you were having the worst day ever. everything that could go wrong did go wrong. starting with you sleeping through your alarm. then during sparing, you managed to sustain an injury bad enough that Aizawa had to send you off to Recovery Girl. not before scolding you for your subpar performance. after dealing with Recovery Girl's treatment, you just wanted the day to end. to snuggle underneath the covers in your dorm with a movie playing in the background. hoping the sun would cross the horizon quicker.
but Bakugou had noticed how defeated you had looked. with drooped shoulders as you went through the motions, entirely unfocused. an odd sense of worry flooding through him. embolden with instinct to go check on you. if nothing was wrong then no harm, no foul. he would get to spend time with his partner. and if there was a problem, he could threaten to harm whoever was behind it. unable to find you still at Recovery Girl's station, she informed him he could probably find you back at the dorms. as Bakugou stomped across the floorboards, he picked up on the sound of crying. said sound increased as he made his way to your room. 'y/n, open this door before I burn it down!' Bakugou growled as he banged his fist on the door.
you got up to open the door, before returning back to your alcove of a bed. closing the curtain halfway, a stuffed animal clutched close to your chest. 'what's wrong? and don't say nothing, it's been following you around like a dark cloud.' Bakugou removed his shoes before joining you in your bed, sitting on the opposite side with his feet against your side. 'just one of those days where the universe ultimately has it out for me. Not only did I get myself injured, I totally bombed all the tests we had today. Even though I studied my ass off.' Bakugou didn't want your day to end on such a sour note. He had to do something to change that. 'i don't think it was all bad,' you looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, 'yea, you might've stupidly injured yourself. but you still held your own for most of the fight. and you did it sleep deprived.'
this being extremely out of character, you just had to ask. 'what are you trying to say Kacchan?'
'that i'm proud of you.' Bakugou says before spending the rest of the night with you, going against his grandfathered in routine. watching trash tv, purposely talking shit about the contestants to make you laugh. despite previously claiming he'd be caught dead watching it. junk food wrappers collecting on the ground to be picked up later.
the thought of Reader who is considered calm and collected to everyone around them. always has their shit together. never seems to stress over anything. a real go with the flow type of person. their coworkers and friends know they can depend on Reader to help out when needed.
picking up the slack when things get hectic or shit seems to hit the fan. yeah, Reader has their rough days but even then, they still seem fine. as cool as a cucumber.
they're all clueless as to why Murdock laughs whenever he hears this. to the blind lawyer, Reader is anything but calm. to him, they're the most anxious person he knows. their frantic heartbeat and short breathing clearly gives them away.
it seems quite contradictory that they chose to work in a law firm. Reader would've had to know how stressful an environment it was before even applying for the job. granted, they never have to go on the stand. having more of a managerial role. they don't have a law degree. yet they still worked the same long hours.
Reader doesn't really think much when it comes to Matt. except that he seems to be too observant for his own good. not that it's a bad trait. but it makes them uneasy. never knowing what random tidbits of information he'll commit to memory. ones that Reader thinks are innocuous.
so they try to be cordial, keep everything related to work. never asking about what he does on his days off. and Matt knows that he makes Reader anxious. more anxious than their other coworkers. and he wants to know why. unfortunately they won't give him the time of day.
that's fine, he'll just find a way in as Daredevil.
imagine it being an okay day until you finally finish the work you needed to get done and take a very much needed breather. the pain seeping into your joints as you make your way over to one of the guys' rooms. not caring who's as over the years you've known Skz, your stuffies have sprinkled themselves all over the bedrooms. all of them becoming besties with the respective skzoos. Chan finds you first, deciding to just lay on top of you like a weighted blanket. 'You okay?' He hadn't seen you for most of the day, unsure if he needed to mother-hen you. 'Yea, accidentally overdid it.' Chan's psuedo-kiddos gathered shortly one by one afterwards, simply joining in on the cuddle pile.
I've seen the practice of lapslock (writing everything in lowercase) on AO3 get a lot of hate on the grounds that it makes works harder to read and that it's poor grammar. And those are both true, just like with messy punctuation and no paragraphs.
But what I think makes lapslock different is the fact that, in a lot of cases, it's intentional. Most times writing rules are broken it's because the writer doesn't know they exist in the first place. But with lapslock, the author looked at their work and went "I think this would be better if everything was lowercase," or at the very least, "lapslock would add something to this work." It's purposeful experimentation. And I don't think that's something to outright discourage... but I've seen exactly that happen.
Now, would I use this technique in any of my works? No. Do I think that lapslock is beneficial in the vast majority of cases? No. But do I see the thought process and think that process is very cool? Yes.
There are absolutely amazing works out there that bend the rules of writing. Those rules are not absolute and can enhance works in ways that wouldn't be possible otherwise. I think that's part of the beauty of art: exploring and expanding the limits of your art form in new ways, and achieving things that are only possible in that specific form.
There's the argument that this rule-breaking can only be done by skilled writers. But while this is typically true... I don't think we should discourage experimentation by saying "you're not good enough to even try." The more you try something, the better you get. Trial and error is a way to learn.
