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This blog has been moved to my new multi! @equiiibrium

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𝐈'𝐌  𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑  𝐎𝐍𝐄,  𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄  𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑  𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄  𝐆𝐎𝐓  𝐀  𝐋𝐎𝐓  𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐃'𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊  𝐓𝐎  𝐃𝐎.

⸸ independent + selective + private  PAPA EMERITUS IV - COPIAof  The  Band  Ghost  written  by: Jambalaya ⸸

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WIDE WORLD PHOTOS / GLARE / 1936 [gelatin silver print | 7 x 6″]

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Hey babe have you seen my bat???

The  DOCTOR’s  grip  on  the  worn  handle  of  Daniel’s  weapon  tightens,  the  object  hidden  behind  his  back  and  under  his  coat. 

        “No,  babe.”  It’s  DIFFICULT  not  to  sneer,  but  he’s  tried  his  best. 

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Finals are over…. and you know what that means….

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Okay everyone, finals are coming up and school is ALMOST over for a while. I’ll be more active then. School has not only consumed all of my time but all of my creativity as well. 

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Anne Carson, from Red Doc>

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Questions for Muns of Canon Muses

What is the biggest headcanon deviation from the canon material that you have incorporated into the way you write your muse? Why did you come up with it?

Do you have any controversial headcanons that go against what is generally accepted by the fandom? Do you incorporate this into writing your muse or keep it to yourself?

What is something that was never addressed at all in the canon material that you have independently developed for your muse?

Have you made any outright changes to the canon material in order to write your muse the way you wanted (entire scenes you chose to omit, chapters you say never existed, things you assume were never said, etc.)?

What is an aspect of your muse’s canon material or canon existence that you never had the opportunity to explore but really want to?

What is the general opinion of your muse’s fandom about them? Do you agree with it?

For movie or TV muses, what is your muse’s favorite scene? Why? Can you show a screenshot?

For movie or TV muses, what is a scene with your muse that you hate? Why? Can you show a screenshot?

For movie or TV muses, what other character played by your muse’s actor/actress has a lot in common with your muse?

For book muses, what is your muse’s favorite scene? Why? Can you provide a short excerpt?

For book muses, what is a scene with your muse that you hate? Why? Can you provide a short excerpt?

For book muses, what other character from a book or book series has a lot in common with your muse?

What canon character do you really wish your muse could interact more with?

What is your ideal AU for your muse?

What plots/interactions leave you feeling protective of your muse?

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The possibility of a physical & mental collapse is now very real.

Hunter S. Thompson

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80scool​:

   J. “Ghost” Martinez is burned bright in his brain.  Now it was important to note Daniel didn’t particularly care for Martinez, and Martinez had never particularly cared for him; on the subject of soldiering, they’d both bit the bullet by sticking to a hair-trigger.  Fortune did not favor the bold.  But he remembers now, more clear than his own name, pretending to make conversation by the water cooler and the fight between Buxton and Martinez on the morality of dog sledding.  Buxton, being the thoroughly disgusted, paper pushing vegan that he was, described the practice as abusive while Martinez- ever the apathetic carnivore- laid it out simple.  A sled dog was bred to work.  It was molded to work- if you didn’t work it hard, it’d go all crazy like.  It’d chew its own foot off.  It’d die on its own leash.

   At the time Daniel had been nursing two bullet wounds on three hours of sleep.  He’d thought that was bullshit; tell him to sit on a couch all day long and he’d hang up his holster for a joint and a tv in nothing but a heartbeat.  But now?

   He feels like he’ll chew his own leg off.  Like he’s losing his fucking mind.

   It wasn’t boredom.  It wasn’t despair.  It was something chemical.  Something real wrong.  The novelty of easy murder had worn off- it wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be.  He’d been systematically deconstructed to fight- not just to kill but to fight.  With no resistance, no push back, no drugs he cant sleep, he cant think.  His heart beats like cracked-out schizophrenic in his chest.  

