#i will NEVER be able to write this scene as i want so i want to throw this here so i can call it a day

[bakugoushotwife]

in my opinion, gojo’s storyline has been handled so so poorly i can’t help but think it’s intentional. it is not bad writing to kill a character—even a beloved character. i know most people will dismiss my criticisms because gojo is so beloved to me and so many others. i’ve said before that i don’t mind if he died. does it hurt? of course, and i would still cry and be sad about it. but there is a beautiful way to do it. with respect and honor for his legacy—for what he has done for your manga, the characters in it, and audiences worldwide. but no…gege chose the path of horror and disrespect. at certain points i’d say to myself, well. this is a dark manga. but essentially gojo is the only character that receives this treatment. since the beginning—since suguru left him, he’s been wondering if he mattered because he was a person, or if he only mattered because he was powerful and useable. we certainly fucking answered that question. he is a weapon and nobody ever cared about him at all!!!

and we knew he was being used—he knew he was being used, but he is selfless. so he did it for his kids. for megumi and yuuji and yuuta—he wanted them to be safe. in these flashbacks it’s exceedingly clear that he knew he would die. again—that’s not my issue. gojo dying to sukuna makes plenty of sense and it would hurt to leave it there. but to give us an afterlife scene where he’s presented a choice—north and south—that concept lead nowhere, that’s truly fucked up. to leave all the subtle clues and hints for no reason but to keep people reading and theorizing his return is fucked up. to continue to use his imagery to promote your manga when you know he’s not even honored in your manga is fucked up. we don’t get a funeral or a grave for him. no one’s spoken about him in chapters despite him fighting for hours against sukuna and damaging him so much that yuuji could win, nothing. yuuta wearing him like a costume and no one is horrified about it. i thought his students WERE different. they weren’t jujutsu society yet. that’s why gojo was their teacher—shaping them into better human beings. how am i supposed to trust in their future when it seems they’re just as cold and heartless as everyone before them? no one has honored gojo in any way since the moment he died. and they’ve forgotten about him. he spent his entire life fighting and no one can even say thank you. gege intentionally used gojo to promote the end of his manga because he knows that gojo fans make up at least half of his fanbase so had we stopped reading when he died, he would have lost a lot of traction. he baited us intentionally, cruelly, and something that transcends storytelling. i’ve truly never seen a mangaka have this sort of vitriol for one of their characters and the people that love him.

we spent the entire last chapter talking about some random fucking mission when we have several unanswered questions and concerns. i thought gege said he wanted this ending to be shocking and something you didn’t see in shonen? tying everything up neatly where no one has any trauma or grief for what they’ve experienced, everyone comes back to life except the one character you hate specifically and choso, defying your own power structures and having everyone laughing into the sunset is exactly how shonen ends so what in the fuck is he talking about??

let me disclaim, this is not megumi hate at all. i love him very much and i am so happy he’s back with the group but like. he shouldn’t be able to even walk. he tanked unlimited void for over 6 minutes whenever that length caused irreversible damage to sukuna himself. not to mention the countless black flashes. so what the fuck? he doesn’t mention gojo at all?? the first time he laughs in this manga is after he reads a note written by his dead fucking caretaker about his dead fucking father? like i don’t believe. random open ended kenjaku/suguru mention just to piss me off, an absolutely no mention of gojos sacrifice or how they’ll miss him. i’m sick to my stomach. gege defiled his memory both in the story and outside of it. wow.

P.S. SUKUNA CARED MORE ABOUT GOJO THAN ANYONE ELSE (SUGURU IS NOT INCLUDED IN THIS I MEAN HIS STUDENTS AND SOCIETY)

[onboardsorasora]

It's been crazy few days and we all need a little bit of just distraction and some happiness. For @chaosinstigator, I wanted to write a longer scene than I normally do. I hope you like it😘

Part 1 | Part 15

Part 16

“Charles, where is Daniel?” Max stretched and bit back a yawn. The first day of preseason was always the longest. What with all the engineering meetings and marketing squeezed in-between.

Charles looked up from his conversation with Pierre– eyes wide. He looked around before smiling to himself. “Over there. With Esteban.” He said pointing into a crowd.

“How do you know?” Max asked skeptically even as Esteban laughed down at something. A bright red balloon bobbed in his eyeline, Max sighed long-sufferingly. “Nevermind.” He muttered.

“It's a great idea!” Charles called at his back as he walked away. Max trudged through the small crowd of people, lips pulling in an involuntary smile as Daniel's shriek of happiness pierced the air.

He came upon the all crowd of media people and drivers, and in the middle was a grinning kid with a balloon clipped to his trousers. He was giggling and wiggling his little body while looking up to see if the balloon wiggled as well.

“Hello Daniel, who gave you a balloon?”

