#cardboard publishing

[garadinervi]

Paul Klee, Geheim Schrift bild, (colored paste on paper on cardboard), 1934 [Zentrum Paul Klee, Bern]

From: Fabienne Eggelhöfer, Etel Adnan Meets Paul Klee, «Manazir Journal» – Journal of the Swiss Platform for the Study of Visual Arts, Architecture and Heritage in the MENA Region, Issue 1, 2019, Art, Abstraction & Activism in the Middle East, (8-13), Edited by Silvia Naef & Nadia Radwan, Bern Open Publishing, Universitätsbibliothek Bern UB, Bern / Unité d'arabe, Faculté des Lettres, Université de Genève, Genève, p. 11 (pdf here)

[hauntedpearl]

representation in main characters is important for sure, but like!! representation in love interests is so valuable dude! like, seeing yourself through the eyes of someone who loves you? the colour of your skin, the idiocies of your mind. all the odd, ugly parts of you turned beautiful because someone loves you anyway. someone holds your hand and calls you beautiful. how is that not the most precious thing in the world!

[cha-c-san]

Kha’nel; eternal optimist, dragon apologist, lover of cinnamon rolls, and former sorcerer. Featuring Jomar, token cute baby dragon.

[marlynnofmany]

I’ve spent the last two weekends selling books at the local fair. I like to think my presence brightens the table somewhat. (Somebody had to do the Disney showtunes.)

[aleksandraplavsic]

“Le puits 1” étude 100x100 cm march 2023

[sayruq]

unicef estimates that a thousand children in Gaza have become amputees since the conflict began in October. “This is the biggest cohort of pediatric amputees in history,” Ghassan Abu-Sittah, a London-based plastic-and-reconstructive surgeon who specializes in pediatric trauma, told me recently. I met him in the waiting room of his plastic-surgery clinic on London’s Harley Street, and we walked to a nearby pub for a glass of water. Abu-Sittah, a fifty-four-year-old British Palestinian with an angular face and tender, deep-set eyes, has treated child survivors of war for the past thirty years in Iraq, Yemen, Syria, and elsewhere. Abu-Sittah is the author of “The War Injured Child,” the first medical textbook on the subject, which was published last May. In October and November, he spent forty-three days in Gaza, conducting emergency surgeries with Doctors Without Borders. He shuttled between two hospitals: Al-Shifa and Al-Ahli, which is also known as the Baptist hospital. The casualty rate was so high that, during some intense periods, he didn’t leave the operating room for three days. “It felt like a scene from an American Civil War movie,” he said. In Gaza, Abu-Sittah was performing as many as six amputations a day. “Sometimes you have no other medical option,” he explained. “The Israelis had surrounded the blood bank, so we couldn’t do transfusions. If a limb was bleeding profusely, we had to amputate.” The dearth of basic medical supplies, owing to blockades, also contributed to the number of amputations. Without the ability to irrigate a wound immediately in an operating room, infection and gangrene often set in. “Every war wound is considered dirty,” Karin Huster, a nurse who leads medical teams in Gaza for Doctors Without Borders, told me. “It means that many get a ticket to the operating room.” To mark the gravity of these procedures, and to mourn, Abu-Sittah and other medical staff placed the severed limbs of children in small cardboard boxes. They labelled the boxes with masking tape, on which they wrote a name and body part, and buried them. At the pub, he showed me a photograph he’d taken of one such box, which read, “Salahadin, Foot.” Some wounded children were too young to know their own names, he added, telling the story of an amputee who’d been pulled from rubble as the sole survivor of an attack.

[jokin-around]

I made a Twitter thread about this, but I've been reading early issues of Batman lately and something I've noticed is how differently the contrast between Batman and "Bruce Wayne" is depicted

obviously, in many things today, "Bruce" (ESPECIALLY in fandom) is often depicted as a happy-go-lucky himbo in order to draw contrast with a grim and "tortured" batman

so how does this hold up when you look at older depictions? the answer: it doesn't. in fact it was almost the opposite.

way back in the very first issues of the official Batman title, Bruce Wayne, no matter WHAT he's doing, isn't the one who laughs and smiles, Batman is.

and these are comics that were published BEFORE the comics code authority caused a dramatic shift in tone

Bruce Wayne (or least the cardboard cutout refered to as Bruce Wayne) isn't nessecarily described as grim, but he isn't a very happy person either, he's still a rich airhead, but not so much a "himbo" or even a dedicated businessman, he's depicted as a BORED, uninterested, aristocrat:

this Bruce seems to spend of his time smoking a pipe at home or mingling with other upperclass individuals, that in-between we tend to see MUCH more often in modern comics doesn't seem to exist yet (in part because the batcave Is non-existent which I suspect has given him a bit more privacy as a character)

MEANWHILE Batman, who's investigates murders every other night almost seems to be having the time of his life:

the early comics seem to routinely depict the burgoise as cold, snobbish & bored, in contrast to batman who seems particularly expressive and joyful, for all we know Batman may partially exist as some millionaires weird passtime, but of course Bruce Wayne (the real guy, not the facade) is written as someone who genuinely seems to care due to his own past experiences:

but , with all of that layed out, one can conclude that when ppl say Batman is the "true persona" ect. originally, it wasn't (just) because of his coping or whatever it was because when he wasn't Batman he was forced to live life as a cold, "useless" millionaire:

"what if a rich a guy gave a fuck?" is still very much the base concept here, but what's surprising is how much BITE there is to it

the concept wasn't being proposed because it's like… a plausible thing to happen or attainable on a personal level, but because the rich reliably and consitently do not care

the rich ppl in this book, "Bruce Wayne" included, are not written to be envied as people. they're written to be insufferable. ppl with endless resources who are still somehow unsatisfied with life and choose to do nothing useful or direct with the amount wealth they've accumulated

but ofc it shouldn't be ALL THAT surprising, Batman debuted in Detective Comics in 1939…. ONE year after the great depression, Bob and Bill had more than a good reason to feel a bit bitter

but rolling back to the point of this analysis, whenever I say "let batman be happy" I mean "let Batman enjoy his job" despite the pain, despite the death, despite the murder, despite the hypocritical nature of it all and how problematic it may be because it's a life he also chooses, not just out of compulsion, but because it's hands on, direct & purposeful. it gives him something to do & it gives him a chance to punch a problem in the face (which may be good or bad depending on what that problem is, but still)

that kind of depiction is what set up the groundwork for nearly every deconstruction that's come since but it's so buried in time at this point that lines from characters claiming bruce "loves being batman" seem to ring completely hollow

tbh, I think the old way of depicting Batman can be ( and as been in some media) woven into the way he's depicted today, in the past Batman was an outlet for every emotion Bruce Wayne had to hide elsewhere, a symbol of empathy, fury and passion, for modern Batman, I imagine those three things still hold true, layered on top of an alter ego that allows a modern Bruce Wayne to be weird and damaged and dark.

