#I wrote this in like an hour and a bit

[wanhedas-dagger]

future Tarnished but so grand drabble

A lazy Saturday morning drabble for @lexa-griffins for her birthday and also as an advance apology for all the angst that is to come in the near future.

No, Lexa still wasn’t quite used to the sight she woke up to yet. They had been living together for nearly five years now, engaged for a good two, so she was no stranger to waking up next to Clarke, she had been doing it almost every morning for the past one thousand eight hundred and fifty six days. But Lexa still wasn’t used to it.

It was the constant feeling of peace and contentment, it was the soft love, it was the safety and comfort that Lexa hadn’t known her entire life that she felt every morning now when she opened her eyes. It was rolling over on her side and watching the woman she loved sleep just a little longer, it was knowing she didn’t have to rush out of bed and get things ready or there would be consequences, it was knowing when her partner woke up, she would be met with a smile and a soft good morning.

She used to hate the weekends, used to hate Saturdays in particular because she was forced to spend the entire time within the confines of her house with Michael. Now, Lexa looked forward to it. Saturdays were easily her favorite, she got to spend it at home with Clarke, got to the spend the entire day together lounging in the living room with her head on Clarke’s lap catching up on all the TV show episodes they had missed over the week, or spend hours in bed clothed in nothing but the soft ray of sunshine that had sneaked its way in through the curtains.

“Morning,” Clarke said groggily as her eyes opened, “How long have you been watching me sleep?” She teasingly accusingly, voice low and deep, heavy with sleep.

“Oh not long,” Lexa matched her tone, “Just a couple of hours.” She could barely keep it together till the end of the sentence, a small giggle escaping despite Lexa’s efforts.

“It’s Saturday.” Clarke stated. “And it’s still in the AM,” She added after a quick glance at the clock on her nightstand which read 9:17 am. “So why are we awake, angel?”

Lexa shrugged with one shoulder, “I’m not tired?”

Something flashed in Clarke’s eyes at the statement, a playful sparkle as her lips curled into a matching smirk. “Then maybe…” She started calmly, hand coming up to Lexa’s arm and letting her fingers trace up alone the length of it. “I should tire you out?” She did her best to hide the excitement in her voice, putting on a not-at-all convincing act that this was just for Lexa and not herself. “So we can get a little more sleep?”

Lexa was never one to turn down an offer like that. And it wasn’t long before the two of them found themselves entirely too close to each other with Clarke’s fingers inside Lexa and Lexa’s mouth on Clarke’s chest. It was slow and lazy, quiet moans muffled by kisses, whispered I love yous, and breathless sighs. Clarke’s fingers knowing how best to drive Lexa crazy, Lexa knowing all too well the ways to touch Clarke that would was sure to make her cum by heightening the pleasure she got from fucking Lexa.

It was at least a handful of organs later that the two of them finally came apart on their prospective sides of the bed. Chest heaving and a sheen of sweat covering their skin as they caught their breath. Lexa didn’t wait before closing the distance between them, her face finding the crook of Clarke’s neck and Clarke’s arm immediately going up around her waist.

“Tired?” Clarke asked knowingly.

Lexa’s eyes were already closed. “Enough to go back to sleep for an hour or two, yeah.”

[bongo-clash]

Peacock Au Part 1

Okay so Big Huge credit to @stealingyourbones for letting me do my own take on their amazing eldritch Danny idea!!!! This started out as me just doing a drawing but then I ended up with a whole DPxDC fic that I'll be posting the part two for at some point!!! Anyway, here's the vague designs:

And here's the part one of the fic under the cut!!! :D (Edit: Part 2 is Here!!)

There’s a Lazarus Pit forming underneath Gotham. Normally, this would not concern John Constantine at all, because it’s Gotham, therefore Bat territory therefore not his problem, and honestly he has his own things to worry about. Unfortunately for him, however, the infamous Dark Knight has somehow gotten it into his head that he can do something about it and, Hell, he’d said it would be a ‘big favour’, which meant the man really must be desperate; had to have been in the first place, he supposed, to have even bothered with John in the first place. 

Still, he’d almost kind of forgotten what a huge mess any kind of favour for Batman could be, and thus, he now holds possession of a book that is probably going to get him killed. 

Whether the actual book itself wants to kill him is up for debate, but Constantine has read the contents of this particular Book of Summonings and nothing in here seems remotely safe. He’s absolutely going to be hiding this away somewhere deep in the archives of the archives of the Justice League watchtower with an incredibly pointed ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ on it once he’s done with this, but for now, it’s the only thing he’s got in the way of sorting out this Pit problem. 

There’s an entity that exists, this book claims, that keeps the balance between realms. ‘Closes doors’, apparently, and the doors the pages depict certainly look like a Lazarus Pit. This is brilliant news, obviously, but the book doesn’t describe the entity itself at all beyond that; barely any of the other entries are as vague as this, and that plus some of the frankly bizarre sigils he’s having to draw to summon the damn thing are giving him no comfort. The only remotely comforting thing about it is that the ritual doesn’t require any blood- which either means the entity is benign, or it wants something more valuable than blood. 

…Okay, maybe not that comforting, actually. 

But, before he can consider that maybe this wasn’t his best idea and backing out would be for the best, the sigils flare with light, and Constantine squints to keep track of the way they activate, desperate for any indication of what he’s managed to summon with that stupid book. 

His feet feel feathery against the ground, like they’re barely tethered by gravity and just waiting to float away, and perhaps the seeming lack of atmosphere is fitting with how dust like stars lift from the summoning circle, bringing with them intercepting layers of purple-blue-pink-white, galaxies and nebulae being peeled off the floor. It comes with a sound- something whistling, almost. Seeming hollow, between a shriek and a bell ringing, or maybe more musical than that. It seems to change every moment he tries to focus on it, as if it’s something his ears can’t really hear but his brain is desperate to process, painful to try. 

And then, the entity begins to form. 

Unnoticeably at first, a white glow drifts forming in the centre. It congeals as Constantine’s gaze finally fixates on it, layers forming like jellyfish trails, or flowers, or peacock feathers with runic circles at the tips, fading smaller and smaller as they reach the centre, and a thing akin to a body unfolds into view at the front, a centrepiece. A child’s image of a shadow in opalescence, a strange curving feature where a neck might be, and searing-green spots of varying sizes scattered along the space where cheeks and eyes could’ve been, fading up and down across the lower-half of the ‘face’ and into the ‘hair’. He barely understands what he’s looking at, but maybe that’s the point. 