Not every attempt at experimentation is successful, and there is the fact that lapslock does make prose harder to read. I think the important thing to think about is "what do I want to accomplish with this piece?" and "how can my writing help me accomplish that?"
With lapslock, the answer to the first question seems to be a laidback, casual feeling for short pieces, and to not put much pressure on the reader. For the second, it's all lowercase letters.
Now, when offering critique to writers it's important to address what they, specifically, are trying to accomplish and offer advice that would help them reach their goal. So, to lapslock writers, I say: you don't need lowercase letters for a casual feeling; readers will get that vibe through the content and pacing of your work, not through the way your letters look. Also, consider the tradeoff: people will avoid your work because of lapslock, and you need to consider if that's worth it or not. But keep thinking about what effect you want your words to have and how you think you can achieve them!
I'm going to end this post with a book I highly recommend to anyone interested in the ways the rules of language and writing can be bent: The Time of the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa (La Ciudad y Los Perros in Spanish). Almost all writing rules were thrown out the window, but I still found it remarkably easy to read. I am not exaggerating when I say this book completely rewired my brain when it comes to writing; my work would not be the same today without it.
Disclaimer: It was originally written in Spanish and I've only read the English translation, so I don't know if the way it messes with language is specific to the translation... but I doubt it is, and it was still incredibly impactful regardless.
jimin allows himself this self-indulgence. the worst, most lovesick parts of himself, that feel exhausted, feel worn and harrowed with carrying it all the time— he indulges them, feeds them.
slides his hand into jungkook’s hair and brushes a thumb across his forehead, stares.
it’s ugly, what he feels. ugly, ugly.
the greed.
of wanting more, of calling their friendship not enough. of pushing them to more. of asking, first, because he couldn’t bear it— taking more and more from jungkook.
and still, still. not enough.
(or; jungkook is in jimin's heart. jimin is not in jungkook's. now what?)
Comment: this fic truly shoves its hands into your chest and squeezes your heart. rarely have i seen writing this effectively packed with emotion, so much so that you feel it all over your body. i love every single fic of this author, but this is one of my most beloved and most often reread, because i love jimin pov in these kinds of stories. the trust between them is staggering, jungkook is so sweet you could die. just absolute love.
“i don’t know which way it’ll go, but my guess… the family, the encanto and the fate of the miracle itself… well, it’s all gonna come down to you.”
encanto, 2021
endless list of favorite movies x
[image id: 11 gifs, each has a dominant color. 1st is yellow with mirabel singing to her family while they pose around her. 2nd is orange, with dolores and mirabel dancing. 3rd is luisa jumping on pink clouds. 4th is fuchsia, isabel leaning back in her flower swing. 5th is red, luisa holding a pile of rocks, trying to keep them from tipping onto mirabel. 6th is the candle in the window, walls around it are purple. 7th is dark blue, mirabel’s feet and dress as she’s about to slip off the tiled roof. 8th, isabel reaching up, standing on a huge light blue flower. 9th, mirabel’s hand picking up a string from her dress while in front of a teal door. 10th, bruno from behind, looking at a green vision as it takes the shape of mirabel. 11th, mirabel’s hand holding on to a wooden pipe, her hold slips and her hand falls into blackness. end of id]
throw these children on the pyre (they will light your funeral fire)
read it on ao3 | masterlist
Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender
TW: canon-typical references to zuko & ozai's agni kai, the whole situation with the 41st division is also heavily discussed, but overall there's nothing super graphic, and no actual character death. please let me know if there are any other warnings that should be added.
Wordcount: 1,030
Originally published: June 9th, 2023
Summary: maybe, if things weren't the way they were, it's something the rich fuckers in charge might've actually seen coming.
but then, if things weren't the way they were, the agni kai wouldn't have happened. if things weren't the way they were, the whole plan wouldn't have been introduced in the first place, and it certainly wouldn't have fallen solely to a thirteen year old boy to decry it.
so maybe, really, this was always going to happen.
(or: that first agni kai has far reaching consequences.)
Notes: n/a
Transfer Notes: this was initially written in my phone notes, and wasn’t really meant to turn into anything, which is why it’s in lapslock. this work is also the first one i’ve locked on ao3, and i will likely be locking all others in the future to avoid ai scraping. don’t quite have the same qualms about posting it here bc for some reason i feel like it would be a bad idea for anyone trying to train writing or chat ais by scraping fucking tumblr.
maybe, if things weren't the way they were, it's something the rich fuckers in charge might've actually seen coming.
but then, if things weren't the way they were, the agni kai wouldn't have happened. if things weren't the way they were, the whole plan wouldn't have been introduced in the first place, and it certainly wouldn't have fallen solely to a thirteen year old boy to decry it.
so maybe, really, this was always going to happen.
you see, here is something that is expected: news takes time to travel.
here is what is not: official orders mean half a dozen extra layers of bureaucracy for every new pair of eyes that pass over them, mean waiting on desks in piles for hours or days.
