#it’s more a prompt than anything lol

[readylovewrites]

The concept of the Hyde becoming aimless rather than strictly more aggressive with the loss of its master. Tyler, escaped, haunting the woods near his cave, waiting for Laurel to come back and just tell him what to do, what is he supposed to do? Standing amidst the silence of an abandoned forest, listless, holding himself and feeling his eyes lose focus, supernaturally attuned ears absently picking up on the sound of fallen leaves hitting the earth. At some point—he doesn’t know when—he tore apart a deer but there’s no satisfaction in it like there was when it was Laurel’s biding so it’s laying at his feet, forgotten.

abandoned.

He doesn’t know it, but Wednesday has been looking for him since she heard of his escape. She herself isn’t sure if she means to kill him or study him or… well. She thinks about what a Hyde might do when it’s master is dead but there haven’t been bodies turning up so maybe he went home? She decides to investigate and finds him there with his back to her, stock-still, and she’d think he hasn’t noticed her except for the way his fingers tighten around his biceps.

she waits. If he attacks her, she’ll have her fun in besting him on her own. If he attacks, they can see who’ll draw first blood and—more importantly—who will draw last.

he doesn’t.

wind whispers through the trees, the black, whirling maw of the cave a hellmouth of bad memories, and neither tyler nor Hyde try to kill her. It’s shaping up to be a pathetic birthday.

“Well?” she prompts.

he doesn’t react.

she lets it hang for another moment, but grows impatient: “I killed your master. I’m right here. What are you waiting for?” And then, mockingly, “Orders?”

compellingly, his head turns just the slightest bit towards her and she sees in profile his lost expression. And it clicks then. Because he is and, by the look on his face, they’ve only both just realized it.

this could almost feel like a victory if Wednesday were not suddenly struck by the injustice of it. Because Tyler looks small. Looks lost. Looks like nothing at all.

chains on a wall.

she steps up beside him, more irritated that she can’t even have fun at his expense, and sees the deer. “My parents got me a taxidermy kit for my birthday last year. At least this wasn’t a total waste.”

Later, when she’s instructed Thing to grab the back legs while she takes the front and carted off her trophy, he’s still standing there but gradually, as the dark is setting in, a warmth creeps up on him. He feels his mind waking. Sees from the corner of his eye prey emerging from nearby brush.

———

the next morning, when Wednesday is leaving her dorm for her first class, the toe of her boot collides with the malleable form of a dead rabbit.

[lucabyte]

i am looking at nohats au 👀 please share more

So! NoHats! I'm going to grab you and use this to ramble. A Lot.

The NoHats AU is @samhainian's it's just that I'm the strange little freak who takes the words said unto me and executes on them. But I can still do a little explainer on what our overall thoughts and vibes are. (And, that we are in fact propping up a little box with some cheese under it here. 🪤 Please (PLEASE) feel free to pick up what we're putting down.)

We're far from the only ones exploring a "what if siffrin fucking died" AU, though the main difference with NoHats is the placement of the death in the timeline. Instead of being 'Mal Du Pays Wins' or 'Act 6 encounter goes horribly wrong', the death is… Just after the (literal) falling action.

(This placement is because Sam is a comic book fan who thus has become used to characters being ripped away at the cruelest times by shitty writers. THANK FUCKING GOD adrienne is not that and isat is delightful yippieee, but, back on topic.)

Giving the party the full understanding of What Happened that you get by putting the death after black hole siffrin, but before the A6 encounter leaves an interesting gap to be filled. See, making Siffrin's death very much not Loop's fault means that… this once again reads (when not read as simply a tragedy...) as the universe doing what it sees fit to fulfull Loop's wish… Thus making Siffrin's death Loop's fault again, but only in their eyes. And only in a way they could express if they were honest about who they were…

And this is where having had excuse to waffle about my general Postcanon Loop thoughts the other day comes in handy, because Sam and I have that as our canon-compliant reading to begin with, NoHats plays off of a lot of the same readings of Loop's character. Namely: Uh Oh Somebody's Lying By Fucking Omission Again. (BECAUSE TO BE FAIR THIS TIME… HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU HANDLE THAT?)

Now, neither Sam nor I are fanfic writers, so this has been a little bit trapped in our heads and DMs (and my unfinished art but,)

But our thoughts on how NoHats like… Goes.

