#no shit she turned into abstract art

[birdsauces]

coule you please yapp about your dnd character? i wanna learn more about them

i WOULD BE HONORED (foaming at the mouth)

first throwing the technical things aside, rosaline is a winter eladrin echo knight fighter (8), who multiclassed into ranger (2) but started out with her first level as a bard (1). formerly a carefree and bubbly individual, she's grown paranoid and agitated over the course of the partys adventures.

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curse of strahd spoilers ahead!

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rosaline started her journey with her younger brother, hamlet, trying to restore their noble families reputation after their mothers evil actions. while they failed miserably in that aspect, they somehow managed to make a group of friends, secure a fuckton of money through a Waterdeep Dragon Heist™️, and open a tavern with it.

things went well for a while, until the pull of adventure once again dragged them off into the lands of barovia. quite early on, rosaline was attacked by an infernal scarecrow, earning herself a brand on her leg which initially allowed it to track her, but now is far more malicious and attatched to her soul itself.

after this, rosaline very much struggles with her sense of identity. the infernal brand has a fun little property that has essentially made her infernal as well, with the ability to summon and control fire as well as speak fiendish languages. the side effect of this is that the more she uses it, the more the devil (scarecrow) becomes her, and vice versa.

around the same time she initially got the infernal mark, we met an npc druid named mino. rosaline and mino became quick friends, doing their best to protect each other against the dangers of barovia.

with the rest of the party, they met ireena, an important npc in any curse of strahd game, and then decided to take her into the group. as a whole, they went through a whole bunch of wild shit which i'll probably yap about another day.

mino would later on become her best friend, her lover, and then fucking die. in the aftermath of their death, the party got split up, and she was left to deal with her grief on her own, except for the company of ireena, who rosaline closely bonded with. rosaline does not know that ireena accidentally caused minos death via a lot of bombs (ꞋꞌꞋꞌŏ_ŏ)

this is what initially began to spark her resentment for the party, after they returned together and she found out that the person who was supposed to watch over their corpse had managed to loose it. she does not trust her brother, who earlier in the campaign left for a bit, as she believes he'll just abandon her again like their father. the only person she still maintains some trust in is ireena.

after that, she has been the only person who has actively mentioned the druid or prompted a search, furthering her belief that since her friends (in her mind) did not care about a close friends death, they do not truly care about her or each other either.

as well as this, there's a large chunk of stuff to go with her echo knight subclass regarding her various selves throughout the multiverse. in barovia, there was another version of rosaline who died long ago. this past version of rosaline absolutely hates her present self, blaming her for all the misfortunes that are to come. present rosaline is terrified of following in her footsteps, and makes quite drastic decisions to try to twist fate and forge her own path. out of fear, she's developed a deep sense of distrust in both her allies and herself.

throughout this journey, rosaline continues to make worse and worse decisions in the name of keeping herself and her allies safe, quite similar to how her mother (whom she resents) was once led down a similar path. she was recently accused of this by her little brother after a scandal in which she absorbed the essence of a soul coin to avoid her own death. the party does not quite agree with the morals of eating souls.

in the latest sessions, we've been investigating a haunted manor. through an unfortunate event in a mirror dimension, rosaline activated a trap trying to save ireena.

where she proceeded to get instantly fucking atomized and torn apart between many, many mirrors (,,•᷄‎ᗣ•᷅ ,,)

that's! where we're at right now!! i will be posting an update on monday to see if the party can manage to save her. it may be difficult... since after rosaline was imprisoned, her mirror self appeared and proceeded to kill our cleric...

okay love y'all and bye now, send rosaline thoughts and prayers LMAO

[seancekitsch]

Hazbin Hotel—Lucifer x Reader where he’s a love struck fool for reader? May or may not be inspired by that little imagine you posted not too long ago \(//∇//)\

uhhh this kinda got away from me. enjoy!!

You’d have to be a fool not to notice how the King of Hell acts around you, even Angel and Husk told you that. But you’re not blinded to situation, you know exactly what’s going on. You rest your elbow on the bar next to Angel as Charlie gathers the hotel residents and staff, a job not unlike herding cats. Everyone trickles in slowly, waiting for the next odd trust bond activity Charlie has come up with now. Last week was heartfelt letter writing, and the three of you at the bar had not taken it seriously. You handed Husk a comedic inner monologue about how much you needed to pee, Husk handed Angel a surprisingly detailed made up story about a talking whisky bottle, and Angel handed you a list of what roles he’d cast the entire hotel in a porno.

“What do you think they’ll have us do this time?” Husk mumbles to you, topping off your drink.

“Honestly, not a fan of the way Princess is smiling right now,” you answer.

Charlie waves everyone over, and Vaggie smiles uncomfortably, ready for everyone to start.

“Okay Good Afternoon,” Charlie starts, practically bouncing, “Today we’re going to try to form new bonds!”

Immediately, she’s met with groaning and mumbling, but thats never stopped her and it won’t today either.

“So what better way to do that then having a buddy for the next twenty four hours!” She shouts, and Vaggie’s face immediately makes sense.

“I’ve separated everyone from their regular group so they can build these bonds and be open!”

“…got something you could open…” you hear Angel mumble under his breath.

Charlie gives her dad a thumbs up.

“The first pairing is… my dad and Y/n!”

The Morningstar family sucks at being subtle or lying.

“So what did you have planned for the day?” Lucifer asks while sitting beside you, his voice short and clipped, his entire demeanor like he’s on high alert. It’s cute, really.

“Ah don’t worry about it,” you shrug, “What does the areat King of Hell do with his day?”

Lucifer rubs his neck, fidgeting under your question.

“It’s not… Its not actually all that interesting,” he admits, “You’ve probably got something cooler going on.”

There’s something he’s avoiding besides your gaze, but you don’t press the issue.

You look across the lobby to Angel, who pauses his conversation with Vaggie to mouth something that looked like the word “fart” to you, and then wink.

Your art gallery. Right.

“Have you ever been to Pentagram City’s biggest art gallery?” you ask him.

Lucifer is a gentleman. You understand how he stole the first man’s first two wives from him. Sure, he’s stumbling and stuttering and a nervous wreck, but he’s holding doors open for you and asking about your thoughts and feelings about the pieces on display, he’s accidentally on purpose almost held your hand three times now. Next time he does it, you’re just going to grab his damn hand.

You stare at the sculpture in front of you, noting that you should have someone move this to a different room. In fact, there’s a few things you’ve noticed while showing Lucifer the art that you should have moved around. Maybe you’ve been neglecting the gallery a bit more than you thought now that you live at the hotel.

“Hey, Can I ask you about these?” Lucifer’s voice booms from the next room over. Sighing, you type a quick note into your V-Phone and turn.

Oh shit.

Lucifer found THAT room.

You cross the threshold into the room you never go into, the room with your own work. Honestly, it’s not even curated the way the other rooms and floors are. This is where you put anything that you think can leave your studio. He’s in front of one of your biggest paintings, and one of your newest. It’s an abstract piece about your feelings about redemption, about your past sins, about adjusting to the hotel. Which it sounds stupid when you put it like that, but it made sense in the moment and you’re proud of it.

He turns and smiles before looking back at the painting.

“Is the uh, is the artist willing to sell this piece?” he asks, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning red.

Now it’s your turn to get nervous. You’ve never actually sold any of your own pieces before.

“I uh- I’m not gonna sell it to you,” you tell him, “You can have it.”

It would be weird to take money from Lucifer, even if he is offering. You like him a decent amount and a transaction between the two of you would make it weird. It would feel like you owe him, even though your art would technically satisfy that. If he was one of the Vees or someone you dislike, you would have immediately taken money.

“But the artist-“

“Me,” you clarify, and you finally remember you don’t tag your own art. Lucifer’s jaw drops at your admission.

“I’d really like to support your work, it’s magnificent,” Lucifer insists, and you feel your cheeks burning. He turns to gesture to another piece, and his knuckles brush your own.

Fuck it. You told yourself you’d do it. You grab Lucifer’s hand in your own, a bold move.

“Just think about it as a gift,” you tell him, “A thank you for the lovely day we’ve had.”

You inwardly cringe, knowing that when you recount today at the lobby bar your drinking buddies are going to tear you a new one for that corny line. But it fits for Lucifer; he’s bringing out a side of you that you really haven’t seen in a while.

“Thank you uh, gorgeous,” he tacks on the pet name like even he isn’t sure about it, and with his hand still in yours, attempts to lean against a sculpture, stumbling as he misses it and bringing you along with him. He tugs you by the arm, jerking you closer to him. He’s majorly out of practice.

“I have a studio upstairs if you want to see more?” you offer, not really sure if you thought that through.

“More art? Absolutely!” He recovers quickly, enthusiasm dripping from his voice.

You smile as you pull him towards the hallway, butterflies in your stomach as it dawns on you that he’s going to be the only person besides you to see the studio.

You and Lucifer end up staying there until Charlie calls him the next morning.

You notice paint on his chin after you get back to the hotel.

[asterdisaster06]

Rottweiler

Summary > the aftermath of the previous mission rottweiler went on

Word count > 1.9k

a/n > i’m back with some more inspiration and maybe a more reliable posting schedule. this time, rottweiler is fighting themselves rather than a faceless enemy

“Are you sure you’re okay to spar?”

“Yes, now will you shut up?” You snarled out to the man in front of you.

“For the record, the doctor recommended you to rest a few more days. Refrain from tearing any stitching out,” Ghost stated, staring deep into your soul - or what was left of it.

You match his gaze, hardened to far worse than the disappointed deadpan he was giving you just now. You knew he was right to some extent. The medical staff did give you a major side eye as they saw you leaving, but they let you check yourself out. It’s unlikely you would have taken no for an answer, following in the footsteps of your fellow teammates. They can’t particularly say shit to you after what they’ve pulled in the past and they know it

Soap, who’s had an entire rusted pole sticking out of him, more shrapnel coating his frame than you thought the human body could ever escape from alive. Blood coagulating on the dusty sand below him, a sick abstract art. An elegy to his role as a demolitions expert - the very thing that might have killed him. Except it didn’t.

He took a fist to the reaper and threw him the middle finger for good measure.

Simon, God, Simon. There was barely anything that boy hadn’t been through. His past was a humourless tale crafted by something far beyond anything comprehensible. There isn’t even a specific instance to describe as death was determined to make his body match his name. A symbol of death, remnanted - left to wander. A sick dance, each touch driving a wedge further and further between Simon and the world of the living. It should have left him wounded, but it only made him a good soldier.

He spat in the face of God and refused an apology from the devil. She shed tears for him, and he turned them to vapour with the heat of his fury.

Gaz, a walking liability to himself - though unintentional. He’s like a ragdoll at the whims of whatever life throws at him. Or, more accurately, where life throws him. It’s a miracle he’s existed this long without a permanent injury given what he’s experiences almost daily. From the small, tripping over himself or running into tables, to the big, falling out of helicopters or over the railings of bridges.

He was made to die, but all he had to say to that was ‘but I’m here to stay.’ He insists, it seems, on living.

Price, he’s experienced a lot. Life hasn’t treated him well, not that it treated any of the other’s with soft hands, but especially him. He’s seen enough to be scarred for ten lifetimes over. The choices he’s had to make might weigh heavier on his heart than the scars littering his body. If Simon is a walking ghost, Price is a shambling corpse.

His life is brimming with sorrow, and it appears as if he has killed his own guardian angel to survive as ours. An ode to those he loves.

