#(stack of wips grows taller)

[blu-s0da]

projecting the finished drawing onto my screen with my mind hoping it will suddenly appear

[sargepilled]

Okay; I HARDLY know how Tumblr works, or write on this app, but I was so sweetly tagged by the impossibly talented: @23fallencomets. I won’t be tagging anyone, but if you see this and have any WIPS I am absolutely advocating for you to post them for this little series and for you to tag me! This is very late, but I've finally got some time to post a little something, so take this.

Consider this the hintest of teasers for one of my project fics this summer. :)

(Sandwich) 2k words.

— LOSCAR: Based heavily off of the film “Dinner In America." With punk lead singer Oscar and neurodivergent Logan. SLIGHTLY NSFW.

After dinner, Logan escapes to his bedroom, which exists in a state of suspended animation, frozen in time like a museum exhibit dedicated to the concept of arrested development. The Star Wars posters on his walls are the same ones he hung when he was fourteen—The Empire Strikes Back, mostly, because Logan has always identified with characters who get their hands chopped off and discover that their fathers are evil.

There's a twin bed with a comforter his mom bought at Walmart during a back-to-school sale, blue and gray stripes that were probably fashionable in 2008, when having a Facebook account was still considered cutting-edge technology. A bookshelf holds his collection of racing magazines, issues of Racer and AutoWeek and Karting magazine that he can't bring himself to throw away but can't bear to read anymore, because every page reminds him of when he used to believe he belonged in those pages himself.

It's pathetic, Logan knows this, but it's also the only space in the house that belongs entirely to him. His parents stopped asking about redecorating years ago, stopped suggesting that maybe it was time to "update" his room to reflect his adult status. Logan suspects they're afraid of what they might find if they dig too deeply into his attachment to adolescent nostalgia, afraid of conversations about failure and growing up and what happens when your childhood dreams refuse to die quietly.

Logan lies on his back and stares at the ceiling fan, which makes the same click-click-click sound as the one downstairs. He counts the clicks like meditation beads, trying to find some rhythm or pattern that might make sense of the noise. Click-pause-click-pause-click, sixty clicks per minute, thirty-six hundred clicks per hour, a mathematical progression toward nothing in particular.

The fan has been broken for three years now, wobbling slightly with each rotation, but nobody bothers to fix it because fixing things costs money and hope in roughly equal measure. Logan has googled "ceiling fan repair" approximately fifty-seven times, has watched YouTube videos about blade balance and motor replacement, has even measured the fan to figure out what parts he would need. But research is easier than action, and action requires admitting that you care enough about your environment to try to improve it.

Logan isn't sure he's ready for that level of emotional commitment.

He thinks about Bradley, the kid from today, and his pristine racing suit that cost more than Logan's monthly salary. He thinks about his father's disappointed face across the dinner table, the way his eyes go distant when he talks about racing, like he's seeing ghosts that only he can recognize. He thinks about the stack of unpaid bills on his dresser that grows a little taller each month, despite his careful budgeting and his habit of eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch to save money.

Mostly, though, he thinks about Oscar Piastri.

The memory always starts the same way—with Logan sitting alone at lunch on the first day of Ocala Karting Summer Camp, picking at a sandwich his mother had made with too much mayonnaise, watching the other kids form groups and alliances with the casual efficiency of children who've never doubted their right to belong somewhere.

Logan had been twelve and nervous, wearing a borrowed racing suit that was two sizes too big and carrying a helmet his father had bought secondhand from a driver who'd given up racing to sell insurance. Everything about him screamed amateur, from his mismatched gear to his anxious habit of constantly adjusting his gloves to make sure they fit properly.

Then Oscar Piastri had appeared at his table like a small, compact tornado, dropping his lunch tray with a clatter and sliding into the seat across from Logan without asking permission or waiting for an invitation.

"You're the new kid," Oscar had said, and it wasn't a question. His accent was thick and unfamiliar, all rounded vowels and sharp consonants that made every word sound like it mattered more than it probably did.

Oscar was everything Logan wasn't—confident to the point of arrogance, comfortable in his own skin in a way that seemed almost supernatural. He had dark hair that stuck up in all directions despite what must have been liberal applications of gel, and eyes that seemed to see everything at once—the loose chin strap on Logan's helmet, the way Logan's hands shook when he held his sandwich, the fact that Logan was trying very hard to look like he belonged when he clearly, obviously didn't.

"Logan," Logan had managed to say, around a mouthful of mayonnaise and anxiety.

"Oscar. You race much?"

"Some. Local stuff, mostly." Logan had tried to make this sound more impressive than it was, but Oscar's expression suggested that his efforts at casual competence weren't entirely successful.

"Right. Well, you look terrified, so you're either new or you're bad. Since you're sitting alone, I'm guessing new." Oscar had taken a bite of his apple with the kind of confidence that came from never having to worry about whether other people liked you. "Want to see something cool?"

And just like that, Logan had been absorbed into Oscar's orbit, pulled along by a gravitational force he didn't understand but couldn't resist. Oscar showed him the secret places around the camp—the spot behind the timing tower where cell phone reception was actually decent, the loose board in the fence that let you sneak out to the convenience store for candy, the best vantage point for watching the stars after lights-out.

But it was the racing that really mattered, the way Oscar could make a kart do things that shouldn't have been possible, coaxing speed and precision from machinery that seemed to respond to his touch like it was alive. Logan had been fast before, but Oscar taught him to be smooth, to think three corners ahead, to understand that racing wasn't just about going fast—it was about going fast at exactly the right moment, about patience and timing and the particular kind of courage that came from trusting your instincts even when your instincts told you to do something crazy.

"Racing's not about forcing the kart to do what you want," Oscar had said one afternoon, after Logan had spun out trying too hard to keep up. "It's about asking nicely."

They spent two weeks as inseparable as camp regulations would allow, sneaking out after lights-out to practice on the wet track in the dark, sharing stolen snacks from the dining hall, talking about everything except the obvious fact that they were both falling into something that felt bigger and more complicated than friendship.

Oscar told stories about Australia, about the go-kart track his uncle owned in Melbourne, about koalas that slept in eucalyptus trees and beaches that stretched for miles without a single person in sight. He talked about his parents' divorce with the casual brutality that children use to describe disasters they don't quite understand, explaining that sending him to Florida for the summer was probably the most civilized thing his parents had done for each other in years.

