#writing exercises I do

[reddragon-cowboy]

Spike possess brown eyes that could remind someone of the dark reaches of space, mysterious and deep with touches of frigid starlight. while there are rare moments they might emit some type of warmth similar to the hard taste of Bourbon, sunlight hits them, within Amber glows cold as ice that clinks in his glass. it's not easily noticeable by first glance, but if you look hard enough, taking the time to truly catch a glimpse when the light hits right, you'll see how his right eye reflects a different shade of reddish brown ( hessonite ) - a fake eye, implanted due to an accident that occurred while a member of the syndicate.

Niah got brown eyes similar to fertile soil, rich and deep that brims full of life where love shimmers in their dark depths -the smell of wet earth as rain pitter patters upon the ground. and the trickle of tears makes them glimmer, gems like Zircon and Enstatite that dazzles one's perception. afternoon sun creeps in-between the blinds, sweeps over them where they appear as Coffee mixed with cream, spoonful of Honey, enriches the flavor where fondness is cultivated.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[deerspherestudios]

If anyone's wondering how the new VN for the Monstrous Desires jam is going,,

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ seven word prompts for seven sentence fics 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ “really? i never knew that about you.”

²⁾ “come on, don’t pretend for my sake.”

³⁾ “looks like they left in a hurry.”

⁴⁾ “who’s calling you this late at night?”

⁵⁾ “seriously, were you dropped as a baby?!”

⁶⁾ “i could eat a horse.” “please don’t.”

⁷⁾ “ice cream? at three in the morning?”

⁸⁾ “get your ass here, right fucking now!”

⁹⁾ “i really did care about you, y’know.”

¹⁰⁾ “you’re not going home, you need stitches!”

¹¹⁾ “we need to get you warm, fast.”

¹²⁾ “how long have we been driving for?”

¹³⁾ “[name]- “ “don’t start. [boss]’s already deafened me.”¹⁾

¹⁴⁾ “what’s a single bed between three friends?”

¹⁵⁾ “why are you in just a towel?!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m your bodyguard, not your damn friend.”

¹⁷⁾ “swallow your pride.” “i’d rather swallow concrete.”

¹⁸⁾ “you look really good in my money.”

¹⁹⁾ “i said i’d help. didn’t say how.”

²⁰⁾ “come, sit. i made you some dinner.”

²¹⁾ “hide! they’re coming your way, and fast!”

²²⁾ “i knew you had feelings for them.”

²³⁾ “you’re exhausted, pet. let me mind you.”

²⁴⁾ “[name]’s in the hospital. it’s not good.”

²⁵⁾ “but you promised it’d all be okay!”

²⁶⁾ “their cover’s been blown- get them out!”

²⁷⁾ “who’d buying you flowers that isn’t me?”

²⁸⁾ “i was stupid enough to believe you.”

²⁹⁾ “isn’t paying for dinner a date thing?”

³⁰⁾ “for you, i’d do anything.” “i know.”

[stanfiction]

MABEL RECIEVES A LETTER....

her response...

( inspired by @cravingpepsimax 's fujoshi bill AU )

[turtleblogatlast]

Small but significant character moments that I actually really adore are from both the times we see the boys as tots. There is a reoccurrence that happens in both of them that I find so incredibly interesting.

For the turtle tot short, Splinter leaves the boys with weapons. In the short, Raph is the one who suggests they do “what Lou Jitsu would do” and Leo is the one who takes point when Splinter comes back to reprimand them. Leo, in taking point, is the one to defend them and get Splinter off their tails.

And then, in the flashback regarding the Kuroi Yōroi helmet, Raph is the one who grabs and throws “Skully” as a way to replace their missing ball which breaks it into pieces, but Leo is the one who speaks for the group and rushes into action to fix the teapot.

