#really does this count as fanfic???????

[naivesilver]

🎲 + I'm not giving you a number. just click the button like you're hitting skip on an ipod shuffle until you see a character that you REALLY wanna make content for. And maybe make a moodboard or a ficlet for them?

WELL YOU SEE MY FRIEND, our amiable spinning wheel of fate declared I should make something for little Cedar Booth, the AU daughter of our most beloved blorbo; however, since she's fairly new compared to the other kids, I didn't really want to pick, so you get a moodboard AND a tiny experimental thing as well. Enjoy...?

Send me 🎲 + a number and I will put ALL my OCs into a randomizer and choose the first OC after the number of randomizations to make something for.

The Rulebook of Being Cedar Booth, Age Almost Six, Storybrooke, Maine

Cedar is her father's favorite child.

Wrong already. Scratch that and start from the top. Paint over it, the way she is so good at doing when she makes a mistake midway through a drawing.

Ahem.

Cedar is her father's only child. That doesn't mean he loves her any less, but saying she's the favorite would be misleading, a lie. There is no one else he could choose.

Cedar's father never planned to have her in the first place. That doesn't mean he loves her any less, either.

Cedar has a father, a grandfather, and several aunts and uncles, because Daddy and Grandpa have lots of friends that care for her even though they're not really family. She doesn't have a mother, but that's okay. She doesn't need one. She's fine the way she is.

Cedar's best friends are Maddie, Raven and Cerise. Raven does have a mum, and Cerise has two, which should balance things out, except Maddie doesn't have one either, just like Cedar. Cedar feels guilty for being a bit happy about this, because Maddie's mum is dead, but sometimes she can't help thinking it all the same. She doesn't like being the odd one out, ever.

Cedar is the odd one out now. That's okay, too. Most of the townspeople are odd, or magic. Cerise and her sister Ramona are werewolves, as is their mama. Daddy was like her once, when he was small. It doesn't matter that she's turning into wood.

Lie.

6. It does matter that she's turning into wood, but Grandpa says that the right people won't care at all, and that means him and Daddy and Jiminy, and her friends and Auntie Emma, so Cedar guesses she's doing well enough. They will figure it out together. Daddy promised they would figure it out together, and Daddy doesn't lie anymore, especially not to her.

7. Cedar's not hurting anywhere.

Lie.

7a. Fine, Cedar's hurting a bit. In the legs. They're stiff and sore when she goes to bed sometimes, even if Daddy sweeps her off her feet and carries her off to her room when it happens, makes a game out of it for her. Cedar loves her father very much for that, and she's being a good girl for his sake, she really is.

8. No, she did not throw mud at Apple Nolan when Apple said something about Cedar's legs. That was Sparrow, Raven's brother. Sparrow likes throwing things and making noise, and he doesn't boss Cedar around ever, only picks on her like he does to his sister.

9. What Apple said doesn't make her a bad person. She's Snow White's daughter, and more importantly, Auntie Emma's sister. She can't be a bad person. She just doesn't notice she's hurting other people sometimes, Maddie said.

10. It's Cedar's own fault that this is happening to her.

Lie.

10a. It's Daddy's fault that this is happening to her, because of what he used to be.

LIE.

10b. It's Grandpa's fault that this is happening to her, for making his son like that in the first place.

lielielielielielie

?. She's lost count. She can't say whose fault it actually is. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be safe. She doesn't want her family to be unsafe because of what she says, even if it's the truth. She shouldn't tell the truth if it hurts someone else, like Apple's words did. She should lie.

Could she lie?

She can still lie, right?

Lie.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Not to skk post on main but that scene from Dead Apple made me insane for I think a slightly different reason than most...

Ok so. Gonna be honest. When I first watched this, the ah... positioning... did not occur to me at all, other than thinking "that looks really uncomfy :/".

I was too focused on what Dazai's hand does here. He first pushes him. Ok so he was trying to stop him from getting up and losing contact due to the fog. Cool. That serves a practical purpose.

But then Chuuya falls unconscious and Dazai's hand loses that contact for a second before he lowers it back down to rest on his head.

The thing is, there's no need for him to do that. Chuuya is already in contact with Dazai's legs and his ability works through clothes. Moreover, it wasn't just a continuation of pushing him down - there's a slight delay before he sets his hand back on his head.

He sets his hand there just because. And, due to the delay/hesitation, it appears to be a conscious choice to do so as well. Chuuya's out. There's no one around to act for.

I watched that and went holy shit that's genuine, isn't it? It's such a simple gesture of fondness, maybe even a bit of protectiveness, but it means a lot from someone as emotionally closed off as Dazai.

It's... weirdly sweet. He appears to have done it after Chuuya lost all his friends (again...) during DHC in the manga adaptation too, which is... :(

And now, with seeing Dazai immediately start playing with Chuuya's hair in the latest Fifteen adaptation, it also doubles as really funny to me. He saw a chance to touch his hair again and took it. What is wrong with this man.

[arsenicflame]

steddyhands modern au inspired by this post:

(1828 words, themes of kink but nothing explicit, established blackhands & gentlebeard-centric. Happy Pride!)

Stede picks up leatherworking in the wake of his divorce. He's not exactly sure how it ended up being such an important hobby for him, only that he had always admired the intricate designs on his horse's best bridles, and with little else to do with his time, he decides to give it a go.

It's rocky going at first, but he's having fun working with his hands for the first time in his life, and there's a sense of satisfaction in seeing the design come to life as he works. With practice, his skills improve, and he learns how to make things that are truly one of a kind.

He starts off posting his pieces online, as a way to reach fellow enthusiasts, but quickly finds himself with a rather large audience. Stede’s style is unique, and, after many requests from his followers, Lucius encourages him to make some more basic pieces he can sell. It's not about making money for Stede, but another way to meet new people who share his interests- as Lucius keeps telling him, it's sad that his personal assistant is the main person he talks to these days. 

So Stede sets out on a new adventure, and has quite the time designing a new range of patterns for the market. He makes purses, belts, bracelets, and, most importantly, dog collars- all still with his unique designs embossed into them, of course. He rents a booth at his towns monthly craft fair, and very quickly finds himself with a new group of friends in the other regulars- Pete, his usual neighbour, who sells an array of wooden figures he carves, Roach, who runs a stand for his bakery, and Frenchie, who isn't actually a stallholder, but is almost always busking near his friend Wee John’s stand of knitted goods, bringing life to the market even in the pouring rain. There's also Buttons, another regular at the market. Nobody is exactly sure what he does there- he doesn't sell things, or seem to buy anything either, but rain or shine, he's there with the birds.