Siffrin's death is peaceful, but that does not mean the aftermath of it is. I can't imagine the party takes it well, especially after understanding the circumstances of the Loops. (And, of note, in A5 where nobody had the discussion on what to do with each other's bodies should something happen…) But I'd imagine it traumabonds them somewhat (understatement of the century) and now knowing how the rest of the party feels, they resolve to travel together for the forseeable future.

The party track down Loop to deliver the terrible news, since they were clearly Siffrin's friend too, and invite Loop along to travel at least long enough to (let them grieve) get the burial over with. Loop, here, can be helpful in knowing what Siffrin would've wanted where the party would be at a loss. Loop, I think, takes a bit of a lead on the funerary aspects of it all, because, um. (Performing rites on your own body, huh?)

Then, as things are after a death, life just… Kind of has to continue on as normal. The party travel, pick up Nille, and get to know Loop as this mysterious new person. Maybe in this situation they might stay in Bambouche for a while to give Bonnie more stability since. They are probably taking it the worst. It would've come out of absolutely nowhere for everyone in the party obviously but god, for a kid? For A Kid?

It should be stated NoHats is not intended to be grimdark, just y'know. An exploration of grief. This is also why it's got a bit of a lopsided focus on Bonnie vs the rest of the party because hhrrhghghhghghhhghhghhh <- incoherent

Now, a crossroads.

How does the party discover Loop to be Siffrin? How long does it take. How much have the party embraced them as part of the family (especially with something as intense to bond over as this)?

There's the Odile option. Have her put it together and have to bring it up somehow. This could also be done by Isabeau, perhaps. He's smart. (which. God. If anything's the real Isabeau Torment Nexus it's this)

Then there's the other option batted around by Sam and I. The: The Universe Dislikes Duplicates option.

The items in the house that fzzt away when inspected. The Universe doesn't like there to be two of something, at least not when they're acknowledged. But one of something is just fine…?

Which is to say. I'm not a personal proponent of 'Loop getting their body back'. EXCEPT …… except this one time.

There's only one Siffrin now, so they don't need to be obfuscated to exist.

Consider, if you will. Loop swallowing their guilt for long enough to be comfortable. Falling back into old habits. Without another Siffrin around to compete for the niche of, they actually begin to act like Siffrin again. Not intentionally, it's just… The party is as welcoming as they've always been. And the party swears they keep catching glimpses of a face under all the light.

Then, one day, while still not fully human again, the resemblence becomes undeniable. Loop having not even noticed until everyone looks at them like they've seen a ghost.

Has it been months? How long have they kept up this lie? Is it even a lie, to them? They're Loop. But they were, once, Siffrin.

Even after explaining it, does that make it better or worse?

Bonnie cuts through the betrayed, struck-nerve reactions with a sobering "I missed you."

… Anyway !

Yeah so that's the vibe for NoHats. As for LoopLoops? That's more nebulous. I think it can go anywhere really in the NoHats timeline. I err personally toward the "Loop continuously replays the last 10 minutes before Siffrin's death almost immediately after they find out and have to parkour their ass up the House in the most distressing situation possible to try and get them to hold on, just please hold on." (Remember! Siffrin can remember the contents of Loop's loop backs in the A6 fight!)

But there is the possibility that this happens months, or worse years down the road. One last Loop back. Throw it all away for the chance to just get that one thing you didn't know you even wanted but now know you NEED.

Misc:

Okay miscellaneous time.

This is where I admit that I have a bunch of unfinished NoHats art that I haven't gotten around to yet because I feel like a right tool being so obviously Loop-Centric with my fancontent (I AM . . I REALISE I AM NOT DOING MUCH TO BEAT THE ALLEGATIONS.) So like if people want to see that please say because euaghghghhfh <- the nervous.

this is like the most fucked up place to do isaloop fr. anyway.

one of Sam's mid-game observations that I'm just going to share for no particular reason is that Bonnie's hair shares a bunch of shapes with Siffrin's. The flick up at the top, the 3 pronged shape of the fringe… just something to think about.

Without 2 Siffrins around to compare each other to it'd likely be a lot harder to notice Loop's similarities. Doesn't mean that those similarities don't sting more in this context though.

