#One day I will turn that sketch into a fully fleshed out piece... One day...

[blueberrybanee]

Hihihi, I'm sorry for not posting for a while, and I know this is super late, but have this drawing I made for the anniversary of the airing of Hostage Crisis, Cad Bane's first ever appearance on screen!!! :D

Okay, I'm gonna go rest now cuz I worked my ass off on this, even though it doesn't really look it to me SOBS. Goodnight y'all

[shanastoryteller]

why isn't shanastoryteller's tumblr writing on ao3?

i've been asked this before, and i've gotten asked this a handful more times in just the past week, so

i'm going to link this post in my pinned post so it hopefully comes up a little less. i'm going to go through my answer in a detailed way that isn't necessarily all directed towards anyone who has asked some variation of this recently or ever, i'm just trying to be thorough to answer this for the (hopefully) last time

first there's the issue of formatting. there's pretty much no way to move what's at this point about 2,000 prompts over to ao3 in a way that isn't deeply annoying to myself, other users, and anyone who's subscribed to me. i'm not interested in making a new "chapter" for just a couple hundred words, i'm not going to tag 100 fandoms on one work, i don't want have to go to ao3 after every prompt cycle and copy and paste the prompts into the fic, whether that be as a new chapter or just editing a story to contain new material. the masterlist and updating the google doc already takes a decent amount of time and having to do this on ao3 would be both finnicky and time consuming and there's no way to set it up that i wouldn't find myself irritated with the prompts being on my profile period

however, most importantly, it just doesn't jive with how i use each of these websites

ao3 is an archive and dumping all my random prompts on there is an appropriate use for it. however. it's not how i personally prefer to use each site and just because something can go on ao3 does not mean i'm required to put it there

tumblr is my sketchbook and ao3 is my art gallery

the prompts and snippets and random crap i post here isn't thought out, don't necessarily have an overarching plot, or any real substance to them besides the scenes. they're fun, they're usually low effort, and they're things i work on without any real expectation that they'll spawn into a full, fully plotted story or at least not one i'm committed to writing out. i don't like having unfinished works on ao3 and i try really hard not to. if i'm posting something to ao3, that's me making a commitment to eventually (EVENTUALLY!!) completing it and having all my random, messy, incomplete prompts and scraps on there would 100% stress me out

like how sketches often become full pieces, it's not uncommon for a prompt series or random writing to turn into a full fic that gets fleshed out / expanded and put on ao3

The Great Puzzle, wing bones touching, Snakelet, Here Be Dragons, Become Tomorrow, shrine or scar, that is a door, Cartwheels in Cloud Recesses, Ghosts Shouldn't, Little Lion Boy, and Despite the Abundance all started on tumblr

but even in cases where i found a big chunk of the tumblr writings usable and worth keeping, it's not a matter of just copy and pasting it over and calling it a day. a full fic and and a series of random prompts or whatever scenes i've written on here isn't necessarily how i would choose to tell a longform story, so transporting them over always entails a fairly large amount of work on my end

in the case of the great puzzle, i used all that i'd written, it was just the commitment and plot to writing the story through. for wing bones touching, i'm using most of what's already been written, but there's a lot of connective tissue and build up to earn the payoff that i hadn't bothered to write when it was just a prompt series that now has to be put in

there are some series where this is easier than others. the azula and zuko series, for example, would have to be written almost entirely from scratch. it encompasses a huge amount of time and action and earns pretty much none of it - because the format means it doesn't have to.

living blood is one that i'm thinking will probably end up on ao3 at some point because i've written a lot of the connective tissue and build up into it already so it's not such a huge effort to polish it up

"but you don't have to polish it up!" i can hear you saying. "you can just post it as is!"

i said it above and i'll say it again: i could. but i don't want to

i'm saying this with all the kindness and appreciation for your interactions and your comments and your readership but: not everything is about you

i link all the previous prompts in the most recent one. i make a masterlist after every prompt cycle. i have every prompt linked out in the google doc

i'm not opposed to making things easier for your guys, and have spent a lot of time doing so, but i'm completely uninterested in moving my prompts and random writings over to ao3 for all the reasons laid out above, and being asked repeatedly isn't going to change my answer

if you think those reasons are stupid and inadequate and it makes you mad, the good news is this: you don't have to follow me and you don't have to read my work. you're completely and totally free to opt out of this experience

if you find navigating prompts as i have them laid out to be too cumbersome and difficult then, kindly, don't read them

i'm not a professional, a company, or a celebrity. this blog and my writing is neither a product nor a service

the point where prompts are more stressful and irritating than they are fun, the point where sharing scraps of my writing becomes something that turns into an obligation or a drag or too much work, is the point where i stop doing it

[accirax]

DRDTtober Day...... uhhhhhh......

Given that we are (*checks calendar*) now half a year out from when DRDTtober 2024 was meant to begin, I think it's finally time to admit... yeah, I don't think I'm ever going to go back and make art for those prompts 😔✌️

I did, however, draw this back in September, in accordance with my original plans for the event! For those curious, below the cut is a (hopefully) brief explanation of what these designs were intended to be for, and why the comics ultimately never came to fruition.

As you may or may not recall, librariansrose kindly shared 2024's DRDTtober prompts to Tumblr well in advance of October's beginning, on August 22nd. Because I had so much fun making all of the comics for 2023, I definitely wanted to participate again. However, making the comics for 2023 took a lot of time, so I resolved that, if I was going to commit to these comics as a fairly big time investment, I might as well go all-in and make something nice that I could ideally use as a portfolio piece in the future. One polished, paneled page per day, in a 31-day overarching story. That idea also aligned with my personal desire to do something different than I had done last year, just for spice.

"This will be so easy!" I thought. "I have the end of August and the entirety of September to make my designs, write out my script, and get well ahead of drawing the comic itself so that I'll have plenty of buffer for the beginning of October!"

A few days after the prompts were shared, it was announced that DRDT Chapter 2 would resume on September 6th.

Suddenly, all of the time that I had mentally blocked to work on my DRDTtober comics was absorbed into watching the series itself and writing up my episode-by-episode dissections, as well as reading and responding to other various theories. It was awesome, obviously, but by the end of September I had done basically nothing other than make some very loose notes and draw up these first passes at character designs. At the beginning of October, I played with the idea of doing 7-page bursts at the end of each week, but when the first week ended, that turned into starting it mid-month and finishing in November, to starting in November, until it devolved into where we are now.

The biggest reason why I never wound up making this comic is because, to this day, I still don't have a clear idea of what its ending would be. With the comics being one connected story instead of 31 largely separate jokes, I needed to know what the ending would look like in order to properly set up the beginning. And, as I quickly found out, trying to make up a satisfying story that has to feature 30 random prompts in a specific order and feature 17 different characters when you only came in with the desire to make a comic instead of to share a story, is really, really hard 😅

What I can say about the story is that it would have had David as the protagonist, with Xander and Teruko starring as fellow main characters. They would go on a quest throughout the kingdom and into the wilderness, encountering the rest of the cast (themed to various prompts) at various points along the way. For instance, you might be able to recognize Hu, Eden, and Min as representing the "magical girls" prompt, while Whit and Charles exemplified the "coffee shop" prompt. There was also a lot of lore, the details of which were also never fully fleshed out. If people are interested in hearing more about the story, maybe I can share the beginning of the script that I wrote out, and the layout sketches I made of what the first few pages would look like.

But yeah, unless I wind up reviving this story in some other form in the future, I don't think I'll ever wind up circling back to 2024's prompts. I'd be much more likely to either just wait until 2025's prompts come out, or continue making my own events, like the Secret Santa and Valentine's Day series I've done. I guess I could maybe try to combine 2024's prompts with 2025's prompts to do two prompts per day? That sounds kinda interesting. But also really hard. No promises!

I have no idea if anyone was still anticipating these from me at all, but in my mind I did promise that I'd do the prompts eventually, and leaving that dangling thread was bothering me. Plus, I did like these designs, and hopefully you do, too! Probably so, if you're still reading this. Thank you for reading this! It's not a month's worth of comics or illustrations, but hopefully it was interesting regardless :)

[mckirkevents]

One Week till McKirk Week 2024!

Reminder that McKirk Week will be held from 20th - 26th May! This is an event focused on the Kirk/McCoy pairing, across all Star Trek universes. We hope you'll join us soon!

See OUR EVENT POST for how it works and the full list of prompts.

FAQ:

Q: Do I have to make something for all days? A: Absolutely not, you’re welcome to dip in or out as much as you like.

Q: Can I still submit to the AO3 collection/be reblogged/tag the event if I’m late? A: Of course! The AO3 collection will be open indefinitely and we will continue monitoring the #mckirkweek2024 tag.

Q: Does my work have to be fully fleshed out/long/finished/'good'? A: Not at all! Drabbles, quick sketches, or any other form of quicker/rough work is equally welcomed. Especially if you're planning to create something every day, you're not expected to create 20k fics or oil paintings. As long as it's McKirk it's valid, go wild and have fun.

Q: Can I make something NSFW for a Trek or Gen prompt? Do the NSFW prompt fills have to be E rated?  A: The prompts are there to inspire you, you don't have to stick to them! Turn a sfw prompt into a nsfw one, or a nsfw into a sfw. Up to you! Please just tag any nsfw pieces and use content warnings.

Q: Do you accept TOS and AOS McKirk? A: Yep! Any Trek universe is totally valid. (And the non-Trek AUs too!)

Q: What if I have another question? A: Drop us an ASK!

[sandsorghum]

Hollywood AU

With Oscars round the corner I wanted to explore a Movie Industry 'verse, featuring Screenplay writer Nanamin x Starlet Reader, with some messy Director Geto x Reader thrown into the mix cuz it's HOllywood so why not.

I don't have things fully fleshed out, this is only a drabble. It's just a fun little plot bunny I'm considering chasing down the rabbithole, so if you enjoy it, please leave some feedback! Thanks~

Nanami toes the line he's sketched in the sand - and you keep scuffing it. Because it is sand, not cement, as much as Nanami would like to believe that. The grains keep trickling through the hourglass, and his throat gets ever more parched around you.

He used to be able to call you to the side of a sound stage in between takes to murmur his corrections. Now he just scratches them out on a clipboard, cursing PAs and sticky notes that aren't at all adhesive.

"I miss you."

Glue floods his throat. Nanami glances at your reflection, eclipsed by a bevy of stylists coiling your locks into perfectly tight, period-accurate ringlets.

"Bunkering down in that cramped trailer, discussing stories. Have you seen Sangsoo's latest by the way?"

You catch sight of him in the mirror and smile, but someone tuts at you to "stay still". Nanami watches your lips go taut as the gloss swipes over, but he knows where to look. Sure enough, there's a matching shimmer in your gaze, locked in on his. Nanami swallows, his eyes dropping to the papers in his lap.

"Been too busy," he grunts.

"Right Now, Wrong Then remains my fav, but you should make your own assessment. I wouldn't mind seeing his new film twice. Maybe over the weekend, we could-"

"I'll be holed up with the rewrites. Studio's orders. I'm leaving your new lines here."

Nanami doesn't so much hear you sigh, as glimpse a small corner of the glass getting fogged up. He feels your stare slide from the rear view to his retreating silhouette as he turns and walks away from your pout, from the memory of a puff of air tickling his mouth.

Every day you seem more like a mirage, less an oasis.

But these are the desert dunes he's chosen to trek through, grounds ever shifting.

Framed by ink strands, jet stone irises cut across steepled ivory hands, with a gleam that renders the lamination of the page redundant.

[And would you like to address the rumours-?]

[Talent's drawn to talent. That's all.]

[The final say?]

[Your next soundbite - until another distraction from our craft comes along.]

The black and white portrait rustles, a splotch of darkness seeps over those eyes, coloured grey as the super-sized quote [DRAWN TO TALENT] is imprinted across the ravines of cheekbones and deep recesses of sockets, now thinned with text.

He's well aware of your history with Geto, the inaccuracies of the accounts on both sides, the way the two of you are the darlings of the gossip columns, as cyclical as the seasons and heroin chic coming back in vogue, appalling as it is.

"How's the fluff piece for our auteur extraordinaire? He opt for self-flagellating or self-fellating?"

So, trouble in paradise then, Nanami thinks.

He shrugs. "The box office'll be happy."

"Oh, hooraay. Praise be for the ultimate - nay, the only metric and arbiter of art."

"Nay?"

His tone is withering, but not enough to stop your belligerence from sprouting. Or spouting.

"Hey. Do you think I got where I am based on sheer luck, or looks?"

You're a few too many whiskey neats in.

"Clearly they weren't stumbling blocks," he says drily, gesturing for his refill. Normally you'd find his diplomacy coy. Now it's just tiresome.

"I expected more than this calibre of flattery from a BAFTA nominee," you sneer, fingers creeping along Nanami's taut wrist. He steadies his grip around his bourbon.

"I'm off the clock. You'll have to get your one-liners elsewhere. Union rules."

You lean in, the cloud of alcohol and your perfume shrouding Nanami.

"Such a stickler," you whisper, the taunt gusting warm and wet against his lips. Through the fog, just barely, Nanami telescopes in on the gleam of your maraschino-red mouth, the gimlet glint of your eyes.

