#shortcuts are good! this is not a competition!!

[overmystars]

The Until Dawn cast and Mario Kart Wii... I pondered very long and very hard about this question... and return bearing real and true answers (headcanons and rambles ⬇️)

Beth: Insane MKWii goddess. Grew up on the game and played constantly. Put lots of time into learning a handful of ultra shortcuts and sometimes pisses everybody off by using these just for fun. The group can count on one hand the amount of times she hasn't gotten 1st. Can efficiently use any controller, but prefers the Wii classic controller. Put crazy time trials on every single track that remain unbeaten to this day. Not that Josh would ever beat them even if he could. She'll always be remembered through the ghosts she left. Josh has thought about booting the game up just to drive around with her again but... hasn't

Hannah: Prefers coin runners to racing. Peach main as soon as Beth became a Daisy main (matchies) chose the prettiest vehicle and is sticking with it <3 didn't play nearly as much as her siblings but did spend many hours watching both Beth and Josh grind glitches/time trials and stars. Wii wheel user!

Josh: Really good at this game. He can get fiercely competitive too, depending on who else is playing. Otherwise he's chill. Played almost as much as Beth did- and spent hours and hours trying to get stars on every cup to unlock Dry Bowser. He refused any help from Beth and celebrated for a week when he finally did it. Prefers how Jr feels to play and breaks him out when he's feeling particularly competitive but otherwise sticks to Dry Bowser because he's not letting that effort go to waste. Changes controller based on who he's racing, to "make it easier for you". Prefers the GameCube controller

Sam: Rarely ever places below 4th. She also grew up on this game through the Washingtons and has lots of fond memories spending sleepovers with it and the siblings. She's very humble, and doesn't usually say anything when getting 1st. She grins though (Josh loves that grin). Always down for battle mode! Plays with the Wii remote + nunchuck

Chris: Winning the custody battle over Rosalina with Emily. Usually when Em is also playing he doesn't get first dibs. So he goes Waluigi and mimics him every time he has a voice line. Funny at first but now it drives everyone (except Josh who joins in) insane. More and more often Em lets him have Rosalina just to spare herself from the constant Waluigi impressions. He's either really good or really bad depending on the tracks and typical MKWii luck. Goes for super fast vehicles with like no other good stats and either flies through courses and has super easy victories or has the worst time and comes dead last. Uses the GameCube controller

Ashley: Bad luck magnet. Hit by every shell. Trips on every banana. Once she used a bullet while over a gap and it just carried her into the abyss instead of saving her. She hasn't let this go and it happened 2 years ago. Vibes with Toadette and chooses her in any game she's an option. Also prefers coin runners and is usually content to just watch the others play. Another Wii wheel user!

Emily: Losing the custody battle over Rosalina with Chris. Goes with Birdo as an alternative. Is arguably even better when playing her. She was immediately amazing the first time she played. Gets really really competitive and Beth and Josh love the challenge and the intensity that comes with Emily's gloating and high confidence. Doesn't play the game outside of when at the Washington's but knows a good few shortcuts and tricks because she spent hours looking into it when she got home to ensure victory in the future. Plays with the Wii classic controller

Matt: Likes balloon battle and always pushes for team racing. Pretty average player. His character/kart combo is so light that he often gets bumped onto the off-road and pits, but he refuses to change. That's just a little guy right there in his little car! Something Matt appreciates. Really really insane on Rainbow Road for some reason. While being a Wii wheel user! Beth and Josh don't get how that's possible and hype him up every time

Mike: (Unknowingly at first) uses the best character/kart combo. Still gets 6th or lower 74% of the time. Always really cocky for some reason. Uses the plain Wii remote without the wheel (where is your whimsy, Michael?)

Jess: She got 1st once and brings this up any time anyone makes fun of her for hitting every possible obstacle. Still usually does better than Mike and is super vocal while playing, commenting on everything that happens. Wii remote + nunchuck

[giantkillerjack]

Idk who needs to hear this but whenever folks are like "they didn't even do real art, they used a 3d model to help with the pose!!",

all i hear is some snooty priss in 1833 going, "they didn't even do real art, they looked at a PHOTOGRAPH for reference!! That's CHEATING!!"

Like, 3D models are not A.I.! They are morally neutral modern art tools (that, by the way, very much still require effort and skill to use)!

Shortcuts in art technology [that don't steal other people's art] are good actually!! People should use them!

Whenever people disparage someone's artistic ability because that person openly says they use 3d models, I'm just like,

Okay

DO PRAY TELL, what other amazing advancements in modern art technology count as "cheating"? Perspective grids? Lasso tools? Color correction? Pattern brushes? Symmetry rulers? Undo buttons?? Shortcut keys??? - Aren't you a bit young to be an old man yelling at clouds??

[maiaczy]

Terence mayhaps

What if Terence D'Arby was in the Jojolands

Who do you guys think each of them would main in mario kart (my headcanons under the cut)

Jodio - Shy Guy (specifically the dark blue version)

Lowkey a pro at this game. Likes to challenge himself in time trials and knows all the best cart combinations. If there is a shortcut on the track, he WILL take it (and will almost always be successful). Actually enjoys Rainbow Road (the real reason for his psychopath diagnosis).

Dragona - Pink Gold Peach (I could see them picking Daisy too)

Just there to have a good time tbh. At least most of the time, because every now and then when they're doing particularly well their competitive streak kicks in, and trust me – once they get into it, they get REALLY into it (cross them at your own risk). Favorite track is Cheep Cheep Beach.

Paco - Bowser

He thinks gaming is dumb and a waste of time (definitely not because he sucks at it). On the rare occasion he does get convinced to play, he keeps bumping into walls and other players (it doesn't help that he picks one of the heaviest characters in the game). Known for notoriously running into banana peels. Gaming sessions usually end in him "inviting" the other players to the gym.

Usagi - Luigi

Relates to Luigi on a personal level for being the underappreciated helper of the group. He's actually quite good at the game. His aim is freakishly accurate and he loves to hoard items to target other players (for unknown reasons they seem to hit everyone but Dragona). Similarly to Jodio, he takes shortcuts almost every chance he gets, but unlike Jodio, it doesn't always go so well. Also probably likes Baby Park like the freak he is.

Charmingman - Dry Bones

Used to play with Mauka a lot, so he's surprisingly good, and can get quite competitive too. Drives solely on bikes, which give him some good ol' maneuverabilty to avoid all those damn banana peels Usagi keeps throwing around. Secretly loves the music tracks and sometimes listens to them while riding his bike irl, imagining himself to be in a race. Favorite item is Boo.

[skyenish]

| Vil Schoenheit analysis and animatic: my interpretation on Vil’s character and overblot 👑 |

———

(I haven’t read the newest book 7 chapters yet since I play on EN)

I’ve always interpreted Vil’s story as one of validation. He may be confident, he knows his worth, and yet he can’t give himself the validation he wants/needs. Hes got tenacity and believes in working hard to be his perfect self, which is admirable, but one must wonder how much of that ‘perfect self’ is influenced by others. What really is ‘the fairest of them all’? He works so hard to achieve what he thinks it is, and even after all that hard work he’s still second best to Neige.

Vil isn’t dumb, he knows his worth, he knows that Neige works hard too, and yet it stings. Do others dont appreciate how much effort you put in? He chases validation and because of that can’t truly love himself, which is exactly what Rook meant with what he said to Vil after book 5’s ending, something how about when Vil is old and wrinkly, as long as he truly believes he’s the fairest of them all, he is.

When Vil tried to cheat, tried to poison Neige, his whole world collapsed. His overblot was a very internal issue, unlike the other Overblotters, because he wasn’t being tenacious, he took a shortcut, which he famously doesn’t like. He’s the monster he thinks others think he is, partly because of his typecasting and the bullying he endured when he was younger. He let other people affect him so much, it’s a huge part of his overblot.

This is just my interpertation of course, but I barely see anyone talk about Vil’s character and OB besides his surface level jealousy towards Neige, and I think we should talk more about him. He is already trying, working so hard, but it’ll never be enough for him for as long as he isn’t happy with it himself. His perfection is toxic. Its admirable how hard he works, and he’s an incredibly smart, talented and even confident person, but his desire for perfection, for validation, would’ve destroyed him. There’s a reason he overblotted, and its not just because ‘waaah waaah I always get typecasted as the villain and mu rival is gonna win a competition 🥺🥺’, its so, SO much more!

I want more discussions about Vil because he has so much more depth than people give him credit for. He teaches us the important lesson of loving yourself, though he’s not very good at it himself yet! I’m sorry if this analysis is all over the place, I just wanted to ramble, and I just so happened to have made a sort of corresponding animatic!

Uhh that was my ted talk about Vil. Falls of stage and breaks my neck

[meazalykov]

the forest

salma paralluelo x orienteer!reader (request)

summary: your girlfriend tries to understand the sport you participate in

salma is a bit confused when you first invite her to watch one of your orienteering competitions live. 

she’s seen a few races on tv, but never in person, and you can tell by the way she fidgets with her hands that she’s nervous, even if she won’t admit it.

“are you sure you are not just going to get lost in the woods?” she jokes when you’re explaining how it works, but there’s a hint of genuine concern in her voice.

“i will be fine,” you laugh, kissing her before heading to the starting area. 

“i’ll see you after i win, okay?”

she watches you run off with the rest of the competitors, map and compass in hand, disappearing into the forest within seconds. and for the first time, salma realizes she has no idea what’s actually happening. 

she looks around at the other spectators, all of them more prepared than her with binoculars, and GPS trackers to follow the competitors’ progress.

“what am i even supposed to be looking at?” she mumbles to herself, squinting at the forest.

in her mind, she wished that she brought esmee or alexia with her– just for some company.

“you’re here for y/n, right?”

salma turns to see a girl standing next to her, probably in her late teens, sporting a y/n fan t-shirt. her eyes are wide and excited, and salma smiles awkwardly, hoping this girl can help.

“yeah… how’d you know?”

“well, you looked super confused. that’s usually how people are when they come to watch y/n for the first time,” the girl says, a laugh bubbling up. 

“i’m natalie, by the way. big fan of hers.”

salma’s relieved that someone knows what’s going on. 

“i’m salma. nice to meet you. so, um, can you explain what i’m supposed to be watching?”

natalie grins. “okay, so it’s orienteering, right? everyone gets a map with specific points they need to reach in a set order. those points are marked by little orange and white flags hidden in the forest. the goal is to navigate to each flag as fast as possible using just the map and a compass. no GPS or shortcuts. once they find the flag, there’s a sensor that registers their time.”

salma raises her eyebrows. “so, they’re just… running around trying to find these flags?”

“pretty much,” natalie says, shrugging. 

“but it’s way more technical than it looks. like, you have to be good at reading the map while running, keeping track of where you are, and planning the best routes to each point. that’s what makes y/n so good—she’s super fast and she barely ever makes mistakes with her navigation.”

“that sounds intense.” salma glances toward the dense trees where you disappeared, her respect for you growing with every word natalie says.

salma and you met outside of both of your sports. in fact, it was a mutual friend who set you both up at a party. 

when she found out that you did a sport too, she was happy to get familiar with it. even if it sounded confusing. 