If you do NoHats without LoopLoops. The concept of this all fading into memory years down the line while they just have slightly-glowy but otherwise regular Siffrin hanging out is fucked up to think about. Just like real grief. Augh

6. a peek into the original dms as a treat from us

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin���s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

[mobius-m-mobius]

idk I'd still hear the plan out 😔 Lokius Incorrect Quotes [9/∞]

[summertimemusician]

Linktober Day 6

Mask(s)

Soft and sweet with just a hint of melancholic because 1.I'm tired and probably need a nap father than coffee, 2.I actually managed to make a pretty good mocha and the Anchorage LOZ animatic came onto my playlist before writing this and it kind of influenced my mood, and 3. I'm saving the usual Majora's Mask flare of angst for another prompt because I was having way too much fun dissecting the tragedy of the Hero of Time before sleep deprivation snatched the idea away which is usually my sign to pass the heck out and save the second option for when I have more energy lol.

For the Warriors fans, also Warriors is a disaster of an older sibling but we adore and appreciate him for it in this household, as always can be implied romantic or platonic between him and reader.

You were all but pinned down to the ground, brought down more effectively and unable to find the strength to get up.

Well, not literally, there were no enemies nearby, the chaos at camp had long since died down and there wasn’t anything much to do now that night had fallen, the heavens deigning to put all of it’s glittering jewels on display.

Were it any other day you’d probably focus more on appreciating it in full, the fire was crackling merrily, you were safe and had a full stomach and even with the ever present threat of the Shadow possibly deciding to ambush you all while most of your guards were down, you had your boys with you and the crisp autumn petrichor was a balm on your soul, weary from the journey.

Maybe it would be fine to rest for a little while.

And then the small figure clinging to you flinched, burrowing closer and holding onto your tunic like a lifeline. And awareness came to you like a smack over the head with a log, your fingers gently carding through blond locks as you hum gently. Weighting options and just how quietly you could move without bothering the precious Sprite at your side.

You had guessed Time had been a sweet kid, and you still wanted to lodge a formal complaint with the gods for writing such cruel fate for him because the man couldn’t catch a break and you’re not the only one to take it personally. But he was killing you here, this is how you die, with an adorable but oh so heartbreakingly sad little boy having fallen asleep leaning against you after telling you all sorts of stories about his extensive mask collection.

(You don’t know wether you want to cry, scream or laugh, Mask was so, so young. It breaks your heart, just a little.

Really, the deities of Hyrule must adore tragedies. Bastards.)

Sighing, you decide to compromise, gently keeping the Kokiri boy right where he is, fast asleep and with barely any nightmares as you hum and card your fingers through the spun gold strands, you brush your fingers through the last masks he fell asleep mid through telling the story of how he’d acquired. If you were careful surely you’d be able to reach his pack on his side so he wouldn’t worry later.

A pair of brown boots invade your vision, Warriors crouches down. You think you spot a flash of surprise on his eyes as he spots Mask napping on you, and then fond amusement of a big brother you knew he directed often towards Wind, tone low, “Well would you look at that, out like a light. It’s a rare honor for him to trust anyone like this.”

You chuckle a bit, shaking your head, “I can tell, he’s a good kid. I’ve barely met him for a day and I’d already take on an army for him.”

“Welcome to my world.”, comes Warriors dry response, though you both knew he was a hundred percent serious, his own mask quickly falling away as he gently picked up the Deku Sprout Mask to put it back in the small sprite’s pouch, hiding it’s confused, fearful sadness from your gaze (and it’s an effort, not to twitch, as your rage towards Majora gained even more kindling to burn) as the soldier handled it with the due solemnity of being one of the few Mask would allow to even touch the masks without his immediate supervision, “... I never thought I’d see him again, as...”

“I know.” Your tone was quiet, as you carefully picked your choice of words.

If there’s one thing you knew about any Link, is that they’re all really good elder brother’s and that they are too hard on themselves. Warriors specially, Mask and Wind were his everything, there wouldn’t be words that could describe how gutted he was, after confirming his suspicions with you, regretting not saying anything against Mask joining the battle field back then, loathing himself for not convincing him or Lana into letting him stay in spite of his bad feeling that as soon as the young hero of time passed through that portal he was unlikely to ever meet him again.

... You settle for something simple, instead, reaching a hand to softly pat his head, taking care not to mess his hair too much, “You did good, Wars, it’s not your fault. Mask also knows you did your best.”

He still, sighing, the mask falling away as he guides your hand to his lips, quietly thankful (really, like big brother like little brother, your wonderful, silly, caring boys. You make a point to cheerfully bat away the butterflies in your stomach, ), “... Feels hard to believe that, some times. Thank you.”

You hum, after putting the Zora mask away, Warriors takes Mask’s other side, pulls you closer and breathes.