“Hesitating like that can cost you your life, y’know,” Simon grumbles, bringing you back to the present.

“So I’ve been told,” You spit, a phantom taste of blood following it.

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

He takes calculated steps, circling you like a dog. The dust beneath your feet shifts - seeming to breathe alongside you. You’re stiff, more so than you would’ve liked to be in these sorts of scenarios; it doesn’t stop you though. Bloodshot eyes stare back at you and you aren’t sure if it’s Simon’s or a reflection of your own. A pause. A moment taken out of respect - a silence. An opening.

You jump.

You claw.

You grasp.

A pitiful attempt against someone you couldn’t even beat on your best day, not in a way that mattered. Given a weapon, and an element of surprise, you might have had a chance. Hand-to-hand combat paired with a lack of fluid movement renders you careless and therefore battered into defeat. Simon is like a bear, or a ram, maybe a mountain lion. These are the thoughts that fully occupy you for the moment you’re rushed to your back, thrown to the ground with as much care as he could manage.

“I told you, you aren’t ready.”

“I never was, Simon,” You huff out, ragged breaths choked by the dirt flying in the air.

“You hesitate,” He points out. “You didn’t used to.”

“I didn’t,” You insist. A lie, and you know it.

“Doesn’t matter, you won’t be getting back on the field for another month regardless. Not my decision so save your yapping,” He lets the knee off your chest and offers a hand. You don’t take it.

“There’s nothing interesting for another month, I’ll live,” You shake off his attempt to rattle you.

“Don’t be so sure,” Simon says, bringing down his neck gaiter. You can’t help but stare at the scar across his lip.

“Looking good LT,” Soap’s voice carries across the field.

“I know the last mission diminished my looks, but am I really that bad?” You deadpan.

“Of course not, Rottie. Do I not tell you enough how stunning you are?” Soap adjusts the fabric around your neck, a touch far more gentle than you deserve.

A wry smile creeps across your face. Your boys always let you know how appreciated you are, both for your abilities and appearance. They’re like your little cheer squad sometimes. Gaz and Soap are more vocal about it, but small touches and comments from Price and Ghost always cause a ripple of butterflies in your stomach.

You roll your eyes and reply, “Far too much, Johnny.” You didn’t mean it.

“Get used to it,” He says, giving you a little mock salute.

It brings your attention to the bandage still on his hand, freshly changed. It reminds you that yours likely need to be cleaned and switched at this point, but you feel undeserving of that kindness. A deep sense of guilt washes over you.

“Don’t sweat it, Bonnie.” He always knows what you’re thinking, a skill you wish would’ve lost its accuracy long ago.

“I need a walk,” You sigh, finishing it off with: “Alone.”

Your feet carry you away, far from the discomfort that was growing inside of your chest. An overwhelming, overachiever, though, you weren’t sure whether you were talking about yourself or the resentment felt towards your mangled body and mind. The memories linger beyond the physical flesh wounds, and somehow hurt more. They sink their teeth into your mangy fur, sticking like fleas to a street mongrel. Your thoughts scrape down your flank. Piercing to the bone; brittle and sad excuses of the framework that is your cage.

You weren’t sure how you felt, but you knew it wasn’t a good feeling. It settled underneath your skin like a parasite. It laid on top of it like a tick. You were terrified. That’s what it was. It was familiar, like your mirror years ago. A sick reflection of an even sicker dog. Self pity wells up like tears, pooling like blood, streaming like sweat. You tread further and further, each footfall sounding like bullets to you. Maybe you’re just stressed.

A whole entire month. It gnaws at you, that information. It shouldn’t, but it does. You know your team better than anyone; they’re reliable, resilient, and know how to function without you. They did it long before, and can continue to do so long after. You would be lying if you said that it didn’t hurt. If it didn’t sting like nettle brushing against your fur. It is unlikely that any extreme mission would be put forth while a team member was out of commission, but you never know with the higher ups. It pains you, an ache blooms across your body at the thought of missing out on the danger. Flowering into a debilitating burn inside of you. Afflicting your mind, thoughts run wild with what ifs.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be up and walking, soldier.”

You had walked yourself right into the lion’s den.

“Price,” You greet, nervousness bubbling up in your throat.

“Rottie.”

“They didn’t stop me,” You say as an excuse.

“Unless they wanted to tranquillise you, I don’t think they could,” Price rolls his eyes.

“They’re free to try,” You quip, shrugging.

“That’s the point, nobody wants to.”

“I’m here, I can walk, I’m not tearing any stitches out, I can shower on my own. What else do you want?” You glare half-heartedly at the rugged man in front of you.

“I want you on bed rest and away from any missions, soldier,” Price says, a forlorn tone almost coating his words like honey. It almost makes you want to roll over and submit, licking the taste from his hands. Key word, almost. Your pride won’t allow you to.

“Like hell that’s happening. I really can’t be arsed to follow any of what I just heard,” You snap. You were cold, tired, and going stir crazy. This wasn’t what you needed-

“This is exactly what you need. A step away from this life. Away from us,” Price says, paralysing you. He isn’t wrong, but he isn’t right either.

“Where do you want me to go?” You ask, slipping into the professional nature. Like a hunting dog sent on a mission, following the scent of those above and below itself.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t do that. Don’t treat it like just another mission from your past life,” Price’s tone hardens alongside his face - all traces of softness gone to someone who hasn’t known him. Not like you have. You know it’s like correcting a dog; you still love them, but they need guidance sometimes. You fight against it.

“Where, Price, where?” You ask again.

“Laswell suggested spending some time in the states. Away from all of this. Someplace you’ll be. . . content.” His hollow words echo the word “safe” as if you actively seek trouble these days. Actively sniff out traps yet always seem to get your paw clamped in the snares meant for rabbits.

“Fine,” You say, about to turn on your heel and leave.

“Hound,” Price starts, using your official callsign. “Don’t take this the wrong way, don’t distance yourself again. You’ve worked hard to get here and have earned a safe place-”

“Except for when I actually need it,” You let slip out.

“It isn’t safe here.”

“It’s a hell of a lot safer than where I was before, don’t you think?” You snarl, teeth bared and lips pulled back. Rabid, foaming at the mouth, not a house pet anymore.

“We aren’t kicking you out.” Price says this, but you can’t help but doubt it.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, we aren’t.”

“Okay.”

You find yourself staring at the scars Price lets fly free in the old tee he decided to don today. You helped pick it out. Tearing your eyes away from his chest, you can’t find yourself to meet his gaze, opting instead to stare at the paraphernalia around his office. You linger on the photos of your team a little too long. Logically you know he’s right, this is a temporary precaution. If only it didn’t feel like the quarantine before they lop your head off to test for rabies.

“I’m going to go now,” You speak, knowing it’s not what Price was waiting for you to say.

“Okay,” He responds, his turn now for the small talk.

Turning on your feet, you prepare yourself for the god awful goodbyes that will inevitably have to occur and the temporary gift of life being bestowed upon you. If only it felt that way. If only you could view it as that. If only it didn’t have to happen. If only.

[ochrearia]

RGB Trio according to my Synesthesia

Been mentioning it on and off for a bit but I experience the world differently. "What is a Synesthesia Portrait?" Good question! I have synesthesia, specifically the one that connects hearing and sight called Chromesthesia. What that means is sounds/songs will trigger visions of shapes and colors for me whenever I listen. Due to this music is a super important part of how I process the world in general, and what I grew up learning was to perceive people's personalities as music too. Everyone has a song out there that encapsulates who they are to me! Even fictional characters if I know enough. So, I bridge the gap and make it so people/characters have these abstract portraits of themselves. Stylized, of course, in reality these forms are much more blurred together than crisp in lines. I just paint them in this way to make it a little more understandable.

I've been a little disconnected from making synesthesia art for some time and this is my way of getting back into it. Turning my blorbos into art because I'm cringe and free. "But they don't really have personalities in FNF" you underestimate my ability to derive pieces of people from the smallest "insignificant" actions. I pay ATTENTION. Here's their songs in order of BF, GF, and Pico-

BF, and I describe him as a goddamn tranquilizer dart to the head because it's correct. Despite being a gremlin piece of shit he's dedicated and confident and stupidly, brainlessly fearless. And his intentions can come off very sweet regardless of him being a menace. Dude's passionate about what he thinks is right and fights for it. Weird how he always seems to win like he overpowers everyone with his own sound, talks them down and placates them without ever needing actual words.

GF, because she may also be a bit (a lot) brainless but it's with an air of mischief and mysticism that feels like dancing a waltz. She seems like the sweetest and kindness person out there because honestly, she probably is. Despite being dumb she's definitely hiding emotional smarts in that pretty head. And she's strong too, strong within herself and strong because she's a demon. But no matter what and no matter how little we end up really seeing her she manages to capture the attention like the way a violin's strings pierce through any sound.

Pico, because he's lived through so much bad and maybe he might end up considering himself bad and unredeemable too. Playing into the idea he's a merciless killer who can be bought into doing anything terrible but he didn't pull the trigger when he was supposed to, twice. Loyal and moral when it comes to the people he cares about. Outwardly spiky and cold like a snowstorm but at the center it's only a soft flurry, lonely and wondering if he's really a lost cause or not. But it's okay, he's got friends that stick around and think otherwise.

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 ; 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚒

➝ steve harrington + eddie munson x loser-club!reader

➝ series masterlist, moodboard

➝ previous chapter ; next chapter

You stared at the drawings pinned near the art classroom with a tilted head and a soft frown. They were a haphazard mix of projects, some clearly trying too hard, others half-hearted doodles masquerading as ‘abstract art’. Your exact thoughts must have been written all over your face, because a voice beside you quipped, “Yeah, most of these look like shit.”  

Startled, you turned to see the infamous ██████ . Her fiery red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her smirk had an edge to it—sharp, but not unkind. She cocked an eyebrow at your surprise before sticking out her hand.  

“ ████ ,” she said.  

You hesitated for a moment, then shook it and gave her your own name. 

“Nice to meet you,” she said casually, her eyes glancing back at the art wall. “Think you could do better?”  

Her confidence threw you off, but you shrugged, managing a shy, “I don’t know. Maybe.”  

After that, she began showing up around you more often, as if by some unspoken agreement. Whether it was finding her leaning against the lockers near your classes, or hearing her snarky commentary about something or someone at lunch, her presence became a constant. She masked her intentions behind a cool indifference and sharp remarks, but you weren’t fooled. She was desperate to make a friend, and despite the rumours that swirled around her, you didn’t mind.  

It was... nice, really.  

One day in the cafeteria, you were seated alone, your head down as you worked on a sketch. It wasn’t great—your lines were still too shaky, and your proportions were off—but it was yours. Absorbed in your work, you didn’t notice Greta Keene and her pack of vultures until their shadow fell over your table.  

“What’s this?” Greta sneered, snatching the sketch from your hands. Her friends snickered, egging her on as she held it up for them to see. “Sloppy. Kind of like you.”  

You didn’t respond.  

“Zombie’s not even looking at me,” Greta said with mock offence, her voice dripping with derision. “Guess I’ll just hold onto this for you.”  

Still, you didn’t react. That only annoyed her more.  

With a cruel grin, she passed your drawing around, her friends cackling as they made mocking comments. Then, with a flourish, Greta dumped your sketchbook into the trashcan before pouring a carton of milk into it. 

“There. Fixed it.”  

