#for the sake of balance lol

[batrachised]

Now I would love to know who YOUR favorite LM Montgomery character is?

This changes with the day, the hour, the moment lol because she wrote so many fantastic characters, and similar to your experience, as I get older, I identify with more and more of them! My favorite character often becomes whoever I happen to be discussing at the moment (Barney is so rich, Dean Priest is a universe of complexity, Mrs. Rachel Lynde is Mrs. Rachel Lynde, Mark Greaves is a personal comedic favorite--he'd definitely have a tumblr account, and the list goes on.) When I was little (are ya'll ready to be surprised?) I would have said Beverly from The Story Girl. Idk man, I just really liked him! He seemed cool! I always wanted to know more about what happened to him and Sara Stanley!

Now, though, I'm going to take a brave and wild stab at pinning down who it is. Walter Blythe is forever at the top of the list, and because Jane of Lantern Hill is on the mind, I'm going to add Andrew Stuart. Walter fascinates me in being a standout male character amongst the rest and his need to, as I just read in an academic article earlier, keep his feelings secret from the rest of the world! Andrew Stuart is just delightful. His story imo kind of hints at the grown-up novel LM Montgomery sometimes talked about, in that you know he suffers from PTSD, he's on the brink of divorce, his career didn't go anywhere he wanted it too, he's estranged from his daughter, he's arrogant and sometimes not self-aware, he married '~above his station', he has the worst mother in law in the known and explored universe but his own family is also far from great - his background, although never fleshed out in full, is practically dripping with more Serious Adult Topics. I reread Lantern Hill for Jane, but there's another novel peeking through it that I would have liked to see.

Also, Uncle Benjamin.

[luxaofhesperides]

For ghostlights: baby Ellie + tired Danny + Duke the baby whisperer?

He has no idea how his parents did it. 

Babies are exhausting. Toddlers more so. Any infants in the strange stage in-between? Doubly so. 

Ellie is wonderful and sweet and cute and such a terror that Danny genuinely has no idea how his parents managed to raise not one, but two kids. For all their eccentricities and absent-mindedness, he and Jazz turned out pretty well. Ignoring the whole halfa thing because that’s more his fault than theirs even if Jazz says they shouldn’t have created the dangerous environment in the first place.

That environment is exactly why Danny refuses to let Ellie go to his house in Amity Park. His parents say they’ve disabled all the weapons and ecto-sensors since he’s had to reveal himself as Phantom, but he knows that things slip their minds and if they can’t guarantee that the house is safe, then Ellie isn’t going in there. Simple as that. 

This means that they live somewhere else now. Danny had thought about it, during the hours Ellie was asleep and he was awake, exhausted and worn down to his bones, and took Jazz’s advice to accept Vlad’s offer of buying a house for him. Except he argued Vlad down to an apartment in a city of his choosing where he wouldn’t stand out too much and he would be safe, or as safe as he can be, from anyone trying to hunt down ghosts. 

So here they are. Standing in the empty living room of their new apartment in Gotham. 

Gotham may not be very safe as a city, but it’s good for two ghosts trying to pass as normal. 

Danny sighs yet again, and looks at the space he’ll need to fill. At least Vlad is footing the bill. It’s the least he can do for creating Ellie. Frostbite was the one who was able to stabilize her, though it was almost too late and resulted in her reforming as a baby, just one and a half years old. Jazz is the one who’s choosing most of the furniture, thankfully, so it’s something that Danny doesn’t need to worry about it.

It’s a new start to their lives and it feels so empty. So overwhelming. How did his parents do it? How do any parents do it?

Ellie smacks a small palm against his cheek and babbles lightly.

“I know, Ellie,” Danny says, giving her a tired smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll have this place looking good in no time.”

He adjusts her in his arms, then heads towards the bedroom. It’s the only room that has any furniture, and all that’s there is a bed, a crib, and a bookcase. There are a few boxes on the floor, labeled ‘bedroom’ and ‘clothing’ and ‘books’. Most of it came from his bedroom in Amity Park, but he’s pretty sure he caught Jazz sneaking a few things in before they closed the boxes and loaded them up into the car. 

“Can you be good for five minutes?” he asks Ellie. 

She babbles again and smacks his shoulder.

“I’m taking that as an agreement. Just let me open these boxes and start unpacking before you start causing trouble, okay?”

Ellie makes another sound, but it seems agreeable so Danny carefully lays her down in the crib and gets to peeling off the tape on the boxes. The opens the one labeled ‘bedroom’ first, finding blankets and sheets folded and stacked in vacuum sealed bags. One of them is his old childhood blanket, the one he carried around everywhere that was faded with age, barely blue, with white bunnies decorating it. 

He was so small when he had this. It makes him oddly emotional to unpack it and pass it on to Ellie, draping it over her so her pudgy little hands can grab at it. 

This is no time to cry, though! He forces himself to focus and makes his own bed, shaking out the sheets and fluffing up the pillows. He’ll worry about washing everything later; Vlad made sure to get an apartment with an in-unit washer and dryer, which means he was actually sensible while apartment hunting for Danny. 

He doesn’t mean to flop onto the bed once it’s made, but he ends up there anyways. He’s barely gotten a full six hours of uninterrupted sleep since Frostbite deemed Ellie healthy enough to leave his care. The drive up to Gotham was long and wore him down to his bones.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he does, drifting off as he wonders, distantly, when Jazz will be back from getting them dinner.

Ellie wakes him up at dawn with a loud cry. Danny jolts awake, heart pounding in his chest as he panics because Ellie isn’t here, she’s supposed to be in his arms, where is she? And then he sees the crib, where Ellie is staring at him through the bars, and he nearly collapses with relief. 

“Morning, El,” he says, voice rough from sleep, as he picks her up. She just stares up at him, then leans forward and rests her head against his shoulder.

It’s quiet moments like these that make his heart melt. Ellie’s had a hard life already; he wants to give her a better one, this time around. 

A quick check of the time on his nearly dead phone shows that it’s barely past six in the morning, and Jazz texted him a few times. All about furniture, saying that she didn’t want to wake them and that food is in the fridge. 

It’s only the mention of food that makes him realize how ravenous he’s feeling. Danny makes a beeline for the kitchen, ignoring everything else, and pulls out the boxes of take-out Jazz left stacked in the fridge. He devours it like he’s been starving for weeks, then gives Ellie her Ecto-Jello, the only food she’s allowed to eat until Frostbite gives the okay for solid, human food. 

Once he’s got her burped and cleaned up, Danny looks out of the kitchen and realizes that Jazz was very productive while he was asleep. The living room isn’t empty anymore; a dark green couch is against the wall, a low, rectangular coffee table made of dark wood in front of it. Two armchairs are on both sides of the couch, and a television has been installed, fixed into the wall. 

Jazz is asleep on the couch. Her legs hang off an armrest and she’s drooling slightly. 