The sound of a thunderstorm rings across the room, and the curve of the neck unfolds, and it’s an eye, and the tips of a thousand twisted, cosmic peacock feathers become eyes as well, if they weren’t always. They move, wavering, either lashing or flickering from visibility. 

“And what is this?” The voice is a kaleidoscope, echoing off and from every corner of the room, and when they speak, infinite eyes become infinite mouths, too many teeth barely contained by the edges of what seem vaguely like frostbitten lips. To have something even remotely human suddenly etch itself onto the entity is somehow worse than the parts he can’t comprehend. “Who are you, to have summoned me, and seem so afraid?”

Constantine wishes, maybe for the first time, that it hadn’t been an obligation to do this alone; he’s never wanted Batman or one of the Light members with him more than now. It’s a difficult thing, almost impossible, to shake off the speechlessness. It’s a wonder that it’s possible at all, with how the room seems to have been twisted into a vacuum. “I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

“The pits. There are many pits.”

God, this is creepy. “The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. …I heard you can take care of them.”

“I can smell its blood between the gaps of atmosphere, encircling. You, whose soul is bound in so many directions, who may be pulled apart like meat in time- can you sense it? Does it draw you?” John doesn’t know how this- this thing knows that, but he’s scared asking will invoke some kind of consequence, and more and more he’s wondering why the Hell he decided to do Batman this favour. He feels exposed. 

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“…Will you fix it?”

The chill is getting to him. Goosebumps are running across his arms like a livewire, and he’s never doing anyone a favour ever again. The entity makes an approximation of a hum, his ears shriek with whale song and stars, and after a pause, everything switching up and down on itself, the peacock eyes form into huge, reaching hands. For a second, Constantine’s whole body freezes with terror, because he’s petrified the thing’s going to grab him, but then the arms tumble phasing into the ground, and the green spots on their ‘face’ flare with a supernova glow and they make another piercing noise, chiming or trilling. 

A long moment later, the hands slowly return to the entity’s back, and fade into the peacock feathers or jellyfish bells or whatever they were before, blinking at him. “It is gone.”

“Uh… cheers?”

“It will not return, but this place shall see its dead for some time. Try not to look.”

This is maybe the worst day of Constantine’s life. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“That is up to you.” They say, and though the eyes that appear briefly between sentences bely or reveal no expression, it feels scrutinising. “What is it that closes doors? Is it alive?”

He hates riddles. He hates riddles and he hates cosmic horrors and he hates eldritch entities and he hates Batman for getting him to agree to this horrible favour. He wants to go back to the House of Mystery and pass out for long enough that this whole thing becomes a dream. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“I know of your Bat.” 

Oh dear. Constantine’s stomach sinks like a shipwreck into the Mariana Trench, but the entity moves on like they’d never even said it. “I will recede, and find you in time, perhaps both. You will know when I am coming, and I will find my recompense.”

And just like that, their whole form shimmers into clouds and pearls and smoke and mirrors, and they fade back into the runes that summoned them like tap water down the drain. The galaxies they’d formulated within the confines of the room fold back in on themselves and turn to whispers and then nothing, but the feeling persists on his skin long after weight has settled back onto his bones. He hadn’t known a thing like that existed until now. He doesn’t know what it can do, doesn’t know how all-encompassing it truly is. 

And he owes it a favour. 

Crap. 

[sunbloomdew]

i can't stop thinking about the constant mentions of fall and summer in regard to baxter and mc, in the dlc.

i find the emphasis put on the seasons very interesting. unlike other potential love interests - cove and derek - baxter is not from the sunny state of california, but a town in oregon, surrounded by forests and mountains. in fact, baxter is the only character from the cast of olba that is not associated with summer, but with autumn instead, so it makes perfect sense to draw attention to that dissimilarity.

following that fact, just by acknowledging it we can see how different baxter is from other characters from sunset bird at his core. and since most of his time is spent with mc, that means the focus will be drawn to how different are these two specifically.

on a side note, this might be a complete overreach, but i consider it interesting how baxter uses the phrase 'suitor for a season' to describe himself in step 3. the use of the word 'season' in my opinion drives home the idea that their time together will inevitably come to an end, just like summer will end eventually, and there is simply no other outcome for this relationship.

when we consider the seasons theme even more, a thing that stood out to me is that summer and fall aren't opposites, like i'd say summer and winter are. they are next to each other (like california and oregon) and in some ways they intertwine. still they are different enough, to be regarded as separate seasons.

just like baxter and mc, no matter how alike, feel so different from each other, and they are aware of that.

i really love the monologue in the sightseeing moment, that mc has about them and baxter being different in that way.

"More and more, you felt as though Sunset Bird formed a vital part of your emotional core. Happiness to you was the sound of waves on the shore, the feeling of warm sand between your toes. [...] Maybe you'd forever be seeing the world through sea glass. But Baxter was another person entirely. For him, perhaps the world was monochrome, or maybe it was golden, but with color of leaves instead of sand. Talking with him made it impossible to ignore just how different your lives had been up until now. How separate your worlds were. All up until that moment, when he showed up on your street. Now your lives were intertwined, however briefly, the forests and the seafoam commingling. Though you knew his love was in the trees and the fall air, you couldn't help but feel happy that he'd wandered his way down to the shore. To you."

i find it so beautiful. everytime i read it i get a little choked up, you know? in my opinion, the summer/fall parallel is the perfect way to portray their relationship. the brainrot gets so intense every time i remember about this,,,

the same seasons theme returns in step 4 when the two reunite. to be precise, it comes back during mc's internal monologue preceding a confession. i was unable to recall if it appears somewhere else in the dialogue as well, but if you happen to find some more, feel free to reblog with this post!

"He tore himself away from you like an autumn storm bringing down a sapling/He fell away from you as naturally as a leaf fluttered off its branch in the fall. There was no holding on to your suitor for a season. Yet the affection you'd nurtured never died out. It had gone dormant for a long winter, ready to burst back to life if the cold passed. Seasons were meant to come and go, but there was no guarantee summer would come again for you and him."