(Just in case, he lies to himself.)

You quietly listen to his stories about his little brother, and Warriors is content.

[finch-the-foolish]

A story based on @black-rose-events's recent prompt list! This one is day two, because I forgot a) February has in fact kicked off, and b) we are two days in.

Tw/Cw for death, murder, and guns

-----

Reporter stared at the papers they'd found in Detective’s office, illuminated by the soft, yellowed glow of his lamp. It was dark outside, by now, the clock on the wall keeping a steady pulse as Reporter read. This.. this was big. Evidence for every murder they'd been tracking, lists of names struck through in red, pictures of faces that had been painted in the news weeks earlier. The dead. Those responsible. At least, that's how it had seemed.

Until now. There was more blood than just that of the convicted on Detective’s hands, and they couldn't let that go now. Was being here technically illegal? Most likely. Was what Detective had done the same? Absolutely. They had to get this to headquarters. They had to let the authorities know. They had to-

Reporter looked up, eyes wide against a shock of darkness as the door opened.

“[Reporter]. Fancy seeing you here. What brings you to my office? My desks? My documents?” Detective tilted his head, one hand silently shutting the door, locking it with a soft click.

Reporter drew in a breath, clamping down on the panic clawing at their ribs. “I'm here investigating everything you've done, [Detective]. If that even is your name.”

They stood, still clutching the paper they'd been reading, and Detective approached closer, gait still as nonchalant as ever.

Detective smiled. “What I've done? What might that be? Help the people? End countless villains?”

“Innocent lives,” Reporter snapped back. “They were innocents, and you know that damn well. It's all here. And I'm not letting you get away with any of it.”

His smile only widened, a sharp thing, malicious, painted hauntingly by the lamp's glow, as he leaned against the desk.

“Really? All the evidence? How.. fortunate.” Detective glanced down at the papers, before returning his gaze to Reporter. They could barely resist the urge to shudder, to flee, before they too found a knife in their back, a bullet in their chest.

Steeling their gaze, they nodded. “Everything I need to make sure you never hurt anyone again. Is that clear enough for you?”

Detective paused for a moment, a laugh filling the empty space, far too light, far too familiar for it to be that of a murderer. Detective of all people. He reached forwards, grabbing Reporter’s shoulder with a shockingly strong grip, pulling them forwards to the desk.

“Now, [Reporter], my dear friend, I have a story for you. A.. piece of information, if you will.” His voice was low, fringes of that friendliness Reporter had so long known creeping back with the words.

“A.. a story?” they asked, voice shaking. That same, awful smile, a face they almost knew, a grin they could almost see against the daylight, against everything they'd known.

Then his Voice hushed, his grasp loosening against their jacket.

“You're right.”

Metal pressed against their stomach, cold turning harsh, burning, as pain ripped through their senses and skin alike. Reporter screamed, the sound cut off as that same blinding agony cut through the air, their intestines, sending them stumbling back to the wall behind. They crumpled, crimson staining the bookshelves at their back, their clothes nearly masking the shade.

Detective stared at them, face still twisted with some strange, wretched joy. “It was lovely working with you, [Reporter]. You were always my favourite. I pray the others can solve your unfortunate demise.”

Then, hands steady, he raised the gun to Reporter’s gaze. And, smiling, he pulled the trigger.

[tender-hearteddd]

when aot was just abt to end, there were leaks ofc as there always are lol abt eren not really achieving any of his plans. and so much of the aot fandom, who have never lived through war, were genuinely upset over this. eren literally commits global genocide, he and his plan doesn’t deserve to achieve anything. especially not anything that would benefit him.

eren wasn’t one of my favorites until season 4 because of how utterly fucked up he is. he was a tragic MC who started off as a hero and as the story progressed, became a monster. even though we know what leads to his corruption, genocide is still wrong actually and having a characters worst fear come to life due to their own actions is the sort of tragic irony isayama loves. we’ve already seen isayama do this with reiner, zeke and grisha. it’s satisfying yet devastating at the same time how harsh the story is on them.