Her phone is charging on the floor, so Danny takes it and snaps a picture of her for later teasing, then sends it to himself and writes a note to her that he’s going out with Ellie to explore the neighborhood.

He’s finally feeling more settled, energized from sleep and food.

In the warm dawn light spilling in through the windows, Danny looks down at Ellie and thinks that they’ll be just fine after all. 

. . .

Four months ago, Danny had hope. He was optimistic. 

Gotham was a fresh start, a new lease of life for Ellie. It is Danny’s attempt to be a single parent, sacrificing college for Ellie, and he’s planning to go out and beat the gangs black and blue if they start anymore shootouts in the next year.

He had just gotten Ellie to sleep. She was actually peacefully taking a nap.

And then a drive by shooter raced down the street, gunshots echoing down the road, and Ellie work up crying. She still hasn’t stopped, despite how Danny rocked her, soothing her as best he could.

They had been outside when Ellie fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. He had been catching up with Sam and Tucker when the car drove by, people ducking and crying out to avoid the bullets. Danny instinctively covered Ellie and made them both intangible, saving them from any stray bullets, but they ruined her nap and he needs to make them pay for that. 

“Shh,” he soothes, “You’re okay. We’re both fine. It’s okay, El, it’s okay.” 

Her little hands clutch at his back, twisting the fabric of his shirt, and she lets out a heartbreaking wail. He pats her back, hurrying down the street to get back to his apartment building, ignoring the looks people were giving them as they passed by. 

“I know it was scary, but you’re alright. You’re always safe with me, El.”

Ellie’s cries down down a little, but they don’t stop. She whimpers, burying her face against his shoulder as he finally reaches their apartment building.

The door’s locked, which wouldn’t be a problem except Danny can’t get his keys from his pocket. He knows he has them! But his pocket refuses to relinquish them and he has to stop every few seconds to pat Ellie’s back, trying in vain to calm her down. 

“We’ll be inside in a second,” he tells her, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, “as soon as I can get these freaking keys!”

“Hey, you alright?”

Danny startles, whirling around so fast it makes Ellie go quiet, clinging to him so she doesn’t get flung into the air. There’s a guy standing before him in a gray hoodie, looking at him with clear concern. It speaks to Danny’s level of constant exhaustion that he hadn’t clocked someone sneaking up behind him. 

The guy offers an awkward smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you or anything. Um, do you need me to open to door? I live here too.”

Danny wonders for a moment if this someone dangerous, someone hoping to hurt Ellie, but she starts to cry again and he steps to the side. “Please. I can’t get my keys.”

“I’m Duke, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“Danny,” he replies, watching as Duke pulls out a large key ring, jangling with the amount of keychains on it, and easily opens the door. “I’ve been here a few months, but I’m usually inside. Or walking around in the mornings with this little monster.”

“That would explain it,” Duke says as he holds the door open, letting Danny in first. “I’m usually in classes at GCU, but I decided to take a mental health day after my lab, so here I am.”

Danny walks in and waits for Duke to follow, making sure the door closes properly behind them. “Thanks. How is GCU? What do you study? I was thinking of going there myself once she gets a little older and can go to school.”

“Oh, I’m majoring in English and Human Services.” He goes to say more, but Ellie wails again and Danny winces.

“I’m so sorry. That drive by woke her up and it’s really rattled her.”

“Hey, no need to apologize. I get it, Gotham is rough to kids.”

Danny tries rocking her back and forth, but it doesn’t help. He resigns himself to another hour of her crying before she exhausts herself, and makes for the stairs, going up to the fourth floor. Duke holds open the door again, then follows after them. It makes Danny wonder if Duke is planning to do something to them, then decides he can beat Duke in a fight, so it’s fine.

Duke doesn’t try to hurt them or steal Ellie away. He opens the door to their floor and stops before they do. “I’m in here,” he says, “If you ever need me to open more doors.”

“Thanks. Um, actually, I might need help opening mine?”

Duke just smiles and makes his way back to them, following them farther into the hall until Danny stops in front of his apartment. 

“If I could just get my keys,” he starts.

“Here, let me hold her for a second so you can get them,” Duke offers. Danny wants to insist that it’s fine, but Ellie cries directly into his ear and Danny, at the end of his rope, passes her over. 

Like magic, Ellie settles as soon as she’s in Duke’s arms. She sniffles and hides her face away, clutching to Duke’s hoodie, but she stops crying. They both go still, surprised, and stare down at her. 

“Seriously?” Danny says as he finally pulls out his keys, “Are you trying to say that I’m the problem?”

Ellie babbles lightly, and Duke turns his head to futilely hide his grin.

He grumbles as he unlocks the door and pushes it open. Ellie is acting as if she’s never been upset before a day in her life, making herself at home in Duke’s arms. 

“I can’t believe this. Betrayed by my own blood.”

Duke laughs as he follows Danny into his apartment, lightly patting Ellie’s back. “It’s always the smallest, cutest ones that do this.”

“Yeah? Do you work with a lot of kids or something? Used to being betrayed by the little ones?”

“I don’t work with kids per se,” Duke says, “But my foster family is a hot mess and the youngest of them likes to keep us all on our toes.”

“Family,” Danny says in a tired, fond tone.

“Family,” Duke agrees.

With his door open and Ellie calm, Danny’s ready to just lay face down on the floor for the rest of the day and not deal with anything else. He moves to take Ellie back, holding his arms out, and Duke tries to pass her over.

The key word being tries. 

Ellie tightens her grip and kicks at Danny. She refuses to be taken away from Duke, making him awkwardly try to pry her off his hoodie. Danny really hopes Duke doesn’t notice how she goes slightly intangible to make his hands fall through her arms and legs. It shouldn’t be noticeable, but it’s hard to focus on anything but a kid that clings to you, so Danny holds out for Duke’s goodwill and silence.

“As nice as it is to meet you, you need to go back to your… parent?” Danny nods when Duke looks at him in askance. “You need to go back to your parent. Okay? Come on, kid, he’s waiting for you.”

Ellie shakes her head, makes a frustrated noise, and then turns and reaches out a grabby hand towards Danny. 

She still refuses to be taken from Duke when Danny tries to pick her up again, so he settles with just letting her hold two of his fingers. 

“I’m so sorry about this,” he says to Duke, face burning. This is why he hasn’t been going out and being social since he moved in; Ellie is a handful even on the best days, and Danny doesn’t want someone to judge him as unfit to parent her and have her taken away.

Duke shakes his head, stepping closer. “It’s all good, man. I don’t mind. It’s not like I had any plans today. I’m already skipping my classes, might as well spend it with you two than sleep all day.”

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to invite you in, but I know Ellie can be a lot and not everyone wants to spend their day off with a baby.”

“I’m sure. Besides, I’d just be down the hall anyways. It’s no skin off my back, man.”

“Well,” Danny says, stepping to the side to give Duke full access to his open doorway, “Come on in, then.”

