#just that this developer seems sketch as hell

[gikairan]

Anyway i dunno whose been vaguely aware of the p/al//world discourse over the weekend

But basically theres just.... way too many similarities between some of the designs and pokemon designs.... and one of the lead developers (studio owner? maybe??) has been super Pro-AI, to the point where the studio also has another game on steam thats AI powered.

And, like, the length of time we've been seeing PW on things like Summer Games Fest tells me that they probably didn't use AI for the designs of this game - theres too little time for AI to have designed them, and for them to have been modelled, rigged and coded into the game.

But boy they absolutely wanted to look as MUCH like Pokemon as possible.

And look, I dont think you could make a pokemon-like without having SOME similar designs going on. Theres SO many pokemon, and its also your point of inspiration, its kinda hard not to accidentally tread on the same ground?

But some of these designs are just... oof. Theyre obvious. Heres a thread of a few - https://twitter.com/Barbie_E4/status/1747940333059534923

And, like... they do not have to be SO obvious? Heres a screenshot of some creature designs from Pokemon-like game Cassette Beasts:

Heres some creatures from Pokemon-like Nexomon:

Like, its entirely possible to make a game inspired by Pokemon where the creature designs and art style dont feel ripped off?? You dont need to do that!! These 2 games manage to have their own identity, even if theres some design elements that remind me of pokemon!!

And i wouldnt even say this is just "haters hating" or w/e.

Because the studio has had a game in early access since 2020 called... Craftopia. And boy does the main enemy design look... familiar

Theres also this guy (That i cant get a clear shot of) in the trailer that looks like a Moblin

And a rather small Hinox (which admittedly is a generic cyclops, but sure is a Choice to include it in your BOTW rip off)

In fact, the game generally looks like a Breath of the Wild rip-off with a much lower budget and Crafting stuffed in. Hell, even though it released around the same time... I'm pretty sure its also ripping off Genshin Impact.....

(it does the same charge attack with the shield too)

Even the choice of horse is ripping off Zelda.....

The first shot in the first trailer on Steam is literally a woman in her undies walking out of a cave, and going over to a cliff edge that overlooks the World. And like, its almost identical to the opening of BOTW. The biggest difference is the camera angle.

Like, this studio has a history of barely filing the serial numbers off? Likely looking to capitalise on the success of much bigger series to sell their own games.

And, like, thats just kinda scummy to me?? They clearly dont have any actually good ideas to sell to people. They need to make something that clearly looks like something else, to ride the success of the something else.

I have a good feeling that any future Pals added to this game will just be genAI designs based on existing pokemon. Its "family friendly look but with GUNS" purely to be Edgy, but the team just has a pokemon fusion generator rather than any actually good ideas for Creatures....

I dunno how it got so much attention at all these game shows for years, because it doesnt look like this developer deserves it.....

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Hear Me Out, Keep Me Guessing

Steddie || wc: 2.5k || rating: T || tags: alternate first meeting, pre-S4, Eddie is a rollercoaster of emotions, Steve is over it, fluff and flirting || ao3

Inspired by my own post

☆☆☆

“Okay, Munson. What’s your fucking problem?”

Eddie hops on top of the wooden picnic bench to gain a slight height advantage over whoever’s decided to fuck up his day, when he spots none other than Steve Harrington headed towards him through the trees, fighting his way through brush and bramble.

“Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Crawling through the dirt just to visit his former court jester.” Eddie smirks, hears Harrington mutter something under his breath that sounds a lot like jesus christ before he finally makes his way over.

Harrington’s looking up at him, squinting into the sunlight, and Eddie’s slightly repelled by his sudden desire to run a hand through King Steve’s hair. It shines in the sunlight, matching the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

Eddie takes a step to the left, casting him back into shadow again where he’s just his normal, asshole self and not the angelic image Eddie conjured from his horny, queer little brain.

He can��t remember if it’s his turn to talk or Harrington’s, but it seems the King’s lost the plot as well. Completely zoned out, he’s just standing there staring up at Eddie, mouth dropped open and eyes wide in a way Eddie will certainly not be thinking about later tonight. Absolutely not.

Eddie coughs. Loud and obnoxious enough to break whatever trance they’ve found themselves in. Harrington awkwardly chuckles, running a hand through his hair. An image of Steve leaning against lockers, towering over a girl with heat in his eyes and a hand in his hair floods Eddie’s brain before he can shake it out like an Etch A Sketch. What the fuck is even happening to him?

“Yeah, Munson. Like, what the hell is your problem?” It lacks punch and drama the second time around, but it gets them back on track. Harrington props his hands on his hips, his lip juts out into a tiny pout, and Eddie wonders if he thinks standing like a disappointed mom is effective in getting what he wants, or if being adorable just comes naturally to the former King.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my liege.” He watches as Harrington brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration and he makes a mental note to develop a better, more refined taste in men.

“The kids, man. Why aren’t you friends with the kids?”

“Kids? What the hell– what kids?” He hops down from the table. If this is going to be a legitimate conversation and not a shake down, he figures it’ll be easier on even footing. Harrington takes the seat opposite him, his shoe accidentally knocking Eddie’s ankle.

Steve doesn’t move his foot. Neither does Eddie.

“My kids, man. They said they tried talking to you all week and you wouldn’t even hear them out!”

Eddie watches his fingers tap absently on the table top. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s shocking that Eddie is just now realizing that Steve’s actually anxious. Normally Eddie considers himself better at reading people, when he’s not distracted with puffy, pink lips and a confusing line of conversation.

He looks down, rewinding the past week. He’d made it through his first week of his third senior year without anyone getting in his face. Maybe he’s old enough now that even asshole seniors like Jason Carver have decided to leave him alone. Thankfully it seems the offer also extends to Gareth, Kenny, and Jeff, who’ve only reported minor name calling and a light shove.

That’s where he spots them, stops the tape midway through lunch on Wednesday when a group of three freshmen approached the table. He’d spotted the curly-haired kid earlier in the week, bravely decked out in a Weird Al shirt and a hat from some science camp. The kid was enough of a freak to earn free admission to Hellfire, but the other two required a bit more thought.

Eddie clocked Little Wheeler through the station wagon window Monday morning when he’d cut Nancy off in the parking lot. The kid seemed alright, but with a priss like Nancy as a sister, it was a tough call. The other kid seemed a bit too sporty, and a little too interested in basketball tryouts.

When the three amigos started talking DnD, the guys invited them with open arms. It was a relatively peaceful lunch. Exciting even, at the prospect of adding new members to their campaign. They’d mentioned trying to convince a few of their friends to play. A girl named Max Mayfield, who turns out lives a few trailers down from Eddie.

But when the curly-haired kid mentioned Steve Harrington, the Hellfire boys clammed up tighter than nun’s ass. His named dripped from their mouths like it was covered in gold, the hero-worship rotting them from the inside and Eddie wouldn’t stand for it. No true freaks would stand to be friends with an asshole bully like King Steve.

Of course the freshies tried to argue, saying he’d changed. It didn’t matter to the Hellfire boys. Clearly the freshmen were corrupted, and they couldn’t be trusted. So he’d sent them on their way, and the three of them posted up in the corner of the lunchroom every day since. Far away from jocks and freaks alike.

Now, Eddie looks across the table and sees false bravado slathered over the anxiety etched into the former King’s face. He doesn’t know how three freshmen freaks found themselves under the wing of Steve Harrington, but it seems the feeling is mutual. Steve cares about these kids.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I remember them. What’s it to you, Harrington? Aren’t they a little too old for a babysitter.” The joke falls flat when Steve sighs, heavy and exhausted, like somehow a rich boy from the Loch carries the entire world on his shoulders.

But he plays it off, trying to meet Eddie’s quip halfway. “Babysitters get paid, dude. I do it from the goodness of my heart or some shit.” Steve leans back, scrubs his hands over his face like he can erase whatever’s behind his eyes.

Eddie stares at him, hoping to catch a glimpse. The only consolation is Steve puts his other foot on the opposite side of Eddie’s, his ankle now fully cradled between Steve’s.

“They’re nerds, man.” Harrington states it like it’s a fact and not an insult he’s hurled at Eddie a hundred times over the years. “They’re freaks, you know– like you.”

Moment officially broken, Eddie scoffs, pushing away from the table wondering why he ever entertained talking with Harrington in the first place. As he grabs his lunchbox off the forest floor, he hears shuffling behind him.

“Wait,” Harrington shouts. “Just, fuck man, can you just let me finish?”

“Finish what, exactly?” Eddie snaps, whirling around to crowd into his space. He wears big and scary like how the King wears his crown and how assassins wield their blades. With enough power and confidence to scare off any enemy. “Finish listening to you shit on the little guy? Listen to you harp on the freaks of the world, or how you corrupted your little pions?”

“What?” Steve asks, lips pursed and eyebrows scrunched. Eddie’s not surprised his jock-rattled brain couldn’t find that word in its very limited dictionary, but what does surprise him is that Steve doesn’t back down. They’re practically nose to nose, so close Eddie can spot a small freckle on his lash-line, and Steve’s standing here like he doesn't have a care in the world while Eddie screams in his face.

It’s quiet again. He can hear the rustle of tall grass and birds overhead. He can feel Steve’s breath on his lips and Eddie can’t remember what they were talking about. Again.

Steve grabs his shoulders, and in his daze, Eddie lets himself be maneuvered back to sitting at the picnic table, while Steve stands in front of him.

“Are you always big and loud and obnoxious? Can you just cut the shit for like, five minutes so we can have a normal fucking conversation. Jesus christ, you’re practically perfect for them.” The last part is quieter, seems more like an unfiltered afterthought.

“Ok,” Eddie says. If Steve’s willing to take the crown off long enough to talk with Eddie, then maybe he can shed his own metaphorical battle vest. “Say what you have to say, then.”

Steve clears his throat, shuffles slightly as he gains his footing. He looks at Eddie with a determined set to his shoulders.

“Henderson, Sinclair, and even Wheeler– they’re my kids. I’ve spent the last nine months watching out for those little shits because all they’re good at is getting into the worst kinds of trouble.” Eddie tracks him as Steve paces the forest floor, rambling and raking a hand through his hair like it helps him think. “But I remembered you didn’t graduate, right? And you run that Dungeons and Dragons club–”

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie interrupts. Steve stops, turns to face him, and shoots him the bitchiest glare Eddie’s ever seen, but before he can say anything, Eddie pushes on. “You, Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, leader of meatheads and bimbos alike, know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”

Steve sighs, hands back on his hips as he rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, Munson. Don’t worry it’s all against my will, okay? I’m not coming to steal your freaks and weirdos so I can lead them too.” He smirks, and it pulls a laugh out of Eddie, shocked that Steve’s willing to joke around with Eddie at all, let alone when it’s at his own expense.

“Now, quit interrupting me, you’re as bad as Henderson.”

Eddie mimes zipping his lips closed, only to open his mouth to swallow the imaginary key. Butterflies explode in his chest at the sound of Steve laughter, and Eddie wonders if bashing his head into a tree would be a decent excuse to explain the red flush erupting on his face.

“Anyways,” Steve chuckles. “They’re smart as shit but don’t know when to give something up just to get out of a fight. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten their asses handed to them already, and everyday I pick them up all I'm thinking about is which one of them I’m gonna have to stitch up. Sure, some of the guys in the grade below were alright, like Andy. But guys like Hargrove, like Carver.” Eddie can practically see the dark cloud form over Steve’s brow.

He remembers as well as anyone the fallout of Harrington v Hargrove, Fall 1985. There’d been endless rumors about what happened, each one more ridiculous than the last. Now he’s left wondering if it’s not really about Nancy, or drugs, or Billy fucking Steve’s mom, but about these kids. The timing checks out, nine months on babysitting duties lines up pretty well with when Steve showed up to school beaten and broken.

Maybe Steve isn’t all he seems to be.

“Guys like Carver won’t mess with you. They’re too scared you’re using DnD to worship the devil and get kids into sodomy and drugs and shit like that. I told them that you’d be cool. That you’re big and loud, that you play DnD like them. You're smart and you read the same nerdy books. I told them they’d be safe with you, man.” Steve rubs his face again, until his hands fall to the sides and he tilts his head up towards the sky. “I just need to know someone’s looking out for them. Please, Eddie, just–”

“Okay.”

Steve’s attention snaps back to him, relief written plain as day in the wide set of his smile. “You’re serious?”

Eddie can’t help but smile back. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Steve smile so unguarded, and never aimed his way. The sheer brightness of it fills him with warmth he wants to wrap himself up in.

All on top of the fact Eddie's never gotten this many compliments from anyone before, let alone from a guy as gorgeous as Steve Harrington. His ears are practically on fire.

“Yeah, Harrington. I’ll share custody of your little nuggets.” Before he knows what’s coming, Steve sweeps him up into a hug, lifts him fully off the ground and can feel the tinkling of his laughter on the shell of his ear.

“Thanks, Munson. Damn, you have no idea how freaked out I’ve–”

“What about the other stuff?” Eddie can’t stop himself from asking. He has to know, deep in his bones, that Steve is thinking this through. That Steve won’t change his mind in a few days or months and decide it’s time for Eddie Munson to eat dirt.

He lets Eddie go, but holds his shoulders at arms length to look him in the eye. Any lingering mirth has been replaced with intent curiosity. “What stuff, Munson?”

He can tell by Steve’s tone they’re both talking about the same thing. Rumors that’ve haunted Eddie since eighth grade after Davey Richardson beat him up under the bleachers. It didn’t matter that Davey kissed him first, all that mattered was he was popular and Eddie was weird.

He’d grown numb to the slurs over the years, but how could he forget hearing the reason why Byers beat the shit out of King Steve. The only surprise from that fight was it sounded like he never even tried to fight back.

“Harrington, if I don’t get to act loud and obnoxious, then you don’t get to play dumb.” The intensity of Steve’s stare reminds him of the few conversations he’d had with Chief Hopper before he’d died. The man could tear Eddie down to the bones with one glare, and he’s sure it’s the only reason the Chief brought him back to the trailer instead of a jail cell.

“Eddie,” Steve says, tone firm, “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t care about the shit people say, especially self-righteous assholes like Carver. The only thing I give a shit about is you watching over the little gremlins and not selling them drugs, so I can breathe easier when I don't have eyes on them.”

Steve shakes him lightly, like it’ll sift this world-changing view into his brain, then pats his shoulder as he passes by him.

“Wait,” Eddie shouts, always a glutton for punishment. He spins around to catch Steve walking backwards away from him, hands in his pockets, effortlessly cool. The sun’s catching his hair again and there’s a smirk on his lips. “You really don’t care?”

Steve laughs, taking a step back. He chews on his bottom lip, and he smiles when he catches Eddie looking. Because he knows. Steve knows now, before Jeff or Wayne or anyone else.

“Eddie, whoever you decide to love or fuck– or not– is none of my business.” He turns to leave, and as Eddie relaxes he hears Steve call out, “unless you want it to be.”

Steve’s light laughter follows him out of the woods, and Eddie plops himself down in the same spot on the same wooden bench in the exact same forest as he always does every Friday after school. Except a twenty minute conversation with Steve Harrington leaves Eddie feeling like his world's been turned upside down.

Maybe ‘86 will be his year, after all.

[lvmimis]

cw: fluff but somewhat melancholy. happy birthday fic dedicated to my favorite pirate king!

The sun sets quite late on this particular crop of tiny islands, and the large, endless fields of sunflowers that comprise them have been a legend you’ve heard about for longer than you can remember. It amazes you that you’ve been able to actually find them, but today, you and Luffy have managed to set off together in search of them - with guidance of a small map provided by Nami - to spend the day together in leisure. The ornate - and previously overstuffed - picnic basket settled in front of you has been dozed over with not a crumb left courtesy of your favorite pirate, and now you glance over at him while sitting cross-legged in the grass, two easels propped up before you. 

One painting is covered in measured but uneasy brush strokes, the other with bold, broad splashes of color, abstract yet confident in its statement. The latter’s artist is only a few feet ahead of you, just before the high row of sunflowers, the varying heights an unnatural but aesthetic patchwork of yellow bloom. Where he stands, they are separated into a path, and as the wind blows, you wonder if they even seem to be turned towards him slightly, swaying to and fro from where he stands, their brown centers like watchful wide pupils, not unlike yours.

It’s an odd thing to imagine, you admit to yourself as you add another brush stroke to your canvas, but these flowers won’t be the first to bend naturally to his indomitable will.