“Max!!” Little Daniel screeched and ran to hug Max's legs. “Look! A ballwoon!” Little Daniel wiggled himself and looked up at Max to see if he was watching, honey eyes large and happy.

“Look at it go!” Max praised, running his fingers through Little Daniel's hair. Little Daniel made a soft happy sound and leaned into Max's touch.

“Was it Charles’ idea?” Max asked Esteban.

“Shaaaarrrrlllll.” Little Daniel hummed.

Esteban quirked a brow at the stim, having never experienced it before. “Does Charles know he does that?”

“Shaaaarrrrlllll.” Came the squeaky voice again.

Max shrugged, “probably. But the balloon?”

“It's Naomi's birthday, he'd started following her– well the balloon and she gave it to him.” Estie explained. “It was my idea to clip it to him so he can't get lost– he had zoomies.”

“Did you go zooming today again Daniel? Did you go the fastest?” Max looked down as Little Daniel looked up with stars in his eyes.

“I went so fasht Maxy!” He promised earnestly.

“That's so good! Do you want to choose dinner tonight?”

“Can we get mummy gnocchi?” Little Daniel bit the side of his palm shyly, twisting his little body. Max froze, he knew the hotel would be able to figure out gnocchi but he needed to call Grace to find out what he'd need to do with it. Not a problem.

“Of course! And we can call mummy too.” Max offered and Little Daniel bounced in excitement. He raised his arms to be lifted and Max obliged easily, lifting Little Daniel and his balloon into his arms.

“Maxy we go home now?” Little Daniel asked, patting Max's cheek with a wet palm. Max nodded.

“Do you want to watch a race tonight or cartoons?” Max asked and Little Daniel thought for a second, holding his smooth chin.

“Race pweese! The one-the one that we was da fastest?” He asked as if Max didn't know which race he spoke about. As if their double podiums weren't Little Daniel's favourite races to watch.

“We'll watch that one.” Max promised and Little Daniel grinned happily. He twisted around to wave at Esteban who Max had completely forgotten about. Estie waved at Little Daniel with a grin and Max nodded his goodbye. They just needed to grab their bags and then they'd be on their way, their balloon trailing behind them.

“Look Maxy! Balloon!!” Little Daniel squealed, pointing upwards at their beacon. He was excited to see it flying in the sky and Max watched him happily and stroked a hand up and down Little Daniel's spine in a comforting cadence.

On their walk from the hospitality to the car, Little Daniel rested his head on Max's shoulder and clutched his hands around Max's neck. His soft breaths told Max he was asleep, tuckered out from his exciting day.

[whiskeyghoul]

With a stranger's kiss || [The worst!Logan x Reader]

A/N: Okay so this needed to be written. I am obsessed with the new song released by one of my favorite bands. I heard it and this idea for a the worst!logan fanfic just filled my head. So please enjoy the hurt and a little comfort. My first time writing Logan too so I am quite excited, though it might mean it is a little ooc.

Recommended listening: Hotel flamingo - Kelsy Karter and the heroines, Tangerine - led zeppelin

WC: 3,4K

Tags: angst, fluff, hurt comfort, logan, soft logan, the worst!logan, alternate timeline angst, strangers to lovers, wolverine x reader, maybe a bit ooc.

Warnings: mentions of death

Your pov.

You were sitting at the bar on a Saturday night. Music was loud, people were chattering carefree. It smelled like beer, fruity mixed drinks and mingled perfumes. There was a highball glass in front of you, condensation on the outside dripped down. The wet stain on the napkin grew ever bigger as you stirred the drink with the straw. You leaned your head on your hand, absentmindedly staring into space. There to heal a broken heart that had left you feeling empty the past few months. Needing a distraction and willing to give it a try tonight.

You had known before going into a relationship with Logan that it would end in tragedy. He was much older, rougher, beaten down by the world around him. The first weeks of knowing him he was angry. Angry at the hand life had dealt him. It was attractive in a way, you wanted to see why this man was so bitter. See if he was able to warm up. He managed to open up to you eventually, your constant prodding and incessant need to be close to him. It weakened his defenses. It turns out he was kind too, flirty, funny at times. You remember the late nights together with him, listening to his heartbeat as you laid together. Silent, needing nothing more than each others company. His hand trailing absentminded patterns on your skin. How he’d kiss your temple, murmuring sweet nicknames and affectionate compliments. Which you gladly returned. Running your hands through his hair, kissing his jaw as you whispered into the intimacy of the night. He was everything to you. And then you lost him.

