#not an actual ficlet draft???

[fluffypotatey]

Jake’s Cousin Tyler

finally gave into the tgm x twisters (2024) brain(rot)worms so here’s part 1 of this silly crossover

-

Jake’s got an annoying cousin from Arkansas. Very annoying. And it has nothing to do with his silly youtube channel or his ragtag band of friends— those two joined the fray a lot later. No, his beef with his cousin began when the two boys were barely ten and only beginning to grasp their role in this reality. Most family members (Jake’s siblings) call this feud baseless at best and snicker whenever anyone asks how it all began. (Traitors, all of them.)

“So, what really makes you greater than Oklahoma?” 

That, there, was the fateful question. One asked by Jake's baby cousin, Tyler Owens. He, his mother, and aunt drove over all the way from Conway to Amarillo, so one can assume little Tyler saw a lot of the infamous state, as well as his mother sharing the notorious rivalry between Texas and Oklahoma (with Aunt Jo’s commentary). And, well, for anyone hearing about said rivalry from an outsider’s perspective like Tyler’s, it sure does look silly and ridiculous. They just happened to be two neighbor states with similar cultures and history. What was there to dislike about each other? Why all the pride?

And unfortunately, little Tyler decided to ask Jake these questions. 

And, maybe, take some joy in pissing his (slightly) older cousin off.

“I really don’t see the difference here.”

“And how could you! Everything you see is sur-surface level shit!”

There was a hissed Language! that went unheard between all the huffing and giggling. The only adult present was Jake’s brother Collin, who was finding all of this too hilarious to stop. (It was one of the biggest betrayals Jake had ever felt, and one he sulked about for weeks. After the thirty-something apology Jake caved and “allowed” Collin to read him those silly botany books.)

“Be-besides!” Jake stomped (not cutely, thank you). “Everything here is a lot bigger than it is in Oklahoma! Not to mention some of their land used to be ours and—”

“I thought Alaska was the biggest state.”

“I WASN’T TALKING ABOUT ALASKA!”

Suffice to say, this was the moment a line between the Seresins and Owens was drawn. Specifically between Jake and Tyler. Only. It was like in the blink of an eye the two little cousins became rivals. Enemies. Nemesis. 

Tyler was in the elementary choir? Well, Jake was in the state honor choir both his 4th and 5th grade years. Jake is said to be into paints? Oh lookie here! Tyler’s humble little pastel portrait won 1st prize and was showcased in the state fair! Tyler got all A’s in his science classes? Well, Jake got all A’s too, and all his science projects received top marks— oh wait, it seems Tyler won his school science fair. Twice! 

“I hate him.”

“Sweetheart, hate is a strong word.”

“Well, I feel strongly that I hate him, Mama! Why’s he gotta one-up me like that. He’s in a whole other state and yet—”

“Are you not doing the same thing?”

“No!” Jake lied. It wouldn’t do him any good to admit such a petty thing to his mother. “I’m minding my own business over here”—

“Uh huh.”

—“and it’s like a week after you share something with Aunt Trix and Jo, Tyler suddenly has something grander to share.”

“Oh?” The smile on her face made Jake feel caught. “You find them grander?”

“No! He just tells it like that because he’s Tyler and ‘oh so special’ because he won that stupid fucking science fair with that tornado.”

“Language. And we saw that project at Christmas. You even admitted to it being cool-looking.”

Jake grumbled and scuffed his feet. “It was Christmas.”

His mother scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Hm, yes, my mistake.”

link to the rest :3

[lapseinart]

pre-canon Encanto headcanons to consider:

before the triplets got their powers, there were a lot of rumors about the weird lady living by herself in a cursed house

and there’s a couple people that are suspicious of the fact that this lady’s husband died right before she got a magic house

did she sacrifice him or her husband sacrifice his soul for magic?

like we’re grateful she saved us all but clearly this lady’s a witch

meanwhile Alma’s only reason for getting up in the morning are her kids. I deeply admire this of her

Nobody’s there the night the kids get their powers

Alma’s pretty freaked out herself bc not only is she raising three kids by herself while in her twenties, she’s raising three MAGIC kids by herself

at this point half the town’s pretty sure that Alma had the devil’s children

Alma’s freaking out a lot, but like hell are they going to get to her kids

That’s why she starts offering the town her children’s help

Show them we’re harmless, the very helpful Madrigal family

They do eventually go talk to the priest of Encanto. That’s how Bruno sort of figured out the match and sand thing

Lots of trial and error because before then the visions were random and uncontrollable

Still gets random visions but he cAN DO IT ON COMMAND NOW GUYS!

No one from the town is there the night that Isabela gets her gift, but rumors start up again (the triplets are a bit more understanding of their mother’s position after this) so the whole town is invited to Dolores’ ceremony

Which is actually not great she starts crying because she can hear everything

[givehimthemedicine]

It's not a competition // elmax (ish) ficlet

coma angst. Lucas and El both love Max. both are sure it's the other Max loves. (heads up this is very open ended. it's not supposed to be elumax)

--

At first, the party visited Max constantly and in groups, in pairs. After all she'd been through, no one wanted her to be alone. 