Stede’s been doing this a few months by the time June rolls around. As he's setting up his stand, he notices that the area is much busier than it’d normally be at this time of morning. Lucius, who got roped into helping run Stede’s stall somewhere down the line (despite his protests that this is not what personal assistant means… But hey, he got a boyfriend out of it, at least), reminds him that there's the parade today, too- not realising that Stede had no clue there was a parade today, and especially not that it was pride. Stede immediately jumps to fretting about the amount of stock he’s brought, and Lucius takes the cue to escape, saying he’ll go and grab them coffee (but really, he's off to flirt with Pete)

Lucius is still missing when Ed stumbles across the little leather stall. Stede’s just ran back to his car to fetch his last boxes of inventory, and by the time he returns, Ed’s already begun to narrow down his choices. Stede greets him, starting to tell him that they're not actually open yet, but before he gets more than a couple of words out, Ed’s exclaiming “You're a Kiwi!!!”

The two of them smile at the shared recognition, and Stede says he’ll make an exception, just for Ed, and asks him what exactly he was interested in. Ed tells him that he's looking for a collar “for his boy”, and points out the particular design he was looking at. It happens to be one of Stede’s favourites from this latest run of work, a fact he mentions to Ed. It leads them into a discussion about Stede’s craft, and Ed’s Izzy, and then everything in between. Ed’s listening intently to the things Stede’s telling him, completely drawn in by the process, and by Stede himself. He watches as Stede stamps Izzy's name into the collar, and Stede even lets him have a go at one of the stamps. 

Lucius reappears sometime in the middle of this- only to immediately retreat again, seeing Stede engrossed with Ed. He sets up camp at Pete's booth opposite, watching this man flirt intensely with his boss- and Stede flirt back just as hard. Does Stede even realise he’s doing it? Lucius had known Stede was gay since before Stede even admitted it to himself, but this is on a whole other level.

The pair stand there so long that Izzy comes to look for Ed- the two of them are manning a float on the parade with their crew, and it's past time for them to get geared up. He's already worked up, frustrated to have been left to set up everything alone, when Ed had just gone to see if he could get them both coffee. So maybe he's a bit of a prick, approaching with a brash “where the fuck have you been, Edward”, to which Stede brings the same energy, giving a bitchy “Ed! Do you know this guy?” Izzy tenses, ready to snap, but then Ed cuts in, excitedly telling Stede that this is “his Izzy!” Which confuses the hell out of Stede. 

Forgetting his earlier attitude, he asks Ed if he “really named his dog after his friend”, only to be met with confusion right back from Ed at where the hell Stede got the idea he had a dog from. Stede gestures at the bag with the collar in it, to which Ed has to tell him, “oh, no, that's for him.” Ed tells Stede that they're here to run a float for their local leather society, and while Stede is certainly shocked by what Ed’s saying, he's not finding himself… uninterested. It's simply that he’s never even considered any of this before, especially not that people would use the things that he made for this, but Ed sounds so enthusiastic about it all. He tells him about how his friends would love to see Stede’s work, about how classic leather gear is always so fucking boring- but not Stede’s stuff, no, Stede’s stuff is “fresh” and “fascinating” and unlike anything Ed’s ever seen before. 

Ed's enthusiasm is incredibly infectious, so when he invites Stede to come back to see their float, he readily agrees. It’s a concept Izzy’s less than enthusiastic about. He doesn’t really want to bring this man who’s dressed like he just walked out of a HOA board meeting to their kinky little corner of the world, but he is having a lot of fun watching Stede squirm, so decides not to raise a protest. He does demand he gets his long-overdue coffee first, though (Stede pays for it- as “compensation for him distracting Ed from his job”, he says, not giving Izzy a second to process before he's tapping his card)

By the time they return to the float, Fang, Ivan & Jim are waiting for them, all already geared up. Stede is stunned silent at the sight for about 5 seconds, before he starts actually looking at the quality of Jim’s harness, and proceeds to go off about the poor quality of the craftsmanship, about how the hardware is tacky and completely the wrong choice with this leather, how his “ten year old daughter could do a better job!!!” 

There's complete silence from the group, until Izzy, of all people, bursts into laughter at Stede’s audacity (and, the fact he was staring at Jim's tits completely unabashedly, like he hadn't even noticed them in the first place). Izzy's laughter sets Ed off as he tells the group about Stede’s misunderstanding- “you didn't say he was a person!” “I mean, he's my dog”- and soon everyone's having a friendly giggle at Stede’s mistake.

It's somewhere in the middle of the retelling that Ed remembers that this whole thing happened because he was buying Izzy a gift. After a moments fumbling, he presents Izzy with the collar-  It's a rich, deep black, embossed with a rolling pattern that resembles waves. It’s made from a firm enough leather to take the tooling, and to remind Izzy that he’s owned while he’s wearing it, yet still soft enough for long term comfort. Izzy's eyes immediately lock on to it, an unreadable expression coming over his face, and Ed turns it; first so he can really see the design and Izzy’s name embossed into it, and then so he can see the small “Ed ♥” on the inside of the collar, right over his swallow tattoo. 

“I did the heart,” Ed says to him softly, intended only for Izzy’s ears. Izzy's eyes flick up to Ed’s, and he raises his chin to give Ed the room to put it on. Ed buckles the collar around his neck almost reverently, a test of the tightness turning into a caress of Izzy's neck. It's a perfect fit.

It's as though something comes over Izzy; so twitchy and abrasive earlier, now silent, staring at Ed with a look akin to worship in his eyes. He obediently tilts his head for a kiss as Ed's fingers move to his chin- It's a sight to behold, and one that has Stede intrigued. He wants to know more about this lifestyle, and these men in particular. He wants to be the one to put that expression on Izzy's face.

The moment breaks as Ed and Izzy pull apart, and Ed calls for the crew to finish the last bits of set up. Izzy shakes himself a little before running off to bark orders again, but even still, there remains a softness to him that wasn't there before. 

Ed turns back to Stede with an apologetic smile, already obvious that he has to get going. Before he can speak, however, Stede jumps in -“My business numbers on the card in the box… I'll be around all day”- Ed’s smile turns more genuine at that, promising to stop by if he gets a moment, and that he’ll send his friend's Stede’s way- “if he wants that kind of business.” Stede says that he does, actually- that he's seen a whole new world already today, and, while he was a little taken aback at first, he can feel the passion Ed and his friends have for this life. If there's one thing that's ever mattered to Stede, it's other people's enthusiasm. Maybe he doesn't completely understand yet, but he would like to try.

One year later, Stede’s back at the market on pride weekend again, far better stocked for the crowds this time around. Lucius is finally free to spend the day flirting with Fang & Pete to his heart's content, now that Stede’s roped his own boyfriends into helping him run the stall- and into modelling the merchandise. Ed loves that part, while Izzy needs a lot more convincing, but the puppy eyes Stede & Ed weaponise against him make a very good argument.

[mrtequilasunset]

The phenomenon of young Revacholian metalheads venturing out to the Porch Collapses (coined 'porch sitting') for the sake of proving how 'hardcore' they were started sometime in the late summer of '13 by a (then) Corpsemetal band called Timor (meaning Fear).