I love this for multiple reasons, but the biggest are how it shows that Raph has always been inclined toward the bold and fun and making the plans to include his brothers in what he loves and believes they’d love, whereas Leo has always been inclined to be the “Face” of the group and shoulder the attention even if it’s potentially negative all while coming up with on the spot attempts to fix the situation.

[buddie-buddie]

let me go home (i'm just too far from where you are)

9.5k - T - established bucktommy

Tonight is going to be perfect.

The dinner, the wine, and then, when the moment’s right, he’ll ask Evan to move in. It isn’t the grand proposal Tommy’s saving for later on down the line, but it’s the first step. And it’s one he can hardly wait to take. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait much longer. He’s washing the last of the dishes when he hears Evan’s car door closing in the driveway. Tommy wipes his hands on a towel, excitement bubbling in his chest as he heads to the front door, ready to greet his boyfriend. 

When he swings the door open, his words die in his throat. 

Evan stands on the porch in front of him, pale and hollowed out, his eyes distant and unfocused. His hands tremble where they hang at his sides, covered in blood. Blood stains streak across his t-shirt, every inch of him radiating exhaustion and something deeper, something raw. 

“Evan," Tommy breathes, his heart lurching. “Are you okay?”

Evan doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Concern washes over Tommy in waves. His mind races with possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last.

“Evan,” he tries again, more insistent this time.

read on ao3

[fatedroses]

Finally I can post the comic for Adventurer!Zenos that has taken hold of my brain for the past week.

AKA a man who is currently running off the fumes of the literal souls of the damned being very desperate to be out of the void he was stuck in (and for the first time actually being able to just enjoy something mundane), only to get absolutely overwhelmed but all the stimuli he had just... ignored until now.

[timetravellingkitty]

I'm not listening to a white person on what's racist or insensitive to brown people. read orientalism by edward said before talking to me or my son ever again

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[missmeinyourbones]

SUNA + THE FIRST TIME HE SAYS I LOVE YOU

send in a character + trope for a blurb

...

you should've been asleep. you're always asleep before him, so why would this time be any different?

suna knows the drill like the back of his hand by now. you fight off your inevitable slumber as hard as you can, trying to stay awake for no good reason until you eventually ignore his annoyances and succumb to sleep.

tonight shouldn’t have been any different.

"hey," a finger prods against your cheek, testing the waters.

when a groan bubbles from your throat but your eyes remain closed, suna knows you’re at the ‘barely hanging on to consciousness’ stage of your sleep schedule. he uses a hand to gently squeeze your cheeks together.

“stop.”

it comes out slightly muffled by your squished lips. he huffs a laugh through his nose, “what?"

you groan into the pillow, escaping his loose grasp.

"go to sleep," he whispers, and though you can’t see him, you can practically hear the menacing grin on his face through his tease.

if your eyes were open, you’d roll them. "i’m trying to."

and it’s routine, comforting to the two of you. suna waits there in the dark, like he always does, until your breathing evens out and replicates the deep inhales of when he knows you’re out for good.

he brings his finger back up to your face, but this time, instead of poking your cheek with the incentive of aggravating you, he runs it softly across your cheekbone and then down your jawline with purpose. he’s sure to notice how your eyelids don’t flicker at the sudden touch, how your breathing never hitches with his lingering fingers.

you’re asleep by his side. and just like that, vulnerability oozes from suna’s core.

so he mans up in the most pathetic way possible and presses a kiss to your head. between the space of skin and lips comes a muffled whisper that he’s been dying to say for ages now, but hasn’t quite found the courage to say clearly. 

"i love you."

it’s quiet for a moment, not a sound filling the room beside the air conditioner rattling in the window. and while suna plans to continue caressing your face, he freezes when he feels the smile growing beneath his fingertips. 

you open a single eye groggily, voice raspy when you perk up with a teasing, "what'd you say?"

"nothing," he responds quickly, trying his best to defuse the situation while simultaneously not making a big deal out of it. "you're hallucinating, go back to sleep."