Not chandeliers, but stalactites, the notion coalesces somehow, despite your distractions. Nanami's brain churns, scrambling for a deflective quip, only to short-circuit when he feels your other hand land on his thigh.

"You know, in these scenarios, the rulebook gets thrown out - if one even exists in the first place."

A rough palm clasps your hand, but your forehead brushes Nanami's.

"My point is, I don't give up. I always get what I want."

"Assuming you know what that is."

You freeze.

It's better this way, Nanami thinks, watching the shards twist in your eyes. There is still barely an inch between you and him, close enough for him to feel the breath and consequences you hold in the quiver of your lips. At arm's length, and a lifetime away.

At least like this, he has a front row seat to the fracturing story.

He was never meant to be the protagonist, let alone a hero.

"Are you really coming after me, or are you just trying to get away from Suguru?"

[b4kuch1n]

If you’re okay answering it- will you explain what it was that you imagine “the end” was in your recent body horror artwork? I am so lured in by it and I want to know so badly!

aight so I shall put my version of the events under read more; I never shy from giving away the context or process of my art, but I insist you never take my word as the one and only truth. I am not adding to the text after the fact here. once a piece is done and posted my interpretation is as valid as yours, always.

this piece started with a very hazy amalgamation of things - I remember two days ago I was somewhat crankier than usual at 4AM, it was a tenday streak into serious sleep schedule fuckup, I got the idea but couldn't even get my brain together enough to sit up and sketch it out, I pulled out my phone and tweeted deliriously

then went to sleep.

the original vision is admittedly lost fully to my fucked up sleep schedule now, but I remember it fully starting out from the result. the final vision. the cause was nowhere near my mind at that point, and I think to me now the cause still doesn't matter nearly as much as the after.

I did figure some stuff out in my own brain as I drew this - on stream but I don't think I can post this VOD on youtube haha - but it was not... really fully fleshed out, I'll say. the catalyst is of course a light, and I was thinking this is the end the end, there will be no witness in this world after this event, to see how the light slide forever into twilight everywhere on earth. it's supposed to kill you painlessly, but it doesn't manage that as much as it rewires your emotional reactions to turn pain into joy. a feeling of being tickled, or of- laughing gas high, but inside as well. makes you want to dance, to laugh, to celebrate. like being in a happy crowd and you feel your body instinctively shift into the happy body language.

I want to say the subjects of the piece were people who've gotten used to both the rowdiness of a party and the barren loneliness of the afterwards, cleaning up alone and feeling sick to the throat with the idea of smiling at anyone else while craving the commotion at the same time. maybe it's how they came into the presence of each other - staying to help with the cleaning instead of leaving to detox. they've come to known together that happiness is often very uneventful. quiet, an undercurrent of other emotions.

so, they recognize when a joy is manufactured. something condescending, pitying, an anesthesia that failed to work on them. a mercy killing, probably because whatever let the light down misread humans emotion cues, thinking the population so ill and in pain it's better to put it down early. they understand when an emotion's forced on them, so there's fear still in their mania. so they hold onto each other as the light flays one and twists the other.

in my mind it happens very quickly; one of them saw the light, called the other over to the window to look at it, and in a few seconds they're dead. it's pure chance that their hands survived holding each other. reminds me of those lovers' tombs we discovered, two people long dead, now only known as being dear to each other. their names, their beings, their history, all long gone. except that they loved each other.

[apherod]

Rubian Soulmate AU

I finally finished writing it ahhhh

I eventually decided that I was going for a sketch-style writing for this. Just short bits and pieces here and there, piecing together some scenes, but not fully fleshed out into a storyline (it coincides with the original story mostly anyway)

So here it is! Enjoy!

This is a Liam and Ruby Soulmate AU requested by an anon (possibly @thedarkestcrew?) ask, in which damage done to one half of the soulmate pair would translate to the other half. 

Word count: 4400

===

Liam

“Where did all these bruises come from?”

I was driving through Highway 95 in Maryland when I noticed the bruises crowning my knuckles. They just…appeared, like petals floating to the surface of water. It is possible that I punched something—or someone—at some point in the last few days, or tripped and fell, and using…my fists to break the fall? But I don’t recall doing any of that.

Then again, my head hadn’t been the most reliable in these past few weeks, either.

They weren’t the first. A couple of weeks ago, I woke up with a cut on my upper arm, and the blood drenched half of my sleeve, but the sleeve wasn’t torn or cut, so it couldn’t have been me… Another one came a few days after that, when I was driving, and a sudden searing pain came to my wrist, like I was burnt by a frying pan, but that part of my skin wasn’t even touching anything. The list goes on.

I think I’m going insane.

Some people…some who are lucky enough to find their soulmates, found themselves with identical wounds on them, because when one half of that bond gets hurt, the other one suffers, too. Mom’s bruises never translated onto our birth dad. Maybe that was why he was so okay with hurting her. It wasn’t until she met Harry, did that magic—or curse—work on both of them.

But that’s exactly that—it only happens after you’ve met the person. If I’ve somehow met her, and didn’t know who she was, then I’ve really screwed up. Big time.

It couldn’t have been anyone in Caledonia, otherwise I would’ve known. No one from home, either. There weren’t even that many of us left. Could it be someone from East River? For some reason, I just couldn’t be sure… There’re this weird quality in my memory when I think of East River, glowing tinge surrounding everything, blurring details, and flaring up the edges, making it hard to see for too long.

Also, if I met her in East River, why isn’t she with me?

If she’s really out there, I felt sorry for all the pain I’ve caused her in the past few days. When I narrowly escaped that group of Skip Tracers, my arms were all cut up, real pretty. I can’t imagine the horror she must have felt when her arms just, out of nowhere, started spontaneously bleeding half of her blood out.

I really ought to take better care of myself, even if it’s just for her sake.

When I crossed the state boarder into Pennsylvania, I managed to find an old payphone, and left a voice mail for my brother to let him know where I am, and that I’m coming his way. I didn’t want to—asking for Cole’s help was one of the few things that I genuinely want to avoid—but I’m really desperate.

The truth is, just imagining him gloating about this—about me needing his help—was almost enough to make me turn around. Think about the last time I asked for his help… didn’t work out so well, did it? But whatever Cole has to offer, whatever nightmare I have to live through going back to the League, is better than being hauled back into the camp.

I don’t think they’d actually take me back into a camp, anyway.

When I got passed the wrong Wilmington, I briefly glimpsed the road sign that read US 13, and a voice suddenly rang in my head.

Turn off here. It urged.

The feeling was distinctly different from my reluctance to meet Cole—it was a drive, asking me to go somewhere, rather than run from somewhere.

Whatever it was, I can’t listen, no matter how hard I wanted to, no matter how it warmed my heart just thinking about that impulse, like it would lead me home, even though I had no idea how.

I got into the city of Philadelphia, and found my brother’s apartment soon enough. When I got into his building, a woman threw me a sideway glance that made my hair stood on their ends.

Please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me… I muttered in my head while I pressed the buzzer. The door swung opened, and I was snatched inside by a forceful arm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Cole snarled before I could even lay eyes on him properly. “Why didn’t you call me when you got here?”

He looked much better than me, that much was clear. Cole never had any wound that wasn’t his own, and from the looks of him, he hadn’t seen much action lately. His hair was clean-cut, brushed neatly away from his face. He was wearing a white shirt and dark blue jeans, with metal-frame glasses which were clearly without diopters to finish the look. In this getup, you’d expect him to be a graduate student in U Penn, not a high school dropout.

“I… I didn’t have any money to place a call.” I muttered, feeling my voice getting smaller. Gosh, I hated this. I hated that I felt like a child again. I took off my jacket, and hung it on the peg right next to his. They were two identical black leather jackets, which Mom bought us years ago—she got them a couple of sizes bigger than we were at the time, in anticipation that we would eventually grow into them. Cole did, whereas I felt like I still hadn’t.

Cole let out a long and harsh breath, and gave me a scan head to toe. “You’ve seen better days.” He commented eventually, a subtle amusement in his tone. “Even for you, this is a bit excessive…” He gingerly lifted my right wrist, and got a good look at my forearm, all cut up.

You don’t say. I wanted to retort, but didn’t. “What are you doing in Philly?” I asked as I retracted my hand.

Cole raised an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”

Maybe not. “I’d probably know eventually, wouldn’t I?” I said.

He scratched his chin, frowning. “You know what this means, right? You know where we’re going?”

“Look, if I could just find Mom and Harry…” I began, but he raised his hand and stopped me.

“No,” He snapped, “We don’t have that kind of time. My assignment here is done. I’m being extracted at midnight, which is in less than four hours, and if you think I’d let you out running into the wild and being hauled into a camp again, you’d have another thought coming.”

Choose me. I remembered the subtext of what Cole said that night when he left home, and now it was ringing in a different tone. Now I don’t have a choice.

“All right.” I sighed. “Whatever you say.”

He frowned deeper. But it took him a while to say something. “Look, I know the last time you came with me, it didn’t end so well, but things are turning around.” He said, palms down, pacifying. “I promise, just stick it out a few months.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

He bit his lip. “I just do. Trust me.” He said, then gave me a tight smile, “Tell you what, I’ll go get us something to eat, and you clearly need a shower.” He took off his glasses, grabbed the keys, then, as if remembered something, added with a grin, “Do not, drown in the bathtub.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes.

Before he could open the door, though, I stopped him. “Cole,” I began, but didn’t really know how to finish.

“Yeah?” He prompted.

“Have we...” I caught myself just for a moment. What am I doing? “...have we ever been to Virginia Beach?”

Because that…memory? was so vivid, that I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there, calling me at every moment I so much as allowed my mind to idle for a second. But it also had that bright glare around it, like it didn’t really belong to me, like I was seeing it through a mirror, into a different dimension where we were all happier people.

Cole was there, looking exactly like how he was now, but Claire was also there, and that didn’t make any sense…

“No…?” Cole said, “We lived in Wilmington. We went to Wrightsville, remember?”

Of course I do, but… I shook my head. “It’s just… I kept seeing this…memory, that we were there, and Claire was there, too…”

Cole pressed his lips tight. I know mentioning Claire’s name would probably put him on edge, but it’s not like I have other people to talk about her with anyway. A part of me wanted to be a bit mean about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t have the strength.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, voice rigid. “Just go take your shower. I’ll be back with the food.”

And he left, leaving me alone in his white and bare apartment.

I still couldn’t be sure that it was a good idea coming here. If I’m being honest with myself, it wasn’t even about my negative view on the League, or what it had turned my brother into, but that…I’m not sure how to be his brother anymore. I’m not even sure that he needs a brother.

Hell. Looking around this place, I got the feeling that a brother wasn’t the only thing he didn’t need. But then again, knowing how Cole kept his room, it was maybe a good thing that he had so few belongings here. This place…it didn’t even feel like someone actually live here; there were so few things breaking the white of the walls, it was almost glaring to my eyes.

I first went to check his bed, to see if he still has that weird habit—falling asleep with cigarettes still in his hand. His bedsheet looked clean enough; nothing charred. No ashtray, either. Maybe he quit.

Satisfied, I went to grab a t-shirt and a pair of pants from his closet, and dived into the pressurized water in his shower.

I can’t remember when was the last time I had running water. Probably…when I was in the League’s safe house? Gosh. My skin is so filthy, the water only started running clean after a good ten minutes of scrubbing, and I was scrubbing hard.

I was extra careful when I cleaned my arms, though. Not particularly because I was scared of pain, but more that I didn’t want to hurt this…person who might share this unfortunate connection with me, however low the chance might be. I didn’t want to make her suffer even more—somehow, I knew it was a her, for reasons I couldn’t quite put into words.

When I got out of the shower, I felt like my entire body had been turned inside out. My skin was glowing pink against the white tiling of Cole’s bathroom. He is an inch or two taller than me—which was sore to admit, but hey, I went through puberty in a lot worse condition than he did—so his pants hung a little too long around my ankles.

Then I finally got a good look at myself in the mirror. Damn, I looked awful. The dark shadows under my eyes were so purple, they looked almost black. Not to mention the countless scratches and bruises. There was a new one on my left cheek, just above the jawline. Whether it was mine or hers, I didn’t know.

Just as I threw the towel over my head, and started rubbing the water away from my hair, I heard it—siren. It began from a distance, a low wailing, but it was enough to set every hair on my back on its end. As I flew out of Cole’s shower, grabbed my jacket, and rushed to the window side, the siren got closer—and multiplied. The sound of them were like a harmony from hell.

Should I run? Should I stay?

I should run.

Even though they might not be coming for me, I knew better than to push my luck—it hadn’t really been on my side recently, and that woman who looked at me a second too long when I got in the building was probably proving me right. I threw the apartment door open, and on a second thought, ran for the roof instead of the ground floor.

I can reconvene with Cole later. I need to stay out of sight now. Cole’s a smart guy, he knows what to do in a situation like this.

It had started raining. I tripped on a mossy patch on the rooftop, and almost broke my jaw, but I stood up and kept running. I pushed myself over the ledge of the next building, and sprinted for the fire escape on the far end. The sound of the first bullet fired almost made me lose my bearing when I lowered myself onto the metal shaft.

They are on the other side. There were two fully populated buildings between me and those bullets, and they were firing at someone else—which means I’m not who they’re after. These are all good news.

Right?

Since when had I been that lucky after I turned twelve?

