#sandbox scribblings

[twisting-roads]

bye bye shanghai I've become a butterfly ,born again overnight

[hanasnx]

❝ incendium. ❞

── stephen glass x reader

MINORS DNI 18+ WORD COUNT: 3.3k SUMMARY: when a lie snowballs out of stephen's control, you swoop in for unorthodox damage control. NOTES: sorry i posted with the wrong title at first | wrote most of this over a year ago, so the style is a bit different, but stick with it trust me | if you say "part two" in the comments, you better come into my inbox with an actual plot or idea that will fit this "au" WARNINGS: f!reader | editor-in-chief!reader | suggestive content including sex and porn mentions so no minors still cos i dont want them on my page ever | deceit | inappropriate contracts.

When you’re the Editor-in-Chief for the biggest magazine of the year, you’ll have a couple thousand rumors spread about you. You wouldn’t pretend that its source wasn’t jealousy that drove poor opinions of you to circle the sandbox. It’s child’s play really, the way sparks of lies catch ablaze to spread like a dry forest’s fire. You’ve always imagined the end of the world to begin and end with a great flood— it was a blue planet after all. With that comforting metaphor, a measly incendium left you unbothered. 

You didn’t have a free moment in your schedule, and it had been like that for months. Being in charge meant shouldering the work of the workers underneath you, and it often meant taking some home with you— work, not workers. Speaking of which, you’d wish you’d find somebody decent to take home. Unfortunately, a relationship really didn’t fit into your hectic calendar. 

It was nice to have a personal assistant. She took care of the unimportant things for you, while you got to work on time and started on your bulleted list in order of priority. Said assistant, Maddy, sat at a desk outside your office, and when she entered to drop off your coffee she picked up, you seized the opportunity to inquire her knowledge on number one on your list. 

Maddy hummed questioningly as you waited, blinking at her over your reading glasses. “Oh!” She clapped her hands together once her memory was jogged. “The New Republic ran something a little detrimental to our brand. Our CEO’s legal team reached out to me to ask you to handle it before they had to step in. The last thing they want is a lawsuit—“ she rambled on and you held up your hand, quieting her. Upturning your palm to invite her to hand you TNR’s piece that supposedly mentioned this company. 

Maddy read your mind, spryly collecting the paper to place in your possession. 

It took seconds for you to scan it, creasing your brows in response to its misinformation. Maddy studied your reaction to its error. For you, this was not a matter of opinion, it was a matter of fact, and required your addressment. 

“Get Chuck on the phone, I want his earliest appointment.”

STEPHEN GLASS moistened his lips as he furiously typed up his latest story, anxious to meet the deadline with a particularly difficult article. His coworker Caitlyn swung in by his door frame. “Yo, Steve, Amy and I wanted to head to the bar after work today. You free?” Caitlyn had figured out the best way to ask him if he wanted to hang out was to put as little pressure on it as possible. He reminded her of a chihuahua…consistently shaken. 

Stephen glanced her way but continued typing. “Yeah? Got it… maybe…” he drawled dreamily, and she concluded he wasn’t entirely listening. 

Inviting herself inside, she slumped into one of his cold, blue, faux leather chairs. “What are you working on anyway?” 

“The Gainsmen piece. I was supposed to have it done already but it got buried.” he responded, eyes glued to the screen as if hypnotized. His hand blindly fumbled for his pen off to the side, like a good friend Caitlyn leaned over to slide the utensil into his fingertips. He banged the end of it against the meat of his thigh, revealing the ink tip so he could scribble some sort of note on his pad, all without ripping his pupils off the growing lines on the monitor. His coworker had never seen him so… intense. To free up his other hand for efficient typing he tucked the staff of the pen in between his lips. 

Stephen had the power to make her worry for him. From what she observed, he was overworked, and spent more time here than he ever did at home when he should be resting. That reasoning eased her into her next question, “You want me to help?” 

A sudden shift in his demeanor, his full attention on her for the first time since she entered his office, raising his brows with a hopeful glint in his dilated pupils. He pinched the pen in his knuckles, balancing the end of it against the corner of his mouth. “Would you?” His disbelief was adorably naive, as if surprised he’d ever receive help… if he deserved it. A smile tugged at Cait’s lips when she nodded, parting them to respond when a slam of a door tore both of their attentions away. 

It was you, the notorious editor of their largest competitor. It had silenced the entire floor, quiet enough to hear your heels click on the thin carpet, and Stephen’s pen drop onto his keyboard. Cait glanced at him as he scrambled to catch it in a failed attempt to prevent its further clattering against the keys. 

Every pair of eyes was on you as you cut through the stations. Your mere presence froze those around you, as if afraid to do something wrong and offend you in some way. At least, some of them anyway. Stephen always thought it was because of how stunning you were. Bone-chillingly authoritative in stockings and a pencil skirt. Behind his glasses his pupils dilated as they scanned from bottom to top, watching you walk further from him through the glass of his office. He gulped, thoughtlessly leaning in his seat to consume every angle of you his limited view from his desk would allow. Caitlyn had faced him again just in time to catch him in the act, and he settled back into his chair as if he hadn’t moved at all. She resisted the urge to flash him a quizzical look as he sheepishly watched himself fiddle with his pen in his lap. 

You did not waver your gaze from your goal, and Chuck had been expecting you. He wore the warmest smile he could muster as he opened his door for you, a headache having come on from the call he received earlier, announcing your scheduled arrival. “Miss (l/n),” he greeted with a nod, and you returned the greeting as he closed the door behind you. The frosted windows left a lot to the imagination of the employees on this floor. Everyone wordlessly agreed to remain reticent in order to eavesdrop on any juicy tidbit they could claw their sleep-deprived hands onto. Not only that, but as if enslaved to their subconscious desires, they shifted closer, gravitating towards Chuck’s office, crudely concealing the way they inclined their ears. 

Stephen’s hands clammed up, and he dropped the pen in between his legs so he could wipe his palms on his pants. He had a feeling he knew what you were here for. 

The conversation inside was indecipherable to the surrounding throng, except for one fragment at the resolution, resounding through the room, causing prying eyes to desperately study your blurred figures in hopes to interpret what kind of violent gestures you punctuated your threat with. 

“I will not be trifled with. My magazine did not tank my first year, it was the year before I was brought on board.” Able to see your arm raise, clutching a fluttering page, and slam it down onto Chuck’s desk. “When I came on I saved that establishment. I’m sick of reading about how the last Editor’s fault was mine! I expected more from The New Republic.” You had straightened. “Let a simple fact like this go unchecked in the future and I’ll poach you. Understand?” 