Fronted by 22-year-old Tobias Hawthorne, the band struggled to find any real renown, even amongst the Metal Underground. Reports of the events that took place during the early days of their arrival are based heavily on speculation, but it's believed that the group (Consisting of Hawthorne, Beauchamp "Beck" Waters, Antonio "Tony" Zaldivar, and Edgar Laaksonen) arrived to an unspecified porch sometime during September of '13 and set up camp. Though they had spent much time flaunting the plans of their endeavor to members of their circle, they had not actually told anyone exactly where they were going, for fear they might be followed by law enforcement or someone hoping to piggyback off their innovation. The four young men took only a medium sized petrol generator, one week's worth of food and clothes, two small tents, one pot, two microphones, a small mixing table with headphones, four sleeping bags, and minimal cold weather gear with them.

They claimed it would only be a brief week-long endeavor, but it took nearly a month and a half before an emaciated Laaksonen arrived back home as the only surviving member of the four piece. With very little of his memory still intact, and palesickness leaving him bedridden and decomposing from the inside out, getting the story of what had happened from the young man was an incredibly difficult endeavor. Despite this, across the few interviews that the family allowed to take place, as well as testimony from people at his bedside, the following recount of events was pieced together.

Upon their arrival, the band had set up their modest camp with the intention of capturing Pale Frequencies using one of the microphones and the mixing table, but being ill prepared to handle such proximity to the entity, they began to notice symptoms of palesickness within the first day. Nausea, headaches, and fatigue were the first, but seemed manageable, so they continued on with what they had set out to do.

It was in their minds that they were creating a new genre of metal, which they coined PaleMetal. It was set to be their claim to fame, a goal they hoped would award them with reverence, to be pioneers of a brand new sound, and, at first, it seemed they were succeeding. Only one of the mics they had brought was sophisticated enough to capture the frequencies, and Waters had been put in charge of mixing them with the demos they had recorded prior to their departure. Entroponeticists believed that being the sole person in charge of listening to and analyzing these frequencies on a near-constant basis played a heavy hand in the deterioration of his mind. As the days crawled on, Waters began to exhibit symptoms of minor fever psychosis. Laaksonen recalls hearing him have fully fledged conversations with himself, often staying up into the late hours of the night just listening to the recordings on loop. He told of an encounter the two had where Waters believed himself to be a Graadian woman. "[He] spoke the language and everything," Laaksonen claimed. "Put on this weepy little voice— couldn't remember who I was. And then, three hours later, perfectly fine".

Meanwhile, the rest of the band began to experience symptoms of their own. Hawthorne had become fixated on the microphone. Nearly every waking moment was spent out near the edge of the porch, clutching the small metallic device and holding it out towards the pale in hopes of capturing more. Every time he went out, he moved closer, soaking up more radiation. "It was as if he was waiting for something. Like he expected something to happen—I don't know what it could have possibly been. He was an entirely different person every time he came back". Laaksonen notes that physically, the man began to change as well. What started as a tall, well-built man was swiftly becoming something more akin to a shambling corpse, and every time he returned, he would have more frequencies to feed the mixing table. More frequencies to feed to Waters. 

It had become a sick cycle, but battling their own ailments, Zaldivar and Laaksonen could do little more than watch on. Rarely ever did they leave their tent, and their week-long endeavor quickly turned into two, then three. Food went mostly uneaten due to a lack of appetite, and dehydration was near constant. Their bodies had begun to show physical evidence of deterioration. Gaunt faces, sunken eyes, and pallor, along with the rapid decline in muscle mass, had made it clear that something was very wrong, and yet Laaksonen describes an almost euphoric sort of trance that snuffed any desire to leave. "It was strange," He states. "It almost felt like we were already dead. The sort of peace you find when the end is almost near and there's nothing to be done. Like, a sort of acceptance that this is where we should be for the rest of eternity, that the rest of Elysium doesn't exist for us anymore".

With self-preservation taking a backseat, the boys' physical and mental wellbeing continued its staggering nosedive until one fateful morning, when Laaksonen recalls waking to the sounds of arguing outside him and Zaldivar's tent. Upon unzipping the flap to the outside, they were met with a scuffle between Waters and Hawthorne. It is unknown who started it or why, but at some point, Waters managed to fish a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans as he was pinned to the ground. It's estimated he landed around fifteen stab wounds to Hawthorne's neck and torso before the larger man collapsed, dead. 

Waters, still in a state of psychosis and adrenaline, then took off into the pale. "I remember before he left, he sort of sat there crouched over the body for a minute, and then he looked at me with these big, white eyes. He just stared for- god- I don't even know how long, and then he just got up and took off. It was crazy, too, the way he disappeared. It's like he was there and then just... gone. Like the mist swallowed him." [Laaksonen pauses and takes a breath. His head turns to gaze out the window of his hospital room]. "Those eyes, though... I'll never forget them. There was nothing behind them. It's like he wasn't a person anymore." 

It seemed as if that encounter had been a wake-up call for the remaining band members, who gathered what they could (namely, both the mixed and unmixed recordings) into a single backpack. The MC they had used for the journey there had refused to start, so there was no choice but to make the trek on foot. Zaldivar made it through less than a day before collapsing, and it wasn't until two days later that Laaksonen was picked up by a Lorryman who recognized the symptoms of palesickness and gave him a ride to the nearest medical center.

Despite the combined efforts of many experts, Laaksonen passed away a little over two months after he was found. The damage done to his internal organs and tissues was too great to be reversed. His body was donated to an entroponetics institute to better study the effects of the Pale on the human body.

Before his death, he released the final mixes of the recordings under the band's label as the new genre Pale Metal. Despite no evidence that copies of the tracks cause adverse health effects, many still believe the recordings to be cursed, and most record shops won't even carry the EP in their stock. Copies have been known to circulate on the black market, often selling for several thousand Reál. The original tapes were given to the Waters family, who refuse to release them to authorities even to this day.

Despite the story of Timor becoming infamous amongst metal communities, it still sparked a trend of young people venturing out to the fringes where land meets pale, in search of experiencing it for themselves, as well as some wanting to create their own "True Revacholian Pale Metal". Very few who depart for the porches ever return, and the RCM (as well as other authorities) will refuse to open missing persons cases for anyone even possibly suspected of being affiliated with the PaleMetal scene. The official statement is that they "refuse to risk the health and safety of their officers by deliberately subjecting them to Pale radiation". Unofficially, it's believed they don't have the funding, manpower, or desire to go looking for "masochistic long-hair freaks". Those who do return often gain renown in metal circles for their bravery but still find themselves living with long-term health effects.

The practice of Porch Sitting has mostly died out, and PaleMetal is still considered one of the most taboo subgenres of metal, though plenty of diehard metalheads still listen from the safety of their own homes. Some bands still pop up every now and again, trying to recreate the sound. As of '51, it's estimated that nearly 300 people have disappeared due to this phenomenon.

[svnrisess]

—

“I love it when you hide…”

:: Killing stray Players is normal, encouraged even. But that doesn’t mean Feinberg particularly enjoys it. ::

fic link here!

mcyt x last life!au oneshot series here!

