#training writers

[thefirsthogokage]

Great thread by John Rogers on why writers need to be on set for TRAINING purposes, written late on May 6th, 2023:

(click to enlarge and probably for better quality)

(link to first tweet)

Bonuses:

Link to John's thread about having writers on set for DIALOGUE.

[ionomycin]

Forest Guardians

[words-writ-in-starlight]

listen I expected literally Nothing from the D&D movie okay, like I can't make it clear enough that I expected the most soulless money grab with a good cgi budget imaginable, I went in having already gone through every stage of grief and landed on acceptance and LISTEN

I fucking CRIED during this dumb RPG movie. it wasn't just "not terrible" it was objectively good with a clever plot and compelling characters and sincere emotional beats. this movie loves D&D so fucking much and it NAILS the "a bunch of goobers try to be cool and accidentally discover The Power Of Friendship And Also Great Violence" classic D&D party vibe. their barbarian's last name is fucking Kilgore and my entire family cried in the theater.

I hope they make twelve of these motherfuckers.

[hellamorte]

wade can talk about noble sacrifice and marvel jesusing all he wants but he was ready to die for his friends and for logan, instead of logan, because he wanted him to live. “say hi to my friends for me, peanut”, says the man who wants logan to become a part of the group, a pack, again, to take his place in protecting the people he loves, probably the only one he trusts to do so. and there is so much love in his desire for logan to stay alive and finally experience something good in life

[thelolarahaii]

THE BOYS 4x07 | "The Insider"

[technically-human]

Hi i'm absolutely in love with the reverse au!!

I want to know, in this verse does edwin still confesses to charles? if so how is it different? i feel if he did he would end it by apologizing, you know, religious guilt and all

There’s a train that goes through Hell.

Its journey starts in Wrath, and it departs already full of souls. It took Charles far too many years to realize that there were separate, more spacious wagons that demons could board. Not that he could understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t.

Actually, Charles couldn’t recall ever boarding the train. As far as he could tell, he just appeared there one day, and had spent the next tortuous decades trying to get out. It was part of the torture. Getting out was entirely possible. More than that, it was necessary.

The train had no regular schedule that he could discern (not at first, though he had always been good at finding patterns, and was eventually able to crack it) but it would make quite a few stops before finally returning to the Wrath ring. Souls inside the train were already angry and far too close to each other (close, so close not even air could squeeze in) but when they got really violent was when the train made a stop.

Getting out didn’t mean you were free, no matter where you managed it, be it Sloth or Gluttony, Pride or Lust. No, as soon as the train finished its journey, you would appear back inside, in Wrath where you belonged, suffocating once again, getting ready to claw your way out for the millionth time.

Because if you didn’t get out, The Conductor would get you.

If he thought about it calmly, Charles could probably say that he got out of the train more times than not. Still, being caught by The Conductor once was bad enough, as there was no coal in Hell, and something had to serve as combustible. Souls could not burn to death, and the whole journey always felt longer than eternity when he was caught. Once it was over, he would be inside again, and fight with more desperation than before, not caring who stayed inside so long as it wasn’t him.

He couldn’t understand why anyone, hellborn or not, would want to get into the damned thing. He certainly hadn’t. But as the souls pushed and bit and clawed and punched their way out, Edwin boarded the train. And that wasn’t even the most groundbreaking revelation Charles had that day.

ko-fi

[virtues-end]

[eyvahbae]

I might be forgetting smth but i think Snotlout is the only character in all of httyd that breaks the 4th wall

Multiple times

• He smiles at the camera at the end of Quake, Rattle and Roll

• He looks directly in the camera when he refers to Hiccup and Astrids relationship as "Hiccstrid"

• He plays true crime narrator and talks to the camera when they're looking for Chicken

• He makes a reference to his death in the books during Malas trials by saying "what's one little arrow gonna do" (that one's debatable to be fair)

Considering that the twins are usually the ones doing the more meta jokes and they just get given random bits to do in most episodes it i do wonder why only Snotlout ever breaks the 4th wall

[astrxsee]

I absolutely loved "price bringing the boys to his country home for the holidays," RAHHHHH, thank you for sharing your visions 😁 also re: your tags, I Will be getting you started on how soap talks SO FREAKING DIRTY About Price's pride and joy - - lord -- anyway, love for the New Year!