I pulled the hood of the jacket over my head, and dove into the shadow of the next alley. The gunfire had stopped, which meant that they probably got whoever they were after. I took the long way around the block, trying to get a hang of the situation, getting an idea of where I could find Cole without being spotted—

Oh, I found him alright.

Fuck. No. Fuck.

I only caught sight of him for a second before they slammed the back of that van shut, and in that brief second, he looked up, and he saw me.

No.

Christ. No. I… I got him caught. I did… I did this… Why didn’t I warn him? Why didn’t I go to him as soon as I heard the siren?

What have I done?

If you’re caught, you’re disavowed. I still remembered that phrase like it was etched into my skull. If anything encapsulates what I hate about the League the most, this is it. And now, Cole is going to be another casualty under that cold hard rule. The thought almost made my knees buckled, but instead of crashing down, I up and ran.

I ran. From this nightmare of my own making.

+++

Ruby

“Ruby!”

The scream came before the punch could land. I didn’t register what was happening in that first moment, not until the blood was dripping down my elbows, and staining the blue mats under us.

“Go to the infirmary!” Coach Johnson ordered, and I gladly obeyed. I could hear the whispering judgements forming even before I left the training room—what was that? What’s wrong with her? Where did those come from?

I knew exactly where they came from.

If Chubs was here, he’d likely yell at me for not getting these wounds taken care of immediately, but I simply…couldn’t. I ran for the shower stall, being careful not to stain the curtain, and turn on the tap.

With the water pouring out the showerhead, steaming up every bit of air around me, blurring my vision, I finally let the tears fall.

My arms didn’t hurt that much. At least, not as much as my heart. The bruises were bearable—who doesn’t get those occasionally living in the wild? I got one every other day even just from the training. But these cuts…he was in danger. Maybe he only got away with it within an inch of his life.

The only consolation I had was that I wasn’t mortally wounded, which meant he wasn’t, either. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t regret my decision of letting him go every second of every day.

If I did that to protect him, all these wounds and bruises only proved how wrong I was, how in vain my suffering had been.

“Ruby?” Cate’s voice.

I swallowed hard before answering. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” She asked, standing outside of my stall.

“Yes.” I lied.

“Coach Johnson said you were hurt—” She didn’t buy it. “Look, if you don’t want to go to the infirmary, I can take a look—”

“I’m fine.” I cut her off. The timer on the tap beeped, warning me that the water would start running cold. My blood was dripping down from my fingers, dropping into the shallow water on the concrete floor like roses blooming in the snow.

“Ruby, I can see the blood.” Cate said dryly, then softer, coaxing. “Come out, please. Let me dress your wounds.”

Only if I could just close my eyes, and pretend for a second that the person who was waiting for me with antiseptic was Chubs, not Cate. If only I could pretend that these wounds were mine, not of the boy that I dreamt of every night for the past few months.

If only I could pretend that they were here with me, or that I wasn’t here at all.

I sighed, and brushed the curtain open. To Cate’s credit, she didn’t flinch at the sight of me. “Oh, Ruby…” She said with a tone like I was a stray cat ready to be put down. She reached out, and gingerly lifted my hand to get a better look at my arm.

“Press on it.” She handed me a towel, and sat down on the bench before patting the empty space beside her, motioning for me to join her.

I did as she said as she tore open a paper package. “This is going to hurt a little…” She gently dabbed the fabric square on my wounds, and I hissed out of reflex. I hated this. I hated showing her my weakness, and I guessed, in a weird way, she understood that. She didn’t comment on any of it, only continued to wrap my arms up in silence.

“There.” When she’s done, both of my forearms were wrapped entirely in gauzes.

“Th…thank you.” I managed to choke out.

She gave me a tender smile. “Don’t mention it.” She stood up, collecting the empty packages off the bench, and turned to leave.

Before she was out of the door, however, she turned around, and said, “You know, you get those wounds together, and you heal together, too.” She paused for a second, “You’re…not entirely helpless in this situation.”

Ten minutes after she left, I was still sitting on that bench, pondering her words. I didn’t even know what she said was true, but if it was, it meant that when I took care of myself, I took care of him, too. That, somehow, didn’t seem so bad.

I wondered how Cate knew that. She and Rob were clearly not soulmates, and I didn’t even know why she would want to date him, even without considering that fact. Rob—ruthless, arrogant, hateful—was everything opposite to what she seemed to hold dear.

But then again, she probably didn’t understand why someone would find their soulmate only to let them go on their own.

That day when I let Liam go, I made a decision that I would be whoever the League wants me to be, and make it so that they wouldn’t miss him. And for the longest time, I had kept to that promise. But not today, not now.

I just want to be myself again, even if it’s just for a moment.

So I brushed open the curtain to the stall, and allowed myself to be vulnerable again, for everyone and no one to see.

+++

His eyes traveled from my face to where the water had collected on my chest, and I raised my arms just that much higher.

His mouth half-opened for what I was sure to be a snide remark, but whatever it was never managed to pass his lips. His face froze, brows drew together, and he reached out. Before I could shift away—to where though, I had no idea; my back was already against the wall—he grabbed my wrist, and lifted my arm.

“It was you.” Cole said with a tone of half astonishment, half…anger?

“What was?” I raised an eyebrow at him, trying to hide how much I felt like a kid being caught red-handed, stealing candy bars.

He threw me a “really?” look. “Don’t insult my intelligence.” He snapped, “These are Liam’s, aren’t they?”

I almost asked “how do you know”, but that would confirm his suspicion. “What makes you say that?” I asked instead.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not playing games with you.” He huffed, “Soulmates should stick together. What were you thinking sending him out into the wild? Do you have any idea how dangerous he is to you? Or you to him? The poor bastard doesn’t even know you exist!”

“And as long as I stay in the League, that fact shall remain.” I said, more resolute and calmer than I thought possible.

He blew out a sigh of exasperation. “Look, I don’t care what kind of sainthood complex you have going on, I’m telling you—you are not doing either of you any favors, and if you think this is somehow a good idea, I beg you, think again, because you definitely look smarter than this.”

“What do you know?” I retorted, finally couldn’t keep the lid on my anger anymore. “Do you have any idea how much he hates it here? How hard he was trying to avoid this place before you drag him into this mess?”

Cole really laughed. “You think I don’t know?” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I met his glare head on. “I was the one that let him go when he got away that first time.” He tried to brush his hair back with his hand, but it gave out a weird flex before he could reach his head. “And I’ve seen enough soulmates pairs in my life to know that I never want one. Have you any idea what would happen to him if you were injured when he was on the run? Soulmates stick together so they don’t double their chances on dying, but I guess no one ever set your logic straight, did they?”

My head was so flushed with anger that I actually let him finished.

“Go find him.” Cole snapped. “And for Christ’s sake, stay together this time.”

+++

Liam

“I didn’t need freedom; I needed you!” I half-screamed, trying to get the frustration out past the chaos raging in my head. How could I—? How could she—? What the hell—?

On the receiving end of my scream, Ruby’s face was painted with grief, lined with tears that almost made my anger buckle. Almost.

“Did you just…not want to be with me anymore?” Facing her silence, my pain came out softer eventually. Please, just tell me, and I will leave you alone.

“No…” She choked out. “I… I was wrong.” She swallowed hard before continuing, and despite the anger still roaming my vein, I wanted to reach out and touch her. “We should…we should stay together. I knew I couldn’t bear to see you with the League, see them take away all the good in you that I love…”

“Is that how you think of me?” I snapped before I realized what I was doing, “That I am so weak that the League is bound to break me?”

“No!” She shook her head violently, “No, I don’t think you are weak… If anything, I think you are much stronger than me. But I was weak.” She finally looked back at me, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light of this dust-covered room. “I’m so sorry.”

Before I could react to what she said—I didn’t even know what I was going to say or do—the sound of a gunshot broke every single thought clean out of my head.

Ruby was running before I could do anything about it. She pushed the door of the shop open, and another shot blew open the window on the outside, shattering the glass all over the floor.

“Ruby!” I shouted as I dodged, crouching with my hands over my ears, but she was already up and running again, out of the door and behind the woman that was escaping the scene—with a gun in her hands.

“Ruby, stop!” I shouted again, got on my feet to catch her, but I never manage. I skidded on the broken glass, and fell, hands first, into the shards.

I heard her hiss. She stopped dead on her way, and whirled around to find me on the floor, holding my right hand on my laps, pressing it against the fabric of my jeans to try and stop the bleeding.

The blood was dripping down to her fingers. As she walked slowly towards me, the red, looking almost black, dropped on the dust-covered floor, leaving a spotting route, marking her path. When she knelt down beside me, finally close enough to touch me, I found that she was smiling. A totally mirthless, wry and painful smile.

“Give me your hand.” She said softly, almost like a whisper.

“You should treat yours first.” I said, trying to catch her hand, to see how much of a damage I’d done.

“We only need to treat one of us.” She let out a small breath, almost like something caught there. “We get them together, and we heal them together, too.”

That, somehow, broke through all the mess in my head and reached my mind. I let her take my arm, and carefully wrap her scarf on my hand, all the while her words played on repeat in my head.

We get them together, and we heal them together, too.

When she was done wrapping my hand up, the wounds on her hand stopped bleeding, too. I didn’t know why—I wasn’t even completely over that anger or frustration—but when she placed her hand in mine, a tender “there” escaping her lips, all I wanted to do was kiss her.

Instead, I gently enveloped my fingers around her hand. “There.” I said, pressing my good hand over hers.

And we stayed in that silent, that touch, just a little while longer.

+++

[obscureoperations]

Artística S/O asking Martin If he can take off his shirt to she can draw him?👁️👁️

This is actually really cute! There were times that I desperately wished I could paint or draw. Those times where words fail to fully encapsulate the depth of what your trying to portray. Sometimes it's all in a color, or a trick of shadows and light. It leaves you feeling an emotion that you long to see painted out for yourself. What better way to convey admiration than placing who/what inspires you on the canvas!

With a sigh, Martin slowly adjusts his limbs keeping his head poised towards the window. His shoulders ached from holding the nearly unnatural position, but his mind had already began to drift off. The late afternoon sun paints lines across the room--faint particles of dust dancing in the air held his attention. He already anticipated the finished product--he still couldn’t fathom why on earth you wanted to draw him.

Martin always loved to watch you work, he admired the sheer dedication. Haunched over your desk for hours on end just to perfect the finished piece. Brow furrowed in concentration as you flip through your sketchbook with determination. Desperate to find just the right point of reference. Nine times out of ten, the reference was him. The way your fingers grasped the pen, lightly tapping it against your lips when you began to ponder. You were doing what you actually loved, and that made you all the more beautiful to him.

Over the past thirty minutes, you sighed several times, it made him wonder if he was doing something wrong. He held his position, straddling the chair head tilted towards the window… fingers entwined in his hair. Did he need to sit up straighter? Was the lighting wrong? What could he do to help? He started to feel a bit antsy, resisting the urge to anxiously bounce his leg. “Y/n?”

Your exasperated sigh causes him to deflate. He actually managed to let you lose your concentration.

“What is it love?” The warmth in your voice causes him to smile involuntarily.

“Nothing… sorry I- Did I do something wrong?”

He can hear you shift, a faint rustling of clothes, the pencil drops down into the holder.

“No Martin, absolutely not… the image. It’s just not turning out right.”

So that was it.

He could clearly hear the frustration in your voice. He wanted to turn around to face you. You always took every individual piece so seriously, even if it was only just a warm up. Your perfectionism only intensified when it came to portraits of him. You wanted to paint him in the best possible light. At one point, you claimed that you’d sketch him every day just to prove to him how beautiful he was.

You move to rest at his side, hands resting on his shoulders. “Here Martin… relax.” Your thumbs press into the knots forming t his shoulder blades, gently massaging away the lumps of tension. An involuntary sigh escapes his lips and he leans back into the familiar touch.

“I want you to relax for me..okay?” The whispered words punctuated by a brief kiss to his temple. What exactly was he doing differently? He always prided himself on following your distinct instruction when being the subject of one of your pieces.

“Okay..” He sighs. Already leaning into your touch, the brief chuckle behind him causes him to melt. He tries to refocus his attention towards the windowsill until your fingers move to lightly grasp his chin. Your honeyed gaze as always takes him over. Your warm smile, the adoration in your eyes right before you lean in to kiss him.

“I want you to take this off…” You whisper, lightly tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He flushes immediately.

“What.. my shirt?!”

“Yes.”

The heat manages to increase tenfold.

He shifts back momentarily, smoothing some of the bangs away from his eyes.

“I-I thought you wanted to paint my picture..”

“I do! J- just… while not wearing this..” Your fingers flitter beneath the hem of his shirt, momentarily grazing over his heated flesh. His heartbeat begins to hammer against his ribs, it was such a simple suggestion.

At times, Martin couldn't even begin to fathom the depth of your praise. Why did you insist on calling him beautiful? He didn’t look anything like any of the guys in the movies.. But you were always so eager to get him undressed. A faint shiver courses through his slight frame at the idea. Feather soft hair tickles his cheek as you nuzzle close to his neck. Hands roaming over his chest, hovering over his rapidly fluttering heart.

“Only if you want to..”

[fannishcodex]

So I love @revasnaslan 's Where One Fell Verse, a SPOP AU. :D (Will add a link to the fic series in a comment or reblog below after remembering that tumblr sometimes has issues with embedded links, I think.)