Ellie keeps them connected, one hand in Duke’s hoodie and the other holding Danny’s fingers, and though her cheeks are still red from how hard she had been crying, she’s calm now with her eyes shining with mischief. 

As the door closes behind them, Danny realizes that this is the first time someone he’s not related to has been inside his apartment. Not even Vlad has come in, always choosing to invite Danny and Ellie out for lunch instead. 

It should make him nervous, but Duke is calm and easy going and kind. 

He’s making silly faces at Ellie to make her laugh, completely at ease with her in his arms, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. 

Gotham is a second chance at life for Ellie. It’s a sacrifice for Danny, to be alone and without friends or family around. He’d been ready to give up everything for Ellie, to focus solely on raising her, but with Duke filling his apartment with laughter, he thinks that he can make a life here too.

All he needs to do is take that first step, reach his hand out, ask Duke to stick around.

He can do this.

[3416]

the thing is, i wouldn't be nearly as bothered about mitch not being on the top line if it wasn't being treated as some kind of proof that he's never been good enough to play there and that it hurts the team or drags auston down when he does. i don't care about domi ultimately, he's an effective player (when he's not taking boneheaded penalties) and obviously it helps to spread out our best guys to make each line that little bit harder to play against by forcing the other team to decide how to matchup. whatever. i don't agree with keefe's choices there but i get the intent.

what i do care about is one of the best players this franchise has ever seen being treated like some kind of anchor holding the team (and auston specifically) back from achieving greatness and using domi's success with auston (BECAUSE of auston tyvm) to paint him as some selfish jealous (genuinely wtf @ this fanfiction in particular coming from an actual media guy) brat pouting over being ~demoted~ when he's never not done what has been asked of him (which is literally fucking everything) and has always been fully on board any time he's been paired with johnny!! or anyone else!! like these are all mitch's guys!!! he loves them and this team /so much/!!!! like i genuinely can't imagine the list of things he loves more than being a leaf is very long

i'm just so tired of so many (non-tumblr) fanspaces being dominated by people who have made an entire personality out of treating him like one of the worst things that's ever happened to the leafs (and, again, auston specifically) because idk they hate his dumb dad (welcome to the club weirdos!!!) and/or can't "forgive" him for his contract. even the critique of him in the playoffs is overblown in comparison to the rest of the team and the goalposts for what it means to be a ~playoff performer~ always seem to find a way to shift as needed to single him out as some kind of unique failure among the group which.. rme for all time

anyway sorry for venting lmao it's just such a bummer but WHATEVER here's to mitchell daniel marner having the best damn playoffs of his damn life!!!!!!!! go leafs go

ohhh anon. so many things i can (and will) say here, but you and i are totally on the same wavelength, lol. that's what has made this stretch so much worse imo... auston on a hot streak with two mid guys and workable chemistry (for now) all around, and we try spreading out the "offense" but actually... for the leafs... i think spreading the offense is less what we're doing w 1634 and more... shifting defensive responsibility off of our 'top' line and giving them easier matchups by putting the tougher ones with the mcmann-jt-marner line bc mitch is there now to take on some more defensive responsibility that isn't doable by players like willy/whoever else plays rw there. (which annoys me in it's own way bc it makes the 'top' line look more impressive stat wise while not even dealing with the most dangerous 'top' line on the other team, lol but.. it's still gonna require auston to be On Top of it all the time bc he's by himself defensively.. only reason it annoys me is the discourse afterward too like anyway). mitch and auston are our best all around players by quite a bit, lol, so i get WHY splitting them up works well too, but when people get mad that they're together so much... when they've proven to work better and be more dangerous year after year as a duo... i mean, peoples anger should be at the rest of the lineup that sometimes doesn't pull their own weight in that regard, lol. i get the experiment we're running rn. i'm not confident it will work, but we will see. i don't care if it does or doesn't... doesn't change the fact that ultimately, i know they want to play together the most and that hasn't changed bc of some randos that came in this year so. i genuinely think auston requests to play with mitch often after not being allowed to for a couple years, and this year he's sucking it up for the playoffs and trying something different for the sake of the team.

as for the way a lot of people treat mitch as expendable... it's so frustrating to me too... just the double standards abt him vs anyone else are insane. even tonight, seeing people lose their fucking minds over max reposting a fan's hype video without credit and assuming he made it (?? lol) and drooling all over themselves about how he "has the passion", but like... mitch had a video made last year and people were telling him to get off social media and perform better in the playoffs in the exact same spaces like. if he even comes on social media near the playoffs, it's always just hateful. honestly.... so many leaf fans don't deserve him and don't deserve to see a cup in their entire lifetimes either, lol. it makes my relationship with this team so much more complicated to have such a hate for the fanbase like that. like . this year, i just care so much less about the team as a whole too. i'm less connected to the overall results, lmao. i love the leafs and want my guys specifically to be able to win the cup in their lifetime more than anything, but i realllyyy don't care about some of these ppl on our team and i hate how the worst fans in this fanbase feel so vindicated over the dumbest ugliest shit. like i'd give anything to not have to see braindead opinions for a single day. as much as i'm rooting for them, if this isn't the year... well. we move, lol. i wouldn't die! (which is exactly why they'll prob do it this year lol) i'll feel competitive while watching the playoffs, esp vs the bruins, but like... whatever happens happens man. my men will be coming back and i hope some other ones won't, regardless of playoff results. sometimes it's even less about the player himself and more about the idiots attached.

all i literally care about this year is mitch's performance since we're going into a contract year for him. nothing he could possibly do would get people off his back but that, and somehow his points never seem to matter in the playoffs bc they're in games we're already winning ?? but yeah. the willy is our best playoff performer narrative makes me fucking laugh man........ like people will lower their standards and move their goalposts and do ANYTHING to make it seem like mitch is cancerous and the reason we keep losing and everyone else steps up when he doesn't and it's just a fucking lie. morgan is the only one with visible elevation in the playoffs imo, and . idk. maybe the way the team's structured rn and shifting players to different lines will work. maybe it won't. we won a round not doing it last year, so it's not like that's THE make or break thing and we haven't even seen this lineup play a single meaningful game in the last month fnlkdsjf or a singular playoff game so. it's all a LOT of big talk. at the end of the day.. if the leafs ever make it to the cup.. itll be 1634 passing it to each other and their names next to each other and that's all i want for them, honestly. leafs duo of all time regardless of the dumbasses the 23-24 season has emboldened.