<3 -@horny-for-tf141

ilysm this is my first ask ever eeeeee

also this is part 2 to this

no bc simon wont shut up about you. johnny would hear about every interaction between the two of you that day. the scot eating up every sweet word that falls out of the larger man’s mouth.

“i could just smell her ‘air, took everythin’ in me not to grab her right there.”

soap would nod like an eager puppy, probably holding back something borderline feral.

“yeah, l.t., those eyes, they just do something for ya. don’t they?”

he’d say to ghost, pushing him to say more. he’d try and miserably fail to hide the growing tent in his pants as his superior kept talking. soap couldn’t help but to notice the tension in simon’s body and the way his hands would ball into fists as he kept talking.

“now what was she thinking putting on that slutty little dress on new year’s eve. god i wanted to rip that little number in half. our little birdie should know that she’s all mine.”

simon would say, his eyes peering over to johnny.

“aye, l.t., poor lass doesn’t know what’s good for her is all. show her what she needs. cap’ can’t keep her here forever.” the scot speaks up, the light from the warm fire your father made earlier flickering over his face.

-

AND OMG don’t even get me started on how they’d treat you in person like…

just imagine it’s christmas eve and your father is throwing a party for his team and a couple of his friends. simon can’t keep his eyes off you the entire night, and you know it.

you’d eventually drag him out to the porch for a smoke, him grumbling in opposition while you sweetly bat your eyelashes at him. of course he followed you like a dog, he’d follow you anywhere.

imagine cuddling into his side complaining that it’s ‘too cold’ and him putting his arm over your shoulders and pulling you in.

“why can’t you stop looking at me, simon?” you asked innocently, your eyes looking up at him. you knew the exact answer but this was just too fun.

he lets out a long groan, his hand running over his masked face.

“don’t do this to me, princess.” he practically begs you. his eyes filled with a feeling you can’t quite place.

then imagine you starting to tease him more as you trace cute patterns into the fabric of his stupid christmas sweater. his breathing becoming labored as he leans his head back, his eyes shutting. my man is fighting for his life

“please, lovie, you don’t know what you do to me.” he grits his teeth as his hands travel down to your hips. his large hand taking up so much space, squeezing onto you like you’d disappear.

“i’m sorry, si. i just can’t help it when you’re exactly what i want.”

you think it’s the doe eyes and the small kiss you pressed to his neck that gets you into the next situation.

in a split second, he had you pressed up against the siding of your father’s his captain’s house. his large arms caging you in between him and the wall. you could hear low growls coming from his throat. one of his large hands comes to rest on your hip as he buries his nose in your neck.

“you haven’t left my mind since i got here, dove. you’ve grown up so much since the last time i saw you, i just can’t help myself.”

he inhales sharply, breathing in your scent. he trails feather light kisses along your jawbone, almost like you’d break at any sort of pressure.

“you’ve been mine and you’ve always known it. just had to let you figure it out for yourself, princess.”

now don’t imagine johnny watching from inside, chubbing up at the sight of his lieutenant devouring price’s lovely, innocent little daughter. maybe ghost would let him watch when he takes her virginity

[mahoganyrust]

Woke up with the urge to manically draw a deleted scene from Forever is My Tomorrow on ao3.

*whispers* psst. Cmon. Come read it. U know u wanna.

[thereweredragonshere]

(THIS WAS ORIGINALLY IN REPLY TO AN ASK, UNFORTUNATELY SOMETHING HAPPENED AND THE ASK GOT DELETED)

I really enjoyed (most) of her screen time!

I wasn’t a fan of her in RoB/DoB, mainly because she was more of a plot device than a character. Like they just found some washed up girl, Astrid got jealous (That entire ‘oh there’s another hen in the rooster house) thing felt really fucking odd) and idk she betrayed them or smth. She was a good twist ‘villain’ but other than that I don’t have much more to say there.

In Rtte however, she had a really good plot. She was actually a character instead of a prop! She did another twist villain adjacent stunt with the dragon hunters, and Astrid being the only one clued in was so cool??? They really are such a good duo I love them. And the whole thing with Dagur and Oswald I LOVED. Genuinely one of the most heart breaking moments of of season three when Heather read that scroll oh my gods.

