#could show you how I conceptualize happiness

[bookwyrminspiration]

Hi :] so this is my first time doing an ask so I apologize if this sounds awkward or anything. But anyway, I saw a couple of your kotlc song analysis and was wondering what you think of Creature by half alive for Fintan or any character in general?

I don't exactly know why my mind was hyperfixated with this song and Fintan but it just did. Hv a nice day :]

Hi, Nonsie!! No need to apologize, you're doing just fine I promise. And I love that song!! It's one of my "my spine is being turned inside out" (/pos) songs that's just so *clenches fist*

There are so many lines that could fit Fintan!! The first one I think of is "Even the depths of the night cannot blind me / When You guide me," specifically in relation to Everblaze. It's like this thing he reveres, that calls to him, the power overwhelming and awe inspiring. And nothing an withstand it's fury, no darkness or hesitation or doubt, it's incandescent and ethereal and all consuming and he can control it--or at least work in enough harmony with this flame to achieve his goals. But this line specifically reminds me of that one scene where he's explaining it to Sophie before stopping, realizing she doesn't understand the appeal because she's not a pyrokinetic. The line just has that sense of openness and awe, if that makes sense. I don't know how else to explain it but it's falling to your knees in reverence, arms open to the sky, speechless.

for some reason the line "Haunted by a darker side / Transcends to walking in the light" reminds me very specifically of his relationship to everblaze as well. He's more than that but it's what my brain is focusing on rn. But the "darker side" could be his history with it, being the only survivor of an attempt to summon it gone gravely wrong, ending in multiple deaths of people who were probably his friends, but any hesitation or grief around it transcends instead to that reverence I mentioned before. He finds the beauty in it, finds the calm, finds the storm, finds himself, finds the light of the everblaze burning through everything it used to be to him. Now the past that haunted him has been transformed into something new and dangerous

oh and then there's "Hidden in the space between / Hero and the enemy" like that was a whole thing in the early books!! Sophie trying to figure out who were the good guys and who were the bad guys because they're not as different as we want them to be. And Fintan has a point about the treatment of pyrokinetics and the complacency of the council and how things aren't working--those are sentiments our hero would agree with, yet he turns around and kills people and manipulates them and tries to help force another species into slavery, which are bad!! Two conflicting parts of him where it's like he's a hero gone wrong, but we can't vilify every single thing about him because he's more than just a bad person, he's this grey area. He's helped people, he wants a right denied to him, he wants change. He's a hero and an enemy and a mix of everything in between, but he's still not a good person.

It's just!! It has this sense of Fintan that's much more personal and gentle and strikes a nerve, rather than him being a super powerful evil person, but more as...a person? I don't know if that makes sense but it's like it taps into a side of him we don't see as often and i love it!

thank you for the suggestion because I always love looking at this song, and I will do my best to have a good day! I don't have to do any homework today so!! off to a good start!

#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc music analysis #fintan pyren #quil's queries #nonsie #I also associate the song with sophie. at least pesonally #so that could fit well with the fintan/sophie parallels #or the 'fintan is trans time traveling sophie' thing #but also I just like the song :) #I actually had a project a few semesters ago where we had to define/conceptualize happiness through different things #like artwork and music etc. #and for the song one I chose this song #i bet I could find it if anyone was curious #could show you how I conceptualize happiness

[trollbreak]

SITS HERE

#been slowly swinging a pendulum between bill and beastly all day #and um. sits on the floor. bill is able to read folks as well as junie she just. doesn’t really know what to do #with that. sees how Ethann and Beastly are and is like. hm. I’m. not fond of the way you grew up. but one of you treats the topic as a live #explosive and the other can’t seem to conceptualize how anything was wrong. she’s like. that’s not right. but the fuck could I do abt it. #she’s just lingering in a room with Ethann while the both of them work on deparate things in silence. they’re very close because of the. the #‘shows trust by being nearby and letting themself not pay attention to u’ #like the. the making a point to go hey. you’re not a threat to me. and im available if needed. #bill talks to herself while she works sometimes and when she does Ethann comes over to watch. do u fucking KNOW how Ethann is slowly learnin #abt ships and upkeep from this… bill helping him wash grease out of their fur at the end of the night…. beastly doesn’t live with bill ofc #but he’s a regular visitor and bill makes sure to let him know he’s always welcome… sometimes when he’s feeling particularly unmoored her #house is one of the places he goes to find a room to sit in silence for a few hours. maybe nap till things feel a little more real again. #SIGHS ALL BIG #bill 🤝 junie. shes Ur dad #junie is happy for him to be ur mom #bill never signed up for this shit and is sitting there staring into her coffee going hm. wel shit when did that happen. like she’s Gonna be #a helpful figure but she’s also like. when did that happen?

[writingwithcolor]

Is it less offensive to have my black sheriff be a scaredy-cat or trigger-happy?

joeyyygunslinger asked:

I’m conceptualizing a wild-west (I haven't and never will pick a state/year, it's just a generic wild-west setting) black comedy comic series. The main characters are a pair of sheriffs who work together more often than not, one Black and the other White. I want one to be fiery-tempered and trigger-happy (To the point where, in just about every other cover I’ve sketched so far, he has his gun out and is asking the other guy, “Can I shoot it?”), and the other an over-cautious scaredy-cat… And neither of these personalities seem to be a very PC one to give to a Black guy, so which one would be less offensive?

Technically, you can give the character whatever persona you see fit. From there, flesh them out to be more than the traits you mentioned. Show us why they’re the way they are and how they’re more than that. As often stated, it helps to have more characters of the identity if you’re unsure about stereotypes and characterization.

Objectively, a cautious, scared Black man character is less (potentially) stereotypical than one with a temper and trigger-happy. The former recalls Angry Black Person, Scary Black Man and Violent Men of Color tropes. One might argue the scaredy-cat Black man has notes of emasculation, but personally this kind of personality is way less encountered. Exploring a softer, cautious Black man character would be interesting to me (speaking as a Black woman. I’d love to hear from more Black men and people!).

Do not write from a place of fear

I do want to address your comments on being Politically Correct and less offensive. I’m not a fan of those words when it comes to representation. Maybe it’s the snide connotations of the word, often accompanied by a derisive attitude. Maybe it’s just me! But I just don’t love proper and preferred representation being equated to it.

I would like to take the more positive approach.

For one, being respectful and including proper representation vs deliberate or even thoughtless exclusion, should be the focus. Not which choice will step on fewer toes. Writing from a place of fear and extreme caution is stifling. It snuffs out your creativity and will have you questioning your every move. I get that it's natural to feel that way when exploring new territory, but we must learn to be courageous as writers and write against the fear. Your work will turn out much more fluent and natural when you do.

On the other hand, it’s definitely important to build enough knowledge and do the research so you'll have this confidence on hand while you write. This will help create a story with characters that are less like carefully curated caricatures meant to cause the least amount of offensive as possible.

While you should absolutely:

Be aware of stereotypes and what could be offensive as you build your characters and story.

Question your choices and trace the logic of why you made them.

You should also:

Focus on writing varied, complex people.

Let your knowledge guide and inspire you, do continuous research, but not let it fully stop all momentum.

Use the editing, sensitivity read process, and revisions to correct and adjust your work.

~Mod Colette

#Black #western #Black men #creator responsibility #Black tropes #Black stereotypes

[whirlwindwonderland]

What do you like about Princess Tutu (as someone who only knows the name)? What made you enjoy it?

Oh boy.

Okay so Princess Tutu is one of my favourite ever stories. And if I were to list everything I liked about it we'd be here long enough for you to actually go watch the show yourself.

Which you should do.

Because it's awesome.

But to sort of sum up my feelings... I like Princess Tutu because of how it chooses to tell its story. Every story is told a specific way for a specific reason, and Princess Tutu chooses the medium of a Magical Girl Anime about Ballet to tell a story about Love, Hope, and Willpower triumphing over Tragedy and Despair.

That's fucking genius.

It plays its premise completely straight. There's no subversive takes on the magical girl genre here. No turning to wink and laugh at the camera to try and save face. It's completely earnest, plays its tropes completely straight, and makes it all work together, and it all serves the main themes of the story.

You can really get a good summary of this in the main character Ahiru.

Because Ahiru, in the general space of the magical girl anime genre, is not an outlier from what I can tell. She's kind and she's sweet and she's a clumsy, and her power comes from her empathy and her love of others. There's a lot of characters like her.

But Ahiru is different because all of these things- Her empathy, her kindness, her silliness and innocence and clumsiness and big open heart, they all serve the themes of the story. Because when the main villain, the big bad, the thing you have to stand against, is a seemingly inescapable force of fate, pulling you down the path of tragedy, it takes a special kind of truly indomitable soul to fight back.

See, this is a magical girl anime built around the stories of ballet, and a neat thing that many don't know about ballet is that a solid 75% of what's considered the 'Classics' of the medium are tragedies. Swan Lake, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet, and La Sylphide are all referenced in the show proper, with Swan Lake and Romeo and Juliet being referenced particularly often. The overarching Villain of the story could be said to be this conceptual tragedy that Ballet seems so enamoured with.

But by applying the fixings of the magical girl genre to this tragedy, approaching this idea of roles in life being fixed like the roles on a stage, of working towards helping someone you love knowing that the result will ultimately be your demise, with the attitude of "I'm going to fix this problem with the power of love and friendship". you get a really interesting story.

Over and over again, Ahiru sees dangerous situations, and reaches out with a kind hand to help those involved. Over and over again, she succeeds. Over and over again, Ahiru almost falls in the face of the despair of her situation. And over and over again, her own kindness comes back to help her, as the people she's befriended come to her side, to support her, to catch her when she falls, and to give her the openings she needs to solve the problems.

Despite being told that her life is meant to be a footnote on the stories of others, that her role is one no one else would take because no one else would want it, that she can never share the love she feels with others, because to do so would literally kill her. Ahiru continuously chooses love. She never becomes bitter to her situation, and continuously chooses to do what she thinks is right, to be kind, to care, and to try to help, and it is this unfailing kindness that, in the end, forces the genre of the story around her to change.

By being unflinchingly and unfailingly herself in the face of adversity and a story that wants her to suffer, she inspires others to want to help her succeed. And in doing that, she forces a grand, cyclical tragedy, to finally resolve with a happy ending.

It's such a clever and beautiful marriage of two different storytelling mediums, and that's just the basics of what you can talk about with the protagonist. The rest of the cast is equally as interesting, and I love them all so very much.

I love stories about storytelling, stories about the triumph of hope, and stories about love and friendship, and Princess Tutu is all of the above. I honestly cannot recommend it enough, it's one of my favourite things ever.

Also it's hilarious. Where else am I going to get a cat ballet teacher that repeatedly threatens his students with marriage if they don't improve at ballet? Or a girl in a donkey costume delivering love notes all around the school? Or... Femio? Just Femio in general???

Great show. Go watch it.

#Princess Tutu #asked and answered #talking

[songmingisthighs]

Good Neighbour

group : ateez

pairing : nerd!seonghwa × neighbour!reader

genre : smut, neighbours au

word count : 3.8 k

warning : smut, mdni, explicit sex (piv), mentions of watersports (no actual action), seonghwa mentioning he watches porn, unprotected sex, mentions of Seonghwa pleasuring himself to the thought of (y/n), (y/n)'s kind of a brat ??

a/n : happy seonghwa day !!! :D though i'm in singapore, i still want to post this and i did it !!! >:)

buy me coffee ?

Frantic knocks on Seonghwa's door made him almost smash his lego Death Star by accident. Thankfully, he only smacked his hand on the side of his table. Though painful, he'd have that over ruining the thing he had been working on for the whole day and was three-fourths way done.

The knocks on the door became relentless and bordering on incessant and honestly, it annoyed him quite a lot. He was hoping to have a quiet night in after hearing (and dealing) with the excitement around the apartment earlier. Plus, he promised his friend, San that the next time they hang out he would show him his finished lego Death Star so he could help conceptualize how to put them on display. So obviously, Seonghwa wanted to spend the day for himself, for his hobbies. It wasn't like Seonghwa would usually spend his time out, it was just that his time alone was usually spent on his work as a remote working cyber security expert. They truly benefit from Seonghwa's anxiety and tedious working tendencies but Seonghwa couldn't really complain.

When Seonghwa (finally) opened the door, he was so ready to scold whoever was on the other side, pissed that they annoyed him for no reason. But when he was met with the face of his crush, teary-eyed with her arms hugging her body tightly with a slight tremble, his anger melted away and his shoulders dropped. "(y/n)?" he called out, crouching down slightly to your height to be eye-level with you, "Are you okay? What's wrong? Have you been crying?" he asked, a worried look clear on his face. You had been the object of his affection for quite some times now and when he heard that your house had been burgled while you were at work, Seonghwa felt the most guilty because it was during the time he decided to go out and buy a new lego set for his collection. Had he waited to go a little longer, he would've been able to stop the burglary. Of course by calling someone, what can a nerd like him do? Offer to get pantsed as an exchange? That wouldn't be enough and he had a feeling that he would just make the situation worse. Considering that he only had a handful of experience with having a full conversation with you and every single time, he was so awkward. One time, he managed to spill his own coffee on himself, jumped and bumped his head to the wall behind him. You were nice enough to not make fun of him and even staying with him and iced his head. From then on he was down bad and he swore that he will try to be better for you. That was a year ago so please make your own conclusion.

You were sniffling and your eyes were shifting around warily, arms hugging your own body as a gesture of self preservation and comfort after experiencing a major trauma. "Can I stay here with you for a bit? I- I don't feel safe at home and none of my other friends are available," you sniffled sadly. Seonghwa couldn't help but skip a heartbeat at your words, focusing on the fact that you had indirectly called him your friend. While he would like to be more, he was more than happy that you thought so highly of him and he can only hope that when he finally make his move (whenever that is), his happiness would be tenfold. Whilst trying to suppress the grin that was threatening to split his face in half, Seonghwa frantically nodded and stepped aside, "Of course, you can stay here as long as you want! With me, your friend!" it took everything in him to not laugh or giggle considering that the situation was still sensitive. Thankfully, you didn't seem to realize his attempts of not being a weirdo and you even stepped close to him to gave him a tight hug. "Thank you for being such a good friend, Seonghwa, I'm really glad to have you," your voice was mumbled due to your pressing your face on his shoulders. Seonghwa's body froze especially when you exhaled deeply into his clothes, turning a spot very warm. For some reason, feeling your breath on him was exhilarating and had you not let go of him, you would've definitely felt his boner on your hip.

Even when you were already inside his place, you were still stiff and awkward. The situation was just so stressful to you that even with the company you knew you needed, you were still not able to feel comfortable yet. Seeing this of course upset Seonghwa as he adored your happy and cheerful side. "H-hey, do you want something to drink? My friend, Yunho, got me this pink wine thing and I've been waiting for the right reason to-" "Yes please," you cut him off, both surprising and delighting him with your enthusiasm over alcohol.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Not even half an hour later, you and Seonghwa found yourselves giggling over random things on his couch. You had let loose a little (a lot) with the help of the alcohol and Seonghwa's dumb attempt at imitating his friend Wooyoung's witch laugh. You've been laughing for a solid 5 straight minutes and Seonghwa was beyond proud that he was able to make you that happy and distracted. Or distractedly happy.

"Seonghwa, stop it or I'll pee myself!" you whined whilst still laughing happily, head thrown back and hand on your stomach when you felt like it was starting to cramp. Grinning widely, Seonghwa sat himself back down on the couch, this time unknowingly closer to you with a slight huff and reddened cheeks, courtesy of the alcohol. "If you pee yourself, I know that means you were genuinely laughing so hard and I'll take pride in that," he said, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. Without Seonghwa realizing, the alcohol had allowed him to be more confident in having you in his apartment whilst simultaneously giving him a bit more courage to be able to communicate with women easier. Usually, he'd stumble over his own words and/or mix them up to create a confusing, awkward word. In return to his statement, you raised an eyebrow at him as a knowing smirk appeared on your face, "You like girls peeing because of you? Kinky," and Seonghwa almost choked on his own spit. Seeing this, you decided to egg him more, "I'm not kink shaming you, Hwa, I'm just surprised you're into that." Seonghwa began sputtering random words, trying to reject the notion but no actual, comprehensible words came out of his mouth and it made him panic because he felt like as if he was trying to hide something when it wasn't the case whatsoever.

The panicked look on Seonghwa's face; the blush, the twitchy eyes, and the trembling bottom lip looked cute to you. You have always thought that he was attractive, hot even, he was just a nerd who gets overly excited over things that he likes and most of the things he like revolves around Star Wars, Marvel, and pink stuffs. Plus, his career path on top of the way he dressed didn't help his case of being a total nerd. You remembered thinking he was so hot when you saw him coming back from playing tennis with his friend Hongjoong and to say your panties suddenly got damp would be the understatement of the year. You've been waiting to be able to see that Seonghwa again and so far you had no luck. Yet.

"I haven't had sex in a year!" He suddenly blurted out without realizing what he had said.

You both sat there frozen; Seonghwa in dreadful realization of the information that he had just unknowingly willingly gave out to you. He remembered Wooyoung and Mingi trolling him about the fact because according to them, it was ridiculous that Seonghwa didn't care much about where or how his sexual frustration was channeled, completely oblivious (or maybe forgetting) that Seonghwa has been pining over you for the longest time. That, and Seonghwa is a very busy smart man with a hobby.

It wasn't like he thought that you would ridicule him, it was just embarrassing to have your crush know you haven't had sex in so long What if he thought he's unexperienced or just THAT unwanted?

"B-but it's not like I have a low sex drive or anything. I get turned on! I really do, I watch porn like a normal person!"

God, if only a meteor could strike him then and there.

Seonghwa was so close to faking an injury or just climbing out the window to escape the awkwardness he had accidentally created. Anything to not be in that position or be that person anymore.

"What kind of porn do you usually watch?"

He was not expecting that question from you.