and rumors? well, rumors take far less time to spread than troop movements.
it goes like this: one soldier gets a letter.
she thinks that her siblings have a real sick sense of humor that's only rotted further since her leaving.
but then two more soldiers get letters.
funny, that the same silly, horrid rumor reached them as her, when their families are all so far apart. but hey, rumors travel fast, and the war is many-legged.
except it's not just one, or two. then it's three, five, a dozen, forty-two, the nephew of a serving maid in the imperial palace, the daughter of a guard in the heart of a caldera, too much, too many, and suddenly—suddenly, thinking this is just a baseless rumor is getting harder and harder. suddenly, people are talking. messages from family members are being compared, from friends, from old co-workers and classmates they thought didn't give half a damn about them, from every far corner of their nation and then some—the mainland, the outer islands, the colonies, the front, even.
because suddenly, half the squadron is getting more letters in the span of a single week than they have in their entire lives, nonetheless their three and a half months since joining up or being conscripted.
and with every letter the tension grows thicker, the silence heavier, morale lower.
every piece of parchment, every shaky character in dark ink pleads the same thing in so many shades, dripping like molasses in their throats, blood down their chins, latching into their very bones no matter how hard they try to shake them, listen. listen. please, dear agni, listen. fight. run. anything. goodbye. i love you. please live. you're not meant to leave alive. he burned for you. it wasn't enough. you need to go. stay alive stay alive stay alive please stay alive.
the orders that will put their division into the jaws of death with no remorse are still buried in a pile of parchment somewhere with others just like it, weighted down with a cup of tea spiked with something sharper, prospective deaths paid no mind in exchange for more important things.
what else is not expected, then?
well, that young soldiers will not take their own kill orders laying down so lightly.
that half of them didn't choose to be here in the first place. that being a fresh face might mean bright-eyed idealism, but it also means that they haven't made solid connections here yet, haven't fully settled into this routine like they'll live it for years, haven't grown numb to what they'll eventually be asked to do, or started thinking about things like military career paths.
that, perhaps, loyalty isn't so much bought with three squares a day, a hard cot, and a barely-livable pay every two weeks to send home to people they might never see again, as it is earned, through things like actions, like sacrifice, like trying to put a stopper on the blood before it's spilled.
that people are far less stupid than those in charge often account for, and even with minimal training, a newbie division of hundreds and thousands outweighs the two dozen officers trying to keep them in line thrice over with far more room to spare. that, when motivated, people are willing to push back. sometimes, they're even willing to do so together.
their marching orders are only twelve days away by courier and three by hawk when the entire 41st division makes a very, very vocal decision to resign.
maybe jeong jeong made a name for himself, being the first to desert.
but there's power in numbers. and suddenly, there's a whole lot of kids who are very, very motivated to make sure a bunch of greenlings just like them (and their friends and their families) don't get put on the pyre next.
this is war, of course. sacrifices have to be made. after nine decades and counting, every one of them knows that. but—nine decades and counting is an awful lot of time, to learn the difference between going to battle with even the faintest hope of survival and going in with your death warrant already signed; between dying for a broader, greater purpose, and dying for something that could've been achieved any number of other ways; between what's necessary and wasteful.
(they'll fight a war, sure. just not the one their nation had really been counting on.)
and, well, if the rookies aren't safe—who is, really?
the 41st is far from the last to leave their posts. in the span of only a single month, ozai accomplishes what no other firelord has for the past six hundred and forty nine years: he begins turning his own army against himself, en masse.
half a world away, a spirit and those of one thousand and one people it's inhabited lay perpetually active as they have been for the past several decades, inside the body of a little boy, inside the warm embrace of his animal guide, inside the freezing prison of the glacier they're entombed in, inside the dark, lethal waters of the south pole, and together, they wait, for the spark that will light the fire that will split the glacier that will bring balance. it will be waiting for years yet.
on the shores of the earth kingdom, on the creeping slopes of the fire nation, a revolution starts now.
they ask you: ‘are you happy?’ and ‘what does joy sound like to you? how does it taste?’ and ‘which weight is heavier, first or second place?’
sports is unfair, and often cruel. your best is not always good enough. success feels fleeting. you can have everything for a time, if you fight for it hard enough, but it won’t last forever, it can’t last forever. and you have to make your peace with that. you’ll hear, over and over, that this love you’ve been nurturing your whole life, it can only take you so far.
ah, but they don’t know you at all, do they? that love (and your hard work and dedication and single-minded devotion, all of your beautiful and bloody efforts) will take you wherever you want to go.
it will take you far enough that when you are asked how do you know they’ll remember you? you can say: the legacy i leave behind echoes. a legacy so powerful that even after i’m gone, the mere whisper of my name will be deafening. i have burned so bright that they will still be chasing my shadow years after i slip below the horizon, and lay myself down for a well deserved rest.
and then you smile. happiness looks good on you. and you say: this love of mine, it will take me further than you could ever imagine. and now it is spring. and it is time to be born anew.