[autumngracy]

Not me creeping up to the wordcount of the fourth longest book ever written

[rarelyput2gether]

Angel Dust is finally here! I fiddle around a lot since I changed my style but I think he came out pretty

His look is inspired by a mix of 30s suits, modern silhouettes, and lingerie. I tried my best with the pinstriped patterns that were famous around his time. I think I might make them thinner in the future. I’ll probably post the other version with a skirt soon. Probably.

Criticism is welcomed. I’m really trying to relearn how to draw

[entermyrealm]

feedback?

i'm admitting now that i honestly hadn't had one thought about the netflix sandman show AT ALL since they first released it, back when i first watched it. that was until Dream showed up in a very strange dream of mine. now, i can't seem to let go of it, the show, or anything else sandman-related (thanks a lot, morpheus), so i've decided to write my dream down in hopes of...something.

i miss writing my dreams as if they were stories, so if you want to read on, you can click below. if you do end up reading it, i welcome any feedback about how it's written. keep in mind that i'm writing it literally from my dreaming self's perspective (it's not meant to make a ton of sense, that's just how it happened). but i'd love to continue writing fanfic (and just in general), so feel free to let me know your thoughts. ✨

Dreaming (of an Endless)

On this night, not unlike other nights, you see yourself cross the threshold of a Jacobean manor. A gentle swish is all that announces your presence as the hem of your cloak brushes each concrete step leading up to the entrance. Moonlight illuminates the path behind you. You watch from afar as your darkened form passes through the heavy wooden doors that have curiously been left unlocked and ajar. The manor is welcoming both you and your watching self.

This version of you, this walking form, is shifting along with the environment. Your attire has changed once inside. Music can be heard in a distant room. Everything is quite black, but it is not unwelcoming. You notice that even though your cloak is gone, you feel safely enveloped in this darkness. Golden glowing candles intermittently dot each wall. You can feel the faint vibration of voices growing stronger with each careful step.

Am I here to greet them? Is this my purpose?

Before you can wonder whether or not you remember being invited, smartly dressed figures materialize around you. Much like yourself, they appear to undulate intangibly, as if their forms are undecidedly incorporeal. Your eyes see yourself watching them as you pass each group; softly smiling faces deep in conversation with their tablemates, some with tentative fingers gently touching. Your mind catches a peripheral glimpse down the darkened hall to your left. Small, antique tables hosting quiet guests are lined up against the windowed wall and extend all the way back into nothingness. An imposing staircase reveals itself next to this hallway, but an uneasiness prevents you from looking up to the second floor.

A shift, and then: lights! One light, rather, fixed above a small stage, shines so brightly that you blink to avert both sets of eyes. In that blink, you’ve become a confident body moving boldly through a large crowd that has formed in the center of this room. Your watching self notices red curtains hanging across the stage, in front of which sits a single wooden stool.

Your attention snaps forward to the mansion’s front entrance, at which you are now greeting an invited guest. Someone in the business of entertaining, but you have difficulty placing exactly who they are. It doesn’t matter anyway. You usher them inside with an arm at their back, passing over a bright red carpet that suddenly lines the foyer. You stop them briefly to warn them about the crowd just on the other side of the wall, but they simply wave you away. Your walking self shrugs and turns. You can see yourself smirk as the crowd erupts into shouts and applause.

As you leave this raucous behind, the inviting dark surrounds you once more. You feel a deep breath fill your lungs. The mansion’s muted greens, golds and burgundy are being traded in for cooler tones.

Is something coming?

You thought you were feeling exhausted, but the dark boots that were once on your feet feel lighter, along with the rest of your clothing. This new form is curious to explore the mansion and its grounds. Your watching self seems to join with the walking; both sets of eyes are viewing the same path that is just barely visible outside in the night garden.

The moon is a silver lamp in the sky. Stars can be seen faintly winking. Is that an old oak tree? Astonishingly massive leaf-covered limbs stretch up and out as if to reach the moon. You briefly marvel at the tree and everything else outside.

Hmf.

You are not sure of the next sequence of events. An impossibly pale hand reaches to hold yours. You reach behind you without turning to grab hold of an impossibly pale hand. Restrained strength lingers there. A breath. A low voice. He breathes and you feel him keeping pace with you, if ever so deliberately behind. Your fingers touch and your black cloak returns to match his. He towers above you. No, he is…slouching? Both of you go unnoticed by all houseguests on silent cat feet. 

As a pair, you have walked every inch of the mansion’s first floor before finally stepping out into the night garden together. Through the glass double doors, descending a few stone stairs, bare feet disturbing pearls of dew on the grass, yet making no sound on the gravel path. You pass through low bushes and attempt to continue on to a dark clearing between the trees.

We could explore the rest of this garden, too! The moon is so bright, and there’s a path up ahead - 

Stop… 

Pleading, slow, not demanding. You think you heard it in your ear, but maybe it came from inside your head. He used too much strength (he doesn’t know it), and you’re chest to chest facing his seemingly solid form. You’re looking up at his face. He keeps shifting, undulating. Is he nervous? You decide to look down, away from those dark starry eyes, and you notice that his hands are grasping yours between the two of you. You frown. Your watching self frowns.

You cannot stay with me.

His voice is too melodious and almost apologetic. You can barely focus. You just want to do as he says… You start.

Why does it matter? Why can’t it be my decision? Let’s go wherever we can.

His stoic glance is betrayed by the slightest smirk. There is so much hesitation.

No.

This is annoying. You are annoyed.

The walker and the watcher. This is not the first time we have met.

Isn’t it, though? You actually can’t recall. You frown again. You feel his hands drop from yours. He watches them fall to your sides. Wait - he’s…avoiding your questions. Wasting time.

I’m certainly not meant to stay here.

No. To stay with me means pain and death. You would have to die.

Dramatic.

I’m no stranger to either. I have no fear of either.

All of the air is gone. For a moment, it’s as if the reassuring curtain of night drops to reveal that you have both been standing in the desolate, uncaring cosmos. You blink. His eyes are pitch. The night garden is surrounding you once more, but something has changed. There is a pressure keeping you immobile. Your watching self sees that his arms have wrapped around your center with his hands at the small of your back. He carefully extends two long fingers on each hand and pushes into either side of your spine.

Your watching and walking bodies go rigid, gasping, and your head recoils at the sudden pressure and pain. The pain grows, but you feel yourself protesting. You make a pained noise but still persist in your wanting to stay with him.

You manage to lower your head down and forward to see his large slender form looming over you, wrapped around you, dark eyes glistening, almost teary but determined. Scared? Uneasy. He knows you have magic, too. He knows you can be stubborn. He is pushing you away, out of the dreaming. You swear you catch a glimpse of regret.

You wake up.

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID: a digital illustration of Luz and Hunter from the owl house. Luz sits on the right with her hand on hunter's shoulder. Hunter sits on the left facing Luz. They're both in their designs from the end of Thanks to Them. Hunter has his eyes closed and is crying with a pained expression, while Luz looks on with tears in her eyes. The background is dark and the scene is dimly lit. The second image is a variation on the first image where a spectral version of flapjack sits on hunter's shoulder and Manny's hand in on Luz's shoulder. End ID]

Felt like posting something devious today. Do you think they'll ever talk about what they've lost? Bond over it? Mourn??? Grieve????