You stared at the trash for a moment before standing and walking out of the cafeteria. No words. No glares. No tears—at least, not until you were outside. Once there, you sniffled a bit, wiping at your eyes angrily. But you brushed it off. 

Keep going, you told yourself. Just keep going.  

Later that day, ████ found you right after school. She called out your name from the back of the school, and when you rounded the corner, there she was, leaning against the brick wall with a lit cigarette in hand.  

“Hey,” she said, holding up something as you approached. “I got you this.”  

It was a brand-new sketchbook.  

“I... borrowed it from the art classroom,” she admitted with a nonchalant shrug. “Figured it’s the least I could do. Sorry I didn’t save your old one.”  

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you swallowed down the tears threatening to spill. Instead, you grabbed the sketchbook and muttered, “Thanks.”  

████ studied you for a moment, then offered the cigarette. “Want one?”  

You blinked at her, surprised, before narrowing your eyes. “Really?”  

“Why not?” she challenged, a playful grin spreading across her face.  

You hesitated, then took the cigarette and brought it to your lips. One puff later, you were coughing so hard you thought your lungs might explode.  

████ burst out laughing, doubling over as she tried to catch her breath. “Oh my god! You look like you’re dying!”  

You slapped her arm, glaring half-heartedly. “S-shut up!”  

But then, to your surprise, you started laughing too.  

That was the moment ████ truly became your friend, sealing it with a stolen sketchbook, a cigarette, and a shared laugh under the afternoon sun.

A few days later, you were at your locker, the low hum of voices and shuffling feet filling the school hallway. The usual chaos of students rushing between classes swirled around you, but you were focused on arranging your things. You carefully tucked your new sketchbook into the safest corner of your bag, already anticipating the quiet satisfaction of filling its pages later.

The sound of the locker door slamming shut startled you. When you turned, you froze.

Standing a few feet away was your art teacher, Professor ██████ .

He was handsome, in the kind of way that drew attention—his perfectly swept blond hair, sharp features, and piercing blue eyes made him impossible to overlook. Students, particularly the girls in your class, adored him. He had a polished charm that made them giggle during lessons, and even the other teachers seemed to brighten when he entered a room.

You, however, remained indifferent. To you, he was just another teacher—no more, no less.

“Hello,” he said smoothly, his tone polite but with an undercurrent you couldn’t quite name. “How’s the art coming along?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. Shrugging slightly, you avoided meeting his gaze. “It’s… fine.”

“Just fine?” he pressed lightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders stiffening further.

The silence stretched, filled only by the muffled sounds of lockers banging and sneakers squeaking down the polished floors. His gaze remained steady on you, unyielding in a way that made the hallway seem narrower.

“You know,” he said finally, his voice softening, “you’ve got real talent. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

The compliment, though phrased kindly, felt mechanical. Hollow. Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag as you glanced away. “I’m not wasting anything,” you replied curtly, keeping your voice measured.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his features. “I didn’t say you were,” he countered, his voice smooth and deliberate. He stepped closer, his shadow falling across your locker. “But talent like yours needs room to grow. Have you thought any more about that competition I mentioned last month?”

The memory of the colorful leaflet surfaced in your mind unbidden. You’d buried it deep in your bag and hadn’t thought about it since. “I don’t really do competitions,” you said flatly, your shoulders stiffening further.

For a moment, something broke through his polished demeanor—a subtle crack in his expression. Irritation? Disappointment? It was hard to tell, and he smoothed it over almost instantly. “Sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone leads to surprising rewards,” he said, his tone measured and calm. “But, of course, it’s your decision.”

You didn’t respond, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of your sketchbook. The hallway seemed to grow louder, the distant chatter and clatter contrasting with the tension that lingered between you.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice lightening but still deliberate. “I won’t keep you. But try not to hide too much, hm? There’s a whole world out there waiting to be reflected in your work.”

Your eyes flicked up to him reluctantly, his words settling heavily in the air between you. “Sure,” you said quietly, your voice noncommittal.

He smiled faintly, his piercing eyes catching yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Take care of yourself. And remember—art is a reflection of the artist. Don’t be afraid to let the world see who you are.”

He turned to leave, his steps unhurried, but just before he disappeared into the crowd of students, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he added casually, a faint note of amusement lacing his voice, “and tell Miss ████ to ask next time before borrowing a sketchbook from my classroom.”

Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you as you scrambled for something to say. But no words came out. Instead, you stood there, clutching your bag as though it could shield you from his knowing look.

With that, he turned away, his polished shoes clicking softly against the floor as he disappeared into the sea of students. You stayed rooted to the spot, your grip on your bag tightening as his words lingered uncomfortably in your mind.

divider credit

[gingerteafairy]

𝙣𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙩𝙥 (𝙧𝙤𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙮 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧)

Rodrick tries to get your attention, even if he had to cosplay of your non canon otp.

tags n warnings: fluff, nerdy!reader, f!reader, death note anime references, cosplay, suggestive, perv!rodrick, shy!reader. word count: 1.5k

Rodrick Heffley sort of hated you. 

Okay, not really. It wasn’t that Rodrick hated you—you weren’t fake or mean, or some weirdo who would make him cringe. You were just... well, weird. He’d totally clocked that you had a crush on him after, like, a minute. It was obvious.

The blushes when he walked by, the borderline embarrassing comments on his Instagram—it was like a neon sign. But you were cute. Annoyingly cute. With your big sunshine smiles, dorky jokes, and all that awkward eye contact whenever you bumped into each other at school. 

He gave you hell about being “weird.” But he liked it. Actually, loved it. This perv already pictured you in dozens of sexual scenarios with imaginary reactions he’d love to see. Like, would you be all shy when he took off his clothes or would you laugh if you got into some creative position? Would your glasses be foggy? He really wanted to see you with nothing but your glasses on.

You were just a girl giggling at his Instagram posts. His story, of course, featured him slumped on a museum bench, arms crossed, staring at some abstract painting like it had personally offended him. The caption? “Modern art is dead. Let me out.”

You knew better than to expect a sweet reply. It was either ghosting or snarky comebacks. Spoiler alert—you got the snarky reply.

But seeing him in person? Still the worst thing ever.

Which is exactly why you froze when you spotted him one afternoon, sitting lazily on the steps of his front porch. He looked perfectly disheveled in his black metal band shirt, one leg stretched out, his back leaned casually against the doorframe. Like a damn indie rock album cover.

Your brain screamed nope, but your feet had already carried you halfway past his house before—

"Hey, dorky.”

Rodrick’s voice broke through your panic like a needle to a balloon. You skidded to a halt, eyes wide. Slowly, you turned, clutching the strap of your bag for dear life.

“Hey…” you squeaked, adjusting your glasses.

Rodrick smirked, pushing off the steps. “You think I’m a ghost or something? You walk past here like I don’t exist.”

Your cheeks burned. “I—uh—I didn’t see you.”

“Totally believable.” Rodrick’s smirk grew. “You said you bought a Misa costume, remember? Wig and everything. And also the whole limited edition of the dolls and stuff.”

You blinked, horrified and excited at the same time.“I—I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He tilted his head, hands shoved in his pockets.

“I don't know…”

“Relax. It’s kinda sick, actually.” His gaze flicked over you like he was sizing you up. “You’d look good as Misa.”

“Really?” you jumped, clapping your hands. “I'll dress up like her everyday and I already bought her necklace.”

“You’re so awkward,” he teased, voice softer. “C’mon. What’s the rush? You’re always running past here like I’m gonna bite. Unless…”

You stared at him, unsure if your heart was about to stop or explode. “Unless…?”

“Unless you would like to get bitten by me.”

Your face turned scarlet. “Why…Why do you…?”

Rodrick rolled his eyes, turning back toward the house. “You’re impossible. I was gonna invite you in, but whatever. Get home safe.”

And with that, he disappeared inside, leaving you standing in the street, cheeks flushed, completely stunned. He just landed on the floor, stomping his head on the wall.

“Shit. I wanna see her in that outfit.” He cried out with his cheeks beet-red.

“She's so cool. Did you know she draws like a pro?" Greg cheered, watching you make your steps to your home, still confused.

“yourusername? She gave me pokemon cards for free in her parents store when I told my mother that I loved pokemon! A limited one. Pew peww.” Rowley exclaimed happily, stepping back when Rodrick stood up with a murderous look. “Uh-oh.”

Then he remembered, stopping him from the possible child murder. Only himself knew the cutie clumsy patootie you were, which made him giggle to the ground, curling his hands on the hem of his shirt.

“Ewww.” Greg hissed, frowning.

“I think your brother likes her.” Rowley smiled, walking to Greg's room, who was totally disgusted by the sight of his brother lifting his toe like a little girl.

The next week, someone invited Rodrick to a costume party. Sure, the music was decent, and someone brought a vintage vinyl player, which kept him from leaving immediately. The worst part is that you didn't come. “Socialization fear, Rod. Not my thing”. By midnight, he was leaning against a wall, phone in hand. Grinning when he saw you post you in your Misa outfit.

yourusername: “Dressing as my queen >o<.”

He wasn’t even sure why he posted a photo of himself dressed as L from Death Note. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe because he hoped you’d see it.

rodrickrockslodediper: justice will prevail.

Cheesy as hell. But effectively, you have seen it in a minute.

“God, you look so perfect.”

The message was simple—too simple for you. No silly emojis, no teasing lines. For some reason, that made him pause. And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he did something impulsive: he called you.

The line clicked after just two rings. “What the—Rodrick?”

He smirked at the sound of your flustered voice. “Didn’t think you’d answer so fast.”

“You called me,” you sputtered, nearly knocking over everything on your desk, your glasses almost broke on the floor. “What’s going on?”

“Party’s boring.” His voice was low and smooth, a little breathless. “Some kid thought I was Steve Jobs.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my god. That’s so tragic.”

“Yeah, laugh it up, Misa Misa.” He hesitated, voice softening just slightly. “I wish you were here.”

Click.

And just like that, his status went offline before you even had time to reply. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, walking away from the party like he’d just dropped a bomb, not even bothering to say goodbye to anyone.

"What the heck was that?!" you exclaimed, staring at your phone like it had grown a second head. Rodrick Heffley called to say he wanted you to be with him? That couldn’t be real.

And yet, the disbelief hit even harder when your doorbell rang. You opened the door, and there he was—smudged eyeliner and messy dark shadow to fake L’s signature tired look. Meanwhile, you were fully dressed as Misa Amane. What even was this situation?

"Good thing I made it before you ditched the cosplay," he said with a lopsided grin, still catching his breath. He had run to your house. Rodrick Heffley, running. For you.

You stood frozen, like a deer caught in headlights. Say something! Come on, say something! your brain screamed.

"Uh… Let’s... let’s go inside, Lawliet. I, uh… I have candy!" you stammered in a sweet tone, fumbling over the words. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

Rodrick burst out laughing, loud and unfiltered, before slapping a hand over his mouth, trying to keep it cool. But the faint pink tint on his face gave him away. He couldn’t believe how adorable you looked, trying so hard to pull off Misa.

"What’s so funny?" you mumbled, shifting your weight awkwardly, your face heating up even more.

"Nothing..." he snorted, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as his laughter died down. "Can I come in?"

"I… My parents… They’re, uh, kinda strict about guys being here," you muttered, cringing at how childish you sounded. Why did your parents have to be like this now of all times?

Rodrick clicked his tongue and shrugged. "Oh...Okay." But then he shot you that goofy, lopsided grin again, and you couldn’t help but smile back, even if it was a little shy.