so uh, ln conclusion, I think batman enjoying what he does to a certain extent is a crucial aspect of his character that's been lost and withered and forgotten about, let him a have a little fun, we can discuss the ramifications of all that when discussion seems necessary

[lovelytsunoda]

god knows I’ve tried // yuki tsunoda

summary: stranded at her publishers office after the battery in her car dies, there’s only one person she wants to call for a jumpstart.

pairing: yuki tsunoda x lawson!reader

warnings: self-deprecating humor, y/n is very self critical, yuki is her night in shining armour, total lack of christmas spirit, anxiety.

author's note: this resonates so personally with me and i feel so fricking attached to this story and all the people in it. please treat it kindly :)

so go on judge me by my cover, and no I’ll never have another. baby I’ve been bad, but god knows I’ve tried to be good

it's too early for damn christmas lights, she huffed to herself as she left the office, juggling the volkswagen keys that dangled from her fingertips with the large cardboard box between her arms, staring at the lights and tinsel hung up on the light poles. cursing to herself and trying not to drop anything, she fumbled for the unlock button, ready to ditch the box in her trunk.

her volkswagen golf stood solitary and alone in the parking lot, no other cars for miles. if liam was here, he'd be asking where her pepper spray was, god forbid anything happen to his baby sister.

there was only a year between them, but sometimes she swore that liam acted as if there were five.

the cold dug into her skin as she hobbled through the parking lot, trying to keep her head on a swivel as she once again asked herself why she had parked so far away from any other car. she fumbled with the trunk button (which was unresponsive a lot more than it actually opened the trunk), unceremoniously dumping the box so hard that the small red car started to shake.

she slammed the trunk shut, frowning as she ran a fingertip over the small spot of rust that had begun to form where the silver letters proclaimed to the world what kind of car she drove met the painted trunk door.

she opened the car door, slipping into the driver's seat and staring at the overhead door lights, which had not illuminated as they were intended to when the door opens.

"motherfucker." she mumbled. "i'm gonna have to replace the latch, aren't i?" this was not new. she'd had multiple issues with the car, buying it from a dealership that advertised mostly on facebook.

never again, the next car she buys will be certified pre-owned from a volkswagen dealer, not a used car lot.

the latch would need replacing eventually: it had already locked up the door and prevented her from opening her car, even after smashing the unlock button on her keys five times. she rolled her eyes, closing the door and sliding the key into the ignition.

the key turned, but the car didn't start. growing increasingly panicked, she turned the key a few more times, the same ministrations that normally started up the ten year old car.

"fuck!" she howled, slamming her hands down on the steering wheel as the engine refused to turn over again. she reached for the headlight button, feeling her stomach drop to the floor when there was no response from the headlights.

the engine battery was dead.

she was stranded, alone, in a dark parking lot at night.

it didn't get more fucked than that.

she reached for her phone, the screen providing the only light source as she fumbled for the lock button, and making sure her finger hovered steadily over the panic alarm on her keys. just in case.

who was she going to call, she wondered, scrolling through her contacts. definitely not liam, she couldn't trouble him like that. remind him that she'd always need protecting. she could call her best friend, but the likelihood that margot would know what to do was slim. besides, she was probably out with her boyfriend if she wasn't at work.

her finger hovered over a name, and she debated long and hard if it was worth it, if she was really desperate enough to ask him for help. would he come? would he consider it strange that his best friend's baby sister was calling in the middle of the night because she was dumb enough to drain her car battery?

right now, it didn't look like she really had a choice. unless she wanted to call a tow truck and be out a couple hundred bucks.

"hello?"

"yuki, it's y/n. i need your help."

when the headlights of yuki's honda civic type r lit up the parking lot, she could have cried from relief. the dead battery also meant no heat, and she was chilled to the bone, teeth chattering together as she clutched her phone in one hand and her keys in the other.

"thank god you're here!" she blurted, scrambling out of the car as yuki pulled into the parking space on her passenger side. "i didn't know who else to call!"

ah, yes. yuki tusnoda. backlit by his headlights, he looked like a guardian angel. he'd been close with the lawsons since he came to england, being practically adopted when he moved in with liam at milton keynes, like some fucked up version of a college roommate scheme.

not to mention that he was funny, hot as hell, and she never knew if his cheerful, gentle ribbing meant he looked at her as more than a friend. every time he gifted her a casserole dish of something he had cooked, or invited her out when he and liam went somewhere, she couldn't help but think that maybe he liked her the way that she liked him.

in a way that was anything but just friendly.

"didn't you just get something fixed on your car?" yuki frowned popping his car hood open and digging around in his glove box for the jumper cables.

"i changed a headlight last week. the last major thing was the driveshaft, i couldn't fix that myself, had to take it in." she frowned, lifting up the hood of her own car, using her phone light to find the battery cover. "the car is a piece of shit, but at least it's reliable. and the driveshaft was covered by the dealership since it should have been on the safety certification and wasn't."

yuki frowned, untangling the cables before he dropped them to the pavement, peeling off his puffer jacket. "your lips are blue. take my jacket. i doubt liam would like it if let his little sister get hypothermia"

"pneumonia."

"same difference."

"not really." she laughed, pulling yuki's jacket over her own thin flannel trench coat. she hated wearing a thick winter coat when she drove, relying almost entirely on her car's heated seats to keep warm without suffocating.