“yeah, it’s mental,” natalie agrees, nodding. “and y/n’s one of the best. she’s won a ton of races.”

salma smiles softly, feeling proud. “i know. i’ve watched her a few times on tv, but this is my first time seeing it live.”

“oh, really? well, you’re in for a treat. she’s amazing to watch in person. plus, if she’s in the best mood, she’ll be back here at the finish in no time.”

salma watches as competitors start emerging from the forest, some sprinting toward the finish line, others clearly frustrated, taking longer routes back. 

every now and then, a beep goes off as they punch in at the last control point near the finish.

natalie’s eyes light up suddenly. “look! there she is!”

salma’s heart skips a beat as she spots you darting out from between the trees, sweat running down your face but a determined expression set in your features. 

you’re one of the fastest runners out there, navigating the final stretch like it’s second nature.

“she’s flying,” salma mutters in awe, watching as you punch your last point and sprint toward the finish line. 

within seconds, you cross it, panting and grinning widely.

natalie claps excitedly. “she did it! i think she might’ve won!”

salma’s too busy watching you catch your breath to hear the announcer confirm it, but when you glance her way, she waves excitedly, a proud smile taking over her face. 

you give her a tired thumbs-up before turning to cool down with your teammates.

“wow,” salma breathes, still trying to process the speed and skill you just showed. “that was insane.”

natalie grins at her. 

“told you she’s amazing.”

salma chuckles. 

“you really know a lot about this sport.”

“yeah, been following orienteering since i was a kid. and y/n’s one of my favorites.” 

natalie shuffles her feet, a little shy all of a sudden. 

“she’s, uh, actually the reason i started orienteering.”

“really?” salma’s eyes soften, touched by the girl’s enthusiasm. “you want to meet her?”

natalie’s jaw drops. “wait, are you serious?”

“of course! it’s the least i can do after you explained everything to me,” salma says, already walking toward you. 

natalie hesitates for a moment, then quickly follows.

you’re still cooling off when you see salma and a nervous-looking girl approaching. you smile, wiping your face with a towel.

“hey, you,” salma greets you, pulling you into a quick hug. “you were amazing out there.”

“thanks,” you mumble, catching your breath. your eyes shift to natalie, who’s staring at you in awe. 

“who’s your friend?”

“this is natalie. she’s a huge fan of yours and explained the whole race to me. i thought i’d bring her over to meet you.” salma grins, gesturing to natalie. 

natalie’s cheeks flush red as she stammers, “i-it’s such an honor to meet you, y/n. i’ve been following your career for years. you’re… you’re incredible.”

“thank you, natalie. that means a lot. and thanks for helping salma out—she probably would’ve been totally lost without you.” you chuckle softly, reaching out to pull the girl into a hug. 

“definitely,” salma adds, laughing. 

“i was ready to run into the forest myself and find out what was going on.”

natalie laughs too, the tension easing as she relaxes around you. 

“seriously, though, you were amazing today. i think you won.”

“we’ll find out soon enough, but i’m glad you got to see it live. there’s something special about being here, right?” you nod, smiling at her enthusiasm. 

“definitely,” natalie agrees, her smile wide. “and i’ll be cheering for you at every race i can.”

“same here. even if i don’t fully get it yet, i’ll always be here when i don’t have my own games.” salma wraps an arm around your waist, squeezing gently. 

you laugh softly, looking between salma and natalie.

“you two are the best.”

to whoever requested, I hope you liked this!! I tried my best to do some research before writing :D

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 109

Geralt is a witcher. Cats tend to distance themselves from witchers. Sometimes Geralt wonders what cats are like. So one day he asks. "Cats are lovely. Beautiful little sweethearts." The old woman who owns the inn says to him. "Cats are annoying varmints, always yowling in the middle of the night when they're in heat, they SCREAM their little heads off, can't catch a wink of sleep with them around!" A man passing by him in the market complains, with the anger of someone who has clearly thought about this a lot. "My cat isn't the biggest fan of being touched, but she's a good girl. Catches the mice." "They're evil little hellions, nothing compared to dogs. Don't even like their owners." "I'd like 'em a whole lot more if my way of living wasn't being a fisherman. They climb in at night and steal my best catches." "They're adorable!" "My cat is the cuddliest sweetest snuggliest little kitty to ever live, I think. Nobody will ever love me as much as he loves me." "My friend has a kitten! She already knows to chase the feathers we wave in front of her! I hope she still plays when she grows up." Opinions are varied in the town, but the majority seem to love them. He wants to know what they're like, not if they are liked. He sits down with a friendlier townie one afternoon and asks in detail what cats are like. What's great about them, what's bad about them, what do they like, what do they hate, what can they do, what have they done? The more she describes cats, however, the more Geralt can't help but be reminded of Jaskier. "They're playful. They love making noise and chasing things."

"Geralt, please, can't I play my lute? It's been fourteen whole minutes of SILENCE! Let me play a song!" "Why do you stay?" "Maybe I just like following you, Geralt. It's nice only having to pay for half of everything, after all."

"They're moody little things. Cats will want to cuddle you one second, and be left alone the next, and if you can't read their mind, they'll give you an annoyed little pouty face, as if you were meant to know better!"

"Geralt, do you mind if I...?" "If you what?" "Sit here?" "...My lap?" "That is where I'm sitting, yes. May I?" "...Mm." "Great thanks!~" "Geralt, you pissing idiot! I can't believe you! Don't touch me! Don't even look at me! How could you do something so so so SO stupid!?" "This is my job, Jaskier." "And apparently sewing up your arm is mine!" "I can take care of it." "Oh, I'm meant to just trust the man who went off and got mauled by a werewolf, then?"

"They enjoy a good sleep. Cats nap more than my old man, if you can believe it. They love comfort and luxury."

"Geralt, can't we stay at an inn? It's been so long." "Can we rest? Just for a bit? Pleaaaase? I want a nap. Don't I deserve it?" "Geralt, not to be ungrateful, but I think sleeping on the dirt would be better than this inn. Don't tell me you're making us sleep here. There's probably snakes nesting in the pillows."

"But at the same time, they love the grittiest bits of the outdoors. Chasing rabbits through tunnels, climbing trees after a songbird- My childhood cat used to dive in the swamp to catch frogs."

"Geralt, taking a shortcut through the bog is the easiest way to get to the competition in time! Now hurry along! Either I cross the bog alone, or you come with me!" "Geralt, I went looking for potion ingredients while you were skinning the deer!" "Geralt, are you going to cut the damn thing's head off or what? Wait, darling, are you alright? Are you hurt? Let me do it-"

"They sometimes bring you dead critters because they want to feed you. It's oddly very endearing."

"Geralt, I bought you some honey buns!" "I found some lovely cakes, do you want one, Geralt? You haven't eaten at all today." "I- I killed it. It was coming straight for you and I panicked. Am I bleeding? I can't quite tell because of the adrenaline, so am I bleeding or not, Gerelt? Can you tell me? Are YOU bleeding? Did I get it in time?" "I got so many tips last time I played, Geralt, you can get a bigger meal."

"They get themselves into trouble a lot, though. Places they shouldn't be, things they shouldn't touch, things they shouldn't eat."

"Geralt, I didn't mean to cause all of this. I'm sorry." "It's nothing, Jaskier. I'm just glad you're unharmed." "...Um... Geralt? Can you let go of my wrists now?" "Don't. Touch. Anything. The plant's spines are poisonous." "Jaskier, spit it out! SPIT IT OUT! I told you to stop fucking eating things in Yennefer's place" "Then why was it colored like a nice candy?"

"When they're scared or angry, they can make a right mess out of you. Don't let their cuteness fool you, they can do some damage."

"What else was I supposed to do, Geralt?" "Not punch him!" "He said you were a monster!" "I am!" "Do you want me to punch YOU?" "Geralt, I lost my dagger. It was in one of the bandits we chased away." "Geralt, will you teach me how to use a sword? Nothing fancy, just how to kill something."

"But above all, they're loyal, and loving. Ever so lovely. They'd die for you, if you treated them nice enough." "Thank you for telling me. I.. Have to go." Geralt stammers out, racing away to the inn he left Jaskier in. "Oh, hello, Geralt. Did you find a contact?" And Geralt yanks him close, and hugs him. He should try kissing him one of these days. Either way, Geralt won't mourn for the cat he can never have, for he has a Jaskier, and it's close enough.

[bleaksqueak]

just wanted to say, as a fellow artist, THANK YOU for talking about shortcuts 🙏🙏 ive had baggage over not doing art """properly""" (re: the repetitive frustrating way just to prove i can), and im finally letting myself use tricks like warping and textured brushes and such, but i still feel weird sometimes. then i see a batshit amazing artist like you uses them, and i feel better. so thanks 😭 (and yes aye-eye is not included in this, mass theft isnt a shortcut)

The great thing about baggage is you can and absolutely should work up to just checking that crap in at the front desk and then conveniently forget to ever pick it back up~ Seriously though, it's no problem, and I'm glad to hear you're loosening up with it! If it helps, shortcuts are drilled into you if you work professionally in art. The only people who don't use shortcuts who work professionally are people who simply don't want to (be it stubbornly or out of enjoyment) and people who can afford to (names so big that deadlines will either be lenient or are dictated by the artist themself) The urgency to do everything the painstakingly hard way is, weirdly enough, a mindset most common in hobbyist spaces. People who want to do it that way (out of enjoyment, out of pride) are more than welcome to do it (as I'll sometimes just do slow crosshatching, no special brushes, because I find it relaxing)... but those who insist others do it or they aren't a real artist are often speaking from a position of bad faith, or are repeating what they had drilled into them by another hobbyist or their childhood/teen year art teachers, *or* are doing it to place themselves on a pedestal competitively. So, basically! Do things manually if you feel like it, but also know that there's hardly a "pro" out there that doesn't utilize a lot of fun little tricks and shortcuts. We still do it by our artistry, which is where the line is drawn with generated bullshit (also, you know, it's theft), but I guess a good way to look at it is like this: When you're drawing a piece of storytelling art or a comic page and the character has an elaborate costume with chains (my own character's lapel pins... we can look at Spawn, or a Nomura character and their department store of belts)...What's more important? The intricate detail of the chain, proving you can do it (again and again and again, since every angle would need to be drawn anew) Or the character acting, the composition, the atmosphere? It's the aspects that tell something about the character, the action, and the story that are always going to win out and matter, meaning that chain is just busy work-- a prime candidate for a quick swipe of a chain brush, or if you're me, this little friend:

So, yeah!! At the end of the day, the most important thing is to do what brings you joy or what meets your goal. I do love drawing clothes and I love details (love patterns and gold details especially)... but I also love finishing my work and shortcuts allow me to focus on the charcter acting and the atmosphere instead! Go forth and don't feel guilty. So long as you're not stealing from anyone and having fun, you're not doing anything wrong.

