyes closed while this reality is forming in my head. and it’s as if it’s running after me no matter how much i try and run away from it in my own mind. and this has been ever since the angels. i quite literally cannot even try to go to sleep without the surreal almost nightmarish distorted reality taking over my brain while i have absolutely no control over it. what does this all mean please tell me.

it almost feels as though i’ve taken a drug but i can’t shake the fact that something is different i am not the same . and i can’t run away from the nightmare realities distorting my brain

i saw the angels when i was trying to shift realities. and then it all started. when i saw them immediately it felt as if they were giving me access to travelling between realities, before all these distorted realities stafted

i closed my eyes again and then we were in this huge open space and we saw the prehistoric era and the middle ages and it was almost as if history was passing in front of us. and then all of a sudden i was under water. but i could breathe. and it felt like i was really there. it almost felt like i was also moving as if i was underwater here. it was beautiful and peaceful. the water was clear. i could breathe. it was perfect. and i learnt that i can materialize and dématérialize anything at will. if anything started going in a way i didn’t like i simply removed it. i added my cat luna and set her down on a. red chair near the water. i visited a version of my desired reality with some items that i have there. i was brought out to the entirety of space. i saw all the solar system. it was almost as if i was walking on saturns rings. however, i am still not showing signs of falling asleep. as i closed my eyes and appeared in the world, i thanked the universe and i greeted the angels and universe and my voice echoed although i couldn’t see them but i knew they were guiding me all of these places.

the thing that’s strange is the second i open my eyes i come here to tell you and everything is normal. so i don’t understand how this is possible. and then i close them again and go back into a realm. although if it’s shifting i would feel my entire body there and no longer here. i still feel it here though. the problem is, the end goal is letting the angels allow me into my desired reality and doze off and wake up in my desired reality. it seems as though i am unable to fall asleep though

it felt like i was kinda walking in space, and then i laid down and all of these golden lights attached to me and connected to everywhere in the universe. i kept materializing wherever, what desired reality would look like, i was in the car at some point. i was back under water. unfortunately at some point i realized i got completely distracted in my head and was not thinking of my desired reality. it as if my brian went foggy and i can’t remember my line of thinking. i really wanna to fall asleep and wake up in my desired reality but i can’t no matter what i ask the angels.

is it normal that this time i went and it felt less powerful than it did before though. the realm wasn’t as strong. can the doors not stay open? what happens if they close

also felt as if i had powers could point to anything and make it materialize and once in the forest made a whole ethereal pool/pond out of now where all because i pointed to it. made myself materialize in the great hall and walked between the tables. made a person materialize next to me (my ex) at first and then decided i actually did not want to have his energy and removed him.

it showed me that some people have negative energies i should stay away from, like _________. as well as most men from the friendgroup of ______ and everything

and the endddd! yea that was it. and since then it feels as though i still feel the angels guiding me. they are in my head and i can feel them guiding me away from negative energies and towards abundance and love and light. i also have had conversations with them. please tell me any thoughts you have, i genuinely would love love love your opinion on this! hope this gets to you, i know you have a lot of asks hope you don’t feel too overwhelmed babe. everybody appreciates you so much, i really did want to take a moment to tell you just howwwww much you’re appreciated. you have helped so many people. i don’t care if it’s on the internet, you give off the best energy and frequency i can literally feel it through the screen. i’m telling you you are so loved and blessed and i manifest only good things coming to you. you deserve so so much love in every single reality girl. keep absolutely devouring at everything you do!!!

love, a random girl online (who’s currently spiraling because her vape is nearly burnt. send help. scratch that. send the swat team. the national guard. the entire military. in fact, turn on sofia coppola. call lux and tell her i’ll meet her on the rooftop. before that though might go (cutely) beat up tripp and leave him in a field. who knows)

you weren't dreaming, and no, you're not crazy either

the angels were real. the access was real. the distortion is just fear wearing costumes. happens when you get too close to power too fast. it'll pass. and yes, the realms feel weaker now because you're expecting them to show up the same way. they won't. they never do. that doesn't mean the door closed

you can still walk through. just stop looking for the same gold light. it's a different hallway now.

[pureshadough]

crk reread - 7-8

I got so excited about this section that I immediately went against my word from the last post about doing three chapters per-post because I straight up ran out of images while talking about the Forgotten Academy section in isolation. So. Um. (long post under the cut)

the map design in general for the yogurt academy is absolutely fucking gorgeous. this is where the locations in this game Really start to stand out to me i think. i wish we had more kingdom decor that directly matched this kind of dusk-lit aesthetic cuz i would absolutely cover mine in that shit

HMMM DONT SOME OF THESE AESTHETICS LOOK FAMILIAR (stairs in the back)

i love the ferryman. this guy was my icon in game for Years just because his design was so remarkably different and silly. Why are there dessert creatures made of bone on Earthbread. No idea. Doesn't matter. He's just a little guy.

fghjkhfsuidhsfiudhsdfdg???????