It was impossible to tell whether or not you waited for Chuck’s response before storming out. Stephen still thought you were as elegant as ever, observing you as you strode to the exit. He had suspected why you were here, and what you said at Chuck’s had confirmed it. You had nipped Chuck for signing off on Stephen’s piece. His mouth ran dry when your gaze landed on him. You didn’t recognize him as the man who wrote what you had come to pontificate on. Instead, you saw a boy in glasses, gawking at you from the seat of his desk as you happened to face him and accidentally make eye contact. 

Stephen had no idea you didn’t know who he was, and that assumption caused him to raise his hand at you to offer you a polite smile and a wave. You acknowledged it to be proper, unfaltering in your traipse. Just as soon as you’d left, the floor reignited, bustling and trucking through paperwork as if you’d never appeared. 

Caitlyn, unaware of Stephen’s current situation, had stood from the chair, and leaned against the back of it as she collected her thoughts, narrowing her eyes at Stephen. “What was that?” she inquired slyly, curious as to why Stephen had greeted you so familiarly. According to Cait’s knowledge, you and Stephen have never formally met, and you weren’t exactly the most accessible person to befriend. Casually greeting you was simply not done, unless it was a peer like Chuck. 

Stephen had returned to his monitor, nervously tapping the pen against the desk surface as the gears in his head turned. “What? You mean the wave?” he affirmed with a smile tugging at his lips, about to tell her the truth of why he did it. 

When you re-entered his mind, he idled, reminiscing on your outfit today. How your hips swayed in your smart pencil skirt, the lines of your stockings at the backs of your legs, the tasteful blouse and how it accentuated your exquisite outline. As a writer, Stephen admired your professional work. As an artist, he agonizingly wished he knew you— inside and out. When Caitlyn demanded an answer, Stephen looked up at her with a bashful snicker. “I mean… okay, alright,” He clasped his hands together, reminding himself how sweaty they were. 

“Go on, Steph, I’m waiting,” Cait said in a playful tone, eager to hear the gossip she knew he would inevitably spill. Her favorite source of entertainment was Stephen: the human embodiment of the overflowing cup. 

He longed to do just that, hanging his head briefly before feigning defeat. “We kissed.” he conceded as if it was reluctantly drawn from him rather than readily supplied as soon as it was conjured. He didn’t know why he said that, it just slipped out.

“Hey, Stephen,” Amy peeked her head in, seemingly oblivious of the nature of the conversation he and Caitlyn just shared, evidenced by Amy’s immediate interest in Cait’s gaping mouth, readjusting against the door frame. “Wait, wait, what did you say? What did I miss?” 

Cait flashed a look at Stephen as if to ask permission to repeat what he’d just spread. Stephen merely smiled childishly, and pinched his fingers together at the corner of his mouth, running across his lips pretending to zip them. Caitlyn got the message, nodding, and mimicking him. 

Amy sighed in playful annoyance, which only caused the other two to grin knowingly. “Whatever. Stephen, Chuck wants to see you in his office.” 

One more quizzical look from Cait, and he reassured her, “It’s probably nothing,” He met Amy’s gaze, “Tell him I’ll be right there, Ames.” 

We kissed. He’d said. We kissed. A lie he couldn’t stop pondering, and it snowballed into expansion. At first it was an innocent kiss, as virtuous as a young white flower. When it was received with such shock and entertainment, Stephen couldn’t help himself. A kiss became a heated make-out session at a company Christmas party he snuck into. A make-out became a regular occurrence when you just couldn’t stay away from him. A regular occurrence became seeing each other. Became experimental oral. 

All until it became dirty fucking on the side using your power as an Editor over him. “What am I gonna do? Say ‘no’ to her? No,” Stephen shook his head and sipped his Colombian coffee from the slit in its lid. “No,” he swallowed, “not to an Editor-in-Chief.” His regaling earned him pats on the back and laughter from those taking it as a joke. No one thought he was in any real danger. It’s not like he worked underneath her— in an employment stance. 

He couldn’t give it up. Cooking was one thing, but earning the respect of those around all because a woman made of ice was supposedly wrapped around his finger was another high entirely. One he couldn’t give up, no matter how immoral. He admired you— immeasurably— and still he let those words run out of his mouth faster than he could stuff them back in. Filthy secrets about what you’re like in bed, how rough you like it, what position is your favorite. It’s not like he could reveal those details without unveiling a little of himself and his fantasies as well. 

He never expected that it’d turn out like this. 

Never expected he’d be summoned to your office. 

“Miss—“ Maddy’s clear voice rings in your ear, interrupting you during your process of scratching your notes into the margin of the text. 

You sigh. “Madeline, if you’re here about Frank’s paternal leave again I’ll be forced to fire that baby myself.” 

She stutters, caught off guard by your sour attitude and poorly-timed joke. “No, Miss, I’m here to announce Mr. Glass’s arrival. I made him wait a few minutes- like you asked.” 

You peer up from your work at Maddy who’s in a straight-and-narrow posture by the door as you gesture incredulously with your hand. “Go ahead, send him in.” She nods, and hastily abides by your notion, fetching him. 

This time you don’t redirect your eyes from your thick pile of papers as you annotate, the nervous footsteps of your anticipated company echoing through your cavernous office. He follows the rug across the long pathway to the chair in front of your desk, taking a seat, and the leather creaks against itself. 

He takes notice of your strategic reticence. “Hi.” his wavering voice is a near whisper. Your script comes to a screeching halt. 

“Mr. Glass,” you reply, “you are a man-in-demand, aren’t you?” You swipe a page to the left, noting at the top right to bookmark it. 

Sheepish, Stephen stutters in his response, lips curled politely up, “I- I suppose so. I suppose I wouldn’t know.” To keep him nervous, you hum, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Every movement, no matter how minute, creates the leather din that damn-near echoes in your resonate office-space. He waits for you to speak, and when it becomes unbearable he fills the silence. “Is this about your talk with Chuck– er, Charles Lane? Because- about that, if you just listen–” 

At that, your eyes finally flicker up to meet his. “No, Mr. Glass, it is not.” He swallows. It’s becoming increasingly clear why you’re known as cold. It’s an unforgivable atmosphere, and a shiver runs up his spine powerful enough that he takes his hand to rub his own arm to generate warmth. You stand, and he presses his lips into a thin line, watching your every move as you gracefully close the script on your desk with a rare finesse. “You’ve brought a lot of attention to my door, you know that?” Strategically, Stephen remains silent as you leisurely round your desk. His hands begin to clam up again, and he rubs them on his thighs as he stares hard at his lap. A whole new level of intimidation has been reached being this close to you at the center of your focus. He’s unsure how to play this right now, and he finally registers your proximity when out of the corner of his eye he sees you sit on the edge of your desk adjacent to him. Your smooth legs are crossed within arm’s length of him. You fold your arms over your chest, your unwavering gaze making him feel smaller and smaller. Regardless of that, you can tell he’s not going to break. So you increase the pressure. “Have we met before?”

