#also who hazes a ten year old

[way-too-cool-raybot]

Raz is like 10 in psychonauts (1 and 2, because they are only days apart) and I know he's a smart kid but a lot of people in psychonauts do NOT treat him like he's a kid. Yeah sure blame the 10-year-old for not making it to your classroom on time after he was hazed and then found a practically dead body. Also he's ten you didn't show him where your classroom was you just let him wander. Give this kid an apple juice or something he's had a hard week

[mysunshinetemptress]

Happily Ever after??

Leah Williamson x Jordan Nobbs x ChildWilliamson!Reader Warnings:Childhood Heartbreak

You don't know what to do, you don't know how to feel all you know is that your world has just ended, your older sister Leah and her long-term girlfriend Jordan have called time on their relationship and the mist of breaking each other's hearts with this conclusion they have also broken yours, your small ten-year-old heart.

The older girl's relationship has been going on the majority of your life, you don't remember a time without Jordan, Jordan your all-time best friend, Jordan who let you stay up just a bit later than Leah, who gave you chocolate on the weekdays, who picked you up from school, attended all of plays, all of your matches, who stood outside and helped you practice power shots in the pouring rain, who helped teach you how to ride a bike and made sure to be there for every birthday and Christmas was now gone.

Sure you could see her at Arsenal matches and talk afterwards but it wasn't the same.

Your older brother Jacob tells you it's been coming for a long time, that everyone knew it was going to happen, that they wouldn't last forever but you, you feel blindsided, they were the epitome of what love was, what love is supposed to be, how were you meant to fall in love and get married and live happily ever after if Leah and Jordan couldn't.

Leah had found herself seeking you out wanting to comfort you as well as comfort herself through the breakup, Leah knew how much you loved Jordan, how much she meant to you, and so she knew you wouldn't be dealing with the properly at all, how could you, you're ten.

What she wasn't expecting was for you to shut her out completely, for you to not want to talk to her, for you to want nothing to do with her.

"She doesn't understand Le." Leah sighed wrapping her hands around the warm mug "I know Mum but, what can I do." Amanda shrugged "She's heartbroken, she needs time to fix that, plus she feels torn." Leah looked at her mum confused "Torn." Amanda nodded "You're her big sister, she loves you, and adores you, but she also loves and adores Jordan and she feels like if she talks to or about Jordan she is being mean and upsetting you, and if she talks to or about you to Jordan she is being mean and upsetting Jordan."Leah felt her heart break at the thought of you feeling guilty for wanting to talk to Jordan, she had told Jordan amidst their break up that she wanted the pair of you to be just as close as you were.

Now Leah was seeing that it was easier said than done.

The days blurred together in a haze of sniffles and silent dinners. You retreated further into yourself, a fortress built from unspoken grief and a fractured picture of happily ever after. Leah tried everything – movie nights ended in tearful meltdowns at the slightest hint of romance, attempts at baking cookies were met with a slammed door to your room, even the promise of a brand new Arsenal jersey couldn't coax a smile.

Jacob, ever the pragmatist, tried a different approach. He'd barge into your room, not to pry, but to simply be a presence. He'd sprawl on the floor, launch into a ridiculous commentary of an imaginary football match, or share the latest embarrassing anecdote about a classmate. Sometimes, a flicker of a smile would peek through the cracks of your grief, a tiny spark of normalcy in the storm.

Today however was hard, your first match without Jordan, you played terribly unable to focus on the game at hand, your thoughts spiralling due to the older girl's absence.

You huddled under the covers, the sounds of the house muted by the thick cotton. Tears welled up again, blurring the image of the dusty Arsenal posters plastered on your wall. Leah had been right, seeing Jordan at Meadow Park wasn't the same. Sure, you'd chat, Jordan ruffling your hair with a strained smile, but the easy banter, the sleepovers with whispered secrets under fairy lights, those were gone.

Jacob's words echoed – "they wouldn't last forever." But forever was what you craved. Leah and Jordan were supposed to be the blueprint, the happily ever after you'd build your own love story on. Now, the blueprint was crumpled, tossed aside. Did that mean your own dreams were just as fragile?

Anger flickered, hot and unexpected. Maybe Leah didn't understand. Maybe no one did. They all expected you to "get over it," as if Jordan was just a stray sock, easily replaced. But Jordan wasn't a sock, she was a missing puzzle piece, leaving a gaping hole in your world.

A soft knock at the door startled you. It creaked open a sliver, revealing Leah's worried face. "Hey, can I come in?" she asked tentatively.

You hesitated. Talking meant acknowledging the gaping hole, the shattered dreams. But silence felt like a betrayal of the bond you shared. With a sigh, you mumbled, "Okay."

Leah crawled onto the bed, the familiar scent of her vanilla shampoo bringing a pang of comfort. She didn't try to talk, just sat there, a warm presence in the dim room. After a while, you found yourself reaching for her hand, the silence no longer a burden but a shared understanding.

"I miss her, Le," you whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Leah squeezed your hand. "I know, honey. I miss her too."

It wasn't the answer you wanted, but for the first time, you didn't feel alone in your grief.

Leah had made sure to keep her foot in the small crack of the door you had opened for her.

The weeks that followed were a slow dance of healing. Movie nights remained off-limits for a while, replaced by marathons of silly comedies Leah found on obscure streaming services. Baking sessions became a team effort, filled with flour-dusted giggles and the occasional mess that only siblings could create. The brand new Arsenal jersey remained folded on your chair, a silent promise for when you were ready to wear it with pride again.

Jacob's commentary continued, evolving from imaginary football matches to dramatic retellings of historical events, complete with him dressing up in mismatched clothes to portray the various characters. Sometimes you'd join in, adding your own witty remarks or mimicking the historical figures' accents, a flicker of your old self returning.

You had begun to get used to Jordan not showing up to your matches but today's match had been just as bad as the first one you had played without Jordan on the sidelines.

The final whistle blew, a harsh screech that echoed the hollowness in your chest. You slumped onto the bench, head hung low, the sting of defeat a dull ache compared to the gaping hole in your world. Your teammates, usually boisterous after a win (which this definitely wasn't), offered hesitant pats on the back, their usual celebratory whoops replaced with a quiet concern.

Jacob, ever perceptive, lingered at the edge of the field. He didn't push you to talk, just leaned against the fence, whistling a nonsensical tune you recognized from one of his childhood obsessions. As you started gathering your things, a familiar figure caught your eye across the field. Jordan, looking every bit as lost as you felt, stood awkwardly by the gate, a nervous energy radiating from her.

Suddenly, the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface threatened to boil over. How dare she show up now? Did she think a few stolen glances from across the field could erase the months of silence, the absence that gnawed at your insides? You clenched your fists, ready to storm off, when a warm hand touched your shoulder.

It was Leah. Her eyes, red-rimmed but determined, held a silent plea. "Give her a chance," she mouthed, a small, hopeful smile playing on her lips.

Hesitantly, you turned towards Jordan. The distance between you felt like an uncrossable chasm. But then, a memory surfaced: you, a wobbly mess on two wheels, Jordan running alongside, her laughter echoing in the air as you finally found your balance. A small tear escaped your eye, tracing a warm path down your cheek.

Taking a deep breath, you started walking. Slowly, tentatively, you closed the gap. You weren't sure what to say, how to navigate this new terrain, but you knew one thing – building walls wouldn't bring back the sunshine. As you reached Jordan, a single word tumbled from your lips, a question hanging in the air.

"Hi?"

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken emotions. Jordan scuffed her toe on the ground, mirroring your hesitation. Then, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"Hey, Champ. I..." she faltered, searching for the right words. "I came to see how you were doing."

You looked up, surprised. You hadn't expected her to reach out, to apologize, to acknowledge the pain she'd caused. A flicker of hope sparked in your chest, but you quickly tamped it down. It was too early to trust again.

"I'm okay," you mumbled, kicking at a stray pebble.

It wasn't entirely true. You were far from okay, but you weren't sure how to explain the confusing mix of emotions swirling inside you: anger, sadness, a longing for the way things used to be.

Jordan saw through your facade. She knelt down, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Can we talk?" she asked softly.

You hesitated, glancing back at Leah, who stood by the fence, offering a silent nod of encouragement. With a shaky breath, you nodded back at Jordan.

Finding a quiet corner away from the prying eyes of your teammates, you sat down on a grassy knoll. Jordan sat beside you, her gaze fixed on the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink.

The conversation wasn't easy. Tears welled up in your eyes as you spoke of your disappointment, the feeling of being abandoned. Jordan listened patiently, her own voice thick with regret as she explained the complexities of the breakup, the reasons that had nothing to do with you.

Slowly, a bridge began to form between the chasm that had separated you. You learned that Jordan still cared about you deeply, that she missed your laughter, your company, your fierce determination on the football pitch. You realized that breakups weren't always about falling out of love, but sometimes about growing in different directions.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, you found yourself reaching for Jordan's hand. It wasn't the same easy camaraderie you once shared, but there was a tentative warmth, a flicker of hope for a new kind of relationship.

Walking back towards Leah, you felt a lightness in your step, a sense of closure you hadn't expected. The gaping hole in your world wasn't filled entirely, but the sharp edges had softened. You knew Jordan wouldn't be cheering you on from the sidelines every game anymore, but you also knew that the love and support of your sister and the lessons learned from this heartbreak would stay with you forever.

Weeks later you looked like your old self, and you weren't anxious about your future love life (That was years down the line, if Leah had anything to do with it.)

Leah was getting ready to leave for Meadow park when you pocked your head into her room.

"Can I come?" you asked hesitantly.

Leah's smile was brighter than the morning sun. "Of course you can," she said, ruffling your hair.

The game itself was a blur. You barely registered the score, your focus entirely on Jordan and Leah. After the final whistle, you stood awkwardly by your Mum's side, unsure of what to do. Then, you saw them, walking towards you with a hesitant smile. Together like old times.

"Hey, champ," Jordan said, ruffling your hair just like she used to.

You mumbled a greeting, your cheeks burning. For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then, Jordan surprised you both.

"You know," she said, kneeling down to your eye level, "even though things are different with Leah and me, that doesn't mean we can't still be friends. After all, who else will help you practice those power shots in the pouring rain?"

A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Agreeing quietly, you felt the foundations of your world seeming to be formed and your heavy heart didn't feel so heavy anymore

[facts-i-just-made-up]

The Hollywood Writer Strike: Demands

The WGA has officially gone on strike, freezing Hollywood’s ability to make anything but rebooted old game shows, sleazy reality shows, and Star Trek Lower Decks. Here is a list of the guild’s demands to return to work:

Writers must be paid in actual money, and not solely in movie ticket discount coupons to their own films.

If a studio AI duplicates the entirety of a writer’s unmade script, that writer can no longer be sued by the studio for copyright infringement on the AI script, should their real script ever be made.

Writers must be credited for their work even if producers think their name will look funny in the credits, in accordance with the proposed "Eszterhas Law."

Writers must be entitled to eat and drink at any time, and not only on completion of page quotas. They must also gain the right to drink filtered water, not just tap or ditch water.

Hazing in writers rooms must no longer allow for any acts that may render the writer permanently unable to write.

Actors may no longer hunt writers for sport, even during awards season.

Studios must not force writers to type or print material in their own blood (known in the industry as "Verhoeven Calligraphy").

Writers working on deferred payment can no longer be starved, beaten, dismembered, or boiled to death in their own mothers’ milk just for a producer’s amusement. The producer must now have an actual reason.

Studio executives may not punish writers with electrical or flame based torture, nor keelhauling, sleep deprivation in excess of one year, acts in violation of Geneva conventions, killing of their firstborn children, or forcing them to work with J.J. Abrams. All these techniques are strictly reserved for visual effects personnel, may God have mercy on their souls.

As per Hollywood tradition, the WGA will hold out for long enough to cull all but the ten most popular writers, who will then set out to begin anew in a distant land (Mid-Wilshire) and reforge the Hollywood system as its executives, who will then hire and abuse new writers, beginning the cycle again.

[spade-riddles]

Submission:

💛 I like the Gracie theories!

Part one :-)

Gracie said the song ‘Us’ is a conversation where they’re singing to each other. What if Gracie and Taylor met earlier? Did you know they allegedly met because Taylor invited Gracie to her birthday in 2021, seems a rather personal thing to invite someone you’ve never met to right? What if it was an olive branch?

Late 2020-Early 2021 First meeting:

Gracie starts the conversation:

I know you know

(I know you that i’m queer and that I know that you’re queer)

It felt just like a joke

(We’re dancing around the topic it feels so silly)

I show, you don’t

(I tell you i’m queer, tell you about my girlfriend perhaps)

And now we're talkin'

I know your ghost

(Karlie)

I see her throw the smoke

(Through the smoke and mirrors, the lavender haze, the bearding)

She’ll play her show

(The performance of her life, the husband and kids)

And you’ll be watchin’

(You have to watch her do this)

From here we presume Taylor doesn’t take it the best or rather just doesn’t open up to her, perhaps it’s around just after the masters heist which is how Gracie picked up on her flagging and had the courage to bring it up.

And if history’s clear someone always ends up in ruins

(We don’t talk about it because someone ends up upset now)

And what seemed like fate becomes "What the hell was I doin'?"

(Reflecting on the conversation, I’m such an idiot why was I asking her that, this line calls back to failed coming out in Taylor’s verse)

Babylon lovers hanging lifetimes on a vine

Do you miss mine?