"What?" you asked, giggling softly as you played with a lock of your blonde wig.

He shook his head, made a finger-gun motion with his hand, and turned to leave. But just as he took a step, he paused, spun back around, and said, "You know I like you, right?" His voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story.

"Stop messing with me…" you mumbled, barely above a whisper. Your heart was pounding in your chest. But instead of laughing, he stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before cupping your face gently. His eyes locked with yours, and for a second, the world seemed to stand still.

Then, he leaned in and gave you the softest, quickest kiss on the lips.

"Not messing with you, Misa," he said, dropping into L’s signature monotone. You couldn’t help it—you laughed so hard, your shoulders shook.

"Hey, no fair using my OTP!" you pouted, crossing your arms, but he just smirked and kissed you again.

"I’ll use whatever it takes to get you to notice me, nerd," he teased, his voice warm and playful. Then, with one last grin, he stepped back and turned to leave.

You stood there in the doorway, heart racing, watching Rodrick Heffley walk away like you’d just stepped out of the last scene of a shoujo anime.

[zedecksiew]

What Do Ability Scores Represent?

Recently, Into The Odd and the players in my home game helped me realise something fundamental:

Ability scores represent how good you are at acting under pressure.

STR isn't strength, it's toughness;

DEX really means reflexes;

WIS is more accurately calm or willpower;

etc.

+++

It is convention in roleplaying games that your ability scores / attributes / six stats determine who your character is.

High DEX means your character is spry, capable of acrobatic flourish; a good Willpower generally means you can browbeat others / themselves / reality (if you are spellcaster) into doing what they want; etc.

There is pleasure in looking at a sheet and seeing: Oh! These are the things my character is good at.

But you do run into problems. Does my 18 DEX rogue know they are fleeter than the 17 DEX bard? What if my wizard thinks she is stronger than her 10 STR? What if I have a brilliant scheme but my barbarian only has 9 INT?

How well, in other words, does the map represent the territory?

+++

(Art by Vesha, who is an illustrator! source)

I've got three players in my home game:

Vesha plays the teenaged trader Khabar (and his buffalo friend / parent-figure, Paal);

Amanda plays the monkey warrior Boots-Ra, now going white-furred;

Aish plays Captain Phung.

Phung does not yet own a proper sea-going vessel. Perhaps he lost his previous ship? Perhaps he never had one. (He does have a magic five-person sampan, though!)

He is impulsive. He tends to make dodgy deals with hapless village-folk, pick up dangerous-looking objects, and flirt with dangerous-looking men.

+++

Mechanics-wise, here's how my interactions with Aish / Phung tend to go:

Me: Okay, make a DEX save to duck before the hunter stabs you. Aish: Damn, my DEX is only 6, guess we'll see ... Amanda: Oh, no, Phung!

In a previous session:

Me: Okay, I think I'll call for a WIL save, because the ghost in the goat skull is trying to possess you. Aish: Well, my WIL is 5, hopefully this works out ... Vesha: Oh shit, Phung!

Some sessions back:

Me: The automaton shoves you. Make a STR save? Otherwise you'll be on the ground at its mercy. Aish: Guys I have 6 STR, I may be in trouble here. Me: Wait wait wait. What are your stats again?

So it turns out that Aish had terrible rolls at chargen. STR 6 DEX 6 WIL 5. Just going by ability scores, Phung is an idiot weakling.

+++

Thing is, Phung isn't an idiot weakling.

I've got crafty players; they are pretty good at cooking up multi-part schemes. (Their go-to tactic is bamboozling rival factions to show up at the same place, then benefit from the fallout.)

Phung is generally the face for whatever racket they've got going: he's the most obvious leader (the party is generally "Captain Phung and crew"), and Aish plays him as a capable, charismatic go-getter.

Looking at the character sheet, is Aish playing Phung wrong?

Fuck that. A player cannot play their own character wrong. I reject this notion outright.

What's going on?

+++

Different rulesets try to bridge the gaps between player action, character ability, and abstract math in different ways: eliminating mental attributes; going totally skill-based; etc.

The ruleset that comes closest to "solving" this, for me, is Into The Odd.

Saves are the only kind of test player-characters make, in ITO and its derivatives. This is key.

The ruleset assumes competency on the part of characters; you only go to the dice if you need to figure out stuff that is out of your control.

How badly a straight-up fight goes; whether you can jump aside in time if you've accidentally sprung a trap; whether you can improvise a lie on the fly.

+++

Implicitly, and in practice:

The STR stat in ITO is more accurately toughness---ie: how well you can withstand a physically demanding situation you didn't prepare for.

Ditto DEX, which is an abstraction for how quickly your reflexes trigger.

Same with WIL, which is how well you stay calm under duress.

I can be sharp when I've got time and it is a subject I have experience in. But suddenly ask me to make a speech and I'm toast (low INT).

Some folks have no martial arts training but can hold their own if a brawl breaks out in a bar (high STR).

Captain Phung is a pretty cool operator when he's in control, but tends to seize up when things go off the rails (low WIL).

There's my answer to the conundrum of Captain Phung: he's a genuinely capable guy. He's just not necessarily great under stress. His reach exceeds his grasp, sometimes.

+++

Your ability scores don't represent who your character is. Your ability scores represent who your character is, when under duress.

In other words:

Ability scores are who your character is when they are not in control. Ability scores are your character's reactions.

+++

I do feel slow on the uptake, for only grokking this now.

Chris McDowall probably has a post from the mid 2010s or something where he discusses this aspect design in detail, the clever genius bastard. It is probably internalised play-culture within the ITO-and-descendants community; Emms points out that the current edition of Mothership explicitly talks about stats in this way.

Still!

Am glad to have a regular TTRPG group again, and I have them to thank for my epiphany!

(They are kickass. I ran them through Whirling Mummy a while back and it was a RIOT)

[technically-human]

Do you write longer fics?! Just the tidbit of Charles in the Hell Train has my brain wheels turning. I can extrapolate and guess how some of their story would go, but you have such thought put into them. I would hate for you to be like "aw man they totally got this part of the au wrong!" if someone else tried their hand at it, and I would love to read more (and more art). You seem to do both really well

I write... Occasionally. I'm a bit insecure about it, especially in English. I would really love it if someone wrote about the reverse verse, even if their interpretation was different from mine! It would be a lot of fun to read that. I doubt I could make it entertaining enough, though.

I did write The Lamps Are Going Out which is an AU with Edwin as an evil spirit!

And I'm currently working on a couple of fics. Hopefully I'll actually finish them at some point. Here's a fragment of a fic I titled Possibly, maybe

The thing was, Charles had rejected people before.

Back when he was thirteen and alive, the neighborhood kids started taunting him about one of the girls. Amanda, who lived a few streets away from him, had apparently told someone that she fancied Charles, and the rumors spread until Charles himself heard about it. He had never given Amanda much thought, they often crossed paths while going to church, and that was Charles in his best behavior and therefore the most boring –and bored– version of himself. They had probably talked a total of ten times, half of them being a simple greeting. Charles didn't like her back, and resolved to ignore the rumors.

That worked for all of two weeks before Amanda decided to do something about it. She probably had been, Charles knew even back then, waiting for him to be the one to do something, as was the proper way. He wouldn't, though, and whether it was because she knew it or simply that she wasn't willing to wait, she ended up asking him out.

It had been uncomfortable, Charles could hear the giggles from two other girls who had accompanied Amanda and were waiting just a few steps behind her. He wanted to say no, really, because so far he had only considered girls in an abstract, distant sort of way, and again, Amanda wouldn't have been his first choice. But something like anxiety pooled in his stomach, wiping his sweaty palms against his trousers had helped none, and in the end Charles had blurted out an answer that he only fully registered as positive when Amanda squealed happily, her friends running to hug her and jump in place.

Always impulsive, Charles figured that it shouldn't matter. Dating didn't seem all that hard and, after all, he only ever saw her on Sundays. Of course, Amanda's plans were very different. Suddenly, she was everywhere Charles was at, and she always wanted to hold hands or talk or walk together. She would get her bicycle and follow him when he wanted to practice tricks on his skateboard –he was shit at it, and she certainly didn't seem impressed, demanding he paid attention to her after half an hour most of the time, even though she owned a walkman and could probably keep herself entertained– or expect him to walk her home despite the fact that he had to then turn around and walk back a couple streets to get to his place, which they had passed a few minutes prior.

The other neighborhood kids, who had initially mocked him for having a girl be into him, continued to laugh and whistle and shout stuff whenever Amanda took his hand or leaned against his shoulder or called him a cheesy pet name.

They only dated for three weeks, and she was Charles' first kiss.

One morning, as Charles was trying to recover from a cricket game the night before –they had won, and his team was closer to another useless trophy that he could use to decorate his room. His body was sore, but it was a kind of pain he usually welcomed– his dad barged into the room, demanding he do something useful instead of wasting all day in bed. Charles got up and followed his father to the garage, where it was decided that “something useful” meant helping him repair the car.

It was fun. His dad wasn't the most patient person, and he would very quickly resort to yelling if something wasn't understood on the first try, but Charles paid as much attention as he could, asked very little questions and only got scolded a couple of times throughout the day. By the end of it, the car was working properly and, although his body was aching even more than before, it was still a far more pleasant pain than the one his father tended to leave him with.

As was the case every time Charles successfully interacted with his father, he craved to make the day last. Sitting on the porch, his father drinking an ale, Charles taking a few disgusting sips whenever Paul offered the can to him, he searched his brain for a topic of conversation –one that wouldn't ruin the day, that wouldn't end with his body hurting in a different, perhaps more familiar, way– and ended up talking about Amanda. In all honesty, he couldn't quite recall what words he had actually used. Nothing unkind, he liked to think. He had not fancied Amanda, but she was a pleasant enough girl, if somewhat galling. Whatever came out of his mouth, it didn't make his dad angry, but instead caused him to laugh loudly and push Charles in a way that was meant to be friendly, but caused him to involuntarily tense every muscle in his body.

“Look at our Charlie,” his dad had said, smile huge, proud, and Charles had stared, stunned. “Breaking hearts already!”

Charles had smiled back, elated, proud of himself, feeling big and important and good, and like he was finally getting the hang of it, like soon enough his dad would run out of reasons to be angry at him, and everything would be smooth sailing from then on.

Breaking the heart in question was decidedly less fun than being praised for it. Amanda cried when Charles told her he didn't fancy her anymore. He hadn't felt proud of himself or big or good at all, and she stopped saying hello even when they crossed paths at church, where Charles was in his best, most apologetic behavior. His father never did ask how the breakup went, almost like he forgot that whole conversation. Charles was very careful to reject people properly, kindly, after that.

Edwin was a different story. There had been no neighborhood kids to warn Charles of his feelings, but in over thirty years of friendship, there were some moments in which he wondered. Sometimes, Edwin would look at him for a little too long, or smile a little too sweetly, or treat him a little too kindly, and Charles would wonder. He would then push the feeling aside, save his suspicion for more important things, and tell himself that, even if it was true –and that “if” was really carrying that whole sentence– it wouldn't be anyone's problem until someone went and opened their mouth about it. Charles promised himself he wouldn't be that someone. There was no joy that could come from breaking anyone's heart, let alone Edwin's.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to resent his friend when he decided to confirm what Charles only occasionally dared to suspect, and whatever bit of attention he ever afforded his dad, whatever bit of love he held for the most important person in the world, whatever bit of care he put into not breaking any more hearts, he poured into his answer, and willed it to be enough to stop himself from even cracking this precious thing that was offered to him, and that he only ever strived to protect.