"i was sleeping,” you continue to press, “but i heard something weird."

suna grimaces at your choice of vocabulary before grounding himself in your light tone. you’re not angry or upset, at least not enough for him to hear it in your voice. so he slowly eases himself back onto his pillow. 

"if you heard something, which you definitely didn't," he enunciates, "i don't think it was something weird."

"well if wasn't weird, then what was it?"

through the darkness of the bedroom, he can just barely make out your hopeful eyes, and he can imagine the giddy smile on your pretty face, so he exhales and swallows his pride.

"true," he admits, before hissing out in defeat, "and fucking embarrassing."

your laughter warms the bed and suna feels like he’s floating.

"true and embarrassing," you repeat through sleepy giggles, "just how i like 'em,"

his face is flushed as it hides in his pillow. "are you done making fun of me yet?"

he hears you shuffle in closer before he feels your breath on his arm.

"i will be if you say it again now that i'm awake," you barter.

"technically you were awake the first time i said it."

"rintaro," you whine, and when he doesn't give in so easily, you elaborate. "now that you know that i'm awake."

a bit more confident in his conviction, he brings his hand up once more to find your cheek. 

"i said i love you," he whispers, "like an idiot."

your laughter returns, and when you wrap your arms around his torso and press your nose in the crook of his neck, he can practically feel it warming his bones.

you place a kiss to his neck with a sigh of victory, "that's what i thought.”

a few minutes eventually pass in his hold, and suna would say you have to be asleep now, but he’s learned his lesson the hard way and isn’t one to make the same mistake twice.

and he’s glad because right before he drifts off himself, he feels your head rise from his chest and a gentle kiss placed on his chapped lips.

"i love you, too,” you press into his mouth like a secret, “idiot."

[autisticaradiamegido]

day 39

a redraw from a couple years back that was originally a redraw from 2014 so thats a FULL DECADE OF PROGRESS, BABEY!!

[stevebabey]

hi rubes!!! i was curious on ur thoughts on what a lazy sunday with steve would look like? esp if its one that like both ur day off and its smth that hasnt happened in a long time

hi angel!! sorry i sat on this one for awhile, i hope i made up for it by making it sooooo lovey dovey <3 0.8k, gn!reader

By some miracle, you're the first awake.

Steve is like a kind of sheep dog— he requires frequent exercise and so, he usually slips a run in the morning before you're even close to awake.

And also because of the shaggy hair and the way he seems to wag an invisible tail when all his favourite people are gathered in the same room, even going around and rounding them up, checking on everyone— Okay, you get the point, analogy over.

Actually, point is, you getting up before Steve like never happens.

Scratch that, you and Steve getting a day off to sleep in on the same day never happens. And even more, Steve very rarely skips his morning run because, y'know, sheep dog and all.

Basically, you figure this whole morning is a wondrous crafted little miracle. You have no plans to waste it.

Peering across your pillow, you watch the rise and fall of Steve's chest as he sleeps, your softened gaze roaming over his face gently. He looks younger in his sleep, pillowy lips parted lightly. His moles beg to be kissed. His hair is a mess. It's lost all its volume, lying flat against the pillow and urging you to run your fingers through it.

You ignore the urge in favor of slipping out from under the comforter. quiet as you can.

Steve's annoyingly good at spoiling you and is less than receptive to letting you return the sentiment. With one last glance back at bed, you let out a soft sigh, a honeyed noise, and head to the kitchen.

Steve's favourite mug is this wonky one that Dustin made once upon a time, some pottery class at one of his camps. You stare at it, glazed eyes taking in an alarmingly amount of detail on the cup, as the coffee brews behind you. Its scent wafts through the room. You've woken a dozen times to it, when it's Steve up and about, fixing a beverage for you.