For a second, Seonghwa thought you were joking. Maybe even making fun of him. Or egging him to spill his kinks or sexual interests just so you could humiliate him later. But the more he looked at you, the more he saw that you were being genuinely curious, there was no malice behind your eyes or gesture. "I... It... It differs from time to time," he was not quite sure why he even responded to you in the first place. Perhaps the alcohol was more potent than he expected it to be. "Oh? So you like dominating and being dominated?" Seonghwa nearly jumped from his seat when your knee touched his, surprised that you were suddenly so close to him. But he didn't move back, he even scooted in, leaning into your warmth and touch that he craved more of after having a taste. "No... Well," though it felt as if there was as lump in his throat, Seonghwa simply coughed it out a couple of times before continuing talking, "I don't quite know about that, but I know I like taking care of my partner."

His eyes widened when you suddenly plopped onto his lap, legs, encasing his thighs as to not let him move around easily. "Tell me more," you said as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, resting your weight on him completely. Seonghwa's head began to swirl, your scent hitting his nostrils and the realization of how close you both were with each other were intoxicating to him, exhilarating even. His hands automatically moved to be placed on your hips, as if wanting to keep you in the spot as a possessive gesture. "Well, I... I'm very nervous having you here with me right now," he blurted out. You couldn't help but giggle at his confession as you didn't expect him to say something like that to you, it wasn't even the context of the conversation. "Why so? It's not like I'm gonna bite you," then you suddenly leaned in, lips next to his ear and your breath hitting the skin making it warm, "Unless you're into that."

In a blink of an eye, Seonghwa had lunged at you, pining you onto the couch as he whined pathetically. "Please don't tease me like this, I don't want to take advantage of you considering you had just been through something absolutely traumatic and not to mention we were drinking," as he pleaded, his palms balled into fists on either sides of your head as if to ground himself, reminding himself that while he couldn't control his words, he should at least be able to control his urges. Seeing him hold back made you pout, obvious that it was not the reaction that you were hoping for. "Oh come on, Seonghwa! I've been through something absolutely traumatic today so I need you right now, I need your help to make me forget how crappy today has been," your words were so clever and you even bat your eyelashes at him to soften him up which annoyingly enough worked. But still, even if you did have a point, Seonghwa was still hesitant because like he said, he really do enjoy (so far, only the idea of) taking care of his partners and ensuring their consent was one of the ways he liked to do it. Besides, to him, asking for permission to commit a very intimate act was hot, it was as if the decision of having sex could be dependent on one of either parties.

Since this was you, someone who he had been pining for for so long, he decided to make sure of some things as to not let the chance pass by just like that. "How drunk are you exactly?" Seonghwa asked, genuinely hoping that you would still be able to do what he hoped you both would do if the chance comes. "Not drunk at all, just a slight buzz, you?" you asked back, heart beating slightly at the thought of Seonghwa wanting to have sex with you. "Drunk enough to have the courage to propose this to you but not so drunk that it would nullify my consent," he said firmly.

Without wasting more time, you smashed your lips agains this in a frenzied rush. Though you leapt forward, your body dragged him down with you onto the couch due to the gravity and your arms being securely wrapped around his neck. When you both landed, Seonghwa let out a yelp and had his clumsiness kicked in, he would have definitely smushed you under his weight on the couch but he managed to support his own weigh slightly. You loved the feeling of him on top of you though, you loved feeling his mouth on yours. Even from the kiss you could tell that Seonghwa was slightly hesitant, wanting to do something to you (that you have yet to figure out) but he wasn't able to actually reach out for it. Heck, not even to place his hands on your body. Usually, with your previous partners, they would be honking your boobs like a clown horn by now, but Seonghwa was different in a nice and frustrating way. You detached your lips and pouted up at him, showing your displeasure over his treatment, "God, Seonghwa just do whatever the fuck you want with me!" you whined, yanking his collars open to began sucking red marks on his pretty, fair skin, "I want to be taken care of by you. You'd like that, right? You liked knowing that you can take care of me and my needs with no problem and have me however you want."

A guttural growl left Seonghwa's lips and before you know it, Seonghwa had flipped you over so that your chest was against the cushion underneath you. It felt like your breath was knocked out of your lungs from being surprised by the sudden action and by Seonghwa's strength. At least you got another glimpse of your nerdy neighbour's athletic prowess and this time you got to experience what he was capable of first hand.

"You want me to take care of you? You want me to explore what I can do from my extensive research?" the sudden appearance of Seonghwa's low voice vibrating through the air caused electricity to shot down your spine, making it feel tingly. "Yes, please, I want to know what you're capable of, Seonghwa, please," you whined breathily, almost sounding pathetic.

Your permission was all Seonghwa needed to grab you by the waistband of your pants and pulled them down along with your underwear. It felt ridiculous that Seonghwa felt a sudden overwhelming sense of arousal just from seeing your bare ass on display for him, It wan't like he had never seen a naked ass before. For sure, he wasn't a virgin and by God, the amount of times Wooyoung and San pranked him by having their bare asses in front of his face just before he opened his eyes was astronomically embarrassing. Though he can't complain much because this was your ass and the sudden rush of adrenaline and excitement that coursed through this body made him think of the endless possibilities be it from potential kinks to positions and even frequency and volume (amount and sound). This must be how virgins on their wedding nights feel. Seonghwa couldn't help but palmed himself through the layers of clothing he had on as he slowly unbuttoned his pants, nose scrunching at the

"Don't just stare at me, do something!" you demanded, "What? You don't know what to do?" Teasing him might have been a mistake on your part because the next thing you know, Seonghwa slapped your ass harshly. Maybe he was acting out from his reflex, maybe something inside him was switched on because when he heard you yelp, he snapped out of whatever it was that made him hurt your ass and winced, momentarily turning back into the bumbling nerd you knew from before. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, (y/n), a- are you okay? I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking," he was cringing so hard when he asked because your now red ass was glaring at him, proving that he was being harsh on you. But he was surprised when you turned around to look at him with your bottom lip between your teeth and a shy smile on your face, "N-no, Seonghwa, that was great."

God, it felt like he finally found the answer he has been looking for.

You were doing nothing but showing him a simple expression but for some reason Seonghwa found it so absolutely sexy. Pornographic even. It released the last hold Seonghwa had in himself and before you could reassure him more, Seonghwa had slipped himself into your cunt. The position you were in at the moment under him with your legs stretched back and Seonghwa's knees trapping your body by your thighs, made you feel even tighter to him. Seonghwa stilled with his eyes rolled back into their sockets as your face fell onto the cushion, the sound of you squealing from surprise muffled slightly but it was still loud enough for Seonghwa to hear. His hands found purchase on your ass, his fingers digging onto the soft flesh hard that you thought indents of his fingerprints could be found later if you look for them. "Shi- shit, Seonghwa! You could've warned me!" you whimpered once you managed to find the strength to lift your head again. "Sorry, (y/n), I- I-" he shuddered when he sunk in deeper, your warm cavern accommodating his dick beyond his imagination, "I couldn't- ah! Help myself, God, you're so f- fucking," it was hard for Seonghwa to speak because he tried pulling away once before pushing back in again and it was addicting. You were in no better shape than him. While Seonghwa's fingers dug into your ass, yours dug into his sofa cushion from pleasure. It wasn't like Seonghwa has a monster cock or anything, but for some reason it just felt right. Having him inside you just felt right to you and you were excited to feel and have more of him.

Luckily, Seonghwa started rocking his hips once the initial overwhelming intoxication ebbed away. Really, it felt like Seonghwa wasn't even moving on his own accord, it was as if something was controlling him but he didn't mind, he didn't care, not when whatever was making him move caused you to bury your face in your arms as you moaned and whined, asking, begging him to fuck you more, fuck you harder. That night, Seonghwa truly felt like his sexual urges was driving him as he suddenly grab you by your hair and pulled you up slightly. "Look," it was then that you realized that there was a window in front of you, "You look so beautifully sinful, how could you do this to me?" he grunted. It was true for one part, because it wasn't just you, it was him too, he looked absolutely delectable. You both looked straight out of a victorian pornographic painting with the warm lighting illuminating your figures and the darkness of the night sky outside the window serving as a blank canvas to accommodate the two of you.

"Shit," you gasped when you saw Seonghwa's eyebrows furrowing from the window, clenching your sopping cunt to trap Seonghwa's cock inside you. The more reaction you gave him, the more frantic Seonghwa's movements become. It was like a very intense tango with both of you giving and taking and teasing each other yet still working together in perfect harmony, synchronizing and complimenting each other like genuine art. Only if art is sweaty, messy, and noisy.

It didn't take long for Seonghwa to feel like he was nearly tipping off the edge of his climax. He was so close he could feel it on the tip of his tongue. Maybe he could thank the nights he spent fantasizing about you, those were his 'practice nights' for this day and it actually surprised him that he didn't immediately nutted inside you upon his entry. Those nights he spent fucking his pillow or humping his bed was nothing compared the feeling of your fluttering walls on his cock and your slick lubricating his movements. "I- I'm close," he huffed, hips hitting your ass sharper than before as his hands became harsher in gripping you, possessively trying to hold you as he had his way with you. "Seonghwa, cum in me," You whined, back arching with a moan following your beg. And so Seonghwa released his cum inside you at the mention of you wanting him there. His hips were stuttering slightly but the feeling of him releasing his cum inside you, having the thought of his cum mixing with your own swirling inside his head as the overstimulation creeped in was addicting. He didn't know how long he was going to cum but it felt endless. You, in the receiving end, couldn't help but tense up when Seonghwa's cum filled you to the brim. The movements he was still giving you made both of your mixed cum spill out and wetting your thighs and the sofa beneath you. The tensing muscles in your cunt, ass, and calf somehow heightened your pleasure and it made you even more aware of the presence of Seonghwa's cock still inside you.

When his movements slowed, Seonghwa's mind wound down and it was then that he realized that he had just had sex with you on his couch. Not only that, he was doing things he had never done before in a sexual way, things he had only seen people do in porn and maybe heard from his friends. He felt his chest bloom with pride but the unsureness of how you feel or how you would react prevented him from smiling out of happiness or even saying something to you.

So when you looked back at him, you had a wide grin on your face, making his heart skip a beat.

"So that's what you're into, huh? What else is on the list?"

Oh he's so fucked. Fucked in the best way.

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[starry-bi-sky]

show me how to lay my sword down long enough to let you through - clone^2 ch1

A little boy has landed in Amity Park, and he looks suspiciously like the 13-year-old Damian Wayne living in Gotham. Good news: he landed in front of Danny just as he was finishing up his fight with a ghost. Bad news: the little Damian-look-alike doesn't speak a lick of english, has a sword, and seems very keen on using it whenever he can. Against Danny specifically.

Danny already has his own issues to deal with -- like how it's not even been a year since he found out he was a clone of Bruce Wayne specifically, with all the identity issues that come with such a revelation -- and a stab-happy six year old that was very obviously a clone of Damian Wayne was not one of them. However, the kid was alone in a foreign country, and despite his hostility, it's very clear that he's terrified.

Call him a bleeding heart, but Danny takes him home.

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womp i wrote it and posted it. truly, it was only a matter of time before i did. my clone^2 au except now it's a fic! Here is the humble beginnings of this au if anyone is interested. The full thing is also posted below the read more if you want to read it here instead.

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Danny knows more than he probably should about ghosts, ectoplasm, and all things relating to it — courtesy only in partial credit to his parents and largely to every ghost, spirit, mythological creature, and conceptual entity taken sentient form he’s ever come across in the last two years of his run as Phantom. 

For example: he’s learned how to classify the difference between a ghost and a spirit when the words are synonymous with each other. He knows that ghosts cannot pass into the Realm of the Living without a naturally-made or manmade portal that splits the seams between dimensions like holes being chewed through a shirt. 

He knows that spirits are just weaker could-be ghosts that are trapped in the Living Realm, unseen by the Living, with unfinished business until someone can come along to help them move on. He’s helped quite a handful of them in the last two years thanks to his clairvoyance, but the city has more spirits than he could possibly know how to deal with. So his efforts are like trying to empty a pond with a bucket. 

Danny still tries, anyway. One afterlife saved is one afterlife saved, right? 

What he also knows is that natural made portals are exceedingly rare. That they occur when ectoplasm in any given area for some reason or another currents against each other, condensing and building in energy and density until eventually something gives and like snow on top of a roof it caves in and creates a portal. 

He knows that these natural made portals typically only last a few seconds at a time, and vary between the size of a rodent and a marsupial no bigger than a wallaby. He knows that most natural portals only last from a few seconds to a few minutes, with the record-holder being five minutes from a portal that was the size of a toddler. 

And the reason they never last so long is because ectoplasm is an energy, like most energy, it usually has somewhere to go. It cycles through plants, through the animals, through the ground, anywhere it can reach. It’s cousins with solar energy in that sense. Meaning it, usually, has little opportunity to clash and current with the rest of the ambient ectoplasm in the area.

But it does happen, albeit rarely, and only for a few seconds. Like the equivalent of a static shock; it’s only there for a moment before it collapses in on itself and disappears. 

So with that being said, Danny likes to think he’s — maybe not an expert — but fairly knowledgeable about the existence of natural made portals. The Ever-Infinite Bridge Between Realms is ever-expanding, ever-growing, and with it so is the information he has on it. Anything could become obsolete in a moment. 

And the only reason he’s thinking about it is because his parents were talking about portals in the kitchen earlier that evening, talking about their portal specifically, but Danny latched onto it, and his mind wanders. He’s not sure why they were talking about it, the portal has been running, unfortunately smoothly for the last two years. He has the scars and eyebags (and trauma) to prove it. 

Besides, his mind should be on other things. 

Like the goddamn flying snake he’s been chasing across the city skyline for the last thirty minutes. An amphiptere his mind unhelpfully supplies, a word he grabbed nearly two years ago when he first started out as Phantom and was desperately looking up the various ectoplasmic creatures slipping through his parents’ portal. 

Some of them didn’t have proper names — like a three-eyed fox he once saw with the tail of a peacock and hooves of a goat. He managed to lure it out of the alleyway it backed itself into with a nasty burger. It tore into it with the fervor of a starving coyote and Danny let it finish eviscerating the burger before sucking it into his thermos.

It was incredibly disturbing to watch at the time, since the thing had an almost beak-shaped muzzle, but now he wishes he was back in the alleyway trying to coax out a ecto-fox-griffin thing rather than chase after what was basically a dragon with no legs — it doesn’t even have the decency to be a wyvern. 

He’s only keeping up with the stupid snake due to his grappling hook, something Danny made a year ago in order to keep up with the ghosts flying around the city, and his best fucking self-made invention yet — made from the discarded inventions from his parents’ lab — with his jawbreaker gloves coming in at close second, if only because he gets to call them his jawbreakers. 

(It was remarkably simpler than the grappling hook — he just reinforced the knuckles on his gloves.) 

Because as much as he likes running, he was going to give himself a heart attack if he chased every ghost he came across on foot. It’d take him all night just to find one. And there was something inherently freeing in the terrifying, adrenaline-rushing sensation of soaring through the air with nothing but hard ground below and endless sky above. 

The amphiptere twists its head and looks behind it, and Danny gives it a little shit-eating grin from behind his mask and a small, two fingered salute. The mane of feathers behind the snake’s head puffs up like a frilled lizard, and it opens its maw to hiss — this distorted, almost screeching sound — at him menacingly. 

Danny, in response, scoffs under his breath and waves a hand in front of his nose. “Ugh.” he mutters, scrunching up his nose as the snake’s hot breath hits him square in the face. “Someone should throw you one of those dental doggie treats.” 

The snake, of course, doesn’t hear him over the sound of its shrieking and the wind. When it twists back around, it dives to the ground, flicking its tail harshly like it’s hoping to hit him as it goes down. 

Finally, Danny thinks, dodging out of the way with a twist of his body, and follows it down into the factorial district of Amity Park. It’s already disappeared somewhere when his feet hit the sidewalk, but the buzzing of his ghost sense still tingles on the back of his neck like a seventh sense. So it’s still nearby. 

Danny’s grappling hook retracts with a quiet, zipping noise. He hooks it onto the loop of his jeans, and stalks down the side of the road. 

Spirits linger beside the buildings. Men, women, and kids wearing clothes from all different time periods congregating in groups and conversing with one another, playing, watching him. Cities never sleep, they doze, and the dead come out at night when the living aren’t there to wake it up. Danny’s spoken to them many, many times. 

“Excuse me.” He murmurs, tapping a man in overalls and a railroad cap on the arm. If it weren’t for his faint green glow and how he wisps at the edges, the man would almost look alive. The man turns to him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead when he sees Danny. “Have you seen a flying snake coming through here?” 

The man blinks at him, “As a matter o’ fact,” he says, adjusting the cap on his head, “I have. Flew down the road like a bat out of hell.” The man points down the street, and Danny leans around him to see. “Thought it was gonna knock me righ’ out my work boots.” 

Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, making a low ‘hn’ sound in the back of his throat. “Did you see if it went into one of the buildings?” He almost hopes it did, he could probably try and sneak up on it that way. Man, he needs some kind of stunner or something. 

“Right in there.” The man tells him, pointing to an old brick factory with the windows grimy and cracked. Of course, Danny sighs out of his nose. If he squints, he can see a green glow coming through the glass. 

If he’s lucky, he won’t run into the Box Ghost while he’s in there. He turns to the man and nods politely, “Thank you.” And when the man nods back, Danny turns and hurries down the street. He weaves around the spirits congregating around him, he’s heard from one-too-many spirits how irritating it is to be walked through by the Living. 

The door is rusted and locked when he finds an entrance, only made worse by the chain wrapped around the door for good measure, with a padlock. Of course. Rolling his eyes, Danny reaches for his pocket and pulls out a lockpick — too many times doing this has taught him to bring one along, just in case. 

(Man, he was envious of ghosts’ abilities to just phase through things. It would save him a lot of trouble. And roadburns, bruises, broken bones, and every other injury known to man.)  