Wade had tracked you down afterwards, wanting more information on your late lover, to track him down as he said. Which at first had caused you much distress. Angry at Wade for even bringing up the idea. Logan wouldn’t do that to you. Not ever. You remember how the emotions ran its course, grief running its course again. How hot tears rolled down your cheeks as your throat closed. That was a few days ago. You had calmed down again but needed a change of scene. Your apartment was filled with memories of the past. The bar was close to Wade’s place, it was one of the few that played the classic rock songs you loved so much. You had asked Wade to come out but he never had responded. Probably on some weird mission that deserved all his attention. Though you hoped he would show up, so you wouldn’t be alone. Drinking your sadness away, pretending to be fine when in reality you don’t know if you ever could be fine again.

The ice in your tequila sunrise clinked as you raised the cup of the bar. Taking a few big sips, downing the drink in one go with a sigh. Placing the glass back down with a thunk. “You always put away drinks like that, sweetheart?” A familiar, deep voice spoke up maybe 2 seats away from you. You looked over, a familiar face, younger than you last saw him. His hair wasn’t enveloped by the salt and pepper yet, with those little peeks you had only seen in old pictures of Logan. Kitty ears, as you had called them. His arms flexed under a flannel shirt. A cigar, unlit, held between the fingers of his left hand as his right held a glass of whiskey. Logan. Maybe it was the alcohol, or you were dead and this was heaven. Maybe it was a cruel joke played by the universe. But it was him.

No. no. This wasn’t real. This was a delusion. A grief filled hallucination conjured up by the worst parts of your brain. A liquor filled haze that would have you end up in the bathrooms in 10 minutes if it went south. Though this was just your second drink, and your vision was crystal clear. “Only when I have a reason to drink.” your voice was a little choked as you answered him. Feeling that if you kept staring, with no answer, he would think you were crazy. Locking eyes with the man across from you there was a sadness, a loneliness in his eyes. This wasn’t Logan, but he looked a hell of a lot like him, sounded like him. “What’s the reason today?” His voice didn’t carry too much over the music but you were so tuned in to him you could hear him perfectly. As if your body moved on its own you stood up from the high seat. Taking two steps closer. You watched his eyes flicker over you, a moment of something else in those hazel eyes, his lips part as if he was about to say something else before closing them. Swallowing away whatever he had almost confessed. “Life has never been this hard.” You answered as you sat on the chair next to him. Offering a wry smile to him which he returned with a somber nod.

“Even for the prettiest girl in the bar?” His words were sincere, not the empty compliments that you had heard from men before. His eyes held yours with intent, like he was searching for something. Maybe you were looking for something in him too. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, before using that movement to take the whiskey glass from his grip. “Even for her.” you answered as you took a sip, letting the familiar taste shock your senses for a moment. The burn, the warmth, the smell, it was all a memory of him. “What about you, does the most handsome man always drink by himself on a Friday night?” You asked as you placed his drink back for him, your lipstick stain adorning the rim. Though your fingers loosely stayed around the cold glass. “Not just Fridays.” His answer was short as he picked up the glass. Fingers barely brushing yours as he took it. Calloused, large, but gentle. He wasn’t a hallucination, he was physical, real. Following his movement you watched as he put the lipstick stain to his lips, sipping from the same spot. An indirect kiss.

There was a moment of electricity, a connection between the both of you. Two strangers who were so familiar to one another. “Well then, please let me hold you company.” You waved to the waiter, motioning for another round of drinks for the both of you.“I won’t mind that.” He said placing his now empty glass on the bar. It was only a few moments before the new drinks were placed in front of you on the bar. Taking the cold glass in your hands you raised it, “To two people drinking alone, together.” you said with a soft smile. He returned your smile, just the barest uptick of the corner of his lips. “I will cheers to that, sweetheart.” The way he said it, sweetheart, it made your heart ache. The roll of the r, the lilt in his voice as it dipped slightly lower. You heard it so many times, yet you never got your fill. Quickly, you took a sip of your drink, hoping the cold would bury the feelings of sadness under them. Like a layer of snow covering the ground, preventing sprouts until the time was right.

“Someone used to call me that a lot. Sweetheart.” You confessed to him, a morose chuckle leaving your lips. Not knowing why the words bubbled up. They left your lips before you could think them through. “That why you drinking alone?” He asked, as he leaned a little closer. A waft of his cologne crashing into your senses. Like a wave enveloping you, leaving you under the surface, weightless. “One of the reasons.” Another sip of your drinks as you held eye contact. His stare was heavy, he wetted his lips with his tongue before he spoke. “We must be in a similar boat then.” He shifted in his seat, ever so slightly closer. “I moved away because I lost a lot of people. You remind me of the girl I used to call that all the time.” That confession caused another ache to shoot through your heart. He was a little broken, like you, losing the person you loved most. His eyes drifted away from you and to the cigar in his hand. “I’m heading out for a smoke. Join me.” he nodded his head towards the door. Shifting and standing up, you took your drink in your left hand ready to follow him out through the crowd of bodies that separated the bar seats from the door. You felt his hand take yours, chilled finger tips from his drink, looking up to see the cigar already between his teeth, the whiskey glass in his right hand. You thought he winked before quickly turning. An image that would be forever burned on to your brain. He was pulling you through the mass of people, and out into the night.