When the initial shock wore down, the visits split into shifts. Max would be just as not-alone with one person at a time as she would with two or three.

As days turned into weeks, the visits spread out even more, and settled into a pattern: 

Lucas is the one most often spending the whole of visiting hours with Max, trading off occasionally with shorter visits from the others. 

El doesn't visit very often - not in person. As the only one able, she spends all night, every night, at Max's side in the blackness of the void.

Over time, it's a serious drain on her energy and blood. Hop and Joyce try to get her to stop for the sake of her health, but there's quite literally nothing they can do about it. They buy her some supplements and try to keep the house quiet while she sleeps during the day. 

Eventually, it happens: a day when everyone's schedules clash and nobody can be with Max in the daytime. 

So El says she will go. And something in Lucas boils over. 

He tells El to stay home. To leave her be.

He says it's not the end of the world if Max spends an afternoon alone. He says she isn't even aware anyone visits her in the first place, and if she is, she might be desperate for time alone - she'd be snapping at them demanding space if she was awake, wouldn't she? 

And he isn’t wrong. Even if by some miracle Max IS aware of their presence in the daytime, there’s no way she’s aware of El’s company by night. El knows that.

She says it's okay for him to need a break, but that if he doesn't go, she will.

Lucas looks furious, like she meant that as an accusation, although she's pretty sure he isn't really.

He loves Max, but he does need a break. They both do. They are both exhausted, traumatized kids. But for El to refuse to take a break puts him in a hard position.

He has already said out loud that he thinks it's okay for Max to sleep alone for an afternoon, and now he's trying not to feel like that is an act of desertion, or a milestone in beginning to let go.

Defiant against absolutely no opposition, Lucas digs in. Says he will come as often as he can, but it won't be all day every day, and that he's not in the wrong for that.

El wholeheartedly agrees.

He digs in deeper.

He says El should take time off and rest, too. Says what if something happens, what if Vecna comes back and El is too weak to fight, then they're all screwed. He looks a little sorry as he says it; he's pressing a sore spot on purpose. It's not fair for that responsibility to be on El's shoulders, but it just kind of is.

She says he is right, and maybe he mistakes that as agreement.

Maybe he had done this thinking that El would follow his lead. But she doesn't.

This is not a competition. El isn't trying to win. She just can't handle the idea of Max being left alone. 

What if Max wakes up terrified and no one is there? What if she thinks none of her friends care? What if there's the tiniest sliver of a chance Max is trapped somewhere? Still hiding like Will once was, captive and suffering, and El is her only hope - how can she take a day off?

And if there's any fighting to be done while she's exhausted, well, she'll just have to do what she always does: fight anyway.

So when no one else goes, El goes. 

She sits and holds Max's hand, and the next thing she knows, a nurse is nudging her to say visiting hours are over, and she's furious with herself for having dozed off with her cheek smushed against the edge of the hospital bed.

Instead of "goodnight," she tells Max "be right back," and goes home and puts on her blindfold, and sits with Max that way for as long as she can stay conscious.

Before long, Lucas gives up and starts coming every day again.

It's not jealousy, it's guilt. He feels bad that El is picking up his slack when she's a wreck already. Using her powers for hours every night leaves her with that pale, blood-vesselly look, and a day isn’t enough time to recover fully, so she just looks like that all the time now. People think she's another patient, and if she keeps this up, she may need to be.

Lucas says it's for El's benefit sometimes that he sits with Max, so that she will please get some rest.

That isn't a lie, but she thinks it's also that he feels he has to match the standard El is setting.

Maybe someday Max will ask who spent the most time at her side, and he wants to be able to say it was him.

El understands because she wants it to be her, although she'll never say it was.

It’s not a competition, but neither wants to lose.

-

Lucas's steps ripple into the blackness around Max's hospital bed, signaling 8 AM. Beginning of visiting hours.

"Morning, Max." He settles into his chair and murmurs his usual, "Night, El."

El leans over to administer her little ritual outlet of affection.

"Goodnight, angel," she whispers, leaving a kiss on Max's temple. Same as every time she leaves.

Max would bristle at the name, but it reminds El of one of few truly happy moments in her life. She had liked the way Max's lips treated the word angel when she sang it.

It's the one indulgence she allows herself in here. She doesn't see any harm. Max will never know.

El lets go and slides straight into sleep without opening her eyes. Too tired to wipe the warmth from her nose even though the tissue is already in her hand. Her pillowcases are all stained anyway.

Not thirty minutes later, Hopper is waking her to relay the call he’s just gotten: Max is awake.

She tries to focus harder on being overjoyed than on being disappointed to have missed it. Or grieved that it must look like she doesn't care because she wasn't there.

What she wanted most was for Max not to be alone. And she wasn't. So that's a win.

But maybe it was a little bit of a competition, because she also kind of feels like she's lost.

She wishes there were rockets on Hop’s car to make it go faster. 