[t2316m]

I need to go to the gym, but I don’t wanna so here are some batfam workout hcs that were made purely to procrastinate

Dick is a calisthenics guy 100%, and he is pretentious about it to his family and other heroes (ie: doing handstands during team meetings or just hitting a pose somebody with a spine should never do just to rub his flexibilty in Bruce *cannot touch his toes* Wayne’s face)

However he also believes in having fun while exercising and so Dick pays extra at his gym to attend every single group workout class they offer from yoga to cycling circuit, to aqua zumba, he’s always the youngest and only male to ever attend any of the classes but he likes them and the old ladies there always offer the best gossip in Gotham

Nightwing also swears by cardio drumming techniques when beating ppl up with his escrima sticks

—

Jason is the opposite of Dick, he simply doesn’t work out

Or he claims he doesn’t

He claims that his muscles are just genetics, and that he’s always been more athletic and muscular and that’s how he survived in crime alley as a kid

Tim calls bull and says that it was probably some Lazarus pit magic which Damian disproves claiming that that’s not how the pit works and that Todd is just some sort of genetic anomaly

In reality Jason has muscles because he doesn’t own a car or a butler. His bike is used exclusively by red hood as any civilian with a bike that expensive is a walking target and he cannot be bothered.

This leads to his primary mode of transportation being his feet, he doesn’t trust Gotham public transit to get him to where he needs in a timely manner so he walks/runs everywhere occasionally scaling a rooftop or two as a shortcut, he’s been doing this since he was a kid pre Batman so he’s quite used to it.

His suit and guns are also significantly heavier then the other bat’s suits and weapons which also gives him the extra muscle despite “not working out”

—

Tim also doesn’t work out, but he genuinely doesn’t work out outside of being Red Robin, which is honestly a workout in itself

His strength and endurance typically comes from a mix of adrenaline, high pain tolerance, and stubbornness, that help him pull off inhumane feats

It is also a recipe for injury which Bruce has stressed multiple times but Tim believes that as long as he stretches he’ll be fine,

He is not fine and god knows his bones and joints snap, crackle, and pop all the time but his nighttime extracurriculars are enough to keep him toned and in shape

On rare occasions he will be spotted in a gym either productively with Steph and Duke or competitively with Damian

—

Damian’s “workouts”which he firmly refers to as training typically consists of sparring nonstop along with practicing martial arts

He spends hours demolishing training dummies and punching bags to get his blood flowing, but he’s not allowed to train outside of the cave as his exercises has cost Alfred far too much property damage. Alfred mourns the loss of his meticulously crafted shrubbery to this day.

Damian’s also really competitive cause he’s like 10 and he’s constantly challenging people, this however backfires when his siblings don’t go easy on him and it usually ends with him losing and sulking(a lot)

Damian’s favorite challenge, besides when one of his siblings pulls out a stopwatch and times him as he runs around to complete a random task is to do an endurance off on the stairmaster

It’s the one thing he consistently wins at regardless of his opponent. Bruce practically invented the grappling hook to prevent having to use stairs and that distain of stairs has been passed on to all of his children expect his biological one

It’s not even about the endurance, it’s more about the boredom of stair climbing, no amount of good vibes and hype songs is enough to get past more than an hour of repetitive stair climbing.

Damian however enjoys it, if he closes his eyes and zones out it brings him back to the days of the league where the architecture had hundreds of steps he was expected to climb multiple times a day and unlike most memories of the league it brings him nostalgia and peace.

Tim’s gotten the closest to beating Damian on the stairmaster with a completely different approach of pretending he’s climbing the staircase to heaven, no he doesn’t really believe in heaven or god but he sure as hell will not let his inability to climb stairs be the reason he can’t get in, he thinks of it as practice for when he dies, a contingency of sorts

[inkandtension]

Cupid’s Bow.

Request: Minho x fem reader, angst, Enemies to lovers, inspired by : the beach by the neighbourhood

requested by: @hannamoon143

this is kinda long…. Sorry it took a long time! 😀🧍🏽‍♀️

Y/N, a fiercely dedicated archer training for an upcoming national competition, finds her already packed schedule upended when she's forced to collaborate with Minho, a renowned digital artist, on a promotional campaign celebrating diverse skill sets. From the moment they meet, sparks fly—but not the good kind. Minho, known for his sharp tongue and stunning creativity, quickly dismisses archery as “a medieval hobby trying to stay relevant,” while Y/N fires back with equal venom, calling digital art nothing more than "drawing for lazy people who don't know how to use a pencil."

The tension is palpable during their first brainstorming session, held in a sleek, minimalist studio that feels worlds away from Y/N's earthy training grounds. Minho's snide remarks about her calloused fingers and outdated sport clash with Y/N's pointed criticisms of his reliance on technology. Neither wants to back down, their arguments simmering with the kind of intensity that draws everyone's attention.

“Guys, please stop, now’s not the time!” they’d all start complaining and half of them lose the will to work seeing the fight almost everyday.

Y/N is at the archery range, her focus razor-sharp as she nocks an arrow and lets it fly, hitting the bullseye with ease. As she adjusts her archer's glove, Minho strolls in, a sketchpad and tablet under his arm. His amused smirk makes her blood boil before he even speaks.

“So this is it? Shooting at a target over and over again? Sounds thrilling,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

She glares at him, holding up her glove-covered hand.

“This is precision and skill. Not that you’d understand with your stylus and Photoshop shortcuts.” Minho lifts his own gloved hand and wiggles it mockingly.

“Right, because my work, which takes hours of layering and digital rendering, is just so easy. Sure.”

Y/N narrows her eyes, stepping off the shooting line to face him fully, the faint creak of her leather glove breaking the silence. "It is easy," she fires back, her voice calm but cutting. "You make a mistake? Undo button. I make a mistake? That arrow’s gone. There's no second chance."

Minho raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he sets his sketchpad and tablet on the nearest bench. "You think every line I draw is perfect the first time? Newsflash, Robin Hood, creativity doesn’t come with a manual. At least you’ve got a fixed target to aim at. My job is creating something from nothing."

Her lips tighten into a thin line, the insult stinging despite her resolve to keep her cool. “Creating from nothing? Is that what you call copying filters and adding shadows? My three-year-old nephew could do that.”

Minho lets out a short laugh, the kind that feels more like a jab. “Oh, sure. And let me guess—he could also spend days conceptualizing a campaign while having to work with someone who thinks flinging pointy sticks at hay bales is the pinnacle of human achievement?”

Y/N’s jaw tightens, her patience thinning. She takes a slow step toward him, each word deliberate. “It’s not about flinging arrows, Minho. It’s about discipline, control, and hitting a goal with precision every single time. Something tells me that’s a little out of your league.”

He mimics her slow step, closing the distance between them, his smirk fading into something sharper, more competitive. “And you think shooting at the same target all day makes you superior? Try creating something people actually care about—something that’ll outlive you. That’s real skill.”

The air between them crackles with tension, their glares locked as if daring the other to make the next move. Finally, Y/N breaks the silence, her voice steady but icy. “You know, you talk a lot of trash for someone who’s never even held a bow.”

Minho’s eyes flash with challenge. “Oh, is that an invitation? Because I wouldn’t mind showing you up at your own game.”

Y/N crosses her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips now. “Go ahead. But don’t cry when you miss every shot.”

Minho picks up the nearest bow, holding it awkwardly as Y/N watches with thinly veiled amusement. The moment he tries to nock an arrow and fumbles, her laugh escapes, low and mocking.

“Precision and skill, huh?” he mutters, fumbling with the string again.

“And patience,” she says, leaning against a post as she watches him struggle. “But I wouldn’t expect you to have that, either.”

He tries once, his aim steady but completely off-target, and instead of hitting the mark, he accidentally strikes the ground near a worm. She gasps in mock horror, dramatically rushing toward the unsuspecting creature as if to shield it from further harm. Kneeling down, she peers at the worm, her expression turning to exaggerated relief.

“You didn’t even hit the worm. Not even close. The worm didn’t even flinch.” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re aiming at all, or are you just trying to give the worm a heart attack?” “I bet you won’t be good at drawing, either” He said.

“I never said I was.”

…

She’d just released a perfect arrow, the kind that sliced cleanly through the air and struck the target dead center, when her focus wavered. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Minho sitting a few feet away, cross-legged and absorbed in his tablet. His stylus moved deftly over the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration, though his expression carried a hint of annoyance.

“Don’t you have a real job to do?” she snapped, lowering her bow and fixing him with a sharp glare.

Minho didn’t even flinch at her tone. His eyes stayed locked on his screen as he added another stroke to his sketch, shading with meticulous precision. “Funny,” he murmured without looking up, “I thought the same about you.”

He tapped his screen once, then swiveled it around to face her. The drawing was a surprisingly detailed sketch of her—her stance, her bow mid-draw, and her intense focus on the target. But there was an unmistakable exaggeration in her expression: her eyes were wild, her jaw tense, her features twisted with mock ferocity.

“Look,” he said dryly, holding it out with a smirk. “It’s a very angry archer.”

Y/N bristled, her grip tightening on the bow. “At least I’m not hiding behind a screen all day, imagining what it’s like to actually do something,” she shot back, her voice clipped.

Finally, Minho tilted his head up to meet her glare, his lips curving into an infuriatingly slow smirk. “Well, some of us use our creativity a little more… digitally,” he countered, his tone maddeningly calm.

Her frustration flared, and she stepped closer, extending her gloved hand toward him. “You think this is just imagination?” she challenged, her voice low but charged with irritation. She held up her hand, pointing out the distinct design of her glove—the archer’s glove, snugly fitted to her hand, with the fingers for the index, middle, and thumb covered for grip and precision.

Minho’s gaze flicked to her hand and then to his own. He raised his hand slightly, revealing his own glove, sleek and minimal, with only the pinky and ring fingers covered to avoid smudging his screen.

“See?” she said, her tone icy. “We’re just cut from different cloths.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them as they stood there, their gloves a stark contrast to each other. Minho’s smirk softened, replaced by something quieter, more thoughtful. He let out a soft laugh, glancing down at their hands before meeting her eyes again.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice calmer now, almost musing. “But maybe that just means we could complement each other. I mean if you look closely, our gloves together make a whole.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion lingering. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, his lips twitching as if suppressing another smirk. “Who knows? Maybe you’re good at hitting targets, and I’m good at seeing the bigger picture. You never know what that could lead to.”

She scoffed, but there was a faint flush creeping up her neck that she didn’t care to explain. “Get back to your drawing, Minho,” she muttered, turning away before he could notice.

“Gladly,” he replied, his voice laced with amusement. As she stepped back to the range, she could still feel his gaze on her, a quiet tension lingering in the air between them.

…

something terrific happened.

Something that absolutely ruined well, everything.

Y/N arrived at the studio early, as always. She was already irritated, not just by the thought of spending the entire day with Minho, but by the very fact that he had been the one to suggest she’d be the problem. The studio itself was newly constructed, still echoing with the sounds of a place trying to find its identity. The walls were barely dry with paint, and the sharp scent of fresh lumber lingered in the air. There was an unfinished quality to everything—the kind of rawness that made her skin crawl.

She set her bag down with a sigh, pulling out her gear for the shoot—her bow and quiver, her leather gloves. The anticipation for the day’s work was drowned out by the vague sense of discomfort that settled in her chest. She was already imagining the hours ahead: forced smiles, shallow small talk, and of course, Minho’s smug attitude.

She didn’t have to wait long for him to arrive, though. Of course, he showed up late, walking through the door with the same casual stride, as if time was something he could bend to his will. He muttered something under his breath, loud enough for her to hear, though he likely didn’t care if she did. “What’s the rush? Archers must have nothing better to do than sit around and wait.”