Big, innocent eyes peer up at you, hesitant to face you as he shakes his head marginally. The instinct to question if you’re mad at him dies in his throat. “No, ma’am.” The panic rises in his chest now that he’s denied having met you aloud, but you can’t possibly know about the lies he’s told, can’t prove he told them. Yet when he meets that piercing gaze, there’s a part of him that wants to come clean to you about everything if it means pleasing you. Though there is his job to think about, what would people say about a writer who lies about sexual encounters with the company’s competitor? It can’t be good.

“Is that a fact?” You raise your brows at him, and he nods slowly. “So, can you tell me why others have a different perception on that?”

He shakes his head.

“Mr. Glass, as frustrating as this all has become, you’re not here so I can berate you.” you concede, and at those words he visibly perks up. You reach over, plucking a folder from across your desk that stretches your body out in a specific way that rides your skirt up. Before he knows it, he’s sneaking a glance at the exposed skin of your thigh, how the flesh pushes together. The promiscuous rumors he’s spread about you and his own animal attraction to you has gone to his head because in that very moment he considers how warm and tepid your thighs must be against his ears. His salivating tongue rolls between his lips. He morphs into the posture of a goddamn saint as soon as you slam the folder onto the surface in front of him, he jolts right into it from the sudden noise, as if a chastising ruler had just struck his naughty hands. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

“What is this?” The shiny material of the folder falls open, and he inclines forward to read the cover of the thick stack of papers within it.

“An NDR.”

“An NDR? For what?” Stephen plays dumb, but you naturally would assume he’d know nothing about what this deal entails. You give him a silent moment to scan it. Uneasily, as if he’s reading it wrong, he relays the synopsis of one of the passages. “You want… you want to have…”

“Sex.” you reply casually. “You have heard of it?” you joke. “You paint our encounters so colorfully in your little stories, I assumed you were far from a virgin. Or at least well-versed in porn.”

Stephen can feel his throat closing up, shifting in his seat as he engages with you, his mouth in a permanent gaping position, looking for an opportunity to get a word in. “No, no.” He shakes his head, gesturing to himself at his chest. “You don’t understand, I don’t know what you’re talking about- honest!”

“Mr. Glass.” you chide with a playful curl to your lips. Your hands grip the edges of the wood, leaning towards him as if you’re exchanging coy secrets. “Don’t be modest, you’d make a killing in the fictional industry. Whatever are you doing at The New Republic?”

He rallies, sharply inhaling through his nose. “Let me just get out of your hair, and we can forget this whole thing happened—” he pleads, and in an effort to remove himself from the confrontation, he rises from his seat. Your hand gives him a firm push at his chest, planting his ass right back where it belongs.

“Mr. Glass, by all means I’m not keeping you here against your will, but need I remind you: I am not to be trifled with. Forgive me for being indelicate, but why not have the real thing?”

A second of silence passes, and Stephen gulps. You stand, and return to your chair behind your desk. “Think about it.” you tell him, and he takes it as his cue to leave, hastily gathering himself to stride towards the exit. 

[welcometothesewers]

More knightformers Skyfire scribbles because I can’t stop, won’t stop! All knightformers designs are @archie-sunshine’s, I’m just playing in his sandbox

[pepi1989]

Castles - Matt Sturniolo

It was a perfect Saturday morning, the kind Matt loved: clear skies, a soft breeze, and a peaceful quiet filling the park. He was sitting on a bench, nursing a cup of coffee and watching as his three-year-old son, Charlie, bounded toward the sandbox with his favorite stuffed dinosaur tucked under one arm. Matt wasn't usually one for crowds or bustling spaces, but somehow, Charlie made all of that feel… okay. Maybe even good.

“Daddy, come here!” Charlie’s excited voice broke through his thoughts, and Matt got up, coffee in hand, to join him at the edge of the sandbox. The other kids were around, but as usual, Matt found a corner where he and Charlie could settle in, undisturbed.

Charlie handed him a blue plastic shovel, eyes wide with an anticipation only a three-year-old could manage. “We need to make a HUGE castle. For Mr. Rex,” he declared, as if his little dinosaur pal depended on this kingdom for survival.

Matt chuckled, settling down into the sand beside him. “Alright, buddy. One dino castle coming up.”

They spent the next half-hour working together, Matt’s usual reserved demeanor dissolving as he got into the swing of things, laughing and talking more openly than he usually would. Charlie didn’t seem to care if they looked a little silly, and as Matt watched his son build and play, he couldn’t help feeling thankful for the way Charlie brought him out of his shell, piece by piece.

Just as they were putting the finishing touches on the castle, a soft voice drifted over from nearby.

“That is one impressive castle,” you said, standing just a few feet away, watching them with a warm smile. You’d been sitting on a nearby bench, observing their work from afar, charmed by the father-son duo and the joy they radiated.

Matt looked up, feeling a bit of his usual shyness creep back in as he met your gaze. “Thanks,” he replied, brushing sand off his hands as he stood up. “It’s mostly Charlie’s masterpiece, really. I’m just here for moral support.”

You laughed, and Matt felt his cheeks warm a little at the sound. “He’s got a good eye for architecture,” you replied with a grin, nodding at the sandcastle.

Charlie, curious as ever, looked up at you with wide eyes. “Do you like dinosaurs?” he asked, completely bypassing any introductions and diving right into his favorite topic.

“I love dinosaurs,” you replied with a smile, kneeling down to Charlie’s level. “Do you have a favorite?”

He lifted Mr. Rex, holding him up proudly. “T-Rex! He’s the best dinosaur ever.”

You looked up at Matt, amused, and he smiled back, feeling more at ease by the second. There was something about you—open, easygoing—that made talking feel natural, something he didn’t experience often.

Charlie’s attention shifted, and he tugged Matt’s shirt. “Daddy, can we show her the castle?”

Matt nodded, glancing at you with a shy but genuine smile. “Looks like we have a tour to give,” he said.

As you joined them by the sandbox, you crouched beside Charlie as he proudly explained every little detail of the sandcastle, adding his own creative flair to the story. Matt found himself listening as much to you as to Charlie, amazed by how quickly the two of you had connected.

After a while, Charlie wandered over to the swings, giving Matt a chance to sit down on the bench beside you. He was quiet at first, his usual introverted nature kicking in, but you seemed to have a way of drawing him out gently, almost without him noticing.

“So,” you said with a smile, breaking the comfortable silence, “do you two come here often?”

Matt chuckled, glancing over at Charlie, who was happily swinging and pretending to be a dinosaur. “Pretty often, yeah. He’s kind of my world.”

“I can tell,” you replied, and there was a warmth in your tone that Matt hadn’t felt in a long time.

You both chatted for a little while longer, and just as you were about to part ways, you reached into your bag and pulled out a small notepad. Scribbling down your number, you handed it to him with a smile. “If you two ever need help building another dinosaur castle,” you said with a playful grin, “I’m your girl.”