El bounds into the hospital room, still with pillow marks on her cheek and blood flakes on her lip - and her spirits fall.

Max looks exactly the same. Small and still and sleeping.

El looks questioningly to Lucas, who's in his usual chair at her bedside.

"She’s asleep," he whispers, which he doesn't usually. "Regular sleep." He stares at Max a few seconds and then smiles, almost laughs to himself. It's been weeks since she's seen his teeth. "Slept 34 days and she needs a nap."

El smiles softly, coming closer and sitting in the chair opposite him.

She looks at Max's pale fingers interlaced with Lucas's, and then at Max’s closer hand, free. She touches the edge of the cast just before where it reveals her fingers. She wants to do the same thing they're doing, but she can think of a couple reasons why she shouldn’t.

She stares hard at Max's face for any smidge of a difference from the way she's looked all these weeks. Nothing.

She thinks about ways she could wake Max accidentally on purpose. She's desperate.

"How was she?"

"She can see," Lucas answers. They share a grin, both happy for her, although after how long the mystery has plagued them, she wonders why the grin fades as quickly as it does.

There's kind of a weird feeling in the room. 

"Did she say anything?"

He looks across at her, but before he answers, Susan arrives.

Susan hugs Lucas and smiles hello to her. El didn't know they were on hugging terms, and doesn't know why she feels funny about that. (Yes she does.) She doesn't want to hug Susan, but - it's not important.

They leave the woman alone with her daughter and go out to the waiting room. 

Lucas goes to stretch his legs and brings back two paper cones of water. He drinks his in one gulp, then sits next to El and starts flattening and fidgeting with the cup.

"Your name was the first thing she said."

Her eyes dart to his, but she isn't sure what reaction to give, so she doesn't give one.

It's not a competition. She might be winning.

"Maybe she thought -"

"Her eyes work." His tone is of correcting her, but when he repeats it again, he is correcting himself. "Her eyes work. She's awake. It's great. It's amazing." He leans back in the chair so the plastic back squeaks, and rubs his face.

"It's great," El echoes. “I’m glad you were here.”

It was better for Max to wake up to Lucas. Had she awakened on El’s shift instead, she would have thought she was alone.

“Yeah,” he answers rather tonelessly. 

He isn’t sulking. It’s just that he’s won what he thought they were competing for and still feels like he’s lost.

El observes him half-secretly for a moment. "She loves you.”

He exhales, same tone. "Yeah."

He starts tearing his cup with absentminded precision.

"I can't compete with you," he says quietly.

"What?"

"I wish I could do all that for her. The stuff you do. I would if I could."

His cup is getting to be just one long ragged strip of paper.

By either biting or staying quiet, El gets to decide whether they are actually doing this. She kind of surprises herself by biting.

"That is the same thing I think about you," she says, and this is what gets him to look over at her.

"Don't worry, Lucas,” she adds softly. “She would not choose me."

She hadn't meant that to sound so sad. It's just that she realized how true it was while she was saying it.

Lucas is her friend, and she wants him to be happy. She smiles at him - sincerely, but kind of mechanically - and looks away again.

She can feel him studying her the way people do, sometimes, when they are trying to figure out whether she understands what she has just said. 

"I think she already has."

El’s mouth twists. “She needs friends, right now, I think.”

Lucas nods quickly. They are not going to burden Max with any of this. 

Max has not been in the mood to be in a relationship for a long while, and she probably feels even less ready now. She does not need romance right now, she just needs love. 

And for as long as Max is looking for that kind of love, she might choose El.

But in the long run, she will choose Lucas.

She chose Lucas in the beginning and she will choose him again in the end, as soon as she is well enough. Because no matter how important El's friendship is to her, Max is still a normal girl and Lucas is a normal boy, and... normal people go together.

It's terribly selfish of her to be thinking about how her own happiness factors into this, anyway. It's Max's that is important. Whatever makes Max happy, that's what El wants for her.

"I don't want us to be.." she isn't sure how to say.

"Me neither,"  Lucas adds.

She rests her head against his shoulder to make sure they aren't fighting, and is glad when he leans his head on hers.

.

She's never been so happy to see two crystal blue eyes land on her. 

El grins huge, her own eyes wet as she walks into the hospital room ahead of Lucas.

Max can't move her head because of the neck brace, but she manages a weak smile, watching El come closer. That smile fades a bit as she gets a good look at her.

El realizes how different she must look since the last time Max saw her.

It feels like Max is not just seeing her, but seeing into and through her. She knows what El's overexertion looks like. What bone-deep exhaustion and weeks without sleep and pretending to be okay looks like.

Right before her eyes, Max is putting together all the things El was not going to tell her. She isn't sure she hopes Max puts everything together.

"Hi," El says, whispering without having planned to, like a full-strength greeting might jar her bones loose again.

Max's "Hi" is so small and weak, but it’s the best thing El has ever heard.

After how desperate she's been to talk with her for weeks, she finds that she has no idea what to say. 