and the story should’ve been a lot more harsher to eren instead of the positive reaffirmation he got in 139 and from most of the fandom. eren claims the rumbling was for paradis, like thst shit didn’t kill off most of paradis’ population, and than he claims that it was for his friends (like pieck, who he has never even had a conversation with) but than he admits it was for himself - and it wasn’t satisfying at all because isayama wanted us to feel bad for eren and it worked. never mind the fact that eren killed his own mom, that he manipulated his own father for taking the FT for his own gain, that he annihilated 80% of the world - he did it for his friends 😊 so it’s okay! friendship >>>> genocide 😝

aot taking a very strong stance against eren’s actions and plan, denouncing them as wrong (bc they are) and showing them that nothing good comes out of them is wayyyyyy better the woobification and the mini redemption arc we got from him in the last chapter.

this is why i hate it when aot fans talk abt aot like it’s the greatest anti-war anime ever made. i think majority of aot fans are westerners or come from developed countries. it’s easier to understand war when ur watching cartoons of it instead of actually living through it. a huge part of the fandom justifies eren’s genocide, even with characters explicitly condemning him. do you really think it’s clear with its anti-war message when all we got was a few sad faces and a huge thank you from the main cast? one of the main themes in aot is the moral grayness of the world. the warriors did what they did because they were child soldiers trying to protect their families, EMA would’ve done the same. the scouts raided liberio (and were heavily against it). and masses of innocent people died in the name of other groups interests. there were literally no winners in this at all.

but why have characters that should’ve narratively and thematically been against eren suddenly forgive and praise him?

why break all the characterization, break all those different point of views, for the warriors specifically, if not for the final woobification of eren?

eren could’ve had one of the most extraordinary corruption arcs in all of anime just for that to be ruined and i will forever be mad abt it

[cha1cedony]

Thinking about how Lincoln and Chris are both SUPER jealous people. Love them but that must’ve been a crazy marriage lmaoo

[jaskiers-lutkulele-of-sex]

Thinking about that scene in... horrible bosses? Where the protagonists think that they have hired a man to kill their boss, not realizing that water sports and wetworks are different things? And what they get instead is a very handsome man with a very full bladder prepared to piss on them all for money. 👌

can't decide if I prefer eddie contracting with Steve for something but he misunderstood Steve's listing, doesn't realize that Steve (who he is just then meeting for the first time) specifically specializes in like desperation kink...

or a version where Steve is his friend and Steve does sex work and Eddie knows this but specifically ends up finding out about some of this kinky work Steve does Because for example he catches Steve... Maybe theyre roommates? Or maybe they just hang out a lot? But he maybe notices Steve prepping by drinking a lot of Gatorade or Maybe a client cancels and Steve didn't even get in, didn't have an opportunity to do like the clip from that film and at least really himself before he heads out... And has to just keep holding it and get back home and is desperate as fuck and Eddie is still there... Leading to Eddie figuring out about it and Steve having to explain it and Eddie figuring out he maybe likes it.

[irl-dogboy]

🎵BUCKY

boys a liar pt2 awakened something deep within me. *lovecores your winter soldier*

(send me a character + 🎵 and i‘ll draw them using the first song that comes up on shuffle as a prompt)

[tielesiti-eftu]

hey so remember when I posted a while back about stealing a character design from AI slop

this is Celia Whiterose and the art was somehow one of the last things I made in the process of making her. in between making the art, I wrote a fuckload of lore and character info. gonna paste a bunch of it under the cut

✨~haiiiiiii~✨

okay so. the lore I'm working with right now is that Celia used to be the Proper Actual Queen of Hearts in her Wonderland. aesthetics-wise for that Wonderland, I'm picturing a vibe like a mix of the Disney movie and the Tim Burton movie because Lol™. this Wonderland exists alongside a so-called "real" world, otherwise known as Fantasy Earth, and humans aren't able to see an entrance to Wonderland unless someone from Wonderland goes through it. the only Wonderland citizens that are able to go between the worlds freely are the royal family and anyone with one of their pocket watches. Celia, being The Queen, qualifies for that. she ran away into the real world after a mass breakout of a curse-disease-thing called "Unreality Madness," believing it would be the only way to be safe from it and potentially find a solution. she disguised herself (mostly by shrinking herself down to not be ridiculously tall) and left for the real world, where she lived for a long time. she tried to tell people about what happened, hoping for a solution, but people don't tend to believe that a parallel world exists that they can theoretically go to when they can't even see the entrances freely, and Celia was afraid to go back for fear of being (probably rightfully) called out for running away, so she just Didn't. she has depression because of it. her belief is that if she can get close enough with someone in the real world, maybe they'll believe her and she can try to fix the mess she left behind. unfortunately, a continuous streak of bad luck and cosmic joke coincidences routinely keeps that from happening.