Y/N shot him a look, her eyes narrowing with the same irritation that had already been brewing. He didn’t even seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. She ignored his comment, choosing to focus on the task at hand—setting up her gear, making sure everything was in place. She was too professional to get caught up in petty remarks.

Minho, on the other hand, took one look around and immediately began to complain. “This place looks like a construction zone,” he said loudly, as if no one else could hear. “How is anyone supposed to focus with all this mess? This is unprofessional.”

Y/N gritted her teeth but held her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But her patience was wearing thin. “Maybe if you spent less time whining and more time doing your job, we’d already be done,” she snapped, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Minho’s gaze flicked toward her, his expression amused. “I’m just trying to make sure this whole thing doesn’t end up being a disaster,” he retorted, completely unfazed. The session proceeded like this, with them bickering back and forth—her quick to respond to his jabs, him seemingly incapable of shutting up for more than a few seconds at a time.

The photographer kept trying to get them both to focus, but the tension between them was palpable, and the shoot felt anything but smooth. Y/N’s frustration only grew as the minutes ticked by, with Minho’s commentary getting more and more grating. She was starting to wonder if this day would ever end.

Then, just as she was adjusting her stance for another shot, a loud creak echoed through the room. The noise was unsettling, like the very structure of the building was groaning under pressure. Y/N froze, her eyes darting upward as the ceiling above them groaned again, a deep, foreboding sound.

Before anyone could react, a loud crack rang through the room, followed by the distinct sound of something large and heavy breaking free from its supports. The floor beneath them seemed to shudder as part of the ceiling collapsed in a sudden crash, sending debris scattering in all directions. The dust clouded the air, making it impossible to see for a moment.

Y/N was on instinct, ducking as a chunk of wood fell inches from where she’d been standing. Her heart hammered in her chest as she scrambled to her feet, adrenaline flooding her system. She could hear Minho cursing, his voice rising above the chaos.

“What the hell?!” he yelled, coughing through the dust. He sounded genuinely rattled now, a rare occurrence for him. Y/N didn’t waste time looking back at him—her focus shifted entirely to the damage, the pieces of the ceiling that had fallen, some still dangling precariously from the exposed beams above.

“Is everyone alright?” the photographer called out, voice shaking.

As Y/N took a step back to assess the damage, her foot caught on a loose piece of rubble, sending her stumbling forward. She barely registered the movement before something heavy crashed down from above—a massive chunk of ceiling, debris still tumbling in its wake, slammed directly onto her arm.

The pain was immediate and sharp, a searing agony that shot through her entire body as she let out a strangled gasp. Her vision blurred for a moment, the weight of the fallen ceiling pressing down on her arm, pinning her to the floor.

Minho's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with panic. “Y/N!” He was at her side in an instant, his hands reaching to lift the debris, but it was heavy, too heavy for him to move alone. “Shit, are you okay?!” His voice was frantic now, the usual arrogance replaced by something far more raw and urgent.

Y/N gritted her teeth, refusing to let the pain break her focus. She tried to shift her arm, but the pressure from the broken ceiling was relentless. The dust was thick in the air, and every breath she took seemed to make her chest tighten more.

Minho immediately reacted, pulling at the debris with all his strength, but the piece was large, and it barely budged. His face was taut with concentration, his usual smirk completely gone. “Hold on,” he said, voice shaky, but his hands were steady as he tried to lift the chunk of ceiling.

Y/N winced, biting back a cry of pain as the weight shifted slightly. 

Finally, Minho managed to shift enough of the debris off, as staff rushed there to help and evacuate the place. It revealed her arm, now bruising quickly from the force. She inhaled sharply as the weight finally lifted, but the relief was short-lived. Her arm felt heavy, almost useless. She could feel the pain radiating from her wrist, where the ceiling had come down the hardest.

“Shit,” Minho muttered under his breath, looking at her arm with wide eyes. He knelt down beside her, his voice softer now. “Is it broken?”

Y/N clenched her teeth, unwilling to show how badly it hurt. “I don’t know,” she snapped, pulling her arm back slightly to test it. The pain flared up again, sharper this time. “Just help me get out of here.”

When the ambulance finally arrived, its sirens wailing in the distance, Y/N felt a mix of relief and anxiety wash over her. The pain in her arm had only intensified as the adrenaline began to wear off, but she clenched her teeth and focused on the paramedics as they carefully worked to stabilize her.

Minho, however, wasn’t about to let anyone else take charge. As the paramedics made their way to assess her injury, he immediately stepped forward, blocking their path with a protective glare. His usual aloofness had disappeared completely, replaced by a fierce determination.

“I'm coming with her,” he said, his voice low but firm. The paramedics exchanged a quick glance, but neither of them argued, clearly used to people being adamant about staying with loved ones.

Y/N couldn’t help but watch him, her mind a blur of pain and confusion. What was he doing? Why was he being so... concerned? He wasn’t supposed to care. They were just colleagues—rivals, even. Yet, here he was, hovering over her like he couldn’t bear to let go.

When the paramedics gently helped her onto the stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, Minho slid in beside her without a second thought, his hand immediately finding hers. He squeezed it gently, as though reassuring himself more than her.

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly as the door slammed shut behind them, the engine roaring to life as they sped toward the hospital. She was grateful for the warmth of his hand, but she couldn’t quite understand why he was doing this. The words from earlier about how they were “cut from different cloths” echoed in her mind, but his actions now seemed to contradict that.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a comforting motion, his gaze fixed on her face. “You okay?” he asked softly, the usual teasing edge gone from his voice.

She didn’t answer right away, not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure how to respond. She hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of him. But his steady presence, the way he refused to let go of her hand, made something inside her shift.

“Do you think it’s broken?” she asked, her voice tight from the pain. She hadn’t even dared look at it yet, but she could feel the weight of the injury in every movement, a dull throb that was becoming sharper with each passing minute.

Minho’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw clenched as he looked at her arm. “I’m not sure. But we’ll know soon enough.” He shifted closer, almost unconsciously leaning over her, like he was willing to shield her from whatever came next.

Y/N felt her chest tighten, her mind swirling with thoughts she didn’t want to address. She could hear the ambulance’s sirens fading as they raced through the streets, and for a fleeting moment, everything outside of the small space between her and Minho seemed to vanish. The only thing that mattered was the pressure of his hand in hers, the soft rhythm of his breathing, and the unspoken understanding that had settled between them.

She glanced at him, catching his eye. “Why are you really here?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

Minho didn’t flinch or back away, his gaze unwavering as he held her stare. “Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said with a small, but genuine, smile that reached his eyes. “And because I don’t think you’d let me, even if I tried.”

Y/N couldn’t suppress the tiny spark of warmth that flared up at his words, despite everything. She wanted to argue, to tell him to stop pretending like he cared, but deep down, a part of her was grateful for his presence.

The ambulance continued its swift journey toward the hospital, the distance between them closing in ways Y/N hadn’t expected. In that moment, the smirk, the teasing, the tension—all of it faded away, and she was left with only one undeniable truth: Minho wasn’t going anywhere.

The sterile, bright hospital room felt suffocating as Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on her like a boulder. The doctor had just finished delivering the devastating news, and the silence that followed felt suffocating.

“I’m sorry, but with these injuries, archery is not something you’ll be able to pursue again at the competitive level,” the doctor had said. His tone was gentle, but it made the words no less crushing. “Your fingers will need time to heal, but they may never fully recover.”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her stomach as she processed what the doctor had said. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, her mind racing through a whirlwind of disbelief and dread. She stared at her arm, still wrapped in a cast, and then down at her fingers, which felt oddly stiff and foreign, as if they were no longer a part of her.

My fingers… Her mind spiraled. Archery had been her life, her passion—her future. She’d spent years working to get to this point, training endlessly, sacrificing everything for the sport. To hear that all of that could be taken away in an instant was like being ripped apart from the inside out.

The tears threatened to surface, but she refused to let them fall. She’d never been one to show weakness, not when everything she’d worked for was being stripped away in one cruel blow. Instead, she clenched her jaw, willing the tears to stay back, even as her chest tightened painfully.

The doctor gave her a sympathetic glance before walking out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She didn’t notice his departure; she couldn’t focus on anything but the silence that now filled the room, the stillness that matched the numbness creeping into her bones.

The only sound that broke through the heavy silence was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the soft scrape of a chair being moved. She glanced up to see Minho standing by the door, his posture tense as he took in the situation.

He hadn’t said a word since the doctor left, but she could feel his presence like a weight in the room. He didn’t have to speak; his quiet support was enough. Y/N hated that, hated how much it comforted her, how much his silent understanding meant in that moment.

Minho took a few steps toward her, his eyes avoiding her gaze for a moment before locking with hers. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something deeper—something unspoken, but heavy. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or pretend to know how she felt. He simply stood there, a steady presence in the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Y/N muttered, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself. “I know what it means.”

Minho’s gaze softened, and he sat down in the chair beside her bed. For a moment, he said nothing, just letting the silence stretch between them. Then, quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself, he said, “I know how much it meant to you. It’s… it’s unfair.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. It wasn’t something she expected from him—not the way he usually teased her or the sharpness he often wore as armor. This felt different. Real.

“I’ve worked so damn hard for this,” she murmured, her voice shaking just a little. “And now… now I’ll never get it back.”

Minho didn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes fixed on her fingers, the ones that had been her lifeline, now broken and uncertain. Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke again, his words slow, deliberate.

“Maybe you don’t need to be an archer to be… you.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Y/N didn’t know how to respond. Part of her wanted to shout, to tell him that he didn’t understand—that she was nothing without archery, that it was her whole identity. But another part of her, buried deep beneath the shock and grief, felt the pull of his words, like a lifeline thrown out in the dark.

He gave her hand a tentative squeeze, his thumb brushing against her skin gently. “Whatever happens… you’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.

Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. She was used to carrying everything on her own, used to handling things alone. But in that moment, she found herself reluctantly leaning into his presence, the weight of his words settling into her chest.

She didn’t say anything else, just looked at her casted arm and the mess of emotions swirling within her. Minho didn’t push her to talk. He stayed with her, silent and steady, his presence an anchor in the midst of a storm that threatened to tear her apart.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel quite as alone.

As the days blurred into weeks, Y/N’s world continued to shift beneath her. The weight of her injury hung heavily over her, a constant reminder of what she had lost. Archery had been her life, her identity, and now, it seemed as if that identity had been stripped away in the blink of an eye.

Her parents, furious and protective, rallied around her in their own way. They had always been fiercely invested in her success, and the sight of their daughter in pain triggered something primal in them. They couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering without justice. The idea of her future—her dreams—being destroyed without any accountability gnawed at them until they decided to take matters into their own hands.

They hired a lawyer and filed a lawsuit against the studio. The claim was simple: negligence. The studio had failed to properly inspect the building before using it for interviews and promotional shoots, and it was this failure that had caused the ceiling to collapse, injuring their daughter beyond repair. They argued that the accident wasn’t just a freak incident—it was a direct result of the company’s lack of care and attention.

Y/N hadn’t wanted to get involved. She wasn’t interested in dragging things out or seeking revenge. She just wanted to heal, to find a way to move forward. But her parents insisted, convinced that justice could only be found through legal action.