Matt took the note, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks. “Yeah, I… I’d like that.”

As you walked away, Matt watched you go, his heart beating a little faster. He looked down at the paper in his hand, then over at Charlie, who had climbed off the swing and was running back toward him.

“Who was that, Daddy?” Charlie asked, his curious eyes bouncing between Matt and the note.

“That,” Matt said, glancing back in your direction with a small, shy smile, “was someone pretty special.”

[giggly-squiggily]

Hello Squiggily!

I wanted to ask if I could maybe participate in the Candyheart Event with ❤️ Me + You for SatoSugu? 😊

Apologies in case my last ask made you uncomfortable, I'm very sorry!

Yours, Crystal ❤️

Crystal! :D It's always great to hear from you! :3 And no worries about your headcanon from the previous ask! I wasn't uncomfortable at all :3 Your satosugoshoko thoughts never fail to make me happy! I hope you enjoy this! ;3

Me + You: "No way! I didn't know you were ticklish!"

“Boink!”

“SATORU!” Geto hollered as he twisted, glaring at the cackling blonde before him. “Would you stop doing that?”

“What? I’m totally innocent!” Gojo winked at him, rocking on his heels with his hands behind his head. “Didn’t do nothing!”

“Sure- the sky just so happens to be reigning ice cubes today!” With a growl, the other boy shook his collar, letting said offending cube fall into the grass by his feet. “Do that again and I’m kicking your ass.”

“Didn’t dooo it~”

Annoyed, Geto made the bold decision to turn away, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went to check his texts. Seems like Shoko would be late- they’ll have to start their movie night later-

His collar was pulled back, another ice cube cheekily deposited.

“IT’S GOING DOWN!” Geto raged, tossing his phone and jumping into a surprised Gojo. Into the grass they went, wrestling like two kids in a sandbox as Geto tried weaseling the remaining ice cubes down Gojo’s collar. All the while Gojo was laughing like a child, halfheartedly fighting back with tickling fingers. “Whahatch your hahahnds, ahahahss!”

“No way! I didn’t know you were ticklish!” Gojo abandoned his loose efforts for a more direct attack, rapidly scribbling into Geto’s sides and making the other boy squirm and giggle. “Coochie coochie coo!”

“Shuuhuhuht your mohohohuth! Aheahhaha, bahahahhahstahahhard!” Geto snorted, falling to his side next to his friend as Gojo carried on tickling. “Shahahahhatorohohohoru stahhahahhahap!”

“No way! This is a discovery of a lifetime! Ah tickle tickle tickle! A tickle tickle tickle you long haired dork!” Gojo cooed down at him, easily avoiding the hands smacking at him and grabbing his shirt. “Look at you, laughing like a whittle baby!”

“Iihiihihm ehehehehehnding yohohohohur lih-EHEHEHHHEHEHF!” Geto all but squealed when his hips were snatched, arching with a scream as Gojo kneaded into the soft spots.

“Sure you will, buddy.”

Send me a candy heart and I'll write a dabble for it!

[blakbonnet]

[graphic by @ofmdlovelyletters]

AUTHOR OF THE WEEK: @monksofthescrew

Our final feature of this week's AOTW is the lovely and always kind Hugo ♥️ Getting to know her these past few weeks has been such a joy and it's so not a surprise that they're such an earnest and fluffy writer, with oodles of love for their friends and the show. Please read on to find out about Hugo's secret sorrow (the word she thinks she uses a lot):

What's your writing process like? Do you start with the beginning or the end? Do you write in order or as the scenes come to you?

I generally start with the beginning and write forward, but then I like to outline retroactively and see if there are any chunks that would be better suited elsewhere in the story. I sometimes have to scribble down an idea for a later scene when it comes to me, but then I sometimes forget to return to it, or figure out that it doesn't fit after all. And sometimes it's not so much a scene as it is a *vibe*, and sometimes it's just, like, a mini-revelation about the emotional arc, or some other little tidbit. I'm definitely still trying to find the right process, though, because mine is absolutely unreliable and I haven't finished anything at all or even really managed to work meaningfully on anything in an age and a half.

Favourite Ed or Stede characteristic or mannerism that are dear to you (Ed liking marmalade, Stede and burying his feelings, etc)?

Yes, Ed's sweet tooth is important to me. Yes, Stede saying one single, heavily veiled thing once and being like, "I have now bared my entire soul to you, right?" is important to me. Ed's brilliance is non-negotiable. Their mutual softness is very important to me. Yeah, their shitty fucking dads are really important to me. Both their childlike qualities and their age. Shearwater pointed out that Stede has so much love to give that he's never been allowed to give before and Ed needs so much love and never having had anyone to give it to him, and I can't stop seeing that now. The way they instantly know one another on a level neither of them has ever experienced before.

What is the one word that you think you use a lot?

HEEDLESS for fucks' sake. Also STEEL as a verb. Is it the double Es? Why am I like this?

Do you have a beta reader? Have they made you a better writer?

YES. I have been swapping betas with @xoxoemynn for, oh my god, two years this August (happy almost-anniversary, darling) and not only has Marianne made my writing better (it was at her prompting that I ended up writing some of my very favorite paragraphs I have ever written) but beta-reading *her* writing has made me a better writer, and also a better thinker. Marianne is absurdly generous with the sandbox that is her brilliant mind and her open heart, and thinking and talking through ideas and theories with her has taught me so much about storytelling.

Why OFMD?

I think the characters, both as written and acted, have so much complexity and nuance, and there's so much room for interpretation, which makes this such a fun sandbox to play in. The canon can support practically any reading. Also, this fandom boasts a really mind-boggling amount of talent, and some of the absolutely loveliest people I've ever had the good fortune to meet.

Please head over to @ofmdlovelyletters and send your love for Hugo and all your favourite authors (and authors of the week 😈 watch that blog for some special letters coming your way)

[sunbeammwrites]

the sun comes up.

"...let's stay together, mizuki."

hi :3 i'm sunny. my pronouns are they/them. i enjoy writing quite a bit, though half the time i start writing something and forget. hopefully i'll write more and actually post 🙏 i also do occasionally doodle i will post some of those :)

feel free to interact. i luv luv luv talking to people even if i'm a little awkward. you can send whatever in asks preferably reqs for writing if i want them but idrc :3 just don't be really weird yknow (inappropriate weird things you probably wouldn't want to ask some random person if you catch my drift).

links :

strawpage (wip 🤭)

ao3 (sunbeamm)

twitter

bluesky

fandoms :

project sekai

your turn to die

bungou stray dogs

omori

the disastrous life of saiki k

daybreak 2 (roblox)

there's more but i'm not like as involved in. but if you ask i may deliver. (these ones i am more willing to write for)

if requesting writing, i will not do nsfw because i don't want to! (also minors over half of those characters are minors)

tags :

sunlit words (fanfics / other writing)

sunlit scribbles (art)

sunlit commentary (reblogs)

sunlit thoughts (other, more tags may be added tbh idk)

more about me :

i am a very normal. ena fan. (i also really like the rest of niigo and vbs (i really like vbs but i don't think you get that from this)) (ena and kohane on top!)

my favorite music artists are mitski and billie eilish and laufey tbh

i love minecraft and roblox and sandbox games

i play flute / piccolo (band / marching band)

fav niigo comm is probably yoka ni mitorete (empurple 2nd place sigh...) and fav vbs comm might just be realize (fuel 2nd place..)

i have 2 cats n 2 rats they are so silly

red, orange, yellow are the fav colors. warm colors...

ummm idk there is probably more i don't know what else to say

"is it really okay...?"

and the sun goes down.