some specifics on Unreality Madness: it's something that makes Wonderland citizens effectively disappear, dubbed "becoming not real," after going through extreme mood changes. stage 1 is always severe mania, and stage 2 varies between individual cases, but it's always able to be boiled down to experiencing one emotion at extreme levels, and different subsets have different titles (sadness would be Bawling Madness, depression would be Muted Madness, anger would be Fuming Madness, etc). the only thing that isn't a possible result is more mania. stage 3 is more or less a toned-down version of the person's normal self, but this is the point where they start to believe they may not be real, and this feeling gets worse as the stage progresses. if someone in stage 3 is fully convinced they aren't real anymore, they go into stage 4, which sees them actually becoming not real; this can be postponed by generally being around other people that believe they're real, but the funny thing about believing you aren't real is that you start believing others aren't real either, so if a large group of Wonderland residents came down with stage 4 Unreality Madness, then things tend to get a bit less exist-y pretty fast. once a person with Unreality Madness has been in stage 4 for long enough to also believe nobody else is real around them, and nobody around them believes they're real either, they vanish. technically, stages 3 and 4 can last indefinitely if at least one person without Unreality Madness regularly interacts with them.

personality-wise, Celia is very muted after everything that's happened to her. she's also very particular about time; if you agree to meet her for something, and you don't show up, she's going to find out why. she has a seemingly endless supply of pocket watches, which she uses as mementos to give to people that she considers friends. the watches themselves have some other properties; particularly, if you break one, you can temporarily project yourself back in time as a ghost, so you can see what happened but not affect things. Celia specifically is also able to break these with her bare hand, then jam that hand against a corpse to resurrect the person as something from Wonderland. she also has various props and treats from Wonderland; cookies that make you grow, small drink bottles that shrink you, paints that can alter the natural color of plants or animals, pipes with smoke that forms into letters, and so on. Celia can also create normal versions of any of these items without any effects, with a notable exception being her checkerboard cookies; unlike the frosted lofthouse cookies she can make, the checkerboard cookies are always just normal cookies.

the bracelets she wears are made of metal, and are able to transform into gauntlets similar to brass knuckles. Celia doesn't normally have to use them, hence why they turn into bracelets when they aren't deployed. these bracelet-gauntlets cannot be removed, as they are also her royal scepter, an heirloom passed down to the next-in-line when the acting ruler of Wonderland is unfit to rule anymore. it ordinarily isn't supposed to be altered in any way, but due to the current circumstances in Wonderland, Celia is giving herself some leeway. so long as it doesn't leave her side, it's fine in her book.

around people she feels safe around and truly cares about, Celia may remove her disguise and re-enter her normal form, a completely on-demand transformation that Celia performs when she feels like she has nothing to hide from. Queen of Hearts Celia is four times larger than her disguise and sports a different outfit, as well as her having a generally more cheerful default mood. her fur becomes pure white, her eyes change shape somewhat, the colors of her eyes shift around, the somewhat muted blues of her dress have shifted to vibrant reds and blacks, her dress has grown larger and now goes down to her ankles, her socks have changed to be red-and-black stripes with a black sole and red pawpads, her scepter regains its normal form, and the lofthouse cookies she produces have changed shape to appear like card suits (the checkerboard cookies remain unchanged). she now walks with a much more pronounced bounce on every step, and one can often see the latest winner of this royal rabbit's trust peeking from the front pocket of her dress. Queen of Hearts Celia has more control over the world around her, with enhanced time control by using her scepter that allows her to physically go forward and backwards in time temporarily, along with now being able to shape and transform it to mirror her Wonderland as she desires. this world-altering ability, which she calls "Wonderland Shift," is similar in execution to resurrecting someone as a Wonderland creature, but it now extends to non-sentient objects around her and even living people as opposed to only the recently-passed. Queen of Hearts Celia is also physically unable to harm things or people without intent; any building or infrastructure damaged by mistake is repaired by it automatically going backwards in time, passerby who fail to notice her approach and become trampled rise moments later without even a bruise, and so on. on the flipside, she is much more wrathful if upset, leaping into the air and growing thorny rose vines from the ground to ensnare and choke people that make her angry, sometimes even beheading them if she deems the transgression worthy of death. often, she reverts to her disguised form after the anger fades into apathy, and it tends to take some time for her to be able to return to her Queen of Hearts form.