The sun has not set yet, and the two of you are awash in the golden hour. Luffy starts to hum something under his breath as you continue to paint, his eyes in the direction of the sea. You can’t ask him to sit for too long, and when he needs you, you’ll be there right beside him.

More brush strokes, as you try to develop them into a form. Maybe if he stands there long enough, you can sketch out a vision of him among the flowers, and you start to move quicker, until -

Something has just occurred to you.

“Luffy!”

Luffy stops humming, turning his head in your direction.

Your stomach twists as you realize you might be the worst romantic partner on the planet.

“... when exactly is your birthday?”

Between your first meeting along with the crew over two and a half years ago, the one and a half years spent mostly apart in Amazon Lily territory and the six months together on Rusukaina Island, and the months thereafter with the crew, you realize you have never seen him blow the candles off a cake.

Admitting this is hard for you, but it’s even more odd when Luffy scrunches up his face for a moment, thinking.

“What day is today?” he asks.

“... May 5th,” you reply. 

Luffy tilts his head and taps his chin. “Oh. Today. Maybe.”

Your jaw drops.

“Today?????? Maybe???? Luffy, what the hell do you mean today-”

Your voice is cut short by his arms quickly shooting in your direction, giving you enough time to brace yourself, eyes closed, before they loop around and snatch you up like a lasso. Before you have time to scream, you’re already in his grip and he’s smiling brightly at you.

“Put me down,” you say, the way it comes out as a whisper, showing he did a particularly good job of circumventing a rant. He obliges, but lets an arm coil around your waist as you stand looking off at the sea.

“Yeah, I think I was born today,” he muses. He’s not looking at you now but he chuckles under his breath. You pout, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Luffy.”

The sun continues its slow descent, warmth on your faces, as you watch the horizon. He kisses the top of your head.

“Thanks.”

‘And I love you’ is not said by either of you, but it is implied and exchanged in the pregnant, heavy silence.

“Did you eat enough? Should we go get you a cake now? There has to be somewhere…” you start, filling it.

Luffy squeezes your hand, then brings it to his lips.

“Stop freaking out, it’s just a birthday,” he mutters against your hand. You can sense a quiet solemnity in him, one that reminds you that Luffy’s abnormal past often bubbles to the surface then dissipates, just below the surface until it fades with the breadth of his grin.

But you want him to tell you.

“Did… Dadan not know about it either?” The crew is a moot point… or maybe it’s not, considering the sheer amount of food Sanji packed for you two, but it’s unlike him to not include a cake or tell you if he had known in advance. “Sabo?” you ask tentatively.

You pause before asking the next one.

“... Ace?”

Luffy’s loose but affectionate grip on your hand doesn’t tense up but he’s made a bit quieter.

“Ace didn’t like his birthday when we were kids. When I asked him, he said it didn’t matter. I don’t think he’s wrong about that.”

His eyes tilt upwards to the sky.

“As long as you’re still alive, every day is special.” 

It’s a particularly Luffy answer, but there is a certain bite to it that makes your throat go slightly dry. You twist your mouth to the side, but don’t add anything. Luffy thinks back to the days Dadan would put extra helpings of food on their plates, and insist on Ace or him eating the first slice of a plain iced cake with no candles; then he remembers Makino arriving with heaps of fruit on a tart, “just as a treat” but on the same days every year.

He knew he was being treated nicely because it was his birthday, but because of Ace…

“Even so, would you let me celebrate it with you from now on?” you ask suddenly, pulling him out of his reverie. Luffy looks at you, and takes in the slight shine in your eyes. Dusk is approaching quickly, time running out in the day.

“Yeah. I’ll blow some candles if you want.”

His forehead presses against yours now as he grins from ear to ear.

“Gotta make me a meat cake, though. In addition to regular cake,” he insists, as he cups your face. You cover his hands with your smaller ones.

“Whatever you want for your birthday, Luffy. I promise,” you offer him sincerely.

The sunflowers, tall and short, are still your audience, gently swaying as you walk back to pick up your supplies. Your drawing is only partially done, but you are okay packing up your canvas.

You have to celebrate Luffy’s birthday, and the next hundred.

—

As you load your small boat, an offshoot of the Thousand Sunny, he peers over your shoulder as you glance at your map. You look at him, then press a kiss to his cheek before figuring out your next stop.

“Back to the Sunny to see Sanji for a cake, or should we just go and buy one even if it’ll probably be less good?”

He ponders for a moment.

“Let’s buy a cake so we can be together a little longer. Plus it’ll be faster.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Sanji will be so hurt but it’s our own secret, I guess.”

He grins and presses a kiss to your lips again. “It’s only a problem if you tell him.”

The ship sets off in the direction of a port city in the vicinity with a big shopping district and hopefully a bakery. As you sail, you watch Luffy again who is already dozing off his hand encircling yours, his straw hat covering his face.

“Hey, Luffy.”

Luffy doesn’t take off his hat but responds under, his voice muffled. “Yeah?”

You lean closer to where he is laid, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Do you want to celebrate with Ace too on his birthday?” you ask in a gentle voice. He takes off his hat for a moment and looks you in the eyes carefully, and the brown of his irises remind you again of sunflowers - adoration, loyalty, happiness, and longevity.

“Sure.”

The hat goes back atop his head, covering his sweet face, and you smile to yourself.

—

Henceforth, on May 5th every year, a feast that lasts an entire day on the Thousand Sunny.

And on January 1st in an unknown year in the future, a birthday cake with 20 candles is split into four pieces atop a well-loved grave.

[charliedawn]

My Sandpaper Mouth

Professor!Joel Miller x Artist!Reader (No apocalypse here.) Warning: Stabbing wound and traumatic event!

You had opened the wrong door. It was supposed to be the studio for life drawing—Arts 203—but instead of easels and scattered charcoal, you found yourself stepping into a quiet music room. The air was still, golden with the late afternoon light. And then you heard it—

A man sat alone on a stool, guitar resting against his leg, his head slightly bowed. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His fingers moved across the strings with a kind of reverence, coaxing out a melody that wasn’t polished but honest. It drifted through the room like smoke—steady, slow, and beautiful.

You stayed. Quietly.

You slipped into a chair in the back, careful not to let the old wooden legs creak. He didn’t glance your way. You didn’t say a word. You just listened. He played as if the room were empty. As if the music wasn’t meant for anyone but him. And yet it felt like it was meant for you. You opened your sketchbook—not to draw him exactly, but the way the music felt. The slump of his shoulders. The rhythm of his boot tapping. The softness in the pauses between chords.

Eventually, the song faded, the last note trailing off into silence. The man finally looked up then, catching sight of you. His brow furrowed slightly, not in annoyance—more like curiosity.

“You ain’t one of mine,” he pointed out. His voice was low, gravel-thick and with that slight Southern drawl.

You smiled, just a little. “No. Wrong room.”

He set the guitar down gently. “Didn’t seem like you were in a rush to leave.”

“I liked your music,” you replied honestly with a light shrug.

Joel gave a quiet grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t used to having an audience.”

You closed your sketchbook, but you didn’t leave right away. “My name’s Y/N. Do you always play before class?”

“Most days,” he confirmed with a shrug. “It’s quieter then.”

He did not tell you his name. But you didn’t need him to. Dark, brooding and with eyes you could find a path to hell with…This was the infamous Professor Miller. The music teacher who for some reason everyone loved, but nobody could explain why. Maybe because he had this dad look or he simply kept to himself and loved his job ? You hesitated at the door. “Would you mind if I listened again sometimes?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, with a nod, said, “Long as you don’t talk over it.”

You smiled. “Deal.”

And the next time? You walked into that wrong room on purpose.

…

After that first afternoon, it became a quiet ritual. You never announced yourself. Never knocked. You’d simply slip into the room 206, sometimes fifteen minutes before class, long before Joel’s actual students began to trickle in. He never said much—sometimes only nodded—but he always had his guitar, always let the music fill the space for both your ears to enjoy.

You had developed a rhythm.

He’d play. You’d sketch.

His music stirred something in you—not just inspiration, but clarity. The kind that made your hands itch to move charcoal or a pencil across paper, to chase the way his fingers curled around each string, or how the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly when a note hit the way he liked. He never asked to see what you were drawing, and you never offered. That was part of the quiet agreement. But over time, you found yourself more and more drawn to the strange idea that this man, all rough flannel and calloused hands, had become a sort of muse.

It made you laugh one afternoon, unexpectedly.

You had been sketching, half-lost in the way the light from the window caught the edges of Joel’s silhouette—and your hand, almost on its own, had begun drawing him not as himself but as one of the mythological muses from classical paintings—or from the criminally underrated Disney long animation Hercules. He wore a flowy toga in the sketch, his hair longer and curling, a lyre in place of his guitar, a crown of olive leaves crooked on his head. The absurdity of it pulled a soft laugh from you before you could stop it.

Joel paused mid-song, fingers stilling on the strings. He glanced over at you, one eyebrow raised.

“You laughin’ at my playin’ over there?”

You pressed your hand over your mouth, grinning behind it. “Sorry—no. Just…got carried away with my artistic liberties.”

He gave a skeptical look, then smirked. “Huh. What were ya drawin’ ?”

You shrugged. “My muse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Muses usually don’t make people laugh.”

“No,” you admitted, eyes dropping back to your sketch, “but this one kind of does.”

He strummed again, slow and thoughtful. “Well, okay then.”

And then the music continued, as steady and familiar as ever. But the laugh lingered in your chest, warm and private—your little secret.

A few days later

Joel didn’t see you before class.

He walked in early, as usual—coffee in hand, guitar slung over his shoulder. The room was quiet, still lit by the soft amber light that always reminded him of late summer. He glanced towards the back row, like he always did. Your spot. The same chair you claimed every time you “accidentally” walked into the wrong classroom months ago.

But the seat was empty that day.

He didn’t think much of it at first. Maybe you were running late. Maybe you’d decided to actually go to your real class for once. He sat down, adjusted the guitar, and began to play. His fingers moved from muscle memory, but his eyes kept flicking up towards the door, just in case.

You didn’t walk in.

The song fell flat. He stopped halfway through and leaned back, letting the silence fill the room. Joel didn’t want to admit it, even to himself—but he’d gotten used to that quiet presence. That soft scratch of pencil on paper while he played. The occasional smirk you gave when he hit a sour note. The way you never said much, just watched, as if he were saying more with his music than words ever could.

He missed it. He missed—

He shook his head. Nope. Not gonna go there.

When his students finally arrived, he found himself irritated at their chatter, the way they clattered in with no regard for the stillness he’d grown to enjoy. He went through the motions—scales, structure, progressions—but the music didn’t feel the same. He kept looking at the door. Even after class had started. Even after it ended. And when the room emptied again, he sat alone for a long while, guitar in his lap, wondering where his little sketchbook ghost had gone to…

The next day:

Joel heard it in the hallway. Two faculty members were murmuring near the vending machines, just out of earshot—except he caught a few words.

“…student got attacked—”

“—just off campus, near the back alley…”

“—knife, can you believe that ? She’s in the hospital. Lucky she’s alive.”

Joel slowed his step. He didn’t usually pay attention to gossip. He kept to himself, taught his classes, played his guitar and went home. But something in the way the older professor said “she” made his stomach turn. He stood still for a moment, jaw tight, then approached.

“Who’re you talkin’ about ?” he asked. The other teachers turned, surprised by his presence.

“A terrible thing,” said the art history instructor, shaking her head. “Some arts student. She got jumped near the train overpass. Yesterday evening. Can’t imagine how someone could—”

“What’s her name ?” Joel interrupted.

They hesitated. The other teacher—a younger guy from photography—scratched his neck. “Don’t think they released it. But I heard she’s in St. Peter’s hospital. Banged up pretty bad.”

Joel nodded once, sharp and final. Then he walked away, eyes dark with something unreadable. Back in his classroom, he sat with the guitar across his knees, but didn’t play. The light through the window was the same as always, but the room felt wrong without you in it.

You hadn’t shown up that morning either. No sketchbook. No quiet laugh. No little lively chat. And now all he could see was the image of you in some alley, alone, scared, hurt. His hands tightened on the frets until the wood creaked.

He didn’t know why the idea beat him so hard.

Maybe because you were a part of his rhythm now. Maybe because some part of him had started looking forward to those few quiet minutes with you more than he let on. Maybe because the thought of you scared and hurt made something twist in his chest that he didn’t like. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over the contact list. But he didn’t have your number. He only knew the sound of your pencil and the way you smiled when he played the right chord…He stayed like this for a while.

He then took a decision.

That night, Joel stood outside the fluorescent-lit entrance of St. Peter’s Hospital, clutching a crinkled paper bag in one hand and a small bouquet of white daisies and deep blue cornflowers in the other. He didn’t know much about flowers—not really. He’d picked these because they looked nice. The kind of thing someone like you might sketch in the corner of a page.

He didn’t even know if flowers were appropriate. He wasn’t your family. Not your teacher. Not anything, really—just a man with a guitar and a quiet habit of playing while you drew in the back of his classroom.

But he’d shown up anyway.

The hospital lobby was dim and sterile, smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Joel cleared his throat as he approached the front desk.

“Excuse me,” he started. “I’m lookin’ for a student. Came in yesterday evenin’. I don’t know her last name—only first. Might’ve been attacked.”

The nurse behind the counter gave him a skeptical look. “Do you know if she’s in ICU or general ?”

Joel shook his head. “Arts student. Sketches a lot. Quiet. Might’ve come in with a stab wound.”

Something in his words must’ve struck a chord, because the nurse’s expression softened slightly. She tapped on her computer, then nodded slowly.

“There’s a patient who fits that. No visitors yet.” She eyed the flowers. “You a relative?”

Joel hesitated. Then answered, “No.”

But after a pause, he added, “I’m…someone who noticed when she wasn’t there.”

She seemed to understand. Gave him a room number and pointed down the hallway. Joel nodded and made his way past rows of muted curtains and quiet beeping machines. He hesitated just outside your door, hand tightening slightly around the flowers. There was a moment—a long one—where he thought maybe he should turn around. Leave the bouquet and go.

But then he stepped inside.

You were there, eyes half-lidded in the dim light, a bandage on your shoulder, bruising blooming across your temple. You looked tired. But alive.

Your gaze drifted towards him, confusion pulling faintly at your brows. “Professor Miller…?”

He swallowed. “Heard what happened.”

You blinked at the flowers in his hand. “Are those…for me?”

He looked down, like he’d forgotten he was holding them. Then stepped forward, awkward but careful, and set them gently on the rolling bedside table.

“Didn’t know if they were necessary,” he muttered. “Just…figured maybe you’d want somethin’ else to look at for a while.”

You smiled at the thoughtful gesture. “They’re nice.”

He nodded, shifting his weight. He didn’t know what else to say, so he reached into the paper bag and pulled out something else—a brand new sketchbook with a box of pencils.

“I hum…bought this too,” he said—his thumb tracing the fake leather covering it. “Figured you might eventually run out of pages in your last one.”

You smiled and gratefully took it—your fingers brushing against his.

“Thank you. I will use it.”

He nodded and they his eyes drifted down to your injury and a lump formed in his throat.

“You scared the hell outta me, you know,” he admitted and his eyes looked back at your face where the bruises showed obvious signs of struggle. You had fought, perhaps even fell in your attempt to get away.

You gave a weak laugh. “I didn’t mean to.”

He nodded again.

“Do you know who it was?” he asked, voice low but rough with something with barely restrained fury. “The guy who did it?”

You shifted slightly in the hospital bed, a faint wince flickering across your face as your fingers absently touched the bandage at your side. Your voice was quiet. Flat. Like you were still trying to make sense of the memory yourself.

“No. I’d never seen him before.”

Joel’s jaw flexed.

You looked down at your hands, still faintly ink-smudged. “I was walking back from the clay modeling studio. Late class. Wasn’t paying much attention—just thinking about what I wanted to fix on the sculpture.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I noticed him following me,” you continued, “but figured it was nothing. He wasn’t close. I thought maybe he lived in the same dorm building.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

You swallowed. “Then he was just—behind me. So fast. I didn’t even hear him run. Just felt a hand over my mouth and then—” you paused, touching your side. “The knife. He stabbed me once in the side and in my shoulder. I got away by scratching his face with my keys and ran.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Joel was completely still. But you could see the tension radiating off him. His hands had curled into fists on his knees, knuckles pale. There was a storm in his chest he wasn’t letting out.