Like, I really love it a lot, it borders on self-conscious "am I being too much, will this for some reason bother the fic writer??" And really, I’ve realized, no way, it won’t, especially since I write fic too and know I would be delighted if my fic got that reaction; but I think this may be more part of my self-consciousness and shyness. In any case, my affection for these fics is on hyperfixation level. I'm in the WOF Verse fandom. It's a thing I've been thinking about in some way since I found it late last year via @cirusthecitrus, it's one of the things that cheers me up these days. I struggle to articulate my pleasure with this fic, but I want to try to do it more.

This fic is a wonderfully character-driven story.

Fic spoilers under the cut, so recommend reading Where One Fell (fic 1) and Everything But A Door (fic 2) before this--and also, just, this fic has my deepest rec and everyone should check it out:

But, another different note first, even more self-conscious on my part: me writing about this fic more feels long overdue, but I really do struggle to sometimes articulate even my positive feelings about a thing because I want to get it across well--but I'm trying to more just spill it out now instead of trying to refine it more; and just also other things have been...a lot, there's been a lot (good and less good) that's pulled my attention in other directions too. So, long overdue, I wish I could've done more earlier, but I still just want to...gush about the fic; but I get self-conscious and worry about, like, "I don't want to end up pestering/pressuring and asking for immediate gratification for a new chapter/I don't want to guilt-trip for an update especially since I feel like I understand because I write fic too and I write slow and it's hard"...but I still want to gush about WOF verse, especially since it's like any other story I enjoy. I like gushing about the stories I enjoy.

So, again, this fic is wonderfully character-driven, which I love.

I'll bring up some canon for obvious reasons, but mostly in terms of contrast. One of the ways WOF Verse felt refreshing and drew me in was that after SPOP canon--well, in some ways SPOP canon feels like a wasted ensemble show; like many other things SPOP doesn't pull off, it doesn't pull off an ensemble show (especially when it ends up sidelining a bunch of characters that should've been prioritized more instead of a very mishandled character), and it kinda feels like it ends up having too many characters/like it starts feeling like too many characters if some are sort of just there and not really used (and I have my thoughts on who should've been prioritized, but that's another post; though granted I think my interest in this fic really indicates some of the characters I would've prioritized more).

So, I enjoyed how WOF Verse focuses on a smaller cast, giving them more attention and exploring them more. The general summary of the fic immediately drew me in, because I'm a sucker for family themes and dysfunctional families and familial love getting messy and complicated in fiction, and I hadn't realized I needed clone Hordak and his genetic template/progenitor Horde Prime shifted to them being literally brothers, plus the added twist of having Horde Prime actually care for his brother, but Prime's become thoroughly twisted in how he shows that affection and protectiveness--didn't know I needed that until I found this fic. And oh do I enjoy how this fic opened up the original '80s She-Ra/MOTU up to me more, because I just thought "wow, Hec-Tor Kur is a good made-up alt name/'real-ish' name with a last name for Hordak in this AU, and Anillis Kur just sounds cool and it just feels like it fits as an alt name/real name for Horde Prime when he's not always using that title," and I thought making them literally blood brothers was just a neat twist on them being clone and genetic template/progenitor. But nope, apparently Hec-Tor Kur and Anillis Kur are their real alt names from the original '80s canon which also heavily implies they're brothers, and that's really cool. (And I think it would've been really interesting if spop/the latest reboot had actually just explored that more, explored them more as brothers and siblings.)

Again, WOF is very character-driven, and I love that. And I enjoy how this feels like it also fits the story and world of the fic, which involves Anillis Kur/Horde Prime going into Extremely Overprotective Brother Mode and confining his sickly younger brother Hec-Tor (Hordak) to the Velvet Glove because he's that paranoid about anything happening to his brother due to a lot of family trauma that happened before Hec-Tor was even born/when he was just a baby (and baby Hec-Tor himself almost succumbing to illness and dying did not help with Anillis's issues), not to mention that controlling; so much of the fic so far is in a closed world, it adds to the hyper focus on the characters in that closed world. I appreciate how at times the fic really does have this claustrophobic feeling. I like how it sometimes makes me think of like a one-setting/limited setting play on a multi-chapter scale.

And of course, I like the specific characters getting this sort of hyper focus, and WOF makes me enjoy them even more. I love Hordak, his character, his voice, his design, etc. Horde Prime also has such a cool design and again that same cool voice, I adore Keston John's voice acting and his range in it. Canon S5 doesn't give him enough internal depth or character though, and ultimately makes him too much of just an obstacle and symbol/too much of a plot device in the show and a wasted opportunity for a more interesting character. That becomes even more apparent in contrast to WOF Verse, because Anillis Kur/Horde Prime is so much more interesting!!! Like Anillis/WOF!Prime is so much more interesting, it makes me realize how canon Prime is lacking in character/interest.

Ohman, this Prime. Prime has a great design and a great voice, and WOF has an interesting personality to match those elements in quality. There's so much fascinating contrast with him in WOF, and it makes him feel like a more unsettling villain. We've seen him care, and so it feels more frightening when he turns more aggressive and ruthless and cold. WOF's opening scene really effectively sets that contrast with him; it starts with him exhausted but having a really sweet moment with a very young Hec-Tor, and then not long after that when Hec-Tor's asleep in his arms it's a very unsettling mood whiplash with how Anillis coldly treats the clone attendant; it's even very effectively distilled and crystalized even further with the image of Anillis holding a sleeping Hec-Tor in his arms while glaring daggers at the clone attendant, that contrast of love and threat. Like, definitely a character that can do Both and I love that. And contrast adds layers to Anillis, it renders him in even more emotional dimensions, he can be multiple things at once.

And I rather love that he's far less...touchy, with everyone; it more finally struck me that he's rarely negatively touched anyone until a pivotal scene, and it being a rarity made the scene pack more of a punch, and then I looked back and realized he just doesn't do that often, there's another earlier scene that also feels shocking because it's another rare use of explicit touch, his touch is more targeted--he doesn't need to constantly do it to feel threatening at all, and is in fact much more threatening and unsettling without it. (I literally had to pause some instances because I was nervous about what Anillis would do next.) It's so fascinating to watch Anillis steadily grow worse and to watch Hec-Tor gradually have the dawning realization of what Anillis is really doing and the truth of his situation. It's interesting to see Hec-Tor gradually realizing that what he's lived with his whole life and what has felt normal isn't a good thing, it's not acceptable.

And I really do like that familial love is such a motivating factor for Anillis, and that it's something that feeds into a lot of his ruthlessness and villainy; and it feels like something I still don't see enough in fiction. And it just feels more believable, more consistent. Anillis acts horribly, is abusive, but it still feels like what he does is out of love for his brother and he really is blind to what he's actually doing to his brother, that it's the opposite of what he wants, it's not protecting him like he believes. I like that level of character believability/consistency, and part of that also involves how it's overall framed, and it's still framed as pretty terrifying; Anillis cares about his brother, but his methods are twisted.

And my gut feeling does...well, feel connections between canon and this AU--and that may be obvious as source material and fic based on it, but I mean--it's as if canon were the very rough first sketch/draft, and WOF is the fully realized version of the character, plus the change of shifting his brotherly status into a brother that actually does care but goes about it in a horribly twisted way. WOF takes parts and pieces and little details from canon and fleshes them out into something more fully dimensional and more interesting. Like the trace of canon Prime's collection with plants/other things and even arguably the imagery at the end with his ship the Velvet Glove becoming a tree feel connected to a more fleshed out version in WOF where Anillis keeps a garden. And there's so much meaning that can be pulled from his garden--it's another reflection of his controlling behavior with the way he controls/manages the garden; on the flip side, it feels like it further reflects the contrast/dichotomy in his character, as gardens can still have positive connotations too--it can reflect the potential Anillis had (may still have?) for genuine good/for genuinely nurturing care. And it also does more explicitly point to Anillis's affection for family since his late father had kept a garden too and Anillis's own garden on the Velvet Glove still has his father's plants. There's so much done with Anillis's garden.

And with his backstory and the contrast in his character, just his...everything, I also want to know more about Anillis, I'm curious for even more of his backstory, even going more into "why are you like this?" Like this is a genuinely fascinating, charismatic, threatening, multi-faceted antagonist right here.  

And I can go on about Anillis, but I love Hec-Tor/Hordak in this too. I love Hordak, and I enjoy how this still feels so much like Hordak, but with a different life; I feel like there are commonalities that remain from canon within him combined with differences based on the AU he's in and the different experiences he's lived with. Like, there's such an interesting detail with Hec-Tor's growing anger issues that remind me of Hordak--it's there, but different because of their different lives, Hec-Tor's developing because of his isolation but still quieter, simmering, because his brother only has his best interests at heart, he shouldn't act like this... And then it’s so nice to see Hec-Tor be even more talkative about SCIENCE because he does have more space to be a bit more open about his passions in this AU/different life situation. And it's all like another AU I didn't realize I wanted until I saw it--I really dig seeing Hordak/Hec-Tor as a baby, as a little kid, getting to have a childhood and get to have more typical developmental stages and to have more familial experiences, albeit twisted ones. And I love how the story has shifted to Hec-Tor more, love his POV and following him on his journey.

And the clones! The clones are great in WOF and give me feels too. I love how more of them are focused on as individuals, and that we get to see more of their characters and glimpse their differing views. And when Etherian characters join in, they're as well written and interesting too (the Entrapdak is so good). I just like WOF's cast, and the line-up plucked from canon and how they adjust to the AU; this ensemble just feels better, and it's utilized and treated better than canon.

And the worldbuilding with Anillis & Hec-Tor’s race and the clones and their world is so good and seamlessly interwoven with story and character, enhancing the whole thing even more and making things even more interesting.

I just...really love these characters and this story. They have a lot of heart and intrigue.

(Disclaimer: I definitely ended up having trouble figuring out tags for this. Especially since I think only the first five tags actually show up at first? And I think last I checked tumblr freaks out over dashes within a tag so while “hec-tor kur” probably fits better, I don’t think tumblr can handle that for some reason so just going with “hordak,” which also really still just fits.)

[rosesloveletters]

Phantasmagoria.

pairing: none

word count: 1,494

warnings: mentions of physical abuse, trauma, mental illness, PTSD, schizophrenia, cheating, minor descriptions of war and death, alcoholism, mention of childbirth (no description), slight self-harm/mutilation. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THESE THEMES TRIGGER YOU. 

summary: jack napier’s early life and the birth of the Joker. 

notes: a request from @harlequinjoke​ ❤️ thank you so much for requesting this or else I would have never gotten around to writing it all out! This has been knocking around in my head for over a year now and I minorly fleshed it out in my story ‘Treacherous’, but that one was told from J’s perspective of what happened and he isn’t the most reliable narrator😂 this contains a bunch of stuff he left out. 

I would also like to point out: this is completely my own take on J’s backstory and who he was before the events of The Dark Knight. This head canon set is purely my opinion and is in no way meant to be taken as canon; with this in mind, please enjoy. 

The Joker hadn’t always been ‘The Joker’. Years ago, he was just a regular young man who went by the name Jack; J is very different from Jack, yet there are still shades of the man he once was that occasionally peek out from the dark depths of J’s psyche. Those glimpses of Jack are few and far between, but J could never fully shed every aspect of himself.

Jack had grown up inside a rather abusive environment. His father was an alcoholic and a criminal; Jack suffered many injuries and wounds at the hands of his father and a deep resentment formed out of the constant mistreatment.

Jack learned at a very early age to be mistrustful of those who allegedly cared about him; those who broke his trust hurt Jack more than any punch, kick or physical assault ever could and he took it hard.

Trust was something his father preached to him about, though had never given him a shred of.

Jack was what adults liked to call ‘a troubled kid’. He would get in fights at school, bully weaker kids, backtalk adults/teachers/any authority figure. No one seemed to question what might have been going on behind closed doors; from the outside looking in, there was nothing out of the ordinary that was apparent. Jack’s father, as a functioning alcoholic, could put up a front and no one was ever the wiser.

Despite the conversation J had with Gambol about his mother protecting herself with the kitchen knife against his father, Jack had never known his mother; she had died during childbirth, giving birth to him. (There were always certain aspects J left out of the stories he told about his scars’ origins; this was one missing piece.)

As he had gotten older, Jack began to stand up for himself more and more when he and his father would fight nearly every day. Jack had used to run away for a few days when things would take an exceptional turn for the worst, not caring about the consequences until he would ultimately have no choice but to return home and face punishment.

As a teenager, Jack kept to himself. When he was younger, he had loved to draw and had become very skilled at painting and sketching up into his early high school years because of his disinterest in socialization. He didn’t focus on schoolwork except for the handful of art classes he took. Grades were never a big deal to him.

He had a girlfriend all the way through high school.

She was planning to attend college after graduating and Jack had always expected to follow her to wherever she went and get a job in the city. He would earn enough wages to afford to rent a place and they’d find a way to make it work until she’d completed her degree.

Jack hadn’t ever considered college until his senior year (he wanted to work so that he could support them both); his girlfriend encouraged him to pursue an artistic career since he was so talented at drawing and she could see his true potential.

There was an art program at the college she had chosen and thought it would be perfect for him; Jack had agreed to apply, though he didn’t expect to get in.