[brendathedoodler]

Me again! I swear, the serotonin I get from the adventure swap au is unreal. Tetra is my absolute favorite Zelda so I'd be absolutely happy to listen to a rant about AS!Tetra 😁

Thank you!!

The idea I have for Tetra is that she’s the youngest of many sisters (all named Zelda but going by their middle names to distinguish them). Out of her sisters she’s the furthest from the traditional “Zelda from the stories” figure, so when it was revealed that she was the holder of the Princess’s spirit, there were mixed reactions among her family.

Tetra has 3 older sisters. The eldest sister is the more traditional Zelda type, and has worked all her life to unlock the powers she was supposed to have. When it was discovered that Tetra was the one with those powers, it quickly spawned a sort of feud between the two spawning from jealousy (on her end) and frustration (mostly on Tetra’s end).

The second eldest gets overlooked literally all the time. She’s not as charismatic and extroverted as the eldest, not as cheerful and fun as the second youngest, and she’s far from the brash and confident sort that Tetra is. On one hand, she kinda likes going unnoticed. On the other hand, getting forgotten by everyone else is frustrating. She knows all sorts of gossip and is always eager to share with Tetra, who tells stories of the fights she gets into in return.

The second youngest is a ditzy and cheerful girl. She tries her best to be supportive of her little sister, but when faced with any sort of dirt, bugs, or combat she gets spooked. She’s the one who convinced their father to get Tetra a fancy suit instead of forcing her into a dress all the time.

At first Tetra didn’t like Wind much. Sure, he helped rescue her, but when he’d shown up she was already halfway through rescuing herself. Besides, he’s like two years younger than her; being an (almost) 12-year-old rescued by a 9-year-old is ridiculously embarrassing!

Over time though, the two grew to be as thick as thieves. The best part is that Wind is able and willing to put up the facade of a refined gentleman hero whenever her parents are around, and thanks to how much he’s saved her and Hyrule as a whole, they trust her with him. Naturally they run off to get into shenanigans together. If asked about Tetra’s whereabouts by anyone in the castle (except Tetra’s younger two sisters, he trusts them not to spill), he’ll cover for her and insist she was with him even if he has no idea what the hell she’s doing. He’s not stupid though, and if Tetra’s missing he’ll go do his own investigation. At this point he’s (reasonably) convinced that any little oddity in his day to day life could be the start of another adventure.

Anyway, one of the big adventures Tetra played a large part in was Hytopia. She convinced her father to let her go, since “my dear hero Link works so hard and I wanted to do something nice for his birthday! Besides, we’d get to visit Princess Styla and get wonderful outfits for the upcoming ball, wouldn’t that be great?” and it absolutely worked. She did have to bring her older sister (the second youngest, thankfully not the eldest), but still. It was great! A vacation for her, her sister, Wind, and his family.

It turned into an adventure right away, but her sister promised not to tell so long as she didn’t get hurt too badly. With that, Wind, Tetra, and Ravi set out to save Hytopia together! It was honestly really fun, even with the fighting (though Ravi was the only one who seemed opposed to the idea of fighting, mostly because he’s the cowardly sort). They left him on ranged attack duty and they got up close and personal with their enemies. They also got to dress up in fun outfits (Tetra avoiding all the dresses, Ravi preferring said dresses, and Wind not caring either way) while they fought, which was an absolute plus.

[azatas]

feeling anxious about ever saying anything to my grandmother bc i don't know if/when she'll decide to take it badly and snap at me like wait a minute am i in a toxic living environment

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

So okay I don't know if this is like...a cool thing to do or not, but there's a fic I claimed from the 2022 kink meme list (I couldn't resist, in large part because Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center was listed by the prompter as one of their inspirations for the prompt) that I'm not sure when I'll actually finish writing but I have started it and I'd like to at least acknowledge that I'm doing it even if the prompter won't see this. But the prompt is something along the lines of anything highly specific and niche (like my strip mall AU lol), and I actually happen to have a growing little stockpile of very very niche knowledge about my chosen professional field, which is ceramics! I specialize in wheel-throwing (though I'm also a...passable hand at plaster mold-making/slip casting and handbuilding, I just don't enjoy them nearly as much) so I've started a little something from Lan Wangji's point of view that's a love letter to throwing ♥

--//--

As is tradition, Lan Wangji works in porcelain.

The Lan family have been respected masters of porcelain for centuries, generations stretching back, back, back nearly to the beginning of the imperial kiln production in Jingdezhen. They once produced the enormous pots that adorned emperors’ palaces – there are (very distant) cousins of his in Jingdezhen who still do so for wealthy patrons.