He jams the lockpick into the padlock, jiggles it roughly, and unlocks it with a soft click. “They need better locks.” Danny mutters, pulling off the chain carefully with quiet, metallic clattering, and putting it on the ground. He jams the lockpick into the door lock, and with a little more finesse, unlocks that one too. 

The door opens with a heavy creak that has Danny scrunching his shoulders up to his ears and his mouth pulling back with a sharp inhale. Shit, he freezes in place, darting his eyes around for the amphiptere. 

He sees its glow off in the corner, stark ectoplasm green against the red brick walls, half hidden behind empty conveyor belts and forgotten, empty metal barrels. It doesn’t notice him, with the door open he can hear a loud crrrchk-ing followed by intermittent bangs. 

It’s chewing on something, wriggling around like a cat playing with a toy mouse. Danny silently creeps in and slips through the gap between the door, closing the door behind him slowly. His eyes never leave the amphiptere. It still doesn’t notice him. 

Two years isn’t that long to teach yourself how to be stealthy, but when you’re doing it every night, you learn quickly. Danny keeps himself low to the ground and his footsteps light. The amphiptere is oblivious to him; its clanging, hissing, snarling drowns out the room to any other noise. 

As he gets closer, Danny unhooks his thermos again. There’s a quiet click as he opens the lid with a press of a button, and the thermos hums to life in his hand, warming up against his palm. He creeps around the conveyor belt, his breathing slow and steady. 

When he reaches the amphiptere, its back is facing him. It coiled itself close to the ground, its jaw clamped around a metal barrel that’s been crushed like a tin can down the middle. Danny clenches his teeth, discomfort shivering down his spine. That could’ve been his arm had it decided to fight back. 

Silently, he raises his thermos at the snake, and with his arm steady, his thumb slams one of the buttons. There’s a recoil like he’s firing a gun, and Danny finds his purchase on the ground as a beam of light lashes out and hits the snake. 

The reaction is immediate. The amphiptere drops the barrel with a hideous, furious shriek and lashes out, trying to escape from the beam dragging it towards the thermos. But Danny’s long since learned that the pull of the thermos is much stronger than most ghosts, so long as he doesn’t disturb the tractor beam. 

One thing is for certain — keeping the damn thing steady is one hell of a forearm workout. His arms used to shake after a fight, and they’d feel sore in the morning. Not so much anymore since Danny started working out with Sam.

(Tucker declined when they asked him if he wanted to join — he’ll stick with his tech and walking on the treadmill.)  

When the amphiptere disappears inside the thermos, Danny slams the lid back on and slumps with relief. Finally, he groans quietly, clipping the thermos onto his belt and pressing his hand to his lower back to stretch. There’s a satisfying pop-pop-pop, and Danny sighs from his nose. He’s calling it a night. 

He glances at the time on his phone. It was three am, fantastic. He has school in four hours. 

Other than the snake, tonight had been blessedly quiet. Danny spoke to some of the spirits lingering around Third and Main downtown, got some of their information so he could start helping them with moving on — two murders and then a simple fetch quest, — chased down a few other ghosts — most of them just ecto-entities, but there was a young ghost child who he had to play hide and seek with before she would agree to be taken home in the thermos. 

He also got into a fight with a fellow teen ghost who wanted to see the “Death-Touched” and if Phantom was as good a fighter as the rumors say he was. Danny’s been called “Death-Touched” since the night he snuck into the lab and released every single ghost his parents had trapped in cages, that wasn’t unsurprising. A little a lot ominous at first, but Danny is nothing if not adaptive. 

He’d kicked the other teen’s ass, dragged him into the thermos, and moved on. 

But other than that, tonight had been tame. So before Murphy can come and kick him in the teeth, Danny’s calling it a night. 

Danny is one step towards the exit when he hears a loud, suctioning noise followed by something akin to a glacier cracking down the middle. His heart sinks instantly to his feet, and the chill of his ghost sense crawls up his throat and freezes the back of his teeth. No mist spills out, yet. 

Ah, fuck. Danny stifles a groan, turning back around. There goes the rest of his night. 

A portal the size of an acorn swirls into existence right before his eyes, and then rapidly grows. Swirling like a whirlpool, it grows bigger and bigger until it’s half the size of him. The bigger it gets, the tenser Danny becomes — the bigger the portal is, the bigger the ghost that can slip through gets. 

Please don’t make him face the snake’s fucking cousin. Danny prays, rapidly scurrying back with his hands raised defensively. He scowls under his mask, and waits tersely for something to fall through. Whatever comes through, he hopes it’s friendly. Or slow. Or maybe both. 

Danny doesn’t get another winged snake. 

Instead, a child stumbles out of the portal. A non-glowing, living-colored child who couldn’t be any older than six, and who rapidly spits out a phrase in a language Danny doesn’t catch. Danny’s hands drop slightly from his side, bewilderment settling in the back of his throat. 

As the child rights himself, the portal dissipates behind him with a hissing sigh. It takes Danny’s ghost sense with it, and the chill evaporates from his mouth. 

Oh, oh no. 

Danny’s heart drops from his feet straight into the ground. Six feet into the ground. Oh, fuck. 

That was a living child. That was a living child. That was a whole-ass living child.

If natural portals were rare, then whatever the hell this was — teleportals, Vlad’s teleports, whatever — was unheard of. The only time he’s seen a portal that transported someone from one place to another on the same plane of existence was Vlad. His man-made teleportals. 

Natural portals between one place to another? He’s never heard of such a thing. And one just opened in front of him and spat out a child. A human, living child. A portal just kidnapped a child.  

A child who, Danny realizes, is holding a sword. A katana, of all things. One that was designed to match his size. A child who was, for a lack of better words, wearing something Danny would expect a ninja to wear. A child who was dressed from head to toe in black. 

A child who looks suspiciously like a baby-faced Damian Wayne. Brown skin and green eyes and all, but with youth still clinging to his cheeks. It couldn’t be Damian Wayne himself — that boy was thirteen, and Danny would’ve heard from Sam if something happened to him. 

So this meant either two things: Damian Wayne was just now turned into a child and dropped into Danny’s lap, or this was a clone of Damian Wayne. Danny was thinking it might’ve been the latter. 

Fuck you, Murphy, he thinks instantly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. This was mean. 

He stares, uncertainty — and perhaps a little bit of nausea — forming a pit in his chest, as the child makes eye contact with him. The air is silent and thick — with dust, asbestos, or just the silence, Danny isn’t sure. Maybe all three. But they stare at each other for a long, suffocating moment. 

Then the kid — Damian — lunges at him, his sword quickly unsheathed.

“Shit!” Danny dives back, just barely dodging being grazed by the gleaming blade. That was fast. Danny isn’t around living kids often but that was too fast, that much he knows. Kids don’t move that fast on their own. Not without being taught.

Damian spits something at him in that foreign language, his face twisting with anger, and the kid turns himself and lunges once again. Danny dodges again, swatting the sword away reflexively with the side of his gloved hand. 

“I can’t understand you.” He tells him, his voice comes out rougher than he meant it to, and it comes out muffled from his mask. Please tell me you know English, he hopes, hopping up onto the old conveyor belt. 

“'Akhbirni 'ayn 'ana walan 'aqtulak.” Damian snarls, chasing up after him with worrying ease. Danny swats away another stab at him, frowning when the blade leaves a cut in his leather glove. It doesn’t reach skin, but the fact of the matter is that Damian still cut his glove. 

He doesn’t know English either, great. Perfect. Fantastic, even. Danny backs up on the conveyor belt, twisting away from Damian’s attacks with… well, not relative ease, the kid is faster than Danny’s expecting, but he’s not getting hits in. So some ease. 

But Danny’s been fighting ghosts for the last two years. Fighting entities capable of moving at the speed of light leaves you with quick reflexes and even quicker eyes. Damian jumps up to try and kick him in the face, and Danny ducks down and dashes off the conveyor belt, hopping to the next one over.   

When his feet hit the belt, he uses the momentum to leap up onto a rusty shelf. His fingers dig into the sides, and he climbs, vaulting his legs up to the top once he’s high enough. He twists around and stares down at Damian, instinctively crouched on his fours. “I’m not fighting you.” Danny says sternly, watching the kid hop after him. “I don’t fight the living, and I don’t fight kids.” Living ones, that is. Youngblood was fair game. 

Damian scowls, pointing his sword at him accusingly from the conveyor below. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd wawajahani 'ayuha aljaban!” Then he’s jumping up after him, doing an impressive flip in the air before latching onto the lower shelves and climbing up. 

Admittedly, Danny is rooted to his spot with disbelief. What the fuck? “Who taught you that?” He says unwittingly, bewilderment slipping into his voice. Seriously — who taught him that? What six year old knows how to do a backflip at this age? Who made you, kid?

Naturally, Damian doesn’t answer him, and Danny grabs his grappling gun and aims it at the rafters. With a quick pull of the trigger, the hook shoots out and wraps around one of the beams. Danny yanks back, and he braces as the cord yanks him forward in return. When he reaches the beam, he pulls himself up as the cord unravels itself and retracts back into the gun. 

Danny shoves his gun back onto his belt, and disappears into the shadows of the ceiling.

Just in time, Damian was at the top of the shelving unit he was just on, and the kid stomps his foot angrily. Briefly, a smile tugs at the corner of Danny’s mouth, amusement fizzing out in his lungs. “Tawaqaf ean alrakd!” The kid yells, his hands shaking at his sides. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni ya Lieazir!” 

He swivels his head around, his face scrunched up in the dark room as he searches the rafters. Danny silently crawls across the beam, stooping low and moving slowly, and never taking his eyes off Damian. 

The kid is wound up like a spring, and jumpier than a war vet on the Fourth of July. It’s a little funny, but as Danny creeps through the ceiling, the kid only grows more frantic. The only light coming through is the muffled, yellow dim of the streets, and the moonlight that was in the middle of waning from gibbous to crescent. Good enough that Danny can see the kid’s face shifting from anger to fear. 

“Laeazir!” He yells again, and his voice cracks. Danny stills. “Akhruj huna Lieazir!” 

Okay, it wasn’t funny anymore. Danny holds his breath, watching as Damian’s expression fluctuates between scowling fury and wild-eyed panic. He’s twisting on his feet, whatever lethal grace he had earlier from their brief fight is gone now, replaced with clumsy, fawn-like alarm. 

Damian breathes in deeply, and Danny can see the whites of his eyes when he turns his head wildly in his direction. “Azhar nafsak!” 

He’s scared. Danny realizes, pricking up slightly from the rafter. He’s scared. That’s why he attacked him, he’s scared. Of course he is, Danny thinks, feeling like an idiot. He crawls over the beams again, creeping around Damian, keeping his gaze sharp on the kid’s feet. With how much he was spinning, he’s a little worried he was going to fall off the shelf. 

Of course he’s scared, he thinks again. He’s a kid, he doesn’t know any English, and he’s alone. Danny can’t imagine what’s going on through his head — of course he’s scared. He must be terrified. He looks terrified. 

Danny raises himself up carefully, gripping onto the rafters, and dashes across quickly. Damian whirls around towards him, his hands flying to his katana at his sheathe. His fear smothers on his face, and Damian tenses up defensively. 

The grappling gun finds its way back into Danny’s hands, and Danny shoots it at a beam connected to one of the pillars. When it catches, he leans to the side, and lets himself fall. The cord goes taut, and Danny flicks a small button on the side that allows him to lower to the ground with some relative ease. 

With his back to Damian, he hears a quiet scuffle and the shelf creaks. When his feet touch the ground, he tugs on his gun and the cord retracts. Danny can hear quiet, rapid-approaching footsteps coming up behind him, and he shoves his grappler back into its place and whirls around. 

And immediately, reflexively, catches the blade being swung at him with both hands. Shit, he wheezes out harshly, eyes widening in shock. The blade digs into his hands, but there’s no sting — his gloves had taken the brunt of the hit. They were probably ruined after this, but Danny’s less upset over that more than he is relieved. 

Damian glowers up at him, and this close up, Danny can very barely see a watery sheen covering his bottom eyelashes. His heartstrings pull, but it doesn’t stop him from curling his fingers tight around his katana to prevent him from pulling away. 

“Let me help you.” Danny says, rushed. He doesn’t understand him, the obvious part of his mind whispers. He needs to get him to understand him. Damian’s arms tremble slightly, he pushes down harder on Danny’s hands. But he doesn’t budge. 

He tries to yank it back instead, and it gives slightly — only for Danny to readjust his grip, despite the fear spiking in his heart. Cold metal kisses at part of his palm. It’s cut through his glove more. “Put the sword down.” 

“'Ayn 'ana.” Damian snarls at him, there’s still a tremble in his voice. “'Ayn 'akhadhatni.” 

A low, frustrated sound emits in the back of Danny’s throat. “I can’t understand you.” He snaps, if the kid would stop trying to kill him for five seconds, maybe they’d be able to get somewhere. “And you can’t understand me.” But if you’d stop attacking me, I could figure out a way how. 

Something takes mercy on Danny — because Damian gives up on trying to take back the sword. He lets go of the handle, and Danny sees an opening. Immediately, he tosses the sword off to the side, ignoring the clattering and skidding it makes against the concrete floor. The kid is fast, but Danny is faster. He wraps his hand around Damian’s forearm and yanks him forward. 

Damian yells angrily, and Danny traps his arm against his chest and twists him around so that his back is to his chest. Danny is also stronger. Both as a given from his size, and what he does every night. Trapping Damian against him is easier done and said, and Danny immediately sits them both on the ground once he has a good purchase on him. 

“'Utliq sarahi!” Damian yells, thrashing against him violently. Danny simply tilts his head up to prevent Damian from headbutting him in the chin, and wraps an arm around his torso tightly so he can fish for his phone. “'Ayuha alqadharatu! 'Utliq sarahi!”

Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying but he can guess, and he readjusts his arm when Damian nearly slips out. “No.” He says curtly, and when he gets out his phone, he sets it down briefly so he can pull his glove off. With his other arm preoccupied with keeping Damian still, Danny tugs it off with his teeth instead.

Silently, he inspects his palm for any injuries from the katana. He hadn’t felt anything, but it doesn’t hurt to check. He smiles faintly, relief weighting off his shoulders, when all he finds is a small cut near the meat of his palm. Not even deep enough to bleed. It stings, but it won’t even scar. 

He picks up his phone again, and with his mask on he can’t use the facial recognition. Danny taps in his password with his thumb, and quickly pulls up a translator. In his arms, Damian continues to thrash around, twisting and trying to pretzel himself out of his grip. 

“'Ana Damian Al Ghul, dam Ras Alshaytan!” Damian demands. Danny is a little worried that he might bite him, and he hoists him back up onto his lap when he tries to wriggle down. “Yajib 'an tastamie li'awamiri ya Lieazir!” 

Al Ghul. Danny’s never heard that last name before, and he pauses from his typing to frown. “Hm.” Damian — the original, that is, not the clone in his arms, — went by his father’s surname, and Danny can’t remember if it was ever released what the mother’s last name was. 

He quickly swaps the tab on his phone to a new one, and types into the search bar: ‘Damian Wayne mom last name’ and clicks enter. There’s a few seconds where his phone is loading, and then it pulls up the results. And with it, is a chunk of text from the top article: Damian’s mother was kept anonymous for her privacy’s sake. Who she was, what her name is, it’s all unknown other than that she was Chinese-Arabic. A remarkable feat of anonymity in the grand scheme of things and the all seeing eyes of the internet. 

“Hn.” Danny’s mouth presses into a line, and he glances down to Damian. Original Damian’s maternal surname was unknown, and now he knows that his clone was calling himself Damian, what was the off chance that ‘Al Ghul’ was a random last name given to him, and wasn’t actually his mother’s surname?  

…Not likely. Or it was a low chance. 

Putting that aside, he swaps back to the translator and converts what he wrote into Arabic. Damian’s mother was Arabic-Chinese, and the language Damian was speaking didn’t sound like Chinese. So, fingers crossing, he hopes it’s Arabic. 

Turning up the volume as far as it could go, he looks back at Damian, whose struggling and yelling has slowly begun to cease. Danny doesn’t trust it, and he smiles a little amusedly, that’s not going to get me to let go. He checks the translation to make sure it’s what he wants it to say, and then hits the play button. 

[I can’t understand you, but my name is Danny. I want to help you.] 

Damian jerks, hitting his head against Danny’s chest in surprise. “'Utliq sarahi 'ayn 'ana?” He sneers, “'Ana last bihajat limusaeadatikum.” 

“I just said I can’t understand you, bud.” Danny sighs, once again adjusting his hold on Damian. The kid kicks at him and misses him entirely. His arm was starting to get tired from the strain of holding Damian on its own, so Danny puts his phone behind him and swaps them. 

He honest to god gets hissed at when he has to adjust Damian as well, and Danny pauses for a moment just out of pure wonder at the boy in his arms. He was hissed at, as if he was scruffing a stray cat. He was so telling Sam about this when he gets this kid home.  

Smiling faintly, Danny pulls his other glove off with his teeth, checks for injuries, and then with a little bit of contortion, grabs his phone and pulls it back up. Then his train of thought catches up to him, and he freezes just as he’s about to type into the translator again. 

Take him home? The kid? Danny can’t do that. There wasn’t any room in the house, and how would he explain this to his parents? 

‘Hey mom, dad, this is Damian. He’s a clone of my genetic template’s son! Yeah, yeah, that template, the one who just so happens to be the old college buddy that you accidentally cloned instead of dad? The one who just so happens to be capable of suing our family out of existence if he happened to catch wind of my existence? Oh, where did I find him? Last night while I was out. Why was I out? Oh, because I just so happen to be the Phantom, your sworn enemy and the ghost-hunting vigilante who you are convinced is also a ghost. Can we keep him?’ 

Yeah, yeah, he can see how well that would go down. He might as well take off his mask and tell Bruce Wayne he had a clone already. But… where else would Damian go? He doesn’t know any English, he was alone in a foreign country with no money, no way to get home, the worst thing Danny can do is abandon him right now. 

Danny presses his mouth into a thin line, a frown beginning to pull at the corner of his lips.