[mydollsaregay]

i got some items that were on wishlist due to the ag summer sale!

favs: maryellen’s model rocket kit (so cute!! and it works?!!!), courtney’s shirt and tie (it’s actually super soft and nice and the tie is easily removed. and the buttons are real!), and gwynn’s skating outfit (the material of the main outfit is super lovely and soft, and the tiny skates are adorable)

i am only disappointed in two things: the bottoms of claudie’s tap shoes are plastic for some reason 😭, and the guards for gwynn’s skates will NOT stay on lol

[usercelestial]

okay this means nothing to anyone but every time i see an anti bucktommy girlie have a horrible take i have to take a step back and realize how genuinely small they feel. like imagine throwing a fit, drawing pictures of a person as a lizard, creating blogs and posts about how much you want to kill him all over a fictional relationship that may not even last the entire duration of a show about firefighters. like permanently altering relationships and rejecting friendships over things like this. like they have such a cesspit inside themselves, they are deeply unhappy with being online in these spaces, they are tormenting themselves over something that doesn't matter and i remember how much i can't let myself fall into that like oh my god please never let me be that kind of person

[ladsofsorrow24]

i have to admit, even though it kinda hurts me, but kishimoto masashi's art is actually pretty damn good... but because people keep recreating his style it gets a bit boring and too mainstream to me

[fingertipsmp3]

I’m officially going back to work on Saturday <3

[likeabxrdinflight]

I know the morality play of the Raphael/Atem duel gets...weird, a little bit. There's a bizarre emphasis on how Raphael believes it's selfish and wrong to carelessly send monsters to the graveyard and that gets played up in this duel, but...many, many previous duels have showed how sacrificing monsters and having them in the graveyard can be a good strategy, and work to one's advantage. It isn't always such a terrible thing. Atem using catapult turtle to win a duel is not exactly a new strategy for him, he's done it before, and it's far from the worst thing he's ever done if we consider season 0 canon. and yet the episode frames that as the big indicator of Atem "giving into darkness" which.........eh?

But. There is something deeper at play in this duel that goes far beyond how people treat their trading cards. The real problem here- and Yugi will spell this out later- is that Atem struggles a bit with empathy, but he especially struggles with it when his pride is on the line. This duel really had no stakes in it- Raphael tells him the professor is fine, and he states point blank he isn't going to use the Seal of Orichalcos- there is nothing to lose here.

But the two of them bet on their "sense of justice" at the start. To Atem, this is a very black and white morality. Atem's sense of justice tells him that Doma and any working with it are wrong (objectively true) and therefore anyone working with them is also evil (less objectively true). He can't quite see that the enemy in front of him might not be Bad with a capital B. Good is good, bad is bad, so if you're doing bad and working with bad- you're bad. Even if he respects you as an opponent. But what he can't really see is that Raphael is, fundamentally, a good person making bad choices because he's been hurt. Raphael basically spells it out for him, and he still can't see it.

So in many ways, this is the world view that Atem is betting on in this duel- Raphael is working with the organization that's trying to destroy the world, therefore he's evil, and Atem is good. And Atem has to be good, right? He's fought evil, he's won, he's not bad, he's not dark like the others who use milliennium items, he's not the "evil intelligence" Pegasus warned of in the manga and he definitely couldn't possibly have been an evil Pharaoh when he was alive...right?

And that's the other thing Atem can't admit, and it's what Raphael calls him out on most directly- Atem can't admit to his own darkness. He can't acknowledge the darkness in his heart, the potential for evil in everyone. Things have to be black and white for him, because if not...what is he? And it's so easy for Raphael to dig into this insecurity, it is so easy for him to make Atem doubt his own goodness- because he doesn't know who he was, does he? But he can't believe it, can't make himself believe he was a bad person before, and he definitely can't believe that he could be now. This is what's at stake for Atem during this game- it's his entire sense of self, really.

And this logic is actually deeply consistent with the earliest version of Atem- season 0/first manga arc Atem, and I'd argue, the morality play of this duel only really works when you consider that first arc/season 0. Stay with me now.

In season 0, Atem challenged "bad" people to shadow games with the intent that the game would decide who was right or wrong based on the outcome. The losers of his earliest shadow games usually lost because they couldn't follow the rules based on some character flaw. The games exposed their weaknesses and they paid the price for it. This was why he was always so confident- he was acting based on his sense of justice, and was absolutely certain in the correctness of his position (which, to be fair, was usually "save Yugi and/or his friends from literally dying), so...it wasn't necessarily an incorrect stance. Atem was doling out some pretty harsh penalty games, but he wasn't wrong about the flaws of these people he challenged.

What we never did was consider whether or not these people really deserved the punishments they were given. Did a high school bully really deserve to be tortured into insanity? Did an escaped criminal deserve to be burned alive? All justice, no empathy. But is that really justice at all? Now to be fair, with Yugi's influence Atem does calm down a lot over the course of season 0 and into Duel Monsters canon. He becomes a much better person. But we never exactly see him express remorse for the penalty games he inflicted, either. We never see him question his choices, or whether he was right or wrong.

Games are form of justice to him. To lose a game is to be in the wrong. He never lost, therefore, he was never wrong.

This inability to question his own beliefs and actions, to consider his own capacity for darkness, and to truly empathize with the person on the other side of the field, is what leads to him losing the test Raphael gives him. It is why he can justify playing the Seal himself- the methods don't matter to Atem in the moment- if he wins, he was right, he was good, and he's always been right and good, and that is all that matters because his sense of self is actually really fucking fragile if the outcome of a card game can shatter it- so he plays the Seal.

It reminds me of a quote from Avatar- "Pride is not the opposite of shame, but it's source." Atem is someone with an enormous amount of pride- and an equal amount of shame lingering just under the surface. Because I think that question Pegasus first posed to him- that question of evil- has been festering for a long time. I think Atem knows, deep down, that his early shadow games were wrong, they weren't that different from Pegasus or Marik or even Doma themselves- but he cannot go there with it, cannot let himself question it. I'll get into this more later, but Yugi will later tell him that in his doggedly stubborn sense of pride and honor, he can't hear others' pain or suffering. And I think this stubborn clinging to his sense of pride is a way of masking his own pain and suffering too, his own deeply felt shame- because Atem can't really hear that either.

Until he loses the game. Until he loses Yugi, and it shatters his pride completely, breaks him wide open.

[floorpancakes]

funny thing about me when i read fic i have a fairly low unhappy ending/angst all the way through tolerance and usually heavily curate my own reading experience but when it comes to the actual IPs and series i cannot get enough of reading depressing things and sad stories (even if it just spurs me to want to imagine those characters to be happy and doing random unserious things) . same goes for writing actually. i kinda just immediately lean into goofy humour or pain or both

[boowritess]

babies!?!?!

simon ghost riley x reader

"Aw I can't wait to see the two of you with your own little one running around." Your sister gushes as Simon balances her baby on his lap while you play with your nephew.

At her words you and Simon give eachother a side eyes. A smile tugs at the corner of Simon's scarred lips, whilst you puff out an airy laugh.

The whole baby conversation was nothing new, and because you and Simon had been together for so long, people were quick to assume that the both of you would start thinking bout having children of your own.

Your sister didn't help, always cooing and awwing about how Simon was so good with the kids, especially your neice.

A large hand rests on your lower back, "Nah, we have our hands filled with Johnny." Simon sniggers, laughing more when you elbow his side. The baby in his lap looking up at him in surpise at the deep noise that emitted from the usually quiet man.