(I showed, you never heard about her again)

Gracie:

I know you know

It felt like somethin' old

It felt like somethin' holy, like souls bleedin', so

(A way to describe recognising queerness in another person, it does feel holy in a sense)

Gracie:

It fеlt like what I've known

(I recognised this in you and when i’m near you I can recognise it more)

You’re twenty nine years old

So how can you be cold when I open up my home?

(Why didn’t you give me yours? Why didn’t you open up to me? You’re twenty nine, you’re older than me, I should be the one that’s scared about this)

----------------------

💛 Part Two

Late 2021:

Taylor:

And if history’s clear the flames always end up in ashes

(Failed coming out, likely reason for not opening up)

And what seemed like fate give it ten months and you’ll be past it

(“Come to my Birthday party?”)

Babylon lovers hanging missed calls on the vine

I gave you mine

(I told you about my queerness and Karlie)

The chorus between verses floats through different targets. Gracie may have harboured some hurt feelings about the interaction, in turn probably hurt feelings about Taylor’s role in continuing the machine of closeting (especially in a time when she could be pivotal in breaking that machine for a young queer artist like herself; times are rapidly changing now but even five years ago there weren’t many out and proud big pop artists). Directing the “do you miss us?” at Taylor, do you miss the idea of what could have been? I felt it, I held it, I felt that you were coming out with Lover, I felt the ice castle cracking, do you regret not doing it?

By the second chorus they’ve teamed up, directing the questions at their audience, US. Do we mind? Do we mind that they’re glass closeted, that they know we know, do we miss what could have been? Do we regret listening to the queer signalling and being transfixed while also watching them being spineless in their tomb of silence?

The bridge is where they turn on the machine together, everyone that keeps them closeted, Record Labels, CEOs, Managers, Family etc etc

That night you were talking false prophets and profits

They make in the margins of poetry sonnets

(You made me into this idol for the world that I don’t want to be because it’s not who I am but I continue to do it and it is lining your pockets)

You never read up on it, shame could’ve learned something

(These people didn’t read the poetry sonnets, often that they’re the target of, could’ve learnt that they were destroying their lives)

Robert Bly on my nightstand, gifts from you, how ironic

(Robert Bly is famous for self help material, how ironic that you’re giving me this gift but also causing me to need it)

The curse or a miracle, hearse or an oracle

(Is being famous and closeted awful or once in twenty lifetimes? Will it kill us or save us?)

The last chorus is to this group of people, likely in the future.

All speculation :-)

[munson-blurbs]

IT'S SPOOOPY HALLOWEENIE!

Dum-Dum.* Kit Kat. Eddie.

*"I don't know what that is" - in an Australian accent.

Idiots in love/Artist!Reader/Eddie Munson

Warnings: drug use (weed), reader can be read as gender neutral, mention of Billy Hargrove, sitting on Eddie's lap

WC: 778

Divider credit to @saradika (also, Dum-Dums are a brand of lollipop)

Knock knock.

The sound of someone at the door startles you, drawing your attention from your unfinished sketch and to the curly-haired boy clutching a piece of paper in his ringed hand.

“Sorry, uh,” Eddie says with a nervous laugh, “didn’t mean to scare you.” When you don’t reply, he looks around the otherwise-empty classroom. “Is now a bad time, or…?”

You gather your thoughts, heart pounding a mile a minute at the sudden interruption. “N-No, you’re fine,” you stammer. God, he’s so cute. Cheeks tinged red with bashfulness, free hand shoved into his back pocket, frizzy curls brushing against his denim-clad shoulders. “Something I can help you with?” you ask when he remains standing in place.

“Oh! Um, yeah.” He shuffles over to you, as though reminding himself to put one foot in front of the other. “You draw, right? Like, sketches and stuff?” He winces at his stilted attempt at an opening, especially given the fact that your sketchbook is open right in front of you.

“Mhm.”

“Cool.” Eddie nods. “Could I ask you to draw this? It’s for my uncle’s birthday next month.” He hands you the photo, and your heart instantly melts. It’s a picture of him and who you assume is his uncle, and Eddie can’t be much older than ten years old. He’s wearing a blue shirt with an S in a diamond hastily drawn on the front. A faded red towel is tied around his neck in a makeshift cape. The older man stands behind him, half a KitKat bar hanging from his lips like a cigarette. “It was my first Halloween with him.” The first time I ever celebrated Halloween, actually, he thinks, but keeps that information to himself.

You carefully study the photo, careful not to leave fingerprints on it, even though there’s already a smudge in the corner. “I, uh, I don’t know what those stains are,” Eddie mumbles. “I can’t offer a lot of money, but if you smoke…” he mimics taking a pull from a joint, “I can hook you up for free.”

“You sure?” You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t want you getting in trouble or anything.”

Eddie dismisses the notion with a wave. “What’s he gonna do, call the cops?”

“Fair enough,” you agree with a smile.

You hadn’t realized that when Eddie had offered to smoke you up for free, he’d meant smoking with him. Over the next few weeks, any free time that wasn’t spent drawing the photo of him and his uncle–whose name was Wayne, you’d learned–you spent with him in a haze of marijuana. Sharing giggles, splitting family bags of potato chips when the munchies inevitably hit, snuggling up on his couch and sleepily watching sitcom reruns consumed your afternoons. To an outsider’s perspective, it looked like you two were together. Truthfully, you had no idea what you and Eddie’s status was.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” you sit up suddenly, shifting under the blanket and reaching for your backpack. “I finished this last night.”

Eddie’s bloodshot eyes go wide, and you swear that their glassiness is fueled by more than just pot. “This is…wow,” he breathes out, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is even better than I imagined.” He doesn’t know the technical terms for what you’ve done, but you’ve perfectly captured their enthused expressions, the joy in their eyes evident even just through pencil shading. “You’re amazing.”

And maybe it’s the compliment, or the high, or the way he’s been nestled into you for the last forty minutes, but you tilt his head towards yours and kiss him. Your mouths collide clumsily, and he seems shocked at first, but he quickly eases himself into it to deepen it. One hand cups your cheek while the other pulls you onto his lap so you’re straddling his lithe waist. 

“Wanted to do this for a long time,” he murmurs into you, not wanting to fully break the kiss. “Ever since I first saw you, I thought you were so goddamn pretty.”

“I’ve had a crush on you since you jumped on the cafeteria table and called Billy Hargrove out for leading all those poor girls on,” you admit with a laugh. “He turned bright red.”

Eddie inhales, shrugging his shoulders haphazardly. “Earned myself a pretty little black eye for that.” His nose nudges yours as he leans in to kiss you again. “But it was totally worth it if it meant you noticed me.”

You pull back slightly, taking in his beautiful brown eyes, the tiny patch of stubble where he’d missed shaving, the flyaway hairs on his temple. “Can I keep noticing you?”

“I’d be sad if you stopped.”

--

[is-iant0-m0aning]

A Story That Has No Name

After Ianto died, Jack started seeing his ghost.

He could see him, he could talk to him, except that, it wasn’t the real him.

It wasn't even Ianto's ghost, or at least not his real ghost. He had no thoughts. He had no feelings. he was not real. Any emotions he felt came from Jack, and he would be there as long as Jack remembered him.

At first, Jack didn't realize that it wasn't the real Ianto, or even if he did, he did not want to admit it. He let himself drown in his memories, away from reality, away from the world, away from everything.

And all this time, Ianto was with him.

Later he went to the House of the Dead. Of course he would. He wouldn't miss any chance to see Ianto again. Even though he knew that, the person he met might not be the real Ianto.

But Ianto saved the world again. He saved Jack again. So Jack told him that he loved him, that he was desperate to see him, and then, bade farewell to him.

He left the House of the Dead. And when he walked out of the door of that shabby bar, he found that the phantom of Ianto he had always seen was still by his side.

Seven months after the House of the Dead, Jack learned how to make coffee. From his view, it was the phantom Ianto teaching him hand by hand. But Ianto Jones was not really here, and Jack Harkness was always alone. The so-called Ianto teaching him how to make coffee was actually him remembering how Ianto did it - in the early morning in his apartment, after Jack occasionally spent a night or two there with him. He remembered how the sunshine shining on his finger, how the steam rose from the kettle, and hazed around his eyes.

So Jack couldn’t help but smiled, and in return, Ianto - the Ianto he knew was not Ianto - smiled back at him.

When he turned around, the sun shone gently into his eyes.

A year after CoE, Jack's coat was accidentally scratched a little. He had scratched his coat before, but Ianto would always fix it for him. But this time, he wouldn't do it again. He couldn’t do it never again.

Jack looked at his coat and realized that it was bought by Ianto on the first day of Children of Earth, the last gift Ianto gave him. He folded it and put it on his lap. He was crying to a coat.

He felt that another part of Ianto had left him.

Three years after CoE, when the Miracle Day had ended, Jack left the Earth again. One day, the phantom Ianto asked him, saying that he hadn't seen Jack wearing that coat for a long time. He gave Ianto a grin and joked that he just didn't want to damage it because he could never learn how to fix it properly. And Ianto shrugged saying that he could always teach him.

The way he shrugged really looked like the real Ianto, Jack thought. But this was Ianto. This was the Ianto in his memory.

Ten years after CoE, he asked Yvonne from the parallel universe that if there was a person named Ianto Jones in her life. But this Yvonne didn't know Ianto Jones, and the Yvonne who knew Ianto Jones had died in Canary Wharf, more than a decade ago.

The phantom Ianto was beside him, trying to hold his hand. But his fingertips went through, and fell into the hollow air.

Fifty years after CoE, Jack began to forget Ianto's voice - One day when he habitually talked to Ianto about Gwen, he found that Ianto didn't speak. He asked Ianto why he didn't speak. Ianto shook his head and smiled sadly at him.

Then he suddenly realized that he didn't remember Ianto's voice.

Two hundred years after CoE, the face of the phantom Ianto faded away, as if it was covered by a veil. Jack couldn't see him clearly, but he knew that Ianto was still there.

He knew that this was because he started to forget what Ianto looked like. But fortunately, he still had Ianto's photos, which could help him remember.

But photos also grows old, so another two hundred years passed, Jack finally forgot Ianto’s eyes.

One thousand years after CoE, he began to have new lovers. He loved each of them, but he was always losing them. Everyone around him was dying, and he couldn't save them from death. He couldn't save anyone from death.

But, still, when he was with his lover, he knew that the phantom Ianto was watching him. He didn't blame Jack, Jack knew. He knew that Ianto wanted to tell him that he was happy that Jack could go on, could love someone else, and could have a new life.

But Jack didn't go on.

Jack was sad. Jack was really sad.

Two thousand years after CoE, the phantom Ianto was almost obscured, like a worn-out photo, no matter how hard Jack tried, he couldn't keep Ianto clear. So he knew, he began to forget the way Ianto dressed.

What did he like to wear? What did he like to eat? How would his eyebrows frown when he was annoyed? Not to mention his dry wit and sarcastic humor.

Jack didn't remember.

Human memory is a strange thing. He forgot a lot of things, he forgot too many things. But he couldn't forget the name of Ianto Jones.

Ten thousand years after CoE, the phantom Ianto appeared less frequently in front of him. But he would occasionally come to accompany Jack for a while, like when Jack didn't go to the bar or be with anyone on a certain night. When he was alone, in the moonlight, Ianto Jones would come back to him.

It was at this time that Jack Harkness realized that he rarely look back upon Ianto’s name.

Five billion years after CoE, the Earth began to burn. At this time, Jack Harkness was no longer Jack Harkness, and Ianto Jones was long buried in his mind. But when he watched the Earth begin to collapse, collapse in front of him, he suddenly saw that figure again.

He saw a handsome young man, a handsome young man wearing a striped suit and a violet tie.

The Face of Boe closed his eyes, and a name appeared. He couldn’t help to utter that name, the name that had survived billion years in his mind --

How are you gonna remember him

Even long after he's gone.

notes:

Okay I finally finished this translation of my own work as I promised three years ago.. It was originally posted in 2021 in Mandarin and for some reason (or we should say my laziness) I didn't translated it until now, with some minor changes of course.

The original work in Mandarin is here if anyone is interested :3

As always, pls forgive my English and any suggestions are welcomed!

[owletstarlet]

patron saint of the lost causes (2/2)

“You can stop looking at him like that.” Taki’s voice is frank, but not unkind. Katsumi could not be less in the mood for whatever the hell kind of conversation this is about to be. “Like what,” he replies anyhow. “Like you broke his best friend."

ao3 link | part 1

Given every piece of information Katsumi knows or can infer about Tanuma Kaname, it is the most on-brand thing in the world right now for him to be looking both embarrassed and apologetic while also lying in a goddamned hospital bed. Still very much connected, he might add, to all the equipment necessary to prevent his own body from cooking up his brain and all his organs. Doesn’t mean it isn’t weird. And bad. Very weird and very bad.

They’re allowed in to see him in groups of no more than three at a time, and for no more than ten minutes each. He’d been awake and asking about them, but his fever’s still high if no longer imminently lethal, and he’s apparently still groggy from coming off the tail end of some sedative they’d pumped into him hours ago to keep him from shivering while they’d worked to combat said fever. He’s with Natsume, and they’re the first ones in, and that really, truly and honestly blows. Because Natsume’s silent and tense beside him, because Tanuma’s somehow managing to both look like a ghost and also like he really wouldn’t mind ghosthood all that much, eyes that he can’t even keep open all the way fixed on his lap. At least if Nishimura had come in before him, he’d have had a handful of stupid jokes up his sleeve.