   When it became too much he’d come marching back to Carter, just like he had in life so he does in death.  Just like the times he couldn’t remember if he was the KGB hawk or the CIA hound.  He’ll push, poke in prod but he knows the good doctor will put a hand on his throat and tell him sit- gives him direction till he pulls the person out of him.  It’s humbling, but he needs it- desperately. 

   ❝ Do I ??❞, he shoves the door open with his boot, flicking a half-finished smoke to the ground then crushing it under foot.  ❝ Mmmmm been sleeping on the floor next to Wilbur, Babe and Napoleon.  Makes sense.  Meat factory.  No science project either, I got hungry on the way over i’m afraid.❞

   Daniel plays it cool, undeterred by Herman’s indifference.  It was like him-  ivy league right to the marrow.  Cool and collected, even with nails in his skull- rods in his eyes.  He strolls right over- doesn’t miss a beat.  If Herman wont look at him, he’ll make him look.

   Just like that he’s on him.

    Hands on the lab coat lapel- half leans down and half pulls the other man up, out of the chair.  Look at him- all mangled and still pushing pens.  Still Herman Fucking Carter.  In the old days, he’d go for the lips, but there isn’t much of those anymore so he settles on the jaw.   As his tongue tastes iron, he whispers so low he hopes Herman won’t hear.

   ❝ No formality.  Please- get me the fuck out of my head. ❞

Thankfully,  Carter  misses  the  sight  of  the  discarded  cigarette,  but  finding  it  later,  he  won’t  be  at  all  surprised.  Fabron  litters  in  his  office  like  it’s  the  dumpster  he  smells  of  regularly.  He  should  demand  that  Daniel  pick  up  his  discarded  items  with  his  TEETH...but  he  hasn’t.  Not  yet.  The  reference  and  flurry  of  names  slip  past  as  if  nothing  was  said  at  all,  his  focus  on  his  admittance  to  sleeping  at  the  meat  factory.  If  his  eye  lids  were  free,  they  would  droop  with  dissatisfaction.  A  huff  that  can  only  mean  a  grimace  will  have  to  suffice.  At  least  the  threat  of  a  potato  is  no  longer  part  of  the  equation.  His  eyes  roll  of  their  own  accord,    sclera  catching  dryly  against  sockets.  

Herman  is  truly  at  a  loss  as  to  why  exactly  any  of  the  others  would  extend  a  tolerant  welcome  to  Daniel  Fabron.  In  life,  he  was  avoided.  The  spy  exuded  instability,  a  young  man  searching  far  and  wide  for  trouble,  leaving  no  stone  unturned.  Only  those  with  a  severe  lack  of  common  sense  drew  near  to  him,  attracted  by  his  reckless  abandon  and  silver  tongue...which  the  CIA  was,  and  most  likely  still  is,  full  of.  

The  doctor  is  content  to  wait,  seemingly  rather  blasé  about  the  prospect  of  intimacy.  He  doesn’t  get  the  chance.  Always  mildly  indignant,  if  not  surprised  by  the  Frenchmen’s  strength,  Herman’s  body  tenses  as  he’s  pulled  by  his  clothes.  As  if  to  counter,  still  half-seated,  Carter  pulls  down,  using  his  weight  as  Daniel’s  tongue  grazes  his  jaw,  lips  pressed  against  torn  flesh.  As  if  he  were  simply  beginning  his  side  of  a  conversation,  Herman’s  hand  finds  the  back  of  his  neck,  cupping  it  tightly  as  if  holding  him  by  the  scruff.  Pressure.  The  doctor  his  pushing  him  closer,  his  lap  waiting.  

He  operates  in  formality.  The  chance  to  stray  from  it  is  intoxicating  and  Herman  allows  himself  to  dissolve  into  it  with  a  low  crackle  of  electricity.  “I’ll  have  to  enter  yours.”  

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