She carefully takes Max's fingers and is overjoyed at the sensation of them squeezing back. They just look at each other for a minute.

The corner of Max's mouth turns up just a little, and El grins because she knows something witty is coming, and that alone is priceless.

Max manages a very raspy, "You look like shit."

El chuckles her way gradually into a laugh that gets bigger and bigger until she's keeled over against Max's arm, laughing so hard she's crying. And then there isn't really any laughing involved at all anymore, she's just plain crying, really hard.

The reaction confuses her. She's been so acclimated to crushing pressure that she doesn't know how to handle the release.

She looks up and finds Max watching her. Her eyes are glazed and tired, but they're clear and blue and beautiful and aware and leaking tears. It’s so good to see her cry pure, clear, harmless tears. 

El knows that she herself is bloodshot and snotty and probably the worst she's ever looked in her life, and she isn't bothered in the slightest that Max is seeing her, because Max is seeing her. And smiling.

She dries Max's tears before her own. Max's lids look slow to reopen, like she’s fighting sleep. 

"You're tired."

Her brows dip for an instant, with a faint noise of protest. 

El gets it. The idea of her going back to sleep is kind of scary. 

“We’re here,” El assures her. “You can rest as long as you need. We will still be here.”

Max's eyes check the room in a way that makes El turn and look, too. Lucas isn't there. She guesses she appreciates him leaving them to their moment. 

She wonders whether it was as good a moment as his and hers. He probably said something sweet to her that he spent all that time preparing. Something better than hi.

It’s not a competition. 

"Get some sleep.”

Max's fingers twitch in hers. "You."

El smiles softly, nodding. She curls her fingers around Max's.

"Wake me. Okay?"

"Hmh." It might mean yes, or no, or it might just be a noise.

El lodges her head against Max's shoulder.

"Mmnighngel," Max murmurs under her breath.

El's head snaps up, as if staring at Max's lips for a full minute will help clarify what she already said.

Her breathing and the beeps of the monitors are slowing. It might have just been a noise.

El puts her head back down, and for the first time in weeks, surrenders to a guiltless sleep.

[theminecraftbee]

Joe had tried to write a will once.

Well, more accurately, he’d tried to make Cleo write one. After all, she had appropriate custody over an entire ship full of ghost sailors that season! If she’d inconveniently died, it would have been irresponsible to leave her armor stands to figure out what to do with the disaster that had resulted. Simply irresponsible, not to have a will.

Cleo had laughed at him. “Joe, I’m already dead. I’m not sure zombies can legally have wills.”

He’d huffed back. “Zombies can be responsible with what to do after they depart this plane the same as everyone else. Or, the second time they depart? You may have a point on the legality of the matter...”

He’d ended up half writing one too. To be honest, even as they both updated it season-to-season, Joe rarely had much he wasn’t willing to leave behind or loose. Oh, sure, he was terrible at letting go. One of the last through to the next world at the end of most seasons, in fact, too many projects still in the works, too many irons still in the fire. But not being willing to let go and not being willing to lose - those are two different things, now aren’t they? So, honestly, not much in his will. Normally, just who would take custody of any pets he’d picked up. (It was Cleo, and then normally either Xisuma or Scar if she couldn’t, depending on the pet and the year.)

He’d written it in rhyme this season, he thinks, standing alone in front of the spawn egg. Well, as fitting as everything else - no one will be around to execute it.

...and no one will have to. After all, Cleo had, after much cajoling, written hers in rhyme too, and he’s the executor. So, clearly, he can’t die, because that would put Cleo in real trouble if she managed to die a second time. Which she wouldn’t! Because she had a plan!

Maybe, he thinks, Cleo had a point, back then. Joe conquers death, and Cleo’s already died once.

What -

- he stares at the moon so long it burns his eyes, and then he takes flight again, ignoring the growing horrendous heat in his chest -

- what do they need wills for, anyway?

(Nothing at all.)

[chaoticvictorianspirit]

On strange jobs and family legacies

(or how a certail Mr. Fell got himself a barber in the 1800's and has been visiting him ever since...or so he believes)

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

a very short drabble inspired by this post by @andhumanslovedstories (hope you don't mind me taking this delicious inspo, shoving it down my greedy throat and running away with it like a feral dog)- anyway enjoy!

*somewhere in London, at a pub, in the wee hours of the morning probably*

"So the job market's damn tough these days, right? The missus thinks I oughta spruce up my applications but I just.. how does one even go about adding 'amateur occult barber' to their CV?"

"Probably list it as a special skill. Wait, what do you mean occult?"

*shrugs* "Yeah, man, my family's been, like, haunted? For generations. This strange fella pops up every four years like clockwork to get his haircut. His hair doesn't actually grow all that much though so he mostly just gossips for a bit and then leaves. Some thought he was a vampire but he shows up in mirrors just fine, so...my money's on ghost."

"Ha, right. That's enough whiskey for you, mate. You're wasted."