…He could figure something out with his parents, Jazz will help him once he explains the situation. And if he can get Damian to agree to stop trying to kill him, then they can both make it back to Fenton Works before sunrise… Hopefully. 

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Danny starts typing into the translator again. [You’re in America right now. The translator doesn’t translate the name of my city well, but we’re in Illinois. You are very far from home.]  

Damian jerks once again, twisting his neck to look up at Danny with disbelief. “'Amrika?” He says, the corner of his up curled up. Danny nods curtly, he doesn’t need to know Arabic to know what ‘Amrika’ means. “Hadhih Amirika?” 

Danny nods again, “Yeah, America. You’re in Amity Park.” He points to the ceiling, and gestures around them slowly. Damian watches him carefully, his eyes narrowed. “Am-i-ty Park.” Danny says, enunciating the syllables slowly. 

Green eyes narrow at him further. “Amity Park.” Damian says, slowly and sharp. When Danny nods, he drops his head and Danny tilts slightly in order to see as Damian casts the room a disdainful look. “Amity Park.” He repeats, voice full of enough venom to kill a full grown man. 

He can’t help himself, he snorts to himself and grins underneath his mask. The sound causes Damian to snap his head back up at him, and return his glower full force. He tries to wriggle again, but, like all other times, it’s in vain. 

“Sawf tutliq sarahi.” Damian orders, mouth twisting back into a scowl. Danny almost wants to tell him that his face will freeze if he keeps doing that. He’s already got his thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Yajib 'an 'aeud 'iilaa aldawrii.” 

Danny types into his phone, [I want to help you. You don’t know English, so getting around on your own will be next to impossible. If you promise not to attack me, I will take you back to my home and we can figure out how to get you home.] 

It’s… okay. Danny doesn’t really want to help the kid get home. Wherever that is, it’s teaching a child how to kill people, and it’s making clones of people. Statistically, that’s a bad sign. It also means that, for all intents and purposes, Danny should help the kid get home so he can find out whatever this organization is and, hopefully, put a stop to their cloning. 

However, Danny has his own city to take care of. Amity Park is full from head to toe with ghosts and spirits, and with his parents playing whack-a-mole with the portal’s door controls, he doesn’t feel comfortable leaving the city for even a few days. His parents can catch a lot of ghosts in only a few days. 

His parents can spill a lot of blood in only a few days. 

The evil cloning organization that made Damian will just have to be something Danny can leave in the capable hands of the older, more experienced heroes. For now, he can try and stall Damian’s homecoming and also keep him safe by keeping him housed. 

Damian, instead of wriggling again, slumps against him with a throaty huff. Danny peers over his head, checking to see if he was just pouting or had, somehow, passed out. Damian was scowling, his shoulders slumped up slightly, and Danny internally coos. 

He’s pouting. It was adorable.

The boy is silent for a long minute, a scowl carved like marble in his face, and Danny is content — no, wait, slightly content. He still wants to get home at a semi-reasonable time, — to wait him out. He is stronger, bigger, and faster than him. Eventually, Damian makes a low grumbling noise, something Danny can almost mistake for as a groan, before the kid slumps against him. 

“​​Hsnan, sa'abqaa maeak hataa natamakan min 'iieadati 'iilaa aldawri.” He says, sounding significantly less full of indignant rage, and more so full of indignant irritation. He also no longer wriggles, and Danny feels hope sparking low in his gut. Did he finally get through to him…?

More seconds pass by with the two of them just sitting there in silence, before Damian wriggles again — but rather than trying to escape, he twists his head to give Danny a dirty, expectant look. Danny frowns, confused, and then jerks — Oh! Oh! 

He fumbles for his phone, [Was that a yes? Nod if it was a yes?] 

Damian scoffs at him, looking very much like Danny was nothing more than dirt under his shoes. But he nods curtly, “Naeam sa'adhhab maeak.” 

Danny cheers, loudly. The hand curled around his phone punches skyward, like a fistbump to the ceiling, and Damian drops his head away from him. He yells something at him — probably telling him not to be so loud, but Danny pays it no mind. He’s only focused on the pure, utter, relief, pouring into his lungs and trying to trick itself out of his mouth as a laugh. 

Yes, yes! He convinced him! That’s one less worry to worry about, and as Danny drops his hand with his phone, his other arm starts to loosen up around Damian's waist — something Damian very much notices. As he stiffens up and is halfway through shoving himself out of his grasp. 

Danny lets him go, remembering abruptly the mask on his face. He lets Damian get to his feet, but he’s quickly scrambling soon after, not to grab him again. But to scramble for the katana he’d tossed out of the kid’s reach. Damian exclaims behind him, but Danny has his fingers curled around the handle before the kid can chase after him. 

When he stands and faces Damian again, the kid is all puffed up with rage again. Danny doesn’t doubt that, if the kid is trained to be some… kind of ninja…. that he has more weapons on him. But Damian looks more focused on his sword, so Danny holds up his phone-hand in a gesture to hopefully make Damian wait before he attacks him. 

“Wait, wait, wait!” He cries. Damian does, fortunately, and Danny quickly types into his phone again. [I will give you back your sword, and I will show you my face when we reach my home. But you must promise you won’t attack me once I do.] He pauses for a moment, and then types in as well: [I’ll also show you how to use the translator so we can talk both ways.] 

He doesn’t know if Damian even knows what his… father? Looks like, or what his feelings on him are if he does. But Danny was going to cover his bases, and if there was the off chance that Damian held negative feelings for his dad, he didn’t want the kid to attack him, again. 

(It probably wasn’t a good idea to do this at home, but at this point Danny just wants to be in his room.)

Damian eyes him up suspiciously, tense as a wooden plank and hunched like he was ready to pounce anyways, but he nods curtly. “Aeidak.” 

“Okay.” Danny breathes out, slowly straightening up. He’ll take that as Damian promising not to attack him. “Okay, good. Good.” Lowering his hand, he pockets his phone back into his jeans and flips the sword around so that the blade is pointing downwards. He holds it out for Damian, and the kid, quick as a whip, snatches it back from him and sheathes it into its scabbard. 

Great, finally. Now he can leave. Danny’s hands drop to his sides and he wriggles his fingers at Damian, absently gesturing for him to grab his hand. He turns his head away, searching for the door. “Let’s go.” 

No hand takes his, which Danny should have expected, so he drops it back to his side and leads Damian to the exit. The kid sticks close to him, but keeps just barely out of sight from his peripherals. His steps are quiet, Danny would say almost silent but that wasn’t the case. If he wasn’t paying attention, though, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Ninja stuff, probably. Danny’s a little, no, a lot concerned that he’s so good at that. 

Ancients, bud. He thinks again, disbelief returning like a hand around his throat. Danny keeps glancing back at Damian to make sure he was still there. Just who, exactly, made you? 

When they get outside, the night air hits them cooler than it was inside. Spirits were still lingering around the sidewalks, chattering amongst each other and throwing him various, curious glances. Danny suppresses a frown, but can’t stop himself from making a low ‘hm.’ 

They probably felt the shift in the atmosphere from the portal opening. It may have dissipated, but the excess was still lingering around. Without his focus solely on Damian, Danny can feel it too. Like a fog in his chest. Or, perhaps more accurately, like going through the day in a tired glaze, only to be hit with pin-startling clarity. The spirits were probably trying to soak up as much as possible in order to gain a stronger physical form. 

Which, unfortunately for them, wouldn’t happen from this portal alone. Too many spirits trying to do the same thing. Not enough ectoplasm. 

He leads Damian down the steps, and over to the sidewalk. On instinct his hand reaches for his grappling hook, but Damian, still loitering in his peripherals, tenses up. Oh, right, Danny thinks, and switches for his phone instead, this is a two-person trip. 

It’d probably be rude to just grab Damian and start flying. Damian might try and stab him, or worse, try and get out of his hands again. The mental image of Damian falling nearly fifty-feet in the air flashes behind Danny’s eyes, and he represses a shudder.

Yeah, let's tell him first. 

His fingers fly across the screen. [I’m going to use a grappling hook to get us back to the house. It’ll be faster. I’m going to pick you up, hold on tight.] 

Damian scoffs at him, but nods. Danny pockets his phone, swaps it out for his grappling hook instead, and lets Damian look at it for a minute before he crouches down and wraps his free arm around Damian’s legs and hoists him up. 

Something gets said to him by Damian, harsh and scowly, probably an insult, but he wraps his arms around Danny’s neck and his legs tight around his torso. At this point Danny just rolls his eyes and adjusts his arm to hold him tight around the waist. “Hold on.” He mumbles, and points his gun to the sky. 

Flying through the city is admittedly trickier with the extra weight on his front and only one hand free, but Danny takes it as a challenge rather than a problem — if only so he doesn’t think too much on it. Damian’s fingers claw into the back of hoodie the moment his grappling hook pulls them through the air, it borderlines almost painful, and Danny doubts he could drop the kid even if he tried. 

There are a few close calls where Danny nearly clips the edge of one of the skyscrapers, but it takes one easy twist and a little bit of spinning to correct the angle. The threat of it sends a rush of adrenaline through his veins, and Danny can’t say he didn’t laugh a few times. Becoming Phantom turned him into an adrenaline junkie, he thinks.  

Damian doesn’t seem to be having much fun though, his grip suffocating on Danny and his face buried into his shoulder. He’s choking Danny a little, but he wouldn’t dare try and correct it while in the air, and it’s only bringing him mild discomfort. 

Not fast enough but all too soon, Danny is touching down near the residential area of Amity Park where the buildings are too small for him to grapple through. He drops onto one of the apartment rooftops, and his feet are barely touching the ground before Damian clambers off him like a wet cat trying to claw its way out of a pool. 

With the sound of his grappling hook receding, Danny laughs low under his breath. “Flying not for you, bud?” He asks, slightly breathless and grinning under his mask. The hook clicks into place in his palm, and Danny shoves it back onto his belt. 

The kid glares at him amidst brushing off his clothes and patting at his sides. His hand brushes over his sword, and when he feels the hilt still there, Damian drops it. The kid straightens up like a soldier — immediately killing Danny’s sky-flushed mirth in the process — and stares up at him, awaiting orders.

Danny’s smile falls, and he clears his throat. Okay, he thinks, checking himself over for anything out of place, before looking back to Damian. Resolve hardens like cement in between his ribs. He’s not going back. Not if I have anything to say about it. 

He moves around Damian and steps over to the roof ledge, swiveling left and right for the direction of his house. Which is unnecessary, he can see Fenton Works from a mile away, but he does it anyways. Anything to distract him from the discomfort that’s been sledgehammered at him. “This way.” He murmurs, gesturing for Damian to follow. Shuffling feet, and Danny can sense more than see the little boy at his side. 

Considering the way he saw Damian hopping around earlier, Danny is confident in his ability to roof hop with him — confidence well deserved because Damian follows him with relative ease. Which is still real damn worrying, but he can dwell on it when they get to the house. 

Still, he keeps a close eye on Damian the entire time they’re leaping rooftops. The boy was six, he didn’t have the same stamina nor height that Danny did — it’d be too easy for Danny to lose him on the way to the house because he couldn’t keep up, or he decided to change his mind while Danny was distracted and book it in another direction. 

They reach the house in no time, and Danny’s fishing for his key from his belt the moment his feet hit the concrete of the rooftop. Damian remains behind him, an ever-constant shadow as Danny ducks under the various legs, wires, and poles of the OPPS Center and unlocks the door to the roof. 

Getting to his room is a relief. The strange, buzzing sensation that settles through Danny’s eyes like a thin film whenever he’s using his ‘scary eyes’ dissipates, and he’s kicking off his boots with a low sigh before he can really think it through. He’ll put them back in their place when he’s done — but for now, he just wants them off. Damian pools in behind him, slinking off to the corner of the room as Danny shuts the door. 

His room is spotless — a cleaning habit he’s kept meticulously since he wanted to be an astronaut. He had planets hanging from the ceiling, glow in the dark stars muttered against the walls, and posters of astronomy, Dumpty Humpty, and NASA plastered beside the stars. And a large corkboard hanging above his desk. 

“Finally.” he groans, twisting his hips and stretching out his back before reaching over and turning on the hanging lights. A soft orange glow fills the room, and Danny turns just in time to see Damian jump in surprise. He’d moved over to Danny’s bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, his body half turned away and tilted like he’d been inspecting it. 

Danny stifles a smile, and tugs off his thermos and grappling hook and places them on the desk. Damian straightens up, shuffling away from the bookshelf and back over to him, his brows beginning to furrow with a look of determination. 

He marches towards him, “Laqad wasalna 'iilaa manzilika, walan ealayk 'an tafi bikalimatik watakhlae qanaeaka.” 

Danny doesn’t know what he’s saying, but Damian points to his face while he’s speaking so Danny figures it out relatively quickly. Besides, it’s not like he’d forgotten either. He has to take off his mask to sleep, and it’s easier to change when he’s not wearing it. He grabs his phone from his pocket.

[I know, I’ll take off my mask. But remember: you can’t attack me.] He hits play, and watches Damian scoff for the nth time, roll his eyes, and nod. As if to reassure him, or to prove that he wasn’t going to attack him, Damian folds his arms behind his back. 

Briefly, Danny feels himself nearly frown again at Damian’s almost soldier-like posture. But he has time to worry about that later, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Danny raises his hands and curls his fingers around the bottom of his mask. 

Carefully, mindful of the straps, Danny pulls it off. The cool air immediately rushes over his damp forehead, and he quickly shakes his head with bated breath to get the strands of hair plastered to his skin off. He locks eyes with Damian, tense, and with air trapped in his lungs. 

Damian’s eyes widen comically, his scowl softening for a moment. For a moment, Danny thinks that maybe things will be fine…ish. But then Damian’s face is scrunching up again, his face sharpening angrily, and his hands reach for his sword. 

“Dijaal!” He hisses, fire lighting in his eyes as he grabs for his katana.

Danny takes a step back and holds his hand out, narrowing his eyes defensively. “Hey, hey, hey!” He hisses back, he points a finger at Damian accusingly, arching an eyebrow. “You promised!”

Apparently, the tone of ‘no takesies-backsies!’ transcends language, because Damian freezes where he stands and simply remains glowering at him. Danny raises his eyebrow higher, locking him in a staring contest, and Damian takes his hand off the hilt. 

Great. Good. Fantastic even! Crisis avoided, and no parents woken up in the process. That’s a success if Danny’s ever heard one. He keeps his eyes on Damian, before slowly reaching for his phone again. It’s like having a stand-off with a bull. A tiny, six year old-sized bull with a sword rather than horns, but a bull nonetheless. 

He gets his phone out safely, and gets out the translator. Again. [I know I’m a clone of your dad. I didn’t ask to be. I still want to help you.] And he does, he so much does. Danny was a bleeding heart, forever and always. If he can help, he will. He hopes that the blood he is made from won’t stop Damian from accepting that help. 

Damian stares him down, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to analyze Danny’s every move. Danny stays still and lets him, waiting for the jurisdiction of the small assassin. 

Whatever it is that Damian sees, it causes him to drop his hands to his side with an irritated sigh just like before. He says nothing, but the resigned slump of his shoulders tells Danny all he needs to know, and he beams. 

Success, he thinks, laughing quietly in earnest. [Stay here.] He quickly types into his phone and plays. He reaches for his thermos. [I need to release the ghosts in my device, then I’ll show you how to use the translator.] 

He plucks the thermos from his desk and tosses his phone over Damian’s head and onto the bed. It bounces, Damian grumbles something under his breath, and the phone bounces again. Danny puts the mask down, and dances out the door and down into the lab with practiced ease.

When he returns, Damian is snooping around his room, looking around his desk this time around. He straightens up when Danny steps into the room, and Danny doesn’t bother addressing it — instead he grabs his phone again and gestures for Damian to sit on the bed with him. 

It takes a painfully long amount of time to show Damian how to use the translator, with a ton of repetition and fiddling around. But they manage, finally, to get a system up where Danny will type something into the translator, play it back to Damian, and then hand the phone to Damian. Damian then would swap the translation, use text-to-speech, and play it in english. 

Naturally, text-to-speech has its flaws, and Damian is only recently learning how to read, so Danny figures out the translation errors on his own. They don’t talk for long, Damian is shut off, snooty, and reserved to him. All Danny knows is that his name is Damian Al Ghul, and he is the blood son and second heir to something called the League of Assassins. 

How cheery. “League of Assassins” sounds definitely evil. Ancients, Danny doesn’t wanna know. He’ll have to get involved if he knows any more. 

He lets Damian fiddle with the translator more in regards to searching his closet for clothes for Damian to wear. He doesn’t have any shorts that will fit, but he pulls out an old NASA t-shirt that still somewhat fits him, and tosses it to Damian. 

After much arguing, he gets Damian to wear it, and he gives Damian the bed. That takes less arguing — Damian is all too happy to sleep in a bed rather than the floor, and Danny pulls his beanbag chair out from its nook to shove it under his desk. 

He’s still awake by the time sunlight begins peeking over the buildings, his eyelids heavy and sore with exhaustion, and his limbs feeling loose and disconnected. He’s fixed up his gloves — torn from the katana, but now half-heartedly sewn up with thread and a lot of muttered swearing on Danny’s part. His mask is shoved in a hidden pocket in his backpack along with his thermos. 

Damian is fast asleep in bed, and with nothing else to do, Danny keeps his sharp eye on him. Swamped in Danny’s shirt and curled up under the covers, Damian is teeny. Well, he was small even before that, but it is even more apparent when tucked under blankets meant for people bigger than him.

And, for perhaps the third time that night, Danny is hit with just the sheer longing of how much he wants to help him. Danny is the hand that feeds, and Damian has a lot of teeth. The cut of his gloves is more than proof enough of that. But Danny wants to help him, Damian has no one else here to. Danny, so far, is the only one who can help him.

He is also hit with the sheer magnitude of what he’s just done — the terrifying revelation that Danny’s just taken in the clone of his template’s son. What the hell does that make for him and Damian’s relationship? Genetically, Danny is technically his father, but they’re complete strangers to one another. 