It's cute, you think, that he still uses Dustin's mug for his coffee. By cute you mean, you can't think about it for too long or you'll stamp back down to the bedroom and kiss your boyfriend til your lips are blue and—

"Ooh, coffee?" Steve announces his presence with his words, partially garbled by his loud yawn. He halfheartedly covers his mouth, the hoodie he's haphazardly chucked on misaligned enough that it hangs over his hand adorably. He shuffles into the kitchen tiredly and despite his introduction, he heads right to you.

You can't resist a pout. Steve takes a moment to notice it, too happily distracted sidling up and worming his arms around your middle.

When he does, he tilts his head to the side. "What?"

"You couldn't let me bring it to you in bed?"

He grins. "I'm sorry. Was that the plan?"

"You know it was." You mumble grouchily, not upset at all. You push a hand into his chest, giving him a little shove. "You're always doin' this stuff for me but you don't ever let me do it for you."

Steve softens unbearably, his grin getting all gooey at the sides. He looks a little lovestruck, messy hair and all. It takes immense will to continue your upset facade. You nudge his chest again, your head inclining towards the bedroom.

"What?" His eyebrows jump, expression a mixture of incredulity and affectionate. "Y'want me to get back in bed? So you can come bring it to me?"

You smile, nudging his chest again and grinning when he starts to take a couple steps back, heading towards the bedroom. "Yes. Exactly that."

"You're absurd."

You poke your tongue out him. "You love it."

Steve moves forward abruptly, his hands cradling your face gently as he leans and steals a kiss from you. He retracts just as fast, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Yes, I do," He agrees, still wandering backwards. He disappears into your bedroom and you're left standing there with your own lovesick grin. God, you love him. Your heart feels like spun sugar in your chest, airy and sweet beyond relief.

To which Steve is no help at all when you walk into the bedroom, carefully holding the mug so it doesn’t spill. He's tucked back in bed, pretending to be asleep, only to wake with the grace of a Disney princess at your footsteps.

He faux yawns and pretends to jump at your presence, scampering to sit up in bed so he can accept the coffee from you. "Oh wow, what a surprise this is!"

"Shut up. You think you're soo funny, huh?" you mumble, handing the coffee over. Your aching smile gives away just how funny you think he is.

"Mmhm," Steve hums as he takes a sip. You've made it just the way he likes it. He parrots your earlier words. "You love it."

You lean in, mindful of the mug, and kiss him sweetly. He tastes of coffee and cream and he chases your lips for a second kiss when you pull back. You aim for tiredly amused but the words come out devastatingly sincere anyway. "Yeah, I do."

[scealaiscoite]

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅ a month’s worth of whump prompts ]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

¹⁾ blood swirling down a shower drain

²⁾ stitches on a cheekbone

³⁾ fingertips numb from cold

⁴⁾ painkillers and a cup of tea left on a nightstand

⁵⁾ a thick plaster cast

⁶⁾ canine teeth tipped with blood

⁷⁾ a bruise in the shape of a boot print

⁸⁾ dried tear tracks

⁹⁾ an inescapable migraine

¹⁰⁾ sunglasses over a bruised eye

¹¹⁾ scars littering the expanse of a back

¹²⁾ bloodied teeth

¹³⁾ skinned knees

¹⁴⁾ a torn-apart first aid kit

¹⁵⁾ frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise

¹⁶⁾ brambles and twigs knotted into hair

¹⁷⁾ lipstick and a split lip

¹⁸⁾ an especially improvised tourniquet

¹⁹⁾ blood seeping through clothes

²⁰⁾ a heart monitor

²¹⁾ unbearable nausea

²²⁾ a hoarse throat

²³⁾ blood under fingernails

²⁴⁾ a thermometer between bitten lips

²⁵⁾ hands soothing over a shaking frame

²⁶⁾ a twisted ankle on the side of a mountain

²⁷⁾ cuddling for warmth

²⁸⁾ thin hospital blankets

²⁹⁾ broken glass

³⁰⁾ a knife pressed against a throat

³¹⁾ night terrors

[katapotato55]

how to make your writing be remembered forever and possibly be well loved.