"if i get sick because i sacrificed my jacket for you, i should hope that you'd be the one to take care of me. you know, since it was your own fault." yuki chuckled, hooking up the cables as y/n tried to keep warm

"fuck you. i could have stayed in the car."

"the car doesn't have heat either."

oh. yeah. she forgot about that one.

"well, i could have stayed in your fancy ass sports car." it didn't matter how she phrased it, she was just trying to butter him up. on a normal day, she made fun of him for driving a honda civic, calling it a 'mom-mobile'.

with the jumper cables fully connected, they both settled into the honda to wait it out. usually, the rule of thumb was fifteen minutes, but she wasn;t sure that she could stand to be in a car with yuki for that long without doing something reckless.

she slipped out of his jacket, moving to pass it to him before he gestured vaguely to the backseat. the heated seats were on, but she could still see the puffs of air leaving her body as she breathed heavily.

"thanks for coming. i didn't know who to call."

yuki turned to look at her, turning down the volume on the radio. it was a shame, too. she was quite enjoying 'teenage dirtbag'. "why didn't you call liam?"

"pride, i think. he's always been the favourite, the one that stuck with it, the one that made something of himself. i don't need to admit to him that i need help, that i don't know things. because i do, it just sometimes takes me a little longer to get it, or i give up too quickly."

yuki frowned. "liam worries about you, you know. he doesn't like seeing you upset. and he's always been proud of you, so have your parents."

she shivered, pulling her sleeves over her hands. "it's just always been more upfront with liam. they keep telling me that i give up on things too quickly. you know, i realized the other day that i don't really have any hobbies any more. outside of paint nights with the girls, i don't paint anymore. i don't do any sports. reading is really all i do any more."

"that doesn't define your worth, you know. you've got other things going on right now that are taking up your time." yuki encouraged, fiddling with the heating dial. "hey, speaking of which, what are you doing here so late at night?"

she groaned, tilting her head back. "god, this is embarrassing." she hid her head in her hands before turning back to yuki. "promise not to laugh too hard?"

"why would i laugh at you?"

"i was picking up advance copies of my first book." she turned and looked out the window, at the empty parking lot illuminated solely by yuki's headlights. "i've spent the better part of the last two years working on it, and i'm scared i'm going to fail at it like i failed at everything else."

she felt a warm hand overtop of hers. "that's incredible. that's such a major accomplishment, y/n. why are you doubting yourself? you've made it this far."

she smiled, turning to face him. "yeah, but how many people want to read about a detective in small-town new zealand who lives in a haunted house?"

yuki raised an eyebrow. "you already have my interest."

and what great author could resist going on and on about their latest endeavor?

"okay, so it's about this detective in new zealand, she's just moved to this small town as part of a so-called promotion, but really she was desperate and only took the job because she wanted out of the city, a nice change of scenery and whatever. but after she moves in, she finds out the house is haunted and the ghosts actually end up helping her solve her first big case."

she left out the part about how there were three ghosts: one was a dead rockstar, one was a nineteen-thirties midwife and the other was a dead nun. the witty banter between the group of them was a joy to write.

"she also has a crush on this guy who lives across the street. he's an autobody mechanic, with a collection of classic cars."

who totally wasn't inspired by yuki and his gorgeous brown eyes or luscious black hair. well, her one argument was that book guy was about a foot taller than yuki was.

"hell yeah, i'd read that." yuki laughed. "or i'd watch the movie, depending on how long the book was."

y/n laughed, and it felt good. it felt like it had bene forever since she laughed. "it's a cozy mystery series, so it's supposed to make you laugh, be predictable. i took notes from agatha christie, the best of the best. i just hope that the general consumer market also sees it that way."

"i'm sure you'll do fine. as long as it's not like, five hundred pages long, i can't see why anybody wouldn't want to read it."

catching y/n's eye, yuki snickered. "it's not that long, is it?"

"no, it's just under three hundred. they made me cut the sex scenes out."

she watched yuki's eyes go wide, before she burst out laughing as well.

"i'm kidding!" she giggled. "i'm kidding, there aren't any sex scenes in cozy mysteries."

despite how warm the car was, a shiver went down yukis spine at the thought that the innocent, angelic young woman sitting next him, separated only only by the center console, had written numerous sex scenes.

“would you read it? now that you know how many pages it has?”

“yes.” yuki insisted. “of course I would. Liam’s shown me some of your novellas. you are such a good writer. a real talent.”

she yawned, leaning back against the leather seat with a yawn and a shake of her head. “if this book crashes and burns, I’ll remind you you said that. hey, would you be willing to give me a starred review to print on the back cover?”

yuki hummed for a minute, looking up at the sunroof and then back at the girl sitting next to him. “hmm, great mystery, lovely author, not enough sex and could use more descriptions of food.” he joked, playfully gripping her shoulder.

“yeah, yeah. you think you’re so funny.” she laughed, pushing his arm off her shoulder. “but I’m glad that you’re here. you make much better company than my brother does.”

yukis hand dropped to her thigh, thumb gently rubbing along her jeans. “always. any time you need me, you know I’m a phone call away.”

yeah, bust she wished he was closer than even that. and if she kept staring into his dark ocean eyes, she feared she’d do something she’d regret. something impulsive and reckless and foolish but god damn would it have felt fucking good.

“y/n, you good? you’re kind of staring into space there.” yuki frowned, waving a nimble hand in front of her face, trying to capture her attention.

she chuckled. “not space, just the dashboard lights.”

“isn’t that a meat loaf song?”

she laughed, the sound coming from so deep in her chest as she turned to look at yuki. really, it shouldn’t have been that funny. all she knew was that she really, really wanted to kiss him.

she didn’t wait, lunging across the center console, hands shaking nervously as she rested them on either side of his face, pressing her chapped lips to his.

she had to hold herself back from moaning as yuki kissed her back, his warm hand caressing her sides under her open trench coat.

his touch was soft, safe, and comforting. but it was also electric, and left her wanting more when he finally pulled away for air.

“your car is probably charged”. he said nervously, blushing pink as he wiped away the saliva from his mouth. “I’d hate to kiss and run, but you probably want to get home.”

she rested her forehead against his, laughing softly as he rubbed his thumb over her wrist. “at least take me out to dinner before you kiss me and leave me hanging.”