[see-arcane]

Do you have any writing tips that work for you?

I acknowledge that the first draft's probably going to suck.

There are probably holes in it and the same sentence repeated ten times and enough typos to make the dictionary gain enough sentience to cry in despair. That's fine. That's how first drafts are supposed to be. Future drafts exist to fix that. me @ me: Do Not Worry About the First Draft.

If I don't have to write in cold blood, I do not do it.

Unless I'm writing something on the clock for a job, I am writing for me, me, me. Scribbling is my hobby. My beloved terrible sandbox to play in. If I am not having fun building X Sandcastle, I pivot to Y Sandcastle. Because sometimes it's not always a matter of, 'Oh, you just want to get through the boring part to get to this neat scene!' Sometimes a story just loses its flavor in the moment. And if I'm not having a good time with it, oftentimes I'm writing garbage I'll end up deleting anyway. Not worth throwing that time away. No Fun? No Write.

I get inspired! (positive)

Reading or watching something with the Vibes I want for my current project gets my brain battery going. Sometimes I'll even catch myself going into 'parrot mode' to break through a writer's block by going, "Well, if it was happening in X Universe and using X Style of storytelling, what would it sound like?' And then I'm off.

I get inspired. (spite. loathing. hatred and bile unending.)

Being inspired to make something new in the footsteps of your most beloved storytellers: uwu🌸

Being inspired to make literally anything without inhibition, be it a story or a bowel movement, because either one would be a step up from the flaming legacy of horseshit inflicted on you by a Particular Piece of Media: owo 🔪

I can't stop. I can't stop.

I have two Word documents open right now. I have ten notebooks in use. I cannot go one (1) day without writing unless I am physically paralyzed with illness or pain, and even then I am thinking of Things I Will Write once I'm upright. My Muse is the most giving one around, but said giving is hitting like a waterfall and I am perpetually flattened into the Earth's crust by the sheer abundance of WRITE WRITE WRITE blasting into my head at all hours.

But on that note, one of the best things for my writing?

Forcing myself not to write.

Seriously.

Taking a break that involves Absolutely No Creation of Text is vital. Reading. Drawing. Watching a new movie. Making a meal that takes more effort than 'dumping some Cheerios and an apple in a bowl to eat next to the computer/notebook.' It all helps me unplug and not go insane with making scene after scene after scene. Writer Brain needs to cool off with Non-Writing things or it'll catch on fire*.

*Read: Lead to full burnout on a story that I genuinely wanted to work on. What a waste.

[mublerr]

alr alr alr neck are fun, but what abt OTHER spots

likeeeee the tummy

ik its supposed to say stomach, BUT DAMN TUMMY IS MORE ADORABLE AND FLUSTERING TO PERSON

its great spot bcs u got like skinny and chubby one's where u can squiiiish like some stress toy, also u can go with all of the methods

scribbles, spinning, poking, diggin, EVERYTHING.

even raspberries! like wow, U BLEW AIR AND IT TICKLES? OH MY

the belly button more like giggle button, such a small space can make someone laugh

i just can imagine someone going full giggly and blushy and squirmy and messy just because my lil finger started spinnin around this little goal by "accident"

THE ANTICIPATION OMG. when someone litterally tries to project himself from tickles and tucks belly in, AWWWWWWWW >///<

belly its a GREAT SPOT REALLY

its like sandbox games but for tickles, u can try every single method and see how it will work

[bogunicorn]

like tl;dr from my last post but i would absolutely be interested in reading/writing a re-telling of veilguard that has more darkness and grit and more and bigger consequences to rook's actions, but not from a place of "i hated it and i'm fixing it" that inevitably layers misaimed personal grievances and bitterness into it that asks me to kind of passively agree that the devs are cowardly, cruel, bigoted cretins whose work must be scribbled with red pen by Fans Who Know Better. it's the same reason i tend not to be charmed by "deconstruction" narratives that are actually just bashing the genre they're deconstructing, or movie musicals that feel ashamed to be musical theater, or the "wow THAT just happened" style of a lot of late stage marvel/pixar projects that are trying to pretend they're not in the same sandbox as the lamps they're hanging big, embarrassed, bitter shades onto

i'm in fandom because i like things, and creating art from places of bitterness has its place, definitely. but i find that letting that bitterness and disappointment be the main driving force of what someone puts into fandom spaces tends to go sour incredibly quickly. anger, offense, and bitterness can very quickly turn into emotional poison that demands more and more and more of itself to keep the wheels turning, and i've just been Very Online for far too long not to see how ugly that gets and how little i want it to be a regular part of my own experiences.

i don't read fic to "fix canon" or replace it in my mind; canon and fanworks are two completely different mediums, beholden to two very different social structures and general purposes, and there is a level of mess and complexity that fanworks are afforded because they're made for free and by a very limited number of cooks in the proverbial kitchen. being realistic about canon when it's being produced in an extremely corporate environment, enjoying it for what it is, and then engaging with or creating fanworks that get to be more complicated or darker or meaner or whatever is kind of a value neutral thing? and i don't feel the need to ascribe the very real critiques i do have of veilguard onto the malice, cowardice, or stupidity of the small handful of bioware creatives that i know the names of because, like, i don't need to and i don't think it's a cool thing to do

but, you know, i'm also the kind of person who immediately identified DA2 as The Best Dragon Age Has Ever Been and hasn't wavered from that opinion in over a decade, and have never and will never expect the series to hit the kind of vibe that only a criminally short development period, a shoestring budget, and the second draft of a script that had minimal corporate oversight aside from the money people saying "we can't afford that, change it" can produce. i guess in that light you can say my expectations were "low", but frankly i just think they were realistic lmao

[svnnnne]

I saw your transistor au and I'm in love with it 😍 What abilities do you think the thieves would have? Would they be the same as the game or something else? 👀

ehe thank you im glad you enjoy my scribbles about it (i will draw more soon bc brainworms)

for the q - honestly i have not thought that far if we are talking about functions ٩( ᐛ )و

im assuming anyone who has played the game can probably match who i based the thieves on but it only goes so far as who they are in cloudbank and how they contribute to the city as citizens but very loosely. it’s more fun to me to play sandbox pre-transistor events but i digress!!

thinking about it now, im not sure if i want their abilities to stick too closely to the game? for example, i based yusuke off farrah yon dale - because the concept of a skypainter who could not paint anymore is very delicious - but her function switch() doesn’t feel like yusuke? compared to say ryuji where i took some inspo from olmarq and wave tennegan but respectively the function load() and cull() could potentially work for him. open to being convinced though if you have any thoughts ✨

[aprillikesthings]

I couldn't remember why I like, 99% avoided the spop fandom at the time it was airing/right after it aired. It wasn't *just* that it wasn't my hyperfixation--it was that I mostly avoided the fandom in general. I had enough friends from other things in the spop fandom that I was able to see some great art on twitter/tumblr, but I didn't go looking for new friends in that fandom, the way I often do.