[zelianthos-capercaillie]

A sneak peek of my contribution for the HashiMada Week 2024 event Day 2 prompt, “Eldritch”

It’s a Wingfic AU set in Fantastical Urban Konoha

(Wordcount: Approx. <100)

@hashimada-week

***

The first thing Hashirama saw were four massive wings—a pair to cover their face, another to cover their form. Midnight-black with an iridescent luster.

Clawed hands emerged next, reaching out and transforming into slender, pale human ones as they gripped the bark to push themself out of the sundered tree.

The being's (an eagle's? No, an ox's—no, a lion's—no, a man's) wings finally parted to reveal eyes as dark as their hair, locking gazes with Hashirama.

A smile appeared on those lips, endlessly fond, and in a bass-baritone voice, melodious and beguiling, they spoke.

“Hello, angel.”

[thetomorrowshow]

hubris killed the god - ch 5

first part

cw: apocalypse setting, talk of death

~

The crew that leaves is Scott, Jimmy, False, Shelby, and Katherine, leaving fWhip and Gem behind (though to be fair, both fWhip and Gem volunteer to stay behind, despite Jimmy clearly wanting at least one of them to come along in place of Scott).

The whole trip, Jimmy ignores Scott—and to be fair, Scott doesn’t make any extra effort to get in his way. Their fight of the previous week clearly hasn’t left either of their minds.

Scott’s not entirely sure what had changed Jimmy’s mind—if he’d just been looking to avoid another fight, or if he’d realized he was wrong at some point. Whatever it was, Scott isn’t going to argue any further. He’s just happy that Jimmy let him come along.

Also, the airship probably isn’t the best place for a fight like they’d had last week. Scott shudders as he pictures Jimmy shoving him again, the two of them clearing the railing entirely and being dead on impact with the ground.

Hopefully dead on impact. If he’s going to die, Scott doesn’t want to feel the mites tearing him apart as he does.

Pix’s land isn’t too far away—not nearly as far as Stratos had been. They arrive after maybe half an hour, hovering over the grand gate that leads to the catacombs.

“All right, you know the plan!” Jimmy hollers over the sound of fans and gears droning. “I take point, Shelby’s got the rear. Katherine behind me. Scott in the middle to keep eyes around. We go in, we get out quick! Got it?”

“And look for coal!” calls False from the stern. Jimmy acknowledges with a wave of his hand, then heaves himself over the railing and onto the rolled-out ladder.

The mites are swarming around below, but they watch as Jimmy draws his pistol and fires an echoing shot below him, scattering the ones directly below him. For a moment, wind catches the ladder and it sways—Jimmy’s one-handed hold is looking pretty loose—but before any of them can shout for him, Jimmy jumps the rest of the way down, landing hard on the ground and firing off another shot.

It’s Scott’s turn next, and he can’t afford to take a moment to feel nervous about it. Jimmy’s down there, howling at the top of his lungs, trying to keep hordes of plaguelings away. He needs help, and Scott just so happens to have a magical eye that repulses evil.

The wind is roaring in his ears and terrifying as he clambers down the rope ladder, it swinging and curling below him while his shovel knocks against his leg. But Scott bites his lip and holds on tight, taking it one shaky step at a time as he climbs.

Eventually, his feet hit solid ground (his knees shake and he nearly falls, but he finds his footing after a precarious moment), and he pulls his shovel from his belt and starts beating at the dirt before he even has a chance to get his legs steady. The mites scurry away from the force, or go still and slowly move away under his gaze, and he casts his eyes around, trying to keep them spooked long enough to stay a good meter away (and hitting with his shovel when they get too close). Jimmy’s still yelling and stomping his feet, and Katherine swings down and joins in.

Once Shelby joins them, Jimmy (still shouting nonsense) leads the way in, shoving at the looming, sealed stone doors until one of them starts to give. Katherine joins him, and with their combined strength, they force one of the doors to scrape open wide enough for them to squeeze through.

It’s a tight fit—and Scott doesn’t like that there are mites on the doors, that could drop down on him as he’s going in, so he pulls up his coat above his head and shimmies through—but it works well enough, and soon all four of them are within the catacombs.

The air within is like a cool breeze washing over them, out of the sun, yet stuffy—but Scott hardly notices it while his eyes adjust to the dark. The crack of the door casts little light within the hollowed out hall, and they all stand there for several long moments (Scott keeps an eye on the door, glaring at any mites that dare shuffle around the corner) while Jimmy strikes a match and lights the torch that he’d strapped to his hip.

Scott lets his coat slide back down from his head to settle on his shoulders again. He’s already starting to have second thoughts, something about the darkness unsettling his stomach. He swallows a couple of times, making sure that he isn’t going to throw up.

It’s tough to see the roughly-hewn stone, even with Jimmy’s torch. The light barely reaches the walls, and Scott can just make out the lumpy shapes of sconces at fixed intervals to light up the place the way Pix always had it. It would’ve been nice if they’d been able to bring as many torches as could fill those—then maybe it would feel less spooky, less . . . off.

In addition to the disconcerting darkness, it feels like they’re in a holy place, and no one speaks while they pass between pillars to reach the main staircase. 

Scott’s been in plenty of holy places, and in each one, there’s a certain quality to the air—maybe the way the dust hangs in unnatural stillness, or the stale scent that brings to mind churches and private places of worship. Something that feels as if it would be unwise to disturb it, whether because of the god that watches over it, or because of whatever lies within.

In this case, it could be either, he observes, as Jimmy’s torchlight passes over a painting of a goddess.

Peril, the plaque beneath it reads. Scott only catches a glimpse of the painting as he passes, but she seems stern, stone-like, forbidding.

She seems like an omen.

With every dark hallway and tomb they pass, Scott’s heart sinks lower and lower. If Pix were here, surely he’d have lit the place up, shown some sign of life. 

There’s nothing, though. No lit torches, dust settled on the few seats they pass and layered thick on the ground. And the further in they get, the lower the chances are that Pix is somehow still here.

Jimmy’s growing antsy, too. Every room he shines his torch into, he sighs louder, his steps sounding more and more like stomps.

Scott doesn’t dare suggest they turn back, even as the tombs go on and on. He’s not sure how Jimmy’s navigating them, or if he’s navigating at all, so he looks up at him after a moment to see that he has chalk, and is marking each turn they take.

Scott turns his eyes back to the floor, scanning each cranny they pass for any mites that could be hiding in the darkness. The silence feels heavy, weighing down on his shoulders, and he’s assaulted with the image of Martina in the inn, her limp llama form already being torn apart by the mites.

If Pix is down here, what condition will they find him in? Will he be partially decayed, mites crawling around him? Will there be anything left?

Scott shakes himself. There aren’t any mites in here. Well, now there may be, now that they’ve opened the door, but if Pix is here, there can’t be mites. They haven’t encountered any yet, have they? If they were already in here, they would’ve seen one.

Right?

And then, almost before he notices, they’re in the main (and final) chamber.