Even with something like anxiety in his stomach, and with sweaty palms that he didn't even try to dry on his trousers, Charles reeled in that part of him that always wanted to make people happy, and rejected the person he loved the most in the world, unwilling to be impulsive about this.

[covetyou]

y2k

moodboard and fic inspo by @psychedelic-ink main masterlist

rating: Teen (this is an 18+ blog) warnings: fluff, Joel and Sarah being domestic and cute af, swearing, Sarah being a little shit. No outbreak. word count: 876 summary: a morning in the Miller Household with our fave resident Girl Dad and his Daughter (who is a little shit affectionately).

A/N: @psychedelic-ink is having a cute lil joel miller birthday bash and i requested a silly y2k moodboard in honour of the occasion. This spawned from my brain before I could stop it. Happy Birthday, JM!

if my boss asks, i've been working super hard for the last hour and not writing this.

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Joel sat at the kitchen counter, nursing his morning coffee. It was a clear day, the heat of summer dwindling now that October was approaching. He relished these quiet moments in the mornings, just him and his world inside that house, safe and sound.

Even after 15 years though, the silence never lasted long. He was glad for it - he dreaded to think how quickly the days of silence would come and how much he would long for the noise.

As expected, footsteps thundered down the stairs.

One day that kid's goin' to bring this fuckin' house down.

"Hey Dad," Sarah says breathlessly as she sidles up to Joel. She's hiding something behind her back, and Joel well knows that look on her face by know. She's been up to something.

"Mornin' kid," he smiles. Whatever she's up to he doesn't care, seeing the best thing he ever did every morning always put a smile on his face. "What you got there?"

"I got something to show you," she bites her lip. "I made it."

Joel's heart wants to burst out of his chest. As a kid, he was always being gifted little drawings and creations - pictures of them in their house, a deranged looking cat with too many legs (a sign from Sarah that she really wanted a pet kitty - he wishes he could've said yes to her, but his allergies would never let it happen), a paper mache lump of something she'd made and painted. He kept it, but he still didn't know what it was. My babies first abstract art he'd joked at the time. It had been years since she'd made anything for him, she was more into playing with friends and sports than arts and crafts with her old man these days.

"Alright then, let's see it," he turns to face his daughter as she pulls her laptop from behind her back. It was a birthday gift this summer, and she was rarely off the damn thing - she said it made homework easier than having to use the family desktop computer, but he still didn't quite believe she didn't just use to to talk to her friends until the early hours of the morning. Still, he could never say no or be mad at her for much of anything for too long.

"And you ain't takin' that to school."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "I'm not. Look."

She points to the screen.

"I was up all night making it for you - Happy Birthday, Dad!"

It's... well. It's something else. Pictures of him (he recognized one as a picture she had taken 5 years ago) and the two of them together, all interspersed with a collection of other images he wasn't familiar with but somehow seemed to match. Joel's stomach dropped with it - if this is what his baby girl was into, maybe she'd changed more as a teen than he thought. Still, she'd made it for him. It was special.

"I... it's..." Joel was getting genuinely choked up. He didn't care what it was. He just loved that she made it for him.

"Don't you love it?" she prods his arm, grinning like a maniac.

"I do." And he did.

"The color pallette is so cute right, and this picture is my favorite." She points to a picture in the middle from a 4th of July last year - Her and Joel had gone to a neighbors house to celebrate. There'd been a bonfire. "I put filters on everything to make it more pink. It really gels it all together, don't you think?"

It was one of his favorites too. Even with... all the pink.

"It is uh, real pink, yeah," Joel says, scratching his neck. "It your new favorite color or somethin'? We need to paint your room again?"

Sarah's face drops. "I - I thought it was your favorite color, Dad." She looks devastated.

Joel is dumbstruck. What does he say. He flounders, stuttering, trying to find the words.

Suddenly, Sarah's face breaks into a shit eating grin big enough to rival Tommy's.

"I'm just fucking with you dad."

Joel's eyes snap to hers, a warning, and amusement, flashing across his face.

She holds her hands up in surrender. "Messing! I'm just messing with you."

"Well, I love it anyway. Even if you are just messin' with me," he kisses her temple and pushes her toward the door. "C'mon, lets get goin' or you're goin' to be late, and so am I."

Sarah rolls her eyes, gathers her school bag and heads for the door with Joel in tow. They both head for his truck, starting their day the same way they always do - together.

Joel stops before he reaches his truck, placing a large hand on the hood and looking over to his daughter. His - how did he get so lucky.

"Hey kid... can you send me that picture when you get home from school?"

Sarah smiles. It was a silly joke, but she's glad he loves it too. "Sure thing, Dad."

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[attyrocious]

uncle brought over my stack of art school era (2013~) artwork plates thats been gathering dust in my old dorm and i kinda wanna share a few. bear with me almost all of these are abstract shit bc you know...fine arts academia. idk

one of the first plates and single-handedly is to blame for my disdain of drawing straight lines: color mixing chart we have to mix poster color paint for each square and i was poor so i only had the primaries

i had a pretty high grade here iirc but anyway this is so fucking pointless what the fuck am i gonna do with this and now i just hate rulers and ruling pens

---

color theory/scheme plate and im here to announce that yes, turning brain off and adding as much detail as possible has been a decade old technique apparently

principles of design plate?

ngl i still like this one bc look at it

the concept of horror vacui has stayed in my brain and tbf my prof liked it bc it looks like i put effort. i did, technically, but like how i draw now, its just therapeutic to not think and just move hands instead

----

printmaking plates! lino-cut prints, to be exact. many stabbings happened in the making of these. i think the way i do inktobers have been mostly derived from these. and lino-cuts print is something ive been wanting to pursue but its such an expensive and space consuming medium and that makes me sad. anyway,

prompt here is reframing fairy tales into Philippine culture/setting. so hansel and gretel in a sari-sari store

i used OCs for the characters here, and the owner of the' taller boy 'hansel' hasn't been my friend for years now but damnit i still love this concept and she's not ruining this for me

prompt for this one is 'morning'. so here's me in my depression college dorm, booting up for the day. rip to my childhood Buttercup doll, i don't know where you are now

----

last im willing to show is this pest-eaten watercolor landscape painting of UP Lagoon.

look, we had to go out into a mosquito-infested area at 3pm (the start of our watercolor techniques class) and paint this before 5:30 (end of class) but in practice its less than an hour time bc the sun was setting and we can't see shit anymore let alone what color that one flower is.

turned out p good still i think

[fea-resources]

Best Unhinged Commentary As RP Starters Pt.1

Preemptively shoot them. Double tap for the fucking idiot who came before you and didn't.

Shoot her anyway. Shoot her for having a crappy hairstyle.

You start doing some freaky shit like the padre, I'm gonna shoot you.

I'm serious. Don't fucking start turning into a Thing. I'll shoot you. This is a small ass house.

Marco...? Better not be a fucking polo around here.

Yeah but they'd taste bitchin' in the few minutes before you died horribly.

Anything else in here that I need, before I go? Besides ANOTHER HEART ATTACK.

THERE BETTER NOT BE ANYTHING ELSE WAITING FOR ME OUT THERE BECAUSE I WILL SHOOT IT IN THE FACE.

That noise was behind me... that noise was behind me, right? ...that wasn't behind me.

Why is there a pile of dead bodies here now? This wasn't here before.

My work place has rat traps so I guess they have vermin problems, and this makes me so happy because if I see one of those fuckers I'ma grab it with my bare hands and wow the whole store. Up my pay grade. I can catch rats myself!

Try anything once. ESPECIALLY once if its toxic.

She's your stalker girlfriend. You will be hers or you will not have the chance to be anything else.

Standing in the bushes. A great strategy. I love bushes.

I know s/he can go straight through doors, I just hope s/he doesn't go straight through THIS fucking door.

Go away, I don't want what you're fucking selling.

HULK WANT OUT. LET HULK OUT.

Its Hulk's weak bitch ass cousin.

You're right, I don't like any noise, because noise means bad stuff.

That fucking laugh though... "nyA HA".

The devil's brew and the devil's lettuce. How many other things does the devil have?

Gotta face your fears. Face them like a man. A big, burly man. A bara, even.

Best friends kill each other before the apocalypse.

That's not heavy breathing -- its purring.

MY SON ISN'T LIKE THAT. MY SON JUST WANTS AFFECTION.

I love the additions of the flies, but the lack of maggots and decay is upsetting.

She's just mad cuz her tanning bed turned her into jerky.

Ghouls in a box, much like kittens in a box, but now with fifty percent more mauling.

What, is fifty percent mauling not good enough for you? Is this year's model not violent enough? GOD, not everyone can keep up with your strict mauling standards.

Oh come on, my mauling standards aren't that high. I just assumed this wasn't the world of Hello Kitty or MLP.

How safe is the safe house, really?

S/he wants you to stay that bad. S/he's such a sweetheart. Clingy and murderous, but a sweetheart.

Hey look, its the slow mo brain juice again.

Its just a bullet to the brain, mate. Ain't that bad. I've taken a few of those.

Excuse you. That is called abstract art. And it is gorgeous.

Its the sound of forgiveness. Screaming and then silence.

Sitting here making noise on the sidelines with the desperate hope it gets you caught somehow.

Children are omens of death. Do not follow the pitter patter of feet.

I swear to god nothing better crawl out after me. I will throw my ______ and then regret it.

You think a door will save you? You're a stupid bitch.

And you are 100% faking death good sir.

I wanna lick every single window in this place. I'm not sure why, but I just want to.

Sabotage kitty.

Its me in the mornings, and the knife is reality.

He's 50 shades of dead.

Uh I don't wanna go in the church because... stuff happens in the church.

Nothing over here except that dude having a grand old time, just... slamming his fists into that body. You know.

I'm okay. I'm gonna be fiiine. Who am I kidding? I'm gonna get fucked. Hard. In a very unpleasant way.

RUN RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN. YOU CAN'T CATCH ME, I'M THE ZOMBIE CRONCH MAN.

That's right, I don't have the hand axe anymore cuz I used it while I was in church, damn it.

Damn, you had a bad time. You lost your leg-- yeah, there's the leg.

Why do you eat so many bullets?

S/HE. FUCKING. ATE. BULLETS.

This house is aesthetic. That couch however... is not.

YEA BO- wait. What the fuck is this?

*Gets out the hose. Pressure washes _______ with holy water*

THAT'S NOT HOLY WATER. THERE'S NOTHING HOLY ABOUT IT, EXCEPT THAT IT FILLS ME WITH HOLES.

Dead raccoons smell a lot like melting brussel sprouts. Pro tip.

I genuinely forgot how to spell his name, and just don't care at this point.

Sell shit, be rich for about 5 seconds, then be poor.

Sky pervert you say?

Oh there you are. I tried to summon you like beatle juice but it didn't work.

Well you should'a said that chant over a dead possum. Then I would'a heard you.

Confession. I'm still hella weak for bunny tatas.

Ah, so polite. You're also like. My well of never-ending potions.

Every city looks pretty at night. They look better on FIRE at NIGHT.

Never mind. He looked better through the blurry window.

I don't know if this is weird but, does catnip... smell like tea? Cuz I think it kinda smells like tea.

I missed my chance to be Cool and say 'I've never snorted catnip'. I disappoint myself.

Dang you only had 8 dollars? You're a poor ass soldier, what the fuck.