Doesn’t help, obviously, that they’ve seemingly got him hooked up to the complete goddamn works here: the IV drip, the cords of the vitals monitors snaking out from the rumpled neck of the yukata-type gown they’ve got him in. The low beeping from the absolute behemoth of the monitor itself beside the bed that’s got to be 15 years old at least, blocky numbers and jagged lines, hills and valleys in neon colors scrolling the tiny black screen. The chunky wired clip on his finger that Katsumi vaguely recognizes from TV but cannot for the life of him remember its purpose. And to cap it all off, the oxygen tube thing—cannula?—under his nose (which, what the hell, can he not even breathe properly right now). Like it’s all been pulled from some film set for dramatic flair. Maybe less sleek, with more underfunded-isekai-emergency-room vibes, but if anything that just piles on the nightmare fuel.

And he looks embarrassed about it. The fuck.

For few vastly uncomfortable seconds, nobody says anything at all. He’d thought Natsume would take the reins on this, but he doesn’t even look to see what the holdup is, because Katsumi himself is still mucking through what there even is to say.  No matter that he’s had hours to prepare, even practiced it once or twice in the bathroom mirror like an absolute lunatic, but he’s also been roundly warned by the others that any variation of why the fuck didn’t you say anything was off limits.  

It’s Tanuma who eventually speaks first. “I—“

“Save it,” is the first thing out of Katsumi’s mouth, because of course it is. Tanuma winces, and Natsume promptly elbows Katsumi in the ribs. Off to a great start. “We already know,” he amends. “Your dad told us you probably didn’t realize.”

Tanuma looks up, then. And yes, his gaze is maybe still little drug-hazed, but Katsumi’s still not sure how to feel about the look on his face, like Katsumi’s a math problem he can’t quite work out. He nods, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

The room isn’t even a room, really, just one cramped, curtained-off corner of a space containing three other beds. There’s a single, worn chair wedged in beside the bed, and Natsume drops into it now, now at Tanuma’s eye level. He reaches out, and Katsumi doesn’t miss the split half-second where his hand falters midair before coming to rest carefully on Tanuma’s forearm, fingertips just skimming the IV tube taped there.

“Sensei checked around,” Natsume tells him, tone gentle but serious. Huh. Little abrupt, not the first thing Katsumi would’ve expected out of his mouth here. “He said there wasn’t anything he could find, but. You weren’t attacked, were you?”

Tanuma frowns, like he wasn’t immediately expecting the question either, but then something seems to click behind his eyes. “I don’t think so?” he starts, and purses his lips like he’s thinking. His words are lower and slower than normal, but otherwise he doesn’t actually seem all that out of it, just exhausted. “I don’t remember that much. But I think it’d feel…different, than this.”

Something in the set of Natsume’s shoulders loosens, just barely. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he says, after a moment of consideration. And Katsumi doesn’t mean to snort, it just sort of comes out, but he immediately feels like a dick when Tanuma’s mouth twists and he drops his gaze again. But before he can backpedal on that, Natsume shoots him a look that could strip paint right off a wall, and he figures that shutting the fuck up is the best course of action.

But to be perfectly fair to himself, the guy can’t even sit up on his own without the raised end of the bed, and his face is the same eggshell color as the cheap sheets tucked around him, wherever it isn’t blotched up from his fever of fucking 39.

“…I mean,” Tanuma starts again, “not great or anything, but. Headache’s mostly gone, and,” he turns his head a little to indicate the blue pillow-like object under his head that Katsumi is only just realizing is an extra large jelly ice pack thing. “These are really cold but they’re helping a lot. There’s some more under my arms and legs.” He raises his shoulder a bit, and Katsumi notices the slight lumpiness of the yukata on the sides of his chest that must be more ice packs tucked under his armpits.

Natsume lets out a breath. “That’s good,” he says, and his smile seems much less forced now, softer. “Before you’re discharged, we’ll make sure nothing was out there, so. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t,” Tanuma says, and he’s clearly picked up on the undercurrent of fear in Natsume’s questions. “Thank you.”

It’s not like it’s a bad thing to see Natsume willing to actually feel his goddamn feelings in front of other people, it’s a definite improvement over the vapid not-quite-smiles and the empty eyes he and his classmates called creepy when they were kids. But this, he can definitively say, also sucks. Nishimura had briefly mentioned something about Natsume having been pretty shaken up when Kitamoto had been hospitalized for some minor accident a few months back, but it seems to go deeper than that, here. As if he’d implicitly blame himself for any and all nasty youkai shit in this apparently nasty-youkai-shit-infested-town. When he wasn’t even there. And, granted, Natsume might not respond well to it coming from Katsumi, but it is dumb, and Natsume should know that he is in fact being dumb.

The thought of said nasty youkai shit makes Katsumi remember to fish the little wood talisman out of his pocket. Maybe it’s not the time to bring it up, when Natsume’s freaked out enough as it is, but they’re going to be kicked out of here in about seven minutes. Some ENT had pried it out of Tanuma’s fingers in the back of the ambulance when they were trying to get an IV into his arm, and had passed it over to Katsumi. He found out soon enough that Taki had made the thing, using some obscure old exorcism texts from her grandfather’s library, which he’d honestly found pretty impressive until Sensei had had to ruin it by noting that the flimsy thing would have about the same repellent power against an average youkai that a squirt gun might have on a bear. Which, at least, made it seem it less likely that he’d been clinging to it because he really thought something was going to attack them. But when Katsumi had tried to return it to Taki, she’d given him a maddeningly incomprehensible look and just said, “Give it to him yourself.”

So he is. Hope she’s happy, because he for one feels some heavy sort of way about it that he does not have the energy to parse out right now.

“You dropped something,” he says, because that’s simpler than the truth. There’s not really room to squeeze himself in near Natsume at the bedside, and the other side’s got that mammoth monitor machine taking up most of the narrow space, so he just sort of hovers behind Natsume somewhere beside Tanuma’s legs. He reaches over, drops the talisman lightly on his knee.

Tanuma blinks down at it, slowly raises his hand to place overtop of it. The movement is awkward and slow, between the clip on the finger of this hand and the gel pack wedged under his arm, but his remaining fingers close around it. He looks up at Katsumi, eyes wide. “You—“

“It’s whatever,” he says with a shrug, before Tanuma can even get the words out. He’s not in the mood to be thanked right now. “It, uh. Looked pretty important, though. You were squeezing it damn tight enough.”

That earns him a sharp over-the-shoulder look from Natsume, a don’t-you-fucking-tease-him-or-so-help-me-god face if ever Katsumi saw it.

Katsumi ignores him. That wasn’t the point. Because despite the fact that Sensei had patrolled the area, and that it made the most sense that he’d been clinging to the talisman out of some delirious attempt at self-soothing, if there was any chance he’d been desperate to grab for it because it was better than nothing at all if something was hanging around, that��d be pretty damn good information to have before any of them have to walk that road again. Maybe seeing it would jog his memory.

Apparently not, though. He manages, awkwardly, to flip the thing over so it rests in his palm, even though it jostles the clip just enough to elicit a few abrupt pi-pi-pis  from the machine beside him. “All I really remember,” he says, at length, “is leaving home, then Lawson, kind of, and then, ah.” His eyes flick upwards, for the barest second, not even making it up to Katsumi’s eyes before his gaze drops right back down like a stone.

“What?”

Tanuma’s fingers close tight as they’re able around the talisman, and he looks so thoroughly miserable that Katsumi’s starting to be sorry he asked.

“I remember throwing up on you,” he mutters.

And that startles a chuckle out of Katsumi. It’s a sharp, awkward sound in the hush of the room. But it feels good, like a crack forming some gigantic dam that barely fits in his chest anymore. Another follows.

Natsume glares. 

And okay, yes, it’s got to be a dick move to be laughing right now. The splotchy bits of Tanuma’s face have grown even splotchier as he stares down at his talisman, and the heart monitor’s tempo has kicked up a bit.

“Seriously?” Katsumi manages, catching his breath, before Natsume gets the chance to declare war here. “That’s the part you remember.” The guy’s subconscious must really have it out for him, because Tanuma legitimately looks like he’s about to faint.

And that’s no good, either.

“Look,” he starts, and drops down to perch awkwardly on the bedside edge somewhere near Tanuma’s shin, opposite Natsume. At least like this he’s not looming like a creep over the foot of the bed anymore. “For life-threatening situations? Free pass. And I got some new threads out of it anyways,” he says, plucking at the sleeve of his borrowed shirt. “Timeless classics.”

They actually look fine, some nondescript green button down and dark chinos belonging to Shigeru-san, though when he’d thrown them on this morning he’d barely even registered what he was wearing anyhow. Nishimura, Kitamoto and Taki are all wearing the same clothes they’d worn yesterday, still a little damp from being hastily laundered and hung to dry indoors overnight, but Katsumi’s things are currently still soaking in a bucket of oxygen cleaner on the Fujiwaras’ veranda, and Natsume’s clothes are all a size too small for him.

“It’s not your fault for getting sick,” Natsume tells him, gentle but direct, when Tanuma doesn’t immediately respond. Which is exactly what Katsumi just said. But whatever. Tanuma huffs out through his nose, a soft halting sound that makes an odd little whistle over the top of the cannula, and finally looks up at Katsumi. There’s something taut behind his eyes, but least he looks marginally less like wants to evaporate into the goddamn ether anymore.

“I, just.” He shifts in his seat a little, swallows, but keeps talking. “This all must’ve been…a lot, for you, so. I’m sorry. Thanks for getting help.”

“‘Course.” Katsumi shrugs, still not really sold on the idea of being thanked right now. “I’m not a total monster.”

That, at least, elicits some sorry little suggestion of a smile from him. He’ll take it.

“But, with your dad saying you didn’t realize, though,” he starts, before he can think better of the question. “Has this happened before?”

Natsume looks a little wary, as though he’s ready to shut this conversation right down if need be—which, fair enough—but is also watching Tanuma like he isn’t exactly not curious, either.

But Tanuma says, “Sort of?” and cocks his head like he’s trying to remember. “In third or fourth grade, maybe. There was this school clean-up event just before the summer break, and…I don’t exactly remember what happened, but I guess the teachers realized when they did a head count at lunch.” He shakes his head a little. “Anyways. That town was…we didn’t live there long.”

Katsumi’s not at all sure what to make of that last bit, though Natsume looks perturbed by it. But something’s not quite adding up regardless. “Wait,” he says, frowning, “if this was a school clean-up, wouldn’t you all have been working in pairs or groups or something?”

Tanuma shrugs. “I guess?”

“You got ditched,” Katsumi concludes, flatly. “That’s fucked up.”

“…I mean…” He’s starting to look uncomfortable again, his fingers picking at the edges of the talisman. “I couldn’t actually attend school there all that often, so. I didn’t really know many people’s names, or anything. It’s okay, really.”

No, it’s fucked up, he wants to say, only to remember the other person in the room right now. Natsume doesn’t look particularly happy to hear this story, but he doesn’t look surprised, either. Like he very much gets it. And Katsumi’s acutely aware that he himself the last person who should have anything to say about any of this at all.

And the kicker is, yeah, he knows how cruel and ugly kids can be to each other, because god knows Katsumi was, but this doesn’t even sound like that. Tanuma had recounted it as though he were as good as a stranger to his classmates, and vice versa.

Katsumi glances at the talisman again, at the marker ink that’s gone splotchy in the corners visible under pale fingertips. And, unwillingly, he thinks of some sickly nine-year-old, lying lost behind some tree or tool shed, nobody looking for him at all.

A long buzz from his pocket punctuates the silence. Then another. Katsumi doesn’t need to fish his phone out to know it’s Mom. Again.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, when two pairs of eyes flick towards him. “I’ll get it later.”

He’s been putting off actually speaking to her; he knows Touko-san called her sometime yesterday and since then he’s mostly just been sending her messages to check in and vaguely reassure her. He’ll have to talk to her soon, but he likes to think he’s got enough dignity left in him to not want that to happen anywhere remotely near any of these guys. The thought makes something itch in his throat.

“You know,” Tanuma starts, after a moment, voice quiet but clear. “It really is okay for you to go.”

“Nah.” Katsumi shrugs. “Like I said. Nothing better to do back home either. Except get nagged about holiday homework.”

Tanuma nods, once. He doesn’t necessarily look unhappy, but there’s a thread of unease in his voice. “You’re welcome to stay,” he says, “but…you’re here for, what, five more days? Six? And, ah.” He casts a glance at that giant beeping machine beside him, then around the cramped room that doesn’t even have a window or real walls. And he looks so tired. “I’ll be here. And then on bedrest when I’m out, they said, so…”

Katsumi frowns. “…so?” he echoes. “Is this about the cleaning? ‘Cause fuck the cleaning.”

Tanuma just blinks, nonplussed, and Natsume sighs and rubs vaguely at his temple like he’s got a headache coming on. “Shibata,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

Katsumi rolls his eyes. “I meant, it’s not your problem right now.”

“But it shouldn’t just be yours, either,” Tanuma says, gaze drifting back to that damned machine again. “You’re here because I asked, and now there’ll be even more, with less time.”

This is starting to feel like a stupid conversation to Katsumi, because he has the suspicion that even Tanuma’s dad wouldn’t be all that bothered right now about offending someone’s dead great-great-aunt on Obon with a dusty altar or two. So it’s probably for the best that Natsume speaks up before Katsumi has the chance to.