“it’s a little late for dinner, but how does a late night caramel sundae sound?” he suggested weakly, shrugging his shoulders. mcdonalds was hardly first date material, but he knew he didn’t want this night to end, didn’t want to risk losing this magical moment.

“you drive and I’ll follow?”

“sounds good.” yuki grinned, kissing her again. “but just let me kiss you for a few more minutes to make sure that battery is well and truly charged.”

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @lorarri @cartierre @sidcrosbyspuck @userlando @httpiastri @love4lando @oconso @thatsdemko @monzabee

[wqnwoos]

“it looks like something you’d find in a museum,” jeonghan says, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. “it’s abstract.”

“hannie, it’s meant to be a fucking chair.”

you let out a long groan, and fall backwards onto the floor, throwing the ikea manual into the air. “why can’t they just put words with the pictures? captions? something useful?”

jeonghan only laughs, brushing a hand over your forehead. the both of you are sat on the floor, in front of a confusing amalgamation of wood and screws and scattered cardboard boxes. “i think we’re doing great. we did the bookshelf today!”

“that bookshelf is like a smaller version of the leaning tower of pisa,” you deadpan, sending a dirty look to the offending object, that is, indeed, teetering dangerously in the corner of the room. “we’re awful at this — and you!” you accuse, so suddenly that he actually jumps. “i thought you’d at least be good at this!”

“me? why?”

“i don’t know! you like lego!” you wave a hand dismissively. “how different are they really?”

“is that a serious question?”

“no.” this time, you flop sideways, into his lap with another, longer sigh. “i’m tired.”

“i can tell,” jeonghan says and softens, patting your head gently. “it’s 2 in the morning, angel. we can sleep and then try again, hm?”

“don’t wanna move.” your voice comes out muffled, pillowing your head on his thigh and squinting up at him.

“i can leave you here,” he suggests, grinning slyly when you whine in protest. “i’m kidding! i’m joking. let’s go.”

and he pulls you by the hand to the bathroom, helps you wash your face, hums you to sleep when you ask him to — and when the bookshelf finally does fall, at 4:37 in the morning, jolting jeonghan out of his sleep, you barely even stir. only cuddle closer to the warmth of his arm, so peaceful he can’t even be annoyed at you.

he doesn’t mind, he realises, that the bookshelf has fallen over or the chairs look like abstract sculptures. because all of it belongs to him and to you — together. recently things have changed from mine to ours, and it makes everything, even the collapsing furniture, so much sweeter.

an / ok so i’ve already published this one once and it got like 3 notes before i impulsively deleted it so if it’s familiar. that’s why. also this is a queued post!

taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya

[httpskuzuu]

Please, Fedya

idk why, but I'm very embarrassed to publish this

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes.

tw: kidnapping, yandere, mention of: broken bones, abuse, isolation, bad mental health, punishment and escape attempt (nothing explicit really), stockholm syndrome, fyodor is a general tw

Your life with Fyodor had been good, as good as a life with a kidnapper could be, but you would never admit that out loud, it would be too hard a blow to your dignity.

At first everything was hell, Fyodor was the definition of cruel, it took you months to be able to get out of the 4 walls where he locked you up, in complete darkness. It screwed up your eyesight, your sleep and your overall health, physical and mental. He at least fixed those problems, paid for your eye surgery, gave you vitamin D supplements, helped you by fixing your sleep schedule, etc.

It wasn't so bad, except that not all the issues could be fixed, your mental health was horrible, it still is, you doubted he could fix that.

Before you had all that help Fyodor gave you, you had to change your behavior, you were always a fighter and with Fyodor it would be no exception. The turning point of your behavior was the night you tried to escape. He caught you, as punishment he broke both your legs and your fingers, he also left you in complete isolation, you don't know for how long. Since that punishment, you never disobeyed Fyodor again, not intentionally at least.

As time went by, and when he saw that your meek behavior was not a lie, he began to give you more liberties. One of the most important for you was the freedom to go outside, obviously accompanied by Fyodor.

Also, with that freedom to go out, you realized that Fyodor liked to treat you like a doll. Every time he allowed you to go out he was the one who dressed you, you had no voice or vote in that.

On those outings, you realized that the place you were in was Russia, you didn't know specifically which part. Before arriving in Russia, you had never seen snow in person, so it was beautiful the first time.

Today was one of those days that Fyodor allowed you to go out.

He dressed you in warm clothes and took you to a coffee shop. It was nicer than you thought it would be, not only because you went outside, but because your talks with Fyodor were pleasant.

By the time you left the coffee shop, it was getting dark, but you convinced Fyodor to go to a local bookstore and buy some books. It wasn't for you to read it (you didn't understand Russian and Fyodor had never tried to teach you so you couldn't communicate with others), it was for Fyodor to read it to you, it was an activity that, surprisingly, you enjoyed very much. You left the bookstore with a book of poems whose cover caught your attention.

Walking on your way home you heard high-pitched meowing coming from an alley, you stopped your steps and, consequently, to Fyodor, who was holding your hand.

"What is it, милый?"

"I heard meowing." Your gaze did not move from the alley.

You let go of Fyodor's hand and headed down the alley, Fyodor followed you closely until you reached a cardboard box lying on the ground.

You bent down and opened the box to find an orange furred cat, it was about the size of your hand and very thin. You wondered what kind of horrible person had abandoned such a cat.

You petted it and the cat reacted affectionately, rubbing its head against your hand. You laughed at the action and turned your head to see Fyodor standing behind you, still standing. "Please, Fedya, let's keep him."

Fyodor wasn't a big fan of cats, or animals in general, it wasn't that he hated them, but he preferred not to have pets. But there you were, begging him for an abandoned cat, and, well, you were being on excellent behavior, so he needed to give you a reward, right?

"Okay, but you'll be the one to take care of it." You nodded quickly as you grabbed the cat, pulled him against your chest, and covered him up as best you could with your coat.

The two of you walked out of the alley, you were petting the cat's little head as you smiled. Fyodor just looked at you, appreciating how cute you looked when you were happy. He thought that, perhaps, he could do more things to see that smile of yours more often.