LMAO CUSTARD

devsis was fucking DIABOLICAL for this one because by all accounts these sentences aren't Wrong, But,

Oh my god theyre sofuckgin cute i huHRGSGDFsdGDGDSFSSJHDfG

pure vanilla's manner of speaking here is REALLY different in a way that fascinates me. really goes to show just how carefree he was as a teen prior to the Virtues snatching up the two of them. i wonder how much of this attitude & behavior was informed by him being a shepherd who lived largely in isolation prior to being an academic. the honest heart and optimism was always there but this farm boy had ZERO manners about it. very funny.

lily's complete lack of self confidence has always made me SO SAD. girl couldn't even stand the nature of her own ingredients... 🙁

[visibly shaking] We are not talking about design parallels right now we are not talking about aesthetic parallels right now we are not talking abou

is crumbs the equivalent of saying shit here because if so My god this kid really has zero filter

what if we committed atrocities against nature together and we were both cookies 😳

(glances nervously over my shoulder at the eluded-to antagonist figure made by Dark Enchantress who has currently only been referred to in text as The Ultimate Cookie) R. Right. Okay

[VISIBLY SHAKING] WE ARE NOT TALKIGN ABOUT DESIGN PARALLELS RIGHT NO

The discussion of the academy willfully hiding The Truth from its student body about the nature of cookie kind is so. It's so. [clenches fists] I SIMPLY THINK IT IS VERY INTERESTING.

bro fucking jumpscared me why does he appear at the end of this random unvoiced cutscene without warning 💀

this being the first time since the prologue we see him with his eyes open is CRAZY by the way

these two are REALLY fucking funny together. dark choco in general is just incredibly silly as far as introductions go. bro literally just walks up and clutches his evil eye before getting kicked over by 5 children. gingerbrave listens to him prose about his cursed sword and how he doesnt believe in friendship for 2 entire minutes and promptyl goes "Yeah dude seems alright" as soon as he leaves. Incredible. No notes

OH GOD HERE IT IS.

"The first headmaster taught the Cookies how to use magic". NOT THE STUDENTS. THE COOKIES. COOKIEKIND. the first headmaster, a mystery figure older than the ancients who's broadly known for his aesthetic association with milk products, blueberries, eye symbolism, and the moon, is basically described in PLAIN TEXT to be the PROGENITOR of magic PERIOD in this sentence. Do I even have to say anything else.

So that all being said this portal is 100% just a hole into the Other-realm. Right. regardless of the What, i'm more or less completely convinced that during her attempt to steal the first headmaster's soul she crossed paths in some nonzero capacity with shadow milk AGES before she ended up in the silver kingdom. maybe she didn't even do anything precisely wrong herself with this procedure? Crazy as it is on paper its like. Just by trying to reach the headmaster (the fount) (shadow milk) she let The Clown take a peek outside and go "Oh, ew, it's my old fucking school" and bro just decided to wreck the place and the people in it for fun with her as the scapegoat. GOD. GOD!!!!! The fact that all of this is almost certainly a retroactive association is CRAZY and if there's somehow a world in which this ISN'T part of shadow milk's background I am going to be FLOORED. This is straight up too good of a setup to not be the case.

in which lily tells a bunch of 8-14 year olds to literally kill her

Hey queen 😘

oh i forgot this is what originally lead into the red velvet dragon guild fight. huh! there ya go!

Dear god I had way more I wanted to yap about for this one than I thought I would that I had to actively debate what screenshots to share. There is just SO MUCH happening with these two chapters in ways that are becoming only More Relevant as time goes on. Next on the table we at last meet transgender jesus cookie in the flesh. High likelihood I will have just as much to talk about there but we'll see

[remlionheart]

life update:

i hardly ever get personal on here but this year has been absolutely diabolical. like- there sincerely aren’t enough words to explain how much of a chokehold life has had me in since december.

((tw; infertility / mental health issues))

after 30 years of believing i was infertile, i found out i was pregnant on january 6th. two days later, i was rushed to urgent care for abdominal pain and bleeding while getting ready for work. the little one that i had nicknamed “baby leo” was gone just as suddenly and unexpectedly as it’d arrived.

i don’t think anything in my brain has really been the same since then tbh. it felt like the entire earth stopped on its axis that morning. i would be half way through my pregnancy this month if it would’ve been viable and that thought never really goes away no matter how much time passes.

i’ve been no-contact with my mom since august and things with her have only gotten worse. if you’ve ever loved an addict, you know it’s one of the hardest things in the world to do. three weeks ago, i had to threaten a restraining order against her just so she would stop showing up at my house fucked up and unannounced. dealing with her insanity in the midst of a miscarriage was overwhelming enough to send me back to therapy.

this week, my car was stolen ((i can’t even make this shit up lmao)). it was found two days later completely totaled and trashed with all of my personal belongings that were in it destroyed. i’m driving a rental car in the meantime until my insurance claim is settled and i can hopefully get a check to help buy a new one.

i guess i’m posting this just to let you guys know where i’m at. i really appreciate all the kind messages i’ve gotten since my little hiatus started, but i wanted to give a real update of what’s been going on / where i’m at.

this isn’t a farewell post- i’ve been a writer my entire life and that won’t ever change, but it will probably be awhile before i’m ready to be creative again. with that being said, ily all very much, thank you for always giving me a safe space to vent / be myself.