The outside air was cold compared to the inside of the bar. The smell of weather turning in the air, like at any moment the clouds could break and rain could soak you through. The moon peeked through the clouds every so often. The music is still audible though ever so slightly muffled. Your drinks were placed on the table near the bouncer. There were other people outside, leaning against the brick wall as they talked and smoked. The neon flamingo sign lit the surroundings in a pink hue. Standing with your back against the brick you watched him pull out a lighter, taking a flame to the end of the cigar and inhaling the smoke. Breathing out you watched as the tendrils faded into the night sky. Eyes lingering on his lips, wondering if they would feel the same. Your body was yearning for the touch of Logan, months without it, grieving the loss of him, it had been torturous. And now, a vision of the past that stood in front of you, close enough to reach out. He took another drag of the cigar, holding in the smoke for a moment before breathing out again. Tapping off the ash he held it out to you, quirking a brow up inquisitively. “I don’t smoke.” You said, a shrug of your shoulders as you wrapped your arms around your torso, it was colder out than you had thought. “What do you have to lose?” He urged with a smirk, looking down at you. The pink light casting shadows on the side of his face. Making him look more like the man you lost. You reached out, gently taking the cigar from his hand, fingers lingering a second too long.

You brought the cigar to your lips, breathing in, holding it a second and letting the smoke settle in your system. Your eyes fluttering close. It was just like when you used to kiss Logan, smoke and tinge of sweetness. Though he used to take great care not to kiss you immediately after taking a smoke. Because you would scrunch your nose, feign disgust, because you had been disgusted the first few times. Before getting used to the taste that was uniquely him. Opening your eyes again after a few seconds you blinked away the tear threatening to form. You exhaled, watching those wispy tendrils leave your own mouth. Your gaze locked on him, his expression was weirdly soft as he took you in, like he was burning your image into his memory. Or perhaps he was transported back to the past, to the girl he used to call sweetheart. Holding out the cigar for him you smiled softly, “Yeah, not for me.” you tilted your head, smile fading as you pressed your lips together. Holding back from letting sadness take over. He took the cigar back, eyes glancing at the lipstick stain left behind on the butt, “S’alright. It’s not for everyone.” his voice was barely above a whisper, but you heard the slight quiver in the tone. Emotion taking over. Watching as his Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed away the feelings.

He took another drag, lips pressed where you had left a mark for the second time that night. When his lips left the cigar you saw the tinge of red on his lips. Like how it would have looked when you had kissed Logan, it used to be his favorite shade on you. Instinctively you reached out, overwhelmed, “Sorry, you have something here.” your thumb connected with his bottom lip. As the rest of your fingers splayed out over his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against your skin. You wiped at the lipstick stain until he caught your wrist in his free hand. It was surprising, yet his hold was so gentle. His eyes bore into yours, “That’s okay, sweetheart, I don’t mind.” He said before moving your hand, pressing a kiss just below your thumb. It was tender, a fleeting moment, a living reflection of the past. His lips left just as soon as they had connected with your skin. Still, his grip on your wrist didn’t loosen, he lowered your arms together, to hang between you. As if a bridge connecting two islands. “Was that too far?” He asked. You shook your head no, though it was barely a shake. If he hadn’t been staring you down he might not have even noticed it. “Not at all.” You said softly. He nodded his head, as if to say ‘good.’ before taking the last drag of his cigar. Letting the small stub fall to the ground. Stepping on it to put it out.

The music changed inside. An all too familiar melody started playing. Tangerine. You let out a choked laugh, the irony not lost on you. “You like this song?” he asked. You slipped your hand down, where he had been holding your wrist you were now holding his hand. “I think it’s pretty. Sad, melancholic but so filled with love.” Your fingers found their way between his. Running your thumb along the skin of the back of his hand almost absentmindedly. It was something you used to do quite often, not just a comforting gesture for Logan. It was almost self soothing, to feel his warmth at your fingertips. He hummed in agreement with your sentiment. Something about the scene in front of you made you think back to when you last heard this song, when you had danced together with Logan in the living room. Old songs playing in the background. You had leaned your head against his chest as he had held you close. His heartbeat mingled with the soft acoustics, the rumble of his voice whispering along to the song. Now that his mirror image stood there in the pink neon light, you couldn’t help yourself.