"I'm gonna be a Formula One driver," Oscar said one night, lying on his back in the grass behind the dining hall, staring up at stars that seemed close enough to touch. He said it with the absolute certainty of someone who had never been told that dreams were luxuries for other people's children.

"Me too," Logan had whispered, and for those two weeks, it had felt possible. With Oscar beside him, everything had felt possible.

"No, you're not," Oscar had said, but he'd said it gently, without cruelty. "You're too nice. Too worried about what everyone thinks. F1 drivers are bastards."

"You're not a bastard."

"Yes, I am." Oscar had turned to look at him in the moonlight, and his face had been serious in a way that made Logan's stomach flutter like he'd swallowed a live bird. "Watch."

And then Oscar had kissed him.

It was clumsy and desperate and tasted like the lemonade they'd stolen from the counselors' refrigerator, all teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that twelve-year-old boys don't have words for. Logan's first kiss, delivered by a boy who tasted like artificial citrus and possibility, under a sky full of stars that seemed to be witnessing something important.

The kiss lasted maybe five seconds before they both pulled away, breathing hard and staring at each other like they'd just discovered fire or electricity or some other force that could change the world if handled improperly.

"See?" Oscar had whispered, and his voice was barely audible over the sound of cicadas and Logan's heartbeat hammering against his ribs. "Bastard."

Logan had reached for him, wanting more in ways he couldn't articulate, but Oscar was already scrambling to his feet, already backing away. "Oscar, wait—"

Oscar's fist had connected with Logan's jaw before he could finish the sentence. The punch wasn't hard enough to knock him down, but it was hard enough to split his lip and leave a bruise that lasted for a week. Logan sat there on the ground, tasting blood and confusion in equal measure, while Oscar stood over him with his hands clenched and his eyes bright with something that looked like panic.

"Don't," Oscar had said, and his voice cracked on the word like ice breaking under pressure. "Just don't."

He was gone before Logan could ask don't what?, disappearing into the darkness between the buildings like he'd never been there at all. Logan sat in the grass for what felt like hours, touching the tender spot on his jaw and trying to understand what had just happened, what he'd done wrong, why something that felt so right had ended with violence and confusion and the taste of his own blood.

The next morning, Oscar's bunk was empty. His parents had come to pick him up early—family emergency, the counselors said, something about his grandmother being sick in Australia. Logan never found out if that was true or if Oscar had called them himself, desperate for any excuse to put distance between himself and whatever had happened in the grass behind the dining hall.

And he'd stolen Logan's helmet. Logan only realized it was missing three days later, when he was packing his gear to go home. He'd searched everywhere—under his bunk, in the lost-and-found box, even in the dumpster behind the dining hall where he'd found Oscar sitting sometimes when he needed to be alone. But his helmet was gone, and so was Oscar, and Logan never saw either of them again.

For years, Logan wondered why Oscar had taken it. The helmet wasn't anything special—just a basic white Arai with blue trim and a collection of stickers they'd accumulated over the two weeks. A sloth wearing sunglasses that Logan had found in a gas station vending machine. A faded OCALA KARTING decal. The number 81, which had been Oscar's favorite because it was 18 backwards and he'd thought that was clever.

Logan had convinced himself that Oscar kept the helmet as a memento of their friendship, as proof that those two weeks had meant something to someone other than just him. It was a romantic notion, the kind of story Logan told himself late at night when loneliness felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest.

Now, lying in his childhood bedroom with his hand drifting toward the waistband of his boxers, Logan lets himself remember the good parts. The way Oscar's mouth had felt against his, warm and soft and tasting like summer. The weight of Oscar's hand in his hair, fumbling but eager, like he was trying to memorize the texture. The sound of Oscar's voice in the darkness, low and teasing: You're too nice.

Logan closes his eyes and lets the memory wash over him, lets his hand slip under the elastic of his underwear as he thinks about what might have happened if Oscar hadn't pulled away, if that kiss had lasted longer, if Oscar hadn't gotten scared and ended everything with a punch that Logan still feels sometimes when the weather changes. If they'd grown with one another. Still kept in contact.

He's always been gentle with himself, careful and methodical even in this most private of acts, because Logan has never learned to be rough with anything he cares about.

His breathing gets shallow as he strokes himself slowly, thinking about what Oscar's crooked smile might look like now at their current age, about the way his accent made Logan's name sound like music and what it'd sound like now with maturity, about the night when everything felt possible and nothing felt impossible.

Logan bites his lower lip to stay quiet, a habit left over from years of sharing thin walls with family members who don't need to know about his private moments. He's close now, close enough that his vision starts to blur around the edges and his free hand grips the comforter tight enough to leave wrinkles.

He's so lost in memory and sensation that he doesn't hear the footsteps in the hallway until it's too late, doesn't register the sound of his bedroom door opening until Dalton's voice cuts through his private moment like a fire alarm.

"Logan, you decent? We're going—oh, fuck, sorry."

Logan scrambles for the bedsheet, his face erupting in heat that has nothing to do with the broken air conditioning. His heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to escape, and for a moment he can't breathe properly, can't think of anything except the horrible awareness that his brother just witnessed his most private ritual.

"Jesus, Dalton, knock!" The words come out strangled and higher than usual, and Logan pulls the sheet up to his chin even though it's approximately three seconds too late for modesty.

"My bad." Dalton doesn't look remotely sorry. In fact, he looks like someone who's just won the lottery and can't wait to spend the money. There's a grin spreading across his face that Logan recognizes from childhood, the same expression Dalton used to get when he caught Logan doing something embarrassing like crying during Bambi or practicing dance moves from music videos when he thought no one was watching.

"But this is actually perfect timing," Dalton continues, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow makes everything worse. "Because we're going out."

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

The Wanderer (sneak peek - Eve of Battle)

Alright, I fully admit that I have no idea what brought this on, save for a conversation with @ruralnorth, and an apparent lack of patience to wait to get to the sequel for The Wanderer that all but insisted I write this scene down, and do it now. 😅 Honestly, I'm not even sure why I'm sharing it, given that I'm still not entirely settled on this particular version being the way things will go, but...here it is? I couldn't seem to help myself when it came to drowning in my feels, so I suppose it might be only fitting that I attempt to take at least some of you down with me? (affectionately of course!)