“He is right that you don’t need to worry about it right now,” Natsume tells him. “But, there’s still plenty of time, too. And Sensei and I can try and find some extra hands, too.”

“Extra…” Tanuma frowns. “Would that work, though?”

Katsumi’s not a hundred percent on the specifics here, but he’d heard in passing from Sensei that most of the local youkai population weren’t too keen on hanging out around Yatsuhara Temple. Natsume’s finger drums lightly on the bedrail, like he’s considering, and then there’s a flash of…something…in his eyes, something steely enough to maybe just unnerve your run-of-the-mill forest-dwelling flesh-eating folkloric monster.

It’ll be fine.

“Either way, it’s just an extra day or so, right? We’ll get it done,” Natsume says, decisively.

“Yeah, we spent a lot of the first couple days just kind of fucking around, anyhow,” Katsumi adds. It’s not all that true—there had been a little downtime in the evenings, some idle rounds of shogi on the veranda, placing bets against each other on pocket change and cheap snacks, but they’d all more or less collapsed into the lumpy borrowed futons by 10PM each night. It still sounds like a helpful thing to say. Maybe. “We’ll just hustle a bit. It’s all good.”

Tanuma looks torn. “I…thank you. Really. But, I’m the one that actually lives there.” His expression settles on a rueful smile. “And I couldn’t even walk to the store, so. I’m sorry.”

Okay, yeah, no, this is stupid, actually.

Katsumi huffs. “Yeah, all according to your big evil master plan, huh. Luring us all here just to do all the heavy lifting.”

Natsume’s head snaps up sharply at that, and Tanuma just stares, but Katsumi plows on.

“Because that’s how chronic illness works, right? If you can’t just guess and pinpoint all its exact fucking whims day to day, which, by the way, are caused by invisible invisible monsters half the time anyways, then you’re just a super inconsiderate guy, huh. Oh, and dramatic. ‘Cause that’s totally what we’ve all been sitting out there thinking.”

He’s met with silence, from both of them. Which is, basically, the worst possible reaction to receive when you’ve just been on the verge of shouting at someone stuck in a hospital bed. Natsume had looked, at first, reflexively ready to bite right back, but instead he’s watching Tanuma, like he’s holding his breath. They both are.

It’s not a term he’s given much thought to before. Ever, really. Until earlier, hearing Tanuma’s father’s half of a hushed, somber call with some relative or another from the lobby (“…symptoms of heatstroke, but the chronic illness had exacerbated the situation, so at the moment, he’s…”).

Katsumi wonders, vaguely, how they’ve must’ve had him classified in his charts over the years. Generalized Youkai Shenanigan Disorder must be a real head-scratcher to the medical community at large.

But he looks normal, is the thing. A bit underslept, sure. And lugging heavy boxes around all day gets him winded a little faster than the others. And he takes more care than the rest of them to stop for water, but that’s just being responsible. It wasn’t like he hadn’t kept up, hadn’t been fine.

Katsumi had only got the most cursory of explanations, back when they’d first met. That he’d been sick as a kid a lot, moved around often because of it, that it had gotten a lot better when he’d moved here, met Natsume. And he looks so shockingly ordinary that Katsumi would’ve never known.

And Katsumi doesn’t know if anything really was out there in that dusty field with them. Doesn’t think it matters, ultimately.

Maybe it is better these days. And maybe it’s pointless to even speculate, if he hasn’t lived it. But it sure as hell sounds to Katsumi like living with a landmine buried in your skin. Doesn’t matter how deep down it’s sunk, how quiet it seems. Not like it’s not there.  

Nobody’s said anything, still. Natsume’s watching Tanuma. Tanuma’s watching his own lap.

“Am I kicked out?” Katsumi asks, arms folding.

“No.”

Katsumi barely hears him; his voice sounds half-stuck and dried-up. But then Tanuma looks up, fully, and his eyes are wet.

Shit.

“I mean.” He clears his throat. It doesn’t do much. “Soon? But. Not by me.” He seems to realize about the tears, then, and absently reaches up to scrub at his eyes.

Which, naturally, knocks the mysterious beeping finger clip right off, sending it flying right over the side of the bed.

The behemoth next to the bed immediately starts pi-pi-pi-ing, urgent and shrill, and Katsumi swears, swooping down to snag the little clip by the wire now dangling over the bedrail, and slides it back onto Tanuma’s finger. He doesn’t have a clue if it’s on backwards or not, and is only pretty sure that it had been on his index finger before, but at the very least the noise dies down. And he can’t hear anybody rushing in to check if they’ve killed someone, for the moment.

“Sorry,” Tanuma murmurs, while Natsume readjusts the cannula thing he’d knocked a little crooked. The tube’s kind of misty now, just under his nose, and Katsumi briefly wonders what happens if that thing gets too clogged up with snot to work properly.

Because Katsumi had to go and run his mouth.

Natsume fishes out the talisman from where it’s fallen into the sheets, and presses it back into Tanuma’s palm. “We came to help,” he tells him, snatching a corner of the bedsheet to help mop up his cheeks before he can forget again about the clip, or jostle the IV port or gel packs. “So let us. And rest, okay?”

“Yeah,” Katsumi mutters. “That.” He feels like he’s hovering, blunt and mean and too big for his own skin for this tiny-ass non-room. Glances at his watch, scuffs his heel on the floor. “It’s almost time. You know Nishimura’s probably gonna deck me for making you cry.”

Katsumi can’t immediately clock the sharp little hiccup as laughter. Sounds a little more like an injured corgi to him, but when he looks at Tanuma, there’s a little waver in the set of his mouth, and his shoulders have relaxed, just a bit.

Natsume’s expression is dry—you’d have brought it on yourself if he does—but he seems mollified, his hand having found its careful way back onto Tanuma’s arm like it was coming back home.

Tanuma looks up. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but that desolate look has receded somewhat. “You didn’t—“ he starts.

“I mean, I did,” Katsumi counters.

Tanuma smushes his lips together, tries again. “I’m okay.”

Katsumi raises an eyebrow, makes a vague sweep of the arm around the terrible little space, all the equipment crammed around and connected to him. “Yup. Clearly.” 

Tanuma sighs, just looks at him for a moment. And maybe it’s not an improvement, Katsumi thinks, if Tanuma’s circling back to just finding him exhausting to talk to, but then that’s no worse than yesterday before all this shit began.

“Thank you,” Tanuma tells him, finally. His voice is soft but sure.

Katsumi shrugs. Always down to bully a hospital patient. I’m your guy.

But the words dig in, stick in place like nettles. And it hurts, kind of, a nagging sort of prickle embedded in Katsumi’s chest.

It’s not so bad, though.

“Sure,” he offers.  “Now rest up, or else. This place is the worst.”

***

[melleonis]

it’s 2015 and i am

sitting on my mattress on the floor in the spare bedroom of the chicago condo my friend’s parents bought for them with oil company money. both of us have undiagnosed and unmedicated adhd. neither of us clean. the wide, shallow bathroom sink grows a yellow-black film of residue and shaved hair.

i am trying to come to terms with being dead. the year prior was a cascade of horror, a chain of a hundred different sudden sickenings in the gut, and as far as the world and most people in it are concerned, i no longer exist - which would have been more than fine with me, except that time continues to pass.

until recently, porpentine had been writing a column for rock paper shotgun called live free play hard, reviewing free indie games. itch.io is in its infancy, but unity is ten years old now and really starting to come into its own, and this is the heyday of the so-called walking simulator - Dear Esther in 2012 to Firewatch in 2016. i never played most of the big names, the ones that attracted all that sneering gamergate hatred (Gone Home excepted) - after all, they cost money, and in 2015, i didn’t have any of that. so every porpentine article was a damp, fertile patch of sometimes-delicious always-free mushrooms. i play a LOT of itch.io games that year, and i’ve been missing them lately, so i wanted to talk about them here.

live free play hard is a decade old, at this point. links are dead. games don’t quite run the same on modern computers. twine games which once had music are now silent. these are some of the survivors.

their angelical understanding by porpentine, herself. ***STROBE WARNING*** and also for a text-based game this is an intense PTSD simulator. i considered linking others of her games here: neon haze (link appears to be broken), CYBERQUEEN (about which i’ve already said a lot) or howling dogs (which is arguably still her best), but i went with t.a.u. because, well, in 2015 a PTSD simulator was what i needed.

CHYRZA by kitty horrorshow kh has probably Made It as an indie artist more than anyone else on this list? my metric for this is that there are two whole jacob geller video essays about her games. CHYRZA is pure tone: jittery unity platforming up desert monuments collecting audiologs. trust me, it’s really effective.

Bernband by Tom van den Boogaart this one still runs, but there’s a bit of slowdown in some areas. this is pure exploration through a very pixelly alien city: nightclubs, power stations, overpasses, late-night noodle bars. an empty chapel. a trumpet recital. the empty corridors and stairwells between everything. it’s stuck with me for all these years.

SABBAT by oh no problems this is the least subtle it is possible for a text game to be. it starts with animal sacrifice and gets really fucking explicit from there. as someone who had at the time cut a picture of baphomet out of the liner notes from a random black metal cd found in a des moine record store and taped it to my bedroom doorpost like a mezuzah, all i really wanted from SABBAT was the ability to have snakes for dicks, and buddy, it delivers. i remember there used to be a sort of sludgey doom metal soundtrack, but it doesn’t seem to exist anymore, and the credits link to a nonexistent soundcloud. so it goes.

HEARTWOOD by Kerry Turner hahaha man i’d completely forgotten about this game until i went back through the archives but fuck, it rules. it’s so simple. it’s pure sensation. i loved it then and i love it now.

Off-Peak by Cosmo D i think Cosmo D is still going strong these days! actually, i’m pretty sure i have unplayed games by them in my steam library, i should fix that. Off-Peak is a jazz exploration of the world’s most colorful train station. people are playing bespoke 2015 eurogames. a vendor is selling a bunch of sheet music that musicians have had to pawn, what with the way the economy is going. you understand. triplets stalk you. a man strokes a cow, menacingly. i would say it’s peak itch.io, but in point of fact it is, of course, off-peak itch.io.

anyway i lived, eventually, and went on to make art of my own, but it’s my belief - it’s my hope - that all my writing carries the spores these games and games like them put in me when i was dead and decaying and fertile ground for such things. i hope you play some of them. i hope you enjoy them. thanks for reading <3

[rageprufrock]

Hi Pru, this is a career question... I am in my mid-twenties, female, not quite the most junior employee at my organization but treated often as one. The workplace is highly male-dominated, competitive, the older supervisors sometimes hilariously old-boys'-club, and the younger men (my age) mean well (feminist, etc.) but have their own territories to defend. For complicated reasons I cannot leave. I knew some of this coming in but am ashamed to say that

You’ll love this: my response is so late because I too girlbossed too close to the sun and have accidentally reached mid-senior leadership status at my organization and the past month has been the most hilarious cluster of fucks. Insert clown emoji herey.

ANYWAY.

I have a few thoughts on this one, and hopefully one, or some, of these are helpful as you're navigating your early career.

To address your most immediate question: is it meant to be this hard? I think "is it meant" or "is it always" are two different questions, and each with branching answers completely dependent on your field and profession. Some are notorious for early career hazing--banking, medicine, etc--and then the answers are that the suffering is a feature, not a bug, for these industries (this can be debated ad nauseum but you know what I mean), and then for many, many other professions, the answer is that while it's not meant to be this difficult, it still is, and that it's all we can do to survive it.

But setting aside the macro issues, of whether the role itself is objectively hard or if the environment you're in is objectively sub-optimal, the more nebulous and inescapable thing is that each one of us, individually, in our early career are undergoing one of many puberties and all its attendant implied indignities. I find it weird that culturally we don't talk about this much--at least not in Western or the Eastern cultures with which I'm most conversational--but think about it: in the first five to ten years of your working life, you're often simultaneously navigating a staggering number of life-changing systemic shifts that have a tectonic impact on your lived experience. I

For a lot of us, beginning your life as a working adult means you're likely moving out of your parents' home, which adds a huge amount to your mental load and financial burden.

For a lot of us, these early professional jobs are also the first time we're operating in a performance-reward system for which there is no clear rubric or understandable progression monitoring--there aren't any grades, and I can't tell you the number of people who I've spoken to in my career who have been shocked when they're told they're being put on performance improvement plans even though they thought they were doing fine.

It's like being sent to college with no class list, textbooks hidden in eight different departments run by varyingly helpful people, while trapped in an inescapable group project run by someone who seems just as frazzled as you are, and told "okay well you should need to bring me your completed degree by EOD Thursday." This doesn't even take into account your genetic assignment to play this entire game on hard mode by failing to be a cisgendered man in the dominant cultural demographic.

People who've had multiple jobs and career changes can attest, every new job, no matter how seasoned you are, is fucking exhausting. It's almost a joke among my friends at this point how often I change jobs, and every single time I do, there's at least a six month run where at the end of every day, I'm fucking spent. I couldn't calculate 1+3 if my life depended on it, because I've spent my working day so furiously trying to read the professional tea leaves and figuring out what the actual fuck I'm supposed to be doing--which, funnily enough, is never as clear as you would think! Even if you are at increasingly senior levels of responsibility! It's really fun and good! Your boss's boss's leadership team meetings? Surprisingly similar to when I used go get coffee during my break working at an ice cream shop to complain about our customers and equipment and boss! It's amazing how no matter how much changes, everything stays the same!