(i'm pretty sure the dialogue here changes based on how you decided the break up went, cause i found two versions of the same confession monologue. still, both of them have a comparison to autumn!)

seasons can be used in art with a lot of different symbolism and meanings behind them. the cycle of the seasons is usually used to portray the passage of time, how the nature but also people change.

in this part of the monologue we see the usage of changing of the seasons to show how despite the time that passed ('winter'), mc still had feelings for baxter, that were ready to return ('spring'). the words "seasons were meant to come and go" bring our attention to how wrong things were between the two, to have something inevitable like the seasons cycle stop.

each season on its own also has its own meanings, and can be used to enhance certain themes or emotions in the text.

in case of baxter and mc, summer is the season in which they met time and time again. not only did their relationship start during summer but it developed in that season as well. as such, for them summer is inextricably a time of growth for their relationship.

outside of their relationship, individually their characters' are connected to summer and fall respectively. as mc referred to it, their emotional cores were influenced by their hometowns - one a summer tourist spot and the other a picturesque autumn town.

to bring back one more thing from mc's monologue in step 3, they wonder if baxter sees the world in gold, but in the colour of the leaves and not sand. well, i noticed, how when they make up after the wedding, the whole place is bathed in gold. you could view it as the summer gold and autumn gold merging together, as those two finally reconcile. or you could see it as a summer gold, as this season is important for their relationship. i like both options.

aside from that monologue, there are several instances of baxter's appearance being compared to things associated with autumn or nature, like descriptions of his eyes as "brown rich like the earth" (i love this one sm it lives in my head rent free) and "oak brown eyes". i think it's a great characterization to have baxter be a 'woodsy person', despite most of us (me for sure) thinking he would be a 'city boy' kind of character at first glance.

i think the reason there is such strong focus on the fact that mc and baxter embody different seasons, is to make the differences between them even more pronounced. when they ultimately reunite and overcome their struggles to mend their bonds, it's even more impressive to witness.

either way, i cannot stop thinking of summer/fall parallel and how genius i think it is. the vibes! the emotional turmoil!! the art potential!!! it's incredible. especially if you try to implement it more into your mc, which is what i'm trying to do.

i'll leave you with this screenshot, that is kinda making my stomach go funny, because of the whole summer/fall parring thing,, i am so unwell in the best of ways

because like if you think about it way too deeply which i of course had, he's saying that summer/fall combination is beautiful, like he's not saying anything besides that BUT when you remember that mc is summer and baxter is fall, then you know?????

i hope you had fun reading this spontanous post! i've been thinking about the summer/fall thing since my first playthrough, so i'm happy to finally gush about it <3

i should not be here, it's 4am and i'm leaving in three hours,,, my time management skills never fail me. toodle-oo~

[total-drama-brainrot]

Total Drama Psycho Noah AU, during the TDWT London Episode... What if Noah doesn't call the hidden Alejandro an eel, instead Alejandro and the other hidden Contestants saw Noah briefly showed his true insane colors to defeat the 'Ripper', with a big psychotic grin?... How would Alejandro feel about trying to bring up Noah's insane side, but Noah keeps denying it (and so does Owen, because Noah asked him to)? 😏

Psycho!Noah, under the assumption that he's alone with only Owen and the camera as his witnesses, going Full On Mania Mode on the Ripper? That's a fun thought.

I think, given the fact that he's on a Reality TV Show in the first place, this Noah would be upfront to the audience that he's... a little unhinged. Maybe he cracks a few jokes in the confessional (either during Island or World Tour) about his eccentricities, or maybe he really plays up the 'crazy' to paint himself as a wolf in sheep's clothing for the audience?

The second option there would probably work more in his favour, since him Just Being There would be a source of dramatic irony for the audience- something to keep people watching in anticipation, waiting for Noah's mask of mundanity to slip. He'd be 'good for ratings'.

I've decided that's the characterisation I'll go with. Psycho!Noah hides his true self from the contestants but, knowing that he'll be recorded 24/7, doesn't bother disguising himself for the audience- his nature will inevitably be exposed to them anyway, so why not cut out the middle man? At least this way, he gets the added pleasure of toying with the viewer's expectations.

-

So, given the fact that the only people he thinks are seeing him are people already in the know, what's stopping Noah from letting loose a little?

Nothing. Nothing's stopping him.

He and Owen step onto the double decker bus, the larger teen tiptoeing almost timidly onto the vehicle in his trepidation, whilst Noah follows casually behind him. He's a little disappointed, truly; horror themed challenges would be so much more interesting if they were, y'know, scary.

Luckily for him, things soon get interesting.

The shadowed figure of the Ripper drops from the ceiling with a thud behind Noah, assumedly crouched down on all fours like some sort of beast though it's hard to tell behind the inky, billowing cloak they're wearing. The motion would've been too fast for someone less capable to properly react to. Thankfully, Noah is very capable.

He pivots in place, catching the surprisingly fast arms of the Ripper before their taller frame can grapple him in his own deceptively strong grip, then forcibly bends the figure's arms until a sickening crack resounds through the bus's interior. The Ripper cries out a raspy animalistic shriek of pain, their forearms hanging uselessly limp out in front of them at awkward angles, and the clattering of something hitting the floor draws Noah's attention downwards. A knife, the Ripper's weapon of choice, gleams threateningly on the ground under the weak moonlight, having slipped from their incapacitated hand.

Well. That's certainly interesting.

Easing up his iron grip on the figure's disfigured arms, the cynic gingerly bends down to swipe the knife from the floor, then straightens back up triumphantly as he brandishes his new found weapon.

"Noah?" Owen's meek voice echoes from behind him. The bookworm tilts his head towards the other, who's fear-blown gaze is fixated on the sharp object in his unstable friend's unpredictable clutches.

The Ripper, momentarily subdued, continues to whine and groan in pain beside him.

"What's up, bud?" He responds, voice conversationally light and airy- a stark contrast to the Ripper's agonised gargles.

"Is- is that a knife?" The larger asks in a wavering tone. Noah isn't sure if it's the fear of himself with a sharp object, or the frankly pathetic display from the figure beside him, that's causing his best friend's hesitance. But he knows Owen- the big lug is a hardy sort, he won't stay scared for long.