Warnings: spoilers for my existing WIP's canon regarding my OC Tilda and her connection to a few main characters, the fact that the story contains an OC in and of itself, also liberties taken with exploring orc (excuse me...uruk) culture surrounding battles and preparations for them. I'm literally just having fun with this one, guys, potential canon inaccuracies and all.

dividers by @zaldritzosrose, cover image by @bronteisms

“Well?  What do you think?”

Biting down on her lower lip, Tilda attempts to suppress a laugh, the fierceness of Bain’s garb rising in direct odds with the amusement glinting so clearly behind his gaze.  His smile is as it always is, despite the grave nature of what it is they are preparing to do.  Bold.  Unwavering.  So very sure of their survival, no matter the odds stacked against them.

By contrast, Tilda cannot seem to stop herself from picturing every single one of the numerous possible ways things might go awry, and she knows that she would be a fool if she tries to pretend her companion’s antics, such as they are, are anything short of a relief.

“I think you look—”

“Dashing?  Heroic?  Invincible?”

“I was going to say you look like you—like you belong here.”

And he does.  Whatever armor he had cobbled together to fit his lanky frame seems to blend seamlessly with cloth, chainmail, and—him, the serrated blades he favors rest comfortably in a worn leather belt cinched about his waist.  The united impact of these realities seem to make him stand taller, somehow.  As though he has grown stronger simply by the act of donning the garb, alone.

For a moment, Tilda marvels over that singular fact.  She wonders if she might ever find the same sort of transformation for herself.

Some sort of indication of those inner thoughts must show upon her features, for Bain’s glinting eyes suddenly grow uncharacteristically serious.  Almost—concerned.  And before she might make any attempt at rectifying this, Bain is stepping forward.  Closing the distance between them, and reaching for her hand to pull her to her feet in next to no time at all.

“Bain, what are you—”

“Come with me.”

“But what are we—”

“Just come.”

Powerless to do anything other than comply, Tilda follows along in Bain’s wake as he leads her through the camp to a tent ordinarily reserved for larger gatherings at its center.  She hesitates a bit, before entering, but Bain seems to anticipate this, pulling her forward, and through the partially opened flap with hardly any effort at all.

The sight that meets her as soon as she enters has her steps faltering once more, and Bain moves ahead to thread his way toward the tent’s center while she remains, for a moment, frozen in place.  All around her, the uruk are gathered in twos and threes, engaging in hushed conversation, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, but every last one of them has something nearly identical to the next.

Those with hair possess a thin braid, woven with something Tilda cannot quite recognize, and those without it bear an intricate webbing of darkened marks tracing the skin of their hands and forearms as well.

It takes only a moment for comprehension to dawn.  For her to realize that the braid she had noted in Bain’s hair, situated just near the temple, and placed behind his ear must have come from this.  A ritual, of sorts, that the uruk must have been using for centuries, before heading off to battles that none of them had ever known for a certainty they could win.

The reality is nearly palpable despite not a word of it being spoken aloud.  Tilda can read it so very clearly in the faces of all of those gathered around the tent’s perimeter.  It is a thing that can nearly be felt in the very air that surrounds them.  Tangible.  Eternal.  Sacred.

It is a thing Tilda knows, somehow, that she can never be worthy of.  Not after all that she has done.  Not after the singular mistake she knows without a doubt will define her, even long after her bones have turned to dust.

What the uruk have maintained over the ages—what Bain himself has accepted and been granted, here, is a thing that she will never have the opportunity to possess.  And why would she?  

She was a fool.  Her mother had tried to warn her, but she had not listened, and now?  

Now all hope of atoning for that foolishness, had died.  Her mother had died.

And Tilda had been, for all intents and purposes, alone since that woman had drawn her last breath.

“Tilda?”

Bain’s voice reaches her as though through a dense fog, and Tilda struggles to claw her way back to the present, and out of the darkness of her own thoughts.  Her breath catches in her throat, and her cheeks blaze as she realizes the eyes of nearly everyone in the tent are now fixed directly upon her.

Panic grips her in a vice, squeezing around her heart so fiercely that it nearly borders upon pain, and it is not long before Tilda is backtracking.  Scrambling to get back to the entrance of the tent, because she cannot possibly remain inside—

Pushed forward by the need to remove herself from this obvious display of camaraderie—from a thing she knows she could never possibly earn on her own—she continues moving.  Continues backing away, even in spite of the worry that flares in Bain’s expressions he watches her go.

It is not until her back bumps against something solid, or rather, someone, that she is forced to cease her frantic movements, the hands that fly to her shoulders to keep her steady in the wake of the collision eventually turning her so that she might look their owner in the eye.

Adar.

“You should stay.”

The declaration is hardly an order, spoken softly enough for Tilda to know with certainty that, should she truly wish to, she may still depart.  Although one of Adar’s hands still lingers upon her shoulder, the touch is gentle, and should she wish to pull away, she knows, somehow, that he will make no move to stop her.

It has never been more clear to her that the person standing before her possesses an almost uncanny ability to sense the direction of her thoughts.  That he knows, on some level, what she must be feeling, almost before she can come to the same conclusion on her own.

Unsure whether to be unnerved over that fact, or appreciative, Tilda spends a moment wavering in her indecision.  She rocks back on her heels, and Adar’s hand falls from her shoulder, to rest, once again, at his side.

Still entirely doubtful that she deserves to be here, she very nearly gives in to her initial urge to flee, but something holds her back.  Something that she cannot fully understand or explain.  And then another voice is speaking at her back, causing her to turn back toward the interior of the tent once more.

“Come, child.  Come sit.”

Augrith’s hand curves around Tilda’s to pull her forward, back into the tent, the grip firm.  Inescapable, and yet not anywhere close to causing any pain.  A glance back at Adar shows him following, albeit at a distance, his expression unreadable to her, as it always has been, before.

Left with little other choice, Tilda follows as Augrith leads her to the center of the tent.  She follows as the uruk pulls her toward a small, open space, and guides her to take a seat.