He did not have good grades and would have to rely on raw talent alone in order to be accepted.

Jack began to put together a portfolio of all of the different pieces he had completed throughout high school. He compiled a voluminous archive of all the most exceptional work he had done. It took him years and hours upon hours of those years to finish each piece and carefully select the best ones to showcase along with his application.

One night, Jack had gotten into a horrible argument with his father that had turned physical. On a whim, his father took Jack’s portfolio and burned it, destroying all of Jack’s hope of being accepted into the college’s art program. He soon goes back to planning to find a job so that he can earn enough money to move out.

In an effort to calm him, Jack’s girlfriend suggested he join the military. She believed it would be a chance for Jack to have a fresh start and gain a new outlook on life away from his father. She wanted what was best for him and even though she knew he wouldn’t be able to see her for a while, she thought it would be the best thing for him; she wanted him to gain some ‘perspective’, as she put it.

Jack did not fight her on the suggestion and decided to join the army. Before he shipped off to basic training, he and his girlfriend got married. He wanted her to know that he was hers and she didn’t need to worry; he would always come back to her, to take care of and to support her in any way that he could. He loved her and she had his heart in the palm of his hand.

No one else had been there for him the way that she had and he trusted her implicitly.

Jack was eventually shipped off to Iraq to serve in the Second Persian Gulf War. While there, he sustained an injury due to an explosion that blew up the bus he was traveling in, killing everyone inside except for him.

A piece of metal shrapnel had become lodged in his cheek and had split his bottom lip open; he was taken to a hospital where doctors performed surgery in order to extract the metal from his cheek, though he was told it would never truly be able to heal properly and would leave a very prominent scar.

Jack returned home shortly thereafter and was taken in by his wife who had changed drastically since he had last seen her.

The two of them had grown apart in jack’s absence from her life and she had become self-absorbed, vapid and conceited and due to her influence, she had taken a prominent spot in the community; she had been having an affair with the city’s mayor and Jack had been unaware until he’d spotted a photo inside her home of the two of them together which she had forgotten to hide.

She couldn’t stand the sight of Jack and his mangled face; she left him weeks after his surgery, a few days after Jack had seen the photo of her with another man, and filed for divorce. She had been waiting for him to come home to blindside him with divorce papers.

After she had left him, Jack slowly began to let himself deteriorate. After the war, he began to suffer from PTSD and other, more concerning hallucinations, delusions and various flare-ups typically associated with mental illness and/or schizophrenia.

As his symptoms worsen, Jack neglected to get treatment or take any medications.

With no one else around, he began to descend into madness as his hallucinations gradually become more and more realistic. Most nights, he saw a man dressed in a purple trench coat with clown paint on his face and a deep, horrifying Glasgow smile.

At first, Jack was frightened. He was unsure why this man was so vivid and had believed him to be real until he reached out to touch him once and he had quickly vanished into thin air.

The paint on the man’s face was almost skeletal; dark eyes swirling within charcoal greasepaint up to his eyebrows. The rest of his face was stark white with various cracks and smudged splotches where pale skin had shown. The deep grooves of the man’s cheeks were painted red with what looked, to Jack, like blood. The man’s form was demonic and Jack could not escape him; he began to see him everywhere until soon, he was never truly alone.

One night as he was brushing his teeth, Jack bent down to spit and when he looked back up, his reflection had changed. All of a sudden, it was not Jack staring back at himself, it was the mysterious hallucination of the man with clown paint. The man was staring back at him and grinning as he held a switchblade in his gloved hand. The stitching on the man’s glove caressed the blade’s handle; he looked like a cobra ready to strike.

Jack could see the facial scars up close now and he gently reached up to his own face and touched his cheek; the skin was still smooth on the side that did not sustain an injury, yet in the reflection it was not. The man in the mirror had another scar and though Jack could not explain why he did it, he reached for the first blade he could find, stuck it in his mouth and cut his cheek wide open.

Now, they matched; Perhaps the man in the mirror wasn’t a hallucination after all.

[inkedtae]

winter letter ⇾ knj, jjk.[A]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ jungkook x reader (f.), namjoon x reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ angst, pg

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾ three months before your wedding, you get fragments of a letter from an old friend.

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 2.1k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ a lil swearing

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾ Order up! Give it a good stir; enjoy!

⤑ le playlist

◖collab. for @bangtan-dreamland​’s drinks and drabbles event. find original request here.◗

Crystal snow coats the window pane as it trickles down from gloomy clouds. You wake to find once bare branches and dry roads, heavy and wet with layers of snow. The untreated snow trails fill you with emptiness as the world feels vacant, uninhabited. You’ve been up for hours, watching the sunrise while teacup after teacup nurses your unruly heart. With every inhale and exhale, your lungs only feel further restricted by your rib cage. Bones under flesh, mind over heart, all you feel is pain. 

The six fragments of a letter rest before you on the kitchen table. You drag your gaze away from the frost framed window and read through the paragraphs. You’ve read each horizontally ripped piece a dozen times, trying to fully process the beautifully written sentences. The sender remains anonymous, but you have a good guess on who might be the voice behind this confession. You know his handwriting, know it well enough to be able to deny the obvious possibility that, after two years of silence, the letter carries more than just simple ‘how are you doings.’ With only one more piece left, confirming his identity, you have already gathered that it’s a love letter. 

The first little piece of the letter is dated the day you met Jungkook two years ago. The suspected writer seems to have written it prior to realizing that you’ve already met someone. He seems to be more concerned with the fact that too much time has passed to stay within an arm’s length reach of each other, rather than the presence of someone else in your heart. Rereading the final sentence, you can’t deny hearing your heart whisper his name. 

I love you; I’ve loved you the moment you spilled blueberry yogurt on my white sweater and tried to convince me a bird knocked you over and made you do it.

You can’t believe he still remembers that. It’s not like you have forgotten it, but you just didn’t think he’d remember that day. It wasn’t exactly the first time you’ve met or even saw each other. It was just the first moment the two of you ever exchanged some words.

It was about three months into your first year of university. Late for your philosophers of literature class, you had rushed through the courtyard with your breakfast, a thing of blueberry yogurt, in your hands. Instead of waiting to get into class to enjoy your yogurt, you decided to open it on your way there. This wouldn’t have been such an issue if you didn’t have two books tucked under your arm and your bag falling off your shoulder. Struggling to peel off the lid while juggling so much, you pulled too hard on the flap and spilled the purple tinted yogurt all over someone’s sweater as you round the corner. 

“Shit,” he hissed as he held the hem of his sweater. 

You gasped, bringing a hand to your lips. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

A first glance, you didn’t really recognize him. But, as you continued to look between him and the new yogurt stain on his sweater, you started to realize who he was. He was in a couple of your classes, always happening to seat a row in front of you. His wardrobe always mirrored that of a twentieth century poet, but his answers were never that dated. His insights drove the lecture and most times you wondered why he wasn’t the one teaching the class since what he had to say seemed more reasonable and accurate than whatever the professor brought to the table. 

“It-”

“I didn’t mean to do that, I swear! It just… um… it was a bird. Yeah! This stupid bird knocked over my hand,” you lied, avoiding his gaze as you spun this grand tale of how bird are just flying rats and cannot be trusted. “But, you know what? It happened and I’m gonna fix it. I’ll clean it right now, okay? Just stay still,” you said as you dug into your bag for a tissue. You fumbled with your books under your arm and the half empty yogurt container in your hand as you rummaged your free hand around in your bag. 

“I can just-”

“Hold these!” You ordered, shoving your books into his hands. You placed the yogurt container on top of the books then turned back to your bag. “Don’t let the books touch the yogurt,” you muttered as you pulled out more books and shoved them in his hands to hold. 

He sighed, sarcastically replying, “no, because that would just be a disaster.” 

You didn't know he was being sarcastic then. You remember that all you could think in that moment was that you had to clean his cable-knit sweater. It looked so pretty and, from what you saw of his torso, it fit him all too well. It would’ve been a shame to see it ruined. 

Finally finding a tiny pack of tissues, you pulled it out and set your bag down. You tried your best to wipe it all off, but all you ended up doing was rub the yogurt into his sweater, further ruining the fabric. When you ran out of tissues, you finally took a step back to examine your process. Immediately, you noticed that you managed to spread the stain rather than fix it. 

You curled your lips in and hesitantly nodded. “Looks brand new,” you lied before tossing the tissues in the garbage beside you. Meeting his unimpressed eyes, you flashed him a nervous smile and hoped you looked sorry enough to let this all slide. 

“So let me get this straight,” he started. “Some bird happened to see you opening a pack of yogurt and decided to specifically attack you. It knocked over your hand just as you were opening it and made you spill it all over me?” 

The unamused tone of his voice gave you goosebumps. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and nervously asked, “any that’s hard to believe because…?”

His gaze flickered to a glare. You flashed him that anxious smile once more as he began handing  your books back. He took the yogurt pack and tipped it up to you. “I’m taking this as compensation.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” you sighed. “I think it’s important for you to know though that I am not in alliance with the flying rats.”

“You mean the birds?”

“Same thing,” you brushed him off. “I, for one, prefer sea animals.”

“Don’t sea animals sort of fly too since they’re not touching exactly the ground?”

You paused. Shifting your gaze, you tried to rationalize his words. He made a good point, but you were hell bent on making a better one. “Crabs don’t,” you quickly added. “I love crabs and turtles and other ground-touching sea creatures.”

“Turtles sometimes fly if we’re going with your logi-”

“We can go back and forth all day, but the point is I feel for you because I ,too, hate birds and the things they make us do.”

He sighed, narrowing his eyes on you. He licked his lip then offered the yogurt back to you. You looked between him and the food, raising a brow. “I have a class right now and my professor doesn’t allow food,” he explained. 

“But what about your compensation?”

He smirked. “You’re smart. I’m sure you can come up with a way to make it up to me.”

Accepting the yogurt back, you silently thanked him. He only nodded and pulled out a deep blue pen. Opening your Scorates book, he jotted down his name and number on the first page. “Let me know what you come up with,” he smiled. 

You twirl the engagement ring as the memory floods your mind once more. It’s been six years. He’s held onto these feelings for six years, only finally making them known to you three months before your wedding. You sent him an invitation thinking you were inviting an old friend. Now, you know you’ve reopened a chapter he has decided to close two years ago. 

The part that surprises you, however, is the fact that you don’t regret inviting him, even after knowing how he feels. It should fill you with guilt, with distress, but instead it just makes you crave his presence. 

Getting up from your seat, you make your way to the bookshelves in the living. Scouring the shelves, you find the book you’re looking for. You pull out the book on Socrates, flipping to the first page. His name and number stare back at you, and you suddenly have a hankering for blueberry yogurt. 

Two sharp knocks rap against the front door. You snap your head towards it, shutting the book. Looking down the hall to your shared room with Jungkook, you find him still fast asleep. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding escapes you. Quickly, you make your way to the door. An envelope falls from the space between the edge of the door and the frame the moment you open it.

Only your name’s scratched on it in deep blue ink. You take a quick scan up and down the hallway of the apartment, but it remains vacant, not even the wet trail of the winter weather is left behind. You pick up the letter and close the door. 

Tucking the book under your arm, you open the envelope and pull out the last fragment of the letter. His name greets you with a little heart sketched beside it. The notion almost shatters you. You shakily take your seat at the kitchen table, and slide the last piece into place, taping it with the others. 

You sit in Jungkook’s apartment, but you wear Namjoon’s sweater. You have Jungkook’s ring but yearn for Namjoon’s heart. The guilt is starting to creep up on you, prickling your spine with anxious nerves that can’t manage to keep still. 

“Did someone knock on the door?” Jungkook sleepily asks as he shuffles out of your shared room. 

Moving quicker than you ever have in your life, you fold up the taped up letter and shove it in the book. “Huh?”

Jungkook rests his hands on your shoulders, and kisses the top of your head. “Someone at the door?” he repeats, lips against your hair. 

You gulp, slowly melting into his touch. “No.”

He hums, circling around the table to enter the kitchen. “Thought I heard knocking.”

You drum your hands on the table, trying to imitate the knocks left moments ago. He nods his head, flashing you a little smirk. Getting some coffee prepared, he asks, “want some, babe.”

You shake your head and pick up the book, returning it to its place. Turning around, you find Jungkook leaning against the shelf, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Go on.”

“What?”

“Tell me what’s got you pouty.”

“I’m not pouty!”

He smirks, gaze flickering from your wide eyes to your pout. He tongues his cheek, cocking a brow as if silently asking you to try again. He could see right through you, this you know all too well. It’s the reason why you stayed as quiet as you could the moment you heard his raspy, morning voice. And it’s also the reason, you don’t lie now; well, don’t completely lie. 

“Just thinking about an old friend.”

He curls a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and pushes himself off the shelf. Wrapping his hands around your waist, he gently pulls you close. You can’t help but instantly mold into his frame, leaning your head against his firm chest. Namjoon almost slips right out of your mind, only your eyes fall back on the spine of that book. 

But, as Jungkook rests his chin atop your head, you can’t find it in you to reach out for it anymore. Your heart doesn’t yearn for anything more, anything different. The comfort and safety you feel wrapped in Jungkook’s embrace is not something you can easily replace. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, and inhale his scent. Your blueberry cravings disappear as your desire for strawberries takes over. Pulling back a bit, you reach up on your toes and pull Jungkook into a hug, settling your chin over his shoulder. He doesn’t think too much of the position change, making himself comfortable against you as well. 