I guess I WILL just... sound the alarm.

THE SHEEP LOOK LIKE MUPPETS, WHAT THE FUCK. THEY'RE SO CUTE.

I hate being blinded too... I say as I never wear glasses I need to wear.

*to the tune of shots* BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS

ANGERY BUNNY BUTT.

I WOULD EAT IT. BET IT TASTES LIKE CYANIDE AND HEARTBURN.

I hate those boots. I wish you'd just put on actual pants.

That dysfunctional wardrobe is the final boss.

Jar jar binks got big. Stronk stronk bigs.

Let _______ have the tittie of bitch.

My fingers are dyslexic, pass it on. Calling you stupid bone sausages out.

Angels don't talk about Eiffel tower dick.

Yeah, I ditched him. I don't even care if he's asleep. I ditched him.

All those burnt corpses look like bacon to me. Crispy dragon-charred bacon.

you're a COWARD. GO TO THE TOP. EMBRACE THE JUMP.

_______ looks like a hobbit, not gonna lie.

I told you your little child bearing bones would catch you! They're springy and resilient!

Congrdeurtions.

The deer pelt is surprisingly sterile. Its the most sterile thing in this fucking place.

My dream is to be able to spell astetic... asthmatic... antsthetic... antstatic... aunt stacy? You know what I mean.

I wanna lick the sugar candy in the sky.

Wait, I missed the corpse. We have to go back for the corpse. Leave NO man behind.

SOS jerky.

Adopt a child. It's time.

I was named after a slutty country singer. And a car.

Back in my day, we used beds and called it woohoo. Just like the Sims. That’s where all my Sex Ed comes from.

Back in my day, we walked 4 miles with ONE FUCKIN' SHOE, and we shared between 5 of us, through the snow, because I ate the other shoe.

And I’M the one that needs to pray?

Why did you come back to the kink dungeon?

Lucifer is still pretty hot, I hear.

NO. PLEASE. I'LL BE GOOD. I'LL CALL YOU MASTER AND WEAR A SHOCK COLLAR AND EVERYTHING.

Nah, I'm thinking of something ten times as traumatizing.

No fire. Only suffering. Face the dark and cold like a dragon.

Fucking capitalism.

Your kindling looks like dog turds, and I know my dog turds.

_____ WAS STRANGLING A RAT. I HEARD ITS LIL ANGRY RAT SOUNDS.

I'd imagine bodies that sit at 98 degrees F while doing nothing get pretty hot when pressed together and doing activities that raise your blood pressure. That's like a 400 degree sauna right there if my math is right. Pretty toasty. ....that makes me wanna never do anything cause that's HOT.

Good. Sex is bad - its how babies are made and we don't want none of that.

Condoms are a thing, but so are holes and accidents. Why do you think I'm here?

Pornhub is good to us... on what not to do. That’s where I found that shrek video, and Spongeknob Squarenuts.

Wood - the original forbidden fruit.

This is the least sexy sex dungeon, let’s be real here. No mood lighting, cold, no R&B music. Where’s the pizzazz?

Maybe they played music on the bones?

Do NOT. I have nightmares about that.

I can no longer look at a naked anatomical skeleton in all casual and comfort anymore.

I am very uncomfortable with naked skeletons.

______'s hair is Cheeto colored which is honestly such a look. You rub your hand through his hair, your fingers come back stained with neon orange dust. Cheeto dandruff.

Who's playing the meat sticks again? I heard the meaty slaps. I still hear them.

Alright. Go gather your quotes you quote whore.

FAKE. YOU'RE A FAKE. YOU'RE A FAKE ________ FAKE AS FUCKING SHIT.

Oh. I thought you were talking to me when you said fake and I was like "someone noticed".

There you go; _____ knows the lyrics. _____ knows nothing.

I mean... hi... leggy up... same diff. Greeting you with my leggy.

You know minus the fire, this is a very nice house.

I don't know about you but the fire is aesthetic. I think its an improvement.

Uh, holy shit, violent much?

See by this point I would'a been like "fuck that I ain't gettin' in that bathtub again."

I hope I can kill you. You already look like someone I wanna kill.

This is where shit goes to shit.

You know it is really unfair you are able to appear and throw that that well and hit me because the universe fucking hates me-- OH GOD.

NO. We don't HAVE to check it out.

Rename him Kibbles n Bits.

Calm your bullet boner.

There goes the neighborhood. Now it really is Silent Hill.

I'm not used to having the camera that close to my ass.

You know, this is a lot less screaming than I anticipated. Still good though. Still satisfying.

Be The Squirrel. A very big squirrel. And very destructive like a squirrel.

You totally want to go down the creepy hallway, don’t lie.

Seriously, what was with all the monkey comments in Twilight?

I took out mine quicker. Did you see how I swung the shIT out of him and he ragdolled?

Squirrel game not strong enough.

I’m sexually attracted to a library. *finger guns*

He just… spread his ass cheeks wide open for that death.

I don’t plan hiding places, I plot environmental hazard spots. Catch me taking random and increasingly dangerous routes.

To be fair, I dented the pole with my face. So it was a tie.

Flirting, _____ style: Light them on fire. Man that’s actually kind of a weird thing to say when you remember how many things and people ______ has lit on fire.

I assumed he would come back on Wednesday because he’d be out of weed. He’s always out of weed on this day. Weedless Wednesdays.

I may just suck at sucking.

Give me the cat nip.

Make sure you inhale with your stomach – inhale the maximum amount of glow.

Your fucking shit is mine.

COTTAGE CHEESE COMES FROM SWISS CHEESED DICKS. EVERYTHING I KNOW IS A LIE.

Today on "____ Ruins Everything".

Look at that goddamn library. I’d put my cottage cheese all over that thing.

HQ to ________. You’re breaking up. Over.

I’m sorry I keep breaking up with you guys, I just feel like our relationship isn’t going to advance any further.

I’LL PISS IN THE BENDY PART OF THEIR KNEE.

Bullet buffet.

If it fits I fuckings falls ins.

Its because I said Tits Save Lives, isn't it?

The feeling when you hear the word smoker and think of meat smoker first despite hanging with stoners…

Spider Pirahnas. Spirahnas.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SON? YOU PUT YOUR HEAD BACK ON RIGHT NOW YOUNG MAN.

WUT UP MY DITCH COUSINS?

I ain't even high right now.

HI, I HEARD THERE WAS FIRE.

________ confirmed for arsonist.

He didn't see you. He smelled you.

I still don't get how he does all this shit with them tight ass pants.

RIP his balls. RIP his life too. ________ is the real one stripping balls.

Sasuke Uchiha'd his ass to the future.

He scream at own ass.

No, that guy took it to the knee. His third knee.

I GUESS it counts as a bone.

Walked crooked for a month. Got roasted with anal jokes.

When life throws grenades, pick them up and throw them back. I DON'T WANT YOUR GOD DAMN GRENADES.

He found the mummified corpse of an old man holding his dick in his last fap session in his tomb.

Those aren't swords, those are Mammoth Cleavers.

...I'm not making those noises.

I'm a rat murderer and taker of treasure.

God damn it, you were supposed to be a magic charm to make these rare game come out and instead you hurt its feelings!

Let's not bring up our Lord and Savior the Helix fossil.

Don't make those noises. Makes me think of dirty things.

[688199]

as a chinese person myself, something about the way sabine is portrayed kinda icks me abit. it’s all little little details so like, i’m just complaining my ass off

sabine’s cheongsam is right over left, which is not, it’s not accurate at all. it’s traditionally “右衽” (youren, left over right method), because “生右死左”, right represents life, while left represents death (related to how 阴yin阳yang is left and right). its a bit confusing, but basically sabine is dressing like how a corpse would.

okay sure, you could argue that it’s not a hanfu, and that “the traditional way doesn’t apply anymore”, but the concept still applies. to cheongsams. and isn’t sabine said to be very well connected to her chinese roots? like she should know this.

plus i could go into how ugly the cheongsam is and how it looks like cloth cut from an abstract art museum poster which is low key insulting to the embroidery art of chinese traditional outfits but 🤷‍♂️

okay then her as qilin. i don’t really know if it was intentional or if they just randomly pulled a chinese mythical creature that sounded cool, but they really butchered the representation of it nonetheless.

麒麟 qilin symbolises fortune and prosperity, and is super prominent in feng shui, so the choice of her villain design being the qilin makes little sense. what would make sense for her to be, is the 獬豸xiezhi, a goat looking creature which is a symbol of justice, known for piercing corrupt officials with its horn. this fits into the context of the episode, right? with the two mfs abusing their power and all.

in the wiki, it’s said that the outfit is of chinese armour. but how? what? this is what chinese armour looks like. i see some attempt? i guess? but this is not really important.

what’s more important is that why is her power wind????? when the qilin is commonly depicted with their bodies on fire with fire breathing abilities??? huh????? did astruc and the writers even did research into the designs?

ik the qilin is more popular but one google search would lead you to discover more chinese mythical creatures that fit her villain motive better. and the qilin is not one of them.

lastly, i feel like sabine’s entire character just screams: “hey look i’m chinese, being chinese is my only trait other than being the world’s most un-asian mom ever.”

yea she appears chinese, but she doesn’t *feel* chinese if you know what i mean. the stuff she does feels like surface level stereotypes about chinese people. turning red does it better, and that movie is mid.

there’s more to chinese culture than the obsession with feng shui, wearing cheongsams every day, eating dim sums, doing tai chi and other shit. and i agree that these are pretty prominent but… the way it’s portrayed makes it too clear that her actions are not written by a chinese person.

and her name. ik i’m whiny as hell but i don’t think any chinese person would give their child such a (lame) name. usually chinese people take much pride in their names, which are mostly related to values and traits. for example my own name is 懿捷, which means excellency and triumph. sabine’s name is 夏冰, meaning summer and ice. huh? if you’re a westerner and gave yourself this name, fine , it’s cool. but you’re telling me a china chinese person gave their child such a name? bullshit.

i could go on with how other asian rep sucks and feels like astruc’s obsession with asian shit

[huesofvioletandpurple]

A few days ago, the DRDT channel made public a “character song” playlist with sixteen songs inside (link). Naturally, considering this means that every character has a theme song of their own, I became Fucking Obsessed and tried matching each song to every character

Out of sixteen, I have exactly Four I am completely and absolutely confident in. That’s like, (checks notes), a quarter of the songs. I wish four was as neat of a number as three but unfortunately I do not get a choice in that regard. This would’ve been a quick post on which song I think matches with who + why but these guys made me recite an essay to myself as I paced around the room. So they deserve their own post <3.

Featuring: screenshots, hidden quotes (link) (required reading), and a shit ton of brainrot. explanations are below cut. tl;dr:

Rose is Cartoons

Charles is Asymptotic

Nico is Drawing Pins

Teruko is Good Grief

=

Rose Lacroix is Cartoons

[plain text: Rose Lacroix is Cartoons]

Track #4 is Cartoons by Louie Zong, and I have decided this is Rose’s track too. This is one many, many others have suspected as well. Starting it off with this first because it’s the simplest to explain: Rose is an artist, the lyrics are about art; or, at the very least, uses animation and drawing as metaphors.

Abstractions how I live my day to day, [...] Hard to explain, And to express, Forever just a work-in-progress.

The song in general uses drawing to explain feeling burnt out/not passionate about. Well. Your passions. Rose states herself that her work can only give her catharsis, considering none of it technically “hers” anymore.