"Hmm," Noah hums playfully, toying with the weapon in his grip. Feeble beams of moonlight shine and shimmer from it's blade, illuminating their surroundings in spectres of milk light, "Yeah, I think it is. Good eye, big guy."

A moment of tense silence passes between the two (somewhat ruined by the Ripper's incessant snivelling), before Owen's face splits into a shaky smile.

"Do you want to, uh, maybe, put the knife down?" He suggests.

Noah shifts his focus back onto the tool in his grip, theatrically ruminating over his friend's suggestion as he raises his free hand to his chin in a pondering motion, whilst his piercing gaze subtly flickers around the bus to locate the nearest hidden camera. He spins the knife in his hand thoughtlessly as he searches, deftly twirling and weaving the blade between clever fingers, sending spirals of light dancing through the darkness of their enclosure.

Once he's spotted the tell-tale red blinking light of a recording camera, he careens his whole body to face it. His features soften into a serene smile, highlighted by trickles of pale moonlight, as he addresses the camera.

"No. Not really. It's quite pretty. Don't you think?"

Noah waits a heartbeat, keenly listening for a response that'll never come from the recording device, before his smile splits into something wider. Something that splinters around the edges of his face and crumbles through his mask of tranquillity, revealing glimpses of wild delirium through its cracks. Similarly, his amusement-crinkled eyes widen with mania, irises contracting into pinpricks of molasses against the white of his sclera.

"And wouldn't it look a lot prettier... in a different colour?" The pessimist halts the spinning of the knife with a flick of his wrist, letting the question simmer in the stale air of the bus.

The Ripper, having finally regained their bearings, stumbles to flee from the bus.

Well. That's not very interesting, is it?

In the blink of an eye, Noah is suddenly nose-to-mask with them, holding the blade millimetres from the figure's neck almost tauntingly as he traps them against the fogged over glass of the bus driver's window, "Red would look really pretty."

"Noah," Owen whines petulantly, "we're supposed to capture the Ripper, not kill him!" As if to punctuate his point, the blonde tugs at the edges of the burlap sack he's carrying, shooting an imploring look towards his little buddy.

"Oh, I forgot. Silly me!" Noah exclaims jovially, smacking at his sizable forehead with his free hand. The Ripper beneath him whimpers at the motion.

-

In the First Class cabin, the majority of the Total Drama contestants stand gobsmacked at the display they just witnessed. Varying expressions of disturbance and fright are dotted across the crowd, and the more sensitive of the group have turned varying shades of nauseated green or horrified white.

"What the fuck?"

[isthatafuckinggayangel]

I wanted to continue this thing that I wrote for @cod-dump (hope you don’t mind me tagging you lmao), just kinda expanding upon the concept of Nik being Soap’s father and getting into more of the meat in the idea, so here

~~~

Explaining to Ghost and Gaz everything that had gone on between Nik and Soap, their relationship and all, was exhausting. The number of questions they had took forever to get through and made Soap think a little too hard about what why his mother had caused this.

At the same time though, it made him realize he needed to call her to get all the information straightened out here. He needed to know why she did it. Why she separated him from his father.

So, a few days after he had gotten everything sorted with Nik and the team was on the same page with everything, he made the call. He had both Ghost and Nik sit in on the call with him, he couldn’t get himself to do it without some support and he needed to have Nik there to make sure any lies didn’t slip passed him. The trio were sat around the dining table in the common room, Nik and Ghost on either side of Soap. He pressed the call button and made sure it was on speaker, holding it in his left hand still.

“Tha e math cluinntinn bhuat a-rithist, John. It’s been too long since ye called!” She answered the phone with.

“Sorry ‘bout that. It’s been quite busy out here, so I haven’t had the chance.” Soap rested his forehead in his palm and Ghost ran his hand along his upper back in a soothing motion.

“Is there somethin’ goin’ on, a chuilein? Ye sound a bit upset.”

“Yeah, um, I’ve been thinking a lot and had a few questions fer you, if that’s alright?”

“Of course, it is! Ask away.”

He took a deep breath then went for it. “Why did you tell me my da abandoned me?”

There was silence on the other end. The seconds stretched for what felt like forever.

“Well, that’s because he did. He made it very clear to me that he didn’t want to speak to any of us, and as much as it pained me, I knew we had to respect his wishes.”

Soap saw Nik’s fist clench out of the corner of his eye and looked up, seeing an expression of barely concealed rage. Soap set his phone on the table, reaching over and grabbing his father’s hand to try to help calm him.

“Ma, do you remember what he does for work?”

“…What do you mean, John?”

“I need you to be honest with me. Why did you lie?”

He was met with more silence.

“I dinnae lie, John.”

“Ma. I’m givin’ ya one more chance to be honest. I need you to take it.”

“I don’t understand, I’ve been honest-“

He let out a sigh before laying it all out. “I met him again, Ma. Ye seem tae have forgotten what he does fer work. We work together now. I read his journal, ma. I know what you told ‘im. I know you lied to both of us. So why? I just wanna know why you did it.”

“It’s a very complicated situation-“

“Bullshit. I know a complicated situation when I see one, and this is not one.”

“John-“

“Не лги нашему сыну, Elspet.” Nik growled. He’d clearly had enough of her avoiding the question she’d been asked.

“Nikolai, I-“

“You will answer the question the boy asked. You will not disrespect him or diminish his intelligence by acting as though you do not understand what he is talking about.”

They were once again met with silence. Ghost moved closer to Johnny, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and holding him against his side.

“I was tired. Your father’s job took a toll on me, on our family, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. The entire time you were away from me, every summer, I was so scared his job would follow him home and I wouldn’t know because you were so far away. I needed to have you close to make sure you were okay. That you were safe. I couldn’t think of anything else to be able to do it.” She paused. “Look at where that’s gotten us now. You enlisted for the same damn job and now ye work together. Guess it couldn’t truly be avoided.”

Soap was seething. While he understood being afraid for your child’s safety, he couldn’t get passed the manipulation. The lies. The fact that she didn’t just explain that that was the problem. He could have kept up with phone calls, letters, something so he wouldn’t lose his father. And yet, this was the decision she had made.

Nik squeezed his hand and Ghost hugged him a bit tighter.

“John?”

A deep breath. “Thank you for your honesty. I’m gonna need some time to process all that. I’ll call you again soon, yeah?”

“Yeah. I love you, John.”

“Love ye too, ma.” He hung up the phone and rested his head against the table. “Christ, that sucked.”

“Are you alright, love?” Ghost asked.

“I’ll be alright eventually. Just gonna need some time.” He picked his head back up and looked over at Nik. “You alright? Cannae exactly be easy for you to hear either.”

He gave a light nod. “I’ll be okay eventually, малыш. It will take time, as you said, but it will be fine.” He squeezed Soap’s hand again and Soap did the same back. “У нас все будет хорошо.”