From bone to flesh, from mind to heart, all you feel is comfort. Winter letters and missed love confessions linger but you know where your loyalties lie. The possibilities of what could’ve and might’ve will always haunt you but the centainities of the here and now are undeniable. Jeon Jungkook is where you belong. And, as you stare at the crystal snow continuing to fall, you pray that’s  where you’ll stay. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission. 

[thegalleonsnest]

Wiggle’s Muse - Short Excerpt turned into a FanFic

Yo, so, I wanted to share a small snippet of a future project I’m working on (while also delaying my current art projects). What I’ve written out here in this post was originally in a format not meant for professional writing purposes, but I said “eh, why the hell not,” and written it out in sort of a short fanfic format for you guys to read. This project btw, is not a fanfic (had to make that clear). What I am working on is a very large scale project for myself and is still in the blocking out/rough draft phases. This right here is probably my most fleshed out scene I’ve written out, and feels pretty complete as it’s own thing. Honestly, I’d appreciate the feedback if any of ya’ll found this interesting! 

Also I’m putting this in a tumblr post because I don’t have an AO3 or fanfiction account, and this is already too short for it anyway. Read the excerpt below

In front of the camera lenses, multiple grumpuses walk back and forth discussing a matter of topics but most importantly, where was Wiggle?

"Has anyone gotten ahold of Wiggle yet? She was supposed to be here hours ago,” a gruff voice coming from out of frame says. “We’ve tried calling her for over an hour, but we got nothing,” says another off camera, “do you think we should reschedule-” before they could finish, the studio doors bust open with a loud thud echoing the studio room. A tall, short armed grumpus with a boa stumbles along the room carrying an oddly shaped banjo.

“There she is,” said the gruff voiced grump, “Wiggle, whatever you got going on, you better do it now cause we got a meeting with investors in half an hour!” From the blurry view of a slightly out of frame Wiggle, she barely registered what the grump said. In a stumble, she walks to the center of the camera’s view & shakes her head, almost slurring her words, “Doooon’t worry, Darling, we’ll get you a new vest later.” “What, no, wait, that’s not what I-” before another word could be said, Wiggle readies her banjo and strikes a quick pose before strumming the strings like her life depended on it.

It didn’t take longer than a few seconds before the crew sprung into action, setting the proper lightning, mics and cameras around her. Her rhythm and measures became a lot more stable, catchy even, and then she broke into song. The next set of lyrics would become an instant, regrettable classic. 

It’s not long before the VHS tape stutters and stops, showing mostly static. A magenta furred Grumpus with some hair covering a part of eye, hits the eject button, takes out the tape and turns off the tv. “Girl, you were a right mess there!” She said with a giggle. “Tell me about it, Vrittany...” Wiggle said frustratingly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And you’re telling me you can’t come up with anything better than that? Come on now!” “I wish I was lying, but I’m not. No matter what I come up with, nothing is topping whatever the heck my walking coma came up with instead!” Wiggle grabs her mug of coffee and takes a longing sip.

The two sit across from one another at the coffee bar. The aroma of that day’s set of cocoa beans waft through the cafe as most of the outside lamps fill out the darker spots inside. The place is nearly empty besides them, and a single muted green furred occupant sitting at a booth at the opposite end of the cafe, drawing away in his sketchpad.

“So, whatcha gonna do?” Vrittany asked sarcastically, “Stay awake for another week? Get inspired again? Hehe.” Wiggle sets her mug down, and answers, “I did try that again, but in style I fell asleep comfortably on a couch in the lobby”. Vrittany looked a bit stunned. “You’re kidding?! You’re crazy!” “Not crazy, Vrittany,” she takes another sip of her coffee before striking a pose in her high stool seat, bellowing out her voice. “Just creatiiiivly driveeeen~” “Whatever you say, darling,” Vrittany says before turning around to her bar’s sink. She cleans several mugs and glasses with gusto while preparing one last pot of coffee, enough for a single cup for later.

Vrittany takes off her apron and hangs it on the wayside of the counter as she walks around to take a seat next to Wiggle. After situating herself, she puts a paw on Wiggle’s shoulder. “Listen, pretty sure this is just a rut you’re stuck in right now,” she says. “Doesn’t every artist go through that every now and then?” Wiggle turns her head toward Vrittany, “Well..yeah, but this is different,” she desperately says. “I can’t let a song I made in my sleep be the best thing I’ve ever made! I know I can make something that’ll shake the world more than whatever ‘Do The Wiggle’ was.” 

Vrittany pulls back her paw from Wiggle to put on her best thinking cap. As deeply in thought as she was, her face immediately relaxes into a deadpan expression, “Have ya tried singing from the heart?” Wiggle cracks a smile, “HA, if only that’s how it works! It takes a musical genius to write a hit song in show biz, not just some field day with my feelings.” “Eh, worth a shot. Got any other plans?” “I’m still trying to figure that out. I need some kind of inspiration...almost like a-”

Before she could finish her thought, they both caught a glance at the muted green furred grump who walked up to them. He mustered up the words and said, “E-excuse me, you’re Miss Wiggle, right?” Wiggle turned in her seat to get a better look at the young Grumpus. She could tell he was nervous, clutching his sketchbook in his arms rather tightly. She quickly put on a more relaxed front to help calm things down, while also still showing off a bit of her excited side. “Why yes I am, Darling,” she said enthusiastically. “And I can tell you must be a fan of mine.” “Y-yeah...!” The green grump looked a little more relaxed, but still stiff in the shoulders. “Hey now, no need to be so nervous. I always got time for my fans.” “Thank you, Miss Wiggle. Um…” “No need to finish that thought, Darling, I know what you’re about to ask and I’m happy to oblige!”

Before the young man could stop to say something, Wiggle pulls out one of her many professional hand out photos that she has, and quickly signs with her autograph before handing it to him. “O-Oh, thank you, Miss, but that’s not what I was going to s-say.” he sheepishly says. “Really? Not an autograph,” Wiggle says surprisingly. “It’s usually the first thing fans ask of me.” “Sorry, I just...I wanted to show you this sketch I made…” 

The nervous grumpus slowly turns his sketchbook around to reveal a fully sketched art piece depicting a stylized Wiggle singing her heart out at the bar with Vrittany hanging out in the background cheering her on. He hands it to Wiggle to give them a closer look. It was still somewhat messy, showing a few guidelines and early roughed out shapes, but for what it was, it was still impressive to the two girls.

“Woah, that’s pretty rad!” Vrittany yelled out, leaning out from her seat trying to get a closer look. Wiggle was pretty stun, gasping at the sight of such a piece of artwork. “Darling, you drew this?! Just now,” Wiggle asked in awe. “Yeah! I was listening to some of your music and then you came in and sat down. It made me wanna draw you as fast as I could,” the green grumps says excitedly before rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry if it’s still a little messy looking though…” “Don’t be, because it is beeeaautifuuul~” “T-thank you so much, Miss Wiggle! T-that means a lot to m-me!” the grumpus says while his face lights up red from the praise. “You’re like an inspiration to me.” “Really now? Like a muse? All I do is sing the night away, Darling. You draw little masterpieces like this from me?”

As Wiggle continues to be enthralled by the young man and his work, Vrittany notices the coffee pot had finished brewing. She gets up from her seat and go back behind the counter to finish her last cup for the night. Wiggle and the green grump continue their conversation.

“W-well kind of,” says the grump, “it’s a bunch of music that inspires me when I draw. A lot of your stuff is so upbeat and fun, it gives me lots of different ideas to pump out!” Wiggle looks back, almost flabbergasted. “I’m...honestly a bit stunned that I had that kind of impact on you, Darling,” she says, almost with a melancholy tone, “...heh, kind of forget sometimes I do make some kind of impression on grumps like you.” She looks back down at the sketchbook, entranced by the creativity that sparked in the moment. That dazzling moment where it all clicked...where could she find that, when someone else can find it in her?

After an awkward minute of silence, the young grump spoke up and said, “If you like, you can keep the sketch page, Miss Wiggle?” Wiggle snapped her head back up from the sketchbook to the green fuzzball. “W-wait really? Are you sure you wanna give up this piece of art?” said Wiggle worryingly. “It’s no problem at all,” said the green grump proudly. “I already took a picture of it to save for later. I’m gonna make a painted version of it online later! Besides, it’ll make me happy if you kept it, since I was going to give it to you anyway.” “Oh Darling, you’re nothing more than a sweet one now, aren’t you? I’ll gladly keep it!” “Thank you so much, Miss Wiggle!”

Wiggle hands the sketchbook back to the green grumpus and he tears out the sketch. “No, Darling, thank you,” Wiggle says ecstatically. Vrittany returns from behind the bar with a to-go cup in hand, saying “Here’s your order, kid.”  “Oh, thank you, Vrittany. How much was it again,” the green grump asked. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Don’t feel like counting change. It’s on the house.” “O-oh you sure?” “You wanna change my mind?” “Don’t think I can, so thank you!” The green grump turns back to Wiggle and says “It was so nice meeting you in person, Miss Wiggle!”

“The pleasure is all mine, Dar-,” Wiggle catches herself before she realizes something. “Actually, what was your name?” “It’s Grite, Grite Tillsland!” Wiggle lets a genuine soft smile grow on her face. She felt a lot more at ease and happier knowing her new friend was much more relax and happy overall. She reached out her paw for a handshake, and Grite reciprocated.

“The pleasure’s mine, Grite, Darling.”

[larinah]

August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.           Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.           I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness.           By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.           My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent.           I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.           The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.           I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four.           The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.    

      It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.     

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

       I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

       I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

       From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

       I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

       It was twenty minutes to seven.

       When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

       From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.        A sudden impulse made me enter.        A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.        It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.        He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.        He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.        I apologised for my intrusion.        “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.”        “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!”        He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.        “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said.        He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.”        “Then what’s it for?” I asked.        The man burst out laughing.        “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.”        He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.        I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.        I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.        Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.        “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride.        The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.        “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?”        “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.”        He gave a long, low whistle.        “And the dates?”        “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.”        “It’s a rum go!” he said.        But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.        “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!”        Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.        “You probably heard my name,” I said.        “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?”        I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.        “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson.        His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.        I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.        We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off.        “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?”        He shook his head.        “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought.        He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?”        I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home.        “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.”        He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.        “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.”        To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.        The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.        It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.        But the heat is stifling.        It is enough to send a man mad.

[the-hidden-writer]

I’ll Remember You This Way

Chapter 4: 3,444 Read on AO3! (check reblog for link)

The story of one unsuspecting man named Edwin Jarvis and how his life and legacy are carried throughout the universe.

Edwin Jarvis -> JARVIS -> Vision

Snippets of that legacy include Tony Stark carrying his butler’s words in his heart for his entire life and Wanda Maximoff sensing an unfamiliar presence in Vision’s mind.

Chapter 4: running down the avenue

Exhaustion wracks Edwin’s bones the moment he closes the door behind him.

“That took a while.” Ana remarks from the bed, looking up from her book. “Is he alright?”

“He’s missing his mother,” he answers, “so I had to reassure him that we are only down the hall.”

With Howard and Maria away for the week, Edwin and Ana had made the decision to reside in the main mansion for a few days, instead of their own home next door. It made the anxious 4 year-old Anthony feel a lot safer, and it also made the older couple feel more relaxed with the knowledge that he wasn’t too far from them should he need their help.

“Not his father?” Ana asks, to which Edwin simply nods.

He finds it concerning that Anthony never calls out for his father, and he privately thinks that Mr Stark should spend a lot more time with his son. But it’s not his place to say anything.

They settle for the night then. Edwin changes into his pajamas and retrieves his own book (Frankenstein by Mary Shelley- he is rather intrigued by the concept) and the two read in silence as they do every night. The mansion is far quieter than usual. Normally there is still hustle and bustle involving Mr Stark and his work, Mrs Stark and her engagements, or the general hubbub of the other staff moving around.

There is none of that tonight. Most of the staff have seized the opportunity to take their own vacations and there is silence in the household. Time passes as they read, perhaps an hour, maybe two, and the silence continues. It is peaceful- almost unnervingly so.

Then Anthony screams.

Both Edwin and Ana freeze. While Anthony is prone to having nightmares, he has never screamed in such a desperate, shrieking manner before.

Edwin leaps out of bed, Ana following suit, and he almost trips in his hurry to reach the door.

He hesitates as he is about to turn the handle.

“Stay here.” He commands in a whisper to Ana. She is about to argue, but he continues before she can. “Get help, if we need it.”

She nods in understanding and steps back, allowing him to take a deep breath, open the door, and race towards Anthony’s room. The door is wide open.

The sight that greets him as he stops in the doorway is enough to make his heart stop.

David Price, the head of personal security for the Stark family for five years, is standing there with a pistol in his right hand. With his left, he is gripping Anthony’s arms together tightly. There is a small piece of black tape over the little boy’s mouth and, paired with the terror in his eyes, his muffled screams betray the situation.

David (a young man whom Edwin had until now considered a friend) turns towards him and swears.

“Shit, Mr Jarvis.”

“Mr Price…” Edwin begins in an attempt at remaining calm, though his voice is small and hoarse. “What are you doing?”