So I think in the end, my answer to your question is this:

Is it meant to be this hard? Depending on what you do, maybe.

But should it be this hard? Of course not. Life is short and lush and wonderful, but already so filled with challenges, and it's a shame that being rooted in capitalism, we're all forced to participate in a system that's so unbending and unforgiving.

But does that mean it's going to be forever? Or that you can't survive and thrive and have fun in the process? Absolutely not.

However awful you feel, however bad the job is, it doesn't have to be forever. This role you're in now may be just what you need to find your next, better, better paid opportunity. And maybe that one won't be the ideal for more than a year, maybe two, but that's why you keep an eye out and a keen focus on what you want, and what's most important, and like a shark, you continue to move and grow as you get clearer on where you want to move and how you want to grow. The person I was at 24 could not have imagined the person I am at 38, and I'm guessing that the woman I am today can't fathom who I'll be in another 10 years. Whoever she is, I hope she's still choosing to do hard things and--to the very best of her ability--having a good time in the process.

It's okay to cry about work. It's okay to cry at work, even though I strongly recommend that you do this huddled in a restroom in privacy because otherwise it gets messy--fairly or otherwise. It's okay and normal to do these things. It's okay and normal to feel like a fucking disaster, to feel--or to in actuality!--be categorically failing. It is okay and normal to hate and love your job, and to love money and hate the work. There is no right way to do this, and the only wrong way is to give up on yourself, or to create a situation where you cannot have the freedom of your choices or your future.

It's also going to get easier with time. Even if you don't feel it, every day you're getting more experienced, more confident, more discerning. Those microscopic, atomic changes in you accrue, and I'm sure if you're honest with yourself you can already identify how even today, you are a stronger, more capable person in your professional context than you may have been just a year or two ago. Even if you don't mean to do it, just the experience, the bruises, the callouses from throwing yourself at the brick wall over time will rewrite the person you are--if you do this with your eyes open and intentionally, all the better.

Five years from now, ten years from now, you might still find yourself crying about work. But hopefully you'll share the good fortune I have been privileged enough to have, and find yourself the type of good friends who say, "don't care during work hours, it's beneath you to give them the satisfaction--cry later," and actually have the wherewithal to follow that extremely correct guidance.

So anyway, it shouldn't be this hard, but it is. The good thing is, you're better and stronger than it is, and you can look forward to the day you get to look over the shoulder at all the worlds you've conquered as you get ready to do it all over again.

💖

[lokislytherin]

devil by the window

pairing: current canon idol!dg x gender neutral journalist!reader

summary: you’re just going to interview dg - your bias, your celebrity crush - on behalf of dispatch. what could go wrong?

chapters: one / two

a/n: dg being sus, as y’all are interested 👀👀 this fic does not have any sussy content as in dg will not be taking his pants off. tits may or may not be bared but his pants and yours will be staying firmly on! title from ‘devil by the window’ by tomorrow x together (txt)! enjoy~

warning: canon compliant violence. also reader is kind of horny but that’s the majority of tumblr dg stans so y’all should be thanking me really

there's no way around it: dg is your ultimate bias.

you've been enchanted by him since the moment he debuted - visuals, vocals, dancing, rapping, he's the epitome of talent. he's young and charismatic too, charming half the women in seoul the second he steps foot on stage for the first time. according to the news, he's only a month older than you. he'll change the idol industry, you told your boss back at the time, eyes bright. he'll change the world.

your boss looked back at you, a lowly intern fresh out of high school with nothing to your name, not even a bachelor's degree, only raw enthusiasm for hunting down the truth. okay.

it's very obvious he didn't believe you. you were a nobody, after all.

now, you're twenty-one and studying media and communications at seoul national university, the most prestigious university in south korea. you've got more experience and reference letters to boot. you're interning for dispatch, the most (in)famous entertainment news company in korea. they say they're willing to take you in as an official journalist the second you graduate. 

even if dispatch is pretty shitty to idols, your old boss can suck it. you’re working for dispatch now.

it's been four years since dg debuted, and you're still his biggest fan. if dg has a million fans, you're one of them. if dg has ten fans, you're one of them. if dg has one fan, it's you. if dg has no fans, you're probably dead.

which is why you're currently panicking, bouncing off the walls with hysteria at four in the morning. all your colleagues know you as the local dg hard stan, so as the one with the most knowledge about dg you've been scheduled to shadow a sunbae from the journalism department to interview the one and only dg for a cover article in twelve hours.

dg doesn't know who you are, but you've been to every single one of his concerts and fan meets, bought every single one of his albums and made a shrine to him out of photocards. you know him - or at least the version he shows the public - as well as you know your own skin. 

you've got yourself a nice outfit: a white blouse with flowy sleeves, a black corset to accentuate your figure, black pants that are just long enough to show off your nice legs. it's better than you've dressed for any date, which would probably explain why you've never had a romantic relationship before. you've always put dg and your studies before everything else, after all.

you’re not sure how long you sleep for, but you shoot out of bed immediately after your alarm starts screaming, and the rest of the morning passes in a similar haze. you don’t even remember getting to the interview spot, but when you do, you’re a whole fifteen minutes early. at least your make-up is looking fabulous.

“excuse me,” says a familiar voice, “are you from dispatch?”

your heart skips a beat. you turn around, and- 

“oh,” you breathe, feeling a little weak in the knees.

dg is tall.

he’s taller than he looks on television, and even though he has only the slightest of makeup on his face, the ceo of ptj entertainment is as beautiful as any renaissance painting. he looks almost unreal.

he smiles down at you, warm and friendly. he feels like someone you can trust. “i’ll take that as a yes, then.”

all you can do is nod, because you don’t trust yourself enough to speak.

“would you like to head in first?” dg gestures towards one of the rooms - there are two security guards outside, both of them shooting you dirty looks. you catch dg shooting them an even dirtier look, and they look away, like wounded dogs with their tails between their legs. “you’re the newbie, aren’t you? we can have a little chat before your colleague arrives.”

that sounds a little like a threat, now. but at the same time, dg could make you do anything he wanted and you’d probably thank him for it. “i- i-”

“be not afraid,” he says, still smiling at you, almost inhumanly beautiful. it’s almost like he knows how you joke about him being angel incarnate. well, you’re not scared of him, you’re scared of you. “i don’t bite.” he leans down, and you go cross-eyed at the proximity. “unless you want me to.”

“i- i-”

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding.” he guides you into the room, relaxing onto the couch opposite yours. you’re a rabbit who strolled into the den of a lion, timidly perched on the edge of the loveseat. dg has no shame in reclining across the back of the couch, legs splayed out so he takes up most of the sofa even though he’s only one man. you try your best not to look at the space between his toned thighs, because even if you want to know whether dg really does have the biggest cock out of all the idols, now is not the time to find out.

only then do you realize you haven’t introduced yourself. you jump up and bow, ninety-degrees. “my name is y/n! it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, i’m a really big fan!”

that doesn’t even begin to cover how big of a fan you are, but he doesn’t have to know that.

he gestures towards your bag, and you finally notice the limited edition that’s been hanging there the whole time. you had to fight people for that. “i could tell.”

ahhhh, that’s so embarrassing! and unprofessional! 

“it’s cute. you can call me dagyeom, by the way. that’s my name, after all. no need for dg-ssi. we’re around the same age anyway. as for sir...” he smirks. “you can save that for elsewhere.”

“elsewhere? like... where?”

he spreads his legs wider, like he’s making space for something. he raises an eyebrow almost invitingly. “where do you think?”

is he... flirting? with you? oh god, he’s flirting with you.

nothing in all of your years as a journalist or a dg fan has ever prepared you for this. you’ve never heard anything about him flirting. he’s insanely good at hiding from the press and the cameras. you’ve never been assigned to professionally stalk him before (you’re much better with a frontal approach), but some of your colleagues have, and all of them were caught in the act. he barely even does aegyo for the fanservice. 

you give yourself a mental smack in the head. this is the interview of a lifetime! you are face to face with the person you’ve admired for years! you cannot let yourself be horny on main!

he laughs, amusement dancing on his lips as he watches countless emotions flicker across your face in the span of a few seconds. “cute.”

ehhhhhh?

just as that moment, your sunbae barges in. he’s huffing and puffing, clearly having run here, but he’s on time. nobody had told you which sunbae you would be shadowing, but you had been desperately hoping it wasn’t him. you’ve shown nothing but respect for him, as you should, but let’s not even talk about inches, not once has he ever shown you even a centimeter of respect. so he’s late, huh? it feels mean, but you hope he made a bad impression in front of dg. “dagyeom-ssi-”

dagyeom smiles, frigid and unamused, a stark contrast from the way he’d smiled at you. even his spread legs feels less like a calling and more like a threat, although it’s dominant and overbearing either way. “call me dg.”

your sunbae swallows and nods. “dg-ssi, we can begin the interview now.”

wow. dagyeom is really, really biased.

it looks like there’s still a lot you don’t know about him, but your heart flutters in your chest at the feeling of being able to know more.

you’re pretty experienced with interviews - you know the journalist should lead the conversation, and always ask for elaborations from the interviewee. but this time, dagyeom is the one in the lead, constantly offering you chances to speak and ask questions while blatantly ignoring your sunbae.

both of you journalists are helpless under the full force of his charisma as he drives the conversation, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your shoulder. if this interview was a car, your sunbae would’ve been stuffed in the trunk, or tied up with a rope and dragged along behind the car. but when you ask about his past and why he became an idol, he becomes tight-lipped.

there’s probably a reason why he never talks about his past, after all. you were just trying to see if you could get a scoop out of things, or be the first to find out.

“i just thought it was neat,” he says with a shrug. “singing and dancing and making money off that.”

you ask him about his thoughts on aegyo next, and giggle when he makes a face. dagyeom has always hated acting cute for the cameras, but you think he’s cuter when he’s pouting like that and complaining about fan-service.

(you are a much bigger fan for the more… physical kind of fan-service, so to speak. but you would die of shame before admitting to his face that you got all hot and bothered when he ripped his shirt off for a show in the middle of a rap. and that time when he modelled for calvin klein, with the waistband of his boxers peeking out under his tight jeans. and the rich boy concept photos with him in the pool, smirking lavisciously. those toned pecs… the lick-able abs… hhhhnnnnnggggg~

enough, enough! you’ll die of shame right now if you don’t stop thinking about that. luckily, you’re good at multitasking, and you’re fully capable of taking notes dutifully while imagining dagyeom bending you over the table.)

the interview comes to an end all too soon, with all your questions answered except the ones about his past, or his worst fears. he’s been rather vague about some of them, but as an idol and ceo of an entertainment company, dagyeom likes to keep whatever privacy he can, and as a respectful journalist you won’t pry too deeply. even if you did, you’d find out in your own time and never tell him.

just before your sunbae drags you off, dagyeom holds you back, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards him. you gasp as he catches you gracefully when you stumble, steady hands on your waist. his hands are big enough to wrap around you entirely, and the realisation makes your cheeks heat. “i’ll keep in touch. i’ve seen your other works. you’re too good for the likes of dispatch.”

“my other…?!”

you can feel his minty breath fanning across your cheeks when he speaks. “see you soon, jagiya. don’t let me down.”

you’re not sure how you don’t faint on the spot, or collapse completely when an email from ptj entertainment pops up in your inbox half a day later, formally requesting you to join the company as part of the media and communications department.

you email them your cv, resume, all your reference letters. i’m still doing my bachelor’s degree in journalism at snu.

this time, kang dagyeom emails you back personally. that’s perfectly fine with me. you can start as soon as next week.

you terminate your internship contract at dispatch at the end of the week. good riddance to the sunbae who had disrespected you. you’ve got the job of your dreams.

[suckerforcate]

Could you please write a Larissa weems x reader angst/song fic inspired by brand new city by mitski?

R is a famous artist who leaves out of the blue and shows up at Nevermore as the new art teacher? Larissa is a fan of their work and is confused why they chose nevermore and learns they were a former student. R has struggled with their mental health and being in the public eye led to drug use but managed to stay clean for their longest period just before/whilst teaching. This comes crashing down when they are having a panic attack before one on one meeting with Larissa because they are head over heels and think that she couldn't possibly like someone like them back and they think that they are going to get fired because they have no confidence in their teaching so they find their old emergency stash in a jacket pocket and take it before the meeting? This leads to a very concerned Larissa as R are acting weird so she questions them about what's wrong and they spill everything about being into them and about their issues since they are very out of it? Larissa basically just takes care of them til they sober up and holds R as they cry about having ruined everything thinking they 100% have no chance now but in fact Larissa loves them and just wants them to be the healthiest version of themself and is sad they didn't come talk to them about their issues sooner?

What'd you take?

Pairing: Larissa Weems x Reader

Word Count: 1953

Warning: mental health problems, drug addiction, relapse, panic attack

A/n: I really hope you like it, I tried to put some of the lyrics into the story. I hope I did alright! <3

Ever since you had been a little child, you had wanted to be a singer. You imagined it would free you from the poor life you had had. Your family never had a lot of money, and you wanted to be able to give them something back. But, turns out famous life isn't that great.

It had been great at the beginning, it felt like a haze. A haze of success and people all around, loving you and your music. But with time you got worse, the pressure that came with standing in the public eye, the massive hate that you received from some people. It overwhelmed you completely, you felt you weren't strong enough. But you had always loved what you were doing, so for quite some time you tried to find ways to withstand the pressure.