(incredibly stupid and silly fanfiction line at the end of this post) I know that title is incredibly daunting but listen, its very simple. you ready?

MAKE STRONG CHARACTERS

"but kat! surely its not that simple! " nononono listen. bear with me. I want you to think of your favorite thing. Now ask: what do you remember the most about the thing you love? I will go first:

I love team fortress 2. and guess what: this game has been around since 2007, and was in development hell since before I was even born. The game has been around for 16 fucking years. And guess what? in the strong year of 2023 team fortress 2 Is STILL getting memed about. and do you want to know the crazy part? the character designs to the naked eye are not special at all. ok sure from a designer standpoint, these are very well designed characters made so that you can easily tell who they are based on their silhouette. but from the average joe.... tf2 is iconic but overall it looks ok. it doesn't seem special to a stranger to tf2. look at this completely random and arbitrary example of a game in the same genre:

I don't know shit about the characters in overwatch. Yeah i have a BASIC idea on what their personality is like based on voice lines and some videos i guess... but in-game they just exist. these characters are brightly colored, they have beautiful unique designs, hell they have even more diversity such as robots and people from other cultures! but i don't remember shit about these characters. Maybe I remember the ice lady and tracer, but nothing else. and yeah part of overwatch struggling right now is incompetant development, BUT: The characters in team fortress 2 are SO remember-able because the characters have such a vibrant personality. I am an orange box owner, its been a decade and a half and I am still remembering this game and enjoying art about it.

"but kat! that is a comedy game! Overwatch is a very serious game! are you saying comedy is needed to make a character more noticeable?" no. though I think allowing your characters to lighten up every now and then would humanize them. Not full on goofy, just give them something that makes them likeable. and if you cant do that, you can STILL make a compelling character even though they are mostly seriousness. I have an even more awfully thought out example:

kung fu panda is a masterclass in making a serious comedic movie somehow work. Master Oogway.... he isn't a comedic character at all. Yeah we made memes about him, but ignoring that, he is a wise and resourceful person. He is at calm and has faith in this intuition. there are a lot of characters like this. What makes Oogway stand out is that he is also a little bit kooky and sassy.

this youtube clip sums up what I mean. It is a funny line, it fits the character, and It doesn't ruin the seriousness of the moment. Some of the most successful series in history have something about them that has appealed to people. In my opinion: characters with strong personality and interesting traits is always a good way to ensure your writing is successful. The second most important is the characters bouncing off of each other in terms of their chemistry with each other. There is a reason why I spent years playing the first Destiny game and all of the DLC, but I remember fuck all about the characters. I think I maybe remember the bootleg star lord robot guy.

A writing exercise

here is an exercise to get you in the spirit of character making. step 1- get a random character from a random bit of media. In this case let me bring you master Oogway. Step 2- Get a completely different character from a completely unrelated series. I am going to give you Scout from team fortress 2. step 3- write a random ass thing about them interacting. Think about how the characters would react to each other and why. Think about each characters values in life and think about how they would bond and conflict with each other. Think about characters similar to the character they met in the past and how they reacted then, and if they have never interacted, make something interesting with it. Step 4- keep experimenting. Once you get into the spirit you can apply this to any new character you could want to make anyways thats it byeee- "arent you going to do that ?" do what? "make a writing thing about oogway and scout. " ........

Scout: let's go turtle you got nothing on my speed- Oogway: The one who first resorts to violence shows that he has no more arguments. Scout: that sounds like chicken talk! come on tough guy let me have it- Oogway then proceeds to make scout eat shit before vanishing in a cloud of cherry blossoms and dust from the desert. If this post isn't popular I want you to know my dignity was lost for nothing.

[kausparty]

hella late to this twitter meme but i really wanted to do this with as many lupins as possible hehe. carpal tunnel be damned... I Will Draw Lupon