~~~

Translations

Tha e math cluinntinn bhuat a-rithist, Johnny. -> It’s lovely to hear from you again, Johnny.

A chuilein -> my lad

Не лги нашему сыну -> Don’t lie to our son

Малыш -> little one

У нас все будет хорошо -> We will be okay

Apologies for any incorrect translations, the Gaelic is done with google translate and the Russian is a different translation app, so chances are there’s something wrong with it. Let me know if you have any corrections on it!

[skitskatdacat63]

I know someone else has already posted a longer version of this, but this is very important to me as I feel exceedingly normal about it...the transcript was flirty but still did not live up to the actual footage 😵‍💫

[deoidesign]

Hello I stumbled across your profile and I just say I love your art style! I've gotta ask, how'd your develop it? And do you have any advice for someone who can't decide what they want their art to look like?

Thank you so much!

To be entirely honest, I don't feel like I truly "developed" my style. I feel a lot more like I finally let myself draw it! But I am incredibly deliberate with my work, and I do have clear tendencies and preferences... So I'll do my best to explain how I got to where I am now as an artist.

It's important to remember that "style" is something of a nebulous concept. It changes with you as you grow as a person, and most artists can work in and emulate many art styles! Art really is a form of communication with yourself, and your "style" is a reflection of the tendencies and preferences you have. My art does not look how it looked 5 years ago, and my art will look different 5 years from now too. I've changed, and my art reflects that!

(2012, 2018, 2023; two pieces I remember being incredibly proud of and considered my best work up til that point, and then my most recent piece)

What you need to do, as everyone will tell you, is study the fundamentals (anatomy, perspective, form and structure, lighting and shadow, color, and composition) so you have the proper tools to make the most informed decisions possible about your art, and so you can deliberately break or follow rules as you please for your desired effect. I know it sounds silly to learn rules if you're not gonna be following them anyways, but they help you be much more consistent and intentional! More knowledge is NEVER a bad thing to have!

However, I know it's a bit demoralizing to just be told to study fundamentals. Everyone knows you're supposed to do that, but it takes YEARS to learn, and people want their art to feel how they want it to now (which is very very very normal to want!)

So on that front, I have 2 follow up suggestions that I personally find helpful (of course, everyone is different, so it's not like this is the only way to learn! But, if it resonates with you, it might mean it will work for you too.)

1: Separate study from application

I believe this is beneficial for a few reasons:

If the goal of every piece is learning, it can become frustrating, overwhelming, and boring

It's harder to self critique when there are multiple variables to investigate. I like to study one fundamental at a time

Study (usually) works best with a large quantity of output, whereas application of knowledge (finished pieces) is often more satisfying and effective when you get to take your time

Deliberate practical application of what you've learned in a finished piece helps cement the learning in your mind, and also lets you get satisfying finished pieces with noticeable improvement after a good study session!

I've found that keeping these things separate helps me improve faster and more deliberately, and it takes a lot of the pressure off of both aspects! I'm not worried about my studies looking beautiful, they're just to learn! And I don't feel pressured to critique my finished pieces, cause they're just for fun and to make something pretty. I personally find this helps me have a much healthier relationship with my art.

When studying, copy! Copy things as best as you can, all the time. It gives you something to compare to for self critique (and of course, if you're copying someone else's work and you share the study, ALWAYS give credit, share the original, and say it was for study.) In application, don't copy: reference. Make it yours!

2: Let yourself do the things that feel "easy" or like "cheating"

This one is simpler: nothing in art is easy.

If something feels easy to you, most of the time it's not because it's actually any easier... It's because it's part of your natural tendencies and preferences! This took me forever to realize, but as long as you're actually doing some study, then you're learning. You don't need to learn All The Time. When you're doing the "application" portion, you should let yourself do whatever is actually the most fun and feels easiest! This is where your style will start to come through, and where you get to learn about yourself. Take the pressure off, and have fun!!!

The only cheating in art is theft. If you're not stealing, then it's allowed!

My whole life (and yes, still!) I'd get regular criticism about both my style and my subject matter. You will too. You'll see a thousand different styles, and a hundred different things to admire in each. Your heart will ache that you don't draw like others do.

But art is a form of communication with yourself. It's like your voice, or your accent; just something that's a part of you! It can be fun to mimic others', but when you sit to have a conversation you speak naturally. (I know some people want to and do change their voice, but this is a metaphor and metaphors aren't perfect)

Don't stress so much about what you want your art to look like, especially if you're not sure. There's a lot of value to be had in constant experimentation, I think it'd be rather boring to only draw one style the rest of my life. What I draw is what I want to see, right now, for who I am now! It's a part of me and comes naturally, if I let it!

I hope this helps!

[markcampbells]

It isn't that he doesn't know Wolfwood has it in him. He'd grasped quickly enough that whatever their differences, Wolfwood's heart was… he wouldn't exactly call it in the right place, but it was at least not as far gone as the other man seemed to think. It's Wolfwood being so good with kids that throws him. At a busy inn, a bewildered Vash gets a glimpse of a different side of Wolfwood as he entertains the harried innkeeper's child. (Vashwood Week 2024, Day One: Childhood)

Hello hello, Vashwood nation! My fic for Day One of @vashwood-week is up and I would so appreciate folks checking it out if they're so inclined! Featuring Wolfwood being great with kids and Vash being absolutely fascinated by this, really having a "hope this doesn't awaken anything in me" moment. (Those hopes are dashed immediately, of course.)

Thanks to the organizers of Vashwood Week for putting the event on! I will be back with more tomorrow and hopefully other days this week as well! And thanks to @trigunfanfic for remaining active and giving us fic writers a place to promote our work. 💙

[swearingcactus]

pain receptors and frayed nerves

“I hate you.”