The court case dragged on for months, a bitter reminder that her life was no longer in her own hands. Every time she thought about the process, she felt her chest tighten. It wasn’t about the money, not for her. But her parents insisted it was a matter of principle. They fought for accountability, for the principle that a company shouldn’t get away with causing harm so carelessly.

And in the end, the court found the studio guilty. The evidence was clear—the building had not been properly inspected, and the structure had been deemed unsafe before being used for commercial purposes. The company was ordered to pay a significant settlement to Y/N, though the amount seemed paltry compared to the injury she’d suffered, the career she’d lost, and the dreams that had been shattered.

When Y/N found out about the ruling, she felt numb. She sat in the sterile waiting room of the hospital as the lawyer called her parents to relay the news. The words blurred together, but the impact was undeniable. The settlement was a victory for her parents, something they could hold on to, but to Y/N, it felt hollow. It didn’t change anything. The money wouldn’t heal her fingers. It wouldn’t erase the long nights of training, the years spent perfecting her craft, the agonizing loss of something that had been everything to her.

Her parents were thrilled, their anger temporarily quelled by the ruling. But Y/N couldn’t bring herself to share in their relief. All she could think about was how much the settlement had cost her. The studio had paid for their mistake, but the price for her was far steeper than any check could cover.

Later that evening, after the celebrations had died down, Minho came to visit her. His presence was a steady comfort, but tonight, it felt like there was an unspoken weight between them, something they hadn’t addressed in all the chaos that had surrounded the lawsuit and her recovery.

When Minho entered her room, he didn’t offer any words of congratulations. Instead, he sat beside her, his expression serious. “You okay?” he asked quietly, looking at her like he was waiting for her to crack.

Y/N stared out the window, watching the lights of the city twinkle in the distance. The hospital room felt cold, sterile, a place she never thought she’d be spending so much time in. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve got money. I’ve got a settlement. But what’s it all worth? It doesn’t bring back what I lost.”

Minho didn’t try to offer words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he just sat there, quietly, letting her process. He knew better than anyone how difficult it was to watch something you loved be taken from you. He had seen it in the way she held her bow before the accident, the way her whole body came alive when she shot, like she was a part of something bigger. The way her spirit had dimmed since the accident had left a mark on him too.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose something like that. But... I know you’ll find a way to get through it. Even if it takes time.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just leaned back against her pillow, her gaze distant. There were so many things she didn’t know anymore—so many things that had been ripped from her hands. But for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to admit that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

The legal battle had given her parents what they wanted, but it hadn’t given her what she truly needed. Justice was one thing, but healing—true healing—was something only time could offer.

And, perhaps, with Minho’s quiet support, maybe even a little bit of hope.

In the days that followed the accident, Minho never stopped showing up, despite the fact that Y/N kept pushing him away. He came to her room with the quiet persistence of someone who understood more than he let on, but also respected her need for space—even if she didn’t realize it.

Each time he appeared at her door, a mixture of frustration and longing flickered in her chest. She didn’t want him here—not like this. She didn’t want his sympathy, his pity, or his attempts to help her in a way that only made her feel more helpless.

One evening, after he suggested helping her with simple tasks—like tying her shoelaces or even feeding her left-handed—Y/N snapped. The anger that had been building within her over the last few weeks finally erupted, spilling out in a sharp, jagged voice.

“I don’t need you to ‘teach’ me how to be anything,” she hissed, her gaze hard and unforgiving. Her fingers, stiff from the injury, curled into a fist. “Just… leave me alone.”

Minho took a step back, his expression unchanged but his eyes betraying a flicker of hurt. Yet, he didn’t leave. He never did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, as if letting her have her moment. But the silence that followed felt like a heavy weight, a shared understanding hanging in the air between them. He didn’t push any further that day, though he left behind a small package on her bedside table—one she hadn’t even noticed.

The next day, Y/N opened the package to find a book of poetry—one she had mentioned loving before. Her fingers brushed over the cover, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she softened. Minho was still finding ways to care for her without demanding anything in return. She knew he wasn’t expecting a thank-you, but she couldn’t help the pang of guilt that hit her.

Over the next week, his visits became a mix of awkwardness and tentative kindness. He’d show up with bags of food from her favorite takeout place—nothing fancy, just comfort food that somehow felt like a small balm for the chaos of her life. He even brought her a sketch one evening, left silently by her door.

It was of her—his hand-drawn portrait of her in her prime, holding her bow with the same fire that used to light up her world. His delicate lines captured the way she held herself, strong and focused. The drawing felt so real it almost hurt. It was like he had seen her, really seen her, not just the version of herself she had become after the accident. She swallowed back a lump in her throat.

Despite her resistance, despite her frustration, his quiet presence seeped into the cracks of her heart, mending parts she hadn’t even realized were broken. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t forced kindness. It was the kind of gentleness that spoke of understanding, of time spent in silence, waiting for her to heal at her own pace.

One evening, as she struggled with trying to tie her own shoelaces with her left hand, Minho appeared again, standing in the doorway, arms laden with a small basket of fresh fruit.

“You’re trying to tie your shoes with your non-dominant hand again?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know, the doctor said you’re supposed to take it easy for a while.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, not looking up, irritated by the truth she didn’t want to admit. “It’s just a stupid shoelace.”

Minho walked over slowly, setting the basket down on the table beside her. Without a word, he crouched down, taking the laces from her clumsy hands. He worked in silence, his movements deft as he tied the shoes with the care he had shown for her in the past few weeks. When he was done, he stood back up and met her gaze, his expression serious but soft.

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders alone.”

She opened her mouth to snap at him again, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, her anger faded into something else.

Minho wasn’t here because he thought she was weak. He wasn’t here because he pitied her. He was here because he saw her—he saw the woman who had been so strong before, and he believed she could be that woman again, even if it took time.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she muttered, but this time, it lacked the bite of her earlier words.

“I know,” Minho replied simply, his voice warm and steady. “But I’m not leaving.”

Y/N didn’t know how to respond to that. She wasn’t ready to admit that she might need him, but in the quiet moments that followed, she couldn’t deny the comfort his presence gave her. Even in her resistance, she felt something softening within her, a fragile thread of trust she hadn’t realized she was willing to weave again.

“I can help you, please let me, you know I’m ambidextrous.”

…

One night, Minho comes to her house, as he has so many times before. Y/N’s frustration has reached its peak, and she can’t hold it back anymore.

“I’m not a broken doll that needs fixing. I’m not someone you have to pity.”

Minho sits down across from her, knowing it’s her daily depressing hour. his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence feels suffocating. Then, he speaks softly. “I can’t teach you archery, but I can teach you how to draw. I can teach you how to use your other hand.”

She looks at him, and for the first time, the bitterness fades just enough to let a tiny flicker of hope in. Maybe she can still create something. Maybe it won’t be the same as archery, but it could be something new. Later that evening, her mother enters the room with a tray of snacks, trying to lighten the mood. She sits down next to Y/N, looking between her and Minho.

“You should’ve been more careful, sweetie. You’re an archer. You should’ve known how to take care of yourself.”

That’s the breaking point.

Y/N stands up abruptly, the frustration boiling over. “It’s not my fault! I couldn’t have known the ceiling was going to fall! it’s not like I give everywhere assuming unexpected things happen !” She’s shaking with the intensity of it now.

“I didn’t choose this! I didn’t choose for this to happen. I didn’t choose for everything I’ve worked for to get destroyed in an instant!” Minho watches her, his gaze soft but firm. He steps closer, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Y/N’s breath is shaky, her chest tight with the rawness of her emotions. She blinks rapidly, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill over, but they come anyway, hot and relentless. Her hands tremble as she wipes them away, but it’s futile—no amount of effort can hide the grief that swells inside her.

“I don’t know how to live without it,” she whispers, her voice cracking as the pain surges. “Archery wasn’t just something I did. It was who I was. It was everything to me. And now… now I’m just… broken.”

Her words crack like glass shattering, each one a reminder of the life she thought she had and the future that was ripped away in a single moment. She had spent years training, dedicating herself to something that made her feel whole, something that defined her in a world that often felt too large. And now, that piece of her was gone. The path she had been walking for so long had been torn away, leaving nothing but jagged edges and an aching emptiness.

Minho’s heart twists as he watches her, the storm of emotions in her eyes threatening to consume her. He doesn’t know what to say—he can’t fix this. He can’t give her back what she lost, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice soft but resolute. “I know it feels like everything’s falling apart right now. But you’re not broken. You’re… you’re just lost. And it’s okay to feel like that. You don’t have to have all the answers right away.”

Y/N shakes her head. “You’re wrong. I am broken, Minho. I’ve lost the one thing that gave me purpose. How can I be anything but broken?”

Minho’s heart aches, but he doesn’t step away. He doesn’t let go of her shoulder, grounding her as she trembles. “I don’t think you’re broken, Y/N,” he says softly. “I think you’re hurting. And that’s okay. It’s okay to hurt.”

She pulls away from him abruptly, her face flushed with frustration and sorrow. “You don’t get it. You’re not the one who had everything—everything—taken away in an instant. You don’t know what it feels like to lose yourself.”

Minho stands still, the weight of her words settling deep into his chest. “No, I don’t know what it feels like,” he admits. “But I do know that I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I may not be able to fix what’s broken, but I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces. Even if you can’t see it now, I believe you’re strong enough to rebuild. I believe in you, Y/N.”

Y/N doesn’t know how to respond. Her anger and sorrow have clouded her judgment, making her feel like she’s trapped in a storm she can’t escape. Her gaze drifts to the window, where the soft evening light pours through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. The stillness of the world outside is so far removed from the chaos in her heart.

“I didn’t choose this,” she murmurs again, this time more quietly, as if the words are a confession rather than an accusation. “I didn’t choose to be here… like this.”

Minho watches her carefully, his voice gentle. “No, you didn’t. But sometimes, life doesn’t give us a choice. All we can do is keep going, one step at a time.”

Y/N is silent for a long moment, her thoughts tangled in the mess of her grief and anger. Finally, she lifts her eyes to meet his, her gaze softened by the exhaustion of it all. There’s a flicker of something—something small but there—inside of her.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” she admits softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Minho steps forward, his heart aching for her, and pulls her into a hug. She stiffens at first, not used to accepting comfort, but after a few moments, she melts into his embrace, her body trembling with the weight of everything she’s been holding back.

“Then let me help you find your way,” Minho murmurs, his voice low and steady. “One step at a time.”

And for the first time in weeks, Y/N lets herself lean into someone, just a little, feeling the fragile thread of hope that Minho’s words offer. It’s not a solution. It’s not a cure. But it’s a start.

Minho knows that words won’t fix this. So, he takes her to the beach the next day—just the two of them, no distractions. Her arm is still in a sling, but they sit down on the shore, letting the sound of the waves fill the silence.

Y/N’s emotions are raw, and the weight of everything hits her again. The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and she doesn’t try to stop them. She doesn’t want him to look, but she can’t control it.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her sobs, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to burden you with all this. I don’t want to need you. I don’t want to need anyone.”

Minho doesn’t look at her. He knows. But he stays by her side, silent and steady.

When she calms down, he reaches out, gently cupping her face in his hands. She looks up at him, her eyes red from crying.

“You’re not a burden to me, Y/N,” he says softly. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here.”

She shakes her head, her tears still fresh. “But I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t know how to be anything without archery.”