[dira333]

Of Godzilla and the Night Sky - Iwaizumi x reader

Finally done - tagging @shoulmate and @emmyrosee because for some reason Osamu had to play wingman in this one - come get your man

It helps that Miya Osamu is roughly your age. 

“Please,” you say, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I’m a quick learner!”

He eyes you for a moment. His face does not tell you anything and you suppose you can’t fault him for saying no. You’ve got no experience waiting tables and he’s not exactly looking for an employee.

“You can start tomorrow,” he agrees finally. “Do you have some time to go over everything right now or are you willing to come in earlier tomorrow?”

“I don’t have to be anywhere right now,” you stutter around and he nods, beckons you behind the counter.

This is how it starts. This is how it ends.

You’ve paid off your publisher instead of writing the last novel in your contract.

You’re free but without a job, almost all your savings have gone toward that freedom.

You’ve got no proper training but the almost forgotten two weeks you spent photocopying papers in your father's office when you were fourteen.

Maybe you’ve written too many romance books, have searched for too many signs where there had been none given, but the glowing sign of an Onigiri shop had called you in like a beacon in the stormy sea called life.

-

“Welcome to Onigiri Miya!” You greet with a friendly smile. Atsumu throws an arm around you and pulls you in.

“This is what I was talking about!” He calls out to his brother. “No one wants to see your ugly face when they come in. This is a smile that makes me want to eat.”

“Gross,” Sakusa mutters right behind him but while his mask hides his mouth, you can tell by his eyes that he sends you a smile.

Most of Atsumu’s team comes by at least once a week. High on adrenaline after a win, for team bonding, as Meian calls it, or just to lick their wounds after a particularly nasty loss. They’re not easy, with Atsumu, Hinata and Bokuto all fighting for your attention while Inunaki keeps ribbing and teasing whoever he can get to. But they’re still under your favorite customers and sometimes, when the ruckus dies down a little, Sakusa comes to sit at the bar, mask put away, and asks about your day. You know Osamu thinks he likes you and Atsumu constantly tries to set the two of you up on a date.

But you know better. 

“How’s moving going?” You ask when Sakusa takes a seat at the bar, far away from where the rest of his teammates are trying to drink each other under the table.

Sakusa smiles softly. “It’s going well, thank you. But I’ve come to loathe the feeling of cardboard boxes. It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You are very particular in your likes and dislikes, aren’t you?”

He cocks his head to the side as if waiting for something. You sigh. “But you have great taste.” You add and he smiles smugly. 

Ever since you met his girlfriend - and was sworn to secrecy by him right after - he’s come to collect that particular comment almost every time the two of you talk.

“But enough about me,” He eyes the counter for a second before placing his elbows on the surface and leaning in. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing okay,” you tell him sincerely. “Osamu pays well and I don’t have that many expenses. I keep going like this I should be fine.”

“Hmm,” he eyes you suspiciously. “But you miss writing?”

You tense, throwing a look over his shoulder to check for people listening in. But they are still absorbed in their drinking game.

“I’m not… I miss the rush of it when the story would just… flow out of me. But I don’t have anything to tell right now and I don’t want to sit at my desk for hours staring at an empty document. That’s… That’s worse than cleaning the bathrooms after someone had the spicy Onigiri’s.”

Sakusa pulls a face but he nods, understanding. “I’m sure it will come back. But it’s good that you don’t have to rush anything, right?”

You smile. Yeah. It’s good. Life’s good.

-

“Welcome to Onigiri Miya!” You greet with a smile, hoping against hope that the nervous beating of your heart does not show on your face.

Atsumu reaches you first, slinging an arm around you before bounding off towards their table. There’s Hinata and Bokuto who hug you, Kageyama and Ushijima who nod at you in greeting, before Sakusa winks at you and steps aside to let Iwaizumi greet you.

The smile on his face makes your stomach flip a little but you keep your smile in place.

“Good to see you could come in again,” you tell him. He pulls you into a hug, warm and comforting, his scent washing over you like a wave of fondness. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he whispers into your ear before he pulls away again. 

“Come on, Coach!” Atsumu calls from the table, “We’re hungry!”

“Tell your brother then!” Hoshiumi crows right before Suna yells “Samu!” through the restaurant.

“Yeez, I’m here!” Osamu calls out from the kitchen. “And I’m not deaf, have some manners, will ya?!”

Iwaizumi takes his place at the table. It’s no coincidence that you come to stand right next to him to take their orders. It hasn’t been that long since they come in regularly after Friday’s training, Japan Men’s National Volleyball Team taking up most of the available space. It’s no loss in profit to keep the restaurant reserved for their team meetings and you’ve certainly enjoyed yourself ever since the first time Sakusa ventured over, Iwaizumi in tow, to introduce the two of you.

You like him. A lot, actually. There’s a warmth in his eyes that you seems to increase every time he looks at you. His interest in you is calm but sincere, and he remembers even the small things you mention offhandedly - like how you were worried that the plants you own could be poisonous to the kitten you found on the street or how your favorite brand of coffee has been discontinued. You like that he takes things slowly but is never careless about the meaning of his words. You wish, for the first time in forever, that you could write a story that feels like him. 

…

“Can I walk you home?” Iwaizumi asks as the team’s clearing out. You’re disinfecting the table, almost jerking up from surprise.

“I… uh…” You throw a look at Osamu who grins. 

“Go,” he insists. “I can take care of this.”

You live barely fifteen minutes away and while you’ve longed for a shorter distance on particularly rainy days, you loathe the shortness of your walk tonight. Iwaizumi’s warmth seems to seep into you just from walking next to him. His laugh vibrates through the air in a way you can almost see.

“I used to paint doors,” you recall as you walk, not really sure what question of his got you to this answer, “Hoping I’d be able to open them and step into different worlds.”

“Do you like that idea?” He asks, “To step out of this world, to get away?”

“Not necessarily to get away. It’s more like… What’s out there, you know?”

He nods slowly, eyes straight ahead. You wait, trusting the time he takes to think.

“When I was a kid, I used to capture Cicada’s. But I always let them go again. I felt sorry for them, I think, because their life’s so short anyway.”