V doesn’t really mean it. His head’s too fucked right now, the pain from the relic just pushing and pushing, clawing its way on a spot behind his eye. He’s just sick. He’s just trying to say things to alleviate the pain. He doesn’t really mean it.

Johnny knows this, could practically taste the fog in V’s brain firsthand. “Come on, kid. Get up.” He coaxes, he wants to put his hands out, push and pull V up from his curled up position on the dirty concrete. He holds out on it. Might make the episode worse. “At least try to stand, get some fresh air.”

“No.”

“Gonk next to you’s gonna piss on you if you stay here a second longer,” Johnny tries making light. It doesn’t work. V just sniffles, curls into himself even worse.

“V, come on.” Johnny prompts again, his tone’s not as snappy as he wants, worry starting to lace the words. When V doesn’t move, he goes to put a hand on V, who jerks away sharply. Blue pixels scramble and Johnny glitches away, sighs as he comes back into focus.

“V–”

“Stop it. Just stop.”

“We need to move.”

“Just leave me alone.”

All this bitching isn’t cute. Johnny has half a mind to start his own bitching, knock it off. Get your ass up. We don’t have time for this. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we figure out a plan to get to Mikoshi, the sooner you feel better.

“Come on, V. Let’s go.”

V’s all pain-receptors and frayed nerves. No coherent answer comes out and Johnny starts to think about the pseudo in his pocket.

“I hate you so much.” V says, unprompted, and Johnny stops all thought of the pseudo, like a knee-jerk reaction.

“Haven’t you ruined my life enough already?” V asks miserably, and Johnny looks up to see he’s opened his eyes to make contact.

He doesn’t really mean it. Right? Johnny thinks he doesn’t really mean it.

“V.” Johnny says again, and it feels less of a name and more of a plea. V scrunches his face hard. Then coughs, spits out some more blood. Goes to push himself up, staggering and balancing himself next to the wall.

Johnny’s heart flutters with some sort of relief, maybe pride, a sense of fuckin’ finally combined with thank fuck.

“I wish you were dead.”

This one’s easier to stomach. But Johnny grimaces and tenses at what he knows will come next.

“I wish I was dead.”

Johnny needs to believe V doesn’t really mean it. That it’s just the pain talking. That he’s not all there.

“Come on, V.” Johnny coaxes again, nods his head to the open space. “Come on.”

V sniffles and rubs his eyes blearily with both hands. Then sighs and starts walking gingerly away. A few steps and breaths later, with fresh air, V opens his mouth, “When I said I–”

“I know, V.”

He doesn’t, actually. But it’s easier for both of them if Johnny does the thinking and convincing the both of them that he doesn’t mean it. A broken mind’s enough trouble for V, no need to add heart into the mix.

also posted on ao3

[kinos-fortress-2]

ok another headcanon and is from my ultimate comfort favs:

When demo got first hired by pauling he was like very shy and introverted at some point where everyone wasn’t like… that conjoined and besties as how they are now. And i feel like he got a pretty rough time to even start to talk with his teammates or get a tiny friendship with them.

And he often times was very threatened by small lady in glasses that liked to be strict with them in their first day since… it was business only ofc

but by the time when pauling got a bit more soft with them, and got also a bit friendly with demo i feel like at some point he started to develop a tiny crush with her since she was the one who often talks more with, and i have this other hc that also he would fell easily with people that befriends him (not like anyone of course it really does depends the person for him)

so you know pauling it’s nerdy and a bit sensitive (she cries very easily) and she is very friendly or a bit more extrovert if she gets to, but like in a sense where she is more ambivert too. uhhh idk she is just talkative with people if you get her chance where she’s not busy and will tell you to go to hell. rough lady

and he liked that! i think he thought they both shared some stuffs along and can infodump their love for guns and for the work they are in and then if they can go a bit personal with some drinks and he liked that he could share this stuffs with her all chill and cool

but i feel like he just had this side secret crush with her and stopped those want to be romantic feelings because he really saw she is not like, up to those stuffs, she is so focused on work and also stressed and depressed like him and he could just understand that she just only want someone to listen to her but she will not like, pay that much attention about romantic relationships and he could completely understand that once he get to know her more deeply. and he just couldn’t do that to the one who also considered a friend and he probably guessed she will not feel the same for him but that didn’t like hurt him and is not like he ever confessed to her. he just had those secret feelings for her for a time and then realized she was not really like the one for him to be in a relationship

and that’s where i thought of him now having a more soft spot for her and caring her like a sister (not like literally but in a familiar soft spot sense, but that’s ofc his friend)

so yeah idk 👍

[autumngracy]

Not me creeping up to the wordcount of the fourth longest book ever written

[godsfavoritescientist]

Building off of what I wrote in my fic "Sparks," I'm really compelled by the idea of Ford genuinely no longer being interested in sailing around in a boat with Stan by the time they were seniors in high school.

I like the idea of it not being just a symptom of the resentment that had been building between them, nor it being a dream of Ford's that only paled in comparison to west coast tech, but it being a genuine loss of interest on Ford's end. I think it complicates things even further in some really juicy ways.

Like, imagine going through high school slowly losing more and more interest in the dream you've shared with your twin and only friend ever since you were little kids. How do you break it to him? How do you explain it to him without making it sound like a rejection of him? Without it making him hate you?

How do you explain it without it feeling like a spit in the face to all the hard work he's put into a plan that started out as a way of him comforting you by telling you "it doesn't matter what people say about you, you're going to be an adventurer who sails away into the sunset and never has to hear their mockery ever again, and there will be babes and treasure and heroism, and then they'll all see how cool you really are!"

And all through high school you think to yourself, "he's going to move on to more realistic dreams any day now, and then I won't have to say anything about it!" But no matter how many times you mention something else he could do with his life that he seems interested in, or bring up the challenging logistics of traveling around long-term in a boat, he sounds just as committed to the childhood dream as ever, and completely oblivious to how apprehensive you sound.

So resentment grows, little by little. Because that's easier than confronting the soul-crushing levels of guilt that are building up inside of you, every time you don't take an opportunity to tell him you don't want to do the plan anymore. You don't have a single person in your life who modeled how to have difficult conversations for you. As far as you know, having this conversation with Stan would crush him into tiny little pieces and then he would hate you forever, and you can't stand the idea of losing the only friend you've ever had.