Slowly you fell into a serious drug addiction, and while you knew the shit you had brought yourself into, it's hard to stop if you're addicted. In the end your sister had been the one, who pulled you out of the whole you had fallen into. She helped you with quitting the pills and sobered you up.

You didn't plan on going back into show business, the fear of relapse was too great. So you took a little break and searched for a job. It was hard, wherever you applied, people recognised you and made a fuss. You just wanted to have some peace and get away from all the chaos. Your mother actually had the idea, that convinced you.

And that's how you found yourself in the office of Larissa Weems, headmistress of Nevermore Academy.

"Can I just ask, how did you become aware of Nevermore Academy? It's quite unusual for such famous people to apply at a school like ours." You had seen the question roam through her mind since the second you entered her office. As a singer you hadn't used your real name, so the postal apply hadn’t shown Principle Weems who you were. But your face certain had.

"Well, I have been a student her myself, over ten years ago. And I needed some distance from the whole show business. A school in the middle of the woods seems like the perfect match, doesn't it?" To your absolute delight, you got the job. And the day you moved in, was also the day that you had been sober for 200 days. Standing in your own little room in the Academy, proud was the word that came to your mind. You were so proud of you, you hadn't rotten in a whole of despair and addiction, no. You had built up a new life, a healthy life.

That new life was going great. Your students seemed to love you, even though they were a little taken aback the first time they entered the classroom, seeing you as their teacher. But it didn't take them long to recover from the initial shock. You realised you should have probably been a teacher all your life. Yes you loved singing, but this. This healed your heart, it was a passion you had never known to have.

The school and your work there brought you utmost peace and joy and with time you even felt yourself fall in love. While that as itself was wonderful and the most beautiful feeling, it brought a few problems with it. The first and most obvious one being, that you had fallen in love with Larissa. Your boss. Great, right?

At the beginning you hadn't even realised that you were in love with her. You had never been in love, so how do you differ between being in love with someone and just being happy to see them because they're your friend? No idea.

But with time it became obvious even to you. Ian, your favourite colleague had told you a long time before you had known it yourself.

"My god, (Y/n). Don't be so oblivious, you have the biggest crush on that woman." You stared at him in shock.

"What, no! I have not." Ian just grinned, he knew you would realise it yourself sooner or later. In your case it was later. It took you unbelievable long.

But one day you eventually did. You were in the library with Ian and Larissa came over to talk to you. It wasn't anything important, just some things about class. Right before she turned to leave, she looked you up and down and smirked.

"I really like the dress! It makes your pretty eyes pop out." And with that she left, not seeing you blush like crazy. You stared after her, and suddenly you turned to look at Ian.

"Oh god, I'm in love with her." Embarrassed you hid your face in your hands while Ian started laughing so much her had actual tears roll down his cheek. Everyone in the library looked at you, thankfully they hadn't heard your confession though. They just thought Ian was going crazy.

Well that was that.

-----------------

The thing with you in general was, that you were very unsure of yourself and extremely insecure in everything you did. You never felt like you were doing good or like you were enough. And that became quite the problem.

It had been a normal day, classes went quite well, and you had already finished some of your work as Larissa approached you. Face not kind and patient as usual, it looked rather displeased and cold.

"(Y/n), would you come to my office in an hour. We need to talk." You gulped and just nodded, immediately leaving for your room. The look on her face made you panic. All of your insecurities overthrowing your rational thinking.

What if she wants to fire me? I knew I was doing a shit job at teaching. I'm not made for this.

Now even the tiniest chance of her liking me is lost. She probably hates me, how could I have ever thought to have a chance with her. Why on earth would she like me?

You felt your mind getting filled with more and more fears and negative thoughts. Slowly but surely a panic attack was arising. You had been so proud of you new, healthy life, and you were more scared than ever to have that taken away from you.

Your breathing got unsteady, and your chest felt tight. It felt like your body was falling in pieces. Legs giving up underneath you, slowly sliding down the door. You held your trembling hand against your chest in hopes of being calmed by your heart beat, just to find your heart racing. It felt like your blood was passing you by. Still breathing ragged, you clung to the jacket that was hung over the chair next to you, and felt a little packet in it. You immediately knew what it was, and you very well knew how stupid this was. But rationality wasn't your biggest strength right now.

So you took the pills, probably the last ones you still had. It had been your emergency pack, even though for a while now you hadn't thought to ever need them again. Still leaning at your door, your breathing slowly flattened no you didn't feel like chocking anymore. The trembling of the hands decreased, and you could stand up again.

Calmed down now, you left your room and went to Larissa's office. You weren't even scared anymore, who cares if you'll get fired?

"Could I have some water?" Larissa found your behaviour to be extremely strange. Your pupils were extremely dilated, you complained about the heat on her office the whole time. It wasn't hot in her office, not at all.

"(Y/n), that's the third glass of water. You have been here for ten minutes."

"Well, apparently I'm quite thirsty. My, It's hot on here Larissa." That was it, this behaviour was absolutely unlike you.

"Darling, are you feeling alright. I'm a little worried about you?" You just looked at her, not really grasping what was happening.

"I just took a little. Really just a bit." That alarmed Larissa, and she immediately rounded her desk, sitting down next to you.

"What'd you take? Honey, look at me." You felt her take your hands and gently stroke over your pulse point. In hindsight, you weren't exactly sure what made you spill. Her gentleness, the worry in her eyes or your absolute despair.

"I'm so sorry. I've taken the pills. I know I shouldn't have, I- I- If you'll fire me, I can understand that but-" Larissa didn't look angry at all, no, she actually cupped your cheek and brushed the tears away.

"Shhh, Darling. Calm down, what pills?" You had a hard time breathing again, but managed to get some words out.

"My emergency pack. I- I ended my career because I had a drug addiction, but I was clean. I didn't- when I came her ... I hadn't for over half a year."

"It's alright, shh. Let it out, my beautiful dove." She pulled you into her chest and let you cry, hearing her heart beat made you calm down, until your breathing was normal again.

"Ok, love. You know I don't want to push, but I'm also your employer and I need to know what happened. Why did you take the pills?" You washed the tears away, even though that was useless as the next were already on their way. Ashamed you looked to the floor.

"I had a panic attack after you told me we needed to talk. I thought the ground was pulling me down. You looked so- so cold and angry. I thought I did something wrong, that you'd fire me, and I was so scared to lose the life I had so neatly built up again. I love this school and my work here, and I love you, and I was scared that you'd hate me and I- wait, no- what did I just say? No- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Larissa just pulled you into a warm hug.

"(Y/n), calm down. Firstly, I didn't want to fire you. I'm so sorry that I made you think that. I just had an annoying situation with a student right before that and was a little on edge. I just wanted to talk about a club, you might like to do. Secondly, I don't hate you. I'm not mad about the pill thing, I just wished you would have come to me earlier. Telling me about your problems and fears. I want you to know that I'm always there for you. Because thirdly, I love you." Your eyes widened. All of your fears and thoughts had been absolutely unfounded. You had just assumed things, and you had misjudged her completely. You started to uncontrollably sob at that.

"Hush, love. Please don't cry. All is well." She gently rubbed your back and held you through it all.

"And please, don't think that you have failed your journey on sobriety. You relapsed, yes. But that's not the end of the world. We'll get you sobered up, and I'll stay with you though it all. And if you have any pills left we'll throw them out. I want you to talk to me in the future, if you ever feel like you'll relapse. Failure is a part of success." You nodded your head against her chest. Thankful for whatever fate, that this woman had become a part of your life.

And she held her promise. She helped you throw away the last pills, she was there for you when it got hard. She truly saved you. She and this school, where the best thing that and ever happened to you

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

‘It’s guerrilla warfare’: Brazil fire teams fight Amazon blazes – and the arsonists who start them

Firefighters and police in Rondônia battle fires intensified by both the climate crisis and a criminal assault on the rainforest

The occupants of the vinyl-coated military tents at this remote jungle camp in Brazil’s wild west compare the hellscape surrounding them to catastrophes old and new: the extinction of the dinosaurs, the bombardment of Gaza, the obliteration of Hiroshima during the second world war.

“It’s as if a nuclear bomb has gone off. There’s no forest. There’s nothing. Everything’s burned. It’s chaos,” said Lt Col Victor Paulo Rodrigues de Souza as he gave a tour of the base on the frontline of Brazil’s fight against one of its worst burning seasons in years and a relentless assault on the greatest tropical rainforest on Earth.

For weeks now, forests and farms here in the Amazon – and across Brazil – have been ablaze like seldom before thanks to a highly combustible cocktail of extreme drought affecting nearly 60% of the country, the climate crisis and a seemingly insatiable appetite to destroy the environment for immense financial gain.

At the front of the camp, an excavator has built a defensive firing position to protect the 100-or-so firefighters and police living here from a possible attack from the illegal loggers and land grabbers who have spent recent years cutting and torching huge areas of rainforest to create farmland and pastures. Beyond that 3ft earthwork lies an immensity of destruction: tens of thousands of acres of wood and ploughland that is going up in smoke, obscuring the sun and filling the skies with a toxic white haze.

“It’s been burning here for over 40 days,” said Souza as his firefighters prepared for their latest mission to put out fires that are also wreaking havoc in neighbouring Bolivia and Peru. “You couldn’t breathe at the base yesterday. Everyone was wearing masks … At 9am it was like it was night because you couldn’t see sunlight.”

The Guardian spent three days at the Rubber Soldier Ecological Station encampment near a logging outpost called Cujubim to witness government efforts to control the flames before they cause even more harm.

Continue reading.

[tineeericeee]

What Waits Off the Coast Of Santa Barbara

Chapter two: Stupid Fucking Net

Notes: Soooo I may or may not have gone a little crazy on the details writing this… and it got so long I had to split it again. So now instead of three parts it’s four. So uh. Yeah. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONESHOT 😭

Anyways, enjoy!

Thank you @arrowheadedbitch for beta reading!

Shawn felt himself slowly come to, and cracked his eyes open delicately. He immediately shut them again. Everything was bright, so much brighter than the deep ocean, where things were darker and much softer in terms of color saturation.

He hadn’t been to the surface in… what, ten years? Time was difficult to keep track of down in the deep.

Had things changed much since he’d been gone? Were there flying cars and hoverboards like ‘Back to the Future 2’ said there would be? Maybe he could get one!

As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was staring straight up at the sky, a sky that was full of hundreds of twinkling lights. Stars, he remembered. It had been years since he saw those.

Shawn tried moving an arm to shield his eyes, but quickly stopped as his whole right side erupted into shocks of pain. He let out a low hiss as miniscule threads dug into his skin. He stopped trying to free himself and lay still, the stabbing ache slowly lessening to a dull throb.

Of course this happened to Shawn. It was just his luck he got into some kind of mess on the same night he decided to return to the surface. He could practically hear his dad berating him.

He tried to think back to how he got into this mess. It was a haze, but little pieces started stringing themselves together into a clearer and clearer memory.

He’d been on his way back when he swam into a school of fish, which had disoriented him enough to get tangled in a net that’d obviously been discarded.

His brain had gone into panic mode, and he thrashed around, blindly bumping into rocks and coral.

He remembered dozens of tiny fish flitting around his flailing body as he tried to gain control before hitting his head on a particularly large boulder, knocking him out cold.

Stupid, polluting humans. Shawn hated fisherman that discarded their old nets into the water instead of taking them back on land.

Whatever. He was awake and alert now, of course. Although the ‘alert’ part was still up for debate.

‘Okay, moving my right arm is a no go…’ He tried moving his left arm and neck to see if those had gotten injured as well. Thankfully, they just felt slightly sore. He began testing it further, cracking the joints in his neck, flexing his fingers and wrist, relieving minuscule amounts of tension. He raised his head to look down at his right side, where the pain was, to assess the damage done.

Sure enough, his entire right arm, along with his torso and tail, was wrapped in tiny yet sturdy threads of netting. Just looking at it made his wounds ache twice as much.

‘Okay, don’t panic. Just take in your surroundings.’ He looked further to his right, and saw nothing but beach and a lone plastic bottle rolling around in the wind.

He looked to his left, and…

Dammit.

Apparently, someone had seen him. Great. Fantastic. Life had 100% fucked him over, getting him stuck in some stupid net and also given him a possible concussion. And now on top of it all, Shawn had been seen in his mer form. Although, the person — who he had identified as Mr. Bean lookalike, wearing what seemed to be one part of a two-piece work suit— didn’t seem to be moving, simply lying in a heap. He probably fainted when he saw him.

‘Maybe I could just…’

Shawn shifted to the right an inch and immediately regretted it, pain blooming all over his injured body once more. Sand dug into the millions of tiny cuts sprinkled around him, sharp and stinging.

He stopped and sat still once more, allowing his body to settle down again.

Shawn could try to shrink to his human form, but the netting tangled around him made him nervous about attempting that. He normally wasn’t ever this cautious, but when it came to possible deformity he was extra careful.

His transformation wasn’t really like what was shown in movies. Thanks to the large size difference between this form and his human form, the process was a lot like a lizard shedding old skin, pieces of him flaking away until he was the size of an average person.

Shawn moved his left arm, and examined his claws. Maybe he could tear through the net with those?…

No, they were only good for ripping and digging into flesh, not for cutting fine threads of fishing net.