You glanced at him, surprised at the rawness in his voice when he finally spoke. “Goddamn coward.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He stared at the floor, eyes heavy-lidded with something like guilt. Like if he’d just played a little longer that day, you might’ve stopped by after class. Like if he’d been outside by coincidence. Like if he’d just been there…

You reached out slowly, resting your hand over his, your grip weak but steady.

“I’m okay now,” you reassured him gently. “It could’ve been worse.”

Joel’s jaw tightened again. “Shouldn’t’ve happened at all.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then he asked, “Did they catch him ?”

You shook your head. “No. Police are looking. Said it seemed…random.”

Joel didn’t speak again for a while. He just sat there, your hand over his, his fingers eventually loosening as he matched your touch. But when he left that night, it wasn’t with nothing. He left with your finished sketchbook under one arm, the corners of a new page sticking out—a faint, unfinished sketch of him sitting on that same stool, playing guitar, with soft lines around his face.

And beneath it, written in pencil, were the faint words:

He doesn’t know he’s a muse.

…

When you came back to campus, it wasn’t the same place you’d left. The clay-stained stairwells, the humming vending machines in the corner, the mural in the atrium—all of it still stood where you remembered. But it all felt…quieter. Wrong. You stepped through the front doors of the arts building with your bag slung carefully across your shoulder, walking slowly, trying not to jostle your side. The bandages were still there, hidden beneath your clothes. You wore a loose sweater to cover the bruises. A new sketchbook was tucked tightly against your chest like armor.

You spotted a girl from your sculpture class by the elevators. You’d shared tools before, once laughed over the lopsided busts you both tried to fix.

You smiled, raised a hand to wave. She looked right through you. Then turned and walked away without a word. You stood there for a second, hand frozen mid-air.

Okay. Maybe she hadn’t seen you.

You tried again in the courtyard. A guy from your figure drawing seminar passed by. You’d sat beside each other the entire semester, shared references, even complimented each other’s shading once.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice still a little hoarse but hopeful.

He slowed—but only for a heartbeat. Then looked down and sped up, like just acknowledging you might make him…what ? A target too ?

It wasn’t just awkward. It was deliberate.

You passed group after group—people who used to greet you, nod to you, at least smile. Not one of them looked at you now. Some glanced over their shoulders as you walked by, as if checking for shadows.

And you realized what it was. They knew.

Word had gotten around. Maybe not the details, but enough. That you were the one who’d been attacked. You were a warning. A reminder. And no one wanted to stand too close to a reminder. Even in the studio, things felt different. The usual chatter dulled when you entered. People stepped around you like you were fragile glass—or bad luck.

You tried to focus. Tried to sketch. But your hand hesitated over the page.

You weren’t invisible. You were radioactive.

And for the first time since you’d come back, you wanted to leave.

You were gathering your things when you heard a familiar sound—a soft guitar chord. Faint, down the hall. Not a song, not yet. Just warm-up notes. A quiet pulse of something that didn’t flinch away from you.

Professor Miller.

Your fingers gripped the strap of your bag. And despite everything—the silence, the stares—you followed that sound. Because in a building full of people too afraid to look at you…there was still one man who didn’t. That afternoon, you slipped quietly into the music room before Joel’s class began. The familiar scent of worn wood and old strings wrapped around you like a fragile comfort. Joel was already there, tuning his guitar, his back to the door. You took your usual seat in the corner, careful not to disturb the quiet.

You opened your sketchbook, but your hands trembled as you tried to draw the first lines. The pencil felt heavy, unsteady—like it was fighting against your nerves.

Your breath hitched, fingers faltering, the page blurring beneath your eyes. And then, before you could stop it, the tears came—hot, unchecked sobs that shook your whole body. You hid your face behind the sketchbook, trying to stifle the sound, but he heard you. Joel turned slowly, guitar forgotten for the moment. His eyes softened as he took in your trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks.

Without a word, he set the guitar down and moved to sit beside you.

“Bad day ?” He asked knowingly. You nodded, still gasping for breath, the sobs gradually fading as his presence steadied you. He didn’t rush you or press for answers. He just sat there and after a moment of hesitation, he awkwardly patted your shoulder. You were grateful for his quiet support and even when you stopped crying—his hand was still there to reassure you.

Two days later:

Joel had been leaning against the scratched counter in the teacher’s lounge, nursing a bitter cup of coffee, when he heard them. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—wasn’t even trying to—but the words carried. Quiet enough to be whispered, loud enough to slice clean through the air.

“The poor girl is back.”

“Such a tragedy.”

“A week and nothing. They couldn’t find anyone.”

“No witnesses…” A pause, a sip of tea. “Do you think she faked it?”

Joel froze. The mug in his hand tilted slightly, hot coffee sloshing against the rim.

There was a thin, sour laugh from someone near the fridge. “Well, you know how artists are. Sensitive. Attention-seeking. Wouldn’t be the first time someone made something up for sympathy.”

He set the mug down slowly, deliberately. His jaw worked, the muscle twitching near his temple.

Faked it?

He remembered the sterile white light of the hospital. The too-quiet tone of your voice as you described the hand clamping over your mouth. The way your body had curled in on itself while you cried in the music room, shaking like you were still back in that alley, bleeding. He slowly turned towards them, the casual cruelty in their voices boiling in his chest like poison.

“You think she faked it?” Joel’s voice came low and hard, a growl of disbelief.

The three faculty members jumped. One looked guiltily at her tea while another pretended to be busy with her stack of papers to grade. The last one straightened like he had a spine to defend.

“We’re just saying—there’s no evidence—”

“No evidence doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Joel snapped. “What it means is some bastard’s still out there, and she’s the one living with it.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. The three other faculty members seemed to shy away from his gaze now.

He stared at them, cold fury in his eyes. “So next time you feel like gossiping about someone else’s trauma, maybe keep her name outta your damn mouths.”

Then he turned and left, not waiting for an answer, his fists clenched and heart hammering in his chest. How could they think you faked it? How could anyone think—? He felt angry. He wasn’t gonna let anyone disrespect you like that. He knew what trauma looked like, and from everything he had seen so far? You certainly weren’t faking a damn thing…That night, after the halls had quieted and the last stragglers had left campus, Joel walked straight to the administration office. He wasn’t the type to bother people after hours, but tonight—he didn’t care.

The secretary blinked up at him from behind her monitor. “Professor Miller?”

“I need a student’s timetable,” he requested, voice calm but firm.

She hesitated. “That’s not typically something—”

“It’s for her safety,” Joel added, his tone sharpening just enough to cut through her protocol. “The girl who was attacked last week. She’s one of mine.”

A lie. But that seemed to do it. The woman’s mouth pressed into a line as she tapped at her keyboard. “Name?”

He gave it. When she handed him the paper, his hands were steady. The next afternoon, your last class was Intro to Printmaking in the third-floor west wing—tucked away, with hallways that always felt too empty.

You left the room quietly, books hugged to your chest.

And there he was.

Joel stood just outside the door, leaning against the opposite wall. His guitar case was slung casually over his shoulder, like he had simply wandered there. But his eyes were steady on you, like he’d been waiting.

You paused, unsure, until he gave you a faint nod. You walked towards him slowly, a small breath caught in your throat.

“Professor Miller?” you asked, uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

He pushed off the wall with a shrug. “Thought I’d walk you home.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Why ?”

He met your eyes. “Because no one else is.”

And somehow, that answer seemed enough.

You nodded. “Okay then...”

So the two of you walked—silent at first, your steps echoing through quiet corridors. He didn’t speak unless you did, didn’t push when you hesitated, didn’t rush when your pace slowed near corners. But he was there. And for days on end he would do it. He would always accompany you to your dorm building…You would step into the hallway with your arms wrapped around your sketchbook, eyes heavy from the droning voice of the other professors and the weight of another day spent avoiding empty stares.

But when you turned the corner, you would stop short and smile. Joel was always there. Leaning casually against the wall across from the lecture doors, arms crossed, a denim jacket thrown over his usual flannel. He looked like he’d been there a while, waiting. It had become a quiet routine. He was just there at the end of your last class each day, a steady presence in the drifting haze of your recovery.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you echoed.

He straightened and nodded towards the main doors. “You ready to go ?”

You blinked. “Did someone ask you to…?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

You hesitated. “You’re not worried it’ll…look weird after a while?”

Joel huffed, something like a laugh caught behind it. “I’m too damn old to care what people think.”

You smiled and fell in step with him. However, the sky had darkened without much warning—one minute the sun glowed through the tall windows of the studio, the next, clouds had gathered like bruises overhead. You stepped out of the building with your jacket pulled tight around you.

You both stopped short.

The first pebble of ice bounced off the pavement, then another. Then a thousand. Tiny white stones clattered across the campus like scattered beads, bouncing wildly off railings and tree branches. It wasn’t violent—just persistent, loud, and strangely hypnotic.

You both took a step back under the narrow concrete awning, standing side by side.

He looked up, squinting toward the sky. “Haven’t seen hail like this in years.”

You nodded, arms folded. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The sound of the hail echoed in the empty courtyard, the sky casting everything in a pale gray hue. Students had scattered long ago, and for a moment it felt like the two of you were alone in the world—separated from everything else by a curtain of falling ice.

Joel tilted his head slightly, hands in his pockets, and said without looking at you, “Y’know, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if you do—I’ll listen.”

You stared ahead at the hailstones piling at the edge of the walkway.

“I don’t know what I’d even say,” you murmured.

He nodded. “That’s fine too.”

The wind kicked up for a second, pushing a few icy pebbles under the overhang. You both shifted closer to the wall, shoulder to shoulder now. You let your head tilt just slightly towards him.

“It’s the first time in a while I haven’t felt like I’m about to break into pieces,” you admitted softly.

Joel nodded, slowly. “Good. Then that means you’re healing.”

And so you both stood there in silence, watching the sky fall, as the world passed gently around you.

You turned your head slightly, studying the lines of his profile—the worn kindness in the corner of his eyes, the way his jaw was set not in sternness, but in thought. The rain of ice tapped a rhythm against the roof above, steady and constant like a metronome.

And then, with a small smile tugging at your lips, you said quietly,

“You’re a nice person, Professor Miller.”

Joel blinked, surprised—not by the words, exactly, but by the way you said them. So simple. So certain. Like it was a truth you’d been holding onto for a while, waiting for the right moment to speak it aloud.

He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Wouldn’t go that far,” he said, eyes still on the courtyard.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “Well…I would.”

He didn’t smile often. But in that moment, a corner of his mouth tugged upward. The hail softened, melting into slush across the stone courtyard, but you stayed there a moment longer, watching your breath curl in the air between you and Joel.

You shifted your sketchbook under your arm and glanced up at him. “Once the year’s over,” you said, voice tentative but warm, “I’d love to invite you for a coffee. Just to…thank you.”

Joel looked at you then, brows slightly raised, not in judgment—just that quiet surprise he carried, like kindness was still something he wasn’t used to receiving outright.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Coffee, huh?”

You smiled. “Yeah. No hidden intentions, I promise. I just…I owe you a warm drink. For the music. And the company. And for waiting for me every day.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, long and thoughtful. Then he gave a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

…

A few weeks later, the shift was unmistakable. Joel stepped into the teachers’ lounge with his usual slow gait, a folder tucked under one arm, coffee in hand. But the air felt…off.

Conversations paused just a beat too long. Eyes flicked away the moment he looked up.

He moved to the counter to refill his mug, nodding politely to a pair of faculty chatting nearby—but they didn’t nod back. One of them quietly gathered her things and mumbled something about forgetting a meeting. The other followed without a word.

Joel stared after them for a moment, jaw tightening slightly.

It continued like that all week.

People who used to greet him with casual warmth now offered only vague nods or sudden interest in their phones. In meetings, his ideas were brushed off more quickly. Some colleagues wouldn’t even meet his eye.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it together. He wasn’t stupid.

They thought he’d overstepped. That his quiet defense of you—his daily presence at your side, his blunt words in the lounge—had made him strange. Suspicious.

That maybe, by caring, he was getting too close.

Joel sat at the edge of the lounge one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee, listening to the drone of distant conversation, none of it reaching him. He didn’t regret it. Not one second. But the silence around him settled deeper every day.

And even you could feel it.

You had been trying—truly trying. Smiling through the unease in the halls, sketching things that used to bring you joy, pretending not to hear the silence that followed you like a shadow. And Joel…he had changed too. Subtly. His music still carried the same weight, but the casual nods, the quiet “you good?”s had grown fewer. His hands stayed in his pockets more often, his eyes fixed ahead. When he walked you home now, he always stayed a few steps ahead—never quite beside you.

Maybe he thought it was better. Safer. For you. And for him.

But then, it snowed for the first time. Thick, soft flakes fell from the sky like feathers, settling on the iron railings and the benches and the tops of parked bikes. It was quiet again, but in a different way—peaceful and bright. You’d just stepped out of the arts building when you saw him up ahead, already walking. You were about to call his name, to tell him to look up—to look at how beautiful it was. But he was too far and walking too fast.

You sighed and your gaze fell to the growing blanket of snow at your feet, and without thinking, you crouched down and scooped up a handful. You shaped it quickly, fingers red and cold, and rolled it between your palms until it was smooth and just the right weight.

Then, carefully, you took aim.

The snowball sailed through the air in a perfect arc and hit Joel square on the shoulder.

He stopped. For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then he turned slowly, brushing the melting snow off his jacket. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing—until he saw you. You stood there with the smallest grin, like you were waiting for permission to laugh. And finally, finally…Joel let out a quiet huff. Then a low chuckle.

He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered.

You laughed. And just like that, the space between you melted—like the silence had only been waiting for a snowball to break it apart. The moment he crouched down, you yelped—spinning on your heel, boots crunching against the snow as you dashed behind a bench like it might actually protect you.

Joel’s voice came after you, rough with amusement. “Think you can just ambush someone and walk away, huh?”

You peeked out from behind the bench, only to see him already mid-throw.

The snowball hit you square in the arm, cold and soft. You gasped, laughing, ducking fully behind cover. “Hey! That’s not fair—you’ve got a bigger reach!”

“You started it,” he called back, the rare edge of laughter in his voice.

You threw another one—wild and lopsided. It hit the ground near his feet and exploded harmlessly. He smirked.

“That was a disappointment,” he taunted, scooping another.

It escalated fast. Snow was flying everywhere, messy and ungraceful. You zigzagged across the courtyard, shrieking when he nearly nailed you in the back, flinging handfuls that barely held together. Joel was surprisingly agile, ducking and weaving, boots sliding once as he caught his balance—but laughing. Not smiling, not chuckling—laughing, full and unguarded. Your face ached from smiling. The cold burned your cheeks and fingertips, but none of it mattered. You paused behind a low stone planter to catch your breath, chest heaving, and peeked up to see him leaning over, hands on his knees, catching his own.

“Truce?” you offered breathlessly.

He raised a hand in surrender, nodding in agreement. “Truce.”

You stepped towards each other, still half-laughing, still shaking snow out of your sleeves.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get into a snowball fight situation again in this life,” he muttered, brushing snow from his collar.

“And you’re surprisingly fast for someone who grunts every time he stands up,” you teased.

He looked at you and his grin softened into something warmer, something quieter. For the first time in days, there was no distance between you. No quiet step ahead. You both collapsed onto the snow, breath forming little clouds that quickly vanished into the cold air. The world felt softer somehow—the muffled quiet of fresh snowfall wrapping around you like a blanket. Lying side by side, you blew warm breath onto your frozen fingertips, watching the faint wisps of steam curl and fade. Joel mirrored you, but he had gloves on.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the soft sound of snow settling and the distant call of a bird. Then you glanced over at him, cheeks flushed pink from cold and laughter.

“This…wasn’t how I expected today to go,” you admitted quietly.

Joel’s lips twitched. “Neither did I.”

You cupped your hands around your mouth and exhaled again, trying to warm your stiff fingers, but the cold was biting now, clinging to your skin like it had settled deep into your bones. Joel noticed. He turned his head just enough to look at you, eyes tracing the way your fingers trembled.

“Put your hands in my coat pockets,” he suddenly told you.

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

He shifted slightly, tugging one side of his long coat open. “C’mon. That’s what my daughter used to do when her hands got too cold. Works better than breathin’ on ’em.”

You hesitated for a second. But then, wordlessly, you slid your hands into the oversized pocket, where the lining was worn but warm. Your fingers grazed his and he didn’t flinch.