[ID: Two screenshots of  Rose from chapter 2 episode 5. She is in the dressing room talking to Teruko, and has her hand on her neck as she looks downwards. Transcript: All I do is make paintings on other’s beck-and-call. It’s been so long that I don’t think I remember how to paint something original anymore. / There’s no value in the creations of someone who’s fallen so far from artistry. The only thing I can get out of art is catharsis. End ID]

Which is even more tragic, considering how she had huge ambitions as a child

[ID: One screenshot from the same episode. Rose now rests her chin in her fist. Transcript: I wanted to be a great painter when I was a kid, but things didn’t turn out that way. None of my original stuff ever sold well. End ID] 

There’s also these lyrics here

Can't hold a pencil or a thought. (Oh uh oh) Can't paint myself something I'm not.

Tryin' to make that ol' deadline, But all I've got are two dots and a line.

Rose knows she’s talented; in fact, I’d argue she’s one of the most secure about her talent than anyone in the class. She understands how useful it is in the killing game when paired with her photographic memory. In chapter 2, however, she hesitates, despite knowing this more than anyone.

[ID: Three screenshots of Rose from chapter 2 episode 8. She is sitting against a wall, knees drawn to her chest as she buries her face in her arms. Transcript of her dialogue: I don’t want to find out what kind of corpse Arei left. It’s easier for me to pretend nothing bad happened and forget about everything tomorrow. / That’s why I’m sitting here, wallowing in my own guilt, unable to do anything helpful. / You probably need me to draw a picture of a crime scene, like last time. That’s something only I can do that can help everyone. End ID]

She doesn’t want to use her talent that way—she can’t “paint herself something she’s not”, and she would “make the deadline”, but she can’t just will herself to simply Do Something when it’s draining and linked to her trauma from the previous case—and she’s more self conscious of it than anyone, that she only has “two dots and a line” —an upset face.

There’s also her hidden quote from the inspect elements of her character page: “In the end, all I can do is watch my wretched life go on.” I think it fits with the general theme of being incredibly discouraged and burnt out. “Forever a work in progress” indeed.

=

Charles Cuevas is Asymptotic

[pt: Charles Cuevas is Asymptotic]

I’ve chosen Asymptotic by (once more,) Louie Zong as Charles’ song. I could say it’s because of the mathsy theming and Charles is literally a fuckging chemist and leave it at that—I almost chose this as Min’s song because of how groovy and nerdy (affectionate) it was. I’m sorry to say it’s because of angst.

We’re aymptotic, Divided, by the smallest, slimmest line

Hey, so you know how Charles has an older brother ?

And you know how he didn’t know this until one of the motives told him ? So now there’s a good chance he won’t remember him fully for a long, long time ?

[you’re] Not imaginary. But it's complex! The limits are infinitely great

Charles now knows of this family member he has no recollection of. He most likely existed at some point—every other secret, though written to show the worst of the cast, are based on some sort of truth. I have a pet theory that his phobia of blood is connected to his brother, considering amnesia of a traumatic event is a common occurrence, and he doesn’t recall the origin of his haemophobia either, which opens up the possibility of them being linked. As long as he has this amnesia, any memory of his brother will always be far from his grasp.

As close as we could ever get, you'll be just out of reach

His hidden quote is about how it’s better to just forget; that means those events weren’t worth keeping.

if you forgot it, then it probably wasn’t important to begin with. none of those memories should ever be kept anyway.

In the context of the creator looking at the lyrics of the song and going “omg that’s blorbo from my brain”, the song refers to him as believing that he and his brother are asymptotes—lines that greatly resemble each other that will never reach, existing in different planes altogether.

=

Nico Hakobyan is Drawing Pins

[pt: Nico Hakobyan is Drawing Pins]

So.

Drawing Pins by Nothing but Thieves ! This song in particular fucking Stumped me. The lyrics are good, they slap, the Creator has fantastic taste in music; I just couldn’t figure out who the Hell it could be. Then, I had an epiphany.

This epiphany, by the way, is also probably one of my BIGGEST reaches. It completely redefines the song—even MORESO than how I treated asymptotic—and focuses hard on One aspect of Nico’s character.

(In my defense, it’s a really huge part.)

I don't feel like I belong Here at all

Tell me what you did it What you did it What you did it for 'Cause I can't figure it out

What do I have to do To be loved, loved by you

These are the lyrics in particular that made me go “wait a god damn Second”.

Firstly, not feeling like they belong.

[ID: Two screenshots of Nico from chapter 2 episode 6. They hold their arm and look nervously to the side in the first screenshot, then bury their face in the collar of their shirt in the next. Transcript: I thought you would laugh at me. I was worried you would pick up rocks and start throwing them at me or pick up clumps of mud and start throwing them at me. / I’m sorry, this never happens! Usually people call me abnormal or say that I’m just trying to be special, in a derogatory way. End ID]

Nico has been a frequent victim of bullying. Even though their current classmates are accepting, that just made them wary that something was off, because their past experiences stuck with them ! I feel like it should go unsaid that that, already on its own, is pretty fucking isolating !

[ID: a screenshot from the same episode. Nico is in the same pose. They say “And then they leave me out of everything and never talk to me again because there’s something wrong with me.” End ID]

So, self-explanatory line in the context of Nico. Cool. Cool. What am I seeing in the other lyrics, though ?

Tell me what you did it What you did it What you did it for 'Cause I can't figure it out

Okay, so. You know Nico’s hidden quote ? It’s “why should I own up for the mistakes someone else made?”, if you’re wondering.

There’s another reason they don’t feel like they belong.

There’s this running thread of Nico misunderstanding social cues, causing conflict and being scorned for it, but never being explained why those social cues exist, leading to them confused on why something so arbitrary is held to such importance. This causes this cycle that they’re just expected to escape, yet not being given the understanding or tools to do.

[ID: Three screenshots of Nico from the same episode. Nico looks down at their hands, then scratches their chin, then buries the bottom half of their face in their shirt. Transcript: If you’re having dinner and want someone to pass the salt, you can say, “Please pass the salt,”  or you can say “Give me the salt.” / One of those things is supposed to be more polite than the other, right? But why? They both meant the same thing. They’re just slightly different mixes of words. / It’s like that. I don’t understand why some mixes of words come off as ‘rude’ and some don’t, even if they mean tthe same thing. End ID]

I suspect the hidden quote is of Nico snapping, of not caring about being polite or nice anymore. They are already honest, which escalated their animosity with Ace, but this time they’re not caving if someone tells them that they’re being “too blunt” about it.

What do I have to do To be loved, loved by you

But it was never on purpose. They are not “blunt” or “brutally honest” to Ace or David whoever because they want to build that kind of reputation. I think these lyrics are suggesting a culmination of their arc, “What can I do to be loved ? Why should I apologise in place of the person who did hurt you ? Why am I constantly apologising for my existence ?

How do I win over people like you?”

I am fully aware that I may be reaching, but if you see the song as a representation of Nico’s rage and resentment that they had to “hold down by drawing pins”, you can at the very least see where I’m coming from.

=

Teruko is Good Grief

[pt: Teruko Tawaki is Good Grief]

Good Grief by Bastille, aka the last song on the playlist !

I’ve seen people say it’s a Whit song, or a Charles song, and I see it ! Death is very important in both of their arcs, and so is their way of mourning. However, I feel like it couldn’t be anyone but Teruko, and I also feel like there’s a very important part of her that people often forget.

[ID: Two screenshots from the episode 1 of the first chapter. They are lines of Teruko’s inner monologue. Transcript: His name, her face, it’s just barely out of reach. I claw and grasp through the dusty haze of my memories. / Choking on my nostalgia, I keep begging for you to come back. End ID]

[ID: A screenshot from chapter 1 episode 9 of Mai Akasaki turning around and smiling at the viewer. End ID]

Teruko mourns.

At the very least, she tries. She misses people. She grieves. That is what drives her distrust—she knows how much love hurts, and doesn’t want to feel that way.

[ID: A screenshot from chapter 2 episode 3. Teruko playing with succulents in her room as if they are dolls. One succulent has an eyepatch and knife, and the other has a knife and a sticky note, with a cowlick resembling Teruko’s. End ID]

Even in this silly moment of Teruko playing with cacti—it shows she didn’t WANT Xander to die ! She misses him. She wishes it could’ve gone better and blames herself for trusting—and notice how Xander in this scenario stands by her side.

Every minute and every hour I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more

She “chokes on her nostalgia” when she thinks of two unnamed people, “begging them to come back”. Will she ever admit it? Fuck no are you kidding me she couldn’t be emotionally vulnerable to save her Life. But Teruko constantly loses and is never given time or space to mourn (That is what I meant when I said she tries), and it’s led her to bottling and hiding them to further isolate herself, to prevent her from losing the ones she loves again.

In my thoughts you're far away And you are whistling the melody, Whistling the melody Crystallising clear as day Oh I can picture you so easily, Picture you so easily

Again, the two people are “far away”, she’s half forgotten after all. But Mai Akasaki’s image is as clear as day. Her memories are one of the only traces of Mai we have at all.

I could repeat myself over and over with pretty much every lyric of this song in particular, so I suggest seeking it out and listening to it yourself. I cannot stress enough how much this song SCREAMS Teruko to me

=

Overall, I’m fully ready to be wrong. I do not have a great track record when predicting story arcs. However, I have thought about this for a very intense bit of time, so this is to work as a way to get my thoughts out there.

I have a few hunches, like Shun-Ran for David or Jotaro’s theme for Xander, but both are just hunches, and neither are as strong as the four above.

Anyways, have a great day ! holy shit this is over 1.7K words excluding the image descriptions.

[19thperson]

19th's Next Fest Impressions - Day 7

Day 0/Day 1/ Day 2/Day 3/Day 4/Day 5/Day 6

Last day, and only day where I had zero other obligations. Lets go out with a bang.

Keylocker

In a grim cyberpunk future where music is banned, you're music. Therefore, you're banned

I wanted to like this game, but aside from the writing not landing with me, there was a key mechanical problem constantly getting in the way.

The game has a timed hits and timed defense system that's punishingly strict, and enemy damage is tuned under the assumption that you'll be getting at least partial dodges consistently. Which I wasn't. It was worse on the first try when I unknowingly chose a class that could only damage on counter.

This isn't usually a problem for me... until I realized a 2nd problem. One that's probably just restricted to the prologue since it's about escaping the anti-music jail

There's no music. Nothing to mentally time beats and inputs to.

I got frustrated and ended it early.

Tenebris Somnia

Horror game whose main claim of interest is that it's mixing retro pixel art with high definition live action footage. In demo this was presented by solving a series of puzzles, then it cut to live action to show the monster that appeared, then you run away from the monster. There is something interesting going on beneath this. It seems to be setting up a story specifically about film. You are playing as a girl who is checking up on her shitty ex, because she's had nonstop nightmares of him being killed by The Creatures and she needs to reality check herself.

Both you and the ex are severe film buffs, both worked together on a short film. When you arrive to his apartment, it is beaten to shit, broken film trophies, his film reels in the oven burning, the poster for his short film "Devourer" shattered. While it's not stated, I'm guessing that the monster that attacks us is from said film.

Shitty ex seems to have turned to the occult both due to dissatisfaction with how his film career is going and out of being torn up about you leaving.

There's roads for this to go some really interesting places. There's also roads for this to go pretentious places. But I still wanna see.