But yeah, overall I do enjoy Heather as a character, but, as for most fictional women, she could’ve done with a touch of whatever magic the arcane writers possess.

[icantgobackimhaunted13]

guys i’m not hating on the live action httyd casting im hating on the fact that they are making a live action

[frownyalfred]

“Bookmarks are for readers, I can say whatever I want in them” has the same energy as “I can say whatever I want in public, it’s not illegal.”

Like yeah, you can technically say whatever you want in public. But you’re not free from people judging you or being upset with what you say.

Which is to say. If you’re being a dick in the public bookmarks of someone’s fic, yes people are allowed to be upset. And no, you’re not cool or edgy or “honest.” You’re just an asshole who doesn’t know what a private bookmark is.

[stuck-in-jelly]

PLEASE

[v-67]

Kimetsu no yaiba spoiler alert!!!!

....

This just melted me because what😭😭😭😭

His Haori :') is because of this🥹🥹🥹

Everything. Everything is so meaningful within Kny, I'll just melt.

Also also when Tanjiro wouldn't leave Giyu alone🔽

[ikkyfics]

Bittersweet Smoke

Tangerine x f!reader

Summary: You had known each other for a few years. You were always the intermediary between them and the clients, the bridge between the service and the payment. You looked like a doll—too perfect, too unattainable. And Tangerine had never wanted so badly to put his hands on something he knew he shouldn't touch.

Warnings: suggestive, language, smoke (don't smoke, it's bad), no use of y/n

A/N: request from my GREAT love @gingerteafairy and the first time I dare to write something with Tangerine, so I'm a little nervous

Masterlist

The park was always the meeting place. Public, busy, safe enough that no one would suspect anything. You insisted on scheduling meetings there, surrounded by the distant sound of children's laughter and the coming and going of strangers, as if the open environment could keep things under control.

But today, things would be different.

Today, Lemon wouldn't be here to serve as a buffer.

Tangerine had received the message minutes earlier, short and direct: You'll have to go alone. Behave.

He scoffed, running his tongue over his teeth in an irritated tic. Not because he couldn't handle a simple conversation, but because handling you, alone, was another story.

So, he did the only logical thing. He lit a cigarette.

The smoke spread through the crisp morning air as he waited, leaning against the iron railing of a flower bed. The dark velvet of his coat was immaculate, just like the brown curls that fell with calculated carelessness over his forehead. Tangerine was a man of presence, he always had been, but when it came to you…

Something in him became unhinged.

You had known each other for a few years. You were always the intermediary between them and the clients, the bridge between the service and the payment. Rational, precise, immaculately professional. But with him? Oh, with him, it had never been simple. From the first meeting, the barbs were constant, sharp as a blade. He thought you were bossy. You thought he was unbearable. He said you were too spoiled for this job. You replied that he was a rabid dog in an expensive suit.

And yet, you kept on like this—circling each other, orbiting, exchanging glances that lasted too long, provoking and irritating, as if waiting to see who would lose control first.

That was why he took a deep drag before seeing you. And that was why, despite expecting you, when you finally arrived, something in him stalled.

Your walk was always the same—confident, precise. Of course, you were beautiful. Mary Jane shoes touching the stone softly, pretty socks climbing up legs he tried not to stare at and failed miserably. You looked like a doll—too perfect, too unattainable. And Tangerine had never wanted so badly to put his hands on something he knew he shouldn't touch.

And it was driving him crazy.

"That's going to kill you."

Your voice cut through the silence, sweet and sharp, and Tangerine exhaled the smoke slowly, one corner of his mouth lifting.

"Hm? What's going to kill me?"

"That," you gestured toward the cigarette with your chin. "Smoking."

He chuckled low. "You talk like you care, doll."

The pet name made your expression harden for a second. But there was something else today, something different. He noticed it in the gleam in your eyes, in the way your fingers absentmindedly smoothed the seam of your skirt, in how your breathing adjusted as he watched you. Something was wrong—not that he dared to ask what.

"Maybe you should take a drag."

The words came out lower, slower, laced with something you pretended not to notice.

But you did.

Tangerine knew because he saw your throat move in a dry swallow, saw you hesitate a second longer than you should have.

"I don't smoke," you shot back. But you didn’t turn away, didn’t change the subject.