It’s dark. It’s silent. The torchlight doesn’t fill the entire room, leaving the edges of the room in darkness. The can’t see the walls, they can’t see the ceiling. They can’t see any signs of life.

What they can see is some crypts, inscribed with weathered words in a language Scott doesn’t recognize. A couple of barrels here and there, mostly empty, one or two with shovels or similar excavation tools. A sheet here, a bucket there.

No Pix. This is clearly where he’d been working before everything went down, but he isn’t here.

With a couple of gestures, Jimmy directs them all to various corners of the room to search, despite the futility of it. Scott heads off to his left, feeling along one of the crypts, his fingers digging into the dusty grooves of the lettering.

There’s nothing in his corner. It’s bare, but for a cobweb and more dust. He kicks at the dust, watches idly as it puffs up in a little cloud.

There’s a short shriek behind him, a clattering sound—Scott whips around—Katherine’s leapt back from her corner and knocked over a barrel, her axe raised, eyes focused on a spot on the floor.

“There’s a mite here,” she calls to them when everyone looks to her. “I don’t know if it was already here or if it followed us in. We should go.”

Jimmy nods sharply, heads to the door. Scott falls into line behind him, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. If the mites are already in here—

Jimmy leaves without waiting for Katherine and Shelby to join them, and Scott can’t hang back because Jimmy’s going forward and Scott has to watch out for mites in his path. They aren’t far behind, so he’s confident that they’ll be able to catch up. After all, they can handle themselves for a couple of seconds.

If they’d waited, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe Scott would have noticed something was off, because he caught sight of some movement on the ceiling but assumed it was just the torchlight flickering as Jimmy hurried down the hallway and up the first flight of stairs.

But now, in an attempt to not let Jimmy get too far ahead, he ignores whatever he’d seen on the ceiling. And when the girls shout behind him, he knows instantly that he should’ve looked closer.

Scott whips around to see his worst nightmare.

It’s Shelby, and there’s a mite on her cheek.

And a mite on her hat.

And a mite on her hand.

And she’s yelling and trying to shake off the mites, and Katherine’s screaming and circling her to try and fend off any others, and the sick feeling that’s been growing in Scott’s stomach this whole time rises to his throat and he nearly vomits.

It’s certain death. There’s no way to survive this plague, and Shelby’s covered in those things and there’s no way to help her and she’s going to die, she’s going to die, she’s going to die—

“Just run!” Jimmy roars, and Scott can’t stay. There’s more of them, the plague dripping from the ceiling and spreading across the walls and Shelby’s going to die and there’s nothing he can do.

Scott pulls the collar of his coat up over his head and runs for it.

The mites scatter from their feet, and all Scott can hear is the pounding of his blood in his ears and all he can feel is his feet slamming against stone, but he keeps pushing, up flights of stairs and down hallways, his eyes on the ground to try and keep it clear. He doesn’t know if Shelby and Katherine are following. He doesn’t know if Jimmy’s still in front of him. He just knows he has to get out.

Something light bounces off his coat over his head and Scott swears in a voice that comes out as more of a shriek than a mutter, as intended. He doesn’t stop running, though, even as each breath tears from his lungs and his legs start to feel like jelly.

And finally, blessedly, he hits the door.

There’s more mites than he’s ever seen in his life swarming around the door, piled up upon each other as they scramble to explore this new place. Scott screams at them, wordless and random, stomping and glaring and swinging with his shovel, until their piles fall apart and scatter and he has a path through.

He can hear other screams, somebody beating something metal against the wall with a repeated, deafening clanging noise that sends Scott’s head spinning and his ears ringing. He squeezes his way out the door, doing his best to shove the door open a bit wider in the process, and finally is free in the open air.

Jimmy’s right there, and the sound is him slamming his pistol against the outer wall as he shouts, making a small clearing in the sea of blackness that surrounds them. Scott spins around, too fast, he’s dizzy he’s going to be sick, casting his eyes on every mite he can to incite them to pull away.

The ladder drops in front of him and Jimmy, still yelling, shoves his pistol into his waistband and starts climbing.

Scott tells himself, frantically, that he’s going to wait for Katherine and Shelby as long as he can. He and Jimmy left them back there, they didn’t wait, and because they didn’t wait they lost one of their number.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long. Within the minute, Shelby exits the catacombs, bereft of her witch hat and her face red with tears. Katherine’s right behind her, and she helps Shelby onto the rope ladder before climbing up herself.

Scott waits until they’re both fully onto the airship, then steels himself. His legs already feel so terribly weak; he isn’t sure that he can make it all the way up.

Well. It’s either make it, or die here.

Scott starts climbing.

His determination is strong, but even so, his legs nearly give out before he reaches the top. When that happens, he just wraps his arms all the way around the ladder and moves slower, shimmying himself up.

He rolls over the railing, onto the deck and out of the way, ready for Katherine to pull the ladder up. Scott shrugs out of his coat, the sun beating down on his back and head.

His ears are still ringing, his head aching, his limbs trembling. He still feels like one wrong move could cause him to lose his breakfast. He still feels like he just wants to sit down and sob.

Scott doesn’t have time for that, though.

He shakes out his coat to find nothing, twists around to check his back just in case. It doesn’t look like he made any skin contact with a mite. He needs to invest in a pair of gloves, though—he’d been hit by the horrifying thought halfway up the ladder that there could be a mite sitting on his shoulder, and he’d have no way to get it off without infecting himself.

There’s a conversation going on around him, he realizes as his ears abruptly stop ringing, yelled over the sound of the airship.

“—okay, we’re right here with you,” Jimmy’s shouting, and Scott turns to see him holding Shelby’s hands as she shudders with barely-contained sobs.

Shelby says something Scott can’t hear, and Jimmy’s face twists. He pulls her close to his chest, wraps her in a hug.

That’s his friend. Shelby is Scott’s friend, and she’s hurting, and she’s going to die soon.

Scott takes a few shaky steps over to her, waiting for her to open her eyes and notice him—and when she does, she reaches out with one of her arms, pulling him into the hug with Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” Shelby croaks into his ear, and Scott just hugs her tighter.

-

The ride back is quiet. Shelby sits on the deck, back up against the railing, chin on her knees as she stares at nothing. Katherine paces, back and forth from the stern to the bow, casting anxious glances toward Shelby and Scott.

Jimmy disappears belowdecks, after giving each of them a hug—nothing huge, just a quick slap on the back. Scott leans on the railing at the bow, gazing out over the land.

The worst part is, Jimmy was right.

He was right. Scott had just begun to assume that of course Pix would be there. Of course they would be able to rescue him. And he’d thought, at the time, that even if Pix wasn’t there, it would be worth it just to try (and yet, he was so certain that Pix would be there that it didn’t even matter).

And here they are, with a light pink mark on Shelby’s face and another on her hand, denoting exactly where death had marked her.

Jimmy was right, and he isn’t even doing anything about it.

He’s changed since the apocalypse, Scott thinks. In the past, he imagines Jimmy would be glaring at them all, muttering “I told you so”s and just generally being obnoxious about being right.