“But you still caught them.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, rubs his neck awkwardly, “What does that say about you?”

“I don’t know, but… maybe you knew that they did not belong to you, but you still wanted to hold on to them for a moment. Like friends? We don’t own them, they don’t belong to us, but we still wish we could keep them close.”

“That’s a weird analogy,” Iwaizumi teases you and you can’t help but laugh about it. “Yeah, but it’s late, so I’ll blame it on that.”

Your apartment block appears in front of you. You stop, not wanting the time to end. A small white face appears in your living room window, peering down at you. 

“Do you own a ghost?” Iwaizumi asks and you laugh. “No, that’s my kitten. She’s got a black body and a white head, so I named her Onigiri.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “You are quite creative with names. But I guess Onigiri wants you to come inside, so I won’t keep you any longer.”

It’s as awkward as it is not, to stand in front of each other, unsure on how to say goodbye. It’s Iwaizumi. It’s Iwaizumi.

When he hugs you, you wish he would have kissed you but you still sink into his arms like you always do, trying to imprint his warmth into your skin to last you until next Friday.

…

That night you can’t fall asleep.

Around midnight you find yourself in front of your computer, typing away, too tired to really think about the words flowing from your fingertips. But there are cicadas and little boys and doors leading to nowhere and everywhere at all.

-

“Welcome to Onigiri Miya!” You burst out, a little breathless from running. Just seconds ago you’d been helping Myamura in the backroom when the bell over the door alerted you of new customers. Iwaizumi’s grinning and you can feel your own lips pull into a wide smile at his sight, your hands already moving to grasp his. 

“I’ve got something for you!” You tell him before you can back out, glad that he came in alone today, just like you hoped he would. After all, it’s not Friday.

“Really? But I have nothing for you-” He starts, breaking off when you come back. “Is that a book?”

“Yes. Well, a manuscript, you could say. I wanted you to read it first. It’s a little silly and I might not sell it after all, because, you know, the whole thing about Godzilla-”

“You didn’t?!” His voice flips a little, his eyes wide. “You really wrote that silly little thing I mentioned?”

“Not silly at all!” You promise, still beaming. “I’m still working on a title, but I think “My best friend Godzilla” is a strong contender.”

Before you can react, think, feel even, Iwaizumi pulls you into a crushing hug. Your head sinks against his shoulder like it’s an instinct, like your body instantly knows where it belongs. 

You could have stayed there longer, warm and safe in his embrace, if not for Osamu pointedly clearing his throat behind you.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” you pull back, “I was supposed to help Myamura.”

“Are you staying?” Osamu asks Iwaizumi over your head, handy busy as he speaks. Iwaizumi shakes his head and you feel your heart drop a little before he turns back to you with an apologetic smile. 

“I’ll see you on Friday. I’ll try to finish the book until then.”

“Oh, you don’t have-”

“I do.” He leans forward, pressing his lips against your temple in a move bolder than anything else he’s done before. You freeze and when he pulls away, his face is flushed and his voice hoarse as he bids you goodbye.

Osamu’s sending you a look that you pointedly ignore, skipping down the hallway to where Myamura’s waiting for you. Your heart’s somewhere in Iwaizumi’s back pocket, beating as fast as a hummingbirds wing as it follows him wherever he goes.

-

“Closing up?” Iwaizumi’s voice reaches you where you’re currently wiping the tables, exhaustion pulling on your limbs. His voice is soft and filled with warmth and something else you can only hear when he talks to you. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, surprise evident in your voice. The doors should have been closed already.

“Osamu let me in,” he explains, stepping closer and pulling you into a hug. You sink into the embrace, the way he holds you threatening to put you to sleep.

“What are you doing here, though?” You ask again, trying to fight the exhaustion. “It’s not even Friday yet.”

“I finished the book. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Oh?” You pull back, anxiety filling your stomach. Suddenly you’re no longer tired.

His smile sets you at ease. It’s that small smile he gets when he’s proud of something but doesn’t want to boast about it. You’ve seen it happen a lot with the team but never directed at you, never like this.

“Well, I… uh…” You turn around, trying to figure out what else you’ve got to do before you can call it a night.

“You can go home,” Osamu’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m your boss,” he points out, voice much too warm for his choice of words, “Go before I reconsider.”

…

“I never thought I’d get to read a story about a bitter Biologist who befriends Godzilla and learns to love humankind again because of that friendship.”

You laugh. “But you put that idea in my head. Why is it so surprising?” 

“Oh, don’t put this on me!” Iwaizumi puts a hand on his heart as he walks and it looks so much like Atsumu’s usual antics that you can’t help but giggle even as he talks on. “I only said it would be cool to see humans from Godzilla’s point of view. You created everything around it.”

“What was the best part?” You ask, nudging his side with your elbow. “Of the story?”

To your surprise he falls quiet, staring up into the night. You can’t see any stars through the fog of millions of streetlights, but somewhere above you they still exist. You look up as well, hoping to find what he’s looking for, hoping to find some calm when your heart’s still beating much too fast, much too far away. 

“I might butcher it, but I want to quote it.” He starts and your mouth turns dry when he looks at you like that, like he’s found the stars in your eyes instead of the night sky. “I saw the world as black and white before I met you. Too many wrongs and not enough rights, as if the world had turned into a night sky and one has to squint to make out the little shimmering dots of good in the blackness of bad. But you turned the night into morning, black into the soft lavender hues of a sun rising.”

“Hajime,” you breathe out and his lips pull into a smile you’ve never seen before. It’s wide and daring but softer than anything you’ve ever seen before. 

“I love your book,” he says, voice strong and confident now, “Because you put into words what I felt but didn’t know how to explain. And you told me how you felt too.”

“I-I did?”

His hands take yours, his skin warm, his hold strong. There’s something like amusement shimmering in his eyes. 

“Somewhere in the middle of the book you messed up. Our bitter Biologist was suddenly named Hajime. I can believe some coincidences but not this one.”