And I mean yeah I was far more into k/da when spop started airing, but by mid-2020??

Anyway, while digging around looking for old art and meta, along with some GREAT stuff, I find a lot of just dumb, terrible shit. Like: long unreadable posts about why Catra Is The Worst And If You Like Her You Are Also The Worst (she was the main antagonist for four seasons???? that's how that works??????). Or I'm just painfully reminded that a bunch of the worst people from SU fandom were in spop fandom (especially early on).

And I know I've talked about this before, but I remember realizing that the reason I'd been so into k/da was because it was, in fact, very stupid. All the good stuff (outside of the actual songs/videos), the fandom basically made up on our own. The fandom around spop was just SO SERIOUS because, like SU, the show itself was trying to do big things--good things!! around telling stories about queer people and talking about the effects of childhood trauma. (It also, like SU, attracted an audience of mostly young, traumatized queer people.)

But also, just like with SU, it made parts of the fandom insufferable. Because everything is EXTREMELY SERIOUS, YOU KNOW.

I can appreciate all that stuff, but god damn, I am just here to smash my dolls together.

It was just way more fun and relaxing to play around in the sandbox of a media that didn't even expect us to be there and didn't care about us--just try to watch the pop/stars video and tell me it was aimed at sapphics, lolol. To the extent that it appeals to us, it was probably by accident. (I blame Fortiche.) We could have all the fun we wanted, because who gave a shit? Vast majority of people who read/wrote fic for k/da never played League of Legends. We were never their intended audience!

So yeah. I'm four years late to the spop party, sure. But most of the worst people have moved on to other fandoms. Thank God. I can scribble my angst and porn in the corner while muttering under my breath, and only the people who made it through all that shit and stuck around are the people who will bother reading my stuff. Whew.

[displayheartcode]

Shop talk: what's your typical process from idea-draft-final fic? What's your first thought after you post fic?

step 1. hey, an idea!

step 2. recover said idea from the depths of my memory and scribble some notes down

step 3. marinate. this can be from making silly moodboards to playlists.

step 4. usually end up writing in a frenzy at an odd hour

step 5. let the words rest for at most a day or two before I look it over again

step 6. resist the urge to post

step 7. post

fanfic, at least for me, is very spur of moment. it’s where I go for major dopamine fixes, playing in niche sandboxes and experiment. with my original writing (also counting my professional reviews), the process is very, very, very different. there are multiple drafts, notes from the editor/beta readers in a special document, a list of VERY IMPORTANT REMINDERS at the top of each draft (ex: WHAT IS THE PROTAGONIST’S GOAL FOR THIS SECTION, HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO THE COMPS?), and etc.

[glrlrot]

†   ╼     you know what it means  ( to unhome a body )  to collapse a pillar / that may have ,   one day ,   become    a tower .    exploring themes of :     the black widow  ,     weaponized femininity  ,    corruption by wealth  ,     the brutality of womanhood ,     elitism     &     privilege .   written by stevie .

                                                            pinterest + playlist

tw: drugs, alcohol, (rumoured) murder, suicide, (implied) mentions of mental disorders

FULL NAME. adelaide montserrat

HOMETOWN. NY, New York

ALIAS. ade, addie (preferred)

AGE. 34

GENDER. cisfemale

ETHNICITY. white

OCCUPATION. socialite, philanthropist, retired prima ballerina turned model, occasional designer and actress

ORIENTATION. bisexual

MARITAL STATUS. widowed

HEIGHT.         5'11

EYES.           blue

HAIR.         blonde

ALIGNMENT. chaotic neutral

DRUGS OF USE. cocaine, LSD, methamphetamine

POSITIVE. determined, quick-witted, charming

NEGATIVE. elusive, manipulative, cunning

       there’s two types of rich in this world: new money and old money, and the montserrat are most certainly old money .  they began accumulating their wealth sometime ago in barcelona, spain, rubbing shoulders with world leaders and conquerors, providing weapons and soldiers and battle strategies, and when times changed, they changed, and kings and queens turned into businessmen and politicians: if there was a threat to be made, a string to be pulled, a player to be removed, you’d go to them.

     despite their achievements, the women in the family were seldom remembered as anything more than unremarkable faces in old family portraits, pushed out of books and history and forgotten in time. adelaide never wanted to be one of those faces. she was brought up to be a proper lady. she was doted upon, and cherished, and as loved as one can be within such a household where you are part of the decoration. the only thing they expected from her was quiet compliance in the role she had been born to play:  the heiress, the pretty thing.

    adelaide was the product of a union that had been under negotiation for quite some time, a planned pregnancy, just like every other step of her life had been planned. her father was not a cruel man, merely a man of calculations and logic, and her mother lacked the maternal instincts that was expected of her. adelaide learned quickly that slobbering kisses and hugs were ill received, that she ought to keep her hands always clean and shoes pristine. she did not run around the house making messes, or leave dirty footprints on the marble floor or scribble her name on the wallpaper, she did not yell or throw tantrums in public. she had only one role to play in this world, and she knew like all things in life she was ultimately replaceable, if she did not perform it perfectly. if you were to ask her, adelaide couldn’t remember playing with other children in a sandbox, or fighting over whose doll was the prettiest: she kept her distance, always graceful, poised, never a hair out of place. sometimes, it felt lonely, but she could never bring herself to be more than a voyeur.

      an early bloomer of exceptional talent, adelaide began dancing by the age of 6. while she had no problem memorizing choreographies or dazzling teachers, she struggled to intimate relationships, bonding with her peers, working with others. addie grew up receiving the best education money could buy and learning everything her parents could fit into her schedule: from horseback riding, to swimming lessons, to classical instruments such as the cello and piano, but there was little time for social interactions that were not orchestrated, so she simply decided they weren’t important.