What does that mean for Danny? It’s been four months since his parents revealed their betrayal. Their lies. Their backstabbing, earth-shattering, fifteen years of astounding— the truth to Danny about his… birth. Four months isn’t long enough to deal with something like that. He is still questioning everything he does — whether his actions belong to him, or to Bruce Wayne.

And this? This just takes the fucking cake.

Danny breathes in deeply, snapping himself out of the slow-creeping spiral threatening to drag him under the waters of his mind. His eyes flick to the window. It’s too early to think about this. Much, much too early. He slinks into his beanbag with a low groan, stifling back a groan. 

He can worry about the identity crisis and his crisis of autonomy later. Later, when he’s not mind-numbingly exhausted and already mentally fragile from that alone. Not when there’s a teeny baby assassin sleeping in his bed who happens to be his son? Cousin? Brother? template’s son’s clone. 

With sunlight peeking through the windows, he slinks out from under his desk to prepare for another day.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpdc #dpxdc crossover #danny fenton is a clone #clone^2 #dpdc au #dpxdc fic #dpdc fic #danny fenton is not the ghost king #starry's writing #ao3 tag highlights: Accidental Little Brother Acquisition #Cat Distribution System Except Its A Child #i crave validation and attention so whoops #danny: wow that is a child! Why Is The Child Violent #danny: ahaha i can ignore my identity crisis if i focus on Literally Anything Else

[weirdmarioenemies]

Happy Groundhog Day! I think it is so wonderful that there is an entire holiday dedicated to a specific burrowing rodent. Americans love this thing! And who wouldn't? Their burrows aerate soil, and provide homes for many other critters!

A lot of people wouldn't love the groundhog, actually. In 1883, the New Hampshire Legislative Woodchuck Committee put out a statement calling groundhogs "wayward sinners" whose grooming habits suggest good manners, but who in reality have "not made any material progress in social science". You think the Discourse is bad today? They used to form committees to complain about a squirrel's moral character!

However, this is not the extent of the disrespect toward groundhogs. It happens to this day, and we all take it for granted, and most don't even bother to realize it has to do with a marmot in the first place! Let's talk about...

Name: "Mole"

Debut: Whac-A-Mole

Sorry this picture is not very good. There are just not many pictures available that show that weird old "mole" figure that I have in mind specifically! Here's a green one.

Anyone familiar with the "Mole" series of animals will know that this is very much Not A Mole! The distinct head, the visible ears, the blunt nose, the buckteeth... this, my friend, is 100% Ground Squirrel! And this game is FAR from the only instance of moles and burrowing rodents being mixed up.

It actually makes sense that this mistake would happen, though! Moles are synonymous with burrowing, to the point unrelated burrowing animals are named after moles (including Mole Cricket, perhaps the ORIGINAL mole). But moles spend ALL their time burrowing, rarely if ever coming to the surface, so even though we all know moles, we are rarely blessed with SEEING moles. I have never seen a mole in person... yet! I would love to! Ground squirrels, such as groundhogs and prairie dogs, are also little burrowing critters, but these ones are commonly seen on the surface, ever alert. I think it's reasonable to mistake them for "moles"!

Alas, the popularity of Whac-A-Mole has cemented Ground Squirrel as essentially the "canon" Mole design for this context. And what a context that is! A classic, even GENRE-DEFINING game, all about whacking critters as they emerge from their burrows. So rude! They're not posing any danger, and the player isn't hunting them to eat, either. This is simply a game of spite. How DARE that rodent try to see the sun! This is just like Undertale.

Whac-A-Mole is one of the most straightforward types of game for any device with a touch screen or anything similar. Just gotta tap a thing! Very easy. This has led to such variations such as Whack-a-Monty from New Super Mario Bros., where the player bonks Monty Moles (more like Monty Gopher am I right) while sparing the many, many Luigis. Obviously, the Luigis must surface in order to initiate courtship, ensuring future generations of Luigis.

Now that I think of it, Mario is one of the only times I've seen the ethics of Whac-A-Mole called out, through the endangered Whacka from Paper Mario! I'm surprised the genre is not deconstructed more often (I love that this sentence is about Whac-A-Mole).

I think this is where I will end the post, because this silly game has so permeated human culture that I could go on and on and on! So strange that an entire animal now has a reputation of "pops out and gets bonked on the head". Conceptually, I certainly prefer the "parasitic aliens emerging from an astronaut's body orifices" aesthetic for this kind of game, but obviously kids aren't going out and bludgeoning real rodents because of this game, so whatever.

But still, what if instead of moles, the whacked entities were something humans have no problem attacking with a second thought...?

Get ready for an action-packed new game set in the Bowling universe!

#whac-a-mole #mole #groundhog #groundhog day #not mario #funky friday #mod chikako

[dropsofletters]

in october, it should've been over.

—SUMMARY: jeonghan decided that love was for him one october, but these days, if he had to conceptualize how that burning feeling in the pit of his heart really is like, he wouldn’t be able to utter a word. is love, perhaps, so comfortable that, at some point, it’s difficult to conceptualize it?

she, on the other hand, thought that being backstage in a relationship with an a-list actor would be far easier than it truly is. at one moment, sneaking away and hiding behind cameras is fun—a sneaky way to steal a kiss, but then, it becomes the doom of their relationship. she wants to be seen, though she doesn’t know if it’s by the public or him.

in which, they both realize, love is more than four letters and time is sometimes the biggest joke.

—TITLE: in october, it should’ve been over

—PAIRING: yoon jeonghan x reader

—GENRE: actor!au ; fashion designer!au ; established relationship!au ; slice of life!au ; lovers to strangers!au ; slowburn.

—TYPE: angst ; drama ; fluff if you squint.

—WORD COUNT: 7,010 words.

—NOTE: this was a kofi request. if you want to support me, you can go over there and request a fic from me!

Frowns are rare sights when the crescent moon of his smile is always present. Jeonghan, as a matter of fact, has a grinning face that rests upon him even in his darkest of times. She knows it since last October, where everyday she has tarnished the courage to learn his face like she did her words when she was younger. The corners of his lips, roses of crimson pink, lift up at the corners gracefully, even when he’s trying to show his anger. The only times where she has seen Jeonghan truly angered is when he’s acting. Throwing punches, spurting out lines. It was never something that ensued in their relationship.

Now, it’s November and it’s the first time she has truly seen Jeonghan frowning. With all the muscles in his face, his back leaned on the chair where a woman was doing his hair after a particularly strong scene. He was supposed to be fighting for his will, for the love of a woman who resides within his heart but far away from him. Jeonghan plays the character of Junho, a man in his twenties in the roaring sixties, counting pennies like he does stars, but falling for a Hollywood star at the time. The woman, tarnished to pieces and sexualized in ways that she couldn’t compete or battle against, was named Nia, played by Namjoo.

The person that caused Jeonghan to bite on his fingernail, as she strikes yet another punch with words that she couldn’t have ever fathomed escaping her mouth.

“I still don’t understand where all of this is coming from.” Jeonghan whispers, running a hand through the short locks of his black hair. She misses how it looked in the summer, when he had been spontaneous enough to get them out in a secluded vacation to Bahamas. They had to be secretive about their whereabouts, because their relationship is hidden under the matches of his now lighting-up fame, but they had been so happy. Hands interlocked; fingers kissed…

She bites the inside of her cheek, watching Jeonghan in all his form. He’s wearing a dirty suit, albeit fitting to his character, with holes and dirt painted on his face. A man lacking wealth, so much different from how he is. That had never been a problem, seeing how different they are. She has her own things going on in her life; a small clothing brand that she’s trying to pursue into something more, but it definitely does not compare to him.

To Namjoo.

She shouldn’t have thought much about the kiss scene. Jeonghan does plenty of those. What impresses her is the way Jeonghan seems to bothered about her; one minute arguing with each other about a line, how it should be delivered, just simply denying the benefit of posing for pictures that could work once the publicity is needed, but when that kiss scene ensues, they are tugging at clothes, portraying a passion that is needed for the scene, but so much different to what Jeonghan has ever played as an actor.

“I—I don’t like it, it’s all I’m saying. I understand that you’re an actor, and this is what you do on the daily. It’s not—” She stops for a moment, watching Jeonghan raise his eyebrows at her words, parting his lips as if to say something. “Just let me finish. It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s my job. Trust me, there’s a person in charge of intimacy scenes and I hate Namjoo as much as the next person. She’s pretentious and—”

“That’s not what it shown through the scene.” She had been sitting patiently, quietly, holding her hands together and even smiling at the thought of Jeonghan returning to his paradigm as an actor. Romance. He’s so good at it, but he has never found anything that has made him more than rom-com material. He’s trying to go over that line. Cross the young adult persona and go for something heavier. Then, that kiss scene haunted her in ways that would creep up to her dreams. “You…you held her like…like you wanted it to last forever, Jeonghan. You, yourself, asked for take after take after take—”

“Because I knew it wasn’t coming out well.”

“But it was…” She drags her voice, nearing him and clasping a hand on top of her mouth, trying to think of what to say next. There are people chatting outside of the truck where Jeonghan gets his hair and makeup done in. Normally, he recites his lines here, so they don’t care about the volume of their words, but she stares lowering her tone. “Jeonghan, if you ever doubt me, us, what you feel. I need you to tell me. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if…”

He captures her face in between his digits. Jeonghan holds mischief by the hand when he kisses. His digits intertwine with her hair, playing with the strands as he drags her until she’s resting in between his legs. His thighs trace the outline of her hips, slowly, though his motions are deliberate in her mouth. He already knows what she likes, like the puckers of his lips against the upper lip, then the lower before he gently traces the outline of her mouth. He toys and draws, granting the touch of their tongues barely for a second before he’s back to pecking. Teasing, what he does best.

Erasing thoughts that shouldn’t be on their brain still, to start with.

Jeonghan pulls away, blowing a gust of air into her interlocked hands, conjoined with his, before the twirl of his lips at the corner returns. The Jeonghan she has known so well. Like the way he feels the most comfortable in his mother’s arms, and how he can’t ever stand the thought of losing, so he likes cheating on games. He kisses and her knuckles before playfully biting onto them.

“I have chosen to love you for a year, and trust me, I don’t have any reason to stop loving you now. I won’t. I’m sure I don’t like Namjoo, as a person or as a lover. And I can’t shut the thoughts in your brain out, but I can tell you what I mean.” He stops, mouthing the same words that he had said earlier: “I love you.”

And yet, even though her heart loves all the words he says, there is something that speaks within her. He never denies the allegations, never says that her insecurities are right or wrong. All he does is give his point of view, not interfering in her own shoes, trying to understand what is seen through her eyes and where those worries could come from. Either way, she smiles back at him when he engulfs his arms around her waist and hides his face in her neck.

“Come on, say you love me. You’re acting all tough now.”

She juts out her bottom lip, using one of her hands to dangle through the very short strands of his hair. “I shouldn’t have to tell you. You’re very much aware that I love you more than anything in this world.”

“It never hurts to hear you say it, trust me.” Jeonghan responds, patting a hand against the back of her thighs before groaning. “I guess I gotta head back before that crazy woman starts saying I’m her worst costar to date.”

It always returns to her. The conversation, that is. These days, it feels like Jeonghan’s brain has been taken up by Namjoo more than her. “Alright, let me head out with you.”

She expected another kiss, as per usual with Jeonghan, but she never got it.

Curves become edges when pleasure turns into pressure. Jeonghan had once been so in love with the person underneath him; each sigh a continuation of him, words that were mere truths whispered by his heart given to her like promises. He said, as he laid next to her after every blissful touch, that he was lucky. For once, Yoon Jeonghan was more than the pose in front of a camera or the cheers of people that became vacant when he realized how lonely he was.

Somehow, he misses that. He realizes just how little they seem to be when together, trying to concentrate on the curve of her mouth, the touch of her tongue, but it doesn’t fulfill him anymore. Not because it is her, but something within him just can’t seem to concentrate. Quite like an intimacy scene, it feels as though they have a cloth separating them and while Jeonghan is as the day he was born, he’s also just as uncertain and lost as he was then.

He pulls away at that moment, groaning out of anger only to see the empty glare that she tosses his way. She’s not angered, but rather disappointed. Her arms extend on each side of her body after pushing the pillow that she had to her side, to lay on the floor. While Jeonghan would love to be the reason why she’s smiling, the grin is so sarcastic that it almost pricks him just at the mere sight of it.

“I’m not feeling it, sorry.” Jeonghan blames himself for being truthful. These days, it feels like he hasn’t been so with her, even while he isn’t hiding anything. Contrary to what she would believe, Jeonghan has nothing to do with Namjoo. He’s truthful when he says that he hates her guts, but he also is lying when he announces that he loves her each morning, as if those words are part of his being now.

She crawls onto herself, tugging the sheets up her body as Jeonghan starts putting on his clothes. He’s seated at the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his long locks of black hair. God, she’s so gorgeous and so willing to love him, and Jeonghan can’t bring himself to feel anything even when touching her. All they have left is respect.

“Is it…?” She swallows thickly and when he looks over his shoulder, he swears he sees the glisten of a teary diamond at the corner of her eyes. “Is it me? Am I, you know, not attractive to you anymore?”

Jeonghan pulls his body until he is laying on his stomach, in front of her covered and bent knees. He presses a kiss on top of the blanket, only to hide his face on the soft cotton. “God, no. It’s all me, I swear. It’s all me.” He promises, not being able to say much else, because the problem is him, but he has never experienced this kind of pain, either.

The fact that he can’t put a name to what he feels is rather strange. It’s like last December, when Jeonghan wrapped his scarf around her neck and pulled her closer as they were by the bonfire on Christmas Day just to tell her that he loves her. He does. He did. Is that in the past now?

“I need you to talk to me, love.”

“There is nothing to talk about.” Jeonghan closes up, because it can’t be possible. He had never been more comfortable. He was used to be burning of fires in relationships, and now that he has someone that is willing to die down all that burned him with the lukewarm sea of her opened heart, palpitating just for him, he can’t have her. He chooses not to.

When he stands up, willing to push himself to read a book or get lost in his phone, he lurks for the last device, hair cascading over his face, watching from his peripheral as she clings to the blankets but follows after him. “There is. I knew you were into me then, Jeonghan, and these days it feels like you are repulsed by me. I can understand the two of us not being intimate, sex is not why I’m with you—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jeonghan says in a soft voice, only to have her shaking her head.

“I feel…I feel like I’m being abandoned, and you’re here. Shit, you’ve been here all along but these days, you’re not even in the same room as me.”

Jeonghan picks up his phone, leaning his weight against the desk that they have in their room for the computer she uses, normally for planning around the release of her clothing lines and shops. “I’m just stressed. This movie is taking a toll on me, you know this.”

“You’ve shot movies before and it’s never been like this.”

His dark brows furrow under the weight of her words, scoffing when he pushes his phone down. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

“Don’t you dare get offended.”

“Of course, I get offended. Sorry I just can’t bring myself to be how I was. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You said it was you.”

“Well, in this relationship it has always been a you and a me. It can’t only be me, right?”

When he tosses a look to his phone, he sees that he has a few missed calls from a director that he had met in his last trip to Los Angeles. A text from the same number rests in his inbox, reading the words: “I’m in Seoul and have a project in mind, want to meet for dinner?”

“Then, tell me what is wrong with me!”

“I don’t have time for this.” Jeonghan tells her, grasping the hand she had lifted in the air to clasp against her head. He releases that hold, looking into her eyes, trying to really watch her, but the eyes he had known so well, and the mouth that he would have kissed until it hurt no longer feel familiar. How many miles had they had separated without him knowing? “Don’t martyrize yourself over this. I said what I said. You said what you had to. This is not something we are going to work out in one night. We’ll talk about it later, right?”

“Later?” She mumbles, looking at him as if he was a complete stranger. Maybe, that’s what he is to her now. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Miles, the director I met in Los Angeles, is calling me to meet up. He’s here in Seoul. I imagine he wants to go to Hongdae or something.” Jeonghan explains, not even trying to sell the idea to her. He knows that she doesn’t like it when he leaves a fight unresolved, but he doesn’t feel like talking at this moment.

“I get that we won’t work it out on one night, but how the hell are we going to work it out if we never talk about it?”

For the first time in a year, it has crossed Jeonghan’s brain that maybe they won’t work it out. Instead, he jots his lips against her forehead, kissing the skin tenderly before sighing. “I’ll go take a shower. I promise we will talk about this some other time.”

“Yes, okay, whatever.” She tells him, turning around and trying to get back in the bed. She stops for a moment, just as she’s about to climb in between the covers, to say. “I want you to let me in your world again, is that too much to ask?”

He wants to answer ‘no’, but instead, he says: “I’ll get the shower running.”

Perhaps, he’s asking himself for too much by not trying to figure out what is going on with him.

December 31st. Many people love December, for its celebratory state just upon its entrance. It means gifts, reunions, kisses that are shared in a haze. She read somewhere, a long, long time ago, that most unions happened in December and most break-ups partook in January. For, people decided to get together in the happiest month of the year, but once the new resolutions of the year made them consider what they had in their life, it was too hard to keep things going. That’s a horrid thing to think about as she watches the TV on mute, with Jeonghan passed out drunk on the couch.

She spares a look at him, inspecting what was once a face that looked at her with the biggest grin at this time of the night. He loved to give her a kiss whenever something grand happened in his life, and being able to live another year was a blessing for him. After an award show, he’d get to her just to release all the contentedness that bundled upon him, as if he loved her enough to want to connect hearts with a simple touch. However, these days that seems impossible. As a matter of fact, she had a sip of wine while talking to him, and Jeonghan had drank like his life depended on it. As if listening to her brought out demons that he didn’t want to fight and then, as per usual with him when tipsy, he fell asleep.

Her hand reaches for the waves of his black hair, twisting them in a lonesome finger. She inspects the tallness of his nose and the width of it, curved nostrils, bows and arrows for lips that shoot directly at her heart, whether it is with words or with something else. His skin glimmers with a layer of sweat, and his eyes would seep what she once conceptualized as tranquility but now, Jeonghan sleeps with a frown on his face.