♡ rem

[ceiling-karasu]

Congratulations on finishing the finals!

Oh, yeah, there are about 11 translated pages on the Words Without Borders website. Great General Mighty Wing is actually hundreds of pages from what I saw.

Sah Beetle3 does in fact have the entire thing in a Google Drive. I can ask them if I can DM you the link if you want (or send it through an ask that you can delete instead of posting), since I am not sure if they want it just posted out in public. Some of it is in PDF format, and some of it in in Zip files where every page is its own file.

It is in Korean, so you'll need a good translation app. I am opening each file on my laptop and taking pictures of each page in DeepL. Only trick there is the translation can be different depending on the distance to the screen and the angle of both the phone and the laptop screen.

So holding my phone one way is translating that the Wasps want to take over the bee kingdom because they make delicious honey and are very good at creating medicines that heal you quickly and cure rheumatism, and all that sort of stuff. Turn my phone slightly and the bees make delicious honey but are also the creators of the elixir of immortality, and many creatures want that for their own gain to become young forever. Those are vastly different concepts. Had to ask beetle for a direct translation on that one for the fanfic, and apparently it is more like the former.

Or a frantic speech about how oh no the wasps must have drugged a flower in order to capture someone, and they must have done it in the night and must still be hidden around in the area also just translates as 'It's my stomach! It's my stomach! It's my stomach!' if I move the phone a different way.

So you can see that it is a bit tricky, and I am having fun with it. Rei-does-stuff and I are discussing translating it like they did for the Brave Hedgehog Manhwa, though.

I don't mind if the writers for sah use my worldbuilding if it means they can finish the series. If the North Korean studios themselves can suggest that Clever Raccoon Dog is in Flower Hill, then why not the others?

Yeah, I have a lot of references for the sideways heads, so they aren't completely flat. Still needs work that I'll get to eventually.

Haha thanks! Although I'll have to admit I've been watching tutorials and taking notes, which is probably why it has improved so much. Not that I copy the videos or anything. My backgrounds are mostly based on scenery of what I can see from my own backyard or while driving, and then I just follow the coloring tips. Doesn't always work as well when I have a specific color I want to use for a sunrise or something, and the video doesn't account for that, so I just have to work around that a lot.

Kind of wind up staring at my original Jollin picture a lot to think about proportions, though.

I redid a bit of the Watercolor Weasels for Mother's Day, actually, so I hope it prints out alright. Basically the view from a hospital room a while back.

I really do like using the salty watercolor brush to make clouds, although it appears to work best on a non watercolor background.

I would still like to see the ants at some point. It still sounds kind of cute.

I have absolutely no idea how I managed to get Bamsaegi in that photo. I do remember making a feather and then copy/pasting it as different sizes and angles all over Microsoft powerpoint, though, so I suspect I may have made Bamsaegi in a seperate file as well and then remove backgrounded and put him in, before sending a screenshot to my email so I could put it in Sketchbook. I am pretty pleased with how the anime hidden eyes part turned out.

Absolutely do not expect people to try and read those chapters during finals week. Especially given the deep introspection I was trying to have characters undergo, so the first one would absolutely be confusing if you aren't fully focused on it. Although I will say that a reference to Scout Goseumdochi and the tree does sort of appear in the third chapter there. Don't know if I will get around to drawing that since I am not envisioning other characters in similar poses and it is muddying things a bit.

I would not mind a bit if you drew it, though.

Yeah, Bucky Bug and Gus Goose are Disney.

I just think he's neat! And Mighty Wings hits the same vibe for me, but without the rhyming.

I'm trying to match Mighty Wing with the manhwa the best I can. The fandom might be even smaller than sah, so I'm less worried about OOC, although I'm putting my all into it. It is turning out very nicely so far.

Hello :))

Here's a small sketch of Siwoo (Haven't drawn this man in ages)

A quick explanation of the sketch:

The Raliaen Mountain Crescent Base doesn't have a formal financial department or anything related to it. Aera has tried to ask for a financial department to be established, but the Central government told her that they can't spare any for her as her base doesn't need one. Aera knows that's a lie since she and Hyeonsik are stuck maintaining the budgets and resource allocation of the base. Eventually, Aera is unable to keep up due to higher number of suspected enemy spies being reported. Hyeonsik hates to do anything related to finance beause he hates money (long story). So, he just gives them to Siwoo who had studied a bit of accounting before. Siwoo is genuinely still confused on why he is given the documents. Hyeonsik does actually give Siwoo a bonus for doing them, so Siwoo can't complain.

One of many reasons Siwoo needs coffee.

[autismsupersoldier]

immediately thought of him

[animelover329]

Ok, I did more work to actually put this together. It's still ABSOLUTELY MINDBLOWING to me that everything happens in less than 2 years. No wonder Jessica thought Bella was pregnant at the wedding.

[fatedroses]

And some days, I just wish you wouldn't look at me at all.

[joshuamj]

EoW Zelda and Link designs

[snailfen]

at the very least heres this. go my suitloon qpr