Crouching down and folding her legs beneath her, Tilda tries to cast aside her own uncertainty.  Her doubt.  Whatever lingering feeling that remains inside her mind, all but demanding that she retreat from this gesture of acceptance with everything she has.

Even though she can practically feel the presence of that—that voice—the one that haunts her waking and sleeping hours, uncoiling from dormancy, sensing the chance to intervene, Tilda does what she can to resist.  She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, aware that Augrith is watching her every move.

Insidious, she can sense what the voice is preparing to say almost before it speaks, and she knows she would be a fool to pretend that she does not feel the coils of dread that wind about her heart in response.

“There is nothing for you here, Tilda.  Whatever these creatures are doing to make you feel as though you belong, you will never be anything other than mine.”

Forcing her eyes open and tightening her jaw, she wills the voice away as best she can.  Tries to ignore the way it seems to creep through her veins, until her skin goes cold.  

Hardly blind to Augrith’s raised brow, Tilda does what she can to ensure her expression is neutral.  She ignores Adar’s gaze on her from where he moves to sit at her side, knowing that he will sense what it is she contends with, whether she wishes him to or not.

Desperate to focus upon the present, rather than succumbing to guilt over past mistakes, she straightens where she sits.  Her eyes meet Augrith’s earnest gaze, and she manages a singular, steadying breath.  

For a moment, she fears the voice will address her again, pushing past the barriers she’d hastily erected to keep it at bay, but as the minutes pass, she finds only silence.  And as she exhales again in a heady rush of relief, she once again becomes aware of the presence of Adar’s hand coming to rest upon her shoulder.

“You do not have to do this,” He says, holding her gaze for only a moment, before turning to glance at the varied tools Augrith is sifting through, a clear indication, to him at least, of what is to come, even if Tilda does not recognize it fully, herself, “No one will find fault with you if you refuse.”

“What—what is this, exactly?”

“It is our custom,” Augrith explains, the words once again garnering Tilda’s attention, the weight behind them unmistakable, even in spite of her own doubts regarding her worthiness to hear them, “A means of protecting one another—our family—in the only way we can.”

“Are they enchantments?”

“They are much more than that, child.  And you must understand that before we begin.  Your father is right.  You do not have to do this if you do not feel you are ready.”

There is no censure behind the words.  Not even the barest hint that if she withdraws, she will be judged.  A glance at those gathered around them mirrors that reality, and Tilda finds herself momentarily caught in a maelstrom of emotion she had never once expected to feel.

Where before she may have felt uncertainty, now she is aware of something that is entirely different.  If it is not determination, then it is something that is very close to it.

Whether she wishes to give consent to this for that sense of belonging she so craves, or as a means of silencing the voice that plagues her every step for good, she cannot tell.  But Tilda can feel her sudden desire to move forward straightening her spine and shoulders.  Giving strength to her very will.

And it is that strength that allows her to proceed.

“I am ready.”

A low murmur moves through those that have gathered around them, equal parts curious, and almost—approving?  Truthfully, Tilda cannot fully tell.  But before she can devote too much energy into pondering that lack of understanding, she finds herself startling as Bain comes to sit cross-legged on her other side.

“What are you doing?”

“Well I can hardly let you have all the fun, now can I?” Her friend quips, the connection with their companions implied by the braid he already wears clearly not enough to stop him from seeking this, as well, “Where you go, I go.”

“Bain—”

“Where you go, I go.”

The familiarity of the promise has Tilda’s throat tightening with emotion, the reality of it yet another thing that she hardly feels she could ever deserve.  Regardless of that doubt, however, she is also aware of a newfound sort of determination to continue forward.  To plunge, head-first, into this ritual in hopes of finding the belonging she seems to so fervently desire.  

Again, her gaze shifts to meet Adar’s, searching in some way for confirmation that this is right.  That it is permitted.  And although his expression is still, as ever, indecipherable, Tilda does not miss the unmistakable surety behind the singular word he grants Augrith as she prepares to settle herself to her task.

“Begin.”

[gingerwerk]

7 and 20 for the ask :)

7: what are you most proud of?

when it comes to wips in general (because every longform fic of mine is an au) i'm always proud of my world building. i put So much seemingly unnecessary effort into getting the vibe of the setting, making sure very minor historical details are correct, and planning characters personal histories that almost never actually pop up in the main writing, but it is necessary because it makes everything about the fic that much richer

20: post a brief excerpt

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” Walt growled before he got up, lunch tray in hand and dumped the rest of his meal in the trash; he wasn’t in the mood for much of anything, including the cardboard the school claimed to be pizza. 

“Damn, prison’s really changed him,” Walt heard Ray sigh dramatically just before he exited the cafeteria.

He still had half of his lunch period to kill before his next class and it was only a matter of time before some bored admin strolling the halls asked for his hall pass- fuck it, might as well add some school trouble to the ever growing list of infractions- 

“Walt,” a familiar voice called from behind him; when Walt didn’t break his pace he heard the heavy footsteps of someone much larger grow closer and closer until they were in step with him. “Hey.”

“Hey, Brad,” Walt sighed as he glanced up at the much taller man out of the corner of his eye and found him looking just as stoic as ever. “No offense but I’m not really in the mood.”

“I figured,” Brad responded. “Heard about last night.”

Walt didn’t comment but didn’t try to shake Brad off either; the guy usually wasn’t much for chatting so he either had something to say or he’d be done soon enough. It probably wouldn’t be worth the effort and he’d feel like an asshole about it later if he was purposely a dick to him. 

“Gonna give me shit for letting Ray talk me into his bullshit?”

“No. It could have been any other idiot in this backwater town busting into that house last night; just shitty luck that it was you,” Brad said easily before he offered him a half-smile- an insignificant gesture from a regular person but from Brad, Walt knew he was genuinely attempting to offer him some sort sympathy. “So, are they waiting until after school to assemble the firing squad?”

“Sorta. Andy just said we’d talk about it tonight,” he answered with a shrug of his shoulders as he slowed to a stop in the middle of the empty hallway. “I heard him talking to Sobel on the phone this morning but it didn’t sound like they were agreeing on anything, so I dunno.”