The man seems to be caught off guard. He repeats his previous phrase slightly louder. “Shit, Mr Jarvis, you weren’t supposed to be here.”

That response is enough confirmation that Edwin needs that this is not some odd security drill.

“Step away from Anthony.” He orders, his voice firmer.

For a few precious seconds, David doesn’t respond. His gaze does not leave Edwin. Eventually, to Edwin’s surprise, he pockets his pistol and hangs his head.

“We didn’t want to hurt you, Jarvis.” He says, making Edwin wonder who exactly that ‘We’ is referring to. “This is just… God, you really shouldn’t be here. I don’t wanna…”

Edwin tries to take advantage of the man’s hesitation. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve, David, but this is wrong. The boy is only four, he has nothing to do with it. You can have money, you can have blueprints- I’ll give you whatever you need. Just let him go.”

David bites his lip. Anthony continues to struggle.

“Mr Jarvis, please go back to your room.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small knife, giving Edwin an additional spike of fear. “Please. I won’t tell. You can say you were asleep.”

Once, Edwin falling asleep had led to many of Mr Stark’s inventions being stolen. The mission to retrieve them had resulted in many lives being lost, as well as communists infiltrating America. And Anthony is far more valuable than a few silly inventions.

He corrects his posture, trying to use his height as an intimidating factor by filling the doorframe. Knowing that this cannot end well, his shaking hands clench into fists at his side as he musters all of his courage to harden his voice.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do this.”

A sadness fills the young man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr Jarvis.”

“You shouldn’t have touched Anthony.”

They are at a standstill. Edwin knows that he is at a physical disadvantage, let alone being unarmed, but the only hope he currently has is the fact that Price doesn’t seem to want to hurt him for whatever reason. Edwin, on the other hand, is more than happy to strangle the man with his bare hands if he is able to.

Which is a big ‘if’, seeing as he’s not the one with the knife.

After a few more seconds of tense stillness with neither man willing to make the first move, Edwin lunges forward in an attempt to release the petrified Anthony, who has tears streaming down his tiny face.

He doesn’t register the blade piercing his abdomen until he hears Anthony’s muffled shriek.

A few torturous seconds later, the pain slams into him.

And Edwin howls.

He falls onto his back and presses his hands down around the blade, blood beginning to rise around its edges and onto his flesh, which feels as if it’s burning and freezing simultaneously. All of a sudden he is unable to focus his vision. Though he does see a large blur stepping over him with a significantly smaller, independent blur squirming as it carries it out.

A few more precious seconds later, he realises that Anthony has been taken.

He manages to find his voice between his hisses of pain.

“Help!” He screams up to the ceiling. “Anthony needs help!”

He tries to shout more but his energy seems to leak away with his blood, and Edwin loses consciousness.

~-.-~

Jenny runs as fast as her legs can carry her, with nothing but adrenaline to keep her going. She runs through the gates of the Stark property and onto the road in pursuit of the car in front of her. Though it is a lot faster than she is, the lack of other vehicles in use so late at night means that it isn’t too hard to follow them using sound alone.

Besides, she knows these roads like the back of her hand. She’s not worried about getting lost; only about finding Anthony.

She’d been sketching in her bed when she first heard strange noises coming from upstairs. That had been the first sign that something was wrong- the only people in the mansion were herself, Anthony, and the Jarvises. She was staying to help take care of Anthony as his nursery maid while the Starks were away (and all the staff had quickly decided to take a vacation). She didn’t mind staying. It gave her time to work on her drawing.

Which is what she was doing when she heard the loud shout, soon followed by a higher-pitched shriek almost twice the former’s volume.

Jenny freezes in terror for a few seconds before her brain registers who the voices could only belong to.

The Jarvises.

Abandoning her sketch of little Anthony, she had rushed upstairs to find Ana hunched over an unconscious Mr Jarvis who was soaked in blood on the floor of Anthony’s bedroom. Said boy was nowhere in sight.

Then Ana had told him that he’d been kidnapped, and Jenny ran.

And she continues to run through the dark streets and avenues, her ears keen as they listen out for the roar of the car engine in the night. Barely pausing for breath when she reaches the end of every other sidewalk, she follows it even when her ears lead her into narrower areas, like a fox hunting a mouse.

Except she doesn’t want to hurt the mouse. She wants to make sure he’s safe and bring him home. Because she loves Anthony, as much as she tries to deny it. She was there when he was born and it is her job to protect him. All of the staff in the Stark household have had proper training for moments just like this, and she is damn well going to use that training when she faces his kidnappers.

Just as she thinks she’s caught up, she’s met with silence.

They must have stopped in the alley around the corner. It leads to a dead end anyways, so they must have.

Relief floods into her veins along with a powerful exhaustion. But she forces herself to carry on toward it, at a walking pace this time, to find Anthony.

The silence is broken the second she turns the corner by the sound of guns cocking, and she finds herself staring down the barrel of one being held by none other than David Price, head of Stark household security. Behind him stand many other of the guards in similar stances.

“David?” She asks weakly, half due to her physically exerted state and half out of confused betrayal.

Even in the darkness she can see his eyes widen in recognition. “Jenny? Jenny Bailey? Shit, not you too…”

Choosing to ignore the implications of this comment, she raises her voice defiantly. “What have you done with Anthony?” She demands, causing the group to look at each other nervously.

“We don’t want to hurt him.” David speaks up eventually. “It’s Howard we’re interested in but we don’t wanna hurt the kid. I didn’t wanna hurt Mr Jarvis, either, but…”

In all her panic of finding Anthony, Jenny had completely blocked out the image of a bleeding Mr Jarvis on the floor. And now that she fully realises what she saw, she feels sick to the stomach.

“Oh God…” She whispers, a sweaty palm shooting up to cover her mouth. “You killed Mr Jarvis…”

“Did I?!” David exclaims, and to Jenny’s confusion he looks genuinely surprised. “I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t-”

“Where. Is. Anthony?!” She cries angrily, fully aware of the tears in her eyes.

Tears that, for some reason, are mirrored in David’s own eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jenny.” He says in a small voice. “I’m sorry, Mr Jarvis.”

And, as keen as Jenny’s ears have been all night, she doesn’t hear the gunshot.

~-.-~

Peggy received that damned telephone call during the same night that young Anthony was taken.

“Yes?” She had answered a little groggily. Since it was her emergency line that rang, she had skipped pleasantries.

“Ms Carter!” Ana had half-screamed, her voice betraying the hysteric state she was in. And that alone was enough to wake Peggy up completely.

“Ana! Ana, what’s wrong?!”

Peggy could hear the frightened women sob on the other end of the line. “Edwin’s hurt, th-they’ve taken Anthony-”

As Ana had continued to try and explain the situation, Peggy rushed to change her clothes and pager S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters.

With a few short words of reassurance, she’d then hung up and announced the situation as an emergency to S.H.I.E.L.D.. All available agents were ordered to participate in either tracking down Price and the former Stark security team, contacting and explaining/updating the situation to the panicked Starks, enforcing their own security around the Stark property, or cleaning up the mess that had already been made. Which luckily was very minimal as there was only one casualty. A nursery maid by the name of Jennifer Bailey was found dead in an alleyway around a mile away.

(Mr Jarvis had survived. The stab wound was lucky enough to miss the vital organs. Peggy would rather not admit that she shed a tear or two at the news as she was not mentally prepared to even consider the possibility of losing her most trusted friend.)

It was the location of Miss Bailey’s body that had allowed S.H.I.E.L.D. to track down Price. For such a highly-trained operative, she would have assumed that he would know better than to hide in plain sight. An empty apartment building would obviously look suspicious to passers-by when armed individuals start walking in and out of it.

As much as she truly wanted to, she had been advised against accompanying the agents to retrieve Anthony herself. They had spouted some absolute nonsense about having a physical disadvantage. It had taken quite a bit of convincing from both the Jarvises for her to concede that the notion may have some truth to it.

So instead she’d waited inside Stark manor, walkie-talkie in hand, for updates on the mission. Behind her stood Howard, Maria and Ana waiting anxiously, the former two having only returned from Denmark a few hours earlier. She had personally commanded Edwin to stay in bed until news came. Peggy’s orders.

And then her walkie-talkie had crackled and all four of them heard the words they had been longing to hear.

“We’ve just got word that they’ve successfully captured them, Ma’am. No casualties. Anthony Stark is alive, slightly bruised but mostly unharmed. Buxton’s bringing him home now. Over.”

The tense silence that had been sitting in that communications room had finally been broken as all four of them collectively let out their own respective noises of relief.

“Thank you, Agent Mills.” She’d replied, not bothering to fake just how happy the news had made her. “We’ll be waiting outside, over.”

She’d turned around in her chair to see Howard and Maria in the middle of an emotional embrace, and to find Ana absent. Presumably she’d gone to inform Mr Jarvis of the good news.

When word reached that Agent Buxton was only five minutes away, she and the Starks had immediately headed outside to await their arrival at the entrance of the property. And that’s what they’re doing. Waiting, that tense silence reappearing, for their boy to come home.

It is not too long since they exited the mansion that Peggy hears the footsteps of people joining them behind her. She turns around to see Ana supporting a limping Edwin as the pair make their way towards them. Ana is visibly struggling just a little under the height and weight of her husband, but is using effort to try and conceal that discomfort. It is not lost on Peggy, though.

“Mr Jarvis!” She exclaims in surprise, her shout making Howard and Maria turn too. “You shouldn’t be up!”

“You know how stubborn he is, Ms Carter.” Ana replies for him. “If I didn’t help him he would crawl out of bed himself.”

Peggy tries to hold back a smile knowing that is exactly what Mr Jarvis would do, however offended he tries to look at that remark.

“Peg’s right, Jarvis.” Says Howard, his brows creased at the sight of his butler. “You need to rest. Don’t wanna pop those stitches.”

Howard’s voice is low and gravelly. The large amount of alcohol consumed over the past 24 hours are to blame for that. And as both Peggy and Mr Jarvis had been preoccupied (herself with the search for Anthony and Edwin in recovery) there had been nobody to stop him from drowning himself in the stuff in his worry. He still showed concern for his friend though, which reassures Peggy just a little.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Retorts Jarvis as he and Ana come to a stop a few feet behind herself and the Starks. His voice is low too, but in his case it is just from exhaustion and perhaps pain. Or maybe it isn’t far off from his ordinary serious tone, and it only feels different because of his different appearance. It’s surprising how much the lack of a waistcoat, tie and blazer can change one’s whole look. But she also has to admit that it’s refreshing to see him in just a white dress shirt and suspenders. And trousers, of course.

Peggy grimaces but doesn’t push further to send him back inside. She would have fought to see Anthony first too, and she’s not the one who raised the boy.

The wait is agonising. The longest ten minutes of her life.

When the sound of a car approaching is finally audible, she sees both couples cling tighter to one another out of the corner of her eye. She just straightens her posture.

The car comes to a stop just outside the gate, and Agent Buxton exits from the driver’s seat. The fact that he is still donning his tactical gear sparks pride in Peggy’s heart as it means he prioritised returning the boy.

Buxton then opens the backdoor, and all five pairs of eyes standing in the driveway immediately lock onto the frightened brown ones as Anthony slides out of his seat, stumbling slightly as his feet hit the ground.

His face is dirty and his eyes are red, though his hair is not a lot scruffier than it usually is. Though she had been informed that he would be bruised, they aren’t visible on his face so must be hidden under his long-sleeved t-shirt. He seems unsure of what to do, and the awkward silence isn’t helping that at all. Each person seems to be waiting on another to make the first move: the Jarvises on the Starks, the Starks on Anthony, and herself on any of them who deserve to react first.

Maria eventually snaps out of it and lets out a thankful cry. “Anthony!”

“Thank God.” Howard mutters beside her.

Anthony gives a small smile, but otherwise doesn’t move.

Ana is next, and Peggy can tell that she is softening her voice to not betray just how scared and concerned she actually is. “Are you alright, kicsikém?”

Peggy watches as Anthony’s gaze drifts past his parents and onto Mr and Mrs Jarvis behind them. They linger there for a few seconds before he darts off in their direction, sobbing. He barrels straight into Edwin who wheezes at the sudden impact, but rubs his hand over the child’s back soothingly anyway.

“I thought you die, Jahvis!” Anthony squeaks as he clings to the bottom of Edwin’s shirt. “I was crying ‘cause I thought you die!” None of the adults correct his speech as they usually would.

“I’m fine, Anthony, I’m fine.” Mr Jarvis whispers as he leans down to kiss the top of his head, though the bandages wrapped tightly around his waist say otherwise. “The main thing is that you’re alright.” His voice breaks, causing the same to happen to Peggy’s heart.

“I’m ok.” Anthony whimpers. “They pull me and push me and it was scary! I miss you!”

“Oh we missed you too, baba.” Ana crouches down to stroke Anthony’s hair. “We missed you so much. But you are safe now, alright? There’s no need to be scared.”

“Yes, she’s right, you’re here now with us. Don’t be scared.” Affirms Edwin, making Anthony cling onto him even tighter.

“Don’t squeeze Mr Jarvis so hard, baba. He’s hurt.”

Anthony immediately pulls his tiny hands away as he seems to notice the bandages for the first time. “Are you ok?” He asks quietly, as if scared of what the answer could be.