"Am not! It's all true! Goes all the way back to my great-great-great-great-maybe even greater-grandfather! We kinda pass him down through generations. You know how some families have, like, war medals and gold watches and stuff as heirlooms? Think that, but a bit more fucked up. There's even this big family book of all his crazy stories and all!"

"...you realise how insane you sound, right?"

"Meh, you get used to it. His tips alone put the last five generations of my family through university so we just kinda stopped asking questions."

"So you're telling me. You're haunted. By a billionaire ghost."

"Yup."

"And he doesn't...I don't know, torment you in any way? Just.. asks you to cut his hair."

"Uh-uh. Not so big on the whole door-slamming, wall-scratching, book-throwing business. Just got a knack for personal grooming I suppose."

"...Brian, you're an accountant."

"Yeah. I don't think he noticed."

[musical-chick-13]

Sooooo many things I should be writing. Instead, I am doing a silly, very unserious prequel to a fic I haven't even finished yet.

[epicfranb]

New Etho video and i still haven't watched Bdubs's one or Scar's or Grian's or Gem's or the Tango VODS i have in my watch later and I'm definitely not going to watch the MCC tomorrow. Sorry guys I'm busy with 3 other fixations i have rn 🥲 no time for mcyt gotta draw more fairies and collect pokemon and solve murder cases. I'll be back tho

[leqclerc]

.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

hihihi! so many interesting options to choose from ah! let’s go withhh 5. Future Dreams!! (for wip wed!) -@a-little-unsteddie 🌼

thank you ο(=•ω＜=)ρ⌒☆ and an excellent choice!!! for context, the idea is that steve gets weird dreams where he'd see himself - an older self. he gets short convos with Future Steve who would always give his past-self advice or names of people to look out for (both positive or negative). most of the time, the dreams happened whenever something big happened to Steve. this whole au stemmed from me wanting Steve in the Scoops uniform to somehow meet Steve in the battle vest because they have such different energies and now we have this (～￣▽￣)～ below is the dream he gets right before all the upside down shit goes down:

It took some time, but it got easier to see himself from the outside when it meant he had someone to guide him, even if it was only ever himself.

But this?

This version of Steve is bloodied, bruised and has a mangled baseball bat in his hand that's so caked in violence, he feels queasy in his dreams for very first time.

"You're gonna wanna run." He says in a steely voice. Steve straightens his back, ignoring the echo of his father's disappointed tone. This is different, he thinks. "Hell, you're gonna run. But you stop. You stop halfway and when you do," his future self grits his teeth and steps closer into his space, poking his shoulder. Steve idly notices he must have had some kind of growth spurt after stopping halfway. "You turn around. You fucking run back and stick around, do you understand me?"

Steve swallows and nods, unable to ignore the ghost of his father's everything that shadows his future, who's expression turns stricken. Maybe he noticed it too.

And then Steve is running from the Byers' house and he's right there, the car is right there but he looks back.

He sticks around.

and also a bonus part because i loved this au when i first wrote it, here is post-starcourt steve dreaming of season 4 steve:

"You look like shit."

Steve chuckles, not bothering to lift his head up. God, this is his whole life, isn't it? Warnings and forethought but not smart enough fucking thoughts -

"Hey -" Future Steve says sharply. Steve flinches, his head throbs completely in sync with the thumps of the landscape around them. "Look up, dingus."

It takes some effort and extra breathing but eventually he does. And...

"We're okay." Future Steve says softly, one hand dragging up and down the other arm. That's such a comfortable looking sweater. And he likes yellow. He really likes yellow, Steve decides. "We make it out okay."

"How many times do we have to make it out, man?" Steve coughs. At least he's not in the sailor uniform at this point. Considering that Scoops has burned down, there isn't much point in having it but he still keeps it tucked away in his closet. For the memories. The good ones. "Starting to get tired of all the..." He waves his hand and hopes Future Steve gets it because fuck, this sucks.

There's no answer. And Steve knows they're not even close to being tired yet.

[twentydaysofdrabbles]

The Concierge in Osaka (Part 50A)

This is going to be a massive chapter so I've separated it into manageable portions to edit and post~

Osaka has ever been a place where modernity and tradition intermingled. And nowhere else is it as evident as the Osaka Continental Hotel. Glass and wood and clean lines are inherent in its design, and it is a stark departure from your Continental in its old-world classical beauty.

Shimazu Koji and his daughter Akira embody that well. Though with stern faces, they nonetheless greet you warmly as you sneak in with your team through the staff entrance.

"Concierge, I did not think I would see you again so soon," he greets you with a smile and a bow.

You return it at a deeper angle, the rest of your team following suit. "The Manager was concerned," you respond, straightening up with your hands folded over your belly in your usual way, though your neutral expression, too, softens. "She would rather that you are supported in any way that you need."

The man who can only be described as a modern samurai smiles wryly and pushes his glasses higher up on his nose. "I am grateful for her concern, misplaced though it is."

With a polite incline of your head, you say no more. It is not your place to comment on the Manager's decisions; merely to carry it out. At least, you wouldn't say so to anyone bar her.