In fact, Scott would honestly find it easier to deal with than this silence. He can handle Jimmy being a bit stuck-up and full of himself. He knows that side of Jimmy, he knows what to expect.

No Pix, Scott remembers suddenly with a pang. No sign of him whatsoever. The catacombs had been sealed well enough that until they got there, there’d only been one or two mites in the place total. Had Pix sealed it from the outside, trying to preserve the history within? That sounds like something stupid and self-sacrificing the man would do in the name of history.

And there wasn’t any coal either, Scott realizes with a start. They’d gone in there to save Pix and collect coal, and they hadn’t completed either objective.

The sick feeling he’s had since they entered the catacombs increases just slightly. This was a terrible idea. They’ve lost—they’ve lost another trip in the flying machine, wasted on nothing. False had said that the coal they found in Stratos was enough for a handful of flights, and now one of those limited flights has been used up on nothing.

And Shelby, a pointless sacrifice that he had foolishly thought worth it.

Scott slides down to sit on the deck, burying his face in his knees. His eyes are burning at the corners, and he thinks it isn’t exactly because of the wind.

It’s his fault. He riled everyone up, he fought with Jimmy, he insisted that they look for Pix. It’s all his fault that Shelby is dying.

For a moment, with frightening clarity that bubbles up in his chest like a sob, Scott wonders if this is how Jimmy feels.

In a greater sense, this whole thing is Jimmy’s fault. It was Jimmy’s rash actions and anger that had caused the apocalypse, killed thousands of people, ended the world.

And maybe it’s just because Scott doesn’t have time to process anything, he hasn’t had time, he’s never going to have time, but he’s not all that mad at Jimmy right now. If they can work out an impossible escape, and somehow find peace and time to process and heal, then he’d be mad.

But at this point, Scott’s not sure that he would call for punishment. He doesn’t think that he could ever be friends with Jimmy again, but. . . .

He’d really rather forget everything that happened here. Move on.

He’d rather everyone forget about his own terrible decision.

Scott sits there, wind pulling his hair every which way, face tucked into his knees, until they arrive. He tries not to think. He tries not to let his heart break over and over again. He just sits there and breathes and ignores the smarting of his eyes.

-

Somehow, Scott’s the only one who thinks to tell Sausage that they’re back, and the only one to tell him of Shelby’s condition.

Everyone else tells fWhip and Gem, then heads off in their separate directions—to bed, to patrol, to find a quiet place to cry—whatever it is they do.

Sausage doesn’t take it well, exactly, but where fWhip had cried and Gem had hugged Shelby, Sausage’s face hardens with determination and he starts . . . something.

He opens up a compartment in the back of the altar, draws from it a line of beads—pearls, probably—from which a moon hangs. He sets that on the altar, then pulls out the next thing—a well-preserved sunflower head. Last of all, a tiny little cylindrical container, gleaming gold, that he lays beside the other two items.

“Tell Shelby to come in here. And to bring whatever she uses for her magic,” Sausage instructs, stricter than Scott’s ever heard. And Scott, of course, obeys, turning on his heel and marching right out of the chapel.

fWhip insists on coming too, and then Gem, and then Katherine, so they all follow Scott and Shelby into the chapel, where Sausage is now piling as many pillows as he can onto a table behind the altar.

“Sausage, what’s going on?” Shelby asks wearily, leaning against the altar. “It’s—I’m—I’m d-dead, all right? Don’t try to save me, focus your energy on everyone else.”

“I think I can do something, though,” Sausage declares, and he pats the makeshift bed he’s made on the table. “See, my magic has been keeping the darkness away. And your magic kind of works to keep you safe, right? So I’ve been thinking—just in case, I didn’t plan for anyone to get hurt or anything—that we could try and combine our magic and see what happens!”

That sounds like a terrible idea, from Scott’s point of view. What happens if their magics hate each other? What happens if the combination ends up exploding in ways both literal and not?

But Shelby stills, tilts her head, considering. She scratches absently (not that Scott knows it’s absent scratching, if it were him he’d be overly aware) at the tiny pink splotch on her cheek.

“We can try,” she says slowly. “I mean, I’m already gone. We might as well, right? And it could be kind of fun.”

“Wait, could this actually work?” Gem asks, pushing past Scott to stand directly in front of Sausage. “Could you—if you and Shelby worked together, could you save other people, too?”

As opposed to the moment before, Sausage looks rather unsure of himself, rocking back on his heels and chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Um, maybe! And it can’t hurt to try, mostly. Otherwise I wouldn’t even suggest it, if it could hurt someone.”

He’s sure Sausage didn’t mean to address that statement toward anyone, but Scott feels a pang in his chest at those words. He’d fought to go look for Pix, knowing full well that someone could get hurt. And someone did.

“Then by all means, let’s do it!” fWhip declares, bouncing in place, and Scott can’t stand it.

He doesn’t want hope. He doesn’t want to get excited about the possibility of his friend being okay, because if it doesn’t work then it’ll be like she’s dying all over again.

Scott knows they need to try. He knows that this is a possible fix, not just for Shelby, but for everyone. He knows that there’s hope here.

But there are already far too many bottled-up emotions shoved into the deepest corner of his chest, and the lid is barely staying on the bottle. Opening it up to add hope would send all those other nasty, grieving feelings flying into everything.

So, instead of joining the excited chatter and helping Shelby get comfortable on the table there (where she’ll apparently be spending a lot of time), Scott quietly slips out.

That night, he stays in his room in the inn, instead of heading for the pew where he normally sleeps in the chapel.

That night, Scott barely sleeps at all.

[myymi]

Any fic wip sneak peaks? Even just a line?? Looking forward to whatever you’re working on next :DD

uhhhh, sure why not

Miles wasn’t all too sure what to think of the.. porcupine? They sorta looked like one, but there were a few differences. He’ll just settle on porcupine for now.

Backtracking, where did the stranger even come from? They just appeared so suddenly! But, with how fast they had ran around the big kids, Miles thinks that’s normal for them.

They seemed so cool..

Why would they help him? Surely they have better things to do, and isn’t Miles supposed to be hurt by the villagers?

Maybe the porcupine didn’t know that yet.

They sure don’t seem to be a local..

Miles snapped out of his thoughts when the blue mobian had reached their hand out towards him.

A little worried they were wanting to hurt him, the fox flinched away and tried to back up.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t get any further away because of the tree.

The stranger frowned and retreated their hand, opting to just sit down instead. Which.. confused Miles, but he wasn’t about to say anything and possibly get himself hurt even worse.

That wouldn’t be very smart.

So he kept silent, watching as the porcupine sat there. They seemed to be thinking, but the kit didn’t want to imagine what they might be thinking about.

Starting to feel a little uncomfortable, and sore from all the kicks and punches that were just dealt against him, Miles shifted to try and feel a little better.

It didn’t really help, but oh well. He tried, and that’s what matters.

His ear flicked when he heard the stranger gasp. The fox startled, worried they might’ve seen his.. mutation? He thinks that’s the word the adults use.