        by the age of 10, adelaide had fully developed into a shiny trophy to flaunt at parties rather than a daughter or grandchild to dote upon; whatever fragment of an identity had once existed, was no more. on the eve of her 13′th birthday, she enrolled in the prestigious paris opera ballet school to make a name for herself — and she did, of course she did. adelaide never failed. she was better than them — better than most. she was hungrier than the others: always willing to push a little harder, dig a little deeper, go a little further. she was flawless, perfect, completely moldable. to a lot of people, being young and in the spotlight was a scary thing, it meant competing for attention, but not to her. adelaide did not compete. she never even considered it a competition. she just won, plain and simple. adelaide couldn’t lose because the game was rigged from the start: it was tailored for people like her, and she knew, and she didn’t care. all she cared about was getting what she wanted: crowded rooms filled with applause, and leading role after leading role. if someone’s tutu’s happened to go missing just before curtain, or their alarm didn’t go off at the right time for whatever reason, or if she had to dance on with a broken metatarsal, so be it.

     with age, adelaide learned how to put on a show, how to make a home of the stage. that's the magic of art, it transforms. she became the prima ballerina, and filled herself with stories other than her own while whatever had been good or soft rotted inside of her. eventually, her body couldn’t handle the routines as well as it used to, she could tell she was falling behind, and she was going to be replaced, and she couldn’t cope with that---so she bowed out gracefully and retired from ballet. the truth is she had already grown bored of her career long before, had grown bored of her friends and even herself. she needed to be reborn.

     the articles will say she became a model after being scouted in los angeles, but if she were to be honest, her family had to pull some strings. she was pretty, tall, slender, and was used to being in the public eye. the transition wasn’t too difficult, all she had to do was gradually adjust to a new kind of public, learn how to market herself again. in a few years, she had returned in full force to the public’s eye through her modeling career, appearing in editorials for several international editions of Vogue, Harpers Bazaar, i-D, GQ, Dazed & Confused, Elle, Industrie, Interview, American and Spanish V, Glamour and W. through collaborations with other artists, she paved the road to dabble into designing and acting as well, going on to take small roles in both television and film.

      here’s what stardom life taught her: people don’t want to know what’s behind the curtain. They might fool themselves into thinking they do, but they don't—not really. It only takes a small peek, and suddenly they start to realize how ugly and empty it is when the lights are off. all the jewelry in the world, all praise and money couldn’t fill up that hole inside her soul, that detachment she felt towards the outside world. nothing could fix inability to connect with things and people, even those supposedly closest to her. she was still lonely, no matter how many flowers she received. marriage felt like the natural next step. it’s what lonely people do, isn’t it? they get married?

   finding someone that was husband material was assiduous work: many fit the mold but they all came with their set of imperfections. she went through a series of dates with men who ranged from terribly dull and tedious to thrill-seeking maniacs. professional athletes, actors, studio executives, models and sons of people in high places, until she came across joshua demarchelier: rockstar, icon and one of the media’s favorite celebrities to harass since britney spears had her public meltdown (think the rolling stones/nirvana).  he was taller than he looked on MTV News ,  and the last place she’d expected to find him was here, in this private party her friends dragged her to; if she’d been honest she’d never stopped to listen to any of his songs, but she knew them well enough to make conversation when he approached her. the exchange was easy–he wasn’t too forward but wasn’t afraid to show he was interested either. they found a space far in the corner and just talked for hours, and hours, and hours. and to her surprise, she’d not been bored once the entire night. by the time the party was over, he’d asked her out on a date and she said yes. Soon they were inseparable. they got married within a year of knowing each other, and she thought she’d never be lonely again.

       things were good at first, their honeymoon phase was lovely: they’d travel all around the world and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. they looked great in photos, and the public seemed to love them even more together than apart. but beneath the camera flashes and perfect ivory smiles, a couple months into the marriage things had already started to crumble–their personalities clashed, hard. their careers kept them more apart than together, and all the parties and drugs only made things worse. that’s when the threat of scandals began. addie knew how to keep her skeletons in the closet, but joshua didn’t seem to mind having his face stamped all over tmz. and suddenly, his thrill-seeking ways that were fun at first quickly turned into a hazard: when he wasn’t stumbling out of bars at night or passed out with a needle in his arm, she was finding lipstick stains on his collar and glitter all over his clothes, stuck cleaning up his messes to salvage her reputation. that wouldn’t damage him, but she could already hear the whispering; ‘how can she stay with him?’  ‘how didn’t she see this coming?’  ‘a divorce, not even a year into the marriage?’  ‘poor addie. poor poor addie’  no .  she would not be the target of pity ,  or have his shit smeared all over her clean reputation. her friend’s words of encouragement?  artists are like this, don’t take it personally.  well, she did. she took it personally every time he stood her up at an important event or forced her to bail him out of trouble, every time they shouted at each other and he banged his fist against the walls like a dumb animal. their arguments turned to fights, and his endless stream of half-assed apologies just left her with an ashy taste in her mouth. two years in she made a list in her head of every little infraction he committed throughout their marriage. some nights, while he slept, she stayed awake and just looked at him, thinking about that list. divorce was never an option, after all, adelaide never failed at anything, and she wasn’t about to start now.

      on december 12th of 2020, a month after celebrating her birthday in style, rock star joshua demarchelier was found dead in their home in los angeles, california, with fresh injection marks in both arms and a suicide note next to his body which would later have its authenticity questioned by some experts. there was a lot of buzz around the case at the time, but nothing that ever amounted to anything. the death was ruled a suicide, regardless, and adelaide was the sole inheritor of his patrimony, part of which she donated towards charities for drug addiction recovery and support, also becoming an outspoken advocate on the need for greater support of drug and alcohol addiction. eventually the buzz did die down, and the public found a new tragedy to latch onto, and her life was able to return to normal, if you could call it that.

inspirations: kate moss, alicia markova, amber valletta, india stoker (stoker), marquise de merteuil (les liaisons dangereuses), daisy buchanan (the great gatsby), ava lord (sin city)

HCS

despite being an LA person now, there is possibly nothing in this world adelaide loathes more than LA people and if she could get away with it she would push them into an open fan and watch them be shredded

always had anger issues, even as a child, though she’s always been good at hiding it. sometimes she’d slip up. like one time her dad told her to lose a tennis match to his associate’s son and she broke the racket on his head after the match. she tries not to break rackets on people’s heads now.

a wretched person, but she will make an effort to be liked because adelaide is in fact very concerned with how everyone perceives her (well, everyone who she thinks matters)

if you think the vibe is ‘i don’t know what happened to my husband, officer. she says, wiping a single tear, waltzing around her manor in a Catherine D’Lish robe.’ you would be correct

absolutely looooooooves nature / wildlife documentaries, she could spend hours just curled up on her couch watching this stuff if she had the time.  but does she like animals? questionable. she doesn’t like cats. doesn’t like puppies. she has a snake, which she... well, it’s there. she feeds it sometimes. she also does seem to have an affinity for horses, or whatever her version of affinity is.

her and her family go hunting once a year, it looks very village of the damned when they get together. they’re all weird.

she also quite enjoys noir films, old hollywood movies, french cinema will forever have its special place in her heart. and she does tend to lean towards liking things with a more tragic ending. the same often applies to literature (think anna karenina, the great gatsby, etc)

she loves art! loves going to museums, and it’s a pretty big fan of kandinsky, pollock, picasso, etc. nothing she hates more than when she’s trying to disassociate from life looking at a painting and people try and make conversation :-)

you know what else she hates? sharing. if you’re friends with her and you have other friends? she hates that shit. she won’t admit it, she’ll just be passive aggressive about it if she thinks she can get away with it. the fact other people exist and demand attention? fucked up and she won’t hear about it.