Koji leaves you in Akira's hands as he politely bows out, his guard tailing behind him like a shadow.

"Concierge," Akira only speaks once the door closes behind her father. "You've heard..."

There is no need for her to finish her sentence. You nod.

Her dark, crow-like eyes flit down to your hands, then back up again. "You think that he will come here." Which 'he' is not elaborated on, but you can see her expression.

You only look back at her evenly and tilt your head, dead eyes meeting hers. "Don't you?"

Akira had nothing to say after that, a pained expression on her face. Rather than respond to that rhetorical question, she instead appraises you of where you could insert your team into the Hotel staff to blend in. Considering the homogeneous nature of the Osaka staff, the men and women you had chosen to accompany you are all of east Asian descent, or if they are of mixed blood they have enough features to pass. It was necessary that no one is tipped off about the reinforcements until it is too late.

It would not be possible to have Papyrus blend in, masked, hooded, and gloved as he is, and that much is noted by Akira who raises a brow at the disguised monster's incredible height. Papyrus only glowers back at her through his mask, but he says not a word. Good man. It would be difficult to disguise his voice with its undercurrent of magic.

Akira leaves not long after that - she cannot leave her post for long. Your team disperses accordingly - one pair to the kitchens, one pair to the lobby, and another pair to Koji himself - and you turn to Papyrus. "With me," you murmur. You need to change into the clothes the Manager gave to you, and Papyrus needs to stay out of sight.

The room you were given is modest, one of the staff rooms. Nothing to complain about, and just as modern and stylish as the rest of the Hotel. Papyrus rips off his mask and growls as he prowls around, poking and prodding and sticking his nasal ridge everywhere. "Are you looking for something in particular, Papyrus?" you ask with a faintly amused tone as you open up the garment bag to find a shock of crimson fabric. "THE CLEANING STANDARDS HERE ARE ACCEPTABLE, THOUGH I FOUND A SPECK OF DUST IN THIS CORNER AND--" He raises his fingers up to his eyes, rubbing them and squinting at it before he looks at you. Almost immediately, his crimson pips for eyes go wide and fuzzy. "--WHAT THE STARS IS THAT?!"

You blink at him, then at the suit contained in the garment bag. With careful hands, you take them out and lay it on the bed, revealing a long red coat with gold threading, matching trousers, a thick button up blouse in the same shade, and a black turtleneck shirt. "Hmm, the Tailor has outdone himself."

The warmth emanating from Papyrus' side of the room is rather distracting, and you look up to see that his entire head is glowing bright red. Suspiciously, the same shade of red as the outfit laid out on the bed.

You don't really think that the Tailor would have taken that into account, but the fact that it is red. Eye catching. A message written in blood, to be delivered by your hands. The Manager has always been very fond of her unspoken messages, and it seems that this is another one of them. To interfere with the Continental is to invite death.

You're just not certain that this won't result in yours.

"IF YOU THINK I WILL LET YOU DIE HERE, YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN." Papyrus takes a single - single! - step and stands next to you, his gloved fingertips reaching for your chin. "YOUR MANAGER CLEARLY WANTS YOU TO BE A TARGET, BUT I REFUSE TO ALLOW THESE...MYRMIDON CRETINS TO BEST ME. FOR I, THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS, HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH YOUR SAFETY!" His chest puffs up the more he speaks, and for once you don't curb his volume.

Instead you smile up at him, gently touching the back of his hand. "That is very kind of you, Papyrus. Fret not, I won't go down quite so easily."

That cute blush spreads over his cheekbones again, a little subtler this time but a blush all the same. Which, when juxtaposed against his thunderous scowl, makes for an amusing picture. "BE SURE THAT YOU DON'T," he growls, stepping away and turning to face the door so that you can change.

You eye his back for a long moment. Taking in how his broad, skinny frame fills up the whole of the doorway, his head threatening to scrape the top of it. No doubt he would need to keep an eye on his fedora to keep it on his head. Papyrus is an intimidating monster with that perpetual scowl on his face and his brusque, impatient manner. But times like this...it lets you see behind that.

You like it. You like it very much. And you can only hope that you will continue to have the opportunity to see it.

Turning back to the blood red garments with a silent exhale through your nose, you begin to strip. Off go everything but your underwear, socks, gauntlets and gloves. On goes the turtleneck first, your gloved fingers adjusting the collar so it hides the tattoo encasing your neck and collarbones in dark ink. The fabric is fairly thick, but not tactical weave. No, the red blouse that goes on next is clearly made of it, thicker than the turtleneck but flexible enough that you can button it to your liking.

The trousers, too, have tactical lining in them, but only down to your knees, and the legs are wide enough to hide the thin shin guards that you strap on underneath it. Not enough to stop a bullet, but enough to deflect knife strikes and to give an extra oomph to your kicks.

The coat is heavy, likewise made of tactical weave but far thicker. This will stop any bullet short of a .50 caliber. With the forces you expect the Myrmidon and the Table to have, this will only be a help. It falls around your shoulders with a weight that keeps it in place, the strategic seams and tailoring of it keeping it in place even as you move. The katas you go through demonstrate to you the full range of movement that you have, and you are barely encumbered by it.