Instead, he stilled. Let you settle.

And then, he added, “She used to do it without askin’. Just walked right up and stuffed her hands in, like I was some damn walking radiator.”

You laughed quietly. “She sounds smart.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but his eyes darkened slightly. You didn’t understand why, but you knew better than to push. And so you laid there together, the snow falling soft and silent around you, your hands tucked into borrowed warmth…his warmth.

At the end of the year:

The campus was bathed in early summer light, everything fresh and green, and you’d just gotten the news—you’d passed. Passed everything. With flying colors. Despite the shaking hands and late nights, despite the shadows that followed you down empty halls, you’d made it.

You couldn’t wait to tell him.

You took the shortcut you’d walked a hundred times—through the quiet alley just two blocks from campus—and that’s when the world dropped out from under you.

There he was.

The man. The one who had stabbed you.

He stood hunched over something—someone—a girl sprawled on the ground, motionless. His knife glinted, slick with fresh blood. And then, as if drawn by some terrible gravity, he looked up.

Your eyes met. Your heart stopped.

You stumbled back, a choked sound escaping your throat, and then you ran. Your fingers fumbled with your phone as you bolted down the street, lungs burning, the world narrowing to panic and pounding feet. You hit the emergency dial, breath hitching as you explained through gasps—who you were, what you’d seen, where it was.

“I’ll be waiting at the school!” you cried into the phone, barely hearing their answer before hanging up. Your fingers trembled as you switched to Joel’s contact.

It rang once.

Then—“Hello?”

You were sobbing as you spoke, but your voice was steady enough. “It’s him, Joel—I saw him. He’s back—he’s real, I wasn’t wrong, he’s back—he hurt another girl—”

You didn’t even finish before Joel swore under his breath before he told you to never stop running and the line went dead.

In the teachers’ lounge, he was up and moving in seconds. Chairs scraped, startled voices cried out as he shoved past the table, sprinting out the door like a man possessed.

He tore down the hallway, shoving open double doors, ignoring the startled stares. Teachers reached out instinctively, students called after him—but he didn’t stop. He bolted past the front office, pushing through a group of confused students, knocking someone’s books from their hands.

All he could hear was your voice.

All he could think of was you.

Terrified again. Running again. Alone again.

Not this time. Not ever again.

Your legs burned. Your chest heaved. Every breath felt like glass. But you ran—faster than you ever had before. The sound of footsteps behind you was unmistakable now. Heavy. Close. Too close.

You didn’t dare look back.

Your lungs screamed, your vision blurred, but the school’s front gates were just ahead. You could see the columns. The edge of the courtyard. Safety.

“Please,” you whispered aloud—half prayer, half plea. “Please. Just a little further…”

The wind stung your face as you pushed yourself forward, arms pumping, your bag bouncing against your hip. The world narrowed down to the thud of your shoes on pavement and the sickening closeness of the man behind you. There were tears forming in your from the wind, but you pushed forth.

Just a few more steps. Please.

And then—through your blur of tears—you saw him. Joel. He was already outside, running towards you like something out of a dream, like all that mattered in that moment was reaching you. His eyes locked on yours. He saw the terror. The tears. The bloodied panic in your face.

And he didn’t hesitate. He sprinted.

“Y/N!” he shouted, voice raw.

The sound of your name shattered something inside you—and you cried out, stumbling forward with everything you had left. You felt the man’s breath behind you—felt a hand graze the back of your coat—and then Joel was there. He reached you, arms closing around you in one swift, protective motion as he turned—shielding you with his body.

And behind him, the man skidded to a stop, suddenly confronted with something he hadn’t expected: someone who wanted to protect you.

Joel’s voice was low, dangerous. “Touch her again and I’ll put you in the goddamn ground, dya hear me you son of a bitch?!”

You clung to him, breathless, shaking, face buried against his chest. And Joel stood between you and the world—his coat open, his fists clenched, and his jaw set like stone.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

But for now…he didn’t move.

He just held you.

The man hesitated—just for a second. Joel felt it. Saw the twitch in his wrist, the tightening of his grip on the knife. He wasn’t done. He was coming for both of you. Joel pushed you gently behind him, one hand staying firm on your shoulder, the other clenching into a fist.

The man took a step forward.

And that’s when the doors behind you burst open. Two campus security officers surged out, weapons drawn, breath steaming in the cold air.

“You! Freeze!” one of them shouted, voice sharp and commanding. “Drop the weapon! Now!”

The man faltered. He turned, half-shielding the blade behind his leg like it would disappear, like no one could see what he’d done. But the blood was pooling at his feet.

Too fresh.

“On the ground!” the second guard yelled, moving forward in sync with his partner, weapons steady. You pressed yourself to Joel’s chest, your fingers clutching his coat. He stood tall, unmoving—like a wall between you and the monster.

The man looked like he might run. His eyes darted toward the alley behind him.

But then—three more officers appeared from the side gate, sirens growing louder in the distance.

There was nowhere left to go.

His shoulders slumped.

The knife clattered to the pavement.

Joel exhaled only when the man was on his knees, hands behind his head, officers shouting commands as they swarmed him.

And still—he didn’t turn away from you.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “’S okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

You couldn’t let go. Your fingers were locked in the fabric of his coat, trembling, white-knuckled. Your entire body was shaking.

Joel didn’t say a word more. He didn’t move an inch.

He just stood there, arms wrapped tightly around you, one hand on the back of your head, the other cradling your shoulders. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Like it wanted out of your chest, like it didn’t belong to your body anymore. You buried your face into his chest, sobbing now—not just out of fear, but relief, disbelief, the sudden, shattering release of everything you’d been holding in since that first night you were attacked.

And still…he didn’t let go.

“’S okay,” he murmured again. “It’s over now. He’s not gonna touch you again.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just clung harder. You didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care about the security guards, the gathering students, the police sirens…All that you knew was that Joel was here. And that letting go of him felt more terrifying than anything else in the world.

He held you like none of it mattered.

Not the stares. Not the whispers that would come. Not the rumors that were probably already forming, coiled like snakes in the corners of the courtyard.

Let them talk.

He didn’t care if the teachers were craning their necks from the windows. He didn’t care if the damn head of faculty was standing right there.

Because you were alive. You were here.

And you were holding onto him like the world was crumbling. So he held you back like he was the only thing holding it together. His hand rested firmly on the back of your head as he stroked it gently, his chin just brushing the top of your hair as he exhaled a slow, shaking breath. You felt it rumble through his chest—a controlled storm.

“’S okay. Nightmare’s over…Ssh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut against the flood of emotion. People might’ve been watching. Judging. Guessing at things they didn’t understand. But not one of them had been there.

Not when the blade touched your skin.

Not when your screams went unheard.

Not when the world turned cold and dark.

But Professor Miller had been there this time.

He came running. He came for you.

And now, as his hand gripped the back of your coat and you stood in the middle of the school’s stone courtyard, shaking and tear-streaked and safe—you didn’t give a damn either about who was there or who wasn’t. As long as Joel was the one holding you.

A few days later…

The morning of the interview, your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.

You sat on the edge of the sterile white chair in the precinct, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, a steaming cup of untouched tea cooling beside you. You hadn’t taken a sip. Couldn’t stomach anything yet. The detectives were polite, professional—well-meaning. But you knew what was coming. The questions. The pressure to remember details your brain wanted to forget. The re-telling.

So when they asked if there was anyone you needed in the room, you didn’t even hesitate.

“I want Professor Miller with me.”

They exchanged a glance. One of them lifted a brow. “Joel Miller? The music teacher?”

“Yes.” You met his gaze steadily. “I don’t want to do this without him.”

It wasn’t a request. They made a call.

And within twenty minutes, Joel stepped into the room, his heavy boots echoing across the tile. His eyes found yours immediately, and he crossed the space without pause.

He sat beside you. Not behind you. Not across the room. Right next to you.

He didn’t ask any questions. Just nodded once at the officers, his jaw tight, and rested his forearm gently on the table near yours.

You shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his, and when the questions began—

Where were you walking?

Did he say anything?

Can you describe the weapon?

Did you get a clear look at his face?

You answered each question clearly and steadily. And every time your voice wavered, Joel didn’t speak, but his hand would inch closer. His knuckles would brush yours. Just enough. You didn’t have to look at him to know: you weren’t alone in this room.

At the end, the officer asked.

“Do you know how fast you were running, Miss L/N?”

You paused, the question hanging in the air. You swallowed hard, the memory rushing back—the pounding of your feet against the pavement, the desperate breath burning your lungs, the terror driving you faster than you ever thought possible.

You looked up, meeting the officer’s steady gaze.

“I’m not exactly sure,” you admitted quietly, “but it felt like every second counted. Like if I stopped for even a moment, he’d catch me.”

Joel shifted beside you, his hand finally finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

The officer nodded slowly.

“That kind of strength…that kind of will to survive—it’s what made all the difference.”

As you stepped out of the interview room, the hum of the precinct shifted into something unexpected. One by one, officers and staff began clapping—soft at first, then growing steadily louder. You blinked, caught off guard, as the applause filled the sterile hallway.

A few officers gave you nods of respect, some offering quiet words of encouragement.

Later, you would learn the truth: the man who had attacked you wasn’t just some random predator—he was a serial killer, wanted across multiple states, linked to countless unsolved cases. Your courage, your quick thinking, your refusal to be silenced—it had helped bring a dangerous criminal to justice.

And as the clapping died down, you realized you didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because you had fought. And you had won.

You stepped out of the precinct and once you had walked far enough, you turned around to face Joel and simply pressed your head against his chest.

“…I would actually like to go for a coffee right about now. Wanna join ?”

Joel’s lips curled into a rare, soft smile as he felt your head rest against his chest. He looked down at you, eyes warm and steady.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’d like that.”

He gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer as you both turned to walk away from the precinct.

“Coffee sounds perfect.”

…

The café was small—quiet, the kind with mismatched chairs and fogged-up windows that caught the light just right. You sat across from Joel in the farthest corner, both of your coats still damp from the walk, steam curling gently from your cups. You watched your fingers circle the rim of your mug, your thumb dragging slowly through a bit of condensation. Your drink had gone lukewarm, but you hadn’t touched it much anyway.

Joel was doing the same—hands wrapped around his cup, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the window, jaw set in that thoughtful way he had.

So you decided to just start with the obvious.

“Thank you.”

He looked up. At first, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his eyes a little darker than usual, like he was searching for what to say back.

Then, his voice came low, steady.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

You gave a small smile, not looking up from your cup.

“I know. But I want to.”

Another pause. Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with something unreadable flickering in his eyes—grief, relief, guilt, maybe even pride.

“You saved me, Professor Miller,” you added softly.

His throat bobbed. He looked like he wanted to argue. To tell you it wasn’t true. That all he did was run when you called. But in the end, he just nodded once.

“I’m glad you called,” he murmured. “I’m real glad you called.”

After a moment, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his worn jacket, fingers moving slowly—almost hesitantly. You watched, unsure of what he was doing, until he pulled out a weathered, slightly creased photograph. He didn’t say anything at first. Just slid it across the table toward you, his hand lingering on the edge of it for a moment before he let go.

You looked down.

A young girl. Maybe twelve. Big, bright eyes. Her smile—lopsided and open—practically beamed from the paper. She was hugging a guitar to her chest like it was her favorite thing in the world.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, barely audible.

Joel gave a slow nod, gaze distant.

“Her name was Sarah.”

Was. The past tense hit you like a breath held too long.

“She was shot and killed,” he explained after a pause, his voice rough. “Eight years ago.” He cleared his throat, jaw clenching. “A cop shot her when we were trapped in the crossfire of a gang fight…”

You didn’t know what to say, and somehow, Joel didn’t expect you to.

“She loved music,” he added, staring at the photo. “Had this old CD player she’d run into the ground. Made me promise I’d teach her to play guitar when she was older.” He gave a dry chuckle, no real humor in it. “Didn’t even get to twelve and a half.”

Your eyes stung. Not from your own pain, but from his. From the way he sat there, not looking at you, trying to hold the weight of a memory too big for one person to carry alone.

You reached across the table and gently touched the corner of the photo.

“She would’ve loved the way you play,” you said softly. “And…I think she would’ve been proud of what you did for me.”

Joel’s eyes finally lifted to meet yours. Something quiet broke in them then.

He nodded. Just once.

And for the first time that day, he smiled—a real one. Small, cracked, but genuine.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “She would’ve liked you.”

You smiled at him. “I bet I would have liked her too. She seemed like the type of girl you can easily be friends with. A sunshine.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment, his eyes softening around the edges in a way you hadn’t seen before—not fully. There was something in your voice, in the quiet sincerity of your words, that seemed to loosen something in him.

A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. He gave a small, almost shaky smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “She was. A real sunshine.”

He glanced back down at the photo, then tucked it carefully back into his jacket, like it was something sacred.

“I used to call her that sometimes, y’know,” he added. “‘My lil’ sunshine.’”

“Then I was right,” you murmured with a small victory smile.

Joel huffed a breath of quiet laughter through his nose.

“You were,” he said, looking at you again. “You are.”

For a moment, the silence returned, but it was full of something peaceful now.

You stirred your coffee, smiled faintly, and whispered, “To Sarah.”

Joel raised his cup slowly.

“To Sarah,” he echoed.

And for the first time in years, when he took a sip, the bitterness didn’t sting quite so much.

Outside the café, the air had shifted into that soft, golden kind of dusk—the kind that made shadows longer and the world a little quieter. You both walked slowly down the street, steps not quite in rhythm but somehow in sync.

Joel had his hands shoved in his coat pockets, his brow creased in thought when he asked, “So…what now? You’ve graduated. Got the whole damn world ahead of you.”

You exhaled slowly, watching your breath cloud the air.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice light but honest. “Haven’t figured it all out yet. I mean, what does anyone do after…everything?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Then you looked up at him, eyes flicking to his face.

“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head. “Any big plans for the future?”

Joel snorted a laugh, the sound deep and warm in his chest.

“What big plans would an old man like me have?” he asked, shaking his head at the absurd thought.

You pretended to think hard about it before smiling.

“Well…I mean, if—for instance—someone, who I will absolutely not name, were to invite you on a hypothetical date…” you started slowly, drawing out each word, “…what would be your hypothetical answer?”

Joel stopped in his tracks. He turned to face you, one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grin or pretend to scold you. You stood there, arms crossed loosely, acting like it was the most casual question in the world.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then gave a low, amused hum.

“Well…” he started before answering. “Guess that would depend on whether this unnamed someone likes black coffee and old guitars.”

You grinned. “Maybe she does. Maybe she’s even got a sketchbook full of them.”

Joel’s expression softened. “Then…I’d say my hypothetical answer would be yes.”

You smiled to yourself. “Good to know…”

You then started walking again and then you stopped. He stopped too and looked back at you quizzically before you asked with a smile.

“So hum…does that mean I get to know you on a first-name basis now or…?”

He deadpanned before letting out a small huff which turned into a full-on laughter. You stared as your own lips cracked into a wide grin.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Joel just stared at you for a second before he replied. “You’ve been drawin’ me for an entire year. I’ve been callin’ you Y/N for months, and you didn’t even check the staff board for my name? Also, I wrote my first name on a card that I placed inside the flower bouquet I brought you the night you were in the hospital.”

You froze. “I mean…You’re a professor. I didn’t want to pry or sound too forward or anything.”

“Unbelievable.” He chuckled. “Joel. Joel Miller.” He then extended a hand and you smiled before shaking it.

“Y/N. Y/N L/N.”

A few months later

The scent of early spring drifted through the open windows—sunlight spilling in soft gold across the hardwood floor. You stood at your easel in the middle of the living room, brush in hand, completely lost in the careful blend of color, movement, and meaning.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the faint rustle of boots being kicked off or the low creak of the old floorboards under steady steps. Not until two strong arms slid gently around your waist from behind. You gasped softly—startled for a split second—until the familiar weight and warmth sank in, and Joel pressed a soft kiss just behind your ear.

He nuzzled into the curve of your neck, unshaven and unhurried, his voice low and rumbling against your skin.

“What’s this one about?” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as your body relaxed into his.

Then you looked back at the canvas.

It was a mess of color—soft blues, burnt orange, deep forest green—all winding together in abstract waves. But near the center, there was something unmistakable: a man walking ahead on a snowy path, while behind him, just slightly, someone else followed. The path glowed gold at the edges, and above them, the sky was storm-colored—yet calm.