Pushing yourself off of the wall you stood closer, tugging on his hand to force him closer. He let you, a little too easy, so you looked up and stood nose to nose. “Dance with me?” You asked, peering in those hazel eyes, seeing the shift in his demeanor. How his eyes softened as he breathed in. “Anything for you.” His response was quick, easy, like he had said it a thousand times before. His left hand found its perch on your hip so effortlessly, his thumb stroking over the velvety fabric of your dress so carefully, like he had done so a million times before. You let go of his right hand, it quickly went down to your hip. You were letting both of your hands slip up his chest to his shoulders. Feeling the heartbeat under his skin for a moment before latching your fingers together behind his neck. Feeling the brush of the hair at his nape. He started to sway softly, as you stood almost chest to chest, the warmth radiating between the two of you. A coil formed around your heart, tightening with every sway, every small step you made together. Everything around you was falling away. All you could hear was the music. The only thing you saw was him. The only thing you could feel was his touch as the second verse set in.

Thinking how it used to be.

Does she still remember times like these?

To think of us again.

And I do.

Breathing in sync, he leaned slightly closer, his nose nudging yours. There was an edge of hesitation. His eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t seem to find. A brief second, before he sighed and created a little more distance, looking almost defeated. You wanted him to kiss you, even if it was just to see if his lips felt the same. If he kissed with the same hunger. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, “I can’t. ‘Cause you aren’t her. Even though you are just like her.” You closed your eyes, taking in the words you knew were true for the both of you, leaning into his touch. “I know, Lo…” the name slipped from your lips like it was nothing. Because every neuron, every fiber in your body was saying it was him.

In that moment he stood just a little straighter, his touch on your forehead left. You opened your eyes. His were intense, on you, filled with devotion. Your name sounded from his mouth. It lay heavy between you. 

Tangerine, tangerine. 

Living reflection from a dream.

I was her love, she was my queen.

But now a thousand years in-between.

The hands behind his neck unclasped each other, your fingers raking through the soft, short locks at his nape. Realization dawned. A tear escaping your eye, just the singular one as a sad smile was on his lips. “You’re not really him, are you?” you didn’t want to ask, but you had to know for sure. Wanting to live in this moment where you were back together, just a glimpse of what was. “I am. Just not yours, just like you aren’t mine.” Logan’s right hand cradled your face, thumb wiping away the tear that had rolled down your cheek. A similar soothing motion you had done just moments prior. Leaning into his touch your eyes stayed on him, catching every expression, every little look and emotion. “I wasn’t gonna look for you, didn’t think I could handle seeing you.” He said softly, “But when I saw you, with pain in your eyes, I couldn’t help myself. I never could help myself around you.” He continued, stroking your cheek continuously. Soft motions, keeping you grounded, his grip on your hip tightening ever so slightly. A barely there twitch you wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the fact you were completely engulfed by him. Like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like you could slip away at any moment. Just like you couldn’t fathom him being there.

The pain you felt when you saw him for the first time soothed with the knowledge it was Logan. Not yours, like he had said. But a version of him that had loved a version of you. You had both lost each other, and for some inexplicable reason, had found each other again. A little more broken. A little more weathered. But a little lighter too.

“In this moment, you could kill me if you wanted to. I would be happy, just to have been able to see you again. Something I never thought would happen.” You spoke up, “In fact, for a moment, I thought this was heaven.” Logan let out a soft chuckle at that. The idea of a bar, filled with drunk people chattering, being heaven was a strange thought. But it felt like heaven. And so did being outside in the cold of the night. “I thought I saw an angel, too.” There was a slight humor in his tone. His smile is a little lighter, a little sweeter. It was infectious. Biting the inside of your lip, holding back the smile. “Would I be a terrible person if I asked to kiss you anyways?” You asked, knowing he had pulled away before. His gaze softened as he searched your eyes again. “You could kill me if you wanted to.” he echoed your words, your sentiment. 

The moment felt weightless as he leaned in. Hand moving from your cheek to the back of your head. Tilting your head gently. Your eyes shut automatically. The soft press of his lips against yours followed. It was so gentle. Sweet and smokey. Filled with regret, pain, loss, passion, love. Your hands slid to the front of his shirt. Holding on to the soft fabric. His left hand squeezed your hip just a little more. You pulled away for a moment, a smile spreading as you watched him. “Nice to meet you, Logan.”  He laughed, short, but genuine. A melodic sound that made your heart skip. “Nice to meet you too, sweetheart.” He said before his lips found yours again. Letting yourself melt into the feeling. There was a lot that needed to be figured out. Or explained. But you could do that later. When you would both be getting to know each other again like it was the first time.

A fresh start with a familiar stranger’s kiss.

[lavafell]

Take my hand, and believe we can be together forever more.

Holy shit, it's been actual years since I've drawn my girl! To celebrate, time for a ramble that no one will read, lol.

Aerith has been my favorite character of all time for almost 2 decades now. Her death traumatized me and despite the fact that it took me actual years to get past the Jenova LIFE fight she never left my mind.