[we-joyless-few]

ok! now that i’ve reblogged all the posts i wanted to from my main video games blog, here’s a new pinned post! (will be updated as more tags are made or if info changes)

hi! here’s my We Happy Few-centric sideblog!

i use it/he pronouns

on this blog, i will go by Lightbearer or Joy! (Charlie works too but w/e)

owned by @jazzedpunk / @betty-fandom-blog

i was born in 2002, so yeah👍

if anyone wants my discord, here it be!:

@/moosetrackart

meant to add, here’s my AO3:

roenixph0enix

—

tag list under the cut!

and psst, we're plural, so sometimes you might hear about Sally or others of us!

#from the parade

personal tag

#from the garden

personal vent tag

#from the village

plurality or system-related posts

#from the sandbox

posts relating to my experiences playing WHF

#from the stream

adding this one to separate my stuff about streaming

#blank’s posts

posts from my old blog

#saving old tags:

for when i’m saving tags from my old blog or previous reblogs i’ve done

#self-rb

reblogging from myself

#art

my art

#ocs

my oc tag

#others’ ocs

for other ppls’ ocs

#scribbles of a lightbearer

for my writings (scenarios, fanfics, etc.)

#angst

for my angsty writings

#ship post

posts involving shipping of any kind

#rb

reblogging from other people

#not mine

for posts that aren’t mine

#not my tags: / #prev tags:

for when i save OP’s or the previous person’s tags

#we kinky few

for any suggestive/adult content. block that tag if under 18 pls!

i tag individual fandoms as well as any characters in the posts if i can, just to keep things organized!

posts that are centered around a video or audio track will be tagged accordingly(#video or #audio), and asks are tagged with #ask and either #anonymous or the url of the person asking. links are tagged as #link or #links.

also, any fics i post will be tagged with their titles, so if you don’t like those specifically, then you can block those tags!

fics so far:

Waking Up Again

[nikhil-patil]

 Playground of Nations

This is a follow up iteration of my last post which was written without the help of any AI assistance. This is a iteration which was made with the help of Chat gpt.

Scene 1: The Playground of Innocence

Children giggle and crawl around in a vibrant playground, surrounded by soft grass and colorful play equipment. A solitary caretaker watches over them, her weary eyes trying to follow their chaotic movements. The children, each with a distinct personality, clamor for her attention.

She kneels beside a child crying over a fallen block tower, gently wiping away tears. However, as she focuses on one, the others start to demand her attention, tugging at her sleeve, pointing to their scrapes, or shouting to be noticed.

The caretaker sighs. "I can only handle so much at once," she whispers to herself.

Scene 2: The Spark of Conflict

Suddenly, the mood shifts.

Two children start bickering over a toy. The argument escalates into a chaotic scuffle. One child pulls out a stuffed toy seemingly from thin air and begins swinging it like a weapon. Another grabs a Lego brick and hurls it with surprising accuracy, hitting the first child on the arm.

A milk bottle flies across the room, narrowly missing a child's head. In retaliation, a toddler in a baby walker presses a button, and the walker transforms into a sturdy shield. Another child leaps into a baby stroller, which accelerates forward, charging at the others like a battering ram.

The caretaker, cradling a crying infant in one arm, stands frozen in the corner, her lips parted in shock. "Stop this... please," she murmurs, but her voice is drowned by the commotion.

Scene 3: The Evolution of Chaos

In a blink, the children begin to change.

The child swinging the stuffed toy grows taller and muscular, his skin turning green like a miniature Hulk. The child with the Lego bricks now launches enormous Lego structures like artillery, the colorful blocks forming buildings that crash into the playground.

The milk-bottle thrower laughs maniacally, now commanding a hoard of flying bottles that hover like drones, ready to bomb their targets. The baby walker has morphed into a towering fortress on wheels, impervious to attacks, while the stroller has evolved into a sleek, flying jet, circling the playground like a predator.

The caretaker stares, paralyzed by fear, as the chaos unfolds. She tries to step forward but stops, realizing her intervention might worsen the situation.

Scene 4: War-Torn Playground

The once-cheerful playground now resembles a war zone. Craters dot the soft turf, smoke rises from toppled jungle gyms, and the sandbox has been transformed into a barren wasteland.

Two groups remain, each battered but resolute. On one side, the fortress and its formidable shield stand firm. On the other, the flying jet circles aggressively, its weapons aimed at the fortress.

The caretaker, unnoticed in the corner, sinks to her knees. Her surroundings blur, her gaze locking onto the chaos before her.

Scene 5: The Laboratory Revelation

The camera zooms in on the caretaker's wide, fearful eyes. The scene distorts, pixelating into a flurry of data streams and graphs. The sounds of battle fade, replaced by the quiet hum of machinery.

The data resolves onto a massive screen in a sterile lab, where two scientists in white coats observe. One scribbles notes on a clipboard while the other adjusts settings on a control panel.

"The simulation is complete," the first scientist says, removing her glasses.

"Interesting," the second replies. "The children—our AI constructs—acted exactly as predicted. Resource scarcity and competition led to rapid escalation and conflict. Just like... the real world."

The first scientist nods, gesturing to the frozen war zone on the screen. "The playground represents Earth. The children are AIs with free will, designed to simulate nations. The caretaker symbolizes limited resources. We’ve created this simulation to understand warfare dynamics and develop countermeasures."

The second scientist leans back, watching the data scroll. "Amazing how even artificial intelligence, when given free rein, mirrors the imagination and chaos of children. Perhaps that’s where the most innovative solutions—and dangers—come from."

The camera pans out, revealing a sprawling lab filled with monitors, each displaying similar chaotic simulations. The playground fades to black, replaced by the chilling hum of artificial intelligence running wild, contained only by the boundaries of its digital world.

Narrator's Voiceover: "The playground is Earth. The children are nations, locked in a perpetual battle for limited resources. But this story is not real—it is a simulation, a glimpse into the imagination of artificial intelligence given freedom to explore. Through chaos, we find understanding. Through imagination, we seek solutions."