“I think…” you whispered, “it’s about a time I was scared. But I found someone to guide me to safety.”

Joel was quiet for a long moment, arms still wrapped tight around you. He looked at the painting—then at you. You could feel the smile forming against your skin before he spoke.

“Looks like the fella in front’s got good taste in company.”

You turned your head slightly to glance back at him, smirking. “He does. Though he’s a bit grumpy sometimes.”

Joel huffed a laugh and kissed your cheek.“Good thing she knows how to throw snowballs then.”

You looked back at him and smiled. “I mean…best decision of my life was to walk inside the wrong room that day I was looking for Arts 203 and instead ended up in that room with some old man playing the guitar.”

Joel let out a low chuckle, his arms tightening gently around your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Old man, huh?” he murmured with a teasing edge, the warmth of his breath brushing your collarbone.

You laughed softly, tilting your head against his.

“I stand by it,” you teased. “You were hunched over that guitar like the world didn’t exist. I didn’t even want to breathe too loud in case I ruined something.”

He was quiet for a beat, thoughtful. Then his voice came quieter, rougher. “I think you ruined something, alright.”

You tensed slightly, uncertain—until he added, “Ruined my quiet mornings. My peace of mind. My ability to go five minutes without wonderin’ where the hell you are.”

You turned slowly in his arms to face him, brushing a fleck of paint from your cheek onto his shirt without thinking.

“Sounds like you’re saying that like it’s a bad thing,” you said softly, watching his eyes.

Joel looked at you for a long time, gaze moving slowly over your face as if committing every line to memory.

“Nah,” he finally replied with a grin. “Best kind of ruin there is.”

You leaned back against him and sighed. “Did I really ruin you though?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. You felt the rise and fall of his chest behind you. Then his arms tightened around your middle just a little, and he exhaled softly against the side of your neck.

“Yeah,” he said, low and honest.

Your breath caught, but before you could say anything, he added, “But not in the way you’re thinkin’. You didn’t ruin me like…breakin’ something. You ruined me like…I can’t go back to the way things were before you.”

You turned your face slightly, catching the warmth of his cheek against yours, eyes searching for his.

“I was doin’ just fine, alone. Routine. Mornings with coffee, evenings with music, no one expectin’ nothin’ from me. Quiet.” He paused, voice almost a whisper now. “And then this girl walks into my classroom with charcoal on her hands and stars in her eyes—and suddenly that old life just felt…hollow.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He looked at you then. The tired in his eyes, the years of grief, the weight he still carried—and yet, somehow, something softer had taken root there too.

“You ruined the quiet,” Joel said, smiling faintly, “and gave me somethin’ louder. Somethin’ alive.”

You swallowed, heart aching in the most beautiful way. And you leaned back into him, fingertips tracing the side of his hand.

“…Guess we’re both a little ruined then,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

You smiled and kissed him softly. “Me neither.”

Joel’s hand came up gently to cradle your jaw as you kissed him—slow, deliberate, like he didn’t want the moment to slip away too quickly. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he murmured, “if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be standing here in my living room with paint on my flannel and a girl like you in my arms…”

“You would’ve kicked them out for disturbing your peace,” you teased, voice soft against his.

He chuckled, low and warm in his chest. “Damn right I would’ve.”

You laced your fingers through his and looked up at him, heart full. “And now?”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then the corner of your mouth. “Now I’d say they didn’t do the moment justice.”

You smiled against him, breath hitching just slightly as emotion swelled.

Outside, the wind stirred through the trees, quiet and steady. Inside, the world felt like it had settled—like maybe, finally, you’d both found your place. Paint still drying on canvas. Music still lingering in the air.

Love found, not planned, not asked for.

Just…there.

And all that because you liked a certain grumpy old man’s music…

[tilebytiles]

when the sun goes down - a.t. (part 1)

summary: your favorite barista is ... a vampire? word count: 5k warnings: animal death, mild violence

you didn't like going to the café near your flat much. for one, finding the energy to even drag yourself out of bed was difficult most days, but topping that off with interacting with and being surrounded by complete strangers? it was like a circle of hell reserved for the socially inept and the painfully anxious. still, you couldn't deny that the barista that made your drink nearly every time you did go there made it worth it.

you were pretty sure his name was alex; you had never thought to read his name tag properly, since you thought it would be weird if you barreled in, going, "hey, alex, get me that mocha latte! and make it with oat milk!" however, the brief glimpses you'd gotten out of the corner of your eye told you his name, if it wasn't alex, for sure started with an A. andrew? anthony? adam? aidan? alan? none of those really fit him, and the first two didn't even seem like they'd fit on his name tag. alex seemed the most appropriate.

it wasn't like you two had spoken beyond formalities. you came in, exchanged the usual greetings, recited your order, and then he asked for payment and called your name once your coffee was ready. that was the most you ever spoke to one another. you, being so socially awkward that even your therapist cringed on your behalf sometimes, could never work up the courage to go beyond the script you two had developed. you wanted to — he seemed interesting. his hair sat a bit shaggily on his head, getting in his eyes sometimes and only being restrained by the hat all of the baristas had to wear. he had big brown eyes and arguably one of the prettiest smiles you'd ever seen.

the barista that was possibly named alex had been the subject of a number of artworks, some being simple sketches and some being full-fledged paintings. there had been a couple of times where you'd gone to the café just to study him. you were aware it was all probably quite creepy, but in your defence, he was an easy subject to study and also your favourite. everyone was made differently, you were well aware, but you didn't think you'd ever seen anyone that looked like him. the fact that he was so unique made you want to devote entire sketchbooks to studies of him. besides, no one except you ever saw the pages of your sketchbooks or the canvases lying around your flat, so it wasn't like you were trying to get attention from his likeness. it was mostly just for your own enjoyment.

"y/n?" the sound of your name being called made you jump a bit, and the pen you'd been mindlessly sketching with jutted across the paper awkwardly. you dropped the pen onto your sketchbook and got up from your table, heading to the counter. as you approached, you made sure to read his nametag this time — it was alex.

you took the portable cup from him, and even with the sleeve it sat in, it still warmed your previously cold hands up. your name was scrawled on the sleeve in the handwriting you'd come to recognise rather quickly. you smiled at him. "thank you. you could have just left it on the counter, you know."

he returned your smile and shook his head a little. "nah, it's alright," he said. "i just don't want a repeat of the time your coffee almost got stolen."

brief glimpses of alex trying to get the attention of the customer that had taken your coffee, mistaking your name for hers, without being any louder than he had to flashed through your mind, and you had to stifle a laugh. you'd felt bad for him — you could tell he wasn't the greatest in social situations, either, even as a barista, and since he couldn't really leave his spot behind the counter, he was left awkwardly calling, "ma'am? um, ma'am, excuse me — ma'am?" until she finally turned around and realised he was talking to her.

"so," he said, shifting his hat atop his head, "will you ever show me what's in that sketchbook?"

he'd seen you with it before, and he'd asked about it, too. you had been vague every time, too embarrassed by the idea of him opening it just to find dozens of sketches of his face from all angles. there were a few full-body sketches, and you used those to draw out different outfits on him; you wondered what he'd look like in a suit, or clad in leather, or in a cosy jumper. you imagined him in different poses, too; crouching, kneeling, sitting thoughtfully with his head in his hand, leaning against a wall. some of the sketches had the privilege of being coloured in, but the rest were just line drawings with some shading.

you sighed. "probably not."

his lower lip jutted out in what you guessed to be a pout. "why not?"

"it's not very interesting. i don't know why you want to see it."

"because i'm sure you're a great artist."

you snorted at that. "just drop it, please."

he didn't. instead, his pout only seemed to intensify, and his eyes practically glimmered in the light. you couldn't tell if they were just naturally that way, or if he was about to start crying. "please?"

you chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to fight his pleading, but it was no use. you groaned and said, "fine."

his face did a complete 180, and he practically beamed at you. "thank you."

you quickly looked away before you started staring.

you remained in the café for the rest of the day, something you’d only done once before. it felt a bit strange to watch customers come and go, come and go, come and go, and then just go. about twenty minutes before closing, you began packing up your things to head home. you hadn’t brought much; just your bag, your sketchbook and a few different pens. your coffee cup had long since been drained, and you made sure to throw it away before heading out the door, a small chime signalling your departure.

you made a swift left and went down the sidewalk, subconsciously avoiding any cracks you encountered. sometimes, you counted how many steps it took to cross one square, although you weren’t sure why you did it. you weren’t very far from the café, however, when you heard a metallic thumping. the sound made you turn, but when you looked around, you couldn’t immediately see anything wrong. you were about to dismiss it when you heard it again. it was coming from the dumpster by the café.

you knew there was the chance for you to become something out of a horror film; a ruthless killer would jump out from behind the dumpster and stab you to death, then throw your body in, and eventually, you would end up compacted into a trash cube like the ones in wall-e and no one would ever find your body. despite that, you approached anyway, albeit rather slowly. you figured if you didn’t rush over, you’d have more time to see if there was a killer waiting with the feasting mice. your shoes were virtually silent as they moved along the asphalt lot. you heard a faint snapping sound, like bones breaking, which made you cringe.

when you got close enough, you could make out a figure that was crouched down beside the dumpster, turned away from you. you squinted at them and studied their attire … the knot of what you guessed was an apron, pressing into their lower back … an unruly mess of hair that swept against their shoulders … wait. “alex?”

the figure froze and turned to face you. it was alex, but something was very, very wrong. there was a dead mouse in his hands, the white fur of its neck stained red with blood. blood was smeared on his hands and around his lips, and glinting in the light of the nearby street lamp were two perfectly pointy fangs. your eyes widened, and every synapse in your brain seemed to fire at once, screaming at you in a ghastly choir to get the hell out of there. you remained stuck in the same spot, though, with you and alex just staring at each other.

you finally opened your mouth to scream, and alex jumped up, dropping the mouse. “don’t,” he said in a low voice. the seriousness that coated his features now, creasing his brow and darkening his eyes, scared you so much that your mouth immediately snapped shut. he sighed and looked down at his hands. he moved to wipe them on his apron, then seemed to think better of it and held them awkwardly away from his clothes. “i know this looks bad.”

“of course it does!” you hissed. “what are you doing?”

“uh.” he looked off at the street, watching a car as it sped by. he was still tucked away in the shadows of the building, meaning only you could see him. “if i told you,” he said slowly, his gaze sliding back over to meet yours, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

you released something that was between a scoff and a laugh. “and i’m just supposed to pretend i didn’t just see you covered in blood with a dead mouse in your hands?” he nodded slowly. you wanted to smack him. “i’m not leaving until i get some answers.”

he sighed and nodded, looking down at the asphalt. “fine. i’m a vampire.”

you blinked. “a vampire,” you repeated slowly. “but … i thought vampires killed people.”

“we can. some do. i don’t.”

“so you feed on the mice instead?”

he nodded. “i don’t feel great doin' it, but it’s the only way i can survive.”

“right.” you tried to keep your voice level, but you still wanted to scream. you wanted to scream at the top of your lungs and run down the road, flailing your arms, and if you accidentally got hit by a car in the process, would that really be so bad?

“i need you to promise me something.”

your jaw worked slowly. you wanted to be snarky and demand something in return, but you were too nice to try and blackmail him. “what?”

“you can’t tell anyone.”

“i was totally planning on telling my therapist,” you replied sarcastically.

the joke drew a small chuckle from him, but the hint of a smile that came with it was instantly gone again. he sighed and tilted his head back, looking up at the endless void of stars. “i’m sorry, really. i … i hate when people find out like this.”

that caught your attention. “this has happened before?”

“not exactly like this, but my, um, my friend, he — he found me with a mouse in his flat. it had gotten caught in one of those wooden mouse traps, and i hadn’t fed in a couple of days by then, and i felt weak, so i took it out and … and then he came in. he was nice about it, but, you know, it still sucks.”

“was that a pun?”

he blinked and lowered his head to look at you. “you know, i hadn’t even realised when i said it.”

"right. so ... how long can you go without feeding?"

he looked off towards the road again, seeming to think about it. "a few days at most, maybe. i eat normal food, but if i don't get blood, it's like ... dyin' of dehydration."

that made you wince a little. you'd always heard of how terrible dying of dehydration was, and you felt bad knowing that was basically what he was at risk of all the time. it wasn't like he could go around and kill mice every day, and he seemed reluctant to go after anything else. "are your friend and i the only people that know?"

he shook his head, still staring at the road. another car sped by. "my parents know, along with a couple more friends of mine. you're the only stranger that knows."

"am i really a stranger if you've made my coffee for months?"

that made him smile again, and this time, it stuck around longer than the previous one had. "that's true. i know you hate regular milk, you love lattes, and you never order iced coffee 'cause you're cold all the time."

you were surprised he'd even remembered you nervously rambling about that once. that wasn't important, though. you let out a quiet sigh. "it ... it's getting late. i should head home. will you ... be alright?"

he finally looked at you again and nodded. "i can get myself cleaned up just fine."

you nodded. "okay, um ... goodnight, alex."

"night, y/n."

you slowly turned and began to walk back to the sidewalk, your mind still reeling from all the information you'd just received. when you glanced back to see if alex was still there, he was already gone, and the mouse had been left near the dumpster.

•••••

lucky for you, you had therapy the next day.

your leg bounced anxiously as you sat in the waiting room, nestled into the far right side of one of the leather sofas. your elbow dug into the arm of the sofa, and you had your head in your hand while you stared out the window, observing all the passersby. you saw a man on a bike; a woman with a child; a couple, holding hands as they went; two girls chatting and presumably laughing (you couldn't hear them) that you were 99% certain you went to uni with. all sorts of people passed by the window every time you were here, and it was slowly getting to the point where you could pick out the ones that made this sidewalk part of their regular route.

"y/n, you can come on in, i'm just gonna pop off to the bathroom first," your therapist said, making you turn your head. you watched as she walked across the waiting room and into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click. her name was mary, and she'd been your therapist for the last two years. initially, you were hesitant and reserved with her, having never done therapy before and being unsure of exactly how much you were supposed to share — revealing personal details about yourself to a complete stranger scared you, anyway, even if they were there to help you. she was understanding, though, and after a couple of fluke sessions where you didn't say much, you finally began to step out of your shell with her. initially, you'd thought you'd only do it for a few months and then cope with the rest yourself, but it turned out that your brain was like the world's biggest jumble of cords and it would take a lot more than a few months to unravel it. two years later, and there were still some rather stubborn knots that needed taking care of.

you pushed yourself up off the sofa and walked out of the waiting room, heading down the hall and into the first door on the left. the office was an old house that had been bought and remodelled, meaning that every room had a homely feel to it. mary's office was no exception; in fact, you were convinced the at-home feel was entirely her idea. there was a sofa pushed up against the wall the door was in with a couple of throw pillows on it, and across from it was mary's desk. there was also an armchair directly across from the door that she sat in during your sessions; she only sat in her desk chair when she was scheduling your next appointment. there was a window that let you see out onto the street, and a tall plant of some sort beside it; her degrees were framed and hanging up on the wall above her desk; she had a number of pictures, both on the wall, on her desk, and on the bookshelf that was beside the sofa; and in the center of the floor was a fuzzy circle rug that you wanted to run your hands through. you never did, though.

you plopped onto the sofa, sitting in the center this time, and lifted your legs up, crossing them beneath you. you waited a couple of minutes, and then mary came in, shutting the door behind her with the same gentleness she'd shown the bathroom door. she grabbed her teal-coloured tumbler and sat down in the armchair, smiling at you. "how have you been?"

you thought back to what you'd seen the night before and quickly tried to shove that memory out of the way; you might have joked to alex about it, but you were absolutely not telling your therapist the barista you had a small crush on was a creature of the night. "i've ... been pretty good," you said slowly.

she rose an eyebrow at your hesitancy, but didn't say anything. "have you been working on getting out of your flat every day?"

you nodded. "it's helped my mood a lot, surprisingly."

"well, i wouldn't tell you to do something if i didn't think it would help." she offered you another smile, then asked, "and the nightmares?"

you tensed up a little and looked down at the fuzzy rug, wishing now more than ever that you could lie facedown on it and never get back up. "they've gotten worse recently. i'm not sure why."

"has anything happened?"

you quickly racked your brain for any potential triggers and slowly shook your head. "not that i can think of."

"any additional stress?"

"no."