“Maybe you can ease your sentence by throwing Person under the bus,” Brad suggested, causing Walt to roll his eyes; Brad was so full of shit.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll throw Ray under the same day you do,” Walt countered as he squared his shoulders and met the taller boy’s icey blue eyes.

There was no easy way to explain the how or why but Ray Person had wormed his way under both of their skins years ago; it would take a lot to rid them of that particular pest now after everything that they had been through together. 

“Where’re you going anyway?” Brad asked, changing the subject.

“Wasn’t in the mood for Ray’s theatrics at lunch so I’m killing time. What about you? Skipping study hall?”

“Volunteered to be Ms. Keller’s aid; I had to run to the printers for her,” he responded before he held up the stack of papers Walt hadn’t noticed him holding in his right hand. “But you should get your ass moving. I know Jones is out walking the halls and I’m sure he wouldn’t be opposed to writing you up for wondering without a pass.”

“He’s such a kissass,” Walt huffed before his brain started to file through places he could hide; he could slip into the art room and bother Christeson and Q-tip, even if he was still kinda pissed at them. They at the very least owed him enough to cover for him for the rest of the class period. 

“You have Grogen next right? Just go sit in her class early; Ms. Keller told me she would be in the teacher’s lounge with her if I had any questions about the shit work she gave me, I doubt she’ll be in a rush to go anywhere.”

“Thanks,” Walt nodded before he turned on his heel and headed in the other direction. 

[pyrriax]

dropping by with a oneshot wip

Soon Autumn Will Come [ WIP ]

Deep in a long forgotten empire lives an immortal avian and his adopted son. Hidden within the walls is a library, where the two spend many days and nights reading.

Walls stand tall, towering overhead what seems like hundreds of feet. Lanterns illuminate the otherwise dark corridor, highlighting the borders of grand doors and pots filled with flowering plants. Quiet chimes ring outside as the Antarctic breeze encompasses the lost empire. Home only to two; a father and his son. Memories line the halls, just as lanterns illuminate them. Past the glass ceiling, barely visible from the ground, is the moon. Strung high in the sky with a smattering of bright stars and barely visible clouds.

There was a library, filled with books of all sorts, from mythos to war, and inside it sat a curious child; waiting for his father to return with more books from behind the door. Because behind that door was books he was not allowed to read, whatever that meant. Quiet voices spoke in the child’s head. Asking for more stories, for more information and searching for something.

That child was Technoblade, and he was growing impatient waiting for Phil to return from wherever he had gone to get more books from. Putting his feet on the floor and sliding off the chair he was sitting on, he sets off to find his dad. Walking from shelf to shelf of old books and trinkets but coming up empty handed.

“Dad? Daaaad where are you?” He calls out, but gets no reply from the winged man. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Techno takes off in a run, making laps around the library in hopes of finding Phil looking through the books like he always seemed to be. Some books shimmered as he ran past them, and voices beckoned him to pick them up and learn what they contained, but ever the stubborn and determined, he just kept running through the walls upon walls of shelves.

Eventually, though, he found himself standing in front of that one door. The door he knew he wasn’t supposed to go through. It was one of the few rules Phil had ever made clear, but he was so curious and it wouldn’t hurt to take one peek, would it?

No, no it wouldn’t.

Do it!

Look inside come onnnnn

One little look wouldn’t be the end of the world.

So he did. Pushing open the door just a sliver, barely enough to catch a glimpse of inside the forbidden room. Inside there was a table, just slightly taller than he was, and atop it sat a pile of shimmering books and a crown. Then a figure with wings obscured his view and Techno jolted back, throwing his hands up in front of him as the door opened and Phil looked down on him.

“Techno. I told you that you’re not supposed to go in here, and that includes opening the door to look inside.” Phil scolded lightly, more concerned than angry.

“But I just— you were gone so long and I wanted to know where you went—”

“Tech. You know I was in there to look for some more books for you, alright? I’m going to go grab them, but only if you promise to not look in that room again, got it?”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Technoblade looks up at Phil, defiant before he deflates, nodding with a guilty look on his face. Phil watches him for a few moments before turning around and walking back into the room, the door left slightly ajar. Resisting the urge to follow his dad inside, Techno steps beside the door frame, busying himself with looking at the bookshelves lining the walls and searching for something new to read.

It only takes a minute or two for Phil to walk out, carrying a stack of seven books and a journal. Shutting the door with his foot and stumbling forward, nearly falling over but catching himself with a quick flap of his wings, Phil laughs before righting his posture and walking over to the corner covered in blankets, pillows and all sorts. Books piled around where the two normally sat, some half-read with loose papers sticking out as bookmarks.

Techno runs to catch up, following Phil like a duckling and grabbing at the cyan shawl draped over the avian’s shoulders. “What books did you get? Are they ones with the— the… “ He trails off, losing the words and gesturing wildly with his hands to try and get the thought to come back.

Quiet murmurs in the back of his mind laugh, light-hearted and not quite at him. Even as Phil sits down, leaning into the pillows that line the wall and stretching out a wing to invite Techno to take a seat beside him, Techno stays standing at the edge of the blankets. But words just won’t come to him and it’s frustrating!

“Come on, mate, sit down. I’ve got some books I think you’ll like. A few even have the gods in them.” Phil says, a distant yet fond smile on his face as he mentions the gods.

Brought swiftly back to attention, Techno nods and dives into Phil’s side, curling up and burying his face in the soft green fabric of his father’s haori. Inky black feathers close around him as Techno gets tucked under Phil’s wing, almost like a blanket. Shifting around until he’s finally comfortable and the chatter in the back of his mind settles as well, Techno smiles, a toothy grin aimed at the man he’s using as a pillow.

With a chuckle, Phil copies the grin before ruffling Techno’s hair and messing it up. Before Techno can begin to express his sheer displeasure at having his hair messed up again, Phil cuts him off with a question.

“So which story do you want this time? I’ve got a few you haven’t read before so make your choice.”

[theoriginalladya]

WIP Meme

Considering myself re-tagged by @shadoedseptmbr since I just finished 1K+ words on my most recent mShep.  Very very rough, but at least he is actually talking to me now!   (Definitely needs a lot of editing if only to improve the fight aspect to the scene, but hey, it’s a start!)