You swallow thickly. He pulls you forward and you sink into him like it was always meant to be. His lips press against your temple and you wonder, not for the first time, how one step to the left can lead you down the right path all along.

my Kofi if you want to tip me

[idkfitememate]

FOX!CREATOR NEEDS TO VISIT YAE PUBLISHING HOUSE AND MEET GOROU! MAYBW IN FRONT OF A MISS HINA POSTER WHERE ITTO ALSO HAPPENS TO BE? AHHHHHHH

This wasn’t supposed to happen this wasn’t supposed to happened this wasn’t supposed to happen this wasn’t sup-

You just wanted to nap. And Itto understood that. He wanted to get a book by Miss. Hina, and you decided you wanted to rest around his shoulders.

He promised to not squeal if he saw any Miss. Hina posters.

So everything was fine right?

Wrong.

Because OF COURSE Gorou would be here. OF COURSE he would. WHY WOULDN’T HE??

You barely had your eyes opened and yet you saw the man before Itto had. Quickly and quietly, you shoved your tail in front of his eyes, causing him to chuckle - he assumed you were still asleep.

You looked up at the General who was now facing the large chuckling Oni who was messing with the fox tail in front of your eyes, and a fox who was looking at him with urgency.

You pointed in another direction and tried to make a shooing motion to get him to leave, only for him to tilt his head… it was honestly really cute DAMN IT-

A huff escaped your lips and you continued to shoo him, but then Itto finally managed to move your tail and you curled up again to appear to be sleeping.

He looked around before locking eyes with Gorou.

“OH. MY. ARCHONS!!!! MISS. HINA!!?!?!?!”

Fuck.

You felt him start to run over to the now wide eyed dog boy, so before he could really start running, you nipped his neck. He hissed slightly before looking down at a glaring you.

“Ah… right… sorry マイ・リトル・ナンバー・ドス. HEY MISS. HINA! I’LL HAVE TO TALK TO YOU LATER!! OKAY BYE!!”

You slapped your head before leaping down off the man’s shoulders. You could hear him questioning what you were doing as you walked up to the cardboard cut-out of ‘Miss. Hina’ and began to drag it over to the still noticeable confused Gorou.

You hopped up into his shoulders, then head, which made him yelp, before swatting at ‘Miss. Hina’.

You watched as Itto looked at the cut-out, then Gorou, then the cut-out, then Gorou, then the cut-out, then Gorou. You have never felt more disappointment in your life.

Finally the lights turned on upstairs as Itto looked wide eyed at Gorou, before pointing and in a betrayed voice shouted:

“YOU’RE NOT MISS. HINA!!!!”

… To which the General replied with:

“No???? Who even are you???”

You sighed and hopped down, beginning to walk away from the honestly pathetic sight. Finding Shinobu nearby - watching from the shadows of course - you yippee at her, causing her arm to shoot out to you. You leapt up and curled around her neck to rest as she continued to watch.

“I love the guy, I really do, but really?” She mused. Her hand began to scratch behind your ear.

“At least we have you to help keep him in check right?” You yipped in response, a nod following. “Yeah… but even you have your limits, it seems.” She chuckled.

You huffed and curled closer, finally returning to the wonderful world of sleep.

Fox!Creator didn’t sign up for this shit. The would probably love staying home with Granny Oni. But then… how would we get all these stories??? Hehe poor fox ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১

*My littler numero dos - Itto to you

I’m sorry but this guy is not good a nicknames and I stick by that headcannon-

[icycoldninja]

hey so i was thinking: Sparda Boys and V with a writer S/O? take as long as you need to with this (writer's block is kicking my ass rn sadly but) , i don't really mind

Hey I feel that bro, enjoy and hopefully your inspiration will return to you 💜

Sparda Boys + V x Writer!Reader headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-He's not a scholar and knows next to nothing about books since he rarely reads, but if his sweetheart is writing stuff, by God, he will read whatever they put out there.

-Uses you as a human dictionary whenever he comes across new words, not understanding that that's not the purpose of a writer.

-"Hey babe, what's this word?"

"What word?"

"Uhh...Ink-Can-Dress-Ant."

"What?"

"Ink-can-dress-ant, I think that's how you say it."

"How's it spelled?"

"I-N-C-A-N-D-E-S-C-E-N-T."

"Incandescent, Dante, not ink-can-dress-ant."

-He'll be the first to read your work and is very proud of this fact. He, Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter, is also your private beta reader. Awesome.

-Oddly enough, him reading all your works results in him developing a larger vocabulary--something that shocked everyone, especially Vergil.

-Congratulations! Thanks to you, Dante can use big words now!

■ Vergil ■

-You, a writer, are dating Vergil, the biggest bookworm on the planet? You are now Vergil's goddess.

-He wants to read everything, regardless of its quality. He'll visually devour all the words off the page, absorbing every word.

-You two now have yet another topic to nerd out about; you can spend hours chatting about books, writing techniques, and so on.

-Vergil is filled with a sense of pride whenever he reads your published writing; it pleases him so much to know you're growing your talents.

-He has an entire bookshelf dedicated to your books and takes special care of these books. They're more than just words on pages bound by cardboard and leather; they're treasures.

-Will take up writing as well, just so he can be closer to you.

□ Nero □

-Nero is not a bookworm by any sense of the word; he's read a few books in his time, but he's more combat oriented.

-Doesn't mind being a beta reader for anything you write.

-Your works have inspired him to take up reading again, and in doing so, he unleashes his inner book nerd. Like father, like son.

-He's always looking forward to whatever you write, and when you get writers block (as we all do) he'll take you out to a park, or a peaceful lake, in the hopes that the natural beauty of your surroundings might restore your creative juices.

-He, too, has a collection of all your works and keeps them proudly on display on a nice bookshelf in his house.

-Encourages you daily to keep writing because now he's addicted to reading your work. You really have changed him.

● V ●

-Oh congratulations, you've found yourself a soul mate.

-V loves to read (he totes his copy of William Blake poetry around and reads from it all the time, even in the middle of battle) and is more than happy to read your books.

-V is also a writer himself; he writes poetry, as we know. Because of this, he understands more than anyone the pain of writer's block and knows just what to do about it.

-He'll arrange for a relaxing movie/reading night, which in his experience, helps restore your creativity.