"hm." she sat back in the armchair and took a sip of her drink, glancing out the window. "what are they about?"

there it was. the question you'd been secretly dreading. "it's like ... i'm stuck in a building, and i can't get out."

"describe the building."

"it was ... it was kind of old looking, at least inside. it reminded me of one of those old victorian houses. the walls were a dark red, and there weren't many lights. it was like a maze. i kept running through halls and making different turns, but no matter what i did, i couldn't get out."

"and then what?"

"i ran into him again."

"the tall man?"

"yeah." the man that had been appearing in your nightmares with increased frequency over the last few months or so was only referred to by you and mary as "the tall man." you couldn't recognise him at all, but every time you saw him, he terrified you. and then you'd wake up. the first time you'd mentioned him to mary, she grew worried that he was from a traumatic event you'd blocked out. you didn't think he was, but his recurring presence in your sleep still scared you. sometimes, you wondered if you were just going insane.

mary sighed. "i still worry it's from trauma, y/n."

"i don't know," you said. "if it was, i feel like i would have nightmares about the same thing. i don't, though. every time he shows up, it's in a completely different place."

"did he say anything this time?" you shook your head. "right." she looked down at the rug, chewing on the inside of her cheek, and then looked back up at you, managing a small smile. "what about that boy?"

you blinked. "that ... boy?"

"you know! the one from the café? how are things going with him?"

ah. alex. "well, i mean, he makes my coffee. uh ... he asked about my sketchbook yesterday."

"and what did you say?"

"i said no."

"y/n!"

"what? i don't need him thinking i'm a creep!"

"i think he would be flattered," she said with a shrug. "it's not every day that someone gets whole sketchbook pages dedicated to them."

you looked away as your cheeks flushed. you had to admit, you'd had that exact line of thinking before, but you could never convince yourself of it. you got the feeling that the flattery would take the backseat in comparison to the creepiness of it all. it felt stupid and weird to even have a crush on him in the first place (you were barely willing to admit you had a crush on him at all); you two only spoke to each other because you had to. if anything, maybe he found you annoying. maybe he didn't like how often you'd started coming in accordance with mary's "get out of the flat" regime. maybe he hated making your coffee. maybe he hated you. now that you knew he was a vampire, maybe he'd break his no-humans rule and kill you and suck all the blood from your body until you were nothing but a lifeless husk.

"earth to y/n."

"huh?" you looked at mary, who just smiled and shook her head. "sorry, did you say something?"

"you zoned out on me. i was starting to think you'd never come back into orbit."

"oh ... sorry."

she shook her head again. "it's fine. i was just saying that i think you should try and talk to that boy more often."

"but i only ever see him at the café."

"then work out a way to meet up with him outside of work."

"i don't know."

"you need the social interaction. your resolution this year was to be less of a hermit, right? you can't really do that if you don't talk to anyone."

you knew she was right. she tended to be. "fine," you mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "i'll talk to him the next time i see him. but what should i say?"

"try to find common ground. figure out his interests and go from there."

the rest of your session went about as smoothly as any therapy session could go, and your next appointment was exactly three weeks out. although you were tempted to just head straight home, you decided to finally bite the bullet and get the conversation with alex over with. you weren't sure how stable any friendship you might form with him could be, considering you knew his darkest secret before you knew his last name, but you tried to remain optimistic. you took the bus to the stop that was closest to the café and forced yourself to take a couple of deep breaths to keep calm before walking inside.

the café wasn’t that busy, which immediately made the tension in your shoulders lessen. there were a few people already in line, though, so you slowly made your way to the counter, suddenly finding it impossible to stand still. your eyes darted to every crevice of the café they could possibly reach, although you avoided looking at any faces on the off chance someone would look at you at the same time and you’d have to awkwardly look away. when it was finally your turn, alex looked up from the till, his face falling slightly. “y/n. what can i get you today?”

fuck. he was already annoyed that he had to deal with you after last night. “uh, just the usual, please.”

“will that be all?”

yes. “no.” what? “uh, i wanted to ask, um …” he stared at you, waiting for you to finish, and you blurted out, “what do you like?” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. maybe today was the day you’d run into traffic.

his brows knitted together as he seemed to process what you’d just said. you wanted to sink into the floor. “you wanna know what i like?” he asked slowly. you nodded. “alright, well, uh, i think the croissants are pretty … swell. i like the cakes, uh —“

“no,” you interrupted, “that’s not what i meant. i meant, like … interests.”

you watched as realisation dawned on his face, his brows raising and his mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. “i like music. i like, uh, readin’ books. um … i write sometimes, too, although i think i’m shite at it. i like those old black and white films. why are you askin’?”

“i was going to see if we could be friends, maybe,” you mumbled, looking down at the counter. this was all suddenly incredibly embarrassing. you felt like a child again, and you absolutely despised it.

“oh.” you looked back up at him, rather hesitantly, expecting him to look annoyed or disgusted. instead, he was smiling. it was faint, but it was still there. “we can be friends, y/n. you coulda just started with that, though.”

“al, you better not be flirtin’ with the customers.” the sound of someone else’s voice startled the both of you, and you both looked at the barista that was currently frothing milk. his name tag said miles, if you were reading it right.

“i’m not,” alex said sharply, glaring at him. miles just grinned and winked at you before turning his attention back to the device he stood in front of. alex rolled his eyes and turned to face you again. “sorry about that.”

“it’s fine,” you said, although the implication of miles’ wink that alex could flirt with you made your cheeks go red. “um, is it alright if i give you my number?”

•••••

alex stretched himself out on the grass, letting out something between a groan and a sigh. a beam of sunlight filtered through the branches of the tree you were underneath, casting him in an otherworldly glow and turning his irises into pools of honey behind his sunglasses. "god, i love sunny days," he sighed.

it was the next day, and after the two of you had exchanged numbers, alex had suggested hanging out since he didn't have work that day. it wasn't like you had anything else to do besides rotting away in your flat, so you agreed. another day of getting outside meant another sticker on your calendar. february was almost complete. you'd stopped by the café beforehand anyway, though, just to get coffee and a snack. you were sipping at your perfectly toasty mocha latte, and alex had already managed to down half of his black coffee.

he looked up at you as you bit into your cookie, catching the crumbs with the white paper bag your treats had been slipped into. he didn't say anything for a few moments, just watched you. then he asked, "you haven't told anyone, have you?"

you lowered the cookie back into the bag. "no," you said. "i saw my therapist yesterday, funnily enough, but i kept my mouth shut."

amusement danced in his eyes as he remembered your remark. "i'm sorry you have to deal with this now."

you shrugged a little. "it's fine. adds a bit of excitement to my life." now it was your turn to eye him. "if you're a vampire, how come you're not a pile of ashes right now?"

he barked out a laugh at that. you quite liked the way his laugh sounded. "honestly, i was scared to go outside when i got turned, but when i finally did, i was ... fine. i guess it's 'cause i'm not a purebred or anything."

"oh. so what vampire perks do you get?"

"well, i can run really fast, although i don't really use that one 'cause i don't run anywhere. i can see in the dark. erm ... i can sunbathe and not get burnt?"

it was your turn to laugh. "no wonder you're so pale."

"my skin glistens. like i'm covered in a bunch of tiny crystals."

you set the paper bag down in the grass, deciding to forget about your cookie for now. "does all the regular stuff still hurt you?"

"yeah. i mean, i haven't tested a stake to the heart, and i don't plan to, but everythin' else ..."

"do you not age anymore?"

he shook his head. "i mean, it's hard to say. you don't change much in your twenties, i don't think. but after i got turned, i just ... knew. it was a weird feeling. it still is."

that made you frown a little. you were beginning to wonder if he even enjoyed being a vampire. "i'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you were turned against your will."

he nodded slowly, turning his head ever so slightly to stare up past the branches, watching the clouds as they drifted by. "it was over a year ago. there was ... there was this man in my dreams." his hands, which had been supporting his head, were now waving around in the air, adding gestures to his words. "every time i saw him, it freaked me out, although i didn't understand why. it was like seein' him triggered somethin', and i'd immediately wake up. it went on for a few months, and then one night, when i was walking home from work, someone jumped out of an alley and knocked me out. i don't remember anything that happened afterwards, but when i woke up, i had the strangest craving for blood."

although his story did make you sad, your mind immediately latched onto one detail in particular. "wait, you saw a man in your dreams?"

"yeah, he was a fuckin' creep. dunno who he was."

"was he tall and wearing a black cloak with his hair gelled back?"

"yeah." he looked back at you, his brows furrowing. "what are you gettin' at, y/n?"

"i ..." you gulped. "i've been seeing that man in my dreams since november."

slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, still staring at you. if you looked hard enough, behind those sunglasses, you were pretty sure there was a hint of fear in his eyes. "november?"

you nodded. "i didn't know what to think of it, and my therapist thought that maybe it was related to trauma, and —"

"y/n," he interrupted, his voice much graver than it'd ever been, "you're not safe. they're gonna come for you."

tags: @elexnorislingtxn / @edandmollydeservebetter / @sagegreensimmr / @billyseye / @supernaturalandpain / @not-a-big-slay

[iheartgod175]

Some Quick Thoughts...

Sorry for not being on here to make posts like this as often as I'd like, lol! The last two weeks have been busy, what with dealing with work, family and an insane burst of creativity that has kept me on the Blazin' Trails Wiki for over two weeks straight. Oh, and I've been working on some writing again for the first time in weeks, too. So I'm gonna ramble on about that.

I've kinda fallen back into the Hanna-Barbera fandom again, and dragged my buddy @blazing-shadows into this too. All because I started rewatching The Peter Potamus Show to decompress after work, and ended up getting attached to the Goofy Guards (Yippee, Yappee and Yahooey). I mean, I kinda liked them anyway, but now? I'm in too deep. Come to think of it, that's how my obsession with Ricochet Rabbit started, too, lol. XD

My mind went from just having them as a cameo in Blazin' Trails Redux, to them having their own story in Blazin' Trails Redux, to them having their own story in the For Love and Glory universe (which is my Touché Turtle story I don't chat about quite as much as BT, but still love regardless ^^). Said story featuring the Goofy Guards is titled For King and Country, and I'm still in the developing stages of the story; right now, it's just doing lots of intense brainstorming of various scenarios and convos. I wish I had the same time I did when I was wrtiing the original For Love and Glory (I think I wrote that in like 2 days when I was a full-time student, and then rewrote it in like two months. My writing output back then was INSANE O.O), but alas.

Anyway, since this story is set in the same universe as FLaG, there's three guarantees:

There's gonna be some INSANE lore with these three. The tag I put on Ao3? "Canon Gets Chucked Out the Window".

The Goofy Guards are gonna be put through HELL. They do get a happy ending, though, because my original plans were too harsh and bleak on them, to where even I felt bad. And also, my buddy Thanos-snapped one of my original plans in BT Redux, which was to kill off Yahooey ^^ But yeah, these guys get put through the ringer, and boy howdy do I mean the ringer.

Everyone gets to be badass. Sure, the Goofy Guards start out like their cartoon selves, but by the end of the fic you can pretty much remove "Goofy" from their title. Even the King gets to be cool. Well, I'd lie if I said that everyone is awesome. The King's son, who was a brat in the original cartoon, is a bit worse here.

This story, which is gonna be about seven chapters long, is most likely gonna be an AO3 exclusive, but I may cross-post it on FF.net. Who knows ^^

Since the Goofy Guards' inclusion, and since I've included a bunch of crazy lore about them in that universe, I was thinking of a few things: should I extend BT Redux into eight "seasons"? And should I keep the fantasy elements in from FLaG Relance in this? While I was going for a more "realistic" setting that kinda fits the Western time period and boots out the Hanna-Barbera inconsistencies, it doesn't seem right now that the Looney Tunes/Who Framed Roger Rabbit cast is gonna be a part of the BT Redux canon. Plus, a few of the villains from my FLaG series that appear in Redux are outright magic/relic users, and removing that aspect kinda doesn't feel right, because it kinda removes some of their original motivations. I dunno. What do y'all think.

And surprising nobody, I am doodling these goofballs. I actually have quite a few ideas of where to go with drawing them, but settled with "let's take the Goofy Guards and make them BADASS" as my first foray into drawing them XD Just posted a sketch of Yippee and I hope to follow up with Yappee and Yahooey soon!

Now, I'm gonna go and yell about these goofballs to my pal.

See ya later!

[shadebloopnik]

Some really messy sketches on a small little AU with Carmilla as a Fallen Angel Warrior.

Different from the Exorcists who slaughter Sinners, and more dedicated to the actual protection of Heaven against the darker forces. The designs haven't been thought out much, but I like drawing the horns, so I thought it'd be a cool warrior hairdo, like how Exorcists wore demonic masks (I was really bored in class okay-)

Her daughters, Odette and Clara are there too. They looked pretty different even as twins, which were a bit of an oddity at the time. They were often made to dress alike, and act alike. Most viewed them as a package deal rather than taking time to understand their individuality.

Its why they're dressed so freely in hell, relishing in how different they can be whilst still having a great bond.

Her daughters are ultimately what causes her to fall. Drawing the half horn half hair down style looked a lot cooler in my head, but it was fun regardless.

Some secret regarding her daughters get found out, Heaven making her choose to either cast her daughters down or join them. Carmilla didn't hesitate.

More info on the AU/fic in the cut belowww:

I dunno if im ever gonna expand on it, but I loved the idea of making it Zestmilla. Maybe Carmilla met the old Overlord in one of her trips in hell, maybe fighting in a battle there? Or helping establish order? Anyway, she was alone when she met Zestial, and the two were quiet the enemies when they met. They fought, though didn't aim to kill, resulting in a close fight with Carmilla as victor. She wasn't an Exorcist warrior, and saw no need to immediately end this Overlord. She wasn't sent there to do mindless murder, and would like to avoid useless battles if she could. Besides, he was polite enough, and though she didn't trust him, he didn't grate on her nerves either. Zestial was quite taken with her, suspicious and quite murderous towards an angel, but liked her well enough for her wit and level headedness. Her grace and skill in battle was also admirable.

They bump into each other many more times, over the course of Carmilla's visits to hell, and with each meeting, they turn a bit more cordial, even striking an unlikely friendship, that blossoms into much more. It takes them about a hundred or so years(bc i LOVE relationships that REAAAALLLY take the time to develop and build on that trust and love) before they become romantically involved. They seem like the couple who would take it slow, being cautious and not rushing anything less it would harm the other.

And though Carmilla's trips to hell were halted, their love was not for naught as she gave birth to Clara and Odette. Her one regret was not being able to give Zestial the great news, he would've been an amazing father.

She manages to hide their identities for a good while. The two had rather angelic features, wings and all, and humanoid forms unlike their father's. The only thing that pointed to their demonic heritage were their eyes, whose sclera was the same shade of red as her iris. It was easily hidden with simple spells though. The two girls bore quite the resemblance towards her, even with some oddities, and were left fairly alone, being able to remain undetected for decades.

(I just left this post to sketch this out real quick lol, just to get the coloring in mind, not set on the design but I dont mind it.)

The peace couldn't last. After a while with Odette and Clara still being considered young as angels, their secret gets out. Maybe the spells wore off, or by a slip of the tongue, but for some reason or another it gets found out that they're half demons. They were attacked, and the daughters were stripped of their wings and sentenced to be cast down to Hell, left at the mercy of the next Extermination. Carmilla was given a chance to redeem herself and stand back, and let her "mistakes" be washed clean.

Carmilla fought back, her wingless daughters clutching to her own feathers for protection. She scooped them up, flying away to hell, less they get any more damaged. Try as she might, however, they didn't manage to escape unscathed. She plummeted into Hell; feeling the curses and painful burn of magic at her back, nipping at her form.

It was as if Heaven and Hell itself tore her apart with her descent, both pulling with reckless abandon, shaping her into what they wanted.

She couldn't even afford to lose consciousness; she had her daughters to protect after all. Both girls were weak and bleeding, their backs aching from where their wings used to be. Carmilla glanced at her own feathers, and felt her heart break. It looked just as painful as it felt. Her once sleek and razor sharp looking feathers were nearly singed beyond repair. She retracted them, less she attract more enemies with them in display.

She struggled to get up, carrying her daughters with her despite the weakness in her legs. She didn't even have her spear with her, weaponless except for the ballet slippers she'd forged herself with angelic steel. Her hair was down and unruly, all three of them covered in burns and cuts and bruises and bleeding wounds. The attack came out of nowhere. Her daughters weren't even given a chance to defend themselves.