No, seriously, I had to watch her die again every time I got a game over, aqualung is the reason Aerith's death scene is PERMANENTLY burned into my memory!!

Anyway I eventually beat the game. But even before that, I remember trying on and off for years to put my love for Aerith down on paper by drawing her. I tried SO many times to draw her, but it never felt right and I eventually gave up on it. I thought something was wrong with me, that I just wasn't good enough at art or that I just wasn't a good enough Aerith fan.

Smash cut to 2021, and I play Remake! My love for Aerith is only made more intense, and with an outlet for my special interest, FFVII becomes my entire life again. I attempted to draw her more, but again, no luck.

I now realize that my inability to draw Aerith was the result of my mental health issues working together with feelings of being undeserving or too stupid to really call myself a fan. Early this year I cut out the people in my life that made me feel that way, and sometime later I was finally able to get a PS5 and Rebirth.

My relationship with minigame hell aside, I love the characterization. I love Aerith. I've been mowing through the game and plan to Platinum it.

All this to say, I just recently got to see the No Promises to Keep scene. At first the different voice was jarring, and I stubbornly refused to give the song a chance.

But today, I decided I wanted to try drawing my girl again. So I listened to an arrangement of the song in the OG game's style, then a music box cover, and then finally I gave the actual song a chance.

I need to inject it directly into my veins.

The music, the lyrics, the way Loren Allred's voice carries the emotions directly into your heart, they all scream so so much love for Aerith and FFVII as a story. I have my gripes with the Remake project's plot/writing, but I can never deny the team's love for the story and characters.

Listening to that music and looking at both Aerith's OG and Remake designs, I finally managed to draw her in a way that felt right. I nearly cried at having that way to show my love for her.

So thank you, Loren Allred. I know you're never gonna see this, but thank you. You helped me put my love for this character out into the world, and I think this was my first step toward being able to properly make progress in my fanfic.

I love you Aerith qwq

[alwaysrunningoutoftime]

sydcarmy intimacy in fics i would take in canon instead of a kiss (alternatively the sydcarmy love language):

having a proper honest and vulnerable heart to heart post the freezer

properly creating a menu together with balanced dishes between the two and fusions (source)

sharing a notebook filled with sydney's ideas and carmy's drawings (source)

carmy opening up to sydney about his struggles

sydney opening up to carmy about hers

resting their hand on top of the others

taking a minute to breath, resting their heads on each other (source)

carmy breaking down crying while sydney holds him (source)

sharing a meal together, sharing a spoon (source)

cooking a meal for the other

cleaning and wrapping a bandaid around the others cut (source)

cooking in a kitchen outside of the bear, moving together like a synchronized dance (source)

carmy driving sydney home

carmy gifting sydney with a scarf

going to the farmer's market together

going on food tours together

carmy being invited to the adamus house

carmy seeing sydney's childhood bedroom

sydney seeing carmy's desolate bedroom

sleeping over at each other's house after working on a menu together late into the night

watching a tv show on the couch together

[lunarharp]

into the deep end - 30k T orufrey fic, focusing on memory trauma, disability, and romance.

the sweet oblivion of the victim, the poisoned freedom of the other.

for one moment - it had felt like two parts returned - the needed reunion of two disparate halves. no more secrets, no more pain.

the moment you get to give back what you never wanted to take. that moment, under the night-blooming flowers, when they had both let out the same single broken sigh of relief.

but they were never whole to begin with, were they?

qifrey swore he wouldn't say 'sorry' to this man any more if he could help it - sorry is cheap now. he didn't want to be in a position ever again where you only have 'sorry' left. so he just looks down into the threads of his blanket, strains his eye until it hurts, feeling his insides - his throat, heart and head - burn with pain. he expects more, but olly says nothing.

olly says nothing.

[genekies]

tag vent

[orcelito]

Wild that anytime I post an update a lot of people read it and are even excited about it and have their own thoughts and reactions to it that I'll never know.

Comments are only the very tip of the iceberg with it. And I am Very grateful to commenters for letting me in on it. But in the same way that I'll be excited with my friends when a fic we love updates, it's likely that Other people enthuse with Their friends when my fic updates. And it's just so strange. An experience I'll never have access to.

Everyone's relationship with my fic is unique. So many different people with so many different circumstances and preferences... and the number of people that have told me that my fic is one of their favorites, some even saying it's their Favorite favorite... every single one of them have their own relationship with my writing.

It's just interesting to me. I think and think and think on my writing. I have my plans for basically the entire fic, the way I want it to end already thought out, all the major plot beats and the relationship progressions, All of that thought out. I love my writing so very much, but I'm on the inside looking out. This is my mechanical horse, and I'm in here laying out the groundwork and pulling levers and constructing limbs, puttering away making the horse move. Forever and always, my relationship with it will be more intimate than anyone's, and yet more clinical. Because I know it better than the back of my own hand, but I'll never have the experience of reading it fresh. Of reading it without knowing everything that's going to happen from now to the end and beyond. I won't have the thrill of the plot twists I have planned, the delight at seeing things progress, the horror at seeing things go wrong...