Looking down at his lap to see if his second tail had appeared from its hiding place, he nearly choked on air when he saw the blue stone sticking out.

And the stranger saw it.

He covered the stone, but he knew it was too late. The porcupine saw it, they’re going to–

..why is it glowing?

It’s never done that before..

Miles couldn’t help but stare at it, it looked so pretty!

But, even if it was pretty, it suddenly glowing was probably not a good sign.

He blinked when he saw a yellow light appear, looking up to see the stranger was holding a stone that looked a lot like the blue one he had, only yellow.

Miles tilted his head at it. Were they glowing because they were near each other? That’s kind of strange.

Though, he supposes he isn’t really one to talk.

[tyrannuspitch]

oh also while we're comparing and contrasting. as i've said before. you could argue otherwise, but personally, i really don't think mcu thor hits loki.* whereas your generic comics thor. definitely does. in mcu canon, the circumstances surrounding the mistreatment are subtler, but the mistreatment itself is also subtler.

and again, things being (arguably) "less severe" doesn't necessarily make the writing better. but. it does make thor more sympathetic, and it does make everything feel more deliberate? like, someone has thought through what is and isn't going on, rather than just being like. toxic sibling relationship? okay let's have everything possible go wrong! and this also means that like... toxicity/abuse which a lot of people would see as "lesser" is treated with significantly more gravity. like, overall, i just get the impression that a lot more effort and care is being put into it.

(*i was going to say "i don't think mcu thor is physically violent to loki." but uhhh. yes he is. but i don't think he hits him, or does anything where the primary intent is to cause pain, so that's like... a line he doesn't cross. he has principles, even if they're not very good ones. also, further specifications: not "mcu thor", but "pre-reboot mcu thor, pre-nemesishood or outside of wartime". idk what reboot thor is up to these days, but he is a torturer, so i'm not defending that guy. :/)

[son-soup]

SAIKI K FANDOM! HEAR ME OUT REAL QUICK

An au where Saiki starts trying to learn more about his powers and where they come from. He starts speculating that his fathers side of the family (being that he doesn’t if ever interact with them *aka us as watchers not hearing anything about his paternal family*)  He asks his parents about them and his inquiries; His parents, who seem to be hiding something, deny knowing anything about it. He starts investigating himself, even finding probable locations of one of his paternal grandparents (I haven’t decided whom yet).

He starts getting closer with them and his powers. He is far more powerful than he thinks he is. he is much more than he knows. He’s even gotten to a point where he doesn’t hate them as much. 

But then, he’s asked to aid in tasks, very dangerous task, not dangerous for him, dangerous for everyone else. He’s asked to held destroy the world.

Does he consider it? Does he try to stop it? Does he succeed? 

[dytabytes]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: One Piece (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante/Trafalgar D. Water Law Characters: Trafalgar D. Water Law, Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante Additional Tags: CoraLaw Week 2024, Late Night Conversations, Pre-Punk Hazard Arc, One-sided Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante/Trafalgar D. Water Law, POV Trafalgar D. Water Law, Tired Trafalgar D. Water Law, Pining Trafalgar D. Water Law, Soft Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante Series: Part 14 of driftwood is burning blue Summary:

"If I have to do something terrible, will you forgive me?"

[drones-of-innocence]

Hi Drones! Love your Mareach fanfics (literally top notch💯). I was wondering, what are your thoughts on the movie (assuming you’ve seen it😅)? I have a few thoughts on it, but would love to hear yours!

Hey there!! I appreciate the ask! (And OMG thank you for reading my fics, that's so sweet of you 😭)

I have finally seen the Mario movie and I do have a lot to say haha, and I'm cool with sharing my broad thoughts this way, but if you're looking for a more in-depth discussion then I'm happy to discuss more in a PM!!

Just a brief disclaimer; my opinion reflects only my personal preference! I don't have any problem with disagreement or anyone who feels differently.

I will say the movie was a lot of fun! It was so surreal to see the Mushroom Kingdom on the big screen, and to hear such familiar melodies in cinematic arrangements. It was downright magical, actually. There was plenty to laugh and be amazed at, and so many references that had me grinning the entire time!

About the plot though 😅 There are pacing and some narrative critiques that I've seen so I won't say anything beyond that. The most important thing for me is I believe in the merit of a children's movie being all fun and silly, but I also really feel like this film went out of its way to avoid social commentary at its own expense. Not for no good reason; I know Nintendo does everything possible to keep the Mario franchise as family friendly as possible. But in terms of an impactful story, it fell sort of flat in my view. I feel as if it could have benefitted from some kind of social commentary beyond it's shot at subverting the damsel-in-distress trope.

(That in particular felt like performative feminism in a sense. Maybe it wasn't, maybe it was a sincere attempt at empowering an iconic character. But the default answer in a lot of media to empowering women these days seems to be "make her strong the way that the men characters are." A girlboss, I guess. It feels performative for me because it reaffirms with the idea that strength in character can only be relevant/seen within masculine qualities, and writers can just say "but it's a woman!" while continuing to disregard more feminine examples of strength. It's like a Get Out of Jail Free Card to acknowledging gender inequality.

Like, the problem wasn't that she's a damsel-in-distress; the problem is how pervasive the trope of damsel-in-distress used to be across the board. Except now, pop culture has sort of swung the other way. The problem isn't the girlboss character, the problem is that the girlboss character is perceived as the only correct way of writing "strong women characters." It's just sort of missing the point. The problem is still the same; women characters are stuffed into the same small box of behavior, attitude, and ultimate role depending on what's trendy at the time. I love the damsel-in-distress trope. I also love the girlboss. But it can be tiring to see that same story over and over again, feeling as if there are only a few options for writers to portray women, and realizing that it represents a sort of confinement of understanding for what women are allowed to be in real life for social acceptance, too.)

I get the desire to avoid politics and social issues. I really do, but in my position (studying social sciences), I see social issues as unavoidable. To go without acknowledging them is to ignore them, and from a story perspective, to go without them also kind of makes it boring?

I've seen the argument that it's a children's movie, therefore it doesn't have to be complicated. That's absolutely valid. I wish I could go back to having no thoughts lol. But it's my personal preference to watch a film that makes me think and consider the world from another point of view. And in response to that argument, all I can really say is basically my favorite genre is children's films that have social commentary. (See The Iron Giant, Wall-E, The Little Prince, Megamind, Beauty and the Beast, literally any given Studio Ghibli film. All of these have something to say about society contained within them.) I kind of wish the Mario movie had an interesting point to make in that context, but it didn't really, and that's okay. That's just why it's not one of my favorite movies.

That being said, there is plenty to love. The character designs were absolutely adorable. The Mushroom Kingdom was more than I could have ever dreamed of, and the way Mario and Luigi's brotherly relationship played out was just so beautifully written 🥺 I love that this will undoubtedly expand pop culture's regard for Mario, and maybe draw others into my silly little corner of the internet where I just sit here and publish my fluffy Mareach fanfiction 😆