Weaponless. It can't happen again.

She manages to drag her daughters with her, only one place she could think of approaching. Its been decades since she's been to Hell, she hopes the territories didn't change too much. She was hesitant in going to Zestial for help. After all, its been years, and she'd left without being able to say goodbye. He'd be justified in hating her, and she wouldn't hold it against him. At the least, they could hide somewhere in his territory. His lands were one of the best choices, the demons residing under his rule were fairly disciplined. In a place as dangerous as Hell, an environment that was fairly familiar to her gave some bit of comfort. Even if he didn't accept them, even if he was unaware of their existence, Carmilla was satisfied with simply a place to rest.

She needed not worry though. As soon as Zestial heard the slightest news about strangers in his territory, he rushed to meet them himself. He noticed the large crash just some hours before night fell, and couldn't help the spark of hope. He was greeted by the sight of a few dead bodies, 1 or 2 who thought they could get lucky taking advantage of a weakened opponent. He arrived just in time to see a third fall, bloodied heels clicking on the ground below. The figure stood tall, though was clearly tired and heaving deep breaths. He barely noticed the two smaller figures in the distance, his gaze focused solely upon the lone woman, whose silver hair was still so beautiful even with all the dirt and blood matting it. He stepped closer, the sound of it causing the woman to turn and-

It didn't matter how dark it was. It didn't matter how her sclera was now the same shade of red as her iris were, as if it were inverted. He'd recognize her anywhere.

Without caring that he'd get stabbed himself, he rushed to pull her in a tight embrace, feeling her freeze beneath his arms. He buried his face in her hair, nuzzling it even with the blood and dirt, afraid as though she'd disappear if he ever let go.

He felt her large hands wrap around him and for the first time since his existence in Hell, he felt as if he could cry. This was real. This wasn't a figment of his imagination, nor a result of insanity. She was here. After all these years she came back to him. He couldn't be happier.

He immediately takes her and the two girls back to his residence, letting them clean up and helping patch their wounds. When he found out the two were his daughters, he felt as if- yea no, he was crying, this wasn't just a feeling, he couldn't stop the tears from streaming down as he hugged the two as firmly as he could without aggravating their wounds. He felt so angry for them, enraged that heaven could deal out such punishments for something the girls couldn't control.

He took them all in, preparing rooms for everyone. He prepared one for Carmilla too, not wanting to push his luck. It has been years after all, and he didn't want to force himself onto her should she decide she didn't reciprocate anymore. In the end, they all slept in the same room. Carmilla wanted to be with Zestial, feeling safer with someone else in the room to stand guard, and her daughters crawled back to her, far too afraid to sleep in such a new place alone after everything that happened.

So they all snuggled in the same large bed, Zestial keeping a respectful distance from the young girls as to not frighten them, all the while letting his webbed cloak wrap around Carmilla in comfort.

Carmilla fell asleep last, her thoughts running wild. It was all so much, but right now, here with her daughters in her arms and under Zestial's embrace, she felt at peace for the first time in a long while.

Glancing at the mirror across the room, she hummed at the changes in her eyes. The only thing she could think of was how was that she finally matched her daughters. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all, she'd think, drifting off into sleep.

[isa-ghost]

Oouuu h h .. u wanna talk about your hcs for early years Phil… ooh …(expanding from The Beginning if you want ! What you think the continuation could be, anything before, etc :) )

Oh god oh fuck I have so many thoughts and not enough braincells to put them into words, uhhh

Phil headcanons masterlist

His start, as we know it, is just a humble tinkerer and explorer with big dreams and even bigger ambitions.

I mean we been knew but HE IS A FUCKING GENIUS AND JUST DOWNPLAYS HIMSELF TO HELL AND BACK. He is SO SMART, sketching and studying and calculating things. He's SO PERCEPTIVE and GREAT at adapting, much like the birds he admires so deeply!! He NEEDS his brain busy. He can CRAFT, and a lot goes into that!!

Actually, his downplaying, lack of self-confidence, and inability to see his true skills and worth might come from all his failures trying to fly. He fucked up so many times, nearly killing himself a few and falling harder and harder each new time he failed. Every one of those failures just reinforced the thinking. And he had no one there to beat the doubt out of him and keep him going. Loneliness is a good way to get too deep into your own head.

His skills were and perhaps still are mostly (subjectively) smaller scale things such as the wings. It's once he found the builds of the deities that things kicked up a few notches. The structures were already built to the scale he thinks he can't pull off himself, all he had to do was restore, repair, and improve them. This is what eventually got him on Rose's radar. Even so, even doing little things on those monumental builds helped boost the size of which he can create things. His love slowly changed from tinkering to architecture.

A part of him fears (or perhaps knows deep down) that he is doomed to always eventually lose his wings.

But luckily, Kristin made them very resilient when she gave them to him. Based off what we know from observation, (and biology of birds maybe?) they heal and repair themselves over time.

And when they're severely damaged, he has Rose. After all, she chooses to be a sort of guardian for him similarly to Kristin. When he needs it, she can restore them each time he returns to Hardcore, the same way he restored her creations. It's how she shows her gratitude. All he needs to do is be in the right world. She can't do it across realms.

If there's anything to remember from the animatic, it's that Phil never quits. It takes A LOT to make him do so, and even then there's a chance that some period of time from the moment he decides to throw in the towel, he'll get back to it with fresh eyes and renewed determination. He's stubborn in more ways than one.

To this day, he wonders why crows seemed so heavily present around him in the first place. Of course he loves them, they fascinate him with their looks and symbolism and intelligence and adaptability. But... why did they one day just become so present? He's ""too fuckin dumb"" to think of why, so he doesn't bother. He just enjoys them.

Which brings me to another point. Oh my god is this man allergic to willingly sitting down and confronting huge potentially life-changing shit, especially stressful and negative big shit. Look what he did with the possession. He pretends he does not see it until it's too late, which backfires often.

His interest, if you can call it that, in [not super high stakes] combat developed once he met Techno. As he honed those skills, he applied his agility and the knowledge he had of movement from all his flying to it. He is a Very flexible, graceful fighter.

In general, he's very attuned to his body, both because of what he's had to learn in order to fly, as well as being careful in Hardcore. His self-control is fantastic.

In one of the first few headcanon sets I made, I said Phil fears lacking control of himself. That not only goes for autonomy, but physical control of himself too. It originates from all his falling and being grounded against his will. It's another reason that Ender King not only possessing him, but taking away his wings in the end is such a brutal blow to him.

Kind of a given, but between being an explorer, and once he picked up that interest in crows and desperation to fly and stay airborne, he spent way more time outside than in. We crows see it present day, he really only goes in to sleep and to store things.

Kristin gave him boons, so to speak, such as his wings, when they initially met. She's also the reason he can understand the crows and actually speak to them. He built Brian because Brian makes it even easier for us to communicate with him, but generally speaking, he can still understand us even without Brian's aid.

[springsketches]

When making my slay the princess OC, I went through a lot of phases in the beginning. Namely because I had to decide what route I wanted her to be a branch off of. My first three picks were the razor, the adversary, and the tower. I thought of doing multiple or all three, but decided to go with the razor. I thought of the prisoner too but she didn’t really click with my vision. I ultimately went with the razor because I enjoy the razor and was a little saddened that multiple routes weren’t really an option. I also felt like the Knightess being a branch from the razor would be the most interesting route because it makes a character hell bent on hurting the mc into a much more defensive character. Still on the attack but less lethal and harder to kill. I decided her route would be somewhat like the thorn’s solely in the way that it is difficult to get. My initial designs ended up with somewhat of a gladiator inspired look because I wanted to replicate the design of the razor in her final form, somewhat as a nod to her roots. While I like the ideas of this I also think it reflects what my initial ideas of the Knightess were, in that she was going to be much more brutal and less sympathetic than her current form. I decided to change her character a lot through development mostly because, when looking up references of knights, I realized that knights are not really just associated with brutality. A lot of depictions of knights showed them being intensely loyal, honorable, or incredibly romantic. I felt that would make the route more fun because it offers variety rather than a character that is prepared for battle and just wants to fight. So she became a character that values honor and chivalry above all else, it’s her drive for everything. Romancing her is an option too even if she’s a little hard to win over initially. I ended up removing the gladiator look more I’m favor of a medieval look. The next two designs more or less became the design I decided to follow more closely as a result.

While this character was initially just going to be uploaded as a clean sketch because I was working on other projects, I wanted to make it look much better as a way to show how I had improved from my first post. I changed the drawing to look like one of the title screens in the demo and wanted it to look really similar if not exactly like one of Abby’s drawings. This sketch is basically the rough draft of the final product. As you can see, I removed some of the plating for the final picture in favor of a less clunky silhouette.

I also decided to put effort into what the tiara would look like on a knight helmet. I decided to make a crown with cross and royalty (fleur de lis) motifs because it’s a reflection of the medieval inspiration I took. This also became my main tease for what was to come:

The final step was giving her her name. Initially I was just going to name her “the knight” but I wanted to see if there was a more feminine name I could use. I found two, the Knightess and the Dame. I chose the Knightess because I felt it suited her better and I learned Dames did not really battle like knights did. Dames just held an equal position of power and moreso knighted people rather than being knights themselves. Also the Dame felt like a name too similar to the Damsel, so Knightess she was. I’m really happy with how the final product turned out from this sketch because I feel I kept the personality my sketches have while producing a polished product. I had a lot of fun making this and I’m glad other people seem to like her too!

[giurochedadomani]

I'm doing the last work assignment before Christmas, so have a sketch of a plot and let's hope I can do this next week during holidays:

I need some young mishanks in which a Spicy Dream absolutely throws Mihawk out of his loop because having Shanks parrying him two centimeters away from his face suddenly evokes certain kind of feelings, not to say anything about what Mihawk feels that time during the duel in which he ends up tumbling to the floor, Shanks' new blade to his throath and-- nope. nopenopenope.

And it seems that Shanks knows it! (he doesn't) And takes advantage of it! (he does). Mihawk's like 25% sure that he's reading his mind, and he definitely doesn't want to think about how Shanks would react if he knew that Mihawk's mind has been playing little scenes from that Spicy Dream all the afternoon they've been together.

This is all an excuse to have Mihawk being the most morose drinker that night at the red force (in part because he's getting really in his head, in part because if he hypothetically wanted to make the Spicy Dream a reality, he's definitely NOT making the first move, and why can't just Shanks magically know without Mihawk having to undergo the horrible ordeal of telling him about it?)

Maybe being kind of very uncharacteristically affectionate with Shanks? Like, at this point he's half lying on top of him because Shanks moved Mihawk's legs a little to let people use the stairs of the ship in which they're sat and Mihawk kind of? left his legs on Shanks' lap? He's been idly running his fingers over Mihawk's hand for the past hour, but every time he tries to take his hand away Mihawk sounds a bit displeased, a takes his hand, and puts it in the same position. Don't get me wrong, Shanks is 110% okay with the situation, feels the kind of bliss when a little feral kitty decides to nap on your lap, but he's also lowkey freaking out because this is so very uncharacteristic of Mihawk? And he's a very, very, very reserved dude. Shanks' 25% sure that Mihawk is going to decimate the red force if someone even vaguely mentions that he looks cute or that he's trying to hoard Shanks' attention.

This probably ends with Shanks taking Mihawk to his cabin, and Mihawk being absolutely gutted because WHEN has Shanks had to take one of his crew members out of a party? Mihawk must have been really making a scene (he wasn't). Which develops into something about: how rude of you to inflict me with feelings, Shanks (horny feelings! and other feelings he can't quite parse!! It's been one hell of a ride for him since he had that dream, okay? bear with him a little)

[t1meslayer]

T1meslayer Wrapped ~2024~

2024 was a bit of a rollercoaster year in my personal life, but in terms of creative writing it was a vibrant one!

Two of the zines I've participated in published their physical copies: poképocket (@pokepocketzine) and Homemade in Hyrule. Four additional fandom zines are also at different stages of active development, so there's no shortage of "big projects" on the way.

However, I still managed to slip in time for my own independent pieces — perhaps too much time, in some cases. There was a lot of feverish writing for ideas lodged in my head at the cost of whatever other video games or TV shows or drawings I wanted to do, in just the right way to trigger my terminal sense of opportunity cost.

But that being said, I am drawing more actively! Isn't that fun? I've even begun incorporating a few of those sketches into my fics, as was the case with "Peanut Butter & Jelly" and "Live Wire."

Overall I published-

22 fanfics

-to Archive of our Own throughout 2024. That's not to mention the chapter count for stories with multiple parts — except in that one edge case with "Stone-Cold Lovers," wherein I merely published the final chapter of a revived story from years prior. But yeah... Edge case.

When I dropped the first part of my long-form Pokemon Scarlet and Violet story "Fallout" in May 2024, I heralded it as my special 30th Archive of our Own fic (to not get muddled counting the handful of pieces still exclusive to FanFiction.net). Yet, when I published my final story "Live Wire" for Mariver Week on December 21, the total count read-

45 Works

Here's how the backend statistics shook out for last year, as captured on Monday, January 6, 2025:

To celebrate the end of a wonderful year, I thought it would be fun to give y'all a "Top 5 T1meslayer Fics You Should Read (or Re-Read)" list. Because hey... Who doesn't love a numbered list?

I decided not to count any stories attached to zines or similar projects (sorry Pokemon Holiday Exchange 2024), and I'm going to mostly avoid sharing unfinished multi-parters. As much as I love "Drowning," it feels bad to recommend it when I'm still dragging my feet on the second half.

That all being said, click on to see the list :)

=====

1) Scrambled Eggs

If you've ever read a T1meslayer fic, this is undoubtedly the one you've read. It's far and away my most popular story yet, garnering over 3,000 views and 300 Kudos. I originally write it to have a piece for applying to a certain @dunmeshizine, but it is also the first breakthrough of creativity for a series that well and truly changed my life for the better.

Seriously, I love Dungeon Meshi so much. You can't read this fic if you're anime-only because it does have endgame spoilers, but I hope you enjoy the hell out of it if you can! My "waking up at three separate times" opening drove the initial idea, but I feel it spread its wings so much further by the end, thanks in-part to good use of food-based puns and descriptors.

=====

2) By Moonlight

Most of my Splatoon 3 output rests upon the mighty shoulders of Shiver, the character who really rotted my brain away... Mostly because of how much I love them together with Marie. However, I do love other pairings too! The first part of "All's Fair in Love and Grand Fest" is all about Callie and Acht, for example, and "By Moonlight" here is inspired by Pearl and Marina.

Despite playing a lot of Splat2 with my friends, it wasn't until I really listened to Off the Hook music like Candy-Coated Rocks that I realized just how much I missed. So, with the Side Order DLC coming out, it seemed like an appropriate time to finally break out an Off the Hook fic! This one does a lot of fun formatting for elements like music awards, as well as cool visual storytelling inspired by discussions with my sister about music and emotional writing. Absolutely one of my more stylish fics.

=====

3) Neurocysticercosis

As previously mentioned, I have a lot of friends who are obsessed with specifically Gojo and Geto's relationship in JJK. So... That's pretty easy to milk when I want to write some birthday fics for the good peeps.

Where "Neurocysticercosis" stands apart from my prior GojoGeto fic "Infinitesimal Distance" is in all the ways my background research informed themes throughout. I found a new artist I really like while trying to dig up era-appropriate subjects for Japanese museum galleries, and it's amazing what you can get out of a character with some well-placed visual similarities! Plus... I may have done Shoko a little dirty... But her entrance into this story is one of the funnier things I wrote all year.

=====

4) How You Get The Girl

If you didn't discover my work through "Scrambled Eggs," you may have instead found me via "How You Get The Girl" — somehow my most popular Stardew "Sapphic Valley" piece despite being, like, the fifth one. It's the first in that series which isn't purely about introducing the cast, instead delving more into the relationship between my character Alex and Haley, and I think that narrow focus did the story a huge favor.

The centerpiece of "How You Get The Girl," in my humble opinion, is the long description of clutter in Haley and Emily's house. All of the individual elements are fun to sift through, but more importantly, it says a lot given just whom those elements belong to. One of the better bits of subtle characterization I feel I've done in the fanfiction space.

=====

5) Fallout

Okay. I know I said no unfinished multi-part fics.

"Fallout" is a bit of an exception to the rule.