Minho smiles, his eyes filled with an understanding that she’s not ready to face yet. “You’ll find a new way. And if you need me, I’m here. We’ll figure it out together.”

“You’re still you,” he says softly. “And you’re going to find a way to be even more.”

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat, feeling a flicker of something deep inside her—a spark, barely there, but present. It’s not a solution, not even close. It’s just the tiniest glimmer of hope. But right now, that’s enough.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and nods slowly. "I’m not sure what the future holds, Minho," she says, her voice quieter now. "But maybe, for the first time, I’m starting to think it’s okay not to have everything figured out."

Minho smiles, a small but genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “Good. Because you don’t have to have it all figured out. Not yet.”

They sit in silence again, letting the sound of the waves wash over them, and for the first time in a long while, Y/N doesn’t feel completely broken. She still doesn’t have all the answers, and she knows the road ahead won’t be easy. But with Minho by her side, maybe she doesn’t have to face it alone. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way forward after all.

You’re dangerous with your bow anyway, he thought, you’re Cupid.

And you close your eyes, in peace.

[nhlclover]

GINGERBREAD WARS RUTGER MCGROARTY

— event masterlist !

pairing: fem!reader x rutger mcgroarty

summary: you and rutger get into a not-so-friendly gingerbread house building competition.

warnings: talks of candy, reader and rutger being insanely competitive, mention of weapon as a metaphor kind of?

wc: 1.23k

notes: first work in my 12 days of christmas celebration! hope y'all enjoy this one

The onset of winter had draped the world in a frosty embrace, crafting the perfect excuse to stay nestled indoors. Frost etched intricate patterns on the windows, and the living room glowed with the cozy flicker of a cinnamon and clove candle. The scent mingled with the warmth of thick blankets as you and Rutger sat cross-legged on the floor, transforming your coffee table into a chaotic gingerbread construction zone. Between you sat two unopened kits, brimming with cookie walls, tubes of frosting, and a kaleidoscope of colorful candies, all waiting to be shaped into edible masterpieces.

“We’re doing this right,” you declared, pulling out your phone to set a timer. “One hour. Whoever builds the best gingerbread house wins.”

“Define ‘best,’” Rutger said, smirking as he tore open his box. “Because if it’s sheer dominance, I’ve already won.”

“Best as in structurally sound and aesthetically pleasing,” you countered, leveling a mock-serious glare his way. “No shortcuts, no sabotage.”

Rutger laughed, a deep, infectious sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, it’s on.”

Competitiveness was the cornerstone of your relationship, transforming even the smallest activities into grand battles of wit and will. Whether it was a round of mini golf or a gingerbread showdown, neither of you could resist the pull of a challenge.

As the timer started, the room dissolved into chaotic creativity. You worked methodically, precision your guiding star, as you piped frosting along the cookie edges and pressed them together carefully. Rutger, in stark contrast, adopted what could only be described as a “freestyle” approach, squeezing frosting directly from the tube in uneven bursts. He slapped pieces together with reckless abandon, his hands soon sticky with icing and a streak of frosting somehow finding its way across his cheek.

“Looking good over there, babe,” you teased, eyeing the precarious tilt of his gingerbread walls.

“Oh, you’re intimidated,” Rutger shot back, his grin pure mischief. “Just admit it. My house has character.”

You snorted, sticking a gumdrop to your roof. “Sure, if by ‘character’ you mean it’s held together by sheer luck.”

The room filled with a soundtrack of quiet Christmas music, punctuated by your playful jabs and the occasional crunch of misplaced candies underfoot. For a brief moment, there was almost peace — until Rutger’s eyes flicked toward your symmetrical, candy-laden structure.

“Wow,” he says, leaning over to inspect it closer. “Looks… really sturdy.” He hummed as his hand hovering dangerously close. “Would be a shame if something—oops!” He nudged your roof piece just slightly, causing it to slide askew.

“Rutger!” you gasped, swatting his hand away as you shielded your creation.

“What?” he replied, all innocence, though his devilish grin betrayed him.

“If you try to knock my gingerbread house down one more time,” she warned, narrowing her eyes, “I swear, I will smash up your gingerbread house and glue candy canes to your eyebrows.”

His laughter boomed through the room, so loud it shook his already lopsided structure. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” you retorted, brandishing your frosting bag like a weapon.

What followed was an inevitable escalation. Rutger lunged for your house once more, but you were ready, swiping a line of frosting across his cheek in defense. He froze, mock-surrender in his posture. “Oh, you’ve done it now,” he said, his tone low and teasing as he grabbed his own frosting bag.

“Don’t you dare!” you shrieked, stumbling to your feet to escape the impending frosting attack, but found yourself cornered by the fireplace.

What began as a building contest transformed into an all-out war. A dollop of frosting hit your sweater, and you retaliated with a handful of gumdrops. Candies rained down like festive confetti as the two of you dissolved into laughter, the competition long forgotten.

When the alarm finally rang, Rutger threw up his hands. “Truce!” he panted, frosting streaked across his face and a lone sprinkle clinging to his hair. “You win. I concede.”

You stood triumphantly, frosting bag still in hand, your own cheeks flushed from laughter. “That’s what I thought,” you teased, grabbing a gummy bear from off the coffee table and stepping towards him, sticking it onto his frosting-covered cheek like a badge of victory.

He didn’t brush it away. Instead, he grinned and tugged you closer, his hands settling on your waist. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “you might be a little insane and intense, but I think I like you anyway.”

Your heart melted faster than the frosting in your hands. “Only ‘like’ me?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I love you, even if you’re a menace with frosting.”

You laughed, your hands resting on his chest. “Good, because I love you too — even if you can’t build a gingerbread house to save your life.”

Rutger chuckled, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. “I don’t need to build gingerbread houses when I’ve already got the sweetest thing right here.”

Your face heated at his cheesy line, but you couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your lips. “That was awful. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky, huh?” he teased, his eyes flicking to your frosting-smeared cheek. “Maybe I should test my luck again.”

Before you could protest, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your frosting-covered cheek. It was warm and tender, the kind of kiss that made your heart flutter and the world fall away.

“Mm, sweet,” he murmured with a smirk as he pulled back. “Maybe I’m not so bad at this whole frosting thing after all.”

You rolled your eyes, but your laughter betrayed you. “If you’re trying to distract me so I won’t remember the fact that we were in the middle of a competition, it’s not working.”

Rutgers grin only widened as he laced his frosting-sticky fingers with yours. “Nah,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m just reminding you that the best part of tonight isn’t winning — it’s this. Spending time together.”

Your chest warmed, and for a moment, you forgot all about the half-finished gingerbread houses on the coffee table, the candies scattered across the floor, and the frosting war still visible on your sweaters and faces. All you could see was Rutger, his gaze full of affection, his presence wrapping around you like a blanket on a cold winter night.

“Okay,” you said, tilting your head in playful concession. “But for the record, my house was going to win.”

“It absolutely was not.” Rutger scoffed.

“Oh, it absolutely was,” you insisted, your tone dripping with mock authority as you gave him a pointed look. “But I guess I can forgive you since you’ve officially declared me the sweetest thing in your life.”

Rutger chuckled, his arms tightening around your waist as he pulled you into a warm hug. “You are,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something softer, more sincere. “And I’ll prove it — just wait till next year. My gingerbread game is going to blow your mind.”

You giggled, your cheek resting against his frosting-smudged sweater. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The unfinished gingerbread houses remained forgotten on the coffee table as the two of you sank onto the couch, curling up together under a shared blanket. The Christmas lights twinkled, the music played softly in the background, and the snow outside blanketed the world in peaceful silence.

[eviesqueezie]

“i’m not addicted” i started, my voice hoarse. “and i ain’t hooked.”

soda shares a look with darry, who reaches into his pocket and slams three empty containers on the table infront of me.

“then tell me, pone, why i’ve been buyin’ a new pack nearly every damn week and why soda found these hidden under your jeans.”

i shoot soda a glare filled with betrayal that adds to the tension surrounding us, blocking us into the kitchen.

soda opens his mouth to speak but darry gets there first. “if you weren’t hooked then you wouldn’t be hidin’ this from us. that’s what addicts do, pony!”

his voice is raised slightly and i’m filled with memories of just a few months ago when this woulda been a screamin’ match by now. a sick competition of who could come out with the nastiest words, whoever could hurt the other more. we’re better now, understand better. and we both agreed that we never wanted to see sodapop upset over us again.

i zoned back in when i realised soda was speaking.

“we’re worried, just, please talk to us.”

“it ain’t nothin’!” i frown, furrowing my brows as i try to find the words i need. “they help me sleep- they’re the only things that help me. they’re the reason i can”

sodapop crumbles, sliding into the seat opposite me and resting his head in his hands.

darry runs a hand down his face in a nervous tick. that’s another thing i understood now.

“this ain’t good, we gotta get your stomach pumped or summin-“ darry begins, one hand on his hip. “i can’t- pony i don’t know what to do.”

i pause.

“i’m so lost, please pony.”

i stand up, swiping the containers and shoving them deep in my pocket before making my way to the doorway.

“i’m lost too, i’m stuck in this fuckin’ maze. and you say you’re lost? everythin’ i do, im stuck. don’t you get that?-“

sodapop stands up, hair messed up from the hand that’s constantly running through it.

“pone-“

i make my way through the short hallway, grabbing the closest jacket on the hanger next to the door and pulling it around me.

“pony don’t go-“ sodapop starts.

but i’m already out the door, already slamming it behind me.

i’m still trying to find a way out, pushing through shortcuts i’d already discovered. and weaving my way through passageways i shouldn’t be going through

at the exit, i can see them. everyone. but it’s just out of reach, a light at the end of my tunnel slowly dimming.

but i have a flashlight in my pocket, i have a lantern and my eyesight is pretty good in the dark.

i think i’ll find my own way out

[physalian]

How to Make Clean Romance Entertaining

@bananasugarwarrior ask and you shall receive

As an ace/arospec, I approach writing romance very differently than many authors and this is kind of my wish-fulfillment list more than anything.

Biggest detractor of implying anything in scenes you didn’t write: You don’t have those scenes to explore character development. I touched on this in What No One Tells You About Writing #6 and the problem I ran into a few times when writing ENNS and other works is that if you fade to black, you can’t continue important conversation or an exploration of boundaries, or fluffy new emotions, if they’d otherwise be in those missing scenes. Sex scenes are, unfortunately, prime real estate for some rich character development.

So you have to work all that rich character development around it. It’s up to you where you want to draw the line of “use your imagination” but everything up to the missing smut, and after, remains more prime real estate. You have loads of other options to explore clean intimacy and some I borrowed from this list that I reblogged about ways to show non-sexual intimacy between characters.

There’s more to a relationship to explore between your characters than just how good each other is in the bedroom. Here’s a few suggestions:

Tragic Backstory stuff and emotional boundaries

One teaching the other a niche or important skill to succeed/survive

A common physical threat, like monetary problems, job insecurity, sickness, or an actual challenge/quest/adventure/mission

A common emotional threat, like a lack of communication, or exercising an anxiety or phobia, or issues over speaking their minds

A common goal: Marriage, children, a new car or home, competing for joint acceptance into a team/group/club/prize competition

There’s also plenty for your love interests to think about their significant others aside from how sexy they are and how badly they want to get in their pants.