Takao “Taka” Shepard (Earthborn variant/War Hero/Sentinel) meets Kaidan Alenko 10th Street Red on the streets of Vancouver ...

~~~~

As he runs through the streets of Vancouver, all Takao Shepard can think of is his mother, these five years gone, and her whispered words of warning as she lay dying.  If ever you seek out your father, be wary the streets of the city. He never understood just what that meant.

Until today.

If there is one thing Taka is good at, it’s running.  A childhood spent in rural Japan is good for some things, at least, and wide open spaces naturally lend to such activities.  Thought of such things brings back memories he would love to dwell on, in, but now is not the time.

He has no idea where he is; no concept of this city. In some ways, it reminds him of Kyoto or Osaka, the cities nearest where he once lived, but the similarities are superficial at best.  Walls of metal, sheets of glass, masses of humanity all pressed in together, confined to the same space.  It’s smothering, to say the least, and even if only a mental image, one that he cannot get out of his head.  Breathing hurts, aches, his lungs cannot fill properly.  Is it a mental problem or a physical one?  The pounding of footsteps behind him do not provide any answer but run.

Ahead of him, he has two choices:  the pier which will leave him no option but to swim, and while he knows how, it is not his strongest suit.  The other is a rapidly approaching blind alleyway to his left. It could be open to the streets beyond, or it could be a dead end.  He knows not. But time is speeding by and he needs to make a choice.

The minute he darts around the corner into the alley, he knows it is the wrong call.  Narrow, cluttered, dark and dank, it opens some distance down, but getting there is the trouble.  There is no clear path or even a lane by which he could conceivably climb up and over, and his pursuers are too close; they will have seen him run this way…

As if summoned, footsteps pound up behind him, slowing, scuffing as they come to a stop.  Taka spins around, backing against the stack of old shipping crates that blocks the way, his eyes never leaving them.  Five … I can take three of them, maybe … perhaps stun the other two … buy just enough time to sneak past them …?

He drops into a crouch, a position as familiar to him as breathing, and prepares as best he can.  It is easy to ignore their jeers and taunts and focuses on their eyes, faces, searching for any hint of what they plan.  With all of his years of training at his grandmother’s dojo, they are easy to read.

The bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists, his grandmother’s memory whispers in his ear.  

A deep breath, an adjustment of his stance, arms that do not waver; in an instant, as two of the five move toward him, he bends, he flows, the crouch becomes a roll, his arms swing out and make contact, he rises back to his feet and kicks.  One moment there, the next gone.  Within seconds, the two are down – one on the ground, the other in the stack of shipping crates.  The important thing is they are incapacitated; only three remain.

He barely has time to draw in a breath before they race toward him at once.  Again, he counters.  One he kicks into the same spot as the previous who landed in the crates, leaving them both sputtering and scrambling, unable to get back up as they fight one another now.  Another reaches toward him.  Taka takes them by the wrist, pulls them closer and twists their arm while at the same time using his foot in their chest to push them back.  They drop to the ground, whimpering with pain.  The last bellows loudly, but it’s more posturing than actual warning or threat.  And for just a moment, just a hint of a second, Taka thinks he might get out of this somehow, find a way back to where he missed his step, and survive …

The moment, the absolute instant, his last opponent is down, Taka darts out of the alleyway and turns the direction from which he came … only to discover he isn’t alone.  Taller than most of the others, a bit older, more fit.  Their eyes meet, and in less time than it takes to blink or draw a breath, he comes to the conclusion that this one is a knowledgeable and worthy opponent.  

Taka retreats out into the street; with little to no traffic in the area, it provides more space.  His opponent follows him, purpose in every stride he takes.  Discipline marks his very presence, and is something Taka has a deep respect for.  But there is a difference between respect and surrender or submission.  The moment his opponent moves in for him [specific type of move here], Taka is already gone.  His opponent tries again, this time with a [specific type of move here]; Taka dodges again.  

Heaving in breaths as he can, Taka keeps his eyes on the man as they circle one another, watching for more tells, searching for a clue to escape this, to get out and away.  There is a flicker, like the reflection of a pale white-blue light, in his opponent’s eyes.  It isn’t something Taka expects, nor does he have a full understanding of its importance, but whatever it is grows and spreads, and soon slithers over his body until he is surrounded by it.  Taka is half fascinated and half frightened.  Not knowing what it is, he has no idea how to counter it, whether it will harm or help.  

In the next moment, as his opponent lunges toward him, he realizes that it is far too late.  He is knocked backward, off his feet, and lands heavily on his back as some sort of energy force connects in the center of his chest.  He lands hard, groans softly, and tries to push to his feet, but he’s barely made it to his hands and knees, coughing in an attempt to catch a breath, when he realizes his mistake.  He is trapped, his arms pinned backward, and unable to move.  A sudden, inexplicable panic fills him.  Not because he is trapped or that he has lost to a better opponent – he can find respect for that – but because of the strangest sensation that creeps toward him in that moment, slithering over his skin, snaking around his body.  It tickles somewhat, burns in a sense, and above all else is completely out of his control as it envelopes him completely.  Throwing his head back, he screams to the skies above before blessed darkness finds him …

[killraeraspberry]

Two-Headed Boy

pt. I pt. II

Arlo wasn’t a particularly violent person, at least, he didn’t like to think so.

He wasn’t confrontational and he didn’t own a switchblade. He didn’t pick fights for fun and didn’t much like the idea of war, unlike other boys his age, who paraded the streets with their Nazi flags and can-do attitudes. If anything, Arlo couldn’t much stomach the sight of blood up until a few years ago. 

But still, despite all this softness written across him, which trailed the curve of his lip and the dimple of his chin, he found himself standing in the twisted, metal heap of an abandoned factory lot, shrouded by a veil of glass shards. 

The lot was a vast thing stacked with rusted cars and broken machines. It had been turned into a partial junkyard after the factory’s closing, so rusty tin cans blew here and there in the wind.