It has been like that ever since they started to have issues.

His phone starts ringing and she moves far too quickly, pulling away from him and turning off the volume so it doesn’t bother him. She doesn’t want to wait for the New Year with him, somehow. It would put the pressure of a fake kiss upon their shoulders, the one that had once meant that another year was ahead of them, but she can’t see a future any longer. It’s only the present, and she doesn’t like the sight of it.

The screen reads the name ‘Writer Seonghwa’, and she tilts her head to the side in confusion. This movie, Near or Far, had a lot of writers, but she had never heard about this Seonghwa. She stands up, fear bundling at her chest as she moves over to their corridor, picking up the phone in a whisper.

“Hello?”

A nervous stutter follows after, a man speaking into the phone. “H—Hi. This is Yoon Jeonghan’s number, right?”

“Indeed.” She crosses one leg over the other, somehow happy that it was not a woman picking up the phone. The least she needs is more insecurities in this relationship. She can’t still put a face to this Seonghwa guy, but she keeps the conversation going. “He’s asleep now. How may I be of help?”

“Oh, asleep? I talked to him just over two hours ago. I’m sorry, I know this is such an inappropriate time to talk.” Huh, so while Jeonghan was talking to her, he was also lost in his phone, having conversations with people who work with or for him. “I’m one of the writers of ‘Near or Far’, I imagine you’re his assistant—”

“I’m his girlfriend.” The public doesn’t know about this relationship, as sad or as good as that can be, but the people who work with him are well aware of it. It’s one of those things that those who follow him don’t know about, but those who are close enough to see him live his daily life get to talk about.

“Oh, I’m…Well, I should leave then. He told me we could go over a few lines that I wanted to add into a scene tonight. I’m outside his door right now, actually.”

“Lines that you wanted to add? I thought the script was already written.”

“Yes,” He laughs, a bit dorky and cutting himself short. “I’m not really a writer, but an assistant writer. Jeonghan was kind enough to listen to one of my ideas for one of the scenes that isn’t working for him and since he’s the star, he has some liberties with the writers. He wanted to read the lines, feel the scene, give me some feedback before I send the changes to my boss.”

Jeonghan might not be going through his best moment with her, but he’s still as good as she remembered him to be. She pulls herself off the wall, clearing her throat. “I’m not sure about waking him up because he got drunk, but we can over the lines if you want.” She doesn’t want to admit that she’s feeling lonely and that, somehow, she wants to spend the New Years with someone. “Want me to open the door for you?”

“Are you sure it’s no problem?”

“Oh, trust me, I’m enchanted to do so.”

When she opens the door, thankful that their living room is far from the entrance of the mansion that Jeonghan insisted on buying, she doesn’t expect to see a good-looking man. A side of his black hair is more pushed back than the other, a few strands of what would be a bang falling over his forehead. He looks up from his phone upon the sound of the door unlocking, unleashing a gleam in his eyes that could hypnotize anyone. His eyes are rounded, down-casted, naturally shadowed by longer bottom lashes, with bags under them that only highlight when he gives her a tight-lipped smile. His long is nose, skin fair, lips shaded pink, though a bit pale. And, for the matter, he looks straight out of a Christmas movie with the red sweater he has on.

“Hey, a face to the call.” Seonghwa says, though he twists his neck to the side slyly. “Not that I hadn’t seen you. Jeonghan brings you around all the time.”

“I understood. I now recognize you a bit. We haven’t talked, but…” She trails her voice, opening the door wider and pointing to the right. “We have a garden over there and the rain left the most beautiful sight at our fountain, so we can read there, right?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Seonghwa could be an actor if he wanted. He has textures to his voice and his motions, sitting across from her with one leg crossed over the other, looking down at his script as she tries to concentrate on her own, but in between reading, they talk a little bit about themselves. Seonghwa just recently graduated as a film major and he got this grand job, thankfully, however, he doesn’t have much to do other than editing what others write. He has wanted to put some input, though he loves science fiction more than he does romance, however, only Jeonghan had truly listened to his ideas, and that’s why he’s here.

The metal chair clashes against the bright colors of him, the way he laughs when he gets surprised at the lines he has written. Longing and desire, filled with lots of love, transcending through paragraph after paragraph. Some sentences are short but hit strongly, and she’s surprised that he really hasn’t gotten a chance to show his talent at its fullest.

“I might not be the one you’re meant to hold,” Seonghwa reads one of the sentences he wanted to add to a scene that was already scripted. “But what you mean and what you do are two different things. Don’t give me a meaning, give me your first menacing action.”

She stops at his words, because the mind does incredible wonders to change things and right now, as Seonghwa stares at her and the clock strikes twelve, the constellations make him stand out.

“That bad?”

“No. Shit, that was amazing.” She tells him, looking at her phone and realizing that the New Year has started. She grins at him, interlocking her hands over her lap, shivering at the cold. “May the New Year bring a movie written by you. I’d totally consume it.”

“You’d be the only one at the theater.”

“Not only me. It’d be my mind, my soul, and me.”

Seonghwa chuckles. “I’d like that.”

He can tell that she has worn her best dress.

And yet again, he has made an empty promise.

Normally, he loves green on her. The tones of her skin gleam upon its contrast, and somehow, silver fits perfectly well as a necklace around her neck, the sleeves falling off her shoulders elegantly. He’s not far behind, a night in an eventful December, as he’s finally returned from his trip to London and the release of ‘Near or Far’ makes itself noticeable. He had done a few press conferences for the film, posed alongside Namjoo for publicity stunts, but Jeonghan had said over the phone, as he walked some streets in Europe, that he’d like to have her there at the red carpet. As his girlfriend. By his side.

The matter is that those who don’t know Jeonghan would think that he had it easy. That he entered the movie scene just by being pretty. However, it hasn’t been easy for him. At the beginning of his career, he had to accept any role that was granted to him, ought to be sexualized or minorized as a simple pretty face. When depths were given to his characters and he was praised for more than long strands of her and curved-up lips, he grew attached to it. The deep conversations with big actors. The read-offs at expensive partakes to the most intricate portions of the high society. He wanted fame, thirsted after it, and when he got it, he realized that it was just for him.

However, much different from him who is used to the flashing of cameras and the phones pushed to his face to get a glimpse of him is her. She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, how she’ll be torn to shreds even when she’s looking beautiful in that dress. He fixes the tie around his neck, tossing a look her way before wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, toying with the jewel that rests snugly in between her collarbones.

“There is a lot of people outside.” He tells her, and she looks at him, swallowing thickly. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. You’ve worked so hard for this movie.” She gets closer to him, running a thumb over his pulse that would have been racing at any other point of their relationship, but it isn’t at this moment. God, he appreciates her so much, but why can’t he bring himself to show her off? “We can get out of the limo, Jeonghan. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Just as she’s about to reach for the handle of the door, he stops her. The hairs of her nape stand up upon him breathing against her skin, closing his eyes tightly when he says a heavy truth: “I don’t want you to get out.”

She frowns deeply. “I want to get out. If it’s for the cameras, I can take it—”

“Please, understand me here. I don’t want you to make me the bad guy when I’m just…I’m taking care of both of us. You and me. Not us. You and me.” Jeonghan signifies, clasping his hands around hers and speaking in a low tone so the chauffeur doesn’t entertain himself with the trainwreck that is their relationship now in February. A year and some months after everything started. “Those pictures, the ones taken tonight, and the words people will inherently tell you out of jealousy or just to tear you apart, will follow you forever and someday, I won’t be here.”

“I’m doing it for us, Jeonghan. I want people to recognize us as one. I’ll take it if that means just finally being secure about our relationship. I don’t care if it follows me.”

Jeonghan runs a hand through his hair, groaning. “But I care. What if tomorrow we’re not together? Everyone will connect you to me and I’ll be the guy who made a relationship public without—”

“Excuse me?” She asks, only to have Jeonghan tossing his head back.

“I don’t want us to rush.”

“Rush? Rush?!” She repeats, asking him with her eyebrows raised before scoffing out a laugh. “We’ve been together for over a year and now, this is rushing.”

“The internet is forever.”

“And you’re supposed to think we could be, too.” She shakes her head, mumbling: “But I guess that hasn’t been in your mind for a while.” With that, she opens the door for him to get out, pointing at it with a jut of her chin. “Come on, the people are waiting for you. Everyone loves Yoon Jeonghan, don’t they?”

She doesn’t say that she still loves him and somehow, he feels that whatever unnamed sentiment settles upon him is now mutual. Jeonghan can’t even bring himself to kiss her, getting out of the limousine and closing the door before they could see her. He lifts a hand in the air, cameras going crazy for him as he widens his smile, though he wants to do nothing more than cry.

He should have never hurt her, and now it seems as though it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Why can’t he let her go? Why can’t she just leave?

With the release of her clothing line, her world become a little busy. Parisian, a classy street wear line that brings back nineties clothes but gives them a twist a-la-European had been selling rather well. Much more after Yoon Jeonghan, the famous actor, had decided to wear their newest collection. She doesn’t want to hide the fact that, unknowingly and totally in purpose, Jeonghan had brought her some fame by tagging her clothing line in an Instagram post, but even when he’s away to Hollywood for that film he’s been so excited about, she can’t bring herself to pay much attention to what has gone unspoken, even now in April.

Seonghwa has been her biggest companion. He was the one that was there for the grand release of her shop at the center of Seoul, and the one that helped her pack the first few orders before she had to get a few others to work with her. Tonight, he’s the one that accompanies her in yet another anniversary that Jeonghan misses. He hadn’t even called her, while Seonghwa invited her over to go visit his family, where he’s now playing with his niece.

“Hey, you might get my eyes out.” Seonghwa never loses his mind, even though his niece is wringing her hands into his eyelids, getting a grunt for him as he tosses himself to the floor alongside her. “You should get her! I brought her here so you would stop bullying me!”

“That won’t ever happen. We’re besties.” She tells him, pushing her body to his side on the floor, hoisting his niece off his body and earning a thankful smile from him. It’s broad and sweet, even when he pretends to be angered.

“I’m supposed to be her uncle, not her bestie. I deserve respect.”

“Who even respects you, Seonghwa?”

That earns laughter from his niece, who says: “Right, uncle! I agree!” Which have the three of them laughing. She thought it would be more comfortable to spend the night looking down at the phone, calling Jeonghan, trying to make it work…but she decided to do it differently today. If he wanted to be separated through another month of being together, so be it. And she doesn’t feel resentful about it.

For the longest time, she blamed Jeonghan for it until she understood where he was coming from. Until it settled upon her that it hadn’t been the same in a while. She tried, perhaps obsessed over the idea of making it work, and at this point, she wants to let the river flow until it runs dry. Each kiss felt like a thousand bricks falling upon her shoulders, and while she was once someone that Jeonghan loved, she might just be a memory now. Just like how he feels with how distant he is.

Seonghwa lays on his stomach, resting a hand on his cheek before waving his eyebrows. “I was thinking…”

“Ooh, that’s never a good idea.”

“Let me finish.”

“Okay.”

“We could have pizza and not tell my brother, for example.” He’s already reaching for his phone, ready to partake on the plan that has taken over his brain, and she can’t help but smile at him. Seonghwa has this nature to him that is comforting, as if his doings are just meant to heal hearts and never hurt them. She knows better than to translate this friendship into something else, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t say that he had a nice profile for boyfriend material.

If only her heart still wasn’t set on the burdensome feeling of her phone against her hip, even when she’s eating with Seonghwa, who takes big bites before granting some munches to his niece. They talk and they eat, watching TV soon after, and when the clock strikes midnight and Seonghwa promises to take her home after he takes a quick nap, she decides to write him something.

She owes Jeonghan something. An answer. Perhaps, some relief and reassurance that it wasn’t only him that ruined it. Her with her pushing, him with his closed-up nature that wasn’t really him. He used to be the sweetest man, with every ‘I love you so’ meaning more than the last, but somewhere, somehow, things had turned difficult. As if it was their destiny to depart.

Where once had been a heart next to his name, now lays a dot.

To: Jeonghan.

I don’t know if I’ll regret doing this today, or doing this at all…

Hi, Jeonghan. I hope you’re doing fine. You haven’t reached out since yesterday, and I imagine you realize which day it is today. You never forget.

I think it’s better if we break up. We haven’t felt the same towards each other in such a long while…and I miss you, but I miss me more.

Thank you for everything. I really, truly loved you.

She swallows thickly when sending the messages and seeing that he reads them almost immediately. The fact that she can’t bring herself to say the word love in present is enough of a sign, because she can respect and treasure Jeonghan forever, but the romance and adoration hasn’t been the same in a while, and before they get even more burned out, it’s better if she lets him go.

Perhaps, along the way, she can find herself again.

In the dusk of the night, Jeonghan has three dots dancing along for him for however long songs normally last, three minutes of pondering before he responds.

From: Jeonghan.

I’m sorry. I loved you, too.

That’s enough closure, to know that even though it hurt him, he still tried.

A year later.

Snap. The world goes around in the blink of an eye.

His newest assistant, and perhaps the most diligent to date, Seokmin, follows after him while fixing his glasses and hoisting against his chest layers and layers of scripts. “This new scriptwriter is perhaps one of the best I’ve ever read. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed when you go over the script with him.”

“I imagine.” Jeonghan answers, smiling at him and taking a few of the scripts in his hands to lift them up. “Stop rushing, I’m sure we’ll get to the meeting in time.”

“Yes, but you also haven’t had lunch—”

“We can order something. And by ‘we’, I mean you. Obviously, you’d order some for yourself, too. I don’t like eating alone.”

Seokmin chuckles at his words, using one shoulder to push his side as they walk through the studio. “I really like you as a boss, you know that?”

“I happen to do so, too.”

A few doors are opened for him, people tossing glances his way but never lingering too long. This year has been effective for his career, perhaps his best to date, going international and making it to Hollywood has been transcendental. Now that he makes his way through a secluded office in a studio in Seoul, he realizes just how much he missed his roots. Searching for more, and delivering it, even.

Though, it’s not a surprise when the person that everyone talked so proudly about is also one of the rookie writers that worked with him in ‘Near or Far’. Seonghwa had been a little too late with that promise of going over the script but when he did, he made sure to talk greatly about him. He looks more pulled-together now, standing up and bowing at him, his hair pushed back with more precision, a white button down tucked inside beige pants.

“Look who we have here. This guy, I do know!” Jeonghan announces, chuckling when grasping Seonghwa’s hand in between his own.

“Well, you’ve surely got a great memory!” And Seonghwa seems surprised by it, judging by the blush that smears across his face.

“I don’t forget a thing.” Jeonghan lays back and relaxes on the brown-cushioned seat that is served to him behind. Seonghwa takes a more polished stance, crossing over leg over the other and opening the script.

“How’s it going, Mr. Yoon?”

“Jeonghan. It’s going great. I imagine it’s the same for you.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkle at the weight of his smile, saying: “Life’s been great, Jeonghan. Thanks for asking.” Though, he clears his throat, adding a few words after. “I’d like to explain a bit of the synopsis. I received the email from your team about being interested on the role, but I want to weight down the options and see where you stand with the cha—”

Before he could continue speaking, his phone starts ringing, a nervous smile smears across his face and he clasps a hand around it. Accidentally, he shows his screen towards Jeonghan, and that’s enough to tickle his curiosity, tossing a look never hurt anybody, right?

What he sees is her name. His ex’s name. He hasn’t heard or read it in so long, over a year now, and seeing it paired with a pink heart and a picture of her cheek squished against Seonghwa’s as he presses his hands to her waist in front of a beach has him smiling to himself. Great, you’ve found happiness.

It’s all you’ve ever deserved, he thinks to himself.

It’s laughable, almost, that the world is so little yet so grand. Jeonghan’s ex could have fallen for anybody, but she had fallen in the arms of the man that does what Jeonghan would have never. He turns around in his rotative chair, excusing himself before bringing the phone up to his ear and whispering:

“Hi, babe. How are you?” He questions, always aware of her. Jeonghan feels a bit bad, but at the same time relieved. Even though he had been confused at her text a year ago, he also knew that she had the bravery that he could have never been able to muster. They would have rotted in that relationship if it wasn’t for her, and if she had managed to find happiness with another person while he was still healing his heart, so be it. “I’m in a meeting right now. Yes, the one I talked to you about. Can I call you later? Okay, will do. See you later for dinner.”

With that, he hangs up and Jeonghan doesn’t miss a way he tosses a look over his shoulder. Seonghwa knows he is her ex, and while that must be uncomfortable for him, it isn’t. The circumstances were there, and if there was a man out there who could grant her the love that she always gives, then so be it.

“Alright, Seonghwa, tell me all about this movie.”

“You’ve got it.”

#jeonghan scenarios #jeonghan x reader #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #jeonghan #seventeen #kpop scenarios #writing #seventeen au #seventeen angst #jeonghan au #jeonghan angst

[skaldish]

Could you expand upon your ideas around how Venerating a Deity doesn’t mean trying to embody what they represent? I was raised in a church that literally said the word “worship” meant “to try to become like”. So I’m fascinated by how you could worship a deity of a thing and not want to make more of that thing out in the world. I want to learn a new paradigm

Happy to! I love talking about paradigms.

Firstly…

Different religions and denominations conceptualize "worship" differently.

This includes "what you do to worship" but also includes ideas around "what gives worship its value."

"Trying to become like a deity" is something I've seen specifically associated with Evangelism and Fundamentalism (perhaps others, but this is what I know). It's derived from the idea that Christians are warriors of god and that it's their duty to act as his voice and hands on Earth. This is derivative of their doctrinal idea that they need to "save" people by any means necessary. (Teaching people to define who they are through God makes people dependent on God for a core sense of self, which is a huge reason why it's so psychologically awful to leave these denominations. It robs you of everything you are and leaves you with no way of creating yourself anew.