So tensions grow. A lack of interest turns into a bitter resentment that, if you were really being honest with yourself, is directed more at yourself than it is at Stan.

And then the falling-out happens, and it seems like you were proven right. Stan hates you now, and he's never going to forgive you for giving up on his dream. But two can play that game, so you try to hate him too. Because if you hate him too, then maybe it won't hurt as much that he never came back. That he never even turned up at school, or by the boat, or in through your bedroom window in the middle of the night. He knows what dad's like, and how he says impulsive exaggerated things when he's angry, and haven't you both dealt with his harsh words countless times before and been able to dust yourselves off and joke about it later? So why isn't he back at home, joking with you about how absurd your dad acted that night, being impossible and belligerent about ruining your dream, but at least now you're even, because you've ruined his dream too.

-

And now imagine you find out he risked the lives of everyone in existence to bring you back, right after you had accepted your fate was to die killing Bill. It would be terrifying and confusing and infuriating. If he cared so much, why didn't he do something to reconnect with you sooner? Why did he ignore you in favor of trying to make it big without you? Why didn't he take the infinitely safer and simpler action of reaching out to you without you having to track down his address and send a desperate plea for help? You were convinced that he didn't care enough to bother with you unless you had an important enough reason for him to come. But even then, he thought your plans were stupid. He didn't want anything to do with you, not even with the world at stake.

Did he save your life out of guilt? Does he pity you that much? It doesn't add up with what he did in the decade leading up to shoving you into the portal. And the dissonance between the version of him in your head that hates you, and the man who held out his arms to welcome you back to your home dimension, is so strong that you feel like you're being lied to again, like you're back in the depths of gaslighting and manipulation that Bill put you through, even though there's no way that's what Stan is trying to do... right? You can't figure it out, so you run away from it. You don't want to know the answer to whether or not Stan hates you, because you don't know which answer would hurt more, so you try to make him hate you more than ever, because at least then you would know for sure how he feels.

And in the end, after he sacrifices his memories for you, and for the world, things seem clearer. The layers upon layers of confusion and anger and hurt seem to have washed away like drawings in the sand, leaving behind the simple truth: that you two had an argument, and didn't move past it for forty years, and despite everything you put each other through, you both still want to re-connect.

So you sail away in a boat together.

And at first, it's wonderful. It's exactly what you want. It feels like an apology to Stan, and a thank-you for saving the world, and a once-in-a-lifetime chance to heal the rift between you two, and it's good to be back on earth, and you wonder why you ever doubted the dream you two once had.

But then, after the first long journey you spend on the sea together, when you get back home to dry land, Stan is already talking about planning your next adventure out on the open sea. He recaps every adventure you had on the first trip, over and over again, and he wants to chat with you all through the morning and long into the night, and you don't have the words to explain to yourself that you don't have enough social battery for this, and suddenly you're slipping back into the horrifyingly familiar feeling of Stan being overbearing and needing space from him and how could you think that? How could you think that about him after everything he's done for you and everything he's forgiven you for? But the longer this goes on, the more you realize that you still don't want to spend the rest of your life sailing around with Stan. It's great fun in moderation, but the idea of your whole life revolving around Stan and going on adventures with Stan and being in a boat with Stan with no time to be by yourself thinking about your own things and figuring out your own dreams makes your skin crawl with a claustrophobic kind of panic that you still don't know how to put into words forty years after the first time this feeling grabbed you by the throat and ruined your friendship with Stanley.

But the first time this happened, it nearly ruined his life forever. You can't let yourself feel this. You don't feel this. You're happy to spend the rest of your life fulfilling Stan's lifelong dream, and making up for the time you crushed his dream, and sure, maybe he crushed your dream once too, and maybe it would be nice for him to support your dreams like you're now doing for him, but you can't say that. He saved the universe, and it would be horrible and ungrateful and cruel for you to try to voice these feelings, especially when you don't know how to voice your feelings without it making other people feel like you twisted a knife into their gut. So you try to pretend the feeling isn't there.

You go out on a boat with Stan again. You planned out another incredible journey together, and this should be fun, and you should be happy about this, but the unspoken feeling you shoved as far down in yourself as it could possibly go is eating you alive. The worst part? Stan is starting to notice. You have never been good at hiding your emotions. The trick to it has always been to convince yourself you don't feel it at all, and not think about it, and that has always worked like a charm. But whenever the emotion claws its way back up to the forefront of your mind, you can tell Stan knows something is wrong. So you can't even give him the happy ending he deserves. You can't even convince him that you want to be here on the open seas forever with him, like he deserves. And you keep trying and trying to hide it, but Stan keeps asking in roundabout ways, like "You're being awfully quiet, sixer," and "whats that look on your face?" and eventually it comes exploding out of you like a shaken-up soda bottle dropped on its cap.

And then it's like you're back at home in New Jersey again, standing in the living room while dad grabs Stanley by the shirt. It all comes pouring out of you, in the worst possible way, with the worst possible phrasing, like a pandora's box of monstrousness, and Stan tries to fight back against the sting of your words, but you're made out of acid and you're burning through him and you can see it on his face, and there's never any coming back from this, not this time, you'll just have to either jump into the ocean or become a monster forever, so Stan can hate you more easily again, and-

-and at the end of the outburst, you're still on a boat in the middle of nowhere in the ocean with your brother, in dangerous waters, and you have things to do to keep the boat running smoothly.

You can't run away from him. He can't run away from you. You're stuck here for at least a couple more weeks, even if you turned around and sailed back towards shore right away.

-

And the thing that compels me so much here, despite how unbelievably angsty it all is, is that it sets up a situation wherein the Stans might end up forced to actually address the decades of resentment and confusion and wanting-to-reconnect-throughout-it-all that they thought they could gloss over and heal with enough time spent adventuring together on a boat. They might end up forced to actually address the crux of the issue that drove them apart in the first place: Ford wanting a little more space to feel like his own person, and to feel like he's able to have his own dreams, too.

It wouldn't happen easily, nor right away, but if they were stuck together on a little boat in the middle of nowhere surrounded by magical creatures they have to protect each other from in order to make it back home alive, then after they had one fight where they brought up all the things they silently agreed to never bring up again, it would probably happen many more times, and each time it would leave them both angrier at each other than ever, until eventually something honest slipped through amidst all the saying-anything-except-what-they-mean bickering. And once enough of these honest moments slipped through, then they would have a thread to tug on to start to unravel the gargantuan knot of their decades of unresolved conflicts.