Introvert A can love how much B is an extrovert, or vice versa

A loves that B is good with animals, or children, the elderly, etc

A can love B’s skill and passion for their hobbies or a movement they believe in, or their stances on morality and the actions they take to back it up

A can love B’s skill as a teacher, their patience, kindness, and understanding

A can love B’s relationships with their friends and family, their maturity (or lack thereof), their work ethic

A can love B’s quirks and tics, like how they organize things or if they sing in the shower or how they dance when they’re listening to headphones

Point being:

And take this with a grain of biased salt because I’m ace and think sex is superfluous anyway: If you can’t write your characters in love with each other without sex, I won’t believe they’re in love with sex. Fiction, for me, that takes the narrative shortcut of “these two are the main couple of course they’re going to get together, I don’t have to do any work on writing why they’re in love you just came here for sex” annoy me, and quite a lot of other people, too, if the amount of gay ships that ignore the canon hetero couple are anything to go by.

The arc of their relationship doesn’t have to culminate in sex. Their arc should be specific to what these two characters want to achieve out of a romantic relationship. For a lot of people, that’s sex, but for others, maybe it’s just someone to cuddle on the couch with and watch movies, or someone they can finally trust and let in and be emotionally vulnerable with. Someone they can explore the town with, or travel, or take to dinner. Someone who doesn’t belittle them or laugh at them or disregard their interests.

Substitute relationship climaxes other than sex:

A finally trusts B with a secret they’ve been hiding for fear of ridicule, and B accepts them wholeheartedly (not Liar Revealed)

A and B finally perfect some routine they’ve been slaving over for months (like a dance or if they’re combat partners, a difficult maneuver)

A has been in love, but in doubt, and finally understands that B is The One when B is the only one to show up for A’s big speech/recital/presentation/gallery that no one else cares about

A has never let themselves be in love and it’s something wholly unspectacular that completely bowls them over with an epiphany

A is touch-averse and their biggest leap into physical intimacy is a huge hug, and B can’t be prouder of them

A and B narrowly survive some dangerous situation and have a serious realignment of priorities and newfound mad respect for each other

Actually, circling back to the whole “gay ships that ignore the canon hetero couple” thing:

This has been said before but if you’re looking for how to write a romantic relationship without sex, look no further than the male leads of many mainstream pieces of pop culture. Here, the presumption of romance isn’t built in, thus the writer has to actually put in effort to make these two characters like and respect each other, and give them things to talk about that isn’t just flirting. That’s what makes them feel more believable than the main man’s relationship with the cardboard lady lead.

[smiley-mcdoggington]

LET'S SEE HOW MUCH REVERSE AU I CAN TALK ABT BEFORE MY BREAK ENDS--

Stan n Ford are the same up until highschool, where Ford starts trying to be an individual a bit sooner so Stan takes a fuckton of extracurriculars so he doesn't have to be alone in that house

Stan is in theater, glee, boxing. You know where this is going.

Filbrick finds out and beats the fuckshit out of Stan for being queer, but Stan doesn't stop going because Fuck Him, Stan wants to perform

3 years later, Stan and Ford get called to the office, but Ford is the one in the hallway. Principal says that Stan is a savante and could be a movie star making millions some day. When Caryn asks about Ford he says "Ford will be fine", doesn't care, Ford's future has never been regarded so casually because he's supposed to be bigshot scientist.

Filbrick is suddenly a lot nicer with Stan, and when Ford's grades slip he gets a lot harsher with Ford.

CAME BACK

Stanley's future is centered around an agent at a talent show for which he wants to perform a song and dance number with Carla. It's Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin. The lyrics haunt Stanford. He doesn't want to be left waiting for Stanley while he sails off on his own, and he certainly doesn't want to see the way Stanley holds Carla's waist when they practice in their shared bedroom.

Ford practiced the number with Stan a few times when Carla couldn't make it but Stan was antsy. He felt like a fool while Stan pulled him through the steps and crooned 'waiting for me' so sweetly in his ear. Ford doesn't want to have to wait for Stan. He never thought he would have to, but now Stan's going places while Ford thought he would always have Stan in his pocket.

Ford was responsible for bringing the record with that damn song on it. But Stan had left early, he hadn't woken Ford up, and Ford slept in. He'd asked, the day before, if he could use the El Diablo to get to school since Stan was riding with Ma in her car. Stan said "Hell, Sixer, if this gig goes off without a hitch, you can keep the car!" Ford sped in the car to the school to hopefully make it in time with the record. When he got there, Stan and Carla were already on stage, Stan's voice carrying the lyrics with no music, him and Carla dancing as if it made no difference. As if Ford's contribution made no difference. Stanley dipped Carla the way that always made him bump Ford's glasses, but it was so smooth with her. Ford left, drove Stanley's car to their boat, and waited for Stan to find him like he always did.

Stan is pissed because Ford was supposed to be there to support him for once. He goes to the boat and demands to know where the hell Ford was. Ford asked if it mattered. Stan said it mattered to him. It was the first thing that really mattered to him. It was the first thing he was good at, that he got recognized for all on his own, and he wanted Ford there to cheer him on like he always cheered on Ford's stupid mathletes competitions and his stupid science fairs and his stupid debate matches. He said he waited for Ford but Ford wasn't there. Ford snaps and says he won't wait for Stan while those damn lyrics circle his head.

Stan says that isn't fair. That Stan's always waiting for Ford. Ford says Stan stopped doing that the second he got a chance to be better than him. Stan said that wasn't fair, either. Stan says he's walking home, he needs to cool off.

Ford isn't back when he gets there. He isn't back the next morning either. He goes back to the boat and both Ford and the Stanleymobile are gone. Ford ran away.

Ford, determined to prove himself more than "just fine", takes shortcuts to get around the colleges he doesn't have the patience or the money for. He does reckless things, gets caught up in making drugs because it's just so easy and it gives him a lab space to work with so long as the product is received on time (plus Speed let's him work for longer without needing to sleep). He sees Stan on TV - that agent loved him, of course they did, and Stan was some bigshot with a ring on his finger and his name in the cast of so many shows and movies on shitty hotel cable that Ford wants to scream.

The first time Ford sees Stan in four years since he ran away, it's from behind bars. Ford had gotten arrested for some pretty scary shit, and he called Stan in a panic. Of course Stan came, and Stan was frustrated but he was so happy Ford reached out even if it was just because he wanted something. Stan pulled a few strings, used his silver tongue and his heavy wallet to convince the small-time cops it was a misunderstanding. In the car Stan said he missed Ford, and Ford said he did too. They spent some quality time in the back of "Ford's" car

Ford won't accept charity, he says he's not a money hungry letch like their parents are (who retired in Florida after Stan made his first decent role in a big box movie), he also refuses college on the principle of the matter because all the college kids he's interacted with acted like they were smarter than him when he Knows he's a genius he just needs to get some more materials - get someone to accept his papers and his patents when he has a record instead of a degree. If he can just Proove his science works then people will stop fucking questioning him (that proof is through wildly unethical means but it doesn't matter if the science works, does it?)

He only sees Stan when he calls Stan to bail him out. He built it up in his head as Stan owing him for ruining his life by taking all the attention for himself and leaving Ford neglected, but that excuse is fickle so be avoids him anytime else to try to not think too hard about it.

He met Fidds in jail because Fidds made a giant murder robot, Stan bailed him out too for being Ford's friend

Stan is starting to get tired of the routine - he has a daughter now, he doesn't want to explain to her why she can't see her uncle Ford because he's wanted in so many states, and he won't see Stan unless he wants his bail paid, his lawyer arranged and his dick wet for an afternoon.

Then Ford meets Bill, and suddenly he swears he'll get clean for Stan, could he please just have a stipend to get a house in some nowhere town so he can gather enough research to make a proper grant request? Stan thinks it's too good to be true, so he says yes on the condition he visits Ford every few weeks to check on him, make sure he's not on anything and that he's not doing anything so illegal he'll get a warrant in Oregon, too. Ford has never been so offended, but he takes the deal for the sake of his Muse.

The first few years are great, Ford is really passionate, even if he's always cagey around Stan because his Muse keeps telling him how Stan's looking for a reason to kick him out, take away the support, leave Ford drowning. Then Fidds is traumatized.

Ford and Bill fall out, Ford starts using again just to stay awake, to keep his body to himself. Bill made him terrified of Stan finding out he screwed up again - because isn't that all he's ever done, from the day he forgot that record when they were 17? Stan's visiting day is rapidly approaching and Ford's house is torn apart trying to keep Bill from hurting him. Ford can't be homeless now, not with everything going on. He can't ruin his relationship with Stan, not when Stan's the only one he has left. In a last ditch effort he sends Stan a postcard that says 'DON'T COME'. Stan never receives it.

The last few times Stan had brought his daughter (3-ish) with him on his visits because Fidds was great with her and Ford was always happy to see her (even if he hated that she was Stan's but not his). He brought her this time, too. He's immediately devistated when he sees how twitchy Ford is. How paranoid and violent. Stan leaves his daughter upstairs when he goes to the basement with Ford.

Ford's terrific plan - asking Stan to take this book and never visit again, drop the financial support if he needs to, just leave and never see Ford again - doesn't go well.

The fight happens - Stan gets burned and throws off his jacket to maybe keep the fibers from burning into his flesh (doesn't work), then gets pushed through the portal. Ford cries into Stan's jacket, goes upstairs to shoot himself but his niece is crying. He forgot she was there.

Ford isn't good with kids, he's even worse with kids that want to see their dad but don't understand when Ford says he's Gone. After a week of watching her cry herself sick he breaks, takes off his glasses, puts on Stan's jacket that still smells like him, and picks her up, telling her he's right here and she's okay in his still perfect Stan impression.

He steals Stan's identity to keep the house - but drops his career entirely. It doesnt matter, Stan made enough in his long and successful career that Ford doesn't need to work a day in his life (well he does but that's Bill-related) he also drops all of Stan's obligations - he never gives his parents financial support because he doesn't think of it (his parents die working minimum wage because they sold the pawn shop), he doesn't give Carla alimony or tell her where her daughter is, he never tells his niece he even has a twin.

Stan gets back by himself after 30 years of being a sexy space pirate and that 'you took my name what did you do to my house' moment in canon becomes "You took my daughter?!" because Ford left no room for Stan to return and his daughter didn't even know she was his, didn't even know he existed.