Arlo looked particularly violent. He felt as though he did.

The boy wriggled his fingers stiffly. He was glad to see they were all working as they should be, the gashes’ profuse bleeding more visually alarming than lethal. He sucked a particularly painful cut on his crooked thumb and kicked around the smashed glass bottles on the asphalt with the toe of his shoe. 

Arlo resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his khakis. His mother would throw a fit if she discovered what he’d been doing and where he’d been doing it at. His father would shout at him about the “profoundly illogical” nature of his injuries, all while unemerging from his office, organizing stacks of written numbers for a job Arlo didn’t quite understand, except for the fact it had to do with stocks. 

Feeling flooded Arlo’s belly as he thought of his father in his work suit.  He could hardly stomach that. The shame of being himself.

 Arlo swallowed and turned his eyes toward the setting sun. It peeked up through the tree tops and mangled fencing. His blood had managed to stain the entire sky a sticky, bloody red. 

There was a noise behind Arlo just then. Like the twang of a can hitting metal scraps, followed by the crash of things falling on top of one another.

 Arlo’s breath caught in his pale lips and his back muscles tensed up around his spine. 

The boy turned slowly.

 Arlo could feel the mountain of glass shards growing taller around him as he waited, engulfing him and threatening the pulse in his throat. It screeched like nails on a chalkboard in his ears. 

His eyes searched the abandoned factory lot, but the only hazard he could spot directly was an opportunity for tetanus amongst rusted out machinery and abandoned cars. That, of course, didn’t mean there wasn’t some monster in the shadows, ready to tear sad little rich boys (which Arlo so obviously was) apart. The monster would smell it on him a mile away. 

Arlo had nothing particular to fear, of course. He was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, with a strong German lineage. He got along well enough with boys at school, even without participating in their Youth Club, and was polite to most everyone he ever met. Arlo didn’t have many enemies and yet felt scared of everything. 

He lowered himself carefully to the ground amongst the splintered soda bottles he’d been breaking only moments earlier. There, through a tangle of dying weeds, he spotted a pair of scuffed Mary Janes. 

 “I know someone’s here,” he called and rose to his knees. His voice was soft and shaking. Only little girls wore Mary Janes, he told himself. Then again, Arlo was not one to write off the idea of ghosts. 

When no one appeared, he lowered himself once more, only to find the shoes had disappeared. He pushed himself up in confusion as he caught a glimpse of something sprinting across the junkyard. 

“Hey!” he called and took off after them.

 Arlo was a good runner, despite the awkwardness his impossibly-long legs tended to give him. On his good days he could even out run Tommy’s car.

 This monster wasn’t nearly as fast.

Note: Thank you for reading my wip!! I have been working on this baby for the entirety of my high school career and now that I’m graduated I figured it was time to post it:))

[glimnner]

owo? 1, 10, 14 for the writer ask meme thing (also when will staff let us send asks from sideblogs...bls)

God big mood op,

1. If you’re an author, how many WIPs do you currently have? (Be honest!)

officially working on four but why are y’all trying to expose me

10. Mutual pining or enemies to friends to lovers?

you absolute heathen i can’t believe you would do this to—-probably mutual pining but due to my naruto days i’m no stranger to enemies to friends to lovers

14. (For authors) Post a line of dialogue from one of your WIPs without context.

Keith looks up with almost watery eyes and nearly chokes on shock and excitement. “Shiro?” he asks in disbelief. 

The older man laughs and opens his arms. “In the flesh, more or le—”

“Shiro!” Keith shouts from the top of his lungs. He climbs over—parkours—over the counter, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the almost empty store as he rushed his brother. “’Llura! Allura!” he yells with tears in his voice. He makes a note to deny the wet stains on Shiro’s uniform. 

A woman carrying a stack of boxes much taller than her and too large to be in her arms stumbles into the room from the PERSONELL ONLY door behind the counter. 

“I’m a little busy here, Keith,” she nearly growls.

Shiro laughs loud and it warms the atmosphere. Allura’s abnormal strength falters before her heart grows stronger. “You can’t put down a few boxes to hug your brother? That’s cold, ‘Llura.”

“Ice cold,” Keith and Shiro say together.

i’m spoiling sooooo hard rn man but its for something i haven’t release :)

send me fanfic asks!

[i-lost-me-arm-in-the-great-war]

Scarlett WIP

Scarlett heard the gears of her camera whirl in and out of focus as she glanced up from her book. Maybe if she just ignored the knocking on the door, it would go away and she could enjoy her mystery novel in peace. She was *this* close to finding out who killed Mr. Gunther, and she wasn’t about to put her book down for some solicitor at her door. Unfortunately, she had no such luck as the pounding of a fist outside grew louder and more persistent.

The knocking stopped after a few moments and she heard a muffled yell from the hallway outside of her apartment. “Scarlett! Open the door, I have something that I need to discuss with you!” Scarlett groaned at the sound of an all too familiar voice. Her boyfriend’s little sister was the last person she wanted to see right now. The voice in the hallway yelled again. “Scarlett, I know you’re in there, this is important!”

“Go away, no one’s home!” Scarlett heard the door handle jiggle violently, followed by a loud bang on the door. She rolled her eyes and muttered “Someone’s tense.”

“Scarlett I swear to god I will pick the lock, we are going to have this conversation whether you want to or not so open the fucking door!”

“Hold on mate… I’m about to find out whodunit.”

“It’s about Dmitry.”

Scarlett sighed deeply and slammed her book closed. Guess her thrilling tale of love and betrayal would have to wait. Scarlett rolled out of her bed with a groan. She tied her silk robe in the front and walked over to the door. After glancing through the door’s peephole, she unlocked the door and opened it a crack. The chain lock on the door was still in place as she glared out at the short angry woman in the hallway. Her green wig covered her eyes, as usual, and she held a black briefcase in her hand. “What do you want Cilantro?”

“Let me in.”

“What’s in the case”

“I’d be more than happy to show you if you’d let me in.”

“Uh-huh sure. Open it right now or I’m not letting you in.”

“I really don’t think-”

“Whatever, I don’t really care, just go away and let me read my book.” Scarlett stepped back and pushed the door closed, but she was met with frantic protests from Cilantro.