It's one thing to admire a deity and aspire to adopt some of their attributes as a point of personal growth; it's another altogether to teach people that they need to replace their inherent personality with a prescribed ideological construct. I loathe it entirely.)

Now, Catholics don't tend to interpret worship as the act of "trying to be like God." Given what I've observed and what I know of their ideology, worship for them is largely a function of sacrifice. You sacrifice your time, skills, wealth, etc. to God, because giving up things that are difficult to give up is how you show you really mean your devotion.

(I've seen this behavior in Heathens, actually, when they do things like buy top-shelf mead only to pour every last drop of it out on the ground for Odin or similar.)

I also take a lot of issues with this form of worship because I know why it exists: Extortion. The Church learned hundreds of years ago that guilt-tripping people out of their money (in exchange for salvation, an unfalsifiable concept that they neither had to prove nor procure) was an excellent way to get rich and powerful with impunity.

Clearly you caught me on a day I'm feeling extra-spicy towards Christianity. But I bring those two up in detail because I know a lot of my followers come from these backgrounds, and having more points of differentiation is important.

See, the real pitfall here lies in thinking that Christianity represents the "default" for how religions work, when in reality it's the grand exception, given all of human history.

The other religions I know about (with the exception of Judaism) are distinctly polytheistic: Shinto, Hinduism, Buddhism, and various flavors of Paganism. These all have different models of worship because they all have different, culturally-informed philosophies about how divinity works. Religions are inseparable from the cultures that create them for this reason, and why switching religions is a function of adopting a completely new mindset, not just a new set of gods to venerate.

Norse Heathen Worship

Since this is a Heathen blog I'm obligated to talk a bit about this.

How we worship as Norse Heathens is still a matter of debate, but that's because we're still figuring out how to define "worship" within the context of how it operates as a spirituality.

At no point did Norse Heathenry have a governing body, a religious figure, or a holy book to guide practice. Things developed organically, unique to their time-period and location, and stories were (and are) passed down via oral tradition rather than written down.

Many Heathens mistakenly think we're missing religious mandates, hence why they're so bent on trying to find them or devise them. I think this is a mistake.

A religion's architecture derives from the values, worldviews, and agendas of the culture/people behind it. The reason why a Christian's relationship with God looks like a Lord/servant dynamic is because the religion was shaped by lawmakers, and "loyalty towards the law" was a value they wanted to instill in the general population. Christianity was used to shape politics, so politics in turn shaped Christianity.

Norse Heathenry didn't have this function, so rather than reflecting political values, it reflects cultural ones. The stories are allegorical representations of cultural ideas, which themselves are based in the context of animism—the idea that everything operates as an ecosystem, and divinity is inseparable from that ecosystem.

This is all to say that the way Heathens worship is largely a byproduct of how they interface with that ecosystem. How this looks is something we choose based on what we find connection with, as opposed to mandates given to us.

Some people might find this kind of answer unsatisfying because it doesn't lead to any directive on "how to worship," but that might be because we're used to thinking of worship as a "duty," as opposed to what is actually, anthropologically is: A type of enrichment.

How I Worship

The way I go about worship is the same way I go about any kind of social bonding; through collaboration. In my mind, venerating deities is functionally identical to socializing with them, and like any socialization, how that's done varies from deity to deity. Anything I do in my practice—offerings, devotional art, etc—is informed by what I perceive them liking.

(Keep in mind I'm a hard polytheist, and I'm a hard polytheist because it's the only descriptor that could describe how I experience deities; as beings with autonomy divorced from my own will. A soft polytheist would conceptualize this entire thing differently.)

I also personally conceptualize "veneration" "devotion" and "worship" all differently, which is why you'll see me use the word "veneration" to describe what most people call "worship:"

Veneration is the general state of reverence or respect for something we hold spiritually important, such as a spirit, deity, or ancestor.

Devotion is a kind of enthusiastic dedication that emerges from love.

Worship is a ritual activity done as a gift for a god.

But this is just how I understand things for myself. They're not a reflection of how these things are thought of in Norse Heathenry. (In fact, they're mostly a product of the fact I initially learned about worship through observation, rather than experience. But I figured I'd bring it up anyway to provide an additional dimension to your paradigm explorations.)

I'm not sure what else to say so, uh…feel free to follow up with questions in case you want me to dive more into something.

#answered #norse paganism #norse polytheism #norse pagan #norse gods #norse heathenry

[writing-for-life]

Hey there! I hope you’re having a good day. I just saw a post you made about Dream’s type romantically. Thoughts on Calliope and Dream’s relationship specifically? It always stands out to me how though Dream has had a number of lovers throughout the millennia, Calliope is the only one he married. (And of course, Melissanthi Mahut and Tom Sturridge’s blistering chemistry in the show is an additional component for me xD but feel free to respond only based on the comics if you wish!)

Hey, always happy to see your asks in my inbox!

So, first of all; I don’t care what everyone else thinks:

Dream and Calliope are the OTP even though I’m not a shipper. There, I said it, hit me over the head with a hammer, I live well in that tiny little corner of fandom 🤣

Conceptually, they are very, very alike. There is definitely something in there about dreams marrying epic poetry (and eloquence!) that’s just so on the nose.

But I also can’t help thinking: Slight power imbalance maybe, and we also get this more directly via the “all gods get born and die in the Dreaming.” I think often about how this would have played out for them once Calliope’s last worshippers have died—it’s certainly a tough one, even if their relationship hadn’t soured.

But even so: She is the Muse of Epic Poetry, he is the Prince of Stories, so there is A LOT of overlap between what they stand for. And hence, a lot of mutual understanding. They always struck me as *getting* each other (probably why they fell in love in the first place)—until they didn’t. The fact they didn’t live together was good for them I think, because thoughts need to be allowed freedom to form and develop. Plus, there’s also a lot to be said for Calliope keeping her independence that way. Not just in terms of personhood, but again if you think of how she was essentially created in, and will return to, the Dreaming. It’s probably wise for her (in conceptual terms) not to hang out there ALL the time?

She seems a lot more grounded in the mortal world than Dream is though. I always thought that was down to the fact that humans know her, as in actively worship her/ask her for inspiration, which must make her much closer in a way? Because bar a few, no one really *knows* Dream exists, although everyone does, if that makes any sense? Mortals know him on a subconscious level (that’s why he’s forever nebulous and *lonely*), but people know Calliope as a deity and seek connection explicitly. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here, but to me, that was always a reason why, although a goddess, she seemed far less removed from the mortal plight than Dream was (at least when they were still an item—we all know he changed, even if he didn’t admit it [well, he did in the end to Nuala, which is a whole ‘nother topic]).

And when I think about why they didn’t work out, I can only think: “Orpheus”.

I mean yes, she said that they were already starting to drift apart slightly before she was with child, but there was still a lot of love between them even so. I think the death knell was to have a child on these wonky foundations. Why they did, we’ll never know.

Conceptually, there’s again something very deep and painful about dreams and poetry becoming something real. And then, that mortal child becoming immortal (until his father finally intervenes). But Orpheus was still all mortal and human to his core, even when he became immortal for a while, and that was *always* at the base of their rift. But I digress…

Back to why was Orpheus the death of their marriage? Dream’s advice to Orpheus was sound, yet it was unfeeling and lacked empathy. Calliope’s was maybe (?) not as reasonable, but she understood her child because a mother’s love is (usually) unconditional. We all know Dream’s wasn’t for a long time although it should have been.

I think if they’d all sat together as a family, supported their son in his grief in a balanced way, this whole catastrophe could have been avoided (I mean no, not really—it’s a tragedy, “doomed by the narrative” and all that). But all of Dream’s relationships (be that to his son or his lovers) fail because he is unreality (hence he has a hard time when things quite literally get real), and despite *knowing* mortals on a very deep level, I don’t believe he truly *understood* them at this point. But I think Calliope did—maybe due to who she was, maybe just because she actually *allowed* them in? Because Dream never truly did that. And when he finally did and truly understood what unconditional love actually means, he came apart at the seams and unravelled.

There’s also something really interesting conceptually in thinking of the Prince of Stories who doesn’t believe he has his own, and the Muse of Epic Poetry who inspires. Who is trying to control whom in this scenario? It’s mirrored in how they behave when the whole Orpheus tragedy takes off:

Calliope tries to inspire and, dare I say try to control the narrative a bit, and I don’t mean this in a bad way, quite the opposite: She looks for the most favourable outcome for everyone involved, even if it means bending the rules: She tries to convince Dream to put in a good word with Hades and believes he would listen because Gods respect him and, dare I say it, are even a bit scared of him.

Dream is rigid. Which is so mind-bending for someone who is the personification of hopes, wishes and possibility. But he is an immovable object: If he’s right, he’s right. That’s the rules, that’s it. And he won’t bend them, not even for his son. I’m not saying that it’s not understandable from his point of view, because he might know things we don’t (potentially also that although he *could* bend the rules because he has the power to do so, it might have knock-on effects no one else can understand or see—it’s impossible to say), only that they are fundamentally different in their approach although they are *both* about inspiration. And inspiration is so closely related to bringing on change (ouch!).

Part of me wants to say that Calliope uses it to control the narrative while Dream doesn’t, that Calliope believes that we can change our destiny while Dream doesn’t, but that’s also too simple. Because Dream *can* be controlling, but in totally different ways and areas.

I feel like I’m rambling out a lot of unordered thoughts, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that Dream and Calliope were so close because they are so similar in so many ways bar one:

Their understanding how inspiration can be used to bring on change. I would somehow go as far as saying that Calliope understands what it means to have personhood, also for herself, and that’s why she understands it in others (I think this is made *very* clear when Richard Madoc holds her hostage). Dream doesn’t—least not at the point where it would have mattered with regards to their relationship, because I think the fishbowl has changed him in that regard. This is also why he wants to make things right with her I believe. But of course he would never openly admit it (he basically stops himself before blurting it out), simply because it would also mean he’d need to admit it to himself…

With regard to that meta:

I definitely think they were highly romantically attracted, purely down to who/what they are. I can’t say too much about their sexual attraction, but after Calliope’s speech at his wake, it would be somewhat unlikely to assume they weren’t 🙈🤣

Was it unconditional though? No.

Was it pragmatic (that sounds so bad and unfeeling, but it’s not a bad thing, because a certain level of pragmatism is what grounds love in reality and makes it last)? I think they tried. But ultimately, he can never live that way because he is unreality, and I often wonder if they both knew 😭

@two-hands-toward-the-sun ask answered

#the sandman #sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #sandman meta #calliope sandman #calliope #sandman analysis #sandman character analysis #ask answered #asks always open

[nobrashfestivity]

I hope this does not resonate with some meanness that i do not intend but I feel i should make a brief statement here about who I *Ahem* block.

 I want to say first that most of you are great, real art lovers, people with interesting facts and insights and personal stories that enhance everyone’s appreciation. I’m grateful my followers here are these people, many of you have great blogs that have introduced me to things I didn’t know about,  but there are a couple of things I just don’t like to see here.

Most of these categories are obvious, bigots, hateful speech etc., but something less onerous that does get on my nerves after a while, are people that feel a need to talk about how bad the art is. I know this may seem minor and it’s a free country and all that, but it bothers me on couple of levels to the point where if it keeps on happening, I block the people doing it. I’m sure this is not great offense to them and most of them probably never even notice, but I’ll just explain why, not be grandiose, but to avoid further misunderstandings.

The main issue is a pretty broad internet trend, which is the idea that if you have an opinion, you must share it. There’s nothing wrong with your opinion and in fact i have posted art myself that I don’t particularly like but I find interesting or significant in some way. Thought provoking is a good category itself even if it does not check your aesthetic boxes. But i’d ask people to examine what is supposedly added, outside of ego satisfaction, by showing up just to try to knock holes in something other people enjoy.  I’m not talking here about a discussion. I think discussions are great about why someone likes or doesn’t get something. God knows I have a long list of art I can’t stand and am happy to chat about it. But, what I don’t do is find Jeff Koons paintings on tumblr and reply to them all “Garbage”. As tempting as that might be,  It’s not adding anything and it might be inhibiting to someone from discovering something new they might like, when they have to read random hatred about it. i know it seems like a mild thing but I think it’s good for all of us to remember we don’t hold the definitive stance on art. 

I find this particularly absurd and egotistical when it comes to everyone’s favorite easy target, abstract expressionism. You don’t have to like it! But Mark Rothko painted his last painting over 50 years ago. I guarantee you every learned pro or con is already on the books. Your “My kid could do that” comment embarrasses you, not him. It’s an annoyance to everyone to get these “I’m an artist and...”. Trust me, everyone is an artist, it’s not a special taste license. And, it also brings up the obvious point that, formalistically, your argument on de Kooning has no merit. Basically arguing that the only good painting is the one that really, really looks like the thing it is supposed to represent is, at best, an intellectual house of cards.

So please let people enjoy what they enjoy. I came late in life to certain things  like On Kawara, who didn’t make a lot of sense to me until I saw in person how beautifully he painted. In sense there was a line for me to Japanese art traditions of craftsmanship that I already admired and he was following. It lent weight to his presentation of conceptual art. It became not just the idea but the beauty of the object and that made me love him. 

Mostly, artists are just trying to express themselves and if they don’t do it in exactly the way you prefer, consider chalking that up to a difference in opinion.

As Orson Welles said, “When in doubt, don’t do anything.”

#personal

[isobug]

Dichotomyless / Non-Dichotomy

A representative flag for those who are totally outside of dichotomy categorization of any kind ( Dichotomyless ) and / or not conforming to the orientation / gender / etc. dichotomy in any way ( Non-Dichotomy. )

These terms were not coined by me, but were defined by Anon via my inbox. This was requested as Anon wanted something more specific than Absrose.

The symbol on the flag is "≅". I believe this is a great symbol to represent being Dichotomyless / Non-Dichotomy as it means "approximately equal to" in mathematics. The antonyms of "Dichotomy" are "equality, similarity, harmony, and agreement". This represents those concepts, but avoids exact sameness.

( I want to avoid the creation of a new dichotomy of "similar vs. dissimilar" via the modifier "approximate", which means "close but not exactly the same" aka both and also neither. This can be conceptually similar to or the same as Recursion if you find that useful to describe your experience! )

The symbol itself can also represent the experience of being one who is Dichotomyless / Non-Dichotomy, with the tilde representing the individual(s) in question being literally above or removed from any or a Dichotomy ( represented by the two parallel lines ), but also not totally removed ( again, to avoid another dichotomy of "removed vs. attached". )

I've also chosen "≅" because it's already easily available / accessible as a text symbol, so one could easily put it in their bio, their icon, or recreate it irl for handmade pride accessories and the like.

The flag itself has the blue and purple-pink stripes at the top / bottom to represent any relevant dichotomy or all dichotomies. These colors are often used to show "opposites". The orange-yellow stripe is a color intentionally removed from blue/pink/purple and is "above" the dichotomy stripes, but still slightly overlapping with both ( as well as neither / the rest of the flag. )

The grey expanse is meant to show the "grey area" of every dichotomy, people often think in "black and white" when I've found that every established dichotomy has it's grey areas or those who are literally unable to be fit into "either/or" systems. It is both removed from the other stripes but touching all of them, again representing a lack of dichotomy.

The teal stripe/circle holding the symbol is above but overlapping with the orange-yellow stripe to represent how, even if one were to try and make any Dichotomyless / Non-Dichotomy experience / identity into a Dichotomy ( via "label crunching" and the like ), one would still be Dichotomyless / Non-Dichotomy even in relation to that newly created dichotomy. ( Again, you may related this to the concept of recursion if you'd like. )

I'm sorry if this is a little high-concept or if i've repeated myself somewhat here. These are intentionally broad terms and I want to make sure I'm properly explaining all of my thoughts and reasonings. I'm happy to tweak any language if something isn't totally clear! ( I may have made a few typos, this was a lot to type. )

Taglist - @radiomogai, @revenant-coining

#mogai coining #liom coining #mogai friendly #liom friendly #mogai pride #liom pride #mogai flag #liom flag #mogai #liom #mogai community #liom community #mogaisafe #liomsafe

[kelpie-bael]

@strawbubbysugar I should be sleeping but I can't so I threw together a quick fic of a personal head cannon I have of your au. (I have grey/blue eyes so i think it'd be cute that the reader has grey eyes and after the reader confirms Moon as their soulmate blue starts to appear in them)

This is after Moon soulmate confession while Sun is still not confirmed. I hope you like it!

It's during a small break you're spending with Sun that he notices something different about you. At first you don't really pay attention to it. Continuing to talk about what you enjoy about being a mechanic. Despite the handicaps of being colorblind, you enjoy working with wires. Fixing the little panels that get bent out of place and replacing components with newer better models, all things that bring fun into your work. You're about to continue on about the intricacy of soldering wires together when Sun interrupts you. It's not the energetic and soft way you're used to his speaking with. No he calls your name with awe and surprise, making you turn to look at him with a small smile and raised eyebrow.

"What's up Honeybee?" 

You're not too bothered by the interruption. He always listens to you so well and always so interested in whatever you say that you're curious what could distract him enough to get your attention.

"Your eyes…they're different."

Out of reflex, you touch a hand across your eyes feeling for any scratches or bits of scrap covering them. A pretty common occurrence. But you feel nothing so you pull your phone out of your back pocket and open the camera. And you don't really notice anything unusual. You're still the same shades of grey you always are and nothing is out of place. Shifting your eyes back to Sun, you let concern coat your words as you reach a hand out to his face. You're careful not to touch him unless he wants you to and he leans forward without hesitation to rest his cheek against your hand.

"You sure your sensors are working correctly? I don't see anything that unusual. I can take a quick look and fix it up?"

It takes him a moment to process your words and then he's pulling away, gripping your hand in his own a little tighter than comfortable as if he doesn't want to let go.

"No, no! Everything's working fine, I promise! It's just your eyes have a swirl of blue in them."

You give him a smirk and tease lightly.

"And that is different from normal? I can't exactly see what color my eyes usually are Sunny."