"But it would be so cute. Imagine having a little one that looks like the both of you-" You sister starts to go on her usual ramble about what your kids could potentially look like, how adorable it would be to see the both of you with kids of your own.

Later that evening, at your shared apartment, Simon chuckles as you walk over to where he's sat on the couch, "Looks a bit like you doesn't he?" Simon drawls.

You turn and the asshole has his large hand wrapped around your ginger cats face, his head turned to you. Despite the cats purring and tailing flicking in content, you scowl and wack Simon over the head. "Don’t hold my baby like that!" You snap, settling beside Simon, who releases your cat. The cat settling in your lap.

And in true ginger cat fashion, the very cat who was once purring in content in Simon's hands, scratched the very man who tried to pet him again.

"Scratches like you." Simon huffs, pulling his hand away.

You just chuckle, eyes locked on the four legged creature that bouncrd into the room, "And Riley doesn't listen, like you..." You chime in amusement, watching the dog.

Simon turns his head to the German Shepherd and scowls once he see the mask hanging from Rikey's mouth. The dog having the audacity to wag its tail.

"Fuck sake, Riley, I said no!" Simon growls getting up from the couch and chasing after the dog that barks and runs away from the man.

You watch in content as your cat purs in content in your lap while Simon chases the dog around the apartment.

From this perspective it seemed like you already have your own little one running around doesn't it?

a/n: on my anti-baby agenda lol these the only babies i want in my life oop x

[whaliiwatching]

diagnoses u with fanfic tags

yeah i caved. welcome spideysona

their universe is 1990s san francisco. by day they work as a struggling writer for the bugle, sort of following in the footsteps of (movie-adjacent) eddie brock; by night they’re spider-scrawl, fighting systemic injustice, writers’ block, and the occasional mad scientist invention. his world is less rife with supernatural evils than most, but he’s also fucking with the government and corporations and all, so it balances out

their unique thing is that they have, like, shitty meta clairvoyance in the form of inherently understanding tropes, clichés, story structure, etc. like if cinemasins/wins were a superhero. they were approached to join the society because miguel thought they’d be chill or even helpful with canon events—unfortunately scribble here is not whatsoever into following rigid plot structure for the sake of unnecessary thematic suffering, saw the plot twist a miles away, and peaced. but not before snagging a day pass so they could watch atsv in person

they never take off their mask, and no one knows their name—he says it’s because he doesn’t want to lose his identity in a sea of spider-people, leading most to theorize that san-fran-spidey is some flavor of peter parker, but who’s to say for sure? the doylist reason, which he is in fact aware of, is that i don’t know either lol

[bloodmoonmuses]

come back to me | mark lee

summary: your boyfriend, mark, drunkenly recounts the day the two of you met. (mostly to prove to haechan and johnny that love does, in fact, exist. even in the most unlikely of places.)

genre: mark lee x reader, established relationship kinda... but, like, also a meet cute? young love and all that jazz lol

It’s cold outside, the beginnings of winter trickling in with bitter fervor, yet you’re warm. Or rather, being warmed by the illusion of heat that courses through your veins: liquid courage. Now on your second bottle of soju, your form feels pliant, watery even, as you sway in the wind of your friends’ joy. 

In a booth (the leather of which is crackling at the seams) that forms a sort of semi circle, sits you, Mark, Johnny and Haechan. The wooden table before you is littered in plastic shot “glasses” and fried chicken wings that have been picked clean, and the bar is quite lively despite it nearing one in the morning. You lie your head against Mark’s shoulder, lost in the feeling of his muscles tensing and relaxing repeatedly beneath it.

“You good?” Mark whispers to you, shimming slightly as if to jostle a response out of you.

The words that escape your mouth feel fuzzy on your tongue, staticky around the edges. “Never been better.”

For some reason, the night has taken a nostalgic turn, fueled by the alcohol in everyone’s system. Haechan and Johnny have been arguing about their love lives for the better part of an hour. It never fails to amuse you how much they like bickering simply for the sake of it. You tuned out about ten minutes ago when Haechan brought up Johnny’s commitment issues only to be met with a rebuttal about him using humor as a coping mechanism. Both comments clearly strike a nerve in the men respectively, deciding to psychoanalyze their exes in chronological order in an attempt to disprove the validity of one another's assertions. 

“I don’t like that we can’t make fun of Mark right now,” Johnny confesses when he’s finished talking about an ex who turned out to be a closeted sasaeng, turning his attention to you and Mark.

Haechan scrunches his nose, gazing upon you as well. “Look at you two… All cozied up- it’s disgusting.”

“Hey man,” Mark starts, “don’t blame me for the lack of love in your life.” You punctuate his declaration with a kiss on the cheek, giddy and lovey-dovey in your drunken state. “See?” 

Johnny pretends to gag.

“How’d you meet anyway?” Haechan asks, “-so I can avoid any scenario involving… that.”

“Mark hasn’t told you the story in, like, excruciating detail?” you scoff. “He’s told everyone.”

Haechan shakes his head. 

“Oh God, don’t get him started,” Johnny groans. Mark sits upright, effectively knocking your head off of his shoulder, ecstatic with the chance to relay the way you met each other in its sappy glory.

“Spring,” Mark starts. “I was seventeen, so I had just debuted a year before, and-”

The cherry blossoms. They were stunning, you remember. Glistening and quivering under the weight of all the raindrops that had accumulated on them. The sheen of puddles scattered on the roads and sidewalks... You took the bus to work, a little cafe job you worked while finishing up your requirements at the international school you attended, and during that time of year, those bus rides were some of the most peaceful times in your day to day life. 

You think back to your youth, bright eyes aged only seventeen years, and how the world then seemed filled to brim with possibility. One day in particular, a chilly one towards the end of spring, you remember watching Mark enter the bus, his boyishness evident in his untied shoelaces and clunkily carried guitar case. On his back was a spiderman backpack, you remember vividly, and his hair is frizzy from how light he’s bleached it. He comes off a bit frazzled as you watch him stumble into a seat, precariously balancing a flimsy pair of headphones on his head, and settle in it with his knees bent. 

Once he’s gathered his bearings, he takes off his backpack and retrieves a notebook and pen, placing it on his knees, and begins to write frantically- like if he doesn't put pen to paper in this exact nanosecond, the idea will leave and never return. In a world of sloth and languidness, you’re fascinated by his urgency. You take off your own headphones to hear how he sounds in the context of silence, it is seven in the morning after all, and it only draws you in further. The scratching of the pen against the paper, orchestrated by the humming that just barely escapes his lips lulling you into a state of hypnosis.

Periodically, he furrows his brows, tries out a different melody, then writes some more- over and over again, until the pattern becomes more fluid. More succinct. Like the beginnings of a fully fledged song. He’s smiling now, and you find yourself unknowingly mirroring his joy, the fuzziness of it spreading up your neck like a campfire consuming its kindling. You’re enraptured. 