And then, eventually, maybe Stan could learn that he can have a good friendship with his brother without needing to be glued to him at the hip, and Ford needing a certain amount of alone time doesn't mean he dislikes him or wants to abandon him, and Ford could learn that he can be honest and have a meaningful connection with someone without it driving them away and making them hate him.

[coquettejohnny]

photo of the sunset i took today ^_^

[figueroths]

friendship and chronomancy top two greatest magics of all time when are we gonna go back and save lucy who is now my friend

[dummerjan]

i just came across ai covers on youtube and people are requesting songs in the comments instead of getting enraged and i am further losing hope in humanity and turning to misanthropy

[mordremrose]

I’m just gonna write a little thing! A little thought for Bloom, nothing too intense, just so I don’t forget it!

1000 words later? Whoops

Writing below the cut, major spoilers for the end of Heart of Thorns and implied End of Dragons spoilers but nothing explicit from EoD :]

Bloom

“Kill me, Commander.” Trahearne could hear his own voice tremble, as horror overtook his dear friend’s face. Around them all, their friends— Rytlock, Caithe, Canach, Marjory, Braham— were exhausted. Worn thin by the fight against the jungle dragon, both physical and within the Dream.

“What? No! Mordremoth is dead. We destroyed its mind from the inside.” The commander protested, their fingers curled around the hilt of Caladbolg.

“But I still hear its voice.” Trahearne looked down at his hands, twisted and blighted as they were. His body was not his— he was corrupted. It was only cruel fate that he had kept his mind this long. Or perhaps something more sinister.

“Mordremoth is alive. One last hateful vestige… a terrible seed, planted deep in my mind.”

Trahearne’s hands curled into fist, as he took a deep steadying breath.

“You must kill me, Commander, before that seed grows. Before… before Mordremoth reclaims what it has lost.”

He reached out now, hands on his friend’s shoulders. The tears streaming down their face broke his heart. He did not want this. He didn’t want to hurt them, to see them suffer so.

Trahearne wished there was another way.

“What is left of me can’t survive on its own, my friend.” He croaked, and felt the Commander tremble beneath his hands. Were they always so small?

“Strike now or—“

Against his will, a rage rose up. A sick bile that boiled in his stomach and burned through his chest as his mind lurched.

Through his mouth, Mordremoth spoke.

“I am the future! I am this world! You cannot destroy me!” The dragon roared, hands tightening around the commander.

“Run while you can!” It took everything he had left to force his fingers to uncurl, to release the commander even as the dragon wanted to tear them to shreds to be remade anew.

Caladbolg flashed in the corner of his eye.

“No!” The commander yelled. Strike true my friend! Trahearne wanted to yell. But he couldn’t, and his mind went dark.

There was no great explosion. There was no dying scream.

If you asked those present what happened, none of them gave any concrete answer.

Canach hesitated to answer, but would confirm that Mordremoth was no longer hounding his mind, or any of the sylvari.

All Rytlock would say was that the confrontation wasn’t pretty.

Caithe mourned Trahearne, in her quiet and melancholic manner, and asked not to push the matter further.

Braham would scowl, shake his head, and shove his way past, unwilling or perhaps unable to describe that final blow.

Marjory Delaqua, normally so elegant and clever with her words, who could see the twists of a plot before anyone else— when she was asked, she could only shake her head and reply ‘I don’t know’.

The Commander didn’t answer at all, because no one was able to find them to ask.

Eventually, researchers at the newly established lab of Rata Novus confirmed what the entire world held its breath to hear.

Mordremoth was dead. He had to be, to explain the slow steady trickle of magic escaping the jungle, supposedly as the dragon… decayed wasn’t the right word, but it conveyed the idea well enough. It was a slow death, they said, not quite the explosive reaction from Zhaitan, who had gorged itself on magic before its death, but a gradual decay. It changed things, about magic, about how the people of Tyria and the soon to be established Dragon’s Watch understood the flow of magic around and through the Elder Dragons. But it was dead.

It had to be.

He woke up. His body ached, as it always did, as he woke. A consequence of being too bigsmall. He stirred slowly, limbs stretching out and tail dragging behind. He had buried himself beneath massive vines this time, the weight of them both familiar and restricting. These conflicting sensations, the constant disagreement with himself… it was the only thing he could rely on. Even his name escaped his memory, although he could hear whispers of it on the edges of his mind.

Traherdremaneth.

It didn’t matter, really.

He moved slowly, not truly wanting to rise, but knowing he must.

He was something in between, and there was no stillness for him. No place of his own.

His one companion, if you could call it that, would be upon him soon. A dogged purserer, both a thorn in his side and a trusted ally, trailed behind him. For a time he thought they left him— and the feelings that had wrought left him stationary in a deep cave for nearly a week before they had reappeared.

He didn’t want them close, he knew that much, but they were one of the few things he had, a consistency. He couldn’t see them well, not with the distance between them, but he could always make out the broken blade at their hip. The one that made the scar across his chest ache.

He wondered what would happen if he let them get closer. Would they strike? Would they know him?

They were his enemyfriend. What would they make of him? Caution kept him at a distance from them.

The longer he was awake, the more memories he could half-remember.

The Orrian landscape stretches out before him and it reeks of his sibling, twisting beneath the dirt. The undead don’t notice him, not yet, and he can take a moment to look closer at the coral. It was neither alive nor dead. Not unlike himself and yet so different to him or anything he had ever encountered before.

He missed his siblings, their quiet talks among the then empty roots, among safe coils with their constant presence around him. They were too distant to feel or simply gone now and it unnerved him. This was wrong. Perhaps they could help him make it right.

There was one other thing, other than his sort-of companion and his unsteady roiling mind, that remained constant. And this was the true constant. A steady beacon, that he could not see or hear, but simply felt in a way that he could not describe. A magnetic sort of pull that had him orbiting closer and closer.

It drew him in, out of the depths and dark underbelly of the jungle and the cave systems, towards the strange golden stones, the elegant walls meant to keep out creatures that wished to destroy the beacon. He was not welcome there, not yet, even though he meant no harm. He just needed to be closer.

He didn’t know how he knew that. He just knew it.