He tilts his head to the side and then drops your hand, reaching out instead for your phone. You glance from him to your phone then give it over to him easily. He takes it eagerly and slides up next to you, a little closer than is appropriate. You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you stifle the movements of your fidgeting hands. Don't think of how nice it is to have him close, to touch shoulders. Think of Moon and how happy you are to even have a soulmate. You shouldn't regret not having another. He pulls your attention away with a finger pointing to your eyes displayed on the phone screen.

"Look here," and he traces a swirl of darker grey around your pupil that you missed before. "This is blue. It's quite pretty…Ah, but the usual color is grey. It reminds me off the pictures the kids show me of storms. Grey mixed so prettily with blue."

Transfixed, you trace a finger along the swirl and resist doing the same to your actual eye. 

"Pretty?" You look into his eyes with wonder. "I can't imagine it…"

There's a slight pull of sadness in your chest as you try to conceptualize what it would look like and fail. You've had your whole life to get used to being different and you manage for the most part, but for some reason calling it pretty makes you desperate to know more. Loud whirring of his fans startles you out of the thoughts and you pull away slightly embarrassed for a reason you can't explain. 

He's turned away from you now with your phone held out for you to take and you do so. The screen feeling too cold against the heat of your flusterment. Then he's pulling away, going off to the children's nook.

"Sun?" 

You call out hesitantly, worries that you pushed him away somehow. He shuffles through a box of papers and pulls a stack out, triumphantly shouting a little and holding it over his. Skipping back over to you quickly, he shows you the first paper. It's a children's drawing, the lines wonky and crooked but you can easily identify the clouds and water droplets falling down.

"Whenever there's a storm, the kids like to draw the storm clouds and rain! A few have left their drawings here for me to keep!" He pulls out another drawing, but this one has a little girl splashing in a puddle. "I can't quite find the best visual aid, but the swirl is kind of like the ripple of this puddle. I can imagine a few drops of rain landing in the puddle of your eyes dyeing it with blue!" 

He taps the drawing funnily with his fingers and makes little droplet noises and you laugh at the silliness.

"Is that so?"

"Mmhm!" He nods fervently and his sun rays spin lazily as he looks fondly into your eyes. "Very pretty!"

And wow, is it hotter in here? Because it feels like it's 10 degrees hotter. You flash him a nervous smile and fan yourself, making an excuse to escape the feelings bubbling inside you.

"Oh hahaha um suddenly I'm feeling quite hot, I should go get some water. My breaks pretty much over anyway. SeeYouLater!"

You rush out of the daycare as fast as you can without outright running away and you miss Sun reaching out to you, the words asking you to come back getting stuck in his throat as Moon begins to Wreck havoc in his thoughts

#fnaf sb #fnaf sun #fnaf reader #so(u)l #fanfic of fanfic #i really hope its good because it has stopped me from sleeping for the past two hours lol #headcannons

[agentravensong]

hello, fellow hatchetfield fans! here are my stray nerdy prudes must die thoughts, which i'm going to try to keep brief (she said, before spending an hour writing this)

the production level of the show as a whole really blew me away. the lighting; demon!max's costume and makeup; even the way it was shot and edited felt even more electric than past shows

this is the only one of the full-length hatchetfield musicals to have one consistent antagonist throughout (black friday has linda but half the leads don't know about her at all until the climax, plus there's wilbur and wiggly). and i gotta say, max's actor really killed it. hilarious, terrifying, and even with moments of nuance. he repeatedly stole the show.

some of the songs are already stuck in my head. off the top of my head i can't think of any that stood out in a bad/unmemorable way (though i could just be forgetting them, lol). ruth's song in particular i think is gonna really stick with me once i listen to it a few more times.

and i love the way the "i'm not a loser" motif gets used throughout the show. the closest any of the songs got me to having the visceral reaction i have to "did you know that i wanted to live with you" in "not your seed" and the bridge + ending of "let it out" ("i've never been happy...") was when richie sings that line right before... well.

speaking of richie: as a paul stan, what this show proved to me more than anything is that when jon matteson plays a sympathetic lead (or side character - hi daniel/stopwatch), he will always break my heart. he's just. really good.

thinking about how in the last of the originally planned 3 hatchetfield shows, initially conceptualized as the first, jon's character is the first one to sing, whereas in the first of those shows, conceptualized as the last, the whole crux of the musical is him refusing to sing, the audience essentially waiting for the moment he breaks and does it. thinking about how the opening of npmd tells us richie is going to die, already dying, already dead, while the opening number of tgwdlm tells us paul is the target, the Doomed Hero, the "star of the show" "destined to go viral" [read: get infected], whose story is going to be told, already written.

thinking about how singing dooms paul, and how richie singing "i'm not a loser", reigniting max's ire, is the final nail in his coffin.

...i'm normal.

there's a lot of meta jokes and nods of that sort throughout the show. maybe a few too many? like, at a certain point, as a fan, i do feel like i'm being pandered to a bit.

i liked the lords in black's scene, it was a lot of fun! it's always great to see jon get to let loose with crazy characters, and the others were great too. but i do wonder how it plays for people who haven't been following nightmare time stuff. like, i get that in one world this was our introduction to these characters, but even in that world, i wonder if including all five of them with their specific names and allusions to their individual deals is a bit too much for what the plot of this show needs. there's something to be said for not showing all your cards right away.

on the other hand, i feel like the paulkins coffee scene actually fully earned its inclusion: because when pete comes in asking for his hot chocolate, it reads differently when we're coming at it from having followed his perspective up to this point versus having been following paul in tgwdlm, in a way that strengthens both scenes. it's a nice reminder that emma and paul can be... rude, i guess. assholes, even (she really didn't need to spit in it). that idea of perspectives affecting how we categorize people arguably even plays into the themes of this show! how about that.

ah, yes, Themes. there are Themes to be drawn out of this show about the experience of high school, especially in an intertextual comparison to how tom and becky talk about their time in high school in black friday. something about how the two of them see it as this idealistic time they want to go back to, whereas the teens (the nerds/outcasts) in npmd sing that they'll "still despise it when [they're] gone". something about how in ruth's solo number, the fantasy future she imagines for herself (even in the context of it being a performance for an audience of no one) is of a standard, arguably dreary, middle-aged existence. there's definitely stuff there to be dissected.

and also there's arguably a theme of continuing cycles of cruelty, brought into focus by the ending, but also implied with the way the adults failed the kids (see max referencing his dad belittling him).

...but also, i feel like they could have done more with that.

that's my one big thing with this show, and it could very easily just be that the genre of this show isn't as much my jam, but i'll say it anyway: i wanted more from the characters, and more emotional weight in regards to certain things.

like, between this and tgwdlm, i think tgwdlm is still the better written show. there's just, a subtly to the characters there, a grounded human-ness, that i didn't quite get from all of the teens here.

as much as i clearly have a soft spot for richie, that's mostly on jon; as written, there really isn't much there, beyond "anime nerd" and "generally nice kid who wants to be liked". the scene right before he dies is comedic in how obvious it's setting things up, but its obvious-ness also makes it feel kind of cheap in terms of pulling on the heartstrings. similarly, ruth is initially just a gimmick (though hers at least ties into a deeper insecurity) and only gets her real moment of depth right before she dies. neither of them feel like they have much affect / haunting presence on the surviving teens once they're dead, past the initial shock of the reveals of their deaths.

and steph and pete are good, but... idk. i wanted a bit more from each of them. if they got to have a talk like paul and emma before "join us and die" - not even for the sake of the romance, but just for the sake of giving us more on each of them outside of their basic stereotypes and the romance - that would've helped, i think.

grace was great, though, no qualms. initially there was a part of me that was disappointed that the stereotype max was pushing on her about her being secretly repressed and horny was in fact true, but the way it gets used makes up for it, and in between max's death and when that specific thing comes up again in the climax, she gets to do a lot with the two conflicting sides of her personality, wanting to be good but having a capacity and arguable instinct for scheming and ruthlessness.

(also, as i mentioned earlier, max has a surprising amount going on, especially once you get into the Implications)

it could just be that i see those depths in the tgwdlm cast because i've had more time to chew on that cast, and that in time i'll see these teens in the same light. but i don't think it's just that.

i think part of it is how there are so many jokes about the teens being nerdy prudes (really, mostly just nerds). and like, that's part of the point, obviously, that they were being forced into those boxes and that they were still people with the potential to be more. but... i don't know if the show does enough to really make that point. again, richie doesn't really get to be more (and it's not for lack of time - there's a good amount of show before max comes back as the demon and kills for the first time).

in tgwdlm, the mains are all arguably based on stock characters, but they have more depth through their relationships. look at ted, the stock asshole sleazeball, who's shown to feel genuine remorse when he loses people he loves, in a way that contextualizes his bitterness. and there's a lot less highlighting of the stockness of them in their show than there is of the teens in npmd.

and the thing is, i think the cast of npmd at their foundations are more likable than the cast of tgwdlm (see the earlier point about emma and paul being assholes at times). they had a lot of potential. but i don't think enough of it is realized for the majority of them. the edges the tgwdlm cast has are part of what makes them compelling, and it's something the teens (minus grace) are largely missing.

the thing is, i know the fandom is going to see that potential and run with it. i know that they're gonna develop the teens' characterizations and relationships. i know they'll get into the trauma and the implications from everything that happened to them in the show. i know they'll get into... pete's survivor's guilt, and steph losing her dad(!!!), and what richie and ruth could have been, and all that. i know that they'll fill in the gaps. because that's what fans do. i guess i just wish there weren't so many gaps to fill. or, that the gaps wouldn't take so much effort from them to fill.

again, i acknowledge, maybe i'm expecting too much from the genre of show this is. it doesn't need to have A Point, i guess, it can just be fun, a comedic horror slasher in musical form. and it is fun, a lot of fun! ...but, tgwdlm was also a lot of fun. not as bombastic, for sure, but i'd say just as humorous. and it was also incredibly tightly written, and satisfying, with strong character arcs for multiple leads. it had commentary on musicals, on what makes a protagonist and what it means to be one, on conformity and institutions of authority, on romance even (you could do a very interesting aromantic reading of this show, trust me). and with a show that's titled nerdy prudes must die, that is About high school, there's, similarly, a lot you can do. and there's a fair amount of seeds planted there. but i don't think it all quite coheres. and it could've, if they really wanted it to.

...i did not keep that brief. ah well. i might disagree with half of this by the time i wake up tomorrow, i just needed to get it out of me. tl;dr, in my opinion, this show is stronger than black friday, but tgwdlm is still my favorite. all the cast and crew put a lot of love into this production and it really shows. i had a great time! :D but i'm always going to overanalyze things i care about as much as i care about the hatchetfield universe, and hence, here we are.

#starkid #nerdy prudes must die #tgwdlm #npmd spoilers #nerdy prudes spoilers #if people have deeper reads of the teens based on stuff in the show itself that i didn't pick up on #i'd love to hear them! #for reference if anyone's curious: my absolute fav hatchetfield characters are #paul - hannah - lex - and ms halloway

[woah-uhuh-uhuh-uhuh]

♡ & ღ for meremine :3

Oh boy!!! Okay I haven't really conceptualized meremine in depth before so this is a bit of a challenge lol

♡: who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly?

Openly: JEREMY. Jeremy. He can't hide his feelings for shit, and he doesn't even want to, because honestly he gets a little possessive and he wants to show them off. Obviously though, that means he can't be very SECRETLY romantic... He definitely tries to hide the extent of his Christine obsession (to no avail), but he'd be overly upfront about how much he loves Michael in an attempt to soothe the wound of... everything.

Secretly: Michael, probably?? If we're going with fanon, he's been successfully hiding his feelings for like 8 years. And even in the relationship, he'd be a little scared to put himself all the way out there because it'll just hurt like hell if he ends up rejected AGAIN. So he's a little reserved in his affection, and often he'll temper it with an ironic undertone (for example by doing an INSANELY elaborate public promposal with the gushiest possible imagery, instead of something more personal and vulnerable).

And don't kill me for not-gay Michael, but I could also see him mysteriously catching feelings for Christine in the middle of the relationship. That's kind of too much for him to bother figuring out at first, both because it's a challenge to his identity, and because, well... things could get messy.

On top of that, even though Jeremy is dating both of them, I think Michael would worry about making Jeremy jealous. And honestly, I don't think he's wrong. When Michael and Christine start liking each other, Jeremy would get really scared that he accidentally just introduced the two loves of his life to each other, and now they're each going to realize how amazing the other is and leave him.

Christine isn't the biggest romantic on either front. I don't think she understands her own feelings very well, so it feels like a bad idea to go too hard on the affection; much like everything in her life, it feels a bit like acting. And that feels wrong.

If you want to complete the meremine triangle, I don't think she'd be secretive about catching feelings for Michael, either, even if she picked up on Jeremy's insecurity. Unlike Michael, she doesn't really embrace the idea of hiding away some facet of herself for the rest of her life just to make Jeremy happy (sorry Michael 💀💀💀)

ღ: who is more likely to initiate hand-holding in public?

Similar answers to the previous lol. At first, Jeremy would not hold anybody's hands to the point where they think maybe he's having second thoughts about the relationship --- until they realize he just doesn't know if he's allowed to do that yet (answer: yes). So they have a very explicit conversation about boundaries, and after that he holds their hands at most opportunities. It's a dramatic switch. He doesn't notice that it's weird to do that constantly, like, even when he's going up to the teacher after class with Christine's hand still in his. But he does get embarrassed when people point it out, and when Christine or Michael swing his hand with theirs. Sometimes he'll refuse to hold hands a few days after someone points it out.

Christine initiates it pretty often too, though. She enjoys the cliche of arm-swinging down the hallway and how embarrassed it makes everyone else. She also really appreciates a nice hand-hold when she's feeling small and alone, which is somewhat often in school, and she's a physically affectionate person in general.

But she has some mixed feelings about doing it constantly and unironically --- because just in general in meremine, I think she feels threatened by gender roles. She definitely picks up on Jeremy's possessiveness, and perhaps Michael's initial sort of disinterest in women (f), so she pays a lot of attention to stuff like splitting the check and anything that makes her seem like "the girlfriend" instead of a person. So hand-holding can be a little iffy, but in some contexts it also helps her affirm control, like using it to comfort or embarrass them.

Michael's tough because I like extremely touchy Michael but also Michael who hates touching.... Really hard choice honestly. I guess in general I don't think he'd be the one to initiate public hand holding most of the time. For one, I think he spends most of his time in public trying to pretend he's somewhere else; second, I don't think he'd derive much pleasure from sustained contact like that, as opposed to a bigger, more instantaneous gesture like picking Jeremy up/tasing/going "guess who" or whatever. He would enjoy stuff like that --- and arm swinging! --- for the sake of making Jeremy die of humiliation.

Him and Christine both do lovey-dovey arm swinging to Jeremy, and one time with each other; the latter they realized wasn't worth it because it was only ironic but made Jeremy feel left out lmao. In their individual interactions with Jeremy, Michael's the only one to push it a little too far sometimes; Christine is just a little more sympathetic to Jeremy's concern about his public image.

That said, post Christine-Michael union, they're a LOT more awkward about it than they are with Jeremy, and I think maybe they would both initiate it with each other because it's scary and new and they're still trying to figure out what how exactly the other is feeling. Which is of course humiliating to both of them because neither is used to that role.

#bmc #meremine #christine canigula #michael mell #jeremy heere #my posts #posts #meta #headcanons #bmc asks #ask #ask game #text #christine #jeremy #michael #note: liking a girl does not necessarily make michael not-gay. i was just putting it in strict terms there #also jeremy is so needy sorry he's kind of a relationship time bomb in my opinion #he needs to figure some stuff out first

[chaifootsteps]

there seems to be this thing with fandoms where if a character is presented as soft and is also good-looking (major ymmv for this in Stolas' case, but bear with me) a fandom will collectively refuse to consider they could be abusive or see anything they do as wrong

like just because Stolas whines a lot and hides his objectification of Blitz behind baby talk and TMI phonecalls it somehow rewrites Blitz's annoyance or revulsion towards him as him 'being tsundere' or 'being mean' to Stolas. But ignoring Blitz getting shot at to pressure him into a deal for monthly sex which leaves Blitz visibly perturbed doesn't count as being mean to them???

I mean I guess it makes sense - the show itself has a kindergarten understanding portrayal and perspective on abuse to the point where none of the characters intended to be abusive feel convincingly like real people because none of their motives are consistent (Stella and Crimson in particular) - so of course the show can't conceptualize abuse as anything other than cartoonish levels of cruelty. it's the part of the show I find far worse than the massive plot holes and lousy worldbuilding, but it actively spits in the face of survivors who've had the people around them manipulated by the crocodile tears and smiles of their abuser, and told they should be nicer and not hurt the feelings of the person they'd rather not have in their life at all

if I can get heavy for a second, it baffles me that a woman could write a scenario where a character repeatedly refuses or is disgusted by the advances of a powerful rich man and decided to empathize with the rich man in that scenario, liking talking points used against Blitz that are usually weaponized verbatim against girls and women when they're trying to turn down someone's advances without being hurt themselves: 'you weren't clear enough', 'you hurt their feelings', 'why couldn't you just like them back when they like you so much?', 'you could have talked your way out of this if you really wanted', etc. It's like nothing short of Blitz surrendering himself to be Stolas' object to make Stolas happy will make them happy.

If the show is trying to convince us Blitz has any real feelings for Stolas at all, it's done a lousy job of it so far. most we've gotten is some indifference to sharing a smoke with Stolas after sex in Harvest Moon and him being shocked (which makes 0 sense) that Stolas could be injured. I can't recall a single instance where being around Stolas actually made Blitz happy or joyful

It's baffling until you remember that this is the same woman who wrote a comic about how catcalling was fine.

Vivzie's had an obscene amount of opportunities to show Blitzo and Stolas interacting on a kinder level and she's squandered every last one. As the original draft of Harvest Moon shows, she's actively removed some of them from the final cut.

#Anonymous #Helluva Boss critical #stolitz critical #actual blog post