If you want something standalone, my Halloween story "Obsidian" is probably your best bet — and it introduces Steven Stone's rock club, so it's a good best bet to have. However, "Fallout" holds a very special place in my heart for the insanely long buildup and all of the auxiliary multimedia elements I've been putting together for it.

Elements I still can't show yet because I hold true to my desire for fun surprises. But trust me when I say there's good stuff here.

I intend to return to this very soon (if other unfinished pieces don't monopolize my time first), but I feel less bad about recommending it over others considering it's the tip of the spear for an even longer-running series of Pokemon Scarlet and Violet fics that weave one huge narrative. There's plenty to read for any hungry fans... And if you just want the quick summary, I made a flowchart infographic for that too!

=====

In 2025, I want to try and be better about discussing my fics for longer than the shelf life they get through my Fanfiction Debrief posts (another thing I'm woefully behind on).

However, I do also think 2025 is going to be a year of subtractions. As of this writing, I've decided it's probably time to retire FFN as a posting hub. As much as I love making Featured Images for that platform, I can still make my cover arts without having to balance all the extra work with no response beyond a billion bots asking to do commissions based on my fics. It's also probably time to shutter the ol' Twitter page in favor of something like Bluesky, as much as I loath the idea of creating more social media accounts.

Bigger standalone posts should be on the way for those subjects.

But finally, I think it would be best to wrap this sucker up by thanking not just my lovely audience, but also the great friends I've begun fostering throughout this last year of creative writing!

There's a half-dozen people from various projects and Tumblr cat boopings and AO3 comment threads I could mention here, but @alchemicallymoon, @duelbraids, and @outsideexistentlines are the three I talk to nearly every day in some capacity or another. I really couldn't imagine this particular phase of my life without them, cheesy as it might sound.

Seriously, I cannot thank everyone out there enough for your support these last couple of years. Hoping to have even more stuff to share as soon as I'm no longer exhausted by the process of moving to a new state!

[nananarc]

hi!!! E, K, P for ze asks?

Thanks for asking! Prompt here.

E - Have you added anything cracky/hilarious to your fandom? If so, what?

i probably added a lot because of my silly sketches.... ig if i have to pick one let's shout out to the DATV Show it seems people still like it a lot to this day

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

Catra in She-ra is one that comes up in my mind right now. or Entrapta i love her arc and her relationship with Hordak too.

P - Invent a random AU for any fandom (we always need more ideas).

Since my current hyperfixation is DA ima go with that.

Me and my friends were just talking about a isekai Elgar'nan into modern world and he's a disgruntled househusband and its funny as hell.

another one of my all time favorite AU is japanese high school au, with people in pretty uniforms and animu eyes and shit lmao

historical ancient vietnamese au?

mythical vietnamese au?

im just pulling all the au i had in cp77 fandom to da lmao

[pastelaspirations]

Yip :3 Henlo friend

Somewhere around 24 chapters now. I’m having to like limit myself or ima have a doodle for every chapter- I’m trying to get this done within a normal amount of time bro 😭

Also I’ve fallen into the tryna do too much trap and decided you get multiple full page fully rendered drawings also. I have one finished but I want at least one more. Maybe more depending on if the idea hits just right.

I am proud of myself tho because instead of coming up with something completely new I dragged out one of my old sketches from like months ago that never went anywhere and redid it into ✨something presentable✨

Apologies that I continue to yip yap in your inbox about my progress (or lack thereof-) but I swear it makes me do more because then there’s the fact that someone is waiting on me and like. It counteracts my procrastination?? Idk

Anywho. Ima talk about how much I love the fic some more because u deserve to know how good ur writing is <3

The slow burn is killing me (/pos) but the world building makes it totally worth it. I can tell reading like the sheer amount of effort that went into building this world around the characters and it feels like live filming instead of on a stage or smthin 🥰 One of my favorite characters (aside from the obvious main character biases) is actually Oren. Yes. He’s a jerk. But I love his development bro. And I also have a soft spot for cool designs and the reworked design in my head is like on point man. Anyway. Trying to read into all his motives and recognizing the seesaw of antagonist character but also real person who’s not black and white good or evil is like. One of my favorite parts of reading it. Very nice 👍 Also. Gaster. My man. My creepy probably not gonna murder you in your sleep if you accidentally spilled coffee on his shirt seventeen years ago evil genius man Gaster. Hehe. Need I say more? And and and all I can say is I’m remembering bits and pieces of when I read thru the first time and like clawing at the walls trying to remember when they happen so I can feel satisfied.

Now that I’ve provided a wall of text. Summary: Good fic. Recommended to my partner actually 👍👍 Good character. Good good good. Art incoming. Hopefully soon but may be a lil bit cuz ima be busy these next two weeks :’/ but ima try rlly hard to finish before the busy starts-

*Fades into the shadows again. Until next time*

AAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCK, BRRRO. SO MANY KIND WORDS, I AM TRYING TO READ AND APPRECIATE, HOLD ON

B r o. Do you, I ask sincerely, like to hurt yourself? BECAUSE, MAN, FULLY RENDERED, FULL PAGE DRAWINGS?? AND DRAWINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER??? LIKE, NOOOO. SWEET, YOUNG SOUL, DO NOT GIVE IT AWAY FOR SUCH A THANKLESS ENDEAVOR-

But I also know what you mean. I am... still procrastinating drawing the fourth anniversary drawing(s) because I decided that, I too, like to hurt myself-

ACK, I KNOW. I'M MY OWN WORST ENEMY. I want the two goofballs to do cute couple crap so bad, but I decided to make it the slowest burn of all time. Because Ink is a clueless demi with crippling self-esteem issues and Error is a very confused bi who has no idea how to articulate his feelings. WHAT A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN, EVERYBODY-

Also, I'm just. Gripping your shoulders right now

Are you kidding me. We've got Oren and Gaster fans in here, I am so excited and laughing like a mad man-

I mostly say that because a lot of fans... understandably do not like them. SO, I AM SURPRISED WHEN I SEE PEOPLE WHO ARE LIKE "HELL YEAH, I ACTUALLY L I K E THE ASSHOLE DRAGGO BOI AND THE MORALLY GRAY SCIENTIST GUY-"

But yes, thank you, thank you, I try very hard to make everyone seem like real people and not just "someone is a jerk and they'll never be anything more than that-"

[gffa]

choose violence 🥰✨: 3 (altho to avoid the Drama™ it should be more related to something silly I don't want u to die to answer this lmao), 7, 9, 10, 20, 21 (v curious about the last two actually)

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you’ve seen on tumblr NO NO I AM HAPPY TO DO THIS ONE because it is my favorite worst take I've ever seen: "Did you know that Darth Vader and the Empire must have freed all the slaves because we never see any slaves in the original trilogy!" THEY WERE SERIOUS. (Pssst, nobody tell them about Oola.) My other favorite worst take I've ever seen: "We are allowing people to express themselves too much because I just saw people shipping Obi-Wan and Anakin, they're writing all these fics about love, and they shouldn't do that! I also saw people shipping Gojou and Geto from Jujutsu Kaisen and they are FRIENDS, they shouldn't LOVE each other!" Absolutely stellar, no notes, phenomenal, 10/10. 7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them? It is an absolute struggle not to get sucked into the whirlwind around Qui-Gon Jinn's character. He's so often used as a weapon against the other Jedi, when the reality of his character is that he's both a lovely person and kind of an actual asshole in the movie, he's a dick to Jar Jar! He only cares about Anakin because of the prophecy! But he also is genuine about his affections and he was a good teacher to help Obi-Wan come into himself! He's absolutely HILARIOUS when he's not giving a shit throughout all the batshit stuff that happens in the first 20 minutes of the movie! But so much of fandom wants to flatten him out into either lionizing him or demonizing him and, if that made it more fun for people, I'd be more onboard! Hell, yeah, lionize the hell out of your faves because you love them!! But so few people seem to actually care about the character for himself and, when he gets used to bash the other Jedi, sometimes it's hard to get out of the instinctive urge to dislike the character. (QUI-GON DESERVES BETTER THAN THIS. LET HIM BE AN ASSHOLE CAT THAT WE LOVE.) 9. worst part of canon Honestly, I like pretty much all of Lucas' canon, which is the primary stuff I care about. And most of the boring stuff I can just ignore. But, man, I have trouble with TBB. 20. part of canon you found tedious or boring To be honest, pretty much any of the Star Wars books from the last couple of years that don't focus on established characters. (And some of the established characters, too, I could not finish the Padme trilogy.) I am just so full up on half-sketched characters that never seem to have any real arc to their character or bite to them that I've almost entirely stopped reading SW books, I'm just so bored with them, none of them have Lucas' ability to create a character I want to spend time with or they don't have the page time (like 3+ books worth) to develop them. 21. part of canon you think is overhyped I wouldn't have said this three years ago, but I'll say it today: The Mandalorian. That first season was phenomenal and deserved to be as hyped as it was, just for what it did for breathing enthusiasm back into the fandom. Those early days were amazing, we all got along in fandom, there was genuine affection and zeal for having fun with the characters! But by the time the third season came around, despite that I had a blast during it, it didn't deserve the hype anymore, Favroni had lost their focus or something, and it was all over the place and I don't think it deserves to be "the GOOD Star Wars" live action anymore. (You know what I mean with that.)

[rocketyship]

what is ur webcomic about

*DEEP INHALE* (you brought this upon yourself) NOW IF YOU DRAW YOUR ATTENTION TO THE FIRST IMAGE

This is Ra.

Ra is the protagonist of my webcomic currently in development.

Ra is trapped in a magic necklace called the sundial where he is forced to grant the wishes, whims, and pledge his eternal service to whoever wields/wears it, until the next person gets it or whatever. If he does not do what is asked of him, he is typically horrifically (mostly violently) punished by the god he upset by committing a crime he doesn’t even know about. On top of this, he is also cursed into the form of a snake unless the wielder sees him as a person (which is very rare). Not to mention he is unable to consume regular food and drink, and is on a very healthy diet of blood and gold.

The webcomic is split into three parts, each containing twelve chapters (excluding the prologue). The first part details his experience over 12 centuries with different wielders/creatures and how over this time he goes from someone well meaning if not naive (due to loosing his memory) to a self-serving, manipulative, oddly flirty, egoist hell bent on escaping and killing the god (Citanis) who imprisoned him in the first place. The second and third parts following how he goes about such a plan.

The comic is very much a dark fantasy phycological horror, that goes into themes of absurdism, stoicism, cynicism, and existentialism, and the themes of what constitutes as human and “other”. The scripts and story boards are all written out, and page production will be starting on the 24th after my final exams. One thing I will note is that this story has a very different tone to the Love Au (which will still get worked on), it’s far more surrealist and gets kind of nonsensical and trippy at points, and is more obviously a horror story but still with its own quirks. Notably it starts out decently tame, but gets progressively worse as the chapters go on, done to show Ra’s deteriorating mental state and his desperation as things seem to just keep getting worse for him.

I want to rattle on so so much more, but like then there will be spoilers, but here: have some more sketches and concept art 💕💕💕

This is a Citanis concept (their design has gone through the most development, and what has been holding this project back so long)

Here are the other gods Ra encounters throughout the story (These are the upper ones)

The wielders that the story focuses on, excluding one cause none of my drawings of her seem to have her clothed (she’s a forest nymph, she don’t need no panties)

And yeah! I’m so so excited to get drawing all this!! Hopefully the prologue will be out either late January or early February next year

[raayllum]

how long would you say you've actively shipped any of your favorite ships? - im curious specifically about sorvus, sorpeli, and claudiez

I wouldn't say Sorvus is one of my faves even if I do 1) love Soren and Corvus individually, 2) Corvus is one of my favourite side characters in the whole show (like top 5) and 3) I do really like them! That being said:

Canon

For the bulk of TDP ships, canon-wise, I shipped them as their relationships were revealed (aka Harrow/Sarai with the info we got in S1, Claudia/Terry with the info we get in S4, Runaan/Ethari back when he was known as 'Tinker' thanks to the S1 credit sketch, etc).

For Janaya, I shipped them from the first time they met in S2, since "rival intellectually and physically matched generals on the battlefield" along with both being very pretty is a decently long-ish homoerotic trend in literature (aka a production I saw of "Coriolanus" really leaned in on it, although I think I saw that pre-S2's release. Applies though)

For Rayllum, I shipped them pre-show even if I was also down to brotp them. They'd be travelling together, thus having plenty of time to develop an interesting dynamic / were around the same age, and the screencap released before the premiere of them sitting under the tree (Callum, distracted but eager, and Rayla, exasperated and fond) really drew me in since that's a ship type - dynamic and gender wise (I don't tend to love ships where the guy is the more grumpy/guarded one, I think, since women are so often forced to do More of the emotional labour in relationships Anyway) - I'm already Very susceptible to. I tried to hold off a little bit in early S1 cause I didn't want to ship them too hard, but then 1x05 came along with the boat scene and it was Over for me. They've had my heart ever since (5 years going on forever)

Requested Rarepairs

Sorvus

So I didn't really ship Sorvus (although I was never opposed to them) for the majority of the time post-S3. I didn't really ship Soren with anyone and preferred Gren/Corvus at that time (due to their personalities / closer dynamic to Amaya and therefore each other) as well as enjoying Corvus/Opeli. However I was also really hoping that Corvus would stay on the council/with Ezran, and figured that if Soren was going to end up with anyone, Corvus was probably the most realistic choice (shared goals, decent development, timeskip to help things, similar ages).

That said I still didn't actively ship them (like I didn't mind them but was completely impassive/neutral y'know?) until I wrote an interaction between them in "if heaven and hell decide" (a canon divergent S2 where Claudia and Soren decide to delay their betrayal of the trio, and therefore travel with them for much longer) and the fact that Corvus would see Soren at his worst in canon (S2) but also see and appreciate who Soren was becoming... I started to turn a corner and grew to ship them a lot more. I'm really excited for them to eventually be canon, it seems, even if they're not My Endgame for either character In My Head for years-post war, at least for now.

Claudiez

For aged up Claudia/Ezran, I think this post (dated July 2021) was when I started to ship these two. There was something about the interplay of Claudia telling Callum about Harrow's death, but he only seeks out comfort from Rayla, and Ezran rejecting Rayla's offered comfort about Harrow and instead accepting it from Claudia, that felt very apt to me? And then a couple weeks later I wrote my formal "I actually do ship Claudiez and here's why" meta so it's been a few years now!

Both the younger sibling uniquely given their father's mantle to carry in ways their older brother just doesn't have to; Ezran being connected to all nature while Claudia continually perverts it, thus Ezran having the relationship to nature that she needs to learn/acquire for her own healing additionally; they both see the throne as a tool to help and breaking their fathers' cycles with each other; the childhood friends to enemies to friends to lovers of an according slow burn because of said age gap; ending up as Queen of Katolis but not the way her father imagined and ending up with one of the brothers, just not the one everyone previously expected; Ezran getting to grow up and into his own and assert his independence and choices (no matter what his brother thinks about it), etc. I also think personality wise they suit each other - Terry's parallels to Ezran in personality are some of the reasons I think Clauderry works at least as a short term pairing.

It's also kinda perfect bc, since they'd only get together like 10-15 years post the end of the show Anyway, so like. they're Endgame to me no matter what and there's nothing canon can really do about it, #improvise adapt overcome.

Sorpeli

This probably started out as the truest crack ship because it started as a joke of like, Soren flirting with her at 20 and easy to dismiss and then again when he's 30 and Opeli is like "I deserve a little fun," so they start having a physical fling, and then catch feelings (Soren falls first, she falls harder). The earliest post I have for them is from May 6th 2023 but I know realistically I'd probably shipped them for a lot longer (what can I say, younger men not being put off my older women aging bc society is bullshit, and contrasting personalities + devoted man & woman who feels undeserving will always get me) before I ever had mind to say anything. Then I dragged @jelzorz into it and the rest, they say, is history. So like 1.5 years at least now?

I'd probably be even more into Sorpeli than I already am but I'm not unconvinced that Opeli won't die (I really hope she doesn't, but I do understand how it could benefit Ezran's narrative in particular) but like if all seasons pass by and she's alive? Canon crack quartet with Endgame Rayllum, Claudiez, Sorpeli, and CorTerry is a go <3

TLDR;

Rayllum before the show started, Janaya in S2, everything else when the ships got introduced, then next we have Claudiez (July 2021), Sorvus (casually since Oct 2021), and Sorpeli (late 2022/early 2023).