This is my mechanical horse, and I'm making it move.

I just always wonder what it must be like to see it from the outside. I hope to others that it's a pretty horse.

[roboraindrop]

*thinks Abt taking care of Grima*

*evaporates*

[purple--queen]

not me thinking about a Winterhawk fic á la Bridgerton knowing i will just put some scene in my head togheter but never write it

[fromaliminalspace]

can't believe that I've been having some stray and super vague ideas of an tad (="the artful dodger", that new Australian spin-off) steddie AU for about a couple of months now but the (metaphorical) math was just always not mathing whenever I tried to think of ways to actually make it a coherent AU

until today, when I all of a sudden, having almost forgotten about this idea in the first place, went "but what if steddie were t4t in this concept" and this just. fixed everything. suddenly ways to make it work appeared out of nowhere and made everything make sense, and I finally got around to jot down the premise after having it all just ruminate in my head all that time

sometimes transing the narrative really makes things better in unexpected ways, huh

[firendgold]

If you're still doing the choose violence ask game: 2 (👀), 9, 10, 22 ?

I got such a rush from finally answering the first ask that I'm doing this for as long as people send me questions. So here we go again!

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

anon, I'm at work. I'm seeing this at work. :'D

Okay, serious face. Albus Dumbledore is probably my fave if I have to choose between him and Harry on this blog. I just have to figure out why he would never...

Bottom. Albus would never, I'm sorry. He won't. He can't. Like, maybe when he was having his whirlwind summer romance with Gellert, he bottomed every single time they fucked because he was so in love and this was his equal and his partner and so what if he was a little rough and distant sometimes in the bedroom, and always wanted to top and tug his hair and hiss out orders? This was The Man The Universe Had Crafted For Him, and he would absolutely bottom for him every time... and then the summer of 1899 ends. And Ariana dies. And Aberforth breaks Albus' nose. And Gellert fucks off to go be a fascist.

And Albus, alone and heartbroken, resolves to never trust someone that completely again, never love someone that same way, and never let anyone get into a position of power over him where they might be able to use his knowledge and talents for ill. That means physically, emotionally, spiritually, psychologically... carnally. So he has sex with plenty of other people, and even falls in love with a few of them, but he is in control at all times. He never bottoms again.

That's all I've got for that one.

9. worst part of canon

So the first answer that came to mind is posted here, but for fairness' sake I'll try to come up with another worst thing. (That's not related to ships, because I'm trying really hard not to be THAT violent on the violence ask game.)

I think... that if That Woman was going to introduce international schools, students and characters in the middle book of the series, she should have done more with them than having them vanish after Goblet of Fire, only to come back for either fake romantic tension and one line of exposition about the Hitler allegory Dark Lord of the Before-Times (Krum, Deathly Hallows) or to be married off to a Weasley for an aesop of It's Not About His Looks Now That They're Jacked Up (Fleur, Half-Blood Prince). I'm not saying Fleur and Viktor HAD to be best buddies forever with Harry, but it is weird that they have this unique bond that no other young students have had with each other in hundreds of years, they even lost one of their fellow champions, Dumbledore gives this very moving speech about remaining connected and not letting darkness and prejudice sever new ties, and then... nothing. No side adventures in France or wherever Durmstrang is, no communication from either side, nothing.

Feels like a huge letdown in hindsight.

10. worst part of fanon

Oh, no. That's not fair. There's just so many.

If I had to consolidate what I currently don't like about the HP fandom/fanon into a few lines, I think I would say that I hate the pureblood/Dark side apologism. I do believe in nuance in characters. I do believe redemption and/or walking different paths is an important theme in Harry Potter, and I think it's fascinating to explore that with any and every character you can think of, even characters I may not personally like. But I really, really hate the way the fandom has taken that and twisted it into this idea that we were sold a lie at the start: that the British magical government was fine the way it was, and so was the society around it; that Dark magic Isn't All That Bad, Really, and there are actually Good and non-prejudiced things about a few rich bitches passing down their knowledge and secrets and slurs for generations within the Family, and keeping the Family "Pure" is cool actually, and none of this has any relation to real life ideas about miscegenation and classism and racism and eugenics, what are you talking about?