He brought the cigarette to his lips again, taking a slow drag, letting the smoke spread into the space between you. "There's a first time for everything."

You hesitated. Tangerine saw it. A blink too many, a swallow too hard. But instead of refusing, your fingers moved—delicate, hesitant—until they reached for him.

Oh.

A slow smile formed on his lips. Taking his time, he turned his hand, holding the cigarette between his fingers for you to take.

The touch was brief, but enough. Your skin met his for an instant—warm, soft. Tangerine watched, fascinated, as you brought the cigarette to your lips.

Ah, hell.

The same mouth that had said so many sharp things to him was now touching the same cigarette he had just smoked.

Then, you inhaled.

And choked.

The cough came hard, unexpected, and you quickly pulled the cigarette away, bringing your hand to your mouth as you leaned slightly to the side, trying to catch your breath.

Tangerine blinked, first surprised—then, chuckled lowly.

"Fuck," he muttered, genuine amusement in his voice. "Slow down, doll. That’s not how you do it."

You shot him a sharp glare, your eyes gleaming with irritation. "Don’t laugh."

He raised his hands, theatrically innocent, but the smile was still there, tugging at one corner of his mouth. "I’m not laughing."

You cleared your throat, regaining composure, your fingers still holding the cigarette, hesitant. Tangerine tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting from your eyes to your lips, then to the curve of your neck—where a faint hint of color was rising, subtle.

"Hold it like this," he said, his voice lower now, reaching out to adjust the way you held the cigarette. His fingers brushed against yours again—a brief, warm touch—before he pulled away. "And when you inhale, do it slowly. Let the smoke in, then release it. No need to swallow it like you're desperate."

You narrowed your eyes at him, clearly suspicious. But instead of answering, you brought the cigarette back to your lips. This time, slowly.

And Tangerine had to hold his breath.

He felt it. He felt the exact moment his mouth went dry, the moment the tension in the air thickened. Because now that you knew how to do it, you did it right. Your lips parted slightly, your lashes lowered just a bit, and the smoke came out slow, smooth.

And hell, he shouldn't have been staring so much.

But he was.

"Good girl," he murmured, almost without thinking.

Your gaze met his for an instant, sharp, as if the words had poked at something deep inside you. But instead of responding, you simply extended your hand, returning the cigarette.

Tangerine blinked, surprised for a second, before accepting it. His fingers brushed against yours again, lingering just a little longer than they should before he brought the cigarette back to his lips.

And then he saw it.

The soft stain of lipstick on the filter.

A mark of yours, right there.

He took a deep drag, more than he needed, the familiar taste now mixed with something new—something he wanted to taste more of. Smoke filled his lungs, dense, warm, as his mind drifted for a moment.

And it was inevitable.

The thought.

The absurd, uncontrollable desire to see your perfect composure unravel.

To see you reduced to sighs in his bed, your pretty clothes disheveled, your sweet voice turned into something more urgent. To have your stockings pulled down, your lips parted, saying his name in a way he hadn’t heard yet.

The cigarette burned down to the filter. Tangerine flicked it away, crushing it against the ground with the tip of his shoe, a muscle in his jaw tightening for a second.

Oh, he was going to ruin you.

Not today. Not here. But someday.

You reached into your bag, pulling out a slim envelope before placing it in his hand. “New contract,” you muttered, back to business. “Straightforward. Should be easy enough.”

Tangerine tucked it into his coat. “Sure. You know me, sweetheart. Always smooth, always professional.”

You rolled your eyes, already turning to leave. But before he could step away, your voice reached him again—softer this time.

���Be careful.”

The phrase was small, tossed into the air as if it meant nothing. But Tangerine felt it.

He felt it in the way your voice came out softer. In how you avoided looking directly at him this time. In the meaning you tried to hide beneath the simplicity of the words.

And that was exactly why he smiled.

Slow. Teasing. Something drawn-out and amused.

"Aww," he murmured, tilting his head, "you care, love?"

Your expression soured instantly. “I don’t.”

“‘Course not,” he drawled, utterly entertained.

You huffed in irritation, spinning on your heel and walking away, muttering something under your breath. Tangerine watched you go, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Oh, he loved pissing you off.

And when he got back from this job?

He was going to ask you out.