“I’m fine now that you’re safe and sound.” Edwin says as he uses one arm each to pull Anthony and Ana closer into one big hug.

Peggy smiles at the sight. She doesn’t mind that she will probably be questioned by S.H.I.E.L.D. for initiating an emergency for this situation. Anthony is back where he belongs, and that’s all that matters.

As Anthony and the Jarvises continue their tender moment she looks over to Howard and Maria, expecting them to be smiling too. They are not. Instead, they both look somewhat upset. Maria is crying silently and Howard is simply frowning at them. She is very confused as to why that could be until Howard speaks up.

“Kid, come over here and give your Mom a hug. We’ve been worried sick.”

It’s only when she sees Anthony’s hesitance does she finally understand their expressions. They aren’t annoyed at the Jarvises.

They’re jealous.

[sheliesshattered]

Whouffaldi fic sketch, ~770 words. First draft, minimal editing, etc. Clara POV, set between Deep Breath and Into The Dalek. I may expand this into a full AU at some later date, but for today it was just a writing exercise to get me back into canon!Clara’s point of view, and hopefully help with my other in-progress Whouffaldi fics. 

Even though it’s just a sketch, I would love to hear your thoughts on this! ❤️

--

Galaxies Beneath Your Skin

It takes her hours to get home from Glasgow, after the Doctor goes to get them coffee and doesn’t return. Hours of weary train travel, alone and heartsick, thankful that she always travels with a bank card stashed inside her mobile case, for just such an emergency. And then what feels like hours to make excuses to her Dad and Gran — and Linda, though by that point, Clara is so far beyond caring what Linda thought, she is nearly able to ignore her presence in the room — about how and why she’d up and disappeared on them in the middle of Christmas dinner.

So by the time she is once again alone in her flat, Clara is tired down to her bones in a way she can’t remember ever being before. Not even after spending a week on a Russian submarine, or saving Artie and Angie from Cybermen, or jumping into the Doctor’s timestream was she this exhausted, this numb to everything she’d been through since waking up on Christmas morning. She strips off her festive outfit, letting each piece of clothing drop to the floor in a line that stretches out behind her as she makes her way towards her bathroom and the siren call of her familiar shower, and doesn’t let herself think about any of the day’s strange, heartbreaking, life-altering events.

It isn’t until she’s working shampoo into her hair that she sees it. She takes it for a smudge, at first. Dirt, perhaps. She had been through a literal war zone in that outfit after all, not to mention the dual insults of clinging to the outside of the TARDIS in the Vortex and the train ride from Glasgow, and her brief stint in Victorian London in between. 

It’s a dark line over her left breast, curving down towards her ribs. She swipes at it with a soapy hand, but it doesn’t budge. Exhausted and annoyed and — if she’s honest with herself — on the brink of tears, Clara rinses the shampoo from her hair, rubs at her watery eyes, and turns her attention to the stubborn stain on her skin. When even a flannel and more soap leave it unchanged, she peers at it closer, only then realising that it isn’t dirt or soot or a bit of exploded Dalek, after all.

Rather, it’s a line of perfectly formed little circles, etched into her skin with what looks like fine blank ink, each circle containing smaller circles and dots and lines, overlapping each other to form one flowing, complex geometric design. It starts near her sternum, curving up over the top of her breast and down the other side, ending on her ribs, the whole thing creating a gentle half-circle shape, as though it is only a part of a larger pattern.

She couldn’t say how she knows, but she knows. The moment her eyes focus on it fully, she knows exactly what it says. It’s written in a language all but gone from the universe, though there is enough Circular Gallifreyan scattered around the TARDIS for Clara to be utterly certain that that is what it is, pressed into her flesh. 

Maybe it’s latent knowledge from her echo life lived on Gallifrey, or the recovered memory of that day she and the Doctor journeyed into the centre of the TARDIS and she stumbled across the book in his library about the Time War, or something seared into her mind when she jumped into his timestream. Or maybe it’s none of those things, maybe it’s something else entirely, maybe the knowledge was planted in her mind just as magically as the words had been planted under her skin.

However she came by the knowledge, Clara knows without needing to be told that it is the Doctor’s true name, written in his native tongue, that now sits curled over her heart.

And at that knowledge, she promptly bursts into tears.

--

It’s three weeks before she sees his face again. His new face, old before its time, unfamiliar except for the intelligence shining out of his eyes. But she would know him anywhere. He could have regenerated again since their abrupt and unplanned parting in Glasgow, and she still would have recognised him, known him by his eyes and by the way her heart somersaults under the place where his name has been mysteriously scorched onto her body.

Do you know? she wants to ask him. Do you know that when you disappeared, you left a piece of yourself under my skin?

Instead what comes out is, “Where the hell have you been?”

--

[crimsonbluemoon]

Terrornuckle/ Terrormoo (did we change the shipname?) 18, 1, 26

Okay, I went way too hard on this one. I always do that with this couple, damn >.>

AU: Celebrity Trope: Friends to loversPrompt: “sometimes, i sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different.”

Pairing: Terrormoo

“Where are you going this time?” Brian always enjoyed the limo ride to the private plane Brock owned. It was one of the only times that he got his friend alone, really. When he was working, he couldn’t be distracted and would lock himself in his home for days at a time. Brian didn’t blame him for it; being the writer of the biggest novel series in the world meant that he needed to nurture time for his craft. When he wasn’t writing his amazing stories, he was being carted away by Marcel, his manager, to different parts of the world for interviews and book signings. One day he’d be in their city, and the next he’d be in Hong Kong. 

“It’s a small tour, so I’ll just be doing an interview with Ellen, a book meeting with my company in Los Angeles, and then a Q and A at a convention in San Francisco. I should be back before Wednesday.” Brian remembered a time when Brock hated flying. The loudness of the plane, the turbulence, the fear of falling before completing his dreams in life- Brock had told Brian them all one drunk night three years ago. Back at the time, Brock had only just picked up some steam, and had been asked to come to a small bookstore in Atlanta to meet some fans. They met as neighbors four years before, their apartments both sharing terrible heating and thin walls. That was when Brock’s greatness was still hidden. Two months later, the world would be exposed to Brock’s beautiful smile. 

That had been before.

“It’s okay if you can’t make it,” Brian answered, trying to keep his grin wide to hide his own feelings. Brock always worried his lip too much when he thought Brian was upset, which then would get him scolded by Marcel and the make up artist he’d have to deal with for Ellen. Brock once told him he hated that part about his TV appearances the most. Brian remembered the first time Brock  had pursed his lips out for Brian to coat with lipstick left over from his high school theater make-up. How his eyes had popped out after the eyeliner guarded his lids like a coat of armor. How Brock’s eyelashes looked so long with mascara. Brock hadn’t needed blush; he’d turned a pretty shade of red when Brian had told him how beautiful he was. 

But that had been before. 

“It’s your birthday. I won’t miss it.” Again hung so heavy in the air between them, Brian was sure he’d choke on it. He glanced out the limo’s window with a chuckle he hoped wouldn’t be wet with the sadness he held back. Last year had been…a rough time for them. Brock’s busy schedule pushed Brian away, and the conflicting feelings of jealousy and sadness waged war in Brian’s heart, making him curl away from Brock’s friendly affection when he did have time. Because Brian didn’t want friendly; it took a month long absence of Brock’s presence by his side for him to realize it. 

His birthday had been shared with friends and family, with pretty girls and lots of booze. Brock was in Madrid, promoting his new book. There were no ‘after birthday pancakes’ the next morning, no horribly burnt bacon (six years and Brock still couldn’t make it right) and embarrassingly (but endearing) off-key singing. There was a nameless stranger in his cold bed and shameful hickies on his neck, which would have been signs of a successful birthday years prior. 

  But that was before. 

“I’m not saving you a piece of cake if you’re late,” Brian said instead of any of the words that rattled in his heart. Brock rolled his eyes, his shoulder bumping gently into Brian’s. He didn’t pull away, and Brian stayed quiet about it. 

“I’ll buy a whole customized sheet cake from that fancy bakery you liked in California and bring it back with me.” 

“You wouldn’t, you hate showing you’re rich unless it’s for charity,” Brian answered quickly, their eyes meeting at the challenge.

“Or if it’s for you,” Brock’s soft reply twisted something fierce in Brian’s stomach, his fingers digging into his pant leg to keep from pulling Brock into a kiss. Because he knew it was the truth; Brock always spoiled Brian. He did the same for his other friends, sure, but Evan and Tyler never let Brian forget how ‘special’ he was. 

Brock moved him into a house right next to Brock’s that Brian could never afford, and always made sure his needs were taken care of. Brock took Brian on some of his longer trips to Venice or Palm Springs, which Brian loved. But it had been just seven months ago when he had first discovered Proof Bakery in California. It was his favorite place, though not for the pastries like Brock always assumed. The little shop, which was way overpriced and the lines far too long, was where Brian first realized just how in love with Brock he was. The moment would always be sketched into his mind; the whipped cream that had crept over Brock’s nose from his frothy drink, the shy smile, the soft way his voice caressed the tail end of Brian’s name, and the sunlight that illuminated just how breathtaking all of it was put together. 

He’d nearly confessed right there, if not for the fact that cameras and paparazzi were hanging on every word they said. Their picture had been splattered on several tabloid magazines, with questions of their ‘relationship’ hounding both men for weeks. Brian had been avoidant of the question, waiting for Brock to bring it up. He never did, not to Brian, though he always spoke about his ‘good friend’ on TV shows and red carpet interviews. It’d been a knife in Brian’s heart. Because once, Brian had hoped the soft glimmer in Brock’s eyes at the bakery had been love for him. 

But that was before, too.

“Evan’s gonna get jealous, then Scotty will whine, and you’ll have to do it for everyone. With all the friends you have, you’ll actually put a dent in your wallet.” Brian doused any increased heartbeat he had by reminding himself how dedicated Brock was to making all his friends happy. Hurting himself more, he patted Brock’s thigh, not letting himself enjoy the muscle under his palm before pointing out the window. “Look, got here in record time. Almost time for you to head out.” 

“Oh, right.” Brock’s voice hid something that Brian missed looking out the window, but by the time he glanced back, it was gone. He quirked an eyebrow, knowing he was grinning like a fool after Brock’s cheeks turned pink. 

“You don’t sound to excited to get on your plane, mister. What, you gonna miss this beautiful face?” He forced himself to wink and blow a kiss at Brock, expecting the normal eye roll or scolding curve to his name that always made him feel special. 

“What if I will?” So the open heartbeak that cracked Brock’s eyes made Brian pause, frozen by the look he never wanted to see. 

“Brock, what… you know you can call m-us.” Desperate to get rid of the look on his friend, Brian leaned closer, ignoring his own rules of touch to cradle Brock’s face in his palms. “Video chat, anytime. Day or night, I don’t care. If you miss me- or any of the guys, that’s okay. We’ll miss you, too. We always do.” 

“We, or you?” The distinction seemed important to Brock, but Brian’s tongue was too tied up in emotion to give a response. Sighing, Brock closed his eyes, letting his shoulders fall in defeat. “Sometimes…sometimes, I sit in bed and wonder…. what would happen if things were different?”

“Different? Different how?” Brian asked, unsure if his heart could stay contained in his chest at the soft nuzzle of Brock’s nose against his fingers. 

“If I’d told you how having you come on the ride with me in the limo to the airport always helps me feel safe before leaving. If I said how much you saved me from my fears of flying by giving me all those helpful tricks. If I’d admitted you were the first person to make me feel beautiful that night with the make-up. Or, if I’d…if I’d been the one you’d taken to bed the night of your birthday last year, not that girl.” Soft flesh trembled against Brian’s thumb when he brushed it over Brock’s mouth, feeling the words from his own heart spill through Brock’s lips. “Would this be different, if I’d told all those TV hosts or interviewers the truth.”

“What’s the truth?” He was breathless from a marathon only his heart was running, eyes desperate for Brock’s pretty gaze when it finally opened to him again. 

“That I’m head over heels in love with you. Would that make any of this different between us?” He was so vulnerable, splaying himself out in front of Brian with his heart in his hands. It was rare to see someone with Brock’s power, money, status in the world with such an open soul. But this moment, this little piece of Brock now shining bright in the back of the limo, this wasn’t for the world to see. This was Brian’s, if Brian would take it, and nobody else’s. 

“Yeah, that makes a difference alright.” Brian leaned forward slowly, making sure Brock felt every indent and inch of his lips when kissing him. The kiss was slow, longing, full of each negative and positive emotion Brian had ever felt for Brock. He took his time pouring himself over Brock, teasing the crevices and dips of the mouth he’d been sure he’d only taste in his dreams. Brock was a willing participant, once his mind seemed to kick back on. Lust and need simmered just under the overwhelming love he had for Brock, and after fully divulging the months of realized emotion into their kiss, he pulled back. Not far, as his next words were whispered softly against bruised lips. “It’s going to make you late for your flight, love.” 

Usually, Brian hated saying goodbye to Brock after their limo trips, knowing it was another chance for him to find someone to settle down with on his adventures without Brian. Brock still left this time, Brian waving from the limo they’d destroyed with their love making. This time, Brian’s heart didn’t ache watching Brock disappear into the plane taking him away. There was no pain.

Because that was before; before Brian knew Brock loved him, too.