You want to live inside his head. What a superpower to have; to breathe life into written language. And then suddenly, he’s stuffing his notebook into his backpack as quickly as he had taken it out. His stop must be coming up soon, you had thought to yourself. 

After putting his feet back on the ground, he gingerly places his palms against the bus window- as if to test its temperature. When deemed cool enough, he exhales against the glass, quickly etching a heart onto its foggy surface with a squeak. His fingers are calloused, that much you can tell even from across the bus, and he’s tired- if the bags under his eyes are any indication. Then, the bus crawls to a stop, and he stands. Again, you’re mirroring him instantly, body moving before your mind can catch up. It’s not your stop, yours is another three down, but you exit nonetheless, too enthralled by the boy in front of you to let him out of your sight.

You walk about a block, maintaining about a ten foot distance between the two of you, and watch him hobble down the sidewalk with his huge guitar case. He grunts occasionally, adjusting and readjusting his baggage when the weight becomes too much, humming all the while. Until, of course, he turns around, tearing the headphones off of his head, and asks, “Are you following me?!” in a frustrated huff. 

You stop in your tracks. Oh wait, you had thought, you are sorta following him. Well, the cafe is in this direction technically but-

“You’re not one of those people with a fansite, are you? Look, dude, I know we debuted last year, but I want a normal life just like-”

“I’m not a fan. I mean, not yet, I guess. Well- no. I was just… I’m not following you. Mostly.” you stammer. 

Mark scratches his head. “Then, what are you doing…?”

“You were writing a song on the bus,” you look at the ground, staring at your shoes in search of some solace, reprieve from the then stranger’s prying eyes. How did you think this would turn out any other way? “I thought maybe, you could… sing it. Like, out loud.”

Mark sighs. “Look, dude, I have practice and-”

“Right. I’m sorry for being weird, you just looked… Nevermind. Have a nice day- sorry to bother you.” You turn on your heels, in the complete opposite of the cafe you’re supposed to be going to, and make a break for it. As you trek up the hill, you shatter your reflection over and over again, the splashing of puddles beneath your feet the only sound tethering you to reality. 

“It’s not finished-” Mark starts, voice cutting through the rustling leaves and bustling city with piercing clarity.  You’re frozen, still facing away from the hypnotist behind you. “-but I could show you the idea. Because that’s what it is right now. Just an idea.”

You turn to face him. “Um. Sure. If that’s okay.”

Haechan interjects Mark’s storytelling, words warbling from his completion of a third bottle of soju for the night. “No way you actually sat down and played the song for-”

“Shh!” Johnny says, “This is the best part.”

“See, I knew you secretly loved this mushy-gushy stuff,” you say. 

Mark giggles. “So, like I was saying-”

You sit on a bench freckled cherry blossom petals and just-dried droplets of dew, knee bouncing nervously when Mark plops down beside you. Mark sets his guitar case down, flat in front of him, and opens it. Retrieving his notebook from his backpack once again, he places it on your lap, surprisingly enough. Wordlessly, he puts his guitar in his lap, throwing the strap over his neck and shoulders, and cranes his neck to re-familiarize himself with his feverishly scrawled ideas. Just before he strums the first note, he says, “Just an idea. Keep that in mind.”

Then he sings. A mix and hesitant laments of love lost, then found, yearning for the past, but hopeful for the future. But other words are not words at all. They’re more, like, messily sung runs. Like he’s sketching lightly, so he can erase later. He’s got a hook. He sings it three times, and the way his Adam's apple bobbles is now permanently etched in your mind. When he’s done, he opens his eyes slowly, assessing the damage done. He almost looks surprised that you’re still sitting there.

You whisper, voice whisked away in the gentle breeze, “I never asked your name.”

“Mark. Just Mark.”

“Nice to meet you, ‘Just Mark’.”

“What do you think? How do you feel?” Two entirely different questions, both of which hit your ear in a way that makes your stomach leap- or maybe it’s the gravelly timbre of his voice and unsure eyes.

“Good,” Mark’s eyes spur you on further, silently asking you to elaborate, “The song sounds good and I feel good.”

“Is that the only adjective you know? ‘Good’?”

“I know a lot of adjectives. I’m just… nervous. So, yeah.”

Mark grabs his notebook and returns it to his backpack, packing up his guitar as well. As he stands to leave, he turns and says, “Your name.”

“What?”

“You never told me your name.”

“_______,” you reply meekly.

“And your hand,” he urges, “give it to me.” You extend your arm and Mark delicately grasps your wrist. Then, Mark nervously scrawls his number on your palm, pen digging into your skin slightly. 

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. 

“If you have any thoughts beyond it being ‘good’, gimme a call.” And just like that, he’s gone, running down the hill to make it to practice on time.

As Mark ends his retelling of events with a wistful hum, Haechan chortles. “Yeah. You two disgust me.”

[3416]

what do we think of the "Connor Bedard didn't make eye contact" bullshit? I'm not even a hawks fan and I can tell that he's one of the softest personalities out there. the press should shit on players who deserve it, not try to start drama about one who doesn't

you mean the chicago reporters asking about him avoiding eye contact to stay out in overtime? i don't know if they're trying to start drama with it after the question alone, but i'm in NO circles with chicago fans or chicago press so fndksm idk how it's being perceived. they seemed amused by the "i like hockey" thing in the moment so... bedard is like fr one of the driest personalities, which is how a lot of rookies are, and i haven't really been paying a ton of attention to him. i think the weight ppl already put on these borderline children is insane, but in general, i think the media often are just looking for stories bc so many of these guys don't want to let them in on any of their personal lives so lol.

[snapscube]

my updated case/character rankings after finishing Farewell, My Turnabout

holy FUCK that was good. easily THE MOST batshit insane stressful/thrilling case they have done up to this point. i loved nearly every second of it. i think the only thing keeping it from beating 1-5 for me is that i think at very brief moments it gets so twisty and turny that it ALMOST feels a little tooooo gratuitous. but this is very rarely the case and even then i don't think it ever quite gets there. plus, i'll admit from a gameplay perspective once the goal of the courtroom scenes became "just bluff purely for the sake of bluffing to stall as long as possible even though you dont really believe in your client" the gameplay loop became SLIGHTLY less fun. i think from a meta perspective it's Extremely good and compelling and i love how it ultimately plays with the fact that, mechanically, you are literally doing nothing different than you always do. it's just the difference in who you're putting your trust in. your client vs, in this case, the prosecution, namely Edgeworth. it's so fucking good from a narrative perspective but gameplay wise felt less satisfying moment-to-moment. i was kinda just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for them to find maya LOL like you really feel on the edge of your seat when you're literally just stalling to save a life entirely outside of the courtroom. again, it's JUICY drama, but what i liked about case 1-5 is that it kinda had a lot of both of those elements. they both play with the meta of how you understand the game up to that point in really effective ways, but 1-5 felt slightly more balanced.