It's just so worrying. As a minority, when I see people on tumblr/twitter/AO3 gleefully agreeing that we need to eat the rich and fix society and eradicate all the horrid -isms and -archys ruining all our lives, then watch them turn around and write a 200k epic where Dumbledore was the evil one for locking the Horcrux books away and championing marginalized members of society, Hermione is just uppity for wanting to make necessary changes to the darker parts of magical society that That Woman was literally pointing out for a reason, and Tom Riddle is only bad because he took the good segregationist pureblood ideas and added murder to them... and when that fic gets thousands of comments agreeing with them full stop with no examination of any of that... it makes me anxious, at a minimum. The same thing is happening now with Grindelwald now that he's actually a figure on the screen and not just some dude mentioned a few times in the book series: same apologism, same justification of atrocities, same good-guy-blame-games, same blorbofication even.

On the one hand... fiction doesn't always directly reflect or affect reality. On the other... this unironic pro-pureblood meta is a pervasive concept that has popped up in thousands of fics written by thousands of fanfic writers. It's happened for years, and it keeps happening, and I see very few fans speaking out against it or even acknowledging it as a problem. So that makes me ask myself, who actually is willing and able to examine the injustices of our society and build a better imaginary society through the lens of HP fanfiction, and who's okay with the prejudice in the HP world as long as it's coming from the faves they're attracted to?

22. your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

Happily, this is a harder question to answer because I've been finding so many like minds in the past 5 years who go feral over the same 20 HP scenes as I do. ^^ But give me a sec, I'll think of something.

...

Okay. Got it.

In order to answer this question, I have to go back to the first time I, young teenager, avid reader, recent reader of the HP series once book 5 was out, realized that Harry and Dumbledore had a much deeper relationship than just headmaster and student. The thing that made me latch on to them and project like crazy, basically.

It's the scene in Goblet of Fire chapter 36 where Harry has been rescued from Fake Moody and he's in Dumbledore's office with Dumbledore and Sirius. Dumbledore asks Harry to relay everything that happened to him once he touched the Portkey in the maze—and immediately Sirius tries to protect Harry from having to relive it now, so soon after it's happened. And then this scene happens.

Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question him. He was going to make Harry relive everything. “I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “We can leave that till morning, can’t we, Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him rest.” Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He leaned forward toward Harry. Very unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes. “If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened.” The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s body, lying on the ground beside the cup. Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel better.

This is one of the best scenes in the entire book, the entire series. It completely refutes the fanon Dumbledore who is often cold, cruel, inflexible and unrelenting in his quest for whatever the author wants him to be inflexible and cruel about at the time. It shows that Dumbledore, the real Albus Dumbledore, is one of the few people who understands what Harry needs and is able to provide it to him, even when others who also care for Harry would rather protect him or shield him from what he needs.

Kid me was particularly taken by how gentle Dumbledore is with Harry here. It made me look back and see how in some ways this scene, this closeness, is the culmination of all the times they've met and spoken before.

(You can imagine how painful it was reading Order of the Phoenix right after this.)

But yeah, that's probably one of my favorite scenes that other people ignore or haven't talked about/drawn/written about much. Which is ironic, because the scene right after that where Harry talks about Voldemort taking his blood and Dumbledore's eyes do the triumphant "lol Voldemort just fucked up" gleam is probably one of THE most talked-about scenes in the fandom (even though to this fucking day in 2023 people still don't realize what the gleam meant, when even That Woman has clarified what it meant in INTERVIEWS).

...And for me, safely at the end of the questions, that's all she wrote.

[planet4546b]

i’ve been enjoying reading more for like a billion reasons but also they truly were not lying about reading more making you a better writer. like i have a clearer idea of signoise rn than i ever have in my life and also my writing style is like. so much clearer. it’s awesome

[sunnykeysmash]

I still believe my beloved theory that Dennis never actually went to North Dakota and just hid in the vents and lived in Charlie's bad room to eavesdrop on the gang for their reaction of him leaving, planning to rub it in their face and be quickly done with it, but it never came

[wilsonthemoose]

use a photo on your phone camera roll and write a quick hc/fic you're NEVER explored before

Extremely overdue, I can only apologize!

Dean learnt first. On an uneven table in an old-fashioned salon, cigarette smoke making him woozy and his father shifting the balls around to offer him easy shots he missed by inches if not feet.

It was his birthday, 10th, and John got him a beer float he hated but pretended to like.

Sam learnt later, and he was taller when he started, an old-hand at shot guns already when Dean handed him his first cue.

Long-limbed at 14, awkward in the car but, as it turned out, not at pool.

They'd been watching The Hustler and he wouldn't shut up about it so Dean had snuck them into a bar one morning through the window. Showed him a few trick shots to impress him and helped him make a few pockets.

Sam bruised his knuckles against the table, driving the cue too carelessly forward a few too many times. Dean cut his hand on the window going back out, but they would relive that day as a memory in their heaven.

Dean made a beer float for him later, cheap vanilla and bud light. Sam hated it too.

[orcelito]

i miss akechi goro so much. maybe even enough to finally finish that ladue chapter 3