Excellent tailoring as always.

You step back into your shoes, about to finish when you spot red gloves. Of course it would be red. Though it would make hiding the bloodstains a lot easier. Unbeknowst to you, Papyrus had turned around when he hears you put your shoes on, his red eye lights falling on your form and blowing wide. You only catch him staring when you tug your gloves off with the intention of swapping them for the red ones. It's tempting to make a quip, and since you're in private, you don't hold yourself back. "How does this look, Papyrus?" There, an innocent enough question. If you could describe the look on his face, it would be the 'blue screen of death'. And like the blue screen of death, he reboots after a moment. "...FINE. YOU LOOK...ACCEPTABLE." That blush says otherwise.

You let your eyes warm in place of a smile, nodding. "That is good to hear." And toss your white gloves onto the bed, bending down to pick the red ones up.

That single movement snaps Papyrus out of his daze, and his crimson pips for eye lights go straight to your hands. Or perhaps specifically, the large, ragged scars that run through them.

"YOUR HANDS..." He sounds aghast, his quick footsteps bringing him to the bedside where he kneels to bring his eyes level with your...well, he's at eye level with you, but he is looking down at your hands. "WHAT--"

Like his brother does, Papyrus reaches for your hands with a gentleness you haven't seen from him before, his fabric covered thumbs tracing over the raised skin. It's an old wound, and though it has healed well, your skin will never return to how it used to be.

"The price I paid for my small role in someone's crusade for freedom," you explain softly, eyes fixed on Papyrus' face.

It's amazing how malleable their magical bones are in comparison to a human's. You can clearly read the devastation on his face as he realises what you mean, no small amount of anger, and then a resolute expression. "LIKE WHAT YOU'RE DOING NOW." Like what the Manager is telling you to do now.

You feel your lips tip upwards in a wry smile, one that draws Papyrus' eye lights up to your face from where it was fixed on your hands. "A lot less than that," you admit quietly.

A moment of silence then, as Papyrus looks back down at your hands, turning them over to see the exit wounds on your palms and the raised flesh there too. It's sensitive, but dully so in comparison to the rest of your hands.

Finally, Papyrus speaks, his eyes following his thumbs as he traces the interrupted lines of your palm. "THEN WHY CONTINUE THIS FOOLISHNESS? IF IT MIGHT RESULT IN YOUR DEATH?" His crimson eye lights drift up to yours. "YOU WOULD OBEY THE MANAGER DESPITE YOUR PAST?"

Despite the discipline you had already suffered through.

You have to think. Why do you follow the Manager? Purpose, you think. Guidance. Leadership. If you follow the Manager, you don't have to think about the big picture - only your next orders. You had ever been brought up to obey without question; to question is to be punished, to obey unfailingly is to invite praise. It didn't change even after your 'discipline'; you were a tool without a wielder, a weapon without a master. Aimless.

And then the Manager gave you that and a position at her side. She hasn't given you a reason to doubt her; her decisions have all been sound. You know she has a plan, a scheme, and this is just part of it. Perhaps...you should ask her when you get back.

All of this flits through your brain, but none of it translates to spoken word. Papyrus only looks at you with the gentlest of scowls on his face, grumbling, "FINE, KEEP YOUR SECRETS. BUT DON'T MAKE FOOLISH DECISIONS BLINDLY, CONCIERGE." His eye lights flit down to your hand, then back up to your face. "I ASSUME YOU STILL HAVE USE OF YOUR HANDS?"

You look at him amusedly. Then, in the blink of an eye, you slip one hand out from his grasp and wind it into his scarf, yanking him up to your face until only a hair's breadth remains between your faces.

His blush is as radiant as the sun, its magic fizzing slightly on your cheeks and nose and lips from how close he is. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING--UNHAND ME--" His sputtering is muted as he grips at your forearm, a verbal keysmash leaving his fanged maw as you exhale lowly, your breath feathering against his face.

With your lips tipped up in a small smile, you murmur, "Yes, I do."

He looks dazed, like he had been looking at the sun and then tried to look at something else and can only see spots. "WH-WHAT?"

How adorable. You lean in more, until your nose touches the tip of his nasal ridge, and say a little louder, a little huskier, "I can still use my hands, Papyrus."

If your lips graze his teeth, you will coyly say that it was entirely accidental. But it isn't, not really. It is only a brush, a quick little touch, and you pull back as quickly as you had pulled him in, your hand gently unwinding from the red fabric that is a similar shade to your clothes.

Papyrus stares at you with glazed eye lights, his fanged maw slightly ajar, his hands still wrapped around your forearms. Hmm, yes, you rather like this look on him too.

"If you're ready, Papyrus, we should go to the lobby," you say evenly but with an amused lilt to your voice as you gently tug at your arms in an attempt to get the tall skeleton monster to release them.