[maybe-a-dinosaur]

oikawa tooru big fan of puzzles. thinking about how dedicated he is to his craft like he works so hard to be good at what he does he opens a puzzle and locks tf in. pieces scattered across the table his formula is corners first then all the edges he builds the frame then he starts at the bottom and works up. if any of the pieces come stuck together he breaks them apart immediately and mixes them in he does not take shortcuts he likes a challenge. they completely consume him like hyperfocus to the max once he starts he can’t stop glasses on hunched over the table puzzling away. he generally doesn’t keep them once he’s finished he lets it sit for a bit takes a picture for his records then disassembly begins with little to no fanfare he doesn’t really need people to know (unless it’s a BIG puzzle then it goes on his instagram story) it’s just something he does for him he can focus for a while it gives him a sense of accomplishment and he stretches really well afterward. his favorites are pictures of places like scenic shots of nature or cities and puzzles of famous artworks like monet or van gogh or hokusai but if a puzzle comes into his possession he’s doing it at some point no matter what the picture is.

hanamaki takahiro never finished puzzles. he likes them in theory and is super excited to start them but gets bored or distracted within an hour and walks away. he works on them intermittently for a week or so while they sit and collect dust and are inevitably put away before they get finished. his attention span just isn’t long enough anything more than 50 pieces isn’t getting done. the only ones he ever finishes are the 3d like moving puzzles with the ridged pieces the ones that hurt to look at they’re usually less pieces and he likes the texture and they’re stupid pictures he completes them and picks them up of the table then crumples them apart. he really likes the idea of puzzles just doesn’t usually like them in practice, they’re too time consuming need too much focus and he’s a busy man with too much other shit to get into.

matsukawa issei is not a fan of puzzles. like he’ll help put together a piece or two if someone else is working on one but will never go out of his way to assemble a puzzle like he doesn’t care they’re not his thing he’s bored already. however he is a big fan of brain teaser/fidget puzzles like wooden puzzle cubes and puzzle boxes and metal knot things. he knows how to solve a rubik’s cube can do it in under 2 minutes no biggie he doesn’t even own one himself he just goes “can i try” whenever he sees one and flies through it. he can even solve one with his eyes closed just looks at it for a minute shuts his eyes boom solved. all these give him something to do with his hands conventional puzzles are too much sitting still and looking he needs to fidget or straight up not move none of this half and half nonsense.

iwaizumi hajime completely impartial when it comes to puzzles. he’ll help oikawa on one if he’s asked to but never seeks puzzles out he gets the appeal they’re just not for him personally. he saw a comic book puzzle one time that was really cool but that’s the extent of his interest tbh. iwaizumi isn’t a huge fan of sit down activities that aren’t competitive (anti puzzle pro video game) but as nerdy as it sounds has always been a fan of reading . graphic novels real books even the newspaper something about it is engaging and relaxing enough at the same time for him to sit still for an extended period of time. middle aged married iwaoi on weekends tooru does a puzzle at the table while hajime sits on the couch and reads a book they’re both wearing glasses they take a break at 2pm to take a nap together and go on a walk then are back at it by 4.

[numptypylon]

Chapter 24 (S5E6)

“What is this place?” Callum had slowed down, looking around the arena, his brow furrowed. “It’s not a theatre, the entrances and seating and… prospective clientele… doesn’t make sense.“

“It’s fighting pits.” Rayla gestured at the opening on the other side. “Come on, there’s a shortcut to the clothing market over here-”

“Fighting pits.” Callum had stopped fully in his tracks now, his face full of upset, and not for the hypothetical poor souls of the pit fighters here, or rather… maybe just one of them. “Fighting pits. And you’ve been here before, you knew what it was… Rayla, please tell me you were part of the audience, except don’t tell me that, because don’t lie to me-“

“No, I… no. I won’t tell you that, then.”

“Can you at least tell me you won?”

He sounded so hopeful. And it would be an easy lie, a kind lie maybe, that she’d triumphed in these pits, emerged victorious without a scratch, she even had a good pun about ‘sweeping the competition’ ready to go… but he had asked her not to lie.

“Not… exactly,” she said. “I lost in round three.”

“Were you hurt?” he frowned. “You said it was just before you went back that you were here, and-“

His fingers grazed across her jaw.

Read more of the twentyfourth chapter of Downtime's Up on Ao3, wherein the Rayla returns to a familiar fighting pit in Scumport (chapters of this fic are between-scenes oneshots that can be read on their own, even if you haven’t followed the rest of the story)

[shinystealingbirb]

Some thoughts on Yanqing

I don’t quite know how or if Yanqing was shown in Honkai Impact, but I’d like to talk about my understanding of him.

Biiiiiiig cut.

I assume many think he’s a flat character. He’s a child prodigy who arrogantly took on two immortals leagues more powerful than himself, and couldn’t get over his loss. Right? Who went out seeking some strange person, who Jingliu almost treats like an amusing pet, who tried to shortcut his way to total mastery. Who desires a title of a championship rather than the art itself. That’s the mark of a flat character- no displayed motivation, and traits we’re told, rather than shown, exist.

This is what the game explicitly tells us. In fact, it takes pains to push this narrative, and in my opinion, it’s specifically because he’s never in our party. To Stelle, or Caelus, or whoever you play as, Yanqing will always be on the other side. He faced Dan Heng and Blade, who we controlled. He duelled Stelle and Kafka. Faced us under the voluntary control of a heliobi. The only time we control him is when Yanqing battles Jingliu, and even then, he was canonically alone. To the Trailblazer, he is a child. An irritatingly strong one, but a child nonetheless, ultimately a footnote in their journey.

So that’s what the game says. But I want to talk about what the game doesn’t really put out there as much, but becomes more obvious the more we encounter Yanqing.

It’s a little hard to explain- I got a kick in the balls when I went through the Fyxstroll Garden quests and got to Yanqing, but I’ll explain that in a moment. For now, allow me to begin with a brief explanation of his character in the way I see it, rather than what the game has taken pains to show us.

He’s a winner- all he’s done is win, and he is young. It’s all he’s known, training and success. He’s showered with praise that he easily tires of, and the General is the only one he spars with that consistently defeats him. This praise is the expectation, the norm. You must win can be a hell of a motivator.

So when he loses to Dan Heng and Blade, it rocks his fucking world. He had no idea where he was in terms of power- really, the only thing he had to compare himself to was Jing Yuan, and the gap there is enormous. He got a taste of a true life-or-death scenario, as opposed to the competition he’s accustomed to, and according to the heliobus, the two immortals- who are way out of his league- left him teetering on the brink of death.

In an attempt to discover his prowess, something outside of the meaningless praise and predictable spars with Jing Yuan, he was absolutely ripped apart by an undead Hunter and a reborn Elder. The worst part? The heliobus in the Fyxstroll quest says he would’ve died “if the hunter’s blade pierced him,” which could quite possibly mean Blade was holding back. Given he was in a rush to beat the shit out of Dan Heng, I doubt it, but it is a possibility that would add salt to the wound- being defeated without being cut once by Blade, only using the flat side of his sword to almost kill him?

So he’s aching from that loss. He got fucked up and knows exactly where he stands, and that’s the single greatest defeat he’s suffered in his life.

For some children, for those who began or became skilled, who build and build and gather ourselves, trying to fight good to become great, a fear we have to overcome is failure. And failure is the single more horrifying concept to a gifted child, the absolute worst outcome.

A normal person fails. Oh well. Time to move on with life.

A competitive or gifted child fails, it means something. It means the effort put in, every single move spent in our lives, every thought, every moment of practice or rest, even if not working on that skill specifically, was a waste of a life, and as failures, that child, too, is a waste. Failure is like death. The way I can best describe the feeling… your heart clenches. Cold sweat, a sudden mental blank. A spider crawls up your throat, and with every step your throat grows tighter, the sense of dread closer and closer until the spider has made its way up to your stinging nose, your tearing eyes, and you are humiliating yourself with those tears.

It’s hard for people who do not understand this to be empathetic. To these people, a loss like this is just a loss. Things like “you’ll get them next time” or “they were out of your league” are said, and these things will never be consolations.

We, the Trailblazers, do not understand why Yanqing goes back to it in his thoughts so often, why it is a pivotal moment for him, why it appears in his character lines, and why he speaks about that battle so ruefully. It was inevitable, we think, that he would lose, isn’t it?

Shouldn’t he know he would never have beaten him?

Of course he knows.

But Yanqing is a child. For all his power, all his cheer and skill, he is a child. He’s gifted, and loss stings really fucking bad if you’re gifted, if you’ve won and won and already realized that praise is false and results are king (his trace voiceline sounds so sarcastic when he speaks of praise.)

Now: we can go over Jingliu and Stelle’s battles if you wish- more salt in the wound, to twist the knife just a little more(loser, loser, loser)- but by far our most interesting encounter with Yanqing is in the Fyxstroll Garden quest.

He’s possessed by a heliobi who claims- and delivers- that he can teach any weapon and advance the soldier to a warrior beyond compare. Despite the memory-wiping effects of the heliobi after possession, I believe said possession- at least for this one- is voluntary.

After all these losses, Yanqing finds a spirit who pushed a Cloud Knight into something lethal, and the spirit tells him, “I have seen your losses, I see them inside your head. Offer me your sword; offer me your allegiance, your body, and I will make you great.”

Knowing he was almost killed for his naivety, knowing he has been painted as the enemy, knowing he has won and won for his entire gifted life, right up until he hasn’t… why do you think he takes it? Of course he’s desperate, of course there’s a nagging doubt, a painful needling that tells him hes not enough anymore, nothing is enough. Of course he allowed himself to be possessed.

After all, praise is empty. Results are king.

The real kicker comes when Jing Yuan gets there.

I think Jing Yuan’s reaction to Yanqing’s possession says a lot. He’s not surprised it was him, nor how easy it was to get into his head. He knows these things, understands they are part of growth and motivation. He is only disappointed because Yanqing has allowed himself to cheat, to find the shortcut.

He arrives at the island, and so calmly he says “Yanqing would never lift his sword against me.”

Yanqing raises his blade. And then he turns to the heliobi and demands a duel. He proceeds to rip the false Yanqing apart with all the speed and precision that Blade and Dan Heng dueled him with.

I’ve seen people talk about how Yanqing was put in a loaded situation. That his choice was made based on disappointing one teacher over the other. It’s not an unreasonable claim, but a shallow one, i based on the surface teacher-student dynamic and taking nothing the heliobi or Yanqing said into account.

It comes down to the choices he has: in that example, his choices are loyalty to a heliobi he only just met, or a teacher he’s known since he was a little kid. In this perspective, the choice is obvious.

This one is not an incorrect perspective, merely an incomplete one. I think the complete choice was as follows: Instant power from an unpredictable, harsh master, one who is asking strange things of him- attack your friends, attack your previous master, don’t you want power?!- or turn back to the training he feels he’s outgrown, mentored by a man who he holds in such high regard and, if his voice lines are any indication, would trust with his life in an instant.

He’s braver than I am for choosing Jing Yuan’s side. Yanqing’s been shown to have an honorable teacher, but we have not seen him put in a situation where he has to prove it. We couldn’t confidently say what he’d do.

This quest displayed his desperate side. The heliobi had already exploited it, promised and delivered power. The heliobi proved it could be trusted, for that at least. Jing Yuan is a trusted mentor, almost a father figure, but those methods led to failure at the most critical of times. This undoubtedly crossed his mind- it certainly crossed mine as I played through that quest- and I genuinely thought I’d have to fight him again.

Frankly, I’m astounded he chose Jing Yuan, and that surprise made, at least to me, made him feel complete.

Yanqing is a child, with a child’s complex emotions and weaker understanding. He is cheerful and confident, a trait easily confused with arrogance. He is competitive. His worth is based on his prowess with a sword. He knows praise is empty and results are king. He is desperate, but more than that he is loyal beyond his own desires, honorable to a fault, which is more than I could say about most adults, much less myself.

He’s flawed and requires a certain prerequisite to understand. Yanqing feels childish in a different way than Hook and Clara, in motivations rather than actions. He feels human, and I really like his character