Simulacro

Greek art student goes out to a mysterious island recently uncovered by a massive lake's water level going down due to climate change. She's here to paint the nature. While there she discovers artifacts talking about "The true nature of reality," and at one point is overtaken by inspiration to draw the ruins she imagines would have been there in its heyday. The ruins then appear in real life.

There's a core problem with this game that feels really unfair to say considering it's a small Brazilian team's first game. It's a painting/photography game, and the main character is constantly talking about how beautiful her surroundings are. But they're writing a check that their rendering ability and art direction can't cash. I would accept the island looks kinda off if the game wasn't constantly trying to convince me otherwise. The two types of puzzles the game has in the demo are painting puzzles, find an angle where you get certain targets all in one frame, and artifact puzzles, arrange these broken pieces so that they're one again. The former is more interesting than the latter, but the system to recognize if something is "in the shot" is kinda finicky. The trailer shows more types so hopefully there's more variation in the final release. Most interesting thing about this game thematically is that it takes place in the 2080, and climate change has gotten bad bad bad. The game is selling itself as being a philosophical exploration, and ideally it seems like it's trying the difficult maneuver of "What's the point to these abstract questions when everything is dying?"

Boyscout - Patrick's Town

Your name is Patricio and not Patrick and you are a kid who likes helping people in your town. In the demo your day is spent getting ingredients and then delivering an apple pie to your grandma for her birthday. Then in the middle of the night a UFO crashes near the town. The pixel art ranges from competent to fantastic depending on the mode (although I do not like the artist's propensity for Usopp lips.) Music is really good. Aside from the combination of aliens and idyllic towns, this is where the homier mother influence feels really noticeable. Although that specific style is not really reflected in the trailer... Writing is… they need a 2nd pass on the translation. Sentences missing a lot of punctuation, an apple pie also being referred to as an apple cake interchangeably, awkward wording throughout. It's thankfully a text lite game, not as detrimental as a visual novel or RPG with the same problems, but still a very visible roadblock.

SoulQuest

2D DMC. 2DMC.

I will say this: they've gotten the combo game down. Chaining shit together feels good. If that was the only metric this was being judged by, the game would be exceeding all expectations.

but there are a few problems:

1) It is not just combat. There is platforming. Platforming where the hitbox of the platform seem slightly thinner than the sprite. And there's no coyote time. The game also likes to place spikes underneath you in these sections.

Did I mention checkpointing is frugal?

I'm not mad.

2) Unless I'm crazy/misreading things, your dodge roll doesn't have I-frames on startup, just during the middle of the roll. IT feels like I'm getting hit by things I shouldn't be hit by.

I'm not mad.

3) Say you got overconfident and chose hard mode, and want to change the difficulty:

turns out each difficulty is on a separate progression track so if you got to stage 3 and then decided "I've trapped myself in a bad situation" well guess what you gotta redo stages 1 and 2 again on normal to try stage 3 on normal.

I'm not mad.

Sky Oceans: Wings for Hire

I've heard people describe this as a successor to Skies of Arcadia. I've never played that so I can't really comment on how accurate that is Plot and tone wise its a typical JRPG. You start at an Idyllic home town that might as well be a stack of firewood prepped and ready to burn. You and your friends complete your coming of age ceremony to become Pilots. Oh no here comes The Empire Alliance burning everything to the ground because your dead dad and live mom know about the void century lost history. Try to escape but mom sacrifices self to save you. There doesn't seem to be any on foot combat, all air. While there's an interesting "advantage" system I was expecting more about positioning to be there, who is on whose tail. still, early JRPG battle systems are always kinda thin, so it'll probably get more complex later. Presentation wise, I kinda wish the models emoted a bit more instead of relying solely on the character portraits. The eyes and mouths are flat textures on the face so they could theoretically be swapped out contextually. Overall if you are JRPGpilled, this'll be to your taste, and if you aren't then this won't change your mind.

Boyhood's End

A very very very loose adaptation of Night on the Galactic Railroad, from the devs behind Needy Streamer Overdose.

In a scifi future where humanity is overseen by a massive AI program spanning the galaxy, ranking all humans and directing all activity, Giovanni Stylus is the lowest ranked, namely due to his father, who once attempted a hack said galaxy spanning AI system. He attempts to support his comatose mother by doing petty hacking jobs, such as hacking into security cameras to confirm infidelity. All while being bullied the shit out of.

When his health insurance is pulled, he takes a desperate job to infiltrate said AI system and shit goes wrong. But he is saved by Campanella, who may or may not have been the one who set the job in the first place. Now they are on the run.

Pixel art is very impressive, at least when it's on close up portraits. Also has a really nice fake PC interface for menus, alongside reading fake websites and chatlogs.

The hacking system was very simple "find password" that's basically just following story prompts, but I can see it having fun uses later.

It's now on my wishlist.

Heart of the Machine

Going from fighting the overlord AI to being the overlord AI. I am very bad at being the overlord AI.

I half remembered the trailer and thought this was going to be mostly branching story events and stat balancing. When I got to managing and customizing units I knew I was in unfamiliar territory.

There is something interesting in this basically being a stealth 4x, with a major factor being "how aware is the world of your machinations" and individual units having different security clearances and the like. But I couldn't figure out how to effectively utilize any of that before I felt like my time was spent going other demos. I've heard good things so I assume that 4x heads will like this.

The Operator

You play as an Operator in the not-FBI, who gives assistance to on-site agents from your computer. It's another fake-computer-terminal database mystery game, involving going through files and finding relevant information. Also aliens may or may not be involved.

Two major things of note so far:

1) Every one of these games handles their database a different way, trying to do some means of keeping the sprawl of info digestable. This one does so by just having a handful of files related to the case immediately sent to you, with the only outside help being a persons database and a car database to cross-check details, at least so far. Torn on this. On one hand it keeps things incredibly intuitive, on the other hand "pruning through fluff" feels like it should be part of the challenge.

2) Game is very intuitive on how to put in "answers" though. You're given a question and then once you figure something out you turn on answer mode and click the relevant text or image on the screen. No messing with a prompter or choosing a whole file or whatever.

Dungeons of Hinterberg

Modern fantasy setting where monster slaying and dungeoneering has become touristy sport, like mountaineering or skiing. You play as someone who is aiming to clear all 25 of the tourist town Hinterberg's dungeons.

Gameplay is split between previously mentioned dungeoneering, exploring areas and fighting monsters, and persona-ish town stuff, buying gear and making social links.

They are genuinely skilled at beautiful dungeon design. The one in the demo was a tribute to mario galaxy with a lot of circular land masses you run around. The actual hitting things… needs more impact. It does have bayonetta timeslow on perfect dodge though.

Only got one day of town stuff so I can't really pass too much judgement there.

I am worried about "how do you squeeze pathos out of this concept if all risk has been essentially gentrified in-setting" but there is a stinger at the end of "something is rotten in hinterberg"

Has promise but not top of the list.

[abstractgirlobject]

It's ironic, isn't it? The fact we're so close yet we can't feel each other. Our bodies intersect to the point where we literally can't feel the line between where I end and she begins. There are many many people who would want to feel what we feel with their partner. In a Steven universe fusion type sense. But it's also torture. Because I can't see her face except in a mirror. I can't run my nails along her back without turning my hand on my own. I can't kiss her. I can't give her a hickey. I can't hold her head in my hands in front of me. I can't feel her mount me. She can't pick me up. I can't dance with her. I can't hold her hand and go to a party and gawk at her the whole time and yell out "That's my fucking girlfriend!" I can't yearn for her when she's not here because she's always here. I can't be confused as to what she means because meaning is perfectly communicated between us. I can't have horny thoughts about her without her also knowing them. I can't sit in her lap and croon over her for hours while the people around us tell us we look cute together. When we make love it looks no different from masturbating. Her body can't ever be separated from mine. This fucking sucks

I think in a sense this proves that love is best suited for imperfection. Total congruence leads to frustration. Human instrumentality is not a good idea because it would eliminate all the little imperfections and lines between us that make life meaningful. I don't want to be a part of her I want to be separate from her, but together in the far more abstract sense. There's a reason in those movies where two people get handcuffed together, they remove the handcuffs at the end. But I mean. What can we do? I guess just wait for some technology to allow us to possess our own bodies.

I never took you for an Evangelion fan. Doesn't it kinda, steal symbolism and shit from your religion?

It's art.

Fair enough

[bones-edition]

Storytime! I love my new job but the hallways are a fucking nightmare.

So I recently started working at a fancy rich person retirement home. I work in the dining room, so it's mostly just bussing tables and making iced tea and shit. But it's also my job sometimes to go deliver meals to the residents rooms when they can't make it to the dining hall on their own.

So one day, a coworker and I have to go deliver one of these meals. There's like three different buildings, that are connected some places but not others. For example there could be a connecter between two buildings on the third floor but not in the same place on the second floor.

To make matters worse, all the hallways look the same. You can tell which building you're in, generally, by the decor. One has beige hallways with vaguely red accents, one has beige hallways with vaguely blue accents, and one has beige hallways with vaguely purple accents. Beyond that, there's no way to tell which part of the building you're in. There's signs, but the signs are the most confusing thing ever. Because the arrows on them only have four different options for directions to point, when something is a different way, rather than using a slightly incorrect arrow, it's just not on the sign.

So, we're trying to find the room number for this meal. We're in the farthest building from the dining room where we work. It's my third day on the job. I'd never done this before. My coworker, who's supposed to be training me, has only done delivery twice before, and never on her own. She seems to be reasonably confident. We get three out of the four meals delivered. She explains to me that this building is basically a square. There's four hallways, A, B, C, and D, and if you walk around long enough, you'll eventually go in a circle. Easy enough.

The room were looking for is E three hundred something. As it turns out, E is a new wing of the building. That my coworker has never been to.

That's okay. I remember being told that you can get to any of the hallways through the third floor. We go to the third floor. Wander around for a while. There is no sign of any hallway marked "E". I have no idea where we're going, she has no idea where we're going. The hallways are dead silent. Most of the residents are at the dining room or in their rooms, and we encounter nobody in these halls.

Now you know how I mentioned the decor being color coded earlier? We're in the building that has purple decor. The two of us wander through dozens of beige hallways with beige hallways and beige carpets and vaguely purple modernish decor. It's the same abstract art piece on every wall. Every door looks the same. We wander through at least three intersections that have the exact same shelf with the exact same objects in the exact same positions.

We are utterly lost at this point. How did we end up in hallway C? How did we go from the third to the second floor without taking an elevator or stairs? Why is there no sign of hallway E? How long are we going to try to navigate this purple and beige hellscape? At this point, I would not have been surprised to encounter a woman with shifting spiral eyes and too-long fingers and a laugh that sounds like a headache. The anxiety is strong. Had I been alone, I would have given in to the fear.

Eventually, we end up on the first floor, and emerge into a lobby. There's a receptionist, at a desk. She ponts us toward hallway E. It turns out, you can only reach it through the first floor. The relief that washes over both of us is tangible. We deliver the meal, most likely lukewarm by now, and my coworker looks at her watch and curses, saying that the manager will have her head for taking nearly forty five minutes to deliver a meal. It seems that for now, the problem is resolved.

Still though, I feel a twinge of fear now whenever I walk that endless beige and purple labyrinth, and just sometimes I think I can hear the echoes of a laugh in the distant halls.

TLDR: I'm like ninety percent sure the hallways of this retirement home are a spiral domain and I have no idea how old people manage to navigate them without getting lost.