Shawn looked down to his left again, taking a closer look at the man, contemplating another plan.

‘What if I-’

He shook his head and tried to say out loud ‘No, that’s a bad idea,’ but was stopped short when his tongue wasn’t cooperating with him. It had been so long since he spoke actual words. He had almost completely forgotten how to, which was something he’d have to work on.

As he tried coming up with a different idea, he took in more details of the man. He was small, and — dare he say — cute.

Shawn had only ever seen two humans while in his mer form: his dad, and Gus. They had both definitely seemed small to him in comparison, but he had never thought of them as cute. But, there was just something about this one…

Shawn continued to take in more of the guy.

His button up was untucked on one side, and slightly rumpled. Legs and arms lay askew, slightly thin and dangly. ‘Scarecrow’, Shawn’s brain said.

Shawn squinted, trying to take in the minuscule details of the guy’s face. Lines and creases dispersed around his temple. Maybe he scrunched his face a lot in confusion. Or maybe he just got annoyed often. All of this together looked… really good, surprisingly.

Never in Shawn’s life would he have thought of someone with those features to be attractive. He had seen people with those features and thought they looked like an asshole.

And yet…

This guy somehow managed to pull it all off. And very nicely, if Shawn had to say.

He was cut off from his thoughts when his body gave another throb of pain.

Oh screw it. He’d already been seen by the guy, what was the worst that could happen now?

Shawn delicately reached out, bending his arm at an awkward angle to try and poke the unconscious guy awake. He marveled at the difference in size for second, before gently poking the man.

‘This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.’

…

‘But I really don’t have a better idea.’

—————

ao3 link

[magpiemoon6]

Love me in the dark

(chapter 2)

DBF Simon Riley x OC

Summary - Maevis and Simons prank war questions what they are to each other because strangers doesn't feel correct.

Theme - angst, smut, fluff

Warnings - trauma dumping, smoking, arguments, self hate, age gap ( 12 years), smut- voyeurism, self pleasure, pet names.

He’s still in my head, circling my thoughts every single second I breathe, those eyes haunt me in my sleep so full of pain. Dragging myself to deal with the day scheduled of course as if dear old Dad could cope without complete control, probably have a heart attack. Padding into the kitchen only for my breath to hitch. Mother of fuck. Simon’s standing, boiling the kettle in grey sweats. Just grey sweats. Sweet Jesus I’m salivating, my eyes are glued to his tattoos on his back the ink details that litter his back, song with areas of white skin. Between his shoulder blades is an interactive drawing of an angel with tattered wings that spread the blades of his shoulders. I’m physically choking on air while I stare, I can't stop.

And then it clicks, in a childish fit last night- at 2 in the fucking morning when his face was making me weak in the knees and electrocuting my skin- I decided to act like a spoiled child. Stomping into the kitchen, my glare zoning into the kitchen where he stood making tea only a few hours ago, I quickly ripped the sugar container from its place, dumping the contents in a spare bowl. My fingers search for the salt. His words about me being a daddies girl as if he knows our relationship, the fact ‘daddy’ left with no answers because it was easier than admitting his career destroyed our relationship and the phone doesnt go both ways when your fucking ten.

I rip off the salt lid and pour it into the original sugar jar and then pour the sugar into the salt container. Cleaning the mess in a haze of glee and popping it all back I practically hopped into my room. 

Shit do i tell him? Yes, that's the mature thing someone my age, with a big girl job, would do.

“Princess if you stare at my back any harder it's gonna leave a mark,” he teases, turning around as he stirs his tea smugly. The smirk on his face angers me to unrivalled levels, but also forces me to pull together from the nickname. Of course he fucking notices this but can’t seem to notice a car moving. Fuck it, he can drink the salty tea.

Simons pouring unknowingly salt into his tea as I turn back to my room and yell out.

“Enjoy your tea Simon!” I sprint the second I’m out of his view, locking my door instantly.

It doesn’t take long for me to hear my name being bellowed by Simon

“Maevis get your ass out here now!” He practically threatens standing in front of my door.

“Sorry Simy can't pop in the shower, need anything?” inquiring as innocently as I can. I'm dying inside knowing the hissy fit this man is about to pull.

I begin to undress for the shower when I hear him.

“Maevis.”  I see Simon as I peek out of the shower. “Simon.”I'm waiting to see what he will do.

“Now Maevis.” “No thank you I’d rather not,” I quip and slam the shower for him to hear and carry on. 

Fuck him.

Simon’s pov- 

She is nothing like her father, she's reckless and childish, changing the sugar for salt? Is she 10 years old for the love of fuck.

The buzz of voices in the garden as people socialise, moving in fluttery movements unsure of who to chat about their waiting for the crappy wine to be soaked up and the fuzz of being drunk fogs their fears of being judged. I remain in a corner, feeling the rose thorn prick me ever so gently. I observe the guests hop from one group to the next, wondering how I ended up here. I'm here because my ex-captain when I was a recruit helped me out, and now I'm here as his best man around people I don't know asking questions i dont want and having to see her. 

The air smells like the nearby vineyard filling my head with the sweetness, the bitterness from the salt is still on my tongue even with the whiskey. my eyes scan the groups of people and the moment my eyes land on her finally my mind is consumed by her once again. She is the most beautiful person I've ever seen. The green dress hugs her curves with a side slit showing the thigh tattoo that curls its way on her flesh, inked flowers. pretty. My eyes rise to dress, my god. My eyes nearly fall out when she turns around to talk to someone. In her hair her body again. I'm stuck and for the first time in  my life I'm flustered, until she smiles slightly and sticks her tounge out at me. All those thoughts of her die and leave me remembering how childish she is. 

Still watching her, she turns her body back to the stranger laughing and it warms a part of me I don’t want to think about, her chatter distracts me from her now pointing her finger at me and moving away pushing the stranger in my direction. For fuck sakes Maevis, wanna play? Let's play princess.

Maevis pov:

God he’s gorgeous, the white linen shirt he has on is open at the top and cuffed at his elbows showing off those tattoos but catching him staring at me is making me force my legs together from the warmth that is developing. ive pushed a very enthusiastic old lady towards him hoping to push his temper if it meant he’ll come find me and tell me off.

Walking away, weaving through the herds of people and reaching an outer corner to hide where the sun warms my skin and calms my mind. Until I hear my father, I love him but when I see him it's like a slap in the face. I want to scream at him and cry and ask the questions the child in me wants answers to but I can't so I turn and smile. 

“Darling, why are you here? Come, I have people for you to meet!” pulling me by my elbow to follow him to the gaggle of older men who make me feel sick with their stares. I'm used to it, it doesn't take a genius to work out why but god it still makes me feel ill. They start to speak to me asking all the questions that all have the same underlying meaning, which is that i've filled out in all the right places to be stared at like a prized doll in the shop window. Goosebumps begin to form along my arms as I try to control my tongue for my dad and not be snarky.

A warm hand slips around my waist and I jump whipping around to see Simon dead staring at the old men with a look that could kill a man.

“I’m sorry gents but I need to steal Maevis away, and I think your wives are wondering where you are.”

I sink into his touch on my hip, it's warm and soothing. His thumb makes circles, the creeping feeling between my legs starts again and I want to hide my blush but I'm frozen. He begins to pull me with him, staring at them and glancing at my father with what only could suggest annoyance and disappointment in the man. Whisking me away even when we are out their view, his hand still on my hip. His body bends his head to reach mine and moves his mouth to my ear whispering.

“Are you alright, love?” The kindness strikes me, so soothing yet shocking how the gruffness rasp of his voice holds the words and makes me melt.

“I’m fine, thank you Si “ I whisper back, catching his eyes as I turn. We are too close, so close I can see every etch in his skin and those pretty lips that I want to cover my skin with.

“Good. Now good luck,” he begins to smile as he twists my body back and pushes me back into the hoard of people.

Confusion only lasts a second when it clicks, I see about 5 ladies dressed like colourful birds smiling at me and calling me to go chat with me. Oh fuck, this is karma from before. Simon's warmth disappears from behind me and I feel my dark hair fall into my face. Positioning my hand to go tighten my ribbon I find it missing. It’s gone? I spin around checking the floor in despair. Did it fall out? But it's gone and I'm consumed by too much old lady perfume and loud chatter. 

“Maevis ? Gosh dear haven't you changed! Do you remember me dear, I'm your aunt?” one of them speaks holding me, she smells too strongly of perfume i cant breath, pulling me aware from finding the ribbon.

“Ah yes of course, how are you?” I respond too slowly because I  have zero clue who this lady is, i smile and hope it's believable and no one points it out.

The rest stare at me like a group of hawks and I don't know how to hold myself, these strangers who I'm related to and would persecute me if I mess up. 

“I'm fine sweety just at the point in my life where I move and pray I haven't pulled a muscle, it's such a shame we haven't seen you in such a long time, why is that ?” she inquires and the air in my lungs catches because the sentence in my head unravels  the second she ends her sentence.

“Oh um school and work became a priority and it was easier to stay with my mam” every word is a lie but no one is asking for the truth, they want to ask because i disappeared and i don't blame them, my heart hurted every day i couldn't see them but eventually i got used to it and time moves on enough that my brain couldn't remember their faces just the nostalgia.

“Ah such a shame but I understand darling it's okay just know that we’re here if you need us,” squeezing my arm just as much as my heart because I want to swallow up in my sadness, i feel like a traitor when I stand around this warmth. 

Simons pov:

If those fuckers look at her again I’m going to kill them, how could her father not see it? My grip on the ribbon in my hand tightens. No reasons come to my mind of why I took it from her hair other than a way to carry on our little war. 

Shoving it in my pocket panic sets in that my rage will break it also if I stare at it for too long my mind gets clouded by her and tightness in my trousers fills me with guilt. Her dad is quite literally the man I respect the most, he taught me everything I know. At the same time I see her I swear it's like she's the sun. It’s intoxicating to just be near her, the danger signs in my head go berserk like a reminder that I'm a war criminal. I've killed more people than I could count. I've got people killed, good people. I don't deserve that kind of happiness. Not in this lifetime. 

“Private riley!” my head whips around on instinct the station so far below me yet still my reaction is the same as the 17 year old kid who just joined the military. 

“Yes sir.”

“Ah shit its lieutenant now isn't it, come have a beer with me” her father calls me over to come sit with me and hands me a beer. fuck of all people to talk to me right now.

the cold bottle held in my hand feels like a fucking lifeline when he starts talking, blabbing drunkenly about how grateful his kid is back in his life, drilling into me that its his kid, she is nothing to me and gushing over her achievements at 25 fucking hell she is too young for me to want her like this im 37 christ i feel guilty. 

“It's a shame i couldn't see her with all her graduations but ah work came first, that's probably why i would never want her to end up with someone like you simon,” grabbing my shoulder kindly but my heart drops and I can't breathe. The words stick in my head painted in red, reminding me that I would only hurt her.

“Um yeah mate wouldn't want her with a bastard like me” I replied the words taste like bleach on my tongue.

“Exactly you get it kid, the shit we go through god it ruined my first marrage I was never home, not to fucking mention the PTSD from all that shit wouldnt want Maevis to be dragged down by all that shit people like us go through,” he carries on, every word is stabbing me and holds me accountable for even thinking of her as more than my ex captains kid. 

“Yeah definitely, will you excuse me sir? I need to check in on my task force," I mutter as I stand, I need to leave before he says any more shit.

“Yes go on son, thank you for listening”

“Of course sir,”  I mutter, quickly striding away from the conversation to the empty space from people by a pool.

I can breathe now that he isn't here, but the words are still dragging me into some pit. Gripping tightly the glass I drain all the alcohol the burn soothes me for a secon.The reflective lights of the pool let me reminisce about a calmer point in my life. And for a bit my solitude is comforting, I cannot hurt anyone if there is no one to hurt. Until I hear familiar footsteps moving towards me I instantly check, her ribbon is out of view and it's not, shit.

She needs to leave.

Maevis’ pov:

  Whatever my dad told Simon must have been bad from the way he so crutley left. Exiting the ladies I had searched for my ribbon where I was standing earlier, my hair is in my face and it's pissing me off, tickling my skin and making me sneeze when it brushes my nose. Walking directly into a view where I could see my dad and simon talk or more my dad yapping, and Simon gripping his glass. Just from the look he’s giving to my unbeknownst dad I think the glass was going to burst and his jaw locked, his eyes had diminished any light I had seen in them.

Staring at the two of them, I catch a glint of green in Simons front pocket, my fucking ribbon. that little shit. An deniable urge to beat him with my shoe till comes over me. Storming towards them in the most calm way a crazy lady could until my arm is caught by someone, urging me to come meet family members agin for the 50th fucking time. The old lady said how great it is that I’m finally around everyone, again. I look over my shoulder to check his glaring daggers, only to see Simon walking away from my father who is plastered in his chair.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Simon Riley give it back,:” rushing towards him, after searching the grounds to find him tucked away by an empty pool, standing alone just staring with an empty glare at nothing.

“I'm not in the mood.” he responds curtly, it's so cold, there is nothing in his voice not even wit. and all the warmth he has begun to make me feel starts to ebb away. What did my father say to him?

“Si? Are you being grumpy because of the little pranks today? “ laughing awkwardly because the coldness of him is making me panic. Did I go too far? my heart is my throat, the idea he may be so angry he won't speak to me again makes me panic and I don't know why but i step closer. His blonde hair in the sun glows saintly halo, I wish it didn't distract me.