It’s easy to forget such a background when he enters his personal studio on the other side of the world and flicks on the lights to begin the day’s routines. It’s precisely what he wants – a quiet life like this, simple and unassuming, is much more suited to his desire than the weight of tradition that could otherwise press him and his work down into something he would never want to be.

Not that he deviates very far from tradition anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing. Lan Wangji takes quiet pleasure in simplicity, in function that is beautiful in its hard-won mastery. There are very few non-traditional ways to accomplish this that he’s interested in, but he likes having the option should he want to take it. 

Lan Wangji had learned to throw at his uncle’s knee as soon as it was possible to do so. He has continued to do so since childhood with a single-mindedness that once surprised even his uncle. All he’d ever wanted to do was to sit at the wheel for hours and hours on end, only pausing to warm the water in his bowl with a fresh influx from the kettle and to transfer full wareboards (once he was strong enough) to the drying racks in the corner of his uncle’s studio.

Lan Wangji has always struggled to find the words to convey how integral the motion of the wheel and the smooth slip of clay through his finger and against his palms is to feeling like he fits into his skin properly, but his family seems to understand just the same.

Yesterday, as the sun was westering, Lan Wangji had weighed up a few bags of fresh porcelain. The lumps are waiting for him now, tumbled together under their protective sheets of plastic, ready to be molded and shaped by hands and hypnotic motion. There’s enough of a chill in the studio this time of year that there isn’t any condensation on the plastic when he lifts it, so he folds it away neatly and settles into the easy rhythm of wedging his clay to prepare it for the wheel.

There is, in the middle of the studio, a sturdy butcher’s block workbench. He built it himself right there in the studio, the first piece of furniture that had filled the space even before he’d purchased his Shimpo wheel. It’s very likely too heavy to lift – it’s certainly too big to ever get through the door – but he has no intention of ever leaving this studio to begin another, so it suits his purposes just fine.

Wedging the clay on this sturdy, hip-height table is nearly as meditative a process as all the rest of it. A bit more of a workout than sitting at the wheel, but it’s a good way to warm up in the morning, his muscles well accustomed to the push-turn-push-turn-push-turn of spiral wedging that it’s gone beyond second nature, it simply is. His mind wanders pleasantly as he watches the misshapen lumps of pure porcelain become smooth and rounded beneath his palms. Perhaps he’ll spend the day on bowls. They’re quick and simple, suited to his mood today, and he’ll have plenty of them done by lunch when he already knows his typical solitary routine will be interrupted (and can therefore plan for it so far in advance). 

The sun is up properly by the time Lan Wangji finishes his wedging, and once he’s transferred the first batch of prepared clay to the wheel he pauses to stand in the open doorway and look out over the garden that sits between his studio and his home. The grass and the flowers are glittering fresh and dewy in the sunlight as he rolls his shoulders, stretches out his back in preparation to be seated for long hours.

When he returns, the wheel welcomes him, familiar and comforting. He fills an old bird seed bucket with warm water from the tap and arranges the small mirror at the back of the wheel’s tray to the perfect angle to watch his own hands before he settles in and takes a deep breath, sleeves rolled up and apron cinched comfortably tight around his waist as an unnecessary reminder to keep his back as straight as he can while he works.

The first ball of porcelain hits the perfect bullseye of the wheelhead and Lan Wangji leans in to begin centering, the porcelain buttery soft where it runs under his hands. Porcelain, he knows, is notorious for being difficult to work with, particularly for beginners. This far into his career, it’s simply polite and responsive to each confident press of his palms. He cones it first, hands curled around it to coax it in and up; presses it down again with the flat of his hand, every movement focused on the centerpoint of the wheel gliding silently through magnet-powered rotations. 

Up. 

Down again. 

Up.

Down.

Push.

Press.

Lan Wangji loves every part of the throwing process for what it is, but if he were to have to choose only one, this would be his favorite: the moment he can feel the clay running smoothly, perfectly centered the whole way through and ready to become whatever he will tell it to be, the possibilities – for this moment – endless.

[dick-the3rd]

For the bad things happen bingo, brujay and zip ties maybe?

You know, this was supposed to be a drabble, and a lot less kinkier, but guess it had other plans. I decided to post on ao3 bc I came to the conclusion it was too big for Tumblr.

Cutting Ties, Brujay, Mature.

--

Masterpost here