It takes a moment, but eventually he does, his dinner plate sized hands going straight to his face as he covers the blood red blush on his face. "W-WELL? DON'T WAIT FOR ME." His voice is slightly muffled by his hands, but you can recognise a man holding on by a thread when you hear one.

Hiding a smile, you hum in answer instead of a nod and take the red gloves from the bed, slipping them on as you head for the door. "Very well, I shall see you there."

As you step out of the room and close the door behind you, you hear a very distinct "NYEHEHEHEH-!" coming from within. It's impossible to hide the affectionate look on your face as you head down the hallway.

Like you said, adorable.

[boggie-things]

There's just something about both Robin & Jonathan characterized/viewed as outcasts but also being so different.

Jonathan is quiet, he doesn't talk to people, no one knows more about him than anyone else does vs. Robin who talks to much, tries to make friends and talk to people but is pushed away, people know too much about her.

Jonathan who appears weak but can throw a punch vs. Robin who puts up a hard front but actually worries about everything

Jonathan being bullied for being "queer" because of how he acts vs. Robin who is queer but afraid to "act" so

Both of them viewing the popular kids as the banes of their existences only to end up with one (platonically & romantically).

[wayward-sherlock]

Of course, Will would always follow him, everywhere, anywhere. His mild complaining aside, he would walk across the ocean, fly around the world, trek through hell itself for Mike, his moon, the gorgeous, gorgeous thing that lights the way in even his darkest times. Will’s moon, that he wanted to look at unabashedly, that he wanted to study, that he wanted to take an easel outside on a warm summer night and paint, every little detail and things Mike would consider imperfections that just made him more beautiful, because really, what was stained glass without cracks?

But Will would stay quiet through it all. He would love and suffer in silence so his moon could be happy. If Mike was the moon, then Will was the sun; something that shone too brightly, something that nobody could look at directly without burning themselves. And the moon, his dearest moon, would always be on the opposite side of the earth, happily bringing beauty to everything his soft light touched, while all Will did was blind and burn. They would never be in the same orbit, but maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe the sun just had to be okay with that.

[mysisypheannightmare]

Let Go

Word Count: 574

Warnings: Allegory of death/suicide, negative thinking, suicidal thoughts

--

The solution was simple, really.

What do you do with a cancerous blight in the otherwise perfect system? You cut it out, remove it entirely.

It can't do you any harm if it's nowhere near you, right? Keep it far away from those vital pieces it could affect and you've solved the problem entirely.

So that was what had to be done.

Logan somehow expected this. He wished he'd been surprised, but the moment the knock at the door came, he just knew.

He knew it was time, that the other sides were going to try to ask nicely and if he didn't immediately oblige, they were prepared to remove him by force instead. They wouldn't need to, of course, but they didn't always seem to realize that.

He sighed but answered the door calmly.

Standing, staring, silent - every one of their expressions were the same, nearly blurring together in Logan's mind as all he could register was their palpable disappointment.

They didn't even have to explain it, because he knew what had to be done. He simply nodded and stepped into the hall.

There was nothing to bring with him as he held no sentiment towards anything. He had no words to give the others as they held no sentiment for him.

They all turned and he followed their lead, walking silently and determinedly to his doom.

The subconscious, expressly available to remove unneeded garbage from Thomas' mindspace, was a mysterious albeit terrifying construct within the mindspace they all occupied. However, it was suitable and efficient and did its job well, so Logan supposed he could at least be grateful for that much, if not slightly envious.

As they reached the hatch to the subconscious' entrance, Logan didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and opened it instantly.

No one said a word, but as he climbed in, he glanced back at them for just a moment, just long enough to see those same formless expressions, displaying only disappointment. And then, for just a moment, he was certain he saw relief in their eyes, as well.

It would finally be over now, they knew. They could finally move on without him holding them back. They could finally be better, do better, because he'd be gone.

Once fully inside, he didn't bother climbing down into the subconscious, knowing that he wouldn't be missed or even considered ever again. He just let go of the railing and allowed himself to fall into the white void.

It was finally over. He was now doing the one thing they all wanted most from him, and he was finally able to satisfy their need.

And then he woke up.

He blinked drearily up at the ceiling of his room.

So, just another dream then, huh?

He was still in the mindscape, still uselessly dragging the others down, stuck here until they either got rid of him or he did the job for them.

There was no simple solution like his dreams liked to suggest, no hatch to hop through to escape the daily torturous grind. He was made to fulfill a role for Thomas, which meant he had to keep going, keep existing, until he either withered himself away to nothing or the others found a better way to truly be rid of him.

And knowing he was a metaphysical being of Thomas' mind meant he could only hope for the latter.

And he hoped it would come soon.

[todayisafridaynight]

fucked up that i have two drafted comics of jo in jail and both of them Of Course hinge on whether aoki's alive or not

[bi-panic-at-the-disco]

y’know maybe I should just try to continue working on my fics

[laurabenanti]

Literally only slept for 3 hours after my body decided it was exhausted and i passed out.

And now I’m just… wide awake…

What the heck biology