“Why are you here? I don't even know you. We are strangers, you and I. Go talk with your family before you get seen with me,” again with the coldness that holds in my heart.

“Si….?” I question, confusion floods me. I step forward. 

“Stop. You don’t know me and I don't want to know you. You’re- you’re like some lost puppy leave me the fuck alone,” and like that those words are a spark to my anger and all the sadness and confusion is wrapped around my annoyance.

“You can say that shit but hand over my ribbon. I want it back,” my hands reach out. I step closer again, close enough I can smell his cologne and the hint of whiskey.

His hand quickly wraps around my wrist and twists me so I'm on the edge of the pool and away from his pocket. I’m too close to the edge, but the thumping in my ear as my blood rushes to my ears is because he is so close. 

“No,” he stares at me, he's so cold my heart feels like it has frostbite.

I see his eyes quickly dart to my lips, as I breathe in shallowly from my mouth. His eyes darken, it’s like I can read his mind but can he read mine. Images of me naked and him on top of me flash through my mind. Without thinking I go to kiss him I see his face turn into panic as I use all my weight to twist us back around. I try to shove him in. I’ll make him see what happens when he fucks with my feelings and steal my accessory to a kickass outfit fuck no you dont. only as his body moves to the water his hand is still on my wrist and forces me to topple into the water after him.

My head is spinning too much from the alcohol given to me all day to process the change from land to water. stress sets into my muscles and i try to swim up. 

A strong grip of rough hands does the job for me, pulling me through the water forcing my head up to the surface, gasping. I turn to Simon, his grip still on me.

“What the fuck Maevis.”

Turning to him I swim closer, my arm reaches for his shoulder to use, or so he thinks my mind reels still pissed at his change in mood and refusal to give me my stuff back. Trailing my arm down his torso now on show from the water making it see through, his abdomen twitches from the sudden touch. My eyes remain on his lips and watch as his chest rises and falls rapidly as my hand trails closer to his crotch. Leaning into his ear I hear his breathing stop completely as my hand lightly grazes his cock already growing hard. Turning so my lips are close to his ear I wait a second, my hand cupping him gently.

“Strangers huh Si?” I whisper, quickly moving my hand from him into the pocket where my ribbon is and grabbing it. Turning away, I swim to the exit. Leaving him barely breathing and dead staring at my back as I leave the pool and walk towards our room. 

Soaking wet I move through the villa to our room leaving a trail of water that I'm praying no old family member slips and cracks a hip on. 

I head straight for the shower, absence of Simon and the breeze causes me to shiver. All the fury is melting into something that warms my stomach and stirs something inside me. I need it out of my system, then I can go back to hating him.

Maevis’ pov:

I don’t wait to enter my part of the room to strip down. I’m unbearably cold and my nipples hurt from the friction of the wet dress. I hurry to the shower letting the water run till it’s scolding hot, hopefully hot enough to flush my feelings and thoughts. I scrub and scrub trying my hardest to forget him, forget how he grew harder as I straddled his hips. It felt amazing to feel his arms securely around me, that and the look on his face as he saw the opaque dress.

“Fucker.” I detest how much I need this relife. I lean my head back, closing my eyes as I imagine him kissing me, from my mouth to my tits. I slowly creep my hand down between my legs sighing in relief. I imagine him clearly on his knees slowly parting my legs and looking up at me through his eyelashes. Feeling his hands grip and travel up my thighs, and as he reaches my cunt he slowly circles my clit, teasingly. I begin to breathe heavier, the water blocking my nose causes me to open my mouth slightly and a moan escapes me. Dear god, I hope he isn’t back. I can feel my orgasm build up ever so slowly. I picture him, slipping his fingers between my pussy whispering, “keep your legs open for me princess. Like the good girl you are.” I push in my fingers, quickening the pace, the friction killing me. 

Simon’s pov:

In the bathroom I hear the shower running. That brat took her ribbon from me and thinks she can hide from me in the bathroom, pretending to shower? Right, not going to fool me. I storm over to the bathroom door cracking the door ajar pausing when I hear her moan. I shouldn’t. I really fucking shouldn’t, any gentleman wouldn’t peak but I’m anything but. I look in curiously and the sight before nearly makes me groan in desperation. There she is water running over her beautiful body, plastering her long hair to body. I follow the stream of water running from her head, down to her perfect tits, all the way to- 

Fuck me.

I feel the blood rush straight to my cock. Hardening instantly, at her fucking herself, moaning. her breathy gasps say something. “Simon.” Holy shit. I can’t think straight. I'm focused solely on how her hands work her to an orgasim. I envisage how magnificent she’d look as I look up at making her come with my mouth. 

“Yes, god fu-” she hitches shuddering under the steaming water. She pumps in and out a few more times and slumps down. 

It takes all the will power in me and years of training not to go in there and make her scream my name, not just say it. To not pick her up and rail her over the bathroom counter, gripping her hair so that she can see me pounding into her and see how her eyes tear in painful pleasure. 

I’m not helping my situation, I shake my head rubbing my eyes snapping me back. I head straight back out onto the balcony, I need a cig or twenty.

I knew she was going to be trouble.

[yoimix]

「 言って 」

[note: fem!reader]

ITTO's words might not always make sense. scratch that, his words might as well be up for interpretation by sumeru scholars specializing in human psychology. but he desperately needs to tell you that he is so, so in love with you.

when it comes to him, he’s always gone all out for everything, especially if they’re fun. the problem lies with you. you are fun, but you are also more than that. you’re pretty and you’re soft, you’re kind and you’ve got the nicest smile. itto’s confused beyond himself as to why he can’t just smash through with his words as usual. his gang gets what he’s saying, right? so why can’t you?

it’s probably because he can’t say a single word when you’re in front of him. the conversation goes haywire and itto forgets all about the date he was supposed to ask you on. besides, he can’t decide on where he’ll take you. but also, you have to agree on that date first. all of these thoughts are spinning around in his head, making a very bad bean soup. that’s how itto feels anyway.

“shinobu! this is not going to work,” itto whines, slumping forward on his desk. “we’ve already tried out all your plans a-z.”

shinobu sighs, her mask airing up. “it’s true that y/n-san can be a bit dense but this is all your fault. you start talking about something else altogether. did you really have to bring up your onikabuto matches last time? we were stuck collecting them for three hours.”

“but she fell asleep on my shoulder! and i got to carry her home.” itto brightens up at the memory.

“do you want to ask her on a date or stay in the... the friend zone forever?”

itto grumbles, slumping further. he’s not going to get his way like this. his thoughts are turning into a haze of dark clouds now.

“but,” shinobu interjects. “you can ask y/n-san for the summer festival. it’s indirect, it’s fun and you’ll get to see her in a pretty kimono. i bet you can win her stuff too! just- just don’t eat the snacks yourself.”

“of course not, shinobu! i know how dates work. besides, y/n eats everything before i’ve even seen what she’s holding. she’ll hit me if i take her stuff.”

shinobu shakes her head and itto’s about to point it out when she grabs his shoulders. “leader. i believe in you. you can ask y/n-san on a date without messing up this time.”

itto feels a bit of his confidence return to him. shinobu’s right. what’s the worst that could happen? he’s only failed twenty-six times. unlike the alphabet, there’s infinite possible numbers and that means plan one is now in motion.

“leader.”

kuki’s voice interrupts the plumage of numbers fluttering around in itto’s head as he tries to mark how many attempts it should take to ask a question.

“if i may ask, what makes you so interested in y/n-san?”

“oh. that’s easy. she jumped into the puddle with me.”

“huh?”

itto can’t explain it well enough. after all, it’s been years since then and his memory’s getting hazy. but the feeling of warmth when he saw you, in your hand-sewn yellow kimono, take a small step forward and a big splash into the puddle with the big and scary oni terrorizing the village; he knew he wanted you to be by his side forever. you were only eight, and he, a mere little demon of ten years old. he admits he was a bit of a menace, but he never meant harm. the village folk couldn’t understand.

but you did.

shinobu takes a sharp breath, snapping itto out of his reminiscence. 

“there she is! go!” shinobu gives him a hard shove, making him almost trip into the mud. “just say: let’s go on a date. four words! i know you can do this, boss.”

and just like that, he’s left alone with you, who’s noticed him by now and is grinning ear to ear as you make your way to him. oh no. itto’s feeling it again. like his heart’s about to sneeze but he just can’t get it out. is that a new hairpin on you? gosh, it’s cute.

itto loudly clears his throat, putting on a strange suave manner of speaking. he learned it from the blue fellow that comes to beetle fight with him. “hello there, (name).”

“why do you sound so strange?” you tilt your head.

caught in just three words?! how is supposed to make it through to asking you out?

“say, itto. i’ve been looking for you-”

“you have?” he didn’t mean to interrupt and he has to hold in a groan.

“y-yes.” you pause, a small smile adorning your pretty face as you look down. “yoimiya-san was saying...”

oh no, not that girl. itto can’t have her stealing you too now that she’s stolen the kids’ attentions. 

“you don’t have to hang out with her when i’m here!” he points at himself, an expression so serious you can’t help your burst of laughter.

“itto, of course i’ll hang out with you! but you’ve been acting strange these past few days... did i do something wrong?”

you hold in a sigh. you won’t say it out loud but you hate that he’s not talking to you like he used to anymore. you miss holding hands like when you were children too but that’s probably taking it too far. sweet, innocent itto could never know how you feel.

“fireworks,” he blurts.

you raise an eyebrow.

“you’re like fireworks- no my chest is like fireworks when you’re around!” itto’s shoulders tense up, trying his best to convey his feelings to you.

he clears his throat. this is no way for a man to act, and he’s better than all of them!

“wait, that’s not what i meant to say! i meant... fireworks... flowers... uh...”

“you wanna go to the summer festival together?” you ask, your face breaking into a wide smile. your eyes are sparkling. god, you’re so cute itto’s heart might just leap out of his chest with a wedding ring ready. “i heard yoimiya-san is working on her biggest project yet. isn’t that exciting? i wanna watch those fireworks with you...”

you cover your mouth, like you didn’t mean to blurt that out. maybe he’s rubbing off on you. itto tries not to feel that weird sense of pride.

“yes!” he straightens. “exactly! you get me. maybe we’re soulmates...”

he did not mean to say that out loud but the sound of your giggles is worth the slip of tongue.

“you’re so funny, itto. i’ve always known we are.”

[stardiveatnight]

Okay so a few hours have passed since I watched season 3 and I want to collect my thoughts

(Also it is 9am and I haven‘t slept so bear with me)

First of all I wanna say that the performances were amazing. I rewatched the scene where Wille confronts his parents at least ten times because it‘s just so intense and I love Edvin‘s performance in it.

I‘m glad Micke returned, but I‘m also glad that there won’t seem to be a happy ending for him. I felt like Sara‘s and Simon‘s relationship with him needed a bit more exploring and closure and I felt like they did what they could do with the limited amount of time and so many plots to wrap up.

While I felt like the first three episodes were quite slow, it all paid off in episode 5. Such a good episode, I can’t say it enough!

Never thought about Rosh and Stella being a thing but, even though I know they won‘t actually end up together, I quite enjoyed seeing them together.

I found the revelation about the hazing and all that very interesting and didn’t see Erik making a comeback like that at all. But it fits the theme and makes sense, because if everything is not as it seems, then so is Erik. Also, it added depth to not only August, but in my opinion to Nils and Vincent as well.

I very much enjoyed watching Felice‘s struggle with getting over Sara, because I‘m pretty sure we all can relate to that pain and it felt refreshing having it dealt with in such depth.

Simon and Wille being happy together! Being out in public!! That was nice to see, albeit short.

I reblogged a post about this too, but I loved that some of the more heavier subjects were finally addressed out loud. It felt so satisfying to watch after all that buildup and hinting in seasons 1 & 2 (e.g. the racism Felice deals, I really liked her talk with her dad, August‘s eating disorder, and probably other things that my sleep deprived brain cannot think of right now)

I don‘t understand the problems people have with Simon and Wille, or especially Simon‘s behavior at the end of episode 5. I feel like it was pretty careless and ignorant of the palace to expect Wille to explain Simon all the rules he will have to follow now that their relationship is public, and for Simon to follow them all without batting an eye. I mean, he is 17 after all, idk what they were thinking. And to me, it was pretty clear that Simon was anything but happy in their relationship, especially after realizing that due to Wille being a prince, his needs will always somehow mean a little more, have priority, etc. etc., and Simon will have to get used to having to take a step back more times than not. I totally get not being okay with that, and I‘m not trying to say that Wille‘s problems especially towards the end of the season are not bad or valid — they definitely are. But I don‘t think we can fault a 17 year old who is being thrust into this world he doesn’t understand and that is not welcoming to him without any help by his side to think that maybe, this is not the life for him. I guess he could have waited until after his birthday? But that’s just me.

My heart is breaking for Wille, though. He really cannot catch a break, but I was surprised to see that he was seemingly on board with being the crown prince again. I guess anything as long as August doesn’t get what he wants.

I do have to say though, I did not like the music as much as I did in the other seasons. It was alright, and I‘m excited to see whether there‘ll be another iconic song at the end of episode 6.

I mentioned it earlier, but I felt like episodes 1-3 were a little bit slow. I understand why, but at times it was a bit dragging.

I‘m very curious to see how they are going to wrap everything up in the last episode. It sure is a lot for just one more episode, but we‘ll see! I‘m optimistic it‘ll be great.