“Wait wait wait wait stop! I’ll show you dammit!” Scarlett pulled the door back open to its fullest extent- with the chain still locked of course. The angry woman in her hallway huffed, strands of curly green hair bouncing over her bleach white skull. “But then we need to talk.”

“Yeah. Sure thing mate.”

Cilantro looked up and down the dimly lit hallway of Scarlett’s second-rate apartment building. When she was satisfied that no one was watching her, she kneeled down and set the leather case on the carpet next to a questionable looking stain. She entered a 6 digit combo into a lock-pad on the side and unlatched the silver clasps.

Scarlett looked down through the crack in the door and she could hear the whirring movement in her camera’s lens as it zoomed in on the case. It was a reflex that did nothing for her whatsoever. What’s the use of having a camera surgically implanted in your skull if you can’t use it for anything?

Cilantro gave another look around the hallway before she slowly lifted the lid of the case back towards herself. Scarlett’s brow bone raised in shock when she saw the contents of the black case. She saw stacks of hundred dollar bills filing the case from top to bottom. Cilantro held the case open for a few seconds before slamming it closed with a loud click.

Scarlett stammered quietly. “Why the fuck-”

“That’s 2 million dollars cash.” Cilantro stood up, case in hand. She flipped her hair, clearly irritated at what had just gone down. “Now let me in so I can talk to you, Scarlett!”

Scarlett pushed the door closed quietly. Why did Cilantro have all that money? Where did she get it? And what did this have to do with Dmitry? Scarlett closed her eye and took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. Cilantro was a manipulative mother fucker, and everything she did was intentional. Scarlett was not going to let it get to her.

Adopting a cold expression, Scarlett removed the chain lock from the door. She opened the door and stepped out of the way of Cilantro. Scarlett was almost 6 years younger, but 6 inches taller than Cilantro. The woman was 4 feet and 11 inches of pure malice.

Cilantro walked into the room and Scarlett closed the door behind her. “Welcome to my humble abode.” She said sarcastically, performing a large and exaggerated bow. “So what the hell do you want?”

Cilantro set her briefcase down on Scarlett’s bed silently. She tilted her head and picked up Scarlett’s book. “Tomfoolery by Peter Daniels…” Cilantro smirked and looked over her shoulder at Scarlett. “Great read. I love Daniels’ work. So many twists and turns. I just couldn’t believe Penelope killed Mr. Gunther, of all people! Penelope! What a plot twist am I right?” Cilantro smiled, her hair hanging in ringlets over her face.

Scarlett clenched her fists at her side, glaring at Cilantro. “I’m gonna need you to keep this short, mate.” Her voice was acidic and cold. She reminded herself that Cilantro was playing mind games, trying to get into her head. But she was also being a huge dick. “I have a date in an hour, so let’s skip the small talk.”

Cilantro twitched. “Of course…” She dropped the book back down on the bed. She turned to face Scarlett and leaned back on the bed, but didn’t sit down. “Coincidentally, that’s exactly what I’m here to talk to you about.”

Scarlett scoffed. “For God’s sake, you’re still on about that? Cilantro we’ve been dating for years! And regardless of how I feel about you, I love Dmitry.”

Cilantro’s smug grin vanished and was replaced with a serious expression. “I know. And he loves you. Which is why I’m here.” She stood up straight and crossed her arms.

“On your date tonight, Dmitry will take you to the abandoned fairgrounds, where he intends to climb with you to the top of the old Ferris wheel. As the sun sets… my brother…” Cilantro stopped and exhaled deeply. Scarlett crossed her arms and noted that Cilantro was shaking. Interesting.

“I’m intrigued, do continue.” Scarlett’s camera zoomed out, she could tell by the sound. What was Cilantro getting at here?

Cilantro took a breath. “At sunset, Dmitry is going to ask you to marry him.”

Scarlett’s arms dropped to her sides. “He… What?” Is that why he had been acting so weird and flustered over the past week? Scarlett laughed in spite of the serious atmosphere. Dmitry was nervous to propose to her. What a fucking dork. Scarlett’s smile faded suddenly. “… why are you telling me this…?”

“When he asks you to marry him, you’re going to say no.”

“Ha! Am I now?”

“Yes, you are. You will tell him no, and then you are going to break up with him. Then you will never talk to him again. And in exchange, this case will be yours, and all 2 million dollars that come with it.”

“…” Scarlett’s camera lens zoomed in as her eye narrowed. “… who the fuck do you think you are?” Her hands balled into fists and she stalked towards Cilantro, her voice growing louder. “You come into my apartment uninvited… You spoil the end of my book… You try to BRIBE ME TO BREAK UP WITH MY BOYFRIEND, AND FOR WHAT? JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T LIKE ME?” Scarlett towered over Cilantro, who held her ground firmly. “Well mate, Dmitry likes me. A hell of a lot more than he ever liked you. And I’m going to marry him.” Scarlett shoved Cilantro back against the bed. “Now take your damn money and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Cilantro’s wig was knocked askew by the force of Scarlett’s shove. Scarlett could see her glaring at her. Boy if looks could kill… She knew she had hit Cilantro where it hurt, and there was no coming back from that comment. Good. Scarlett turned and walked away from Cilantro. She would even be a gentleman and open the door for her future sister in law. It was only polite.

Cilantro sighed deeply and straightened her wig. She stood up and lifted the back of her shirt. “I’m very sorry you think that Scarlett.”

Scarlett turned around incredulously in time to see Cilantro pull a pistol from where it had been tucked in the back of her jeans. She didn’t have time to react before Cilantro fired a single shot into the side of Scarlett’s head.

The bullet entered the left side of the skull and lodged in the camera lens, projecting sharp bone and shrapnel through her skull. The shrapnel did not penetrate her lage cortex, but rather grazed it, causing lage to spill out of her head slowly.

She did not die when the bullet hit her skull.

But God did it hurt.

Scarlett fell to the floor in agony. It was only a few seconds before the pain was so unbearably blinding that she blacked out.

Cilantro walked over to Scarlett’s body and knelt down next to her. She was still breathing. Barely. Cilantro placed her pistol into her limp hand. She leaned back on her heels and tilted her head. “… you look pathetic.” She stood up and grabbed her case. As she walked into the hallway and begun to pull the door closed, she stopped.

“… you know…. there’s only about 100 grand in here. Not 2 million. You wouldn't have even noticed.”

She actually giggled as she left the apartment, leaving Scarlett to bleed out and pulling the door closed behind her.

Dmitry would arrive 41 minutes later to pick up Scarlett for their date.