ANYWAY, not trying to pit two bad bitches against each other im just justifying why it didn't quite make the top spot. It's CLOSE though, i could see a timeline where under further examination it moves up anyway.

[fairene]

hello!! i LOVE your work you write the most interesting dynamics and your style always completely sucks me in! i saw you mentioned in the tags that requests were welcome and if it sounds fun, i'd love to read something with lando and a tennis player!reader, not just bc i love tennis lol but also bc it could be interesting to have him with someone who has experienced the same level of pressure. i'd love anything you wrote though!❤️

say less, my love.

pressure / ln4

a/n ⋯ a short pause from the one of your girls dual part. this was a beautiful request, and as a huge challengers enthusiast, i had to put it to paper. thank you so much for the request. also i am aware that the u.s. open takes place in new york, but for simplicity sake, we'll say its in miami.

music ⋯ link

warnings ⋯ no smut, fluff, angst, insecure thoughts, anxiety.

wordcount ⋯ 2.6k (unedited).

“you’re going to do amazing, my love.” lando’s words were soothing as he held you firmly against his chest. it was a saturday night in miami, both of you were dueling your own matches for the weekend. you were in the finals of your tournament held for the US open, whereas he was debuting in the miami grand prix the following afternoon. 

your head shifted into his chest, nose burrowing into the fabric of his shirt with a soft hum. you knew he was right, but the pressure waned on you. how could it not? your entire career balanced on your performance, and thousands of people would be watching you. not only were you lando norris’ girlfriend, but also an up and coming star in your own career. 

you kissed the fabric of his shirt, knowing the sentiment held little, but he appreciated the gesture regardless. his hand found the back of your head, threading his fingers through your hair. his touch was gentle, kind, one reserved only for you. it was moment’s like these that the pair of you found solitude in one another. 

“i know, i just…” you hesitated, lifting your head so your chin rested on the center of his torso. he tightened his hand around your hip, cradling you against the firm shape of his body. 

“what, baby?” he said with a soft tone, velvety to your ears. you couldn’t resist him. couldn’t hold anything back from him, despite wanting to spare him the worries you held. the last thing you wanted him to do was worry about you. especially when he had a huge event of his own.

but all he did was worry about you.

day and night he would dream both through the sun and beneath the moonlight of you. you. it was always you that he was concerned about. you, that he searched for atop his podiums. you, that he would attend all your matches when he could.

this was one of the rare events where they overlapped. he would only be there with you in the morning to see you off before your matches. then, you would reconcile with him in the evenings. post race, post tournament. it would be a tough day to manage on your own, but he felt the same way. you were the light to all of his races, the focal point of which he could relax. his anxiety roared in these conditions, but you somehow soothed him at every turn. 

he needed you. but you couldn’t be there. 

“i want you there.” 

his features softened. there was a cloud of guilt brewing a thunderstorm above his head, threatening to rain down tears in your obvious distress. he hated seeing you this way, and most of all, he hated being the one who caused it. 

“i know.” his thumb stroked across your cheek. “i would if i could.” you believe him. he was your number one fan, just as you were his. a match made in heaven, one might be able to jest. “‘nd i want you there, tomorrow, with me on the radio.” 

you blushed, letting your face drop into the fabric of his sweatshirt. you felt his chest bellow with a deep laugh, centered at his core, letting his lids flutter at your bashful expression. your teeth even went as far as biting at his sweatshirt, which had him grumbling and pulling your hair up into a makeshift ponytail, raising your head to meet his eyes. 

“you’ll be the death of me,” he uttered, saying with pure love. your relationship with him was full of complexities, but overall dominated by your fatuous love for one another. the pressures you both face in consequence of your performances…

“you’re going to win tomorrow.” you sat up on his lap, straddling his hips. you were both in your shared bed in the hotel, lounging in your sleepwear in the messed up sheets. tonight was between you two and no one else. lando slammed that ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door the minute the pair of you walked in for the evening. “i can feel it.” 

“you think so?” he gulped, both his hands coming to run up the skin of your thighs. you shivered at his touch, but you were determined to keep a clear mind. 

“i know so.” you watched his face relax with relief. your words of comfort meant ten times than anyone else's, and you would always give him the truth. its what he loved about you so much. your blatant honesty, your charisma, your ability to power through every obstacle in your life. but he knew just as much as you did that you wouldn’t be able to do any of it without each other. it was one of the many little beautiful things about your relationship.

lando’s anxiety would gnaw at him every chance it got. but since he’s entered a relationship with you, he feels like a fucking king, but he was nothing without his queen. 

“don’t know,” he said, breaking the silence. “you’re my lucky charm.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’ve scored points at every race this season,” you pointed out. it was a fact. he was one of the only contending drivers to have such a prosperous season. you were delighted for him. “with or without me there.” 

but he didn’t like your excuses. he squeezed your plush thighs beneath his calloused fingers, which had you gasping. 

“don’t do that.” 

you quirked a brow. “do what?”

“pretend like you don’t mean the world to me.” 

you blushed and fell forward on his chest, your head falling into his neck. you giggled against his skin, unable to contain your smile. “stop that,” you insisted, blushing fiercely. a hand of his came to hold the back of your neck in a comforting grip. 

“loving you?” you caught his gaze, bleary with love. “i don’t think i can.” 

you were up at 5:30 that morning getting ready. lando was still sound asleep, snores being heard from the ensuite bathroom as your brushed your teeth and fixed your appearance. you wore a white tennis dressed, sponsored by fila, and just left when you made your way to the bed.

your hand brushed over lando’s exposed hip, shirtless in the bed with only a pair of boxers. he moaned in his sleep, pulling a pillow closer. but he was wide awake when he realized the pillow was made of feathers, and not you. 

“come on, my love.” you said to him in the dark room, looming over him with your hair undone and bright white dress. he turned to face you, sitting up against the headboard. his hands came to rest over his head, stretching. 

then he leaned in for a kiss, his hand cupping your cheek. you met him half way, sucking on his lower lip. he groaned, and you felt yourself shift, but couldn’t fall into his trap of desire. 

“ah, ah.” you pulled away before his hand came to snatch you down into the bed. “you promised me breakfast.” 

he fell back into the bed with disappointment. you laughed to yourself and made your way to the foyeur. you didn’t have to wait long when you heard him shifting and getting ready for the day ahead. 

when you arrived to the courts that morning, lando was carrying most of your things. it had you smiling with appreciation, insisting that you could carry your wilson tennis bag. but he refused, saying that you worked too hard for this day to be carrying your own bag. let me help you, and you were sold. 

you caught on to how much the crowds began to fill in. you were a sensation. but the notion would consistently fly over your head. 

you were tense and lando could see that. 