-If that doesn't work, Griffon's loud mouth and wise-guy (yet funny) jokes will take your mind off of things.

-V understands literature and knows all sorts of obscure things about famous literary figures; so much so that you two can converse for hours on end just gabbing away about books, their authors, and other interesting tidbits of knowledge.

[embyrinitalics]

There’s a bookstore in my town,

with a dead man’s dream inside.

It’s a labyrinth of crooked bookshelves

with hardly space to pass between them

And stacks of paperbacks

in uneven towers on the floor.

The owner died two years ago

(of cancer, not of Covid)

And his shop’s been sitting locked up

since the December before last.

There’s a bookstore in my town

with a dead man’s dream inside

And twenty years of inventory

in cardboard boxes in the back.

An estate sale company

opened the doors today.

I spent two hours rifling

through books that were a dollar each.

I chose them by their faded spines

and handwritten names on the leafs;

Some had dates inside as old as 1882

and crossed out addresses from when their owners moved from Jersey to New York.

I kept one on atomic theory, published 1921—

hardbound, and navy blue, and vibrating in my hands.

I couldn’t leave it there.

It was vibrating in my hands

With hope and potential

and all the innocence

Of a book written

before there was a bomb.

It felt like something worth protecting

so I took it home.

I’ll probably never read it.

I think it’s too advanced for me.

There’s a bookstore in my town

with a dead man’s dream inside.

It’s closing down for good today

round about four o’ clock.

I stood in a dark corner

where unalphabetized biographies spilled over into children’s books

And tried not to cry

for all the books

About to be forgotten

(It’s 3:15 now).

I’ll wait forty-five minutes.

For authenticity.

There’s no bookstore in my town.

ㅤ

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: A New Scam

L Ron Hubbard: hey friends its me again, your old pal Honest Ron Poe: what's your scam this time ron Hubbard: i'm hurt, friend, hurt! Hubbard: i'm just an honest merchant, a purveyor of quality goods, services, and occasional religions!

Poe: ron every time you come here you've got some new scam Poe: we're not falling for it again Poe: right guys? King: that's right Koontz: yeah! Barker: we're not that stupid Lovecraft: not this time ron! Hubbard: well i just happen to have this machine that'll put a star on your belly

Hubbard: are you feeling blue, friend? melancholy? down in the dumps? Hubbard: [holding colander] listen friends i got the cure for what ails you Poe: how does it work? Hubbard: you just put it on your head and, bzzt, presto! Hubbard: all your thetans are cleared out!

Hubbard: i'll demonstrate for ya Hubbard: i just need a volunteer from the audience Hubbard: you, sir! Hubbard: now you you've never seen me before right? Jack Parsons: uh yes that is correct Poe: then how come his face is on the colander? Hubbard: Parsons:

Hubbard: you're the worst shill I've ever seen, parsons! Hubbard: you're a disgrace to whole patent religion business! Hubbard: this isn't working, i need a new scam Hubbard: hmm what's this AI thing I've been hearing about

Hubbard: step right up, step right up Hubbard: are you tired of the rat race? tired of always writing stories using boring old human ingenuity? Hubbard: is your writing too sparkling? too vital? too inspired? Hubbard: well i got the cure for you right here Hubbard: an endless fire hose of tasteless gray slurry

Poe: how does it work? Hubbard: it's simple! Hubbard: [readying hose] just open wide

Hubbard: take a spin on our patented, bona fide, genuine AI chat bot and you'll agree: I'll never read human-produced art again! Margaret Atwood: [under cardboard box, through vocoder] beep boop plagiarism-o-tron lives

Hubbard: soon all the publishers will be using plagiarism-o-tron Hubbard: archaic things like human writers will be a thing of the past! Poe: no one will want to read this garbage! Hubbard: thats ok, human readers will be a thing of the past too! Hubbard: just robots writing for robots

Hubbard: with this new genuine, bona fide AI you'll never have to pay a writer EVER again-- Harlan Ellison: [instantly appears, smashes plagiarism-o-tron with one blow] HARLAN SMASH!!!

Hubbard: okay okay i can take a hint Hubbard: seems you folks don't like AI Hubbard: don't worry, don't worry, i got a million of 'em Hubbard: how bout some beanie babies? pokeman cards? princess diana commemorative plates? 

[opencommunion]

"'Nothing, absolutely nothing, justifies what we have witnessed here,' says Dr Mohammed Tahir, an orthopaedic surgeon from London. 'People bring in their children, who are dead on arrival, and want us to try to resuscitate them – even though their bodies show no sign of life. They then leave carrying the limbs of their dead children in cardboard boxes.'

'The Palestinian medical students are the real heroes,' says Tahir. 'They have had their universities destroyed and flock to us for any knowledge we can impart that may help them, help others. They are young volunteers, who aren’t getting paid, but turn up to work every day, trying desperately to prop up a failing health system because the world has failed them.' One day, the doctors say they visited the sites of the destroyed Nasser and al-Shifa hospitals, where the mass graves of hundreds of Palestinians were recently discovered, many stripped naked with their hands tied, according to reports published by the UN human rights office.

'It was apocalyptic,' says Dr Laura Swoboda, a wound care specialist from Wisconsin. 'The sheer destruction was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Decomposing bodies still stuck beneath the rubble. All around us, we could smell death.'

As she walked among the debris, Swoboda says she saw overturned ambulances and a burned-out dialysis centre; medical supplies scattered everywhere and the sound of black body bags flapping in the wind. 'There were notes scribbled on the walls of theatre rooms by doctors who had been hiding there,' says Swoboda.

... 'One day I went to the emergency room and lying on a stretcher was a small boy, the exact same size as my four-year-old son; his ashened baby hands were becoming toddler hands,' says Kattan. 'His name was Mahmoud and he was a victim of an Israeli bombing campaign that left more than 75% of his body burnt. His eyebrows were singed off, his hair smelt of smoke.'

Mahmoud lay crying in pain as Kattan unwrapped his wounds; an ultrasound revealed a shattered spleen and crushed lungs. 'We did not have the resources to save him and he died in front of us – cold and in pain with no one who knew him,' she says, holding back tears. 'I wish I could have protected him. He was only four.'"