“hey,” his hand came to rest on your back. you leaned into him. “you’re going to do great, baby.” 

you sucked in a tight breath. but what if you didn’t? what if, that these set of matches, would damn your career to near ruin? what if you could never be perfect? 

your breathing became erratic. lando’s eyes widened, jumping into swift action as he covered your body with his. he backed you into a corner where no one could see the pair of you, and wrapped his hands around your body tightly. 

“match me.” he said. the words were so familiar to you. the both of you had discovered a coping mechanism when things got too much, too overwhelming, and too over pressured. you’d fall into each other’s arms and hear one another breathe. 

your lip quivered with tears. but you did as you were told. 

with an ear pressed to his chest, you could hear the steady beat of his heart. the strength in his muscles. the blood rippling through his veins. most importantly, the rise and fall of his abdomen against your own. 

with your thummering heart, you found pace with him. “in and out,” he would soothe, saying into the top of your head where he left kisses in his wake. 

he stroked the small of your back, thumb running circles over you. you fell completely into him. 

“what if i’m not good enough?” 

the words broke him. 

“then the world is full of fuckheads, i’ll tell you that.” his tone was firm, but ebbed with softness as he spoke into your scalp. his attempt at humor had you breaking into a soft chuckle. you appreciated him in this moment. “i’d kill all those fuckers, you just tell me who–”

your head broke away with a smile, finger coming to shush him. 

“lando!” 

“what? it’s true.” 

you loved him. 

“maybe so,” you reached up to kiss both of his flushed cheeks. “but i want you here. with me.” 

his forehead connected with yours. 

“you’ll always have me.” he placed his hand over your heart, and you placed yours over his. 

“always?”

“always.” he promised. 

the matches were flawless. you played to your body’s ultimate limit. you were skating across the base line, the volley line, snapping your shoulder with everything you had for your serves. 

“love, all.” the announcer began. 

you were up serving first. 

this was it. 

the final match out of six. whoever won this, won the title. 

you thought about lando. you thought about his breath against your neck. the texture of his stubble. the pride in his eyes. sweat dribbled from your forehead as you let the tennis ball bounce a few times before you to get a feel for the clay courts. 

and with one fluent swing and leap, the ball was set into the air. 

the cockpit was hot. lando was sweating profusely in the miami air. the humidity had changed their course of strategy at mclaren, but he agreed with his engineers wholeheartedly. there had been a safety car, and he abused it. attack it. 

when he was rounding corner after corner, lap after lap, he only thought of you. he thought of you in your pretty tennis dresses. you and your bright smile. you and your comforting touches, kissing him goodnight. it had his racing heart relaxing, fingers flexing against the steering drive. 

you were perfect. his perfect fucking girl. you were all his– his soon to be championship winner. and he wanted to make you a promise that he would win. he would win this for you. 

‘you’re going to win tomorrow,’ you said idly from atop his hips. you looked towards him with such riveting devotion. such intimacy that he never imagined was possible for someone to convey. but with you, anything was possible. 

the two of you were not so different from one another. the pressures you both faced were immaculate. it’s what held you both so heavily bonded to one another. you needed each other’s comfort. the touch of your hands. the sweetness of your lips. he didn’t give a fuck about codependency. fuck who ever came up with that. 

he’s going to fucking win. he will win for you. whatever it takes, he will stand on that podium in the firelli hat, and dedicate it all to you.

the score was 40-40. 

your body shook with adrenaline, muscles pounding beneath your layer of skin. your body pumped with red hot blood, blood of a future champion. this title would be yours. you knew that the minute you walked onto this court with your opponent. 

he was a smug gentleman. too smug. you wanted to wipe that fucking look off of his face. bruise it black and blue if you could. 

though your anger could be taken out on the court. you let it. 

your strokes were harder. faster. your serve pace was up to 140mph. he couldn’t even get to most of them with how your body contorted mid air, slamming it down and leaving an indent into the clay. you were a powerhouse. a machine. a gauntlet of beauty. 

and when you scored the winning point after an intense rally, jumping high into the air for an ace, you rocked back into the balls of your feet. your hips swung, racket thwanging, and you cheered; “come on!” 

your anger for him was palpable. it blinded you enough to forget the crowds. the only thing you had on your mind was winning, and that you did. 

the stadium lit up and you were met with a flushing amount of cheers. you were handed a towel from one of the members of your team before being swarmed with paparazzi.

they all complimented you. congratulated you. asked about certain points, but there was one member that caught your eye. 

“lando’s in the lead!” a cameraman said from the back. your head raised, brows quirking.

“what did you say?” you forced a path for the man to walk forward. he accepted your invitation, holding up his phone screen in one hand.

sure enough, you saw the standings. lando was in first. your boy was in first. 

your eyes widened. “this is live, isn’t it?” you were panting, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the lemon-scented towel. 

the man nodded, holding a microphone to you. 

“how do you feel right now?” you kept watching. lap 55. 

you kept quiet, and the rest of the paparazzi did too.

lap 56.

your hands clasped together, raising them to your mouth. 

“come on, baby…” you said beneath your breath. this was the longest minute of your life, you were sure of it. 

and when he crossed the finish line, he was only thinking about you. 

lando norris, first time grand prix winner, shrieked with joy over the microphone. 

you did, too, jumping up and down from your place on the court. the paparazzi swarmed you again, anticipating what you had to say for the both of you. 

“he’s incredible, isn’t he?” you gushed with a smile on your face, tears dripping down your cheeks. 

“what a day for you two, isn’t it?” 

you couldn’t agree more. “i’ll cheers to that.” 

you practically ran through the paddock. your tennis dress was still on, your team was irritated that you didn’t stay for press. you didn’t give a fuck. you just wanted to see lando. you had the rest of your life to deal with the press, but he only had one maiden win. 

you were greeted with a plethora of congratulations from the mclaren team. zak brown even caught a glance at you, waving you over. 

“podiums just about to start.” perfect. you made it in time. 

and when you saw him there, standing idly as they played the national anthem, you were brought to the front. the camera panned on you and your weeping expression, hand covering your mouth from your sobs. 

he saw it from the distance and his head snapped down to find you. his own emotions couldn’t be contained, not with you there– you, here, looking beautiful in the sea of people– and the tears slid down his cheeks. 

your face broke into a smile when he saw you. he was yours. 

and you were his. and you were in this together. 

forever and always. 

[dawo4]

Tried to categorise every known element to each Soruce! I think that the new elements could have been made when Riyu was born and those could be "his" elements but I could be wrong hmm

Went with "Flow" and "Stillness" for the Water and Ice Sources just for the sake of them having a name, 7th one is still an enigma tho, Balance is kinda just a place holder name lol

My reasonings for Tech being under Energy and Heat under Motion is because I think that when the Tourney starts, the current Ninja team will have a representant of each Source, so with Jay and Kai out of the picture, Sora and Wyldfyre can fill those slots

Also ngl was so hard to do anything for the Ice Source lmao

Lots of rambles here as this is mostly taken from my bird app post, but I am all here for the discussion, so lmk what you think :)